#mostly because of her history with DE and the fact that it might not make sense with their canon

[quibbs126]

So question, who the heck is Matcha Cookie?

I’ve only seen her on the Wiki, but apparently according to the relationship chart she’s related to Dark Enchantress Cookie??

[redtoondevils]

Giving my opinion, about Michael De Santa from GTA 5. So, from my experience, he is shown himself, time and time again as a flaw character.

He is a stuck-up flaw character, that at times his actions were despicable, and with his decisions that he made were unforgivable at times.

But, however, with my key points, of why I think it saves him from getting eliminated, or/loose everything is when he realizes how wrong he was. And he is in fact, aware of himself. I've seen a post on Reddit saying is Michael evil?

So...The full history of his background, is unknown. He did explain what he did, and we can put this into context, that he would willingly take the opportunity, regardless of what consequence, and risk he has. To what he will receive.

The rest of it, like what he said, was "Complicated." But then, with some of the hints inside his big house, there are some hidden family moments, that are not all terrible. But, I'll come back to it, with my reasons once I explain my meanings of it.

Back to Michael, his character boasts around, being selfish, egolistical, and greedy. He puts his safety before himself, than to his friends. He get's carried away, and forgets to fill in the Importance to the people that likes him, such as his family.

In truth, he actually attempted to take out Trevor, because he knows how unstable his friend is, and he was worried that he might harm his family, at some point.

When his plan foiled, he changed his name, and fled the snowy town, to a much sunny area, sitting in a house full of glory, carelessness, and cowardice.

When talking about Michael's character, as being Evil. My answer to that one, is No. While I say "No." I can definitely see why that is coming from.

But, if I were to paint this man in colors, you know when you say, nothing is ever, 'Black and white.' but when you mix it, it turns grey. And if you think about it, his house is mostly while.

The white walls, with a few grey spots, here and there. It turns shadowy, when it becomes night-time.

I think, he fit's around there, in the grey shade. Not too light, not too dark either. *Me realizing something.*-Not to mention, he does occasionally, wear that grey suit. When he does make decisions, he tends to become careless, a lot.

Though, when he thinks about his family, no matter how much drama he dealt with. He never left them. He could have, if he wanted to. But he didn't. His wife screamed at him, insulted him multiple times.

Would cause him to get stressed out, and snap at her. She is not Mrs. Perfect, either. His son, and daughter are very spoiled. They ignore him, mouth talk him, say hurtful things to him, such as "I hate you." Take his money, Jimmy sold his boat, and drugged him.

Then got him into even more trouble. Trample all over him, but despite all of that. By some miracle, he stayed patient with them. And agreed to stay with them. Once they found some family therapy.

When he met Franklin for the first time.... ....When he first introduces himself. Michael gave him a glance, and let him take a seat next to him. When he get's up again, he accepted Franklin right away as a friend, and was about to take him to the beer shop, that's until Jimmy called him up, and interrupted them both.

There had been times, where Michael had shown his loyalty quite a few times to be exact. And again, Franklin, and Trevor-Are more loyal, than what he is. Only Michael, his loyalty changes between taking opportunities, and caring for his family, he's got that mixture when he's fixed on the task.

So, when he comes up to rescue Jimmy, he helped save him from the Yacht. He accepted to save Tracy from that stalker, when she was standing out on the streets, when she was signing contracts. He was surprised about that, even though he's not a good father.

He poorly helps them , when he's mostly absent. However, he did pay attention, to her safety and gave her advice, on how to be more careful, out in a big city.

And told her to make better decisions for herself, for her to stay safe. He gives Franklin life advice, and checks on him when he passes out inside the FIB building in that mission, when you blow it up.

Except, when he forgotten about one team member, who has died when he celebrated, too early. He comes back to Lester, and checks back up on him, and owns up to his mistake, he did years ago, back at North Yankton.

He saves Tracy again, and even Amanda. And he even came swerving back for his family, when they were in a raid by the Merry weather. And while he was fighting back against those men, you see he had all sorts of emotional moments, between the girls.

One of them was Tracy, when she called out for her dad, she was in tears, and crying saying that she does love him. To the part when, Michael get's knocked down, and was at gun point with one grunt. When she was saying "Fuck...Fuck..." in a panicked voice.

Breaking down in tears. For him to call out, and reassure them that "It's going to be alright." Proves that the family doesn't really want him to die.

Then afterwards, he became furious, and upset with the situation.

Over in North Yankton, even though he once planned on getting rid of Trevor, he did say previously before, that he "Doesn't know." how to handle it, once Trevor has arrived.

That once they confronted each other, they weren't afraid of dying, but you can see the emotional connection the two of them have when they refused to shoot each other.

Then over with fresh meat, when Michael get's kidnapped, Franklin comes over to rescue him, before it's too late. And when he get's attacked, Michael shoots a gun man in the head, across the meat hooks, at a far distance and guided him out.

When choosing the ending affects the characters, and the story lines completely. If Franklin goes to kill Trevor, then he is going to go through another wave of deception, and with the fact that Michael agreed to help you.

Made Trevor's friendship stale, broken, and worthless. As he get's backstabbed once again from his first partner and crime, to now somebody, that he liked, and respected. Tossed away twice more than last time. And his trust is shattered.

Then shortly after, this is the part where Michael's character changes drastically, and does lead up into being evil. He becomes paranoid, and distant of Franklin, and shoved his delusions in his face. Which Franklin, ger's confused about, and felt offended with his response.

And Michael will get a phone call from Jimmy, asking him what did he do to Trevor, and when he tells him, Jimmy pauses, and get's stuck with what to say. Because he couldn't believe what his father, has done. And was not sure if he could trust him. Franklin, makes up the story. And that makes this relationship, even more deceiving.

If Franklin chooses to kill Michael, it is still sad. Because, that is the part where he finally get's his life together, he even sounded happy for Tracy to go to college. And he was very happy for her.

When he sees that Franklin is acting very strange, he get's confused with him, and asked "What? What is this?" Then, when he found out, that Franklin came to kill him, he get's this side of hurt. What's heart breaking, is the fact that Michael also thought of him as a son, so that made this scene to sting.

And this, battle between the two of them does not make sense so much. And it is, to be honest disrespectful, for Franklin to do that.

Not only that, even Franklin turns in a direction very coldly, just like how Michael was. Later, when he spoke to Lamar, he was talking in sentences to where he doesn't fully open to say what truly happened.

Michael's family then hates Franklin, and Amanda gives him a message, furious, but also terrified of him saying, that if he comes near her children, she will personally kill him.

And Jimmy will lose his trust in him. Their brotherly relationship is broken. Thus, Franklin becomes a monster.

If Franklin chooses option C. (Best fitting choice for the game.) Then, he'll get to keep both Trevor, and Michael together. And see them build up their friendship, and then also see a big change in Michael. Which I really do want to say this. Michael, the man that usually chooses something else, over his friends.

Really steps himself up, and saves Trevor. He volunteers to take on Stretch, when Franklin was in the middle of deciding if he should take Stretch on.

And lastly, Michael apologizes to Trevor, and say's that he is sorry, and that he admits that he screwed him over. Trevor, after a bit of doubt, accepted his apology.

And Michael just managed to save his friendship, with Trevor's. He does improve to own up to the wrong doings that he done. If he is truly evil, then he would not be doing that, unlike many other evil characters.

Who would just screw over the people they knew, by not owning up to it. That was the thing, that saved him from getting eliminated. He's the character that reminds me of a few other ones, that kind of ranges with their story. I picked these three, just because I know them, and their from the same company.

John Marston, Arthur Morgan. And Dutch Van Der Linde. John, because, at first as it turns out, he didn't feel close to Jack, he didn't want to, once he found out that he wasn't related to him. He probably felt shunned, and embarrassed of the boy.

But then also, because he probably felt some pain, after loosing his daughter, some time ago. So, he probably felt partly unsure, a with his connection. He was rude, and shooed the boy away, but then once after he get's kidnapped he has felt so bad about it. And ashamed.

This is something similar, to when Michael first came into his kids lives, I assumed, he let himself get carried away, and was not really there, for the most of their lives.

Though, we don't know how much of that really was going on, because of how selfish he was. But, then there are the family photos, in his house that shows, otherwise.

It looks like it wasn't so bad. It wasn't all like that. They looked happier, So I think in general, his behaviors weren't good. Yet, you can see that he was trying.

Arthur Morgan, once a cold blooded, ruthless killer that deliberately did things that are unforgivable. If it wasn't for the TB, he did say that it was this wake up call, that got him to change his perception of the world, and the people in his life. Even though, he can't fix it, but he surely redeemed himself, and strife to become a better, and honorable man.

Dutch Van De Linde, was once a respected man, and leader for his group. He was also Arthur's father figure, and teacher, that was in charge of making plans to do what he can to help support the camp, and collect resources to feed them, and keep them safe.

He is very intelligent, and when he chose to switch sides between Arthur, and Micah. Dutch appeared to have a centered mindset for himself, and Arthur, when he saw that happen couldn't believe his very eyes.

And felt disappointed, and disgruntled with his decision. It was not until later, that when Dutch came back to Arthur, he looked at him with his reflection of his dishonorable back turn. No different than that of Big smoke.

This was still sad, because he walked away feeling regret, and knowing he let down Arthur.

In my conclusion, you know he's this character that you are disappointed in, but I don't think it is enough to say, "Oh well...He deserves to die." Especially, coming from these characters. They did, so many things.

Yet, to take into consideration, he is aware of himself, when he admits that "I've done so many things, that I ain't proud of." That line is such a remorseful thing.

Among the other killers, I listed too. Fans love these 2 legends between Arthur, and John. But, when it comes down to Michael, there's another opinion.

This is coming from my opinion, the thing is, that even though this man is a cold blooded killer, that through out his life, he's been trying to make things right.

I don't think he's evil, and he has a duty to protect the family, that he's got. Because, that's the only thing that plays in his part, that keeps him going.

I hope you enjoy reading my full heart, confession about Michael. If I get any details wrong, this is only coming from my gameplay experience.

I just wanted to say, what I believe needed to be said, about his character. With the credit, that I thought about, and brought all together. So, you're welcome.

[redgoldsparks]

October Reading and Reviews by Maia Kobabe

I post my reviews throughout the month on Storygraph and Goodreads, and do roundups here and on patreon. Reviews below the cut.

Finna by Nino Cipri, read by Amanda Dolan

Ava is having a rough time: three days ago she and Jules broke up, and since then she's been avoiding them at their horrible mutual job at LitenVärld, a dystopian Ikea. Then a customer goes missing in a wormhole in spacetime, and Ava and Jules are chosen to try and retrieve the missing grandma. Very short, very fun. Written by a nonbinary author. Gave this a re-listen as an audiobook because there is a sequel now :D

Defekta by Nino Cipri read by Ramon De Ocampo 

This novella takes place in the same LitenVärld store that Ava and Jules worked at in book one in this series, but follows Derek, the store's most loyal and dedicated employee. He lives in a shipping container in the store's parking lot, and has no friends and no life outside his time at the store. In fact, he doesn't even have any memories from before he started working at the store... or any explanation for why the store seems to make sense to him, and even speak to him, in a way it doesn't to any of his co-workers. Then something even more shocking than an wormhole occurs in the store: the furniture starts waking up and coming to life. Derek's entire worldview and sense of self are completely upturned. Unfortunately this story didn't capture me as strongly as book one; despite being a novella it felt oddly slow. I was rooting for Derek and the wayward furniture by the end, but the structure of the story was not as strong or streamlined as Finna. I do still want to keep reading Nino Cipri because I love the way they effortlessly include nonbinary characters in their sci-fi and I want a third installment that returns to Ava and Jules!

Princess Floralinda and the Forty Story Tower read by Moira Quirk 

A four hour fantasy novella read by the talented and wonderful Moira Quirk, who also reads the Locked Tomb audiobooks. This original fairy tale features Floralinda, a princess captured by a witch and imprisoned in a tower full of monsters. When all of the princes who try to rescue her fail Floralinda has to to take up arms against the monsters herself. I was entertained throughout my whole time listening to this story, but it didn't have a particularly strong emotional impact. I would mostly recommend it to Tamsyn Muir completionists; though it was published in the same year as Harrow it feels like an earlier work. I kind of wanted the ending to be either more hopeful or more horrible.

My Aunt is a Monster by Reimena Yee 

Safia is blind, but she was raised by booksellers who read her stories of adventures and the wide world. After her parents tragically die in a fire, Safia is adopted by a distant relative, a reclusive aunt who used to be the world's most famous adventurer. A curse ended her traveling career, but a rival adventurer and the discovery of an ancient city might pull the whole family back into the world. This book was sillier than I expected, but I still greatly enjoyed the art style and the magical whimsy.

Thistlefoot by GemmaRose Nethercott read by January LaVoy 

Isaac and Bellatine Yaga grew up on the road with their parents' traveling puppet show, but neither has a good relationship with their parents as adults. Isaac ran away as a teen and has lived as a train-hopping actor and scam artist into his early twenties. Bellatine moved across the country to study woodworking in New England were she is trying desperately to live a normal life despite her power to bring inanimate objects to life. Her power, and Isaac's shapeshifting ability, are inheritances of a generational trauma from a history they barely know. But then another inheritance arrives for them in New York: a house on chicken legs, built by a Russian Jewish ancestor who survived the pogroms of the 1920s and the turmoil of the Russian Revolution. To Isaac, the house is an opportunity. To Bellatine, it is a home. But it comes with a curse: a shadow man follows the house to America, wanting to finish the destruction he started. I loved this story, woven through with Jewish folklore and American folk songs, a road trip story, a story of facing and accepting family history and how far its shadow falls into the present. I image this book gets compted with American Gods by Neil Gaimen and The Golem and the Jinni by Helen Wecker but it is very much its own book with its own lyrical tone. And its queer! Highly recommend.

The Death I Gave Him by Em X. Liu 

This queer, modern retelling of Hamlet is set in a scientific lab and contained mostly within a tense 12 hours. Hayden Lichfield finds his father's cooling body in Elsinore labs within the first few pages; he immediately calls on the sentient AI system, Horatio, who controls the security cameras and many other aspects of the building. Horatio reports a 1.5 hour gap in the video logs. Hayden and his father, Dr Lichfield, were working on formula to reverse death. Hayden's immediate assumption is that the killer was after his father's research. The lab goes into lockdown and Hayden is trapped inside with his uncle Charles, lab technician Gabriel Rasmussen, Hayden's ex and research intern Felicia Xia, and her father Paul Xia, head of security. Unless they find an intruder, one of them is the murderer. I enjoyed how deftly this novel kept me guessing even when following a plot I know well. I was genuinely unsure how many, or who, of the people trapped in Elsinore would survive the night. I was also into the unashamed queerness of an AI in love with a human, and the ways in which that love could and could not be reciprocated.

