#or should i just bulldoze a new one altogether?

[kopivie]

y'know, it's kinda funny that i asked myself why i write. over the years, people have asked me that a lot. i've had graded assignments ask me that question quite a bit. "why do you write? what is your motivation for writing?"

...my answers were always pretty bleak. "i write because i'm scared to talk to others." or: "i write because nobody will listen to me." and outside of those assignments, i've never genuinely asked myself why i write.

well.. warning for a big ol' dump here, i guess. this blog is basically a diary, so you know the drill.

the story always starts in the same place: in the back of the empty sanctuary of my childhood church with sunlight pouring in the stained glass windows, the colors pooling on the pages of my blue composition notebook. i was ten years old.

looking back on it now, i don't know why my story starts there. i think that's just the earliest time i can remember getting immersed in the act of writing. kind of like how people describe their earliest childhood memory as the day their consciousness fully developed. but that day was so colorful to me – more so than most days from my childhood. an old friend was plinking tv show tunes on the piano at the front of the sanctuary, a few older kids were chatting away in the frontmost pews, and i was standing at the back on the left side near the window, scribbling in my notebook about... magical girl anime. at the very least, i know why i was writing back then.

back then, i had a friend who was writing her own story. completely original with characters she was drawing as she went. the stories were written in screenplay format in her notebook with little doodles to give the stories some life and... i wanted to do that. i asked her to teach me how to draw – which she did with enthusiasm – but what intrigued me more was the writing aspect. i already had a habit of conjuring up vivid imagery in my head when reading, but the thought of being able to do that myself was amazing to me.

my ten year old brain lacked the creativity to create characters from scratch. naturally, i had to start with something i already loved – something i could easily reference and build up from there – so i started with sailor moon.

sailor moon, tokyo mew mew, pripara, pretty rhythm: aurora dream, precure... (all of which used to be uploaded to youtube with each episode fragmented into three parts, i might add.) ...that's where my writing journey begins. i used to write fanfiction in the same screenplay format. i filled several notebooks cover to cover with my big, messy handwriting. i wish i still had those notebooks. but the point is that i had no need for the artwork – my mind was enough.

i later developed a love for mythology – greek mythology, specifically. it expanded into astrology, anthology, and gemology... i would always weave these things into my works somehow. my love of linguistics would come into play as i'd learn languages and cultures just to use them for the sake of giving my writing more depth.

now that i'm looking back on all of this, i... don't think i ever had a purpose. when i began, i wanted to be like my friend. i wanted to show her that i could do it, too. later, i just wrote because i wanted to create characters in the animated worlds that i loved to lose myself in; it was a form of escapism, i think. it was definitely escapism from high school onward since my mental health worsened from 2017-2022, but before that.. there's nothing.

which is a little scary, y'know? realizing that i lack a purpose – that my writing lacks a purpose. the very hobby i decided to dedicate my future to feels meaningless now.

i wrote to replicate someone else. i wrote to escape my own thoughts; i wrote to comfort myself when i needed affection the most: i wrote to comfort and connect with others, but i also wrote to shield myself from my own reality.

i think the reason why this feeling of existential dread exists is because i'm finally in a place where i'm perceiving myself. for almost a decade now, i didn't want to be perceived by anybody, much less myself. i didn't think of myself as a person. i didn't exist. i was just some worthless lump of meat on this doomed earth who just so happened to know how to string words together. i was irreversibly flawed and unlovable.

i'm at a point where i now know what kind of person i am. i can look back on how broken i once was and be saddened by the pieces. i can finally pick up those pieces and put them together; i can set them aside and start anew using those pieces as a reference. what i'm saying is: i can see myself. i finally know what i look like. (i still don't understand how i look to others, but that's besides the point.)

but when my whole purpose for writing was to avoid that – to avoid seeing myself – what happens now? why do i write?

that's the reason why i haven't written about anything for a while now. i have nothing to hide from. i wither and rot for a few days at a time and then come out stronger, ready to brush it all away and move forward. i never did that before. before, i would wither and rot for months, and write to fill the void. i wrote recklessly and without abandon just to get my feelings out there in hopes that someone would hear my voice and know that i'm alive.

in essence, i saved my life through writing. literature saved my life. but now that i've taken the reins, i don't know what to do.

i refuse to leave it behind. i still have my creative spirit. i still have these passing ideas, these bursts of inspiration that characterized my teenage years. but the flames of passion die quickly without any kindling, leaving me lost. i feel hollow without writing but lighter without my agony weighing me down all the time.

...i'm lost. i don't know what to do. i'm more insecure in my writing than i have ever been in my entire life, and that scares me. i want to try, but there's this... block. a lack of emotion that i can't quite explain. there's more apprehension than there is inspiration, so my creativity shrivels up and dies, leaving me disgusted and horrified by myself. i don't know what to do.

i'm not going to give up.

i'm not. little by little, i will try to find my new meaning. i don't know what it will take for me to find it, but i will. maybe i'll just sit and do some research on my favorite topics when i get home? do some bullet journaling on my favorite things and dedicate time to making pages of my favorite facts. maybe something will blossom then.

[stennnn06]

Rojascorp - 3. “What happened to your hand(s)?”

Writing Prompts: “What happened to your hand”... this is also sort of combined with “I like to think we’re more than ‘just friends’.” -- Set after Andrea comes to Nat’l City to take over CatCo with the premise that Rojascorp was absolutely A Big Thing in the past - before Andrea fucked it all up. Feeling angsty Rojascorp tonight, you’re welcome. 

The garlic sizzles pleasantly as Andrea moves it around the pan. She flips the burner to low and turns back to her cutting board. The evening news drones in the background as she tops off her glass of wine, swirling it around once before taking a long sip. Once that's complete, she reaches for her favorite knife, watching the satisfying way the steel blade flashes under the lights of her kitchen.

"And why have one hero when you can have two?" The news anchor asks rhetorically, talking out to the masses. Andrea frowns, glancing up from her precise dissection of the large onion in front of her. "That's what citizens of National City must be thinking after Supergirl gets a little help from a well known friend."

The picture flashes to Supergirl, muscles flexing and hair flowing, all around godlike and immaculate, as she turns to her side with a dazzling smile that transcends simple camaraderie. Show off, Andrea snorts to herself. She doesn't particularly care if Supergirl wants to flaunt all over television. It's just like, we get it, okay? You're fucking flawless. Enough already. Ever since she's come to National City, it's Supergirl this, Girl of Steel that, all tight spandex and abdominal muscles and killer quads, and it’s just insufferable. How does anyone get any work done around this place?

She glances up again, noticing the way Supergirl's smile seems different tonight. It radiates a kind of reverence, as she gazes in silent awe at the woman standing next to her. Lena's face is flushed, her eyes curious at the attention thrown in her direction that seems, for once, to be overly positive. She mirrors Supergirl's expression -- positively beaming in her presence, and Andrea feels everything start to burn.

She knows that look. She covets that look. And, once upon a time, she had exactly that -- Lena Luthor, looking at her like a fucking hero. But it somehow wasn't enough. No, she couldn't just leave well enough alone. She had to be convinced -- to be tempted to trade it in. For what, in the end, she isn't entirely sure. But now she's here, back in the same city with the girl whose heart she broke, watching her stare at another woman. 

And not just any woman. Fucking Supergirl.

Well if that isn't the universe's way of getting her back, she isn't sure what is.

She watches the way Lena is positively gushing, talking almost unprofessionally about how strong and powerful Supergirl is, her accent slow and heavy the way it always is when she's really laying it on thick. Andrea stands to watch as the anger comes to a boil right in her chest.

"Goddammit!" She calls out, frustrated, her eyes only seeing red. She throws down the knife in disgust. She doesn't even realize she's cut her hand, not right away. Not until she squeezes her eyes shut and feels a warm, sticky liquid oozing between her fingers. But not even that stings as bad as seeing Lena, all over the TV, fawning over someone impossibly out of Andrea's reach.

"Fuck," she mutters, opening her eyes and realizing the damage. She's usually more sure-handed in the kitchen, operating on autopilot and able to slice, dice, chop and sauté without even having to think about it. But tonight, she let herself get sloppy. Punishment, really, for all her transgressions. And she knows she deserves it, which makes it hurt all the more. Just as she reaches for a paper towel, a knock at the door disrupts her chaotic thoughts.

"Hold on!" Andrea calls out, shuffling around the apartment and cursing in loud, angry Spanish. She doesn't care if the person on the other side hears her, because she's already been inconvenienced enough today, thank you very fucking much. She turns the TV off, throwing the remote across the counter, not caring much where it lands. She positions the paper towel over her finger -- where it is immediately rendered useless, falling victim to the hefty slice on her knuckle, but it'll have to do. With her hand somewhat in tact, and her dignity less so, she pulls open the door.

A sullen Lena Luthor looks back at her from over the threshold, looking stunning and regal and altogether too much and Andrea feels her entire body root to the floor.

"Is this a bad time?" she asks softly. Her head tilts curiously to the side as she casts an appraising look at Andrea.

"No!" Andrea snaps, more forcefully than she intends. She clears her throat. "No, I was just ah--" she waves her hand awkwardly, letting the thought drift. "Nothing, come on in."

"What happened to your hand?" Lena asks, following Andrea into the condo. She knows Andrea to get a little overzealous in the kitchen, but she seems distracted, almost flustered. And every time that happens, it's usually one of Andrea's fingers that pay the price. She reaches for her hand, pushing aside the paper towel and turning her fingers over gently the way she always used to when Andrea would hurt herself, all those years ago.

She doesn't even realize what she's doing until she feels Andrea stiffen, her hand laying limply in her grip. Her palm is warm, her fingers perfectly clean and manicured, exactly the way Lena remembers. The cut looks deep, but not surgical, so she feels a little silly for being so concerned. Andrea doesn't say anything, allowing Lena to inspect the situation to her heart's content, which somehow makes it worse. She clears her throat, embarrassed at the careless way she forgets herself. Forgets her place.

"I think you'll live," Lena chuckles, wrapping it back up and letting her hand go.

"I got distracted," Andrea mumbles, shrugging, taking her hand back slowly. "I was caught up in the news."

"Still multi-tasking I see," Lena says, disappointed at how easy it is to slip back into fondness. The way she knows Andrea's habits, and can still picture them so clearly in her mind. She shakes her head to try to jolt it out of her.

"You were on there," Andrea admits, her eyes narrowing somewhat. She pauses. "I didn't realize you were so close with Supergirl."

She doesn't mean to say it, and isn't sure why she does, but just seeing Lena, standing proud and elegant in her kitchen forces her to feel unmoored. She wants to lay claim over her, in some weird, abstract way, even though she knows she no longer counts. But she tries anyway, as her heart pounds brokenly in her chest.  

"And why should that bother you? I have a working relationship with Supergirl, just like I have with you," Lena twists her lips, avoiding Andrea's eyes. "It's hardly newsworthy."

"A working relationship," Andrea scoffs, feeling the anger churn deep in her gut. Lena is full of it if she can really come in here and spew that kind of garbage. "Is that what you'd call us?"

"That's being generous," Lena snarls, her eyes flashing dangerously. Andrea remembers it fondly: remembers the way Lena's moods were always volatile, the way one wrong comment could send her into a dark, lethal frenzy. She smiles at the familiar challenge.

"I see the way you look at her," Andrea says, the anger clawing at the back of her throat. "Supergirl." The name tastes bitter on her tongue. "I know that look."

"You don't know anything," Lena replies, shaking her head. She doesn't deny it outwardly, and Andrea feels the ache in her chest. "And you lost the ability to comment on it when you made your decision."

"It's not that simple, Lena."

"Oh, but it is," Lena argues, crossing her arms.

"We will never be that simple," Andrea says pointedly, as if this isn't going to send Lena over the edge. "You think you can call me to your office out of the blue after two years, and pretend we never cared about each other?"

"It seems to be working just fine," Lena shrugs, running her finger along the edge of Andrea's counter top.

"Working relationship," Andrea repeats, scoffing over the term and rolling her eyes. Just the mere thought of it is so comical she almost laughs. "Our relationship is a bit beyond that kind of definition, don't you think?"

"We do not have a relationship," Lena insists, her jaw setting defiantly. Andrea traces her jawline with her eyes, remembering every inch that she's journeyed with her lips, ever breath against her skin. "We aren't friends. We aren't anything."

"We used to be," Andrea sighs. It all feels exceptionally heavy all of a sudden. "And, you know just as well as I, that we've always been more than just friends, even when we weren't. You can't just pretend it didn't exist."

"Actually, I can," Lena challenges. "But somehow, the only thing I can't seem to forget is the way you broke my heart. So I guess neither of us can win, can we?"

Classic Lena. She will always have a response, stored up in that beautiful mind of hers. Andrea hates that it sets her nerves on fire, the way Lena is just always composed and ready, even when she's the one hurting. She also knows her pain is somewhat warranted, if not completely justified, but she wishes Lena would give her the benefit of the doubt. She never could stomach hearing Andrea’s side of things. But if she actually listened, instead of bulldozing in here with an agenda and several well-timed retorts, well, who knows where they'd be?

It wouldn't be like this, that's for sure. And it's torture. But it isn't in the cards. Lena is nothing if not stubborn in her beliefs. So, Andrea has no choice. She stiffens and squares her shoulders, as if bracing for a fight.

"Why are you here, then?" she asks carefully, realizing she has absolutely no idea. They certainly aren't on "drop in" terms, and, apparently, not even on friendly ones, so it's baffling that Lena would be here at all.  She can tell she's struck a nerve, because Lena pauses, wringing her hands together in that nervous way she has when she's dancing around something, fully expecting a blow up.

Finally, she sets her jaw and forces her face to look boardroom ready -- practiced, unreadable, guarded. Andrea swallows heavily as she reaches into her pocket.

"To give you this." She pulls out a small jewelry box and places it on the counter. Andrea's face turns hot as she stares at it, her entire body fighting the contradicting chill that doesn't go with how she's feeling. "I don't want to have to owe you anything."

She remembers picking it out, remembers agonizing over every detail, even fighting with the jeweler to the point that she had to pay him extra just to keep him happy. She remembers nervously picking her way through dinner, feeling for the box in her pocket the entire time, convinced it was going to disappear before she ever found the right moment. She remembers proposing and the way Lena's eyes softened, her face melting into a relieved smile as Andrea stumbled through her speech, the tears running down her cheeks and later, down Andrea's own, as they kissed for what seemed like hours.

She reaches out, pulling the box forward. She turns it over in her hands, her throat thick, eyes burning with regret.

"Is this what you want?" she whispers, feeling the way her voice cracks.

"What I want?" Lena rolls her eyes, an angry, lethal smile on her face. "No, Andrea, none of this has ever been about what I want. But you left me, and I am not going to beg for you to come back."

Andrea swallows heavily, the tears welling behind her eyes. She doesn't want to cry. She doesn't want to do this now. It isn't right. But there it is, the evidence all neatly contained in a three dimensional package.

"I never meant to hurt you," Andrea starts, taking a shaky breath and avoiding Lena's eyes. "I never stopped loving you--"

Lena holds up her hand firmly. "I don't want to do this," she says, shutting it down as her eyes flutter. "If we are to work together, I need a clean slate."

Andrea clears her throat, turning over the options in her mind. If she doesn't accept, then she might be at odds with Lena forever. If she does, then at least she can hold on to a fragment of what they used to be. Maybe she can work with that.

"Consider it clean," Andrea says, each word killing her a little more than the last.

Lena nods once and turns for the door. She doesn't turn around, but she pauses at the threshold.

"Make sure you wrap your hand with something stronger," she reminds her softly, talking down to the ground. Then, just like that, she's gone, and Andrea is perfectly and wholly alone.

Through the tears that have finally started to fall, she notices the way her finger bleeds through the bandage, leaving a perfect, symmetrical ring that mocks her all the way around.

[29-pieces]

Whumptober day 7 - Good Omens

Day 7: I’ve Got You Fandom/Setting: Good Onens, early 1800s read on AO3 read on FF.net

~*~

Teeth.

Teeth… everywhere. Curved teeth, wicked teeth, pointed teeth, teeth that injected fire, teeth that drowned him in waves of agony and screams.

Crowley had lost his sense of reality after the first bite, fangs sinking themselves into his thigh, bringing him to the ground. The growling and howling and snapping like nightmare fodder burned itself into his brain until all he heard other than his own pathetic cries was the snarling of the hellhound, and how could one hellhound have so many teeth anyway?

“Hush now… hush, my dear. I’ve got you.”

He tried to fight, just on principle, but Crowley already knew he was as good as dead. The blade stowed in his boot fell from nerveless fingers before he’d ever landed a single slice. Curse whichever one of his jealous workmates had sicced a HELLHOUND on him—two quid said it was Hastur—not that it mattered because the hellhound didn’t care that they were supposed to be on the same side, it only knew that there was flesh and blood and fear, and Satan how it thrived on all three.

Crowley felt his body literally ripping under the jaws of the hellhound. The worst of it wasn’t the rending of flesh, though, but the venom now working its way through his system. Not the kind that would kill. The kind that would disorient. The kind that would terrify. The kind that would bulldoze its way into his brain and smash it to pieces and leave him in a nightmare world incongruous with reality.

He screamed again.

“Crowley! I’m sorry, I have to drain the wounds, don’t fight me… that’s a good lad, you’re doing splendid. Oh please don’t make me hold you down…”

The attack stopped but the terror and the screaming didn’t. The air was filled with unearthly screeches, discordant voices of ancient monsters carrying dread. Crowley rolled away, head tipping back as he gasped through the searing pain. His vision was blurry and flooded in red. Through the haze, he saw a halo, as blinding as the face of God. Whatever it was saying, Crowley couldn’t decipher as he clapped his hands to his ears and curled in on himself, sobbing. The figure was dark and its eyes were full of fire, not like Hell but like purified molten gold and Crowley couldn’t bear to look. Somewhere close by, a hellhound bayed. Metal rang, the air shimmering like static and electrified will. Another howl. More of that voice with the distorted words.

A flash of lightning, or else a blade, and the hellhound was silenced mid-howl but the sound of it echoed in Crowley’s traumatized mind. It rose and fell in cascading waves in synchronization with the pulsation of the world around him. The ground slithered under his body and tiny devils danced in the wounds left by the hellhound fangs. Crowley watched them, shaking his head over and over to cast free the spell holding his mind, but the venom of a hellhound was not so easily dispelled.

Then the tall, dark figure turned slowly on the spot, rooted to the ground yet spritzing out of focus to appear in front of him in the same space of a breath. Crowley moaned and tried to back away as it loomed over him with terrifying gaze and razor teeth. It spoke. The words were nothing, garbled sounds ever rising in pitch. Then a clawed hand reached towards him and Crowley flung his arms out in a panicked attempt to ward the creature off. Its halo fragmented into a hundred pixels, casting prisms on the ground and the rivers of blood. He reached for the rainbows to find nothing there at all.

“Almost there… Almost, I promise. There’s only the one left. I’m so sorry, I know this hurts, but we’re almost done, Crowley.”

Crowley was weightless, hovering over the ground. The nameless voice—an angelic warrior, oh now he was REALLY dead, it would finish what the hellhound had started—was speaking to him. Curses and threats and taunts, no doubt, though his poisoned mind twisted it into the barest whisper repeating over and over:

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you… I’ve got you.”

A hellhound, he could fight, but an angel he could not. Crowley closed his eyes against the visions of a thousand mirrors breaking and raining their shards down over the earth, and the blank nothingness that lay behind them, an existential facade.

“There. All done, you should be right as rain. Now if you would only be so good as to open your eyes, please, Crowley.”

The whirling of space and time around him slowed to a crawl and then finally stopped altogether. His entire body was one big… throb. Nevertheless, Crowley felt an intense desire to pacify the owner of the voice, and when he finally peeled his eyelids back, he immediately remembered why.

“‘Ngel?” he croaked out through a dry mouth, blinking back his confusion to see Aziraphale there. Here. Wherever they were. Crowley looked around, quite certain this was Aziraphale’s new bookshop, but he couldn’t recall popping over for a visit and wasn’t sure how he’d managed to fall asleep there. Satan, why did his body hurt so much?

All other thoughts were pushed away at the sight of Aziraphale very nearly crumpling in relief.

“There you are,” the angel murmured, brushing a hand over Crowley’s forehead before he could be surprised about it. “And the fever’s down. I daresay you’re out of the woods.”

“Out of the- what happened?” Crowley made to sit up, but Aziraphale’s hand fell instantly to his shoulder, urging him back down.

“You had a bit of a run-in with a hellhound, I’m afraid,” the angel told him, face slack with remembered horrors that looked a bit like Crowley felt. “Nasty business.”

“Ngh,” Crowley agreed. “Yeah… okay, yeah, that- that sounds… familiar.” He looked up at Aziraphale in bafflement. “But how did I get here then? Shouldn’t I be dead? There was- something came and killed it, and-”

Oh.

Crowley closed his eyes to hide his embarrassment at the rather obvious fact that Aziraphale was the something that had come and killed it.

“Hellhound venom does some unpleasant things,” Aziraphale pointed out kindly but unnecessarily. “I expect it had you all confused about what was happening.”

“To say the least,” Crowley muttered, remembering snippets of nightmares involving existence itself melting away and how hard he’d tried to fight off his rescuer. “Lucky you were there.”

“Lucky you had a good blade,” Aziraphale countered as he held out Crowley’s stiletto knife. “I hadn’t brought anything. It was the oddest thing, I had such a sudden and urgent thought to go for a stroll through Whitechapel, I scarcely realized it before I was halfway there. And of course I heard that horrible beast from a mile away, didn’t even realize it was you there until I’d killed the wretched thing. Gabriel can’t be too cross over it, after all a hellhound is as bad for us as it is for you. But I was so afraid- but no, you’re going to be right as rain. I had to drain the wounds, you know, and you didn’t like that one bit.”

“Ngh.” Crowley was trying to remember if he had called out to the angel, though he would swear he hadn’t. Nothing to have tickled his friend’s attention, surely. Dangerous business, that, what if some other angel had heard it instead? Besides, the last thing he would have wanted was for Aziraphale to be in harm’s way, though he did forget at times that Aziraphale was quite the formidable warrior.

Well, a mystery for another day.

He realized then that Aziraphale was watching him anxiously; Crowley looked away. “Wot?”

“Are you alright, my dear? Hellhound venom can be… well… disturbing.”

Crowley swallowed, then took a bolstering breath. “Fine,” he airily tried. It fell flat. “Just having a hard time with… you know, what’s real and what’s not and whatnot.”

Aziraphale nodded like he understood, though Crowley hoped he didn’t, not from experience.

“Sorry,” the demon muttered next. “For… you know.” He doubted he’d made it easy on Aziraphale to get him somewhere safe or treat his wounds.

A hand closed over one of his, and Crowley looked up in surprise. Aziraphale’s eyes—not the blinding gold from before, but his own normal blue—were full of warmth and reassurance.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I’m only glad Something led me there in time. Now listen, I’m going to put on some tea and you’re going to stay right there under the blankets until I’m quite satisfied you’re all recovered. No arguments! I daresay it’ll make me feel better, you know.”

Well, damn it all, Crowley couldn’t very well refuse, then.

He would, of course, never admit it under any amount of torture, but it did something good to the demon that Aziraphale would care half as much. Though he made a show of rolling his eyes and sinking back down with a sulk, Crowley saw the warmth warm a little warmer in the angel’s eyes and he knew that of course Aziraphale understood.

He always did.

[sh-rare-pair-exchange]

Gold Beneath His Threshold

For @facialteeth​ Summary: Although Clary goes to Idris with her mother and it looks as though the only one with a promising love life is Alec, a certain demon decides th dip his finger into the parabatai pie and stir things up. Results do not disappoint.

Pairing: Jace Herondale / Alec Lightwood

A/N:  I hope you like your gift 💙💙💙

Read it on ao3: HERE

It started in his childhood and it carried through into his young adult years. Alec became convinced he was a favourite of the angels, even though sometimes they had an odd way of showing it. One day when he was twelve, he found himself alone again, waiting for his mother in her office, having to receive punishment for his latest mess-up. He had gotten into a fight with an older boy who had been bullying him for months…. And he had won! He was shorter, smaller and younger, but he could take way more pain than the other boy. His bullying problem was now a thing of the past; the other kids kept their distance, knowing Lightwood was weird, but also willing and able to kick their asses. But for Maryse, that hadn’t been good enough. “We are Lightwoods, we don’t go around beating people up. There are other ways to solve conflicts! You are not thinking like a future leader, Alec!”

Later, it had been his father, calling him to his office to administer the punishment, and Alec had caught himself thinking, while he lay on his bed on his belly, because his butt and thighs were covered in red welts, that there would have to be one thing, one thing only, that made sense in his life. That made it all worth it - the humiliation, the being forgotten only to be remembered when he messed up even when he thought he did well, the hostility with which his own mother treated him, the feeling he was a mistake that should have never existed.

And the angels had replied right away. The next day, they sent him a ten year old boy - whom his parents decided to take in because he was Michael Wayland’s son, and Robert still felt guilty about his parabatai’s fate. From the moment Jace walked into the room where Alec trained, roasting his technique, Alec felt like he’d been given sunshine to carry in his pocket at all times. The boys became inseparable and soon Izzy was old enough to join them and keep up with Jace’s antics. Jace was beautiful and smart and loyal, and he made Alec laugh and smile so much his cheeks hurt every day, which was a blessing after the increasing number of punishments he had to endure, both for his perceived shortcomings and for being the eldest and letting Jace get the three of them in trouble. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Jace. He took pride in it. He would stand in his mother’s office, thinking “you can’t punish me as much as I can take, just watch.” But as time went by and they grew up, Jace also grew a spine for the three of them. He found it natural to talk back at Robert and Maryse, to question their orders and to tell them to back off when they picked either Izzy or Alec as an easier target for their brand of retaliatory discipline. It was getting ridiculous, he said. You can’t send soldiers out in the field and expect them to do a good job if they are still wincing from their butts being full of welts. Also, there was a certain age after which it was odd to want your teenage child to bare themselves for you to beat them.

