#him spending decades avoiding the town's weirdness while also being as weird as the rest of them

[nenoname]

Cute wholesome fics where Stan teaches Soos or Wendy how to drive were always so funny to me because...

And while he insists that everyone in town has ran over McGucket before, we also know he ran over Toby too and absolutely did not give a shit (understandable in that case)

But then again...

Also bless Mr Honeypants

And another detail I love is that his car is casually filled with parking tickets

How many tickets are in Ford's name...

[samstree]

Hug a Witcher Day (1/3)

Jaskier writes a new song ‘Hug a Witcher Day.’ It gains insane popularity and Geralt finds himself hugged by random strangers on one day every year. He just wishes a particular bard would hug him too.

By one person’s popular demand, I present to you a touch-starved Geralt, a cheeky Jaskier and a lot of pining. 

fluff, hand holding, sharing clothes, yearning, 3k, rated G

read on AO3

It is the most ordinary morning.

The wind is picking up after last night’s rain, a common occurrence in the fall, bringing nice moisture in the air all the way from the sea. The last of the heat washed away to reveal crisp blue sky, stretching all the way to meet the mountain range.

It’s an ordinary morning, except everyone is staring at Geralt.

The inn is not busy this early in the morning, but a few patrons have risen for the first meal of the day. As the witcher sits down at a table, the atmosphere changes instantly. The conversation hushes and eyes start turning in his direction. Some are even giggling with their friends upon seeing him.

Although, there’s no malice, no fear, or disdain.

Only amusement.

It won’t be the first time that a crowd finds a witcher to be a curious sight. Although it is unusual for a town of this scale to have never seen one of them before.

So Geralt pays no mind. He only wants to finish his porridge in peace. His stomach has been rumbling since he missed dinner last night. The hunt took way longer than he anticipated, and by the time he returned, the inn had long since stopped serving. Although the maid—a young girl no more than sixteen—promised to give him an extra portion at breakfast.

Even she’s staring too.

The girl takes a look at Geralt’s finished bowl and hurries to fetch another from the kitchen. She carries the porridge and an extra loaf of rye bread to his table with a smile that gradually lights up her whole face.

Geralt nods as she puts them down, confused at the good mood of this whole establishment.

His confusion grows when she doesn’t leave. Instead, the girl lingers a moment, as if working up her courage, before bending down to circle her arms around Geralt.

He has to fight every instinct in his body to stay still and let her hug him. Her arms are squeezing gently, not the too-tight kink. Her curled locks are all over his face. When she pulls back, her round cheeks are flushed like a beet, the grin now carrying a hint of embarrassment.

“Why—”

“Thank you, master witcher!” she exclaims chirpily.

“What for?” he frowns.

“For getting rid of the fiend, of course!” She’s almost taking offense at the question. “Right before today, no less.”

“What’s so special about today?”

“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. Do you not know?”

Well…no. The passage of time registers too vaguely when he’s traveling alone from one town to another. The contract last night was no different from the last five.

Geralt doesn’t want to think about how monotonous the path is without a companion, or he’ll have to admit to himself that he’s missing the bard and his ridiculous songs and too-loud playing. He won’t do it, even in the safety of his own mind.

Still, her answer doesn’t explain anything.

“The day before Saovine!” she must be seeing his silence as an encouragement to continue. “It’s Hug a Witcher Day!”

Geralt drops the spoon into the porridge. Biting back a curse in a child’s company, he fumbles to fish it out.

“Hug a—what?”

“It’s how the song goes! Hug a witcher and thank him for the work he’s done. All the monster-killing in the past year!” Her smile turns to a tiny frown. “And you, sir, just killed that fiend for us last night. As the lyrics say, it’s only right that I hug you!”

“It was…my job. And why does it have to be Saovine?”

“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. It’s the last holiday before witchers rest for the winter. It’s only right to thank them now.” she proclaims proudly. “Have you really not heard ‘Hug a Witcher’?”

Should he have? Before asking the next question, Geralt has an inkling that he already knows the answer.

“Whose song is it?”

“Who else? Your bard of course. Master Jaskier the bard!”

The words your bard somehow lands on a soft spot in Geralt’s chest.

Although Jaskier hasn’t traveled with him for months. Geralt doesn’t pay attention to the bard’s new hits because they will eventually reach his ears anyway. Jaskier can never pass an opportunity to serenade him with every new composition when they are alone by a campfire, looking for the witcher’s personal reviews no matter how well-received by the public they appear to be.

“Hmm.” Geralt calculates the distance between where he is and Oxenfurt. This ‘Hug a Witcher’ song, in fact, is spreading faster than any of Jaskier’s famous ballads.

A hug can’t be worse than being tossed coins, right?

 *

It keeps happening for the rest of the day.

First, it’s the stable hand. Geralt is just trying to load his pack onto Roach when the young lad comes in. He doesn’t try to hug Geralt, only giving him a polite nod.

“Thank you. For your work, sir,” the lad says, before helping Geralt saddle the mare. “Like the song says, eh? Thank a witcher so no monster will plague you in the coming year.”

And then, it’s a few small children. A flock of them suddenly come out of nowhere and just… cling to his legs.

“Thank you master wiiiiitcheeeeer!” They shout in unison and drag the last few syllables longer and longer. And then the group disperses just as quickly as they gathered, giggling and running off to an alley.

All except one.

The smallest one stays at his feet, looking up and staring at him.

“Hug!” the boy stretches out his short arms.

Geralt blinks.

The boy stares, eyes wide and expectant.

So Geralt has no choice but to bend down and let the boy wrap those short arms around his neck.

“You’re welc—"

It’s over in a second and the child is rejoining his friends, who are now peaking their heads out of the corner of the alley. Excited squeals erupt among them.

Geralt feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

When he gets to the market, a few shop owners are smiling so brightly and offering discounts. Roach gets a horseshoe and an apple for free within the first hour. The silversmith shouts out thanks before jogging up to him and pulls him in for a bear hug.

“Hug a witcher for luck,” she says.

“No, it’s for good harvests!” an old man corrects her.

They keep coming.

But everyone has a different reason and it makes Geralt wonder how many versions Jaskier has for this one song. Or, he dreads to think, how long it is.

“Hug a witcher and death will avoid your door.”

“Hug a witcher for a merciful winter.”

“Hug a witcher for good rain!”

“Thank you, master witcher.”

“Thanks, sir, for your service!”

 *

“Geralt! You need to control your bard!”

Lambert growls as he slams into the heavy wooden door of Kaer Morhen keep, stamping his foot to shake off the snow.

Turning another page of the book, Geralt refuses to look at his younger brother when he’s in a grouchy mood.

“What did he do?” he asks nonchalantly.

“You know—" Lambert grits his teeth. “—what he did.”

The youngest wolf sits down, crowding Geralt’s space, his cloak still wet from the storm outside. Geralt raises an eyebrow but stays on the book. He is not going to make it easier for his brother.

After seconds of silence, Lambert finally gives in. “His song!”

“You can’t possibly be mad about Hug a Witcher.” Eskel walks in and also sits at the table, the sewing kit and a ripped shirt in hand. “It’s a good one.”

“I’m a witcher! They saw me and tried to hug me!”

“So?”

Like Geralt, Eskel only fuels the youngest wolf’s exasperation. He even starts to thread the needle, completely unfazed.

“So?” Lambert pulls off his cloak and the water splashes all over Geralt’s book. “For a whole day, people tried to touch me. A whole day, Geralt! All thanks to your bard and his blasted song! I couldn’t even get out of town without those folks jumping on me.”

“And? I don’t know about you, but I appreciate some showing of gratitude. Thank your bard for me, will you?” Eskel nudges at Geralt.

“Hmm.”

“I don’t care,” Lambert continues, pointing a finger at Geralt. “Tell the bard to stop this nonsense, or I will stop him myself and he won’t be as pretty afterwards.”

Geralt finally dogears the page and faces his brother’s tantrum. He wonders if the crease between his eyebrows is tight enough to crack a walnut—it might be fun to try one day. “Or you can just not let them,” he deadpans.

“What?”

“You are a witcher, the best one among us—according to yourself.” Geralt tilts his head, squinting. “Are you telling me you couldn’t fend off some villagers who were only trying to give you a squeeze?”

Lambert’s face stills, his index finger hanging in the air. In front of Geralt’s unblinking eyes, his face turns redder and redder.

“Urgh,” with an annoyed wave, Lambert storms off the same way he stormed in, all the while muttering all kinds of colorful curses.

Geralt purses his lips as to not let out a too-obviously laugh, but at the corner of his eyes, he notices Eskel shaking his head in amusement.

“All jokes aside, I liked the song.”

Geralt shrugs.

“Jaskier knows how to make them go around.”

“No, I like the day that came with the song. Just about a decade ago, people barely thanked us for a job well done, but now? Lambert is a prick, but I don’t mind having a pat on the back after spending a whole year on the path. Don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” He shrugs again.

Eskel has put down his needlework and is observing him intently. Both of his brothers are so weird about this, Geralt reckons, but on opposite sides of weird. Maybe that’ll be the bard’s review when they meet in the spring.

“Maybe you are indifferent because your bard already knows to appreciate you, wolf. Being your barker and all. Was he thrilled to see the rest of the world catch on?”

Geralt frowns while opening the book again, not sure where this is going.

“Jaskier wasn’t with me during Saovine.”

“No?” Eskel is moving into his space too. Urgh, the two of them. “You bard got the whole continent to hug you, but he wasn’t there to give you one himself?”

“No.”

A sudden surge of irritation rises, but Geralt isn’t sure why. All he wants to do is read the damn book without his brothers nagging him about how terrible or how amazing this ridiculous day is.

“Hmm.” Eskel mirrors his hum. Every time the older witcher does this is because he’s trying to figure out something, and Geralt has no intention of finding out.

“I’ll read elsewhere.” With a loud snap of the book, Geralt leaves the room in a few quick strides.

He has a feeling that this lousy mood might stick with him for a while yet. At least until he can leave Eskel’s inexplicable prodding and Lambert’s grumpy ass behind.

*

“I know you don’t like the touchy mushy stuff, Geralt. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they would actually hug you all day long!”

Jaskier looks so contrite that his hands are reined in from his full-body gestures, and that’s how Geralt knows the guilt is genuine. His fingers are fidgeting with the hemline of his winter doublet and his hands, exposed in the chill, are turning red.

It’s still quite early in the spring, since Geralt has come to find the bard in Oxenfurt as soon as the ground thawed. A cold spell is hitting the town pretty hard, although Jaskier is sure that it’ll be the last one before green returns to this town.

It doesn’t help that snow has been steadily falling and melting at the same time during their stroll around campus. The bard shivers a little.

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, taking off his own scarf and wrapping it around Jaskier’s neck.

“It is not! Once again, I have been so focused on my professional achievements and forgotten about the impact those songs have on you. All of you.”

Jaskier helps Geralt adjust the scarf so it covers all of his neck and the lower half of his face. It’s made of the warmest yarn Vesemir keeps at Kaer Morhen, but the plain color is a stark contrast against the delicate design of the bard’s fur-lined doublet. In comparison, Geralt’s scarf looks too coarse to be there, but Jaskier seems content enough to bury his face into the material, letting out a soft sigh.

His hands still look cold, so Geralt removes his gloves as well.

“Eskel likes it. The song and the day.”

Those words seem to lighten Jaskier’s mood. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly.

“Really? He likes Hug a Witcher day?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The bard flexes his stiff hands before sliding into the leather gloves. They fit surprisingly well with Jaskier’s long fingers, only a bit loose on the wrists, so Geralt makes sure to fasten the cords. He then holds both Jaskier’s hands between his palms, just to warm them up a little.

Can’t let a lutenist complain about frostbite on his fingers.

“Says it’s nice to be appreciated for all the hard work he’s done. The hugs aren’t bad either,” Geralt explains. “Eskel never minded them anyway.”

“And you?” Despite his slight apprehension, Jaskier’s eyes are filled with careful hope. “Do you mind them?”

With a final squeeze, Geralt lets go.

“I told you it’s fine.”

“You don’t have to say it to make me feel better, my dear. I know how you don’t like people touching you,” the bard says, reaching out to brush off some snowflakes on Geralt’s shoulder with a gloved hand.

Geralt frowns, looks down to Jaskier’s casual touch on his shoulder, and then back to his concerned blue eyes.

Why on earth does Jaskier think he hates touches? The bard himself touches him all the time, at least in the past couple of years. Not at the beginning though, when they were barely friends and Geralt told him to fuck off all the time and not to feed Roach treats and—

And when Geralt punched him in the gut just to drive him away.

He’s seen Jaskier hug so many people, countless flings, long-term lovers, his parents, cousins, even other bards. He’s seen Jaskier hug Essi just this morning while being teased by her relentlessly about something Geralt didn’t understand. Must have been an inside joke.

But never him.

Jaskier never hugs him.

The realization sinks Geralt’s heart somehow. The cold wind suddenly cuts a lot more brutally on his bare neck and hands.

He doesn’t mind a little nip when Jaskier is the more sensitive one, being human and all. But at this moment, with the bard all bundled up in a soft doublet with those feathery puffs on his shoulders, he looks like he can give great hugs.

Jaskier looks so…huggable.

Geralt wonders what it would be like to take Jaskier in his arms and squish him over those thick, airy clothes. He wonders if he can bury his nose into his scarf—now it would smell like a mixture of Jaskier’s floral scent and the wood ash that always lingers around Geralt’s person. He would pull away to see Jaskier’s cheeks painted pink in the cold air and snow melting on his long lashes—

“You are just saying it, aren’t you? I have deeply offended you.” Jaskier interrupts those wandering thoughts because he has taken the silence as anger. His expression can only be described as crestfallen. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be too mad. I cannot lose my best friend. I simply cannot take it, Geralt! I will die of a broken heart!”

The plea is so dramatic that Geralt lets out a chuckle.

“Will you relax?” he pats Jaskier on his puffy sleeve. “I’m not mad, little poet. It truly is fine. Some children hugging me on the leg is not the end of the world.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Somehow, Geralt knows that if Jaskier decides to also give him a hug that day, it won’t be the worst thing either. Hug a witcher to thank him, it’s the bard’s own words. He’s protected Jaskier from angry spouses so many times it will definitely warrant a hug, right?

“Good, then.” Jaskier lowers his face into the scarf again, pretending to hide from a draft, but Geralt can see the faint smile around the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad your brothers also enjoyed my contribution to what will become the next official holiday.”

“Oh no, that’s just Eskel. You should avoid Lambert this year.” Geralt grimaces. “Maybe the next few years too.”

Jaskier is taken aback but recovers quickly.

“Well, I’ve got you to protect me from his wrath, my friend who’s not angry with me.” The smile, this time, is genuine and brightens up Jaskier’s whole being. His arms stretch out in a pose once more. “Where shall we go when spring comes? You know, when it really comes.”

Jaskier grimaces at the sky as if judging it for the untimely harsh weather blocking their way.

“Hmm.”

Geralt is in no hurry to determine the where of their journey this year, but the when of it…

A sudden ache in his chest tells him that maybe he should stick with Jaskier until Saovine.

Or at least the day before.

---

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging

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[prorevenge]

Bridezilla Karen ends up looking like a pauper at her own wedding.

I (F48) have known “Pat” (F48) for decades. As far as I can remember, she was fixated on having 5 children and a picket fence dream life. I slowly cut ties with her in college because she was an opportunist and I didn’t trust her. She is both manipulative and forceful. Her idea of cute rubs me the wrong way. Pat likes to walk like a penguin when she wants to elicit pity, and she usually does this when she wants to evoke the underdog narrative. I’ve never seen someone act so despicable and ridiculous at the same time.

I moved on with my life. Happily got rid of her for years. Pat eventually found me on facebook. I accepted her friend request out of politeness.

Pat has become the epitome of a permissive mother. Her (5) kids do as they please and she never calls them out. She tried to force a relationship between me and her daughters and made them call me Auntie. Pat tried to drop them at my house uninvited. Her phone calls were insistent, she tried to monopolize my time and she began to show up at my job. I created some boundaries so she tried to find loopholes. It was a nightmare.

My husband and I hosted a party for the community center (not the real name) new members. The community center is actually a very informal initiative and my husband and I mainly serve the homeless population. We prefer to help strangers instead of catering to potentially narcissistic acquaintances. We don't mind lending a hand but we have encountered truly dishonest choosing beggars.

There are other services, like one of the members who helps women get their wedding and prom dresses for free.The community center location “headquarters” is actually a farm owned by an elderly couple. There is a barn, a venue and a very nice green field with an artificial lake and some fowl. They charge for the use of their facilities (weddings , etc.) but not for community oriented stuff.

Pat had always been salty at her husband for demanding that she go back to work after baby #3. In the meantime, he worked three jobs. She demanded he get her pregnant to fulfill her dream of having 5 kids. He didn’t agree, because he was already nearly 45 and felt like he might never be able to retire. She got away with bringing new babies into this world anyway. Her fascination with being pregnant comes from all the attention she gets. She had at least one miscarriage in between each kid.

Pat latched on to our group. She never missed any of our activities. I hated having her in my house, but it was an open invitation that included virtually everyone and she was very active as an event organizer. I didn’t like the way her kids behaved. We have a designated area for parties and entertainment, but her kids ended up inside my bedroom. We ended up having to keep watch of them and enjoyed zero of our own party.

I called her days later to get my point across (regarding their overall behavior) but she completely cut me off and began talking about herself and said her kids wanted to come visit again and use our pool. I never answered that. I didn't want to say “no, I will not have your brats over”.

She also called me as summer was approaching specifically to let me know her middle daughter was bored and wanted to spend a WEEK at our home. I politely declined, citing that me and my husband have to work and cannot entertain guests. .

Pat paid no heed. Her kid called me on the weekend,calling me “auntie” and attempted to coax me by saying “Mom says you invited me to spend SUMMER with you”. I quickly clarified, and offered an explanation to avoid hurting a kid’s self esteem. Nevermind. Her daughter just hung up on me.

Pat’s facebook also showed some red flags. Some cryptic rants here and there were visible, along with friends’ comments and complaints on how she asked a particular person to watch her kids only for a couple of hours and ended up leaving them all day. Another of her friends criticized her “girls night out “ because Pat had just asked them to be patient and wait until she could pay back some money that she owed them, yet she had money to spend on Friday night outings. I thought those very public comments on private matters were more like a cry of lost patience.

Unpleasant things began to happen. Like the time she volunteered to wrap the Xmas presents for underprivileged kids. We all wanted to create a mix of less costly gifts with really nice ones. Surprisingly, some nice and eye-catching toys and games went missing but turned up under her Christmas Tree (courtesy of her mother in law’s FB posts). No one could prove anything but it was hate-inducing. Or the time my daughter called me in tears to pick her up after she attended Pat’s daughter’s birthday (Casey). My daughter had been ignored all night because she didn’t gift her the expensive gaming stuff Casey practically demanded. My daughter did ask, but I said no. We would buy her a very nice and thoughtful present according to her taste. So when I went to pick her up my daughter was sitting alone in the living room while Casey and her friends stayed outside.

Stories about Pat and her family multiplied. The owners at the farm (community center) decided keep their their gates locked unless they had guests or events because Pat got in the habit of driving in whenever she pleased and it was either her kids screaming and disturbing on-going weddings, throwing rocks at the koi in the lake or harassing the geese in the yard. Or how she stiffed another soccer mom with the lunch bill and then pulled the struggling financially card. Or how other parents hated her because she created unnecessary hostile competition.

When my daughter turned 13, I allowed her to wear my grandma’s ring. It's not an expensive piece of jewelry, but it's vintage and girls nowadays wanna look boho. My Granny gave it to me when I became a teenager so I passed it on to my kid so she could wear it on her birthweek.

It was weird that she became quiet and distracted after that. She also didn’t want to go to school and my husband and I became suspicious. She never opened up, and my other kids had no clue.

We went to her school but her teachers assured us nothing had changed in her environment. My husband and I suspected she was being bullied but our kid gave us no tools to support her. My kid is very sunny, and very compassionate. She has never had any problems with other kids. I called her best friend’s mom. Natalie, my kid’s BFF, told us what was going on. Casey (Pat’s eldest) and my daughter had become “close”. I knew this and wasn’t too thrilled. I found the age (Casey was 17) gap not exactly inappropriate but I’d rather see my daughter spend time with friends in the same age range. Casey is very beautiful and a gifted student. She is also very conceited. To make this story short, she asked my daughter if she could try on the ring and refused to give it back. She later claimed that she lost it but “would look for it” so my daughter was distraught. My daughter kept asking for her ring and as a result, Casey shunned her and spread the word that my kid was trying to steal HER ring. Some kids at school took Casey’s side. So now Casey just wore my kid’s jewelry to school like nothing happened. If that doesn’t qualify as taunting I don't know what does.