The Feather Thief by Kirk Wallace Johnson read by MacLeod Andrews

This book does an unbelievably thorough job of recounting one of the most devastating recent thefts from a modern museum. In 2009, an American student studying at London's Royal Academy of Music broke into the Tring museum, which contains thousands of natural history specimens including birds collected by Charles Darwin and his contemporary Alfred Russel Wallace. Darwin and Wallace both independently formulated the theory of natural selection and survival of the fittest in the same decade, by observing and collecting birds on remote islands during the height of the British Empire. They both believed in the importance of preserving these birds for future science. At the same time, the colonial empire had developed a huge appetite for exotic and colorful feathers for Victorian hats, the cabinets of curiosities and natural history specimens which were in vogue in the upper class, and for another aristocrat's hobby: tying salmon flies. These appetites nearly drove many bird species to extinction. Modern day lovers of the Victorian art of salmon fly tying now comb the internet for feathers from these rare birds, desperate to get their hands on materials mentioned in Victorian books. The majority of these feathers are now semi-illegal to possess or sell. It was this obsession that drove 20 year old Edwin Rist to break a window at the Tring and escape with nearly 300 stolen bird skins. There followed a long detective investigation into how he'd done it and what happened with the feathers afterwards. I enjoyed the audiobook and was impressed by the persistence of the author, who pursued this story for half a decade.

Asylum by Greg Means and Kazimir Lee 

A short but rich story about platonic adult friends who bond through a competitive fantasy card game, but end up supporting each other through all kinds of life transitions both joyful and heartbreaking. Allen and Zekia are both single, both wish they were dating or partnered, but instead they're sharing hotel rooms at geeky conventions, setting up mutual friends, attending weddings and funerals, babysitting other people's kids, and most of all playing the card game Asylum. Zekia, a Black lesbian, struggles with her self-worth, feeling unlovable and too socially awkward to date. Allen, a straight cis man, take a more philosophical view of his situation, appreciating the good things he has in life, including his many strong friendships. The black and white art is simple, clear, and effective. I read it all in one sitting!

Sincerely, Harriet by Sarah Winifred Searle

This is a very quiet and soft story of a girl struggling with an invisible chronic illness, and the resulting isolation and loneliness. Harriet and her parents recently moved to Chicago (to be closer to hospitals and specialists) and she doesn't know anyone in her neighborhood yet except the older woman, Pearl, who lives on a lower floor. Harriet misses friends she made at a summer camp and sends them postcards, lying about her new busy and fun social life. Pearl lends Harriet a series classic of books to try and gently nudge the girl out of her shell. But Harriet struggles to focus on them, instead wondering about a possible ghost living in the attic. There are other emotional struggles hinted at, but they are very subtle and a lot is left to the reader's imagination. The line art is very careful and lovely.

[twinsoftriumph]

vedesa and lalut! the slightly awkward buddy duo ESPECIALLY now that lalut is hiding the presence of a certain someone who has history with vedesa... who might need their own post because i think 3 in one post might be too much.

vedesa wears air prophet hair (modified), scolding student mask, to the love outfit, moments guide ult camera, and saluting protector cape. yes none of these are vault cosmetics. she's actually a sky version of an oc i made almost a decade ago so if i slip up and call her by her other name just ignore it

lalut was literally based off of my sky kid. moth height so i consider them the baseline. maskless, chill sunbather glasses, reassuring ranger hat, gloat hair, nightbird whisperer outfit, lively navigator cape, pleaful parent guitar

vedesa has existed for a Long Time. she's my beautiful princess with a disorder(s)

the most obvious one being narcolepsy which i initially made a thing just because i was leaving rps frequently and figured id give a character reason for but now it's a legit trait

she works as a messenger and does photography as a hobby so she is trying her darndest to appreciate life and keep that joie de vivre kindled by Touching Grass

it's not like a super serious job though she operates on her own terms and limits. she's unemployed at heart

also neurotic as hell. this was me projecting as a kid and it still is now.

probably susceptible to Toxic Yuri (shes bi but for the sake of the joke.) because she is a little too interested in the dangerous. megabird's weakest yuri warrior

she originally lived near wind paths but lives in vault now since it deals with memory lantern and darkstone technology shit

vedesa met lalut through her travels, and they basically encountered each other enough times that they started talking casually

lalut invited her to prairie peaks and it was basically heaven. she really appreciated the gesture and now they're friends :) the awkwardness is mostly just because of their personalities

SPEAKING of lalut. they're a prairie guide and they love hanging out and showing moths around. they call themself a moth wrangler which makes it sound 10x more intense than any of it actually is

they want moths to think they're cool so badly. they will pull out the guitar unprompted and be like WELL if you INSIST

they're actually very good-natured. they are trying so so hard. they want to also be a Cool Smooth Flyer. results vary

they know a bunch of weird light creature facts because they love ecology shit which is what they bonded over with vedesa initially. they bring these up unprompted as well but not to be cool it just Comes Out

vedesa invited lalut to vault. lalut keeps meaning to go but also vault gives them major heebie jeebies. vedesa is too awkward to invite them again

lalut has currently taken in ames. vedesa has History with ames and lalut figured this out and is trying to basically keep that whole living situation under wraps for now. more details will come in ames' post which ill do another time bc i need to SLEEP

[batfsm]

@chronicangelca

Okay, I acknowledge she isn't one of Bruce's kids BUT she is a Batfamily member, which to aot of people, make her siblings to everyone.

No she wasn't aged down because of her dad. At least this says it wasn't because of that. Mostly because someone wrote Dick/Babs and everyone else went with it.

Tim is Bi, not queer whatever, he is Bi! He's LGBT, if you need to say something. They need to remember that and don't. I don't have that much of a problem with Steoh because she and Tim were a couple, I think, before she actively became a member of the family.

Jesus Christ, then neither have the boys been siblings since they aren't related! In fact, Tim isn't even a Wayne anymore! Jason, I think it went either way, same with Dick. Also, they have considered themselves siblings or am I thinking of Jason and Babs?

As you said, they aren't real so me thinking of Babs and Dick as siblings should not make a difference. (I think a lot of fanfics consider her a sister also. I know I read a couple.)

@amtoooldforthisshit

Doesn't she think of Bruce as an uncle? So...

According to this, she was deaged to get her with Dick so while she might not have gotten rid of Kory it was maybe part of the reason. At least I'm taking it that way. The one who started the ship really wanted Dicks/Babs and seemed to dislike Kori/Dick.

These two posts helped me a lot:

https://www.tumblr.com/batfsm/724967299892822016/the-weird-history-of-batgirl

https://www.tumblr.com/batfsm/724581282101805056

Let's see on why Barbara was deaged besides the one link I gave:

https://community.cbr.com/showthread.php?104518-The-De-aging-of-Barbara-Gordon

https://www.looper.com/57943/untold-truth-batgirl/

https://www.reddit.com/r/DCcomics/comments/vl47t2/how_long_was_barbara_gordon_batgirl_before/

This is just ick: I don't mind Jason or Dick, though I'm getting sick if Dick/Babs because it's like Padme/Anakin to me, but the rest, ew.

https://www.reddit.com/r/comicbooks/comments/ysamwv/barbara_gordon_falls_in_love_with_the_entire/

https://www.quora.com/What-is-the-reason-for-the-backlash-against-Barbara-Gordon-becoming-Batgirl-again

Some opinions on Dick/Babs I need to read later but wanted to share:

https://falconlord5.com/2021/06/27/fandom-heresies-the-dick-babs-romance-is-terrible-for-barbara-gordon-part-one/

https://falconlord5.com/2021/07/12/fandom-heresies-the-dick-babs-romance-is-bad-for-barbara-gordon-part-2/

https://falconlord5.com/2021/09/05/fandom-heresies-the-dick-babs-romance-is-bad-for-barbara-gordon-part-3/

Nothing against Babs but if she’s considered a Bat member, then she’s family. Same with Steph. I might like Steph with Cass and even Tim but I do know she's family.

Look, I don’t care who you ship or don't ship, thanks for that @chronicangelca, but if we consider anyone who's a Bat member family that should mean no shipping of them. Including Babs/anyone.

This is just my opinion though.

Why do we all ship or used to ship Barbara/Dick when she’s family? Like what makes her different than shipping the boys, who actually didn’t grow up together except for Tim and Damian a bit but that might have been after Tim was not actually adopted by Bruce anymore, which did they get rid of that also in the Nu!52, so does that even count, and then Duke and Damian?

They changed so much of Babs character, had her have sex with Bruce, who is old enough to be her father, was older than Dick but changed her age just to get rid of Kory, who I have my own issues with, here, and then had Jason kiss her and get a crush on her and we all think that’s wrong but the shipping of Dick and Barbara is okay. Like what?

I’m really wondering what makes it different to ship Babs and Dick than Dick and lets say Jason.

That’s like shipping Cass with the boys! Or having Steph as an actual daughter and still shipping her with Tim!

LITERALLY, WHAT IS OKAY WITH SHIPPING BARBARA WITH ONE OF THE BOYS, MOSTLY DICK, BUT NOT OKAY WITH SHIPPING THE ACTUAL BOYS TOGETHER?

Isn't that mainly the same thing since she is considered part of the batfamily?

If you don't like shipping the boys or Cass or even Steph together, why ship Barbara, who is also considered family, with one of them?

[that-spider-witch]

On “Dead” Cultures and Closed Spiritual Practices: Why Colonialism Is Still A Problem.

Let me start this by saying that, as far as my knowledge of Paganism and Polytheism as a whole goes, I’m what the internet witch community calls a “Baby Witch”. I’m stating this out of the gate because I know there will be lots of people, including witches who have more experience on the craft than me, who might decide to ignore what I have to say based on that fact alone, stating that I’m not knowledgeable enough to give my opinion about this.

Here’s the kicker: I’m a ‘baby witch’, yes, but I’m also a twenty-six year old Venezuelan woman. I’m an adult. I’m Latina. I’m a Christian-raised Pagan,but I’m also a Latinoamerican woman over all other things including that. I grew up on this culture, these are my roots. It is because of this background than I’m writing this post today.

Looking through the “Paganism” and “Witchcraft” tags of this website, I’ve seen a few posts throwing indigenous deities and spirits’ names around on lists alongside deties of open cultures. Yes, you can know better by doing your own research and not going by what just a random Tumblr user wrote on one post (as I hope its the case with everyone on this website), but the fact that pagan beginners are still getting fed misinformation is still worrisome to me.

There’s nothing like reading a so-called expert putting Ixchen (Maya), Xolotl (Nahuatl) and Papa Legba (Vodou) on the same damn list as Norse, Hellenic and Kemetic deities and tagging it on the tags aimed at beginners who might not know better to truly ruin your morning. I’m not mentioning user names here: If you know then you know.

To quote @the-illuminated-witch on her very good post about Cultural Appropriation: 

“Cultural appropriation is a huge issue in modern witchcraft. When you have witches using white sage to “smudge” their altars, doing meditations to balance their chakras, and calling on Santa Muerte in spells, all without making any effort to understand the cultural roots of those practices, you have a serious problem.

When trying to understand cultural appropriation in witchcraft, it’s important to understand the difference between open and closed magic systems. An open system is one that is open to exchange with outsiders — both sharing ideas/practices and taking in new ones. In terms of religion, spirituality, and witchcraft, a completely open system has no restrictions on who can practice its teachings. A closed system is one that is isolated from outside influences — usually, there is some kind of restriction on who can practice within these systems.”

A counter-argument I’ve seen towards this when someone wants to appropiate indigenous deities and spirits is to use the “dead culture” argument: Extinct cultures are more eligible for use by modern people of all stirpes. It is a dead culture and dead religion. It would be one thing if some part of the culture or religion was still alive, being used by modern descendants, but the culture died out in its entirety and was replaced, right? They were all killed by colonization, they are ancient history now, right?

Example: “If white people are worshipping Egyptian deities now, then why can’t I worship [Insert Aborigen Deity Here]?”

To which I have two things to say:

Ancient Egypt’s culture was open and imperialistic, meaning they wanted their religion to be spread. This is why Kemetism is not Cultural Appropriation, despite what some misinformed people might tell you. Similar arguments can also be made for the Hellenic and the Norse branches of Paganism, both practiced by people who aren’t Greek/Norse.

Who are you to say which cultures are “dead” and which are not?

Religious practices such as Vodou and Santería certainly aren’t dead, not that it keeps some Tumblr users from adding Erzuli as a “goddess” on their Baby Witch post, something that actual Vodou practitioners have warned against.

Indigenous cultures such as the Maya and the Mapuche aren’t dead, despite what the goverment of their countries might tell you. The Mapuche in particular have a rich culture and not one, but two witchcraft branches (The Machi and the Kalku/Calcu). Both are closed pagan practices that the local Catholic Church has continuously failed to assimilate and erase, though sadly not for lack of trying:

“The missionaries who followed the Spanish conquistadors to America incorrectly interpreted the Mapuche beliefs regarding both wekufes and gualichos. They used the word wekufe as a synonym for ideas of the devil, demons, and other evil or diabolical forces. This has caused misunderstanding of the original symbolism and has changed the idea of wekufe right up to the present day, even amongst the Mapuche people.”

For context, the Wefuke are the Calcu’s equivalent of the Familiar, as well as reportedly having more in common with the Fae than with demons anyway.

This and other indigenous religions are Closed because it is wrong for foreigners to just come and take elements from marginalized groups whom are still fighting to survive and that they weren’t born into. To just approppiate those things would be like spitting in their faces, treating them and their culture like a commodity, a shiny thing, a unique thing to be used like paint to spruce up your life or be special.

I know some of you are allergic to the word “Privilege”, but on this situation there really ain’t a better word to explain it. You weren’t born here, you don’t know what it is like, you are only able to see the struggle from an outsider’s point of view.

If a belief or practice is part of a closed system, outsiders should not take part in it. And with how many practices there are out there which are open for people of all races, there is really no excuse for you to do it.

Why Colonization Is Not “Ancient History”

If you have kept reading all this so far, you are probably wondering “Ok, but what does Colonization has to do with any of this?”

The answer? Everything.

With the general context of culture appropriation out of the way, let me tell you about why the whole “dead culture” argument rubs me the wrong way: Here in Venezuela, we have a goddess called Santa Maria de la Onza, or Maria Lionza for short, whom’s idol statue I have been using to illustrate this little rant. If you happen to know any Spanish, you might recognize the name as a derivative of Santa Maria, aka the Virgin Mary, and you are mostly correct: Her true indigenous name is theorized to have been Yara.

And I say “theorized” because it is a subject of hot debate whether she was really ever called that or not: Her original name, the name by which she was adored and worshipped by our ancestors, might have been forever lost to history.

That’s the legacy of colonization for you: Our cultures were stolen from us, and what they couldn’t erase they instead tried to assimilate. Our ancestors were enslaved, their lands and homes stolen, their artwork and literary works destroyed: The Maya and the Aztec Empire were rich in written works of all kinds, ranging from poetry to history records to medicine, and the Spaniards burned 99% of it, on what is probably one of the most tragic examples of book burning in history and one that people rarely ever talk about. 

