#so for now here is milton being his wonderful self

[rararasputins-dick-mind-control]

im his favorite :D

[4dkellysworld]

Lester Levenson's self-realisation story

This is the more detailed version of Lester Levenson's story of releasing thoughts & feelings to self-realization that should have been in his autobiography (you can read the more condensed version from the book here). It is a much more detailed account of Lester's process and journey to self-realization in the three months, a very short version was included in this post on why clear the subconscious mind to realise Self.

Reading this was enlightening to me - perhaps it will spark some resonance in you for your own path and practice :)

(I didn't include the parts before this excerpt where he just started self-inquiry after his health issue, the excerpt below starts from when things really progressed for Lester)

In the morning, he woke very early feeling rested and refreshed. His first thought was, "Well, then, what is happiness?" He laughed at his tenacity as he rolled out of bed and into the shower. Preparing breakfast, his thoughts continued to explore the question which dominated his mind. Well, then, what is happiness? What is the common denominator in all these moments? There was Sy, there was Milton, then June, and his Nettie... What was the common denominator? Somehow he knew it was tied up with love, but he could not, at first, see how. When it finally came, it was so simple and pure and complete an answer that he wondered why he had never seen it before.

"Happiness is when I am loving!" He realized that in every instance, his feeling of love for the other person had been intense and that's where the happiness had come from, from his own feeling of loving. It was so clear to him now that being loved was not the answer. He could see that even if people loved him, unless he felt love in return, he was not going to be happy. Their loving might make them happy, but it would not, could not, make him happy. It was a new and mind-boggling concept and even though he instinctively knew that it was correct, his old scientific training didn't allow him to accept it without testing. So he looked into his past, remembering those times in his life when he had been loving and happy, and he recognized that at those times, the other person had not necessarily been loving him.

He looked at the other side too, the unhappy times and now that he knew what to look for, it was very obvious that he had not been loving. Oh, he'd thought at the time that he loved them, as with Nettie and June. He loved them, needed them, wanted them. But was that love, he wondered now? No, it was painful... he was experiencing pain that they didn't love him. And even though he called it love, he was really wanting to possess them completely, thinking he needed all their love to be happy.

That was the key! He had been experiencing a want or lack of love, expecting the other person to supply the love, waiting for the other person to make him happy. He had to laugh, it seemed so ludicrous. To think that someone else could make him happy seemed like the funniest thing in the world. He knew, better than anyone that no one could ever make him anything. He'd always been very proud and stubborn and self-sufficient, sure that he never needed anyone or anything. "What a joke!" He thought. The truth is that he'd been all the time dying inside for want of love, thinking he had to get it from someone. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he laughed and laughed at the realization that what he'd been looking for all his life was inside him. He had been like the absent-minded professor looking everywhere for his glasses which were on top of his head all the time.

"What a shame," he thought, wiping away the tears. "What a shame that I never saw this before. All that time, all those years wasted; what a shame." "But wait a minute!" he thought. "If happiness is when I'm experiencing love for the other one, then that means happiness is a feeling within me. "And if I felt unloving in the past? Well, I know I can't change the past, but could I possibly correct the feeling now inside myself`? Could I change the feeling to love now?"

He decided to try it. He looked at his most recent unhappiness, the day he left the hospital. "First," he asked himself, "was I experiencing a lack of love that day?" "Yes," he answered aloud. "Nobody gave a damn about me, not the nurses, not the orderlies, not even Dr. Schultz. They did not care. As sick as I was, they threw me out, sent me home to die so they wouldn't have to watch one of their failures. Well, the hell with them. They can all go to hell." He was shocked at the vehemence in his voice. His body trembled with rage and he felt weak. He really hated the doctor. He could feel it burning in his chest. "Oh, boy," he thought, "this sure isn't love."

"Well, can I change it?" he asked. "Is it possible to turn it into love for the doctor?" "Hell, no," he thought, "why should I? What did he ever do to deserve any love?" "That's not the point," he answered himself. "The point is not whether he deserves love. The point is, can you do it? Is it possible to simply change a feeling of hatred into a feeling of love—not for the benefit of the other person but for yourself?"

As the thought crossed his mind, he felt something break loose in his chest. A gentle easing, a sense of dissolving, and the burning sensation was gone. He didn't trust it at first. It seemed too easy, so he pictured again the scene with Dr. Schultz in the hospital. He was surprised to find that it brought only a mild feeling of resentment rather than the previous intense burning hatred. He wondered if he could do it again.

"Let's see," he thought, "what did I just do? Ah, yes. Can I change this feeling of resentment into a feeling of love?" He chuckled as he felt the resentment dissolve in his chest. Then it was totally gone and he was happy. He thought of Dr. Schultz again, pictured him in his mind and felt happy, even loving. He saw now, reliving that last meeting, how the doctor had hated to tell him the things he had to say. He could feel the doctor's pain at having to tell a young man in the prime of his life that his life was over. "Doctor Schultz, you son-of-a-gun," he said, grinning, "I love you."

"Well, it worked on that one," he thought. "If my theory is sound, then it should work on everything." Eagerly, he began trying it on other moments, and the results were consistently the same, each time that he asked himself if he could change the feeling of hostility or anger or hatred to one of love, the dissolving process took place. Sometimes he had to repeat it over and over until he felt only Love for the person.

At times, the entire process would take only a minute or two; at other times, it might take him hours of working on a particular person or event before his feelings were only loving, but he would doggedly stay with it until it was completed on each person and each incident.

His entire life came up for review in bits and pieces. One by one, he changed to Love all the old hurts and disappointments. He began to feel stronger as the weight of his pain dropped away. He was happier than he had ever been in his entire life, and he kept it going, feeling even more happiness with each new thing corrected. He stopped going to bed because he had so much energy that he couldn't lie down. When he felt tired, he would doze in his chair and awaken an hour or so later to start in again. There was so much to be corrected in his life that he didn't want to stop until he had looked under every stone and around every corner.

Another thing that intrigued him was the question of how far he could take this. As he corrected each thing, he became happier, he could feel it; but he wondered how far he could go. Was there a limit to happiness? So far, he hadn't found any boundaries to it and the possibilities were staggering. So he kept on, around the clock.

His strength was returning, but not wanting to be distracted, he avoided getting involved in social activities and would sometimes even pass up the Sunday get-together with his family. He did his food shopping in the middle of the night, around two or three in the morning. There were very few people up and about at that hour, and he enjoyed the quiet of the city. He went on correcting his life, even while doing the necessaries. And he noticed that when someone in a store or on the street would annoy him, he was able to correct that response with Love either immediately or shortly thereafter. This pleased him, and he found himself loving others with intensity far beyond anything he had imagined possible. As he described it many years later, "When I mixed with people, and again and again when they would do things that I didn't like and within me was a feeling of non-Love, I would immediately change that attitude to one of loving them even though they were opposing me. Eventually I got to a point where, no matter how much I was being opposed, I could maintain a feeling of Love for them."

He continued to correct his life with consistent results for about a month until one day he got stumped. He was working on the last time he had seen Nettie, the day she chose someone else. He had already corrected a lot of the pain with regard to her; she had come to his mind again and again, and it had not always been easy. In fact, it had been very difficult at first to work on that old relationship but gradually as he gained strength, he had been able to confront some of those long-buried feelings and correct them.

But on this particular day, no matter how hard he tried to correct it with Love, there was still a feeling of despair which he could not dislodge. He wanted to escape, to get out of his chair and run, to get something to eat, to do anything that would get him away from his intense feeling. Instead, he decided to sit there until he handled it.

Something told him that if he let that feeling push him around, if he lost that battle, he would have lost the war. He stayed in his chair, determined to ride it out. He probed, "What's wrong here? Why isn't it dissolving? Nettie, oh, my Nettie." He began to cry now, tears streaming down his cheeks, all the pain he had locked up on the day they parted came now in a flood. "Why did you do it, Nettie?" he cried aloud. "Why did you do it? Why did you leave me, my darling? We could have been so happy, we'd have married and been so happy."

"Damn," he thought, "why do people do things like that? They throw their happiness away and everyone else's, too. They have no right to do that. They shouldn't be allowed to do that. There should be some way of making them change; some way of changing the things they do and the effect they have on people."

He felt the old pain of ulcers starting up again in his stomach and realized with certainty that the ulcers had started that last day with Nettie. He'd drunk the beer and thrown up; that had been the beginning. He wished it had been different. More than anything else in this world, he wanted to change what had happened. He wanted to go back and live it over again the other way with Nettie choosing him, with them getting married and being happy forevermore.

"Well, you can't change it, stupid," he shouted at himself, "so you might just as well stop trying to." That jolted him. He saw that he was still trying to change something that had been finished more than twenty years ago. "No, it can't be finished," he cried. "I won't let it be finished." His throat hurt now and he felt like screaming and smashing things. Then, like instant replay, he heard what he'd said, "I won’t let it be finished." That was the source of his anguish; he'd wanted to change it all these years and so he kept it alive inside himself, buried deep, eroding his happiness. "Well, to hell with that," he said, almost flippantly. Suddenly, with that decision, the whole thing was gone. He couldn't believe it. He felt for the hurt, the pain, the despair. It was all gone. He thought of Nettie as he remembered her, so young, so beautiful, and he simply loved her. There was none of the old painful feeling left.

He began to look now in this new direction. He realized that the cause of his ulcers was that he had wanted to change everything, starting with his nearest and dearest and extending out to the rest of the world, including the United States, other countries, government heads, the weather, endings of movies he had seen, the way businesses were run, taxes, the army, the President; there was nothing he could think of that he had not wanted to change in one way or another.

What a revelation! He saw himself subject to and a victim of everything he wanted to change! He began dissolving all that. When he thought of something that caused him pain about a person or situation, he would now either correct it with Love or dissolve wanting to change it. This added a new dimension to his work, and his progress accelerated.

By the time a second month had gone by, it was all he could do sometimes to stay in his chair, he became so energized. And there were times, when he had worked on particularly painful incidents in his life, that he literally could not sit and would go out into the city and walk for miles, reviewing, correcting, dissolving until he had burned off enough energy to sit still again. Sometimes he felt as though he had hold of a chain with many links of incidents on it which needed correcting. Once he got hold of the chain, he would follow through incident by incident until there was nothing left to be corrected. An example of such a chain was jealousy.

He had always been intensely jealous but managed to hide it most of the time under a facade of not caring. Nevertheless, his insides used to burn if the girl he was with so much as looked at someone else, or even mentioned another man. He decided to correct this tendency in himself. He would probe his memory for instances where his jealousy had driven him; correct it; then look for more. When he thought it was cleared out, he tested himself by imagining the girl he loved most making love with the man he would least want her to be with. It was a good test because he could see immediately that there was more work to do. Sometimes the intensity of his feelings would almost drive him mad, but he continued for days until there was no last vestige of jealousy left in him. When he could finally enjoy their enjoyment of each other, he knew he was finished with jealousy.

Insights came with increasing frequency. He would often gain a sudden, complete understanding of something which had always puzzled him. Philosophies he had studied became clear, and he could see that they had often started off on the right track, only to veer off into distortions, having been diverted by an incorrect idea springing from the author's own storehouse of uncorrected feelings. His mind began to feel like crystal, clear and sharp. "Colors seemed brighter and everything was more sharply defined" says Lester.

"Above all, I saw that I was responsible for everything that had happened to me, formerly thinking that the world was abusing me! And I saw that my tremendous effort to make money and then losing it was due only to my thinking; that I had been always seeking happiness, and thought that making money would do it. So whenever the business started to make money, and the money did not bring me the happiness I wanted, I began to lose interest and the thing collapsed. I had always blamed it on other people and circumstances, not realizing that it was simply my subconscious knowledge that this is not happiness which caused me to lose interest and that, in turn, caused the business to collapse."

"This was a tremendous piece of freedom, to think that I am not a victim of this world, that it lies within my power to arrange the world the way I want it to be; rather than be an effect of it. I can now be in control of it and arrange it the way I would like it to be. That was a tremendous realization, a tremendous feeling of Freedom."

"Discovering that my happiness equated to my loving, and that my thinking was the cause of things happening to me in my life gave me more and more freedom; freedom from the subconscious compulsions that I had to work, I had to make money, I had to have girlfriends. Freedom in the feeling that I was now able to determine my destiny, I was now able to control my world, lightened my internal burden so strongly that I felt there was no need for me to have to do anything.

"Plus, this happiness was so great. It was a new experience for me. I was experiencing a joy that I never knew existed, never dreamed could be. So I decided, "This is so great, I'm not going to stop until I carry it all the way." I had no idea how far it could go. I had no idea how joyous a person could be. But I was determined to find out."

During the third month, things went even faster. There was a depth to Lester’s feelings that threatened to bowl him over at times. His knees sometimes buckled, but he stayed with each feeling until it was corrected. He was becoming happier and happier, still looking to see if there were any limits to what he could accomplish with this new process.

"How much further can I go?" Lester would ask himself, then push it even further. It was also during the third month that he ran into an old adversary, one he had seen out of the corner of his eye again and again throughout his life. It had lurked nearby, always on the periphery and he had never before been willing to meet it head on. It was the fear of death.

Now he recognized it as the basis of every single feeling he had ever had. He began to coax it out into the open, wanting to take a good look at the biggest foe of all, which had so very nearly won the battle only a few months ago. He began to lure those feelings into the open and to dissolve them. And it worked!

He got to the place where, with great confidence, he laughed and laughed and laughed at this foe which had kept a fire lit under him his entire life so that there had not been one moment of real peace, ever. This last of the monsters turned out to be, after all, only a feeling. As he dissolved the fear of death, he realized one day that his body was sound, healed. The physical impairment was corrected. He couldn't explain to anyone how he knew; he just knew it as surely as he knew who he was. His body was sound.

At the end of the third month, he had slipped into a blissful, joyous state, which he could only describe as feeling like a million orgasms surging all at once through his entire body. It went on and on and he realized that this feeling, although not sexual, was what he was always been looking for but never found in sex. He felt light, living for weeks with joy exploding inside him every moment. Everyone and everything became exquisitely beautiful to him. He kept looking for more things to correct, but there didn't seem to be much. Occasionally something would occur to him, but it would be gone almost before he could define it and the joy would surge through him even more strongly.

After several weeks, he began to wonder if there could be anything better beyond this joy. He was sitting in his chair in the usual position, slumped down, legs stretched out, chin touching his chest. He had an idle thought without expecting an answer, but the answer came.

What was beyond this incredible joyous state that didn't stop? He saw that it was peace, imperturbability and he realized with certainty that if he accepted it, if he decided to move into that peace, it would never, ever go away. And he went—slipped into it so effortlessly – with just a decision to have it. He was there.

Everything was still. He was in a quietness that he now knew had always been there but drowned out by incessant noise from his accumulated, uncorrected past. In fact, it was more than quiet; it was so far beyond anything imaginable that there were no words to describe the delectable deliciousness of the tranquility.

His earlier question about happiness was answered too. There were no limits to happiness, but when you have it all, every minute, it gets tiresome. Then this peace is just beyond and all you have to do is step over the line into it. "Is there anything beyond even this?" he wondered. But as he asked, he knew the answer.

This peace was eternal and forever and it was the essence of every living thing. There was only one Beingness and everything was It. Every person was It, but they were without awareness of the fact, blinded by the uncorrected past they hold on to.

He saw this Beingness as something like a comb. He was at the spine of the comb and all the teeth fanned out from it, each one thinking it was separate and different from all the other teeth. And that was true, but only if you looked at it from the tooth end of the comb. Once you got back to the spine or source, you could see that it wasn’t true. It was all one comb. There was no real separation, except when you sat at the tooth end. It was all in one’s point of view.

[goodomensafterdark]

And now, nightingales.

This is in response to @gleafer in the Hot Lucifer Angst storyline. By subreddit user startledplatypus.

Oh lort here we go again. Very "flashing eyes and floating hair," u/gleafer you dirty rotten scoundrel, I loves you with my tiny black heart. How do you get so much into so few lines??? I'm sOo jEaLouS ;D

Lucy is perfectly awful and yet still awfully perfect. Well done. Villains always think they're the heroes. He thinks he's showing love to Azi by making him suffer. That it's Lucy's job to do that. Small wonder Lucy sees Crowley as a lover but not really a partner. No one is good enough for Lucy.

If anyone wants to see how Milton handles all this, check out Paradise Lost. Get a copy with a ton of footnotes. Prepare for brain overload. It's totally worth it. Then come babble with me about it. ;)

::picks pieces of self off floor, stitches them together, ponders; recalls the phrase "a murder of crows"; thinks too long about Lucifer being schooled by by Hitchcock's The Birds, and opens a blank post::

--- much later ---

"... so that's how we were made, Mama?"

"Yes, dear. Long ago." Through the window, they could see Aziraphale was still pressing his hand to his lips.

"So why didn't we sing just now, Mama? We've always sung for him before."

"Yes, dear, we have. But now isn't the right time."

The quite young nightingale considered the still quite young angel. "When will it be time, Mama?"

The mother bird cupped her youngling with one wing. "We'll know. We all will."

"How?"

"There is a reason we are called a watch."

***

"JUMPED?? ... and you did what, WATCHED?"

"For days."

"Wotcher mean, days?"

"Five days, four hours, and twenty-eight minutes. That's how long you fell."

"..."

"... I thought... I thought that... maybe if I could make you forget... it would somehow make up for not being able to stop you. For not being able to stop him. For all the times he made you forget, whenever you questioned him."

"How many...."

"Don't make me say it. Please. It's why I made you forget."

"HOW MANY?!"

"TOO MANY!! JUST ONCE WAS TOO MANY!!"

"AND HOW IS THAT DIFFERENT FROM WHAT YOU DID?!"

"... It's not."

[strunmah-mah]

Wonderfam book in the style of PKJ's Action Comics, so you can get the ongoing, and also the rotating short stories for some of the side characters.

Let Yara have her own mantle since she hates being called Wonder Girl and doesn't fit the role.

Revive Lyta Milton and make her Wonder Girl

Retcon the retcon to Artemis's origins. Making her the daughter of US Soldiers was a bad idea and it sucked. Let her go back to being Bana-Mighdall born and raised.

Let Peng Deilan hang out with the Amazons. I want to examine her feelings about The Ministry of Self-Reliance giving her a name from a culture she has 0 connection to.

Send Jon back to Hamilton and have him interact with Kathy. They haven't seen each other since his age up, I wanna see them grapple with that.

YJ core four gets new mantles. They're adults now, let their Superhero identities reflect that. Kon=Supernova, Cassie=Olympia, I don't have good ideas for Tim or Bart

A new Justice League Dark ongoing, same team as the rebirth era + Xanthe and/or Raven. Have them interact with the All-Caste make the world build around that more coherent.

Bring back Bizarro, the one from RHATO. My boy's been trapped in hell too long and I miss him. He can go hang out with the JLD, or the upcoming Doomsday story line since Doomsday is breaking out of hell, or he can hang out with Boodwynd. There's options here, just bring him back

Natasha Irons solo. In Superwoman she made armors for a group called the Sapphire Angels, but there's no information about them anywhere which means they haven't been in much. Which means you could do anything with them. Let Nat lead a squad of heroes it would be fun.

Traci 13/City Boy team up. I feel like their powers could synergise really well.

Make Raven Desi again! Genuine tragedy she's only ever been drawn as a generic anime girl since the Teen Titans cartoon.

This poses a common but never dull question... Tell me what the first thing YOU would do if you became a writer at DC with no editorial backlash? What would you make canon? What story would you write? What would you retcon?

[pinkcherryblossomangel]

Away from home -chapter 5

Y/N is an actress, filming for her first lead role in the film adaptation of her favourite childhood book, produced by maximum effort.

She bonds with Ryan Reynolds over their share Love of the Korean pop band Stray Kids, and he has a surprise for her.

When she starts missing home and the darkness creeps upon her, her hotel neighbour comes to her rescue.

Trigger warnings- mentions of depression, self harm and anxiety

Stray kids fan fic

Mainly staring 3ratcha

But the other boys do make appearances it's just easy to keep to minimum of characters lol

Chan x oc

This is my first ever fan fiction so if it's shit soz.

It's been 5 days since the 3racha boys came to set. And everyday so far has been so joyous. Their fun and passion is contagious. Today's also the last day on these scenes, a days filming is only like 3 minutes of footage, which is why we spend weeks on single scenes.

Call time is a bit earlier today, so unlike the the past 3 days I head to the location base by myself. Keith seems to feel Chris's absence moaning that he misses hearing his Australian accent in the morning.

"He'll be back tonight!"  I say, which seems to cheer him up a bit. Like always I nod off and wake up driving through security. It's 7 am by the time we arrive. I head straight to my trailer when my costume for today has been laid out next to my call sheet.

