#its a story! she’s the POV character! we’re SUPPOSED to view it through her eyes! that’s the way the story was constructed!

[firefly-fez]

Interesting that you feel this way, OP.

I always thought Plo’s conduct in this arc was exemplary, to be honest.

His compassion for Boba is remarkable. Even though he tried to kill a Jedi, Plo only wants Boba to be rehabilitated and put out of danger. He wants Boba to recognise the danger he is putting himself in. I don’t see “we are justice” as a statement of arrogance, I see it as a statement of “we are the help you are looking for, please accept it”.

Boba’s being misguided by Aurra Sing, he’s just a child, and he doesn’t really understand the consequences of what he’s doing or the danger he’s putting himself in. Plo Koon just sees a lost, scared kid and is trying to help him get on a better path in life. He recognises Hondo as someone who can persuade Boba to do the right thing. He’s always trying to save as many lives as possible, keeping calm while the hostages are in danger and he never treats Boba like he’s expendable or a threat, he very much treats Boba like another person in this dangerous situation that he is trying to save.

He makes a comment about Anakin having a “lack of subtlety” - which is fair, he doesn’t do stealth well - not to disparage Anakin’s character, but to try and mentor Ahsoka and have her improve on casework that requires stealth. He’s tongue-in-cheek and sassy about it, yes, because that’s very much Plo Koon’s character.

There’s also a moment where he meets someone on the lower levels of Coruscang who complains about the Jedi being too preoccupied with the war to care for the people of Coruscant, and he says something to the effect of “We are never too busy to help the people of the Republic”.

I think different characters in the SW universe are supposed to represent different things. In my opinion, the Jedi who most represents the flaws of the Jedi Order is Obi Wan. He’s very much out of his element almost all of the time, perpetually roped into a mess he didn’t create but is no less responsible for resolving, and always, always defending someone who arguably doesn’t deserve it, be it his cleaning up after Anakin or his careful diplomacy in navigating the demands of the Senate or other politicians who are just never going to come around to his side, dealite his valiant efforts. I think Obi Wan serves as the archetype of the Jedi, and his fish-out-of-water character arc represents how completely unsuited the Jedi are to serve as a military force.

The Jedi are flawed. The Order is flawed. Those flaws and their inability to reconcile with them play a part in their fate, in how easy it was for the public eye to come to reject the Jedi and accept Chancellor Palpatine’s propaganda.

However; the Jedi were good people. They were trying. I think Plo represents the effort of the Jedi to do good despite it all.

He faces his men while they say to him that they don’t believe their lives are valuable. “We’re just clones. We’re meant to be expendable.” What does Plo say? “Not to me.” To others, yes. To our world, yes. There are many that see you that way and I am sorry. It is true. But I don’t and I never will. You matter to me, I promise you.

“We are justice”. I can help you. I am the help you are looking for. You are one of the people I am trying to save.

“We’re never too busy to help the people of the republic.” No matter how busy I am with the war effort I will stil help you. I am here. I am always here.

He’s persistently faithful in what he says and does even in the face of evidence directly contradicting what he’s saying. He’s compassionate and kind.

The clone wars is a show that puts contex to Anakin’s fall. Context to the flaws of the Jedi.

But in all that tragedy, it introduces to us a kindly Jedi Master who reminds the audience that despite everything, the Jedi were good.

They weren’t perfect. They made mistakes. Big mistakes. Mistakes that made people justifiably lose their faith in the Order.

But they were good. They were trying. And they certainly didn’t deserve their fate. And throughout everything, their legacy, a legacy they had themselves at times forgotten, will go on.

Is it really so bad that to see that in Plo Koon?

Apart from this line being sick as heck, it stood out to me rewatching this episode - because how is it that I've never, ever seen anybody use it to paint the Jedi as arrogant, or as fanatic vigilantes who only answer to themselves?

Yoda gets a lot of flak for admitting that some Jedi have grown arrogant in AotC and this is the episode that people use to tear Mace apart for supposedly being mean to Boba, but Plo gets nothing? Not an ounce of criticism for saying something as harsh and uncompromising? For calling the Order justice itself?

And he freaking disses Anakin in front of Ahsoka in this very episode! He acts like a cop in the lower levels! The fandom loves to nitpick every single thing Jedi like Mace, Luminara, Yoda or Ki-Adi do - now imagine if one of them had said this line. They'd be called "everything wrong with the Order" and "the embodiment of the arrogance of the Jedi." But Plo is "everything they should have been."

Could it be - and I'm just going out on a limb here - that Plo being a fan favorite - not in small part because of his fatherly relationship with Ahsoka - is the only reason why he's considered 'better' and 'different' even when he says and does things other Jedi are getting skewered for? Love the Jedi (I do) or hate them, but he's the same as all of them.

[supercantaloupe]

the movie reviews of DEH coming out this week have got me thinking a lot again about why i think DEH doesn’t work and in which ways. normally when i do that i like to find another show that has a similar or shared storytelling device which i think does it better to compare. and given that, now DEH has a stage and a screen adaptation to compare to, i think My Fair Lady is actually a good point of comparison to use for the aspect of DEH i've been thinking about this week.

obviously My Fair Lady and Dear Evan Hansen are. Very different shows, lmao. but i have my reasons: both were acclaimed stage shows that later got turned into infamous films (be it in a good or bad light). but moreover, both shows have an unsympathetic protagonist, which is made more stark and obvious through the transition from stage to screen.

there is an important difference in medium between stage and screen and that has to do with objective framing and point of view. basically, in a theater, you have zero absolute control over where any and every audience member is paying attention at any and every given time. you can direct it with blocking, light, sound, etc, but you cannot force an audience member to look at what you want them to look at for every moment. the framing is inherently subjective in this way because the viewer is free to focus on what they want, and make their own judgments based on that.

film is different; film has an objective framing. it is the camera. when you are viewing a film on screen, you have no power to see anything outside the frame that is shown to you; you don't have the power to turn your head and look at something else in the scene. this introduces an implicit bias in the narrative, because the point of view of the camera is what the audience is practically forced to identify and sympathize with.

now, back to DEH and MFL. both shows have a protagonist who is unsympathetic. but a crucial difference between them is that, while DEH's protagonist is also its point of view character, in MFL they are different.

it's sometimes difficult to separate the concept of "protagonist" from "main character" and from "POV character," but in this case i’m going with a narrative definition of protagonist, where they are the character who changes through the narrative. in MFL's case, this is henry higgins, as he spends the entire show being a whiny narcissistic manbaby until the final number when he realizes that he's developed the ability to care about another human being for their own sake for the first time. while eliza does go from speaking and dressing like a common cockney to a genteel lady, she is not changed as much as a character, and therefore i do not count her as the protagonist.

eliza is, of course, the POV character; she is the center around which the story follows; there are more scenes about eliza alone than there are about henry higgins alone, and those scenes about henry higgins alone tend to be about his relationship to eliza.

the framing of which character is the POV on stage is not so important as it is on film, because, again, objective framing on screen. when eliza's POV on stage turns into eliza's POV on screen, we are able to see henry higgins more directly through her eyes. because she is the POV character, we sympathize more readily with her than anyone else, and more clearly see higgins as the asshole he is, because he treats her like dirt to her face, which we as the audience are also experiencing by proxy. film framing makes more distinct the separation between POV character and protagonist, therefore allowing henry higgins' very unsympathetic personality ring out loud and clear.

DEH, on the other hand, has its protagonist and its POV character be the same character, that is, evan. this was a problem in the stage show, yes, but looking back on the past four years of audience interaction and feedback with the show demonstrates that it's still possible to sympathize with him even though he's a jerk. i believe this is because the show tries really hard to frame him as being sympathetic despite his bad behavior, and the framing from his POV is still more subjective since it is in a theater.

but, just as the distinction between sympathetic and unsympathetic character becomes more obvious on film when the POV becomes more objective in MFL, so too does it become more obvious in DEH.

it becomes even more obvious that the story wants us to sympathize with evan. he's the POV, the framing is objective, we're mechanically meant to identify with him. but that introduces some pretty hefty tonal dissonance when we're being asked to sympathize with a character who does some pretty shitty things (in other words, is unsympathetic)

of course, i haven't seen the film of DEH yet since i am, regrettably, a college student at the moment and not a professional film reviewer. but from what i've read in reviews so far and heard about the songs that were cut, it seems like the film also exacerbates the issues of the stage show through script changes. (for example, the cutting of Good For You really hurts the narrative since that's the biggest moment of evan actually facing consequences for his actions in the show.) it doesn't matter how much the movie is begging me to identify with their POV character; if they're a shitty person, i am not going to sympathize with them!

i think that's at the heart of a lot of the criticism of the film i've read so far. the story banks everything on you liking evan as a person and caring about what happens to him -- sympathizing with him -- when he is utterly unlikable. even beyond the bad casting choice.

is it possible to have an unsympathetic protagonist as your POV character in a film? i'm sure it is. but this is not the way to do it. could DEH have succeeded with an unsympathetic protagonist as its POV? probably, if treated differently. i can’t help but wonder what a dark comedy version of DEH would like like, akin to Heathers. although, what i think Heathers does well that DEH does not is both show that its protagonist does in fact do shitty things we are not supposed to support, and she realizes this after facing consequences for her actions and makes a change in her behavior two thirds of the way through the movie. but, ultimately, as it is, it seems like the route the DEH movie went down was not a good one, exacerbating problems from the stage show both through writing and, more simply, through the medium itself.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

11x02: Acheron, Part 2 - Analysis

Okay, let’s talk 11x02. And 11x01. Because it’s a two-part episode, it’s important to consider them together. I have a LOT to say about what’s going on in these two episodes, so I’ll have plenty to post all week. Let’s dive in!

***As always, spoilers abound below for TWD 11x02. Don’t read until you’ve watched! You’ve been warned!***

Maggie

The first thing we see is a point of view from under the train car. The instant I saw that, I knew how things would go. I never thought Maggie would die (if nothing else, there are scenes with her in the trailer we haven’t seen yet) but I was curious as to how she would survive. When I saw this POV, I knew she’d end up crawling under the train. Just as Glenn crawled under the dumpster. Massive parallels to Glenn. Which by extension, massive parallels to Beth. Major resurrection theme.

It's also important that when she reappears, she comes from underneath the car. Obviously, that’s logical given that she crawled underneath the car, but they make a point of asking if the pounding is coming from the roof. Gabriel says no and then they open the bottom hatch for her. Her coming up from the ground like that is a visual representation of a resurrection.

So we see Gabriel, Negan and the others enter the train car. The spatial details here are important, and I had to watch the episode twice to get them all straight. It’s a little confusing the first time. So, the group jumps down into the train car through a hatch in the roof because they couldn’t get the door open in the last episode. The thing is, if you watch closely, you come to realize they’re not in the train car on the end. They must have walked along the roof for two or three cars before finding a hatch that let them in.

So, when Gauge shows up, he comes behind them, and that confused me because I was thinking they came from that direction. And they did, but they entered through the roof, not the door. Anyway, they can’t get the door open. So honestly, even if they’d tried harder, I’m not sure they could have saved him.

This scene accomplished a lot of things, character-wise, that we need to touch on. It’s important to note that Gauge’s death happened due to his own choices. Does that mean he “deserved” to die or that they shouldn’t have tried to save him if they could have? Of course not. No on both counts. But that doesn’t change the fact that his choices sealed his fate.

It's especially interesting that he called Maggie a Liar. Not only is that a throwback to the Governor, but it’s a particular type of mentality they’re showing here. Even the fact that he didn’t shut the door behind him is really interesting. My first thought was to be annoyed with him. Why WOULDN’T you shut the door. You live in this world. You know better. But it’s all ego. He can’t imagine something bad will happen. He just assumes if it does, someone will save him.

But the most telling thing was how angry he got before saying Liar. It just shows very much how he approaches life. When he messes up, he doesn’t feel bad, and accept that it was his fault, and try to learn from it. No, instead he gets pissed and blames everyone but himself and his own actions.

If this had been Daryl or Gabriel or Alden or any of our other heroes, they would have recognized that opening the door would have gotten their friends and family killed and would have sacrificed themselves. Especially if they realized they’d screwed up. But Gauge became angry and defiant, even killing himself.

Anyway, I’m rambling. This really has nothing to do with Beth or TD other than perhaps being a future template for something. But I thought it was a really fascinating character sketch.

The thing is, this isn’t really a matter of Gauge being wrong and everyone else being right.

Maggie is…not doing so well either. As I told my fellow theorists, Paola Lazaro said in TTD last week that Maggie was kind of off the rails. I think she said that a little prematurely, because we really didn’t understand Maggie’s state of mind just by watching 10x17 and 11x01.

It's not until she tells that messed up story about the house she found and the people in it that we understand that her state of mind really isn’t at its healthiest. Even saying she wanted to kill Negan before is…understandable given their past. But it makes more sense now why Negan is so nervous. He’s sensing her state of mind that her moral conscience isn’t as strong as it once was, so of course he’s fearful for his life.

I don’t know where they’re going with this Maggie story line, but I have a feeling this attitude of hers will cause conflict down the road. Several of my fellow theorists believe it will cause a rift between her and Daryl. And we can see that somewhat through Alden. At first, he was very much defending Maggie, especially against Negan. He has a lot of loyalty to her. But he didn’t like her abandoning Gauge, and you can see his loyalties starting to waver.

At the very least, what she said about not feeling anything about it is the opposite of what Beth always stood for. Daryl was trying hard not to feel things during Still, in the wake of the prison going down. She made him feel things because that’s the only way a person is truly living, rather than just surviving. Now Maggie is in that state of mind.

And I’m gonna argue that makes it a prime time for Beth to return to help her. But of course I’m completely objective over here. ;D

Maggie’s Story:

Maggie’s story was definitely dark and horrible, but interesting to analyze. I’m assuming there was cannibalism going on there. That’s why the missing limbs. The men in the house were eating the female prisoners. No only a callback to Terminus, but remember that Bob’s leg was taken for food, so I’m sure that’s what we’re supposed to infer here.

She talked about no eyes, no tongue, no limbs, vocal cords ripped out. So definitely the see no evil, speak no evil themes. With the limbs, it’s also a matter of not being able to escape or save themselves.

In terms of the plot, I do have one question about this that I think may be significant. Maggie first talks about three deformed people (she says, “I wouldn’t call them men”) coming toward her. She kills them, and only after that hears the noise from the attic.

My question is, why were they deformed? If they’re “men,” then they must be at least Maggie’s age, if not older, which means they’ve been around since before the apocalypse began. Even eating human flesh doesn’t cause one to become deformed, so why the deformities? I have no idea, but I wondered if there is a radiation theme going on here. Something they’re hinting at, but not saying. Just thought that was intriguing.

After that, things go sideways and everyone almost dies until Daryl arrives to save the day. So, let’s skip to his story.

Daryl:

We first see him bust through a wall with Dog. So, dog took off in the last episode, but the first time we see Daryl, he’s already found Dog again. At least, the first time. This is where he sees the murals on the wall, the walker with the handcuff and the suitcase of money, etc. I already talked about most of that in great detail HERE, so I won’t rehash it, though it’s very important.

One thing I will say about the mural is that thematically, it’s a match to Still. So, in the golf club, we had lots of rich people who clearly hid there when the world first went bad. And I don’t remember this particularly, but several of my fellow theorists have told me they remember the TTD after Still and that the writers talked about how the golf club was a statement about the class system. You have these very rich people, but their wealth couldn’t save them. Death, walkers, the apocalypse…none of these things discriminate based on wealth or position.

On the wall, we see people with crowns standing at the top, but below, they are homeless, and one of them is being attacked and torn apart. Meanwhile, Daryl sees a line of text that says, “it comes for us all,” probably meaning death.

Well, guess what? Angela Kang, in talking about the murals, said that this, too, was a statement about the class system. So thematically, this is meant to be a parallel to Still.

It’s just interesting to contemplate because if you think about it, most of our heros—Rick, Daryl, the Greene family, etc—weren’t at all wealthy. Rick was humble and well-grounded. Hershel worked hard his whole life and never had any glory or fanfare. And then there’s Daryl, who was “nothing. No one.” They all survived.

So of course it’s a socioeconomic statement, but it’s also one about mindset. It takes not only grit to survive this world, but a certain amount of humility. Ego always gets you killed eventually, as it did with Gauge.

I’ll also mention that I thought the guy with the crown who was being torn apart was being set upon by walkers, but AK says they’re specifically not walkers. They’re people.

So, it���s not a coincidence that we see this juxtaposed with the Gauge situation. His ego gets him killed and we literally see him being torn apart because of it.

Moving on.

Daryl finds a bag with a $100 bill with a letter written on it. This is a massive TD clue from start to finish. 100 is an important number. The hundred dollar bill features Benjamin Franklin on the front and Independence Hall on the back. Look either of those up and you’ll find lots of fun parallels we could point to. I won’t go into all that today except to say it’s definitely part of the Revolution theme.

This is what’s written on the bill Daryl finds:

“Dear Dad, you always said if you don’t come back in a week to move on. Mom didn’t listen and went looking. It’s been three weeks, so we’re going next. I’ll watch Jesse and turn on the radio every day at 10. See you both soon. Love Tom and Jesse.”

He also finds a picture of two kids. So, the “three weeks” jumps out because of Rick’s line in 5x10, “it’s been three weeks since Atlanta.” It’s also about missing family members, going searching for them, etc. Possibly important that the mom is also missing. I can’t help but think of the song from Still. “Our mother has been absent, every since we founded Rome…”

There is a 10 in there, which is an important number. The turning the radio on every day is both the radio/airwaves theme (also a line from the song) but a callback to Rick and Morgan and their walkie talkies. So, really interesting symbols here.

The two kids immediately reminded me of Noah’s twin brothers. I don’t think these two are supposed to be twins. I’m assuming the brother is older. But still obviously siblings. And it hearkens back to the last episode Beth was technically in. Which also had a lot of the CRM/Revolution theme in it. (X, X).

AK says this family probably didn’t make it, so I’m not expecting these kids to show up in the narrative. But it’s also important to note that the little girl is carrying the toy rabbit Maggie found earlier. So the rabbit also ties into all this symbolism. (P.S. I didn’t get to my rabbit post last week. I planned on it, but time got away from me. I should get it posted later this week.)

So, this is massive in terms of TD symbolism. I’ll talk about it fits into the bigger narrative in a minute.

Then Daryl kills the sleeping bag walker. I wasn’t sure the significance of this at first, but I think it ties to the tents and sleeping bags we saw in Atlanta in 5x06, Consumed. Daryl and Carol passed them while looking for Beth. So, this just shows us that this is tied to her storyline and Daryl searching for her.

You could also argue that the walker was “hidden” at first, and it’s significant that Dog found it/realized it was there before Daryl did. 

The other thing is that as he’s looking at the sleeping bag walker, there’s a random shoe on the ground next to it. Missing Shoe/Foot theory, which is also indicative of Beth. 

They hear another roaring sound and Dog takes off, running into the dark tunnel.

Here’s the thing. I think most people will assume the roar he heard was just more air being forced through the tunnels by the storm, as Alden explained it in ep 1. But I always watch with the subtitles on and I noticed at this part, the subtitles said, “Man Roaring.” So they actually did hear someone screaming. And that’s probably why Dog ran toward it.

After watching it again, I realized it’s probably supposed to be Roy. He’s the white-haired guy, played by C. Thomas Howell, who Daryl finds wounded after he emerges from the Tunnel. I think whatever happened to him when he went topside but then got attacked by walkers is what Dog heard and went running toward.

Maybe not terribly significant in the plot, but it’s important symbolically. Because once again we have something Daryl hears from a distance but doesn’t see. Dog (a proxy for Beth) runs toward it, and Daryl follows. When he does, he find someone who had previously separated from the group. They’re hurt, but alive. See the parallels?

I will say the Roy situation confuses me just a little. He’s clearly hurt, and when Daryl tries to bandage him, he refuses, saying, “just tell my kids I didn’t die a coward.” But then later he’s with the group, all bandaged up, and seems to be okay. (He dies when they reach the Reapers by taking an arrow to the head, so he still dies overall.) But it’s just weird that it seemed he would die, then seemed he was fine again.

It may well be something that foreshadows a future situation, and that’s why it’s not making tons of sense right now. Only time will tell.

Anyway, I kind of glossed over Daryl crawling through the dark tunnel. I don’t have much else to say about it except that it’s a SUPER potent symbol for Beth’s arc and very important that he emerges on the other side and finds this person. Annnd then goes to save TF. (Dark Tunnel Symbolism).

So, he hears the gunshots and finds the train they’re on. He comes up behind the walkers attacking them from the front, kills them, moves the bench blocking the door, and lets everyone through. Then he uses a grenade to blow up all the walkers. (Ew.)

After that they all get out of the tunnels and go topside. The next scene is also super important. We see the stars above. That’s partly to show that the storm has passed now, but also constellations = Sirius.

Maggie asks what he has and he tells her about it. There is one weird moment in this scene. When she tells them about the supply depot she wants to stop at, she says Georgie (from S8) set it up for emergencies, for people on the outside to use. When it says this, the camera focuses on Daryl for a LONG moment, and he looks almost sad. I’m not sure what they’re trying to tell us there.

Anyway, they all head out. Unfortunately, when they reach the right neighborhood, the Reapers are there to meet/kill them. And Roy is the first to go.

So, a couple of things here. I’ll probably do a details post because I’m leaving out MOST of the background details throughout the episode, and there are a lot of them. Lots of details to be gleaned in this scene.

But the second time I watched it, I was struck by the people hanging upside down. Obviously a grim sight, but it occurred to me that these people hanging this way look a LOT like the deer diagrams from Scars. Let me show you some pictures:

Top pick is 11x02. Middle and bottom one are from Scars.

See what I mean? So, chances are something about Scars foreshadowed the Reapers, which is interesting. They clearly see human beings in a certain way (as animals to be strung up and…perhaps eaten?) And that makes me think that what Maggie found in that house may tie into the Reapers as well. Just kind of interesting foreshadows of coming plots.

Eugene:

Let’s talk Eugene and then I’ll shut up for today. Eugene’s stuff was very intriguing. First thing you need to know. And understand, I didn’t know this. @wdway​ pointed it out. Some months ago, the actress cast as “Stephanie” was announced. This is her:

And that’s clearly not the woman who steps into the train car at the end. Which means this isn’t really Stephanie. She’s a decoy. In fact, the actress from this episode is billed on IMDb as “woman 2,” not as “Stephanie.”

Knowing that, if you go back and re-watch the parts with Eugene’s group, they mean something very different.

On the surface, it seems that Zeke, Yumiko and Princess are taken away in a sinister fashion. Then Eugene melts down and tells his story. (Note: while he focuses on his feelings for Stephanie and I think most of that is true, he still says he lied both to her and to his friends about being from a large settlement. So, he’s still keeping large chunks of the truth from them.)

Again, on the surface it seems that they accept his explanation and just decide to allow them all in. All the stuff with the other three is just a misunderstanding.

But if “Stephanie” is a decoy, that can’t possibly be the case. I think Zeke and the others told Eugene the truth as they know it, but they’re all still being manipulated.

After Princess left to pee, the guy told Eugene no one was in the room and acted like he had no idea who Princess was. They were definitely using psychological torture on him, trying to break him.

I think they know very well that Eugene's group is still lying about their settlement, and they're using a decoy "Stephanie" to find out the truth.

My point is that it goes back to the hallucination, making-someone-think-they're-crazy theme. It will be really interesting to see how this unfolds, because there's all kinds of psychological shenanigans going on here.

@galadrieljones​ made a really interesting connection some time ago. She noticed that back in 10x18, at Leah’s cabin, there is a metal, heart-shaped chair. The same chairs show up in the Commonwealth’s sales video from the trailer. So there’s some kind of link between Leah, Daryl’s memory of her, and the Commonwealth. We don’t know what it is yet, but all of this gives credence to the idea that she is either an outright hallucination, or Daryl is just remembering things wrong.

It also might mean that the Reapers are connected to the Commonwealth in some way. We don’t really know yet, but I’m having tons of fun trying to figure it out.

I want to touch briefly on the train car theme. Once again, there’s a parallel in both story lines (Terminus, and this one at the Commonwealth). Daryl’s group is in train cars this episode. And while Eugene’s group has been at a different compound, they started in the train yard and end in it here. But what I noticed is that Eugene enters the train car at the end, which is furnished inside, and finds his friends there. They all have a happy reunion.

It made me think of the fact that when Rick, Daryl, Michonne, and Carl enter the train cars at Terminus, there is also a family reunion. What happened beyond that was not good or easy. Clearly, Terminus was not a good place. Many of them almost died at the trough and they had to fight their way out through a walker blood bath.

I’m just saying that, while it obviously won’t play out exactly the same way, something similar is probably waiting for Eugene’s group outside that train car. Not good.

Acheron Overall:

Okay, let’s get to the big cheese, here. The overall narrative. The template.

These two episodes are called Acheron part 1 and part 2. So here’s the skinny:

Acheron = Underworld. Daryl’s group going into the subway tunnels (dark, underground) is what constitutes Acheron and why the episodes are called that. That’s why, at the end of this episode, they emerge from the tunnels onto the surface (i.e. the living world).

Given all the death, cemetery, and dark tunnel symbolism around Beth, given that she ventured into the land of the dead by being shot, maybe clinically dying for a time, and being thought dead for so long, what this tells me is that everything that happens in these tunnels is a foreshadow and template for what will happen this season.

I maintain that Dog = Beth and we will soon see something where Daryl hears something (not necessarily her; it was a man screaming so I still think it will be Rick he hears word of) and goes chasing after it. While searching for it, he stumbles across Beth. Then the two of them (both Dog and Daryl returned to the train car) go back in time to save TF from something.

This is most likely why the Roy thing is weird. In a super understated way, he represents Rick in the template. Daryl will find him, but only after he finds Beth. Even consider what Roy says. He says, “tell my kids I didn’t die a coward.” And that’s all well and good, but did we even know Roy had kids? No. Have we met them? No. But who has kids that Daryl IS concerned with? That would be Rick.

So I’m thinking that maybe when Daryl finds Rick, Rick will think he’s dying for some reason, and that’s why the dialogue here. But he won’t, which is why we see Roy with the group later.

And no, I’m not thinking that Roy dying via the Reapers will extend to Rick. It’s more like what they’ve done with countless characters that have been Beth proxies. Eventually, they kill them off. He’s a minor character they were using as a proxy, and when they are done with him in the narrative, he becomes walker chow. Or, in this case, Reaper fodder.

Anyway, I think everything will end up being a foreshadow for something. Maggie and Negan. The Gauge situation. All of it. I’ll try to keep coming back to this as the story progresses to show what everything foreshadows. I’ll stop there for today.

[stranger-who-writes-fiction]

Back at it again with my self-indulgent comic posts. This time! It’s Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow #3, perhaps the most tonally-distinct entry yet, with shades of The Twilight Zone. 

Spoilers!

So, as mentioned, this issue is the most deliberate in terms of both its pacing and its tone, IMO.

What is that tone, you ask?

To quote Alex Danvers, from “Midvale”: Hello, darkness.

THE STORY:

Kara and Ruthye are still looking for Krem Clues in the alien town of Maypole.

(Which is actually just Small Town, USA, complete with vintage 50s aesthetics.)

But the locals are clearly hiding something! So Kara and Ruthye continue to investigate, and they eventually discover what it was that the residents of Maypole were so keen to keep hidden. 

Genocide, basically. 

As I said, this issue struck me as very Twilight Zone; a genre story involving the build-up to a dark twist, all set against the backdrop of an idyllic small town. (Think, like, “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street” but instead of focusing on the Red Scare, it’s classism and racism.)

The wealthier blue aliens kicked all of the purple aliens out of town, and when space pirates showed up to pillage and plunder, the blue aliens made a deal with them: the lives of the purple aliens in exchange for their safety.  

Which is where the episodic story connects to the larger mission; it was Krem who suggested the trade, and then joined up with the Brigands (space pirates) when he was freed by the blue aliens.

The issue ends with no tidy resolution to the terrible things Kara and Ruthye discovered, but they do have a lead on where to find Krem, now, as well as Barbond’s Brigands.

KARA-CTERIZATION:

Ironically, it’s here, in the darkest chapter yet, that we get the closest to what might be considered ‘classic’ Kara. 

Which I think comes down to that aforementioned deliberate pace--this issue is a little slower, a little quieter. It gives the characters some room to breathe.

That’s not to say Crusty Kara is gone. Oh no. She is still very much Crusty. XD 

But anyways. A list! Of Kara moments I loved!

I mentioned a few of these in a prior post when the preview pages came out: I like the moment where Kara blows down the guy’s house of cards, and I like that the action is echoed later in the issue when she grabs the mayor’s desk and tosses it aside. A nice visual representation of the escalation of Kara being, like. Done with these creeps. (Creeps is an understatement but you get the idea.)

Another one from the preview pages: Kara explains to Ruthye that her super hearing won’t necessarily help her detect a lie, especially if she’s dealing with an alien species she’s not familiar with.

It not only reveals her level of competence and understanding of her super powers, it also shows that, you know. She’s a thinker. She’s smart. 

Amazing! Showing, rather than telling us, that Kara is smart! Without mentioning the science guild at all wow hey wow.

(Sorry, pointed criticism of the SG show fandom.)

Anyways.

I dig the PJs! 

And Kara catching the bullet! Not only are the poses and character acting great, it’s also a neat bit of panel composition:

We start with Ruthye’s POV, and then move to the wide shot of the room. The panel where Kara actually catches the bullet is down and to the side of the wide shot panel--we move our eyes the way her body/arm would have to move to intercept the bullet. Physicality in static, 2D images!

Also, like. It’s a very tense moment, life-or-death, but. Ruthye’s wide-eyed surprise at the bullet in Kara’s hand? Kind of adorable. 

I was pretty much prepared for the page of Kara shielding Ruthye from the gunfire to be the highlight--it was one of the first pages King shared and I was like, ‘yeah, YEAH.’ But, shockingly? The TRUE highlight of the issue?

Where do I BEGIN?!?!

EVERYTHING. About this moment. Is lovely.

From Kara holding Ruthye above the bench to explaining the concept of a piggyback ride, to telling her:

“I’m going to hold my hands here, and these hands can turn coal into diamonds, so they’re not going to let go. I’m going to keep you safe.”

HNNNNNNNNNNNG.

Ruthye’s narration--about how Kara had avoided flying as she was concerned it would freak Ruthye out--just adds a whole additional layer of YES, GOOD, YES, and her line on that splash page is great: “You see, all that time, she was worried about me.”

HNNNNNNNNNNNG. AGAIN.

To say nothing of the STELLAR ARTWORK.

And SPEAKING of that stellar artwork, Evely and Lopes continue to knock it out of the park. Each issue is distinct and beautifully crafted, a true joy to look at.

Before I jump into more of the art, a few final notes of character stuff in general.

Ruthye is the one most affected by the experience in Maypole, as she can’t comprehend how a society of people that look so nice and gentle and peaceful could have been party to such a horrible act.

One of the big criticisms of the book thus far is that Supergirl is not the main character, and I guess I can agree with that observation. Typically, in Western media, the main character is the one who goes through the most change in the story. 

And, yeah. That’s Ruthye.

As I was reading the end, where Ruthye sits on the curb and Kara hugs her, I was imagining how the scene would’ve played, had King stuck with the original idea for the series: Kara as the one learning to be tough/experiencing all of this for the first time, and while I think that could certainly work...

I continue to appreciate that King literally flipped the script; that Kara, especially in this issue, is like, ‘I’ve seen this, I know this,’ as opposed to being the one going through a loss of innocence.

*Marge Simpson voice* I just think it’s neat!

Because Kara’s been a teen in DC comics for so long--ever since she was reintroduced to the main DCU continuity, actually--so this is all brand new territory, here. Having an older Kara who’s SEEN SOME STUFF.

(Alsoooooo, since Bendis made the destruction of Krypton not just inaction and climate disaster, but rather, genocide, and the subtext of a Kryptonian diaspora text, the waitress’ derogatory comment regarding the the destruction of Kryton, as well as Kara picking up the bad vibes the entire time, suggests not just a broad commentary on discrimination in all its forms, but specifically allegorical anti-Semitism. The purple aliens being forced out of their homes and into substandard living conditions, then the blue aliens--their neighbors and once-fellow residents--essentially allowing the space pirates to kill them, making them literal scapegoats, Kara discovering the remains of the purple aliens, and Ruthye’s horror at the ‘banality of evil’...yes. A case could be made, I think.) 

(Which would probably require a post unto itself and a lot more in-depth discussion, nuance, and cited sources.)

(Should mention that King has brought up that both he and Orlando--the other Supergirl writer he talked to--are Jewish, and for him personally, that shaped his views on Kara’s origin story.)

I guess my point is that this issue is perhaps not as out-of-left-field as some might think, and just because there isn’t as obvious an arc for Kara, doesn’t mean there isn’t some sharp character work at play. 

(I could be WAY OFF, of course, and I’m not suggesting it’s a clear 1:1 comparison. I’d actually really love to hear King talk about this issue in particular.)

Anyways.

Here’s the final page, which I think works, because as I mentioned before, there is no easy answer/quick wrap-up to the story of Maypole:

THE ART:

I mean. How many times can I just shout ‘ART! AAAARRRRRRRRRRRTTTT!’ before it gets old?

I dunno, but I guess we’re gonna FIND OUT.

There are some panels in this issue that I just. Like ‘em! From a purely artistic standpoint! Because they’re so good!

Like, I just really love the way Kara is drawn in that top panel. Her troubled, confused expression, the colors of the fading light, the HAIR. 

Evely draws the best hair. I know I’ve said this before. I don’t care. I will continue to say it, because it continues to be true.

The issue I find myself running up against when I make these posts is that I really don’t want to post whole pages, as that’s generally frowned upon (re: pirating etc.) but with something like this, you just can’t appreciate it in panel-by-panel snippets.

(Guided View on digital reading platforms is a BANE and a POX I say!)

Anyways.

LOVE the implied movement of the cape settling as Kara speeds in and stops. 

And, obviously, Kara flicking the bullet away is just. A+. 

And the EYES, man. LOPES’ COLORS ON THE EYES???!?! BEAUTIFUL.

Also, should note the lettering! The more rounded letters for the ‘WOOSH’ of Kara’s speed (and, earlier, the super breath) work nicely, and contrast with the angular, violent BLAMS of the gunshots. 

And, I gotta say, the editor is doing a really great job of not cluttering up the artwork with all the caption boxes. Which is no small task.

(I assume the editor is placing them, as editors usually handle word balloon/caption box placement, but I suppose it could be Evely? Sometimes the artist handles it. Either way, whoever’s taking care of all the text, EXCELLENT WORK! BRAVO!)

Okay I think that’s everything.

Ah, nope, wait.

MISC.

Just a funny observation, more than anything else: Superman: Red and Blue dropped this week, and King had a story in there, “The Special” (which was very good, btw.) Both Lois and the waitress swear a lot so I’m beginning to think that this is just how King writes dialogue for any adult character who isn’t Clark. XD

This is absolutely a personal preference but when Kara was like, “And my name IS Supergirl,” I was like nooooo. I know King is trying to simplify all of the conflicting origin stories and lore but I LIKE KARA DANVERS, SIR. XD

It’s almost assuredly a cash-grab/an attempt for DC to get all the money it can out of a book they don’t have much confidence in, but I like the cardstock covers! Very classy, much Strange Adventures.

(OH my gosh, can you imagine that issue 1 cover with spot gloss???? Basically the only way you could possibly improve on it.) 

Okay NOW I’m done. For real. XD NEXT TIME: Kara and Ruthye go after Krem and the Brigands!