And it worked, because Jace was also fluent in the language that abusive leaders used, violence, coercion, veiled or overt threats and blackmail. He had been raised by a far bigger monster than Maryse could ever aspire to be and although his father had tried to shape him into the perfect, unfeeling killing machine, Jace had always had an unbreakable compass which was impervious to bullshit, but still allowed him to play along and make his abusers wallow in a sense of control until it was time to strike. Alec felt overcome with a feeling he couldn’t quite identify whenever he looked at Jace. It was more than loyalty, maybe even more than devotion. He decided love covered it pretty well, but it was a big concept which contained all the facets of the feeling. Alec compared it to getting a really big box and going to the store, asking for a scoop of every flavour of ice cream. This was why it didn’t come as a surprise to him when, one day as he was sparring with Jace and the younger boy had gained the upper hand, sending Alec to the floor and straddling him to pin his arms to the floor above his head, a wave of desire crashed into him. Jace was above him, glistening with a sheen of sweat and panting, his golden hair sticking together in thick strands, damp with sweat. Jace looked feral for a moment, in prey to the adrenaline of the fight, but his eyes quickly shifted to reflect the warm affection he held only for Alec. For the older boy, it was as though someone had sucked all the air in the room out. Everything was amplified and his senses seemed sharper, he could hear Jace’s heartbeat and couldn’t look away from his bare chest, rising and falling with the staccato pace of his breathing; he became painfully aware of Jace’s now hard peak nipples and his eyes traced a droplet of sweat making its way down Jace’s chest until gravity forced it to fall onto his own chest. Also, their current position made it so that their cocks were crushed together in a distracting way. Alec closed his eyes briefly, letting the feeling wash over him. It made him buck beneath Jace and he made a pitiful sound, somewhere between surrender and panic. “Is this you tapping out?” Jace asked, adjusting his position, pressing his weight even harder into Alec. This did not help their dick situation and Alec felt himself harden. He nodded, unsure why he worried so much. This was Jace and Jace handed his ass to him all the time. Nothing special about the occasion. Jace freed his hands and got up, releasing Alec from his hold altogether. Alec stayed on the floor, sitting for a bit longer, wondering why being bested in combat put him into such a state this time around. But then Jace used the towel he had brought to wipe off his sweat, then threw it at Alec, expecting him to catch it and use it too. The towel hit Alec across the face. Instead of smelling like horse or old socks, like sweat usually did, Jace smelled like freshly baked bread, sunny summer days and everything that Alec associated with the feeling of joy. He barely caught himself and held back from burying his face into the towel and sniffing it like a cat with a valerian pillow. Not long after that, Jace asked Alec to be his parabatai and obviously, Alec said yes. Obviously, because he could not picture his life without Jace in it anymore and they were better together in every way. Jace had the courage and confidence when Alec struggled with them, and Alec had the strategic thinking and the protective nature where Jace was reckless and impulsive. *** They were considered grown men by Nephilim standards, but to mundanes and Downworlders, they were still young and inexperienced in many ways except killing and fighting. This was why so many mistakes were made when Clary and the tornado of events she brought crashed into their lives. For one reason or the other, Jace seemed to lose all touch with reality and support Clary on her wild chases, risking their lives, their standing with the Clave and pretty much everything else. Alec felt abandoned and forgotten again. He reminded himself that good things never last and allowed himself to go through a grieving process on fast forward, where at first he was angry at Jace and ended up resigning himself to having nothing and no one who cared about him in the way he needed. But he could not order his body or his emotions to fall in line with his new approach and that was the source of his constant pain. Pain which gave him the worst, darkest goggles to see life through. He didn’t see that Jace panicked and saw the whole Shadow World burn in front of his mind’s eye when it became clear that Valentine had the means and the opportunity to wipe out every Downworlder in existence with one wish. It was this desolate state Alec found himself in when he met Magnus Bane, the charming High Warlock of Brooklyn. Magnus did not have to give him attention, but he did. And he did not have to single him out and place him above everyone else, but he did that too. It felt good - of course it did - and Alec dared to smile again.

But Clary again muddied the waters. The way she was treating Jace was so entitled and impatient, bulldozing his needs and his past wounds just because she hadn’t been there to see him get them, so to her they did not matter that much. Soon, Jace was hurting again, and since no one had taught him how to deal with that, he put the entire blame onto himself. He and Clary were no longer a thing soon and Alec watched his carefully constructed routine crumble again. Izzy had broken up with Meliorn and was trying to mutilate her personality into becoming Maryse 2.0. Jace hadn’t slept a full night in weeks and cried himself to sleep at night, only to be woken by nightmares and his own screams.

Clary soon chose to move to Idris to be with her mother. Jocelyn thought they would be safer from Valentine there and, for once thinking like a true Shadowhunter, she wanted to take the heat off the New York Institute and make it obvious to the Clave that the Valentine problem was not some fiction made up by teens playing around with runes and angelic relics, but a very real and immediate threat.

Before Clary left, Izzy planned a small goodbye party in the Institute events hall. Clary gave each of them a present, to thank them for their help and friendship. To Jace, she gave two open-date tickets to the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan, winking as she told him he would know when to use them. Jace hugged her and kissed her hair, the gesture looking more like what a big brother would do, rather than a lover. Clearly, that short chapter in their lives had not made the first edit. To Izzy, she gave a letter from the Iron Sisters. Jocelyn had used some of her old connections and had gotten Izzy an invitation to visit the place where all Shadowhunter weapons were made. Izzy started crying and hugged Clary, making her promise to visit and send a lot of fire messages. She even promised Clary to finally look into installing Discord on her phone so they could keep in touch more easily. Finally, to Alec, she gave a book, telling him it would answer his most pressing question for him when he got to the end. Alec looked at the book. It was “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho and he seethed inwardly. It was “Eat Pray Love” for people who had gone to college and Alec had heard about the book and its subject matter. He considered it a total wank, from what he’d heard. But Clary was leaving, so maybe, as a way of celebrating, he would ask Jace to let him use his tub and read the book front to back as a way to close the Clary chapter in their lives.

Life went back to normal after Clary and Jocelyn’s departure. Well. The new normal, where Alec was the only one of the three whose life and mental health were not falling apart. He found time to go on that date he and Magnus had kept postponing. It was not… unpleasant, and Alec learned several things about himself. One, he really didn’t do well with alcohol. And he didn’t care how childish it made him seem. Jace was the only person who didn’t constantly mock him for not liking to drink. Beer really tasted like ass. And so did tequila shots. Two, yep, he was gay. Magnus was super pretty. But, for whatever reason, he couldn’t picture himself doing anything more than hugging and holding hands with Magnus. He had already planted a smooch on the warlock, as an act of rebellion against his parents and the Clave at his almost-wedding to Lydia… but he hoped being in love didn’t involve bricking it before every time a show of physical affection happened. Although, in fairness, not all intimate acts had the entire Clave watching closely. Three, things were definitely going too fast and he had long lost control of the wheel. There was a madman intent on ending their entire world out there, Edom was gaining power, Seelies, Vampires and Werewolves were treating the Accords like a pamphlet and Warlocks were disappearing off to realms known only to them in preparation for the upcoming war. And there he was, Lieutenant Head of the New York Institute, getting his panties in a twist over the fact that a hot warlock wanted to take him home and fuck the living daylights out of him. Which, in any other circumstance, would have been perfection. But although his mind tried hard to reason with Alec, pointing out that “hey, someone wants to bang you. No one ever wants to bang you. Do you really want to die a virgin? Because you will die sooner than you will find someone again”, his body put the brakes on the whole thing. So, after their date, instead of going to the loft with Magnus, Alec told him he had an early morning meeting he had to prepare for. Upset by the perceived rejection, Magnus left, but not without making a polite exit. After all, he could understand cold feet. The reason he was so attracted to Alec was how special and rare of a creature he was. But he still left Alec with the tab. The cute bartender who had seen the whole exchange pointed to the tap and asked Alec, “looks like it’s not your night. Want another one, on the house?” Alec shook his head. “Can I have a peach Capri Sun instead?” He asked. Someone else took the seat Magnus had vacated next to him at the bar and pushed a hundred dollar bill across the counter to the girl. “Actually, I’ll have the alcohol once you give the child his sippy cup. Make it a Devil’s Margin, please.” Alec turned to look at the owner of that silky, dark voice. A tall man, dressed in black, everything designer and very expensive-looking, with an exceedingly attractive face and the tell-tale red glow in his eyes. A greater demon, Alec thought, freezing in his spot. He didn’t have any weapons with him, he had left them all at the wardrobe, glamoured, after Magnus had convinced him demons would not come crash their date. “Did your date not go your way?” the higher demon asked, smiling in a way Alec would have read as… friendly, If it had been anyone else. “What’s it to you? Since when do demons care what we do in our time off?” ��Since I’m the demon of desire and everyone’s desires are my job.” The demon said. The bartender slid the Devil’s Margin in front of the stranger and smiled. The demon took a sip from the drink and smiled. “Excellent. Heavy on the alcohol, easy on the ginger ale. Just how I like it.” He said, producing another hundred dollar bill and handing it to the girl. “That’s all yours, baby girl.” Alec watched the young woman fluster and blush, stammering a thank you and going away. He always found it so miraculous when other men were able to charm their way through life’s little exchanges and situations. Jace would have done it even without the money, he thought, sizing up the man (demon) next to him. “Look. I’m not digging for trouble… for now. I’m just curious. Do you think the warlock you were seeing is hot, Alec Lightwood?” The demon asked, revealing to Alec he had done his homework before he’d popped up. “I will gladly answer all your nosy questions, demon, as soon as you tell me your name. Since you already know mine.” “All in due time. Is it that hard to admit, is he hot or not?” “Yes, he is, damn it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have gone on a date with him, he’s been working so super hard to get me to go out with him. I never go out.” “Mmm, interesting.” “And again, what’s it to you?” Alec grumpily asked. If he was going to fry, he might as well get some answers first. “Well, my volatile little Nephilim, my name is Asmodeus, prince of hell, demon of desire and Magnus’ dad.” Alec gasped. Rationally, he knew warlocks were half demon, but he had always pictured the demon half involved one of those hideous creatures they slaughtered in dark alleys while on night missions. He had never considered the higher demons would wish to sire children with mortal women as well. And, looking at Asmodeus, it was easy to see where Magnus got his good looks and charm from.

“Are you here to tell me not to date your son?” Alec said. “Or to make sure that my Nephilim nature kicks in and does exactly that, to spite you?”

“No, not at all. I’m here to save everyone some heartache and to speed up some of my goals becoming reality.” Asmodeus said. “Do you want to date my son?” “Honestly? I don’t know. I… I might not get anyone else. And he is a good man, who’s showing me attention where everyone else is not. He would love me.” “He would watch you die after your short, violent little life. And then he’d mourn and move on. He’s immortal, Alec. You’re not.” “Yeah, there’s that. But isn’t every lasting relationship like that? Even in mundane marriages, someone dies first and is survived by their grieving partner.” “Mundanes have the comfort of thinking they get to meet each other soon.” Alec stared at his Capri Sun. “But that’s not all there is to it, is there?” Asmodeus pressed. “There’s something else holding you back.” “Yes…” Alec said, sighing. “Something stupid.” “Like the hmmm… allegedly unrequited love for your parabatai?” “Why are you even asking me, if you know everything?” Alec covered his face with his palm briefly. “This is embarrassing. I can’t… I can’t do this.” He added and made to get off the bar stool to leave. “No it’s not, and you can. Sit back down. I take desires really seriously. And I’m here to tell you it’s alright to be in love with your parabatai. You two do share a soul and I would be more surprised and disappointed if you two weren’t in love.” “But… why are you so intent on my not dating Magnus? Because that is your agenda, I can tell.”

“It’s because of how difficult it is to see things from an eternal perspective. No matter how much Magnus and you pretend it’s not an obstacle, it is. And I am trying to get Magnus to stop seeking for fleeting connection in various mortals and to finally turn his face back to me, his father. I cannot wait to give him my wisdom, my experience… my power. But I can’t do that if he is always running around trying to please this and that mortal.” “And you want me to turn Magnus down so you can show up for him? Why didn’t you do so before? Why didn’t you protect him and treat him well as a child?” “I was misguided and hurt. I wrongfully took out my anger and my pain on a child who didn’t ask to be here. And since then, Magnus has been running from me.” “Look. I don’t have the power to oppose you. But for some reason you seem to want to do it right this time. Listen to his wishes. He will come to you if he feels respected. It’s not that deep. I know one or two things about abusive parents. Once the trust is broken, and usually it’s broken over and over… it can’t be won back with a simple talk and a hug. It takes time to mend wounds that scarred over but never healed.” Asmodeus smiled at Alec and put his hand over Alec’s nearest one. “I knew you’d understand. As far as Nephilim go, you’re one of the wisest, even for your young years.” Alec looked at the demon’s manicured hand on top of his and for a second, his mind flashed him an image of Asmodeus draped over him in a bed with cool sheets, buried to the hilt inside him, holding his literal life in his hands, their fingers interlaced as they gripped the sheets and moved together… He shook his head. Asmodeus wasn’t playing. He really was the demon of desire.

“Don’t you just wish that was the Herondale boy?” Asmodeus laughed knowingly.

“Wayland, but go off.” “Oops. I guess I shouldn’t have said that.” Asmodeus said with a wink. “But anyway. I wanted to talk to you not to dissuade you from dating my son, but to tell you that you’re bullshitting yourself. Sure, Magnus is wonderful and he would love you and everything. But you’re not in love with him. And I thought I’d spare you and Magnus a few years of heartache and suffering alone and in secret because you let things heat up too fast and then it was too late to say anything. You would so do that. Admit it - if not to me, then to yourself.”

“I… you’re right.” Alec said, taking a sip of his juice. “Too bad Jace doesn’t love me back.” Asmodeus rolled his eyes. “He does. And I know you won’t believe what the old demon said, but just… ask him. Ask him what is in those nightmares that keep him up at night. Oh, and… ask for one kiss. It will tell you all you need to know.” Alec looked away. He had come a long way, he could pass for a great leader on many days, but asking for a kiss? From Jace? That needed working up to. “You have to risk it for the biscuit.” Asmodeus said, shrugging. “Or, in terms you Nephilim folk prefer, no pain, no gain.” Alec winced. He was trying to change that. Everyone outside the Nephilim society laughed at them and called them primitive for abusing their children to turn them into soldiers and for burning their own people for even the slightest mistake, until their numbers were dwindling. It felt like an uphill battle, but he knew it could be done. Unless the Clave really wanted to drive their race to extinction. “Thanks for the insight… I guess?” Alec said and took a sip of his drink. When he looked to his side, Asmodeus had vanished, leaving behind only a veil of very high end Moroccan blend perfume, something with sandalwood, crushed rose petals and ylang-ylang.

Alec shivered. He’d survived meeting Asmodeus. And in theory it wasn’t a big deal, he’d killed greater demons before without thinking much of it, but Asmodeus was different. He was Magnus’ dad. He could have been his father-in-law, which would have made Easter lunches very awkward, for starters.

He paid what he owed to the bartender and she smiled as she cashed him in. “Straighten your crown and go get’em. You’re a cutie, it’ll all work out for you.” She said. Alec sighed. “Thanks. There’s nothing about me that can be straight… but I appreciate the sentiment.” He got his weapons and coat from the wardrobe and went back to the Institute. On the way back, he was stopped by some unsavoury mundanes who wanted to mug him. Alec asked himself what Jace would do, and what would make Magnus cringe the least. He ended up breaking all those men’s arms and legs and walking away while feeling a huge sulk taking him over. To top it all off, it started to rain.

Soaked to his skin, now he really wanted that hot bath with a book. When he went up to Jace’s room, it was empty and Alec decided it would hurt no one if he did run himself that hot bath and read the book from Clary. As he gingerly lowered himself into the tub, the exhaustion and the stress of the past month hit him at full force. He closed his eyes and let the heat and the pine scent of the water seep into his bones and mind, relaxing him. Now he was starting to see why Jace loved to take baths so often. He opened “The Alchemist” and started reading. He found the book easy to read through, since he was used to far longer and bigger volumes. The start didn’t impress him much, but by the time he got through the first twenty pages, he was hooked. The ending moved him to tears and it made him think of his own situation. He was also sitting on a treasure, ignoring it because of preconceived ideas on how treasures had to appear and be revealed. It was how Jace found him, crying in the bath, the foam having dissolved almost completely. Jace ran over to him and knelt next to the tub, hugging Alec at once and kissing his forehead worriedly. “What’s wrong, parabatai? What happened?” Jace asked, running his hands through Alec’s wet hair and smoothing it back. Alec looked at Jace through his tears and he sighed. The surge of love and awe he felt just from seeing Jace again (and it had only been a few hours since he’d last seen him, at breakfast) was enough to tell him that Asmodeus had been a hundred percent right. He was so deeply, desperately and irreversibly in love with Jace, there was no use lying to himself and thinking it was wiser to stay away. Sure, giving in and admitting his love to Jace might bring some heartache, maybe some punishment too if they were found out, but at least they’d have each other. And he would have the one person he had loved from the day they’d met.

Alec took in Jace’s appearance. While he had been caught in the rain, Jace had been lucky and his clothes and hair were dry. He had gone and gotten his haircut refreshed, and it looked so incredibly good on him. Jace also wore a white shirt that subtly outlined his pecs and abs and tight jeans with his designer boots.

“The book was sad.” Alec said, feeling silly for saying the first thing that popped into his mind. It was a childish reason to give; they were Shadowhunters, they witnessed tragedy on an individual and global scale regularly. Jace smiled and ran his fingers through Alec’s hair again, leaning close and kissing his temple. He also looked down at the discarded book. He knew it was the book Clary had given Alec and he also knew the plot. He had read it a while ago while waiting to meet a cute Seelie in a bookstore. “Did your date with Magnus not go so well?” He asked, even though it pained him. Jace knew it wasn’t classy to be this petty, but Magnus having come onto the scene had changed his life for the worse by introducing the idea of competition for Alec’s love and attention… and the prospect of him losing. Until recently, no matter how shitty the rest of his life was, he always knew he had Alec’s full attention, devotion and affection. Jace had been in love with Alec for a while now, and he had woken up one day overwhelmed with love for his shy and reserved parabatai after thinking for a long time that he was the straightest person in the entire Shadow World. Loving Alec was easy, because Jace wore a mask for everyone else and with Alec he didn’t need to. And even though Alec was very withdrawn and private, he reserved the best parts of himself for Jace, who had always needed to be seen and prioritised by someone. Now, with Magnus in the picture, he could see himself losing all of that and being demoted to “one of the others’’ in favour of the boyfriend. He had already begun to resign himself to having lost the best and brightest part of his life. He had made it a part of his outward performance to be seen with many women and girls of all races, mundanes and Downworlders alike, but he could not bring himself to like or even open himself up at least a bit to anyone, in an unspoken (even to himself) hope of one day gathering his guts and telling Alec how he felt. But his father’s words rang in his mind. The way he saw it, “to love is to destroy” only worked if the love was expressed, fulfilled and returned. If it was just things one felt in secret and suffered from, it was fine. Only now it was all lost. Alec was in love - with Magnus. And Jace didn’t blame him. Magnus had the balls to announce his feelings directly. Normally, he would have been this confident too. But he didn’t think he was worthy of Alec’s love. He felt that Alec would be getting a bad deal with him as a boyfriend. He was neither rich, nor powerful or famous. And Alec deserved to be treated like a king, not late night dates at Mickey D’s, eating McRibs with ichor-stained hands.

Lost in his little cinematic sad story inside his head, Jace didn’t notice Alec watching him and smiling. “Actually the date with Magnus was great. I came back here after because it didn’t feel right to go to his place after.” “Why not?” Jace pushed, feeling a masochistic need to hear more about the ways in which Alec was slipping away from him. “You like the guy.” Alec looked at him pointedly and raised an eyebrow. “Jace. You know very well I don’t like anyone. And I only love you.”  He said, his voice becoming tinier as he got to the word “love”.

Jace’s eyes shot up to look at his parabatai. “It’s always been you, Jace.” Alec said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “In another world, if I were any bit more different, I’d be strong enough to let the outside pressure get to me  and move on, but I just don’t know how to be without you and I don’t want to either. I’ve been in love with you, in many ways that grew along the way, since the moment you walked into that training room and roasted my archery skills. I know to others I am weak for being so attached and needy, but… I don’t know how not to be, when it comes to you.”

Jace’s eyes were swimming in tears by the time Alec paused. He was still kneeling near the tub, one hand buried in Alec’s wet curly hair, the other holding one of Alec’s hands. He kissed the back of the hand he was holding, then lightly kissed each finger. “I feel the same. I was so torn, Alec. You deserve the best things ever and I’m not that. I’m broken. I thought you’d be happy with Magnus, but selfishly, I hated the thought of losing you.” It was Alec’s turn to caress stray strands behind a delicate ear. “We’re broken along the same lines. Like shards of a mirror that show the same image when you put them together.” Alec said. “The reason I was crying is because Clary knew exactly what I needed to hear. Like the guy in this book, I don’t need exotic travels and treasures beyond imagining. All I need is right here with me.”

When their lips finally met, it was with no hesitation and no fumbling. Once they had made up their respective minds, there was no holding back for either of them. “I want everything, Jace. And I want it with you.” Alec said in a heated voice, sounding breathless and overcome with excitement. “Then come, let me show you,” Jace said, feeling a lump of emotion form in his throat, making it hard to speak. Seeing Alec’s courage to say how he felt had made him go all in as well. In just a second, his indecision and his fears and worries had vanished like fog under the sun. But even though the emotions were positive and bursting forth from his soul like sunbeams, he still felt tears well up and spill down his cheeks. One word, one sign of reassurance had been enough. They were both getting what they wanted but had not dared to ask for. Alec briefly thought of Asmodeus and his knowing smirk, but then he felt Jace lift him easily from the tub and wrap him in a big towel, not doing too good a job drying him before he carried him, bridal-style, to the adjacent bedroom. He squeaked at being carried, but he still clung to Jace and rested his head on Jace’s shoulder, enjoying the attention from his parabatai. Jace hadn’t considered sleeping with a man, whether mundane or otherwise, but he found that Alec felt as familiar as he did to himself, and everything came naturally to him, especially since he was focusing on making sure Alec had a pleasurable first time. In fact, it was their first time and it could only be amazing, like everything they did as a pair.

He undressed hurriedly and unselfconsciously, feeling himself harden when Alec watched him greedily, his desire increasing with each item that came off.

Alec looked like sin made flesh on Jace’s bed, naked and hard, panting and watching Jace, biting his lower lip and reaching for his parabatai.

“You’re the most beautiful being I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Jace decreed, giving his cock a loose stroke, his eyes raking over Alec’s bared form before he got onto the bed and scooted next to Alec, flinging a leg over him and straddling him. “And you’re mine. I’m going to make you forget other men exist.” He reached over to Alec with two fingers, running them down the middle of his forehead, over his nose and further down to his lips.

Alec gasped and opened his mouth, his plush lips wrapping themselves around the roving fingers and dragging along the soft skin. Jace felt himself leak a sticky trail onto Alec’s cock beneath him from how enticing Alec looked, sucking his fingers unabashedly, rolling his hips up to rub against Jace and wanting to wring every drop of pleasure from the moment. Jace found he could no longer hold back and he leaned forward, his lips finding Alec’s. They again fused into one, their souls merging and flowing from one into the other and then back, in a loop. “Shit, if kissing is this intense, I won’t survive being inside you.” Jace said, nipping on Alec’s chin, on the spot he had the scar in. “Worth it. Can’t think of a better way to go.” Alec gave back, bringing his arms up so he could indulge in something he’d wanted to do since forever - running his hands greedily all over Jace, fingers carding through his hair, tracing his vertebrae as they descended, straying to his sides, his pecs, then his hips and then his ass. Alec felt ravenous - as though he couldn’t get Jace close enough, soon enough. He arched into Jace’s mouth and wailed at the sensation as his parabatai bit, then sucked a massive bruise into his deflect rune. “Jace, I can’t… I’ll go fucking insane if you’re not inside me soon. We can explore later.” Alec demanded. Jace looked down at their engorged and leaking cocks, rubbing against each other. “Um… normally I should open you up slowly. It’s a really small hole. Can you wait?” “I’ve been waiting since I was fucking fifteen. Get thee in me - preferably today.” “Look, if I use runes, it might still sting.” “I’m a Shadowhunter. Let’s see those runes.” “Alec, are you sure? It’s your first time… it might hurt.” “Do I look like I care? I get to have you for the rest of my life. Every time will be as special as a first time.” Jace smiled, relenting at the passionate words. This was 100% his Alec. Hesitant and overthinking while weighing his choices, all in once he made up his mind. He allowed himself to fantasize about a life of belonging to Alec and to Alec only, and of Alec being his in the same way. He felt his heart fill up to the point of overflowing with love and he knew he wanted nothing else. Even if it was a short and perilous life, even if their destiny as soldiers against the realms of hell cleaved their trajectory through the world before it had reached its end point, it would be a life lived in the completeness of their bond, made stronger by their love. He felt Alec’s burning gaze on him when he got out of bed to get his stele. While he retrieved it from his trousers, he wondered if, once Alec and him became one in every sense of the word, he would be able to activate Alec’s runes too with only his intention. Only one way to find out. Using the combination of runes he knew from Isabelle on her brother felt like the naughtiest and at the same time most rewarding sex thing he’d ever done thus far, and he couldn’t help but smile at the thought. It was so hot, watching and feeling his soon-to-be lover’s body become accommodating for him. Even the slight pain, which he could feel in the bond, was amplifying his aroused anticipation, as he watched Alec squirm and arch under the burn of the runes - which soon turned pleasurable, wringing a debauched moan from Alec.

“Please, Jace. I’m ready.” Alec said, sucking his reddened and glistening lower lip into his mouth briefly, looking up at Jace with feverish eyes.

