#i think my straight privilege got lost in the mail

[gay-otlc]

"trans people are just gays who transition because they want to 'become straight'" cool opinion, in my actual lived experience it has been harder to be straight and trans than it was to be cisgender and gay, but go off ig

[idabbleincrazy]

We Make Our Own Destiny: Ageless (Ch.5)

Fandom: Smallville

Rating: M (E overall)

Pairing: Clex

Characters: Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Lana Lang, Evan, Chloe Sullivan, Jonathan Kent, Tanner Sutherland

Word Count: 2779

Warnings: angst, episode rewrite, teen parenthood

Summary: Clark tracks down Tanner, everyone deals with bad news.

A/N: I probably could have added another scene to this, but I kinda wanted to blend a couple scenes together in the next chapter, and am still working out altering Tanner's fate slightly. Sorry this fic keeps taking so long to write, I really think I got in over my a head a bit with this series 😅

Clark had managed to make it to the school just as the last class was dismissed, and within seconds, he tracked Chloe down, and caught her up on the situation as they head through the halls to the Torch's office. 

“Well, our friendly phone company just got friendlier. I was able to trace the 911 call back to a cell phone. His mother was Karen Gallagher. She was a senior here.”

Chloe hands him the Smallville High yearbook, showing him a picture of Karen.

“I remember hearing about her. Was she Wall of Weird material?”

Entering the office, Chloe heads straight for the computer, setting things up as they talk.

“I got a couple blips on the radar when I heard that she had a knack for shorting monitors whenever she walked into the computer lab, but I had no idea that super-fast pregnancy powers were part of the equation.”

“How long was she pregnant for?”

“Well, last weekend, Christina Varrano had a party at her house, and Karen apparently went NC-17 with some guy in the bedroom. Christina has no idea who the guy was.”

“So she got pregnant and delivered a baby a week later?”

Chloe nods an affirmative, just as bewildered. 

“We need to find Evan's father. He's the only real hope we have at saving him.”

Chloe settles into her chair, Clark's pain obvious in his eyes. Even Lana had sounded like she'd been crying recently when she had called a few minutes before Clark showed up. This kid must really be something.

“Okay, gimme a minute.”

She's not typing for long before she finds a trail to follow.

“Looks like Christina used e-vite to send out all her invitations. I guess ours got lost in the electronic mail. Let's just check all the RSVP's and try to track him down.”

Chloe pulls up a list of names and Clark looks over them. She separates the boys from the list, and after five minutes of applied knowledge of the current rumor mill, whittles the list down to five names. Printing up the list, she turns to Clark. She feels a tug of guilt at what she really wants to ask, more leading questions that would push him into telling her about his abilities, and forces out a more relevant question.

“You really care about this kid, huh?”

“Yeah, Chlo, I do. And so do Lana and Lex. It's…it's really hard, knowing that this is mostly out of our hands, what happens to him.”

It hurts, to see him put on that forced smile even as his eyes grow watery, and not be able to comfort him the way he needs to be, to not be able to pull him into her arms and tell him that no one expects him to save everyone, even with all his powers. She feels it, deep down in some place she cannot name, that that will never be her privilege. Maybe someday she'll at least be granted the honor of acknowledging what she already knows, but this is not that day.

“I'm sorry there isn't more I can do to help, but if you need any more info, just gimme a call, okay?”

Clark nods and rushes out the door. Chloe turns back to her computer screen, unnerved. It's not often that Clark is faced with something his powers couldn't fix, and she remembers how bad it got for him when he lost Ryan. She just hoped Lana could help keep him from sinking into that funk this time. Or Lex. Lex always had a special knack for brightening Clark's world; when they weren't on the outs, anyway. And considering how close Clark is keeping Lex in the midst of all this, she's more apt to put her money on Lex this time around. She senses a shift of monumental proportions has taken place, and honestly, it's about damn time. 

The first two guys on the list had led to dead ends, one having hooked up with a different girl at the party, the other embarrassedly admiting to getting sick after a few beers and leaving early. Neither had any idea who Karen even was, let alone who she'd snuck off with to one of the guest rooms. Checking into the third name on the list, Clark entered Massey's Garage, paper still in hand. He steps up to a middle-aged man working under a lifted car.

“Excuse me. Does Tanner Sutherland work here?”

The man paused and looked up at Clark. “Yeah, he's over there.” He points towards the back of the garage with his wrench.

“Thank you.”

Clark walks to the back where Tanner is working on a car, hidden behind the lifted hood, tinkering.

“Tanner?”

Without straightening up from his work, Tanner calls out.

“Leave your car around back, I'll get to it.”

Clark walks around the hood to see Tanner. He recognizes the kid from one of his classes last semester, remembers he hadn't been all that social, time split between studying and picking up extra shifts to help his parents out. And now, he might have a kid of his own. A dying kid who's already almost their own age. Clark takes a breath and approaches the young man.

“Hey, were you at Christina Varrano's party last week?”

Tanner hedges, finally looking away from the engine he was fiddling with. There's a nervousness to his demeanor that even Clark can pick up on. 

“Uh, I don't remember. I…” He wipes his hands with a rag, avoiding eye contact with Clark. “I think I was working that night.”

“So you didn't hook up with Karen Gallagher?”

“What do you want?” Tanner's tone sharpens, stepping around the car towards Clark. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm the guy who found your son, laying in the middle of a field.” 

Clark feels a surge of protective anger, sure that Tanner is Evan's father. He knows evasive when he hears it. Tanner's face pales, even as he shakes his head in denial. 

“Look, dude, I don't have a son, and...and I don't know what you're talking about, all right? I got work to do.”

Tanner tries to walk away and Clark grabs his arm roughly. He knows it's a lot to lay at someone’s feet, but he can't lose this one chance to save Evan’s life. 

“I'm not going to let you walk away from this.” Clark pulls Tanner around to face him, schooling the building anger off his face. “Look, I know you didn't mean for it to happen, but it did. You have a responsibility.”

Tanner tugs at his unbreakable grip, his voice breaking.

“Get off me, man. What's your problem?”

“My problem is that your son needs your help. Now tell me how he got in that field.” 

Clark feels Tanner's defeat, the shorter teen slumping in his grasp. He lets him go, watches him remember.

“I got with this girl at a party. I was drunk, we both were. I didn't even think about condoms or anything, I screwed up. The next day, she calls me up, crying, saying she's...she's pregnant. And yeah, seemed a bit early to know that, right? But, I go over, and her stomach...it was already…” Tanner shakes his head in disbelief. “A week later, we were in my car, we're speeding to the hospital and she's screaming, it's coming!, and she starts glowing! And then the car, it went up like a freakin' a-bomb! That wasn't a baby. It was some kind of monster. It killed Karen.”

Rage wars with understanding, and Clark struggles to keep his voice even.

“He's a human being, Tanner, and he's your son. His name is Evan. He's aging rapidly.” Clark steps closer, like he's approaching a wounded animal, needing Tanner to understand “He needs your help. He needs a bone marrow transplant. You're the only one who can help him. He such a brilliant kid, if you could just-”

“What? No! Look, I can't deal with this. I never wanted any of this to happen, but, I'm sorry. I can't. I hate that I just left Karen like that, but I was so scared. Christ, I'm just a kid myself, man, how…how am I supposed to deal with this? I just want out of this crazy-ass town!”

Clark feels a warning rush of sad calmness, Lex, soothing his growing ire as Tanner steps around him and walks out of the garage. He lets Lex's projected stoicism surround him, stopping him from speeding after the teen and forcing him to understand. The cell Lex gave him rings in his pocket, and he pulls it out, grateful for this weird bond between him and his boyfriend. 

“Lex…”

“I know. I'll meet you back at the farm in half an hour. We'll find a way.”

Back home, Clark distracts himself with chores as he waits for Lex, moving bags of feed in the barn and talking to Jonathan. He still has to fight against the urge to run through Smallville and track Tanner down.

“How could someone do that to their own son?”

Jonathan sets his own bag down onto the pile and steps over to Clark, hating the anger and fear he sees in his son's eyes.

“Clark, being a father is an enormous responsibility. The kid is just too young to handle it.” 

“I'm handling it! Lex and Lana are handling it! He's Evan's only hope,” Clark can't stop his voice from cracking, “and Evan's going to die if we can't convince him to help.”

“I know that, son, and we're gonna figure it out.” God, he hopes they figure it out. That Lex can use that genius brain of his to save his son from this heartache. “But what's more important right now is what are we gonna tell Evan?”

“Maybe it's best I don't even tell him I found his father. He's gonna take it pretty hard.”

Jonathan claps a hand on Clark's shoulder, sighing.

“Son, an orphaned child has every right to know about his origins. You should know that better than anybody. I'll tell you what...I'll talk to him, okay? I mean, I do have a little experience in that department.”

Clark gives his father a half-smile, shaking his head.

“Thanks, Dad, but I think I should tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Clark turns to see Lana and Evan walking through the open doorway, Evan's face lighting up. “Did you find my father?

Clark doesn't answer, his throat dry, and his heart clenching. He had hoped Lex would get here before they did, to help ease Evan into the bad news. Another wave of comfort trickles through the connection, a ballast for his nerves. 

“Clark, where is he?” Lana's lips curve in a worried frown, and he suspects she's figured it out. 

“He works downtown...at Massey's Auto Garage. His name's Tanner Sutherland.”

“When can I see him?” 

The hopeful look on Evan's face tears at Clark’s already shredded heart. He flounders for a response, and breathes a quiet sigh of relief when Jonathan intervenes.

“Look, Evan, um, sometimes, when you meet your biological father, it can be painful.”

“Why? I don't understand.”

Clark thinks of Jor-El's imprint, of the pain and confusion and disappointment. 

“They don't always live up to your expectations, Evan. Trust me, I know.”

“But I want to see him.”

Lana turns to Evan, the weight of the situation heavy on her heart.

“Evan, we're just trying to protect you.”

“You can't protect me. No one can.”

“Just calm down, okay?” Lord knew Clark was angry enough for the both of them. 

“Stop telling me what to do, Clark!” Evan aims his words to hurt, lashing out through his own pain. “You're not my father.”

Evan runs up the stairs to the loft.

“Evan!”

“Clark.” Jonathan shakes his head, stopping him from following after Evan. He knows from angsty teenagers. “Give him some time to cool down.”

Clark is about to protest as Lex steps into the barn behind them. 

“From the sound of things, looks like I missed some upsetting news.”

It takes everything in Clark not to rush to Lex, to pull him into a tight embrace. Settles for the split-second glance of sympathy cast his way, the mental brush of warmth along his spine. Receives a placebo in Lana wrapping an arm around him in Lex's place; not the comfort he wants, but the comfort the trio knows Jonathan will not think to question. 

“Evan's father, Tanner, refuses to have anything to do with this.” Jonathan feels a little more of his icy regard for Lex melt away at the obvious pain radiating from the young man's eyes, the only hint at emotion the stoic businessman will let show through. He reminds himself that Lex has felt loss far too often for his age, an infant brother, followed too soon by his mother. “Have your scientists found any other option to slow this thing down?” 

“No, Mr. Kent. None of the tests so far have yielded any positive results. I've even flown in a doctor that specializes in progeria, but she thinks the treatment will only buy us a few hours, a day at most. But I haven't given up.” 

Jonathan looks between the three younger adults, for that's what Lana, what his son, are now. Adults, with a responsibility thrust upon them that they are ill prepared to handle, and he feels a swell of sadness, and pride, for this trio, dealing with this hard task so bravely. A major shift had taken place, and Jonathan had the feeling he wasn't seeing the entire picture, something niggling at the back of his mind that he couldn't pin down.

“Look, why don't the three of you go help Martha with dinner. She's already called the school to excuse you and Lana, for today and tomorrow. The rest of the chores can wait till later. I'll see if I can get Evan to come back to the house.”

“Thanks, Dad.” 

Clark gave Jonathan a watery smile and followed behind Lex, easing himself out of Lana's embrace as nonchalantly as he could. He appreciated the gesture, but it didn't compare. As soon as they were out of sight of the barn window, he fell into step beside Lex, taking up the offered hand. He could feel pain and anger to match his flowing between them, knows Lex has become just as attached to Evan as he has. 

Lex slows their pace, letting Lana continue up to the house ahead of them. 

“Where does this Tanner kid work? Maybe I can…convince…him to change his mind.”

“Lex-”

“With money, Clark, not threats. The procedure for a bone marrow transplant often leads to a lengthy recovery, so many people decline donating. Maybe if I take care of the financial aspect, talk to his boss about time off, he'll agree.”

“Maybe. He did say he wanted outta Smallville.” Clark looked at Lex, seeing only earnest desperation. “Okay. He works over at Massey's Garage. I don't know how late his shift runs.” 

Lex is interrupted from responding by the shrill ring of his cell. 

“Luthor.” Lex's expression darkens as he listens to the person on the other end, and Clark feels a spike of fear through the bond. He tunes his hearing to listen to the other side of the conversation. “Is there any possibility of an error?” 

“We've run the projections three times, sir. Even with the progeria treatment, there's no way to stall it without the donor marrow.”

Lex growls and flips his phone closed, squeezing it tightly in his hand. Clark tries to soothe him through the bond as he steps closer, taking Lex's hand and uncurling his fingers from around the cell that would have gained a cracked screen if Lex had been any stronger.

“What's wrong?”

“I've just been informed that Evan's cell division is increasing exponentially, along with the energy he expels when he ages. We have only a few hours to stabilize Evan with Tanner's marrow. According to the projections, Evan is building towards a massive chronological event.”

Clark gasps, calculations and permutations running through his speeding mind.

“So he'll, what? Be about eighty the next time he ages? He's still going to die too soon?”

“It's even worse than that, Clark. The next time Evan ages, he'll release enough energy to kill himself and anyone else at hand. We have to find Tanner and make him change his mind. Evan doesn't deserve this, he deserves a full life.”

Clark wrenches his teary gaze from Lex's at the sound of Jonathan shouting.