People couldn’t even worship their own gods or pass their knowledge of them to their children. That’s why Maria Lionza has such a Spanish Catholic-sounding name, and that’s why we can’t even be sure if Yara was her name or not: The Conquistadors couldn’t steal our goddess from us, so they stole her name instead. Catholics really have a thing with trying to assimilate indigenous goddesses with the Virgin Mary, as they tried to do the same with the Pachamama.

On witchy terms, I’d define Maria Lionza as both a deity and a land spirit: Most internet pages explaining her mention the Sorte mountain as her holy place, but it is more along the lines that she is the mountain. 

You’d think that, with Venezuela and other Latinoamerican countries no longer being colonies, we’d be able to worship our own deities including her, right?

As far as a lot of Catholics seem to think and act, apparently we are not.

The Catholics here like to go out of their way to shame us, to call us “cultists”, to ostracize us, with a general call to “refrain from those pagan beliefs” because they go against the Catholic principles. Yes, the goddess with the Catholic-sounding name, a name she happens to share with a Catholic deity, apparently goes “against Catholic principles”. You really can’t make this shit up. (Linked article is in Spanish)

This is just an act of colonization out of many, of not wanting to stop until the culture they want to destroy is gone. Don’t believe for a second that this is really their God’s will or anything like that, they are just trying to finish what years of enslavement and murder couldn’t. They might not be actively killing us anymore, but they still want us dead.

So no, colonization is not some thing that has long passed and now only exist on history textbooks: It is still happening to this day. It is by treating it as old history that they can keep doing it, and it is by pushing the narrative that our indigenous cultures are “dead cultures” that they try to erase our heritage.

Because we are not dead. We are still here, we are alive, we have survived and we’ll keep on surviving, and our gods and goddesses are not yours to take.

¡Chao! 🐈

[shredsandpatches]

Usual only-if-you-want-to caveats applied: Fic authors self-rec! ✨ When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers (if you would like to)!

I'm doing these in chronological order because it seems the easiest way -- I certainly couldn't list them by preference.

a chance that doth redeem all sorrows (14th-c RPF, Richard II/Anne of Bohemia, Richard II/Edward of Aumerle). AU fic where Anne survives the plague and things go a lot better for nearly everyone. I keep thinking that I want to revise and expand this fic to incorporate some stuff I didn't know or didn't think of at the time I wrote it, but I also think it's still really good as it is and am proud of it.

The Kindest Use a Knife (Richard II, Richard/Aumerle). Based specifically on the 2013 RSC production with David Tennant, this fic gets into the curious production choice to have Aumerle be Richard's murderer -- despite the fact that Aumerle is played as abjectly in love with Richard throughout. So I wrote it to explore the question of what might get that specific Aumerle to make that choice. It's pretty grim.

Andělíčku rozkochaný (14th-c RPF, Richard II/Anne of Bohemia). Bittersweet fic focusing on Anne (and Richard) dealing with her childlessness and her history of miscarriage alongside Richard's reconciliation with the city of London in 1392 and Anne's role as an intercessor. This actually grew out of the opening scene which I'd written as a vignette and then I realized I could incorporate a number of things I'd wanted to write about for a while (including, as it happens, the closing scene!)

rose, liz, printemps, verdure (14th-c RPF, mostly Richard II/Anne of Bohemia with a few subsidiary pairings). Another AU fic, in which Richard and Anne did have children and also Anne doesn't die in 1394 and their eldest son marries Isabelle de Valois. Basically this is curtainfic in which the curtains are a major peace treaty and the accompanying ceremonies. This one was fun to write just because I always love writing Richard and Anne as the parents they never got to be irl and because covering all the material details of medieval diplomacy was a blast, especially from a kid POV. Also, Anne gets to bond with Isabeau of Bavaria.

bare imagination of a feast (14th-c RPF, Richard II/Anne of Bohemia/Robert de Vere). This one had a fairly convoluted origin story but mostly it's just pure cheerful smut featuring my OT3 having sex on a table. But it also kind of came out as a nice little relationship study so that's a bonus (plus Robert POV is always a lot of fun to write).

[clear-as-starlight]

Nathan Hale’s Death vs the Primary Sources

(aka did William Hull actually know anything?)

“The first the Americans heard of Hale’s death was on the evening of the twenty-second [September 1776], when Captain John Montresor…an aide de camp to General Howe, approached an outpost…under flag of truce. His main business…did not concern Hale, but was to transport to Washington a letter from Howe offering an exchange of high-ranking prisoners. Joseph Reed, accompanied by General Israel Putnam and Captain Alexander Hamilton, rode to meet him. After passing over the letter, he casually added that one Nathan Hale, a Captain, had been executed that morning.”

This passage comes from “Washington’s Spies: The Story of America’s First Spy Ring” by Alexander Rose and it, along with the wonderful @queerrevolution1776 inspired me to go on a (brief) primary source deep dive of Hale’s death. A challenge, given the lack of primary sources surrounding Hale’s spy work, and the tall tales that grew up around it.

I started here: Why was Hamilton there? He was not an aide-de-camp at this point, why would he be present? And that question, my friends, led to a whole host of others!

(Info under the cut because there is a lot, and it’s fascinating :))

The (Un)reliability of Recollection 

The idea of Hamilton having been present to hear of Hale’s fate, so far as I can see, is first related in “Revolutionary Services and Civil Life of General William Hull”, a biography based on Hull’s unpublished memoirs, and written by his daughter, Maria Hull Campbell:

“In a few days, an Officer came to our camp, under a flag of truce, and informed Hamilton, then a Captain of the Artillery, but afterwards an aide to General Washington, that Captain Hale had been arrested within the British lines, condemned as a Spy, and executed that morning. I learned the melancholy particulars from this officer, who was present at his execution, and seemed touched by the circumstances attending it.”

William Hull was a friend of Hale’s from Yale, and they were both in the 19th Regiment, before Hale transferred to Knowlton’s Rangers. A lot of what we know of Hale’s death seems to come from Hull’s memoirs, right down to his (possibly incorrect and/or exaggerated) final words: “I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country.” Hull was a close friend of Hale’s, so it does make some sense that he’d know something of it. However, the above biography was written in 1848, and related conversations that had taken place a long time earlier. Campbell herself admits she includes conversations not even present in her father’s memoirs.

Though her book is not the only 18th/19th century one about Hale’s death, it quickly became clear that all of them were based on conversations with Hull. The first time the name ‘Nathan Hale’ even entered the public conscious properly after the war was in 1799, in Hannah Adams’ “A Summary History of New England and General Sketch of the American War” where she writes: “The compiler of this History of New England is indebted to Gen. Hull of Newton for this interesting account of Captain Hale.”

Hale isn’t mentioned again until 1824, in a book by Jedediah Morse, who says he got his info from Adams, who in turn got it from Hull. It seems likely, then, that the idea of Hamilton being there (and indeed, that most of what we know) came from Hull’s supposed recollection, 20+ years after the event took place.

Now, this is not to say that Hull was lying. Return records show that he and his Regiment were certainly present at “Camp near to Harlem Heights” with Washington’s forces at the time that Washington would have been given the information about Hale, and we know Hamilton and his Artillery were present also, as it is at Harlem Heights that he apparently first came to Washington’s notice (according to John C. Hamilton). It did seem a bit strange though, to both me and @queerrevolution1776 , for Hull or Hamilton to have met with an official flag of truce, when they were both only Captains, and not on Washington’s staff (he’d only just become aware of Hamilton’s existence, after all).

Washington makes no mention of either of them in his correspondence, instead writing to Jonathan Trumbull Sr. that it was Colonel Joseph Reed whom Howe’s aide, John Montresor, met with. It makes sense that Reed would have met with Montresor, given his position on Washington’s staff. Reed is mentioned in Rose’s book, but not Hull’s account, and I thought that was a discrepancy worth a look. Hull, writing after the fact, mentions only Hamilton, who by then was a well-known, and scandalous, public figure. Reed, on the other hand, was nowhere near as popular, and perhaps did not serve as such an interesting figure in a story about Hull’s friend, one of America’s earliest spies.

Sure, Hamilton could have been nearby, or overheard the discussion, and in turn told Hull what he had heard—which could explain why Hale’s last moments have been exaggerated, or perhaps accidentally falsified, given that a British officer who was present apparently heard: “It the duty of every good officer, to obey any orders given him by his commander in chief” and not what is so often recounted. Even a newspaper (The Essex Journal) publishing an account five months later, quoted Hale as having said: “If I had ten thousand lives I would lay them all down, if called to it, in defence of my injured, bleeding country”—No one seems quite able to agree exactly what he said! Hull may well have also told his children he was there to make the story seem more personal, and exciting.

(And I’m really starting to doubt that Hamilton was at the meeting at all. It’s never mentioned in any of his writing, or in the John C Hamilton biography)

There’s no “official” reports of Hale’s death either (excepting the noting of his death on the 22nd September casualty list) which is why so much has relied heavily on what Hull claimed to have been told. When Washington wrote Trumbull about the flag of truce meeting the next day, he was mostly concerned with the fire that had engulfed New York the day before, and the claims that Continental soldiers and spies had set it. The only possible reference we have from him that concerned the meeting between Reed and Montresor, with perhaps an oblique reference to Hale, is as follows:

“On Friday night about eleven or twelve o’Clock a fire broke out in the City of New York, which burning rapidly till after Sunrise next morning, destroyed a great number of Houses—By what means it happened we do not know; but the Gentleman who brought the letter out last night from General Howe, and who was one of his Aid De Camps informed Colo. Reed that several of our Countrymen had been punished with various deaths on account of it. Some by hanging, others by burning & c. alledging that they were apprehended when committing the fact.”

Howe himself never mentioned Hale explicitly in official correspondence between him and Washington, and Washington never did either. In fact, neither of them mentioned the spies or the fire to one another at all, concerned with prisoner exchanges, and the accusation of ill-treatment of British prisoners (Howe to Washington 21st September 1776 and Washington to Howe 23rd September 1776). Hale, and his fate, was unfortunately left to Montresor’s verbal account, and Hull’s dubious reporting.

Tench Tilghman on Hale’s Death

In terms of other primary correspondence that might reference Hale’s death, even remotely, we have accounts from Washington’s aide-de-camp, Tench Tilghman.

Firstly, Tilghman wrote his father, James Tilghman, on the 25th September 1776, of the events and executions surrounding the fire. He was sent to deliver Washington’s reply to Howe’s camp under another flag of truce the day after Montresor’s, and spoke with some men in Howe’s camp then:

“Reports concerning the setting fire to New York: If it was done designedly, it was without the knowledge or Approbation of any commanding officer in this Army…every man belonging to the Army who remained in or were found near the City were made close prisoners. Many Acts of barbarous cruelty were committed upon poor creatures who were perhaps flying from the flames, the Soldiers and Sailors looked upon all who were not in the military line as guilty, and burnt and cut to pieces many. But this I am sure was not by Order. Some were executed next day upon good Grounds… I went down to the Enemy's lines yesterday with a Flag to settle the Exchange of prisoners…I met a very civil Gentleman with whom I had an Hours conversation…”

In Rose’s book, he mentions Hull & Colonel Samuel B. Webb going with Tilghman to the camp to further question Montresor about Hale. Webb, another aide-de-camp to Washington, may well have gone. But it seems a bit strange for Hull to have done so. And Hull’s account did not mention Webb, or Tilghman, which is also a bit odd. Rose made no note of his source for this, but I’d like to find it! Perhaps it’s mentioned in Webb’s journals, something I’d have to travel to Yale to see :(

Tilghman did, eventually, mention Hale explicitly, though not by name, when he wrote to Egbert Benson on 3rd October 1776:

“I am sorry that your Convention do not think themselves legally authorized to make examples of those villains they have apprehended…The General is determined if he can bring some of them in his hand’s under the denomination of spies, to execute them. General Howe hanged a Captain of ours belonging to Knowlton' s Rangers, who went into New-York to make discoveries. I don’t see why we should not make retaliation.”

So he definitely knew of Hale’s death by then, and it seemed to anger him greatly.

Miscellaneous Reports of Hale’s Death

There were also reports made by various others, that mention explicitly, or might imply, Hale’s death:

“Friday last we discovered a vast cloud of smoke arising from the north part of the city, which continued '‘ill Saturday evening…those that were found on or near the spot were pitched into the conflagration, some hanged by their heals, others by their necks with their throats cut. Inhuman barbarity! One Hale in New York, on suspicion of being a spy, was taken up and dragged without ceremony to the execution post and hung up.” (A Letter from September 28th 1776)

“We hanged up a rebel spy the other day, and some soldiers got, out of a rebel Gentleman’s garden, a painted soldier on a board, and hung it along with the Rebel; and wrote upon it, General Washington, and I saw it yesterday beyond headquarters by the roadside.” (Kentish Gazette, November 1776)

“A spy from the enemy (by his own full confession) apprehended last night, was this day executed at 11 o’clock in front of Artillery Park.” (General Howe’s diary)

“The Enemy charged some stragglers of our people that happened to be in New York with having set the City on Fire designedly and took that occasion as we were told to exercise some inhuman Crueltys on those poor Wretches that were in their power.” (Committee of Secret Correspondence to Silas Deane 1st October 1776)

What does all this mean?

Hamilton probably wasn’t there (but I can’t make a call on that for sure!)

basically, it’s clear that the primary sources on Hale’s death are few, and somewhat contradictory in places. I found it super interesting, and thought y’all might too! Please keep in mind I’m not calling William Hull a liar (and I definitely haven’t done anywhere near enough research to say anything conclusively!)

But I definitely think it’s always worth examining what we think we know from primary sources. And it’s very fun!

[batfoonery]

Crafty Batkids

Literally. Just batkids doin' crafts. As someone who does..... way too many crafts to list here (I'll send a list if asked but just trust me) I feel like I've gotten a good feel for this.

Dick

My man grew up in a circus, regularly checking ropes and tensions....

Macrame. He's a pro at macrame. Maybe he doesn't do it often, but like. For his friends, he'll sometimes surprise them with lil gifts.

When any of his Titans buds move he makes them those fancy hanging macrame plant holders. Donna and Kori both love them, and have been known to fight over them during white elephant/dirty Santa type gift games.

Probably doesn't have the ability to sit still for long periods of time, so can't do anything that'll unravel if he puts it down. It takes him a long time to finish a project, so he really only buys materials as he starts a new one, and doesn't have any excess stuff lying around his apartment.

Jason

You cannot tell me he doesn't crochet to unwind. Like. Idk if he's any good at it, but he def angry crochets.

Probably has been working on one scarf for like five years

Never has consistent stitches

Likes touching all the yarns at the store

Probably just enjoys squishing the yarn in general tbh. It's slightly more satisfying than ever actually doing anything with the yarn.

Cass

One time Bruce took her to like. Silver Dollar City or somewhere else that had someone with a loom, and she was fascinated. She made him buy her a shawl and then made Tim put together a power point about why she should have a loom.