My guilt comes from not being able to get my daughter to open up and feel safe telling me the truth. I talked to her and she burst into tears. I was both pained as a mother and furious that some teenage b!tch was doing this under our noses.

I went straight to Pat’s car after school. I asked to talk as Casey was about to go in. So I grabbed Casey’s hand and asked to see her jewelry. Casey froze and she tried to make a fist, so I became relentless. Casey yelled “Mom!” and Pat struggled to get out of the car. I slid the ring off (Casey has tiny hands and wore the ring on her index finger). First Pat yelled at me. After I confronted her with the engraving on the band (my grandma's maiden name), she argued it was loaned to her daughter by my kid. Then she said she bought it. I paid no heed. I did warn them that I knew Casey had become an abusive friend to my daughter.

Pat called me to tell me off. She said she was trying to raise an assertive young woman and I had just messed that up by being “overbearing”. She never apologized for her thief of a child.

Pat's husband ( Hank) is what can be described as a doormat. Pat wore him down to a knob. He had no choice but to “obey” her to keep the peace. She was a bully who actively withdrew affection when he didn’t follow her wishes, even in public. So she got kids #4 and #5 after a relentless campaign that included leaving him for two months. Her pregnancies were a nuisance because she expected to be treated like the only lady who has even been pregnant. She strolled around in a wheelchair almost immediately after getting pregnant and she would “get very sick” on weekends, so her kids were often sent to friends and family so that she could “rest”.

Pat systematically bullied Hank. She would leave town and take the kids with her. Poor Hank would look distraught, drinking on his porch or just looking really lonely. This is how she got off the hook and was able to leave her job. Hank had virtually no voice, so he struggled to keep the marriage together. Everyone liked him, but hated her equally. Hank loved to talk to other people but seemed concerned that Pat would be upset. Over time, according to my husband, Hank began to show signs of depression and mental distress.

Our friend, Lenah, runs the wedding/prom dress initiative. It's not complicated. Dresses are sourced from donations, ebay, trunk shows, etc. Unusually beautiful dresses are retained so that more than one bride gets to wear them. In some cases, a bride will pay 50 bucks, but most of the time, the dresses are donated to the bride.

Pat was involved in this. Lenah kept her in because they never had any issues and her task was limited to just shipping the dresses out.

Pat decided to renew her vows and her bridezilla Karenzilla attitude became the icing on the cake. For starters, she bullied another couple into giving up their wedding date at the farm because she “needed her renewal to match her exact wedding date”. They were not impressed with her harassment, so they booked another venue. As a result, the farm owners were pissed because Pat was already costing them money after she had successfully negotiated a cut in their rate “because she couldn't afford it but will repay by doing maintenance work around the venue” (she never made good on her word).

Pat became attached to a particular dress that was already assigned to another bride. Lenah made it clear that she would need to pay for her own dress. So Pat played it cool and shipped the wrong gown instead. She was adamant that it was the right dress, despite all the notes on Leah’s agenda. The other bride was truly gracious about it. She was obviously disappointed, but never made a scene.

What bothered me most is that I picked that dress and bought it for 40 bucks at a garage sale (not my money, Leah’s money). It was a vintage dress, ankle length, white with lots of lace and a huge bargain. Again, when confronted, Pat “did a Casey” and used the “this is mine” strategy. We felt so bad for the other bride that we did our best to get her something nice to wear. The other bride was a true fighter, she had pulled out of welfare, earned her high school diploma and was working to get on her feet by trying to earn a certificate as an acrylic nail technician. So, her reward was to have some Karen steal her dress? Pat never admitted to messing up, but just by the fact that she claimed it was her dress, we knew.

Lenah never allowed her in her warehouse again. Their last phone fight ended with Pat bringing up the other bride’s past (like it mattered) and “this conversation is over, it's my dress and you are mistaken”. That was weeks before the other bride’s wedding.

Pat went all out on her wedding decor. She spent way too much. She hired a caterer for some food (mainly mimosas and appetizers), but the wedding invitation included a request for specific dishes for her Sunday brunch wedding. Either she ran out of banquet money or was on a complete moocher mode.I picture the penguin walking upon practically asking everyone to supply her wedding reception grub and I cringe.

There is nothing wrong with potluck weddings. In fact, they can be a nice addition to a very cozy and family oriented wedding reception. But, don’t you need to at least be close to your guests in order to ask for such a thing? Even I got an invitation. I told everyone I wasn’t going because I was very uncomfortable being told what to bring and was probably expected to give them a cash gift on top of that. Some of the older ladies in our group agreed. Some said they would not decline in advance because she is a bully and they didn’t want a confrontation.

Lenah called me the night before Pat’s re-wedding. Lenah was there to close the Saturday night bingo and Pat was awfully friendly, but that’s what she does whenever things are going her way. Lenah peeked into the garment bag and saw the exact same dress while Pat was caught up supervising the wedding decoration.

The thing with Karens is that they expect everyone to suck it up, or make their dreams come true, or they simply underestimate everyone and think we are all fools.

Lenah is a very straightforward person with a “so sue me” attitude. She told me she would just ruin the dress. After all, it was hers, so she could do whatever she wanted. If Pat wanted to take legal action, and should things get ugly, she needed to prove ownership. However, the dress was the same, the marks inside the hem and the tags were the same. Even the tag numbers that were punched to identify each dress for logistics purposes matched.

Pat had the dress altered, with some extra beading and dyed to a deep cream color. But it was obviously the same garment. Lenah and I snuck in before the venue was closed for the night. All brides are allowed to stay in a small bedroom for a small charge, so that they don’t need to drive in on their wedding day. Honestly, the makeshift chapel was gorgeous, I don’t know how she paid for it but it was full of flowers and presumptuous details. I naively brought in some ink to spill on the dress, but Lenah said she wanted “something more awful, like a nasty surprise”. Ink would be too obvious and if she saw it ahead, she may be able to snag another gown from somewhere. No, the ideal thing was to have her trust the dress was fine. So Lenah locked herself in a bathroom stall and completely cut out the back panel. She patiently put it back on its hanger and zipped the bag. We left through the emergency door with the back of the dress stuffed inside Lenah's purse. I completely hate people who target and steal from anyone they (Pat and her kid) calculate to be in a weaker position.

The wedding was scheduled at 9 AM. Pat called me at 7 AM, but I ignored her calls. I picked up by 8 AM, both curious and wondering if she suspected anything. Pat was frantic.She was crying that her dress was “missing by half”. I purposely made her explain, being annoyingly dense and continually interrupting like she does, and stalling the conversation. She asked me if I could lend her my wedding dress. I said no, sorry. She then asked me if I would help her get a dress. I was satisfied to remind her that the town's bridal shops were closed on Sunday and the others that would open were almost an hour away. The farm is already almost one hour away from our town.

If Pat could get a shop to rent a dress, she would need to try the dress on, and get it steamed. Even if the dress was ready to wear, it would easily take more than two hours (roundtrip). She tried to ask me to go pick a dress (who would pay for this??). Even if a shop were open and brought her a dress, it would add to the cost. Also, these shops open at 10 or 9:30 at earliest. By time they got to her, it would be time to wrap up the wedding because she needed to clear the venue by 12:00 for the next event.

She broke down and mumbled some stupid stuff I didn't understand. So Pat hung up on me and called Lenah instead.. She asked Lenah to bring her “anything she had available”. Lenah and I ended up delivering the most outdated, moss smelling, oversized dressed. Pat’s disappointment was a mix between angry and emotional. She also tried to wear her knee length silk bridal slip as a wedding dress but it was too obvious and it really looked cheap. She tried to get her daughter to give her her own dress to wear with an open back zipper (due to fitting issues) but Casey refused, asking if she was supposed to attend the wedding naked (she got a point, plus Casey is petite).

The dress needed a petticoat to plump up the skirt, which wasn’t available. So it dragged all over the floor and Pat had to keep pulling it up. Pat walked down the aisle with one hand on her bouquet and another one grabbing her dress. The dress looked limp and weird with the arrangements of pins (they didn’t show) that caused the sleeves and neckline to pucker into messy rims. She spent the ceremony looking uncomfortable and out of place. Very few people attended but that was not part of any revenge, that was just how people reacted to her entitled attitude.

The dress looked awful. The reception portion of the wedding had all this princely decoration, a very nice cake and a bridezilla with a dress from hell. I didn’t stay, but I was told, she was so disappointed she spent her wedding sulking. There was no dance, no actual speech. She had to change into a shirt and leggings because the dress was too uncomfortable. Everyone talked about how Pat put on her flip flops and walked around aimlessly until she ordered the ushers to start folding up the chairs within one hour of the reception. So she practically kicked everyone out and the cake was never cut.

Pat wasn’t the same after this.She was not as loud and avoided everyone. I think she was disappointed that nobody ran to her rescue, not even her family who came from out of town.

Her husband finally cracked under all the pressure and sought some help. He was slaving away and coming home to clean the house while Pat used her kids as an excuse to spend like crazy. Hank also had to do kid homework because Pat never had time or never had patience. She also refused to get a partime job so her kids could attend an afterschool and get help with their school stuff. Therapy seemed to help Hank because the last time Pat left with her kids, he didn't seem distraught. He would be riding his bicycle and could be seen more relaxed while mowing his lawn. Hank told my husband that he had contemplated suicide after their third kid. When Pat returned, he maintained the routine but was interested in going out by himself and doing things for himself. We began to see Pat alone all the time. Hank was seen less and less in the same car and eventually moved in with his parents. He filed for divorce on the grounds of emotional cruelty and I don't think he won. Instead (I’m not sure of this because this is what I was told) there was some sort of a settlement or agreement that she would not get close or interact with him unless it has to do with the kids).

I also don’t know if Pat even actually suspected who/what happened to her dress. She slowly pulled away from the community center and became less active in social gatherings. Pat also removed me from her facebook as well as mostly everyone else from school and the center.

TLDR

Bridezilla stole a wedding dress from an underprivileged woman. The actual dress owner destroys her big day.

(source) story by (/u/forestcabin123k)

[swishswishspiritsword]

Merchant Shang AU 2

The panic didn't really set in until they arrived at his estate–and that was still a weird fact of his life, an estate–and he had Xiao She settle "Empress Su Xiyan" in the guest house. The not-a-maid kinda bodyguard looked at him with obvious disbelief at his address for the young woman, so unnerved by it she slipped enough that her eyes were golden with slitted pupils. Shang Houhua could empathize. He too was freaking out about the sudden occurrence and realizing your boss might be involved with the Big Boss of the world you specifically emigrated away from is distressing.

Although that did mean he could check another point for her being a snake demoness over a crane demoness in his mental chart.

Shang Houhua offered her a sympathetic grimace and awkward shoulder pat.

"Xiao She should go take a break," Shang Houhua said kindly. Or at least in his best attempt. He'd gotten better at socializing since he'd actually managed to curate Actual Human (And Non-Human) Relationships, but he was still a "work in progress" as Luo Ren put it delicately or a "disaster in emotional understanding" according to the ever blunt Steward He.

Shang Houhua was kinda hoping he was somewhere in the middle.

Xiao She had given him a Look and Shang Houhua knew that it meant he would find his very irritable not-a-maid insisting on keeping watch over him personally until this situation was handled.

Or Shang Houhua was dead.

He wasn't actually sure which would come first. And was very carefully not actively thinking about it until his internal screaming could become external in the safety of his heavily warded fluffy bed.

"Yes, Master Shang," Xiao She said with a little more hiss on the words than usual. That may have been a flash of fang. 

Shang Houhua winced. So, his staff may be a bit more upset about the revelations than normal. He hesitated a little unsure if he should point it out considering the general Ignore Everything Rule the mixed species estate ran by.

"...Xiao She may want to compose herself in private unless she has decided to, ah, be more, hm, free with her identity."

That probably wasn't terribly delicate, but Shang Houhua was running on fumes, adrenaline, and specific Plot Related panic he hadn't had to deal with in a solid decade. Shang Houhua nodded again in awkward acknowledgment and Did Not See Xiao She dash up to the roof to avoid corridors or the way the charcoal girl had a thin rat-like tail poking out the bottom of her skirt. Shang Houhua had not seen things for years and went to his room to collapse in peace after one last order for the doctor to be sent to Su Xiyan's room.

-

Shang Houhua hadn't actually meant to turn his estate into some kind of halfway house for more pro-human demons or half-demons. Honestly, owning an estate in the first place had been an accident caused by picking up what could only be described as a side quest. During his early wandering around the great (terrible) world he created, free from his "fate" he'd stumbled into being a rogue cultivator to pay the bills. 

He needed money! Starting up businesses took a lot of it. And connections too! If Logistics Hell taught him anything it was this. So he used what he had to get by.

And honestly he wasn't actually terrible it turned out? He would never be a War God but he did pay attention to the basics, was a resourceful (read cheating) man,and had wanted to avoid being brutally murdered by what passed as a houseplant on some peaks. Besides as Author God he did know more than the average Sect Dropout.

Most people didn't really need big things either. He did minor things to get by. He made talismans to help ward off wandering monsters from farmers livestock and fields. He performed purifying rituals on a town's toddlers to help insure they were protected even after death. He helped fetch some plants to heal someone or an item to break a curse. It had felt a little like playing through an RPG and it wasn't the most stable but Shang Houhua was revelling in not having a bluescreen of death stalking his every breath of air.

The estate had happened when, a very tired and recently poor, Shang Houhua had met Old Sun. Old Sun was one of those eccentric independently wealthy men who never married and liked to collect weird shit. Among that weird shit was something cursed which made the entire estate a horror zone. Old Sun had done everything to stop it. He'd tried to get rid of it only for it to find him. He'd tried to get it blessed at a temple only for it to throw the monks around like dolls until they'd called quits. He'd tried to move away abandoning his home in the city for his estate in bumfuck nowhere. He'd hired cultivators, other rogues, only for them to take the money and split.

He could only dismiss his staff to protect them and set out to beg help from one of the righteous sects with the increasingly starving ghost dogging his steps and weakening him.

Shang Houhua had found the old man collapsed on the road and helped out, noticing the nice clothes he'd been wondering idly about a possible reward, when resentful energy started to waft off him making Shang Houhua choke on his lunch.

Thankfully he'd recognized the item, a minor cursed bangle of a famous courtesan that had been part of a mini quest. After working his way through as many cursed jewelry plotlines as he could he'd eventually remembered this specific bangle and set the spirit to rest, dispersing the resentful energy. 

Old Sun had woken up happy, healthy,and uncursed. He was so grateful he insisted Shang Houhua come spend the night at his home and be rewarded. Shang Houhua was not about to say no and happily accepted. He could, literally, not afford any chance at money.

He just hadn't expected the man to adopt him, shamelessly dragging him into his house.

After a while Shang Houhua accepted because he actually liked sleeping in a bed and he gained his third family. Fourth if you counted his shortly lived martial family. It took some adjustment but Shang Houhua wound up actually liking Old Sun and, even more bewildering, was liked in return. Shang Houhua helped him identify the weird shit he collected, occasionally adding to the collection, and Old Sun feed and clothed him all while cheerfully listening to rants about story ideas.

Shang Houhua had no trouble picking out his favorite, his first real and positive, family member. 

It was on one of his trips to buy ingredients to start up his soap business that had started him down the road of Demonic Social Worker. He'd helped hide one terrified teenager from a mob, sneaking her out of town, and next thing he knows she's turning up at the estate to ask to repay him. Old Sun insisted on offering her a position and kept insisting as others slowly trickled in as the Don't Ask policy of their staff choices spread and they slowly filled the empty house.

Old Sun had been delighted by the noise and people they gathered while he'd been alive. He'd happily bounced the stablemaster's baby with suspicious sharp teeth and pointy ears on his knee and chatted enthusiastically with Steward He about his collection ignoring when the man fell into first person describing the bloody history of some demonic items.

Shang Houhua had simply continued the tradition when he'd suddenly inherited and expanded it with his business, spreading out their household as traders and managers when he could.

He was fairly certain Luo Ren and himself were the only fully human people in the building. 

–

Honestly a future Demon Empress was only the next step up. Or at least that's what he tried to tell his panicking mind. And she wasn't permanent. He would lead her to Tianlang-jun and happily fuck off back to obscurity. 

Definitely. 

A knock interrupted his screaming and Shang Houhua removed the pillow from his face to clear his throat and give permission to enter. 

It was Steward He and the man was looking unruffled as always, at least until Shang Houhua noticed the way his hands were carefully hidden in his robes, his skin seemed unnaturally smooth and more youthful, and his eyes were amber tinted. 

Also upset then.

"Lady Xiyan is demanding an audience," Steward He said mostly neutrally in a way that meant he was far from neutral. "And we've received a request from a group of Huan Hua Palace cultivators to scour the town and our grounds in search of a missing disciple. The town's leaders have instructed them to obey your decision on the matter."

Shang Houhua shoved the pillow back down and Steward He allowed him a few moments to scream.

Part 1 - Part 3

[andrea-lyn]

'The worst part was when my mother asked me why we didn’t see each other anymore, casually, with a flippant sort of curiosity.' Maria and Alex friendship RNM during/after the love triangle

10 degree angle

For ten years, Alex didn’t speak to any of his friends while he fought someone else’s war.

He makes a lot of excuses for it. He’s busy. He’s not in the right emotional space for it. It would be unfair when so much is classified and he can’t share that with them. The truth is that he’s making excuses because Alex doesn’t really like the person he’s become and he wants to keep Roswell separate from that – or maybe just his friends. Definitely Michael.

When things go to hell the day Max dies, Alex finds himself withdrawing again.

He speaks to Kyle, he and Michael and Isobel talk about alien plans and strategies, but what hurts the most and feels the strangest is that even though he’s back in town, he’s stopped talking to Liz and Maria, because he’s not sure he can.

Why he can work with Michael and not talk to Maria, he’s not sure, but he thinks that it has to do with the fact that he and Michael have been through so much and maybe Alex feels like he deserves a little suffering, after what his family has done to Michael’s. He can cope with Michael hurting him with spiteful words and bitter looks, because he knows it’s better than Michael deciding to exit Alex’s life for good.

He’s just not as sure what he’s done to Maria to earn that kind of pain.

Life is full of suffering, though, a lesson that Jesse Manes had beat into Alex’s head.

They don’t speak, at all.

Days turn into weeks, and Alex only drinks at the cabin – six-packs that he grabs from the liquor store or Kyle picks up for them – and then weeks become awkward months.

Somewhere in the middle of that icy silent treatment, Liz folds. She shows up at Alex’s cabin with a plate covered in tinfoil, the smell of churro pancakes wafting through the door even as he stands there and debates sending her away.

“Please, Alex,” Liz insists. “I need to apologize and I have news.”

His stomach rumbles, betraying how hungry he is. It’s the only reason he folds in the end, opening the door to Liz and nodding for the kitchen. “Forks are in the first drawer on the right,” he says quietly, still not sure why she’s here because she’d made it clear that she wanted Michael to move on to something new.

That someone isn’t him.

Still, she says she’s here to apologize, so Alex will take it. “So? What did you want to say?”

“That I’m sorry I took a side and thought that I knew the whole story. I’m sorry I put my nose where it didn’t belong, and I’m sorry I hurt two of my best friends in the process.”

Alex frowns at her, even as he digs into the pancakes. “How the hell did you hurt Maria?”

Liz shakes her head, letting out a rough sounding exhalation. “I really thought Michael and her would be good. I thought he’d let her in, that whatever kept you two apart meant that she and him could have something, but then he lied to her. He lied to her about his hand and about his past. I’m pretty sure I haven’t gone a week without at least one frantic text or call from Maria asking what’s so wrong with her.”

Liz stares at the pancakes miserably.

“She went from upset that she was feeling the way she was to completely torn apart thinking that she was losing her mind, like her mother.”

“I don’t think you should be telling me this, Liz,” Alex warns.

She might be one of his best friends, but she does this. She charges in headfirst and she doesn’t stop to think about the consequences. With a pang, Alex thinks about how Max had a habit of doing the same. Maybe they would’ve been perfectly suited to one another after all.

“I know. Shit, I know,” Liz admits. “I’m here to apologize, I’m here to say I’m sorry, and I am here to beg. Please go talk to Maria? Please?”

Alex wants to know why Liz isn’t asking the opposite.

“Why can’t Maria come here?”

