#i think i deserve that much after the extended horror of the trial

[claudiaeparvier]

[darkdevasofdestruction]

An Angel and A Demon ~ Pyramid Head x Reader

Update 2: My laptop restarted when I was in the middle of writing this, and trust me when I say it, I am positively pissed off, and I want to end my days, that's how bad of a day this was.

And I didn't leave the house.

That says a lot about today...

Update 1: But, without further ado, I was half-way writing this story, and I received this ask, and let me tell you...

helloooo, i absolutely adored the fanfics you wrote about kazan and danny🥺 could i request one where pyramid head is just really whipped for and in love with the survivor! reader but he doesnt know how to announce it to them so he brings her random ,,gifts" in and outside the trials and protecting her bc well, im pretty sure he cant speak so he doesnt really have any other options on how to express his feelings??

I live for it.

Bless you for sending me this, it's the reason I'm still sane right now.

I love you, baby-cakes.

Update 3: I want to kill myself so bad. Just smash my head on a wall until it explodes or sth. I was so happy with how this imagine turned out, only fuck fucking tumblr to just fucking delete EVERYTHING just as I was about to put the last gif and hit POST NOW.

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For the 5th time writing this :

FUCKMEDADDY - but this time - FUCKMYBRAINSOUTPLEASEIWANNADIE

Thanks.

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Hell - What was that place, anyway?

Some would describe it as an infinite ocean of flames and lava, where it's eternally melting-hot, and a bunch of hooved, horned, tailed red demons torture you with acid, with their red pitch forks, or boil you alive in their cauldron for soup. Or maybe you just get tortured by Stalin, who knows?

But never would have anyone thought that 'Hell' could look so...Normal. Well, normal in a very demolished, desolate, ravished way, but still...Normal, by human standards. Albeit, the never-ending loop of madness, anguish, agony and desperation of getting killed in different gruesome ways or fleeing for their lives and feeling a myriad of emotions pumping adrenaline through their veins so badly that their anxiety-meter skyrocketed to abnormal levels.

All this darkness, this hatred, this...Everything...It changed all the survivors. They became selfish, stubborn, rude, some even went as far as to sacrifice their fellow survivors in trials, just so they could survive. It was a complete mayhem that defied all kinds of reason, normality, morality or even ethics. Everyone became devoid of any laws that used to bind them to their humane sides, and now, you weren't sure if the killers were saner than the survivors or not.

But even in this abyss where you couldn't even see your hand in front of your very eyes, there was a little star - A beautiful angel radiating brightness and warmth, someone who was somehow able to guide everyone's straying souls with her benevolence.

In reality, she was merely a survivor, not the little lantern from an angler fish's head, but she treated everyone with such an untainted kindness...It was beautiful, and yet, unrequited for most parts. Everyone was still putting their own lives above all - And who could condemn them? - Perhaps their cowardice, for the girl preferred to save her fellow survivors as much as possible, even if that oftentimes assured her place on the hook, to be a sacrificial lamb for the Entity.

On the other hand, she rarely ended up on the hook - Most killers prefer to kill her themselves, instead of letting her become pray for the horrible Entity who tortured so many of them for refusing to cooperate - The Trapper, Evan MacMillan - He knew the best, with those hooks digging into his flesh, impossible to extract. He was the first to protect this girl. It wasn't much, but if he had to, he'd rather give her a swift, painless death, than seeing her without that serene, angelic smile on her face, as the Entity feeds on the last bits of her soul's beauty, the last parts of her humanity.

The other Killers were confused at the Trapper's actions, but little by little, they began to understand why this girl was so precious and special - And this domino effect hit Rin Yamaoka next, with Y/N stopping in the middle of a chase and taking off her jacket, just as Rin was about to butcher her with her katana, and she smiled, extending it to her. 'You must be cold' she said, realising that the Spirit was merely wearing a few bandages, not even her school uniform, or her kimono.

The ghost girl was shaken up by this, and told the others at the killer camp, but they just shrugged it off - Rin was a little girl who faced close to no kindness, they weren't surprised she was so taken aback by such a feat. That is, until Adiris, in a particularly terrible day, when everyone at the camp was staying away from her, as her profane censer wasn't able to cover the stench of rotting flesh - Y/N came over, taking out a small yet elegant glass bottle with pink liquid on it, spraying some on her - And now, The Plague smelled of roses and vanilla - 'You can come to me for perfume whenever you want, I always carry some with me!' she grinned at the Babylonian High Priestess, before leaving back to the survivor's camp site, leaving the ancient God symbol to stare with her mouth agape at the girl.

These words began to spread, and it was no surprise when the killers saw Susie clinging and begging her Legion friends to spare Y/N, for she was there to hug away her worries more than once, to tell her sweet words, to play with her hair and play the guitar whatever songs she wanted to hear, to get reminded of her home - She was so home sick that she freaked out, but now she was better, thanks to Y/N - 'I know you miss home, but sometimes, home is where your best friends are, and all three of them are here!' she tried to encourage the cute pink-haired girl who could only squeal and hug her new friend.

Even Ghostface wasn't exempt from falling to her charms, and they would often take silly selfies and mess around, making fun of the old horror movie tropes and doing lots of puns and pranks - So much that she even got his trust to be told about the Danny/Jed thing, and how he began his killer profession - 'You're a very talented photographer, Danny! You deserved all that recognition you got, both as a journalist, and as a killer!'

And very soon, Y/N found herself in the crushing arms of an overprotective Anna, humming her mother's lullaby together with walking through the forest, Y/N making flower crows for all the female killers at the camp site, and little by little, she somehow managed to worm her way under everyone's skins.

Y/N was the survivor with the highest survivability percentage, and maybe the Entity sometimes got pissed off, but at least she still got killed sometimes, so who cares? Well, that was soon to change as soon as a new Killer was added to this sick game - Pyramid Head, the terror of Silent Hill, as Cheryl, the new Survivor, called him - or The Executioner, as he was known now. He was ruthless, merciless, grotesque - He had his own criteria of killing, his own moral compass, ethics, conscience and understanding of the concept of life and death. Nothing that could compare to the visions of humans, clearly - Everything was gravitating around Divine Retribution and Justice, but the from the outside, he was nothing but a killing machine.

He would kill everyone and anyone that crosses his path, without fail.

Y/N felt like her fortune ended completely the second she found herself in the new, overly cramped map, with Pyramid Head as the killer - She couldn't help but run around like a spazzic meerkat, trying to find and fix as many generators as possible, without having to get face to face with the walking hazard...

Only to run past a stuck Pyramid Head.

Slowly backtracing her steps, she saw the mountain of a man with his metal pyramid stuck in the frames a low window which he tried to walk over. He was trashing like a raged bull trying to attack a matador, but it was clear he was getting nowhere with this.

"H-Hey, u-uhm...Need some help?" she asked in a soft, careful voice, almost like a meek cat trying to test the waters, but in return, he started groaning even louder from the wrath he wanted to unleash upon the whole world. "Okay, uhm...I think I saw a can of vaseline in one of the chests around. I'll go fetch it and I'll come back for you. Don't move." she said, only to then realise how horrible that sounded, considering the situation, and it only seemed to anger the killer. "...I'm sorry, ignore me, I'm an idiot." she slapped herself pretty harshly before bolting out of there trying to find the chest.

However, Y/N cursed herself for not having perfectly memorised the whole map by heart already, since she found the vaseline can after the 3rd chest, and then, it took quite a while to find the bloody window that got the killer stuck - And by the time she got there, she was dead tired. "Okay, I'm here, I found the vaseline! Let's try to get you out of here." Y/N muttered as she put her feet on the low window pane to get to his level. "If it's not too much trouble, could you please hold onto me? I can't balance myself with both hands occupied, and I'd rather not fall." she explained as she opened the vaseline can, only to shiver as she felt two big, strong hands getting a firm grip on her hips. It was almost...Endearing, were she not too busy trying to get the killer unstuck. She kept massaging the metal edge, trying to push and pull, also praying to whatever deity that existed in her human world that she had her tetanus shot done on time - Until finally, she was able to get hear a loud screech, like a pop, and the killer got unstuck, and in the process, he stumbled backwards, while Y/N fell down on her butt.

"Ouchie..." she muttered, rubbing her back and sides to take away the pain surging through her body. "Are you okay?" she asked, almost intuitively, without realising it at first, until she heart a low grunt that brought her back to reality. "O-Oh...! You have glass shards stuck in your side! And you're bleeding too! Hold up, let me help." she hurried to his side, while the killer merely stiffened, feeling her delicate, slender fingers tracing his body, while he heaved and slouched his shoulders from the repressed wrath. "It may sting a bit, and I'm really sorry, but I promise it will be better soon." her voice was so motherly and warm, which also resonated in her actions, as she gingerly took a water bottle and imbued some tissues with it, to wipe away the blood smearing down his skin as she extracted the glass shards, and then..."This is grandma's marigold ointment. It's really good, and it smells nice." she explained as she carefully smeared a thick layer of the yellow ointment on the biggest wounds, while the little ones were covered by smiley-flower patterned plasters. They were cute, and colourful, and they never failed to make her smile. "Okay, there we go, all better! I hope you'll feel better very soon!" her voice got a tiny bit more cheerful and upbeat.

It made the Killer think about a trillion things, as he stepped in front of her, towering over her like the Empire states building next to a smiling pomeranian. What was with this girl? Why did she help a killer? And why did he feel so...Warm inside? He could sense a foreign kind of luminosity, a naivite and innocence that he only witnessed in children and animals. This woman in front of him was untainted by the darkness and evil of the world.

It didn't matter how many hardships she's been through, or how much sadness she had to endure - Her soul remained as pure as any snowdrop, as the first snow of winter, as the fleece of a baby lamb who let out its first 'meeeeh' to its mamma sheep.

He couldn't allow this human to be maimed in any way - Not by the world, not by the Entity, and certainly not by him. - Screw the Entity, Pyramind Head kills by his own rules, and now, he was blessed to be faced with a human who bore no real hatred for her peers, or for the world, despite the horrible situation she was thrown into.

He didn't understand, obviously, especially as he remembered the myriad of abominations that lurked through Silent Hill, all of them created by the torment of humans - The very torment that distorted their own reality, which resulted in him needing to solve the purpose as The Executioner - Eradicating the world of all evil.

"Th-This sword is so heavy...H-How can you carry this around like that...?! Your muscles must be so strained and sore...Y-You really need a massage, I'm sure." she stuttered as she tried to lift the much taller and heavier sword from the ground, only for the brute to simply bend and pick it up with extreme ease, putting the girl to shame with her complete lack of strength. "Hehe...You're really strong. I'm embarrassed now." she chuckled softly, scratching the back of her neck.

Before she could leave or do anything else, Pyramid Head picked her up by the throat, careful not to hurt her or restrict her air intake - I mean, how else was he supposed to carry her so he wouldn't hurt her with his metal head or sword? - and it was pretty clear she didn't feel any malevolence from him, as she clinged on his forearm, trying to keep herself up, only to be dumped on top of the hatch, as the killer pointed towards it, so she would leave.

"O-Oh...! Thank you so much! You're really kind! I really appreciate this...I-I know it probably doesn't matter much to you, since you'll be doing this over and over again with all the survivors...But I really appreciate you for your kind gesture, and I appreciate you for being so nice with me. Thank you. Take care!" her dazzling smile lit the whole place up, but he couldn't talk, nor could he tell her how he should be the one thanking her for showing him that, despite the hundreds and thousands of years he had to roam the 'Earth' and execute the injust, miracles still existed.

As soon as she reached the survivor's camp, everyone cheered for her, asking how in the world could she have escaped the wrath of the butcher. "Oh, but he wasn't that bad. In fact, he's much more humane than I anticipated! I think he has a beautiful, blooming heart!" okay, she's lost it - the other survivors thought - but even so, she's always been a bit...Out of it, so who cares?

It took quite a while for the other three survivors to reach the camp, all bloody, in fact, like the new killer, who dragged himself with the same menace to the Killers' camp. "How the hell did you manage to survive?!" they yelled at her in utter shock, seeing that she got out of there unscratched. "Oh, you see...I found the hatch." she shrugged simply, not wanting to give away that the person who massacred those three was a soft one and he basically threw her down the hatch to her safety.

As she took a twig to roast a marshmallows, she noticed how Pyramid Head was standing much farther away from the rest of the killers - She knew that silent killers were bound to stay away from the more obnoxious one, remembering how Michael Myers almost killed Ghostface and The Legion at least a dozen times - But this time...He seemed kinda...Lonely? So Y/N took the matters into her own hands, roasted another marshmallow in another twig, and when it was done, she went to the killer's camp, calling out the lonely one's name - She has no idea why, but he actually followed her, pushing her further deep into the forest, until he was sure nobody was going to hear, see or interrupt them...

"Hey. You seemed pretty lonely out there...I thought you could use a friend. Thank you again for what you did at the trial...Here, this is a marshmallow. I don't think you've had many before...Cheryl told me of that horrible place you had to live in...So I hope this will make your day a bit better!" Y/N extended one of her hands towards him, so he could take the marshmallow - And a long, black tongue erupted from underneath the pyramid, snatching away the fluffy marshmallow and gulping it in one go.

What the hell was he turning into?

A towering man built of pure muscle, wrath and divine justice, with a pyramid representing the evil of humanity burdening his body, and a sword taller and heavier than the average human being constantly dragged in one of his hand...He now was a slave to a cute, innocent girl who was putting flower plasters on his minuscule wounds that would heal in a heartbeat regardless - He saved this girl who was now offering his these soft, squishy things that tasted overly sugarly, just like her upbeat and cheerful personality - If he could eat her, he was sure she would taste even sweeter than this - A sickish kind of sweet, that is.

She was indeed a beautiful angel in this tragic hell. But he didn't wait to snatch the second marshmallow either.

"Ah...! You liked it, didn't you? Well...Next time, I promise I'll give you more!" she grinned at him the same way a princess would to her chivalrous knight who saved her. The since he couldn't talk, silence took over them - It wasn't an uncomfortable one, per se, but it made it feel as if the conversation was over. "W-Well...I'll guess I'll see you around! Take care and I hope to see you again soon!" she waved cutely, trying to turn around back to her camp, only to feel a rough hand on her shoulder, turning her around and urging her to stop and wait for him and he went deep into the forest, leaving her alone and undefended by the potential malevolent forces of the forest.

When he returned, however, he stepped right in front of her, creating the perfect shade as he towered over her - Then he kneeled in front of her, so he would reach her eye sight, then he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and put a beautiful pink flower - As pink as the blush that started creeping on her face - He wanted to see her luminous face better, to highlight her dazzling smile and her glimmering eyes as the warm, silver light of the mother moon caressed her face.

Y/N felt her heart picking up the pace - It was beating so much faster than ever before - But this time, it wasn't out of fear or anything negative...It was something good. Something she never felt in her life, especially with her human acquaintances from back home. None was as chivalrous and gentle with her as this butcher of tormented souls - The bringer of justice, the merciless Executioner who was supposed to end the life of every living being that would cross his path.

It was insane how every Yin finds its Yang, even if that comes in the form of a little lamb of a small, frail girl, and a huge abomination of a brute man who knows nothing but death, bloodshed and carnage. It was truly crazy how opposites attract, and here she was, holding the killers large hands and gingerly putting them on her face, leaning into his touch - She felt safer now than ever in her life - Now, in the arms of an ancient killer.

An Angel and A Demon brought together in a perfect union.

As she leaned down, she touched the metal of the pyramid where she anticipated his forehead would be with her own forehead, and closing her eyes, she finally felt herself calming down. There was no need for words, actions spoke louder than anything, and she appreciated it...She appreciated him.

"Thank you." she whispered to him, knowing that yes, even though nobody else would hear it anyway, it was much more intimate than anything she ever experienced.

She was hooked.

Hope you liked my completely shameless pun, I couldn't stop it, especially after the pain I went through trying to write this...3 freaking times.

Yay.

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/8/2020: PELICAN BLOOD (2019)

If you are reading this and the present date is between October 8 and 11 of 2020, please consider buying a virtual ticket to see Katrin Gebbe’s PELICAN BLOOD, available on demand through the Nightstream festival:

https://watch.eventive.org/nightstream/play/5f6e7e78d6a9bf0036613fa3

I am about to discuss this movie and its conclusion in great detail, but it would be much better for a person to come to it in innocence--not because it’s so reliant on anything as gauche as surprise, but because it is so thoroughly excellent that wading through a movie review first would be like letting your dinner grow cold. And, it simply deserves our support.

When I saw PELICAN BLOOD last year at Fantastic Fest, it became one of my favorite movies before it was even over. I might admit that this was sort of a match made in heaven, as this movie checks almost every one of my personal boxes, but I don’t think my assessment of its value is a simple matter of personal prejudice. I’ve been haunted by it all these months, and deeply worried that somehow I might never see it again. When I discovered that it had landed on Nightstream, I was over the moon.

This is writer-director Katrin Gebbe's second feature, a fact that will astonish you when you see it. Last Blogtober, I wrote about her first feature TORE TANZT, which has the troubling english title NOTHING BAD CAN HAPPEN. That intense indie drama concerns a born-again christian punk who wishes for an opportunity to prove his devotion to god, and finds it in the form of a family that invites him in off the streets, and then proceeds to torture him. That's an oversimplification of what actually occurs, but it is a film that's hard to be brief about. It's cheap and a little rough around the edges, but it is deliberate, intense, and difficult to forget. (In fact it's supposed to be based on a true story, although I haven't managed to pick up that trail) When I first saw it, it certainly made me wonder what else that director might be up to, and I was astounded when I found out. 2019's PELICAN BLOOD emerged six years after TORE TANZT, with little in between besides a television episode and a segment in the anthology THE FIELD GUIDE TO EVIL, and yet Gebbe's artistic evolution is dumbfounding. Her themes are all unmistakably present--faith versus doubt, mystical versus metaphorical experience, and physical martyrdom--but exploded into a grand, elegant psychodrama that holds the viewer captive every minute of its two hours.

Celebrated german actress Nina Hoss plays Wiebke, a stable owner who trains police horses to tolerate the frightening conditions of a riot. She lives at the edge of her pasture, raising her tween daughter Nicolina (Adelia-Constance Giovanni Ocleppo) on her own. Wiebke has a talent for healing the wounded, or perhaps it's more of a calling; she raised Nicolina, a bulgarian orphan, into a bright, balanced, emotionally available tomboy, and the two of them joyfully anticipate the arrival of Nicolina's new adoptive sister. When little Raya arrives (Katerina Lipovska), she first presents as sweet, even solicitous, needing only a mother's love to fully bloom. However, as soon as she determines that she is welcome and wanted, she undergoes a disturbing transformation into a violent and unpredictable creature, possessed by an abject hatred. Wiebke recognizes that her new child is seriously traumatized, which activates her sense of purpose, and she pledges herself fully to the child's recovery--despite the admonishments of Raya's daycare, her doctors, and virtually everyone around them, that the little girl is beyond all but clinical help, and even that promises no guarantee of salvation. Refusing to give up, Wiebke makes a series of increasingly dangerous personal sacrifices in Raya's name, until finally she finds herself at the doorway to what some consider another world, but what is to others only madness.

Gebbe won Best Director in the main competition at Fantastic Fest, and it would have been a crime if this were otherwise. Her control over what are essentially forces of nature is humbling. Extracting a profoundly moving drama from a cast of adult actors is challenging enough on its own, but to get these terrifyingly convincing performances from children, evoking deep trauma and physical violence to self and others, is another level. As if this weren't enough, Gebbe adds animals into the mix, giving the story of Raya a parallel in the troubled career of a police horse who is considered a lost cause by all but Wiebke. The training scenes in which Wiebke guides the volatile animal through fire and smoke, while her own lifeforce is being progressively depleted by her new child, are as harrowing as anything having to do with parenthood, and Wiebke seems to take the horse just as seriously as her child. Friendly single dad Benedikt (Murathan Muslu) tries to flirt with the trainer by remarking on her unusual career, but she spits bitterly, "The horses are not the problem," giving us a glimpse of the philosophy that drives her.

Another of my favorite german films is Werner Herzog's 1976 short NO ONE WILL PLAY WITH ME. This funny and poignant story involves a bullied and neglected little boy, and it is preceded by a card displaying the adage "There are no bad children, only bad parents." This is the principle that drives Wiebke in work and life: Those who are seen as failures, have been failed by others. One has the sense that Wiebke sees herself in these wretches. She has no partner, and balks at questions about her relationship history, shying from physical affection even with people she knows and likes. A tell-tale scar graces one cheekbone; when she finally begins to welcome the benign Benedikt's advances, he strokes it instead of kissing her, acknowledging that he can see who she really is.

Wiebke tries to extend this same empathy toward Raya, refusing to let the child bait her into wrath and rejection. However, this show of pure faith and tolerance does not work, and the right approach becomes less clear as Raya begins to blame her mounting acts of vandalism, arson and assault on an evil entity that controls her will. A psychiatrist aprises Wiebke that this is the "magic period", in which the child uses magical thinking to divert feelings of guilt and responsibility. But, after a fashion, Wiebke begins to sense this malevolent presence as well. Is this etheric intrusion real? Or is she beginning to empathize with the child--with the experience of grappling with a damaged part of yourself--to the point of dissolving boundaries?

The title of the movie refers to a fable about a pelican whose chicks die, and she resurrects them by feeding them her own blood. This is a clear metaphor for Wiebke's trial with Raya, that becomes shockingly literal when, after endangering her home and relationships by prioritizing the new child, Wiebke places her own health on the line by taking an unregulated drug to give herself a bizarre advantage. When Wiebke discovers the shocking nature of Raya's original trauma, she experiments with the radical idea of treating the girl like a little baby, hoping to start from square one with her capacity to be mothered, and in the service of this dreadful proposition, Wiebke starts taking a lactation-inducing pill that proves to be an immediate risk to her health, and puts her in an even more perilous position with Raya.