Jace couldn’t have resisted if he tried. He knelt between Alec’s eagerly parting legs, taking the time to check if the runes had taken and if his parabatai was relaxed enough. He stroked two fingers over Alec’s opening and found it warm and pleasantly slick, which reassured him enough to delve inside. He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut at the feeling of Alec’s tight walls squeezing down on his fingers, picturing what that would feel like around his cock. With his other hand, he gave his cock a few strokes, spreading the droplets of precome drooling from the tip and bringing it up against Alec’s entrance, pressing in while removing his fingers. Alec closed his eyes and arched off the sheets as the head of Jace’s cock stretched him further than he had thought possible. Jace took one of his hands and squeezed it, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. “Breathe - deep and slow. It’ll help.” He whispered, before leaning down to kiss Alec while still pushing in. He could feel the same burn his parabatai felt in his body and he wondered at the force of Alec’s need for him. There would be so many other times when they could live out all their desires and fantasies, but for now it was about Alec and what he wanted. “Fuck, Alec. You are so tight it’s unreal.” Jace said when he bottomed out. He was now buried to the hilt inside his parabatai and the bond flared between them, its flame switching from pale blue to bright gold. Both boys got hit by the intensity of the transmutation. Their bond was now something different, stronger and new in a way they couldn’t have anticipated. They had both been warned by the Silent Brothers at their ceremony not to fall and commit Eros, lest they draw the angels’ wrath and the parabatai curse onto them. But, as time passed and they grew up, they had both learned the curse was a scaretale used to enforce the Clave’s disapproval of same sex relationships and to secure Clave control over parabatai pairs and their abilities as warriors. He Clave wanted them good, but not too good.

“Do you feel… that… too?” Jace asked in awe.

“Yes, I do. I feel you, as a part of me.” Alec said breathlessly. “Please, move. I want it all.” Jace propped himself up on his hands on Alec’s chest and started to move, picking up pace quickly. “Angels, Alec.You feel divine.” Jace whispered. His entire world had narrowed down to Alec beneath him. But even that wasn’t enough and he sat back on his heels, pulling Alec up in his lap until they were wrapped around each other, their limbs woven together like the petals of a lotus. Jace had never really enjoyed a connection with someone before here and now, with Alec. Sex had always been yet another performance to persuade the world that the great Jace Wayland was as perfect and as unattainable as they wanted him to be, the fantasy superhero all of Idris wanted to believe in and parade as an example. If he could have had his choice, he would have not shared his body with anyone unless he felt drawn to do so. But as it were, everyone else had always seen him as a shiny trinket to collect, a fetish to experiment with, a fantasy to conquer. All but Alec. “Jace! I’m c-close.” Alec pressed out while the force of Jace’s upward thrusts into him bounced him on Jace’s lap. “Come with me!”

Jace nodded with a growl and changed their position again, having them lie down face to face, up close and still entwined as they’d been just moments before, with Alec’s legs encircling his hips. It wasn’t a comfortable position they could hold for long, but it brought them close together and Jace loved that he could rest a hand on Alec’s neck and pull him close for a possessive kiss. A silent understanding passed between them, the same intent reflected in both sets of eyes. They came at the same time, each letting go easily while knowing the other would be right there too. After that night, Alec discovered that Jace could practically go on forever, but, considerate as he was, he did stop when Alec became physically unable to keep up. And Jace was also an attentive lover, apparently, either as a rule or just for him, Alec didn’t care, since he currently couldn’t feel his body beyond the burn in his ass and the deep fatigue, neighbouring numbness, that had taken over his limbs. But Jace fed him pineapple gummibears from his secret stash (if that wasn’t love, nothing was, Alec thought, knowing how territorial Jace was of those gummibears). Jace discovered that he could, in fact, activate Alec’s runes with his intention, something which turned Alec on like mad and which made their night’s activities stretch until late in the morning. Once they finally dragged themselves under the shower, Jace remembered his gift from Clary. “I need to take you on a proper date, to make this official. Museum of Modern Art sound good to you? The Dicks in Design exhibit is in town.” “If I want to see a big dick for free, all I need to do is look your way. Let’s just go and stare at the art.” Jace opened his mouth to clap back, but he couldn’t think of anything. Couldn’t object against facts, although what kept him from feeling smug was the ambiguous phrasing. Had Alec meant he had a big dick? Or that he was a big dick?

*** The evening had just begun and Pandemonium was buzzing with excitement. This date marked the return of Magnus Bane to the club scene. The moment he had seen Alec again after their one date, Magnus had known Alec would never be his. And then he had seen Jace and the massive change in him, in the way the two parabatai looked at each other, in the way the energy in the room changed and thrummed around them. He could not begrudge the two Shadowhunters the refuge they had found in each other. Being parabatai in their time was difficult and it was a small blessing they could be everything for each other like that. He couldn’t say he was mourning that which had never been. He had a new girlfriend now and his father was making an effort to be a slightly more tolerable demon and an actual parent to his only son. Magnus had a family now and it made him feel like he finally belonged. Now he was observing Alec and Jace on the dance floor below. Alec had never struck him as a big lover of fun, partying and much less dancing. But what he was currently doing was hardly a dance. He and Jace were just grinding against each other to the beat of the music, lost in each other like they were the only people in the club. They were both dressed in white and the hostesses at the club entrance had dabbed glitter on them, like they did with all the guests that night, only Jace and Alec looked  downright heavenly, sparkling in the bluish-white light.

Then, Magnus’ eye was drawn to the VIP booth, where his father stood at the window, watching the couple below with the tiniest smile fluttering on his lips. Magnus shuddered, remembering Asmodeus was the demon of desire and his powers grew off of people giving into their secret and forbidden passions. He didn’t put it past his father to have stuck his finger in the parabatai pie. His concerns only intensified when Alec suddenly looked up, saw Asmodeus, waved and smiled. (the end)

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Gift-fic for bessie-bass (because she has all the best headcanons)

She’d barely given two minutes thought to the tweet- that was the really frustrating thing. She’d meant it as a joke- it’d been born from a moment of mild frustration, sure, but she hadn’t meant anything bad by it, she’d typed it out in less than a minute before tossing her phone aside and going back to work.

  ‘Love having my costume purloined at the last moment- perhaps I’ll grab a spare queen dress next time I need to do laundry lol’

  It had been barely a day later when the director had pulled her aside and asked if she’d looked at her feed lately. Of course she hadn’t, and said as much- she’d been working more or less nonstop to ensure everything was going smoothly with the new alts….and when he’d brought it up on his own phone, she felt suddenly sick.

  People were so ANGRY- so many tweets, direct and indirect, all telling her that she was awful, rude, disrespectful, that she was trying to ‘erase’ the queens and their alts, that she was giving herself undue importance, that she should be GRATEFUL that she could be of help to someone so much more important than herself….

And then the others, wishing her every sort of pain, graphic descriptions of what they wanted done to her in retribution….

  Watching her face, the director closed the tab after a couple of minutes but she’d had more than enough time to get the gist of it. She felt light headed, like she was in freefall.

  What had she done?

  Perhaps her distress was obvious- the ticking off was brief, but it still stung: not least to be scolded like a child but to be blamed for the response, as if it had been something she wanted.

  The injustice of it all roared in her ears and drowned out at least half of the lecture- when she realised that input was expected from her, she mumbled and apology and fled to the dressing room, grateful at least that it was a Sunday and that the theatre was relatively empty aside from her and few others putting in extra hours.

  Sitting down at her station, she tried to refocus herself back on her work but thoughts buzzed round and round her head like angry bees- humiliation, guilt, anger….and under all of it, she just felt sad.

  People she didn’t even know, would never know, were somehow angry enough at her to want everybody to know….and the thought made her feel very alone.

  Suddenly, she wanted Cathy- to see her or even just hear her voice, to be able to remind herself that at least one person wasn’t angry with her, that at least one person didn’t think she was bad. The strength of her feelings was surprising and disconcerting too. She wasn’t used to needing people (she wasn’t used to having people to need) and it made her wonder if she’d become weak, if getting used to having Cathy smile at her and ask about her day had stripped away some of her self reliance.

  It made her wonder if she should resist calling or texting- if she should push through the sadness like it was an addiction until she just stopped feeling altogether….but after a few minutes of pretending to make notes, she had snatched up her phone and was keying in a message.

  ‘Hi. Sorry to bother you. I hope you’re not busy.’

  Her hands shook as she pressed send- and then it occurred to her that perhaps Cathy wouldn’t even have her number saved and added a quick ‘This is Joan btw.’

  It was only after she sent it that it occurred to her that not identifying herself would have allowed her some leeway to make comforting excuses to herself if (when) Cathy didn’t reply….but almost immediately, her phone buzzed with a message.

  ‘Not busy and not a bother- what’s up?’

  Then, quick on its heels: ‘I knew it was you silly, I have your number saved!’

  It was nice, she found, the image of Cathy actually saving her number into her contact list (the idea of her number being included in the list of Cathy’s actual friends, as if she was no different from any of them).

  She agonised over what to put- she didn’t want to explain exactly but she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to put up a good front and pretend she was only texting to chat. Besides, she never texted for nothing. Still though-

  She composed and deleted half a dozen responses- and then her phone started ringing, surprising her so much that she nearly dropped it.

  ‘Hi!’ Cathy sounded bright, cheerful- not as if she needed her free afternoon ruined by Joan’s stupidity and neediness. ‘What’s up? Thought I’d just call rather than waiting for you to reply-’

  The chiding was of the very lightest, most friendly sort- and yet it was also much too much for Joan’s current state: the implication that she had annoyed Cathy on top of everyone else (the idea that she was frustrating her, irritating her, using up her patience) was something she just couldn’t deal with.

  She gave a little gasp and burst into tears.

  Straight away, she tried to find the button to end the call- she didn’t want Cathy to hear her being so pathetic (Cathy wouldn’t WANT to see her so pathetic)- but her tears made everything blurry and her hands were shaking too much to work properly.

  ‘Joan? Joan? Are you there?��

  Cathy’s voice sounded tinny through the speaker but her tone was unmistakably frantic. It gave Joan pause that she sounded so concerned- and she immeadiately mentally berated herself for (selfishly) giving her closest (only) friend worry over something so stupid.

  She tried to take a deep breath as she pressed the phone to her ear.

  ‘I- I’m here- I’m sorry, I-’ Another sob almost choked her.

  ‘What’s the matter sweetheart?’ The warm concern in Cathy’s voice was like honey. ‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’

  She had intended to lie and pretend to be ok (she had surely forfeited her right to comfort for being so dramatic) but instead she found herself pouring out the whole stupid story in a teary, hiccupy rush, while Cathy hummed and made soothing noises of understanding into the reciever.

  ‘-and now everyone hates me, and it’s just-’ She pressed a hand to her eyes as she finished, already dreading Cathy’s reaction. ‘- it’s just all ruined….’

  ‘Oh you poor poor thing.’ Cathy sounded so very loving, it was enough to bring fresh tears to her eyes- it was unbelievable to Joan that she didn’t sound even a little bit cross or annoyed. ‘That all sounds dreadful sweetheart, I’m so sorry-’ There was a pause and some tapping and Joan realised she must be at her laptop. ‘I haven’t even looked at twitter in days-’ Suddenly her voice was louder, indignant. ‘Oh my GOD….they- Oh Joan! I can’t believe they- it’s so-’ The fact that Cathy was speechless made Joan feel a tiny bit better: it was nice to know that perhaps she wasn’t overreacting, that other people were horrified too, that Cathy was clearly not holding her to account for how things had turned out (perhaps Cathy didn’t think she deserved it).

  ‘They’re…..a bit irate….’

 She wanted to sound funny but it just came out as a flat little whimper. It was too hard to mask how absolutely crushed she felt- as if someone had pulled out her insides, as if she was collapsing in on herself.

  ‘They’re AWFUL!’ Cathy sounded angrier than Joan had ever heard her. ‘The fact that they think they can treat you like this, especially under the guise of ‘protecting’ us….I’m going to write a tweet right now, let them know EXACTLY what I think of them….’ From how fierce she sounded, Joan almost felt sorry for anyone to catch her ire. ‘I wish I had them here now so I could really make them sorry-’ Suddenly, she paused, perhaps remembering that she was still on the phone.

  ‘Joan, sweetheart, where are you?’

  The question took her by surprise. ‘The theatre- why-?’

  Cathy sounded a bit surprised. ‘Well I’m coming to get you. Obviously.’

  There was nothing obvious about it to Joan- she tried to protest.

  ‘It’s your free day though- you shouldn’t have to waste it on me!’ She brushed at her swollen eyes with her sleeve. ‘I’m fine really- I just needed to tell someone but I’m ok, I don’t need-’

  ‘Joan.’ Cathy’s voice cut through her rambling. ‘You’re definitely not fine. No one would be fine.’

  ‘Yes but-’

  ‘I’m coming to get you. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to and I’ll take you straight home if you like, if you want some space but….you really should take some time to relax.’ Cathy’s voice was insistent but soft, fond. ‘You work too hard. You need a break.’

  ‘Honestly you don’t have to, I can get a cab or walk or-’

  ‘Now-’ Cathy carried on talking as if Joan hadn’t even spoken. ‘Why don’t you go and wash your face, get some tissues and a drink of a water and make yourself comfy in my dressing room until I’m there? I think I left my sweater on the sofa- did you remember to even take a coat with you?’

  There was an embarrassed silence that answered her better than words and Cathy laughed quietly. ‘Thought not. Put it on, if it’s there and get yourself settled and I’ll be with you in a little bit ok? And then I’m going to get you home, run you a nice hot bath so you can relax, make you some hot chocolate and we’ll pile up some pillows and blankets on your bed and watch a movie or something ok? Something to take your mind off things. Sound good?’

  It sounded so very good that Joan found herself actually nodding into the phone, as if Cathy could see.

  ‘-and you’re going to actually eat something for dinner that’s real food’ Cathy continued. ‘Because I know you haven’t been taking proper care of yourself lately, what with all the new cast and everything. And you’re going to get some sleep at some point, because if you haven’t been eating, you probably haven’t been sleeping-’

  (It occured to Joan that Cathy could perhaps be compared to a bulldozer. A very tiny, very soothing blue bulldozer.)

  ‘-and I’m not going to leave until I’m sure you’re ok again. And then….’ Cathy’s voice takes on a slightly sinister edge. ‘I’m going on twitter because I REFUSE to let them treat you like this. And also at some point there is a tv series I want your opinion on. But that can wait til you’re up to it.’ She takes a breath. ‘Sound like a plan?’

  Joan wanted to protest again, to tell Cathy not to waste her time, to enjoy her free day and not worry…. But somehow she heard herself giving a very quiet assent to Cathy’s plan, and when the other woman arrived at the theatre half an hour later, slightly breathless and armed with a thermos of hot tea, a tube of eye gel and a bag of Joan’s favourite Malteasers, she found Joan wrapped up in her big blue cardigan and sipping a glass of water. 

  Just as she had ordered.

[phroyd]

He was limp and dusty from an explosion, conscious but barely. A far cry from the fierce, masked Islamic State fighters who once seized vast swaths of Iraq and Syria, the captive was a scraggly teenager in a tank top with limbs so thin that his watch slid easily off his wrist.

Chief Petty Officer Edward Gallagher and other Navy SEALs gave the young captive medical aid that day in Iraq in 2017, sedating him and cutting an airway in his throat to help him breathe. Then, without warning, according to colleagues, Chief Gallagher pulled a small hunting knife from a sheath and stabbed the sedated captive in the neck.

The same Chief Gallagher who later posed for a photograph holding the dead captive up by the hair has now been celebrated on the campaign trail by President Trump, who upended the military code of justice to protect him from the punishment resulting from the episode. Prodded by Fox News, Mr. Trump has made Chief Gallagher a cause célèbre, trumpeting him as an argument for his re-election.

The violent encounter in a faraway land opened a two-year affair that would pit a Pentagon hierarchy wedded to longstanding rules of combat and discipline against a commander in chief with no experience in uniform but a finely honed sense of grievance against authority. The highest ranks in the Navy insisted Chief Gallagher be held accountable. Mr. Trump overruled the chain of command and the secretary of the Navy was fired.

The case of the president and a commando accused of war crimes offers a lesson in how Mr. Trump presides over the armed forces three years after taking office. While he boasts of supporting the military, he has come to distrust the generals and admirals who run it. Rather than accept information from his own government, he responds to television reports that grab his interest. Warned against crossing lines, he bulldozes past precedent and norms.

As a result, the president finds himself more removed than ever from a disenchanted military command, adding the armed forces to the institutions under his authority that he has feuded with, along with the intelligence community, law enforcement agencies and diplomatic corps.

“We’re going to take care of our warriors and I will always stick up for our great fighters,” Mr. Trump told a rally in Florida as he depicted the military hierarchy as part of “the deep state” he vowed to dismantle. “People can sit there in air-conditioned offices and complain, but you know what? It doesn’t matter to me whatsoever.”

The president’s handling of the case has distressed active-duty and retired officers and the civilians who work closely with them. Mr. Trump’s intervention, they said, emboldens war criminals and erodes the order of a professional military.

“He’s interfering with the chain of command, which is trying to police its own ranks,” said Peter D. Feaver, a specialist on civilian-military relations at Duke University and former aide to President George W. Bush. “They’re trying to clean up their act and in the middle of it the president parachutes in — and not from information from his own commanders but from news talking heads who are clearly gaming the system.”

Chris Shumake, a former sniper who served in Chief Gallagher’s platoon, said in an interview that he was troubled by the impact the president’s intervention could have on the SEALs.

“It’s blown up bigger than any of us could have ever expected, and turned into a national clown show that put a bad light on the teams,” said Mr. Shumake, speaking publicly for the first time. “He’s trying to show he has the troops’ backs, but he’s saying he doesn’t trust any of the troops or their leaders to make the right decisions.”

Chief Gallagher, who has denied any wrongdoing, declined through his lawyer to be interviewed. Mr. Trump’s allies said the president was standing up to political correctness that hamstrings the warriors the nation asks to defend it, as if war should be fought according to lawyerly rules.

“From the beginning, this was overzealous prosecutors who were not giving the benefit of the doubt to the trigger-pullers,” Pete Hegseth, a weekend host of “Fox & Friends” who has promoted Chief Gallagher to the president both on the telephone and on air, said this past week. “That’s what the president saw.”

‘No One Touch Him. He’s Mine.’

Chief Gallagher, 40, a seasoned operator with a deeply weathered face from eight combat deployments, sometimes went by the nickname Blade. He sought out the toughest assignments, where gunfire and blood were almost guaranteed. Months before deploying, he sent a text to the SEAL master chief making assignments, saying he was “down to go” to any spot, no matter how awful, so long as “there is for sure action and work to be done.”

“We don’t care about living conditions,” he added. “We just want to kill as many people as possible.”

Before deployment, he commissioned a friend and former SEAL to make him a custom hunting knife and a hatchet, vowing in a text, “I’ll try and dig that knife or hatchet on someone’s skull!”

He was in charge of 22 men in SEAL Team 7’s Alpha Platoon, which deployed to Mosul, Iraq, in early 2017. But his platoon was nowhere near the action, assigned an “advise and assist” mission supporting Iraqi commandos doing the block-by-block fighting. The SEALs were required to stay 1,000 meters behind the front lines.

That changed on May 6, 2017, when an Apache helicopter banked over a dusty patchwork of fields outside Mosul, fixed its sights on a farmhouse serving as an Islamic State command post and fired two Hellfire missiles reducing it to rubble.

Chief Gallagher saw the distant explosion from an armored gun truck. When he heard on the radio that Iraqi soldiers had captured an Islamic State fighter and took him to a nearby staging area, he raced to the scene. “No one touch him,” he radioed other SEALs. “He’s mine.”

‘Got Him With My Hunting Knife’

When the captive was killed, other SEALs were shocked. A medic inches from Chief Gallagher testified that he froze, unsure what to do. Some SEALs said in interviews that the stabbing immediately struck them as wrong, but because it was Chief Gallagher, the most experienced commando in the group, no one knew how to react. When senior platoon members confronted Chief Gallagher, they said, he told them, “Stop worrying about it; they do a lot worse to us.”

The officer in charge, Lt. Jacob Portier, who was in his first command, gathered everyone for trophy photos, then held a re-enlistment ceremony for Chief Gallagher over the corpse, several SEALs testified.

A week later, Chief Gallagher sent a friend in California a text with a photo of himself with a knife in one hand, holding the captive up by the hair with the other. “Good story behind this, got him with my hunting knife,” he wrote.

As the deployment wore on, SEALs said the chief’s behavior grew more erratic. He led a small team beyond the front lines, telling members to turn off locator beacons so they would not be caught by superiors, according to four SEALS, who confirmed video of the mission obtained by The New York Times. He then tried to cover up the mission when one platoon member was shot.

At various points, he appeared to be either amped up or zoned out; several SEALs told investigators they saw him taking pills, including the narcotic Tramadol. He spent much of his time scanning the streets of Mosul from hidden sniper nests, firing three or four times as often as the platoon’s snipers, sometimes targeting civilians.

One SEAL sniper told investigators he heard a shot from Chief Gallagher’s position, then saw a schoolgirl in a flower-print hijab crumple to the ground. Another sniper reported hearing a shot from Chief Gallagher’s position, then seeing a man carrying a water jug fall, a red blotch spreading on his back. Neither episode was investigated and the fate of the civilians remains unknown.

Chief Gallagher had been accused of misconduct before, including shooting through an Afghan girl to hit the man carrying her in 2010 and trying to run over a Navy police officer in 2014. But in both cases no wrongdoing was found.

SEALs said they reported concerns to Lieutenant Portier with no result. The lieutenant outranked Chief Gallagher but was younger and less experienced. SEALs said in interviews that the chief often yelled at his commanding officer or disregarded him altogether. After the deployment, Lieutenant Portier was charged with not reporting the chief for war crimes but charges were dropped. So SEALs said they started firing warning shots to keep pedestrians out of range. One SEAL told investigators he tried to damage the chief’s rifle to make it less accurate.

By the end of the deployment, SEALs said, Chief Gallagher was largely isolated from the rest of the platoon, with some privately calling him “el diablo,” or the devil.

A Fox Contributor’s Cause

Chief Gallagher was reported by six fellow SEALs and arrested in September 2017, charged with nearly a dozen counts including murder and locked in the brig in San Diego to await his trial. He denied the charges and called those reporting him liars who could not meet his high standards, referring to them repeatedly in public as “the mean girls” and saying they sought to get rid of him.

David Shaw, a former SEAL who deployed with the platoon, said he saw no evidence of that. “All six were some of the best performers in the platoon,” he said, speaking publicly for the first time. “These were guys were hand-selected by the chief based on their skills and abilities, and they are guys of the highest character.”

Chief Gallagher’s case was already simmering on the conservative talk show circuit when another service member, Maj. Mathew L. Golsteyn, an Army Green Beret, was charged last winter with killing an unarmed man linked to the Taliban in Afghanistan. On Dec. 16, barely minutes after a segment on “Fox & Friends,” Mr. Trump took to Twitter to say he would review the case, repeating language from the segment.

At the request of many, I will be reviewing the case of a “U.S. Military hero,” Major Matt Golsteyn, who is charged with murder. He could face the death penalty from our own government after he admitted to killing a Terrorist bomb maker while overseas. @PeteHegseth @FoxNews

38.1K people are talking about this

In the tweet, Mr. Trump included the handle of Mr. Hegseth, who speaks regularly with the president and has been considered for top jobs in the administration. An Army veteran, Mr. Hegseth served three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan before heading two conservative veterans organizations “committed to victory on the battlefield,” as the biography for his speaker’s bureau puts it.

Upset at what he sees as “Monday morning quarterbacking” of soldiers fighting a shadowy enemy where “second-guessing was deadly,” Mr. Hegseth has for years defended troops charged with war crimes, including Chief Gallagher, Major Golsteyn and Lt. Clint Lorance, often appealing directly to the president on Fox News.

“These are men who went into the most dangerous places on earth with a job to defend us and made tough calls on a moment’s notice,” Mr. Hegseth said on Fox in May. “They’re not war criminals, they’re warriors, who have now been accused of certain things that are under review.”

Mr. Hegseth found a ready ally in Mr. Trump, a graduate of a military high school who avoided serving in Vietnam by citing bone spurs in his foot. Mr. Trump has long sought to identify himself with the toughest of soldiers and loves boasting of battlefield exploits to the point that he made up details of an account of a “whimpering” Islamic State leader killed in October.

In March, the president twice called Richard V. Spencer, the Navy secretary, asking him to release Chief Gallagher from pretrial confinement in a Navy brig, Mr. Spencer later wrote in The Washington Post. After Mr. Spencer pushed back, Mr. Trump made it an order.

In honor of his past service to our Country, Navy Seal #EddieGallagher will soon be moved to less restrictive confinement while he awaits his day in court. Process should move quickly! @foxandfriends @RepRalphNorman

27.5K people are talking about this

By May, Mr. Trump prepared to pardon both Chief Gallagher and Major Golsteyn for Memorial Day, even though neither had yet faced trial. At the Pentagon, a conservative bastion where Fox News is the network of choice on office televisions, senior officials were aghast. They persuaded Mr. Trump to hold off. But that was not the end of the matter.

In June, Chief Gallagher appeared before a military jury of five Marines and two sailors in a two-week trial marred by accusations of prosecutorial misconduct. The medic who had been inches away from Chief Gallagher changed his story on the stand, claiming that he was the one who killed the captive.

In early July, the jury acquitted Chief Gallagher on all charges but one: posing for a trophy photo with a corpse. He was sentenced to the maximum four months in prison and demoted. Having already been confined awaiting trial, he walked out of the courtroom a free man

“Congratulations to Navy Seal Eddie Gallagher, his wonderful wife Andrea, and his entire family,” Mr. Trump tweeted. “You have been through much together. Glad I could help!”

The President Intervenes

In the months afterward, Chief Gallagher was feted on conservative talk shows. Mr. Hegseth spoke privately with Mr. Trump about the case.

As it happened, the president shares a lawyer with Chief Gallagher — Marc Mukasey, a former prosecutor representing Mr. Trump in proceedings against his company. Mr. Mukasey said he never discussed Chief Gallagher with anyone in the administration. “I have been religious about keeping matters separate,” he said.

