#swedish fish be upon ye

[pigeonstab]

TRICK OR TREAT!!!

Here you go!!

[madnessatdawn]

Choose a Candy with AVENGEANCE!

A few months back I did a poll and all it said was choose a candy. I decided today I would remake this poll with a brief description and where it orginates from and also prove to the people from the last poll that no I didn't MAKE UP any of these damn candies.

YOU THOUGHT I WAS DONE NO!

CANDY BE UPON YE!!!!!

[lun4rc0w]

Trick or treat!! I'm late but imagine I'm wearing a horse costume and it's so amazing that you want to give me something anyway :)

Woe! Swedish Fish be upon ye!

[eastofthemoon]

Last couple years, I've managed to write a muppet fic for the holidays. So, here's another one! Hope you all enjoy!

Spooky Christmas

Rating: G

Series: The Muppets

Characters: Kermit, Sam, Uncle Deadly, Miss Piggy and various others

Summary:It's time for the muppets to plan the annual Christmas show, however, Sam objects to the typical muppet style. Thankfully, Uncle Deadly has other suggestions.

Archive Of Our Own

Kermit hummed as he sat at the head table with his clipboard. He did a quick count of the chattering heads spread out around the table and it seemed everyone was here. He didn’t see the Swedish Chef, but he knew he was busy preparing snacks for break.

“Okay, settle down,” Kermit called out.

The chattering continued.

“I said settle down please.”

Talking still continued.

“I said-”

“EVERYONE, SHUT UP!” Piggy shouted as she sprang from her seat next to him.

Silence swiftly fell upon the room.

Kermit cleared his throat. “Uh, thank you, Piggy.”

“Welcome, Kermie,” she said with a smile as she sat back down.

“Now then,” Kermit started as he held up his clipboard. “It’s time to start planning our annual Christmas show. So, time for brainstorming. Any ideas?”

“How about we throw fish, but they’re covered in candy canes,” said Lew Zealand as he tossed a fish in the air and then it came flying back.

Sam huffed under his breath in his seat near the end of the table.

“Um, we’ll put a pin in that for now,” Kermit replied.

“How about a holiday rock concert,” said Doctor Teeth.

“That’s a good suggestion, but we did that last year,” Kermit replied.

“My ears are still ringing from that horrendous cacophony,” Sam muttered.

“I got a great idea for an act,” Gonzo cried. “I dance in a bucket of sugar plums, while twenty tinsel cannons go off.”

Sam’s grumblings grew louder. “Of all the ridiculous-”

“Um..we’ll also, put a pin in that one,” Kermit replied.

“I have a suggestion,” said Piggy. “I think this year we should do a play.”

“Oh?” asked Kermit. “What kind are you thinking of?”

“A classic, Pride and Prejudice .”

Kermit blinked. “Um, Piggy, that’s not really a holiday story.”

Piggy grinned as she batted her eyes. “It can be if we include mistletoe.”

Kermit felt sceptical, but he could hear everyone beginning to toss ideas around it. It honestly was the best suggestion so far.

Gonzo raised his hand. “Can I use my tinsel canons?!”

Kermit stared at him. “Tinsel canons? For Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice .” He gave a deep sigh. “Yes, you can use tinsel canons.”

“Woot!” “Well, okay,” Kermit said as he started to write on his clipboard. “If everyone is for it we can-”

“I OBJECT,” Sam said as he slammed his wing on the table. “This nonsense can go on no longer.”

Piggy glared. “What’s your problem?!”

Sam glared back as he leaned over the table. “My problem is that every year we put out some tomfoolery that we call a ‘Holiday Performance’. I say it’s time we do a Christmas show the traditional and American way with proper holiday symbols like Frosty, reindeer and Santa!”

The group began to groan and protest.

“But EVERYONE does those,” Fozzie replied

“Si,” Pepe snapped, “and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a repeat of the snowman fiasco, okay?”

“No kidding,” Floyd called out. “Animal still get nightmares from it.”

Animal shivered. “So...cold.”

“If the floor is open,” Uncle Deadly said with his seat next to Piggy’s. “I may be able to provide some unique alternatives.”

Kermit frowned. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“It better not be more flying fish,” Sam muttered.

“Have you ever heard the Icelandic tale of the Yule Cat?” asked Uncle Deadly.

Kermit frowned puzzled. “I can’t say that I have?”

“I haven’t,” said Rizzo, “but anything that involves the word ‘cat’ instantly makes me suspicious.”

“The story goes,” Uncle Deadly continued, “on Christmas Eve the Yule Cat comes down from it’s home in the mountains to check to see if people are wearing new clothes.”

“Hmm,” Sam muttered, “not quite Santa, but I can appreciate a creature making sure people are properly suited for the occasion.”

Kermit continued to stare at Deadly. “And what happens if a person doesn't get new clothes?”

Uncle Deadly waved a hand. “Oh, it eats them.”

Sam choked. “What?”

“Ha! Called it,” Rizzo called.

Kermit felt a tug on his arm and glanced down at Robin.

“Uncle Kermit, am I going to have to start wearing pants?” he asked.

“I have a feeling the Yule Cat isn’t going to check on frogs,” he said quietly.

“That is horrible,” Sam bellowed.

Uncle Deadly gave a shrug. “Well, I have heard modern versions say the Yule Cat makes a mess of the house rather than consuming it’s inhabitants.”

“Hey, we could do stuff with that,” Rowlf said. “Make jokes about it clawing the curtains, it can’t deciding if it wants inside or out-”

“And,” Fozzie cut in as he raised a hand, “I got a lot of cat jokes that would be purrfect! Eh? Eh?”

“His jokes sure seem like something the cat dragged in!” Statler yelled while Waldorf laughed.

Kermit gave a nod. “Okay, we can use the Yule Cat-”

“Certainly, not,” Sam said sharply. “We can not endorse feline misdemeanor!”

Uncle Deadly drummed his fingers on the table in thought. “If that’s not your ‘cup of tea’, I suppose there are the Yule Lads.”

“And who are they?” Sam asked suspiciously.

“13 brothers who each come to visit home on the last 13 nights leading up to Christmas.” He folded his hands together as he leaned forward. “Children leave their shoes on windowsills and in return the lads will leave small gifts and a rotten potato in ones that have been naughty.”

Sam mulled this over. “That’s much more palatable. What are their names?”

“I don’t recall the exact order, but one of them is called Spoon-Licker.”

Sam froze as Kermit looked on curiously.

“What?” said Sam.

“Another is called Pot-Scraper, Door-Slammer, Sasuage-Swiper-”

“Those are horrible names!” Sam snapped.

“They are a bit of an odd choice,” Kermit replied.

Uncle Deadly raised a finger. “To be fair, they’re named after the pranks they pull in the houses they visit.”

Sam massaged his forehead. “Of all the stupid...”

“What kind of mother gives them those kinds of names?” Piggy asked.

“Well, considering their mother is the child eating ogress Grýla, who hunts for disobedient children to throw into her stew pot, I imagine appropriate names is not her top priority.” He paused and raised a hand. “I should mention she’s also the owner of the Yule Cat.”

“Interesting family,” Piggy replied, darkly.

Kermit tapped his chin. “Well, if we hold back on some of the child eating stuff-”

“No,” Sam growled.

“Then how about the Krampus?” Uncle Deadly suggested.

Sam sighed. “He’s not another member of the Lad family is he?”

Uncle Deadly placed a hand over his chest. “Certainly not, he is a companion of Santa Claus.”

“Oh, that’s better,” Sam said as he eased up. “He helps deliver the toys?”

Uncle Deadly waved a hand back and forth. “Yes and no. He does ride with Santa, but while Old Saint Nick hands out toys to good children, the Krampus whips the bad ones with branches and sticks.”

Sam buried his face into his wings. “Why am I not even surprised?”

“There are even some darker stories that say he throws them into his basket to take them back to his lair to eat them.”

Sam glared at him. “I’m rather concerned about how often cannibalism is coming up in these stories.”

“It’s not cannibalism though,” said Scooter. “I mean ‘cannibalism’ is when a person eats their own kind, and these creatures aren’t human so it’s just people eating.”