“Because I sort of thought that at least if you go to her, the liquor would help a little more than being isolated in the middle of nowhere,” Liz says bluntly. “You know that she and Michael are done. That’s the news,” she says, as if everyone doesn’t already know that. It hadn’t been a quiet flame-out, even if Alex hadn’t known what to make of it. “And I think you’re both miserable over a self-destructing alien, and we need all the friends we can get.”

Alex could say that he’s got all the friends he needs, but he knows it’s not true.

“I’ll think about it,” he tells Liz, which isn’t a promise.

She nods like it is, though, and leaves him alone.

He knows he should feel bad about the fact that he doesn’t go to the Pony to talk to Maria, but he needs time to process all of this. He’d been hurt, genuinely hurt, and while he knows that other people have to live their life, it doesn’t mean that he’s ready to open the door and go right back to square one.

He tells himself that it won’t be like this forever.

Unfortunately, he’s deliberately ignoring the part where unless someone does something about the situation, then it very well could be.

*

30 degree angle

Kyle is, weirdly, the one who convinces him to go back to the Wild Pony.

“Kyle, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Alex, come on,” Kyle protests. “You are literally avoiding the Pony just so you don’t talk to her and I can’t drink in the weird bunker much longer.” He shakes his head. “It’s sad. It makes me feel like we’re turning into our fathers. It’s been months and Guerin is fucking half the town, but neither of you. I know that’s shitty to hear, but what’s done is done. Okay? Can we please go back to the Pony.”

He could say no, but Kyle’s the one steady friend he’s got right now. He’s pretty sure that if he pissed him off and lost him, then he wouldn’t have anyone, which even he can acknowledge wouldn’t be a good look for him.

“Fine,” he accepts. “When it’s awkward, just remember that you’re the one who asked for this.”

Kyle ignores his plight, clapping him on the back as he forces them to charge headfirst into a place Alex has been avoiding for weeks. It hasn’t changed, but he’s not surprised. It hadn’t changed in years, why would a few weeks have managed to change the Pony. Once Kyle’s inside, he heads off to the bathroom in a completely unsubtle way the second Maria finishes up with her patrons and locks eyes with Alex.

Kyle really would make the worst criminal, wouldn’t he?

“Alex,” Maria greets him, sounding nervous. “Hi. Kyle texted, said you were coming.”

“Did he?”

“I might have tried to lean on him to get you here,” she admits. “I wanted to talk to you and you ignored Liz, which I didn’t think was possible.”

Alex turns his beer, picking at the label as he tries to avoid looking at her. It’s awkward, if only because he knows that they need to talk, but he doesn’t really want to. Maybe they can make this work, though, if he sets down a few firm ground rules.

“Fine,” he allows, “on one condition.”

Maria eyes him warily, with that look on her face like she’s trying to read him. “Okay?”

“We don’t talk about Guerin,” Alex says flatly. “Not while I’m here.”

Maria opens her mouth, like she wants to protest, and Alex gets it. There’s a lot between them that’s gone unsaid that has to do with Michael, but he can’t deal with it. It doesn’t matter that Alex and Maria both aren’t dating Michael, he’s not ready to sit here and rehash a history that’s still too painful to relive. Alex is putting all his energy into not walking away. He really doesn’t think he can muster up the energy to deal with reliving the pain of Michael walking away from him and turning the tables – only, it’s not into the stars, as Alex had been expecting, but into someone else’s arms.

It doesn’t matter that he and Michael are friends. It doesn’t matter that Michael and Maria aren’t sleeping together.

He’s just not ready.

Maria doesn’t look fully convinced, but she seems to understand that Alex isn’t offering a choice. It’s either they avoid the topic or they don’t talk at all.

“Fine,” she relents, after a long pause. “Did you see what that asshole Wyatt did? Using Hank as an excuse to go after Isobel because he thinks she had something to do with it is low…”

Well, Alex never did say that they couldn’t talk about Michael’s family, so he’s stepped right into that one. Still, Maria’s got all kinds of gossip that Alex never would’ve had otherwise, because he’s been self-isolating himself out at the cabin.

“I hadn’t heard,” he says, and slides in closer to listen to the rest of this juicy tale.

At some point, Kyle rejoins him like he’s figured out it’s safe to re-enter the fray. Alex glares at him because it’s clear that he’s been avoiding them until he’d decided that things are safe, but he’s also quietly relieved that Kyle had been so adamant that they come here tonight. He knows that there’s a long way to go before they can bridge the gap, but this feels like a good start.

“What are we talking about?” Kyle asks, pressing both hands on the bar like he’s ready to jump in.

“Rosa’s fashion sense,” Maria shares, because they’ve moved on to one of their old hobbies – critiquing other people’s clothing. “She’s stuck a decade back and none of us have the heart to tell her because…”

Well, how do you tell the dead girl that maybe she needs to find a pair of pants that aren’t ripped?

Also, Alex thinks that’d be the pot calling the kettle black, given his former tastes.

“Yeah, not it,” Kyle scoffs. “She pre-hates me for being the half-brother she never wanted. You really think I’m about to tell her that her flannels need to be retired?”

They spend the next few hours talking about their fashion tastes, for better or worse, and Michael’s name doesn’t come up once. It only occurs to Alex when Kyle drops him off later that Michael hadn’t come up at all and it hadn’t felt strange or awkward to avoid talking about him. Why should it? Michael came into their lives like a hurricane long after Maria and Alex had forged their tight-knit friendship.

To get it back, they’re going to have to figure out how to do it while he’s there, but for now Alex will focus on the foundation and one day, they’ll see if their new friendship can withstand that hurricane.

*

right angle – 90 degrees

Just as Alex feels like he and Maria have managed a détente, the universe barges in as if trying to point out that what they’re doing isn’t enough.

“Alex.”

He’s in the middle of Liz’s lab, readjusting his prosthetic after a quick visit to talk about aliens, having taken off the leg to give himself a quick massage while Liz went to grab coffee. He turns to see Maria in the doorway, and no Liz in sight.

He has to wonder if Liz put her up to this, but Maria’s got her coat over her shoulder and a visitor’s badge on, which means that she’s probably not here for a casual visit. It’s not the first time the both of them have been in the same space, but it feels strange to run into her here. It’s not like he can run. For one, his leg’s not on and for another, she’s blocking the door.

“Is everything okay?” he asks warily, glad she’s not in a hospital gown, but what other reason could she be here?

Maria averts her eyes. “Mom’s here for some tests.”

Guilt hits Alex quickly, thinking about how his avoiding Maria and talking to her because of how much it hurts means that he’s also taken to avoiding Mimi, which makes him feel like a complete ass. He opens his mouth to say as much, apologize for not being there, when suddenly, the piercing sound of the fire alarm goes off.

“What’s going…?”

Maria doesn’t even finish her question before the sound of the door bolting shut echoes in the room. Alex’s eyes widen in alarm, because he has a bad feeling. He gestures for the door as he efficiently works to get the prosthetic back on. “Maria, check the door,” he says.

As he’s buckling himself back in, Maria’s tugging on it, pounding her fists against heavy glass. “Hey!” she shouts. Can anyone hear me? There are people in here!” She keeps working on it, but it’s clear that they’re not the only ones in this situation and being in the lab, they’re far from the most critical case.

Alex stares at the door and can’t believe what he’s about to say.

“I guess we’re going to have to wait it out.”

The doors still haven’t unlocked two hours later, but Maria and Alex have migrated to sit on the floor, side by side. “You know what the worst part of today has been?” she says quietly. “On the drive here, Mom asked me why we didn’t see one another as much anymore. It’s like she knew, like she could feel it, and I hate the idea that the universe is so out of balance that my Mom’s third eye picked up on it.”

Alex gets it, he does, but the problem is that he also doesn’t think that he’s ready to forgive and forget.

“I think part of the reason I’m so mad at you is because you did everything right,” Alex admits, feeling a clicking in his throat as he swallows. “You stayed. You didn’t walk away from him. When he held you after the incident at the UFO Emporium, you didn’t tell him to go and you didn’t run either. When he kissed you, you stayed to talk. And I’m mad at you because you were able to do that and I couldn’t, not with my fear of Jesse in my head,” he gets out, gritting his teeth to get the words out. “And I’m so mad that you could, and I know it’s Michael who showed up, but I was mad at you.”

Maria stays silent, like she knows that Alex needs to get it out.

It’s not even about how much he loves Michael, though he does. He hasn’t ever stopped, and he’d stood in an exploding building, willing to die for Michael. No, instead, he’s pissed off at Maria for being the kind of person that Michael’s been looking for.

Talk about not being fair, but it’s not like Alex understands it.

“Well, then, I’m on the train of being pissed off, because we broke up within weeks because he wouldn’t tell me the truth and I was mad at him. I’m mad at him for making me open up to the idea of him, of making me want him and even love him, but then for him to keep secrets from me that he still won’t tell me, but he’ll clearly tell everyone else! I’m so pissed at Michael Guerin for coming into our lives like a tornado and not even being able to be mad at him because he destroyed himself worse than he took me out.”

Alex lets out a ragged and pained sounding scoff. “Well, then the trifecta’s complete, because I am one hundred percent sure that he’s pissed at me and has been for a decade,” he gets out, and wishes it didn’t hurt so much, but it does.

For all that Michael looking away reminds him of the last ten years, feeling that derision and hate from Michael about how Alex walked away and how things between them don’t work is like someone’s carved a hole in his chest that he doesn’t know how to fill.

Maria threads her arm in with Alex and curls in against his shoulder. “Michael doesn’t hate you.”

“You haven’t seen him, Maria,” Alex says quietly. “He’s pissed at me because I keep walking away. I didn’t know what else to do, but he’s pissed and…” And maybe Alex can’t blame him, because look how crushed he got when Michael did the same to him only the once.

“If he hates anything, it’s how much he loves you. Even when we were together, there would be these small moments when we’d be lying together in bed and I’d feel this aura radiating from him.” She squints, like she’s trying to put a name to it. “And it took me a few days to realize that it was the same hope that came from you. It was a longing and seeing as I was right there with him, I don’t think that it was me he was longing for.”

Alex feels the ache deep in his chest, because it’s all well and good to hear that from her, but it doesn’t matter.

“He’s fucking someone inappropriate every week,” Alex bites out. “I know that I kept walking away and I know I told him I wanted to be friends, but it hurts, Maria. Thinking about you with him, it hurts, because it makes me feel like I’ve never been enough and I missed my chance…”

He rubs at his eyes, hating that he feels so torn up about this.

“I’ve loved him since I was seventeen,” he says quietly. “I let my fear be louder than that love, and now I’m paying for it. I lost my friend, I lost him, and now I don’t know if I’m going to get either of you back.”

“If you’re done being mad at me,” Maria says quietly, pressing her cheek to Alex’s shoulder as she holds him in, like she’s scared he’ll run, “I could use my friend back.”

Alex turns into the warmth of her body. She smells of her intoxicating perfume and the sweet smell of liquor that means she’s been doing inventory. She smells like Maria and Alex burrows in for a one-armed hug, not sure he’s ready to keep being mad at Maria, especially when he’d forgiven Michael a while ago.

“Maybe we just have to figure out how to talk to each other,” Alex says quietly. “I didn’t exactly write much when I was in Iraq.”

Maria’s quiet for a minute, then adds, “Neither did I.”

Maybe Liz hadn’t been the only bad friend of the three of them. Maybe they all need lessons on how to open up, be vulnerable, be open.

The doors unbolt in the middle of their awkward seated hug, and within seconds Liz is bursting into the room. “Alex! I’m so sorry, it’s the new security feature after the last incident and…” she trails off when she sees Maria and Alex hugging on the floor. She blinks, clearly stunned that it’s happening, but there’s also relief in her eyes. “Can I get in on that?”

Maria nods, her eyes blurry with tears, and waves at Liz eagerly. “Get down here!”

They’re free to wander the hospital, but Alex doesn’t want to move when he’s finally feeling like he’s grounded and in the exact right spot for the first time in so long.

*

120 degree angle

It’s been ten months since Alex and Maria stopped talking.

It’s been eight months since they started again.

Both those numbers seem ridiculously small, given what happened last night. It feels like those incidents should have been years ago, but they’re not. Alex is nervous as hell, but he’s here at the Pony, sitting at the bar and waiting for Maria to finish serving a few customers because there’s something he needs to talk about with her.

“Why are you so nervous?” she asks, squinting at him. “No psychic read needed, I think I felt your leg shaking from down the other end of the bar.”

“Last night, I went on a date,” Alex shares, anxiously.

“Which one was it?” Maria asks eagerly, leaning in with wide eyes. “That hottie from the base? Forest? Your tinder date from Santa Fe?”

Alex hasn’t been chaste for the last half a year, exploring who he is now that his father is in a medically induced coma and can’t interfere in his life again. It’s been incredible to learn about what he likes, but last night had reminded him that above all else, he loves one thing the most.

“It was Guerin,” Alex says. “Michael.”

He’s been dreading telling her. He’s been worried and barely slept because he’s been so excited to come rave about this, but he’s also been picturing every scenario in his mind. He watches her for every facial tic and reaction, but there isn’t a hint of jealousy on her face and there’s no anger. It’s been ten months since they almost let themselves splinter and Maria understands how much Alex loves Michael.

He’s here, he’s staying, and finally, he’s decided to fight for Michael.

“Please tell me he took you somewhere better than that trailer,” she says with a disgruntled snort. “You made sure he used a condom, right?”

“Aliens,” Alex reminds her. “He can’t get diseases, even if he tried his best to act like a sexual lint roller and press himself up against as many dirty surfaces as he could find. Metaphorically,” he deadpans. He knows he doesn’t sound very excited, but he’s been grinning since he’d admitted to going out with Michael, and not just that, but the way his name had sounded out loud. “We went out for a nice dinner at Isobel’s. She cooked pasta and Michael grilled, and we had a really nice time,” he admits.

Maria gives him a curious look, like there’s something about Alex she’s not getting.

“Am I still hopeful?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head, and smiles fondly at him. “You’re past hope. This time, you know.”

“You’re not mad?” is his next question, which is the one that he’s really worried about. They barely survived Michael barrelling in between them the first time. What happens if this is all Maria putting on a front and he loses her? He doesn’t want to admit it, but if it came down to Michael or Maria, it’d be a really rough call, as things stand these days.

“Tell me it’s not a fling,” she says.

“It’s not,” Alex insists instantly. “It’s really not. I love him.”

“That’s why I’m okay,” Maria admits, even if her smile isn’t as wide as it could be. “It hurts because I want something like that and I thought that maybe I could get it with Guerin, but I can’t steal other people’s happy endings to make my own.” She smacks her rag on the counter, a determined look on her face. “Besides, I deserve a man who’s willing to tell me the truth.”

“You definitely do,” Alex agrees. “We’ll stay away from here for a while, though, just until things calm down.”

The last thing he wants to do is mount Michael in the middle of the Wild Pony, because that feels a little like cruelly rubbing Maria’s face in it. From the look of gratitude on her face, Alex knows it’s the right decision.

“I’m glad you two are making it work,” she promises, reaching over to squeeze Alex’s hand, closing her eyes, which means she’s reading him. This time, Alex lets it happen, because maybe there’s something good hanging around the corner. “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but it looks good, Alex,” she promises, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “You’re happy. And you’re surrounded by friends.”

It’s pretty much all he could ever hope for, even if he’s not sure how he managed to deserve it.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it with all his heart. “Thanks for letting me have this happiness.”

“You’re one of my best friends,” Maria promises. “We’re not forgetting that, not anymore, not either of us.”

*

180 degree angle – straight angle

“Are you ready for this?”

Alex stares at himself in the mirror, glancing over his shoulder to where Maria’s poking her head in the door of her bedroom. She’d given it up to him for the day, because the cabin is too far for them, but it makes him feel like he’s intruding on her space. Still, given her responsibilities, Alex is also fairly sure that giving up her bedroom and her mirror is the least she can do.

“How’s my tie look?”

Maria wanders closer, adjusting the flare of her dress as she fidgets with it, getting the orchid bowtie back in shape. “Would I be a good maid of honor if I let you go out there without looking your best?” she quips, and gets it straightened up. “You look good.”

“Yeah?” Alex is nervous as fuck, because it’s been years and he knows that he and Michael have created a strong foundation, but sometimes Maria and Michael will have one of their serious talks and Alex will wonder if today’s the day Michael realizes he’s made a mistake.

Maria constantly reminds him that they’re only friends, but that little voice in Alex’s head doesn’t want to go away.

“You should see him,” Maria shares, with the secretive wink that only another person who’s slept with Michael can truly give. Of all their friends, no one else will ever appreciate Michael in that way, because Maria is the only one who knows about all the devious tricks that Michael can do. “I think he managed to convince Isobel to get him a pair of pants that fits just a little too small.”

It’s exactly the relief Alex needs and he catches himself laughing at the image he’s creating in his mind.

“Or he washed them and shrunk them and Isobel’s only noticing now,” he jokes, trying to calm himself down. It’s not that he’s worried about making a mistake, but he’s still in disbelief that today is happening. After all, with all the speed bumps they’ve gone through, the suspension of their relationship ought to be wrecked.

Instead, here they are, getting married.

“How are you doing?” Alex asks.

Maria squints at him like he’s lost his mind. “You’re the groom. I’m not the one who should be answering that question today.”

“Yeah, I’m the groom and I get what I want. What I want to know is how you’re holding up,” Alex keeps stubbornly charging down that road. “I know how hard weddings can be, never mind when one of the grooms is your ex.”

“It’s been years and Michael and I went on about two dates,” Maria says, rubbing Alex’s shoulders as she gets him positioned in front of the full-length mirror. “I’ve seen his vows and yours. I know that the words you two use to describe each other would’ve never been him and me, and that’s okay. I’ve learned to be okay with that. I’m gonna go find my own cosmic, epic, connected romance and then I’ll make you suffer through it.”

She leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

Instead of ducking away, though, she lingers. “And,” Maria promises, wrapping her arms around his back in a tight hug, “just to make things fair, you can make out with him a few times so our friendship playing field is evened out.”

Alex lets out a soft laugh. “Michael might get kind of mad about that, but we’ll see,” he playfully says.

Maria finally releases him to duck away, heading out the door.

“Don’t be late! The rest of your life is waiting for you at that altar,” Maria calls over her shoulder, “and he looks hot in the kind of way you definitely wanna tell your Mama about!”

And soon, Alex is going to take that last name and all that goes with it, and he’ll have his best friend at his side while it happens.

He’s absolutely ready for this.

[unfolded73]

love this director's cut idea! ⭐for any section you want to talk about!

I decided to do a director’s commentary on “The Things We Don’t Speak Aloud” because I have a lot of thoughts about Marcy and Clint Brewer. Below the cut for length:

Ask me for a director’s commentary of one of my fics or a section of a fic

Marcy looked around at the motel room she’d just stepped into while Clint muscled his suitcase over the threshold and closed the door. The decorations were… unique, that was probably the kindest thing she could say about them. Hopelessly out of date to be sure, but perhaps people liked the kitsch, she thought charitably. Perhaps that was why nothing appeared to have been updated in decades. She lifted her small suitcase onto the bed and went to unzip it, her mind already focusing on how she wanted to arrange her things in the drawers.

“Are we going to talk about what just happened?” Clint asked, making no similar moves toward unpacking.

She felt a spike of anxiety go through her, making her palms sweat. “Clint, until we know for sure what they were talking about, I don’t know if it’s fair to—”

So I super identify with the Brewer family and their apparent willingness to avoid difficult subjects. I was raised the same way, unfortunately. It was an open secret that my uncle was gay, and despite supporting him (somewhat; my mom’s attitudes on homosexuality were ok but not great), my mother never spoke to him about it. Ever. For 50 years. So I understand how Patrick could go more than a year without telling his parents about being gay / about David. And I figure he probably learned that avoidance from his parents.

“It seemed pretty clear what they were talking about, Marcy,” Clint said. “He literally said, ‘a business relationship and a romantic relationship.’ What else could he have meant?”

She dropped the sweater she’d been refolding and met her husband’s eyes. “So Patrick and… and David…”

“I guess so.”

“But if they’re a couple, why wouldn’t Patrick say anything? We aren’t homophobic.” She picked up the sweater again. “Maybe David’s father is confused. Or jumping to conclusions because they spend a lot of time together working at the store.”

Clint squinted at her. “He lives here and probably sees his son all the time. I don’t think he would have said it that way if they weren’t a couple.”

“But Patrick dated Rachel for years!” She paused, thinking it through while she went over and put the sweater in one of the dresser drawers. “I guess he could be bisexual.”