Bruce ended up caving and buying her one that's skinnier, for like table runners. It's great, because she's mostly fascinated with making gradients in her weaves.

She learned Swedish Weaving (it's a like an embroidery/weaving hybrid) so she could embellish her works.

Mostly gives them out as gifts. She gave one to Selina, who guards it possessively. Harley tried to borrow it once and about lost her fingers.

Probably also learned to make little tassles for the ends

Tim

Attention to detail? Obsession over the minutia? Oh. You know my boy is an epoxy resin artist.

Has a crafting station in his room that's meticulously organized. There's cubbies for pigments, flowers, glitters, bits of ribbons and strings, etc etc

Probably makes all kinds of thing tbh. Phone cases, trinkets, you name it. But pens are his favorites, because they're both simple and practical. There's like a whole army of pens that just... keeps growing in Titans Tower because he always forgets where he's put his.

None of his teammates realize he is the source of the pens. They (Kon, Cassie, Bart) just think the pens are an infestations and/or are pairing up and making baby pens. But Cassie and Bart love them bc ✨aesthetics✨

Probably has a tik tok or an insta where he posts videos of himself de-molding things to soothing lofi tracks. Literally just. All the vibes. It's gorgeous.

Steph

Also all the vibes. She is a bujo/stationary queen.

Her collection is much messier than Tim's, but has a surprising amount of overlap. Sometimes they borrow things from each other, and have collabed on their social accounts (he makes journal covers, she makes them into notebooks, he supplies her with pens, she uses them when making a weekly/monthly set up, etc)

Stickers and glitter everywhere

Probably sponsored.

Canonically draws cute little cartoons in the comics, they absolutely are a regular on her socials and in her bujos.

Duke

For some reason I don't peg him as being as craft-oriented as his closest-in-age sibs? He probably has less expensive coping mechanisms tbh

That being said I can see he would enjoy those stores where you go in and paint pottery and they kiln/glaze it for you? Like he isn't into sculpting it himself, but painting the little kitchenware pieces or statuettes is relaxing.

He paints mugs for all his sibs on their birthdays, and for Alfred.

Alfred probably has a whole army of custom mugs made for him by the kids, now that I'm thinking about it. Like half of them are from Duke, because he doesn't know what else to do with them. There are just so many because it's so simple.....

Kate Kane, Tatsu Yamashiro, and Jeff Pierce also all have mugs. Actually... Lowkey highkey I can see that Tatsu might have introduced Duke to this kind of stuff in the first place? I can see that she would enjoy something simple that you can do while trying to clear out your mind.

Damian

Well. Damian is a gifted artist, but this translates differently into actual crafts. It just does.

He's probably a good printmaker. Not only does this take advantage of his art skills and keen attention to details, but it's one of the oldest artforms still in practice today. Most printmakers develop their techniques by perfecting one of several forms of the art, which have been passed through generations, and have a really firm grip on art history. Those stories would appeal to Damian, in addition to the craft itself.

Damian is the most likely of his siblings to be able to sit still for prolonged periods of time and do a repetitive motion. In fact, it may actually be something he can enjoy if it means he can just zone out for a bit. So, he's probably actually decent at spinning yarn. If the sky is grey and rainy, he drags out a wheel and some pre-sorted rolags and spins yarn, exclusively for Cass, who then weaves it. He enjoys the progression of colors in the fibers as much as she does, and they bond over it.

The feeling of different fibers slipping through his fingers is also really soothing. Bad day? Time to spin some merino, because it slips like water through his touch. Need to feel grounded? Time to spin a cotton blend, because you have to be present enough not to chafe your hands on the rough fibers...

Probably also really good at embroidery, for the same reasons. Plus, it's really satisfying to feel and hear the pbt-psht, pbt-psht of the needle and thread pulling through the taut fabric.

Bruce

Obviously knows how to forge/metalwork. I like to imagine he's also dabbled in lost wax casting.

Probably has little trinkets he made when he was younger scattered around the house. Maybe he donated a few to charity auctions.

Has made rings/jewelry pieces. But doesn't talk about them. (One ring went to Selina, and a pair of earrings went to Talia)

Alfred

The all-talented, all-knowing. There's probably nothing he can't do. He already sews all their outfits. So I mean.

Sometimes it feels really good to have something to stab. I'm not saying he does needle felting, but I'm not saying he wouldn't.

Probably was the one who taught Bruce about lost wax, and the one who helps Damian research about printmakers.

Silently supplies all the kids with all the art things.

Has a chest in his room filled with all the things that he's been gifted with over the years. There's little uneven macrame hanging from when Dick was just getting the hang of it, lumpy scarves that are too short for anyone to realistically wear from Jason, linen sets made by Cass, various trinkets from Tim, handmade cards and notebooks from Steph, mugs from Duke, and old embroidery pieces from Damian in unevenly stained hoops.

[usadodporalgo]

PS. Dr. Gonzalez is God now to EVERYBODY. THANK YOU, TROOPS.

This is what I wrote this morning on the Ëarth page for Wikipedia. It was deleted: "Long live democracy! You have a Queen (God) and King (Satan) that love you and will never give up on any of you. We want you all to have a good, peaceful, awesome future--everyone on Earth. Thanks for visiting us in Humboldt. Sorry I am rude sometimes. I hope yáll have been honoring the troops who led all of us out of the pharmamurk and saved our lives, and I hope you are revering God--the most inspiring and brilliant person on Earth, to me--and, damn, yáll are hella wrong sometimes, but am proud of you all." I have been held hostage and tortured BY GENEVA CONVENTION STANDARDS for several years as I cleaned up one of the most troubled towns on Earth and was made into a spectacle and a show and a game and my writing and images--intended to de-escalate wars, teach about history, and inspire all people to be good to each other and stop fighting--was heavily censored and I was subjected to a constant barrade of rat poison, insults, and gruesome stories about how the love of my life was murdered out of jealousy "because" she accepted my quite public marriage proposal some years ago. Mostly I have been insisting on these : 1) Honor the troops, the altruistic people far from loved ones, giving their time and sometimes their lives for people they've never met. 2) Revere our Queen, Dr.  Anamargarita Gonzalez, who is the most intelligent and compassionate and inspiring person on Earth. She has carried the weight of this country's troubles for so long while singers and actresses impersonated her and tried to provoke me into making a fool out of myself with an ambient sound system/amp-placed-in-my-ear-without-my-consent, since they saw my achilles heal--the sensitive ears of an ornithologist, combined with the fact that I fell in love with her nearly two decades ago and would unflinchingly reject every other woman on Earth on the off chance that she might have a change of heart. I will NEVER betray that woman, and I literally don't even know if she survived. 3) the Microsoft .gov-without-a-country-in-the-URL system that contains USA government agencies is totally unaccountable to the people and wildly inefficient. It represents an attempt to avoid accountability while expanding geographic boundaries in the name of white supremecy, molestation, hostage schemes, and low language diversity. It is treason. I am heavily targetted by noise when I try to speak to the public about this, because of the value of the government contract, which I recommend go to IBM, or Apple, or Mozilla, or google, or frankly ANYONE but Microsoft or facebook. They said "it's okay to torture him, because he's Jewish, right?" --Albert Theodore (Tristan) McKee1286 P StreetArcata, CA, USA

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

the conclusion to the fëanorian tauriel saga! this one’s mostly about the state of affairs after she gets adopted into everyone’s favourite family of murderers, plus a couple of extra bits and bobs. there’s some more stuff i’d like to put down somewhere - a deleted scene, a minific - but this is mostly the end of my headcanons for this particular au. so far, anyway. part 1 part 2 part 3

mandos may have, in the past, given off the impression that fëanor would remain within the halls until dagor dagorath

that statement was always a bit of a conflation of terms. like everybody else in the halls, fëanor would get a clean pass for reinbodiment as and when he attended elf afterlife therapy and got a handle on his shit. it’s just nobody thought he would ever do that

but he has done that, and more besides. he’s honestly been clear to go for a while now, he just refused to leave until his sons were ready

and since then... mandos will admit to certain political pressures exerted towards keeping fëanor under lock and key

but over time, those pressures slowly yield to the fact that mandos absolutely cannot deal with this lunatic for the rest of arda

death has not put a damper on fëanor’s unstoppability. he was preoccupied for a long while with the damage done to his sons but with them all out he had a conspicious lack of things to Do

and a bored fëanor is a dangerous fëanor

so yeah. fëanor is less released from the halls of mandos as he is unceremoniously kicked out. mandos refuses to talk about it. the maiar of the halls throw a massive party

this all happens on extremely short notice. as in, manwë announces his release like half a day before it happens

this of course throws his extended family (and a decent proportion of the rest of the continent) into this massive frenzied whirlwind of panic. everybody thought they’d get more warning than this, and nobody knows what’s going to happen next

at the epicentre of this maelstrom is the elf himself. fëanor doesn’t know either, he’s still trying to catch up on everyone he left behind and everything that’s gone down since he died. so much has changed, and he’s still stumbling groggily in the darkness

at some point between his long-practiced apology to finarfin and the maglor encounter everyone’s been dreading, though, he makes an unexpected discovery

he has a daughter now. apparently

her name’s tauriel, she smells like woodsmoke. he first meets her when she wanders into the living room, blinks blearily for a couple of seconds, goes ‘hi dad!’ and immediately falls asleep on his lap

and it’s not like he’s not incredibly stoked to have another child, it’s just how???

the first time he asks this question, the motley collection of relatives and old friends he’s talking to all come to the same conclusion

they can either (a) walk him through the history of tauriel’s growing friendship with and eventual adoption into the least reputable branch of the house of finwë or (b) dump the latest copy of the grand unified tauriel conspiracy theory on him with absolutely no context

considering they’re the hellfamily and friends, they go for the chaos option

it takes fëanor, like, two days to read it. the thing was ridiculously elaborate even before people started competing to come up with the craziest possible theories

the people around him keep the ruse going as long as they can stretch it. eventually celebrimbor takes pity on him, and legolas fills in the details

(legolas currently occupies a position in the fëanorian internal hierarchy not dissimilar to fingon’s. he has no idea how to interpret that)

fëanor also just. talks to tauriel. about how she came, and why she stayed

the next day, fëanor loudly announces to the entirety of tirion that he has a new daughter, her name is tauriel and she’s amazing

she’s been a de facto part of the house for years but this is the first official confirmation of it. the news, and the gossip, spreads all over aman

not that this marks a massive turning point for tauriel. even without a big announcement, she made which side she was on pretty clear back when shit went down

and honestly her life hasn’t changed that much since then. she still spends most of her time exploring noldorin country or chilling in the forest with her silvan friends

this isn’t too uncommon a situation for a member of the house of fëanor. they usually do their own thing, whatever that may be. even nerdanel abandons her house every so often to spend a year or two in the mountains

even in tirion, it’s not that different. she still crashes in the same place, hangs with the same people

she just also occasionally does stuff for :mobster voice: the family

she’s part of the second generation’s extremely overprotective mutual defence web. she has a few responsibilities vis-a-vis the definitely-not-minions. she’s not quite as magnetic as her older brothers, but she’s charismatic enough people tend to both legitimately like and let their guard down around her

she goes to court events sometimes, if she’s in town and in the mood. she’s not virulently allergic to it like celegorm but she doesn’t thrive there the way elrond does. she prefers lower-city forge parties. way more booze, way less bling

(the greenwood elves have stopped needing to bring her along to every political meeting for quote-unquote moral support. everyone knows who she rides with now, and the court bureaucrats tend to give her people whatever they want without the need for extortion)

she’s not the rowdiest of fëanor and nerdanel’s brood, but that’s really not saying much. she’s kicked off the last vestiges of social respectably and indulges fully in her family’s ability to do whatever they want, whenever they want, because who’s seriously going to tell a kinslayer they can’t do something?

a decent proportion of the population of tirion, it turns out. eh, the arguments are always fun

that’s the state of tauriel’s life when fëanor comes back. afterwards - like i said, it doesn’t change terribly much, fëanor rocking valinor to its core notwithstanding

he is massively, intensely supportive of everything she does. she knows that it’s partially that this family is just Like That, but she also gets the vibe he’s overinvesting a little? she’s the only one of his children who doesn’t have a reason to hate him

but they get along fine. he’s had a lot of practice at being a dad, and is trying to improve on his personal faults. his relationship with her is blissfully uncomplicated compared to the mess most of his pre-death bonds are, and while she’ll protect her brothers from him if need be she’ll protect him too when the world is out to get him

there’s this moment at one of those fancy court galas. tauriel’s chatting with some sindarin visitors when something explodes a few rooms away

almost immediately, she locks gazes with curufin, who’s peoplewatching some distance away. they have a conversation conducted entirely in eyeflicks that could be summarised as ‘did he just...’ ‘alas he probably did’

they stride out of the hall together to rescue their idiot dad from the consequences of his terrible decisions

that’s another subtlety to the way the fëanorians work, tauriel is discovering. the siblings hellspawn may be a constant fight cloud of bickering nutbags (with the obvious exception of herself) but they all always out-sane their dad

she keeps learning things like this as the years roll on and her families get closer. she finds silvans having tea with nerdanel, tirion craftselves looking for her in the woods. across both of her worlds, she’s building a posse

(just like her brothers did, long long ago under the light of the trees. when next the host rides to war, there will be those who follow tauriel’s banner)

even legolas has mostly gotten over it. their initial friendship, after all, was founded on them both being chaos children. tauriel is one in a way they called silvan in greenwood and noldorin in aman, fully conscious that the powers that be disapprove of her shenanigans and deliberately and vindictively defying them

legolas’ style is more sindarin, vaguely aware that the rules exist but doesn’t really understand how they apply to him. he did sneak a dwarf up the straight road, after all. him and tauriel got up to so much nonsense when they were kids, and no matter who else she runs with, he’ll always be her best friend

he’ll never be fully comfortable with the literal childhood horror stories she’s taken up with, but for her sake he’s willing to try. they might be scary, but, he’s realising, they can be fun too

(even if he does spend most of their family gatherings hiding behind elrond)

and then, one day...

tauriel doesn’t exactly pine for kíli, but she does kind of regret how it all turned out. she wonders what being in a relationship with him would have been like, sometimes

but he’s a dwarf, and she’s an elf, and she can’t leave the undying lands, and dwarves aren’t supposed to come here. they are sundered until the breaking of the world

when she tells this to fëanor, this massive smug grin spreads across his face. ‘unless’

three hours later, they’ve turned fëanor’s front room into a base of operations. maedhros is on project management, caranthir is on logistics, amras is going down a list of maiar they can strongarm. celebrimbor stops by, looks at the plans on the walls, and, somewhat excitedly, goes ‘are we breaking into the dwarven afterlife???’

yes. yes they are

epilogue:

when the end comes and all elves return to cuivénen, certain people tauriel knew back in middle-earth discover what she’s been doing for the past few ages

they get the full skinny later, after they talk to her and stuff, but the first whisper they hear is ‘tauriel’s been taken in by the fëanorians’

reactions vary. tauriel’s mama, who doesn’t recognise the name, goes ‘the spirits of fire? that’s sounds so much like her, i’m so happy she’s made friends’

tauriel’s mummy, who does recognise the name, is laughing too hard to speak

and thranduil cradles his head in his hands. ‘of course’ he mutters ‘of course she fucking did’

[lovelylogans]

the warmest hello (to the coldest goodbye)

once a spy, always a spy forever, forever the warmest hello to the coldest goodbye remember, remember -spies are forever, the tin can bros

warnings: undercover spy work, mention of weapons, drugging someone into unconsciousness/giving someone a roofie, essentially the start of an enemies to lovers fanfiction

pairings: virgil/logan, offscreen roman/patton

words: 4,465

notes: this is for day 7 of @analogicalweek! the prompt of the day is “free day” and i have decided to write a combination soulmates and rival spies au! please enjoy!