I get dressed and head straight to make up. It's only a natural look today, but with Tabby's iconic red lippy! My hair doesn't seem to behaving the way they want it too, so after almost choking on 2 cans of hairspray I'm ready. I look in the mirror. I don't recognise myself most days, but when I'm in character I really don't. Which is good. I think?

I head down to the breakfast table and grab a bacon and egg sandwich. My dad's favourite. And some grapes and then wander down to set. I'm 15 minutes early, but like my old teacher told me, on time is late! When Jenna and Tash arrive they join me on the bleachers all gossiping and eating. Tash tells us of some drama she got in on twitter. Well that her fans got into. Something to do with her ex girlfriends new album. That's something I find quite funny about being apart of the Hollywood world, I now get the inside scoop on twitter feuds.

I look at the clock in the hall and realise he'll be here in 20 minutes. I'm suddenly acutely aware that this is the first time he's seen me in makeup. I've been barefaced and dressed in comfy clothes this whole week and I feel heat rising in my cheeks, burning with self consciousness. Jenna puts her hand on my knee, as if she can read my mind. I try to ground myself looking for things to see and hear.

-----------------------------------------

The filming goes without a hitch, but I haven't seen the boys. Seems like I was nervous for nothing.

And there they are entering the hall with our main runner alice and our lunch orders. There's someone else with the too! Hannah! The reason I even know who these guys are. Chan makes a b-line for me, with my lunch order, buttered chicken.

They decide to eat with us on the bleachers. Chris asks to have a quick chat just the two of us.

"I was wondering if you'd like to come out for a few drinks with me the guys and Hannah tonight? It's okay if not, I just think you two would get along and the guys wanna hang out with you, cause I apparently keep going on about you...."

"It's a date" I reply. Both of us blushing at my response. "Sorry I had to"

"I'll pick you up at 10?" Chris questions with an upturned brow.

"Don't be late, i know it's quite far away."

"A whole 4 steps!" He jokes as we walk back to everyone else.

-----------------------------------------

Today we're supposed to finish at 6pm, it's currently 6:20pm and we have another angle to shoot still. Like most days we're running behind. I told Keith to take Chris back to the Milton but I guess he decided he doesn't want to go yet as I can see him peeking behind Olivia as she's watching the monitors. She checks her watch and sighs.

"Alright everyone, we are running behind, but since it's a Friday I'm gonna let us off now. Get some rest this weekend and we'll finish the scene on Monday."

I head to ovet Keith with Chris, I almost trip over some wires I'm that engaged in our conversation.

"You two seem chirpy" remarks Keith as we enter his car

"It's that Friday feeling" Chris replies, I audibly cringe which makes both men laugh.

Back in my room, I tidy up after making myself a snack of instant noodles. There do lack something being done in a microwave. I decide to get a shower to freshen up before getting ready to go out tonight. But as soon as I get naked and turn the tap on, the showers head falls off and I'm covered it what's an equivalent of a bucket of freezing cold water. Unfortunately my room doesn't have a bath. I could ask to use Chris's shower right? I'm sure he wouldn't mind.

I put my dressing gown on and walk over to his door. I'm about to turn away out of embarrassment when he Unlocks the door. "I'm guessing that shriek I heard had something to do with this" He gestures to my current state.

"Youd be correct" He grins at my response. "Can I use your shower? mine has busted and the hotel can't fix it till tomorrow."

"Sure" he says waving me in. His room is tidy and smells of him. A mix of vanilla and musk. I head to his bathroom, the plan is the same as my room, except this one has him. "Feel free to use any of my products," He probably noticed my lack of any.

"Oh Shit, no, I'll go get mine."

"No Please, use mine"

"My knight in shining armour!" He looks down in a really cute way. I think making him blush may be my new favourite thing.

" enjoy your shower Y/N"

"I will Christopher" I smile, and head into the shower.

---‐-------------------------

I smell like him, I realise as I get changed. I decided to keep it casual with some black, wide legged trousers and an oversized t shirt. Something I'm not afraid to get dirty, but nice enough to be seen in. I apply just a small amount of makeup, for no other reason than o don't particularly like the feeling of it on my face. Don't get me wrong, I love getting dolled up,especially for events, but if I'm honest, I can't be arsed right now.

There's a knock at my door. It's Chan. Obviously. I grab my back pack and open the door.

"You ready?" He asks

"Yeah lets go. Im excited I've not been out out in ages."

"Out out?" He questions

"Yeah like out is like the pub but out out is like a bar or something. Do you guys not say that in Australia?"

"Not that I know" we reach the lift. "I'll have to ask Hannah, maybe she knows!"

The cab we order is right on time and we get to the bar at 9:15pm. There waiting for us is the rest of 3racha and Chans sister.

[lulu-zodiac]

Hidden in Plain Sight

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Jeremy Bradshaw

Tags: Early seasons Dean, pre-podcast Professor Bradshaw, denial, unresolved sexual tension, bickering, smut, gratuitous owl references, case fic

Summary: It's the fall of 2006, and a string of grisly deaths linked to local lore brings Sam and Dean to the village of Bridgewater. There, Dean finds himself working closely with the frustrating and unexpectedly compelling Professor Bradshaw.

---

Dean feels about as comfortable in old colleges as he does in churches. There’s the same sense of exclusivity, that same reverence of things Dean has spent his life stuck on wrong side of. This campus even feels a little like a church, with its old architecture and sprawling ruby ivy and slit windows like narrowed eyes. His footfalls echo heavily along the cold stone corridor, making him feel uncomfortably aware of his own existence.

The door he’s looking for is old and made of oak, nestled in an alcove near the staircase, with a small plaque on it that reads Professor J Bradshaw.

Dean pauses for a moment, then knocks abruptly, suddenly noticing his knuckles are still smudged with earth. From within, a muffled voice instructs him to enter, and he does so, wiping his hand surreptitiously against the side of his leather jacket.

The first thing that hits him is the sheer volume of books in the room; they clutter every available surface, piled high in front of the big bay window like a strange line of defense. There are stacks of loose papers everywhere too, haphazard but clearly organized, some held in place by empty coffee mugs or odd-looking artefacts. The air is bright and warm, like this room catches the sun when it’s slow and mellow in the afternoons.

The second thing that hits him is the man sitting at the desk.

He doesn’t look up at Dean’s entrance, continuing to scribble away in a leather-bound notebook with intent dexterity, seemingly utterly lost in his own thoughts. He’s not what Dean expected; surprisingly young, maybe approaching forty, with a sharp jaw and tousled hair that just brushes his broad shoulders. When Dean clears his throat awkwardly, the man finally looks up with striking blue eyes that immediately pin Dean in place.

“Yes?” his voice is inquiring and several octaves deeper than Dean would have imagined, low and gravelly. He sets down his pen, looking at Dean with piercing focus.

“Uh – hey. Professor Bradshaw?” Dean feels distinctly self-conscious.

“Who wants to know?” the man closes his notebook with a snap and stands with surprisingly fluid ease, eyes still intent on Dean as though he’s cataloguing him.

He’s wearing a faded navy-blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up, slightly crumpled shirt tails poking out at the hem, just visible.

Drawing on years of sizing people up, Dean guesses that the guy probably has no one to go home to at night. If he goes home much at all, that is; the office has a distinctly lived-in look. It’s strangely reminiscent of the makeshift home feel of the impala’s interior.

“Um – Dean. Dean Collins,” Dean answers hastily, suddenly realizing he’s spent a little too long looking. “I’m uh – a student in one of your classes,” he lies the best way he knows how: with a charming smile. “I was wondering if you’ve got a moment? I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your work.”

“Come in, please,” Professor Bradshaw sits back down behind his desk, and gestures for Dean to close the door. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks,” Dean shuts the door and awkwardly removes three hardback books and a small, slightly drooping fern from the only available seat in front of Professor Bradshaw’s desk.

“Sorry – let me –” Professor Bradshaw leans over the desk to relieve Dean of the books and the plant. Close up, Dean can see faint lines softening the corners of his vivid eyes, and when he breathes in, he catches a hint of peppermint and the musk of warm skin, strangely compelling. Their hands brush for a moment as Professor Bradshaw takes the items, and Dean flinches, jerking away and planting himself firmly on the chair.

“So – Dean, yes?” Professor Bradshaw settles back into his seat. He’s still looking intently at Dean, gaze startlingly blue.

Wordlessly, Dean nods. He doesn’t know why he can feel the heat creeping up his cheeks.

“You’re not in any of my classes, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, with a slight edge to his voice. He reaches for a half-drunk mug of tea on his desk, expression skeptical.

Dean feels his stomach drop. “Uh, yeah – I’m new, just transferred a couple weeks back,” he bluffs quickly, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He feels strangely flustered, visible.

“No, I don’t think so,” Professor Bradshaw says, flatly. “I believe I would have noticed,” he adds, wryly, with a kind of impatient warmth in his expression that makes Dean’s cheeks flare with heat all over again. Professor Bradshaw merely swallows a mouthful of tea and sets the mug back down, still looking at Dean. “So. Who are you?”

“Alright,” Dean puts his hands up in mock-surrender, smiling wide even though he feels stupidly on edge, knocked off course. “You got me. I’m – uh – a journalist. My boss has me writing a piece on local legends, and I was hoping to pick your brains. Heard you’re the expert on all that stuff around here, and thought I might be in with a better chance of talking to you as a student instead of some annoying reporter.”

“I see,” Professor Bradshaw leans back in his chair, contemplative. A shaft of sunlight filters through the bay window behind him, illuminating a hint of tawny in his dark, untidy hair. Dust motes hang everywhere like suspended snow. “Well, luckily for you, Dean, I find that my students can be just as annoying as reporters. And I still talk to them on a daily basis.”

Dean grins a little awkwardly, “Yeah?”

“Of course, I do get paid to do that,” Professor Bradshaw adds, dryly. “But perhaps I do them a disservice. Some of them are really quite inspiring.” He pauses, raising his mug to his lips. It has an owl on it, Dean notices absently. An overly fluffy one, with a slightly threatening glare. “I daresay I can spare five minutes. What is it that I can do for you, Dean?”

“Uh, so you study the supernatural, right?” Dean asks, clumsily. His hands are sweating where they’re shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “Ghosts and demons and all that shit?”

“I study the lore and mythology of supernatural beings, and why it’s important to humans to create such stories,” Professor Bradshaw clarifies, shortly.

“Right, got it,” Dean agrees, hastily. “But you’d know a bit about the Bridgewater coven?”

“I am familiar with the legends, yes,” Professor Bradshaw replies, reaching for his mug again. There’s an ink stain on the side of his index finger, smudged deep blue. Dean fleetingly wonders if it would rub off easily if he touched it, if it would leave a ghostly imprint on his own skin.

“Yeah – uh – so there’s been quite a lot of interest in the coven recently,” Dean blusters, annoyed with himself for how stupidly flustered he feels, “You know, since those bodies were found last week? At the burial site in Bridgewater Forest that’s associated with the legend? Yeah. Well, anyway, I was – hoping you might be able to tell me a little more about the legend of the coven.”

“I don’t see what the recent tragedies could possibly have to do with the legend,” Professor Bradshaw narrows his eyes skeptically.

“Right – yeah – nothing, I’m sure,” Dean lies hastily, “But the location of the crimes has definitely raised awareness about the existence of the legend, and that’s what we really want to provide for our readers.”

“Well, certainly, I can tell you the history,” Professor Bradshaw replies, briskly, “In fact, I teach an undergrad course on witchcraft in history and my lecture this Wednesday actually covers the legend of the coven. If you want a more detailed, nuanced version, you’re more than welcome to come along then – it’s at 11am in the Milton building. But I’m happy to give you the short version now, if that would be helpful?”

“Thanks – yeah, that’d be great,” Dean says, gratefully. “On a bit of a tight schedule today.”

“Well, the local legend about the Bridgewater coven has existed for almost two hundred years,” Professor Bradshaw starts, and immediately Dean can picture him talking in front of a lecture theatre full of kids. He’s a natural, something inherently captivating about the way he speaks. “In the 1800s, this village was an important site of religious pilgrimage. However, according to the legend, the village was also home to a small coven lead by a witch named Iris. Iris’s coven was said to have lived in secrecy in the forest on the outskirts of Bridgewater for years, and not to have troubled the village people. However, by 1816, the legend claims the coven had become very hostile, specifically towards the church. There were fears the coven had begun indoctrinating – or bewitching – members of the congregation.”

Professor Bradshaw pauses, swallowing another mouthful of tea. The muscles in his throat work, drawing Dean’s attention to the way his pale blue shirt isn’t buttoned up properly. He’s filled with the sudden, inexplicable urge to button it up correctly.

“More and more people started disappearing in connection with the coven,” Professor Bradshaw continues, setting his mug back down on the desk, and Dean jerks his gaze guiltily away from the line of his throat, clenching his hands into fists inside the pockets of his leather jacket. “The rapidly diminishing congregation lived in terror. The remaining members of the church all turned against each other. Then, at the height of local hysteria, Iris is said to have murdered Blanche, the minister’s daughter, in what is portrayed in the lore as some kind of statement of the coven’s power over the church.”

“Bet that didn’t go down too well,” Dean remarks, sardonically.

“Quite,” Professor Bradshaw catches Dean’s eye, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, according to the legend, the tragedy of Blanche’s death united the warring members of the congregation. They captured Iris and entombed her alive, using her own magic against her to keep her trapped. Iris’s death broke the spell on the members of the congregation who’d been indoctrinated against their will, and peace was restored to the village. The few remaining members of the original coven fled and were never seen again.”

“Wow,” Dean raises his eyebrows, “Very love-thy-neighbor.”

Professor Bradshaw snorts, “Yes. Religious leaders in the 1800s were renowned for sitting down and resolving their problems through compassionate discussion,” he remarks, dryly.

“Okay, but what about the other versions of the legend?” Dean asks, trying to remember the things Sam had told him to ask about, but drawing a total blank. His brain feels weirdly scrambled. It’s hard to remember what happened before walking into Professor Bradshaw’s office. “The other stories about the coven I’ve come across so far all seem pretty different.”

Professor Bradshaw frowns slightly. “It’s true, there are many conflicting accounts. Which is often the case with legends, being human constructions of the past,” he regards Dean slightly disapprovingly over the rim of his owl mug, a kind of skeptical stubbornness in the set of his mouth. “It’s not about knowing which ‘to believe’ – it’s about looking at why historically people have favored one version over the other and what that tells us about them.”

“Right, yeah, but aren’t legends often based on fact?” Dean pushes.

Professor Bradshaw pauses, contemplatively, “Yes. That’s certainly true in some cases.”

“Do you think it’s the case in this one?”

“Possibly,” Professor Bradshaw replies, haltingly. His expression is serious and he hesitates for a moment before elaborating; “In fact, I’m currently writing a paper about the historical figures who feature in the legend of the Bridgewater coven.”

“Yeah? Which ones?” Dean presses. He’s used to having to fake interest to get information out of people like Professor Bradshaw, but for once, he finds he’s genuinely interested. There’s something compelling about Professor Bradshaw’s evidently obsessive quest for obscure answers, something that resonates with all too much familiarity.

“Iris, predominantly,” Professor Bradshaw replies. “I’m very interested in the historical reasons women were condemned as witches. Often, it’s as simple as jilted male lovers using accusations of witchcraft as a means of revenge, or the women using herbal remedies that threatened contemporary male ideas of medicine and the body. Sometimes it’s to do with female homosexuality and society’s unacceptance of same sex relationships or women as sexual beings. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for gay men to be condemned for witchcraft either. But statistically, more homosexual women died as a result of such accusations.”

“Uh – right –” Dean swallows, looking away. His hands are sweating again, and he wipes them surreptitiously on the insides of his pockets. Clearing his throat, he changes the subject, suddenly remembering the other thing Sam had told him to ask Professor Bradshaw about, “What about the runes?”

“Ah yes, the runes on Iris’s supposed tomb,” Professor Bradshaw’s gaze is suddenly inscrutable in a way that makes Dean’s heart thud uncomfortably in his chest. It sweeps over Dean, lingering and unnervingly blue for a moment, before he continues, “Very interesting. I’ve been studying them a great deal as part of my research. The true nature of them has always remained a mystery, and any attempts to discern their meaning haven’t fitted with the legend at all. I believe they may be key to understanding the history behind the creation of the legend. But,” he smiles, wryly, “It’s not an easy task. They’re unlike any runes I’ve come across anywhere else before.”

“Can I see?” Dean asks, partly out of interest, and partly for some way of distracting himself from the way his heart is still thumping uncomfortably fast.

“You’d have to visit the forest burial site to see them in person, but I do have a couple of sketches of the lines I’m working on at the moment,” Professor Bradshaw gets to his feet and crosses to the cabinet by the window, pulling the top drawer open.

The fall chestnut trees outside smolder amber behind his silhouette, midday sunshine pale gold and still where it filters through the window. Time seems strangely irrelevant. Dean watches as Professor Bradshaw flicks through a green binder, fingers quick and dexterous, skilled and uncalloused in a way Dean’s have never had the chance to be.

Dean swallows and looks away, ignoring the thud of his heart as he stares around at the rest of the room. He clocks a bunch of compendiums of mythology on the bookcase nearest him, and two other eccentric and slightly neglected looking plants. There’s a thick plaid rug on the couch in the corner, not quite concealing a plate of half-eaten toast. On the windowsill, there’s a little tin mug with a toothbrush in it that makes Dean wonder again just how often Professor Bradshaw goes home at all. He finds himself wondering whether Professor Bradshaw has always had nothing but an empty house to return to, or whether that’s a more recent development. He’s definitely old enough to be going through a divorce. The thought sits uncomfortably in Dean’s chest for reasons he doesn’t particularly want to identify.

“Here we are.” Professor Bradshaw’s gravelly voice, suddenly much closer, makes Dean jump. He glances around to find Professor Bradshaw standing beside him, holding out a sheet of paper. The smell of warm skin and peppermint catches Dean off guard, stronger this time, and still strangely compelling.

“Uh – thanks,” Dean says awkwardly, taking the proffered page. He feels Professor Bradshaw’s fingers brush against his fleetingly, warm and ink-stained.

Dean swallows, forcing himself to focus on the page in front of him even though his cheeks are hot with something he doesn’t want to think about. The sketches are good, a few strange vaguely Norse reminiscent symbols drawn hastily with accompanying, scrawled notes in the margins. There’s something about the runes that niggles at Dean’s brain, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like something he’s known his whole life but can’t put his finger on.

“These are interesting,” Dean he frowns, tracing his finger along the two last symbols.

When he glances up, he finds Professor Bradshaw looking at him intently, blue eyes inscrutable. “Yes,” he says, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms across his chest. “Those are the ones which struck me too,” he’s speaking a little quieter, low voice distracting Dean from why the runes are so familiar. He hopes he can remember them, that Sam will be able to place what he can’t about them.

“So, uh, this tomb. The one with the runes on it – that’s definitely where that guy’s body was found last week? It wasn’t just nearby or something?” Dean forces himself to ask, ignoring the way his heart is suddenly thumping again. “And the girl found the week before – she was directly linked to the burial site too?”

Professor Bradshaw clears his throat, unfolding his arms. “I believe so, yes.”

“And that doesn’t seem – I don’t know – a little strange, to you?”

“Human beings committing violent acts against each other is generally something I find a little strange,” Professor Bradshaw replies, in clipped tones. “But beyond that – no. Now –” he breaks off, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid I have a seminar to deliver in ten minutes,” he confesses, and there’s something unfinished about the way he says it, something almost reluctant. Like he half wants to stay here talking with Dean.

“No problem,” Dean stands, and takes a last glance at the sketches before handing them back, trying to commit them to memory. “Thanks, Professor.”

Their eyes meet as Professor Bradshaw accepts the page, and the room suddenly feels very airless, a pause suspended between them. Neither of them moves away.

This close, Dean can see miniscule flecks of grey like tiny stars lost in blue of Professor Bradshaw’s eyes, the way that his full lips are slightly chapped, like maybe he worries them between his teeth when he’s thinking. They’re soft pink and warm-looking, and Dean wonders fleetingly if they taste like peppermint tea.

“It was nice meeting you, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, gently, and his eyes are so blue.

“Uh – yeah – you too. Thanks. I’d – uh – I’d better get going,” Dean stammers, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and cursing the way his cheeks are suddenly flaming with heat. His thoughts churn unsteadily; he ignores them the way he’s learnt to.

Still feeling strangely wound-up, he nods awkwardly at Professor Bradshaw and turns reluctantly towards the door.

“Wait a moment, Dean –” Professor Bradshaw’s voice halts Dean in his tracks as he reaches the door, and Dean turns expectantly, heat thumping a little painfully.

“Yeah?”