Bisexual erasure, particularly for men, is real. I think about it a lot more now that my own son identifies as bi. So I struggle when I write scenes like this because, on the one hand, no, Patrick doesn’t seem to be bi. We can assume that since David says he’s gay in MTP, that’s probably how Patrick himself identifies, and it’s consistent with him saying he didn’t know before David what right was supposed to feel like. But he could be bi/pan, as far as his parents know at this point, and I don’t want it to seem like I as the author wouldn’t consider that if I had only the info the Brewers have. But also, I figure the Brewers would assume he was gay because that seems more in-line with who they are. And it happens to be true. So I did give Marcy the thought here that, ok, maybe he’s bi. And then had Clint say, maybe, but also he did break up with Rachel a lot and run away. I wrote it similarly in My Heartbeat Shows the Fear.

“That’s possible. Or it’s possible that he was trying very hard not to be gay, and that’s why ultimately things didn’t work out with Rachel. It would explain a lot. They way they kept breaking up. The way he ran away to start a new life somewhere else.” He sat down on the bed.

Marcy shook her head, a hand coming up to her mouth to hold in… she didn’t know what. “No, that’s… surely he would have talked to us if he was feeling that way. And he was happy with Rachel for a long time.”

“Was he?”

Marcy began unpacking more quickly, needing to accomplish a task, needing to move. “Yes, of course he was happy.”

“Not happy enough, though. Maybe he’s happier with David.”

She slumped her shoulders, suddenly exhausted. They’d gotten up before dawn to make this drive and the long hours on the road were taking their toll. “Should we maybe take a nap?”

Marcy does not want to talk about this anymore. Using sleep to avoid things is another thing I do.

Her husband nodded, recognizing the request for what it was — a plea not to talk about this anymore. “Good idea. I don’t think I’m going to be able to stay awake for a party if I don’t have a little rest.”

She put her suitcase aside and took off her shoes and stretched out next to her husband on top of the bedspread. Clint reached out for her hand, and she squeezed his fingers in return.

Marcy thought about the conversations she’d had with David on the phone. The way he talked about the store and the way he talked about Patrick. The way he talked about how smart Patrick was about the business. It hadn’t escaped her notice the way David spoke — the cadence and timbre of his voice, the uptilt of it on certain phrases, his encyclopedic knowledge of skin care products — yes, she’d assumed David was gay when she bothered to think about it at all. She’d mostly just thought that David seemed nice, based on his unfailing politeness with her.

Another tough one, because David isn’t gay, he’s pan. But most people probably assume he’s gay, based on stereotypes, and I figured Marcy would too.

Meanwhile, she’d gotten used to a certain amount of distance from her son. He’d barely spoken to them at all for the first couple of months after he left town, other than to say he was safe and that he needed a fresh start. Then came news of the business he was starting with David, and Patrick had begun to sound excited on the phone, talking about David’s vision for the store. He’d had a lot to say about what a good idea it was that David had, and how skilled he was with vendors and customers. She began to sift her memory of those glowing compliments through this new filter, where maybe her son had romantic feelings for his business partner. It made a certain kind of sense, now that she thought about it. It explained why any mention of Rachel caused him to shut down.

I do like imagining Patrick being unable to keep from bringing the topic of David up, even though he couldn’t bring himself to say they were a couple. Maybe hoping his parents guessed.

It perhaps explained, she realized with a sick feeling in her stomach, why any time she asked if he was dating anyone, he denied it and quickly changed the subject.

She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but Marcy did doze off briefly. She awoke after about a half hour to Clint puttering around with the tea kettle. Sitting up, she put her feet on the floor, her stomach still queasy with anxiety.

“So why didn’t he want to tell us?”

“Maybe… maybe they aren’t telling other people at all?” Clint posited.

“Mr. Rose knows. That weird Roland person knows. Both of them assumed we knew!” Then it hit her. “David assumed we knew. Right? If they’re out to people here, and he invited us to Patrick’s party…” She thought again about how warm David always was with her on the phone, taking time out of his day to ask after her health or make small talk with her when she called the store. The way he spoke about Patrick, which she never questioned because of course they knew each other well — they ran a business together. “What do we do now?”

Clint’s eyes widened. “I have no idea.”

There was a knock on the door.

Marcy went over and opened it, revealing Johnny Rose’s worried face and expressive eyebrows on the other side.

“Hi, Marcy. Mind if I come in to chat?”

“Johnny… yes, of course,” she said, widening the opening to admit him.

So this was the seed idea of this fic. In canon, David gets there first and Johnny shortly thereafter. I thought it would be interesting to switch it and see what happened.

He clasped his hands together, eyes darting around the room. “I wanted to apologize to you both for speaking out of turn earlier. And saying… things that I assumed you… but it seems I was, er, that is, that I jumped to conclusions about…”

I enjoy writing Johnny when he’s flustered.

Marcy tried to rescue him. “You assumed we knew that Patrick and David are dating.”

Johnny cleared his throat. “Yes. And I just wanted to say, as a parent myself, that the important thing is that they’re happy. That’s all that matters. Who our kids love doesn’t matter.”

I figured he’d say essentially the same thing he did in canon here. That the important thing was that their kids were happy. 

“Johnny, we don’t have a problem with Patrick being gay.” She looked over at Clint, who shook his head.

“No,” he said in agreement.

Johnny’s whole demeanor changed, his shoulders dropping as he smiled with relief. “Oh! Good, that’s good!”

They all smiled at each other for a second, unsure what to say next.

“Yes, anyway, we love Patrick,” Johnny said, rocking on his heels. “I probably should have said earlier, I was only skeptical about him and David at first. It’s been obvious for a while that they’re good for each other. Patrick’s become like a member of the family.”

I wish we had gotten to see Johnny’s skepticism about juggling a romantic and a business relationship on the show. That does seem in-character for him, and I would have liked to have seen him trying to talk to David about it, about guarding his heart and his parts and his business. I’m sure it would have been a disaster of a conversation but I would have enjoyed it.

“How, um, how long have they been together?” Marcy asked.

“Since not long after the store opened, as I recall.” Johnny said.

Heart pounding, Marcy dropped onto the bed next to where her husband was sitting. “Oh.”

“That’s a long time,” Clint said.

Johnny’s face fell as he probably realized that he’d once again delivered cataclysmic news to Patrick’s parents. It wasn’t just that he’d kept his sexual identity and his relationship with David a secret. He’d kept it a secret for over a year.

Ugh, the timeline. In 5x14, David says “two years ago”. But there seems to have only been one Christmas since they started dating. So I just figure David was severely rounding up when he said 2 years and that it’s really been more like a year and a half at that point, idk. Jeremy Bearimy.

“You know, it can be a hard thing for kids to talk about with their parents,” Johnny said. “Goodness knows David and I haven’t always talked about what was going on in his life.”

Marcy latched onto that. Perhaps she had an expert here, someone who’d been through what they were going through. “Was it hard for David to come out to you and your wife?”

Johnny pulled over one of the chairs and sat down. “Well, it was different with David. Moira assumed he was gay from a fairly young age.” He threw up his hands. “I wasn’t sure, myself, but I figured he’d tell us when he was ready. Then when he was eighteen, he told us he was bisexual. Then later, he amended it to ‘pansexual’.” Marcy looked at Clint and saw that he looked just as confused as she felt. “The labels can be confusing,” Johnny continued, “and I know I said some things I shouldn’t have, at first. Asked him if it wouldn’t be easier if he picked a gender. Which I realize wasn’t… helpful. Or fair of me. I just wanted him to be happy. And he is now! So.” He shrugged, laughing awkwardly.

I tend to just go with the fanon that when David came out as pansexual to his parents, it was probably a surprise to them that he wasn’t gay. 

“But you always knew he wasn’t… straight,” Marcy said, disappointed that the Roses’ experience didn’t really mirror theirs that closely after all.

“Yes, I suppose we did know that. Moira knew, at least. She’s always understood David better than… anyway.” A shadow flitted across his face that looked a lot like guilt. “But I’m not sure it matters when we know. It only matters that we support our kids.”

It’s also fanon that Moira was quicker to support David than Johnny was, but that’s based on the pretty solid evidence of her very firm “It’s not a phase” to Johnny in S1. Not that I think Johnny ever rejected David outright, but he clearly has struggled with David’s identity on some level, based on his convo with Roland in S1.

Marcy nodded. “We do support him, of course we do. Of course we do,” she repeated, a lump rising in her throat. She felt Clint’s hand take hers, and she was afraid to look at him lest she start to cry in earnest.

“The thought that he didn’t think he could talk to us about this,” Clint said.

“When David’s obviously so important to him,” Marcy added.

Johnny looked at them with sympathy, and clearly with no idea what to say.

The shape of their failure as parents was starting to coalesce in her mind. The fact that while they’d never said anything bad about gay people in Patrick’s presence, they’d probably never said anything good either. The fact that ‘girlfriend’ and ‘wife’ were always the words they used when talking to young Patrick about what might happen when he grew up. The way she’d always encouraged him to try to patch things up with Rachel.

So here’s where I struggle with the concept of the Brewers as these lovely, accepting parents, because while I suspect that by 201(whatever year this is in the show), their feelings about queer people are positive, I don’t think they were necessarily that way when Patrick was growing up. I raised my kids with no particular expectations as to the gender of people they might want to date, and I doubt the Brewers were like that. I also think (and I used my own mother as a model for this) that when they talked about tolerance of gay people, it was with an air of “well, it’s not a choice, they can’t help it, so we need to love them.” The thing that communicated to me as a kid was that being gay was gross and icky and on some level, bad. But I’m sure if you’d have asked my mom, she would have patted herself on the back for her acceptance and “tolerance.” But people evolve, and gay marriage has been around now for long enough (especially in Canada) that a lot of minds have changed, and I count the Brewers among that number. They stepped up when they had to, and they were beaming and proud at the wedding. They also could have done things differently and perhaps made Patrick’s journey easier. But then he wouldn’t be with David, so. 

“Is Patrick happy?” she asked Johnny, embarrassed that she didn’t know and that this near-stranger likely did. But she had to ask. She was desperate to know.

Johnny hesitated, perhaps realizing what a complicated question that was to ask about anyone. “He certainly seems happy. But you can ask him yourself tonight, right?”

There was another knock at the door.

Marcy opened it to a tall man with dark hair and Johnny Rose’s expressive eyebrows. He was clutching a gift basket to his chest and looking apprehensive. It could only be one person. “David?” she asked.

“Mrs. Brewer, Mr. Brewer, hi. I’m—”

“David!” his father said, standing. “Come on in. The Brewers and I were just having a nice chat.”

David looked even more apprehensive at that as he shuffled into the room, eyeing his father with suspicion. “Why?”

Marcy took the gift basket from David, letting his hurried explanation about its contents drift by without paying it any attention. “David?” She still felt like she was on the verge of tears, even more so now that she was faced with the man that her son had apparently fallen in love with. “Can I give you a hug?”

[memaha19]

Things I Want(ed) From KH3 That Re:Mind is Probably Not Going to Fix

 AKA, a brief interlude from Frozen 2 posting because Kingdom Hearts was on my mind this morning.

AKA, I’m excited for Re:Mind but still...

AKA, KH3 disappointed me and I’m still salty about it almost a year later.

AKA,  there are many “my problems with KH3″ posts/discussions floating out there on the internet and many are probably worded better than mine but, as I said, the game was on my mind this morning.

Just...the worlds. The Disney worlds in KH3 bothered me. There were so few of them but they were so so LONG. Some of them were painfully long. Toy Box felt like the longest experience of my life. Every time I thought that level was coming to an end, BAM, another trek to another area. And Arendelle...though I love Frozen, there’s only so many times I can trek up the mountain only to get thrown off and have to climb back up again. There were so few worlds, only seven, I believe, (because we’re not counting Twilight Town or the 100 Acre Woods, more on those later), that I think they could’ve given us a few more worlds and made the levels a little...shorter? A little more detailed and charming? The levels were huge but empty and devoid of the character that previous Disney worlds had in other games. The previous main games had about 10 or 11 worlds, not including the throwaways (like Atlantica in KH2) or the final worlds (TWTNW and End of the World), so there could’ve been some more! Birth By Sleep had numerous shorter worlds and I vastly prefer that to slogging through the same world for hours. Even the way that KH2 had us revisit each world would’ve been nice.  What’s more, they could’ve taken some of the massive time and space devoted to the empty, excruciatingly long Disney worlds and given us more time in Twilight Town or the Keyblade Graveyard, or put a playable Radiant Garden in the game. Those non-Disney worlds always served as nice interludes in the other games and it’s sorely lacking in this one. (And yes, I have heard that Re:Mind is going to let Scala be a playable world, so I’m excited for that!)

Related, I also wanted some worlds from older Disney films. I know the other games have had worlds from older films, but almost all of KH3′s worlds were so jarringly...current. I would’ve liked to see some of the older Disney film worlds rendered in the beautiful graphics of KH3, but, instead, the oldest film represented was Hercules (1997). Three of the worlds (maybe four, actually, with the Pirates world) were from movies from this decade (Corona, Arendelle, and San Fransokyo).

Related, they did the 100 Acre Woods so dirty. It was disappointing and short. It used to be a fun little interlude between the big worlds in previous games, a time to chill and play a mini-game and not have to fight a big boss fight. This was like “hello, here’s one mini game, goodbye.”

Related: all that Twilight Town exploration we got in the other games and this one gives us the forest and the town square area and that’s it?! We can’t even go to the clock tower or inside the mansion? When we first got to Twilight Town I was like “wow this is gorgeous!” and then quickly disappointed when I realized we couldn’t go anywhere.

Related, I’ve seen others say this and I agree: the Disney worlds seem like they’re just there, oftentimes, to get in your way. They feel like obstacles to the actual plot because they didn’t bother to place much/any relevance to the plot into any of the Disney worlds. Sometimes we get little snippets of the big story, like Marluxia and Larxene hanging around in Corona and Arendelle just to say cryptic things without ever being a real threat (that in itself is weird too, I spent ALL of the Corona level bracing myself for a fight with Marluxia only to fight...Mother Gothel’s heartless?) but it feels like two different games: The KH that wants to still be about Disney worlds and the KH that has gotten so deep in its own world building that it doesn’t have time for anything else.

Related, again: KH3 has an abundance of Disney worlds where Sora being there doesn’t make any difference to the plot. The most fun Disney worlds have always been the ones that have an original story that we’re actually involved in. Corona is just the plot of Tangled with Sora and co. tagging along. Their presence or lack thereof make no difference to the story. Arendelle is the same way.

The boss battles in the worlds were...lame. I understand that it maybe doesn’t make sense to fight someone like Mother Gothel, who never shows any physical fighting power in Tangled, but we can’t fight Zurg? We’re in a literal toy store and we can’t fight Zurg as the boss? We have to fight a weird doll and 800 robots? We have to fight Hans’ heartless? Not Hans? We fight Mother Gothel’s heartless? Not Marluxia, who’s been harassing us all level long? I understand that they held the KH characters back because of the whole “assembling 13 pieces of darkness for a big final battle” thing, but we had to fight Xemnas like ten times in previous games, they could let us fight Marluxia twice.  I feel like the other games were a lot better at having us face a combo of heartless/nobodies/unversed AND Disney bosses. But, as the game has really zero interest in making the Disney worlds a part of the plot, they throw these cheap (and endless) unversed/heartless bosses at us and they’re all so EASY. They could have, and probably should have, let us fight the Organization at the end of each world and then let us fight them again in the Keyblade Graveyard, similar to the way Chain of Memories had us fight each Organization member a couple times.   

When you finally do get through the Disney worlds, the ending is like “here’s all these characters that have been missing from the rest of the game” and the Keyblade Graveyard flings boss battle after boss battle at your face without much rhyme or reason. And while some of them are fun, some of them feel like “let’s just pair these characters together and make you fight them at the same time so we can save some time because we didn’t bother to put any of these fights into an earlier part of the game”. I’m looking at the Luxord/Marluxia/Larxene fight in particular. I would’ve understood pairing the last two together, but then Luxord is also there like they didn’t have any other place to put him.

This game is too easy. I’m not great at video games. I’m good-ish. I’m into stories more than anything so I hate when a game’s difficulty keeps me from completing it and keeps me from seeing more of the story. But I still like a little challenge. I have not-so-fond memories of yelling at the TV as I died time and time again fighting Ansem/Riku at Hollow Bastion in KH1, but I also have fond memories of finally beating him and what a rush it was! I didn’t get any of that in KH3. I’m not sure I died more than once or twice, if that.

The way they just let the Organization members hang out in the worlds and do nothing has always seemed weird to me. They’re big parts of the overall plot but now they just stand around and verbally harass Sora? As I said above, I spent all of Corona thinking I was going to have to face Marluxia at the end. Instead, they stand around in the worlds and then they stand around in the Keyblade Graveyard in the cutscenes and just talk. Also, okay, maybe I get the reasoning behind why Luxord was in the pirates world and why Vanitas was in Monstropolis, but Marluxia seemed like he was shoehorned into Corona solely because of the connection between the magic flower and his powers, which was stupid. And Larxene had zero connection to anything going on in Arendelle.

All the characters we’ve been waiting for (Ventus, Aqua, etc.) don’t appear until the very very end, which is a problem with the story pacing. They tease us, very early, with Riku and Mickey trying to find Aqua and then immediately drop that plot point to give us some empty Disney worlds. (Side note: this 100% tricked me into thinking we’d be switching back and forth between what Sora was up to and what Riku was up to and I was sorely disappointed as I played and realized it wasn’t true.) They dither in this “Sora needs the power of waking” to avoid giving us Ventus until the very end.

Just...the story pacing in general, which kind of ties into everything else.  This game has a beginning, because it had to, and something they wanted to end with but they weren’t really sure how to fill the space in the middle. You spend most of the game just chilling in the Disney worlds with very low stakes. This big battle waiting at the end is always there in the background but, partially because the Disney worlds feel like distractions that don’t add to the story, the middle of the game never really feels like it’s building toward the ending, or anything. And then, when you do get through the Disney worlds, about 75% of the plot is thrown at you in the last hour or two of the game. It reminds me (a lot of this game reminds me, actually) of FFXV. I love FFXV dearly, I’ve poured A TON of hours into gathering ingredients and taking photos and doing side quests, but it has the same plot issue. The majority of FFXV is a light-hearted journey about four bros on a roadtrip, only for everything to take a VERY dramatic tonal shift about 3/4 of the way through the game and then stay very very SAD for the rest of the game. KH3 does something similar, with the way we spend most of the game traveling through Disney worlds and cooking food with Remy, only for the game to suddenly remember at the 11th hour that it’s supposed to be wrapping up this big 10+ year long story and thrust you into battle after battle and plot-heavy cutscene after plot-heavy cutscene.

To the pacing point: yes, I’m aware these games have always had slightly funny/back-loaded pacing. However, a main thing the other games had that KH3 lacks is that Radiant Garden/Twilight Town/Traverse Town interlude world that helps push the plot along. Without that in KH3, we get a ton of long Disney worlds where we’re like “when is the story going to happen?” and then the Keyblade Graveyard where suddenly ALL of the story is happening. Previous games have let us experience the Disney worlds for awhile before bringing us to an interlude world which furthers the plot, a la the big Radiant Garden section in KH2 that happens midway through the game.

Anyway, I think Kingdom Hearts 3 was a gorgeous game, graphics-wise, and I’ll still be shelling out money for Re:Mind come January, but after waiting for 14 years for a continuation of the main story line, this game just feels like, after everything, Nomura still wasn’t sure how to end it? It feels rushed and underwhelming and incomplete as hell. 

TL;DR: I have all these thoughts about KH3 that I’ve waited 11 months to express.

[buckychristwrites]

Just A Touch | Part 1 | b.b.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your powers? Controlling any feeling a human can have, from emotions to pain, with a simple brush of your fingertips. Your mission? The traumatized soldier with sad stricken eyes and scream filled nightmares.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: None

A/N: So this is very loosely inspired by the book Carve The Mark by Veronica Roth. Let me know what you think! :)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 |

Masterlist

“How did you find me?”

What started out as an uneventful and normal day took a turn with just an unexpected knock on your front door, which you thought nothing of until you threw it open to find The Tony Stark on the other side, smiling radiantly at you, the Avengers quin-jet in the background behind him. This might have seemed less weird if you weren’t living in a small town in Ohio, a far distance from New York and not a place you could see Tony casually spending time in. And when you also considered the fact that prior to this moment, you had never been within 100 feet of Tony Stark, let alone have met him, your first instinct was to slam the door in his face. You had no intention of reopening the door as you started to walk away, but you stopped dead when you heard him yell your real name from the other side of the door. A name you had been running from for the last almost ten years. The name that made you reluctantly open the door and let the man inside.