[varricmancer]

Lost And Found  | 4

Also available on AO3

Pairing: Varric Tethras x OC

Summary: Instead of the nothingness she had craved, Crystal woke up in the world of Thedas. What had once been merely a story that she loved now seemed very real and she was right in the heart of it all. She soon finds a reason to live again and a love in the arms of someone as quietly broken as her.

A/N: Okay, a million years later and here is Varric's POV. It's a bit choppy, but I meant for it to be like that because it's, ya know, from his POV. It's not a retelling of events but simply a glance into his mind. Also, he's a man - and a horny bastard at that - so there's a bit of nsfw thoughts going on in this chapter. Lots of body appreciation. I love writing characters that are already whipped and can't figure out what that means lmao. You poor sod, you had no chance.I'll try to be faster with the next chapter, because I'm just as excited as you guys to see what's happening

A wave of relief spread through the party as the clanging of swords and crinkle of lightning were silenced. As one, they holstered their weapons and strode back to the waiting wagon and the rest of their traveling companions.

Varric spared a glance for one of the bodies lying still as he passed - an unfortunate young apostate sporting one of his arrows in his chest.

Killing never got easier, never mind what kind of bullshit he spouted. No matter that it was his life or theirs - he’d still be seeing the startled green lifeless eyes of a boy barely reaching adulthood in his dreams, along with all of the countless others that already haunted him.

He sighed wearily and climbed back onto his pony, adjusting his saddle sore ass as well as he could while he waited for the party to get back into position. The wagon of supplies and it’s guards were back into place behind him soon enough, with the Seeker and “The Herald” leading in the front.

The group of fighting Templars and Apostates were cleared from the road ahead which lead to their destination of a little hamlet called the Crossroads. By all reports, it was a tiny village barely worthy of even being called that, but due to its position (and that fact that Redcliffe was unreachable at the moment), it had become a sanctuary for refugees and the wounded.

A chantry mother had sent word to Haven asking for help with protection and supplies. Apparently, she’d even asked for the Herald to come himself. They’d all agreed it was an excellent chance to get word out about their newly formed band of do-gooders and let the people get a look at Maxwell Trevalyn, the freshly dubbed Herald of Andraste.

Varric wasn’t too sure if it was true, but he’d also seen too much shit throughout the years to rule it out completely. Regardless of whatever lofty title they were trying to burden him with, Maxwell still looked like a scared kid who just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. However, the way he worked hard and silently accepted leadership despite being completely out of his element reminded Varric of Hawke in their early days - if he were tamer and had been raised as a pampered nobleman, that is.

The point was, Varric had taken one look at the kid and known he wasn’t going to be going home anytime soon. This Maxwell was going to make a name for himself and spawn a tale for the ages, he was sure - if he had the right kind of people watching out for him. He was getting too old for this shit and wanted to go home, but he felt like this kid was going to need someone in his corner. And this whole situation felt off in so many ways that he’d probably feel guilty if he did try to leave.

So that's how he found himself traveling around the godforsaken Hinterlands -  saddle sore, sunburnt and with a newfound hatred of bears - towards the beginning of their adventure. At first glance, this was simply a goodwill quest - show up and shake some hands, pass out food, kiss a few babies - but that group of apostates and templars that had been blocking the road were troubling. Sadly, he knew who to blame for it.

When the Crossroads came into view, he finally realized how much they were needed here. The chantry mother hadn’t mentioned how dire it really was or he suspected they would have sent help earlier. The people walking around were gaunt and dirty, many of them sporting bruises or missing limbs. They all looked severely malnourished, more so than the usual peasant. The moans and screams from the wounded were near-constant, adding to the practically visible cloud of desperation over the village. Add a bit more sewage stench and some unreasonably large rats and it would be just like good old Darktown.

They were able to spot the bright plumage of the chantry members working with the wounded and quickly made their way over to them. Villagers watched them with dawning hope in their eyes. A few of them started to cry and some of the children had even begun to cheer.

This. This was why Varric kept putting his own ass on the line all the time.

While Maxwell and Cassandra spoke to the chantry mother, Varric and Solas helped pass out the goods to the villagers. Soon enough, the pain in the ass bear that had attacked them earlier was chopped to bits and passed out among everyone to be cooked for the evening meal. Blankets and soaps, grain, and potions were all tearfully accepted by the people he handed them to. He may not be a very good man, but the joy he found in helping these people assured him that at least he wasn’t a bad one.

He was just handing off the last of the goods when Maxwell strides over, the weathered mother walking behind him imperiously.

“Everyone, this is Mother Giselle. She has some interesting news,” Maxwell grins, practically bouncing on his heels.

“Is it that everyone here is standing on death's doorstep? Because we noticed,” Varric drawled.

He was technically Andrastean, but that didn’t mean he let corrupt clergy off easy.

Her only tell that the words hit was a slight tick in her jaw as she nodded once.

“The situation here is deplorable, however, with the status of things we were unsure of where to ask for aid. I took a chance when I heard the hands of the Divine were involved in your “Inquisition.”

“And we are happy to help,” Cassandra stated as she rejoined the party. Her raised eyebrow towards Varric was something he’d long ago interpreted to mean behave .

“Yes, well,” Maxwell cleared his throat. “Mother Giselle says that another fell from a rift. A woman, no visible marks though.”

“An abomination perhaps?” Cassandra muses, standing straighter and placing a light hand on her sword.

“She appears to be a regular woman, free of magic or any signs of corruption. She fell from the rift and beyond a few broken bones and a few odd quirks here and there, nothing seems off about her,” Mother Giselle answers with a weary sigh. The way that she’d said ‘odd quirks’ like just mentioning them gave her a headache made Varric want to meet this woman very much.

The mother waved them away like annoying gnats soon after, with instructions to ask around for information on the area and what they could do to help. He supposed it was too much to expect her to already know that kind of (extremely important) information.

Thankfully, they found a soldier called Corporal Vale that seemed more informed and actually cared about taking care of the people there. Between him and a few others that piped in their opinions, the party discovered that what the people of the crossroads needed most right now was food and protection from the increasingly cold nights. They’d get a nice reprieve with the supplies that they’d brought from Haven, but that still wouldn’t be enough.

“I heard ye’re wanting to be put to work. I reckon I have a thing or two for ya,” a man called out as he strode towards them. They had just been discussing where to go from here, so anything was helpful.

“Of course, good sir. How may we assist you?” Maxwell plastered on his charming court smile, which seemed to have little effect on the man. Not that surprising considering the fellow looked as rugged and of the land as they come, and Maxwell reeked of privilege.

He grunts and looks over their little band as though he found them wanting, but good enough for now. His gaze only showed a sliver of appreciation when they landed on Cassadra (how original), then he seemed to meet Varric’s eyes straight on as though he assumed that he was really in charge.

“The goods that you brought us will help for a few days, but we’ll need more if we’re to recover enough to get back on our feet. Our lass Crystal says there’s a flock of rams over the hill. We’ve been unable to do any hunting what with the fighting all about so we’d appreciate if you brought in a few.”

“Of course,” Maxwell nods. “And you seem to know Crystal well?”

“Aye, I’m the mayor of this little corner. Know all my people. Whatever that daft old mother has been filling your head with needs to be ignored. Crystal is just a sweet and quiet lassie doing her best.”

“Oh, yes of course. We simply wanted to meet her.”

“After the hunting, if you please. She’s one of the ones that's been giving her rations to the little ones and I’ll not have her interrogated on an empty stomach.”

This Crystal must be quite the woman to inspire such loyalty despite her origins, Varric muses.

He can tell Maxwell has more questions, but with a few whispered words (orders) from Cassandra, they head off to hunt.

****

It was dark by the time they made it back and The Crossroads already appeared refreshed. There was a massive bonfire in the middle of the road where numerous pots and spits were working overtime to prepare the food they’d brought earlier. Kids were running around screaming and laughing as their parents watched with obvious relief. A few had even set up some rickety old instruments nearby to liven the place as they celebrated their newfound hope.

Several villagers rushed to greet their wagon and relieve them of the burden. They’d easily hunted down ten whole rams, stopping when it seemed like it would be enough to feed them for a few days and have enough left to preserve.

Varric wished there was more he could do at the moment, but he promised himself he’d write a few letters once they got back to Haven. A few favors called in and a bit of coin spread around and he’d have this little Hamlet healed in no time. And best of all, if he did it using the right channels, no one would know that Varric and his cursed bleeding heart was responsible for it.

Cassandra and Maxwell got pulled into a conversation with the Mother and the mayor (who had finally introduced himself as Giles) that Varric ignored as unimportant while he observed everyone else instead.

They already seemed in awe of Maxwell, sneaking glances his way with eyes shining with admiration. A few whispered words here and there would make today’s rescue seem more romantic than passing out a few slabs of dead sheep. It was always amazing watching the beginning of a legend be born.

His eyes flitted from one person to the next, all of them looking fairly similar as lower class humans tend to do. The sun-burnt skin, hunched backs, callused hands. The men smiling with three teeth left and the women looking haggard and drained after at least fifteen pregnancies.

It wasn’t until a couple of men moved to the side that he noticed the lone figure in the back.

At first glance, she was just as average as the rest. Peasant clothing without a shred of adornment anywhere. Injured somehow, as she had her left arm in a linen sling.  Normal brown hair and eyes, pale skin, thin lips. But something was telling him to take a second look, so he did. And then he began to observe the little things. The way that her skin was free of marks except for a few freckles, no sun-burnt patches, and semi-clean like she at least made an attempt to wash up here in the wilderness.

Her hair was basically average brown and pulled into a no-nonsense braid, but it was so long it reached her waist and when it caught the light of the fire it shone with a fiery copper highlight, as though to hint at hidden depths. Her eyes glinted like amber, big and trained on his party with just as much wonder as the rest of them. He thought they rather reminded him of Halla eyes. He didn’t believe a woman would find that complimentary though, so he’d try to think of something else.

Her lips were thin but appeared soft and kissable (where the fuck did that thought come from?). She smiled a little when she looked at Cassandra, and he noticed she had some of the whitest teeth he’d ever seen, bright and straight. A full set, too. Even he was missing one after a brawl a few years ago.

And that body! Andraste’s ass, he hadn’t seen a body like that on a human female outside of brothels. He’d bet that before she’d been forced to essentially starve she’d been voluptuous , but even now she was a good handful. Peasants never had this much meat on their bones, so that was his first hint that she was not like the rest. She was short, boasting only an inch or two above him, but he thought that maybe added to the appeal.

Those tits looked like they were trying their best to burst out of that ill-fitting dress, and the backside wasn’t faring much better. And the way that her waist curved in before flaring out into hips made for a man to grab onto.

Shit.

He glanced down at his pants, grateful that between the darkness of night and the constriction of the leather, his growing problem shouldn’t be too obvious. He shook his head and went back to studying her.

Her most damning feature, however, was her hands. You could tell a lot about a person by their hands. His were callused and scarred, with ink permanently staining his nails. The average human peasant’s hands were even worse, usually the color of leather from their life working outdoors and short jagged nails were practical.

Hers were so tiny he could easily fit them both in one of his hands and have room to spare. He could tell how soft they were even from here. Pink and not a spot in sight, with nails that were long and rounded, with flecks of pink on them like they’d once been painted (something he’d only seen done in Orlais).

A lady. And despite her small stature, definitely a human. Why was she here?

He crept through the crowd, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible until he made his way to her side.

“It’s always us short ones that get stuck in the back, huh?”

He patted himself on the back mentally for such a smooth intro. She turned to him and he was struck by the emotion in her eyes. She was excited to see him ? She could be a fan, he supposed, but not many actually knew his face.

Up close, she was even more intriguing. He stood close enough for her breath to touch his cheek, and was amazed to smell clove and peppermint. Third hint that she wasn’t from around here, as human peasants always smelled like mead and rotting teeth.

He let his gaze travel over her, mostly to gauge her reaction and slightly because he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the massive mounds of flesh trying to burst from her borrowed dress. She blushed sweetly, making him feel like a lecher for a moment, but she didn’t seem to mind him looking.

Interesting.

Just as he was about to lay it on thick, Maxwell found them and drew her into a conversation. It turned out that his hunch was right and she wasn’t from around here. In fact, she was the one they’d been told about. The other “Fade Walker.” She didn’t seem to be touched by the experience like Maxwell had been, but the fall from the rift had been what injured her.

Her voice when she talked to Maxwell was quiet and shy like she wasn’t sure they wanted to hear what she had to say. Her body language was like she was primed for flight the moment one of them made a wrong step, even as she practically begged for their help. In fact, she reminded him of the injured dove that Fenris had rescued once. Dog had injured the bird’s wing and Fenris had taken it in and patched it up. It had been a timid little thing, jumping over every sound. But it was sweet and would trill and coo whenever Fenris spoke to it.

Varric frowned as he listened to them talk and stood at her side as Solas healed her fractured wrist, feeling a strange sort of protectiveness well up inside him. The feeling itself wasn’t unfamiliar - he was protective of his friends, of his dumbass brother, of Bia - her . But he barely knew this woman.

Maybe it was just that she seemed so...vulnerable. So soft. Every emotion played out on her face like she just wore her heart out for everyone to see. Anyone with decent skill in observation could tell this was the sort of woman that you protect from the world. That you keep safe behind walls filled with love and laughter, flowers in her hair and children at her feet.

It had been a long time since Varric had ever seen such a woman. Had he ever?

Even with the reveal of her “knowledge,” he could tell that she’d only held the rest back out of fear. Either that or she was literally the best spy in all of Thedas.

When they’d finally left that evening, he’d thrown her the sending crystal on a whim. He’d been holding onto that to give to Maxwell, and they were not cheap or easy to come by. However, he’d noticed her anxious gaze following him as they walked away and had again felt that urge to protect. Anything could happen and they’d be gone for an entire week. He sincerely doubted she knew how to even hold a knife, let alone protect herself with one.

The nightly storytelling was to reassure himself as well as her. He was sure letting Crystal hear them talk would ease any worries she might have about traveling with strangers. And when she silently answered and let him talk, he knew it was still in her possession and everything seemed fine. If something happened, he hoped that she’d be able to figure out how to use it and alert him. He’d have the apostate elf figure some way to get back quickly since he had the look of someone who knew more than he let on.

****

A week flew by and their party was growing increasingly hopeful about Crystal’s “usefulness” to the inquisition. Varric had to grit his teeth and clench his fist to keep from hitting Solas every time he used that word in conjunction with her. “Useful.” Like she was an item instead of one those that they were meant to protect.

Her notes that she’d shared had been really good, however. They’d managed to close down the rebel camps and clear the roads, took down a creepy green demon thing, and gotten a decent amount of horses to tide them over until they completed Master Dennett’s tasks.

Maxwell had declared the night before that they would take Crystal with them when they left for Haven. Varric knew that once they got there he’d have to watch out for the Nightingale, but at least he felt better about leaving her in a place surrounded by people he semi-trusted while he fought the good fight. Why he felt like that was his responsibility to worry about, he still hadn’t quite figured out.

It had become a little clearer, however, when they’d finally reached the Crossroads again and there’d she’d been like a ray of sunshine waiting for him. Maybe this protectiveness over her was 85% his cock’s fault, he thought, his pants tightening as she neared.

She looked a lot healthier since their last visit, obviously having made good use of the rations they’d left. Her eyes were bright and full of genuine happiness, smiling up at him. She’d let her hair free today, and it fell in luscious waves to her waist. Her clothes were once again borrowed and ill-fitting, but obviously the nicest she had. If it was possible, it seemed even tighter than the last dress, her modesty being miraculously saved by a worn strip of leather around the bodice.

It was strange how he felt like he could breathe properly now that she was in his sight. Had he been that stressed before? What was it about this damned woman? There hadn’t been anyone that had stirred him this much since...her .

And she was so easy to talk to. She spoke mostly only after someone else had spoken first, but she took his flirting in stride and offered witty responses. But every reaction to his touch and heated gaze seemed genuine and refreshingly honest. No practiced teasing he was used to.

And much later that evening was when he realized he was in trouble.

With a capital fucking T.

Because he’d been teasing her with the shirtlessness and letting his hair down, he’d admit it. If he was going to share a room with her for the night he wanted to play a little. Her reaction to him was flattering. So no one could blame her if she’d been trying to tease him back.

And that had been his first instinct when he’d turned to face her standing in front of the fire. That she’d finally shown her true colors and was asking for it. Begging for it. He’d been one step away from throwing her onto the bed and making her scream.

Until he’d looked at her face and seen the genuine innocent embarrassment of a lady. It had taken everything in him to calm down and let her run past him towards the bed. The damage had already been done to his mind, though, as everything the chemise had revealed to him was imprinted there like a tattoo. The dusky rose nipples firmed by cold, every inch of unblemished skin begging for his mouth, the strange nakedness of her mound.

He was sure if he played his cards right he could have her. Say a few things that women like to hear, promise a bauble or two, and she would let him fuck her. He wasn’t a saint and he’d done it before.

But there was something about the way she looked at him with such...admiration. Maybe even a little wonder and, yes, even a little attraction. He’s seen it all before, of course. He’s Varric Tethras - famous author, the right hand of the Champion, and heavy player in the underworld. Having people offer themselves for a night was a regular occurrence, and he was silver-tongued enough to get anyone else he might want.

With her, he just couldn’t do that. Couldn’t watch the trust and admiration fade from her eyes. She probably wasn’t as “innocent” as she seemed, but she certainly wasn’t one of his usual types of paramours. She was the type you kept, the kind that could wrap themselves around your heart so tight you couldn’t exist without them. He’d been there before and didn’t think he could survive that again.

****

Varric couldn’t seem to stop his gaze from straying to the newest member of their crew as he spun a (only slightly embellished) tale to entertain them for the evening. He was used to his audiences gasping in shock or staring raptly with excitement. Instead, she was watching him with a smirk that tilted her pretty lips, like she knew he was full of crap and was letting him spew it all anyway. But even more captivating was the look in her eyes - warm and fond, dangerously so. Like all he had to do was say the right words for her to tumble into his arms.

It was a look that he was growing increasingly familiar with over the past few days as they traveled back to Haven. And the idea of talking her into his bed was also becoming a regular thing. No matter how many times he told himself no, how often he argued with his own damn self explaining all the perfectly sensible reasons he shouldn’t, it still floated around in there.

Three days of taking up the rear of the party so she and her giant nug would be protected in the middle were beginning to take its toll. Because back there he had a perfect view of her.

He could see when she was amazed and cooing over some new sight. When she giggled because her stupid nug stopped in the middle of a trail to eat a flower. When she and Maxwell would chat about art, something she seemed educated on. When she tried so hard to fight off her exhaustion, yawning and stretching her arms until he thought her shirt would finally pop open.

And that damned shirt. It was his , and she had no right to look so appealing in it. She hadn’t had enough clothing with her so he’d tossed some spares to her and he’s regretted it ever since. The pants stretched over her legs like a second skin, cupping her ass and luscious thighs. The shirt was made with a purposely low v on the front since that’s how he liked them. On her, it was damn near scandalous. Her cleavage was out there for everyone to see. She looked incredible . And he was suffering .

“I said what do you think, Varric ?”

The louder than necessary yell near his ear jolted him from his thoughts. He turned towards Cassandra, the annoyance on her face comfortingly familiar.

“Pardon, Seeker. I got lost in the story. Did you need something?”

“You finished the story at least ten minutes ago. We were now discussing arming Crystal,” Cassandra scoffed, her disgust with Varric’s apparent lack of awareness evident.

“Arming? What for?” He tried for nonchalance, the thought of sending her into battle raising his hackles.

“Protection, dwarf. I only have so many eyes and if we get ambushed there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to protect her completely. She says she’s never handled a weapon before. What should we start her with? A dagger, perhaps?” Cassandra stares at Crystal in thought.

The woman in question scrunches her nose. “I suppose so. It’s small enough that I could handle it, I guess. But actually stabbing someone?” she shivers.

“A dagger is handy to have on hand, of course. I’d prefer you to be farther away from any combat, though. Take up the rear with me,” he suggests. He'd rather her be somewhere he could keep an eye on her, and right at his side seemed like the best idea.

“Like a bow and arrow? I know for a fact I can’t pick up that monster of a crossbow.”

Varric chuckles, suddenly warming up to the topic. He didn’t want her fighting, true, but it would be good for her to be prepared.

“I have a regular bow I’ve been holding onto. I was going to see if someone back in Haven wanted it since it’s decent. Hold on.”

He grunts and stands up, walking over to his pony to rifle around the packs. He pulls out a medium-sized bundle in leather, unwrapping it as he walks back to her. He pulls out a bow and hands it to her to look at.

“Its a Dalish hunting bow. I think it was made for a kid. Compact enough for you, though. Woods sturdy. I restrung it myself. And I think the carvings are just birds, nothing religious,” Varric explains, hovering by her shoulder as she looks it over.

“You’ll teach me?” she asks softly, the beginnings of a smile tilting her lips.

“Anything you want, little dove.”

The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them, his eyes meeting her’s as they wore matching shocked expressions.

She stared at him and he felt not for the first time that she could see every inch of his tarred soul...and somehow still felt like smiling at him?

Her grin was tiny and shy, but it was there, making him puff out his chest like a fool for pleasing her.

“You’re the best,” she said softly then turned back to coo more at her new bow.

He wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t the best. He wasn’t even good.

But she made him want to try.

****

Some questions you probably have now:

1. Why do you keep writing Giles like he's from Scotland? - I dunno either, bruh. He writes himself and he decided he liked the word lassie. But notice that he can sometimes string a whole sentance together perfectly normal. It's like that on purpose. He's hiding something, I'm sure of it. Who stands in the middle of the road all day long and just watches people. Suspicious.

2. Why is Varric always talking about tits and ass - he's a dude. 97% of their thought process comes from their dick. Real science numbers. Totally didn't make that up.

3. It doesn't make sense. How can he like her this much already? - You're seeing into Varric's confused brain right now. He doesn't know what's going on either. Sometimes it be like that.

4. I thought you weren't going to make Crystal some bad ass warrior chick? - I'm not. But it's also unrealistic to not be able to arm yourself somewhat in such a wild land. Varric's watching out, don't worry.

5. Why does he keep calling Bianca "Her"? - I think there's a lot of stuff that's going on in Varric's giant noggin. For him, the bow is a safe way to say the name. Keep her in his thoughts without really thinking of her. But thinking of her name when it applies to her the person makes him think of...well, her. Does that make sense? It's a mental health protection thing, because minds are curious and we all have strange quirks up there. Separating the two in his mind helps keep him sane.

ANYWAY, I hope you all enjoyed! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment! Even just a couple words. I need to know how I'm doing so I can improve future chapters. I can't wait to delve more into these two.

[jovialjudgebonkalmond]

Inevitable, Ch 2

Once again, obvious disclaimer, I don’t own the characters or universe in which the story takes place - yes internet I am that old, thank you.

Summary: Monty is alive, in jail. A recounting of his experiences and memories and basically all those flashbacks we weren’t given in season 4 that I am butthurt about. It is AU in the sense that he is still alive whilst Clay & Co are attempting to frame him for Bryce’s murder. Obvious spoiler alerts if you haven’t seen season 4.

Pairings will be Monty x Winston mainly. So far this is all from Monty’s POV but that may change down the line.

Warnings include violence, sex, drug use, rape, murder, and basically everything graphic and bad you can imagine. Will absolutely contain smut. Oh, and swearing. This chapter has the added benefit of mention’s of suicide (but given the show’s content I’m sure you saw this coming?), and also domestic abuse/child abuse. Oh and homophobic slurs.

Obligatory reminder: This is from Monty’s point of view. Clearly he didn’t view his actions with the totality of how devastatingly monsterous they were. I condemn his actions, he’s a rapist and deserved jail time. As we saw in s3 and in snippets of s4 he didn’t share that point of view. I think Monty is a dynamic character that’s interesting and I relate a lot to his back story. That’s why I was motivated to write this.

Ch 2 word count: 5,554 words (sorry not sorry guys)

Monty braced his hands on the edges of the tiny stainless steel sink, squinting as he gazed into the grimy sheet of metal bolted to the wall that was supposed to function as a mirror. He could see a blur of his skin, and the orange of his  shirt...and that was it. His face was throbbing and he couldn't eat his breakfast. "Fuck." He muttered to himself, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes. He held his breath, his aching ribs adding to the cacophony of pain of his head and hand. His hand was swollen across his knuckles and stiff, the muscles in his right arm trembling just with the effort of hanging on to the sink. He reached up with his left hand and ran it over his jaw. It, too, was swollen. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, gripping his molars with his fingers and placing his thumbs at the base of his jaw. His body shuddered and his stomach growled loudly.

I know, we're gonna fix this.

He jerked his jaw down, over, and then up in a swift, fluid motion. It made a sickeningly loud pop and Monty held back a retch, his body going from hot to cold as he felt his adrenaline pounding through his veins uncontrolled. He took a few choking, deep breaths and began to pace in a small circle, breathing hard through his nose. He dropped to the floor gracefully into a plank position as he had a thousand times for football drills, braced himself on his hands while his broken knuckles screamed at him. He lowered himself to the floor and sucked in a deep breath, his nose almost grazing the concrete. He exhaled and pushed up, hearing his ribs crack loudly as they shifted. They felt wrong inside of him, like they didn't fit where they belonged and it made it hard to breathe. He inhaled and lowered himself again, pushing through the pain. He felt powerless. He carried on, not counting reps as he picked up a smooth and even pace.  He was lost inside himself, no concept of time passing. There were no clocks, save for the one on the microwave in the common room and he wasn't there right now. 

"Your mother, she hasn't stopped crying since they pick you up." His father stated with a heavy accent.He felt a pang of shame in his chest and closed his eyes for a moment, the shackles hanging like a dead weight off his wrists. He swallowed hard, his throat feeling suddenly dry and tight.

"I'm sorry." he said thickly, his back stiff. His fear felt alive inside of him, like it had a mind of its own. He avoided eye contact with his father. He could feel the rage radiating off of him and he felt the all too familiar dread sinking in.

"I bust my ass for this family, and this is what you do?" His father continued, leaning forward. Monty hazarded a glance at him from the corner of his eye, not daring to breathe. He blinked, feeling his mind beginning to reel.

"Answer me!"

Monty jumped and blinked again, feeling stupid and cornered. His heart was racing.

"What? What answer do you want?" He hated hearing the sound of his own desperation in his voice, the way it broke at the end.

"Is it true? What they're saying?"

Monty felt his body stiffen even more, if that was at all possible. He tried to shrug it off, blinking again.

"What are- what are they saying?" He stammered. It felt as though there was a fist clamped around his throat.

"You damn well know."

Monty stared straight ahead of him, feeling the all too familiar sensation of  his blood pounding in his ears and through his veins. He clenched his jaw and stayed silent.

"They're saying that you assaulted a kid. That you sexually assaulted a kid. A boy! That true?" He couldn't help but notice the tone his father's voice took on at the word 'boy'.

"It wasn't sexual assault. I was just...messin' with him." Monty said, shifting his shoulders as though his shuffling could make his actions go away, like an irritating fly tickling his skin.

"You were messing with him?" His dad blinked, his eyes darkening, "The way they said? Why would you do that shit? To a boy? Are you some kind of faggot?!" The disgust in his voice was palpable, but it wasn't the fact that he was being charged with sexual assault that disgusted him so, that much was glaringly clear.

Monty's body felt hot all over, his eyes beginning to well with tears. He clenched his jaw again and stole his resolve.

"What if I was dad? What if I was?" He locked his gaze on his father's dark, furious eyes. The rage and contempt the look he was met with took his breath away.

"You're going to prison. You know what they do to guys like you in there?" He scanned him up and down quickly, as though sizing him up.

"And what do they do? Describe it." He mumbled defiantly, squaring his chin.

"You're going to get beat to shit. At the minimum. They will beat you down."

Monty leaned back, unable to stop himself. What the fuck did it matter now anyway.

"Yeah, well, at least none of them will be my dad."

He could see the storm in his father's eyes, and he was suddenly grateful he was in jail. The chair scraped on the concrete as his dad stood, towering over him with the blackest eyes he had ever seen. Mr. de la Cruz was staring at him as though he had known it all along.

"Are you a faggot?" He asked, with a tone that suggested he already had the answer.

Fuck it, he thought, and fuck you.

He looked up and locked eyes with the man whom he had feared, loathed, worshiped... his whole life.

"Sure."

The moment could have lasted an eternity. His father stared at him in disgusted silence before spitting in his face and walking out, leaving him sitting there alone in his shackles. It hurt more than a fist. He closed his eyes, feeling as though his heart was shattering in his chest. The spit was hot and sticky, burning his left eye it landed on. He clenched his jaw again, his eyebrows furrowing as he fought back his tears. He tried to wipe the spit off of his face but his shackles stopped him from being able to reach. He rubbed the side of his face on his shoulder as though he could wipe away his shame with it, his breathing ragged.

"Hey inmate."

Monty jumped, the voice knocking him back to reality. He stood carefully, his body aching at his lack of forgiveness to it, and looked at the C.O.

"Yes sir?"

"You have an appointment with your lawyer. Come on."

He blinked slowly, following the guard out of his cell. I don't have a lawyer..? 

The guard marched him to a set of doors where he was pat down and shackled once more. They took him down a hallway he had never been down before, the shackles making his strides short and awkward, forcing him to hunch forward. It made him look small. The hall had rooms with windows that opened to the hallway. The guard opened one of the doors and Monty followed him inside.

There was a woman sitting at a large table with several file folders. Her black hair was up in a bun and she was wearing a pantsuit with a blouse. It was jarring, seeing someone outside of uniform or the orange jumpsuit. He shuffled toward the table and she glanced up at him, surveying him quietly with blue eyes he couldn't read. He sat down across from her and tried to shuffle his chair closer to the table with little success.

 The guard stepped in and closed the door. The woman turned her attention from him to the guard.

"You can wait outside." She dismissed him. He looked as though he was going to argue with her but then thought better of it and left. Monty could see him watching them through the glass.

"Hello Mr. de la Cruz." She said, opening one of the files and glancing at it before looking back at him. "I am Eva Guerrero. I am a defense attorney and I work for a non-profit organization, and we were forwarded your case and I am here to offer you legal representation for your trial, if you choose to have one. I have spent some time reviewing your case and I have a few thoughts, and a few questions."

Monty sat there, staring at her for awhile. He blinked while he waited for his brain to catch up. It didn't.

"Okay." He said curtly, instantly on the defensive.

"You presently have two charges filed against you. That is correct? The sexual assault of Tyler Down and the murder of Bryce Walker..?"

Monty stood in the dim light of his bedroom, one of the bulbs in the ceiling was burnt out. It cast long shadows up the dark beige walls. It made the hole he punched in his white door look cavernous. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, his breathing steady and calm...resolute. Tears trickled silently down his face, pooling on the wooden surface of his dresser. They slipped off the chips and dings in the surface and flowed off of the edge. His arm trembled as it held the cold steel of the gun, pressing into the side of his temple. His finger curled around the trigger, his other hand pressed on the top of the dresser to brace himself. There was only one bullet in the chamber, but he only needed one.

"Where are you, you son of a bitch!" His father roared, bursting into the room and yanking him from his thoughts. His blood pounded in his ears and he rounded on the taller man, not even feeling human anymore.

"You wanna go old man?!" Monty yelled, taking the gun away from his own face and leveling it at the chest of his father, finger still poised on the trigger. The man staggered back, clearly intoxicated. His face flashed shock for a moment before he began to laugh, contempt replacing his former fearful expression as though it had never existed. Monty's heart was hammering in his chest like it was going to explode. His body was moving outside of his control, his desperation having a mind of its own and an appetite for destruction.

"You going to shoot me?" The older man laughed again and muttered derisively in Spanish before closing the space between them, leaning into the gun. "Do it then. You're the man now."

Monty locked eyes with his monster, his boogeyman, and felt his resolve begin to crumble just as he always crumbled under his father's fists and rage. He lowered the gun and made to shove passed him to get through the door but his dad grabbed him roughly around his abdomen and chucked him into it. He heard it crack under his weight and his lungs strained as the wind was knocked out of him. He choked and gasped for a moment, in a heap on the ground still holding the gun.

"You're just a coward." His dad hissed, booting him hard in the ribs. He hated himself for not being able to hold back his whimper at the pain. "Were you fucking crying? Crying like a lady-boy? Like a faggot?!"

He sucked in a ragged breath and dragged himself to his feet, running haphazardly  through the hallway. He needed to get the fuck out of here before this ended in regret. His dad pursued him, hot on his tail, stopping momentarily to grab a bottle of liquor off of the counter.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going you little shit?!"

"I'm getting the fuck out of here!" Monty yelled, opening the front door. His dad grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and yanked him backwards, slamming him against the wall and backhanded him. He tasted blood. He shoved his dad as hard as he could, away from him and ran out the door without looking back. His dad staggered drunkenly and fell over. It didn't stop him for long, just slowed him down momentarily, Monty heard his drunken shuffling footsteps chasing him out the door.

"Come back here you coward!" He yelled, chucking the bottle at Monty. It shattered beside his feet and he stepped on the glass. It crunched under the soles of his shoes, gritty on the gravel driveway. The alcohol splashed up his pants, staining and stinking. He fumbled for his keys, hands shaking and jerking as adrenaline sent his nerves haywire. He popped the safety back on the gun and tossed it in the back storage compartment. He started the Jeep and threw it in reverse, slamming his foot on the gas and gunning it down the driveway. His tires screeched shrilly on the pavement and the SUV lurched with his sudden movements.

He put the Jeep into drive and stomped on the gas, not knowing where he was going. There was nothing but the sound of his engine, the tires rumbling on the pavement noisily and his suspension rattling every so often as he went over a bump or pothole in the road. And his seemingly-endless-blood pounding in his ears-level rage. His vision blurred with tears, the road and lights melted blurs whipping passed him with no recognition. He sobbed, unable to catch his breath. His chest felt empty, like a gaping wound raw and shredded on the edges. Minutes turned into hours and became nothing. Eventually he had no energy left to sob, no tears left to cry.

He eased off of the gas pedal and soaked in the emptiness that consumed him. The air around him was cold and light, the stars dancing above him and the moon hung over it all like a fucking spotlight for his shit show.

He slowed and stopped, realizing he recognized the house he was in front of. His heart skipped a beat. He shouldn't be here. He put the Jeep in park and pushed the door open, stepping out of the vehicle. He left the door open as he walked ponderously along the curb. The house was like a mansion, towering on top of a small expensively landscaped hill. With a huge, wall-like cement fence with wrought iron details on top. Four pillars boarded each edge of the horse-shoe shaped driveway, one of those fancy ones that you can drive in and out of in a  half circle. The pillars had lamps on top made out of matching wrought iron that bathed him in golden light, like a caricature of an angel.

He didn't belong here.

He stood at the mouth of the driveway, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He sighed, turning to go when he saw a figure approaching him. The tall, slender, dark haired young man stepped into the light. His dark, brown eyes were muddied with confusion. He wore a light coat thrown over a grey cable knit sweater and olive coloured slacks, lacking his usual carefully chosen attire. It was evident he just threw it on in a hurry to run outside. His heavy brows furrowed, his expression flipping rapidly from confusion to concern.

"Monty- what are you doing here? My parents are actually home...you probably don't want to- why are you bleeding? Are you ok?!" He stumbled his words in a rush.

Monty stood there with his arms limp at his side for a few moments, trying to feel anything other than the brokenness that consumed him. He knew the desperation showed on his face like an open book and he loathed himself for it. He could never hide it, not in front of Winston. The other boy had a way of running his fingers over his spine and cracking him open like a dam waiting to flood the world. And tonight, he was nothing if not an open wound.

"Monty?!" Winston insisted, taking another step towards him.

