#like we have to have the contrast between her and john it's already set up

[gideonisms]

I think what I also meant to say in my previous post was that gideon's death is presented to harrow as something she needs to heal and move on from in order to accept her current situation. And harrow simply refuses to accept the current situation and I don't think the narrative is leading to her ever accepting it. Gideon's death as fuel for harrow's lyctorhood is paralleled with alecto's death as fuel for john's power, which is a pretty straightforward metaphor for the way that empires like john's exploit the people they can and take natural resources with no thought for the future. So if these things are all connected, I just don't see how we could get any kind of satisfying ending out of harrow accepting gideon's death because to do so she'd kind of have to accept what john did to alecto and on a metaphorical level it would be a pretty bleak tone to strike to have harrow decide, oh well, there's nothing to be done. when there actually clearly were things to be done and harrow did them

[babsharrison]

Safe Haven - John Wick

(Chapter two)

Pairing | John Wick x Original Fem! Character

Summary | In search of a breath in his tumultuous life, John Wick finds himself in a charming bookstore where he meets a sweet and welcoming woman. As they grow closer, John questions whether she can love him despite the dark secrets he carries. While battling the shadows of his past, he must protect the love that is blossoming and discover if hope and redemption are truly possible.

Word Count | 3.1k

A/N | Hey guys! In this chapter, I tried to show John’s work and a bit of Mia’s struggles. Sorry if there are any mistakes in my writing 🤫

Previous chapter!

At the back of the bookstore, Mia should have been busy shelving the new books that had arrived, but her attention was quickly diverted by a small romance novel. The cover was captivating, and as she flipped through the pages, a wave of warmth spread across her face, leaving her cheeks slightly flushed. With an involuntary smile, she let out a small giggle, immersed in the unfolding story. However, reality soon pulled her back: she had promised to stop by the market with her aunt later, and time was already ticking. Quickly setting the book aside, she knew she would soon have to close the bookstore and leave.

Mia sighed, still with a faint smile, as she returned her focus to the shelves. The smell of new paper and the familiarity of the books comforted her, almost like a warm embrace. She carefully organized the volumes, reminding herself of the promise she had made to her grandfather before he passed away: to take care of the place that meant so much to them both. The bookstore was a refuge filled with memories and shared laughter, and now more than ever, she felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.

As she worked, her eyes drifted to the window, where the sunlight was beginning to fade, painting the sky with shades of orange and pink. The contrast between the beauty of the moment and the internal struggle she faced made her sigh again. Keeping the bookstore alive in a world increasingly indifferent to places like it was a constant challenge. She remembered the conversations she had had with her grandfather about the dream of passing the bookstore down, and that pushed her to fight for the legacy.

"Sometimes it feels like I'm the only one who cares," she murmured while arranging a few more books. Despite the difficulties, the love she felt for the bookstore kept her going. She knew that every book there wasn't just an object but a doorway to other worlds. And as long as she could, she would do everything possible to protect that special place.

A light knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. A customer walked in, interrupting her introspection, looking around with a curious air.

"Good afternoon! Can I help you with something?" Mia asked, keeping a warm smile on her face, although her mind was still a bit distant.

The customer hesitated before answering, “Oh, yes! I’m looking for something about history. Any recommendations?”

Mia immediately brightened up. “We have great titles in the history section. I can show you a few I often recommend.” She walked over to the shelf, feeling the enthusiasm grow with each step. The bookstore always had that effect on her; even on difficult days, her love for books and the connections they brought made her feel more alive.

As she guided the customer, Mia cast a brief glance at the window, where the sky was already darkening, tinged with soft shades of blue and purple. She knew she’d have to leave soon to meet her aunt at the market, but she couldn’t close the store now with customers to serve.

“Mia!” Tom called, appearing from the back with a box full of new books. His usual carefree smile lit up his face. “Need help with the customer up front? I can give you a hand.”

She smiled, accustomed to his lighthearted tone. “Actually, I’m about to head out. I need to help my aunt at the market. Can you manage on your own for a bit?”

Tom feigned a look of concern, placing a hand on his chest. “On my own? I’ll try not to let the place fall apart.”

“You’ll be fine,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Just don’t suggest a cookbook to someone looking for adventure.”

“Got it,” he winked, with a grin. “Come back soon, or I might end up selling a mystery to someone looking for romance.”

“Just don’t let the customer leave without buying something,” Mia laughed, feeling lighter as she headed to the door.

Outside the bookstore, Mia noticed a crowd gathered near a fancy nightclub at the end of the street, its flashing lights twinkling like stars in the night sky. The distant sound of laughter and vibrant music reached her, suggesting something interesting was happening inside. Though curious, she knew she didn’t have time to get distracted.

With a soft sigh, Mia put on her long gray coat, which wrapped around her like a cozy embrace against the chilly wind. As she walked away from the bookstore, she cast one last glance at the nightclub, imagining the stories that might be unfolding inside.

Inside, however, another story was already in progress. The ceiling lights flashed frantically, and the loud music echoed everywhere, but John remained focused. The target was at the center of attention, surrounded by women laughing and dancing around him, a scene that only reinforced the superficiality of those people. A dishonest smile spread across the man’s face, and it made John’s stomach churn. He had a job to do, and none of that distracted him.

He positioned himself in a shadow, observing from a distance. The voices were a blur, the music a distant wave, while his mind focused only on the task at hand. The festive atmosphere was a stark contrast to the coldness enveloping his heart. The world around him became just a backdrop as he prepared to move.

John moved with precision, each step planned and calculated. He infiltrated the crowd, his presence almost invisible, like a ghost passing unnoticed. The laughter and pulsating music around him became distant noise; his only concern was the man who stood out among the rest.

He identified two security guards nearby, chatting casually, their attention drawn to the nightclub’s lively scene. Seizing the distraction, John approached silently, his trained body moving with almost supernatural grace. With a swift move, he neutralized the first guard, a precise strike that left him unconscious before he could make a sound.

The second guard had no time to react. In a split second, John was already on him, using the silenced weapon for a clean shot. The man fell, unaware of what had just happened. Now, only the target remained standing, surrounded by admirers who seemed oblivious to the approaching threat.

John adjusted his aim, feeling the adrenaline surge through his veins. The man, still laughing and enjoying himself, had no idea what was about to happen. He pulled the trigger, and with a single shot, the man fell, his smile frozen on his face.

The music continued to play, but a murmur of confusion began to spread as people around started to notice the scene. John, keeping calm, quickly withdrew. His experience had taught him always to have an escape plan. He moved through the shadows, blending in with the crowd, avoiding curious looks as he headed for the exit.

With his skill in disappearing amidst chaos, John left the nightclub unnoticed. The weight of a completed mission lingered, but he had no time to dwell on it. However, as he stepped out onto the street, a thought hit him: there was a nearby bookstore he couldn’t get out of his mind, the peaceful and welcoming atmosphere he’d felt upon entering. The memory of the young woman who had caught his attention brought a soft sigh to his lips.

He hesitated for a moment, the bookstore’s door in sight, but the memory of the mission pulled him back to reality. He decided that, for now, he should keep his distance. There were other concerns on his mind, like the consequences of what had just happened.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

On a rainy day, Mia was organizing some books on a high shelf, balancing on the tips of her toes. The late afternoon was approaching, and the sunlight filtered through the large bookstore windows, casting long golden shadows on the wooden floor. Her friend and coworker, Tom, had missed work due to illness and had sent a prior notice to the young woman. She sighed softly, distracted by the thoughts that haunted her. The bookstore, once her grandfather's refuge, now felt like a growing responsibility weighing on her shoulders. Keeping his legacy alive was important, but finances were tight, and she feared she wouldn’t be able to keep it open much longer.

Additionally, the worry about Tom tormented her. She always considered him more than just a coworker—he was a dear friend, and his absence left her uneasy. With the kindness that was characteristic of her, she thought of stopping by his house later to bring some warm tea and maybe some homemade food. A simple gesture, but one that could make all the difference on such a cold and rainy day.

When she came down the ladder, a familiar sensation took hold of her—that comforting stillness. The doorbell rang, the sound light but enough to catch her attention. She turned, and her eyes once again met the figure of the mysterious man. He was standing there, silent as always, but something in his gaze seemed different from the first time—an exhaustion, perhaps, or a heavier burden on his shoulders.

“Good afternoon! What a surprise to see you again,” she said with a soft smile. “Did something bring you back today?”

John didn’t answer immediately. He made an almost imperceptible movement with his head, as if agreeing, and began walking slowly through the aisles, running his fingers along the spines of the books. The contrast between his calm walk and the intensity he carried was almost palpable. Mia watched from her place at the counter, feeling a growing curiosity. Who was this man who appeared so unexpectedly, and why did that weary look always linger in his eyes?

Mia continued to observe him for a few moments as he wandered through the aisles, his hands lightly touching the books as if searching for something he couldn’t quite define. There was a tension in his movements, a constant vigilance, but at the same time, something about the bookstore seemed to soften him. Maybe it was the warm, welcoming atmosphere, or perhaps Mia’s presence, so different from anyone else he encountered in his routine.

She approached the counter, maintaining a respectful distance but not losing the lightness in her posture. “If you need help finding something... I’m here,” she said, her voice low, almost as if she was aware that he preferred silence.

John paused for a second, his dark eyes studying her over the books. There was no direct distrust, but a trace of caution was always present. Even so, he nodded slightly, accepting the offer without words, as if the simple act of Mia being there, offering genuine tranquility, was already something he didn’t find elsewhere.

She realized he wasn’t the type of person to open up easily, and that didn’t bother her. There was a natural calm between them, as if the silence between their few words said more than any hurried conversation could.

While he scanned the books, Mia watched from afar, organizing the pile she had finished arranging earlier. Her thoughts, which had been trapped in the difficulties she faced with the bookstore, now floated around the unexpected presence of that man. The mystery surrounding him intrigued her, but more than that, there was something about him that made her want to offer more than just a refuge.

John, sensing her gaze, finally broke the silence. “This place... seems different from the last times I was here,” he said, almost as if speaking more to himself than to her.

Mia raised an eyebrow, surprised by the comment. “Maybe it’s the time of day,” she replied softly, not wanting to force an answer from him. “Or maybe you’re just seeing the place differently today.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but there was a slight nod of agreement in his eyes. She was right, and he knew it. The world outside was cold, unforgiving. But here, between books and whispers of stories he had never read, there was a small moment of peace—a breath amid the chaos he usually called life.

Their interaction was brief, almost imperceptible, but carried a depth that both recognized, even without admitting it. Mia smiled, returning to her work, respecting the silence she knew was so important to him. John, for his part, continued to walk among the shelves, more relaxed, but still alert to everything around him, as if something inside him knew that the peace found here was temporary.

As Mia continued to organize the books, the rain outside intensified, filling the bookstore’s silence with a steady and almost hypnotic rhythm. The small, cozy space became an even more welcoming refuge on days like this. Several people were scattered around the store, some sitting on comfortable sofas along the sides, immersed in their reading, others at the small coffee table, talking in low voices. The bookstore pulsed with the softness of whispers and the sound of turning pages, creating an atmosphere that warmed Mia’s heart a little more.

She discreetly watched John from behind the counter, seeing him lose himself among the shelves, his fingers brushing the spines of the books as if searching for something familiar, yet unattainable. The contrast between his presence and that of the other people was palpable—while everyone else seemed relaxed, he radiated a silent tension.

A sudden thought crossed her mind. It was a cold and wet afternoon, and although she knew he was a reserved man, perhaps a simple gesture of kindness would be welcome. She hesitated for a brief moment, wondering if it would be intrusive, but the memory of how he seemed more at ease in the bookstore encouraged her.

Without saying anything, Mia went to the back of the store, where she kept a small kitchen for herself, something she had inherited from her grandfather. Quickly, she prepared a to-go cup of coffee. The warm, comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and she smiled softly, appreciating the contrast between the sound of the rain and the welcoming smell of coffee.

When Mia returned to the front of the store, she saw John sitting on one of the sofas, the book resting on the table in front of him. He was engrossed in reading, his eyes fixed on the pages, but his rigid posture revealed a constant vigilance, as if every sound around him was something to be analyzed, a possible sign of danger, even in a seemingly safe environment like the bookstore.

Mia approached carefully, holding the to-go cup with both hands. The warm, familiar aroma filled the air, a comforting reminder in contrast to the cold rain outside. As she neared the table beside John, where he had momentarily rested the book, she placed the cup on the surface gently, trying not to disturb the silence.

“I... made some coffee for you,” she said softly, almost as if offering a gift. There was a quiet kindness in her voice, something that didn’t demand anything in return. The closed cup was a practical choice, allowing him to decide what to do—whether to take it or leave it behind.

John slowly raised his gaze, the surprise in his dark eyes quickly replaced by an expression of caution. He observed the cup for a few seconds, his mind analyzing every detail of the gesture. Part of him found it curious, almost unsettling, that someone would offer something so simple without a hidden motive. In his world, where kindness often came with ulterior motives, accepting something from a stranger felt like a risk.

But at the same time, there was something different here—a touch of authenticity in Mia’s way. She didn’t seem to demand anything in return, just left the coffee as a considerate gesture, and then moved away. There was no insistence, no attempt to get closer beyond that small act. That made him hesitate.

With a controlled movement, he murmured, “Thank you.” His voice was low, carrying a near-automatic suspicion, but at the same time, there was a small spark of acknowledgment. He knew this didn’t have to be a threat, but his nature prevented him from fully letting his guard down.

Mia nodded with a small smile and returned to the counter, respecting his space, without trying to continue the conversation. She did what felt right and now left it up to him to decide what to do with the coffee.

John remained seated, looking at the cup on the table in front of him. He didn’t pick it up immediately, nor did he reject it. Instead, he continued pondering the gesture. Why would someone do that? He was used to favors coming with a price, to kindnesses masking dubious intentions. It was almost instinctive to see the coffee as something potentially risky, something he should refuse.

And yet, the warmth emanating from the cup seemed to bring a sense of comfort. It wasn’t the coffee itself, but the simplicity of the gesture, the offer of something in a world that, for him, rarely offered rest. He knew that distrust was a survival tool, but part of him—a part he rarely listened to—wanted to believe that there was nothing more behind that coffee than pure kindness.

He left the cup there for now, untouched but not forgotten. He continued reading, trying to focus on the words before him, but his mind wandered back to the cup. That small act of humanity made him uncomfortable, but because it was something so different from his reality.

John didn’t drink the coffee right away, but he knew he would take it with him when he left. He didn’t know if he would take a sip later or leave it in some corner, but the simple fact that it was there, offered so genuinely, made him reconsider, if only for a brief moment, the isolation he imposed on himself.

While the environment around continued with the soft sounds of turning pages and the pattering of rain, Mia watched from the corner of her eye, returning to her routine tasks. She understood that he was a man surrounded by shadows, but even the darkest nights have their stars.

As the afternoon passed, John finally got up, leaving a few bills on the table to cover the coffee and the book. Without looking directly at her, he left the store quietly, just as he had arrived. But something about his departure felt less cold this time, as if, little by little, he was opening up to something beyond the constant vigilance.

Next chapter!

[wellofdean]

OK, I was going to reblog this excellent post by @luckshiptoshore so go read it, because yes. Yes!! YES!!! But then when I got started my post got super long and I felt bad tacking it onto her post and decided to make my own in response to these tags:

#i am actually a bit obsessed by the whole hunting as queerness metaphor#it’s so clearly something everyone involved in the show is thinking about#supernatural

Gurl, me too! Like go back to the start! By the time Supernatural began, the backlash against the Joseph Campbell Monomyth-style mode of storytelling had already begun in the hallowed halls of USC film school, and yo: I was there at the time of Kripke's graduation, and my best friends from college are full scale big giant time filmmakers now, whose names I will not share on main because it's uncool, and I don't want that attention, but... yeah. I am referencing FIRST HAND SOURCES on this.

But, for a real source? The Oxford English Dictionary places the first use of the term "Queer Theory" in 1990, with Queer Studies as an option in the academy by 1992. I know the kids think it's a new-fangled thing, but Kripke graduated USC in 1996 (I graduated in 1995) and it was ALL THE RAGE by then. My friends read queer theory in their Critical Studies courses in the Film School, I read it in the College of Humanities getting my degree in Literature. By that time, you could not get through that school with any degree in any non-STEM subject without knowing about ye olde postmodern lenses, queer and feminist theory, and without knowing how to employ those lenses.

Queer refers to sexuality, yes, but the word's earliest use (again, according to the OED) is in the 1500's, meaning: strange, odd, peculiar, eccentric. Also: of questionable character; suspicious, dubious.

So, ok, in 2005, Enter Supernatural, episode 1:

Presented? Two brothers. One actively seeking credit in the straight world that is not available to him in the bosom of his family: Stanford, law school, hot co-ed girlfriend, the other bound to his fractured, wounded family by duty, yes, but also by love, living on the fringe, alone, fighting monsters, and chasing after his father's approval, and who has long since given up any dream of being 'normal'. Episode 1 presents Sam's call to adventure, which he refuses when it's just familial duty, honor and love calling him, but accepts when the show takes a very straightforward and very telling path by classically fridging his woman. Ok, now he's on board. Like John, whose motivation is another dead woman, his motivation is revenge. So far so straight!

