#since those relationships ARE their business and so much of the underlying politics

[k-s-morgan]

Is the erased memory that of his mother??

I'm thinking it's either that or Snape's famous 'Always' and the memory it's part of.

If it is either one of those or another one, why did you pick it and is there an underlying implication to a real change in Harry's way of thinking?

Loved the chapter :)

Another ask: Hello, thank you very much for the last chapter! Can you please tell us which memory did Harry remove?

Another ask: oh my goodness, that last chapter was absolutely breathtaking! this has probably been asked already but could you tell us, if you even know yourself, what was the memory that Harry erased instead of going through will the full mind-wipe? im so curious! <3

Another ask: want to save a proper review for the ao3 page, but i wonder how many messages you would get over time after that last wonderful whgtb chapter that's tricky to answer without giving away spoilers… would you feel ok to let readers know under a read more cut - the answer to one of the last burning questions tom threw at harry? and what in your mind would be the fate of dumbledore and the black family? in any case… wow, thank you so much again, and all the best wishes <3

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Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, and @imogenesis thank you for leaving your thoughts in the notes so frequently! Seeing your name in my notifications is always a great pleasure.

So, the biggest question is about the memory that Harry erased: I left this one open on purpose because I want my readers to pick their preferred option! Personally, I can offer three ideas:

1) Snape's love for Lily. I think it would make sense for Harry's mind to jump from Tom to the memories about another tragic love story with unhealthy and obsessive components, a doomed relationship that Dumbledore never understood entirely, as the "always" conversation with Snape demonstrated. This would be sad because in a way, Harry would lose one of the few links with his mother, the memories about her childhood and her complex relationship with Snape that Harry could draw some parallels with. Sooner or later, he would realize that he has no idea why Snape was on their side, and he'd drive himself crazy with frustration as this would be something he'd never get answers to.

2) The specifics and the aspects of Tom's ritual that restrict Harry from ever having a romantic & sexual relationship with anyone else. He felt extremely bitter and betrayed over this in particular, and with his talk about freedom right before Obliviating himself, this could be something that his mind snapped to. I imagine there would be a fall-out once Harry figured it out - Tom would be reluctant, but he would tell him the truth, and Harry would have to undergo the feelings of hurt and betrayal again. The consequences wouldn't be long-lasting, though, since Harry would understand that it's still in the past and that he already sort of got over it once.

3) Some small thing about Tom. For example, that he's afraid of being tickled; his favorite meal; the date of his birthday, etc. Harry would derive great pleasure from rediscovering it.

I lean toward the third option, but my mind is not set on this, I wanted it to be a mystery for myself, too. If I end up writing a chapter with short scenes from the future, I'll probably decide on something by then))

Third anon: by the 'burning question,' I assume you meant the erased memory, too? If not, please let me know! As for your other questions: I think Dumbledore will have a quiet, half-confused life, retiring early and just enjoying himself as much as he can. He will keep an eye on political events but he won't feel overly concerned based on what he'll be witnessing.

With the Blacks, I think Sirius will be born one day. Alphard will be too busy being active in political arena and exploring his interests, so he won't have children, and upon Sirius' birth, they'll become extremely close.

[utilitycaster]

Hello I would love to hear you thoughts on Caduceus and his arc. Clay is the only character who’s story has made me cry genuine tears (when he got his fam back) and I feel like his nuances and the changes he goes through tend to be overlooked a lot, exactly because of how quietly they happen.

Of course!

So as Taliesin said a few times and as I've pointed out, Caduceus (and Molly for that matter) was intended to be a static character. Obviously this is an impossibility in D&D because things happen and you cannot control it and moreover I am sure Taliesin is aware of this, so it's more that the intent was to have a character who did not feel they needed to change, possibly in contrast with Percy, who absolutely felt he needed to change. A self-proclaimed static character still needs a reason to be static: Molly's philosophy was, as notably stated on talks, "Life's short...do something to a bagel" and more generally the lack of need for change came from this sort of aimless and benevolent-when-convenient hedonism. Caduceus, on the other hand, is secure in his purpose. He has known who he was supposed to be for his whole life, and he embraces it, and sees no reason to change, until he absolutely has to, and even then he is deeply reluctant.

Caduceus is about what happens when your comfort zone and guiding principles themselves fold in on each other and are like "hey. expand us or else."

I think a lot of people have rightfully noted that from his appearance through the Xhorhas arc, Caduceus sees the rest of the Nein as mourners, and that's within his comfort zone. Sure, there are some moral quandaries at the docks of Nicodranas, but he's able to get through that (in part because he's in the Mighty Nein but isn't personally stealing the ship, in part because of Jester's talk with him). I think it's also worth noting that while Caduceus is extremely insightful he is not superhuman (super firbolgian?) in that regard; it is the insight borne of being someone who is there for mourners and so he has a good eye for emotions, less so for motivations, and a lot of the Nein's motivations early on escape him.

The first wave of big changes happen in Bazzoxan and the immediate aftermath. First, Fjord confides in him and asks for advice - and Caduceus is used to giving advice but I'm not sure he's ever had to offer religious practice advice, as the people he would have interacted with would have either been the sketchy people of Shady Creek Run, or else people already faithful enough to seek the Blooming Grove. And second, the party finds itself directionless for a time; there is no pressing business or better ideas and he cannot hide his own mission behind someone else's, so he voices his recommendation that they come clean to the Bright Queen, and then they go to the kiln.

Caduceus's relationship with Fjord I think is useful to bring up in a sense of contrast, in that Caduceus is incredibly good at helping Fjord through a crisis, because Caduceus is trained for crisis - but it gets much hazier once Fjord is out of said crisis and as it turns out has a very different relationship with the Wildmother, and I think this comes up to an extent when they talk in Rexxentrum. I think Caduceus, for all his talk of nature's violence, struggles with the concept of nature being malevolent or having goals - it just is. Whereas Fjord is much more comfortable with the idea of nature perhaps being a force that is itself a threat, or deceptive, and more generally with the idea of nature as somewhat unknowable and full of mysteries. I don't think Caduceus's personal view of nature ever changes, but I think his ability to process that he doesn't have the answers even in the areas within his comfort zone improves, and this is something of an inflection point with regards to him acknowledging new perspectives on his own comfort zone.

It's also a little before this that we see Caduceus reveal vulnerability for the first real time since his panic attack on the boat right after they stole it, when he confides in The Gentleman. Some of this is a calculated social move, to be fair, but it's a notable step forward.

That said it takes a while to change and he spends a few days post-Rexxentrum doing anything to avoid facing his own mission. It's worth noting that Caduceus is a cleric of the same level as Jester, and could have cast sending before the party ever met up with him, and he never did. So they go to Beau's father and Isharnai first, putting it off as long as he can.

Caduceus's scenes with his family sort of snap all of the above into place, in that his parents are glad he's spent some time in the world and are completely accepting of his desire to keep going for a time. I'm honestly not sure, myself, why he does this because I don't think it's metagaming (ie, it's not Taliesin going 'I can't make a third character') but I think there are multiple valid interpretations. Caduceus's role, as the one who stays at home, is ultimately a self-imposed one.

He sort of mulls on that for the next while, sort of uncomfortably internalizing differing perspectives on deities with the Artagan reveal/Rumblecusp and additionally processing his own deeper relationship with the Wildmother, with multiple visions, and maybe even the fact that nature constantly wants to murder him.

Then we get to Eiselcross and that's when it all hits. I think as soon as he sees the corrupted trees he gets a sense of the scale, that this corruption is not just unnatural but it is ancient and has been a threat for a long time and that staving it off at the Blooming Grove is not getting at the unknown, underlying source (which he probably knew deep down, but as discussed above he does not really love to admit those things to himself). And he realizes that he might need to be the one not just to commit but to initiate violence, as the person with no emotional ties to Lucien via Molly; he finds himself bending his own moral rules for the greater good more; and I think this is when he realizes either that he needs to change, or perhaps that he's been changing quietly and slowly the whole time and has just been terrified to admit it.

The last night at the Blooming Grove before the final push into Aeor is another good look at Caduceus, who, like a number of characters in this campaign, is so very much defined by his ongoing and important familial relationships. We get a brief but heartbreaking glimpse at the state he was in prior to the Nein showing up in the garden, and how he was trying to induce something, anything, to give him direction because he didn't trust himself to leave without that assurance; and his admission, finally, to someone else of that change, that he never wanted to be the person to go on an adventure, that he still has very mixed feelings about it, but that this is his responsibility. And it's that which allows him to confidently say, on Cognouza, that it's time to end this shit.

In short (Clue the Movie voice: too late) Caduceus's arc is someone who has always believed in his sacred, literally god-given responsibility into which he was born, and struggles against the fact that said sacred responsibility ends up being quite different than what he expected but ultimately is able to accept it, and his reward is that he can return to the responsibility he initially embraced, having grown in ways he could not have otherwise.

Now, I think part of why Caduceus's arc gets overlooked is twofold. The first reason is that background arcs are, well, background, and it's quiet and subtle and highly internal and hard to turn into big dramatic moments, which, as a person whose favorite C1 character is Vex, I understand, but also those arcs are the best.

The second, and this is going to sound even more "I appreciate the muppets on a much deeper level than you" than the first, is that I feel a lot of people who considered Caduceus their favorite character did lean into the myth of "superfirbolgian" insight when the fact always was that Caduceus had no interest in the political; did not make Trent quake in his wizard robes in the slightest as was confirmed in the finale; and ultimately wanted most of all to return to his home.

It's a very true and very unique choice and if I may [note: I am writing this so I do what I want] I think a lot of people did not understand Caduceus in that they felt his ending was unhappy for him, and some of this is that people had really stupid takes on the party splitting at the end. I have mixed feelings on the true universality of the Campbellian Monomyth and even more mixed feelings on everyone giving Dan Harmon tons of credit for merely rephrasing it but despite that, Caduceus's arc fits it perfectly (and very literally): comfort zone -> need arises -> unfamiliar situation -> adaptation -> gets what he wants -> at a price -> returns to comfort -> having changed.

[nevertheless-moving]

Star Wars AU #20: MacenJar AU

Inspired by this meme and with permission from @simpskywalker

This au is dedicated to everyone who told me that this concept ‘gave them a headache’ or ‘psychic damage’. Especially that special someone who begged me to ‘please stop’ because ‘i hate this, i hate this so much’ and told me ‘please don’t say more words about this.’

Crack Lies Ahead, enough to consume a man. I have spoken.

“Ani. Ani. Anakin Skywalker.”

“Hmm?” The dulcet sounds of Padme calling his name dragged Anakin from sleep against his will. 

“Anakin, you have to get up.”

He groaned, rolling over. “...here’s my face...I’ll...be awake in a second...just sit down...I’m awake...”

“No, Anakin you have to leave, remember. You have a 5 AM take-off scheduled, and you made me promise I would get you up early this time, come on.”

She cruelly yanked the covers away. He gasped in betrayal. 

“My own wife...how could you.”

“Anakin if you’re not out of bed in the next 30 seconds the next time you beg to stay the night because ‘you can get up early, you swear’ I am kicking you out before anyone sits anywhere near anyone’s face, do you understand.”

He sat bolt upright and stumbled out of bed. “Ok, Ok, I’m up I- Padme!”

“Yes?” She asked sweetly, brushing her hair at the vanity. 

“It’s 3 AM!”

“Yes I know, you were going to stop at that bakery I recommended, remember?”

“You woke me up an hour and half early so I could stop at a bakery,” he asked, disbelieving.

“Yes, Anakin, it was your idea. It was going to be your cover, in case anyone wondered what you were doing in the building.”

“That is-” before he could call it the stupidest idea he had ever heard, the memory of promising Padme that staying the night was a good idea because it would facilitate his cunning ruse (he was distracted, ok? Padme was wearing a lot of layers) came rushing back.

“-right,” he finished lamely.

Padme just hummed and began braiding in her cosmetic forcefields. 

Anakin managed to stretch, complete his morning refresher run, and arrange his robes in a suitably decorous fashion by the time Padme had established the base layer of her hairstyle for the day.

A quick kiss- no goodbye, it hurt too much to say goodbyes in war - and Anakin was out the door. 

He idly scratched his chin, vacantly looking out the lift and vaguely considering growing a beard. The pre-dawn view was quickly replaced by metal walls as the ride dropped below the skyline.

The transparisteel pod began to slow scarcely one third of the way down. Anakin suppressed a groan and tried to arrange his expression in Jedi-stoic manner, hoping that whoever got in the lift with him would be too intimidated by seeing a Jedi close-up to think about what they were doing in a Senatorial Apartment building at 3:15 in the morning. If they ask, I’m visiting the famous Bebbisun Bakery. Bennison? BELLASAN. I’m visiting the Bellasan Bakery.

Actually, anyone getting into the elevator this early was probably also doing the walk of shame so it’s probably fi-KRIFFING SITH SPIT THAT’S

“Master Windu!” Anakin cleared his throat, trying to lower his voice an octave. “Good- Good Morning!”

Windu’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Ah. Knight Skywalker. Good morning to you as well,” he replied, stepping in the elevator, doors closing behind.

The lift descended as Anakin’s heart rate skyrocketed. This was it. Windu had to be here for Anakin. What other possible explanation could there be? WHY WASN’T HE SAYING ANYTHING?

Wait.

What other possible explanation...could...why wasn’t he saying ANYTHING?

Anakin scrutinized Master Windu out of the corner of his eye. Were those...the same robes he was wearing yesterday? They looked like the same robes but then again...pretty much all robes looked the same so this was probably a stupid way to figure things out. Fuck, it was too early for this.

Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t get a sense of the Master’s surface emotions. But his underlying aura seemed...happy? Typically Windu's serene presence had a tinge of righteous fury (something that had frightened him back when he was a child). But now that ever present vaapad edge was... softened? Anakin wracked his tired brain for a more reasonable explanation than- than the obvious but obviously impossible. He had to projecting. Right? Then again...couplings weren’t forbidden (even if Anakin couldn’t quite understand how people enjoyed just- having sex without any attachment).

The corners of Anakin’s lips twitched. The Master of the Order. Getting laid. Master Windu. In the Senatorial apartments. Mace Windu. What level had he gotten on? Above aides...diplomats probably. Should he ask? Force, this was too good- he couldn’t not ask.

Windu stared at him cooly and the knight instantly sobered. What was he thinking? Windu was obviously trying to trick him! If he said anything, Windu would turn it against him! Well, he wouldn’t be fooled so easily. Anakin spent the next several levels of descent staring forward, determined not to be the one to break the silence. 

He was so focused that he didn’t notice the lift slowing prematurely again until the doors opened; an elderly Rodian hobbled in. The two Jedi moved even further apart to allow the man some space.  The lift closed and newcomer glanced at the humans curiously. 

“Aren’t you Jedi? What are two Jedi doing here so early?”

“Bakery,” Mace and Anakin responded in unison, heads snapping to stare at the other in surprise.

The Rodian chuckled. “Oh, that Bellasan place, right?”

“Yes,” Windu replied smoothly. “They have a famously unique caf blend.”

“And you can’t get Sweesonberry rolls anywhere else,” Anakin added quickly, not letting the opportunity to firm up his cover go to waste.

“You mammals and your carbohydrates,” The elderly reptilian clucked, bemused.

Knight Skywalker and Master Windu exchanged wary looks. The door pinged open on level 4848. 

“Enjoy!” the overly entertained Rodian called out as they stepped out from the closing doors.

Anakin cleared his throat. “After you, Master Windu,” he said politely. CHECKMATE FUCKER.

But Windu just nodded serenely, striding confidently ahead, past the checkpoints and into the attached upper-crust market. After a very short walk, Anakin found himself in line behind Mace Windu at a pastry shop in the basement of his wife’s apartment building.

Anakin blearily thought that sentence through again, then subtly pinched the inside of his arm.

Nope, he was awake.

Every second that passed Anakin had to fight the steadily increasing urge to blurt out something stupid, and possibly incriminating, if not both. Just say something bland! Nothing about why they’re both here so early. Nothing about coming here before. Something casual.

“Smells good,” Anakin said.

Nailed it!

“Indeed,” Mace replied.

I’m a genius! He actually thinks I’m here for the bakery! He’s never going to suspect a thing! He was probably here for some boring pre-dawn meeting, and now I’ve got the perfect excuse to come visit Padme whenever! I can probably start sneaking off more often, I’ve just got to remember to bring back a pasty or something. And he can’t even say shit about un-Jedi like consumption!

“Skywalker-”

Oh no. Please be about the bakery. Pleasebeaboutthe

“Believe me when I tell you that I’d rather not ask-”

Oh NO. THIS ISN’T GOING TO BE ABOUT THE BAKERY. I’M AN IDIOT.

“-But did you fly here in a temple speeder?”

Cold sweat started to trickle down Anakin’s back as they shuffled forward automatically in the surprisingly long queue. Guess that’s why Padme woke me up so early.

“Knight Skywalker? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Master Windu, sorry- I was, uh, distracted by the specials board. I, um, have my own hoverbike. Built it myself. No temple resources involved.”

“Sounds...distinctive.” Windu’s tone seemed neutral, but the way he pinched the bridge of his nose was obviously irritated. They stepped forward again. Why are so many people at this bakery so early? Guess we’re far enough down that day/night cycles don’t matter so much. Oh kriff, he’s massaging his temples now. Why is he mad about the bike? Is he going to ask where I landed it? Fuck.

Anakin swallowed the lump in his throat. “I- I thought it would be better to take personal property. Since this isn’t exactly order business.”

“That’s very responsible of you. Such...separation of personal from professional is an important skill for a Jedi.” 

The trickle of sweat down his spine increased. The Chosen One discretely wiped his sweaty palms on the inside of his sleeves and prayed that his outer robe was hiding any growing pit stains. 

Are we...actually talking about this? Is he going to admit to having an affair? Is he going to tell me to keep this quiet? I CAN BARELY KEEP MY OWN RELATIONSHIP SECRET! Does he know about Padme? Does he know we’re married? Is this conversation still about the bakery visit? Is HE married?

“However...such a vehicle might not be the most discrete. And discretion is also an important skill.”

Is he giving me permission to use the temple landspeeders to visit padme? Is he telling me to take the bus? WAIT! IS THIS A METAPHOR? Is he telling me to come here less? Is this still about the bakery? Did I actually check that I wasn’t still asleep or did I just dream that I checked?

“Do you understand, Knight Skywalker”

“I- uhh. I mean- well, ummm- OH look, it’s your turn to order!”

Master Windu stepped up to the counter. 

“Hello, again! Same as last time?”

OH FORCE GODS HE’S A REGULAR. THIS IS IT. I’M NEVER GOING TO GET TO SEE OBI-WAN OR ASHOKA AGAIN AND PADME’S CAREER IS GOING TO BE RUINED AND

“The same blend please, but please add on one of your Sweesonberry rolls- a friend recommended them.”

...Did Mace Windu just call me his friend?

“Excellent choice! Your friend has good taste!”

Mace Windu stepped to the side and Anakin Skywalker stepped up. “...I’ll have what he had.” 

A minute or two later, they were walking back to the lift, matching disposamugs and flimsibags in hand. 

To try and delay the inevitable, the pale and now very sweaty young Jedi took a sip of caf. He raised both brows involuntary. “This is...really good. Holy kriff. I don’t usually drink caf for the flavor but...wow.”

“Worth the trip?” Windu asked. Anakin choked a little but successfully managed to swallow. He took another sip to avoid answering. 

Windu took a bite of his roll, making a small noise of appreciation, “The pastry is also excellent. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth but this is remarkably smooth...I can’t say I’ve ever had anything quite like it.”

“Floral, right?” Anakin said, grinning into his cup. 

“Yes, that’s a good description.” Ha! I told Padme I was paying attention.

They drank companionably as the lift indicator dinged closer. 

“Skywalker...you’re parked on 4970, right?”

The knight nodded, too afraid to speak. The force seemed to swirl at the precipice of something. 

The Master sighed. “Look- I’ve got an unregistered van- this one time only, stow the speeder, and I’ll give you a ride back. If you’re visiting the bakery in the future- please take something with a closed cab. Last thing we need is the tabloids wondering where you’re going...”

Anakin nodded again, more eagerly again. He was practically being given permission to visit Padme! That was totally worth an excruciatingly awkward flight back to the temple! He just had to chew slowly so he couldn’t blurt out anything marriage related! He was a genius!

The lift opened.

“Jar-Jar!” Anakin said, surprised and pleased. “Wow, are you also here for the bakery? This place really is popular!”

“Ani! Little Ani! Wassa you doin here?” Jar-Jar looked around wildly, then stumbled out, foot catching at the gap. Windu darted forward and effortlessly saved the Gungan before he hit the floor, while Anakin stuck his arm forward to catch the closing door.

“Bakery, Jar Jar!” he said as he stepped inside. “I’d love to talk, but we’ve actually got to get back to the temple!”

Windu struggled to untangle himself from Jar-Jar, who was being particularly unhelpful about it, even for him. Wow he’s even clingier than usual this early in the morning. It’s nice how patient Master Windu is being; I feel like even Obi-Wan can be too hard on Jar-Jar sometimes.

“Actually Skywalker, why don’t you go on ahead and stow the bike- I just remembered I meant to pick something up for Council; I won’t take long.”

“Uh. Alright,” Anakin said, catching the keys. I guess I can’t really be late if I arrive with Master Windu.

“Ossa no!” Jar-Jar exclaimed sadly. “I was justa saying to Macey lassa night thatsa I missed talkin wit little Ani!”

Anakin smiled reassuringly as the lift began to close. “Don’t worry Jar-Jar! We’ll- catch uh-HOLD ON did you say LAST NIGHT?!”

Mace’s eyes closed in resignation as the door shut on the pair, Jar-Jar still tangled around the Jedi.

AND MACE WASN’T EVEN TRYING TO PUT HIM BACK UPRIGHT ANYMORE HOLY KRIFF JUST PUT THAT TOGETHER.

Anakin stared blankly at the metal walls as they rushed past. The lone Jedi Knight took a long sip of caff, then carefully placed the pastry bag and drink on the floor. He systematically wadded up the sleeve of his robe and shoved in his mouth. He then spent the next few minutes squealing with unholy glee while literally bouncing off the walls in a manner only accessible to a force sensitive in an elevator. He was still panting slightly when the lift opened on the primary parking level.

We can double date! Padme and I can host! I can help Mace and Jar-Jar plan their wedding! We can reform the order to allow for romantic love! I can be Jar-Jar’s best man! Padme and I can have another ceremony and Obi-Wan can give me away while Mace officiates and  and then we’ll all have sweesonbury cake and Jar-Jar can help teach our kids how to swim! 

With those dreamy thoughts running through his mind, it was child’s work to follow the the force to the unremarkable hovervan. He was humming to himself when Master Windu opened the door. 

He beamed at the older Jedi. Windu scowled in reply. Anakin smiled wider, unintimidated. He genuinely liked the Gungan, but anyone who could spend hours with Jar-Jar had to have a soft side.

“You know, Jar-Jar is a long time friend of Senator-”

“No.” Windu cut the eager words brusquely. 

Anakin shrank back, a little hurt.

(Maybe a lot hurt.)

Mace glanced over at the obviously crestfallen young General and sighed before amending his words.

“Not- Not right now, alright? Maybe if you’re miraculously more discrete about this than you are about your affection for Senator Amidala, then we can talk, understood?”

Anakin nodded with absolute determination, glimmering images of fairytale weddings visible once more. Distant, perhaps- but the chance was worth any amount of tongue biting. Now that there was a real, possible future where he could have it all, now that he knew Windu had a heart somewhere under his robes- he could be patient. 

He could be very patient.

