#or is Disney trying to pull the wool over our eyes

[garden-bug]

Not to be a hater BUUUT-

Every time I hear anything abt the Ahsoka series doing ‘well’ I am baffled.

At most it was a little entertaining and some of the designs looked good. The plot and character work and just everything else was abysmal.

Oh yeah and it reminded us that The Clone Wars and Rebels was a show. That was new and really enriched the world of Star Wars.

[filmoflifeburst]

Mobius Strip

Sum: the third break-up of Lucerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen.

*Translated from the Chinese version and my English is really POOR. *Lucerys Velaryon （above） x Aemond Targaryen (sub) *Age difference adjusted to one year. Modern city paro.

"We've come to the end of the road, but we're safe." -- "Downhill”

Aemond Targaryen took all his appendages with him, and all that he had left behind in Lucerys' life suddenly disappeared as if swallowed by a sudden tornado, leaving a huge, gray void surrounding him. It was the third time in two years, but now Lucerys felt a panic that he had never felt before.

He felt chagrin, but not much regret - it was a little too difficult for him to endure any longer. Most of the time Lucerys would choose to forgive the other side, but this time it was difficult. The funny thing was that he couldn't even remember what the heated argument had been about, except that he had burned their only photo together on the balcony half an hour after Aemond had left, in a mood that could not be described as depressed, and then smoked a menthol cigarette for the first time as a "reward" for crossing that hurdle. His eyes felt a little sore, and he convinced himself that it was only because the smoke was too strong, and not because of anything else. He thought about how Aemond was always passing the buck, blaming all of life's misfortunes on Lucerys - whether it was the dispute with Alicent Hightower or his brother's malicious jokes. You're too neurotic, Lucerys wanted to tell him, but he was tired of talking to Aemond. Two nights ago Lucerys was convinced that he would go mad sooner or later if he kept going on like this. But it was all over now. So he solemnly went out and drank with his brother, Jacaerys, until the early hours of the morning, and both ended up rotten.

"I don't really believe you'd really want to part with him." Jacaerys said.

"Maybe he never loved me at all, and maybe I did as well." Lucerys said calmly, "We just can't continue to live together."

"Who knows? I think that counts for something." His brother replied. And Lucerys smiled at him. He ended up drinking so much that night that he plopped down by the toilet and vomited as soon as he got back to the apartment after dawn. Through physical tears, he finally had a chance to sob. He didn't understand why he was crying, he just felt so miserable, like falling from a speeding carriage into a puddle of sludge, and it wasn't the first time he had fallen. But once he always had the strength to get up from the mud to catch up with Aemond, and now the situation is very different.

Lucerys recalled, in a confused and hazy haze, the times they had stood side by side in the kitchen studying the new oven, and Aemond had licked all the cream and sugar off his fingers before they had kissed for a long time; or the times they had made love on the bathroom floor, and he had separated Aemond's legs while Aemond had covered his eye and cursed Lucerys, and both of them had ended up with red bruises on their knees; or the times when he just stroked Aemond quietly, he could clearly remember the contours of every bone in his body: his little thumbs, for example, were long and curved slightly inward, his spine and shoulder blades shaped when he arched his back; Aemond would drink whiskey laced with lemonade before he went to bed, and Lucerys never understood what proportion they needed to be mixed. At least he could taste it when their lips were entwined. In July, during the summer holiday, they passed most of the day with long kisses and boring romance movies. That year Lucerys craved skin-to-skin contact more and more, but it was only after the holidays were over that he was able to wrap his arms around Aemond and bury his face in the crook of his neck without a care in the world. He liked to hold that position and then kiss the knot of his throat and his lower jaw.

After graduation they spent the rest of their nights and mornings making love, even though Aemond often looked disgusted - sometimes Lucerys just couldn't quite figure out what Aemond was thinking. What does he want from me? Again and again he stood naked and alone on the terrace late at night thinking, with the sound of Aemond's tired breathing in his sleep behind him. Apparently they were not short of money, so Lucerys got a Mustang the following year, no loan, lump sum. He took him on a road in the humid suburban air, the speakers playing a childish Disney animated movie episode. At a red light he let go of the steering wheel and took hold of Aemond's right hand again, rubbing his fingertips against his nails. When Aemond turned his head, Lucerys cupped his cheeks with both hands and kissed him. At that moment he remembered the doves in Snow White passing kisses for the man and woman who fell in love at first sight, but the pigeons in the park only asked for bread crumbs. Did he want me to love him? Lucerys try to find the answer in his closed eyes. Did he simply want a partner who would put up with all his quirks, or at least make his life less irritatingly monotonous? What would he think of when he kissed him back eagerly?

Lucerys subconsciously wanted to call him, but remembering that he had deleted Aemond from his contacts, even though the string of numbers was still clear to him now, he turned off his phone, sat back down on the couch, turned on the TV and started staring at the screen. Until Rhaena called her in the afternoon, "Lucerys, I heard about that thing."

"Oh," he said, "I'm fine now, really."

"It's our birthday party this weekend, so if you'd like to com, that would be great, of course." Rhaena said, "Baela also thought you might need some new friends."

"I have friends." Lucerys said, "I have my brothers, and you and Baela."

"But Baela wants you to come, and so do your brothers."

"Yes, I will come." He sighed and waited patiently for Rhaena to end the conversation, then began to count how many white flowers were on the pattern of the carpet, still feeling drunk.

Lucerys had forgotten exactly what month it had been the last time Aemond had slipped away, but it seemed to be a spring with French sycamore cotton wool-like flowers that would have made Joffrey allergic. He remembers panicking and staying by the phone twenty-four hours a day, even walking aimlessly around the living room, before Lucerys finally made up his mind to go looking for him, and his first step was to dial Aemond's number from a public phone booth near his house. He nervously kept picking his fingers at the reeled-up phone line. What should he answer if Aemond refused, or if he was abusive? Maybe he shouldn't call at this time.

When the line came through, Aemond didn't even make any extra pleasantries, he just said, "Lucerys Valerian."

"I just wanted to ask," Lucerys said, "Are you all right? I was worried about you."

Then he was surprised to find that Aemond's voice seemed a little hoarse when he spoke. "Nothing serious. Except that ...... oh, damn, I got hit by a damned driver." He sounded unwilling to admit it, "Just a broken bone. Nothing else happened."

"I will come to see you." Lucerys said. He hung up before Aemond had time to refuse. Panting, he hailed a cab and took it all the way to the home of Aemond's mother, Alicent Hightower. He didn't have a car of his own at that point. Lucerys tripped over a raised floor tile in the parking lane and fell to the ground, scraping his knee twice. When Alicent came out to open the door, Lucerys found herself still shaking. The outline of her jaw constricted steeply, but she still turned her body sideways to give him room to pass.

Aemond was lying in his bedroom, with his right leg in a white cast, holding a still-unopened packet of Godiva chocolates. Lucerys was too moved to speak as he fell to his knees beside him, and could only kiss him desperately with apologies. Aemond used the index finger of his right hand to push Lucerys's jaw open, then squeezed his shoulder.

"You're not a dog of mine," Aemond said, his voice sounded unhappy and annoyed,"There's no need to follow me all the time."

"Come back. "Lucerys replied feebly, "Come back to me."

In the fourth week of Aemond Targaryen's absence, Lucerys began to be asked out frequently. Most of the time it was Baela's classmates at the university who invited him. He guessed that it was in fact Jacaerys who had authorized them to do so. But Lucerys didn't refuse. He didn't like going to drinking parties, and sitting in the corner of a cafe was more his speed. The sixth time he was asked out he found himself unconsciously wandering off during the date as well. As he gazed at their blond, brown, or black hair, he was reminded of Aemond's hair, silver, and the odd smelling shampoo he used that smelled like a mixture of mint and ginger. Sometimes even Lucerys himself didn't realize he was comparing them to each other until he found himself constantly remembering the time they had sex when they got back together at college and feeling blushing and embarrassed about it.

He certainly remembered it well. They had stumbled into a passionate kiss in the locker room by the winter pool, and Lucerys' back had hit the metal coat hook behind him several times. Aemond sat on Luceys, holding his fingers tightly and guiding Lucerys through the expansion while he put on a "Troy" condom for Lucerys. He had obviously come prepared. Even though he knew Aemond wouldn't want him to do anything rash at a time like this, he reached out with his left hand to press against his buttocks, the skin wet and cold. Aemond warbled and began to adjust his position after pulling his fingers away, until he sank down hard and then Lucerys' penis finally entered his hole. Troy's blue wrapper fell to one side.

"Do you want me?" Aemond moaned and forced him, arching his back as his lower body went deeper. Lucerys touched his well-defined spine again, and he found himself shuddering at that, turning to rest his palms on the side of Aemond's waist in confusion, feeling Aemond like a sailboat undulating on the sea. He had also begun to gasp with excitement. Even though he knew Aemond didn't like him staring at himself during sex, he still couldn't ignore the lines of Aemond's cheekbones, the hollows between his collarbones, and the blazing warmth between his legs - all things that made Lucerys grateful at that moment. "I want you." Lucerys whispered. And Aemond gave no indication; he simply increased the intensity of his movements and soon found a position that invigorated both of them. He lowered his head and kissed him hard, finally scratching Luthris's back hard as he climaxed. Lucerys heard him let out a sigh that didn't sound like satisfaction or exhaustion, but it sounded like relief. It was as if the barrier between them had vanished into thin air at the same time. Aemond briefly rested his face on his chest. At least for a moment, he felt they had reconciled. They had been together until graduation, even if their relationship had not been as ideal as it had been at the beginning. Lucerys needed a glass of milk every night to help him sleep - a habit he had broken for six years since he turned fifteen. In fact, he wasn't sure if it was working or not at all.

"You're going off again." The girl sitting across from him complained. Lucerys couldn't remember her name for a moment. Marilyn, or was it Marianne? He blamed himself for forgetting it, and sulked because of his irritatingly declining memory. Lucerys struggled to throw away the unpleasant memories, but found that they stuck to his mind like garbage. They played over and over like a montage.

"You had an ex, didn't you?" She trailed off. Then before he could answer she was talking to herself again, spouting off about how awful and insufferable her ex was. He pretended to be listening intently, then deleted all ninety-nine unread ads and verification texts from his phone, then the red and blue dots from his email and social apps. He cleans them up silently and finishes his gin on the table with ice. He never drank before.

At the end of the lengthy date Lucerys drove the red Mustang to meet his mother at the restaurant. Rhaenyra Targaryen was in her early forties, and she wore a low-cut black dress. Their seats were next to the window, and Lucerys didn't like the neon light coming in from outside, so he pushed back his chair. Rhaenyra blinked in displeasure at this. She always used her eyes like that to suggest how she felt. Lucerys lowered his head, just as he had done in elementary school when he came home dirty from jumping in mud puddles for fun. Only now his shoes didn't have dried and caked mud on them, and Renila wouldn't order him to come back for dinner after a bath.

"You don't want to look at me, Lucerys." She said.

"I ...... I'm sorry." Lucerys replied.

"You should have felt that way from the beginning, instead of saying sorry to me now." Rhaenyra said, "I've asked you before, what were you thinking, Lou? Aemond is your uncle and my half-brother. And you both wanted to strangle each other."

"I'm not sure." He said, "Because then I realized he wasn't as bad as I thought he was."

"He was getting back at you. He was always getting back at you. He wanted to destroy you." Rhaenyra said, "He's as no good as his mother, Alicent. She only wants your grandfather's inheritance."

"Don't say that please."

"You're still taking sides with Aemond. But he never forgave you. I told you it was all his revenge on you. Revenge for you blinding him in his right eye."

"I don't want to talk about it, please." Lucerys replied.

Dessert was brownies. Lucerys was still haunted by what Rhaenyra had just said, even though she was telling the whole truth. Aemond teased him and his brother for not being their father's biological sons. Only Joffrey was there at first, so he was pushed off the bridge into the lake at the pier by Aemond. He was indeed an asshole. Lucerys knew this all too well, and didn't even regret accidentally stabbing Aemond in the eye when he returned fire. He shouldn't have tried to make it up to him. Lucerys thought with resentment. He had already wasted too much time on Aemond in his life. If he hadn't insisted, they wouldn't have seen each other so often, and perhaps he wouldn't have discovered that Aemond was far less unbelievable than he thought, and he wouldn't have uncontrollably desired him.

"You've taken the first step. That's good."

Lucerys coped vaguely. Confronting his mother had made him feel more helpless than ever. He had never been able to confess to her that he had begun to desire Aemond when he was fourteen in the pool. A few years later Lucerys learned to masturbate at night thinking about him. He used his memories of the summer in the pool to give vent to his desperate imagination of Ymund. He woke up as if he had been in a swimming pool, covered in dirty leaves and cold water mixed with sweat and disinfectant powder, feeling frustrated and resentful. When he was eighteen years old, Lucerys Rees gave Aemond a dark blue prosthetic eye as a birthday present, almost with malice. They ended up falling in love two months later. It wasn't until the two moved into an apartment and started living together that Lucerys discovered that Aemond smoked a Marlboro every week. He found his posture when he smoked surprisingly lazy and elegant. It was also the only time he could barely call himself "calm". "Men only remember love for romance. ¹" Aemond told him, "but we don't have romance or love. There's only lust and incest between you and me. Do you enjoy it all, Little Luke Strong?"At that time he felt like Aemond was a kite tied by a thin string and held under a glass cover. The string seemed like it would break at any moment. All Lucerys could do was listen in silence to his thunderous curses against Alicent and his brother, who complained that they were trying to drag him into a pointless struggle for his property. Sometimes Aemond was angry with Lucerys, and then continued to lie in the same bed with him as if nothing had happened, deliberately putting his legs on Lucerys.

Lucerys saw Aemond again after the tenth week of his untimely departure. He dreamed of him almost every night. What really alarmed Lucerys was that he found he could no longer clearly recall the details of Aemond's body. He couldn't recall the degree of depression in Aemond's shoulders, the touch of his pinky fingertips, the shape of his knees, or even accurately piece together his features, even as he tried to find them in the pleasure of masturbation. Lucerys crouched in the lavatory in despair, almost wanting to cry. He felt like what he had once had was drifting away from him as fast as if he were adrift at sea. He found himself sunken in the sockets of his eyes as he shaved the new stubble that had sprung up on his lips. His insomnia was getting worse.

After taking some time to calm down he called Aemond's brother Darren in as polite a tone as possible. The person on the other end hesitantly stated that Aemond hadn't been at their house at all. "Shouldn't he be with you all the time?" Darren said, "Mom's been pushing him to break up with you lately." With a shaky voice, Lucerys thanked him. He unconsciously began to smoke on the balcony until a pile of cigarette butts was added to the tiles laid on the floor. Like the first time Aemond had shoved a Marlboro into his mouth, Lucerys felt his lungs burning, but it made him slightly firmer. He knelt beside the bed and buried his face in the blanket, which was no longer covered with Aemond's breath. Then he went back to the bookshelf and ran his fingers across the spines, plucking them one by one out of the bookcase and onto the floor. Until the last one, the pink cover appeared in front of him. Lucerys pulled out "The Lady of the Camellias" carefully, it opened automatically to a certain page, and he found fingernail scratches on the paper. "And who am I tell you how to live. ²" Lucerys murmured. He was right, without the first half of the sentence, without love. He provoked Alicent with the Incestuous rebellion, and enjoyed it. Aemond Targaryen had always been like that.

For two months he was nowhere to be seen or heard from. Lucerys only received an anonymous card at Christmas, a simple folded green cardboard with the words "Happy Holidays" scrawled in blue oil-based ballpoint pen. He didn't know where it came from, but found it standing quietly in his Rolodex. But Lucerys recognized it as coming from Aemond by the unintentional crook at the end of the letter "M" and the "h." He thought about it over and over again that day. Had Ymund come to his office? Or had he just asked someone to leave it there? Had he done it to tell Lucerys that it wasn't over between them - or had he taken it as a terse farewell?

He had been up all night, repeatedly debating between turning on the TV, switching channels, and turning it off. He would not admit that he was actually dreading the overly quiet room, as it seemed to be a constant reminder of the fact that he was bored. In the early hours of the next morning Lucerys heard the doorbell. He went to the door and found Aemond standing in the doorway. He didn't look much different, except that he had grown his hair back and tied it behind his head, with his suitcase behind him. Lucerys stared at him unblinkingly.

"I lost the goddam key." Aemond said.

"The key can be replaced with another one." Lucerys said, "That's okay."

"I was not apologizing to you."

"I know."

"You want to sleep with me now, don't you?"

"I love you."

"Obviously." Aemond said. He started to take off his shirt. Lucerys stopped him. "That's not what I'm here for."

"Turn the light off, I don't want to see you."

Lucerys felt his approaching breath in the darkness and tried to kiss Aemond's lips, easily re-tracing the shape of his body in his mind's eye. His tongue met his teeth, and then another tongue. He held Aemond's nipples between his fingertips until they grew hard, and stroked over his ribs and abdomen again. It was like the night he came of age when they touched each other carefully for the first time in the wet night. His uncle took his wrist and slowly licked each of his fingers. Lucerys tasted smoke and blueberry chewing gum. He suddenly realized the room was too cold, but didn't get up to turn on the heating fan. The cold and the excitement made him feel awake rather than caught in yet another lustful dream. He was kneeling on a patchwork rug imported from Japan, pinning Aemond down with unprecedented firmness, then probing the index finger of his right hand into his rear hole and beginning to move in and out continuously. Aemond turned his head to the side. Lucerys felt his fingers being gripped tightly and pushed inward. He was as hot as fire. And one could feel pleasure in addition to pain when one was burned. When he was little, Lucerys tried to touch the lit candles on his birthday cake, but he was immediately burned and withdrew his hand. Not so, Aemond, he thought, I've always enjoyed burning myself.

   "What the fuck are you crying about?" Aemond asked him, suddenly surprised. "It seems like you're not the one getting fucked. Are you crazy for wanting to fuck me?"

So he wiped the back of his hand across the area below his eyes and found himself in tears. They flowed inexorably and then fell on Aemond's body. He began to sob. Aemond hesitated and reached out and touched his forehead with a gentle gesture that Lucerys had never felt before. A faint glow came through the window behind them, which allowed him to see Aemond's face clearly. Lucerys observed the stiff pause in his right eye as he blinked. The prosthetic eye was beautiful on his face, blue in color. Lucerys remembered that they had not seen each other for seventy-four days. Seventy-four days ago he had sworn that he would be better off without Aemond. Instead, it turned out that losing him would only make things worse. During one of their arguments, Lucerys called him "the bastard Imonte Targaryen, who has turned my head," and Imonte just smiled contemptuously. "Of course I fucking know that." He grabbed Lucerys by the shoulders, "Violent Little Luke Strong." They ended up in a heckle. Finally Lucerys took him in his arms, the tip of his nose touching Aemond's left cheek. Aemond grunted and squeezed Lucerys' stomach. "I should have gone." That's what he told Lucerys then, "I should have gone to Philadelphia and left you alone in this hellhole to watch you languish like a downed dog."

Lucerys decided to close his aching eyes as he entered Aemond, at least that would make him look less wretched. But Aemond immediately asked him to open his eyes again. Lucerys began to move his loins slowly, and Aemond grunted as his legs clenched tighter. He took hold of Aemond's wet and sticky hands. Aemond rarely sweated. At least as far as he could remember his hands had never been as hot as this. There were times when he was as cold as a snake, or maybe he was just cold-blooded. But he groaned with pleasure when Lucerys found his high point by intuition. Lucerys lifted Aemond's hair to the side and he gripped his hand as if it were the last cable on a stormy ship. They kissed again passionately at the onset of their climax. Then they parted in silence, somewhat awkwardly. Aemond announced that he was going to take a shower. Lucerys found the tequila in the refrigerator and took down two more glasses from the cupboard.

"I shouldn't have come back." Aemond draped the bath towel over his shoulders. He took a sip of his drink.

"We can go to Colorado together, if you want." Lucerys said, "We can leave tomorrow. You can go alone, too, but at least let me know you're alive."

"That's not the problem." He slapped the tabletop in annoyance. The towel slid downward a notch. "I thought you knew I loved you too, Lucerys, you're so fucking extravagant, isn't that enough?"

"I never knew." Lucerys was starting to feel impatient, too.

"So that's why you drive me crazy with your stupidity." Aemond finished his tequila in one go and poured another glass full, "I wanted to go too. But unfortunately, I find I can't."

"I should say thank you, Right?" Lucerys wanted to hit him. He hadn't thought of it that way in many years. They had fought hard when he was seventeen: Aemond had punched him in the nose and Lucerys had elbowed him in the jaw, and they had laughed and accused each other when they talked about it, when Lucerys would have felt relieved. Now he only felt an unprecedented anger towards Aemond. He doesn't understand anything at all, Lucerys thought. Aemond never understood what he really wanted. Hell, he was a self-righteous fool. He should have realized the truth. It would have been so much easier if Aemond hadn't been his uncle and had been a woman. Maybe then they would have been married, or maybe then they would never have met. Now he couldn't tell which would be the better situation.

Two hours after dawn he began to count, until roughly an hour had passed. Lucerys got up and brewed a bowl of cereal with cold milk that was about to expire - the red carton with the smiling woman in the white headscarf that Lucerys thought would be more appropriate for the cover of the cleaner. He made more spices for mulled wine with cinnamon, cardamom, citrus and rosemary. Rhaenyra had suggested that he drink a glass of red wine before bed to help him sleep, and now he decided to heed that advice. Aemond sat across from him and repeatedly poked the bowl of cereal with his spoon.

"We should get a dog." Lucerys said.

"I hate dogs." Aemond said, "Noisy and a waste of money."

"You never thought anything wasn't worth spending money on."

"I'm different now."

"You haven't changed a thing."

"That's your inconsequential judgment."

"We need a dog. One of those sheepdogs."

"It's useless." Aemond pursed his lips, indicating he didn't want to continue the argument.

Lucerys also felt he had no need to argue with him any further. In the afternoon they drove the Mustang to the mall. To buy tomorrow's breakfast, like whole wheat toast and marmalade. He had made his shopping list in advance and added coffee beans to the last column before he left. Only to find that the piece of paper was missing. Aemond taunted him for his carelessness, and Lucerys tried his best to restrain his chagrin. He had sometimes found living with Aemond nerve-wracking in the past; now he was beginning to feel tired. Rhaenyra called him in the evening. He and Aemond were reviewing the menu at the steakhouse and had just decided on a lobster bisque.

"I saw you with Ymund." Rhaenyra's voice sounded worried and sad, "What did you say last time, you swore you'd give him up. Lucerys, you chose him over your family."

"Aemond is my family, too. He's my uncle."

"That's only 'half' family, too."

"He only came back yesterday."

"Jacaerys is right. You can't leave him anymore." Raynera sighed. Lucerys rubbed his hand against the red velvet-trimmed wall. I'm rotting, he thought, and Aemond is like marijuana, toxic and capable of addiction. He was suddenly so sad he almost choked, but couldn't say why. After Rhaenyra Targaryen discovered the relationship between the two of them Lucerys had also had a big fight with her. In fact, he had been used to playing the role of a good boy. That was the first time that Lucerys rebelled against her. He followed the rules and went to the school she thought was good, joined the clubs she thought were good, applied to the majors she thought were good, and then found the boyfriend that drove her the most crazy. Lucerys admits he got pleasure from her shock and anger at the time, but that didn't last long.

"I'm going to hang up." He said.

"No matter what, you'll always be my son, and I'll always be your mother." She said at last.

"I know." Immediately afterwards he hung up the phone.

After a long tussle Lucerys chose the rib-eye steak, and Aemond asked for the same. He knew Aemond hated spinach, so he ordered only the goose fat potatoes, even though Lucerys didn't like them himself. After eating, they wandered aimlessly through the mall. Lucerys saw a ring at the counter in the shape of a Mobius strip, meaning "infinite love", which he thought was ridiculous, but bought a pair anyway.

On the way back they encountered a serious traffic jam. Aemond kept pressing the fast-forward and fast-reverse buttons on the record player with his hand. Lucerys put his hand on his knee. He grasped his hand. The skin felt extraordinarily real.

"When are you planning to go to Colorado?" Lucerys asked Aemond.

"I didn't say I was going to fucking Colorado."