Dean though: he's different. He is already on the adventure and he was not 'called' or given the option of accepting or refusing because he had no agency when his feet were set upon this road. He does not fit the straight world at all, because he is cobbled together out of love, duty, deep guilt, striving, desperation and fear. This is who he is now, in some elemental, incontrovertible way. It was not a choice for him, he was born to it. His mother is dead, and we later learn, she made the choices that brought them all to this fate. Dean remembers her idyllically, but he is not motivated by revenge, more than any other thing, he wants to be worthy. He wants his father's approval, his brother's love.

Enter Supernatural's main theme: fucked up relationships between men enmeshed in patriarchy, which will eventually expand to include fucking GOD HIMSELF.

And like, there are SO MANY CLEAR STEPS ALONG THE ROAD in season one, and I am not even talking about sexuality and gender here, but there is SO MUCH TO SAY about it in season 1. But I am not talking about that -- I am talking at a structural, narrative level, the whole thing is just fucking all the way queered, yo.

The big climax?

At the end of the season, Dean says: "I just want my family back together. You, me, Dad... it's all I have." He is Sam's mother, John's partner! His vulnerability and emotion is feminized and contrasted with Sam and John's more overtly driven by their more masculine/straight heroic revenge quest. John: "Sam and I can get pretty obsessed, but you always take care of this family." Only that's not John talking, it's Azazel, and Dean knows it is because his father would never forgive how soft he is, how he will always choose love and family over revenge. Then, in the end, the show makes a huge point of telegraphing that Sam is finally aligning with Dean by refusing to shoot Azazel because he's possessing John, and Sam just can't do that to Dean.

Sam and Dean are thus bound together and cemented into a marginalised path, living on the road, haunting liminal spaces and cheap motels, confronting the monstrous everyday. Sam is presented as the brains of the operation, he does research, logics his way through things (masculine) while Dean is the heart who acts impulsively and on instinct and intuition (feminine).

It later transpires that Sam has a piece of the monster inside himself, and Dean has to learn to love the monstrous, he has no choice, because Sam is his brother and then Cas... and, and, and!

Like... I could go on and on, citing ENDLESS EXAMPLES. This could be a literal book. Maybe one you need to read with a magnifying glass like my condensed edition of the OED. LIke, the queerness of Supernatural is DIZZYING and MYRIAD.

But basically? FROM THE START, hunting is a queered version of family, and within that, Dean is a queered version of a Campbellian hero. Hunting is a metaphor for otherness and liminality, and that's even before you say a WORD about sex. It starts in deviation from the norms of family, masculinity and expands from there on so many levels both in story and on a meta level. The story is flesh on queer fucking bones.

I'm so sorry, but anyone who thinks queerness was not BAKED INTO Supernatural and more specifically into Dean from DAY 1 has clearly never seen Dean's insane lip gloss in season 1, and vastly underestimates the cultural awareness of people who write shit in Hollywood, and also the other people who put pink lip gloss on pretty boys in Hollywood. Nothing that gets on your screen wasn't a fucking choice made and approved by a LONG LIST of people who know what they are about.

[shinygoku]

A Hard Day's Night (1964)

March is here and we have a strong entry for this CutCat Reviews Beatles Albums series! However I wanna specify that this is the Album and not the movie, though the Movie is something I'd like to delve into at a later date~

I like the concept behind this cover, conveying some of their Range through multiple pictures. It was oddly hard to get a high resolution pic to put here (I ended up screenshotting the YT upload instead lmao), it's good the actual photos are high contrast. Far from my fav set of images but better than the US version lmao

Anyway, other than being the Album of the Film, this is notable for being the first All-Originals LP, as well as being very John heavy, with George leading vocals on one song, and Ringo having none. Before I hear 'em all, the ones that stick most in my mind are the title track and Can't Buy Me Love, so let's see how the whole album is to experience~

SIDE ONE

A Hard Day's Night: <TWAAAAAAANG--!> An amazing start (if a bit of a Headphones User Jumpscare) and a beautiful medley of their different instruments and vocals. The 2023 remix makes the distinct elements clearer, so I heartily endorse giving it a listen even if ya've heard the song or watched the movie hundreds of times!

I Should Have Known Better: Harmonica is still in heavy use here! After that, the first note is ...less than melodic, but the more words we get into the song the better it gets, until the chorus resets back to the long drawn out "I" again lol

If I Fell: The harmony really offers a pretty sound to this number. It kinda feels like a sequel song to I Wanna Hold Your Hand, albeit I do prefer that one. It's pretty but the way the Ex keeps coming up leaves me unsure of the intended Vibe. I like it more in the Film where John is serenading Ringo tbh :3c

I'm Happy Just to Dance With You: Oh hey, George! And dang, this is the 2nd song to reference Holding Hands, and again it isn't as bodacious as that, but I am enjoying this song on its own merits lmao. It's jaunty and yet casual, there's a warmth to the energy here. It's straightforward and sweet, I'd even go as far as to say it's a hidden gem, and the bass and drums have me moving about~

And I Love Her: A pretty Paul song that perhaps feels more like poetry. Groovy guitars and bongos lend a good atmosphere, and the lyrics paint a nice visual. It kinda feels like the sort of song that is best on a nighttime drive, even though vinyls weren't made for cars lol, just a nice vibe to it...

Tell Me Why: This album has a lot of distinct openings already, doesn't it? This is a Displeased Song, but there's a good groove occuring and dope vocal syncing. Like I Should Have Known Better, I prefer the parts of the song that aren't the title, however this one grows more on me than that lol. Annoyingly, this was not given a 2023 remix, so the lovely drumming work isn't as apparent as it deserves!

Can't Buy Me Love: CAN'T BUY ME LOOOO-OOOVE !! Like, man! That's another hugely catchy opening and refrain, innit~ It's all too easy to be cynical and point out how much cash these lads were raking in, but the words still ring as the truth, and the song is an all-around Bop! I like the little pauses in the instruments each time the "I don't care too much for money" line returns, it's all punctuated so nicely, and the SCREAM! And then an instrumental break between that and looping back into the verse is such an aural treat~

SIDE TWO

Any Time At All: Hmmm, sounds like it's aping From Me To You in sentiments, though obviously the melody of this is different. I'm inclined to put this in the heap of "Original Beatle Songs that still get lost in the shuffle even though it's perfectly decent", but not a hidden gem like I'm Happy Just To Dance With You is lol

I'll Cry Instead: A Bluesy number with a nice rhythm and fun uhh, middle eight? Though the vengeful flavour dampers my enjoyment, what have these "other girls" done to earn your threats, hm? It's not bad but it's not appealing.

Things We Said Today: Ahh yes, the famous reverse-nostalgia song! I like the sentiments but this time the music doesn't feel as memorable and hum-able. The chorus amps the energy up but this Paul one is firmly in the shadow of the other two solos he did on this album. But he do be right; love IS love!

When I Get Home: Hmmm..... this one ain't making a strong impression. The main thought I have is how it's title is similar to the refrain in AHDN "when I get home to you", but without the dope energy that one has. I'm starting to think they frontloaded this album, but there's still a couple'a songs left...!

You Can't Do That: I'm listening to the 2023 version and ooh hi Cowbell! ...wait a sec, a jealousy song? One with threats woven into it? :/ .....how come this was selected for the '23 Red Album? The chorus sounds better but nah, this ain't doing it for me.

I'll Be Back: Hmmm, after the Terminator video suggestions, I opened this song for a creepy stalker song [albeit with good instruments]. I'm bored of these vibes on side two!!!!

CONCLUSION

Best 3: A Hard Day's Night, And I Love Her, Can't Buy Me Love

Blurst 3: I'll Cry Instead, You Can't Do That, I'll Be Back

Overall Quality?: Woooow what a beast of two halves!! Side 1 is hit after hit with all the memorable numbers, and I was starting to wonder if this album was the stealth early best?? And then Side 2 is mostly "Meh" to "Ouugh I don't like this!". Damn. I guess overall I'd say it's Uneven, but with the caveat that side 1 is a lot better overall than the average set by Please Please Me and With The Beatles. Maybe they shoulda crammed a Ringo song in? ¬w¬;;

It's really annoying that Side Two drags it down so much. I like 3's but I'm Happy Just To Dance With You is a close contender for the top 3, but the ones I selected are just soooo Iconic, innit. If I was judging the album just based on the first side I'd say it's Really Great, but I'll hafta save more glowing praise for an album that has it all later down the line...

🪲🪲🪲🪲

Next tiiiiime, on Beatles Ball Z... we see the burnout that occurs after a film, an all-originals album, and of course, the Beatlemania that had them charged at by excited girls and weirdo reporters. Find out what happens in Beatles For Sale!

[eastern-lights]

I love love LOVE the interactions between Caine and Koji in John Wick 4. Even though their shared screentime is very limited, the writers and the actors just manage to squeeze the most out of it. Take this exchange:

(spoilers for John Wick Chapter 4 follow)

Koji: You are with them now? Caine: No! No. Koji: Your daughter? Mia? Caine: Alive. And your daughter Akira? Koji: Well.

As soon as Caine denies being employed by the High Table (despite obviously being just that), Koji immediately catches on that Mia is being threatened, he knows that Caine isn’t doing this voluntarily. They both disguise the conversation as a catching up between old friends, but when Caine also mentions Akira, I think he is trying to remind Koji that he too has a child to protect and would likely have done the same in Caine’s shoes. Then we get this:

Caine: We don’t have to end this in blood. Koji: Then leave. Caine: No-one defies the Table, I remember once you understood that! Koji: And I remember a time when you understood the meaning of brotherhood!

This exchange seems to paint Caine as the realist and Koji as the stubborn idealist. Koji may even come off as a little naive in that he thinks he stands a chance of winning. But he still gives Caine the chance to walk out, which contrasts with their later duel, where he keeps on trying to kill him, despite being wounded and getting the chance to leave. This was quite jarring to me in the cinema, as I thought the previous conversation made it clear that Koji did not want to kill Caine. But then we get this, as Koji’s bleeding out and barely standing:

Koji: Caine. You don’t need eyes to see the right path. Caine, dismissively: Just take care of your daughter. (starts walking away) Koji: I am.

Koji then makes one last desperate attempt to kill Caine and dies in the process. Why? We all know that he’s trying to protect John, but why would he equate Caine’s death with Akira’s safety when Caine explicitly said he would not hurt her? Because Koji realizes something Caine does not - that the Marquis will never let him go. He will always use him as his best weapon, and at that point, Akira was already marked to be killed because of Koji’s defiance. Koji knows that if he allows Caine to leave, Akira might get maybe a year with her father, but eventually, Caine would be forced to come for them both. If he kills Caine right now, even if he dies in the process, the biggest danger to Akira will be gone and she will have a fighting chance. In this instance, we are shown that it is in fact Koji who is the realist, while Caine clings to a naive hope that if he does this one thing, he will be free. So Koji gives Caine one last chance to take “the right path”, and when the latter refuses, he attacks. Koji’s plan of course backfires spectacularly, because in the end, all he does is set Akira on a path of vengeance, but this is my interpretation of the events - that Koji genuinely thought that dying to kill his friend was the only way to keep Akira safe.

As a last point, I really liked how Koji’s death was handled. There were no goodbyes, no apologies as he sat Akira down to go and fight Caine (even though it is heavily implied that both him and Akira knew he would not survive), they just exchanged a look that said everything. And when the moment came, there were no inspirational last words, he just passed in his daughter’s arms. And the chemistry between Hiroyuki Sanada and Rina Sawayama was so good that no lines were needed.

[disappointingyet]

Variety

Director Bette Gordon Stars Sandy McLeod, Luís Guzman, Nan Goldin USA/West Germany/UK 1983 Language English 1hr 40mins Colour 

Weird but absorbing indie noir

What kind of film is this? When it begins with a conversation between Christine (Sandy McLeod) and Nan (Nan Goldin) in a locker room, it feels like this could be an early example of the young-woman-trying-to-do-something-arty-in-NYC-and-struggling microgenre, and that would be fine. Instead, a rather weirder plot is set in play when Christine surprises her friend by saying she would take the one job that Nan knows is available: working the ticket booth at the Variety, a cinema that shows dirty movies.

Christine initially seems pleased with the job, but it seems to have some unsettling effects on her. During conversations in public places with her earnest, somewhat uptight boyfriend Mark (Will Patton), she’ll break into long monologues describing erotic scenarios. 

Then she starts following the besuited middle-aged regular at the Variety who has invited her out. It’s clear he’s involved in dodgy stuff, which might be connected with the corrupt fisherman’s union Mark is doing an investigative report about. Less clear is what Christine is up to, and whether she grasps how much danger she might be in.

Contrasting with the thriller elements are scenes in the bar where Nan works, with groups of women just talking about their lives. 

So what we’ve got is part offbeat noir, part psychological drama and part slice of life. I’m not sure all of that fully gels, and there were occasionally bits where I thought I had missed something but the film works nonetheless. 

I think the thriller elements are surprisingly effective (some other reviews seem to disagree). Like the film as a whole, they gained from being shot in the real world. We get the assorted filth-industry locations of the type so carefully recreated in the David Simon series The Deuce, but these are actual working peep shows etc. We also get the crumbling boardwalk at Asbury Park, a huge fish market and even Yankee Stadium (I was wondering if they had permission to film there or somehow snuck a camera in - not easy to do with the equipment they had in those days.)

There’s an interesting mix of folks involved, some then experiencing their moment, some whose time would come later. Writer Kathy Acker – whose work was daring or notorious, depending on your perspective – gets a script credit. I don’t generally like a sax-driven score, but this one is excellent – it’s by John Lurie, who around the same time was starring in Jim Jarmusch’s breakthrough Stranger Than Paradise, which was shot by Tom DiCillo, who (yes) was one of the cinematographers on Variety.

There are a couple of character actors making early appearances here who are still busy in the 2020s. I’ve already mentioned Will Patton – the other one is Luís Guzmán, who plays Christine’s co-worker at the cinema. I’m here to report that Guzmán arrived in the movies fully formed – to say he’s easily recognisable in Variety is an understatement.

But I’m guessing it’s Goldin’s presence that meant I could see this in a cinema in 2023. Clips from Variety appear in All The Beauty And All The Bloodshed, the recent critically beloved documentary about Goldin’s life and work. She seems to be playing herself: the character is called Nan, she’s a photographer and she works in a bar, as Goldin did at the time. (I'm assuming the bar she worked at and the one in the movie are the same place, but don't know that for sure.)

Variety had a slightly strange origin – Bette Gordon was an underground New York-based  film-maker offered a chance to make a bigger film by a German TV channel (Britain’s recently established Channel 4 contributed too). Gordon came up with idea and asked Acker to write it – but three other people get a credit for the screenplay and I think I can guess which bits are left from Acker’s draft.

It’s very much a snapshot of a moment in early 1980s New York, but it’s also an involving and fascinating movie. I like it a lot.

[thectower]

Film Review #23: From Beginning to End

From the surrealist mind of Greg Ivan, From Beginning To End, follows the life of Kegan Stanley, a penniless writer from New York who is struggling to raise a family and overcome cycles of family abuse. 

The film looks closely at the events of Kegan’s life, the relationship he shares with his father and eventually his son. But what gives this film its edge is the fact that the same actor portrays all three men. What’s more, that actor is Ivan himself. Alongside him is silver screen star Pamela Nondlecomp who’s role contrast’s Ivan’s, playing Kegan’s sister, mother, best friend, lost lover, wife and eventual nurse. 

The surrealist masterpiece aims to reframe our understanding of the people around us. As we watch, we are confronted by answers we may not like to questions we can’t help but ask: Who are we? Who will we become? What is everyone thinking?

The film expertly misdirects its audience, as we are first led to believe that Ivan is only portraying Howard, Kagan’s father. But as we follow the life of this young boy, we begin to notice the similarities the two characters share. 

This misdirection is executed perfectly and isn't fully revealed until the end of the second act, as Kegan waits for his son to be born. What follows is a shot for shot recreation of the opening scene, of Kegan's birth, but now from his father's perspective.

From this point onward, all scenes are recreations of scenes the audience is already familiar with, but told from Howard's perspective. Suddenly the fear we've had towards him is recontextualised.

But this perspective shift could not be done without the support of Nondlecomp and the many roles she portrays. The actress has gone above and beyond to instill in her characters distinction while still making each feel eerily familiar: her absent stare as Kegan’s mother, her joyful disposition as his sister, and the lurking sense of familiarity we feel as she portrays Kegan’s wife. 

This strange tone is a mainstay in Ivan’s filmography with many of his works serving as grounded observations emphasised with surrealist imagery, and this film seeks out to pay homage to many of those past works. 

His first film, To Wring One’s Own Neck, is where we see him begin to explore ideas of duality and personhood. Culminating in a focused, but almost conservative, film about what it means to be a person.

His follow up film, Who Likes to Talk to the Universe, really leans into its surrealist elements. In both films, small mistakes by children are met with abuse in public spaces. In the basketball game scene, as the stands catch fire and Howard remains unscathed, the wreath of flames around him both isolates and embolden him.

Ivan's penultimate film, Tour, brought us back down to earth. A film which sought to master the mistakes of his youth, but ended up robbing the film of its charm and personality. And it is with regret I say similar problems arise in the final act of From Beginning to End. 

I would be remiss not to acknowledge the strange release this film had. It was four weeks after the director's death, that his daughter, Dee Ivan, teased the film on twitter. 