Anakin calmed his grin down to a smaller, more Jedi-like smile, taking a sip of the cool but still really good caf. He channeled Obi-Wan’s most neutral diplomatic grace.

“Thank you for the ride, Master Windu. I appreciate it.”

Windu gave him an approving glance. “You’re more than welcome, Knight Skywalker.”

Feeling bold, he continued on with his best non-mocking impression of Obi-Wan.

"Have you had a chance to read the latest report on helmet redesigns? I think they might really improve peripheral vision without compromising concussive resistance.”

Mace hummed thoughtfully. “I have. I’m somewhat concerned about deploying such a radical change mid-campaign. Even better gear requires an adjustment period, and I’d rather minimize needless deaths while the troops readjust to hud flow.”

“Yes, that’s a reasonable concern, I was talking to Captain Rex-”

They spent the remainder of the flight chatting comfortably about troop safety and absentmindedly eating (or possibly stress eating in response to the prolonged absence of interpersonal conflict) the box of pastries Mace had picked up. When they arrived at the temple, they divvied up the remainder between them, quietly agreeing that there weren’t enough to share anyway. 

They continued their conversation, Master Windu accompanying him to the orbital loading bay. 

Obi-Wan rushed over in alarm at the sight of them approaching. “Anakin, there you are- I was starting to wonder if you’d make it. Terribly sorry Master Windu- I hope he wasn’t too much of a bother-”

“He’s not your padawan anymore, you don’t have to apologize for him. Though I do appreciate the reflex.”

“I suppose the concern isn’t completely baseless.” Anakin said, tone deliberately mildly. Mace chuckled slightly and Obi-Wan took a step back, slightly frightened by the sudden camaraderie. Anakin pretended to take a sip from his now empty disposamug to avoid fist pumping the air or cheering.

“I- Yes well- the important thing is you’re here in time for departure. What- what is that in the bag.”

Moment of Truth. Don’t freak out. Focus. Prove you can be discrete, THEN double dates, THEN Jedi Wedding Ceremony.

“Sweesonbury Roll,” Anakin answered placidly. He pretended to take another sip of caf. “Master Windu was kind enough to give me a ride from the bakery.”

“That’s- I’m sorry, what?” Anakin bit the inside of cheek to keep himself from reacting to Obi-Wan’s palpable bewilderment.

“I had to double back and get more, but we came straight here after,” Mace added helpfully, with zero hint of intentional mischief. “Oh and Skywalker- you can call me Mace if we’re not discussing temple business.”

Anakin SCREAMED (internally, of course). Outwardly, he simply bowed politely. “And you’re welcome to call me Anakin, of course.”

He deliberately avoided looking directly at Obi-Wan, his former Master’s bug-eyed reaction already pushing him to the edge, even just visible as it was out of the corner of his eye.

Windu nodded in return. “Safe travels you two. May the force with you.”

“And with you.” Anakin replied.

“May the force be with you,” Obi-Wan rushed to say, after a short delay.

Master Windu turned and exited the cargo bay doors. Anakin threw out the mug in a nearby bin, pulling out a roll and biting into it before turning to face Obi-Wan. They made eye-contact, each waiting for the other to break first. Usually that would be Anakin, but he had goals now. The Knight chewed. His Master’s eyes narrowed. The older man (who may have aged significantly in the last 5 minutes) finally broke.

“Who are you?”

Anakin just sighed, maintaining the Kenobi impression. “Come on Master, we don’t want to keep the troops waiting.” With that, he walked forward, hiding his smile as Obi-Wan followed closely at his heels. 

“Since when does my apprentice visit bakeries with Mace Windu?” Obi-Wan asked, almost desperately.

“You’re making it sound like a bigger deal than it is.” 

Master Kenobi sputtered as the pair opened the airlock for the short-range shuttle. 

Anakin mustered up an earnest smile. “Master? Would you mind flying- I’m still eating and-”

Obi-Wan made an incoherent noise of horrified outrage before fumbling for his communicator. 

“What are you doing?”

“NOTHING IS MAKING SENSE RIGHT NOW. EITHER YOU AND MACE NEED TO GO TO THE HEALING HALLS OR I DO!”

Anakin burst out laughing. “Relax Obi-Wan, I’m messing with you, holy shit. Obviously I’m flying.”

Obi-Wan slumped into the co-pilot seat, rubbing at his eyes. “Don’t do that Anakin! My nerves are stretched thin enough by the war as it is-”

“Sorry, Sorry!”

They strapped in and took off, Anakin still chuckling occasionally, Obi-Wan scowling in irritation each time. 

They ascended above the towering skyline alongside the first rays of sunlight.

“So you didn’t go to a bakery with Master Windu this morning?”

“Uhh-”

[contagiousiridescence]

It takes three months, two weeks, and one day before the world is finally free of the terror that is your brother. You know this because you keep a meticulous count each day, hour, and minute in a tick-tock of apprehensive anxiety that haunts your every morning until it’s over. Until he’s good and dead for a second time, and a very convincing part of you wants to chuck his remains into the nearest volcano to ensure he doesn’t come clawing his way back to the mortal realm again.

But that would be a consideration for later. You don’t need to mourn him any more. Twice was enough for you already.

The team invites you back to their base of operations-- the Tower, you hear it called fondly-- and you accompany them out of polite acceptance because they’d asked, and Kara had turned those weary, beautiful eyes on you like she wanted you there. Maybe it’s just the obnoxious bleat of your heart in your ears again, but you also know there’s no possible way you would have even thought of declining.

So here you are. Sitting in the main room of the Tower, perched on the edge of a stool as you run your hands through the mess that had become of your tactical braid. You’re not a superhero in any sense, so you don’t have a fancy outfit to change out of or wounds to treat beyond maybe a bruise or three after Lex had tossed you about like a rag doll. The others are busy shucking off their bloodstained costumes and letting Alex dress their injuries, so for a time it’s just you and your thoughts sequestered off in a corner where you’ll be out of their way.

It’s been like this for a while. Ever since you and Kara have come to this agreement of civility, a promise of good faith and the trickling hope that maybe something resembling their past relationship might eke back into existence, you’ve been sure to keep your distance from the others. It’s not as awkward as it had been-- grimacing smiles and uncomfortable periods of silence-- but there’s still a barrier between you and the rest of Kara’s friends. Your old friends, by extension. They don’t treat you much differently, but you know distrust when you see it. You understand the underlying tension that buzzes into being when you’re around them, because it never stops prickling at your skin every hour of the day. You can work with them as you’ve done in the past. But any more feels like a fumbling attempt to build a bridge you don’t even have the mortar to keep together. You don’t deserve to build that bridge, anyhow.

And now that Lex is gone, you’re not exactly sure how much more of your help they’ll tolerate.

So, you take what you can get, and sit in your little corner with your thoughts weaving all of those should haves and regrets into a cocoon around your heart, because there’s not much else you can do in this situation but fortify your resolve to never let your anger get the best of you again. Now that Lex is gone, the pain coiled up in your chest can soften a little. It loosens just enough that you can breathe, enough that you can think beyond the one goal you’ve thrown yourself at so you didn’t have to keep staring at the truth laid bare and raw before your very eyes. But, well. Lex is dead, and you can’t really keep holding Kara to a standard of brutal honesty if you weren’t willing to drag out that last secret kicking and screaming from the sordid depths of your sorrow.

There is at least one thing you’ve learned about yourself over the last few years. It doesn’t really matter the nature of whatever it is you confess to Kara-- you just do it, eventually. Because Kara deserves to know, even if it is too late. It’s some compelling force that you’ve never been able to fight back, even when you first met and the kindling of something fresh and exciting had begun to piece you and her together. Like your own personal Truthseeker nestled into the cavity of your ribs, secure in the knowledge that Kara Danvers is the one thing, the one person , you could never truly hide yourself from.

You twiddle your thumbs beneath the sleeve of your coat as you think of this and wonder how in the hell you’ll ever be ready to tell Kara what you’ve been meaning to tell her for the last four years.

Hello friends! I got a bit sidetracked with my own wedding, but I finally remembered to post my @supercorpzine Volume 4 fic contribution! I have to be real, this is probs my favorite zine fic that I've written to date, I'm quite pleased with out it turned out. Hope you all enjoy! ♥

[cutegirlmayra]

Hiiiiii, I rly like your writing X3 I was wondering if you’d answer this question: What is your interpretation of what SEGA is doing with SonAmy as of right now? Seems like it’s becoming more and more canon. I know you’ve done similar question before, but could you maybe just answer this for 2021? Thanks!💖💙

No problem! And thank you, lovely Anon~<3 I love writing for the feels~ But also for the accuracy to be as close as possible if I can manage it! First of all, they’ve always been canon? Maybe not ‘in-world dating’ canon but canon in the sense that they are a official SEGA advertised couple since the get-go.

Amy was created to literally be in the slot of ‘Sonic’s Girlfriend’ where she had feelings for Sonic and always a fun mystery as to decipher Sonic’s subtle ‘returned caring’ for her.

As for 2021 we are so FREAKIN’ HAPPY to hear that SEGA is FINALLY marketing the two and VISUALLY SEEING the sales of their ‘couple shirts’ and the like make some profit. Furthermore, we have long-time fans and professionals in the careers within SEGA also vocalizing that they don’t mind the couple and even support it. With less emphasis on the ‘fandom fanatics’ of the raging past and more so on the fantastic marketability and popularity the couple brings to SEGA’s exposing their main IP, it’s become almost common ground to expect more and more people liking romantic and suggested romantic couples in all ranging medias.

We need also mention the alarming rate of the worrisome numbers in Japan recently. Conducted studies have shown that most of Japan’s population is elderly, and in the very near future (About 5 years or so) a good chuck of Japan’s population will die. This means the Japanese Government is promoting more and more companies within both entertainment, advertising, etc. to be more ‘promoting family’ in their media. Japan needs more babies! And guess what?

Mario Odyssey comes out with a completely ‘Wedding themed’ video game.

Dramatic romantic underlying's in Zelda’s new game.

Final Fantasy 7 Remake’s focus on romantic underlying’s along with Cloud willingly saying (English version) “Do I have any say in this?” As though to fight the idea that romance can’t happen and-

Kingdom Hearts 3′s romantic underlying that literally has a song (Japanese) talking about rings and getting married called “Chikai” or also ‘Oath’ that in English is rewritten to a romantic song about going deeper into love called “Don’t Think Twice” but literally has the two ‘making their fates intertwined’ in a symbol of ‘romantic intentions’ such as marriage or even just fidelity in a relationship.

So? How does all this influence the latest Sonamy supersonic boom we’ve seen in the media recently?

Although Sonic is his own character, he’s also only 15 (But as many of you have seen in Anime, Japanese ages of appropriateness are different then our own cultures and societies) we see faint glimpses. In the mostly American-made Sonic Boom t.v series, the comedic moments of Sonic and Amy are very much to a genre of American audiences and how we view ‘funny love’ should normally be marketed as. (I don’t always agree with what they say, but that’s how they’re trained and believe the ‘trends’ go... so ... can’t argue with professionals? Eh? -I personally think they’re outdated *cough cough*)

Sonic is not one to express feelings in overly dramatic ways which is common place in American television and media, but he’s also got a ‘boy’s heart’ which means we won’t see a lot of things from him BESIDES ‘romantic underlyings’ that are probably going to be initiated and themed mostly and primarily in Amy Rose’s character (If at all shown or expressed.)

For these reasons, I believe SEGA is just hopping on the bandwagon and doing what they’re told, while also following the latest trends that the other big fellow companies are making a significant profit on. I know we wish and want SEGA to be ‘special’ in how they think, but they really are just a company that is trying to survive and outlast the competition.

It’s sad to think that way, especially when SEGA used to be so creative and always influencing the next best thing but that was YEARS ago and they’ve learned to tread water since then...

(Goku being a grandfather emphasizes family in this particular scene where they take his granddaughter before a big tournament fight to a fair/festival. We see Goku with his family too, or at least, a successful son with his wife and daughter, spending time with his Father-In-Law, and the like.)

We see it in Dragon Ball emphasizing family, we see it in more romance-themed animes (and those that have only recently done romance, when they--for the longest part--never indulged in such things before or previously) and we now see more japanese games and media centralized around that.

What does that mean for Sonamy? Hopefully good things! Because if you buy the merch, they’ll produce more content. It’s a basic ‘supply and demand’ formula. If the demand (meaning how much you spend and want Sonic and Amy couple merch) goes up, then they have to supply to keep their business afloat. If they don’t they sink, but that DOES NOT MEAN TO BE AGRESSIVE. It means just support when they do something you like, and positively, kindly mention what you liked and wish to see more of if the future allows. No one reads aggressive writing unless, they too--wish to be aggressive back.

SEGA’s had issues with aggressiveness before, please let them see that couples in the sonic world won’t have a negative impact on their branding with irrational and bad-media frenzies. (Now, after saying this, I know people will start to do just that, don’t feed fire with fire, just let the fire burn till it has nothing left to consume, and carry on happily posting fanart or fanstories of what you love. Ignore to extinguish, which is what SEGA will do to Sonic shipping fans if we don’t act somewhat reasonably, okay?)

My predictions are such: 1. Amy’s crush will sadly lessen in impact and become more of a novelty, something that is treasured when moments arise to reveal her crush on Sonic, which in my opinion, is not her personality, but due to the heavy influence of women’s portrayal (Especially in America) being overemphasized and not done well, this is how they will try and combat it... (No one does this right and you shouldn’t base a characters solely on political reasonings...) 2. Sonic will have moments of caring for Amy or doing something sweet that can and probably will be interpreted as ‘a couple moment’ but he’ll remain mostly about other things, and the ‘underlying romance’ will have to come through Amy Rose’s character. 3. SEGA will loosen some rules after seeing more and more of the productivity and trend associated with marketing romance, and to keep up with demand and growing times, will finally let small moments emerge between the two, but the fandom will not be satisficed since we will now be desensitized to overly avert demure and oblivious stereotropes that will date their characters. and won’t allow them to proceed smoothly into the new area of customers and audiences.

Children are becoming extremely observant and aware. They are clever, and they always have been. It’s time to market to Children and Young Adults, not babies.

My ways to avoid this, predictions 1: New employees will surface that will start to get a name and reputation in the Sonic Fandom, along with youtube and internet stars who will influence certain marketing schemes (as is starting to appear now, and I feel will be just like ‘star marketing’ or ‘influencers’ that will be popularized in fandoms that companies will slightly make use of.) that will encourage new ideas and bring about a sudden ‘boom’ not expected. (Especially after the lull of the pandemic, I feel there will be an abundance of things happening in the upcoming years... but nothing right now, unfortunately, but at least they’re forced to focus on working on things instead of just releasing to keep up with other companies.)--In other words, they will incorporate new blood with the old, and they will lead Sonic’s IP into a ton of nostalgia and new beginnings that will actually stick and become Sonic’s new brand identity. (This will resonate with fans old and new, but still be a fresh leap into the future for the franchise and fandom.) 2. Sonic’s negative popularity will start to decrease, leading and paving the way for fame and possible adjustments such as more romantic themes to keep up with trends and Japanese Government demands (especially when the population starts to wither and it becomes an emergency situation to start encouraging family ties). Other than sonamy or romantic things, I believe new characters will pop up to ‘test the waters’ and see if we like romance intertwined adventures. 3. Villains will become more sentimental and caring, less comedically, they will be redeemable entities so that the company can market them more. This can also lead into funny romances that help other romances develop and have more meaning. (In other words, they’ll dig into their vault of familiar and new faces, go off the trend of ‘redeeming the villain’ and have more heart-to-heart moments that may inspire more canonical couples... especially if a newer villain were to have a crush that ended up helping two canon characters get together and leave the audience sympathizing more with the villain. This is an actual trend starting where Villains have more character and roles other than just being evil and staying that way till death. I suspect this will be popularized in American and possibly foreign media as time goes on.)

(I actually have a lot of the sonamy shirts lol But here’s an example of the villain actually helping the canon couple have more ‘romantic underlying’ moments together <3)

Those are my current predictions, though I admit that some don’t sound all that hopeful. But hey! All my hopeful and positive predictions have already come true XD Sonamy is being marketed, the new media (Sonic Boom at the time) had subtle but more forward comedic hinting (that I don’t feel went all that well? But eh, that’s just me!), and SEGA continues to try and reface Sonic which his brand doesn’t need. I believe they will still try and rebrand Sonic continually until something sticks for them that they like. Sonamy may go through many iterations, as they are still hesitant with it, and we see that by only marketing their ‘younger selves’ as in Classic Sonamy, and are too ‘shy and uncertain’ if backlash would happen if they advertised a more mature-looking Sonic and Amy marketing. Again, I don’t know if they’ll fully grow out of this, so I predict they won’t.

(I have this one but in black <3 <3 <3)

That’s it for now! My positive last comments would be the more we buy/purchase Sonamy merch, the more we’ll start seeing it in their media and entertainment products. Until then, do your best and write, draw, and review -kindly- to keep those articles of enchantment alive with the sweet sound of--”When will Sonic and Amy finally have a love song AMV moment for us?” lol

[xz1005fanblog]

2021-02-27 Some things I want to say

WARNING LONG POST

Context first, translation of his post above will follow:

Disclaimer: I have no interest in other artists other than Xiao Zhan, and I am merely explaining the situation of the fandom in China that led us to the fiasco in March 2020. I do not care for bjyx, I ship WangXian but I do not ship real people as a basic principle.

My opinion as an international fan of Xiao Zhan and as an AO3 user (yes, I am not Chinese nor do I live in China, I just happen to be able to read Chinese) is that C-entertainment industry is TOXIC and celebrities are not free targets for you to cyberbully. They are human just like you and me. 

Everyone needs to learn a bit more about compassion. 

I am sure all of you read about the cyberbullying Xiao Zhan went through last year. There were multiple factors that started all of this, most of which XZ doesn’t talk about in this letter because of how sensitive the topic is in China. I’ve never explained entirely what happened because I personally thought that this is not something overseas fans should worry too much about. Especially since most of you don’t have a wb or db account, there’s nothing you can do about it anyway. But since Xiao Zhan himself decided to post a letter to respond to this subject, I’ll put in my 2 cents just that so everyone is on the same page.

Basically, after The Untamed aired in China, the show fandom split into 3 groups. XZ fans, WYB fans, and CP fans (or bjyx, whatever you wish to call it, those who love shipping these two real people together - not just the characters in the drama). Of course there are still people who would watch the show without becoming a fan of the actors.

At the beginning, most people thought they were good friends with each other, with all the short BTS clips from The Untamed. However, fans slowly discovered that it wasn’t the case. Some unofficial BTS clips emerged where WYB said XZ was shooting multiple dramas at the same time = 轧戏 (which is very frowned upon and a disrespectful thing to say to an actor), whereas in reality, XZ only asked for a couple of days days off during the shooting for The Untamed because his scenes in Joy of Life had to be redone and he was bound by contract. On the contrary, WYB had to ask for most weekends off because he was participating in Produce 101 at the time. Other clips shows them fighting about somethings WYB said about WWX, which made XZ mad. So this broke a lot of CP fans’ image of their relationship, and they either stopped shipping/became XZ or WYB fans only. This angered WYB’s fans, of course, which made them blame XZ for the entire fiasco.  

Other incidents continued to happen after the show which increased the friction between these 3 fan groups. XZ fans and WYB fans would fight about various voting charts, and fight with CP fans because they don’t like seeing the two actors together. In the meantime, CP fans continuously feminize and weaken XZ in order to ship the 2 actors together (it’s rather an unhealthy trend in China, I’ve been in multiple other western fandoms before - not real person shipping - but we rarely glorify weakening/feminizing the bottom of a ship, because of the underlying prejudice against real homosexuals, who are not synonymous to transgenders).

Some incidents added oil to the fire afterwards. It’ll take me too long to explain everything, so I’ll just put here the main ones to explain why there’s so much bad blood between these 3 groups of fans.

On XZ’s birthday, some CP fans found XZ’s parents’ apartment building and yelled BJYX is real. This angered a lot of XZ fans, because of how disrespectful it was towards the old couple and the clear breach of privacy. WYB fans and some CP fans were also angry that XZ didn’t reply immediately to the birthday wish on wb that WYB sent at midnight (??? XZ was busy shooting a drama, can you blame him for not being on wb at midnight? Give the guy a break.)

In November 2019, WYB filed a lawsuit against some of XZ’s fans (instead against of his own haters!) for dissing him (although I’ve never seen any proof, and a few of those fans remain active on wb now, one of whom has even defended WYB's portrayal of LWJ before...). This angered a lot of XZ fans and CP fans who didn’t understand how he could have done this to his “friend”, and further proved that their relationship wasn’t that fantastic to begin with. WYB fans felt justified in hating XZ and all XZ fans as a result, and openly bullied XZ fans on the grounds of the Nanking CQL Concert. 

In January, The Untamed was named to Beijing Journal Drama award. CP fans and WYB fans were unhappy that XZ was named to the Best Male Lead category and WYB was named to the Best Male 2nd Lead. They attacked the award committee wb by spam commenting all their wb posts and the entire drama was pulled from the nomination afterward. XZ fans were especially angry that they started all this only for the nomination to be pulled out - because the only possibility was one Male Lead per drama, and anyone would agree that if chosen between WWX and LWJ, the character with the most scenes and importance in the story is WWX. 

Yadda yadda yadda, fast forward to February 2020, it started with a fanfiction written by a CP fan that depicted XZ as a prostitute transgender woman and WYB as a highschool kid (UNDERAGE) = AKA very sensitive material in China. It was posted on AO3, but the author posted the link of said fic on wb and a lot of CP fans broadcasted it around, so much that XZ fans became aware of it. Due to how sensitive the material is and how badly it would taint XZ’s image for his future roles, some XZ fans started reporting the wb post that contained the link (NOT AO3) and the author’s wb page. This is common practice in fandom on wb, usually done to get the wb posts taken down. This caused panic in the CP fans crowd because they thought XZ fans were reporting AO3 and that they were gonna lose the website (which is impossible, because AO3′s servers are in Sweden and not subject to Chinese laws anyway). 

Because of how sensitive AO3 was in China and how haters tried to pull in antigovernmental into their crowds, the subject quickly became too dangerous for XZ fans to get involved in. Official fan groups in China unanimously decided to ask all fans to stop participating in the online debate and stay within the fan group circle only. 

Someone on AO3 made a commentary about this incident that you can find here. She dug up a lot of info on the companies feeding money to the trolls online, but as I am an overseas fan and cannot really verify her info, I will not comment on those statements. 

Sometime in the middle of this fiasco, someone started spreading the notion that XZ fans hated fanfiction and were trying to report anything that goes against their image of their idol... And subsequently people who were not CP fans or XZ fans became aware of this problem when they couldn’t access AO3 suddenly because too much curious fans where trying to access it and they crashed the servers. However later on, people could access the website without any problems. I am not personally in China right now so I can’t verify these claims of the website being walled or not for real, but I know from various reliable sources that on March 1st it was only an overload of the server, and people could still access afterwards. 

With this however, haters (which include previous CP fans, WYB fans, and other idol’s fans) attacked XZ for not telling his fans to stop reporting, for not saying anything. They attacked XZ’s endorsements and spammed hate speech on the products he was promoting. They would rate 1 star in all his dramas and songs on db, and then buy accounts to further rate 1 stars (yes that thing exists in China, everything can be bought in China, don’t ask me why.) The reason why I believe that all this wasn’t coincidental, is that barely the day after the fiasco started, someone posted on db the exact list of all his sponsorships, detailing exactly who to call to protest, what words to spam in the comment sections of various official brands’ wb accounts. This entire thing was too well planned to be just a normal fandom fight. 

