#i hate crackpot but i love him but i hate him

[mouthpoisons]

on viktor's doomed destiny as the magical harbinger of the apocalypse, sky being a secret mastermind, the butterfly effect, the message within the pattern, the arcane being a sentient manifestation of The Narrative and pushing everyone towards tragedy

so this started out as a halfhearted joke post that went something along the lines of ''maybe sky is such a nothing character because she was always the arcane's y/n x viktor self insert and not just after the hexcore eats her'', then it turned into me spending like a whole day examining sky scenes through this lens and acquiring a massive tin foil hat about it, and then while paying attention to sky i also started viewing the arcane as a whole as something conscious, malignant, the plot of the show itself manipulating and urging everyone, but especially viktor, towards it's end goal of him becoming heimerdinger's world ending mage. and then This post happened. because i was initially writing an analysis on sky, this post is mostly me talking about sky. i started Realising Other Shit about halfway through and i simply wont be rewriting what ive already put down. but the more i think about it and go back and rewatch parts of the show, the more this makes perfect sense and i'll definitely be coming back with a part two. part 2 will likely be about jinx because that ''use your explosive potential and maybe you can change your story'' line from vi, which we can only assume is directed at her sister, is doing cartwheels in my brain

this is massive and long and messy and its going under a readmore. enter if u dare

disclaimer because theres gonna be people who Seriously hate this and might wanna assume things about me because of it but i hope youll understand im coming from a place of pure story and meta analysis. this theory is unfortunately going to assume theres a manipulative ulterior motive to Everything sky says and does, and this is not written in any way to spite people who like sky as simply the sweet doomed lady who has a crush on viktor, skyvik shippers, etc. i honestly just think she is currently the worst written character in the show by miles and that that... cant be it. trying to attach any secret meaning to what she went through and her role in the story beyond ''fridged woman'', i promise, is out of love, despite what im about to spend a billion words accusing her of. i deeply want her ass to secretly be part of the craziest reveal in the show.

if anything im about to say stays one of the most crackpot theories about the show ever written, then i will firmly be a member of the ''she deserved better'' camp, in which you can all beat me with hammers if you want. anyway lets get right into it.

i think sky has been some kind of arcane manifestation who scouted out, has been keeping an eye on, and has urging viktor along the path he's been on the entire show, and not just after the hexcore ''killed'' her. i believe she is essentially another herald who foreshadows some of viktor's major character developmental moments, that she is the butterfly effect, that the arcane is a conscious character and she is one of the vessels it uses to manipulate the show's story towards it's end goal, which very much seems to be setting up viktor as a world ender. i also believe that she may have had one major instance of manipulating the trajectory of jayce's story in service of this

before i continue i need you to know i tried to pull up a wiki page about her just now incase theres any Extra Lore that hasnt appeared in the show and apparently all anyone could be bothered to write down for her is ''Viktor's assistant with an unrequited admiration for the scientist.'' lmfao. if there Is any missing lore, behind the scenes stuff, etc, id love to hear it, whether it supports or contradicts any of this.

ok then, whatever, what do i remember about sky. shes from zaun, shes viktors assistant, they knew eachother or at least met that one time when they were children, she's been doing her own private research, and she has a massive crush on/admiration for him. viktor doesnt pay her too much attention until she ''dies'' and then he is consumed by guilt surrounding her death. sky also has a pattern of becoming more and more ''relevant'' to viktor as the show goes on, and a lot of people have criticised this as a form of reconning her fridging, and yeah if all of this is bullshit then it might be, but if not, wow. i also vaguely remember hearing something about amanda overton being very proud of sky's character which... right now? youre kidding me. if literally any of this is true? holy shit, i get it.

as a last bit of additional context; this theory was also super inspired the other theory that the corrupted spot heimerdinger noticed at the base of the hexgate is where some of viktor's blood fell as he... divinely received the idea to build the hexcore? (that's going to be such a fucking facepalm moment for all of us in retrospect if im onto something here lol). it's one of the things that really got me thinking. he shouldn't have been in any way magical at that point. my theory is in essence a massive continuation of the idea that arcane forces have been having an effect on viktor for longer than we realise.

i'll pitch this theory primarily through some scene analysis, and mostly from season 1 since everyone else has ''wait is she being Bad here'' season 2 sky analysis on lock, most of us agree she's being strange and ominous after her ''death''. i might be the first insane person on earth to pitch that she's also being strange and weird Before her ''death''

i'll start with what might be one of my personal smokiest of guns and biggest Insane In Retrospect Moments, which has a lot of the core thematic stuff shoved into it and laid out quite plainly, then im just gonna go wherever the flow takes me. im not an essay guy. this will be messy and im sorry in advance.

in this scene, viktor is messing around with the hexcore. sky is watching behind him, and remarks that it's beautiful. viktor expresses his frustration at not being able to figure out the device, sky responds ''you will'', asks to walk him home with her, and he declines, saying that he's going to keep working on it through the night. sky doubles down, asking ''again? yknow there's always tomorrow, right?''. he dismisses her and she leaves. pretty much immediately, viktor passes out coughing up blood, which merges with the hexcore.

viktor has been established as a wildcard and a risk taker who doesnt like unnecessary stalling and delays. at this point in the show his health is starting to take a heavy toll on him. jayce has recently hit the pause button on releasing their new hextech tools (more on that in a bit). he's incredibly frustrated with the overall situation and is in tunnel vision mode. my theory is that sky very purposefully asked him to take his time, to give it a rest, knowing that he would do the opposite. this is an example of some potential reverse psychology sky demonstrates a couple times during the show. the other one is a very prominent scene in s2e6 that also got me Thinking about all this, the part where she says to viktor ''you once told me, all systems have limits'', and he responds by asserting vander is worth the risk. course vander's continued presence in the camp as viktor tries to heal him kickstarts the rest of the horribleness that happens that episode, which in the end makes viktor ''understand'' the futility of the human condition, and perhaps if he hadnt just gotten shot by jayce, wouldve been the moment he becomes the apocalypse wizard.

in this s1 scene though... she didnt really have to flex it here. the purpose this specific example would theoretically serve would be to piss off the audience upon rewatch, because we all thought she was just flirting lol

her assuring him that he will figure it out, and then a massive advancement happening instantly, is crazy. it's as if she knew what was going to happen, as if she heralded it into being. this is also her first speaking scene in the show which feels significant especially when it comes to retrospect potential

next i wanna talk about the scene where she may have, in a such a blink-it-and-youll-miss way, manipulated jayce's trajectory. this is also her first appearance in the show period

before jayces progress day speech, he asks viktor to come onto the stage with him, ''we're partners'', and sky adjusts her glasses while looking in on in the background. viktor declines, anxious about the idea of being on stage, and sky hands jayce his script.

jayce confidently reads from the script for a bit, but then changes his mind about what he wants to say, and this is when he hits the brakes on unveiling the new hextech devices, suddenly disappointing both viktor and mel, who he sought out for advice on the matter just a couple of scenes prior. his mind is assumedly comfortably made up about this. hell, enough to write a script, set up a presentation, and for mel and viktor to also be confident about how the presentation will go. the decision was extremely on-the-spot; it's a very awkward moment as jayce freezes mid sentence, we get several shots of the hexgem behind him, strange noises start chiming in the background (which do sound a lot like the mic feedback that's also going in that scene, but these ones seem.. different? certainly deliberately placed), and he suddenly decides against the tech demo. the shots of the hexgem behind jayce have the potential to be ominous as fuck in hindsight. certainly ominous enough to snap me out of simply writing a theory about sky, to thinking about the arcane's influence on the characters and plot as a whole.

this is a possible example of sky, as some kind of arcane avatar, manipulating the plot, with the goal of creating tension between jayce and viktor, and frustrating viktor with the stalling of their technology. after the progress day speech, jayce remains a lot more safety-cautious, and is given his councillor positon, which furthers the rift between them. viktor states all of this in their brief argument in the scene at the hexgate, before he coughs up blood over the railing and has his vision of the hexcore. within the context of this theory, it really feels like the arcane kind of saying to itself, ''all according to plan, he's ready for the next big thing.''

this now. on a personal I Was A Disabled Loner Kid Too Once level this scene has always bugged me and i never quite understood why most people seem to take it as ''aw their first bonding moment''

viktor cant play with the other kids because of his disability, so he hangs out on his own and builds toys. sky comes over, literally looks down on him from a cliff, seems very curious about what he's doing but only briefly, and is called away by her friends, leaving with a smile, as quickly as she arrived. she... acknowledges him, but that's about it. this scene is significant to my theory in that she appears, does her little bit, and then viktor meets singed, who shows actual sustained interest in him and his toy boat, and lets him hang out so they can ''be loners together''. this is a seed planting moment in so many ways and it even threatens to come full circle next week if singed is going to revive viktor again. this very well may well have been when the arcane, through sky, ''chose'' viktor, or at least decided that his story is to be put into motion now, and set him on the path. he literally gets up and starts following his boat down a river.

i'm also pointing out the butterflies in this and jayce's flashback scenes. i dont have much to say about them that a lot of other people havent already especially since butterflies and insect imagery started popping up Everywhere for jayvik in season 2, but yeah *vague hand wave* im pointing them out.

pausing scene analysis for a moment to talk about the idea of viktor really being The Center Of All Of This, as caitlyn said in the act 3 trailer, before i go onto the next bit.

viktor, for this whole show, has been so unbelievably doomed, and it's ramped up to the nth degree in season 2. he's felt especially at the mercy of outside forces to the point where me and everyone else are starting to get real tired of the lack of agency the story is affording him. he becomes terminally ill, he rages against the dying of the light for a bit, but then shit gets scary and he makes jayce promise to destroy the hexcore (and let him die), he gets jinx nuked, jayce revives him explicitly against his wishes, comes back from time prison and kills him again, its a mess. its infuriating. i think that viktor's entrapment by the narrative, and everything becoming more hopeless and out of his hands, is going to be extremely important in act 3. that him giving the biggest Fuck You to his arcane destiny and tearing away from the narrative with claws and teeth is going to be the moment he becomes our machine herald.

i wrote a much shorter post about this earlier, but since then i've also become confident that the bad ending apocalypse wizard viktor himself is who sends jayce back to destroy the hexcore, effectively breaking the cycle and thrusting viktor's story into uncharted waters, which he will Gloriously Evolve above, but only after singed puts him through hell and fills him with resentment for jayce.

ok back to scene analysis

viktor has already come close to breaking free of his predetermined path before. in the context of this theory, viktor's beautiful hopeful triumphant moment, seemingly having a massive breakthrough in rising above his fate and body, outrunning the boat, being immediately cut short by sky showing up and dying and throwing him into a pit of guilt, despair, and desperate need to atone, is in no way accidental. im about to spill whats probably going to be this post's most egregious sky character assassination so be warned i guess!!!!

to put it very bluntly, heres how this whole scene goes according to my theory. viktor gears up to transmutate himself again, but because he's doing so while so full of hope, in a way that's threatening to break him out of his doomed narrative, maybe even just the fact he's doing it to himself instead of jayce doing it in a frantic attempt to save him from death, sky steps in. viktor must die, physically, emotionally, before he becomes the magician.

sky takes the drastic measure of ''killing herself'' in order to curse viktor with the crushing guilt that would morph him into someone who desperately needs to pay for what he did. fix the world, no longer as a driven idealistic scientist, but all consumingly, obsessively, and devastatingly.

if sky didn't intervene, viktor presumably still would've become some form of magical purple guy, but it wouldve been... the best possible timeline? a timeline completely untainted by death? like imagine the cocoon emergence scene and that conversation with jayce but a version where he's not absolutely destroyed by guilt surrounding sky. he was so, so close to just outright winning the game.

as sky's walking down the hall thinking about how she's going to pitch her ''private project'' to viktor, she says something that's potentially a massive red flag hidden in plain sight. she says that she's been working on it for weeks, then changes her mind and says she's been working on it for a year. that's... a huge time difference? if it was months vs a year it would sound much more organic, but weeks vs a year? of course in the real life ''everything im saying here is bullshit'' world she's just figuring out how to pitch herself and sound impressive, but whichever way you look at it and no matter her intent, she was preparing to lie to viktor here.

back in my delusional mind palace, i think viktor's full transmutation attempt takes her (the arcane/the narrative) by surprise - she was formulating her next move here, but it becomes her having to throw a spanner in the works immediately in order to keep him on the path of despair, of death and guilt.

so sky's a pile of ash now. sky is a pile of ash. she wasn't absorbed by the hexcore, on the contrary it looks to be actively pushed away from it (metaphorical skin shedding?) something else is happening for her to be manifesting herself to viktor in season 2. there's also that extremely ominous freezeframe of her when viktor picks up her glasses, but i cant for the life of me get a screenshot of it.

viktor picks up and starts reading sky's journal, and i'll be honest i cant really find any hidden message in her words there apart from the idea that this wide eyed, sweet, idealistic girl that viktor has just let down drastically is some kind of persona. it does stick out to me how much sky seems to envoke a younger viktor - someone who's stuck in an assistant role when she has her own big dreams. This tragic reveal that this cute but inconsequential background character had an inner life and goals too… it's a shock! And it’s all very personal. He paid her barely and mind and now she’s dead because of him, this poor girl who was inspired, by him, to change the world, just like him. It’s like. It’s so tailor made to make him feel like shit.

the next thing that happens is viktor gets Big Mad and tries to smash the hexcore, but it goes ''nuh huh!'' and makes him fall over in a show of power over him. he's firmly stuck in this narrative now, and he wont be breaking out again for a while. the mask is off and his story is locked. he will die, one way or another, and come back to destroy the world.

viktor cant break himself out of the narrative anymore, it has him by the neck and it makes sure he knows it, but someone else promises to.

and he cant, initially. it takes betrayal through reviving him with the hexcore (exactly what it wants). it takes a guilt-ridden viktor being overtly guided along by a much more suspicious sky, for him to get so in his head about this cult shit that it approaches the event horizon of becoming all consuming, it takes jayce being trapped in a time loop desperately trying to find any possible way around this. but the destruction of the hexcore, the narrative, sky, the destruction of the arcane within viktor is the only way for him to truly gloriously evolve.

jayces love for viktor was dooming him into becoming the arcane that ends the world, and the only way to chart a new course was by truly saving him. destroying the hexcore, sky, freeing him from the narrative, at the ultimate cost of viktor's love for him.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Hi! Can I request Yandere Byakuya with a gender neutral reader(if you do those) who is the ultimate delinquent and they are very aggressive and hot headed, stubborn and just overall not a pushover at all. They care but they will absolutely beat the absolute shit out of someone?

Yandere Byakuya Togami x Ultimate Delinquent Reader

He’s not inherently fond of you

You’re supposed attitude, your dress, and your ultimate title

all point to a character he does not know or is fond of 

The absolute opposite of an Ultimate Affluent Progeny 

No money, no prospects, nothing to your name but your reputation for delinquency

And after all that you couldn’t even become the ultimate highschool level gang leader 

That role was manly taken

It's his mistake for taking you for a complete idiot

Losing his cool during the trial as you reveal his trickery and outside intentions with the investigation

“What?! Did you think I was an absolute dolt?!”

He also doesn’t expect how quickly you put him in a headlock as you spit in his ear

“Don’t. Ever. Include me in your crackpot ideas again, got it?!”

“F-f-fine…b-but I can’t help you if you look like an idiot-"

You tighten your hold 

Having Sakura and the majority of the group forcing you to let go

It's a strong-standing rivalry between you two

That everyone’s aware of 

Even Genocider Syo expects this 

But as many know supposed hate can be just as close as love

And in Byakuya’s case, it's quite an extreme example of that:

Dear fiendish enemy of Mine,

You will be pleased to know that I wish to accept an apology from you. 

I will be in the library, waiting.

–The Ultimate Affluent Progeny, Togami Byakuya

That’s what it said. The letter slipped under your doorway in the heat of the night or the morning you typically slept in on. You scoffed crumpling the letter before tossing it into your trashcan; just to spite him you debated leaving your room at all. You were all for keeping everyone alive and whatnot but the meetings were early and you were never one for following rules anyway. As much as you hated being grouped up with the rich boy you weren’t going to go out of your way to be some other hero type; that’s what Makoto was for. With ease, you settled into your bed drifting into another deep sleep. You’d eat later.

When you awoke, you had no indicator for any time passing. With an audible growl from your stomach, you tiredly sat up, finally setting yourself on a mission to feed yourself. Considering Monokuma hadn’t woken you up obnoxiously you figured nobody had died yet. That was good. Best case scenario it was ‘nighttime’ and you could feast without anyone bothering you. Pushing the handle down you only gave it a nudge with your hip. 

“D-did I forget to lock it?”

You tried the handle again to find the door was still unmovable. Getting irritated quickly you went to kick the door open only for the door to stay in place with the weight of something on the other side. 

“But why would there be something against the door?”

You tried again but to no avail spiraling you into a fit of anger. Turning from the door in a huff you began to take your anger out on the few pieces of furniture. Kicking over the table, throwing out the drawers of the cabinet; you were about to slam off the objects resting on the bolted shelf. Stopping when you see a familiar letter next to a lunch box.

Dear idiot of Mine,

I knew you wouldn’t follow such a simple command and that’s what I counted on! 