“Wait, hold it,” Bobo said as he sipped his coffee. “If we ate each other would that be cannibalism? I mean, we’re different creatures but we’re also all ‘the muppets’ so-”

“I’m going to stop you there before you go further down that rabbit hole,” Kermit said before turning back to Uncle Deadly. “Still, if we tone down some aspects we might be able to-”

“Why are you even considering this?!” Sam snapped. “Dangerous felines? Ruffians breaking into houses to lick spoons? What does any of that have to do with Christmas?!”

“Because there are people that do rather enjoy the spooky side to Christmas,” Kermit replied.

Sam blinked dazed. “Spooky side to Christmas? What are you talking about?!”

“Well, the holidays take place on the longest, coldest and darkest nights of the year,” Kermit said. “Isn’t it only natural that people find that a bit scary and make up stories to deal with it?”

“It’s true,” Bunsen chimed in. “The traditions of Yule are said to go back centuries.”

Beaker cleared his throat. “Meep, meep, meep! Meep, meep, meep. Meep. Meep, meep, meep. Meep, meep, meep? Meep!”

Everyone gave a unanimous applause.

“Well spoken,” said Uncle Deadly, “that was truly profound.”

“Indeed,” Bunsen said as he patted Beaker’s shoulder. “I do love it when you use your anthropology knowledge.”

“Nevertheless,” snapped Sam. “We are Americans and therefore we should do an American Christmas play. We should do A Christmas Carol .”

“Um, I do love A Christmas Carol ,” said Gonzo, “but we’ve done it a million times.”

“Yeah, we want something new,” said Rizzo.

“But it is American and has none of this dark Christmas stuff,” Sam stated firmly.

“A Christmas Carol?” Kermit said blankly. “The one written by a British author that is about three ghosts haunting a man to change his ways? That A Christmas Carol?”

“And let’s not forget how the Ghost Of Christmas Yet To Come is a grim symbol of our fear of mortality and grappling with death.”

Everyone turned to Fozzie stunned.

He shrugged. “What? Can’t a bear appreciate the classics?”

“Sure, he can,” said Waldorf.

“They’re as old as your jokes,” said Statler as both the old men laughed.

Sam gave a deep defeated sigh as he turned to Kermit. “Pride and Prejudice it is.”

“Great,” said Kermit. “Now how many cannons do we need?”

[bunnyinatree]

TRICK OR TREAT

Woe, Swedish Fish and Friends be upon ye! 🎃✨👻

[image ID: a pack of Swedish Fish and Friends against a white background. End image ID.]

[galactidiot]

#candy!! #this is actually kinda funny bc uh #I can't stand the taste of coconut XD #how about you keep the almond joys and scrounge around for your leftovers #I'll take ur Swedish fish if nothing else ik most people don't like thise but I can fuck UP some Swedish fish

agasp!!!! none of the coconut!!! we shall swede. woe! fish be upon ye

Trick or treat! 👻

My personal favorite candy. it seems im a little behind halloween, but.... well that just means you get all the leftovers!!

*suffocates you with candy (affectionate)*

[silvysartfulness]

I've gotten a whole bunch of new followers since I started making The Untamed content about a year ago, and I think it may be a good time to introduce myself and this blog to the newcomers.

Hi! ♥

I'm glad you find this chaotic mess entertaining enough to want to stick around!

That said, if you don't feel comfortable with who I am and/or what I post, just unfollow at any time, no explanations needed.

I'm Silvy, I'm a Fandom Old, 40+, and have been involved in online fandom since the late 90ies.

I'm neurodivergent, Aspie/ADHD and some spare change. I hyperfocus on things, and love to analyze fictional characters and tropes, especially things to do with the messiness and complexities of human nature and emotion. At the moment, as should be obvious, I live in the The Untamed universe, especially the Yi City corner. (You don't get emotions much messier and more complex than that!)

I have always been fascinated by ”villains” - the people who don't act like others do, who are different, and who hurt people, sometimes without meaning to. (Sometimes very much meaning to.)

I love redemption arcs. I've grown to realize there's a this recent phenomenon happening online where people claim certain fictional characters don't ”deserve” them. I think that's utter bullshit, and an extremely negative and destructive mindset to have. People should always have the chance to change and do better. Everyone makes mistakes. Some worse than others. But while no one ”deserves” forgiveness, unless it's freely given, everyone should have the chance to change, move on and be better.

I have always been fascinated by fiction as a medium to explore the messiness of humanity. Of how people hurt each other and heal each other and grow either way. The mess of who people end up loving, or hating, or - bittersweetly - both at once. In my opinion, that is the very purpose of fiction – the mirror held up to explore our own humanity, without suffering any of the negative consequences of reality. Yes, that includes the really problematic stuff. Yes, all the problematic stuff. Fiction is not reality.

I have 100% understanding for people who don't want to watch or read certain things – don't self-harm by engaging with content and creators that makes you angry and upset! I also have 0% patience with people demanding others conform to their particular standards of purity. It's everyone's responsibility to curate their own online experience. Haters will be blocked.

I'm queer (no, queer is not a slur.) Non-straight, asexual, married to another woman for 6 years now. I'd say a majority of my best friends are trans or otherwise non-cis. If you’re cis and find trans/non-binary/intersex/non-gender conforming etc people strange and frightening, by all means – stick around! I reblog quite a lot of trans-positive content. Maybe it'll offer insights! Any TERF-rhethoric will be blocked and shut down on sight, though. This is a safe space.

I'm Swedish. Socialism works. Just saying. 👍

These are simple facts – if any of the above is a dealbreaker, just click unfollow and everyone will probably be happier in the long run. :)

The less problematic stuff: I'm a professional illustrator, though currently on more or less permanent sick leave. Despite sometimes crippling social anxiety, I also ended up teaching art classes - Life Drawing and Concept Art - at the local university, and was often told I was one of their most popular and well-liked guest teachers. I'm self-taught as a writer, though I am a sponge when it comes to prose and language, so for any skills I have picked up over the years, I can only thank those whose works I have read throughout my life.

I like trying my hand at most creative crafts; painting, woodcarving, glasspainting, pewter pouring, looking to try out resins soon maybe..? I take tons upon tons of pictures. If you know me better, you have probably been exposed to my random ”Look at pretty thing X I saw today!” photo-assault. (It's a love language. ♥)

I used to study archaeology at university for years, before sidling over into a creative career as a museum-illustrator, and then onward to other projects from there. It's amazing what a 100.000+ year view on humanity will do for your sense of perspective! People are people. People have always been people. We are all one people - and diversity in culture, ethnicity and language is one of the most beautiful arts of our human race. Our differences and samenesses always to be equally celebrated. (Now if we could only get better at looking back and learn from previous civilizations' mistakes so we'd stop repeating them...)

I like cats. And betta fish. And purple roses (I used to collect purple rose cultivars, before I got too fatigued to be able to take care of my garden properly. Some still live! Rhapsody In Blue is a trooper, if you want a really hardy purple rose! They can even live in pots, if you don't have a garden.)

(See, I told you I could never resist a chance to share a photo...)

I am very, very forgetful. I got my neurodivergence diagnoses very late in life, and by then my brain was so burned out, it's permanently damaged. Fatigue, memory problems and concentration issues are things I always struggle with. If I ghost you, it's not because I'm upset or dislike you – I either missed your message, or forgot about it, or just didn’t know what to say. I'm sorry. I'm trying my best. ♥

I believe in kindness.

I try to be kind and understanding, and meet others with patience. It's taken me a lifetime fraught with generous amounts of trauma to learn to feel strong, comfortable and mostly at peace with myself, and I have very little interest in conflict or drama.

That's about it, Silvy all summed up.

Wishing all you a happy weekend!

[thinkingaboutyoungroyals]

Falling For You But You Are Worlds Away: Chapter 3

A/N: I had a day off from school and finished some of my homework so I had some time to write. Please don't expect this consistency, it's a rare occurrence lol

AO3

Simon’s stomach was in knots all day. Several times, he felt the urge to rush to the restroom and throw up.