Another person with ties to Mr. Trump who worked on Chief Gallagher’s case was Bernard B. Kerik, a New York City police commissioner under former Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani, who is now the president’s personal lawyer. Like Mr. Hegseth, Mr. Kerik repeatedly appeared on Fox News pleading Chief Gallagher’s case.

The much-investigated president saw shades of himself in the case — Chief Gallagher’s lawyers accused prosecutors of improprieties, a claim that advisers said resonated with Mr. Trump.

Mr. Spencer tried to head off further intervention. On Nov. 14, the Navy secretary sent a note to the president asking him not to get involved again. But Pat A. Cipollone, the White House counsel, called to say Mr. Trump would order Chief Gallagher’s punishment reversed and his rank restored. In addition, he pardoned Major Golsteyn and Lieutenant Lorance.

“This was a shocking and unprecedented intervention in a low-level review,” Mr. Spencer wrote. “It was also a reminder that the president has very little understanding of what it means to be in the military, to fight ethically or to be governed by a uniform set of rules and practices.”

Mr. Spencer threatened to resign. The Army secretary, Ryan McCarthy, also weighed in, arguing that the country’s standards of military justice protected American troops by setting those troops up as a standard around the world.

Defense Secretary Mark T. Esper took the complaints to the president. The Pentagon also sent an information packet to the White House describing the cases, including a primer on why there is a Uniform Code of Military Justice. Mr. Esper and Gen. Mark A. Milley, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, told the president it was important to allow the process to go forward.

The Navy Secretary Fights and Loses

Caught in the middle was Rear Adm. Collin Green, who took command of the SEALs four days before Chief Gallagher was arrested. He made it a priority to restore what he called “good order and discipline” after a series of scandals, tightening grooming standards and banning unofficial patches with pirate flags, skulls, heads on pikes and other grim symbols used to denote rogue cliques, similar to motorcycle gangs.

For Admiral Green, the Gallagher case posed a challenge because after his acquittal, the chief regularly undermined the SEAL command, appearing without authorization on Fox News and insulting the admiral and other superiors on social media as “a bunch of morons.”

The admiral wanted to take Chief Gallagher’s Trident pin, casting him out of the force. He called both Mr. Spencer and the chief of naval operations, Adm. Michael Gilday, and said he understood the potential backlash from the White House, but in nearly all cases SEALs with criminal convictions had their Tridents taken.

Both Mr. Spencer and Admiral Gilday agreed the decision was his to make and said they would defend his call. Mr. Esper briefed Mick Mulvaney, the acting White House chief of staff, on Nov. 19 and the next day the Navy established a review board of fellow enlisted SEALs to decide the question.

But a day later, an hour after the chief’s lawyer blasted the decision on Fox News, the president stepped in again. “The Navy will NOT be taking away Warfighter and Navy Seal Eddie Gallagher’s Trident Pin,” Mr. Trump wrote on Twitter. “This case was handled very badly from the beginning. Get back to business!”

The Navy will NOT be taking away Warfighter and Navy Seal Eddie Gallagher’s Trident Pin. This case was handled very badly from the beginning. Get back to business!

36.8K people are talking about this

Three days later, Mr. Spencer was fired, faulted by Mr. Esper for not telling him about an effort to work out a deal with the White House to allow the Navy process to go forward.

In an interview with Mr. Hegseth this past week, Chief Gallagher thanked Mr. Trump for having his back. “He keeps stepping in and doing the right thing,” the chief said. “I want to let him know the rest of the SEAL community is not about this right now. They all respect the president.”

Phroyd

[ardenttheories]

Could you do an analysis for Witch of Void and Thief of Hope?

Witch of Void

The Witch of Void is someone who Controls Void, which is Doubt, Confusion, Nothingness, Lies, Hidden Things, the actual Void itself, Indifference and Irrelevance.

Witches have a habit of exerting such control over their Aspect that they just break its rules entirely. They can, in essence, decide that works and what doesn’t, and this makes a Witch of Void a very interesting thing. 

In personality, they’d likely be a bit of a connundrum. Void Players tend to be quiet, withdrawn, a little unsure; they seem wholly Unimportant and like to stay that way, and are more than happy to let other people take the stage.

The Witch of Void is not like this. They decide what is and isn’t Irrelevant, what should be Hidden and what should be Seen. They’re vocal and loud; brash and fervent. You WILL look at this thing, but you don’t look at this other thing, no, you won’t even know that it exists. 

They like Obscure things, and probably work to try and keep those things purposefully Obscure, because they like the sense of Mystery it brings. Oh, you’ve never heard of this thing? It’s okay, it is pretty rare. You wouldn’t get it if you tried, but they can totally explain it to you - while leaving out all the main details, of course. 

They take centre stage and expect to be heard. Of course, they then fade away when they want to be Hidden, and that can make them horrendously annoying. They’re too there and too gone, hard to ignore and then outright impossible to find. 

They like to decide which parts of their lives are Hidden and which are in view, and that might not always be what people expect. For instance, they might happily show off that they goddamn adore My Little Pony, but only the really old generations that aren’t as well known anymore, and then Hide away an even bigger love, such as an Obscure anime series or videogame. 

They like their own privacy, but then invade others. There’s no Secrets around the Witch of Void, and that can make them very oblivious and sometimes upsetting. They might Reveal something you didn’t want being Known, or might confront you about something you thought you’d kept closely Hidden against your chest. They can come off as very upfront and rude because of it, but it isn’t intentional; they don’t often mean to hurt, and pointing out that they dislike people knowing their own Secrets is likely enough to get them to snap up shut again. 

They have the ability to decide what can be Hidden and what must face the Light, what should amount to Nothing and what is allowed Importance. They can turn the most Important in the entire game - such as the Narrative Construct - into absolutely Nothing at all. It would become completely Irrelevant, and as such, would never work - or they would simply hide it away so well that even the most determined of Light Players would never know of its existence.

They can erase the concept of Importance entirely, and replace it with an overarching sense of Irrelevancy. See how Important Vriska is to the storyline that she literally makes Jack Noir? The Witch of Void could completely counteract that by making Jack Noir have no actual effect on the Plot - or even by changing the concept of the Plot altogether. 

They’d be able to create Loopholes, Blackouts, missing Plot Pieces, and they’d be able to find them where they already exist. They could Control these things and guide them into something that suitably benefits the Witch - such as by hiding from view a very Important character until it’s completely vital that they appear. They could even use Loopholes to ensure that certain events never come to be, or create them from Nothing just because they damn well said so. 

This thing doesn’t make sense? The Witch of Void probably did that. Even the most basic concept could become completely impossible to understand if the Witch gets their hands on it, and they can spin you in circles around it until you just can’t stand to think on it anymore. They can, of course, also use these things that don’t make sense to their benefit; any part of SBURB lore that’s vague is a plaything for Witch, who can fill up those spaces with anything they so desire.

The Witch gets to decide if the Void should be there or not. They get to take it away and replace it with something else, get to fill it up with whatever they desire - and they can even just remove the Void without putting it anywhere else, or fill it up with things that didn’t already exist. 

For instance, that cupboard is empty? Not anymore! Now it’s filled with berries! Where did the berries come from? Nowhere! They just exist now! 

On a more serious note, though, this means that Witches of Void can fill Voids in the plot with anything they want. If there’s a Plothole that’s completely Irrelevant and has no effect on the Plot as a whole, they can just… take it away. They can get rid of anything relating to the Plothole entirely - such as by erasing the confusion over the Alpha Trolls’ whereabouts by erasing them from the story - or they can fill it in with something so Important it’ll blindside you - such as by revealling that actually the Alpha Trolls were the key to defeating LE all along. 

They can conjure things out of thin air and Hide them away just as quickly, quite literally from nothing - and might even have the ability to Alchemise without using any Grist as a basis. 

Hell, if we go far enough, a Witch of Void can screw up the entire concept of Alchemy altogether. You can’t grab “Nothing” and turn it into “something” - you have to convert that one thing into something else, like a sort of sacrifice - but the Witch of Void quite literally can. They can ignore this very basic law entirely and just make things without having to sacrifice anything in the process. 

They can walk through the Void with ease, and traverse even the most Unknown paths as if they were paved out clear as day, like a map just exists in their mind of anything that’s Hidden. In fact, nothing is truly Hidden from them at all; Lies and Truths are clear as day to them, so long as they actually feel like focusing on them - and they can make sure that some Lies or Truths stay completely Irrelevant if that’s what benefits them best. 

Of course, they can cause huge Blackouts, too - like most Void Players, except with actual purpose. It’d be like a giant ink splot over the Timeline; nobody would be able to see in it, even if the Witch was never there for the event itself. People might even just forget that the event happened at all, as if they suffered from acute amnesia. Their memories would either skip right over it or have a definite hole that they can’t dig into no matter how hard they try. 

If it was a person or thing that they wanted to Blackout then it would remain unseen long after the Witch is gone - as long as they needed it to be Irrelevant and unseen. 

Maybe that would mean that it physically LOOKS like a void - like you’d covered it in the blackest black known to man, and it just looks like a giant hole - and maybe that would mean a Players eyes just can’t comprehend it - that they see it, but they don’t register that it exists. 

When they become Realised, there’s nothing they can’t do. While a lot of their initial powers would be pretty harmless and basic - like just being Really Good at finding hidden things or just Arguing A Lot against what Nothingness and Irrelevancy means - all the things I stated above would come into play pretty much as soon as they Godtier.

They’d become much more responsible. Whereas before they were brash and loud, bursting through like a bulldozer and then sinking back into the shadows as they pleased, the Realised Witch of Void would slowly come to understand that there’s a time and a place for everything. 

They’d become a little more calculating, a little softer. They’d still hold that bright, out-there personality at times, but they’d be a little more somber and quiet. They might be so quiet at times that you even forget they’re in the room, and come off towards the end of the journey as a little shy and reserved. 

In truth, they’re just watching and waiting. Void Players can be patient when they need to be, and the Witch of Void will eventually come to understand that. It won’t be a complete 180, but it will be evident enough that they’ve grown, matured, and realised that there’s just a certain way to act that isn’t totally out there.

Still a bit of a hipster douche, though. Just a little less blunt about it.

Thief of Hope

The Thief of Hope is someone who Steals Hope for their own benefit, which is Positivity, Belief, Acceptance, Naivety/Gullibility, Euphoria, and the idea of a Stubborn Yes.

Thieves tend to genuinely Lack their Aspect. They’re one of the few Classes that really does suffer from an inate void of their Aspect from the get-go, and their Stealing ways often stems from a desperation to fill this void. They also tend to represent what their session has too much of, so they act as a sort of balancing feature for the people around them. 

Thieves of Hope, therefore, tend to suffer a lack of Hope. Deep inside, they are likely terrified and unsure, incapable of Believing in anything - most of all themselves - and suffer from a deep-seated Doubt of anything or anyone around them. They think they’re wrong, that everything is wrong, that there’s this innate wrongness about their very existence - and they desperately try to escape that by stealing the Positivity and Belief from other people.

You can imagine them as a sort of amalgamation of sorts. They snatch up bits and pieces of Belief from other people and make it their own, likely turning it into something entirely new or using it to emphasise their own Beliefs more. They might have a very specific ideology that they focus on, and Steal the core concepts of others to belittle anything that goes against their Belief, simultaneously powering it. 

They Steal the Euphoria people feel in various situations to gain that sense of Wonder for themself, siphoning it into the things they feel like they should enjoy. I guess in a way you can imagine that a Thief of Hope would steal the high someone gets from doing something like mild drugs (such as weed) or adrenaline-fuelled sports and use it to power themselves forward. They may even become a little reliant on it, because the crash that they feel when all of the good feelings are gone would be… catastrophic. 

That said, they would be boundless and filled with Optimism. Nothing could get them down, not even a little bit, and they would be horrifically stubborn. They just wouldn’t listen if something went against their way of thinking, and they’d Steal the Belief of the person they’re talking to in order to ensure that their way of thinking can’t be questioned. It’s their way or the highway, and they expect people to listen. 

They might also be a little… narcassistic. They’re so overly confident in their own powers and abilities and fuelled by Positive thinking and feelings that they might overdo it a bit. After all, nothing ever seems to go wrong when they’re around (because they Steal everything good from their enemies), so clearly that means nothing will EVER go wrong!

The lack they feel also means that they just desperately want to feel loved and validated. They might take this to mean that they have to be the bestest buddy ever with everyone, or it might mean that they want to be elevated to god-like status. They want to be worshiped because that’s the absolute opposite of how they feel when they’re not on their Hope high - and they are incredibly powerful, so they deserve it, anyway. 

Naturally, Stealing Hope means a lot of things. 

They can Steal the Belief from something or something, rendering them useless; a highly cherished and worshipped object would have no actual power, even if it originally did, and mircles surrounding it would cease to exist. A worshipped figure would fall out of favour, and people would begin to Doubt them even though there’s no evidence to suggest that they’re wrong - be that a person of value in a community, a religious figure, or a well-loved scientist. 

In turn, the Thief would take all that Belief and Reality for themselves. Everything they think and Believe in would magically come true, further validating the idea that they’re Right while everyone else is Wrong. They create their own fantasy and build it up with what they Steal, until it becomes Genuine and True. 

This can, of course, be very bad. For instance, if they don’t Believe that Quest Beds work… then nobody will be able to Godtier at all. They’d literally Steal that Reality and make it False - and when someone died on the Quest Bed and didn’t revive on Skaia, they’d just take that as confirmation that they were Right (because they must naturally always be Right). 

In fact, they can probably steal Rightness from people, too. If they are Right, then someone else must be Wrong - which would probably infuriate Light Players who know they’re Right, have evidence that they’re Right, have seen that they’re Right, and then suddenly the Thief shows up and they’re Wrong.

They can Steal the Positivity from people, leaving behind Fear and Anger and Doubt, while making themselves feel absolutely Wonderful. The Thief could literally make themself high on feelings, on good vibes, and go headlong into danger because Nothing Can Get Them Down! Of course, the fact that their enemies are now terrified of them helps - some may even be completely frozen in fear.

This can, of course, be used for good. If their foes start to question and Doubt themselves, their role in life, their actions and abilities, then taking them down gets much easier. If something was dangerous and Real - such as the Black King literally just starting the Reckoning - then the Thief can Steal that to make sure it’s not - thereby, for instance, making it so that the Black King’s unable to use the White King’s scepter. 

To become Realised, the Thief of Hope has to accept that they can’t just blindly Steal things. They have to come down from that high eventually, to let go of their overzealous Confidence. It’ll be hard, and it’ll actively go against everything they Believe in - and, honestly, this is the Thief that will struggle with this transition most - but they must eventually give in. 

Reality is harsh and it sucks, and they’re still allowed to change it, but they have to simmer down a little. Let their allies keep some Hope, let them Believe in things and let go of that chokehold around their own fervent Beliefs, and allow other people to feel Confident. It’s all well and good for the Thief to feel Brave if literally all of their allies have to struggle with Fear as a result. 

On top of that, they have to accept that lack within them. They need to recognise that it isn’t a bad thing, that their fears are unwarranted, that they can get to that point without Stealing absolutely everything they can get their hands on. 

In other words, instead of Stealing the Belief that everything is okay, they have to actually Believe it. They have to recognise that some of their Belief has to come from within, that they have to make it feel Real, without using their powers to MAKE it real. Once they do that, they’ll be much happier as people, much calmer, and much more likely to only Steal what needs to be Stolen. 

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Nicky!

You have been accepted for the role of DORCAS MEADOWES! Your application was amazing! I really enjoyed seeing how well thought out this version of Dorcas was in your mind. I can clearly see where she’ll fit in and can’t wait for her to start blowing shit up! The Order needs someone to rock the boat and you’ve brought that through in your application!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Nicky

AGE: 30+

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: Medium, sporadic; I work retail hours which means that my schedule is not consistent between days. I expect to be able to make several replies each week, however, and am available to check-in or chat often. Tuesdays and Thursdays are the only time I’m really out-of-touch for considerable periods on a regular basis although in general I have more free time in the latter half of the week than I do at the beginning – and of course when Winter Holiday Shopping Season rolls around I will be more absent than usual!

ANYTHING ELSE: For experience, I have played in and adminned several roleplays, 90% of them Harry Potter-based, with a little time doing indie rp as well. I mostly only rp on tumblr (I like the visuals!) but I’ve been around for several years now. I tend to be long-winded but value content over quality, and don’t care about “length matching” on replies. I will also basically always post images with my replies because it’s an integral part of the “acting” experience for me, but I have no objection if my interaction partners prefer to go straight-prose in their posts. No triggers, although I would appreciate it if any posts involving the deaths of cats (or kneazles) could be tagged so I can brace myself or skim over them!

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Dorcas Dembe Meadowes 

(her parents named her Dorcas for grace–it means “gazelle”–and because her father just liked the way it sounded, and Dembe for peace to honor their hopes for the world and her future; while she is hardly clumsy, aside from that there seems to be little of Dorcas’s names in her attitude or personality…especially not of her middle name! So much for the wizarding superstition that a child’s names can be prophetic…)

AGE: 18

GENDER & SEXUALITY: Dorcas is a cis-gender witch who uses she/her pronouns. I haven’t settled 100% on her sexuality (given the time period, I expect she hasn’t either) but I’m leaning heavily toward her being either a lesbian or a bisexual. I plan to start the game with her being somewhat aware of her preferences, but not having sorted it all out yet. While romance is not a priority in terms of plots I’m seeking, I am definitely interested in Dorcas exploring and discovering more about herself and her identity throughout the game. I think she’s definitely someone who would throw herself into the idea of being Out (and damn the consequences – as usual) which may be especially interesting if it serves as a stumbling block for friends or fellow Order members (or potential/current romance partners) who come from a more conservative (muggle?) background and aren’t keen on her flaunting that.

BLOOD STATUS: half-blood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Hufflepuff (certainly never a prefect, although she did fly Reserve on the Quidditch team as a Beater for two years, playing in a total of one match)

ANY CHANGES: None!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY: 

“Brash enough to be a Gryffindor,” is something people say about Dorcas a lot – but only because they’re missing the point of Hufflepuff House, Dorcas insists. Hufflepuffs aren’t dull, mild stick-in-the-muds any more than any other House; they just have that reputation because they have more follow-through. Gryffindors are useless after the initial rush of bravada and adrenaline has worn-off; Ravenclaws are too easily distracted overall; and Slytherins are too quick to jump for the new advantage to see things through. Hufflepuffs, though, Hufflepuffs know how to focus. And while Dorcas might be quick to jump into a fray, she is no quitter. She’ll never admit a cause is lost (even when she should), never give up on anyone or anything��unless they betray her. Dorcas is an open-hearted, amiable, outgoing soul who is quick to offer friendship to others, but she is unforgiving and unshakable in the grudges she holds against those who let her down. Small things she can forgive, of course – she’s no monster and no one is perfect! But true, genuine betrayal? Of person or principle? That, she will not tolerate.

Dorcas herself is not always easy to tolerate either. Stubborn and blunt, she speaks her mind (even when perhaps she ought to keep it to herself) and her skill in tact and tempering is stunted from disuse. She redeems herself somewhat with those who can bear-up under her brusque honesty by being a loyal and helpful friend, but even that is sometimes negated by her devotion to whatever plan or purpose currently dictates her motivation. It’s not that she’s unkind – just something of a bulldozer. When Dorcas Meadowes decides to do something, she sees it through and damn the consequences – whether that be the numerous detentions she served in school, the bruised feelings of friends and foes alike, or the bridges she has (mostly metaphorically) burned behind her, she will not balk or hesitate even if it kills her (and everyone around her). And with the higher stakes at which the Order of the Phoenix operates, it just well might.  

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY: 

The only child of Olive Blott and Thewton Meadowes, Dorcas grew-up in a comfortable, secure, sedate, middle-class magical home. Her parents doted without spoiling her and while she never wanted for anything much, she wasn’t the kind of child who was showered with expensive brooms or designer robes – which was just as well, as Dorcas wouldn’t have cared much for those sorts of over-priced trinkets anyway. Like Dorcas, her parents were solid, hard-working Hufflepuffs (they had met in school; although they hadn’t been in the same year to share classes, they shared plenty of time in the common room and cheering for their friends together on the Quidditch pitch) but unlike them, her work-ethic was rather flexible about where it was applied. Maybe that was an innate aspect of Dorcas’s personality, or something she learned from her non-Hufflepuff friends at school…or maybe, something she picked up from her grandmother. Zawedde Meadowes was a firebrand, an iconoclast, and a fighter. She taught her granddaughter not only how to fight, but when to fight. (Dorcas may have learned that lesson a little too well, with none of the accompanying “and when not to fight” counterpart.) It was Grandma Zawe who broke the erstwhile “purity” of the old Meadowes family line when she married into it – but after seven years as a muggle-born student in Slytherin, some disapproving family glares (and hexes) weren’t enough to make her break a sweat. Despite her more conservative son and daughter-in-law’s efforts to temper Zawe’s outspoken attitude and boundless confidence, Dorcas learned a lot from the grandmother who often served as babysitter while mum and dad were working in the bookshop. Olive and Thewton would have much rather their little girl were a little bit meeker and milder. More willing to go with the flow, like they do; to not cause a fuss. But “fuss” is what Dorcas excels at. The older she got, the more she has come to look on her parents with bemused and at times almost condescending affection. How could they be so content with a world that was so unfair? Keeping their heads down might have kept the shop free of controversy, sure, and that kept them profitable and free of the sort of attempted censorship that louder opinions often garnered, but it didn’t do anything to change things. While Zawe doesn’t know the full extent of Dorcas’s activities with the Order of the Phoenix – nor, indeed, does she know for sure exactly what the Order is nor that Dorcas is a member of an illegal vigilante group – she knows that her granddaughter is up to something dangerous and illicit, something that mirrors her own not-so-long-ago-as-all-that battles against Grindewald. Having personal experience with war makes Zawe aware of just how much danger her granddaughter may be in, but it also makes her proud. When she entertained little Dorcas with stories of her wartime activities, she never thought she might be preparing the girl for her own battles – but if that is where the world is now, so be it. Zawe continues to encourage Dorcas just as she always has, whether that be with playing alibi for mum and dad or by offering words of advice and encouragement after a particularly difficult battle or frustrating conversation with the Order’s more stick-in-the-mud members. Dorcas may have learned the value of hard-work from her parents, but she learned the importance of standing her ground from her gran. With those two elements combined, she’s proven herself a true force to be reckoned with – at least when she’s doing something she thinks matters. (Otherwise…well, “lackluster” would be a generous way to describe her effort.)

OCCUPATION:

Dorcas works as a part-time assistant at the family business, Flourish & Blotts, the main bookseller in Diagon Alley. Her parents would be a lot happier about the fact that she’s showing an interest in the family business if she would actually show an interest – but half the time she cuts out of her shifts early, or sprints in late, or calls-off altogether. If she weren’t family, she’d have long ago been fired, but how do you fire the woman who’s going to inherit the place one day? Scolding her doesn’t seem to help; she either shrugs it off or stomps off, claiming she has more important things to do. What can she be up to that’s keeping her so preoccupied?

ROLE WITHIN ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

As one of the newest – and also one of the most openly passionate – members of the Order, Dorcas ought to be sitting back and following the lead of her elders and proving where she can be most useful. Instead, she’s causing something of a stir with her big mouth, blunt criticism, and insistence on doing things differently. Dorcas wants the Order to be more proactive, even if that means being more violent. She’s not afraid of collateral damage; this is a war, after all! People get hurt in war, and letting things drag-out because you don’t have the conviction to do what needs to be done is only going to get more people hurt in the long run. So far, she hasn’t swayed anyone who matters to her side – not Kingsely, not Moody, not [Alice] Longbottom, and certainly not Dumbledore. But she is riling-up the younger members, which can be both good and bad: it’s hard to make proper plans when a quarter of the room won’t stop shouting, but it’s also hard to sink into morose despair when there’s a wild-haired girl barely out of her Hogwarts robes shouting in your ear about “taking the fight to Voldemort directly, what are we waiting for?” She has become something of a pivot point within the group – not yet carrying enough weight to tip the balance of power or force any major confrontation or schism, but enough to make people think. Enough to make people argue. Enough to stir things up – which is exactly what she wants. Dorcas has no time for complacency; that’s her parents’ stock in trade, not hers. She is so adamant about not waiting around in fact that she has branched-out on her own private “missions” outside Order edict, support, or sanction – which isn’t quite crossing the line, because it’s not as though they’re an army with orders to follow. They’re a group of desperate vigilantes all pitching-in together to stop a great evil…but Dorcas is pitching a little harder than what some people are comfortable being associated with. So far Dumbledore hasn’t said much about Dorcas and her methods one way or the other – but with how preoccupied he’s been with his own secretive efforts, one has to wonder if he’s had time to notice? Worse (or better, depending on your point of view), she’s convinced other junior members to go along with her on her mad, reckless crusades – acts that the Daily Prophet more often than not labels terrorism. They’re too skittish and scared to understand the difference between what she does and what the Death Eaters do, that’s all – them, and all the complacent fools sitting huddled in their houses, waiting for someone else to come and save them. Dorcas thinks that the Order has been coddling these people too much, letting too many wix get away with sitting on the sidelines by not forcing them to take sides – by letting them bury their heads in the sands and pretend that if they ignore the strife all around them, it will go away. She knows better, and she thinks she can force those layabouts to pick up wands and pick a side if she just rubs their noses in it a bit more. If she brings the war to them, they won’t be able to sit back and marinate in their timid apathy; they’ll have to join the fight, because when she’s through there won’t be any sidelines left in which to hide. Voldemort won’t stand a chance then, not once the rest of the magical community finally gets off their arses and admits that some wars need fought. She has no time to wait for the Ministry, they’re a lost cause – and she’s running out of time (or maybe just patience) to wait for the Order either. Dorcas is going to save the world – and if she has to burn down half of it in the process, so be it.