Now who’s the victim of their own laziness?! Since you are so inclined to laze about it makes you a difficult target in the killing game. Nonetheless, I can not have your reckless discretion decide both our fates thus I am making the executive decision to keep you caged.

“Caged!? That brat who does he think he is!?”

See like a dog you have a master. I would have included you in this decision if I was sure you were competent enough to understand it. But you are not and I am tired of trying to change that. 

Therefore be pleased you are going to be taking a back seat to this game and if you’re lucky enough Monokums will let you watch as I win this game. 

Eat dear idiot. And if you can muster the brain power read. You might be interested in rotting your life away but I am not. The exact opposite actually, I fully intend to have you tamed when I am through with this game.

Enjoy your suspension (Y/n), Togami Byakuya

Throwing the letter out of sight you reached into the duffle to find a few full thermoses, multiple bottles of water, some books, and some canned foods. Resisting the urge to throw its contents all around the room you instead picked up the letter again rereading the words as you tried to make sense of your predicament. 

“S-suspended!?”

‘Was that even possible in a killing school game.’

Whether or not it was as the Ultimate Affluent Progeny: Togami Byakuya said so. And it would be your fate until the game officially ended.

[alittlebitofloveliness]

hiii idk if ur still taking requests or not but if u are literally any kind of darry angst would be amazing 🤗🤗

Hi anon! This is a bit more Curtis brothers angst but Darry centric exploring what might have happened if the Curtis parents died two years earlier. Please lmk what you think!

***********

“Please” Darry begs, “I’ll be eighteen in a month. A month! I swear I can take care of them. Please don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry,” the social worker says, and to her credit she does sound like she means it, “Since you're almost eighteen and because you’ve provided me with adequate proof you can support yourself I’m going to allow you to remain here at this time, but Sodapop is only fourteen and Ponyboy just turned twelve. They need a real guardian.”

“I can be their guardian,” Darry vows. It’s wrong they’re even having this conversation. His college acceptance letter sits on his desk, his football trophies on the shelf and yet he’d give all of it away in a heartbeat for this crackpot old woman to see sense, to understand that he’s just lost both of his parents and he cannot lose his brothers too. Why doesn’t she understand that? “You said it yourself, I can support myself. I can support them too. The lawyer said Mom and dad left me the house. I can officially claim it in a month, and I can cover bills until then. I already got three offers for another job, and I know how to cook and clean and drive-”

“Darrel,” the social worker cuts him off firmly but kindly, “this has nothing to do with whether or not you are capable. In fact, from what I’ve seen, and the frankly remarkable job you’ve done holding your family together I’d be more than happy to help you petition for guardianship of your brothers at a later time, if it’s still something you feel strongly about doing, but the fact of the matter is that almost eighteen is not the same as eighteen. You are not a legal adult, and you cannot be your brothers’ legal guardian until you are. It doesn’t matter how responsible or adult you are right now. It can’t happen.”

“Please,” Darry implores, “you can’t take them. We just lost mom and dad, I can’t lose them too.”

“I really am sorry,” she says, “and I mean it when I say I will help you try and get guardianship in a month. But I can’t let them stay with you right now, and honestly? Maybe it’s a good thing. I know you love your brothers but guardianship would mean putting your life on hold until Ponyboy turns eighteen- eight years from now. You couldn’t go to college, travel, do much of anything really. This month will give you time to think that over, decide if it’s something you’re truly prepared to do.”

Anger, bright and hot as a supernova bursts in his chest.

“I would do anything to keep them. Anything. I don’t want college or sports or nothing if it means they’d be stuck in some foster home with people who don’t care anything about them.”

“We make sure all our foster parents are vetted very carefully-”

“Yeah, sure,” Darry scoffs, “I know a dozen kids who grew up in the foster system. I’m sure all those bruises were just from kids being kids, especially the handprints. With all due respect, I think you’ve forgotten what part of town you're in. East side kids never end up in the good homes.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Save your apologies,” Darry chokes, ashamed to feel hot tears start to prick his eyes, “it’s clear your mind is made up and ain’t nothing I can do to change it.”

“I promise you, I will help you try and get them back. As soon as you're eighteen.”

“I’ll call you the minute the clock hits midnight on my birthday,” Darry threatens, “see if I won’t.”

“That’s fair,” the social worker smiles but Darry refuses to smile back. He hates her, for all she is trying to be as kind and helpful as she can. She’s going to take his brothers away. To him, she can only ever be a villain, “you guys can stay together here one more night while I sort out placements for Ponyboy and Sodapop. I’ll be back at ten tomorrow morning. Do you want to tell your brothers or should I?”

Well Darry sure as hell isn’t going to break their hearts, and Ms. Summers has done a good enough job already of shattering what remained of his own.

“You do it,” he spits, “I ain’t gonna ruin their lives.”

Her sympathy has run deep enough that pity now reigns on her face and she ignores his attitude, the way she has ignored all his attitude so far. It’s more than he probably deserves. He still hates her for it.

“No,” Soda says before Ms. Summers has even finished explaining, his brown eyes shining with a primal sort of fear that puts another crack in Darry’s already broken heart. Soda was made to be grinning, not meant to ever look so terrified, “no you ain’t puttin’ me in no foster house. Me’n my brothers are stayin’ right here, together, thank you very much.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t asking,” Ms. Summers says, still talking in that infuriatingly gentle tone. 

Soda- easygoing, sweet Sodapop, who called ladies ma’am without fail, who everyone adored- glares at her, backing away the way a cornered animal might.

“I ain’t going! I ain’t! And you ain't taking Pony neither! Darry ain’t gonna let you take us, right Dar?”

He looks at him, brown eyes wide and desperate in his face, and Darry knows things will never be the same after this because it’s his job to protect Soda and Pony, always has been and always will be, and yet right now he is failing to do just that and Soda may never forgive him for it.

“Soda…”

“No!” He’s crying now, tears running freely down his face as he clutches Ponyboy close to his side, arm falling protectively around their baby brother’s tiny shoulders because Pony- whose eyes are the same sort of haunted they’ve been since mom and dad died, and whose face shows nothing but terrified resignation- hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet. Because he’s twelve. Only twelve.

“I know this is hard for you” Ms Summers continues, “and I’m going to do my best to make sure you and Ponyboy get placed together, but you can’t stay with Darry right now.”

“Why not? He’s good at bein’ a guardian. Shit, I’ve eaten more vegetables in the last week than I ever did when mom and Dad were alive-

“Because Darry isn’t eighteen.” Ms. Summers cuts him off, “and you need to be at least eighteen for the government to consider granting guardianship.”

“I’m gonna get you back,” Darry promises, ignoring the social worker and instead locking eyes with his brothers, first Soda, then Pony, “I swear it, as soon as I turn eighteen I’m gonna get you back and you can come home and we’ll all be together again. But we gotta behave if I’m gonna have any chance at all, so please stop arguin’. I don’t like this any more than you do but we gotta-” he clears his throat, “we gotta play ball, ok kiddo? We gotta do what we’re told.”

Soda gives the social worker one more murderous glance, but pulls himself together, a mask of eerie calm overtaking his features. “Fine.”

“Ill see you all tomorrow then. I can show myself out.” Ms Summers offers them one last pitying smile as she shuts the door behind her. 

As soon as she’s gone Soda is on top of him, crying so hard he can hardly breathe,. Pony is clutching his other side so hard he might have bruises, and Darry wraps them both in his arms, wishing he could keep them here forever where they would be safe and he could help them relearn how to be happy. It’s somehow the worst and best moment of his life. On the one hand they’re still blissfully here with him. On the other hand, they won’t be for long.

“I’m sorry,” belatedly Darry realizes he’s crying too, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I tried everything, she wouldn't let me keep you, I tried, I tried.”

Pony just hugs him harder, burying his face in his chest and Soda wails.

Eventually they all stop crying, but the mood in the house is somber. The gang comes around, moods dampening one by one as they hear the news, and Darry makes chocolate cake for dinner since there’s no point in making healthy food if the social workers are taking the boys anyway. In the end it doesn’t matter- none of them have much of an appetite, even for cake.

He walks in on Steve and Soda plotting to run away together before the social worker comes. Talks them out of it by reminding them that he’ll never get guardianship if Soda goes truant while still technically in his care. Eventually, the gang leaves and the it’s the three of them once more, crowded together on the living room couch in an unspoken agreement. None of them want to sleep, unwilling to miss even a second that they have left together.

“Darry?” Pony whispers, his head resting on Darry’s shoulder.

“Yeah, bud?”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” Darry says, heat clenching, “I’m scared too.”

A few minutes later Pony’s weight drops a little more against him and he starts to snore, out cold. Darry pulls him a little closer, plants a kiss on the top of his wild hair. 

“Soda?” Darry says softly a few minutes later, careful not to wake Pony.

“Hmm,” Soda blinks at him sleepily, “yeah Dar?’

“Promise me you’ll take care of him,” he glances down at Ponyboy’s peaceful face. Asleep like this he looks downright childlike, “and yourself too, savvy? I’m sorry- I’m sorry I can’t do it myself, but you gotta be strong for me, alright? Just for a month or two until I get you back.”

“I promise,” Soda vows, “he’ll be safe with me, I’ll make sure of it. No matter where they put us.”

“I know you will, little buddy.”  Darry sighs. 

Soda sniffs. “I’m really gonna miss you, Dar. it ain’t right, takin’ me from my big brother when we just lost our folks. It ain’t right.”

“I’ll get you back,” Darry promises again, because what else is there to say, really? “I’ll talk to the president himself if I have to but I swear I’ll get you back.”

“I know you will,” Soda tells him, eyes shining. 

They don’t talk for the rest of the night.

The morning dawns with a sunrise that mocks them with it’s beauty and a buttery sunshine that illuminates the sorrow on all their faces when Mrs. Summers shows up and they all have to say goodbye. The gangs around, everyone but Dallas who got jailed two days ago, and Pony and Soda take their time with their goodbyes. When Soda reaches Darry, he hugs him tight for a second, and gets chocked up trying to say something three times before he gives up. Pony hugs Darry with a strength he rarely sees from the kid, and Darry tells him over and over that he loves him because when things get tough that’s the sort of thing Ponyboy forgets.

Then they leave, Mrs. Summers' blue Toyota rounding the corner, and a big part of Darry’s heart goes with them.

He goes back inside. Steve and Two-bit both follow him, casting him concerned looks, but he can’t deal with their worry right now. He has twenty eight days before his birthday to compile an airtight case as to why he’s the perfect guardian for a teenager and a preteen boy, and three job offers on his desk that can make that case a lot more airtight than it currently is.

It’s time to get to work.

[asgardian--angels]

I don't talk about this much but I'm just going to say it now.

there's something uniquely vile about being the daughter of a father who is a trump supporter. and not just a casual supporter, a full drank-the-kool-aid moon-landing-was-fake deep red neonazi maga crackpot. because I had to watch that change happen over the last decade. my father, an intelligent, introspective scientist, whose brain has essentially turned to mush and critical thinking skills shriveled up and died thanks to that orange rapist.

He has always loved me, supported me to be whatever I want to be, given me the most opportunities he could in life. He taught me to be kind, and forgiving, and to remember that we are all in this together. And now, while still claiming to feel that way, he vehemently, and viciously, spews hateful rhetoric and vitriol against women, against climate change, against democrats, against all the things I am, against the field of study I've dedicated my life, my soul to. We can no longer even have a regular conversation because all he does all day is sit online and watch trump rallies, listen to 'patriot' podcasts, and troll people on forums. He has nothing else to talk about, and cannot be negotiated with. Him and I used to love having sparring matches of wit, picking topics to debate in good faith. Now, any hint of a challenge and he becomes enraged, petty, and belittling. He somehow maintains this hypocritic fallacy in his mind that he is a good person, that he does everything to make my life better, and that humankind must come together to make a better future. Just, not *those* people, I guess, not them or them or them who aren't even people to him.

And I must occupy some gray area in his mind, Schrodinger's political prisoner. Because even though he knows I am a democrat, that I am a woman who will be affected by these laws, that I study climate change in the work that he supposedly supports, I must not be to him, one of 'those' people. I'm not like 'those' democrats, 'those' women, 'those' climate change cronies. Except when I am, because if we argue, if we discuss policy at all, I am just a girl, under his roof, and I have no idea what I'm talking about - because I'm young, because women aren't capable of understanding His greatness, because Elite Academia has brainwashed me into being a liberal. That my mom and I are ganging up on him, constantly, to paint him as the villain when he's only the victim. He's going to elect the man who will save us all, whether we want it or not. Our say doesn't matter, because we just don't understand.

I miss the father I knew. He was always petty, always ready to poke and prod - he hurt my feelings plenty, but I could deal with it. But I felt he was genuinely good at his core, that he tried his best. Now, I don't know him. I don't recognize him anymore. I've imagined so many times what I would say to him if I could give a speech, or write a letter, where he could not talk back and just had to listen. I don't know if I'll ever get that chance, or take it. But I know he has truly no idea how hurt and betrayed I am, and he wouldn't believe me if I told him. He knows no shame, and he does not apologize.

I'm not looking forward to spending the winter at home with him every day for two months. I don't see how I can look him in the eye. And how dare he look me in the eye after fucking me over.

I love my father, no matter what, and that's why it hurts me so badly to see him change into a stranger, and wonder if there was anything more I could have done to change his mind before this transformation completed. Knowing that it's not my responsibility to argue with him to try and make him see reason when he's too far gone and all it does is make me feel like shit, and yet.

I'm sorry to everyone who may relate to this within their own families. It's probably going to get worse. These men will feel empowered to speak their minds and force you to hear it. They try to provoke you, just so they can say you're hysterical or overreact as women do, when you get reasonably upset. Know that you're not alone in this, Trump has truly torn families apart in ways that I don't think will ever heal.

[biginkyboyo13]

Currently obsessed with the crackpot idea of a Wreck it Ralph sequel where somehow the original Turbo Time game actually was popular enough to get it's own line of games or something, and suddenly one day the arcade is upgraded or something because we've entered the era of Nostalgia and like, one of the new Turbo games is brought in.

It's like, also a Mario Kart clone, like Sugar Rush, and has a Punch out storyline where you play as Turbo obviously, and he has to defeat multiple racers to become the greatest racer ever and I'm kinda obsessed with it, bro is just a little guy in this world and he learns about what the old version of himself did and he's just absolutely mortified, but the others in his game probably vilify him for it.

Actually, this au sequels Vanellope would probably also hate him. Like, yeah, he's a different person, but PTSD is PTSD, Turbo literally tried to kill her and she wouldn't just move on from that immediately.

I'm going feral over this, it's stupid and I love it.

[happyhauntt]

a writer & his muse — sirius black

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: renowned mystery writer sirius black has a new muse, and it just so happens to be the homicide detective who hates him. (castle!au)

─── pairing: mystery writer!sirius black x detective!reader.

─── warnings: fluffy banter, mild threats of violence, sirius is a little bastard and knows it, honestly just a fun time. muggle au.

─── word count: 1k.

You're not entirely sure what you did to deserve this sort of punishment.

The station is pretty quiet when you arrive, as it usually is this early in the morning. A sigh of relief escapes you as you arrive at your desk, dropping your bag at the foot of your chair, and you realise that aforementioned punishment — the newest irritation in your life — has yet to arrive.

You’d really love to know what you did to deserve this. Whether you accidentally pissed off some ancient deity, or cut in line at the supermarket so your cosmic karma is unbalanced, or perhaps your boss just really hates you, even though he invited you to his birthday barbecue a few months ago and had called you, endearingly, the 'best detective he'd ever trained.'

You hadn't thought he could be harbouring a secret grudge against you, but really, what other reason could there be for this kind of punishment?

And it is a punishment. Of that, you have no doubt. It is a tooth-grinding, migraine-inducing kind of punishment, and if you weren't acutely aware of the consequences, you might have tried to murder him by now.

Him being, of course, the world-famous mystery writer, Sirius Black.

What a smarmy, egotistical little bastard.

From the very moment he sauntered into the station, wearing a beat-up leather jacket and a devil-may-care smirk, you'd known your life was about to get complicated. Or, well, more complicated.

Your job is difficult enough, chasing down criminals and solving murders all day, without having a nosy moron breathing down your neck, spouting crackpot conspiracy theories when the evidence is much more straightforward.

You hear his footsteps on the linoleum before he strolls around the corner, clutching a cup of takeout coffee in each hand. He sets one of them on the desk in front of you, brandishing a crooked grin like a weapon.

"How is my lovely muse this morning?" He winks at you as he slumps into a nearby chair, pulled close to the corner of your desk for research purposes. You wonder if he's ever heard the phrase 'personal space'.

Your lip curls. A slew of paperwork has been spread across your desk for an hour, all related to the case you solved earlier in the week, where Black had been, surprisingly, somewhat helpful. Your boss had been liberal with his praise, and Black's ego had puffed up to an insufferable degree.

Unfortunately, you're now reaping the consequences.

"Considering if I can kill you and make it look like an accident," you reply, your voice flat. You sniff the coffee before taking a sip. Annoyance punches through you when you realise he has your coffee order memorised. You want to bury him in a shallow grave.

Black leans back in his chair, a wide grin sweeping over his face. "If anyone could, it would be you."

"Does any part of this shadowing gig involve helping me with the, frankly ridiculous, amount of paperwork you generate?"