"No, you have to go. And it's going to be us together." His lips parted and closed as if the words were automatically popping out of his chest in a huge blossom in his throat. Don't you understand? Lucerys wanted to ask him. He knew that Aemond never cared about what was going on around himself, but it didn't occur to him that he couldn't even perceive the most superficial nature of their relationship. Even the little love we have left for each other. He thought as he counted the lines on the leather of the seat. Even though it had burned so brightly for a short time.

"We'll come back. We'll go back to the beginning." Lucerys continued.

Aemond scowled at him suspiciously, as if to make sure this wasn't just another malicious joke. Lucerys had enjoyed this pungent look from him in the past, but now it only showed his confusion and foolishness. "Back to what?"

"Back here, back where it started." Lucerys suddenly wanted to let out a laugh. He wanted to laugh hysterically at something, someone. His heart fluttered at the thought that it might be himself, but he immediately felt the pleasure of sobriety again. He had pretended to himself that everything was fine between him and Aemond, that the problem was simply Aemond's capricious stubbornness, including his unwillingness to forgive Lucerys. The root cause was never here. They were destined to be so long ago, because they were Targaryen and Valerian. Lucerys could always find excuses from other sources, but he also knew in his heart that it didn't work. Aemond was even more foolish than he was, and he didn't even have the slightest sense - his poor eye were always set on less than a few miles long. Now Lucerys was determined to tease out the truth, or at least make it clear to both of them where they stood.

"We'll repeat the same mistakes, just like the past over and over again without realizing it, just like this damned Mobius ring, back to the beginning again for a change." Lucerys Velaryon spoke the truth aloud to the windshield in front of him, raising his hand to show Aemond the ring he had just placed on his left middle finger -- a shimmering silver metal ring -- Aemond also had one on his hand --then slumped exhausted at the wheel and waited for the long line of cars that had formed to restart.

1. It is said that the brand name comes from the abbreviation of "Man Always Remember Love Because Of Romance Only".

2.The original is, "Who are you, tell me how to love, and who am I tell you how to live.

[psychedellic-phase]

Fifteen (pt 9)

A/N: it’s reader backstory time! This part also includes season 6 spoilers :) xx

word count: 4.0k 

tw: mentions of violence, abuse, cursing, other criminal minds stuff!

masterlist:

The beginning of letter #8 was scribbled out, like you’d written but decided the words weren’t quite right. Spencer tried to look through the black ink lines to see what you wrote, but most of it was smudged from tears. 

“This was the night everything changed, Spencer. This was the beginning of the end, but at the time it just felt like the beginning. It was a little over a year ago, sorry for skipping some of the middle. I could’ve written a 5,000 page novel about every little moment I had with you. If I had the time, I would. I’d write about every date night, every bouquet of roses, every case you held my hand through. I thought about writing about a lot more of the ‘happy’ parts, but they would’ve just been fun, little, anecdotes and made my heart hurt more. I decided on only highlighting the important parts, not that the happy parts were unimportant. I think they may be the most important, they’re the only things that kept me going at the end. Those parts gave me hope that maybe one day we’d get back to those people. But we didn’t and those people are long gone. Now all the bad memories outweigh the good ones. I need you to see the ugly parts. I always showed you those, and you still told me they were beautiful in some way.  

“Everything is a masterpiece if you look at it in the right way” 

So here’s the ugly Spence, any clue how to make this beautiful? How do I make this a ‘masterpiece’? Because I don’t know. 

Before I start, I want you to put on some regular clothes and pack up the box and put it in your car. Remember how in the first letter I said you’d need to go somewhere? This is that letter. So get in your crappy car that brought us together and drive to the place where it all started to fall apart: Meridian Hill Park.”

Spencer stopped reading and did as you asked. He took the sweatshirt off and hung it in his closet in a place he’d see it everyday. He didn’t really own any ‘regular clothes’ so he ended up in slacks and a dress shirt, his version of regular. He grabbed the box and the last of the coffee in a to-go mug and got in the car. He slipped the disc from letter 2 in and listened to Stacy’s Mom on a low volume. Between that and the snow, he felt like you were right there with him. 

When he got to the park, he sat in his car for a moment and reopened the letter. 

“There? Good. The bench we sat at is next to the blue bird bath and under that huge oak tree. Go sit at it.”

Spencer got out of the car, now wearing a heavy wool coat and scarf, and made his way to that spot. After most of your dates you’d go for a stroll around that park and always end up at that exact bench. You’d talk for hours, or sometimes you’d people watch. Either way, that bench became another one of your places. He set the box down on his left, the spot where you usually sat, and kept reading.

“That particular night was in December, during that weird week in between Christmas and New Years when time doesn’t feel real and the world is almost at a stand still. (My favorite week of the year) I had begged you to go to the movies with me. I dragged you to see Frozen. 

“Frozen?” You said, crinkling your nose, “Out of all the movies?”

I laughed and told you that I needed to see it because Mia had and already loved it. I think I said something like, “If I’m going to be her cool Aunt we have to see it.”

And you agreed, because you’d do anything for me. You always would. So two thirty-somethings went to see a six o’clock showing of Frozen on a Tuesday. We looked ridiculous; your messenger bag was overflowing with snacks and we were the only people there without a child. 

I loved it though, and you did too. When the movie was over we sat in the lobby at a table and I finished my slurpee as you told me about the real story of Frozen. 

“It’s loosely based on ‘The Snow Queen’ by Hans Christian Andersen from 1845. They both have a snow Queen, reindeer, trolls, frozen hearts, and snow creatures, but that’s where the similarities end. In the original story there is a horrible magic mirror and,” You finally paused to breathe, “ROBBERS!”

I laughed, “Aren’t all fairytales actually awful? We’ve just disney-ified them for kids?”

You nodded, “Most fairy tales in their original form were gruesome to the extreme. In Cinderella, the step-sisters had their feet mutilated to fit into the shoe.”

I yawned, “That’s why I always stuck to Pixar.”

We laughed and threw away our million candy wrappers. As we were leaving I saw a photo booth, one of those old one’s like I went in with all my high school boyfriends. I pulled you over to it and you grimaced, “It’s a small space CRAWLING with germs Y/N!” you whined to me, “Do you know how many people have been in there?” 

I rolled my eyes, “It’ll take thirty seconds and I will sanitize after!”

I tugged your arm in and we both barely fit in the booth. You pulled me onto your lap and four poses later we had two photo strips covered in pictures of you kissing my cheek and us smiling. That’s your momento for this letter.”

Spencer reached in and grabbed the photo strip delicately between his fingers. It was one of those tacky ones that looked like a roll of film and all the pictures were in black and white. The first one was the two of you smiling as wide as you could, the second you stuck your tongue out and Spencer scrunched up his nose, for the third he kissed your cheek, and the last one you turned your head to meet him. His heart softened for a moment, remembering how soft and sweet your kisses were. They were usually delicate, like you were kissing the finest of china. Or they were intense, like you were drowning and he was coming up for air. He felt warm, despite the snow falling all around him. 

“This is my copy. We printed two. I don’t know where yours is, I just hope it isn’t in the trash. I know it’s another photograph; you just got one of those from JJ’s wedding.  But I love photographs. I have a million of you and I. I always used to shove my phone in your face and you’d block it with your hands. I haven’t been able to bring myself to delete them yet. I just love pictures. They capture moments, the good and the bad. Sometimes the only thing that can get the feelings across is a photo, so here’s four. 

I remember sticking them in my purse as we walked out of the theater hand in hand and found ourselves in this park. I love it when the cherry blossom’s bloom, but they weren’t blooming. We found our way to this exact bench that you’re sitting on right now. I think it has the best view of the fountain. You put your arm around me and I snuggled into you. You were trying to talk about work; something about Rossi and Gideon? I didn’t know. I was so tired, I couldn’t even focus. I remember just staring at the dry fountain; they turn it off when the weather gets too cold. 

“Don’t you agree?” You said, but I didn’t register it, “Y/N?”

I looked up at you and blinked a few times. I sat up and moved myself off of you, “What? Sorry about that I—“ my own yawn interrupted me, “I’m just really tired.”

You looked at me so concerned. Your pretty, honey brown eyes always could see right through me. 

“Tired? But we went to sleep at ten last night, you should’ve had at least seven hours.”

I just shrugged and you raised your eyebrows at me, waiting for me to spill. 

“I couldn’t fall asleep the last few nights.”

I avoided your prying gaze that felt red hot on my skin even in the freezing air and played with the locket around my neck, as I usually do when I’m nervous. 

“Y/N,” You said and grabbed my two hands to make me look at you. I looked you straight in the eyes. 

“Talk to me.”

I sighed, “No.”

“No?” You looked offended, I don’t blame you. 

“No,” I said plainly. It looked like I was picking a fight, but I wasn’t. I just wasn’t ready to tell you. It’s so weird, we had spent over two years together by then, and I still couldn’t tell you. I don’t know why. It wasn’t you. You make me feel comfortable and safe. I think talking about it made it more real for me, you know? And I just didn’t want it to be real. 

“Is it the nightmares? Are they back again?” 

I just nodded. Of course you knew, you always knew.

“Y/N, we’ve been through this. You have to talk about them.”

I groaned and you dropped my hands to run yours through your hair. Frustrated is how you felt in that moment, and I don’t blame you. I was mad at myself too. 

“I know! But can’t I just not want to talk about it?”

You stood up and paced in front of me, “You have to talk to someone! Even if it isn’t me.”

“That’s the thing! I don’t trust anyone except you with it!”

You sounded defeated, “Then why don’t you tell me? You haven’t slept, Y/N. You need to take care of yourself. I can’t just sit back and watch you do this to yourself. It’s not healthy.”

That isn’t the last time I heard you say that, but it was the first. That became your favorite phrase at the end. “It’s not healthy,” as if you’re the judge of what’s healthy and not.

My heart ached at the sight of you; purple scarf disheveled and your eye bags a similar color. Your hair was tousled from running your hands through it and you looked like you might cry. I patted the seat next to me so you would sit down and then before I could even think them, the words were tumbling out of my mouth. Every. Damn. Detail.”

He remembered it so clearly, as if it were yesterday. The cold air bit at your skin causing you to shiver and pull your coat tighter. The only warmth either of you felt was what was radiating off the other. It wasn’t much. 

“It’s the nightmare, like the nightmare. The same one from Jacksonville. It just won’t go away. I wake up sweaty and disoriented and I can’t breathe.” 

Silence came. How hadn't he heard you wake up the last few nights? Why didn’t he notice? He silently scolded himself while watching your feet draw little shapes in the snow. The flakes landed on your hair perfectly and the light made you look like you had a halo. An angel. His angel.

You got yourself together and back tracked, “Do you know what I did before the BAU Spence?”

He thought for a moment and realized he didn’t. He had no idea. It was a strange feeling. He knew the last four or so years of your life so well. He spent two and some change of them with you, together, but he knew little about you before then. He knew about your family and your childhood, but that was it. Your early twenties were a secret. 

“No, I don’t,” He croaked, running his hands nervously down his pants, as if they were sweaty, “Rossi just called you one day and the next you were here.”

You sighed and didn’t dare look at him, “I worked with Organized Crime in California. With the Bratva.”

“The russian mafia?” His voice went high, like it always did when he was confused. 

“Let me start at the beginning,” You took a deep breath and held it for a moment, “I went to school, got my criminal justice degree, you know the usual stuff. I worked on various other criminal psychology and forensic degrees and certs until I turned twenty-three.”

“So you could join the bureau,” he finished your sentence. 

You pursed your lips and nodded, “Yeah, it was my life long dream. So I joined at 23, found myself in organized crimes twenty weeks later. I was on the fast track. Not as fast as you of course,” You smiled and bumped your shoulder with his, earning a warm smile that made you feel more comfortable. 

“I worked various cases for a year or two. Low level stuff, you know? Until they actually needed me.”

He was nervous to hear it now, half regretting asking, and half celebrating the fact that you’d share your deepest darkest with him. 

“You know like in old movies when the gangster has a pretty girl in a skimpy dress on his lap? And she pretends to know nothing about what he does? Yeah that was me. Turns out I was the right age and type for Alexei. So there I was. Twenty-five. Had no idea what I was doing, going undercover.”

“Like Emily did with Doyle,” he said. 

You nodded, “Like Emily and Doyle. That’s part of why we got along so well, we both had similar experiences. She knew what the long haul was like.”

“How long were you under?” Spencer whispered. 

“Sixteen months.”

His eyes went wide, “Sixteen?”

“Yup,” you popped the ‘p’. 

“That’s a long time.”

“You don’t become a mafia kingpin’s girlfriend overnight, Reid.”

He laughed. You didn’t. 

“See you guys do the short stints. A night, maybe a day or so. It’s different. It’s draining. Constantly worrying about knowing the details of my cover while also not losing myself in the process. Sometimes I couldn’t tell where the cover ended and I started. I was paranoid, looking over my shoulder constantly. If they knew who I was, I’d get killed instantly.”

He stiffened next to you, but you carried on. 

“And you can’t break character. You have to do whatever they want. I had to be his girlfriend. I had to pretend to love him. You know how tiring that is? Pretending to be in love with a man you’re trying to take down? Pretending to like what he likes? Pretending to want to be a part of the sick shit they did?”

He sighed, “You had to do everything he wanted.”

His heart sank and he suddenly felt angry. He needed to punch this guy in the face. 

“Everything,” You practically spit out, venom dripping from the words, “And Alexei’s favorite pastime was killing people who he thought were disloyal. He’d switch it up. Some days he liked to make them suffer, others it was one between the eyes and out. He liked to make me watch.  He liked hurting the dancers too. They had a club, they always have a damn club, and those girls were the only friends I had for months. He liked to hurt them too, defile them. ‘Ruin them’ he’d say.”

Spencer’s arm reached around you now. The cold was getting to both of you, but you didn’t budge from the bench. You didn’t curl into him for safety. You just stared at the snow. 

“He liked when it hurt. He liked to throw things at me. Bruise me. Pull my hair. God I hated it,” your voice was a mere whisper now. Spencer’s grip around you tightened with every word. He wanted to protect you. He always wanted to protect you. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” He mumbled into your hair. A few frozen tears dripped down your cheeks. You sat like that, silently sobbing while remembering what had happened to you. What you’d seen. 

“What happened to him?”

You took a shaky breath, “I begged them to let me out. We had enough. I had stacks and stacks of pictures and evidence. But they didn’t let me. My awful handler would always say ‘just a few more days, Y/N, just a few.’ Then that would become another month. The job only needed eight months. I was there double that. Finally, they did the raid. I got kudos and congratulations. A promotion and a couple extra bucks, as if that would take away what I had been through. I wasn’t myself anymore.”

You took a thick swallow, finding it hard to breathe, “So I quit.”

Spencer held you still, not moving a muscle. 

“I quit. I gave up my dream. I moved back to Connecticut. I made coffee at Starbucks for $7.25 an hour. I read. I went on trips and vacations. I needed to find myself again. Then one day you guys stumbled into them and Rossi called me since I knew first hand how they worked. That was all I needed. A taste of it again, and I was all in. So a week later I showed up, Rossi raving about my ‘ability to get information out of people.’ I developed the skill to survive, Spence.”

You turned into him now, head on his chest. 

“So the nightmares are those memories. The girl’s faces. The young kids who messed up jobs. They’re hurting and I can’t save them. That’s the nightmare.”

You sat in silence, letting the words hang in the air between you. You were tired and spent, leaning your full body weight into him. He was just trying to relax and keep calm. He was pissed, and a little bit was directed at you. 

“I’m so sorry Y/N, but thank you for telling me,” His voice was low and raspy, his head spinning. For just over two years he had been your person. Your rock. And he didn’t know this about you? Why couldn’t you tell him? He told you all of his dirty secrets; his dad, the kidnapping, the drugs, and you ‘couldn’t tell him?’ Why?

“That’s why I was so scared when Emily ‘died.’” You used air quotes around the last word, “Her nightmare came true.”

“Yours won’t.”

You sniffled and rubbed your ice cold nose, “I know. You guys keep me safe.”

You looked up at him, falling into his big doe eyes. They were hurt and twisty, but full of love. And you looked at him like he was everything in the world. In that moment, he was. 

He treated you differently after that night. He was always kind and gentle, but he approached you with a new sense of care. He didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did. Someone finally understood you, and it felt so good. But one thing always bothered him, why did you wait so long to tell him? He didn’t think he’d ever know. 

“I loved you and trusted you enough to lay it all out for you, and you took it all in. You told me you wouldn’t let it change anything, but it did. I thought it changed us for the better. Maybe it didn’t, I’m still not sure. You told me it made me stronger, more resilient. It made you love me more, if that was even possible. It made me human. You told me Ernest Hemingway once said “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” You said I was strong at those broken places. 

So that’s what this photostrip is to me. It’s the day I officially took all of my walls down and showed you the parts of me that aren’t pretty, and you didn’t run away. You stayed and kissed me on that freezing cold park bench and warmed me up with a hug I never wanted to leave. I thought after that it would take something much greater than you or I to break this apart, like divine intervention. We were impenetrable, but then again, so was the Titanic.

That night I didn’t have any nightmares. I didn’t have a bad one until a few weeks ago. I missed having you next to me during it. You were right, talking about it does help. I’ll find someone out here to talk to, I promise. 

That night, all the walls were finally down. I think that was my fatal mistake, if only I kept them up a little while longer.

So look at us, all young and innocent before the world left us jaded and hurt. I miss your cheek kisses and the way your hands feel snaking around my waist. I miss your fact dumps and the way you feel like home. Thank you for taking me at my worst, loving me, and leaving me better than I was when you got there. Just like being under, it’s now hard for me to tell where I end and you begin. So many parts of you became parts of me. I’ll have to work on finding myself again, and this time I won’t do it over grande java-chip frappucinos, I’ll do it over case files. I’m finally done running away.” 

Spencer’s throat was dry and his palms were so sweaty the ink was bleeding underneath his fingers. How was he sweating when it was barely ten degrees outside? He put the letter and photo strip back in the box and stuffed it in the passenger seat of his car before walking back into the park. 

The fountain was off again, but he remembered what it looked like running. He walked the same paths you had walked with him a million times. He never wanted to walk them alone. He wondered if Seattle had any nice parks like this for you to walk through. He hoped you were close to Pike Place Market so you could order a coffee at the first ever Starbucks. He hoped you were happy. 

He remembered the way the park looked in the summertime, all lush, green grass and kid’s playing. He remembered the picnic you went on when the blanket flew away. He remembered kissing you under huge trees and feeding birds. As he walked around, he could almost see it, shadows of the people you used to be.  

He walked for maybe an hour before retreating back to his crappy car and crying for a moment. He didn’t turn the music back on as he drove home. He just thought of the way your body racked with tears at the nightmares and how he could always calm you down, almost instantly. He wondered who would see you through the nightmares now? They’re too hard to do alone. 

He didn’t remember when he got home, seemingly having driven on auto-pilot the whole time. When he got back inside he dropped the box and made a beeline for where his copy of your photo strip was, on one of his many shelves covered in books. He grabbed the book he had started six months ago. It was a gift from Rossi and he only read half of it, a rarity for him. When he got halfway through, everything happened and he couldn’t bring himself to open the book up anymore. He rifled through the pages of  ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ and found the photo strip where it was acting as a bookmark on the page where he had left off. He took it out and slammed the book closed, not wanting to read any of the words, even by accident. 

He took the strip over and compared it to yours. His was worn and bent and the shiny photo paper had dulled from the many pages he had stuck it between. Yours was in perfect condition, still shiny and even a little sticky, like it hadn’t been touched. He stared at them, wondering what your life would be now if you could’ve held onto the people in that photo booth. There were so many what-ifs, he didn’t even know where to begin. He knew he couldn’t just leave it at these letters, he needed more. He needed to see you and he fully intended on breaking your ground rules, but not until he was finished. He walked back to the box with newfound vigor, and grabbed #9.

PART 10!

taglist: @l0ve-0f-my-life @aperrywilliams @helloniallslovelies @random-ravings

@ajwantsapancake @andiebeaword @boiled-onionrings @frnks-stuff @icantevenanymore1 @mellifluouswildbluebells @rottenearly @sammypotato67 @blushingwueen @peaxhyjaes @justanotherfangurlz @juniorgman187 @mbowles23-blog​ @blameitonthenight @goldentournesol​

(i think some tags aren’t working so if anyone knows how to fix that pls lmk :)

[captaincvans]

Chapter Two: Mind Made of Stone

10/18/19

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Word Count: 1807+

Warnings: Language! Sad!Chris

Series Masterpost

A/N: Sorry I kinda disappeared!! I basically re-wrote this entire series in the past week because i had a bunch of ideas for it, and didn’t like where it was heading. I hope you guys like this chapter~ Lemme know what you think 😊

Christopher Robert Evans was raised to be humble, and his mother taught him not to have his money or fame get the best of him. This was one of the main reasons he found himself doing his own taxes once he turned of age. It got a bit more difficult as he received more income, but he thought he did well. The IRS never came after him, so he assumed he was doing everything correctly. Almost a year ago, he had a few reunion with his college buddies, and he got the chance to catch up with his Jason Kwon, known in college for his drunken dart skills, now an accountant with a husband and two golden retrievers. Chris shared his struggles with his taxes, and Jason was quick to offer his help. Unfortunately, Jason had only bad news for him. According to his previous pay stubs and contracts, there should have been a lot more money in his account. 

Chris’s POV

I was finally heading home, filming had wrapped up late November, and I could finally enjoy December in Boston without worrying about my projects. Not that I had any lined up, I discretely took a break from it all since the investigation. The past few months were the most stressful time of my life. I was beaten down and exhausted, and I wanted nothing more than this whole ordeal to end already.  Jason insisted that I went through every role and contract I had, as well any royalties that was made in the last ten years. He wanted to do this as soon as possible to make sure that everything was resolved before I had to file my taxes. It was soon pretty evident that the middle-man was the cause of the whole issue. The middle man being my manager, Daniel Kolb. He was in charge of most of my finances, as in, he controlled the account that the money was going into. I still had my personal account, but most of my money sat in that account that he had control over. 

I felt relief that the press still haven’t caught whiff of the situation, with so many moving parts in the investigation I was worried that it would leak before I had the chance to clear things up. Right before I went home for the holidays, I was informed that Daniel made a deal with the police. He would say who else was in on the scam, and he would be sentenced to a lesser degree. I hated it, but I had to know who else would betray me like this. He only said one name, and it was the one I never would have thought. 

Y/N L/N. 

My guard was up the minute I came home. She betrayed my trust. I shared with her my fear of being taken advantage of, and my reservation for dating people outside of the industry. She knew that. Hell, she was the first one to bring up her discomfort with dating someone famous. It was something we were both insecure about. She felt like whatever she did would never be good enough financially, and I felt like if not my partner, the people around them could easily take advantage of my money and fame. 

I was picking up fights with her, I knew that and she knew that. I just wanted her to confess that she was taking money from me. I wanted her to tell it to my face. Whatever I did, she wouldn’t budge. She acted like nothing was wrong, and she was confused whenever I brought up our finances. We kept our accounts separate, something she said would give her comfort in knowing that she can still provide for herself and me. I kept pushing it until the breaking point. 

In reality I finished her decoy Christmas gift three months ago, and her real Christmas gift eight months ago. The chunky wool blanket I made her sitting patiently in the closet of my office where I knew she would never go into, and the beautiful cathedral setting engagement ring I hand-made sat in the locked drawer of my office table. Two items that I knew would never see the light of day. I wanted to burn them at the thought of her betrayal, clenching my teeth so hard, my jaw ached. I didn’t bother putting up a front with my family at Christmas, my disdain at its peak when once again she brought up splitting the cost for the gifts she bought my nieces and nephew. The truth would come out in a few weeks time, I just had to wait for the warrant to be approved before they could start investigating her accounts. When we finally got home, I wanted nothing more than to snuggled in to my bed. Y/N moved to the guest bedroom a week ago, and it’s been nice to have the whole bed to myself again. I was just about to make it to the stairs when I heard her voice. 

“Chris, can we talk?” I could hear the uneasiness in her tone, and wanted to scoff at her fake innocence. 

“About what?” I barked, my hand automatically going to my hip. 

“It was just really awkward today…” she trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip. 

I rolled my eyes. “Just because I didn’t get you a gift one time?!”

“No, no! It’s not like that- I don’t care that you didn’t get me anything. It’s just… I bought those Disney World passes for us… Daniel said you would be doing the last month of your filming in California so I figured I could take some time off and we can go together after you’re done.” 