“Here – you’re welcome to borrow a couple of books on local history,” Professor Bradshaw is pulling a couple of books down from the overflowing cabinet by the window. “They should have a bit more about the legend of the coven that you might find interesting. Divergences of the legend and so forth. I’ll need them back by Thursday morning as I’m teaching a class on them in the afternoon, but you’re welcome to borrow them until then if they’d be helpful.”

“You sure?” Dean takes the proffered books awkwardly, and swallows the strange disappointment sinks in him like a stone as Professor Bradshaw steps back again. “Thanks.”

“As I said, I’m also giving a lecture on Wednesday where I’ll be examining the history behind the legend of the coven. I meant what I said - you’d be more than welcome to attend,” Professor Bradshaw says, sincerely. His eyes are intent, and there’s a hint of something almost like hopefulness hidden in the depths of his gravelly voice. Working on long ingrained instinct, Dean chooses to ignore it.

“Thanks, I’ll – I’ll see what my schedule’s like,” Dean replies, haltingly.

“Of course,” Professor Bradshaw agrees. He turns back to his desk.

“Can I ask –” Dean pauses, watching Professor Bradshaw stuff another notebook and a stack of handouts into his briefcase. “You said you’re writing a paper about the runes at the forest burial site– do you go to there much?”

Professor Bradshaw glances up, distractedly. “Yes, I spend time there every week.”

“So you haven’t noticed anything – I don’t know – anything unusual when you’ve been there recently?” Dean ventures.

“Unusual how?” Professor Bradshaw closes his briefcase with a snap and looks up at Dean properly, eyes narrowed with sudden skepticism. It’s stronger than the hints Dean has caught at other points during their conversation, sharp and blue, a world away from the observant warmth of a few moments ago.

“I dunno – odd noises, sudden drops in temperature, shadows –”

“Just what are you asking me?” Professor Bradshaw demands, voice clipped and defensive.

“Have you seen anything like that?” Dean presses, stubbornly. Irritation prickles his skin.

“No, I haven’t,” Professor Bradshaw says, bluntly. “And you know why? Because yes, I study the supernatural – but it’s not real, Dean. I don’t know what kind of sensational article you’re writing about local lore, but I can assure you, lore is all it is.” He winds a striped scarf haphazardly around his neck, and grabs his briefcase off the desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”

-

Sam is eating some gross looking granola yoghurt pot with a plastic spoon when Dean eventually clambers back into the car, feeling distinctly frustrated.

“You took your time,” he remarks idly, raising an eyebrow as Dean adjusts the mirror with an unnecessary amount of force and turns on the ignition.

“Goddamn waste of time was what it was,” Dean mutters mutinously, pulling out of the space and then immediately being forced to hit the brakes when a cluster of students cross the parking lot in front of him. He grinds his teeth and resists the urge to honk the horn. “Thought I was getting somewhere but he completely shut down the minute I asked him if he’d noticed anything weird at the burial site.”

“Suspicious?” Sam frowns, through a mouthful of granola.

“No, don’t think so. Just really damn touchy,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as he waits for the students to move, “And a bit of an asshole. I dunno, suppose working in his field he’s probably used to people thinking he’s just some lunatic who believes in the supernatural.”

“And does he?”

Dean snorts. “No way. He’s got a real bee in his bonnet about it. You’d think someone who’s spent the last twenty years with their head buried in books about ghosts and covens and demonic possession might be a little more open to the idea,” he shrugs, and gives in to the temptation to lean on the horn, reveling in the brief satisfaction of making the students jump and scurry out of the way, “But no. The guy’s absolutely blind to it all, and could rival you on stubbornness.”

Sam purses his mouth in annoyance, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Get anything useful at all?”

“He did lend me a couple books,” Dean admits, nodding in the direction of the backseat. “Have to take them back on Thursday morning, though. He needs them for some class.”

“He leant you his books?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, skin prickling in annoyance, “What of it?”

“Dunno, that’s just,” Sam swallows a mouthful of yoghurt, “Pretty trusting. Academics usually treat their books as if they’re their first borns.”

“Don’t mess them up when you read them, then,” Dean says, dismissively, as they pull out onto the main street. “You find out anything useful about the victims?”

“Not really,” Sam leans back in his seat with a sigh, “Both from middle class, religious families. Seem to have been pretty well liked by people. Hard to establish any link more than that. The wife of the guy that was killed last week seemed a bit cagey, though,” he shrugs, “Might be worth a second visit to see if she’s holding out on us about something.”

“Right,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as they wait for a light to change. It’s starting to drizzle, tiny flecks of grey hitting the windshield. “Are we still definitely thinking ghost?”

“Seems like it,” Sam affirms, “The way the victims died definitely points to a vengeful spirit. But the place they were killed – connected to the burial site associated with the coven? I don’t know, I was thinking maybe it’s no ordinary ghost. Maybe it’s the vengeful spirit of a witch, and that’s why it’s so powerful?”

“Hm,” Dean mulls it over, flicking the windscreen wipers on as they continue to wait. They squeak slightly, repetitive and familiar. “You could be onto something there.”

“Yeah?”

“Professor Bradshaw was telling me about the local legend of the coven. Apparently, its leader was entombed alive by a bunch of angry churchgoers,” Dean steps on the accelerator as the light finally changes, and the rain-slicked village slides past in a blur. “That’s got to be some pretty good vengeful spirit material right there. And you said the victims were both religious, right? Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Why now, though?” Sam frowns. “It’s been what – two hundred years? There must have been plenty of churchgoers who walked by the burial site before now.”

“Dunno,” Dean shrugs, staring out at the rainy smudge of fall colors. The chestnuts trees lining the street are the same smoldering hue of amber as the one outside Professor Bradshaw’s window.

They drive in silence for a few moments, wipers squeaking.

“Okay,” Sam says, at length, “So I’m thinking – we go check into a motel, get through as much of these books from your professor as we can while we wait for the rain to stop, and then check out the burial site later this afternoon before it gets dark?” Sam asks, chucking his plastic spoon in the empty yoghurt container.

“He’s not ‘my professor’,” Dean says defensively, and suddenly has to step a little too hard on the breaks to avoid running a red light.

“Alright,” Sam says, slowly. “Okay.”

“Anyway, yeah,” Dean blusters, hastily, ignoring the weight of Sam’s gaze on the side of his face, “Works for me. But first,” he flicks on the indicator and pulls into a space near a little line of local shops. “Food. Not that yoghurty shit you’ve been eating. Real food.”

-

The forest is steeped in quiet in the way all ancient places are, fall singing the leaves on the gnarled branches that claw their way towards the fading gold of the late afternoon sun. Dean breathes in the wet, cloying smell of moss and follows Sam’s careful path through the trees. There’s a chill in the air, but the handle of Dean’s blade is hot in the palm of his hand.

“How much further to this place?” he hisses at Sam’s back, swatting a frond of bracken out of his face and casting his gaze edgily through the twisting branches and burnt amber.

“Nearly there, according to –” Sam stops so abruptly that Dean nearly collides with him, throwing out a cautionary arm.

“What?” Dean whispers urgently, instantly drawing his blade. His heart is racing now, whole body tense, coiled, ready to attack. His gaze flickers rapidly through the mess of branches and he stands on his tiptoes, trying to see past Sam’s stupidly large frame. “Sammy,” he hisses, impatiently, when Sam doesn’t immediately answer, “What is it?”

“There’s something there,” Sam breathes, almost inaudible. His posture is still, alert. Dean can see Sam’s hold on the gun in his back pocket tighten.

“What kind of something?” Dean whispers, craning his neck to try and see. The light seems somehow dimmer already, the fading sun sliding further towards the ground. When he breathes in, the smell of wet leaves is stronger, now that they’re in the heart of the forest. His heart is thrumming so fast but everything else feels suspended in time, unnaturally still.

“I think it’s a person,” Sam murmurs, and somewhere close, Dean hears the brittle rustle of dead leaves, loud and unnerving in the wooded quiet. He watches the quickened rise and fall of Sam’s shoulders as his breathing suddenly sharpens. “They’re holding something. They – shit, Dean, they’re coming this way.”

Dean reacts immediately and on nearly twenty years of protective instinct; he shoves Sam out of the way and stumbles out into the clearing, blade brandished in front of him.

---

[tarysande]

S6 Thoughts: A Tale of Two Brothers

But wait! There’s more. Thoughts on the overall arc of the series, Heaven and Hell edition:

In S1, Lucifer is “vacationing” on Earth but doesn’t plan to return to Hell. Amenadiel spends that season trying so hard to force Lucifer back to Hell, where he “belongs,” that he himself Falls. We’ve got this role reversal of an angel doing evil things to return the devil (doing ... good things, like solving crimes) to Hell. It’s all very “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” 

In S2, Lucifer still has no plans to return permanently to Hell, but he’s willing to face it to save Chloe. Of course, this then leads to him experiencing his own forced hell-loop. Amenadiel is also conflicted. Though he’s changed enough that he no longer wants to force Lucifer back to Hell, he’s still uncertain where that leaves either of them. In fact, even when Lucifer pleads with Amenadiel to return him to Hell, Amenadiel refuses. However, when Mum plants the idea of returning to Heaven as a family, Amenadiel clings to that. He’s looking for a purpose. Lucifer, on the other hand, is still very much aboard the Heaven nope train. Here, we also get the foreshadowing of celestial war, and Lucifer’s rejection of Mum’s plan because “In war, there are always casualties.” He would rather sacrifice one--Mum, Uriel--for the many. But it hurts him. If he belongs anywhere, he thinks, it’s Earth ... but, ultimately, that’s shortsighted because we know he doesn’t actually want to be on an Earth that doesn’t have the people he’s coming to care about on it.

S3 is, as we all know, a bit of a mess. But, hey, it’s actually thematically appropriate! Lucifer’s having an identity crisis (wings) that just keeps giving (or taking), and even though subconsciously (we later realize) he gave himself the wings because he was, in fact, making progress reconciling his past and present, his conscious is backsliding like (pun not intended) hell. Much as he wants Earth to be home, he’s got these non-stop reminders of both Heaven and Hell. It makes complete narrative sense that this season reaches the point where he can no longer hide from himself--or from Chloe. 

In this season, we also see Amenadiel really start to settle into the idea of staying on Earth, of embracing humanity. He’s shedding the aloofness he once had. He’s learning (we later realize) how to be the kind of God who sheds mysterious ways in favor of boots on the ground. I mean, he doesn’t realize this. But Dad ... well, he has a Plan. Lucifer begins the season with sudden wings. Amenadiel ends it with his wings’ very deliberate return. 

In many ways, this season is about Hell on Earth and torture at the hands of an entity far more intentionally and deliberately evil than the actual devil. This is why the catalyst of Cain is so important. He is all the things Lucifer has been accused of being, only he embraces it in ways we’ve seen Lucifer reject and recoil from again and again. This season is torture (lol). It’s Hell. It’s every ugly thing lies beget. And much as we love Lucifer, we’re given an extreme close-up of how his omission of truth is very nearly as devastating as Cain’s outright lies. Of course, this nearly results in Chloe’s death (in more ways than one; you can’t tell me that godforsaken marriage wouldn’t have been like dying), and the devil’s vengeance results in the removal of Lucifer’s choice about the where and when to reveal his true nature to Chloe. 

Which brings us to S4, aka The Season of Angst. For Lucifer (and Chloe), anyway. Not so much for Amenadiel, who is set on the path of fatherhood, of responsibility, of partnership and not just commands he expects to be followed. In case we’ve forgotten how much Amenadiel has changed, Remiel “mini-Amen” shows up to remind us. In Linda’s “When angels fall, they also rise” of it, Amenadiel is rising again. He’s not the same as he was, no, but ... we didn’t like old Amenadiel very much, did we? Like Lucifer, Amenadiel is on a journey of learning who he is, the good and the ugly, so he can choose the parts he wants to keep with both eyes open. 

Of course, while Amenadiel is rising, Lucifer is falling. In having to deal with Chloe’s reaction to his devil face, Lucifer is put in the uncomfortable position of either growing enough to face his own darkness and self-loathing or retreating, very literally, into who he used to be because it’s comfortable and less frightening than the prospect of change and the unknown. Until it isn’t, right? The more he becomes the devil Eve remembers, the more uncomfortable he becomes. And the more frightening he becomes. Not to Chloe, as he fears, but to himself--though it takes a while to recognize it. If nothing else, we have to hand this to Lucifer’s subconscious: when it wants him to PAY ATTENTION DUMMY, it’s pretty good at getting its point across. If S3 was Hell on Earth starring Cain as the devil, S4 is Hell on Earth starring, well, the devil as the devil with bonus demons. It’s Lucifer’s earthbound iteration of a guilt-induced hell-loop. And at the tragic end, he chooses to return to the place he swore he’d never return, losing everything good in the process, but doing it for selfless reasons. So, that’s new. And it’s why there was still a sliver of hope even when things looked impossibly dark.

S5 begins with Lucifer in Hell--farther from the things he cares about than he has ever been, but also closer to his true calling. Not that he realizes it; this is Lucifer we’re talking about. So, of course it makes sense that as the season goes on, he’ll end up confused by suddenly having everything he always thought he wanted within his grasp. The Lucifer who led a rebellion against his father because he thought he could do better than God? Of course that part of him wants to be handed the job now. No--he wants to earn it. And while some of his reasons are not great, others are. His heartbreak about the injustice and unfairness of life, well ... who hasn’t felt that way? Who hasn’t wanted the power to unilaterally make things better? But that’s not how free will works. That’s not how choice works. While Lucifer wrestles with the necessity of becoming God, Amenadiel recoils from what his S1 self would have seen as his right and his calling. S1 Amenadiel would have made a terrifying and inflexible and absolute and judgmental God. Perhaps even a God closer to our imaginings of Evil than Good.

S6 is about how sometimes personal growth means we grow out of old dreams and acquire new ones. Sometimes, it’s about reimagining those old dreams, rebuilding them with new information. For Amenadiel, that means recognizing that the person he is now is the best man for the Big Job. It means recognizing that Heaven can be (a place) on Earth if he wants it to be. It means he sets aside the pride of “If God wants something done, he sends ME” in favor of delegation and accepting help--and in doing so, helping others (his siblings) discover their callings too. He learns to lead by example, tempered with love and humility.

In Paradise Lost, Milton’s Lucifer famously declares that it is better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven. But our Lucifer ... his calling isn’t ruling in Heaven. That’s the old dream of a person who no longer exists. Ironically, Lucifer’s calling is to serve in Hell. Not to serve a distant, ineffable, unfathomable being’s mysterious ways, mind you, but to tangibly serve the humans he has come to love, and who have taught him so much about himself. Who have taught him about love and sacrifice and light and darkness and second chances and hope and faith. When Lucifer chooses to return to Hell, he does so with his eyes open, just as Chloe returns to the LAPD with her eyes open. It’s a lesson that revisits the first episode of the season: Truth and wonder don’t have to be at odds. They can go hand in hand. The mysteries at the heart of pain and suffering and trauma--those are the ones Lucifer wants to solve. Because solving them isn’t about trusting to a higher power (aka the justice system, which is flawed) or designing the perfect torture. It’s about quite literally helping others set themselves free. Finding release. It’s about being a guide, not a judge. And it’s about fulfilling not the temporary desire that merely scratches the itch, but offering the tools necessary to help others determine--choose--their path to the desire they may not even realize is buried beneath the layers of scar tissue within them. And what could be more wonderous than that? Especially when you have a partner who makes you better at your calling, even as you make them better at theirs.

In the end, Heaven and Hell are what we make of them. One person’s Heaven is another person’s Hell. Love is what matters. In all its many, many forms.

[shimmershae]

My thoughts on Episode 5--Out of the Ashes.

Okay, though.  I’m already excited about this one because Carol and Lydia are on the little guide picture thingy, lol.  My girls.  

As usual, I’m going to put the rest underneath a cut to save you lovelies potentially being spoiled should you not want to be.  

Wow.  Look at that full moon.  And the colors in the woods.  

I’m telling you.  These cold opening scenes have been generally pretty awesome this season.  

Aaron with Gracie always gives us such sweetness but this time maybe not.  

Omigosh.  Now *that* is a nightmare--the Walkers, the Wolves, the Saviors, the Whisperers, Mays.  Did I miss anybody?  And then Gracie gone just like that?  Poor Aaron.  All he wants is to keep his little girl safe and happy.  

So.  Is Gracie sleeping right next to her daddy because she had a nightmare or because her daddy’s been having them?  Because either way, oh my freaking heart.  Especially at her still sleeping with her stuffed bunny.  I’m really, really hoping that bunny isn’t a bad omen of sorts for our Gracie, because little girls with bunnies haven’t fared all that well--going all the way back to the first episode and as recently as the subway episode where Daryl found that picture of the two siblings after they’d already found the bunny from the picture amongst the bodies.  Please not Gracie.  Aaron has already been through so much.  

Are they all just communing together now?  Because I can see how that would harken back to Season 4.  

Jerry!  Not even 3 minutes in and already two of my faves are present.  I can tell this is going to be a good episode.  

That really sucks.  Not even being able to take a peaceful piss because you can see Walkers shambling past your window, lol.  

There goes my queen running straight at danger as real queens are apt to do.  ;)  

Were there always lights coming on in the windmill during the opening credits or is that a new thing for this episode?  

That orientation video was so surreal.  Had to laugh at the political touch of having “this message is approved by Pamela Milton” at the end.  

Okay.  So they’re getting their work assignments, huh?  Orientations are the worst, lol.  All that damn paperwork.  

Retail clerk--Princess being excited at the prospect of working in a mall, even having a mall again, has me LMAO even as I’m like girl.  No.  You’ll love it ‘til you hate it.  

I didn’t catch Eugene’s job.  But Ezekiel doing animal control kind of cracks me up.  For reasons.  

So.  Essentially Eugene and Princess and Ezekiel got blue collar jobs while Yumiko’s got an invitation to join the upper crust.  

I love Lydia being accepted as part of the community.  About damn time.  

For a second I thought Rosita said what’s left of the horses plural and I was fixin’ to go OH NO.  

This is where I’m at on the Maggie/Negan issue, for better or worse:  Maggie absolutely, IMHO, has earned the right to stay mad at Negan for the rest of her days.  Because Glenn.  Because her little boy was robbed of his daddy.  That said?  I don’t think I have it in me to watch 5 more episodes of this beaten horse antagonistic conversation much less a whole season.  It would be one thing if it hadn’t already stolen valuable and earned screen time from other characters that seem to have been pushed to the periphery to spotlight it like it was the marquee event or something.  I don’t want want 2/3′s of the final season so heavily focused on the conflict between these two when there are so many characters that are already woefully underutilized.  It’s only compelling if it doesn’t become commonplace.  

It’s a sad business having to put down people you know, I’d expect.  Funny, though.  We never knew them so the impact is kind of artificial.  I appreciate the intent of the scene, though.  

Where the hell are all the Walkers coming from?  Like, I thought most of them went skydiving off that cliff without parachutes.  

Judith training the other babies.  If only her parents--every damn one of them--could see her now.  

Gus!  How cool and awesome for him!

ASZ is just full of asshole teens isn’t it?  How dare that little dipshit push our Asskicker down like that and say such hateful things?  To be fair, though, the kid is probably just repeating what he’s heard from others and I’m glad they’re being realistic here even if I don’t like seeing Judith cry.  

Cailey Fleming’s expressive face and eyes!  This kid has my heart, ya’ll.  

That perfectly pretty cake wasted!  LMAO.  Seriously though.  How does a cardiothoracic surgeon end up assigned to work in the bakery?  Yumiko’s reunion with her brother Tomi honestly was on par with what I’d expect from someone seeing the sister they’d long given up as dead.  

Freaky still how the Whisperers choose to herd the dead even without Beta and Alpha.  

Was that the real Stephanie in the scene with the ice cream?  Right under Eugene’s nose while he’s with Fake Stephanie?  They have a connection, ya’ll.  Eugene felt it.  

Okay, though.  I wanted the kids having their first ice cream cones.  If I were Eugene, though, I probably would have inhaled that thing after being deprived for so long.  

The Milton Hotel?  Alrighty then.  Somebody feels self-important.  

Aww.  Eugene’s thinking of Rosita and Coco.  They really have evolved into such a sweet, good friendship and I miss them together.  

Literally, I love Princess more each time I see her and hear her open her hilarious mouth.  LOL at her with the ice cream cone.  

Is everybody in ASZ staying in the same damn house?  Whoever broke the board with Carl’s and Judith’s handprints on it needs an ass kicking.  

“Me, too.”  Welp.  Guess RJ’s already met his line quota per appearance 24 minutes in, LOL.  

