#sorry this was a little tangenty but I really wanted to get my point across that there was no other way this could be going

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 2/13/2024

writing cover letters like "Market Research Firm 953989464860, will YOU be my Valentine?"

also, a fallout 4 femslash fic for femslash feb

listening

Fresh Blood by the Eels off their 2009 album Hombre Loco. i would say this is another "i think a vampire probably wrote this low, grooving track" but there are several howls featured. wikipedia says it is about a werewolf. this song sounds like it has a simple bassline and simple drums but it knows what it's about. it's probably secretly really complicated but i specced in knowing about fabric, not about music.

it makes me want to ice skate really fast and also sounds like watching broken highway lane dividers go by late at night. fascinating that the back half of the four-plus minute song is fully instrumental. definitely a song for when you are traveling, or perhaps proceeding. spotify

Sun down on the sorry day By nightlights the children pray I know you're probably gettin' ready for bed Beautiful woman get out of my head I'm so tired of the same old crud Sweet baby I need fresh blood

i've been mainlining The Black Keys' album Brothers so it makes sense this popped up on my Discover Weekly spotify playlist

-

reading

in 2015, the year i dropped out of college, the closest comic/weird nerd shit store was a forty minute drive from my house. i bought the first issue of the serialized anthology comics magazine The Island bc i liked the Moebius-esque cover by Brandon Graham, before i knew who either of those artists were or that i liked them. i think it was ten bucks, and having to show my drivers' license really sticks in my brain for some reason. the point i am slowly approaching is that the magazine only ran for fifteen issues, and i didn't buy any other copies bc ten bucks a month was too dear for me, but it was a tremendous incubator for artists i would end up loving. about half the time i stumble across a lovely self-contained book that knocks my socks off i find out it started life in The Island.

All his life, Hank Cho wanted to join the ranks of the Habsec—the rulers of the orbital habitat his people call home. But when he finds a powerful, forbidden weapon from the deep past, a single moment of violence sets his life—and the brutal society of the habitat—into upheaval. Hunted by the cannibalistic Habsec and sheltered by former enemies, Cho finds himself caught within a civil war that threatens to destroy his world. A new barbarian sci-fi adventure by SIMON ROY (PROPHET, JAN'S ATOMIC HEART, Tiger Lung), originally serialized in ISLAND MAGAZINE.

Simon Roy's Habitat asks: do you want to hear a story about a generation ship gone wrong? this is a guy who really knows how to draw mechs and all their fiddly bits and loves doing it, which is a really transferrable skill to lovingly detailing the crumbling brutalist neo-mesoamerican architecture. the Habsec cannibals and their bits and pieces of scavenged armor blend in so well, it's genuinely shocking when we see someone in full, kept up, incredibly colorful armor. gorgeous, gorgeous book. love a fucked up generation ship.

found while perusing the stacks of the library that was closest to a bunch of other admin errands i was running, bc i finally have a tx drivers license and can start collecting tx library cards

-

watching

im also asking myself why the hell i'm watching yellowstone with my bestie and her husband. it has every trigger warning and a lot of them would make me decline the experience had i looked them up beforehand. however, the inevitablilty of each little tragedy feeding into the circular threshing maw that is the Dutton family is really clicking for me. like well! that mom sure did die in the most traumatizing way possible! and wow that really does go a long way toward explaining why the daughter is self-medicating to an alarming degree AND why no one else is doing anything about it bc they're all still mad at her for being very tangential to her mom's death!

the amount of Stuff that happens per episode is truly astonishing. one of my favorite parts of the ttrpg Beamsaber is the downtime between missions, bc you get to have some really bonkers interactions with people who don't usually interact. despite its huge cast, Yellowstone doesn't yet feel incoherent or like it's jumped the shark in its first season bc it's really successful at getting its huge cast to have unexpected interactions with each other. this sounds a little bit like praising it for knowing how to be good television, but this is a neowestern about a land grab that's also a familial dynasty drama that's really leaning into the familial dynasty part of it. it would be very easy for this to become incoherent or bad at switching between storylines, but so far it's really good at it. it's not beamsaber or black sails bc nothing will ever be beamsaber or black sails but it's really scratching that itch of many small rapidly shifting factions and rapidly shifting political goals bc each child is their own horrible little faction and they have a lot of time where they're trapped in cars or helicopters together getting around their ranch, which is simply too large.

we're trying to watch the yellowstone franchise in release order, and the yellowstone prequel with tim mcgraw came out between the first and second seasons. we will not be continuing this. this is a bog standard wagon train western. cripplingly boring after the brazen insanity of the first season. also i think it is in poor taste at best and irresponsible at worst to show a suicide on screen.

i said i don't know why i'm watching this but i do know why i'm watching yellowstone, and that's bc my bestie keeps seeing tiktoks about it. sometimes im influenced in real life

-

playing

changed my sheets this week and didn't chortle at the TOP OR BOTTOM tag which is how i know im having. a brain time. another way you can tell im having a brain time are these screenshots of the Breath of the Wild map. as you may or may not remember from last week, last week i had very little of the map filled out.

now is this EXPLORED? good heavens no. i have under 40 shrines DISCOVERED. i have simply beelined to each tower and went VERY fast. or was very sneaky. the three towers i have not bothered to climb yet are the ones i would have to actually fight some guys about. fuck the akkala tower for real.

i love to accidentally get way too close to dragons and die. some fun things about this run: incredibly, exceptionally rainy. except for the stint in the literal desert and the five minutes in the snowfield it has been raining about 70% of the time, which has made climbing very annoying. another fun thing about this run: exceptionally low ancient shaft drop rate, which makes getting ancient arrows to safely kill guardians from afar very difficult. bc as discussed above i have optimized this little blond boy to be very fast and very sneaky to get up the towers very quickly in the two minute spans of time it is not raining.

another fun thing about this run: not very good at successfully spitting out riders next to horses. you can only see the tip of spinch's hat bc he is underground.

i have unlocked the elephant and the falcon, i haven't gotten much farther than finding painkillers for the goron boss and stalled out at the yiga clan stealth mission. bc despite liking being a sneaky fast sniper out in the world, i fucking hate an enforced stealth mission. i don't think i ever got past this part in my other run either.

not jacked enough to unlock the master sword, i think you need twelve hearts? i would rather have more stamina so i can get faster horses + the princess's horse.

after i unlocked a bunch of towers i spent a goofy amount of time in the Lake Floria system herself hunting for treasure chests (there are easily fifty chests in the water. wild) to get the 10k rupees to unlock the last great fairy. i also spent several real-life hours video game mining video game ore. this was deeply annoying bc i sold off all my gems to get 10k rupees and then had nothing to get those sweet sweet high level upgrades with. this was the point on sunday night where i realized i was getting irrationally annoyed with a game that is supposed to be fun, and is NOT meant to support the kind of grinding i was doing. that was enough video game for one day thank you.

did you know there's a korok in the shrine of resurrection? me either.

also did you know magnesis ACTIVATES on the windmills in Hebra but i can't figure out how to get close enough to any of them to do anything about it. annoying.

this has got to be so funny from ganons point of view. i unlocked the elephant and the falcon in under a week of in-game time and then spent several in-game months mining and collecting clothes. would that make ganon more or less anxious d'you think

making

cross stitch update. this confetti in the rover square. i am dying. here’s what it will look like finished, and a link to buy the pattern

i had such high hopes for pin stitches as a thread finishing method but i had to rip out a mistake near a pin stitch and accidentally ripped out the entire pin and single confetti cross stitch. so what the fuck. i am an insane woman who likes to fully submerge and lightly hand wash projects before they get framed to remove all the oils (yes i wash my hands before stitching, i do get paranoid) and i am not confident pin stitches will hold up to that. oh well. the loop method is pretty great in halving the number of ends i have to weave in, even though i feel like it is extremely wasteful and leaves me with lots of short useless lengths my cats would love to eat. so the gains from halving thread management are really not offset by the meticulous cat management i must embark upon every time i do my fun relaxing hobby.

and the back, which is a horror. and will only become more of a horror. but once this is framed no one will actually see it so it's FINE. i am FINE with this. i started this knowing there was going to be lots of confetti. that's the point of this masochistic pattern

i wrote the first chapter of this fic last summer and outlined the emotional beats (but not much else) while procrastinating moving and have finally lightly polished the first chapter and threw it on the archive. im trying to let things molder less and just fucking post them in the hopes this activates the writing part of my brain again but who could say what's going on up there. this is still something that hasn't quite returned to me post-covid round 2

this will eventually be an E-rated 5+1 fic fixing all the fucking bullshit around Cait Fallout4's companion quest. she will NOT go in the magic chair that tortures her into not being a junkie and being the perfect waifu. she is going to stumble backwards and accidentally into some harm reduction and get railed by a mean top. the mean top and the harm reduction won't fix her but they certainly won't hurt.

[27emailsicantsend]

Hypothetically if EJ stays in SaltLake, do you think there is a chance of the love triangle being dragged till season 4? More knowing it's creating a lot of buzz...I'm worried, more knowing the director loves to cut scenes

Honestly, no I don’t. First of all, I think this last episode was really the shows way of saying this ship is done, “it’s sunk”, “there are no fireworks”, etc. I actually appreciate that they made Gina blatantly say “is that a metaphor?” when EJ said they needed to wait for fireworks because I think the show runners knew there would be some audience members who would be very stuck on the fact that P*W had a redeeming chance. Saying things like EJ was under a lot of stress so it’s not fair that Gina breaks up with him or that he still has room to learn, etc. I think the show is trying to portray that regardless of what had happened there were no fireworks. Either from EJ or Gina or both. That the chemistry had lacked from the beginning.

There is a reason that the show made EJ Hans in Love is an Open Door or “there for the wrong reasons” in episode 5. He was not there to be Gina’s final love. He was there to give Gina her series of firsts. She clearly stated she never does things right the first time… EJ is that first time. First kiss, first boyfriend, etc. She’s been clear that he’s her firsts. Not only this, but like Ricky needed to see that was he believed was the very best option for him at the time (Nini) was never going to pan out that way, Gina needed to see that too. She was hurt by Ricky (I think a lot of this had to do with some misunderstanding on Ricky’s end in that flashback and barely getting back into a relationship with Nini, thinking he would never seen Gina again…. So if he HAD turned around and went back to Gina that would not be a good look on him… but I digress) so she felt like EJ was the better, safer option. He showed up originally when Ricky didn’t to the airport so this felt right. The safe option (the back of the plane like Jack said). But now she is seeing what she believed was the best, safest option was just quick, temporary love. It was to try to fill this missing piece of her and EJ seemed like the right candidate. But he never was. Now Ricky and Gina have gone through their own sets of seeing that what they believed was the right option for them, never was. That there was someone better that would be the fulfilling piece of their heart, their character arc.

I think they’re done in the next two episodes because of this. Because the show blatantly told us there was no overlapping excuse for their relationship not working out… simply put: the “fireworks” or the chemistry wasn’t THERE. It was rose-colored glasses and a bandaid to patch up love that she so desperately wanted after feeling burned by Ricky. When the chemistry isn’t there, it doesn’t matter what happens to the characters at any point. They know that “thing” that makes you fall in love is gone and it’s not something that can be produced or created later. Chemistry just happens and if it’s there it’s there and if not… then they aren’t the person for you. It’s got to be there from the beginning. And even if by some miraculous chance they make it to S4, they won’t last. Again, because the show told us there was nothing that could be redeemed for them. I think EJ having those scenes with Miss Jenn was not only to foreshadow him taking a job from her, but also to show the next stage of life, of people, that his arc is going to be centered around. It would be wrong and biased for him to be Gina’s teacher. (Not only because of age and power dynamic, but because Gina literally told him in episode 3 that she was HAPPY he didn’t cast her because it would feel unfair… she told the audience she doesn’t want this!) EJ is an adult now and the show is pushing him to be with the adults, which means no more P*W.

[twopoppies]

I have a question that has been bothering me for a while, but I’m afraid it will come across as rude. I don’t mean it in that way, I am just a bit ignorant and trying to understand things better. I am not a part of the lgbt+ community, but I’ve been a Larrie for 3 years and I have learned a lot in that time. Something I won’t ever be able to understand though is how certain things make members of the community feel. For instance, my question is: if Harry WAS NOT gay (as we are supposed to believe I guess) is him dressing up in boas and pride flags every night not a little bit like… offensive? Wouldn’t it kind of be like cultural appropriation a little bit? I mean we obviously assume that he is gay, so it feels like self expression, but if we took it at face value is it not a little odd? And, my real question that I feel is rude but is just my ignorance and I’m so sorry: if he can do all that on stage, is it really too far of a leap to come out publicly as well? I know that’s an awful question, I understand NO ONE should come out for others comfort and that it’s a different complex thing for each person. It just seems like if he’s doing all this he seems pretty comfortable in himself. Sorry I have just wondered this for so long. Please don’t answer if you feel I am being rude. I don’t mean it that way! I didn’t know who else to ask. Thanks Gina.

Hi darling. It's not rude. I understand where you're coming from. It's not a simple question to answer. The clothes, in general, I don't see as being offensive regardless of his sexuality, but there are moments (like last night with the big sunglasses and the boa and the limp wrist) where he's clearly being very effeminate and if he were straight, it could be read as him mocking gay men. The flags are different, people who want to believe he's straight think he's an "ally", and the LGBTQ+ community feels seen and knows that no straight man is THAT committed to being an ally. He's not doing anything offensive with them IMO.

The thing is, doing all of this on stage or in magazines is so different from actually coming out and stating beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's gay/queer/part of the community in some way that means he sleeps with men. People who don't want to see that truth can hide behind things like "he says he's unlabelled!" "he's dating Olivia!" "watermelon sugar is about pussy!" "he looked at me when I said choke me daddy!" even though over and over and over he has signaled that he's not that person. But those people will still buy his album and go to his concerts and funnel money into the Harry Styles™ machine because they get to hold on to their fantasy.

The minute he makes it clear that he's not what they want him to be, many of those fans willdisappear. Look how many supposed die-hard larries hate him now because they've decided he's not who they thought he was. No one who makes money off of him wants him to come out. They're making millions by encouraging him straddle the fence. But how long do you think he can continue like that? 11 years of pretending to be someone you're not, while the articles about you and the fan behavior towards you are just getting worse? He's going to crack at some point.

Sorry, that was a bit tangential, but coming out is so much more than just knowing a portion of your fans will still support you.

[omgreally]

The Apprentice Read on AO3

Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader Rating: E for Explicit, Of Course Wordcount: 5k+ Summary: Peli Motto took you off the streets of Tatooine to become one of the best apprentices she's ever had - but honestly, the DUM droids are setting the bar pretty low. Still, you work out well for the first few months until an armored Mandalorian stranger lands with a busted-up ship and a strange magic baby and, well, you're intrigued. Even though you know you shouldn't be. Peli's always teling you to keep away from anything hot but sometimes, to fix something, you have to stick your hand straight into the fire.

Chapter One  - The Arrival

“Hey, Peli! We got some hunk o’ junk requesting to land. Want me to tell him where to shove his rusty old comm signal?”

The older woman cranes over your shoulder as you swivel in the rickety chair in front of the array of control and communication panels. You’ve been working at Hangar Three-Five for a few months now, and you know it takes all sorts of ‘customers’ to keep a place like this running - but honestly. You’re surprised the wreck requesting the bay can even fly.

You’re even more surprised when Peli takes one look at the screen and shoves you out of the chair, hastily pressing the transmit button.

“Clearin’ you to land, Razor Crest,” she says hurriedly. “Sorry for the delay.” She takes her hand off the button and straightens to glare at you. “Never assume like that again, Girl,” she says,  using your least favourite nickname for you. “That hunk o’ junk just might be my favorite customer.”

You gape at her as you brush off your coveralls. “You serious, Peli? I mean - are you sure, ma’am? I couldn’t even see a transponder code from that...vessel.” You choose your words a bit more carefully now, reminded that while Peli has a heart of gold, she has the temper of a Tusken.

“I’ve been workin�� in this hangar since you were a babe sucklin’ at your momma, Girl,” Peli says, pointing a wrench at you. “You’d do well to listen to me more’n you do.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” you sigh, looking down at the ground.

“Now, go on to the market, why don’tcha, and pick us up somethin’ for dinner. You may have a head thick as bantha hide, Girl, but at least you’re better at negotiating than the Dums.” You wince. You know you’re just an apprentice, but damn if it doesn’t sting whenever Peli compares you to the droids.

It’s not that you don’t like them. They just...creep you out a little. Soulless little machines, scuttling around as if they’re alive when they’re just - not. Whoever invented droids was one sick carosi pup.

Peli hands you a pouch of credits - the amount of which is dwindling daily. You wonder if the engineer’s eagerness to house this beaten-up old scupper doesn’t have something to do with their lack of funds. You consider offering to forego your wages until things are better - Peli has shown you incredible kindness, taking you in off the street when your next best bet was working as a dancing girl in one of Mos Eisley’s less reputable cantinas. Who knew where you woul’dve ended up after that. You prefer this, even though it’s hard, physical work, and you’re often up to your elbows in engine grease and covered head to toe in grime and oil.

Who knew starships were so dirty.They make sense, though, and you quickly proved that you had an aptitude for it. For pulling things apart and putting them back together again, but working. You’ve fixed busted motivators and blown capacitors that even left Peli scratching her head. You suppose that, rather than sentimentality, is why she keeps you around.

Either way, your life is pretty comfortable, now. Boring, but comfortable.   You hope the credits situation isn’t going to change that.

How little you know.

---

You wander through the market, credits pouch too light in your pocket as you peruse the food stalls. You really don’t feel like dried krayt jerky a hundredth night in a row, so you’re glad Peli sent you out, but you are struggling to find something that is a) appealing and perhaps more importantly, b) affordable.

You end up in a heated argument - no, discussion - with a Toydarian over some deep-fried gorg before you give up, your temper and your impatience too piqued to settle on a decent price. You calm yourself with a trip past a stall selling all manner of imported cloth and fabrics: beautiful, delicate things, things you are not. A scarf made of deep blue silk that shimmers iridescent in the harsh sunlight catches your eye. You pause, running your fingers over it, your dirty, chipped nails a contrast to the smooth, satiny surface. 

“It would suit you, pretty girl,” says a deep, male voice. You look up into the eyes of the stallholder. He’s a surprisingly handsome man, tall, with dark skin and hair and muscles bulging from a vest that seems tactically selected to show off as much of his bare chest as possible. For someone selling fabric, he’s certainly not wearing a lot of it.

“Sorry,” you say, taking your hand back. “I haven’t got enough credits for something like that.” The ‘pretty girl’ rankled you. You’re aware, tangentially, that underneath the layers of grease and oil you have features that some might consider comely, even attractive, and your body was good enough to catch the attention of some of the seedier businessmen when you were on the street. But it is the assumption itself that you are nothing more than your face and your body that bothers you. 

“Suit yourself, gorgeous,” he calls after you as you walk away, back towards the smell of roasting meat. “I’ll be here if you change your mind!”

You grab a few deep-fried gorg from the Toydarian after all, a bottle of blue milk, and head back to the hangar in a thoughtful mood.

---

The ship has already landed by the time you get back.

It looks like it’s falling apart at the seams. In fact, you can spot several missing panels from the ground. Up close, you’re even more astonished that it managed to fly.

The ramp is stuck half-down, and you stand on your tiptoes to peer inside. It doesn’t look much better in there than on the outside. Dingy durasteel, crates all over the place, pathetic excuse for a hold, really. How can this be Peli’s ‘favourite customer’? It looks like it needs a complete teardown. Not even a rebuild, just...tear it down. It’s not even worthy to be a garbage hauler, it’s only suitable to be the garbage getting hauled. It-

“Like what you see?” 

You almost drop the bags of food and produce and manage to avoid most of it flying everywhere, save for a single pale blue pika fruit that escapes and rolls across the ground to land against the stranger’s boot. You scuttle forward to grab it, and your hand is intercepted by a gloved one, yellow fingers closing around the fruit and lifting it from your view.

You straighten and look up, up, up into the Beskar helm of a Mandalorian.

“Oh,” you say in a very small voice. Now you understand.

You’ve heard and seen tales of Mandalorians - quite a legendary one lived here for a time, not that long ago - and some of those tales were from Peli herself. She’d never mentioned that she knew one, though. 

This one is about the same as you imagine a Mandalorian to be. Armored from head to toe, no part of him visible, his eyes shielded by the inscrutable blackness of the T-shaped visor in his helm. 