Although it focuses on a preternaturally devoted mother, PELICAN BLOOD recalls what makes movies like HEREDITARY and WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN so potent. We have the idea that in becoming parents, we are perpetuating our own essence, extending our history and celebrating the precious connection of blood, which is supposed to impart an automatic same-ness. Unfortunately, this only shakes out to arrogance for many, denying the quirks of psychology, chemistry, and the unique impact of trauma--even if minor, or explainable as something benign--on a mind too young to fully comprehend the nature of the experience. Even without abuse in the home, anyone can have a child less like themselves than they could have ever imagined, for reasons beyond their own control. In all this, the child is innocent, and it is the duty of the parent to prioritize the child's feelings, over the vanity of wanting an heir to your own best qualities. Wiebke sacrifices not only her vanity, but potentially her very life, to show Raya love. When this blood sacrifice does not work, Wiebke finds herself facing the realm of alternative belief as a last resort.

The introduction of PELICAN BLOOD's folk horror element can seem a little left field, if you haven't noted the clues scattered throughout the film. Before the revelation of Raya's boogeyman, Wiebke begins to discover evidence of an old pagan tradition still being practiced around her proverbial neck of the woods. Soon, she tentatively entrusts herself and her child to a local witch, who puts them through a harrowing exorcism. Though the process is uncertain at first, its impact forces Wiebke into a direct acknowledgment of the entity harassing her daughter. And ultimately, it awakens in Raya a capacity for love.

While the reality of the supernatural in PELICAN BLOOD remains in question, I think the effect of this ambiguity is specifically meaningful. I usually scoff at any type of "was it all a dream?" nonsense, as this is a tactic employed by directors who think their greatest accomplishment should be getting one over on the audience. I don't see any inherent value in simply reversing the apparent meaning of things, just to make people feel stupid--and worse, this has trained modern audiences to try to defensively predict the least likely ending to any story, instead of just engaging with it emotionally as it plays out. For this reality-bending trick to be worth anything, one must be able to answer questions like, IF this was all a dream, THEN what meaning is added to the story?

In PELICAN BLOOD, the unresolved question of whether magic is real is of great relevance to the whole concept of belief. Human beings crave extranormal experience; we're deeply attracted to tales of ghosts, UFOs, mythical creatures, and parapsychological abilities. Even the skeptics among us enjoy arguing about these things, and many regular folks without eccentric interests read their horoscope "just for fun". Most telling of all is the enduring popularity of stories about the strange and unusual, which require no particular belief system from the audience; the fantasy of this extra dimension to our mundane lives is just so satisfying. Despite all the pleasure we get from these ideas, though, we tend to cling first and foremost to objective truth; we tell ourselves that if there is no "proof", then an outrageous thing cannot exist. But, this is actually contrary to many of our lived experiences. On the basest level, we delight at videos of insane parkour stunts, at the same time that we say these guys are "like" superheroes, but are actually just guys. My question is, what's the difference? If a person can achieve physical feats that most of us can never imagine attempting, then what difference does it make that this person was not bitten by a radioactive spider? If a fortune teller in a carnival is so good at "cold reading" strangers that she gives the effect of being able to read minds, then what is the appreciable difference between a carny and a "real psychic"? If a faith healer "just convinces" someone to become free from a chronic ailment, and the patient goes on to live a happier life, who cares if no "real magic" was in evidence? What is the difference between exorcism and hypnosis, if the end result is the same for a seriously disturbed child and her mother? The only difference appears to be some material confirmation of specific mystical forces and substances--which, admittedly, would be exciting on its own--but this would still only be an alternative version of the events that led up to the same "miraculous" result. We only worry about the existence of God and magic because our definitions of these things tend to be limited to what we think of as literal and scientific. But, if the correct effects manifest themselves, then all that is purely cosmetic. Belief is real. Faith works.

[the-quiet-winds]

Between Angels and Demons (part four)

[Continuing on with this AU by me and @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts. TW for mentions / discussions of abuse]

[part one] - [part two] - [part three]

[Part 4: What We Thought Were the Best Times]

“They are far from baseless-”

To the horror of the already terrified Katherine Howard, Jane, unfortunately, doesn’t get to finish that sentence.

Edmund, in a fit of rage, brings back his hand and slaps Jane, hard across the face.

The room is absolutely still after that. Jane is leaning to one side, hand on her cheek to try and soothe it as stinging sets in.

Katherine looks at her with horrified eyes. There’s no way Jane would continue to help her now, after this. 

Jane slowly straightens up, eyes flitting to the secretary, then Katherine, then the security cameras littered around the room. Then she glares at Edmund Howard, a brave smirk on her lips even as the entire left side of her face burns red from the strike.

“Checkmate, Mister Howard,” she says cooly.

Edmund finally seems to register what he’d just done, how exactly he’d incriminated himself, and his face grows even more livid. He turns and storms out, slamming the door with enough force to make the frame tremble, and the secretary pulls out her phone, dialling 999 as she leaves the room.

Jane turns to look at Katherine, still pressed heavily against the wall.

She approaches Katherine with slow, even movements. She doesn’t want to startle her, with how shaken she already is. 

“Kat?” She says gently. “It’s Miss Seymour, love.” Katherine doesn’t respond. “He’s gone now, he won’t be coming back. I'll keep you safe, Kat, I promise,” she finishes, reaching out and putting a very light hand on Katherine’s shoulder to ground her.

It’s as if the pressure against Katherine’s shoulder finally brings her back to reality, and she suddenly lets out a tiny whimper and reaches out to Jane, like a little girl seeking comfort from a parent. Jane doesn’t hesitate before opening her arms, letting Katherine cling to her and bury her face in her shoulder. Her voice is incredibly muffled and interrupted with the beginnings of sobs, but Jane swears she can hear Katherine mumble, “thank you.”

Jane runs a gentle hand up and down Katherine’s back, rubbing light and slow circles. “Of course, love,” she murmurs. “You’re safe now.”

The moment is interrupted by the door opening. 

“Miss Howard?” the woman says, “I am Elizabeth Blount from social services, here to discuss foster care with you.”

In a short time, Katherine and Jane were sat opposite Elizabeth, Bessie, in the empty staff room. Bessie explains everything while Jane sits next to her, placing a sympathetic hand on Katherine’s arm.

“While this investigation is ongoing, you cannot live in the same house as your father,” Bessie says gently. “We’re looking to find foster care for the duration of the investigation, and then after the trial we’ll have another discussion about what happens after that. If you know anybody who you’d be happy living with, perhaps a relative, then that would be a good option. We’d prefer for you to stay with someone you already know and trust.”

Katherine immediately knows what she wants, who she wants. Jane had already offered... but that was only for a night, she reminds herself. 

“I don’t have any relatives around,” she mumbles. 

Bessie tightens her lips into a line. “Anyone who you feel comfortable staying with?”

Katherine shakes her head mutely.

Jane squeezes her arm very gently. “If you’d like, Katherine, you are welcome to stay with me.”

Katherine almost doesn’t believe what she’s hearing. The fact that Jane would volunteer to let her stay until the trial sends a wave of an emotion Katherine can’t quite identify through her, but she knows it feels almost... safe.

“I'd like that a lot,” she mumbles quietly. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Of course it is, love,” Jane says softly. “You’re more than welcome to stay.”

Bessie smiles at that and gives a nod.

“That seems like a good solution. Miss Seymour, we’ll meet within the week to discuss the formal fostering process, if that suits you.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Jane says honestly. She gives Katherine’s arm another light squeeze, and she sees a flicker of a smile cross Katherine’s face. “I'd be very glad to take you in, Katherine,” she repeats, quiet yet earnest. She doesn’t say how incredibly happy it makes her, or how she might just apply for permanent or semi-permanent guardianship over Katherine. It doesn’t seem like the time. “My roommate will adore you,” she adds quietly.

Katherine’s eyes widen and she looks fearful again. “Roommate?” She stutters out, and Jane suddenly realises what might be a problem.

“Yes, love. She’s called Catherine too, but spelled differently. She’s a writer, and I'm sure the two of you will get on very well.”

Something within Jane’s little explanation seems to calm Katherine somewhat, but Jane can’t quite work out which part it was. Regardless, Katherine gives a small nod.

“I've been assured by your superior that you’ve been given the rest of the day off,” Bessie says kindly. “We could use that time to collect some of Katherine’s belongings and get her settled in your home?”

Home.

Katherine doesn’t know if that word excites or scares her. 

Since her mother died, her father’s house was never a home. 

But home sounds warm, loving, safe, and some part of Katherine can see that with Jane. 

She chides herself a moment later. ‘Don’t get attached,’ a small voice in her mind hisses, ‘you won’t be staying.’

“That sounds perfect,” Jane says warmly. she sees Katherine’s discomfort and - were those tears? “Could you give us a second?” she asks Bessie kindly, and the social worker gives a knowing nod and leaves. 

Once they’re alone, Jane looks at Katherine, hoping to catch her gaze. “What’s up, love?” Shes asks in as soft and warm a voice as possible. “You can talk to me, Kat.”

Katherine can’t even begin to explain, can’t let out all her insecurities like that, not when it would scare Jane away when she’d only just let Katherine stay. Instead she gives a quick half-shrug.

“Is it really okay for me to stay?”

“Of course it is, love,” Jane says gently. “You can stay for as long as you need.”

Jane isn’t quite sure how her and Parr’s two-bedroom flat would be adapted to house all three of them, but she’s determined to do everything she can to keep Katherine safe.

Jane gets to her feet slowly. She knows that there is more Katherine isn’t telling her, and she hopes, at some point, Katherine will feel confident enough to tell her the whole truth.

For now, however, she extends a hand for Katherine to take. “Let’s go get some of your stuff, then we can head home. Does that sound like a good plan, sweetheart?” The affectionate name slips out without Jane really thinking, but she doesn’t let it show, simply keeping her hand out for Katherine to take when she was ready.

Katherine nods slowly and takes Jane’s hand, although she seems slightly absent as she does so. They meet back up with Bessie before heading out to the car park, then the three of them navigate to Katherine’s house.

It seems an ordinary suburban house from the outside and Katherine lets them with her house keys. She clasps her hands together awkwardly, not looking at either of the adults when they enter the hallway.

It looks completely ordinary, and if Jane didn’t know any better she’d expect nothing but a perfect, happy family. 

But then she sees fist-sized cracks in the drywall, oddly-shaped marks on the floor, and tears in furniture that definitely signal something sinister. 

Without a word, Katherine leads them up the stairs. 

Her room is small and dank. She has a stiff-looking mattress, a tiny dresser, and not much by ways of personal belongings other than clothes. 

Jane stares at it all in awe, and Katherine looks down in shame, sniffling back tears.

Jane decides it’s probably best to get Katherine out of here as soon as possible. She helps Katherine pack up her clothes into a duffel bag, and all of Katherine’s other possessions fit into a single plastic bag. It breaks Jane’s heart to see that Katherine’s life could be packed up in two bags, but she pushes the feeling down and leads Katherine back down the stairs.

Just before they reach the door, Katherine casts one final look around, memorizing every crevice and corner where she cowered and hid her pain behind broken drywall.

The cultivated cynic in her knows, knows too well that this is only temporary. Soon she’ll be back to being hurt and won’t have Jane anymore to protect her. 

As if reading her thoughts, Jane boldly steps over and places a very gentle hand on Katherine’s cheek, bringing her face so they were eye to eye. Katherine looks so young, so hurt, and it ignites a quiet fire in Jane’s stomach. 

“It’ll be okay,” is all Jane can tell her.

Katherine wants to believe her more than anything, and just for a moment she lets Jane’s words settle in her mind, providing that soft comfortable feeling she hasn’t felt in a long time. She hates herself for being so weak as to let it happen when she knows she’s going to be disappointed again and sent back here.

Jane is slightly upset that Katherine doesn’t answer. It’s not at the girl, not for a million years, but rather that she envisions Katherine’s father, the way he probably yelled at her and told her that it’s what she deserved. She was probably never promised safety or security or that everything would be okay. 

“Come, love,” she says after a long and silent moment. She pulls back from Katherine’s cheek and instead takes her hand. “I think you could do with some food and getting tucked up in your new room, does that sound good?”

Katherine gives a hesitant nod and lets Jane lead her out to the car. Bessie gives Jane her work phone number before they part ways, in case there’s anything they need, and then it’s just the two of them. The drive to Jane’s- their flat, Katherine supposes now, even if it’s only temporary- is nearly silent. Jane makes attempts at conversation as she drives, but Katherine isn’t very responsive. Jane doesn’t blame her, not after the day she’s had.

It’s only when they arrive that Jane remembers she hadn’t told Parr about Katherine staying.

"You’re home early," Parr's voice calls from the living room as Jane enters. "Are you sick or did you get fired-" Parr abruptly cuts her sarcastic questioning at seeing an unfamiliar figure in the doorway. "What’s this?" she asks, but not unkindly by any means.

"Our new roommate," Jane explains with a hopeful smile, "this is my student, Katherine Howard. Kat," she says, turning to the shy girl who won't look at Parr, focused on the strap of the duffel in her hands, "this is my roommate, Catherine Parr."

Parr remembers that name well - Jane wasn't very subtle about who her favorite students were. she smiles warmly and extends a hand. "It’s an honor to meet you, Katherine," Parr says softly, "Jane has spoken very highly of you."

The surprise at Parr’s words makes Katherine instinctively look up. “Really?” she asks, voice tiny and timid. Parr nods, giving a soft smile.

“Yes, I've heard you’re quite the writer.” She looks over at Jane with a meaningful look that clearly reads, explain this later please, before she turns towards the kitchen.

“I'm making a cuppa, would either of you like a drink?”

“Tea, please,” Jane replies. she glances at Katherine. “Drink, love?”

Katherine shifts slightly, a tiny smile still on the corner of her lips from the praise Parr had given her; praise she’d apparently heard from Jane. “Could I have some water?” she asks quietly, and Parr nods.

“‘Course. I'll bring all the drinks out in a mo.”

"Here, let me show you to your room, love," Jane says gently. she puts a light hand on Katherine's back to steer her in the right direction, and she can't ignore the flinch and (what must be habitual) immediate stiffening of her spine. She pretends not to notice and leads Katherine towards her own room.

"You can stay in my room tonight, love," Jane says. 

Katherine's eyes immediately widen. "No, I won't take your room. I can sleep on the couch or the floor, it's okay-"

"Kat," Jane interrupts quietly, "You’re my guest, I really don't mind. Tomorrow we can sort out a new configuration, but the pullout couch is quite comfortable." She hushes her voice and places a hand on Katherine's bicep. "Besides, I'd much rather know that you had a comfortable place to sleep."

Katherine is torn between not wanting to deprive Jane of her bedroom and not wanting to upset Jane by rejecting her offer. Eventually she gives another silent head nod, deciding on agreeing with Jane; it seemed safer. Jane gives her a gentle smile, then looks down.

“There is... one other thing I wanted to talk about before you settle in.”

Katherine’s heart sinks, and she braces herself for whatever rule Jane was going to introduce.

“I'd like to take a photograph of the bruises on your arm,” Jane says hesitantly. “Then if they’re healed by the time the trial happens, we’ll still have them as evidence.”

Katherine gives a strangled little half laugh. "You’ll have plenty of evidence," she says absently, but with a renowned bitterness.

Her face pales dramatically as she looks up at Jane, realizing what she'd just said and who'd she'd said it to.

"I..." she tries to explain, but words fail her.

So in doing something she'd never done in front of anyone before, she pulls her sweatshirt off and turns around. With very, very shaky hands, lifts her t-shirt to halfway up her back, where scars and long-unhealed scabs marred the pale skin.

"You should see my legs," she says hollowly, tears rising in her cheeks at the shame she feels, appearing so weak and worthless in front of Jane.

“Oh, Kat,” Jane whispers, her heart aching for the girl, followed by another wave of anger towards Katherine’s father.

Katherine had been through so much at his hands, and Jane swears that she will never let him do her any harm ever again. She must have said some of it out loud without realising because Katherine lets her shirt drop back down again and turns around, the tears starting to trickle down her face.

Some maternal instinct inside of Jane clicks free, and she reaches out with the softest of touches to wipe some tears away with her thumb. 

At the light contact, Katherine shatters. Feeling like a hopeless and lost child, she lunges forward and clings to Jane. Some sort of affection for her teacher surges through her, which is only intensified when Jane hugs her back, a single finger tracing tiny patterns in the space between her shoulder blades. 

“I've got you, love,” Jane whispers. She says something indistinguishable, so much so that Katherine thinks it’s just a gentle hushing sound to soothe her tears, but Jane knows that she said, word for word in a low undertone, ‘mum’s got you.’

She feels guilty the second it slips out; she’s not Katherine’s mum, she could never replace her mum. Poor Katherine would probably freak out even more if she realised what Jane had said. But Jane can’t stop that maternal feeling deep in her heart, the urge to protect this young girl and care for her stronger than ever.

Katherine doesn’t let go for a long while, needing Jane’s comfort after finally sharing some of her scars. Everything is happening so fast and Katherine can’t quite register that it’s real, that someone actually listened to her, that at least for a few nights she wouldn’t have to be afraid.

And Jane is more than happy to hold her, comfort her the best she can, try to assure her that she won’t have to be alone, won’t have to be afraid, because Jane will protect her. 

“You’re okay,” she murmurs to Katherine, who gives a broken little half-sob and clings tighter, “he won’t hurt you anymore.”

Katherine is nearly in tears when Jane ever so gently pulls back, holding her shoulders lightly to look her in the eyes. “I think you could do with a nice hot shower, yeah?”

Katherine gives a shaky nod.

“Y-yeah... that sounds nice.”

Jane gives her a soft smile. “I'll get you a towel, love. after your shower we can think about some lunch, how about that?”

Again Katherine nods, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Jane fixes her with a kind, maternal gaze.

“I know it’s the middle of the day, but why don’t you put your pyjamas on afterwards? it’s been a long day, and I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to take a little rest after lunch.”

Katherine feels so small, Jane talking in that gentle cadence that reminds her of in-class reading, a happier place. She nods again and Jane gives a smile, who backs slowly out of the room and returns only a moment later with a towel. “Take all the time you need, love,” she instructs gently before leaving again.

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[zipegs]

epiclesis  //  3.4k, horror, m, hodgson-centric  //  ao3 written for halloween terrorfest day 7: a disquieting metamorphosis warnings for body horror, cannibalism, and gore

The first time Lieutenant Hodgson eats of man, it slides down his throat and sits like in his stomach like a stone.

The meat is slimy and tough between his molars, like the gristle they used to toss beneath the table for Neptune. He chews until his jaw aches with it, teeth loose and wobbling in their sockets.

The flavor falls somewhere short of abhorrent. It’s bland if a bit gamey, with a thick, sweet aftertaste that coats the back of his throat like syrup.

It sickens him, how little he dislikes it.

Hodgson does not want to be like these men. These traitors who look at a man on the verge of death and see only a feast. He does not seek to commune with mutineers, to bathe his own hands in the blood of his brothers, and thus lingers about their fringes. Perches himself on a barrel apart from the other men as if, through distance, he might station himself above them.

He pokes at the glistening lumps of meat with shaking hands, fork rattling against his plate like a castanet.

At the table, Hickey and his men sit in silence. They pick up chunks of Billy Gibson with their fingers and drop them like candies onto their tongues. Lick his pink juices off their thumbs, their forefingers.

This is my body, Hodgson thinks, milky gaze fastened on the silhouettes hunched against the pale, colourless horizon. Light winks through the perfect, clean slashes in Hickey’s navy wool coat. Like fingers of sunlight parting the clouds.

His throat burns. Tears prick at his eyes.

There is beauty in all things.

Eternity through atrocity.

The second time Lieutenant Hodgson eats of man, he closes his eyes and thinks of salvation.

                                                           ---

He feels it in his bones first.

They ache—a constant, deep-seated throbbing. Like someone has grabbed hold of each end and pulled. It’s a new kind of agony, wholly unlike the thick, dull pain he has come to acknowledge as scurvy. This is harder, somehow—more primal. It is as intense as any pain he has known here in this distant circle of hell, and yet there is divinity in it, he thinks. Holiness.

He closes his eyes and relishes the pulse of it through him, like a second heartbeat hiding just beneath his own.

The other men do not take to it as kindly. They grunt in their harnesses—low, guttural sounds that layer themselves atop the scrape of wood over rock. Des Voeux whines high in his throat like an animal. Armitage burps out an occasional moan. Tozer is silent, but he wears his suffering plain on his face. Hodgson can hear it all clearly—the wind has died, and in the silence that follows, thick sounds of agony ring like a clavier.

Hodgson lets his own pain resound in him, swallowing around the shape of it in his throat. He imagines it as a summer sun, glowing warm and radiant from within his ribcage.

How long they go on like this, he cannot say. Time itself seems to freeze—there is nothing but the pain. The noise of it. The phantom taste of meat on their tongues, pieces of it clinging like taffy to the spaces between their teeth.

This is repentance, he thinks. Atonement.

Pain is the price of redemption. 

There is an Agnus Dei to be found in their clenched jaws and wet panting; Hodgson pictures it spiraling outward to whatever deity will listen, a new kind of music for a new kind of god. In the distance, the blue of the sky glints like stained-glass windows darkened by clouds.

His fingers are throbbing. Looking down at them, they seem longer somehow, punching out like new shoots from the bulbs of his grey fingerless gloves. Like the promise of spring after a long winter’s thaw.

He curls them around the leather of his harness and hauls.

                                                           ---

The days stretch into each other.

Haul. Rest. Haul again.

Each evening, when Hickey decides they have gone far enough—one mile? ten? twenty? there is no way to tell—the men unchain themselves and draw their tents from the sledges, dragging the ungainly canvas-wrapped bags over the boat’s side like shrouded bodies. They fall freely once liberated from their resting place and smack against the shale with a solid thump.

He can feel Hickey watching. Assessing. The weight of his gaze sliding over them like seal fat.

There is glory in being seen.

No trial without a witness.

Around camp, the men move like wind-up toys on the last legs of life. They erect their shelters slowly, stopping to rub at their jaws and forearms as though they might scrub the pain from their skin.

That is the crux of it; they do not see what Hodgson does. These men think they deserve to be clean.

He closes his eyes. Listens to the creak and groan of the tent-poles, like cries for liberation. The sound is echoed someplace deep in his bones. He lets his agony grow, taking root in his marrow like fungus and spreading its spores outward.

At the edge of the camp, Goodsir’s tent sits silent and empty.

A promise.

A reminder. 

The men have witnessed what comes of weakness. The kind of end served to those who cannot stomach the gift they have been given.