Aww.  My heart.  A Rosita/Judith scene.  I’m already loving it but not gonna lie.  Who do we have topay to get a Carol/Judith scene because she’s been there since Judith was an embryo?  

“Now it’s broken.  He’s gone.  Everybody is.”  The way this scene is unexpectedly gutting me right now.  Because Rosita’s right.  It never really gets easier.  It’s just something you figure out how to carry.  How many people devastated by Covid or other illness or tragedy are carrying these same feelings of loss and hurt everyday?  

Give us more of those heartfelt moments, dammit.  This girl at least craves them.  Not the endless Maggie/Negan conflict.  

Ouch.  “I think I haven’t met a Whisperer who wasn’t a liar.”  Damn Aaron.  Lydia’s right there beside you. 

Angry Jerry hurts my heart in ways I cannot explain.  

On a completely shallow note, Miko’s brother is attractive too.  I quite like his accent, lol.  I wonder why he’s so hesitant to put his skills as a surgeon to use.  

“Want some cake?”/”Hell, yes.”  Yumiko=me 99% of the time.  LOL.  Just kidding.  In reality, I have to say no.  

“They clearly got a gym in this joint.  Your chiseling is perfecto.”  LMAO.  I’m all for Princess/Mercer.  She flusters him a little and I’m loving it.  When she told him he had beautiful eyelashes, I howled.  

Oh my sweet Aaron.  I’m in the same kind of pain and disbelief as Lydia watching you interrogate that Whisperer.  

Thank you, Carol.  Melissa McBride?  I effing LOVE you.  My heart hurts.  

I’m sure she’s gonna get hate from the usual crowd while they cheer Aaron further along his dark and desperate path.  Yes.  Ya’ll are *that* predictable.  

But Maggie, though?  How long you gonna wait?  Because you gonna be waiting on Daryl’s ass a long time.  

“Cheesy video guy.” LOL.  Leave it to Princess.  Somehow that Lance dude looks even cheesier in RL.  

By the screaming cave?  What the hell is the screaming cave?  

Ohh.  Next episode actually looks interesting.  Thank goodness it’s not a bottle episode strictly focusing on Virgil/Connie though because no matter how much I like Connie/Lauren?  I don’t think whatever story she’s stuck in with Virgil is enough to keep me riveted to the tv.  

Overall impression of this episode--again, I enjoyed it.  Aaron’s dream was dark AF.  Hell.  Aaron was dark AF in this episode.  Ross Marquand did some really strong work and I’m glad he finally got a moment to shine even though I hate seeing him leaning into the darkness instead of his inherent goodness.  Judith and Rosita’s scenes were touching.  Carol/Melissa made me bawl in the span of two minutes.  That’s why she’s the MVP of this show, lovelies.  She does so very much with so little.  I’m just glad we didn’t have to see Leah and her band of bitchass brothers this episode.  

I’m going to miss this show when it’s gone.  At least I’ll have the Carol and Daryl spinoff off to ease my heartache.  

[jade4813]

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 12

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

John Thornton was not a man prone to vacillation or prevarication, once he had reached a decision. Indeed, his experience indicated that no unpalatable task had ever become more agreeable through the passage of time and procrastination, and so he tended to tackle the most unpleasant of assignments all the quicker, to have them over and done with once and for all. To go back upon a decision, made only upon due contemplation and deliberation, after all the facts were obtained and considered with the gravity each deserved, would be an indignity, an act of dishonor. And for John, the binds of honor, the demands of duty and responsibility, were not theoretical concepts but concrete mandates, which had formed and shamed him into the man he was today. Personal preference and selfish desire didn’t merely take a distant second to the demands of his duty to ensure the happiness and well-being of those around him; they had no bearing upon the matter at all.

And yet, over a month passed, and he could not bring himself to compose the letter that would break his heart, which would separate him from his wife, possibly forever. His attempts to console himself for his action only brought him further frustration, darkening his mood and instilling in him an irascible temperament, prone to snapping at any who drew near. Even his mother, who normally could be assured of safe harbor from even his darkest of moods, had nearly been the recipient of a sharp word or two, had he not bitten them back in the nick of time. Only Margaret was certain to avoid his irritability, as his ill temper did not overcome his concern for her in her grief, or his desire to buffer her from greater unhappiness. With her, he remained gentle, seeking refuge in work when finding himself with uncertain temperament, rather than risk imposing upon her with his foul mood.

He was standing above the mill floor, overseeing the work in progress, when his mother entered the workroom. To his surprise, she didn’t begin her inspection of workers and machines, as was her usual custom. Instead, she tilted her head back to gaze upon him, her jaw set in a stubborn line. She stood still, waiting for him, and he masked his grimace as he headed to the stairs to join her. As was too often the case as of late, he had been disagreeable at breakfast, glowering at his plate and speaking little, and he was certain that her patience was at an end.

He moved to her side, and the two walked in silence to office, so as not to be overheard by the workers. As the door closed behind them, he expected her to take him to task for his behavior, but she remained silent, her gaze expectant. Moving behind his desk, he wasted no time on pleasantries. “I’m sorry, Mother. I know I’ve had a foul temper lately. I’ve no right to take it out on others.”

“Is it the bank loan?” she asked, sounding concerned, rather than accusatory.

He shook his head. Looking away, he explained, “Before he left, Bell suggested he take Margaret to London, to take her mind off her grief. I’ve decided to accept his offer.” He didn’t mention that this determination had been undermined by his inability to put such acceptance into words. Instead, he waited for his mother’s response, certain that she would express unequivocal agreement with this course of action.

To his astonishment, however, his mother said nothing, prompting him to look at her once more. In a quiet voice, she asked, “How long do you intend for her to be away?”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Indefinitely.” Only the slightest quirk of her eyebrows betrayed her reaction to this revelation. “I thought you would be overjoyed at this news. I know you disapprove of her.” She glanced away with a scowl, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve disappointed you,” he remarked in mild surprise, having never drawn his mother’s disfavor before.

Her eyes darted back to his, and she stepped around the desk, reaching for him. As he sank into his chair, she cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Never,” she swore fiercely. “No mother has more cause for pride than I. But all your life, you have looked after others. The workers. Fanny. And don’t think I don’t see all that you’ve done for me. Your bride is the first thing you’ve ever truly wanted for yourself alone, and now you intend to send her away?”

“She doesn’t love me!” he protested miserably. “How can I demand she remain, when I know it will only bring her misery?”

“How is she to realize her love for you from London?” she argued, holding him in place when he would have drawn away. As though the words were torn from her chest, relinquished only with reluctance, she continued, “Margaret is proud. And vain. And I cannot pretend to love her for it.” There was the slightest moment of hesitation before she acknowledged in a dry tone, “But she is not alone in either, and she has as much right to both as any Thornton, I suppose. Sometimes pride makes it hard to recognize love, even when it’s truly felt.”

At this, he did pull away, yanking out of her grasp as he stood and stepped past her, not wanting to hear her words when he could not believe in them. She, however, refused to relinquish the point. “She cares for you, John. Whether or not either of you see it.”

He stormed to the other side of the room, keeping his back to his mother so she wouldn’t see the pain on his face. “Believe me when I say that isn’t true,” he snapped. “And I won’t keep her here against her will, when her heart would wish her elsewhere!”

“She agreed to marry you, to build a life here in Milton, and she’s never been one to do anything she didn’t wish to do. Do you trust her judgment so little, to think she’d be happier to be sent away?” He froze, the words tearing at him. He hadn’t asked her, having overheard enough to know of her regret. Was his mother right? Was there a chance Margaret would prefer to remain in Milton, for all the pain that it had brought her? As though recognizing his indecision, his mother urged him, “You mustn’t send her away. It won’t make either of you happy.”

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice when she slipped out of his office to return to her duties on the mill floor. Instead, he remained where he was, cast into self-doubt by his mother’s words, uncertain that his present course of action was the right one.

He was still in his office a short time later, when there was a light knock on the door. He lifted his head from his musings just as it swung open and rose to his feet when Margaret stepped inside, a mug in her hand. “I don’t mean to intrude,” she told him in greeting, with a soft, uncertain smile. “I was down to see Mary in the kitchens and thought you might be thirsty.” He made no move to reach for the mug, and so she admitted, “That was my excuse, at any rate. If you want to know the truth, I just wanted to see you.”

As he often did in her presence, he felt himself slip into a more agreeable frame of mind. Tilting his head to the side, he chided her gently, “You need no excuse to come see me, Margaret.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed with a relieved smile, stepping toward him. “But you’ve been working so hard, I didn’t want to intrude.”

“I haven’t meant to neglect you,” he offered in apology, longing to draw her into his arms but not allowing himself the pleasure. He was still painfully conscious of her grief and his intentions, which left him uncertain of his reception. His mother’s words haunted him, daring him to broach the subject of Margaret’s departure. Knowing it likely that she would be excited at the prospect of leaving Milton. And him.

She shook her head, her eyes contemplative as he stepped around his desk to relieve her of the mug she carried. “You’ve been preoccupied, worried about more than the state of the mill.” When he looked at her in surprise, she explained, “You’re my husband now. I think I’m coming to understand you a little, at least.” She paused and then added, “I was hoping you would talk to me.”

He nodded slowly, recognizing the fruitlessness of evasion, even if it wasn’t against his nature to make the attempt. Unable to look at her as he continued, he busied himself by moving some papers aside on his desk to make room for the mug she had brought him. “It’s true, I’ve had a great deal on my mind,” he began. “This business at the mill is taking up much of my time. I’ve been wondering if you might not prefer to be in London.”

“Oh!” Her soft cry of surprise and consternation compelled his attention once more, though she looked away from him under the weight of his regard. Choosing her words with great deliberation, she replied, “I suppose…if you think it best…I would like to see my cousin again. I could write to her today. How long of a visit should I suggest?”

When he didn’t reply immediately, she returned her gaze to his. “Oh,” she breathed again, as a dawning comprehension overtook her features. “I didn’t – you weren’t suggesting a visit. You intend to send me away.” He winced as the words hit her mark, unable to argue against the truth of them, even though the starkness of her statement was more terrible than the idea had sounded in his mind.

Afraid she might misunderstand, he tried to explain, “Milton has brought you little joy. I thought you might be happier in London than you’ve been here.”

Her temper rising, she crossed her arms across her chest, her face flushed with emotion. “Is your suggestion meant to ensure my happiness or your own?” Before he could reply, she continued, “I knew my mind when I took you for a husband. I thought we understood each other! I didn’t realize that you thought you were buying a bride you could send away the moment she became inconvenient for you!”

It was not the first time she had accused him of mercenary intent, and he felt his hands shake as he stalked toward her. “You say you thought we understood each other, but you still think so little of me, that I can only think of buying and selling because I’m in trade!” he spat.

Unlike so many others, his Margaret did not recoil from his fit of temper. Then again, she never had, neither flinching nor backing away as she demanded, “What else am I to think, when you’re so willing to send me away like some – some bale of cotton that has displeased you?” She pressed forward, offering him no mercy. “I wondered if honor might not be a sufficient comfort, and you might not come to regret your proposal one day. I didn’t realize it would happen so soon!”

Her words tore through him, flaming his anger with the injustice in her accusation. Straightening, he looked down his nose at her as he growled, “You’re mistaken. I’m not the one who regrets our marriage, Margaret. It isn’t my desire I seek to satisfy in sending you to London but your own.”

Her countenance, once flushed with her ire, rearranged into an expression of irritable confusion. “I don’t know what you mean. I have no—”

He was ready to explain about the conversation he had overheard, until a knock at the door interrupted them. Clutching his hands into fists at his side, he spun to face the offending intruder, barking a loud, “Enter!”

The door opened to reveal Nicholas Higgins on the other side, his expression calm and placid, although he must have heard the raised voices from his position in the hall. “Beggin’ your pardon, but there’s a problem with one of the machines.”

“I’ll be there shortly—” John began, but Margaret, her color still high with the force of her emotion, spoke over him.

“No, it’s all right. I’ll go. You have work, and I’d hate to inconvenience the Master of Marlborough Mills.”

Nicholas quirked an eyebrow slightly at this parting shot, but his face betrayed no other thoughts as she stormed past him, striding quickly into the hall. As her skirt disappeared around the corner and the rapid sound of her footfalls faded, John picked up the mug she’d brought him and hurled it against the wall, feeling no satisfaction when it landed with a loud crack and tumbled to the ground, spilling its contents upon the floor. It was perhaps possible that he could have handled that entire situation worse than he had, but he couldn’t at present imagine how.

Several hours later, he returned to the house, physically exhausted from his strenuous day, and emotionally spent from his earlier argument with his wife. With an early appointment looming in the morning, he knew he should hurry to bed, to catch what sleep he may. However, he found himself lingering downstairs, seeking consolation in the bottom of a glass of stronger spirits than he usually indulged. He barely tasted the first glass of the amber liquid as he tossed it back in a single swallow before pouring himself another, this time intending to savor the fiery liquid.

With a fierce yank, he untied his cravat, leaving the rumpled fabric looped around his neck as he shrugged out of his coat, tossing it aside. Then, rolling up his sleeves, he paced before the fire, his thoughts giving him no peace. Bracing one hand upon the mantle, he bowed his head, taking another sip of his drink as he stared at the dying embers with sightless eyes.

He remained that way for he knew not how long, until sound behind him that drew his attention. He knew what he would find before he even turned, finding to find Margaret in the doorway. Her feet were bare, toes curling into the carpet, her night-rail providing scant protection from the cool night air. Seeing her shiver, he reached for the coat he’d discarded on the back of a chair and stepped forward to wrap it around her shoulders before stepping back to give her space. “I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said, the words sounding inane, even to his own ears.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied in a soft voice. “I was waiting for you.”

“Forgive me. I meant to return sooner.” He didn’t know how to reach her, how to breach this great divide that had grown between them. A divide of his own making, he feared.

She rocked back and forth on her heels, but she didn’t approach, pulling the folds of his coat tightly around her body. “Do you truly wish to send me away, John?” Unable to answer, he turned away. “Will we never come to understand each other?”

They never would, until they could find the strength and courage that honesty required. There were so many things left unsaid between them. Perhaps it was time for him to set aside his pride and bring those secrets into the light. What had he to lose? He could not fear her hatred, when he had never had her love. “No. I don’t wish you to leave,” he admitted. “I could never truly wish for that.”

He heard her move closer, felt the gentle pressure of her hand upon his arm, but he did not turn. He didn’t want her to see his shame. “Then why are you sending me away?”

“The mill will likely close soon. We’ll lose this house. I made you a promise, when you agreed to be my wife, and I didn’t want you to see how I’ve failed you.”

She let out a sharp cry, increasing the pressure of her hand until he turned toward her, although his face remained averted. She reached to touch him, moving closer when he flinched away. “You haven’t failed me. Do you think I haven’t seen how you’ve tried to care for your workers? How hard you’ve tried? Whatever happens with the mill, you’re a good man, John Thornton. I didn’t see that when I first came to this place, but I do now. I’m proud to have you as my husband. Don’t you see that?”

He didn’t see, but he wanted to believe it. She was kind, as she had been so often to those around her, and he wanted to throw himself upon her mercy, to beg her to pretend to feel what she had once sworn she could not. To offer him the kindness of a lie, and let him believe that he might one day win her heart.

He wanted to tell her that he knew he had been a fool, pushing her away time after time, even as he wished for nothing more than to hold her close. No one had it in their power to hurt him as she did. For her good opinion, he would face rioters, intent upon his destruction. He loved her as he had never loved another, and yet he created distance between them, in a vain attempt to protect a heart that was no longer his alone.

He should reassure her of his faith in her, which he had once sworn had been lost. There was nothing for which he could deride her – save, perhaps, for choosing him when she deserved so much better than the life he could offer her. She deserved to be cossetted and protected, to live a life of comfort and joy, unmarred by deprivation and want. For her skin to be caressed by hands that had never seen a day’s work, their touch soft and gentle.

John’s hands were rough. He was hard, coarse. He had struggled as a child and would struggle again, once the mill had closed and his family was left in dire straits as they had been so many years before. He couldn’t indulge Margaret as she deserved; he couldn’t promise her a future without care. It wouldn’t be long before the bank loan came due and he lost the comfortable home he had spent a lifetime building for his family. He would find himself cast down from his position of Master of the Mills to the bottom, to claw and scrape and grab for the lowest rung of the ladder, intending to scale it rung by rung in the hopes he might one day find himself at the top once more. Meanwhile, Margaret would be left with nothing but calloused hands from hard work that her gentle upbringing had never prepared her to undertake, and with the necessity to scrimp and fret from one meal to the next.

He should tell her that he believed in her – in her kindness and her compassion. In her integrity and faithfulness. She had never taken a lover before him, but he hoped that she had once loved another, though the idea pained him – to know, even for a short while, what it felt like to bask in the adoration of one more deserving of her than he. Although John would swear that nobody in the world could love her as he loved her; nobody else could cherish either her heart or her spirit as he did.

There were many things that he should say, now that he had sworn to lay himself bare before her, but the words swelled in his chest, jumbling together on his tongue until they tangled and knotted, and he didn’t know which thread to pull at to set them free. There was only her name, a benediction upon his lips. “Margaret.” He grabbed her hand, drawing her near, missing the warmth and the feel of her, his mouth hot against hers as he wrapped her in his arms.

As it often tended to do, he was surprised by her passion, by the readiness with which she reached for him. His coat fell to the floor, forgotten, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body flush against this own. She whispered his name as he lifted her, her night-rail falling open, her shift hitching around her waist as she wrapped her legs around his hips.

He should carry her upstairs, to the privacy of their bedchamber. They could be interrupted at any time, caught by a servant in search of something to eat in the middle of the night, or finishing up on a task left undone. But he had not held his wife like this for far too long, and the taste of her lips and scent of her skin was intoxicating, filling his senses and driving away all reason. Reaching out one hand, he stumbled forward until his palm struck the wall, her body making a loud thud that shook the painting on the wall as it followed.

He began to apologize, but she laughed, finding delight in their passion, her hands grabbing at his shirt, his shoulders, his hair. Her lips chasing after his kiss as she tossed his discarded cravat aside. “We should stop,” he breathed, even as he pressed his lips against the curve of her neck. “The servants—”

But Margaret wasn’t in the mood to be agreeable, and she taunted him with a roll of her hips, rather than acquiesce to his suggestion. He groaned when he felt her against him, even through the fabric of his trousers, and she threw her head back, exposing soft, smooth skin to the dim light cast by the dying embers in the fireplace and the moonlight spilling through the windows. Bowing his head, he caressed her breast his mouth, wetting the fabric with his tongue as he drew the nipple between his teeth.

“The servants—” he tried once more, his voice muffled by fabric and skin, but she slipped her hand beneath his shirt, caressing the muscles of his chest, and shook her head at his protest.

“Everyone’s asleep,” she reassured him. “Don’t stop. I need you. I-I’ve missed you.”

In the darkness and with their haste, their movements were clumsy and awkward as he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, pulling himself free. Sliding one hand between her thighs, he could feel that she was wet and ready for him, her breath coming in tight gasps as he slid two fingers inside of her, teasing her sensitive nub with his thumb.

Tomorrow, he would chastise himself for taking her so roughly against their drawing room wall, his need for her overwhelming all sense and the fear of discovery. Rather than making love to her with sweet words in a soft bed, as gentle ladies such as she had been raised to expect. But she would offer him no similar recriminations, to be sure, her exultant cries muffled by his lips and cheek, the only thing preventing them from echoing through the empty room.

Questing fingers swept into his hair, brushing it back from his face, and he reached for her hand, pinning it against the wall beside her head. She demanded nothing from him this night, but there was one thing he needed from her, his longing so deep that his heart ached with it.

“Tell me you love me,” he growled, demanding and pleading in equal measure. “Just for tonight, let me pretend.”

Her laughter died on her lips, her eyes growing wide, and he feared for a moment that he had spoiled the mood, that she would balk and push him away. He was gratified when she whispered, “I do love you.” It was a lie, but she was kind, and he was willing to let himself pretend to believe it, and so he let out a long sigh, his eyes closing as the joy of those four words washed over him.

Beneath him, Margaret squirmed, her movements growing more insistent, even frantic, as she clutched at his shoulders, his neck, his face. “John, please! I love you! I do! You must believe me!”

A groan rumbled through his chest as though torn from his very soul, and he pressed his face against the curve of her neck, savoring the weight of her words and her willingness to utter such a lie for his sake. She was kind, and he was willing to let himself believe.

“Look at me,” she begged him, her voice catching as he thrust inside her. “Look at me!” But he could not – dared not – in case he saw the truth of her feelings in her face. Instead, he crushed his lips against hers, swallowing her soft sounds of desire as he slid his hand between her thighs and stroked her until she came undone in his arms.