SURVIVAL: Dorcas’s safety net is her family; it always has been. They may not be enough to protect her from herself this time, though – but she hasn’t been involved in the war for long. She’s still living at home but spends more than a few nights each month crashing at the Potter estate, her room at her grandma’s flat, or with someone else in the Order after a mission or a meeting that runs late – or while she’s waiting for her wounds to heal enough to be able to go home without causing too much outcry. Her parents just think she’s “staying with friends,” as youngsters do – and that’s not technically a lie. Even the people in the Order with whom she doesn’t get along are companions in arms, and that’s almost the same thing as friends surely. Whether she’ll be able to maintain her parents’ ignorance for much longer may be a moot point; someone like Dorcas burns so brightly she may well burn out before there’s time for suspicions to raise.

RELATIONSHIPS: 

NOTE: this is all very much first impressions based on bios etc and subject to change when characters are actually claimed and backgrounds plotted; ergo if you see anything in here about your character that doesn’t feel like it “fits” or you have a better idea for or just aren’t in the mood etc – splendid! Any and all of this can be changed, and is just a basis for what I’m going to springboard off to start with until other options can be discussed or developed! In general, Dorcas’s relationships with the rest of the Order are…okay. She’s new, so some of them don’t trust her yet; she’s reckless, so some of them never will. On the other hand, she’s enthusiastic in her commitment, and that’s something of a breath of fresh air amidst a war that’s starting to seem to some to be unwinnable. Definitely she’s a divisive figure – you can’t easily ignore or turn a blind-eye to Dorcas Meadowes, she’s too loud. Too demanding. Too sure that she’s got the right idea to win this war. That doesn’t mean everyone (or even a majority) agree with her methods, and that can make her easy to dislike – or resent. If she’s so willing to accept collateral damage, then how could the Order continue to hold its head up in moral superiority to their opponents? But what if she is right, and only more extreme methods will win the day? Doesn’t that mean the rest of the Order are failures…or cowards? For some people in the Order, it’s easy to say that Dorcas is wrong (or right), requiring only a simple gut-check to know. For others, the question she forces is much more uncomfortable to confront. For many, that makes Dorcas an uncomfortable person to be around – or someone who causes their temper to snap faster than even she maybe deserves, lashing-out at her rather than facing their uncertainty about themselves. She’s a catalyst, and those are not always well-liked by the people thus catalyzed. As for Dorcas’s feeling about some fellow Order members in specific… James Potter. Everything she knew about James before she joined the Order was that he was a bold, reckless, slightly-wild wizard who never passed-up the opportunity for a prank or a laugh or a spot of danger. He was supposed to be some kind of “golden boy” idol for fun-loving troublemakers. So she expected something…more. What she found was someone far too meek, far too reliable, far too tame. What happened? Was his reputation always a bunch of hot air, or has he just lost the will to fight? Regardless, Dorcas is disappointed – but maybe he’s salvageable. Sometimes she thinks she can see a spark in his eye when she’s outlining a scheme; sometimes she thinks if she can push his temper far enough over the edge maybe he’ll snap out of this funk and get back to the person he should be. Maybe he’ll stop letting Moody and Kingsley and Lily Evans hold him back and he’ll actually get off his butt and do something! Caradoc Dearborn. The man’s a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, sure, but he’s a reliable stick-in-the-mud. (If they had more Hufflepuffs in the Order, they wouldn’t all be sitting on their hands like this!) And no coward either – just too cautious for Dorcas’s tastes. She thinks she can fix that, though. He just needs more of her influence and less of Moody’s and Shacklebolt’s sense of caution. Needs to push himself out of their shadow and back into the proper fight. Dorcas is convinced that’s where he wants to be, too – she just needs to show him how to get there. Shouldn’t be too hard. (If some Death Eater had murdered her mother…!) And once he does, he won’t suffer from the sort of second thoughts and backtracking that plague so many of their fellows and keep the Order locked in this endless cycle of act-regret-act-retreat; Hufflepuffs get things done. She won’t deny that it’s nice to have a “familiar” face in the Order too – even if he’s too old to have actually shared time at Hogwarts with Dorcas, they both come from the cozy Hufflepuff cellars and the dedicated Hufflepuff work ethic and that’s pleasantly familiar; just talking to Caradoc for a little can be a balm to her otherwise jangling nerves or anxious energy. Emma Vanity. If Dorcas has a best friend in the Order, it’s got to be Emma. Which is odd, maybe, because Emma Vanity is not the sort of person one would expect someone like Dorcas to be friends with (or the other way around!) but here they are! They came into the Order together, and so far Emma’s seemed happy to stick at her side through thick-and-thin (and through older, more cautious Order members lecturing them both into behaving more – as if anyone ought to “behave” during a war!) and Dorcas is both glad and grateful. She acts like she doesn’t care if no one likes her – but it’s nice having a friend who always does. Emma’s refined and delicate high-society manners don’t even get on Dorcas’s nerves the way such things do with most people…maybe because with Emma they seem natural rather than forced, or maybe it’s because Emma is always so quick to follow Dorcas’s lead without acting like she’s lowering herself. Maybe it’s just because Emma’s pretty manners remind Dorcas of her late great-aunt – the one “old school” Meadowes who actually got along with Dorcas’s muggle-born grandmother, and who was always the nicest part of family gatherings for Dorcas. Emma has more gumption than people give her credit for, too – even if she does have to pushed into it, most of the time. Good thing Dorcas doesn’t mind doing a little bit of pushing. Benjy Fenwick. Him losing his Quidditch career like that was a waste – Dorcas saw him on the pitch enough in school to know that – but the sport’s loss was the Order’s (and her) gain, so she can’t be too sad about it (even though she tries to make sure she acts like she is, if the subject ever comes up; her focus might be a little narrow but she’s not mean!). She feels a little protective – no, a little proprietary toward him, too. After all, she was the one who knew he’d be a great fit for the Order; she was the one who knew he’d be of great use to the Order. (It’s not all running into battle and sprinting away from arrest; there are so many other skills that matter just as much!) The one who knew he was looking for somewhere to belong and was clever enough to offer that. That means he’s “on her side” – regardless of his thoughts on the matter, maybe! It’s not like she’s taking advantage of him, either; she’s just doing what’s best. For everyone. Including Benjy! He’s happier now than he was when he was just sitting around moping, right? So well done, Dorcas! And if that means she has access to a semi-professional Healer who won’t ask questions or go tattling to Moody or Kingsley or Dumbledore if she and a few mates come in all banged-up right after someone’s set-off an explosion in Knockturn Alley or started a fire at some pure-blood estate…well, that’s just a nice side benefit, really. Sirius Black. Dorcas doesn’t trust him. He can be a lot of fun, and can even be a lot of use – but if there’s a candidate for “most likely traitor” it’s Sirius Orion Black. Something about him just rubs Dorcas the wrong way (maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t like the parts of him she does like; maybe it’s just knowing how his relatives treated her relatives once upon a time – but Dorcas doesn’t believe in inherited guilt any more than she believes in inherited purity so it can’t be that!) so even though he’s one of the few in the Order who really seems to get what she’s pushing for, who really seems to be on board…there’s a little nugget of suspicion. He just seems to be trying too hard all the time – as though his rebellion against his family were pure performance. The fact that he “broke it off” with the Blacks too early to be able to give the Order any real information about his family’s (very very likely) support of Voldemort is awfully convenient. The fact that his “disreputable best friends” are two half-bloods and a pure-blood rather than, say, any muggle-borns or anything really objectionable is awfully convenient too. Almost like the sort of friends someone who believed in blood-purity but wanted to pretend they didn’t would acquire. (He seems to respect James – the pure-blood – the most, too. How convenient.) He even inherited a nice convenient little chunk of money from some uncle, didn’t he? Almost like his family wanted to make sure that he had enough to live on while he was “cut off” from their fortunes… Oh yes, there are a lot of things about Sirius Black’s story that are just a little bit too convenient for Dorcas to easily swallow. A lot of things that would make him the perfect spy for the people who share his surname…and the person a lot of them are almost certainly working for. The fact that there’s never been any proof just shows that Sirius is more subtle than he lets on, that’s all – unless he isn’t the spy. (But if not, who is?) Dorcas isn’t sure – and she isn’t one to turn down a gift horse just because she thinks it might bite her fingers off. As long as Sirius wants to help her plot some mayhem, she’ll take that help and even enjoy herself along the way – and she certainly isn’t going to say anything to undercut the support he sometimes offers her when a big argument gets going about how proactive (or not) the Order should be. But she’s going to keep an eye on him, anyway…someone should.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: 

I have no ships in mind for Dorcas. Speaking generally, I think she is likely to be the kind of person who tumbles passionately into and out of love, and for the most part the “cause” comes first and “happily ever after” is for quitters – or at least, that’s the outlook on which she will insist both to herself and to others; her heart may disagree however, and Dorcas is not one to be ruled by common sense or cold logic, which could potentially place her in interesting circumstances. For individual characters, I’m keen to bounce Dorcas off of both those who agree and disagree with her – and regardless of whether they end up sporting romantic inclinations toward one another or not, I’m particularly interested to explore her relationship with Emma Vanity. Also her relationship with James Potter, but I’m definitely not seeing any potential for romance there! XD

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE? 

One might think that having a Muggle-born grandmother she so adores and looks up to would leave Dorcas free of any traces of blood-prejudice – but one would be wrong, because Dorcas did still grow-up in the magical world and it is far, far too easy to internalize the prevailing attitudes of one’s society even when one ought to know better. Oh, she’s no blood-supremacist – but has she ever looked at a talented Muggle-born with shock at their skills because she expected less of someone with Muggle parents? Of course she has. Part of that comes from her own grandmother’s stories, even: knowing how hard Zawe had to work to keep up with housemates who knew so much more than she did about everything when she started at Hogwarts, Dorcas knows that Muggle-borns are starting-out a little behind the rest of the class…and when you “know” that and grow-up surrounded by a society that’s all-too-quick to assume anyone of Muggle origins is “less than” everybody else? It’s all-too-easy to fall into the same lower expectations…even when you tell yourself it’s just “more impressive” coming from someone like that. The fact that Dorcas doesn’t believe herself to have any sort of anti-Muggle-born prejudice really only makes it worse, because if confronted about it she’d only get defensive and argue the point – she isn’t, she can’t be. Don’t be silly. She’d never! She also shares most of the same other base prejudices common to magical society: werewolves are unclean and dangerous, giants are stupid and violent, goblins are greedy and unstrustworthy… All the “classic” prejudices that become so ingrained in society that it can be hard to even notice them until you know they’re there. Being a half-blood with such close Muggle-roots means thar Dorcas herself falls on the middling-low end of the privilege/prejudice ladder, which gives her just enough social stigma that she can sit back and blithely convince herself that she isn’t prejudiced while still giving her enough of a privileged position to make her life comfortable. No, she’s not some pure-blooded toff with connections stretching back halfway to Merlin who can wink-and-nod their way out of an altercation with the law…but she does fall well within the borders of Ordinary Citizen, nothing too fishy or objectionable about her to make somebody look twice or doubt her word. Plus she’s got the convenience of a recognizable and respected family to fall back on when she trouble comes calling – particularly in the form of the M.L.E.P., who are usually inclined to cut her some extra slack. (“Her parents run Flourish & Blotts, after all, my kids got their schoolbooks there! Go ahead and let the lass off with a warning there John, she’s just blowing-off steam, you know how kids are! No harm done…”) Her time with the Order is just enough for Dorcas to begin noticing this – which is both uncomfortable for her to have to own-up to in her own mind, and convenient for a woman with an agenda like hers. Knowing she can get away with a little bit more than she ought to is going to come very much in handy for dear Dorcas…even if the concept sticks in her craw.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? 

I am honestly just so excited to get to explore the imperfections and prejudices within the Order; too often fandom makes 99% of the characters in HP so black-and-white in terms of good-vs-evil when most of them aren’t. Sure, there are extreme end-of-the-spectrum characters like Voldemort and Bella and Umbridge who are pretty much Pure Evil (and the occasional opposite end like the hardly-flawless-but-wholly-good-hearted Luna Lovegood) but for the most part, the people in this story are just people. (All that “both light and dark inside us” blah blah blah stuff.) But when you only focus on the Good Guys vs Bad Guys – particularly when the cause the bad guys are fighting for is so bad – it’s easy to gloss-over the flaws in the people fighting against them; easy to forget that they aren’t always great too. Easy to forget that just because you’re fighting against a group of people trying to enshrine prejudice as near-holy writ in their society doesn’t mean that you’re automatically free of prejudice yourself. (Maybe some of the people in the Order are there because they oppose blood-supremacy, but does that mean they like werewolves? Doubt it! Or what about the ones who come from Muggle roots who thus have Muggle prejudices that the wizarding world has little of – racism, for starters! What about queerness? Is it more tolerated in a magical society where people can change genders as easily as they transfigure themselves into rabbits and armchairs, and where marriage has always been about preserving the family line more than romance so who cares what the gender of your “bit on the side” is as long as you produce a proper heir? Etc. What about religion? I doubt too many wix go in for Muggle religions, when so many of those belief systems take the tactic of “thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!” so how does that conflict play-out between those who grew-up with one foot in the magical world and one in the Muggle? So many options for turmoil!) Just because someone is paying enough attention to know that Voldemort is evil doesn’t even mean that they don’t share some of the same ideals being spouted by the Death Eaters – maybe unconsciously, maybe to a lesser degree, etc…but still there, in their head. Internalized. Needing to be unpacked, confronted – but fandom does so little of that. Good Guys are Good, End of Story. The Order were all friends who got along, la la la! Nope. Don’t think so. The Order was made up of a bunch of scared, desperate, angry, beleaguered people (several of them outcasts in their own way) fighting life-and-death battles against an enemy they couldn’t always even find, opposing their own government in many ways in order to “do the right thing” – fighting a war that half the populace would rather just went away. Even if they had all started as buddies, that would have been enough strain to crumble half their friendships by the end – and conversely, to forge people who otherwise have nothing in common into lifelong mates. The interpersonal relationships and inevitable clashes and arguments and confrontations – those are going to be awesome. I’m so excited.

ROULETTE IDEAS (OPTIONAL): 

Firstly let me just say that I am happy to offer Dorcas up for any plotting purposes needed – whether that be her little group doing something destructive or illegal, a line that shouldn’t have been crossed, an injury or death that can be blamed on her directly or indirectly, kidnapping (with temporary hostage-plotting of Dorcas; I can sit out a bit no worries!) and rescue mission, whatever! Even if it’s not a plot drop about her, feel free to make use of Dorcas in any sort of inciting incident required; I’m not possessive! As for specific ideas… -Epidemic: because disease doesn’t seem to be something the magical community has to really deal with much (got a cold? Take a Pepper-Up Potion and it’ll go away in an hour!), not the way Muggles do, so I think it would be interesting to have a sudden outbreak of something (something Muggle or something magical?) run rampant through Wizarding England, particularly right now mid-war. (Perhaps rumors will fly that it’s deliberate – but from which side? And engaging in biological warfare in magical war, really??? Are we Muggle barbarians now??) Something strange and uncommon for them to deal with…something that will drive people in to St. Mungo’s in larger-than-usual droves and leave the potioneers and herbologists working overtime and meanwhile there’s a bloody war on we’re busy enough already do you mind? -Someone Gets Bit: either there’s a second werewolf in the Order now (has Remus been exposed yet? Guess it’s his responsibility to play Lycanthropic Yoda – or if he’s still closeted, time for a Guilt Waterfall deciding whether or not to out himself and help out! uh-oh!) or it’s a Bill Weasley/Lavender Brown situation where the offending werewolf wasn’t transformed but oh no lycanthropic taint now what? and general panicking with a heavy side-helping of bigotry whoops! Maybe the Death Eaters get wind of the fact that the Order has a Pet Werewolf, so they sic their own (not so) tame puppy on them with an ambush by Fenrir Greyback and his buddies…or they could decide to fuck with the Order by using Transfiguration to fake a werewolf pack attack, and everyone panics over the bites that are actually harmless but too late to take back anything they said or did when they figure it out whoops – basically just the Death Eaters pulling a nasty prank (because the Marauders aren’t the only immature asshole wix out there lol) but also has the potential “side benefit” of the Order risking exposure by going to St. Mungo’s to get treatment etc….idk this one sounded better in my head before I started detailing it, but I’m sharing it anyway in case it triggers a better idea with someone else! XD -Fake Defection: probably making use of a temporary secondary character, or as a potential idea for someone who wants to join the game only for a few weeks (due to scheduling issues or attention span or whatever) and then write their character out: a Death Eater makes contact with someone in the Order and wants to defect! Everyone is equal parts excited/suspicious! They are brought-in for debriefing and discussion! Things seem to be on the up-and-up…but they aren’t, it’s all a ploy by Voldemort and not a real defection at all but an attempt to worm a spy into the Order or at least sow distrust oh no! They make leading comments and sly little observations that has the Order distrusting each other as much as the supposed defector (who is the spy within the Order???) and eventually blows their cover either with a fight or by ratting-out some of their plans to the Death Eaters leading to an ambush etc etc…but in the meantime? At least one or two Order members thought they’d made a friend (and maybe they really had! but the Death Eater’s loyalty trumps their affection!) and that hurts. (Alt: if the player ends up falling in love with the character and wants to keep them, throw in a twist where the DE in question initially came in as a double-agent for Voldemort but then ends up falling for their new friends and even questioning their own prejudices as a result of direct exposure to the people they used to think weren’t people and now they have to work-out how to really switch sides without burning their bridges with the people who thought they’d already switched sides, whoops!) -Burning the Books: trouble at Flourish & Blotts! Maybe something nasty follows Dorcas home one day; maybe someone in the Death Eaters just gets offended at some of the product being stocked and Dorcas’s parents ignored the threatening letters and hints (because who would actually do any of those things? They’re just selling books! This is a civilized society!) so the Death Eaters decided to make a bigger gesture. Maybe it wasn’t even the Death Eaters themselves, but someone who was inspired by the current social strife and decided to act on their own agenda of hate for from arson-style censorship. How unsettled would Dorcas be to discover her safe-haven was a target now? Would it hit home hard enough to make her question her own policy of “collateral damage is inevitable, stop fussing!” that she’s been pushing? Would it inspire her dial-back her more extreme efforts – or only make her embrace them harder, because if even home isn’t safe anymore than all bets are off! Maybe it’s even all out of her hands by then; maybe it would be a wake-up-call to respect the rules of engagement more but it’s too late, her agenda has a life of its own and she can’t stop it now…so better run and keep up before you get run over? Or plant your feet and try to make a stand, even if you’re standing against what you used to advocate?

ANYTHING ELSE? nothing!

[askthecivilian]

Splint Ends

(or Laptop’s official story submission this semester and thinly veiled Omega/Civilian fanfiction)

Christa hadn't realized she liked girls until she met Alex.

Perhaps “met” is too simple of a word.

Christa hadn’t realized she like girls until, on an early morning in Brooklyn, she bulldozed straight through an unsuspecting woman, mid-stride, after not looking where she was going and knocked them both flat on the slightly damp concrete.

She had apologized profusely, helping the other woman to her feet. A quick smile, then off she ran, ignoring the fluttering feeling in her chest. Couldn’t be late. She had barely gotten this secretary job as is.

The next day she promptly almost did it again, but the blonde woman quickly side-stepped and winked, humor lighting up her countenance. Christa just about died of embarrassment but ran on, the heat in her cheeks mixing with the pink flush the chill air whipped up. How the other woman was wearing shorts and a t-shirt in the autumn chill, she had no idea.

It took her a month of running past her on the same route to work up the courage to talk to her. “Alex,” she learned.

It took another month of casual talk and quick meet-ups on the street to agree to meet more often.

Three months later, Christa realized she was completely and totally in love.

The moment her boss realized, she was quickly and quietly fired from her job.

Christa hadn’t realized that her existence was a dirty thing that needed to be kept secret until she met Alex.

----

Love had always been a strange but familiar concept to Alex.

She loved to run. She loved to live. She loved fresh snow and warm drinks and good cuts of meat.

But she didn’t usually apply love to a person. She wasn’t even sure if she loved herself.

She did like herself. She was scruffy and that was that.

She was sure that her love could be given to anyone if she liked them enough too.

She also knew people thought that was wrong.

Alex had learned from a very young age, in a very small family, in a very small town, in the middle of New Mexico that being a woman, liking women, loving women, and being scruffy were all considered bad things.

Alex decided from a very young age that people were the worst.

Not Christa, though.

---

Christa was good in a way most people never were, Alex thought. She was the type of person that learned your favorite food just to take you to lunch. She’d run odd errands for people with only their gratitude as payment and give what money she made as a secretary at the local publishing house to those who had even less.

Alex thought she was a Woman, with a capital W. Tall and willowy, blue eyes and a shy grin and short black curls that she pinned back behind her ears.

Alex thought she was beautiful and everything she wasn’t.

Christa still had her parents and still had her choice. A choice that Alex’s parents had made for her.

That was fine, though. She would wait for Christa to make her choice.

So when Christa came home one day with a broken look and told her- “I lost my job,” Alex felt horribly furious and horribly guilty and horribly selfish.

---

Alex was bad in a way people never embraced, Christa thought.

She took glee in breaking norms and rules and expectations, but never in a harmful way.

She was the type of person who shoplifted bread and water bottles to take to a friend she’d made living on a street corner. She fed crumbs to pigeons and crows, pet every stray dog or cat she could find and constantly went barefoot in establishments, all with the same rascally grin.

She was unkempt and kept her hair in long golden tangles that Christa gently chided her over. She hated the constraints of “women’s clothing” and had shunned bras and dresses alike altogether. She embraced the new age with open arms and eagerly took to New York and the chaos it enveloped and the change it promised like a mutt to a muddy puddle.

She was so comfortable in being herself that Christa envied her. She was a wild force of nature.

And Christa didn’t know how she had gotten so lucky to have her.

---

There were worse places to live than New York.

Sure, the weather was usually awful and traffic was hellish and the concrete jungle was generally  underwhelming to fault. But Christa knew the streets of Brooklyn like the back of her hand, and the rough calluses and contours of Alex’s hand as well as her well-trod paths of the streets.

Snow was heavy this year and their walk back to their apartment from a rare breakfast out was cold and slushy, both women bundled up, Christa significantly more so than Alex.

“I don’t get it,” Christa complained, blowing on her fingers. “You were born in New Mexico. How are you not cold?!”

Alex grinned up at her, breath misting around her face, and stole one of her mitten-ed hands, letting the warmth seep back into the cloth and chilled flesh as she held it.

“Warm blooded, I guess.”

Few people were out, most of them sensible and avoiding tramping about in the middle of December. The paused on a street corner, a newspaper stand close by, making Christa’s face pinch a bit in a bad memory before smoothing the bitterness away.

“Did you hear about the APA ruling?”

Another pair was out, two young men leaning around the newspaper stand, shuffling feet and making small talk to keep warm. Christa absentmindedly listened in as she scanned over the days headlines.

“The one about homos? Yeah. What a load of shit, huh? Faggots will be breeding like crazy now.” The taller one laughed, making a crude hand gesture through his neat leather gloves. “Not a mental illness, my ass.”

Christa’s heart stuttered. She stared at the blurred black and white paper in front of her, familiar pain bleeding up her throat. Alex’s hand froze in her grip as she went still as well, tense energy running down her arm.

“It ain’t natural,” the other agreed, nodding. The tips of his blonde hair curled over his coat collar. “They gonna ask us to fuck dogs next?”

Their dual laughter was raucous and chilling in their genuine amusement.

Alex moved just as the original speaker began his next story, of the “she-male” he’d “shown the light to” behind the bar on 5th. She pulled Christa onwards with quick, seething strides, away from ignorance and hatred that she couldn’t truly protect her from, no matter how hard she tried.

Christa had cried on the day the ruling came out, in their local gay bar, filled to the brim with exuberant cheer and good friends as they celebrated the small victory. Now, she felt like crying for an entirely different reason.

She felt small and afraid.

Christa didn’t hold Alex’s hand the rest of the way home.

---

“Have you ever thought about putting a little more effort into how you look? Lean your head forwards.”

Alex hummed noncommittally as she complied. “What, beyond this haircut? Nah, not really. How short is it going?”

Christa chewed her lip thoughtfully, winding a thick golden lock through her fingers before gently snipping the dry and harsh ends.

“I was thinking to about here,” she said to Alex’s reflection, marking a spot on her mostly-bare collarbone with a light tap. The sun highlighted the movement of her fingers, streaming through the minuscule glass window. Early morning birds could be heard, including the old demanding crow that lived on the roof next to theirs and had learned to tolerate them because of the snacks they plied his favor with. “Long enough to pull back but it shouldn’t get in the way too much. And maybe you should.”

Alex snorted and twitched at the feeling of the comb running through some unchecked tangles.

“I’m serious! I’m not talking about getting dolled up on a regular basis. That’s not you, and I’d never try to change that.” Christa brushed a few fallen clumps of hair off of the towel and let them fall to the floor to be swept up later. Alex really had a thick head of hair that practically overtook her small frame when allowed to roam free and wild as per her usual style.

“But-” she hesitated, lowering the scissors momentarily and resting her hand on Alex’s head. “I know that sometimes it's hard to be yourself.” She ran her fingers through her own thick black curls and met Alex’s eyes in the spotty reflection of the old mirror they shared in their apartment. “Especially when the world doesn’t want us to be ourselves. And sometimes… well it makes me feel better to change to person in the mirror when it feels like I can’t change anything else.”

Alex sighed and caught Christa’s hand as she raised the scissors again to return to her work. “I’m not going anywhere, Bambi.”

“I know! I just- I don’t want to lose you.”

“Hey,” Alex twisted in the chair, reaching up to gently embrace Christa’s face, frowning when she bit her lip and glanced away.  Alex’s voice was low and almost feral as she said her piece.

“The world can go fuck themselves. I love you. And you know me,” she huffed wryly for a moment. “ I don’t say that lightly.”

Christa nodded silently, gently turning Alex’s head back to the front so she could tug some more snarls out of her hair, the roughness of the strokes betraying her tumultuous feelings on the conversation.

“Do you ever regret it?” she asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper, the broad tones of her home city mingling with the stillness of outside. Brooklyn and New Mexico were an odd mix, but Alex thought they were fitting.