“So you’re upset that I wasn’t more excited for it? Jesus, you know I hate it when you make plans without considering my plans. What if I don’t want to stay in California after filming? You know I only leave Boston when I have to.”“I know, but I thought it would be easier for you to stay in California for an extra month, instead of coming back here and having to spend money on another flight there.”

I scoffed, my arms folded in front of me. This is how manipulative she could get, I realized. She was trying to turn this around, as if she was doing me a favour. Before, I would’ve eaten this up, cooing at how kind and thoughtful she was, but now I know better. “It’s always about money with you, isn’t it?”

“What?! What do you mean?” She had the audacity to look confused and upset, but I can see through her. 

“You’re always talking about money- telling me that I should save here and save there when I want something, but when you want something you don’t care about my savings anymore.”

“Chris, I never asked you to-“ 

“We both know you’re only with me for my money anyways,” I spat, saying the words I’ve been wanting to say to her these past months. 

““Chris, what the fuck?! You know that’s not true-” she exclaimed, but I could only scoff.. “Chris, I love you for you- I don’t-”

I finally snapped when she said those three words. How dare she manipulate me, hurt me, and then tell me that she loved me. A burst of fury filled my heart as I spat out a couple of words strung together that I knew would end our relationship. “You love my money. You love being spoiled. Honestly, don’t know why I bothered with you- I basically was just paying you to hang out and have sex with me.” I was on a tirade, and I couldn’t stop. The words just coming out of my mouth like hot lava, and I could see her shrink away with every word, and that just made me angrier. “I should’ve just gone with a prostitute- they’re probably cheaper and at least they keep themselves in shape. You just look like you’ve really let yourself go- honestly, how much weight did you gain while you were fattening yourself up with my money?”

I could see the moment she knew this wasn’t just a small fight that I would eventually fix. This was huge, and I was pissed. “I think we should break up,” she said, her voice small. I raised my eyebrow, thinking she would put more of a fight into the argument, afterall she was with me for my money, but I guess the jig was up. She knew she was caught. I watched her pack everything, making sure she took only what she bought. She turned to look at me again, her fingers playing with the scarf she was packing. “Um- I’m not sure how you want to go about this, but I think you should know anyways, and if you want to call me after you’ve calmed down a bit so we can discuss this-”

“Discuss what?” I asked, my patience wearing thin at her hesitance. 

“I’m pregnant, Chris.”

I couldn’t help but laugh and shake my head. Was she serious? She was just gonna try to pull the oldest trick in the book on me. Does she think I was stupid? But I guess she was desperate. “Really? You’re gonna pull that one on me? I’ve had my share of sluts pretending to be pregnant with my baby. Stop lying to try to tie me down to you. It ain’t gonna work. You’re not getting any more money from me.”

“I’m serious, Chris. I could show-”

“Well, I don’t believe you. You probably got knocked up by someone else.”

“I never-”

“Just get out. I’ll leave your stuff with the concierge downstairs.” With that I opened the door for her, making sure she was heading out before closing the door. I felt relief wash over me as I removed that last toxic part of my life. Through all the anger, the emotion I felt the most was betrayal. I trusted her and loved her so much, and she went around to hurt me like this. I could finally feel the dam breaking as tears made my way down my face, my head falling to my hands as I continue to sob at the loss of everything I knew to be real. The family I trusted outside of my own family, and they all deceived me. I was at a loss on what to do, but at least there was one person I knew I could always count on. I called my mom. 

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[ckret2]

So I’ve got a Spotify playlist consisting of the compiled contents of 81 different Alastor-centric playlists, like I just copied the contents of every single playlist I could find with no cultivation, no filtering, and no censoring. The one limitation I put was no duplicates of the same song—although multiple versions of the same song off different albums was allowed.

And since then I’ve been listening to this all-packed-together playlist on shuffle. It’s brought up several comments/questions. Highlights include:

- To every single person that includes a romance song with lines like “baby you’re my angel” or the like: are you a Radiodust shipper actually referring to Angel, or are you a Charlastor shipper referring to Charlie’s “fallen angel” heritage?

- One of you included an entire creepypasta story about the devil talking a man into killing his ex-wife and her lover as part of a 500-step-long plan to conceive the Antichrist and I’m not quite sure why it was on an Alastor playlist but I appreciate the characterization of the devil in it. I guess a creepypasta is kind of a radioplay of sorts? Maybe more Alastor playlists should just have random radioplays mixed in.

- To the person who included half a Kidz Bop album on their Alastor playlist: I’m not judging, I just wanna know why. I want to understand. I really want to understand.

- I respect all you people that included song covers by Scott Bradlee’s Postmodern Jukebox and I understand where you’re coming from, but like, if you’re not familiar with music genres from before 1990, I suggest you look up which genre a given PMJ cover is trying to emulate, because if you’re stuffing PMJ covers on a playlist specifically to make them “sound like” Alastor’s era or because you’re going for “songs Alastor would like because they sound like what he’s used to,” then a PMJ cover that makes a 1990s song sound like a 1970s song isn’t quite in the right neighborhood.

- There are different philosophies that go into making a character playlist. Some go “the genre has to fit the character’s era and/or personal tastes, whether or not the lyrics do.” Some go “the lyrics have to fit the character, genre be damned.” Some go “these songs were big/popular when I was into this character so that’s what I associated with them.” Some go “these songs are really out there for the canon character but fit my headcanons.” Some people may have totally different criteria I haven’t even thought of! Anyway the point is: when you mix over eighty playlists together, you get every single playlist-making philosophy mixed together, and it’s an exciting experience to listen to.

- And on that note: every single genre on the planet is on this playlist. We’ve got Britney Spears, we’ve got Vocaloid, we’ve got Thomas Sanders (we’ve got a LOT of Thomas Sanders), we’ve got My Chemical Romance, Two Steps from Hell, Barry Manilow, Oingo Boingo, Within Temptation, Madonna, Kesha, Hans Zimmer, ... we’ve got the poppiest pop, emo, metal, electronic, folk, rap, rock, movie soundtracks, TV soundtracks, classical, disco, country, KPop, Carrie Underwood, every single decade for the last 150 years... and I’m deliberately leaving out all the jazz, swing, electroswing, and musicals, because those are a given for Alastor. Obviously those ones dominate the playlist but it’s amazing how much variety there is outside them.

- I’m frankly amazed by how much of this playlist is Thomas Sanders and Bendy and the Ink Machine. Like. It’s a notable quantity.

- That said, actually the playlist doesn’t quite include every single genre. Like, for example: I can tell y’all want to lean into Alastor’s New Orleanian/Louisianan/Creole roots from how many songs I’ve seen that include words like voodoo, Creole, New Orleans, bayou, uhhhh The Princess & the Frog, etc... And yet aside from a few New Orleanian jazz artists so far I have crossed paths with very little Louisianan music compared to, say... Undertale songs. So here. Start with some Cajun, try some Mardi Gras songs, I’m not totally sure how much of this playlist is “actually from Louisiana” and how much is “other people making songs that they think are Louisianan” but try this one anyway, and once you’ve oriented yourself a bit dig in here. I wanna see ten Alastor playlists with one song that includes “Zydeco” in the title or album name, stat. Sure, we know Alastor’s all jazz and swing and musicals, but I sure don’t listen to only three genres, you probably don’t listen to only three genres, and Mr. Radio Guy Whose Public Title Includes The Word “Radio” Who Likes Bursting Spontaneously Into Musical Numbers probably listens to more genres than you and me combined, and those genres probably started with what was local & accessible & common around where he grew up.

- Then again I haven’t listened to this whole playlist yet, sometimes I put it on shuffle and sometimes I put it in alphabetical order to try to slowly work through it from top to bottom (I’ve made it mostly through the C’s) so maybe y’all hid the Cajun & Creole music down in the D’s. But lemme say this: while randomly shuffling through the playlist, I’ve randomly run into multiple Irish drinking songs & shanties, and randomly run into zero zydeco, so like from those of you who follow the “music that sounds like what the character listens to” philosophy of playlist-making, non-jazz Louisianan music could use a lil more representation. If there’s room for twenty-six Billie Eilish songs there’s room for one BeauSoleil song. (I’m partial to “L’ouragon,” but you do you)

- Somewhere in this massive mixed playlist there are three parody medleys of Disney songs rewritten to be like “here are grimdark edgy lyrics about all of the terrible real-world things happening to the cultures depicted in these Disney movies!” and like, okay, I can see why that merits inclusion in an Alastor playlist, his big moment in the pilot was “take an optimistic song worthy of a Disney princess and rewrite it with grimdark edgy lyrics,” but those three songs still annoy the hell out of me because the specific way they frame the concept of their songs is that Disney movies/songs are “full of lies” and these songs reveal the lies. And then it’s things like... “Aladdin got captured and interrogated by the CIA,” which is definitely a thing that happened to a character living in an ambiguous time period that predates the existence of the United States, much less the CIA, much less the CIA’s meddling in the middle east, by several centuries. Disney was definitely lying about the reality of Aladdin’s day-to-day existence by not depicting American imperialism that predates America. Or “the characters in The Princess & the Frog have to deal with the fallout of Hurricane Katrina,” like, yeah, Disney sure is pulling the wool over our eyes by dishonestly denying the devastating consequences the 2005 hurricane had on 1920s New Orleans. Listen the lyrics are clever and all the things they discuss are real salient social issues but it still drives me nuts that the songs are framed like they’re revealing “lies” being told when half of the movies are taking place in (fantasy versions of!) time periods or locations where the issues they’re discussing didn’t apply, if they’d just framed that one line differently— Okay, okay, I’m finished, I’m done, I’ve got it out of my system

- Every single love song makes me go “are you imagining this song with a ship (and if so which ship) or do you just think Alastor would be into this song?” The question goes double for songs from the 20s/30s, because the odds that they added it to their playlist just because they think Alastor would like the song increases.

- On the other hand, if whoever added “A Formidable Marinade” isn’t a Charlastor shipper I will eat my hat. Also nice work on the gory cannibalism sex song.

- Every once in a while I’ll run into a song that makes me go, now how the heck did you end up on an Alastor playlist? Does this song line up with someone’s very specific headcanons and/or fanfic plot? Do they think Alastor would like this song? Did they happen to like the song and like Alastor at the same time and so they associate them with each other? Examples: “I Got You (I Feel Good)”, “iRobot” (is it the emotionlessness of being post-death?? do they headcanon that he’s got radio hardware replacing his guts?? is it a post-breakup ship song??), “Greensleves”, “Barbra Streisand” (the song, not the singer), “Jolene,” “The Last Steampunk Waltz,” “Seven Nights in Eire,” “Cruel Angel’s Thesis,” and the person who included half a Kidz Bop album, please, I just wanna talk—

- Every time I hear a song that includes the words “hell,” “sinner,” “smile,” or “radio,” I go, “Haha. Nice.”

- An incomplete list of songs that amused me for how on point they are: “Hotel California” (how often do you have a fandom where “Hotel California” is actually very blatantly fitting without having to twist through an extended & convoluted metaphorical interpretation?), “The Hunting Song,” “The Axeman’s Jazz,” and “Time Again”

- I sort of hate whoever put “Circus” by Britney Spears in their playlist and made me realize that lyrically it’s a perfect Alastor song because it is.

- *scrolls past six versions of “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows”* Haha. Nice.

- *scrolls past five versions of “It Don’t Mean A Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)”* Haha. Nice.

- *scrolls past a song from Bambi* Haha. Nice.

- *scrolls past five versions of “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile”* Haha. Nice.

- *scrolls past eleven versions of “Sing Sing Sing”* Haha. Nice.

- What’s with those of y’all putting steampunk songs in Alastor playlists? Listen, listen: steampunk vibes are for Sir Pentious. Swing vibes are for Alastor. Don’t cross the streams. Take your steampunk songs and make Sir Pentious playlists with them. He could use more playlists.

- The playlist includes 39 songs that include “smile” somewhere in the title.

[lonelypond]

Parent Trap, Ch. 2

NicoMaki, Love Live, 3.4K, 2/3

Nico and Maki and Dia: The First Date

Dia had mostly slept through date prep. Maki had her in the car seat in the walk-in closet while Maki went through an amount of outfit and coat choices she was very glad Dia was not old enough to count or comment on. Nico arrived on exactly on time, wearing a very sportif short coat and leggings, her hat and scarf hand knitted. The SUV wasn’t new, but was well kept up.

“Hi Dia.” Nico leaned over the carseat, waving, as Maki locked the door, “I’m Yazawa Nico, here to take you and your mom to one of my favorite places. Nico baked those cookies your mom told you about.”

Dia had woken up, her eyes bright and interested. She was making cooing noises at Nico.

Nico raised both hands to her temples, “Nico Nico Ni.”

Dia giggled.

“Don’t worry, Nico will have you Nico Ni’ing in no time.”

No baby talk. Points for that. Maki buckled Dia into the backseat and slid into the front. Nico pulled out, her handling of the car as smooth as Maki remembered. She relaxed.

“So, what’s Dia’s favorite Disney movie? My siblings used to love them and Cocoa says her students still talk about all of them, not just the new ones?”

What an odd question, Maki thought. Dia’s favorite Disney movies seemed to be Maki’s. “Lilo and Stitch, Mulan, Cinderella. Why?”

Nico chuckled, “Interesting mix. My little brother loved Lilo and Stitch. He was never very verbal.”

“Dia is. She says Mama and Lunch and We go now and a bunch of words.”

Nico nodded, “So smart like her…” Nico paused, “Mama.”

Maki was probably blushing, but Nico was staring at the road.

“What’s your favorite Disney movie?”

“Well, Nico likes them all, but Frozen’s the best. Sisters are important. None of this evil step sibling stuff.”

As an only child, and the mother of a probable only child, Maki had nothing to say. Plus, Cinderella had evil step siblings in it and was an awesome movie.

“Radio?” Maki asked, eager to fill the silence. “Doesn’t have to be jazz.”

“Nah.” Nico put her hand over Maki’s, briefly, holding it until Maki pulled back, “Nico has a different plan.”

And then Nico started to sing, “Stuck On You,” then swung into the “Devil In Disguise” with a much deeper voice than expected and a very Elvis like flair. Maki checked over her shoulder, Dia seemed very calm, listening, and then when Nico broke into Stitch like growly, gaggy noises, Dia started to laugh.

“Sing with me,” Nico urged.

“What?”

“You ain't nothing but a hound dog Crying all the time”

Nico kept pushing, “C’mon, you can do it. Dia, don’t you want your Mama to sing?”

Maki was surprised at Dia’s immediate response, “Mama...sing”

Two votes against Maki’s undecided.

“All right.” Maki inhaled, “Start again.”

“You got it, cutie,” Nico winked, and rolled out her Elvis voice again.

“You ain't nothing but a hound dog Crying all the time You ain't nothing but a hound dog Crying all the time Well, you ain't never caught a rabbit And you ain't no friend of mine”

Maki glanced at Nico, bouncing a little in her seat, grin huge as she delivered a note perfect take on an Elvis Presley classic. So far this was the silliest date Maki had ever been on.

###

And now it was breathtaking. Maggie Daley Park in the center of the city. A Skating Ribbon, which Maki might have heard about when it opened, but had never been to. She hadn’t been on skates in years. Dia was spinning, wide eyed, fascinated by the contrast between the snow coating the pine trees, the climbing walls that looked like modern art, and the Chicago skyline.

“It’s gorgeous at night.” Nico had come back with skates for all of them.

“I can imagine.”

“Here, if you sit and hold Dia, I’ll help you get into your skates after you put hers on.”

Dia was being surprisingly compliant, spending most of her time watching Nico, who would notice and grin and do the Nico Ni gesture which would have Dia giggling. Maki shook her head at the silly. The skates were a little big, but Maki was planning to keep a good grip on Dia. Nico had a sleek pink slingpack that she promised was full of perfect foods for hot chocolate after skating.

Nico knelt and slid the skate onto Maki’s foot, winking up at Maki, “There you go, Makirella, just like the fairytale.”

Maki felt her stomach flip. This was ridiculous. How could someone slipping your wool socked foot into a skate trigger nerves?

“I don’t see a pumpkin carriage.”

“Oops,” Nico giggled as she laced up Maki’s skates, “Had to chop that up for muffins.”

“And the horses?”

“Happily chomping through leftover oats from cookies.” Nico stood and stomped around, tossing her head and making a neighing noise until Maki started laughing, then she offered her hand and helped Maki stand. Dia took a hesitant step forward.

Maki knelt down to hug her child, “Are you ready for this, bun?”

Dia pointed to the ice trail, where a couple of people drifted by holding hands, “We go.”

Maki nodded at Nico, “We go.”

“You betcha.” Nico stepped to the ice, zipped off, did a pretty spin, arms out, and then zipped back.

“I haven’t skated in years.” Maki muttered nervously.

“Dia, you want to hold Nico’s hand while your Mama gets her wheels back?”

Nico held out a hand. Having just seen Nico zip around with the confidence of an Olympic hockey winger, Maki didn’t object when Dia took a hesitant slide forward.

“And it’s as easy as that.” Nico announced, then offered her other hand to Maki, “Next?”

Maki shook off the hand, pushing off the railing. She remembered the gliding sensation and the joy of the chill against your face as the motion warmed you up and now there was also the full glory of Chicago, posing on a late February afternoon, sun warm as it glinted off architectural wonders.

###

Why yes, hot chocolate at the rink with cookies dipped in it had been excellent after a half an hour of skating, but now they were in Nico’s office, just five minutes from the rink. It was stunning, a renovated warehouse. Walking into the main space with dark floors and an efficient layout of desks, there was a glass wall and double doors that led to Nico’s office. Two shots of Nico’s first album cover were blown up and framed inside the office, clear glass allowing them to dominate the view from the first step into the office.

“Follow Nico.” Nico zipped down the hall into a small room with a huge window and a divan seat attached to the wall with angled rods. A clothing rack took up two walls. Nico took off her coat and tossed it on an armchair, “Nico’s going to make a quick lunch.” She pressed a button and blinds closed off the room. “Nico thought it might be fun to have an afternoon pajama party brunch so I got a bunch of outfits that I think will fit the two of you and you can pick your favorites.”

Dia was fascinated by the blinds that had come down over the window and toddled over to poke her fingers through.

“Good sense of curiosity.” Nico smiled. Maki nodded, arms wrapped around her chest, watching Dia try to bend the wooden blind slats.

“Too much?” Nico asked.

Maki shrugged.

Nico flopped back on the divan, pulling up her legs and propping her chin on her knees, looking contrite. “I was really just worried we’d all be too cold and wet. And this would be more fun than driving you back home.”

Maki decided to take a look at some of the clothes and pulled off a white hoodie with rabbit ears. She turned to Nico, “Really?”

“That’s for Nico. But you have good taste.” Nico winked. Dia had gotten bored with the blinds and wandered to the divan. She had her arms on it and futilely attempted to get her legs up. Nico reached over and easily pulled her up. Dia immediately sat next to Nico, ramrod straight, staring at Maki.

“Mama dress.” Dia waved at the clothes.

Nico leaned over to whisper, “Your mama’s clothes are very sharp.”

Dia showed Nico both hands.

“Is Dia trying to tell me you already tried on a bunch of outfits before our date?”

“No.” Maki blushed.

###

Maki had been talked into pajama pants with hearts scattered all over them and fuzzy red slippers, but she kept her gray turtleneck, Dia had chosen a navy blue romper with white piping, very sleep over with the Queen’s great grandchildren. Nico had opted for the rabbit hoodie and pink pajama pants with white spots. To wait while she cooked, Nico had led Maki and Dia to a large room with a couple of large sofas, another divan seat bolted to the wall, pillows scattered, and a large screen on the far wall.

“This is where we debut music videos.” Nico announced on her return. Maki and Dia had been flipping through an international fashion magazine.

“Is this your label’s office?”

“This is Nico’s office, no label.”

Maki was impressed.

“Nico’s been working since middle school on building this.” Nico swept her arms dramatically after she put a tray carefully on a low table. “Nico Ni is her own label now, with a K-pop influenced group we’re currently promoting.” Maki inhaled, everything smelled amazing, soup and gooey grilled cheese sandwiches. Dia reached forward for one as Nico put sandwiches next to soup bowls, but Nico managed to block the gesture “These are hot, Dia. Let Nico split it in half for you.” And Nico, after a look to check with Maki, handed Dia half of a half sandwich.

“Cookie.” Dia frowned as she examined the melty cheese.

“Cookies later.” Maki said, sliding forward to pull a bowl of soup near, ready to dip a whole half a sandwich in it.

“Listen to your Mama.”

And Dia settled. It was nice to have someone to support her, Maki thought, another adult voice in the room, not that Dia was terribly fussy. But Dia was stubborn. Nico seemed to be having a soothing effect...no, that wasn’t the right word, Maki thought. But Dia was watching every thing Nico did, even mimicking some of her gestures.

“So what are we watching.” Nico picked up the remote.

“Stitch.” Dia growled.

“Sounds good, if your Mama doesn’t mind.”

“S’okay.” Maki muttered as she finished another half sandwich dripping with tomato soup.

###

“You don’t just seem to be enjoying Lilo and Stitch in parent mode.” Nico teased, bumping Maki on the cushion they were sharing in front of the couch Dia was sleeping on.

“Parent mode?”

“Doing things because your kid likes them.”

“That’s dumb.” Maki twirled a curl of hair, glancing back over her shoulder at the sleeping Dia, “Dia would be able to tell if I didn’t like something so it would be a waste of time.”

Maki’s nose was too close to Nico and too perfect, but at least it distracted Nico from Maki’s lips. Nico wasn’t sure what the protocol was on first kisses with one year olds present.

“Do you want your daughter to only like the things you do?”

“No. But why not share things with her that I do like?” Now it was Maki’s eyes that had caught Nico, with their honest challenge.

“So you watched Lilo and Stitch before you were a Mom™️”

“Mom™️.” Maki snorted and shoved back at Nico with her shoulder, “You make it sound like I opened a box, added myself and some water, and became some kind of alien machine.”

Nico frantically pinballed through thoughts. Had she gone too far, was Maki annoyed, should she have gone in for the kiss, oh no, she was going to start talking now and Maki was giving off this prickly energy, but Nico had never been good at not talking through stress, “Nico didn’t mean that in a bad way, you seem super competent, and probably have so much good doctor info, Eli and Nozomi just…”

Maki sighed, “It was a lot more complicated.”

Maki changed the subject. “I wonder if Dia’s going to think I’m silly for talking to her all the time, once she’s older.”

“I’m sure she loves the sound of your voice. It’s lovely.” Nico noticed the blush.

“All the parenting books say just talking to your child helps build their verbal skills. And paying attention to their gestures.” Maki stretched her hand out, staring at her fingers. “I get that.” She dropped her hand over Nico’s. “My parents are always...concerned about developmental stages.”

“They’re really involved grandparents, huh, At least you have some support.”

Maki wasn’t looking at Nico anymore, but her hand was squeezing Nico’s, “They want to make sure the next generation of Nishikinos continues the family’s tradition of excellence.”

Nico glanced back at the sleeping child, “She’s continuing the family tradition of cute in pajamas.”

Maki smiled. “Sometimes I feel like the narrator in an documentary on single parenting.”

“Not a sitcom? Rin seems like a sitcom BFF.”

Maki shook her head, and dropped her voice, “Nope. Serious doctor voice.”

“So what would serious doctor voice be saying now?”

Maki frowned, her nose crinkling in what Nico realized was the most adorable way ever, “ Doctor Nishikino continued to hope that her date would remember an early promise of a milkshake for dessert.” Maki sighed, turning to Nico, eyelashes fluttering in luxurious slow motion over luminous pools of mischief. “I want to dip things in it.”

Nico didn’t register that she needed to stop staring and start speaking until Maki quirked a perfectly arched eyebrow, waiting for a reaction. Nico grabbed a recent word. “Things?”

“Cookies, brownies, strawberries, french fries.”

Nico bounced to her feet, “I’m going to break out the Air Fryer, ice cream and a blender faster than you can say “Nico Nico Ni.”

Maki leaned back, her arms stretched out along the couch, and started, “Nico Ni…”

Nico swivelled and faster than Maki could blink, pecked an interrupting kiss on Maki’s lips, skipping off with a wink over her shoulder, “Just stay put, Princess.”

Maki, hand raised to tingling lips, nodded, “Okay.”

###

Nico was cleaning up and Maki was watching Dia pull herself along the sofa when she heard Nico call out, “Bring Dia, Maki.”