His first couple of days in New York went fine. His aunt and cousin showed him around all the tourist areas, bought him souvenirs, and took him to their favorite restaurants. He even got a picture with Elmo at Times Square. (Why were there so many Sesame Street characters?!) They also got him a new phone number, showed him how to navigate the bus and the subway, and talked to him in English so he could practice.

Simon’s English wasn’t terrible, per se. He grew up watching shows and movies in English with Swedish subtitles. And he didn’t do too bad in his English classes. But, he never had to speak it 24/7 before.

So, when he walked into his new school with Ana, he was immediately bombarded with all the English words, phrases, and slang – it all made his head swirl. Ana introduced him to some people she knew, they spoke to him in English, and he stumbled through his answers. And, sadly, because Ana was a grade ahead of him, he was left alone to fend for himself when it came to time to go to classes.

He did manage to fake confidence, introducing himself to his classmates and answering a few questions. He could follow the lessons just fine and answered when called upon by teachers (except in American History, he definitely needed help there). But, for the most part, he stayed quiet.

At lunch, he sat with Ana, who introduced him to her friends. All three were girls. Two of them were Latina, Alicia and Luz, and one girl was white, Elizabeth (“You can call me, Liz,” she told him). They spoke to each other in Spanish (even Liz) and it was the first time all day that Simon felt the unease in him boil down to a simmer. It was still there but hearing the familiar language was a comfort.

And he now knew why Ana insisted they packed lunch – the school’s food didn’t look that appetizing. Even Hillerska had better food. (And thinking of Hillerska made him think of Wille, which just made him feel depressed again.)

When his last class of the day finally dismissed them, Simon was ready to go home and take a nap. He was exhausted – physically and mentally. But, Ana had other plans.

“Hello, everyone! As you can see, we have someone new joining us today!”

She gestured to him with a flourish and Simon blushed in embarrassment as many eyes focused on him – curious and interested.

“This is my cousin, Simon, he just moved here from Sweden. I hope everyone makes him feel welcomed. Please don’t scare him off.”

Simon awkwardly shuffled his feet as he waved. “Um… Hi… Um… I’m Simon. Sorry, uh, my English isn’t very good. But, I’m practicing.”

He was met with silent nods and Simon almost sighed in relief. Almost.

“You look familiar!” A guy with long blonde hair piped up from the back.

Simon’s stomach churned and he wanted to run away. No one was supposed to know who he was. They reassured him that the whole thing died down fairly quickly in America. How many of these kids have watched the video?! Did they know who he was as soon as he walked in?!

“You look like a Spanish version of Nick Jonas!” continued the guy.

The churning calmed a little.

Ana glared, placing her fists against her hips. “Shut up, Darren. Simon is not the Spanish version of anyone.” She paused and glanced at him. “But, if he is, he would be Harry Styles.”

“It’s the curls!” a girl with dark hair with pink tips called out with a grin. “They’re really cute!”

Before he knew what was happening, Simon was bombarded with compliments about his hair and face. He could swear he had never been as red in his entire as he was in that moment.

Soon, a different guy stepped up, willing everyone to calm down with his hands. “Okay, everyone, stop simping over Ana’s cousin. It’s time to start the meeting! We have a lot to talk about today!”

Ana nudged Simon and gestured with her head to the back of the classroom. Simon followed her. She took a seat next to the window. The empty seat beside her was across from the guy who spoke up earlier.

As the guy at the front (“That’s Dominic, he’s the president of GSA,” Ana had whispered to him) began to go over the agenda for the day, the guy next to Simon leaned over.

“Hey, I’m Darren,” he whispered with a toothy grin. “I’m your resident pansexual.”

Simon bit his lip and whispered back. “Simon. Do we… have to share our sexuality here?”

Darren chuckled and shook his head. “Nah, you’re not obligated to. Some people are here just as allies but a couple do end up figuring themselves out. So we tend not to label or share labels. But, I don’t give a shit, I want everyone to know they have an equal chance of dating me. So, that includes you.”

He winked and Simon, to his horror, felt himself blush again. He was just gonna end up looking like a tomato by the time he returned to Sweden if he kept this up.

“Darren! Anything you wanna share with the class?”

“Nope, prez. Just welcoming our new member. Please proceed, you know we love listening to your gorgeous voice.”

Dominic raised an eyebrow at him before getting back to what he was saying.

“I’ll get you to say ‘yes’ to me, eventually,” Darren muttered under his breath.

Simon couldn’t stop a chuckle from leaving his lips. Darren flashed him a grin and, for what it was worth, Simon finally felt a bit at ease.

He snuck a look at Ana, who caught his eye and smiled, encouragingly.

Maybe she was right. He could meet new people here and make new friends. Maybe, for just a few months, he could forget everything that happened in Sweden and just be... back to normal.

He was willing to try. If only this empty feeling inside him would go away.

.........

If Wilhelm thought that Christmas break without Simon was bad, being at school for a month without Simon was worse. Everywhere he looked and turned, he half expected Simon to be there, looking at his phone or eating a clementine or flashing Wilhelm a smile that made his cute dimples appear.

More times than he could count, Wilhelm had run after Sara, practically begging her for any information on Simon. The girl always refused him.

“Give her time,” Felice said to him one day after another failed attempt. “She loves her brother and she’s on his side.”

“I just want another chance to apologize,” said Wilhelm. “I want to make things right. And I want to at least be friends with him again.”

Felice wrapped an arm around him. “You will. Just give it time, okay?”

Wilhelm had agreed, if only to reassure himself that he was going to be fine. Maybe the longing would stop. Maybe he would wake up one day and just accept the fact that Simon was no longer in his life.

He knew it was all a big fat lie but it was okay to dream, right?

Which was why he decided to take his chances that one Saturday. Students were allowed to leave the school grounds on weekends to visit the town, if they so pleased, so Wilhelm took advantage of that. With Johan driving and Malin in the passenger’s seat, they left Hillerska for the day and headed to Bjarstard.

His stomach was filled with butterflies. Excitement or nerves, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was both. He ran over various things to say in his head. But, when they pulled up in front of the familiar one-story home, he forgot it all.

Nevertheless, he raised his chin and marched with determination to the front door. He hoped Simon was home. That Wilhelm could finally see him. That they could finally talk. He just hoped he wasn’t overstepping any boundaries, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

Clearing his throat, he raised a fist and knocked, firmly and loudly, against the door. It took a minute but, eventually, it slowly opened, very slowly.

Linda peeked out, looking wary and cautious. But, when she saw Wilhelm, the guarded look switched to surprise.

“Wil… Your Royal Highness,” she greeted with a slight bow of her head.

Wilhelm hated it. He preferred Linda’s casual treatment of him as if he was any other kid. He supposed he didn’t deserve that anymore after what he did to her son.

“Wilhelm, please,” he said to her, managing a small smile. “Hello, Linda.”

The woman smiled, fondly, and she opened the door a bit wider. “Hello, Wilhelm. How are you, cariño?”

The gentler tone eased his worries.

“I’m… fine.” He cleared his throat. “Um… Is Simon home?”

Linda’s smile disappeared. “Why?” she asked.

Wilhelm flinched, hating that the guardedness in her voice was back. “I just want to talk to him. He left Hillerska and I… I just want to apologize again and… Please.”

He must have looked rather pitiful because he could practically see Linda’s resolve melting. She stared at him for the longest time, contemplating. Finally, she nodded and let him in.

Wilhelm’s heart skipped a beat and he had to hold himself back from running in and calling out Simon’s name. Malin, dutifully, followed behind him, shut the door, and stood guard.

“You can head on to the living room,” said Linda. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Wilhelm nodded and did exactly that. He made himself comfortable on the lumpy couch and looked around. The place looked neat and chaotic as always. A basket of Simon’s favorite, clementines, was placed at the center of the coffee table. He once told Wilhelm that it was the one fruit he couldn’t live without.

Then, he spotted a new addition against the wall that led towards the bedrooms. Well, not new per se but it was no longer in Simon’s room. (And, thinking of Simon’s room led him down a path of memories that made the longing in him increase tenfold. Where was Simon? Was he out for the day? Wilhelm would wait until night if he had to.)