Whether it was other actors’ fans who organized this to cut down competition, we will probably never know for sure. The following year was laden with fake rumors, hate speech blasting from multiple directions. They attacked his personality, saying that his polite manners are just for show (when the reality is that he has always been a gentleman even when he wasn’t popular). They attacked XZ for faking donations to Wuhan, forcing him to show his donation certificate to prove himself. One of his friends couldn’t stand the cyberbullying anymore and revealed publicly that his grandfather recently passed away (the date on this drawing is 2020.03.03, he couldn’t post this last year). 

His friend defending him from the cyberbullies, saying that he had plenty of reasons to stay silent. That his grandfather passed away recently and his family has been planning his funeral. 

(Sources also said that his mother was hospitalized a few days afterwards. And that haters went to his mother’s hospital to harass her and her nurses)

Haters saying that XZ is using his grandfather’s death to excuse himself (??? is he not allowed to grieve like a normal person???)

Haters wishing that XZ becomes depressed from the cyberbullying and kills himself, wishing that he was dead, wishing that his fans were dead too. Photoshopping his picture into a funeral portrait to curse him

Haters admitting they are cyberbullying XZ, but rejoicing in the fact that they are so many so XZ can’t sue all of them. They have also reported his upcoming dramas for various reasons just so they cannot be aired. 

The airplane incident I’ve already talked about here.

A picture antis made to diss on XZ fans: AO3 can be still accessed even if it’s walled, Lofter can be still access even if it’s taken down from the app store. Your gege’s picture are still accessible even if he died. 

I’ve only posted here the tamest screenshots, there are far worst ones that I won’t be posting because the amount of vitriol give me nausea just looking at them. 

In all this fiasco, antis gave him the tag of “idol who didn’t manage his fans well”. But Xiao Zhan never thought fans needed to be trained, he thought of them like normal people, and their love, something to be treasured and not used. But some people in China still blamed his fans for starting all this mess, and partly him and his studio for not being able to stop it. 

Below is the translation for XZ’s letter, posted on the wb post above

Some Things I Want To Say

Today, I have something to say to everyone. I’ve thought of a lot of ways to do this, but in the end, I chose the simplest way to tell everyone about all my feelings and thoughts in the past year. These opinions, maybe they won’t be able to represent anything, nor won’t they be able to change anything, but I still wish to say this today. 

On this day last year, the incident happened very quickly, as if a bomb exploded on my face - endless phone calls, never ending message notifications, everyone’s opinions and questions came in like a tsunami. I wanted to say something back then, but I didn’t know what exactly. I was apprehensive of making a statement, afraid that one wrong word, or one wrong sentence would be taken the wrong way and end up adding oil to the fire. This is why at that time, I chose not to say anything. 

I never thought that the online fighting would grow bigger and bigger like an avalanche, getting larger crowds involved, and gradually leaving one person’s control. Even though afterwards I made repeated statements to make amends, it could not develop as I wished it to anymore. 

This life filled with broken protests and tumultuous noise continued to this day. And I felt I was going through a very dark and never ending tunnel. Unrest, ruminations, turmoil... I have also asked myself what did I do wrong exactly, why did everything after that day became as if it were an uncontrollable vessel. 

I spent a lot of time to digest, and then spent a lot of time to understand, understand everyone’s words and actions. Slowly, I started to understand what everyone was criticizing about me personally. The moment that I chose not to say anything, I lost that window of opportunity to reason with everyone. So I was wrong, from the very beginning. 

At that time, I wasn’t yet able to clearly understand the entire incident, to understand everyone’s feelings, nor did I know what kind of responsibility I had to carry as a public figure. Thus, I missed that opportunity to communicate with everyone, and wasn’t able to withstand the responsibility of letting these antagonizing feelings grow. Now, I can clearly recognize that throughout this year, this criticism that everyone had against me of “Idol Who Lost Its Voice”, was correct. During this year I reflected upon this repeatedly, as a public figure, I have to not only improve myself within the boundaries of my profession, but also have to carry the social responsibility that comes with my influence. To influence those who like me, who follow me, towards the right worldviews within my capacity. Even though my studio and I have already expressed some opinions through wb and interviews, but scars that this incident that brought such antagonistic emotions between different circles are still difficult to heal. 

No matter how late, my own problem has to be corrected. I would like to express my first comment: Xiao Zhan, would like to apologize for “losing voice” towards those who have been affected by this incident. This is my first responsibility towards the public, face the problem and admit my faults. 

Also, I would like to use this opportunity to speak with my fans. This is my second responsibility. In one of my interviews last year, I have said, I do not really agree with “managing” my fans (some celebs in China have hired people to manage fan groups in order for them to behave in certain ways for their purposes. Antis tried to spread the false rumor that XZ also had those people and that they directed their fans to start this mess), because everyone is an individual. No matter my studio nor myself, we do not have the authority to “manage” them like some would manage workers in a company. Afterwards, I reflected many times, maybe I cannot use the word “manage” to define my relationship with my fans, but I do have the responsibility to “correctly influence, and actively advocate”. So today, I would like to tell my fans, everyone has the right to like or hate something, and it should be respected and allowed within their own space. Of course this right should be reasonable, should not hurt anyone else, and remain within the boundaries of the correct values and norms. I hope my fans and friends can understand that no matter which profession, no matter what age, one’s own preferences or actions should not cross the line for one’s professional ethics or disrespect basic principles. 

(Here he is referring to reports of teachers using his name in class or asking children to say his name to cheer for him. This is a problem that occurred also with other celebrities in China, and for which he has already expressed himself previously.)

No matter online or in real life, everyone should be responsible for their own words. I also hope that we are not represented tags like “xx’s fans”, that we do not set this as the basis of where we stand on a topic nor do we let this determine what’s right or wrong. Everyone have their own hobbies and interest, respect everyone’s choice and freedom of speech. No matter whether they like me or hate me is their own right. Passion, this should be a source of strength to everyone, I do not wish for it to consume or hurt anyone. Perhaps I cannot change this kind of environment, but at least for you and me, today is a new start point. 

At last, I would like to talk a bit about myself. Ever since I came into this field, until today, I have always been defined by some tags. But the reason why I originally stepped into this circle was my passion for performance and music. And this is why, I will keep working on becoming a better actor and singer. The sudden criticism of “having lost voice” made me realize that, other than what I have always focused on professionally, I have to also be able to carry the responsibility of a public figure and an idol. I was born in a normal family in Chong Qing, and have lived a normal life, like many other people, for more than twenty years. Today I will also use this opportunity to apologize for the words I have said before as a normal person (I’ve already talked about it here), for the people I have inadvertently hurt. As I work hard on studying to become a better person, I will try to become a better “public figure”, so that these two Xiao Zhan can blend in together, for a better self. 

This past year, no matter big or small, I have to be responsible for the incidents that happened because of me. I can demand this for myself, but I have no right to force it on other people, so I can only hope that those who really like me can really listen to me: please be a bit more reasonable for things outside of personal preferences. Live a healthy life, put more time and energy onto one’s real life, and less on the senseless fighting behind fake IDs and unreliable online world. Only to become a better self. 

(Here he’s referring to an online fight that an anti called 晨小晨 started. I’ve already explained a bit here.  #微博管理员回应晨小晨事件# )

Sorry for any grammar errors, this post was really long to make and I didn’t proofread. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to translate the entire thing for overseas fans since you don’t understand the entire context, and because I wanted my wb records collection tag to be complete, I felt I had to... and I got carried away trying to explain everything. Tried to summarize it as much as I could.

As a fan of Xiao Zhan and also an AO3 user, I would still like to apologize for how this bullshi*t ended up disrupting respectful and peaceful users of AO3. The Untamed tag did not contain hate fics before all of this happened, it is unfortunate that a place where there used to be only love, ended up being tainted by antis and haters.

To the anonymous person who asked me a few months ago if I supported bjyx, this is my answer: You have the right to like whatever you want within your own corner, as long as it doesn’t bother anyone else and isn’t against basic principles. I ship WangXian as characters from a novel, but I have never liked RPS as a principle. 

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

 “See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

 “That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

[tinycaprisun]

a song about it raining somewhere else

title: a song about it raining somewhere else characters: chuck taylor x trent beretta word count: 3822 part: 1/1 warnings: mild cursing, and like that’s kinda it? maybe mild angst? but also i’m a baby and it becomes fluff by the end? a/n: howdy, this is not another i’m back i’m back piece as much as it honestly is. no, see this time- this is actually a gift! 2 days ago was @trentjinshi’s birthday and i wanted to write him something! so i sat down for like 6 hours with my goopy goblin gay brain and spit out this obvious magnum opus. so, like, don’t hate it please. also hugest happy birthday to emil again!! yeehaw... i’ve technically already sent this to u

You know, of all days to have the soul crushing realization that you’ve secretly been in love with your best friend, Trent should have expected it to happen on Valentine’s Day.

The man had garbage luck anyways, and good things seemingly never happened to him. So when Chuck animatedly told him he had a date that night with some girl, Trent’s heart shouldn’t have blown apart like he had been shot. Sure, he pretended to be supportive of his buddy, returning his radiant smile despite the effect never reaching his eyes, And yeah, he wished him all the best, telling the taller man he hoped it went well.

But did Trent mean any of that? Fuck no! He was dying on the inside, mourning the loss of a relationship and love he didn’t even know he wanted! Perhaps he should have considered himself lucky that he didn’t start bawling his eyes out on the spot. The New Yorker had a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, so the crying really was not out of the question at that moment. But he contained his feelings somehow, moving on through the rest of that afternoon like he was trudging through a snowstorm. Slow, cold, and slowly dying from the inside out.

So that led him here, sitting in his car as the rain started to come down, refusing to turn the damn thing on. He didn’t want to go back to his hotel room. Because if he did, it would remind him of the obvious. He went home alone tonight.

Chuck wasn’t alone. His friend had a probably beautiful person with a perfect personality sitting across from him at a fancy restaurant. A person who wasn’t him. Why couldn’t Trent be his perfect date? He would laugh at his jokes, softly hold his hand as they walked in from the parking lot, pull his chair out for him, admire him like he was the sun-

A harsh banging came from his left, rhythmically tapping against the glass of his car window in time with the rain drops. Trent’s head jerked up from where it had defeatedly slumped against the steering wheel to see who was trying to get his attention.

It was a security guard, holding an umbrella in one hand and wavering him off with another, politely telling him to leave the premises as the arena building they were at was closing. To be honest, getting a ticket from not leaving and instead rotting in that parking lot forever sounded like a far better time than he was having. But, he didn’t have a choice. Story of his life.

Trent started up his car, quickly leaving off into the vast night with only his thoughts to keep him company. And that was rapidly becoming annoying. The singular thing on his mind was one person, and how all this time, his feelings were so obvious. Every time he even glanced in his friend’s direction his heart rate would spike. Before now, he had chalked that up to coincidence or - considering it was Trent and how his body loved to torture him - underlying health conditions. Evidently, it was neither of those things.

One would think he would catch on to his festering crush sooner; considering he thought the entire world of Chuck and whenever he had to go more than a few days without seeing him, he would get a weird sense of longing to be back in his presence, but nothing ever wanted to work out that way. Life thought it would be much funnier if Trent felt like he was being ripped apart at the seams by a simple sentence.

Between the still processing of what it even meant to have a crush on your best friend, and knowing that right now he was out with some other person having the time of his life, Trent was not feeling great as he drove down the freeway. Grumbling under his breath, he flicked the radio on to fill the car with something other than his problems. A song the brunette had never heard before crackled to life, being about part of the way through.

By the time we get there, everybody will be drunk The chairs will be on tables and the band will be unplugged We're gonna look real good, but we're gonna look real rude I'm sorry I'm not sorry that I'm-

Fucking perfect! The last person to mess with the radio in Trent’s car was Chuck, and bastard left it on one of his stupid country stations. Trent didn’t even like country music! That didn’t stop him, however, from a few days ago when they were driving from city to city and let Chuck put on whatever he liked, even if it was something he was going to hate. He would make tiny sacrifices like that all the time for his partner, because he knew it would earn him one of those sunlit smiles. Trent really would do anything to make Chuck happy, and had been since they met.

Late to the party with you Oh, who needs confetti? We're already falling into the groove And who needs a crowd when you're happy at a party for two? The world can wait 'Cause I'm never late to the party if I'm late to the party with you

It... It was a love song?

“Throw me off a fucking bridge.” Trent mumbled to himself as he exited an off ramp. Seriously, who out there was tormenting him and making him have possibly the worst day ever? What omnipotent being did he piss off? He thought he was an alright dude, not getting into other people’s business and sort of keeping to himself. Most days he made an attempt to be somewhat nice to others and never did any of that vile or cruel shit. And yet, he was cursed to drive home while listening to a love song in a genre that he hated, and only helped to remind him more of his best friend.

Let's promise when we get in that we'll try to get right out Fake a couple conversations, make the necessary rounds These kinda things just turn into "Who's leaving here with who?" But I just want 'em all to see me come in late to the party with you

Wasn’t that a funny line. Wanting others to see the person you’re with because of how much you loved them? Trent understood that. Whenever he would go anywhere with Chuck, he would always want people to know he was there with him- whether he realized it or not.

He could talk for hours about him. It could be the simple telling of a funny story, or gushing about how good he was in the ring. Or how great of a friend he was. That made Trent wonder about what Chuck would be like if they were together. His mind wandered, dreaming up scenarios and infinite possibilities as he pulled into his hotel’s parking garage.

The musing didn’t stop when he killed the engine, happily ending that fucking song that was starting to piss him off with how cute it was. Trent pushed himself out of the car, gathering his singular bag from the trunk and wandering inside through the rain. Which, if anyone was curious, was even worse than it was when he left. It was coming down in buckets now, being slung into the New Yorker’s face by the wind.

Checking in was easy enough, having the briefest of conversations with the man at the desk who happened to have a thick southern accent.

Chuck had an accent, but only when he drank a lot. It took about 3 and a half beers for it to come out, but by that point he didn’t care all that much to hide it. He wouldn’t be trashed, as he was a pretty solid drinker and had made putting strong shit back a hobby over the last few years. Trent knew exactly how it sounded, though. A smooth Kentucky accent that always caused him to punctuate the last word of his sentences and pronounce certain things differently. Never anything like “y’all” or something southern like that, after all Chuck wasn’t that dime store cowboy they worked with.

The thing Trent remembered the most about Chuck’s accent was how he said his name. He would draw it out, almost like he was whining, except it was low in his voice and always accompanied by a wide grin. One that’s toothy like Cheshire Cat, and annoyingly sweet like bubblegum. Trent idly wondered if he tasted like bubblegum too, but the thought turned vivid fantasy was interrupted for a moment by the elevator reaching his floor.

The brunette slowly approached his room, still partially entranced by the ideas he had created in his mind as he unlocked his door and slipped in. From there, it felt like he wasn’t even alive anymore. Not in a morbid sense, but as in he wasn’t participating in the concept of reality at that moment. Trent was so disconnected from his actions, it was almost as though he was outside of his body and looking in from somewhere else. So much so, that when he snapped out of his revere from his phone buzzing, he was lying in bed wearing only his boxers.

Not that what was on his phone was of any importance to him. All Trent saw were notifications for things he didn’t care about, the only thing sticking out was a short text from Orange sending him more condolences over his current “issue”. Damn, he was acting like someone had died, not his friend’s heart being broken. Trent didn’t bother responding, tossing the device back on the bedside table and rolling over to face away from it.

The alarm clock on the other stand read “10:17 p.m.”, blinking at him like the piece of shit was broken. It also only now occurred to Trent that he had never turned the lights on while he was basically astral projecting. So he was bathed in darkness, with the only illumination being that digital clock and the street lights below outside the window.

Was he going to fall asleep at a respectable time? Because deep in his bones he could feel the shroud of tiredness creeping through him from all of the emotional energy he drained today. And with that, Trent grabbed one of the unused pillows and wrapped himself around it, cuddling it tightly and not bothering to get under the bed covers.

Maybe if he tried hard enough, Trent could pretend the pillow was something else. --

Who in the hell was knocking at his door at - the New Yorker stopped his angry brain tirade to peek at the clock again - 11:53 at night? He had only gotten to sleep an hour and it was cut short by who knew what. If this was Orange coming to tell him he had broken another hotel microwave by “forgetting to take the metal spoon out of his mac and cheese”, Trent was going to fucking kill him.

Getting up from where he lay, Trent stumbled blearily across the room to the door. In those few seconds, it processed with him that his hair must have come untied while he was sleeping because it was messily draped around his shoulders. Among that, he was still only dressed in boxers, riding rather low on his hips. Maybe he had a restless sleep even though it was quick?

He didn’t care what he looked like though as he slowly pulled the door open with a yawn and blinked from the harsh light flooding in from the hallway. Trent prepared to open his mouth and berate his shorter friend when he heard a sniffle come from in front of him.

Chuck was standing on the other side of the doorway, soaking wet from the rain. By the look on his face, it seemed as though he had been crying as well, with red eyes and a running nose. His eyes didn’t meet Trent’s as he all but whispered, “H-hey, man.”

Did the longer haired brunette care that his friend was ice cold and drenched from head to toe? No. That was why without words, he dragged his friend into the room and hugged him tightly, letting the hotel door slip closed on its own. Chuck didn’t need to be told twice to hug back, nearly crushing Trent from the strength of his shaking arms.

They stayed like that for a good while, with Trent rubbing soothing circles into his back and letting him rest his head on his shoulder when he began to weep again. That was before he slowly drew back, silently taking Chuck’s hand and guiding him to his bed so he could sit. Trent grabbed the comforter and wrapped it around his friend, figuring he could just use a blanket later when he needed to sleep.

“I... didn’t even tell you- what’s wrong..?” murmured the Kentuckian, slouching in on himself and bringing his knees up so they were closer to his chest. He must have been really cold. Trent paused for a moment, looking with a pained yet sympathetic smile.

“Don’t need to. You’re upset, and I gotta fix that.” He wasn’t sure who hurt him, or even what, but just let it be known he was going to destroy whatever it was.

“Well, uh, t-thank you?”

“Yeah, dude. I-” Love you. “Care about you. You’re my friend and shit. Hurts to see you cry.” With that, Trent carefully maneuvered around Chuck and hopped off the bed to go rifle through his clothes for something dry he could wear. And- probably some pants for himself. When he first opened the door, he couldn’t help but notice Chuck gave him the slightest look up and down, with his cheeks going red afterwards. Trent assumed it was only because he was cold, and the warmth from his bedroom had fucked with his internal body temperature.

While digging through his bags trying to find some of the clothes he always packed for his friend - and if it were any other day than today, Trent would have told you it was because he was just being a nice guy. He knew better than that now. - Chuck began to talk again. “Date ditched me...”

“They didn’t show up?”

Chuck sighed. “No, she did. But- when her ex came around... She would’a rather been with him.”

Trent grabbed the extra clothes and stood, turning around to face Chuck who was staring off into the corner. Considering how already destroyed his heart already was from earlier, he was a bit surprised it still had a few more pieces that could shatter at this sight. Coming back over, he set the pile to one side of him, then sat back down on the other. “Chuck...”

“I don’t know what I expected? Every girl, or hell- every guy, I’ve ever tried to date has never worked out for me. I don’t get it.” Oh, Trent should not have been so happy to hear those words. Well, he wasn’t happy to hear most of them, and was hurting for his friend, but two of them in particular stuck out to him like a sore thumb. Every guy. That meant Chuck had been on dates with men. That meant, even though it was fucked up to think about this at the moment, that Trent still had a chance.

“You just haven’t found the right one, man. None of those assholes from before deserve you anyways.” Chuck brought his gaze back over to Trent, eyes glassy and expression- disbelieving. His hair was matted to his head, still wet in some places, but mostly stuck in small spots to his forehead. Everything else about him was still about the same caliber as that, slowly drying and clinging to parts of his body that weren’t being disrupted by the comforter.

“Or maybe I didn’t deserve them...” Something- came over Trent then. There wasn’t a word for the mix of emotions he felt upon hearing that. But what he could feel were his hands taking either side of his best friend’s face and holding his head up to where he would look him in the eyes.

“That’s not true, you and I both know that. Anyone in the world would be lucky to have you.”

Chuck honest to god laughed at that and tilted his head. “Name one person.”

Fuck. For all intents and purposes, the answer he desperately wanted to give was ‘Me’, but that never came out of his mouth. Instead, it was like Trent was suspended in fear, unable to say what he wanted for the thought of being rejected. Or somehow even worse, him thinking it was a joke and getting upset with him. So, Trent said nothing, trying to think of a different response that would be true, but didn’t give himself away.

That was the nail in the coffin, though. Chuck took his silence as an answer, unable to provide a single person who could possibly want to be with him. The other man shook Trent’s hands away from his face, hurt welling up in his eyes with a grimace as he moved to grab the clothes that were gotten for him.

“See,” Chuck hobbled to a standing position, holding the clean garments close to his sodden chest like it was going to protect him from the pain he was feeling. Trent, just say something, anything, he yelled to himself whilst watching Chuck shuffle over to the bathroom and pull the door open. He flicked his eyes down to the floor for a moment before coming back up and locking onto Trent’s. “No one could ever love me...”

“Chuck-” Trent was too late, Chuck had already disappeared into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. And God damn it, his stomach had sunk to the depth of his being, twisting and turning like he was going to be sick. He should have said something. Even if it meant ruining the only thing he really had left to care about. There was his job, his other friends, his family and that; and while they meant a lot to him as well, he truly believed in that moment, and probably for some while now, that Chuck was his world.

As goofy and kind of bullshit as it was to hear, that’s what he felt like. That this guy he’s known for a good chunk of his life was his sun, moon, and every star in the sky. And Trent knew he’s never felt that way about another person. He knew that no other person on this Earth - or fuck, any other planet - could beam at him when they pull an upset and win a match together like he could. No one else made his chest feel warm whenever they complimented him quite the same way that Chuck did. There wasn’t a soul who had the same giggle, the wit, the determination, the personality- fucking any of it. No one had quite what his best friend had, and that was why he loved him.

Trent had no idea how long Chuck was going to be in there, or if he was ever going to come out. Knowing him, he could stay in there all night, not wanting to face the world again- let alone his friend. Even still, he got up from where he was and placed himself a few paces away from his bathroom door. Within his head, he hyped himself up, vowing that no matter if he got scared or felt like everything was going to go wrong, the New Yorker was going to tell him the truth.

Approximately 4 minutes later - if you asked Trent it felt like 10 years - Chuck finally emerged from his hiding place, dressed in some of his friend’s clothes and with shockingly drier hair. Not sure why he was so surprised that he had run a towel through it or something, but that didn’t matter. The taller man seemed confused as to why Trent was standing at the door, but before he could ask what was happening, Trent said, “I do.”

Chuck squinted at him with a, “What?” but it came out choked off and shaky, like he wasn’t prepared to speak.

“You said no one could ever love you, and that’s not true. Because I love you,” He wanted to protest, but now that Trent was talking, he couldn’t stop. “And I didn’t realize it until today, but I seriously am so in love with you that I don’t think I could picture my life without you. You mean everything to me and I would do anything for you just to see your beautiful smile or hear you say my name. And I know it sounds like I’m lying and that I’m trying to make you feel better, but I’m not. If I think about it, I feel like I’ve loved you forever but never realized it, and I wish I could have known sooner. Because you need to know that you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and I would be the luckiest guy in the world to even have a chance with you-”

“Trent-”

“I love the way you purposefully send me a string of those stupid emojis over text because you know it annoys me. I love how you can make anyone feel better with just one smile and your passion for loving others. I love how much you love animals and how every dog you see, you consider kidnapping-'' Trent had become so caught up in his declaration that he hadn’t noticed his friend had moved from in front of him and Chuck’s lips were on his.