He can probably see everything, though, from your heartbeat down to the anxious flush in your skin as he steps toward you and says “Here.” He slips the pika fruit back into your bag and you nod, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat.

“Thanks.”

You stand there awkwardly for a moment while he just stares at you, as if he’s a droid himself, scanning you up and down through that damn visor. You clear your throat and cock your hip, placing your hand on it and raising your eyebrows.

“Is this your ship”?” You tap your knuckles against the hull behind you, miraculously not making another panel or part fall off. “What did you do to it?

“What?” His stance changes a little; he stands up a little straighter, his shoulders set, his hands hanging down by his sides with a little more purpose than before. Posturing, you think, that’s all it is, although you’re now a little nervous as you answer.

Because he is broad. Broad and well-built, if the fit of the armor is anything to go by. He could crush your head like a pika fruit without even trying.

Still, it has to be said, for a ship like that...“It looks like it’s about to fall apart,” you say, trying for diplomatic, but by tempering your vehemence it just sounds like you’re complaining. 

The Mandalorian shrugs. “That’s why I brought it here.”

“Well, Peli is the best mechanic on Mos Eisley,” you capitulate, and you relax a little, enough to walk past him towards the control room. “I’m just surprised she’s not so picky with her clientele.”

“From what I hear, she can’t afford to be.” That stops you in your tracks. The Mandalorian has followed you, of course, and he’s right behind you as you enter the building and head to the kitchenette to put away dinner. 

“You shouldn’t listen to everything you hear, Mandalorian,” you say as you unpack the bag of measly meat, fruit and vegetables you managed to get. It goes all in the cooler for a later barbeque. That is one of the things you enjoy most about being here - sitting with Peli in front of a makeshift campfire, cooking and talking. Not about anything in particular, just...talking.

“Well, if I’m wrong, I can just take my ships and my credits elsewhere,” the Mandalorian says with a shrug. It’s then you notice that he has a pouch he’s holding up, and it hangs heavy and clinks promisingly when it moves. You lick your lips nervously, hoping you’re not about to fuck up some big deal Peli has struck with this bounty hunter warrior.

Hoping you’re not about to be shot by this bounty hunter warrior.

“For example, I know the upkeep costs around here have risen recently,” he says, letting the pouch sway back and forth, and your eyes follow it like hypnosis. “Thanks to Peli taking on an apprentice…”

You sigh. “How much?”

“Five thousand.”

You do some quick maths in your head. “Might not cover any major components that need replacing, but it’s a start. You’ll have a vacuum seal again at least.”

“Good.” The Mandalorian tosses you the pouch and you catch it with both hands. It feels heavier than five thousand, but you’ll give it to Peli first. Speaking of - where the hell is Peli?

“There, how does that feel? Look at you, who’s a handsome li’l womp rat? You are!” 

You have never heard Peli talk to anyone like that. You and the Mandalorian follow the sound of her voice out into the control room, and you find her cradling what looks like a small, wrinkled green baby, a creature with the face of a frog and ears of a bat, slightly damp and wrapped in what looks like-

“Is that - my shirt?” you ask, horrified. The creature blinks and coos at you.

“Had to give Grogu here a bath and I didn’t have any clean towels. So I borrowed your shirt. Look how cute he looks in it!” Peli tries to hand you the creature but you step out of the way. This is not how you saw your day going.

“Look, the Mandalorian here wants us to fix his ship,” you say. “He’s giving us five thousand.” You set the pouch down on the control panel. “I’m pretty sure it can be done, but if there are any busted capacitors or modulators that need fixing, that bill’s gonna go way up.”

“It’ll do,” Peli nods. “Meantime, I’ll look after this little guy. You even give him a bath last time I saw you? Don’t answer that, Mando.” Mando. So that’s what they call him. He doesn’t even have a name, just a shortening of  his title.

“Guess I’ll get to work on the ship,” you grumble, rolling your eyes as you head back out into the hot Tattooine suns.  Boring but comfortable. Yeah, right.

---

If this generates some interest I may continue to post chapters here! Otherwise, go ahead and read on AO3.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

“who are you?”

prompt: “who are you?”

whumpee: nick burkhardt

fandom: grimm

hi im back on my grimm bullshit this time with some torture! sorry for posting this so late in the day i was out and didn’t have enough time before to post. i edited beforehand but there is a chance some stuff might be weird idk and i am too tired to bother looking it over again.

His hands are tied up behind him, so tightly that they’re starting to go numb. His legs are tied up, too, but separately, each to the one of the legs of a chair. There is a thick blindfold covering his eyes, again tied far too tightly for him to have any hope of getting it off (he’d tried. Several times. But nothing had happened). 

Nobody’s here. He supposes they must be coming, though. People don’t generally get tied to chairs and blindfolded for no reason. 

He wishes he knew where he was. Who had taken him. He’d been exploring an old house, off the record, for reasons barely tangential to the actual case he was working. As far as he’d known, it didn’t belong to anyone, and no one in particular was using it, so he’d thought it’d be safe. 

He supposes it could still be. Just because being in that house is the last thing he remembers doesn’t exactly mean that it’s the last place he’d been. Whoever has him could have grabbed him from anywhere. Which is decidedly not a comforting thought. 

Finally, he hears a door open and close. He figures whoever it is isn’t going to be anyone pleasant, but at the very least they’re a sign that something is happening. Maybe they’ll tell him what’s going on.

He hears the person approach, heavy, even footfalls and steady breathing. Someone well acquainted with people tied to chairs, presumably. They say nothing. Just stand in front of him. Nick pictures eyes scrutinizing him, calculating. He wonders whether it isn’t better that he can’t see.

“Who are you?” he asks, after he becomes sure that several minutes have passed. The person still has said nothing, hasn’t moved. It’s a little creepy and entirely too suspenseful. If they’re going to do something to him (which they have to, he figures), the least they can do is get on with it. 

In answer to his question, he hears something slosh, and scarcely has time to wonder what it is before freezing-cold water is poured onto his head. He coughs, sure for a second that they’re going to waterboard him, but nothing else touches his face. He shivers. 

“What the hell was that for?”

No answer. 

He sits there, dripping, trying to figure out what the game is here. He has to admit, pouring water on someone doesn’t sound like the most effective torture technique out there. He’s cold, sure, but that’s it. There must be something worse coming, he thinks. 

And there is. 

At first, it doesn’t seem so bad. He feels metal prongs poke into his neck, and then a jolt of electricity that moves his whole body. This happens a few times. It’s fairly exhausting, but not extremely painful, though being wet definitely isn’t doing him any favors. 

Eventually, the shocks stop coming, leaving him shaking, whether from the electricity or from the water, he doesn’t know. Presumably both. 

“Wh-who are you?” he asks again, through chattering teeth. If he just knows who they are, maybe he can reason with them, tell them what they want to hear…

No answer. “What do you want?” he tries. Still, nothing. 

Someone punches him in the stomach, which is...unexpected. They hit him a few more times before stopping abruptly, like they’ve changed their mind. 

Which he supposes they have. He’s hit again, across the chest, but definitely not with a fist. It feels...like some kind of pipe, maybe? Definitely metal. It makes a sort of hollow clanging sound every time it hits him. He tries to think of other things about the pipe. Maybe it was from a plumbing system, or maybe left over at a build site...anything to distract himself from how it feels slamming into his torso, over and over, each time causing him to lose his breath, barely able to catch it before the next hit is coming. It’s a dull kind of pain, but it hurts more than the shocks had, and he can’t stop himself from making occasional noises of pain. He’d ask them to stop, too, if he had the breath to do it. 

Like they’ve read his thoughts, the beating stops. It takes a moment for that to sink in, as his body feels so raw with the pain that for all he can tell they may very well still be hitting him. But it must stop, because he hears the pipe clatter to the floor. 

Everything just aches. He tries to take a deep breath, feeling it catch in his throat with a kind of choking sound. It hurts. His whole torso throbs in time with his heartbeat. 

“What…” he tries to ask, but the person slaps him across the face, sharp in contrast to the pain in his torso, and he feels tears well unbidden in his eyes. Shutting up, he thinks. I got it. 

The water comes back, for a split second welcome against the burning in his face and the aching in his torso. Then it’s just cold. He shivers, feeling the movement interact unpleasantly with his injuries. 

Then they stab him. He doesn’t even feel it at first. Not until the warmth of his blood becomes noticeable against his cold skin. Then he feels it. Shallow and thin, but definitely a stab, into his right shoulder. It burns.

Evidently, the knife is not done being used with just the one stab. Nick feels it trace a slow pattern across his face, and then cut a thin line from the corner of his right eye down to the middle of his cheek. It’s actually not that painful. 

And then the knife is back, tearing cuts through his shirt until he’s sure the fabric must have turned red. Each cut on its own doesn’t hurt too much, but all together they do. Several of them are right across the area on his torso where they’d beaten him with the pipe. These ones present an especially intense pain that makes him wish that they’d knock him over the head just a little bit too hard. Unconsciousness is sounding really good about now…

Another round of water is dumped over his head, stinging unpleasantly on his new cuts. Then they punch him in the jaw, and then again on either side of his face, sending his head from one direction to the other entirely too quickly. They finish off the punches with a powerful one to his already battered and cut torso, which makes him scream for the first and only time. He takes a shuddering breath that turns into something like a sob, and can’t stop himself from muttering, “please...stop.”

They...listen? He feels his legs get untied, though he’s in too much pain to use them to kick out at his captor. Then he’s being lifted, his arms never getting untied, just moved upwards until they clear the back of the chair. He feels his body get thrown over someone’s shoulder with a jolting pain that makes all of his injuries hurt at once, and then something is held over his mouth and nose and he doesn’t try to fight it at all, just breathes in as deeply as he can and willingly falls into unconsciousness. 

--

He wakes up confused, shivering, cold, aching, still tied up, still blindfolded, lying on something that feels like dirt. He focuses his ears above the blood pounding in his head and hears a bird caw, hears distant cars. He’s outside. He’s free. 

The ropes around his wrists are looser now, and he manages to wriggle his hands free, feeling his wrists grow slick with blood. 

As soon as he gets a hand free, he’s reaching up to tear off the blindfold, noting with discomfort the pulling feeling on every single injury on his torso. It comes away, and...he still can’t see. Because it’s night, he reminds himself, blinking hard. A few stars twinkle in the sky, and faint moonlight comes through a cloud. He turns his gaze to his surroundings as he unties his ankles. 

He’s on a dirt path, surrounded by trees. They grow denser to his right and seem to disappear to his left. He hopes that means there’s a road, rather than some kind of cliff. 

He slowly gets to his feet, legs shaking underneath his weight. His body aches, and it feels like the hardest task in the world to just take a step, but once he starts walking it gets a little easier. He curls an arm protectively around his torso and starts off at a slow limp for the edge of the trees. 

A road. He’s never felt luckier in his entire life. It’s a fairly small road, with no cars on it and no lights on in any of its buildings, but it’s a road, and that means people, somewhere. People that can hopefully help him.

He looks around, squinting in the darkness, shivering in the cool nighttime air. There are no visible landmarks, just vague shapes that might be buildings or might be nothing at all. He wishes that the clouds would uncover the moon. 

Which they do, after a time. The moonlight reveals nothing but an empty stretch of road and a solitary billboard. Great, he thinks, and then he looks at the billboard again and realizes that he knows it - he’d driven past it earlier, on his way to the house he’d been exploring. It can’t be far, then. He doesn’t know whether he should really go back there, but it’s the only familiar thing he can think of, and familiarity sounds pretty damn good, so he sets off. 

At some point, he passes the billboard. The moon disappears back behind the clouds, and when he turns around he can’t see the billboard at all. He wonders for a horrible second whether or not he’s delirious and imagining things, and then he sees lights up ahead. He goes towards them instinctively, not particularly caring who they might belong to. He’s nearly gotten close enough to make out distinct figures when he hears footsteps behind him, and the sound of a gun clicking. 

He raises trembling hands into the air, hoping he’s not about to get killed after all of this. 

“Who are you? Turn around slowly,” says a voice, and Nick knows that voice. He’s safe. 

Any adrenaline that might’ve been in his body leaves it all at once, and he collapses to the ground, which hurts quite a lot, but the relief of lying down more than makes up for it. 

Until he feels a gun press into his back. 

“Stop, stop,” he mutters, hoping he’ll be heard. “‘S me. ‘S Nick.”

“Nick?” 

He nods jerkily, face scraping against the asphalt. The gun leaves his back, and he feels himself get turned over, then finds himself looking directly into the face of his boss. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful to see the man in his life.

Renard is still for a moment, kneeling in front of him on the ground, looking him up and down. 

Nick waits for him to finish doing...whatever the hell it is he’s doing and ask him what had happened. But the question never comes. Instead, Renard very gently helps him up into a sitting position. Then he pulls off his jacket, and Nick wonders what he’s doing, because it’s really cold out here, and if he had a jacket on right now, he wouldn’t take it off for the world. 

And then there is a jacket on him, Renard’s jacket, too big but incredibly warm and dry, and he burrows himself into it as much as he can, grabbing its edges and pulling it tighter around his body. 

“What’s happening?” he hears someone say from above him. He resolutely does not look up at them, in fact scrunching his eyes shut. He really doesn’t want to share anything with anyone at the moment.

“I found him,” Renard says, and Nick experiences a shocking array of emotions in a few seconds as he realizes that there’s people out here who were looking for him. “Or, he found me.”

There’s a bit of chatter that he doesn’t really focus on, and then Renard’s hand is on his shoulder, and he’s asking whether Nick wants to tell them about it.

He really doesn’t. He shakes his head, feeling slightly overwhelmed as everything that had happened to him starts to sink in. 

“Okay, that’s fine,” Renard says, which is definitely not what Nick is expecting him to say.

His next statement is not addressed at Nick. “Clear up,” he says, and Nick hears feet moving away. “Thank you all for your help, but Detective Griffin and I have it handled from here.”

Hank.

Nick hears another pair of feet approach and opens his eyes, relieved when the only people he sees are his Captain and his best friend. 

“Hey,” Hank says, sounding concerned but not pitying. “How are you doing?”

Nick shrugs. “Cold,” he says. “Wet...achy. Pain.” Not the most coherent sentence he’s ever uttered, though he figures it gets his point across well enough.

“I bet,” Renard says, rather gently. “We’ll get you to the hospital, and they’ll fix all that for you.”

He nods. The hospital...actually sounds pretty good, for once. He feels someone pick him up, very gently, though it hurts like hell anyway. 

He finds himself in the backseat of Renard’s car, lying down with his head across Hank’s lap. He’s pretty good for a makeshift pillow, Nick decides, as Renards starts the car. 

A short drive later, he’s being picked up again, and he watches with unfocused eyes as various doctors hurry up to their little group. Someone comes up with a gurney, and then he’s being set down onto it, and then he’s moving and Renard and Hank aren’t there, which is a scarier feeling than he’d like to admit, but then something pokes into his arm and everything fades away.

--

He wakes up hurting less, feeling rather warm and very much dry. He feels a bandage on his face, another on his shoulder, something wrapped around his torso…

“You awake?”

He blinks his eyes open and looks around for a second, until he sees Hank. He gives him a tired smile, which Hank returns. 

“Feeling better?”

Nick nods. “Much,” he says. “Thanks.”

“No thanks for me?” comes a voice from his other side. 

Nick turns around carefully, eyes landing on Renard, standing next to the bed with what looks like two steaming hot cups of coffee in his hands. 

Renard must catch Nick’s eye, because he steps around the bed and hands one of the cups to Hank, pulling the other close to himself. “Sorry, no coffee for hospital patients,” he says, almost smiling. Nick gives him the same tired smile he’d given Hank. 

“How long until I’m not a hospital patient?”

Renard sighs. “A day at most. Nothing required stitches, but they’d like to keep you for observation for a while.”

Nick nods. “Thanks,” he says, figuring Renard will understand he doesn’t just mean thanks for the information.

Renard nods. There’s silence for a second.

“Nick…”

He knows what’s coming. 

“I’ll file a report,” he assures his boss. “Just...not until I’m out of here.”

“Okay.”

He’s immensely grateful that neither of them presses him to talk about it any further. He will talk about it, he knows, and it’ll be fine, but for the moment, everything’s a little too raw and he’s a little too tired to be able to do it.

His eyes slip closed, and he hears Renard leave. Hank doesn’t move, staying right where he is, and Nick knows this means he’s safe, so he gives in to sleep.

thanks so much for reading!! love u <3

[yuvon-writes-letters]

To, Yu

Okay, I was gone, and the moment I came back, i [The sentence randomly stops]

I’m, not upset at the fact you lied, i actually had an inkling for awhile now while you were describing the rooms for the first time, it looked like you wanted to continue, but stopped yourself at the last second. I understand why you lied, seeing all of those things must’ve been hard, but Lis and I can’t help you if we don’t know anything, ok Yu?

It sounds like, you found ways out, but both are, not good for you? I don’t know, my brain’s all fuzzy and I can’t comprehend words right, maybe I’m getting something wrong.

My point is, when you build up the guts to, please please please explain to us, or at least me, on what’s in that North room, I don’t care if it’s bad we need to know everything we can about the realm so [The sentence stops again]

Sorry, I’m just, kind of on the edge. Of course you don’t have to tell me now, but

If, it’s not intruding on personal space, what the hell happened between you and Jake? I’m assuming that Jake lied about something, but I don’t think we would do any good if there’s bad blood between the two of you. I sent my Jake the letters too, and he agrees as well.

We’re both worried about you, so, don’t hide anything, alright? [The rest of the text is blacked out]

Rai and Jake

|Hello, real person behind Rai here, I wanted to clarify some things because I don’t think I made it clear before (I’m sorry about that). Rai is a complete OC, their not a self-insert at all, and they have their own life completely separate from mine. Although it is true that I’ll be busy on July and won’t write letters frequently, I wanted to give an in-character Roleplay reason as to why Rai is not as active as the first few letters, hence the panicking at the last letter.

I, the real person, am completely alright, Rai, is not, not at all :)|

Rai,

Thanks for understanding. I'll try to hide as little as I can from now on.

What I think are the two ways out are sitting still and looking pretty, which I despise the concept of, and killing the MWAF by paying an even price, which I hate the idea of even more. (Blacked out) I checked out the altar room a little more, and the phrase "An eye for an eye" (or something approximate because Google Translate) was on the back of the altar in Greek. Jake helped me translate it before we argued.

Mixing mythologies yet again. So far we've got Egyptian, Greek, and... Biblical? I think that's from the Bible. Sue me, it's been a while since I took World Religions.

Actually... no. I guess it hasn't. It just feels longer than it actually was.

I'll try to be a little more specific about what's in the north room. It's not... quite as bad as I made it out to be before, but I was already freaking out and in a bad headspace from remembering the freaky stuff, and I blew it a little out of proportion. I'm not sure how I'd even explain what it really is, though.

It's something similar to a hologram, transparent enough that you can see the trees through it. There's some text in white that doesn't seem to be addressed to me, implying that I'm stuck between the end of something and the beginning of another. Then there are a couple bars— five, to be exact —and two of them are filling with orange very slowly. The others are untouched so far. It's implied I'll be out of this place when all the bars fill up to full. I'm not sure this text was necessarily written by the entity, though. If it was, I think it'd address me a little more directly.

I don't think the argument Jake and I had is necessarily all that useful to the investigation, but since I'm trying to not keep secrets anymore, I'll say it regardless. The cause is tangentially related to the case, anyhow.

I asked him a little while ago whether he could find out if there was a missing person's out for me or not, so we could figure out the extent of the stasis. Then drama happened and I completely forgot all about it until two days ago. I asked him again then, and he sort of acted a little cagey while telling me that he was still in the process of investigating, and told me to wait another day. So I did. I don't think he expected me to remember, since I forget things all the time, but I don't forget things I'm really invested in and I REALLY wanted to know the answer to that question.

Jake made an excuse and went offline when I tried to ask again, which sort of made me think the worst. In hindsight, thinking that anyone who could've reported me missing was dead was pretty stupid, but you try being rational in the face of an unknown like that. In any case, I got anxious, and that sort of blew everything out of proportion, and then that made me more and more upset, and given all the other bullshit inherent in this place and the stress I've been through lately I just completely broke down. Had to sit down and put my head down so I was less likely to pass out from my hyperventilating. Luckily, I knew what was going on and I know breathing exercises, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

In any case, when I was back to being semi-functional, I unlocked my phone again, meaning to close out of the chat, but apparently my last few texts before I had to stop had managed to get across to Jake at least a portion of how freaked out I was. He probably figured it out based on all the typoes and the lack of punctuation or something, his "flaw" (if you can call it that) only seems to make him oblivious to tone and not to outright out of character writing styles.