Maki scooped up her daughter, heading to where Nico had stopped in front of the window. Snow had started, flakes drifting against a bold winter blue.

“Snow.” Dia pointed.

“Pretty.” Maki said.

They stood, watching as the fluffy, sparkling flakes began to fall faster. Nico had sneaked an arm around Maki’s waist and smiled when Maki had leaned in instead of pulling away. Maki lost track of the minutes, enjoying the Dia’s fascination with car windows being covered by white. As clouds scrunched together, gray and darkening, Nico got practical.

“I’d better get you both home or you’ll get snowed in.”

Dia looked at Maki, who smiled, “It’ll be fine, bun.”

“Snow.” Dia pressed a hand against the window.

“It won’t be like the cars, Dia. Snow won’t stick on here. It’s not sloped, like car windshields. It’s flat.” Nico demonstrated, one hand the window, one hand the car. Dia patted the car hand.

Maki sighed, “I wouldn’t mind being snowed in. This is a great space..”

“Maybe when Nico gets back, we can try a dinner date. Nico will cook. You can check out the architecture in my apartment. It's a different kind of great, cozier.”

“Cookies. Cookies.” Dia decided.

“Nico always has cookies.”

“Now cookies.”

“Maki?”

“We can take some for the drive.” Maki smiled at Nico, “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. Tonight, I pack. And do a magazine interview. And whatever else Cocoro set up since I demanded half a day off.”

“I’m glad you did. We had fun. Right Dia?” Maki put Dia down.

Dia nodded seriously.

“Let’s find your coat.”

Dia toddled away from the window. Maki didn’t immediately follow, but reached for Nico’s arm, “Text me when you’re done for the night. I’d…” Maki blushed, “love to talk about a dinner date.”

Nico practically bounced halfway to the ceiling as she kissed Maki’s cheek. But then they both rushed after Dia, who’d taken a turn into a room with breakable things.

###

“Try to take a tiger from his daddy's side That's how love is going to keep us tied Uh-uh-uh Oh yeah, uh, uh I'm gonna stick like glue Stick, because I'm Stuck on you”

Maki had to restrain a giggle. By the final verse of Nico’s over the top Elvis rendition of “Stuck on You” Dia had fallen asleep and Maki didn’t want to disturb her. So she left her favorite seat and moved the conversation to her bedroom, sprawling out along the bed while she let Nico keep singing in her ear. After Nico finished with “Burning Love,” Maki interrupted.

“Stuck on You” is not the lullaby I imagined my daughter would love.”

“She fell asleep. Good.” Nico chuckled. “Did Maki get a bonus song?”

“You were so deep in Stitch mode, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Elvis mode. Heartthrob mode. Girls screaming mode. Can’t give enough autographs mode…”

Maki was ready for a new topic. “Sounds exhausting.”

“Um no, it’s exciting. Nico on top of the world. It’s such a rush, connecting with an audience, feeling them get riled up, dancing, singing...I love it.”

Maki could hear the thrill in Nico’s voice. She felt suddenly tired.

“You’re probably leaving early tomorrow. I won’t keep you up.”

“I like talking past my bedtime with you.” A honest warmth in Nico’s tone softened Maki.

“I’m glad. Maybe we can talk again soon.”

“Yeah, it’s too bad my concerts are in Philly and Brooklyn. Nico would love to give you a backstage tour.”

“I’d love it too.”

“Well, call Nico, if you’re in town.”

Hmmmm...could that actually be possible? Her parents were always willing to watch Dia.

Distracted by the thought, Maki’s tone was perfunctory. “Good night, Nico.”

“Oh.” Nico sounded disappointed, “Good night. Maki. Dream about Nico.

“Sure.” Maki cut the call, trying to remember where Nico had said she’d be in a couple of days. Philly? Maki had never really spent any time in Philadelphia. Maybe it was time for some historical sightseeing. She could tell Dia all about the First Continental Congress and the Liberty Bell when she got back.

###

Nico stared at the phone. Maki had gotten distant at the backstage tour suggestion. DId Maki not want to see Nico in concert? Obviously, it wasn’t an objection to Nico’s voice, sneaky Maki had gotten Nico to sing an extra song. Maybe it was too early to suggest travel? Maybe Maki thought Nico had groupies? The fan-Idol relationship was a chaste thing; Nico was there to bring joy, comfort, and smiles to her audience. What brought joy to Nico offstage was private. Maybe she should tell Maki that? Nico picked up her phone and hesitated. Maybe Maki had just been tired? Nico knew single momming made for long days. Nico decided a good night selfie would be the perfect nightcap for the tired, gorgeous doctor Nico wanted to dream of her.

###

A text from Nico. A snap. Nico in a camisole and pink flannel pajama pants, wrapped up in a fluffy pink and white blanket. Maki smiled. Today had been one of her favorite days. No time inside a hospital, skating and flirting with a charming beauty, someone to help with Dia, and Nico had been practical help, not feeling sorry for Maki or fussing too extravagantly over Dia, just there with a quick hand and a smile. It had seemed so natural. And Maki found herself wanting more time with Nico, alone time with Nico, a quiet dinner at Nico’s apartment, no Disney movie blaring in the background, to hear how Nico had pursued her dream, designed her office, what Nico listened to while travelling, what Nico’s favorite movies were, taste Nico’s favorite snack...

Maki typed a quick message.

M: You owe me a midnight snack.

N: ?!?!?!?!

M: For this.

And before she talked herself out of it, Maki snapped a selfie of herself blowing a kiss, unaware that her zip up hoodie had slid down her left arm, leaving her shoulder bare. Instant response.

N: Do that anywhere near Nico and you can have any kind of snack you want.

M: : )

Then Maki took a look at the snap she’d sent and blushed, falling on the bed, silent screaming into her pillow.

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Bah Humbug

This is an early holiday transitory one to help you move along from your craving for that distinct autumn smell to all things wintery! Originally set to be a feel-good drabble for @the-blind-assassin-12​ just because I adore her, it kind of got away from me and turned into a full-on one-shot! Special thanks to @something-tofightfor​ for taking the time to read and critique. Enjoy this big ball of fluff, courtesy of our very own Ryan Brenner!

No trigger warnings here, rated Disney movie G.

Word count: 2119

Tag list: @dylanobrusso​ @obscurilicious​ @the-blind-assassin-12​ @something-tofightfor​ @ms-delos​ @madamrogers​ @lexxierave​ @agent-bossypants​ @yannii04​ @gollyderek​ @carlaangel86​ @poindexted​ @maydayfigment​ @thisisparadisemylove​ @ladyofnaps​ 

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask! Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

You hated Christmas carols. 

There was no valid reason behind it, but you loathed them, you didn’t want to hear about jingling bells, or sleigh bells ringing. You’d learned long ago that Santa Claus was always in town in the form of your parents and you were over hearing about a make-believe reindeer being bullied. And Frosty the Snowman? All snowmen melt. It’s science. Snow itself was something you never felt up to dealing with, and people wrote songs about wishing for it?! What idiots. 

The biggest predicament regarding Christmas carols was that they could not be avoided starting the first of November. Ghouls and goblins and an infinite amount of Avengers and Frozen Princesses were immediately traded in for ugly sweaters and Santa hats. It was American culture and you didn’t mind it…it was what came along with it that made you a Grinch. You couldn’t watch any TV without being harassed with commercials including some type of carol, and forget shopping. You were assaulted the moment you stepped inside a too-warm department store. You’d only run inside for three items, and upon stepping into the door, you steeled yourself for the inevitability. It would be a quick trip, in and out. 

Except the store was congested with so many people, your usual long strides you reserved for these kinds of atrocities was reduced to a slow, staggered creeping. The only thing worse than Christmas carols was Christmas carols playing when surrounded by people. 

You were in Hell. 

Finally, you were able to reach the shampoo aisle, a blaring speaker anchored to the ceiling directly above your head. It was impossible to tune the music out, and Frank Sinatra began crooning about being home for Christmas. But only in my dreams. It was one carol that brought a rush of warmth and comfort into your heart, followed by a pang of longing and a vivid memory. You missed him. 

*** *** ***

Summer had turned to autumn without you noticing. The air was cooler, less humid.  The days had grown shorter and there was a  buzz in the air. Sandals and sundresses were replaced with boots and scarves, and fuzzy socks became an indoor necessity. You knew this wasn’t just a cool snap when you heard leaves crunching beneath your feet as you reached your front porch, eyes scanning your yard quickly. How hadn’t you noticed until that moment that your grass had been blanketed in leaves in varying shades of fire:  rich auburn, burnt orange, golden yellow. Pausing as you looked, you heard a scuffling coming from behind your home, and you walked carefully around the perimeter of your home. A smile illuminated your face and adoration squeezed in your chest. Autumn leaves were gathered into two large piles, and Ryan was raking the remainder of what was left into a third heap as you approached him. 

“What are you doing, Ryan Brenner?” You tended to use his first and last name in situations like these, where you found him doing sweet things he never gave a second thought. His full name was beginning to replace the use of just ‘Ryan’ or, sometimes, just a shortened ‘Ry’. 

The rake he held in his hands stilled on the ground and he leaned his weight against it, his chest rising and falling quickly as he caught his breath. Raising his shoulders in a shrug, he glanced around your cleared back yard before his eyes landed on you, nothing but you. “Yard work.” 

His answer was quick and simple, obvious, and you laughed, the crunching of dead leaves under your feet ceasing as you walked closer and greeted him with a quick kiss, followed by one that you lingered in. “You’re supposed to be visiting, relaxing. Not doing my yard work,” you teased. “

You know I can’t stay still for long,” he smiled. Yes, all too well.  The thought alone gifted him with another kiss. “I’m sweatin’, Y/N,” he said in his his slight Southern drawl. He wiped at his forehead with the back of one hand, the other still supporting the rake. “

“Hmm, seems like I don’t care much, doesn’t it?” You pecked at his lips once more in a playful fashion. “Can the mention of food coerce you inside?” You raised your brows and caught his startling dark eyes with yours, walking backward for a few paces before turning around to retreat indoors. You had leftovers to heat up.  

*** *** ***

After dinner was eaten and the dishes were set out to dry, you opted to change while Ryan cleaned up with the help of a hot, steamy shower. You slipped out of your clothes and pulled on a soft pair of pants, an oversized sweatshirt you loved to sleep in, and a warm pair of wool socks. Settling onto the couch with a book, you sat sideways, your back against the sofa’s arm. You heard Ryan’s footsteps against the old wooden floor before you saw him. Yet when you did, your book was forgotten as you let your eyes linger over his form. His dark, overgrown hair was wet, brushed back from his forehead. Low on his hips were a worn pair of sweatpants, his feet bare and a t-shirt covering his upper half, and he was holding his guitar. You’d barely opened your book, but you closed it and set it aside, raising your brows and offering him a smile. 

“What’s the occasion?” you nodded at the guitar. Ryan chuckled and bent to kiss your hair before crossing the room and settling on the hearth. You knew better than to start a fire; it was something Ryan had unofficially made his duty when he was in town. You’d opted to use the heater for quick warmth when the two of you came inside. 

“Just another day, Y/N,” Ryan said with a smile. You couldn’t remember a day you hadn’t seen Ryan without a guitar on his lap or heard music wafting from another room; there probably hadn’t been a music-free day since you’d known him. “Got somethin’ special for you.”

You gave him your full attention as his tattooed fingers of his left hands settled on the strings and right hand began strumming. The tune sounded vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until he started singing that you nodded in recognition, just before groaning in protest. Ryan only smiled, continuing on seamlessly with his rendition of “I’ll Be Home For Christmas”. He knew Christmas carols weren’t your favorite, but he also knew that you wouldn’t mind as much so long as he was the one playing. 

The scowl didn’t stay on your face for long, however. Ryan had chose that particular song for a reason. You knew the time was coming for him to chase the trains again, just as the weather was getting colder and the first snow of the season was looming on the horizon. By the time the song came to an end, there was only a look of understanding on your face as Ryan’s eyes met yours, and he set his guitar aside. Swinging your legs over the side of the couch, you made your way across the room to perch on his lap and kissed his forehead before looking down at him, smiling halfway through your disappointment at his leaving soon. “I hated it.”

*** *** ***

 It had taken a full half an hour to grab a bottle of shampoo and a box of hot cocoa and pay for your items. You’d planned a full grocery shop, but every aisle in the store was congested with last-minute shoppers and you had far exceeded your Christmas cheer quota for the day. Ordering pizza for delivery had never sounded like a better idea, and by the time you made your trek through the parking lot, the last minutes of sunlight had passed. It was a full moon, the heavy clouds illuminated by the moonlight. They were ominous, a promise of snowfall at any given moment. It couldn’t be a more picture-perfect Christmas Eve, straight out of a mass-printed Rockwell painting. You idly remembered stacking more firewood beside the fireplace the night before, and mentally thanked yourself for a job well-done. If you didn’t have such a thick blanket of dead leaves between your driveway and the door, you’d make a run for it.

When you pulled into the drive and put your car in park, a small light caught your eye and your brow furrowed. During the time in your childhood where you had been certain you’d grow up to be an entomologist, you read ravenously and absorbed as much information as possible, most of which you remembered. You knew that fireflies hibernate in winter, and just as the thought jogged your memory, you saw the flicker again. Chalking it up to some form of reflection thanks to the light of the moon, you pulled your keys from the ignition, threaded your arm through the handles of the plastic bag that held your purchase, and steeled yourself for the assault of the frigid air. 

While making your beeline for the door, your vision caught another flicker of light, this one brighter and and not as brief. “What the…” you whispered under your breath, trying to decide whether to keep your pace steady or go against all common sense and make a run for it. Could this day get any worse? Could Christmas possibly be more of a pain in the ass? 

As you briskly approached your home, you squinted against the darkness and could vaguely make out a figure lounging on your porch steps. You’d remembered firewood, but you hadn’t remembered to leave a light on, and you were certain that this was it. You’d be starring in your very own television special, featured as the frozen corpse found in the snow just outside your home, and you didn’t know whether to laugh or scream when you heard a voice.

“Merry Christmas, darlin’.” 

You froze for a moment, mouth dropping open. You’d recognize that deep tenor and slight drawl anywhere. A light thud sounded as you dropped your bag in surprise, and you bent quickly to pick it back up. You made a run for it the rest of the way as Ryan stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette. There was your firefly.

Throwing your arms around him, you squeezed your eyes shut. “How was…?”

“Raleigh,” he reminded you, holding you close. He gently swayed back and forth, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Lotta places to set up and play. Nice, mild weather.” He pulled back to look at you, his face holding a serious expression. “Not enough firewood for kindlin’. Not enough people honest enough to tell me when they hate my songs.”

You laughed, taking a step back and lacing your fingers with his. “If you’re itching to start a fire, you’re in for a treat. And I bought cocoa, the instant kind with the little marshmallows.” You shrugged apologetically, scrunching your nose as he reached for his pack and slung his guitar case over his shoulder. “I was wallowing. I couldn’t stand to walk around that store long enough to buy anything more than I had to, so instant cocoa it was.” You paused as you slid your keys in the lock, hurrying inside and ushering Ryan in as you flipped on the light switch. “Not to mention the Christmas carols.” Dramatically, you put on a fake shudder.

He shook his head wryly as he set down his things, gifting you a smile as he took the few steps to close the distance between you. Sliding his hands up and down your arms, his smile softened as he searched your face, pink from the cold. “You’re beautiful,” he said softly, leaning in and ducking his head to press a kiss to your lips. “I told you I’d be home for Christmas.”

Home. You weren’t one to dwell on the semantics of things, but with Ryan, you knew they mattered. He didn’t say he’d be here for Christmas or back for Christmas; he said he’d be home for Christmas, and here he was. There was nothing in that moment that could bring you down, everything in the world feeling perfect. The warm body next to yours was one the thing that you wanted, more than anything else in the world. 

“Merry Christmas, Ryan.” You finally returned the sentiment, closing your eyes for a few beats as you leaned your forehead against his. “Can I ask for a favor?”

He moved his forehead from yours, looking down at you with his dark, warm eyes. There was a glimmer there on the surface, and it warmed your heart. Ryan looked happy, and there was nothing quite like it. 

“Anything.” 

You grinned impishly, reaching up to pull his cap from his head, running your fingers through his thick hair for good measure. “Give me your best version of Jingle Bells.”

[bangtanoneshotsx]

Sweater Paws-Suga

His sweater was too big for you. But you couldn’t complain. The white wool encased you in his scent as you sat crossed legged on the sofa, one white sock lower than the other. He sat on his office chair, his headphones around his neck as he checked over his latest work. He too wore a hoodie too big for him, but with the weather changing suddenly, it was sensible. “Yoongs.” You spoke, breaking the silence in the studio. The rapper gave a small hum, his typing ceasing. You watched as he placed his headphones on the desk, turning to face you. “You need to eat.” You watched as he sighed, the sleeves of his sweater covering half of your hand as you gripped the mug you were holding tighter, your engagement ring clinking against the ceramic. Yoongi glanced at the time on the bottom right corner of his computer screen before giving in. “I guess you’re right.” He saved the work before spinning around, pushing himself to the small table that sat at the back of the studio, taking the takeaway box that was now lukewarm, something he abandoned for a few more minutes of work. Shoveling some noodles into his mouth, his mouth flickered into a small smile, his eyes scanning you. “It looks good on you.” Tilting your head in confusion, you tried to figure out what he meant. “Your sweater?” Shaking his head, he quickly swallowed, taking a break from eating to explain. “The ring.” He grinned, his eyes set on the new diamond ring you wore on your finger, a sign of a promise Yoongi made only a couple of days ago. You felt heat rush to your cheeks with the intensity in his eyes as he stared at the item of jewelry, a shy smile forming. “We still haven’t told the boys.” Yoongi gave a hum, taking your hand and running his thumb over the diamond. “A few more days. We’ll tell them in a few days, I just want to keep the secret to ourselves for a little while.” You nodded, taking a sip from your drink as Yoongi released your hand, going back to his takeaway. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You sat on the balcony, a mug on the table beside you. Although it was summer, you still had Yoongi’s sweater on, the sleeves too long for you, protecting you from the cool summer night breeze. You pulled the sleeves further down your arms grabbing the edges to cover your hands as you gave a slight shiver as a breeze passed by. “Couldn’t sleep?” Turning around you found Yoongi leaning against the doorway, letting out a yawn as he uncrossed his arms and took a seat next to you. “Guess I’m still awake from the flight, and last night.” Yoongi gave a grin, taking your hand in his, his new wedding ring shining in the moonlight. “It was a great night.” “I suppose.” You teased, making Yoongi playfully roll his eyes, giving your hand a squeeze as he looked across at the beach, the waves crashing against the shore. You couldn’t help but break into a grin as Yoongi closed his eyes, finally relaxing. After a few seconds, a melody started to come from Yoongi, his eyes still closed as he tapped his hand against the wooden armrest. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to work on our honeymoon.” Giving a guilty smile, Yoongi looked to you. “One song?” “Yoongi!” Yoongi didn’t say anything, instead pulling you from your chair and onto his lap. You gave a shy smile as he placed a kiss on your forehead as you played with the edge of his sweater. Yoongi gave a soft smile, lifting up your head, forcing you to look at him. “I promise. I won’t work on our honeymoon, okay?” Nodding, you placed a peck on his lips as a thank you. His grip on your waist tightened as he spoke again. “Now, how are we going to distract me from work?” He chuckled as you playfully hit him on the chest. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Although his sweater was too big, your small bump still showed through. Your concoction of pickles and ice cream on your lap. A Disney film was playing, as your small dog lay next to you, resting his head on your thigh as he looked up hopefully. “You can keep staring at me, you’re not getting any.” You giggled, watching as he wagged his tail, not moving his head, or his line of vision from the blue bowl. Just as you were about to speak again, the front door opened, Yoongi walking in and instantly dropping his bag. The small dog instantly ran to his feet, jumping up to greet your husband. Picking up the small dog, Yoongi walked over, collapsing onto the sofa with a sigh. “Tough day.” Running a hand over his face, he gave a grumble, nodding, still with the small dog on his lap, the puppy excitedly trying to reach his face. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Placing the puppy beside him, he turned to face you. “What about you? How’s our baby?” You gave a small smile, placing your hands on your small bump. “Good. We missed you though.” Placing a hand on your bump, Yoongi grinned before placing his lips on yours. Leaning back, his eyebrows furrowed as his eyes scanned over the sweater you wore. “Is that my sweater?” Heat rushed to your cheeks as you gave a small smile, playing with the cuffs of your sleeves. “I’ve been borrowing your sweaters for years, why do you think I’ll stop?” Yoongi grinned, giving you a quick kiss. “Luckily for you, I think you look better in them than I do.”

[katymacsupernatural]

The Knight of Your Dreams Part 1

Knight Dean x Reader 

1700 Words

Written For: @spnaubingo

Square Filled: Knight Dean

Warnings: Not completely historically accurate. Warnings will be given with each chapter. 

“Do you really think this thing came from the medieval ages?” You asked, staring down at the necklace laying on cloth in front of you. The leather strap had long since rotted away, leaving nothing more than a little knot where it attached to the main part.

It was made of gold, round, about an inch wide. It had words etched into the soft metal, barely discernable with all of the wear. A dark emerald, crusted with rust was encrusted in the middle. In its heyday, it would have been an expensive piece. One worn by a Queen, or some other high ranking lady.

“It definitely could be,” your work partner, Becka agreed, leaning down with a magnifying glass. “Where it was buried, the markings. It all fits in with the 12th Century. I can barely make out the words. Give me a piece of paper!”

You handed over a slip of paper, and she began scribbling. Watching over her shoulder, you were able to read the Latin words that were appearing. Mumbling them under your breath, you stared in amazement as the Emerald began to glow. “Becka, are you seeing this?” You asked.

She had stopped scribbling, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “That’s weird. I wonder if it’s having some sort of reaction to the cleaner we used. Let me get a test strip.”

She ran down the hallway, snapping off her vinyl gloves as she went, leaving you to stare down at the necklace. It had continued to glow, brighter and brighter by the second. You began to feel dizzy, your body swaying as you held onto the table for support.

The necklace began to shake before it emitted a bright white light, blocking out everything else in the room. This energy pulled you towards the necklace, your entire body throbbing, full of this bright white light before it stopped. Leaning over, taking deep, gasping breaths, you called out to your coworker. “Becka? Did you see that?”

“Who is this Becka you are talking to? I only see one maiden in this area,” A deep voice spoke up from behind you, and you stood up suddenly. Too fast as your head started spinning and you lost your footing in the soaking wet grass, falling on your butt. Ignoring your throbbing rear end, you stared down at the grass in confusion. “Grass?” You whispered, reaching out to touch it. Just seconds ago you had been standing on the pristine white tiles of your lab, nowhere near the grass.

“Lass, are you alright?” The voice called out again. The bright sun was blocked out by a shadow, the man’s shadow and you peered up to see a pair of shimmering forest green eyes staring down at you in alarm. He was handsome, his face covered in a slight stubble of a reddish beard. His hair was matted down, but you could still see the dark blonde color that matched his beard.  His shoulders were wide, in the weird, rough cotton, long tunic he had on. It was a dull gray, torn and stained in multiple places.

You found yourself following the tunic down to his trim waist where a heavy leather belt was tied tight. But it wasn’t the belt that caught your gaze. It was the long, silver, very real looking sword held tight. And in your line of work as a museum's curator, you could see the rough edges of the blade, the marks where it had been handmade by a blacksmith. The handle was encrusted with gems, almost as green as the man’s eyes.

“Are you daft lass?” He spoke again, and you lifted your gaze.

“What year is it?” You asked, getting a good look at your surroundings. You were in some sort of field, with the grass trampled flat. Trees lined one side, the forest thick and dark. But it was the view behind the man that had you startled, crawling backward away from him.

“It is the year of our Lord 1121,” he answered skeptically. “Did you hit your head M’lady? And that is unique garb you are wearing if I may say.”

Trying to calm your breathing, you glanced down at your simple gray pencil skirt and black blouse, you had to admit. If you were actually somehow in the year 1121, your outfit would be very scandalous indeed. Leaning down, you placed your head against the cool grass, your breaths coming short and fast as you tried to figure out exactly what had happened. Everything felt so real. The grass tickled your nose, more fragrant than anything you found in the parks in Chicago. The air was clean, and that castle in the distance seemed oh so real and not crumbling like those you had seen only months ago.