He thinks of Billy Gibson and his empty harness. The pink-stained bags tucked in the sledge like heirlooms. The mouth-watering smell of copper and the way it carries on the scentless air, trailing them like a cloud of incense.

In the morning, he sits on the edge of camp and feels the lengthening gaps in his spine. Sticks his fingers between them and worries the corded muscle there. Near the center, Hickey pries one of the bags open and reaches in so far its ruffled jaws swallow his arm all the way to the shoulder. He pulls out a fistful of flesh, muscle quivering in stringy strips between his fingers.

Hodgson can feel the phantom slide of it down his throat. The fullness which would blossom in his belly.

Need is a wild beast inside him.

“Come,” Hickey says. The men hobble out of their tents, bodies frosted with sleep. As they gather around him, he keeps his hand outstretched, proffering pieces of Billy Gibson’s body like some kind of saint.  “Come eat with me.”

Juice drips down his forearm and gathers in fat drops at the sharp point of his elbow. It gathers the light of the sun and falls in a steady pat onto the shale.

Hodgson rises and falls into line with the others. He looks at the meat in Hickey’s fist and thinks of pomegranate seeds.

                                                           ---

By the time Billy Gibson is more inside of them than inside of the bags, there is no denying it.

Something is happening.

The men are afraid—Hodgson can sense it. The stench of their fear is thick in the air, astringent and saline. It fills his nostrils and carves out a home there.

As a lieutenant, it was once his job to manage men. To listen. To encourage.

It is not like that anymore.

Whatever comforts he has left, he keeps for himself—he will not waste them on men like these. He might sit among them, might haul alongside them, but he is not one of them.

He huddles with several around the pale fire, hands folded awkwardly in his lap. His nails are so caked with grime they seem almost charred, tips grown jagged and pointed. Like most, he is hunched forward like a fern, shoulders drawn inward and spine curving down like a fish hook.

It is their natural state, now. Like their bodies are dragged downward by the weight of their sins.

Confiteor Deo et beatae Mariae semper virgini.

He has been given his penance.

They all have.

In the distance, up on the hill, Hickey stands immovable and erect—a prophet receiving revelation. Hodgson’s eyes are drawn to him; he cannot look away. In the dimming light, Hickey’s edges seem to blur into the landscape, the border between flesh and linen and sky smudged into each other. Like he is become part of this place.

Like he belongs here.

“It’s not natural,” Pilkington is saying to the others, arms wrapped tightly about his knees. “I can tell you that much. Feels like my spine’s punchin’ its way outta my back. Like a great big fist, pushin’ up under my skin.”

From the corner of his eye, Hodgson observes the hard clench of Pilkington’s jaw. The way Tozer’s gaze stabs at the ground. There’s a patch of skin just below his right eye that has turned grey and scaly, like day-old beef. Hodgson caught sight of it this morning. He remembers the desire that shuddered through him, the need to reach out and peel it off.

To take it inside of himself.

Across the fire, Des Voeux is shaking. His chin is tucked down, his throat extending too long for his body.

“My legs,” Pilkington continues, filling the taut silence with words that hang like rocks on a tenuous membrane. Any moment now, Hodgson thinks, it will rupture. “They don’t fit in my trousers anymore. I mean, we’re supposed to be starving, right?”

He looks up at them, eyes large and bloodshot under what remains of his lashes.

No one speaks.

When he resumes, his voice sounds rubbed raw.

Hodgson thinks of ground meat. Pictures the lining of Pilkington's throat shredding itself as he speaks.

He wants to shove a hand down into the boy’s mouth and scrape the sweet pulp out with his fingernails.

“I’m so hungry, all the time. But my calves are— They’re— It doesn’t make any sense.” Pilkington’s voice cracks off. The bumps of his knuckles are white, fists clasped in front of his shins. He blows out a watery breath. “He knows. I’m sure of it.”

His face is strangely bestial in the fire’s hellish light, eyes sunken and cheekbones high and pointed.

Hodgson can trace the paths of muscle just under the skin, wrapping down over his jaw.

The whites—reds—of his eyes are pronounced and wet. Hodgson imagines scooping one out with his pinky and popping it between his molars like a cherry.

“He knows exactly what’s happening to us.” Pilkington is looking out at the hill. At Hickey. Though his voice trembles, he does not look away. Transfixed, as Hodgson was, by the pale glow of him.

                                                           ---

Billy Gibson does not last them much longer.

In his place, the men fall like vultures upon what remains of their tinned provisions, but those too are dwindling. Hodgson shovels the watery sludge into his mouth along with the others, feels it sticking like mud in the back of his throat.

It does not fill him. The more he eats, the hungrier he becomes.

The men appear to feel it the same—their fervor increases with each spoonful, like bacchants at their first sip of wine. They scrape desperately at the bottoms of the tins, as though clawing at the lid of a coffin, and snatch seconds from the crates, thirds. 

Hickey does not stop them; he looks on with beady eyes, a smirk curling on his lips.

This is repentance, Hodgson reminds himself.

His jaw aches.

Soon they will be free. 

When the fervor has died down, sluggish desperation takes its place. He looks out across the shale and sees it littered with tins like hollow carapaces, cracked open and dented. A wasteland of steel and lead, lids popped up and out like gravestones.

The men cradle them against their faces. Let the rims slice deep into their tongues as they lick at the thick juice that clings to the bottom and sides.

Their moans rise off them like steam, a discordant harmony Hodgson feels echoed in his marrow.

Absolution, he thinks desperately. Purification.

In their haste to pry the tins open, some of the men drive knives deep into their fingers—John Diggle slices the webbing between his thumb and forefinger right up to his wrist. When he moves his hand, the hole gapes like a slack-jawed mouth, drooling blood onto the cold rock. Hodgson watches, entranced, as he wraps his lips around the gash and sucks.

His mouth waters.

He does not think he’s seen anything so beautiful as that steaming crimson. It runs in rivulets over Diggle’s waxen chin, the leathery skin of his arm.

Poured out, he thinks, for the forgiveness of sins.

He wants to taste it for himself.

                                                           ---

When they wake one day, ravenous and desperate, and find Pilkington lying facedown on the shale, they are too relieved to mourn.

                                                           ---

It is not long after that death becomes a constant presence among the men.

They cease hauling; none of them are strong enough anymore, except perhaps Hickey. The weakest lie in their tents and hunger. They stare glassy-eyed at the canvas above them, jaws snapping slow and empty, as though they mean to chew the air itself.

Their comrades gather at their bedside, huddled close—not to help, but to wait. To be the first to taste.

Some of the deaths are not easy; men pass moaning, screaming, convulsing. Bones snapped, muscles corded. Like something in them could not find its way out. Hodgson passes his fingers over their faces, their necks, their arms.

He wants to grieve, but finds gratefulness in its stead.

Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts.

When there are more men dead than living, Hodgson lets his questions rise like a tide within him. He finds Hickey sitting cross-legged on the shale.

Hunger gnaws at his stomach. There is a blinding pressure in his jawbone.

“Lieutenant.”

He opens his mouth to speak, and something tears through his gum.

He gasps—the copper tang of blood floods his tastebuds. In the distance, he can hear Tozer screaming.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” Hickey asks. He looks up with mild intrigue, and does not move.

Hodgson’s mouth is aflame. The pressure in his jaw builds and builds until it comes to a head; a sharp, jagged pain, like serrated knife-points sawing upwards from beneath his gums, scraping his teeth out from their sockets. He cries out, and they clatter like pearls onto the shale.

His knees buckle.

There are more of them swirling in his mouth, loose and hard, like pieces of bone loosened from poorly-butchered meat. Hysteria boils within him. He retches, and spits them onto the ground. When he closes his lips, they form around new teeth—long, pointed things. Animal. Savage.

“What is this?” he asks. The words are fat and ill-formed—his mouth is foreign to him. “What’s happening to us?”

Hickey reaches down and picks up a molar, its root shallow and wet with blood. The pad of his finger brushes over it slowly.

Reverently.

A half-smile curls on his lips. When he speaks, he does so without lifting his gaze.

“Divinity.”

                                                           ---

One morning, Hodgson wakes to find a patch of fur on his cheek.

He tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes and fails—exhaustion is a constant film over his vision, a third eyelid.

It’s then that he feels it. A brush of something against the back of his thumb. An echo of feeling on the apple of his cheek.

At first, he does not know what it is, only that it does not belong. His stomach lurches into his throat. He scrapes the back of his hand across his cheek in a panic, as if to brush the thing off.

Pain throbs where he touches.

There is no other change. 

Trembling, he raises his hand again. The thatch of hair is easy to find, about an inch in size—sprouting from the high line of his cheekbone. It’s sparse but coarse, and feels akin to mangy fur beneath his fingertips.

Anxiety buzzes under his skin.

He knows without looking that it is not stubble. The feel of it is wrong, and he has never known stubble to bring with it such pain.

Hodgson thinks of the throbbing in his bones, the tattered mess of Pilkington’s lips. The odor of decay that clings to all of them. Like their flesh is rotting on their skeletons.

Doubt coils in his stomach.

The need to be rid of the thing is expanding inside him; there is not room enough for all his desperation. It swells and swells, pressing his organs against the small of his back, shoving his stomach up into his throat. His heart hammers in his chest.

This isn’t right, he thinks, twisting the strands between his fingers. The movement tugs at his skin, and sharp pain shoots out as if in answer. He gasps—a quick, hitched inhale—and pulls his hand away.

When he looks down at his fingers, they’re dotted with blood.

Trembling, he sits up and pushes his woolen bedcoverings back. More fur pokes out from beneath the hem of his trousers, off-white and short. The fuzz of a lad’s first beard. Beneath it, the entire span of his skin feels tender, like a bruised peach. He can feel every place a strand of the stuff pierces his flesh. Like hundreds of needles stuck into his skin.

The desire to look is almost as fierce as the desire to close his eyes. To hope he might wake again and find it all a dream.

He reaches down. Curls his fingers under the hem of his pant leg and slowly peels it up. 

There’s a small patch of the stuff right where his leg meets his foot. It’s haphazard, as though a child has taken a collection of thin white thorns and impaled them there with little care for pattern or consistency.

At the base of each strand, tiny pearls of blood gleam like rubies.

He lets the hem fall. Swings his legs over the side of the bed.

His heart is rattling in his ribcage. The need to do something holds every muscle taut. He wants to take a razor and shear this affliction from him, skin and all, and yet fear keeps him locked in place.

Outside, the wind has kicked up. It sucks at the canvas of his tent.

He can hear the men moving around outside, the slow shuffle of their feet.

Hodgson raises a hand to his face.

Squeezes one strand of fur between his thumb and forefinger.

And pulls.

Pain explodes behind his eyes; he cries out, pulling harder. Harder. Wildly, he thinks that it must be out by now—that the agony has to relent. How much of it is stuck inside him? But it throbs even stronger, spreading outward until his entire cheek pulses with it.

Repentance, he reminds himself, hand trembling as his fingers sweep over the patch.

He fears he may pass out; his vision slips in and out of focus, unconsciousness washing over him in strong waves. 

Atonement.

It’s still there, poking out of his skin like a weed. Only it’s longer now, as though there is a spool of the stuff buried in his cheek.

Nausea swirls through him. He covers his eyes with his hands.

He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him.

By nightfall, he is covered in it.

                                                           ---

“Lieutenant Hodgson.”

The flaps of his tent part, like skin peeled back from an incision. Watery light filters in through the gap. He can make out a shape blotting out some of it, a dark, blurry form that grows larger and larger until it is all he can see. Behind his head, the gray light cuts a shape like a halo.

“You don’t look well, Lieutenant.”

There are hands on his face. He tries to bat them away, but his limbs are slow to respond.

Fear is coiled in his breast, but his heart taps a slow, measured beat. It is, he thinks, quite unable to manage anything further.

“What—” His lips feel thick around his teeth. The taste of blood is hot on his tongue.

His mouth is pasty, as though his spit has turned to tar. It is difficult to swallow.

“Shhh.”

The hands move to his head. They stroke it gently, lovingly—a mother soothing an unwell child. He can feel his hair ripping in wet chunks away from his skull.

“We’re close now,” the man whispers. Hodgson can feel the heat of his breath. It dampens his ear canal, penetrating deep and making him shiver. “Can you feel it?”

The richness of flesh perfumes the air.

Blood pounds loud and eager through the man’s veins. Like a summons.

Hodgson wets his lips. He feels lightheaded; there is nothing in him but hunger.

Dis-moi ce que tu manges je te dirai ce que tu es.

He turns his head and bites.

[ladylilithprime]

Sastiel Creations Challenge | @ladylilithprime

↳ Theme: One More | Prompt: Day

Fluff Bingo Square: Movie Night

=I Did Not Live Until Today=

Read on AO3

MOVIE NIGHT IN the Bunker had been originally instituted by Dean, and the insistence of Sam that everyone in the Bunker, especially a stressed out and overworked teenaged Prophet of the Lord, needed to take regular breaks to relax and unwind before the constant "go, go, go" made them all go crazy. Hunts would occasionally interrupt the ritual, postpone it for a couple of days, but none of them were allowed more than ten days without a mandatory Movie Night. Dean had insisted that Castiel join these movie nights whenever he was around, intent on "educating" the Angel in what he termed the "classics" of cinema. Castiel had confided privately to Sam that, upon viewing these so-called classics, he was gaining more of an understanding of Dean than he was of why the movies were classical, which Sam had assured him was normal.

Movie Night had been weird after the Trials, because Sam would start out watching the movie with Dean and whoever else was there, but suddenly it would be hours later and he wouldn't remember actually watching any of it despite not having moved. In the wake of Crowley showing up in Sam's head with the brothers' code word tripping off his tongue to warn him that he had an angelic passenger who had taken over the driver's seat, Sam figured he knew what had happened and maybe he felt a little tiny flicker of gratitude for Gadreel sparing him having to watch the monkey movies again, but that was drowned out by the overall feelings of shock and betrayal and rage because how could Dean do this to him?!

It was Sam's decision to continue Movie Night even though it was just him and Castiel in the Bunker now. The original purpose of enforcing a break on overworked humans was still valid, even though now the overworked human was only Sam, and the secondary purpose of introducing Castiel to human entertainment was also still in effect, perhaps even more so after Metatron had downloaded a huge selection of American pop culture into Castiel's head without much in the way of context. Without Dean to steer the selection towards action films and neither of them particularly interested in watching mindless violence and gore, plus Sam's increased aversion to psychological horror films, the movies they watched tended to veer more towards musicals. If Castiel suspected that this, too, might be a bit of Sam's rebellion against Dean's stubborn adherence to mullet rock as the only valid music to listen to, well, he didn't call Sam on it and Sam didn't choose to admit anything.

Tonight was another designated Movie Night, not because it had been too long since the last, but because Sam knew that after the failure of the tracking spell with Gadreel's extracted Grace he, at least, needed something where the fate of the world was less dependant on the outcome. In hindsight, queueing up Les Miserábles was probably not the best idea given the overall setting of the movie and the themes of melancholy and grief that pervaded it, but he suspected Castiel would appreciate the other themes of faith and sacrifice and second chances.

He probably should have expected Castiel's analysis of the story's themes to extend to their lives, but somehow it didn't even occur to him until Castiel blindsided him with an abrupt declaration that Jean Valjean reminded him of Sam.

"I'm sorry?" Sam blurted, not sure he had heard the Angel correctly.

"He is a good man who committed criminal acts for a good cause and was harshly punished for it even after his incarceration ended," Castiel explained, gesturing to the screen where Valjean's pay was docked in front of the other workers, who were openly hostile. "It does not matter to these people that his intentions were noble - to feed his family - or that the crime was relatively minor, all they see is the criminal record and discount the good heart of the man who committed it and is stained by that record in the eyes of the society he serves."

"Cas, that's not... I started the Apocalypse!" Sam said, shaking his head. "That's a good bit worse than stealing a loaf of bread and running."

"You killed a demon," Castiel disagreed. "A demon you had been told by everyone around you was responsible for breaking Seals and that killing her would stop things. You were deliberately not told that she was the final Seal and that killing her would release Lucifer because enough angels, myself included, believed that if you knew the truth then you would not have killed her. Yet you do not blame me for lying to you, or for changing my mind and breaking through my conditioning too late to send Dean in time to stop you. Nor do you blame Dean for breaking under Alistair and being the one to break the first Seal which set things in motion. Instead, you continue to allow people, including Dean who should really know better, to cast the blame for things beyond your control onto your shoulders and even take on blame and responsibility where there should be none, forgetting that any penance required for playing a part long ago set out for you has been more than served."

Sam looked away from Castiel's placid, deeply knowing expression, but found he couldn't focus on the screen until a flash of silver catching light drew his attention. "Look, I don't... whatever redemption I might have earned with jumping has to be cancelled out by the things I did after getting out again, especially all the crap I pulled without my soul--"

"Do you think yourself responsible for your soulless self's actions, even though your soul was still in the Cage being subjected to Michael and Lucifer's torments?" Sam frowned a little at the low notes of guilt and sorrow in the Angel's voice and looked over, but Castiel wouldn't meet his eyes, staring instead at the screen as the old priest backed up Valjean's lie of gifted silver and gave over the candlesticks as well. "Hm. Heaven has not treated you nearly so kindly as this priest does..."

"Castiel," Sam started to reach out, but found his courage falter and lowered his hand with a sigh. "I know you didn't leave my soul behind on purpose. I knew it then, too, even with you keeping secrets and never having mentioned it before that moment... sorry, too, about the holy fire."

"There is no apology necessary," Castiel refuted, though Sam thought he looked moderately grateful for it anyway. "You were right to be suspicious of my actions and motives at the time, if not for that specific reason."

"Still..."

"Sam, I assure you, I hold no ill will over your suspicion of me, nor for your actions to try and stop me. If anything, I am deeply grateful for your continued faith in me even after I had gone off the reservation and done you considerable harm." Castiel shook his head. "We are getting away from the main subject, which is that you are not responsible for the actions your body committed without your soul present."

"It was still my body," Sam argued. "My... impulses or whatever, stripped of my inhibitions--"

"Not true," Castiel interrupted. "Stripped of your higher empathic functions and natural moral compass that is your soul, your body behaved with logical precision not unlike how most Angels would act. While that behavior likely seemed heartless or 'dickish' at times, this was in part because of the contrast to your usual compassion and kindness, but you weren't actively malicious or uncontrolled. Everything, including the decision to go to Dean with the suspicion that something was wrong and to ask him to be your moral compass, was meticulously and logically thought out and reasoned for the most optimal outcome. Recall that your soulless self felt that it was for the best that your soul be retrieved and rejoined with your body, and only rejected the plan when the possibility that doing so would kill you was presented."

"Whereupon I promptly tried to kill Bobby! Cas--"

"Sam," Castiel turned fully to face him and glared at him in a way that reminded Sam forcefully of the fact that this was an Angel of the Lord. "You. Are. Not. To. Blame. Your soulless self attempted to kill a man who showed every sign of being ready to kill you by forcefully reuniting your damaged soul with your body. A soul, I must add, which did not deserve the torment inflicted upon it and to which we owed the continued existence of the human race."

"I was just--"

"Cleaning up your mess, so you've said." Castiel was beginning to look frustrated. "But the Apocalypse was not just your mess. It was Dean's, and mine, and Lucifer's, and Michael's, and every angel and demon and human servant of either side who worked towards setting it off earlier than my Father planned. I would even venture to say that it was my Father's fault for refusing to step in when, despite Raphael's delusions, we had very clear evidence from Joshua that He is still alive and close enough to be aware of the situation." The Angel reached forward then and covered the shell-shocked human's nearest hand with his own. "Your soulless self recognized that, and recognized the unfair imbalance, and quite rightly called us out on our lack of respect for you and your sacrifices. Since regaining your soul, Dean's insistence on leaving past transgressions in the past except when it suits him to drag them out as evidence of culpability and questionable judgement has driven your self-confidence down to the point where you have even allowed Dean to make you believe yourself at fault for not looking for a brother and non-human friend whom you had every reason to believe were dead and at peace.

"No more," Castiel said with a fire in his vessel's blue eyes that had nothing to do with his borrowed Grace. "Sam Winchester, you will listen to me and believe this if nothing else: You. Deserve. Respect. And for my part in allowing others to be negligent in giving you that respect, you have my apologies."

For a long moment, Sam could do nothing more than stare at Castiel, stunned speechless and feeling more than a few echoes of the old awe and wonder with which he had first viewed this Angel of the Lord who had saved his big brother from Hell. It seemed impossible to believe, even with Castiel staring into him and all but demanding that he do so. For all he knew, he had fallen asleep on the couch next to Castiel and all of this was somehow some sort of incredibly vivid dream like the ones he tried to pretend he didn't have about the Angel, because if anything stood a chance at making their current arrangement far more awkward than it ever needed to be....

Castiel must have seen something of his thoughts in his expression, because the intensity faded into sadness and then, before Sam could gather his wits enough to try and reassure him, turned to resolve. "I will remind you of this conversation later, so as to establish better credibility."

"Um..." Sam blinked. That was unexpected. "Okay? Thanks? I'll... work on believing you, Cas, I will, I just...."

"Have several years of conditioning for expecting the worst to work around, as well as the more recent problems with maintained perception of reality," Castiel nodded. "I will remind you as often as is necessary of your worth and worthiness."

Sam nodded, more for the lack of any other way to acknowledge Castiel's words than out of agreement or understanding, jumping a little when the music from the television screen picked up in volume. He turned back to the movie, flushing darkly when he realized that they'd completely missed Fantine's entire arc and Valjean's crisis of conscience, and reached for the remote. "Oh, hey, let me--"

"No, it's--" Castiel's grip on Sam's hand tightened, then released with enough abruptness that Sam found himself stopping anyway, turning questioning eyes on Castiel. "I confess that I have been, ah, 'cheating' with this film, as it is one of the stories that Metatron saw fit to share, though not this particular version."

"Should we put on something else?"

"If that is what you prefer. I am enjoying watching it with you regardless."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if that was because of Castiel's bizarre comparisons between Sam and Valjean, but he swallowed it back and instead forced himself to settle back into the couch beside Castiel to watch the introduction to the Thénardier family and Cosette. The silence stretched between them as the music played, until--

"Sam? Why is Thénardier's wife making that gesture when she sings that there is 'not much there'?"