“Evan ran off. Three guesses where he's headed.”

~~~~~

@leatafandom

[our-transhet-experience]

I hope this blog isn't abandoned.

I have questions for other transhets:

1. Do you feel guilty for being the only ones to be allowed to transition historically?

2. Do you feel guilty for being the only type of trans portrayed in media? (The rare times that happened)

3. Have you had gay/lesbian trans people try to throw that in your face or use that as a "gotcha"?

I personally have had guilty moments. I know it's not our fault. WE didn't make that ridiculous rule where only straight trans people can transition. Blame transphobic cis doctors and society.

Not abandoned, I'm just mentally ill and disappear into the void every so often :P

1- Not really? I mean, it really sucks that non-straight trans people couldn't transition if they were open about their sexuality, but it's not like transhets were stealing resources from them or anything. And even though transhets were allowed to transition under this bullshit rule, the rule was still rooted in viewing transhets as "homosexual transsexuals" which is. Yknow. Blatant misgendering. So it's not like this rule was great for us either.

(This isn't to take away from the fact that the rule primarily harmed non-straight trans people! Just. Misgendering isn't a good thing)

2- That's not? Really true? Actually, earlier on this blog, there are a few people talking about how transhet rep is difficult to find. With recent queer media especially, I would say non-straight trans characters are easier to find than transhets (at least in my experience.

Older trans media definitely has more transhets (or people we would now call transhets) but that doesn't mean those portrayals are good. I'm not especially familiar with them, but I would guess a lot of those portrayals are offensive or transphobic to some degree. Like, in older media especially, trans women were portrayed way more in media than trans men, but that was really not a good thing for trans women.

3- Yeah. Often in a "stop complaining about the specific struggles you face for being transhet, you have straight privilege!" (I think my straight privilege got lost in the mail)

[court-of-forever-undone]

My Sister’s Love | Taryn POV

Chapter Three

Summary: Taryn pieces together her memories of Cardan and Jude’s early interactions as she reflects on how their relationship came to be and the events of the last year. As happy as she is for them, she can’t help but feel jealous of the moments they share.

Tags: Taryn’s POV of Jude x Cardan, Final Part

Read on AO3

After that dinner, we found Jude awake in her old rooms sitting with Tatterfell and Oak. For a moment, it was easy to pretend nothing had happened. She wore one of the black gowns she favored since becoming seneschal and was eating from a tray in front of her. But as she turned to face us, the wince she failed to hide and the paleness of her skin were reminders that she had nearly died just days ago. Her hair had been braided to mimic a crown, which was another reminder that my sister was not the same twin I had known.

Before we had a chance to talk, Cardan appeared. He likely came straight from his rooms, after finding them empty. Every fiber of my being wanted to grab Jude’s arm when Cardan asked her to join him, but I saw the dusting of pink spread across her cheeks as she saw him in the doorway, so I stood there silently. Jude would have probably ignored any word of caution coming from me anyways. We still had yet to fully come to terms with everything that happened between us.

When it had been hours and Jude had yet to return, I went to the royal chambers to see if she had gone straight there, but instead, I found Garrett.

While Jude had at least recovered some from her near-death experience, Garrett looked like the ghost of the beautiful sandy-haired boy I had met before. It might have been a funny observation given his code name, but all humor was lost in the moment. He had lost weight and his face had sunken in. When our eyes met, I saw the plea in them before he opened his mouth.

The next few hours were a blur. When Jude finally arrived at Hollow Hall, I was surprised to see she had allowed Cardan to come along. Cardan had proved he would follow my sister into the heart of an enemy war camp, despite better judgment, but this time Jude had chosen to invite him along with her.

After I commanded Garrett to stop, cursing myself for not thinking to do it earlier, we moved to a parlor room and I explained how we had come to know each other through Locke’s carelessness.

We discussed the events of what Garrett had done at Locke and Madoc’s command. It turned out that Garrett had been the one to shoot Queen Orglah. Even if he had been commanded to do it, Nicasia and the seafolk would see him as a traitor and demand that he be punished, which meant his life was entirely at the mercy of Jude and Cardan. I couldn’t help but see the resemblance to my own situation.

When Cardan made a comment about me lurking around the palace, I revealed that I had no intention of going anywhere until I knew that Jude would be safe. Our relationship may be strained, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make up for my actions.

Cardan wore an expression that showed he was tired of this conversation. “Jude and I had a misunderstanding. But we’re not enemies. And I am not your enemy, either, Taryn.”

As a faerie, I knew he couldn’t lie, but that didn’t matter. Maybe he didn’t think of us as enemies, he could still think of us as toys.

“But you think everything’s a game. You and Locke.” His name tasted like ash in my mouth.

“Unlike Locke, I never thought love was a game. You may accuse me of much, but not that.” Cardan shared softly.

The air in the room shifted as Cardan's gaze fell upon Jude, who refused to even look in his direction before quickly changing the subject.

For the first time, it was not just me who was drawing a comparison between our loves. While Cardan’s words came out more as a confession to Jude than a taunt at me, the words still stung. Locke had thought love to be a game. But Cardan, the cruel, spoiled prince did not think love was a game.

How had I believed Locke was my future?

In the carriage back to the palace, Cardan broke the silence by asking about some of the things he had seen on his way to Vivi’s apartment. Most of his questions were about the dishwasher which had been running in the apartment, how mortal mailboxes worked, how secure they were in protecting incoming mail, and what slushies tasted like.

By the end of the ride, I couldn’t help but laugh at his questions which seemed so trivial given the circumstances we all found ourselves in. When we were alone I turned to Jude, who was barely awake on her feet.

“Do you trust him?” I asked. It was the question that had been gnawing at me since our return.

Jude thought for a moment before sighing. “Sometimes,” she responded.

It was enough to make me warn her. Did I think Cardan loved her? Yes. But was Cardan trustworthy? It was hard to forget the years of our childhood together that suggested otherwise and if Jude who had gotten to know him closer than any of the rest of us questioned it, then it was probably best not to.

I had been blinded by my love for Locke that I trusted him to take care of me. I didn’t want the same to happen to Jude, even if seeing them care for each other made my heart ache with envy.

____________________________________________________________

In the days leading up to Madoc’s arrival, all of Elfhame seemed to be on alert; waiting for something to happen. Whispers that bordered on treason could be heard on the grounds and it seemed that everyone had begun placing bets on the outcome of the meeting. It seemed that many of the Folk had questions around the legitimacy of a human queen and the chance the High King’s army stood against a Redcap led army.

Madoc would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Vivi, Jude, and I all knew that. I did not have to attend strategy meetings to know they were facing a serious threat.

Amidst the preparations for possible battle, the whole castle seemed to note the change in the High King and Queen’s dynamic. For one, their marriage was now common knowledge, but more than that there was a closeness between them that had never been there before.

At first, it was not-so-secret handholding and shared looks at mealtimes. Once at dinner, Cardan made a joke about the dangers of in-laws and Jude rolled her eyes before letting a real smile show.

Then, rumors began to spread that a servant had walked into the royal chambers to replace the bedding and apparently caught the two in a compromising position even though they were supposed to be in a war meeting.

I was doubtful when I first heard, but I even overheard some council members complaining about how they missed when the two bickered all meetings instead of ditching meetings to sneak off together.

The new development had only lasted a matter of days, so I hadn’t figured out if it stemmed from a need for distraction given the impending situation or if the two had formed a more intimate relationship since Jude’s return to health.

The look of devastation on Jude’s face after Cardan transformed suggested that whatever their relationship entailed, Jude had begun to share feelings for him that went beyond hate or tolerance.

When Cardan snapped the blood crown, the air turned stale and the ground hardened. I couldn’t tear my eyes off of Cardan, as his body seemed to melt and twist into the monstrous snake.

The ground shook as the snake moved through the room headed straight for the sword maker. By the time Grimsen was swallowed, I was being pushed deeper into the castle by the flow of the crowd desperate to get to safety. I only got a glimpse of the horror on Jude’s face before she was completely out of sight.

By the time I finally saw her later, I saw the tear stains on her cheeks and the exhaustion behind her eyes. I wondered if she was mourning Cardan or perhaps she was coming to terms with her own future. If Cardan could not be saved, Jude would likely not last long on the throne. The lower courts might seize the chance or the undersea would. That is if our father didn’t dethrone her first.

For the first time in months, I thought I might be able to understand her again. Like me, her husband gave her a level of security that was uncommon for a human in Faerie. While Jude may try to say her motivations for marrying Cardan were different from me marrying Locke, I don’t think they were. They were both motivated by power and protection.

I married Locke for protection in Elfhame. My position as his wife also gave me a degree of power I never had before. Jude married Cardan to become High Queen. She could have become the most powerful knight alive and still not have been afforded the same level of protection she has as Cardan’s queen. While we may have had different expectations for our marriages, both were strategic.

Madoc taught us that it is harder to hold onto power than it is to gain it. It is even harder to hold on when it is just you. Together, she and Cardan had a chance at maintaining the throne, but alone the chances were slim.

I may have lost almost every privilege I had as Locke’s wife, but Jude had a lot more to lose without Cardan; including her life.

In his absence, the happiness that Jude showed disappeared entirely. When she wasn’t in meetings, she could be found in the destroyed throne room and truly seemed to mourn him.

I recognized some of her pain, though her situation was different of course. I knew what it was like to feel the suffocating sense of loneliness. After all, I had gone months without hearing from my sisters or my parents, all while stuck in a relationship that was on tilted ground from the start.

I knew the pain of losing a partner. Locke died by my hand, but it did not stop the mixed emotions that came after. In the instant I decided to act, I lost any promise of a safe future in Elfhame.

We both knew what it was like to be humans in Faerieland; powerless to watch as the monsters closed in from all sides. In a land where the food, wine, a dance, and a simple conversation could be disastrous, only she and I could truly understand the deep fear that every day brought.

When the day came to bridle the snake, my sister looked magnificent, powerful even. She looked every bit the part of High Queen. But behind her cold, fierce look, I noted the inner turmoil that plagued her.

No one had any ideas on how to save the High King. Therefore, her future came down to if she would decide to wield the snake as a weapon or not. With the serpent, Jude would have had a chance to hold her position on the throne. Without Cardan, she would likely lose everything.

If power was the only thing she wanted, it would have been a simple choice. Jude would have found the snake and ruled as the murderous queen that some fae refer to her as, for as long as she could. She hesitated though. After she dressed in Mab’s armor, she paced back and forth while she chewed her bottom lip, as she does when she is nervous or thinking. She didn’t know what she was going to do.

It was that morning that it became obvious that my sister had loved Cardan back. It was more than lust or a political arrangement. They both could claim their marriage had been strategic, and it might have started that way, but there was love between them. A love that kept her from using Cardan as a weapon.

They played their games and hurt one another, but when the other was in danger they shared the same look of desperate determination to save them. The look on Jude’s face was the same as Cardan’s when he came to Vivi’s apartment; desperate, sad, and determined.

____________________________________________________________

When Jude returned with a naked, bloody, Cardan I could not believe it. The impossible had happened.

Within a matter of hours, the palace managed to throw a feast in honor of the High King returning. I dressed quickly and made my way to join in the celebration with my siblings and Heather. Tatterfell told us that Jude would join us shortly.

At the height of the party, I spotted a familiar face trying to keep out of sight near the edge of the room. I left my spot near the musicians table and made my way towards him.

“Hello Garrett,” I said as I stopped next to him, taking in the room from his angle. Vivi, Heather, and Oak were still eating at one of the long tables. The crowd parted suddenly, so it was easy to spot Jude and Cardan as they made their way to the dancefloor.

“Taryn,” he replied with a smile.

Neither of us spoke for a moment as the kitchen servants brought out more desserts with a level of fanfare that matched the king that was being celebrated.

“Are you on king and queen duty this evening?” I asked with a nod to the direction of the dance floor.

Garrett shook his head and laughed, “Technically, I am always responsible for their safety, but I sense that the king and queen don’t wish to be followed.”

I looked back only to notice Cardan leading Jude behind the dais and out of sight.

“Then, perhaps you would like to dance?” The words slipped out before I could reason why it was a silly idea. Before I could regret my words, he offered a soft smile before extending his hand.

I let him sweep me onto the dance floor, trusting him to stop me before my feet wear out. I don’t know if it was the way his face lit up when he laughed, or because he is a member of my sister’s court of spies, or because I could command him at any time (not that I ever intend on using his name), but as we twirled and laughed together, I felt safe.

The feeling was a bit ridiculous. My future was still entirely unknown. I had a baby growing inside me, still needed to stand trial, and had no way to support myself.

Technically, both Garrett and I had committed crimes punishable by death, but at least for the evening, I was happy to share the space with him.

We stayed on the dance floor together until the sun streaked in through the windows.

____________________________________________________________

On the day of the tribunal, I could not help but tremble slightly. Cardan’s promise floated in my head, but I would never fully believe it until I was officially declared innocent. I could not believe that Jude would punish me too harshly. After all, she hated Locke for what he did, so I couldn’t imagine she was upset by my actions. At the same time, she also hated me for what I did, so it was hard to guess her thoughts.

I took my time getting ready until it was finally time to make my way to the throne room. I quietly entered and found my spot in the crowd before glancing up at the dais.

Together they sat. Two enemies who had somehow fallen in love. They had risen together through everything that had happened.

Jude made Cardan into a respectable king and Cardan made Jude queen so no one could overlook her power again.

Cardan invited me forward and in a clear voice, he granted me everything he promised. I was innocent and my child and I would inherit Locke’s titles.

I walked back to my seat and felt the weight of the last few months fall off of my shoulders.

With the ruling, I let myself imagine my future; something I had not done since the night I drove the letter opener plunge into Locke’s neck.

I had made regrettable choices in the past, but I had been given a fresh start.

I had hated the way my sisters had loving relationships, but now it was what I hope to find for myself.

I want a love that is more than security or protection or fun. I want to be with someone who encourages me to be more.

I am not in a rush to find love again. I have my child to raise, my relationships to repair, but if my sister’s love taught me anything, it is that love can happen in the most unlikely of places with the most unlikely of people.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Media Gaslighting

*ahem*

I AM SICK TO THE BACK TEETH OF BEING GASLIT BY THE GOVERNMENT AND THE FUCKING MEDIA!

*little huff of a sigh*

Okay. ...Actually, no, I don’t feel better, but it had to be said. I mean, really.

So. Local elections. I don’t think all the votes are counted in all areas yet, but as we currently stand? The Conservatives lost nearly four hundred seats in local government. The gains were an uneven split between Labour, Liberal Democrat (honestly, they were fairly close), and the Green Party (still trailing in gains but still, they gained seats, which is a thing).

Northern Ireland is ... going to have problems, because Sinn Fein is on track to be the majority in the Northern Ireland assembly. I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything to a lot of people, but suffice to say that they are a republican party that’s very much for the reunification of Northern Ireland with Ireland. Apparently people in Northern Ireland are sick of this Northern Ireland Protocol bullshit. That’s going to get politically ... sticky. But what that basically means is that the Democratic Unionist Party (effectively the more Conservative-leaning, anti-reunification party that’s been screwed by the Tories time and time again since this Brexit mess started) just lost an awful lot of local assembly seats in Northern Ireland.

Also in the losses? Most of London. Even areas that traditionally vote Tory because they’re the districts where the wealthy and privileged live, or where people have been scared off voting Labour because of that antisemitism bullshit that was going around. Also a whole hell of a lot of other seats. When I say nearly four hundred, I mean it - 386 and counting. All of that is telling. Very, very telling.

But what are most of the news reports saying? “This isn’t evidence that Labour would win if an election happened tomorrow.” “Here, let’s focus on the few seats the Tories did win!” Some people - and this is more people than news outlets - are actually trying to sell this as a net win for Johnson and the Tories because “people are voting along Brexit lines still!” Yeah, and those districts where people are voting have MPs as well as local government. If there was an election tomorrow, do you really think people who voted Labour or Lib Dem for the first time in their lives are going to vote for a Tory MP when they effectively punted their local councilpersons for even standing with Johnson and his political party?

Thing is, I read the Guardian - what my mother calls “communist trash”. Funny, though - their reporting of the local elections much more fits the reality of the situation when looking at the straight-up numbers than the Telegraph, the Times, and sure as hell the Mail. No, maybe Labour wouldn’t win a majority in a general election if it happened tomorrow. But Labour doesn’t have to. All Labour has to do is keep the Conservatives from hitting the magic number in First Past the Post, and then either form a coalition with Lib Dem (who I’m sure have learned their lesson about a coalition with the Tories after the mess in 2010) or just have a minority government. The latter’s not ideal, and Starmer would have to swallow some pride for the former, but it’s still doable, because no political party in their right mind is going to form a coalition with Johnson.

So ... y’know ... if people think that the Tories would win another general election with Johnson as PM? Go for it, guys. Northern Ireland’s sick of the whole thing. Scotland’s still largely Scottish National Party but Labour shoved the Conservative government there way down at the bottom of the ranking in terms of seats. The Tories got what are being called “disastrous losses” in Wales, and the Welsh, being an outspoken bunch of buggers, were asking some very pointed questions about Johnson any time a door-to-door canvasser came ‘round. And London - where Johnson was once mayor - almost unilaterally told the Tories to fuck off. Probably because we had to live with Johnson as our mayor and we’re now seeing how much worse he and his party get when he’s got the top spot.

I’m just tired of the spin. I’m tired of the “Oh, this isn’t so bad” and the “Oh, this doesn’t really mean anything” and all that shit. This means a lot. This may mean the reunification of Ireland. This may mean Scotland and Wales going for independence. This certainly means that we the people are sick of the Tories’ bullshit. And that includes having most media outlets refusing to say anything that might be negative about the current government because of the threats of, for instance, cutting BBC funding, or selling off Channel 4, or lawsuits like Carole Cadwalladr faced.

So, seriously, dear news media? LET ME HAVE THIS. Let me have this knowledge that this country has had enough, that it’s actually seeing what the Tories have done. Even if it’s just because it’s affecting their standard of living rather than things like the curtailing our right to protest, the voter suppression, the mistreatment of refugees ... at this point, I don’t care why. If they only want the Tories out for selfish reasons, these voters? AT LEAST THEY WANT THEM OUT.

So the very least the news media could do is acknowledge that. When a Prime Minister loses nearly four hundred local representatives just because they stand by said Prime Minister by remaining in his government? That says things. Stop trying to gaslight me into believing that it doesn’t.

[lotusik]

How I became passionate about folk magic. (July 23, 2020)

I hadn’t had very much interest in folk magic previously. I was always more interested in theurgy, everything to do with uniting with the divine, and I suppose I thought I didn’t need any other sort of magic. Or perhaps that as long as I was working hard on a spiritual path, nothing more was necessary. I admit that attitude is an awfully good example of the privilege experienced by a white woman born in Canada. Many others that came to North America, particularly those with brown skin have had a much different story to tell. How I did finally develop an interest in folk magic was actually through genealogy. My family lines come from various places in Europe, and one day doing research I discovered that one of those lines landed smack in the middle of the Pennsylvania Deutch (Dutch) community. Until then I hadn’t even known of any ancestors in America, I thought they had all come from Europe straight to Canada. Luckily for me that lineage was already well researched in books and the like due to the historical import of that community so I had much to delve into. At some point an 1820 book by Johnn Georg Hohman (John George), a member of that Pennsylvania Dutch community, came into my awareness. It was titled in the original German; Der Lange Verborgene Freund, oder, Getreuer und Christlicher Unterricht fur Jedermann, Enthaltend: Wunderbare und Probmassige Mittel und Kunste, Sowohl fur die Menschen als Das Vieh (The Long Hidden Friend, or, True and Christian Instructions for Everyone. Comprising Wonderful and Well Tested Remedies and Arts, for Men as well as for Livestock.) Later titles would incorporate the term pow-wow and the practice often was called pow-wowing (or powwowing), though it has nothing to do with the Indigenous peoples of America. The name was appropriated from the Algonquian languages and given negative connotations by the Puritan missionaries, becoming a sort of general term for magical workings. The book is often now published as ‘The Long Lost Friend’ or as ‘Pow-wows or The Long Lost Friend’.

This book contained spells, charms and all sorts of herbal and home remedies. Some of the spells in the book came from a German spell-book called das Romanus-Büchlein, (The Little Book of the Gypsies), along with some contributions from Albertus Magnus, or more accurately, pseudo-Albertus Magnus (works attributed to Albertus but more likely written by disciples). Other items in the book were quite unique to the oral tradition of the Pennsylvanian Dutch community itself. The healers that use those practices are called Braucherei, a female practitioner is called a Braucherin and a male a Braucher. They may also be known as a powwow doctor or a powwower. And yes, they absolutely still practice today! I’ve seen hexmeister used as well, or hex-doctor and that seems to be synonymous in some places with powwow but as far as I can see that was not very popular as it more specified working against illnesses caused by grudges and malicious intent. I’ve also seen the term used more often in relation to the painters of hex signs on barns and I am not entirely clear if that is part of Braucherei or something somewhat separate. There are some excellent books on hex signs but I’ve not been able to get copies sadly. All of this really got me thinking a lot about how perhaps my own ancestors may have practiced this form of folk magic and healing. Further, I started thinking how folk magic may well have been part of my own family’s traditions through my other ancestry lines also; Slavic, Celtic & Scandinavian. And thus, a real interest in these practices became sparked. Unfortunately due to the way Christianity swept across the world absorbing what it chose to and wiping out the rest, I have found it very difficult to find very much about original beliefs and practices in Slavic countries. Sometimes I find more in neighbouring countries rather than the ones I am most interested in due to my own ancestry. Though looking at the big picture, there is so much influence in individual countries from elsewhere anyways, for example the influence of the Celts is absolutely huge in many parts of the world. Borders in so many places have often moved many times, countries have been ruled by various different rulers and migration often imports new beliefs and systems into established cultures as well. The more I’ve looked at all these lines of history, the more convoluted it becomes to me. Researching about Hohman’s book I learned a lot of interesting history about it as well as about the influence it had on inhabitants of the Appalachians and on Hoodoo as well. The book was originally published for the Pennsylvania Dutch themselves, but later English editions ended up being marketed through Jewish mail order catalogues. For African-Americans in need of supplies for their magic, they had to be resourceful and make do with what they could access. Jewish suppliers soon found out selling Jewish religious items and hoodoo supplies to African-Americans was great for business. This led Hoodoo to be influenced by a variety of sources and practices. And one of those sources was Hohman’s Long Lost Friend. Learning about the influence of ‘The Long Lost Friend’ on Hoodoo led me to, obviously, learning as much as I could about hoodoo! There is a lot of incorrect information out there, but there is a lot of accurate stuff as well that can be found digging around on the internet thanks to some amazing practitioner-teachers. Just before Covid-19 started spreading across the world, I decided to take a chance on something called a “Steady Money Service” offered by The Hoodoo Queen in Mobile, Alabama. [The website is linked below.] All I had to do was send my $10 and I was in! I can’t say I was super expectant of results, though I was hopeful. I had watched many of Queen Co.’s videos and the information shared in them really rung true as authentic to me. Besides, it was only $10 and I figured it it well worth it as a first foray into hoodoo. But alas, Covid struck, and so I really thought there wasn’t any hope at all this ‘steady money’ service had even the slightest chance of working. In fact I thought the exact opposite was going to occur. So I felt pretty discouraged. Still, I did exactly what was detailed out to do on my end after the service when I received my ‘dirt’ in the mail (including laying dirt at the threshold of my house and burying an American dollar bill in my back yard after fastening it down with nails) and sure enough, I have had nothing but steady money since that time! While I am an open minded person, I have always been someone that wants some ‘proof’ as well. Even if that proof is only my own intuition or ‘knowing’, I need there to be something. And this to me, was my proof. I am very sure this service from Queen Co. helped open a pathway for money for me. Since that time, I have been studying everything I can of various folk magic practices from all over the world, and I have found they have so much in common. Yet in so many other ways they are marvelously unique. Tied to the cultures they come from but connected through all by the need we all have to get by on this planet the best way we can. I enjoy so much the creativity in these practices, and the amazing resilience of the people they came from.                                                                  ----------------- For Queen Co. The Hoodoo Queen, go here! https://conjuresouth.com/ For a lot more information on the Pennsylvania Dutch and powwowing please check out this link which has an astounding amount of research by Patrick. J. Donmoyer and also contains some really amazing images of artifacts as well. It’s where much of what I shared here came from as he has the best research I’ve seen. : https://static1.squarespace.com/static/56829c58a2bab87f93ee4d6a/t/58c178ef3e00be4c00782168/1489074429798/Reduced+Size+File+-+Exhibition+booklet+-+Powwowing+in+Pennsylvania.pdf Further I’d recommend the works of Don Yoder as well as the book The Red Church by C.R. Bilardi. For a more extensive history on Hoodoo and the contribution The Long Lost Friend had to those practices, please check out cat yronwode’s website luckymojo.com, its well worth your time!These two pages specifically: https://www.luckymojo.com/powwows.html https://www.luckymojo.com/hoodoohistory.html#admixtures