She and Christa were like that. The hustle and bustle and the vast spaces of nothingness, intertwined. City and wilderness. Christa, on one of the very few times she had let Alex get her drunk, had compared the two of them in that way.

“You’re like my wolf,” she had giggled, barely remembering to speak English through the cheap vodka Alex had stolen from a friend of hers. “My pretty blonde wolf, hunting the poor little deer. You caught me so… so fast!”

“Does that make you a literal Bambi Lesbian?” Alex had cackled in return. And Christa had laughed, tossing her head back, the soft pale skin of her neck and shoulders exposed and gleaming in the dim fluorescent lighting of their apartment.

It had not been the first, or the last time Alex had kissed her, but it perhaps was one of the more memorable.

“It’s 1973, Alex. We’re living in the modern day and-” here Christa’s voice cracked, a hairline fracture in her steady speech “-and I’m terrified. I’m afraid of what could happen- to me, to you, to anyone else we know. Jane got in a fight last week on the way home because someone jumped Ludwig on his way home. And you heard about the murders further down south.”

Her hands slowly gripped through the hair on Alex’s scalp, just shy of painful.

“Why is it wrong to be us?”

Alex hesitated, taking care to gently form her words before releasing them.

“Well, what do you believe?”

Christa’s fingers stilled.

“What?”

“What do you believe?” Alex asked again, trying to keep the steel out of her tone. She hated the world sometimes, hated that religion was so often used to justify hatred over differences. Hated that being different because of who and how you loved was something they saw people being killed over. “You’re Jewish. What does your faith give you about homosexuality?”

The silence was palpable, filtered only by the occasional rough caw out the window.

“We believe that we all deserve love,” Christa whispered. “And that we are not responsible for that in which we had no choice. Everyone deserves that much.”

Faith is difficult. You are not always what you believe. But, maybe sometimes you can believe in who you are.

Alex turned in her seat, ignoring the wet sheen in Christa’s eyes as she wrapped her arms around her, trying to put all the emotions that she didn't know how to word into that simple touch.

“I guess it’s easier for me,” Alex admitted into the shoulder of Christa’s shirt. “I only see the world as plainly as it appears.” She pulled back momentarily and gestured at the sunlight making dappled patterns on the faded tile. “I see the sun and the sky, the trees and the animals, and I see us in them. And if they exist, why can’t we? How could loving you-” she gripped her girlfriend tighter- “be wrong?”

Christa’s head was bowed, dark curls brushing Alex’s nose as her breathing hitched quietly with all the emotions she was swallowing.

“I… don’t understand your God,” Alex admitted rather awkwardly. She shook her head, mussing both her hair and her thoughts. “ But what about Jeremy? Or V? Jessica? We’ve gone to parties with them. I’ve had way too many drinks with Illystria and caught pigeons with Joseph and watched Mari punch and kiss her husband in the same minute. We’re just people, Christa. We do exist. We’ve found our people here.” She bit her lip, wistful smile creeping its way up her face. “Maybe today is not the best. But… there’s always tomorrow. Look how far we’ve come from Stonewall. From just this year!” Alex pulled Christa closer, gently pressing their foreheads together. “The world is what it is. I’m just grateful I’ve found a place to be myself in.”

Because it’s with you, was the phrase neither of them needed to say.

Christa’s laugh was watery.

“I haven’t ever told my parents yet.”

“When you do, I’ll be here right besides you.”

And just like that, the tension in the bathroom broke and washed away like the icy runoff that spilled from frozen rivers after spring had spread her warm wings over the mountain’s peak.

Christa’s hands were warm and solid on the small of her back.

Quick fingers momentarily tugged Alex’s shirt before sweeping her hair off to the side.

“We really do need to get you some non-shredded clothes, though.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Schatz, there's holes in everything. Didn’t this shirt use to be pink?

Alex pouted theatrically, earning a slight giggle from Christa as she ruffled the blond bangs still falling unchecked into her face. “You’re picking on me today…”

Christa pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, smiling.

“What, me? Never.”

---

It took time. Change and acceptance are precious gems that are to be cherished and allowed to grow.

But then there was one Hanukkah in a small house in Brooklyn.

“Chag Urim Sameach, Mama und Papa. This is my girlfriend, Alex.”

People mentioned in this story! Because I couldn’t resist.

The Civilian: mine

The Omega: @teamfortressaswell

The Pilot (Jessica): @jessicapilot

The Contractor (V): @marveloustf2

The Helper (Illystria): @askhelper

The Pigeoneer (Joseph): @gwalleyvv

The Melee and the Mafia (Mari and her husband): @tangy-original-sunny-d

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

Great Minds Think Alike (Riverdale - Jughead x OC) Finale

Pairing : Jughead x OC

Synopsis : A new girl arrives in town around the time of Jason Blossom’s accident. That alone makes her suspicious and unlikeable to most people. Jughead has every reason to investigate on her, the timing is too perfect, right? And it has nothing to do with the young girl’s odd yet charming way of always seeming to find her way back to him, no matter the situation.  

Word Count : 6.2k

MASTERLIST

Part 10  <<<

She was surprised to realize that she remembered how to get to Jughead's house without using her GPS, and soon parked her car in front of the old house, her heart playing the maracas in her chest. There was a huge lump in her throat, making her wonder if she would even be able to talk at all. Iris caught her reflection in the rear view mirror and winced.

Veronica had made wonders with her, there was nothing wrong with her appearance per se, but she looked so unlike herself that for a second she wanted to go home and change, take off the makeup, undo her hair. Had this entire situation turned her into something she wasn't?

A tired sigh fell from her lips – one more, one less, who was counting at this point? Iris kicked open her door before she could chicken out of this and put the contact on again. It was now or never, she was already ditching school, she was already feeling like utter shit, so really what more could Jughead do to her? She would end up getting a lecture from her dad, and feel miserable in any case.

Worst pep talk ever, she thought to herself, and smiled a little. She used to be funny. Who had sucked the joy out of her? Could she only joke around the one Jughead and no one else? If feelings weren't so wild and out of control, Iris would have chosen to swing the other way and live her happy ever after with Ronnie. Now she groaned. She was pathetic.

Her feet lead her to the front door and her hand raised on its own to knock, the gesture being so natural that she could do all of that on autopilot. And she was thankful, because her brains was on overdrive and it didn’t help think clearly.

As soon as she had knocked, Iris began to panic good and proper. What was she going to say? Where to start? She should be calm, or scream at him for behaving the way he did? Did she have to apologize? Would he? And what if he slammed the door to her face and refused to listen? Had they reached that point? It wasn't the first time in her life that Iris lost a friend to a grief, but it burnt like acid in her stomach each time.

The door remained closed for the longest time – or perhaps it was only long due to Iris' distorted perception of time. When it did swing open, her heart nearly dropped in apprehension.

“Hello? What can I do for you?” An old lady greeted her, only opening the door enough to peek through the crack.

Iris breathed again.

“I- euh- I'm sorry to bother you, I'm looking for Jughead? Jughead Jones? He lives here,” she stuttered out, feeling like an intruder suddenly.

The old lady smiled a little and opened the door wider.

“Jughead!” The lady said. “Oh my dear the boy doesn't live here! He helps me take care of my garden sometimes, you see I'm getting too old to mow the lawn, so I give him a little something and he does it for me.”

“This... is not his house?”

Iris' mind was a mess. All sorts of red flags raised at this revelation, and her brain glitched altogether. What was going on? She was absolutely certain that she had picked Jughead up right here. She couldn't be mistaken, she remembered the roses next to the door, the wooden beams, the flowery garden.

The more she thought about it, the less this house looked like a teenager lived here, or anyone under the age of sixty for that matter. This was an old lady's house, with an old lady's garden full of peonies, roses, and gardenias. This was not Jughead's house – he had lied. He gave her a wrong address.

Why did he do that? Was Iris to high on his list of suspects that he refused to let her know where he lived? Did he mistrust her so much? Was their entire friendship a scam? If she didn't get out of here right now she was going to cry right in front of the woman, who now looked at her with concern in her eyes.

“No, darling. I don't have his address but I can give you his phone number if you want?” She offered, in an obvious attempt to stop the tears from welling up in Iris' eyes.

“I already have it, but thank you. And sorry for bothering you, have a good day ma'am,” Iris bit her farewell and walked away.

She had lost the purpose in her stride and didn't know where to go now. She entertained the idea that Jughead hadn't just hid where he lives from her, and if that was true then there was no point in asking Betty, or Archie where Jughead lived because they would give her this very address.

Cheryl only said that Jughead didn't come to class today, it didn't necessarily mean that he was home, wherever that might be. And if Jughead wasn't home, or at school, then there was only a very limited number of other places he would most likely be.

Iris' got in her car again and started the engine. Her first stop was Pop's – an obvious place to start with, but it turned out being fruitless. At this early hour the diner wasn't even open yet. Her phone buzzed just when she was going to exit the parking lot.

“Cheryl?” Iris said in her phone.

“In the flesh,” Cheryl chirped on the other end of the call. “Where are you honey? You've been MIA since I talked to you this morning, don't tell me you left to look for this brooding wannabe Shakespeare.”

“I found Betty, or rather Betty found me,” she said with a sigh. “She told me something vague about how she pretended to be into Jughead, but then she refused to tell me why and insisted I go find Jughead because he was the only one who could give me the answer,” she explained as concisely as she could.

“Well dear me, this sounds dramatic and ominous, I wonder what could make someone pretend to like this edgy teen cliché,” she said, not sounding surprised at all. Then again dramatic behavior was Cheryl's signature, so maybe she lost the ability to be surprised by it. “Anyway, did you find him?” She added right before Iris could take offense, because he actually liked this edgy teen cliché – albeit against her better judgment – and there was nothing wrong with it.

“No...” She hesitated, not wanting to admit Jughead pretended to live at a random house because he didn't want to tell her where he lives – regardless of the reasons, that was a fact. “I'm going everywhere he might hand out for now.”

“Try that crumpling, old car park cinema, he can't shut up about it being a part of Riverdale's history and that it needs to be saved from the bulldozers,” Cheryl nearly yawned as if it bored her just to talk about Jughead and the Twilight. She was right though, and it was Iris' next destination anyway.

“I'll do that,” she told her ginger friend – at this point there was really no use in pretending they weren't friends. “See you Cheryl.”

The ginger girl did not say goodby and simply hung up, as her usual. Despite herself, Iris smiled, because among all this emotional chaos, she had made a friend – a very unlikely one but a good one, she mused. Somehow, when she drove away, her heart wasn't as heavy anymore.

It came as a shock to see that Cheryl had been right, and the Twilight was not abandoned as it should be. The Godfather was playing on the giant screen, though the parking lot was empty. Iris hadn't expected to find him to be honest. A part of her even thought Jughead was gone – finally having had his fill with Riverdale's drama and tragedy.

She couldn't blame him, Iris would do the same in a heartbeat it the opportunity arose. But he was here, she knew it, and once again bracing herself, this time even taking the time to give herself a real pep talk, Iris got out of the car, and climbed the stairs leading up to the local where Jughead worked before the Twilight shut down.

What better telltale sign of Jughead's presence here than the fact that the movie stopped the moment Iris knocked on the door – and he didn't even know who it was yet. She laughed bitterly, not looking forward to this conversation but knowing it had to happen.

When he opened the door, Iris almost wished he were a friendly old lady. As soon as their eyes met, Iris' anger from the past few weeks of being ignored, looked down upon, frowned at, and generally badly treated rose up to the surface, and her mouth opened without her brain's permission, and started speaking.

“I went to your house,” she said.

Jughead, who was about to ask her what she was doing here, closed his mouth again, and looked away.

“You know the one you made me pick you up from, even though you don't live there,” she said, unable to hold back from sounding reproachful and mad. Hell! She was mad. “I met the nice old lady who assured me that no Jughead Jones lives in this house. Care to explain?”

“I-” he opened and closed his mouth a few times, taken aback both by the question and Iris' tone of voice. He distinctly remembered her as being jovial and teasing, but never harsh, not to him anyway. Unless he deserved it, like that night in the woods. After reflection, he deserved it. “It's none of your business.”

If she hated him already what was the point in telling her? He might as well keep his secret well hidden and keep Iris' at arms' length at the same time.

“None of my business,” she repeated to herself in a hushed tone. “Right.” She clicked her tongue against her cheek. “And I suppose it isn't any of my business either that you used me for your goddamn book? That you kept from me that Kevin's dad had a file on me? That I am, and always was your prime suspect in this fucking Jason Blossom case you try so hard to solve? Was it also none of my business when you pretended to be my friend to keep an eye on me, or try to dig out some deep, dark secret you think I have? And maybe it wasn't my business either when you continued where we left our investigation with Betty? And when you and her pretended to have a thing for each other? Speak up Jughead, I'm curious.”

Iris glared so hard she thought she might set him on fire if she tried hard enough, and while Jughead wasn't screaming in agony yet, he also wasn't comfortable. His hands fidgeted, his eyes averted from her like he feared she might read the truth in his eyes. He still stood in the doorway and pondered what to do when Iris took the reins and pushed him inside. If he wasn't going to invite her in to talk, she would do it herself.

“Wait!” He called but she was already inside, and she stopped in her tracks. Not because of what he said but because of what she saw.

What she saw was a bed of fortune, his school bag, a few cans of perishable goods, a toothbrush and toothpaste next to the small sink, a bag of clothes sitting in a corner. There was a pregnant pause.

“What the hell Jughead?!” Iris exploded. “You better start explaining right this second or you'll see what happens when I'm done sulking an start acting!”

This time her anger was mixed with confusion – and perhaps a dash of concern, but first and foremost anger. Her incomprehension was painted all over her features, and while her tone was still harsh and demanding, her demeanor changed altogether. Her shoulders slumped down, her eyes begged him to come clean, to tell her the truth of what was happening.

“I can't stay in the dark anymore, just tell me what's going on or I'll go crazy,” she added, seeing his resolve waver in his eyes.

He looked terrible. Had he always looked so unkempt and tired? She couldn't remember the last time she looked his way and didn't catch him staring holes into her skull, immediately looking away. Because if she didn't see him glare at her, then she could pretend he wasn't.

“Fucking say something!” She shouted when he still didn't speak.

“Okay! Okay...” Jughead finally said, gesturing her to keep the volume down. “I'll talk, just please calm down. I'll answer all your questions, but you have to promise me this stays between us.”

“Like I told any of your secrets to anyone before,” Iris spat at him, sitting on the makeshift bed. It creaked under her weigh. After a second of hesitation, and after wiping his palms on his thighs, Jughead joined on.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, they were sitting next to each other like before, about to have a somewhat civil conversation, looking in each other's eyes and not just trying to mentally kill each other. Iris felt a tinge in her heart and flinched.

“This is the part where you apologize for estranging me without telling why and making me feel miserable,” Iris told him in a much more even voice.

It hurt a lot more to hear her say that in such a flat, factual tone, as if she didn't trust herself to let filter any emotion at all. Jughead felt terrible. Even more terrible than he had over the last few weeks, when he distanced himself from Iris for reasons that Betty qualified as ridiculous and undignified.

“How did you learn about the file?” Jughead asked – he figured he had to start somewhere. Iris' expression immediately darkened and she leaned back, squinting her eyes at him.

He took a second to look at her and found she looked rather strange. She was dressed up, which was unusual, and it clashed with how worn out she looked. Like she wasn't sleep too well.

“That doesn't sound like excuses to me,” she seethed.

“Right, sorry,” Jughead said, blushing in embarrassment. What was he thinking? She was right of course, he had behaved abominably and now he reaped the fruit of his actions. “I have never pretended to be your friend, you know I can't fake that. If I don't like someone it's pretty obvious.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” Iris snapped, making him feel even worse about himself. He truly hadn't rightly evaluated the extent of the damage he's done to their friendship.

“When we started meeting up at Pop's to write I hadn't heard about Sheriff Keller's file on you, I swear your meeting isn't some ploy.” Jughead raised his hands to show that they were clean in that matter. “It's true Kevin spoke about the file he saw in his dad's office when we pressed him about why he didn't like you. I admit I was curious but at this point I already knew you, and no matter what this file said I knew you were not a suspect. You were never on my list to start with.”

“Right, save it. You said it yourself that everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise. Getting to know me over burgers is not a proof, not even in my book, and it's nowhere near as strict as yours,” Iris fired back, unimpressed with Jughead's attempt to explain himself.

It was all good that he finally spilled the beans, but that still didn't even remotely resemble an apology. Iris could lie to Jughead but not to herself. True she wanted to get answers, but the main reason for her presence here was not enlightenment. She wanted Jughead to acknowledge that he hurt her, that he behaved like a caveman and that he was in the wrong. She wanted an apology, a genuine, heartfelt apology, and if it wasn't good enough she might have to actually scratch Jughead out of her life.

“I don't know what you want to hear Iris!” Jughead burst out, feeling more and more frustrated with the girl.

“You're not supposed to say what I want to hear, you fucking idiot!” She shouted back. “Say something you mean!”

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry I went about it the way I did, I realize it was dumb and hurtful! There you have it! I apologize.”

There was another long silence.

“You really can't admit your faults, can you?” Iris asked softly. “You say sorry but all I hear is excuses. I'm not your lapdog Jughead, I won't come back with a waggling tail because you scratch my ears. If what you said about being my friend is true, then by all that is holy, I'm begging you to make an effort, because I'm tired of running after you. If you think you can't be my friend anymore you need to tell me, I can live with that. I just want to clear the air between us, because I can't have you be mad at me forever without explanation.”

“I'm not mad at you,” he sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. “I'm mad at myself.”

Jughead angrily ran his hand through his hair, tossing aside his beanie and groaning as he leaned back and fell on the bed.

“So what? You take it out on me? My, my, it keeps getting better!”

“Will you stop being so sarcastic? You picked that up from Cheryl!” Jughead accused. “Everything isn't about you, Iris! I have other problems than our little argument at the river that night.”

“Anything to do with you sleeping at a drive in that's about to get demolished?” Iris asked to get this conversation back on track – they would never go anywhere it they kept throwing around the hot potato.

“It's a long story...” Jughead elided the question. “I know I shouldn't have given you a fake address but I panicked when you insisted on picking me up. I've been living here for a while now, no one knows and I'd appreciate if it stayed that way.”

“I won't tell anyone, you know that,” Iris promised, looking at him. Jughead, despite lying down, looked up to meet her eyes. Of course she wouldn't snitch, she never did.

“Now if you want answers you'll have to ask your questions again, but slowly this time. I never heard anyone ask so many questions at once, you made me dizzy,” he said in a snicker, prompting the same sound to come out of her throat.

It wasn't a laugh but it was damn near one, and for now it would do – an improvement is an improvement.

“I don't even remember what I asked,” she admitted, still laughing humorlessly, somewhat at a loss now that her anger had faded a bit. “I guess I just want to know what's been going on in that head of yours since our argument.”

“A lot, actually. I regretted what I said that night almost as soon as I said it. But once the words were out there I could hardly take them back, so I figured I'd stand by my word and hope for the best. Except it didn't turn out how I'd hoped, it went completely astray, and we stopped talking altogether.”

“You mean it wasn't your intention?” She asked for clarification.

“Not at all, I knew you were right, and I as the one who took the wrong decision when I left the river the night Kevin and Moose found Jason's body. I- I just don't like being wrong, so I kept quiet. Part of me wished you just dismissed what I said and blamed it on the situation, that you'd just come talk to me the next day like always.”

“But I didn't, because I'm not an idiot and I know what I'm worth,” Iris pointed out, earning a groan as sole answer.

He didn't need a reminded.

“You really hurt me, Jug.”

“I know.”

“If I had any sense of self-preservation I wouldn't be here in the first place. I should want you out of my life.”

“I know.”

“Then why am I here?”

“I don't know.” He sat up again. “But I'm not going to waste this chance. I'll tell you everything you want to know. I swear I never intended to hurt you. I know I did and I regret it, but there's nothing I can do about it now, can I? If you want to find out if I'm sincere about being sorry, you'll have to risk being disappointed again.”

“If that's how you try to convince me to listen to your poor excuse of an apology, I have to tell you it sucks.” He cracked a smile, rubbing his hands together in uneasiness. “It really does, you need to work on that.”

“I'll jot that down,” he snorted. “For now, what about I take it from the start?”

“That would be great.”

Iris shot him her first heartfelt smile in over two weeks, and gently bumped her shoulder against his. And just like that the floodgates opened, letting out a flow of revelations she was more or less prepared to hear.

*

Veronica and Betty were in a corner making casual conversation while stretching when Better confessed to having maybe made things worse yesterday by telling Iris something she shouldn't have.

“But after you left Pop's the other day I realized how tense things were between all of us, and Iris looked so hurt when Jug and I became all touchy feely,” she told her. “I felt bad, I couldn't keep up the act.”

“What do you mean 'an act'?” Veronica questioned her.

“Well, Jug was going about it the wrong way, so I suggested we give Iris a little push so she would finally take the first step and talk to him.”

“I don't understand anything you're saying,” Ronnie said with a confused and somewhat nervous laugh. “What are you saying Betty?”

“Jughead obviously likes Iris, you must have noticed.”

“Well... yes, but since their argument-” She started, frowning a big, not sure where Betty was going with this but she was interrupted mid-sentence.

“He's a mess, he does all the wrong things, he can't think clearly anymore. And if he doesn't get it together, than I had to find a way to make Iris be the mature one and talk things out.”

“Let me recap. You pretended to be into Jughead because you were playing Cupid for these two?” Veronica repeated just to make sure she hadn't gotten it all wrong, because it sounded so ludicrous and to be fair, quite sketchy for a plan made by Riverdale's very own Nancy Drew. “You scheming little match-maker!”

“I'm sorry but I couldn't bear it anymore, the tension...” Betty rolled her eyes. “But I haven't seen Iris this morning, and now I'm worried I made things worse by meddling, I hope nothing terrible happened. Oh Ronnie, what if I messed with the natural course of life?”

“Breathe, Betty!” Veronica laughed, feeling lighter and happier herself after hearing that Betty wasn't really in a secret relationship with Jughead. “She's a big, capable girl! If anything happened it's not to her, trust me... The girl has rage.”

“Please, I'd feel bad if Jughead came back with a black eye too,” Betty said with a wince, second guessing everything she did or said the day before. Curse her meddling nature.

“If you're so worried I'll go ask Cheryl,” Ronnie offered.

“Cheryl?” Betty frowned in distaste. “What would Cheryl know?”

“She's friends with Iris,” Veronica said, purposely omitting to add that she too had lowered her weapons in presence of the ginger force of nature.

So now Cheryl stared Veronica up and down in a rather judgmental way for having disturbed her lecture.

“Dismissed,” she said, and immediately the two girls she was ripping to shred for messing up a step during practice hurried off like two scared rabbits. “What can I do for you?” She asked, not as harshly as per usual.

“Have you seen Iris?” Ronnie asked Cheryl, who looked up as if thinking about it really hard.

“I called her yesterday and she was looking for her favorite charity case around town,” she very helpfully informed Veronica. “Haven't talked to her since, but if she's not here she must have found him.”

With that she twirled around, nearly whipping Veronica with her long hair, and walked away. Stunned but happy with her answer, Ronnie joined Betty again.

“So?”

“She was looking for Jughead last she heard of her,” she told Betty. “But she's right, if Iris isn't here today, it might just be because she found him. Maybe they are still working things out,” she mused. Betty stared ahead of her and hummed as sole answer, obviously not entirely convinced. “Or maybe they are boning it out?” Ronnie offered, not helpfully at all.

She smiled and rolled her eyes at that.

“Oh please! I can't vouch for Iris, but Jughead wouldn't... he's never... you know...” she trailed off, rubbing the back of her neck and blushing.

“Had sex, Betty. The words you're looking for are 'had sex',” Veronica laughed. “Wait a minute! You haven't... either?”

“So who can't say 'have sex' now?” Betty retorted smarty. Ronnie scoffed.

“Oh come on! Not even foreplay?” Veronica insisted, which increased the blush on Betty's cheek and made her stutter out a vague answer about 'being busy' and 'not having the opportunity', to which Ronnie only smiled before grabbing Betty's arm to begin practice.

*

“Jughead and Iris have been MIA since yesterday, does anyone know what's going on? Where the hell are they?” Archie asked the moment he set his lunch tray on the table in the cafeteria.

“Don't you worry Archikins,” Ronnie said, tapping his shoulder.

“Ronnie-” Betty started but she was cut off.

“They are probably making up for lost time! Before we hear from them, let's just assume the best, wadya think?” She chirped happily, spooning her yogurt.

“No I mean, Ronnie look! They are coming this way!” Betty pointed to the door, making everyone at the table, even Kevin, turn around to have a look.

Surely enough there were the two class skippers, walking side by side and looking like they were in the middle of an animated conversation, what with Iris making big hand gestures to the point where Jughead had to catch her arm before she accidentally hit someone it the face.

“What on earth...?” Kevin whispered to himself.

“Do you all see the same thing?” Betty asked and was answered by a round of silent, stunned nods. “I'm so relieve I didn't mess things up!”

“What do you mean?” Archie shook his head and focused on Betty.

“Oh nothing!” Veronica answered before Betty could spill out the truth. “Betty here just likes to give a little push to destiny once in a while.”

Archie frowned because he didn't understand anything Veronica just said but figured it wasn't all that important if everything worked out fine in the end.

“Should we call them?” Betty asked.

“No!” Ronnie's hand shot out and took hers as if to stop her. “Let's give them some alone time. We know they're fine now.”

And so they turned around again, and continued eating, the topic shifting to something else.

“Don't look behind you,” Jughead started, “but all our friends are staring at us very obviously and insistently,” he told Iris who smirked at the thought.

“Right, I haven't really talked to them since I left class yesterday morning. I sort of told Veronica that I'd call her in the evening,” she suddenly remembered.

Jughead and her had talked away the entire day once they managed to stop blaming the fault for their argument on each other. It wasn't as easy as one might think when you take into account that Iris and Jughead were both stubborn people who liked to have the last word. But after some more yelling, swearing, and sighing, they got around to both apologizing to each other for the harm done, on purpose or not.