The world was abuzz with fascination at the idea of a posthumous release from such a unique director, with parallels being drawn between it and John Malkovich' film's 100 Years. A film which is not set to be released until 2115.

In an official statement released by the family of Greg Ivan, they said: “Greg was many things. A father. A brother. A friend. But more than anything else, he was a filmmaker. He spent every waking hour of his life making films. What we have released today is the culmination of a lifetime of work, filmed and edited from the day he could hold a camera to that day he died in his apartment. A number of small edits have been made after his passing to help complete the film, but we know he would want the world to see it.”

It is here where we can truly understand the film. When we see a 5 year old Kegan, we are seeing a 5 year old Greg Ivan. When we see a haggard and abusive 32 year old Howard, we are seeing a 32 year old Greg Ivan. When we see the father and son refuse to make peace in the final hours of Howard's life, we are seeing Ivan's unresolved problems, not only with his father's death, but his own.

What's more, we see how he has grown as a director. Scenes shot in his youth are old and grainy, poorly shot and badly acted. But the film intermingles these moments with shoots taken much later in his life, in such a way that Kegan and Howard naturally contrast each other. Howard is more capable than Kegan, and we see that not only through their choices, but also reflected in the capability of Ivan at the time each scene was shot. 

So when Kegan first raises his fist to his son, you really do feel the weight of every moment which came before.

In a sense, this film represents all of who Ivan is. It is his alpha and omega; his beginning and end; his first film, and his last film. He took us, not on any journey of self discovery, but on his. One of navigating life, meaning and relationships. One of defiance and return. One that reminds us that, despite what we might believe, we are all on the same journey. 

10/10. Rest in peace Greg. 

[yeyinde]

CEILLLLLLLLL. THE WAY YOU WRITE!!!!!!!! the skin on my face has melted off. dripped into a puddle on my lap. godddd. i need to be sedated. i need to lay down. i don't smoke but this has me craving a cigarette.

Price is already hot on his own, but somehow, you make him so much better. the things he does, what he says. everything. this is my canon.

i wanted to pick out my favourite lines and saved them in my notes app, but it's everything he says in this.

the good girls, this gruff, almost weathered softness. the smothering care. love it, love it, love it!!!

John chuckles, the sound raspy with sleep. “Christ, honey, you’re wet…should’ve told me you needed a good fucking.”

and

“‘Course you wouldn’t, darlin’,” he croons, stroking his hand up your side. “We just had a little spat, is all. I know you’re my good girl.”

and

“Christ, keep squirming like that,” John growls into your neck, sucking at the sweaty patch of skin between your neck and shoulder.

ME NEXT!!!!!!!!

You can’t answer him. Only intelligible babbling, a high, reedy plea whistled through your teeth. Your hands rake down his back, scoring red lines into the skin, and clutching helplessly, trying to both pull him closer and push him away. It’s almost too much, too soon.

the imagery too. everything about this is immaculate, absolutely ticks every box conceivable: expertly crafted John Price, tension so thick it sometimes makes me pace around my room just to get a breather, delicious smut, but there's something about the way they interact with each other, and the way John treats her that's just elevating this to historic status. this is the fic i'll be thinking about forever.

and right now!!!!! allllllll i can think about is this:

John’s arms tighten around you as he nears his end. You feel compressed, choked, only a warm slippery thing for him to plant his seed in.

umm!!!!! have mercy??? 😭 but then it got better (read: worse)

“Christ, keep squirming like that,” John growls into your neck, sucking at the sweaty patch of skin between your neck and shoulder.

“Why do you like touching there?” you ask, taking another sip.

“This is where my babe will sit,” he says, and you choke on your water, coughing until your lungs are clear and your eyes water. “Soon, with any luck.”

and urrrrrr trying to kill me.

“I never get off easy with you, do I?” he murmurs.

this part, almost immediately contrasted against her conversation with Laswell (whomst i adore), is perfect. i love the oscillation between telling him and not, and this whole arc is set up so incredibly well. i feel the tension. i get where she's coming from. it's not just shoehorned miscommunication, but a genuine problem. as much as i'd like to say Laswell is wrong, there's also a part of me that kinda wonders. Price is an honourable man (in her eyes), and i can see why this conflict would be so taxing and terrifying to divulge. plus. the lead in with her musing about trust?? how are you real??? it's little things like that, these small throughlines, that i get such a kick out of. incredible writing.

i have ascended. i now live on another plane of existence. truly, genuinely, idk how you write such incredible, godtier smut, and just amazing writing in general. got me over here taking notes like i'm in class. sooo good!!!! this is, currently, my favourite chapter and now i gotta go read it all, in sequence.

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 14)

first chapter >> last chapter

-

It’s you for once crawling over him in the dead of night and stroking your hand down the side of his face.

Any other night, you would be able to brush off the urge to curl yourself around him and press your lips into the bristly corner of his jaw, but after a long day of waiting and worrying, and a week’s worth of pent up stress and guilt, you have no choice but to succumb to your urges. It’s burrowed so deep inside of you that it’s almost a base need now. You need to be as close to him as possible.

John coaxes you to bed once you finish bandaging his hands. It’s not meant presumptively; you can tell from the deep bags under his eyes that he needs sleep more than anything. 

For a spell, you sleep with the comfort of your husband by your side. After a week of keeping to your side of the bed, body stiff to keep from turning over in your sleep and curling up into his—committed, in your ire, to punishing both him and yourself—you relish the opportunity to snuggle up under his arm. 

The ache between your legs only becomes unmanageable somewhere around the middle of the night. You wake in a daze, sweating profusely, cheek pressed to a hard chest that rises and falls with his breaths. It takes a moment for the fog to clear, but once it does you realize that you’ve rolled on top of him, legs spread on either side of a thick thigh and your sex pressed tight to the muscle, your hips undulating. 

Your lips part enough for your tongue to slip out and wet them. Another wave of need washes over you, making your breath come out ragged. Your vision is still spotty, sleep half-crusted into the folds of you, and with the room still ensconced in darkness, no amount of blinking ever clears it out. 

The air around you feels hot and humid; your skin sticks to his when you lift your head up, your face damp with sweat. John’s hand is loose at your bottom, curved under a cheek to hold you to him. The other is nestled against the small of your back. Your shift is drawn up around your waist, likely riding up when you crawled over your husband in the middle of the night, but it means that only the thin fabric of your underwear is pressed against John’s thigh. Every roll of your hips rubs your clit in just the right way. 

You pant against his chest when you roll your hips again. You’d be humiliated if he woke up to see you humping his leg like a puppy, but you can hardly control yourself. In the month since marrying him, you’ve grown accustomed to a certain amount of relief at your husband’s hands, and to suddenly lose that in one fell swoop has left you, for lack of a better word, frustrated. 

“Hmm…darlin’…” John suddenly groans, hand gripping into the flesh of your backside and grinding your sex down against his leg. 

You still at the sound of his voice, biting back your moan when he shifts his thigh and presses it up into you. He wakes gradually, blinking down at you when you peer up at him. The blood rushes under your cheeks, growing hot when he blinks at you again slowly, realization unfurling behind his eyes like a lotus flower blooming under moonlight. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just…” you whisper, choking back a moan again when his hand slides down your bottom and in between your legs, fingers rubbing against the wet seam of your cunt.

John chuckles, the sound raspy with sleep. “Christ, honey, you’re wet…should’ve told me you needed a good fucking.”

“You n-needed to sleep,” you say, gasping into his chest when John strokes his fingers up and down between your thighs. The sensation is mildly dulled by the fabric covering your center, but his prodding fingers make you jolt anyway. 

“Darlin’, If I’d known, I never would’ve let you go to bed wanting.”

He maneuvers you onto your side for long enough to let him draw your underwear down your legs before rolling over onto his back again and balancing you over his lap. With your knees on either side of his hips, your cunt is spread wide open for his gaze, the soft, dewy folds parting to expose your slick center. 

Words are silken in your head and they slide from side to side as you watch John lift his hips and reach down to pull himself out. He moves with a practiced ease, but the flush high on his cheeks betrays his eagerness. You run your hands through the pelt on his chest as you stare at the glistening tip of his member poking out the top of his grip. 

“We’ve never done this,” you remark, almost a casual observation. Despite your heart beating rabbit-quick, the words aren’t caught behind your tongue. Instead, John's presence acts like a balm, nervousness bleeding away to anticipation. 

“First time for everything, isn’t there?”

“I suppose,” you murmur, eyes locked on the turgid length that he notches against your entrance, impaling you on it so slowly that it almost doesn’t register at first. 

You feel the stretch when he bottoms out though. The last inch comes all at once, winding you. It is a frightening, soaring sensation; a blunt intrusion that takes you to another place. No pleasantries this time because you’re an old hat at this now, you suspect, but still you gasp when his girth stretches you beyond what you recalled. 

“Fuck…there it is,” John grunts, transferring his hands to your waist. “Christ, tightened right up since we last made love, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

His words, while crass, hold true. You can feel every throbbing inch of him.

“It’s not like—” you pant, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, sweat beading around your hairline. “I wasn’t about to,��ah… fool around with anybody else.”

“‘Course you wouldn’t, darlin’,” he croons, stroking his hand up your side. “We just had a little spat, is all. I know you’re my good girl.”

His words make you clench up tight, drawing a rumbling groan out of him. 

“N-no, I’m not a good…—I’m just…it just wouldn’t be right. We’re married. I’d—I’d never…” The words come out shaky, punched out because he takes that moment to help guide you up, nearly pulling out of you completely before bringing you back down.

“Knew you were my good girl soon as I saw you,” John muses, his voice low and husky, hands gripped tight at your waist. “Couldn’t wait to make you mine. Wasn’t even supposed to marry you right away—thought we’d get to know each other a bit, but then—”

“You—oh, unf—you dragged me to the courthouse.”

He smiles roguishly. “I couldn’t let you go after I saw you. Had to make you mine, darlin’.”

You ride him carefully at first, unsure of yourself. 

It’s strenuous work taking his cock this way, doing all the heavy lifting yourself. You almost think you’d fight him if you weren’t lost in pleasure, eyes defocusing as you stare down at him. Each time you impale yourself on his length, your breath hitches out of you. A sharp oh, oh, oh; chasing something elusive that wants you after it. 

When your thighs feel strained to the point of burning, you beg him to hurry up. Enough, you blubber, the word almost subsumed into a guttural moan. That makes him grit his teeth, a dark look coming over his face. You hiccup when he plants his feet against the bed and his hips buck up into you, the squelch of your own cunt making your fingers dig into his chest hair. 

All you can do is take it, your hands planted on his chest and jaw dropping open on a moan that you can’t hold back. 

Tears clumping your eyelashes together, a single drop landing in the middle of John’s chest when he forces you all the way down on his cock and holds you there, jiggling the pearl at the apex of your sex with his thumb until you almost struggle to pull away. He always has to fight you through an orgasm, the stubborn thing trapped behind your teeth, begging him to use you how he wants. 

When it hits you though, it’s sharp and hot. It makes you reel backwards, your control slipping out of your grasp so suddenly that the sharp buck of his hips nearly knocks you clean off. He holds you down tight though, keeping you impaled on his shaft. 

“There we go,” John rasps. “That wasn’t so hard, huh?”

After making you come, he rolls you over until your back is pressed against the bed and he hovers over you, nestled between your thighs. He drops down until his face is buried in your neck, a big arm wedging under your back and hooking over your shoulder, the other sliding under your low back and clutching your waist. When he thrusts into you, you realize with a start that he has you locked to his chest. You aren’t going anywhere. 

“Christ, keep squirming like that,” John growls into your neck, sucking at the sweaty patch of skin between your neck and shoulder. 

Each thrust knocks the air out of you. Where your skin isn’t slick with sweat, you itch. Overwhelmed by touch and taste. Teeth clacking when his hips speed up, driven into a frenzy by his own urge to come. And again, there’s nowhere for you to run, not with his arms wound tight around you, all of his strength concentrated on holding you to his chest. You don’t think anyone could pry him off you. 

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—” you gasp, feeling it brewing under your skin again. The feeling makes you panicky this time though. He’s made you come plenty of times, but never in such quick succession. 

The pitch of your moans goes breathy and high, rising to nearly a caterwaul. 

He licks into the shell of your ear. “Got a little tighter there, sweetheart. Gonna give me another?”  

You can’t answer him. Only intelligible babbling, a high, reedy plea whistled through your teeth. Your hands rake down his back, scoring red lines into the skin, and clutching helplessly, trying to both pull him closer and push him away. It’s almost too much, too soon.  

“Almost there, almost there,” he pants, the sweat on his brow dripping down onto your face. It nearly drips into your eye. You wish he’d pull back and kiss you, sooth the panicked staccato of your heart, but he’s lost in his own need, bucking into you like a beast. “C’mon, give me it, sweetheart. Be a good girl.” 

You’re on the precipice of it, hanging on with clawed hands dug into the muscle of his back. In danger of tipping over, a gale at your back. The intensity frightens you though. You cling to him like digging your hands into the earth to root you in place. 

John’s arms tighten around you as he nears his end. You feel compressed, choked, only a warm slippery thing for him to plant his seed in. 

His breath is hot in your ear when he rasps, “Where the fuck are your manners, darlin’? I said, give me it.”

Then he arches into it, spine going stiff when he empties himself into your cunt. His arms squeeze all the air out of your lungs. You must come more than once, a record, because by the time he pulls out of you, you practically sink into the bed, sapped of energy. Not enough strength to even twitch a finger. 

John collapses onto the bed beside you, tugging you into his chest. It feels so intimate, lying on your side with a leg draped over John’s hip. You shiver when the sweat begins to cool. 

He drags a finger through your puffy, raw sex from the back, scooping up his essence with two fingers. You go cross-eyed when he pushes it back into you, hissing and pushing against his shoulders, trying to dislodge him from between your legs. John doesn’t budge; his eyes barely even flick down to meet yours as he pushes more of his spend back into your hole. 

Your chest goes tight at that. 

After, he sits you upright with your back to his chest and holds a glass of water up to your lips, making you drink until it dribbles down your chest. A big hand rests on your belly. 

“Why do you like touching there?” you ask, taking another sip.

“This is where my babe will sit,” he says, and you choke on your water, coughing until your lungs are clear and your eyes water. “Soon, with any luck.”

“You sure know what you want,” you wheeze, eyes still watering from your coughing fit.

He presses a kiss into your hair. “That I do.”

Two days later, John wakes you up with the news that an incident on a farm a few towns over will take him from you for the next few days.

You frown into your oatmeal. “Why so long?”

He sits at the table across from you with his chair pushed out, scraping off the mud caked on his boots with a dry brush. He sucks his cheek when you ask that question. 

“Bit unpleasant to bother you with the specifics, darlin’, but, uh…suffice it to say that it’s not something we can wrap up in just one day.”

“Did someone die?” you ask bluntly. 

John looks over at you from the corner of his eye, unimpressed. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Was it violent?”

“Jesus Christ, woman, you don’t need to go poking your nose into all of that.”

You roll your eyes at that. If he knew even a fraction of the things you’ve seen, he wouldn’t be nearly so askance at the thought of upsetting your delicate constitution. “But it’ll keep you there for some time?”

He nods. “At least a couple days. Maybe more. There’s matters to be dealt with, arrests to be made…won’t be easy work.”

“Is Simon accompanying you?”

“Both him and Kyle. I’m leaving Soap behind to keep the peace.”

“So you’re expecting to come back to the town in complete disarray then?”

John laughs at that, a big bellowing sound that makes you flinch and then warms your belly with delight. 

Summer is well on its way to being flush with itself now. Katydids in the bushes outside whistle and burr, a raspy, percussive sound. Long strands of high cirrus clouds stretch across the clear blue sky. Spiders weave thick webs into the corners of the windows on the outside of the house, thin, filamentous strands of silk woven over each other until it’s a dense, compact web. Even the sound of the bees buzzing through the air sets you at ease. 

The sound of your husband’s laughter seems to carry all of that in it, all of the fat, flushed joy of summertime. 

“I might need a list of what to take care of around the house while you’re gone. I’ve never…I’ve never managed a house on my own before,” you say into your oatmeal, taking another bite.  

You don’t know why it embarrasses you to admit that. John may not know about your previous circumstances just yet—you’ve never divulged stories of your time working at the estate or the years you spent living with your aunt and uncle—but he must certainly have guessed by now that you didn’t own property back east. 

“The boys and I aren’t heading out from here; gotta meet them in town to settle a couple of things first, but that wouldn’t take too long.” He takes a long sip of coffee before continuing. “Planned on asking Soap to check on you a couple times while I’m gone. He could help with the chores.”

Your irritation flares up at that. You put down your spoon sharply, the metal clanging against the porcelain bowl. “Do you still think I’m going to run away?”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t respond.

“So nothing’s changed then, even after I’ve already apologized. You still don’t trust me,” you sigh, your appetite suddenly gone. You push the bowl away from you, taking a sip of coffee instead. 

John sighs. You glance down at his hands instead of looking up into his eyes. His hands are still lightly ink-stained from reading the paper. The ink imprints onto your hand when he pulls his chair in and reaches across the table to lace your fingers together. 

“You might just see my concern for what it is, instead of fighting me at every turn,” he drawls. 

“Suppose I should say thank you then. I really appreciate being kept under lock and key,” you deadpan.

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve done so much to prove that you’re the staying type?” he teases.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“By my count, you’ve tried to run off twice. You sayin’ you won’t go for three?”