[veridium]

fuck it, queer meta.

About a year ago I wrote one of my first and largest meta posts about why I consider Cassandra a prime example of queerbaiting despite her being a character who explicitly says she is heterosexual. This lead to quite the day of inbox hate mail from people throughout the fandom. Most were upset I used the “q slur” and left it untagged as such in the big DA meta tags. I can imagine for those folks, the substance of what I had to say mattered little as a result. 

I deleted most of those messages and my responses soon afterward. They upset me greatly even as I took it all in stride. However, given that it’s been about 365 days since that fiasco, and some interesting events have happened with regards to current and former DA writers, I thought it would be “fun” to write a recap and reflection on why, generally, I still feel the way I did when I wrote that post. With some changes and growth, of course. 

The gist of it is, as we have come to learn in past, recent, and ongoing discourses in fandom, that much to the chagrin of a lot of folks in this fandom: BioWare, and in this instance DA writers, are not your SJW Icons. Furthermore, they never should have been, or should be, considered as such. 

The gist (part two) for me, is: for as much as diverse characters, worlds, and societies are being uplifted by Games these days, the counterbalance of bullshit is still there. And I think it survives most sturdily in the kind of logic the BioWare writing culture throughout the years. This sense of egalitarian, “of course” logic, that appears to make socially deviant identities normalized but really just falsely positions those identities as meant to be in lock-step with the norm. Representation to gaming, and most of media writ large, all-too-easily falls into the trap of “we want what the privileged have,” which it to say, we want our existence to be a no-brainer, even if it means we lost the essence of why our stories are so profound, important, and necessary to do justice. 

I really can’t imagine accepting the way characters like Cassandra were written because I don’t accept the writer(s) who wrote her. Why?

Come with me, and we’ll be, in a world, of pure fuckery...but with citations...because I’m an Academic and that’s my roll.*

*Please see tags for pertinent content warnings before clicking.**

**if you reblog and tag this shit with “q slur,” I will take all the reserves of understanding I have as a DA fic writer for all of the enraged womxn in the series and express it accordingly. And, as a femslash-oriented author, I can promise you: that expression will be consumptive. 

Hm, I wonder, what with the predominant writer for her character inquires on Twitter for “lesbian fanfic porn” recommendations for writing “research,” but seems to be unable to hire appropriate creatives to write, consult, etc. for the project. 

Or that the writers room made, and continues to make, space for a writer who continually does Black and queer characters dirty with his mediocre-at-best work, in both game and novel form (because, plot twist, he’s a shit writer) (1) (2) (3). 

Or that the writer’s room, and specifically Ga*der, attesting that the development of the Qunari was based on Arab cultures around the time of “Medieval Europe,” which is somehow his way of getting out of the thematic botching of the Qunari language, social structure, etc. from Islamic tradition. 

Or, the writers who intentionally shaped the story so that Vivienne, one of the limited number of Black women characters in the entire series to have a role as an ally, to be a red herring of an distrustful and conceited antagonist, to the point where her treatment by fandom has been incredibly racist, heinous, and lazy for years.

These are a few of MANY reasons, with thorough exposition, why the veneer of “progressive inclusion” studios like BioWare claim to be authentic. Having “diverse” writers in the room -- and I’m using that word incredibly tenuously here -- didn’t change the result of any of these harmful scenarios. In fact, it created them. This, combined with the tale as old as time: toxic fandom culture with white, anglo-centric, cisheterosexual masculinist ideals at the fore, have gotten us here. 

So, do I hold all of the reasons why I am angry about Cassandra’s character writing the same way now, as I did then? No. Certainly not. In fact, there are parts where I would correct myself. On the other hand, the thesis for me remains largely preserved: I revile G*ider, I revile that he gets the accolades he does by fandom for his “diversity” of characters when he exploits, erases, and uses slippery morality to get out of admitting he has shortcomings in his work. I hate that the exaltation for representation still funnels itself onto the heads of white writers and predominantly white-staffed studios. 

And, underneath it all, I am mad that some of ya’ll see no problem with that. Because what does it matter, if you do not come from communities, cultures, and coalitions that get the brunt of this misrepresentation? What does it matter if it angers a lesbian fan that the writers who have a long history of misusing and conveniently copping themselves out when they write women and queer characters, seem to use that “expertise” as permission to do what they are supposedly combating?

G*ider, the hero himself, is on written record saying that it should not be second guessed as to why Cassandra is straight, just as he thinks it should not be second guessed that Dorian is gay. Yet, when he asked on Twitter if there was some moral significance to people modding character’s sexuality (in this specific instance, Dorian, actually), G*ider said that in the end, people’s mods “do not change” what he wrote, and that unless they claim their changes “supercede” canon, there’s no harm done. 

So, really, I’m just over here like -- is this ya’lls hero?

Why in the fuck would someone be modding a gay character to be bisexual or heterosexual, if they didn’t somehow believe that version “supercedes” the canon rendition? Secondly, where is the attention to the fact that, in an ensemble of multiple romanceable characters, Dorian has to be the one that has to be sexually and romantically accessible to those outside of his canonical realm of attraction?

I mean, for fuck’s sake, it’s the whole virtue grounding his companion side quest, the fact that he is estranged from his Father who tried to magically change his orientation! This is a crucial part of Dorian’s entire journey to serving the Inquisition, and serving Tevinter as a dissident.

But, you know, it doesn’t change what G*ider wrote. And he’s correct, it doesn’t change what he wrote, which he got credit, money, and esteem for. It doesn’t change that if you load up the base game, Dorian’s gay. In G*ider’s head, that is the protective force: the parts where he has ties, and not the culture of the fandom, the culture the fans who helped fill his pockets from that game have to dwell within. This isn’t revolutionary, this isn’t good-faith representation. This is getting a piece of the rotten-sweet pie and saying “let bygones be bygones, you toxic, funky heteronormative assholes!”

But, where are my manners. I’m getting heated, aren’t I?

Basically, if you condemn queer fans for calling out queer bating -- or any marginalized fan for throwing up the alarm for bullshit -- and your first reaction is to side with folks like G*ider who got theirs and said screw everything else, fuck off. Literally, fuck off. I call Cassandra’s circumstance queerbaiting because she’s one example of writers getting their cake and eating it, too. If they are so aware of just how much of their fanbase is marginalized folks, they don’t get to say they don’t have fingerprints on things like queerbaiting. You don’t get to be acclaimed and excused for the shit you say you are combating, which is the source of that acclaim. And if your claim is happy ignorance, then you definitely don’t get to blithely equivocate when fans do ask you why the story happened the way it did. 

I also just want to keep in mind here that there’s a deductive conclusion to be had about this, given how La*idlaw explicitly stated they endeavored to make Cassandra extremely hot, “really enticing.” That conclusion is: 

(1) Either they aren’t/weren’t nearly as attuned to their queer audiences as they generally claim to be, or 

(2) They were, and had no intention of developing compassion or empathy passed G*ider talking out of his ass about why Cassandra was developed as straight. Which, ultimately, does coincide with conclusion (1) more than not. 

No matter what, the contour to the conclusion is: wow, a taste of nauseating objectification, in the BioWare writer’s room. Who knew!

It’s no wild accusation to make to a writer like him and his colleagues, that they don’t know how to handle sapphic, wlw, and/or queer-related storylines, especially with women. Especially when the answer seems to be, “well, it was decided before I took the lead, and in any case, why question it! You wouldn’t question a gay character’s orientation!”

But that’s just it, you complete and utter turnip. People did question Dorian’s sexuality. People do question Dorian’s sexuality. That fantasy world of equal bearings is as insincere as it is out-of-touch. And why not, when, as you said, 

it doesn’t change what you got paid for.

The ethos seems to be crudely reflexive: people’s phobic interpretations and alterations of the canon do not matter, but then again, why would you even question why a character is straight? Why would you question my narrative vision, in all of its beautiful shittery?

It’s all a game of dodge, ya’ll. Dodge, dodge, dodge. With a strong and acidic dose of vanity. 

So. In summation, folks: I could care less for your false equivalences. I could care less about my contribution of queer content fucking up your good time in the meta tags. Obviously you aren’t there to actually engage in creative, exploratory thought, so why bother reasoning. There is more to the possibilities of queerbaiting than stringing along a could-be, would-be, should-be queer storyline directly. There’s knowing your audience enough to exploit your good graces with them. There’s benefitting from a charade of liberal progressive clout. There’s the ability to foresee that queer people will cathect to a given character, and not only denying an experience they could have, but denying it so harshly that the character says they can’t love yours because you’re female. 

And I am so, so, so sick of these people continually enriching themselves off of the “nobody’s perfect” grace. To me, that grace is the promise of good faith, and the intention to do right by people. When that isn’t there, the grace isn’t going somewhere where it’ll be appreciated, that it will be nourished by. I mean, fucking hell, people, this is rainbow capitalism: don’t you taste it?

That’s that, then. “Cassandra and Queerbaiting Rant,” one year on. An extra dose of salt, just for the haters. 

[winterhasbeencoming]

Marvey Fic Recs [already UPDATED]

rongrealmwrongtime requested some recs for good Marvey fics and I've been thinking about doing this for a while. So brace yourselves for the monstrosity that is my all-time favorites. 

I rarely give feedback (which is horrible, I know), so I hope this master list shows my appreciation for all of you out there sharing your creations with us mortals. 

I won’t include unfinished fics/series in here. I’ll also keep it updated and add things.

(While doing this I realized I’m kinda obsessed with works by sal-si-puedes, tattooedsiren, and FrivolousSuits)

General Audiences

Blockbuster series by ThrillingDetectiveTales

How Many More Chances Are You Going to Give that Kid? by blackeyedsoul

I Knew You Were Trouble When You Walked In by novemberhush

I'll Be Here For You by statusquo_ergo

Ill-Fitting Black Suits by cnomad

Last Friday Night by tezzzz [best bachelor party fic]

Lobster and other Catastrophes by TooSel  [tie for top post-s07 fic; possibly my fav Suits fic of all time]

May The Best Man Win by novemberhush

Never Regret Us by charmed4lifekaren

Not Too Late by FrivolousSuits

Now We're Even by Sauffie

Paging Dr. Freud series by novemberhush

Plus One by Pookaseraph

Rattled by FrivolousSuits [amazing comment fic for 5x14]

The Secrets We As Lawyers Keep by thesassmaster

The Tenth Man by sal_si_puedes

Terrified by tiptoe39

A Thousand Words or One series by JustSomeMusings

Trevor is the Root of All Evil by nyargles

We Used To Be Friends (We're Gonna Be Lovers) by novemberhush

Teen and Up

Affixed to You by tattooedsiren

All Alone on Christmas by skywardsmiles

At the Doorstep by FrivolousSuits

Bayu Bayushki Bayu by writingtoreachyou [BEST prison fic I’ve ever read]

Bury all Your Secrets in my Skin by tattooedsiren

Chicken Soup For The Slightly Damaged Soul by TheSightlessSniper

Come On Back to Paradise by FrivolousSuits [tie for top post-s07 fic; definitely fav 5+1]

A Condition of Happiness by eadunne2

Confessions by Sairyn

Disconnected by Loyalty2WayStreet

Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue by novemberhush

Fair Enough by Closer

Guilty (Of Love in the First Degree) by Loyalty2WayStreet

Hope Vs. Experience - Wherever They may Lead Us by ThatwasJustaDream

I Need This by Loyalty2WayStreet

If You Have to Think Twice by kho [fav stoned fic]

Imagine the End of the Storm by statusquo_ergo [fav by this author]

In Life After Life by TooSel

In The Other Hours by tattooedsiren

The Jackpot Question by lesbianchrispine (Sher_locked_up)

Just The Two Of Us by sal_si_puedes

Landmarks to a Treasure by tattooedsiren

No Expiration Date by FrivolousSuits

Not a Fraud Anymore by Sauffie

The Note by ThatwasJustaDream

Objection by FrivolousSuits

Sleep is a Symptom of Caffeine Deprivation by PhoenixFlame

Stay Out of Trouble by tattooedsiren

Strictly Ballroom by sal_si_puedes

The Sweetest Things In Life Are Free by Stealthlamb1

The Truth About Us by AmorVerdan

Twist the drama of the play to get us by statusquo_ergo

Untitled Rainbow Ficlets by vaguesalvation

When You Really Love Somebody by kho [my thoughts on post-prison in one fic]

Where I Leave my Hurt Behind by Sway [best hug fic everrrr]

White Turkey by Sway

The Whittaker Case by kho

You Should Have Called by laughter_now

Explicit

The Age Old Question & The Only Right Answer by Sairyn 

Anamnesis by DLanaDHZ [amnesia!fic]

Answer in the Form of a Question by blackstar777

Are You Attracted To Me? by Bontaque 

The Awkward Life and Times of Mike Ross (Fool's Gold) by mockturtletale

Back in Town by ScottieB

Be Home For Sunday by SunshineWaves

Best in the World by mskatej

The Best Thing Ever by sal_si_puedes

Bittersweet Sensation by joannereads

Call It a Dream by wolfzaa

Call Me by Love2Slash

Cinnamon by eadunne2

Come Again by mskatej

Come Back To Me by CowandCalf

Counting to Infinity by sal_si_puedes

Dawn by CowandCalf

Declaration by smartalli

Different by sal_si_puedes [fav by this author]

Even Miracles Take A Little Time by team_freewill

Even the Impossible is Easy by tattooedsiren [fav Christmas fic]

Eyes Wide Open by Loyalty2WayStreet

Five Times Mike’s Phone Sort of Gets Him Into Trouble and One Time It Really, Really Doesn’t by Robin Gills (Akiseo)

Flowers Never Bend With The Rainfall by sal_si_puedes

Happy Stoniversary by Loyalty2WayStreet [one of the best 5+1s, lots of stoned Marvey]

Home series by TooSel [kid!fic]

I Don't Feel Right (when you're gone away) by IDreamOnlyOfYou (lauren3210)

I told YOU by blackeyedsoul

If Ever I Was Running by tattooedsiren

Jealousy Bites by Love2Slash

King Solomon's Dream by sal_si_puedes

Klutz (Or: Accidentally Mike) by Attorney C

Leave of Absence by butterflycell

Let Me Down Easy by sal_si_puedes

Let Me Down Easy by TheSightlessSniper

Lost and Found by Sairyn

Lover to Lover series by skinnyties

Mea Culpa by TooSel

Mr. Harvey J. Specter by flamyshine

My Guy by charmed4lifekaren

New Memories, Not Really A Surprise by sal_si_puedes

Not the Bates Motel by mskatej

Nothing Like We Used to Be by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)

Perfectly (Dys)fuctional by eadunne2

Please, Harvey by PaolaAdara

The Prime Directive by Sairyn

Purely Fictional by blackeyedsoul

The Red Earth Of Tara by sal_si_puedes

Red series by sal_si_puedes

Seven Sleeps by TheSightlessSniper

Seventy Two Hours by Areiton [best pre-prison fic]

Some Assembly Required by poppypickford

Something Else by sal_si_puedes

Spectrum by lipservice (thescariestadverbs)

To Please The Client by sal_si_puedes

The Trip by mskatej

Under the Sheets by joannereads

Vacation in Vermont by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni) [fav by this author]

Whispers in the Night by joannereads

Alternative Universe

5U175 by Closer [in which they write Star Trek fanfic omg]

All Straight Lines Circle Sometime by liketheroad [Time Traveler’s Wife AU - very creative]

Can You Keep A Secret? by Sauffie [fair warning: this is the angstiest fic I’ve ever read, it made me cry, it completely broke me down, but I’ll never forget it, so it was definitely impactful]

Coffee Cart-Client Privilege by FrivolousSuits

Coming To Your Senses by Skara_Brae

Curious George by sal_si_puedes

Fate’s Decree series by in_the_bottle [doctor AU]

Gatekeeper by SodiumBicarb

Grande Soy Triple Dirty Chai by friskaz [barista AU, so adorable]

Hilts' Bar by accol

Lemon Drops by Sway [You’ve Got Mail AU]

A Life Sentence (in your arms) by tattooedsiren

Of All the Gin Joints in All the World by FrivolousSuits [my fav AU hands down]

One Hour by sal_si_puedes

One Night Only by TooSel

Nanny ‘verse series by GotTheSilver

Pizza-Verse series by Closer

Rule 520.4 & New York Domestic Relations, Article 3, § 10 by machtaholic (cinderella81) [AU first meeting]

Rules of the Game series by snowstar [about the pain all non-canon shippers experience]

Schmoopy Boat Verse by sal_si_puedes

Shuffle Up and Deal by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)

Tattoo!Verse series by machtaholic (cinderella81)

A Truth So Loud by  tattooedsiren [fake marriage AU]

Whatever the Question by tattooedsiren [another fake marriage AU]

You Are the Bread to my Butter by Sway [chef AU]

You're Not the One (But You're the Only One) by ChristyCorr [angsty, but so good]

BDSM 

Baby Blues by surrenderdammit

Chocolate by writingtoreachyou

Claimed by Skara_Brae

The Drop by flitterflutterfly

Everything You Want series by ThatwasJustaDream [angsty af]

The Last Thirty Percent by TooSel

Needs Must by thatotherperv 

No Needles series by sal_si_puedes

Soulmate 

All About Us by wolfzaa

Be Thou My Rainbow by sal_si_puedes

Dulce et Decorum est (pro de amor mentiri) by mockturtletale [kind of soulmate]

Ignorantia Juris Non Excusat series by wolfzaa

Ink by machtaholic (cinderella81)

One More Sleepless Night by sal_si_puedes

The Touch by FrivolousSuits [kind of soulmate]

When Most I Wink by sal_si_puedes

Omega Verse

Imperfect Perfection by Skara_Brae

Matter Over Mind series by sal_si_puedes

Rain on Golden Leaves series by formalizing, rei_c

Silver Lining by FoxVII

The Strange Courtship of Mike Ross by Skara_Brae

Walk Away If You Can series by Blue_Five [angsty but so worth it]

[chaossmagic]

take me into your loving arms (2/2) 

kiss me under the light of a thousand stars 

Over the years, throughout the many ups and downs, one thing has always remained true; they feel safest and most at home in each other’s arms. They wouldn’t have it any other way.

A study in snuggles, physical closeness, and the non-sexual side of intimacy that Robert and Aaron both crave from each other.

(read on ao3)

iv.

When the bedsheets stopped smelling like Robert, Aaron slept in his dressing down, the thick quilted blue one that was so long, it hung down almost to his ankles. It was warm, and it had had Robert’s shower-fresh or sleep-tired skin next to it last, and if Aaron really tried, he could still smell the scent of aftershave and moisturizer on the collar of it. It was like having Robert himself wrap his arms around him in bed, holding him close, and it lulled him to sleep if he concentrated long enough on the memory.

Next, it was Robert’s old jumpers, the ones he couldn’t bear to throw out even though he’d had a hissy fit initially and swore to throw everything in the bin. An old, bobbly grey thing that was too small for him now but fit Aaron like a glove, and the sleeves so long he could cover his hands with them entirely, tucking them under his chin like Seb did when he slept in his cot, curled in on his side like a kitten. 

Then, when that no longer satisfied him or made the pain left behind in Robert’s absence dull and bearable, he resorted to sleeping in Robert’s leather jacket, the shoulders too wide and the torso too long but still feeling like a warm cocoon of an embrace that might have been from his husband himself, if were there to give it to him.

It was close enough. It was all Aaron could manage to conjure up, thinking of Robert alone in a washed-out grey cell hundreds of miles away, and he hadn’t even had the guts to talk to him and tell him what was going on inside his head before he’d sobbed in his arms on the last day they’d ever seen each other, begged him not to forget him and sent him a divorce letter in the mail.

He missed him. He missed him so much it was like he had a permanent stomachache, always there in the background of everything he did. It was a physical throbbing that was left behind when part of himself, of who he was, had been torn away and was now unreachable. Robert had gone where Aaron couldn’t follow him, help him, or hold his hand and tell him things were going to be okay - all things he would have done, things he’d have done gladly and with honour, because Robert was his husband and it would have been his privilege to take care of him. 

Like Robert had taken care of him, all these years. 

He didn’t care if Robert didn’t think he deserved it. He’d do it regardless, because that was what you did when you loved someone as much as Aaron loved Robert, and if he didn’t, he’d be letting the man he loved down.

But he’d never gotten that chance. 

And now everything was only parts of half a life, because Aaron was only half a person without him.

v.

Robert was warm, steady and heavy against him, his breaths a calming wave of sound and sensation as Aaron let himself sink further into the sofa, stretching out a little so that Robert could lay his head more comfortably where it was pillowed on his stomach. It was softer now, with age and needing to take things steady - Aaron was softer and greyer all over now, a semi-permanent ache in his shoulders that he was told was early onset arthritis - but Robert didn’t seem to care. He was happy as a cat dozing on its favourite chair, hands curled in Aaron’s jumper and eyelids fluttering with half-sleep.

And to think, Aaron had almost never got to experience this again, this physical closeness that had always characterised him and Robert, the way each other’s presence always seemed to gravitate towards one another even if the room was full of people and the way things just felt...normal when he was there. Right. Easy. The way things were always supposed to be.

It had been almost eight years, but the feeling was the same. Home.

“I missed you so much, before,” Aaron said absently, stroking up and down Robert’s shoulder in a random rhythm, “I missed having you close, just holdin’ ya like this. Probably the thing I missed the most, really. Missed having your body next to mine, simple stuff. Cuddlin’ watchin’ crap telly, a goodnight kiss, a hug before you left for work in the mornin’...”

“I’m sorry,” Robert whispered. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to give you all of that. I missed doing all of those things with you, too, and remembering them, how it was...on the worst days, it’s what kept me going. The memory of you. How it used to feel before I threw a spanner in the works of everything good we had going for us.”

“Robert, don’t say that,” Aaron pleaded. “You didn’t mess everything up, okay? It was more like...a break forced on us by stuff outside of our control. And we both did things we shouldn’t have, alright? I’m as much to blame as you are, maybe more because I didn’t try hard enough to knock some sense into ya when you thought cutting us all off was a good idea.”

“What, you would have picketed the prison until I had no choice but to talk to you?” Robert asked, a glimmer of humour in his voice. Aaron had missed that, the sarcasm, the amusement at his own little jokes that was both incredibly nerdy and incredibly endearing. 

“Maybe. Camped out, even played that stupid Adele song over and over on a loudspeaker if it meant you’d come and see what all the fuss was about.”

“It’s our song!” Robert huffed indignantly, “We have a song, Aaron, however much you want to ignore that we do.” He went quiet, then spoke again, voice small and soft. “I heard it, once, in the prison. One of the officers had a radio in reception and it came on. It was faint, but I heard it, and it was like...it was our wedding day all over again, and you were dancin’ in my arms even though you said you weren’t...I hadn’t felt that happy since before I went inside, that day when I heard our song. It brought me so much peace, but I also ended up a right mess after it. I refused meals for two days, till I was so dizzy I couldn’t stand up straight, and it reminded me of where I was and what the reality of the situation was really.”

“Robert,” Aaron gasped, his body tensing. His hand froze where he continued to stroke Robert’s arm lovingly, the fingers trembling. His voice came out strangled when he spoke. “No. Please tell me you didn’t do that on purpose more than once...the idea of you hurtin’ yourself the way I did...”

“It happened for a few months,” Robert admitted, “until I ended up losing enough weight for prison welfare to notice, and I got sent to a psychiatrist. Beatrice. She said I was a lost cause. She wanted to section me.”

Aaron made a low moan of pain that sounded like a wounded animal; it tore from his chest, animalistic and anguished, and foreign to his own ears even as he made the sound. Horror seemed to fill up every inch of space his body possessed; the idea of someone taking Robert, his Robert, broken and vulnerable and suffering, and locking him away in a sterile hospital because they thought he was mad...