When he finished explaining that he felt too bogged down in his own mess to simply say sorry and go back to how things were before he said those hurtful words at the river, the conversation shifted to what prompted Iris to come search for him in the first place. The whole thing with Betty.

He stammered and blushed and avoided her eyes, making it hard for Iris to recognize the Jughead she knew and loved, the stoic, sarcastic movie buff who talked pop culture references and had a five foot tall brick wall surrounding his heart. She wasn't entirely convinced that was the whole reason for this act of his, but he told her that Betty was trying to make Veronica jealous – or at the very least see if she got jealous, because apparently Ronnie's crush on her wasn't obvious to her.

Iris decided to accept the explanation because she hoped for Ronnie that it was true, and she figured she had squeezed out enough information from Jughead for one day.

“Go figure, maybe they signaled us missing to Sheriff Keller,” Jughead snickered, peeking over Iris' shoulder. “They are not looking anymore.”

Iris turned around too and saw their friends chatting over their lunch – nothing unusual. She exhaled and leaned against Jughead.

“I should go say something at least, otherwise they'll spy on us until they know more,” she decided, and Jughead approved, telling her that he would be getting lunch and waiting for her at their usual spot.

She walked away and she hadn't even crossed half the distance to the table that Betty spotted her and jumped off her seat to meet her halfway.

“Sooo?” She whispered with a conniving smile on her face, as if she was waiting great news she had participated in making true.

“Please don't smile like that, it's a bit freaky,” Iris chuckled. “Everything's fine, we talked it all out. Cold war is officially over, you no longer need to pick sides.”

Iris' humorous yet dramatic announcement wasn't what Betty was referring to though, and the blonde girl made it known.

“No! I was talking about the other thing! About Jug and I pretending to flirt and all that...” she specified.

With a crooked smirk, Iris leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. She knew what Betty wanted to hear, but she was building up the tension.

“He told me too. You could've just said it that it was for Veronica, instead of making me chase Jughead around town,” Iris said, and Betty nearly jumped to her throat, putting her hand over Iris' mouth. “What-?”

“Shhh!” Betty shushed her. “Not so loud! And what do you even mean? I'm not trying to make Ronnie jealous, wh- why would I- I-” she stuttered out.

“Don't bother, I know you two have a thing for each other,” Iris said, making Betty blush and sigh in relief, somehow both at the same time.

“Yeah, okay, alright, cool...” she said in the least laid back manner Iris ever heard. “But it's still not why we put up this act. “It wasn't me who was trying to making someone jealous. It's Jug. I mean, it was my idea, the blame is on me for this one, but we did it to make you jealous of me for being with Jug.”

Iris' eyebrows went up and down and frowned and arched a few times during this confusing explanation that was a little far fetched and hard to believe, but way too strange to be a lie. If Betty wanted to lie, she would come up with something more convincing.

“Me?” She said, astounded. Betty nodded. “The fuck?” Iris exclaimed, having lost her ability to speak properly over this piece of news.

“You like Jughead Iris, you said so yourself. What's so strange about Jug liking you back?” She said softly, speaking low so no one could overhear.

“Do you hear yourself? The person I like liking me back? Unrealistic,” Iris dismissed the sheer though, waving it off. “He must have thought you wanted to make Veronica jealous and rolled with it while you thought you did it for him, classic misunderstanding.”

“We're not in a teenage drama,” Betty argued, grabbing Iris' arm before she could walk away. “And trust me, there was no misunderstanding. Jughead wanted you back.”

“He never had me!”

“Yes he had! Iris, come on!” Betty was this close to begging her. “Just go ask him if you don't believe me!”

“I will!” Iris replied, as if Betty just threw her a challenge. “I'm sure he'll laugh at me for even asking!”

“I'll be waiting right here if you feel like saying hi to the others and, I don't know, telling me I was right?” Betty smiled one last time and shooed Iris away and towards her and Jug's spot under the tree.

Iris marched with purpose and confidence, standing right in front of Jughead who was sitting against the tree like always, blinking at her because of the sun behind her back, and looking at her questiongly.

“I'm almost scared to ask, but: what's going on?” He asked.

“Betty told you something interesting, I'd like your input,” Iris said, and Jughead swallowed thickly, easily guessing what it was about – if only thanks to Iris' tone and demeanor, the girl liked to have to upper hand in a conversation and she used it mercilessly. “You know about this whole making Ronnie jealous scheme...” She trailed off, giving him a chance to explain before she got to the best part.

But he kept quiet and stood up, as if he had tied springs to his shoes, grabbing Iris' arm and dragging her away from prying ears and eyes, leaving their lunch on the ground. Iris followed him a winning smile on her face – so Betty was right after all! She couldn't believe it! She was ecstatic but she couldn't believe it! Jughead was so red in the face she could hardly recognize him.

When he finally deemed they were far enough he stopped in his tracks, and Iris shortly avoided walking straight into him, Jughead reaching for her so she wouldn't lose balance.

They stared at each other, both flustered, happy, and a nervous. He didn't remove his hand immediately, only realizing he was still holding her when she cleared her throat, and withdrawing his hands.

“I- euh, I thought-” He started, having no idea whatsoever what he was going to say, he just started talking on instinct, having no clue where he was going with this. “Betty said- and then I... I wasn't sure, and maybe it was... I don't know,” he mumbled.

It seemed Iris had unlocked the secret to making a future author lose all of his vocabulary, and it made her smile to big she thought she must have looked silly, but she couldn’t help it.

“You thought what, Jug?” Iris pressed him, having no mercy for the stuttering mess he had become.

“You know what,” he accused her, recomposing himself a bit. “Making me say it would be sadism.”

“I can live with being a sadist. Please enlighten me, I want to know what you thought,” she insisted, enjoyed herself oh-so much. “I'm enjoying this a lot, by the way.”

She took a step forward, and while Jughead was still nervous about his lie being exposed, he didn't step back and that was a good sign, right? She took it as a good sign anyway, and before he could come up with another way to dodge her inquiries, she reached up for his neck, and pulled him into a kiss.

Damn it all, they thought. Jughead might have forgotten how to use his brain but his body still functioned, and he answered the kiss right away, his hands holding onto Iris like it was natural. She expected him to pull back in surprise, but was glad to feel him reciprocate, and for a brief moment they both forgot the pain they inflicted themselves and each other the past weeks.

That is, until a round of cheers and enthusiastic whistles interrupted their moment. Archie, Betty, Veronica, Kevin, and even Cheryl stood uphill and showed their support in the most ostentatious manner imaginable while Iris and Jughead stood there, holding each other, smiling embarrassingly, and wishing their friends were a bit more subtle.

“All is well that ends well,” Cheryl declared, winking at Iris and stealing a glance at Veronica who was leaning against Betty.

A/N: Apologies for being the slowest updater in the history of fanfic writers, but at long last here it is, the finale of GMTA. It’s twice as long as tee other chapters to make up for the time it took me to write it - which was exactly 12h, because yes I suddenly woke up and decided to finally write that bitch, so I sat down and typed all day until my arms hurt and posted it without proof reading because I was SO HAPPY this is behind me, I feel so accomplished today. It’s nothing like I picutred it when I first started this series, and it damn nearly ended up being a Cheryl x OC because I hate season 2 Jughead (which is why I didn’t feel like writing this anymore) but I forced myself anyway, because this story deserved an ending, and you and I deserve CLOSURE.

Wow, longest author’s note ever

TAGLIST: @bathshebaa  @deanackles67 @myteenwolf-world @mumblr-of-tumbir @devilishcloe @bettysreid @angelicawastaken @rebellioncass @adorableninja @scattered-glances @ri-verdale @ice-wolfie @bubblegumcat229 @murderyoursoul @morixeddu @emptyporsche @lucifer-the-cuddler @challenge-accep-ted @scattered-glances @fantiomaticsupertolkienlover @-episkey-  @golden-guide @pass-me-jeez-it

[huntermailer266]

Simcity Mac Os

Another massive classic has been added to Porting Kit: SimCity 4 Deluxe! This game is now playable on Mac OS Catalina 10.15.x! Many requests has been done for this game, and today is the day :) Get on GOG.com and use the install instructions below:

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Simcity Mac Os Download

SimCity is available for download through EA’s Origin service but we definitely recommend the Mac App Store version, handled directly by Aspyr. Disclaimer: Some of the links above are affiliate links, which means that if you choose to make a purchase, I will earn a commission (this is how we pay the bills). Official Mac Site - Buy, register, and get updates, news, and support for SimCity 4: Deluxe Edition for Mac. Create the most massive region of cities ever! Intel HD 3000 VRAM: 256 MB Storage: 12 GB available space ——————————— Technical Support Notes ——————————— SimCity™: Complete Edition does not support hard drive volumes formatted as Mac OS Extended (CaseSensitive) SimCity™: Complete Edition is an offline single-player version of the game.

SimCity is available for download through EA’s Origin service but we definitely recommend the Mac App Store version, handled directly by Aspyr. Disclaimer: Some of the links above are affiliate links, which means that if you choose to make a purchase, I will earn a commission (this is how we pay the bills).

Pretty much what I said in the title. I'm on Mac OS 10.10.4, with the most recent origin update as of 7/28-ish/2015. This started happening a couple of days ago when I opened SimCity and the Origin app auto-updated. Tried to start a new city in a region I started about a month ago.

Basic Portingkit Install Instructions GOG games: 1. Download Portingkit if you don’t have it already! 2. Download the SimCity 4 Deluxe “offline backup setup” file(s) into your (root) download folder. 3. Go to the library server tab and select the game you want to install and click “Install” 4. Portingkit will create the wrapper and locate your setup file in your download folder 5. The installation of the game will start, run through the install wizard. 6. After installation, exit the installer (don’t run launch the game). 7. Porting kit will say it has finished successfully. 8. Go to your local library tab and select the game and click “play”! 9. Enjoy the game!

Still For Catalina users (not long anymore): Make sure SIP is disabled and that the Porting Kit app is located in your Apps/Application folder. If you want SIP to be enabled, I strongly recommend Crossover for now for the time being.

Game description: In SimCity 4, you don’t just build your city, you breathe life into it. Create a megalopolis by weaving together a tapestry of cities ranging from a bedroom community to a high tech urban center or a vacation destination to a farming village. You can create a region of interconnected cities sharing and competing for resources that are linked by a fully integrated transportation network. Use “god-like” powers to create mountain ranges, carve valleys, and lay rivers to construct the most realistic metropolis imaginable. The new simulation engine offers immediate feedback so you can react to the needs of an expanding metropolis.

Check out the game page up here…

Love the work we do? Become a Patron… and get extra Tiers!

Please consider supporting The Cutting Room Floor on Patreon. Thanks for all your support!

SimCity 2000

Developer: Maxis Publisher: Maxis Platform: Mac OS Classic Released in US: November 1993

This game has debugging material. This game has revisional differences.

The second game in the SimCity series. In addition to improving on everything that was in the original, it adds an incredible number of new features and swaps the top-down perspective of the original for an isometric view.

2Revision History

Debug Menus

Among other things, the Debug menu allowed testers to invoke the special disasters not listed in the Disasters menu.

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A separate, enormous menu was devoted to testing each type of newspaper article.

There's no apparent way to activate these; the relevant codes from the PC version do nothing on the Mac.

These menus were removed altogether in version 1.2.

Revision History

Title Screen

Simcity Macos Big Sur

Version 1.0.

Version 1.1 added a trademark symbol and copyright date. It also lengthened the picture by 20 pixels, revealing more of the buildings.

Version 1.2 traded ™ for ®, 1993 for 1995, and a clump of pixels on the first zero for a slightly darker clump of pixels.

Changes in Version 1.1

The 1.1 patch comes with a list of its improvements, which is reproduced below:

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The budget should work properly now, transit figures should be correct (and stay that way).

The Bulldoze Tool should always default to Bulldoze instead of whatever tool was last used. This should prevent accidental mass destruction caused by forgetting that the last bulldoze tool being used was Raise/Lower/Level Terrain.

Airports should build correctly now (the ratio of towers to runways should be better).

Several problems that show up with more than 7 stadiums/teams should be gone.

Figures in the Analysis window (from the City Hall query window) should stay correct.

Sometimes, destroying bridges would leave an un-usable shoreline tile. This should be fixed.

Querying on certain tiles of the Forest Arcology in certain situations would report bare land, this should not happen.

Arcologies that do not have micro-simulators attached should now affect population (populations far greater than 9.1 million should be attainable).

There is a new button when using the query tool on a library. [That would be the 'Ruminate' button, which displays this essay by Neil Gaiman.]

Placing highway and re-enforced bridges now charges the user correctly.

Schools should work properly at population levels above 60,000.

The date should now properly display above 9,999 years.

The power graph should be more accurate.

This Read Me file has been updated.

There's also a new quasi-ending: if the year is at least 2051, and your city has at least 301 launch arcologies, they'll take off into space and refund the money used to construct them, accompanied by a pop-up announcing that 'the exodus has begun'.

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Changes in Version 1.2

The Read Me only cites three new features: PowerPC native code, support for the Urban Renewal Kit, and African Swallow Mode (which fast-forwards the game as fast as your computer can possibly go). Subtler changes included some modifications to the credits:

Versions 1.0 and 1.1Version 1.2NotesThe title was bumped up to registered trademark status throughout v1.2.Lewis' resume states that he 'fixed over 100 bugs, including over 20 crash bugs'. His work on this revision was honored with an easter egg: type uspa87419 (his US Parachute Association membership number) to watch a parachutist float over your city. This egg also appears in SimTown, on which Lewis was lead programmer.A Manhattan nuclear meltdown scenario was included in the Great Disasters expansion pack.Despite the curly quotes earlier, these ones are straight.'Vice' should be 'VISE'.The very last entry gained a concluding period.

Simcity 2000 Mac Os X

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Retrieved from 'https://tcrf.net/index.php?title=SimCity_2000_(Mac_OS_Classic)&oldid=594227'

[tomfooleryprime]

Adding to canon is not the same thing as destroying canon

At San Diego Comic Con, we learned that Sonequa Martin-Green’s character, Michael Burnham, is Sarek’s adoptive daughter. The second I heard the news, all I could think was, “Let the hate begin.” And boy, did it ever.

I understand the disappointment, particularly with fan fic writers who invested a lot of time and effort into crafting stories that fit neatly into canon. Amazing how one sound bite can bulldoze right through decades of widely accepted fanon, huh?

Let’s be real, those little behind the scenes moments are almost the entire point of fan fiction: some of us like something so much, we like to imagine all the things the writers didn’t tell us, but now Michael Burnham has come along like a square peg in a round hole, rendering countless stories AU that previously adhered perfectly to canon. Some of mine included.

But fanon isn’t canon. One might say, “How come we’re just hearing about this now?” Surely Spock would have mentioned having an adoptive sister? But would he? Would he though?

No one had any idea he was engaged to T’Pring until the Enterprise showed up to Vulcan on Spock’s impromptu wedding day in the TOS episode, “Amok Time.” What was it he said when Lieutenant Uhura asked who the lovely woman on the viewscreen was?

If you watch closely enough and get creative with your interpretation, I swear Christine Chapel mouths the word, “bullshit.”

And no one knew that Spock had a strained relationship with his father until that time dear old Sarek hopped on Enterprise for the Coridan admission debate in the TOS episode, “Journey to Babel.” Kirk urged Spock to go down to the planet and visit his family before they left orbit, and what was Spock’s reply?

I can’t think of a better example of where Spock made Kirk look like a total asshole.

I can maybe understand that he never brought his father up in typical conversation, but one would think once they received a mission to pick up Ambassador Sarek from Vulcan that Spock might have mentioned, "Yeah, it's no big deal or anything, but he's my dad." But of course not. Of course it would be "logical" to wait until the last possible moment just to amp up the cringeworthiness. And then there’s the fact that Kirk had known Spock for decades before finding out he had a half-brother named Sybok in Star Trek V: The Final Frontier.

You would think Kirk would be used to Spock family bombshells by now.

So if anything, the idea that Spock had a secret adoptive sister actually feels more in keeping with canon than going against it. Given the weight of the evidence, I wouldn’t be all that shocked to discover he had three step mothers, a couple of wives, a brother-in-law who worked in engineering, and a whole herd of secret love children drifting around out there. I mean, it happened often enough that even Saturday Night Live parodied it.

Spock-O could have been real and you know it. So yeah, there are worse things that could happen to the fandom than Michael Burnham.

The other thing is, as viewers, we tend to get into the habit of thinking that if a character doesn’t specifically address something on screen in front of other characters, other characters are in the dark along with the viewers. Like if a character didn’t explicitly announce some detail about their personal life to the world, not only did it never happen, it never could have happened. And that’s just silly. Think about this: Kirk, Spock, and the rest of the crew spent five years together on that mission, and we only got to view a little less than 66 hours of it. So imagine all the conversations in the mess hall we as viewers missed out on. Did anyone flip out when it was revealed that Dr. McCoy had a daughter in The Animated Series? You would think he would have mentioned her in The Original Series, no? Maybe he did, but the viewers just weren't invited to that conversation.

Going back and adding to canon is not the same thing as destroying canon. Star Trek, particularly The Original Series, was always more focused on exploring the galaxy and meeting new civilizations – its primary purpose wasn’t to flesh out complicated life stories for each of the main characters. When you think about it, there’s so much we don’t know about Spock’s upbringing or Sarek and Amanda's origins. Almost everything we do know about this family comes from two episodes – “Journey to Babel” in The Original Series and “Yesteryear” in The Animated Series.

I think because we spent more than five decades without any concrete ideas of how Sarek and Amanda met, what Spock’s formative years were really like, or how their family dynamics worked, we just filled in the blanks for ourselves. But fifty years is a long time for the lines between canon and fanon to start getting blurred.

So I’m actually tickled pink at the thought that Spock had an adoptive sister, not furious that they’re "corrupting" more than fifty years of canon. It would be tampering with canon to claim that Spock never existed, that Chekov was a flower child, or that Starship Troopers is actually some kind of prequel to Kirk and the starship Enterprise, but writing in a sister for Spock where one previously didn’t exist isn’t quite the same thing.

Would you like to know more?

The writers of the show are just doing what we as fan fic writers do all the time – filling in the gaps. You’re definitely allowed to feel however you want to feel about it. And I do understand a lot of the dismay and shock. It really sucks to pour your heart and soul into something, polishing it for months or even years until it’s perfect, and then have Michael Burnham thrown into the mix and it almost feels like a bad Photoshop job over your favorite family portrait, ruining your origins fics for Sarek/Amanda or Spuhura or Spirk or Spones or Spotty? (Is that actually what the Spock/Scotty ship is called?). It’s perfectly acceptable to say that Michael Burnham’s existence has ruined your perception of canon, but I don’t think it should be confused with ruining actual canon.  

And worst case scenario… fanfic writers will just do what they’ve always done: include disclaimers explaining how they hate certain aspects of canon so they just plan to completely ignore it. That’s their prerogative, but I often find it disappointing. I see it with Sybok in Sarek/Amanda fics all the time. Many people prefer to just write him out, and while it is tempting to pretend like The Final Frontier never happened, I’ve always included him. I think it does reality a huge disservice to cut him out, and I think it will be just as bad to do the same thing to Michael.

People get hung up on the idea that Spock was so lonely and misunderstood, but what about the loneliness that Sybok must have felt, having his mother die and going to live with a human step-mother, a half brother, and a father he barely knew, if he ever even knew him at all before his mother’s passing? I loved Sybok’s addition because he helps represent the complex reality of blended families. Between Sarek, Amanda, Spock, and Sybok, I think that family was rife with loneliness and misunderstanding long before Michael Burnham was written in.  

I think Michael, if I understand her story correctly that she’s an orphan who was taken in by Sarek and Amanda, only serves to add to the rich tapestry of Spock’s unique family, and it certainly seems as if she'll fit right in with the other misfits in Sarek's brood. A human wife, a moody Vulcan son from a previous relationship, a half-human son from his current marriage, and now an adoptive human daughter. I feel like that’s a true picture of a modern family in all its messy and complicated and beautiful glory.

People like to romanticize the idea of a “traditional” family, but I like the “messier” version so much more. I think it actually fits in better with Spock’s character. I’m sure there are some who will ask, “But then how can you explain why he would say he felt so lonely growing up if he had not one but two siblings?” I also imagine many of those people were raised as an only child.

We don’t really know how much of an age gap exists between Spock and Sybok (or between Spock and Michael Burnham), but just imagine for a second that you’re Spock, and you have an older brother who’s constantly disappointing your father with his talk about emotions and a human adoptive sister who’s constantly struggling to fit in on Vulcan too. It might be easy to feel like an afterthought at times, especially because Sybok is fully Vulcan like Sarek and Michael is fully human like Amanda and you almost feel like something “other.”

Not that Spock feels of course. No, he would “never” do that. But I look forward to seeing how this all plays out and I sincerely hope people give her a chance (canonwise and fanonwise) before dismissing her altogether because she “ruins” Spock’s “traditional” nuclear family.

During the Comic Con panel, producer Alex Kurtzman insisted they have a good canon explanation for why Spock never mentions Michael. He was quoted as saying, “We’re aware [of the situation]. You’ll see where it’s going, but we are staying consistent with canon.” So I’m inclined to keep an open mind and see where they take it before dismissing it outright for being “too ludicrous.” Spock always held his cards close to his chest where his family was concerned, and weirder things have happened within the Trek universe. Give Michael Burnham a chance.

[hoodoo12]

狗年吉祥

Happy Year of the Dog! 

I am a follower of the Chinese Zodiac, and wish everyone the best this year! Horoscope below. If you’re unsure of your zodiac Animal, it’s easy to look it up online. Don’t trust the simplistic designations from Chinese restaurant place mats; the Chinese New Year is based on lunar years, not solar, and those place mats don’t account for that!

⁂

Rat: This year could be a demanding time for Rats if they take on more than they can realistically deal with, as projects can prove to be unexpectedly fraught with worry. Happily, there will be people ready to reach out to help, but Rats should be careful not to take the for granted. Meeting others halfway helps ease the tension.

Ox: Other Animals may find Dog Years stressful but Oxen just bulldoze their way through all the obstacles in their paths. Looking back, they will wonder what all the fuss was about. For Ox people, this is an excellent year to be out getting more. 

Tiger: Domestically stable and romantically uplifting, this will be a year when friends, colleagues, and relatives will bend over backwards to smooth the Tiger’s path to success. Prospects are excellent for those Tigers seeking romance or putting down roots. 

Rabbit: Dog Years are times in which Rabbits can make up lost ground. With no major hurdles either at work or in romance, Rabbits should make steady progress now. Intimate and business partners alike are supportive to their aims. 

Dragon: A tricky year, when Dragons must practice patience and learn to count to ten before they speak harshly. Any hitches and setbacks at work are more than offset by a settled and contented home life. 

Snake: This should be a year of full activity. Putting into practice ideas that have been on the back burner will bring results for Snakes now, and fresh initiatives will snowball and attract financial rewards, seemingly with little effort. 

Horse: An auspicious year for Horse People, when they can forge ahead and make excellent progress. Work, academic studies, and sporting activities all bring their rewards and recognition. Stabilizing new relationships, getting married, or moving home bring success.

Sheep: Dog years are generally difficult for Sheep, so they are likely to find this one challenging. Sheep need to keep a low profile, but should not bow out of the fray altogether. Success comes, as always, by getting the balance right. 

Monkey: The pace continues relentlessly, and thought luck is on the Monkey’s side, Monkeys are advised to scrutinize the small print in any business dealing as fraud and trickery are about this year. Otherwise, this is an auspicious time for those contemplating marriage. 

Rooster: For Roosters, this is a year for getting their shoulders to the wheel to ensure success. Unprofessional conduct, poor workmanship, or taking short-cuts is likely to backfire. Talking through problems could save a Rooster’s relationship.

Dog: The Dog’s own year promises to be an auspicious time when Dogs can recoup many of the losses they have incurred in recent times. Whatever their ambitions, they will find plenty of scope for making rapid progress and attaining the recognition they deserve. 

Boar: This year improves as it advances; early difficulties give way to later triumphs. Now is a good time to review your aims and objectives if you are a Boar, and to start making plans for the future. This is a particularly auspicious time for Boar people to consider marriage, moving, or starting a family. 

[junker-town]

Meet Sophia Smith, the 19-year-old phenom who’s the future of NWSL and the USWNT

The 19-year-old No. 1 overall pick in the NWSL Draft could be the future of the USWNT, and the Portland Thorns expect her to make an instant impact.

Sophia Smith doesn’t look like she’s running on grass, wearing cleats. She glides. Her movement and footwork resemble that of a figure skater. Trying to take the ball off her feet while she’s dribbling is like playing a rigged carnival game.

She’s a 19-year-old attacker with enough speed and skill that she could lean only on that and be effective, but she pairs those traits with tactical aptitude equivalent to many professional defenders. And on several occasions, she has outplayed the team that took her No. 1 overall in the NWSL Draft, the Portland Thorns.

“We’ve never been able to deal with her, playing against her when she was with the [United States] U-23s or U-20s,” Thorns head coach Mark Parsons told reporters after the draft. “We haven’t won many of those games when she was on the pitch, and she was often the reason.”

Smith has been assumed to be a future No. 1 overall draft pick since she was 16, well before she kicked a ball for Stanford. She always played up an age group, starring for the Under-17 national team at 15, then the Under-20 national team at 17. She was called up to a senior national team camp and scored for the Under-23s before she started college. Even if you’d never seen her play, it was clear that she had a pedigree to match any top prospect that came before her.

And yet, she’s taking an unprecedented path, a bit different from the three current USWNT players who turned pro before completing their NCAA eligibility. Lindsey Horan and Mallory Pugh skipped college soccer altogether, while Tierna Davidson had already played full national team matches before she made the decision to leave school early. Smith sits in the middle, a star for two years at the college level with no senior national team experience as of yet. Her immediate USWNT future is uncertain, even if she’s sure to have chances to prove herself to new coach Vlatko Andonovski over the next year.

Smith’s recent experience with the national team likely helped her decide the time was right to start her professional career. In December, she attended the USWNT’s Identification Camp, which featured college players and 14 professionals.