He purses his lips in thought for a moment before shaking his head. Strands of shaggy black hair fall around his face. "Never really written the paperwork into my books. A bit boring, you know. Nothing the readers want to bother with."

You roll your eyes. "And yet, Mr Black, you insist on bothering me."

"Sirius, please." He chuckles at you. How were you unlucky enough to catch his attention? How insane is he, wanting to follow a homicide detective around for research on his new book? "Mr Black is my father, and a large part of the reason I write mysteries, not horror." He feigns a shudder.

"Mr Black," you say, fixing him with an unamused glare. "When, exactly, do you think you'll be finished with your book?"

"Detective, you wound me!" He splays his hand over his chest, just above his heart. You try not to stare at the tattoos flexing across his knuckles, or the way his shirt goes tight across his chest. "Here I was, thinking you enjoyed our time together."

"Like a hole in the head," you mutter.

There's a teasing twinkle in his eyes. He takes a long sip of his own coffee while you return your attention to the paperwork, scribbling your signature in the appropriate places.

Every once in a while, you can feel him watching you. Eyes like swirls of cigarette smoke, analysing your every move. There’s an odd little tick he has, his fingers tapping an unfamiliar rhythm against his leg. Whether the sound is soothing or frustrating, you can’t quite decide.

The shrill ringing of your desk phone startles you both. He’s trying not to laugh, you can tell, as your hand darts out to answer it.

I wonder if this is how zoo animals feel, you think to yourself as you listen to the officer on the other end of the line. You scratch the information out onto a post-it note, an address and a few other key details, before hanging up.

He’s a bundle of energy beside you. His knee bounces, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that is beyond inappropriate, considering the circumstances of your job and his so-called research.

It’s like being stalked by a golden retriever, except you’re certain you would prefer the dog over Sirius Black’s presence.

“Grab your coat, Mr Black. We’ve got a body.” You push yourself away from your desk, filing the paperwork away in the drawer for later.

He bounces to his feet with a level of enthusiasm that should, frankly, be illegal.

“Try to be a little less excited,” you say in a chiding, exhausted voice as you lead him out of the station. “Someone is dead.”

“I’ll try to be as macabre as possible, detective,” he assures you. He climbs into the passenger seat of your car, drumming his fingers against his leg in that bizarre non-rhythm again. “I’ll channel my mother. You know, I based one of my characters on her…”

Tuning him out is easier said than done, but you do your best. The book must be nearly finished. How much more research can he possibly do?

You just have to grit your teeth and bear his presence for a few more weeks. You just have to make sure you don’t kill him for a few more weeks. He’ll surely get bored of you and find a new muse at some point, right?

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

Rhaegar did not love Lyanna, rather it was a seduction to have his prophecy, just as he did not love Elia, that is obvious, it is implied between the lines that he wanted a third child, what they justify to say that he loved her are trivial things.

The story of Bael the bard, for example, is used as an example, but it doesn't say that Bael loved the winter rose, it only says that she loved him.

This quote I saw says the opposite of Rhaegar loving Lyanna someone had a “rhaegar was a romantic hero” shirt. parris agreed then george said there was something romantic to rhaegar. whether a hero or not, depends on the perspective. “today's hero may be tomorrow' villain,” pointing out how time can change reputation.—— asshai interview source of the quote: elio garcia, a writer of twoiaf who was present at the barcelona interview

the opinions about rhaegar are provided by people who were in love with rhaegar joncon cercei or like barristan or jaime who feel guilty and also barristan says that nobody has really met rhaegar but they are based on ned's opinion when ned doesn't speak ill of the dead or badly of people i don't think lyanna told him anything about rhaegar what he did to her if he found her very serious

I think he manipulated her and locked her in his tower without medical help because he didn't do things right because he didn't come to an agreement with his family but he didn't make her his mistress and left her with three guards while he went to fight for his father who killed Brandon and his father and still condemned a child to be a bastard knowing the prejudices of Westeros so it's not a love story

it’s obvious that you have confirmation bias and do not care to engage in a meaningful discussion. it seems that you’d rather play into ridiculous headcanons that border on fanon, but i don’t mind humoring you :)

you claim that it is implied that rhaegar didn’t love lyanna and that he only seduced her for prophecy, and yet the reality is that this is only a headcanon with very little textual basis. the idea comes from one of daenerys HotU visions, which can be interpreted in numerous ways. the idea also sorta comes from a Jon Con chapter when he remembers that the maesters told rhaegar that elia would have no more children. that is all the textual basis that this headcanon has. that is it. there’s no mention of lyanna in any of these scenes. if george wanted to connect the idea that rhaegar only wanted lyanna for a prophecy, he’d find a way to bring it up in a much clearer way. honestly… treating these two scenes like the gospel is dumb as hell, and if i analyzed the text this way i could confirm any crackpot theory i wanted to.

on the other hand, rhaegar and lyanna being a love story has actually already played out in the show (though i hate the show). lyanna and rhaegar also have official artwork where they’re together, and if i need to read between the lines instead of taking POV characters thoughts about rhaegar and lyanna being a love story for foreshadowing, then all i need to do is go to danys chapter as she’s marrying hizdahr as she wishes (putting herself in lyanna’s shoes) that daario would carry her off like rhaegar did with lyanna. that is actual foreshadowing. your headcanon meets the bare minimum requirements of a headcanon, and borders on a fanon take

you also say that bael the bards love story with the winter rose isn’t supposed to be romantic, so i think you actually struggle to read between the lines. please remember that it is ygritte who tells jon snow that bael stole the winter rose. stole. in free folk culture, men stealing women is marriage, and it means the man wants the woman because he chose her. the idea is that a woman must fight back if she doesn’t want to be stolen, and i’d like to remind you that you are the one who said that the winter rose loved bael… so what does that tell you about lyanna’s opinion on rhaegar? also, ygritte actually parallels herself with the winter rose (with some sexual innuendo), which also connects her with lyanna, meaning jon’s playing both bael and rhaegar, and we know for certain that jon did love ygritte. another bael the bard type story that plays out is when jon sends mance to steal arya back. mance calls himself abel and we know that arya was actually jeyne, so i think it’s clear that mance and jeyne are acting as jon and aryas stand ins, which tells me that i should take jon and aryas feelings into account as they are the ones that are actually paralleling the bael (rhaegar) and the winter rose (lyanna). and we know for certain that jon adores arya and that arya wants to go to jon, so i think it’s very well supported that rhaegar and lyanna loved each other. can you tell that i’m reading between the lines? i think i’m doing a great job at it.

you claim that our sources on rhaegar are not reliable, or that bael the bards story isn’t a love story, all while providing a quote (though i do not know where you got it from, and frankly i do not trust you) where george supposedly says that there was something romantic to rhaegar… idk what to tell you at this point. also, the stuff george supposedly says about rhaegar being a hero or not or “todays hero may be tomorrows villain” is literally stated to be about rhaegar’s huge change in reputation. it’s not confirming anything about rhaegar and lyanna. truthfully, it’s only hinting that rhaegar was a romantic. tbh, it seems like geroge considers rhaegar a hero based on the way he worded his thoughts, but that’s just my interpretation of that supposed quote.

your last passage is complete fanon and totally inconsistent with your own logic. if rhaegar supposedly got with her for his prophecy to have a third child, then not having medical help is dumb af. what if the baby died? the reality is that all we know about the tower of joy comes from an unreliable dream ned has. the dream doesn’t depict what actually happened. tbh i don’t even want to cover anything else you’re saying because it’s just not supported by the text.

i don’t think you realize how hypocritical you are.

[1indigoisles]

Can we just step back and take a moment to appreciate the fact that we now have the smallest, tiniest, most insignificant inkling of an idea as to what might happen in TWP?

And that after New Year we will have more small, tiny, insignificant inklings as to what we might get to see?

CC has us all in web woven by her novel universe. I love her.

But gratitude and all aside, it's TWP CrAckPOt ThEorY TImE (by yours truly)!!

I have some pretty random theories and headcanons that I will be randomly spouting around now and for the next couple of days.

Theory #1: Kit gets gold wings.

Hear me out, why not? He's not just any old part faerie, he's the descendant of the First Heir! Also, Clary had a dream in CoLS of two people standing together beside a lake, one with white hair and black wings and the other with gold hair and gold wings. At the time, it was assumed that those two people were Sebastian and Jace, but the pieces are falling together! ASH HAS WHITE HAIR AND BLACK WINGS, can you not tell how excited I am?

Theory #2: The disappearance that Kit and Ty have to investigate is Livvy's.

I mean, does anyone reading this post have other ideas? It would make sense, since Dru would be sucked into Faerie danger, and even if she wasn't, she couldn't really help Ty because she can't even see Livvy. And if we assume that Dru is in Faerie, Kit is literally the only one Ty could go to, since nobody else knows (except for Magnus and Ragnor, who I think would either be too busy or simply refuse to help, thinking that if Livvy had finally truly died, then it would be lucky that the world got off without having to pay for it). Ty would, obviously, try to find Livvy on his own, but the thought that only Kit could help him would be nagging at him the entire time. So either he finally plucks up the courage to ask Kit, or they just bump into each other on their own. Either way, they team up together, very begrudgingly on Kit's part, because he'll be all ice and "I hate you" on Ty. Then, Kit's faerie magic spurts out again in a moment of danger, or in a fight scene where they're outnumbered, and Ty, aside being amazed, interrogates Kit heavily, and when Kit is finally worn off, he tells Ty angrily about his heritage and how if Faerie knew of it, the entire lands would be after him. And even though the thought gives me immense pain, I think that eventually, it's how Jessa dies, and Kit blames himself for it, and added to how he has to take care of Mina and live for her, he absolutely refuses to help Ty any longer. But then, when danger strikes again, his faerie magic comes out in full, Kit gets himself severely injured. And THIS happens:

"Well, it's a bit ironic, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"All that effort to convince you I wasn't in love with you, and here I am, dying in your arms."

[Teaser #6] Link below.

I just realised I gave an entire rant about it, I'll stop now.

Theory #3: What can transpire between Dru, Jaime and Ash.

And I don't mean this just romantically. Dru getting involved in Faerie finally connects the dots, since Ash literally lives there, and Jaime disappeared there. Their storylines probably merge somewhere around TLKoF and they have their own adventures. Also, headcanon; you know how in TDA, Jaime was all distant when he found out that Dru was 13 and not 16, like he'd thought? And how he literally left, like, the next day? So, what I'm thinking is that he was already beginning to crush on Dru, and he was disappointed, not because she hid her age, but because they wouldn't be possible. Okay, okay, I know Jaime said that Dru was like his sister, but that if you go to that scene, you'll find he's speaking after a moment of being silent, perhaps drinking in the situation. I think he says that because he's trying to convince himself that whatever he likes about Dru is just friendly, and nothing more. Now, I know that people don't have the kindest opinions about DruxJaime, because Dru was just a child when they met, but if you really think about it, 13's really not that young, and Dru was really mature for her age. And this 3-year gap is nothing compared to what Lucie and Jesse had going on. Girl meets a 17-year-old-looking boy when she was 6 years old. Can you believe the age gap that I'm too lazy to calculate? So yes, DruxJaime is plausible, it can and will happen, although Dru will obviously end up with Ash. And if CC pulls an open end to Jaime's character like she did to Matthew, I will literally cry. I really dislike open ends, because it fills me with so many questions! I hate not knowing what happens next! I really want Jaime to either end up with Anush or go poly with Thais, which I know is just wishful thinking at this point. Any character will do, CC! Please and thank you!

Okay, I just read this entire thing over, and my self-critic says; this is not a post, this is me ranting. My writing is literally all over the place. I feel like I wrote too much. But I think I got it all out for now. This was fun.

[nathanielzalexandria]

You know what?

A big FUCK YOU to all those people who said My Hero Academia/ Boku no Hero Academia was straight and the canon ships will be straight and "of course Izuku and Uraraka are the end game ship and that we should get our "gay fanfic agenda" out of their hero show. (Sorry to the izuocha ship but they aren't ending the journey with cannon status)

The moment I found out that Magne and Tiger was trans i knew there would be gay romance. If the mangaka is okay with outright stating that Tiger is trans in his character description why in the fuck would he not be okay with putting his mc in a homosexual relationship.

And honestly, if Katsuki was a female he would have just been called a tsundere and all those "this is a bad pairing" peeps would mostly ship it. But that's neither here nor there because we aren't talking about the obvious main character ship. (You can hate it but don't pretend this is a crackpot ship fanfiction peeps/girls and gays pulled out of thir arse.

Secondly, Uraraka. While she may have started off "wanting" Izuku but after she meets Toga she starts to question his feelings for him. And nearly every conversation they have is about love and what it means to them. The pasta has been put to boil for so long, why is everyone surprised its bubbling? That the pasta is ready?

Okay, let's say you missed out on the subtext leading up to this story arc. On the official artwork that has them together. It happens but if you are following the manga from chapter 388 the cover has them interlocked with each other and close enough to kiss. The fucking tag is "THE CONCLUSION TO THEIR TALK ON LOVE...". And from around the end of 390 (and before but especially at this point), every chapter is about them, and Toga feeling alone and isolated and Ochaco trying to reach out and talk about love. And even if you did not catch that, this recent chapter has a reporter saying "A girl and her feelings can change the world" blatantly hinting at this outcome.

I'm just saying, that if by "You've got such a lovely smile!" You did not see what was coming there is no helping you. Your bias blinded you because there was nothing to be so shocked about. You should not have been so utterly blindsided by "I want to talk about romance, Himiko-chan!"

And if your argument is, "What about Izuku?" The boy has rejected one and is oblivious to the other. Also, this chapter has Ochaco talking about Toga's smile. Yeah, she calls it lovely but you know what else it's called, genuine and she tells Toga she should never hide her feelings while showing a flashback of Izuku smiling. You know, the guy who bottles up his feelings and pain until it hurts him a la the Vigilante arc? The line is clearly comparing Toga to Izuku and asking her not to be like him.

So take the fucking win Togarakas/togachacos your ship has been validated. It has been canonized for those with willing eyes to see. And if you honestly believe that Izuku and Ochaco are actually getting together in the end, and that "...then I'll give you my blood for the rest of my life!" Isn't akin to, "I love you. Most Ardently.", "I like you... very much. Just as you are." , "In another life, I would have really liked... Just doing laundry... and taxes with you.,", "I came here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible" and that these words were about Izuku and friendship then this is the biggest cope I've ever seen. You are being obtuse

[foundtherightwords]

The Hollow Heart - Chapter 2

Pairing: Hellcheer, Gothic AU

Summary: To escape her mother's control and the stifling society of Gilded Age New York, heiress Christabel Cunningham impulsively marries Henry Creel, a charming and seductive stranger, and accompanies him to his remote mansion on the West Coast. There, as Henry grows cold and cruel, Christabel must uncover her husband's sinister secret before it's too late. But can she trust Kas, her husband's enigmatic assistant, who seems to be her only ally in this strange place, or is Kas's loyalty to his master stronger than his attraction to Christabel?

Chapter warnings: animal death

Chapter word count: 4.9k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - Her Own Betrothed Knight

Christabel did have to endure a lecture about the danger of wandering off on her own, but thankfully, Mrs. Cunningham was so upset by Christabel's injury that the lecture didn't last very long. Never mind that the ankle wasn't badly sprained. It wasn't even swollen. Her mother still insisted that she stayed off it until the All Hallows' Eve ball. Christabel suspected that her mother did it not out of concern for her wellbeing, but because it made Jason more attentive toward her than ever—he even intended to cancel the picnic the next day because Christabel would not be able to join them. Christabel, already uncomfortable with him after her rejection, did not relish the idea of being stuck at the house with Jason hovering over her and being chaperoned by her mother. So she convinced him to continue with his party, while she curled up on a window seat with a book.

"Don't fret, darling," Mrs. Cunningham said, coming behind Christabel with one hand on her shoulder and the other smoothing her hair back, though she knew Christabel hated being stood over like that. "Trampling through the woods in the sun and the wind would only dry out your skin and your hair and get you nowhere at all. Better save yourself for the ball. I just had your costume taken in a little, you're going to look lovely in it—"

Christabel didn't reply. She wondered how her mother would've reacted if Christabel told her that all her scheming was for naught, that Jason had already proposed and been rejected. She wouldn't want to go to the picnic anyway—except it would be a chance for her to slip into the woods, in the hope of running into a certain someone again...

At that moment, as though summoned by her thought, there was a faint ring of the bell at the front door. She heard the soft voice of a maid answering it, and another, deeper, male's voice. Her heart started beating faster. She recognized that voice.

A maid came into the room presently. "There's a gentleman here to see you, miss," she said, bobbing a quick curtsey.

"What gentleman?" Mrs. Cunningham's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He said his name is Henry Creel, ma'am."

"He is the one that brought me home yesterday, Mother," Christabel reminded her. She hadn't told her mother much about Mr. Creel, only saying that he was a guest from a neighboring cottage, but her mother, with her usual penchant for gossip, had discovered his identity anyway.

"Ah yes, a guest of that crackpot Brenner, is he? Some upstart from out West, Mrs. Carver told me. Have a care, Christabel. Now that he's found a way in, he's going to hang on to you like a dog to a bone until—"

"Yes, Mother, I shall bear that in mind," Christabel cut her off before she said something even more vulgar in front of the maid. For someone so concerned with decorum, Mrs. Cunningham could be shockingly nonchalant when it came to talking in front of the servants. It was as though she didn't consider them human beings with their own thoughts and feelings. Christabel nodded to the maid. "Please show him into the morning room, Mary. Thank you."