Sam swallowed down the urge to choke or laugh, because of course Castiel would ask about that. He cut a sharp glance in the Angel's direction to check if he was being trolled, but Castiel's expression showed only genuine puzzlement. "Uh... Well, I mean, uh... some guys get kinda hung up on penis size, uh, taking the whole 'bigger is better' idea way too seriously and, uh, thinking that bigger size makes them better able to please their partners, which, uh, really isn't true across the board. And, uh, there are a lot of guys who think that having those, um, extra inches is all they need for it to be good for their partner, which also isn't true." He found himself looking at the screen in a gambit to not have to meet Castiel's eyes, and moments later he pointed. "See, she's saying the line again without the gesture. So, uh, the implication is Thénardier falls doubly short of the mark."

"I see," Castiel said, his tone meditative. With his eyes averted, Sam couldn't see the speculative look the Angel sent in his direction, though he definitely heard the pointedly dry tone when Castiel added, "Mrs Thénardier would do better to find a more skilled pizza man."

Sam jerked his head around to stare at Castiel again, but this time the Angel's expression was the same sort of bland that he used when trolling Dean, and so Sam managed to force out a chuckle for the joke before settling in to watch the dynamics between the Thénardiers and Cosette with its very Cinderella vibe. Castiel muttered something about "punching John Winchester again" that made no sense and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to know about anyway, and then made a brief comment about Cosette's dream being similar to many human interpretations of Heaven, but otherwise said nothing until Valjean told Cosette that he was now her father.

"Another parallel," he said. Sam, who had hoped Castiel had forgotten about his weird fixation by this point, blinked in confusion.

"Uh, Cas, I'm pretty sure I haven't gone and adopted any random kids," he pointed out. Really, that seemed more like something Dean would do than him, Dean actually really liked kids and liked the idea of being a dad while Sam... not so much.

"Random, no," Castiel agreed. "You are, however, extraordinarily compassionate. I suspect that, if presented with an orphaned child whose situation required more specialized guardianship than a more normal human fosterage system could provide, you would be an excellent parental figure." He was silent for a moment, pensive and troubled, and then said, softly, "I had never had Nephilim of my own, nor am I likely to do so in the future, but if I did and was unable to care for the child myself, I would ask you."

"Me?" Sam gaped at him. "I mean, why me? Why not Dean?"

"Dean has an unfortunate history of being less than tolerant of supernatural occurrences, of children with powers beyond most human capabilities," Castiel said, shooting an apologetic glance at Sam even before Sam was aware of wincing. "A Nephil would inevitably have powers, and I am a Seraph. Only an Archangel could overpower and suppress the Grace of a Nephil sired by me, and there are no more Archangels available to do so. You have powers of your own and training in using them, albeit with an enhancement method that I would not recommend using with a Nephil, and would be well suited to teaching."

"Cas, my powers--"

"Are yours and yours alone. Azazel may have forcefully activated them on his own schedule and attempted to corrupt them and, through them, you, but he - and Ruby - failed. Your soul is far too pure and good for their hooks to find permanent anchor."

"But... I mean, you... angels... you always warned me against using them...."

"Only because the method with which you were amplifying them - that is, drinking demon blood - was so dangerous to you and the people around you, and training them to full strength properly after first tearing down Azazel's blocks would have taken considerably more time and effort... and, I suspect, those of my superiors actively assisting in bringing about the Apocalypse did not want you learning to use your powers without the addictive crutch of demon blood that could be used to prime your rage and point you at Lilith when the time came."

"So why are you just now telling me this?"

"Well," Castiel glanced away, looking somewhat sheepish. "To be honest, I did not realize that you were unaware that your powers were innate and not actually demonic in origin until I overheard you speaking of them in past tense as if they no longer existed because you were no longer drinking demon blood rather than you simply not using them. Given my clumsy understanding of social nuances and the complex mix of negative emotions you associate with your powers, I erred on the side of caution and did not mention it until our current conversation provided an opening."

Well. That was fair. Even so, Sam couldn't help but stare at Castiel as he attempted to process everything he had learned in such a short amount of time. The fact that the majority of Angels hated him was not new, but the fact that Heaven had actively sabotaged his efforts to be better than the demon blood that tainted him was... also not new, exactly, but Sam had never expected to hear it put so bluntly in conjunction with reassurance that his powers - and, by extension, Sam himself - did not come from a source of evil.

Even more bewildering was the hypothetical child Castiel spoke of and his assertion that Sam, not Dean who had always longed to be a parent, but Sam who had barely ever had anything to do with children even when he had been one, was to be given custody of the hypothetical Nephil if Castiel was incapacitated. The way Castiel had talked about the subject made it clear that he had never had Nephilim himself, and Sam knew that the creation of Nephilim was outlawed, and yet the Angel was sitting there, calm as you please, declaring that if he did ever have a child with a human and needed another parent besides himself and, presumably, the mother, that he would pick Sam. Sam, who was uncomfortable around kids at the best of times, even if he could fake passable competence in an emergency. Sam, who wouldn't trust himself to look after a completely human baby, never mind one that had "phenomenal cosmic powers" at its disposal. Sam who, until earlier when Castiel had declared that "nothing is worth losing you", had thought that Castiel might possibly consider him a friend at best and tolerated him as a reasonably useful asset at worst. Mind-boggling just didn't cover it.

And that wasn't even touching the whole thing with Castiel sounding like he was defending the actions of his soulless self. The subject of Sam's time topside without his soul was something Dean had never hesitated shut down hard, but Castiel had sounded almost... complimentary. Which made no sense, Sam knew, because without his soul he had been a tactless jerk, not--

"Your soulless self recognized that... and quite rightly called us out on our lack of respect for you and your sacrifices."

Sam swallowed against the lump forming in his throat, and again when it refused to be dislodged. Everything he did to help people, to try and make up for the damage he had caused, it never felt like enough. All the centuries spent in the Cage with Michael and Lucifer systematically taking out their rage on him amounted to only a year and a half on Earth, and the tortures blurred together to the point where Sam had long since lost count of how many centuries it had really been, shoving it down and shoving it down, his shaky forays into meditation and reshuffling his mind only managing to build the flimsiest of fences between his conscious mind and that echoing chasm of memory and pain, bits and pieces escaping here and there to scratch along his dreams. Little reminders that he may be out, maybe, but he would never be truly free. It was a truth, cold and logical and inexorable, that Dean refused to acknowledge in either of them, touched by Hell as they both were in different ways, and neither of them coping nearly as well as they wanted the other to believe.

"Stripped of your higher empathic functions and natural moral compass that is your soul, your body behaved with logical precision not unlike how most Angels would act."

The irony of an Angel of the Lord comparing his soulless self to other Angels was not lost on Sam, nor was the way that comparison gave him mixed feelings. All the years of praying, of believing in God and His Angels, having faith that some higher power was watching out for Dean and his Dad when he couldn't, that there was real good in the world to counterbalance all the evil being shoved at him from all sides...

"Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood."

...no....

"Nothing is worth losing you."

...but why....

"Sam? Sam, did you hear me?"

"Hm?" Jolted from his contemplating, Sam shot a guilty look first at the screen - how had he missed that much of the movie?! - and then gave Castiel a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Cas. What were you saying?"

"I was asking about Marius's assertion that he is in love with Cosette, when he has only just met her and barely interacted with her at all," Castiel repeated himself after a moment of scrutiny for his friend. "It seems disingenuous, more like the 'love' of the pizza man and the babysitter."

"It's supposed to be love at first sight, Cas," Sam explained, scrubbing a hand down his face. "It's like... when two people who've never interacted before meet, and there's this... connection that forms between them, like they click on a level that is deeper than physical or emotional. A look, a touch of hands... you just know, looking at that person, that this is it. This is the one." He shrugged. "It's talked about in books and movies and stories and songs all the time as this big romantic ideal, a lot like soulmates... uh, cupid-type soulmates, not me and Dean type soulmates."

"Do you not believe in love at first sight?" Castiel asked, tilting his head to the side with that puzzled curiosity that Sam found endearingly familiar.

"I don't disbelieve in it," Sam said, choosing his words carefully. "I mean, being a hunter has taught me that every story has some root in a truth. I just don't necessarily think that it always happens the way the stories make it sound. Like maybe sometimes it's one-sided, or something gets in the way like they live too far apart or one is already married or..." Sam bit his lip before he could continue the thought with mention of angels and humans, because he knew from Castiel that most instances of humans and angels coupling were less about romance and love and more about lust and awkward power imbalances, and the last thing he wanted to bring up right now was the hypothetical Nephil again. "Besides, just because love usually happens more slowly than a couple of seconds doesn't make it any less deep or meaningful or special."

"I see," Castiel hummed, and then, "Sam? How do you know when you're in love?"

...Shit.

"Uh," Sam reached up to rub the back of his neck, only to force his hand back down again when he realised what he was doing. "It's different for everyone, Cas...."

"I am aware," and there was a definite note of impatience in the gravelled voice. "I am asking how you know when you are in love."

"Oh," Sam mumbled. He could feel his face heating up and very nearly prayed that the heat wasn't a visibly obvious blush before he stopped himself; Castiel would probably hear it if he did. "Uh, well... not to sound like a broken record, but it was different for everyone I was... I mean, I felt differently about different people, even though it's all still love."

Castiel made an encouraging noise, and when Sam chanced a look in his direction, the Angel was turned more towards him than the screen, clearly interested and wanting to hear more. Well, okay then. Sam leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes, reaching back into the depths of his memory for the times he was in love or thought he was, shying away from some of the memories like Madison or Sarah or Amelia, and focusing on the deeper ones, the ones that got under his skin and stayed there across the years, even just as scars. There was a pattern there, a set of feelings that overlapped each instance.

"Happiness," he began, because that was the obvious place to start. "When you see the person, you feel happy. Being around them, sitting next to them, holding hands, hugging... full of happiness and joy and peace. You feel happy when they're happy, sad when they're sad, hurt when they're in pain... You want to protect them, even when you know they can protect themselves. You would fight, kill, even die for them, not because they would ever ask it of you, but because losing them is... unthinkable. It's agony. And all the pain is worth it, because seeing them smile is... it's better than Heaven."

"Oh," Castiel breathed. "Yes, that... that makes so much sense now."

There was a shuffling sound, and the couch cushions dipped beneath shifting weight, and then Sam felt one of his hands being enfolded in Castiel's, the skitter of that unfamiliar Grace held tightly leashed beneath his skin tingling just at the edge of Sam's awareness. He opened his eyes and looked at Castiel, who was beaming at him now from much closer than he had been. "Cas...?"

"Sam," Castiel was still smiling, but it was warmer, softer than the brilliant joy of before, more comfortable and... "Thank you for sharing your feelings with me. I was never able to explain myself adequately to my brothers, and so they frequently drew incorrect conclusions that I lacked the necessary frame of reference to refute or correct. Perhaps now I can make them understand."

"Understand?"

"That I am in love with you, Sam Winchester," Castiel squeezed Sam's hand gently. "My world started the day I took your hand. And I would not have it any other way."

"Cas... I...." He couldn't say it. He wanted to, God, did he ever want to say it back, but the words caught in his throat, too used to being choked back after so many years. "Cas...."

"I know. Sam? Will you hold me again? I enjoyed that quite a lot."

"Sure, Cas," Sam shifted, shoving the whirling of his thoughts back and away, and opened his arms. Castiel released his hand and moved closer, pressing the length of his body against Sam's. He let out a soft sigh as Sam brought his arms up to curl around Castiel, settling in a loose embrace that still managed to fully encompass the Angel's smaller physical frame. Together, they turned to watch the movie, wrapped up in each other and the mutual assurance that their feelings, spoken or not, were returned.

"Tomorrow we'll discover what our God in Heaven has in store...."

=End=

[galadrieljones]

A Funeral: Chapter 3

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Existential Angst, Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nature, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their little journey together, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. In their desperate search for meaning, they endure a number of small trials, which bring them closer to one another as well as to the unchecked plights of the natural world.

Masterpost | AO3

Thanks @bearlytolerablethethird​ for the banner!! ^_^

Chapter 3: Poor, Unfortunate Souls

They rode off the next day about seven in the a-m. Mary Beth’s filly Apaloosa was a good size, and her name was Winston. Mary Beth herself was a good rider, a fact of which Arthur was aware, but what he did not know what that she tended to get distracted quite easily. Arthur himself liked to stop and take in sights for sketching, but with Mary Beth, he noticed that she did not really desire to all out stop, she just liked to slow a lot, trotting along to survey the terrain, or to squint at something in the distance that he most certainly could not see. She rarely spoke out loud about it. This was a nice thing about Mary Beth—she did not have to say everything that was on her mind. It was somewhat of a relief. She did like to talk, but when she did, it always felt like there was a purpose to it. Even if that purpose was simple. She didn’t make much for idle chit chat, but he did sometimes, and so he could speak a little bit, and then she was always glad to respond and she could go and go and go if they got on a topic they both liked and understood. She was also very interested in Arthur himself. She liked to know all about him, all about his feelings and his past. He didn’t have many people for this—interested in what it was that went on inside his head. They only needed him for what he could do.

As they got on, late into the morning, he rode a little bit ahead, but he tried not to get too far. He was determined not to be in a hurry but this first day was making him realize that his typical way of doing things was perhaps a little fast. He was not used to company in the wild and so he tried to slow down because that wasn’t the point. In fact, he was not yet sure what the point was, whether it was more to hunt a moose, get free, or just to be with Mary Beth. Sometimes he felt more complicated than he thought he deserved to be. Like that a man who has killed as many other men as he—he was not entitled to his depths. He thought most of the time he ought to just shut the fuck up and get on dealing with this unclear life, but then he would come upon somebody he actually enjoyed being with, and that changed things. He thought sometimes he still hung onto Mary because she had made him feel that way, too. But that was all in the past as she was back on a train somewhere, god only knows. And so he flung all thought of her away, off a cliff, and tried to face forward for a while.

For further supplies and ammunition, they made a stop in St. Denis. The streets were crowded that morning, and the sky was filled with its requisite pollution clouds. Mary Beth was a little thrilled to be in the city, but she also drew a little unsure of herself once they hitched their horses and went over to the gun store. She walked with her head down a little, and she would look around suspiciously from time to time.

When Arthur asked her what was wrong, she said every time she came to St. Denis she felt enchanted by the lights and cobblestone streets but she also felt she did not fit in.

“I ain’t like these people, Arthur,” she said. “You ain’t either. Don’t you feel it? Or, maybe you don't?”

Arthur thought on this.

“I do,” he said, nodding. He felt bigger than everyone in St. Denis. He felt wider. He felt sometimes like he couldn’t fit through their delicate doorways, designed for frenchmen in fancy suits. “But it’s all just a bunch of feathers, Mary Beth," he went on. "There are good people, and there are bad people, just like in our world. It’s just that here, they smell nicer, so it ain't always easy to tell.”

This made Mary Beth laugh. He adjusted his hat and held the door for her to the gun shop. A little bell rang over head. They went inside and were greeted by the shopkeeper. “You smell fine, Arthur Morgan,” she said. "You smell like mint, and tobacco. Like man, of course, but that is to be expected."

Arthur blushed. It was an uncommon thing to hear. “I suppose I’ll take that as compliment,” he said, though he did double check once she was past, just to make sure she wasn’t only being nice. He’d had a bath two days before in the saloon hotel so actually, for once, it truly wasn’t that bad.

While in the gun shop, Arthur purchased many rounds of ammunition for many different kinds of guns. Mary Beth purchased a shotgun with sturdy handling and a bag full of slugs. When they road out the city, Arthur stopped them at a marshy tributary of the Kamassa River, and he was keen to give her a little bit of a lesson on that gun.

“I can use a shotgun, Arthur,” said Mary Beth. There were bugs buzzing in their ears. "I ain't a invalid."

“I know,” he said, swatting. “This one’s heavy though, Mary Beth. It ain’t a sawed-off. It'll handle different, I promise.”

“I suppose you're right,” she said.

They tied up their horses. They went through some simple things. Mary Beth shot a turtle and then felt badly about it.          

“You didn’t kill it,” said Arthur, squinting as they watched it hobbling away into the marsh. “You just…dented it a little.”

“I don’t like shooting animals,” she said. “Unless I’m eating.”

“We can eat a turtle,” he said. “In fact, I know a decent recipe for the soup. But like I said, it’s getting away. There it goes. It's gone now." He waved. "Bye, Mr. Turtle.”

She shoved him in the shoulder. It gave them both a laugh.

After they finished, they each had a can of beans and shared a fresh peach for lunch. They fed their horses. They sat on a blanket by the water. The weather was warm. Arthur loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves. “Mary Beth,” he said at some point where they sat, with their legs out, looking at the water.

"Yes, Arthur."

“That gun," he said, "for you—don’t you go shooting unless you absolutely must. And I mean absolutely. You understand?”

“I know, Arthur.”

“Yeah, I know you know," he said, smoking a cigarette. "I just—I don’t mean to be patronizing. I just needed to reiterate. For my own reassurance.”

She blushed a little and ate a piece of the peach. “Reiteration achieved,” she said. And she saluted him.

They rode again, and this time, into the early evening. There were few horses out that day but plenty of wagons heading down south to St. Denis. This was kind of a strange place, where they were. Arthur didn’t altogether like or trust it, so he took them out west a bit, en route toward Emerald Station—a longer way, but with the sun on its way out, he wasn’t interested in escorting Mary Beth through the unmitigated horrors of the Bayou and the Blue Water Marsh. It’s not like she was dainty, but as he was no man of the southern tradition, and there was little he could do to predict the codeless tactics of cannibals and raping racists. He did not even know how well he could protect himself, let alone himself plus a pretty girl. He almost always avoided the marshes at night.

They rode about till dusk, making it all the way up to south of the stables near Dewberry Creek. Arthur had wanted to make it to Emerald Station by nightfall, but with two of them, and their extended lunch in the marshes, the day had gone slower than he anticipated. So he decided that, rather than try and ride into nightfall, when the old creatures and the monsters and the weirdos come out, they’d head off the road and make camp early, when they could still catch view of the horizon.

They came upon a covered bridge. With the dusk was coming fog. Arthur felt a chill, like maybe something wasn’t right. They idled at the bridge.

“I was thinking,” he said to Mary Beth, leaning and petting Sarah’s mane with his hand, “we could find a good spot up yonder. Rather than pushing through into the night. What do you think?”

Mary Beth was glancing around. She finished off an apple then tossed the core to the earth. “I think that’s wise,” she said. “Plus I’m getting hungry. I mean, for more than just fruit.”

“Me, too,” said Arthur. He resituated his coat and his hat and lit a smoke. They trotted the length of the bridge side by side. Mary Beth made a joke about rivers that Arthur laughed at but would soon forget. At the end of the bridge, Arthur’s horse shuffled around like she was disturbed. She was a fast trotter, but a skittish animal

“Whoa, girl,” he said, reining her gently. "Whoa. Whoa."

“Arthur,” said Mary Beth. "Arthur."

“What is it?”

That is when he looked up, and that is when they were approached. Three men on foot, one with his shotgun brandished at his hip, another holding a torch, standing at the end of the bridge. They were nasty characters, wearing plain clothes and with teeth missing. Arthur knew right off what was going on and signaled for Mary Beth to make a full stop. "Hold up," he said, real low.

The men stood in a row. The first one was chewing something. He spat right onto the surface wood of the bridge, a big nasty mouthful of brown juice. “Howdy,” he said. He wore a porkpie hat. “Fine evening.”

“Indeed,” said Arthur, still with the cigarette hanging out his mouth. “How can we help you boys?”

“We’ll be taking your horse,” said the man, raising his shotgun a little. He surveyed the scene, the situation, raised it higher. “And all your money, of course." He seemed to think on it then, rearrange his plans. "And the girl.”

Mary Beth seemed to take offense. "Fat chance," she said.

Arthur shushed her, made kind of a low chuckle. “That is amusing, good sir," he said. "But I am afraid we'll have to decline."

"Excuse me kindly."

"Why don’t you just move aside?” said Arthur, very serious then, laying his hand on the grip of his pistol.

The man in the hat became angered maybe then. Emboldened by Arthur's aloofness. He picked his gun up a little higher in response. His voice got louder. "Dismount your horse," he said.

Arthur raised his eyebrows, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and surveyed its burning ending. Then he flicked it the earth and gave all three of the men a long, lazy look in the twilight. At first, he did not speak.

“Did you hear me, boy?”

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth, in a high whisper. She did not sound scared, merely ready. “What do I do.”

Arthur's voice was low, barely more than gravel. "Don't touch that gun, Mary Beth."

She nodded, waited.

“You got till the count of five,” said the man in the hat now. He was a brave soul.

“Oh yeah?" said Arthur. "Five? And then what?”

“And then I shoot,” said the man. He set his sights on Arthur. "You, then the girl." Nobody moved. “One…two…”  

Arthur rolled his eyes then. It was almost in slow motion. But he drew his pistol at a whip speed, and inside of three seconds, shot two of the men dead. The third got spooked, dropped his torch, and ran off. It was over, just like that.

“Shit,” said Arthur, watching the third man go, squinting into the advancing night. A bunch of birds had taken off at the ringing of his pistol. It was still smoking. He settled Sarah a little without even paying her a glance. He was trying to decide whether to take off after the man on horseback, or to concede. “Where’d he go?” He chose to concede. But then.

“Sweet fucking Christmas, Arthur Morgan.”

Mary Beth’s voice was high and exasperated. It was such an unusual sound—he did not usually hear women’s voices in moments like these. It yanked him out of his trance. “Excuse me?”

“You blew their heads clean off!”

He just stared at her. She was giving him a kind of scolding look as he came back into their reality. “Yeah, I know,” he said, scratching behind his ear. He holstered his pistol. “I didn’t want that, but what would you have had me do instead? Let them take you?”

She trotted her horse up to the mess. Brains and blood all over the bridge. “Geesh.”

“It was them or us, Mary Beth.”

She sighed again. “Oh, Arthur.”

He did not know what to say.

Suddenly then, she was off her horse. And then she was on her knees beside one of the dead men. She was rifling through their pockets. Arthur came to again and looked around in sudden clarity. Whoever that man was who got away, he might be coming back with law, and that was not good. “Mary Beth,” he said, hurried. “What on god’s earth are you doing?”

“You shot the fellers. Least we can do is rob them.”