Smith discussed her future with Andonovski and USWNT general manager Kate Markgraf at that camp, but says they didn’t push her into any decisions, contrary to pre-draft speculation. “A lot of people thought that, but ultimately, it was just me following my heart and knowing what was best for me,” Smith said. She added, “This is the best time for me to take that next step and go to the next chapter of my life.”

The Thorns, who traded up to get Smith, did not need to make aggressive moves this winter. No one would have criticized the team for keeping most of its players, making a few low-key signings, and building on its four consecutive playoff appearances from within. But Parsons thinks Smith is a rare, exceptional talent, worth reshuffling his roster for. He gave up Emily Sonnett — a USWNT defender and former No. 1 overall pick herself — plus the rights to the No. 7 pick, No. 14 pick and Australia attacker Caitlin Foord, in order to draft Smith.

In college, Smith played alongside two-time Hermann Trophy winner Catarina Macario, one of the best players in college soccer history, and Madison Haley, who was also called into the USWNT’s December ID camp. Yet even with other stars around her trying to get their own shots off, Smith scored 17 goals in 21 matches last season, and produced about six shots per 90 minutes. Perennial NWSL Golden Boot candidates like Sam Kerr and Lynn Williams produced roughly four shots per 90 in their best pro seasons. Smith won’t match her college production in her first season of pro play, but it shows why she was so coveted.

Smith has the resume of a top prospect, but the thing that sets her apart, the reason the Thorns were willing to pay just about any price to get her, is her brain. There have been 19-year-olds with Smith’s measurable soccer skills before, but her personality and intelligence are rare for someone her age.

Parsons took the unusual step of going to that aforementioned December ID camp to get a closer look at Smith and Washington State forward Morgan Weaver, who the Thorns took No. 2 overall after another trade.

“I wanted to see who they talk to on the drinks break, who they get off the bus with. I wanted to see if they’re as special off the field as on the field,” Parsons said. His observations at the camp solidified his feeling that Smith had the personality to become a top professional player right away, and that the Thorns needed to trade up to get her.

“We were in a position to bring in a player that has a set of tools that not many other players have,” Parsons said. “Everyone will see her technical quality, her ability to create and finish, and score goals in multiple ways. Her athletic ability is unmatched. But that doesn’t matter if you don’t have the mentality and maturity that she already has. She’s got the most key things that we think make a special, world-class forward. We’ve been desperate for that for a long time.”

Smith’s understanding of what’s happening on the field is advanced. This interview, after her first college game, is an incredible example. Without the help of a coach, she identifies a shift in the opposition defense’s shape, and how she should have reacted to that shift.

The USWNT program has produced a lot of athletic superstar forwards who weren’t tactically intelligent until later in their careers. Mia Hamm is probably the most notable exception; she had an innate understanding of how to exploit space with off-the-ball movement in an era when tactical instruction in the women’s game was, sadly, not yet on par with the men’s game. Others made the most of their physical talents at the beginning of their careers before becoming complete players in their late 20s.

This trend is likely to change in the near future, starting with players like Smith. The USWNT is doing more video review with youth players than ever before, and the program’s coaches list “game understanding” first when discussing what they’re looking for in players. It probably also helped Smith that both Stanford and her youth club, Real Colorado, have a history of producing excellent professional players. That said, Smith has displayed an aptitude and predilection towards the tactical side of soccer that few players at her age could ever match.

“Sophie is in a place of being more immediately ready and Morgan [Weaver] is in a place of having incredible potential,” Parsons said about the two forwards he drafted, which is an incredible statement on its face, given the basic details of the two players. Smith is 19 years old, and not particularly big or strong. Weaver, meanwhile, is 22 years old, 5’10, and regularly bulldozed college center backs while carrying her team to four upset victories in the 2019 NCAA tournament. Portland is counting on at least one of the two producing in a big way next season.

Despite the Thorns’ consistent success under Parsons, the club has struggled to find the perfect fit for its striker position. Legendary Thorns and Canada forward Christine Sinclair has transitioned into an attacking midfield role as she has slowed down, becoming one of the best playmakers in NWSL. Denmark’s Nadia Nadim did an admirable job playing slightly out of position for a couple of years, but is probably better in a supportive role than she is leading the line up top. The Thorns hoped Switzerland international Ana-Maria Crnogorčević would be their missing piece, but she disappointed, scoring just six goals in two seasons. Midge Purce performed well when given chances at striker last season, scoring eight goals, but didn’t have the technical skills Parsons wanted for the role. He’s betting Smith has the exact right combination of speed, skill and intelligence to make his team better, after shuffling through predecessors who had no more than two of those three qualities.

Smith’s decision to turn pro is also happening at a critical time for the USWNT. Andonovski is happy with his options for the 2020 Olympics, but he’ll need to find some youth for his forward line heading into the next World Cup in 2023. Carli Lloyd is 37, Megan Rapinoe is 34 and four more of the team’s forwards are 30 or older. The USWNT will need to get younger starting in 2021. Giving playing time to young players will ensure they’re well-established and experienced in international play before the next World Cup rolls around, and Andonovski and Markgraf have clearly identified Smith as a leading candidate to move into the front line after the Olympics.

All of this is to say there’s a lot of pressure on Smith’s shoulders, but she isn’t showing any signs of being hindered by it. And perhaps more importantly, the experienced, qualified adults around her are convinced she’s ready for challenges well beyond those usually presented to people her age.

There are no sure things when it comes to evaluating teenagers in pro sports. There’s no accounting for injuries, setbacks in someone’s personal life, bad coaches or a person’s secretly held desire to do something else with their life. But Smith appears to be singular, both in talent and in character. She’s as mature, humble, confident and intelligent as 19-year-olds come.

It’s common to ask whether teenagers who take this leap are ready, but no one is questioning Sophie Smith.

[missingverse]

Missing Chapter Five

“I want to go to school with you tomorrow.”

Arnold started, and hoped she hadn't noticed. He had just come up from doing repairs on the pipes in the boiler room to find that Helga had done his English assignment on Shakespeare.

“I was supposed to be doing Othello....” he said weakly, hoping she'd forget what she had asked for.

“The Henriad is better,” she tossed out casually. “If you get asked any questions just talk about Falstaff. Everyone loves Falstaff. Anyway, I want to go to school with you tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I want to see everyone,” she shrugged. “That half-second look at the back of Rhonda's head got me curious.”

It would be disastrous, Arnold could feel it. Helga would know he had lied about Phoebe, and there's no telling what it would do to her incorporeal form. Something about the hills had shaken her, if she saw how Phoebe was now maybe she'd blink out of existence altogether. How could he take that risk?

“Isn't the school a bit far away? It's kind of risky...” he said.

“Maybe. But maybe Phoebe will be able to see me like you can,” Helga argued. “Or maybe she knows something. Have you asked her anything?”

She had a point. If anyone knew anything about Helga before she vanished, it would have been Phoebe.

“Fine,” he said after a long silence. She'd find out sooner or later, anyway.

She grinned and flopped down on the blanket nest on the sofa. Arnold noticed for the first time that the hem of her pink sundress, bordered by a girlish touch of eyelet lace, had a ragged tear at the back. It exposed a patch of bare leg which had a matching tear in the skin, a long wound that looked like it was still healing. The sight of it, and the grim thought that someone or something had ripped into her skin in this seldom-seen vulnerable place, brought a sudden lump to his throat that he tried hard to swallow.

“This is really good,” he said, gesturing to the (surprisingly thorough) report on the exploits of Prince Hal and Sir John Falstaff. “Better than I would have done on Othello...”

“Well, you were hardly going to get it finished at this time, were you?”

Indeed it was almost midnight, and he had only written a handful of words before he went downstairs to fix the plumbing.

“I was going to get up early and do it at breakfast,” he admitted. “I owe you one.”

She shrugged. Having noticed the tear on the back of the dress, his eyes now found something else; the left strap of her dress had been torn off, and was hanging across her chest. Usually the white sweater covered this spot. Distantly he wondered how close he would have to get to see other signs of a struggle.

“Why are you doing these repairs anyway? Shouldn't you have a plumber or something come in...?”

“This house is really old,” he explained. “Technically all the pipes and wiring should be replaced, but if we did that we might as well bulldoze the whole place and build it again from scratch. Hell, it'd be less expensive. Grandpa used to do all the repairs but his arthritis is pretty bad these days.”

Arthritis, and a stroke that had scared Phil halfway to his grave three years before. He'd been a lot less sprightly since, and healthy as he was for a man his age he was more nervous these days. Arnold had slowly taken on more and more responsibility for the boarding house until he was practically running it himself in between school and homework.

“I get that, but you're still a kid,” she told him sternly. “You can't do all of this and school too. When do you get time to do stupid teenage stuff?”

“I don't, really,” was his answer.

…..

The year after Helga vanished was a hard one. It was like a gloom had fallen over Hillwood itself, now that it had been put on the map by this nasty incident. Businesses closed or moved, tourism dropped, kids weren't allowed to wander around all over the town like they had done for years.

The boarding house was hit by a series of problems. The money they had raised to replace the old boiler and put some new insulation on the roof had been stolen by Oskar, who fled across state lines and wasn't heard from again. His long-suffering wife, heavily pregnant with her first child, moved back home to her parents' place in Nebraska, and the boarding house lost the small but much needed rent she brought in.

Ernie had a sudden heart attack on the job and died on the way to the hospital. To complicate matters, he had left his room in the boarding house in bad need of repair and they lost six months and a good chunk of their money fixing it up before they could rent it out again. The new boarders who took both of the unoccupied rooms kept to themselves, and the house lost much of the familial air that had sustained it.

They still had the rent from their tenants, mostly paid on time, but the boarding house was becoming more and more decrepit and it was costing more and more money to keep it ticking. Arnold spent most of that summer trying to teach himself advanced plumbing and electrical skills.

Gradually, his friends stopped calling him. Softball games in the alley were conducted without him, and even if they had asked he would have had to say no. No hanging out on the pier or in the park, he didn't have time. Rushing home after school to make sure nothing else had broken, and nobody expected him to stick around anyway. Gerald was loyal, for a while, but he had other things on his mind. One day Arnold turned thirteen and realized he had no friends left.

He muddled through middle school, and when high school started he at least tried to make friends with some of the other kids on the outside. These were kids who had been left back a grade or brought forward, transfer students and the overscheduled prodigies. They never went to each other's houses or met up on weekends, they were just friends for the few hours it took for the school day to be over.

And now, college was looming on the horizon, and Arnold just knew he wasn't going. No matter how good his grades were or even if he could win a scholarship as his form tutor hinted, if he left it would all fall apart. How could he leave?

…..

Helga jumped sprightly out of the bike's basket, clearly eager to get into the classroom even as Arnold dragged his feet. She followed him, impatiently tapping her feet, as he took books from his locker and exchanged a dull greeting with Parker, one of his school-time friends. She clearly didn't recognize Gerald, skulking in his usual spot in front of the door whistling at girls walking by.

As always, Rhonda was tapping at breakneck speed on her phone. Helga tiptoed up behind her to peer at what she was writing, and frowned when she saw it. When Rhonda finished whatever it was she was typing, she pulled out a small mirror and reapplied a thick coat of lip gloss.

“What's 'instagram'?” Helga asked, returning to Arnold's side.

He just shook his head and shrugged.

Harold blustered in on the heels of some of his equally boorish friends, slinking towards the back of the room with a lot of unecessary noise.

“He's thinner, at least,” Helga muttered.

The classroom filled slowly as the second bell rang, and Arnold began to think he had a stroke of luck and Phoebe would be absent. But she came in on the next wave and he didn't dare look at Helga for her reaction.

She looked worse than ever, if anything. Her sweater was stained, and she had pulled her hair back in a tight bun that only made her look more gaunt. A scab above her lip was healed over and flaking. She bumped against Rhonda's desk on the way to hers, knocking Rhonda's phone-tapping askew.

“For God's sake,” Rhonda growled in her cut-glass tone. “Go be an eyesore away from me, got it?”

A wave of laughter began from the girls gathered near the door and the boys in the back took it up, louder and cruder. Phoebe mumbled an apology and slunk to her desk, red-faced and on the verge of tears.

Arnold could practically feel Helga's rage radiating from her in waves. He looked over just in time to see her arm swipe through Rhonda's face, catching her phone with the tips of her fingers. The phone clattered to the ground. Rhonda picked it up, trying for nonchalance, but her face had gone pale and suddenly she looked frightened. Her eyes darted around the room, looking for something.

The teacher walked in at that point, and the laughter died down. Arnold felt Helga's eyes boring into him the whole lesson.

…..

He got an A+ on his report, thanks to Helga, which made him all the more guilt-ridden when she followed him into the seldom-used fourth floor bathroom and vented her anger at him.

“You lied to me,” she hissed. “You said she was fine!”

“I know,” he mumbled. “I'm sorry.”

“This is why you didn't want me to come with you,” she said. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“What good would it have done?” he asked her. “You would have wanted to do something about it, and you can't. I didn't want to upset you.”

She seemed solid enough, upset as she was. Even more solid, actually. She knew he had a point, but she refused to say it, storming over to the window and throwing it open with a flourish instead.

“Well, we have to do something,” she ground out. “I'm not leaving her like this. What happened to her?”

“She kind of fell apart after you disappeared,” Arnold told her.

“That can't be the only reason,” Helga argued. “Her mom and dad would have gotten counselling for her.”

“There was a ….thing with Gerald....”

“Thing? What thing?”

…..

Gerald and Phoebe had been half-dating, not fully in a relationship but spending a lot of time together, when they were eleven. There were times when it was more common to see Phoebe with Gerald than with Helga. Helga didn't seem bothered by it, as far as anyone knew.

Arnold had listened to Gerald talk about Phoebe for hours, how smart she was, how pretty and how unlike any of the other girls. Things he used to do with Arnold he now did with Phoebe, and Arnold was happy for him. Happy for them both.

In the aftermath of Helga's vanishing and Phoebe's breakdown, he stopped talking about her so much. If he mentioned her in passing while recounting some story, he doubled down and changed the subject. Arnold knew Phoebe had called him a lot during that time, and he knew Gerald let his phone ring out until she stopped calling. He stopped even looking at her as they walked past each other in the hall.

Arnold had always thought Gerald had his flaws but was a decent guy. He was relieved when Gerald stopped calling him too, because he could hardly keep the disgust out of his voice when he talked to or about his former best friend.

…..

Helga had been quiet all night, pacing around Arnold's room restlessly. He was trying to study the operator's manual for the fuse box in the basement but he couldn't help watching her move around. More and more he was noticing little things he hadn't seen before, tiny possible clues.

The sweater had one sleeve rolled up, the other drooped down over her knuckles. A hair tie was wrapped around her arm.

The sundress had another tear, at the waist, hidden by the sweater unless she was moving around.

The one shoe had grass stains, the laces were untied. She wasn't wearing socks.

A blue bra strap was just about visible in the place that would have been covered by the broken strap of the dress.

Her hair was matted a little at the back. Some of it had been cut at an awkward angle.

“Ah!” she cried suddenly, and he jumped. “I just remembered....”

“Remembered?” he said, hopefully.

“Not anything recent,” she told him. “But something that might help Phoebe. I need you to give something to her.”

“Sure,” he said, although he didn't know if Phoebe would even talk to him long enough to give her anything. “What is it?”

“It's at my house. We have to go there first. Did anyone new move in?”

“No, it's been abandoned. It's boarded up.”

“Perfect,” she said, as though she hadn't just heard that her childhood home was abandoned. It just proved how few good memories she had of the place.

They waited until midnight to make the trip over. Helga phased through the back door and let Arnold in with his flashlight. The beam of light glanced over tipped-over glass bottles and empty food containers, old newspapers and black bags of trash piled up in the corners. The house smelled of decay, but it didn't seem to bother Helga in the slightest. For Arnold, who sometimes found himself tearful when thinking about how bad the boarding house was getting, it was incredibly sad.

Helga went straight for the stairs and he followed her up, and then into her old bedroom. She phased through the closet door and he heard her rummage around in there, talking softly to herself.

Her room was even sadder than the kitchen. Her bed was unmade, probably just as she'd left it, in a faded old comforter and a bare pillow. Her desk was coated with dust, decorated by two small ornaments that had probably been gifts from Phoebe. There was a single rag doll on the windowsill, a handful of old books on the shelf, a worn out rug on the floor and a hairbrush poking out from under the bed. These were meagre signs that a young girl had lived in this room.

“Found it!” she called from inside the closet. “Open the door!”

He opened the closet door and she pushed out a medium-sized wooden box with a sliding lid. The logo of a wineseller was embossed on the front.

“What's in it?” he asked, reaching for the lid.

Helga smacked his hand, lightly but hard enough to sting just a bit.

“Not your business,” she told him smoothly. “It's for Phoebe. You can't tell her what's in here, she has to see it for herself.”

“Okay,” Arnold muttered. “Is she going to know what to do with it?”

“Of course. Tell her that Helga wanted her to have it.”

[andburning]

The Exhaustive Train of Queer Decision Making

I remember watching Night of the Living Dead for the first time in my mid twenties and thinking to myself that I empathised deeply with those terrified people, trapped in a farmhouse late at night, surrounded by a horde of ghoulish creatures, shambling around looking every bit like normal people at first glance . I thought to myself — this is what it feels like to be at odds with society. This is how it feels when you’re the ones who don’t fit in. It feels like being locked in a small house, surrounded by a mob of ghouls, hungry for your flesh. It is difficult to express sometimes how it feels to have such a core part of your being be regarded as outside of what is ’normal’.  A lot of my experience of being queer, gender non conforming, or a faggot in general, is just being tired. Tired all the time. Everything is exhausting. Unimaginably so. I imagine that the experiences of all oppressed peoples align on this at some point. I used to be angry, and hold my ground, and speak my mind. But more and more these days, it feels like a war of attrition. It feels like a siege. I feel like those people trapped in that farm house in Night of the Living Dead, hounded by ordinary looking people, pounding at the doors and clawing at the windows. Once I had the desire to fight but now, I am older, and have lost the belly fire, and I’m just so, deeply, deeply tired.

Small things become huge ordeals when you do not conform. Things that for many people are utterly inconsequential for me have associated mental risk-assessments. Just a simple thing as mentioning a partner in passing becomes a small puzzle to navigate. Which word should I use? Should I use ‘partner’ in order to obfuscate my meaning, or should I just bulldoze the status quo and just say boyfriend? This again becomes even more calamitous if my current partner is also gender non-conforming and doesn’t want to be called a boyfriend or girlfriend because of the gender implications. I have learned to make these risk assessments very quickly. Who am I talking to? Is the conversation casual or formal? Who else is in the room? How likely am I to be grilled on my life experience? This is all the work that goes into the sentence: “I’m having dinner with my boyfriend tonight”.  Simple things. The way we sometimes frame ‘coming out’ is as a thing you do once, at sixteen, when you sit down with your mum and dad or parental guardian or whatever, and you admit that you’re a massive faggot and that you want to kiss boys instead of girls. Or vice versa. Or maybe you want to kiss both. Whatever it is, you have a sexuality (or gender identity) which is outside the heteronormative expectation.  It is, however, not as simple. It is sadly not something you can pluck up the courage for (what a brutal thing to expect young queer kids to go through by the way) perform once (and it is a performance) and be done with.  Coming out is something that must be done over and over and over again. It is something that happens whenever we meet new people. Whenever we start a new job. Whenever we join a new school. Whenever we take up a martial arts class, or a pottery class.  No matter how far in life we get, how comfortable we are — in any new experience, any new group, any new situation — until we have revealed that we are gay or queer or transgender or whatever — we are back ‘in the closet’; and it is as uncomfortable and lonely as it was when we were thirteen years old deleting our browser history on the family computer at one o’clock in the morning.  Isolation, and loneliness, and fear are part and parcel of being queer in the world we live in.  

And once again, every time we have to come out all over again, even if we want to, even if we are excited and proud to do so, we must make another internal risk assessment. Usually we will leave it a while before we admit to our sinful difference when starting a new job — scoping the territory, getting the lay of the land. We scope out who seems like a safe bet — “that person seems not too stern, they’re fairly young, they wear fashionable clothes, they seem like they’re probably not a bigot — not like that old grim looking man with the too tight necktie and the corduroy — he seems like a real fag basher”. I am being hyperbolic but also not quite. Sometimes it is often that black and white.

 In the workplace — or in school — these things matter but there are levels of protection.  There are rules in place that everyone needs to abide by. It’s unlikely that someone will just get up and sock me in the jaw in the middle of the office. Unlikely but it could still happen.

Coming out in public is an altogether different experience. The risk assessment process has to be completed quickly, and repeated, over and over, on a street by street basis.  It’s impossible to walk down the street side by side with my partner without constantly thinking about what everyone around me is thinking. Very small things, things we should take for granted, are calculated and considered. Holding hands, a peck on the cheek, hugging before they step onto the train, an arm around the waist.  It’s so deeply tiring to not be able to do these things without having to first scan the crowd around me and think about the consequences of my indiscretion. I have held many of my boyfriends’ hands in public and every time it felt like I was breaking some rule, engaging in something taboo — something filthy and sinful. It’s taken me a long time to realise that this is not my own personal moral failing but the moral failing of the society that ostracises and makes pariahs out of gays, lesbians, and transgender people. 

 The way queer people have been depicted in culture has been by and large a vision of Sodom and Gomorrah: fornicators, sexual deviants, something that needs to be cured, or wiped out, or punished. We are to be kept away from children, and the vulnerable. Growing up with this as a framework is hard work.  I remember feeling so utterly alone as a teenager, not knowing anyone who was like me, not knowing who I could talk to, not knowing what to do. I very clumsily came out quite early at school.  I remember ‘gay’ being thrown around as a pejorative in the same way I imagine a lot of people my age remember it. I was in a fairly unique position in my school in that I was exceptionally tall for my age and pretty much as open about being gay as a fourteen year old can be (in that I didn’t understand it at all but it was 2002 so we all knew who Graham Norton was).  Gay was something to be avoided. It meant you were lesser. It meant you weren’t a real boy. It meant you were a pansy, a girl, a sissy.  The truth is we were all of us working on the information we had at hand.  We all heard our family members subtly reinforcing this narrative at home whenever Dale Winton or Lilly Savage came on the television on Saturday Night.   All of us grew up in families that had lived through the AIDS crisis and the moral panics of the 60s and 70s. I heard stories about how my grandmother refused to visit her local hair salon for months after she found out her hairdresser was gay. I remember watching a television programme when I was a teenager. A gay character on screen kissed his partner. My grandfather, whom I loved dearly, said nothing and simply walked out of the room. It hurt me very deeply.

Both my grandparents are dead now and I never told them that I was gay.  I never felt I had the time, or the words. It never felt like the right place. I never felt like I had the right reason. It always felt narcissistic of me.  I remember when my grandmother was dying I visited her one last time in hospital and I regretted not talking about it then. I regretted it at the time but now, nearly ten years later I think I probably made the right decision. It was as my grandmother lay dying though that I came out to my mother. I was twenty-one. Something about the situation made me feel like I should be open finally about who I was.  I don’t regret not telling my grandparents I was gay — firstly because it would have caused extra tension and emotional difficulties which I already had enough of as a teenager to be perfectly honest, and secondly because it wouldn’t have made me feel much closer to them anyway.  What I do regret however is that it’s something that I even had to consider. I regret growing up in a world where that was something I had to keep secret. I regret growing up surrounded by people who made it very clear to me that they would be ashamed of me were I to reveal myself to be ‘one of those’.  I resent that I had to put up with that.  When I came out to my mother, both of us sat on my bed while everyone else was downstairs, she said something to me that glanced off my hardened emotional armour at the time, but that has since wormed its way inside me like an ancient piece of shrapnel in an old soldier — she said “I always knew”.  It meant nothing at the time. These were words I had come to expect.  The more I think about it, and I think more about it the older I get, I start to wonder to myself — if she always knew, why didn’t she help me? Why wasn’t she the emotional support society and the media and my school and my friends weren’t? It hurts now to think how much she left me to suffer alone in the darkness of my bedroom at night, thinking I was never going to feel the sort of love that everyone else got to. 

I still feel like those people trapped in the house, surrounded by zombies. Sometimes I worry that the further we progress towards liberation, the more precarious our situation. The height we climb is equal to the potential distance we could fall. In the last couple of years the struggle for queer liberation was focussed specifically on so-called ‘same sex marriage’ — the right for someone to marry a person of the same sex as themself.  It was a fight for me that felt like it had no particular weight.  Of course I feel I should be able to marry another person of my sex, should I choose to, and so should everyone else, but it felt like it didn’t address the real and tangible inequalities which add to a profile of persecution. A gay couple, married, perhaps even with children, will walk down the street making those same risk assessments as I do with my boyfriend, to whom I am not married. Very little has changed.  I still don’t feel safe. Every time I see a news story from the United States about the moves that administration is making towards curbing LGBTQ rights, when I see fascists being elected on ‘family values’ tickets in Brazil, or when I see opinion pieces in the Guardian claiming that giving trans people the right to claim their own identity is a moral dilemma here in Britain, I am reminded that we have so much to lose, and our victories are precarious and must be defended.  When the National Socialist party burned books in Germany in the 1930s, many of the books they burned contained over a decade worth of progressive research into sexuality and gender studies from the library of Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld and the archives of the Institute for Sexual Sciences in Berlin.  It is impossible to not remind myself of this, when my thinking gets complacent, when I think that what we have achieved can never be taken away. It is a terrifying thought, but it keeps me vigilant, and lights the fire within me to push harder always for the liberation of people like me. I think always to the future when we might live in a world where queer people can kiss in public, hold hands in public, and feel shame only for the tweeness of showing affection in public, not for who they are showing that affection to.  I don’t want the next generation to grow up feeling like those people trapped in a house, surrounded by ghouls, I want us to be able to grow up feeling comfortable with who we are, to be who we are without fear of reprisal.  I want to live in that world now.  There is still much work to do but I am no longer a scared and lonely little boy who can’t tell people who they are.  I want to know that there is a time, not long from now I hope, where we won’t have to worry about being who we are, and we won’t have to regret not having been honest and open about who we love.