Creel was standing by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantelpiece, looking down at the hearthrug, lost in thoughts. When Christabel came in, he lifted his eyes but didn't move from his position right away, and she was struck by a sense of déjà-vu. She had seen that pose somewhere—a painting, or a sculpture, with a person's face half-hidden by his arm, showing only his eyes. Was it a portrait of Lord Byron? No. But it was something romantic like that. Never mind. It would come to her eventually.

The sense of déjà-vu vanished as soon as Creel moved toward her with his arms outstretched. "Miss Cunningham," he said, clasping her hand in both of his. "I've come to inquire after you. How is your ankle?"

"Thank you, it's improved a great deal. But really, you needn't have bothered—"

He leaned toward her, smiling conspiratorially. "I did say you can count on seeing me again, didn't I?"

Christabel blushed. She seemed to be doing so a lot around Creel. "Yes, but I didn't expect it would be so soon." A discreet cough behind her reminded her of her mother's presence, and she reluctantly made the introduction. As Creel bowed over Mrs. Cunningham's hand, Christabel could see that her mother was not impervious to his physical charms, for all her attempts to remain aloof. Mrs. Cunningham was briefly interested to learn that Creel's family came from the nearby village of Ringwood, but when he said it was over two hundred years ago and that his father made his fortune out West, her interest quickly waned and her manners turned frosty. Her mother had always been a snob about family name and lineage, and Christabel doubted she would ever approve of Creel, not even if his forefathers had been on the Mayflower.

"And have you made any further discovery about your family's history?" Christabel asked, to fill in the awkward silence.

"Not yet, but Dr. Brenner have told me about the ruins of a settlement not far from Tuxedo Lake," Creel said. "If this nice weather continues, I intend to investigate it more closely. Perhaps you would care to join—"

Mrs. Cunningham made a disapproving noise in her throat, and Christabel gave Creel an apologetic look. He did not seem to notice anything amiss. He gently led Christabel to a chair by the window, keeping up a stream of easy chatter with both her and her mother, talking about San Francisco, about New York and how he wished he could visit it more often—polite, impersonal talk that meant nothing at all, but from the way those blue eyes fixed on her, she could tell there were things he'd like to say to her but was prevented by her mother's presence.

After fifteen minutes, the minimum amount one could entertain a guest without appearing rude, Mrs. Cunningham stood up, signifying the visit was over, and claiming Christabel needed her rest. Creel stood up as well, with regret plainly written over his handsome face. He thanked them for a lovely chat, wished Christabel a speedy recovery, and moved toward the front door.

"I hope we'll have the pleasure of seeing you again, Mr. Creel," Mrs. Cunningham said, in a voice that meant quite the opposite.

"Thank you, ma'am, so do I," he said.

"Will we, though?" Christabel asked, lowering her voice so her mother wouldn't hear.

"You can count upon it," he whispered, extending a hand to her.

They shook hands. The book Christabel had been reading, which she forgot she was still holding, slipped out of her hand and clattered to the ground. Before she could reach for it, Creel had bent down, picked it up, and pressed it into her hand. When she frowned at the feel of the book in her hand, he gave her a discreet wink, bowed to her mother, who was still hovering behind, then turned and left.

Only when she was back in the privacy of her room that Christabel felt safe enough to look at what she was holding—not one, but two books. Creel had slipped her another while picking up her first one. It was Tales, by Edgar Allan Poe. Christabel felt a surge of excitement mixed with gratitude for Creel's discretion and consideration. Her mother would never approve of such morbid reading material.

There was a name written on the flyleaf—"M. Brenner". Christabel grinned to herself. Creel must have scoured his host's bookshelf for this one. As she turned the pages, a note fluttered out. With quickening pulse, she picked it up. In a slanting, elegant hand, it said, "I believe a lady named after a Coleridge heroine would appreciate the romantic and macabre genius of Mr. Poe." And, a little lower, "If you wish to escape the castle, I shall be waiting. Same time, same place tomorrow. H."

***

The difficult part had been to convince her mother that her ankle would improve with some light exercise. When her mother suggested she took a turn around the Carvers' garden, Christabel had exploded—the reaction may have been exaggerated to frighten her mother, who hated public displays of emotions of any kind, but the frustration was very real. "Am I a dog, to be held on a leash?" she'd said. "Why don't I start wearing a veil in public too, while you're at it?"

It had worked. Her mother had agreed to let her take a walk around the lake but insisted that she took one of the Carvers' maids with her. After that, it had been the simple matter of bribing the girl with a few coins so she could slip away undetected.

As she walked, Christabel wondered what had prompted her to have a clandestine rendezvous with a man she'd met only the day before. He was attractive, to be sure, and very kind and gentlemanly, in a quiet, mild-mannered way that felt more natural and genuine than the excessive gallantry of her other suitors. But it was more than that. He came from another world. She knew little of the West, but a place where men could make their fortunes and become respectable regardless of their origins was bound to be different from the rigid, suffocating world she was living in. When he scooped her up into his arms, his movement so decisive and casual, she'd imagined she had been touched by that other world, and she longed to feel that touch again.

Creel was sitting under the oak when she arrived, cutting a dashing figure with his bare head and his body in recline. Again, Christabel felt that sense of déjà-vu. She must remember which painting it was that reminded her of him.

He looked up from the notebook in which he was writing or sketching and smiled at her. A flock of butterflies fluttered in her stomach.

"I was getting quite impatient," he said.

"I had to distract my mother."

"I didn't get you into trouble, did I?" Creel peered at her with concern. "I would've come to the house, but I have a feeling that she won't appreciate my visit."

Christabel sighed. "My apologies, Mr. Creel. My mother can be—"

He made a dismissive gesture with his pencil. "Never mind that. I'm glad you came."

She sat down on a clump of grass opposite him. The sunlight scattered through the leaves, throwing speckles of gold over his face, so one of his eyes shone while the other remained in shadow. The gleam in that eye threw the butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy, and she had to look down to hide her fluster.

"How did you know I wished to escape?" she asked, fingering a fold in her dress.

He smiled, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. "How could you not?" he said. "Five minutes with that crowd and I would have run for the hills."

"Is the San Francisco society not like that?"

"I daresay it is, but I don't know for certain. I don't spend much time in society, to be honest. I'm too busy with my studies."

So perhaps it was not his world that was different, it was Creel himself. "What do you study?" Christabel asked.

"A little bit of everything. History. Science. Literature. Speaking of which, how do you like Mr. Poe?"

"Very much. I finished the book in one sitting." She neglected to say that she'd had to read it under the covers, for fear of being found out by her mother. She didn't want Creel to think she was still a schoolgirl. "Did Dr. Brenner mind losing it?"

An enigmatic smile appeared on Creel's lips. "What Brenner doesn't know can't hurt him."

"Of course, he's rather obsessed with death, isn't he? Mr. Poe I mean, not Dr. Brenner."

"Aren't we all?"

"Not just death in general either, but premature death and false death, specifically," Christabel said. The fates of Madeline Usher and Fortunato were still haunting her.

"Because those are the most horrible." Mr. Creel's eyes turned dark. "When you die before your time, or when others think you're dead and you're powerless to tell them. Can you imagine?"

Perhaps this was not the most romantic subject of conversation, but nobody had spoken to her with so much openness and honesty. Usually, when she tried to discuss books and music with another man, she could only nod and go along with whatever opinion he had, or she would be labeled a bluestocking and a bore and catch the eyes of no other man. At least that was what her mother had told her.

"Have you investigated the ruins that Dr. Brenner told you about?" she said after a moment, for Creel's eyes were still dark, and she wished to dispel that look.

"I have, but they're not the right one. Far too recent."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Creel turned his eyes upon her, the one eye that shone in the sun now sparkled with quite a different light. "In fact, I hope my search takes a long time."

"Why?"

"So I can keep seeing you."

Christabel turned crimson. Later, as they said goodbye, she didn't ask if she would see him again. She knew that she would.

***

They did see each other again, almost every day after that. They talked a great deal, or rather, Creel talked and Christabel listened. He told her about his house overlooking the San Francisco Bay and about his travels—he had traveled widely; it seemed there were few places left in America that he hadn't set foot on, and in Europe as well. "My dream, though, is to travel to the Far East," he said. "Japan and China. Especially China. There's a lot of Chinese people in San Francisco, you know, and their culture fascinates me. It's one of the oldest civilizations in the world. I think it would be something to see it with my own eyes."

"I always wish I could travel," Christabel replied, wishing she could say something more interesting or share some travel anecdotes of her own. Her stories of Newport and the Catskills must sound awfully provincial to him.

He also told her about his studies—his current interest was medicine from plants and animals. All the while, Christabel could only listen in fascination and admiration, wondering how he managed to do so much and learn so much and go to so many places at such a young age. And her yearning for that world he'd opened to her, a world of newness, excitement, and sophistication, grew and grew, only she no longer wished to be simply touched by that world. Now she wished to be a part of it, with him.

Then something happened that derailed their time together.

It was three days before the ball. There was no entertainment planned for that day, and Mrs. Carver wanted everybody out of the house so they could start decorating and preparing for the ball. Jason and the others were talking about going down to the lake for some boating and fishing, when Mr. Carver received a telephone call in his study. The Carvers had just had their telephone installed, and its shrill, unaccustomed ringing echoed in the hall ominously. A moment later, Mr. Carver emerged, looking strangely pale and shaken. Mrs. Carver fluttered into the study with a frightened look. The guests mingling outside heard some murmurings, and then Mrs. Carver's voice raised in irritation, saying, "Nonsense! It has nothing to do with us. Besides, we have been preparing for days." She came out of the study, looking quite put out, and could be heard muttering under her breath, "The old crackpot! Even in death he was a nuisance!" as she fluttered to the back to go through the menu with the French chef once more.

Finally, Jason managed to learn the truth from his father—Dr. Brenner had been found dead in his house the previous night.

He had been found in his library by his servant, with an unmarked bottle next to him. There was to be an inquest, though in all likelihood, it would be a formality only—the body showed every symptom of poison, the library was locked from the inside, and everyone knew Brenner's penchant for the occult. No doubt it was the result of some foolish experiment. Mr. Carver had considered canceling the ball out of respect, but fortunately, Mrs. Carver had convinced—or perhaps bullied—him to carry on as planned.

This didn't stop the guests from feeling excited about the prospect of a murderer in their midst and exchanging theories on how Brenner had really died.

"What about that mysterious guest of his, the one who brought you back that day, Christabel?" one of the girls said. "Might he have something to do with this?"

"I don't know," replied Christabel, though she was worrying about the same thing. She couldn't believe Creel had anything to do with Dr. Brenner's death, but she was worried that this death and the inquest may keep him from seeing her. And with her mother getting into one of her fits and forbidding Christabel from even setting foot outdoors—as though a murderer was lying in wait and ready to pounce on her—she didn't know if she could go to the woods again. She hadn't realized how much she had been looking forward to their daily meeting until it stopped.

That evening, she was wandering around the garden, feeling listless and despondent, when she heard a whisper nearby, "Miss Cunningham?"

Christabel bit back a startled cry. A shadow detached itself from the privet hedge and came to stand in front of her. It was a young man, as dark as Creel was fair. His skin was pale, and his eyes and hair appeared black in the moonlight. "Sorry, miss," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Mr. Creel's servant."

He was holding himself awkwardly, as though trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. Somehow, this awkwardness made Christabel's initial fear vanish. "Is Mr. Creel all right?" she asked.

"Yes. He couldn't come himself because he's being questioned by the police." The young man pulled a note from his pocket and handed it to her. "He asked me to bring you a message."

Christabel went over to a gas lamp and opened the note. Her eyes fell on Creel's familiar slanting hand: "Meet me by the oak tomorrow, 10 AM. H." Emotions flooded her heart, mostly joy and relief.

She looked up to see the young man still standing there, as if waiting for something. "Thank you," she said. "Please tell him I'll be there."

He nodded but made no move to leave. Christabel remembered and searched her pockets for a coin for his tip, but came up empty. "I'm sorry, I don't have any money on me—"

"I don't want your money!" For a moment, his diffidence was gone, replaced by a brief look of rage. That, too, disappeared in a flash, though the man's hands remained balled into fists. "Begging your pardon, miss," he said, controlling his voice with difficulty. "But... if I were you, I wouldn't go."

With those enigmatic words, he vanished into the dark, leaving Christabel alone with the note.

***

The next morning, she managed to escape her mother and slip away. She went to the old oak tree and let out a sigh of relief when she saw Creel's familiar figure leaning against it. He still smiled at her, though his eyes were grim, and when she offered him her hand in greeting, he took it in a tight grip.

"What's happened?" she asked. "Is there going to be an inquest for Dr. Brenner's death? Will you have to make a statement?"

He shook his head. "The police seemed pretty confident that the poison was self-administered. They are going to rule it a suicide, or perhaps an accident." Christabel breathed more easily, but Creel's eyes remained dark. "I blame myself," he muttered.

"Surely you have nothing to do with it? You said so yourself, he took the poison of his own volition."

"I knew that Brenner was interested in alchemy and the elixir of life and things like that," Creel said. "But I didn't realize he would be so foolish as to attempt to brew one himself and drink it without testing it first. I should have warned him."

"No." Christabel laid a hand on his arm. "It was not your fault. You couldn't possibly know that."

He looked down at her hand, then up at her face, and something in his eyes set her pulse pounding.

"I'm returning to San Francisco soon," he said.

Her heart went cold. "Because of Dr. Brenner's death?"

"No. Because I've found what I was looking for."

"Your village?"

"Better. The remains of my family's cottage. Would you like to see?"

She nodded, and, still holding her hand, he led her through the trees, to the north end of the lake. Christabel followed him, trying to feel happy for him, but she couldn't stop the disappointment from rising within her, disappointment at the thought that he would go away, back to that free and easy world, while she would be stuck here, perhaps for the rest of her life.

They stopped at a clearing surrounded by elms and oaks, all glorious in their autumnal coats. There was something like a boulder or a cairn in the middle of the clearing, covered so completely with ivy that Christabel almost missed it. Creel knelt to spread the ivy apart, and Christabel saw that it was actually the remains of a stone fireplace.

"Look," he pointed to a smooth, flat stone at the back, where a large "C" had been carved.

"C for Creel?" Christabel asked, astonished.

"Yes."

"How long ago did your ancestors live here?"

"About two hundred years."

The thought of all that history now gone and buried in the ground under her feet made Christabel forget her heartache for a moment. "And did they move away, or—"

"No." Creel's face was somber. "The mother and the daughter died in mysterious circumstances, and the father was accused of killing them by witchcraft. He was hanged. Only the son survived."

Christabel's body grew cold with horror. Sometimes, caught in all the comfort and ease of modern life, she forgot how violent the history of their country was. She couldn't think of anything to say other than "Oh." Just then, the morning sun shone into the clearing, and her eyes caught something sparkling amongst the stones. "What's that?"

Creel dug into the daub, which had all but crumbled to dust, and pulled out something not bigger than the palm of her hand, covered in dirt. Red glints showed through here and there in the sunlight.

"My word!" he exclaimed. "I can't believe it!"

Pulling out his handkerchief, he wiped the dirt off of his discovery. It was a piece of stained glass, in the shape of a rose. "Do you know what you've found?" he said, awe in his voice. "It's our family crest. My ancestors brought it over from England and put it on the cottage's front door. I have something similar at my house in San Francisco. It's extraordinary that it was still here and intact after all this time." He beamed up at her. "I knew you would be valuable to me in some ways. I knew it the first moment I saw you."

The look in his eyes sent her heart into a somersault. Somehow she managed to open her mouth, and was about to say something back, something silly and girlish and inadequate, when she was interrupted by a scream that rent the air.

For a heart-stopping moment, she thought it was a woman or a child in distress, but when the scream continued, it became clear that it was an animal. Creel slipped the bit of stained glass into his pocket, jumped to his feet, and ran toward the elms. They soon discovered the source of the scream—a hare, caught in a steel trap. Blood pooled around the places where the cruel sharp teeth cut into its hind leg, but it was still alive, its eyes fixed on them with an imploring, almost human look.

"Oh please, please help him!" cried Christabel.

Creel stood looking down at the hare. "There's no helping it," he said. "But I can put it out of its misery."

"No!"

"Its leg is broken, Miss Cunningham." His voice was harsh. "Even if I free it, it would be lame and soon fall prey to a fox or an eagle. This is kinder." He took off his gloves. "Look away."

Christabel told herself she should just leave, she who always took care to never be present at the kill on a hunt, but some terrible force had gotten a hold of her, rooting her to the spot, making it impossible for her to tear her eyes away from the hare, from its chest still moving rapidly, from the twitching whiskers and the pink ears with red veins that stood out against the sunlight. Only when Creel snarled, "Look away, Miss Cunningham!" that she remembered herself and raised a trembling hand to cover her eyes.

There was a squeak, then silence. She lowered her hand. Creel was covering up the little body with dry leaves. "This trap was no doubt set by a poacher," he said, pulling his gloves on. "We should let someone know."