Her pleasure was still washing over her when he thrust into her again, rocking her body against the wall behind her. “Tell me you love me,” he demanded once more in a low voice, his lips against her ear, the strength of his need deepening his voice and the harsh, Northern burr of his accent. She shook her head, her breath escaping in a soft sob, but he increased the pace of his thrusts as he repeated his demand. “Please.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck pressing his cheek against hers as he drove into her again. A moment later, he felt a cool dampness against his skin and was surprised to realize it had come from her, a tear spilling over her lashes and sliding down the gentle curve of his face until it became trapped between them. It was almost enough to compel him to stop and draw away, except she tightened her legs around his hips and would not release him.

“I love you,” she whispered into his ear, driving him on.

He savored those words, committing them to his heart, a treasured memory that could never be taken from him, not even with the truth in the harsh light of day. Wrapping his hands under her thighs, he repositioned her, steadying her weight as he drove into her again and again until his own pleasure washed over him.

He pressed his mouth against the curve of her shoulder as he poured himself into her, feeling his muscles tremble with the strength of his release. Only when he was spent, his senses slowly returning, did he put her back on her feet, turning his head to capture her mouth in a kiss, swallowing the lie she had graciously bestowed upon him.

She deserved to hear the truth, although she must know it by now already, given his shameless request. “I love you, Margaret,” he breathed against her lips. “I have never loved another.”

[sagehaleyofficial]

HERE’S WHAT YOU MISSED THIS WEEK (9.15-9.21.21):

NEW MUSIC:

rationale. revealed that they are releasing a new record next week, titled If the Problem Persists. The album is set to drop digitally on September 24 and will be released on vinyl in early 2022 via Smartpunk Records.

Frank Turner announced all of the details of his new album FTHC, which will be released on February 11 via Xtra Mile Recordings. Alongside the announcement, the singer also released his new track “Haven't Been Doing So Well.”

Telltale dropped their first new track since signing to Rude Records titled “Slowburn.” The song follows on from their previous single “Won't Be Me,” which was released last year.

Save Face revealed that their new album, titled Another Kill for the Highlight Reel, is going to be dropping next month on October 19 via Epitaph. The album will feature their new single “Bury Me (Tonight!).”

ONE OK ROCK announced they will be releasing a DVD and Blu-ray version of last year’s livestream called Field of Wonder, which took place at the ZOZO Marine Stadium in Chiba, Japan. The disc will be dropping on November 17.

Bring Me the Horizon released a new track and music video titled “DiE4u.” The song is the first music from the band since the release of their EP Post Human: Survival Horror last year. 

HalfNoise, the solo project from Paramore's Zac Farro, released a new track titled “Two of Us.” The song is the first new music from the project since 2019's Natural Disguise.

Attack Attack! returned with their newest song since coming off hiatus titled “Press F.” The track follows on from their previous singles “Brachyura Bombshell” and “Fade with Me.”

Cold Years released a new track, their first brand new original material since last year's debut album Paradise. The song is called “Headstone,” which follows on from their new version of their anthem “Life with a View” featuring José Madero.

Bears in Trees announced the details of their long-awaited debut album titled And Everybody Else Smiled Back. The record is set to drop on November 19 via Counter Intuitive Records.

Hurtless shared a brand new song titled “I'm Terrified of Being Alone,” which follows on from three previous singles. The band will be making their live debut in London at the Grace on October 8.

Birds of Tokyo released a new song titled “Superglue” featuring Stand Atlantic’s Bonnie Fraser. The latter band also recently released a new single featuring nothing,nowhere. titled “Deathwish.”

Bullet for My Valentine announced that they are pushing back the release date of their new self-titled album. Due to manufacturing delays, the album will now be released on November 5.

Biffy Clyro shared another track from their upcoming project The Myth of Happily Ever After titled “A Hunger in Your Haunt.” The song follows on from their previous single “Unknown Male 01.”

TOUR ANNOUNCEMENTS:

Bowling for Soup's Jaret Reddick and Rob Felicetti announced that they are heading to the United Kingdom for an acoustic tour. The short tour will begin in Guildford, England, on December 7 and end in Bristol, England, on December 14.

Download Festival announced the lineup for its first-ever Germany event. The roster includes headliners Metallica, Five Finger Death Punch and Sabaton, and the show will take place on June 24, 2022 at the Hockenheimring Racing Circuit.

97X announced the lineup for their Next Big Thing event, taking place on December 3 and 4 at the MidFlorida Credit Union Amphitheatre. The roster features Twenty One Pilots, Meet Me @ the Altar, Weezer, All Time Low, Mod Sun and more.

Following the announcement of their upcoming album, Billy Talent revealed that they are back in the United Kingdom next year. The band will play three shows in Wolverhampton, Liverpool and London in late May 2022.

Bring Me the Horizon were joined onstage by Nova Twins for the debut live performance of their collaboration “1x1.” BMTH's UK arena tour began in Hull, England, last night with support from the duo and You Me at Six.

OTHER NEWS:

Maggie Cassidy was announced as the winner of Rock Sound and Marshall’s joint competition to find the United Kingdom’s next big unsigned band. The band won a visit to Marshall's brand new studio in Milton Keynes, England, as the grand prize.

Foo Fighters’ Dave Grohl announced he will be embarking on a short book tour after the release of his first book The Storyteller on October 5. He will appear at one date in London before heading back to the United States for four dates.

___

Check in next Tuesday for more “Posi Talk with Sage Haley"!

[sayuricorner]

Ever After High x Twisted Wonderland AU  Headcanons part 10: Milton Grimm’s and Snow White’s last stand and downfall

Part 9         Part 11

AU concept

MASTERLIST

Warning: English is not my first language so sorry if it’s confusing.

So I put a pause to the characters profiles headcanons to make this more continuity headcanons related part.

It will focus on Milton Grimm's and Snow White's last aptempt to get Raven back to EAH which will lead to their downfall.

-----------------------------

-So at EAH Milton Grimm is becomming quite deseparated: he lost most of his students, the majority of his teachers leaved to teach at others schools and his public image is degrading day by day.

-And for Snow White things aren’t better either, despites her best efforts to keep the upper hand in all this mess her public image is stained.

-The two don’t know what to do, if only they could bring Raven back and made her sign the book then surrely things would go back the way they were.

-That when Milton Grimm got an idea, maybe if they use one of Raven’s worst fear against her they will get her to sign the book, but to put that plan in motion he need to find the true storybook of legends and quick!

-After searching thoroughly in the whole school he finally found the book under the floor of the former dorm room of the Evil Queen and the Red Riding Hood.

-Milton immediately contacted Snow White and the two begin to plotting their newest plan.

-Meanwhile at NRC everyone was very busy, ‘cause the international magical shift tournament was about to take place on the school’s grounds, many schools from the country and from other lands were going to participate and NRC was making sure to have everything ready for the tournament.

-Since she join the magical shift club Ramona participate in the tournament with the school’s team.

-Raven with her friends assist at the tournament to show support to the school team with the others students.

-However Blondie was acting strangely, some time after the begining of the event she seemed rather nervous and jumpy but everytime someone asked her if she was alright she would always answer she’s alright.

-Everything seemed fine until two unwelcomed faces show up: Milton Grimm and Snow White.

-Raven become very nervous when she saw them and her friends, classmates and dormmates quickly between Raven and the two new comers two protect Raven from them.

-When asked what they are doing here Snow White and Milton Grimm with a serious face tell Raven that Apple is no more, she “go poof” because of Raven’s refusal to accept her destiny and that the only way to make her come back is to sign the storybook of legends and to become the next Evil Queen.

-Raven’s friends are outraged they yell at the duo calling what they say a bluff and telling them to leave Raven alone.

-And Raven... She was stunned, she was like a statue, her eyes wide in shock and horror and to everyone’s she snap.

-All her guilt, her stress, her distress, and sadness were released in a heartbreaking scream, the others tried to calm her down but it was no use, Raven’s negative emotions were unleashed making her overblot(see headcanons special 2 )

-Now Apple “going poof” is obviously a lie, she’s very well alive but her role in those events depend of the path whoever use this AU choose for Apple’s fate.

-If it’s follow the “Apple’s happily ever after” path: Apple don’t know a thing about the plan since after her parents’s divorce she left the White Kingdom with her father and go to a new school.

-In fact she was present at the international magical shift tournament as a player ‘cause when she joined her new school she took interest in magical shift and so decided to join her school’s team and she found out she was good at this sport and loved play it.

-Blondie spotted her at the tournament but since the wounds of the abuse were still open Blondie got scared and quickly leave which explain why Blondie seemed so nervous.

-But while the others were fighting against overblot Raven, Blondie knew what must be done in order to fix this mess so she gather up her courage she quickly go find Apple.

-She found her with her magical shift team helping to evacuate people to safety and after a little akward moment Blondie recompose herself and tell Apple what her mother and Milton Grimm had done.

-When hearing this Apple was horrified and angry, how could her mother do this?

-So she follow Blondie to where the others were doing their best to heal Raven from her overblot form and when Raven was weakened but not turned back yet in her normal form Apple throw herself to Raven, trapping her in a hug while yelling with tears in her eyes like “Raven please come back! None of what my mother said is true! Look at me I’m right here, I didn’t “go poof” it was all a lie! I’m so sorry you don’t deserve any of this please!”

-Raven just stood here shocked, Apple was there and very real, bursting in tears she go back to her normal self while hugging back Apple.

-The others gatered around them to make sure both girls were okay relieved to see Raven being back to normal but this relievement was cut short by Snow White and Milton Grimm being their idiots self, with Snow White blathering critics to her daughter and trying to convince her to go back to her side again while Milton Grimm was blathering about their destinies needed to be done which made Apple mad to the point she snap.

-She screamed at Milton Grimm and her mother telling a powerfull “the reason why you suck” speech telling how fed up she was with their non-sense and even tell her mother she disown her.

-This stunned completly Snow White and Milton Grimm they try to justify themself to convince Apple to change her mind not noticing a very furious Crowley and police officers with him.

-When he confront them Crowley told the duo he was fed up with their behavior and he will make sure to take actions to have them banned from his school and the whole Twisted Wonderland world.

-Of course Snow White and Milton Grimm didn’t like this at all and started being outraged like “how dare you?”, “You have no right to do this!” and even tell him it’s his and his school fault for even making Raven’s transfer to begin with which make Crowley shake his head in disappointment and tell them “No wonder Bella and Brutta Sister have done everything they can to get away from the Ever After world!”(There’s going to have a headcanons part about Bella and Brutta Sister soon! 😉)

-Milton Grimm and Snow White shocked by the fact Crowley know about the two sisters tried to get answers from him but were took away by the authorities.

-Aftermath Raven was send to the infirmary and while her recovery Apple, her and all the others EAH students got a long talk about everything what happened and while they’re not friends again yet they’re in a process of reconciliation which for Apple is a good start.

-Meanwhile things turned for the worst for Snow White, with the mess they created they have been officially banned from the Twisted Wonderland world and the people of the Ever After world are beyong pissed at them to the point a revolution against Snow White burst out and both her and Milton Grimm were arrested and a temporary gouverment was founded.

-At their trial Snow White is destitute from her queen title, Milton Grimm is stripped from his headmaster title, Ever After High is shut down and the duo is exiled from the kingdom.

-And so both Snow White and Milton Grimm are chased from the White Kingdom with both one objective: make Raven Queen and the whole Twisted Wonderland world pay for their humiliation.

- If it’s follow the “Apple’s badly ever after” path: Apple is 100% involved in the plan.

-She was tasked to stay in her room and to not come out unless her mother or Milton Grimm told her to do it.

-But being the delusioned nutjob she is, she decided to make some videos for her social medias.

-Said videos were saw by Blondie when she was looking on her mirrorpad which explain why she seemed so warry.

-After the battle against overblot Raven, the others try to talk to Raven but she’s still plagued with guilt believing Apple diseappered because of her.

-Thankfully Blondie remember the videos and posts Apple posted on her social medias just today so she showed the posts and videos to Raven to show her Milton Grimm and Snow White lied to her.

-When she saw this Raven was relieved and angry at the same time and confronted both Snow White and Milton Grimm about what they tried to do, which quickly turned into a screaming match between the two idiots and Raven and her friends.

-Crowley’s intervention is the same than in the “Apple’s happily ever after” path including the White Kingdom’s people’s revolution and Milton Grimm’s and Snow White’s arrestation, trial and exil.

-The only difference in this path is during the revolution Apple was taken by the authorities of the temporary goverment and was put in the care of her father but because of how crazy she become her father got no choice but to put her in a mental institution hopping she would be heald someday.

-At the mental institution since Apple was crazy magical inhibitors were put on Apple so like this she wouldn’t go overblot.

TAG LIST :( a reblog will get you a place in the tag list! ^^)

@virgil-is-a-cutie​ , @zebrabaker​ , @twistedwonderlxnd​ , @cowardlybravette​ , @iwilldietomorrowyees​ , @balsae​ , @shinypainterkid​ , @biscuitbirdpeach​ , @feuilleszuyu​ , @pale-lady-dreamer​ , @fanartreblogs , @kindestwalkingmentalbreakdown , @yue-caelum , @shuirosansshitposts , @icant-choosename-help

[hermywolf]

ranking my favorite characters about random shit part 1

ranking my favorite characters (clarke griffin, dean winchester, fox mulder, rose tyler, newt, kaz brekker, samwise gamgee, charles xavier, bill denbrough, lord asriel, steve rogers, scott mccall, anna milton and barry berkman) about random shit. this is entirely self-indulgent

PART 1 : how much do they react when they step on a lego

1- KAZ BREKKER

he has NO reaction it’s terrifying. even if he was internally screaming he would not even FLINCH it’s inSANE everyone’s so scared of him. this is 99% of the reason everyone authomatically accepts him as their leader they saw him step on a lego once and he didn’t flinch and they went OH so he’s like. crazy crazy. okay we’ll follow you into the jaws of death

2- STEVE ROGERS

homeboy’s got the fucked up pain tolerance from the chronic pain AND the super serum, he barely notices the lego. strongest avenger shit

3- ANNA MILTON

now she’s technically not human so she actually feels no pain whatsoever but in her efforts to Seem Human and Be Included (bitch MOOD) she’ll pretend to flinch and be hurt

4- LORD ASRIEL

he’ll throw a FIT. he’s a drama queen. he’ll barely show pain at all because pain is for the WEAK and he has to seem strong at all time because he’s a dramatic hoe we been knew. but he WILL yell at whoever left the poor lego there. he’s just that mean

5- CHARLES XAVIER

he doesn’t feel it because wheelchair but he does call whichever mutant kid left it there to pick it up and explains at length how its not good to leave your stuff around because another kid could’ve gotten hurt and he just will not stop talking like we GET IT charles can we go have applesauce now

6- BARRY BERKMAN

i got nothing on this one folks. does he even know what a lego is. weirdo. he’ll either not react at all or fall to his knees and start crying his eyes out

7- CLARKE GRIFFIN

she’ll be SO annoyeeed you know that annoyed face she does remember when jasper and monty threw flour or whatever at her face and she was all annoyed and shit. or when finn pulled her into the river and she was all annoyed and shit. it was adorable. yea she’ll do that

8- SAMWISE GAMGEE

homeboi is PISSED who the FUCK left this lego here come PICK IT UP PIPPIN I’LL MURDER YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY oh it was you mr frodo? no no problem of course i love legos i’ll pick it up no problem at all no no don’t apologize i love you

9- NEWT

you’d think he’d be chill about it but he’s also a bitch he’ll be bitchy about it for so long. he’s the kinda bitch to be like ‘gimme your toast’ ‘what no its my toast’ ‘you left that lego on my way and i stepped on it remember. you owe me your toast’ ‘that was FIVE YEARS AGO’ ‘toast. now’

10- SCOTT MCCALL

i don’t think he’d actually care. werewolf senses and all that. but if we’re being realistic here stiles is probably the one who left it there and scott thinks he’s hilarious so he’ll do some dumb shit like fill stiles locker with legos in retaliation or something. stupid himbo man i love you

11- BILL DENBROUGH

he’s such a BITCH ABOUT IT he’s such a bitch about it. like newt he’ll bring it up five years later to get stuff but since nobody gives a shit he gets his revenge by putting legos in the sandwitch richie wouldn’t give to him because bill is a PETTY HOE

12- ROSE TYLER

she’s so WHINY about it she’ll whine and pretend her foot doesn’t work and she can’t walk and she’ll just limp around while whining until someone gives her extra fries or something. she’s just insufferable

13- FOX MULDER

a baby. he’ll cry. scully finds him in tears at his office like full head in hands sobbing his eyes out and she’s like who died and he’s like my FOOT. she calls him a baby. he’s a baby. baby man. child. i love you

14- DEAN WINCHESTER

god this man probably has one of the higher pain tolerances in this list and YET. and YET. like he’ll get tortured in hell for thirty years and not break but remember when he had to draw one drop of blood from his finger and he threw a FIT so panicked losing his mind absolutely TERRIFIED and then held his finger for like and hour. he’s SO ANNOYING he’ll throw a fit and pout and whine and complain and pretend he can’t walk and do puppy eyes at everyone to get favors and use it as an excuse not to walk for as long as he can get away with it he’s just SO annoying about it. little bitch hoe ass dumbass no wonder he’s my favorite out of all of these characters he’s the only one who’s as annoying as me

[dammithawke]

I’m not going to add on to the original post, because that just sounds like an absolute nightmare of a decision, but I do feel the need to lay my cards and thoughts on the table in regards to this exchange:

Where can I even begin.

Dante’s Inferno, and the Devine Comedy as a Trilogy, was Dante’s attempt to posit the question “What if the Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell mentioned vaguely in the bible were actual places? What would they be like and who would be there.” In doing so, he took a few concepts and characters from the bible and old testament to use as filler characters and guides. To flesh out this alternate universe he describes, he used real people from his own life and the political setting of his time, as well as a slew of historical figures to use as examples for who got punished where, according to him.

No one, and I mean no one, was equating Dante’s Inferno to “larry stylinson mpreg”, but since you really, REALLY want to go there: ‘larry stylinson’, for those not aware, is a ship names for a pair of men who were members of the band, One Direction. I never touched that part of the internet in particular, but, ignoring the condescending tone ( and, you know, I’m gonna throw out there that the term mpreg smacks hard of some transphobic bullshit that this post isn’t necessarily about, but is most certainly worth mentioning), the existence of ‘Larry Stylinson” fanfiction does fall in to a particular subsect of fanfiction: RPF (real people fiction). For the record, there is MUCH controversy, even in the many fandom communities, about the morality of shipping real actual people in this way. I personally do not condone it, but much like the transphobic bullshit OP insisted on bringing up, the morality of that is not necessarily the subject of this post.

EXCEPT

That’s exactly what Dante wrote, right down to to the use of Beatrice, a roman noble to whom Dante had previously dedicated many poems, as the embodiment of ‘divine knowledge bestowed by grace’ all the way to the point where his love for her is a catalyst to his ascension in Heaven. My dude Dante was just shipping himself with her. Never mind the ‘Self Insert’ bits. We already know he just straight up wanted to write about his own imagined journey to enlightenment. What’s more important is that Beatrice is there. Along with other political figures, she is a real person he is writing this fiction about.

Her, along with other political and historical figures of the time, saved Dante from the trudge work of designing and describing made up characters. What else serves this purpose, allowing an author to focus more on other parts of their craft and story telling?

Oh yeah. Fanfiction.

But you’re right, the fact that The Divine Comedy features Dante himself in a self insert protagonist role does not, in itself, mean that the entire work is fanfiction. Just like the fact that it was written between 1308–21 doesn’t negate the fact that it was based on the Bible and Roman Catholic Theology. Fanfiction, as a concept, wasn’t a coined term until 1939, and has since undergone a change or two in context/meaning. But the concept, as it stands now, is pretty clear: Fanfiction is a piece of derivative fiction as a tribute to another work or artist. 

Now OP also argues that it can’t be fanfiction because its an “Epic Poem”. I’m gonna level with you here; just like fanart is still fanart even if it’s featured later in the work itself, it’s still fanart. Fan-movies are also still a type of movie, and in the context of building on existing fiction, a form of fanfiction as well. People write fanfiction in the form of poems. Widen your fucking perspective.

Now, finally, to get a bit more general about your ice cold, shortsighted, condescending points: Not all fanfiction is silly, dirty, random, cringy, unedited garbage, as you seem determined to imply it is. Just like not all books are well written and worth reading. I love books. I love fanfiction. But you know which stories I’ve read have been the most personal, honest, touching, and emotional?

Fanfiction.

Which one is more accessible? Monetarily, as long as you have an internet connection and know what you’re looking for, the answer is fanfiction.