Arthur shook out his head. His horse was shifting. “I have committed murder in semi-daylight,” he said. “One of them got away. We need to leave. I don’t need no more bounties in New Hannover territory, Miss Mary Beth.”

“I know, I know,” she said. “But at least this way their deaths was worth something.”

“Their deaths was worth your life.”

She waved him off, picking through the second dead man’s jacket. “Got a couple wedding bands here,” she said. “Gold. Real nice. Married and dumb, I see. Fuckin idiots.”

Arthur lit a cigarette, a nervous habit. He was keeping watch. “All right. Grab those and let’s get a move on now. Come on.”

“Got em,” she said. And then she tucked the rings and a couple watches into her dress pocket, plus a handful of change and she mounted her horse. “All’s good, lieutenant. Let’s ride.”

He laughed at this. She was awful funny. He trotted out front. “You are a brave woman,” he said.

“Wasn’t I who done the shooting.”

“Don’t take much guts to shoot two men in the head like that, Mary Beth. Just skill.”

“Yeah well, you call it what you want it. But I know what I know. And I know it was them or us, Arthur. I do. I’m just making it hard for you is all. I am grateful.”

He smoked, smirking in a bashful quiet. This he did not expect. “Okay then," he said. "Don’t mention it. Let's just go."

They picked up and rode like hell past the river. Arthur took them off the trail in a short while, and they built a fire and Mary Beth prepared a little venison for their dinner, with a couple cans of carrots on the side. They made camp, and they had dinner, just as the sun sank out of view, soaking the whole sky with its fiery farewell.

[lucifercaelestis]

all of the stars

this is my fic for the @keithminibang, thanks to the mods for organizing such a wonderful event

so many thanks to my artist @ajhebard for such wonderful art, it was a pleasure working with you 

link to the art

and thank you @miidiocreshards for beta’ing and dealing with me in general

read it on ao3

Summary:

“Prove your honour by taking our Trials. Should you succeed, you will have proven your honour and we will join you as allies, and provide you with any materials you need for your battle. Should you fail, then you will be executed for treason.” He was speaking before he even had time to think about it. “I’ll do it.” ~ With everyone still reeling from the reveal of Keith’s heritage, an impromptu trip to Cetra to gather materials is more than a welcome distraction.

But things never go as planned of course and Keith must prove his worth to the Cetra. Both for his team, and for Shiro.

The trip to Cetra should have been a simple, diplomatic mission.


When Slav had wrung his hands–all eight of them– about not having enough mithrilan for the teludav, Coran and Allura had jumped on the chance to visit the planet it came from.

Allura remembered the Cetra as an honourable people, describing them as eager to help and fight for justice.

“The Cetra have been allies of Altea for decaphoebs. Their people shared an instinctive ability to connect with what we know as quintessence,” she explained. “They also supplied the materials for our teludavs, se we’ve always had an amiable relationship.”

Surely they would be more than happy to face Zarkon and bring him down, once and for all.

Even without her seal of approval, the team would have welcomed a break. The past few weeks, they had been hard at work, collecting the materials needed to build the massive teludav, while saving whoever needed saving.


Keith was especially looking forward to it. Thing had been tense, to say the least, since his Galra heritage was revealed.

He was grateful that Shiro accepted him wholeheartedly but the rest of the team had yet to warm up to it.

They would come around eventually, Shiro assured. Until then, all Keith could do was endure Pidge’s questions and Lance’s mocking. He’d spent most of his time hiding out on the training deck when they weren’t on missions, hoping that it would help.

But for Allura, no matter what he did, she only seemed to drift further and further away.

He stayed out of her way as they boarded the lions, trying to brush off her cold glare. It almost made him wish that she had ignored him instead. He didn’t contribute much to the conversation going on between the team as they traveled to Cetra, preferring to stay silent.

They landed on the planet with minimal problems, lions kicking up dust in front of the castle. The Cetra delegation were waiting for them by the door.

The group parted, allowing a lone figure to stand at the head.

"Greetings, Princess Allura. I am Ifalna, Queen of Cetra and it is an honest pleasure to see that you are alive and well. My ancestors were deeply saddened to hear that of the destruction of our friends, the Alteans, and wished we could have fought beside you." "Your Excellency, I bear your people no ill will. Had you fought beside us, it is likely you would have perished as well. By my side is Coran, my advisor, and the Paladins of Voltron. Thank you, for extending your hospitality towards us. " "So the rumours are true," she breathed. "Voltron truly has returned." "Yes. We've been fighting against Zarkon, hoping to bring back peace to the universe." “I believe you, princess. Zarkon’s reign has lasted for too long, indeed.” A dark look crossed her face, but it cleared as quickly as it came. “The Cetra would be honoured to join you in your quest. But first, let us enjoy a meal with our new friends."

They were lead to the dining hall and at the queen’s table, staring with wide eyes at the feast prepared for them.

The conversation flowed smoothly at first, with Keith managing to evade difficult questions. But of course, the topic of the Galra had to come up at some point.

“We can only ever expect the Galra to be cruel. It’s practically in their blood,” he heard an official remark.

Keith stiffened in his seat before making an effort to relax.

“The Galra are a plague upon the universe. They have no honour, no mercy and deserve none in return,” the queen said coldly.

He’d had some unfavourable thoughts about the Galra too, especially after learning more about what they’d done to Shiro. But as more comments left the queen’s lips disparaging the Galra, he began to feel somewhat uncomfortable.

No matter his feelings towards Zarkon and his ilk, the Blade of Marmora had proven that not all Galra were dishonorable, cruel tyrants.

He didn’t think of much of it when a colourfully dressed Cetra asked to speak with the queen.

He did notice the sound of her chair scraping back, a cold look on her face as she started to address them.

"Princess Allura. I regret to ask this of you, but were you aware that your Black Paladin has strong ties to the Galra?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"We would not have known, had one of my advisors not recognized him. I remember the viewings… The Champion, so small and unassuming, but undefeated in the ring. So much that they even seeked to improve him by gifting him with their own technology.”

Keith hated the look on Shiro's face. How resigned he looked, knowing that the things he'd done while he'd been captured would keep haunting him.

“He never refused a fight and he never lost. Isn’t that right, Champion?”

Shiro flinched at the title.

“How many have you killed, Champion? And how many of those were innocent?”

The words from the Cetra queen’s mouth were phrased as questions, but Keith knew what they really were: attacks.

“Enough! Shiro doesn’t deserve this. Shiro was a prisoner of the Galra. He did what he had to do to survive.”

It made him utterly furious that someone would dare target Shiro’s weak spots like that. He didn’t know much about Shiro’s time in captivity but he knew enough to know that Shiro still carried deep scars from that time, both physical and mental.

“Prisoner though he may have been, it does not change that the Galra mindset has clearly infected you. Victory or death, that is the Galra way, is it not? You've clearly shown that, haven’t you, Champion?”

Their contempt for the Galra was understandable. The Galra had done horrendous things on their road to conquer the entire universe and it was hard to imagine any of them being trustworthy after all that. He’d felt the same way at first, and his horror and dread at suspecting his connection to the Galra had overwhelmed him at times.

But then he’d met Ulaz, and learnt of the Blade of Marmora, and was introduced to the idea that some Galra were good, that they weren’t all complicit in conquering and enslaving other worlds, that they worked against the empire to fight for freedom.

He stood up and slammed his palms on the table.

“Shiro was a prisoner. No matter what he did then, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s not Galra.” He paused, his voice growing quieter, “Not like me.”

He could feel the team’s eyes on him, shocked at his outburst, but he kept his focus on her.

She looked at him closely then, and her eyes narrowed before she glared at them both.

“A gladiator and a Galra as Paladins. The lions' standards must have fallen far, Princess. You cannot trust them.”

“We have Galra allies as well,” Keith protested. “People who’ve infiltrated the highest and lowest ranks of Zarkon’s court, spread throughout the empire. They've existed for decaphoebs, spying on Zarkon and fighting against him when they can. Doesn't that prove that Galra can be trusted?”

She dismissed him with a wave. “If they've existed for so long, why have they not dealt with Zarkon before? As I’ve said before, you cannot trust the Galra. And as long as I cannot trust you, I can never allow my people to ally with you.”

“Then what can we do to prove ourselves worthy of your trust?” Allura asked, her voice high with worry.

The queen paused, looking thoughtful.

“Prove your honour by taking our Trials. Should you succeed, you will have proven your honour and we will join you as allies, and provide you with any materials you need for your battle. Should you fail, then you will be executed for treason.”

He was speaking before he even had time to think about it.

“I’ll do it.”

“What?” Shiro said. “Keith, no!”

Keith was unmoved. “Better me than you. I’m Galra, so I should take responsibility for this.”

“Allura,” Shiro turned to her furiously. “You can’t seriously be allowing this?”

“We need allies, Shiro. And the Cetra are powerful allies,” she replied, even if she was beginning to look hesitant. “The mithrilan is necessary for our final plan against Zarkon.”

She trusted Keith less than she did them apparently. That, or she wanted to trust them, clinging to a reminder of her past that was still there, unlike Altea.

Shiro turned to Keith. "Keith...you don't have to do this. We can just leave, we don't need them."

Even as he said it, Keith could see the frustration on Shiro’s face. They both knew that an alliance with the Cetra was necessary. "Yes, I do." Shiro made to protest but Keith held up his hand. "I have to do this, Shiro. Trust me.”

“It doesn’t have to be you,” the queen interrupted. “It could just as easily be the Champion. Either one of you would prove your point.”

“Keith…” Shiro pleaded. Let me do this for you, his eyes said.

But Keith already knew his answer. If he could spare Shiro from this by doing it himself, he’d do it, no questions asked. “No. It should be me.”

"You would do that? You would undergo these trials, knowing nothing of them, just to spare him? Why would you do that? He is a monster, and so are you," she hissed at Keith.

He saw Shiro curl up inside a little more at the remark.

"I'm sorry about what they did to your planet, I really am, but Shiro doesn't deserve this. If there's anyone you should be blaming, it's Zarkon for putting you both in this position."

An advisor cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Your Excellency, if he offers to go through the trials for the Champion, we are honour bound to accept it. It is the law."

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "I have no choice but to allow this. This is your final chance to back out, paladin. Make the right choice and allow the Champion to fight his own battles."

Keith returned her glare with a determined look. "I'll do whatever it takes if it means Shiro doesn't have to."

"The Galra I know would never have submitted to another planet's Law. You would submit to our judgement?"

Every pair of eyes in the hall was fixed on him as they waited for his reaction.

Keith and Shiro looked at each other for a moment. Keith tried to convey how much he needed to do this, and Shiro– Shiro relented, because he understood Keith even when no one else did. Even when he disagreed, he supported Keith because he trusted Keith and his abilities.

Shiro placed a hand on his shoulder as support.

“Whatever it takes.”

She nodded grudgingly at him. “Then the trials will commence tomorrow. Maybe you will change my mind, Galra, but I doubt it.”

“I will.”

Read more on AO3

[that-one-smartass]

The Creation of the Andrew Minyard Defense Squad

An idea that started with @apprenticedmagician listening to my ramblings.  And turned into my contribution to Twinyard Appreciation Week.

Aaron is irritated. It’s not like this is a rare state for him to be in.  He’d spent much of his life irritated.  And the source isn’t new either.  But spending an extended amount of time with his brother’s fuck buddy is a new kind of torture.  Baring the one short conversation at the cabin last spring, Aaron and Josten had made a point of avoiding each other.  Until now.  Because of course Josten just had to mouth off to the press about the Ravens.  AGAIN.  And of course the cult that makes up Ravens fans had to start sending death threats. So of course the Foxes must protect sweet, baby, gonna-get-all-of-them-killed Neil.

Aaron had been content to leave the matter alone.  Either Josten’s smart mouth finally got him killed, or he would come back from the dead again with more scars.  But Andrew had asked Aaron to escort Josten around campus when Andrew couldn’t.  And Andrew—he had never asked for anything.  It irked Aaron that of course when he did, it was about precious Neil.  But Aaron found he couldn’t turn his brother away when faced with a genuine request—even if it had been in the usual monotone.

So here he is. Escorting the idiot to his Spanish class across campus.  To an outsider, it would look like two strangers just happened to walk side-by-side on the thin sidewalk.  Content to ignore Josten and be ignored in return, Aaron starts to pull out his phone to see if Katelyn’s out of class yet.  

A shout of “WESNINSKI” stops him.  His head snaps to the right where a group of football players stand in a huddle.  The ring-leader in the middle of the group grins over at Josten.  It is not friendly.  Aaron looks to Josten as well and notices that he hasn’t stopped.  Quickening his pace just a bit to catch up, Aaron keeps the football players in his peripherals just in case.

“HEY WESNINSKI I’M TALKING TO YOU,” rings across the grass as the group starts towards them.  Aaron can see Josten’s knuckles clench around his book bag strap and his jaw clench, but otherwise he gives no reaction.  “Hey Butcher, I was just wondering if you know that Serial Killer 101 is that way,” the asshole says when he gets closer, his friends snickering behind him.  Josten just keeps walking so Aaron follows suit.  When a hand reaches out to Josten, Aaron expects a reaction similar to Andrew’s. Maybe a pulled knife or a punch. What he doesn’t expect is for Josten to neatly side step the grab causing the football player to trip.  He also expects that fucking mouth to get them is more trouble.  What he doesn’t expect is Josten to continue walking to the course of disgruntled shouts behind him.  

“Since when do you ignore that kind of shit?”  Aaron feels compelled to ask as they leave the group behind.

Josten rolls his eyes, “That’s hardly the worst I’ve heard in the last year.  If I stopped for every person that said shit like that to me, I’d never make it to class.  Or practice. Or a game.”

Aaron studies his face intently, wondering if Andrew knew what his fuck buddy apparently deals with. He almost asks, but at that moment they reach the Language Arts building and Josten disappears inside with a small nod back.

So he can control his mouth.  Why the fuck can’t he keep it shut any other time.

Now that Aaron is tuned to it, he hears the jeers directed Josten’s way constantly.  Josten doesn’t seem to care.  Why Aaron cares is because Andrew does.  Any time his brother is in the vicinity when the calls of ‘Wesninski’ and ‘Butcher’ follow Josten, Andrew steps up to whoever just took their life into their hands. Andrew who doesn’t care about anything puts himself in danger for some broken, impulsive, lying thing.  Aaron hates it.

Aaron gets it—gets Josten—months after that first incident.  They’re playing Breckenridge in the death matches. The game started ugly and it’s only continued to escalate.  It’s the fourth quarter, Aaron is dripping sweat under his armor, his brother is at his back, and Breckenridge is making one final try for the goal before they’re out of the championships.  Aaron steps up to the brute barreling towards him but is met with a wall of six-five muscle that he can’t break.  He watches from the ground in horror as that same wall crashes into his brother.

Aaron sees red as soon as Andrew crumples to the ground in his goal.  The buzz of the goal barely registers as he staggers to his feet, intent on making the offending striker pay.  Before he can get more than two steps, a blur of orange passes in front of him. The Breckenridge striker hunches over before Aaron can register that Josten just dealt the stricker a fierce blow to the abdomen.  He rears back for another punch when a small “Neil” comes from the goal.  Josten immediately drops his fist, pushes the striker to the ground to get him out of the way, and hurries over the Andrew’s slowly moving form.

Aaron breaks from his stupor to continue towards the two.  Josten barely spares him a glance as he hovers over Andrew.  Aaron locks eyes with his brother as he gets to his feet. “Alright?” comes the breathless rasp.

“Yeah,” Aaron answers automatically.  Whistles are blowing as red cards are handed out to the striker and Josten.  Not that Josten is paying attention.  His eyes are scouring over Andrew in search of injury.

“Idiot, go away,” Andrew scoffs, shoving at Josten.

He stays for another minute as if making absolutely sure that Andrew is fine before he shrugs. “Worth it,” he says as he begins to walk off the court.  To Aaron he says, “Don’t let them do that again,” as he passes.

“Obviously.”

They win the game.

Later, at Eden’s, the whole team is drinking to celebrate the advancement to championships.  Aaron and Neil drew short straws to get the next round.  They’re waiting for Roland to fill up two trays when the loud ramblings of some drunk reaches them.  “…and he’s a psychotic little shit.  That one. The blond over there.  Offered to buy him a drink once and the psycho pulled a fucking knife.  Still think he just needs-”

Aaron turns and plants a fist in the asshole’s stomach.  The dick crumples with the hit as Aaron straightens, “That’s my brother you shit for brains,” he says with a snarl.

“And someone like you doesn’t deserve to be in the same club as him, much less buy him a drink,” Josten drawls from Aaron’s left.  His eyes blaze with the same fury that often gets him death threats.  They turn back to the bar as one to grab the trays and make their way back to the table.  They throw back a shot simultaneously and take a seat.

“The fuck was that?” Andrew asks watching them both closely.  “Hate spending time with each other that much?”

Josten rolls his eyes and settles back in his seat.  Aaron stands to head to the dance floor, but as he does Josten looks over.  They share a single nod.

Aaron and Josten talk now, but it is only ever about Andrew and only ever in passing.  It’s a relay of information.  

“Heard that striker say to aim for Andrew’s ankles.”  A stretcher is called onto the court soon after for Belmont’s striker.

“That asshole two tables over was talking shit about the trial.”  A deliberate hip to a table later and the asshole no longer has a working laptop.

Small exchanges back and forth with increasing frequency.

”The fuck is going on with you and Neil?” Andrew asks as soon as Aaron stumbles into the kitchen in search for coffee after a night at Eden’s.

“Fuck are you talking about?” he mumbles while rummaging through the cabinet for a mug.

“The two of you were whispering like a bunch of school girls last night,” comes the bland response.

Coffee finally in hand, Aaron turns to face his brother.  The memory of some dicks talking shit about Andrew comes with the first sip of coffee.  The memory of orchestrating their very full drink tray tipping to the floor with Neil comes with the second sip.  A shrug is all he gives in response.  The usual bland look sharpening into a glare tells him that Andrew knows exactly what happened.

“Thinking to protect or defend me is a useless delusion.  I’m not sure which of you infected the other, but the stupidity ends now,” he states in that way that says he expects to be obeyed.

“We disagree.”

An eyebrow quirks up, “Oh, it’s we now, is it?”

“We.”

A stare down.  Then, unbelievably, a scoff.  A concession.  “You’re both idiots.”  A small quirk of lips.  It takes Aaron a moment to recognize it as a small smile.  The first he’s gotten from his brother since the drugs.  Since Drake.  Since he finally became the protector.

Worth it.

[sidrisa-blog]

Power and Magic

Read it here on AO3

Pairings: Loki x Reader and the lightest Sif X Thor

Chapter: 25/104 Microaggressions

Warnings: the usual: sex, death, and violence with light smatterings of misogynoir

Summary: The princes come with their exalted Father arriving amidst a hail of pomp and pageantry all parties would rather forgo. This is war, where men die, their blood purchasing land and peace until it's time for more men and more blood. But your mother adheres to the old rules of hearth and hospitality. The Lords of Asgard must be given their due despite the grim business precipitating their arrival. It is too bad they don't deserve it. There is nothing to recommend him, Loki, Prince of Asgard. He is rude and cold and childish. You try to find some merit in him. You find none. Exactly none. But maybe, after trial and tribulation,

You will.

Edvard is sweet but you thought he was just going introduce you to his friends or get you a glass of wine. You weren’t expecting him to ask you to dance. Rather you didn’t hear him ask because you were too busy asserting yourself with Loki in your damned head. You should have said no when you discovered his intentions, explained that you were saving your first dance for someone else. But you let him guide you to the floor anyway, his shaky, ill-coordinated steps making mash of your toes.

It’s a blessing unlooked for when Tolvir...Tolbard? Arrives to cut in. You can’t remember his name exactly, he rambled more than danced, going on about hunting and his estate in Breidablik. You end your dance early with him, faking pain in your legs. He offers to escort you to your seat on the dias but you decline.

“I must insist. A princess, especially one so delicate, must be accompanied.” His hand remains open for you to take it and he’s not moving. You really don’t wish to sit, you’re not even hurt but…

“Delicate Tolmund? Now what about this woman suggests such?”

A lady comes to your rescue, shooing Tolmund away with a sweet but withering grin. “I will escort the Princess, you’ve occupied enough of her time as it is.”

“Your Grace.” It’s Ylva. You’re grateful for her intervention, but you’re not quite thrilled with how she did it. You’re not ‘delicate’ it's true, but the way she says it makes you feel odd. Like you have no business being ‘delicate’ at all, like the notion of vulnerability is foreign to you, and after crying with Frigga and Niti about your mother you know damn well that’s not true. The moment passes long enough for you to let it go, ascribing your feelings to nerves and overthinking.

“My gratitude.” You whisper once Tolmund is out of earshot.

“Of course. Tolmund can be an incessant chatterbox. Going on about his brutish hobbies.”

You scrunch your brow a bit. “I actually rather enjoy hunting. Back home, the spring hunts would be going on about now. We shoot waterfowl and pheasants. There’s a huge feast.”

“Yes, but your home is here now is it not?”

“Uhh…” Such a simple question but it startles you. Makes you ask yourself: ‘Where is home now anyway?’ Is it the place you sleep, or the place where your ancestors sleep? Is it the place you’ve known for your life, or the place where your life is safe?

Ylva stares, noting the awkward and extended silence.

“I haven’t given that question much thought.” Your honesty is as much for her as it is for yourself. You don’t really know.

“I’m surprised. It seems Lady Frigga and Lord Odin have shown you nothing but hospitality.”

“Oh no, please don’t mistake me.” You defend yourself with a wave of your hands, hoping your hesitance didn’t convey contempt for your hosts. “They’ve been the kindest.”

“Yes, especially given the circumstances.”

“Right.” You offer a half-hearted answer considering such ‘circumstances’ were your mother dying, your uncle and cousin trying to kill you, and the death of your friends and allies.

She bleeds you with painless cuts, upsets your confidence, and rattles your peace. And she does it with a smile and the best intentions. You’re sure she’s not intentionally being rude or cutting but if her tongue was a knife, bits of you would be on the floor by now. Your scar burns, you lace your hands just under your breasts and over the injury. Your chilly fingers don’t soothe the pain.