Somehow, the casual way with which he pulled on his gloves horrified her more than anything else. It finally shocked her out of her daze, and she turned and ran out of the clearing, chest heaving with sobs.

She didn't realize Creel had chased after her until she felt his strong grip on her shoulders, turning her around, and she found herself in his arms, hot tears staining his waistcoat, while he said, "Stop it, Miss Cunningham. I can't stand tears. If you don't stop crying, I'm going to have to do something quite drastic to stop you." Then his embrace turned into a caress, as his hands ran from her shoulders to her waist, and he pulled her to him and clasped his mouth to hers.

She was rooted to the spot again, not by some unknown force this time, but by the power of his arms and his body and most of all his mouth, a force that robbed her of her breath and her thoughts and her senses, leaving her with no choice but to submit to it.

A moment later, or a lifetime later, she felt the pressure of his mouth lift, but his arms remained around her. "I can't imagine leaving this place without you," he whispered in her ear. "Will you come with me, Christabel?" His kiss had left her so breathless that she couldn't answer right away. "Say yes," he said, a note of urgency in his voice. "Say yes now, or—"

"Yes," she said weakly, almost before she could think. It was as though he had put the word in her mouth and it had come out by itself, with no control from her. She opened her eyes and saw that the sun had gone behind the clouds, leaving the clearing gray and dreary. She couldn't help remembering, too, that they were standing on the ruins of a family home destroyed by tragedy, and that an animal lay dead at their feet. It was certainly not her ideal place for a proposal. But she didn't care. All she cared was that she was going to be free.

***

They agreed that Christabel would inform Mrs. Cunningham of their engagement the next morning, and if her mother approved, Christabel would send Henry a message and they would ask for her blessing together, after the ball. And if she didn't... well, they would deal with that together as well.

As she went to bed that night, Christabel wondered if she'd been too hasty. But, she reasoned with herself, others had gotten married after just one encounter, one look across a ballroom. And when she thought about how Henry made her feel—she thought of him as "Henry" now, with a certain relish—and the promise of freedom he brought, all her doubts were silenced.

There was one thing she couldn't get out of her head, though—it was the image of Henry standing over the hare, calmly putting his gloves back on. It disturbed her, though she did not know why. He'd been right, of course. It had been an act of mercy. Yet he had stood over that poor suffering hare not like an angel of mercy, but more like an avenging angel.

And with the thought of angels, it came to her in a flash, what she had been trying to remember since his first visit to the Carver mansion—what Henry's pose by the fireplace had reminded her of. It was The Fallen Angel, the painting by Alexandre Cabanel, whose reproduction she had seen in a book. Yes, he had looked exactly like it, with his tousled hair and that strange, intense look in his eyes, half of pain, half of rage. Exactly like Lucifer, after his fall from Heaven.

Chapter 3

A/N: Originally, Eddie/Kas wasn't supposed to show up until Chapter 3, but I got impatient so I had to give him an early appearance here :))

This is "The Fallen Angel" by Alexandre Cabanel, in case you're wondering.

[inkblackorchid]

What the hell happened with Crow: an autopsy (Part 1)

*deep breath* Hiiiiiiii.

After sitting on this for ages, I finally decided to make the Crow post. And because this ended up getting stupidly long, I decided to turn this into part one of two, maybe three, we'll see (which I honestly should have done with the Aki posts too, but oh well). So let me quickly make it clear what I'm about here: This analysis is not meant to convince people who hate Crow to change their mind. It is also not meant to dissuade people who love Crow from doing so. Instead, I wanna look at how Crow was handled during the show (up until the end of the DS arc for now, I'll dive into the rest later) and give my own take on why he developed the way he did and turned into such a polarising character. Also, disclaimer, despite the fact that I'll be making an effort to analyse things objectively, I am a mere human and obviously not the one and only expert on all things 5Ds. My only claim to knowledge here is that I've watched 5Ds several times now, love the show and its characters deeply, and like to think I have a decent amount of media literacy. Also, I take no responsibility for the length of this post. Despite me splitting things up, it's stupidly, exhaustingly long. Like, very, very long. So. Let's hop to it, shall we?

Before I get into the meat of things, there's one more thing I would like to get out of the way: I know plenty of people, even now, so long after the show ended, would answer the question of "what happened with Crow, anyway" with something along the lines of "well Blackwings got so popular" or "well Aki's VA got pregnant so Crow stole her spotlight" and I need to burst some people's bubbles here because no. Neither of these things are true. Nor is the infamous "well Crow was meant to be the main villain", actually! And I could go into all of that here, but that would be a whole post of its own for each topic, and luckily, someone else has already done all of that work. I direct you to two posts over on Reddit from @mbg159, who did an absurd amount of digging to comprehensively disprove two of the 5Ds fandom's favourite scapegoat theories:

No, Crow was not meant to be a dark signer, and most certainly not the boss of the dark signers.

No, Aki being sidelined and suddenly having less presence in the narrative than him was not because her VA got pregnant.

I really don't want this to come off as an "assigned reading"-thing, but it is so, so important to keep these things in mind when looking at Crow, and honestly? I'm just tired of these rumours at this point. It's been 12 years since the show ended, we don't need to keep believing this nonsense. And the posts linked above aren't crackpot theories or anything of the sort—they provide sources all over and all of the links still work. If you still can't be bothered to read them (they are long, yes), then at least take away this tl;dr: Crow allegedly having been planned as a villain doesn't work because there is no evidence that supports it, and both his spike in screentime being caused by the Blackwings' popularity and him "taking Aki's spot" because her VA got pregnant make zero sense because they simply don't match up with the production timeline of the show. It is literally impossible for either of these things to be true. (And believe me, I am as mad as anyone that Aki got shafted, maybe even madder than the average fan, but if it doesn't add up, it simply doesn't add up and there were no regrettable outside influences, someone just actively made shitty writing decisions and that's that.) So please. It has been 12 years. Forget this stuff. Ditch it. Let it die. Because I'm not here to spin conspiracy theories, I'm here to analyse the writing of the show as best I'm able. Okay? Okay.

Now, for the good part. Shall we start with some facts? Let's start with some facts.

Crow is introduced to the audience in episode 30, shortly after the dark signers arc kicks off. And considering that he later ends up as one of the main characters, arguably even the third most important character in the show after Yusei and Jack, this immediately stands out. For reference, the rest of the signer group is introduced within the first 14 episodes of the show. Even Aki, who is the last signer to be introduced, takes less than half the number of episodes Crow does to finally make her debut. And I don't think you could blame anyone for finding this weird. 30 episodes, even in a show with a relatively short episode length like 5Ds, is an absurd amount of time for a protagonist to get introduced. As for how he's introduced to us...

We get the gist of his character pretty quickly. He's a daredevil, he's used to flipping sector security the bird (pun not intended), he's got a soft spot for kids, and he knows Yusei well—well enough for the two of them to tag-duel some security officers almost immediately after not seeing each other for an undefined amount of time, which, if you know anything about yugioh, says it all.

(Pictured: two lads getting up to Shenanigans.)

There is history there. These two know each other's decks. They know how each the other plays. They can work together immediately and seamlessly. This is a big deal. Aaaaannd... It immediately begs some questions: If this guy knows Yusei so well, and they are really close friends, why the hell is he only showing up now? Why wasn't he helping Yusei put together his duel runner? Why didn't he help him stick it to sector security at the start? Why weren't they in contact?

The thing is, the show never really answers any of that. At least not properly. We can only read between the lines as to why Crow wasn't with Yusei from the start. (At least in-universe. Irl, it's easy enough to guess that Crow was not there at the start of the show because the writers at first didn't think they'd be putting this side character Takahashi originally came up with into the show.) Which brings me to the Enforcers. (Side note: As a sub watcher, I know the Japanese name is Team Satisfaction and I know Kiryu's catchphrase works a million times better with that name, but "Team Satisfaction" will always sound like a boyband name to me and I like to mix and match the sub and dub names based on what I like better on an individual basis anyway, please bear with me.) And before I properly open that can of worms, I feel the need to point something out: After Crow made his debut in episode 30 and got the opportunity to show off his duelling a bit during episodes 30-31, we are immediately introduced to Kiryu/Kalin at the end of episode 32. What this means for Crow is that he has zero backstory at this point and his character had zero time to settle. His only tie to the main story, as far as the audience is concerned, is that he's Yusei's friend from however long ago, and aside from that, he's only got two other things going to endear him to viewers: 1. he stands up to sector security (whom the first season did a pretty good job of establishing as pigs) and 2. he cares for abandoned children. He gets a "Save the Cat" moment and a tie to the main character, and that's it. Just to put that into perspective, we know the most important points of all the other signers' backstories by that point. Jack and Yusei's deal is made obvious to us within the first five episodes; the twins, though the narrative largely only spares them breadcrumbs, anyway, at least have that bit about Ruka/Luna having been in a coma at one point and having a connection to the spirit world shown during episodes 18-19; and though it once again takes Aki the longest to reveal what she's all about, we at least have a good idea of why she is the way she is by episode 24, and we get the icing on the cake of her traumatic past during the narratively excellent duel in episodes 40-41 (no, I will never shut up about how much I love this duel). Plus, she arguably has the most complicated backstory, so it's no surprise that it takes longer to reveal. But here's where the Enforcers come in again.

(And here we see the arguably most deranged rat bastard of a man (affectionate) in the entire show. But hey, at least he has an exquisite sense for dramatics.)

As far as backstory for Crow is concerned, the Enforcers drama initially revealed during episodes 33-35 is as much as we get for him after his introduction. His later duel with dark signer!Bommer/Greiger during episodes 51-53 offers a bit more, but more on that later. First, I want to preface this by saying that I don't think it was a coincidence that Crow and Kiryu/Kalin were introduced so shortly after one another. Because at this point in the story, I think Crow's main role is to add a counterweight to Kiryu/Kalin. To Crow, whatever happened with the Enforcers was evidently not enough to break the friendship between him and Yusei—they're still close and get along well. And then we have Kiryu/Kalin—for him, whatever happened with the Enforcers was a big deal and he's more than a little resentful about it, to the point of wanting to murder Yusei in revenge. (It is also noteworthy that this is the first thing that ever calls Yusei's character into question, because here is a guy who evidently knew him well once and absolutely loathes him, and it's clearly not because of his Satellite upbringing, his marker, or any of the stuff the other antagonists up until this point hated him for. Yusei fucked something up here. Big time. But let's not get sidetracked.) So, what does the Enforcer drama tell us about Crow, anyway? Frankly, not much. We learn two things: One, same as Yusei and Jack, Crow was all for the "liberating Satellite"-thing at first. Two (and this one's way spicier), unlike Yusei, he had the guts to ditch Kiryu/Kalin when it became clear he was willing to go too far. He was even the first to do it. (And I'd argue that if Crow hadn't walked away, Jack wouldn't have, either, but the relationship between these two is a whole other funky can of worms.)

(I love how Yusei grabs him like a naughty cat every time Crow gets worked up.)

The thing is, I wish I could say this tells us something integral to Crow's character, but looking at the rest of the show... it kind of doesn't. Implicitly, it shows us that he draws the line somewhere, and where people he loves doing absolutely insane things is concerned, he does it sooner than Yusei. It's just that this is never brought up again. And as far as his introduction is concerned, this, the first dark signer!Kiryu/Kalin duel, and him rushing to get Yusei to Martha's on his runner is the last we see of Crow for a while.

(For the love of all that's good and holy, why on earth did he deposit Yusei on his runner like that, shrapnel-stab-wound-side down?? Did he pull out the biggest piece of shrapnel before doing this? How did Yusei's legs not drag on the asphalt? Why did nobody think to tie something around his stomach to slow down the bleeding? Ok I need to calm down I'm overthinking this)

After this bit, the signers are pulled centre stage for a while—which was to be expected, for one, and also seems like the right call, writing-wise. After all, they're the ones the audience expects to save the day. As far as viewers are concerned at this point, Crow is just Some Dude who happens to be good friends with Yusei. We've had characters like this before. Hell, the opening episode of 5Ds introduced us to a whole four of them, and for all we know, Crow could have a first been intended to be precisely that, just another Satellite side character, who just so happens to have ties to the Enforcers-debacle that the others don't.

However. Where the writing for Crow as a character, especially considering where he ends up later, is concerned, this looks like less of a smart move. Because the "set-up" (if you can even call it that) to make Crow a protagonist later is... shaky, to say the least. And I'll be frank with you, I'm pretty sure this is because Crow was intended to be neither a dark signer nor a signer (which the Reddit post about him I linked above also proposes). In other words, it was never meant to be set-up in the first place. Considering how the show developed and turned him into a protagonist later, though, I can't help but wonder how Crow could have been written differently to make him actually slot in well with the rest of the signers without stepping on many people's toes. But before we dive into hypotheticals, let's continue looking at what they did with him first.

We see him between episodes 30 and 35, and then he briefly poofs out of existence until episodes 43-44 where he... mistakes Yaeger/Lazar for a dark signer and has a duel with no outcome against him, which only barely serves to keep him relevant.

(The face of a dark mastermind, servant of an ancient, immeasurable evil. Truly.)

Though him outmanoeuvring the vice director despite all the data he has on him shows him to be a cunning duellist, it feels a bit like a throwaway episode, like the show saying "oh yeah wait don't forget that this guy's also there". Crow exists in the narrative—and gets to duel, which sets him apart from Yusei's other Satellite friends—but he does nothing to advance the plot, despite getting whole episode segments dedicated solely to what he's currently getting up to. He's just kind of there, and it doesn't help to set up any of what comes later, except the idea that he can and will fight a dark signer if he finds one, maybe. But the thing is, Crow vanishes after this duel. Literally.

(Run, bird boy, run! Or, uh... drive?)

And look. The way this moment looks? With the black fog literally catching back up to Crow on-screen? And with what he says, swearing that he won't die here, which is strikingly similar to how the other dark signers refused to die, swearing themselves to revenge instead? I get why people thought this would be the moment Crow died and turned into a dark signer himself. But the thing is, even without all the hints pointing to Goodwin instead of him from the start (Goodwin speaks about being willing to sacrifice Satellite within the first ten episodes, the condor is literally on his shirt, ffs, and the corresponding geoglyph is shown in the background when he talks about the Nazca Lines, I am not making this up), Crow becoming a dark signer makes zero sense because it doesn't fit his character. He has no motivation to become a dark signer, because the dark signers ultimately aim to destroy Satellite. And even with what little the audience knows about Crow at this point, it is crystal clear that Crow would never destroy Satellite, not to speak of sacrificing the children he cares for to summon an Earthbound Immortal. It simply doesn't work, because his character doesn't work like that. Crow is deeply protective of Satellite—as his devotion to making it better during the Enforcer days shows—and he is even more fiercely protective of the kids he takes care of. Destroying either or both to turn the world into a literal hellscape instead goes against everything we've seen him say and do up until this point.

However, this is where we have to address the refrigerator in the room.

(Ah yes. The fridge for Crow. The fridge for Crow that was there from the start. The fridge that Crow totally had the time to curl up and hide inside of. The fridge specifically for Crow. Crow's fridge.)

Every time I watch this moment, I don't know whether to laugh like a maniac or heave the biggest sigh of my life. Even when you're being extremely generous with the show and its writing, there is no getting around the fact that this is as though someone wrote DEUS EX MACHINA all across the screen in bold, red letters. And again, I get why people thought this was the moment where the writers decided to do a 180 and turn Crow into a good guy instead of a dark signer due to the popularity of his cards or whatever. The production timeline still doesn't add up, but I get it. And cards or no cards, you can tell that someone made an out-of-left-field decision in Crow's writing for this moment to exist, because the way things were going for him before, purely based on visual evidence, it looked more like he was going to be another victim of the ominous black fog here, for someone (presumably Yusei) to have an angsty moment about later. (Or, hell, perhaps somewhere around this point, they decided that the final boss duel against Rex Goodwin would be a 3v1 turbo duel, which Aki, despite being a kickass duellist, categorically couldn't participate in because she doesn't have a license at this point! It could have been as simple as that.) To contextualise this, between Crow vanishing and him reappearing here, 7 whole episodes pass. He vanishes in episode 44 and reappears in episode 51. His saving grace is that all the duels in between canonically take place within the same night, which is why it's technically not unrealistic for him to be stuck in a fridge for a few hours. Technically. Ok, but what does he reappear for? Well, to have his very own dark signer duel, of course.

(Not pictured: Bommer's hilariously large runner.)

This is the first time we get to see Crow actively contributing to the larger plot, and in light of where he ends up later, I think this duel does a world of good for him. Firstly, it offers us more backstory (though still less than for the other signers), establishing why Crow's so attached to his orphans, why he's so close to Yusei, and throwing in tidbits like how he learned to read from duel monsters cards. It's "Save the Cat" moments all over, and it also does two other things well: For one, this is the only dark signer duel we get where both parties technically have the exact same goal—revenge. Bommer wants to avenge his hometown, Crow his kids. This duel, more than anything else, shows us that Crow could have become a dark signer—in a world where doing so didn't also mean destroying Satellite and killing his kids. Plus, it's the only duel against a dark signer we get that is fought and won by someone who, at this point, is not a signer. And this is especially important to me because it supports themes the show already began establishing with Rudger/Roman Goodwin and continues much later with Team Ragnarok and the likes: Fate is bullshit, the future is not set in stone, it is determined by what we do here and now and we have to fight to make it better. Therefore, contrary to what "fate" would dictate, Bommer/Greiger is not beaten by a signer. He's beaten by Crow. This is an extremely solid bit of writing that 100% supports the show's themes. (Arguably, this duel might have been even more solid if Crow hadn't actually turned into a signer, because him as a non-signer who stayed a non-signer would have been an even bigger "fuck you" to fate than him becoming the replacement fifth signer later.)