Before you could even get your emotions under control, you were being picked up by a pair of strong arms, held against a sturdy, yet strong smelling chest. He smelled of leather, horses and sweat. All man, nothing like your ex who had used an almost floral aftershave.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said, his voice rumbling against your shoulder. “But you’ve no doubt hit your head. We’ll get you back to the castle, and Hika will get you taken care of.”

“Castle?” You whispered, still completely overwhelmed. “12th century?”

“Shh,” he spoke, taking you over to the horse you hadn’t even noticed. It was a large warhorse, at least fifteen hands tall. Pitch black, with the type of saddle you only saw drawn in ancient books. It snorted, prancing away before the man holding you pulled on its reins. “Castor, shh. It’s just a damsel.”

The horse calmed instantly, and the man holding you placed you in front of the saddle before climbing up behind you. “He’s a strong beast, but he won’t do you any harm. You are safe. With him, and with me. I’m a knight. Sir Winchester, but you can call me Dean.

Taking his cloak from the back of the horse, he wrapped it around your shoulders, covering you completely from head to toe.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he took hold of the reins, sitting uncomfortably close behind you. Clicking his tongue, the horse started off at a trot, and you were grateful for the strength of his arms around you, holding you on.

The ride was silent as the castle grew closer. It was currently being added on to from the looks of it. It had two large towers on either side of the portcullis which was currently lowered with guards on each side. People bustled around outside the castle, moving shaggy cows to pens, or bustling to shabbily made huts. They were all in rough, handmade woolen clothes. The women had simple wool gowns with stained aprons and wimples covering their hair. Men had tunics much the same as Dean’s, leather boots covering their feet and calves.

Truthfully, this would be any curator’s dream. To see the thing they studied up close and personal. Alive. Many of the items they were using or wearing would have disappeared before your era, and it was such a treat. But the main part of your brain was having such a hard time believing this was true. That you were currently in the past, a true knight holding you tight against him.

As he rode under the heavy metal gate, people parted to give him room, many nodding or bowing to him. It was a sign of honor, which meant he was a knight in very good standing. He rode to the stables, a young man, almost a child rushing to take the reins. Dean slid down, helping you off the steed before making sure his cloak covered you completely.

“This way,” he ordered. “And please, in the presence of others, call me Sir Winchester .”

You nodded, letting him guide you past the throngs of people moving about, and the hound dogs lounging on the steps. The great room was dark and stuffy. A large fireplace sat off to one side, the fire nothing more than embers. Roughly cut wood tables and benches filled the main hall, with straw covering the floor. People milled about, some sitting on benches, others standing in the corner talking. A man sat in the front of the room, easily notified as the Man of the Manor. He had a fur cloak perched on the back of his chair. His tunic was of the finest materials, his hand covered in gold rings and gemstones. He had full black hair with hints of gray, his face full of fine wrinkles. A lady sat at his side, her dress a deep garnet. She had a stark white wimple with a gold band holding it in place. She was beautiful and elegant, exactly as you had imagined the Lady of the Castle.

“Sir Winchester!” The man called out, clapping his hands together. “I had heard you were riding back to us.”

“It was time,” Dean answered, bowing before the man, and you wondered if you should follow suit. “But forgive me. I found this woman wondering outside of the castle, in much disrepair. I fear she might have hit her head and is in need of help.”

“And who might you be?” The woman asked, taking an interest in you. Thinking fast, you curtsied, hoping you were doing it right. “My lady, my name is Y/N Y/L/N, and I find myself at your doorstep with no family, no anything. I beg for your mercy.”

She rose, staring down at you, and for a moment you feared she was going to throw you out with the pigs. Instead, she held out her hand and you rose. “My dear girl, we would not turn you away. Especially since our favorite knight has taken such interest in you. Come, let’s get you washed up and changed and you can tell me all about your journey.

Help a writer out and reblog/comment! If you’ve enjoyed it, consider buying a cup of coffee :) 

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82 @acreativelydifferentlove @adoptdontshoppets @a-girl-who-loves-disney @akshi8278  @bebravekeeponfighting  @brindz30 @cap-just-said-language @colette2537   @deansgirl215   @its-not-a-tulpa @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @just-another-winchester @karouwinchester @keikoraventeller  @krys198478 @librarygeekery @misspygmypie @mlovesstories @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk   @ria132love @ruprecht0420     @sortaathief @superseejay721517 @squirrelnotsam @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @torn-and-frayed @tricksterdean @wonderfulworldofwinchester @woodworthti666 

KOYD Tags:  @maddiepants @deans-baby-momma @justkending

Forever Tags: @alexwinchester23 @algud @amanda-teaches @andreaaalove   @artisticpoet @atc74 @be-amaziing @camelotandastronauts @caswinchester2000 @chelsea072498  @closetspngirl   @docharleythegeekqueen @emoryhemsworth @ericaprice2008  @esoltis280   @gh0stgurl @goldenolaf25 @growningupgeek  @heyitscam99 @hobby27 @horsegirly99 @internationalmusicteacher @iwriteaboutdean  @jayankles @jensen-gal @just-another-busyfangirl @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son @lifelovelaughangell123 @li-ssu @linki-locks11 @littleblue5mcdork  @lowlyapprentice   @maui137 @mogaruke @musiclovinchic93  @nanie5   @percussiongirl2017 @plaid-lover-bay25   @roonyxx @ronja-uebrick @roxyspearing @samanthaharper2018 @samanddeanmyheroes @sandlee44 @shamelesslydean @simonsbluee @sillesworldofwriting @sgarrett49 @spnbaby-67 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @spnwoman   @superbadassnatural @thatcrazybookwormgeek   @thewinchesterchronicles @vvinch3st3r @whimsicalrobots @winchester-writes @zombiewerewolfqueen

[hinrichsen71ralston-blog]

About The Hemp Network - a Corporation Review

Anytime we de "myth"isize history within my classroom I make sure students realize the causes of the legends. We talk about revisionists (like Disney), we discuss how new details are discovered, all of us discuss the motives behind changing history to miss groups of people. I make sure students realize we're not trying to pull the wool over their eyes, especially their parents and former teachers. I certainly ought not break a bond of trust within the family. This means that with Hemp Protein Powder you to understand worry about much! This sort of because you can do your own extensive research on the Hemp Plant itself and overall condition . health benefits and all of the its nourishment! We can use nanoscopic metals to soaps for coloration and anti-bacterial properties. Wind up use titanium powder to get these effects and the particular extremely white soaps. Some metals like nickel, aluminium, and silver are rarely used in soap making, but have got the anti-bacterial property. Their working device is simple. These metals have electron-rubbing obedience. When they come involved with bacterial, they strip electrons of your bacteria's surface and eliminating the bacteria. Sometimes, these metals remain in the skin for too long time after washing and so they also prevent infections and we get rid of bad odors caused by bacteria. Mike: Well, I are not familiar with. It's in order to take a political miracle, because weight problems on drugs has targeted Hemp Legal, which not a smokable chemical. It's a fantastic source of textiles. Will probably be grown without pesticides. It can be applied to make biofuel too creates using of these really nutrient rich hemp seeds, but because within the political environment in this country they will not allow hemp to be grown at this juncture. So we're importing it all from Canada and US farmers are suffering. I craft the soaps in through doing this because really feel that that by means of something our attention, probably through prayer, meditation, or the easy ritual of mindful bathing, we perform power to cultivate and manifest in folks. I also believe that cues, like scent and color, may tune us into certain energies, like joy, passion, and respect. My mission with Sacred Suds is offer soulful soaps that help channel those positive energies into my customers' lifestyle. The herb has anodyne, sedative and anti-inflammatory fighting. Cannabinol is a weak pain-killer. Cannabichromene and cannabidiol acid have sedative action and treat aggravation. It was very hard to not wedge myself to conversation. They were discussing certainly our foremost American heroes.George Washington. There are many false stories out there surrounding the person that is remembered becoming first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts your countrymen and those two educators had bought into him or her. Yikes!

[elizasepistolarytravels]

A knife.

1.) I've never cried once when I waxed my legs. 

I can feel it though. 

as I can feel the breeze and the cold

and the salt evaporating from 

the sand caked beach. 

And its taste on scrambled eggs,

and your rain coat on the peg, 

and your stolen eyes 

stealing my body 

as the door screeches 

shut 

in that scream that I dread. 

And I can hear the sound of pop corn, 

and people in the street, 

their red mouths like 

poppies 

and bulls eyes

in a Rolling Stone magazine. 

Telling lies.

And yeah, I like my coffee black. 

S'how I decided to like it 

as I have once in a party 

sworn 

that I was born 

with my tongue flipped backwards,

my taste buds starting at the bitter bit instead.

Said that just to excite them. 

I love movies. 

But never cry in public. 

I'd never cry if it pleased the Republic. 

What I do is, I try to get a grip of their minds

See my vision through a 

screen.

But lets not get too dark, shall we?

I love the sight of wool-

Transformed and processed,

refined, 

Blessed. 

And how it scratches on my back, 

sharply.

And how it goes around and itches my neck, 

hungrily. 

And wraps around my waist and burns me. 

But that is how I choose to dress. 

And yeah I love the feel of rain and stuff,  

and cycling, 

and laughing, 

and falling, and scrambling 

and crying,and crying. 

And the crisp sheets on my childhood bed,

how when you got lost in them by yourself, tearing the sheets apart. 

I felt nothing. 

Not the wool, nor the the coffee, not even the leg waxing. 

As you saw, as you watched my eyes go forever red.

2.) 

The scent of her bluebell

earrings made them mad. 

She swayed a halo of hair at their 

bluebird eyelashes that wished to fly away 

and perch on her shoulders, 

adoring her teacups of cracked silence and 

dry toast. 

The love she held to them was bitter, 

conscious of her power, 

she did not let them see through 

her skin. 

Lotus palms higher chakra fingernails 

on her parchment thighs and a longing of 

consumption of trimmed misery, 

a pattern of stolen space shared in corners. 

They were all so beautiful. 

Their souls were white, I tell you. 

And one by one, she would let them into her room

and thank their lives.

Kissing their shoulders with 

whiskers of leaves. 

They would try to run their hands over 

sudden quivering glimpses of lake blue stillness,

that shattered across her eyes. 

They were making it worse for themselves, 

They were making her remind herself of 

the numbing stitches that lay as maps over her brain. 

2.)

How is it for you, 

as you sit pink eyed? 

Your skin, un-stretched 

from hurtling warship storms

shines golden, 

awesome disney penny golden,

slightly akin to our 

Kath Kidston bread rolls and hours of 

spiky cricket. 

It is easy to fall in love 

with your idea of an anxious 

death of new-boy, 

oxford- sandle- schoolboy. 

Beatings. 

I relish in your fire. 

In your even slightest oxygenation and combustion rust.

When clippings fall off your Thatcher-esque milk-carton teeth. 

But that barely satisfies pits of knotted words. 

And jaws pulled open to emplace chastity belts. 

Onions, 

Wikka crosses. 

Suffocation. 

My body is a battlefield of eyes, 

rashes, scratches, and many many apparent scars. 

I try to walk across your face, 

down expensive liquor suns. 

My life was an orphan. My hands

were open and a ghost took them.

Now I can only scream. 

Your sight makes me cry and you continue to shine,

And you sit down in the sand and - ‘help me’. 

This is snow globe ancient.

It is swoons of acid sooty waves, storms and storms 

of the shipwreck cleaner - the orphan. 

You explain to me life as if it were a mere 

plastic 

globe. 

Eccentric.

Disposable. 

And most probably Toxic. 

One of the reasons I am doing this project is because of trauma. 

Poetry is so wishy-washy and ambiguous so lets get straight to the point. 

Not many people detect this, some may sense pain and things like that, but on the whole, out of all the things this project has turned out to have a connection to, the trauma that also spurs it is not something not talked about a lot. It has paced my life, as good old trauma tends to do. It paces this piece of art. As so, it turns out that this is also an attempt to heal. I am taking courage, taking hold over my life now. I will write and speak and run until I don’t need to, until I feel at last at home in my own crawling skin. I will run to where I feel most protected, where I have felt I can breath at last, the warmth of the earth and the quietness of the fields of Nature. Where I feel I am of the same mud as the rest of this earth. 

Trauma. As it is for many others, trauma is insidious. It is a natural, scientific, real, proven, (blah blah look up the research) whatever you want to call it, phenomenon. It changes your brain. It is when something or someone through your childhood development and right into your adult life, comes in and disrupts the healthy boundaries of your body, your mind and your sense of self. When you are ok, you have a normal bubble where a healthy ego may develop and later on in life, thrive. When not your bubble is more this weird mashed potato. Or many different states of mashed potato. When you have not experienced trauma you know the boundaries of yourself and others and more importantly you know how to maintain them. My bubble, both physically and mentally, was distorted (made mash potato), from an early age. It was not for me one event, it was also a, combination of people and moments. The lines are blurry, and yes, I agree, the line of victim and perpetrator is difficult, and sometimes confusing, there there remains a constant. From an early age my boundaries were laughed at made lesser than, later used and twisted. It is the plight of the perception of women or anyone made lesser, their bodies made objects. Just to repeat: My existence, as for most of us, is a lot of pain. It is at times unbearable. You cannot demean this, or make this any smaller than the immensity I feel in my mind at some points of time. I guess this is speaking truth to survive. So back to the little talk on trauma. The healthy development I was meant to have by now is supplemented by the voices of those who opened me up and ate me raw. Psychologically, it is self-doubt and even hatred, somatically, it is sometimes a bodily fear of others or not knowing boundaries, exuding too much closeness and intimate energy and then at times freezing up out fear when my body suddenly realises the danger it put itself in. Or just fading away, giving in, not feeling. It is also crying and panic, yeah that happens. I can’t imagine what it must be like for people with trauma greater than mine, but this is not the point. I am here to talk about my trauma. Because it is time to take back what people took from me like chocolates, when truthfully, if he really cared for and respected me, he wouldn’t have ever fucking done that. There is no way to reconcile that in my mind. I have tried utter, truthful and surrendering forgiveness, but you know what that just didn’t work for me. So here is my story.

I met an old friend the other day, I didn’t expect him to be there, or ever see him again, although paradoxically I knew we would cross paths. This past month has been a month of giving for me, of building up projects like this one. I fucking stamped out the voices that were being stupid and managed to do the things I needed to do. I have had a precious time, I have met wondrous people. If you recognise yourself here, well done! I love you. I have made some true connections and touched others’ lives because I reached out in my truth, and so did hey. Spoke from the soul. It is something that I am proud of, my present life has taken a turn I really like. I am now again fighting for something that is outside of me, but in the process makes us laugh, connect, and feel at home. I am a fucking warrior. I did what I promised to myself, I fucking fought and got out of my hole of self pity, and I was happy for a while. But the golden light passes, as all will pass, and already, as a woman, I feel the end of the cycle coming, a time for darker thoughts needing to be processed. But also, this time was also powered by unsustainable energy, of escapism by excessively giving, and as I realised on the only day I was really sober, that parts of it were numbing. Some of you picked up on that, because after a while you see the cracks in my self, you see that something is wrong, does not quite align, you don’t know what it is, can’t put your finger on it, but something is very off. And that is when usually I ward you off or distract you with part of a persona I create. Frantically. No, I am not always OK. As many of us are. 

A person of my family, a close friend of mine, grew to take me and what I am  made me separate and lesser, a thing he could use. Anyway, starting off as a weird symbiosis of children it turned into an entitlement to the body of women,  because I don’t know, like our sick culture of disgusting posh all boys boarding schools? Just saying. And because of his parents and the rest of the family gradually built him up to think of himself as the best. That can hurt and damage a person forever. What does all that pride give you, when you are a hollow empty narcissistic vessel by night? Just saying. Anyway, that is my trauma, or whatever, or was my thing, I can make it public because I want to, and because I like the idea of revenge, and because you do not overstep my boundaries. This piece of writing is a knife.

When I met you again, dear friend, you reminded me of this. And yes, the beautiful, and real parts of this project, are a part of it, but they are not everything. The need to reconnect with people of my life is because I have presented a frantic, scared, fractured persona a lot of the time. I have manipulated and quickly attached myself to a few people, a few best friends that would fill up my broken terrified heart. I have a string of best friends, relationships, that I become intensely entwined with to feel safe, out of pure need to survive. And then cut them off without the batting of an eyelid. That is fucking terrible. I don’t know how you could stand me for the time you did. I was a manipulative piece of shit, that could probably not respect your boundaries also. And if you took distance, that was very wise of you, I thank you for that, because the pieces of me that can still feel want you to be happy. I would cut off my friends as soon as they saw this. Next. It was all just survival. I would then hunt for my next prey and hope they would fill in this hole by using them in a weird symbiotic way as a part of me. The letter writing is also to not hide anymore, to get back in contact with you, to say sorry, but also, to truly talk to you and laugh about our past, to feel kindred spirits in this world that is tough. Because this state of frenzy has to stop. This fear has to stop. It is time I take back the knife, and stab back where it hurt the most. Enforced empathy. Making you hurt like I hurt even if you don’t want to. Now you will all know. Now the world will know. That I will not shut up. Now we attack back. 

This girl fights. You seemed to have forgotten that. 

Trauma. We build up this conversation together my dear friend. You who monologues a lot like men do, who forgets that I made this myself too, a part of you may feel good for having helped me, but this is also fucking self-generated. We talked about this together, how trauma is the underlying epidemic to us all. It is the sweeping waves of suicide that we seem to find hard to explain (Duh??). It is the never-ending cycle of creating men (and sometimes steel women) who are not warriors, but machines. Of honouring psychopaths, capable of disguising themselves as heroes, but who are actually machines built up from a world that has taken out a piece of their usual empathetic development. It is not usual male aggression. It is broken boys. Fracturing other peoples sense of self, as traumatising a population becomes the greatest weapon of war. Civilians and women, children, weaker men. Today, battling in Syria and elsewhere, we are not fighting a just war. Our machine men from our psychotic culture are traumatising women and children, sexually abusing other men (remember Abu Ghraib in Iraq? that seemed hard to explain for some reason). The greatest form of destruction is to destroy the minds of a population. Fighting terrorism is a weird Freudian cover up of a will of our population to manipulate and enjoy destroying another. It is the need to keep our women quiet and useable, to satisfy this machine mentality of soldiers off to feel good about killing things. 

You and I were a microcosm. 

You took a part of me, as some have taken a part of you, to fill in the hole that they start to take out of us, to be part of this culture. We inherit the past of our parents. It is the Ouroboros. The never-ending cycle, a snake eating its tail. Until someone in the chain decides to say fuck off and break from it herself. You also had a choice when we started to see it happen. But you just wanted your own satisfaction really. Psycho.

My escape is a necessity. It has now gotten to the point that it is more dangerous for me to stay silent than to reach out and take control. 

This is me yelling. My art is me yelling. Our poetry is us yelling. This is me yelling about the very mantle of trauma that is stitched into the fabric of our society. It is so entrenched, as it has been in society, that it is barely utterable. Like a colour we cannot see, a collective amnesia. And it suddenly started spluttering out: Me too!

And me. 

I am one in three women, 

Lots of men told to kill their feelings.

Trauma comes in degrees, the refugee families and individuals I have met have amongst our laughter, our alchemy and dancing, talked about their trauma. I relate. It is not my trauma, nor my degree. But it is trauma. A category I relate to.

This is us taking back control. I do it for you but know that it is our turn to fight back. It is healthy to re-establish your boundaries of a world that took yours away. Create your knife.

So lets write, paint, sing, yell, make moments happen. Transform the world. Lets gain back control over narcissists that have fucked our world over. You are allowed to be the best you can. To brandish swards. 

So this is my life’s work. 

This is why I am doing this. And will continue to do things like this for all my future. And also, I am now going to have a fucking good time and enjoy life and not get caught up on this moment, or what ‘happened to me’, but it is important that it is out there, that it is not told to be kept silent. And if you every want to consider re-building your mind, or if you want redemption, this will be your life’s work too, or I will make it yours by force. Trust me, I am now the girl with the dragon tattoo, a dragon of my Mexican people that have been fucked over by white men like you (By the way, can you feel the power of Mexico and other countries starting to fight back? Being beautiful? Exciting right?). 

So these are the letters. The start to break silences, to have stabbing conversations. No I am not tame. No my parents. My family. I will not do this nicely and silently. If you want to write a letter that stabs go ahead, if you want to thank all those who truly saw you and your truth go ahead. If you want to honour the world with your words and your beauty, go ahead. Lets cut to the real. 

In a letter, you open the world. You can build and do other things you want from there. So lets start to stitch together connections of real discussions, or raw real open discussions, of the possibility of connecting networks between those who have seen trauma and who understand the pain of the world, and who alchemise it. We are the future. 

And fuck those who tell you to be less real, to tone it down. They are cowards. 

Dare, 

Dare to connect. 

We need truth more than ever.

We need reality more than ever. 

We need beauty more than ever. 

Fuck you Jack. 

Eliza. 

Right, now this is done, lets get back to life and cycling. 

[crowdvscritic]

round up // JUNE 20

The quarantine continues, and so does my insane level of film consumption. As you’ve probably discovered in your many a Zoom call, if you ask, “What’s new?” you usually get a, “Nothing much since we last talked.” Of course, these days no news means good news, so I’ll happily confirm the same is true here at Crowd vs. Critic. In this time of no movie theatres and few new releases, I’m catching up on a lot of classics and squeezing in a yoga sesh and reading in between. Perhaps these pop culture pieces that brought me joy in June will bring you some in July!

June Crowd-Pleasers

Yoga with Adriene

Adriene is all about finding what feels good, and her yoga videos have been helping me feel good during quarantine. I’m a big fan of browsing her YouTube playlist of 20-30 minute practices and picking whatever focus sounds like it would, well, feel good on my lunch break or when I wrap up my work day. If you’re looking for a way to stay active, destressed, or stretched out, Adriene’s (and her dog Benji’s) friendly videos have become my go-to.

The World According to Jeff Goldblum (2019- )

You know those people who can make anything interesting? Jeff Goldblum is the quintessence of that kind of person. Every episode of this Disney+ docuseries covers a broad topic that happens to intrigue him, including ice cream, tattoos, denim, RVs, and jewelry. While I don’t have many questions about ice cream, per se, I’m happy to just ride along on his trips all over the US to learn more about it. He finds niche communities, game changers, and new technology I suspect most won’t be familiar with, and he finds ways to get involved, a lá giving someone a Jurassic Park tattoo or getting custom grills made for his teeth. Truthfully, I don’t care much about what Goldblum chooses to explore as long as he’s stammering and sing-song-ing his way through as only he can.

Double Feature – Historical Action Flicks: The Quick and the Dead (1995) + Troy (2004)

I told you last month I’m working on the Western genre, and The Quick and the Dead (Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 8/10) is a ‘90s entry from Sam Raimi featuring a rare female lead (Sharon Stone), the babiest of Leo DiCaprios, an evil Gene Hackman, and an epic tournament of duels. If you’d prefer your adventure several thousand years back, Troy (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 7/10) is a star-studded interpretation of The Iliad featuring a plethora of togas, romance, and epic battle scenes.

Double Feature – Corporate Espionage Thrillers: The Firm (1993) + Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (2014)

Two unassuming guys start jobs bright-eyed and leave jaded, one a fresh-out-of-law-school attorney and the other a quit-school-to-save-the-world CIA analyst. The Firm (Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 9/10) is the critical winner of the pair, but Jack Ryan (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10) is a more satisfying action movie than its Rotten Tomatoes score would suggest. (Another example of why we should take those numbers with a grain of salt.) Bonus: Another evil Gene Hackman in The Firm!

Double Feature – New Crime Comedies: The Lovebirds + My Spy (2020)

For a family movie night in, I recommend My Spy on Amazon Prime (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10), which holds the honor of the last movie I watched in theatres before everything shut down. For date night in, I recommend The Lovebirds (Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 7/10), which made me ready for Kumail Nanjiani to become a superstar. You can read my full thoughts on this fun pair of laughs on ZekeFilm:

The Lovebirds

My Spy

Double Feature – Heist Thrillers: Now You See Me (2013) + Finding Steve McQueen (2019)

Close up magic hasn’t been as cool as Now You See Me(Crowd: 10/10 // Critic: 8/10) since Houdini was escaping handcuffs. This, of course, has less to do with the magic shows and more to do with the Ocean’s Eleven/The Sting-style plot. I love a movie that pulls the wool over my eyes—Hollywood, this is your call to trick me more often! And who says “cool” like Steve McQueen? While I wouldn’t have minded another pass at the dialogue in Finding Steve McQueen (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 6.5/10), this based-on-a-true-story heist targeting President Nixon looks as cool as it is funny.