You stay mulishly silent, again going cold instead of deigning to have a conversation with the man. Your hand pulls from his grasp when you go to clean the table, taking the plates with you to the sink to wash. The brisk scrub and rinse betrays your mood, your shoulders tense with displeasure. You feel his gaze heavy on you from where he still sits at the table. 

John catches you before you have a chance to skitter off, hooking an arm around your waist to reel you in. 

“I never get off easy with you, do I?” he murmurs. 

You harrumph, scrunching your nose when he nuzzles into the side of your head. Squawking when he plants a wet kiss there too. 

John sees you off at the door with a kiss to your lips and then one to your forehead. His farewell kiss always seems to linger, as though he were reluctant for it to ever end. A disconcerting ache in your belly follows his departure. More than anything, you wish he’d turn back around and come home. Instead, you’re forced to bite your tongue and watch him leave because there are things more important than your desperate, cloying need for attention from a man that you once swore you’d run away from if given half a chance.

Now, as you stare at the shadow of him disappearing beyond the horizon, you can barely force your feet to take you back into the house.

The ache is a perturbing reminder of the seeds of trust and affection you’ve planted here. Now, they’ve begun to sprout, the buds opening up to tender, fragrant flowers. Those are the thoughts that occupy your mind when you go into the garden to harvest the lettuce heads and tomatoes. You think about all of this while staring down into the garden that John started so very long ago and now you tend. The earth here yields in abundance, but it requires a sure hand, and it rewards your joint efforts with a harvest that’ll last you through the winter if properly cultivated. 

Part of you anticipates company, waiting for Kate or Soap to come down the path on horseback, but when hours pass and neither show up, you have to admit to yourself that perhaps John hasn’t left a guardian to watch over you this time. Your heart trips over itself at the thought.

Trust is a precious, easily spoiled gift. You know it is not given lightly, and you’ve not put in the effort to engender it in recent weeks. You wonder if John wrestled with the decision to leave you alone, weighing your hurt feelings against the assurance of keeping you at home and found the latter wanting for once. 

You spend the better part of the morning gardening and cleaning. It muffles the longing. It’s entirely antithetical to the way you waited for John during the train robbery, but the different circumstances have you less on edge. The situation doesn’t seem as precarious. Never free of trouble, of course, but John hadn’t seemed too worried at breakfast, so you tell yourself that you shouldn’t worry either.

In fact, finding some way to occupy yourself proves the greater challenge. You hadn’t realized how much you’d grown to expect the company of others. The silence swells to a bubble that you itch to burst. 

It takes a great deal of courage to talk yourself into riding Buttercup into town. You hold the reins so tight that your knuckles ache when you finally let go. Still, when the sun-bleached town comes into view and you no longer need to swat repeatedly at the horseflies pestering you, you celebrate the little victory. 

You find Kate in the saloon enjoying a little brandy with lunch. Her eyes crinkle at the sight of you. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here so soon,” she says when you take a seat across from her. 

“I couldn’t clean the house for a third time,” you shrug. 

It’s not an exaggeration. You spent the better part of the morning yesterday scrubbing the floors and sweeping the leaves and mud from the foyer, paying special attention to the caked mud on the sill, where John has a habit of wiping off his boots. You’ll have to remember to pick up a mat for the porch on the way back home. 

“You just missed my company so?” Kate teases.

You roll your eyes. “Who else do I have to talk to?”

“Well, don’t flatter me too much.”

“Anyway—no one, well…no one understands me…quite the same.” You speak evasively because you’re still too much of a coward to just say it outright. Nevertheless, Kate understands, and nods with a gleam in her eye that says as much. 

“Probably best to keep it that way.”

You don’t know why her words make your chest ache. For a beat, you keep silent, ordering a drink and a small meal for yourself from a passing waiter. 

“I’ve considered…telling John,” you start, a hesitant thread in your voice begging to be unraveled. 

Kate glances up at that. “Why would you do something like that?”

“I thought that maybe…well, maybe he might understand…if I explained the circumstances to him.” 

Her hand stills over her glass, face screwed up like she’s tasted something particularly unpleasant. “Seems like a dangerous game to play—risking your freedom on a maybe. It’s better to keep private matters just that. Private.”

Worry makes you wring your hands under the table. “You think he’d turn me in if he knew?”

Kate shrugs. “John’s a good man. He’s a good sheriff too. It’s a risky gambit. I can’t imagine what the trade off would be—I happened to find out by chance, but if you have the option to let buried dogs lie, I would take it.”

“Isn’t it ‘let sleeping dogs lie’?”

Her smile is not cruel, but it cuts. “Not in this case, hun. ‘Fraid we both know that.”

“Oh,” you murmur. 

Her lack of faith leaves you at a loss. It takes you so long to come to terms with it that by the time you open your mouth again, you’re halfway back to the shop, following her step for step. Dark clouds loom ominously off in the distance, just far enough away that you don’t expect for them to reach town for another hour or so, but the sight of them compounds the somber mood you’ve fallen into since Kate’s words. 

You don’t bring up the subject again until the rain begins to fall outside, slate grey like a gauzy veil. From the window, you peer down the street towards where Buttercup stands under the roof of the sheriff’s office, shielded from the rain. You stare morosely at the dirt ground; the rain will make walking anywhere after a hassle.

Kate must notice the general air of malcontent hovering around you because she apologizes to you when the ensuing silence from the morning’s conversation becomes unbearable. “Now, I don’t want you to think I hold John in poor esteem, hun. He’s a good man; I have no reason to think he’d ever turn you in for putting down the man that tried to…well, the man that tried to do you harm. I just don’t want you to regret your decision if I’m wrong.”

You shrug, bad mood not in the least assuaged. “It’s fine. It was a foolish idea. Why invite trouble when I’ve escaped it thus far?”

She doesn’t seem reassured at that. If anything, her scowl deepens. Instead of addressing it, you offer to help clean the shop, sweeping the back room and dusting the shelves. There are items on the shelves that look like they haven’t been touched in years, and you wonder whether Kate holds onto things after they’ve outlived their usefulness out of habit or an unwillingness to part with them. Then you shake your head of the thought. It shouldn’t matter to you. 

Around midafternoon, a few trappers come in to stock up on supplies and spend the better part of an hour talking to Kate. You flatten your lips together to keep from cursing them out for tracking in mud and rain with them, but they studiously avoid looking at you. 

“Morning, Mrs. Price,” one of them says, still keeping their gaze politely trained on the floor. 

You roll your eyes internally. Not surprising that news would spread eventually of John’s new wife. 

The conversation is of little interest to you, but you eavesdrop anyway because the rain hasn’t relented yet and there’s little else to do. Most of their conversation goes over your head, but some parts stick out. They tell her about a mutual acquaintance waylaid by a mountain slide up north forcing them to take another route home, and another who’d recently perished of consumption. Kate seems particularly upset by that, the lines around her mouth more pronounced than ever when she offers her condolences. 

They stay until the rain lets up and then say their goodbyes before heading out. 

“G’day, Mrs. Price,” the same one says to you before departing. 

You smile bemusedly at the door. “I don’t suppose I’ve met either of them before and don’t remember it?”

Kate shakes her head. “Unlikely. Alex and Frank spend most of their time up north hunting and fur trapping. One of them has a cousin in town, but they visit only seldomly. It’s been a year or so since I last saw either of them.”

“Then how’d they know who I am?”

“Well, I imagine they probably read about it.”

“Read about it?” you repeat confusedly. 

“In the paper. The county sheriff got hitched—of course it’d be a story.”

That unnerves you. Somehow, you thought you might fold into history like you’d always been there, but a marriage announcement in a newspaper punctuates the present. Your only reassurance is that the story ran over a month ago and therefore of little interest to anyone these days, at least from what Kate tells you; overshadowed by subsequent issues and stories. Old news, she tells you.

“What’s new news then?”

She ponders that for a bit. “Aside from what Frank mentioned? Hm…Farmer Shepherd’s ewe had a lamb the other night.” 

“Who’s that?”

“A farmer, I reckon.”

You deadpan. “Funny.”

She laughs at that, a husky, amber sound. “Shepherd’s got a farm in the next town over. Kyle and I always stop to buy mutton whenever we’re in town.”

“Oh, that’s right, you were just there recently. Do you visit that often?”

“From time to time,” she says, vague enough to pique your interest.

“Must be good mutton.”

She snorts. “He’s not as good a butcher as Simon, but he’s alright. It’s worth stopping by. I wouldn’t call it a reason to make the journey though.”  

“Then why do you go?”

She smiles a bit wistfully. “I have…a friend in town. It’s worth the trek.”

“Oh. A… male friend?” 

You say the word tentatively, gauging her reaction in case you’ve overstepped. Usually you wouldn’t be so inquisitive. In fact, you’ve made it a habit to know as little about the people you keep company with as possible. But Kate is different. This place is different. Time in this town moves at a slower pace, and it swells in the moments where it seems endless. It makes you talk slower, chew the fat. You spend so much time around these people that it almost feels like a lifetime has passed in their presence. You feel close enough these days that asking doesn’t feel as forbidden as it used to.

“No. Not a man.” 

It could mean nothing at all, but her words have just enough inflection in them that you can't help but meet her gaze. 

“A woman?” you ask, caught between embarrassment at having to ask and curiosity. 

She nods, her smile strained. 

“Oh,” you say dumbly. 

You can’t really think of what else to say in response to that revelation, but leaving it like that also feels wrong. It’s nothing you haven’t heard whisperings of before. Boston marriages. Sentimental friends. Spinsters cohabitating in virtuous friendship. It’s perhaps only shocking to finally put a face to the rumors. 

“Well, that’s nice,” you say after another awkward pause. Kate rolls her eyes and her nonchalance vexes you. “What? It is!”

“You don’t need to get all twisted up. It is what it is. There’s no need to go making a fuss about it.”

You frown at that. “I would never.” Then something dawns on you. “Have other people made a fuss before?”

“…A few,” she answers, looking troubled when old memories flicker behind her eyelids. “A long time ago, in another place, but when I…well, I trusted more. There’s no one that could make a fuss about it these days.”

“But surely Kyle knows? He accompanied you to town last time.”

“Kyle does not know.”

“Then why tell me?” you ask, dumbfounded. 

She holds you in her gaze for a few moments at that question, then comes out from behind the counter where her notebook still lies open, a thin strip of fabric acting as a bookmark. 

“You have your secrets and I have mine,” Kate says, leaning back against the counter and clasping her hands loosely in front of her. “The same reason I won’t tell John what you’re running from. The less people that know the things that could hurt you, the safer you are.” 

“You think John would do what—run you out of town if he knew?” you ask, hardly able to convey your disbelief.

“The point is that neither of us know until the very moment when it matters most.”

“But that’s not John,” you stress. 

“It’s the same John that you won’t trust with your secrets either.” And that strikes true. It dumbs you into silence, mouth opening uselessly for words that don’t come. The battering behind your lips like an inch of give, opening then to silence across the open plain.

You want desperately to say something that just won’t come. But how can you say anything at all these days? How does your voice not give out at the slightest quiver of emotion? You speak with a voice plump like fig skin, easy give, and violet bruised. It is always tender when you bite it through.

When Kate notices the way you struggle for words, she takes pity on you, her smile more sympathetic than you’ve ever seen it. “Enough about that though. What say we get you something to eat before you head home?”

When the path of least resistance beckons you forth, you run towards it. 

Your troubled conscience persists however, speaking into your ear even as the first shaft of sunlight pierces through the slate clouds and illuminates the town in a soft glow. It troubles you so fiercely that all you can think about is retreating home and burying yourself under the warm quilt draped over your bed. It has you hastening to say your goodbyes, excusing yourself on the basis of taking Buttercup home. 

Bidding Kate farewell, you step out of the shop to see that the rain has cleared. Everything after that dispels into the thinly perfumed air.

[blurhawaii]

Yuletide 2023

dear yuletide writer,

hello and happy yuletide! thanks for checking out my letter even if you’re not my assigned writer and are just shopping around, welcome. all the prompts I offer here are just for fun—if you’ve got something else in mind, feel free to go for it.

also, sorry if this is a little more brief than my yuletide letters usually are, as I’m having to copy/paste a lot of this from my phone. I’ve asked for some of these fandoms in previous year tho, if you would like to check out my other letters.

likes:

dysfunctional relationships eg. codependency, messed up father/son dynamics, age differences, enemies to lovers, power imbalances.

vulnerability in men, uncertain intimacy.

UST, slow burn, first times.

supernatural/magical realism/cosmic horror. weird hints of it in an otherwise normal universe.

redemption arcs.

found family

loyalty kink. love it when trust is earned and kept.

praise kink.

open and honest communication between partners.

polyamory. it’s the journey of them getting together and making it work that’s interests me the most. or how a couple goes about bringing in a third person.

stories set in canon. or a divergence of canon. fix-it fics.

soulmate/soulmark fics. I’m mostly interested in unusual takes on these scenarios.

daemon AUs. i’m especially into the intimacy of touching/comforting each other’s daemons, them expressing thoughts they otherwise don’t say out loud.

dark/bleak fics. don’t be afraid to drag characters through the mud. happy endings are welcome but i like the struggle to get there.

I’m fine with anything gen to porn.

canon typical violence is fine and to be expected from my requests, honestly.

characters and the development of their relationships are more important to me than plot.

dislikes:

AUs that are completely disconnected from canon e.g. high school, coffee shop AUs.

established relationship, unless they are already together in canon.

crossovers.

genderbending.

feminisation of male characters.

fics that are entirely fluff.

A/B/O fics.

mpreg.

1st person fics (I have no problem with 2nd person fics tho if you feel like experimenting.)

The Departed (2006)

*Billy Costigan *Sean Dignam

Specific Likes:

dignam and his tough love attitude towards the job | billy’s increasing isolation | the codependency that forms between the person undercover and the person who knows the truth | dignam’s father/son dynamic with queenan contrasted against billy’s father/son dynamic with queenan | the idea that dignam was once an undercover who got out | how that could be both a hopeful thing and an irritant for billy to find out | the constant antagonism and fighting vs the rare moments when dignam softens around billy | good cop/bad cop dynamics | unexpected vulnerability | the weird loyalty that culminates with dignam killing sullivan

Prompts:

billy survives - anything that explores the angst of billy’s ‘where the hell were you when i needed you’ reaction following that ending, maybe dignam still kills sullivan and billy’s reaction to that, emphasis on the loyalty that implies.

i’ve wasted a lot of time thinking about the line ‘why don’t we meet up, sweetheart, let me buy you an ice cream,’ if you can write that into a believable, in character fic then you would earn my eternal respect and gratitude.

daemon AU & soulmate AU - these interest me because i wonder how they would work in a universe where someone goes undercover, how billy & dignam could lie about it or even use it to their advantage.

time loop/groundhog day fic - there are so many ways this film could go better or worse, i’d love to see them even if they don’t end the happiest

Bone Tomahawk (2015)

*Arthur O’Dwyer *Samantha O’Dwyer *John Brooder

Specific Likes:

the dry and brutal nature of westerns | brooder being a weird, vain, loner, dandy man type who is rude to pretty much everyone except the o’dwyers | the way brooder is nothing but respectful towards samantha despite being rejected by her in the past, and is quick to hold himself responsible for putting her in danger once she’s been taken | samantha’s competency as a doctor being a not-so-secret thing around town | arthur and brooder not being pitted against each other | arthur actually being a sap for his wife | arthur trusting brooder to escort his wife while joking about no flirtations | arthur being the only one to ever call him ‘john’ and brooder exclusively referring to arthur as ‘cowboy’ | brooder helping arthur down off his horse | the possibility of so much hurt/comfort, both physical and emotional post film, providing they all survive.

Prompts:

anything pre-film - the mentioned rejection, how they might interact on a day-to-day basis in bright hope, how they reached this weird and respectful level of fondness, how outsiders might view the three of them.

brooder lives AU - maybe they find him not quite dead and all three return home, maybe for convenience sake samantha sets brooder up in their home to recover, so she can tend to him and arthur at the same time.

something that explores brooder having to come to terms and live with the amputation of his hand, considering how vain he is. he explicitly states he’d rather die than live like that, so maybe the o’dwyers help him through it.