“Still, no matter the circumstances.” She waves her hand, waving away your dead mother and stolen throne. “I’m glad you're here. It is good to have another highborn lady among us. And so beautiful besides.” She tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear, confused when it springs back defiantly returning to its proper place curled and kinked about your temples.

You suffer it, your hair never conforms without heat or heavy hands. “Thank you your Grace.”

“Please you must call me Ylva. I regret you left us so soon the other day. You must allow me to make it up to you.”

You let go of an anxious sigh, grateful for the change of topic.

“No no, the fault is mine.” It is, you made an ass of yourself and insulted that poor girl’s brother. “Is Lady Astrid here? I’d like to apologize.”

Ylva hums, thinking, looking as though she misplaced something she needs to find, like an earring or an idea.

“Oh, I don’t think I saw her here.”

Ylva comforts you when your face falls.

“You mustn’t be so hard on yourself for what happened. We all misspeak sometimes.”

“True, I didn’t know her brother, but he’s probably not the coward I called him.”

“Oh no, I looked into it. Her brother is most assuredly a coward, his job was to guard the supply chain and they found him guarding it very well from underneath a wagon.”

“Still, for all the horrors that go on in a battle, being under a cart might be a better pla--”

“But the girl was exceedingly foolish to suggest the Prince Loki is a coward.”

Your words tangle with hers but you choose to leave them behind rather than try to extract them. The last you saw him, he was glowering in a corner. When you look back to that same corner he’s not there and your heart sinks. “No, the Prince is no coward.”

“He has such a poor reputation. Some of it is earned, rest assured, but most of it isn’t.”

“Princess! Princess!” Thor thunders like his name, calling for you from clear across the hall. The crowd would part for him if he gave them half a chance to move but he just barrels through, determined to reach you.

Ylva pulls you close. “But however much his reputation is mere rumor I do know this: be careful Princess. It’s hardly a secret you’re next on his lists of conquests, the famed ‘Horse Princess’. And when he’s tired of you, he’s like to pass you along to his brother. That’s how they treat their lovers, no better than toys. Poor Olga, she never recovered and I’d hate to see that happen to you.”

She releases you, her poison planted, and bows before the heir apparent. “My Lord Thor.”

“Princess! Since my brother has forgotten about you, dance with me instead!”

He beams at you but you don’t take his hand, thinking wryly Ylva’s prediction has come true a little early.

“If my Lord Thor wishes for a dance, he may ask the Duchess instead.”

You figure you’ve killed him from the way his face falls. “I--I I meant…”

This is the height of ill-manners, you know it. But you can’t quite bring yourself to care. While Thor stammers, you leave, breezing past Ylva, unaware of the smirk on her face.

[isakthedragon]

A Dragon Sized Adventure Chapter 35

Chapter 35: Nina's Little Terrarium Of Horrors

*Our heroes enter the Transylvania Terrarium. Once there, they find themselves in a city under the morning sun. The buildings are tower-like and only have bases with sharp corners. Shadows extend tall and wide in the sunlight.*

Espio is lost in thought and gives an audible "Hmmm..."

Spyro has a concerned look "What's wrong, Espio?"

Espio: "Something is not right here..."

Shadow seems lost in thought too. "He's right. But what is it..."

Tails: "What makes you guys think that?"

Silver: "I think I know... it's that Sun."

Blaze: "The sun?" *She looks at it.* "OH!"

Sonic: "What is it? We can't see it clearly like you can."

Blaze: "That's not a sun. It's lights surrounding a clock. And someone forced the whole rig out of alignment so it can't move normally."

Sonic: "So it's morning here unless it's fixed. But I don't see what's the problem."

Shadow: "I think that clock also controls the sun in those warp areas."

Espio: "So if it's morning here forever, it will be morning in the past forever too."

Tails: "So we have to fix it. But how..."

Silver: "Hey, Crash, do you mind if I take the lead for this world?"

Crash: "Sure! Go right ahead." *Crash smiles.*

Silver: "Alright then. Let's fix this."

(I think that this Terrarium would sound like this, but more towards metal.)

-----

Level 46: Mutant Swamp

*Cortex and Eggman appear.*

Cortex: "Hmmm, so you are one of those creatures that bother Eggman so much. I never expected you to get this far..."

Eggman: "Just you continue gather crystals and see what we do." *They disappear.*

Crates: 149

Time Trial

Sapphire: 1:45.00

Gold: 1:40.00

Platinum: 1:35.00

Grimlies to Save: 0

Helping Partner: Crash

Badniks: Amphibian (*****) Lab Assistant Pawn: A strange small frog-like pawn. It's pretty easy to smash since it has a small bite. Beasts: Alligators: *Snap Snap*

Mutants: Brat Girl: Bat minions mixed with the attitude of a valley school girl. They carry megaphones to assert dominance.

(The music would be something like this, but more rock.)

Welcome to the Transylvanian Terrarium... although it doesn't really feel like it right now. This first level is a romp through the swamp which you can sink into if you keep still. It shouldn't be that tough to keep moving since there are weak enemies about. What will surprise you is that halfway through the level is a psychic spot...

Silver: "Hey, Crash, I think these markings on the ground suggest I can use my psychokinesis here."

Crash: "So you can get the sun moving?"

Silver: "Hmm..."

*One psychokinetic movement by the player later (Done by manipulating the sun).*

Silver: "Hmm, it's still stuck, but I got it to the mid morning position. I think we need to find more."

Crash: "Okay!"

*The level ends here, but a gem is given to you for moving the sun.*

Achievement Unlocked: Swamp MutantCats

-----

Level 47: Red Riding Crash

Crates: 132

Time Trial

Sapphire: 1:30.00

Gold: 1:25.00

Platinum: 1:20.00

Grimlies to Save: 0

Helping Partner: Blaze

Badniks: Tronks: Badnik mech trees that try to attack you with hand like limbs (*****) Lab Assistant Pawn: Just Eggman's simple and regular pawns with no outstanding features. Nothing to see here, destroy them like normal Pawns.

The next level finds ourselves in the woods with the sun peeking through the tress. It's pretty quiet, save for the badniks and mutants here and there. (Brat Girls are LOUD, let me tell you, but even they seem sparse.) All you can do is follow the wooded path to a clearing with open sky. Here, you will find another psychic spot.

Silver: "Hey, look, Blaze, here's another one!"

Blaze: "Nice, but something..." *She trails off before saying.* "Never mind. I think it's just paranoia. Go and fix it."

*Once again, you'll make Silver move the sun into a very late morning position. Another gem is given and you are warped out of here.*

Achievement Unlocked: Off To Grandma's House

-----

Level 48: Graveyard Smash

Crates: 157

Time Trial

Sapphire: 2:00.00

Gold: 1:55.00

Platinum: 1:50.00

Grimlies to Save: 0

Helping Partner: Tails

Badniks: Skelebots: A weak badnik that will fall apart in one hit. Zombie Lab Assistant Pawns: 'Dead' like Pawns that chase painfully slow after you. They do take quite a few hits to destroy as they fall apart. Ghost Lab Assistant Pawns: Since the ghosts are out in the sunlight, they move slowly and are easily destroyed.

Now it's a walk through a graveyard among the tombstones and fences. At least it doesn't look so scary in the daytime. The next psychic spot appears among a cluster of tombs.

Silver: "Hey, another one!" *He goes over to it.*

Tails gives a curious look. "Hmmm... why here?" *He mutters.*

Moving the sun here sends it to the early afternoon position. Yet another gem for you as you leave the level now.

Achievement Unlocked: A Walk Through the Tombstones

-----

Level 49: Shadow Village

Crates: 125

Time Trial

Sapphire: 1:30.00

Gold: 1:25.00

Platinum: 1:20.00

Grimlies to Save: 0

Helping Partner: Amy

Beasts? Humans: They don't seem to be too happy to see Crash and the others. They usually run away at the first sight of you.

Next on the trip itinerary is a small village with a large castle in the background. And... what's this? Civilization! Although, they don't seem to be excited to see you, just being on the same street as them scares them off into their homes. The next physic spot is in the town square.

*Silver rushes over to it.*

Amy, who stays behind, wonders "I'm worried for these people, they seem so scared... I wonder if what Silver is doing is going to scare them more."

Another psychokinetic movement moves the sun to its mid afternoon positions. Another gem, and another early exit.

Achievement Unlocked: A Village in the Shadow of a Castle

----

Level 50: Castle Nina

Crates: 174

Time Trial

Sapphire: 2:10.00

Gold: 2:05.00

Platinum: 2:00.00

Grimlies to Save: 0

Helping Partner: Shadow

Badniks: Vampire (*****) Lab Assistant Pawns: They usually try to bite you and teleport rarely by moving their cloak over them. Electric (*****) Lab Assistant Pawns: They seem to be asleep right now...

Considering the usage of lowercase 'n's on the embroidery, this castle must be controlled by Nina. Although, why does it seem so quiet? There's practically no enemies from the entrance area, through a few halls, and to its garden. And in the center of the garden is another psychic spot.

Silver: "Heh, this is just so easy!" *He hurries over to it.*

Shadow: "Almost too easy..." *He sees Silver moving the sun to the evening position.* "Silver, wait!"

*But it was too late. A Yellow Gem appeared as they were taken away from the level and deep into the castle depths back in the terrarium...* 

Achievement Unlocked: Castlevania 6-5000

-----

*Nina does her snorted evil laugh as Silver and Shadow appear in what could be called her throne room. Shadow and Silver and held in devices that hold their arms down.*

Nina: "Well, don't you got some nerve, thinking you can waltz in my world and mess with my stuff!" *She says, making sure to sound like a brat.*

Silver: "Well, it's not right to hold time in the past."

Nina: "Well, you got me there, geniuses, I don't really like the daytime myself. Heh he, and thanks to you, I can make it nighttime again!"

*The ceiling opens above them, opening up to the rest of the castle and the outside. A ray gun in the top of the castle hits the lights and clock on the terrarium ceiling and fixes the lights and makes it night time instantly.*

Nina taunts in a cute voice. "Thanks for being so helpful, you cute animals. You guys deserve a reward."

Shadow speaks deadpan. "I can only bet that the reward will be bad."

Nina: "Ding, ding! The emo hedgehog has got it right!"

*Shadow: "Hey!" *

Nina geeks out as she goes down the stairs to the hedgehogs. "You know what is a wonderful kind of horror? Not being in your own body."

Silver; "So what? Are you going to body snatch us?"

Nina: "Nah, I'm thinking something more 'Freaky Friday'-ish."

Shadow: "What? But that isn't a horror movie-" *He shuts himself up.*

Nina: "Ah, a film buff, eh Shadow? Heh, you say it isn't, but once I'm done with you, you think it will be." *She operates a console for the time twister here.* "Time to send you back to your friends. But first..." *She forces Shadow and Silver to hold hands *

Shadow questions her actions as it confuses him. "Why are you doing that?"

Nina: "May just be a little fantasy, but I know for sure that this will mess with your bodies. See you later, you stupid dorks!"

*She starts the Time Twister and sends them back to Sonic and the others, messing with their minds in the process...*

-----

*Now the city that was once in the bright sunlight becomes the city of darkness, lit only by the moon, stars and a sparse lamplight here and there.*

Rouge: "Hmmm... now where have Shadow and Silver gone, they should be back now that it is nighttime here."

*A warp orb appears in front of them and Shadow and Silver are dumped out.*

Blaze hurries to them first. "Are you guys alright?"

*The two hedgehogs get up in unison, but the camera is behind them.*

Silver?: "Yeah, we are."

Shadow?: "Just very dizzy."

Blaze has a confused and open mouth. "Um... where were you guys?"

Silver?: "With that Nina."

Shadow?: "She captured us from my stupidity."

Crash: "Oh no. What did you do, Nina?"

*The camera flips to their fronts.*

Shadow, with Silver's voice: "What's wrong?"

Silver, with Shadow's voice: "She did say she was going to perform a 'Freaky Friday' on us."

Rouge: "Hmm, so that means that their minds are in each other's bodies, right?"

Shadow's voice: "Is it bad?"

Rouge: "No, but why are you guys holding hands?"

Silver's voice: "Oh! She made us leave like this."

Sonic: "Uh-huh..." *He trails off.*

Coco: "I think it might be a good idea to try to go after Nina, but we realized that we don't have any crystals from here."

Shadow's voice: "And we were in the castle back there."

Crunch: "I think we found it locked, saying it needed the crystals here too."

Tails stutters a little. "S-s-so that means we need to go through the past again... at night."

Espio: "I have a feeling it's going to be much tougher now."

Silver's voice: "Can we hurry and get this over with?"

Crash: "Yeah, a good idea." *Crash decided to lead and let Silver and Shadow rest.*

—–

Level 46 (Night): Mutant Swamp

Crates: 149

Time Trial

Sapphire: 1:45.00

Gold: 1:40.00

Platinum: 1:35.00

Grimlies to Save: 5

Helping Partner: Rouge

Badniks: Creature of the Black Lagoon Lab Assistant Pawns: The amphibian Pawn becomes monster size and will now will leave the swamp and onto dry land and will not hold back on biting and swiping with its claws Beasts: Alligators: *Snap Snap*

Mutants: Grimly: Used to be unknown but is a Ghost + Nightmare hybrid. They are Cortex's phantom henchmen that love the dark. It can slow down time at will.

(I expect the music to sound like this, but more rock/metal.)

Now it's back through the swamp again, and through it fully this time. It's made tougher by the transformed Amphibian Pawns. Try not to let it grab you or it will drag you into the swamp. Those Grimlies are helpful though, since they will float over the swamp. And for the 5 levels, the crystal is where the psychic spot was. The level ends at the end of the swamp, at the edge of the forest.

Achievement Unlocked: Mutants of the Black Lagoon.

-----

Level 47 (Night): Red Riding Crash

Crates: 132

Time Trial

Sapphire: 1:30.00

Gold: 1:25.00

Platinum: 1:20.00

Grimlies to Save: 5

Helping Partner: Blaze

Badniks: Tronks: Now much bigger badnik mech trees that will attack you with hand like limbs Wolfman Lab Assistant Pawns: The Pawns have transformed into hulking wolf beasts. Their claws are more far reaching so you need to keep your distance.

Mutants: Haunted Trees: Nina has hit the trees with ghost DNA making them attack anything that comes near by swinging their long limbs.

Wow, the forest is so scary now since dark has fallen. It might be a good idea to run since those haunted trees are everywhere. The level ends at the end of the forest, showing the edge of the graveyard...

Achievement Unlocked: A Haunted Walk Through the Woods

-----

Level 48 (Night): Graveyard Smash

Crates: 157

Time Trial

Sapphire: 2:00.00

Gold: 1:55.00

Platinum: 1:50.00

Grimlies to Save: 5

Helping Partner: Tails

Badniks: Skelebots: Now it is near impossible to make it break apart now. Zombie Lab Assistant Pawns: They are now multiple times stronger since night has fallen. They fall apart with each hit, yet will still chase you in pieces. Ghost Lab Assistant Pawns: Now they are floating about everywhere and are invincible in all the casted shadows. They need to be led into bright light to be destroyable. 

You can just feel the fear emanating off of Tails, so lets hurry through the graveyard. Make sure to not get outnumbered by the badniks or death may be quick. This graveyard level ends at the outskirts of the village. 

Achievement Unlocked: The Monster Mash

-----

Level 49 (Night): Shadow Village

Crates: 125

Time Trial

Sapphire: 1:30.00

Gold: 1:25.00

Platinum: 1:20.00

Grimlies to Save: 5

Helping Partner: Amy

Beasts? Humans: They don't seem to be too happy to see Crash and the others. They are now carrying pitchforks and torches. They will chase you down in an attempt to hurt you.

Amy sees the angry humans. "Oh, dear! That don't seem to happy to see us!"

Crash: "Yeah, let's try to avoid them."

You heard Amy and Crash, try to keep your distance from them and get through the village.

Achievement Unlocked: Fearing the Dark

----

Level 50 (Night): Castle Nina

Crates: 174

Time Trial

Sapphire: 2:10.00

Gold: 2:05.00

Platinum: 2:00.00

Grimlies to Save: 5

Helping Partner: Sonic

Badniks: Dracula Lab Assistant Pawns: Now under the moonlight, they become much tougher and like to chase after you as Dracula batbots. Frankenstein's Monster Lab Assistant Pawns: In darkness, the monsters come 'alive' and lumber after you. They are big, which means they are super strong.

A difference from before is that there is a hedge maze in the garden, hiding secret passages to the Yellow Gem and Crystal. Afterwards, it's through a few more halls and the lab area to the warp out of here. 

Achievement Unlocked: Pittsburghe, Transylvania

-----

Crash and Sonic return back to the terrarium and lead everyone into the castle in there.

Only Nina's voice can be heard. "Ah, so the bandicoot and his friends have arrived. How is the couple enjoying their togetherness?"

Shadow's voice: "We manage."

Silver's voice: "Now return us back to normal!"

Nina does her brat voice. "Maybe I don't wanna."

Sonic: "Sound like to me someone needs a boss battle beating."

Nina appears from the ceiling walls above in her improved Aracnina. "Heh, what a good idea. But it will be I who beats you! Scared yet?"

Sonic yawns. "Oh, please, Eggman's made worse."

Nina: "Well, I don't care! Die mutants!" *She starts charging her laser.*

Boss: Nina's Aracnina

(I see her boss music as a remix of this cause she's a brat girl and she's gonna put a spell on you. :P )

I don't think Nina realized just how Eggman-like she is. She has quite a simple boss battle. She'll try to cut you down with the saw-blade a few times before turning the mech into its spider form and firing a laser from its mouth. It's a good time to jump and hit the head then. Like an Eggman contraption, do this 8 times to win.

Achievement Unlocked: Freakish Friday

*The machine collapses in defeat.*

Sonic: "See, I told you so. That was boring for once."

Nina: "Now see here, hedgehog, I have a right mind to-" *Before she can finish, a transport beam sends her away. It's for the best...*

Shadow's voice: "Now, about us?..."

Tails looks at the time twister console. "Hmmm..." *He works it and warps Shadow and Silver in it, and fixes them so they are in the correct bodies again.*

Shadow checks to be sure everything is fine. "Thank goodness."

Rouge hugs Shadow. "Indeed it is." *Shadow is surprised.*

Silver checks himself out too. "Nice to be back in my body again."

Blaze smiles at him. "You got that right." *She giggles, which makes Silver blush a little.*

*The heroes leave the terrarium.*

Death Head's / Space Egg's Bridge

Eggman: "Why did you teleport her away? We could have been done with them."

Cortex: "Trust me, it would have been a done with us too, Eggman. Besides..." *Ripper Roo hops in.* "Dr. Roo is here."

Eggman: "Dr. Roo?"

Ripper Roo speaks with a posh accent. "Shall I go and defeat the bandicoot, sir?"

Cortex: "Of course." *He warps him to the next terrarium.* "This should be explosive." *He laughs.*

Eggman is confused. "I don't get it."

Cortex: "What, you have a scrambled mind?" *He laughs louder.*

Eggman at first says "Oh." before realizing with and "Oh." and proceeds to punch the laughing Cortex in the face.

Next Time: Will you be up the creek without a paddle in the Forest Terrarium?

[cookinguptales]

AHHHHH I love your writing and your opinions, you just seem like such a cool person

OH this does have a heart! weird, it wasn’t in the notif I got. ah well, whatever, here’s a valentine! It’s karabita because lbr I think that’s what 90% of my anons are here for! If you don’t like karabita, thennn idk send me another ask with some instructions haha.

(look, did I promise anyone a good valentine? no, I promised people ugly valentines made in free programs, and I promised bad puns.)

PS THANK YOU YOU SOUND SWEET TOO I just said that people should send me hearts BUT PEOPLE ARE FILLING MY INBOX WITH SWEET NOTHINGS ;o; my followers are perf

I just wanted to see if I could go more sugary sweet than the last one and SPOILERS I sure as heck can! (I’m so sorry.)

There was one thing to know about Matsuno Karamatsu, and this was key — if a person was fool enough to fall in love with him, they had to learn to roll with the punches. Life with Karamatsu was a roller coaster, up and down, good and bad, sweet and sour in turn. And after twenty-odd years of friendship, two years of dating, and a year and a half of marriage, well. Chibita liked to believe that he was prepared for anything and everything.

Valentine’s Day in particular was a trial. Even after all this time, Karamatsu still seemed to think that Chibita needed to be swept off his feet. Or rather, Karamatsu still believed he deserved to be. It was hard to stay mad when he put it like that, even when he set fire to the bed or got lost in the Amazon rain forest or crash landed a heart-shaped hot air balloon into their apartment building. (They really had needed to upgrade to a bigger place, but Chibita would have liked to have parted on kinder terms with the landlord.) Yeah. V-Day was hard.

So when Chibita walked into their home that evening, knowing full well that Karamatsu had asked him to close up early, he was going over the list of emergency phone numbers in his head. It never hurt to be prepared. But there was no blood. No frightened animals. No scent of singed hair on the evening breeze. Just Karamatsu, standing there in their living area and smiling at him. He’d poured wine — no doubt that ungodly sweet stuff that was only half a step above grape juice — and had cleared space in the center of the living area. He was wearing clothes, though, and not even that tight leather stuff that Chibita had once pulled a muscle getting him out of. So it wasn’t some kind of terrifying experimental sex that he wanted to try. Again.

(Chibita had actually quite liked that one.)

“So what’s this?” Chibita asked, stepping inside and setting aside the flowers he’d brought home for later. They could probably wait until after Karamatsu was so excited about.

Karamatsu rocked up onto his heels and looked utterly pleased with himself. “We’re going dancing,” he said.

“Dancing?” Chibita stopped short. Like, in front of people?

“Well,” Karamatsu said, likely interpreting the look of horror on Chibita’s face correctly, “We’re staying in and dancing.”

Staying in? That was a little better, at least. Still. Chibita frowned. “I don’t know how to dance.” At least, not in any kind of special, romantic way. He could hop up and down with the best of them, but that didn’t exactly take rhythm. Or grace.

“I know,” Karamatsu said, and wow, ouch. But he was still smiling, the silly thing. “That’s why I went to lessons. So I could teach you.”

If anything, Chibita’s frown just got deeper. “You went to dancing lessons?” Chibita asked. “Alone?” As in, without his husband? Was there someone out there that Chibita was going to have to kill?