Before he could even do anything; not even get a gasp at the sudden action, Chuck was already pulling away, breathing as if he had just run a mile. His face was bright red and his hands were holding either of Trent’s arms as he searched his face for a reaction. Or anything really.

“I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” It felt as though Trent was living in one of those shitty romantic comedies he secretly liked to watch, because he was the one who cut Chuck off while speaking with an somehow even more desperate kiss. He felt him respond almost instant, bringing one of his hands up to Trent’s face to cup it gently as his own arms latched cautiously onto Chuck’s hips. And that was where they stayed, for who knew how long, but every second of it was exactly where they wanted to be.

You know, of all days to have the life-changing realization that you’re secretly in love with your best friend, Trent - and Chuck for that matter - hadn’t expected it to happen on (the day after) Valentine’s Day.

[aion-rsa]

Critters: The Making of a Comedy Horror Cult Classic

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Rupert Harvey knew he was on to something with Critters after one memorable test screening.  Specifically, it was the scene where the Critters, who had already been terrorizing the Brown family, were standing on the doorstep of the family’s home talking in their guttural language with subtitles translating for the audience…until one of them is blown to gooey bits by a shotgun blast (wielded by none other than E.T. mom Dee Wallace), and the other lets out a subtitled “Fuck.”

“It totally destroyed the audience,” Harvey recalls. “They just howled. We lost the next scene because they were laughing so hard and I thought: ‘Okay, this is probably going to work.’” 

It had already taken a lot of work for Critters to get this far. 

Bringing Critters to Life

Released on April 11, 1986, the horror comedy about a small town and farm-dwelling family under attack from little furry space aliens with a taste for human flesh was unfairly dismissed by some as a Gremlins knock-off. 

But that did a disservice to the unique tone of Critters; a sci-fi comedy featuring belly laughs alongside genuine moments of terror. A film that owed as much to 1950s sci-fi B-movies as it did anything else, with its tale of picturesque Americana under attack from aliens. 

It also overlooks the film’s quirkier narrative aspect like the pair of shapeshifting alien bounty hunters who arrive on Earth to hunt the Critters down, with one of them assuming the form of a popular Jon Bon Jovi-esque rock musician. 

This surreal sci-fi tone, coupled with the copious violence, occasional bad language, and general unpredictability of it all helped give Critters the feel of a rebellious younger brother to the more mature Gremlins.  

To many, it was the cooler, edgier movie and one that boasted underlying themes that remain universal to this day. 

More importantly, the accusation of imitation was incorrect. If the two films were related, it wasn’t by design with screenwriter Brian Dominic Muir first writing the script for Critters back in 1982, two years before Joe Dante’s film hit cinemas.  

“I don’t think I saw Gremlins until we were in post-production,” Harvey, who produced Critters and worked on two of its three original sequels, tells Den of Geek. “It was certainly not something we were thinking about very much at the time, if at all. 

We were dealing with very different creatures and the fact that they were so different in concept meant I wasn’t terribly bothered by it. Gremlins were these mythical, earthbound, magical beings whereas Critters were extraterrestrial. People who say there are similarities are just influenced by the fact Gremlins was such a huge success, but it was a much bigger budget movie.” 

Muir’s script didn’t see the light of day for nearly three years before he showed it to friend and fellow budding filmmaker Stephen Herek who developed it further. That was where Harvey came in. 

The three men met while working on Android, a distinctive low budget sci-fi film Harvey was producing alongside independent movie trailblazer Roger Corman.  

“Brian gave me Critters to read and l loved it,” Harvey recalls. “It was an archetypal American story about foreigners invading the homeland. It’s quite prescient given the current state of politics in America. There was this quintessentially American setup with this almost pioneering family struggling through adversity to come out the other side.” 

35 years on, that notion of protecting the homeland is one Harvey feels is reflected in the inward-looking politics increasingly prominent in America and the UK today. That sentiment was already bubbling under the surface when Critters came out in the Reagan-era of the 1980s.

“It was novel to look at that then through the lens of Critters,” he says. “No one was seeing the film in those terms but that human fear of outsiders coming in has always been there and has been a fundamental part of cinema and drama since forever.” 

Harvey agreed to develop the film under his production company, Sho Films. Though he mulled over an offer to produce a low budget version of Critters with Corman, everything changed when Bob Shaye and New Line Cinema came calling. 

Writing Critters

“New Line was really a mom-and-pop operation at that point. They hadn’t made A Nightmare on Elm Street yet. They weren’t the New Line of today, but Bob offered to double our budget, so I did the deal.” 

Even so, Shaye took some convincing on the choice of director. 

Herek would go on to helm Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead, and a string of big budget Disney movies in the years that followed but had never directed prior to Critters, having previously worked as an editor. 

“Stephen, to his credit, even though he had no leverage other than a script we wanted to make, absolutely insisted that nobody would direct it but him and if he didn’t it wouldn’t get made,” Harvey says. “He stuck to his guns and there was never any shift in that position on Brian’s side. I had to convince Bob on several occasions to go ahead with us and, even during production, to actually stick with Steve. But we were all very glad that he did.” 

On the writing side, Harvey enlisted Sho Films’ in-house writer Don Opper. A fellow Roger Corman acolyte, Opper had written and starred in Android where he also worked with Herek and Muir. 

He was seen as the ideal candidate to work alongside Herek after Muir became unwell. 

“Brian, unfortunately, became quite ill not long after we started making Critters,” Harvey says. 

Muir was reportedly battling Hodgkin’s disease at the time. Though he recovered, the writer, who often wrote under the pseudonym August White for Full Moon Entertainment later in his career, sadly died from cancer aged 48 in 2010.  

“He was a very sweet, nice man,” Harvey recalls. “In Brian’s absence, Don worked with Stephen on polishing the script. One of the ways was to enhance the family and their relationships.” 

By then the distinctive looking Opper had also been cast in the pivotal role of Charlie McFadden, the town drunk and a conspiracy theorist convinced the fillings in his teeth are picking up signals from outer space.  

Like a cross between Randy Quaid’s deranged pilot from Independence Day and Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade, Charlie would eventually emerge as a fan favorite, appearing in each of the three Critters sequels. 

He was one of several quirky locals introduced early on in Critters with much of the first third of the film dedicated to establishing the Brown family, their farm, and the characters of the fictional Kansas town of Grover’s Bend where the Critters land.  

In one picture postcard scene of the perfect nuclear family, the Browns gather round the breakfast table in a primary colored kitchen, blissfully unaware of the approaching danger and disruption to follow. 

That slow build-up may be less commonplace today, but it’s something Harvey believes was crucial to the success of the film. 

“That was one of the things that appealed to me about the script,” he says. “If you set that up properly and the audience is in there with you. They gain an understanding of the family dynamic right away and they are engaged. It helps you then feel for each one of them subsequently…The rules are the same, and they have been since the first Greek dramas; storytelling is still about humans and the human condition. Just making stuff about what the monsters are doing has no appeal.” 

Critters came during a time when horror comedies were commonplace in multiplexes.

“Studios started to notice in test screenings that the audience response was often bigger when you capped a scare or moment of high tension with a bit of wit or humor,” Harvey explains. 

Post-screening surveys bore this out; using humor to emphasize or punctuate a terrifying moment drew a bigger response from the audience. Regardless of the visceral impact of the scare itself. It made it more memorable to viewers.

The Cast of Critters

It helped that Critters boasted an impressive cast to bring the script to life.  

Blade Runner’s M. Emmet Walsh appeared as the grouchy local sheriff while Dee Wallace, who had starred in E.T. only a few years earlier, was also convinced to sign on as the Brown family matriarch Helen. Billy “Green” Bush was cast as the hardworking man of the house Jay Brown with Nadine van der Velde as his high school teen daughter April. 

Despite some impressive names, Harvey ranks the casting of future Party of Five and ER star Scott Grimes in the role of mischievous central teenage protagonist Brad Brown as the most significant. It’s Scott who first discovers the Critters and Scott that begins to fight back against them using his slingshot and potent firecrackers coming off like a hellish Kevin McCallister from Home Alone. 

“Scott was tailor-made for the role,” Harvey says. “He was at the center of the craziness and he had the audience’s sympathy and support because no one was paying attention to him.” 

For all the acting talent on display, however, much of the movie’s success rested on the tiny shoulders of a few hedgehog-like puppets. 

“The biggest challenge was making the Critters appear to be a viable threat as the antagonists,” Harvey says. “We were really fortunate that we found the Chiodo Brothers.” 

A trio of siblings who specialized in stop motion and animatronic work, the Chiodos were relative newcomers to the movie business and would go on to projects like Elf and Team America: World Police. 

“We knew from the script we were dealing with a fur ball that got around fast by rolling around and was all teeth and voracious,” Harvey says. “That was the extent of the design parameters. They came up with the drawings and the details as to how they would work.”

Harvey cites the Critters’ distinctive, almost limbless design as both a blessing and a curse.  

“From a construction and manipulation point of view, they were relatively straightforward,” he says. “But from an action perspective, there was not a lot you could do with them.” 

While other projects, like New Line’s later Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movies, would struggle with glitchy animatronics, there were no such problems with the Chiodos’ creations with each running impressively well thanks to a crack team behind the scenes.

“Even though the Critters were fairly simple creatures, there were times for some of those shots, when we had 10 guys running different cables and things to them to get them right,” Harvey recalls. “They had eye movement, mouth movement, lip movement even their little arms and legs move because these things needed to look as believable as possible. But it was still tough to make these things that rolled around something scary and frightening rather than cute and laughable.” 

That was where Billy Zane came in. A good horror villain needs a good victim. Cast in the role of April’s unsuspecting boyfriend Steve Eliot, the then unknown Zane ended up falling afoul of the Critters in arguably the film’s standout gory death after encountering the furry fiends while enjoying a makeout session in the family’s barn. 

“It was the first thing he’d ever done. I think he’d arrived in L.A. a week before,” Harvey says, recalling how uncomfortably hot that barn scene was for everyone involved. “It was 100 degrees in the barn. He had little furry creatures stuck to his stomach and was covered in fake blood. It was so hot and sticky. We stayed there for the whole day, getting all the inserts and various other bits and pieces to make the scene…But that setup in the claustrophobic space of the barn helped to make the scene much scarier because we could set it up in a kind of way that made the punchline, the payoff, much more visceral.” 

The Bounty Hunters

For all the machinations of the Critters themselves, it’s their pursuers from outer space, the two faceless bounty hunters, who almost steal the show.

Especially after one decides to take the form of fictional hair metal superstar Johnny Steele, the singer of “Power of the Night” a song so pitch-perfectly cheesy, you had to wonder if Steele is a real artist rather than musical theater actor Terrence Mann. 

“I went to see Terrence who was appearing in Cats on Broadway. He’d been suggested by a friend and was seriously interested in doing the film,” Harvey says. “We had a friend in New York who was in the music business and had a recording studio. He put together some tracks and we created this imaginary band that he stole the identity of the lead singer from.” 

Despite some striking similarities to artists of the time, Harvey insists Johnny Steele wasn’t set up as a deliberate lampooning of any one artist.

“The band was generically inspired by particular bands of the time,” he says. “There wasn’t any one group or individual. We were post punk and before real heavy metal. There was more of a glam goth influence.” 

Teaming up with Charlie and Brad, the bounty hunters eventually destroy the Critters though it comes at a cost to the Browns, with the family home blown-up in the process. It was a powerful symbol of the way these invaders had shattered their lives but not their spirit. Unfortunately, New Line Cinema didn’t like it as an ending. 

“Bob wanted it changed so that the house was rebuilt in the end but I was against it so we had a few arguments about that, but it was Bob’s money, and we did it and it came out very successfully.” 

Shaye and New Line would occasionally prove tricky customers, with Harvey often forced to traverse the familiar pitfalls of independent filmmaking.

“We were in production and things were really tough and there was one point in time when Bob and I sat down in the trailer and he explained to me some things that I won’t go into,” Harvey says.  “Things were very tricky for a week or two financially, but they sorted themselves out. That was a typical attribute of an independent movie. ‘Oh God you’re spending $150,000 dollars a day, can you spend $100,000?’. Not unheard of but no fun at the time.” 

For all the trials and tribulations of the film, cast, and Critters themselves, however, he has fond memories of working on the film.

“We weren’t stuck in Los Angeles in some smoke-filled space,” he said. “The set was built on Newhall Ranch, this huge bucolic area of land outside of L.A and there we were for five weeks shooting in relatively hot temperatures.” 

Critters Sequels and What’s Next

After a quick turnaround in editing, Critters was released in cinemas, proving to be a hit with over $13 million made at the box office off a budget of $3 million. This kind of success made sequels inevitable.

Though Harvey was unavailable for the second film, he returned for the third and fourth movies, which were filmed back-to-back and released direct to video.

“By then video cassettes were a huge component to New Line’s early success and helped finance the Nightmare on Elm Street and Critters sequels and all of the other movies that they then started making in order to become the powerhouse they became,” Harvey says. “I think it funded something like 40 to 40 to 50 percent of New Line production for that period of time.”

Harvey was initially hesitant to get involved, citing Shaye’s wishes to make the sequels for even less money than the first film. However, he ultimately relented after agreeing to film them back-to-back.

Harvey has mixed feelings about the two sequels, particularly the third movie, which he had conceived as being “much darker and much more violent” than what eventually made it to the screen.

“I wanted to do a George Romero homage for the third film,” he says. “I was very much interested in the claustrophobia of the tenement building in New York City, that kind of atmosphere. Boy, did it ever turn out differently.”

Having also agreed to direct the fourth film, which was set in space and wrap up the franchise, he found himself too busy to oversee work on the third movie.

“It was different. I didn’t have as much to do with Critters 3 because I was directing the fourth film. We were shooting back to back. We had a week down in between the two. All the time we were shooting Critters 3 I was prepping Critters 4.”

While the fourth film featured both a young Angela Bassett and Brad Dourif on top scene-chewing form, the third entry has become among the most noted in the years since thanks to the presence of a young Leonardo DiCaprio in the main role.

“It’s the movie that shall remain nameless on Leo DiCaprio’s resume,” Harvey jokes.

He doesn’t have a lot of memories about DiCaprio on set though there was already a sense he was destined for big things.

“One day he told me he needed some time off. He had to go and audition for this movie. After he came back I asked ‘How did it go?’ and he said ‘Robert De Niro is really great’. he’d been off auditioning for This Boy’s Life…And of course, when he did that movie, it was like, ‘Holy shit. Well, where was that actor when we were making Critters 3?’” 

While Leo is unlikely to return to the Critters franchise anytime soon, Harvey, who had no involvement in a recent TV revival, believes that there is life in the old furballs yet.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

“It’s not a franchise that’s going to go away,” he says cryptically. “Whatever comes next needs to be something that is responsive to contemporary sources. I can’t really say too much about it, because nothing is final. All I can tell you is that I don’t think this is the end.”

The post Critters: The Making of a Comedy Horror Cult Classic appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/2RHGEEI

[kikizoshi]

Dostoyevsky’s Proposal

Written in the style of War and Peace. In this AU, Fyodor’s position is pretty much like an unmarried woman in the 19th century, as are many men in his time.

@poppirocks - Congrats on 400, and here’s to many more :)

~2.5k

“How kind of you to join me, Nikolai Vasilievich. I trust you’ll stay long?”

          Dostoyevsky smiled, welcoming his guest into the drawing-room.

          “Not at all, not at all!” Gogol waved his arms in amiable protest. “That is, not at all of kindness, of course I’ll stay! If anything, I’m the one humbled by your kindness of honouring me with an invitation.”

          Dostoyevsky laughed softly. “You say that, and yet what if I should have invited you a week prior, when I sent out all of my other invitations? Surely you would have… taken ill. From the excitement, I mean.”

          “Of course, of course,” Gogol dismissed playfully, “From excitement, or some spring fever. I might’ve been pulled away but look--” he spread his arms wide, “here I am, a whole man, with no need for worry.”

          “And what a man you are,” Dostoyevsky smiled graciously. His comment, though perhaps a bit odd, was quite in-keeping with their relationship. Ten years had passed since either had seen the other, and though they sent frequent letters, meeting once more was a clean breath of fresh air.

          “Sit, please.” Dostoyevsky insisted. “No, not there, that chair is horribly uncomfortable. Here, on the chaise with me. Don’t worry, no one will talk. There’s no reason to.” The tan-and-gold chaise in question, situated as it was very near to a piano, rendered its occupants practically unhearable should the piano be occupied as well. For this event, Dostoyevsky’s trusted servant, Vanya, happened to be performing a string of popular and robust German compositions. 

          “Now, I’m sure you’ve wondered why I invited you here…” He paused politely, and Gogol nodded with evident interest. “Well, I’ll tell you. I have a proposition. Not a horrid one, please, don’t give me such a vile look. I know how you love games. And as you know, I have a love for you, extending to your games, but moreso my love is in myself, and I too have a fondness for certain types of games...”

          “And so your point?” Gogol laughed. “I should think we know each other enough to forgo the formalities by now.”

          “Very well then... I’ll tell you plainly.” Dostoyevsky turned, so as to be sure to be heard by Gogol. “I propose a roulette, only not in a casino, but with a gun, in my chambers. I have a revolver. American, I think.”

          Gogol smiled, amusement crinkling in his eyes, “Of course he wouldn’t know the maker of his own pistol.”

          “Do you mind?”

          “Oh, no, don’t mind me!” Gogol said merrily, “Please, continue.”

          “Yes, so as I was saying, I propose that sort of game.”

          “So what, you’d like me dead?” Gogol asked, though not without humour. “Or you want me to kill you? Why not just have a duel, then?”

          “I don’t want a /duel/,” Dostoyevsky spat the word out, as though even speaking it was beneath him, “And my aim isn’t for one of our deaths. No, what interests me is a certain… other thing, which will become clearer to you later in the night. For now, however, I ask you to humour me blindly, as your friend, and trust that I shan’t lead you astray.”

          “He speaks clearly and earnestly,” said Gogol, “and yet I wonder still at his intentions. If you truly don’t wish for my death--which you’ve stated implicitly enough--then, well, what else am I to make of it? Forgive my saying so, but is there any other conclusion I could draw?”

          “Perhaps not for the time being, which is why I beg you again for your trust. I’ll bow for it if you like, only not here. In fact, please follow me directly, as we’ve no reason to waste another moment.” And there he stood, gesturing for Gogol to do the same.

          “I say, you’ve surely gone mad.”

          “And what if I have,” Dostoyevsky replied with a smile, “There’s nothing awful about that, is there?”

          “Nothing awful? What an idea! But come, sit, for I will not follow you, not for anything. If you put a gun to my head I wouldn’t follow you now,” Gogol laughed as he said the last part, evidently taken with his own joke. “So here, your chaise is ever so comfortable, and why not enjoy it a while with an old friend, before getting down to business? No, don’t pull on my arm. It won’t do you any good and you’ll cause a scene. Sit, I say!”

          Indeed, Gogol wasn’t wrong in his assumption of a scene; the two of them had gathered a sort of crowd consisting of side-eyed stares and occasional whispers. Dostoyevsky, defeated, sat with as much decorum as he could muster next to Gogol, and began to tap his leg in agitation. Gogol smiled and lounged back.

          “Now,” he continued, “Surely you’ve other matters to discuss than only a gun-based roulette.”

          “What would you have me say?”

          “Hm, well, tell me of your engagement! There’s no end of gossip there. At least, the rumours I’ve heard are enough to fill a quarter of the River Styx.”

          Dostoyevsky further deflated. “But they’re just that: rumours. What’s more to say?”

          “Oh, but there’s more to it than that! Much more!” Gogol exclaimed. “For one, I heard that Princess K----- has her eye on you. Though not only one eye, from the way people talk, her vision is quite melonomic towards anyone else! And then there are the two princes, who for a long time now have fought mercilessly for your favour. They’ve even duelled, not once, but twice! Then there are the clerks, the merchants, some hussars…” (He named a considerable list which I will spare the reader.) “In fact, I’d say the whole of Petersburg has its eye on you! And you ask, ‘What’s more to say’.”

          “I see you’ve soaked up quite the bit of gossip, despite the short time since your arrival. It’s strange we’ve not met before. With how you talk, surely you’ve attended several of Anna Pavlovna’s soirees. Yet I’ve not seen a hint of you anywhere.”

          “Oh, well that was a purposeful slip,” Gogol laughed. “Yes, I did go, to her soirees and many other social gatherings, but my heart was not in it. I spoke dully about politics, gave only the blandest of smiles to those who approached me, half the time I felt horribly faint... And how could I let my dearest friend see me in such a state? No, even if I was presentable to most, well, ‘most’ see nothing but what’s put in front of them. Yes, we’re all ostriches with our heads in the sand. Stick us with a hot iron, even, and we’ll just bury deeper.”

          “Maybe so,” Dostoyevsky said, “but then, you’re still a bird in that way, so perhaps half of your goal is already realised.”

          Gogol stared blankly at Dostoyevsky for a time. “What use is there in being an ostrich?” He asked finally. “Ostriches cannot fly.”

          Dostoyevsky failed to hide a coy smirk. “They’re rather adept at running, however. You could easily run, run, run away from every pressing issue--you’d leave any cage shrouded in dust long before it thought of imprisoning you. You’d be quite tasty, too.”

          Gogol raised his eyes suggestively. “You wouldn’t need such a form to taste me. And in any case, if being an ostrich is all as you say it is, then am I not already one?”

          “Oh, no, you’re still quite a man, I’m afraid. Though that, too, is perhaps a good thing. If you are a man, then, naturally, you’ll have the capacity to rationalise emotionally and mentally through your vices. One day you may even find grace.”

          Gogol sighed wearily. “Why is it,” said he, “that it may only be one at a time between the two of us who is allowed to be happy?”

          Dostoyevsky gave him a pitying look. “A balance you seem to keep readily.”

          “You suppose?” Gogol sighed, leaning his head back, aggravated, against the mahogany of the chaise’s back, and closed his eyes.

          Silence passed several moments like that; the chatter of the guests and gliding piano notes created a white noise which transported both men into a meditational state. The underlying melancholy both easily felt, yet they passed through it in their own ways: Dostoyevsky letting it wash over him and Gogol stamping it under his boot, grinding it under his teeth for good measure. Eventually, as Dostoyevsky nearly felt himself be lost completely, he broke the spell.

          “If you wish to know the truth,” he said, “then I’ll speak it plainly: I’ve no suitable suitor. There have been rumours of such a thing, but they are mostly in jest. If some have been taken by them, and took such things seriously, it still means nothing--there isn’t one man or woman in our town who wishes to make me their betrothed. For who would?” He smiled a self-deprecating smile. “An invalid doesn’t make for a good match.”

          “Ah yes! Who would want an idiot of a betrothed--but a rich idiot is another case entirely--but for your money. Last you wrote, you explained that your dowry had been raised, so that it now lands something over seventy-thousand. I know thirty men alone who would marry for that--ten of a higher class than you, for your family is held in quite high esteem.”

          Dostoyevsky grimaced. “Yes, and in fact, you are quite right about that. And in fact, I’ve met with several good men who I’ll be happy to accept should one give an offer…”

          “So what is the matter with you?”