“Here we are.”

Linda arrived with a tray filled with two mugs of tea and a plate of cookies. She placed it on the coffee table before handing one of the mugs to Wilhelm.

“Thank you,” he said taking it and looking back at the fish tank that was now placed against the wall. “Why did Simon move his fish out here?”

Linda, who was in the middle of placing the plate of cookies on the table, looked up towards the tank. A sad smile graced her lips.

“Well, I have to remember to feed them now so it’s easier if I see them,” she said, picking up her own mug and settling on the couch.

Wilhelm frowned, confused. “Why do you have to feed them? Doesn’t Simon do that?”

Linda looked at him for a moment, sad again, and took a sip of tea before placing the mug on the table. She tugged her wool sweater tighter around herself and crossed her arms at her stomach.

“Wilhelm,” she began. “I want you to know that… I’m not angry with you, okay? And, I’m sure that Simon isn’t either.”

Wilhelm’s stomach churned and he took a polite sip of the tea before following Linda’s lead and placed the mug on the table.

“What happened to both of you… you don't deserve it.” She reached out, probably to touch his hair, but refrained at the last minute. Instead, she patted his shoulder and pulled her hand back.

Wilhelm longed for her motherly touch.

“But, as a parent, I had to protect Simon.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and brought a hand up to rub at his tightening chest. He didn't like her tone. It was foreboding. The gentle calm before the storm.

Linda’s eyes flickered to his hand and scooted closer. She placed a gentle hand on his cheek. Wilhelm leaned into it.

“Wilhelm… cariño… Simon left Sweden.”

Wilhelm’s world crashed.

“There were stalkers, they kept following him home. And the reporters wouldn’t stop asking him questions and one day… he got hurt.”

The tightening in his chest wouldn’t let up and he rubbed harder.

“I had no other choice. I had to send him away for his own safety.”

Stalkers... Reporters... Simon got hurt because of him. And, now, he was gone. No longer in Sweden.

“W-Where?” he managed to ask.

But, Linda shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.”

Wilhelm’s eyes stung. “L-Linda… I-I’m s-sorry… I’m so… s-so sorry…”

Finally… Finally… Linda moved closer and pulled him into a hug. Wilhelm couldn’t help himself. He hugged her back and cried into her sweater.

She rubbed his back, whispering, “I know. It’s okay to cry, Wille. It’s okay.”

Wilhelm didn’t know how long he cried but, at some point, he did calm down. Maybe it was because Linda started humming a nice melody to him. Or maybe he was just spent and tired. But, not once did Linda let him go. Despite everything, she still chose to comfort him.

He had to force himself to move away from her arms, guilty and grateful at the same time.

She smiled at him. “Feeling better?” she asked.

God, it reminded him so much of Simon always asking after him that he wanted to cry again. It was clear to see that Simon got his gentle kindness from his mother.

“Yes,” he croaked. “Thank you.”

She picked up his mug and handed it over with a pointed look. He obediently drank the now lukewarm tea. It did little to soothe his sadness, but it was still nice.

“He won’t be gone forever,” said Linda with a smile. “When this all dies down… when the country forgets and moves on to something new, he’ll come back. Just… for now… I need him safe in a place where no one knows him. It’s what’s best for him.”

It made perfect sense. But, it didn’t mean that Wilhelm liked it. Simon was further away from him than ever. At least, if he was still Bjarstard, Wilhelm could still visit. He could still try to rebuild their friendship. And, when he was finally ready, he could ask Simon to give him another chance.

But, now, Wilhelm didn’t even know where he was. And Linda clearly didn’t want to tell him, worried she was about Simon’s safety. (A part of him wondered if she was also protecting Simon from Wilhelm. That thought hurt but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.)

“Would you like to stay for lunch?” Linda asked. “It’s kind of lonely with just me now, with Sara at Hillerska and Simon...” She trailed off and sighed.

Wilhelm pressed his lips together. “I don’t want to impose.”

She patted his arm and offered a smile. “Not at all. Your bodyguards can join us, too. I have plenty. I’m still not used to eating alone.”

The temptation was too good to resist. Besides, he didn’t want to return to Hillerska and suffer through a meal where August only sat a couple of chairs away, always wanting to talk to him even though Wilhelm never responded.

“Alright,” he agreed, smiling back.

Linda beamed and stood up. “Okay, good. I’m almost done cooking. Make yourself at home.”

“Can I… Can I feed Simon’s fish?” he asked, nervously.

Linda chuckled. “Of course. Their food is right on top. You can just move the cover. Simon says four shakes is enough.”

With one last smile at him, she gathered up their mugs (she left the cookies on the table) and headed off to the kitchen. He heard her extend the invitation to Malin, who thanked her and promised to call Johan in.

Pulling himself together, Wilhelm stood up and approached the fish tank. A small container labeled “fish food” in Simon’s familiar print was on top. He picked it up before carefully moving the cover to the side. He counted out four shakes and watched as the little bits of food floated down towards Olle, Oski, Felle, and a fourth fish whose name Simon never told him (because Wilhelm had distracted him enough to forget).

“I miss him,” he whispered, watching them eat. “I bet you, guys, do too, right?”

The fish ignored him.

Were they mad at him, he wondered? Did they know what he did? Did Simon cry in front of them?

Sighing, Wilhelm put the cover back and the fish food on top of it. Then, he headed off to the kitchen to help Linda set the table.

It was the least he could do.

...

A/N: Yes, I went back to watch the scene and counted Simon's fish lol

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 10 September 1839

4

9 20/..

F62 ¼° and fine at 4 20/.. had been up at 3 20/. for a few minutes – off from Keala [Kealanoja] at 5 28/.. very nice clean good Inn – good beds and eating in about ¾ hour steep pitch on the wood bridge and Gross would put the drag on – forbade his doing so again without my orders – at 6 ½ picturesque little low unpainted village and river – 1st stage road rather sandy or small red gravelly and more hilly than before – fine lake (fjord) ahead (right) – and we had a peep of it before – drizzling rain begins now at 6 35/.. picturesque rounded wooded hilly country the vale we wind along widish and well cultivated – dotted all over with barns – rye harrowed in in several directions on the same plot of ground wavy and crosswise and several ways in some of the fields -

SH:7/ML/TR/13/0027

September Tuesday 10 the little corn left out is I think oats – Guidepost

at Salå [Salo] indicates

Abo [Åbo] 55 w.

St. p- 565.

Helsingforss [Helsingfors] 155

Kiala 12 ½ here but 12 2/3 at Keala [[Kealanoja]

Hämenkylä [Hämeenkylä] 18 ¾  our next stage

at Salå [Salo] at 6 42/.. – small singular house – could not sleep – from here road hilly (pitchy) much young forest with mossy rocks Norway-like – and rud-red moss on the stones – cranberry (Lingboer) juniper and observed a little sweetgale John observed that here the juniper was quite fresh, and Sweden much withed! no truth in this – A- and I see little difference between here and about Stockholm – no corn to cut [seen] today and very little to house and we left much to cut between Falun and Stockholm everything quite as forward here as there – no maples (saw one solitary one afterwards) nothing but fir except birch and alder and a few Salleys about 7 55/.. pretty little shallow lake – the 2nd stage very pretty picturesque valley-winding drive – not much cattle out – but both horses and cows look chiefly chesnut – the [fine] wooded rocky hills very picturesque – our servants breakfasted before starting but not we – more sheep out this stage than before – little windmills everywhere scattered up and down in Sweden they are larger and near to towns –

vide Handbook p. 131 column 1 Road to Keala [Kealanoja] described as one that one should shudder at anywhere but in the north!!!

at 8 25/.. 1st gate and another a few minutes afterwards – In Sweden the roads blocked by them perpetually – on average 1 every ½ English mile or more and Norway almost but not quite so bad – no need of forbud – How much better than in Sweden! I see it is potato tops (they hang on the rails to dry for the cattle) that look so green and heavy on the rails I could not make them out yesterday – at 9 at Hämenkylä [Hämeenkylän]  a little low wood station house of no great promise but kitchen a part – some very tolerable rooms for us travellers and we stop to breakfast – no begrudging the time for 2