So he finally told me that there wasn't a missing person's out for me, and not only that but everyone who might have put one out pretty much forgot I existed. He got my fucking parents to answer a "survey," and they only filled out that my half-sister existed, not me. Legal documents and stuff were still all in order, but literally the only people who seem to remember I fucking exist are the Duskwood crew and you and Lis and he had the nerve to tell me that he didnt want to tell me because it wasnt essential information and it would affect my judgement

Back now. I screamed abuse into the woods for a couple minutes, so I feel a bit better now.

I can see his point, logically, but for fuck's sake, there are some things that don't have much to do with the case that I do need to know regardless. This is one.

I'm not going to cut contact with him forever. To put it callously, neither of us can afford that. But if I talk to him now, I'm going to end up saying something or other I'll regret.

Right. Other topics.

Rai, are you doing alright? I know you've got personal issues going on, and I'm not trying to pry into them, but your writing is sort of disjointed and you mentioned being "fuzzy" and "not comprehending words right". Are you getting enough to drink and to sleep? I know weird shit happens to me when I get dehydrated. If you ever feel like you're about to pass out, sit down and put your head between your knees. If this continues, maybe you should see a doctor. Do you feel like your head is stuffed with cotton balls, at all? Any other symptoms?

Feel better :(

—Yu

(The letter tucks itself into the paper clip with the others.)

[adventuresloane]

"I told you you'd get sick", because it is such prime fluff starting material..

((So I made this way longer than originally intended and followed the prompt in the most tangential of ways. No one should be shocked at this point.))

As was her wont, Lup knocked on the front door, didn't wait for a response, and phased into the house through the two inches of wood. "Alright, I'm here to make chicken soup and accidentally scorch your petunias," she said, "and I've already...well, sorry about that."

Rather than remarking that he had planted those all of four days ago, Kravitz skipped over her greeting altogether. "You know, Lup, this is going to be your home in a few months anyway." Not to mention that she dropped by just about daily regardless. "You don't have to knock every time."

She shrugged, causing the flames that rose from her shoulders to shiver upwards before falling again. "Still gotta wait until I get my body back before I enjoy that bedroom you got picked out for me. How's Taako?" This was usually one of the first things she asked, although it was a particularly relevant question today. "That doofus had better be sleeping."

"He's trying, I think. It's hard for him, though. He says he hasn't slept in the past decade. I'm sure he's out of practice if all he does is Trance."

"Right, right," she said, then turned her black, featureless face inside her red hood back towards him. In the same tone that she'd had when she'd floated in, she continued, "Well, he's lucky he's capable of lying in a bed at all."

"Yes," Kravitz said, right before he said nothing. For a few moments that felt too long and slightly sweaty to him, he stared at Lup, and presumably she stared back, in spite of the fact that he couldn't tell where her eyes were. Her spectral form bobbed slightly up and down in the air, and flames with dark red centers licked off the char-black bones of her hands, and suddenly he was rather glad she always knocked rather than, say, floating up through the floor unannounced when she felt like it. And now the silence was decidedly awkward. He pushed aside one of several unopened cardboard boxes with his foot. "Um, it's his own fault, really. Taako's been spending all his time trying to unpack and organize the house at the same time he's getting things organized to start his school. It's no wonder he's fallen ill--"

"Language." He turned to face her when she piped up. "Just say 'got sick.' No one says 'fall ill' anymore."

He huffed.

"Hey, you were the one who asked me to correct you when you talked like an old geezer."

This was true. It was also true, he was sure, that she enjoyed chastising him for a change, when normally he was the one telling her what to do during reaper training. He moved on. "So I did what you said. The chicken's been slow-cooking for several hours now."

"And you put all the seasonings he likes under the skin like I said? You got the rosemary in there?"

"Yes."

"And the parsley?"

"Two teaspoons of dried."

"And the oregano?"

Kravitz balked and gawked at her. She only kept waiting expectantly. There was no way. He had double- and triple-checked the list she had given him in the knowledge that this had to be made perfectly. How could he have concentratedpassed over something like--?

She laughed. "I'm fucking with you. Lighten up, dude." She attempted to pat him on the shoulder as she floated past him into the kitchen. Her hand passed right through him a couple times, but eventually she  hard enough to make contact. Sometimes she spent a lot of time trying to touch corporeal things. Maybe that was how she'd burned the flowers. "Anyway, who's gonna use oregano when you've already got a buttload of rosemary in there? Come on."

But that was what he was here for today, to be her hands. According to her, there was precious little room for error when making this soup if they wanted to do it The Right Way, no leeway for her to accidentally drop in too much celery or pepper. There was precious little room for error, Kravitz reminded himself as he followed her instructions to strip the chicken meat from the bones.

"I bought a few different kinds of noodles, since I wasn't sure what was best," he said. "There's those twisty egg noodles, thin pasta, the flat ones--"

"Flat," Lup answered rather like a patient schoolteacher, "and don't break them up when you put them in the soup. He'll slurp them up one-by-one when no one's watching, but he'll never admit that. That comes later, though. The noodles cook separately, and it doesn't take long."

"Oh. Sure," he responded quietly.

"We used to make the noodles from scratch back on the ship and save them for rainy days, but store-bought's gonna have to do. Hey, do you have a pepper mill?"

"A what?"

"You know, for grinding up fresh-cracked pepper. Taako likes a lot of it."

"Oh, right. I think we do, but it might be in storage." Kravitz clumsily tried to get his nails under the papery skin of a garlic bulb, trying to peel it off. "Did he tell you he likes it fresh-ground better?"

Lup cocked her head a little. "I don't think he told me, per se. He just...well, he always used to like it that way, at least."

He nodded, stiffly. Then he continued nodding through a litany of other questions and corrections from her, about how much water he's already added and how much he needs to reduce the broth later and how to extract the flavor from the bones and how much salt was needed. There was a temptation to remark that he could, in fact, operate a stove. But he would say this for her: for someone who came across as so impulsive sometimes, she was surprisingly fastidious when it came to cooking. She knew everything about this dish. About what Taako liked about it. Given that he didn't feel hunger and as such hadn't done much in the way of cooking for hundreds of years, he had little choice but to listen to her. Although it would be nice if she could stop instructing him long enough for him to try to absorb what he was doing, so that he could remember all these details himself, for the next time Taako got sick.

He was so busy trying to keep up with her that he barely registered it when she abruptly switched to praise. "You're not half-bad, Skele-friend."

"Huh?" he responded, all dignity. "Oh, well, I'm just doing what you tell me. Or trying to."

"Yeah, well, you're doing a good job of it. Especially since you haven't taken orders from anyone less than a goddess for, what, a few centuries?"

"And you haven't made this recipe in quite some time. It's incredible how well you remember it."

She paused. "Taako's the one who always used to make it, actually," she murmured. "I'd be the helper. Unless I was the one who was sick. Then he'd do it himself. I feel like it's about time I returned the favor."

Kravitz couldn't keep from grinning at the thought. "I had a feeling he'd be a caring older brother."

"He's not my older brother. We're twins."

"Who's older, though?"

"Neither, we were born at the same time!"

"So you're the younger one."

She attempted to give him a playful shove. "Of course you'd take his side," she said in an exaggerated grumble. "I suppose you've had siblings?"

"Yes," he said quietly. He returned to stirring and said nothing else. Mercifully, she got the hint. After a moment, she materialized a white wand of sharpened bone into her hand (one of Barry's ulna's that he'd gifted to her, she'd told Kravitz once, which...said something about their relationship, alright). He watched her point it into the broth.

His side-eye must have been more obvious than he'd suspected, because she huffed when she could sight of him staring. For someone whose face was little more than a black void with an ember-like glow of red at the center, she could give quite the eye-roll. "Relax, Mr. Death Cop. It's healing magic." She stopped for a moment, apparently to judge whether she could push her luck. "Though, you know, necromancy is hardly different from the stuff clerics do every day."

"I'm no arcanologist, Lup. I just take down cultists. And you know that whether or not clerics do it doesn't matter to the Raven Queen. Whether it's Vampiric Touch or Revivify, it's still a corruption of fate."

"Alright, spare me the speech, please. I'm just saying," she said with another shrug. "I am an arcanologist, and I can tell you that it's the same kind of magical energy to heal or hurt, just flowing in different directions."

There had been an eon when he had felt that as opposed to simply knowing it, back before he'd had a scythe or a home in the Astral Plane. When he could ease his mother's headaches with a song.

"Shit," she shouted out of nowhere, as the blue flames from the gas burners shot up suddenly. Kravitz scrambled for the heat dials. "Shit, wait, doesn't everything he eat taste like Gogurt now? What if he can't even taste the soup?"

"It's okay, Lup," he responded before she could go on. "I've asked him about that. He said soup doesn't count for the curse. He'll be able to taste it."

"Oh." She sounded as though she'd let out a sigh of relief, though she lacked lungs. "Okay, I just wasn't sure. Magnus had to tell me that, you know. I wouldn't have even known Taako was cursed otherwise."

Kravitz glanced her way. "Does that bother you?"

"It's not like he has to tell me," she said quickly. Everything else came out much less enthusiastically. "It's just weird that I...don't already know, I guess. I've just--you'll want a chef's knife for that."

"Which one is--?"

"Curved blade. And it's easier if you don't move the knife back and forth. Just pass the carrot under the blade while you chop." She sighed. "Anyway, I just missed things. A lot."

Kravitz bit his lip. "Well...you still know him like no one else. You realize that, don't you? I feel like I'm playing catch-up with all the rest of you. You all had a hundred years to figure him out. And you in particular had quite a few more."

"You're not doing too bad on that front already, bud." He could have sworn he saw a smile peek out from under the hood. He didn't recall her ever calling him "bud" before. "Not from what Taako's told me, anyway."

He stopped stirring the wooden spoon through the golden fluid for awhile. "I guess it's good you'll be moving in with us before too long, huh? We can bring each other up to speed."

"Listen, this shit's gonna be done before long. Why don't you take it up to him yourself?"

Kravitz looked her way. "You sure? It's your soup. You don't want to come up with me?"

"I'll see him plenty later. I'm sure I will."

Minutes later, he was knocking on the door of Taako's bedroom--their shared bedroom, now, with a new king-sized bed and mattress. There were a few instances of throat-clearing before Kravitz heard a croak of "Come in."

He pushed through the door, steaming bowl in both hands. "Hey, darling, have you slept at all?"

"Can't sleep at the best of times, babe." Taako followed up the answer with a snort. "This cold's some bullshit."

He chuckled. "I told you you'd get sick if you kept working like you've been."

"Can it, Bone-Hands McGee." He sat up and struggled to sniff some air through his stuffed nose. "Hey, is that--?"

"Lup helped." He lifted his shoulders in a way that he hoped would come across as self-effacing, as if the soup in his hands didn't smell like absolute heaven.

"That so?" He wiped his nose with a tissue, though not before Kravitz saw the blush creep into his warm cheeks. He saw that blush a lot, and just at the moment that the two of them met eyes. Each time was a gift just for him, whether Taako meant to give it to him or not. "Let's give it a whirl then."

Kravitz sat next to him on the bed and watched the whole while as Taako held the bowl under his nose, let the steam waft up into his sinuses, tipped his head back to show his smooth neck and closed his eyes and drank the broth slowly. Then he licked his lips abruptly and said, "Not bad for someone who considers fancy wine to be an entire meal. Hey, get out of my bed of contagion. You're the one who's gonna get sick next."

He chuckled and ran a hand through Taako's already pillow-ruffled hair. "That's the nice thing about being dead already, sweetheart. I can't really get sick." To prove the point, he kissed his cheek.

He kept doing it, in fact, as he and Taako sat together and as the soup was slowly consumed. He hummed softly, then sung more so. And a few times, when he touched his lips to his boyfriend's skin, he tried to dredge up the kind of magic that he hadn't hadn't used for centuries, for the majority of his life. Not since he'd been alive. It felt far different from the kind he used to electrocute or grapple a necromantic cultist, and at first it felt like trying to run water through a pipe that hadn't seen a drop in decades. But he felt the warmth of the magic like he felt the vibration of his vocal chords, energy coming from deep inside of him, from nothing. Taako seemed to breath more easily as the Healing Word took effect.

It was after the bowl had been sitting empty for awhile that Kravitz felt Taako's breathing slow next to him and take on the rhythm not of meditation, but of sleep.

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot “All that Glitters” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Looking for something to stay connected to the skating world during quarantine, Kurt decided to enter an Instagram contest. Sebastian agrees to help, because he would do anything for his boyfriend ... until they come across something that almost turns out to be a hard no. (1751 words)

Notes: Combining the anon prompts 'The boys during quarantine' (which will be more than just this one one-shot', 'Sebastian hates glitter. That has to come up during figure skating, right?' and ‘Blaine's crush on Kurt is showing'. I did the best I could. I hope you like it :) Blaine friendly.

Part 63 of Outside Edge

Read on AO3.

“Have I told you how much I appreciate you doing this?” Kurt asks stiffly, trying not to move too much and chance smearing the teal liquid liner he’s applying to his boyfriend’s right eyelid.

“You may have mentioned it once or twice,” Sebastian replies, supremely uncomfortable in his current rigid sitting position, his wooden desk chair unforgiving against his numb behind. Still, he glows beneath his boyfriend’s praise.

“As much as I enjoy getting dolled up, I’m entering seven looks in this ISI performance makeup contest! The wear and tear on my face would have been substantial!”

“Can’t have that, can we?”

“No we can’t. The last thing I need during a frickin’ pandemic is to start developing wrinkles before I hit my twenties. As it is, I’m getting some serious dry patches on my cheeks.” Kurt caps his eyeliner and puts it with the rest of his supplies. Biting his lower lip, he stares at his army of palettes, lipsticks, compacts, and brushes laid out on Sebastian’s comforter, deciding on the next product to apply to his face. “Thank you, by the way,” he says in a softer tone, “for not thinking this is stupid.”

Sebastian tilts his head carefully. Kurt put a considerable amount of highlighter on his cheek over a heavy dusting of blush. He doesn’t want to accidentally smear it onto his bare shoulder, force Kurt to start all over again. Though the thought of another hour spent with Kurt hovering over him, the two of them shirtless, Kurt’s lips kissing distance from his as he stares deep into his eyes has Sebastian seriously contemplating scrubbing his hands down his face and making a mess of Kurt’s masterpiece.

“Why would I think it’s stupid? And even if it was stupid, I’ve done far stupider things … mainly during the holidays,” Sebastian says, hinting at a vague reference to the fact that he’s let Kurt talk him into dressing up as an inflatable snowman for their ice rink’s annual Christmas show … twice.

“I don’t know.” Kurt picks up a spoolie and starts tidying Sebastian’s eyebrows. “We’ve been quarantined for so long. We’ve been good about keeping up our training, staying occupied. We’re lucky. We have your rink to practice in but …” He shrugs “… I miss hanging out with our friends. They’ve canceled Regionals, Nationals, and Worlds, so all those people we only see three times a year? We won’t get to see them. These silly Instagram contests ISI puts on … I feel like they’re one of the only things keeping our skating community together.”

“I get ya.” Sebastian reaches for his boyfriend’s hips, massages with firm fingertips. “On my end, I’d do anything for you. I just want you to be happy.”

Kurt grins. “Well, it’s nice having a sexy male model to play with.”

“Is that why you asked Blaine to join us?” Sebastian asks sarcastically.

“Good Lord! Can we please go back to the part where you want me to be happy?”

“Absolutely,” Sebastian agrees with an easy smile, acting more casual than he feels. He’s not the biggest fan of makeup. He’s worn it before. It’s a hazard of participating in a performance sport. But he wouldn’t choose to wear it otherwise. No hate to guys who do, he just doesn’t like putting things on his skin. The eyeshadow alone is driving him to hysterics! But he loves Kurt.

Besides, after he found out Kurt had also asked Blaine for help and Blaine didn’t hesitate before saying yes, Sebastian couldn’t say no.

“All right-y then,” Kurt says, the smile growing on his lips as he contemplates his work. “You’re almost done.”

“Almost? What else could you possibly fit on my face?”

“Just a teeny bit of glitter …”

“Uh … glitter?” Sebastian backs his chair away with a tight laugh. “You … you didn’t mention glitter.”

“I didn’t mention it because I thought it would be obvious.”

“How? How is it obvious?”

Kurt looks pointedly down at his own bare chest coated in a generous layer of the stuff, then back at Sebastian with an eyebrow raised. “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not like it’s going to hurt.”  

“Isn’t glitter considered the STD of art supplies?” Sebastian says, scooting to the left and dodging Kurt’s glitter shaker.

Kurt pulls a face. “That’s disgusting!”

“Point made.”

“Come on, Bas! It’s made of seaweed. Like the stuff Lush uses. It’s eco-friendly.”

“Glad to hear it but that wasn’t really my concern.”

Kurt puts his hands on his hips, highly offended on glitter’s behalf. “Why don’t you like glitter?”

“Because it’s so … it’s so … sparkly! And it’s like sand. It gets everywhere.”

“Okay, Obi-Wan.”

Sebastian frowns. “You’re thinking of Anakin. Not Obi-Wan.”

“Anakin killed Natalie Portman. I refuse to acknowledge his existence.”

Sebastian stares at his boyfriend, at this stranger he thought he knew so well, but decides to drop this tangential argument and continue with the matter at hand. “Anyway, it’s impossible to get off.”

“It comes off lickety-split in hot, soapy water. I’ll help you take it off.” Kurt flashes a suggestive grin, but Sebastian seems to miss it.

“Please, Kurt? I’d rather not.”

“But … the look is called Summer Sparkle!” Kurt throws his hands up in frustration. “How did you not assume there’d be glitter?”

“Couldn’t you transition this into another look? Something not so sparkly?”

“Like what?” Kurt asks, clipping the single syllables till they’re razor sharp.

“I don’t know. I’m not the creative genius here---ooo!” Sebastian comes up with an idea way too quickly. “How about something along the lines of Lone Wolf at Midnight?”

“So …” Kurt says, followed by a loud click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth “… you’d rather I glue fur to your face than glitter?”

Sebastian swallows hard. He hadn’t considered that as a possibility. “Uh … you see … I’m trying to avoid gluing anything to my face.”

“Ugh! Sometimes you’re such a … a … a …!”

“An ass?”

“That’s the word!”

“Kur-urt …” Sebastian whines.

“I thought you said you’d do anything for me?”

“And if I absolutely have to wear glitter, I will. I’m just asking if I absolutely have to.”

Kurt sighs, his hands falling to his sides in defeat. “No, you don’t. If you don’t want to wear the glitter, you don’t have to wear the glitter.”

“Great!” Sebastian mimics wiping his forehead in relief. “Thank you. You are truly a kind and benevolent dictator.”

“Yeah, whatever … Blaine! You ready for some glitter?”

“Great!” Kurt says with unnecessary enthusiasm. “Thank you, Blaine!”

A shirtless Blaine peeks in from the hallway outside Sebastian’s room. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Going shirtless was a group decision. The focus of the photographs is supposed to be their faces, but they thought they’d take the opportunity to show off their rockin’ ‘made-in-quarantine’ physiques. A little bragging never hurt nobody. It’ll definitely help with the ‘like’ factor, which is how the contest will be judged. Besides, it’s psychological warfare - showing the competition that nothing, not even being locked down for three months, was going to knock them off their game.

“You’re … welcome?” Blaine replies, a little confused.

Kurt turns his jar of glitter over and gives it a shake, ready to add another layer to his own skin out of spite, but nothing comes out. He straightens, lifts the shaker to the light, and peers inside. “Oh no! It looks like I’m out of this one!”

“I think that’s because you’re wearing enough glitter for all of us.” Blaine snorts. Kurt’s nose scrunches when he does. He’d mentioned to Sebastian once that he thought it was cute when Blaine snorted.

Sebastian rolls his eyes.

Kurt taps a finger to his chin, thinking up a solution. One comes to him, lighting his eyes brighter than the glitter on his chest. “Wait a minute! That gives me an idea! Blaine, you’re a genius!”

“I … I am?” Blaine stutters, more than a little concerned, especially since he can feel Sebastian glaring at him, hot enough to melt his foundation.