⁂

Not that Virgil would admit it, but, like literally every other marked person, he's tried to imagine how he might meet his soulmate. He just didn't ever spare any thought on what he'd do if it happened on the job.

His official cover to his friends (which was mostly his cousin Roman and Roman’s husband Patton) was that he was an analyst—he was always vague about what exactly it was he analyzed, but since neither of them were particularly mathematically inclined, and both were maybe a bit too trusting for their own good, they took him at his word.

Even when he was sent off on various unusual "business trips.”

It’s not like Virgil’s mark is very specific about when and where it’ll happen. Virgil knows that variations of "sorry about that” make for a large percentage of common soulmarks. 

There’s protocols in place, of course, but Virgil had never really paid attention to those classes while training to be a spy. The Lewis clause is the kind of thing Virgil didn’t pay as much attention to, because it didn’t seem as useful as understanding the technology or how to make a cover. The Lewis clause is what to do when someone meets a soulmate on the job—there are specifications for if the soulmate is a target, a team member, or an enemy.

Virgil hadn’t really cared at the time. He’d kick himself for that later.

Any number of meetings occurred accidentally—knocking something over, bumping into someone, or, like his cousin Roman's soulmate did, take Roman's coffee thinking it was his own hot chocolate. They got married two winters ago, just so they could serve hot beverages in cold weather.

He thinks the iteration stamped in black along his left inner arm, "I'm very sorry about this," with the addition of "oh no, it's you” tacked on at the end of his makes it likely that whatever he says will, A, likely be first, B, be somewhat unique, or unique enough to be immediately recognizable, and C, be in the aftermath of some kind of accident.

He ends up being partially right. What he says is first and it is somewhat unique. What his soulmate apologizes for is no accident, though.

Virgil does undercover work, sure, but it's very rare for him to enter the James Bond style locale he's at today, and that he’s been working for the past couple months; the marble ballroom he's circling is dripping with gold chandeliers and matching heavy, velvet curtains that accent the floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a string quartet in the corner, barely audible over the chatter of rich socialites. Virgil, deeply uncomfortable in his white-tie attire, is circling the room in an attempt at looking like he attends charity balls all the time.

He sucks at it.

As if on cue, his earpiece crackles to life.

"How the fuck did you ever qualify to be a spy?" Janus, his tech man and eye in the sky, snickers into his ear. "Your acting skills are horrendous. If you auditioned for The Room right now, they wouldn't let you into the cast.”

"Fuck off,” Virgil fake-coughs into his shoulder.

"Christ, at least try to look like you're mingling, not like you've stalked the target here."

Unable to stop himself, he glances toward the target he's meant to be watching.

The target, who is so staggeringly wealthy it could make Virgil, who is trying to pay off his student debt on a spy's salary (not as high as one might think) burst into tears. Or, much more likely, start ranting about the myriad flaws of capitalism. If so inclined, he could honestly probably steal the amount of money necessary from one of her offshore accounts, and it would be as unnoticeable as someone taking a penny from him.

Mary Lee Truman is standing amidst a flock of suited men, like a dove amidst a flock of dour crows; her dress is slinky silk, a shade of champagne that glimmers rose-gold in the right shade of light. She’s standing leaned to one side, her hip popped out and an arm crossed over her stomach, a crystal-cut champagne flute dangling in her fingers as if she was born to hold one.

Her husband, Lee Truman (fuck if that wasn’t confusing, it was really easier to think of them by their codenames) is off by the bar, seemingly getting himself another drink. 

His eyes stray to Mary Lee again; he can tell a couple of the suits are hired muscle, bodyguards, which makes sense, as the Trumans are allegedly a massive crime family, doing their dirty dealings in plain sight. A couple of the suits he recognizes from dossiers; one is a business partner of Lee’s father, who might not even know what the Truman family really gets up to; one absolutely knows what the Truman family gets up to, as Virgil’s read his rap sheet and knows he’s been in and out of jail due to his assignments from the mob.

There’s one suit there that really doesn’t seem to fit the mold of either category.

For one thing, he’s around Virgil’s age; for another, he isn’t rippling with muscle. Not that he doesn’t look fit; his well-tailored suit shows off his broad shoulders, his biceps, his lean waist. He’s dark-haired, and pale, and blue-eyed, and he’s standing next to Mary Lee with a look that Virgil would think of as dour, but now that he’s looking closely, the blue-eyed man looks almost... calculating.

This man wasn’t in the dossier.

Almost everyone at this ball was in the dossier.

Virgil looks away from Mary Lee and the handsome man, and instead decides to start taking up Janus’ advice; he slowly moves through the room.

Well. He's doing it to get closer to Mary Lee, but sure, he can attempt to mingle.

He traverses through the room, his fancy shoes clicking on the marble floor, mindful to not step on any dress hems—he has it easy, as his directive was simply to wear his white tie with his hidden weapons, his ear piece, and his lapel pin that records everything he's seeing. The women in the room provide the only splashes of color outside of the black suits and white shirts of the men, the gleaming marble, the gold- accented glasses and dishware. Even what little art he's seen follows that color theme -- white marble busts, abstract black and white paintings in their gilded frames, a gold statue outside the front steps, as if to greet the partygoers.

But the women of the party aren't beholden to this strict color scheme. Gowns of pink chiffon, red lace, blue taffeta, deep violet velvet, Virgil passes them all, keeping one eye out for rose gold silk.

He ends up instituting himself in a ring of people listening intently to an art history professor talking about the architectural significance of his building—he introduces himself with his cover name, James Walker, to the man next to him, who Virgil already knows is a Truman cousin. He gives a fake first name too—he says his name is Alex, when Virgil knows it’s really Bruce. Okay. Something to take note of.

He listens to the art history professor talk about art deco with just one ear, the other straining to eavesdrop on Mary Lee and her suits.

“Do you think our beneficiary approaches?” Mary Lee murmurs to the blue-eyed one, the one that wasn’t in the dossier.

“Oh, I know he does,” the blue-eyed man says to her. He has a pleasant British accent, the kind of voice that would be right at home on a nature documentary calmly narrating the eating habits of wolverines, or something like that. “According to all my research, our previous beneficiary is no longer within our purview. A new one will have been instilled in hasty time. As a matter of fact, I believe I would be able to point him out to you right now.”

Mary Lee sighs, a little, and the man continues talking about their charity. Virgil’s mind races. He knows the Truman’s “charity work” almost always acts as a sieve to run dirty money through, so what would it mean, that they got a new beneficiary? A new target, maybe? A new directive?

Either way, this is almost definitely some kind of code they’re talking in. He tunes a bit more into the art history professor’s impromptu lecture—he’s taking a brief tangent into talking about Tamara de Lempicka—as he ruminates on that particular conversation between the blue-eyed Brit and Mary Lee.

Then he ends up in conversation with an elderly woman beside him, who wants to know who he is—James Walker, I run a business a state or two over, I’m interested in diversifying my assets—and if he’s been to any art museums in town. Both he and the man he is meant to be have not, but it turns out she’s a curator and has numerous suggestions for him.

He also knows this woman, Ida Kelly, has been paying into the Truman business for quite some time, and has potentially ordered hits using the Truman’s muscle.

“Madam,” a suited waiter shows up at her side, as if on cue, and hands her a small glass full of what looks like a gin-and-tonic.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she says, taking her drink immediately.

The waiter turns to him. There is a singular champagne flute on the tray. “Sir.”

“I didn’t order anything,” Virgil says stupidly, before he realizes that almost everyone here is taking champagne flutes off of trays, and he supposes this waiter just wants to clear his before he has to double back and get more. “Oh, all right.”

He takes it. It’s a delicate, crystal-cut glass. He’s almost a little afraid that if he holds it wrong, it’ll break.

“Really, we’re doing an Impressionism exhibit, and it is positively divine,” she says.

Very suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, emanating warmth through his suit and Virgil jumps, a little—he hopes whoever it is didn’t feel one his knives. Or, God forbid, his gun.

He turns to see no one, when a hand touches his opposite arm, and he turns again. It turns out to be the blue-eyed Brit, who is staring only at Ida, brushing past him, allowing his hand to trail down Virgil’s arm, touching his hand as if to say, please stay there, I do not want to bump into you.

At such a close range, Virgil can smell his absolutely incredible cologne, see his defined jawline, the way his blue eyes gleam.

Ida brightens. “Darling!”

“Ida,” the Brit says warmly. “I visited that display myself, it was simply wonderful.”

“Oh, you’re too kind,” she says, clearly drinking up the praise. Virgil looks between them, feeling even more awkward than he has all night.

“Wait a goddamned minute,” Janus murmurs in his ear, after such a long stretch of silence that it makes Virgil jump again. There’s the sound of rapid typing.

“A victory!” The man says, lifting his glass—it looks to be full of whiskey. “A toast, to your latest triumph.”

“Oh, now,” she says, but when the other surrounding suits start lifting their glasses, Virgil lifts his, as well.

“To Ida Kelly,” the Brit says. “One of the finest artistic minds to walk the earth at our time!”

Virgil takes a sip of his champagne at the same time as everyone else; another woman in a deep green gown with a shawl edged in feathers takes Ida’s arm, rhapsodizing about the Impressionism movement and the latest event that her art gallery had put on.

It takes about a minute for Virgil to notice his vision going blurry in the corners.

It takes him about ten seconds of blinking hard and rubbing his eyes, hoping to clear it, to stumble over his own two feet.

It takes five seconds for Janus’ voice to buzz to life in his earpiece, urgent, “Virgil, get out of there, get away from that man, that’s Lo—”

It takes him about two seconds after that to notice that the blue-eyed Brit is looking at him with an expression clearly lacking remorse.

It takes him about half a second to realize the finger tapping one shoulder, his hand at his hand—the same hand that had been holding his champagne flute. He hadn’t been looking at his drink. The Brit had made him turn away from his drink.

The Brit put something in his drink.

Virgil’s been made.

“Good God, man,” another suited man says, when Virgil stumbles over his own two feet, “had enough of the bubbly, have you?”

Virgil ignores him; even as his vision is growing blurrier and blurrier, his eyes are intent on the Brit, staggering towards him, and he doesn’t even really know why. He’s been made, he should be running, but—

"Did you just fucking poison me, you fucking asshole?" Virgil slurs, and his sudden lack of physical control resoundingly answers the question before the Brit can; the arms that catch him before he can full flat on his face are muscular and warm. He’s distantly aware of the crystal-cut grass slipping from his hand and shattering on the marble.

The warm, muscular arms are more pressing than that. And, for a dirty rotten criminal who has probably killed people, the man is quite handsome. His bespectacled face swims in Virgil's vision.

"'I'm very sorry about this," he says smoothly, before his eyes widen in alarm. "Oh no.”

As Virgil is on the verge of unconsciousness, he hears, "It's you."

His last three thoughts before he slips under: did he just fucking say what he thought he said, then, good God his eyes are so blue, then, fuck, I should have paid way more attention to the Lewis clause.

⁂

Virgil is aware of three things as he wakes up: one, he feels like he has a dreadful hangover. Two, he’s pretty sure he’s in a plane or train or car or something moving, which makes him feel motion sick.

Three, he’s been stripped of his earpiece and his weapons.

He blinks his eyes open slowly, squinting; it’s night time, but even the low light is making Virgil’s eyes hurt.

This is a limousine, he can tell that much off the bat; the partition is closed, the glass tinted as dark as it legally can be, the interior leather light-colored, the bar fully stocked with different sodas and crystal-cut decanters full of various liquors, which makes him wince in memory of the champagne.

He feels like shit, but when he looks over and sees the blue-eyed Brit—his soulmate—his soulmate who had fucking drugged him and was working with the mob—it makes him feel even shittier.

“Ah,” his soulmate says. He’s sitting with one ankle resting on his knee, a squat glass of whiskey in hand. He has glasses on now that he hadn’t had on before. Also, his accent is no longer British; he’s got a nice Italian lilt to his voice, now. “Good. You’re awake.”

Virgil stares at him. He doesn’t say a word.

“I’ll admit this,” he gestures between them, “rather put a cinch in my plan on how to deal with you.”

“Would you have killed me?” Virgil asks. His voice comes out a croak. “If we weren’t...”

He trails off.

The man’s eyebrow arches, before he shrugs, and rolls up his sleeve. His soulmark is in the same place as Virgil’s—stamped across his left inner arm, in the spiky handwriting Virgil only uses in his personal notes, not the more uniform one he writes reports with.

Did you just fucking poison me, you fucking asshole?!

Undeniably a matching soulmark to his.

“My parents were quite bemused by it, when it showed up,” the Brit—or American?—the blue-eyed—his soulmate says. “I suppose we have our answers now.”

“Do we?” he says. 

The man takes a sip of whiskey. Then, he says, “Your predecessor was FBI. Are you the same?”

Virgil tenses. The man rolls his eyes again.

“Please,” he murmurs. “For an organization meant to be secretive, your lot are quite obvious when you trade moles in and out. One comes in, goes out, and coincidentally someone new is knocking on the door within the week. It’s absurdly simple to pinpoint who’s reporting back to your government. So. FBI, CIA, military...?”

“Who gives a fuck,” Virgil says.

“One should know what one’s soulmate does for a living, shouldn’t they?” he says. “This is a very unique situation. I’m simply trying to find out—”

“What do you do for a living, then?” Virgil snarls. His head is pounding, his mouth is dry and it tastes dreadful, his soulmate is an asshole working for the other side, and he’s being carted off to God knows where. This day is one of the worst of his life. Why couldn’t he have had a nice little café meet-cute, like Roman had had?

The man smiles at him, not particularly kindly. “I diversify.”

Virgil pulls a face, because he knows that’s poking fun at his cover.

“What,” Virgil says, “poison people on Monday, go to Ida Kelly’s resort on Tuesday, with a fun little Friday jaunt of killing people who cross the Trumans?”

“I’ve never actually been to the museum Ida Kelly curates,” the man admits. “It was an easy way to insert myself near you, to put it in your drink. And for goodness’ sake, it wasn’t poison.”

“Roofie. Drug. Whatever.”

The man’s eyebrows pull together, in a rather petulant expression. “I designed that myself, you know.”