And, well, we know where Crow ends up after that. Seeing as he's been freed from fridge-prison and seeing as Aki doesn't have a runner yet, but the final boss duel is set up as a turbo duel, he joins the fray next to Yusei and Jack to fight Rex Goodwin. And the only thing this duel does for Crow character-wise is bring the whole Daedalus Bridge story full circle.

Which. Let me swing back to that for a second and put on my extra big nerd glasses because wouldn't you know it, I'm a greek mythology nerd and when I hear the name "Daedalus", I perk up like a dog that just spotted a piece of ham.

(Pictured: The least OSHA compliant bridge in the world, probably.)

So. As not to derail this with greek mythology, the short version of the Daedalus myth, as far as it's relevant here, for people who don't know it: Daedalus was a famed architect of Crete, who (among other things) built the labyrinth that kept the Minotaur imprisoned. What he also built was a pair of functional, sort-of mechanical wings held together by wax (because he needed to make a quick getaway at some point, but let's not go there). And he had a son: Icarus. Who famously donned the wings his father built and flew too close to the sun, which made the wax holding the wings together melt, causing him to fall into the sea and die, leaving his father to grieve.

I don't think it's hard to see how the Daedalus-Icarus story connects to the bridge. The Daedalus bridge is named after the genius inventor, reaches into the sky towards the sun, and our mechanical wings in this case are the wings attached first to Rex Goodwin's duel runner and then, you guessed it, the Blackbird. This would lead us to liken Rex Goodwin, of all people, to Icarus, then. And I'd argue the comparison works, too. See, the reason for which Goodwin actually built the bridge at first is left completely up in the air. We know that Crow believes a version wherein the "legendary duellist" wanted to build that bridge to reunite Satellite and the city—and the thing is, for all we know, that might be true. Goodwin never contradicts it, he only claims he was doing it to "oppose destiny" (read: follow Rudger/Roman's plan to take his brother's mark, assemble the signers and fight and win against the dark signers instead of having someone bear both a dark signer and a signer mark on themselves).

(Since when does becoming a dark signer make people swole, anyway? Where was that beef when Kiryu became a dark signer?)

Perhaps along the way, he thought he might as well reunite Satellite with the city, since things were already going to hell there. (Before he became director, which I find very interesting. Did the city decide immediately after the explosion that Satellite was contaminated and needed to be isolated or some such? Were efforts made to reunite city people with their relatives who might now have been stranded in Satellite? Did MIDS, hoping to cover up their mistake, lobby for cutting the Satellite off from the city? Was corruption involved? So many questions...) Or perhaps he simply built the bridge for himself, to get back to civilisation in order to follow his brother's plan and everyone else just interpreted it differently. It matters little—the only thing that matters is how Crow sees it. To him, building the bridge was obviously an attempt to reach the city, despite how hopeless things in Satellite seemed, and Goodwin's final ditch effort to jump off the bridge and "fly" on his duel runner was an act of defiance that turned him into a legend. Most importantly, both these things connect to freedom for Crow. Freedom from the misery in Satellite, freedom from sector security, and arguably, freedom from destiny. But then Goodwin tells him that all building the Daedalus Bridge and jumping off it did for him was teach him that destiny is inevitable. And Crow calls bullshit, because of course he does.

And I'd argue this is even more of a reason why Goodwin works as Icarus: He jumped off the bridge (flew too close to the sun), fell and lost his arm (the wax melted and he crashed into the sea), and ultimately, that fall completely changed his outlook on life and turned him from a (possible) hero into a villain (he "died", metaphorically speaking). This led to him now confronting every hopeful, younger person with the outlook that fate cannot be altered unless you're willing to sacrifice your very humanity itself. And there's Crow, a non-signer partaking in a "destined battle" only signers are supposed to be part of, calling bullshit on all of that merely by breathing.

(Bird boy is angry, watch out)

This moment could have been exemplary to emphasising the show's later themes (and I think to those who love Crow, it is), yet, at the same time, I understand why some people think the writers fumbled the ball with his introduction and role in the plot and cast of characters too much for it to hit as well as it could have. There is also the argument to be considered that the whole Daedalus Bridge-thing, though it might thematically fit Satellite, feels like it could have been written in solely to prop up Crow's character and give him something to clash with Goodwin about. Which, you know. I can't refute that, really. It might have been. And the timeline on Goodwin's shenanigans as the legendary duellist is a bit wonky, too, unfortunately—after all, we know only that the Zero Reverse happened 17 years before the show's start, when Yusei is only a year old. Crow's story would then lead us to believe that Goodwin, after somehow surviving that explosion, stayed in Satellite long enough to see it start turning into a floating heap of junk. (Which means this either happened very quickly or it took him a good few years to start building the bridge; both options have some logisitical issues.) Then he builds the bridge, gets cornered by security, jumps off, and... Then what? He looses his arm (but somehow manages to hold onto his brother's??), somehow makes it over to the city anyway (wow, he must be a great swimmer), then... manages to get hired by the public maintenance bureau somehow, only to climb the ranks at record speed and become director within only a few years? (Or did he meet Iliaster first and they somehow helped him climb to the city's political top?) It's all rather nebulous, and does suggest that Goodwin was not originally written with this bit as part of his backstory in mind. But can I prove that? Nope. Might also just be another instance of the writers fumbling the ball, despite having a solid story outline.

At the end of the day, Crow closes out the dark signers arc by establishing himself as a part of our team of heroes—which is, of course, strongly emphasised by him receiving the dragon's tail mark, while the dragon's head switches over to Yusei.

(The Crimson Dragon, probably: Oh, sod it. Fine, the other guy went batshit and you actually helped. Here's your mark. I'll get you a dragon later or whatever.)

Now, I know this in and of itself was already a polarising moment for people—and the funny thing is, I know that even some people who like Crow hated this moment. And I can see why. Crow's whole thing during the latter half of the DS arc up until here was that he was the only one taking part in the destined battle who was decidedly not destined to be a part of it. He was repeatedly spitting in fate's face, and as I mentioned, this could have been brilliant to throw some weight behind themes the show later brings up again. So in terms of character writing, this moment might have undermined Crow's character, rather than supported it, because it feels like less of a reward and more of a "gotcha": If you're extra uncharitable, Crow suddenly isn't the guy who defied fate and fought for the future (does that ring a bell?) anyway, he's the guy who was supposed to become a chosen one anyway and, like Yusei during the start of the Fortune Cup, simply didn't have a visible mark yet. However. There is also the bigger picture to consider. Character writing aside, Rudger/Roman Goodwin dying would have had a rather sizeable impact on the story, had nobody else become a signer in his stead—because there are supposed to be five signers and Rudger/Roman dying would have seen the group short one chosen one (and short one dragon, but we'll get to THAT can of worms in part two). So, to add my two cents for a minute, I don't think adding a new signer was a bad idea, per se. The execution of this move, however...

And I can hear you yelling. "Rua/Leo should have become a signer instead". And yes. I get that, too. And yes, I know Life Stream Dragon was teased before Black-Winged Dragon was ever conceived of, probably. So yes, Rua/Leo should have become a signer earlier. The question is just where. Because the way this final boss duel is set up, nobody could become an additional signer before this point, it would have turned Rex Goodwin's whole shindig on its head. (Even though the duel against Dimak/Devack could have been a good opportunity to reward Rua with a signer mark early.) Arguably, making Rua a signer instead but letting Crow join the main cast anyway could have made for a stronger showing overall. It would have made the twins harder to sideline the way they were later. And it would have kept Crow's "piss on fate"-theme.

But. This is what we got. Crow got a fast-paced introduction, was quickly made as likeable as possible, had an unfortunate stretch of episodes where he vanished very suspiciously (what I wouldn't give to know what decisions were made among the writers in that period), came back to make a very strong showing against Bommer/Greiger and then participate in the final boss duel against Rex Goodwin, where he got to shove his fate-nonsense back in his face, too. A smooth character arc? Hardly. And with everything laid out like this, I get why he rubbed some people the wrong way. Similarly, I get why he's some people's absolute favourite, though. Both sides have a basis in canon. (But please, let's not justify either with decade-old production conspiracy theories, okay?)

To close this out, allow me to do my thing for a moment and imagine a 5Ds canon where Crow was handled in a way that allowed his character to shine more, and maybe not piss as many people off.

Imagine a Crow who was there with Yusei from the start, alongside Nerve, Blitz, Taka, and Rally. A Crow who was, maybe, angrier at Jack for leaving and stealing Stardust than Yusei was, and who was determined to help his friend get his dragon back. A Crow who still had his kids to look after, and who introduced us to the Daedalus Bridge legend way earlier, to establish it as an organic part of Satellite culture, and who maybe drops hints about the Enforcers earlier, too. And we switch back to him every once in a while as the Fortune Cup is going on. Maybe he's the only one who's slippery enough to outrun Yaeger/Lazar's people when they come to capture Yusei's friends in order to use them as blackmail against him. And he starts looking for them, and runs into Saiga/Blister, and learns what's going on over in the city. Maybe he tries to follow Yusei because all of it rings alarm bells for him, maybe he doesn't because he figures security will be too tight now that Yusei has escaped. Instead of them stumbling out of a container to find TV conveniently playing the Fortune Cup Finale, Yusei's friends are found by Crow, who gets them back to the hideout, where they all catch the finale with Saiga/Blister. (Optional: If we want him to stay a signer, maybe he gets a weird feeling while watching the finale.) Then Yusei's suddenly back and Kiryu/Kalin's introduction proceeds as we know it. Yusei's injured, but Crow sticks around for a little longer, leaving only once he knows Yusei's gonna be fine. Then he decides that he needs to take up arms against the dark signers, too, because like hell is he gonna let anyone destroy Satellite and sacrifice his kids. He can still duel Yeager/Lazar while Aki and Yusei are duking it out in the hospital and the signers learn what the hell being a signer means, it matters little. Maybe this time, he outruns the black fog—barely—and there's no fridge. And he realises that stuff makes people vanish. While the signers start their big battle, he races back to check on the kids and finds the same disaster we already know, and everything else from there on out proceeds as previously. (Except that maybe, the first time Crow sees Jack again, he has some choice words for him for legging it to the city and stealing from Yusei.) Whether he turns into a signer at the end or not is up to preference, I think.

Nobody has to be on board with this version, but this is probably how I would have adjusted it to make things less jarring.

For now, see you in part two.

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 12 – OTHER MARVEL SHIPS

CLINT/BUCKY

I Hate Running by copperbadge

Pairing: Bucky/Clint Rating: T Words: 916 Tags: Running, Flirting, Murder Strut

Summary: Clint and Bucky go running. This was a potential mistake.

Reasons why I love it: This fic is so goddamn funny, it cracks me up every single time. Poor Bucky and his moonshine crackpot serum, he never stood a chance. There are so many fantastic lines in this that I can't possibly quote them all, so I hope you go and check this one out, because it's amazing!

Trainwreck Through A Rear Window by flawedamythyst

Pairing: Bucky/Clint Rating: T Words: 9,840 Tags: No Powers, PTSD, Deaf Clint

Summary: Through Clint's big main window, you could see straight across the street and into the apartment opposite, where a man was standing, staring at Clint as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. When he caught Clint's eye, he just shook his head slowly. -- The guy in the apartment opposite spends way too much time watching Clint make a fool of himself, which wouldn't matter as much if he weren't also smoking hot.

Reasons why I love it: They're so fucking cute, ugh, I can't. Clint The Trainwreck Barton is just the best, I laughed my ass off multiple times. And everyone rooting for him and Bucky from the sidelines is just adorable. The way they finally meet is perfect too. This fic is amazing, and I hope you give it a shot, if you haven't already!

crack the whip, shape-shift and trick by shatteredhourglass

Pairing: Bucky/Clint Rating: T Words: 2,347 Tags: Trans Clint, Protective Bucky, Chest Binding

Summary: “Remember when Tony sat you and Steve and Thor down and started that god-awful PowerPoint Presentation about queer people?” Bucky snorts. “Did he think that they just fuckin’ appeared out of nowhere after the war? Honestly. I nearly shot his computer. Steve liked it.” -- A request from Tumblr for some trans Clint

Reasons why I love it: I would pay good money to see that presentation Tony whipped up. I love Bucky's reaction to Clint's gender identity, and the fluff that follows is pure gold. This fic is lovely, and I hope you give it a shot for yourself!

Maybe If You're Good by circ_bamboo

Pairing: Bucky/Clint Rating: E Words: 3,984 Tags: PWP, Wall Sex, Banter

Summary: "So, we share an ex." Bucky seriously thought about grabbing one of the knives on the counter and stabbing Clint for trying to talk to him before coffee, but he'd promised Steve he wouldn't do that and promised Tony that he wouldn't get any more blood on surfaces that didn't clean easily. (And then there is snark and wallsex.)

Reasons why I love it: Honestly, when Clint flexes, I dare anyone to keep their concentration. This fic is so much fun – Clint and Bucky sassing each other and Bucky teasing the fuck out of Clint is great. And on top of that, the smut is hot as hell. I love this fic to bits, and I bet you will too!

Got Me Lyin' (for your love) by Kangofu_CB

Pairing: Bucky/Clint Rating: T Words: 4,266 Tags: Meet-Cute, Veteran Bucky, Deaf Clint

Summary: Clint advertises himself as a ‘semi-acceptable to totally inappropriate boyfriend for all your family holiday, family dinner, corporate Christmas party, and other fake-dating needs’. It's surprisingly lucrative, especially around Thanksgiving and Christmas, and he is always very clear with his ‘dates’ exactly what he is and isn't willing to do, and anything physical beyond some hand-holding or maybe a light peck on the mouth is completely off the table. So when Natasha asks him for a favor - to help out one of her friends with his own special brand of help, Clint readily agrees. But James 'Bucky' Barnes is nothing like Clint's other clients.

Reasons why I love it: Clint falling head over heels for Bucky's murder strut, we love to see it. I can totally see Clint offering services like this, and I love that bit with Todd in the beginning there. This fic is super funny and sweet, so I hope you check it out for yourself!

Synchronicity by AvaKelly

Pairing: Bucky/Clint Rating: M Words: 7,346 Tags: Avengers Tower, Bed Sharing, Clint Needs a Hug

Summary: James ends up berating himself internally while the meals get ready. He can't stomach any food right now, so he leans onto the counter with his coffee while everyone else eats. That's when Clint stumbles in, eyes half closed and hair in disarray. He's wearing one of James' hoodies, the one Tony's given him as a joke, that says Cyborg on the front and Murderous Kitten on the back, but is surprisingly soft. OR: the one where Clint falls asleep everywhere and James takes it upon himself to carry him to bed.

Reasons why I love it: This one is just beautiful. Bucky slipping so effortlessly into his role as the one who takes care of Clint, giving him everything he needs – I could read that all day. The story beats that touch on their trauma are heart-breaking, but it just makes the fluff that follows all the sweeter. I love this fic, and I highly recommend that you check it out for yourself!

[welcometogrouchland]

not only is darimila HYSTERICALLY funny as a crackship i think camila deserves a nice peacock of a boyfriend. i want her to show a photo of him at work and his coworkers are too busy wondering if this guy is an actor or a model or what to wonder about the ears or the goo hair. can you imagine darius helping the nocedas with groceries high heels and green eyeliner and god knows what else. MAN.

Firstly I love that this ask implies that Darius puts 0 effort into concealing his identity as a witch when he's in the human realm. This man is fully willing to expose magic and the demon realm in the town famous for producing a crackpot genocidal witch hunter everyone hates IF. and only if he can look fabulous doing it

I'm also on team Camila Deserves Nice Things anon, though I do differ on the details slightly, mainly because I'm sooooo enchanted by the Darius and Camila fake dating scenario I've cooked up in my brain. It both appeases the part of me that adheres to canon characterization of Camila as a woman who still, years later, has boxes of Manny's stuff lying around the house, yet to be put away, bc realistically she did not get proper space to mourn him when he died and she is not ready to move on...AND the part of me that, like you, wants Camilla's coworkers to see a picture of Darius and LOSE THEIR MINDS. HELLO??? THIS IS THE BAD BITCH SHE PULLED BY BEING AUTISTIC??? FR???????

And then I'm unsure whether or not I prefer Darius with romantic feelings for Camila? On the one hand I think, in the beautiful timeline where I actually wrote this, I'd prefer to have it come down on the side of "Darius and Camila are Good Friends who bond over how terrifying being a new(ly), single parent is"

and Hunter has to grapple with the fact that no, his family is not and never will be "normal" according to societies standards, and he cannot parent trap his parents into loving each other, but that doesn't make his family structure any worse off than something closer to a nuclear family.

Also I'd squeeze some juicy character exploration out of Luz bc she is SO not over her dad's death. She tries to downplay it and act like she is but she is not and it's very very clear in TTT. But she also wants her mom to be happy more than anything. And she loves love! And it'd make hunter happy! So she's just. Sitting there with gritted teeth trying not to get upset at the idea of Darius and her mom actually getting together and being happy.