Double Feature – ‘80s Comedies: ¡Three Amigos! (1986) + Coming to America (1988)

The stars of early SNL & Friends make movies! Steve Martin, Martin Short, and Chevy Chase bring an alternative version of The Magnificent Seven with more jokes and fewer successful heroics, and I’m surprised at how most of it (save a few moments) has aged well. (Crowd: 9.5/10 // Critic: 7.5/10) And who knows when we’ll get the sequel Coming 2 America that Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall were going to star in this year, but the original sweet and silly romantic comedy about a Prince looking for love is worth revisiting so we’re ready whenever it drops. (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 8/10)

Cinematic Cities: New York by Christian Blauvelt (2019)

I started this Turner Classic Movies book to prep for my first visit to New York City in March...well, we all know what happened there. Kudos to this writer and the book designers who helped me wrap my head around how the neighborhoods are connected in this city and where to find famous movie locales, plus a few off the beaten path. Now I have more places I want to see and taste and experience when I finally go, but until then, I’ve got a list of movies to watch so my vacation doesn’t feel so far away.

Summer Stock (1950)

The plot is hackneyed and the songs are hokey, but, gee, if I didn't spend the whole time wishing we had more movie stars like these clowns, Gene Kelly and Judy Garland. Twice I tried to wipe the smile off my face as Gene danced, and I just couldn't do it. The corners of my mouth twitched back up because a newspaper and squeaky floor were competing with Judy for his best dance partner! 70 years later this movie still won't let someone wipe a stupid grin off her face—three cheers for camera-magnetic movie stars! Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 6/10

Air Force One (1997)

Sure, it’s Die Hard on a plane, but when you nail the formula this well, I think you get more than a pass. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 6.5/10

June Critic Picks

The Sting (1973)

I jumped out of chronological order in my Best Picture watch because I liked Butch and Sundance so much. It’s an unusual winner, but it holds up well. Scroll down a bit for two reviews, or catch ‘em here:

Crowd

Critic

Double Feature - World War II Action Dramas: Saving Private Ryan (1998) + Enemy at the Gates (2001)

Watching this pair back-to-back makes for a poignant compare and contrast of how the United States and Russia managed their campaigns during World War II (at least as they’re depicted here). In Saving Private Ryan (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 10/10), Tom Hanks and Co. are trying to save one soldier just after D-Day; in Enemy at the Gates (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 8.5/10), Jude Law is a legendary sniper trying to give hope to his comrades. Compare how both armies fight against all odds, and contrast how one life matters to each country.

Anna Karenina (2012)

Joe Wright reunites with much of his Pride and Prejudice cast, and it’s as magical and beautiful as you’d hope. Keira Knightley stars as the tragic heroine alongside a stacked cast including Domnhall Gleeson, Jude Law, Matthew Macfayden, Aaron Taylor-Johnson, and Alicia Vikander. Fun fact: I just learned my grandfather calls Knightley “his girlfriend” because he thinks she’s so cute in Pride and Prejudice—no word yet on what he thought of the gorgeous gowns she wore in this movie, but my podcast co-host Kyla and I loved them in our most recent episode. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 10/10

Double Feature – Humphrey Bogart: The Maltese Falcon (1941) + Key Largo (1948)

Plenty has been written about how The Maltese Falcon (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 9/10) is the epitome of Film Noir. Now that I’ve met Sam Spade and his femme fatale (Mary Astor) and watched their hunt for a McGuffin, I’ll just join in the chorus. And now that I’ve watched all of Bogie and Bacall’s features, I’m picking Dark Passage as my favorite and Key Largo (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8.5/10) my second. In their last film together, she’s a war widow and he was a soldier who knew her husband. When he comes to visit her at her hotel in Key Largo, they end up stuck inside during a hurricane with gangsters—tension ensues.

Da 5 Bloods (2020)

While Spike Lee’s latest was a little long, it’s hard to know what to cut when its updated take on The Treasure of the Sierra Madre is so engrossing. Between the performances, the action, and the treasure hunt plot, it’s the rare Netflix original in which you won’t be tempted to look at your phone. I’m hoping Delroy Lindo is in the Oscars conversation come next April. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 8.5/10

Long Gone Summer (2020)

The summer of ’98 was big for me: My sister was born, my family moved to a new house, and I turned six with a Mulan-themed party. (Yes, I was the height of cool.) It was also the summer Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa faced off in a home run battle to beat Roger Maris’s regular season record, which even then I knew was a big deal. This ESPN 30 for 30 episode interviews McGwire, Sosa, and everybody in their orbit, but the real heart is the tribute it pays to St. Louis, Chicago, and baseball as a whole. I knew baseball films make me cry, and it turns out good baseball documentaries do, too.

Women In Music Pt. III by HAIM (2020)

The sisters are back with an album made for late-night driving with the windows down, and “I Know Alone” feels like a COVID anthem.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964)

If you loved La La Land like I did and haven’t seen this musical, just get around to watching it already! From the colorful aesthetic to the melancholy plot structure, you can literally see Damien Chazelle’s inspiration for his modern musical. And if you can find an answer as to why the Academy found this film worthy of consideration at not one but two Oscars ceremonies, let me know—I’ve yet to solve that mystery. Crowd: 7/10 // Critic: 9/10

Double Feature – Gregory La Cava Class Comedies: My Man Godfrey (1936) + 5th Avenue Girl (1939)

I don’t think I’ve watched a film from the 1930s that isn’t about money on some level, and these two from director Gregory La Cava are no exception. In Godfrey (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 8.5/10), Carole Lombard is a socialite who brings a homeless man in as their family’s new butler (William Powell), but there’s more to him than they know. in 5th Avenue (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8/10), Ginger Rogers befriends a lonely businessman (Walter Connolly), and though their relationship is platonic, that doesn’t mean he won’t hire her to make his philandering wife jealous. The moral of both films? Rich people be crazy, which is a great set up for comedy.

Also in June…

In addition to Anna Karenina, Kyla and teased our self-made millionaire hair and introduced our butler Max to discuss the ‘80s rom-com procedural Hart to Hart. If you enjoy detective shows, it’s a fun spin on the genre you may enjoy.

I watched and reviewed Best Picture winners The Sting (above) and the worst one I’ve watched yet, 1933’s Cavalcade. Read the Crowd and Critic reviews to know why it’s not worth your time.

I updated my Letterboxd with a list of all the movies in Cinematic Cities: New York, and my quarantine watch list is almost to 250.

Photo credits: Yoga With Adriene, HAIM. Cinematic Cities my own. All others IMDb.com.

[elizas-writing]

Olaf’s Frozen Adventure: The Danger of Over-Hype

So while Coco was a phenomenal film, there was one teeny, tiny little thing many audiences didn’t anticipate: A 21-minute holiday-themed Frozen “short.”

And boy, did this get panned to hell and back. No one was expecting it to be this long, and everyone felt like it was just a cash-grab to hype up the kids for Frozen 2-- though even the kids were bored-- and not the best “short” to pair with a film about Día de Muertos and highlighting Mexican culture. The backlash was so bad that Disney eventually decided to pull the short entirely.

Since I saw Coco a week after its release, I knew what to expect so the disappointment wasn’t as painful. But damn, it was still annoying and just a waste of time. But as I kept thinking about it, it annoys me for more reasons than just the long run time and forgettable songs. So that begs the question: where did Olaf’s Frozen Adventure go wrong?

I guess it’s appropriate to start off on my personal opinion of Frozen. I can’t deny the animation is lovely and the music is catchy as hell, but the story lacked a lot of focus. Do they want to show sister’s mending a broken relationship or subvert old Disney Princess tropes? I think it spends too much time trying to pull the wool over your eyes than just let the characters breathe or address major plot holes (i.e how does magic play into this world where ice magic can be dangerous and thus it’s totally rational to lock your kids up from the world for most of their lives). Don’t get me wrong, I can see the ideas they’re going for, the effort is there, but the overall execution just doesn’t do it for me.

I know Disney’s trying to keep audiences interested when Frozen 2 comes out in 2019. In theory, the shorts aren’t necessarily a bad idea, and I give them credit they actually explore the sisters more and keep the focus on mending their relationship and making up for so much lost time in their childhoods. This is what Frozen Fever accomplished without dragging its run-time for too long. Sure, it probably didn’t need to exist, but I would’ve missed out on Anna and Elsa fixing things, and I don’t know what’s planned for Frozen 2, so perhaps this is the best way they can do it without jamming too much into the sequel.

And what was originally going to be a TV special on ABC, Olaf’s Frozen Adventures follows Elsa and Anna as they contemplate if they have any winter holiday traditions due to the years spent isolated from each other. So Olaf takes it upon himself to go door-to-door and find traditions for the sisters to have for their first Christmas together in years. Why they didn’t put this on Netflix or Hulu and paired it with a film about Dia de Muertos, I don’t know. Though, to be honest, these are the same people who thought spending five years marketing the hell out of Frozen was a good idea (and now hardly anyone buys the merchandise in excess).

And this dives into the first problem: barely giving screen time to the sisters and focusing way too much on Olaf. I don’t hate Olaf, but he’s only enjoyable in small doses. The longer I have to listen to Josh Gad’s whisper-y, childlike voice, the more I want it to stop. And he ends up losing most of the items he gathers anyway, so we went through another boring song number for nothing. It just goes in one ear and out the other, and you’d think for a film they’d been plugging to death since 2013, they’d put in so much more effort to make an interesting story.

The only parts I really liked were of Anna and Elsa interacting. On one hand, it does pose an interesting dilemma of making the holidays special after years of family trauma. There’s a really sweet scene where they’re looking through their old toys in the attic, and Elsa finds this old doll she used as a comfort object, and yeah, this would have been nice to see these bits and pieces in the first film to further develop their longing for a normal family life.

But it loops back to Olaf with all the cards Anna made for Elsa every Christmas, and ending it with “You’re our tradition” which is about as cheesy as it sounds. We get it; Olaf is a representation of their long-lost childhood innocence. Can we move on to something new and not overemphasize Olaf’s importance and make it overstay its welcome? Also doesn’t it seem a little messed up that their “tradition” is associated with childhood trauma and they don’t decide to make a new tradition which will actually bring happiness? I don’t know if I’m reading too much into it, but it’s kinda unsettling when you think about it.

And as I said before, the songs are so forgettable, which is surprising given that there’s like five or six of them almost back-to-back. All I could remember was that the lyrics were awkward and cheesier than a Hallmark Christmas movie. You’d think a short from a movie which had such spectacular songs, one of which actually got on the radio for some time, they would put in a little more effort than that, even for a holiday special for kids. And it’s really painful to hear great voices like Idina Menzel and Kristen Bell given such dumb lyrics to sing.

The short’s greatest failings are more than the run-time and bad songs. It took an idea with such great material for the characters  to work off of, and they wasted an opportunity to make something of powerfully emotional impact. By no means is it the worst thing Disney has done, but it is so obviously rushed out with little focus on the main conflict and tone.

And if this is how they’re treating their franchise now, how will that reflect on Frozen 2? Are they going to put actual effort or just have a sloppy story and think it’ll get a pass because it’s Frozen and it made them a lot of money once before. Only now is the surplus marketing starting to bite Disney back, and if they haven’t figured that out by now, they run the risk of making Frozen 2 dead on arrival. This is why you don’t put all your eggs in one basket and forget that trends change.

[valkyrie-echo]

Project Echo, Part 1: Chapter 36 (A Five-Front War)

Part 1 Summary: A long-buried Hydra disaster, a monster in the shadows, a missing child. Eight months after the events of “The Winter Soldier”, Bucky turns himself in to the Avengers on one condition: They must help him find a girl snatched off the streets by Hydra seven years ago. In their quest, the Avengers accidentally unleash a horrifying creature of darkness and shadow, intent on making their quarry its prey.

Chapter 36: A Five-Front War

Avengers Tower

Between the minor argument over dinner and the much larger one that took place in private later that night, Steve was done listening to Clint- a stance which he made very clear. He hadn't pulled the decision to hold him back out of his ass, it made strategic sense- why couldn't he see that? He was one of SHIELD's best, yet he was acting like some egotistical hothead.

Within two days JARVIS reported a nearly 300% uptick in tourists from countries with known Hydra ties. Dennisson was bringing in an army, and all they could do was wait for the attack. Tony had gone to the mayor, CIA, and FBI to try and get some sort of protective action organized, all without luck. No one was willing to further fan the unrest after Bucky's little swan dive from Avengers Tower. When he took to social media to encourage New Yorkers to remain in their homes his accounts were shut down. JARVIS could re-instate them, but the constant battle for control meant the message was trapped in digital limbo where it did no one any good. Steve couldn't even raise SHIELD.

"He'll attack at night," Bucky was positive, "he isn't afraid of Hydra's monster, and he knows we sure as hell are." Bucky was wearing denim and wool everywhere- even though it was hot and he looked ridiculous- to try and build up his new flesh. And he wasn't the only one preparing for battle.

Banner was living in his Hulk-Out clothes, and Thor had returned to his full regalia. Natasha trained Sam in hand-to-hand combat, but kept the lessons short and didn't push hard enough to tire him out so that he would be ready whenever the attack came.

Clint just sat alone with Inessa and fumed. He wasn't debating that the plan made sense, it was just- he hadn't fought with them since the last battle of New York. Tony, Thor, Steve, Nat, hell, even Sam had all saved the world with flair since then. They'd gotten themselves on TV and been dubbed "Earth's Mightiest Heroes". But what about the one who fired the arrows? After Christmas he'd been in a mall, stalking a suspected Chi'tauri arms dealer and he saw no less than four kids in like at the toy store- all returning their Hawkeye dolls for "literally any other Avenger", as one of them loudly declared. Banner hadn't been in the limelight either- but Hulk was sold out everywhere.

Did you hear about the Mall of America disaster? Clint wanted to ask, No? What about the obliteration of Disney's Florida parks over high-peak tourist season? No? That nuclear attack that wiped out India? Not that either? You're fucking welcome! He didn't care about the fame, not really, but he hadn't done his heroics in front of an audience of millions. He did it from the rafters, where no one could see him. Now another battle was on the horizon, and once again he wouldn't be there. The surplus Avenger. The Avenger's babysitter.

"If you keep scowling your face will get stuck like that," Natasha came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not scowling, that's my resting face."

"Really?" she peeked around to get a look, "because these are your scowling shoulders."

He shrugged her off, "I thought you were training Sam."

"I was, but then this slipped off," she pressed the Asgardian band into his chest. He forced a smile and turned to inspect the leg. It was seamless- he couldn't even tell where it had been severed.

"No more pins and needles?"

"None."

"That's great, Nat!"

She raised an eyebrow, "Once more, with feeling."

Clint tried being cheeky, "I'm in mourning. With that off you'll go back to the fight-suit and I won't get any up-skirt shots to look forward to from the paparazzi."

Natasha smiled, "Good cover."

She glanced to Inessa and patted his arm, "Hey, want a mission?"

"Whatcha got?"

"Thor's been trying to find the footage from when Bucky took Nessa out of the torture room. Could you help him with it?"

"Sure, whatever."

Natasha leaned in to whisper something (presumably naughty) in his ear when they heard a sudden parade of booms, followed half a second later by a shudder throughout the Tower. In the twilight outside the city went dark as buildings were knocked off the grid. Only the streetlights and Avengers Tower remained lit- all thanks to Tony's insistence his arc reactors power New York's emergency services.

"Avengers Assemble," Clint said sarcastically. He stood with Natasha and grabbed her arm as she turned. "Take care of yourself," they kissed quickly and she ran off downstairs.

Clint turned to Inessa, vacant as ever. He sighed and reached up to pull out his hearing aids, "So," he hoped he sounded somewhat intelligible, it was hard to speak without being able to hear, "shall we bake cookies for when the heroes return?"

Avengers Tower- Meeting Room

Steve and Tony were already gathering information when the Avengers came together. No one save Thor and Banner were dressed yet.

"We've got simultaneous explosions all over New York," Steve spoke very quickly and waved to a map. "Dennisson is forcing us to divvy up."

Bucky glanced at the map, then pointed to one of the southern locations, "That's Dennisson."

"You sure?"

He nodded, "State supreme court. Big and flashy. It's him."

"That's our target then," Bucky nodded and left to start loading up on knives and guns. The rest of the locations Steve dolled out at random, "Natasha and Sam- Battery Park. Banner, you and Stark are taking Washington Square. Thor- Bryant Park is yours, and it's just a few blocks east off the balcony."

"Look for fire," Tony suggested. Thor nodded.

"Get civilians out, then focus on routing Hydra. Keep it contained as best you can, there are no acceptable losses. Go!" Everyone ran towards the armory door- save Thor.

"Natasha," Steve called ahead to her as they ran, "Is Clint-"

"He knows what to do!" she ran into her workshop where she kept her suit and Steve changed direction to show Bucky where their new uniforms were kept.

Thor: Bryant Park

Thor jumped off the balcony and launched himself towards a plume of orange-black smoke in the east. He heard gunfire and the scream of the human's emergency vehicles. The foe, he knew, would be likely waiting for him. He changed the direction of his descent and flew around to the back of the park so that when he landed he would be facing towards Avengers Tower. Any trap they had ready would be thwarted.

Bryant Park was little more than a large grassy space with a cafe at one end- Asgard's banquet hall was larger. Now though the cafe was a fireball. Bodies lay strewn about- some in far too many pieces. Black-clad soldiers fired upon emergency vehicles and screaming civilians alike with rocket launchers and large guns- half of them turned inward as soon as he landed.

Thor immediately whipped up a storm around himself. Bullets pinged off his armor and he struggled to shield his exposed face. As soon as he realized their barrage would not soon end, he threw himself forward blindly into a line of soldiers. Before they could recover he was gone, smashing into another batch. They broke formation quickly to minimize how many he could target at once, but maintained their combined inward-outward assault.

One thing worked in Thor's favor- to avoid catching their comrades in a crossfire, they kept most shots aimed at his torso and legs- which were protected well enough. It also meant that when he uncovered his face he had a few seconds to take stock of the new arrangement of men.

Thor released a wave of lightning and blasted several soldiers at once. He opened a small window for police to push in towards the victims and pull people out of the firefight.

A bullet grazed Thor's cheek and he launched into the air- only to tip downwards and crash with enough force to put a small crater in the park- and take out four more Hydra soldiers. He may not be able to throw the hammer with any real effect, but he could at least-

Something slammed into him and knocked him off balance. Thor swung Mjolnir blindly while he recovered his balance. Whatever it was, it slammed into him again a second later and threw him backwards several feet. He launched into the air again and blanketed a Hydra-controlled area of the park with electricity. The more emergency personnel who "helped" by filling the park, the less Mjolnir's lightning would be useful. He couldn't put any civilians in harm's way. This was quickly becoming surgeons work, and the hammer was not a precision tool.

There was a blur and a dark-skinned man appeared, grinning wickedly up at Thor. He held a club in each hand. Thor dove for him and he moved so impossibly fast that when Thor landed he was in front of the man rather than the other way around. The stranger slammed his club into the back of the god's helmet with savage strength and speed. Thor wheeled around, but the man hit him again from behind.

Dazed, and more than a little angry, Thor faked a turn and tackled the man when he tried to intercept. They tumbled head-over-heels, then the man phased out and vanished again- he was moving too fast.

Hydra was losing ground now that Thor had put sizable dents in their manpower. He wheeled about freely, looking for his enemy. He spotted him on the far side of the park, still grinning. The man pointed to Thor and waved. He looked down just in time to see the bomb on his chest trigger.

With his last seconds, Thor released a vortex of wind and lightning at the man- if he was to fall, his foe would fall too. When he fired he saw something from the corner of his eye and turned his head. The last thing he saw before the bomb blew was Avengers Tower going black.

Avengers Tower

Clint was on edge, trapped in the Tower in complete silence. They could be screaming through the comms for him and he'd never know. He clenched the hearing aids in his fist as he paced- nearly put them in- then threw them angrily at the dining room table. He couldn't. Stupid fucking plan.

He picked up a tablet and told (or hoped he did) JARVIS to bring up the feed Thor had been watching from 'Project: Echo'. He put a hand on his throat and felt he vibrations as he spoke. Good, at least I'm speaking out loud. He hadn't been truly deaf in a long time- he'd forgotten how frustrating it could be. Especially in a fight.

The tablet lit up with security footage and Clint set it to play double-speed. He paced the apartment furiously along the balcony window- half watching the footage, half watching the distant glow of fires still raging in the dark city.

Stupid. Fucking. Plan. Clint dismissed a cold prickle on the back of his neck as simple nerves- he didn't know the Shadow was watching.

Natasha and Sam: Battery Park

As soon as Natasha was in her suit and loaded with weapons she ran up to Sam's launch pad. He was ready for her, wings already on.

"When was the last time we really fought together?" she hit the door release.

"Astana? For like ten minutes?" he double-checked the straps on the wings.

She smiled, "You want point or sweep-up?"

He shrugged and pulled down his goggles, "Ladies first!"

Natasha lunged forward and dove off the pad and out the side of the building, "NOT WHAT I MEANT!" he took off after her. As soon as he was in range she spun mid-air and grabbed on to his boot. He banked sharply and set a course for the financial district and Battery Park.

Strangely, there was no smoke from their destination. Sam glanced down at Natasha. She wasn't telling him he was going the wrong way, so he pressed on.

Battery Park, the narrow strip of greenery between New York City and the Hudson, was completely encased in clear, slippery ice. Natasha kicked her heels together as they landed and spikes shot out. Sam maintained a low altitude and swept the park for signs of life.

There was a mountain of clear ice not far from them- and inside they could see chunks of soil, bark, and people, their faces trapped forever now in a look of surprise and fear. It was as if the park had frozen at the moment of the explosion.

Sam felt something hit his back and he screamed as his muscles suddenly clamped. He shook uncontrollably and struggled not to bite his own tongue as his jaw locked. His wing unit shorted out and he crashed heavily to the ground.

Natasha saw the Tazer-Arrow a second before it hit Sam's wing unit- too late to do anything. She wheeled around, guns out, and saw- Clint? No. His eyes were wrong- slightly off color and way too pleased with the shot. A copy. Her hesitation almost killed her. Someone fired at her from the side while she was distracted and she dropped to the ground with only a fraction of a second to spare.

A man with black hair was standing to her left with an arm out. The tips of his fingers were blue and let off a constant shower of powder- as if he were freezing the moisture in the air itself. Natasha glanced at Sam. She saw that the arrow had stopped sparking and fell from the wings. He was moving already. She cast another glance to the Clint lookalike, he was loading another arrow. The Ice-Man was walking towards her.

She dove at him first and tried to stab the arrow into his stomach. He reached out for her with his frozen hand and she twisted away, losing her chance. While his focus was on her still she ran for the Clint-Clone. He gave up trying to seat the arrow and ran to meet the charge. She slammed into him full-force and they tumbled across the slick ground. The Ice-Man wasn't a professional- he was waiting for a clear shot of her. A real Hydra agent would have fired- comrade be damned.

He turned his attention to where Sam was and saw only the dead wings. Stumbling and half-bent in pain still, Sam tackled him from the side and swept his legs out from under him. The Ice-Man went down hard. He grabbed Sam by the throat as the other tried to get to his feet- but with the wrong arm. Sam shoved back and kicked at the man's blue hand. He tried to shoot a beam at Sam's foot, but the power failed him. Spikes drove through his hand from Sam's shoe and the man screamed. Ice shot out from beneath him in all directions and Sam's other foot was frozen to the ground instantly.

Natasha was in the process of getting her feet under her when the ice hit and locked one hand and one foot to the ground. Her gloves barely protected the skin. She gasped at the sudden pain and kicked at the Clint-Clone- frozen with his back end still on the brittle grass. He took the hit to the stomach (sadly from the blade-less side of the boot) and swung his arrow at Natasha's throat. She threw her body to the side and felt two pops as her shoulder and knee dislocated. The effect was worth it though- she broke from the new ice and flew across the snow. Natasha half-stood and then slammed onto her back, popping her shoulder back into place. She allowed just one scream, then grabbed her knee and relocated it as well.

Facing the Clint-Clone once again she charged- ignoring the shooting pains in her leg and the instability in her knee. Before she got to him something shot out from behind a tree- directly for Sam.

"LOOK OUT!" he dove to the side as best he could- and the shadowy wolf just barely missed taking off his head. Natasha wheeled around and looked up. When she gasped, her breath was ragged with fear and worry.