"Bryce is dead." He said hollowly.

Winston blinked, glancing back to the house and then back to Monty. He closed the space between them, Monty's heart leaping into his throat. Winston took his hand and ran his fingers over his knuckles and palm with an aching tenderness.

"Okay, let's get out of here then." He said calmly. Damn him. Winston gave his hand a gentle squeeze and tilted his face to lock his warm eyes with Monty's avoidant gaze. Monty looked back at him knowing he wasn't able to hide his pain behind his mask anymore. He returned the gentle squeeze before walking back to the Jeep and climbing in, his heart racing once more. Winston climbed in the passenger seat, doing a double take at the gun in the back.

"Is that a gun?! What are you doing with a gun?! How did you even get a gun?!?!"

Monty clenched his jaw, starting the Jeep with a stuttering rumble. It was an old Jeep, and its age was showing. Monty couldn't help but feel uncomfortable having the boy who was used to so much luxury in his piece of shit SUV. 

Although if Winston had any opinions, he kept them to himself. Monty glanced at the gun in the corner of his eye, barely tilting his face before looking at Winston for a moment and putting the vehicle in drive.

"It was a gift." He muttered, nonchalantly. Winston looked taken aback but didn't ask anymore questions as Monty drove off. Monty turned up the music, indicating he didn't want to talk anymore. Winston reached over and  held Monty's hand that was resting in his lap. Monty didn't fight it or pull away, allowing the other boy to gently stroke his fingers. He felt the pounding rage and anxiety, poised for the attack, slowly recede under Winston's unfairly soft touch.

"They found him in the water...by the docks." Monty said thickly, the dam threatening to break again. "They say he was shot...he was murdered."

"Murdered?! Holy fuck..." Winston gasped, sucking in a quick breath. It was clear he was rattled. "Who would do that?"

"Oh I think I know." Monty said, a clearly menacing tone to his voice. "Cops hauled me in for questioning. Cuffed me and chucked my ass in the back seat and everything. What a fucking show."

Winston looked taken aback.

"But Bryce was your friend?! Why would they think you killed him?!" Winston asked, despite the gun sitting in the back of the Jeep like a verifiable elephant in the room.

"We had a fight before he was killed." Monty grumbled, stepping on the gas a little. "He was killed homecoming night."

Winston took a deep breath, surveying Monty carefully.

"While you were with me?"

"If I was fuckin' there he wouldn't be fuckin' dead right now!" Monty yelled. "I should have been there. I could have stopped it. Someone beat the shit out of him and shot him and threw him in the fuckin' water and I was off getting laid!"

Winston stayed silent for a few moments, gazing at the scenery as it whipped by. If his outburst or speeding bothered him, Monty couldn't tell. He seemed surprisingly unruffled by his rage. After more time passed Monty's resolve and anger subsided, having nothing to feed off of. He took a deep, tremulous breath.

"I'm sorry." He muttered, "I don't blame you. It wasn't your fault I wasn't there for him. It's mine-"

"Monty, don't blame yourself for this either." Winston cut him off. "There was nothing you could have done. You couldn't have known that would have happened and if you had tried to stop it they very likely would have killed you too. It would have taken someone incredibly dangerous to have done this. I didn't know Bryce very well, but he wouldn't have gone down without a fight."

Monty flinched, gripping the steering wheel tightly with one hand and his other hand trembled in Winston's. He drew in a shivering breath and shook his head, his brows furrowing deeply.

"If I had died too so be it. I should have been there, protecting him. I always protected him... he died alone."

His lip quivered as his eyes welled with tears once more. He wanted to punch himself in his own god damned face. He blinked rapidly, pushing his emotions back down and swallowed hard, flipping his turn signal on.

"That's not a road?" Winston said in confusion.

"That's the point." Monty said, his words catching when the Jeep thumped in and out of a rut jerking both boys around inside.

"I've never done this before." Winston said with a small laugh, "Gone off roading."

"What?! Are you fucking kidding me?!" Monty shook his head, putting the Jeep into 4x4 and glancing at the other boy. "Rich kids." He muttered incredulously. Winston shrugged and flopped around, his shoulder bumping into Monty's as the Jeep thrashed from side to side over the uneven ground. He laughed helplessly, shaking his head. He was knocked backwards as the SUV lurched upwards and then once again bumped into Monty and then the side of the door as it landed roughly, the suspension audibly creaking.

"Jesus can this thing even handle this?!" Winston wondered.

"It was built for this." Monty chuckled, easily matching his body's movements with the jerking of the Jeep, "How about you, pretty boy, can you handle it?" He almost purred, quirking an eyebrow teasingly. Winston shot him a half exasperated dirty look and shifted his weight surreptitiously and then he smirked, meeting the other boy's challenge.

"I think we both know I like being tossed around a little."

Monty responded by gunning the SUV over a ditch in the dirt road, and Winston grabbed the handle over his head to maintain his balance and ride out the bucking of the vehicle. The two shared a look and Monty grinned devilishly. He pressed the accelerator down slowly and evenly, the Jeep's tires kicking up sand that billowed around them like an angry cloud. He adjusted the steering wheel and pulled the SUV into a tight turn, the force tossing Winston to one side as he held the tires in a rotation. He sped up as the Jeep spun in a circle, the sand flying around them like debris in an explosion. The lights of the city and the moon over the ocean melted together, becoming a ribbon of colours swirling dizzyingly around them.

Monty wasn't watching where the Jeep was going, he didn't have to. He had perfect control of the vehicle's movements, he had done this countless times with the guys. He was watching Winston, couldn't take his eyes off of him if he had even tried. He watched the way his chest moved when he breathed, the way his expressions changed and the way his eyes were just so damned alive. Monty loved the way he would laugh or yelp, and knew exactly how to get each reaction. The thrill of it made his face feel flushed, his blood pounding for an altogether different reason. He bit his lip and closed his eyes for a moment before pulling the Jeep out of the doughnut turn and slamming on the brakes. Winston let out a little shriek as he was once again tossed from side to side, and then also back and forth with his long legs tangling like a clumsy giraffe.

"If I knew it was that easy to make you scream I would have done this a long time ago." Monty laughed, cutting the engine and smirking at Winston, his heart fluttering in his chest. Winston glanced at him through the dark lengths of his eyelashes and moistened his lips. His cheeks were flushed and his breathing was a little ragged after being thrashed around like a rag-doll mercilessly for the last god-only-knows how long.

"I could think of a few other ways you could make me scream." He said breathily. 

Monty yanked his seat belt off and practically dove at him, his hands grabbing the other boy's wavy hair as their lips crashed together. Monty had one leg on his centre console, the other was in between Winston's legs. Winston's fingertips dug into his back as he kissed back, his bruising lips meeting Monty's furious hunger with a relishing eagerness. Monty kissed him and pawed at him like he wanted to devour him and Winston's hands flew to his pants and popped the button with ease and unzipped them, running his hand over the other boy's obvious erection. He wanted to be devoured, consumed, destroyed. Monty gasped and made a soft, strangled sound as he broke their kiss.

"Fucking hell." He hissed grinding his hips into Winston's hand, "I want you." he added, his voice catching. And I shouldn't, he thought, I can't... this is going to be the death of me.

Winston laughed lowly, continuing to run his hand up and down Monty's rock hard length. He kissed him again, biting his bottom lip lightly as he pulled away.

"Take me home." He said flatly, his hand still rubbing Monty's achingly hard cock. 

Monty blinked rapidly, his train of thought thrashing around not unlike Winston was being thrashed around moments ago.

"W...what?" He stuttered, gasping quietly and suppressing a moan with limited success.

"Take me home, Montgomery," Winston said, staring into Monty's eyes as he massaged his balls, "And fuck me properly."

"I don't think I can drive like this." Monty groaned as Winston's hand slipped away, tucking his throbbing cock back into his pants and zipping them back up with some difficulty.

"You're going to." Winston smirked, kissing him deeply and then pushing him away as he adjusted his own bulge in his pants.

Monty swallowed and looked at the lawyer before him. He had declined the legal aide appointed by the court, and he had assumed it was left at that. That he'd be deemed guilty and just rot or die where he fucking belonged.

"I didn't kill Bryce." He said coldly.

"I am aware. We've been contacted by someone who has compelling evidence for your innocence."

"Charlie?" Monty asked, meeting her eyes carefully. He already knew the answer to that question he realized with sickening dread.

"No, Charlie went to the police shortly after you were apprehended and confessed to lying to them to cover for you and that he had no idea of your true whereabouts that night. A boy named Winston Williams... contacted us seeking legal aide on your behalf," The lawyer said, reaching for one of the folders. "He can place you at his house at the time of the murder. He said you made some texts and the cell phone towers would be able to confirm your location which would be quite far from the location where Bryce was killed. He also has an article of your clothing that would possibly be useful, if people can confirm you wore it that night and haven't since."

Monty swallowed hard  against the lump in his throat, willing his face to remain stagnant and leaned back, shaking his head. The betrayal by Charlie stung like the weight of a sword to the hilt of his spine. And then there was the Winston of it all.

"He just doesn't fucking give up, does he?" He muttered with an agonized hitch in his voice despite his best efforts.

"I mean, if I knew someone was innocent of a crime, I would want to speak out."

"Did he tell you I beat the shit out of him the night we met and I called him a fucking faggot?" Monty lashed out, he would have crossed his arms but his shackles prevented him from doing it so he just squared his shoulders and jaw and stared coldly at the woman in front of him who only wanted to help him. But he didn't want her fucking help, or Winston's for that matter.

The woman held his gaze, completely unfazed by his demeanor.

"He did, in fact, tell me that." She said with a quirked eyebrow. Monty was taken aback but tried to do his best not to let that show.

"So why the fuck would he want to help me." He said hollowly. The lawyer shrugged.

"Does that really matter? You're looking at life in jail or worse, right now with these charges."

"Maybe I fuckin' deserve it." Monty said, tilting his head challengingly.

"Maybe you do." She agreed calmly. "But I don't think you do. I think that's an easy way out. I think you're fucking giving up, throwing it away because its easier than facing the person you are and the problems you have. Its easier than admitting your life isn't going where you wanted it to, and that you regret the things you've done." 

She tossed a file in his direction.

"I think life has been unreasonably hard on you, Montgomery, and I think the people and systems that were supposed to protect you and keep you safe didn't. I think you had a violent upbringing, and that you survived for a long time by yourself. I think the fact that you'd rather go to jail for a crime you didn't commit than willingly admit out loud that you spent the night with a boy who's only crime was maybe to love you enough to want to save you is cowardly. I think you feel like you don't deserve his concern, or his love for that matter, so you're running scared from that too. I think you've been scared for your whole life. And I think its time you fucking let that go. Because the people who've helped you become the young man standing before me would love to see you sitting here wallowing in your self pity. They'd love to see you disappear like another fucking statistic. I would like to think that someone who has survived as long as you have, someone who's fought as hard as you have would take all that anger and tell them to fuck themselves and build a real life for himself, and be fucking happy to spite them, in spite of them."

Monty felt his pulse tick in his neck and looked away before fixing her with a glare. That hit a nerve.

"I think you fucking think too much." He snarked, and smirked with a cocky lift of his eyebrow. "What would you know about it anyway."

She smiled calmly, and met his arrogance with her own ego.

"I had a bad childhood." She said flatly, not knowing she was using his own words against him, "I did eight years in federal for armed carjacking."

Monty sat there numbly, dumbfounded for a moment.

"And they let you be a lawyer?" He asked incredulously, "That explains a lot..."

"It wasn't easy, Montgomery, it took me almost twelve years after my sentence to even begin rebuilding my life. They said I would never amount to more than my crime. But I fucking did it and they can suck my dick." She began to collect the folders he hadn't even looked at yet, leaving one in front of him as she stood up.

"You're a lawyer, you're not supposed to talk like that." He mumbled, feeling panic flutter in his chest as his lifeline was packing up and leaving and it was all his own fault for pushing her away.

"Not in front of a judge anyway." She countered, snapping her briefcase shut. 

"Think about what I said. I won't close your case yet, but don't waste anymore of my fucking time. Keep that, and read it." She warned as she walked away. She opened the door where the guard was waiting and he heard the sound of his boots as he came to fetch him.

His mind was reeling, spinning out of control as he shuffled behind the C.O. awkwardly holding his file.

"You have some mail." The C.O. said offhandedly. Monty blinked, wondering what it was. Was it a court summons? Was it Winston? Was it his family..? They stopped at the doors and the man uncuffed him around the wrists and ankles. 

He handed Monty the letter, his expression unreadable.

"It came in awhile ago...but sometimes things here get lost on purpose."

"Why are you being nice to me?" Monty asked, suspicious as he took the letter.

"You're a human being. And I'd like to believe we can help people in here... sometimes."

"You must be new." Monty sighed. He walked back to his cell without a backwards glance. None of the other three inmates he shared a cell had returned yet, they must be at lunch. Monty's stomach growled insistently but he ripped open the letter instead, wanting the privacy to absorb the blow that was about to come. The paper was a file printed from the jails website, someone was requesting the right to visit him and it required his approval or denial.

Charles St. George.

[blackmissfrizzle]

The Sacrifice

Summary: Dean finds out the reader is a virgin. Based on 3x12 

Characters: Dean x black!reader

A/N: So, I’m basically doing a series rewrite of my favorite episodes. This is is based on the the reader’s and Dean’s relationship through the years. Its based on A Match Made in Hell Series.  I’m not doing this in a linear order, but I’ll make a separate masterlist for this series and put the fics in order.

When you get the chance, you’re putting a bullet right between that British bitch’s eyes. Bela had managed to steal the colt and get the boys arrested by Agent Henricksen. The only reason that you weren’t in a cell with the boys is, that Henricksen could never physically tie you to the boys except for your Stanford connection with Sam.  So, all he could do was call you to “consult” on the case.

“Where are you going Agent Y/L/N?” Henricksen stopped you on the way to the cell. At the sound of his voice, your body immediately went stiff. Agent Henricksen wouldn’t be too bad if he wasn’t so focus on locking up Sam and Dean, but you also understood from his point of view. With his limited knowledge and evidence, it all points to the boys being devil worshipping, psychopathic killers.

“To talk to an old friend and try to figure out how’s he connected to all this. That’s what you wanted me here for, right?” You cocked your head to the side, annoyance clear on your face.

Henricksen slowly approached you, trying to make himself seem bigger to intimidate you. Too bad for him, nothing scares you anymore, but you won’t let him know that. “Yeah, I brought you here so I can see your face when you see that your best friend and your boyfriend are finally locked up in a maximum-security prison.” He searches your face a reaction, but you didn’t give him one. “It may take me awhile, but one day I’m gonna get the evidence and then it’ll be you sitting in a jail cell.”

Throwing up the peace sign, you sauntered off. “Good luck with that, Henricksen,” you yelled over your shoulder.

—

“And why is that a good thing?” You questioned Dean after hearing him brag to Sam that they got a hit out on them.

“Because we’re awesome, that’s why.” You rolled your eyes at his arrogance. “Hey, why didn’t the demon go after you?”

In a blink of an eye, you flashed your eyes to black. “Oh, I forgot, you’re their precious half demon spawn.”

Ignoring his little snub, you pointed to Dean’s gun shot wound. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Eh, I’ll live. That’s if we don’t get killed first.”

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother before turning to you. “Is there any way you can get us out of here, Y/N/N?”

“No,” you sighed deeply. “Henricksen’s watching me like a hawk. He’s ready to throw me in a cell with you guys.”

“Well, ain’t that just peachy,” Dean muttered to the side.

The sheriff walked in on your discussion. It seemed that he was in a daze as he unlocked the boys’ cell, ordering them to leave. All three you were suspicious, and the boys refused to leave.

Before you could order the sheriff to get out Agent Henricksen came to do the same. However, nothing got settled because Henricksen put a bullet in the sheriff’s head.

Sam wrestled the gun away from him and began performing an exorcism while you and Dean held back the deputy.

Right before Sam sent the demon to hell, he screamed that it was too late and that more were coming.

“I shot the sheriff,” Henricksen confessed.

“But you didn’t shoot the deputy,” Dean joked, which earned him a kick to the back of his knees from you.

—

*Dean’s POV*

My eyes find her while I’m in the office with Henricksen. She’s talking to the secretary with that warm smile on her face that magically seems to calm everyone down despite being in the worst of situations. I’m too damn worried about her to focus on anything else despite the fact she needs no protection and can kick my ass to kingdom come.

“Scratch that. You just don’t have your brother. You got Y/N.” Henricksen interrupted my thoughts.

“We’re not together. Just friends.” I admitted, even though I wanted so much more than that. Its just my luck to fall in love with a girl when I have less than a year to live.

“Okayyyyyy.” Disbelief was soaking in his response. “What’s the deal with her anyway? How does a rich kid like her end up hunting with you two?”

I stopped cleaning my gun and gave him a hard glare. “Not my story to tell but know this: she’s probably our best way out of this situation.”

Henricksen was about to say something when we heard a loud crash outside. Both us plus everyone else ran to see Ruby caught in the Devil’s trap. Raising his gun to her, Henricksen asked how we kill her.

“We don’t. She’s here to help us.” Sam forced Henricksen’s gun down and opened the Devil’s trap. Me and Y/N traded annoyed looks. Neither one of us could stand Ruby. Y/N just kept her annoyance quiet unlike me. It was already hard to trust Ruby, because she was a damn demon, but if sweet Y/N doesn’t like someone then that’s a major red flag.

--

*Reader’s POV*

Great, there’s 30 demons out there ready to kill Sam and Dean. You’re pretty sure you could get through all of them, but you’ll be pretty banged up in the end. You were tuned out of the conversation, figuring out a plan of attack until you heard Lilith’s name.

“Lilith?” you repeated to Ruby.

“Yup. And she really, really wants Sam’s intestines on a stick. ‘Cause she sees him as competition.” Ruby informed us of Sam’s new nemesis.

“You knew about this?” A very pissed off Dean questioned Sam. “Well, gee, Sam, is there anything else I should know?”

Before they could get any further into an argument, you intervened. “Sam, you should’ve told us. Lilith’s no joke.” You weren’t gonna let Sam off the hook, but also you weren’t gonna rail into him like Dean was trying to.

Sam ignored Dean and looked to you with a face full of guilt. “How do you know about Lilith?”

“My dad talked about her all the time. He always told me that me and her could be a force to be reckoned with.” Just the thought of the many talks you had with your father had you bothered. He always tried to make it appealing that you were some kind of demonic second coming. At least this talk you remembered was helpful.

“I thought your parents were dead?” Henricksen asked.

You looked over shoulder and threw out, “My adoptive parents are. My real dad’s a demon and alive.”

Henricksen, Nancy, and the deputy gasped. You forgot that they just learned of the existence of demons and your lineage could be a bit troubling. “Relax. I’m only half and hate demons probably more than anyone else in this room.” The three of them eyed you cautiously, but that calming effect you had on people led them to believe you.

“Well, now that we got that out of the way. Where’s the colt?” If you had tea at that moment, you definitely would’ve been sipping it. Both of the boys tried to avoid Ruby’s gaze and when she looked at you, you furrowed your brows at her for even questioning you for losing it.

“It got stolen.” Ruby just about had a bitch fit when Sam admitted the truth. She was one insult away from you punching her in her gotdamned mouth, when Dean pulled you back and shook his head no.

But, thank the lucky stars, Ruby knew a spell. It would blow the demons out of the bodies, including Ruby, so it didn’t seem too bad; until she said she needed a virgin, specifically a heart of a virgin. And sweet Nancy still wanted to go through with it, but you couldn’t let an innocent sacrifice herself.

“I’ll do it,” you blurted out. All eyes turned to you and everyone was surprised except Sam. He remembered when you confided to him back at Stanford that you said that you were waiting til marriage.

“No way. Come on, you, you watch porn and you tease me all the fucking time.” Dean claimed.

“One, how else am I supposed to get my rocks off? Virgins are horny too. And two, its fun to see you turn red.”

Ruby seemed a little too happy with your decision to sacrifice yourself, but everyone else was heavily against it, except Sam. Dean tried to dissuade him, but you and him knew it was the best option.

“It’s my decision, D,” you told him.

“Damn straight, cherry pie,” Ruby replied with a smirk.

“Stop! Stop! Nobody kill any virgins!” Dean grabbed your hand and pulled you away and ordered Sam into a hallway for a talk. Normally, you made yourself scarce when they had these talks, but you guessed since you were offering yourself up, Dean thought it must’ve been a good idea to include you.

“Tell me you two are not seriously considering this.”

Sam and you both traded solemn looks. It sucked but it was necessary. “And we’re also talking about 30 people out there, Dean, innocent people who are all gonna die, along with everyone in here.” Sam argued back.

“It’s a numbers game, Dean. 1 life vs. 30. If you were in my shoes, you’d do the same.” Hell, Dean already did it. He’d offered up his life for Sam’s. How the hell is this any different?

“It doesn’t mean we throw out the rule book. I’m not gonna let that demon bitch kill the kindest person I know, who I might add hasn’t even been laid!”

“Then what? What do we do, Dean?”

“I got a plan. I’m not saying it’s a good one I’m not even saying that it’ll work. But it sure as hell beats killing our virgin best friend.”

“What’s the plan,” you and Sam asked simultaneously.

“Open the doors, let them all in, and we fight.”

Dean’s plan may be a little crazy, but it could work. Ruby was pissed at the suggestion and left. Her plan would for sure leave everyone alive except me. Offended that we didn’t go with her plan and refusing to watch us lose, Ruby left.

--

It worked. Dean’s plan actually worked. We were able to trap all the demon’s inside the station and played a tape of Sam saying the exorcism. It helped that you could hold 10 demons on your own, so the rest were left to Sam, Dean and Henricksen.

“Coming with?” Dean asked before him and Sam left.

“Nah, I gotta stay. Technically, I came with the FBI now I gotta write a report on how you two died on the helicopter. Yay me!” You hated writing reports and now this one was going to take longer, because you and Henricksen had to get your lies together.

The boys gave you a sympathetic look and made you promise to contact them once you got home before they left.

The remaining of you, began cleaning the station when a little girl came into the station. Your spidey senses started tingling and you moved a bit closer to Nancy. The little girl said she was looking for two brothers: one’s really tall and one’s really cute.

When Nancy asked her, her name, she responded, “Lilith.” You tried to attack the her, but soon you felt two sets of arms around you and you were teleported out of the station. It was your dad and his lackey, Brixton.

“Get off of me!” You yelled, just in time to see the police station overcome with a blinding white light.

Deep in your soul, you knew Henricksen and the rest were dead. What other reason would your dad save you?

“Calm down, princess.” Brixton said, fighting you off.

It wasn’t beneath your father to use dirty moves, so he grabbed you by your curls and threw you to the ground. “Calm your ass down, before I make you tell me where the Winchesters are and kill them myself!”

Quickly, you got up and wiped the dirt off you. “Why’d you save me?”

“Lilith’s orders. And I suggest you get used to the idea of a life without the Winchesters. Dean’s year is about to be up, and Lilith is gonna kill Sam sooner or later. Its just a matter of time.”

“Not if I can help it.” You claimed.

With a sweet kiss to the top of your head that betrayed his demonic nature, your dad whispered, “It’ll happen. Save yourself the heartbreak, baby girl.” And just like that he disappeared.

--

*Dean’s POV*

Sam and I were relaxing when we heard a knock on our motel door. It was Ruby. Damn, will we ever get rid of her? I’m tired of looking at her bitchy face.

As usual, she came in bossing us around. She told us to turn on the news. Supposedly, there was a gas main rupture that led to explosion at the sheriff’s station. The news anchor said everyone died, but one person did survive.

Please let it be Y/N, please let it be Y/N, please let it be Y/N, please let it be Y/N, I thought. It may be shitty, but I couldn’t bare the thought of losing her. Henricksen, the other FBI agents, the deputy, the sheriff, and even the freaking virgin secretary were dead, but I didn’t see Y/N’s face on the screen.

Just as Ruby was railing into us, there was another knock on the door, and I ran to open it. There she was standing there, tears running down her face. Probably feeling guilty that she was alive while the others were dead.

“I couldn’t save them,” Y/N whispered before her knees buckled. I caught her just before her she hit the ground.

Ruby threw us some hex bags that’ll help get Lilith off our trail. But I wanted to throw it back at her, just to get her to stop complaining how our plan sucked ass.

“And now look, your precious little virgin is having a mental breakdown, because even she knows you guys messed up.”

“Leave.” I ordered. I wasn’t gonna let her upset Y/N anymore than she already was. Ruby got one look at my deadly glare and took the hint, that if she didn’t leave right at that moment, she’d be dead. Sam followed her to make sure she leaves and to give me and Y/N some space. Over time, me and Y/N grew closer, especially now that Sam’s all buddy buddy with Ruby. It wasn’t unusual for her or me to go to the other to find comfort after a bad hunt.

This time I had no words for her. As much as I was hurting that we couldn’t save Henricksen and the rest, I think I would be hurting much worse if it was her, we lost instead, but I can’t tell her that. So, instead I just held her until she cried herself to sleep, hoping that in the morning I can find the right words.

Tags: @titty-teetee @cocooned-butterfly @nervouspetsonanime @thefaithfulwriter @meishaabae @dannixchristian @blacknthemix @mml232

[imma-sucker-for-a-beard]

>WHAT IS IT ABOUT BEARDS<

I finished the post and posted it on my blog, and sat there drinking my water, smiling to myself. I found my phone and found Chris’ number and texted him. ~Hi Daddy. Long time no see. I miss talking to you… and so much more. *Winking at you*~ I sent the text and a couple minutes later my phone started ringing and the caller ID said ‘Daddy Evans’ I smirked thinking to myself. It is going to be a long night and a loving sensitive beard burn in the morning. Taking the phone and spoke in a low lustful voice. “Hi daddy. I’ve missed you”. Character Paring:  Chris Evans x Female Reader

Word Count: 2388

Warnings: Few swear words, slight smut, beard kink.

Requested by: @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​ - I would love a story where the reader appreciates the beard. Can be soft or smutty. Both, it’s up to you. And for one of the actors on your board. – I hope it lives up to what you were looking for. Love you always. <3

A/N: I wanted to try something different and write it sort of like an article or blog, mix with personal (Female Reader’s POV) experiences. So let’s see how it goes. Before starting this story I did a little research to see what the real picture is when it comes to the view on beards. For the article Read here, actually an interesting read. J Constructive feedback is always welcomed. To @ajs-playroom-you-may-enter​, thank you for your quick read through. Love you always. <3

NOTE: This story will be written as a Blog post with flashbacks, there will be switched between them. It will be clearly shown: Blog will be written in block quote, and Flashback with the title “Flashback”. ~Text message~. Mentions of: Tom Hardy, Henry Cavill, Jason Momoa, Jamie Dornan.

Summary:  your two friends are named Tris and Jess. Tris is a single, 33 years old that works as a gallery. Jess is a married, 35 years old woman that works part time as a hairdresser.  Then there’s you. Single, your own age, a freelance blogger and your own personal real life job, if you have one. You, the female reader start thinking about what a beard means to society in general and to women. You think about your own experience and you start looking at some of your favorite men.

What is it about Beards???

Hi Lovelies, sorry for my absence. Life happened – you all know how it is. Anywho… I hope you all have been enjoy life and are in good health.

I want to share something with you all and hope you will leave your comments below, because I’m really curious about what you think. Now that all the formalities are done let’s start.

I was sitting with a couple of my girlfriends, (for the sake of their privacy I will give them other names), Tris she’s single like me, and Jess is married. We had started talking about men and beards and what it was about them that made them so damn sexy.  Tris loves a good beard and Jess finds them gross and wouldn’t want her man to ever grow one. Personally I don’t understand why, but that’s her and her husband’s business. This got me thinking.

>>>WHAT IS IT ABOUT BEARDS<<<

When you think about it beards are a weird thing. It’s hair growing out of a man’s face. Then you look at it like that is can be kind of disgusting. Hair around a man’s mouth just the thought of it sound highly unhygienic. If a Woman finds a hair on her face that is out of place, she pulls it immediately, eye-brows aren’t supposed to be too thin or too wide, heaven forbid there’s hair between your brows at the risk of a uni-brow. The slightest hint of too long hair around a woman’s mouth and its gone, women almost franticly study their faces in the mirror every day to find and remove unwanted hair – But men – That’s a whole different story. A study shows that out of 2500 women over 60% of them prefer men with beards. That’s a high number. I have to be honest with you I’m among those 60% because COME ON – Beards are fucking sexy.. Pardon my French.

Sitting here writing an entry for my blog, I start thinking about what experiences I’ve had with men with beards vs. those without. There was a world of difference.

Flashback: It was back in late summer 2007, I was at a festival north of Boston with a couple of friends, Jess being one of them.. We had decided that everything was possible that week, since we were leaving after that week. The second evening we had been drinking heavily. Jess had seen a handful of guys standing to one side and nudged me. “Y/N, LOOK!” I had looked at the men. “Yeah? What about them?” I had asked until one of the men moved and I saw him. “Holy Fuck!! That’s Harvard Hottie!” Jess had nudged me several more times, first stopping when I nudged back harder. “HEY! WATCH IT!” she had exclaimed saving her drink. She had said it just loud enough for the men to look our way. I was looking straight into the eyes of Chris fucking Evans I thought I was going to faint. Quickly making my escape I went to get a drink. Waiting for the drink and when the bartender had pushed the drink to me and said what I had to pay, I watched a $20 bill slip over the counter. “I got this one.. I’ll have a beer as well, thanks” I didn’t need to see who it was. I knew that voice anywhere. “Hi. I’m Chris.” I had looked at him with the straw in my mouth and smiled accidently drooling when I spoke wetting my tank top. “I kno… Shit!!!” jumping back only spilling more of my drink over me. I had quickly put the drink down and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and pulled my tank out and away from my body turning beet red. Chris chuckled lightly but was quick on his hands and had pulled a lot of paper towels and acted on instinct and stuffed them down my top. “I hate when that happens” he had joked and we both laughed. Stepping away from me he had ordered a new drink. I had not been wearing any bra under my top and of very conscious of the fact that my breasts were visible through the fabric. “Here, let me help you” Chris had offered and we walked behind the trailer bar. He had shrugged his flannel of in his half drunken state. “You need something dry to wear” I had looked at him like I had seen a ghost. “You’re letting my wear your flannel!” “Yeah! We can’t have you getting sick.” I had just been standing there. “But… You’re Chris Evans!” He had laughed. “I know and you’re Y/N, or so I was told. Turn around.” I had done as he asked and had felt him move up behind me as he moved his hands to your waist grabbing the hem to pull my top off. His beard was tickling my skin and he made me giggle when he had sniffed my neck. “Mmm. Pineapple smells good on you.!” He had said pulling my top over my head. Dropping it to the ground and taken his flannel and wrapped it around me and buttoned it while resting his chin close to my neck. “I’m wondering if you taste like pineapple as well.” I had been just drunk enough to look at him on my shoulder. “Only one way to find out!” and he had taken the bait. I had turned around and stepped closer to him and cupped his face when he had wrapped his arms around my waist. Our lips found each other and we kissed softly at first, the kiss became deeper and more urgent. His beard scratching my lips and chin, our tongues meeting and we gave in to the pleasure of the moment.

I traced my lips remember the buzzing feeling that kiss had giving me.

Then we look at the different types of beards, there’s a wide range. The mustache with a whole range of look, then the Goatee with a few different looks as will. The five o’clock shadow aka THE SCRUFF now we’re getting somewhere. To run one’s hands, cheek or even lips over the scruff. The sensation of the scruff or a beard over one’s skin is to me one of the best feelings in the world. That was one of the things I talked with Tris and Jess about. Tris agreed completely whereas Jess made a face of disgust. Personally I think she doesn’t know what she’s missing. – But that’s just my personal opinion. What do you think? Let me know in the comments.

Flashback: After Chris and I shared that moment behind the bar trailer. Chris has picked up my tank and we went back together to the others and the moment Jess saw that I was wearing his flannel. She hooked her arm in mine and pulled me a little to the side. “Y/N what’s up with this picture?” I had chuckled and explained to the best of my drunken abilities, what had happened and she had laughed so hard that Chris and one of his friends looked over as us and Chris had given me a questioned looks, if everything was okay and I had given him a smile and a nod making him relax. Jess and I came back to the guys. One of the guys had moved up behind Jess and wrapped his arms around her waist and she had let him. (This was now her husband).

That night Jess had gone with the guy and that was the beginning of their long relationship. I had been standing alone watching one of the performers when Chris had come up to me and rested his head on my shoulder and I had rested my head against his. “Are you okay?” I had asked him and he had lifted his head again and sighed. “I’ve lost my sleeping arrangement!” I had looked at him completely lost. “Huh?” He gave his well-known chuckle. “Yes! I lost it…. To your friend! And since she took my spot it’s only fair that I take her spot.” Winking awkwardly at me and I giggled. “You’re cute. Who am I to deny you a place to sleep? Besides you’ll need your flannel back in the morning!” He flashed a smiled. “Nah you can keep it. But I’ll still need a place to sleep!” We had made our way to the tent, and when we had passed the tent where Chris was supposed to be sleeping it was clear by the sound of it that Jess was having the time of her life. Chris and I laughed as we made our way to my tent.

Inside the tent we got comfortable and talked for a while before Chris took a chance and leaned in kissing me softly at first, and slowly the kiss became deeper and more urgent. I pulled him down with me, Chris laying half on top of me. Chris ran his hands over my body and under my shirt and I gasped feeling his warm hand against my skin. I ran my hand over his body and caught the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and he helped getting it off. And my shirt followed suit soon we were both laying naked and Chris was kissing down me body his beard adding to the sensation. The moment he reached my mount I yelped and he giggled adding a teasing lick. I was about to sit up when he pushed me back down and positioned himself between my legs kissing up me inner thigh again his beard added to the pleasure. He had looked up at me from under his lashes as he had placed a kiss on my vulva before parting my labia in a long slow lick making me moan aloud. “Aaaaarh”. My moaning only coaxing him more. He had wrapped my legs over his shoulders as he had hungrily started to eat me out with licks, nibbles, sucking and biting, until I had begun trying to push him away but ended up with me grabbing a hold of the covers, screaming out my release, shaking uncontrollably as he prolonged my climax, topping it off with another climax.

Just remembering the sensation that I had that night, the beard burn had affected me for days made my squeeze my thighs together. And Chris had kept it burning deliciously, the burning also being added to my lips, neck, breasts, inner thighs. God I missed that.

I read that a man’s facial hair signals masculinity. And I couldn’t agree more…  I also read that there’s somewhat of a hidden message in the length of a man’s beard. Stubs/Scruffs are for flings and a beard means relationship meaning the man is ready for commitment. I never thought of it having so much meaning, simply the length of it. That’s in my opinion pretty damn awesome. But I’m still and bit sceptic about it. Because some men prefer to have it at a max length and some men looks better with a specific length. Or is that just me? Let me know your thoughts.

Another I read is that women become even more turned on by beards what we are ovulating. Our biological urges lusts for the masculine man. Our primal cave woman has urges and hungers for the primal masculine hair cave man to claim us and breed us. Uuuh I get shivers just thinking about it. LOL... Am I the only one?  Oh, and I personally love a man that has a perfect hairy chest..

Another thing is that apparently bearded men are supposedly better fathers as well, because they are better at sticking around to protect and invest time in their offspring. *points to what I wrote about stubs and beards* I’m not sure what I personally think about this, because there’s so many aspect that’s a part of this. Social environment, Family background and so much more not just the length of beards!