From (2022)

*Jade Herrera *Jim Matthews *Tabitha Matthews

Specific Likes:

jade herrera, this weed smoking, bisexual, arrogant rich man in his capri pants + open shirts, his cardigans + kitty cat shirt, his dark hair + big brown eyes | pushing people away, telling them to fuck off, then immediately coming back like a too proud cat | being manhandled | bursting into people’s homes uninvited while ranting about his theories| the town’s ‘what the hell is wrong with this guy?’ reactions | surprising violin skills and his willingness to play for victor | not talking down to ethan | the affectionate nicknames of ‘tea cups’ and ‘sparkplug’ | the way jade softens around maternal characters like tian-chen and tabitha | always believing he’s the smartest man in the room, with the mileage varying | offering up so many facts about himself and his past freely, and maybe even needily | jade carving a space out for himself within the liu household, and then later the matthews family | being one of the few to ask the real question of ‘what the fuck is a cromenockle?’ | characters being trapped in places overnight, being forced to interact | a town they cannot escape | being completely driven by finding the truth | the supernatural horror/creatures being lumped in with the mundane day-to-day life | prophetic drawings | mysterious symbols | characters sharing strange visions | their nightmares becoming reality | jade going down into that cave not just to find answers but because he thinks it might save julie | jade just being a very erratic man that needs a firm hand every now and then

Prompts:

as i’ve just shotgun blasted all my thoughts above, à la homer simpson’s make-up gun, my prompts are gonna be a little more wide spread. my interest lies largely with jade and the various ways he does and does not fit into this town and the other residents.

for a guy with such a horny and bisexual introduction, his hyperfixations have mostly been on figuring out the town. but what if he poured that same focus into trying to get laid?

jade/jim & jade/tabitha - jade sort of bonds with them both. calling jim ‘tea cups’, having someone around who understands tech jargon, building something together, and i’m thinking about what’s going to happen in s3 with jim now that tabitha is suddenly gone. love the mystery solving team jade forms with tabitha, the shared visions with the children, conversations had in kitchens at night. love all these characters still desperately looking for a way out. there’s also the fact that they all arrived in town on the same day, whatever importance that may have.

jade/jim/tabitha - what better way to fix a troubled marriage than bonding over a shared annoyance of being attracted to this horrible, rich asshole who is weirdly charming and keeps forcing his company onto them both? because, come on, from season 2, they are all living under the same cramped roof. maybe the best way to get jade to chill out is for them both to just wreck him, giving jade that firm hand he so often needs.

Indiana Jones Series

*Jurgen Voller *Klaber

Specific Likes:

the loyal right hand man who is devoted to his employer | the shield of muscle that protects the intellectual | wordless communication | trying to learn german and being very bad at it | accent kink | time travel done right and time travel done very wrong | treasure hunting | knowledge of ancient history and mythology | klaber helping voller across the wooden bridge | klaber taking the gun from voller’s hand and voller letting him | klaber referring to voller as ‘boss’ | klaber insisting that people refer to voller as ‘doctor’ | the entire opposites attract vibe they have | taking pleasure in just being evil | klaber being a trigger happy psycho on a very short leash | terrible moustaches | motorcycle chases | their feedback loop of arrogance culminating in their own failure and death | surreptitiously shut doors in hotel rooms | assuming other identities | villainous smoking | age difference

Prompts:

first: while i do find it somewhat interesting that voller’s plan was actually to kill hitler and become a better leader through the war, i would rather there be little to no politics in any fic i might get. definitely no glorifying of nazi ideologies, please.

time travel gone wrong - i think it's more interesting to believe any slight variation of the coordinates could have spit them out at a very different time, past or future. feel free to go wild with that, the idea of them surviving the crash or successfully parachuting out and being trapped in time.

any exploration of klaber’s loyalty towards voller, how they reached this level of trust, able to give and follow orders wordlessly. maybe expand on a scene or add in a missing scene. klaber is very tactile throughout the film and i find it very interesting that voller allows this.

an exchange of knowledge - voller attempting to teach klaber german, or bettering his understanding of history, astrophysics, man landing on the moon, or just the moment when he explains the antikythera and its supposed use. set against klaber teaching voller more practical things like weapons, hand-to-hand self defence, disarming techniques. there’s just something about the contrast of brain and brawn.

+ and as a final note, i would be very happy and very grateful for any treats. :)

[bringmefoxgloves]

I saw your tags on the Daniel Matthews post and honestly I hadn’t even thought about parallels between Daniel/Gideon and Eric/John…but I’m thinking about it now…*holds out microphone* care to elaborate further?

okay sorry had to go drink some water, get out of pjs, start some laundry, make oatmeal, slice up an avocado, discuss the world and news with my parents, get a nice lil iced beverage for myself (an iced chai latte), and eat the last brownie from a family picnic i didn't attend. listening to no reptiles by everything everything on repeat LET'S GO

so like. this gets long. i should put it under a read more but fuck it. I actually slept last night and woke up before 5am, and have now been up for six hours already, so you're all gonna suffer through this as well. welcome to hell aka my brain on saw brainrot.

This is also kinda based off my tags on this post as well.

But like I said in that post, Saw is about families, made and unmade. It's also about self perception, legacy, and continuation.

John Kramer, in a metaphorical sense, is trying to rebuild his family. He lost Gideon, and he will never have a child of his own flesh and blood, so he improvises.

You can very easily see Amanda, Mark, Lawrence and Logan (but we don't want to talk about him and for good reason) as surrogate children. We joke about this being the worst murder family in the world a lot, but they are in a sense, a family. They're followers of Jigsaw in the real sense, but daughter and sons of him in a spiritual sense, a succession and legacy. And those children, I believe, are his attempts at replacing Gideon in his life.

But like any father with children, John has expectations of them. He wants them as impartial judges, as merciless executioners of his will and his philosophy.

They fail him.

Amanda, who is angry and too emotion driven, too in love with and hopeful for humanity to judge them without letting her feelings get involved. She is too much like a daughter, wanting her father's love and attention above all else. Which disappoints him. John has no love to give her, and has given as much instruction as he thinks necessary. He tests her until she fails, until she breaks and is laying on the floor dead before him in his final act on earth and alive.

Mark, who is in no way impartial, who departs from John's will and directives, who imposes his own overwhelming will on this broken family. He is too much the Cain, the killer of his sister. Too much Nero, killing his mother, Jill, and burning down the kingdom. Too tyrant and consumed with his own passions, but still a perfect mirror for John because he's too much John. John has no choice but to cut the tall poppy, to put down the rabid dog.

Then, there's Lawrence. Lawrence who does follow John's directions, but is in the end, a simple shell, broken beyond repair and an automaton with no heart in contrast to Amanda's too much. He follows, he obeys, he cuts and stitches up those wounds, he bends his will and his passion and his drives to John's unlike Mark. But he's a ghost, a caricature of John and his reputation. Lawrence, the man, never made it out of that bathroom, but Lawrence, the dutiful set of hands, the cutting sword, the walking insurance policy, did.

And, if you include him-Logan. Who is lost to the wilds of the greater world, to war and battle with no bearing on the insular familial cycle of Jigsaw's legacy. He never comes back, and John never wants him back, he has his hands full with the others.

All these willful and vengeful and ungrateful children, who do not accept the gifts John presents them, the paths laid out for them.

But there's the child that never arrived.

Gideon, his unborn son. Gideon, Hebrew for warrior, feller, one who cuts down. Gideon is there in John's mind, constantly, the measuring stick up against which all these children made by his hand, by not by his blood, are judged. Plan upon plan was laid out for Gideon. He was suppose to be John's legacy, his way to outlive himself. He was suppose to be born in the year of the Pig, a child filled with the dreams and hopes of his parents, but never was one to grow up and break their hearts.

He can remain everything John Kramer wanted because he was never alive, never realized fully in all the complexities of every living being. He was the perfect child and could make no mistakes, couldn't rebel.

And that brings us to Daniel.

Daniel is selected, chosen, to be the central figure in the nerve gas house. Daniel, Hebrew, God is my judge, except in the world of Saw, John Kramer is god, isn't he? He is chosen because, in John's eyes, he breaks his father's heart and yet still is the apple of Eric's eye. The nerve gas house is to temper Daniel, turn him into a purer version of an already largely innocent child. He wants to correct the faults he sees growing in Daniel.

John sees Daniel and sees Amanda, the attention seeking child calling for a father's love. John sees Daniel, who holds the potential of both his sons, the wrath of Mark and the duty of Lawrence. Sees what Gideon could have been, and how a son can turn away from a father. He sees Daniel and wishes to show Eric what he sees in Daniel, with a less than successful result.

First, Daniel survives. He was always suppose to survive. John couldn't kill what is perhaps the closest analogue to what Gideon could have been, he never could. And this was suppose to be a lesson to Eric Matthews, to open his eyes to John's idealized expectations of what having a son, a legacy, should feel like.

But, Eric fails. Eric doesn't see what John wants him to see, because Eric was always going to fail. He was a failure from the outset, too consumed by his work, too angry and hotheaded and unwilling to bend. He is a narrative foil to John, two fathers with the same problems.

Eric wants Daniel to bend to him, to obey the rules and structures. Eric lays his hopes and dreams within his son, like John did with Gideon. Eric received his gift of a son, but he's wasted it, in John's eyes. Eric wants Daniel to be upright and better, greater, than him, but he doesn't lead by example.

But neither does John. John expects greatness from his children, but he's not a god, he's just a man, prone to mistakes, just like Eric Matthews, in the end.

They both fail their children.

[infinitcnexus]

redemptioninchaos:

Once they got in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic, Colette tilted her seat back, putting one foot on the dashboard while keeping the other hovering near her gas and brake pedals. She took out her phone and scrolled through InstaChat, then looked at Shrike. It couldn’t have been all that comfortable keeping one arm up like that, so she gingerly moved his arm down and put her shades on his face, grateful that they fit his head. Then she snapped a picture of him and posted it to her account, captioning it with, “Just trying to chill in Central Phil.” Too bad Shrike didn’t have an InstaChat account, otherwise she would have tagged him.

Colette’s act of kindness didn’t go unnoticed, but he welcomed it regardless. With a small, satisfied sigh, his descent into slumber would proceed much more smoothly. 

But even so, his dream was anything but sweet. 

-   -   -   -   -

It was late into the evening.

In an expensive, customized hotel room that would have been well beyond the means of anybody working in anything else but a cushy desk job, a goatee-sporting white tiger with his headfur dyed in striking neon placed the mouth part of a colorful vape pod between his lips, closing his matching, top-shelf sky blue cybereyes as he breathed in deeply before releasing a thick cloud of smoke from his mouth. His wrinkled black dress shirt was completely unbuttoned, and the hot pink tie around his neck was pulled loose a long time ago. Aside from those, he wore nothing else.

In contrast, Shrike was completely nude on the bed before him. He slowly pushed himself up on his hands and knees, only to stop midway and wince as he clutched his sore backside.

The Tiger smirked. “Look at you. You took me like a champ and you can still get up. It looks like Mr. Hayes’ recommendation to you wasn’t total bullshit.”

“So, you satisfied?” Shrike asked, expression torn between pleasure and shame as he sat down on the bed and looked at his john. “Can I get my fernies now?”

“Yeah yeah, just give me a bit,” the striped feline grunted as he bent down towards the side. He rummaged briefly through the drawer of the nearby nightstand before tossing a small silver flash drive-like object towards Shrike, who deftly caught it in his hand. As the imp turned it around in his palms with skeptical optimism, he frowned with dismay once he set his eyes on the number displayed on the side.

300 Inferni.

“This wasn’t the amount we agreed on,” Shrike’s eyes were wide with shock. “What is the meanin’ of this?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” The Tiger’s tone was unbearably insincere. “I just remembered there’s a new component for my streaming rig that I have been meaning to get for a long time. It has just hit the market too, and it definitely ain’t cheap.” 

“But my landlord has raised the blessed rent again,” the demon refuted. “You tellin’ me your stupid computer is more important than me havin’ a roof over my head?”

“Look, it’s not my fault the housing market in NC is the way it is,” the john gingerly but firmly put down his vape pod. “Maybe if you had done a better job as the Harbinger, then you wouldn’t be here scraping up spare changes on your back. You ever stop to wonder if you’d be a better rentboy than an assassin?”

Shrike gasped softly. A fraction of a second elapsed before his shock turns into rage.

“You motherf--”

“Ah ah ah,” the Tiger’s index finger hovered near a button on the wall next to the king-size bed as soon as he saw the horned demon raising his fist. “Did you forget that my uncle is the manager of this plaza already? If he found out that as much as a single strand of hair on my head is missing, you’d be lucky if there’s anything left of you to bury.”

Shrike huffed indignantly as his fist trembled. He was flashing god-blessed nepotism like it was a get-out-of-jail-free card. Even though every fiber of his being was begging for the Harbinger to punch the stuck-up brat in the face, the imp ultimately relented.

“Looks like you ain’t so tough, after all,” the feline smirked, though he still kept his finger near the panic button. “Now if you would be so kind, get out of my suite. You have ten seconds before I change my mind.” 

With a frustrated, defeated sigh, the nude imp hastily gathered up his belongings and rushed to the elevator. Before the metallic door closed completely, he caught a glimpse of the Tiger grinning giddily on the second floor as he recorded Shrike’s undignified escape with his hellphone. It would be seconds before the video becomes trending on the Nethernet.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Without anything else worthwhile to do, the imp began to redress himself despite the presence of a Peeper - one of the many singular aetherial eyeballs found throughout the city - located at a corner of the ceiling. Blinking occasionally, the Peeper quietly and emotionlessly observed the demon until the elevator stopped at a certain floor. With an indifferent “Hmmph,” the fully-dressed Shrike made his exit, but his haste made him blind to a person who happened to be standing in his path.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized.

Juju on that Beatdown

At 6 a.m. the next morning, Shrike would have gotten a phone call from Lot. Even if the demon put his cell on silent or do not disturb, Lot had found a way to bypass all of that, the ringtone playing loud enough to wake Shrike up from even the deepest of sleeps.

@infinitcnexus

[callmebrycelee]

AMERICAN HORROR STORY REACTION

This reaction is for season 11, first episode titled "Something's Coming" which originally aired on October 19, 2022. "Something's Coming" was written by Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk and directed by John J. Gray. Spoilers ahead!

Finally! The moment we've been waiting for all year is here! The latest season of American Horror Story debuted last week. This new season of AHS called "NYC" features a mix of old and new. We have AHS alums Billie Lourd, Denis O'Hare, Leslie Grossman, Patti LuPone, Sandra Bernhard, and Zachary Quinto joining some newcomers to the series - broadway actors Joe Mantello (Angels in America) and Isaac Powell (West Side Story) and television actors Russell Tovey (Being Human, Looking) and Charlie Carver (Desperate Housewives, The Leftovers, The Boys in the Band). We also have a new setting - New York City. 

Having watched the first two episodes, I have some thoughts as well as some theories about where this season is going. So, let's talk about it!

SOMETHING'S COMING ...

It's very rare I start a new season of American Horror Story not knowing the premise. I think not knowing what to expect is one of the main reasons as to why I thoroughly enjoyed both episodes. Speaking of episodes, let's begin with episode one, "Something's Coming". Without any fanfare, we're dropped right into early-80's New York City - 1981 to be exact. We see a pilot named Captain Ross (Lee Aaron Rosen) and a few flight attendants exit a cab and enter a hotel. While walking to his hotel room, Captain Ross is confronted by one of his coworkers, Tawny (Kelsey Lea Jones), and she comes on to him like gangbusters. Captain Ross flashes his wedding band and tells her thanks but no thanks and proceeds on to his hotel room where he proceeds to shower and dress in his finest leather gear. 

Captain Ross makes his way to a sketchy part of town and goes into a seemingly abandoned warehouse where men in various states of undress are hooking up in darkened passages. The last time we see the captain alive on screen is when we see him being watched by a muscular, masked man dressed in head to toe leather. The next thing we see is a headless body by the river. The NYPD, including a cop by the name of Patrick Read (Russell Tovey), are on the scene investigating. And if I didn't already know we were back in the 1980's, then it was made abundantly clear the moment one of the cops made a derogatory joke about the victim who is presumed gay. It's a harsh reminder that even though this scene is taking place over 40 years ago, homophobia is still an issue in 2022. 

To make matters even more bleak, we head over to Fire Island where a scientist and doctor by the name of Hannah Wells (Billie Lourd) is investigating a new virus that is threatening to wipe out the deer population on the island. Hannah suggests killing off the remaining deer before the virus has a chance to jump to humans. With this being 1981, I have a sneaking suspicion what this new virus could be.  

We learn that Patrick is gay and is living with his older partner, Gino Barelli (Joe Mantello). The two appear to be polar opposites. Patrick used to be married and is now living as a gay man, though he is closeted at work for obvious reasons. Gino is an openly gay and works as a journalist for a newspaper called 'The Native' which reports on issues concerning the gay community. They both have different approaches when it comes to the string of murders involving local gay men. While Patrick is content to quietly investigate, Gino wants to use the newspaper to shine a huge spotlight on the issue. There's obviously some tension between these two but they do seem to genuinely care about each other. 

We then meet Adam Carpenter (Charlie Carver), a young gay man currently in the middle of a breakup. His friend and roommate, Sully (Jared Reinfeldt) attempts to cheer him up by taking him to a cruising spot in the park. What I like most about Adam is his innocence which is a striking contrast to many of the characters we are introduced to in this episode. He's a romantic at heart and isn't really interested in anonymous hookups.

Adam is left alone after Sully goes off to hookup with a total stranger and that is when he sees the same muscular, masked man in the leather get-up we saw earlier in the episode. He runs away calling after Sully. Sully goes after him and is confronted by the mysterious, possibly murderous leather daddy. We hear him scream and that is the last we ever see of Sully.

Adam reports Sully's disappearance to Patrick at the police department. Adam thinks that Patrick doesn't want to help him but Patrick assures him that he does care about the situation and he does want to help but he can't and it's not because Sully is gay, it's because he hasn't been missing for more than 48 hours. He tells Adam to come back if Sully hasn't turned up in a couple of days and Adam leaves the station. 

Patrick then goes to talk to the captain, Mac Marzara (Kal Penn) about Sully and all of the recent murders but gets nowhere. I do find it interesting that we have a POC character in a position of power who could honestly give a shit that a bunch of homosexuals are being murdered. I imagine it couldn't have been easy for him to get to the position he is currently in, yet he seems intent on shitting on an entire community instead of trying to do right by them. P.S. - I love Kal Penn as an actor and as a person but the character he is playing in American Horror Story: NYC is a garbage human and I hope we get to see his comeuppance by the end of the season.