It took 20 minutes of him telling you that he needed you to come with him without ever alluding to why he needed you in particular to get you to agree to go with him to New York City. But that didn’t matter. As you sat in the reclining chair of the Avengers quin-jet, your mind was blank and your whole body was numb. You knew exactly why you were there.

Which brings you to this moment, an hour later in Avengers Tower, sitting in the conference room where you and Mr. Stark were joined by Captain America himself. While Steve was leaning back in the chair in front of you, Tony was sitting on the conference table itself, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Next to him was an open folder, a file filled with every single fact about you, the old you, from the moment you were born and ending abruptly about a decade ago, and resting on top was a picture of you. The crinkles and faded colors showed that the picture had aged worse than you, as you looked exactly the same.

“After HYDRA fell, we raided their files to find victims of experimentation,” Tony said, sitting up straight and crossing his arms. “All of them seemed to be dead, which wasn’t much of a surprise. But then we got an alert from facial recognition.” He looked right at you, his head tilted to the side slightly. “And that’s when we found you.” Your head fell back against the wall, and you stared up at the ceiling. You had done everything in your absolute power to make sure no one found you. Even the good guys. You didn’t want anything to do with this life anymore.

“So what do you want from me?” You asked, failing to hide the hostility in your voice. Tony threw his hands up, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

“We want you to join the team,” He said. Eyebrows furrowing together, you eyed him suspiciously.

“Why?” You asked. Steve and Tony exchanged a look, and Steve opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.

“We know what you’ve done,” Tony said simply, picking through your file before pulling out a short stack of papers. Your body went cold as he skimmed through them, flipping the pages dramatically. “A human torture machine? Making people feel excruciating pain at will with just a simple touch.” He glanced up at you over the paper, and you looked away from him. It was suddenly very warm in the room, and you wondered how you were going to get home. Tony put the papers down on the table, the movement bringing you back to reality. “Sensing and controlling emotions. Is that all you can do?” You cocked your head to the side.

“Is this a trick question?” You asked. “Because I feel like you have everything listed right there. No, I can’t do anything else. I can sense and control the things that humans feel. Emotions, pain. Sensing emotions I can do from a distance but to actually change them, I have to be touching them.” They nodded.

“How did HYDRA do this to you?” Steve asked. It was the first time he had really talked during this meeting, and you had actually wondered for a bit why he was there. You shrugged.

“Years of experimenting on me,” You said, nonchalantly. “I think the emotions part was an accident, because they were more concerned with the pain thing. At first I could only make a little pain, like getting your finger pricked or something. But after a few months of more shots and experiments and procedures…” You stopped, swallowing hard. Everything was coming back to you now. You closed your eyes for a second before continuing. “I can now make it feel like your being struck by a thousand lightning bolts, whenever I want.”

The two men exchanged looks again before looking back at you. Tony hopped off the table.

“We’d be lucky to have you, but we won’t force you,” He said in a rushed voice as he walked slowly towards the door. “Fossil here will answer any questions you have and, if you decide to join, will fill you in on your first… mission.” The pause before his last word made you uncomfortable. What exactly was it they wanted you to do?

Steve sighed, sitting forward in his seat. His eyes were warm and kind, making you want to trust him. But it was hard when you were practically kidnapped and brought here by the team that they now want you to be apart of.

“So I have a mission,” You stated. “Is that a normal thing? Assigning missions to people before they’re even part of the team?” Steve chuckled.

“Not at all,” He said. “But it’s really not what you think it is. And it only becomes your mission if you decide to join the team.” You purse your lips as you take this in. A thousand questions ran through your mind, and you weren’t really sure where to start.

“What happens if I say no?” You asked.

“Then we take you home and you live your life.”

You took another half minute before you spoke again.

“And what happens if I say yes?”

Steve laughed again. You hated how obvious it was that you were considering this.

“We’d move you into the tower,” He began to explain. “You’d become apart of everything. The missions. The briefings. Everything. You’d get a suit if you want one. Tony can add really anything you want to enhance your powers.” He shrugged.

You looked up at the ceiling, thinking of the final notice bills that were back at your apartment. The dead end job you slaved through every day, making just barely enough to get by. Your life had been spent hiding, always looking over your shoulder and running when anything went slightly wrong. It would be nice to feel safe for once.

“So, let’s say I am saying yes,” You stated, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. Steve raised an eyebrow. “What’s my mission, Captain?” He laughed again, a little harder this time, grabbing your file while shaking his head.

“Right, the mission,” He said as he flipped through the pages, stopping at one and pulling it out. “It’s going to sound simple, but it’s going to be a lot harder than it looks.” A flood of discomfort filled his face as he held up what turned out to be a photograph, revealing a picture of you and a familiar face from your past, standing side by side in the HYDRA compound.

“I need you to tell me everything you remember of your history with the Winter Soldier.”

_________________________________________

Knock.

Just knock.

You had been repeating this mantra to yourself for what must have been 10 minutes at this point, and it got you nowhere. Every time you rose your hand, you would hold it up for a while and then drop it down again. Why was this so hard?

It had now been about 5 hours since you had agreed to join the team. Tony had already sent out a team to move your belongings from your run down apartment to the Tower. You had since been introduced to all of the other members of the team.

All except one.

You had been exploring the whole Tower to avoid this. You now knew where everyone’s rooms were (including your own), which hallways lead to where, all of the escape routes and how many windows were in the entire upper penthouse. But you knew it was time to finally bulk up and face him once you caught yourself counting the number of doorknobs. Now that was just excessive.

Just as you thought you had worked up the nerve, the door flung open, and out came James Buchanan Barnes, in black jeans and a hoodie, long hair flowing down to his shoulders. He jumped back when he saw you, his face filled with fear and anger as he took a fighting stance. You raised your hands and took a step back.

“I am so sorry,” You gasped. Part of you was very afraid, but the other part was very embarrassed that you had been found standing outside of his door.

“Who the fuck are you?” He demanded. His demeanor didn’t let up, which made you slightly more afraid.

Your voice was almost a whisper when you told him your name. “I’m a new member of the team, fresh meat,” You said, trying to lighten things. He lowered his hands slowly. It was obvious that he was debating whether to believe you or not, and you hoped it would come out in your favor. You knew what he was capable of. But from the look on his face, he didn’t appear to know that. He looked you up and down, before finally sighing.

“Bucky,” He said, raising his hand out to shake yours. You grasped his hand firmly while in a daze. Of all of the changes that had been thrown at you in the last six hours, this was the one effecting you the most. You never thought you would see him again.

“It’s nice to uh, meet you,” You said awkwardly as you dropped your hand back down to your side. He nodded, appearing to agree.

“So um, what brings you to the team?” He asked. You pressed your lips in a fine line. This is the part where things get a bit hard.

“That’s actually the reason I’m here,” You said slowly without making eye contact. “They brought me on because they have a mission for me.” He eyed you suspiciously, turning his head slightly.

“What’s the mission?” He asked, his voice lowering. You closed your eyes. Part of you wished he had just killed you a moment ago.

“That’s an interesting question, and they haven’t given me all of the details yet,” You began, anxiously playing with your fingers. You paused, finally looking at him in time to see his eyebrows raise at you impatiently. There was no escaping it, he was going to hate it no matter what. You sighed. “But it appears that the mission is you.”

[theladymeera]

A Little Ghost-Breaking, Part 1

A short fic for @gendryxaryatrash, happy new year!

Things got a bit busy this week and today I had to sit down and read an entire book before overdrive could delete it from my shelf so I didn’t have time to finish this today. Instead we’ll all have to live in suspense until tomorrow! Enjoy!

Bears strong influence from The Haunting of Hill House (the novel), The Ghost and Mister Chicken, Stranger Things, and Ghostbusters. Oh, yeah and there was definitely no influence from that family trip to the Grand Canyon when I was seven.

Here’s the link to it on AO3 [x]

“Wait, are you telling me that you believe in this shit?” Arya asked Gendry, incredulous.

Gendry drew himself up defensively, “Hey, you can’t tell me what I did and did not see. This was way before I ever met you.”

“So you were what, five?”

“Twelve.”

“And you trust your twelve-year-old eyes and brain to tell you that you actually saw a ghost? Not some green light –”

“– it wasn’t green this isn’t Ghostbusters.”

“Or a sheet floating in the wind or whatnot?”

“It didn’t look anything like that.”

“Oh yeah, what did it look like then?”

“It was just this sort of – form – thing, and it spoke. It was muttering something about people I’d never heard of that no one else had heard of when I asked about it but some of those names were in an old family bible that was up in the attic.”

“The ancient family bible was being stored in the attic?”

“Yeah, don’t ask me why it was put up there.”

“Look it was freaky, it was real, and I saw it four different times over that week. And that wasn’t the only weird thing that happened while we were there.”

Arya waved him off and was quiet for a minute. She grabbed her coffee and took a sip, it was starting to get cold. “Well what if we went up there this weekend and checked it out? Then I can prove to you that it was all some elaborate scheme or Joffrey’s or something.”

“Fine. I’ll make the arrangements and this weekend I’ll prove that it was all real and you’ll have to admit that you’re wrong for once.”

Arya rolled her eyes at him but the wager was agreed upon – if she could prove it was all fake he’d have to concede to her restaurant picks for the rest of the year, if he won she’d have to admit that she was wrong and come to all his boring events for the rest of the year.

The drive up to the old farmhouse was long but the scenery was lovely. It was peak season for looking at leaves and Arya made Gendry promise that they’d stop and get pumpkins and cinnamon sugar donuts on their way back on Sunday. The farmhouse was old and dilapidated, about three hundred years old Gendry told her. Considering the age, the distance from any other people, and the long dirt driveway leading to the place Arya figured that Robert Baratheon must have chosen the spot for a vacation with all his children as a way to punish the wealthier ones such as Joffrey. Though Arya had no doubts someone as messed up and vindictive as him would have found some way to entertain himself anyway. She hoped the barn cats had all steered clear of the cretin.

The boards on the porch were a bit shabby from decades of feet pounding on them, Gendry knew a surprising amount about the house and could tell her that the porch had been replaced within the last fifty years. The floors inside the house were much older though, the original hardwood had been cleaned and polished recently – obviously the owners would have had the house cleaned before the weekend guests got there. These boards were truly well-worn with slight grooves in the paths that feet tended to go often. Arya tried to avoid those spots as much as possible, making a game out of stepping in the oddest places. Gendry’s teasing her by shouting “Parkour!” every time she made a particularly difficult move didn’t stop her.

There was nothing remarkable about the three-story house Arya thought. There weren’t even any particularly old and shabby blankets or memorabilia that she was used to seeing in such lived-in places. In fact nearly everything in the place was new except for the structure itself.

“Remind me again why you thought this place was so creepy?” Arya asked her boyfriend as she peered into the disappointingly empty chest at the foot of their bed.

“You haven’t seen the root cellar yet for one,” Gendry told her as he deposited their bags in the closet. “It’s also very different at night. Even without the ghosts there’s the wind coming up off the coast and sometimes I could’ve sworn we were hearing wolves howl outside even though they were killed off centuries ago.”

“So there are ghost wolves too? Sounds like my kind of thing.” Arya flopped down on the bed, checking the firmness of the mattress. It was new and felt just right for her back. She’d been expecting one of those ancient ones that are either rock hard and squeaky or that are so worn the springs would stick into her back.

“This is a nice mattress,” Gendry sighs, “Way better than the old ones.”

Arya twiddled her thumbs over her stomach, letting herself relax for a moment. It was a nice mattress, just not what she was expecting from the age of the place. “What’s this about a cellar?” she said when Gendry got relaxed enough to start snoring.

He woke with a start and begrudgingly led her to the trapdoor into the cellar. He hadn’t been joking about it being creepy. The place was a dugout under the house, the shelves were clearly ancient and covered in cobwebs. Both Arya and Gendry avoided those because if there was any place to get bitten by a spider it was down there or in the barn. Arya got several fantastic pictures of the light shining through the cracks and spaces in-between the slats and of the abandoned tack and farm equipment. By the time she was finished it was getting dark out. The coastal wind whipped Arya’s hair into her face determinedly on the walk back to the house and Nymeria was howling for her dinner. “I think I found your ghost wolf babe!” Arya shouted back to Gendry.

“Does she normally howl for dinner?”

“Nah, but I’m not right there or anything tonight. Don’t be such a wuss.”

Their dinner was a fresh clam chowder and sourdough bread that Arya had insisted on picking up when they passed through the nearest town. Arya had developed a fondness for seafood and sourdough bread in college and while she liked cooking and was good at it she didn’t have much experience with seafood or sourdough and she figured it was worth it to get some since she didn’t get towards the coast very often. “Besides,” she told Gendry when they stopped for the food, “I’d like to spend our first night at the cabin-thing doing something other than cooking.” Gendry appeared to have gotten the wrong idea about her planned activities but she didn’t correct him, after all she might lean that way herself later.

“So,” Arya started when they’d finished washing up, “do we need to do anything special to make the ghosts come out or d’ya think they’ll come on their own.”

Gendry glared at her for a moment before answering, “I don’t recall anyone acting out of the ordinary before the ghosts showed up last time.”

“I think I saw games in one of those cupboards upstairs, do you want to play Monopoly while we wait?”

“The real question is,” and Gendry leaned forward across the table, “are you ready to lose Monopoly?”

Arya did lose Monopoly, or so Gendry insisted she would have had she not decided the game was over and packed it up by the time it became clear she wasn’t going to win. She won the drawn-out game of Scrabble that was made more difficult by a lack of cell service – “Odd,” Arya thought to herself, “I still had coverage when we got here.” But to admit that it was weird would have felt like she was conceding to Gendry’s insanity and she would not allow that. “It’s probably just because of the wind or something,” she assured herself. After they’d either played or rejected all of their options Arya excused herself to the creepy shower and with the exception of the spiders she had to wash down the drain it wasn’t so bad. Her dorm had been much worse. “At least we don’t have to use the outhouse,” Arya said to her reflection as she brushed her teeth. The thing was still standing and had been filled with very large spiders when Gendry had opened the door on their tour. It reminded her too much of her family’s vacation to the Grand Canyon when she was little. She’d gotten a urinary tract infection from holding it too long because her only opportunity to relieve herself for a five-hour period when she needed to go was in an old, creaky outhouse and she hadn’t gone because there had been a tarantula on the seat.

By the time the two of them had curled up together, Gendry’s arm thrown over her waist and Nymeria laid out along the foot of the bed, Arya had nearly forgotten that she’d come there for a possible ghost-breaking. But Gendry was already asleep and he’d sworn he and his half-siblings and cousins hadn’t done a thing when he was here before, the ghosts had just shown up during the night though they weren’t as interactive as they were in A Christmas Carol. Arya shifted so there was less weight on her arm and went peacefully to sleep.

Much later Arya began to wake, faintly aware that Nymeria was growling on the edge of the bed and Arya could have sworn she heard a long “CREEEEEAAK” somewhere nearby. It was also freezing and Arya pulled the blanket tighter around herself, snuggling back towards Gendry’s warm embrace.

“Nymeria hush there’s nothing there” Arya mumbled but the wolfdog didn’t listen. Instead she stood up and growled louder, Arya could see the whites of Nymeria’s teeth in the dim light that filtered through the window. There was nothing there in the space between the bed and the door. Only there was. Arya froze. There, in the three feet between the chair by which Arya had deposited her shoes and the door to the hallway there was a – a shape. The faint outline of a person. It was sort of luminescent like the little glow-in-the-dark stars Arya and Sansa had both once collected and stuck all over their shared room.

Then, over Nymeria’s vicious growls and little warning yips Arya heard murmuring. She couldn’t quite make out the words but they were coming from the direction of the vaguely colonial historical-reenactment womanish figure Arya could almost make out in the dim light. Arya didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t breathe but Nymeria kept growling, the figure kept murmuring, and Gendry’s arm tightened around Arya as he woke up. There was a ticklish sensation running up Arya’s leg and she twitched, there was a slight sting on the back of her thigh and she yelped. Nymeria lept off the bed towards the door and the figure – whatever it was – was gone.

Gendry struggled and rolled out of the bed, landing on the floor with an unmanly shriek and a thump before he stumbled to his feet and turned on the lamp. He threw back the covers and Arya turned to see what he was about. She saw a rather large spider running across the sheet before Gendry’s hand flipped it off and into the darkness towards the wall. Arya scrambled away and said shakily “did you see what kind it was?”

“No, sorry.”

Arya turned back towards the door, “Nymeria get back up here” she said, patting the bed. “I don’t know what got into her” she lied, settling back down and keeping her face away from Gendry.

“Oh sure you don’t know. I know you were awake and scared out of your little mind,” he grumbled but he climbed back into the bed and turned off the lamp. Arya did not deign to reply.

[kaycares22]

What Are You Doing New Year's Eve? (Scott/Malia)

Merry Christmas, @allisonscott ! I was your Secret Santa for Scolia Secret Santa. I wanted to give you a slow-build relationship, so here’s a decade-plus of NYE’s. I know something went wrong with the original submission, so here it is, sans coding errors and with a complete ending. Hope you enjoy. :)

Read it here or on AO3.

___________________________________

New Year’s Eve, 2011

Lydia Martin’s parties are a status symbol in Beacon Hills. You’re not someone unless you can somehow score an invite, and nothing rivals her New Year’s Eve party. Two years ago, Scott had spent New Year’s binge watching Marvel movies with his mom and Stiles, listening to Stiles volley between lamenting their low, low status and inventing possible scenarios of what was unfolding at the party across town. This year, Scott wanders that same party, followed by the ghost of a girl he’s not quite ready to shake and mentally curses Lydia Martin and her parties for bringing Allison Argent into his life.

At ten minutes till midnight, he’s still torn between wanting to leave this godawful year behind and not being ready to part with what 2011 will signify for the rest of his life. Suddenly, it’s too warm in the overcrowded living room where someone’s starting to pass out poppers, so he walks past the kitchen where Lydia and Derek are filling solo cups with champagne and finds himself in the backyard. He expects to be alone - after all, it’s almost midnight - but there’s a flash of movement near the pool, and he looks over just as Malia’s head whips around. She’s sitting cross-legged on the tiled border, dressed in cutoffs and a sweatshirt that looks an awful lot like Stiles’s lacrosse hoodie. From where he stands on the patio, it looks like she’s shivering.

His initial reaction is to turn around and head back inside. Malia’s become a staple lately, a siamese twin glued to Stiles’s side, but Scott still doesn’t feel like he knows her - and he’s not sure he wants to. (Stiles’s survivor guilt has him throwing himself into saving someone else while Scott’s has him certain he shouldn’t be allowed to lead a pack.) But then he makes eye contact with her, and he can’t just slip back inside.

“It’s almost midnight,” he says instead as he lingers in that spot just outside the door. He silently wills her to give up her spot and go join the party’s impending countdown.

She shrugs instead. “It was midnight three hours ago in New York.”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind that across the country, it’s already a year where she will never exist, and he feels warm again. He can’t head back inside now. The only other choice is to cross the patio.

“Asleep.”

“Asleep?”

Malia nods. She doesn’t offer any more information at first. Instead, she gazes out over the pool for a long, silent minute before she finally says, “He still smells like it.”

Scott knows what she means. He can still smell it, too, the way it lingers on his best friend, even after the dark circles faded from around Stiles’s eyes and his skin turned to its normal pale instead of deathly white. But it’s like there’s been some unspoken promise between Scott and Malia to not tell Stiles. After all, he’s still just barely enough on this side of things to fall asleep in the middle of parties.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Scott says, grateful he hasn’t yet taught her about the way heartbeats speed up when someone tells a half-truth. Fine is probably outside the realm of possibility, has been since Scott got bit, but his glass has always been half-full too.

Malia doesn’t even acknowledge that he talked, though. She just keeps staring across the backyard like there’s something out there he’s missed. Her voice isn’t as raspy as it was when she first shifted back to this body, but she still doesn’t talk much. She doesn’t make much eye contact either. Really, she doesn’t do much with anyone who isn’t Stiles. And with him asleep in the guest room upstairs, she’s much less the furious half-animal out for vengeance from the people who forced her into this life and much more the scared half-girl who still hasn’t figured this whole human thing out. And at seven minutes to midnight, he can’t just leave her out there alone.

With a sigh, he gives up his hope of being alone when his first year post-Allison begins and crosses the few yards between himself and Malia. At least she finally turns her head to look at him when he drops down beside her.

“You know, you’re gonna miss it.” Malia just keeps staring at him until he finally elaborates. “Midnight. Here, in California.”