I’ve found a few handsome men that are in the public eye.  Tom Hardy a.k.a James Delaney or Venom and Mr. Bad boy with a heart of gold, Chris Evans a.k.a Captain America, Ransom and My forever crush and Boo <3, Jason Momoa a.k.a Aquaman or Conan or Liquid God. lol , Henry Cavill a.k.a Superman or Geralt of Rivia and buns of steel. LMAO. Jamie Dornan a.k.a Christian Grey or The Huntsman or Mr. twitchy palm. ;)

When we look at these men, they all look handsome, no matter what but they have a preferred look. Tom, Jamie and Chris prefer to have a beard and preferably the length as in the pictures and personally I won’t object. Jason told in an interview that his wife told him that if his ever shaved his beard again (bottom picture), then she would divorce him, he did it for charity but he also said that he felt naked. He truly looks the best with his trimmed caveman beard. Now Mr. Cavill. Looks amazing with a trimmed beard or a scruff. But he himself prefer to be clean shaven, not because he has a problem with his beard he just prefers it easy. Then he makes up for it with a nice hairy chest. But we’ll reserve that for another time. LOL

I personally love a man with a well-trimmed full beard and that beard burn you can get from it… Whoa YES PLEASE!!! I’d like to know what you think of a beard so please feel free to leave your thought in the comments.

Till next time. Remember, Be your beautiful selves, be kind – even when no one’s watching. And be brave. Take care lovelies. Much love. XOXO Y/N.

I finished the post and posted it on my blog, and sat there drinking my water, smiling to myself. I found my phone and found Chris’ number and texted him. ~Hi Daddy. Long time no see. I miss talking to you… and so much more. *Winking at you*~ I sent the text and a couple minutes later my phone started ringing and the caller ID said ‘Daddy Evans’ I smirked thinking to myself. It is going to be a long night and a loving sensitive beard burn in the morning. Taking the phone and spoke in a low lustful voice. “Hi daddy. I’ve missed you”.

[captain-aralias]

“Fuck the Mage” – a look at the politics of Carry On’s most and least popular characters

I’ve written this not to try and make anyone feel bad about liking Baz, or Fiona, or Natasha, or any of Baz’s family (I like Baz and Baz’s family). I haven’t even written it to try and make it OK to like the Mage, or to stop it being OK not to like him. (It’s OK to not like him – he’s a bad guy.)

But we’re coming up to another general election. Today is actually the day of the Conservative party manifesto launch! And I said I would write this to @basic-banshee, who I like and admire, and who was right to say Baz is a Tory earlier in the week. 

It feels like the right time.  

I should also say now that I don’t closely follow politics. This isn’t my specialist subject. I’m just British and I live with a hardcore socialist. 

I also think I said all of these things in The Mage’s Heir already, so if you want you can read that instead. It has vampire sex too, which this doesn’t.

(Keep reading will take you to an essay that is almost five thousand words long. So strap in.)

---

"One will come to end us; and one will bring his fall” - the narrative drive of the Chosen One story

It is a truth universally acknowledged that ‘Carry On’ is based on ‘Harry Potter’. More than that, though, it’s specifically a challenge to the kind of book that Potter is – in which a hero is chosen and fulfils his destiny defeating the big bad. It purposefully subverts the expectations of readers familiar with that sort of story.

That means that, where the villain in ‘Harry Potter’ is a racial supremacist who is obviously and actively evil, the supposed big-bad villain in ‘Carry On’ doesn’t really exist. The Humdrum is just an echo of Simon, who by the end of the book identifies himself as the villain as well as the hero. This is a neat twist on the format. It isn’t supposed to be an argument that all heroes are actually the causes of their own destruction, although you could read it that way.

The real villain is the Mage. Who in classic Dumbledore fashion left Simon to be raised in horrible conditions and never gave him enough information to make his own choices. He also murders Ebb, locks Baz in a coffin in inhumane conditions, and let vampires into Watford – an event that directly or indirectly led to the death of Natasha Grimm-Pitch.

This is again a twist on the format. The Mage fills the role of the wise mentor and we find out as early as ‘Fangirl’ that he’s Simon’s father. Even though there’s a strong movement that argues that Dumbledore is a manipulative dick who used to date a Nazi, I don’t think anyone would call him the villain of Potter. He’s still far more good than bad and he’s still absolutely necessary in helping Harry work out how to defeat Voldemort.

That’s why the Mage has to be the villain – it’s because you wouldn’t expect it of the person in his narrative role or with his political views. (I’d guess it’s not supposed to be a statement about all wise mentors, though it could be. Or even all socialist reformers.) It’s also because the kinds of things that Dumbledore did to Harry are worse when viewed through the more personal lens of YA romance, rather than the more traditional school-story fantasy of Potter.  

Fandom is essentially united in its absolute condemnation of the Mage as a character.

He’s almost always written as an abusive father in fic. (This is particularly noticeable for me in non-magic AUs where he often physically and mentally hurts Simon outside of the fantasy genre where sending a child to take on a dragon is loosely acceptable.)

Penny tells us that he’s sexist (although Agatha – who also doesn’t like the Mage – points out that it’s possible the Mage just hates everyone). Penny tells us that anyone can call themselves the ‘Great Reformer’ and she’s right. The Mage’s Men are actively equated to Nazis through their raids, which is backed up by other familiar emotive language like ‘banned books, banned phrases’.

But the thing is, the Mage really was a great reformer. And Baz’s family really were a bunch of privileged, self-centred assholes who deserved not to be in charge, no matter how much we like them. We don’t talk about it much, beyond how Malcolm’s (very standardly conservative) homophobia affects Baz on a personal level, because the emotions of the story lead us down a different path.

Baz is the romantic hero, Natasha Pitch is his dead and wronged mother, and the Mage is the villain. Not because he’s a Nazi (he isn’t). Not even because he killed Ebb or imprisoned Baz.

It’s primarily because, unlike Natasha, he isn’t a good parent.

Which is fine. It makes sense for all the reasons above, and the Mage is a bad parent

But the problem with ‘Carry On’ being an inversion of the tropes of traditional narratives is that we end up with a canon that (even though it’s full of POC characters and gay characters and disabled characters) almost asks us to be OK with the politics of Baz’s family and class, because we like Baz and we don’t like the Mage.  

And they’re not really OK.

“Not one of ours” – the Old Families as Conservatives

I’ll talk more about the Mage later, but he exists as a reaction to the Pitches, so let’s talk about their political leanings first. Specifically, I’m going to talk about Loyalty, The Other, Vampires, and Taxes.

Ban wrote a nice and also brief description of what Conservatives/Tories are to start you off, if you didn’t read it. Later an anon (sorry if this was you!) said that Rainbow would never have really meant for Baz to be read as a Tory. 

But I’m pretty sure she did and I respect how much she didn’t shy away from it.

In fact, the only way I can imagine Baz and his family not voting Conservative/Tory is if they just didn’t vote at all, because they thought Normal politics were unimportant. Which is also a highly privileged position to take as it assumes that none of them will ever need to take advantage of Normal public services and that it’s no concern of theirs what happens to everyone else in the country i.e. this is the one situation where not voting Tory is actually the most Tory thing you could ever do. 

1. Loyalty

Now obviously Baz’s family do care – passionately – about the people they care about. This is one of their most appealing characteristics as characters. It’s very likeable and understandable. Rainbow has suggested Baz is a Hufflepuff. Hardworking – and (this is the key) loyal. I see it, although I think he would have turned out very differently if he’d been told from the age of eleven that this is who he was, rather than being essentially told he was a Slytherin. But that’s a detour.

The problem with being loyal is that there are people you aren’t loyal to, and you can see this clearly in the Pitches. The people they love must be protected, even at the expense of everyone else. Its barely a choice. Although the Pitches would never betray each other, they’re famous betrayers.

I adore Fiona, she’s one of my favourite characters. But she is also – as Rainbow stated recently – ‘a dangerous lunatic’. She is hardly bothered when the specific action that she insights Baz (a child) to take against Simon (a child who hasn’t done anything to her) causes Philippa Stainton (another child who really hasn’t done anything to her) to be permanently disabled.

Baz is almost unable to comment on how this event makes him feel even in his POV - probably because he’s loyal and he doesn’t want to criticise Fiona. Although we know it causes him to stop trying to kill Simon, so I’d guess that it troubled him, even if it didn’t trouble Fiona. (We’ll come back to Baz as part of his family later.)

2. The Other

If Natasha were still in charge of Watford, Trixie wouldn’t be allowed to attend. Gareth wouldn’t be allowed to attend. Simon wouldn’t be allowed to attend. The Minotaur worked on the grounds, since ‘creatures weren’t allowed on the staff’ (which is horrifically racist language, even if it’s true.)

Oddly, Simon is able to voice this within the text (probably because he’s been hanging around with the Mage so much), although his opinion is disregarded because it sounds naïve and because even he tell us that he doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“I still don’t think it’s a war,” Agatha insists. “It’s just politics, just like in the Normal world. The Mage has power, and the Old Families want it back. They’ll bitch and moan and cut deals and throw parties---” “It’s not just politics.” Simon leans towards her, pointing. “It’s right and wrong.” Agatha rolls her eyes. “But that’s what the other side says, too.” … “It’s not just politics,” he says again. “It’s right. And wrong. It’s our lives. If the Old Families had their way, I wouldn’t even be here. They wouldn’t have let me into Watford.” “But that wasn’t personal, Simon,” Agatha says. “It’s because you’re a Normal.”

Firstly – it probably was personal, let’s face it. But secondly – even if it wasn’t personal-personal, it’s still an example of a prejudice that echoes the distain people like the Malfoys have for ‘Mudbloods’. Just because Simon could be the first Normal to gain magic, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be allowed to join Watford. The Mage shouldn’t have to give him a title and a sword just to get him in.  

Simon’s right, even if he doesn’t mean it this way. Politics affects people’s lives.

“Ask Natasha Grimm-Pitch about suicide rates among low-magicians,” the Mage tells Mitali Bunce – who is right that killing people isn’t the answer, but also not nearly as progressive as she thinks she is. “Ask your Coven what they’re doing to fight pixie sticks and every other magickal disease that doesn’t affect their own sons and daughters.

3. Vampires as a specific example of the Other

Natasha and the Old Families were in charge when Nicodemus Petty joined the vampires. It wasn’t the Mage who struck Nicodemus’s name from the book and pulled out his fangs. Which we’re told is fine, actually, because it’s against Mage Law. Even though the idea of this happening to Baz is horrific and unthinkable, and even though we have no evidence that Nicky ever killed anyone. Just that he wasn’t human.

If you’ve read ‘The Mage’s Heir’ you’ll know I think Nicky is a very interesting character to bring into this space. He’s powerful and he’s innovative, inventing spells Baz has never heard of even after he has his magic taken away from him. He’s like the Mage, and like the Mage (who is from Wales, which is traditionally a very poor area of the UK), he’s clearly from a low-class family. The accent that both he and Ebb have is East-End London, which means they’re poor. Even though they’re powerful magicians and therefore theoretically as valid as the Pitches in the Pitch-world order.

Yes, he chose to become a vampire and Baz didn’t but partly he’s punished for being poor and trying to become more powerful in a way that the Pitches don’t understand. He wasn’t necessarily going to kill anyone.

Are vampires even bad?

Because Baz isn’t bad – or not just because he’s a vampire, anyway. We see Simon wrestling with this in ‘Wayward Son’ and he struggles because of his personal hatred for Lamb.

Even (and perhaps especially) under the Mage, the World of Mages just uniformly accepts that a whole group is evil. I think ‘Wayward Son’ begins to trouble this, even as Lamb betrays Baz and vampires are the enemy. But we find Baz actually thinking: “I’m not used to thinking of vampires as fellow victims.”

What he means is that he’s not used to thinking of them as people.

It’s completely appalling to keep Baz in a coffin – I’m sure we all agree with that. If it was another vampire, would the Old Families and the rest of the World of Mages feel the same way, or would they think that was a proportionate response?

When we talk about the death of Natasha Pitch we talk about the Humdrum having killed her, or the Mage having killed her. The vampires are presented as a random instrument of death (which if they had been taken over the Humdrum they would have been), rather than people who were paid by the Mage to do something.

The way the situation is presented to us in the Record, by Natasha herself, and by popular memory is that monsters broke into the nursery and would have killed Baz and Natasha if she hadn’t responded as she did.

However, Nicky says to Baz: “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he meant for your mum to die – but I don’t think he minded much. Made everything a lot easier.”

So it’s at least worth contemplating a reality where this is what happened:

The Mage paid vampires to break into Watford and cause a disturbance. He didn’t think anyone would die.

One of the vampires bit Baz but didn’t intend to either kill or Turn him, which we know is now a possibility but which nobody in the World of Mages had ever bothered to find out.

Even if the vampires did intend to Turn Baz, it could easily be a political statement – an opportunity to show that even a Pitch could be a vampire and that the World of Mages might like to reappraise its choices.

When Natasha arrived, she saw her son being threatened, acted on her prejudices and didn’t ask questions. She murdered a large group of people who had broken into her school, but who otherwise hadn’t necessarily done anything wrong.

I don’t say this is what happened, just that it’s a possibility. 

Even if these vampires are evil and this was a terrorist attack (a phrase I’m using deliberately) the fact that presumably most of the others aren’t evil is still relevant. We barely scratch the surface of what this means for the World of Mages even in ‘Wayward Son’. 

One of the things I think that’s most interesting about the Mage’s rise to power is that he does using the same hateful speech that the Old Families use, just exclusively directed against the Dark Creatures, rather than all creatures and low-powered magicians. It probably made it easier for him to gain support because these are views that everyone holds, but it’s completely at odds with his whole stated reason for being in charge.

Definitely not ideal. We do deserve better.

4. Taxes

Baz also tells us that his family are against the idea of taxation, which the Mage has introduced largely to benefit people who aren’t like Baz.

‘Taxes to cover all the Mage’s initiatives; most notably to pay for every faun bastard and centaur cousin, and every pathetic excuse for a magician in the Realm to attend Watford. The World of Mages never had taxes before. Taxes were for Normals, we had standards instead.’

I’m writing this post in November 2019, about a week after the Labour manifesto has dropped. It has this to say about taxes:

Universal public services, collectively provided through general taxation and free at the point of use for all, are how we guarantee the right to a good life. Public services do more than make sure everyone has the basics. They create shared experiences and strengthen social bonds. They make our lives richer and more fulfilling. A decade of Tory cuts has pushed our public services to breaking point. Labour offers real change – we will make Britain’s public services the best and most extensive in the world. We will pay for this by creating a fairer taxation system, asking for a little more from those with the broadest shoulders, and making sure that everyone pays what they owe. We will reverse some of the Tories’ cuts to corporation tax while keeping rates lower than in 2010. We’ll ask those who earn more than £80,000 a year to pay a little more income tax, while freezing National Insurance and income tax rates for everyone else. We will end the unfairness that sees income from wealth taxed at lower rates than income from work. VAT is a regressive tax that hits the poorest hardest and we guarantee no increases in VAT.

The Conservatives have launched a rival site called https://www.labourmanifesto.co.uk/ It has this to say about taxes:

“Hardworking taxpayers would have to pay an extra £2,400 each year in tax on average to cover Jeremy Corbyn’s reckless spending.”

The language of the Conservative party is about how higher taxes will negatively affect you the voter, rather than benefit the whole country. It’s also about tradition and how brilliant it is.

We Will Put You First Getting Brexit done. Investing in our public services and infrastructure. Supporting workers and families. Strengthening the Union. Unleashing Britain’s potential. The future is there for us to grasp. Not a future in which we endlessly refight the battles of Brexit and the Scottish independence referendum, or in which Jeremy Corbyn and John McDonnell – propped up by Nicola Sturgeon – lead a Government which rejects everything that has made the UK great.

I’m not saying traditions aren’t important (unless they’re bad traditions – like imperialism, which made the UK great, for sure), but they’re definitely less important than helping large groups of people through public service. Also Brexit sucks and is incredibly bad for the economy the Tories claim is so important to them.

If you aren’t from the UK (as I’d assume most readers aren’t), it may not be so cripplingly obvious that Baz’s family are rich therefore Conservative. But they’re also conservative – and therefore Conservative.

“a Tory vampire” – Baz’s own politics

Baz is a version of Draco Malfoy, who calls Hermione a ‘Mudblood’ and supports Umbridge and then Voldemort, although he later regrets it.

I haven’t really read any Harry/Draco (I was in Wolfstar), but I’m guessing that a lot of the fic builds on the fact that Draco cries in a bathroom, is unable to go through with murdering Dumbledore and Harry, and that his family ultimately decide to leave the Final Battle rather than support Voldemort. I’d guess that we argue that he was young and stupid, didn’t understand the full impact of what he was doing until it was too late, and then had to stay with the Death Eaters because he was afraid for his life and the lives of his family.

Baz, I am arguing, comes from a similar upbringing and has similar beliefs, even if he never got to the murdering Mudbloods stage. (He’s given an out in a way by never being in power when we see him.)

I’d also argue – because I really like Baz and I don’t want him to be ‘racist and speciest’ – that his actions and beliefs are, like Draco’s, massively affected by situational factors outside of his control. And that he, too, was young and stupid. I find it almost impossible that he could arrive at Watford with any other ideology – and I say this as an ex-Remus/Sirius shipper, who clearly found it totally reasonable that Sirius would hate his family and side immediately with a bunch of do-gooding Gryffindors.

The key there, though, is that Sirius hates his family; whereas Baz and Draco love their families and are (see above) incredibly loyal to them. One of the reason it’s easy for me to sit here and say ‘voting Conservative isn’t a thing I would ever do’ is that my family are hardcore ‘Not Conservative’ voters. If I ultimately decided I didn’t agree with them, I could do that, but I started out thinking they were probably right. This is the case with Baz and Draco – they have further to go than someone like Penny who was raised by Mitali and still tells Shepard that imagining being a Normal is like imagining being a frog.

I think Baz is a more sympathetic character than Draco Malfoy by a long way, but Draco has a strong justification for being more evil in that Voldemort will literally murder him if he doesn’t perform hateful actions. Baz merely worries that the Mage will “drive his whole family out of magic” if he doesn’t fight Simon, which is a bit of a weak argument when you think about it.

What has the Mage actually done? He’s forced the Old Families off the Coven – of course he did. They would have voted against his reforms. He’s raided their houses for dark objects that they do actually have. He doesn’t let them meet in large groups – which is an edict that they’re clearly ignoring given that the Club (so Tory) exists and also that the Old Families do actually have a Consortium that meets to try and work out how to seize power through potentially illegal means. 

Are these actions designed to win the love of the Old Families? Of course not. Could there have been better, less repressive strategies? Yes, absolutely.

But how empty are Baz’s coffers really? They still have at least two massive houses that we know about. They’re not exactly on the streets.

All that aside though, Baz does have a very good reason for acting the way he does, much better than Malfoy. His entire life that has been warped around his mother’s death.

The fact that she’s dead, and that she died in (arguably) heroic circumstances, makes it very difficult for Baz to think of her as anything other than completely perfect and right about everything. Even when he thinks about how she’d probably kill him for being a vampire, even though he knows that he’s never hurt anyone and therefore does not deserve to die, even then he still thinks that she must be right and that he is a monster who deserves to die. Fiona has exactly the same reaction.

Because he thinks his mother was perfect and because everyone around him tells him what a good headmistress she was (and because the Mage is presumably very bad at this part of his job), he also has to regret the fact that she isn’t in charge of the school anymore. Education is important to him.

And the timing of Natasha’s death is also specifically and strongly linked to the loss of power, and the two are inextricably bound together. If Baz is to love and honour his mother, to regret her loss, he must also regret the loss of the things that she stood for.

Now the Mage isn’t in power anymore, and Baz’s mother is at peace, he probably can start to think differently about the way the society is structured.

I believe that ‘Wayward Son’ – in which I don’t think Baz thinks a single racist thing, and instead queries the idea of going to America given the ‘current political climate’ – shows that he’s already starting to consider his view on the world differently.

Part of this is because of who he is personally. He’s gay – and of course he’s a vampire, both of which wouldn’t normally be acceptable to his family. (Although you can be gay and a powerful Conservative, of course. It’s much less unacceptable than being poor.) (Incidentally, I know you didn’t ask, but I don’t think the Mage would care if Simon was gay. He’s a liberal. He’d want to be OK with it, even if he wasn’t. But he’d care that Simon was dating a Tory and would definitely try and forbid it.)

Baz has more reason than any other Pitch to reassess his family’s politics, because they negatively affect him personally.

The trick will be to see if he can look outwards from himself, and care about things that don’t help him at all. Which I think he can.  

“He’s still more good than bad, I think” – the Mage and his poor decisions

OK, here we go. The most controversial part.

So, the Mage is the villain and is also a bad guy who left Simon in a home, tortured Baz, killed people, and incited hate against vampires. As I said right at the beginning, I’m not going to argue that you should forgive or even like him because ultimately I can’t if eighth year plays out as it does in canon.

But Lucy tells us that we shouldn’t take him as a straight-forward villain and if we’re willing to give the Pitches the benefit of the doubt over some things, I think we should at least give it a try for the Mage.

Here’s what I’ve got.

1. The political situation at the start of ‘Carry On’

In a story where the Mage was the hero, the book would have finished where he got into power. We’ve defeated the evil oppressive empire and now it’s a chance for reforms, hurrah! Everything will probably be good.

What we actually find at the beginning of Simon’s eighth year is that the Mage has been fighting the Old Families solidly for the last twelve years. They’ve resisted absolutely everything he’s tried to do, and far from being powerless now they’re not in charge, they’re actively and effectively using extreme wealth to obstruct the process of normal government:

“Half of Wales has stopped tithing. The Pitches are paying three members of the Coven to stay away from meetings, so we don’t have quorum. And there have been skirmishes up and down the road to London all summer long.” “Skirmishes?” “Traps, tussles. Tests – they’re all tests, Simon. You know the Old Families would seize the reins if they thought for a moment I was distracted. They’d roll back everything we’ve accomplished.” “Do they think they can fight the Humdrum without us?” “I think they’re so shortsighted,” he says, looking over at me “that they don’t care.”

Now, obviously, this is the Mage’s viewpoint on what is happening and so can’t be trusted in terms of the Old Families motivations. We also can’t ask them because we only hear from Baz (and once, briefly, from Fiona) who has his own view of the world which is coloured massively by his relationship with Simon and his mother.

Shockingly Simon again said it best: “That’s the problem with all the Pitches and their allies – it’s impossible to tell when they’re up to something and when they’re just being people.”

I sort of expect that the Mage is right, though, based on everything I know and feel about the Old Families. The Humdrum hasn’t directly affected them – or it doesn’t until the hole in Hampshire – meanwhile the Mage “will drive them out of magic.” (Will he though? Or will taxing people who earn over £80k a year not actually affect their lifestyle all that much?) 

To be fair, I think the Mage probably thinks that the Old Families are the greater threat as well - they were the threat that he summoned the Greatest Mage to fight – although it’s the threat of the Humdrum that drives him to try and take Ebb’s magic.

I’m not saying that if they cooperated the Mage would have been able to work out what to do about the Humdrum, but their refusal to acknowledge that fighting the threat is important is probably infuriating.

2. He’s alone, overworked, and doesn’t trust anyone

The Mage has the two most important jobs in the World of Mages. It’s strongly implied that these were held by separate people before he took them both. And the reason he took them both is that I doubt he thought anyone else could be trusted, because until he became a political figure, only one person had ever treated him as anything other than a complete lunatic. After that, he gets people like Premal and the Mage’s Men (and Simon and Lucy) who obsessively and unquestioningly follow him, which also can’t be good for him.

He probably wasn’t very old when he worked out how to summon the Greatest Mage, probably 22-23. He doesn’t go to university and took power before he was 30, well before most Normal politicians. (Natasha, obviously, also wasn’t very old, so take that as you will.)

He’s doing two incredibly difficult jobs at a time when there’s a world-level threat (that admittedly he caused, but by accident) as well as a constant political threat. Of course he’s shit at both of them. Of course he didn’t think he could take care of a child on his own while this was happening.

He doesn’t have Dumbledore’s excuse of ‘Old Magic’ keeping Simon safe during the holidays, but I think he probably thinks it’s for the best and doesn’t see many other options when he’s so time-poor himself.

He doesn’t have any friends and never has done, because he’s never valued the personal over the global. He doesn’t have time for friends and family; finds it impossible to forgive the lightest of slights, like Mitali valuing tradition as well as wanting change; and even if he did have time for friends and found someone to be friends with, he wouldn’t be willing to spend time enjoying himself while what he perceived to be injustice was going on. People have headcanon-ed Simon as autistic before; if he is, it’s not impossible he got it from his father.

By the time we see him in ‘Carry On’, I assume the Mage is exhausted and angry and making the worst decisions of his life in an attempt to try and stop the Humdrum from destroying the world.

That doesn’t justify any of them, but I think it puts them into perspective. And for me – it means he is redeemable in an AU if you avert Baz’s kidnapping, which is unforgiveable even if you assume he didn’t know how the numpties would treat him.  

It doesn’t mean he will have been a better father to Simon, though. Simon will still have had to have grown up scared and hungry and alone, for the greater good.

So it depends what you think makes a villain.

The end:

This essay was a lot longer than I thought it was going to be. It took me some time to write, and presumably longer for you to read than you might have expected, so thank you for getting to this point.  

I think that’s probably all I have to say right now. Please read ‘The Mage’s Heir’ and ‘Keep Calm’, if you found this interesting. I’m also turning over a thing in my head where Natasha is still alive, which will almost certainly be a lot gentler than this, because I barely talk here about the good things about Natasha and the Pitches of which there are many. But which will show a lot of the above playing out – like Penny’s roommate just won’t be Trixie anymore.

I hope ‘Any Way the Wind Blows’ has something to say about politics that isn’t just tied to the Mage!

I think it’ll be easier to tell what’s really going on without him being there.

And please, if you live in the UK - even if you want to vote Conservative - register to vote before the 26th of November. 

But also - consider not voting Conservative. 

[zankivich]

Neighbors: Shawn x Plus-Size Reader: Epilogue Part 2: The End

a/n: I can’t believe this story is done. It gave me so much happiness and so much goodness just to get to know these two characters and to get to be a part of how they loved. When I first started this story I really just wanted to see myself. I had just started liking Shawn and I couldn’t envision myself in his world yet, not that I need to be there, but that a part of my young little fangirl heart really needed. It was such an honor to write this story. I hope it meant something to you. It sure as hell meant something to me. K bye. 

*Shawn’s point of view*

When the morning sickness comes, it comes with a fucking vengance. It’s like clock work. Every night by three am she’s up out of bed, with her head in the toilet. So, every night by three am he’s got her legs in his lap while her head is in the toilet. For a while she can’t keep anything down, and it worries him endlessly. She loses some weight, which just seemed like the opposite of what was supposed to happen, so he begs her to go to the doctor, and she obliges him. He switches to flying exclusively on the private jet, just so she can come with him on the off chance he needs to leave home. At that point he would’ve done anything to make her more comfortable.

And that’s the good news. He read horror stories about the strain that pregnancy could put on a marriage or a relationship. Mostly because he was buying any pregnancy book he could get his hands on at that point. His own mother had told both of them a detailed account of the time she threw a sandwich at his father’s head because it didn’t have mayo on it. A sandwich. But y/n seemed to lean on him more than ever. Instead of pushing him away, she felt like she could rely on him, and she wasn’t afraid to ask him for things anymore. He loved it.

He’s in a studio session with Teddy and Scott trying to figure out how to do whatever it is that they do again when she calls him. He’s in the booth, mid vocal and everything, but he leaves his phone on just in case she needs him.

“Baby? What’s wrong, is the baby okay?” he asked slipping his headphones off to hear her better.

Her voice is small like she might get in trouble.

“Yea, the baby is fine. Sorry, I know I keep scaring you every time I call.”

“No. No, I want you to call every time. No matter what. What’s up?”

“Well….it’s just that I was really craving french fries.” She mumbled. “And so I was kinda hoping you might want to meet for lunch today?”

Literally the cutest human on the face of the planet.

He chuckled. “I’d love to. Where you do you wanna go?”

“We can figure that out when you pick me up from work, just bring the fries with you.”

“You want the fries before lunch?”

“Yes. Yes. I do.”

Of course she did.

“I’ll be there in an hour okay?”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too sweetheart. I can’t wait to see you.”

He gets off the phone and finally stares up through the window of the booth where his friends have all heard him completely ditch his recording session to take his person french fries. He smiled and waved, but they were not impressed. And thus were the trials of pregnancy.

***

y/n’s pov

No one prepares you for the sex thing. In all of the stories from Shawn’s parents, from Zubein and his wife, hell even your mom on occasion, no one had ever mentioned that you were going to turn into a boarderline sex addict in your second trimester. And certainly no one told you that your person, your human, your love, was going to not want to touch you. No one ever told you about that shit.

When the morning sickness lets up, and you can finally stomach food again, some cravings naturally start to pop up. Not that nasty pickles and peanut butter shit, but like real food. For instance once at four o’clock in the morning, you needed to have your famous yellow cake with chocolate swiss meringue, which meant Shawn needed to make it for you right there and then. It was terrible. He nearly set the kitchen on fire. But he took you to a 24/7 diner and bought you chocolate chip pancakes and let you snuggle into his sweater, so honestly it was a win win type scenario. After the weird cravings comes an absolute fire in your loins. Your lobido fucking skyrocketed and there wasn’t much you could think of to help besides him.

Morning times meant sharing the shower with each other to spend time together before you both went to work. When you see him standing there beneath the showerhead, his curls soaking wet and the water flowing over his belly and down his thighs your body naturally had questions of the dick variety.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, lips pressing against his skin into a smile.

“Someone’s happy this morning.” He chuckled.

“You have no idea.” You hummed. “Shawn?”

He turned in your arms, hands immediately going to your belly instead of any other part of your body.

“Yea, sweetheart?”

You frowned slightly and lifted up onto your tiptoes to kiss at his jaw. “Can we have a little fun before work? I don’t have any meetings this morning.”

“O--Oh...But I gotta get to the studio, honey.”

You shook your head tugging him closer. “It can wait. Please? It’s been a while.”

You weren’t used to having to...beg. It felt kind of beneath you. Years of Shawn getting a whiff of your shampoo and knocking you into the headboard had made you grow soft. Shawn had never turned you down before. Not without it eventually leading to sex. This was your new territory. And quite frankly you were not a fan.

“I’m sorry, love. I really do have to go the studio okay? We can talk when you get home from work.”

He kissed your forehead and leaned down to kiss your stomach before he was out of the shower so fast you weren’t so sure he’d been there to begin with. It was….odd.

You had like...girlfriends now. After your reawakening at twenty-six, you had taken it upon yourself to be more intentional about creating relationships with people. It resulted it in some really incredible friendships. The kind of friendships where you didn’t feel bad relying on people, didn’t feel like a burden on them because they never let you. Enter your friends Cynthia and Taylor.

y/n: Can we do a woman’s lunch today tbh? My person is ruining my life.

Cynthia: WHAT HE DO? You want us to cut him?

Taylor: Down kitty. You have to stop threatening to cut people. Let’s do lunch, you can vent to us. We’ll fix it!

y/n: God, I love you both. Yay.

You leave work early and wobble your ass off to lunch with your bitches. Shawn texts to check in twice before noon, but both times are of the baby variety and nothing more. You get a little angrier each time. And then you sit down at lunch and your best friends order cocktails and you get even angrier. Ugh.

“I can’t believe I let a man impregnate me.” You huff stabbing your fork into your salad. “I really let him catch me slipping. The patriarchy. Disgusting.”

Taylor snorted. “I quite love the fact that your second trimester is full of feminist rants by the way. I find it to be very entertaining.”

“Well I’m glad that we’re all revelling in my misery. I’m glad I’m providing quality content for the both of you.” You grumbled. “It’s fucking cold. My tits are numb and I hate everything.”

Cynthia chortled. “Girl you are on one today. Why don’t you just tell us what the hell happened?”

You squirmed slightly in your seat. The frustration was taking its toll on your body and your emotions. You’d had enough and it wasn’t even just Shawn at this point. You were just...angry.

“I have an eight ounce sirloin steak kicking at my uterus. I’ve gained twenty pounds. My mother-in-law sewed spandex into my jeans the other day. I ran into a door and my boobs are so sore I cried for thirty minutes. And I haven’t even been at work for four hours. I’m annoyed okay. And all I wanted ...the only thing I really wanted was an orgasm! Is that too much to ask for?”

Cynthia, and this is why you loved her with everything in you, followed you for every word. As if she just knew what you were saying and agreed with you endlessly. She was a ride or die through and through. A beautiful, ethereal black woman with a brilliant afro and these badass circular rimmed glasses that were gold and complimented her skin perfectly. She was beautiful. And vibrant. And loud. And completely unapologetic.

“Yes. I mean that’s what you deserve. For sure.” She shrugged. “So, he couldn’t make you cum, is that it? Men. The worst.”

“”Couldn’t?!’ He didn’t even try. He won’t touch me unless it’s my stomach, or talking to the baby. I am no longer his life partner, I am no longer his lover, I am just a vessel for a baby. And that’s it.”

Taylor was the thinker of the group. She was damn near a philosopher. When you needed advice, she was the one you went to. Taylor was Canadian born and raised, but her parents were turkish immigrants. She was similarly incredibly gorgeous. She was thick in every sense of the word. Thick in her thighs. Thick in her hair. Thick in her eyebrows. She was a beautiful Brown dream. And you were just quite honestly stunned by their beauty most of the time.

“So… let’s backtrack. You’re frustrated, of course. You’re in the middle of your second trimester. Emotions are rampant. Let’s focus on what’s really irritating you.” She murmured.

“Shawn. Shawn is really irritating me.”

“Okay. And Shawn is really irritating because why?”

“Because...Because I need to cum.” You sputtered. “He’s always made me cum. Why would he choose now of all times to not make me cum.”

“She’s got a point. They have more sex than an episode on Showtime.” Cynthia butt in.

You nodded in agreeance.

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Well yes. I understand. Why do we think that he’s not making you cum? Have you talked to him about it?”

“Maybe it’s because I look like a beach whale?”

“No negative self-talk!”

“I have got to get a friend who is not a therapist.” You whined.

“You need me. You’re lucky I don’t charge your asses. Now think it through. Talk it out. There’s no wrong way right now. Shawn isn’t here. You can be honest with us.”

Taylor was genuine. And most geniuses are often times unappreciated in life.

You reached for your iced tea all frowns and indigestion.

“I think, based off the signals that I have been receiving, that he isn’t attracted to me like this. I think that he sees me as a mom now, and not at a sexual being.” You said honestly. “He’s just always touching my stomach and always talking to my stomach, and always talking about the baby. Sometimes I feel like I don’t exist anymore.”

“Awww babes, that is so sad.” Cynthia murmured reaching for your hand.

Taylor nodded. “That’s fair. So let’s unpack it. How do you view your body right now?”

“Oh, T, can we please not analyze me right now? Please? I just need you be my friend right now okay? I didn’t come here to get my problem solved. I came here to eat lunch with my friends and complain a little bit.”

“Fine, fine! My bad.” She raised her hands in defense. “Why don’t we just talk about what it is you want instead? No filter. Just go.”

“Thank you.” You smiled softly at her. “I really...just want him to rail me like a car hitting a light pole at maximum velocity.”

At that very moment, your waiter arrived with the check, and seemed to blush head to toe. Whoops.

“She’s pregnant.” Cynthia explained. “It’s the hormones.”

Friendship.

***

Shawn’s point of view*

“I don’t care about what they want, Andrew. I’m thirty years old for Christ’s sake, I’m not a teeny bopper anymore.” He grunted trying to balance the groceries and still unlock the front door.

“Yes, no I understand. They just want to manage the sex appeal a little bit. Timberlake, Bieber, Mayer, doesn’t matter who you are. It’s important to remind the female dominated fanbase that you’re...you know? A sexual being.”