September

Tuesday 10

calêches at the door going off with each a pair of horses, and we must wait a couple of hours – Really one is much better off here in Finland than anyone ought to expect considerably the small means of the country – we like Finland – we have learnt our lesson as to roads and stations in Norway and latterly north of Upsala [Uppsala] and we are quite at home now – the roads so far very good – rather more heavy and hilly this last stage than before – the road from Åbo to Keala [Kealanoja] or Kiala very good and hardly a hill or pitch at all to our mind – I hear someone trying to tell Gross that 3 miles = 30 wersts from here there is an Inn kept by an Englishman – the drizzling rain that began about 6 35/.. last more or less till about 8 – breakfast coffee and boiled milk and bread and butter charged to John at first 3 ½ rubels – then in a bill to me 1 rigs. dollar and a half I would have it in rubels – he charged 2 rubels -  2 rubels = more than 1.24.0 rigsgold but paid it – and on my saying I would write my complaint the man turned pale and snatched away the book – he understood my saying in French he had no right to make out his account in Swedish money – I asked John what to write signifying that I was dissatisfied but he got off telling me, and both I and he got a little impatient about names of places and exactness of distances paid for 18 ¾ w. + 1/6 = 4/53 and the place called Lombala instead of Hämenkylä [Hämeenkylän] – Does that make 1/8w. difference? a civil fat traveller here came and gave us a currant wheat flour saffron sort of roll – would have been very good but for the saffron – off at 10 50/.. (Dont trouble this house again – the landlord would not give charge for a five Rubel bill when I wanted to pay for the horses but had plenty when I had to pay for breakfast) – good deal of forest this stage (sandy road) from Lombala to Olsbola [Olsböle] (17 ½ w.) on moss-covered rock as in Norway but still all young wood

at 11 50/.. village and wood bridge over river – we seldom pass thro’ villages but see them occasionally scattered at some distance from us tho’ the country not so populous as the north of Sweden –

vide Road book p. 161.  4 Runstyeken = 1 kopek

.:. 12 Runstycken or 1sk. B.  12 öre = 18kop.

= 3 kop. and 1 Dollar B. = 144 kop.    50 Daler = 24 Rubel

SH:7/ML/TR/13/0028

September Tuesday 10 if 4 Runstycken = 1kop. and .:. 3 kop. = 1 sk. Swedish banco then 1 Dollar B. = 48x3 = 144kop. but I received 181 kop. per D.B. at Åbo yesterday ���

and the price offered at Stockholm was 41sk. rigs. per Rouble (32 Sk. banco) –

Bill at Lombala 1.24.0 rigs = 48+24 = 72sk. rigs

72/41 = 1 31/41 rouble or about 1 ¾ rouble instead of two Rubels that I paid – but reckon

2kop. = 1sk. rigs.

3 kop. = 1sk. banco

vide foot of last page

at 12 35/.. potato tops frost bit – the people are right to cut them while green – at 12 ¾ Olsböle very neat nice clean looking station – the post says went in – wrote in the Biörsby 16w.

till Helsingforss [Helsingfros] 117w.  

St. P- 528w.

book – very nice rooms Hämenkylä [Hämeenkylän] 17w.

and some small cold fried fish in larder cupboard near the stairs – one should be well here  - civil enough to give us change for a 5 Rub. number in ¼ hour (at 1 1/2) pretty lake (right) and scattered village – pretty country – road hilly and sandy and foresty and green young rye among the burnt fir stumps – very heavy sandy gravelly road thro’ the forest now at 2 5/.. after a terrible heavy full uphill thro’ the forest – little low unpainted picturesque village and houses scattered all about – very pretty bit of open wide vale here shut in all round by wooded rocky hill – at 2 ¼ another pretty lake and basin valley and hill into young forest again – at 3 our 3rd gate all the way from Åbo and a gentleman’s house hid in wood birch and alder very pretty drive – hilly, woody, villagy, sandy – at 3 5/.. uphill get out and walk ¼ hour – a great relief – gathered a little morsel of rud-red moss stone looks just like round – not easily rubbed-off – observed 1st time curious

September Tuesday 10 little pink fungus like a little round pink button pink bare round granite masses of rock and a few bare round granite hills – very pretty drive this last stage – and now in ascending nice little lake en face (right) and station (now at 3 25/..) of Olsbole [Olsböle]  - oldish looking house but good fire blazing in the kitchen – might sleep? yes! just

went in to write in day book – nice room – might sleep – off at 3 48/.. oats out here the sheaves made into like small hay cocks –

corn everywhere (here and Sweden and Norway) taken up rather promiscuously – that is the heads not all together but some at one end and come at the other of the sheaf – potato tops hanging on the fences (like those in Sweden) to dry – very pretty – wooded wooded island hills and lake – and scattered picturesque little cottages – and rock and windings of the valley – and in a minute or 2 pretty little boulder stone built church with separate belfrey as common here in Finland – more small unpainted houses the natural drab-colour of weathered boards with white chimneys – road very sandy now after passing the church – at the end of this lake a few red cottages white window frames and chimneys – and a large yellow house with dark drab roof looking like a gentleman’s house with its appurtenances – wood – water wooded islands – cottages – very pretty – here some lands of rye about a yard broad – all along occasionally a little Swedish [?] in the pastures – beautiful drive this stage – now at 4 20/.. sunny and peep of the gentleman’s house – and wind down hill over bridge – river – [beeches] along it other side and fir forest along our road – very pretty – hilly more  pitchy – this our most beautiful stage – but nothing yet at all equal (as to steep road) to the descent upon Swinesund ferry or Xtiania – at 4 ½ saw mill (little one) and little cascade of the river – very pretty and the beauty goes on – at 4 50/.. pretty picturesque village (on our pretty river) of Milnasbrook as pronounced – 2 or 3 mills and pretty cascade of the river

SH:7/ML/TR/13/0029

September Tuesday (and right) on entering village is guide post pointing (right) to Ekenas [Ekenäs] and now at 4 55/.. road sandy à la Hazelunen – at 5 10/.. cross the broad shallow stream (wood bridge) into another scattered little unpainted village – have seen much of the narrow land-rye since 1st observing it this morning – the church and lake (left) of our last passed thro’ village very picturesque – the belfrey tower of the church carved up in 4 steps of roof finishing in a little dome – our drive this stage very beautiful – the most beautiful since Åbo – Sunshine now at 5 25/.. and for this hour past. and now in young forest again – alternate forest, and break, and villages and water and wooded hill and rock – but the road very sandy – at Nyby at 5 40/.. – nice little new unpainted single house standing in a circular spot cleared out in the midst of the forest which since 5 25/.. we have come thro’ – the post indicates Nyby

till St. P- 495 ½ v. [w.]

Biörsby [Björsby] 16v. [w.]

Kyrckstad [Kyrkstad] 16 ½ v. [w.]

the horizonally laid logs (laid in moss one upon another) are not covered inside or outside but look very neat – here as at Lombala this morning (1st time) the double glass window is already put in inside, and paper pasted over the crevices here where everything is clean and tidy we have a beautiful white moss and dried yellow marigolds put at the bottom between the glasses – at Lombala it was coarse cotton wool – just sketched the little box as above and wrote thus far and then prepared for dinner now at 6 40/.. drizzling rain from about 6 35/.. to 8 but afterwards fine, and very fine sunny afternoon and fine evening – it now begins to be dresky and ½ hour hence soon after 7 it will begin to be darkish – with our heavy carriage and the steep pitches in the roads we want daylight, and then there is no danger, and [news] not the strongest may bear our

September Tuesday 10 galloping downhill – dinner at 7 10/.. to 8 20/.. a coq de bois and a gelinotte – excellent little pancakes and good bread and excellent butter and good cheese, and good water and afterwards each of us had a cup of good coffee – enjoyed our dinner and took our time – before we had done 2 Russian gentlemen from Helsingforss [Helsingfors] to Åbo came in – had Grotza at 8 20/.. to 8 ¾ - F61° now at 8 50/.. pm

[timebird84]

🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2020 🎄

By @from-aldebaran​

Snow Angel

    As grey dawn broke over the streets of Paris, the Opera Ghost stood high atop the roof of the Palais Garnier, surveying the thick snowfall that had settled over the city in the night, snow still falling, perfect flakes settling on his cloak, their crystalline shapes unmarred, becoming bright additions to the subtle jet beadwork adorning his collar and shoulders.