          “Yes, indeed, what is the matter…” Dostoyevsky trailed off once more, bringing up a finger to his teeth and gnawing, first gently but soon quite viciously, at it. It wasn’t until his reddened finger appeared just about to split that he forced it from his mouth to continue. “What is the matter, is that… I don’t wish to marry for such a… Which isn’t to say that I don’t wish to marry for my family, or that I wish to marry for love. I know the ridiculity of both ideas, and neither are particularly accurate. Only… I cannot shake the idea that in marrying, I’ll be losing something… Something that I can’t define will be lost, or perhaps it won’t… The whole matter gives off a horrible feeling, as though nothing can be done and, no matter what, something awful can and will come of it.” Again, he paused. Looking to Gogol, he hoped the other would say something, but as the look on his face was merely passively attentive, Dostoyevsky sighed and continued.

          “There was another time,” Dostoyevsky said, “when I considered marrying, although marriage wasn’t a possibility for that man, and I’m quite sure--as I was at the time--that such a union would only have ended in tragedy. Still… That man, from some country far southward of ours and across an ocean, he was the only one I’ve met who could challenge me at chess. We went on for hours at a time, and each second felt simultaneously as a blink and as an era. Rarely had I been so excited. And at that time, genuinely, I considered making /him/ an offer, as unconventional as it might have been… Of course, I fiercely hated him too. He was an incorrigible man, a flirt and with so much bravado I feared his chest couldn’t bear the weight, and above all he was barely a noble. There was no hope in it but still… I dreamed...

          “But now I am twenty-two, and in not four years I shall be twenty-six. I should have married years ago, but I’ve never had the heart for it, and I fear my reasons are nothing but selfish. It’s my vice, but… I’m afraid. I’m afraid to change my mind, for what if the awful does happen… Though even then it should not matter. I should trust in my husband, and if all does not come to be exactly as I wish it, then God has sent the trial for my own sake.” Dostoyevsky’s tone was convincing, as though he himself did not believe his words but was desperately trying to rectify the fact.

          Gogol, after a moment, laughed. “If beating you over chess is the only prerequisite, even Vanya could become your groom. Why be so pessimistic, in that case?”

          “You think Vanya would beat me?” Dostoyevsky shook his head seriously. “No--he wouldn’t do it. No one here would, for they are too full of virtue. You alone are the only man here who would think of such a thing.”

          “Heh, well,” Gogol tapped his temple with a chuckle, “perhaps I should never have been invited at all, if I lack such virtue… And yet you speak of it not as something terrible, but rather as a curious state which you’re happy to welcome into not only your drawing room, but your private chambers! Be careful now--I fear the Devil is whispering in your ear.”

          “Well now,” Dostoyevsky laughed, “And what of Turgenev? He has far worse problems than I, in that regard.”

          “Oh? Poor, poor Turgenev, we mustn’t speak of him.” Gogol’s eyes practically glittered, a twist of amusement swirling down his face and throughout his being. He was evidently vastly excited to speak about Turgenev.

          “Maybe so, but please, explain to a poor invalid.”

          “Oh, if I must! I see there is no getting round you.” Gogol threw his hands up, feigning coercion, and readily continued. “You see, there was this new woman--I know not her name--who took him quite quickly and even more thoroughly. She not only agreed to take him in as her slave (a notion, if you’ll remember, that his dear Victoria--lover of a distant past and oh! how he’ll miss her--blanched at in the beginning), but this new she, how shall I say…” Gogol looked around, as though noticing their company for the first time, and met with several curious (and several accusing) stares. “She… gave to him a… new, and hitherto unfathomed ‘pastry’ to which, I fear, he was quite addicted from the first lick. Now, there’s no saving him. Bless his poor soul.”

          “You speak as though from experience.”

          “Oh! Can you imagine? Heh-heh, no no, I can’t--it simply couldn’t happen. Now, with someone else, in a different place, I’m sure my feelings would be quite different,” Again, a suggestive look was sent towards Dostoyevsky, “but as for him? No. I could never.”

          Dostoyevsky huffed softly, a gentle, amused sheen shone in his eyes. “I’d love to hear more, if you’d be so kind, although I fear such conversation is rather intense for settings such as this…”

          “Oh, anything is too much for everyone nowadays! Bless our Russia… But, won’t your appearance be missed? Everyone is here by your invitation, and what would they think if their dear leader were to leave them so suddenly?”

          “They’ll think nothing of it--I won’t be missed. Come.” Again, Dostoyevsky rose, and again, he extended his hand to Gogol, which this time was accepted, and the two men left the drawing-room. One of the men’s thoughts rested in a dark cabinet beside a small, silver revolver.

[mediioxumate]

nonnie is enabling me! 

Do you have headcanons for your arknights characters?

im so glad you asked. heads up for too many snow leopard references. 

SilverAsh

the gap moe of it all. i think it’s really interesting that the general facade he puts forward is actually his gentle smile, and that his e2 art is where he drops it, implying he trusts the doctor enough to not necessarily keep up the (terrifying) pleasant boy demeanor. generally, he has 3 levels, his pleasant persona -> ruthless/cold -> snuggly cat mode. 

he’s very very protective over his family - and considers all of those close to him family. he has a self sacrificial streak that’s easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. 

seeing as he’s like 6′3/192cm, he hit a serious growth spurt very young. threw his balance, and was definitely very gangly for a bit until he grew into himself. it did help solidify his more pacifying, pleasant persona, meant to be non threatening. 

absolute sassbucket. no one asked, cio. no one. 

well versed in business (obv) as well as law, and could veritably represent his family in court if needed, and allows his to retain his footing around the nobility he so opposes. 

also has an assortment of Rich Boy talents: ballroom/formal dancing, well read, polyglot, and to a lesser known degree, he’s a painter - but this is primarily for himself. to others, he is simply well versed in art. 

though many expect him to run cold with the whole ice prince aes he’s got goin on, seeing as he’s snow leopard adjacent, he’s actually quite warm.

relationships:

pram: they are estranged at best.  he made the deal with her to become a saintess in her as well as the family’s best wishes, but being taken away from what she knows, and metaphorically dunked into the shark tank hasn’t boded well for their relationship. he would still defend her without second thought. 

cliff: remain close but in the background, and he feels responsible for his youngest sibling. she has been known to give him headaches, but he’s very fond of her, and will always be in her corner. on the short list of people that get his true nature. appreciates the good name she makes for the clan. 

courier: boyfriend. emotional support twink. but in all seriousness, they have one of those long, slow burn relationships (in canon) and the inherent eroticism of a boy dedicating his life to you. also in the short list of people to get him all the way to grumpy/snuggly/more himself.  

ethan: as an artist, he has a lot of respect for ethan’s work, and thinks it’s very nice. but as a raised noble, he has an...adverse reaction to graffiti. 

aak: he will sell him to satan for one corn chip. 

shirayuki: not close, but relationship of mutual respect. there’s a certain alienating factor added when she is fairly close with pram. 

Pramanix

lebsiam. lesbiab. lebs. le. girls. women. 

beneath her serene exterior, she’s quite carefree and on the silly side. she’s playful and has dry humor that often goes unnoticed. few get to see this side of her when the serenity is so expected. 

essentially a political prisoner. her position of saintess is less a power thing for her, and much more shackling. she’s removed from her family, and surrounded by too many people whispering in her ear. rhodes island is a welcome escape for her. 

she is as religious as her post implies, but her relationship with her faith is extremely personal. her holy bell is kept close at all times, and treated almost reverently. it is as powerful as terrifying for her. one mistake and she’s doomed, and she’s learned not to make mistakes. 

textile work is one of her passions, and something she’s gotten to do very little of since ascending to her position. weaving, knitting, dying fabrics, all manner of things. most of her wardrobe is made and maintained by herself. 

those she cares deeply for receive little gifts from her - typically pieces of embroidery, small dyed cloths, simple things that can be displayed around the home or carried close. once she’s at rhodes island, these grow into sweaters and scarves - bigger, warm, wearable pieces. 

additionally, growing up in an elite family, she’s well read, and her love for reading has never faded. it aids her well in her position, absorbing religious texts, history, anything necessary, but she also enjoys a simple novel. it’s not uncommon to find her curled up in a corner of one of the dormitory rooms with a book she’s scavenged to wind down after a long day and recover. 

her other passion is tea! if one of the medics will teach her to maintain her own tea plants, she’ll be over the moon. over all, she finds it calming, and likes teas across the spectrum. with such low to connection to her usual hobbies, it’s often that she finds herself offering and making tea for those she meets with. 

much like a cat, she requires more sleep than average - at least 10-11 hours at night, and a nap somewhere midday. rumor has it, it’s the toll being a vessel for the divine takes on her, and she would not disagree. it could also be depression. 

relationships:

silverash: as mentioned prior, they’re estranged. she was younger than advisable when he made the decision to have her ascend to saintess. while aware it was likely the best move for her and the family, she struggles not to blame him for the stress and loneliness associated with her position. less inclined to stand up for her brother. 

cliff: neutral relationship with her sister. while she holds no ill will, being separated hasn’t done anything to improve their relationship. there’s a bit of underlying bitterness that cliff is still free and able to pursue her passions. does not know about cliff’s infection. 

shirayuki: future gf. she appreciates someone that matches her energy, and isn’t terribly demanding on her when her position is demanding enough. rhodes island has been her first chance to breathe in so long, those asking her to shoulder too much end up on her shit list. not that they’d ever know. 

cliffheart:

funky little nb bisexual. unstoppable. she/they pronouns. 

climbing calms her, and she sees any vertical surface as a challenge. it’s not uncommon to see her in spots she shouldn’t be around rhodes island, and she’s been known to scare some of the operators by scaling walls etc in the dormitories just to hang out. has had it joked that she should be a mountain goat not a snow leopard until she reminds them that they belong in the mountains too, thank you very much. 

incredibly spunky and a huge prankster. and with SA as an older brother, she’s not easily intimidated or frightened by others. plus, she’s very nimble, get away is never a challenge. 

also very flexible. will fold herself into seemingly impossible positions to scare someone when they walk in. much like the cat she is, her resting positions only make sense and look comfortable about half of the time. 

as for her oripathy diagnosis, very few people know. she is careful to hide it, and is thankful for the lower stigma in kjerag to be able to continue to lead a mostly normal life. in all honesty, she’s terrified of it, and what will happen, but she also uses it to boost her desire to live in the moment, try new things, and remain adventurous. 

after initially suffering the puncture wound, she wasn’t able to climb for a bit, still recovering from the trauma and getting the oripathy under control. it wasn’t long until she was itching to climb again. 

generally hikes solo, but always excited for anyone that can keep up with her on the mountains! also into journaling and photography along the way to document everything. this often includes towns she visits and the stories of people she meets and talks to along the way. 

relationships:

silverash: lovingly calls him cio. a little better than he can’t have much of a relationship with her publicly, but she loves him a lot and she wants better for him. hopefully, rhodes island can improve things.

pram: neutral and loving. she hasn’t spoken to her sister since pram took her position, and she’s fairly distressed about the deteriorated relationship with their brother. cliff plans to use rhodes island and the time there to reconnect with pram, and hopefully eventually connect her back to cio. 

ethan: fast friends - and a killer combo. give a graffiti artist someone who can get him to the weirdest spots with ease. they have a similar prankster nature, and click fairly naturaly. 

aak: fast friends as well. matching chaotic energy. she trusts few medics with her condition, but he’s one of them. his penchant for experimenting resonates with her, and she offers herself for whatever tests he wants to run willingly. 

[maluminspace]

Genre: Fluff 

Pairings: Calum Hood/Male reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Requested: by anon

this is really cheesy but, i would love a blurb about calum bringing his boyfriend around the rest of the band for the first time. seeing all of their reactions. obvs they know about the boyfriend but have never met him.

Trigger Warnings: Strong language, alcohol

A/N: I’m taking a little tiny break from Hogwarts!sos to post this little blurb for all of the guys in the fandom that want a lil imagine. I felt super honoured to get this request and I hope you all enjoy it.

***

Your phone’s perched in your hands, the screen displaying some random twitter thread so that you can pretend to be busy. Luckily, the Uber driver’s feeble attempts at making conversation with you fizzled out after just a few minutes, leaving you to fret over tonight’s party in silence. 

Meeting your boyfriend’s best friends had been on the horizon for a while, ever since Calum had officially asked you to be his boyfriend around a month ago. However, the fact that you’d been anticipating the meeting, isn’t making your anxiety any less crippling.

Perhaps your nerves would be more understandable to most people if you were about to meet your boyfriend’s parents or immediate family. Although, Calum’s band are the closest thing he has to family here in LA. Michael, Luke and Ashton have always been like brothers to the Maori man and that made tonight all-the-more important. Your boyfriend has proudly proclaimed how close he is to his band on numerous occasions throughout your relationship so far. In fact, Calum has unintentionally made tonight feel like a whole lot of pressure, to the point where you’re sure he’ll break up with you if his friends do not instantly love you.

Your mind’s racing with all of the possible outcomes of the party, the vast majority of them ending very badly. It’s entirely possible that you could screw up so badly that you’ll end up alone by the end of the evening. You’re so caught up in the terrifying prospect of being dumped by the sweetest guy you’ve ever dated, that you don’t even notice the car has stopped moving. It’s only when the driver clears his throat and announces, “this is it, man…” That you realise you’ve arrived at Calum’s house.

“Oh!” You splutter, hastily shoving your phone into the pocket of your jeans. “Thank you…”

The Uber driver nods politely at you in the rear-view mirror before you scramble out of the car. A light in Calum’s hallway flickers to life as you swing the car door shut behind you. Duke’s little bark echoes down the quiet driveway before the front door opens.

Calum looks effortlessly beautiful as always, framed by the light in his hallway as he picks up his dog. His latest buzz-cut seemed to have taken away the last of the blue hair dye he’d been using lately, leaving what was left his natural black. The style suited him so well and it gave his simple outfit, made up of skinny black jeans, heavy boots and a stylish white shirt, a kind of edge. The sight of your boyfriend looking so handsome seemed to put your nerves a little more at ease.

“It’s just me, Duke…” You giggle as you make your way over to the house, faintly aware of the cab driving away behind you. “You silly boy, c’mere!” You reach out for Duke, the little fluffy pup helping you to temporarily forget just how much you’re dreading the rest of the evening.

There’s an undeniable fondness in Calum’s eyes as he hands you the tiny dog. “He’s gonna get fur all over your shirt…” He smirks, dragging his eyes over your body for a moment the way he always does. It still brings butterflies to your tummy when Calum subconsciously licks his lips as though he’s remembering what you look like beneath the skinny jeans and simple black shirt.

Shrugging to mask your mess of underlying feelings, you cuddle Duke close. “I didn’t realise you were taking me to meet the queen, Cal.” You quip. “I don’t think your friends will think less of me because I love cuddling your dog.”

Your boyfriend conceded your point with a thoughtful nod. “That’s true, they always leave here covered in his fur, too.” He giggled, pecking a kiss to your cheek as he stands aside to let you in before closing the front door behind you. 

“Are they all dog people, then?” You inquire, trying hard to make a mental checklist of things that you can possibly make small talk about.

“I guess so.” Calum replied, “Well Mike and Luke love all animals really and Ashton tolerates Duke because he knows I love him so much.” 

Adding ‘talk to Michael and Luke about pets’ to your mental list, you ask if Calum’s ready to leave.

Nodding, the bassist grabs a leather jacket from the coat hooks near the door “I just need to pee and then I’m ready to go.” He pecks a quick kiss to your lips before disappearing into the downstairs bathroom.

Keeping Duke close to your chest, you wonder down the hallway towards the kitchen, hoping that keeping your legs moving will stop your brain from racing through more, possibly tragic, outcomes of the night ahead. “Have you got any good advice for me, boy?” You ask the pooch, nuzzling Duke’s head as you pause to look at a framed photo of Calum and his best friends perched proudly on a side table. “I bet you didn’t have to worry about them liking you, did you?” 

The tiny dog wriggles in your hold, urging you to put him down. “Fine, you impatient little pup.” You sigh as you crouch down to let him go. “I thought I could count on you for some good advice.”

Duke barely gives you a second glance before scampering off into the kitchen towards his water bowl. “Guess I’m back to worrying on my own...” You sigh, getting back to your feet and picking up the photo to look at it a little closer. It’s a fairly recent picture, taken within the last year if Calum’s shaven head was to be taken into account. The crowd of people and the flurry of balloons in the background of the photo suggested it was taken at a birthday party or something. It’s obvious by the way the four men have their arms slung casually around each other’s shoulders and the easy smiles on their faces, that they were incredibly close friends. There’s no way that anyone would get away with hurting one of them whilst the other three were around to protect them.

“Ugh don’t look at that…” Calum groaned, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “I look gross, I only have it on display because it was a gift from Luke and he’s a sentimental little hoe, he’d cry if he thought I didn’t like it.”

You giggle, trying to keep your fingers from trembling as you place down the photo. “So Luke’s the sensitive one, got it. Any more pearls of wisdom before we go?” There’s a hopeful note in your voice that just couldn’t be fully held back.

Gently spinning you around to face him, Calum smiles encouragingly. “Stop worrying.” He groans softly, cupping your cheek in one of his large hands. “The guys are gonna love you as much as I do.”

It’s highly unlikely that you’ll ever get used to hearing such an incredibly beautiful man saying that he loves you. You melt into his touch, allowing the soft gesture to calm you. “But what if they don’t?” 

Calum’s eyes sparkle with love as he pecks a fond kiss to your lips. “If they’re dumb enough to overlook how amazing you are at first, we’ll just meet up again another day and hope they see you for the treasure you are.” He explains, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’d do all that for me?” You ask, still finding it hard to believe that Calum Hood thinks this much of you.

Your boyfriend nods, “I’d do anything for you, but even those idiots will be able to see how incredible you are, trust me.” He placed a kiss to the end of your nose before pulling you towards the front door. “They’ve been texting me all day saying how excited they are to meet you so I’m not gonna keep them waiting any longer, c’mon.” 

As much as you’d love to stay within the safe solitude of Calum’s pretty house, you know that there’s no point in delaying the inevitable any longer. You allow your boyfriend to lead you outside as you both yell goodnight to Duke before Calum closes the door and locks it.

“I think you’ll enjoy tonight.” Calum smiles as he leads the way onto the street. “Ashton’s parties are always fun, although, you should be prepared to drink your weight in tequila.” He laughs nervously. “I swear he won’t rest until he has to send someone out to the supermarket for another bottle.”

Ashton’s house is only a very short walk away, you know this because Calum’s boasted about how happy it makes him to be close to one of his best buddies more times than you care to count. “So your best friend’s gonna get me hella drunk, huh?” You smirk, loving the way that Calum loops his arm around your shoulders as the two of you make your way along the street. “That wouldn’t be by your instructions by any chance, would it, Hood?”

Gasping in faux offence, Calum hugged you close. “You do a great job of that on your own usually, babe.” He counters.

It’s not really a lie, you have been known to take a shot or three too many on occasions. “I’m definitely no worse than you, Mr I’ve-only-had-six-beers-three-shots-and-a-couple-of-double-whiskeys.” 

Calum plants a kiss to your forehead, giggling a little at your expert retort. It dawns on you suddenly just how much you smile and laugh when you’re with Calum. It’s hard to think of another time in your life that you’ve ever felt this happy, safe and content. 

As you turn into Ashton’s drive, the two of you still giggling, you realise that tonight doesn’t have to be that daunting at all. Calum loves you, against all the odds, he adores you as much as you do him and at the very heart of things, it doesn’t matter at all what anyone else thinks.

Of course that brief moment of clarity and resolution melts away into a fresh flurry of nerves when Ashton appears in his doorway. “You made it!” He chimes cheerfully, stepping aside for the two of you to enter. “I’ll just grab Lu and Mike so that you don’t have to do the whole intro thing more than once.” He smiles at you brightly before turning to Calum. “Go and get your man a drink, Cal! We’ll meet you both in the kitchen in a just a sec.”

As Ashton disappears into his living room, Calum takes your hand, leading you towards the kitchen at the end of the spacious hallway. 

The drummer’s house is bigger than Calum’s, the hallway and kitchen alone seem to be the size of the entire downstairs of Calum’s luxury home.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Your boyfriend asks when he catches you admiring the sweeping staircase leading up to the first floor. “He has a mini recording studio too, y’know.”

You nod, recalling Calum mentioning it on one of your earlier dates when he’d talked about recording their latest album. “Yeah, very…” You reply. “I hope I can get a full tour later.”

Calum smiled, apparently happy about your interest in his friend’s house. “I’m sure Ash would love to show you around, he’s very house proud.”

The kitchen wasn’t as empty as you expected when you entered the large tiled room. There’s a little group of women hanging around one of the counters, each of them offering Calum a brief wave when they notice him.

“Do you know them?” You ask, starting to feel nervous again at the prospect of being the only one that doesn’t know everyone else at the party.

Calum shakes his head. “Not really… I think the girl with the red hair is in Ashton’s yoga class, I’ve seen her leave the gym a couple of times when I’ve met Ashton for coffee after his workout sessions. I don’t really recognise any of the others.” He leads you over to one of the counters near the back window before grabbing a couple of the red paper cups that are stacked neatly next to an impressive range of alcoholic beverages and mixers. “What do you want to drink, babe?” 

You quickly scan the labels of each bottle displayed on the counter before ultimately reaching for the Jack Daniels. “My old favourite, please…” You reply, handing it to Calum.

As your boyfriend pours the drinks, you survey the room carefully. From what you’ve seen of the house so far, it’s pretty minimalist, there aren’t many decorative items. Everything in this room at least, seemed to have a function and a purpose. You wonder if that’s a conscious decision that Ashton’s made or whether he just hasn’t had the time to fill his house with things he finds interesting or pretty.

“There you go, gorgeous.” Calum chimes as he hands you the red paper cup, now filled with JD and cola, before draping his arm around you again to pull you into his side. “Y’know, I heard you talking to Duke earlier… I had no idea you were that nervous about meeting my friends.” He confessed, placing a kiss to your forehead,. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, I promise, they’ll absolutely love you.”

“You don’t know that for sure.” You pout, taking a sip of your drink. “What if they think I’m too much of a dork, or not fashionable enough, or too boring, or just not right for you…”

Calum cuts you off with a soft kiss which you instantly melt into. He holds you close for a long moment before finally whispering “There’s no such thing as ‘too much of a dork’, plus you can never be dorkier than any of my friends, I’m literally the only cool one.”

Giggling, you allow Calum to kiss you again, melting away more of your anxiety. You were interrupted a second later by someone clearing their throat. You pull away hastily enough that a little of your drink spills over onto your hand. You barely get a chance to wipe it on your jeans before you notice that you’re suddenly surrounded by the rest of your boyfriend’s band.

“Put him down for a minute, mate!” Michael smirks at Calum, clapping his friend on the shoulder fondly. “How are we supposed to get to know your new man if you’re attached to him like a fucking limpet?” 

“Yeah, keep it clean, lads, we don’t want Ashton’s party turning into a huge orgy…” Luke quipped, “not this early, anyway!”

You laugh, your cheeks blushing with embarrassment at being caught making out with Calum. It’s not the first impression that you’d hoped to give.

“Ignore all of these idiots…” Ashton sighs, shaking his head. “I’m Ashton, by the way, the only one of Calum’s friends that matters.” 

“Ugh, would you listen to him?” Luke huffs indignantly as he nudges Ashton’s hand out of yours. “Our Ash has such an inflated ego. The truth is, he’s much less fun than me and Mike, so don’t listen to him.”

Another chuckle escaped you as you shake Luke’s hand finally introducing yourself to the group before deciding that the best way to get on their good side is to compliment them. “Calum’s told me a lot about all of you…” You begin, still trying to fight the anxiety threatening to overwhelm you. “I don’t think any of you sound less fun than the others.”

“Ooohh, what stories has he been telling you?” Michael asks, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. “I promise that any embarrassing things he’s told you about me aren’t true! I’m the absolute fucking king of elegance and grace.”