“I don’t care.”

Music spills out of the house behind them, coupled with excited voices as the new year gets closer. It’s too jubilant to match the tightness that grows in his chest every time he checks the time on his phone. Scott needs a distraction, which is how he ends up putting his foot in his mouth.

First, though, he presses his palms against the mosaiced walkway and leans back so he can see her face. “Do you remember New Year’s? From before?”

She shoots him a look that’s definitely more furious half-animal than scared half-girl and bares her teeth.

Scott doesn’t recoil. In his head, he can see Stiles placing a gentle, albeit poorly timed, hand on her shoulder as he reminds her Not at friends. Not at people period. But Scott doesn’t say anything. Baring your teeth at the new year feels somehow appropriate tonight. He also doesn’t expect her to tell him anything else, which is why he’s surprised when she talks again.

“The last New Year’s I remember, my dad told me it was gonna be my year. Then three months later, I killed my mom and my sister.”

Again, Stiles’s voice is there in the back of his head, reminding him that they need to keep telling her it wasn’t her fault. But Scott pushes it away. The heaviness in his own heart says guilt doesn’t work that way. Instead, he lays back in the cold grass, trying to ignore the way the music has stopped. The way people are louder, more excited. He can’t get his hands to move the right way to check the time on his phone again, though, so he folds them under his head.

“The last time my mom made us make resolutions was the last new year’s before my dad walked out,” he tells her, swapping terrible holiday for terrible holiday. He’s not sure why he tells her at all until she lays back beside him, and it seems to make sense.

“New Year’s is stupid.”

“The worst.”

It catches him off-guard when the countdown starts inside. His chest pulls tighter and tighter until it feels like he can’t breath. Until he sees stars. Until he starts to wonder if this is what Stiles’s panic attacks feel like.

Happy New Year! the collective voices inside cheer, and his heart lodges itself in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him.

“It’s midnight,” Malia sighs beside him.

Her words come back to him without any conscious effort on his part, and his throat starts to feel like it might not close up after all. “It was midnight three hours ago in New York.”

New Year’s Eve/Day, 2013

Paris has been good for her. Scott, Stiles, Lydia, even Derek got to just be for parts of high school. They all had memories of parties, dances, first dates, and friday night games. And (at least by the time she settled into her new skin) Malia had berserkers and dread doctors and a homicidal mom for good measure. But in Paris, she gets to just be. There’s dance clubs and boys with names she sometimes can’t pronounce and liquor laced with wolfsbane once she finds a pack Derek gives her the name of. And it’s everything she wanted it to be.

By New Year’s Eve, she’s been there almost a week. She still barely knows any French, but that just gives her an excuse to not talk when she’d rather be doing other things with her mouth. She spends the holiday out with the two youngest members of the pack she’s stumbled upon, then ends up in the quiet of an apartment with Paul, who she met a few hours ago. She has no idea when the clock switches over to a new year, and it’s bliss.

The sky is still grey the next morning when she wakes up to a buzzing that sounds like it’s just below her ear. It takes her a minute to figure out what just woke her, another to remember where she is, and thirty seconds more to realize that it’s her phone in the pocket of her discarded cuttoffs on the floor. Trying to stay as still as possible to avoid waking Paul, she slides her arm across the mattress until she can reach her pocket, then fishes around until she finally finds her phone. She pulls it out and flips it over to find Scott’s name on the screen, and there’s a weird tug at her heart.

I don’t know what time it is there, but it’s midnight in New York, so I think it’s the new year there?

It’s the first time it dawns on her that it is indeed the New Year, and she’s about to tell him as much when the … appears on the screen to let her know that he’s typing again.

Stiles just pointed out that I could’ve Googled that. So it’s six there.

He wants you to know he had to tell me cause he’s an asshole.

Anyways, Happy New Year.

Malia can picture them; half a world away, they’re probably in Derek’s loft. Just like they were for Christmas, except the Sheriff and Melissa probably aren’t there this time. Lydia didn’t throw a party last year when they were all at odds with one another, and holidays feel different now when it’s the only time Stiles and Lydia make the trip back from the east coast. Which is probably why Scott reacted the way he did when she told him on Christmas she was leaving the next day for Paris. But Lydia had MIT, and Scott had Davis, and Malia needed this.

Happy New Year, she writes and then deletes it. New Year’s is stupid, she writes back instead.

She waits for his … to appear again, but it doesn’t. Derek texts her to wish her a Happy New Year, though, and so does Stiles, so she responds to both of them before she comes back to her message thread with Scott. Scrolling back up, she reads through their texts that stop abruptly on Christmas, right around the time she told him her plan out on Derek’s fire escape. He and Lydia had deferred for a semester while they fought a literal war, but they planned to leave Beacon Hills behind after the holiday. And Malia had still wanted her time to just be, to figure out who she was when she wasn’t Stiles’s girlfriend or Peter Hale’s daughter.

But Scott hadn’t understood, partly because they were still in the middle of… something. He never sat her down the way Stiles had, back when he had defined the word girlfriend for her and then panicked when she substituted it for mate, but they had spent a lot of time together. His mom started expecting her to wander downstairs in the morning after she sat them down to remind them that they both had goals for the future that a diaper bag doesn’t fit into (Malia didn’t get it). But Scott planned to leave, and Malia planned to do the same. And now, things had been weird.

She makes it to four days before she left when her screen suddenly jumps on its own, bringing her back down to his newest message: The worst.

Malia feels that same tug at her heart as she pictures him not in Derek’s loft but laying beside her in the grass instead. Younger, but somehow more worn. Maybe a little broken.

She’s not sure what else to say, but his … saves her again, and then is replaced by his next message: How’s 2014?

Lonely is the first word that comes to mind, even though Paul’s arm is still thrown around her waist. Kind of the same, she says instead.

She watches as he types something, then must delete, then types something again. Over and over, the cursor appears and then disappears again without another text. Then finally, he sends back a single word.

Cool.

It’s quick and short. She pictures him setting his phone back down or pocketing it again, then joining back in the conversation about Braeden’s latest mission or Stiles’s weird roommate who can’t sleep with the closet door closed. Time doesn’t really matter to her and time zones still make no sense, but for a minute, she can feel the distance between them now that they’re living in two different countries and two different years.

Before she can stop herself, she types out I miss you.

Her finger hovers over send for just a half second too long, and then, just when she’s about to press it, Paul stirs beside her, tugging her closer in his half-asleep state.

“What time is it?” he mumbles as he buries his face against the back of her neck. His stubble rubs against her skin in a way that’s nothing like Scott.

“A little after six.”

“ ‘S early.”

“Not that early,” she argues as she sets her phone back down on the floor and flips over on the mattress so that his lips meet hers instead of the back of her neck.

A few hours later, she finds her text to Scott, still waiting to be sent. She deletes it instead and doesn’t text him again until they’re both in the same year and the same country.

New Year’s Eve, 2015 Her name is Bri. He meets her in a Starbucks on a Friday night when he’s claimed a secluded table in the corner where he won’t have to listen to his roommate fight with his girlfriend for the ninth - ninth - time this week, and she asks to take the other half of the table. Six months later, she’s settled into the apartment he started renting after his roommate and his now ex got into fight #10, and she’s met his mom. But he still hasn’t told her that he moonlights as a supernatural creature. Which makes the holidays… awkward.

Thank god Stiles and Lydia are the planners Scott never wanted to be, because they listen to his panicked phone call and then solve the dilemma he thought had been the realization that she doesn’t know he’s a part of a freaking pack of animals. Their official unofficial New Year’s get together is moved to the McCall house where there’s significantly less weird paraphernalia if you don’t know that werewolves exist. Liam makes a joke about Scott flashing his eyes that makes Bri stare at him just a little too long, and Derek accidentally says the word pack a little too loudly when he’s talking to Mason at one point. And when Bri asks about Braeden’s scar, Scott is so caught off guard, he can’t think of anything at all to say and just shrugs a silent I don’t know. But other than that, they might actually make it through this holiday unscathed.

It’s just into the last hour of the year when Scott steps into the kitchen to grab another sadly wolfsbane-less beer when he finds himself face-to-face with Malia. Literally. If it weren’t for coyote instincts, he would’ve hit her with the door.

“Whoa. Sorry,” he says, even as she’s shaking her head with a, “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Yeah. Same.”

Even though she was clearly headed out of the kitchen, she sinks back against the counter as the door swings shut behind him. He’s been home for a week, but this is the first time he’s seen her. In fact, it’s the first time he’s seen her in awhile. Paris led to a visit to London to stay with Ethan and Jackson, then to Spain where a friend of theirs had a pack that also had a werecoyote. She made it back stateside before the end of the year, but her traveling didn’t stop. Instead, she jumped from state to state, meeting pack after pack to learn more about the Hale legacy and the packs that had welcomed other coyotes just like her. So, yeah. It’s been a while.

He wants to tell her that she looks good, but without any effort on his part, Bri is suddenly in the forefront of his mind. “How was Michigan?” he asks instead as he leans against the island opposite her.

“Cold.”

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t directed at him. But her icy, monosyllabic response kind of just hangs between them, suspended by whatever she had wanted to say before something had stopped her, too. Unfortunately, he’s a sucker for this sort of thing.

“Yeah? Isn’t it midnight there already? Like New York?” There’s a roll of her eyes, and he suddenly remembers the time their Physics teacher called her out and Stiles had tried to argue she was blinking with style. She may be traveling the country to try to learn more about what it means to be a half human, but she has definitely mastered the art of the eye roll. She pushes herself off of the counter, too, and pretends to busy herself with the Keurig on the opposite side of the room, but Scott doesn’t give up so easily. “Derek says there’s a whole family of werecoyotes up there.”

“That’s a different pack,” she says at the same instant he remembers that was Minnesota, not Michigan.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

“Right,” Malia echoes. The Keurig buzzes loudly, the smell of coffee fills the room. It’s almost enough to cover up the scene of her sudden frustration.

He keeps waiting for her to say something. She’s not good with emotions, but she’s never one to hold her tongue. If it’s him that she’s frustrated with, she would tell him. But the Keurig eventually stops, and it’s just silent between them. He gives her another thirty seconds while she blows into her mug to cool it off, and then he decides he’s had enough staring at her back for one night.

“Well, it’s good to see you,” he says. She doesn’t even turn around. And he’s more hurt than indignant about whatever this is. So he decides to just let it go. “I guess I’ll - “

“Hey! There you are.”

At the sound of another person’s voice, Malia finally does turn around. Just before he turns to see Bri, too, Scott watches her expression change to match Michigan’s winter.

“Bri,” he announces as he gestures between the two girls. “This is Malia. Malia, Bri.”

Bri is bubbly and outgoing. She thrives on human contact and relationships and social situations. She’s been talking about meeting his friends for weeks. She even got Lydia to laugh at her joke, albeit at Scott’s expense, earlier tonight. She’s kind of the antithesis of Malia, and, as she squares her shoulders, Malia seems determined to prove it.

“Hi,” Bri greets her with a tiny wave of her hand. “Happy New Year. It’s nice to finally meet you. Scott’s told me so much about you.”

Malia rolls her eyes sky high a second time as she strides right past Bri. “New Year’s is stupid.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees because he doesn’t know what else to say. “It’s kind of the worst.” But he hasn’t even finished talking by the time the door is swinging behind her.

He apologizes to Bri and texts Stiles an SOS. Being Malia’s closest friend, he helps to keep her occupied and there’s not another run-in the rest of the night. But as he’s kissing her at midnight, Scott realizes he doesn’t know if Bri is short for Brianne or Brianna or something else entirely.

It takes a few months for their relationship to fizzle out. He never does tell her about the werewolf thing. By next New Year’s, Bri is a distant memory.

New Year’s Eve, 2017

There’s a throbbing in the back of her head. That’s her first coherent thought before she even opens her eyes. Then she tries to turn over, and cries out as pain shoots up her side.

“Malia?”

She grows still at the sound of her own name in her half-conscious state. She’s still too groggy to even know where the sound came from, but her inner coyote processes it as a threat. She doesn’t move even though her side still aches, doesn’t breathe. And then, it speaks again.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

The tension leaves her body as she realizes she knows that voice. Slowly, she opens her eyes, but the room is bright with its harsh fluorescent light. She shuts them tightly again and curls in on herself, only to remember the pain in her side once it’s shooting down towards her thigh again. A little more tentatively, she just barely opens an eye to take her in her surroundings. It’s a hospital room, plain and white, and there’s Scott, just to the side of her bed. She wracks her brain trying to remember how she got here, but that throbbing grows worse, and she definitely doesn’t remember having seen Scott.

“What happened?” she finally asks.

“A hunter,” he sighs as he leans forward in the chair to rest his elbows on his knees. She watches, almost cross-eyed, as he reaches out to brush her hair back behind her ear with a level of gentleness that she doesn’t associate with Scott. “Derek said you guys would track them down when you heard more from Braeden’s contact, but you didn’t want to wait. So you went by yourself. They shot you.”

“That’s it?” Scott’s brow furrows as he stares back at her. But Malia doesn’t offer to explain as she instead tries to sit up. Scott’s hand is there in the next instant, stopping her with a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Lia, c’mon. I just told you. You were shot.”

“I’ve been shot,” she argues as she tries again to ignore the pain and sit up.

“Yeah, not like this.” She finally stops in favor of listening to him, rapt enough with attention to fall for his act as he gently lays her back down. “The bullet lodged in your side, and you started to heal around it.”

“Is it still there?”

“No. But trust me, I’ve been there.” His hand lingers on her shoulder still, even though she hasn’t made another move to get up. It takes her a minute to realize her side is tingling now, a sure sign that he’s leeching her pain. Immediately, she shrugs her shoulder, and he at least complies and lets go.

He drops his hand to his side instead, but doesn’t move from his place beside her bed. The fog in her head is starting to clear enough now that she remembers bits and pieces. The crunch of a second set of footsteps in the woods, the suddenness of the pain as it bloomed just above her hip, the relief that came after she decided to stop fighting and just let her eyes close. But Scott is nowhere in her memories of that night. He was supposed to be at Derek’s tonight. She was supposed to be at Derek’s too, she had just planned to show up late. She has no idea what time it is, but it has to be close to midnight, if it hasn’t passed already.

Her eye’s narrow in Scott’s direction as it finally clicks. “Why are you here?”

He scoffs. “Because you were shot.”

“But how did you know I was here?”

Scott’s gaze suddenly drops to his feet, and his face grows darker. When he starts to rub at the back of his neck, he looks just like Stiles does when he’s been caught meddling. She’s sure there’s a chemosignal or two there to clue her in, but her brain is too tired to find it. Eventually, he clears his throat. “I’m, uh, your emergency contact.”

Oh.

Her defensive demeanor drops as his words sink in. It was years ago when she had written him down, replacing her father who didn’t need to know every time the monster of the week almost won. But years ago, she and Scott had been … something that they weren’t anymore.

“Well, I’m fine,” she says, knowing Lydia would tell her to say thank you. “You can go.”

“C’mon, Malia. I’m not gonna go.” He settles back down on the edge of the chair like that proves it.

“But it’s New Year’s Eve. It’s almost midnight.”

“And?”

“And you should be with the pack.”

“So now you’re not in my pack anymore?” he asks with a teasing smile. “Plus, it’s already midnight in New York.”

Malia sighs, dropping her head back down on the pillow. She hates hospitals with a passion, and Scott understands better than anyone else. It’s the smells and the sounds and the chemosignals everyone throws off without even trying. It’s suffocating to be surrounded by so much suffering, and it’s not the way anyone should start a new year. “This is stupid,” she finally sighs.

“New Year’s is stupid,” he echoes, and, despite herself, there’s a warmth that settles in the pit of her stomach - or maybe it’s just the painkillers.

Scott watches her expectantly until she finally relents with a roll of her eyes. “The worst.”

Whatever they gave her for the pain is good and strong and her head is still full of clouds. She might fall asleep again, or maybe she just starts to daze, but the next thing she knows, she’s shivering so hard, she can hear the sound of her own teeth chattering. And each violent shake rattles her sore side where they had to take her apart to find the bullet.

“It’s okay,” Scott says, and she realizes then that he got up again, pulling the thin hospital blankets up to her chin. “Your body’s just fighting the anesthesia. Is that better?”

The blankets don’t do anything to stop her shiver, but she still nods as she says, “Fine.”

He doesn’t buy it, sighing through his nose. “Here,” he says as he begins to slide off the jacket he’s still wearing, laying it over the arm of his chair.

“Scott…”

But he ignores her as he comes around the other side of the bed and kicks off his shoes. He peels the blankets away from her, and the shivering immediately gets worse, but then his body is pressed against hers, his arm circling her waist. She forgot how warm his body always is until it’s surrounding her, beginning to ease the tension that comes with trying to fight the shivering. His hand settles just above her hip, and she’s too tired to say anything when that tingling sensation returns again.

“Better?” he asks when her body is almost still.

“Better.”

By the time midnight arrives, she’s fast asleep, beginning the new year free of pain.

New Year’s Eve, 2020

“Dude.”

Scott jumps, startled by Stiles’s voice despite the whole werewolf hearing and the sensing body heat thing. “What?”

“You’ve got it bad.” Stiles thumps him on the shoulder and nods towards the place by the window where Malia sways gently back and forth. It comes so naturally, Scott doesn’t even think she knows she’s doing it. But Talia is cutting her first molar and brushes away any hand that tries to soothe her swollen gums. Braeden’s sleeping form on the couch would be evidence enough of the battle they’ve been waging, even without the dark circles that surround Derek’s eyes, but Aunt Malia apparently has the magic touch. The baby’s been asleep against her shoulder for almost an hour, and she hasn’t stopped swaying since.

“I get it,” Stiles continues without an invite. “Lydia picks up Talia, and I immediately want to bone her. Even though she is definitely Team No Kids and plans to end her career without ever being traded.”

“I don’t want to -” Scott sputters, stuck on that next word when he juxtaposes Stiles’s crude phrasing with the woman across the room. So instead, he focuses on the second half of what Stiles just said. “Lydia doesn’t want kids?”

Stiles shrugs his shoulders. “She’s only got three more years to finish that PhD before 30. Plus does the world really need little Stilinskis running around?”

Scott should point out that there’s plenty of time once they’re 30 to start a family, which is exactly what Derek did - he thinks it’s what Derek did - But then Lydia is suddenly there, circling her arm around Stiles’s waist. Scott tries not to pay attention to the way that Stiles’s arm wraps around her shoulders and pulls her closer, but even after all this time, it still feels sudden and new and unexpected to see the two of them together. “So what do you think?” she asks, cheek pressed against Stiles’s shoulder. “Should we leave?”

The pack assembled is smaller this year, with Liam off in Seattle visiting Hayden, Mason and Corey visiting Ethan and Jackson in London, and Jordan is off meeting his girlfriend’s family now that she’s confirmed she’s okay with the fact that he spends half of his time as a hellhound. Now it’s just the three of them standing in the kitchen, while Malia rocks the baby and a bleary-eyed Derek simply watches. Lydia probably has the right idea.

“Leave?” Stiles apparently disagrees. “It’s not even midnight.”

“It’s already midnight in New York,” Scott counters, but unlike past New Year’s Eves, the two of them both turn their heads to stare at them. “What?” he asks with a shrug of his shoulders. “It is!”

“Well, we live in California, dude,” Stiles says. Then he literally turns his body to face Lydia, hand falling to her waist, and once again, Scott can’t not notice. “You really want to go?”

“I think they could use some sleep.” Lydia says it as a suggestion, but she’s already starting to clean up in the kitchen. And when she reminds Stiles of her grandmother’s belief that you spend New Year’s the way you spend the rest of the year with a hint at how she plans to spend the rest of the night that’s just unsubtle enough to make Scott feel like he shouldn’t be witnessing it, Stiles is on board. Derek half-heartedly tells them to not worry about the mess, but mostly watches as they take care of the remains of their half-hearted party. By the time Stiles and Lydia are slipping out the door, Derek’s dozed off beside Braeden on the couch.

Scott plans to head out, too. There’s nothing left to clean up, and Talia doesn’t seem to like him much when she’s not teething. But he pauses with his coat on and his hand on the door, turning back around to where Malia’s still standing in front of the picture windows facing the woods, swaying back and forth with the baby. And Stiles still isn’t right, but he can’t leave just yet.

To avoid waking the sleeping parents, he crosses the room again. She must hear him because she turns away from the window, widening the arch of her swaying. “Hey,” he says once he’s close enough for her to hear his voice when it’s just above a whisper. “Stiles and Lydia left.”