Listening to andrew try and explain concepts that he himself wasn’t even interested in was always a hoot.

“A sexual being? I’m having a goddamn baby, Andrew.”

“Yes well, the public doesn’t know that yet. Maybe just a photoshoot? A magazine cover? You wouldn’t even have to leave Toronto. It’ll get them off our backs and you can just finish up the album you wanna make, yea?”

He headed straight for the kitchen where the tea kettle was going, but his person was mysteriously missing from her cup.

“Babe! I’m home!” He called, setting the groceries down, finally. “Whatever. Send me a proposal, I guess, and I’ll look over it. I’m not guaranteeing anything. My fans have seen my abs before, I don’t think it’s gonna sell more records than we’re already selling. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, alright?”

“Sounds good. Love you man.”

“Yea, love you too.” He sighed ending the call. “Babe?! Where are you?”

He hears the door to the downstairs bathroom open, and she walks out in this adorable dress with her fleece lined leggings. She looks soft and cuddly and he’s already hopeful that she’ll let him snuggle her into the couch and watch a movie after dinner. He’s kind of obsessed with her. Like always.

“This child is literally sitting on my bladder at this point.” She groaned rubbing at her stomach.

He reached for her immediately, his hands cupping at her now unhidable baby bump that drove him crazy on a daily basis.

“You gotta let mommy have a break, little one.” He hummed peering down at her bump. “We don’t wanna tire her out too much before you arrive.”

She lets out a little breath and pulls away from him to go back to her tea. He went for the groceries to begin putting them away, and set aside what she’d asked him to grab for dinner.

“Hey I thought we could do a movie night on the couch after dinner? Cuddle a little bit?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of tired.”

“Oh. Okay. Well we can watch them in bed too. I don’t mind where, just wanna be with you.”

“Yea, maybe.”

He paused by the cabinet with a box of pasta in one hand and flour in the other. She was on the other side of the kitchen pouring water into her cup. She set the tea kettle back and immediately left the room. He could practically feel the emotion coming off of her. The silent treatment certainly wasn’t subtle either.

“Hey,” He asked softly plopping down on the couch. “Are you feeling okay? Everything alright with the baby?”

She rolled her eyes and let out a sarcastic snort. “The baby. Is. Fine. Shawn. They’re fine.”

“Okay, well is something else bothering you that you’d like to let me in on?”

“I don’t know, is there something you want to tell me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “No? Is there something you would like me to tell you?”

“No. I guess not. “

His person, and she was his person for sure, was a little hard to read sometimes. And by hard to read, he definitely meant incredibly easy to read, and so deeply difficult to get through to. Perhaps pregnancy simply amplified emotions, because she might as well as had a neon sign that said, “I AM PISSED AT YOU” on her forehead.

“Look in the interest of time, and both of our headaches, why don’t you just tell me what I did wrong so I can get to apologizing already.”

Mistake. Total mistake. You can love someone for years and you can learn and grow together and allow yourself to be vulnerable with them in every way. It doesn’t mean you’re always gonna get it right. That’s never guaranteed. Clearly.

“No! No you don’t get to just make me share my emotions before I’m ready! I’m a goddamn human being, alright I’m not just a reciprocal. I’m not just a place for you put it! God, Shawn. You are such an ass.”

And then she’s off the couch and stomping up the stairs in anger. She definitely also quoted Lady Gaga’s documentary. He made a mental note to stop watching documentaries before bed. It never went well. Last month she woke up in the middle of the night, thought he was a prison guard from a documentary on the prison industrial complex in the states, and definitely jabbed him in the throat. Documentaries. Big no no.

He figures that’s his cue to make dinner. She almost never let him cook, but he knew she’d be even angrier if there was nothing to eat when this was over. He spends a little time trying to figure out what he could have done. But things had been going so well, that he’s truly at a loss. They both went to work every day. They spent their evenings together. He rubbed cocoa butter on her stomach every night for Christ’s sake. He spent hours whispering to her belly and playing guitar so that their baby would know the scales straight from the womb. What could possibly be wrong?

He makes her famous spaghetti bolognese and only burns the garlic once, so that’s a first. He leaves the food on the stove and heads for the stairs in the hopes that she’ll be ready to talk to him. Outside of their bedroom door though, there’s the sound of crying and his heart just instantly breaks. He doesn’t do well with a sad y/n. Ever. It killed him. This was a well known fact.

So maybe he burst into the room and collapsed a little bit at her feet. Who was keeping track? Not him. That was for damn sure.

“Hey, please don’t cry. Please, I can’t watch you cry. Whatever I did just--just tell me and I’ll make it right. I never wanna hurt you, you gotta know that.” He begged.

“It’s stupid. This is stupid!” She sobbed.

“Okay. Okay, this is new for us. I am just slightly freaking out that I may have broken you! Please talk to me!”

“You’re not attracted to me anymore!”

That certainly gave him pause.

“That’s crazy, sweetheart. What are you even talking about?!”

She keeps sobbing. Her face is red. Cheeks wet. And his heart is exploding in his chest. He’s got no fucking clue what he’s supposed to do. He broke his person!

“I looked like a whale ate Kim Kardashian when she was pregnant with North West! My shoes don’t fit anymore, and my goddamn feet hurt. I feel like Mike Tyson has been punching my fucking tits. And you don’t wanna have sex with me anymore, now?! Out of all the times in the world? Now I’m so fucking repulsive that the love of my life won’t even touch me?! I JUST NEEDED DICK OKAY?”

She keeps crying , and his heart keeps hammering, and he knows that he has to figure something out, or this isn’t going to get any better. She’s in absolute hysterics and it is somehow, even though he was still struggling to figure that part out, completely his fault.

He reached for the box of tissues and patted gently at her eyes to get rid of some of the wetness. He held another tissue to her nose and ordered her to blow, which somehow only made her cry more. It is the most heightened expression of emotions he had ever seen from her. And it’s awful, and he hates it, and he just needs to make her smile. So, he wraps her up in his arms and he shhh’s her as he rocks her gently back and forth waiting for the sobs to subside before speaking.

“Honey, I don’t know what I did to make you think I’m not attracted to you.” He murmured playing with her hair soothingly. “But I’ve never not been attracted to you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I’ve always thought you were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I love you so much.”

She pulled just slightly away enough to look him in the eyes, her own red and swollen with a sadness in them that cut him deep.

“Then why haven’t we had sex in over a month, Shawn?” She sniffled. “You’re repulsed by me. Just admit it.”

He sighed peering down at his person who he’s somehow managed to deeply hurt without even being aware of it. He felt like the world’s biggest asshole.

“How could you say to me?” He asked. “I’m not repulsed by you, y/n. I just...I just I don’t wanna hurt the baby.”

She bit her lip, her sadness turning to anger like the flip of the switch. She yanked herself from his arms and moved to the opposite side of the bed.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! You don’t even view me as a human being anymore. I’m just a casing, I’m the thing that holds the thing you really care about.”

“What the hell, y/n; where is this coming from?”

“It’s coming from the fact that you don’t treat me like anything other than the thing that’s holding your baby anymore. You don’t talk to me, you talk to my stomach. You don’t look at me unless you’re mentioning the baby. What’s the fucking point anymore. Why don’t I just lay down in bed for five more months and maybe the baby will roll out and you can go live happily ever after.”

He’s admittedly angry at first. Angry because his person is telling him something he doesn’t want to hear. That he’d failed somehow at loving her, had let her down and made her believe that he didn’t want her the way that he used to. He’s angry because she’d reverted back to a place they hadn’t been in years, a place of being unable to be honest and upfront with each other. She hid it away until it boiled, until it was undisguisable, until she literally exploded, and he hated when she did that.

But he’s older now. He’s a little wiser. Maybe. He at least knows her better. Understands her better. It’s when he takes a deep breath and just allows himself to actually absorb what she’s told him that he understands. This is about insecurities. It’s about fears that had been eating her up inside for who knows how long, and her not wanting to admit that to herself, let alone him. He’s in the wrong for not explaining himself, and he can see how he fed into her insecurities. It’s both of their faults, as it so often the case in these scenarios. But, he’ll do just about anything to make it better. Always.

“Okay. I--I understand. I see that I’ve hurt you, that I haven’t been treating you the way that you want and deserve. I’m sorry.”

Her arms are crossed and she tilts her head in his direction, but still barely looks at him. He takes a chance and scoots a little closer.

“Y/n...At the risk of sharing too much information in the wrong moment. . . I haven’t been able to masturbate to something that isn’t you since our four month anniversary.”

Her eyes widen and her anger falters.

“W--What?”

“Trust me, I’ve tried. My dick is kind of emotionally invested in you, and it hasn’t been the same since.” He shrugged. “I am...so incredibly in love with you. I’m never going to want anything else. Even when you’re screaming at me until you’re red in the face, I’m still gonna want you. The only reason why I haven’t wanted to have sex is because I don’t want to hurt you, or the baby. I know it’s silly. I’ve read the books. But you are the most important thing in my life okay? You and this baby are all that I have; you’re all that matters. I need you to believe that. Tell me you believe that.”

She bit her lip, fingers picking anxiously at the skin of her nails that sat in her lap. He moved even closer and wrapped his arms around her.

“You’re gonna be the mother of my child, y/n. That is literally the sexiest thing I could think of. I don’t hate your body. I love your body! And I’m so sorry I haven’t been showing you that. I thought that by showing you how much the baby meant to me that I was showing you how much you mean to me. I understand now that it needs to be seperate a little bit, that you’re still a person too. These are the last months we’re ever gonna have to ourselves, and I should be cherishing the hell out of you. I’m just--shit I’m sorry, okay?”

He tugs at a strand of her hair, and she peers up at them with those big ass eyes and he just falls all over again. He means every word, and he means it more when she looks at him like that. When he pokes at the dimples in her cheeks and she finally smiles, he feels accomplished in life.

“Why didn’t you just say that a fuckin month ago.” She whined.

He snorted softly. “Why didn’t you tell me I wasn’t keeping you satisfied a month ago?”

“Excuse me?! I tried! I practically begged your ass. What did you want me to do, get on my knees?”

“Well it wouldn’t have hurt.” He joked.

Something in her broke. Maybe not in that moment. Maybe it was the time her blatter turned to the size of a pea, or when her breasts turned into over abused punching bags from hell. Regardless in that moment she seemed to think of nothing more reasonable in the world than twisting his nipples. And thus she did. And thus he was in pain.

“Y/n what the fuck!” He cried covering his chest. “That hurt!”

“Haha motherfucker!”

Wow.

“I’m pregnant, dammit; I cannot be held accountable for my actions.” She shrugged.

“Jesus Christ.” He huffed. “How much longer are you going to be pregnant?”

“You did this to me! You and your fucking ‘holier than thou dick’ that just had to bring another child into this fucked up world. Deal with it, alright?”

“You’re...so scary. Can we please stop fighting now? I don’t like it.”

He tucked her into his side hugging her tightly against his body. She hid her face in his neck and he could smell the scent of lavender and cocoa butter. And his heart felt like it expanded against his ribcage. How dare she ever think he couldn’t be attracted to her. He was obsessed with her. Had been since he laid eyes on her.

“Can you just kiss me for once? And not my stomach. Me.” She whispered.

He reached for her face, fingers tracing at the shape of her jaw as he pulled her close. He poured himself into the kiss as much as he could. She’d always been an incredible kisser, always gave just as much as she received. He knows that he’s got her, when she does this little whimper and her shoulders relax. He kisses her with tongue and with his teeth and with his hands on the back of her neck. Granted it’s a kiss they haven’t shared for some time now, but it’s still one he’s always willing to give her.

She’s the first one to pull away and it’s only because she’s out of breath. He presses his forehead against hers and smiles a little dopely.

“I love you.” He mumbled. “Always. Please believe me?”

“I believe you. I do.”

***

*y/n’s point of view*

“What are we gonna name ‘em?” Shawn asked.

It was on a random Tuesday dinner date. You tried to go out and spend time together outside of the house whether it was bowling or food or random art fairs. You prefered the food ones obviously.

“Huh?” You asked over your pasta.

“The baby? We never really discussed it.”

Shawn reached for his pellegrino, because if you weren’t drinking he sure as hell wasn’t, as you took a second of pause. You’d unanimously decided not to know the sex assigned at birth until...well the sex was assigned at birth. It meant a lot to you, to try not to enforce gender norms as much as you could, and Shawn was just as supportive if not more after growing up being called a girl for five years when he decided he wanted to sing.

“Hmmm I guess you’re right. Anything in mind?”

“Shawn Jr sounds good to me.” He grinned.

You rolled your eyes. “Anything else in mind?”

“...I really like the name Penelope. I think it’s cute. Or, Isabella maybe? We could call her Izzy.”

“You think we’re having a girl, aye?”

His cheeks turned red and you remembered that you loved him more than anyone could ever love.

“N--No. I just...you know I’d love any baby in the world that we made.I just certainly would not be mad if that baby happened to be a little girl.” He shrugged.

“And you don’t think that it will be too much estrogen? Too much femininity around you for the rest of time? Periods and uncontrollable emotions and what not?”

He rolled his eyes. “What is it the seventies? You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. The strongest people I’ve ever met are always women. I’d be lucky to live in a house where we get to raise another one.”

You couldn’t help the smile that grew wide and full on your face. He was cute. And mature. And smart. You were kind of obsessed with him. And still...where did he come from?

“Penelope, aye?” You hummed.

His eyes widened and he smiled nodding in that very goofy way of his that had his curls flopping this way and that.

You loved him far too much for your own good.

***

*Shawn’s point of view*

8 months. 8 months of buying a new bed because the old one made her back hurt. 8 months of baby proofing a house that was suddenly way too big. 8 months of pancake runs at two in the morning. 8 months of massaging her feet for forty minutes because every time he touched them she grew physically repulsed by the thought of someone touching her feet. 8 months of some of the most trying arguments they’d ever had. Yes, choosing between lavender and grey or yellow and grey as a color scheme can wind you up sleeping in the guest bedroom. Who would’ve thought that the greatest argument they would ever have would be over her working? Oh wait, literally anyone but his moronic ass. Of course.

“Babe, the tension in your shoulders is insane.” He grumbled digging into her back. “I really think it might be time to start slowing down.”

She rolled her eyes. “Slowing down, eh? And just where do you want me to slow down Shawn? You already do everything. I haven’t been allowed to do laundry since I could no longer see my toes because of my belly and not my boobs for once.”

“I think...I think maybe we should broach the topic of you taking some time off work again.”

“Nope. Absolutely not. I’m not taking time off.”

He sighed. “Honey, your job offers 15 weeks of paid leave. We don’t even have that much time left at this point. And even if it wasn’t paid leave, I am an actual millionaire. The baby is going to be here soon. Maybe you should rest yourself while you can.”

She tugged her way out of his arms, flustered and frustrated immediately. He could feel even more tension coming off of her. It was the absolute opposite of what he wanted, but with y/n it was also sort of inevitable.

“I don’t need rest, Shawn! It’s not about the money; it’s the principle. You think my mother took maternity leave when she was raising four kids with a husband who was a filthy drunk?”

He scooted a little closer and reached for her hands, fingers intertwining stubbornly. But she’s got that furrow in her brow, and that firm set of her lip that she always gets when they fight. And he hates it because she still wants to kiss her and it always makes his brain very confused in these moments.

“Your mother was in a completely different situation! We are extremely privileged and extremely lucky to bring a kid into this world in the healthiest way that we can. I want you to be the healthiest that you can. Now you have fought me every step of the way, but please just--can we please just look at how many hours your putting into this place?” He huffed. “Because whether you want to believe or not, when we’re parents you’re going to have to cut back regardless.”

“Cut back?” She asked softly.

His person had the ability to be more terrifying than a hitman sometimes. This was most definitely one of those moments.

“I have to cut back? What the fuck are you going to be doing, aye? Are you cutting back, Shawn? Are you gonna stop touring? Stop doing promo tours for weeks at a time? Why does the woman always have to cut back?! How fucking dare you.”

“This is not that! Don’t make it out to be some attack against your womanhood. You’re pushing a human being out of your hips, y/n! I get a cold and I’m down for a week, one might think that BIRTHING A HUMAN deserves some recovery time!”

“It’s my fucking body! Why don’t you let me decide me what the hell I do with it, aye?!”

“Because if I left it up to you, you’d be working more than an eight year old in a sweatshop in Taiwan! It’s not just your body anymore. We’re about to be parents, y/n. Every decision we make has to have another human at the core of it. We don’t get to come first anymore. Not our careers, not our wants, none of it. You working your body into the ground isn’t an option!”

When her eyes well up it’s the worst thing ever. The amount of time he spent trying to balance her emotions was enough for him to recognize when he was doing a really shitty job at it. Not that it changed how he felt. Y/n was the hardest working person he’d ever met. She worked harder than he did, and that was saying something. She was so important to him though. He didn’t quite know how to explain that as much as the baby mattered, as much as the baby was already infinitely important, the baby wasn’t there yet. All he had was his person, his love, his light. And he’d do anything in the world to protect her. Anything.

“Great so… I am a shitty mother already and apparently a shitty person.” She mumbled tears dripping over her cheeks. “I’m really glad we had this talk. I’m going to take a shower.”

“Y/n. Y/n, baby please. Please just let me talk to you.” He begged. “That is not what I’m saying and you know it.”

Even with her adorable pregnant waddle and her hands up on her lower back to support herself, she gets to the bathroom and locks it before he can get to her. Which just leaves him on the other side of the door calling out for her.

“Sweetheart, please open the door! I--I didn’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk like adults, okay? I just, I’m worried about you and I want you to be safe.”

The water turns on to the bathtub instead of the shower and he knows he’s in for the long haul tonight. He’d be lucky if she came out of there by the weekend.

*Four hours later*

He’s woken up by the door opening. He must have fallen asleep against it because he nearly falls when she opens the door. Not that that mattered in the slightest to y/n who simply stepped over his body and kept it pushing. She gets dressed in their closet in silence. Doesn’t acknowledge him in the slightest. It’s like walking on eggshells. And he honestly doesn’t mind. Her emotions had been out of whack for the duration of her pregnancy. If she needed to be mad at him, that was okay. He just couldn’t go to sleep without letting her know that he loved her. It was their thing. No matter how angry, how annoyed, how tired. They had to tell each other they loved each other every night.

He finds her in their closet, big t-shirt stretched over her stomach with her belly button sticking clear out. When he makes eye contact with her, she immediately looks away.

“Move, Shawn.”

He moved his arms to either side of the doorway, only blocking her further.

“No. Not until you tell me you love me.”

Her eyes turned to slits. “Excuse me? That’s not fair and you know it.”

“What’s not fair y/n? Asking you tell me you love me? Are you really so angry with me you can’t say it, cause if so I think that’s something I deserve to know.”

She tugged at her hair, fingers knotting in the strands anxiously.

“I just don’t want to be pressured into saying it. Is that too much to ask?”

He bit his lip stepping closer so that her stomach was pressed to his.

“But...we never go to bed without it. I’m not saying we need to fix it all tonight. I’m saying, I just want the love of my life to assure me a little that we’re still in this together. Is that too much to ask?”

She rolled her eyes so hard he worried they might pop out of her head. And then she pushed forward, knocking him out of the way so that she could get out of the closet.

“I love you. And I am pissed at you. And I don’t want to speak to you for the rest of the night.”

He knew he was in deep shit when her body pillows had been stacked into a literal barrier between his side of the bed and her’s. She always let him hold her at night. She said the baby tended to sleep closer to him, as if they knew their daddy was close by. It was the sweetest thing in the world anyone had ever said to him. He cried for like an hour over it. Now he was left staring at a pillow that entirely covers his person. Wonderful.

***

*three days later*

He’s at the gym with his trainer trying to push out his fifth mile when his phone rings. It’s summer in Toronto and his view of the sun from the gym is just enough to keep him motivated to keep running. His air pods are already in so he takes the call trying to push through the wall that says, “ five miles is dumb, please stop”. His phone is still in his pocket, so he doesn’t get to see who the number is before he answers.

“Hello, is this a Mr. Shawn Peter Raul Mendes?”

“This is he.” He huffed, stilling running.

“Sir, I have you listed as the emergency contact for a Ms. y/f/n y/l/n. Your wife was admitted to St. Joseph’s Health Centre this afternoon. She--”

“Y/n?! W--What happened?! Is she okay?”

He went to jump get off the treadmill, tripping just enough on the mat to send him scraping against the machine with his shin. It doesn’t matter though, he’s up immediately. Nothing else matters in that moment. He doesn’t even tell his trainer goodbye, is already running to find his keys before the voice on the phone can even get a word in.

“Sir, she experienced a fall at work it seems. The doctors are running tests to check on your wife’s pregnancy as we speak.”

“I--I’m on my way! I’m coming right now!”

It’s a thirty-six minute drive to the hospital from his gym and his heart is racing the entire time. He stupidly tries to call her phone only for it to go to voicemail five times over. His hands tremble against the steering wheel so bad he’s afraid he might crash. It doesn’t occur to him to call his parents, call her mom, call anyone. He just has to get to her. He really needs to get to her.

He almost left the keys in the ignition, car still running, and had to run back to get to them. It only eats up more time. He still has zero idea how serious things are and there are a million and one thoughts of how bad it could be running through every nerve ending in his body. He needs her. He needs to see her. Now.

“I--I’m here to see y/f/n y/l/n?!” He gushed at the desk, his heart rampant in his sturnemum. “Please. Please it’s my person. She’s my person I--I have to see her.”

“Sir. Calm down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” The nurse shushed.

He shook his head voice on the cusp of begging. “Ma’am, please. Please just take me to see her. You--You called and said that she was in pain, that she fell. She’s pregnant. Please, ma’am just tell me where she is?”

“Okay now just take a deep breath. What’s the last name again?”

“y/l/n!” He replied impatiently, no breaths to be taken.

Her fingers begin working on the keyboard, and he nestles his fingers along the swallow necklace he still wore to try and calm himself down. It didn’t work.

“And sir what is your relationship to the patient? Are you her husband?”

“I--I...she’s my person. We’re not married, but we’ve been together for over six years.”

“Are you her emergency contact? You’re not technically immediate family, sir.”

It’s definitely not a great moment for him. Y/n is hurt and no one can seem to tell him anything that isn’t prolonging his eyes being on her. He’s frustrated and his blood is rushing through his ears. He’s terrified. Actually terrified. And this just happens to be the straw to break the Canadian kindness’ back.

“I am the only goddamn family that matters! Now you called me. She’s in pain. She’s hurt. You called me, and I need to see her. She’s holding our baby and I want to see my person! Now dammit!”

*y/n’s point of view*

There is something truly remarkable about the way he runs into the room. Maroon nike running shorts. Tube socks. Head band firmly in place. There is blood running down his leg and he looks as scared as you felt that morning. Something about seeing him run into your hospital room with some tiny woman chasing him with a clipboard of paperwork is actually the funniest thing you may have ever seen in your life. So, excuse you if after a somewhat tragic day you can’t help but giggle in the face of his fear.

“Are you okay?! Are you okay? Oh my god, let me hold you.” He sighed taking you into his arms immediately.

Your giggles died down as he quickly began to inspect you with cautious, tear glazed eyes. His palms cupped your cheeks, his lips frantic against yours, and still not stopping there. He touched you everywhere. His fingers dipped hesitantly over your shoulders and down to your stomach cupping it softly. You pressed your forehead against his and breathed deeply as each of you let a few tears escape. It had been an event free pregnancy all things considered, and a scare now was perhaps the worst thing imaginable for the two of you.

“Are you okay?” He whispered. “I--Is the baby okay? Please talk to me.”

“We’re okay.” You assured him. “Everything’s okay.”

When his lips find yours a second time, it’s a lot less frantic and a lot more loving. You tuck yourself into his hold, fully content with the way he’s breathing life back into your being. His tongue teases your bottom lip and it all feels better instantly. He does a familiar dance of rubbing your thighs in his too large hands, and you practically purr. And then the doctor clears her throat.

“So sorry to interrupt!” She smiled. “I’m Dr. Cohen.”

Shawn pulls away with a bit of a huff, his entire body still blocking you from view from anyone else. It’s possessive and needy and everything you could ever ask for.

“I think we have to get a marriage lisence, or I might actually have to commit murder.” He grunted.

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you just propose to me? Also why are you bleeding?”

“Maybe. Probably.” He shrugged. “I fell on the treadmill when I got the call. Needed to get to you. The nurse assumed I was your husband because I’m your emergency contact, but when I got here and she realized the last names were different, she didn’t want to let me get to you.”

Another giggle passes through your lip. Of course this was the love of your life. An actual, genuine fucking dork. Thank god.

“Let’s unpack that later.”

“Okay.”

Shawn refused to take the seat that Dr. Cohen offered him, choosing instead to squish beside you on the examination table, hands touching or rubbing some part of you at all times. You don’t mind. After the morning you had, you thought maybe being in his arms forever was all you needed.

“Alright, Mr. Mendes. Your wife wanted to wait for your arrival to discuss what happened.” She explained. “She fainted in the middle of a meeting at work. Luckily a coworker was able to catch her and help her in time, so that no damage was done to the baby.”

He immediately looked worriedly over at you, his eyebrows and forehead wrinkled as he squeezed tenderly at your fingers.

“W--Why though? She’s never fainted before. Not once. Is it the baby?”

Dr. Cohen smiled reassuringly. “So, technically, yes it is the baby. But neither the baby or y/n are in any danger. What happened to you is actually fairly common. Basically what’s happening is that your blood vessels are widening and relaxing so that enough blood can get to your baby to keep them healthy. Really helpful for the baby, but it takes a longer trip now to get back to mommy. Usually this just means a little dizziness, but y/n in your intake paperwork it says you had been leading a workshop at the time you fainted is that correct?”

You raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Yes. I’m always in charge of training our new higher level managers who come in.”

“Mhm. And how long were you on your feet in the midst of this training?” She asked.

“I--I don’t know. Maybe one and a half, two hours? Why?”

“Because the longer you’re on your feet? Especially without movement, the worst the circulation of blood becomes. What probably happened is that you first started to experience some dizziness, but maybe you fought through that. These aren’t really the type of symptoms to fight through though. You needed to rest.”

There’s an image somewhere in the film of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. It’s the moment where the grinch comes up with his evil plan to steal happiness and joy from all those around him. He smiled a smile that pulls at all of his features squishing his face into this truly horrid little grin. This. This is the smile that Shawn gave you in this moment. The smile of a man who was finally right about something for once. The bastard.

“Wait, I am so very sorry,” Shawn interrupted. “Are you saying that all she needs to do is rest?”

You turned to him with a look so hot you could feel it sizzle in your eyeballs. You had still not exactly forgiven him for the last time you had this conversation. He was walking on thin ice.

Dr. Cohen nodded. “Yes, I am. Typically at this point in the third trimester, especially depending on the patient? I don’t even recommend for my patients to take the stairs, let alone work ten hour days. Y/n I’m afraid if I have any recommendation for you it’s going to be bed rest. I can write a letter for your work if need be, but with your high position in the company I doubt that would be necessary..”

It’s like your stomach just drops. With one month left in your pregnancy you didn’t even know how to go about not working. Working gave you purpose outside of being pregnant. It was what got you through the long days. You didn’t know how to take a break anymore than you knew how to stop loving Shawn and we all know how well that went the one time you gave it a shot.

“B--Bed rest? Like I can’t leave my own fucking bed? I--I’m not broken here!”

“Honey,” Shawn sighed taking your hand in his. “It’s alright, okay? Just let the doctor explain.”

Dr. Cohen smiled softly. “I understand. I know the prospect of taking time for yourself is hard. They had to pull me out of the hospital when my first was born, literally. But in these final weeks I want you to think about yourself for just a moment. There’s no harm in taking a rest, y/n. You’re about to be a mother for the rest of your life, believe me when I say these days to yourself will be magical, okay? I know it’s hard, but I need you to do it. For yourself and for the baby.”

And that ladies and gentlemen is how you ended up in your house on a Thursday afternoon lying in bed like you were on the verge of death, while your dumbass smirked at you like you didn’t know how to kill a man with a remote. It was actually your definition of hell. Sitting there wondering what the idiots at work were doing, who was fucking up what, and who was going to add more work to your plate for when you got back. You hated it. But what you hated even more was the image of Shawn walking slowly into your bedroom with a cup of chamomile tea to make sure it didn’t get spilled. You hated the way he slid into bed and wrapped his arms around you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever laid eyes on. And you hated the way that your body just completely gave into him because how could you ever want or need anything else with him beside you?

“I’m sorry you can’t work until the baby’s born, sweetheart. I know how important it is to you.” He hummed tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You snorted. “What happened to all the excitement you had at the doctor’s office?”

“I’m excited you’re safe, and that I get to spend time with you relaxing until the baby comes. I’m not excited that you’re upset, honey. I could never feel that way.”

You bit your lip softly and nuzzled a little closer to your person.

“Relaxing?”

He nodded with a smile. “I’m not going anywhere. I thought we could...visit my parents? Maybe ride up to Vancouver for a weekend? There’s this cabin Brian and I went to once in Whistler when I was young and stupid with my money, but it’s just as beautiful in the summer as it is in the winter. I’ve got plans. I don’t expect you to stay bedridden until you give birth, my love.”

“That actually sounds really nice.” You giggled.

“Yea? Can we give it a shot?”

“Yea, Why not?”

“Good. Come kiss me already.”

Finally.

***

Leave it to your kid to come out in Pickering, Ontario of all places. Shawn had kept true to his word. No label meetings, no photoshoots, do endorsement deals until after the baby was born. And it was perfect. You cooked together and watched movies together and went on walks and to the beach. He took pictures of you for no other reason than to remember your time together. It was a moment of serenity, of reflection, and of love.

That night, he sat beside you in bed and rubbed cocoa butter over your belly just like always, kissed your stomach and sang the baby to sleep just like always.When it was time for the two of you to go to bed, he ran his thumb along your cheek and kissed you goodnight.

“I love you so much.” He whispered. “I can’t wait to spend forever together.”

You smiled and kissed at his thumb upon your cheek.

“Me neither. Kinda weird. I can’t believe we made it all this way.”

“But we did. It was meant to be. And we worked damn hard for it.”

You fall asleep, like you did most nights now, with Shawn’s wrapped around you and your handy dandy pillow below your lower back. It’s just like every other night. Until it isn’t…

*four hours later*

“Baby….Sweetheart ...Y/N!!”

“What. What is it?” You muttered still very much asleep.

“I think you peed the bed, honey.” Shawn whispered.

Your eyes fluttered open in the dark and there was the love of your life, People’s sexist Man Alive three years ago, saying that you had essentially pissed yourself. And they say romance isn’t dead?

“Are you fucking kididng me?” You huffed. “Oh my god that’s so fucking embarassing.”

He went to reach for you only for you to pull away. The last thing you needed was for him to help you out of a puddle of your own urine. Jesus Christ.

“Sweetheart, It’s okay. I--I don’t care. You know I don’t care.”

You leaned up out of bed and all of sudden there was a pretty bad pain in your stomach that left you a bit winded and unable to get up.

“Well shit, that fucking hurts.” You whined.

Shawn flicked on the light on the bedside table.

“What hurts?”

You took a deep breath like your doctor instructured.

“Fucking contractions are starting up again.”

The room goes silent as you breathe through the pain. It lasts far longer than you’re used to and hurts like a bitch, but with the breathing technique it isn’t unbearable. And then...he loses his fucking mind.

“OH MY GOD!”

“What?! Why are you yelling?!” You gasped.

“WE’RE HAVING A BABY. OH MY GOD. HOLY SHIT!”

He went to stumble his way out of bed, only to fall flat on the floor. That didn’t stop him from jumping right up and running around in circles. You know? Like a lunatic? So much for the lamaze classes.

“Shawn. Shawn! SHAWN! Calm the hell down.” You yelled rubbing at your belly.

“Sweetheart it’s your water. It’s your water, not piss. We’re having a fucking baby!”

“Excuse me, I’m aware! It’s inside of me. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Go wake your parents, I’m gonna call the hospital.”

Shawn nodded taking some deep breaths of his own before turning to wake his parents. You barely rolled over like a bowling ball on the bed before he was back, this time a lot calmer thankfully. He reached straight for your face, warm hands stilling you instantly as he kissed you like you were all that mattered.

“I love you. We’re gonna have a baby.” He whispered, a smile so big on his face that it felt like it radiated within you.

“We are.” You chuckled. “I love you too.”

***

*Shawn’s point of view*

Something shifts drastically in the car. In the house, he could barely tell she was in labor except for every few minutes when she would have contractions. By the time the doctor told them to head to the hospital it was three in the morning. His dad drove, mum in the passenger seat. It meant he got to sit in the back with her and hold her hand, rub at her back, whisper how much he loved her even. And for a while it was fine. But then all of a sudden hell descended on earth and it was fully and deeply embedded in the love his life.

She let out a sound that was maybe the most painful sound he’d ever heard in his life. It was high pitched and bone deep and it rang out so loud his ears hurt. But that was nothing in comparison to the feeling of the bones in his hand crushing beneath her grasp.

“Ow! Oh my--Fuck!  Sweetheart my hand!”

“I’M DYING! FUCK YOUR HAND!” She cried. “AHHHHHHHHHH!!

A vein appeared deep in the middle of her forehead as she sobbed and panted against the back seat. It was as hard to watch as it was to let her break every single bone in his goddamn hand.

The last thing he remembered before they got to the hospital was her turning to him, cheeks tear stained, and lips panting as she told him:

“Shawn?”

“Yes, honey? What can I do? Is there anything I can do?”

She nodded her head softly and swallowed.

“Yes. You can absolutely never fucking touch me again!”

His mum thought it was particularly funny if her snorts from the front seat were anything to go off. His fragile, overworked heart did not think it was so funny.

“Yes. Okay. Never touching you again. Got it.” He mumbled continuing to rub at her back.

He was certainly in for a night.  

It takes twelve hours to bring their baby into the world. And they’re the longest hours of his life. He had to watch her be in pain, watch her struggle and flail and cry, all while knowing there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He hated every second of it. It was the most helpless he’d ever felt. His parents were amazing running off to make calls to the rest of their family, which left him directly by her side. He would’ve stayed another twelves hours too if that’s what it took. Anything for her. Anything.

Another one of those moments that he’d be able to recall on the last of his life is the moment he heard his child cry for the first time. It was as if his center of gravity shifted. He was completely and utterly transfixed. He changed instantaneously in that moment, never to be the same again. It was one of the most magical moments of his life.

They go to lay the baby on her chest, y/n exhausted and red faced and so utterly happy, and his heart sores.

“This is your little baby girl.” The doctor told them.

“Shawn. Look what we did.” y/n whispered. “Look.”

His hand covers her entire back. She’s tiny and crying and wiggly and slimy. She’s beautiful.

“That’s our baby.” He sniffled just in case it might not be true. Just in case someone might have to correct him.

It’s easily the greatest day of his life.

***

He doesn’t sleep. And how could he? There’s a human in his hands. A tiny human. One that squeals and yawns and flails. She’s already immediately like her mother. Can’t sit still even in sleep, though y/n was so exhausted that she hadn’t moved in hours. But that’s okay. Everyone’s okay.

At one point, she wakes up and he freezes. In every movie he’d ever seen this was the moment that surely his daughter would begin to scream her head off like a lunatic until she turned twelve. Not quite. Instead she peered up at him inquisitively with this sort of searching look, a knowing look. This too reminded him of his love, of his person. And so he loved her infinitely already.

“You’re so fucking small.” He whispered to himself. “Shit, I said fucking. Who are we kidding your mother is gonna make sure your first word is dumbass before I ever have anything to do with it.”