“Absolutely!” Kurt smiles and throws his arms open wide. “Come here and give me a hug!”

Blaine’s face goes comically blank, but he rushes forward at the invitation anyway, never one to turn down a hug from Kurt. But Sebastian wastes no time blocking him, shooting to his feet and wrapping his arms around Kurt, pressing their bodies together.

“Uh … nope,” “Sebastian says, waving Blaine off. “No, no, no, not necessary. I’ve go this one handled, thank you.”

There’s a lot Sebastian will put up with in regards to his boyfriend’s relationship with Blaine.

Shirtless hugging isn’t one of those.

After a full minute of awkwardly sandwiching their bodies together, Sebastian steps back to survey the outcome … and groans. “Look, now, see?” he comments dryly. “There’s not enough glitter for you, Blaine. Sorry. You’re going to have to get yours somewhere else.”

Blaine chuckles at Sebastian’s discomfort. “I can see that.” He takes a seat on the end of the bed and waits patiently for Kurt to beat his mug. He realizes it will probably happen under the watchful scowl of Sebastian Smythe but it’ll be worth it.

As awful as it sounds, Blaine enjoys getting under his skin every once in a while.

Blaine respects Kurt and Sebastian’s relationship more than anything, even if he can’t help harboring a crush on Kurt. Without the two of them, he doesn’t know where he’d be right now. Honestly, he’d rather not think about that. But a great deal of his safety and security he attributes to Sebastian’s generosity - a generosity that may only exist because of Sebastian’s love for Kurt.

So Blaine’s not about to step on any toes.

But Sebastian makes it too easy to get on his nerves. And the more Blaine does, the more fun it is.

Having Kurt’s full attention, their faces kissing distance the way his was with Sebastian’s? The next hour should be a hoot.

“See?” Kurt runs a light finger over the spattering of glitter covering Sebastian’s skin. “Is that so painful?”

“Yes,” Sebastian mutters, looking down in disgust at the iridescent specks starting to itch. He looks over at Blaine - shirtless, tanned, and muscular Blaine, sitting on the edge of the mattress, awaiting his turn. He’d been so quick to jump on the glitter grenade, which makes this coat Sebastian is wearing a casualty of war. “Yes, it is.”

[unproduciblesmackdown]

um hello excuse me i just listened to that teenage dirtbag video and now i have no choice other than to ask you... what is up. that voice was lovely, the range the performer had when switching to the girl's role i?? hello??? so is this the uh... god um. dear evan hansen or the uhhhh oh my god sorry im typing as im thinking this is hell. the other one. be more chill? i have some friends into these things but never paid much attention but after that vid my inch rest is how do you say, Peaked.

it just hit me that the right word was actually 'piqued' rip me

hahahaha yeah i can tell you All About It.....see my origin story is that uh. fuckin uh right so i vaguely knew deh existed back when it was broadway-debuting at the end of 2016 and probably many of us were vaguely aware it existed, but then in the next summer (2017) i heard a cover of one of its songs and i was like “i can tell this is one of those songs that would be given way more context if i knew the plot” and by that point the wikipedia entry had a plot summary available and i got that context and even though he was fairly briefly mentioned, one of the side characters Piqued My Interest b/c i just knew like. aha that already feels like a character type i would rly latch on to. and this was in the back of my mind for a while and for like the next year i would intermittently check out another song or two or get a little bit more lore, but it wasn’t until like, fall 2018 i finally went “you know what, i am gonna dive in for Maximum Lore actually” and my motivation for doing this was cuz i wanted to find out all the info about The One Side Character lmfao, like, the “main plot” and “entire actual show” to me is just the Lore for him basically b/c that was truly my angle hahaha and my interest was further piqued b/c like i quickly went “oh so he’s secretly in love with the protagonist right, got it,” which like. was a latent vibe i got from that very first wikipedia plot summary readthrough tbh lmfao. and is True.

and then even after deciding to dig into the lore and confirming that Yes i love this character as i thought i would it took like another week or two before i ever like, Watched dear evan hansen lmfaooo and i’ve never stopped complaining about the show since ljdfs but not Not b/c the character isn’t as good as i thought (or b/c Nothing Else is good either, but. you know how it is. #canon 9_9 ) and then in the course of looking for More Content i was you know, looking at a variety of posts On Here and looking at some behind-the-scenes / bonus content type stuff on youtube and went “oh well hey the actor that plays that character i love is also a nice funny guy according to testimony and also that i like his vibe in these vids” and, fun fact as is the nature of live theatre (and it being like, oct / nov 2018 by then) he was not still the Current actor for said character but had, in fact, moved on to be more chill and Already Completed a late summer off-broadway run as the lead (and a bway run had been announced already, though im not Certain i remember the point / how i became aware of this lol).....which again, i too had Heard Of (and had once ages prior coincidentally leafed thru the book once and read a few excerpts but knew nothing abt anything beyond that).....but hilariously while i Knew he was in bmc thru some 101 research, i was like “okay i’ll move on to that in a sec” while focusing on deh for a while still b/c it was not until i happened to casually look up “okay so what does his character do in this show i’m completely unfamiliar with” that i went “oh fuck he’s the LEAD????!!!” lmaooo like i did Not realize this and that upped my urgency abt it

a very very broad description of bmc is that it’s a Fun Show coz it’s this teen scifi Magical Realism plotline classic musical comedy type of thing, a genre we all already know and love lol /j, and importantly, the music is fuckinggg Bops. very common “gateway drug” is This song. there’s an Original Broadway Cast Album all on youtube (and, somewhat confusingly im sure, an Original Cast Album, but that was an off-off-bway run, and i’m interested squarely in the off-bway and bway versions lmfao, so, and that is what one will get recommended from me (more updated versions of all the songs anyways)) and also, this is basically a tangential thought i had but circling back around to deh, My Guy (will roland as jared kleinman) does not actually get all that much singing material in the show (v different situation from be more chill) even in the song that features his character most heavily, but that song also happens to be the most fun song in deh and also a bop, and here’s an especially fun live performance to check out if u wanna, the other two dudes are not official cast members lmfao but still

and like, when all this deh-ing and enthusiastic bmc-ing (which i got into Just In Time to be following along with its broadway run, which was very fun to do) affirmed like boy i love this Actor’s Material for sure, i did a little digging into his nicher Credits, including, one fateful day in march, his tv credits, which meant i like stumbled across the fact he has this recurring role in Billions(tm) and that stumbling = immediately falling flat on my face b/c i Loved the content and we coincidentally got really into it Just In Time before the next season’s stuff started airing with him in it, and that was truly an Experience we’ve been having ever since. that’s it’s own insane tangent b/c this show is fucking Something Else but, jsyk, since i am talking about “billions” left and right and stuff, that’s the vague context for that. latched onto a character -> the actor -> the actor’s other stuff, and that [other stuff] is getting brought up around here a lot, especially billions.....we’re having fun and following our hearts with it lmao

i’m Not Great at finding a balance between “doing an elaborate lore dump when someone asks me ‘what’s X about?’ and i spend the next several hours just play by play walking them through the whole thing” and “trying to avoid doing that where i get Too In Depth and instead end up just overly glossing over it all and they’re like ‘that doesn’t give me any info :/’” but i Can and Will talk more in depth about any of this stuff b/c yeah........but between deh and bmc, i definitely like bmc more Overall and....in the specifics of it too.....and like the obcr way better......and uh Everything about it better lmfaooo but i also love the particular characters Jared and Alana, side character teens in deh, so im always about That as well..........but if u were like “hm which might i look into a little first,” i gotta say like, i like bmc better both as a matter of My Personal Taste and from a more critical standpoint of “what is the show meant to be / does it accomplish what it wants to” type stuff. even though deh is the critical darling lmfao go figure! *i* decide what’s good, actually, and as we all know, i’m correct and a genius. which, haha im joking, but i Am right and i Am not Not smart in ways lol

aaaaaaand yeah additionally like. can and will answer Any more particular questions about any of this shit b/c, it’s my shit, and you know how i roll

and p.s. glad you liked the Teenage Dirtbag it is such a good performance lol. naturally getting real into this one actor / singer’s shit means that there’s also stuff Outside [performing a particular role] which is still some sweet sweet content, such as other solo performances during a concert / cabaret stuff.....the lore is Very Rich and is V Good so it’s fun

[keltonwrites]

How do I become courageous? How do I stop letting the anxiety over the uncertainty of future, or the fear of other people's judgement, dictate my life's narrative?

Ten years ago, my Zoloft prescription ran out the day I had a tumor sliced out of my neck. The surgery was on a Monday. I woke up with chest pain and nerve damage in my face. They kept me until Wednesday morning. I left the hospital with a drainage bag attached to my neck, pinned to the collar of my shirt. I couldn’t move the right side of my face. I emailed my boss.“The surgery was a little more intense than I anticipated. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it in this week.”“Please be here on Friday.”I went to work on Friday. I couldn’t brush my hair because the pressure on my neck was too painful. The blood bag seeped occasionally on my shirt. I had the kind of sleep anyone has after their ear is partially sliced off to remove a tumor burrowing beneath it. Don’t worry — they sewed it back on. (The ear, not the tumor.)On Friday, because I didn’t understand how boundaries or rights worked, I walked across the National Institutes of Health campus toward my building looking more like a patient than an employee. My boss stared at me and then didn’t speak to me again. I wrote for four hours before I went into her office.“I need to go home.”“Have a nice weekend!” She beamed, actively looking everywhere that was not my blood bag.I smiled, sort of. The right side of my face was still temporarily paralyzed, so the left side of my mouth hoisted my cursory courtesy smile by itself.“Gonna work on my face,” I said pointing to my partially slack expression.“Sorry?”“Nerve damage. Gonna try to exercise it. Do some heavy lifting while I watch TV,” I said, my face contorting from the kind of stifled laughter usually reserved for broken ribs and strict teachers.“Ok!” She almost yelled, her own face contorting with discomfort.Over the next two weeks—tumor and medication free—I lost my mind. Stop me if you’ve heard this before. I gave away my percocet. I dyed my hair. I adopted a cat. I started a blog. And nine months later, I started a challenge called Bold Moves October. I started it because so much of my day-to-day life felt defined by inaction and complacency. Plus, the October prior is when the doctors had said, “we’re really not sure if it’s cancer or not.” Followed immediately by, “we can schedule you for surgery in three months.”It was a long three months. Death all of a sudden seemed like something that could happen. In my 23-year-old wisdom, this meant I should be more proactive. For better or worse, I primarily applied this proactivity to flirting.

We can’t all learn life’s great lessons on the first go.Anyway, that blog and that mini movement of boldness changed the trajectory of my life. One thing toppled into another. Over the next few years that blog and challenge would (directly and tangentially) get me a book deal, writing contracts, sport sponsorships, job offers, the friendship of my favorite author, the adoration of my husband, and a full-time job as an editor that would be the two best professional years of my life.The period I spent working on that blog was obviously good. It was also the most derided and insulted I would ever be. I lost friendships. I received hate mail and death threats (in 2011 no less, before every Twitter account with too many numbers in the screen name became an amateur fear monger.) I allowed people to send me anonymous messages because it was a way for people to share how they were struggling without revealing their identities. But that meant I couldn’t protect myself from anonymous and un-trackable threats. God only knows what my parents thought. (In this scenario, I am God. I know what they thought.)Courage often doesn’t feel good. The only courage that exists without anxiety is arrogance. There is not a life where you, a person who wrote anonymously to an all-but-dead Tumblr, live without the anxiety of others’ judgment. But there is also not a life where you, who—again—wrote asking for advice anonymously to an all-but-dead Tumblr, aren’t a person defined by desperate chances and hope. I apologize that you sent me that note months ago, but I assure you, it is because I too was flexing courage, letting it coarse through my veins and vanquish months of chronic nausea.Like you, I was fussing about in the woods of my life, looking for something that resembled a path. Not necessarily a path without sinkholes or poison leaves, but rather one worth them.Your path, the one it sounds like you’re trying to find, will be overgrown with the thorns of judgment and anxiety. But they’re just thorns. They’re on every path. They’re hurting you just as much on the wrong path as they will on the right one.Normally I give very ethereal advice that’s difficult to act on. It’s more like a song than an action item, but in this scenario, you don’t need to listen to someone else. You also don’t need to have a tumor spliced from your insides to remind you that at some point, our chances run out. All you need is to develop the skill of listening to yourself. For a couple of months, relax with the courage. Courage is just an instagram word for having a strong inner constitution. And that is something you can develop without framing it in the same terms we use to go to battle. 

To do the work, I recommend a few things. 

If you don’t already, move your body. I know how much people hate this advice. But if you can hike or run or cycle or even just briskly walk (without podcasts) for a minimum of 20 minutes a day, you should. Our gut, our intuition, our inner sense of self or whatever you want to call her, she’s not going to feel safe coming out when you’re in the mental thicket of other people’s narratives. Exercise is the closest humans have to Drano for the mind. 

Find a journaling exercise that feels like maybe it’s a little too much work. If it feels conquerable, it’s too easy. I go back to Susannah Conway’s Unravel Your Year. Doesn’t matter if it’s a new year. Time is a construct. 

Get the book Designing Your Life. You may not design an entirely new one, but it may help in making change feel conquerable, or just possible. If that book feels too “action item” oriented, try The Artist’s Way. It’s much more about knowing yourself than it is about art.

Make a list of the narratives that you feel other people are suffocating you with. Maybe dad wants you to be a doctor. Maybe girlfriend wants you to settle down a little. Maybe boss wants you to focus on the clerical side of your job. Maybe society wants you to buy an apartment you can’t afford. Whatever or whoever it is you feel is pressuring you, write it down. You need to know your demons to exercise them. You might even find, in time, that you even like some of these visions. They’re not the enemy. Pressure is. And pressure is only defeated by self. Isn’t that annoying?

Write to me again. Impress me. Give yourself a few challenges each week. Whether it’s applying for a class, trying something you’re bound to be bad at, getting up half an hour early to dance your heart out before work, I don’t care. Do some things that are for you. Not for others, not for profit, not for your future — just for you right now. And then use me for more than an anonymous submission on the internet. Use me as a deadline. Sometimes all it takes to get over the hurdle of pressure is a little validation. I’m here for that whenever you need me.  

I’m recommending these things because I just did them.

I gave myself a deadline to change my life. Not that it was bad, it just felt… well it felt exactly how it did ten years ago: full of inaction and complacency. I was on cruise control, taking few chances, taking really nothing at all. So the next thing I took was an exit. I wanted to see what life looked like when things weren’t all concrete and white lines. I quit my job. I camped around the west. I picked up a few new hobbies. I journaled more than I did all of 7th grade. My year-long bout of nausea went away. I started to dance again. I wrote songs again. I wrote in general again. And I dug around in my psyche for the truth about what I always liked doing, what the through-lines in all my good jobs have been. Very simply, the strongest through-line was the encouragement and empowerment of others.

Most of the writing I’m doing right now will be private until it isn’t. I’m writing a horror film and still working on my first novel. But I need a weekly way to interact with people via writing lest I lose my lonely mind, so I’m bringing back the one thing got me into writing in the first place: answering people’s questions.

After writing Anonymous Asked, I was too embarrassed to promote the book. I’ve never re-read it. I fell into the spiral of what other people thought: of me, of the work, of my ideas. But I’d rather be fulfilled and insulted than bored out of my mind and forgotten.

So to encourage your courage, I am flexing a little bit of my own. My newsletter (of which this essay is a part) is now called “A Little Bit Better” and the whole point is that it helps you feel a little bit better. You can subscribe to it here. It will include essays like this and other bits of things that made that week a little bit better. I hope you enjoy it. I know I will. See you there.I wrote this while listening to:It’s a Storm - Young & SickSwing - Mahmut Orhan Remix by Soki Tukker and Mahmut OrhanKissing Other People - Lennon StellaScared to Death - Jax AndersonSound of Your Voice - Griff

[seeaddywrite]

not by blood, but by choice

a/n: ugh, okay, so technically this was started as a response to the Day 2 prompt for Roswell New Mexico Week 2019, which was family, but i am the worst at adhering to deadlines. 4k of this was written yesterday, but I COULDN’T GET IT TO END.

thanks to @soberqueerinthewild, as always, for listening to me whine & letting me borrow her idea of Isobel taking self-defense classes! 

right. Max + Malex fic, set six months post-finale. 

“So, Isobel is where, again?” Michael asks, his elbows on Max’s kitchen counter to either side of a full plate. Max is damn good at using the grill on his patio, and Michael’s never one to pass up free food. If he’d known that it would end up just being himself, his brother, and his newly official boyfriend, however, he’s not so sure he would have accepted the invitation. 

It’s not that Michael hates spending time with Max. He really doesn’t, anymore, not since the other man died. Six months of sharp-edged grief and directionless anger over the actions of a dead man had been awful, and Michael can’t pretend that he’s not glad to have his brother’s steadying presence back in his head. They’ve been spending more time together in the three weeks since Max has been back, usually involving food and shitty television, and, most importantly, Isobel’s presence as a buffer. He and Max don’t know how to spend uncomplicated, unplanned time together anymore, even after the residual anger and bitterness between them fades, and Alex’s presence seems to have made the awkwardness worse. 

And that shouldn’t be a surprise, shouldn’t be the smack in the face that it is, because Michael has known since before Max’s death that he thinks Michael should let Alex go to focus on a future in which he can be happy, as if a relationship with Alex can never be more than a reminder of the tragedies in their shared pasts. And Michael’s pretty sure that there’s a little bit of discomfort at the idea of Michael with a man, too, and he doesn’t want to touch that particular idiocy with a ten-foot pole. He’s pretty sure Max won’t make it out of that conversation in one piece, and Michael doesn’t want Isobel and Liz on his ass for killing him again when they’d only just gotten him back. 

“Self-defense class,” Max says with a small sigh, glancing at Alex like he’s not sure how much he can say about the matter in front of him, despite the fact that he’s been involved in every step of the work to bring Max back and protect them all from the long-reaching arm of Project Shepherd. “She’s a little . . . focused.” 

Michael picks up what Max isn’t saying without any mental prodding, and he drops a hand from the counter to Alex’s good knee, squeezing for his own, selfish comfort. He gets a reassuring smile for his troubles, and Michael takes a moment to revel in how lucky he is that Alex was willing to give him another chance after every stupid fucking thing he’s done in the last year: dating Maria, trying to hide from his grief at the bottom of a bottle, and swinging first and asking questions later. Alex had been the one to drag him out of his self-imposed exile and help him to realize that Isobel needed someone, too, so he understands the worry Michael feels better than most anyone could. 

Michael would like to think that he’d pulled himself together enough to be there for his sister, but no amount of support had been enough to heal the gaping wounds Noah left in her soul. Max’s return helped, and her obsessive need to become more powerful has definitely eased in the past few weeks. She’s no longer practicing mind control on random passers-by, and she’s done blowing things up just because she can, a fact for which the entire town should be grateful. But Michael knows, just as Max does, that their sister is far from fine. Her laser focus has been turned from expanding her supernatural powers to physical self-defense now that Max is back with them, and it might be better for their anonymity, but no one is convinced that it’s better for Isobel. 

“She’s been through a lot,” Alex says, his voice level as he cuts through the moment of tension with his usual affability. He’s been eating steadily, and is sitting comfortably on one of the tall stools surrounding the kitchen counter, no hint of uncertainty in his posture, but Michael knows better. He’d asked at least three times on their way to Max’s if Michael was sure that he’d be welcome, and when he realized that Isobel wasn’t coming, the grip on Michael’s fingers had tightened to an almost painful degree. Even now, when Max lifts his chin and gives Alex a look, there’s an undeniable tension in the muscles beneath Michael’s hand. 

But Alex isn’t intimidated by Max. He wants to get along with him, Michael thinks, because they share all of the same friends and loved ones, and are at least tangentially family, which means more to Alex than most people would be able to understand. That doesn’t mean he’s going to back down and show his throat, though, or let Max run roughshod over his opinions. Max doesn’t seem quite sure how to handle that; he’s been running the show to keep the three aliens safe for their entire lives, and Michael suspects he’s having a hard time adjusting to the fact that others had become just as involved in that goal while he was gone. But Alex is good at plans and strategies in a way that Max isn’t, and has more personal experience with trauma and healing than Michael cares to think about. His understanding of Isobel’s actions carry weight, whether Max wants to admit it or not. 