It was unthinkable. Unbearable. 

“Stupid useless prison system,” Aaron ground out between clenched teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m so sorry, Robert. If I’d been able to help ya...I’d never let them lock you away like that, I’d’ve done anything I could to get ya the right help...”

“I know,” Robert said softly. “I know you would have, Aaron.” He turned over then, looking up at him with huge, shining eyes, the colour of which Aaron had memorized down to the last specks of green and gold. It had been easy, because Robert’s eyes had been copied exactly into the face of their son, whom Aaron adored more than most anything else other than Robert himself. “I really, really missed you.”

A soft, gentle smile crossed Aaron’s face. Easy and content. “I really, really missed you, too.”

vi.

“Daddy,” a small voice said, a sharp little finger poking him in the cheek. “Daddy, Seb and Papa fell back to sleep and they’re snoring. It’s too loud.”

Robert blearily opened one eye, saw the scrunched-up face of his daughter looking back at him, her lips turned down in a pout. “Is that so?”

Ellie nodded emphatically. “Like Uncle Sam’s pigs. Oink oink oink,” she giggled, “Papa and Seb are like the three little pigs from the story!”

“Mmm, I suppose they are,” Robert mused, lifting his head up from his pillow to look over to the other side of the bed, where indeed his husband and their fourteen-year-old son were fast asleep - again - Aaron’s mouth open in rumbling snores while Seb snuffled and snorted, his strawberry-blond head resting against his father’s dark one. They were like two peas in a pod, Robert often thought, Aaron and Seb, like twins almost. He bit back a wide smile at the sight, how warm it made him feel in his chest. His husband, his son, and his daughter pressed in close to his side, four of them piled into their bed early in the morning on a lazy Sunday. His family. 

“Daddy?” Ellie asked, her little hand reaching up to touch the side of his face, his cheekbone. “Why do you look like you’re sad?”

Robert shook his head, took his daughter’s hand and kissed the middle of her palm, inhaling the sweet baby-pink scent of her skin and fixing her with a steady gaze that was as serious as he could manage. “I’m not, princess. I’m happy. You remember how daddy had to go away for a long time before you were born, and that made him really sad?”

Ellie nodded. She’d been told the story before, the abridged version of her parents’ history, so that she’d understand why sometimes his moods changed or why he wanted to sleep all day or had to take special pills she wasn’t allowed to touch, pills that made him better so he could be with them. 

“Well, now I have your Papa, and Seb and you, and thinking about the time when I didn’t have those things is hard, and when I look at all of you,” he pulled lightly on one of her curls, frizzy and wild so like Aaron’s, “I remember how lucky I am that I have such special people to look after me.”

“Like Papa looks after you, ‘cause you’re husbands,” Ellie said, pronouncing the word husbands carefully, the extra ‘s’ making it difficult with her baby teeth and slight lisp. 

Robert looked at Aaron again; he’d shifted, one arm slung around Seb’s rising and falling chest. When he woke up, he was sure Seb was going to be mortified. He chuckled to himself. 

“So, what should we do, Eleanor?” Robert asked her pensively, turning onto his stomach and resting his chin on top of folded hands. “Wait for them to wake up, or...” he raised an eyebrow, “pancakes with extra cream and strawberries just for the two of us?”

“Pancakes!” Ellie crowed, wriggling like a worm under the duvet, bare feet kicking with glee. If Seb had somehow inherited Aaron’s scowl, then Ellie had got Robert’s sweet tooth. Aaron blamed it on all the times he’d found him and their surrogate inhaling a packet of chocolate digestives between them, one claiming it was ‘stress eating’, the other indulging her hormones going rampant for sugar in her sixth month of pregnancy. 

Only one of those reasons was deemed as valid.

“C’mon, then, little squirt,” Robert said, using the old nickname she’d had as a baby, swinging himself out of bed and swooping to put Ellie on his hip, where she grabbed onto the collar of his pyjamas and grinned like a cat who got the cream. “We might leave the sleepyheads some toast when they eventually wake up, yeah?”

“Yeah!” she agreed. 

Robert carried her towards the door; when he reached it and pushed it open gently, he turned back for a minute to take another look at Aaron and Seb, still dead to the world. Ellie pressed her cheek against his neck, her curly hair tickling him where it sprung out in various directions. 

“I love you, Daddy,” she whispered suddenly, her little voice loud in the quiet of the room. Robert pressed a kiss to her head, still gazing upon Aaron and Seb, his whole world and his pride and joy, and the soft warmth of the most precious thing in the world heavy in his arms. There was a reason why they’d given her the middle name Hope, and for Robert, she lived up to it every day - her, and the rest of his family, and the second - third - chance he thought he’d never get.

Home, he thought. This is my home. And I will cherish it forever.

[freerabbitmanandpig]

My Friend With Parkinson’s

On Oct 1st of this year I was given compassionate release from Allenwood USP for (what was diagnosed as) an unspecified connective tissue disorder. I had served roughly 60 months of a 70 month sentence. To secure this extraordinary release my lawyer had sited the new emergency COVID increased risk criteria, pointing to my status of being prescribed immunosuppressants, as well as suffering from lifelong asthma. Being as that I’d been housed in a care-level 3 medical facility, most of my time had been spent around inmates with chronic conditions, many of them without a chance of making it home within the course of their natural lives. Conscious of the fact that many of these men lacked the financial resources available to my family, especially as the pandemic has left many people in the street without regular employment, I made promises to some of these men to attempt to get their stories out into the world.

Christian Tarantino (Reg. # 14684-050) is a middle-aged man that I met while in Allenwood. A gambler with a good sense of humor, who was generous with his friends and, while in the street, lethal to those who stood in his way. According to the FBI, back in the early 90s Chris was part of a crew that committed a number of armed robberies. In 2011 he was sentenced to three consecutive life-terms for the murder of a guard during an armored car robbery back in 1994, as well as the murder of one of the participants whom he feared would flip on him.

Criminals, conscious of their own status, tend to withhold judgement, and I’d be lying if the description of Chris as a “cold killer”, spoken to me with admiration by more than a few inmates, did not inspire this same admiration in me upon hearing the stories of his exploits. To be clear, I never personally heard Chris tell any stories about his case, or murder in general; the stories he did tell me were often funny ones about the club scene in NY, or his dog. The problem was that, when Chris spoke, I often had to strain to hear him. Still, the Parkinson’s had made him patient over the years, and he did not get frustrated when a person had to ask him to repeat himself, sometimes multiple times. No matter how long it took for him to finish the story, it was worth it to hear it all the way through – as I said, he was funny.

Chris and I had started talking more about his disease a month before my release, after having heard that the Marshall Project had published a short story of mine the year before. The problem, he’d told me one morning, was that a 15-minute analysis with the MD did not take in to account the fact that his PD fluctuated in intensity throughout the course of a given day. Even if you’re classified as a care level 3, you generally only get to see the facility’s MD once a year, with all subsequent outside appointments and medication adjustments being managed by your assigned PA. The key to adequate treatment lies then in the temperament of your PA. My PA was considered the best on the compound and was likely instrumental in getting me the workups and appointments I needed to secure my compassionate release. Chris’ PA was largely considered the worst on the compound (one of two), a bitter woman who often had to be compelled into action via administrative remedies, which Chris was inevitably forced to file. If he came to a sick-call and was not actively in the throes of intense contortions (which he sometimes referred to as ‘crazy legs’) then he was often disregarded. Chris and his PA were prone to devolve into shouting matches, nor was this a problem that she had only with him. Even when he wasn’t engaged in fighting the crazy legs, he was mostly still confined to his wheelchair. There were, on occasion, times when he felt in control of his legs enough to walk, albeit while holding on to another inmate’s shoulders. There was no shortage of willing shoulders, as inmates of all races would step up to ferry him, either to the computer room – where they would inevitable have to help him type his emails, or to the shower – where no handicap accommodations existed. This last omission struck many of us as particularly negligent, considering the yard’s care level. Another problem was the speech impediment. I’d often heard him ask, rhetorically, how it was that sounding like “a retard” when he spoke was not a clear enough indicator of the severity of his condition, regardless of the tremors. Of course ‘retard’ is not really the best adjective for any modern condition, but the point was still valid that, when he spoke, he sounded like a person recovering from a massive stroke – only he wasn’t recovering, Parkinson’s is a degenerative illness.

          The prison had no choice but to provide him with follow-ups to the local neurologist after a highly invasive surgery, known as ‘deep brain stimulation’, in which a device, a ‘neurostimulator’, was implanted into his brain. This local doctor told Chris flat-out that he was incapable of treating him at this stage in his illness, nor is the facility capable of recalibrating his implant.

         At night, a small group of us would walk to pill line to get our evening medications. I got Elavil and Gabba Pentin – the former for my interstitial cystitis, and the Gabba Pentin for more generalized pain. Chris, on the other hand, got a bunch of different pills, each with an Old Testament-sized list of potential side effects. To add insult to injury, the medical staff crushed most of his medications, as though this middle-aged man in a plastic, yellow wheelchair, barely able to get the cup of powder into his mouth, would somehow be able – or even willing, to cheek these many pills so that he could smuggle them back to the unit and…. What? For anyone curious enough to look, Federal Penitentiaries are full to the point of bursting with real narcotics. Who the fuck wants to sniff twenty different PD meds?

         During these evening walks (some of our only time outside of the unit since the pandemic started) the subject of my pending motion came up on a regular basis. It was news, if nothing else. As for Chris, PD does not put him at an increased risk for COVID complications, and although I’d heard him, on occasion, tentatively breech the subject of outright compassionate release, his main request to me was that I put his story up, in the hope that perhaps someone else from the outside would get involved and get him moved to a medical facility. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about falling down in the shower and bearing the indignity of calling for help, alone and naked on a wet floor that’s covered with other men’s piss and body hair. Before I was released, I wrote one final staff request for him to the medical coordinator attempting to get him transferred to a care-level 4 facility. This was not his first attempt to obtain such a transfer, and, for the purposes of the request, Chris provided me with a list of names of staff members who had seen him fall down, or else had helped him get back to his cell after an accident. It was a long list.

         For a man who devoted a large part of his life to fitness, it’s a hard pill to swallow. In my mind I am stuck wondering what three consecutive life sentences (or a thousand for that matter) really means for someone like Chris, who’s own body has become a prison. In a sense I have an idea – back in 2017, my uncle Steven Parr – a successful and well known archivist in San Francisco, was diagnosed first with Parkinson’s, which was later amended to a diagnoses of Lewy-Body syndrome – a disease that bears similarities to PD. His initial suicide attempt was precluded by his manager, Adam, who was on the phone with my mother at the time. His second attempt, however, was successful. To me, though, the most poignant encapsulation of Chris’s attitude was made apparent when I was pushing him to the showers one morning. He’d removed his shirt before getting back in his chair, and I was struck by his apparent muscle tone and total lack of body fat, despite his sedentary lifestyle,

“Damn Chris, you’re in a wheelchair and still in better shape than half these dudes in here.”

“Yea..” he spoke slowly – struggling to force his tongue to conform to the consonants, “..this is the worst thing god could’ve done to me.”

         In a way it was cruel how the progress in my appeal seemed to engender a sense of hope in some of the other care level 3’s working fervently, without the aid of outside capital or competent legal help, to obtain their own releases before the virus made it’s way to the yard. By Oct 1st the USP at the Allenwood Correctional Complex had 7 cases, all of them quarantined in the shu after having arrived on a plane, and then a bus, with who-knows how many others potentially infected. They’d already shut the medium back down as, despite their ‘best’ efforts at screening all arrivals, 15 cases had popped up in general population. As I already stated above, the administration fought me every step of the way – even after the motion had been granted and I was only awaiting the end of my obligatory 2 week quarantine, the staff refused to allow me to call my family, my lawyer, or even probation, so that I could arrange for transport. I didn’t know whether I’d be going straight home or to a program until the last minute. I could see it in their faces every time they brought me legal mail or were forced to set up my screening for the drug program that I’m in now – they didn’t think I deserved it. Like they had only just found out via the granting of my motion that they presided over an unequal system. I got 8 months back – goodtime I’d lost, along with years-worth of visits and phone calls - “privileges” they justified in taking almost exclusively over dirty urines, and for what? Suboxone. At my final workup the MD confided in me that, prior to the pandemic, they’d been told by the region to start preparations for the MAT program (medication assisted treatment) and to apply for the DEA approval to begin prescribing both suboxone and vivitrol. Unfortunately, these proceedings had to be halted to focus their energies on the then emerging public health crisis. Maybe it’s my prejudices, but itt seemed to me that these people took it personally – as though those reclaimed 8 months had come directly off the end of their own lifespans.

[zenithlux]

Cadence - CH 15

Catch up on the story here!

In which Vergil and Roxy make a little progress

---------- 

Bring me out From the prison of my own pride My God I need a hope I can’t deny In the end I’m realizing I was never meant to fight on my own

On My Own - Ashes Remain

----------

The next month went by without incident. No nightmares for Vergil. No fainting or stasis for Roxy. They’d even developed some kind of routine; one that kept him busy but also gave him time to read, relax, and a million other things he never got to do at Devil May Cry. Their hunts had gone smoothly, as Vergil finally learned the correct distance to keep between himself and the demons so their essence would go to Roxy instead. It had taken a few tries, as the energy was almost desperate to flock to him, but then Kuro ate a few of the creatures in front of their kin. How this display of superiority helped Roxy absorb essence in their future battles, Vergil didn’t know, but it was an interesting thing to witness nonetheless. 

And despite the relatively smooth sailing, Vergil watched Roxy like a hawk, always on some level of alert. Though even that wasn’t as big of a deal as it sounded. He’d gotten used to the constant sound of her heartbeat in the back of his mind, as its very distinct cadence was different from other humans. Now, he knew the difference between a potentially dangerous skip of a beat and one that came from sheer embarrassment. 

The latter was oddly more frequent as of late, but Vergil didn’t think about it too much. 

This also meant that Vergil met all of Roxy’s clients. The elderly man who was collecting artwork of his late wife’s favorite insects and paid twice as much as Roxy asked for. The creepy young woman who liked objectively ugly things like swamps and gremlins. The love-struck boyfriend who had been so excited about Roxy’s painting that he begged her to wait for his girlfriend so he could introduce them. 

And, at Vergil’s request, Roxy taught him the inner workings of her business. She’d been hesitant at first, telling them that she never intended him to actually work for her. But once he proved that he wanted to help, she’d been relieved to pass some of the responsibility off to him. Within a few days, she had a very capable helper (he refused to use the word ‘secretary’) who took care of orders, e-mails, and secretly tracked down the few clients who had refused to pay (Six total. Roxy was far too nice). Roxy used the extra time to paint, and Vergil was certain she had finally found some free time to indulge in a piece for herself too. But he never asked, she never told, and they continued on in their friendly manner. 

For Vergil, it made sense to help. Even though Roxy assured him she had plenty of unknown money to spare, he knew she drew all personal purchases from her “work” account. This included paying Vergil, which kept Dante off his back and allowed him to keep donating to the orphanage where Nero worked. So keeping things running smoothly meant a better time for everyone. 

It was an interesting way to practice their increasingly awkward handshakes. The two seemed to have some sort of strange competition going on. Roxy went out of her way to shake hands with everyone she met; a far cry from the woman in the store who avoided anyone she didn’t want to speak with. And since Vergil would not be outdone by anyone, he attempted the same… sometimes. He gave himself extra points for the few he managed, as clearly it took him far more effort. Or something like that. 

She was still three points up, much to Vergil’s annoyance. And she didn’t even know they were playing.

Vergil also tried not to think about what jokes Dante would make about the arrangement. Working with her was his job, and Vergil was determined to keep up. And, if he were completely honest with himself, he quite liked the busy work. His mind didn’t wander as much when he was busy. And considering the random nonsense that was popping up now and again… distractions were probably a good thing.

Today, however, it was Vergil who dragged Roxy away from her blank canvas and down to the park a few blocks away. Considering the bags under her eyes and generally complacency and quiet attitude, Vergil assumed she hadn’t slept since her last client meeting. Vergil wasn’t surprised, as that couple had almost bullied her into giving them three free, massive paintings for their grandchildren. Vergil had put his foot down on that one but hadn’t known what to do when he realized she was crying as they stormed out. He’d settled for some coffee and light conversation, but she’d been ‘artist’s blocked’ ever since. And, after a subtle hint from Kuro in the middle of the night, Vergil knew this lack of creativity was often a sign of stasis. And Vergil was determined to keep that away for as long as possible, even though he wasn’t quite sure how to do it. 

“You shouldn’t let those kinds of people get to you,” He said as they stopped in the middle of the park. They’d walked a decent distance, but Vergil wasn’t worried. Even if she didn’t have the extra demonic strength from Kuro, he could teleport them back at any point. What mattered the most was that her shoulders had relaxed. The stiffness in her body had all but vanished. And something akin to a still-sad-but-I’m-getting-better smile had returned. “Surely they aren’t the first of their kind you’ve met.”

“I don’t usually argue with them,” She said.  

Vergil frowned. “Why risk your business for a few idiots?”

“It’s never in danger,” Roxy said. “I’m very aware of my privilege, Vergil.”

“You’ve never gone into detail.”

She was silent for a long moment, and Vergil wondered if he’d gone too far. “My father left me a fortune,” Roxy said. “With compounding interest. He could have split it or sent more to my mother. He could have donated it or anything else really, but he left it all to me.” She sighed. “More money than I know what to do with.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Yes,” She said. “I don’t want it, but I’m also not foolish enough to throw it all away. My father wanted me to be comfortable, and I respect his wishes. But I try not to use it outside of donations. If other people have to live within their means, then I should too.” She tugged on her jacket, eyes glazing over as she stared at the trees before them. “He left me a mansion too.”

“A mansion?”

She nodded. “You know those pretentious buildings that somehow survived that giant tree in Redgrave? It’s one of those.” She shrugged. “I haven’t looked at it since the day he passed away almost two years ago. The place is probably ransacked by now considering how desperate everyone was.”

“You were the one who donated to the bookstore,” Vergil said. 

“But you knew that already, yeah?”

“I guessed, yes.” 

“I would throw the whole thing into Redgrave if I could,” She said. “And, it hasn’t been my home for almost a decade.”

“The accident, I presume?”

She nodded. “I lived with Dia for a time, then Kuro and I moved here. We got lucky, I guess. Our home wasn’t destroyed and we had plenty of demons to keep me going for months.”

“No stasis?”

“The one afterward was the worst. Three months before Dia found me.” Her expression soured. “My ex might as well have left me to die.” 

The rage that swept through him was unexpected, and he had to fight to keep his voice calm. “Why?”

“We met six months before the Redgrave Incident, but he was always skeptical when I would disappear to Dia’s house for a few days,” She sighed as she pulled her jacket tighter against her body. “I should have told him the truth, but then the demons invaded and I just… didn’t.” She glanced up at him. “When it was all over, the paralysis hit the worst it had ever been. I could barely breathe Vergil. Nothing worked. My arms. Legs. Even my thoughts seemed to just… slow down. But when I asked for help, he left. Kuro pushed me into stasis early, and Dia found me three months later.”

Vergil didn’t know what to say. Apologizing didn’t feel right. It wasn’t his fault that some boy had threatened her life because he was incapable of handling someone else’s problems. The Redgrave Incident was mostly his fault… but he didn’t know where to begin with that. Part of him wanted to tell her the truth: he didn’t deserve you. But that opened up even more emotional doors and memories that he wasn’t sure he was ready for. So he searched for something else. Something comforting that wouldn’t sound forced or insincere. 

“It won’t happen again.”

Her eyes widened. Her pulse quickened. For half a second, Vergil thought she was going to faint. But then she sniffed and tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. “No one’s… I’ve never…” Vergil had never seen someone trying so hard to not cry. Then, she turned away with something that sounded like choked laughter. “Oh god I'm a wreck aren’t I? I’ve just been moping since that stupid meeting and worrying you.” 

Vergil’s eyebrow shot up. “You weren’t worrying me.”

She grinned at him. “You took me on a walk, Vergil.”

“You needed time away.”

“And yet you knew that before I did.”

Vergil glared at her, but it was as light as he could make it. “I’m the impartial viewer, Roxy.” Her name rolled so easily off his tongue like his own kind of music. And, after a moment of consideration, Vergil held his hand out to her. And when she finally took it, he could feel the electricity between them. A pulse that shot straight to his heart, blooming into a feeling he didn’t quite understand. This wasn’t a hand shake in any sense of the word. This was something more. Something personal. And where everything else felt stiff and borderline awkward, this was natural. Comfortable.

He wanted more of this. More time with her.

Maybe he had well and truly lost his mind.

But was that a bad thing?

“Are you alright?” She said.

Vergil almost scoffed, but held it back. Whenever they ended up touching each other- by accident or otherwise - she would always ask him that. He found it annoying at first - of course I’m alright. This isn’t a problem - but he never said it. Because that would be lying, and Vergil hated when people lied, himself included. 

So, he’d always been brief and blunt; “Yes.”

She nodded with relief, but her eyes hardened when she said, “My stasis is coming soon, I can feel it.” She looked away, but he gently pulled her closer. When her second hand rested on top of his, it took everything he had not to shudder. Her eyes never left his. The tears were still there, waiting in the corners of her eyes, and it took everything he had to not brush them away.

Infatuated, Dante had said. Maybe not then… but he’d be a fool to deny it now. 

“It’s going to be alright,” He said. “How much time do we have?”

“It’s difficult to say for certain,” She said. “But at least another week or two. I’ll be able to tell you the closer we get.” Worry flickered across her eyes as her smile wavered. “Three months is about right but… it still feels too fast.”

“Walk me through it,” He said. “Step-by-step as we go along. Every symptom. Everything you feel. Everything that needs to be done to make this as easy for you as humanly…” He trailed off., searching for a better phrase, “As painless as I can make it.”

Her fingers tightened around his as she nodded. “I promise.”

Ko-fi – Master List – AO3

[lovehugsandcandy]

Who Killed Jason Shaw? Chapter 6: Logan (RoD, Colt x MC)

Summary: Ellie visits Logan as her dad’s investigation moves along.

Rating: R (discussions of death)

Pairing: Colt x MC, RoD

Length: ~1900 words

Ellie was shocked, astounded, when she entered the silent dining room the next morning to find her dad sitting there, obviously waiting for her, table set with two full cups of coffee and two heaping breakfasts.

“Sit.”

She sat. Waiting.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinked. This was definitely not how she thought this conversation would start.

“I apologize. I lost my temper at your friend-”

“My boyfriend.”

Her dad winced. “Boyfriend, then. Planning on bringing him around for dinner?”

“Not anymore.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked in front of her. She could hear her stomach rumbling and would die for a sip of coffee, fingers twitching, aching to reach for the food in front of her. She waited, not moving.

“Ellie. You just....you don’t know what I see. Out there, gangs feuding for no reason, kids wrapping themselves around trees. I just worry...it’s why I make sure my old cruiser in the the driveway when I drive by on night shift. It’s why I didn’t let you go out in high school. It’s why you can’t date a gang banger.”

“It’s why you forcibly pulled me out of the car?”

“I lost my head and I apologize.” He leaned closer, eyes intent on her. “But Ellie,  one of them killed Shaw and Kaneko has all the motive in the world. You can’t associate with that!”

She stood up. “I’m an adult and I’ll associate with whoever I want!”

“Ellie, you’re making a stupid mistake!” Her dad stood as well, eyeing her. “He’s not worth your time. You need to go back to school and-”

“I get to decide what I do, dad. Not you. Not anymore.” She crossed her hands over her chest. “It’s my life. My choices.”

“You live under this roof, you-”

“We’re not doing this again.This didn’t end so well last time. For either of us.” She shook her head and grabbed her things. “I’ll talk to you later.” She attributed it to personal growth, the fact that she gently closed the front door behind her and he surprisingly refrained from screaming at her. Baby steps.