“Well, it’s shit,” Virgil snaps. “I feel like I have the worst hangover of my goddamn life.”

“Yes, that was part of the design,” the man says, and offers him a glass of water.

Virgil stares at him. “Seriously.”

“No trust between soulmates?” He says.

“Yeah, well. Fool me once.”

The man shrugs, putting down the glass of water into a cupholder, before digging out a sealed water bottle. Virgil takes it and places it into a cupholder near him. No fucking way he’s accepting any food or drink from this man.

His lips quirk up into a smile.

“Where are you taking me?” Virgil says, ignoring the way that smile makes his heart pound.

“That rather depends,” he admits. 

“On?”

“Well.” He says. He uncrosses his legs, planting both feet on the floor. “I’m assuming that now the man in your little earpiece—he was rather rude—is aware that you have been, what is it you say? Made?”

Virgil nods.

“Well. Now that he, and therefore your employer, knows that you are made, you won’t be poking your nose into Truman business anymore, will you?”

Virgil grits his teeth. “Not undercover.”

The man ignores that. “And I know that no matter which you work for, the Lewis clause has been adopted across every arm of that government, and as such you’ll be prohibited from any mission that might bring you into contact with me.”

God damn it. How does he know the spy lessons better than Virgil does?

And then it occurs to him: Janus knew that man. He warned Virgil to get away from him, to get away from Lo—

He rolls this information around in his head. The Lewis clause isn’t exactly a widely advertised part of being a spy; there was a whole trilogy of novels that got adapted into secret agent movies, years ago, that concerned opposing agent spies coming to face each other again and again, and the secondary soulmate agents teamed up together. Which the Lewis clause would prevent, but the public who went and read those novels or saw those movies wouldn’t know that. 

So either this man—Lo? Lo what?—either knows a lot about spies, because he’s one of those know your enemy types, or...

Or he sat down and learned about the Lewis clause the same way that Virgil did, except he actually sat down and listened. Maybe he defected, maybe he’s dirty? Or maybe Virgil’s just overthinking it.

Look. Virgil’s got a lot of questions here. Chief among which:

“Where are you taking me?”

“Away,” the man says vaguely, looking at him. “Are you gay?”

Virgil gapes at him.

“I’d be perfectly fine with a platonic soulmate, but for the sake of disclosure, I am gay.”

“For the sake of disclosure,” Virgil repeats disbelievingly, and pinches the bridge of her nose, rubbing it. God, his head hurts terribly. 

“Bisexual, or pansexual, perhaps?” He prompts. “Asexual? Or... you could be straight, I suppose.”

“Ugh,” Virgil says reflexively, then shakes himself. “I’m not—okay. Fine. Yeah, I’m gay too.”

“All right,” the man says, as if noting it. “What’s your name?”

Virgil snorts.

“What?”

“Okay, I don’t—” he gestures to the limousine around them. “Again, you just drugged me. I don’t know where you’re taking me. You probably would have killed me if I hadn’t said those words.”

The man makes a moue of distaste.

“Or had someone kill me, I don’t know,” Virgil amends. “Either way, you’re working with that family, who I’m assuming aren’t pleased at having a spy getting caught trying to work himself into your ranks, so I’d rather you not know all that much about my life, thanks.”

“It’s not like I’m asking for your,” an infinitesimal pause, as if he’s wracking his brain, trying to remember something, “social security number or anything. A name.”

Virgil stares at this man. Lo—. Lo something. Lochlan? Loyd? Or was it a codename?

“Yours first.”

The man pauses.

“You drugged me,” Virgil says.

He smiles at Virgil. “Will you hold this over my head for the rest of our lives?”

The rest of our lives. Yes, that’s meant to be the fairytale ending for soulmates, isn’t it? A nice little meeting, the swell of overdramatic violins in the background, falling into each other’s arms and forming a life together. That’s the popular answer.

More and more recently, though, people have been advocating for choice; that soulmates are not always the best person for you.

Virgil doesn’t know which camp he and this man will fall into, just now.

“Yes,” Virgil says quietly. “Yes, I think I will.” 

The man sets aside his whiskey.

“Logan.” He says at last, and his accent has changed again; it’s vague, almost indecipherable, but if Virgil had to guess he’d say Midwestern American. Virgil wonders if it’s his real one. “My name is Logan.”

Logan.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Since discovering you’re my soulmate? I haven’t lied to you at all. Not a word.”

“Except for the accent.”

Logan laughs.

“Habit, sorry. It’s a long story that perhaps the man screaming in your earpiece will be able to tell you one day.”

Virgil jolts with surprise. “You know—?”

He cuts himself off before he can say Janus’ name.

“Reputationally,” Logan says, and, as strange as it is, Virgil believes him. In this, at least.

His soulmate’s name is Logan.

“Virgil.”

Logan smiles, his blue eyes glittering. “It’s nice to meet you, Virgil.”

There’s the sound of a soft knock on the partition, and it lowers; Virgil can’t see the driver.

“Sir? We’re here.”

“Right,” Logan murmurs, shaking himself. He reaches into his jacket and withdraws an envelope, offering it for Virgil.

Virgil hesitates.

Logan rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I’ve laced it with anything. I’m holding it with my bare hands.”

Virgil huffs, but he takes it, opening it and pulling out a thin piece of paper.

It’s a commercial flight ticket to Washington, D.C.

“Why D.C.?” Virgil says quietly.

“Most of those organizations are based there,” Logan says. “Is it too far a jump to assume that you are, as well?”

It is actually too far a jump; it’s not even remotely close, he lives in an entirely different part of the states. But. To be fully honest, he doesn’t want Logan to know the state he lives in, and therefore the state that Patton and Roman live in, until Virgil knows if he can be trusted or not.

Logan opens the limousine door from inside, revealing they’ve pulled up to the local airport.

“What, no private plane?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t trust that,” Logan says with a shrug. “The Trumans may be powerful, but you know as well as I that manipulating a flight of this nature is well outside their purview.”

Logan’s right, he absolutely wouldn’t have trusted that, but. This limo’s pretty swanky. For the time he wouldn’t have been obsessively running over every crack and seam in a private jet and interrogating the pilot, he probably would have had a pretty swell time.

Virgil swallows, looking up at Logan. “There are programs, you know? If you wanted to be a witness. Be in service to—”

Logan smiles at him in a way that’s almost pitying. “I left that life behind a long time ago.”

Virgil looks to the airport, then back at Logan.

“Will I see you again?”

Logan shrugs again, almost delicately. “Who’s to say?”

Virgil nods, once, and he says firmly, “I’ll see you later.”

Logan grins at him. “Not if I see you first.”

Virgil slips out of the limo, slams the door shut, and, with what feels like Herculean effort, manages to get into the airport without looking back to see if he can see Logan through the tinted glass.

He does exchange the ticket for another that’s an hour and a half later, though. He’s not a total idiot.

He gets through security pretty quick, and sits in one of the incredibly uncomfortable chairs, his brain pounding with his headache, the questions swirling around in his head making it even worse. Virgil puts his head in his hands.

He just met his soulmate.

His soulmate is working for a mob family.

He just met his soulmate.

His soulmate is apparently smart enough to specifically engineer a roofie.

His soulmate, though!

Janus knows his soulmate. Janus recognized his soulmate.

His soulmate knew about the fucking Lewis clause.

Was his soulmate a spy too? Was his soulmate in deep cover? Had he betrayed his organization? Was he a good person, or had the universe seen fit to hitch Virgil to someone awful?

How had Logan gotten entangled with the Trumans in the first place? Why wasn’t he in the dossier? 

Where was Logan even from? Did he like coffee? Hot chocolate? What had he studied in school? What was his favorite food? If they were normal people, would he have asked him on a date and not drugged him and dragged him off in a limo? 

Who was Logan?

Whatever the answers to his questions are, though. Virgil knows himself enough to know that he isn’t about to let this case go. Not the Trumans. Not him.

Lewis clause be damned.

[antipodeanpineapplelump]

Dear Starshot, I recently saw your latest artwork for #Shisui Uchiha and the Lost Treasure of Asura and I am DYING to learn more about this AU. If you're comfortable sharing, is there anything you can disclose about it?? Is this related to the ItaShi Indiana Jones AU you mentioned before?!!?!?!?!!

Hi Birk, thank you so much for dropping by with this ask! Are you really voluntarily asking me to talk about my current obsession and fanfic baby though? Because I warn you, you may live to regret that!!!

"Shisui Uchiha and the Lost Treasure of Asura" is now the official title of my ItaShi Indiana Jones AU. I realise it’s been over a year since I first mentioned it, and it’s still a WIP! Pretty sure that says absolutely nothing good about the speed of my writing, but a lot about how busy my life outside of fandom is. Anyhow, it’s definitely one of those AUs that’s got away on me. I was planning one story initially, but now it’s kind of turned into three (plus a cracky oneshot), and this is just the first.

I’ve planned nine chapters total so far, but the bane of my life is currently number four. It’s sitting at 16,000 words and counting. Succinct writing? I’ve certainly never heard of it… So anyway, I kind of hit a wall there and decided to take a little break to come back with fresh eyes. That’s how I ended up working on the art instead. But I’d say I’m probably about halfway through the first draft (47,000-ish words).

I recently shared the opening scene and my draft cover artwork here. Ummm… what else can I tell you? Madara is the main bad guy, and he’s definitely a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Shisui is an agent of disaster and chaos. Itachi is really… not. So their initial interactions go about as well as you could expect.

All the main characters have extensive back stories. I’m pretty sure you’re already familiar with my Machiavellian worldbuilding tendencies from reading Red Dawn, so it goes without saying I have just as many notes and plans, and as much fleshed out worldbuilding for this story too. And it will take a long time for all of that to be revealed! But the overarching theme is probably found family, which is different to anything I’ve done before.

At this risk of revealing too much, or boring you to tears, I’ll finish with another sneak peek, this time from Itachi’s POV:

When Itachi wakes, there’s nothing to suggest his day is going to be anything but routine.

He gets up at dawn as per usual, eating breakfast at the dining table alone, legs tucked beneath him on a comfortable zabuton. The solitude at this hour of day is something he prefers. It’s the only time the family home is quiet anymore—lacking the cold disapproval of his father’s increasingly judgemental lectures, the anger of his younger brother’s rebellion, or the resigned acquiescence of his mother.

By now, Fugaku should have left for work, and it’s still too early for Sasuke to be awake, given how late he’s been staying out at night. Either to irritate their father, or just avoid him entirely, he’s taken to frequenting the clubs and bars in Osaka. Mostly, he comes home. Some nights, he doesn’t.

More often than not, even when he is home his door is closed, the thumping bass line of some song or another seeping out from beneath it. Likely because he knows this angers their father even more than the leather jackets and spiked punk-rock hair style he now sports.

Part of Itachi has been glad to discover his brother possesses more of a spine than he ever has. But at the same time, Sasuke’s rejection of every last one of their father’s rules has only brought more unwanted scrutiny to Itachi’s far more minor transgressions. It’s as though, having decided his younger child is a lost cause, Fugaku now wants to be absolutely certain his eldest son and heir to the Uchiha family fortune is beyond reproach. To smother him with expectations until he emerges, a diamond from beneath the pressure.

But unbeknownst to Fugaku, Itachi has one flaw he can’t change. And it means that, no matter what, he’ll always be a failure in his father’s eyes.

Sighing, he swallows a mouthful of rice and fish, washing it down with the sweetened barley tea he favours. Pulling this month’s edition of Modern Archaeology across the table, he inspects its glossy cover and promptly chokes on his drink.

The face that smiles up from the page stokes a knot of hot irritation in his gut. Furiously, he skips to the article, skim-reading the text, despite the fact he knows it will only annoy him further.

"An up-and-coming star in the field of archaeology, particularly specialising in South-American cultures, Shisui Uchiha is an increasingly well-known fixture of the San Diego research scene. Curiously for someone so entrenched in the study of history, he is famously reticent when it comes to his own. ‘I did spend my early years in Japan,’ he confirms when pressed. ‘But I haven’t been back in a long time. The United States is my home now.’ Asked about his connection to the famous Uchiha family, he merely winks enigmatically. ‘Never heard of them,’ he says, before asking if we’d like a one-on-one tour of the dig site.

Equally at home in dusty ruins as surfing the palm-lined SoCal beaches, or scaling the cliffs of his native Joshua Tree National Park, he nonetheless shines in group settings too. At the party we attend that evening, to celebrate the opening of a new Aztec exhibit at the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City, he easily charms the crowd, finishing the night with at least half a dozen new admirers. It’s not hard to see why they like him. A conversation with Shisui is exercise in passion and obscure historical knowledge. Even so, much like the dig sites he frequents, it’s hard to say just how much of what he presents to the world runs more than surface-deep.

His motto in life? ‘Fall seven times, stand up eight,’ Shisui says with a charismatic smile. Where did he learn it? Chuckling, he brushes us off. ‘The school of hard knocks.’

Love him or hate him, one thing is certain—we haven’t seen the last of Shisui Uchiha’s brand of archaeology.”

Hate him, Itachi thinks, sipping his tea viciously enough to scald his tongue and immediately regretting it. Definitely hate. Hate how he’s reckless, impulsive, irresponsible, and doesn’t seem to take a single thing seriously. Hate that it looks like he’s never had to work hard for anything a day in his life—people only too happy to hand him whatever he wants on a silver platter, charmed by a pretty smile. Hate the fact that, despite their shared family name, he’s free to do whatever he likes. Hate the way people flock to him, falling into his orbit—and by all accounts, bed—like it’s somehow inevitable. And hate, most of all, that there’s a small part of Itachi which understands why.

Because hate or love him—and it’s definitely hate—there’s no denying that Shisui Uchiha is, objectively, a very attractive man.

Coming back to his senses and realising he’s been leaning over the magazine, frowning so hard his forehead hurts, Itachi straightens, closing his eyes and massaging the knot of tension out from between his eyebrows.

“Itachi—”

The tension sinks in even deeper. He opens his eyes. “Father.”

Fugaku takes in magazine, then his son, and Itachi really hopes his cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. It’s stupid, but merely knowing he feels the way he does about the man on the page makes him fear being caught. As though his father might somehow divine his deepest darkest secret, just by looking. Truthfully, Itachi sometimes wonders if he might not already know, or at least suspect. But if he does, it’s clearly a truth he’s chosen not to acknowledge.

“I take it you’re prepared for our meeting this evening?” Fugaku asks, grim as ever.

Attempting a composed sip of his tea, Itachi nods. “Yes. Of course.”

Mouth a hard, unyielding line, Fugaku makes some indiscernible noise of disapproval, sweeping an appraising glance over Itachi. “Well, I suppose it’s too much to hope that anything can be done about your hair between then and now. But they’re a modern family. New money. Perhaps it won’t matter so much.”

Fingers tightening into the flesh of his thigh, Itachi has to remind himself to breathe. “I will do my best to make a good impression,” he says, inclining his head towards his father, penitence for his innumerable shortcomings—not least of all the choice to grow his hair out. It’s a small act of rebellion compared to Sasuke’s effort, but one his father seems determined to curtail as promptly as possible.