Erik had suspected this change in the weather when he had completed his rounds last evening with a final stop on the roof.  The air had smelled of impending snow, reminding him of days long ago on the road in Russia, where learning the signs and portents of the weather’s whims had been a matter of life or death.

The light-bejeweled city had been beautiful from the heights last night and was even more so now, all ugliness revealed by the daylight hidden beneath smooth snowy white curves, like the mask which shielded the malformed side of his face from the horrified gaze of the world.  And this was not winter in Russia.  His life no longer danced upon a knife’s edge from day to day.  He stood here, atop his Opera House, warmth and beauty and home within, snow kept safely without, waiting for the dancers and musicians and singers to come fill his halls with bright life and music, which he shaped as always subtly from the shadows.  

Well, and there was no more time to stand here gawking while snow collected at an impressive rate on the brim of his hat.  There was much to be done this day, before the Palais emptied for the Christmas holiday, with a concert by the Opéra Populaire scheduled after, for the holiday season, and a new production starting in the coming year.  The day would hold Christine’s early morning vocal lesson, a full concert ensemble rehearsal on stage at noon, with  breakout practices and recitals in the afternoon.

The Opera House always bustled with life during the day, but never more so than at the holiday times.  The artists, young and old, were caught up in what Erik understood to be the spirit of fellowship of the season, exchanging gifts, holding impromptu gatherings, filled with Christmas cheer, and above all, anxiously awaiting the time away from their work that the Christmas break provided.  The days leading up to Christmas were filled with a palpable energy, waiting to be released as the company headed out on holiday. 

Then, ah, for him a few days of what had used to be blessed solitude, when he could roam the halls at will, mindful only of the few beleaguered guards tasked to work the holidays.  Never very happy about it, they typically stayed close to the main guard station, leaving the gilded halls free for him to enjoy in peace, to marvel at the beauty contained within the Palais and of course to attend to more practical matters, ensuring seldom used secret access points remained in working order.  Yes, the holidays were a perfect time for a survey of his Opera House, top to bottom, drifting purposefully alone through the long winter nights.

But this year was somehow different.  Sweet solitude held less allure.  He had grown accustomed to the new lessons with Christine, their daily interactions.  Seeing her progress, shaping her voice into a beautiful reliable instrument to serve her all her days.  Speaking with her on matters musical and personal.  Using his guise as an angel to gain perspective on facets of human behavior that he had either been unaware of or which had somehow eluded him completely.  Not that he truly cared, mind, nor would he have much occasion to put this newfound knowledge into practice, being the solitary creature he was. 

Still, she fascinated him…that is, what she had to say fascinated him. 

It was a good thing, then, that the work to be done in the Opera House, still and empty and quiet for the next few days, would occupy his time so completely.

Erik turned to go, his footprints from his earlier traverse already erased by the snow, leaving no doubt his new footprints would be obscured as well.  He swept his hat off, releasing a sudden tiny blizzard into the wind.  He felt the unexpected kiss of snowflakes on his cheek, and a warm flurry of sensation in his chest which he recognized with surprise as anticipation, anticipation of a pleasant day indeed, with all proceeding according to plan.

*****

Christine was late.  Very late.  Christine had never been so much as a minute late before, not for their morning lessons.

Erik fretted behind the mirror until the moment when the door to the dressing room flew open and Christine burst in, her arms full of bags and parcels, her blue cloak damp about her, her usual outside-of-the-opera upswept coiffure fallen, sending her auburn curls cascading about her shoulders, sparkling with snow.  The vacant tableau of her dressing room came to vibrant life with her entrance, her cheeks and lips rosy with color as she spun to close the door behind her, calling for him immediately.

“Angel, oh Angel, I am so sorry!  Are you here, did you stay?”

He had not the heart to make her wait a moment for his answer, though her calls for him were their own sweet music.

“My child, I am here.  What befell you?  And what is it that you carry there?”

“Oh, Angel,” Christine began, as she set her various burdens down on the vanity, easing woolen mittens from her hands, unfastening her cloak and tossing it over the dressing screen to dry. She perched her mittens precariously atop the screen as well.  “It has snowed, have you seen, a very great snow, the most here in Paris in years and years!”  She pulled a small pair of hair combs from the pockets of her dress, trying in vain to roll the snow-dampened curls of her hair and secure them away from her face.  

“I did see, and this delayed you somehow?”  He felt like a fool.  He seldom had to go abroad from the Opera House in inclement weather, unless he wished to, and he had not even considered the snow as a reason for the lateness of her arrival.

“Well, yes, it is not only snow, but ice beneath and walking is treacherous, especially for those not accustomed to snow!  I daresay I spent more time helping people up this morning than I did on my own journey here.”  Christine laughed, adding with sudden astuteness, in apparent consideration of his angelic nature and his potential ignorance about the meaning of her northern origins— “I am Swedish, you see, and used to the snow!” 

She busied herself sorting various packages that she fished from the bags she had carried, explaining as she worked.  “We exchange gifts with each other for Christmas, the ballet girls do, and these are the presents I have brought with me to give.”

Of course.  Gifts were customary at this season, he thought, as his chest inexplicably tightened.

Her hair came loose from the combs again and she pulled them free, rummaging in her vanity.  “These are entirely too small, they always have been.  I simply need to get larger ones, and give these away.”

She pulled a larger pair of combs from the drawer, evidently much used by the battered look of them and was finally able to set her hair away from her face to her satisfaction, though the rest of the snow-swept curls she left free, here in the confines of the Opera House, where the rules governing a young lady’s expected hair arrangement were a moot point at best among the bohemian members of the Opéra Populaire.

His eyes caught on her face as she peered into her vanity mirror, and he was struck suddenly that beneath the rosy glow imparted by the winter weather, she was pale, and somehow drawn, with faint lilac shadows beneath her eyes. 

It was not like her to complain about anything, especially something so inconsequential as a set of hair combs.  Perhaps…

“Are you well?  Are you agreeable to our lesson today?” he enquired. 

He drove her very hard, came the abrupt thought, as his gaze traced the stark line of her cheek, with these lessons in addition to the not insignificant demands of her duties in the company, singing in the chorus and dancing as well, under the also quite strict supervision of Monsieur Reyer and Madame Giry respectively. 

For all that she held these responsibilities, and for all that she had been through these past years—things she had shared with him during the time of their lessons and on other occasions when she called to him and he was able to answer—she was, he suddenly realized, still quite young. 

Young in a way he had never been allowed to be, and with a sudden hollowness expanding in his chest, he wondered if he was complicit in rushing her into adulthood with his stern expectations.

“Oh, yes,” Christine said, shaking her hair back one last time and coming to stand in the center of the room, poising herself for her warmups.  “Some of us had hoped…well, had thought, that the day’s rehearsals might be cancelled due to the weather, but—” a look approaching worry crossed her face—“but I would never miss a lesson with you, Angel.  And as it turns out, the day’s full schedule remains firmly in place.”  Here her lip quivered, just slightly, and she cast her gaze down in what looked very like disappointment.

Oh dear.  Abruptly, he was at a loss.  He cast about for what to do and decided he needed more information.

“My child,” he said, “you know we have discussed before how I am ignorant of many things in this mortal world, and that I rely on you to be my guide in such matters.”

Christine  lifted her head, nodding to the corner of the room where he had sent his voice to speak from.

“You must tell me truthfully, Christine.  What had you and your companions hoped for this day?  And please, dear one, sit down.  Warm yourself before you even think of warming your voice.”