We then head over to Neptune Baths Health Club where the resident chanteuse Kathy Pizzaz (Patti LuPone) is performing "Fever" by Peggy Lee. Adam arrives and takes a seat at the bar. He notices a black and white photo of the same leather man ran into at the park and asks the bartender if he knows who the guy is. The bartender says he doesn't know who the man is but he knows who took the photograph. He points out Theo Graves (Isaac Powell) who appears to be pretty popular amongst the clientele.  

At the other end of the bar, Gino overhears the conversation with Adam and the bartender. He beckons him over and introduces himself. Gino tells Adam that the police won't help him but he will. He gives Adam his contact information. Adam goes to Theo's studio the following day and learns the identity of the masked man he saw in the park as well as in the photograph he saw in the bathhouse. Adam tells Theo that he thinks the same guy is hurting people and gives him his number to call if he finds out any more information on him. Theo rushes Adam out of the studio just in time for Sam (Zachary Quinto) to arrive. 

Sam is Theo's manager and boyfriend and it only took one line (no pun intended) for me to know this guy is bad news. Sam is every besuited businessman snorting coke off the coffee table we've ever encountered in an 80's movie and he and Theo have a really effed up romance. Sam accuses Theo of using him for his money and is trying to pressure him into going the porn route while Theo is content with the type of photography he is currently doing. Theo also senses that something dark is coming, which is where we first hear the title of the episode, but Sam seems unconcerned. Meanwhile, Patrick asks Gino about the significance of a blue handkerchief (a blue handkerchief was stuffed in the mouth of the severed head found earlier in the episode) and Gino tells him about the hanky code, a way for gay men to communicate their sexual interests. Patrick then tells Gino he is not authorized to investigate the recent murders and that he has to be careful about leaking information. He asks Gino to go to The Brownstone Bar on his behalf to gather information.

Patrick meets with his soon-to-be ex-wife named Barbara (Leslie Grossman) and presents her with divorce papers. The two of them have a pretty decent relationship considering the circumstances behind their relationship coming to an end. I also get the sense that Barbara is being as suportive as she can regarding Patrick being gay. She asks him why he married her and his answer seems genuine. Patrick, like so many gay men of his ilk, wanted to have the wife and family but ultimately he couldn't make it work. He tells her that he still loves her. It's a bittersweet scene but ultimately both of them seem better off apart than together. 

Gino heads over to the bar and chats with a regular named Henry (Denis O'Hare). Henry refuses to go on the record for Gino but he does give him a valuable piece of information: all of the serial killer's victims drink Mai Tais. When Gino goes to leave, he realizes he's been drugged. As he stumbles out of the bar, he is ushered into a car by a strange man. 

Sam is also at the Brownstone Bar and he's talking with an up and coming actor named Freddy (John Bubniak), arranging for him to be photographed by Theo as a means of garnering him exposure. Freddy arrives at Theo's studio and what starts as a homoerotic photoshoot turns into something a bit more scandalous when Sam flips over a wooden stool and asks him to sit on it. Freddy does follow through and Sam is pleased with the photos. When Freddy leaves, Theo asks Sam about Big Daddy. Sam gets upset and tells Theo that Big Daddy is dead. It should be noted that Big Daddy was standing outside of Theo's studio and that Sam seemingly acknowledges his presence. 

Adam meets up with Theo at the bathhouse and tells him about Big Daddy. Adam is perplexed because the person he saw in the photo is the same person he saw at the park the night Sully disappeared. Theo lives to go hook up and Adam is propositioned by Freddy. Adam declines his offer for sex and Freddy heads off to the steam room where he runs into Big Daddy. We end the episode the way we started with a very bleak scene and a sign of things to come. We find ourselves back on Fire Island with Dr. Hannah Wells as she watches a group of infected deer get slaughtered by the police. It's a harsh reminder of the storm that's about to come in the form of the AIDS epidemic. 

I'm gonna pause my reaction here and do my reaction to episode two in another post. This first episode feels very different from previous first episodes of American Horror Story. The characters, whether you loved them or hated them, felt really grounded. I really like Gino and a lot of that is due to Joe Mantello's acting. I also like Adam who reminds me a lot of myself in my earlier years. It's fun to see Leslie Grossman play someone so understated this season and I wonder how Barbara will be used in future episodes. The only character I dislike and it has nothing to do with the actor is Sam. Sam is a sleeze ball and I wonder what dark secrets he's hiding. The only character I'm truly on the fence about is Patrick. Patrick is giving me John Lowe (Wes Bentley) in "Hotel" vibes. I get the feeling he's a troubled individual but is he a bad guy? Cops, historically, on this show have turned out to be bad guys.

As for the episode itself - it felt surprisingly restrained in a way I'm not really used to with American Horror Story. As an avid fan of the show, I can also be one of its biggest critics. I've been a fan of Ryan Murphy since Popular and I have no problem admitting that while he swings big when it comes to film and television, he has just as many misses as hits. The same can be said about this show. Many would argue the show has lost the magic of the original seasons, but I think this episode is a promise of that magic returning. We're off to a great start. I just hope the writers can stick the landing at the end. 

I will post my reaction to episode two tomorrow. Until next time ...

[abusivelittlebunny]

This last 2 weeks have been awful for me, so - another story about John's and Ángel's childhood?? 😔✨

Oh baby I'm so sorry let me brighten your day a bit!♡

The first time Angel saw John, he was just a little bundle. A very loudly crying little bundle, but a cute bundle nonetheless. Angel was just thirteen, peeking over the tiny chubby baby that Mrs Shelby brought in and placed in his old cradle. He was so small in it. So small and red, screaming his little heart out.

"I hope it'll serve you well," his mother said gently to a very tired looking Mrs Shelby sat far from the bellowing bundle, while preparing some more old blankets for her. "It's very sturdy, been in our family for quite a long time."

Mrs Shelby was silent like she hadn't heard her for a long while before she answered, "As long as it doesn't break like the one Arthur threw against the wall..."

His mother gave an awkward chuckle, her eyes jumping between Mrs Shelby to the baby to Angel. She was scared the baby was still in the cradle when that happened. So was Angel; it must have shown. "I'm sure Angel won't mind giving it to little Johnny, right?"

He only looked up now, hearing his name, he's been too occupied gently rocking the cradle while observing the tiny thing and he quickly nodded diligently, "Yes, I don't mind. I'd be happy to help."

He paused for a minute; the crying hasn't ceased since Mrs Shelby arrived at the doorstep. She didn't seem to care, but then again she had a difficult face to decipher, with those haunting blue eyes set in contrast with the dark circles and sunken in ghostly features. She was a scary woman, but his mother used to say she was the prettiest girl until her awful husband got his hands on her. He knew the other kids were similarly haunted-looking, especially Tommy, the second one. Never has a four year old creeped him out more. Ada was just three but she was a very fussy and serious little girl, and Arthur, ten, screamed like his father when anyone approached either. Maybe that's why Mrs Shelby brought the newborn alone. But he seemed normal compared to the others, more lively and pure; the Shelby curse hasn't settled in his veins yet so he was a bit confused and scared. That's why he cried so much, or so Angel thought.

"Could he be hungry?" He asked meekly, not looking away from the baby.

"No." Mrs Shelby answered firmly. "He's been chugging goat's milk since the break of dawn, eats more than my previous three combined at his months. He's just like this."

His mother came to John's defense at the hint of venom in Mrs Shelby's tone, "Nothing wrong with being a bit fussy, it would be more concerning if he was always quiet, that's when you need to worry."

"I don't worry." Mrs Shelby replied, lighting a cigarette, "I only wanted three anyway."

Angel's blood suddenly ran cold and he looked up at Mrs Shelby in bewilderment. His hands shook on the rail of the cradle. He never felt this way before, this... mad. His mother of course knew he was a sensitive child, been so since birth, and could already tell she needed to stir the conversation elsewhere.

"Well, I know newborns tend to tire you out so let me put some food for you together, we have plenty of leftovers and there's some cake left too, I'm sure the kids will appreciate it," Luca frowned subtly on one of the chairs, he wanted to eat the cake himself but one pointed look from his mother made him roll his eyes and sigh. Lost battle.

Luca has been sitting in reverse on one of the chairs close, his chin resting on his folded forearms, looking down at the red faced baby with mild interest and on occasion rocking the cradle a bit harder with his foot, as if harder shaking might get him to stop wailing. His mother was busy running around the kitchen, Mrs Shelby seemed more interested in staring at the wall than going anywhere near her son, and Luca had no idea how to handle something so fragile.

"Can I hold him?" Angel asked after a thick swallow.

"Sure, if you'd like to go deaf," Mrs Shelby replied in a bored tone after an exhale of smoke. His mother didn't allow smoking in the house, hated the practice itself, but she didn't say anything.

Angel was careful, has held his baby cousins before and knew how to do it right, supporting the head and being gentle but firm with the fussy bundle, little hands and legs fighting to come out, but Angel just tucked him close to his chest and squeezed softly. The effect was instant: John's screams died down in a moment, sniffling and coughing cutely against Angel's collarbone, his little button nose seeking out skin. He didn't notice how the other three people in the room now stopped and stared at him in shock but he didn't care. All that mattered now was John.

He was so light, for something so chubby. So warm too, like a little furnace. It kind of felt like holding a puppy, and Angel instinctively pet the tiny head lightly. He had a light dusting of silky soft blond locks. His chubby face was less red now, more just pink, and he opened his previously squeezed closed eyes to look up at Angel and now they seemed so big, like they could stare into his soul, framed by long lashes. Dark blue in color, or at least darker than his siblings'; they weren't as icy cold, more like early dawn blue, when the sunlight just starts to appear in the horizon. A new beginning. He was such a beautiful baby.

"Why are you crying now?" Luca's laugh cut through his thoughts, and truly, Angel hasn't even noticed that tears started pouring from his eyes, only focused on John and how content he seemed now, trying to gnaw at his shirt. He didn't try to pull the material away, but held one of John's tiny hands between his thumb and index finger, gently squeezing the chubby paw.

"He's just so small." It came out more as a sob and that made Luca laugh some more and his mother coo "carino". He had to kiss his little head, in the process a few of his teardrops landing amongst the white-gold soft hair but John didn't seem to mind, only looked up at Angel curiously like he too didn't understand the sudden burst of emotion.

"My turn, my turn," Luca chuckled, already putting his hands in position under John to take him, but Angel pulled away, squeezing John protectively close like Luca might burn him. He was too rough, he might upset John or hold him wrong, he can't protect him well enough, not like Angel. Luca clicked his tongue in frustration, "Come on, let me hold it too, it's my turn. Share. Mama, Angelino won't share!"

Their mother just sighed, "Luca, let Angel hold him for a bit longer, alright? Look how nicely little Johnny settled down, let's not interfere now, hm? How about a slice of cake?"

Luca frowned again looking at John instead, "I want a baby too. Angel has to share."

"And he will, once he's ready, now come, Luca, don't disturb the baby."

Luca did go back to the table with a final glare and Angel could finally breathe easier, so he brought his eyes back to John who sleepily blinked up at him, smacking his plump pink lips and giving out an adorable "aguh". Mrs Shelby said he can't be hungry.

"Mama, do we have any pacifiers?" Angel asked as he rocked John gently, unable to stop himself from peppering the silky soft little face with tiny kisses that seemed to amuse John into happy squeals.

"Oh of course, let me look," his mother hurried off, raising her volume the further she went, "you and Luca barely used it so I completely forgot about it, but we did get one, wait just a minute, let me clean it."

When she brought the pacifier over, she handed it to Angel rather than putting it in John's mouth herself, a bright proud shine in her eyes as Angel offered John the pacifier gently with a soft coo. John latched on eagerly, sucking loudly and happily, and Angel never felt more proud himself, kissing John's squishy warm cheek happily; he could hear Luca whining for his turn again in the background. The pacifier promptly got John to sleep, long blinks evening out into his thick blond lashes resting on his pink cheeks calmly, suckling on his pacy on instinct in his sleep. The most angelic sight he's ever seen.

Angel didn't even notice the passing of time until his mother gently touched him on his shoulder and whispered, "John it's almost ten o'clock, Mrs Shelby would surely like to return home now." Angel at first frowned dumbly thinking yeah she should, but then he remembered he was still rocking John gently in his arms.

"But he just fell asleep, can't he stay for the night? I promise I'll take care of him!" Angel hopefully whined, still quiet not to wake John but his mother was shaking her head solemnly before Mrs Shelby spoke as she got up and headed for the door with her bags of food, clothes and blankets.

"I'd be thankful. He wails through the night usually. I'll take him back in the morning." Mrs Shelby looked down at John's peacefully sleeping face then into Angel's eyes and a hint of a smile cracked on her full lips, so subtle and unusual one might think the lights were only playing tricks on Angel's mind. "You're good with him. Better than me or anyone I know. Please take care of him."

Angel nodded seriously, trying to put weight into his words as he replied, "Thank you, I will." It seemed to satisfy Mrs Shelby because her smile widened slightly and she mimicked his nod amusedly as she turned to the door and left. His mother was still gaping at the scene as Angel took to the kitchen in search of milk and the necessary things to take care of John, Luca whining now harder for his turn; at least he carried up the cradle to their bedroom with a few blankets. His mother tried to talk him out of keeping John in his room, offering to take care of the baby herself, but Angel stood his ground, proudly declaring how he swore to take care of John himself and squeezing the snoozing bundle close.

Luca was fascinated as well, and wouldn't stop nagging Angel for his turn to hold John to the point that John awoke, fussing quietly at the whispered argument. Angel finally let Luca hold him, just to shut him up, keeping one hand on John at all times just to be safe. He corrected Luca when his posture wasn't right or he rocked John too fast, and blamed him when John started fussing more, just little kitten whines, no crying, until they smellt the problem. Changing nappies was a two men job, and for once he was thankful that Luca would help hold John still (with a very sour face and unnecessary comments) while Angel cleaned John up and deemed it time for a bath. They bathed John in a pot of warm water with a soft sponge, not noticing their mother watching from the door with a smile until they dried the little one now babbling happily in the towel they rolled him up in. Their mother brought John a clean nappy, but let the boys put it on him, well, more like Angel put it on him, Luca was only useful at holding John still, but that was alright, it was Angel who was mainly responsible.

Angel fed John with a bottle of cow's milk, warmed to the correct temperature with the help of his mother before bed, and John fell asleep quickly after the burping. Luca laughed at the little amount of baby vomit and spit on his shirt that got past the towel laid out on his shoulder. Angel first placed John into the cradle right next to his bed, but he kept an arm hanging down to keep a protective hand on John's softly rising and falling torso, just in case.

He slept lightly and quickly woke when he felt the slightest fussing from John, petting him and rocking him back to sleep; Luca slept through them. At the third time John whined in his sleep Angel picked him out of the cradle and placed John next to him on the bed, tucking him close and keeping the pacifier in his mouth. Angel fell asleep to the soft sounds of John breathing and suckling on his pacy, his warm little body burrowing close. Neither of them woke again until morning.

Angel woke to the sunlight and John sucking on his chin with happy baby noises; his pacifier must have fell out. After wiping the drool away and pressing a good morning kiss to John's positively edible baby cheek, he set out to change John's nappy again in the bathroom to not bother Luca, still asleep on the other side of the room. He praised John for being such a calm and good baby during the procedure with belly kisses and raspberries that made the little one erupt in squealing giggles and Angel smiled proudly as he took John down to the kitchen for some well-earned breakfast. The scent of pancakes alerted him in time that his mother was awake and about and he said good morning to her as she turned, her smile widening at the sight of John in his arms, looking around curiously but calmly.

"How was the night?" She asked as he started warming the milk for him.

"Good, he only fussed very little, and stopped completely once I let him sleep with me on the bed." Angel stuffed a pancake into his mouth quickly before John's grabby little paws could get to it. He'll feed him plenty of pancakes once he gets a bit bigger.

"Hm, you should keep him in the cradle, make him get used to it. Or he'll have trouble sleeping on his own later. These first few years matter a lot." Her tone turned more serious as she continued. "When his mother gets here, I need you to behave, Angel."

Angel stiffened at being reminded that this will end, that Mrs Shelby promised to come back in the morning and take John away. Angel didn't say anything as he got the milk off the heat and prepared the bottle for John. His mother was looking at him meaningfully. Angel was a good boy, not one to talk back of throw tantrums, but he was territorial and protective in nature, once crying his heart out over having to separate from a family friend's dog after a visit when he was six, and his mother could see how fond he grew with John.

"Angel? Could you promise me to behave?"

Angel swallowed as he nodded and sat down to feed John solemnly, dreading the inevitable knock at the door as he stared at the hungry little baby in his arms, cooing happily from the cow's milk. Why couldn't Angel keep him? Mrs Shelby said herself that Angel was better with him and she only wanted three kids. It wasn't fair. Angel should get to keep John.

He felt antsy throughout breakfast even as Luca teased John and his father tickled his belly, cooing at the tiny creature, and saying, "I've never seen a happier little child, look at the little sunshine, che carino!"

His mother rubbed at Angel's shoulder, an apologetic smile on her face as she looked at him, "You should have seen him yesterday, he was the angriest little baby I've seen, wailing his little head off until Angel held him."