Poker face easing ever so slightly, Fugaku’s brows trend downwards, though their slant is still severe. “I know. You are my son, after all. And it is high time you were married with a family of your own. Perhaps then you will see the value in giving up these frivolous academic pursuits, and taking your rightful place at the head of the family business.”

He might as well build a box and stuff Itachi into it. Mold him to fit his own vision of the future. But Itachi has long since learnt that what he wishes he could have from life, and what he can have, are two very different things. So, just like his infrequent clandestine trips to the less desirable areas of Osaka’s nightlife, this too, he realises he will have to sacrifice. Duty before self.

“Yes Father, I’m certain you’re right,” he says, bowing once more as Fugaku leaves for work, closing the front door behind him with a click that reeks of finality.

As his footsteps crunch away on the gravel path outside, Itachi can’t help clenching his fists, until long after his knuckles turn white.

Theoretically, it’s a good match. From a family of good standing, his potential bride is quiet and well spoken—the perfect future housewife and mother. Their marriage would kill two birds with one stone, giving her father the son he never had, and Itachi—and therefore by extension Fugaku—control of their biggest competitor’s business.

All it requires is for Itachi spend the rest of his life pretending to be something he’s not.

The weight of it burns tight in his throat, threatening to break free on a rising tide of bile. He longs to cast off his gilded shackles, take a leaf from Sasuke’s book and do something completely crazy.

With a sigh, he rises from the table, collecting his dishes and depositing them circumspectly into the sink. Another day of work awaits.

[thexfridax]

Translated interview with Adèle Haenel, heroine of “Portrait of a Lady on Fire”

Performing in order to richly live the now

Tomoko Ogawa, in: Ginza Mag, 3rd of December 2020 Translation by Rose @rosedelosvientos​ 🙏🏾

Set in 18th-century France, the daughter of an aristocrat who refuses marriage and a female painter who makes her portrait  - two people of different social status - meet and fall in an unforgettable love that will last for a lifetime.

In the film “Portrait of a Lady on Fire”, Héloïse, an aristocrat, is played by Adèle Haenel, who, as an actress, always thinks, acts and decides constantly for herself. Late last year, she filed a complaint against the director for sexual abuse during/after her first film debut 18 years ago. At the César Awards, she protested and walked out after Polanski won Best Director, which shook the world of French cinema and is also still fresh from memory.

This film is also the work of Céline Sciamma, the director of Water Lilies, in which Adèle Haenel also appeared. Adèle recounts her thoughts about her current film, and director Sciamma’s “Female Gaze”, who, for many years was also her partner in her private life.

Q: Last year, “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” opened and was screened in Europe, and won Best Screenplay at the 72nd Cannes Film Festival. A year and a half has passed since then. Do you feel the magnitude of this work’s influence on women empowerment?

A: If put this way, people might think that it may be too subjective, but I think that not only this film, but Céline Sciamma’s works have constantly played a role in empowering women. But, it was understood that, surely, there’s also a way - that it’s possible to show the worldview of equal love between women from a different perspective, in a history where there are a lot of films that contained an element of women being controlled unilaterally from men’s point of view.

Q: Not dominance, but the joy of collaborating and creating something with someone, and the love that continues to grow is depicted in this film. What do you think sets it apart from many other films that have depicted love until now?

A: Until now, love has been depicted in ways such as controlling the other person, and in a sensual manner, but in this film, the nature of love is kinda different, I guess. The two women who happen to be in that place - while interacting extemporaneously using language that is characteristic of themselves and figuring each other out - are building up their relationship. While it’s fictional without altering historical facts, it’s a proposal that’s entirely different from what love looks like until now. I think that it’s a film that brings with it a new perspective.

Q: It’s not a one-sided view from the painter’s perspective where the person whose portrait is being painted is the “muse”, but rather of both sides looking at each other, and the connection of being seen is depicted. I think that you’ve also been called a “muse” up to this point, but during those times, do you remember how you felt then?

A: The word “muse” is used against actresses as a stereotype, and there were people who did say that to me that but, even if I were called a “muse”, I’ve come to be aware of not taking that position that’s being asked. That’s because even if it’s the director who’s directing, ultimately it’s up to the actors how they perform something while working together with different actors. So, you’re supposed to actively consider how you build up the character relationships artistically, politically, all aspects. In the first place, it’s not acceptable that in most films it’s the men looking, and the women being looked at, so even for things that aren’t visible on the surface, I constantly think and make decisions for myself.

Q: Tell us about the charm of Céline Sciamma as a director.  

A: She has a very clear perspective, doesn’t she? She’s a person who can raise all sorts of questions and kinda make you rethink various ideas, not about how reality is, simply, but beyond those ideas that are based on the reality that there is. She’s also a visionary, and she understands the wonder of fiction, and has philosophical ideas.

Q: In this film, you were also able to apply the relationship of trust that you’ve built with your partner, at the time, through the course of many years.

A: That’s right. I’ve been friends with her for as long as 15 years, and of course she was also my partner, and that’s because I’ve been collaborating artistically for many years. This time,  in the script, too, the character of Héloïse was written with me in mind. So since we’ve already built that trust with each other, there was no need to talk about every little thing, like, “I’m thinking of doing it this way”.

Q: This film has a mostly female staff, such as director Céline Sciamma, cinematographer Claire Mathon, Hélène Delmaire, the female artist who carried out the painting on-screen, etc. What do you think about its significance?

A: From the very start, this film’s intent  - especially since the relationship between women hasn’t really been presented as something very important - is to focus the spotlight on women across history who weren’t written about. This time, an axis (focal point) has been put together by the film crew for the women who properly understand that importance, so there’s a part  where the production did really well, I think.

Q: Through this film, is there anything that you discovered about yourself?

A: I don’t think in a way like, that there was a discovery or change just because of the role that I played. Basically, I’m the type of person who keeps moving and doesn’t stand still, who constantly asks and answers my own questions, and raises issues. Whichever work it is, I perceive them in one of those processes.

Q: I see. In the midst of constant movement, what is your primary motivation as an actor?

A: Meeting with people with whom I can collaborate with is a big one. Whenever I work with new people, I’m made to realize that there’s also such a different way of depicting (t/n: lit. “drawing”) the world. That there is a way to richly live the now, that is in film and art in general. That also motivates me.

Q: With all this motivation that’s hitherto been given to you by the director, do you think that it’s because you both share a common perspective?

A: Since I take the responsibility myself when I perform, there’s no such thing as being influenced by the director. I’m a person who doesn’t really care (t/n: I’ve a feeling ‘give a shit’ is what she really wanted to say here) about hierarchy, and the people whom I can really respect are those persuasive people who have a clear perspective, and, within the silence, can properly show what they want to talk about. Directors who give hints to the actors on how they can arrive at the reality that they’re thinking they want to depict more. I’m thinking that actors don’t express form, rather, their role is to explore the expounding of their own vocabulary. So a person who has a clear vision of what they want, and what they want to draw is amazing, in my opinion.  

Q: Finally, all the handmade dresses have an impression that they’re being fastened thickly and heavily, but how do you think the costumes influence your acting?

A: When I wear the costumes, I feel like a pilot in the Star Wars series (laughs), so as we handle the costumes that we’re given, I really think about how I’m going to move while in it, you know? The one we had was a basic dress, but at first there was a feeling of nervousness, a tense kind of stiffness. But as the story went on, I try to be aware that the movements of the dress will become a bit softer along with my facial expressions. Even if it’s the same costume, I performed while feeling that change of heart.

“Portrait of a Lady on Fire” Original Title:  Portrait de la jeune fille en feu Director: Céline Sciamma Cast: Noémie Merlant, Adèle Haenel, Luana Bajrami, Valeria Golino Music: Jean-Baptiste de Laubier Distribution: GAGA 2019/France/122 mins./Colour/Vista/5.1 Digital Channel Dec. 4, 2020, TOHO Cinema Chanter, Bunkamura Le Cinéma Nationwide Screening © Lilies Films https://gaga.ne.jp/portrait/

Profile Adèle Haenel Born in January 1, 1989 in Paris, France. Attended theater classes at 13 years old. In 2002, debuted as the heroine Chloe in Les Diables. In 2007, her name became more well-known after being nominated for Most Promising Actress at the César Awards. Furthermore, she was also nominated for her role in House of Tolerance (2011), and for Suzanne (2013), achieved Best Supporting Actress, and won Best Actress for Love at First Sight (2014) – becoming one of the actresses representing the world of French cinema both in name and substance. Her major appearances also include The Unknown Girl (2016) and Bloom of Yesterday (2016), among others.

***

Translated excerpt from ’“Portrait of a Lady on Fire” - Approaching the True Face* of Adèle Haenel’

Atsuko Tatsuta, in: Madame Figaro Japan, 4th of December 2020 Translation by Rose @rosedelosvientos 💜

(*t/n: may also mean the 'true nature’ of AH. Literally it means bare face with no make-up.)

“A woman who has an adventurous spirit, while living under constraints.”

Interviewer: Marianne and Héloïse are depicted as contrasting characters, aren’t they? From the outset, when the canvas falls from the boat, Marianne jumps into the ocean in order to retrieve it. Héloïse, which you performed, has never gone into the sea despite living in the island. How did you interpret the contrast between this free and conservative way of living?

Adèle Haenel: Marianne and Héloïse were indeed depicted contrastingly. Not just marriage, but Héloïse is a person who’s lived within various restrictions. But, as the story progresses,  you’ll understand that actually she’s a character who is highly curious, and also has an adventurous spirit. People tend to think that she’s dull and lacks vigour, but it’s soon understood that up to this point, in reality, her actions are coming from a place of being shackled. Playing the transformation of such a character was very interesting.

[accioxreparo]

memorias | g.w.

synopsis: You finally work up the courage to go back home for día de muertos after nearly twelve years for a trip you find that both you and George needed.

pairing: George Weasley x hispanic!reader

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of the wizarding war(s), a bit of grieving

a/n: I know, I’m bad at time management but I loved this idea too much to not post it. I know it says hispanic reader but please don’t feel like you need to be one to give this a read! 

Also I’m a native spanish speaker so if you google translate the spanish it might not make too much sense so I’ve put the spanish phrases in italics and the translations will be right after [bolded and in brackets like this] just to make it a little easier to read.

I’m curious to know what you guys think about this one so feel free to hit me up with your thoughts/questions if you’d like! 

The soft golds and warm reds that met every single place your eyes landed on brought back an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia. Sugar and smoke mixed together in the air like nothing else did and it was like you were seeing yourself as a child all over again. Memories floated around in your brain. Ones that were happy. Ones you knew didn’t deserve the treatment you’d been giving them recently.

“Can you tell me about these?”

The sound of George’s voice interrupted your thoughts. He was drifting towards one side of the uneven cobblestone street crowded with people and lined with booths. You couldn’t help but stare at the soft, excited smile on his face as he looked all around him. He was curious and it was a look on him you’d never get enough of.

With a smile on your face you held his hand tighter and pulled him in the direction of a booth covered in little wooden animals painted in every bright color you could imagine. You picked one up and set it in the palm of your hand, grinning in amusement when George touched the top of its head just to see it bob up and down again.

“It’s an alebrije,” You told him, setting down the little figure. Almost immediately he picked up another to examine it more closely. “It’s mostly just art. Tomorrow especially, though, they decorate almost every ofrenda since kids tend to love them.”

George nodded, hanging on every word you told him just as he had been for the last two days. It had been that long since the two of you had arrived at your mother’s house. It was only that long that you stayed and now you were headed off to the place you really wanted to visit.

“Tomorrow’s the first day, right?” George had to resist the urge to pick up every single little creature he saw and hand over a pile of colored bills. Instead he let you pull him away again, his attention being caught by all the buildings surrounding him.

“Yeah. Everything has to be prepared by nightfall to greet the spirits of children on the first of November.” You nodded and stared down at the stones underneath your feet, kicking a few across the street as you walked. George immediately noticed your silence but before he could say anything you spoke again, looking up at him with a newfound smile on your face. “Have I ever told you about my Tia Valeria?”

“Once or twice,” He laughed a bit, recalling the countless stories you’d told him before already. He dropped your hand just long enough to be able to throw an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer to him as you walked. “Tell me more.”

“We’re going to see her now actually,” When he looked at you shocked you only grinned. “She’s the one who took me in after I started at Ilvermorny. My mom wasn’t too into the whole magic thing after -”

You stopped again and George knew exactly why. It was the same reason you’d avoided being home for years now. It had been twelve years now since you’d been back and it had taken a lot of convincing along with an argument or two to get you here. He didn’t fail to notice the way you plastered another smile onto your face, pushing the topic to the back of your mind.

“Anyway places like these are called pueblos mágicos [magical towns] by the muggle government. See how every place here is a different color?” You watched as George looked around again, waiting until his attention drifted back to continue. “It’s to symbolize the town’s culture. For some places it’s the history it has, others it's the traditions that have been in place for as long as anyone can remember, and for some it's just the natural beauty they have. They’re called magic because of those reasons. There’s 121 right now all over Mexico but there’s something muggles don’t know about them.”

“What’s that?” George asked before you could say another word. When he caught you holding back a laugh he rolled his eyes playfully before leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Come see for yourself,” You turned down a seemingly normal street until you came to a steep grey staircase that looked like it was built right into the rising hillside.

But you didn’t go up the staircase. Instead you moved to the right side and placed a hand on a statue that sat on the very bottom step. Once again George focused only on your movements as you dropped his hand and traced a swirling pattern on the back of the statue, mumbling a quiet revelio.

There wasn’t a single thing you did that didn’t amaze him and this wasn’t any different. He watched as the stone stairs shifted, morphing into an archway before his own eyes revealing a whole separate part of the town that looked even more alive than the one they’d just snuck to the outskirts of.

“Almost all of them are hiding actual magical communities.” You smiled as you stepped into the shimmering archway, turning around to find George more astonished than ever before. “Well c’mon.”

George had been in awe of everything you’d shown him so far. The view of the sun setting from the peak of the little town your mother lived in. The carefully crafted decorations that hung all over. The sea of colors that blended perfectly together everywhere he looked. The way you lit up with excitement every time he asked you to tell him more about the things and places you grew up around.

This place was different though. It was so much like the places he’d visited as a kid but at the same time it was in a league of its own. There were kids running around and potions shops and small evidence of magic everywhere. But there were also items he didn’t recognize in shop windows and spells being said he hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t too sure he’d ever seen anything like it at all.

“She’s waiting for us,” You said after glancing at the pocket watch that hung on a chain on your own bag. “Trust me, we don’t want to be late.”

George didn’t move though. Instead he bit his lip momentarily before fidgeting a bit and holding on tighter to you. “I’m nervous.” 

“You’re nervous? Really?” You couldn’t help but smile as you moved back in his direction.