Avengers Tower was dark.

Avengers Tower

"Stop!" Clint saw what he was waiting for, Thor had been very close. The video kept playing. Clint hit the screen, but the pause button wouldn't come up, "JARVIS, stop it! Wait! Rewind!" he put a hand on his throat and felt nothing. Clint growled- there, the vibration, he tried again, "STOP PLAYBACK!"

He was frustrated and trying to speak quickly without monitoring how he formed the words. He could tell just from the feeling in his mouth that he'd probably said something more like "Awob baai-pak," but JARVIS understood him. The video began to rewind. Clint called (in a much clearer voice) for him to stop when it got to the part Bucky had described.

Bucky was running through the halls with her in his arms. The video switched between cameras as he ran out of their range. He got to a corner and stopped abruptly- he'd heard the soldiers. Bucky set Inessa down, in front of him, Clint noted. His body partially blocked her from camera, but he set her upright and carefully leaned her against the wall. On the tablet the video wasn't large enough for precise detail, and the hallway wasn't the most well-lit place. Clint zoomed in on Inessa and tried to distinguish her from the cement. "Increase contrast" he said very slowly. The shading warped and he got a clearer outline of the girl and Bucky's legs.

The soldiers rounded the corner and she abruptly vanished. It looked like a glitch in the tape- but one moment the white outline of her body was mostly blocked by Bucky's legs, the next it was Bucky blocked by Inessa. He doubted he'd be able to see the change without the contrast. "Replay, no contrast." JARVIS played the video as he was told. Just as Clint suspected- the plain video was too dark to see the move. But-

"Half contrast, replay," he zoomed in on her again, "Slow," the video played at half-speed. Bucky set Inessa down. He leaned her against the wall so she was propped on her right shoulder- she vanished for only three frames, less than a fraction of a second, then she was behind him, laying on the floor with her feet pointed to the wall. Her right arm was now against the floor, and she held Bucky's leg with her left arm. So he was right about the teleportation? Something still wasn't right.

He felt a creeping sensation on the back of his neck and abruptly dropped the tablet. He pulled a long knife from his belt and breathed slowly. Hearing would have helped, but Clint felt the subtle vibrations in the hardwood with his bare feet. He lowered his chin slightly, squared his shoulders, and turned around.

Natasha was behind him- battered and beaten. She was speaking quickly, gesturing desperately at something outside. Slow down! Clint moved the knife to his left hand and signed back at her, Can't hear, remember?

She looked confused, "What the fuck? Stop screwing around and talk to me!" Clint read her lips.

Then he threw the knife.

She slapped her hands together and caught the blade between her gloves. Natasha smiled and dissipated as if she were made of mist. A thin man stood in her place- Dennisson's man who installed the Devices. Clint pulled another knife from his belt and put Inessa behind him. Thanks to Steve's not-so-fucking-stupid plan (which he would never admit to Cap's face had actually turned out to be a good idea) the Avenger watching Inessa was one best poised to tell a fake Natasha from a real one. And the only one Tyson couldn't talk into committing suicide.

"This will be fun," he read Tyson's lips as the other shifted the blade into his right hand.

Clint could tell he didn't know sign language- it was what gave his "Natasha" away- so he gave Tyson the simplest gesture he knew- this one only required one finger.

Tony and Banner: Washington Square

"Don't change, don't change, don't change, don't change," Banner was green and barely holding on to his form. Considering he was latched on to Tony's foot (it seemed like a good idea when they saw Sam and Natasha take off), he very much preferred to NOT find himself suddenly carrying the Hulk. The Suit couldn't handle that kind of weight.

They were high up- well hidden in the darkness of the night sky. Washington Square was swarming with Hydra agents- but one stood alone in the middle of the blown-out fountain. The other agents were grabbing anyone they found, making them kneel, then shooting them point-blank. Carnage- that was Dennisson's plan. Tony's blood boiled.

"Drop. Me. From. Here." Banner's voice was strained over Tony's comm.

"Can you survive the fall? I can drop you closer?"

"HERE!" he shouted and closed his eyes, trying to maintain control.

Tony began lowering himself anyways, "There's someone in the middle- Hydra's giving her a wide birth so I'm betting she's someone nasty. Can you take care of the civilians and the soldiers while I go after her?"

"Don't worry," Banner released his control and began to change in earnest, "Hulk smash bad ants only." he let go and Tony shot down after him, then veered off at the last second towards the woman.

Hulk landed fully-formed in the grass next to the large square and left an impressive crater. He immediately charged for the black-clad humans, leaving the others to run away in terror.

Tony, meanwhile, charged the redhead in the center of the swarm. She snarled and launched a fireball at his head, "WOAH!" he veered to the side, "JARVIS, what temp did that hit?"

"Hot enough to melt the suit to your skin," Tony made a mental note to tune down the extra-cheery setting, it made JARVIS sound vaguely sadistic.

"I want partial auto-pilot. Use the sensors, if she's heating up to throw another ball, estimate trajectory and get me the hell out of the way if I don't move fast enough."

"Yes, Master Stark." The padding inside the Suit expanded slightly to hold his limbs a bit tighter. He could still move, but if it had to it could move him as well.

He began a wide loop around the girl and spiraled inward. Tony focused only on her- always just in the right side of his vision. He ignored the swirling around her and the nausea building in his stomach. She threw fireball after fireball, but he moved too fast for them to find their target. Instead, the buildings around the square were peppered with incineration-level fire. The stone facade took most of the hits, but he had to do something to stop her- preferably before anyone was hurt.

The g-forces working against his Suit made it difficult- but Tony shut off the rockets in one hand, steadied himself, and fired a pulse directly at her chest. The blast blew him backwards out of control and he slammed into the bell tower of a nearby church. Dazed, Tony turned back to the fray, "JARVIS, tune down the other life signs, show me where she is!"

She was standing up on the far side of the park. Her armor had taken the brunt of his hit. She was very much alive, and extremely pissed. Tony launched directly at her and fired several choice pieces from his arsenal. She responded with fire-bomb after fire-bomb, detonating all of his missiles before they had a chance to do any kind of harm. That was the idea. He shot through the smoke and grabbed the arm she threw fire from. The Suit responded to the building heat and, as he wrenched it to one side to deflect the blast, the Suit tried to take off. The next thing Tony knew he was spiraling several feet over the Square with her arm in his hand- but not the rest of her.

"I think I diffused their-" the suit jerked to the side as a column of fire erupted from the ground. Tony spun and scanned the source- it was shooting out of her severed arm. She was screaming, turning away from the conflagration. "HULK, DUCK!" Tony shouted as the girl turned and vaporized half the crowd- not all of them Hydra. He shot to the ground and began scanning for Hulk's location.

Something slammed into his back and the suit crashed into the pavement. Tony was thrown about- he felt the mechanics inside the mask cutting his forehead. It happened every time he crashed. Goddammit. He groaned and lifted his head from the rubble to see what hit him- a black wolf.

The woman saw it through her crazed screaming and tried to direct the torrent of fire at it. Hulk appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Tony before the fire hit. It lit up the wolf and the snarling beast turned- half transparent. It lunged at her through the fire, clamped it's teeth around her head, and in one savage motion smashed her skull between it's jaws. Before the fire had even died down it dove at Tony and Hulk.

"JARVIS! What's the status of the Tower?" no response.

Hulk grabbed the idiot human who wasn't paying attention and threw him at a tree to keep him out of the way. He tried to punch the wolf in the darkness, but the blow wouldn't land. Just like inside the Tower. He turned and roared a challenge at the beast. It landed on a Hydra soldier near where Tony had been. The force of the landing sent the wolf's claws through the man's chest. He died screaming. The wolf turned and ran again at Hulk.

Tony looked up at the Tower and felt his heart sink in his chest- it was pitch black.

Avengers Tower

Clint let Tyson play offense.

The man lunged at him with his mouth open (presumably shouting). Clint brought his knife up and blocked the initial blow- but then it got difficult. Tyson was trying to force him to turn, to lose both ground and his position in front of Inessa. There was only one person in that apartment Dennisson was fixated on killing, and Clint wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

Tyson brought his knife around towards the side of Clint's ribs. It was an exceptionally hard move to block. Clint grabbed Tyson's left arm with his and tried to force the blade to slice wide, then drew his right arm up to intercept the strike. It nicked his hand, but otherwise left him undamaged. Clint planted a foot between him and his enemy and shoved him back towards the door.

The move threw Tyson off balance for a few seconds, but Clint didn't follow through with the attack. He held his ground and spared only a fast glance at Inessa to make sure she hadn't moved- as if she ever did. Tyson tried to circle Clint. He side-stepped to maintain the line. He tried circling the other way- again Clint blocked him. "This isn't a ballet," he said slowly, carefully, "stop dancing around."

Tyson's empty hand flicked behind him for a second and Clint ducked. The throwing knife hit the reinforced window and took a chunk out of it, but otherwise did no harm. Tyson took the opportunity to throw three more knives in quick succession. It forced Clint to the side and away from Inessa- if Tyson was throwing things he had to keep their trajectory away from her.

He lost the ground he'd been trying to keep. Tyson lunged at him again and renewed his attack in earnest. He pressed himself at Clint until the other was forced to step around in order to have adequate room to defend himself. Rather than going after Inessa, he pushed his advantage and swung wildly with one arm while punching Clint in the stomach with the other. The air was forced out of Clint's lungs, his next strike landed too softly, and Tyson blocked it with his forearm. This is why I prefer arrows he thought a second before a cold shiver ran through his knife-arm.

Clint felt an odd chill, and a bone-deep soreness he couldn't place at first. While his armpit felt cold, his side beneath it trickled with warmth. He looked down, dazed, and Tyson pulled the knife from his underarm.

Running beneath the skin of the underarm is the brachial artery. One that- if severed- can kill a full grown man within fifteen seconds.

Dazed, Clint dropped his knife. Tyson stepped back, grinning like a banshee, and Clint's arm fell. He grabbed it with his former knife-hand and held it against his side as tightly as he could- but the cold was spreading. Tyson pulled back his foot and kicked Clint in the chest as hard as he could, launching the Avenger back against the wall. Clint hit hard and slid to the floor. His vision was fuzzy, his head was spinning.

It takes out anyone around her first. The thought floated around for a moment before he grasped it. As if it could sense his thoughts, Clint finally noticed the chill that had nothing to do with blood loss. He thought he heard a growl. Tyson turned towards Inessa as Clint struggled to his knees. He abandoned his arm and tried to reach for the switch- but his hand fell short. He was backed up against a table and couldn't get over it.

There was something on the table- something golden and magical and important, but he couldn't think what. Clint grabbed it and swung at the switch again. In stretching for it, his bleeding arm raised slightly and fresh, hot blood splattered his face. He fumbled with the golden thing and swung it again- dragging it against the wall as he slid down. He dropped the band and it slid up his bad arm halfway, but it did the trick.

It will clear the path before it tries to take her.

The lights in the Tower went out.

Just a few seconds, he fought to stay awake. There was something tight on his arm. Clint shoved it up towards the cut and kept pressure on it, he's the biggest threat. It will kill him first. Just a few... seconds...

Bucky and Steve: New York Supreme Court

They landed on the steps of what used to be the government building. Now it was a burning pile of rubble. The Suits that had flown them over took off to patrol the city.

Steve looked at the vast, empty square in front of them. Hydra soldiers flipped cars out of the street and shoved them away from the building to form a barricade of the area. They were climbing over the cars though, away from the Avengers and the man standing in the middle of the road- Dennisson.

Bucky stretched in his suit- it looked just like Steve's, only the colors were flipped. The star in the center of his chest was red, and his metal arm was completely exposed. It would hinder his movements more than the armor he'd worn as Hydra's Winter Soldier, but not by much, and the protection it offered was far superior. He had his preferred weapon- a long blade. Steve held the shield in one hand and a gun in the other.

There was no speaking. The enemies faced one another and waited for someone to make a move. Steve decided to break the standoff with a gunshot.

It hit Dennisson in the arm, but he didn't seem to notice. He and Bucky charged at each other. Dennisson swung up at Bucky's stomach. The Winter Soldier chose to take the punch- ever since Steve had found him in Red Skull's base- that first time he was captured- he could take a hit pretty easily, as Dennisson was well aware after days of torture.

But this hit was different. He struck Bucky like a hammer and lifted him off the ground. Bucky bit the end of his tongue unintentionally and tasted blood. He was thrown several feet to land on his back on the pavement. Dennisson laughed, "You caught me," he smiled, "I was holding back before."

Steve ran at him, firing. The bullets struck his Kevlar and he barely registered them. It was almost like he was- not possible. The bullets ran out and Steve swung his shield down on Dennisson's head. His target dropped and swept his legs out from underneath him. Bucky jumped on his back and tried to wrap his metal arm around Dennisson's throat. He grabbed it in his bare hands and pried it away, then threw Bucky into Steve.

They landed in a heap a few feet away, "He's a super soldier," Steve panted.

"You think?" the sarcasm was unnecessary.

"How?"

"It's gotta be recent." Dennisson waited for them to attack again, grinning. Bucky popped his neck and rolled his shoulders back, "Do you remember Bobby Iverson?"

Steve glanced over at him, incredulous, "The little German kid I tried to beat up when I was eight?"

Bucky nodded, not taking his eyes from Dennisson, "He called me a 'Mick' and you tackled him."

"You had to pull him off me, then I had to pull you off him."

"Good, then you remember how it worked," he broke eye contact with Dennisson momentarily to grin at Steve.

Steve thought of an expression Tony liked to use, "Let's Bobby Iverson this bitch."

"You killed the moment," Bucky deadpanned, then winked and the two attacked.

Bucky dove at Dennisson's chest while Steve dropped to the ground in a slide and knocked his legs out from under him. Bucky straddled Dennisson's chest and slammed his metal hand into the enemy's head over and over. Dennisson grabbed his fist on the fifth hit and twisted it to the side, dislodging the Winter Soldier. Steve was trying to pin his feet, and he slammed his heel into the Avenger's nose. Before they could regroup, he scrambled backwards. A Hydra agent dislodged himself from the shadows and ran at Dennisson. He grabbed the back of his neck and a second later the enemy was standing up- his wounds gone.

Steve cursed, holding his nose, "He's screwing with us!"

"Kill the healer!" Bucky ordered and dove at Dennisson once again, knife in hand this time.

Dennisson blocked the initial hit, but he was no match for the Winter Soldier in a knife-fight. As quickly as he moved with his new super-soldier abilities, Bucky moved faster. The watered-down serum had it's benefits. Less strength, but twice the speed. Bucky backed him into a wall and brought the knife down in an arc- aiming for Dennisson's head. His enemy slammed his head forward into Bucky's and he staggered back, dazed.

"You were always the weakest of Hydra's heads," Dennisson spat a wad of blood out the side of his mouth. He made a show of pushing himself off of the building wall and glanced over at his healer- he hadn't even seen Steve sever his head with the shield, "You should have been cut off years ago."

"By your rules, wouldn't two more just have taken my place?" Bucky sneered. Steve carefully walked around to stand next to his friend. He didn't trust how quickly this battle was ending. Dennisson staggered towards them. They didn't see him pull the weapon out of the back of his vest.

Dennisson smiled, "Do you know how Hercules killed the Hydra?" he was panting from trying to keep up with Bucky. Dennisson didn't wait for a reply, he answered his own question, "He had a servant cauterize the stump before the new heads could grow."

"We'll remember that when you're dead," Bucky swung back with his metal arm and lunged at Dennisson. He pulled the device out- an elongated silver box.

Steve was closer to Dennisson, and he remembered that thing- one of Red Skull's tesseract weapons. "BUCKY!" He dove in front of his friend, shield up. The blast hit it dead-on and the shield shot back with such force the edge smashed into Steve's throat, choking him. He hit Bucky at an angle and the two went flying in different directions. Dennisson laughed gleefully. The beam stopped and he closed the head of it to re-build the charge. Steve slammed into the rubble of the senate building head-first. His own shield dragged him across the jagged stone before it was embedded in the middle of some beam.

Bucky, meanwhile, was thrown into part of a still-standing column. He blasted through it and flipped horizontally several times before coming to a stop on the far side of the street. He choked on dust and rock and gasped for air. His chest burned, his extremities tingled as if they'd been subjected to an electric shock. He opened his eyes weakly and saw a red path traced in the rubble where Steve had vanished. Dennisson walked over easily. He'd exaggerated his condition. Bucky wasn't a threat anymore- not even close. He couldn't even move enough to sit up. Captain America though- Steve managed to pull his shield out of the beam and was staggering out of the rubble. He pulled off his hood and wiped the blood from his eyes, ready to stand against the enemy. Dennisson raised the weapon again and Steve braced himself. When he let the energy fly, Steve met it with his shield.

Bucky had to look away, the energy arching from it was too bright. He looked up at the skyline above just in time to see Avengers Tower go dark.

Avengers Tower

Tyson didn't care that the lights went out. He had his orders. He took his time getting to Inessa- if the other guy was still alive he could bask in the knowledge that his charge was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

A small light remained between him an Inessa- Clint's tablet. It cast a dramatic glow over him as he advanced, knife out and still dripping. Tyson imagined he looked like the villain from a kids story with a flashlight under his chin. Soon enough he was in front of Inessa. His shadow stretched behind him and splashed across the ceiling. Something glinted off a dead light bulb back in the kitchen- something silver. A second appeared.

"I'm doing you a favor, kid," he raised the knife, stepped forward-

Four long, black talons stuck out of his chest and held him in place. He tried to breathe in, but couldn't. Silver dripped from their tips mixed with his own red blood. There was a colossal roar from behind him and Tyson was flung aside- into the reinforced glass. He hit it with impossible force, broke through it, and tumbled out into the darkness.

Now, Clint felt the Shadow's roar, even if he couldn't hear it. He tried to reach up to hit the switch- where was the thing he'd been holding? His body was so cold. Now, he tried to speak, tell JARVIS to turn the lights on, but he couldn't tell if he was speaking aloud, let alone clear enough for JARVIS to understand the command. He tried again and again as the Shadow's form solidified. It wasn't coming after him- it was going after Inessa. She sat there blank, unaware of the deadly creature that approached. Now, now, NOW, NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!

The Shadow reached out a talon. Clint must have spoken, because the lights faded up abruptly- just in time for him to see the Shadow touch the side of Inessa's head. It began to dissolve into black smoke that flooded into her mouth and eyes. The Shadow threw back it's head and roared. Her body tensed, mouth open. She was screaming too. Black fog began to roll from her skin as the Shadow shrank.

It didn't dissolve completely into Inessa. The creature grew smaller, more defined. It's hind legs shortened and solidified, the flat, terrifying grin elongated into a muzzle, the ears pushed out. Even it's talons shrunk. Inessa's head rolled forward. Silver burned in her eyes. With halting, strangled movements she came over to Clint, grabbed his outstretched, and flipped the switch back to the 'off' position.

She pulled him into the shadows, flanked now by an entire pack of black wolves.

Clint thought of the security video as he faded into unconsciousness. The hallway wasn't the most well-lit place. It was downright dark. When Bucky put Inessa down, he couldn't see her anymore, not until he increased the contrast. It was too dark. Something clicked. He looked up as best he could. 'Project: Echo'. Echo. His slowing mind remembered a fairy tale from his childhood. One his mother read to him from her faded book of mythology.

Echo. The girl who turned into a Shadow.

Chapter 37: The Shadow

[chibi-writings]

Ink 5/?

Characters: Frollo, Esmeralda

Note: I gave Frollo a fourth ring in this story, a seal ring which he by all logic would have, especially for the time period. I also tried to find out what exactly he would be, and a provost, specifically Lord Provost of Paris, was the position that fit him the best. (Although he is still referred to as minister sometimes since this is based off of Disney.) Medieval France is honestly a huge, confusing mess with its administration and I'm surprised they ever got anything done.

"Those who guard their mouths and their tongues keep themselves from calamity." —Proverbs 21:23

Trouble

When he awoke it was to a bright sun shining through his window, its radiance restored overnight it seemed. Frollo winced and rubbed his eyes, his movements slow and leaden. He had finally slept, thank God, but he still felt strange and weak. His head was clogged with wool and even though his body responded to his wishes it felt as if it didn't belong to him.

With a small groan he sat up, moving gingerly and taking long pauses between his bouts of action. He had to let his head adjust to being awake, to everything being peaceful again. Minutes passed before he was able to slide himself out of his bed, into his house shoes and stand upright. He stretched himself long and languidly, like a cat, and glanced around the room. His robes were gone, taken away during the night to be cleaned undoubtedly, and his fire was burning small flames. Near fresh, then.

He bent down and tossed a log into the flames and then went to the door. He rapped his knuckles against it sharply and it opened beneath his touch. "Bring me water to wash myself with, and breakfast," he ordered the servant waiting outside. He heard a murmur of affirmation and the door closed again.

Left with nothing to do but wait, he turned and walked slowly back to the fireplace, basking in the warmth it provided. Nightgowns were not made to keep someone very warm and now without the protection of his blankets he could feel the gentle chill of the room creeping into him. When the cold had been sufficiently driven away he reached up to grab the rosary around his neck and take it off, then he knelt by his bed.

Normally his morning prayer would have only taken a minute or two, but he had been so tired last night that his nightly prayer before going to sleep had utterly slipped his mind. He had never, ever done that before, the very thought was unimaginable to him and yet there it was in his memory, no trick or hallucination. He vowed to make it up with and especially long prayer today and threw himself into his devotion, Latin spilling from his heart with more perfection and precision than he could remember in a long time. The words sang in the air, seemed to vibrate with their own energy as if they plucked at the fabric of existence around him.

"Confiteor Deo et beatae Mariae semper virgini, et beato Michaeli archangelo et beato Iohanni baptistae et sanctis apostolis Petro et Paulo et beato Leutherio et Cassiano et beato Iuvenale cum omnibus sanctis et tibi patri, mea culpa, quia peccavi nimis..."

During his praying he heard the door open, but he continued on unperturbed.

"Per superbiam in multa mea mala iniqua et pessima cogitatione, locutione, pollutione, sugestione, delectatione, consensu, verbo et opere-"

The servant did not interrupt him and he did not acknowledge the other's presence, and he heard a clunk of something being set down on his dresser. Then the footsteps retreated and the door closed behind him. Silence reigned once more, broken only by his words.

"In periurio, in adulterio, in sacrilegio, omicidio, furtu, falso testimonio, peccavi visu, auditu, gustu, odoratu et tactu, et moribus, vitiis meis malis. Precor beatam Mariam semper virginem et omnibus sanctis et isti sancti et te pater, orare et intercedere per me peccatore Dominum nostrum Ies. Christum."

But that was not enough for his sin. The other prayers came to him easily, the prayers of the Rosary, the gems warm under his hand as he held them, as if Mary was taking his hand in hers as her gesture of forgiveness. His heart swelled in his chest but he did not stop, he could not.

When it had finally ended, he stood up and replaced the rosary around his neck, wincing as his knees unbent from their position on the cold stone floor. Turning, he saw that a large bowl of lavender water had been left for him on the dresser. He went over and dipped his fingers into it. Warm still, plenty warm. He dug out a bar of soap from one of the drawers and a towel and dipped his hands into the water completely to wash them with the soap. Then, after undressing and wetting the towel, he rubbed it with soap and proceeded to wash his face and neck, then down his arms where he could see patches of dirt and smoke from the excursions of the past few days. There were other spots as well, but few. He would call for a proper tub in a few days, but for now he was far too busy to spend time with it.

It was quick, precise work. He knew breakfast would be arriving soon and he had little time left for luxuries such as slowness. Once he rinsed the soap off he headed to his chest, lifting the lid to find his spare robes and his chaperon neatly folded inside. Frowning, he lifted the hat and sniffed it. It still smelled like smoke. Unfortunately he had no replacements, it was unique, so he would have to deal with the smell for today and send it off to be washed later. He quickly pulled out his minister robes and the garments he wore beneath them, slipping them on as quickly as he could.

He had barely finished and was still adjusting the black velvet to lay properly across his shoulders before there was a knock at his door. "Enter," he growled, reaching down to snap the lid shut.

The door opened and a servant entered, bearing a plate and cup on a platter. He bowed to Frollo with a "Master," slipping from his lips as he set his load down.