Despite the fact that you’ve only been with the band for a minute or so, their individual personalities become abundantly clear and you instantly understand why each of them mean so much to Calum. The way your boyfriend regards his friends with such a sincere fondness is enough to let you know that you’re in the presence of three of the most important people in his life. That prospect doesn’t seem as terrifying now that you’ve met them, though.

“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything!” Calum interjects, pulling you into his side again, a silent display of his love and support. 

“Wow, the rhythm section are really coming for us tonight, Mike.” Luke jokes as he turns his attention back to you, his caramel coloured curls falling into his face as he turned his head. “I hope you’re not gonna be following your boyfriend’s example, mate…”

Before you have a chance to reply, Michael muscles his way in between you and Luke, sliding an arm around your shoulders as he did so. “You definitely won’t be on Calum’s side when we tell you about how he cheats at like, every game ever, computer games and board games alike… He’s a fucking sore loser.”

You already know this fact, having been told as much by his sister, Mali, when she’d insisted on speaking to you after you’d accidently walked in on her FaceTime chat with Calum a couple of weeks back. “So I’ve heard.” You reply, side-eying your boyfriend in mock disgust. “I guess that’s why he’s refused to play anything with me so far.”

“Yeah, it’s ugly, bro.” Luke confirms, his face set into a pretend-serious expression. “It might undo all of the hard work he’s put into making you think he’s the sweetest guy on earth.”

Just as Michael opens his mouth to add to Luke’s statement, Ashton cuts him off. “Well there’s no time for games tonight, this is a grown-up party. I know that's hard for you two dorks to process but if you harass my V.I.P guests anymore, I’ll throw you both out.”

It feels nice to be addressed as a V.I.P by the party host and you smile thankfully. 

“How come Hood gets to be a V.I.P?” Michael pouts, “Since when did you love him more than us?”

“Since forever.” Ashton replies flatly, “He’s much less annoying than you and the bread stick, now go and get my good tequila from the liquor cabinet so we can really get this party started.”

“Why don’t you get your favourite to do it?” Luke asks sulkily. 

Calum shakes his head, a smug expression on his handsome face. “Because I have a date.” He replies, “You know the rules…”

“Actually, that’s a good idea.” You cut in. “I want to hear more embarrassing stories about you, without you interrupting every few seconds.” Your sudden burst of confidence surprises the whole band, including Calum who merely blinks at you in disbelief for a long moment.

“You want me to leave you alone with this lot?” Calum asks sceptically, apparently still worried that you’ve lost your senses.

Nodding firmly, you gently untangle yourself from Calum’s arm and nudge him away playfully. “That’s what brothers do best isn’t it? Embarrass one another?”

Your boyfriend visibly melts at your words, his dark brown eyes sparkling with love at the way you just described his best friends as his family. “I guess so…”

“I like you a lot!” Michael grins fondly at you as he tightens his arm around your shoulders. “Are you any good at playing bass? I think it might be time we replaced Calum.”

Tag list: @clffrd​ @byxthexway​ @afuckingunicornn​ @painkillerash​ @moonchildsblack​ @calumbbyyy​ @h0tsos​ @valentinelrh​ @sexgodashton​ @megz1985​ @myfalsedevotion​ @aulxna​ @honeyedlashton​ @tea4sykes​ @ghostofmashton​ @fairyintheglass​ @cashworthy​ @cashtonasfuck​ @opheliaaurora23​ @5sosnsfw​ @theagenderwhocriedwolf​ @myloverboyash​ @easiercake​ @irwinkitten​ @cxddlyash​ @malumamongmen​ @cashtonasff5sos​ @iovehemmings​

[kiruuuuu]

More BB/Goyo in which Goyo is slowly going mad. On several accounts. (Rating E, fluff/humour/resolved sexual tension + smut, ~5.2k words) - written for @kiruuuuu​ seeing as she continued obsessing about these two after this piece.

.

Blackbeard is slowly but surely driving him insane.

One big part is the physical aspect, Goyo isn’t denying it – and if it were only that, he’d be as far from complaining as he could be. If his biggest problem was Blackbeard's attractiveness, he’d live in an almost ideal world with most of his dreams coming true, but as it is, the deep-seated desire burning low and slow in his groin merely ensures Goyo doesn’t forcibly eject Blackbeard from his life again due to all the other reasons the American is personally raising Goyo’s blood pressure. He should’ve expected this outcome and largely did, yet imagining having to combat vague incompatibilities while cruising high on happiness hormones which are released in laughable quantities every time he receives a friendly text over the holidays was somehow decidedly easier to stomach than dealing with actual issues face-to-face.

Goyo knows himself, as does Amaru, which is why he doesn’t disagree with her suggestion of meeting in public the first few times. He’s always been weakest right at the beginning of a fancy, daydreaming of scenarios that leave him short of breath and having to adjust his trousers, hoping they don’t betray him if he happens to be in a public space. Despite knowing better, he’s dived head first into physical relationships and paid the price for it, and after having slept with a married man once (without his knowledge, though the blame of hastiness lay upon him regardless), he vowed to improve. Besides, he suspects Blackbeard hasn’t dated a lot of men, so he should take it slow anyway.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t prepared for the change in wardrobe following a throwaway comment about camouflage patterns because not only did Blackbeard take him seriously and dressed differently for their dates from then on (which is a turn on already), his shirts are also very tight. Not unacceptably so, but entirely too tight for someone with pecs this pronounced. In moments when it was hard to deal with Blackbeard's personality, Goyo reminded himself as to why he was still around by eyeing up Blackbeard's chest and Christ. He would love to grope him for hours. Maybe suckle on those puppies. God.

It doesn’t help that he’s changed his aftershave as well. Goyo felt genuinely bad complaining about so much right away, even if it was done through careful euphemisms and half-jokes he practised beforehand, and promised himself to compliment Blackbeard elaborately should he act on it – but never did he expect for Blackbeard to dip into the nearest shop with him to try and find a fragrance Goyo liked. He claimed he was tired of his old one but hadn’t found an excuse to switch so far, and offered his own opinions additionally to Goyo’s, meaning the entire thing felt organic and constructive instead of passive-aggressive or, worse, blindly compliant. As a result, Goyo stands that tiny bit closer whenever he can. Prolongs their hugs. Inhales consciously whenever they kiss. He loves a good-smelling man, and Blackbeard has turned from handsome to painfully sexy.

He makes sure Blackbeard knows, too. He might be picky and demanding, but he would like to think of himself as appreciative, so whenever he notices the American looking or smelling exceptionally good, he remarks on it. And the delighted expressions he reaps are worth feeding this inflated ego. He doesn’t think the other man has been complimented on his appearance much, certainly not by fellow guys.

.

The very first thing they fight about is punctuality. As inevitable as death. It turns into a recurring theme as they simply can’t agree on anything and Goyo’s laid-back attitude towards time sparks nothing but disbelief in Blackbeard – he does learn by setting their meeting half an hour before he actually arrives, but whenever he’s meant to pick Goyo up by car, he shows up on the dot and paces impatiently around the flat without taking his shoes off while Goyo finishes whichever task held him up. Blackbeard calls him rude, Goyo waves him off, and the whole drama repeats the next time. They even have a long talk about it, with Goyo stressing the importance of enjoying life at one’s own personal pace, and Blackbeard calling on politeness and prioritising others over tasks such as washing the dishes.

Related to this, Blackbeard always requires an exact plan while Goyo prefers adapting vague ideas to actual circumstances. There’s no spontaneity in most of Blackbeard's actions, he’s rigid and inflexible and it drives Goyo absolutely nuts. After having agreed on watching a film that night, they walk past a fantastic-looking restaurant Goyo instantly wants to try out, and Blackbeard flat out refuses. Just says no. Claims their original plan was superior simply because it was made earlier, and when Goyo points out that literally nothing is stopping them from having dinner together instead of sitting at the cinema for a few hours, Blackbeard is having none of it. He’s hungry, he agrees with Goyo’s assessment that the place looks inviting, and yet he won’t budge. How did he get to where he is now with this attitude?

Also, Blackbeard is loud. And by this, he’s not even referring to his deafening voice – he’s a pitchman manqué – but rather his behaviour as a whole. Nigh everyone can tell his country of origin due to him constantly approaching perfect strangers, which Goyo finds exceedingly rude. People just want to mind their own business, as does he, and he wouldn’t appreciate being accosted by some random dude on the street. Blackbeard has the gall to call him rude as a result and defends himself by pointing out he leaves the grumpy ones alone and has a lovely chat with the rest who seems to enjoy their talk. Blackbeard has no qualms cursing in public and calling out unacceptable behaviour, and Goyo preferred the ground to swallow him whenever his companion starts an argument with a line skipper or someone parking like an idiot.

What, am I supposed to just tut and walk away?, Blackbeard scoffs, his tone making clear what he thinks of the British nation as a whole.

There are countless other details: Blackbeard's apartment is messy. He can’t cook for the life of him, yet is an utter baking snob. He leaves the toilet seat up. He loves the worst kind of cheesy patriotic action films and accepts no criticism on this. The music in his car leaves Goyo’s ears ringing for the rest of the evening. He seems to think kissing is the only worthwhile public display of affection. He’s ignorant about most other cultures yet fancies himself open-minded because his best friend is Korean – this only means he compares anything and everything either to the States or Korea. Getting him to eat anything he hasn’t tried before is an uphill struggle. Except if it’s Korean.

Vigil seems to get a pass on nearly everything, and Goyo is beginning to think Blackbeard either had or still has a crush on the man. He’s empathetic and understanding as can be with Vigil, and almost seems to enjoy arguing with Goyo. It’s getting old fast.

.

And then there are those other moments. The ones so sharp and vivid they linger in Goyo’s mind long after the fact, bright and warm like a sip of good alcohol, and almost as intoxicating too. They end up eating in the restaurant after all, and Goyo is mentally preparing for the backlash if it turns out to be rubbish – not that he thinks it will be, but he’d rather outline his defence already. In the back of his mind, he’s wondering whether he’s the stubborn one in this case, with his insistence to get his way showcasing his own inflexibility. His mother taught him to be kind whenever he can afford it, yet past experiences and an underlying pessimism usually convince him he can’t. He knows she’d be disappointed with how often he chooses the less compassionate path.

“I’m not good at this”, Blackbeard announces out of the blue, throwing Goyo off once more. This happens regularly, him spiralling and conducting a whole other conversation in his mind, and Blackbeard interrupting his thoughts with something outlandish. Most of the time, Goyo is relieved about it. He tends to get lost and is glad whenever he’s brought back to the present.

Since there’s no indication as to what he means, Goyo needs him to clarify. “At what?”

“Just… this.” And Blackbeard gestures somewhere between them. “Compromising. Letting someone else into my life. Listening.”

I know someone else who’s terrible at all three of those, Goyo thinks and doesn’t say.

“But I like you. And I want to get better. So please be patient with me and talk to me. Okay?”

Blackbeard likes him.

Idiotically, hearing it out loud makes him giddy as if this was a new revelation, but then his brain latches on to the much more important implication of Blackbeard wanting to communicate, being willing to work on himself and on the both of them, admitting faults. It’s a beacon of hope and one he didn’t expect – Blackbeard has never struck him as particularly introspective, not with how he values arbitrary rules above creative thinking, yet it seems he underestimated him. He’ll have to correct his mental image and allow Blackbeard to improve.

“Yes. That sounds good”, he replies after mulling over Blackbeard's words for a bit, prompting a sigh of relief. And, to throw him a bone: “You’re doing good.”

A scoff. “Am I though?”

“You are. Why else would I say it?”

“I don’t know. You just…” Blackbeard lowers his gaze, searching for the right thing to say. “I’m nervous around you.”

Goyo laughs. Can’t help it, he bursts out with a brief laugh turning into a hearty chuckle because – Blackbeard gets nervous? He dreaded being in the same room as the American early on and never managed to settle down in his presence, and now he’s learning it was reciprocal? Had he known he could’ve scared him away, he might’ve confronted Blackbeard earlier, returned the sass, threw his weight around a little. Instead, they were watching each other like hawks for ultimately only marginally different reasons. Nothing about Blackbeard is adorable, but this is the closest thing to it: him being bashful, admitting his crush, relinquishing power and inviting himself to be mocked. Goyo is delighted.

“You don’t need to be”, he reassures and runs his fingertips over the back of Blackbeard's hand, a gentle gesture he seems to appreciate.

There are these moments which remind Goyo why he gave Blackbeard a chance in the first place, and they are what keep him going whenever Blackbeard starts arguing in favour of one of his ‘life principles’.

.

“I made a mistake”, Goyo states, not bothering to hide his fatalistic tone of voice.

Amaru is instantly entertained. Her optimistic and easygoing attitude is part of the reason why she got along so swimmingly with Goyo’s mother, and also why he’s endlessly grateful for her presence in his life: she helped him get past failures whenever his mum wasn’t available, and provided encouragement and support whenever he needed it. It’s also why he keeps bothering her with his problems. “Does it have anything to do with your new relationship?”

She watched from a distance as he made his first few questionable choices in his dating career, ready to pick him up and dust him off whenever he’d fallen down. He learned to accept and value her advice once he realised she was never wrong, so he’s hoping she can assist him with his current predicament. “How did you guess?”, he sighs, not requiring an answer. “They’re showing a documentary I’m interested in on TV this evening, and I mentioned it to Craig.”

“So now he wants to watch it with you?”, his aunt surmises, making him nod. “Which means you’d have to spend the evening with him without falling victim to his manly wiles.” He nods again, looking pained. “And you want me to give you the go-ahead for making up an excuse so you don’t have a bad conscience when you cancel on him.”

Well. Maybe she was the wrong person to approach about this. “When you put it like that, it sounds… bad.”

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Don Goyo, you’re old enough to not need my approval. Which you’re not going to get anyway, before you ask.”

“I have a feeling I know what you’re about to say to me.”

“Just tell him. If you’re not ready, he needs to know. He deserves to know, César.”

It’s not that he isn’t ready. If it was for him, they’d have fucked in the nearest public stall on their second date, he’s been dreaming about strong arms and an insistent tongue for almost the entire month that they’ve been dating. He’s overripe, and still – it doesn’t feel right somehow. Like he should wait a little longer. They’ve gotten to know each other much better, anticipating each other’s moods, making small gifts here and there and texting daily. Even so, there’s just something.

“Don’t brood. Go and talk to him. Either he respects your boundaries and everything’s good, or he refuses and you can launch him into outer space. No matter the outcome, you’ll be off better than before.”

She must sense his hesitation as she tries to instil her wisdom a few more times before giving up and wishing him a pleasant night. He leaves, conflicted – he doesn’t want to hurt Blackbeard's feelings by rejecting him before even anything happens, and at the same time he’s not comfortable actually reaching below the belt yet.

He’s hoping Blackbeard simply doesn’t try anything. It’s the best case scenario.

.

About eight hours later, all Goyo can think between different versions of God this feels so fucking good is: this didn’t go to plan at all. Blackbeard is buried up to the hilt and Goyo is grateful for being momentarily distracted so he has an excuse not to think critically about what’s happening right then.

And it started out so well.

Goyo arrives only fifteen minutes late, which he thinks is more than reasonable even if Blackbeard doesn’t comment on it, and takes note of the slightly less messy flat – it’s not even that bad normally, some dirty dishes scattered around and pieces of clothing, but at least they give the otherwise relatively barren apartment some character. They kiss as a greeting, briefly, as Blackbeard is busy heating up something to eat, and then sit on the couch with plates on their laps, chatting about their day while waiting for the program to start.

It’s domestic. It should be relaxing and pleasant, not nerve-wracking, but after sitting next to Blackbeard for ten minutes of serious introduction and noticing how his sweatpants don’t really do a good job at hiding anything, Goyo knows he won’t do anything to stop him should he make a move. In a way, it’d be a relief: get it over and done with, don’t dwell on it, move on. The anticipation is putting him on edge, keeps his hairs standing up and his breaths measured. He’s hyper-aware of his knee brushing against Blackbeard's, the broad chest next to him rising and falling, the thumping of his own heart.

He can’t concentrate. Images flash on the screen, a soothing narrator recounts past horrors in a deep voice and historical photographs take turns. He’d actually been looking forward to watching this programme, and should’ve known doing it together with Blackbeard would end in disaster, yet wasn’t prepared for himself being the culprit. Blackbeard has beautiful arms, oozing latent strength and tanned nicely, the dark hairs making them even more appealing. Maybe he doesn’t shave his chest. He probably doesn’t, would consider it unmanly, and with how lush and full his beard is -

“Can I get you a beer?”

Goyo blinks. It’s a commercial break, he hadn’t even noticed. “No”, he says, and thinks: and I’d rather you didn’t have one either. The taste of it is revolting to him.

“I’ll just get one for myself then”, Blackbeard replies, already risen from the sofa, and makes the mistake of leaning down for a quick, once again domestic kiss. It’s reciprocated just a tad too enthusiastically, so Blackbeard pushes back and after a few more seconds they’re tongue wrestling with an uncomfortable height difference between them. The angle is awkward but the feel of it amazing – and this is something Goyo has openly admitted numerous times: he loves the way Blackbeard kisses. Adores it. Can’t get enough of it. It’s intense and deep and wet and leaves him panting every time, with this being no exception.

He drags the other man in, forcing him to steady himself with one knee on the couch, one knee right between Goyo’s legs and both hands cupping his face. This, too, is shockingly sexy, the way Blackbeard keeps him in place to take him apart. Goyo reaches out and runs his fingers over Blackbeard's body and dear God his thighs are like stone, and his back muscles pronounced, and his abs too. He’s tilted far back now, the bear hovering over him, solid and threatening and like a rock set in motion. Soul-crushing. Inevitable.

They kiss until the break is over, until at least one of them is making these embarrassing little noises, until Goyo’s lips feel swollen and his cock is harder than it’s ever been in his life, until Blackbeard breaks off, flushed, sweating and dishevelled, and Goyo wants to suck his dick or he’ll die. Making out has always been Goyo’s weakspot, and making out like this is guaranteed to leave him weeping and ruining his underwear, and he knew Blackbeard was gonna try something. He just knew. They wouldn’t have snogged like this without purpose, without an ulterior motive, without the intention of moving on to more sinful things now.

“We should”, Blackbeard starts and has trouble focusing his gaze, “let’s – I mean -” His sweatpants really don’t let him get away with anything. Unbelievably, he disengages and plops down next to Goyo. Apparently he wants to keep watching, which is the sensible thing to do.

Yes. A good idea. Getting caught up in the moment isn’t what Goyo wants anyway.

Blackbeard is radiating heat. His confident persona has crumbled, revealing a passionate yet considerate lover, a man torn between doing the right thing and doing what feels right. Right now, his upper brain seems to be winning, or maybe he figures if he behaves, Goyo will reward him regardless, or he’s hoping Goyo will stay the night and they can fuck later, or he’s playing hard-to-get. The last option would be hilarious, since Goyo isn’t interested in buying what Blackbeard is selling for now. They should really go back to watching TV, and when it’s over, they can talk a little, and then Goyo’s going home.

Two minutes later, he’s straddling Blackbeard's lap while shoving his tongue so far down the other man’s throat it’s a miracle he’s not choking, and nearly coming in his own pants from the bit of friction he manages to get between his dick and Blackbeard's taut stomach. He’s a fucking magnet and an oven with how hot he is, mewling into the kiss like someone who’s desperate for any kind of attention, like a starving or drowning or poisoned man, like – like Goyo. His beard is soft and smells good, and when Goyo’s hands stray below fabric, he finds more hair on a broad chest and buries his fingers in it. The rugged edge Blackbeard visibly sports continues where the normal gaze doesn’t penetrate, Goyo is relieved to discover, and he can finally feel up these gorgeous tits. Get his hands on them and massage them however he likes.

His nipples are delightfully sensitive and Goyo spends too much time teasing them while sucking deep purple bruises just below Blackbeard's collar until he’s worried about Blackbeard exploding under his merciless ministrations. Frotting has been knocked down in priority now that he can twist strangled moans out of the hard body beneath him, but when his cock throbs almost painfully at a gasp, he knows they can’t go on like this.

“Please give me a moment”, Blackbeard gasps out, cheeks rosy and eyes unfocused.

Again, a reasonable request. He should listen.

“Bedroom”, he snaps and it’s not even a suggestion. He can feel his hole pulsing with the irresistible desire of getting plowed and when Blackbeard, after a second of disbelief, picks him up to carry him through the flat, Goyo is thankful for his foresight to bring condoms and lube regardless of his intentions. He had a hunch Blackbeard would try something.

They only shed what’s necessary (and the shapely legs are somehow only improved with socks on, but Goyo has been told before that it’s a sock fetish at this point) and preparation is an unceremonious affair except for the fact that Goyo sucks on Blackbeard's nipples until they’re raw and too sensitive while fingering himself open. The American has a great body, he has to admit, well-developed muscles, some scars here and there, coarse black hair adorning tanned skin and an upward curved cock beautiful enough to have Goyo’s mouth water, so sitting down on it feels predictably mind-blowing.

He does most of the work, which is fortunate as he can experiment with angles until he’s found one that actually makes him go cross-eyed, and once Blackbeard draws the connection between his blissful groans and whatever’s happening between their legs, he starts thrusting up and dear Lord.

This isn’t what Goyo had in mind when coming over, and yet he can’t find the brain capacity to regret or even care right now, not with how urgent his lust is tugging on his nerve endings, forcing him to ride towards exhaustion and cramps and an impressive muscle hangover the next day. Being able to steady himself on Blackbeard's torso is surprisingly sexy and the sheer barrage of pleasure bursting through him every time he slams down his hips keeps him from touching himself, effectively prolonging his sweet suffering.

Moving in unison has never felt this good and for once, they’re on the same wavelength, exchanging devoted gazes and trading the odd kiss. It’s akin to a reunion instead of a first time, like they’ve rehearsed this song and dance to perfection in the past and, despite a certain rustiness, are quickly finding back into their old routine.

When Goyo comes, his vision goes colourful with how tight he’s squeezing his eyelids shut. He shakes violently while balanced on Blackbeard's hips and gasps for air, overwhelmed by the elation accompanying his release and shooting his sperm all over Blackbeard's mangled chest, over the lovebites and the red marks his hands left behind from carrying his weight. His relief is crushing, and so he slumps down bonelessly, allowing the other man to pump into him a few more times before announcing his own climax with a low moan. Instinctively, it seems, Blackbeard’s palms travel over the back of his sweaty t-shirt, petting him reassuringly.

Goyo doesn’t like it. It feels like too much, like overstimulation after a long, satisfying session even though his was hardly long but certainly satisfying. He shakes the hands off and climbs down, trying to catch his breath. Next to him, blue eyes snap to his face, too attentive. Blackbeard looks like he’s not sure what to say. Goyo could lighten the situation, compliment him, make a joke, or be sincere about how much he enjoyed himself. Because he did.

Even with the afterglow fading fast.

“I’ll go shower first”, he announces and leaves with a quick kiss that seems unsubstantial. He’s gone before Blackbeard has even taken the condom off, and the sensation of dirtiness clinging to his skin seems to go beyond bodily fluids. Scrubbing himself with the only loofah (and isn’t that a surprise) wouldn’t be right, so he uses his own fingers to wipe off the odd feeling.

Blackbeard is sitting on the edge of the bed when he returns, and now he can finally place the source of the awkwardness between them: he’s not babbling. Normally, he’d have commented on Goyo’s stamina, maybe how great his arse looked, recounted an anecdote of some sorts, or even attempted a lame joke, yet all he’s doing is watching. He looks a little lost. Silvery droplets are caught in his chest hair and when they kiss again, Goyo deflects a hug with the excuse of wanting to remain clean, demands that Blackbeard go shower as well.