"He wasn't angry." Angel muttered, squeezing John close, hiding him away from any harm of the world. "He was just... lost. He didn't know what was going on."

"Babies rarely do." Luca chuckled, stealing Angel's pancake from his plate and earning a slap to the hand by his mother.

"He was scared." Angel looked down at John, so innocent, so small, so precious, looking up at him with those big doe eyes and long lashes, not knowing yet how cruel the world is out there. "She should have held him so he wouldn't have been scared." He had to hold back his sniffle, but his mother already looked at him with that pitying expression. Angel pressed a small devoted kiss to John's round little forehead and rocked him gently, the post-meal sleepiness showing on his slow blinks.

Angel held John like every moment was the last, until morning turned into afternoon, afternoon turned into night, but Mrs Shelby still hasn't shown. Angel didn't mind, not at all, but it kept him on his toes until his mother sighed after dinner that maybe she needs more rest and will come tomorrow. But she didn't. Angel was now giddy with joy, spending every second with John, his John, taking care of him happily, as one day turned into two then three then four, and John was still here, still drinking warm cow's milk and cooing in his arms and sleeping in his bed and squealing from raspberries blown on his tummy and giggling from kisses on his chubby cheeks, and clinging to him tightly when bathed in the warm pot and sucking on his pacifier or Angel's fingers to settle down. Three weeks and no Mrs Shelby.

Angel even took him out, the fresh air getting John in a good mood and he curiously eyed the different produce at the market Angel showed him, babbling along to what Angel was saying and even tasting a ripe strawberry that made him give out the cutest sounds. Angel let him gnaw on the piece of fruit in his hands while he roamed the aisles when he ran into Polly. He didn't talk to her before, she was older, around fifteen or sixteen, but he knew she was Arthur Shelby Sr's younger sister, now helping with the kids. Her eyes widened at the sight of John in Angel's arms. He was just about to say hello to be polite when she almost knocked him over, snarling into his face angrily. Her eyes were coal black and they scared him.

"Where the fuck did you find him?!" She didn't care how Angel tried to clutch John closer, she practically ripped him out of Angel's hands, the half eaten strawberry falling to the ground. "Jesus fucking Christ, we thought she drowned him in the river or fed him to the fucking dogs."

Angel was now panicking looking at John desperately but not knowing what to do, he can't just ask back for him. John was wailing loudly; he hadn't cried since Mrs Shelby left. The sound didn't sit well with Angel, the urge to take him back gnawing at the back of his head.

"She gave him to me, told me to take care of him, please," Angel tried to reach for John but Polly snapped him away. She didn't hold him well enough.

"Like hell, she's my sister in law's child and a child belongs with his mother. Can't believe you'd keep it to yourself, making us worry."

"She left him to me, please," Angel was now on the verge of tears, knowing well they were making a scene, but he couldn’t care. John was crying, Angel had to hold him, had to-

"Fucking hell, Pol, what are you doing?" Arthur Sr's voice came from behind Angel and it froze him in his tracks. The man was a dangerous drunk, known to knife a man over nothing.

"Taking back your fucking son, you absolute cretin," Polly snarled, rocking John too hard. She shoved John at Sr when he came around, his movements sluggish; he was either hungover or drunk, but he was in no way fit to hold John.

"Please, Mr Shelby," Angel tried his luck, sweating from every pore, praying the man wouldn't drop the baby. "Your wife, she-, she came to us three weeks ago, told us to take care of him. She didn't want more than three she said, and that I was good with him, so please-,"

"She did, did she?" Sr's grin was more than cruel, it was downright evil and it made Angel even more panicked. He shouldn't have said that. John quieted down to little hiccups and sobs, seemingly in fear as well, and Sr squeezed his tear-wet cheeks a bit too hard for Angel's liking. "Well, too bad for her. Thank you very much sonny for taking care of little Joe-,"

"John." Angel corrected.

"Whatever, thanks a bunch, I'll be seeking your babysitting service more often, if you're really that good, but if you don't mind," he licked his teeth, the scars on his face sinister as his grin spread wide, "I'll take over now."

Angel's heart sunk and he stood frozen as Polly and Sr turned to leave. The only thing he was able to mutter to their back was, "John prefers cow's milk," but they didn't seem to hear him. He waddled back home utterly defeated, unable to answer to his family when they asked what was wrong and where was the baby, and cried into the pillow that still smelled like John for an hour before he cleaned his face and gathered John's things in the cradle and made his way over to the Shelby household. John's screaming cries were audible even a block away, and his face was red again instead of the milky pink Angel got used to, fussing in Polly's arms. Mrs Shelby was cowering in the corner with a black-eye, her older brother trying to wipe at her face gently, but Mr Shelby was not within sight. Neither was Tommy. Arthur spit blood on the ground, his bite busted as he wrenched the cradle out of Angel's offering hand and told him to get lost, Ada on his hip eyeing Angel suspiciously.

Before he could leave Polly grabbed him by the shirt and asked him, "Can you babysit on a few occasions? Don't keep him, he won't have that, but just take care of him from time to time." Angel nodded desperately and took John when Polly said she's gotta make sure Tommy is alive. Angel squeezed John close, his cries dying down on contact, huffing little sobs into Angel's neck as he looked on the sorry sight that the house was in.

Angel kissed John's litte head, breathing in his scent, and promised himself to take care of John forever, and one day free him from this awful place and keep him as it was meant to be.

[blackspoon99]

The Sign of Three Pt. 2

Sherlock x Female! Reader

TW: Mention of Blood and Near Death, Spoilers to Season 3!

Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

You took your seat at the head table and found yourself relieved that you were sat in between Janine and Sherlock. You felt immediate guilt at that thought. Dinner was slightly tense and awkward. Possibly only for you. For the most part, you made small talk with Janine while Sherlock read over his stack of index cards. Little boughs of anxiety kept creeping in the back of your mind as you replayed Sherlock and Janine’s conversation over and over. You peeked over at Sherlock to your right and took a healthy sip of champagne. You decided you would try your best to be present. This day wasn’t about you, after all. Your attention was pulled to the center of the room when a waiter tapped a spoon against a champagne glass.

“Pray silence for the best man”

This was it. You can do it, Sherlock. You watched Sherlock rise from his seat and stiffly fasten one of the buttons on his blazer. He looked unbelievably uncomfortable. You smiled when you noticed Sherlock adjusting the flower you placed in his blazer pocket. The wedding guests applauded and waited for Sherlock to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends ... and ... erm ... others.” Sherlock blinked several times.

“Er ... w...” Another awkward pause. “…Also”

You looked over at John then at Molly and Greg. They wore the same concerned look on their faces.

“Telegrams” John whispered to Sherlock

“Right, uhm…” Sherlock patted the pockets of his blazer and pants then finally noticed them on the table near his place setting. “First things first. Telegrams.” He lifted up the pile and inspected the first one. “Well, they’re not actually telegrams. We just call them telegrams. I don’t know why. Wedding tradition,” Sherlock muttered quickly. “Because we don’t have enough of that already, apparently.”

You saw John narrow his eyes and turn to Mary. You nervously looked down at your hands in your lap. Sherlock read the first note.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Watson. So sorry I’m unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck and best wishes, Mike Stamford.”

“Oh, Mike,” John said, smiling.

“To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big ...” Sherlock paused and suddenly looked like he had swallowed a lemon. “... big squishy cuddles, from Stella and Ted.” He looked up at the ceiling, blinking repeatedly again. You tried to suppress your laughter. “Mary – lots of love, ...” Yet another pause. “…Poppet” He finished, popping the “t” at the end. Mary snickered.

Sherlock straightened his back and took the next card. “Don’t bugger it up, Sher—” he abruptly cleared his throat and looked straight at you. You tried to hide your laughter. He’d finally gotten to the note you slipped in with the telegrams. Everyone would have heard it was actually quite a nice note if Sherlock had read the entire thing out loud. It read: Don’t bugger it up, Sherlock. Only kidding. You’re doing great. X, y/n.

“Um, special day” Sherlock threw a telegram over his shoulder. “Very special day” He then proceeded to toss each telegram straight behind him. “Love, love, love, love. Bit of a theme – you get the general gist. People are basically fond.” The wedding guests laughed, interpreting it as a joke. Sherlock looked confused, then picked up the other stack of index cards. He began to shuffle through them, clearly trying to find his place.

“Done that. ... Done that ... Done that bit ... Done that bit ... Done that bit ... Hmm ...”

You anxiously looked up at him, feeling the awkward tension in the room.

“I’m afraid, John, I can’t congratulate you.”

Your eyes snapped over to John who looked as shocked as you felt.

“All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world.”

You looked around the room at all the wedding guests as some of them began to murmur. Greg and Molly had the same horrified look on their faces. Sherlock continued on.

“Today we honor the death-watch beetle that is the doom of our society and, in time – one feels certain – our entire species.”

You placed your head in your hands. You knew you should have made Sherlock let you read over his speech. You hadn’t wanted to make him feel nervous or like you didn’t trust him.

“But anyway ... let’s talk about John.”

“Yeah, good idea” you hissed up at Sherlock. He ignored you.

“If I burden myself with a little help-mate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice – it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me.”

You heard Greg snort across the room. This was going south fast. You couldn’t believe Sherlock was insulting John on his wedding day. He must be spiraling. There had to be something you could do to save this. Fake an emergency, maybe? You could at least buy some time that way.

“Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes, in truth, from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides. It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel.”

Ouch. You tried so hard not to look at Sherlock as you felt your ears burning with embarrassment. You adverted your gaze and focused on not allowing yourself to be hurt by what he’d just said.

Somehow, Sherlock continued. “And contrast is, after all, God’s own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation ... or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity for the family idiot.”

Oh boy. Now Sherlock was going straight to insulting the vicar. The murmuring began to pick up again. You looked over at John, who was now hiding his face in his hands while Mary frowned.

“The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet.”

You looked up at Sherlock in genuine surprise.

“I am dismissive of the virtuous ...” He looked to the vicar. “... unaware of the beautiful ...” Your heart stopped when he looked straight at you. Or maybe in your general direction? You looked over your shoulder at Janine, who was smiling. He could have just as easily been looking at her.

Sherlock finally turned to John and Mary “... and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend. Certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.”

Just when you’d started to doubt him, Sherlock had surpassed all your expectations. He always managed to surprise you, every time.

“John, I am a ridiculous man ... redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I’m apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion. Actually, now I can.” Sherlock turned to Mary. “Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss... so sorry again about that last one.” John laughed. Sherlock leaned back over to you and winked. You smiled and rolled your eyes.

“So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”

You found yourself fighting tears. You were not alone. “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John?” Sherlock again looked rather confused. He turned to look at you. “Did I do it wrong?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” you said quietly.

John stood up and pulled Sherlock into a hug. The crowd applauded. “I haven’t finished yet,” Sherlock said as John released him.

“Yes, I know,” said John

“So, on to some funny stories ...” Sherlock attempted to yell over the applause.

“Can you – can you wait ’til I sit down?” John asked.

“So, on to some funny stories about John,” Sherlock continued as the noise died down. “So, for funny stories, one has to look no further than John’s blog.” Sherlock pulled out his phone. “The record of our time together. We’ve tackled some strange cases, some frustrating cases, and ‘touching’ cases. But we want something ... very particular for this special day, don’t we? The Bloody Guardsman.”

You remembered this case. It was only a few weeks ago,

You, John, Mary, and Sherlock sat in the living room of Sherlock’s flat, completely surrounded by lists, items, and menus for the wedding. You’d initially been surprised at Sherlock’s dedication to wedding planning. The back wall above the couch was a perfectly organized record of everything that needed to be done in the next few weeks down to all the potential fonts for the place cards. Sherlock had even created a to-scale model of the reception venue sometime during his fits of mania. You were no psychologist, but if you were you’d say that Sherlock’s meticulous efforts were all in an attempt to force some control into a daunting situation.

John and Mary were seated at the table near the windows looking over the bridesmaids’ dress options. Sherlock stood studying the guest list on the monstrous wall of wedding planning. You were sitting in John’s chair with your legs hanging over one of the arms, flipping through catering menus.

“Need to work on your half of the church, Mary. Looking a bit thin.” Sherlock spoke from across the room.

Mary forced a smile. “Ah, orphan’s lot. Friends – that’s all I have. Lots of friends.”

You didn’t know anything about Mary’s family except that for unknown reasons, she didn’t have one. She kept her cards so close to the vest, you doubted John knew anything either. “And your friends adore you, Mary,” you said, attempting to cheer her up.

“Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11:48,” Sherlock spoke over you. “Sherlock,” you groaned. He didn’t turn around from the wall and continued to fiddle with the clippings.

“Or maybe 11:55, with allowed time for delays,”

“Sherlock,” you tried again. “The rehearsal’s not for another two weeks. Just calm down”

He whipped around to face you. “Calm? I am calm. I’m extremely calm.”

“Yes, I can see that,” you said sarcastically, noting the wild look in his eyes.

“Let’s get back to the reception, come on,” Mary said from across the room, diffusing the tension. “John’s cousin. Top table?”

Sherlock rose to join John and Mary at the table. “Hmm. Hates you. Can’t even bear to think about you.”

You rolled your eyes. You tossed the catering menus to the side and walked over to the table to look over Mary’s shoulder.

“Seriously?” Mary asked, shocked

“Second class post, cheap card bought at a petrol station. Look at the stamp: three attempts at licking. She’s obviously unconsciously retaining saliva.”

“Don’t worry Mary, I’ve met her and she’s the worst. Let’s stick her by the bogs,” you interjected.

“Oh yes,” Mary agreed.

“Pretending I didn’t hear that,” John said, looking down at his phone.

“Who else hates me?” Mary asked Sherlock. He turned around and handed her a handwritten list. “Oh great – thanks,” Mary said unenthusiastically.

“Priceless painting nicked. Looks interesting,” John announced. He’d been looking through inquiries for cases on the blog. It was only a little annoying that he wasn’t helping. “How about this: ‘My husband is three people’? It’s interesting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin.”

“Identical triplets – one in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat. Now, serviettes.” Sherlock bent down and pulled a tray out from under the coffee table that had two different elaborately folded napkins. “Swan or Sydney Opera House?”

“Wow…” you said flatly. He’s lost it. You bit your lip in concern and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Where’d you learn to do that?!” Mary asked, impressed.

“Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation ...”

“You’re lying, Sherlock,” you said, teasing.

“I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of ...”

“Sherlock, out with it.” You pressed him further.

“Okay – I learned it on YouTube.”

“Well then, Sydney Opera House, please,” Mary said with a smile.

You turned away, thinking. “Hey, Mary? Can I show you what I was thinking for my bridesmaid dress?”

“Uh, sure,” She replied.

“Great!” you said and grabbed her wrist. You pulled her into the kitchen and closed the door. “Mary, we have to do the thing. Right now.”

“Are you sure, he seems okay-ish?” She said skeptically.

“Okay-ish?! Mary, he’s watching YouTube videos on napkin folding. He’s terrified.”

“Right. You’re right. Okay, you speak with Sherlock while I get John.”

You opened the doors to the living room to see Sherlock sitting on the floor, surrounded by at least 15 napkins folded in the opera house shape.

“That just sort of ... happened,” he said dropping his hands to his side.

“Did you just do that now?” John asked, finally looking up from his phone.

“Okay. John?” Mary started. “I’m about to give Beth a call, she’ll want to talk to you as well.” Mary held her phone up and gestured to the kitchen.

“Oh Beth, that’s right. We’ve been meaning to call her.” John got up and followed her.

You walked over to Sherlock and took a seat on the floor next to him. He reached under the table for more napkins, but you caught his hand and shook your head.

“I think we have enough for now. I actually need to talk to you about something, Sherlock. I’m worried about John.” He looked over at you, listening intently. You lowered your voice and inched closer. “I think all the wedding planning is getting to him. He needs to get out for a bit, I can tell.” Sherlock nodded along with you. “I can’t say anything because he won’t listen to me. He’s just going to think I’m worrying too much. Could you please find him a case, any case? For me?”  

“Yes, yes, of course. You can count on me.” Sherlock whispered. He stood up and carefully smoothed out his suit. John walked back into the room. You got up and silently joined Mary into the kitchen. A few moments later, Sherlock and John walked into the kitchen.

“Er, we’re just going to ... I need, um, Sherlock to help me choose some, er, socks.” John awkwardly fumbled over his words.

“Ties,” Sherlock interjected.

“Let’s go with socks,” Mary said.

“Could be a while,” John said. “We’ve got to make sure they match my—”

“Tie” Sherlock interrupted. John looked back at him, exasperated.

“My coat in there?” John cleared his throat. Mary nodded and John turned the corner. Sherlock leaned in and lowered his voice.

“Just going to take him out for a bit – run him.”

“Good work, Sherlock,” you said with a smile. Sherlock winked at you and walked out of the door. When they were out of sight, you turned to Mary.

“Do you fancy a drink?”

“Let’s go,” She replied.

That had been the end of your involvement in the case of the Bloody Guardsman. You had heard the rest of the story from John. Sherlock hadn’t particularly felt like sharing. Probably because he never solved it. You listened to Sherlock lay out his chosen details in his speech all the way up to Sherlock and John finding Stephen Bainbridge bleeding out in a shower in the barracks.

“Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He’d stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go? Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish – but in all of this, there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?”

You rolled your eyes. Of course, Sherlock was challenging people to solve a case on the spot that he didn’t even figure out himself. You pitied whoever he chose to humiliate.