 “No matter why she’s doing it, self-defense isn’t a bad way to help her build some confidence,” Alex continues, meeting Max’s gaze calmly across the table. “She’s got an expert teacher and other people in the class to make sure she doesn’t take it too far. It’s as safe as anything like that can be -- and I think we’d all rather she took out her frustrations on a punching bag instead of people. I really don’t think you need to worry about her; she’s just looking for a way to feel safe in her own skin again.”

They’ve talked about this before, Alex and Michael. It’s always been after nightmares of being forced to put Isobel’s body in a pod next to Max’s, or watching her being dragged away by scientists who caught her using her powers in obvious ways during her more reckless moments. It’s been Alex who’s gathered him close in the middle of the night and whispered reassurances and explained that recovery from trauma doesn’t always seem right or healthy to others, but Isobel has to learn to stand on her own again without interference from her friends and family. She has to learn what it means not to depend on anyone after years of leaning on Noah and his reputation to make a life for herself. Michael doesn’t pretend to understand, but he’s promised Alex -- and Isobel herself -- to give her some time and space to try. 

But Max has only been up and moving for three weeks, and he’s too mired in the guilt of sending his sister into such a tailspin to realize that he’s not doing her any favors by trying to smother her. But that’s Max; he’s always been too ready to do whatever it takes to protect them, no matter what the cost. That’s how they ended up covering up a murder and carrying that burden by themselves for over a decade. It’s why his friendship with Michael crumbled around them. It’s why he can never really feel safe -- and Michael’s tired of watching the same thing happen, again and again.

Max stabs a piece of chicken with a bit more violence than strictly necessary, but doesn’t make any move to eat it. “I’ve been worrying about Isobel since she fell out of her pod and into my arms when we were seven,” he says coldly. At some point, he’s shifted to sit up straighter in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest while he stares, narrow-eyed, across the table at Alex. “She’s never had any interest in self-defense before. A taser and influencing minds has always been enough for her. So even if I could stop worrying, I wouldn’t, because my sister is off the rails, and she needs help. And for the record? The fact that you’re dating Michael now does not give you the right to tell me how to be there for my family.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence from all parties as the electricity in the room flickers and Max battles with himself to rein his powers back in. He seems just as shocked as the others about the words that have escaped his mouth, and Michael can’t quite wrap his head around the speed with which the conversation escalated. He gapes openly at Max, his blood on a slow boil. Who the hell does he think he is? Alex has been building a friendship with Isobel for half a year, while Max was gone. He’s listened to her cry, and even helped her find a decent self-defense class. Alex has been there for her, and for everyone else, while Max abandoned them for a moment of heroism that left them all fucking reeling -- and he’s going there? With Alex, who’d only been trying to help? Fuck no. 

“I’m sorry.” Max swallows heavily, his eyes sliding closed for a minute. The apology gives Michael the moment he needs to press pause on his impending explosion, and Alex looks genuinely poleaxed by the unexpected words. He’d been bracing for a blow-up, Michael realizes, taking in the challenging tilt to his chin and the glint of banked fire in his eyes. 

“That wasn’t -- I’m not --” Max trails off, running the palm of his hand over his face before opening his eyes and directing his words to both of them. “I don’t have the right to talk to you that way, Alex, and I should know better, by now, than to let my temper get the best of me.” He glances wryly toward Michael, who just raises an eyebrow, waiting. 

Alex doesn’t share Michael’s patience for whatever comes next. He pushes his plate off to the side of the table and leans forward, his expression inscrutable, but Michael can read the uncertainty in the tilt of his eyebrows and the tight line of his lips. He nudges his boyfriend’s knee with his own, trying to get him to look over, but Alex is focused on Max. 

“I know that you’ve been protecting them for most of your lives,” he says quietly, a strange solemnity in his voice that makes Michael want to wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him into his side. Family is a difficult concept for Alex; he’s never had anyone willing to protect him from his father of any of the rest of life’s cruelties. And while Michael’s always wished for something more than Max and Isobel, someone more, he knows that he’s damn lucky to have them. Alex knows it, too, and is trying to meet Max halfway, which is more than Michael would have ever asked of him. 

“You’re family, and I respect that. I’m not trying to tell you how to support Isobel, or to pretend that she’s doing fine when we all know better. I’ve just been where she’s been, at least a little.” Alex hesitates, and in a moment of prescience, Michael can tell what he’s about to say and opens his mouth to stop him, to tell him that he doesn’t need to reopen his own wounds just because Max is bleeding all over him. But before he gets the chance, Alex plows forward, as unfailingly brave as he’s always been. “Someone who was supposed to love me hurt me, too. It’s not the same, and I’m not naive enough to think I know exactly what she’s going through. But I do know that after something like that? After betrayal and feeling so completely out of control of your own life? It takes time to feel comfortable in your own skin again. Time, space, and support from people who love you.” 

Michael tangles his fingers with Alex’s, and soaks up the small smile he gets in return. If Max is anything but understanding and kind in the face of such an emotionally honest confession, not even the threat of Liz’s temper tantrum is going to stop him from punching his brother in the fucking face. Alex doesn’t often talk about his father, and Michael can count on one hand the amount of times he’s heard him admit that he needed help to begin healing the wounds left by years of abuse and unfounded hatred. If Max rewards that honesty with callous words or cruelty, Michael doesn’t care what their connection is -- Alex is his family, too, and doesn’t have many other people to protect him. That’s Michael’s job, and one he takes damn seriously. 

Thankfully, Max only nods slowly. There’s no way to be sure of what he already knows about Alex’s father, or the real reasons he went to war, but there’s a glimmer of understanding in his eyes that tells Michael he knows enough to tread carefully. “It turns out I’m not so great at protecting anyone,” he says dryly, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. “Or taking good advice, apparently. I really am sorry -- you’re right. I need to let Isobel come to me, if that’s what she wants. It’s just harder than I expected, after all this time.” His smile is a sad, resigned thing, and Michael is irritated that it gets to him. Max deserves to feel some guilt and regret for what he’s done, and even if his death isn’t the cause of all of Isobel’s trauma, he needs to own the fact that he fucked up. 

Michael does his best to squash the thought. They haven’t talked about the moments leading up to Max’s death, or how any of them feel about it -- the three of them have simply slapped a bandage over the bleeding wound and done their best not to poke at it. Michael knows it won’t last forever; eventually, he’s going to lose it and tell Max exactly how much damage he’s done to all of them, not just Isobel, with his stupid stunt. He’s got plenty to answer for, and part of Michael wants to point it out, to bellow that he didn’t seem to care so much about protecting them when he was resurrecting Rosa Ortecho, that maybe he should have thought about how Isobel might feel -- but he doesn’t. This isn’t the time, not with so much already going on around them. 

Alex shakes his head, but some of the tension has dissipated from his face. “You don’t have to apologize. I get it. It’s hard to take advice from people you don’t really trust, and I know I don’t have yours, yet. But I really do just want to help, in whatever way I can. You might not think he and I are good for each other, but Michael’s the only family I’ve got, and you and Isobel are his, so . . .” he trails off, looking uncomfortable while trying to navigate complex emotions. Talking about how he feels and his own motivations is never going to be easy for Alex, even though he and Michael have gotten better at it is as they restarted their relationship. 

It’s hard to watch him push through the explanation, but Michael doesn’t jump in and try to help. He knows better; Alex is perfectly capable of expressing himself, and won’t appreciate an attempted subject change, no matter how awkward this one is. He shifts restlessly on the stool and kicks at the bottom of the counter in an effort to distract himself. The knowledge that Max doesn’t think the two of them should be together has weighed on Alex since Michael told him the story of how his hand was healed, and he knows that it’s better to get it all out in the open now, because if he has any say in the matter, Alex is sticking around for the rest of their lives. And if it helps him, or Max, to air their grievances, then Michael can deal with it. 

“What?” Max is staring at Alex, his expression twisted into obvious confusion. “Why would you think that?” There’s an obvious glimmer of hurt in the depths of his eyes that Michael doubts Alex can see. Max doesn’t usually bother to hide his emotions from his family, but with others, he tends to make more of an effort. “I’m not going to pretend that I know you very well, but I don’t have a problem with the two of you being together. I don’t know what Michael’s been telling you, but I’m not actually a bigot.”

“Max,” Michael interrupts, rolling his eyes. “He’s not calling you a fucking homophobe, relax. I told him about what you said before you --” he waves a hand, still uncomfortable with blurting out the word ‘died’ in reference to his brother. Isobel had taken to using the word as a weapon, wielding it viciously every time Max tried to convince her to give up her relentless pursuit of power and self-confidence, every time his protective instincts became smothering and hard for her to deal with, but Michael can’t quite bring himself to do the same. Not when it’s still so fresh in his mind, and Max’s, too. 

Alex nods, for the first time looking uncomfortable. “It makes sense. I know that I haven’t been the most reliable person for Michael, so I understand that you might not want to listen to what I have to say about Isobel, but -” 

“Wait, wait, hold on a second,” Max interjects, directing his bewildered stare at Michael. “What did I say? I remember -- I remember the lightning, and killing Noah, but everything gets hazy, after that.” There’s a far-off look in his eyes as he struggles to put the pieces together, and Michael shifts on his stool and eventually stands, restless energy crawling beneath his skin.  He’s recounted that night’s events for Alex, and for Liz, later, but this is the first time the subject has been broached with Max. It’s a hundred times worse; every word feels fraught with tension and buried emotion, and Michael doesn’t want this to escalate into a real fight. 

He can feel Alex’s eyes on him and knows that he’s going to have to answer, if only because Alex doesn’t have all of the details, and groans. This conversation feels like peeling a scab off of a nearly-healed wound, and it hurts, but Michael can’t bring himself to stalk off and ignore it any longer. They need to talk about this, to get it all out in the open, and Michael refuses to restart a decade-long habit of storming off when he and Max argue. The two of them are damned good at hurting each other, at leaving when things get hard, but Isobel isn’t in a place to bring them back together, anymore. And call him selfish, but Michael has enjoyed having his brother back, these past three weeks. Things have been good between them, and losing that over something that Max doesn’t even remember clearly would be fucking stupid. Michael might be frustrated, might feel like shaking Max until his brain rattles around in his skull, but he’s still Michael’s family, and that’s so rare that he won’t entertain the idea of losing it again because of death or stupid arguments. 

So he stops the restless pacing around the kitchen just behind Alex’s shoulder and flexes his newly-healed hand in pointed reminder of the conversation in the cave that Max can’t recall.   He’s not ashamed to admit that he takes a little takes petty, vindictive pleasure in the way that Max flinches — he’s not awful enough to want Max to hurt, but Michael wants to make damn sure he remembers, the next time he’s hyped up on power and thinks he can play God, that’s never okay to irrevocably change someone’s body without their fucking explicit consent, even if he’s sure it’ll be an improvement. 

“You said to leave the past behind and look forward,” he says, and if the words drip with accusation, Michael thinks it’s justified. That had fucked him up, for a while. Those words had gotten in his head and under his skin, and burrowed even deeper when Isobel agreed with them -- and he and Alex had lost months while Michael tried to follow their advice with Maria. “You wanted to get rid of my reminder.” Again, he flexes fingers that had been stiff and numb for the last decade, this time without really thinking about it. “And Isobel agreed, afterward, so --”

“You thought that meant I was telling you to give up on Alex?” Max interrupts abruptly, and Michael doesn’t understand the incredulousness in his voice. What the hell else could he have meant? But Max is staring at him, brows drawn and mouth open, and for a split second, Michael wishes that he could read the other man’s mind with Isobel’s ease. It’d be nice to know what Max is thinking, if only to get him to stop staring at Michael that way. 

“Let me get this straight,” Max says finally breaking the tense silence as he pushes away from the counter to stand. He runs his fingers through his short hair in a move that Michael recognizes from years of post-drunken brawl confrontations -- it’s the frustrated gesture that comes right before the agitated pacing in front of holding cell in the Sheriff’s office. With the pacing comes the ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ face that, despite all of Michael’s determination not to give a shit, always makes him feel a tug of guilt in the pit of his stomach. “You have never once listened to me before, about anything, and that’s where you decide to start?” 

Sure enough, the predicted pacing starts a second later, and Michael’s eyes narrow, his temper flaring hot and powerful in his chest. He’s glad Max isn’t dead, and he won’t deny it, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to start listening to the same old bullshit, especially when he hasn’t done anything wrong. 

“Do you need me to participate in this conversation, or is this where I’m supposed to shut up and listen to daddy like a good little boy?” Michael asks acerbically, his expression twisting into something bitter. “Fuck off, Max. I’ve listened to you before, and you know it. You’re the one who said anything to keep the secret, remember? Last I checked, I’ve been following your lead on that for years, even when it meant letting Isobel think I was a goddamn murderer!” His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and Michael deliberately pushes away from Alex and the table in case things get ugly. 

He’s ready and braced for a fight. Part of him is even looking forward to it; Michael’s still got a hell of a lot of anger where Max is concerned, most of it centered around the fact that he’d done exactly what Isobel and Michael had warned him not to. He’d decided he was a freaking deity and sacrificed himself, leaving them torn apart and bleeding when they needed him. Michael’s hand, the fiasco with Noah, ten years of resentment — Michael’s practically salivating for a chance to swing at Max. Maybe then the restlessness that’s been crawling beneath his skin, making him unpredictable and reckless since Max’s death will finally be appeased. Maybe he’ll be able to let it all go, afterward, and function normally, like’s supposed to. 

Max doesn’t give him the chance to find out. His reply is strangely even, tinged with regret and something Michael can’t get a read on without pushing into his head. “I’m a lot of things, Michael, and we both know that not all of them are good, but I’d like to think I’m not that much of a hypocrite.”

It’s Alex who frowns and asks, “What do you mean?” when Michael just stares, still balancing precariously on the razor-thin line between cold silence and an explosion of temper. The wind’s been taken from his sails, though, and he wants to hear the answer to Alex’s question, so he says nothing.

Dark eyes glance between them, and Max huffs a disbelieving laugh and shakes his head. “Come on. Think about it. I should have given up on Liz a long, long time ago. If all I cared about was hiding the truth about what we are, I would never have gotten close enough to fall in love with her -- and I definitely wouldn’t have told her the truth when she came back, especially not after what happened to Rosa. Everytime we got closer, something awful happened, and it hurt both of us. And being with her now, it’s still like dangling from a cliff.” 

There’s a fond nostalgia in the way he speaks, like he’s repeating words from Liz’s mouth with the incredulity of someone who still can’t quite believe he got the girl. “It’s not safe. It’s not easy. Every minute with Liz is like this incredible adrenaline rush, and I’m always wondering what’s going to happen when I finally crash, but I wouldn’t give her up for anything. Not even when Isobel begged me to find someone else. I knew that I couldn’t.” 

Max looks from Michael’s face to Alex’s, and the slightest hints of a smile tweak the corners of his lips. “So I’d say it’d be pretty damn hypocritical of me to tell you to give up the love of your life when I’m not willing to do the same.” Max’s tall, broad body sags back against the kitchen wall, and he tips his head back against the panelling, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t remember that night very well. Just feeling invincible, with all that power -- but I still do think you need to let go of the past and stop reminding yourself of everything that hurt you. It’s impossible to move forward together, carrying all of that weight with you, and it would have ruined any chance you had of making things work. That’s all I meant, Michael, I swear.” 

There’s a moment’s silence, and Max swallows before lifting his head to look back across the room at Michael again, apparently waiting for a response. He doesn’t get one -- at least, not from Michael. There’s too much going on in his head to even consider responding coherently; strong feelings always intensify the noise in his mind, turning his thoughts to chaos and threads of ideas impossible to untangle from one another. It’d made learning to speak as a child way more difficult than it should have been for someone as smart as Michael, and he still finds himself lapsing into silence from time to time. 

Max and Alex both know this about him, and no one presses. His boyfriend simply slides from his chair to stand behind him and wraps him in a warm, gentle embrace from behind, and rests his chin on Michael’s shoulder while he looks at Max, who’s still slumped against the wall, looking tired and significantly more concerned the longer the silence goes on. “Good,” he says, speaking for both of them while Michael tries to understand how he and Max could possibly misunderstand each other on such an epic level when they literally share a psychic connection. “Because I’m not leaving again, and things might have gotten pretty damn awkward if you were going to be an ass about it.” 

The blunt statement makes Michael laugh, and for the first time since entering Max’s house that night, he turns his head and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his boyfriend’s mouth. It’s the first overt display of affection he’s made in front of Max and is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he’s been careful not to initiate much in the way of physical contact in front of his brother. Alex hasn’t said anything, and Michael knows he wouldn’t, whether it bothered him or not, but he’s immediately pissed at himself for the reluctance. Max’s opinion isn’t supposed to matter, whether real or assumed, but apparently, Michael’s always going to care, at least a little, about what his brother thinks. 

It’s a galling realization, but it doesn’t seem quite as bad as it would have an hour ago. 

“Nah, he’ll just find something else to be an ass about,” Michael drawls a moment later, and Max makes a face at him, but it does nothing to disguise the relief in his expression. He’s been waiting for Michael to erupt, to yell and call him names, because that’s what they’ve done for ten years, and damn, it feels good to break that cycle. “Which is fine, because Max being nice usually ends in being a captive audience for Dostoyevsky read aloud, and I don’t think we need to be a part of his masturbatory fantasies, you know?” 

Max snorts, and Alex grins, the stretch of his smile obvious against Michael’s cheek. “Well, that explains some things about the books Liz has been carting around lately. I knew she didn’t randomly decide to pick up the most depressing book ever written,” he adds, the teasing clear in his voice. This close, Michael can almost feel the slight waver of worry that the joke won’t be well-received, that Max is going to snap at him again and all the progress they’ve just made will be ruined, but Michael isn’t worried. 

Used to the mocking comments, Max just rolls his eyes and grabs his plate from the counter, still half full of food, and shoves it in the microwave to reheat. “Great,” he tosses over his shoulder, loud enough for both of the other men to hear clearly. “Another brother who wants to take shots at my library. You’re going to have to get some new material, Manes, because Michael and Isobel have exhausted those jokes. You two deserve each other.” He sighs dramatically with a good-natured smile in their direction, then takes his steaming plate from the microwave before disappearing into the living room with it. Michael can’t decide if he’s giving them a much-needed moment alone or is really just that hungry, but he appreciates it anyway. Alex has frozen against his back, and they definitely do need a second to themselves. 

As soon as he hears the television turn on in the living room, Michael turns in Alex’s arms and presses his lips to the hinge of his jaw. “Now you’ve done it,” he says lightly, running a hand down Alex’s back soothingly. “He’s adopted you. You’re going to have to put up with all of that oblivious, overprotective bullshit just like the rest of us, and pretty soon you’ll be as crazy as me.” 

Alex huffs a disbelieving laugh, obviously bewildered by the twist the evening had taken. “I came here ready to fight with him all night,” he admits quietly, and casts a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, as if worried that Max is eavesdropping from the next room. “This is better. Even if it’s a little bizarre.” There’s a small, pleased smile on his face as he takes a step back from Michael and laces their hands together, and it remains as they heat up the remains of their own food and join Max in the living room to watch Friends reruns with Isobel’s Netflix account. They don’t talk about anything difficult for the rest of the evening, reverting instead to teasing comments and character imitations, and Michael catches himself relaxing into the easy camaraderie of the evening. 

It’s not perfect, and maybe it never will be, but Michael thinks it’s a pretty damn good start to the family they’re trying to rebuild. 

[hermannsthumb]

sorry to add to your mountain of asks but pls listen to this concept: newt feeling like he is most intellectually ~inspired~ when he's getting fucked so he drafts all his letters to hermann while riding a dildo and then has to edit them afterwards bc they always turn out ridiculously amorous.

OK THIS LIKE. SENT ME ON A LITTLE BIT OF A SPIRAL AND GAVE ME A FIC IDEA. its like. tangentially related to ur ask. youll see what i mean. anyway 18+ below cut

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

Hermann’s in pajamas when he answers the door, full on, blue-and-white striped pajamas with a dressing gown thrown over, not the boxers and holey t-shirts Newt usually goes for on the rare occasions he decides to not just pass out nude. They’re pretty cute. Newt always imagined Hermann as a nightshirt and nightcap guy, like something from illustrated Dickens, so it’s a nice surprise. A nice, cute surprise. (The dressing gown is not a surprise.) Maybe he should tell Hermann he looks cute. Might butter him up a little bit. He’s scowling and glaring at Newt in a way that screams I’m going to beat you to death with my cane if you don’t leave right now, so he could definitely use a little buttering up.