But which one is more respected? Obviously books. But why? What’s the difference? Books go through thorough editing and polishing to be published. The author is paid, usually, as a result. The product is bound and distributed -- or, in some cases, formatted and distributed digitally.

That being said, silly books exist. Trashy books exist. Self published books, books filled with typos and miss-prints, books that are based on other works in the public domain (yeah, bitch, I’m talking about fairy tail re-writes. It’s fanfiction too. Just because it’s based on public domain property and published for money doesn’t mean it’s not fucking fan fiction.)

So how do you find a good book as opposed to a bad one? You can go to a bookstore and just pick at random til you find one, but not every book you find is going to be well written or your cup of tea. Usually, it helps to be recommended a good book. 

The same goes for fanfiction. You want a good long fanfic? Just fucking ask someone. You want something well written, with amazing story arc and progression and pacing? JUST. ASK. 

And you know what? Fanfiction isn’t for everyone. Some people only enjoy things that continue where canon left off. Some people just want to picture their favorite characters happy for once in their fucking lives. Sometimes you just want to wonder what would happen if a show that had a good foundation was written by someone who actually knew how to fucking write. Sometimes you want the equivalent of Pulp Fiction books or short stories.

That’s all fine and beautiful.

You know what isn’t fine and beautiful?

OP being a pretentious piece of absolute trash. Please, for the love of everyone who has ever written or read anything, be less awful.

PS. Other classics that should be considered fanfiction include, but are not limited to:

The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1831) Author: Victor Hugo Fanfiction for: The Notre Dame

Paradise Lost (1667) Author: John Milton Fanfiction for: The Book of Genesis from the Bible

Any Shakespeare Play Based on History (17th Century) Author: Shakespeare Fanfiction for: World History

The Aeneid (19 B.C. -29 B.C) Author: Virgil Fanfiction for: The Iliad

Lord of the Flies Author: William Golding  Fanfiction for:  The Coral Island,

The Three Musketeers Author: Alexandre Dumas Fanfiction for:  Mémoires de Monsieur d'Artagnan

For Sources on Dante’s Inferno and the Divine Comedy: https://www.britannica.com/topic/The-Divine-Comedy

TLDR: OP is pretentious and Condescending and the only thing stopping fanfiction authors from publishing as actual books is copyright and connections in the publishing industry.

[somuchcolour]

WIP fic rec list

So I have a shit ton of important things to do so I was like, so what better time to make a WIP rec list of fics that are currently (hopefully) updating.

I know wips get a bad rap but I personally enjoy feeling like I’m in 1830s paris waiting for the next chapter of illusions perdues to drop. Also these authors are giving us sweet sweet entertainment and they deserve the hype. All stories deserve love no matter their completion status.

In no particular order:

A Brief History of Sex by Letzi

Never let it be said that Castiel Novak is not a passionate man. He doesn’t seem like he is at first glance, he’s willing to admit that. But what he does in life, everything that he does, in fact, in life, has been in the pursuit of passion.

He’s not sure how it landed him night after night sitting inside a cramped closet in a brothel’s bedroom, watching a prostitute get fucked from behind by one of her clients through a peephole, but that’s where he finds himself these days.

He has to make do with what he has.

--

ABO AU based on the TV Show Masters of Sex and the life and work of Virginia Johnson and William Masters, the pioneers of sex therapy.

A Priori by K_K_TiBal, whelvenwings   

Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak are headed to Hogwarts.

Castiel, as a member of the old Novak wizarding family, is fully expected to be sorted into Ravenclaw, like all of his ancestors before him. Dean, as a Muggle-born, has no idea what the Houses even are. With a surprise sorting and classes starting soon afterwards, they're both pitched headfirst into the unknown - and they find themselves in competition with each other almost at once, both of them needing to prove themselves to the people they left at home, and the people with them at Hogwarts.

Over the course of their seven years at Hogwarts, Dean and Cas learn what it means to prove yourself, what it takes to discover who you are, what it feels like to fall in love, and what it is they'll fight for - what matters most of all.

And Death Shall Have No Dominion by ForeverShippingJohnlock    

Castiel Novak is a zombie. Or rather, a "partially deceased syndrome sufferer." Treated and on medication, Castiel is deemed fit to return to living society. Whether society is ready to accept him or not is another matter entirely.

Dean Winchester is an active member of the Human Volunteer Force, a group determined to eliminate the undead. With his father as the leader of the HVF, Dean has spent years learning that PDS sufferers are scum, treated or not, and Dean wants nothing more than to make his dad proud.

Against all odds, the two boys form an unlikely friendship that makes Dean question everything he knows and believes, while Castiel thinks that maybe his second life isn't such a curse after all.

A story of love and loss, life and death, and everything in between.

Beyond Our Waking Eyes by abbythebollix    

Dean Winchester is troubled, Sam Winchester is growing up and Castiel Milton is too fucking hot for his own good.

Cupid's Fiery Shaft by ChasingRabbits               

When Gabriel Milton is forced into working on the school's annual Shakespeare play, he finds himself drawn to one person in particular--a techie named Sam Winchester.

While waiting on numerous universities to dictate the next major step in his life, Sam has been blowing off steam with his friend, lab partner, and (unknowingly) Gabriel's stepbrother, Castiel Novak.

Castiel Novak: a swimmer and one of the school's resident oddballs, who finds himself in a quandary upon meeting Sam's older brother, Dean.

Dean Winchester: gruff-voiced automechanic by day and culinary genius/MegaNerd by night, who might not be as heterosexual as he lets everybody believe.

If it sounds complicated, that's only because it is.

Now That's Comedy by CaptainMercy42     

Comedy. It's what Winchester's did. Winchester's, and about a million other dumb fucks with an iPhone and 140 character witticisms about their first world problems. It was not supposed to bug him when no-talent "wordsmiths" got highlighted in a bit on Ellen or Bob and Tom. But it did.

His dad, well he was great at it. It was dark comedy. It came from a dark place; the loss of a wife and the life of a morally bankrupt single dad, almost innocent in how thoroughly unprepared he was for fatherhood.  Substance abuse in itself provided jokes for days. The material actually outlasted his dear old dad. This surprised no one. What was surprising was Sam's decision to ditch college and do his own act, despite his lingering bitterness.

The first night Dean saw Sam perform was also the first night Dean saw Castiel perform.

Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by linoresearch   

The year is 1722 and across the oceans merchant ships are hounded by pirates. Killing and stealing their way to infamy, the Winchesters plague the trade-routes to the New World, leaving a trail of death and devastation across the Spanish Main. They are villains, and every ship that sails under the colours of the Royal Navy has been tasked with bringing them to justice; sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.

When the lookout of the navy frigate, the Lady Mary, calls ship-ahoy from the crow’s nest, first-mate Lieutenant Castiel Novak has no idea how his life is about to change. In a swash-buckling adventure across the high-seas, Castiel faces sea-monsters, ghost-ships, and much more, in the race to secure a valuable and dangerous prize. Thrown in among the pirates aboard the Black Impala, he also learns that Captain Dean Winchester can be hard to resist.

Number 1 Crush by Duckyboos                

Dean, Benny, Charlie, Garth, and Cas are old college buddies. In their thirties now, they meet up once a year to shed their adult responsibilities for a week. This year it's Garth's turn to choose where they go and he's still as obsessed with horror and weird shit as he was back in college. He ends up picking a supposedly deserted hotel in the friggin' mountains. The place is creepy as hell and as night falls, two things become increasingly apparent. One: the place isn’t as deserted as they first thought, and two: Dean’s college stalker is back from the dead.

Dial 'M' For Monster by Duckyboos    

By day, Dean Winchester bakes cupcakes. He owns his own bakery (Stairway to Leaven) and people come from all over state to try his delicious vegan red velvet. By night, he’s a fighter of supernatural evil.

Castiel Novak owns the small town's only motel (The Resting Place). He has a problem; he thinks rooms 6 & 11 are haunted.  It’s not like he can just look up a local ghost hunter in the phone book though, now is it?

Oh, he can? Sweet.

All The Other Places by Englandwouldfall                

As is usually the way with this crap, nothing is that simple. Part 4 of Beach House       

Shades of Mediocrity by Englandwouldfall               

Dean needs to rearrange his life all over again, regroup, restart and work out what the hell to do next.Castiel needs to learn where to channel his heart break, among other things.   Part 4 of Home            

The Taming of the Dudes by Englandwouldfall  

They've been doing this long enough and successfully enough that Dean kind of feels they shouldn't be arguing over something as serious as the mortgage. Part 5 of As you like it       

Two and a Half Sheets to the Wind by Englandwouldfall        

The whole point of working on a cruise ship was to escape everything, so the last thing he needs is to run into a guy who makes him a little too honest on the first day of a month long stint around Europe.

With Interest by everandanon     

In which sought-after bad boy Castiel Novak agrees to make awkward, nerdy sophomore Dean Winchester fall in love with him for a bet, and quickly finds himself in over his head — but by the time he realizes his mistake, it’s too little, too late . . .

Fast-forward 11 years, and as guilty as Cas still feels, he has bigger problems to deal with. Grieving his twin brother and struggling to provide the care his niece deserves, Cas finally sucks it up and moves back home in an effort to hold things together.

Of course, it's only a matter of time before he runs into Dean - Dean, who's all grown up and even more beautiful than Cas always suspected he'd be. Dean, who says he wants to be friends, and is clearly much better at a game Cas hasn't played since he broke Dean's heart.

Dean, who might not be the forgive-and-forget type, after all . . .

Quarantension by everandanon  

In which Dean and Cas weather quarantine together like any Good Friends would — by developing outstanding skills in self-deception and providing all the casual affection and strictly platonic* orgasms the other could possibly need to make it through.** *Really not platonic **Spoiler: They need a lot.

Fortress by imogenbynight         

Five years ago, a malignant mass removed from John Winchester's temporal lobe left behind a quietly ticking bomb that nobody noticed until it decimated everything. Five years ago, John dragged Dean away from everything he'd ever known, hellbent on rescuing him from an imagined threat that felt more real to him than the blood on his hands. Five years ago, Castiel let Dean's hand slip through his fingers as he rescued Sam from what he'd thought was a more immediate threat.

For five years, Castiel has wondered if there was some way he could have saved Dean, too.

Now, with a phone call that he'd all but given up hoping for, Castiel has a chance to try again.

It's Kind of a Funny Story by deathsteel    

After an aborted suicide attempt lands Castiel Shurley in the hospital, he meets Dean Winchester, a charming damaged young man who is much more than first meets the eye.  Not being able to deal with the stress of growing up may have gotten him here and being hopelessly in love with his best friend's girlfriend probably didn't help, but Castiel soon learns that sometimes it takes  going a little crazy to find the path you were always meant to be on.

Loosely based on the movie/book by Ned Vizzini 'It's Kind of a Funny Story'.

Just A Schoolboy Crush by Zombiecat    

Castiel has a cliche crush on the highschool football all-star, Michael Ashton. Even though he's fully aware he's doomed to longing looks and pining in silence, it wouldn't be so bad if his best friend, Charlie, hadn't told Dean. Dean Winchester never seemed to miss a chance to get under his skin but for some reason he starts acting odd when he hears about Castiel's big secret.

God, Make Small by komodobits               

The last plane into McMurdo before the six-month winter brings a new face, an astronomer on transfer from one of the inland observatories. Truthfully, Dean doesn't know shit about neutrino particles; he's just the guy who gets paid to move the equipment from A to B and tries to keep it from getting broken and/or frozen solid. Castiel Novak's awkward, endearing smile is an additional bonus. However, the relentless blue night is brewing coldly for a storm, and it's starting to look like Dean and Castiel might be the only ones left out on the ice.\

Legacies by vanishingact    

Castiel Milton's uneventful life as a Massachusetts lawyer gets a little strange in the fall of 1887 when he is assigned to handle the late Henry Winchester's estate and his client's distractingly handsome grandson arrives to take up residence in the old manor house. As an unlikely friendship (with a side of pining) develops, the house slowly coughs up its secrets and reveals a whole world of trouble that Dean never knew his grandfather kept hidden.

The Game of God by seperis           

You can't win a war for humanity by sacrificing all of your own. Part 4 of Down to Agincourt        

Sequins and Spirals by euphemology  

Dean Winchester is a world-renowned figure skater who hails from the “good old U.S. of A.” He is well on his way to the 2014 Winter Olympics, but there’s one small problem: so is his arch-rival, Polish skater Castiel Novak. Competition is definitely not going to be easy, but it gets even harder when the two men get assigned to the same room in the Olympic Village.

Show Me How To Love by universalromance    

A new family of kids at Lawrence High School brings a new perspective to Dean's life, especially when he becomes inexplicably drawn to the youngest of the siblings, a severely autistic boy who has never spoken or touched anybody in his entire life. Rating will possibly go up later. Possibly upsetting psychological subject matter.

The Process by Soupernabturel           

“Dean, hands to yourself please.”

The man in question straightens up in his chair, turns his flirty smile from the man two seats from him and onto officer Novak. “Sorry, Cas.”

“Cas?” Hannah asks.

“We get some regulars. They come to know a few of the officers, the patrol officers, especially.” Novak explains, the look on his face, almost slightly bored, slips a little. “As you know, I’m usually the one monitoring the Strip.”

 Police!Officer Cas is being filmed at work (A-la: Jail Las Vegas) for a reality TV show. Meanwhile Dean is a sex worker, not only familiar with the Strip’s booking process, but with a certain blue-eyed officer.

Start With a Name by cumberbellins, frickenapplepie (cumberbellins)    

Waking up in a stranger's living room with a blue eyed man staring down at you isn't the most pleasant experience ever. Dean Winchester can tell you that. Another thing Dean Winchester can tell you is that whenever you have to break into your brother's apartment, you should make sure that you got the right window.

starving in your gravity by alullabytoleaveby   

Dean has enough on his plate. Really.

There's his job as a paramedic for the local hospital and, while he loves it, loves getting to help people, the hours are long and the pay leaves much to be desired. There's his definitely-not-a-relationship with Castiel, the hot ER doctor, where's he's completely out of his depth emotionally. And then there's his brother, who's just dropped out of law school and has no idea what he's going to do now.

So what he definitely does not need is his alcoholic deadbeat dad stumbling back into his life.

Make Damn Sure by SurlyCat      

Dean Winchester is not thrilled about taking an office job at one the most powerful media corporations in the country. His work has always been hands on, but when Charlie tells him about the job opening and its comfortable salary, the temptation is just too great to turn down. And really, it wouldn't be too bad if it weren't for the blue-eyed man that also works there.

Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester have crossed paths far too often over the last 12 years, with an unsavory outcome nearly every time. This time though, walking away is just not an option as they're forced to collaborate on a project and learn to navigate each other like civilized human beings. For Dean and Cas though, nothing ever goes quite according to plan.

...In Bed by SurlyCat                

Dean Winchester and Castiel Milton met on a rainy summer day over a broken down car. Even though Castiel is nosy and seems to have no filter, Dean still finds himself drawn to the man. Over time they become friends, and over time, Dean falls for Cas, certain that Cas is uninterested. What Dean doesn't know is that his friend hasn't always been quite so tame, and Cas is careful to keep it that way. Who would've thought that a fortune cookie and a childish game would be responsible for bringing out the truth?

Tag, You're It! by Kitmistry   

Five months after the case that almost claimed their lives, what started as blowing off some steam during a high-pressure situation and continued as a mutually-beneficial arrangement is getting out of Special Agent Castiel Novak’s control. Falling in love with his partner is doomed to end in disaster, especially when said partner is Special Agent Dean Winchester—cocky, infuriating, and the biggest playboy Castiel has ever met.

Still on medical leave, Dean is bored out of his mind, and worst of all - once Castiel gets sucked into the investigation of a new case - without enough distractions from his inner demons. When he stumbles upon a small, seemingly risk-free case, Dean jumps at the chance to get involved, but the lies he has to tell could be catastrophic for the already shaky foundations of his relationship with Castiel.

With a new threat trying to take over the underworld of DC, Castiel and Dean have to find a way to work past their problems or risk losing each other forever.

Part 2 of The H Files       

The Supernatural Edification of Dean Winchester by OverlordoftheBees   

Based on TV Series “Afterlife”. Professor Castiel Novak (MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) is an academic who has staked his credibility upon his ability to decompress and deconstruct the mythology surrounding mediums, clairvoyants and all things "new age spiritualist". That is, until a routine trip with a graduate class brings him into contact with medium Dean Winchester: uniquely gifted, supremely abrasive and desperate for a way out. When Dean touches on the tragedy marring Castiel’s past, his neatly constructed worldview is decimated. There is only a veil between life and death, as both well know. And as Castiel finds himself increasingly drawn to Dean, the fragility of that barrier is strained to its limit.

These Are the Nights by vintagenoise         

After a sudden tragedy, Castiel Milton and Dean Winchester reflect back on their youth in the beachside town of Sileas, Oregon, and all the lessons they learned on the path that led them to each other.In the Winter of 2008, Castiel visits his boyfriend, Dean, for Christmas. Despite all the big issues he and Dean have dealt with in the past, they've never had the chance to sort through the little things. Castiel is sure that their plans, from embarking on a road trip together, to spending time with the Winchesters, can only be good for their relationship. There's just one little problem that needs to finally be confronted: sex, and Castiel's difficulty with it.In the Summer of 2009, Dean and Sam visit their estranged father and his new family, who reluctantly allow Castiel to visit through Independence Day. All Dean wants is for his family and his boyfriend to get along, but between John's struggle to accept his son's sexuality, and his wife Kate's strange attitude towards Castiel, he's not sure he'll be able to make it work. Part 7 of Young Volcanoes                

[notgonnarememberthis]

find your way (back to me) - chapter two

The reception for this fic was so fucking sweet, this really went beyond what I expected I honestly just thought this would be a self service fic but it hit off so well. Honestly, wrote the next chapter to cope with the anxiety of being home and general holiday stress so I hope y’all enjoy it. And thank y’all for all the sweet comments they mean the fucking world to me.

Jessica tries not to let the sigh escape her throat, she really does. But when Gil comes in arms loaded with gifts it probably took him weeks to save for she can’t help it.

She can afford literally anything he wanted to buy for her or the kids and then some, but she resisted.

If not to see the proud little grin on his face when he knows he absolutely nailed the gift that the recipient never even knew they wanted.

He’s quite good at knowing what people never knew they needed.

She invites him in, nonetheless, taking some of the load off, only with a little chiding that he still shouldn’t carry so much. It has only been a few months since his injury. He needs to give his body time to heal. 

Malcolm and Ainsley would arrive soon, hopefully carrying something that wasn’t a twist-on. But for now she would enjoy Gil’s company. His warmth wards off the cold that always seemed to linger in the hollow rooms. His smile lights up even the darkest corners as she leans into his embrace. He pulls out old records that collected dust for years, grabbing her hand and swinging her around the room with more grace than anyone would expect.

They don’t even notice when the children arrive. Only when Gil spins her and she nearly runs straight into Malcolm do they realize they are no longer alone. The laughter catches the air like a flame, spreading across the room with an infectious glee that most of them had not known for far too long. Gil pulls Ainsley in next, taking her as his next partner.

She almost bursts with joy when Malcolm takes her hand to dance without hesitation. His movements are still but he is letting go, allowing himself to enjoy the small moments in life that don’t revolve around homicide.

She’s so proud that she feels tears building behind her eyes.

The music fades and the silence takes over, no longer as deafening but rather content.

Jessica startles awake to a loud crash. Immediately she regrets opening her eyes as pain rips through her head. She reaches up to feel where it hurts but something is holding her down.

It takes a few seconds for the world to come into focus, once it does she wishes desperately for the peace of the dream. Her hands are zip tied to the chair she’s sitting in, her neck and head both ache like nobody’s business. She shuffles through her mind to try to remember what the hell happened. There was a crash, then her world was spinning, she checked on Adolpho… Oh god, Adolpho.

A soft sob of realization takes over her. What happened between the crash and now? How the hell did she get here? She was on her way to a meeting for becoming the head of Eve’s charity in her honor.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Fake sincerity drips from a figure previously hidden by the shadows. She stiffens, suddenly all too aware of her situation. She holds still, as if that would help, if she wouldn’t move they wouldn’t see her. If she closes her eyes she can open them again to the warmth and happiness radiating from her family. “Sorry for the mess, had to improvise.” The shadow gestures absentmindedly. 

“Who are you?” Her voice rasps painfully. She wonders how long exactly she was out for.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’m much more interested in you.” He comes closer, enough for her to recognize that he’s wearing a mask. “Jessica Whitly, my you are a sob story if there ever was one.” He walks across the room, footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. “Disgraced daughter of the Miltons, married to a serial killer, and dated another socialite exposed to be heading a dubious business,” he sighs. “Truly Shakespearian, have you thought about selling the rights to your story?” 