~~~~~

After an emergency stop for coffee, she headed out of the city proper, where the air got fresher and the homes bigger with every block, every step. Finally, she pulled up in front of a gleaming auto body shop, stopping for a second to marvel at the two-story building, definitely a leg up over Kaneko Auto Body. At this point, Colt’s shop was a clean, if mostly empty, room that housed a motorcycle and a loft bedroom; this looked like it could house a mansion.

She jumped when someone knocked at her window. Rolling it down, she stared at the lanky teenager in front of her. “Dropping your car off, Miss?”

She blinked. “Are you a valet?”

“I can drive your car through the bay doors for you if you would prefer to head right into the waiting room, where we have a television, magazines, and coffee waiting for you right though-”

“Jesus, stop.” She held up her hands. “I’m just here to visit a friend. Logan? A mechanic?”

“Ah, of course, miss.” He nodded, a obsequious mini-bow that made Ellie flinch. “I can park your car for you in the visitor lot, if you prefer.”

She blinked. If it were her car, she wouldn’t allow it, would only allow a select few, hand-chosen individuals the privilege of driving her bright pink European import. But her dad’s old cruiser? She hopped out and tossed over the keys before traipsing away. He could wrap it around a tree for all she cared.

When she floated through the automatic doors, she had to stare. The inside was as polished as the outside, cool metal as far as the eye could see. Damn. Apparently, this was how the other half lived. And, at the far bay, a familiar figure in a white t-shirt was hunched next to the grill on a pristine white Lambo.

Ellie let out a whistle as she got closer. “This place has a valet?”

“And the best mechanic in all of LA.” Logan stood up, wiping his hands on a rag before wrapping her up in a hug. She leaned in, hands tight around his waist, squeezing him tight. “ Hey, Troublemaker. How are you?”

“I’m good.” She could feel the stress leaving her body; it had been far too long since she had seen him. “How are you? These are impressive digs!”

“I mean, I can’t take any credit for it. It’s alright.” He shrugged, looking around with a grin. “Sure beats Kaneko's shop, though.”

She poked his rib. “Hey. Watch it. I happen to have a soft spot for that place.”

“You have a soft spot for the owner, you mean, one that he definitely doesn’t deserve.” He rolled his eyes. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

She followed him, past the eager valet at the front desk, out onto the street and down a block, closer to the ocean. She could smell the salt in the air and they sat on a bench in a quiet neighborhood, overlooking a small park. As she watched a pair of kids play tag, she could almost believe that everything was normal, that they were just a couple of friends enjoying the spring day, with no murder investigation hanging over their heads.

“Alright, Trouble. How are you really?”

“I’m ok.” She studied him, the dark underneath his eyes, the way his teeth dug into his lip. “How are you?”

“I’m ok, too. How’s your dad’s investigation?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed, leaning back against the faded wood. “He doesn’t tell me anything, especially not now. He and Colt almost got into a fist fight yesterday.”

“What? When?”

“I was staking out the wake and Colt showed up and then my dad did.” She tipped her head back with a groan. “It was a mess.”

“Does he think Colt did it?”

“I think so?”

“Do you think Colt did it?”

“No. I don’t.” She opened her eyes to see him staring at her. “What?”

“He would be my prime suspect. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time he tried to kill Shaw.”

“Logan.” She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again. She considered her options and realized that there was no nice way to say this. “Logan, you would be my prime suspect.”

“Wait, you think I did it?”

“No, no no no, Logan, that’s not what I meant.” She studied him, carefully. “But you would be the most obvious suspect. I have the phone records and, if I have them, you know the cops do too.”

“Ellie, I’m telling you, I didn’t do it.” He pivoted to face her, eyes earnest.

“I know. Aren’t you relieved he’s dead, though?”

“Hell, Ellie, of course I am. He fucking threatened me. He said he would come after me, said he still had friends in the force.”

“I know-”

“He just kept calling me and threatening me about his trial, about wanting to know where Mona was, wanting to talk to her before they both went to court.” He ran his hands threw his hair, tugging roughly on the strands; Ellie felt her heart break. “I didn’t know how to stop him but I couldn’t, I wouldn’t do kill him.”

“Logan-”

“Ellie, you know I couldn’t give up Mona. You know I wouldn’t. He wanted to kill her! And then he was gonna kill me and then he wouldn’t stop...”

The kids had moved on from tag, apparently done chasing each other around, now climbing a tree, daring each other to go higher and higher. She wondered how high they would go before one fell, before a bad decision and gravity caused them to plummet to the earth.

“I didn’t do it, Ellie, I swear.”