The bed is large and tidier than the rest of the room, as if Blackbeard had anticipated them ending up here. Despite the general lack of colour in the apartment, the duvet is beautiful with a dark turquoise pattern. The cushions look fluffy, but not too soft. It looks inviting. Goyo did bring a spare pair of underwear, knowing their shoe and therefore sock size is the same, and he briefly pictures waking Blackbeard up by sucking him off. It’s unlikely to happen, with how different their morning routines are – what little he knows anyway – and still, the image is most tempting.

He gets caught in the hallway with one shoe on his foot already, the other in his hands.

His stomach drops and speech evades him out of shame as Blackbeard leans against the door frame, tight briefs highlighting all his best assets. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem disappointed or hurt, which does nothing to quell the burning feeling of being a disgrace eating away at Goyo’s insides.

“What are you doing?”, he asks, no reproach in his voice. Patience is one of his virtues and one he displays right now – if there was ever a moment when Goyo expected an outburst, an indignant rant, it’d be now. Instead, he picks up on a hesitant disquiet, an uneasy curiosity. Blackbeard doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows it’s important, therefore he treats it with the same mindfulness he does any serious issue.

Goyo owes him this. If there’s anything he owes this man, it’s an attempt at an explanation. Since he’s formulated it before, talked it through with past partners, he’s not unprepared yet dreads bringing it up nonetheless. “I have… commitment issues”, he replies softly.

The answering silence is one of racing thoughts, he can read it on Blackbeard's open expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”, he eventually wants to know. For a guy with no idea of how to deal with this, he’s faring remarkably well.

“I am talking about it.” Defensive. He inhales deeply before continuing. “I have trouble opening up to others. I prefer keeping most of me to myself. I can’t trust easily.”

A nod. It hurts; it means Blackbeard has noticed but didn’t dare bring it up. Always the same thing. Goyo fights down a pang of annoyance – part of his mind tries to convince him they don’t deserve him: either they mention it, which makes them whiny complainers not ready to give him time, or they don’t, which means they don’t care enough. It’s bullshit and pops up in the back of his head every time. “Am I suffocating you?”

He almost laughs at the ridiculousness of the notion. Blackbeard, who maybe suggests a quarter of their dates, who never complains about Goyo taking some time to reply to messages, who always accepts when Goyo wants to go home, seriously thinks he’s clingy. If anything, Goyo would like for him to be more overbearing, insert himself into Goyo’s life more aggressively. “No. You’re giving me all the space I need.” Too much, at times.

“Am I doing anything wrong?”

Well. What isn’t he doing wrong. Goyo’s heart melts a little over this brute trying to figure out why his lover is sneaking out on him, when it’s nothing but Goyo’s ugly side finally showing. He’s being unfair. “I didn’t want to sleep with you”, he says and knows instantly it was the worst possible thing he could’ve said, with how Blackbeard gains a look of horror, paling immediately, arms dropping by his side, slack, mouth working out an apology before the meaning has even reached his brain. Bad with words. This one he can’t really chalk up to bad timing. “No, that’s not what I meant. I wanted it and I liked it. I really did.” He’s flustered, flailing now, in unfamiliar territory, allowing the first thought to drop out of his mouth without scrutinising it first, and feels like it only gets worse. “But I – I had myself convinced I didn’t want it. Because, I don’t know. I’m -” Scared, he can’t bring himself to say. He knows it’d tear a wound which might not heal so easily. “Look. I’ll go. You don’t have to deal with this.”

No one should have to deal with him like this, sputtering and ashamed to the core, cheeks hot and composure non-existent. He wants to go home and hide for the next century and if Blackbeard told him now he’s not worth the trouble he’s causing, he wouldn’t even object.

“Don’t.” A plea. Heartfelt, for what it’s worth, but any other way and Goyo would already be putting on his second shoe. “I don’t know what to do, or what to say. I don’t know what you’d like me to do or say.”

Neither does Goyo. That’s the whole problem.

Blackbeard must be cold, nearly naked and standing in the faint draft coming in from under the door. He shifts his weight uncomfortably as they stare at each other. Please, Goyo thinks, unsure of what he even means by that. But when the next words hit his ears, he knows it’s what he’s been hoping for: “Just… come back to bed. Okay?”

The shoe hits the ground with a sharp sound cutting through the tense atmosphere between them.

.

Unsurprisingly, Blackbeard prefers being the big spoon. They fight over the blanket since Goyo needs it to sleep whereas Blackbeard insists it’s entirely too warm, and the familiar back-and-forth calms his racing heart. As does the gentle hand rubbing vague circles into his chest while they cuddle. After a few soothing moments, he asks the dreaded question of when Blackbeard's first alarm will go off, resulting in even more bickering.

“I really wanted to watch that documentary”, Goyo mumbles regretfully against the arm he’s cradling like a stuffed toy, partly because it’s wonderfully warm and partly because the skin-on-skin contact does funny things to his stomach. Being pressed against the length of Blackbeard's body is magical. He hasn’t felt this safe in a long while.

“Don’t worry, I recorded it.”

The reply, half lost in his hair, gives Goyo pause. If they could actually see anything in the impenetrable darkness Blackbeard requires to sleep peacefully, he’d turn around in indignation. “So you expected something like this to happen?”

He can feel the smile against his scalp. “Call it wishful thinking. Doing nothing but kissing did take its toll.”

Huh. Seems like he was right.

Blackbeard really did plan on trying something.

[ingek73]

01-22-2112:00 PM

‘Time is running out’: Prince Harry calls for social media reform after U.S. Capitol riot

In a Q&A with Fast Company, The Duke of Sussex responds to social media’s role in the Capitol attack and explains why the next step must be to hold social platforms accountable.

[Photo: Samir Hussein/WireImage/Getty Images]

BY KATHARINE SCHWAB

LONG READ

Over the past year, Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, The Duke and Duchess of Sussex, have become increasingly outspoken advocates for healthier social media—a topic that is clearly near to their hearts, given the horrendous vitriol and harassment they have faced online and in the press.

By partnering with organizations that aim to understand technology’s impact on society and vocally critiquing the state of online life in the media, the couple are using their clout to push for change in the current digital ecosystem. In an essay for Fast Company last August, Prince Harry called on business leaders to rethink their role in funding the advertising system that underlies the misinformation and divisive rhetoric that’s often shared on social platforms.

“This remodeling must include industry leaders from all areas drawing a line in the sand against unacceptable online practices as well as being active participants in the process of establishing new standards for our online world,” he wrote.

Now, social media is facing an inflection point, just weeks after a violent mob stormed the Capitol in an attack that was conceived, plotted, and stoked primarily online. Powerful platforms including Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube responded by suspending Donald Trump’s accounts, while Amazon and Apple cut ties with Parler, a social network that was used by the rioters. But experts and regulators believe that more must be done to reform social media.

Against this background, Prince Harry is once again imploring people to pay attention to the problems social media have wrought. In a wide-ranging interview with Fast Company, he explains why social platforms must be held accountable for the Capitol attack and the circumstances that enabled it, and why we must remodel the digital world before it’s too late.

FC: Six months ago, you wrote an essay for Fast Company in which you asked companies to take action to ensure the meaningful reform of our “unchecked and divisive attention economy.” How has your perspective on social media’s role in society changed over the last few weeks since the attack on the U.S. Capitol?

Prince Harry: When I wrote that piece, I was sharing my view that dominant online platforms have contributed to and stoked the conditions for a crisis of hate, a crisis of health, and a crisis of truth.

And I stand by that, along with millions of others who see and feel what this era has done at every level—we are losing loved ones to conspiracy theories, losing a sense of self because of the barrage of mistruths, and at the largest scale, losing our democracies.

The magnitude of this cannot be overstated, as noted even by the defectors who helped build these platforms. It takes courage to stand up, cite where things have gone wrong, and offer proposals and solutions. The need for that is greater than ever before. So I’m encouraged by and grateful for the groundswell of people who work—or have worked—inside these very platforms choosing to speak up against hate, violence, division, and confusion.

FC: Why is this topic so important to you? How was your outlook affected by the well-documented online harassment you and your wife have faced in the U.K.?

PH: I was really surprised to witness how my story had been told one way, my wife’s story had been told one way, and then our union sparked something that made the telling of that story very different.

That false narrative became the mothership for all of the harassment you’re referring to. It wouldn’t have even begun had our story just been told truthfully.

WE ARE LOSING LOVED ONES TO CONSPIRACY THEORIES, LOSING A SENSE OF SELF BECAUSE OF THE BARRAGE OF MISTRUTHS, AND AT THE LARGEST SCALE, LOSING OUR DEMOCRACIES.”

PRINCE HARRY, THE DUKE OF SUSSEX

But the important thing about what we experienced is that it led to us hearing from so many others around the world. We’ve thought a lot about those in much more vulnerable positions than us, and how much of a need there is for real empathy and support.

To their own degree, everyone has been deeply affected by the current consequences of the digital space. It could be as individual as seeing a loved one go down the path of radicalisation or as collective as seeing the science behind the climate crisis denied.

We are all vulnerable to it, which is why I don’t see it as a tech issue, or a political issue—it’s a humanitarian issue.

From an early age, the guiding principle in my life has been about the duty to truth, the pursuit of compassion, and the alleviation of suffering. My life has always been about trying to do my part to help those who need it most, and right now, we need this change—because it touches nearly every single thing we do or are exposed to.

FC: Where do we go from here? What do you think needs to change to create an online atmosphere where truth, equity, and free speech are all prioritized?

PH: I ask the same thing every day and lean on the experts to help give guidance on how to reform the state of our digital world—how we make it better for our kids, of course, but also for ourselves—now.

The avalanche of misinformation we are all inundated with is bending reality and has created this distorted filter that affects our ability to think clearly or even understand the world around us.

What happens online does not stay online—it spreads everywhere, like wildfire: into our homes and workplaces, into the streets, into our minds. The question really becomes about what to do when news and information sharing is no longer a decent, truthful exchange, but rather an exchange of weaponry.

WHAT HAPPENS ONLINE DOES NOT STAY ONLINE—IT SPREADS EVERYWHERE, LIKE WILDFIRE: INTO OUR HOMES AND WORKPLACES, INTO THE STREETS, INTO OUR MINDS.”

PRINCE HARRY, THE DUKE OF SUSSEX

The answer I’ve heard from experts in this space is that the common denominator starts with accountability. There has to be accountability to collective wellbeing, not just financial incentive. It’s hard for me to understand how the platforms themselves can eagerly take profit but shun responsibility.

There also has to be common, shared accountability. We can call for digital reform and debate how that happens and what it looks like, but it’s also on each of us to take a more critical eye to our own relationship with technology and media. To start, it doesn’t have to be that complicated. Consider setting limits on the time you spend on social media, stop yourself from endlessly scrolling, fact-check the source and research the information you see, and commit to taking a more compassionate approach and tone when you post or comment. These might seem like little things, but they add up.

Finally, there’s a responsibility to compassion that we each own. Humans crave connection, social bonds, and a sense of belonging. When we don’t have those, we end up fractured, and in the digital age that can unfortunately be a catalyst for finding connection in mass extremism movements or radicalisation. We need to take better care of each other, especially in these times of isolation and vulnerability.

FC: Since the Capitol riot, big tech companies from Twitter to Amazon have exercised their power by making determinations about who gets to use their products. Do you think companies should have the power to make decisions about who has access to some of the most prominent platforms on the internet?

PH: We have seen time and again what happens when the real-world cost of misinformation is disregarded. There is no way to downplay this. There was a literal attack on democracy in the United States, organised on social media, which is an issue of violent extremism. It is widely acknowledged that social media played a role in the genocide in Myanmar and was used as a vehicle to incite violence against the Rohingya people, which is a human rights issue. And in Brazil, social media provided a conduit for misinformation which ultimately brought destruction to the Amazon, which is an environmental and global health issue.

In a way, taking a predominately hands-off approach to problems for so long is itself an exercise in power.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about Speakers’ Corner, an area in London’s Hyde Park which is home to open-air debate, dialogue, and the exchange of information and ideas. I used to go past it all the time.

This concept of a ‘public square’ isn’t anything new—it can be traced back to the early days of democracies. You get up there and speak your piece. There are ground rules. You can’t incite violence, you can’t obscure who you are, and you can’t pay to monopolise or own the space itself. Ideas are considered or shot down; opinions are formed. At its best, movements are born, lies are laid bare, and attempts to stoke violence are rejected in the moment. At its worst, intolerance, groupthink, hate, and persecution are amplified. And at times, it forces lines to be drawn and rules or laws to emerge or be challenged.

I THINK IT’S A FALSE CHOICE TO SAY YOU HAVE TO PICK BETWEEN FREE SPEECH OR A MORE COMPASSIONATE AND TRUSTWORTHY DIGITAL WORLD.”

PRINCE HARRY, THE DUKE OF SUSSEX

I’m not saying we should abandon technology in favour of Speakers’ Corner. Rather, it’s that we should avoid buying into the idea that social media is the ultimate modern-day public square and that any attempt to ask platforms to be accountable to the landscape they’ve created is an attack or restriction of speech. I think it’s a false choice to say you have to pick between free speech or a more compassionate and trustworthy digital world. They are not mutually exclusive.

With these companies, in this model, we have a very small number of incredibly powerful and consolidated gatekeepers who have deployed hidden algorithms to pick the content billions see every day, and curate the information—or misinformation—everyone consumes. This radically alters how and why we inform opinions. It alters how we speak and what we decide to speak about. It alters how we think and how we react.

Ultimately, it has allowed for completely different versions of reality, with opposing sets of truth, to exist simultaneously. In this, one’s understanding of truth does not have to be based in fact, because there’s always an ability to furnish some form of “proof” to reinforce that version of “truth.” I believe this is the opposite of what we should want from our collective online community. The current model sorts and separates rather than bringing us together; it drowns out or even eliminates healthy dialogue and reasonable debate; it strips away the mutual respect we should have for each other as citizens of the same world.

FC: How do you plan to use your platform to push for change when it comes to hate speech, algorithmic amplification, and misinformation in 2021? Since you’re not a trained expert on these topics, why do you think people should listen to your perspective?

PH: I know enough to know that I certainly don’t know everything, especially when it comes to tech—but when you see this as a humanitarian issue, then you see the spread of misinformation as requiring a humanitarian response.

This is why my wife and I spent much of 2020 consulting the experts and learning directly from academics, advocates, and policymakers. We’ve also been listening with empathy to people who have stories to share—including people who have been deeply affected by misinformation and those who grew up as digital natives.

What we hope to do is continue to be a spotlight for their perspectives, and focus on harnessing their experience and energy to accelerate the pace of change in the digital world.

FC: Your Archewell Foundation has collaborated with several groups and institutions that aim to rethink technology and study its impact on people. As a philanthropist, why are you supporting research efforts within this space?

PH: If we’ve learned anything, it’s that our dominant technologies were built to grow and grow and grow, without serious consideration for the ripple effect of that growth. We have to do more than simply reconsider this model. The stakes are too high, and time is running out.

WE HAVE TO DO MORE THAN SIMPLY RECONSIDER THIS MODEL. THE STAKES ARE TOO HIGH, AND TIME IS RUNNING OUT.”

PRINCE HARRY, THE DUKE OF SUSSEX

There are a lot of incredible people and digital architects thinking about—or already working on—innovative and healthy platforms. We need to support them, not only because it’s the right thing to do, but also because it can make commercial sense. And we have to look at the state of competition and ensure that the landscape doesn’t indiscriminately squeeze out or incentivise against fresh ideas.

I believe we can begin to make our digital world healthier, more compassionate, more inclusive, and trustworthy.

And it’s time to move from rethinking to remodelling.

FC: Given your concerns about divisiveness, misinformation, and hate speech online, how have your views on using social media yourself changed over the last few years? How do you approach it now and are you planning to make any changes?

PH: It’s funny you should ask because ironically, we woke up one morning a couple of weeks ago to hear that a Rupert Murdoch newspaper said we were evidently quitting social media. That was ‘news’ to us, bearing in mind we have no social media to quit, nor have we for the past 10 months.

The truth is, despite its well-documented ills, social media can offer a means of connecting and community, which are vital to us as human beings. We need to hear each other’s stories and be able to share our own. That’s part of the beauty of life. And don’t get me wrong; I’m not suggesting that a reform of the digital space will create a world that’s all rainbows and sunshine, because that’s not realistic, and that, too, isn’t life.

There can be disagreement, conversation, opposing points of view—as there should be, but never to the extent that violence is created, truth is mystified, and lives are jeopardised.

We will revisit social media when it feels right for us—perhaps when we see more meaningful commitments to change or reform—but right now we’ve thrown much of our energy into learning about this space and how we can help.

FC: Are you optimistic or pessimistic about our ability to build a healthier online ecosystem?

PH: Optimistic, of course, because I believe in us, as human beings, and that we are wired to be compassionate and honest and good. Aspects of the digital space have unfortunately manipulated (or even highlighted) our weaknesses and brought out the worst in some.

We have to believe in optimism because that’s the world and the humanity I want for my son, and all of us.

We look forward to being part of the human experience—not a human experiment.

[cardassiangf]

okay actually let me just do the top three placements for the ds9 crew, okay? okay here we go! these are just for fun & also my interpretation. also i realize some arent human and therefore would have different placements entirely, but you know what? idc. (and no ezri since i havent seen enough of her to make a good guess sfdgfhjh sorry!) 

julian i already said was a cancer sun virgo moon. workaholics who are kinda anxious but also full of love and affection, plus they also love to talk. for rising im kind of caught between aries and sagittarius, because they both in nicely with the top two. i am leaning more towards aries rising though for him. moves very fast to keep interest in things & is career minded. it’s kind of a combination that swings back and forth between this unflappable confidence (usually in the workplace) and a deep emotional vulnerability. also, they’re caregivers by nature. his childhood teddy bear was his ‘first patient,’ and that has to mean something. he also repeatedly shows himself to be drawn to people that might be in need of ‘fixing,’ and might not necessarily pull back until something shakes him out of it. julian is someone who buzzes with energy and feels so much at once it can be hard to reign in, but once he actually manages to do that, it’s almost unstoppable. 

for sisko im feeling gemini sun and scorpio moon. okay yes two signs with a bad rep for some reason but hear me out: this person is extremely charming, confident & elegant except when they're Not, there's intense confidence and resolve that comes through. and on that intensity, we’ve all seen sisko when he gets serious about something--it’s a Lot. it’s a combo that can also be thrown off kilter and that’s not a great thing, but sisko has an excellent support system to ground him so you don’t see the negativity. he’s also a pisces rising. the same intensity comes out in love and emotional intelligence with him here, he’s definitely someone in touch with that side of himself and that’s very Water Sign of him. so basically loving, protective, the type of person people get drawn too for one reason or another but also there’s a chaotic side to him too, and he’s got a flair for the dramatic (his escapades in the mirrorverse come to mind when i think about this.) 

jadzia... okay see my initial reaction is to just. fill her chart with fire. she’s a big personality on the surface, and extremely magnetic. but actually? leo sun pisces moon. okay yeah, a fire sign out from the gate but hear me out. there’s a lot of duality in jadzia, and while she outwardly shows a ton of confidence, she’s also pretty self reflective and i get the sense she much prefers to deal with her problems internally. like, people don’t really see much past her dazzling outside either, and as another leo sun, people do tend to write us off as a bit one dimensional at times. the known emotional sensitivity of the pisces mized with leo’s capacity to love is good for her i think. rising is a bit tricky, since jadzia also has dax to blend her personality with, but i think that virgo rising suits her well. for all of the fun she brings to the table, she also has a brilliant streak of practicality. 

kira is another instinctively ‘oh, fire sign!’ person but actually? i think she has a ton of water in her chart. she’s emotional and passionate and so devoted to the things and people she believes in, and maybe she isn’t used to paying attention to her emotions because the occupation didn’t let her, but she feels so deeply. for this reason, pisces sun sagittarius moon scorpio rising. the thing about kira is that she might hold a lot of anger, but most of it stems from love and protectiveness. she’s incredibly blunt and adaptable, and definitely one of those pisces who doesn’t actually want to admit they have anything in common with the other water signs lmao. she’s at her best when she’s around people who can ground her and kind of make her pause to evaluate things before jumping into action and seriously values the bonds she makes with people. she also doesn’t really care for staying still or playing political mind games and would much prefer to just jump into the Doing phase of things. 

quark is just. it took me a minute for him actually? idk he’s a bit of a weird one. for quark, he’s kind of dramatic and emotional but also has this wonderfully deviant side and, when it comes down to it, isn’t terrible at business negotiations at all. yes he has majorly fucked up some big opportunities, but also somehow has kept his bar running for what, 15? 20 years? through everything that’s happened on ds9.  quark is a capricorn sun, but it’s balanced out (or in conflict with) his aquarius moon and leo rising. quark is weird, and kind of a dick sometimes, but when he’s not trying to be a menace, he actually has a pretty good heart. he’s a pretty creative thinker and constantly finds new ways to use practical knowledge to his advantage. but he also likes to ‘outshine’ others and keep the spotlight on himself, and he’ll lie and trample over people to do so. the fact that this combo makes him attentive can be a bit of a double-edged sword; sure, he can listen to people when he feels like it, but what’s going to happen with that knowledge? who knows. not quark until he finds an opportunity for it at least. 

odo! does not technically have a birthday but who cares i love him so he’s here. yes, we will start obviously: virgo sun. what else would i go with. he’s a reserved person with a personality that errs on the side of uptight; very virgo stereotypical. but you know what else? aries moon. oh yes. odo walks into a room and as long as he wants you to know he’s there, you Will know. he’s bold in his own way, and extremely on top of details with intense attentiveness. of course there’s some fire in his chart, and probably a lot of it in other placements too.  his gemini rising helps this out immensely, which is kinda surprising. but also when gemini is ascendant with virgo in sun, it makes them meticulous, fast learners. maybe a bit nitpicky at times, but nothing that can’t be helped with practice. i think the aries placement would also probably explain the underlying sensitivity, because like, it’s generally one of the louder signs of the zodiac but here’s a secret from anther fire sign: we are So sensitive oh my fucking god. we have a ton of ego and pride (and you can’t tell me odo doesn’t have moments of that) so typically unless we’re in a place we feel we can let go, you won’t see it, but jesus Fucking christ fire signs have a lot of emotion under the surface. 

miles, who i just wanna lowkey take the piss out of and slap him with virgo/virgo/virgo but i will refrain lmao. no, for him, libra sun leo moon virgo rising. he’s extremely reliable, devoted to his work & friends & family even if he’s not the greatest at showing it? a bit emotionally constipated but he does try very hard and that’s why we love him. is it the placements or the fact that he’s an irish dad? who knows, but he’s very prone to just telling people things outright with nothing to cushion it. this can be good or bad, and seems to depend more on how well the other person knows him. his leo side makes him pretty warm when he’s comfortable, and i think his relationship with keiko actually paints him as a lowkey traditional romantic too. also, these placements make for really good parents, and we don’t see it as much as we see the jake/sisko father/son dynamic, but miles really does do his best for his kids. 

worf my boy, who i have loved dearly since i first saw tng. hard to make a guess for him im 100% happy with though. im decently satisfied with taurus sun leo moon scorpio rising. worf is just like. he doesn’t have a really big personality but you also are very aware of him? i wouldn’t say he’s stoic by any means, he’s just very. focused. he’s honest and tries his best to look at situations from a more lawful standpoint, or at least, one that makes the most sense with his own honour code. he seems drawn to stability, but also finds himself drawn to people who challenge him too? he’s out here looking for something to balance him out and put things in perspective for him. whether or not he takes that into consideration is another thing entirely. and i say scorpio because, you know what they say, still water runs deep. you might know what he’s thinking because he told you, but you might not know how he Feels about it. actually, you probably will not. the leo doesn’t really make him want to be in the spotlight or anything, in his case i think it acts more like his driving force. 

and listen. i know garak isn't crew. but i love him so he’s here and we’re all gonna like it.  this chaotic little bastard spy is an aquarius sun pisces moon capricorn rising.  garak is unique, and even if he doesn’t want to say it, he’s pretty ruled by his emotions too. he’s creative, and a grade-A manipulator who can charm his way just about anywhere (provided of course, the person in question isn’t someone who’s been warned about him, but even then, he has a good chance). he’s good a good, if not a bit Off, sense of humour and he comes off as someone who has a personal interest in the behaviour of people. not just a spy thing, but he’s invested--he does crave a certain intimacy and closeness which gets denied uh. most of his life actually. the capricorn read comes from how he’s been able to compartmentalize and commit acts of cruelty. an interrogation that was four hours of staring and not speaking is certainly creative. it’s also an insanely calculated and sadistic mind game for him. and it’s interesting to note that as much as he manipulates, he’s also very easily manipulated himself (see: Everything about tain jesus fuck i hate that man so much). he also runs into quite a bit of trouble when he’s not able to compartmentalize things any longer, whether it’s because the emotional toll is too high or he simply doesn’t see the point in the actions any longer. 