But, tragically, I can't guarantee I'll ever fully write this out (though I fully encourage ppl to run with the idea if they like it. Please run with it I can't be the only one who's thought of this before) so I give myself a little more room to be silly and I say that. Darius is a person with a lot of walls up who likes pretending to be cool as a method of distancing himself from ppl, and I'd love to watch those walls get eroded by the overly sincere and silly sci-fi nerds that are his son-figure and his crush, who are also mother and son. Also I love the idea of Darius being a man in his forties with a crush. Yes!! Get more pathetic!!! Raeda is cowering rn!!!!!

IN CONCLUSION: I love you anon, I should really make SOMETHING based on the Darius Camila fake dating scenario, but if I don't, let this rambling serve as a testament to the GRIP it has on my brain

[greenchrysanthemum20]

Permanent Changes to Brain Chemistry (Or, This isn't the Genre you Think it is)

Hmmm, been thinking about Coffee Theory lately, and also the new wave of Aziraphale had a plan and was trying to communicate in Secret Code to Crowley but Crowley didn't get the part where it was in fact a code..... I have to wonder as someone who has been around the fandom block once or twice, I think both of these theories come from the same place: The Sherlock Hiatus. Yes, folks, we are in the new rendition of The Hiatus™. It feels weird to call it that, as Good Omens is not a show that regularly airs but that fact that we will be in a drought of Canon from August 2023 to 2026 at probably the soonest means that we are in fact in A Hiatus Season. Well, what the fuck does Sherlock have to do with Good Omens ??

I'm glad you asked! My New Thought of the week is that the Sherlock Hiatus permanently changed the brain chemistry on this website, or at least of fans of a certain stripe. Sherlock was a show that I obsessed over (rather late to the game, in 2017), and so did many others. With the cliffhanger of Sherlock's jump at the end of season 2, there was nothing for fans to do but theorize and theorize and theorize.

Sherlock was also a show that actively hated its queer legacy, and by extension, its fandom (looking at you, Steven Moffat). This is getting long so my point is, I think the off-beat super complex theories about GO and the final fifteen come from a place of being actively cat-fished by Sherlock, years ago. I mean, Sherlock S3E1 basically took all of fans' theories, tore them to shreds, spit on them, lit them on fire, and then presented it's own, Even More Crackpot theory as to how Sherlock survived??? The whiplash, maaaan.

So fans, having gone through All Of That, with Sherlock, have now come to almost expect mysteries in fannish shows to be overly complicated. And just, that isn't how Good Omens works?? Like, Neil and the rest of the cast and crew Do Love the fandom, and want to tell a story that is Doing Right by the fans. (Dottie and Sadie in Neil's asks are hard not to swing as the products of a good natured uncle winking and thumbing his nose at you). And second, I think these elaborate theories mistake the final fifteen as being part of a mystery show when in reality the final fifteen are part of a tragedy. Aziraphale is Hamlet. He is a tragic hero. We are to root for him, despite his flaws, or even because of them. It is because of Aziraphale's altruism that he makes the choices that he does. Altruism is Aziraphale's Hamartia, his tragic flaw.

He may be being played by Metatron, but because of who he is as a character, as a guardian and protector, Aziraphale cannot walk away from the chance to protect the earth and make things better in heaven without sacrificing a large part of his values and Who He Is. Metatron knows that Aziraphale is altruistic, as a constant, but that that altruism can be twisted and led astray.

In a tragedy, there is a point called Peripeteia, which means the point in which the tragic hero's flaw condemns them to a certain course of action. This is what we see Aziraphale go through in the final fifteen.

He is offered a choice, and he makes a choice, and in the end, it isn't a choice. Looking at GO through the lens of a tragedy, all of those statement can coexist, and they each have equal weight.

Crowley, on the other hand, is Orpheus. Don't look back. You are leaving, you are on your way out the door, you can sense her presence behind you. Don't look back. The cavern grows darker, the threat looms larger, you talk into the echoes, and every time you hear her reply, you cannot tell how far away she is from you. Don't look back.

You look back. You kiss him, furiously, in a bookshop. You have looked. She is taken from you. Crowley knew that that kiss was never going to have worked. But he needed to kiss Aziraphale anyway. He never could have told Aziraphale before the Metatron showed up that he loved him. (Can one blame Orpheus, for being a plaything to the muses?) (Can one escape a Hell that doesn't send Strongly Worded letters?)

You have to look. You have to love her. You have to let her know you love her, even as you cannot have her.

Obviously, Good Omens as a whole isn't a tragedy, but the final fifteen of Season 2 are one, and I think we have a lot to learn from treating them as such.

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

Awake O Sleeper (A Jesus x Mary Magdalene Romance)

The Asherah grove at the heart of the temple of Our Lady is full of olives and grape vines, in the sacred heart of our worship. Men come to do penance to the Goddess, worshiping us as the qadesh leads them into the bosom of the Mother. I often go to the well at the temple’s courtyard and wish upon the moon reflected in the still waters. She is beauty in the grips of Yahweh, bosom companion of our Heavenly Father.

Jerusalem is a bustling city, full of Canaanites and Samaritans and Jews and Philistines. This Bethany township is but an extension of the metropolis. Herod rules from his abode and the Temple is corrupted, and people are forgetting the old ways, cutting down Asherah groves at the root and pissing on her fig and olive trees. Where stands a temple to El, there rests an Asherah grove. From the Mount of Olives to our own temple in Bethany, where I left Martha and Lazarus behind to become a priestess, I have been trained in anointment and service to the Goddess.

Sometimes starlings roost in the roof and we clip their wings to keep as pets, and I am reminded, I do not live for myself, but for Her, and my body is but a vehicle of prayers. The grove has stood for mayhaps thousands of years, as the olive tree does, cut down then to spring forth from the stump. We prune, we worship, we sing hosannas and we do not weep.

There is nothing to weep over in the temple of the Goddess. Sacred whore, they say, woman of seven devils. It is true, there are demons in my mind, and I am wont to make love to the Damned as well as the angels, as all my fellow anointed qodeshah are, but that can break the body, disassemble the mind, leak out your wineskin until you take the shape of the emptiness of stars, and then, mayhaps, you die. But I survived the temptations of Samael, I have roosted in Lilith’s Huluppu tree, I have eaten flies with Beelzebub and tasted fish to fight back Asmodeus. I have consecrated my virginity to El and Asherah, and Asherah, dear Asherah, has staked her claim on my destiny.

There are rumors from Nazareth. From Egypt. From Galilee. From sea to desert to mountain strand. God walks in human form. Merely twenty, and I am eighteen. He goes by Yeshua, like Joshua of old, and I am Miriam Magdalene in this temple, a watchtower of the lord, Migdal Eder. Mary Magdalene as the Greeks who worship through me say. They say this young man preaches sermons on mountaintops and topples false idols and cuts down Asherah groves. Cuts the Goddess down by the root. Says he is El, says he is the Father.

I have no time for fools. I have no time for false messiahs. I know Asherah, I know El, and though the Messiah is promised, he does not live on manna alone. This Yeshua shits and bleeds, I am sure he fucks, and were he to come to my temple, I would take my teraphim and drive it through his heart.

God bleeds, after all, and Simon Magus is just as much a fool, levitation or not. So is that John the Baptist, beheaded someday soon, an Essene surviving on stale locusts and rotting honey and dumping bodies in the River Jordan.

I survive on the wilderness alone, the barrenness of my heart, for it is only by being empty that one can let the Goddess in. I am a vessel of dripping myrrh and a garden of lilies, oh Asherah. These cults come with passing moons and cycles of suns, and they wax and wane, Mithras and Cybele and Anath and Baal (there are many Baals, after all) and the strange peculiarities of the Romans. I say, stick with what is tried and true. Lady Asherah is Queen.

My brother Lazarus has taken up with this Yeshua, and I hate this false prophet for it. For stealing my impressionable, starry-eyed brother as some false disciple. They say Yeshua loves Lazarus so much he would raise him from the dead. Crackpot talk. Martha, my sweet older sister, has entertained this Yeshua at our rich home across the field. I refused to go. Why, perhaps because Martha wants to know the heart of God, and this Messiah, this Yeshua, has a strange draw on the practical types like Martha and dreamers like Lazarus alike.

They say he believes women equal to men. That his mother Mary and aunt Salome and friend Joanna and now my sister Martha are equal in his eyes, his radical ministry in the desert. They sew and preach and anoint. In his name, they cast out demons. This strange man that claims to be God may well be speaking parables of smoke and mirrors. Here at my temple, we give our bodies over to the Goddess. When has this Yeshua given his body, his blood, his Sacrament, over to God? If that happens, I shall fall to my feet and worship. But he goes around in tattered clothes, a wanderer, and has the woman radically engaged in his ministry. How strange.

Lazarus writes that Yeshua will not touch women. Resists worshiping the Mother. Does not know the way of the flesh, is a Rabbi yet will not take a wife. Will not even contemplate a woman to share in his ministry at its highest point. I think of the rumors flying around Jerusalem and the provinces often as I tend to the duties of the temple, sewing and cleaning and singing and worshiping in body, wine, and moon’s blood.

How can this Yeshua have sway over Martha and Lazarus, when but Asherah is the way and Yahweh, squeezed into a man’s body, would have but the world as his Logos? Were he to meet me, would he give in to the Goddess? Has this strange madman forgotten the way of our ancestors? For every Yahweh, his Asherah. Thus this Yeshua needs a bride. To neglect the Goddess, why, that usurps the whole sun and moon. That is light without the darkness of the womb.

A starling comes with a note summoning me from the High Priestess. There is a visitor. I must go attend to my temple duties. He has requested me to anoint him and be his vessel of worship. The High Priestess say he has paid handsomely for my Sacrament. Far more coins than ever spent on one of the temple priestesses. I wonder if it is mad Herod himself. That would amuse me more than anything.

I dress myself in scarlet, anoint my cheeks with rouge and lips with berries, line my eyes with kohl, and make a messy knot of my curls. My hair never behaves, auburn in that strange way of women burned in Egypt as witches and my eyes the light speckled brown of a sparrow. Once I am done preparing, bedecked in jewels as befit Asherah, I go to the qodeshah room.

There he awaits. Smiling like a lamb yet with the grace of a lion, dressed simply in dusty white, all lithe muscle and smiling dark green eyes that the fire dances in. Smoke clouds the room. I have the sudden urge to run my hands through his dark locks and kiss him senseless. Gravity overtakes me, that calling that drives me into ululations of ecstasy, only it is not one of the seraphim or cherubim that courts me, but divinity himself. Who is this stranger, eating grapes and draped like a Roman over dinner?

“Miriam, a glass of wine?” he asks with a voice like olive oil. He takes the carafe from the table and smiles bemusedly. The red sloshes into a bejeweled cup. His hands are like the milk from the cows of spring. Not the color, mind you, or the softness – they are tan and calloused, fingernails short like the poor. I would think him a carpenter or stonemason, someone who carves idols or builds temples.

I take the glass of wine and scrutinize him. “I am the one who offers wine and anoints you, oh mysterious stranger. Don’t you know the ways of Asherah?”

He laughs like an ewe. “Oh sweet Miriam, but that is not my purpose. My purpose is to do penance and devotions unto you. Come, sip the wine of my blood. It is to you I offer the first Sacrament. They will forget it was you who I offered the Last Supper to first, thirteen years before my death. Eat this bread, this loaf of my flesh.” He takes from his pocket a rich loaf wrapped in linen. I take it hesitatingly, dip it in the wine, nibble a bit, and it is somehow the best meal I have ever had as I chase it down with the goblet. Strange, this man, a mystic perhaps.

Suddenly, I smell blood. “What?” I ask, incredulous. I look down at the bejeweled cup and am horrified to find ruby blood. The bread I hold is a heart that is bleeding. I drop both and scream. This man laughs, laughs at my terror, laughs at his miracle, as if it is the most mundane thing a woman could ask for.

“Yeshua?” I breathe.

He beckons me to him. It is the most natural thing to curl up beside him. I am under a moonspell of Michael, and rushing water fills my veins, icy yet warm, like the River Jordan meets a desert night. We lay together chaste yet starstruck and I stare aghast at him, unable to resist his gravity.

“That is my name, yes, sweet Magdalane, my comely Bride. They will call you a Whore. But you are my Truth, the Gnostics will adore you, and the Cathars, troubadours, and Knights Templar will worship at your hips. You are Asherah. There is no need for this temple, not anymore, as I hold you here manifest in my hands!”

He runs a hand through my curls and unbinds them. “So it’s all true. You are the Lord made flesh…” I trail off, my tongue still bloody and warm with skin and meat and muscle and gore. The bread I dropped and my goblet of wine have disappeared. I am hyperventilating, barely cognizant in the overwhelming grace and fire of this stranger, yet I know him better in my heart than Yahweh, for he is the Father El, made Son.

Lazarus and Martha were right. Damn me a nonbeliever.

“I am but a man, at most, with a few tricks up my sleeve. You will be my comfort, dear woman. My apostle of apostles. My witness. Follow me out of this cursed ground and leave your seven devils behind. The ways of Asherah are over. For you are Asherah, not these statues, never these trees. To be material is a terrible thing! The ways of whoring out your body are done. It is the dawn of a new age, of my sweet Shekinah, my Wisdom, Sophia made New Eve. Cannot you see how red thread bears my loins and your womb together? They will whisper about us in hushed circles millenia down the line, write us poems and canticles and heresies and all agree that to me, you were above all the reason, my anointer, my best disciple, my most beloved. I will raise the dead for you. I will die for you. And you will grow old without me, and you will be my testament, oh Migdal Eder.”

His words are rapturous. His words are true. I cannot divine the future, but I feel the shape of it.

We burn the Asherah grove down with my oil lamp.

I leave behind any vestige of myself.

I follow him out of the temple, across the field, on a donkey out of Bethany, into the winepress night.

And never, ever, do I look back.

Thirteen years pass, and the Last Supper draws close. I am a mystic following in Christ’s footsteps, ever-weeping, washing the dust from his feet. Peter damns me for my passions, but Levi praises me, and Mother Mary holds me closest of all.

Rain outside the window of our kitchen, and Lazarus’ body is held up in the tomb for four days. My sweet older brother, a starstruck wanderer at Christ’s side, just as I cast my lots in with this mad messiah whose gristle and blood I drank down thirteen years ago at the tender age of 18. All to know redemption, as my Temple of Asherah burned and I left my wanton ways behind for higher ground, better things, blessed by doves. To become Asherah in my own might and right! The plague took Lazarus, a wasting away with pustules and jaundice and fragile limbs.

I thought with the Lord, all things were possible, but in his domain is death, and so in my quiet ways, I rage.

Martha and I have washed and dressed and anointed our brother in myrrh and linen – our wealthy parents died when we were but children, leaving us treasures beyond measure as merchants are wont to do and Martha and Lazarus to raise me. The whole town is in mourning over Lazarus, and our expansive household has been filled with mourners.

Yeshua has been at Jerusalem preaching to the masses, but I sent a pigeon from our dovecote with a letter to my Lord of his beloved’s death, our family whom he cherishes above all, and Christ wrote back in eager, wrathful script that even death has no hold on his disciples.

So we have prepared a feast for the other wanderers: dates, lamb, greens, bread, wine. Martha and I have been hard at work in the kitchen baking and cooking and mixing herbs and fruits and vegetables. I purchased vintage straight from Italy a local trader had traveled far to obtain, enough casks to hold a wedding feast like blessed Cana, only this is a funeral.

I can hear him rumble with wrath in the distance. My sweet Rabboni feels like an oncoming storm. Sometimes when I am debating and sparring wits with him over philosophy and pedagogy and theology, the sky suddenly darkens and thunder rumbles as Christ opens his lips, and out comes rains and retorts as lightning strikes. Once we were debating the virtues and vices of angels – how do they serve God, do they have free will, yetzer ha ra versus yetzer ha tov: is a teraphim able to care for its family or is it more golem?

I said I did not believe in free will, and Yeshua said: “Then what shall I die for but humanity’s freedom, my Migdal Eder?” and he laughed like a wine press and it began to gale and storm.

He took me into his arms and we danced by palms at the oasis in the radiance of the tempest, singing hosannas, and I was soaked to my underclothes and my red dress clung to my breasts and hips. Peter would call me an adulteress just for that. Christ’s dusty white robes were glued to his skin like a snake, Nachash be damned. Lazarus found us both dancing like plagues and begged us come inside and break bread with the other disciples, but we were lost inside each other, starved of the wrath of God.

Mother Mary brought us blankets afterward as we both rid ourselves of chills by the fire, Joseph laughed, and Salome made it a running joke: Mary and Yeshua have the tempers of storms, beware if they curse your fig trees or drive your demons into squealing pigs in the ocean’s squall. Salome and her dagger tongue! Judas remarked we could have been struck by the firmament, but Yeshua said: brother, I am God, can’t you see how the storm is my heart of darkness? Peter and Thomas and Luke and John and James paid reverence to Christ, but I was too busy staring into the fire we grilled fish on, eating my loaf, haunted by what would come when the sky darkened for Yeshua’s death.