“Are you done?” She tries not to let her voice waver, her fear shakes just beneath the surface, but she’s not running or hiding now. Malcolm and Gil will find her. She just needs to stall as long as she possibly can.

“Hardly.” The venomous glee sends a chill down her spine. He tilts his head in a way that flashes her back as if she were in Claremont all this time. “Just killing time until our guest arrives.”

“I can give you all the money you want, just let me go.” The bark of a laugh makes her jump, immediately regretting the sudden movement as pain pierces her skull yet again.

“I don’t want your money. It can all burn for all I give a shit.”

“What do you want then?” She pleads.

Even with the mask she can feel his deadly grin, like a cat taunting it’s prey just before it pounces. “You.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gil checks his phone yet again, waiting for Malcolm’s text. He told JT to get Ainsley and get both of them back to the precinct immediately. He almost wishes he’d done it for himself, having them in his sight would be a hell of a lot more comforting right now especially as he stares at the lieu of pictures scattered across his desk.

He trusts JT, though. He’s getting them here as fast as he possibly can with two out of three of the most stubborn people he’s ever met in the back of his car. No doubt they have hundreds of questions that poor JT doesn’t even know the answer to, he’s simply following orders and right now they’re on a strict need to know basis.

Colette will lock Malcolm down as soon as he arrives. He’ll be able to loosen the reigns, but only a little. He’ll be lucky to leave without Dani or JT personally handcuffed to him. Hell, Gil will be lucky if she doesn’t choose him to be handcuffed to Malcolm.

He hears the door to his office open and he feels the lump in his throat develop once again.

“Why are the FBI here?” “Why did I just get pulled out of work and rushed here?” “Why isn’t mom answering my calls?” “Why did we get escorted here by two more cop cars?”

The two siblings speak simultaneously and he sighs raising a hand to stop them. He braces himself delivering the news as impersonally as he could to the two people he basically watched grow up. “You’re both familiar with the kidnappings and murders in Boston?” They nodded, going to talk again but he stopped them with a pointed stare. “This morning there was an accident, one of the cars matched the plates of the car Agent Swanson has been tracking for that case.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Ainsley asks, fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve, it’s a nervous tick he’s known since she was 12. Her mother tried to break the habit but was never really successful.

“The other driver was Adolpho.” Ainsley’s eyes widen, she looks to Malcolm who only nods solemnly. “He died on impact.”

“Oh my god.” Malcolm reaches over, squeezing her hand. He watches the younger man straighten, preparing himself for the next blow. He’s all too familiar with the practices and knows that Gil has more to deliver to them. He nods, silently telling him to continue.

“We found this in the backseat of the car.” He turns the photo of Jessica’s phone to them and watches as the dots connect in both of their heads. “We also found blood on the back window that we believe is your mother’s.”

“You believe?” Ainsley’s voice cracks for the first time that he’s heard in years. Even after Paul Lazar, even after Endicott Ainsley didn’t waver. “What do you mean you believe is hers? Where is she?”

“You think the killer took her.” Malcolm whispers. Almost as if he says it too loud, it will make it true. His hands fly to his eyes sucking in a breath when Gil nods in confirmation. He knows it’s his way of trying to keep tears back, just long enough to keep his head from going into full meltdown and instead switching to investigator. “Dani found CCTV footage of the wreck. The suspect’s car redlight, crashing into Adolpho without even slowing down. The man climbs out of the car and goes out of frame. A couple minutes later an ambulance shows up, another man helps your mother into the back and they drive off.”

“Shouldn’t she be fine then? We just need to find out want hospital they took her to. She’s probably logged as a Jane Doe if she doesn’t have her purse either. She probably hit her head and she’s confused or unconscious and we need to-”

“Ainsley.” Malcolm’s tone stops her. He’s already read Gil’s expression, knowing what’s coming next.

“The ambulance on the scene was reported stolen just an hour before the wreck.” He watches as Ainsley’s face crumples, despite her best attempts to hold it together. Malcolm pulls her into a loose hug, rubbing her back in comfort. He can tell only by the slightly uneven breaths that Malcolm is crying as well.

His eyes sting and every fatherly instinct wants him to go to them and hug them. Tell them everything will be fine just like he did 20 years ago. He gives them time to settle again, determination overpowering their shock and grief. “What can we do?”

“Right now, stay in sight. I’ve already got the FBI pressing hard enough on this pushing for a clean end but I don’t think that’ll be the case. Something doesn’t feel right. I’m assigning each of you an officer and if either of you tries to shake them or go off on your own I’m putting you in a holding cell.” He raises a brow at the two of them. “Understand?” 

“Yes.” They answer in unison. Gil tries not to think about the two kids, hardened too young. With only each other and their mother to hold onto in the storm that raged around them. Now with one less thing anchoring them to this earth.

“Let’s get to work.” XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The clanging of metal pulls Jessica’s attention from the deep abyss she allowed herself to sink into. The man had long left with the promise of the “guest” lingering over her head. She busied herself praying to every deity that she could think of that Malcolm, Ainsley, Gil, all of them were safe. She stopped believing in God long ago but her desperation outweighs her beliefs right now.

Different, slower footsteps shamble in front of her. This man looks younger, his physique, at least. He places something down against the wall before dragging a chair in front of her. She feels bile rise in the back of her throat when the something against the wall groans in pain. The man shuffles back over to the body, lifting it with ease yet again and placing it in the chair across from her. He secures the wrists individually to the chair before standing behind it. She stares at him for a moment, she swears his movements almost seem hesitant.

The static of a radio starting up breaks the relative silence. “Take off his hood.” She recognizes the voice of the man who was taunting her earlier. The other figure does as he says, removing the bag from over the tied up man’s head. Fearful bloodshot eyes meet hers. “This is Tommy Moore. He is a resident at Montgomery and from what I hear? He will make a promising young surgeon one day.” She swallows hard trying to calm the nerves building up in her stomach. “Do you know who she is Tommy?” The poor boy can only get out a whimper. Her heart sinks when she hears the sound of a gun cocking from behind him. “Answer me!”

“Y-yes.” He chokes out. “I saw her on the news. She was looking for a missing girl o-on Christmas.”

“Do you think she would choose your life over her own?” Tommy bows his head sobbing openly. “Please don’t do this.”

“Let him go.” She begs.

“Well would you Mrs. Whitly?” The sentence cuts deep. “Would you choose your life over his?” She closes her eyes, a few tears sliding down her cheeks. She thinks of Malcolm and Ainsley, no idea of where she was. She thinks of Gil, pouring everything he has into finding her. She even thinks of Martin, the horrid man who no doubt has caused this somehow in some way.

And then she thinks of her dream. She holds onto the smell of Gil’s cologne surrounding her as they spin around her living room, the sound of Ainsley’s laugh bouncing off of the walls as Gil dips her, Malcolm’s smile brighter than she remembers it being in so very long.  And she hopes they forgive her. “No.”

The silence feels as if it stretches for hours. She waits for the gunshots. She waits for the pain and then the utter nothingness of death. “Perhaps you didn’t understand my question. Would you die so that Tommy here can live?”

“Yes, I would.” The boy cries only get louder, mixed with tragedy and relief. She almost wants to cry with him.

“No!” The voice roars and they hear something from the other room crash. “You’re doing this wrong!” Another stretch of silence, this one even longer than the last. “You would rather die, so that he can live?!” Tommy looks at her, finally, and the realization strikes her. His eyes looked familiar, the same shade as Martin’s. His curly, unkempt hair even the shade so similar she’d assume he was a relative had she not known Martin had no other family. Everything was a subconscious push so that she’d choose her own life over his. This was a losing game.

“I choose his life over mine.” She says with more anger than before. She wouldn’t fall for this game. Even if it meant her own she wouldn’t put an innocent life on the line. She hopes for her children’s sake that they find her eventually. She hopes that they find peace.

“Shoot him.”

“What?” The man with a gun asks before either of them could.

“Shoot him!” The shot makes her ears pop. She never knew a gun could be that loud. Blood hits her face causing her to flinch, watching in horror as the boy slumps forwards. A cry rips through her throat as she struggles against the bonds tying her down.

“Why?!” She screams. “Why did you do that?!” She folds over on herself trying to contain the panic threatening to swallow her whole. Every fiber of her wants to fight back, to fight her way back to her family. Her head screeches in pain, spots flashing in front of her eyes. It only seems to get more intense though as her world tilts and spins with an effort to stay awake.

“You chose wrong.”

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 11/?

Part 10

Gerry gives a dry, humorless snort as he sits up on the chair, and Jon lets go of his face to give him more movement. "It's- she was fond of me, she says." Jon stiffens, when Gerry's forehead lands softy on his stomach. "Where was that when she was making my page?"

"...I don't know." Jon whispers, bringing his arms to rest across Gerry's shoulders. "I- there are a lot of things I don't understand about her."

Gerry's arms tighten around his waist. "Of course. Night and day." His voice is muffled against Jon's sweatert, his breath filtering through the fabric, searing hot against Jon's skin.

"You loved her." Jon says, not really asking what he already knows.

"It didn't matter, in the end." Gerry snorts again. It sounds like it did. Like it does.

XI

The fact that the Institute building is so beautiful when it holds so much horror is both very fitting and very jarring, Georgie thinks.

Once you know what you're looking for, you can see the subtle eyes carved amongst the leafy motifs wrapping around the exterior pillars, and the unnerving gaze of the rounded window above the double oak doors.

She doesn't go too close despite the pouring rain, preferring instead to lean against a lamppost across the street and text Melanie that she's already there. This is how she gets a first row seat, partly hidden behind her large umbrella, when Jonathan Sims comes down the street towards this terrible place.

With him is a man she's heard plenty about, tall and broad-shouldered, with long black hair and blue-green eyes. The hand he's not using to hold an umbrella above their heads is deep inside the pocket of Jon's coat, along with his own; Jon is leaning against his arm in that way Georgie knows means he wants you to hold him closer.

That last thought draws a sigh out of her, as the two men draw closer to the Institute. Jon has always been a complicated subject, but he's so much more so lately. Georgie loves him, but she's also terribly aware that every time she allows herself to care, she comes out burned. Just earlier this year she had to sit by his bedside wondering if he would ever wake up again, and if it would really be better if he did.

They seem to be saying goodbye now, and Georgie can feel the tension from here. Jon is tilting his chin up and slightly to the side, but also leaning slightly away from the man, who's leaning towards Jon, but retreats after a moment, taking a deep breath. Jon lets their hands fall apart as he climbs the steps towards the Institute. The man watches him disappear behind the door, and Georgie starts crossing the street.

"Hey." The man doesn't flinch at her voice, and Georgie wonders if he knew she was watching. "You're Jon's Gerry, right?"

The man snorts with a hint of resigned humor. "Yeah. I guess that's the only of putting it. You're Georgie?"

"The very one." Georgie nods. "Melanie has told me about you."

"Has she? I'm almost afraid to ask." Gerry smiles at the name, and Georgie finds herself mirroring it. "You look well. Jon will be happy to know."

Georgie sighs. "Actually... please don't tell him you saw me."

"Oh?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"I don't- we're not really talking anymore." Georgie shrugs. It's painful to say aloud, because Jon grows on you, with his rare smiles and his quiet gestures of love. Every time she lets him back in, it's a battle to rip him out.

"Huh. I thought he'd stayed with you last year while-"

"While the police looked for him, yes." Georgie crosses her free arm over her chest.

"That's... you do know he didn't do it, don't you?" Gerry frowns.

"Wouldn't have let him into my house if I didn't believe him. I just-" Georgie's gaze drifts towards the Institute. While it -like anything else, really- doesn't inspire any fear in her, she can hardly ignore what she knows about it. "I don't really approve of his decision to stay involved in all of this."

Before her, Gerry stiffens. "Excuse me, his what?" His eyes harden.

Georgie scoffs. "I'm not sure how long you've been here for, but Jon is very self destructive."

"Oh no, trust me, I know." The man shakes his head, and Georgie knows there's a story there. "But calling it his 'decision' is-"

"Listen, I'm not interested in discussing it," Georgie says, shaking her head. "I saw Jon recording his creepy stories even when he didn't have to, when I asked him to stop, and now Melanie's trapped here because-"

"Because you brought her here," the man snarls, and Georgie freezes.

"Excuse me?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous.

"Wasn't it you who told her where to give her statement? You're flinging a lot of bullshit accusations around for someone who doesn't even know-"

"Georgie?" Melanie's voice drips down on them colder than any rain could be. "Gerry? What's going on?"

Gerry's face does soften when he looks at Melanie, who descends the stairs and slips her hand into Georgie's like a reverse of the scene she just witnessed from across the street.

"Nothing. You should talk to her." He turns around then, and starts the walk back up the street, without a single look back.

"...What happened?" Melanie asks, squeezing her hand and looking up at her with a frown.

Georgie forces her body to relax, the man's last accusation still echoing in her mind. She looks back at Melanie, taking in the worried curve of her brows, the raindrops shimmering in her hair, the bags under her eyes from the nightmares. She loves her, Georgie thinks, she has for a while. Was this really all her fault?

"Melanie?"

"Yes?"

Georgie knows, really, that it is her ignorance as well as her lack of fear that has kept her somewhat safe from this world her loved ones move in; it's becoming increasingly difficult though, to stay that way. "I need you to tell me everything."

--------------------

"What are you thinking?" Melanie asks, reaching a hand to intertwine their fingers together. "It's a lot to take in."

"It's true." Georgie looks down at her cold, untouched meal, replaying Melanie's story in her mind. "If I hadn't suggested you give Jon your statement-"

"Elias would have found me some other way," Melanie says immediately. "I- it's not even like I was marked already when I first came to the Institute. I think what really matters is that I came back, once I was. It's- really, nobody forced me to go around looking for more ghosts, Georgie. I just had to know. The Eye... it really is subtle."

Georgie runs a hand through her hair. This is- all of this, it's too much. "Is there really no way to stop it?"

Melanie pokes at her own half-eaten panini. "Not- I mean, I'm not controlled by the Slaughter anymore. But I signed the contract. That's- as far as we know, we're trapped in there. Jon says he and Daisy sort of were human again when they were in the coffin, but that's another dimension. I don't think there's a way to break it, not while we're alive."

She mulls this over for a moment. So... so Jon wasn't just being difficult when he said he couldn't stop recording the statements, or when he got his hand burnt. He- it's like all the frustration she's been harboring towards him the past year has congealed into a viscous, disgusting knot at the bottom of her stomach.

'You don't even have the credentials to be the head archivist', Georgie had said. It's terrible to know that that's probably the reason why Jon was offered the job in the first place. Jon, who's always doubted himself, and overcompensates by throwing himself head-first into things. Almost too easy, like throwing a stray dog a sausage stuffed with crushed glass, and watching it die painfully because it gave in to the need to eat.

"You don't have to just... like him again, you know?" Melanie reaches out to lay her hand on Georgie's. "I don't. I just- this is Elias' game."

And yet the only thought in Georgie's mind is that she left the hospital room without saying goodbye, and the dozens of unread texts and ignored calls in her phone. The fact that they stopped coming, when it became clear they weren't well-received.

"I- let's talk of something else, please," Georgie mutters, nearly begs. Were the nights on her sofa the last peaceful rest Jon had? "Did- did I show you this picture of-"

"Georgie, you're shaking-" Melanie mutters, and Georgie's voice cracks. "I- tell me what's wrong. Please."

But she can't, can she? Distancing from Jon was the right decision, even he probably agrees with that. Still, Georgie can't get rid of the feeling that Jon was reaching out a hand while he drowned, and she just watched him go under.

"I just- I need a moment. Please."

She doesn't look up when Melanie moves her chair beside her, but Georgie does lean into her embrace. This at least she's sure of.

"All the time you need." Melanie says, patient in a way Georgie knows is non-existent with anyone else. "I'm here."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything feels different about statements, lately.

The ones at the Institute never feel like the ones he gets fresh off the source, of course, but even reading those old stale ones, or listening to Gertrude's recordings, bring forth a barrage of information that leaves Jon feeling as though he just finished a well-seasoned meal.

Exactly ninety-eight prisoners were 'freed' from the Japanese encampment by the Nemesis. A hundred and twenty two Japanese soldiers killed each other to the beat of the drums, and some of their hearts were still beating as their recently liberated prisoners stepped over their bodies to go meet the boats at the shore.

Leonard Holden's last thought, as he twisted Milton Gallagher's neck, was that the commander officer was right, and this was really just like killing chickens back at the farm. When the bayonet first stabbed into his back, he let out not a scream of fear, but the bestial bray of a pig after you slit its throat. He never stopped tapping his feet to the Piper's music.

He barely registers the sound of his door opening and closing, his eyes focused -but unseeing- on the tape recorder on the desk.

As Gertrude moves on with her suppositions, Jon can See the Spider's webs all over the Nemesis, obscuring it from those who could have fed more violence into its fire.

"Doesn't help with the Unknowing, though," Gertrude says, and Jon gives a bitter smile, leaning back against the wide, warm hand that comes to rest at his nape.

"I don't suppose it would." Jon brings a hand of his own to cup the back of his neck, and Gerry intertwines their fingers together.

"Dekker always did have fun ideas," Gerry chuckles.

"Gerard may have a connection to the Eye, but I'm not sure it's enough... besides, I must admit I've grown fond of the boy."

Oh shit.

Jon scrambles to stop the tape, but Gerry reaches it first, and puts his weight on Jon's shoulder to keep him from getting up.

"Gerry, don't-"

"I do wonder sometimes, if I should tell him about Eric. He might decide to follow in his father's footsteps, but it's not like it did Eric any good in the end... Anyway, point is..." Gertrude continues to ramble on, but Jon couldn't care less about what else she has to say as he pushes his chair back. Gerry's grip on his shoulder has grown lax, as he stares at the tape recorder in his hand with a raised eyebrow.

"Gerry-"

"What does she mean, my father's footsteps?" Gerry's eyes, confused and hurt, fix on his when Jon climbs to his feet. "Jon?"

"I- I don't know." Jon closes his eyes, but the Watcher won't volunteer any information. He digs harder, but is only shoved back with the same ferocity with which knowledge is forced into his head. "Gerry I- oh!"

When he parts his eyelids again, twin streams of ink are flowing down from Gerry's nostrils, and Jon wipes at them with his sleeve.

"Your shirt-"

"Stop it," Jon snaps. "What makes you think it will let you Know, if it won't let me? Sit- just stay still already!" he bats away at Gerry's hand, pulling and pushing at him until Gerry's sitting on his chair and Jon stands between his legs, dabbing at the still flowing ink. "Stop trying to-"

"Jon, I can't!" Gerry snaps, wrapping a hand around each of Jon's wrists to pull them away from his face. "Do you even- what does she mean?!"

"Gerry, I don't know." Slowly, very slowly, Jon moves his hands to cup Gerry's face; his eyes are still unfocused, his breathing wild, and the ink is starting to run down his neck. "Please stop. You're hurting yourself." Jon's voice is very nearly begging, but he couldn't care less because Gerry's eyes finally focus on him.

Gerry lets go of his wrists, and Jon's heart skips a beat when his hands come to rest at Jon's hips almost tentatively.

"Doesn't-" Gerry starts, then clears his throat when his voice comes out hoarse and rough. "It's not fun when it's someone else, huh?" he asks, his breathing still coming in long, shaky pulls.

"I- I suppose it's not." Jon slides his thumb over Gerry's cheekbone in an awkward gesture that he hopes transmits comfort. "Are you alright?"

Gerry gives a dry, humorless snort as he sits up on the chair, and Jon lets go of his face to give him more movement. "It's- she was fond of me, she says." Jon stiffens, when Gerry's forehead lands softy on his stomach. "Where was that when she was making my page?"

"...I don't know." Jon whispers, bringing his arms to rest across Gerry's shoulders. "I- there are a lot of things I don't understand about her."

Gerry's arms tighten around his waist. "Of course. Night and day." His voice is muffled against Jon's sweatert, his breath filtering through the fabric, searing hot against Jon's skin.

"You loved her." Jon says, not really asking what he already knows.

"It didn't matter, in the end." Gerry snorts again. It sounds like it did. Like it does.

Jon digs a hand in Gerry's hair at the base of his neck, a mirror of the gesture Gerry uses on him all the time.

"I think it matters. I- I don't think Gertrude could afford to care, Gerry, but these recordings- they were for her." She couldn't have expected anyone would find them in her mess of an Archive, for sure. "She cared for you."

Gerry flinches like the words are yet another blow, and Jon tightens his grip on him, this man who only ever wanted to do good with his life, and who was hurt in return every time.

This man who is his now, something dark and slithery whispers at the back of Jon's mind, to correct the damage, to protect and comfort, if only he was powerful enough.