“I know. I know.” Could she possibly keep them all from falling? As she watched the kids climb higher and higher, laughing as they went, she didn’t know who would climb and who would fall.

~~~~~

“My dad tried to apologize.”

Colt scoffed, disdain dripping from the phone line. “Great. I guess my apology will come in the mail any day now.”

Ellie rubbed her temple and settled in deeper into her couch. “You didn’t exactly keep your cool either.”

“He dragged you out of the car. You can’t expect me to sit there for that shit.”

"Not the best ‘meet the parents’ situation.”

“C’mon, El. You know it wasn’t gonna go well regardless.” She could hear his footsteps, heavy on the concrete floor of the shop. “How’s his investigation going?”

“No idea.” The television was showing some procedural; men in black suits flashed across the screen. “He said today was the day.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said the ME would be able to make a determination on cause of death today.” The television was not captivating her attention; she didn’t want to know who went free and who was jailed on a fake crime on some fake Hollywood set. 

Colt hummed. “Does he know who did it?”

“I don’t know.” She wanted to know who went free and who went to jail in her own life. 

“Do you?”

“It could be anyone. Everyone.” Her thumbnail was almost completely gone, stress and worry and nerves all multiplying in her head and over her body.

Colt hummed again.

“I saw Logan.”

“Huh.” She could hear Colt’s eyes rolling over the phone. “How was that?”

“Fine. Works at a shop outside Manhattan Beach.”

“High class. What a tool.” His disdain was evident. “Do you think he did it?”

“I don’t know.” She heard a car turn down the street, closer, and turned her head, as slowly as possible. There were lights in her driveway. Her heart leapt; her dad was home. “He’s the one who talked to Shaw, I mean.”

“What did he say about that?”

“Not much.” Her dad turned off the engine and the hair on Ellie’s arms stood straight up. She turned, as unobtrusively as she could, to see out the window. “Said Shaw threatened him.”

“Wait, Ellie, Shaw threatened Logan? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.” Her focus was solely on her dad, closing his car door, thick manila envelope in his hand. “He told me, called a week ago, before break. I knew that,” she answered idly.

“Wait, what?” His tone was sharp but it wasn’t enough to break through, as distracted as she was. “You knew?” She had to know what was in that folder.

“Colt, I have to go.” She could hear the key in the lock. Crap.

“Wait, hold on-”

“My dad’s home, I have to go. Sorry.” She ended the call and threw the phone on the couch, pivoting to face the TV, ears intent on the footsteps behind her. 

“Hi, Dad.”

He stopped and looked at her, hard. She forced herself to take a shallow breath. She was gonna throw up, every nerve in her body doing battle in her stomach. After an eternity, he nodded and headed upstairs to the study, folder held tight by his side.

Her exhale was shaky and she turned to look out the window at his cruiser, dark and forbidding in the dark of her driveway. Was no news good news?

She waited and waited but he didn’t come downstairs again. Finally, with her stomach churning, she went to bed and fell into a restless sleep, nightmares returning in full force. She could see Jason behind the wheel of his car, chasing and chasing her, gaining as she frantically pushed on the gas, red and blue lights filling the night sky around them. When she woke up, the tears had streamed down her cheeks, damp pillowcase a visual reminder of her fears.

[amphtaminedreams]

We Voted for Murderers

65.2%.

That’s the percentage of people who voted for the Conservative candidate in my constituency, and I feel completely heartbroken. See, things have properly gone to shit. 

If we’re talking numbers?

Local councils estimate the number of people sleeping rough on any given night between 2010 and 2018 has risen from 1,768 to 4,677, a 165% increase. The Trussell Trust, the UK’s largest food bank charity, has reported a 5,146% increase in emergency food parcels being distributed since 2008. An 8% cut in spending per school pupil since 2009. Funding from central government to local government cut by 60% in that same period. £37 billion less spent on working-age social security compared to over a decade ago by 2020. A 90% fall in the number of social homes being built since 2010. A £7,300,000 decrease in funding for women’s shelters between 2011 and 2017. Don’t even get me started on the government’s treatment of the NHS.

I’ve heard stories of individuals applying for PIP due to mental illness being berated about suicide attempts and the likelihood of another as part of a “formal interview” process to see whether they qualify. People collapsing in job centre queues, freezing to death on the streets and the elderly in their homes, suicides whilst on never ending mental healthcare waiting lists. In fact, 17,000 sick and/or disabled individuals have died whilst waiting for PIP payments to come through, and in total, UCL researchers have linked 120,000 deaths to austerity (I’m not going to comment on the irony of my former university that’s notoriously lacklustre when it comes to giving a fuck about the wellbeing of its students publishing this unless...I just did?). 8 years of negligent homicide of the most vulnerable people in our society under the Conservative government and we voted them back in.

So I ask, are people really stupid enough to believe that the politicians responsible for this mess are the ones who are going to fix it just because they make a few characteristically empty promises on TV or does the British public at large really give even less of a fuck about other people than I thought? As in actually not give a fuck about people dying?

I have to tell myself it’s the former. The press’ treatment of Jeremy Corbyn and Labour was scathing. 

Corbyn, a man who has stood by the same principles of fairness, justice, and equality, for the entirety of his career, was criticised by the likes of The Sun, The Daily Mail, and The Telegraph, for being indecisive and a threat to this country whilst Boris Johnson, a man who can barely string a sentence together when he is asked to give a straight answer to something and blocked the release of a report covering Russian interference in British politics, was held up as the one people should put their faith in. 

I know, the press are never going to be completely neutral. But shouldn’t they at least be committed to integrity? And the truth? Isn’t that the WHOLE FUCKING POINT of journalism? I’ve been hearing the phrase “post-truth world” thrown around a lot and it’s probably an indication of my privilege that it was only with this election that I properly understood what that meant; it was found by the NGO First Draft just 2 days before the election, damage way past the point of done, that 88% of the Conservative Party’s Facebook ads (compared to 0% of Labour’s ads) contained misleading information. The repercussions were non-existent. After Boris Johnson’s claim that Jeremy Corbyn wanted to raise corporation and income tax to the highest levels in Europe was publicised, only Channel 4′s Factcheck website published the actual statistics (France, Belgium, Portugal and Greece all have much higher corporation tax rates than Labour’s proposal). Similarly, in many constituencies, the Lib Dems were posting fliers where Labour candidates were, in the previous election, the runner ups to the Conservative candidate, claiming that it was instead THEIR party’s candidate who had the highest chance of unseating the latter. Days before the election, the headline of one of Britain’s most highly circulated papers claimed that a Corbyn government would plunge us into a crisis the likes of which “we haven’t seen the Second World War”, which is kind of wild considering that 130,000 preventable deaths have been linked to austerity under the Conservative government compared to 70,000 civilian deaths in said war. Not that either is good, obviously, and I can’t believe I have to point that out. But then, right-wingers did paint Jeremy Corbyn as a monster for passing up watching the Queen’s Christmas Day speech to volunteer at a homeless shelter, so I thought I’d just cover my back, y’know. 

Shouldn’t there be standards that the media is held to? You know, like not making slanderous statements about some politicians that have no actual basis in fact whilst brushing over the statements of others. Whilst the PM’s father Stanley Johnson was on nation television calling the public illiterate, and Jacob Rees-Mogg was blaming the Grenfell victims deaths on their “lack of common sense”, and Michael Gove was stating that people who needed to use food banks had brought it on themselves because they were not “best able to manage their finances”, it was Jeremy Corbyn who was being called an enemy of the people, accused of trying to plunge us into a “Marxist hell”...I mean, if Denmark and Norway and Finland with some of the highest living standards in the world are “Marxist hell”s  then sure, that’s what he’s doing. But that’s a hell I’m sure a lot of people would find much comfier than a freezing cold pavement. Before Labour had even released their (fully-costed!) manifesto, barefaced lies were being published about how much it would cost and how it would plunge us into trillions of pounds worth of debt, as if it hasn’t increased from £1 trillion to £1.8 trillion in the years since David Cameron took office. Meanwhile, when Labour did publish their manifesto and the Financial Times published a letter signed by 163 prominent economists and academics backing their spending plans? Crickets. Nothing sums it up better than the debate around Jeremy Corbyn’s alleged anti-semitism, discussed ad-nauseam whilst Boris Johnson’s actual racism, islamophobia, misogyny and classism, RIGHT OUT OF THE HORSE’S MOUTH, was completely ignored by most news outlets. 

You know what, maybe people earning £85k just DON’T want to pay an extra £3 in tax a week to make sure children get an education. Maybe everybody IS just as selfish as that one twat on Question Time who got all red in the face over the prospect of having to give up an amount less than the cost of a tub of Ben and Jerrys a week. But if that’s true, this isn’t a country I want to live in at all, or a planet I want to live on, really. I hope it’s not. I hope it’s a case of a need for some kind of collective realisation that the Sun ain’t shit. Merseyside did it. The younger generation are catching on. And look at the results there.

Labour probably couldn’t fulfil ALL of their promises. No political party is perfect. I was told again and again how unrealistic those promises were as if that was enough to make me go ”oh...I guess I’ll vote for 4 more years of people dying in the streets instead”. Yes, in an ideal world, the entire manifesto would be made a reality, but it depended on far too many rich people being good and honest. Let’s be real-the elite will always find a way to avoid paying their fare share on the premise that they “earned it”, as if anybody earns billions by sheer hard work alone and past a certain point, not off other people’s backs. As if there aren’t nurses and teachers and firemen and other public sector workers who don’t put in just as much energy and as many hours and emotional labour as CEOs and business owners and investors. But the point is that Labour under Jeremy Corbyn acknowledged this, and their manifesto aimed to give the power back to the average person, from the vulnerable to the supposedly middle class still struggling to make ends meet, and give them the quality of life they deserve. It was built on the simple premise that the people should use their government, not the other way round, and that everybody deserves the basic human rights of shelter, nutrition, safety and dignity, regardless of their fortune in life. However many of Labour’s policies would actually have been fulfilled, it would’ve been a shift in the right direction. 

Now the election’s been and gone and I’m scared. Already, the narrative is being rewritten by the billionaires in control of this country that a manifesto like the one we saw this year will never sit right with this country, when it is what so many desperately need. The people putting this information out there know the truth: that Labour’s membership trebled in size under Corbyn (more people voted for him than for any Labour leader since Tony Blair), that most of the safe labour seats were lost because of Brexit, and that if the manifesto had been represented accurately, there’s a good chance that Boris Johnson would no longer be our Prime Minister. I’m scared a person like Jeremy Corbyn will never front Labour again. 

Because I do not want a tory painted red who’s friends with Jacob Rees-Mogg behind the scenes, I do not want a war criminal who thinks that bombing innocent people is ever acceptable, I do not want a person who doesn’t see people of colour as part of the working class and indulges in the occasional bit of TERF-ism.

Already, the Conservative party are backpedaling on the few promises they made to increase NHS spending, and I am scared. I am scared for myself, in the event that I need urgent mental health care again, and I am scared for those less privileged than me who don’t have a family to support them, who don't have a roof over their head, who weren’t fortunate enough to be born in a country with relative economic and political stability, who cannot physically go out and work to earn a living. I am worried about the bigots that this election has already emboldened, the Katie Hopkins and the Tommy Robinsons of the world, who think the things that blind luck have graced them with they somehow earned, who pride themselves on ignorance and cruelty and selfishness.

So for now, what can we do? 

Join trade unions. Organise. Write to your MPs. Bring attention to those who are vulnerable. Be vocal with your criticism of the establishment. Call out those in politics for an ego-trip hiding behind “personality”. Do your research. Keep an eye on the numbers. The “it doesn’t matter who you vote for, just vote” sentiment is old, because it does. No “as a feminist, I exercise my right to vote for whoever I want”, because as a feminist, you should care about ALL women, not just the white, middle class, able-bodied ones. 

And if anyone has any more suggestions, let me know. Because I am sick and tired of living under a government who doesn’t give a fuck about the people it’s supposed to protect.

Lauren x

[DISCLAIMER: The photo is not mine. Just devastated and trying to find the words to express it.]

[korora12]

Ladybug Week Day 6 - Kitchen Disaster

Day 5 Day 7

Word Count: 4881

The thing about working freelance is that sometimes there isn’t any work to be had. Sometimes you get a tip about a job on a distant moon, so you fly halfway across the system just to find out someone beat you to it. Then you’re stuck flying back at half-speed to a more populated part of the system in order to conserve fuel, struggling to find ways to pass the time that won’t eat through money you don’t have.

“Ruby, where did you put my flamethrower?”

Blake was sitting in Crescent Rose’s common room reading her newest novel when Yang’s voice chimed over the intercom, signaling the beginning of the day’s unrequested excitement.

Moments later, Ruby returned with, “I put it back in the weapons locker. Where it belongs. Should I be concerned right now?”

“No, no need to be concerned. We have everything under control. Right, Weiss?”

“Can’t talk right now, busy,” Weiss responded. A loud crash preceded the intercom cutting out.

Blake turned to look behind her. The kitchen was in a small alcove, just to the side of the common room, where she’d seen Weiss and Yang head about an hour ago. She’d been filtering out their bickering/flirting since then, until she’d heard one of them run out moments earlier, heading towards the cockpit door. Past the kitchen counter, she could see Weiss struggling with some amorphous blob.

Sighing, Blake marked her spot and placed her book down on the nearby table. What were those two up to this time?

Across the room the door to the main battery opened and Ruby stepped through. Her skin and clothes, a pair of overalls and an old shirt, were covered in grease and other unrecognizable fluids. Her hair was being held back from her face by a pair of goggles perched atop her head. “What’s happening this time?” she demanded to know.

Blake thrust her thumb over her shoulder. Ruby’s gaze followed where she was pointing; when she saw the state of the kitchen she ran a hand over her face, managing to dirty it further. “Someone’s losing kitchen privileges for this,” she muttered.

The couple made their way across the room just in time for Weiss to slam a lid down atop a 10-gallon pot. She struggled to keep it in place.

“Are we doing chemistry experiments in the kitchen again, Weiss?” Ruby didn’t get angry about many things, but reckless behavior that damaged her ship was one such thing. After what had happened the last few times Yang and Weiss had gotten bored, the razor edge in her voice was far from unwarranted.

“Of course not. We learned our lesson last time,” Weiss assured her. The pot in her grasp shook violently. “We were cooking, which Yang has assured me doesn’t count as chemistry.”

Ruby didn’t immediately snap at her. “Go on,” she said.

Motes of light flickered and swirled within Weiss, signs of anxiety and embarrassment. “When we were at the market yesterday I saw this strange animal being sold that I’d never seen before. I thought it might be fun to try and cook, so I bought it.” The pot shook again, and Weiss sped up her story in response. “Yang found out about it and thought we could make a stew. It was turning out really well; Yang even said it tasted good when she tried it. Then things might have gotten a tiny bit out of control.”

Blake cocked her head to the side, taking in the whole of Weiss’ being, as if to remind herself that her friend was, in fact, still made of crystal. “Weiss, you don’t even eat food. What made you think experimenting with cooking was a good idea?”

Some manner of sludge began leaking out of the gap between the lid and pot. It was thick, brownish-blue, and it bubbled when it hit the air. “I wanted to do something nice for the crew!” Weiss shouted, and in that moment she lost the struggle with her foe. The lid flew out of her hands, catching her on the head as it went. The contents of the pot followed moments later.

It moved too fast even for Blake’s eyes to track. One moment it was in the pot, the next it had tackled Weiss to the ground and spread across most her body. She only got an impression of colors, mostly purple and blue, before it disappeared again.

Weiss attempted to rise to her feet, but stumbled. Blake rushed forward to catch her before Ruby could try the same; Weiss was a heavy weight for a human to lift, being mostly rock, but Blake was more metal than not, so the weight meant little to her.

“I…not… so feel.” Weiss’ translator was having a hard time interpreting her words. Blake’s own fluency in Atlesian wasn’t serving her much better; every spot on her that the… thing had touched was glowing an iridescent ultraviolet in a shade Blake had never seen before.

“That doesn’t look good,” Ruby said

“We should get her downstairs,” Blake said in agreement.

Ruby moved to help her, then hesitated. “Where’s Yang? If she went to the cockpit to look for her flamethrower, then she should’ve been back by now.”

“Maybe she went to the weapons lockers in storage?” Blake offered. Then another thought hit her. “Weiss said she taste-tested the stew before it turned into whatever that was.”

“Oh no.” Blake couldn’t help but agree with Ruby’s sentiments. “Okay, you get Weiss down to the medbay; I’ll go find Yang.”

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Of the four members of Crescent Rose’s crew, Weiss was the one with the most medical knowledge. She wasn’t a professional, but she had thorough first aid training for all intelligent species. So of course she was the first one to be taken out when a monster attacked.

Blake knew how to care for FAUNIS, but her knowledge of the other species was limited. Still, Weiss had made sure they each knew the basics early on. She knew materia fed by absorbing minerals and nutrients in a water solution through their outermost layers, and that this made them especially susceptible to what few toxins could affect them.

She tore through the various drawers and cabinets until she found what she was looking for. It was a tube of translucent paste that she began slathering generously on the affected parts of Weiss’ body. The paste was a general antivenin that was supposed to draw out toxins from a materia while also encouraging the body’s natural defenses. Attempting and failing to move Weiss’ arm proved that she’d already gone static as her body attempted to use its own methods to remove the invading substance.

As Blake finished emptying the last of the tube, the door opened. Ruby came through, carrying an unconscious Yang to an unoccupied bed.

“How’s Weiss doing?” Ruby asked.

“Still glowing; still alive,” Blake answered. “Yang?”

“I found her passed out on the cockpit stairs. She’s even hotter than usual. What do we do?”

Blake wished she knew. If Yang had eaten something poisonous then maybe, “Induce vomiting?”

“She’s unconscious,” Ruby countered. “What if she chokes? I’m going to get her an IV and a wet cloth.”

As Blake washed her hands of the residual paste, she wondered aloud, “What kind of creature can poison both a materia and a protean? Their biology is so different; I’ve never heard of anything that could do that.”

“I don’t know,” Ruby replied, talking as she worked, “but I intend to kill it before it gets anyone else.”

Blake nodded in understanding. “How far out are we from Eltanin?”

“About an hour and a half. When I’m done here I’ll go set up the autopilot to land us at our usual dock. Meanwhile, I want all hands on deck for this. Go find our fifth crewmate and bring him here. And get our weapons, too.”

Brake managed to suppress her grimace. She didn’t like the newest addition to their crew, but she had to admit he had his uses. Hunting a mystery monster was one of the few things she could rely on him to do.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Zwei had only been with the Crescent Rose for a few weeks, but already he loved it. There were so many corners to poke around in and the new people were so much fun. The long trip here via mail crate had been more than worth it.