Frollo nodded and waved him away, coming to peer over at what he had been brought. A piece of bread with salted trout and a cup of wine. Excellent. He reached out for it, then paused, realizing that the servant had not moved. "Well, out with it, what is it?" he demanded, turning his head ever so slightly to pin the servant with a glare.

The man bowed again. "A messenger arrived earlier this morning, Minister Frollo," he said apologetically. "He was sent by the bishop."

His stomach gave a little leap and his hand dropped, food forgotten. "And? What did he say?" he questioned, trying to keep his tone calm even though a part of him wanted to snap and demand answers from the other. This had to be about yesterday, there was no other reason. The bishop had heard of the executions and was responding. But with what?

"Nothing, Minister. He has a letter from the bishop and said he would show it to no one but you."

Food and wine had settled his stomach some and he sat rigid in his chair, spine straight as he waited for the bishop's messenger to be announced into his office. Frollo was certain that whatever it was Beaumont had to say it wouldn't be bad, but dealing with the archdeacon was bad enough, he didn't need to juggle any more members of the clergy in his daily life. It didn't matter that he was one.

His eyes flicked over to the window, where he could see the towers of Notre Dame far off in the distance. He wondered if the bishop would ask about Esmeralda. It had been no secret that he had spared her, but he wondered if many would even remember it. Vulgar, idiotic peasants would only remember something until the next new curiosity stumbled across their attention and they would be off chasing that instead, but more noble, intelligent men...that was a harder one. Perhaps he would mention it, perhaps not, either way he had to be prepared for it.

The sounds of bells came to his ears, and he perked up at them. Quasimodo was ringing the bells? Whatever for? It couldn't be past noon already, could it? Frollo sighed and rubbed his temples, staring at the eternal blue sky and the world it swallowed up below it. Heaven have mercy now he was sleeping in late, this was horrible...another sigh left him. One more thing that was Esmeralda's fault.

The door opened and he snapped back into position. "The messenger is here, Minister," a servant announced.

"Bring him in then," Frollo ordered. There was a glimpse of red and the man entered, his clothes immediately identifying him as a clerk of the Church.

The man stopped in front of Frollo's desk and bowed. "Good day to you, Minister Frollo, and may the blessings of the Lord shine upon you."

"Etiam te, good sir," Frollo replied with a dip of his head. "It is a great honor to have you here. Tell me, what does the Most Reverend Beaumont wish to say to me?"

The man reached into his bag and slid a roll of parchment out, and presented it to Frollo. "It is for your eyes only," he said, speaking this time in Latin as Frollo had done. "You have done a great service to Paris and for His Most Reverend, I am sure it will say so in the letter."

Frollo's eyes landed upon the seal holding the parchment shut. Green wax. That meant it was important. He extended his hand and took the paper from the messenger, its quality evident from its weight in his hand. So, was this truly important or was it ceremonial importance? He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the letters quickly.

To the most prestigious Minister Claude Frollo, Lord Provost of Paris, I, Beaumont, Bishop, send you greetings in the Lord.

You have performed a most commendable service to Paris and to Our Lord in our fight to drive out the heathen menace from our city. Surely God was lighting your path when He led you to uproot their nest of demons and satanic worshipers to purify Paris and the morals of her people. I have—

Ah, ceremonial importance then. He felt his shoulders loosening somewhat as he read over the passages, filled with the bishop's sophisticated, if somewhat superfluous, writing. None of it in particular stood out, not that he expected this type of letter to, until he reached the bottom.

—and in light of recent events I deemed it necessary, if not obvious, that you receive a token of my appreciation. Along with this letter I give to you a ring from the Notre Dame treasury and 500 livre tournois for your dedication.

I pray that you receive them well and that the blessings of the Lord and our Savior Jesus Christ will continue to follow you in good health and good spirit, Minister Frollo.

He closed the letter, handling the paper so it carefully rolled back up and looked to the messenger who was still standing and waiting patiently for him. "His Most Reverend is extremely generous," he said, "and his words humble me greatly."

"His Most Reverend holds you in high esteem," the messenger replied with a smile, and reached into his bag once more. A small, elaborately carved wooden box came out, which he placed in front of Frollo. "He also said you may keep the box, as to part them would be like to part a sword and shield."

Frollo's lips twitched in a smirk and he opened it, revealing the ring nestled inside. He took hold and examined it. By weight alone it was pure gold, engraved with scrollwork motifs until the band started to widen. The black cabochon gem was framed with an engraving of a haloed animal on one side, and on the other the letters A.D. in the midst of the scrollwork. Angus Dei. Lamb of God.

A shiver of unease passed through him, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "I am honored to accept it," he said as he examined the size of the ring compared to his own. Finally he slid off his emerald ring and replaced it with the bishop's. It was only larger by a fraction and he wondered how the bishop knew what size would fit his hand. "And I would be most surprised if you carried five hundred livre tournois coins all the way up here yourself."

The man gave a smile of amusement. "Of course not, Minister. I gave the gold to your treasurer when I came here, he is in charge of it now."

"Excellent," Frollo replied, steepling his fingers. "If you wait a moment I will write back to His Most Reverend and then you can go on your way."

The man bowed again and Frollo quickly opened one of his drawers to draw out parchment, ink, and a quill pen. Such a simple thank you note did not take much grandiose writing and prose, but it was the bishop he was writing to all the same. Frollo's penmanship was excellent and precise, almost mathematically so, and his pen danced across the paper as he wrote. Even the messenger looked surprised by how soon he put his quill down and reached into his sand box in the drawer to sprinkle the fine sand over his fresh ink. "A sous for your duty," he said, reaching into his purse to hold up the silver coin.

Bowing generously, the man accepted it. "Thank you, Minister."

A candle had already been burning, so it was little trouble to melt the wax he needed to seal his letter. "Does His Most Reverend say anything else? Something that is not written, perhaps?" He waited a few seconds for the wax to start drying, then pressed his seal ring into it.

"Not at all, Minister."

"Alright then, off you go," Frollo replied, handing the letter to the messenger. He watched him go, his mind whirling with thoughts.

His gaze turned down to look at his hand, the bishop's ring on the forefinger and his seal ring on the ring finger. Juxtaposed they created an image in his mind, the forgiver and the executioner. In the same hand he held both the axe and the olive branch, the sword and the shield as the bishop put it. He smiled at the idea and held his hand up to the sunlight, watching as the gold gleamed under it and yet the raised patterns in his seal left some parts in the deepest shadow. The cabochon was as black as ink, like that night where he had walked through a forest of smoke and beheld his gypsy in her cage, that night when he realized what her skin felt like against his lips for the first time.

He shivered and ran his fingertips over them. How in the world had this even happened? It was just days ago when he was merely attending another Festival of Fools, just like he had every single year before. But this time it had turned out so different, spiraled out of control into a series of crazed events that ran away from them all like a hysterical horse, unresponsive to his touches on the reins. And that was days ago! Mere days! It felt like years.

Yet now...it had only been one night. One night of rest for him, and one night of having her under his roof.

Her skin had been so soft, her blood had beat against his lips.

Her smell was unlike anything he had ever known. Unlike anything he could have ever dreamed with his vows. The memory of it haunted him, in the darkness where it had seemed like they had been the only two humans left in the entire world. She made him forget everything when she was around.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor in protest. He swept past the desk, eyes flinty and feet swift as he threw open the door and charged out, startling the life out of the servant standing outside, and down the hallways that he knew better than anyone.

The guard outside of her door straightened when he saw Frollo coming, standing perfectly at attention in an attempt to look as if he had been doing so the whole time. The servant jumped to his feet as well, apparently the two of them had been playing some sort of game on a tiny table when Frollo came up. Not that he cared in the slightest, his focus was on one thing only.

"Is she in there?" he demanded as he came close.

They both nodded. "Yes sir," the guard said, short and simple, as if that was all he needed to say.

"She is asleep," the servant added quickly, perhaps noticing Frollo's forming scowl.

Frollo arched an eyebrow at the words. How could she still be sleeping in the middle of the day? "Did she ever awaken?" she asked, his tone cooling in his curiosity.

"Yes, for a little while."

Eyes darting to the door, he stared at it for a moment as if he could see her through it. She saw the very same door, touched it, was behind it right this second. "Go get another soldier and bring him here," he said to the servant. He waited for him to scurry off before turning his attention to the other. "And you. Let no one inside. And do not interrupt unless I call you, understand?"

A salute was his answer. Satisfied, Frollo brushed by him and opened the door, entering the room of softly patterned red and gold that glowed gently in the faint sun from the southern window. He had never liked this room much, but for keeping guests it had been acceptable to their more gaudy tastes. But here Esmeralda fit as perfectly as a hand in a glove.

Immediately he saw her, and his full attention was arrested by what he saw. She was curled into her blankets, nearly invisible except for the wild cloud of hair that splayed all across her pillow, its waves reminiscent of sand on the seashore. For what felt like an eternity he stared at that alone, frozen in place, mesmerized by every single curve and glitter of spare light he could see trapped among the hairs. He remembered how it flew when she danced, so wild and vibrant and alive. How she was alive, how she had leaped upon him without the slightest trace of fear, her touch so warm against his face while her eyes never left his, such a deep green that promised things that no good man would ever dare to whisper out loud in even the darkest of night.

Satan had surely hand-crafted her in the fires of Hell to torment his soul. That had to be it.

As sudden as ice breaking across a frozen lake, she moved. Frollo jumped a little, but she only shifted under her covers and then she was silent again. But, like that, her spell on him was lifted and he could think clearly again. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, but the gypsy woman was still there. Sometimes he wondered if she was just a product of his own imagination, something his mind conjured up to remind him of what temptation looked like, but he knew he was just being utterly ridiculous in those bouts of insanity.

Shaking his head again, he made his way closer, his steps making a bare whisper of a sound until he was standing right at the very edge of the bed. His robes flirted with the blanket each time he breathed, a soft teasing almost daring to touch before they danced away. The same way she had danced away from him after kissing him. He stood there for a few minutes longer, simply watching, wanting, letting his mind run wild with thoughts that he knew would absolutely land him in the deepest pits of Hell, all ones that she put there. He had already tasted her, touched her, and she had chosen him over death in the fire. She had accepted.

He let out a breath and very slowly moved to sit down. His heart was thundering in his ears as he did, the bed dipping beneath him as it took more of his weight. When had settled all of his weight down she moved again, rolling over with a mumble, and his heart leaped into his throat. He was not afraid of waking her up, but he just didn't want her to, not yet.

Now she was so close he could have touched her with one wrong, careless movement. Instead he reached his hand out and caught a strand of her hair between his fingers. He had never done anything so carefully in all his life, and he bent down as he lifted her hair up. Gently, so gentle and slow that he nearly shook from the effort, he bent down and kissed her hair. It was as soft as he remembered, warm as if it had a lifeblood of its own, and it smelled like her. Even through the smell of smoke that clung to her, he could smell her beneath it. It made the hairs on his body rise and his spine tingle, the mere knowledge of it, and he dropped it and sat up again, his head spinning.

She was too much, a strong and heady wine that went immediately to the head after it was sipped. Witchcraft, absolutely. Yet the accusation didn't seem to have as strong of a sting in his head as it did before. He knew that it would later, but his senses seemed to be clogged around her, anything that wasn't her didn't truly matter.

There was no way he was going to sit here all day and just watch her. He was insane but not by that much. Already he longed to hear her voice and see her eyes. Again he reached out and this time he caught her hair fully in his hand and let it run through his fingers, marveling at how thick and soft it was.

Esmeralda stirred under his hand, just like he knew she would. He watched, hungry as she moved and became more aware of the world around her, held in his hands alone. Her lips curled, a contented smile playing across her face and oh, she liked it. Frollo felt as if he would never move ever again, even as she came to life underneath him. She turned her head into his hand, then her eyes suddenly flew open in shock, the tranquility shattered as fear came over her and she whipped her head around, her hair jerking out of his grip, to meet his eyes.

His heart raced in his chest, not at all out of fear, and he tried to keep still and poised as he watched her move, unwilling to let even the slightest bit of his excitement show through. Esmeralda was always so intriguing to watch, he knew he would never tire of it. He felt his own smile appearing. Now she was all his.

Silence stretched between them for a second that lasted a lifetime, going more and more taunt until it snapped. All within the space of that second Esmeralda's eyes had gone from afraid to angry, and her expression was morphing under it. "What are you doing here?!" she hissed, trying to jerk herself away from him into some sort of sitting position, but the weight of the blankets seemed to impede her movements somewhat.

The question was so absurd to him that he had to chuckle. "I live here," he said, folding his hands together in his lap. "I can go wherever I please."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at him, in that way he loved that told him she would be spitting fire at any moment. "Get out," she said, her voice low.

It was about as useless as trying to argue with a thunderstorm. Frollo's smile never faltered. "No."

Anger leaped across her eyes and her arm moved. "I said get out!" she snarled, her hand held firm and fast, ready to inflict pain.

Frollo barely caught her wrist in time, holding her in a vice grip. She was always so predictable and so easy to anger, playing with her was a whole other game. Her other arm went to strike him and he had to duck away, his hat slipping even as he caught that arm, too. But her fingers flailed, wanting to claw at something, anything vulnerable, but all they caught was a fold of fabric in his hat and yanked it off his head.

She fought and tried to kick at him uselessly, until he used his weight to pin her hands down beside her head and then he was looming over her, boring into her eyes with his gaze. She stilled, her breaths coming quick in her chest, yet she was still defiant as she gazed up at him. Good. "You chose me, Esmeralda," he whispered. "Remember that."

Her lip curled. "You forced me to," she retorted, her voice laced with bitterness and anger. And, ah, a note of guilt? Someone's sins were weighing heavy upon her soul indeed.

"I never did a thing," Frollo said, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart. He could feel the curve of her body under him, how it pressed against him so deliciously. "I did not force you to choose me nor did I put those words in your mouth, in the end your choice was your own."

The gypsy writhed in a vain attempt to throw him off. "Because you were going to burn me!" she yelled, trying to force herself past his strength and weight.

"And if not me then someone else would have!" Frollo thundered back, his grip becoming painful. "You're a witch, and who would have helped you after that accusation? Those people would have torn you apart themselves if I had let them. My greatest mercy and kindness to you was to even give you a chance of life."

He watched as she became still, pain crossing her features at his words, but Frollo did not relent. He had seen it far too many times, how the cold, harsh truth cut right through the armor of delusion to the vulnerable flesh underneath. Quasimodo had often needed such a treatment, but Esmeralda was made of far stronger stuff, she would take far more before she would break. "You just saved me because you want me," she murmured, her words an acceptance, a desperate grabbing of the truth and throwing it at his face in a pitiful attempt to use his greatest weapon against him. "I know what you're like, and how you look at me."

Her veins were beating under his hands, a counterpoint to his own pounding pulse. Frollo let his thumbs wander across her flesh, delighting in how soft it had been kept by her bracelets. "Your words show me how little you truly know," he said, fascinated by how her eyes tried to contain her emotions and thoughts. "I don't want anything from you. You're a witch and you cast a spell on me back at the Festival, your magic is in my head and twisting my mind and thoughts! But—" his smile widened and he leaned closer, dropping his voice, "I will save us both. Your soul is damned to Hell for all eternity but I can offer redemption, it will bring us back into the Grace of God."

Her fingers clenched a little, and he noticed the half-healed marks of nails across her flesh. "You're insane," she said, her voice dropping again, as if such a proclamation could not be spoken too loudly or else the retribution would be swift and terrible.

An emotion passed over him, something he couldn't identify but it made him want to laugh. "I am more sane than I have been in days, demon," he hissed back, "I know what I must do."

And he kissed her.

It was even better than what all of his wild, sinful thoughts had told him. Her lips burned against his, more fiery than any brand, searing an unseen mark into his flesh that he knew he would carry in his soul until the day he died. It was unnatural to have lips so soft and yet so warm, it had to be magic, something unholy, yet it plunged him into the depths of darkness and desire that made him react without thinking. He pressed closer, kissed deeper, wanting to consume it all for himself. There was a part inside of him that he had never known existed until this moment, a hidden part that had been starving, crying for relief until it raised its head in ravenous hunger at the morsels offered before it.

Black magic, dark magic at work, he was going to enjoy driving the demons from her flesh and soul.

Then there was true fire, pain that spiked through his lip and jolted him out of his daze and back to the real world. He jerked back instinctively and it doubled, a hiss leaving his throat as he felt Esmeralda's teeth holding him in place, biting harder and harder and—his hand moved by itself, completely thoughtless like how one takes their hand away from a fire to stop the pain, and grabbed her hair, yanking it as hard as he could.

A cry of pain left Esmeralda's throat, her now free hand slapping and hitting every inch of him that she could reach. She didn't let go, but neither did he. On their wills fought, storm against stone. One would have to give up, to submit for the dance to end.

Frollo clenched his fist and pulled harder, threatening to pull Esmeralda's hair out by its roots. Finally, her mouth opened as she cried out loud, releasing him. But her hand struck out again and this time, it finally hit. Her slap echoed across the room as it caught him full in the face and she tore away from him, whether his grip had gone loose or she had a burst of strength he didn't know. But she was gone.

His rage quickly returned and he leaped from the bed after her, his hand grabbing a moment too late as she fled from him. She ran around the table and gave chase. He knew that following her would be foolish, and instead cut her off before she could make a run for the door. She stopped in mid-flight and glared at him from over the table, even as she trembled. She had nowhere to go and they both knew it.

But ah, she was still wearing her execution chemise, he could see. Not that Frollo had really expected her to change into the dress his chose, in fact he would have been very surprised if she did, but the choice amused him all the same. So she preferred to be the lamb, then.

Blood, he could taste blood. He reached up with his other hand and touched his lip, watching as his fingertips came away red.

"So you do bleed, then," Esmeralda's quivering voice broke the silence. She was making a valiant attempt to still sound angry and controlled, despite everything.

Frollo chuckled and used his handkerchief to wipe the rest of the blood, wincing as the fabric touched his injury briefly. Not even that could bring him down from the jubilation that his heart danced in, nor the impressions banished from his mind that her touch and taste and even pain brought him. "I was right, witch," he said softly, nearly caressing the words as he said them. His breathing was too fast, too shallow, but he did not care. "Fire truly would not have affected you." He stepped closer as he spoke, and she stepped back, her eyes growing wider, but never leaving his face.

Defiant, audacious demon! How dare she hide herself behind the veil of innocence and fear when he could see so clearly through her! He would peel that mask away to reveal her true nature underneath, a spawn of Hell that had crawled out of the dark forests and into the world to drag men back to the fiery lakes from whence she had arrived. But not him! He understood and he would not be led by her temptations!

He would send that demon screaming back to Hell when he was done with her.

Esmeralda took another step back, as if sensing the subtle shift in his behavior. "I'm not going with you," she said, as if she could predict him. "I am not yours and I never will be!"

"You already have." He tucked his handkerchief away. "But it's amusing how you think I'm going to ask for such things." He smiled, ignoring the pain in his lip and yet the fear that passed across her face was worth it. "Guards!" he shouted, watching her jump at his voice.

Immediately the door slammed open and two soldiers entered. "Sir!" they said, hands on their swords as they looked around, perhaps expecting to find a scene of disaster awaiting for them.

"Take her to the dungeons," Frollo ordered, his smile never faltering even as Esmeralda's broke into pure fear.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, looking to him for answers. She tried to step back again but the men had already caught her by the arms and were dragging her to the door. "Stop it! Let go of me!"

He never spoke a word, simply watching as she was dragged away, her yells to him, her pleas of mercy, falling upon his deaf ears. Her voice echoed to him down the hall, still calling for him, crying for him.

For him.

He hummed a little as he went back to retrieve his hat and place it upon his head, and he touched his wound once more. It burned and a small shiver of unease prickled his gut. It was a good thing he didn't let her get too much of his blood, who knew what that witch would do once she had some.

Shaking his head, Frollo hurried out of the room, his steps following the route his guards took, moving swiftly to catch up with them.

[herelaymythoughts]

Embraces Overlooking Metropolitan Skylines

December, 2014

Recorded early 2015

“We have here, the only stars in New York.” I stepped closer. He was right: It was as if all the stars in the solar system had committed suicide, simultaneously jumping to their demise down to earth. Blankets of them hovered over architecture, creating a lit-up Christmas tree of a big apple.      

“Press your face right into the glass.” I do and my features feel terribly scrunched. The glass panel flattens my features.

“This way the borders of your vision are of the city, not window frames.” Once again, he was right. I was staring through the panoramic view of Manhattan at 10:00pm on the 102nd floor of the Empire State. We stood next to each other, noses pressed against the glass. We kept for quite some time.

“I’d rather look at this,” he finally turned to me and said. He had made claims about being able to say things that would make me melt. In that instant, they were actualized. I finally understood.

~

There are open flames. Why are there open flames? Why are there open flames on the table? Why are there— oh. Marshmallows. We had taken seat in a comfy table aside by the fireplace, snowflakes slowly seizing to exist on my wool coat. I’m not sure if it was due to the chattering background, my lack of slumber, or just good old food coma, the americano I had just downed seems to have taken on the effect of insomnia drugs. In front of us was a diabetes patient’s worst nightmare: Molten chocolate; much like the state of myself atop the Empire State. The place was simmering with jolly people of all ages and races, laughing, enjoying their holiday with decadent treats. The background volume was just loud enough for us to lean toward each other to speak.

“Look around you. Remember this moment.” His hypnotic words shot straight right through my mellow state of fuzziness. He smiled and kept my absentminded gaze for what could have been light-years. Dashes of warmth shot through every inch of my body, and in that moment, everything everyone has ever told Lucia me about love disintegrated the way fairies would in old school Disney movies.

We were the classic holiday love. The ones singles barf over, your friends advise you against. The ones always ending on a happy note, the ones you tell your grandchildren. The ones you write impulsive prose about.  

Sometimes, “I love you”, really means, “I am sixteen years old, have never been in a relationship, don’t know how else to describe the tidal waves of emotions rolling inside the my skin, I think I might have read somewhere in Seventeen once that love might be the word???????????????!!!!!!?!!!1111 it may be described by a word called ‘Love��.” I may be (present) all those things, but I was (past) deeply, madly, beautifully, and unsaveably in love.

August 9, 2019

Recorded in March, 2020

The sky above us gradually turned dark like a watercolour getting painted over with increasing pigments of lilac graphite. It was a foggy evening, the bus ride up revealing only peaks of skyscrapers with lobbies at the crowns of those rooted lower down the hill. As we stepped out of the city bus, we were greeted by the usual moisture and heat of a typical August day in Hong Kong; the contrast of the heavily air-conditioned bus and that which was outside of it, a perfect metaphor for the invisible barrier that fell more like an iron curtain, dividing the haves and have-nots of this ominous city.

We scaled to the top of the hill, climbing over feeble ropes and Do Not Cross signs. We found a spot amidst the rest of the audience here to witness the crescendoing sunset over Victoria Peak. My legs dangled over the fence as I struggled to settle on a song which I thought could capture the following moments. As I was giving up, a thought popped into my head. What if we kissed under the stars over Victoria Peak? I turned around to see your chiselled face against a sea of 10 million glittering fireflies against a foggy wash of amethyst. I wonder how I looked under those same lights. A chuckle escaped my lips.

“What?” You asked.

“Nothing”, I said. You demanded that I tell you. Fine.

“What if... We kissed under the stars over Victoria Peak?”

“I hate you,” you said with a grin. We sat and admired the stars both above and below, for a little while. More lights began to illuminate the skyline, as if a clumsy angel had accidentally knocked over his sugar jar with his wings. I let my last song finish playing, took out my headphones, and hopped off the railing. I begrudgingly turned away from the view and began to start walking down the hill, but I’m stopped as you took my waist, pulled me in and asked me,

“What if?” You close in and take my lips to yours. We kiss, holding on to each other, for all of the Fragrant Harbour to see. For those few moments of eternity, we could have lived out several lifetimes. But in this one, the most we could ever be were star-crossed lovers with, “...geographical barriers to contend with first.” We pull away. The memories and characters from those previous future and possible lives vanished like the end of a smokescreen, the last of an oral history; forgotten, its essence a little more lost with each inch of sky that fell in between the tips of our noses.

Your face just a few inches from mine, your thick black frames almost brazing by my thin metal ones. My cheeks puff up. Or perhaps I did the other thing where I narrow my eyes and try to seductively smile. I like the way you look this close to me. Your eyes briefly meet mine, then turned away once again to admire the electric zoo beneath us.

Perhaps that they will never happen again is what makes moments like these magical. I miss you in ways I didn’t even know were possible.