“It’s two in the morning,” Hermann says.

“You look cute,” Newt says. “New haircut? 

“Newton,” Hermann says.

“Here’s the thing,” Newt says. His face grows warm, instinctively, for what he’s about to ask. “Okay. Hermann. Dude. Dr. Gottlieb. Herr Doktor. I need a favor.”

“At two in the morning?” Hermann says.

“You know me,” Newt says. “Can’t sleep ‘til I’ve worked out every last problem. And I’m stumped, buddy. This one’s really got me. And usually I--well--usually I have a method, but it’s just not working tonight.”

“I don’t have any drugs,” Hermann says, “if that’s what you’re referring to. Goodnight, Newton.”

He makes to close the door. “No!” Newt shouts, flinging his hand out and stopping him. Hermann narrows his eyes. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?” Hermann says. “You’re being awfully cryptic.”

“Can I ride your dick?” Newt says.

The door slams right in Newt’s face.

Newt knocks eleven more times. “Hermann. Hermann. Come onnnnnn.”

Hermann is red-faced and twice as furious as before when the door swings open this time. “I don’t appreciate being mocked, Newton, so if you’d kindly just--”

“Hermann,” Newt says. “Honestly. I’m serious. Not mocking you. I usually use dildos, but tonight, it’s just--” He sighs in frustration. And in mild embarrassment. This is Hermann, after all, that he’s spilling his most intimate secrets to. Technically Hermann counts as his best friend, which should make it less weird, but that’s only because he’s Newt’s only friend, so Newt’s pretty sure that goes right back to making it weird, and that’s not even considering the fact that Newt wants to do disgusting romantic things with the guy. But Newt’s stumped. He really is. He’s never been this stumped. Usually he’s good to go after working a dildo into himself (suction cup base, works great on the shitty plastic desk chairs they have in the lab, PPDC won’t even relent and get them adjustable ones) and riding it for a bit, maybe one of the bigger or more--well--out there ones for tougher problems, and it’s always worked, tried and true for over a decade, but he’s tried everything from the tentacle to his favorite vibe tonight and he’s still got a hunk of kaiju stomach on his workbench and half a fucking report to fill out and no inspiration.

Who else was he supposed to go to, really? 

Besides. Win-win. Newt gets inspired, Hermann gets laid. And he knows Hermann doesn’t get laid enough to turn down the offer. Even now, Hermann’s eyes are widening, his angry flush receding, his posture shifting ever-so-slightly to lean towards Newt. He’s interested. Newt knows he is. (No guy who spends that much time staring at Newt’s ass in a work environment wouldn’t be.)

"It’ll be fast,” Newt promises. “You’d really be helping me out.”

Hermann’s tongue darts out across his lower lip. “Helping you out,” he echoes faintly. For a moment, Newt’s worried he might keel over in shock. He parts the door wider instead. "I suppose,” he says, “ah, I suppose--all in the name of, er, scientific progress. Research partners. It’d be remiss of me--to--”

“Not fuck me,” Newt offers, helpfully.

“Jolly good,” Hermann says, as faintly as before. “Right-o. In you come, then, Newton.”

Newt flashes him a broad smile, already shucking off his button-up. 

“Is there any particular reason you’re recording this?” Hermann says.

“I can’t really write it down, can I?” Newt says. “Be kinda fucking hard. Nn. Ah. Ah! That’s good. Tissue isn’t decaying at all. Not like it should.”

“Pardon?”

“Hermann, please,” Newt says, “I’m working.”

He lifts his leg up just a bit higher, propping it up on Hermann’s headboard, and sinks down just a bit lower. Hermann’s got a nice dick, it turns out, and it’s working spectacularly, even if he’s not doing much besides knead at Newt’s pecs and occasionally grunt. He looks a little overwhelmed, actually. “This is nice,” Newt says. As an afterthought, he clenches around Hermann.

Hermann lets out a funny-sounding moan. 

“You know,” Newt gasps, “this is how I used to write letters to you. Dildo up my ass, I mean. More inspiration. God, I wanted to impress you so fucking bad.” He wanted flat-out wanted Hermann so fucking bad, in all honestly, and a lot of that would spill over into his drafts. You’re so smart, Hermann, you’re so good at math, look at this thing I did, Hermann, tell me I’m good, I want you to screw my brains out, Hermann, I want you to shove your tongue down my throat and your fingers up my ass while you recite lines of jaeger code, yours truly, your pal Newt. Made for some embarrassing proofreading.

Hermann’s eyes widen. He likes that idea, Newt guesses. Of course he does. “Ah. By Jove--”

“By Jove,” Newt echoes in a wheeze of laughter, forgetting all about the stupid kaiju stomach. (How can he be expected to care about that when he’s got Hermann Gottlieb naked and blushing and saying things like by Jove! beneath him?) “Goddamn, Hermann, you’re cute.” In a fit of cloudy, horny affection, he reaches out and boops the end of Hermann’s nose. Hermann wrinkles it. “Splendid work, old sport. Absolutely spiffing.”

“Don’t,” Hermann pants, thrusting his hips up sharply, “ah, don’t call me that.”

“Old sport?” Newt says. “Would you prefer good sir?”

“Aren’t you meant to be working?” Hermann says.

Newt hums in thought. “I am,” he says. “Huh.” Maybe he needs a little more. Another tiny little boost. Hermann’s (thankfully) not a dildo, after all, and he can do things that dildos can’t do, like squeeze Newt and kiss Newt. Newt’s not taking full advantage. “Can you kneel?”

Hermann can kneel. They switch positions: Newt on all fours, ass up high, face smashed into Hermann’s pillow, Hermann draped over his back and plowing him from behind. He’s really into it. “Oh, Newton,” Hermann breathes in his ear, tweaking his nipples, taking handfuls of the chub at his sides and pulling and squeezing, “you feel lovely, you feel--” The rest of the sentence is swallowed up in a deep, guttural moan.

“Mmph?” Newt says. He manages to lift his head a little and spit the pillow out of his mouth. “Can you spank me?”

Hermann’s hips stutter to a halt; his fingers fall from Newt’s nipple. “Can I what?”

Newt clears his throat so he can properly mock Hermann’s accent. “Would you be so inclined to spank me, my good sir?” He thinks it might be the little boost he needs--Hermann’s big hands coming down, hard, on his ass, turning the cheeks red, until it’s stinging and Newt’s eyes are watering and he can hardly handle it. “Punish me for not washing my mug yesterday or something, I don’t know, man, I’m not--”

Hermann’s hand lands, hard and cold, on Newt’s left asscheek, and Newt startles. “Okay! Wow!” Another on his right. Hermann resumes fucking him.

“You masturbate in our laboratory when I’ve gone to bed?” Hermann says. He hitches Newt’s ass up a little higher and smacks it again. Newt yelps. Hermann’s hand retreats. “Oh, Newton, this doesn’t--did I hurt you?”

“Yes,” Newt says, “and no.”

“It does hurt?”

“It doesn’t,” Newt says. His recorder is lying, uselessly, next to his head, where his glasses are also resting after having slipped off some time ago. The most he’s managed to get out is gibberish. Honestly, Newt doesn’t give a shit at this point. “Hermann, I’m fine, okay?”

“But you do masturbate in--?”

“It’s kinda hot,” Newt admits, “knowing that you could just, I don’t know, walk in at any second. ‘N like I said. It’s. Uh.” Hermann’s grabbed a handful of his ass, this time, and is kneading at it as enthusiastically as he had Newt’s love handles. “It’s inspirational. Guh.”

Hermann’s chest pressing against the length of his back, his mouth at Newt’s ear. Newt shivers. For a guy as dorky and dweeby as Hermann, he sure does know how to be unfathomably sexy--Newt might be falling a little bit more in love with him. “If this is the sort of thing you’d need a lot,” Hermann says, “you know, Newton--we are, er, research partners. I wouldn’t be adverse to--to helping. So to speak.”

“How selfless of you.” Newt grins into the mattress. 

[elsaclack]

your handprint’s on my soul

part two of the reputation series!!! thank you guys so much for all of your kindness and support on the first part i’m fhasldfkj you just!! have no idea how much i appreciate it

anyways!!! if you missed it the first part can be found here (or here, if you prefer ao3). once again, familiarity with the songs is not necessary to understand the oneshots!!!!

now playing: endgame

read on ao3

With Charles’ words still ringing in his ears (and the bruises from Charles’ fists still throbbing smartly along his arms and shoulders) Jake can hardly hear his own fist pounding against Amy’s door. He’s breathing hard, but is only aware of it tangentially - like watching someone else pant, someone else grab at the stitch in their side, someone else struggle for oxygen after sprinting full-speed up six flights of stairs and twenty-seven blocks before that.

Who doesn’t put an elevator in a building with more than two floors?

Amy’s slow to answer her door - at least, it feels like she’s slow, what with all of this adrenaline coursing through his veins - but he’s still struggling to catch his breath by the time her deadbolt slides out of place and her face appears in the narrow crack between her door and her doorframe. “Jake?”

He lifts a hand in greeting, to find his entire arm shaking. “Hey,” he wheezes.

Her incredulity is evident as she pushes her door open a little wider to step out into the hallway outside of her apartment. “Oh, my god, are you okay? What’s wrong with you?”

She’s alarmed, he can see it in the widening circumference of her eyes. “I just - hang - hang on -” he holds his finger up as he doubles over, bracing his other hand against his knee. His lungs are positively burning and there are dark spots along the edges of his vision but he can still make out the shape of Amy’s shoes; he focuses on them, on the sensible rubber soles and the thick heels and the places where the leather has worn and nicked from all of the running and kicking and diving she’s done while wearing them over the years. It’s an odd feeling, he thinks, that he recognizes half the scars from cases they’ve worked together.

“Jake,” her voice sounds far away, and suddenly he’s aware of the fact that his ears are ringing. He straightens up slowly, hands on his hips, and her face is positively ablaze with concern. It makes him wonder how many times she’s called his name in the last few minutes.

“I’m fine,” he gasps, smoothing his hand down his chest, fingers compulsively closing over the empty spot where his badge usually hangs. “I’m good, I just - stairs.”

“Did you run all the way here from your apartment or something? You look like you just outran horror movie murderer.”

“I didn’t - outrun a murderer. This time.” he tacks the last bit on compulsively, and through the concern he’s delighted to catch the split-second of familiar exasperation cracking through the furthest recesses of her gaze. Good start. “But - but I did run all the way here from my apartment.”

Her face contorts in bewilderment. “Oh my god, why? Do you need water?”

“Ew, no. I wouldn’t turn down a glass of OS, though.”

Her expression has not faltered. “OS?” she repeats.

“Orange soda.”

Her mouth drops open slightly, and she stares for a beat. “I-I don’t - I don’t have any orange soda, Jake.”

He shrugs and nods, briefly dropping his gaze down to his feet. “It’s fine, I don’t need any. But I do - I just - I need to talk to you.”

Slowly, she leans back, until her shoulders make contact with the edge of the doorframe. Her brows are furrowed and her jaw is clenched, and he tries not to wince when she loosely crosses her arms over her chest. “Okay,” she murmurs, eyes now firmly fixated on the zipper of his jacket where it sits just below his chest.

“I don’t like the way we left things,” he says, acutely aware of the sweat pooling on his upper lip and dripping down the small of his back. “It felt - I just, I didn’t like it. I - I think I still have more to say, and - and I think you do, too.”

Briefly, her eyes dart up to his face, but they’re back to his zipper before he has a chance to hold her gaze. “Okay,” she repeats, quieter than before.

He huffs, briefly presses his fingertips to his chest over his heart, and then drops both hands to hang at his sides. “I know that things got really complicated and weird today, and I’m genuinely sorry that I tried to play it off. Joking around has always been, like, my go-to when it comes to coping with stuff, and I know that can sometimes make things worse. I’m sorry. I’m working on it.” he pauses and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and her eyes follow the movement. “I know that you’ve been put in, like, a really awkward and uncomfortable position with Terry and the captain and everything - and again, I never meant to, like, play that off or make a joke out of it at your expense, I’m so sorry - but, Ames, I’m not - I’m not ready to call it. This thing we’ve got, it’s good. I don’t wanna lose it.”

She peers up at him through her lashes, and briefly, her fingertips go white against her own arms. “This thing is a day old, Jake,” she murmurs softly. “And it - it was good, last night and this morning, but - it’s been a day. There’s no way for -”

“Stop,” he interrupts, surprising even himself by how sharp the word is. She pauses, eyes widening a degree. “Don’t do that to us. You know it’s been way longer than just a day.”

A muscle in her jaw twitches as she visibly swallows.

“I know things have been rough for the last few hours, and that they probably won’t get much easier with another new captain coming in and Holt being - not here, but - but this has been years in the making, Amy. I’m not gonna just roll over and give up because of one little hiccup.”

“But it’s not just one little hiccup, Jake, we are literally at fault for a man’s death. Our captain’s death. That’s so much more than a hiccup, that’s an entire earthquake.”

He clenches his jaw, studying her face. “Is that really the root of the problem?”

She hesitates.

“Tell me. Please. If this isn’t gonna happen, I wanna know the real reason why.”

She drops her head, arms unfolding, fingertips digging harshly into her temples. “I just - I can’t - I can’t have this reputation that I’m starting to develop if I’m gonna move up the ranks the way I want to.”

“Reputation?” he repeats. “What reputation?”

“I can’t be the officer to dates other officers! No one will ever take me seriously!”

“Dates other - what are you talking about, Amy? Who else have you - I mean - how many other officers have you dated?”

“Just Teddy, but -”

“Okay, the only reputation you have in the NYPD is being one of the top detectives in the state. Dating another cop isn’t gonna ruin that or eclipse that or whatever. You had a genuine connection with Teddy, and then it fizzled out naturally. The same thing applies to you and me.”

“But it’s not the same, is it? Since you and I work in the same precinct. I can’t - I can’t, just, fizzle out naturally and still be around you. I can’t risk losing you the way I lost Teddy. I don’t even care about Teddy anymore, what if - you’re the best partner I’ve ever had - and I can’t, I can’t lose you, Jake, you’re my best friend and if we just fizzle out I don’t know what I’d do -”

“Hey,” he reaches out to grip her upper arms and she steps into his embrace immediately, though she’s not quite fast enough to hide the tears brimming in her eyes from him. Her arms wind tightly around his middle and he squeezes her a little harder, briefly pressing his hand against the side of her head before soothing it down her back. “You’re not gonna lose me, Ames,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, that was bad wording, I just - you dated Teddy because you had a connection with him, not because you were trying to use him to get a promotion. That’s all I was trying to point out, that you’re not using me to get a promotion. I didn’t mean to - you’re not gonna lose me. I promise.”

“What happens if we screw light and breezy and then things don’t work out?”

He clenches his jaw, ignoring the irritating echoes of forever and endgame bouncing around his skull. “We support each other, no matter what. We stay best friends. We make fun of Charles when he’s not looking. I need to - hang on.” He pushes her backwards gently, until her bloodshot eyes find his. “This is your best friend speaking, not the guy who’s here trying to - you know,” she cracks a watery smile as he rolls his eyes. “I love you, Amy. You know I love you. I’m never gonna purposely try to hurt your career, no matter what happens between us in the future. I promise.”

She nods, her gaze darting over his face. “I believe you,” she whispers after a moment, “and I’m - I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” he says, letting her take both of his hands in hers, gently squeezing her fingers. “Not for stuff like this. I get it.”

She smiles, inhales through her nose, and drops her gaze down to their hands. “And you were right, earlier,” she says softly.

He waits, but she doesn’t elaborate. “About...what?”

“This. Us. It’s - it’s definitely been much longer than just a day. And...it is good. Really good. Captains dying aside.”

She peers up at him again, mirroring the smile he’s failing to tamp down. “So...screw light and breezy?”

“Screw light and breezy.”

[sennokami]

parallelisms - chapter 4

ao3

Hashirama had been a few weeks shy of turning fifteen when he first noticed Madara staring at him. It hadn’t been his usual scheming stare, the one that meant he was planning something mischievous. It wasn’t his alert-to-the-world look or his wary face either. It was a look that he never saw before.

“Is there something on my face?”

Madara jerked as if struck. “No.” He shook himself a little. “No, why?”

“You were looking.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were!”

“I wasn’t!”

That quickly devolved into a wrestling match that became a proper spar and Hashirama, sweaty and breathless, painlessly forgot about the whole affair.

Why he was remembering it now as a grown man wasn’t a question he could even begin to answer. Hashirama leaned back in his chair, examining the whorls in the wooden ceiling, as he tried to summon those old, old memories back to him. Just for this, he could’ve happily traded his Mokuton for a Sharingan; everything he tried to recall came back hazy, uncertain in the undefined recesses of his thoughts. Had Madara really been looking that long? Had that glitter in his eyes just been the sun or something else?

“Damn,” Hashirama muttered to himself. He covered his eyes with his arm. “Damn. Damn.”

Why was he trying so hard anyway? Why did that memory feel so important?

He pressed his arm down against his eyes. What had Mito said? ‘I’ve never met a man so obviously only interested in other men’?

Was it that obvious? Hashirama had never really suspected it until certain facts about Madara came together. But Mito hadn’t even known Madara that long and she’d figured him out. What crucial thing had she seen in Madara that told her about something so intimate, so personal? And why hadn’t Hashirama seen it too?

He wished he’d thought to ask her. Then, he’d just gone quiet, as had Mito, the two of them taken by their thoughts again.

“Hey.”

Hashirama lifted his arm to see his cousin, Toka, perched on the window of his office. She unfolded herself, her armor softly clinking. “You’re back quick.”

“The Hyuuga weren’t that far.”

Hashirama straightened. “They’re moving towards Konoha?”

“Turns out that they spoke to Madara yesterday and he convinced them to come to the village. You didn’t know?” Toka’s wry look dropped, her eyes narrowing. “If he’s negotiating with them without telling you -”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant. I just thought that they wouldn’t be moving so soon.” The lie was thoughtless. Hashirama was just so used to defending Madara from his clan that he didn’t even think about covering for him again, no matter how pointless it was now that they had peace.

“Well, they are. They’re not far out from Konoha now and they’ll probably be at the gates by sundown. I assume they’re gonna be coming in?”

“Absolutely.”

Toka sighed and leaned against the wall. She was, like most Senju were, a tall woman. Her top knot added to her height. She’d been one of the few kids who’d been exactly of age with Hashirama and they’d been close for a little while, back when age was something that mattered, right up until Toka caught wind of her parents discussing potential marriage matches with Butsuma. They’d drifted apart afterwards, both of them not particularly interested in encouraging thoughts in that direction, and now they were comfortable in their relationship as clan head and subordinate first, cousins second. 

Toka crossed her arms. “So I heard that Uchiha Madara is going to marry a Hyuuga.”

Hashirama opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out one of his bonsai projects in lieu of answering. He began to trim its tiny branches.

“And I heard that she is supposed to be a real looker.”

Hashirama snipped a little branch off, then winced. He shouldn’t have done that one. Now the whole thing was going to be lopsided. Toka came closer.

“I saw her for a little bit. She’s pretty.” Toka’s elbows came to a rest on the corner of his desk. “I wouldn’t say no if the Hyuuga offered her to me for a wife.”

Hashirama nearly snipped off another wrong branch before he finally admitted defeat. He set his trimming shears down. “Is there a point to this?” he asked, glancing at Toka’s inquisitive face.

“Well, I’d thought that you of all people would be the one who knows the best. I asked Mito and she wouldn’t tell me anything concrete.”

“You could ask Madara.”

“And what, get burned? No thanks. Just tell me.”

“Madara isn’t getting married,” Hashirama said firmly. He touched the base of the bonsai tree and regrew the branch he’d lopped off mistakenly. It was cheating, doing it this way, but he thought he was warranted one do-over since he’d been distracted. “It was just a first-time offer from them. We’re going to negotiate down, it won’t be a big deal. Everyone gets marriage offers. Remember how many I got?”

“Oh, yeah.” Toka’s face twisted. “I can’t believe anyone is that eager to marry you.”

“Maybe I should’ve made Tobirama become clan head so he got to deal with all those contracts instead.”

Toka smirked. “You could just give them to me.”

“And risk growing your harem? Dangerous thoughts.”

Toka laughed and rose up to her full height. “I guess I’ll have to do it my way then. Did you know I met this one Uchiha girl last night? I couldn’t tell if she hated me or wanted to sleep with me, it was confusing as hell. Especially since I couldn’t tell the same thing. These Uchiha…” She shook her head a little. “Confusing little bunch, aren’t they?”