One of the new people, the one who liked to play hide-and-seek with him, had picked him up and was taking him somewhere. The sounds that people made were difficult to understand, but he could learn names and this one was called Blake. He didn’t understand what she was saying, but he caught the names “Yang” and “Weiss”, who were two of his favorite people. Zwei had known Yang for his entire life; she was a girl who was always ready to roll around in the dirt or pull on a rope with him. Weiss was newer, but she liked to pamper him with treats and cuddles, and Zwei’s affections were easily bought by such people.

Zwei was rather dismayed to find both of the people in question lying flat on their backs, the stench of sickness covering them. Ruby, his favoritest person in the world, was there too, though she was thankfully on her feet. She gave him only one command. “Hunt.”

Zwei knew how to hunt. As Blake lifted him towards both of the sick girls in turn, Zwei got a careful sniff of each. They were very different kinds of creatures, normally with very different smells (except on the rare mornings where they smelled like each other for a while), but there was something within the stench of sickness that they both shared. An underlying smell that suggested something had done this to them, and now Ruby wanted him to find it.

The moment his paws hit the floor he was off. Out the door and up the stairs, straight towards the food room, a place he normally wasn’t allowed in. He squashed the urge to slip open the fridge and steal a quick bite; there was more important work to be done. And anyway, he’d probably get a treat when this was all over.

A large pot lay fallen on the floor. Zwei poked his head inside. Yup, this was the strongest source of the smell. It must’ve come from inside the pot. He committed the scent to memory, then began to follow it. The trail led him out of the food room, past the couches, and into the large room with all the hanging cords, large pillars, and flashing tables that Ruby spent so much time in.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

“If this thing hurts my baby, I’m going to kill it,” Ruby said.

“I thought we were already planning on killing it,” Blake countered.

“Then I’ll kill it twice. It’s bad enough that it attacked my crew, I won’t be having it hurt my ship too.”

The main battery, along with the connecting engine room, was undeniably Ruby’s domain. The others didn’t spend much time in either places, usually only poking their heads in if an extra pair of hands were needed. With a crew as small as theirs was, everyone branched out from their specialty and learned other jobs, but Ruby was still the best engineer around. And the captain. And the best shot with the main gun, even if its computers did most of the heavy lifting. And, along with Blake, one of the only people on the ship who could man all the secondary guns simultaneously without a major drop in effectiveness.

Maybe she should delegate more.

The room was huge, taking up about a quarter of the ship’s third level. Thick wires and glowing tubes hung from the ceiling, connecting up to the massive main gun that sat atop the ship, itself about half as long as Crescent Rose. The main body of the gun took up most of the center of the room, surrounded by computer banks and held up by pillars so that it cleared the floor by about a meter and a half.

Zwei was wandering about the room, nose to the ground and following whatever trail he’d found. Ruby followed hot on his tail, eyes casting about and ears straining for any sign of their quarry. Boots on the metal floor made a heavy sound that echoed off the walls.

Movement in the corner of her eye had her whipping Bright Thorn around in its direction. Nothing, just an empty bank of flashing panels.

Zwei’s tracking took him between the central pillars and under the main gun. Ruby hesitated at the edge. Open panels and dangling wires from previous patch jobs reduced the already limited headspace underneath; following him would severely limit her mobility if attacked. She crouched down, following her corgi with her eyes as he darted here and there, trying to follow a much faster prey.

The lights cut out.

“Great,” Blake said. “We’re hunting a monster, on our own ship, in the dark. This is how horror stories start.”

“You have night vision,” Ruby snarked back, flipping on the flashlight attached to her gun. “What are you complaining about?”

“I’m just saying.”

Ruby shook her head in exasperated fondness. “I’m more concerned with why they went out. Either this thing is smart enough to intentionally cut the lights, or it’s attacking indiscriminately and getting lucky.” She rose from her crouch, standing back-to-back with her partner as they surveyed the room. “Whichever it is, now I have to kill it twice.”

Lazer fire behind her had her spinning around, Bright Thorn raised and ready to fire. “It came out of the wall,” Blake said, rapidly firing her lazpistol, first along the ground, then up overhead. Ruby tracked her shots trying to follow with her light.

“Ventilation shaft?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

She caught sight of a blur, passing through the circle of light projected on the ceiling for only an instant, but it was enough. She pulled her trigger and the thing dropped, releasing a whine like a deflating balloon as it fell.

If the shot injured it, it wasn’t enough to kill. By the time Ruby’s flashlight was pointed at the ground it was gone, only a small, bulbous part of it momentarily visible speeding away towards the center of the room.

“Zwei, look out!” Ruby called.

A series of barks and growls spoke of a tremendous battle between beast and monster. Ruby caught only flashes of it, as Zwei tumbled with and tore into something that was less of a shape, and more the impression of a mouth on a lump the color of an oil spill. She couldn’t even get a solid grasp on how big it was, with how fast and how much it moved, thought it at least seemed to be no larger than a fully-grown corgi. The thing tackled Zwei, knocking him out of sight. Before Ruby could refocus her light, Zwei let out a loud, pained yip and ran straight towards them, sliding to a stop and collapsing at Blake’s feet.

“Some fearsome monster hunter you are,” she said, scooping him up in one arm, the pistol in her other still sweeping the room. She paused her sweep, turning her attention more heavily on the dog in her arms. “He’s breathing really heavily, and I think I see a bit of blood.”

“Okay,” Ruby said, trying not to let her worry take control of the situation. She could do this. “Let’s fall back for now, get Zwei downstairs. Head towards the hatch at the back of the room.”

There were four ways in or out of the main battery. One was the door they came in through, and opposite it, on the far end of the room, was a door that led deeper into the guts of the ship, towards the engine and fuel tanks. Near the rear door was also a lift that connected all three of the ships levels, as well as a ladder, covered by a hatch, that exited near the medbay on the second floor.

The pair swept the room as they headed towards the ladder. This time, Ruby was the first to spot it. It moved too fast for her to line up a proper shot, but she fired anyway. The sound drew Blake’s attention, and she fired her own gun.

“Keep it away from the exits.” Ruby ordered. Together they managed to herd it towards the center of the room, firing ahead of it anytime it tried to head towards a wall or pillar, until they reached their destination.

Ruby knelt to open the hatch while Blake kept firing, her efforts alone less effective than the two together had been. Her success was marked by a beam of light from the lower level shining into the room. “Go,” Ruby commanded. Blake forewent the ladder, jumping backwards and dropping the entire distance in one go. Ruby swung onto the top rung, firing one last shot as she went, then slammed the hatch shut above her. Embedded in the wall nearby was a lever under a glass lid. Ruby lifted the lid, pulled the lever, twisted, and pushed it back in. A clunk echoed from the hatch.

“That’ll seal off the room. Even the ventilation is locked down now.” Ruby joined Blake on the second level. “It should hold for a bit, but I don’t want to leave it for long. How’s he doing?”

Blake held Zwei out for Ruby to see. His wounds were more visible in the still-active lighting of the hallway. He was indeed bleeding, from a bite mark on his side that was turning a disturbing shade of purple.

“Not you too, Zwei,” she moaned, letting Bright Thorn hang from his strap as she took the dog into her arms. “I’m going to get him set up in the medbay. When I get back, we’ll finish this thing off.”

The hatch above them shook violently, as if something had just slammed into it at high speeds. “Maybe hurry?” Blake offered, sword and gun drawn as she stared down the hatch.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When Ruby returned, it was to a changed hallway. Blake was on the floor and the nearby lift was peeled open, the doors bending outwards. She rushed to Blake’s side, glad to see she was still conscious and struggling to her feet.

“Are you okay?” she asked, helping her up. “What happened?” Ruby fretted nervously, checking Blake over for bite marks or blood.

“I’m fine,” Blake assured her, waving off concerned hands, “just dazed. I wasn’t watching my six and it tackled me. There’s no lasting damage.”

Ruby eyed her suspiciously, not failing to notice the difficulty she showed finding her balance again. “You’ll let me know if you start to feel sick, right?”

Blake backed off, finally standing on her own without aid, and bowed exaggeratedly at the waist. “Of course, my queen.”

“Blaaaake,” Ruby whined, “don’t call me that. It’s embarrassing.”

A cute smirk played across Blake’s face. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Ruby huffed, ignoring the blush she could feel forming on her face and not dignifying Blake with another response. “Did you see which way it went?”

There weren’t a whole lot of places it could’ve gone. Aside from back the way Ruby came, or back the way it came, it’s only options for escape were down the stairs to the storage bay or… or down the hallway Blake was pointing at.

Exhaustion leaked out of her in a low moan. “Not life support,” she complained. Why did this thing keep getting into the sensitive parts of the ship?

“Royalty first,” Blake said, sweeping her arm in the direction they were headed.

“You’re a big old teasing meanie,” Ruby said, but she led the way regardless.

The life support room was more like a wide hallway than a room, several times longer than it was wide. It was full of variously-sized criss-crossing pipes, clumped together in places and jutting out of the walls at all angles, and thick, twisted cords of dozens or more wires stretching across the ceiling and walls. They were accompanied by controls and sensors for electrical energy, air circulation, and water filtration, amongst other things. Several large, boxy generators sat at the back of the room, their steady chugging providing both electricity and gravity. The floor was made of removable metal grates, granting access to the innermost workings of the ship.

“Come here, little abomination,” Ruby whispered as she stepped as quietly as she could through the room, the sound of her footsteps largely masked by the noises of the various machineries surrounding her. “Step away from the sensitive equipment and show yourself. I only want to talk.”

The room quieted midstep, the rumble of a generator cutting out. Ruby’s next step pushed her off the ground and sent her floating through the air.

“You know,” she said, just letting herself float freely for a moment. “I’m not usually one to swear, but this thing is really pushing my limits.”

“It’s okay,” Blake assured her, “You can say it, I won’t judge you.”

Ruby shook her head. “No, the moment’s not right.”

Bending down, not that down had much meaning at the moment, she flicked a switch on her boots and was pulled to the floor. She looked at Blake, slowly making her way towards the ceiling. “Where are your magboots?” Ruby asked.

“I didn’t put them on this morning,” Blake answered. “Funnily enough, I wasn’t expecting to get attacked by the Creature from the Black Lagoon today. A better question is, why are you wearing yours?”

Ruby shrugged. “It makes working on the engine easier.”

Blake caught and steadied herself on a thin pipe that ran the length of the ceiling. “So this thing’s probably back by the graviton generator, right?”

“Unless it’s moved already,” Ruby countered. “It is pretty fast.”

“It’s a place to start.” She shimmied along the pipe, heading to the rear of the room. Ruby followed slowly, keeping a careful eye on her surroundings as she went.

Every blind corner or obstructed section of floor had Ruby swinging Bright Thorn around. There were too many hiding spots in this room, even with all the lights still working.

“All clear,” Blake called from up ahead.

If it wasn’t by the generator anymore, then where had it gotten to? Ruby took a step forward, then froze. Whatever she’d stepped on had just squished. She looked down.

Bubbling up through the holes in the grate was a thick, purplish-brown sludge that surrounded and spread out from a burst water pipe. The sludge moved in ways it shouldn’t, rearing up only to slosh back down, spinning about in cyclones and eddies, and forming what looked like grasping tendrils. The more water it took in, the larger it grew.

“Blake!” Ruby shouted, “Shut off water to—” she checked the writing on the nearby pipes, since anything written on the burst pipe was now buried under an onslaught of sludge, “—pipe C126.”

“Where is it?” Blake asked, not able to see Ruby from her vantage point.

“In the floor!”

Ruby didn’t have time to watch Blake take action, too busy herself firing at the sludge monster while putting distance between it and herself. At first it didn’t respond to her actions, only continuing to grow even as Ruby blasted off bits of it. The moment it lost its supply of water, however, it screeched.

It began moving as a single solid creature, once again black with a rainbow sheen, bits of grating stuck inside it as it burst from the floor. It was larger than Ruby now, continuously shifting and oozing as it barreled towards her, as fast as an oncoming car.

“Oh, fuck.”

Ruby ran, racing to regroup with Blake. The thing following her was still fast, but all its added bulk slowed it down to below her top speed.

The moment she was in sight, Blake was firing at the monster chasing Ruby. Sustained lazer fire caused the creature to start to glow from the heat, one explosion of superheated air after another tearing into its bulk. Its wounds bubbled and burst, releasing hissing clouds of steam that diffused light, weakening successive shots.

Ruby ground to a halt at Blake’s side and spun around, bayonet pointed at their foe. Blake, sword in hand, joined her.

Ruby was less durable than her girlfriend, hence her preference for mid-to-long-range combat. In close range, without her cloak, she had to stay mobile, dodging what she could and letting Blake block what she couldn’t. Meanwhile Blake was taking full advantage of the lack of gravity, bouncing around the creature and attacking it from every angle, taking shots with her gun whenever she spotted an opening. Even with that benefit, however, Ruby noticed her reaction time was slower than usual.

Her mobility was enough to keep her in the fight for a bit, letting her hack of bits of the monster even as it tried to crush or suffocate her with its multitude of bulging appendages. But eventually Ruby mistimed a dodge, forgetting for a moment that she couldn’t rely on gravity, and it managed to catch her in the side with a pseudopod cloaked in steam, sending her flying into a bundle of hanging wires.

She was pretty sure she’d just broken at least one rib.

Ruby was tangled up tightly in the mess of wires and getting loose required more than a little wriggling. She screeched in surprise as a few wires came loose, releasing a stream of sparks.

The sludge monster was on her moments before she was completely free. It was smaller now, loose bits of it splattered about the room, but with every bit of mass it lost, it just got that much faster.

It slammed into her, spreading its mass as if to engulf her. Right in front of her face a crack opened up, the impression of a mouth forming, jagged edges loosely resembling teeth.

A frantic, desperate idea popped into Ruby’s head as the mouth drew near. Her hands were still mostly free, so she dropped Bright Thorn and instead grabbed the sparking, severed wires, plunging them into the sludge. A sustained current coursed through the creature, making it writhe and gyrate wildly. It gave one last shake, then, with a sound like the creaking hinges of hell’s front door, it exploded. Bits of it went everywhere; the walls, the ceiling, Ruby’s mouth. It tasted like fish stew, she decided, though it could’ve used a bit more salt.

She spat the sludge out, hoping just tasting it wouldn’t be enough to poison her like Yang had been.

“Ruby!” Blake shouted as she flew to her side. “Are you okay?”

Ruby nodded. “I think so. I’ve never been so glad to have insulating overalls, though.”

Blake shook her head. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry,” Ruby apologized. Blake hugged her in response, and Ruby screamed, pushing her away. “Nope, not okay. I forgot about the broken ribs.”

Blake looked about ready to smack her for that, but she somehow held back. “Okay,” she said instead. “Let’s get you to the med-bay with everyone else.” She grabbed Ruby more gently this time, fumbling as she did, her usual grace seemingly gone.

“Hey,” Ruby admonished. “You said you’d tell me if you were feeling sick.”

“I’m fine,” Blake assured her. “Just running a bit hot.” Blake pushed off the ground and the two began floating back towards the door. “Do you feel that? Gravity’s starting to increase, which means we’re getting close to the planet. We’ll land safely, then everyone can go to the hospital and we’ll all get better. We’re all fine now.”

Maybe it was the steady ache of her ribs, maybe it was the drawn-out hunt and fight she’d just undergone, or maybe it was Blake’s arms around her, but Ruby was suddenly feeling extremely tired. It was a struggle just to keep her eyes open. “Blake,” she said. “Have I ever told you how amazing you are?”

“You could stand to say it more,” she answered.

“No, seriously,” Ruby said. “No matter what happens, you always step up to the challenge. You always get the job done, with a big ol’ helping of beauty and grace, just ‘cause you can.” Her words were starting to slur, so she rushed to the point. “There’s somethin’ I wanna ask you. You’ve been doin’ it for a while already, but I wanna make it official.”

Blake was silent for a moment. “What do you mean?” she finally asked.

“Will you…” Ruby paused, taking a deep breath to fight off the encroaching weariness, “be my second-in-command?”

Blake sighed, then smiled. “Does this mean I get a raise?”

Ruby laughed. “No. But I can prolly get you a bigger room.”

Blake quirked an eyebrow. “The only rooms bigger than mine are the pilot’s and the captain’s.”

Ruby nodded slightly, too tired to feel embarrassment about what she was asking. “I don’t take up much space. You could share my room.”

Ruby didn’t hear Blake’s answer, unconsciousness finally making its claim on her, but she desperately hoped it was “yes”.

[counttotwenty]

TWW Fantasy Season 8:17 Like Being Pecked to Death by a Duck (Act 4)

Act 4

Interior-Sam’s office

Wednesday

Midnight

“This looks really good,” Sam praised as he perused the final copy of Bram’s water standards bill. “Great

work.”

“Thanks,” Bram said with a sigh of relief. “I’m glad it’s done. Maybe now I can go back to working at my

desk.”

“Are you gonna disappear every time you get a chance to play point man on a project,” Sam teased. “Because that could become a problem.”

“No, it’ll be easier after this,” the younger man said resolutely. “This was my first time so I wanted to be

sure it was perfect.”

“Where have you been hiding anyway,” Sam asked as he tucked the papers back into their folder.

“I found this room downstairs with a couple of couches and desk. Nice and quiet. Out of the way. No one

bothers you there.”

Sam smiled wistfully. “Is that still there?”

Bram completely missed Sam’s familiarity with the room. “Yep. It’s a great place to get some work done.”

“I’ll bet,” Sam smiled.

“Speaking of which, I better go down there and clean up my notes and empty coffee cups. I’ll be back in a

few minutes.”

Sam was lost in memories of another administration and time spent in the room in the basement as Bram turned around and left his office.

CUT TO:

Interior-Hallway Outside the Basement Room

Bram made his way towards the room he had been working in for the last week, still basking in the glow of Sam’s approval and praying Josh felt the same way. He opened the door, unaware of all that had gone on there during the Bartlet administration, and entered. He fumbled for the light switch and all of the sudden the room was awash in light.

And movement.

“What the hell???”

It took a minute for his mind to process the sight he saw before him. There…on the couch…the very couch

he had been sitting on not twenty minutes ago, were Otto and Lou. They were…..

“OH MY GAWD!!!” Bram screeched as the Communications Director and her Deputy scrambled to grab their clothes.

“Bram..wait…” Otto grabbed a pair of pants, realized they weren’t his and tossed them at Lou.

“OH MY GAWD!!!”

“Seriously. Stop screaming.” Lou crouched behind the couch trying to hide from Bram’s view.

“OH MY GAWD!!”

“BRAM!”

“OH MY GAWD!!!”

Before either Lou or Otto could get themselves dressed, Bram fled in horror.

CUT TO:

Interior-Oval Office

“I’m exercising my walk in privileges,” Helen said as she entered the room and closed the door behind her. “Ronna said you weren’t busy.”

“I’m always busy,” Matt took mock offense. “I’m a very important man.”

“So you say.” Helen rolled her eyes as she crossed the room and plopped herself down in Matt’s lap.

“I’m trying to get through some of these briefing memos Josh left for me while I wait for word on what

happened in Kazakhstan.”

“So you’ll be late?”