Christine crossed to the vanity and settled upon the little chair there, chafing her hands together and tucking them in the folds of her skirt.  “Well, it seems so silly to say aloud, especially to you, Angel.  Such trivial matters to concern you with, and really of no importance.”

“We have had this discussion before as well.  There is nothing you cannot lay before me.  Music is not made just with the voice, you will recall, but with the spirit.  If the spirit is troubled or,” and here he paused, to rid his voice of any emotion save comfort, “or the body is tired, you must tell me, Christine.  I am not always able to discern these things without your help.”

She shifted on the little chair, and then spoke.  “Well, it is just, yes, we are tired, all of us, and we had hoped to be able to go out…and play.”  She flushed, her pale features pinking in the soft light of the dressing room to match the high color of her cheeks and lips.

Play.  In the snow?

Erik considered her in silence, information and observations assuming new configurations in his mind, Christine again leading him to a new perspective.  He had anticipated a high level of energy from the company today, this he had observed before during previous holiday seasons.  People with their minds on future plans, on gatherings with loved ones, eager to be done with their work.

But this morning, the Opera House fairly vibrated with the company’s restrained energy, and at last he understood—it was due to the snow! 

And Christine—not just his promising student, but a member of that company, a member of humanity in a way that he was far removed from, in a way that he had utterly failed to take into account.

Erik pulled in a deep breath in his place behind the mirror, letting it out slowly and quietly as he gripped his hands tightly together.  She would work herself to exhaustion, catch her death of cold, to not miss a lesson from him.  Her health could take a turn, due to illness or overwork, two things he himself was never troubled by—and he would be responsible.

He could not and should not hold her to his impossibly warped standards.

And he—he had had no consideration for her at all, none, not even arranging for something as simple as a holiday gift…

It simply would not do.

Perhaps there was something that could be done, to make amends.  He addressed her, sending his voice again from the corner of the room.

“Play?”  He hoped he did not sound nearly as confused as he felt. 

“In the snow, you know.  It happens so rarely here!”

“Ah,” he said wisely, feeling thoroughly unenlightened.  “And how, exactly, does one play in the snow?”

“Oh!” She leaned forward, clasping her hands, her voice animated and eyes bright.  “There’s sledding of course, and snow forts, and snowmen, and snowballs…oh, and snow angels!”  Here she laughed again. 

“I see,” he said, though he saw nothing of the sort.  He remembered looking out of his shuttered window as a child, at a group of children throwing balls of snow at one another in the street, and from his Russian travels he knew what sleds were, but all else was mystery.  His tone must have conveyed more than his words, because Christine continued, explaining.

“Well, sledding is riding something smooth down a hillside covered in snow.  Snowmen are figures made out of large balls of snow, stacked with a bottom and middle and a top for a head.  You can add branches for arms, buttons or coal for eyes, and a carrot for a nose.  And then things like scarves and hats if you like.  Oh, and snow forts are like walls made of snow, or sometimes square or domed houses.  To play in, you see, or hide behind, especially in a snowball fight.” 

Christine tipped her chin down, shaking her head slightly, yet still smiling.  “Snowball fights sound very mean when explaining them to an angel, but I promise you they are very fun!  You make fist sized balls out of snow and throw them at one another.  If you are feeling very wicked, you can pack them tightly, so they sting your target a bit.” 

She raised her eyes, skin coloring once more, and brought the subject back round to virtue. “Snow angels are when you flop down in a field of soft snow, flat on your back, and then you move your arms and legs to make shapes.  The legs, see, make a robe and your arms make the wings.  At least—” and she glanced again at the corner his voice issued from “—that is what we think angels look like, though we have no way to be sure they look anything at all like what we have imagined.”

Well, and time to change that topic.  It all seemed very silly…but perhaps that was what was needed here.  Some time not to be serious.  Some time to simply…play.  At the very least, he would cut this lesson short and give the girl a break this morning.  She had dance practice very soon and then the full run through of the holiday concert with the whole company, dancers, chorus, and orchestra assembled on the stage. 

Today was the last day before the brief holiday break, and the show to commence very soon after everyone returned.  They were already well practiced though, he had seen it for himself.  The management could have made a different decision and called today’s rehearsals off altogether with no harm done.  They were clearly as foolish as he himself had been.

It was time for that to change.  And, he thought, his mind a whirl of ideas, time to share the lesson he had just learned. 

“Christine, a few scales please and that will suffice for today.  Warm up properly prior to your rehearsal later this morning.  You will want to be well prepared for anything.”

She rose from her seat to move to the center of the room again.  “Oh, Angel, are you certain?  I can do anything that you ask.”

“I am very certain, dear one.  Sing today, then go from here and rest your voice, body and spirit until you return again next week.  You have given me the lesson today, Christine, one this angel had not considered, that people need time to rest and play, to stay well for their work.  I shall not forget it.”

*****

Erik lounged in casual repose in the flies high above the stage, which hummed with activity dozens of feet below.  The flies were empty save for himself; there was only one backdrop needed for the post- Christmas concert the Opéra Populaire was preparing to rehearse, and that already in place, leaving the stagehands to concentrate on ground level tasks.  Joseph Buquet’s many little nests of old drop cloths, where he napped away the hours hidden safely from view above the stage, were empty, Buquet himself busy sharing a flask of holiday cheer with the dayshift guards at their station.  This set of circumstances had saved Erik quite a bit of time in dealing with unwanted attention, and ensured he had no audience for the completion of the project that had consumed his morning hours, and gave him also an excellent vantage from which to observe today’s proceedings.

He had been right about the effect of the holidays, and Christine’s observations about the snowfall enabled him to see even more clearly…no one wanted to be here today.  They wished to be out, in the snow, left to their own devices

Idly, Erik observed the rehearsal layout.  The orchestra was ensconced in the pit, doing their warm-ups as the conductor, Monsieur Desplat, presided in dreamy, absent-minded glory, bent over his sheet music, his hair a cottony white nimbus about his head.  Desplat lived fully in the world of music, which condition Erik could understand, but alas, the music in Monsieur Desplat’s head often drowned out the real world shortcomings of several members of his orchestra. 

As if on cue, the Third Trombone hit a particularly sour note, causing Erik’s fingers to clench.  And of course, the Second Trombone’s chair was empty, the man over in the string section, pressing his dubious attention upon one of the violinists—it scarcely mattered to Erik which one, nor, he suspected, did it matter much to the Second Trombone, whose criteria in choice of partners boiled down to alive and available.

Stage left stood the twittering semicircle of the chorus, no uniformity to their dress as they were not yet outfitted in full Christmas costume.  Monsieur Reyer as usual strutted before them like a bantam cock, all nervous energy and sharp movement, his incessant frustration confined only by his perpetually too-tight jacket and too-small hat.  Erik had to admit that the man knew his business, else Erik would have made it his business to have the répétiteur replaced years ago.  No, Reyer was quite competent, and then some, despite a distressing tendency towards favoritism and inclination to fawn over said favorites, resulting in a failure to correct their slide into bad form.

And there stood the favorites themselves, La Carlotta and her partner Signor Piangi, at the downstage end of the chorus’s semicircle.  La Carlotta, true to her character, alternated between looking bored and disdainful, while Piangi’s good nature asserted itself as he chatted with chorus members, yet, with the ease of long practice, and perhaps a well-developed sense of self-preservation, he remained constantly aware of and attentive to the ever-changing moods of his lady diva.  As usual, Piangi had done a thorough warm-up, his pleasant tenor an accompaniment to Erik’s morning efforts in the flies, and also as usual, La Carlotta found warm-ups beneath her, which contributed to the daily erosion of her once supreme talent.

Stage right, a drift of tulle and satin, the ballet dancers fully costumed in their holiday concert regalia, complete with tall tiaras each adorned at the highest point with a glittering golden star, in sharp contrast to the stern black-clad presence of Madame Giry, staff at the ready.  And there, speaking animatedly with Madame Giry’s blonde-haired daughter Meg, was Christine.  Erik narrowed his eyes—he had heard Christine warming up as he worked and knew she had no dance role in this concert.  If she were not careful, she would risk—

“Daaé!”