“Scotland Yard.” Greg looked up from his drink. “Have you got a theory?” Greg stared blankly at Sherlock. “Yeah, you. You’re a detective – broadly speaking. Got a theory?”

This was going to be bad.

“Er, um, if the, uh, if the if-if-if, if the blade was, er, propelled through the, um ... grating in the air vent ... maybe a-a ballista or a – or a – or a catapult. Erm, somebody tiny could … could crawl in there.” Molly cringed. “So, yeah, we’re loo... we’re looking for a-a-a-a dwarf.”

“Brilliant,” said Sherlock

“Really?” Greg replied immediately

“No,” Sherlock said coldly. Ruthless. Greg lowered his head back into his drink. Across the room, you saw Tom whispering something into Molly’s ear.

“Hello? Who was that?” Sherlock asked and looked around the room before settling on Tom. “Tom. Got a theory?” Tom slowly stood up across the room.

Poor Tom looked uneasy. He shifted around for a bit before reluctantly giving his opinion. “Um ... attempted suicide, with a blade made of compacted blood and bone that broke after piercing his abdomen ... like a meat ... dagger.”

Molly wore a look of uncomprehending embarrassment. You looked to Sherlock. He had a look on his face that was a strange mix of smugness and disbelief. “A meat dagger.” He stated.

“Yes,” Tom said, awkwardly.

“Sit down.” Molly hissed. She reached up and yanked Tom down to his seat by his sleeve.

“No,” said Sherlock plainly. “There was one feature, and only one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson: who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life.”

You smiled at John’s proud expression. So that was the point of Sherlock’s roundabout story. It surprised you because when they’d initially came home that day, all Sherlock could focus on was how the attempted murderer did it and why he couldn’t figure it out. It was nice to see he had developed a new perspective.

“The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly-planned murder – or attempted murder – I’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter; the most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware. However, I’m not just here to praise John – I’m also here to embarrass him, so let’s move on to some ...”

“No-no, wait, so how was it ... how was it done?” Lestrade interrupted.

Now Sherlock would have to admit he didn’t solve the case. You smirked. That’s what you get for insisting on embarrassing Greg and Tom.  

“How was what done?” Sherlock asked, attempting to deflect

“The stabbing,” Lestrade clarified.

Sherlock looked down for a moment, then reluctantly continued. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I didn’t solve that one. That’s ... It can happen sometimes. It’s very ... very disappointing.” He looked down for a moment as if contemplating then continued. “Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night.”

A/N: So sorry this is so late! I haven’t forgotten about this series, I promise! I just moved into a new apartment in college and it’s already been nuts!

taglist: @the-chaotic-cow @amoeebaa @sad-bitch-h0ur @scorpios-echos

If you want to be added to the taglist for future updates, go like the post I made earlier about it!

[jj-babebank]

Room 107 // chapter II // JJ Maybank (smut)

The story picks up where season 2 leaves us.

TW: Contains mentions of drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, sex and violence.

CHAPTER ONE can be found here.

Chapter 2 - La Realidad

The lobby was surprisingly big and it matched the interior of the diner to a T. Everything was rustic and cheesy-looking, mimicking what Americans imagined people in Spain’s houses to look like. The black and white tiles from the diner went on into the foyer, covered in plants. The ceiling was very high and you could see the roof from the middle of the lobby. Four sets of sofas and tables were spread around, but all of them were vacant, much like the ones in the diner.

Samara was leaning against one of the many columns supporting the arches on which the upper parts of the walls were resting, waiting for the group. JJ smiled at her but she didn’t smile back, only turned around and motioned for them to follow her up a wide set of stairs. “Seeing as we’re almost fully booked tonight, you’ll be staying on the first floor,” she said, stopping at the first floor’s landing where a hallway of doors revealed itself, “With me.” The sound of that excited JJ a little too much for his liking. “Fully booked?” John B mumbled under his breath, “Yeah right,” he scoffed. “Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly, friend of JJ,” Samara said, obviously having heard him regardless of the fact that she was a good few feet ahead of them, “There is more than meets the eye down here in La Guardiana.” She stopped in front of a door, placing a key inside the keyhole, “Room 103,” she said, opening the door to reveal a scarcely furnished small room with hideous red wallpaper on the walls and a double bed situated between two Spanish windows, “Obviously only two can sleep here, so who’s it gonna be?” Sarah volunteered first, “Me and John B can have it,” she said, quickly adding, “If that’s okay with you, of course…” “Alright,” Samara said, turning the lights on in what JJ guessed was the bathroom, “This is your bathroom, there’s shampoo and soap in there, I’m guessing you’ll need it, enjoy.” She said, leading the others out of the room and down to the next one, 105. She unlocked the door, revealing an almost identical room to the previous one with the only difference being in the wallpaper colour - it was blue. Kiara and Cleo agreed to share this room, which left JJ with Pope. “And room 107,” said Samara, unlocking the second to last door down the hallway, “It’s right next to mine, how lucky,” she said sarcastically, handing Pope the keys. He ran into the room, laying on the bed with a look of pure bliss on his face. JJ turned to Samara, “Hey, uh, thank you so much again, I-“ “Meet me in the lobby at midnight.” She interrupted him, turning on her heel to walk away, “Don’t be late.” JJ’s pants suddenly felt awfully tight with excitement as he nodded, “Okay!” He said enthusiastically, “But… What time is it now?”

~~~~~~

The good thing about 100 degree temperature was that everything dried quickly. Whether it was hair or clothes or underwear - it dried up in no time. This was exactly why after taking what felt like the best showers of their lives, JJ and Pope washed their clothes and let them air dry on the window sills. Both boys were currently laying in bed in their towels, staring at the ceiling with only the sound of the big wall clock ticking away in the background. “She wants to meet up, you know?” JJ suddenly broke the silence. Pope snickered next to him, “You know what, JJ? I’ve gotta give it to you, man. Even smelly and dirty, you still manage to get the girl. How do you even do it?” JJ smiled proudly, “What can I say? I guess I’m just irresistible.” Pope laughed at his friend’s words. “So what time are you going to her room?” He asked. “Oh, she wants to meet me in the lobby. Probably wants to have a couple of drinks to, uh, you know, break the ice. Little does she know that JJ Maybank is more than just a pretty face and a man of few words,” JJ said cockily, “Come here, baby, I can recite you the whole dictionary” he wiggled his eyebrows. Pope was laughing hysterically at his friend’s cockiness, “What would we ever do without you, man?” “I’ll tell you one thing you wouldn’t have done without me,” he said, sitting up at gesturing towards their surroundings, “Sleep in a bed, at a hotel, for free,” Pope nodded, “Dude, I still can’t believe this is happening, this girl’s practically saving our asses,” “Yeah and you just wait ’til I get a hold of hers,” JJ wiggled his eyebrows once again. Pope scoffed, “What time are you meeting?” “Midnight,” JJ responded, looking at the clock. It was currently 8pm. The sun was still out and oddly enough, the street was beginning to sound a bit more lively. JJ and Pope peaked through one of the windows to have a look at what was happening outside. Sure enough, as the sun began to set, the streets of La Guardiana began to fill up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One positive about being a castaway - ending up in a cool new spot where a hot girl was practically giving herself to JJ.

One negative thing about being a castaway - having nothing to wear to impress said hot girl.

JJ was known to be an attractive guy and he knew it. Pulling girls never posed an issue for him back in the Outer Banks, yet here he was, standing in front of the long rectangular mirror in the hallway of his and Pope’s shared room, sighing at his reflection. He tried combing his sandy blonde hair back with his fingers, failing miserably as the soft strands just wouldn’t cooperate and stay in one spot. He looked down at his clothes, the same set of clothes he’d been wearing since that day, and rolled his eyes, throwing his head back in annoyance. “At least they’re clean…” he sighed to himself, tugging at his top. Pope was sitting on their bed, smirking at JJ’s reflection through the mirror, “Is it just me or do I sense nervousness?” JJ turned around to face him, his face expression both sad and annoyed, “This is all I’ve got, it’s not like I can do anything about it.” Pope shrugged his shoulders, “I mean, look at it this way - if she offered to help all of us after having a five minute conversation with you, then she must like you a lot.” Pope’s words made JJ’s lips curl into a small smile. Maybe he was right, why else would Samara willingly offer to house not only him, but his friends too, in her family’s hotel, for free? She must have liked him, right? Right?

The blonde boy sighed as he turned to look at the clock. In 10 minutes he would have to make his way downstairs to the pretty lady who asked him to meet her there, and to say he was excited would be an understatement. He took a seat next to Pope on the bed, keeping him company in watching some baseball game currently playing on their little TV, engulfing the room in light. JJ was tapping his foot on the ground nervously, checking the clock every few seconds, not focusing on the TV programme at all. Time seemed to be passing dreadfully slow all of a sudden. The street in front of their window was now full of people chattering and laughing, there was music playing from several different spots, one melody overlapping with the rest and smells of all kinds were filling the boys’ room, the one of marijuana particularly tickling JJ’s fancy as all he could think about was how much just one, not more, drag would help him ease his nerves before his much anticipated date. Was it even a date? He was so nervous at this point that he decided to just head downstairs without wasting any more time.

The short walk down to the lobby was filling JJ’s already nervous brain with even more nerves. What was he even nervous about? He was never like this around girls. Although, he had to admit he hadn’t really flirted with anyone in a while now, even before the day of the incident. He was so engulfed in mourning his best friend and Sarah, whom he believed to be dead, that he had completely neglected his own needs and fantasies, sex being the one he had pushed to the side the most. The past few months were hard for JJ, what with everything going on in his life - from John B to his dad, to the gold, and now the cross; almost being tossed in jail on more than one occasion, getting into numerous fights, hiding on numerous occasion and not to mention all that running that him and his friends somehow always had to partake in, being chased by anyone and everyone wherever they went. JJ had been so busy doing all of this, he had forgotten how to be a teenaged boy, how to fix his hair, how to talk to girls - hell, he was sure that if Samara took him up to her room, he’d have to have at least three of those whiskeys he drank earlier, just to know where to touch her - that’s how much he had neglected his sex life.

Making his way down to the lobby, he saw her. She was sitting on one of the couches, not yet aware of his presence there, a glass of wine resting in her delicate hands and another one sitting on the table in front of her, presumably for JJ. Her silky chocolate hair cascaded down her tanned shoulders, covering her voluptuous breasts, making JJ gulp. She was wearing an off white dress that seemed to hug her in all the right places and the contrast between her dark hair, bronze tan and the light coloured material made her appear even more alluring to the young boy, if that was even possible. Samara was truly a sight to behold and JJ couldn’t believe his luck quite yet. Somehow all of this seemed too good to be true. People never usually just gave stuff away, it wasn’t in their nature. Being from the cut, JJ was used to only receiving things that he was expected to work for. Good things never came cheap, and the girl sitting before him who had put a roof over his and his friends’ heads for the foreseeable few days, definitely didn’t look like the type who just gave things away. JJ was simply hoping that the wine she had prepared for him would be enough to soothe his nerves before what he imagined would be a night of hot, raunchy sex. He wanted to rip her clothes off and make her whimper beneath him and he was so set on that, that he had turned it into the only logical thing that she could ask for in return for the massive favour she was doing for him. It only made sense, right? She knew he had nothing - what else could he possibly offer her?

“Hello, JJ,” Samara spoke when she finally saw the boy approaching her. He sat down on the sofa next to her and picked up the glass of wine that was waiting for him on the table. “I heard about a certain gold you have,” she simply said, her plump lips twisting into a smirk and her black eyes boring into JJ’s blue ones, “How about I help you get it back and in turn,” she reached for his knee, “- you share some of it with me.”

Uh-oh.

[iamthenightcolormeblack]

Impressions of Wilde (1997)

I really liked this movie and I'm sure you will too! It's a great introduction to Oscar Wilde (who he was, a glimpse into his personal life, and why he remains relevant and incredibly charming) and also a celebration of homosexuality.

1. Overview:

The movie doesn’t tell the whole story of Oscar Wilde's life. It covers the 1880s, his rise to fame and sudden fall, and ends shortly after his 1897 prison release. Some Oscar Wilde fans were disappointed because they wanted to see the early parts of his life (how he got his inspiration and crafted his aesthete persona).

The costumes and sets are absolutely gorgeous and transport you back to the late Victorian era; lots of deep red fabric curtains, detailed mahogany wood furnishings, intricate paintings, and lavish costumes.

The lead actors are amazing and they resemble the real people almost exactly.

2. Casting:

Stephen Fry as Oscar Wilde. One could say he IS Oscar Wilde reincarnated; he looks almost exactly like Wilde. Most importantly he perfectly combines Wilde's charm and intelligence. The film also tries to show Wilde as a father and married man in addition to the "gay fop" identity that he's usually placed in. As much as he mocks society, he's kind and loving (still cares about Bosie even though it's obvious at times that Bosie doesn't deserve his kindness).

Jude Law as Lord Alfred "Bosie" Douglas, Wilde's lover. I must say that Bosie definitely reminds me of Dorian Gray because he's blond, beautiful, and selfish. He throws lots of temper tantrums and reminds me of a teenage boy trying in vain to rebel against his father, the Marquess of Queensbury (Wilde's enemy who plays a big part in his downfall). He does seem to care for/love Wilde, but is still selfish in that his first concern is himself.

Jennifer Ehle as Constance Wilde. You may know her as Elizabeth Bennet from the 1995 BBC version of Pride and Prejudice. Film Constance is quite intelligent and unconditionally supportive of Oscar Wilde.

3. Scene Recaps:

The film begins quite unusually in the Wild West (no greater contrast between the gritty Colorado mining town and the elegant parlors of London). Wilde makes his entrance in a fancy fur coat, dressed to kill. He successfully entertains the miners with a story about an artist.

Back to London; Wilde was in Colorado on his North American lecture tour. At a party he meets Constance and marries her "because all artists need an audience." Quite an interesting quote because there's this general conception that artists are isolated people who need to get away from society to produce their best works, when in actuality they need others to appreciate their works. Constance is a good match for Wilde because she's intelligent and constantly (coincides with the name) supports him even though he cheats on her with his gay buddies.

We are then treated to a lovely scene where he walks through a crowd of lawyers (marking him as a nonconformist).

Robbie Ross, one of Wilde's best friends, introduces him to gay sex.

“Dinner with lord and lady Asquith” = code language for a fling.

Then he meets John Gray, a handsome bohemian played by Ioan Gruffud, a pretty guy with long hair, and has another fling with him. Gray brings up the idea of art as a means of capturing the soul (inspiration for The Picture of Dorian Gray, which brings scandal to the Wilde family).

Oscar Wilde has 2 boys with Constance. He loves his family and cares about the wife but he’s always away in London working on his plays/stories or having flings with his gay buddies.

I really liked how the film used Oscar Wilde's children's story The Selfish Giant as a metaphor for his relationship with his family. His success isolates him from his family; he's often away and doesn't visit often, much like the giant hides behind a wall.

He meets Bosie at the premiere of the play Lady Windermere’s Fan (not historically accurate). Bosie says something smart to flatter Wilde, summing up what Wilde did in his work: using wit to mock and amuse people simultaneously.

Bosie is a beautiful, selfish rich boy and wants Wilde for his own entertainment. He has some affection for OW but loves himself first; Wilde's friends and Robbie Ross are concerned for him. Wilde and Bosie have a passionate, open relationship. At times Bosie has sex with other men while Wilde watches.

They dine together without a concern for others’ opinion (another of my favorite scenes from the movie).

Wilde genuinely loves Bosie and sees him as the victim of bad parenting (what a pity, since it's unclear at times whether Bosie loves Wilde).

Eventually because of his relationship with Bosie, Wilde makes a powerful enemy in Bosie's father, the Marquess of Queensbury. Queensbury attempts to insult Wilde several times before sending him a card accusing Wilde of being a sodomite. Wilde sues for libel and that precipitates his downfall, as all the details of his personal life are revealed.

In the trial, Wilde tries to explain "the love that has no name" and is convicted. Then follows a heartbreaking scene where he tries to maintain his composure while being haggled and booed at by spectators, while his friends can only watch in silence.

Bosie swears to Wilde that he loves him, but while Wilde languishes in jail, he complains that the imprisonment affects him most as he's suffering (what a selfish person).

I have ambivalent feelings about the “happy” ending where Oscar Wilde is reunited with Bosie. As much as I like happy endings in LGBTQ+ movies (because that doesn't often happen), Bosie clearly isn't a very good person and maybe would have been bored with Wilde and left him.

4. Some things not included in the movie:

The film doesn't include the fact that Oscar Wilde slept with teenage boys and male prostitutes. The flings seemed to be consensual but some of the sexual partners were underage.

Constance is advised to change her last name to save her social reputation, but the film doesn't show that she actually did (changed it to Holland).

The last part of the film (the trial to the ending) merely serves to remind us that Wilde was courageous for being a nonconformist in a stifling society. They don't really show what happens to Wilde after his imprisonment with the exception of the reunion with Bosie.

Conclusion:

Definitely watch this movie if you haven't already; it's an excellent introduction to Oscar Wilde, or if you're a Wilde fan, it will be great entertainment.

I was going to write some more intelligent things about this movie but I just started college and I didn't get around to finishing this little post until a few weeks after I watched the movie (so I've forgotten some stuff in it/my other thoughts about it).