“I’m sorry, honey. We’re at such a critical juncture right now that something like this could plunge

everything back into chaos. I just feel like I need to be here.”

“I understand,” Helen straightened his collar and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“But I’ll be punished later,” Matt guessed.

“Much later. First you have to pay for mocking my Christmas display.”

Matt gulped.

“In fact, assuming this Kazakhstan thing gets straightened out before 7:30 am eastern tomorrow,

Ronna is gonna clear a little room in your schedule so you can accompany Matt Lauer and me as we take a tour and I show him the lights.”

“He-len,” Matt whined, stretching her name out as far as he could.

“Don’t whine,” Helen checked his face for lipstick. “It won’t work.”

“I’ll just tell Ronna…”

“Don’t even try,” she warned.

“Isn’t there something else I can do? Some other penance I can pay?”

“There are lots more things for you to do. But then again you have lots to atone for.”

“Like?”

“When my sister called to tell me Kelly was getting engaged this Christmas I had to listen to her tell me

how sweet the proposal was going to be and didn’t I wish I’d gotten that instead of an over the phone

proposal.”

Matt dropped his head. “I’ll be up as soon as I can.”

“Great. I’ll start working on a list of things for you to do.”

CUT TO:

Interior-Lester’s Office

Bram barreled through the door without knocking, throwing both Lester and Annabeth for a loop.

“OH GAWD, OH GAWD, OH GAWD,” he repeated over and over. “OH GAWD.”

“What?? What happened,” Lester asked, trying not to panic.

“OH GAWD,” Bram repeated.

“What’s going on,” Annabeth said crossing the room and grabbing Bram by the arm.

“It’s…I can’t…It’s just….OH GAWD!”

Bram crossed the room and dropped down on Lester’s couch.

“Bram! Get a hold of yourself. What in the Hell is going on? Is it Kazakhstan? Is the news bad,” Lester

demanded.

Bram took a deep breath and began waving his arms. “No, no no it’s nothing like that.”

“You had me scared,” Annabeth placed on hand on her chest and handed him a bottle of water with the other.

“It’s worse. Much worse,” Bram said, his eyes wide and desperate.

“What? Are we being attacked? Has there been some natural disaster? What on earth is happening?”

Lester’s stress level shot through the roof.

Bram continued to mutter to himself in what sounded like foreign tongues as he rocked back and forth.

“This is ridiculous. I’m going to talk to Josh,” Lester said, moving towards the door.

“No, wait. Don’t get Josh involved.” Bram tried to unsuccessfully to stand. Annabeth rubbed his shoulders

as he collapsed back onto the couch.

“If it’s something this big shouldn’t Josh know?”

“No,” Bram screamed. “We can’t tell Josh.”

“You’ve got two choices. Tell me right now or I’m going to Josh.” Lester said anxiously.

“OK,” Bram tried to compose himself. “Downstairs, in the basement, I’ve been working there because it’s

quiet.”

“Right,” Annabeth said as soothingly as she possibly could.

“Well…I finished the report…so I went down to clean up my workspace and I saw…I saw…”

“WHAT?” Lester and Annabeth asked in unison.

“Otto and Lou.”

“Otto and Lou,” Annabeth asked. “What about Otto and Lou?”

“They were…..together. Naked. Naked together,” Bram started whimpering.

Before he could say anything more a very disheveled looking Otto and Lou entered the office. Bram pulled Annabeth in front of him like a human shield and buried his head in her back.

“I can explain,” Lou said as Lester and Annabeth smirked at her and Bram continued hiding.

CUT TO:

Interior-Oval Office

“Thanks for getting us that information, Mr. President.” Matt sat at his desk talking on the

speakerphone to the President of Kazakhstan while Sam and Josh stood on the other side listening. “Please let us know if we can be of any assistance.”

“I certainly will.” The voice on the phone replied.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Sir.”

“Good evening Mr. President.”

Matt disconnected the call and sighed with relief. “A gas leak.”

“Thank heavens,” Sam said.

“I’ll call the Russian and Chinese Ambassadors to give them to good news.” Matt clapped his hands together.

“Before I forget, Ron called,” Josh said. “They identified the white powder.”

“Really?” Matt asked. “What was it?”

“Tide,” Josh smirked.

“Tide? Like the laundry detergent?” Matt was incredulous.

“Exactly. Turns out the return address on the envelope was real and when the police went to question the

"suspect” they found a little old lady who likes to write her grandchildren while she’s doing her laundry.“

"But why was it passing through the White House mail sub station….oh no…I’m not sure I want you to

answer that.”

Sam gave up trying to keep a straight face and decided to concentrate on hiding his laughter behind his hand.

Josh tried valiantly to school his features but failed. “It was addressed to a White House employee.”

Matt closed his eyes. “Which one?”

“Bram Howard,” Josh replied.

The President winced. “And the police rousted his grandmother?”

“I’m afraid so,” Josh replied. “Don’t worry, I’m on it.”

“And with that,” Matt shook his head, “I’m gonna head up to the Residence. I think Helen is in the mood to

punish me.”

Both Josh and Sam tried to hide their smiles.

“Not in the good way, boys. Not in the good way.”

CUT TO:

Interior-Hallway

“We’re three wins for three today,” Josh said as he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“That doesn’t happen very often,” Sam smiled.

“Just often enough to keep us from fleeing the building in despair.” Josh slapped Sam on the back.

“Arnie Vinick and Humphries have patched things up?”

“They’re having a joint press conference tomorrow at noon. By the time the press is done with Kazakhstan and the anthrax scare his little blunder will barely be a blip on the radar.”

“That’s good. You know why, don’t you?”

“Because Humphries really is a crotchety old coot,” Josh guessed.

“Exactly.”

“You’re very wise.”

“And that’s why you need to listen to me on this proposal thing. Seriously, Josh, Donna is the kind of

woman who can appreciate the magic and the wonder of nature. Make sure that’s part of the proposal.”

They reached the door to Lester’s office and could hear chaos and yelling inside.

CUT TO:

Interior-Lester’s office

Continuous

“What in the Hell is going on in here,” Josh thundered as he and Sam entered Lester’s office. “Is that about Bram’s grandmother?”

Bram’s head shot out from behind Annabeth. “What about my grandmother?”

At that moment it crossed Josh’s mind that Ron may not have had a chance to talk to the younger man yet. “It’s nothing serious. Just a procedural matter. Make sure you stop at the Secret Service office before you leave tonight, and tell Margaret you need five minutes with me first thing in the morning.”

The room fell silent and all eyes were on the Chief of Staff. Except for Bram’s. He had returned his face to

the safety of Annabeth’s back.

“It’s nothing,” Lou said as Lester and Annabeth tried not to laugh and Otto tried to wipe the smirk off his

face.

“What happened to you?” Josh demanded. “You look like you just came out of a wind tunnel.” He turned to Otto. “And what are you smiling about?”

“Listen, Josh…” Lou started.

“No, you listen. All of you. I don’t care what’s going on in here. I just know that I want it all worked out

before staff tomorrow morning. The explosion in Kazakhstan was a gas leak. The anthrax was laundry

detergent. Lester, let the press know everything is under control.”

“Will do,” Lester said as he straightened his tie and headed to the pressroom to brief, actually happier to

face the tired and cranky press than to stay in the insanity that had descended upon his office.

“Thanks for helping out today, Annabeth,” Josh said. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem, Josh.”

“As for the rest of you-it’s been a long day. Get to bed.”

As Josh and Sam left the room they couldn’t see Annabeth’s smirk or Lou and Otto’s mouths hanging open and the definitely couldn’t hear Bram whimpering into Annabeth’s back.

CUT TO:

Interior-Josh and Donna’s bedroom

Thursday

1:15AM

“Hey,” Donna said sleepily as Josh slipped into bed beside her. “You’re home.”

He was barely between the sheets before she molded herself to his body, snuggling into him as deeply as

she could. He immediately felt the stress of the day begin to ebb. She never failed to have that effect on

him.

“Yeah, I’m home,” he said softly.

“Everything ok,” she asked without opening her eyes.

He sifted his fingers through her hair and smiled. “Everything’s fine.”

“The explosion?”

“Just a gas leak.”

“The white powder?”

He kissed the top of her head. “Laundry detergent.”

That got her attention. She raised herself up on one elbow and looked at him. “Laundry detergent?”

“Yes. And that’s not the half of it.”

“Do tell,” she said as she settled her head back onto his chest and ran her hand softly across his stomach.

“The letter they found the powder in was addressed to Bram.”

“No!”

“Yes. Turns out his grandmother prefers Tide and likes to write letters to her grandchildren while she’s

doing the laundry.”

“Does everyone know?” Donna giggled.

“Not yet. But they will.”

“Poor guy is never gonna live this one down.” Donna planted a soft kiss on his chest.

“Probably not.”

“Everything ok with Arnie Vinick? I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help laughing every time I hear the tape

of him saying crotchety old coot.”

Josh pulled her more snugly against his side and sighed a contented sigh.

“I know the feeling. So how was your day? Everything ready for Matt Lauer’s visit?”

“I think so. I’ll do one last walk through when I get in in the morning but I’m pretty sure everything is

ready.”

“Anything else interesting happen today?”

“My parents called.”

“Really? What did they want?”

“I’m not sure. I think they got worried when they heard about the white powder. They left a message on

my voicemail and when I called them back they were kind of evasive. I don’t think they wanted to admit

they’d overreacted.”

“They were just worried,” Josh grinned, glad she couldn’t see his face.

“I know. Remember how I told you Helen’s sister and her family were gonna be at the White House for

Christmas?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well it turns out her niece’s boyfriend is coming along and he’s planning to propose on Christmas Eve.

Isn’t that sweet?”

“Yeah.” Josh had to bite his tongue to avoid getting down on his knees and begging Donna to marry him on the spot.

“Poor guy. His first trip to the White House and a proposal on top of that.”

“It’s a lot. That’s for sure.”

As Donna continued talking animatedly about Helen’s niece’s proposal and the White House Christmas

decorations and Matt Lauer Josh smiled broadly. He had the perfect woman and the perfect ring. Now all he needed was to figure out how to propose.

The End.

[dontshootmespence]

Watch Me

A/N: After the disastrous season 14 finale, I felt a compulsion to explain that confession in a different way. Not sure how many pieces this will be. Kind of depends on feedback because it was so impromptu, but I am using this first part to fulfill my “season 14″ bingo square for @cmbingo.

Chapter 1

“Watch me.”

Watch me. Watch me. Watch me. Watch me. Watch me. Watch me. Watch me.

Twenty-three hours a day behind gray stone walls left a woman with a lot of time to ponder. Fixate on those last words and the loss that came with them.

As she scraped her fingernail against the wall, digging those two words into the concrete over and over and over again, Cat Adams waited for those four words. You have a visitor. While the walls of her solitary cell weren’t soundproof, she could hear little but the sound of her own voice as she plotted out her revenge. The ragged screech of her nails against the wall served as a wonderful deviation from the norm.

Once those four beautiful words caressed her ears, she could set her plan in motion. She could be outsmarted again, but with insanity collapsing in on her at an alarming speed, she didn’t care. Plus, she was already in solitary. What else could they do? She would go out with a lasting impact. She would ensure that neither Spencer Reid nor Jennifer Jareau would ever forget her. In their every waking moment, the two would see her face and hear her voice. Of that she would make sure.

For months she’d built up her contacts – found the weak ones and exploited them for her own benefit - and with every rare opportunity she had to send out mail, she sent a letter to the same woman.

All were different in little ways, but they conveyed the same message. Come and visit. If Cat knew Jennifer Jareau, and she was sure she did, the female agent would eventually get sick and tired of receiving letters and would visit her purely to tell her that nothing was going to happen. But Cat knew better. All she had to do was get Jennifer in the room with her and the plan would fall perfectly into place.

It had taken quite a bit of coercion and the inclusion of a few more people in her plan than she would’ve preferred, but the bow was finally strung and ready to be loosed.

As she paced the miniscule cell, going over and over her plan in her mind to ensure that everything was in place, she heard a knock on the door. The guard’s voice traveled through the little slat where her food was usually delivered. “Adams, you have a visitor.” 

“Who is it?” She asked. Cat stood facing the wall, a warm smile on her face as she rested her head against the cool concrete.

“An FBI agent named Jennifer Jareau,” he bellowed.

Perfect.

Honestly, she’d expected it to take a little bit longer to get Jareau in here, but the sooner the better. She was actually going crazy in here.

Taking her usual stance with her back against the door and her hands behind her back, she felt the cool metal of the handcuffs snap around her wrists so she could be escorted to another room where she’d meet with her illustrious visitor. “Don’t know why anyone comes in here to see you,” the guard said roughly.

“Everyone loves crazy chicks,” Cat replied dryly, “even if they don’t want to.”

It was too bad she couldn’t turn this guard to her side. He was better looking than the one she’d managed but she did what needed to be done. After sitting her down and locking her cuffs in front of her to the table, he twisted his wedding ring around his finger, something she noticed he did whenever she tried to make a move on him. “You know the drill. You’ll have half an hour.”

“Yup.” She popped the ‘p’ at the end of the word, not bothering to look up as he left the room.

Just as she’d suspected, the agent waited a fair few minutes to walk in, probably in an attempt to throw her off her game, but her time in solitary had only honed it. The door creaked open to reveal the second agent she wanted to see. She’d prefer having Spencer here, hands on her throat, but she was determined to make both their lives hell, and this was the best way to do it.

“Looking a little haggard lately,” Cat said with a devious smile, the subtle laughter in her voice crawling up JJ’s spine. “Never a dull day at the BAU, am I right?”

“Cut the crap,” JJ snapped. Wonderful. She was already on edge. “All it will take is a few words from me to take away every single privilege you have inside these four walls.”

She wanted Cat to snap at her, to lose control, but her constitution had only grown in the two years since they’d last seen each other. “Take a seat, Jennifer,” she said icily, “we have so much catching up to do.”

“No, we don’t.” After getting Spencer out of prison and the whole Scratch ordeal, they were all exhausted. None of them needed this right now. “What do you want? You said you had something to tell me and frankly there’s nothing you can say that’s going to get you a leaner sentence or a cell in gen pop, so you can save it.” She stood up to leave the room.

“How’s Spencer doing? He lost his mind yet? I bet Diana is getting worse and worse every day.”

JJ snapped back around and smacked the table, the sound reverberating against the walls. “Spencer has forgotten about you. You’re not even a blip on his radar. We’ve had important things to deal with. Not you.”

“He’s in pain. He’s always in pain. So are you,” she said, pointing her finger towards JJ’s crystal blue eyes. “I can see it in your eyes, actually the bags under your eyes but you know what I mean. Anyway, your pain isn’t over yet. The thing you seem to forget about me is that I don’t let things go. Someone is coming for you, courtesy of yours truly. In this moment of terror, you’re going to confess to Spencer that you’ve always loved him.”

“Absolutely not,” JJ responded curtly, once again getting up to leave.

“Oh, I forgot to ask how Will and the boys were. He takes them to school, right? Leaves the house with them between 7:15 and 7:30. Gets them to school by 7:45. Henry’s in until 2:45, but little Michael is only in for a half-day. He’s just turned three?”

JJ spun around, tears damned up against her eyes as her voice quivered. “How?”

“On the weekends, you all go to the park down the block from your house - only on Saturdays though. Sundays you play soccer in the front yard as one big happy little family,” she sneered. “I know every waking moment of your lives, Mrs. Jareau, so if you’d like to take a seat again, we can speak like adults.”

Blood boiling, JJ sat down, mind running with how she could possibly know what she knew. How had she gotten hold of her schedule? How did she get someone to help her even in solitary? “Now,” Cat started again, “when that someone comes for you – and believe me you’ll know it when it happens – you are going to tell Spencer you’ve always loved him. You’ll live through the ordeal, I’ve made sure of that, but the after effects of such a confession will be monumental I’m sure.”

“What makes you think he’d even believe me? We’ve been best friends for years. He knows I don’t feel that way about him-“

“Because he’s lonely. You know Spencer, but I do too. You’ll play him for as long as I say.”

“No,” JJ replied, shaking her head and pushing away from the table. “No, I won’t. I won’t do-“

“You will. Because if you don’t, I only have to make one phone call and any of your boys could get a bullet between the eyes.”

“I’ll tell the guard outside-“

“You can if you want, but the one that’s out there now just got in and he’s mine. He’ll make that phone call and little Henry will just-“ She made a finger gun and pointed it at herself.

JJ could feel the bile searing her stomach, eating away at her insides. She could easily jump across the table and choke the life out of her, but if she knew Cat Adams, the woman had thought of nearly every eventuality.

“You know I’ll sniff out every single person you’ve used and exploited and I will put a stop to this,” JJ stated. Her voice shook with each word and even she didn’t truly believe the words she spoke.

Cat nodded. “I know. The BAU is good but I’m better and by the time you find everyone I have in my arsenal, the damage will already be done. The thing with the BAU is that you close a case and move on, but me – I’ve had two years to focus on nothing but you. My baby was taken from me and I’ve had nothing else to occupy my time but you.” She stood up as far as she could given the cuffs and leaned over the table. “If anything changes on my end, my guard being changed out for instance, or anything changes on your end, I will know and one or all of your boys will die. Are we clear?”

“You have taken on the wrong mother,” JJ whispered softly.

“No,” Cat replied. “You have.”

The two women shared a tense look before JJ left without a word, speeding passed a different guard than the one that had ushered her in to speak with Cat in the first place.

Outside and blinded by the sun, she lurched forward, her lunch ending up on the ground in front of her, her breaths coming in short and shallow. Once she caught her breath, she stood up straight and powered toward her car, slipping inside without a glance to anyone or anything. She couldn’t tell anyone anything – not until she knew.

Will and the boys…

Spence…

She couldn’t do this to him; He’d been through too much already. But she couldn’t say anything if Cat truly did have eyes everywhere like she insinuated. The lives of her husband and children hung in the balance. Once she’d dismantled Cat’s army, she would tell Spencer and he would understand…right?

                                                          -------

As she woke up the next morning, JJ shivered, knowing that somewhere nearby someone was watching her and her family. Wiping away the steam on the mirror, she saw the bags under her eyes and the bloodshot in them. She’d tossed and turned so badly that Will had woken her up fully to ask if she was okay. That was when the first little lie left her. “I’m fine.” 

With a faked smile and kisses for her boys, she headed to work, grabbing her usual morning coffee along the way – and Spencer’s too. She clenched her hands so tightly are the cups she almost exploded the drinks all over herself. Even this one benign gesture became tainted knowing what she had to do.

Once she got to work, she grabbed the coffee and headed inside with a drive she normally couldn’t muster so early in the morning. Every spare moment she had was going to be dedicated to dismantling Cat’s plan. But she had to go it alone.

“Hey JJ,” Spencer said, his sleepy morning smile piercing her heart in the worst way. He reached for the coffee she’d brought for him and she stiffened as his hand brushed hers. She couldn’t do this to him. How was she supposed to lead him on like this? Who’s to even say it would work? “Thanks for the coffee.”

“No problem, Spence.” Without another word, she turned with a strained smile and headed to her office.

“You okay?” He called. “You seem tense this morning.”

Of course he knew. He always knew. “Yea, I’m okay,” she replied. Another lie. “Just had a hard time getting the boys up for school this morning. They wanted to stay home and I wouldn’t let them.”

Before he could notice her tells, she turned and bolted toward her office, breaking into a silent sob as she closed the door behind her. The reality of what she had to do was finally, truly, hitting her and she couldn’t stop from shaking as the sobs racked her body.

If she’d only let Spencer kill Cat two years ago, she wouldn’t be here now, having to weigh the lives of her boys against the friendship she’d leaned on for more than a decade and a half.

@emilyshurley