“Don’t worry, my love,” Karamatsu said, walking forward and taking Chibita’s hands in his. “It was strictly business. I could never make such sweet music with anyone but you.”

The little ‘gross’ was on the tip of Chibita’s tongue, and a few years ago, he probably would’ve said it. But today he just went a little rosy and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “So you danced with…”

Karamatsu shrugged. “Lots of people. They drew straws every week.”

“To decide who got to dance with you?” Chibita asked, raising an eyebrow.

Karamatsu’s gaze went distinctly shifty. “Something like that.” Ah. So they’d drawn straws to see who had to dance with him. That seemed a little more realistic.

Chibita felt his lips turn up, both unable and unwillingly to stop them, and he smiled at Karamatsu a little helplessly before he stood up on his toes to kiss him. “So?” he asked. “What’d you learn?”

Karamatsu’s expression went a little dreamy for a moment, one of the many hazards of kissing him, and it stayed that way until he managed to catch a kiss of his own. “I know that you put your hand here,” Karamatsu said, putting Chibita’s hand up on his shoulder, “and mine goes down here.”

It was a little awkward like that, Karamatsu’s hand on his waist. The height difference was just a lot. But no one else was around to see, were they? It was just the two of them. “Hmm,” Chibita said, pitching the hum a little playful. “Isn’t there supposed to be music for this?”

Karamatsu pulled his phone out of his pocket and waggled it back and forth. Not so high tech, but hey. Whatever worked. Karamatsu hit a button, and when he tucked his phone back into his pocket, there was a soft tune spilling from its speakers. It sounded old and it sounded foreign and it sounded a little bit like it was drifting in from a dream. Chibita liked it.

“And then you just step like — oof.”

Well, that part hadn’t gone well.

“Idjit!” Chibita said. “You have to tell me what to do before we do it!” Or else the two of them were gonna end up with a lot of bruises.

“Okay!” he said. “Okay. Just… Take your right — no, your other right, my right, that one—“

They made it one step this time, two steps, before they ended up in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“You’re really heavy,” Chibita said with no real heat to his words, and gave him a little shove. Really, really heavy.

Karamatsu looked down at his middle a little self-consciously as he stood up. “Heavy?” he asked, extending a hand to Chibita.

Chibita took it. “Not, like… You’re fine, Karamatsu, that’s not what I meant,” he said, and fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was fairly certain that he still showed Karamatsu how attracted to him he was on a very, very regular basis. “Just big.”

Karamatsu gave him a look that was wholly unimpressed. “Or you’re just small.”

And it really was a good thing that he paired that with another kiss, an absolutely spine-melting one. Otherwise Chibita definitely would have had to give him what-for. Eventually.

He pulled back, simultaneously too late and too soon for Chibita’s peace of mind. It was just a bit, though, and Chibita still fit so nice in his arms, and he was still so warm. Chibita leaned his head forward so he could rest his forehead against his chest and smell the fresh beginnings of exertion. The soft strains of an old song were still drifting through the air, and Chibita felt his heart beat in time with the music. “Maybe we could just… Y’know, like this?” he asked.

Above him, he heard Karamatsu make a very put-out noise. “But I learned the steps.”

“Fuck the steps.”

“It was just one little fall. I fell lots of times in class.”

“I bet,” Chibita said, and muffled his snickers in Karamatsu’s soft, soft shirt. He’d always liked this shirt. Good for snuggling. “But would you rather fall, or would you rather dance with me?”

Karamatsu didn’t say anything for a moment. Just breathed in and out with the music and rubbed his fingertips soft against Chibita’s sides. Then he pulled Chibita in close, even closer, and rested his lips against his scalp. “Just like this, then.”

And just like that, hugging, swaying, probably looking like absolute fools, Chibita felt his heart beat sweet in his chest. For all his idiosyncrasies, Karamatsu had always, always been able to give him that. “Love you,” Chibita murmured, and words that had scared him shitless not that long ago now felt just right as they left his lips.

He felt Karamatsu swallow. “I love you, too, my darling. More than anything.”

And hell, Chibita knew that was probably just about the truth. He was certainly at least tied for first place. Karamatsu had definitely at least wreaked havoc on some poor unsuspecting dance instructor for him. And maybe later, when the air wasn’t smooth as silk and heavy as honey, when Chibita could stand to let go of him again, when the music had gone quiet and Chibita had finished showing him exactly how much he appreciated these quietly sweet plans, maybe then Karamatsu could show him a few moves.

In the meantime, though. In the meantime. Chibita sighed and tucked his nose in against Karamatsu’s breast. In the meantime, he was fine right here.

At least until Karamatsu cleared his throat. “Can I still dip you?”

[gentlemenclubbbz]

why doesn’t life have a reset button? - Max

Request: Max tries to impress your parents but he’s too nervous (especially because of your dad) and makes a bad impression. Hope it’s ok. :)

***

“Max! Maaaax, we need to go!” you call out for your lover, having finished with putting in bags the present you wanted to give your parents (which you bought with Max since he was too useless in buying them himself, on his own). “MAX!!”

And he comes from around the corner, running, still trying to tie his tie—and his rush causes him to slip on the polished floor. He falls on his side, but is quick to get up, desperation written all over his face. Max curses as he comes in front of you—and reddens when he sees your amused expression. “WHAT!?” he barks, trying not to wince from the pain of falling and obviously so frustrated with his stupid tie. Normally, he wouldn’t wear it—but he had to make a good impression on your parents that he was the gentleman their offspring deserved. You eyed him up and down as he frowned some more about where his damn shoes were; he was always good at multitasking. And today, Max looked dashing in a costume, tailored to his body type—the slick back hair was a nice change, but it only made you think of messing it up later, when you two were alone.

You smile fondly, knowing that this was going to be a huge step in your relationship. You just hoped that Max wouldn’t fuck it up: he could be pretty calm when he wanted. But now, he looked like a mess—you didn’t want to worry too much about it because you were just as nervous, to be honest. Your parents, especially your father, was a bit difficult to deal with; you really hoped they’d behave…

“What are you smiling at like that?” Max reprimands you, successful in only making you smile wider, cheekily. “Do you think this is funny?!”

This meant his tie, that he still didn’t do properly. You giggled and took a step towards him, grabbing his tie forcefully and pulling him closer to you. He gasps in surprise—“Woah”—but obviously liking it. He’s composed as he grabs you by the waist with other intentions. You focus on the tie, though, and you can’t afford to dilly-dally.

And you knew very well he was just stalling for more time, prolonging the moment of the inevitable.

“There,” you finished your work with a strong tug. “You really should learn how to do it yourself, I can’t be all the time with you…”

“Whatever, you’re not going to leave my side.” Max grabs your face and leans in for a kiss, which you let him do. But when he starts going too long and far, you punch him not that hard in the stomach to make him stop. “OW! What’d you do that for?” he releases you, reluctantly, and you just pick up the bags with a wide smile.

“Time to go, Max.”

He can only grumble something you don’t hear under his breath as you’re out the door already—no use in wasting more time. And you know this was the only way to make him move. As you both entered the taxi, you prayed that this was not going to turn into a disaster.

“Why are you so nervous, Maxie?” you want to laugh at him, but it comes out as dry and not amused—the nervousness got to you too after seeing him so nervous in the first place. You try to hit his shoulder, but he flinches in surprise, as if he was not paying attention.

You were both standing in front of the door of your parent’s house, frozen. Staring blankly at the wooden framework and gaining the courage to ring the doorbell. You tasked Max to do that, but his index finger has been hovering over the button for about 10 minutes now.

“I never knew you were a chicken, ha ha…” Normally, your rude jokes would get a reaction from him (usually yelling, much to your amusement), but he only turns his head towards you, with a terrified expression. And you knew it was your job to make him feel normal again. “Come on, Max, they’re just my parents!”

“Just your parents?! [name], I don’t think you know how serious this is!”

You sigh—what got him so scared? “They’re gonna like you anyway, no need to be so serious…”

“You don’t understand! Last time I went to meet some parents of an ex, the dad simply didn’t like my face and almost kicked me out! It didn’t help that he was a boxer too…” You can’t help but laugh, a thing which offended your lover. “I’m being serious, [name], this is no joke!”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry about this.” You take his hand and squeeze it. “But my dad’s no boxer, he’s a softie inside that tough exterior. And my mother…well, she’s special, in a way.”

“He still might not like me…” you just tiptoe and kiss him to make him stop bitching—right when you heard a click and the door started to open. Taken by surprise, you both part away, like two children that got caught in the act.

“Honeey, thought I heard your voice!!” your mother’s shrill voice grates your ears and you jump away from Max to look at your mother’s sweet smile. As if she’s glad you finally brought a boy home. She’s not even looking at you, she’s eyeing Max, analysing him, who’s too shy and awkward to look her in the eye. He’s glancing away, at his feet, embarrassed by having being caught kissing you. ‘Bad move…’ you gulp, and then try to distract your mother.

“Mother!” you yell, wrapping your arms around her in a hug. She hugs back tightly. “It’s so nice to see you!”

She releases you to finally look you over, holding you at arms’ length. “Likewise!” she smiles. “Look at you, all grown-up. I’m glad to have you here, you and…” she trails off, obviously eager to know who your ‘friend’ was.

“Oh, umm, yeah…” you go to Max’s side, grab his arm and pull him in front of his mother. He walks stiffly, trying hard not to trip—thankfully, he doesn’t. “This is my boyfriend, Max, the one that I’ve told you about!”

“How lovely!” your mother coos, pleased. “It’s nice to meet you, Max.”

You give Max a push from behind, praying that he’ll give her the gift he brought—and he does. “Nice to know you, madam,” he says soothingly, even if he was still stiff and awkward. ‘Madam’, you want to laugh. ‘He learnt that from Julian.’ Max continues after seeing your mother’s eyes lighten up in glee, shoving the present in her face. “Here, this is for you, as a gift of…wellness.”

“Oooo, thank you so much, dear!!” your mother doesn’t take the gift—she takes Max as a whole, hugging him. “You seem like such a nice boy!” He doesn’t know how to react so he just…stands there.

“M-Mom, I think that’s enough, I think you’re suffocating him…” you laugh, but gratefully, your mother releases him and focuses on you. “Shall we get inside? I wanna see dad.”

Your mother quickly agrees to that and soon, all three of you are inside the house, making yourselves comfortable. You’re the first inside the living room while your mother is chatting up with Max. You’re just eager to see your father and you find him on the couch. Yelling ‘Daddy!’, you rush to your father and hug him tight.

“Hey there, princess.” He smiles back at you, with fondness.

Your little moment is interrupted by the coming of the other two and you both look in that direction. Your mother’s totally clutches onto Max’s arm—and your father’s not liking it, judging by the narrowing of his eyes. He’s immediately getting up, walking towards Max with ferocity—and Max cowers in fear, squeaking out and releasing your mother. You’re quick to follow in case things go worse—but your father stops in time, in front of Max.

“Who’re you?”

“Dad, this is my—“

“I wasn’t talking to you, honey. What are you, his spokesman? Can’t he say his name on his own?” Your father glares dangerously at Max, who doesn’t know what to do. “Come on, son. Tell me your name and what are you doing here.”

‘This is your trial, Max.” You put your hands together and prayed to your guardian angel that Max had the guts to confront your father—who obviously just wanted to test your lover. He bravely held his ground, but he couldn’t help but look up at your father since he was taller. He was shivering, that was plain to see. Your mother came to your side, a bit worried that this might escalate into something else.

“Is he a mute—“

“M-M-M-Max!” he suddenly says, shoving his hand in front of your father for him to shake. “I’m M-Max, your daughter’s boy-boyfriend.” ‘At least he said it,’ you thought, holding your breath in fear but glad he managed to get this far.

“Boyfriend?” your father glances at you and you can’t help but glare at him as a warning to not cause a scene. You knew he was exigent when it came to your lovers and you were old enough for him not to start some shit over your choice. You loved Max no matter what your parents said about him—they had no right to complain as you were old enough to decide for yourself. And your father could see that determination written all over your visage—that’s why he sighed and took Max’s extended hand. Still, judging by the hint of pain (that he tried to hold back) flashing across Max’s face, must’ve been a very tight grip. “I see. Nice to meet you, M-M-Max.”

Max awkwardly laughed, feeling his knees giving in at the fierce expression your father gave him. But then he remembered something and quickly searched through the bag. ‘Nice, Max. The gift!’ Which was a very expensive wine bottle that he accidentally just dropped it on the floor, at his feet. And successfully staining the white carpet and dad’s shoes. You all stared in horror at the sight, Max’s cry mute on his lips but obviously his blood left his cheeks and he was livid. Your mind was blocked, too shocked to comprehend the gravity of the situation. But you could feel your dad’s anger next to you and you knew you had to do something.

“Oh my, the carpet!” your mother was the first to recover and grabbed your father’s raised arm before he could do some damage. “Come, honey, I’m sure it’s just an accident.” Your father can say nothing and Max’s brain was malfunctioning, lips trembling with sorry but too blank to actually form words.

“Mother, I’ll help you!” you cry out, shaking your head and going by Max’s side to wake him up.

“No, no, dear,” your mother responded, pushing your father away. “I’ll take care of it, you—“ she glanced at Max and waved a hand “—make sure he…” ‘Stays out of the way, huh?’ you sighed internally, taking Max’s hand firmly. Even if mother didn’t say the words, she still looked slightly displeased by your lover’s slip-up. “Wait for us at the table, ok?”

You can only nod as you dragged Max in the dining room, defeated by this encounter. It hasn’t even been 10 minutes and it was already a disaster. And Max wasn’t saying anything as you put him in the chair next to you. You stayed there, hands interlaced and waiting for your parents to come—you heard them bickering somewhere in the house, probably about your lover. You hated hearing them fight, especially over your boyfriend’s mistake, but you hoped they had in their heart to forgive him. This was a growing disaster and maybe you should’ve never brought him home. But he was an important part of your life you weren’t going to give up easily on him.

“Oh Max…” you sigh, resting your head on his shoulder—and you feel him relax, finally reacting to your touch and coming back to his senses.  

He took a deep breath, his whole body rising in defeat, and simply stated “I’m kinda screwed, aren’t I?”

“Yup,” you confirmed. And somehow, you were relieved. You didn’t care anymore—Max wasn’t a bad boy, you knew that and your parents might not think so, but he made you happy. And it was normal—this was normal and there was nothing you could do about it. So there was such a serene calmness settling into you.

This can only go from bad to worse. Like a roller-coaster.

“This is bad, no?” Max continued, nervously playing with your fingers.

You shrug “Kinda, yeah.”

“Well, it was nice knowing ya.”

“You’re not going to die, stupid. Just behave at dinner and we’ll be fine.”

“…Alright.”

“Can you pass me the salt, vixen?” Max asks you out of the blue, mouth stuffed with the delicious food your mother made. It was an awkward dinner, to say the least, all of you eating in silence. Only you and your mother talked, but it was forced and strangled by the deadly atmosphere between Max and your dad. Your father kept glaring at your lover, who did his best not to shit his pants and avoided his gaze. He tried to ease the tension by cracking very idiotic jokes that weren’t funny at all. Max was bad at it—he was only comfortable in joking when Joji or Ian were around. But they weren’t here so…

And he laughed way too loudly, way too forced…It was only annoying your father more so, with a swift kick to his leg, you made him shut up. So it has been utter silence until now, interrupted by Max’s loud munching and sometimes his compliments directed to your mother. Just that he forgot his manners—he acted as if you were at home and eating together, which always resulted in a big mess. And it was already too late to tell him to tone it down….There was nothing he could do to impress your parents anymore.

“Yes, master.” You answer automatically, forgetting for a second that you were not at home and not realizing what has Max said. Not until you hear a fork clattering on top of a plate loudly you snap back to reality. With the salt in your hand almost reaching Max, you both look at your parent’s faces. And they’re staring at you two with mouths open, your mother flushing red from shame. You scrunch your face, confused. “What’s wrong with you two?”

“Vixen?!” Your fathers spits out and it hits you. You get red in the face then look at Max, who’s equally shocked at his slip-up.

‘Fuck. That’s how we call each other in bed.’

“Oh my…” your mother gasps and you’re at a loss of what to say to excuse yourself. You feel Max’s hand on yours as he suddenly starts laughing way louder than he ever did—obviously trying to cover the mistake by deeming it a joke. However, he forgot one essential thing: he still had food in his mouth. And so, as he opened his mouth, the remains of food landed on your father’s face, who was sitting in front of Max at the table.

This time, you were mentally prepared. Before your father cold lunge at him, you stood up, said thank you for the meal and took Max by the arm, dragging him out of there. “We need to go, sorry mom and dad,” you said quickly, urging Max to just put on his shoes already. He listens and he’s the first to finish. Your mother’s the only one who follows you two to say goodbye, but she’s obviously more worried about her husband than you. You mutter a big ‘sorry’, knowing you’ll have to do a lot to make it up to them—and that wasn’t going to happen soon. Max almost begs on his knees for an apology, but he finds his words to say sorry that he ruined everything—he was just nervous. Your mother simply smiles nervously, and you’re out the door before you can face your father’s wrath.

As you’re waiting for the taxi, hand in hand, a little far away from your parent’s home, you simply state “Well, that was a fiasco…”

“I’m so sorry, [name], I didn’t mean to, I fuck up everything really bad, I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore…”

You sigh, grabbing his face to make him look at you “I don’t care that much. Leave them a bit and they’ll forget. Well, maybe not my dad—“

“Helpful.”

“—but I’m not going to give my happiness for them.” You smile. He smiles back.

“I promise I’ll make them like me. I’ll be better at this.” He puts an arm around you, hugging you sideways, and you encircled his waist.  

“It’s ok, Maxie,” you respond, closing your eyes and letting the coldness of the night chill your body. “I still got you.”

[weekendwarriorblog]

The Weekend Warrior Home and Drive-In Edition July 3, 2020 – HAMILTON, THE OUTPOST, JOHN LEWIS: GOOD TROUBLE and more!

Well, it is 4th of July weekend and in most years, I’d be scratching my head about how the 4th falling on a Saturday might affect the movies opening over the course of the week. This 4th of July lands just as a bunch of states start rolling back their reopenings, including some percentage of the hundreds of movie theaters that have reopened, not that any of them would have had much impact. Even so, there’s some great stuff hitting screens of all sizes including lots of stuff you can watch from home.

First and foremost, Disney has decided to release the filmed documentation of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s hit Tony-winning musical HAMILTON onto the Disney+ streaming service this Friday, months in advance of its planned holiday theatrical release, but appropriately, just in time for the 4th of July. I was lucky enough to see the musical on Broadway last year March, although by then, all the key players had pretty much left to be replaced by equally talented performers. I thought it was terrific, basically as good as everyone had been saying, but I was still a little bummed I didn’t get to see Miranda or Daveed Diggs or some of the others who had been in the show since it premiered off-Broadway.

Wisely, Miranda had one of his last performances in 2016 filmed and Disney bought the rights to release it theatrically before the pandemic hit. Obviously, Miranda knew that people were starting to go a little stir crazy from lack of entertainment and releasing Hamilton early for 4th of July weekend was a way he could give back to the fans, while giving people yet another reason to subscribe to Disney+ while there are no new ongoing series ready to go. (Apparently, Disney+ has shut off the one-week free trial so people don’t subscribe just to watch Hamilton and then cancel after doing so.)

In fact, I was quite surprised to get a screener for the movie to review it, although I feel that Hamilton is almost review-proof at this point, even in this new filmed format. I’ll admit that at first, I was skeptical that watching a live performance even on a very large TV set could possibly capture what it’s like to be in the Richard Rogers Theater on Broadway watching Hamilton live, but boy, was I wrong!

Since I had never seen Lin-Manuel Miranda in the title role, that was special in itself, but so many of the other performances just burst off the screen. Leslie Odom, Jr. is absolutely amazing as Aaron Burr, and I was equally blown away by Christopher Jackson as George Washington, a character I barely remembered from my one time seeing the musical. Renée Elise Goldsberry was also quite brilliant as Angelica Shuyler, the woman who had to compete for Hamilton’s affections with her own sister Eliza, as played by Phillipa Soo. (I actually liked the women’s numbers quite a bit more in this format, as Goldsberry and Soo were fabulous.) Apparently, they got Jonathan Groff back as King George for this performance, and he’s deliciously evil as the antagonist of the piece, despite making just three appearances more as a narrator.

On paper, Hamilton’s 2 hours 40 might seem long but the first act (about an hour and 17 minutes) just flies by based on the amazing energy coming off stage. The second half is very different, but it also switches Daveed Diggs over to the role of Thomas Jefferson, creating another stopping block for Hamilton. This is also where Hamilton goes deeper into the politics of the time, framing political debates as rap battles, and delivering some of its biggest numbers. Knowing how this musical helped turn Odom and Diggs into superstars alongside Miranda, it’s great to see some of their numbers that really show off their talent.

All of that said, it’s almost impossible to separate Hamilton as a filmed stage musical from Hamilton the musical itself, because there’s a good reason why it was such a blockbuster hit – because it so damn fucking good.  Hamilton (the film) is an exceptional documentation of this musical, which will probably stand the test of time as one of the finest musicals from the early 21st Century. Whether you’ve already seen it or have been dying to do so, it is to Disney and Miranda’s credit that they chose to finally give people all over the world a chance to watch it over and over from home at this particularly difficult time in our country’s history.

Hamilton will also kick off a weekly “Summer Movie Nights” program on Disney+ which will begin this Friday with live Q n As on Disney+ social media (Twitter, Instagram and Facebook). Besides Hamilton, the program will also include The Mighty Ducks, X-Men: Days of Future Past, X-Men: Armageddon, Solo: A Star Wars Story and a lot more extending right through August. (You can read more about that program here.)

There are a number of other really good movies this week, but this week’s “Featured Film” is Rod Lurie’s return to filmmaking with the real-life war drama, THE OUTPOST (Screen Media), based on Jake Tapper’s book The Outpost: An Untold Story of American Valor about the 2009 assault on Combat Outpost COP Keating in a valley surrounded by Afghanistan’s Kush mountains that was overrun by hundreds of Taliban in one of the Army’s deadliest battles, the Battle of Kamdesh.