My eyes tear up at that memory as I am tending Christ’s bread, which is his body, a small taste of what is to come. It is leavened and ready to be devoured. I set the table, the long wooden beauty my father picked up from some far northern country, was it Ing’s land? Who knows, but the Celts have such intricate eyes for knotwork. Living beasts in the legs. I would like to go to their province someday. To see where these curiosities come from. What strange gods and demons they worship.

There is a knock at the door. Salome is there with Zebedee, John, and James in tow. She looks like a gazelle, all proud and lithe lines, not a bit of wasted space about her. “Mary, Martha, we came as soon as we heard!” Salome explains, impassioned. There are tears in her, Zebedee’s, John’s and James’ eyes. She wipes at it with a cloth. “Lazarus was the best of us. How you two must mourn. Here, John, James, take the horses to the stable, Zebedee, why don’t you unpack and set up camp? Lord knows Miriam’s house is big, but not enough for all the disciples. Elohim took Lazarus under fair weather, so we will have no problem in the courtyard.”

I hug Salome close to me, this mentor of mine who was Christ’s midwife and the first besides Elizabeth to declare him the Son of God. In some ways she was first, first to catch the placenta and afterbirth and caul of Christ the King. Finger withered at his might.

No wonder he was a calamity come into this world that has been relentless ever since. He is my storm dancer. My soul. I can only imagine 33 years ago, Salome at 12, in a manger with blessed, tough-as-nails Mother Mary and nervous Father Joseph. Mary is never nervous. Never doubts. Always asserts. She is our strength, like Gav’riel, who favored her. Sometimes Gav’riel still visits her when he thinks no one is looking and they have long talks in the reeds – angels sound like panpipes and bells and regrets. I have caught her in quiet corners talking with that messenger of the archangels about Yeshua’ road to Calvary and ending in Golgotha. Gav’riel has prophesied as much, told us his days are numbered. Christ accepts it, with the bullheadedness of his mother.

That I will grow old without Yeshua.

It is something I do not like to contemplate much.

“Mary, my sweet daughter, in all my 45 years, I have never seen anyone with as much devotion to Yeshua as you, besides his own mother. He said he would raise the dead for you.” She hugs me hard with her whipcord muscles, then accompanies me to the kitchen and greets Martha.

“Martha, my other blessed daughter, do you not know what service you do to our Lord? Us ladies are the backbone of the ministry, after all. From our own funds we support these rambunctious men. I have tried holding James and John in check, but yet they go casting out demons and fishing for souls and preaching. Zebedee is easier to tame. That is why I married him, hah!”

Martha laughs and embraces us both. “Oh Salome, our family reunited, yet for such sad occasion. Having Lazarus gone, why, a missing limb. Wine without a glass, spilling constantly. Here, eat!” She takes a date and presses it to Salome’s mouth. Salome smiles and bites it mischievously.

“Let us go to the wishing well, girls. The women rode ahead. Yeshua held a lengthy sermon with the men, giving us time to charge ahead and prepare the banquet and speak to the angels. Joanna and Mary and Susanna await.”

“Oh!” I say, wiping away hot tears as I dwell on Lazarus. They say my tears could fill an ocean.

The peach pit in my throat lightens a bit at the thought of my spiritual sisters here to visit my Bethany township. We make our way to the well outside and see Mother Mary and the others divining in the well. They are staring coolly into its depths. Martha, Salome, and I join them in silence. The six of us peering into the silver depths and we summon an image: Lazarus alive, at the cost of Yeshua.

They are inextricably linked.

“A life for a life, my dears,” Mother Mary says, dabbing at her strong brow with her sleeve. “My son will give his life for Lazarus, for that is the only way to cheat the grave. But Lazarus is well worth the sacrifice. We all know what awaits at Golgotha. Perhaps the men doubt, but my son granted us all the sight. Women’s magic: prophesy. In dying for Lazarus, he gives life to us all, a way to Heaven. It is not what I would have chosen for my only child, but he is the Lord, and I will be living testament to his short life.”

We gather round Mother Mary, hugging one another in sisterly love. Salome grips her fiercely and I fall to her feet and kiss them. We then retire to the dining room until the men arrive.

“There was no choice in this, was there, Mother?” I ask Mary.

Joanna and Susanna share a look of wistfulness. Salome bites like a lion with fury into a bit of crusty bread ends dipped in olive oil. The two phases, or likewise feelings, surrounding what awaits Yeshua ahead: fury at Christ’s death or sadness. Or an interim like me, awe and resignation.

Mother Mary sighs. “No, Gav’riel told me as much, sweet Magdalene. My son’s life was never his own, but then again, neither are ours. We will be near deified, us outcast desert ramblers. I just hope I have prepared my loving son for the hatred and ultimate cost of his sacrifice. Joseph will take it the hardest. Joseph always does. Martha will take it the second hardest. Salome, you shall curse the ground the Devil walked upon. Susanna and Joanna, you two will be wed in memories and become some of the most eloquent in voicing his ministry, but they will forget you, just as they will hold small memories of Salome.”

Mother Mary takes a sip of wine, then looks to me with lambent eyes under her shawl. “Girl of Migdal Eder, yours is the most cursed fate. For asking Lazarus back, to you goes the blame. For your passion and devotion, they will mark you a whore. I can see how this all ends, centuries, nay, millenia down the line. Our ministry divided into a thousand fractured shards. Our legacy used for villainy and anything but radical love. They will snuff our teachings out at the bud and mark them heresies. Us women used as props and all but forgotten. They will say my son stood for hatred and oppression, yet while he walked this earth, he was hated and oppressed. And you, my Miriam. You will suffer the most out of love. Love is all our cross to bear. But I say, drink now, live well, and so be it!”

We all echo her and raise our glasses in toast, then chase down the wine. Martha’s eyes are fire. “I know what price I ask of Yeshua. I ask it anyway, so damn me to Gehenna. Lazarus needs to live, just as Yeshua must die for our sins. That was shown to us all in the well, my sisters sweet.”

There are muffled voices outside and the whuff of horses and call of hounds. The men have arrived. With a steel face done with crying, Martha goes outside to meet our maker.

I sit with the women who are closer to me than my own mother. “What Martha asks, what I ask of Yeshua, his will be done, a life for a life, flesh for flesh, blood for blood, a grave for a grave, perhaps they will look back on us and think us selfish. Perhaps they will believe us mighty. But asking never hurt anyone, I say.”

“The sun gives life but cares not who he burns,” Joanna and Susanna say in unison. They are always together, commiserating, sharing ecclesiastic knowledge, singing the Song of Solomon, speaking in rhyme and time. They are full of the Holy Ghost, moreso than any f us.

We all smile. “Makes the mustard seed grow, does the Son,” Salome says in but a whisper, and we all laugh.

There is weeping at the door. Levi clings to hunched over Martha, who looks like she has gone into labor of the soul. He practically carries her inside. Tears flow like gold from her blue eyes. “Mary, the Master is come, and calls you out.”

My heart stirs like a falcon. I walk out to the well. Yeshua stands alone, drinking water from a canteen. The other disciples are heard with Zebedee and James and John setting up camp in the courtyard. My Rabboni’s eyes have flames like Uriel’s sword in them. Some kind of samiel wind from Arabia. Without a word, he embraces me, then kisses me on the lips as he does his disciples when we need the Logos most. I cling to him. I will get in trouble for clinging to him someday, somewhere in a garden, with a stone rolled away, beyond the grips of death.

He laughs and strokes my hair. “Do not cling to me, woman,” he teases. I laugh through my tears and kiss him back. “What did you think, that I would let Lazarus lay dead? Oh my Magdalene, damn your doubts. For you I would raise the dead. It is for you I will die. It is for me you will live and be my witness. Can’t you see how our love will be consummated on the Cross? Me bleeding blood and water into your mouth. Pick up that sword that will stab me, sweet Mary, and become an angel of the Lord, with flaming blade and your red hair of fury. I want you to wreak vengeance with your words and wit when I am gone, my girl.”

I wipe my tears. “Yes, Rabboni.”

“I am not Rabboni now, not ever, Mary Miriam. Call me servant. Call me your lover. Call me your witness.”

“Witness, servant, lover, it doesn’t matter. You are my heart.”

“You are a stubborn girl, aren’t you? Remember when we met those thirteen years ago, I twenty and ever the fool, you 18 and priestess to a dead goddess? No, Miriam, the Shekinah is stubborn, Wisdom never gives up, Sophia is relentless. She comes with the greatest pearl of great price. Challenge me in your storm. Ask, and ye shall receive.”

“Give your death for my sweet brother, Yeshua. Raise him from the dead.”

Yeshua smiles and contemplates the lines on my palms clutched to his hands. “Thy will be done, my Migdal Eder. Where have you laid him?”

“In a cave outside town. The mourners are still there.”

We make our way to the stony entrance. People are red eyed and watery mouthed, wailing, commiserating, remembering, drunk off and stinking of wine. Lazarus was always the most loved, bookish neighbor of Bethany. He was the only one that died of the sickness, as if he was marked by the Lord to suffer. A bleeding wound of God’s tear.

Yeshua falls down weeping, wracked with sobs, and from his tears grow ivy. From his tears grow roses. From his tears grows vines ripe with red grapes. The sky darkens, and the familiar storm of our hearts engulfs from Galilee to Nazareth, with its dancing eye in Bethany. The surrounding firmament is tumultuous, but here where the sky parts, the sun glows, and there is a rainbow akin to God’s promise. The brilliance engulfs my Rabboni, and he curses the stone, and it rolls away of its own accord, revealing my brother’s corpse.

Martha and the disciples have heard the commotion, and Martha is bereaved. “Oh my Lord, he has been dead four days, how he must stink. Surely this is beyond even your glory!”

Yeshua chokes on his tears and roars, hitting the stone and then it fractures into hundreds of pieces. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing and turns to Martha with a feral smile. “I said to you Martha, that, if you truly believe, wouldn’t you see the glory of God?”

Martha is silent, just falls to her knees weeping, and nods. Salome and Mother Mary are by each of her shoulders, comforting and supporting her.

“Have faith in the Lord I have brought into this world,” Mother Mary whispers with her indomitable strength. There is a bit of Gav’riel in her eyes. Over the course of the years, her and her angel have both become messengers, almost yin and yang, Adamah and Chavah, one and the same. At this point, Mary is more queen of angels than human.

Martha blows snot into Mary’s sleeve. Unlike me, she was never a beautiful crier. That makes it more important, the messiness of it. No one would ever build a statue of Martha bereaved, but to me go the idols and repentant whores.

All the disciples and town are weeping. Ululations even, screams of Lazarus, but Christ’s sobbing and fury at that great enemy, Death, are strongest of all. He kneels down, shaking, in prayer, then looks to the swirling sky and violet and green of the parted clouds haloing Lazarus’s stinking grave and suddenly the light illuminates him like a candle flame in Samael’s darkness.

“Father, I thank you that you have heard me. This storm is testament to your wrath, my wrath, at that great enemy, Death. You who always hear me. You who fulfill the wishes of my people, and hence all the world, that follows and loves me. They believe in me through you. I believe in you through them. They are my brides, every one of them, and come New Jerusalem, I will wed the world. But there is a man whose time is not done. My beloved disciple. Lazarus, come forth!”

White light fills Lazarus’ grave, and suddenly my brother rises, rot and sickness gone, still bound in corpse clothes, and his eyes are near violet for a moment until they settle on their black, and Martha screams, and I laugh, and we all fall down in worship to the Christ. I cling to his feet and weep. He embraces Lazarus and undoes the cloth covering his face.

“Yeshua,” Lazarus breathes. “You kept me to your bosom for four days. I would like to return there on my true dying day, to become your marrow, but here I am healed and whole, my body restored, no longer hollow of soul. You talked long over these four days and nights of how Martha, Mary, and I will serve you.”

Lazarus and Yeshua kiss, and then Yeshua picks me up and kisses me. “Rise, my flock!” he says through fierce tears, then embraces and kisses every one of us. We are moved by the spirit and begin singing. The rain comes and we are soaked. Yeshua eyes me as he is kissing sweet, innocent Judas. There is a trickster fire in his eyes, just like Gavr’iel. It is a message I am not yet privy to, as if to say: this is my death, and you are my life, my Magdalene.

Later that night, past supper, Yeshua takes me out into the storm for one of our secret talks, the storm of his heart, and he kisses me, and he whispers in my ear: “In six days before Passover I shall return to Bethany. Wait for me here, sweet Magdalene. Peter may be my Sapha, but you are my Migdal Eder. Your rivalry: watchtower and cornerstone, is but the fight of Adamah subduing Chavah only for Chavah to be triumphant in the end of days. You will cry at my feet as you always do and anoint me as the Bride does the Bridegroom for my death. It is you I place this burden on: my witness. My accuser. My seducer. My destroyer.”

“You know not what you ask,” I whisper.

“Oh, but Miriam, I do. On the Cross I will make love to you finally after these long thirteen years, if only through my wounds nursing you. You will never bear my children as you want, Mary. We will never marry. We will never join as man and wife. I will leave you long behind when I take my place beside my Father, but you will always be faithful in ways Peter will forget. They will curse you. They will drag your name through the mud. But at the end of days, it will be you I wed foremost. It will be you who eats the final Sacrament. Can you promise me Mary, that you will not shy away from dressing me for the tomb? I promise you as Apostle of Apostles, Miriam of Bethany. I pledge my troth to you, though it is a strange and scary vow.”

“I accept it all, all the pain, all the testaments to you! I will anoint you with my own wanton red hair and costly myrrh. I knew this was coming. I bought the myrrh three years ago, sweet Yeshua.”

“Let us dance in this storm, my Magdalene.”

So we did.

[fiftysevenacademics]

Television producer Norman Lear died today, which prompted me to put into words something I've had rattling around in my head for a long time now. I grew up in a very Republican family in the 70s-- communism = bad, welfare = bad, everyone but white people = lazy, hippies = bad, non-European immigrants = bad, you don't deserve anything if you can't work for it, etc. etc. I've often wondered how my sister and I turned far away from those views and became the bleeding heart liberals we are (and brought our mother along with us, thankfully). In an extended family that moved into crackpot conspiracy theory Reaganism (later, Trumpism) and/or morally bankrupt "libertarianism," we are the only ones who have moved farther to the left as they've moved farther right.

Speaking for myself (can't speak for my sis!), I can think of quite a few experiences I've had combined with a natural curiosity and sense of fairness but I've always felt like Norman Lear shows played some important, invisible part in this process.

My family watched All In The Family, Sanford and Son, Maude, the Jeffersons, and One Day At a Time religiously. Surrounded by conservative white people in the small, rural logging towns we lived in and in my own family, these shows were the main exposure I had to people who lived very different lives than my own: urban, multigenerational households, single women and single mothers, people of different races, different social classes, and so on. Just seeing someone live in an apartment in a city felt almost like seeing aliens on another planet!

On these shows I saw the kinds of people who were routinely referred to as "problems" or mentioned disparagingly in my little world, portrayed as interesting, full people with feelings and problems that from my sheltered perspective seemed strange and exotic but also, very human. They were cranky or funny or goofy or sassy, but all the characters on these shows were fun to watch and their struggles placed me in the midst of a world I knew reflected how people elsewhere must live. It allowed me to imagine myself as a person living in a world filled with racial, class, gender, and political diversity that was very different from how such a world was portrayed in my Cold War Era conservative family. 

How would I live in that kind of world? What kind of person would, or should, I be? Definitely not one like Archie Bunker.

All In The Family probably had the most influence. My grandfather adored Archie Bunker because, as the family joke went, they were basically the same person. By allowing me to see our family patriarch in this awful character who cannot accept how the world is changing, it gave me the critical distance to see myself as part of that changing world. I definitely know that this show also gave me my first inkling of what patriarchy was, though it would be a long time before I knew that word.

I was embarrassed to watch Sanford and Son with my grandpa because he watched it like he probably watched old timey minstrel shows back in the day: Sanford was an object of ridicule, entertaining because my grandpa could scorn him. Though it was obvious to everyone in my family but him, Sanford and Archie were similar characters and it was clear he loved the white one and looked down on the Black one solely because of their race. I remember him also refusing to even watch The Jeffersons, as if the existence of a Black man wealthier than him (he was a plumber) was a sheer impossibility. It's kind of funny how much he hated George Jefferson.

Then there was Maude and One Day At A Time. In my world, where women were primarily housewives, married mothers, still living a 1950s version of femininity, these shows were truly formative for me. I've always held, and still hold, Maude as a kind of role model for an older woman (even though she couldn't have been nearly as old as she seemed to me at the time). She was the only feminst I "knew!" She made feminism look so cool and I knew I was a feminist. Divorce was still kind of exotic and scary back then-- I didn't know anyone in a divorced family and certainly knew no single mothers. One Day At A Time normalized the single mom family just at a time when women were becoming more independent, and I thought about the show often, many years later, when I got divorced and became a single mom myself.

I wouldn't go so far as to say Norman Lear's shows made me turn out as I am. But they did offer a liberal interpretation of the changing world I was living in, and gave me the space to imagine possibilities, relationships, and ways of being in the world that were simply not present or actively despised in my everyday surroundings. 

Maybe these TV shows created a little empathetic space that grew as I continued to engage with new people, places, and ideas throughout adolescence until there was no room left for the stinginess, bigotry, cruelty, and paranoia of Republicans.