It's really hard to ignore the Beholding, when it speaks Jon's thoughts aloud.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin waits until the woman leaves, before he heaves a long, tired sigh.

This is... Less than ideal. He gives the whirring tape recorder an accusing glare and a shake of his head.

"Don't just 'brrrrr' at me. What are you doing, Jon?" he snaps. "Are you just- preying on people now? What am I supposed to do with this?!" He can't give it to Basira or Melanie, they'll kill him before they give him a chance to explain. Martin runs a hand through his hair.

There is someone else isn't it?

It's a dreadful thought, but after talking to the- to Jon's victim, he feels human enough to realize it's the Lonely feeling it, not him. Gerard is... whatever he is, he's helping. With Jon.

Martin pockets the tape recorder, and locks the door to Peter's office before starting down the corridor. It's relatively easy to follow in the specific direction the Lonely doesn't want him to go, but Martin feels another, lighter pull against his destination that he suspects might be the Eye.

"Of course you'd prefer him to keep doing it, wouldn't you?" Martin grumbles, glaring at one of the carved eyes in the masonry. "Well-"

"Are you talking to yourself?"

"Jesus!" Martin flinches, turning in time to see a smug smirk spread over Gerard's lips. "Could you stop doing that?!"

Gerard lifts both hands in surrender, his smirk still there and not apologetic in the least. "Sorry, sorry. It works just fine to get a bit of color back into you, though."

Martin huffs. "Well, don't. Anyways, I was looking for you."

"You were?" Gerard raises an eyebrow. "Got another Extinction statement?"

"No, actually..." and now that Martin has him before him, he's not really sure of how to put this into words. "Its- Jon has been taking statements," he says, shoving the tape in his direction. That's probably easy enough to understand right?

"O...kay? That's his job, isn't it?" Gerard does take the tape, but he's still giving Martin a quizzical look.

"No, I- he's- Gerard, he's been looking for statements. From people who don't come to the Institute to give them." And that's when he seems to catch on, because he grimaces, and lets out a low whistle. Martin nods. "A woman came to my office today, he- I think he compelled her."

Gerard looks down at the tape in his hand, the slightest curl of distaste at his lips. "How did she look? Was she...?"

Martin sighs again. "Said she's been having nightmares."

"Yeah..." Gerard shakes his head slowly. "That tracks."

"I just thought... he'll listen to you," Martin says, every word a little sting in his chest.

"He'd listen to you too," Gerard frowns, "I know you don't want to talk to him because of your isolation thing, but I think it would be better-"

"He loves you," Martin says simply. Like ripping a bandaid, if ripping a bandaid felt like tearing your skin off. He misses the numbness of the Lonely a little, but it's very unlikely he'd be able to call on it right now, not with Gerard right here.

"Whoa!" Gerard's eyebrows shoot up again, and a nervous chuckle escapes his lips as if it's been punched out of him. Martin doesn't miss the color rising on his face, and his lips twitch. "That's- you don't know that."

Martin rolls his eyes. "Gerard-"

"Actually, can you not... call me that?" Gerard interrupts. "It gets on my nerves. Just... Gerry's fine, alright?"

"Oh." Martin blinks. "Okay? What does that have to do with this?"

"Nothing. I just- listen, I've spent every single moment since I was brought back to life hearing about how bad Jon has it for you." Gerry pockets the tape recorder, and Martin wonders if it's really alright, that they went from talking about Jon's victims straight to discussing which one he's in love with. Maybe Peter wasn't that far off when he called the Archives a soap opera. "And it's very frustrating when you keep being as obtuse as possible about it."

"I can't exactly do anything about that, can I?" Martin rolls his eyes. "I'm supposed to be isolating myself to- to save humanity or something, and like we established before, he has you, so-"

"There's more than one way to do these things, you know?" Gerry speaks over him, and Martin has to stop on his tirade due to choking on absolutely nothing. Gerry pats him on the back, and Martin bats his hand away, face burning.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Martin asks.

Gerry groans. "You're impossible. I'll talk to him."

He stomps down the stairs to the Archives, and Martin stays there, mortified, confused and a bit exasperated, which is apparently becoming his usual state after any interaction with Gerry.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"I know you've been feeding." Gerry says once they've sat down at the café, because there is probably not a good way to tell the man you're in love with that the man he is in love with had to come to you so you'd ask him to stop feeding on the fear of innocents.

Across the table, Jon pales immediately. "I- how?" he stutters out, and Gerry wants more than anything to reach over and lay a hand on his to reassure him, but there are things that must be said first. "Who told you?"

"Martin did. He... there was a tape. Apparently someone came in to complain." Gerry reaches inside his jacket, only to find that the pocket is... empty. "Huh. Wait."

He pats the other pockets, as well as the ones on his jeans just in case, but the tape is just gone. Gerry frowns, confused, until the very clear memory of a yellow door at the bottom of a drawer pops up in his mind, and he groans.

"Why- what would Helen want that tape for?" Jon asks, and Gerry frowns at him when his eyes start to give off the faintest green glow.

"Don't do that. That's exactly why we're here, Jon."

"I- yes. Sorry." Jon sheepishly lowers his gaze to the table. "I... know. I know I shouldn't have done it," Jon sighs. "I just..." his elbows come to rest on the table, and he buries his face in his hands. He looks... small.

There are places of power, for people aligned with the Entities. Mooreland Manor for the Lukases, Ny-Alesünd for the Dark's freaks, and Gerry can't even think about Hilltop Road without getting a headache.

The Archives are like that for Beholders; Elias is never as powerful as he is when sitting behind his desk, but Martin put him in jail and that means Jon is the biggest dog at the Archives now. Here at the little coffeeshop, however, apologizing for his very existence, Jon has never looked more frail. It's a relief, really. He doesn't know what he'd have done if Jon had reacted differently.

It means he's still Jon, even after all that's happened.

When Gerry reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder, he's half afraid Jon will crumble to pieces under his fingers. Instead, the man's desperate gaze is aimed straight at him, and Gerry's relieved to notice it's not the bright green of the Archivist's eyes, but the sweet dark brown that looks at him over the edges of books at home.

"I don't know how to stop it. I don't even know why I'm doing it. It's- I don't want to hurt people." Jon says in the strained tone of a confession. "I- before the coffin, I knew I would need the strength, it was for Daisy. But after that I've just- it even made the statements a bit better, because I can Know more things about them-"

"Makes sense. Feeding regularly would make you more powerful." Gerry observes. Jon flinches back like the words had been a strike, and Gerry gives him a sympathetic shrug. "It's what you're doing; it's what Avatars do. At least people survive when you feed from them."

"That's... not helping." Jon's face looks pinched.

"No. I don't suppose it is." Gerry squeezes at his shoulder.

"I just- maybe I can live off of statements alone from now on. It's- they don't really.... but it's better, isn't it?" Jon asks, with the same fervor of a child insisting they can fix the toy they just broke.

"You don't have to stop." Jon's eyes widen at his words, narrowing in suspicion just a moment later. Gerry rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes. You do have to stop feeding off of innocent people, that's not debatable. I wouldn't let you, either. It will only make you change faster, and I'd like to think that's not what you want."

"Of course not!" Jon snaps, shrugging Gerry's hand off his shoulder with an indignant huff. "I don't- that's the opposite of what I want!"

"Mhm. Thought so." Gerry nods. "Feed from willing people, then. People who won't be afraid of you." Jon's face is still fairly flushed after his little outburst, and Gerry has the sudden, very distracting thought that he would very much like to kiss him. But he's got a purpose, at least for now, and most importantly, he doubts it's the purpose the Eye had for him. "Feed yourself, not the Watcher."

"I don't- is that how it works?" Jon frowns.

"Maybe? It can't hurt."

"That's- I don't think people like that exist, Gerry. Should I only take statements from Institute employees now? Basira won't hear of it, and I won't ask Daisy or Melanie. I'm not going to-"

"Well no, not them." Gerry feels a smile tugging at his lips. Jon is ridiculously blind sometimes, for someone on the cusp of becoming quasi-omniscient. "Start me off, come on"

"...What?" Jon asks, and Gerry doesn't bother holding his grin back. "Gerry, what on Earth are you-"

"Yeah. You know...." Gerry schools his face into stern determination and forces his voice into a deep, affected accent. "Statement of Gerry Keay, regarding-"

"Are you crazy?!" Jon snaps. Gerry doesn't miss the new hungry, predatory gleam in his eyes. Maybe if Gertrude had reached this stage of becoming the Archivist, Gerry would've had an easier time mistrusting her; but then again he's literally just offered himself up as a meal for Jon, so maybe his self-preservation instinct is just not great. "I'm not going to take a statement from you!"

"Why not? I've got them in spades." Gerry shrugs.

"Haven't you heard what happens to my statement givers?!" Jon insists, but Gerry can see his hands shaking, white-knuckled around the edge of the table. A dog before a steak that he knows he's not allowed to have.

Gerry chuckles. "I have nightmares all the time, Jon. This would just be choosing which episode I get to watch. And honestly? Having you there will add a bit of novelty, if you ask me."

"Novel- are you mad?" Jon is shaking. Gerry wants to hold him close and whisper in his ear about the time he set a Vast avatar on fire. "Gerry, you don't want me in your dreams, trust me."

Gerry leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand with a smile. "Maybe I do, you don't know that."

"Gerry!" The result is just as he expected, Jon goes red from neck to hairline, and Gerry gives him a wink. "I- that's-"

"Oh my God, he's flirting with you, you absolute moron," comes a new voice from somewhere next to their table. "No wonder you never noticed Martin wanted your sorry ass."

Gerry turns to face the newcomer, and his mind flares with alarms when his eyes land on the man's and the only thing he can see is fire. He was marked by the Stranger once, and the Eye as well; both marks have been burned away though, and they remain in his soul only as a reminder, with no real pull over him.

"Coffeeshop date and everything, statement included? You're getting lucky, Boss." The man speaks again, fixing Jon with an amused smirk, like this is a shared joke between them. Gerry can feel the temperature rise around them however, and see the barely concealed anger in his eyes.

It's not a look Gerry specially likes on a Desolation avatar looking at his Archivist.

Jon's face that was so flushed with color just a minute ago has gone pale, and Gerry tenses in preparation for a fight.

"... Tim?" Jon's voice is soft, almost... hopeful. After a moment though, his brow furrows, and his next words are grave and laced with a compulsion so heavy Gerry can taste the resentment as the words flow into his core. "Are you the real Timothy Stoker?"

The man's face contracts into a bitter mask as the compulsion washes over him. His body stiffens and his shoulders tense as he tries to resist the pull, but he fails, of course.

"Thought I'd hate it less now, but it's still the fucking worst." The man rolls his eyes, letting out a huff of steam. "I am. At least as much as you're, you know... you."

"The Desolation claimed you-" Jon doesn't really ask now. "At the Unknowing?"

"Big fan of my work, it looks like." Tim shrugs. "They buried my remains you know? The Desolation turned the whole grave into a cremation chamber for me to wake up. Climbed out just like that; I think I'm made of ash now."

And… yeah, that would explain the random fires they've been hearing about.

"So- so you're..." Jon starts, stops and clears his throat. "You're what, an avatar now? You're lik-"

"Boss, if you say 'like me' I'm going to punch you," the man interrupts him, and Jon's face tightens in pained recognition, like the threat of violence is much more credible as a confirmation of this man's identity than a compelled confession.

Maybe it is, and Gerry feels a burst of unreasonable irritation at the way Jon looks at his former assistant like he's both a ghost and a miracle, when Tim looks at Jon like he's a bug he'd like to step on.

"Tim... why are you here?" Jon asks. The compulsion is subtler this time, but still there.

"Honestly?" Tim asks, like he has any other choice. "I'm not sure. When I woke up, I wanted to see how the others were. Martin at least. Melanie, maybe. And..." he purses his lips, but doesn't manage to keep the rest of the words in. "I wanted to hurt you, if you were still alive."

Gerry stiffens in his chair, ready to hop up as soon as the man moves too abruptly. Across him, Jon looks... resigned. Like he'd known the answer before he even asked the question.

"Ah. Yes I- I can believe that." Jon sighs. "Are you going to?"

"He can certainly try," Gerry responds before Tim can even open his mouth, because he's getting sick of seeing Jon grovel for this guy's abuse.

"Gerry-"

"I'm not a hunter, but I've put out some fires before." Gerry speaks over Jon this time, his eyes fixed on Tim. He makes sure to lean back on his chair, and leave his chest open. Show this man that whatever fear he came looking for, he's not going to find here. "Molina died just fine with a scalpel."

Tim frowns, and much to Gerry's displeasure, looks much more confused than he does concerned. Something seems to click in his mind, because his eyes go the size of saucers, and he whips around to face Jon again.

"Gerard Keay?! The Gerard Keay?" he asks, and now it's Gerry who's confused. How does- "You're getting your freak on with the angry goth that shows up in every other statement? Isn't he supposed to be dead?"

Oh.

"I don't think either of us have any right to criticize anyone for not staying dead." Jon frowns. Gerry feels his mouth dry up; that's not the part he expected Jon to take issue with. "Now answer the question, please."

"Oh? Why don't you try your thing again? Don't really want to know?" Tim arches an eyebrow in challenge.

Jon rolls his eyes. "I know what you think of me, Tim. I'm not going to-"

"You literally just did it."

"Because I didn't know if you were... something else!" Jon snaps "I wanted to know if you meant harm to anyone in the Arch-"

"Oh, so you're the watchdog now?" Tim takes another step towards the table, and Gerry's napkin begins to smoke. "You keep everyone safe, you protect them?" He asks. His words are laced with mockery, striking like a cracking whip.

"I try-" Jon stutters angrily, only to be interrupted once more.

"Well isn't that great? You're definitely good at that, Boss, it's not like you've gotten what? Four people killed already?" Tim snarls. Gerry puts his napkin out with a couple pats, but he finds himself realizing he's not too worried. Desolation avatars know how to destroy. Tim could probably send the entire shop up in flames so hot only he would survive it, but he clearly doesn't want to. "They must be so reassured that you're taking care of them, Martin must be over the-"

"Shut up!" Jon's voice cuts cleanly through Tim's, and Tim's mouth clicks closed as static builds up around them. "I'm- I tried Tim. I did- I am doing my best to fix what I did wrong. I'll be the first to admit I- I made mistakes. And I know you won't forgive me, but- but I'm done. I- I'm done with begging you. What was it that you told Elias while I was gone? Either kill me, or-"

"Or fuck off" Tim nods. His eyebrows are arched, and when he speaks again his voice carries a hint of reluctant admiration. "Grew a pair while I was away, huh? Bit too late. If you ask me."

"Tim-"

"Yeah. Yeah, whatever. I'm not... I should hurt you." Tim shrugs. It's stilted, too tense when he's trying to look casual. "But I don't want to. I think that part died too. The real me, you know?"

Jon's face goes from closed off to hopeful so quickly Gerry cringes a little. Whoever this man was -is-, he's... important, for Jon. Whether he likes it or not.

"So you-"

"I don't want anything." Tim rolls his eyes. "Well that's a lie. I want to destroy things. See the world burn and all, you know the drill. But I don't- Just stay away from me, Jon."

Jon flinches at his name, almost as if 'Boss' had been a quirky nickname and not some sort of mockery. Gerry guesses it could have been, and the thought makes him like it even less.

"Those are some bold words, when you were the one that came in here." Gerry arches an eyebrow, his hand balled over the smouldering napkin.

Tim rolls his eyes. "I figured I'd decide whether or not I wanted to melt his face off when I saw him," he says. "Wouldn't get too close if I were you. People who care for him don't end well."

He walks away without waiting for a response, and the air around them begins to cool down immediately. Gerry watches his back until the coffeeshop's door closes behind him.

"Do you want me to go after him? I can- Jon?" whatever he was going to add fades from his mind when he looks back.

If Jon had looked sad when apologizing for feeding, now he looks... miserable.

Gerry knows all too well he's not built for comforting people. He can protect them alright, but there's a lack of action inherent to comfort that always manages to make him feel like he's doing everything wrong, like he should be doing something to fix the problem instead of just being there.

Maybe it should've been Martin who brought Jon here, Gerry thinks bitterly, because he would fight the world for Jon, but what good is it if he cannot make things right?

"... Do you want to talk?" he asks. That's how this is done right? Communication, catharsis, comfort. He can't fuck up a simple formula.

Jon looks up at him, a hand buried in his tangled mess of hair. His eyes are still shiny, but less with the thrill of a potential statement, and more with something Gerry doesn't want to even think about.

"Tim was my friend," Jon says, and he seems to grow even smaller as he talks. "He moved to the Archives for me."

"Jon..."

"Guess this is the best outcome there could've been. At least he's free now."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin notices the melted doorknob as soon as he walks up to his flat door. It's not a great sign, probably, but also not something he's really in the mood for dealing with after the day he's had.

The Lonely kept coming and going at random today, and the complete numbness of it coupled with the bursts of intense emotion when he found his mind clear of it were exhausting.

"Whoever's in there-" Martin calls as he pushes the door open, careful to not touch the still warm metal "-I'm really tired. Please just say what you want, and go?"

The flat is completely dark, and Martin's eyes latch on to the two burning embers that he guesses belong to whoever came to kill-

"Dear, sweet Martin, telling the entities to behave. Things really have changed, haven't they?"

The voice crashes against him like a wave, terrifyingly familiar and entirely too disorienting; Martin leans heavily on the table by the door, knocking his mother's picture back. The warmth and the slight hint of humor contrasting with the raw bite of the words.

"T- Tim?" Martin gathers himself enough to flick the lights on, and sure enough there's Timothy Stoker, leaning by the door to his kitchen.

He looks exactly like he did the day he left for the wax museum with Jon; the scars from the worms littering his skin, the artfully messed hair, the confident curve to his lips. The only difference is his eyes, two burning coals in the middle of the much beloved face.

"Surprise," Tim says, elongating the word so much Martin can see the sarcasm bleeding off of it. "Turns out my old flat is not mine anymore, who knew? I'm going to need a place to crash for a while."

"I don't- how are you here?" Martin asks, still holding to the table for the stability that seems to have fled his world so suddenly. "You were- we buried you! Is- is it really you?"

"I had my doubts." Tim shrugs, making no move to get closer. "But I said I was when Jon asked, and it's not like I can lie to him, so I-"

"Jo- you went looking for Jon?" Martin's heart skips a beat. That can't be a good thing, that- "did you hurt him?"

Tim laughs at that, long and loud and bitter in rivulets of steam that raise from his parted lips.

"I should've known. No, Martin, I didn't hurt Jon." He says, his voice curling venomously at the name. "I wanted to. I really did. But when I was there, I-" his mouth moves around half formed words that he can't seem to give voice to, and his eyes flare up bright enough that Martin sees the glow even with the lights on.

"You couldn't." Martin blurts out when the revelation strikes, and Tim flinches. "I- that's- not that that's a bad thing, but Tim-"

"He compelled me, you know?" Tim spits out. "At the Unknowing. I was going to give her the detonator, but then he asked me to look, and I was so angry at him that everything was clear for a moment. And I killed us."

Martin takes a small, careful step towards him.

"You saved the world, Tim."

And Tim looks up at him, with a humorless smile.

"All I wanted at that moment was to kill him, her, and me, Martin. And I couldn't even do that." He pushes sharply off the wall then, and Martin restrains the urge to move back. "And I had him there today, he was practically begging me to do it, and I couldn't- why couldn't I kill him, Martin?"

He looks... devastated. Like the only certainty he had was just ripped from him and shattered before his eyes, and Martin has a moment to consider just how sad it is, that Tim depended so much on his hatred for the man whose friendship he treasured once. This new world has made strangers out of them all, empty husks that feed on resentment while yearning for a past that won't come back.

Martin takes a step forward, and then another, and another, and he only remembers Jack Barnabas' statement by the time his arms are closing around Tim, but it doesn't do much to stop him. Tim is in need of a friend, and Martin -or whatever is left of him that Gerry has managed to wrestle out of the Lonely- is the only one left.

Tim's arms come to wrap around Martin's back roughly, almost violently- Martin guesses that's now just as much a part of Tim as anything else.

"You melted my doorknob," Martin mumbles into the hug.

Tim snorts, and just for a moment, everything is right.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ouch," Basira grunts, and Daisy flinches back like she's been burned.

"Did I bite you? I'm sorry, I-"

"No, stop." Basirs lays a hand down on her head to still her, and Daisy looks up. Basira's rubbing at her with a pained frown on her face. "Something just fell on me."

Daisy scowls, but a look around the room reveals they're alone. "What-" she catches the corner of something black and shiny poking from between the sheets. "Is that a tape recorder?"

Basira groans, and Daisy pats her thigh with a sympathetic smile.

"I'll ask Melanie to talk to Helen about timing."