With that, she sauntered out of his office with a wave and a promise to see Mito. Hashirama let her go, picking the side of his thumb thoughtfully. He didn’t know what Madara was doing. Normally, this didn’t bother him. A lot of people didn’t know what Madara was doing. But this time, this whole marriage affair – he just couldn’t get it out of his head.

-

Hashirama spent the rest of his week trying to convince himself that Mito was right. He tried to push it out of his head, dredging up all kinds of work that might distract him, but he eventually circled back to right where he started; scribbling ideas for the new proposal he could bring to the Hyuuga. It wasn’t strictly about Madara, sure, but it was definitely tangential enough that he felt vaguely guilty.

“Land,” he muttered. The Hyuuga would need land to settle into and there was a surplus of it. Hell, they could have the whole west side of the forest if they wanted, it was no concern. And since winter was coming, they’d need food. The Senju had ample food provisions ready for the winter, even accounting for the additional demand of multiple clans. As for security – they were worried about the village in Cloud, right? Maybe Hashirama could meet their leader, establish communications, and tell them the Hyuuga were off-limits now. All of it came easily when Madara might marry wasn’t making his stomach knot up.

As Hashirama pondered what else could go on the list (did the Hyuuga want anything particular grown for them?), he heard heavy steps from the floor below. Normally, noise from downstairs didn’t come up to his office but this one was different. Madara had a particular way of walking, a deliberate and thumping way, that announced his presence a full minute before he actually arrived. He could do the same thing with his chakra, make it bloom so fiercely that everyone on the battlefield feels the hot, dry wind, but this was different. They were different.

Hashirama tracked it with one ear, listened to Madara skip over the one bad step on the stairs, march up to his door – thump, thump, thump – bam. He opened the door. Hashirama automatically grabbed a paper before it fluttered away.

“One of the chuunin told me you were available.”

“I am.” Hashirama perked up eagerly. “What is it?”

“I talked to the Hyuuga.” The door swung wider, revealing more of Madara. He wasn’t wearing his mantle. Instead, he was dressed in a fine kimono that stretched across his shoulders, his hair tied up and curling around his neck. It all suited him unnervingly well.

Hashirama’s mouth went a little dry. Madara was still talking.

“-they agreed to my terms but the finer details haven’t been set down yet.” Madara put his hands on his hips. “Are you listening?”

Hashirama nodded.

“I even spoke to her.”

“Her?” He swallowed and clasped his hands so his fingers would stop buzzing. He wanted to walk over to Madara, grab his shoulder, and hold him still so the silk wouldn’t move over his hips like… like that. What color was it? It wasn’t quite red, nor was it violet. It was something in the middle, like the color of good wine.

“The girl,” Madara said, sounding annoyed. “It was as I expected.”

“Was it?”

He dug his nails into his hands and put a valiant effort into looking away. On his visual journey to safer waters, something worse ambushed him. The white triangle of Madara’s chest, scarred, muscled, netted him like a fish.

Oh god. The voice in his head sounded as dazed as Hashirama felt. Oh fuck.

“Mito’s advice was very helpful.”

“Right.”

“You’re not listening,” Madara accused.

“I’m sorry,” Hashirama said, because he really was. He was happy that Madara was finally visiting him again. He definitely wasn’t losing his mind over the fit of Madara’s kimono. “I was just. Your kimono.”

Good job.

“This?” Madara looked down at it scathingly. “Hikaku thinks the Hyuuga will be more receptive if I wore something different. At least it’s not mine.”

So that nixed his vague ideas about Madara’s closet and its contents. “Were the Hyuuga more receptive?”

“They served better tea than last time.” Madara shrugged. Hashirama followed the rise and fall of his collarbones. “What did you do?”

“I...” Hashirama squeezed life back into his fingers. “I thought about setting some incentives for the Hyuuga actually, since we should probably negotiate down from their initial offer-”

“That isn’t necessary anymore.” Madara crossed his arms. His biceps bulged. “The Hyuuga have promised half their fighting forces to the village and they have some interesting ideas about how they can help with the water aquifer. The wedding will be in a month. I said it should be sooner but they insisted they need the extra time. You’re invited, obviously.”

Hashirama had the distinct impression that Madara just had a whole conversation without him. “...Wedding?”

“Traditional.” Madara waved his hand, as if this whole thing was just a fly he wanted to shake away. “I think it would be a good time to get all the clan heads together, put their attention to something that isn’t politics. The Hyuuga intend to foot the majority of the expenses, but I think you could-”

“What,” Hashirama loudly cut him off, “are you talking about?”

For the first time since Madara got here, he looked act him – as in, actually looked at him, not just at the space over his left shoulder. He looked nonchalant but there was something else lurking in there, something behind the set of his dark eyes.

“My wedding,” Madara said.

“To who?” Hashirama said.

“The girl. The Hyuuga. You were there with me.”

“You didn’t say you would marry her.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“That isn’t a yes!”

“What else were you expecting?” Madara snapped. “It was a good idea, even your brother could see that.”

“But why would you agree?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Madara peered at him, his eyes narrowed, and this was all going bad, going in directions Hashirama hadn’t wanted it to go in. He wanted to say something to defuse the situation but he couldn’t seem to find the right words for it. Maybe he didn’t want to defuse this at all. He was… he was just… gods, was he angry?

Angry at Madara?

“We were going to negotiate down, it was a rash move for you to just -”

“It was my offer to negotiate.” Madara’s mouth was just a thin line now, a bloodless slash of restrained fury. “Don’t you understand that? It was my own damn marriage. I brought you along, that should be enough for you.”

“I didn’t expect you to actually agree!” Hashirama stood up. His chair screeched back. His entire body was buzzing again, the wood under his hands growing warm, and for once, Hashirama didn’t pay it mind. “Tobirama didn’t, I didn’t, Mito even didn’t -”

“Oh, Mito didn’t, did she.” Madara sneered. It was an ugly expression for his handsome face. It made him cold and unwelcoming, a visit backwards in time. “Well, maybe, you should ask me instead of asking her.”

“Do you think you have to?” Hashirama said. He was grasping at straws. “You don’t! There’s plenty to discuss with the Hyuuga, you don’t need to do this to yourself. I’m sure we could reach some kind of accord with them.”

Madara stared at him. His face twisted, a hot spitfire of anger simmering in his eyes, before cooling down to banked coals. “You don’t get it, do you?”

The disappointment hurt worse than Madara’s anger. Hashirama was capable of enduring all his fires, all his heat, but he’d never learned to cope with Madara’s disappointment before.

“What’s there to get?” he asked him. Pleaded. I don’t understand. Please, Madara. Please.

“You’re a married man, Hashirama.” Madara walked closer to him. He pressed the tips of his fingers on his desk and leaned in, his hair whispering over his silk shoulders. “That’s that. I thought that maybe… well, it’s over, isn’t it? You and I. You’ve gone ahead without me."

Madara’s fingers slid over the desk. Hashirama felt the scrape of his nails over every groove in the wood. When he touched his hand, he felt both hot and cold. The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

“Senju Mito is your wife. And I can’t stay waiting."

Madara curled their fingers together. Hashirama looked down at their interlinked fingers, then at Madara’s face. He didn’t look so angry anymore. Just resigned and rueful, the creases in the corners of his eyes too deep for his age. Hashirama gently pulled his hand a little closer. When he cupped his cheek, Madara didn’t move.

“It was necessary,” Hashirama said. His voice was hoarse.

“I suppose.” Madara leaned into his touch. Hashirama’s gut twisted harshly. “But that doesn’t change reality.”

“Madara, I -”

“Hashirama.”

The seriousness in his voice made him stop talking. Hashirama watched, something too vast for words tossing and turning within him, as Madara turned his head a fraction and kissed the inside of his palm. His lips were soft, just the tiniest bit wet, as if Madara had licked them before coming in, and Hashirama couldn’t stop even if he wanted to as he tilted Madara’s chin and kissed him.

There was no pain. There was no blood. It was just Madara opening his mouth to let him in and Hashirama grabbing his shoulder, holding him tightly, terrified of the idea that he might just leave. Madara was his friend, his best friend, he’d swear it until his tongue went bloody, but he was something more that he was still too afraid to look in the eye.

Madara curled his hand over the back of his neck. He always ran hot but now he felt scorching, his palms leaving brands wherever they went. Hashirama wanted to ask him, burn me, make it forever, but he held his tongue until Madara pulled back, his mouth warm and red, the Sharingan spinning like pinwheels.

“I-” he began, but Madara cut him off. Again. He was doing that more and more, wasn’t he?

“Don’t talk,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

I want to, Hashirama wanted to say. I want to tell you so much. Hashirama wanted nothing more than to hold Madara by his hips until he could find the right words for it but Madara was right, because the world didn’t stop turning for them. It all just kept going and going, forward and forward, and Hashirama was feeling increasingly left behind, snatching at things that didn’t want to be held.

“Won’t you wait?” he pleaded.

“Can I?” Madara asked in return.

Yes, you can, whispered a weak voice inside of him, but even Hashirama knew that wasn’t fair.

Madara let go first. When Hashirama didn’t release him, Madara pulled his hands off. Both of them didn’t make eye contact with each other as Madara took a step back, his hands now tightly clasped behind his back, and quietly said, “A month. That’s how long you have.”

Hashirama didn’t reply, even as Madara left and closed the door behind him.

-

He didn’t know what possessed him when he went down to the Hyuuga camp that was slowly filtering inside of Konoha’s walls. He still couldn’t say by the time he was sitting in front of Hyuuga Hisae, the woman who would be Madara’s wife.

And I heard that she is supposed to be a real looker, Toka chuckled. I don’t think he’s going to get married, Mito shrugged.

“I’m honored by your visit, Hokage-sama,” Hisae said, dipping her head. She had long brown hair that’d been combed smooth and bound back by a long white ribbon. Her hands were thin and her fingers long, white as lily petals. Hashirama could imagine the kind of children she’d give Madara: beautiful and strong and perfect.

Did Madara want children? Come to think of it, Hashirama never asked. Such thoughts hadn’t been on their minds when they were boys. Now, he could only add it to the growing pile of things he wished he’d asked.

“We don’t need to be so formal, Hisae-san,” Hashirama smiled back. “You’re going to marry Madara and I think of him as a brother. You’ll practically be my sister.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. Her mouth moved but her eyes did not.

“I was thinking of visiting before. And with the recent news, I finally have an excuse to swing by. I hope your clan’s finding the move comfortable?”

“Oh, very. Konohagakure has been very welcoming to us, and everyone has been very kind. My mother was very pleased.”

“And you? Were you pleased?”

“Perfectly,” she said. Her mouth tilted up into a dollish smile. “Marrying Uchiha-sama will be a deep honor.”

Hashirama’s palms itched. He’d always hated this kind of formality. Tobirama was so much better at it, sitting with a straight back in a stuffy room, drinking tea and making subtle commentary, while Hashirama had always wanted to cut to the heart of the matter, formality be damned.

“You know, I wasn’t there when Madara confirmed. I wish I was – it really would’ve been something to see!” he laughed as Hisae stared at him. “I guess he just talked to Hitomi-san?”

“Ah, no, actually. We discussed it ourselves and I agreed. I only told my mother later.”

Oh. That was new. Hashirama couldn’t explain the spike of nervous energy that shot through him at that. A private conversation sounded a lot more intimate than a negotiated marriage alliance.

“I hope he didn’t offend you,” Hashirama said. Immediately, he regretted it. He prayed Madara would never hear wind of this.

“Not at all. Uchiha-sama was very courteous throughout our conversation.” Hisae tilted her head. “Did you think he would offend me?”

“No, of course not. I just understand that his reputation can precede him a little.”

“Ah, but you have a reputation too, Hokage-sama. The God of Shinobi, was it? It’s quite a fearsome moniker. But I think that both of you prove to be much more than mere reputations. Uchiha-sama, in particular, I thought, seemed to represented rather unfairly. But I guess that it the lot of our clans, being doujutsu clans.”

Hashirama blinked. He rather had the feeling that he’d pulled on a tripwire he hadn’t known existed. “We don’t discriminate against bloodlines here,” he said, cautious.

“It’s not discrimination,” Hisae said. “But it’s… ah, how should I put it… a certain attitude, perhaps, towards bloodlines. It’s not so rare, Hokage-sama, for shinobi to have a reaction to them. Where I come from, the Byakugan is known for being a blind man’s eyes – because they get taken so often, you see.”

Hashirama remembered Hitomi and the bandages wrapped around her head. Blind man’s eyes. What a cruel nickname.

“... I remember Hitomi-san asking for insurance,” he said. “Is that the point of this? Insurance?”

“It wasn’t too long ago that the Uchiha and the Senju were enemies,” she said. “I will not tempt the gods by speaking of darker possibilities, but I think we both understand the precautions we’re taking by acknowledging that.”

“You think this village won’t last.”

“I did not say that.”

“You think it’s possible.”

“You said it, Hokage-sama, and not me.” Hisae folded her sleeves so they laid on her lap symmetrically. “I don’t want to spoil the happiness that will come in a month, so I think a conversation like this is out of place, but-”

“Hisae-san,” Hashirama cut in insistently, “that’s not what I came to talk to you about.”

It was politics all over again. Always politics, here and there, insinuations about what could happen, about potential enemies, but that wasn’t the point of this conversation.

“What I wanted to ask you,” he said, “was if you’re going to marry Madara just for politics.”

Her brows knitted. For the first time during their entire conversation, Hisae’s facade slipped an inch. Her eyes darted to the corners of the room before she leaned in, frowning a little. “I’m… sorry?”

“Can you really just marry him for something that might happen? Doesn’t that seem unfair to you? Don’t you want to marry someone you actually know?”

“We have a month to know each other.”

“It’s only a month. Why not wait a little? Make sure that you two are actually compatible, just so you’re not making a mistake.”

“But Hokage-sama,” Hisae said, “I do like Uchiha-sama.”

“What?”

“Don’t misunderstand. Part of this is politics, most assuredly so. But Uchiha-sama himself is…” Hisae pulled out her fan from her sleeve began to fan herself. Her mask was freezing back into place but behind her waving fan, Hashirama could see a tiny smile that looked almost genuine. Like this, he could actually see what Toka was talking about – Hyuuga Hisae, behind the ice, was truly lovely.

“I’ve never met a man like him before,” she said. “And at first, I was afraid, but I’m not anymore. Because above all else... Uchiha-sama is a very kind man.”

[rainoverthemountains]

So I wrote a Twist-story

I absolutely adore @itsladykit ‘s boy Twist from her Twistfell AU. Actually, I adore all of her boys from all of her AUs, so much so that I wanted to write a story about them. Unfortunately, the more I love a tough and cool character, the more I love hurt/comfort involving that character. Fortunately, Lady Kit is fantastic at providing that. Unfortunately, I wanted even more, and I was also sad that Twist is so hopeless about his LV problem, so this story came to mind. It sprang from Lady Kit’s story Bucket List (the AO3 version), so it makes more sense if you read that first (although if you’re considering reading this and haven’t already read Lady Kit’s stuff, what are you doing here? Go read her stories, she’s incredibly awesome).

I’m hesitant to write it because it seems strange to write hurt/comfort with someone else’s characters (ignoring the fact that all fanfiction uses someone else’s characters) but Lady Kit does like hurt/comfort and has stated that people are free to write in her worlds, and it doesn’t get into any subject that she has stated she wants to avoid, so I decided to give it a try. I also don’t know what I’m doing with writing a story and posting it to the internet, but we’ll see how it goes. Lady Kit please don’t hate me if you see this and don’t like it.  I’ll take it down or change it if you want. I’m sorry I’m awkward. 

So now I will post this and go hide.

Summary: There’s a cure for LV (probably). It’s completely safe (probably). It’s a highly unpleasant experience (definitely). Twist only cares about that first statement. He probably should have paid a little more attention to the other two. But what does it matter? He’s getting what he wants, and he has the best friends and family in any universe to help along the way.

Chapter 1

“Gah! What the hell is their problem? Don’t they realize what I have here?” Iggy snarls at the review panel’s response to her official report, slamming her bowl of ramen on the desk before sheepishly wiping up the noodles that spill over the side. After the sudden increase in funding from an anonymous donor, the LV reduction project has progressed beyond her wildest dreams. She’d honestly been losing hope just a few months ago, but access to any resources she can imagine has changed things. Well, access to resources and a little creative bending of surface laws on ethical treatment of research subjects. 

“Those damn laws,” she growls. She’d looked into them at the urging of her Taleverse counterparts, and, fine, maybe some of her methods are just a little bit illegal here. But those laws just don’t take into account the importance of her work! Following all of the required procedures could delay the project for years, maybe decades. Monsters don’t want to wait decades to get rid of LV, and that includes her research subjects. A few might have melted in the process, but that was only in the beginning and those monsters were too far gone into their LV to care anyway. Besides, that problem is long since solved. While her more recent subjects didn’t particularly enjoy the treatment, they all came out of it alive and with lower LV. They got what they wanted, however much they might have complained along the way. The point is, she’d created the impossible, a drug that can dissolve LV without dissolving the rest of the monster. 

“It doesn’t even do any permanent damage to the subject’s soul anymore! What can they possibly have to complain about now?” she mutters, reading further into the report.

“‘Promising, but requires further testing,’ my ass.” She’s done the testing. She’s shown that it works. The subject pool is a little limited, but the trends are consistent and easily extrapolated. Of course, ‘Extrapolation outside the range of available data is not sufficiently reliable to support approval for mass production,’ according to several reviewers. 

“Well, maybe they have a point there,” she allows. “A slight one.” Extrapolating from an LV of 9, the highest of her successful test subjects so far, to the full range of monsters who need the treatment might be going a little too far. 

“Well what am I supposed to do about it?” She throws up her hands in exasperation. They want all research participation to be voluntary, but they also want the treatment tested on high LV monsters. “Have they ever met a monster with high LV!?” Not exactly the most cooperative research subjects. Some of them might say they want to get rid of their LV, but just try sticking a needle in their soul and see how long they keep cooperating. An uncooperative high LV monster can cause a lot of trouble. She shudders. There’s no way she’s dealing with that again. Then there’s the subjective data. Monsters on the edge of losing their minds are terrible at answering questions about the experience during treatment, and the panel refuses to accept her results without some form of patient report.

Ugh. Those self-righteous assholes want to deny her brilliant, revolutionary cure to all of monster-kind on the basis of a few technicalities. She taps her claws against the desk, fuming. “There has to be a way around this.” If she can just find someone, anyone, with high LV who is reasonably sane and would be motivated enough or have little enough sense of self-preservation to be a cooperative research subject…

Oh. Well of course there’s Papyrus. Well, a Papyrus, the one from her universe. The crazy one who goes by Twist now. That bastard has been on the edge of losing it for years but has never quite tipped over the edge. She nearly had him a few years ago, back when she first started her work underground, but his brother talked him out of it. Undyne kept trying to convince the little fluff ball for her, but eventually they’d given up. But now… Things are different now. Not with the fluff ball, but if she can just go around the fluff ball…

Twist is losing his mind. Anyone even tangentially acquainted with that multi-universal pack of skeletons knows that. Anyone with any basic understanding of LV should know that. The fact that he’s kept it mostly together this long suggests a level of determination or attachment or stubbornness or something that most monsters don’t have. Maybe enough of it to actually go through with the treatment? And based on some of the stunts she’s heard of, a high sense of self-preservation won’t be a problem. So, highly motivated, unlikely to be scared away by any necessary unpleasantness, really not much to lose given the deadline he has to know he’s living under, and LV high enough that no one can say she’s extrapolating outside the range of her data. He’s perfect. Now she just has to get to him where no one else will have a chance to talk him out of it, at least until it’s too late to change his mind.

***

All that being said, it seems best to approach Twist at work, away from all the others. Undyne still keeps track of all possible troublemakers from their universe so it’s easy to find out where he works. That’s how she finds herself greeting a pair of skeletal legs sticking out from underneath a car.

“Twist? Is that you under the car?” she calls.

“Yep, I’m the only skeleton workin’ here so if yer talkin’ to a skeleton under a car it’s prob’ly me.” He rolls out from under the car and waves. “Hey, Iggy. Whatcha doin’ ‘round here? Havin’ car trouble? We’ll getcha fixed up in no time.”