Her thumb was in her mouth and she flailed sporadically in his arms as if she wanted to explore the world already, as if his arms were too much containment already. He wondered if maybe she got that from him.

“Penelope Ivy Mendes. You’re gonna have the best life a baby could ever ask for.” He assured her. “Your mom is so smart. Like one of the smartest people ever. And she’s funny. And she’s pretty, you’re really pretty too by the way. She’s gonna teach you all sort of stuff. And I’m gonna teach you too. Wait till I play you your first John Mayor record. You’ll love it so much honey. I played Continuum for your mommy when I first met her when she definitely broke into my apartment. And I played it for you when you were in her belly. It’s the greatest album maybe ever. We’ve got so much to talk about.”

She listens to him speak with wide, gentle eyes. Her skin is warm and soft, and rubs gently at her cheek with his palm. He thought he’d be overwhelmed. Thought that he’d mess something up, or that his daughter wouldn’t like him straight from the womb. But, it’s not that way at all. He could talk to her for days, he thinks. Just him and his daughter and his person. His family.

Eventually she starts to cry because she’s only been alive like eight hours and that’s a lot to put on a kid.

“You tired of hearing me talk huh?” He cooed rocking her gently in his arms.

“Did it happen...Did you break her?” Y/n mumbled from her hospital bed.

He chuckled softly slowly slipping out of the chair to move closer to her.

“Look who’s awake. I don’t think so. The nurse said she’s gonna wanna eat like every one and a half hours. She’s like her papa already.”

“Oh wonderful. Give her to me?”

They pass her easily, Y/n lifting her hospital gown to let her little mouth go searching for her meal. With the baby preoccupied, he’s allowed to check up on his other human. She’s really beautiful to him, hair bed crazed, eyes still sleepy, cheeks a little rosy. Something about their daughter on her chest makes him overwhelmed with love though. It’s different. She’s different. Perhaps they both are.

“Are you okay?” He whispered cupping her cheek gently in his palm.

She leaned into his palm.

“‘M okay. Lots of pain though. Lots of soreness.”

“I’m sorry. I really hated watching you in pain. The whole baby part is really beautiful. But the labor part? Not so much. Want me to take the next one for us?” He joked.

Her eyes widened. “The first one isn’t a day old Shawn. My vagina is still bleeding, maybe we wait a few weeks.”

“Kidding, y/n. Totally kidding. I just want you to be healthy and safe and I want to hold you. Both of you.”

She smiled dopely up at him with eyes that he loved and lips that he loved and a heart that he loved with everything in him.

“Yea?”

“Yea. I love you more than anything.” He assured her, his eyes watering quickly. “So, so much.”

“I love you too. More than anything. Both of you.”

“And forever.”

“Forever.” She agreed.

That sounded plenty fine to him.

The End.

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[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

Psycho: Facets of Film

While it’s true that the most important elements of a movie are the story, genre, and characters, none of those things can come to life without the actual movie-making itself.

Between camerawork, set design, costuming, music, special effects, and the performances of the actors themselves, there’s a whole lot that goes into the making of a movie so that it effectively tells a story.  It’s these elements, the trimmings of a film, that help it stand out, by using a form of storytelling shorthand that makes a film memorable.

Even a low-budget film like Psycho had a lot of work go into it to make it look as good as it does.

No matter the budget of a film, a good production team knows how to take the elements at their disposal and use them to tell the story in a concise way.  Through camera angles, music, and effects, a good crew can assist the audience’s understanding of a film by using what it has to drop clues and explanations, without putting it in dialogue.

Psycho was, as it turns out, pretty good at that.

The clues aren’t hard to figure out, either.  Marion is first seen in white undergarments.  After she chooses to steal the money, they switch to black, then white again right before she’s killed, after her change of heart.  ‘Mother’ is never seen, shot with weird angles so we never get a good look at her.  The shot of Arbogast falling down the stairs, while somewhat awkward now, is masterfully arranged to increase a feeling of uncanny while hiding the killer from view.

And that music.  Those shrieking violins, alerting the audience to the next kill.

In short, Hitchcock and his team knew what they were doing.  We don’t need to hear outright that Marion is switching back and forth, the narrative and implications are doing it for us.  We don’t need a piece of dialogue saying that there’s something ‘off’ about Norman, the camera and performance is telling us.

The production of a movie is similar to how wheels are connected to a car: the story, characters, and genre make up the inner workings, but the car’s not moving until they add the method of movement.

I’ve already touched on the answer, but today, we’re exploring the question: Does Psycho use its ‘storytelling shorthand’ well?

Yes.

But I’m going to give you a little more in depth answer than that.

Let’s take a look, starting with the most obvious (and most admired of Hitchcock’s tricks): the camerawork.  (Spoilers below!)

From the first moment of the film, Hitchcock gives the movie a distinct look through camerawork, using several shots to give the impression of a tracking shot over the city and through Marion’s window.  He gives the viewer the impression that they are looking in on someone else, a sensation that is repeated later, most notably in the scene where Norman actually does peep in on Marion from the outside.  But while that’s a famous shot, there’s more to the movie than that one trick.

The cameras in Psycho capture a lot, from the iconic shower sequence to Arbogast’s murder, both of which are excellent uses of terrifying camerawork designed to disorient and frighten the audience.  In the shower case, it is through quick cuts (with knife and camera), combined with strategic blood spurts and Marion’s screaming overlaying it all.  In the case of Arbogast, it is through disorientation and vertigo.  But while these cases may be the most famous of the examples, the film’s use of camera is distinctive throughout the entire film.

Psycho revolutionized the use of the point-of-view shot, where the audience sees something through a character’s eyes.  We see this when Marion is packing her suitcase to skip town after stealing the money.  Never does she announce her plans, or say what she’s doing.  All we see is the money on her bed, and a pan over to her suitcase.  Afterwards, there is a shot of the money, through Marion’s eyes.  There are other examples (besides the murders); such as the scene where Norman peeps on Marion, where we see her from his perspective, and in the final twist, where Norman’s mother’s corpse is seen from Lila’s perspective.  But again, there’s more here in camerawork than just POV.

In my absolute favorite scene in the entire film, Norman and Marion are talking in Norman’s office parlor.  Marion is eating, Norman is not, and the discussion between them is very tense.

Adding to the tension is the camerawork.

The camera throughout the entire scene focuses on Norman being just a tad off.  From the stuffed birds-of-prey surrounding the room, peering down at them to the way Norman is framed, coming across as a victim and an aggressor.  The camera points down at Marion, and despite the use of standard shot-reverse-shot tactics, the slight angle paints her as the prey, making Norman the predator.

At the time, this just gives a feeling of unease, as nothing has happened that would implicate Norman as doing something wrong, but in hindsight, this scene is loaded with foreshadowing, assisted by a clever manipulation of the audience’s sense that something is wrong.

There are other examples.  Marion slumping forward, the cut from the blood disappearing down the drain to the shower head, to her eye, is another favorite sequence, hammering in the magnitude of what has happened.  Even the shots of the Bates house, big and imposing on the hilltop, convey something of importance to the audience.

Each of these shots conveys something to the audience, helping to manipulate them so they better understand and ‘feel’ the story as it moves along.  But there’s more to a movie’s production than the camerawork.

The musical score of Psycho is the stuff of movie legend.  Music composer Bernard Herman knew what he was doing when he created the score for this Hitchcock horror classic.  Herman had worked with Hitchcock before, but with a smaller budget, they made the decision to record the music with just strings.

The result: a tense score that rises to alert the audience with the sound of screeching violins.

These are not soft strings.  These are muted, harsh, sounds, especially during the murder scenes.  The entire sound of the film is nervous, ominous, and warning.  It’s a scary sound, rising and falling, but never in a way that comforts the audience.  It keeps us on edge, waiting with baited breath to see what happens next, and making us jump out of our seats.  But it does what it’s supposed to do: heighten the audience’s emotions.

The other elements of the film, such as special effects, while important, aren’t terribly central to the film.  The prop of Norman’s mother’s corpse is convincingly creepy, but as far as special effects, there is really only the scenes of the murders, accomplished with chocolate syrup for blood and effective cuts to prevent the audience from seeing too much.  Part of this is likely due to the budget.  With so little money available for production, special effects were out of the question, and the lack thereof possibly made the movie even more frightening.

But there was something they did have money for: sets.

The sets of Psycho during the first third of the film aren’t much to write home about.  They’re pretty standard buildings and apartments, not really anything that stands out.

Once Marion gets to the Bates Motel, though, the sets start to take on a sinister feeling.

The Bates Motel is totally empty except for Norman himself, and while the office and room itself aren’t terribly foreboding, Norman’s parlor is.

Covered wall-to-wall with dead, stuffed birds and feeling just a tad cramped, (adding onto it the knowledge of that peephole) Norman’s parlor feels downright uncomfortable, closing in.  The tight shots (another favorite form of filming in this movie) add to the feeling of unease, but the uncanniness of Norman’s parlor is dwarfed in comparison to that of the Bates house itself.

The Bates home looks like a haunted house of horror classics, a big, gothic manor, empty but for Norman and the shadow of his mother.  The exterior of the house is incredibly foreboding, big, dark, and scary, and the interior isn’t any better.

Shot with weird angles, the interior of the Bates house looks even creepier than the outside.  Between the eerie staircases and the odd rooms (the abandoned room of Mrs. Bates, Norman’s room, still preserved for a young child), followed by the haunting basement, full of shadows with one swinging bulb for light.

In short, they’re the perfect places for murder.  Perfectly complementing the characters, story, and mood, the locations, (even the creepy swamp) match the rest of the movie by mismatching, being appropriately out-of-place.

There’s more to a good, immersive movie experience than great sets, music, and camerawork, though.  We’ve got one last aspect to look at, possibly the most important one of all: performances.

The performances in a film are what inevitably make or break it.  No matter how good your movie looks, it won’t hold water without good performances to back it up.  In the end, it’s on the actors to try to sell the story and characters, and Psycho is no exception.

While there are a few actors who are a little lackluster (John Gavin as Sam Loomis) or a little over-the-top (the psychiatrist character), for the most part, the main actors play their parts perfectly.  Janet Field encapsulates Marion Crane’s drive, determination, and nervous regret, as well as compassion, and terror.  She does an excellent job making the character feel well rounded, expressive, and realistic.  Vera Miles similarly absolutely nails the intelligent, persistent Lila Crane, refusing to give up on finding her sister.  Even Martin Balsam, for his few minutes of screentime, is interesting, before his untimely demise.

In a film full of great performances, one stands out a little more than the rest: Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates.

Anthony Perkins completely knocks this character out of the park, bringing a nervous, off-putting energy to the character that makes the audience sympathize with him, while also being wary of him.  This comes to a head the more you see of him, until the film climaxes with Norman finally losing himself to his other personality.  Perkins portrays the split well, and manages to make Norman come across as entirely different when he is channeling ‘Mother’.  Perkins’ masterful performance is responsible for the iconic status of Norman Bates as a character, bringing the predator and the prey to life in a balance that’s slowly slipping.

The main trio of actors fit their respective characters perfectly, bringing them to life in a memorable and iconic way, helping to further the audience’s emotional attachment to them and the story.  The parts are perfectly cast, subtly performed, and expertly manipulation of audience expectations.

Like I said before, the crew behind Psycho knew what they were doing.  Every facet of film, from the performances to the camerawork, helps tell the story, expressing without explaining in brilliant ways.  across every emotion and aspect of the story without having to explain what we should be feeling.  The sets and characters feel unreal and unsettling, perfectly setting the mood for the thrilling story.  No matter how many times you see it, there’s always more details to notice, and rewatches do not dull appreciation for the storytelling shorthand brilliantly utilized.

Psycho has long been hailed as one of the best horror films ever made, and indeed, one of the greatest movies ever made, period.  Looking at the production design alone, it’s not hard to see why.  It all fits together perfectly, story, characters, genre and filmmaking, to create the legendary movie that is still so terrifying, fifty years later.

In short?  It really, really works.

Of course, no movie comes around accidentally.  Hitchcock had to have a plan for this movie to work out so well.

Join me next time as we discuss the Facets of Filmmaking: the Behind the Scenes of Psycho. Leave a message in the ask box if you have any thoughts of your own, and thanks so much for reading.  I’ll see you in the next article!

[lins-fandom-hub]

a friend’s demise

Boring title, I know.

@dat-silvers-girl​ and I talked through a potential alternate storyline in my MC’s multiverse, which I decided to write out in hopes of serving her character justice. Hearing about both of her game plays being banned by JC made me seriously angry, and there’s nothing more I would want to do than at least put out there how angry and empty I felt. But at the same time she had the idea and brought it up to me, so it’s perfect.

So this is for her.

This story takes place in Rowan Khanna’s POV.

---

The explosion still rang in my ears amidst the present solemn silence.

I glanced through dry eyes at my best friend wounding a long piece of pale lilac ribbon through her fingers, twisting it tightly to the thinness of a thread, relaxing the material when the strain was too tight. Through the fuggy film of her glasses I could see her red puffy eyes, the spark of life and joy now absent. Her ponytail, messily done in the morning before the funeral, now dangled limply near the end of her black hair—and I knew I couldn’t blame her for looking like a cold, empty zombie. No one would have known how quickly they would lose a friend.

“She didn’t have to go,” Clara muttered thickly, clearing her throat to rid it of the phlegm. “She had no reason to.”

I didn’t know the deceased as well as she did, and I could only imagine how she was feeling right now. I only remember tutoring her a few times in Potions and Transfiguration when she was struggling for the past few years. I’ve seen her with Clara a few times, though. They even played against each other in Quidditch once or twice overall—Clara as a Chaser for Gryffindor, and she as a Beater for Hufflepuff.

Sarahi Silvers. That was the name I caught on the jersey; that was also the name I caught on her gravestone.

“I don’t understand, Rowan,” Clara finally said, dropping her hands and turning to me. “All my plans were solely for Ben and Merula’s ears—how did you even remotely catch wind of what we were up to? And why did you follow me? Why did she follow me?”

It hurt to see the hurt in her eyes, the anger flashing in the tears that boiled at the brim, and I shook my head numbly.

“I hope you don’t get mad at me,” I murmured after another long stretch of awkward tense silence. “But I had a good reason for following you—I just can’t explain about her—”

“At least tell me why you did what you did first. I only kept ‘R’ a secret from you so that you would be safe!” Clara shouted. “The lesser people involved, the better off we all will be, right?”

“Remember that day at the train station, Clara? The day we went to get love potion ingredients so you could make the trade for an invisibility cloak?” I reminded her. “I told you that I wanted to do the right thing, and worrying about you and caring about you was the right thing. So when Charlie ended up telling me everything about ‘R’, I had to know that you weren’t getting into anything that would cost you your life.”

“But you’re not invincible either, Rowan! If anything, you could have been killed last night!”

“I know. You have every right to be mad at me right now, but you should know that we all do care about you. And you can’t blame Sarahi for doing what she did last night, either…”

The cold mist settled over my ankles like a blanket of frost, but I knew any sign of movement would give me away. I knew Clara only wanted to keep this between herself, Ben, and Merula, but I knew of their plan before they even stepped foot out of the castle. From a single black quill sitting innocently in Jacob’s room, with a transfigured message from ‘R’ asking him to meet them in the Forest Grove, they figured out that not only was Jacob in danger, but the rest of the school potentially could fall under defenceless mercy. I had no idea what they did to prepare, but they seemed prepared to go after ‘R’—at least, Merula was ready to go after Rakepick for the brutal Cruciatus Curse she cast on her in the Buried Vault.

I watched from behind the tree as Clara knelt by a bush and lifted up the low branches, eyes widening as they registered on something on the ground I could not see.

“Ben, Merula, I found something!” she called out.

“What—” Merula ran over to Clara immediately, flinching when she saw what Clara was looking at. “No, don’t touch that! It’s cursed!”

“What do you mean, that necklace is cursed?” Ben inquired, heading over to the two girls now. So that was what was under the bush—a piece of cursed jewelry that might have been of no use to Rakepick.

“That necklace is one of Rakepick’s dark artefacts. She showed it to me once,” Merula added upon seeing Clara’s confused face. “You can touch it if you don’t believe me, see what happens when you do.”

“No, I believe you,” Clara replied hastily. “It’s just…Dumbledore told me he had Rakepick’s Dark Artefacts stored at the Ministry of Magic. If she infiltrated even the one place that has greatest security measures…”

The cool night air suddenly plunged into a deep freeze, and I winced as the bark beneath my fingers began to gather a fine layer of ice.

“Then we’re in deep trouble.”

“No kidding, Lin!” Merula jerked her head at the fluttering black cloaks that surrounded the group. “Look!”

I have never seen them before in the flesh, but I would recognize them anywhere—Dementors, evil beings that sucked the happiness out of any specimen that could express even a sliver of happiness. Hovering in midair like nightmares that haunted the living daylight out of any of us, they closed in on the trio, forming a tight ring around them, obscuring them from view.

From behind me, I thought I could hear a twig snap, but I didn’t want to look back.

“Dementors! They’re surrounding us!”

“Too many!”

“Expecto Patronum!”

I watched with wide eyes as a silver unicorn emerged from Clara’s wand, cantering towards the nearest Dementor with its head bowed and goring it through with its horn. Silently, I applauded her. At least she had a powerful happy memory to fuel her powerful defence.

But even her strength had its limits. Too soon, they were wearing out, and yet the Dementor's ranks seemed to replenish with each attack.

“I can’t keep this up anymore,” I could hear Clara wheeze. “My Patronus…not powerful.”

“And when you drive one back, another takes its place,” Ben noted quietly.

“We’re screwed. Now what?!” Merula cried.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A silver lioness appeared out of nowhere, leaping towards the trio and roaring to the skies, driving every Dementor away with an ever-growing shield as thin as a bubble.

“What the…who was that?” I heard Clara ask.

Imagine everyone’s surprise when out of the shadows stepped none other than Madam Patricia Rakepick. Her fiery red hair gleamed under what little moonlight remained, her symbol of Ra polished to a shine. She towered over them like the Dementors did, save for the fact that she was robed in scarlet instead of obsidian black.

“YOU!” Merula screeched—but barely had she raised her wand when Rakepick knocked it aside, blowing her down with a simple non-verbal spell.

Non-verbal spells…they were hard to execute with as much precision as spoken incantations. How in the world could Rakepick exercise this kind of advantage against the rest of us? Either way, it was clear that the confrontation with the Dementors had completely worn the trio out, and Rakepick eventually struck them down like flies, or severely incapacitated them to the point where they were limping to face her.

At least, Ben was still standing and wincing with pain racking his body where countless blows struck.

“That will teach you a lesson!” he said.

“Take this lesson to your grave!” Rakepick countered, raising her wand. “Avada—”

“NO!”

My eyes barely registered a blur of black, yellow, and white running past me—and before I knew it, a girl about my age had lunged toward Rakepick with an almighty yell, tackling her to the ground.

“Ben!” I shouted then, running toward him as fast as my numbed legs would take me. “Clara, Merula…”

It was then when the trio saw me for the first time—Clara in shock, Ben in anger, and Merula with disgust.

“And here I thought Copper was the Crup puppy sticking around,” Merula drawled. “What are you doing here, Khanna?”

“DUCK!”

TWANG!

The point of a throwing knife sank deep into a tree near Clara’s head, and she didn’t emerge from it entirely unscathed—she cupped a hand to her ear, where the point of the blade nicked her skin.

“You—” Rakepick growled as she tried to throw the girl off her back. “Who are you? What do you want?”

That was when I saw the girl in a better light. Black hair splayed wildly over her brown eyes and pale wheatish skin in the fray, one fist curled around the curse-breaker’s gleaming red hair and the other holding another small knife like the one embedded in the tree.

“Sarahi?!” Clara exclaimed. “What are you doing here?!”

Sarahi did not answer her friend for a few seconds as she landed a roundhouse kick at Rakepick’s spine, sending her flying away from the group. Then she turned to her.

“I told you I could help with any physical fight, didn’t I?” Sarahi responded, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “You helped me find a place here at Hogwarts without making me feel like a waste of space. Now it’s my turn to return the favour.”

“Wait—that’s not—I didn’t—”

“Expulso!”

Somehow, given the harsh impact of the kick, Rakepick still managed to pick herself up, aiming her wand at Sarahi who ducked as the spell flew past her ear, blasting another tree to smithereens.

“Sarahi, you have to get out of here!” Clara shouted as best as her hoarse throat could manage, but she might as well have been screaming into an empty void. Everyone watched with wide eyes as Sarahi grabbed Rakepick’s arm with her free hand, pivoted her feet, and threw her with all her might to the ground, knocking all the wind out of Rakepick with a loud thud. 

“Run!” Sarahi screamed back at us. “All of you—go!”

“No!” Ben shouted. “This was my fight! I was supposed to protect you!”

“No one’s going to protect anyone if we end up dead, Copper!” Merula snapped.

“Aahhh!” Sarahi suddenly exclaimed as Rakepick’s hand closed around her ankle, sweeping her clean off her feet as she landed hard on her butt.

Physical fighting was not unheard of in the Muggle world, but in the wizarding world…one would only rely on such means of combat if they were left with no other choice. Anyone who didn’t have a wand would end up delivering a good punch in the nose, but what good would a bleeding nose be against the deadliest of all Unforgivable Curses? Yet there she was, scratching at Rakepick like a cat at a scratching pole with her free hand while the knife trembled in her tightened grip while Rakepick grabbed at her hair to slow her down.

I have never seen a stranger fight.

“Is this even allowed?” Ben inquired. “I would have loved to see Clara defeat a dragon this way.”

“This is not the time for commentary!” I hissed at him. “We need to get her out of here!”

Just as the words flew out of my mouth, though, I saw the blade plunge downward into Rakepick’s arm, the point sinking deep into flesh rewarded with the sinful scarlet fluid.

“You—” Rakepick growled again, pointing her wand at Sarahi who attempted now to choke her with her bare hands.

“Sarahi, forget her!” Clara screamed. “You have to go now!”

“NO! YOU GO!” Sarahi cried. “All of you go!”

Clara looked just about ready to argue, but I could tell she was in no shape to fight any more. I eventually dragged Clara by the arm while Merula took Ben, but just as we began to head back to Hogwarts I saw Rakepick raise her wand.

“Avada Kedavra!”

A flash of green light enveloped the girl who was in the midst of drawing another knife from her robes; the force blasted her away, and for a moment I thought I saw her mouth morph into a silent scream before her body landed limply on the hard-packed earth, the knife she had just unsheathed sliding off in another direction. At the same time, I saw a scarlet bottle of something fly through the air, landing on the girl where it exploded with a loud BOOM on contact.

I thought I would never hear the end of Clara’s howl of pain after Rakepick Disapparated without another word.

“No, Sarahi can’t be blamed,” Clara realized after a while. “She must have followed you for the same reason you followed me. She...wanted to protect me too."

"And you're sure Sarahi knew nothing about 'R'?" I asked her.

"Positive. The only time I ever mentioned anything even remotely related to this was when I told her Merula had the mindset of a killing machine."

"Well, whatever the case, she must have seen you as someone very important, just like everyone else is," I remarked hollowly. "She must have looked up to you, too."

"Did you know her well?"

I shook my head. "I only tutored her once in a while in Potions and Transfiguration for the last few years. But I had no idea she knew you. She must have known that we were best friends, though."

"Who wouldn't? It's always been us since the beginning. Even the most unwary of students would know," Clara pointed out with a nod, glancing down at the ribbon still crumpled in her hands. "I just wish I could have given her more than just a few words and a simple birthday present. I mean, I could tell she liked it but…"

"You wish you had more time with her?"

"Mhmm. There's so much about her I still don't know."

She eventually fixed her ponytail and tied the ribbon over the elastic, where it now gleamed on her head with a few creases like a tin foil crown. Then she wiped her glasses and sighed, her hands balling into fists.

"They did it, then," Clara finally remarked bitterly. "'R' successfully took a friend's life. But we will take what should have been theirs, had there been no enemy in the way of defying them."

"What are you saying, Clara?"

Clara looked over at me, a storm gathering in her eyes, and for a moment I thought I saw lightning flash in the clouds that formed in her irises.

"We will avenge her in our own way. And once we do, there will be no stopping the storm."

[nazariolahela]

Something Domestic: Chapter 2

A/N: Hey y'all! This is a new TRR AU I’ve been working on. This story is told in first-person narrative, from Riley’s (MC) POV. There will likely be smidges of canon in this, but not too much. Thanks for reading, and please leave feedback, and/or if you would like to be tagged.

Catch up here

Series Tags: @burnsoslow @aworldoffandoms @dcbbw @ladyangel70 @texaskitten30 @sunandlemons @jlynn12273 @drakesensworld @badchoicesposts

Synopsis: When Riley Brooks takes a new job as a nanny for the affluent Rhys family in New York’s Upper East Side, she assumes she’s just going to care for the children of the couple who hired her. But instead of just school pick-ups and afternoon snacks, she also finds herself spending time with Liam, the handsome divorced dad. Can Riley control her feelings for Liam while still performing the job she was hired for?

All characters are the property of Pixelberry Studios. Thanks for allowing me to borrow them.

Chapter Summary: Riley gets the grand tour of her new employer’s home.

Madeleine walks me through the rest of the penthouse, showing off each room. We make our way to the second floor where the bedrooms and bathrooms are located. The second level has the best view, in my opinion. At the top of the stairs, the floor splits into two wings. Down the west wing, she points out a playroom, and Charlotte and Philip’s rooms, a large bathroom with a soaking tub, and a walk-in shower that’s probably bigger than my entire apartment.

There are doors on either side of the bathroom that lead to the kids’ rooms. We continue down to the end of the hall to the guest room, which has its own half bath. The size of this room makes me think it’s the master bedroom, except for the tiny bath. Looking around, I notice a book and a cell phone charger on the nightstand next to the bed. There is also a bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. This room looks pretty lived-in for being a guest room, and I wonder to myself who else is staying here. 

Making our way back, we head down the east wing of the penthouse, and she shows me Liam’s office and the master suite. In the middle of the tour, Madeleine’s phone buzzes and she excuses herself to answer it. Letting my curiosity get the best of me, I slip in through the slightly ajar door to see the most amazing sprawling master bedroom with a four-poster bed. There’s a massive walk-in closet full of designer clothes and shoes.

A single framed photo sits on one of the nightstands. I make my way closer to inspect it and see that it’s a wedding photo. Awkward.

I inspect the photo. Liam looks like the happiest man in the world. Of course, Madeleine isn’t smiling. I’m pretty sure the woman is incapable. I step away from the photo and examine the rest of the bedroom.

To the left, is the five-fixture en-suite master bath. A sliding glass door leads out to a triple-wrap terrace where a fire pit sits in the middle of an eight-piece outdoor sofa set. The view from the balcony is absolutely stunning. The New York skyline sits in front of me like a priceless painting. I slip through the sliding door and make my way across the balcony. As I take in the view, I peek over the railing to see the bustling street below. A girl could get used to this.

“Enjoying the view?” A voice says from behind me, and I jump. I turn around to find Liam standing in the doorway, watching me. Good lord, this man is stunning. I need to control myself if I'm going to be working for him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be out here. Madeleine was giving me a tour, and she had to take a phone call.” I say as my cheeks burn.

He smiles at me, shaking his head. “No biggie. She got a call from work so she asked me to finish giving you the tour. But it seems you’ve already found your way around the place. What do you think so far?”

“This place is incredible. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a home.” I say, turning back to stare out at the cityscape. I feel him behind me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand.

“It is a pretty spectacular view,” he says, striding across the balcony toward me. “One of the reasons we bought this place is because of this. I fell in love with it the minute I saw it.”

I nod, looking around the balcony. “I can see why.” I don't even know how much he paid for this place, but it’s totally worth it. Note to self: Look up the value of his home on Zillow later tonight. I turn to him, “The place is amazing. Even though it's so spacious, it feels so cozy." I pause. Do I bring up the guest room? I don't know why it's necessary, but before I can stop myself, I blurt out the question. "Uhmmm..one more thing. Just curious if anyone else is going to be living here. I noticed the guest room looks like someone’s been staying in there.”

His body stiffens and he looks down at the ground as his hand rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. That’s actually what I wanted to speak with you about earlier, but the kids were in the room.”

I cock my eyebrow at him. “Oookay?”

He takes a deep breath and his steely blue eyes stare into mine. God, I could get lost in them. His voice wavers as he speaks. “Madeleine and are in the middle of a divorce. That’s her room.”

My own baby blues widen. Well, this just went from zero to awkward AF in about 2.5 seconds. How did I not notice that beforehand? The cold looks she shot him during my interview. The way she sat separately from her family. The martini at 11 o’clock in the morning. “Oh...I see,” I reply, averting my eyes back to the skyline.

“We haven’t told a lot of people yet. The tabloids don’t even know. The only people who know are our families and close friends. And, well you, now. We’re hoping to make this as civilized as possible without upsetting Charlotte and Philip too much. Once everything is finalized, we’re going to tell the kids and she’ll be moving out. In the meantime, she stays in the east wing with the kids.”

“So, what’s up with the wedding photo on the nightstand?”

He sighs deeply and runs his fingers through his hair. “I guess I haven’t gotten around to putting it away yet. Part of me hasn’t accepted that our marriage is over.”

I swallow, not entirely sure how to respond. He's opening up to me, and I don't know how to comfort him. Come to think of it, why does he feel the need to tell me this? I'm not family or close friends. I'm just a stranger. His kids' nanny, actually. I understand why he thinks this is important information for me to know, considering I’m going to be a part of his family’s lives for the foreseeable future, but it seems so personal. I wonder to myself, not daring to ask what happened. As if he’s reading my thoughts, he answers my question. 

“She cheated on me. Slept with some stuffy suit from her PR firm. Rashad or something like that.” He turns to me and I catch him watching me out the corner of my eye.

Holy shit. Talk about a scandal. My heart breaks for him. I think to myself how someone could do something like that to someone they supposedly love. Especially someone as good looking as Liam. Even when he’s heartbroken, he looks so kissable. Damnit, Riley. Stop it. This is bordering on inappropriate. The man’s wife betrayed him and he's your motherloving boss, you horny bitch! I push the thoughts back and nod. “I'm sorry to hear that. Forgive me for overstepping, but why are you telling me this?”

He laughs in a rich, deep tone, the sound reverberating through my body. “Well, since you’re practically a part of our family now, I figured that you should know. I’m sorry if it feels like I’m pouring my heart out to you. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation in case it comes up.”

I give him a weak smile and rack my brain, thinking of something to change the subject with. Think Riley, think. After what feels like forever, I speak up. “So, other than your kids and your company, what do you do in your spare time?”

A grin spreads across his face. “Not much since the kids were born, but my best friend Drake owns a tavern a few blocks from here called The Double Tappe. I try to get down there once a week for a drink.”

“Oh my god! I love that place,” I reply. “It’s my favorite Happy Hour spot.” It’s more than that though, It’s practically the hottest dive bar in town for the under-30 crowd. I grin recalling that Hana and I spend every Friday night there sucking down $5 Whiskey Sours and singing karaoke. I rack my brain, trying to think if I’ve seen him there before, but given that I’m some form of intoxicated most of the time, it’s no use.

He nods. “Yeah, it’s gotten pretty popular over the years, much to Drake’s dismay. For a guy whose business thrives on customer service, he’s not the most outgoing person.”

“Drake,” I say to myself, trying to picture him in my head. “Wait... Dark brown hair, always wearing flannel and turning his nose up at anyone who orders something other than whiskey?”

Liam chuckles, “That’s the one. He’s kind of a stickler when it comes to a good spirit. I told him when he opened the place that not everyone drinks whiskey, but he didn’t want to hear it. He almost had to close the doors a few years back because he refused to serve any other drinks. Thankfully, he came to his senses and expanded his menu, but it took a little kicking and screaming for him to get there.”

I giggle. “Well, I’m glad things worked out for him. His bar is great for broke postgrads like myself. Great atmosphere and the drinks are cheap.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” Liam smiles.

We both stand there listening to the sounds of the city before my stomach rudely interrupts. I smile and look at the time on my phone. It’s already past noon and clearly, I’m starting to get hungry. “Well, if there’s nothing more to show me, I suppose I should take off. Thank you again for this opportunity. I'm really looking forward to getting to know you and your family."

He reaches over and places his hand on my arm to stop me, then pulls it back. "Hey...if you don't have plans, how about we go get a bite to eat?"

I eye him warily. Did he really just invite me to lunch?  He's extremely attractive, but he's also my boss. One lunch won't hurt, right? However, what would the agency say if they found out I was taking private lunches with employers? As I wage an inner battle with my thoughts, he clears his throat.

"I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. I don't want you to think I'm making a pass at you. I know how seriously you take your job."

I smile back at him. "Oh, no. It's fine. I'm actually supposed to meet my roommate in a little while. Umm...but I'll see you bright and early Monday morning."

He smiles and leads me back inside through the penthouse and back to the elevator. As I reach the foyer, I turn back to him and catch his eye. His gaze bores into me and my breath catches in my chest. Why do I suddenly feel flushed? Before I let my hormones take over and do something stupid, I extend my hand out and shake his. "Okay then. See you on Monday!" I say again a little too enthusiastically. The elevator door dings and I exhale, thanking the Gods for getting me out of this awkward situation. As I step in and turn around, I catch him smiling at me as the doors close. 

Once the elevator makes its descent, I pull out my phone and immediately dial Hana. She picks up on the second ring.

"Hey! How did it go?"

Hoo boy, that's a loaded question. Do I tell her about the last sexually-charged hour? Shut up, Riley. It wasn't like that. Was there really chemistry between us or is it all in my head?

"Great! How about you meet me at our spot in half an hour and I'll tell you all about it over lunch?"

Her bubbly reply rings through the speaker. "Can't wait. See you soon!"

I hang up the phone and take a deep breath. When the elevator stops, and the doors glide open, I gather my thoughts and stride out into the lobby. The same receptionist is still at her perch, still catching up on her celebrity gossip.

Hmm...I notice that Liam and Madeleine are on the cover of her magazine with their children, looking like the perfect family. I frown as I think about how their situation really is. The receptionist looks up from her magazine, side-eying me as I wave goodbye and make my way out the front door to the busy sidewalk outside. 

I stop for a moment and take a deep breath as the city buzzes with activity. I wave for a cab, and as one slows in front of me, I reflect on the last hour. Did all of that really just happen? Something about the way his eyes sparkled when he talked to me. I wonder if he felt it too. Either that or I totally imagined it and that’s just how looks at everyone. Maybe that's why Madeleine cheated.  No, Riley. You don't know the whole situation so stop making assumptions. I swing open the cab door and climb inside. As I give the driver the address to the restaurant, I look back at the building and say a silent prayer for my sanity.

[sebthesnipe]

The Dreamer by Whatwashernameagain an Analysis? Chapter 2! Part 2

All portions:

Chapter 1: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Chapter 2: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

The Dreamer

@whatwashernameagain

As always, Spoilers under cut.

To jump right in we start off with Roman’s father. Eva writes: “Astonishingly, his father hadn’t scoffed at him as he’d passionately pleaded his case. The paper in his hands had been filled with speculations about the black clad silhouette barely caught on camera. The elderly republicans rightfully arguing against him had been banished to page eight, pushed aside by the intriguing puzzle the anonymous terrorist presented” (Whatwashernameagain).