A little review caveat: I’ve known Rod for almost 13 years, and I consider him a friend. Heck, he’s bought me a few nice meals over the years, and he gave me some of the best advice I’ve ever been given in my entire life… which of course I didn’t listen to. Rod also knows that I take my role as a film critic very seriously, since he was one himself, and that I wouldn’t lie if I didn’t like a film he made. The good news is that I loved The Outpost, and I think it’s one of Lurie’s best films to date. (For those who don’t know this, Lurie went to West Point, and his earlier film The Last Castle was a good indication of how in tune he is with the military and how to portray them in film. Oddly, that movie was also the very first movie I ever reviewed, if that’s ever asked in trivia.)

Of course, there’s another immediate caveat that needs to be said, because The Outpost is coming out after a couple decades of movies set in Afghanistan, as well as some great war films. It’s something Lurie surely must have been aware of when deciding to tackle this subject matter, and that’s something the movie has to work against since to many, they’ll feel that Afghanistan has been covered enough. Watching the movie makes you realize this is far from the case.

Another general problem with military films is that it’s often hard to determine who is who, partially since soldiers’ heads are shaved to level the playing field, but that also makes it hard to separate Scott Eastwood from Orlando Bloom from every other Joe

Through a number of preliminary situations, we learn more about the individual soldiers, although the commanding officers turn out to be as expendable as drummers in Spinal Tap in that they just don’t last very long. In fact, Lurie does such a great job with the tension and suspense, you never know when the shooting is gonna start or someone might get blown up, which must have been how the soldiers stationed at COP Keating felt. The movie isn’t entirely grim, though as the shocking horrors of war are well-countered by the jovial attitude between the soldiers as they wait for the next big attack.

Surprisingly, it’s Caleb Landry Jones who really stands out from this great ensemble as Ty Carter, who you immediately assume is the fuck-up of the bunch since very few of his colleagues like him.  Turns out there’s a lot more to him as a character, and by the end of the film you realize this might easily be one of the best performances of Jones’ career. (I realized this even more on a second viewing.)

Where The Outpost really takes off is at about the halfway point as everything we’ve seen up until that point leads to the actual Battle of Kamdesh on October 3, 2009. At this point, it becomes a brutal battle sequence on par with Peter Berg’s Last Survivor or Ridley Scott’s Blackhawk Down.  The amazing work done by Lurie and his camera and visual/make-up FX teams really pulls the viewer into battle with the soldiers. Honestly, I’m a little bummed that more people probably won’t be seeing The Outpost on the big screen where it deserves to be seen. It took many decades for Apocalypse Now, Full Metal Jacket and others to be deemed classics in the way they displayed the horrors of war, and I feel that those who see The Outpost will hold it up fairly to those classics, even (and especially) by those who feel that the war in Afghanistan is “ancient history.”

You can find out exactly where The Outpost will be playing and places to download and watch digitally on the official Screen Media site.

Let’s get to a few of this week’s docs, and another wonderful movie that will be available via Virtual Cinema this week is Dawn Porter’s JOHN LEWIS: GOOD TROUBLE (Magnolia/Participant), which showcases the life and political career of ‘60s Civil Rights activist and Georgia Congressman John Lewis, who has really seen a lot in his 80 years. Porter, who produced and directed Trapped and Spies of Mississippi, follows Lewis around during the lead-up to the 2018 election where winning the House back is crucial for the Democrats, superimposing that with chapters from Lewis’ long life, including some archival footage that even he hadn’t seen. (The title “Good Trouble” comes from a speech Lewis gives while on the campaign trail, saying that protesting and getting arrested is exactly that.)  I don’t think I have a lot to say otherwise about this fantastic doc or Lewis himself other than the fact that Magnolia would have been wise to release this movie two weeks earlier, since Lewis continues to play such an inspirational role in the discussion about race and equality, but also about protesting peacefully but persistently to get the changes that need to be made.

Another really good doc that I recommend is Liam Firmager’s SUZI Q (Utopia Distribution), which if you’re over a certain age, you might immediately realize that it’s a doc about ‘70s rocker and feminist icon Suzi Quatro, who had huge rock hits in the UK and Australia, but didn’t really have an impact in the States until she appeared on the hit show “Happy Days” as Leather Tuscadero. There are definitely parallels between this film and the amazing Joan Jett: Bad Reputation doc from a few years back, and not just because Joan Jett plays a key role in the Suzi Quatro story, having been an avid fan who almost modelled herself after the young rock star. I’m sure I learned more about Suzi Quatro watching this doc than anything I knew beforehand, as I’m not sure I ever realized how far into the musical theater world she went in the ‘80s and ‘90s, nor did I know about how her sisters felt left out when she went off on her own and found huge fame. If you’re a fan of rock music or just rock docs, it’s worth your time to keep an eye out for this doc, which is having a one-night only virtual premiere with a QnA with Ms. Quatro. You can learn more about that on the Official Site.

Cannes award-winning Japanese auteur Kore-Eda Hirokazu  (Shoplifters) shifts his gaze to France with his new film THE TRUTH (IFC Films), which I saw when it premiered at this year’s “Rendezvous with French Cinema” before this whole pandemic began, and the movie’s planned March release was scuppered. This one stars French legends Catherine Deneuve and Juliette Binoche as mother and daughter, Deneuve as Fabienne, an aging French movie star who is about the publish her memoirs, as her daughter Lumir (Binoche) comes to visit her from New York with her actor husband (Ethan Hawke) and their young daughter.

Believe me, I really wanted to like this movie, but Hirokazu makes his first foray into Western filmmaking by making the kind of boring and pretentious French film withink the filmmaking industry that’s been done much better with Olivier Assayas’ Clouds of Sils Maria, also starring Binoche. I’m not sure why I couldn’t get into this, and it’s certainly not unwatchable if you’re into the cast and some of Hirokazu’s more noodly Japanese films, but there’s really nothing to this film that really jumps out and screams one to watch it, and trying to get through it a second time as a refresher was just a fool’s chore, so I won’t even be reviewing the movie persé. Either way, it will be available in “select theaters,” digital and cable VOD this Friday.

Opening in “select drive-ins” this Friday is Natalie Erika James’ RELIC (IFC Midnight), following its Sundance premiere where it received raves, but it will be available On Demand and digitally (and maybe even in other theaters) next week, so I’ll probably review it then. Oddly, this movie also involves three generations of women with Emily Mortimer playing Kay, who returns to her family’s country home with her daughter Sam (Bella Heathcote) after Kay’s mother Edna mysterious vanishes. Just as they arrive, Edna reappears just as suddenly, but won’t say where she was as her behavior becomes more dangerous, possibly possessed by an evil spirit. Again, I’ll watch this later this week and have a review for you next week.

Now available on DVD, Blu-ray and digital is FORCE OF NATURE (Lionsgate), the new film from the prolific Michael Polish (of the famous Polish Brothers of Twin Falls Idaho). This one is an action-thriller starring Mel Gibson, Emile Hirsch and Mrs. Polish, Kate Bosworth, as a retired detective, a disgraced cop and a doctor who take on a gang of thieves as a Category 5 hurricane hits San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I have to say that I did not go into this movie without some trepidation, because the production companies involved have become almost synonymous with the VOD schlock that Lionsgate will release without any sort of theatrical push. In other words, Force of Nature was never meant to be seen in theaters. This one seems like a pretty simple premise with Hirsch being a disgraced police officer who ends up at an apartment complex as a hurricane and a couple crooks bear down, and he’s forced to team with a retired detective (Gibson) and his daughter (Bosworth) plus a couple others.

Of course, there’s also some trepidation by the decision to cast Gibson and Hirsch due to their various infractions over the years, Gibson’s having just been brought back to light recently. The thing is that their presence and that of Kate Bosworth brings more to what is not a particularly well-written thriller.  This type of “bad cop” character doesn’t seem particularly well suited for Hirsch, as he’s still a bit of a “baby face,” but it also seems a little ill-timed to have that sort of character as a protagonist. The thing is that Hirch’s “Cardillo” doesn’t even stay in that mode for very long, as once he encounters Gibson’s character, he just can’t out-badass him. And honestly? Gibson is pretty funny in a role that could be his Lethal Weapon in his last days, but make no mistake that this is not a Mel Gibson movie since his character is discarded then quickly forgotten.  On the other hand, Polish was wise to cast the great David Zayas from Oz as the film’s primary baddie, and some of the supporting cast like Stephanie Cayo and William Catlett offer more to the storytelling than the leads.

Even so, it’s hard to get past the bad writing like Bosworth’s character telling how she became a doctor when her father (Gibson’s character) shot up a bunch of turkeys, followed by an even weaker story by Cardillo on how he got his partner killed. These ho-hum moments really slow down any momentum created by Polish in the action pieces, but even those are hindered by the film’s overblown score.

Force of Nature isn’t great and it certainly has its problems -- did we mention the lion in the closet? -- but it also had the potential to be much much worse, especially if (for instance) I actually had paid to see it. Make no mistake that this is a very dumb action movie.

New York’s Film at Lincoln Center is upping its Virtual Cinema with a number of new programs, including John Lewis: Good Trouble (mentioned above), as well as Ulrich Köhler’s 2002 film Bungalow and the self-explanatory Four Shorts by Miguel Gomes from the Portugese filmmaker. These include Christmas Inventory / Inventário De Natal (2000), 31 (2001), Kalkitos (2002) and Canticle of All Creatures from 2006.

Downtown at the Film Forum, their Virtual Cinema is also showing John Lewis: Good Trouble, as well as Leontine Sagan’s Mädchen in Uniform (1931) and Jacques Becker’s Rendezvous in July (1949), which will be joined by Antoine and Antoinette next week.

Saturday Night Live’s Nasim Pedrad stars in LP’s Desperados (Netflix) playing a woman wh flies to Mexico with her two best friends (Anna Camp, Sarah Burns) to delete an angry Email she sent to her new boyfriend, but once there, she runs into her former boyfriend (Lamorne Morris).

A bunch of new series will debut on Netflix this week, so in order of my interest, there’s JU-ON: Origins, which is exactly what it sounds like, a prequel series to The Grudge movies, while Ben Dunn’s long-running Antarctic Press comic series Warrior Nun Areala has been adapted into the fantasy series,  Warrior Nun. Now available on Netflix, Homemade is a quickly-produced anthology series of short films made under quarantine during the pandemic by a number of prominent filmmakers like Paolo Sorrentino, Pablo Larrain, Rachel Morrison, David Mackenzie and more. The Baby-Sitters Club is based on the best-selling book series with Sophie Grace, Malia Baker, Momona Tamada, Shay Rudoph and Xochitl Gomez as a bunch of middle-schoolers who start a babysitting business in their suburban Connecticut town. Also, that George Lopez stand-up special I mentioned last week actually opens this week.

I also want to give a thumbs up to the Jason Reitman-directed Home Movie: The Princess Bride, which premiered on Quibi earlier this week, spinning off of Reitman’s hugely successful live script readings. In this case, he has a number of big stars recreating the scenes and roles from the popular movie using whatever they have at home. So far, the recreations have included Tiffany Haddish, Josh Gad, Adam Sandler, Common, Hugh Jackman with more to come as different actors play the roles as the series goes on. Not sure how they’re gonna cover the entire movie over 10-episodes of 5 or 6 minutes each, but I guess we’ll have to see.

Amazon Prime will launch its own new crime series Big Dogs starting Wednesday that takes place in a number of underworld after-hour clubs called “Speaks.”

I probably should have included this in last week’s column but David (How to Survive a Plague) France’s new doc Welcome to Chechnya (HBO Documentary Films) debuted on HBO on Tuesday, which means you can probably still catch it on HBO Max.  This one involves a group of brave activists who are risking their lives to confront the anti-LGBTQ persecution happening in the Russian republic of Chechnya, which includes detention, torture and death from the authorities.

Tonight, you can also catch the doc Born to Play, which will have its premiere on ESPN, following the Boston Renegades, a women’s tackle football team over the course of the season after losing their championship the previous year. I haven’t seen it but I like a good inspiration sports doc as much s the next guy.

Other movies hitting the digital airwaves that I just didn’t get time for this week include Skyman (Gravitas Ventures) and Homewrecker (Dark Star Pictures/Uncork’d Entertainment).

Next week, more movies mostly in drive-ins, you lucky people with cars! Oh, speaking of drive-ins, Amazon Studios is kicking off its “Night at the Drive-In” series tonight with the “Movies to Make You Fall in Love” double feature of Love & Basketball and Crazy Rich Asians. You can find out if there’s a drive-in near you doing this program on the Official Site. I really wish I drove or had a friend with a car.

By the way, if you read this week’s column and have bothered to read this far down, feel free to drop me some thoughts at Edward dot Douglas at Gmail dot Com or drop me a note or tweet on Twitter. I love hearing from readers … honest!

[dorkforty]

So it’s time to get back to the funnybooks. After two weeks of talking movies, I’ve got a nice little backlog piling up, including the conclusion of Heroes in Crisis, the beginning of the end for Ed Piskor’s X-Men: Grand Design, and new issues of Stray Bullets and Criminal. But first, the comic I enjoyed most from the last two weeks…

The Green Lantern 8 by Grant Morrison and Liam Sharp

Y’know, just about any issue of this book is likely to be filled with ridiculous fun. But this one… Holy crap.

From the cover alone, you know you’re in for a wild ride. This issue is an homage to the classic Denny O’Neil / Neal Adams run of Green Lantern / Green Arrow, complete with Liam Sharp doing his best Adams impersonation throughout. But once you start reading the actual story, you swiftly realize it’s WAY crazier than that.

First, we’re introduced to Hadea Maxima, a (possibly other-dimensional?) hell-planet inhabited by a race of space demons for whom murder is not a crime, but an accepted cultural norm. One of the leaders (I guess?) of this place is a demon space-mobster named Lord Brotorr (!), who’s very very angry that rival demon space-mobster Glorigold DeGrand (!) is cutting in on his profits with a new drug that’s connected in some way to Earth. So Brotorr orders the murder of not just his rival, but also of THE ENTIRE PLANET.

Cut to Earth, where Green Arrow’s dealing with a deadly new street drug that leaves its users in a blank, zombie-like state. Green Lantern shows up to help, and we’re off to the races. Before it’s all done (without getting into too many spoilers), we’ve had twists, turns, psychedelic trips, drug dealers in pointy black hoods, and what may be only the second-ever appearance of Jack Kirby’s Xeen Arrow (the Green Arrow of Dimension Zero, which is of course an other-dimensional world inhabited by telepathic super-giants).

It is complete insanity, a frothy mixture of Silver Age goofiness and 2000 AD attitude that somehow manages to maintain the heroes’ dramatic dignity while still playing things for laughs. It’s a tightrope walk of an approach, and it’s not easy to pull off. Too far one way, and it all gets too cute for its own good. Too far the other way, and you’ve got the idiocy of a Rob Liefeld comic. But when you hit that sweet spot in the middle, you’ve got a potential classic.

And though it’s not perfect… Though sometimes Morrison’s scripts lean so far into dream logic that they don’t quite make sense even as comedy… I’m leaning toward this being a classic.

Immortal Hulk 18 by Al Ewing and Joe Bennett

Another classic in the making is Al Ewing and Joe Bennett’s Immortal Hulk. This one’s been gathering quite a buzz, picking up readers as it goes along, to the point that the early issues (which had low-expectation print runs) are now going for a pretty penny on the collector’s market. I’m sure the prices will eventually level out, but it’s nice to see a comic going for big bucks on the basis of actual reader demand, instead of the usual “it’s worth this because we say it is” reasons for that sort of thing.

The buzz it’s getting is deserved, too. Al Ewing’s horror take on the character has been quite a bit of fun. It dragged a bit during the Hell storyline a few issues back, but otherwise this has been great stuff. Joe Fixit (aka the gray Hulk) recently reappeared, and this issue we discover that he’s been in control of Banner’s body for quite some time. It’s not entirely clear how long, or what he’s been up to, but he’s definitely had time to amass a little money. And grow a mustache.

As the story moves on, we also get a crazy new version of the Abomination WHO HAS A FIST FOR A FACE.

So, yeah. This one’s a lot of fun, too. Not as good. But a lot of fun.

X-Men: Grand Design: X-Tinction 1 by Ed Piskor

My favorite X-Men book since Grant Morrison left in a huff has begun its final chapter here. If you’re not familiar, Grand Design is Ed Piskor’s attempt to cover the history of the X-Men as if it was all one long story that was planned out from the beginning. The first volume covered the original series, and the second covered the first 100 issues or so of Chris Claremont’s long run.

This time around, he’s really got his work cut out for him, because he’s covering what might be the absolute nadir of the Claremont run: the Trial of Magneto through Inferno. This was the period when I started losing interest in the book, and finally stopped reading it entirely. These stories left a bad taste in my mouth that’s still lingering 30 years later, and I found that I didn’t enjoy revisiting them any more than I enjoyed reading them the first time through.

Piskor does his best with them, though, condensing and conflating events in a way that streamlines some of Claremont’s more over-extended plotlines, and completely skips the more forgettable stories in favor of the stuff that continued to have repercussions down the line. His one misstep in that regard, I think, is the short shrift he gives to the Trial of Magneto, which I’ve always though of as the real climax of the first half of Claremont’s run. But I suppose that ultimately had more of an impact on the New Mutants book than it did X-Men proper, so maybe he was right to only mention it in passing. This is really Storm’s issue, and he rightly focuses things on her character arc (which might be the one really interesting thing from this period of the book).

Still. Holy crap. The latter two-thirds of this issue is concerned entirely with demons and Mr. Sinister. And just when you think you’re done with the demons, MORE demons show up. It’s interminable. And there’s only so much even Ed Piskor can do to save it.

Still, though, I have high hopes for the next issue. Because I have no idea whatsoever where X-Men goes next, and I can only think it would have to be better…

Ed Piskor’s Grade for Trying Hard:

Chris Claremont’s Grade for Writing Such Execrable Source Material:

Heroes in Crisis 9 by Tom King and Clay Mann

On the one hand, it’s comforting that this book died the way it lived: telling a story that I liked in some very important ways, but hated in others.

On the other hand… DAMMIT, Tom King! Why do you have to be so good and so bad at the same time?!

I don’t care enough to go into great detail on what I liked and didn’t like in this final issue. So I’ll just hit the highlights. On the down side, King engaged in some time travel shenanigans to change the solution we already saw to his locked-room mystery, and that feels like a cheat.

But on the up side, that cheat gives us an ending that’s messy but life-affirming, rather than neat but tragic. And that ending, unsatisfying as it is from a narrative perspective, feels very real. Because life is often messy and unsatisfying. “Nothing ever ends,” as Alan Moore once told us. But this ending also fits the book better than the neat ending would have. Because the ending we got (Wally West lives) offers a chance at healing and a hope for redemption. Which is what Heroes in Crisis has been about from the outset.

So I suppose I shouldn’t complain.

But I do.

Because, dammit.

Stray Bullets: Sunshine and Roses 41 by David Lapham

With the Lodger side project over, David Lapham gets back to his (or maybe my) first love, Stray Bullets. And, holy crap, things are really getting out of control.

click to embiggen

It would take far more time than I have tonight to explain the vast web of plots that are coming together here. So suffice it to say that the entire huge ensemble cast, which Lapham has spent the last 40 issues meticulously establishing, is finally converging, and I have no idea how any of them are going to survive.

Except that I know most of them do.

Because this entire series essentially takes place between issues seven and eight of the original Stray Bullets series, published more than 20 years ago. And I know what happens afterwards. In most cases, that would take some of the… excitement, I suppose… out of seeing how it’s all going to end. But not here, really. Lapham’s done a sufficiently good job putting this story together that, even though I know that Beth, Orson, Nina, Spanish Scott, and so many other characters will be surviving this bloodbath, I want to know how they’re gonna do it. And then there’s a handful of other characters who seem conspicuously absent from future events, and I’m dreadfully worried about all of them.

Or, if not worried, per se, at least really curious.

Because honestly… Annie probably deserves whatever she’s got coming. Unless, of course, Lapham finds a way to make her fate even worse than I can imagine. He’s good at that…

Criminal 5 by Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips

This fifth issue begins what Ed Brubaker has said will probably be the longest Criminal story arc to date. Which is a little weird for a series that he’s also said would feature more short pieces. But Brubaker’s a criminal at heart, as we’ve already learned, so you kind of have to take his proclamations about this book with a grain of salt.

Anyway. This new arc’s called “Cruel Summer.” It’s set in the summer of 1988, and it involves a private detective being hired to find a woman, but getting in a little too deep. Pretty standard noir premise there, and though the story’s well-told, I won’t tell you that Brubaker and Phillips really offer that much in the way of new twists on it. Where things get interesting is at the end, when Our Hero gets whacked on the head with a wrench by none other than Teeg Lawless.

That’s the same Teeg Lawless around whom every story in this current volume of Criminal has in some way revolved. Or if not revolved, INvolved. Even if it’s only in a spectral, influential sort of way. And next issue, we’re told, is all about Teeg. And, I would presume, this mysterious woman we meet this time around.

Which is just a really long-winded way of telling you that this story’s much like all the others in this series: clever, well-constructed, and more complicated than it looks on the surface.

A Walk Through Hell 10 by Garth Ennis and Goran Sudzuka

Garth Ennis’ searing look at the horrors of the Trump era continues, with an issue that calls into question the value of empathy when you’re dealing with people who have none themselves. It is not a cheerful or especially pleasant read. But it is a compelling one. It questions liberal values even as it presents the rich and powerful in a very ugly light. While it’s clear who the biggest monsters are, it doesn’t let anybody off the hook. Which is horribly unfair, but there’s also a grain of truth in it. Maybe more than a grain. Maybe. Probably. Maybe.

It’s into that opening of doubt that Ennis shoves his pry bar, and starts applying pressure. And that’s where the real horror comes from. This is a story about evil men taking advantage of people’s doubts. But they have those doubts for a reason, and sometimes that’s enough to break them.

And that is Hell.

Or at least, that’s my reading of the book at this point. I withhold the right to change my mind in light of future evidence.

And on that cheery note, it is time to bid you adieu.

Xeens and Things: FUNNYBOOKSINREVIEWAREGO!! So it's time to get back to the funnybooks. After two weeks of talking movies, I've got a nice little backlog piling up, including the conclusion of Heroes in Crisis, the beginning of the end for Ed Piskor's X-Men: Grand Design, and new issues of Stray Bullets and Criminal.