“No, no car trouble. Actually, I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal?” Twist teases with raised browbones, “well now ya got my interest. Does yer girl know ‘bout this proposal? I’m up fer anythin’, but I’m not so sure she is.”

“Not that kind of proposal!” Fellverse monsters shouldn’t blush this easily.

��What kind of proposal it is, then? Does everyone have ta be dressed, or is that negotiable?”

“It’s not that kind of proposal! Forget that I said the word proposal. It has nothing to do with a proposal. Can you please try to be serious for one minute?”

“Proposals can be very serious.” Iggy glares and Twist grins. “Fine, fine, what’s this not-proposal ya got fer me?”

“You know what I’ve been working on since Asriel’s coronation, don’t you?” Twist abruptly loses his teasing air.

“I do. Think I’ve told ya before that I’m not really in’erested in meltin’, though.”

“Oh, no, the research is way past that point. No one’s melted in months, well, I mean a little bit, but not melted, melted, and I’ve got that part worked out too. Actually, that’s what I came here to tell you. I’ve found a cure!” Twist’s jaw drops.

“What? Ya found… what?”

“A cure for LV! Money from a new major donor gave me access to equipment and materials that I never dreamed of, which let me break through a few major obstacles that had stumped me for years, and now the treatment is already in clinical trials and it works! It really works!” Twist stumbles against the car and decides to sit down before he falls down as his legs give out in shock.

“Are, are ya serious?” Iggy nods enthusiastically. “Yer not exaggeratin’, or brushin’ over some technicalities, or playin’ some sick practical joke ‘cause I swear if you are ya won’ leave this place alive, or…”

“No, no, no, none of that. It’s not an easy cure like ‘take a pill, then get all better right away’ easy, and like I said, it’s still in clinical trials so it’s not approved for the mass market yet, but it’s real and it works.”

“When can I have it?”

“Once it makes it through clinical trials it will have to be approved by a review board and the sovereigns, so whenever all that is done is when it will be available to the general public.” She’s got him. She’s definitely got him. Now is the time to reel him in.

“An’ when’ll that be?

“I don’t know. The real holdup is the clinical trials. I need to show that it’s safe and effective in monsters across the whole range of possible LV, and volunteers with high LV are hard to find. The highest I’ve had so far is 9.” Twist’s sockets narrow. He’s clearly caught on to what she’s doing.

“An’ I suppose ya came here today hopin’ ta find a volunteer.”

“Well, yes. I didn’t think you’d mind. It would give you access to the treatment months or even years earlier than you’d have it otherwise and I know LV is a particularly time-sensitive issue for you.” 

“Mhmm. Can’t deny ya’ve got a point there. An’ can ya guarantee I won’t melt?”

“Absolutely no melting. I’m not saying the treatment will be fun. It’s actually pretty painful and can go on for days, even weeks to get rid of as much LV as you have. You’ll probably want to come up with something to tell your friends and family unless you want them worrying about you the whole time. But won’t it be worth it to come home free of LV and having paved the way for everyone else to be free of LV too?”

“So that’s the whole story, huh? I come with you, get this ‘treatment,’ be miserable for a few weeks an’ then I‘m cured? Why do I suspect yer leavin’ somethin’ out?”

“I’m really not. I mean, I haven’t explained every detail, but I will if you come back to the lab with me. I’ll explain the whole process and you can back out at any time before we start, but I know you’re not going to want to because I know you want this. Come on, do you really want to wait around until you hurt someone or lose your mind? I’ve worked with plenty of monsters who lost themselves to their LV-”

“An’ melted quite a few of ‘em.”

“-and that’s not something you want to go through, or put your little brother through. I know you two are close. Just imagine what it would be like for him if one day you attack him, or if he finds out you just went crazy one day and you’re never coming back, or if you kill yourself to keep that from happening.”

“Ok, yes, I get it! I don’ need ta hear it, I already know all that shit!”

“Now imagine coming home to him and telling him truthfully that none of that is ever going to happen, that all of your LV is gone and you can live the rest of your lives without ever worrying about it again. Imagine the same for your friends, each of them losing the LV that’s been weighing on them or their loved ones for years. Imagine what it’ll do for monster-human relations when humans can no longer point to high LV monsters to prove that all monsters are dangerous and shouldn’t have any rights. Imagine-”

“That’s enough! Ya think I don’ know what gettin’ rid of LV would mean? Think I don’ think about it every fuckin’ day?”

“I know you do. That’s why I know you want this. If you want to eliminate LV, and I know you do, then come help me get rid of it. We have the power to do something completely, unequivocally good, here. Just come to my lab and we can do it. We can do it today!”

“Ok.”

“You know you want to-”

“I said ok!” Twist snaps. “You can stop yer grand speech. ‘M convinced. Let’s go cure LV. Jus’ lemme finish with this car an’ I’ll go take off work an’ tell my bro that ‘m going on vacation fer awhile. He’ll be annoyed I didn’t warn him but he won’ be that surprised that I went off on some random trip.”

chapter 2

[drunklander]

Drunj!Der Yells About Outlander

Thoughts on Ep. 401

Oh hey, y’all. We’re back for another season of that show we keep watching in hopes it’ll get back to its season one glory Outlander! Since I’m incapable of keeping my Opinions to myself and have no filter after a few drinks, I’m gonna do drunk recaps that no one asked for or wants again this year. Because why not. So buckle up, randos, because under the cut you will find nothing of substance, zero insights and absolutely no analysis!

Before I dive into the stream of consciousness, quasi-incoherent beat-by-beat nonsense, I just want to say that I overall liked this episode. I definitely enjoyed it more from the comfort of my own couch than in the theater with thousands of screaming sycophants at NYCC. It definitely had me singing along to the Federalist Papers part of Non Stop all day though. A series of scenes, tangentially related, introducing the Colonies to the public. Some are obviously just there to just set up the plot of the season or like check a residual box from last season. But some are solid world-building and character moments. And, because it’s Outlander, some are like *side eye*.

But I’m for real excited for the first half of this season! The second half of Drums is a dumpster fire (fucking Rogergate...) and it seems like the show is going to stick pretty close to the book, so I’m going to try my hardest to not let preemptive feelings about that nonsense cloud potential enjoyment of the first bit. Because dammit, I love me some domestic!Frasers. So yeah, happy end of hiatus, y’all!

Ok I don’t want to start off on a downer note, but jfc. I get what they were going for with the 2000 B.C. stone circle stuff, but omg no. I don’t care if certain indigenous peoples really did make stone circles and dance around them as the sun rose. I know they’re trying to show the universality of circles and these time portal thingies or whatever, but by making the parallel with the druids at Craigh na Dun, it’s basically being like “Oh hey! These Native American folks from *checks notes* North America are just like the white folks we’ve been hanging with for the last three seasons!” It came off to me like erasing the unique cultures of the diverse peoples of North America in favor of framing them as a generic group of “natives” who do the white people stone dance. And in a season that’s going to deal heavily with multiple tribes, this really isn’t giving me much confidence in how they’re going to handle the rest of the Native American characters.

I’m really hoping someone else will articulate that better than I did. Because I feel like I’m not communicating well what my actual issue with the sequence was.

Petition to make Jamie wear a hat at all times to hide his horrible bangs.

Gavin Hayes has to be being hanged for literally the dumbest crime ever. But he seems pretty chill about it so...

Ok I never liked book!Bonnet as a character (like obvi he’s a terrible person so I was never going to like him as a person, but I was always annoyed that he was still around rather than appreciating him as a villain), but even from that presumptuous “yeah can I snag some rum too, bruh” in the jail, I’m like solidly on board with show!Bonnet.

Jamie tried to save Hayes, but you see Hayes straight up killed a guy. Sure it was in self-defense, but, y’know, ye olde times and he did kill the dude. Sooo...

I want to feel for Lesley, I really do, but I’ve never actually given a shit or been given a good reason to give a shit about Rupert and Angus 3.0 so, sorry for your loss?

Unpopular opinion alert (should be the standard disclaimer on all of my #hottakes) but I really don’t care for the new theme music. Every time they change it, I find myself wanting the OG season one music back with just the images updated.

The bald eagle for the title card just gives me such mixed feelings that have nothing to do with the show. Like here’s a symbol of my country and it *should* invoke good feelings, but *gestures at the current political climate* every national symbol at the moment feels tainted by the growing white nationalist movement that’s being spurred on by the current administration.

Time for some post hanging brewskis. We are here to mourn Gavin Hayes. Who died only so the new villain could be introduced. Let us bow our heads.

Marsali and Fergus win the prize for least subtle “can we be excused to go bang” ever. Rock on, Fersali.

I fucking LOVE that they changed the tavern scene so everyone sings with them like they know what’s going on rather than how in the book it was like them making fun of the red coats as part of Gavin’s song and then Fergus passed around a hat for coins. But by having everyone in the tavern in on what’s going down and earnestly participating, it establishes that 20+ years after the failed Rising, after the Clearances, after everything the Scots went through at the hands of the English, they were not truly defeated. They may have moved across an ocean, but they are still Scottish and they still practice their traditions and dammit I’m having feelings about those resilient motherfuckers.

The scene with Jamie and Ian is very well done and I’m SO glad they included it because they did in fact include his rape last year, but fuck the show for including that rape in the first place. A very similar version of this scene could have been done without the rape, there’s enough trauma involved in being kidnapped, taken across the ocean, held hostage by a batshit lady and knowing that everyone else she kidnapped ended up dead for one 16 year old kid. With Jamie’s rape we got two episodes of trauma and four of recovery. With Mary, Fergus and Ian, we get three child rapes that could have all been avoided (especially Ian’s, but the plot points that come from Mary’s and Fergus’ could have definitely come about without them actually being raped), and they all just got one brief scene to express their trauma and then everything’s hunky dory again. (We know they’re going to include Bree’s rape, also fuck them very much for that, it’s completely unnecessary, and I’m guessing we’ll spend some time with her on her recovery. But that’s a rant for when we get there...)

For real though, Jamie parroting Claire as he comforts Ian is super sweet, but it makes me skeptically nervous for how he’ll react to Bree’s. Since in the book, it’s...not great.

Stephen Bonnet is so delightfully smarmy. Also, how fucking naive is our main squad now all of a sudden that they don’t realize from the jump what a sociopath he is? C’mon, y’all. Like I know Jamie came close to being hanged or whatever, but literally everything about this dude screams that he’s bad news. He is not subtle in his I’m a straight up unapologetic and charismatic good guy criminal. And like, he’s a friend of Gavin? Come the fuck on, squad. HOW DO YOU NOT SEE THAT HE IS FULL OF SHIT. *gets Det. JJ Bittenbinder on the horn*

For real though, dodgy accent aside, I fucking love Ed Speleers in this role. Why the fuck do they have to include the rape. Can’t he just be a bastard without being a rapist? Why must you make me rage, show. I just want to enjoy a decent villain.

Jamie and Claire are doing their best Jean Ralphio and Mona Lisa Saperstein trying to talk their way through this checkpoint.

“You’ve never parted with the ring from the first?” Yeah, I don’t get it either, Bonnet my dude. I don’t get it either. #FuckFrank

Bonnet talking about circles fascinating him makes me think he’d do well in a group of stoners having what they think are philosophical conversations at 3:00 a.m. “But like guys, have you ever like thought about...the rhombus?”

For real though, him being real with Claire about this drowning stuff makes him an infinitely more interesting villain than Black Jack ever was. Black Jack was kind of a crap villain tbh. He was horrible and did horrible things, yes, but like that was it. He was just horrible. Bonnet’s like oh I’ll charm you, be real with you and then fuck you up in the course of one episode and not give any of it a second thought because I have not a single fuck to give about anyone but me. I’m just out here living my best life, sorry not sorry. *puts on shades, drops mic, walks away*

For real though, his “be wary of thieves and outlaws” line might as well have been “it’s me, I’m talking about me.” And these dorks don’t even pick up on it. GUYS YOU ARE KILLING ME, YOU DIDN’T USED TO BE THIS SHITTY AT JUDGING SOMEONE’S CHARACTER.

I’m guessing this is the official christening-their-new-continent-bang because it’s too cold to do River Sex™ in Scotland. But I’m looking forward to getting the rest of Ch. 16 once they get to the Ridge. (We all saw those strawberries in the promo...)

The book lines still feel shoehorned in rather than organic to the show, but not as much as 95% of A. Malcolm felt. So I guess I need to just accept that the writers are going to keep doing this and I just need to stop expecting them to actually do their jobs and adapt for the adaptation...

For real though, I know Spotify doesn’t exist yet but jfc Jamie and Claire’s secksi time playlist literally just has this one song and guys, there’s a whole world of songs for smushing out there. My man Doug Judy would be glad to broaden your horizons.

Claire’s I just had sex smile as she looks out over the valley made me literalol.

Cool that we get woke!Jamie saying that the American Dream is a nightmare for the Native Americans after Claire’s Americana 101 speech, but this is a woman who lived in wicked racist 1960s Boston. She knows that things aren’t nice and rosy in America in the 18th *or* 20th centuries. Her speech makes me hate S3 a little more for focusing on Frank’s manpain instead of Claire and her and Joe’s time in the hospital, where the show could have explored gender and race in the 20th century to set up a contrast for how things will be this season in the 18th. Claire went through enough shit last time she was in the past, and so far this time, to know that the past isn’t idyllic. She knows enough about US history and 20th century America to know this mythical origin story she’s spouting is nothing but a fairy tale. I get why she might cling to that ideal, this is the first time in her life she might get to settle down and build a home with the person she actually wants to build a home with, but her whitewashing history like this strikes me as a way too naive for her.

The green screen as they stare out at that very much not actually there valley is killinggg me.

Ok for real though, this cut from them in the Uncanny Valley to the room getting ready for dinner is the most jarring of the episode. Like, I’ve come to terms with the fact that this is just a series of independent scenes rather than an actual, cohesive whole, but jfc. Who actually is Lillington, how do you know him? Nope? No info? Not important? Just need to get it out there that you have jewels so the last scene in the episode can happen so the ring can be taken so the rape can occur? Cool. Cool cool cool.

Ok so show!Claire makes me sad with being insecure/self-depreciating about her appearance. Like with saying brown is a dull color when Jamie calls her mo nighean donn the first time and when she asks Joe if she’s sexually attractive and when she dyes her hair before going back through the stones and now with the mutton dressed as lamb thing. (Claire, girl, how are you that up on Colonial fashion that you know what’s “age appropriate” already? Wouldn’t think there was much fashion gossip along the road from Georgia to North Carolina, but whatevs.) I know three of these four things are straight from the book, but in the show it hits me differently. Book!Claire is kind of a bitch when it comes to looks. Her parting words in her letter to Bree were “try not to get fat.” She like judged the crap out of that rando lady in Edinburgh before she went to the print shop just to make sure she didn’t look too old. So when she has these aforementioned moments, they land differently. Now I’m not saying I want show!Claire to be like book!Claire, quite the opposite. I’m glad they cut that other stuff. But now whenever show!Claire has a moment of self-consciousness, all I want to do is be like woman, you are a fucking smokeshow. Fuck the patriarchy for making you feel like you aren’t stunning exactly as you are. #LadyBonerForBeauchamp

Oh Governor Exposition. How nice of you to join our merry band of randos for dinner!

Man, I’d love to be so rich that I can pull a Baron and casually just happen to have 100 pounds on hand to buy a giant ruby at a random dinner party.

John Grey, who was shunted from shit post to shit post, totes is special enough to get Scotland’s Valjean to England’s Javert cleared. I mean, obvi.

Oh hey, Jamie remembers he has a daughter! Showed more emotion in that scene about how America would become her country than in the scene with the photos. Fuck Sam et al. for the disaster of a performance choice in ep. 306, don’t @ me.

OH HAI ROLLO I LOVE YOU YOU ARE SUCH A GOOD DOGGO I WANT TO SNUGGLE YOU WHO’S A GOOD BOY YOU ARE

“I dinna ken. But she’ll be saying it in Scotland, won’t she?” I do love Young Ian a lot. I know that’s in the book. But dammit I love John Bell in this part a crapton.

Casually lol’ing that they crossed the ocean because Ian was taken and now that they have him, they’re just going to send him alone off to sea again.

The first time I saw the episode, when Lesley gave his “my place is at your side” speech I was like crap, we’re going to be stuck with this guy aren’t we. BUT WE’RE NOT! (I am a terrible person.)

Fergus and Marsali are totes going to be the new Jenny and Ian, aren’t they? The characters who just show up once or twice a season when the core squad needs something and that’s it? Because they get tossed aside in the books like that. That makes me super sad (and I hope I’m wrong) because of how they changed show!Fergus and show!Claire’s relationship from the book that we won’t get to see more of them together. Le sigh. I hope they at least let Bree have a scene where she meets Fergus and learns she has a brother. Especially if she’s not going to go to Lallybroch to meet the Murray squad because Jenny isn’t in this season. Part of what I loved about the Lallybroch part in the book was Bree realizing that she wasn’t just gaining a father but a whole extended family. I hope they kind of transfer that over to her meeting Fergus and Young Ian in the place of [insert Murray kids who let’s be honest we really don’t care about here].

Hey remember that time Jamie was wicked opposed to Fergus and Marsali getting married for literally no reason? That was fun. But yay for Germain!

Holy motherfucking green screen, Batman. Please can we get to the woods soon? Or some other location where it’s not this fucking jarring?

Claire America-is-the-land-of-milk-and-honey Fraser suddenly is overly-on-the-nose indignant about slavery. Cool. Cool cool cool. Again, you know what would have been cool? Seeing her with her best and only friend in the 1960s more last season because he was a Black man. If they had let Joe be a fully formed character, navigating racist af Boston as a doctor, rather than just being Claire’s sounding board and martini maker, we could have seen how Claire being exposed to his reality shaped her views on race in America. But nope, that would have taken air time away from Frank’s manpain. (Seriously, my recent re-watch only highlighted just how much they screwed over Claire’s character last season.)

I’ve always loved that Jamie gives Claire the medical box. It’s just such a simple way to demonstrate that he *gets* Claire. (*side-eyes a certain other husband who patently did not*)

Jamie’s bangs are an affront to anyone with hair. Someone please give that man his hat back!

“This ring is all I need.” Aaand that’s when we all knew that Jamie’s ring would be the one stolen.

“Not for a single day.” Uh, *casually points at the episode in season three when she retcons her entire life in Boston to be not as bad as it was because Jamie’s been such an asshat to her*.

Ok. Holy shit this final scene. I love everything about this final scene. Except the song. This show is not subtle. It’s never been subtle. But holy shit, playing the iconic Ray Charles version of America the Beautiful at the end of an episode called America the Beautiful to be like welcome to ‘Murrica, fuckos, is like even less subtle than they usually go. I 1000% LOVE the choice to cut the audio from the end of the fight scene and just have the visuals, it just would have worked much better if they’d scored with with a regular instrumental piece.

Gah, Bonnet is such a smarmy motherfucker! The nose wipe before he coldcocks Jamie is just perf.

Claire’s face in this entire scene, holy fucking shit. *throws all the awards at Balfe*

And then Lesley dies and I’m a terrible person because I’m happy we don’t need to be stuck with him all season. But holy shit Bonnet when he pauses right before he cuts his throat and then kills him, I love show!Bonnet so much more than I ever gave a shit about book!Bonnet.

And honestly, Claire’s face when he’s killed right in front of her. *throws more awards at Balfe*

GUYS I FEEL MORE EMOTION ABOUT CLAIRE TAKING OFF JAMIE’S RING THAN I DID ABOUT CLAIRE LEAVING BREE BEHIND TO GO BACK THROUGH THE STONES HOW IS BALFE SO GOOD AT MAKING ME FEEL FEELINGS

I’m so fucking glad they changed which ring gets taken. There was an interview where they were like “oh we did it because it has to be visually distinct so Bree can get raped!” and I’m like a) fuck you for including that and b) right decision, wrong reason. This is the right reason for the change.

But even as I say that they made the right call in which ring to have stolen, it’s still a fact that they fucking chose to have one stolen at all. The writers and production team decided that Brianna needed to be raped so a ring must be stolen. Because Diana never wrote a character she didn’t want raped and the Outlander producers never read a rape scene they didn’t want to include. Fuck them all very much for that.

Fuck Them Very Much for That, the title of my memoir.

Oh god her face right at the end when she sees that it’s fucking Fred’s ring she’s left with and not Jamie’s fucking murders me.

*THROWS AN ENTIRE TROPHY STORE AT BALFE*