[rufousnmacska]

Goodbye and Hello - 7

Manon and Dorian said goodbye in Orynth. But for them, saying hello again is only a matter of time.

fanfic master list (includes the link to my fics on AO3)

Previous chapters:

Part One: I Wish…

Part Two: Another Day

Part Three: Those Two Words

Part Four: Breakfast in Bed

Part Five: Waiting

Part Six: Confessions (smut warning)

***

Part Seven: Old Friends

A knock at his door broke the heavy silence Dorian had been enjoying for the past hour. Flinching at the sound, he left a long streak of ink across the letter he was writing. He swore, and as he tried to sop it up with a handkerchief, a young page stuck her head into the room.

“A visitor, Your Majesty. Lord Westfall suggested you’d want to see him. Even though he has no appointment.”

Dorian smiled. The page, Kalla, was a stickler for etiquette and rules, and he suspected Chaol had employed her specifically for that reason. Dorian was always glad when someone else was on the receiving end of her disapproval. He nodded for her to show the guest in and was surprised to see Aedion enter his office.

Aedion glanced warily at the young woman as he walked past her. “I will be sure to arrange an appointment the next time,” he said in apology, then cringed as the door was closed just a little too loudly.

Dorian stood quickly and came around from behind his desk. “I can get you some bandages for the daggers she just shot at you,” he said, holding out his hand, a little unsure if or how the greeting would be taken. “It’s good to see you Aedion.”

The male gripped Dorian’s hand firmly. “Your Majesty.” His greeting lacked any mockery that might have been there in the past. With a deep laugh, he added, “I think I will survive. Barely.”

Waving towards the back of the room, Dorian offered Aedion a seat next to the large stone hearth. As he sat, Dorian got them each a glass of wine then joined him. Curiosity threatened to overtake him, but he forced himself to be polite and not pepper Aedion with questions. “This is a surprise. I’d thought the winter had already sealed off Terrasen.”

After taking a sip of the wine, Aedion said, “Not quite yet, but soon. We are on our way to visit Eyllwe. A mix of business and pleasure.”

“We?” Dorian prompted.

“Lysandra and Evangeline are with me.” Before Dorian could ask, Aedion said, “We’re taking the slow, scenic route since Evangeline gets seasick. We just got to the city this morning. They’re visiting old friends, so… I thought I’d do the same.”

Dorian had never thought of Aedion as a friend. An ally, yes. At least, since shortly before the war. But they’d never been friendly. He didn’t begrudge Aedion his hatred of Adarlan, or its previous king. He couldn’t even blame the general for disliking him. For far too long, Dorian had sat passively by while his father brutally conquered most of the continent.

Hearing the term now, he studied Aedion. More surprising than his presence and his offer of friendship was his demeanor. He was calm, composed. None of the underlying fire and ferocity that so characterized him before the war. Dorian had no doubt that it was still there, ready to be called upon when needed. But it no longer seemed to simmer just below the surface, threatening to rear its head at the slightest touch.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important,” Aedion said, breaking the somewhat awkward silence. He looked back at the large desk, overrun with stacks of papers.

Dorian thought of the letter he’d been writing. And blushed in a way he hadn’t since he was a young boy. The heat in his cheeks was due to a rather racy book of poetry he’d found the other day in a newly opened book shop. So many of the poems made him think of Manon that he bought the book and was now copying some of the lines into a letter to her.

“Judging from your expression, I did interrupt.” With a grin, Aedion said, “You know, I’d pay good coin to see Manon Blackbeak’s reaction to opening up a love letter.”

The redness grew over his face, but Dorian laughed. “We have that in common then, because I’d pay to see it too.” He knew he was taking a bit of a chance with this letter, especially since none of the others contained anything this risque. If nothing else, he thought she’d laugh. And that was a reaction he’d do anything to see.

“Have you seen her since…Orynth?”

The male’s hesitation was no puzzle. He’d meant to say since the war. Since she’d lost her entire family. Since he’d lost Gavriel.

Dorian hadn’t spent much time with Gavriel. Chaol thought highly of him. And while that certainly added to his opinion, Dorian had already grown to respect and admire the fae male during their time in Skull’s Bay. His quiet strength and steady presence. Dorian realized that was what he was seeing in Aedion now.

“I have actually,” he said. “We just met at the Ferian Gap.” Aedion raised a questioning eyebrow. “About the aerial legion we’re developing.” Those Ashryvver eyes didn’t blink and Dorian felt himself flushing again. “And trade agreements. Borders. All that… stuff.”

Aedion nodded, a smirk sliding across his face. “And you’re following up with some bawdy correspondence to solidify your agreements. And stuff.”

“I fear you know me too well,” Dorian replied, earning a hearty laugh.

Falling quiet, they booth watched the fire for some time. Just as Dorian was about to offer him more wine, Aedion asked, “How is she?”

Again, his meaning was clear, and the concern lacing his words made something warm ache inside Dorian’s chest. He’d gathered as many bits and pieces as he could about those long days of siege and despair in Orynth, understanding nothing he’d been told would do justice to what Manon, Aedion, Lysandra, and their forces had experienced. The fear and fatigue, the loss and grief, the never-ending dread of the army waiting each morning to destroy them.

“She is doing well,” Dorian replied, giving Aedion a grateful smile. “Still adjusting. But she’s keeping busy. Training the new aerial legion is a positive step I think.” Aedion nodded, genuinely glad to hear. “And, how are you?” Dorian asked.

The male’s eyes flicked away, back to the fire. Dorian wasn’t sure if he’d answer, but after a few moments, Aedion said, “Adjusting.” With a quick smile, he added, “It’s good to have the others around though. Lorcan and Fenrys and Rowan. They knew my father the best. They have endless stories.”

A smile crossed Dorian’s face as he thought of what Orghana had told Manon. Stories honor the loved ones we’ve lost. “I imagine you could write a few books of their adventures. I’m sorry you never had the time to know him.” A stirring deep inside prompted him to add, “And, I’m sorry for all my father did to you.”

Aedion met Dorian’s gaze. As before, he was surprised when there was no blaze of emotion. Instead, he was met with the thoughtfulness of an older man. They were all so much older now, he supposed, even though only a few years had passed.

With a slight nod of thanks, Aedion said, “And I’m sorry for blaming you for your father’s deeds.”

“I deserve some of it I think,” he answered, forcing visions of the collar from his mind. And failing.

Dorian had never gathered the courage to ask Aedion about that time. He could have sought out details after the castle was destroyed. But he knew no more than that the general had briefly been imprisoned. Which dredged up some particularly horrific dreams that Dorian couldn’t dismiss as just dreams. The sounds were too clear. The smells too pungent. He’d done those things to real people. Had he done them to Aedion?

As if reading his mind, Aedion said, “You saved me. Do you remember that?”

He shook his head, unable to speak.

“Before Aelin rescued me, I was in the dungeon, dying from an infection. You came to see me.” When Dorian winced, Aedion clarified, “Just that one time. You came to gloat if I remember correctly. I thought you didn’t notice the wound, but just as you left, you ordered a guard to get a healer.” With a grim smile, he added, “Which pissed me off. You screwed up my well laid plans to die before I could be used as bait.”

Huffing out a humorless laugh, Dorian asked, “I saved you so you could be publicly executed?”

“Well,” the general said with a shrug, “yes. But another way of looking at it is that because of you, I lived to see Aelin again.” Growing more serious, he continued, “I knew at the time it wasn’t really you, Dorian. But looking back on it, I can’t help but wonder if there was a piece of you, the real you, responsible for that.”

Dorian looked back to the fire, swallowing hard to contain his emotions, and to keep from arguing with him. To keep from admitting how powerless he’d been against the valg.

“You survived it,” Aedion said. “Just like I survived dark periods of my life. If you can, use it for something good. So it never happens again.”

It was as if the male had been reborn in some way, Dorian thought. Or perhaps, he’d just never been allowed to see this side of Aedion before. Hoping to bring some levity to the conversation, he narrowed his eyes and said, “I’m not sure how I feel about you becoming so…optimistic.”

Aedion laughed, standing to get more wine. “Something else we have in common.” As he walked by Dorian’s desk, he nodded towards it and said, “You should deliver it in person. Surprise her with it.”

Glad the contents of the letter were obscured, Dorian joined him, smiling at the thought of Aedion giving him relationship advice. Not that the male didn’t have expertise in this area. It was just that in matters of love, he’d always placed Aedion in the category of rival. This new friendship was strange indeed. But, happily welcome. Aedion filled his glass and they silently toasted.

“It’d take me forever to fly to the Wastes. Besides, I only just got back from the Ferian Gap a couple of weeks ago. Chaol would throw a fit if I left again.”

“Just use a wyrd gate.”

The wine glass almost fell from Dorian’s hand. “Excuse me?”

“A wyrd gate.” Aedion drew out each word before leisurely emptying his glass.

“Yes, I heard you. What the hell do you mean by it?”

Since Aelin had destroyed the keys and the way between worlds, Dorian had never tried to contact Gavin. He told himself it was because it would no longer work. But part of him was afraid. Despite all he’d been through, all the progress he was making, Dorian was still stung by doubt. Fearful that the old king would look upon him and see nothing but disappointment.

“Aelin used them to bring the Wolf Tribe and fae to the battle.” Face incredulous, he asked, “I thought you knew that?”

Godsdamn him. To hell with friendship, Dorian wanted to strangle the male. No, he wanted to strangle himself for being so stupid. “My gods. I’m a fool,” he moaned, dropping his head into his hand. “I could use them to be with her right now!”

“Do you know how to do it?”

“Yes!” Dorian growled, his face still covered. Then, after a second or two of thought, he said, “No. I was able to use the wyrd marks to contact Gavin a few times in the afterworld. Is it different to open gates between places in our world? Are the marks different?” He knew they must be, just not how.

“Yes, the marks are different. Aelin taught me how to open a door to a place. Or,” Aedion paused dramatically. “A person.”

Dorian sank down onto his desk, knocking a pile of papers over. “So stupid,” he repeated, as Aedion laughed. The male had the good sense to stop when Dorian shot him a nasty look. Still grinning, he slapped Dorian on the shoulder.

“I can’t speak for other instances, but in this one, you can lighten up on yourself. You’d need to know the entire alphabet to make a door to a specific person or place. And since Aelin barely knew how to do it for that final battle, I’m betting you aren’t fluent in wyrd.”

Dorian nodded in confirmation and released a long, heavy sigh, still angry at himself for never once considering the possibility of using the wyrd marks to visit Manon. Aedion’s assurance didn’t boost his mood. But his next question did.  

“Would you like me to show you how to get to your witch queen?”

 ***

The winds above Blackbeak Keep had always been treacherous. Manon remembered the thrill of riding them as a witchling. The sharp air whipping through her hair, the heart-stopping drops and dives, the rare warm updrafts that carried her into the clouds. Now, with a full grown wyvern instead of an ironwood broom, they were even more dangerous. Behind her, the two Crochan sentinels she’d agreed to bring along were having trouble remaining steady. New to wyverns, the winds threatened to do them in. If she hadn’t been so stubborn and impatient, she would have listened to her great-grandmother and waited until spring to come here.

Signaling to the other witches to follow her, Manon pulled on her reins and guided Abraxos to land.

She shouldn’t have doubted him, high winds or no. He landed smoothly on the largest balcony available, the one that led into the keep’s great hall. The same hall she’d walked through so many times.

As the others landed on either side - clumsily but without injury - she could see herself all those years ago. Strutting between the crowd of whispering Blackbeaks, a new red cloak drapped over her shoulders and a Crochan heart in the box she carried. Her grandmother watching her, unsmiling, sitting like a queen holding court. The memory stood out because at that time, the Ironteeth witches did not have queens.

How had she been so blind? So stupid?

Of course, she had been privy to her grandmother’s ambitions for retaking the Wastes and installing themselves as rulers. But she’d never once considered the lengths to which the matron would go. Allying with valg to destroy the world? And she never truly realized how precarious her own position was until she’d been sliced open by her grandmother’s iron nails.

Blind. She’d been a fool.

This guilt was nothing new. But she should have expected it would hit harder when she’d decided to come here.

The Crochans were waiting for her orders, so she told them to stay on the platform. Scouts had reported that the keep was empty. While that could have changed, Manon wasn’t sure what might be left inside, and the thought of finding Ironteeth trophies with a pair of Crochan witches at her side… It was nothing they needed to see.

Perhaps she’d have the place burnt down after she was done.

The thought eased the tremors inside her chest as she entered the hall. Dark and cold from long dead fireplaces, the place looked foreign. Like something from a bad dream she’d had lifetimes ago. She glanced to the end where the matron’s throne still sat, then turned her nose up at it and continued walking.

Luckily, the keep had not been looted. The few Blackbeaks who’d flown from here to join her grandmother in battle had left quickly. No doubt expecting to return soon, victorious and weighed down with the spoils of war. But that had not happened. So Manon was left alone with a keep still filled with the items of everyday life.

She and the Thirteen had taken the rooms of an entire hallway in the eastern wing, and she was drawn there as if pulled by a thread. Gliding up the stairs, she made no sound save for her thudding heart.

Just at the head of the hallway, she hesitated. Maybe the rest of the place was basically intact, but that was no guarantee that the Thirteen’s rooms hadn’t been ransacked. Especially after they’d left the clan.

There was only one way to find out.

Manon pushed at the first door she came to, Lin’s. Looking inside, she sucked in an icy breath. The room was in disarray. The bed was overturned along with two chests, their clothing strewn across the floor. She could see faded patches on the walls where broad swords and bows would have hung on the now empty pegs and hooks.

The same held true for some of the others’ rooms, and Manon supposed that with so few witches left here when they’d first been summoned to the Ferian Gap and then Morath, only weapons and essentials had been taken. Perhaps her luck would continue.

Slowly, Manon pushed the door open into Ghislaine’s rooms. While the witches had taken the weapons, the books still lining Ghislaine’s walls had been laregly overlooked. Breathing a sigh of relief, Manon walked all the way in and turned in a circle to survey the damage.

Like the others, the room had been trashed. Any weapons or treasure kept here were gone. Instead of bows and swords, shelves covered the walls here. Some books were still upright and in place while others had been pulled off and thrown on the floor. Whoever had searched it had learned quickly that there was nothing useful to war hidden among the shelves.

But the books were the treasure. Then and now.

Manon bent and picked up a few that lay haphazardly against the foot of the bed. Blowing off the coat of dust, she placed them on a table. She had no idea if there would be a book here to interest Dorian. Hell, she had no idea what his reading interests even were. But she was confident she’d know when she found it. So, beginning with the books from the floor, she began to stack them on whatever surface was available, spines out so she could see the title.

It didn’t take her long to find one that might work.

Most of Ghislaine’s books were histories or treatises on magic or nature. There were several on the constellations, a few guides to wildflowers and plants, even a thick volume on the history of the Southern Continent. She sat that one aside for herself. But there were many fictional stories in the mix.

One contained what looked like a variety of myths and legends, each chapter a different story with heroes and heroines, fearsome beasts, and evil villains. As she flipped through the pages, Manon wondered how these tales might compare to her own life story. Another book, surprisingly, appeared to be a romance. She found more, all tucked behind a monster of a book that contained potion recipes. Ghislaine had been smart to hide them. If she’d been caught with these, she’d have seen more trouble than if she’d been caught plotting to take over the clan.

In the end, she had four books she thought Dorian might enjoy, and three for herself. Though, no fun reading for her. They were to help her in her duties as queen.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. All of the books, along with the few odds and ends she’d found in the others’ rooms, were going back home with her. Where they’d serve as the start of a new royal library for the witch kingdom.

It took forever to pack the books and haul them back to where the wyverns were perched. But when they were done, Manon found herself wishing she had more to do. Anything if it meant she didn’t have to enter the one suite of rooms she’d passed by.

Abraxos released a soft howl, as if he knew what she was avoiding. Manon stepped up to let him nuzzle her hand. “I know,” she said. “I need to be brave. Like you.” He replied with a hot breath of air. “Wait here,” she told her sentinels. “I’ll be back soon.”

A few minutes later, she stood outside Asterin’s rooms, hands balled into tight fists to keep from shaking.

Drawing what felt like every ounce of courage she had, Manon opened the door and walked in. Turning in a circle, she took in the room, not much different than the others. A bed, chests of ransacked drawers, racks and hooks that used to hold weapons. In the far corner, a door hung partly open. Forcing herself to breathe, and walk, Manon looked inside.

Old clothing was thrown on the floor of the tiny closet. Even an old pair of boots with the toes worn through. And there, practically hidden in the corner, a dark ironwood broom.

Manon reached slowly for it, wondering if she’d be able to feel Asterin in the object’s magic. When her fingertips brushed over the handle, she realized how silly that notion was. She felt nothing more than a surface polished smooth from decades of use.

Witches were responsible for carving their own brooms upon reaching maturity. It wasn’t until Manon picked up Asterin’s broom and held it in both hands that she remembered this was not her cousin’s first broom.

This one had been made during Asterin’s time with her hunter. When she’d been in love. When she’d been pregnant.

Not for the first time, Manon wished she knew where that cabin was. She had a vague idea, but even that idea encompassed an entire forest. Perhaps it didn’t matter, as she had no body to return to the place Asterin held close to her heart. She had the broom. But she already knew it would be going home with her.

Sitting down on the bed, Manon ran her hands over the handle, admiring its sturdiness, its power. There was a dull pulse of magic to it, as there was to all witch brooms. It just held no distinct sense of Asterin.

“Your Majesty.”

Manon looked up to see one of the sentinels standing in the open door. She made no effort to brush away the tears filling her eyes. The witch made no effort to hide that she’d seen them. Which, strangely, made Manon feel better.

“We’ve loaded the wyverns,” she said in reply to Manon’s encouraging nod. “However, the winds are picking up. Sybil said we should either leave soon or spend the night.”

Standing, Manon said, “We’ll go now. Head back and secure everything. Make sure the books are covered well in case of wet weather. I want to be at the Ferian Gap before nightfall.” The sentinel disappeared and Manon took a final look around Asterin’s room.

Despite the tears, Manon found herself ready to leave. Nothing of Asterin lingered in this place. The same held true for the others. With the possible exception of Ghislaine, who was so connected to her books they were truly a part of her.

She strode down the hall, paying silent respect as she passed each door. Asterin’s broom in one hand, and a small bag in the other. It contained all the remnants she’d found of the Thirteen. A small, sharp arrow head made by Vesta, a worn whetstone used by Sorrel, a wooden figurine of the Three Faced Goddess carved by Imogen. Lin, who so outwardly hated her mother, had kept a miniature portrait of the witch under her mattress. From the Shadow’s rooms, swatches of a dark, two-toned fabric that was clearly enchanted. Fallon and Faline had collected knives, which were, of course, gone. But Manon found sheathes the two must have been making before the last time they’d left the keep. And in Thea and Kaya’s room, a wooden box carved with intricate patterns that fit in the palm of her hand. It was locked, and Manon had no intention of prying it open.

In fact, a part of her felt odd about going through their rooms, even if they had already been largely picked over. But with each item, she’d felt a calm settle over her. Like with the place, these things weren’t her sisters. But they were meaningful parts of the greater whole. All of the things she’d collected were indicative of their owners - some obvious and unsurprising like Vesta’s arrow, others secretive and unknowable like Lin’s portrait.

And Asterin’s broom.

Manon could think of no better reminder to live her fullest life than that.

***

Dorian groaned with exhaustion as he entered his sitting rooms. A full day of meetings with lords and merchant guilds. That alone would have been hell. But he’d had to sit there knowing he could be with Manon in mere seconds.

After learning the spells and symbols to open a wyrd gate, he’d made the mature decision to not leave immediately. He’d had guests after all. Aedion, Lysandra, and Evangeline stayed for two days. Two days that, under other circumstances, would not have felt interminable. By the time they left, he’d become overwhelmed with the nonsense discussed during today’s meetings.

And both Chaol and Yrene had thoughtfully pointed out that walking out of a fire-ringed wyrd gate into Manon’s bedroom might not be the best idea. He’d write to her so she could decide where and when. The letter was already on its way.

But as he walked towards his bedroom, shedding clothes, his finger itched to trace out the marks. He was going over the alphabet in his head as he entered the room and stopped dead in his tracks.

Her scent. It was thick in the air. Warm summer breezes and meadows.

Spinning in a circle and finding the room empty, he ran into the bathing room. Only to find it deserted too.

Back in his bedroom, he noticed something on his bed. A stack of books with a small package on top. It was the only free place to put anything, as every other surface was covered.

Dorian sat the box of pastries aside and examined the four books. Three romances and one collection of fantasy tales. Judging by their wonderful smell, an indescribable book smell he loved, their old age was obvious. A piece of paper fell silently from one and he smiled even before he could read the writing.

Hello princeling,

While I appreciated your gift - especially Qara’s pastries - I prefer our usual greeting and so I thought I’d use my own paper this time.

You may be surprised to know these books belonged to Ghislaine. You knew she was a bookworm of course. But you didn’t know of my plans to return to Blackbeak Keep to retrieve them. I didn’t know it myself until I decided to try and outdo your gift.

Dorian laughed, looking at the books with new appreciation.

I hope I have succeeded. And that the pastries are still fresh. Qara refused to send the recipe. I suppose that means I remain her favorite.

Ghislaine had a small collection, which I plan to use as the start of a royal library here in Morrigna. Perhaps we can schedule an official visit in the spring for you to come and assist with its development?

-Your witchling

P.S. If Altai put this package where I told him to, you need better guards.

To be continued...

***

Note - I hate making up place names. But I grew too lazy to keep calling it Rhiannon’s City. And in the spirit of unity, I think the witches will give it their own name once they are settled (unless it already has some other canon name we were just never told). So I named the witch capital Morrigna. Morrigan is not just a character in the acotar series. She’s also an Irish goddess who is often described as a trio of sisters called the Morrigna. So...kind of like a three-faced goddess?? Maybe? I don’t know. I’m not sure how it’s pronounced exactly, but I thought the symbolism was cool. 

Thanks for reading! If you’d like to be tagged (or untagged, no offense taken) on future manorian fics, let me know.

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