We get a bit of more insight into Roman’s father, though he’s not nearly as flushed out as Logan or Roman, with good reason. He is, after all, a secondary character. First off, as with many works, the things that aren’t said are just as important as what is. Eva mentions that the front page focus’ on the Utilitarianist, with the Republicans are pushed to page eight. We know that Roman’s father is apart of the Republican party and as such this means that he is pushed aside by the public in favor of the Utilitarianist. And the fact that she mentions the paper at all, being held in Roman’s father’s hands shows that he is invested in the issue. A man who works in politics obviously would be quite upset when such an upstart outshines him in the media especially if he is in the middle of a campaign. So, the mention of the paper in general brings attention to the man’s ambitious nature and self-centered nature.

As for Roman, well, we gain a bit of hope for the man when the work mentions that his father didn’t turn up his nose at the other man’s passionate pleading. We know that at this point Roman’s only aspiration in life is to gain his father’s approval. Despite the fact that we consider this venture misguided, the reader is invested in Roman’s well being and happiness after Chapter 1 so, we can’t help but hope that he has achieved his goal. Because we love him.

“He’d looked at Roman as if he’d never truly seen him before. As if he was something of value. For the first time in years, the young man had his father’s full attention. It was like being in the spotlight he’d secretly dreamed of – bright and warm and exhilarating” (Whatwashernameagain). Poor, poor Roman… My baby… This once again, paints more of a picture of Roman, than his father. This is Roman’s POV after all. We see Roman’s father looking at him as if it were for the first time. Which implies that the attention Roman has always yearned for was never there in the first place. Sure, this had been implied before, but it hasn’t been truly pointed out until now. Roman’s father has done nothing but neglect and ignore him. Its no wonder Roman is starved for attention and understand; it’s no wonder that he is so naïve. His father has barely acknowledged his existence his entire life because Roman has never been particularly useful. I mentioned during my analysis of Chapter 1, Logan’s analogy of a ‘thorn in his shoe’ when referring to Roman but that analogy would not fit for Roman’s father… A thorn would give Roman far too much of an actual presence. No, Roman to his father is far less than a thorn. He is gravel on a warn path. He is meant to be stepped on in favor of pursuing his ambitions, only acknowledged when it makes enough noise to catch the attention of the person walking. His only purpose is to smooth out the road to success and nothing more.

This also brings attention to Logan, by simple contrast. Logan is supposed to be the cold unemotional villain of this story, but he doesn’t pull it off… at least not really. When Roman eventually grows close to the logical man, he no doubt sees a bit of his father in Logan. They are both distanced and calculating, they hold their heads up high and seem to criticize the world, they both are ambitious and driven. This comparison is no doubt attractive to Roman. He has wanted his father’s attention and affection his entire life, has seen him as a great man. When he meets Logan and truly begins to understand that Logan has a good heart deep down, I believe he begins to truly compare the two whether consciously or not. The difference is that Logan truly /is/ good at heart. We saw it at differing points throughout Chapter 1; his relief when Roman saves that girl, his compassion for Roman, himself, the fact that he had saved him from his captor before. Roman has seen first hand that Logan truly does care but never his father. All he has to ‘prove’ his father’s good heart is the man’s words which honestly doesn’t amount to much.

This also brings me back to something I mentioned in Chapter 1 as well: We, as humans, define things through comparison, without bad we’d never understand what good is and vice versa. We don’t know what Red is without comparing it to other colors. Roman’s father is bad, plain and simple, but he does not know this… not yet anyways. Its not until he sees the parallel between his father and Logan that he begins to see what could be… What a man with his father’s demeanor who actually cares can look like. Logan provides him with the hope he has always looked for in his father, the acknowledgment. Sure, Logan acts as if Roman is beneath him, which Roman is use to, but at the same time he provides Roman with the attention he has been starved for, attention from a man Roman respects. Despite Logan’s claims of seeing Roman as beneath him, Logan has treated him as an equal, going toe to toe with him, arguing with him… Roman has never had this; we see proof of that by his lack of self esteem and the way he talks about how he asks stupid questions or makes ignorant suggestions. No one has ever treated him as valued or taken him, as a person, into consideration… until Logan. Logan is his hope. Even the public, after he becomes The Dreamer, doesn’t see him as person but as celebrity. He is valued, yes, but not as himself, only as the persona he is taught to be; granted The Dreamer is apart of him, a big part, but he is more than just the name.

This also might be why Roman is so focused on the individual rather than saving the masses. Being accepted and appreciated by a large group of people feels less personal than the acceptance and love of an individual. If I had the choice to be loved by millions or loved by a few I would probably choose the few, though that is just me. My point is, by focusing on the individual Roman provides them something he never had; attention, affection, acceptance, value, and protection. The next line helps underline what I mean: “It was like being in the spotlight he’d secretly dreamed of—bright and warm and exhilarating” (Whatwashernameagain).

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

“He felt worth something for the first time as his father rose and walked around him, taking in his tall frame, filling in well from the workouts he tried to burn frustrated energy with, the sparkling green eyes, the luscious curls, the strong cheekbones and attractive features. There was no denying that Roman was handsome. A figure to be displayed, as long as he kept his mouth shut” (Whatwashernameagain).

Okay… So… I’m really conflicted with the rest of this paragraph. Its just… I have so many feelings. First off, The imagery here is beautiful: Roman’s father is circling him, examining him as if he were some show dog in a competition and in a way he is. Roman’s father only has time for things he considers useful and up until now, Roman was not useful. However, as a show dog he could be quite handy, and his father is realizing this now. The cold calculating gaze Eva describes as he examines his son provides that image. It is skillfully done which is why I am conflicted. On one hand, the talent she shows her makes me love the passage; on the other it also makes me hate Roman’s father even more. Roman is not some show pony to be placed on display and tossed aside once he completed his performance… We are meant to dislike Roman’s father and she has accomplished that goal.

The story moves on describing Logan’s movements; stating that they grew more frequent, showing the media’s support for The Utilitarianist. We’re reminded at a certain point that we are still in Roman’s POV, however, with “The liberal media was lapping up [Logan’s] speeches, stilted and uncreative as they may be” (Whatwashernameagain). This provides the reader with the reminder that at this point Roman still wasn’t very fond of the man. It also brings back the fact that Roman is a bit over the top; calling Logan’s speeches ‘stilted and uncreative’. This line also provides a contrast between the villain and hero. In fact, this line is a direct parallel to Logan’s words about the Hero’s speeches: “The worst, however, were the speeches. He knew very well how much the media loved him with his uniform accentuating his broad shoulders and his lush, caramel hair, his blinding smile and perfect, tan skin. He was a nuisance, is what he was trying to say” (Whatwashernameagain).

The direct comparison is nice and so subtly done (though I’m not sure she meant to do it… idk) that it is beautifully executed. Once again, the reader’s attention is pulled to the stark contrast between the two men. Logan’s thoughts on The Dreamer’s speeches are obviously molded towards glamor and aesthetics… which is in part The Dreamer’s purpose. Its obvious that Logan views the man as air headed and just a pretty face which is what Roman’s father is, in fact, using him as. While Roman views Logan’s speeches as cold and uncreative, lacking the glamor Logan obviously has a distaste for.

This also provides a glimpse at the contrasting tones between the POVs which I have continuously praised Eva’s talents on. Logan’s thoughts are far more aggressive in tone, almost angry, which really suits the Utilitarianist’s persona. Someone who is willing to do just terrible things to right the world no doubt has quite a lot of anger residing in them. While, Roman’s view points are more gentle and needy. He needs affirmation, affection, acceptance. His criticism on the villain’s speeches are not very harsh in the least, which is not surprising coming from such a kind soul, but at the same time, they are as harsh as Roman gets really. In essences he is calling Logan’s speeches ‘tacky’ which is a huge insult to a man like Roman even if they seem gentle to the rest of use. The aggression from Logan and the gentle insults from Roman make the two such perfect opposites that it is both endearing and heartwarming. I love it.

We also see in the next few lines the implied influence Roman’s father has on him. Logan’s destructive agenda threatening to ‘destroy the moral of the good society and plunge them all into anarchy’ and the people of ‘the greatest country in the world’ showing their resolve. As children we are taught to believe what our parents want us to believe and that is obvious the case for Roman as well. He believes these things but for those of us living in the U.S. we recognize the same regurgitated words that the Republican party uses every year. Roman is no doubt so driven to please his father that he doesn’t stop to question if these are his beliefs or his father’s. At least… not yet…

Something that Roman says does catch my eye; he states that “A revolution was on its way” (Whatwashernameagain). Could this be another foreshadowing? I would say so. We know that something happened at the end of Chapter 1 to injure Roman in such a horrible way and the fact that he said that he didn’t know where else to go implies that he didn’t trust his father. A revolution is surely coming but not in the way the Roman thinks here. He has his own revolution he is going to have to deal with and the country isn’t going to be the one to help him.

The story moves on describing how Roman’s father had created a community of wealthy ‘caring’ American patriots ready to sacrifice everything for their ‘traditional values’. Once again, this feeds into Roman’s delusions about his father and his father’s values. It is obvious that his naivety is still securely in place if he sees these things as brave or heroic. He talks about experiments on soldiers that are meant to fight for America’s future… How could that be alright? But Roman is blinded by his love for his father and his need to be valued to he steps up to the plate and volunteers.

The next para however, pulls us back to the optimistic Roman we know and love and the presence of thought that will no doubt be the cause of his revolution and the very thing that is used against him to make him the tool his father needs:

“They needed someone his fellow citizens could look up to. Someone who would stand up to the terror caused in these insecure times. Someone kind and strong and good to give them hope for a better future. A future Roman believed in with all his heart. Humans were amazing creatures! The feats they had accomplished awed the young man and deep down, he believed they could solve their problems together. He trusted their combined creativity, love and unity to save this planet in the end” (Whatwashernameagain).

This is the image Roman wants to be, the image he believes he can be; the person he does not see himself as right now but yearns to make of himself even if it is just a persona. The fact is, however, he is already this person he just needs to be strong enough to embrace it, something he is currently incapable of due to his obsession with his father’s approval. I don’t know about the rest of you but I learned a while ago that every individual has the power to change the world and it is not as hard as they would originally think. It takes a kind word or action to inspire the next and the more you provide the world the more it gives. The catch is… More often than not… you’ll never see the plant that your seeds grow into. All you can do is plant the seeds and how that what ever comes out of them is good. A single word can save a person’s life. A single action can change a perspective. We as people just have to be strong enough to face our own demons and decide to say that word or do that thing. /That/ is not easy. /That/ might be more difficult than you can believe but once you’ve decided to try then every step afterwards becomes easier. The only thing that holds us back from being the change is ourselves. People can make a thousand excuses as to why they don’t do something and typically it is blaming someone or something else but, in the end, … The only power someone else has over you is the power you allow them to have. Someone hating me isn’t going to affect me unless I allow it to. My car breaking down isn’t going to ruin my day unless I allow it… I am not saying that this mentality is easy its not. It’s the hardest thing in the world to force yourself out of your own way… but after you do it once… twice… Three times… Eventually it becomes second nature and there is nothing stopping you from becoming the person you’ve always wanted; becoming the change; becoming the light.

**Note: This is not belittling Mental Illness or any other issues. This is a very simplistic version of this train of thought.

Roman in this case is the only thing standing between himself and the person he wants to be is himself and his need for acceptance from his father. It is sad to see but it is obvious that his heart is where it needs to be, he just has to get over the hurtle, the need for that acceptance. The need is reinforced as Roman talks about his father’s complaints about ‘hostile foreign countries’, ‘leftist propaganda and lying media dividing them’ … Once again, it is something a lot of Americans here from the political parties and honestly I’m impressed by how accurately Eva captures this when considering that she does not live in America.

In the same para we turn back to Roman’s views; Roman wanted to unite the world, to give them something to believe in, to fend off fear, to sew trust rather than fear. It provides a beautiful contrast between the man Roman is and his father, despite the belief’s Roman holds. We also see the uncharacteristic self confidence that he don’t see in regular Roman: “Peace was a possibility if they only believed. And he knew he could give them this belief” (Whatwashernameagain). Once again, we get brief snippets of The Dreamer that we know is inside Roman but haven’t seen much of in the Chapter as of yet.

Now we move onto the rough part of Roman’s past. The experiments begin. “For months, he subjected himself to test, procedures and surgery with no complaints. He saw no daylight for almost half a year as his father’s and his partner’s scientists, the people who worked for the Conglomerate, did their best to make him worth putting their faith in” (Whatwashernameagain). We see Roman’s astonishing resolve as he puts himself through these things ‘with no complains’. We see his lack of self esteem as he describes the scientists as ‘doing their best to make him /worth/ putting their faith in’. It really makes me want to scream at him but… Lets move on. This also gives another insight into just how horrible a father Roman’s dad really is. What kind of father would put his son through such torture? The kind that is just using him for his own gain and truly doesn’t give a damn. This cements that Roman is nothing but a tool to the man. Roman, however, in his sweet naivety views the process as ‘glorious’ despite his agony because it is something, he believes will gain him his father’s praise… his pride… his acceptance… Poor, poor naïve Roman.

My anger jumps once more with the next line: “As he saw him again, months after being sent to the research facility” (Whatwashernameagain). No! Fuck that! This bastard just sent his son off to be tortured and experimented on and didn’t even drop by to check on him. I get that you love him Roman but you’re an idiot and I love you for it. As soon as he was able to walk without appearing to be in pain they began to groom him for the media, implying once more that image is everything and to Roman’s father, it is.

Her is a young man that would do anything to gain his father’s approval, gain the world’s trust. He’s willing to be tortured in order to make the world a better place for everyone. This is a true hero. Even before The Dreamer is created Roman is an inspiration and no doubt when Logan finds out about all this Roman is going to have one hell of a time convincing him not to slaughter his father and everyone else involved. Even after all of this torture Roman is eager to do his father’s bidding and go after Logan, and the ‘psychological damage’ he as inflicting on Roman’s precious country. It is noble and says quite a lot about Roman’s perseverance and care. Honestly it reminds me a lot of Patton. Both of these sides are capable of so much love… Patton is just more open about it while Roman expresses it in a more prideful manner.

“Roman humbly accepted the choices of those smarter than him. He worked hard on his enunciation, his posture, his all-American accent, so they would deem him ready faster. The terrorist was growing more and more dangerous every day. His acts were growing more sophisticated, his public appearances increased from flashes of a tall, slender form caught by cameras, to manifestos read in a passionate, though clearly untrained voice over the internet. And now, he’d killed for the first time” (Whatwashernameagain).

Once again we are faced with Roman’s lack of self confidence though I’m just going to touch on that and move on because the comparison between our favorite hero and villain is back again. Roman is filling out his persona as best he can, working on his accent and posture, getting himself ready for the big leagues. Logan is doing the same, though in a different way. The villain doesn’t put much weight into public appearances, so these things do no matter to him. No, he’s moving up in the world by improving his strategies and going bigger and bigger. The pinnacle of his work being his first kill while Roman’s is being camera ready. It just goes to emphasis the difference between the two once more. Roman’s team are more focused on appearance rather than substance while Logan is getting his hands dirty…. Once again two sides of the same coin but their difference are no doubt mean to feed the revolution Roman is no doubt about to face.

*****

Alright children, I meant to write more but I am off to work. See you in part 3

  Rivkin, Julie. Literary Theory: a Practical Introduction. Wiley-Blackwell, 2017.

Whatwashernameagain. “The Dreamer - Chapter 1.” Hello Guys Gals And Non Binary Friends, 8 Sept. 2019, https://whatwashernameagain.tumblr.com/post/189407228487/the-dreamer-chapter-1?is_related_post=1.

 Whatwashernameagain. “The Dreamer - Chapter 2.” Hello Guys Gals And Non Binary Friends, 8 Sept. 2019, https://whatwashernameagain.tumblr.com/post/189407228487/the-dreamer-chapter-2?is_related_post=1.

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 37

Two words: Natrin’s Barrow

Chapter 37: A Force of Light

That sounds almost positive, so it probably isn’t.

Oh it’s a Min POV! I’ve been wanting one of these.

I like the way the POV is shifting in this book so far, bouncing off of Rand to other characters briefly, then coming back to him on the way to another character, touching sometimes on his own thoughts and sometimes on those around him. It’s a change from the previous few books, and adds to the sense that we’re drawing closer to an ending; everything is being pulled tightly around him as he stands at the centre of this storm.

The previous few books, we’ve seen more of things falling apart, divisions growing, unity failing, the right hand falters and the left hand strays – reinforced by the way POV sections were grouped by character, so you’d see one character and one storyline for a few chapters, and then either not at all or maybe only once or twice before the next book. The stories were separate, the characters were separate, and the impacts of the Dragon Reborn and the impending Last Battle and everything that goes with it were being flung across the world. Now, there’s a sense of pulling that back in, and so it becomes tighter, faster, and yet at the same time slightly more chaotic and frantic.

And Rand stands at the centre, but he still has relatively few viewpoint chapters of his own; often, now, he is narrated by one of those near him. Because while he is the point around which everything turns, he inhabits a slightly different level – partly out of his own doing, deciding that the Dragon Reborn cannot be truly human, giving himself to his role and duty and leaving nothing for himself, writing out his own agency in a way; and partly out of the role he is given.

Anyway, let’s get to the actual chapter, shall we?

These opening paragraphs, with Min watching Rand dress in meticulous detail, sharp and tense and exact, remind me a great deal of two other scenes. The first is Rand preparing to go to Caemlyn to face Rahvin at the end of TFoH, where he thought about how he needed to be cold, with no mistakes, and Aviendha watched him. The second is Min watching Rand prepare to go to Illian to face Sammael. There’s a trend here, is all I’m saying.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

Rand did not turn from the mirror. “About what?”

“The Seanchan.”

“There will be no peace,” he said, straightening his coat collar. “I have failed.” His tone was emotionless, yet somehow taut.

“It’s all right to be frustrated, Rand.”

“Frustration is pointless,” he said. “Anger is pointless.”

Tuon left that meeting and immediately declared herself Empress and war on the Tower (like my zeugma there?). Now, I think, we’re seeing Rand’s version of that. Two leaders walk away from a ruined attempt at peace and set their held plans in motion, cold and clear and ruthless.

The air shimmered above Rand, and a mountain appeared there. Viewings were so common around Rand that Min usually forced herself to ignore them unless they were new – though she did spend time some days trying to pick them all out and sort through them. This one was new, and it caught her attention. The towering mountain was blasted out on one side, making a jagged hole down the slope. Dragonmount?

Finally someone says it. Dragonmount’s been hanging over Rand for…well, technically his whole life I suppose, but in the last few chapters those hints have been getting heavier than either duty or a mountain.

It was cloaked in dark shadows, as if shaded by clouds

Or by metaphor.

That was odd; whenever she’d seen the mountain, it had reached higher than the clouds themselves.

With your self-taught philosophy, Min, I trust you can work this one out without too much difficulty.

Dragonmount in shadows. It would be important to Rand in the future. Was that a tiny prick of light shining from the heavens down onto the point of the mountain?

A memory of light, even?

He will stand on his grave and weep, laughter and tears, death and rebirth, memory and shadow and light…

Lews Therin killed himself in a blaze of light on what would become Dragonmount, and it would be fitting, would it not, for Rand to at last choose life in the very place his past self chose death? A fitting way to answer the question he has been struggling with since learning who he was: does sharing Lews Therin’s soul mean sharing Lews Therin’s fate?

My question is how. How does he get to that point? What would drive him to Dragonmount, and what would compel him to such a choice, as far past the edge as he is? It seems so perfect, so fitting; I can’t see what else all of this could be leading to, but nor can I see how we get there.

She’d begun to think of herself as a last defense for Rand.

Ah, Min. And she has been – her bond with him and her love for him have been among his very few anchor points for so long. But he is absolutely his own worst enemy right now – the external threats pale in comparison and they’re not insignificant – but it’s hard to defend anyone against that level of commitment to self-immolation.

Min had discovered just how useful she was as a ‘line of defense’. She’d been about as useful as a child! In fact, she’d been a hindrance, a tool for Semirhage to use against him.

Yeah, I knew she must have her own reasons for not pushing to accompany Rand to the meeting with Tuon. And of course it’s not quite the same reason Rand assumed. But why can he not feel this through the bond – her frustration with herself, her growing sense of helplessness? Or if he can feel it, why does he not think about it?

(Yes those questions are mostly rhetorical).

So she studied and tried to stay out of his way. He’d changed on that day, as if something bright had turned off inside of him. A lamp flickering out, its oil gone, leaving only the casing. He looked at her differently, now. When those eyes of his studied her, did they see only a liability?

It’s not a lack or a diminishing of love, but it is a…distancing…between them. Yet another anchor Rand is slowly losing, because now there is this thread of uncertainty and fear and doubt and misunderstanding between them, even if each reads a different reason or cause into it. And the fact that this is happening even with Min, who has been closer to him than anyone for a very long time, is indicative of just how far gone he is.

“You’re going after her, aren’t you?” Min found herself asking. “Graendal.”

So she’s not the only one getting a sense of déjà vu from this scene.

“Fix the problems you can, don’t fret over the ones you cannot. It was something Tam once told me.”

Okay, Rand, that’s good advice and all, but I’m fairly certain Tam al’Thor did not intend it to apply to this particular situation.

“Don’t think you can leave me behind!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said flatly.

Maybe Nynaeve can dream of it on his behalf.

Too soon?

Once, he would have done everything in his power to persuade her not to. But now, the possibility of her death is something he has…accepted, in the cold way he accepts anything and everything he must do or sacrifice. It would be just another wound to carry until he can die.

From the night stand he picked up the statuette of a man holding aloft a globe. He turned the ter’angreal in his hand, inspecting it, then looked up at Min, as if in challenge. She said nothing.

He does not challenge her decision to accompany him, so she does not challenge his decision to bring the nuke along. (Great).

It all adds to this very well-executed sense that something is very, very wrong here. He’s so different, eerily so at times, and so the characters around him are caught in this…dance, almost, of trying to figure out how to get him to respond, trying to either unsettle or provoke him or get any sort of reaction from him at all besides this terrifying calm.

He glanced at the pair of Maidens guarding the door. “I go to battle,” he said to them. “Bring no more than twenty.”

However misguided his earlier attempts were to keep them from the fighting, this is more frightening by far, because it’s not him. It doesn’t come from a place of finally understanding and accepting their choices; it comes simply because he’s stopped caring – or at least, stopped acting on his caring – about any of the things he once did. He is a different person, and all can sense it, and it comes across so exquisitely in the narrative, and it’s both beautiful and terrible, and filled with this sense of foreboding, of calamity on the horizon.

He had rushed off like this to fight Forsaken before

And that’s always worked out so well. He wins, but there’s always such a high cost to pay. Rahvin, maybe, was the one where the scales tipped the most in his favour, but even that had its price.

He seemed like a thunderstorm, contained and wrapped up, somehow bound and channelled towards a single goal. How she wished he’d just explode and lose his temper, the way he used to! He’d exasperated her then, but he’d never frightened her. Not as he did now, with those icy eyes she couldn’t read, that aura of danger.

More than most, she sees the depth of the changes in him. It’s an excellent description, and she’s not wrong to be afraid, though it’s heartbreaking to see that she is.

One of the interesting things here is the comment about his temper. Because in the early-to-middle books, he and others thought about how that was a change in him; how he’d never shown much of a temper before. And he didn’t, until TDR/TSR. But now, this lack of a temper, this complete failure to explode even when pushed to what should be a breaking point, doesn’t feel even remotely like the gentle shepherd he once was. It’s not a return to or a remembrance of that. Instead it’s a warped, twisted reflection of it, the way so much about him now is. There are echoes of the person we first met, and yet they’ve been distorted, given these harsh edges, taken too far and reached from the wrong direction.

Since the incident with Semirhage, he spoke of doing ‘whatever he had to’ regardless of cost, and she knew that he must seethe at having failed to convince the Seanchan to ally with him. What would that combination of failure and determination lead him to do?

YOU AND ME BOTH, MIN.

I’ve been wondering that pretty much since The Last That Could Be Done, because that was the crossing of his personal threshold, but you don’t have a character become unfettered in their own minds without then giving some…outward indication of that. Rand is cold and terrifying and not at all like himself, but he hasn’t yet crossed that line externally. And I think so much of the tension from his last several chapters has been a result of that sense of waiting for him to do exactly that. It seems an inevitability, and because there are no limits it’s just a question of when – because it could be any time. It could be anything. So the reader and the other characters alike are walking on eggshells here, because he’s already at that point, he doesn’t need to be pushed, he just needs to decide something is necessary…

And we’re heading for Graendal’s hiding place. Bets on this ending well? Anyone?

Speaking of ending well…there are those arguments that crop up periodically in this genre that anything not ‘gritty’ or grimdark or ‘anyone can die’ is boring because you know it’s going to end with good triumphing over evil and minimal major deaths. And I think this serves as a good illustration of how that’s not at all true. I am 99% sure this series will end with a victory for the Light, that Rand will remember laughter and tears before the end and will rise from this low point, that most if not all of the main cast will make it out alive. But that doesn’t make the story less compelling, or this current darkness of Rand’s arc less tense or frightening. It just shifts the focus. The question is not who will win and who will die (to paraphrase a certain proponent of the other side of this argument), but how they will win, and what the cost will be, and how far they will go and what that will do and how they will find a way back and a way forward and what that future will look like, with ‘the battle done, but the world not done with battle’.

This chapter – Rand’s whole arc this book – is filled with a sense of foreboding, a sense of the true darkest hour, and the almost certain knowledge that he will somehow come through this doesn’t make that tension any less. I’m still waiting to see him do something catastrophic, and throughout the books leading up to this I was watching him break slowly, and it wasn’t a question of whether he would survive, or even whether he would fall to darkness, but of what he would do in order to endure. It becomes not an exploration of simply life or death, of failure or success, but of the difference between hardness and strength, of the balance of desperation and hope, of identity and duty and power, of the limits of endurance.

And I don’t think that’s boring. Because it’s not about how it ends, really. It’s about how the story gets there, about watching these characters walk these paths, wondering what it will do to them, wondering how they will reach their destinations and how much of themselves they will leave behind, or perhaps discover.

Don’t get me wrong: I also enjoy stories that do have the potential to end in true darkness, or in failure or death, and where those are the main uncertainties. But sitting here, reading as Rand prepares in calm cold apathy to eliminate one of his enemies and holds the power in his hand to destroy the world, sure this can’t possibly go well, I don’t feel like that sense of dread and anticipation and excitement is in any way lessened by the probability that eventually, he will come through this.

Once that would have made him smile. She kept forgetting that he didn’t do that anymore.

It’s so casually phrased that it’s funny until the meaning hits and it’s not funny at all.

Instead of smiling Rand decides to give us all a lecture on the history of Natrin’s Barrow. I suppose having a lifetime of memories from three thousand years ago, but nothing between then and now, would give some people an interest in history. And send others running for the hills.

“Tell me this: How do I outthink an enemy I know is smarter than I am?”

With a long-range sniper and very good aim.

The actual answer to this is to not try to outthink them, because you won’t. Don’t try to outplay a master of the game but don’t refuse the invitation; take the first steps as expected and then ignore the rules completely, and in the most erratic or unpredictable – and preferably final – way possible. Move your pawn and then flip the table over and start shooting. Don’t engage in the game of wits and strategies. Go for simple, and for overkill, as far outside the rules as you can. It helps not to care about consequences or collateral damage.

As for why Rand is asking this of Ramshalan, idiot and worst fashion disaster since Tylin had control of Mat’s wardrobe, I have no idea.

“I…My Lord, if your foe is that clever, then perhaps your best course of action is to request the aid of someone more clever?”

Rand turned to him. “An excellent suggestion, Ramshalan. Perhaps I’ve already done just that.”

He’s mostly mocking Ramshalan without Ramshalan noticing, because that’s a fun cruel game, but there’s a possible double meaning here because…Lews Therin. He has the memories of a man who by all accounts was a great strategist.

“I’d make an alliance, my Lord,” Ramshalan said without pausing for another second. “Anyone that powerful would make a better friend than foe, I’d say.”

Yeah that worked out so well for Sammael. It’s not a bad idea in theory, but only if you’re certain you would hold the upper hand in that ‘alliance’; in a problem such as the one Rand has posed, where your enemy is the cleverer strategist, this would fall squarely into the category of playing their game, allowing them to determine the rules, and then having to try to outthink them where they are at their best.

And now Rand’s just sending him off through a gateway, presumably to Natrin’s Barrow, as his ‘emissary’…this feels quite a lot like moving that first pawn. So what does flipping the table over look like?

What was Rand’s game?

Sha’rah, technically.

“Go in my name and seek those who rule the keep. See if they are willing to support me, or if they even know about me. Offer them rewards for allegiance; since you have proven yourself clever, I will let you determine the terms.”

This is also clever, because by leaving a lot of the specifics of whatever encounter takes place up to Ramshalan, he adds another layer of uncertainty and thus unpredictability.

Min found herself feeling sorry for the man.

Yeah, life’s hard on pawns sometimes.

“Graendal understands people better than anyone. Twisted she may be, but she is crafty, and should not be underestimated. Torhs Margin made that mistake, I recall, and you know his fate.”

Min frowned. “Who?” she asked, looking at Nynaeve. The Aes Sedai shrugged.

Insert ‘margins of history’ pun here.

It’s odd that neither Min nor Nynaeve seems to pick up on what’s happening here, though. They both know about Lews Therin, and by extension about Rand having knowledge that does not come solely from this lifetime.

“You’ve obviously already decided what you intend to do. Why ask me?”

“Because what I am about to do should frighten me,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

Oh.

I…okay, yeah, wow, give me a second here because there’s a lot in that.

We’re there, aren’t we? At the last line I’ve been waiting for him to cross; he’s crossed his own last threshold, so now we need to see what that actually means. It’s one thing to see it in his mindset, in what he says, even in walking away from a peace accord. But all of that feels like the build-up to something. And now this…seems like it. Whatever it is that he’s about to do.

Which brings us to the other part of this: he knows it should frighten him. He’s so cold, so calm, so apparently unfeeling, and yet even through all of that he knows that whatever it is he is walking so calmly towards should frighten him. But it doesn’t. And that’s the truly chilling part.

He knows on some level that the fact that it doesn’t frighten him is wrong. Which means he can tell, on some level, that what he’s about to do is worthy of that fear. He just can’t let himself feel it, but that he even knows that, that he voices it and it clearly worries him even through that layer of ice, the fact that he even says this, as if he’s reaching out to two of the last people he trusts and begging them to stop him, conveys a staggering sense of magnitude here, in scale or in horror or simply in how far across that line it is. And so there’s this sense that some part of him – a part he can no longer acknowledge but that same place from whence came the quiet warning “He named you friend. Do not abandon him…” – is screaming. But without any way to be heard.

It’s a hell of a line.

But neither of them says anything to him because what can you say to that? He’s reaching out so desperately for help he could never accept, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop him at this point. And so whatever small part of him is still truly him has to just…watch.

I feel like there’s some small element of symbolism to the fact that he steps through a literal gateway – across a threshold, if you will – right after he says this.

The mountain air was more chilly than the breeze had indicated.

Colder than the wind, hmm?

Atop a ridge of its own, high above the water, was an impressive white stone structure. Rectangular and tall, it was built in the form of several towers stacked atop one another, each one slightly thinner than the one beneath. That gave the palace an elegant shape – fortified, yet palatial. “it’s beautiful,” she said breathlessly.

Nice palace you have there. Would be a shame if something happened to it.

The palace was distant, but not so distant that Min couldn’t make out the figures of men walking the battlements on guard, halberds at their shoulders, breastplates reflecting the late sunlight. A late party of hunters rode through the gates, a fine buck deer lashed to the pack horse, and a group of workers chopped at a fallen tree nearby, perhaps for firewood. A pair of serving women in white carried poles, bucket at each end, up from the lake, and lights were winking on in windows the length of the structure. It was a living, working estate bundled up in a single massive building.

Thanks for the census there. How many civilians, precisely? And do tell me, what colour shirts are these numerous people wearing? Because it’s sounding a hell of a lot like red.

And now Rand’s stroking the statue again (there’s no clean way to say that; believe me, I tried).

I have a very, very bad feeling that I know what’s about to happen here.

Not sure what Ramshalan’s purpose is, though. Rand seems sure Graendal will get the whole conversation they had from him, which implies he wants her to – which means she’ll know about Rand asking how to beat someone cleverer than you are, which means she’ll know Rand is looking for a way to defeat her, which would put her on guard…or maybe make her think she has the upper hand? Seems like a risk regardless, but perhaps she’d have found out anyway, and this way Rand can control to some extent the delivery…

“You make it sound as if you can’t win,” Nynaeve said, frowning. […]

“We can’t win, you say?” Rand asked. “Is that what we’re trying to do? Win?”

Ah, Rand. Wise of you not to try to beat her at her own game, but the mindset behind this is…troubling.

Nynaeve raised an eyebrow. “Do you not answer questions anymore?”

Did he ever?

Rand just does that new staring trick of his and Nynaeve is thrown by it and every time he does it it’s still kind of chilling. Especially when it works on people like Nynaeve, who have never truly feared him before.

They waited quietly on the mountain ridge as the distant sun made its way toward the horizon. Shadows lengthened

And so the pathetic fallacy continues. I honestly love this. The Dragon is one with the land, after all…

More lights had been lit in the fortress windows. How many people did Graendal have in there? Scores, if not hundreds.

Why does this sound so much like a pre-emptive tally of collateral damage?

Oh hey Ramshalan’s back.

Oh.

“Is he infected?” Rand asked of Nynaeve.

“By what?” she asked.

“Graendal’s touch.”

He was literally just a canary in a coal mine, wasn’t he? To make sure Graendal is actually there. While Rand still stands at a distance. On a ridge. Looking down at the mansion. Full of collateral damage people.

It was growing dark

Yeah no kidding.

And yet this chapter is called A Force of Light. I’m…Concerned.

Besides the dim evening light, the only illumination came from the still-open gateway behind them. It shone with lamplight, an inviting portal back to warmth, away from this place of shadow and coldness.

There is no light ahead, only vanishing sunset and darkness. The only light and warmth is behind, back across that gateway, that threshold. Light only if you look back, but none ahead, not this way, not on this path…

“Rand,” she said, touching his arm. “Let’s go back.”

“I have something I must do,” he said, not looking at her.

Something that should frighten him. Something that does not allow him to look back, towards light and warmth, but only ahead, towards growing darkness and lengthening shadows and cold and a fortress full of people and his enemy. Oh, Rand, no.

His face was clasped in shadow, but as he turned toward her, his eyes reflected the light from the open gateway.

Shadow ahead, consuming him, but as he turns towards her, towards Min, towards one of his last anchors even though she’s not enough to hold him back now, there’s a remnant of light there. But that’s all it is. A reflection, a remnant, a memory if you’ll pardon my extreme overuse of that particular pun.

The sun set; Rand was now just a silhouette. The fortress was only a black profile with lanterns lining the holes in its walls. Rand stepped up to the lip of the ridge, removing the access key from his pocket. It started to glow just faintly, a red light coming from its very heart.

As ominous and frightening as this is, it’s also an absolutely lovely image. Everything in silhouette, Rand merely a shape, an outline, a space in the world rather than a person. A role that must be filled, a silhouette that shows no human features, no identifying marks. Just a shape, a darkness against the setting sun. A fortress that, too, is no more than a shape, an outline, a representation rather than a reality.

And then just this glowing light of power. Outlines and representations and roles, and power, and all else fades. It’s terrible but it’s so, so lovely.

He’s going to destroy it isn’t he?

“Neither of you were there when Callandor failed me,” he said into the night. […] “Cadsuane told me that the second failure came from a flaw in Callandor itself. It cannot be controlled by a lone man, you see. It only works if he’s in a box. Callandor is a carefully enticing leash, intended to make me surrender willingly.”