“I know,” she deadpans. “I can hear you guys talking.”

Scott laughs. In the eight years he’s known her, he’s watched her become more comfortable in this body. She understands emotions now, and she’s better in most social situations. It may have taken her a little longer, but come May, she’ll have a degree. And yet, he might like this side of her the most, matter-of-fact and so much like the girl they found in the woods.

“Well, I was thinking about -” He motions towards the door in the same instant he realizes he’s not totally sure why he feels like he has to announce this to her. But now she’s just staring at him in a way that implies this statement is no less intelligent the last. “I mean, I guess, if you want,” he says before he can stop himself. “If you didn’t want to spend New Year’s alone…”

Malia’s gaze softens then, less of a judgement over his confessions and maybe something bordering on consideration. The baby chooses that moment, though, to turn her face, nuzzling against Malia’s shoulder before growing still again. Malia looks down at the baby, and by the time she looks back at Scott, her expression has changed. “She just fell asleep. I should make sure she’s really down for the night.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Scott knows he should take a step back and say his goodbye. He should survey the kitchen one last time to make sure everything is picked up, even though Lydia would never have left if something was out of place. He should go home and text her at midnight, just like he’ll text Stiles and Lydia, Liam and Hayden, Mason and Ethan and Jackson. Instead, he stands rooted to the floor mesmerized as she rubs the baby’s small back,sending faintly dark lines up her wrist when she pauses to check the baby’s pain level.

“You know,” he finally says instead of I’m gonna go. “You’re really good with her.”

Malia shrugs. “It’s not hard.” There it is, that matter-of-factness again. “And it’s nice. To have family.”

There’s an ache in his chest that’s quickly replaced by a warmth as her words resonate with him. A lot of times, a lot of New Year’s he’s wondered if maybe it was a mistake to take her from that life she had settled into. Tonight, he wants to pull her close. He wants to tell her how glad he is that she’s there. He wants to brush back that hair that’s fallen forward from behind her ear. He wants -

Outside, someone sets off a premature firework. Scott and Malia both jump. Talia begins to scream. Her parents wake up with a start on the couch. And just like that, the moment is gone.

“It’s okay, Tal,” Malia says as she begins to bounce the baby, resuming the endless laps she did around the living room before the baby fell asleep the first time. “I know, New Year’s is stupid.”

“The. Worst,” he echoes.

Scott ends up letting himself out.

New Year’s Eve, 2021

Lydia Martin’s parties are a status symbol in Beacon Hills. Malia’s only been a part of her life for ten years, and even she knows that. And in 2021, Lydia Martin throws the party to end all parties, then follows it up with her first act as Lydia Martin-Stilinski, and throws the smallest party she’s ever thrown to welcome in the first full year she’ll spend as a married woman.

The Martin-Stilinski house is full. Talia spends the first half of the night playing peek-a-boo with everyone before she eventually curls up beneath the Christmas tree and falls asleep. Jackson repeatedly chokes up telling the story of Ethan’s proposal, and Lydia elbows Stiles every time he snorts halfway through the story. Derek and Braeden show no signs of falling asleep before midnight. It’s the pack Malia never wanted but now can’t seem to live without, just like Beacon Hills is the place she tried to escape and the home that welcomed her back. But still, there’s something about all of the wedding planning and baby games and feeling of family that leaves her feeling… She’s not sure.

It’s almost midnight when Lydia starts pulling down champagne flutes and Derek offers to help pour. Malia takes the excitement over the impending countdown as her invitation to slip outside.

It’s colder than she realized, and she shivers as she sits down on the back steps. It’s louder here, closer to the city and Stiles’s FBI placement, than it is back in Beacon Hills. She welcomes it as she focuses on the sirens and the traffic and neighbors’ top 40s playlist instead of that feeling welling inside of her.

As much as she hates New Year’s, it might be good to see this one go. It was the year Stiles married Lydia, which still feels weird but okay. It was the year she took a job at Scott’s clinic as a practicing vet tech. But it was also the year that her dad died, just a week after Thanksgiving, leaving her the sole survivor of the Tate family. So maybe it’s better to forge ahead into whatever comes next.

The sound of the door opening behind her cuts through the neighbors’ music and her thoughts, and she turns her head to find Scott there. “It’s almost midnight,” he tells her as he gently eases the door closed, then drops down to sit beside her. “Although, I guess it was midnight in New York three hours ago.”

Malia manages a small smile at the memory that feels so recent and yet like it happened in another lifetime. “True.”

Scott’s silent. The music next door turns off, and somewhere in the back of her mind, it registers that midnight must be closer than she realized. Part of her wants to run, and part of her wants to reach for his hand instead. It feels like a kind of middle ground to just stay there, sitting beside him with her thigh brushing against his but otherwise a safe distance between them.

“So the good news,” he offers when she doesn’t have anything else to say, “is that it gets better. It’s hard at first. This one sucks. Next one might be worse. But eventually, it doesn’t feel like that anymore. You don’t forget, it just doesn’t -”

“-Hurt,” she finishes.

“Yeah. Right.”

He reaches over to squeeze her knee, and then his hand lingers there, gentle and warm. He’s always been this gentle and warm presence in a life that was cold and unforgiving so much of the time, at least at first. Most of the time, she forgets that Scott is also the tragic hero in all of this. That she joined his pack at its most fragile point, and without an alpha like him, it probably wouldn’t have lasted long enough for her to even set down roots.

Against her better judgement, she covers his hand with her own and lets him lace their fingers together. “But New Year’s still sucks, right?” she asks with a smirk.

“Oh,” he scoffs. “It’s the worst.”

She laughs and then he joins in and the better he’s just promised doesn’t feel quite as far-fetched. He laughs more now, she finds herself thinking. He’s more confident than the boy who sat beside her next to a pool. There’s still sometimes an awkward power dynamic between Scott and Derek, but Scott fills out that title of alpha better than he did when she first met him. And he’s happy. Genuinely, truly. happy. As the lone survivor of a love affair for the ages, he’s doing pretty okay. Maybe she’s willing to share that lone survivor title, too.

“Y’know,” he says as he brushes his shoulder against hers. “We’re gonna miss midnight.”

He’s watching her expectantly, big brown eyes focused only on her, even as someone asks Where’s Scott? and What about Malia? a few yards behind them. She knows he hears it, too, but neither of them react.

“It’s still midnight out here,” she responds instead.

His hand stays woven with her as the countdown begins in the house behind them. There’s a nervous energy building inside of her, some wild animal trapped in her chest that might try to fight its way free at a moment’s notice. She’s back to wanting to run, but then he gives her hand a squeeze, and it at least takes the edge off.

Next door, there’s a collective cheer that drowns out the family waiting for them inside. She feels sick to her stomach, but she tries to focus on his palm against her own instead.

Gently, he reaches over to brush her hair back behind her ear where it’s fallen forward. “Happy New Year, Malia.”

“Happy New Year, Scott.”

And then he leans forward and kisses her. And if this is what it feels like to forge ahead into uncharted territory, she’s ready.

New Year’s Eve, 2023

For the first time in Scott’s recent memory, it’s a white New Year’s Eve in California. There’s literally a dusting that covers the grass and throws most of the state into a frenzy. It’s probably the first time in Malia’s life as a human that there’s been this much snow. And they miss the entire thing.

It’s late by the time the midwife has packed up her things and ventured back out into what the news referred to as the storm of the century. The pack won’t stop by until tomorrow, when there’s no longer a literal State of Emergency declared statewide. And in a moment, it becomes just the three of them: Malia, Scott, and all six pounds eight ounces of Tate McCall curled up against Scott’s chest.

His birth is as planned as the snow outside, having come nearly four weeks early, which is fitting when considering what a surprise his conception had been. But Scott can’t remember a time he felt more content, laying beside his girlfriend with his son sleeping soundly against his heart. It’s not the worst way to usher out the old and in the new.

Malia rolls gently onto her side, reaching out to run her hand over the soft mess of dark hair that covers the baby’s head, and Scott can only shake his head. “How are you even still awake?”

“I’m not tired.” He knows that’s a lie. Or if it’s not a lie, it’s the lingering adrenaline talking. He did a fraction of the work, and he still feels like he waged a war over the course of the past 22 hours. Reaching over now, he gently cups her elbow and sucks in a breath when he feels her pain shooting down his thighs, giving him just a taste of how sore she is. That alone should be enough to knock her out, and yet here she is, insisting on lying awake with them. He thinks she’s incredible.

“You should sleep,” she tries to argue instead.

“What did I even do?”

“You took my pain the whole time. Don’t even argue,” she says as she points in his direction. “I know you did.”

“Then how come you didn’t stop me?”

“It felt good.” They both start laughing until her body lets her know that laughter is not her friend, and she groans softly.

“Sorry,” Scott is quick to say. The baby squirms on his chest, and he can almost feel the tension as she holds her breath alongside him, but then the baby simply stops without ever waking up. “Seriously though, you should sleep while he’ll let us. It’s already almost midnight.”

Her eyes close like she might just take his advice, but she smiles sleepily. “It’s already midnight in New York.”

“And I guess New Year’s is stupid anyways, huh?”

Malia opens her eyes to look back over at the baby, whose birthday will now forever coincide with the national holiday. Earlier, when he had texted out the baby’s stats, Stiles had responded that if you were gonna have to share your birthday, you could’ve at least been the first baby of the New Year, which Tate fell short of by a few hours, but Scott disagreed. It had to feel good to feel like everyone was celebrating along with you. Malia reaches for his tiny hand now, and Scott watches as, even in sleep, the baby responds by holding onto her finger like it’s a lifeline. “I don’t know,” she finally admits. “It might not be that terrible.”

“Oh?” Scott asks, eyebrow raised in disbelief. “It’s not the worst?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “It might kind of be the best.”

As she begins to lose the battle and her eyes drift shut again, Scott can’t help but think, Yeah. This is kind of the best.

[journalxxx]

Awesome And Emotional Multichapter Fics That I Will Never Write - 2

Summer 2013, Gravity Falls. The entire family is happily spending a few weeks together, the twins are overjoyed to meet old friends and relatives, the grunkles are taking a much needed holiday from crazy adventures and monster hunting. All is well, Stan is particularly happy in this period because seeing the twins again gives him life and things are going exceptionally well with Ford too, their relationship has just turned into something more than strictly brotherly and they're both nothing short of enthusiastic about it. Except, angst happens, in the shape of some former criminal partners of Stan's showing up in the remote town to demand his help with some particularly nasty business. Really, really nasty stuff, like human trafficking, stuff he got marginally involved with when he was young and in very bad waters, small unclear jobs he took for desperation without asking questions he probably should have bothered with, stuff he run away from as quickly as he could as soon as he caught wind of exactly what kind of business he was meddling with. For whatever reason, the guys need him specifically and immediately, and they have no trouble convincing him to join, they just need to rattle down the entire family's routine they have comfortably observed in the last three days to make it clear that he'd better just get in the goddamn car without too much fuss.

Stan complies, though obviously he doesn't want to deal with any of that shit. They only let him write a twenty-word note for the family so that they don't get alarmed (and they check it thoroughly to make sure it doesn't contain codes or weird stuff), then off he goes. Thing is, Stan probably could find a way to get in touch with Ford if he wanted to, but he doesn't, not really. Things have kind of settled between them, hell it's even a miracle that everything's worked out so well about their shared 'interest', but such a mess would obviously raise questions, very uncomfortable ones. And yes, Ford's been much less of a judgemental dick lately, but that doesn't mean Stan feels like offering him a full briefing about the shadiest endeavors of his youth. He'd rather try to see what these guys exactly want from him first, and see if he can discreetly foil their plans from the inside, in some way.

Mexico, a couple of weeks later. Stan succeeds. He manages to get enough details about the operation, he keeps his cards close and his best act, maybe he contacts an old policeman friend he trusts, maybe he rats them out to a rival criminal gang operating in the same field, probably both, anyway he manages to turn the whole operation into a mess and get most of the gang killed or arrested. Only most of it though, and, needless to say, the remaining members have a pretty clear idea on who tricked them and swear revenge. Cue to Stan having to move around constantly for a good week, trying to make them lose his tracks. He does phone home at this point, finding Ford and warning him to watch out and move the kids somewhere very safe because there are probably angry goons out for their butts. Despite the urgent questions, he refuses to tell him where he is or why, and he basically hangs up in Ford's face as soon as he's sure he grasped the gravity of the situation. By the end of the conversation, he's fairly sure he's screwed things up pretty badly, and he can only pray that the kids won't pay for that. The predictable but nonetheless satisfying plot twist is that the following evening, weary and on edge after a whole day of running around and barely managing not to be killed by yet another goon, he gets scared shitless and nearly shoots at sight the man quietly waiting for him in his shady motel room, which obviously is a very, very pissed Ford. Stan goes from scared shitless to relieved to absolutely horrified within the next five seconds because Ford's supposed to be protecting the kids from certain death, not running around in Mexico. Ford flatly replies that he is, and that in fact there are three photocopied clones of him (including the one Stan talked with on the phone), equipped with laser guns and full-body raincoats, patrolling 24/7 the area around the bunker where the kids are staying (which, during the last years, has been remodelled and updated by a tireless Fiddleford with a lot of spare time and money on his hands) Poor Stan will have to deal with a positively livid Ford who's had a pretty distressing fortnight, running around the country with little to no information to work with, only to arrive in Mexico shortly after the whole operation failed. And it failed rather spectacularly and messily, with lots of shooting and even a potentially disastrous fire when some goons had the very stupid idea to hide in a nearby gas station and nearly blew the whole block up. Ford had to spend an entire night sneaking into a hospital and inspecting half-charred corpses just to make sure that Stan wasn't one of the unidentified casualties. So yeah, he's in trouble. Being basically cornered, Stan can't help but fill Ford in about the shady dealing he's been caught up with and he's been trying to fix. The whole tale makes Ford's mood sink even further, but what really guts him is catching onto the fact that Stan didn't tell him anything out of sheer shame. Stan tries to sugar-coat it a little bit with the classic I-didn't-want-to-put-you-in danger excuse, which is kind of true, but also not really, since all the monster hunting they did together proved beyond doubt that Ford knows how to fend for himself and would have provided invaluable support to Stan in that situation. Ford doesn't call him out on that however, and, with a dejected tone that positively breaks Stan's heart, just suggests they both go to bed to rise early and think of a plan to deal with the most urgent problem at hand, namely the remaining goons. They following days keep them constantly alert and busy on a number of ploys to confuse and rat out the killers, including switcheroos, anonimous tips to the police, and assorted plans involving Stan acting as a bait and Ford leisurely sniping attackers from nearby vantage points. They both avoid talking as much as possible, until, while dealing with the very last group of minions, a stray bullet hits Stan's loins. Obviously he was wearing a bulletproof vest, so no lasting damage has been done, but the force of the impact does enough of a number on his back to force him to stay in bed for a couple of days before he can simply stand straight without crippling pain. At that point, there isn't anything left to do but talking. Stan overhears Ford talking on the phone and reassuring someone they'll be back soon: the kids, obviously - Ford explains later - but also the copies he had left to guard the bunker, which were no less concerned than the original. That leads to the dreaded topic of Stan's discreet escape, and how much that weighted on Ford's conscience. Considering their increasing and shared intimacy, he had thought they had finally moved past that awkward and messy emotional impasse they had been more or less consciously carrying on for decades, but apparently he was wrong, since Stan is still behaving as if he has something to prove to his brother (not being as much of a screw-up as he think he's been, at the very least), and since he doesn't seem to expect the same level of trust and acceptance he's granted to Ford. And obviously the majority of the blame for that rests on Ford's shoulders, for not noticing, for underestimating his past selfishness, bla bla bla... There follows a long and heartfelt conversation, which makes it clear that Stan's decision about taking on an entire crime syndacate by himself was a bit too rushed and inconsiderate, and that Ford hasn't lost his touch for guilt-tripping, both others and himself. The obvious conclusion involves lots of apologies and promises for the future - about trusting each other, about not judging each other, about making absolutely, irrevocably clear that their love and esteem for each other are too deep-seated to be swayed by inconsequential mishaps, both present and past - and obviously much needed cuddles and kisses, before hopping on the train back to Oregon.

[pornosophical]

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by theory, well-fed complacent leather-coated, dragging themselves through the Caucasian campuses at dawn looking for an angry signifier.   The voices dissolved into the warm pre-dawn darkness as I watched vomit drip between the ferns and fallen leaves. Muttering consolations, my friend held my elbow. Only moments before we had been making impassioned if sloshy love in my single bed, while my 21st birthday party raged outside. Now I was hurling what seemed like a infinite fount of bile into the bushes behind my little room.   As my friend led me to bed, I thought: You really are 21 now. You got horribly drunk, dragged a guy to bed, and then got sick. Just like a made-for-TV movie. These thoughts were accompanied by an odd, abstracted rapture I have come to take for granted. For want of a better term, I'll call it the rapture of irony.   Halfway to my bed, I must have laughed out loud, because my friend asked, "What are you thinking about?"   "The narrative," was all I could manage. I wanted him to know that even in this humiliated, impaired state, I was fully cognizant of the mind boggling paradox of the situation. I may have been a walking cliché but at least I was self-conscious.

Carol Lloyd, I Was Michel Foucault’s Love Slave

As I drifted off into a tangle of dehydrated nightmares, I comforted myself with the thought that Theory had suffused my life so thoroughly that I couldn't get laid, get drunk and get sick without paying homage to Roland Barthes' notion of the "artifice of realism" or Baudrillard's "simulacra." Though now I live a practical life, with more actions and fewer theories, I still struggle with the convoluted mind-set of my higher education. Even after years of trying to acclimate myself to a more concrete world, this odd theology lives in me so much so that it is only recently that I have recognized it for what it is: a religious doctrine.