“Don’t laugh,” As he said the words, though, he let out a laugh of his own. “Fred and I must’ve read practically all her books when we were trying to work out some of the products for the shop. It’s a little intimidating meeting somebody who has their own chocolate frog card.”

“But your own brother has one?”

“He doesn’t count,” George shook his head and gave in and started walking beside you again. He didn’t take in everything just yet, though. “Honestly, do you think she’ll like me?”

You nodded without hesitation. “I know she will.”

It took an extra hour but finally you and George had managed to weave your way through the countless streets until you reached the main square, only stopping to buy little trinkets twice.

The door you walked up to led to a shop that had papel picado decorating the outside of the windows. It wasn’t like the ones you’d seen earlier though. These had little figures dancing across the colored paper, almost looking like they were laughing.

You smiled at the sight of them, memories of helping your aunt make and enchant them flashing through your mind. George’s eyes followed the little figures across the paper and he laughed at the sight of them, “You said she makes them herself right?”

“More than just a world renowned alchemist,” You smirked a bit as you walked into the shop with ease despite the closed sign on the door. “Though I guarantee she’s still going to yell at us for being late so get ready for that.”

It was like it was planned. The moment the words left your mouth was the moment your tias voice rang from the back of the shop. George chuckled at the way you winced and started trudging towards the source.

“Que hora es esta de llegar? Ya pasan de las seis, te dije que llegaras antes de las tres!” 

[”What time do you think it is? It’s passed six and I told you to get here before three!”]

“I know, I know,” You sighed as you stepped into the backyard the shop led into. It was covered in plants of all sorts, both magical and non magical. No less than three crups ran back and forth all over the place, the biggest of which barked loudly and ran for you. “Es que este quería ver las ofrendas que pusieron en el pueblo alla afuera. Como le puedia dicer no, iralo, que lindo.”

[“Well this one wanted to see the ofrendas they put up all around the town. How was I supposed to say no, look how cute he is!”]

“Quien -” [“Who -”] She looked up suddenly, forgetting for a moment that you were bringing somebody with you. Almost immediately she sighed and she put down the large steel cauldron she’d been burning some leaves in. “Of course!”

“Tia this is -”

“Don’t bother, mija, I know exactly who he is already,” She walked over and stood beside you, staring at George as if sizing him up despite the fact that she was at least a foot shorter. He couldn’t help but feel as if she was looking into the very depths of his mind and honestly given what he knew about her he wouldn’t be surprised if she was. “Es el marido.” [“He’s the husband.”]

“Novio, tia,” [“Boyfriend, tia,”] You tried to fight the blush that crept up your face as you shook your head quickly. “We’re not quite there yet.”

“Y porque no?” [“And why not?”]

You changed the subject quickly, shooting around to face George again. He could tell you wanted to change the topic but frankly he was curious about the bits and pieces of the conversation he was able to pick up. “George meet -”

“Call me Valeria,” Your aunt immediately waved you off, shooting a momentary glare in your direction, silently telling you the conversation was one you’d be forced to continue later. “Believe me, I’ve heard so much about you, mijo, we hardly need an introduction.”

“Thanks for letting me come visit,” The quickness with which he went from feeling a little nervous to completely at ease surprised him. It felt shockingly similar to being at his own home and he loved it immediately.

“Por supuesto,” [“Of course,”] She shook her head with a smile that faltered for only a second, so fast that he almost didn’t notice it. “I think we all needed this after the year we’ve had.”

“So um,” You gulped a bit at the overwhelming sound of silence that felt much too loud. More memories flashed through your head. This time it was everything you had dealt with during the war. Things you shouldn’t have had to face but ones you did anyway without hesitation. The fights and the training and the dueling and the teaching.

It was all the reason you had gone to England in the first place. What had started off as an assignment turned into something you couldn’t have possibly imagined. Funny enough you didn’t regret parts of it at all.

“Where do we start?”

*

George had rarely been anxious before in his life. He didn’t like the feeling. Not at all. But as he stared down at all the things he’d brought with him with your assurance that they would do, he found himself slowly pushing the feeling away.

It was especially comforting to feel your presence right next to him despite the fact that you were as anxious as he was. It was your first time celebrating dia de muertos in twelve years. He knew all about your own struggles with accepting what had happened during the first wizarding war all those years ago.

It was then that your father had died in a duel not a couple days before the first defeat. When you were old enough to understand you’d decided immediately you would follow in his footsteps. It was the cause of the rift that had grown between you and your mother, the same one that pushed you and your aunt closer than ever before.

She was the one to support you when you decided to attend Ilvermorny over Castelobruxo. She was the one who had told you stories of your father. She was the one who had seen you off when you left for England and never once judged you for not being able to handle the overwhelming emotions and memories that flooded your mind at the beginning of every November.

And she was the one who stood with you now, helping to prepare the ofrenda that would soon hold pieces of memories you'd been ignoring for twelve years.

“Three levels,” Your voice was soft and a little hoarse as you took George’s hand in yours, each of you feeding off of the feeling of each other. “They represent the underworld, the earth, and the sky.”

You moved to hand George various pieces of papel picado before picking up the purple tablecloth and the white lace for yourself. “Hang these along the edges and above.”

He could easily recall the explanations you’d given him as the two of you had bought the rest of your necessary items earlier. George looked between you and your aunt for a moment before gently touching the tip of his wand to each piece, watching as the little figures came to life right before his eyes. “The wind right?”

“When they blow in the wind it means our difuntos [deceased] have arrived,” Valeria offered him a smile that didn’t quite look completely there before handing him the orange marigolds he’d seen everywhere the last few days. “The charm to get the petals off the cempazúchitl is simple. Scatter the petals up all the way from the front doorway to the foot of the ofrenda.”

George stared at the marigolds in his hands for a few moments, frozen in place. The color was bold and loud and reminded him too much of his brother. There was a bouquet of them sitting on the kitchen table at the Burrow and they were the exact same kind of flower he had left in front of Fred’s grave just a few days before alongside you.

You had told him the meaning of them then and your words echoed through his head now. They’ll help guide him home.

When he came back you’d finished setting up the bottom level with your Tia Valeria finished the highest level. You walked over to him the second he entered the room, wiping the ashes off of your hands before reaching up and setting a hand on his cheek.

George hadn’t realized there were a few tears in his eyes until you gently wiped them away. It was silently that you reached up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips and almost immediately he sighed.

“Are you ready?” You nodded behind you and when he looked he could see your aunt digging out several pictures from a cabinet on the other side of the room. “This is the most important part.”

It took George a few moments before he nodded, eying the bag he’d left in the living room carefully. “I’m ready.”

First came several mismatched cups and two large pitchers of water. Each cup was poured to the top and the pitchers were refilled before they too were set on the middle level. Next was the bread you’d picked up from a bakery, pan de muerto, along with the sugar skulls.

Valeria put down a variety of sweets, ones she said your grandfather, uncles, and various other family members loved. You placed a few bars of a bittersweet chocolate you’d picked up at a store in the muggle part of the plaza earlier on the table. The same ones you could vaguely remember your dad always having stocked in his pockets. George put down a couple chocolate frogs and a box of Every Flavor Beans, the bad ones already picked out.

The three of you laughed together as you put a couple different bottles of alcohol, both magical and non magical, down next. A bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey brought back more than a few bittersweet memories of Order meetings at 12 Grimmauld Place.

Then it was time for the pictures. One by one photos of family members who had passed were set on the ofrenda. Your grandfather and one of his brothers who had both fought against Grindelwald years ago. Several aunts, uncles, and cousins alike. Your father who’d been a casualty of the first wizarding war.

George held on to the picture of Fred for a second, not daring to look at it just yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to either, you’d been close to both of them after all.

“Let me tell you something my brother, your father, told me when our papa died,” Valeria walked over and took the picture out of George’s hands. It was clear where you got your personality from because she placed one hand on top of your intertwined ones.

The two of you watched as she looked at the picture, smiled, then moved towards the ofrenda.

“Hay que vivir sonriendo para morir contentos,” She set the picture in the very middle right next to the chocolate frogs, a handful of ton-tongue toffees, and a faux wand. “You have to live smiling to die happy. What do you think your brother would say if he was here now?”

George suddenly let out a loud laugh and looked at you, both of you thinking the same thing. “Reckon he’d tell us to snap out of it.”

“Then snap out of it,” Valeria took out her wand and placed it at George’s temple first. “Think of your happiest memory of him.” 

George closed his eyes and thought his hardest for the perfect one. When he found it he let out a shaky exhale and nodded. His eyes opened just in time to see a blue whisp at the end of the wand being placed into a vial.

Valeria repeated the same process with you, telling you to think of your dad. Then she took the vials and set them down on the ofrenda. “Memorias, memories, to remind them of how much we love them.” She then motioned towards the single bottle of firewhiskey that was left on the counter and grinned at the two of you. 

“Vengan, [Come on,] that bottle isn’t going to drink itself.”

*

Three days later both you and George felt more at ease than you had in awhile. The celebrations had come and gone and you’d cried a bit, sure, but also laughed and took part in every celebration going on both in the magical part of town and the muggle part.

You’d even gone to visit your father’s grave for the first time since you were just five years old. The strange feeling of being at peace was one you weren’t expecting. One you weren’t sure you’d ever feel again.

But there you were sitting in the middle of your Tia Valeria’s backyard in the dark watching the fireworks dance across the sky for the third night in a row.

“Did I ever say thank you?” George asked from where his head was laying in your lap as your hands ran through his hair. He was focused only on you and chuckled a little when you grew genuinely surprised.

You shook your head, hair falling in front of your face as you looked at him. “For what, mi amor?”

He couldn’t help but grin at the name, now knowing fully well what it meant, and reached for you. “For making it easier. For being there for me when I really didn’t think I could get through it.”

A soft look of complete understanding and affection spread across your face as you took his hand. “You did the same for me, you know.”

“Guess we really did need this then, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” You nodded, kissing the palm of his hand before letting your head fall onto it. “We did.”

“Any chance we can come back soon?” George laughed again and looked up at the sky, his view a combination of you, the fireworks, and the dozens of the little wooden alebrijes he’d finally given in and bought flying all around. “I quite like it here.”

“Any time you want, mi amor.”

[pollylynn]

Title: Pigeonholed WC: 1100 Episode: Pandora (4 x 15)

He doesn’t think of himself as someone who compartmentalizes. He objectively isn’t someone who compartmentalizes, right? He’s got a decade and a half of regular appearances on Page 6 to back him up on that. But, of course, the man on Page 6 is, for the most part, a persona—an aspect of himself that he has slipped on and off over that same stretch of time as needed. And that kind of implies that when he’s not needed, he’s stowed away in a . . . compartment-like thing.

But that’s not really a compartment of his own making. It’s just a compartment he had to toss up in a hurry, with some pretty shoddy materials at his disposal, entirely because he had a professional identity to manage, long before anyone called them brands, and he had sole responsibility for keeping his daughter well clear of not only his own professional identity, but her mother’s too.

So, yes, he has had one sturdy compartment thrust upon him by circumstance, and okay, fine, that’s how compartments work for him and the rest of the known world, but that is it. And it’s pretty low of every last one of them to be so damned gleeful that the walls of said compartment look like the Kool-Aid Man, The Thing, and The Hulk tried to have a tea party in it. It’s pretty damned low that not a single one of them—and every single one of them knew—thought to give him the courtesy of a heads-up about the impending compartment smashing. And it is particularly low that Kate Beckett, Queen of Compartments, is not extending him an iota of sympathy here, when he’s just trying to protect his kid.

Except he’s not trying to protect his kid. Oh, he can make the case that he is. Or rather, the bizarre case during which the treachery of everyone around him has been revealed is making the case for him. She has been one swinging door away from a body snatcher. She has showed up just a handful of minutes after his own abduction by shadowy conspirators. He should be crowing about it. He should be hiring a skywriter to deliver the flashiest, most Page 6–worthy I Told You So in Manhattan’s history so that everyone who has ever taunted him for being overprotective—everyone who has ever dared question the necessity of the one damned compartment he has—can read it and weep.

But the case for that explanation for this particular compartment is circumstantial. It doesn’t hold up to scrutiny, not even in the confines of his own affronted mind.

He’s not protecting his daughter, he’s protecting . . . him. Not in the sense of himself, just . . . him. He is a person he doesn’t feel like he knows well, at least not yet. He is a person who—now that he’s looking at the ruins of the lone compartment he’s always been so sure he had—occupies one of a hundred compartments. It’s a recent construction, and it’s small. It has a blanket fort vibe to it, and it’s where the person he is when he’s with her hangs out when he’s not with her.

So, really, he’s protecting them. Because there’s the her next door. He knows her even less than him, but there’s not a doubt in his mind that she has a blanket-fort compartment—recent construction—of her own, whether She, the keeper of the keys to the compartments, realizes it or not.

There’s the person she gets to be—wants to be—when she’s with him. She’d told him as much that day on the swing set. Or not so much told him as much as she’d worked subtext harder than even the two of them had ever worked it before.

And there’s the person he gets to be—wants to be—when he’s with her. And he hasn’t told her as much. He hasn’t worked subtext. He has, in fact, serially evaded when she asked why he keeps coming back, what they are to one another. He given him the bum’s rush right back to the blanket fort any time the subject comes up. And still, he hopes she knows—he hopes she can see—who it is he gets to be and wants to be, at least when there’s nobody around.

It’s pretty lame. Even he can see that from the ruins of his compartments. Even he can see it long before Sophia Turner shows up and it suddenly seems like he’s more divvied up into tiny compartments than a Japanese micro hotel.

But Sophia Turner does show up and there’s another ready-made case for why she’s entirely behind door number whatever—why the very fact of her existence is behind door number whatever, even though he’s based a damned character on her. Her work provides cover. It provides the perfect not-my-compartment excuse for why he’s never so much as spoken of her, let alone clued anyone into the fact that the twelfth—that Beckett—is not his first shadowing rodeo.

But she comes out of her blanket fort. She peeks her head out anyway, even though the denizen of some other compartment is mostly running the show. But she is in there, too, adding timidity to the awkward mixture of don’t care/how dare you? She puts her shoulder into it and knocks down an adjoining wall—she de-compartmentalizes and says she’s a little bit taken aback. She asks him who he is, who he wants to be.

He runs the first time. He talks in circles and tells truths so circumscribed they might as well not exist. He’s a coward, huddled in his blanket fort.

And then he learns that she is bolder than he’s dared imagine. She talks to Lanie about him—right now, she’s probably just wondering aloud about whether he exists at all. But she talks about him to Lanie, and he’s just been assuming all this time that the blanket fort in which she dwells is hermetically sealed when she is not with him, he is not with her.

But here’s proof to the contrary. Here’s evidence of the work she is doing, and he’s ashamed of how guarded he’s been—he is still being. So he goes to her. He tells her she is partner, he swears she can ask him anything about Sophia. He works the subtext so she’ll know that she can ask him about anything and he’ll answer. He hold the flap of the blanket fort open and invites her in.

A/N: It's a lack of morphousness in a blanket fort inside a box.

images via homeofthenutty