Okay why are we talking about Callandor now? No doubt because he’s holding the access key, but still. Does it have to be a willing surrender? And Rand, it’s need not be a box, or a leash. Willing surrender has its place; trust has its place. But he cannot do either anymore, and after the Domination Band is it any wonder he would see Callandor as simply a more elaborate trap?

The access key’s globe burst alight with a more brilliant colour, seeming crystalline. The light within was scarlet, the core brilliant and bright.

Light – strong, brilliant, bright light – but terrifying. Light against the shadow and darkness of night, but there is no sense of warmth or comfort to this.

“I see a different answer to my problems,” Rand said. Voice still almost a whisper. “Both times Callandor failed me, I was being reckless with my emotion. I allowed temper to drive me. I can’t kill in anger, Min. I have to keep that anger inside; I must channel it as I channel the One Power. Each death must be deliberate. Intentional.”

Once, you tried to use Callandor for life rather than death…but of course the solution is to be colder, to be harder, to turn inwards rather than to surrender and rely on trust, or to care about the outcomes.

This whole passage is chilling in that quietly escalating way horrifying things are. The way the light from the access key keeps growing as Rand speaks, the way we’re given this alternation between descriptions of it and Rand’s calm, emotionless words against that escalation of building power and brilliant light and yet nothing but cold…it’s so well done, and the sense of anticipation and dread is excellent.

Min couldn’t speak. Couldn’t phrase her fears, couldn’t find the words to make him stop.

There are no words to make him stop, Min, and that’s what makes it both so terrifying and so heartbreaking. Even he couldn’t find a way to make himself stop; he knew this should frighten him. But it doesn’t, and if they cannot stop him, none can. Nothing can. There are no limits, no restraints, and this is what that means.

His eyes remained in the darkness, somehow, despite the liquid light he held before him.

That says it all, really, doesn’t it? Despite the brilliant light he holds, despite all this power, his eyes are in darkness, because that’s all he can see before him now.

That light hurled shadows away from his figure, as if he was the point of a silent explosion.

The only light is from the gateway behind him and he cannot look back; the only light is from the immense power he holds but he cannot let himself feel, and so all is in darkness though he is the champion of Light, holding light and wreathed by light, yet all he sees is darkness, and all the light does is throw more shadows. A brilliant light, but the shadows it casts from him…a force of light, and yet who stands to gain? A champion of the Light, and yet with this cold, unfeeling, unfettered power, which side does he truly serve?

And Min and Nynaeve are just watching, because what else can they do? What can anyone do?

When he’d been so close to killing her with his own hand, she hadn’t feared him. But then, she’d known that it wasn’t Rand hurting her, but Semirhage. But this Rand – hand aflame, eyes so intent yet so dispassionate – terrified her.

Oh Min. She has stood by him through so much and never turned away, never flinched, never feared him. No matter what he did, or what people thought he had done, or what so many feared him capable of. Always she stood by him in love, and if she was afraid it was for him, never of him. Now even she fears him. And still nothing is said of the bond between them, of what she feels through it or perhaps what he does.

“I’ve done it before,” she whispered. “I once said that I didn’t kill women, but it was a lie. I murdered a woman long before I faced Semirhage. Her name was Liah. I killed her in Shadar Logoth. I struck her down, and I called it mercy.”

It was mercy. A painless death, ‘gone before her agony began’ as I think it was phrased, or the torment of Mashadar? There’s no question.

He turned to the fortress below.

No.

Oh, no.

“Forgive me,” he said, but it didn’t seem directed at Min, “for calling this mercy as well.”

...

...

That sound you might have heard was me literally, quite literally, gasping out loud.

It is, perhaps, the most perfect line that could have been written there—

Something impossibly bright formed in the air before him

—because this is unforgivable; this is not mercy; he knows it, and does not expect the forgiveness he asks for. Just as he knew this should frighten him but it did not. There is nothing for him now, nothing to hold him back, and there will be no forgiveness but he believed that the moment he reached for the True Power, the moment he killed Semirhage, the moment he stepped across that line. He asks forgiveness here the same way Lews Therin cried for Ilyena’s forgiveness: with the assumption – no, the certainty – that it could never be granted, that there will be no absolution.

The air itself seemed to warp, as if pulling away from Rand in fear.

The world afraid of him. The land is one with the Dragon and yet now even the wind pulls back from him, turns away from him, fears him.

Min could no longer make out Rand, only a blazing, brilliant force of light.

Before, he was a silhouette. Just a shape in the darkness, to be filled in. Now…similar, and yet opposite. Not a person, still, but a shape made of light. The Light’s champion, the Dragon Reborn, a being of sheer power and light rather than flesh and humanity.

Light, but terrifying, because there is no humanity to it, nothing of Rand in that shape of power, nothing to contain it and direct it. Unfeeling light, that could burn anything it touches, with no sense of meaning. Rand is gone, subsumed by this force, by the outline of what he must be, by all he has let go of himself, to feed this force of light until it is as destructive as any darkness could ever be.

This is light unfettered, and it’s terrifying. He has gone too far; he is too far gone, and this is what it looks like when that is unleashed.

In that moment, she felt as if she could understand what the One Power was. It was there, before her, made incarnate in the man Rand al’Thor.

Except there’s nothing of Rand to it; he has emptied himself of that, to become little more than a vessel for this power and for the duty and role he must take on, because that is the only way he could find.

It’s still beautiful, though. Despite what he is undoubtedly about to do, despite what this power is building towards, despite all its destructive potential.

And then, with a sound like a sigh, he released it.

Ahhhhhhh this is perfect.

All this power, this blazing force, this sense of something bursting to light, of power that can barely be contained…and then this breath of softness. With a sound like a sigh. The contrast of force and gentleness, of furious power and a soft sigh, so much destructive potential and energy and very likely death, released so gently, so quietly. Easily, almost. So light, for such a weight. This is absolutely gorgeous.

Just a sigh. Just a breath. That moment of almost quiet, of gentleness and softness and simplicity before…well. It’s almost long enough to forget where this is leading, almost enough, with the paragraph before it of pure light and power and Power, to make this only a moment of beauty. Except.

A column of pure whiteness exploded from him and burned across the silent night sky

And here is the violence. There’s the gathering of power, the potential, then that sigh of gentle release…and then it all hits. It’s like that effect you sometimes see in movies where everything is slowed, everything is quiet, and then just at – or sometimes just after – the moment of impact, sound returns and everything is jolted back to its ordinary speed and that brief moment of soft waiting out of time is lost.

The stones came alight, as if they were breathing in the force of the energy. The entire fortress glowed, transforming into living light, an amazing, spectacular palace of unadulterated energy. It was beautiful.

It is beautiful; this whole scene has been beautiful, but. It’s balefire. It has to be; he knows now that nothing else can absolutely kill the Forsaken beyond the possibility of resurrection.

So.

It was beautiful.

And then it was gone.

Yeah. That.

He just.

This is the thing I’ve been waiting for. The point where he crosses that last line, not just for himself but for all to see.

Well, those few remaining who matter, anyway. Those who have – had? – not yet turned away from him.

Burned from the landscape—and the Pattern—as if it had never been there. The entire fortress, hundreds of feet of stone and everyone who had lived in it.

Yeah.

It’s such an exquisitely done scene, the quiet but inexorable approach, the ‘forgive me for calling this mercy as well’ and then the sense of simplicity and silence, and yet immense gathering power, and then that single quiet moment of release, the whole thing beautiful and lit only by the fading light of the sunset and then the brilliant light of destruction, silence and beauty and power. And then devastation, but even in that, silence. Nothing remains; there is no visible destruction, no visible harm, nothing to draw feeling or pain. There’s just…nothingness. Emptiness. Void. (The Dragon is one with the land…)

Something hit Min, something like a shocking wave in the air. It wasn’t a physical blast, and it didn’t make her stumble, but it twisted her insides about. The forest around them—still lit by the glowing access key in Rand’s hands—seemed to warp and shake. It was as if the world itself were groaning in agony.

And this is where reality returns, where that silence and softness and beauty is broken, where the true force of the devastation hits. Because there is damage; there is pain. The world itself has been shaken here, the Pattern torn. There’s no visible damage, but beneath that, reality itself is being pulled apart. It’s not a quiet, beautiful, consequences-free display of power. It’s not mercy.

So this scene echoes something of his own state of mind, gives us an outward expression of just how far he has gone, of what he is doing not just to himself but to the world he is meant to save. That’s what this is here for. This is the cost, of what has been done to him and of what he has done to himself as a result. This is where we stand now.

This is a lot.

And one of the things that’s so well done about it is this sense of…not numbness, quite, but of delayed impact. Of understanding without feeling, of observing what is happening as it happens, yet in such a way that the description doesn’t quite allow for horror until afterwards, and even then…all of it is softened; it’s presented clearly, and there’s no blurring of details, but that sense of quiet and gentleness and beauty, the focus on the power itself rather than on its effect until later, the way we just get ‘It was beautiful. And then it was gone.’ with none of the signs that would ordinarily be associated with violence or death or destruction; just beauty and then nothingness…it conveys, wonderfully, the state of mind in which this was done. The emptiness, the sense almost of surreality even as what is happening is all too real. And then it’s done, it’s gone…and then we get the horror, as the impact hits Min and the world shakes and the full truth of this strikes home.

It’s not the immediate shocking ‘no’ or ‘it is HIM’ of The Last that Could Be Done. It’s a different kind of horror, a different kind of realisation, a different kind of impact. And yet they are inextricably linked; that is what led us here. (That, and everything that came before it).

“What have you done?” Nynaeve whispered.

Yeah.

It’s…yeah. A Force of Light indeed.

And again, the pacing here is excellent, in the way that we’re given such a long, almost gentle scene of the buildup and the actual releasing of the power…and it’s not until the moment that it strikes that everything snaps back into place, and we’re brought back to something like normal speed as the impact hits, and now we’re back to reality, after that long dilated moment that seemed to hang suspended. And so now all the realisation is happening, all the reactions you’d expect, and that comes through to the reader as well, with this sense of ‘wait this actually just happened’.

Rand didn’t reply. Min could see his face again, now that the enormous column of balefire had vanished, leaving behind only the glowing access key. He was in ecstasy, mouth agape, and he held the access key aloft before himself as if in victory. Or in reverence.

Only now, now that we’ve had the chance to take in a little more of what has just happened, now that we’ve felt that resulting impact and taken a second to understand the enormity and the truth of it, now we get to see Rand through a slightly different lens, see what this actually looks like, and see not the soft, silhouetted emptiness or power or bright pure light, but the horror behind it. This image isn’t beautiful or gentle; it’s jarring and terrible. He’s just destroyed a city, burned it out of existence, but all we see is ecstasy, a man almost consumed by this power that just moments ago seemed beautiful.

Or in reverence. If that had come earlier, when he was just a figure of light and power, before all of it was unleashed, when it was still a force of light and frightening in its way but beautiful, that line would read very differently. Yet instead it’s here, where the sheer wrongness of it comes through, where it feels jarring and warped and ominous.

Then he gritted his teeth, eyes opening wide, lips parted as if he were under great pressure. The light flashed once, then immediately vanished. All became dark.

The light vanishes immediately now, after…that. And once more we’re in complete darkness, which again feels like a revealing of the truth.

Had he really done what she thought he had? Had he burned away an entire fortress with balefire?

Yes. Yeah. He did that.

Yeah. 

And again, it’s paced so that only now do we get the stark statement of it, as part of this growing horror of realisation.

All those people. […] They were gone. Burned from the Pattern. Killed. Dead forever. […] So many lives, ended in an instant. Dead. Destroyed. By Rand.

Now it’s all short, fragmented sentences, or even single words, as reality has hit and she’s trying to encompass it, trying to put it to words but it hardly even goes.

It’s not as if Rand hasn’t caused death and destruction before. But in a world where rebirth is a guaranteed part of life – and when the continuation of that cycle is a large part of what he’s supposed to be fighting for in the first place – this is different, because he’s taking even that away.

And it’s also just the way approached this. This wasn’t desperate self-preservation, or a battle, or a war. This wasn’t even losing control of his power and killing his own people as a result. This was planned, calmly and coldly; he stood on a ridge and looked down at this palace and wiped them from existence without a sound, without a fight, without warning or care.

I suppose whether or not that makes it worse than what he’s done before depends on whether you consider intent or only outcome in your morality, but it is undeniably a different situation.

Strategically, it was clever. How do you beat someone who is smarter than you are? Refuse to play the game, and then destroy it completely. Send in a pawn, then stand on a ridge and wipe the gameboard from existence. It’s a good solution.

It’s just also…well. That.

A light appeared from Nynaeve, and Min turned, seeing the Aes Sedai illuminated by a warm, soft glow of a globe above her head.

It’s fitting, that she is the source of light here. A gentle, soft light, so unlike the power Rand just unleashed. A guiding light, a beacon of sorts if only he could follow it.

“I do what must be done,” he said, speaking now from the shadows.

Speaking now from the shadows indeed. I see what you did there.

And now he just wants her to see if the Compulsion is still present in Ramshalan’s mind, because still he’s the canary here.

“I hate what you just did, Rand,” Nynaeve snarled. “No. ‘Hate’ isn’t strong enough. I loathe what you’ve done. What has happened to you?”

Nynaeve, who has always seen him as Rand al’Thor before the Dragon Reborn, who has never truly stopped seeing him as the boy from her village, even as she has recognised the changes in him. Who reached out to try to heal him, after he faced Rahvin and told her he wasn’t sure how human the Dragon Reborn could afford to be. Who linked with him to cleanse saidin, and who never hesitated to scold him when she thought he needed it. But now she’s seeing him differently, because this is so much different from any of what she’s seen before. This is too far; this is across that last line.

Before, he was irredeemable mainly in his own eyes. Now…

(‘Dream on my behalf, Nynaeve’)

“Before condemning me, let us first determine if my sins have achieved anything beyond my own damnation.”

Wow okay that’s a line.

Ends before means. But he knows, without any doubt, that he has damned himself. He cannot see any possibility for redemption, is certain he will not be forgiven, knows this is an act to condemn. He just…sees it as an inevitability, and thus as something to simply accept and let go. He is damned; so be it. What more does it matter? And so it’s all about the results now; the methods no longer matter because what more could be done to him, that he has not done to himself already?

Only it’s not just about him, it’s about the entire world; he could end existence and carry all of them into this damnation he has already accepted for himself as a guarantee.

Okay the Compulsion is gone but I’m not quite as sure as Rand is that Graendal is dead. The evidence would point that way, but we didn’t see her die and there’s no corpse and in this genre, that spells ‘suspicious’.

Min felt at her neck, where the bruises of Rand’s hand on her neck hadn’t yet faded.

Yikes.

Min, too, looks at him differently now. This has made her do that, when nothing else he has done ever has. This is where he crosses the line.

And has he? I live for this sort of thing, for watching as characters are dragged to moral event horizons and made to do cartwheels on them, so I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying this, awful as it is. But I’m also fascinated by where those lines are drawn and how they can be manipulated and how characters can be pushed across or pulled back from them, and at what point a character truly tips into irredeemability. I think it’s different for every reader, and depends on all kinds of other factors, but that’s part of what makes it interesting.

So where is Rand, with respect to that line? We watch this scene through Min’s eyes, as even her view of him is forced to change. We see Nynaeve struggle to express how much she hates what he’s just done. And so as a reader it puts us in the position of wondering much the same thing – how far is too far? Is this too far? Can he come back from this and if so, how?

“How do you fight someone smarter than yourself?” Rand whispered. “The answer is simple. You make her think that you are sitting down across the table from her, ready to play her game. Then you punch her in the face as hard as you can.”

Well. I can’t really argue with that, as it’s very close to the way I answered that question earlier. And he’s not wrong, strategically speaking.

It’s just that the reason it’s a good strategy is because it’s so far beyond what anyone would even fear to expect. Because it’s so far across that line. Especially with no threat, no warning. Just zero to balefire in a few seconds, because it’s the only way to completely annihilate the game and opponent.

(I’m probably not the only one thinking of certain…decisive actions taken near the end of the second World War here.)

And then he just turns and walks back though the gateway, calm and without looking back. It’s done; time to move on.

“What you have done is an abomination, Rand al’Thor,” Nynaeve said as soon as the gateway was closed.

But all he does is justify it. Calmly. Last time they spoke, her words reached him on some level and he told her to dream on his behalf and there was just a hint of Rand still there. He dismissed her concerns, but he also agreed with them, and there was that moment of…not vulnerability, or even emotion, but a sort of wistful echo of both, a handing over of the hope he could no longer let himself hold.

Now, though, it’s just flat justification. And it’s different as well because this isn’t Nynaeve telling him that he’s destroying himself. This is Nynaeve being forced to consider that he’s destroying other people, destroying the world perhaps. It is an abomination; this isn’t about concern for him anymore. It’s now about facing someone who has done something monstrous, and she can’t get through to him.

He knows it’s an abomination. He just doesn’t…think that matters anymore.

Which is horrifying.

As Nynaeve is realising, I think.

Though it’s telling that she even tries to confront him, rather than simply walking away. That’s not her way. This is abhorrent on every level, and she doesn’t know what to do with that, but still it’s not in her nature to just give up. But it’s…different from when she just wanted him to stop hurting, wanted to help him, or wanted to protect him.

“I did them a favour.”

“A favour?” Nynaeve asked. “Rand, you used balefire! They were burned out of existence!”

“As I said,” Rand replied softly. “A favour. Sometimes, I wish the same blessing for myself. Good night, Nynaeve.”

Um.

Second of all, that…sounds perhaps like Moridin, which is a whole lot even on its own, but first of all…um.

I just…

I don’t even think I can summon a ‘this is fine’ because this is so far away from fine it’s in another dimension entirely and ‘as I said, a favour’ and he does hate what he’s done, hates it and hates himself enough that he wants to be wiped from existence and thinks he deserves it, but…it’s not enough to stop him. Because what’s the point?

A favour. A mercy.

It’s…he is coming very close, with this, to a ‘wouldn’t it be kinder, more merciful, to just end it all?’ sort of moment. Which is rarely the province of heroes, but that’s where Rand has been driven. He wants to die, and he no longer lets himself care about costs, and he believes he is damned and that there is nothing he can bring to the world but more destruction, and even a fragile peace is doomed to fall apart at his death anyway so what does it matter; he wants to die and he shares a link with a man who seems to want existence itself to be destroyed, and how far is he from looking at that and calling it mercy? It’s so much easier to burn everything with cleansing (bale)fire, to put an end to pain, than to find a way forward, a way to rebuild. To break the cycle rather than embrace it. It’s easier to end the suffering by an ending, rather than by continuing. There are no beginnings or endings to the Wheel of Time, after all, so providing an ending…

It would be a victory for the Shadow, but how far is Rand from seeing it as a…force of Light?

Until that moment, [Min] hadn’t realised just how drained she was. Being around Rand lately did that to her.

Oh Min. I feel like it would be laughable at this point to point out that that’s not exactly the sign of a healthy relationship, but she doesn’t even consider abandoning him. Still, their relationship is more…strained, now. She still loves him, and he her, I think, but it’s…harder, now, than it once was.

“I wish Moiraine were here,” Nynaeve muttered softly, then froze, as if surprised to have heard herself say that.

Pretty much speaks for itself. It’s a nice way to close that arc that began almost at the start of EotW. I hope Nynaeve and Moiraine have a chance for a reunion, to truly bring closure there, but there’s so much growth and understanding in just that simple statement.

“What if he’s right?” Nynaeve asked. “Woolheaded fool though he is, what if he really does have to be like this to win? The old Rand could never have destroyed an entire fortress full of people to kill one of the Forsaken.”

“Of course he couldn’t have,” Min said. “He still cared about killing then! Nynaeve, all those lives…”

“And how many people would still be alive now if he’d been this ruthless from the start?” Nynaeve asked, looking away.

That seems…huh. I was about to say that seems very much out of character for Nynaeve, the one who almost always chooses compassion over pragmatism. But I wonder if that’s kind of the point; it’s out of character for her because he has absolutely no idea how to confront what just happened, how to process it or make sense of it.

And so maybe because she’s trying to look at it through something more like Moiraine’s pragmatism, or maybe just because she’s…lost, and grasping at anything at all, trying to put all this horror into some kind of coherent picture, trying to find a way to…not quite deny it, but make it make sense. I don’t know how much she truly believes any of what she’s saying here. 

“Can we dare send a man to fight the Dark One who won’t sacrifice for what needs to be done?”

Min shook her head. “Dare we send him as he is, with that look in his eyes? Nynaeve, he’s stopped caring. Nothing matters to him anymore but defeating the Dark One.”

“Isn’t that what we want him to do?”

(Isn’t that what we’ve asked him to do? Isn’t that what the world itself has demanded he do?) There’s an element almost of realisation in that question, of the enormity of the task he has been set. Of the fact that he is doing all this because of what they – the world entire – want and need him to do.

“Winning won’t be winning at all if Rand becomes something as bad as the Forsaken…We—”

“I understand,” Nynaeve said suddenly. “Light burn me, but I do, and you’re right. I just don’t like the answers those conclusions are giving me.”

Yeah, that feels like Nynaeve. She agrees with Min, and knows she does, but that’s a harder truth to face.

And apparently it comes with Cadsuane attached. First Moiraine, now Cadsuane…Nynaeve’s making all kinds of strides today.

“I dislike the woman, and I suspect she returns the emotion, but neither of us can handle Rand alone.”

I’m so proud of you, Nynaeve.

“Handle” Rand? That was another problem. Nynaeve and Cadsuane were both so concerned with handling that they failed to see that it might be best to help him instead. Nynaeve cared for Rand, but she saw him as a problem to be fixed, rather than a man in need.

I’m actually not sure I completely agree with Min here. I think the focus on handling rather than helping him is true of many, and probably more so of Cadsuane than of Nynaeve, but even Cadsuane I think does want to help him, for himself as well as for the world. She’s more or less said as much. Still, I’ll grant it with her; she’s tried too hard to manipulate rather than simply aid, and it has cost her.

Nynaeve, though…yes, she’s spoken sometimes of handling him, or of trying ot get him to do what she thinks he should, but it’s always seemed more like a holdover from when she was his babysitter, and now something of what she has become as an Aes Sedai. That’s just who Nynaeve is, to some extent. And the rest of their relationship really has been about her trying to do what she can to help him. She followed him and the others from Emond’s Field to try to protect them. She captured a Forsaken and went to Caemlyn in a dream just to have a chance of helping him in some way when she knew he could be in trouble, and at the end asked ‘at least let me heal you.’ She linked with him to help him cleanse saidin and has stayed by him since to try to help as she can and to protect him from what she sees as threats, and has tried at every possible opportunity to heal him (“how can it be enough, when you’re still bleeding?”). And then recently, in that conversation they had…she just wanted to get him to stop doing this to himself, because it’s destroying him. So yes, she’ll stand up to him and contradict him and push him. But she’s there, in the end, to try to help him however she can.

He’s just at a point, now, where he isn’t letting himself accept the help she or Min or anyone else can give.

Nynaeve stepped up to the front and knocked on the sturdy oak door; it was answered shortly by Merise. “Yes, child?” the Green asked, as if intentionally trying to goad Nynaeve.

“I have to speak with Cadsuane,” Nynaeve growled.

“Cadsuane Sedai, she has no business with you right now,” Merise said, moving to close the cottage door. “Return tomorrow, and perhaps she will see you.”

“Rand al’Thor just burned an entire palace full of people from existence with balefire,” Nynaeve said, loud enough to be heard by those inside the cottage. “I was with him.”

I have to laugh; I do love these kinds of moments, where one character just drops a truth like a bomb on everyone around them. That’s definitely news that will get you in to see Cadsuane at midnight.

And so Cadsuane and Sorilea and the others get the story, because this is not a time for withholding information or pettiness of any sort.

Oh, Rand, Min thought. This must be tearing you apart inside. But she could feel him through the bond; his emotions seemed very cold.

Mention of the bond, finally. And…there’s effectively nothing there. I think Min is right to some extent; it probably is tearing him apart inside, but he’s shut all of that off so completely that he can’t actually feel it, and so it’s just another necessity, just another reason to hate himself and reaffirm his belief that he deserves annihilation. There’s no more that can be done to him, so it’s just another thing.

“You were wise to come to us with this, child,” Sorilea said to Nynaeve. “You may withdraw.”

Nynaeve’s eyes opened wide with anger. “But—”

“Sorilea,” Cadsuane said calmly, cutting Nynaeve off. “This child could be of use to our plans. She is still close to the al’Thor boy; he trusted her enough to take her with him this evening.”

Okay, so maybe there is still plenty of space for pettiness. Not that Sorilea or Cadsuane would see it as such, but this is not a time for dismissing Nynaeve, or keeping things from her. They may not see her as Aes Sedai or as anything more than a child, but this is not a time to try to simply use her.

Though perhaps they’re giving her a chance:

“But can she be obedient?”

“Well?” Cadsuane asked of Nynaeve. They all seemed to be ignoring Min. “Can you?”

Nynaeve’s eyes were still wide with anger. […] Nynaeve tugged on her braid with a white-knuckled grip. “Yes, Cadsuane Sedai,” she said through clenched teeth. “I can.”

For this, she can. For this, she can swallow her pride and agree to obey even Cadsuane. That’s how important this is. It’s not about her pride or her assertion of authority or any kind of rivalry she has with Cadsuane for any reason. This is about what may be a last chance.

Come on, Cadsuane, the least you could do is reward her with the whole plan. But she won’t, and Nynaeve accepts even that. And for Cadsuane’s part…it doesn’t seem like she’s giving much, but Cadsuane is not a woman accustomed to making compromises. But there’s an element of grudging respect between them now; Cadsuane is testing her, but from her that means she’s giving Nynaeve a chance to prove herself, rather than dismissing her entirely. It is, in its own way, a kind of trust.

“Your part,” Cadsuane continued, “is to find Perrin Aybara.”

…What?

Why Perrin?

Does she intend to find Mat as well? Could this be anything at all to do with Verin’s letter to him? Trying to bring all three ta’veren together for some reason? It has to happen eventually, but how would that help with Rand’s whole…uh…inability to be a person right now?

Or maybe it’s about Perrin’s whole group? People from the Two Rivers, maybe? People from Rand’s home, to try to make him remember—oh. Tam is with Perrin. Or was, last we saw Perrin. Could that be part of it? His friend, his old village, his father…hmm.

Whatever the plan, someone would need to watch out for Rand. His deed this day would be destroying him inside, no matter what he proclaimed.

Destroying him, as he just destroyed. Tearing him apart, as he just tore at the fabric of reality. Fisher King indeed.

There were plenty of others worrying about what he would do at the Last Battle. It was her job to get him to that Last Battle alive and sane, with his soul in one piece.

Somehow.

No easy task. But she has not turned away from it, nor from him. She still wants to help him, still wants to look out for him and help him, still worries more about what he’s doing to himself than anything else. And she may be the last, or one of the last, who can look at him that way. He needs that, as he has needed that for so long, but if he can’t accept even that anymore, if it’s not enough to pull him back from this edge, not enough to keep him from doing what he’s done, what will be?

Next (TGS ch 38) Previous (TGS ch 36)

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The Sex Contract [M] - Chapter 8

Genre: friends to lovers au / friends with benefits / mature content / romance / angst

Characters: Shim Changmin x Kaia Ashton (OC)

A/N: Due to the overwhelming request I have followed your encouragement to bring back one of my older stories. This was back in a time where OCs were everything and writing one chapter in each main’s point of view was the trend. I hope that even though I have edited this drastically, that you can appreciate this story comes from my older style of writing. I definitely still read this often and find it enjoyable so I hope you will too.

Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 - FINAL

Chapter 8 – Kaia’s POV.

Life had taken a completely different turn ever since having sex with Changmin. It seemed the schedule now had a new element in it, and Kaia’s time was spent doing her usual activities and then meeting Changmin in between. In the past two weeks, they had so far met for sex three times, all in which they had begun to learn what they liked and disliked about one another. Although she wasn’t as keen for different positions like Changmin was, Kaia had to admit singing wasn’t his only talent. It was a new side to her friend that she had discovered, and Kaia hadn’t regretted the agreement since the first night. Though thankfully nothing was ever as tension-filled as it had been in the confines of her bedroom that last time.

“Ow Changmin!” Kaia cried out and slapped his shoulder, the boy looking down at her on the bed. She made a face. “You’re not meant to bend a woman like that.”

“I wasn’t trying to make it uncomfortable,” he breathed, rolling his eyes and shifting his weight again. The pleasure he was delivering seemed to build again and Kaia settled, hoping he wasn’t going to try that again. Sometimes his enthusiasm got the better of him. She wondered if she would ever be able to match his quest for exploration.

“Was work alright?” she asked as they flipped over, her mouth going to his chest that she enjoyed kissing so much. Changmin groaned and ran his hands through her hair. It wasn’t uncomfortable for them to talk whilst having sex, generally because when the mood struck them, they focused on getting to their destination without ripping the clothes off of each other, let alone bothering with basic greetings.

He kissed her wrist beside his head and then smiled. “Mm, tiring like usual. Did you meet your deadline?”

“No, Keith did though, I’m quite proud of him.”

“Hey!” Changmin rolled them over again and stopped, looking down at Kaia with a hard expression. She stared back incredulously; it was finally starting to feel good.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m having sex with you right now!” Changmin said exasperatedly and she continued to look at him as if he sprouted an extra head.

“No, you just stopped. Right when I was enjoying myself!”

“Where’s your contract?! We need to add another stipulation on!”

Kaia gaped at him. “Right now?!”

“You just broke a code!” He stared down at her harshly and whined as if he couldn’t believe what had just occurred. “Bringing up another man whilst having sex is a big no-no!”

“Oh my goodness Changmin!” Kaia cried, shoving the man off her. “I cannot believe you right now, he’s a workmate and you asked me about work!”

All the same, Kaia got up and headed out to the living room, searching in her drawer for the original copy. They had already reprinted another copy each off after they had made the mistake of foreplay once, and as she looked at the paper, Kaia realised they weren’t going to have much room left soon. After grabbing a pen, she returned to her bedroom where Changmin had already turned on the lamp.

Kaia gave him a glare and then sat down. “Thanks to you we’re running out of room. It was just a contract, not a fan page needing a damn autograph, Min.”

“You know you’re easily irritated,” he mentioned and she shot him another look, jotting down the rule he sought for. After dating it, she handed it to him to initial and then thumped it down on the bedside table. He smiled and reached out for her arm. “Come on, I’ll make you happier.”

“No,” Kaia stubbornly replied, folding her arms across her bare chest firmly. “I don’t want you now.”

“What?! Aw come on Kai, it was a fair call.”

She turned away from him. “I’m no longer in the mood. Now, where is my dressing robe?”

“Are you serious right now?” he enquired and she nodded. Grumbling incoherently, Changmin flung his legs over the side of the bed and searched for his pants. Kaia continued to look for her dressing robe, finally finding it and covered her naked form before heading out to photocopy the agreement. Changmin soon joined her, sighing heavily and taking the piece of paper she held out for him.

“You can’t even dress yourself,” Kaia mused, noting his shirt was poorly buttoned. Reaching out for his top, she undid it and looked up at the tall man who was eying her lustfully. Groaning loudly, Kaia moved back into his arms, Changmin blindly making his way back to the bedroom with her attacking his lips.

Kaia could never completely forgo it, she was too addicted now.

The agreement continued in this fashion for another two weeks, Changmin even interrupting Kaia’s at home exercise session to call in for his own form of working out. With his upcoming promotion overseas in Japan, the boy had to take what little time he did have and try and fit in around her schedule. Although Kaia was enjoying the sex, and the satisfaction that came with it, she wasn’t about to forgo sleep for when Changmin wanted to meet.

“Ah, my legs hurt,” Kaia complained out loud as she climbed the last remaining steps into Korea Star’s office, lightly tapping her fists on her thighs in hopes it would ease the pain. She wasn’t sure why her legs were so tired lately, though all the meetings with Changmin had acquired a lot of running to catch buses in time. She wondered if she should join a gym to keep up with her more demanding physical routine.

“Good morning Kaia!” Keith greeted her as she walked through the door and she smiled brightly at the man, bowing lightly to those who turned to see her arrival. After she slung her bag on the back of the chair and sat down, she blinked rapidly at the takeaway cup that appeared in front of her face. Keith beamed. “Iced caramel latte is your favourite, right?”

“Yes, thank you!” She took the cup and placed the straw to her mouth, closing her eyes in delight. “You’re a godsend Keith; you don’t know how behind I was this morning!”

“You seem to be busier lately,” he observed and a second chair swivelled close to her, the dark eyes penetrating her own. Kaia swatted Sungra back, pouting lightly.

“Yes, and you won’t tell me either. I’m supposed to be your best friend!”

Kaia took another sip. “Sung, I’m not doing anything illegal, I’m just busy.”

“With?” Both Keith and Sungra stared intensely and Kaia wondered if they hoped that would make her crack.

“Writing a novel,” Kaia announced, which was actually a half-truth. They both exchanged a look and shifted back to their computers, uninterested for further details. Kaia silently cursed the fact that Changmin was a celebrity and was causing her to have so many secrets.

Settling into her work for the day, she barely noticed anything or anyone around her. A few huge projects had been offered to her by Minah and she wanted to impress her boss, hoping it would bring about the promotion she had been hinting about. By lunchtime, Kaia had barely stopped for anything and realised the latte had made its way through her system. Getting up and rushing to the bathroom, she had only entered a cubicle when the phone in her jeans’ pocket went off. Stunned that she had forgotten to put the device on mute, Kaia scrambled to fish it out of her pants before answering it.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Min, ah Max I’m in the bathroom, can I call you back?” He sighed, ending the phone call with a click. Scrunching her nose up at his rudeness, Kaia jumped as a beep went off a moment later. She opened the text and read it.

Changmin: Hey, I just found out I’m going to Japan for five days. You busy today? I want to meet up.

She quickly hit the keys to respond, asking him jokingly if all they would ever do together was sex now. She finished in the cubicle and went out to wash her hands, pulling the phone back out again as she received the next message.

Changmin: Don’t make me a deprived boy of your great company.

Kaia chuckled at his avoidance of the question, sending him back another teasing reply when the toilet behind her flushed. She turned to see Abby appear a moment later, her eyes connecting with Kaia’s before she smiled.

“Are you staying for lunch?” she asked and Kaia shook my head. “That makes two of us. I’m also meeting someone.”

“Oh I’m not meeting anyone,” she retorted, and Abby gave her another look.

“Well have a good lunchtime all the same. I’m going to head out now, see you.” The girl left and Kaia frowned, wondering why she was acting so weird towards her. Shrugging lightly, she headed back out into the work office and over to her desk where she logged her computer off.

Keith looked at her. “Please tell me you’re not bailing on Sushi Day.”

“Afraid so, an old friend has asked to meet up.”

“Who?” Sungra wondered and Kaia smiled the best she could. “Do I know her?”

“Him actually and no, he’s come up from Busan where I used to work.”

“Ah, is it Justin?” the Korean girl wondered and Kaia nodded eagerly, knowing she’d have to get in contact with the fellow British man to help cover the story. “Tell him I say hi then.”

“I will, catch you both later,” Kaia said with a wave and departed the office, hurrying out into the late summer sun. She texted Changmin as she made her way to the train station entrance a block over, slowing down when she noticed Abby up ahead. She was trying not to look around herself conspicuously as she made her way over to a dark SUV that Kaia was nearing. Watching her friend with more interest, Kaia managed to reach her just as she opened the door, climbing into the seat beside a man who she leaned in to kiss. She gaped at who she believed she saw and banged into a Korean woman, who snapped Kaia out of her reverie. Bowing in apology, she then made her way to the station in a distracted manner, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. If they weren’t, then Kaia wasn’t the only one trying to hide meetings with a famous singer.

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Part 9

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