I am a child of Theory. I avoided this truth because I didn't want to confront the deep, strange river of pretentiousness that courses in my veins. But lately I've begun to think my predicament is less reflective of a private eccentricity than of a weird historical moment. The moment when the most arcane, elitist mental gymnastics Theory in all its hybrid forms was reborn as sexy, politically radical action. The moment when well-meaning liberal intellectuals who a decade before had dedicated themselves to activism, volunteerism and building social programs turned inward, tending to their private experiential gardens with obsessive diligence. Theory offered intellectuals the same escape from the public world that self-help and therapy offered the masses. But unlike self-help and therapy, which never claimed to be anything but psycho-spiritual Darwinism, Theory draped itself in revolutionary verbiage and pretended to be a political movement. For those of us who got liberal educations in the wake of this shift, being radical meant little more than voting when it was convenient, reading the newspaper and thinking about doing charity work. The only thing that separated us from the ignorant masses was our intellectual opinions, which we shrouded in baroque revolutionary rhetoric. The "tyranny of grammar," the "subversion of sexual mores in extinct Native American tribes," and the "colonialism of the novel" these were our mantles of honor.   Though I always believed that my upbringing was free of ideological trappings, I now see that the seed was planted long before I reached college. My eldest brother was a political activist in his teens, but with the onslaught of the '80s he threw away his ideals and pursued the good life: drinking from the corporate tit as an organizational consultant. After two years in Africa as Peace Corps volunteers, my parents shed their activist habits, moving to a resort town with the intention of getting rich building houses for retired millionaires. Aside from the little holes punched in their secret ballots and token checks made out to various nonprofit organizations, politically my family acted no differently than our blue-blood, conservative neighbors. They pursued the free market with a vengeance, bought as many nice things as possible and hobnobbed at the tennis club. But they still talked like the lefties they once had been. And how they talked.   At dinner we served up steaming topical cauldrons of death, child rearing, art and gender, then skewered them whole. We asked unanswerable questions and then imperiously proceeded to invent the answers. We had no interest in facts. Facts were just things you made up to win arguments. Once I brought home a boyfriend whose old-fashioned education and conservative family had taught him none of the liberal preference for ideas over facts. When the dinner conversation turned toward his hobby of California history and he began to speak in facts, my family paused to stare at him like he was sporting antennae. My mother hemmed; my father hawed; my brothers began to babble invented statistics. Through my family I learned to love ideas "for their own sake," which made me a kind of idiot savant (with emphasis on the idiot) and a prime victim for the God of Theory.   In 1978 my high school history teacher, a Harvard-educated, Jewish-turned-Catholic New Yorker, promised to give "extra credit" to anyone who read and did a book report on Paul de Man's "Blindness and Insight." (Though later exposed as a Nazi sympathizer, at that moment de Man still carried the mantle of "subversive" in the hippest sense.) Dutifully, I read every page understanding it the way a little boy understands the gurgles of his toad. I had no idea what it meant but the densely knotted language of ideas made my head implode and my body sing. For the rest of my high school years I would only have to read a paragraph or two of deconstruction's steamy prose to have a literary orgasm.   In his recent disavowal of literary criticism in Lingua Franca, Frank Lentricchia confesses that his "silent encounters with literature are ravishingly pleasurable, like erotic transport." My experiences with Theory were equally exalted delivering me into a paroxysm of overdetermined signs. In the blurry vertigo of those pages so full of incomprehensible printed matter I felt myself in the presence of a God: the God of complex questions, the God of language's mysteries, the God of meaning severed from the painful and demanding particularity of experience. In abstractions, I found absolution from a world in which I was utterly unprepared for any real responsibility or sacrifice. By surrendering myself to Theory, "reality" became a blank screen upon which I projected my political fantasies. My feelings of responsibility to a world that I had once recognized as both unjust and astoundingly concrete, slowly and painlessly seeped out of me until all that remained was the "consciousness" of the "complexity" of any "serious issue." I didn't need to fix anything, utterance was all, and all I needed were the words long and tentacled enough to entrap meaning for a slippery, textual moment.   Like any religion, Theory provided perks to the pious. In my freshman year, I took an upper-division class on the 17th century English novel. The books were long and difficult but I secured my standing in the class when I responded to the teacher's mention of deconstructive theory. "Yes, each idea undermines itself," I parroted, channeling the memory of my sophomore extra credit report. "Paul de Man says..." With that bit of arcane spittle, I hit pay dirt. The teacher gave me such a hyperbolic recommendation, I was able to transfer to a better school. Once there, I evaded undergraduate classes with their demanding finals and multiple writing assignments and insinuated myself into graduate theory seminars of all departments: anthropology, literature, political science, theater, history. With a host of other would-be intellectuals, I honed the fine art of thinking about thinking about ... What we were thinking about was always pretty irrelevant. I developed minor expertise in the representation of the hermaphrodite in psychiatric literature, the uncanny relationship between classical ballet and the absolutist state of Louis XIV and the woman as landscape in Robbe-Grillet's "Jealousy." Now I was just warming up, I told myself. Someday I would find an important issue worthy of all my well-exercised mental muscles and then watch out hegemony!   While I was being treated to the many joys of a great liberal education, I was also learning some rather insidious lessons. I discovered I didn't have to read the entire assigned book. After all, the "ideas" were what was important. Better to read the criticism about the book. Better yet, read the criticism of the criticism and my teachers would not only be impressed but a little intimidated. By extension, I learned not only a way of reading but a way of living. The more removed I was from a primary act, the more valuable it was. Why scoop soup at the homeless shelter when you could say something interesting about how naive it was to think that feeding people really helped them when really what was needed was structural change.   My friends now fall into two categories: ex-Theory nerds (like me) making a living off their late-learned pragmatism, and those who still live and breathe by Theory's fragrant vapors political theorists, literary critics, historians, eternal graduate students. I love talking to them and often I covet the little thrones their ideas get to perch on. Yet when I come away from a conversation that has swooped from the racist implications of early French embalming techniques to the "revolutionary interventions" in the margins of "Tristram Shandy" and ended with the appalling hypocrisy of the right wing, I often feel a strange discomfort. Because these are some of the smartest, kindest and most energetic people I know, I cannot resist the question: Is this the best way for them to spend their lives? If they acknowledged that they were largely engaged in the amoral endeavor of pure intellectual play, that would be one thing, but each of these people considers their work deeply, emphatically political.   Is this theory-heavy, fact-free education teaching people to preach one way and live another? Are we learning that political opinion, however finely crafted, is a legitimate substitute for action? Sometimes it seems that the increased political emphasis on language the controversies over "chairpersons," "people of color" and "youth-at-risk" did more than create a friendly linguistic landscape, it gave liberals something to do, to argue about, to write about, while the right wing took over the country, precinct by precinct. After all, in a world where each lousy word can stir up a raging debate, why worry about the hard, dull work of food distribution or waste management?   I know how high and mighty this sounds, and the side of me that appreciates subtlety and disdains brow-beating is wincing. Political moralism has fallen from fashion, leaving us to cobble together myopic philosophies from warmed-over New Age thinkers like Deepak Chopra or archaic scriptures like the Bible. If it's any consolation, I include myself in the most offending group of educated progressives who squandered their political power over white wine and words like "instantiation." Moreover, I'm not saying we're all a bunch of awful, selfish people. We learned to read, we learned to think critically and at least pay lip service to certain values of justice, egalitarianism and questioning authority. But I do wonder if we're handicapped, publicly impaired somehow.   Like most of my siblings of Theory, from time to time I have tried to get off my duff and do something concrete: protest, precinct walk, do volunteer work whatever but I always get impatient. I wasn't meant to chant annoying rhymes. I am trained to relish complexity, to never simplify a thought. I am trained to appreciate "difference" (between skin tones and truths), but I don't know how to organize a political meeting, create a strategy or make a long-term commitment to a social organization. As Wallace Shawn wrote in "The Fever," "The incredible history of my feelings and my thoughts could fill up a dozen leather-bound books. But the story of my life my behavior, my actions that's a slim volume and I've never read it."   Lentricchia argues that by politicizing the experience of reading, we ended up degrading its beauty and pleasure. In the same fell swoop, we also robbed concrete political action of its meaning. The progressive pragmatists studied political theory; the progressive idealists studied literary theory; and the eccentric radicals became conceptual artists and sold their work to millionaires. In any case, everyone bought the idea that they were engaged in political work. Having a radical opinion was tantamount to revolution.   Back in college, I remember going to a party at the home of one of my professors, who was a famous Marxist. The split-level house was decorated with rare antiques from all over the world, exclusive labels filled the wine cellar, the banquet table overflowed with delicacies. Like an anointed inner circle of acolytes, we students sat around as our professors argued that Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait was justified from the perspective of the underpaid Palestinian servants who worked in Kuwaiti homes. The following month, while I was house-sitting at the professor's house, his black gardener came to the door wanting to be paid. I discovered that my professor was paying the man minimum wage for less than a half day of self-employed work. That night as I plundered the refrigerator for the best cheeses that money could buy, I chided myself for not having doubled the man's wages. But that might have embarrassed him, no? It definitely would have embarrassed me. It would have been acting on a belief, and action makes me uncomfortable.   Recently I went to a conference on "Women's Art and Activism." I found precious little of either. Instead I found a lot of Theory garbed in its many costumes. There was a lesbian conceptual artist talking about her work, triangular boxes that "undermined the patriarchy of shapes"; a "revolutionary" poet lecturing on her experience of biculturalism; and an "anarchist" performance artist discussing "strategies for subversion." And what fabulous haircuts! The keynote speaker was Orlon, a French performance artist whose work consists of having her entire face rebuilt by plastic surgery. After a very French explanation as to why she needed a third face lift, she answered questions from the packed house. "I think you're just incredible," said one woman. "You say your aim is to reconquer your body as signifier. How do you feel about letting a doctor touch your signifier? And how do you see your revolutionary techniques emancipating women from the prisons of their bodies as sign?"   Had I stumbled into a satanic ritual, I couldn't have felt a more chilling sensation of alienation. Once I would have smiled at these liturgies and savored their impenetrable truths. Now I only wanted to run away and do what? Dig a ditch? Perform open heart surgery? Administrate a charity? Even after all these years, I was still expecting Theory to visit me like the Virgin Mary and give me more than a sign.

[original-character-archives]

Name: Dean Age & Date of birth: 20-22, Pisces(March) Species: Anthropomorphic cat Gender: Agender, typically uses “he/his” pronouns but is ok with any Orientation: Demiromantic Asexual Fandom/Original: Original; belongs to my story world “Sunflower”

Warnings: Mention of anti-lgbt attitudes, bullying, supernatural horror 

Biography: Dean was born and still lives in a small town nestled in valley between a hilly coastal mountain range and a long stretch of larger mountains and wilderness. This town, called Sunflower for the proliferation of those flowers that grow around it, is somewhat cut off from the outside with only one road, and lacks a lot of modern technology. It was founded many decades earlier by a group of LGBT folks who wanted to create safe-haven in a time when the hatred they faced was life-threatening. Dean grew up with two loving parents, though he mostly only had a bond with his mom, Camellia. She always encouraged him to work with her- often out in the garden, or sewing clothes. His dad, on the other hand, was really into hunting and fishing, which upset him. Dean was determined male at birth, but insisted as young as 5 years old that he wasn’t a boy or a girl. Many people just assumed he was female however because he just happened to have traditionally feminine interests and features, most notably an unusually high voice. While not for his identity, Dean faced a lot of bullying as a child. He was extremely sensitive and cried a lot, wore clothes he made himself (that at a young age he wasn’t very good at), struggled in sports, and could be bossy when playing- all of which made him a target. For a long time, his only friend was his cousin Sierra. There was also Emilio, the son of his parent’s good friends, but Emilio tried desperately not be associated with “the weird kid”, despite the fact he actually really liked Dean. Dean went through an even rougher patch a little bit before highschool. Emilio completely pushed him away due to his own issues, and Sierra started spending a lot more time either alone or with other friends. Dean found himself wanting to be alone as well, and that’s when he first became acquainted with the supernatural legends of the forest behind his home. It was said the reason the land Sunflower was located in was available and not developed was because of a fear that various demonic forces lived in the forested mountain range to the east. Dangerous wild animals did live out there, so the town was surrounded by a large fence on that side. Dean found a gate not too far from his house and decided to explore. The experiences he had were mostly psychological- intense feelings of being watched, strange bouts of nausea, unexplained whispering that might have been in his head. After that he didn’t want to go back, but continued to be plagued by nightmares where he did see demon-like creatures. Things eventually came around for him in his second year of highschool. Sierra made more of an effort to spend time with Dean and her two friends Shay and Rene as a group, so Dean ended up gaining two new friends. Emilio still kept his distance, but they slowly returned to sort-of friendly terms. Dean found himself involved with the theater at his school, making costumes since he had given up on acting. He finished high school off alright, and was offered the job of being an play/event organizer for the elementary school theater. A year or so later, a stranger named Ari comes to town, and Dean is the one of finds her passed out while he’s collecting sunflower seeds. He helps her and they become quick friends- but she seems  to be troubled by something. The rest is the start of my story involving Dean as the main character..

Appearance: Height is about 5'6", is about average weight with most sitting around his belly and thighs, giving a bit of a “pear” body type. Small shoulders and hands. Has fairly well-toned arms from lots of garden work. Fur mostly a creamy white all over, but he has brown spots around his left eye, on his chest, elbows, knees, and has brown feet. Has big golden yellow eyes. He likes to wear clothing he makes himself, which he does eventually get better at. Usually these are simple sun dresses often in warm and floral patterns, or similar button-down cotton shirts with shorts or jeans. Likes to wear big cozy knitted sweaters in the winter. He also has an affinity for overalls and sun hats.

Personality: Generally has a friendly and enthusiastic disposition, though can be a little on the shy side. Tends to fuss over things and can come off as nagging or controlling. He is quick to offer his help others and works diligently to make sure all is well with his little world. He hates conflict but easily feels put off when others don’t match his kindness, and can behave passive aggressively when he feels let down- which is easy, how sensitive he is. Though he tries to be kind to everyone, he can’t help but get stuck on their short-comings.

Favourite & Least Favourite things: Likes: Vegetables (carrots!) and fruits (squash!), gardening, flowers, sewing, theater and costume design, meeting new people, working with kids, hats, collecting any object with a memory attached. Dislikes: Pretentious or judgmental people, meat (he eats it sometimes, but prefers fish), scary stories, violence of any kind, unhealthy vices like smoking or drinking.

Strengths and Weaknesses: Strengths: Has lots of love to give, energetic, good at setting and working toward goals, creative and talented Weakness: Struggles with social anxiety, sensitive and breaks down easily when overwhelmed, prone to taking things too personally, avoids confrontation

Additional notes: I put a lot of drawings of Dean and his fellow Sunflower residents on my tumblr here(Fennelcat),and plan to add more info such as story details, development prompts, etc. Someday I might turn this into a comic. :3

fanart/fanwork: Yes!!!

[cassandralyn]

  Our Mexico Trip

  I can’t tell you how old I was when my family traveled outside of the American board for my first time.  We took a trip to Canada, but it was before 9/11 and didn’t need a passport to exit or reenter the country from that border.  So when my husband first named the possibility of going to Mexico, I was a bit gobsmacked.

As the months passed and it looked like we were really were going to have the chance to go, I started the process to get us both passports.  It was a process.  But you don’t care about those logicists.  Frankly, I don’t either.  Just know that I was very nervous about getting it done and getting it done right.

When the hubby went on his annual company trip, it was confirmed that in January we would be traveling to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.  I was excited, but it was also months away, so I tried to not think about it.  

Then January came, and I had to think about it.  We were going!  OMG.  Now first, let me explain, this was not just a vacation that we decided we were going on.  This was a reward for the extremely hard work my husband has put into his company and the great job he had done in the year for the company.  My husband went in early, came home late and busted his butt while he was there.  He took a store that was in trouble and turned it around to make it profitable.  He’s like in the top 20% of the company nationwide.  It’s pretty incredible to think about the work he’s done.  The pride I feel for him is overwhelming.  He is an amazing man.

So, he EARNED this trip.  An all expense paid trip to the Marriott Resort in Mexico.  The airfare, hotel accommodations, meals and drinks through the day.

  We left Friday morning, Roger was kind enough to be at our house 3:20 am to get us to the airport in enough time to check in and all that.  Mom was amazing and was already at my house to be with the kids.  After a round of kisses, we were off on our trip.  We got to the airport and I was super nervous.  One. I was going to a foreign place.  Two. I hadn’t flown over a decade.  Three.  I already felt sick to my stomach from lack of eating a proper supper.  The airport was the airport.  We left from Concourse A; which happened to be the concourse that I ran all over the summer after my freshman year working.  But man, it was different.  They have really upgraded the airport.  I mean, that was ten years ago, so I am not surprised, but whatever.  Finally, we had boarded the plane and were off.  Flying into Houston, Texas; a place I’ve also had never been to before.  We were flying before the sun had risen, so seeing the sunrise about the clouds, well that is a view that is just incredible.

  In Houston, we went to our next gate and hung out eating some snacks.  Boarding again, I knew when we landed we would be in a different country.  When we were coming into our landing in Houston, you could see all the roads and buildings.  It was the typical city from the air.  But when we landed into PV it was a different world. The roads we saw from above were primarily dirt roads.  Now they did have paved roads throughout the main part of the city, but the overall landscape showed dirt paths.  But what was amazing was the mountains.  Now I have seen the Great Smokies.  And they are large and incredible.  But the mountains as we came into land were just different.  They were more grand, larger, beautiful.  My pictures really don’t do it justice.

  The landing was easy, the flight hadn’t been as terrible as it could have been. And once we breezed through customs we were to head to the greeters who’d take us to the hotel.  But first, we had to pass through the Shark Tank.  This was the scariest part of the trip.  Phil had our suitcase, I had our carry on and we walked with our group into this room full of people who was trying to make a sale.  They were like a crazed and vicious dog.  They were yelling about having our travel arrangements and having to pay a tax for it.  And all this other crazy stuff.  No was not the answer they wanted to hear, and I felt tired after getting through to the room.  Once we were out, we loaded into the bus and took a ten-minute ride on the CRAZIEST road to the hotel.  They drive so differently.  People are cut off, speeding, changing lanes.  You think Ohioans can’t drive well, let me tell you they are saints compared to the crazy Mexican drivers I witnessed.

Walking up to the hotel from our van was a relief.  But it was weird.  Any hotel I’ve ever been to has had a door to walk through.  Not there, though.  It was an archway.  The lobby was open aired.  And from the second I was through it I could feel the ocean breeze hitting my face. The hotel was grand and wonderful and had all these beautiful flowers everywhere.  Once we got into our room, we took a stroll on the beach.  I finally have had my feet in the Pacific Ocean.

The beach was rocky.  It would have stretches of sand that were peppered with tiny rocks and then there were be these massive big rocks that the water hit.  I’d never seen that in my limited beach trips.  That night I started to feel sick (I assume from the travel and lack of eating proper meals) but that didn’t stop me from enjoying the dinner that Phil’s company had arranged.  Each manager that was there was recognized for their achievements.  But the organizers took the time to recognize the spouses for their part of it.  Which I had to say felt very nice.  I sometimes feel like I’m not that important because I only run the house.  But I run our family, while he runs his business. And that is important.  They were also thankful that we put up with them being gone for so long.  I liked that they did that.

***

On Day Two, Saturday,  I felt much better.  Thank God.  We got up and had an amazing breakfast.  It was buffet style and had a lot of choices I recognized.  It had some weird choices and I just avoided them.  I stuck with food I knew for that morning since I was afraid to tempt fate too much.  We traded our American dollars for Mexican peso and felt like we were rich.  Since $200 equaled over 4,000 pesos.  Then in a group of 8, we went to the boardwalk.  This place was very beautiful.  And had many shops where we spend those pesos.  Getting a small gift for loved ones.  There were all kinds of strange statues and nifty things to see.  The thing that really got me, was there was very few blocking.  It was all open, even when it was a straight drop down.  There was no fences or anything.  Like even with the statues there was no don’t touch type of deal.  There was one statue that was a ladder straight up, and people were climbing it.  I was like, seriously, why?

My favorite part of walking on the boardwalk was going into this cathedral.  It was gorgeous.  It had all these statues and carvings that were just impressive.

  I know, it’s a lot of pictures.  But it was a beautiful place.  Once we got back from town we hung out in the pool with a group until it was time to get ready for our dinner reservations.  We ate at Mikado, which was hibachi.  (We made a point to eat at all 4 resort restaurants.)  It was a fun evening we met up with another couple and just had a good night full of laughs.  It was good food, and it was so filling, but it wasn’t quite the hibachi that we are used to.  Since it wasn’t overloaded with soy sauce.  There was also no yum-yum sauce.  So that was crazy.  We spend the rest of the night sitting in the lobby bar hanging out.  They had a live duo playing songs and it was just a nice night.

***

Day Three, Sunday was a new experience we got up, had room service for breakfast.  The french toast was good, even with the raisins in it.  Then after a bit of indecision, we went off to the spa to have back messages.  I spent time in the steam, the sauna and the jacuzzi.  Then had my back pampered and it was perfect.  That night was the real treat.  A huge group of us, (24) loaded into two mini busses and took an hour drive up a mountain to a restaurant called Le Kliff.  It was built into the side of the mountain and made with the idea of a wonderful view at dinner.

This night was wonderful.   It was just great to sit around with other adults and eating fancy food.  The crazy thing was they gave you a cup and pour a bottle of water into it.  All fancy like, but they also put a random piece of fruit in it.  Some had cucumber, some had grapefruit and on and on.  They didn’t ask you want you wanted either, they just gave it to you.  I had beef medallions and they were yummy. There were these weird animals that I had never seen before coming into the restaurant.  A lot of our group went and played with them. Phil said they were like cats.  But others described them as possums.  So I stayed far, far away.  Though it was cool how friendly they were.    The ride back was insane because there were no traffic lights.  There were no street lights.  It was just lit by headlights.  I sort of just held on to Phil and tried to not worry.   That night was just chill time in the hotel lobby again.  We watched the BJ Penn fight on UFC on the TVs and that was disappointing.

***

Day Four, Monday was our last day there.  I spent the morning packing and then we went and had breakfast.  There was just a lot of downtime as we were prepping to come back.  We loaded onto a bus and went to the airport.  It was a much easier time to go into that airport.  Then we hung out forever until our flight.   That flight was the hardest flight of the entire trip.  It was long.  I was uncomfortable.  I was so fidgety.  I read over 200 pages to attempt to calm myself.  We were on time until we hit the Chicago then due to weather we were in a holding pattern.  Coming down to land was rough and it made me feel lightheaded.  Once we landed we literally had 30 minutes to go through customs, get our bag, recheck our bag, go to Terminal One to go through security, get to Terminal Two and board out flight.  And we made it JUST IN TIME.  It was very close.  Landing at the home airport was nice.  It was just good to be home.  Roger drove us back home.  Where my boys were still sitting up.  The trip was incredible.  It was a once in a lifetime experience and I’m so thankful that I was able to go.  I’m thankful to my parents for keeping my kids.  Knowing they were in safe hands, made it easier to relax.  I have to say, anyone who gets the chance, should go.  Go have a fun trip.

Here is a gallery of all my photos:

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And that is all.

Traveling Aboard Our Mexico Trip I can't tell you how old I was when my family traveled outside of the American board for my first time.