And there it was, Monsieur Reyer’s nasal voice rising above the sounds of the orchestra and sending Christine rushing across the stage to her place in the chorus.  One would think, Erik mused, that a vocal coach of some renown would have made some effort towards making his own speaking voice less of an assault on the ear, but sadly, this was not the case.  One of the ballerinas, a particularly unpleasant girl with dark eyes and scornful brows, far too aware of her own beauty, laughed and muttered something to her compatriots, while Meg frowned fiercely at her.  Erik cocked his head, and made a mental note of the scoffer’s position. 

All in good time.

He settled back to wait for the rehearsal to begin.

*****

The company was restive, there was no doubt of it.  Errors in previously solid performances abounded.  The ballet girls had missed their cue again and stood sullenly until a broad overblown note from the First Bassoon, a young man relatively new to the orchestra, sent them into a fit of giggles which seemed to set them more at ease.  A deliberately overblown note, thought Erik, knowing a player of that caliber and on that fine of an instrument would have to work at producing such a sound. 

Yes, and that reminded him, strings and woodwinds.  Special consideration would have to be taken for strings and woodwinds...

The chorus was also off, and Monsieur Reyer was growing more and more heated, stopping the songs, launching into his familiar tirade of “No, no, no!  Nearly, but no!” repeatedly, which was ostensibly supposed to be both helpful and comforting and which in reality was neither.

Erik caught sight of Christine’s pale, strained face amongst the chorus as the rehearsal moved forward into the third selection.  Three selections out of twenty, and at this rate hours upon hours of work for the beleaguered members of the company, and every bit of this realization showing in her expression.

It was time for the lesson to begin.  As taught by Christine to her Angel, thence from Angel to Opera Ghost, and now, with very great pleasure, from Opera Ghost to the whole of the Opéra Populaire…

The ensemble was several bars in, orchestra, chorus, and dancers striving for synchronicity, when Monsieur Desplat was roused from his world of music by the sight and sound of his woodwind section and his string section ceasing their play, and standing to put away their instruments with some haste.

“Here, now,” he sputtered, as the brass played gamely on, the singers and dancers onstage continuing, determined, it seemed, to make it through this song come what may.  “What are you doing?”

The First Violin spoke up.  “Why sir, only what you told us!  You said rehearsal’s off, to pack our things and go!”

“I said no such thing!” Desplat declaimed, as the strings and woodwinds persisted, that no, they had all heard it, plain as day, as though he had spoken right in their very  ears…

On stage, the chorus gamely continued, but the lack of complete accompaniment and the distraction of the many standing figures in the pit finally threw them off, and Reyer brought them to an uneven halt as per usual.

“No, no, no!  Nearly, but—”

SPLAT!

Seemingly out of nowhere, Reyer was hit in the back of the head by a wickedly accurate snowball, which knocked his hat off amid a spectacular spray of glittering snow.

A second whizzing sphere smacked the headdress off of a particular ballerina, icy cold snow wiping the ever-present smug expression off of her face.

In the stunned silence which followed, an odd sound was heard, dozens of ropes passing through dozens of pulleys, as an equal number of buckets descended rapidly to every far flung area of the stage, coming quietly to rest amidst the company.

Each bucket was heaped to overflowing with snowballs.

And it was on.

High above the fray, Erik rocked with silent laughter as the stage devolved into a battlefield.

The orchestra wasted no time in storming the stage and commandeering ammunition, the strings and woodwinds with their instruments safely stowed (thanks to the early warning they had received) versus the later arriving brass section, all of them at one point joining forces to pelt Monsieur Desplat rather mercilessly until he seized a music stand as a shield and made his way out of the orchestra pit to the safety of the far reaches of the auditorium.

Madame Giry made a small attempt to control the corps de ballet and might have done so, had not her canny instincts led her to glance upward at the flies, where Erik allowed her to see him.  He waggled a snowball at her from his own private stash, and she sighed, stepping back and releasing the ballet dancers to do their worst.

The chorus, who rather sportingly had not attacked the still recovering Monsieur Reyer, and who had instead turned gleefully on each other, solidified into a unit when faced with the raging attack of the ballerinas.  Reyer’s immunity was short lived as he was caught in a blistering crossfire, not at all by accident, as Erik was able to discern from his superior vantage point. He noted with both surprise and delight that Christine got in a few hits on him herself.

In fact, Erik’s one concern, for Christine’s safety, had  dissolved immediately as he saw her good Swedish instincts and good Swedish arm turn her into a smiling yet fierce combatant.  She was well-liked by the company and not the malicious target of anyone that Erik could tell, save the scornful ballerina who, while she was a talented dancer, had no arm at all.  Her mistaken attack on Christine was decisively countered and Erik added a hard packed ice ball to the middle of her back for good measure as she attempted to flee the stage.

Piangi, an enormous but well-liked target, was spared and used his seeming immunity to shield Carlotta, who huffed in red-faced outrage as he attempted to maneuver her off the stage before the worst happened.

And he would have made it, too, thought Erik, as he considered trajectories for a hit on Carlotta which proved impossible due to Piangi’s intercession—until the stagehands arrived.  Arming themselves from a row of untouched buckets at the back of the stage, they fired at will, and with enviable accuracy, at La Carlotta, their bane and tormentor for many long seasons, reducing her despite Piangi’s shielding presence to a sodden bedraggled state in a matter of mere seconds.

Erik sought out a few especially irritating company members for his own strikes from above, and had then turned to amusing himself by lobbing high arcing shots into the orchestra pit, sending snowball after snowball into the bell of the abandoned tuba, when he caught sight of a particular nemesis, the Second Trombone, heading away from the fray towards the far backstage.

The man was a menace, his insatiable nature and never ending supply of willing partners resulting in innumerable trysts, and Erik had grown tired of stumbling across him all throughout the Opera House in the most unexpected places…and positions.

Sure enough, the Second Trombone had again seized the day with one of the violinists, and as the couple prepared to conduct a private symphony of their own backstage, Erik took great delight in dumping a full bucket of icy snowball melt upon them from the great height of the flies, bringing their performance to a chilling conclusion.

Satisfied, Erik returned to his perch above the stage.  The battle still raged.  Christine had switched allegiances back to the corps de ballet, and stood now shoulder to shoulder with Meg.  They dodged and weaved incoming missiles with dancer’s grace, laughing all the while.

Never had he seen Christine so animated, so vibrant.  So simply happy.  His fingers, icy cold from snow, warmed as he pressed his hands to his chest, feeling his heart alive beneath his palms.

His attention was drawn away to Monsieur Lefèvre arriving stage left.  Erik watched in astonished bemusement as Madame Giry made her way serenely from stage right, through the pitched battle, not one single member of the Opéra  Populaire so much as daring to dream of throwing a snowball anywhere near her, to confer briefly with him.   The two concluded their conference, Lefèvre threw his hands up and stalked away, and Madame Giry turned, striking her staff sharply upon the stage twice, bringing an immediate cessation of hostilities.

“Rehearsals for the day are concluded,” she announced.  “We will reconvene next week, after the break.”

She silently surveyed the wet and disheveled assemblage of supposed professionals before her.

“Merry Christmas,” she intoned, and she sighed.

*****

Erik returned to the roof in time to see the liberated company, now hastily clad in their winter gear, spill out onto the front plaza of the Opera House.  The snowball fight was quickly rejoined and spread out along the sidewalks and across the streets, and grew in intensity with the addition of staid bankers and stolid businessmen to the combat, grinning madly beneath their top hats and homburgs.  Mesdames and mademoiselles joined in as well, in plain spun aprons or hats the height of fashion.  Snowballs made equals of them all.

But there—there she was, Christine, with Meg, joining in the snowball fight.

Even at this distance he could see the silver and blue glint in her hair that meant she had found his gift when she returned to the dressing room for her cloak and mittens.

Hair combs, a pair, a design of intricately carved silver set with sapphires that matched her cloak and her eyes.

Erik cast his mind back to the warm Persian night, as far from the crisp air and glittering snow-covered streets of Paris as could be conceived, when he had been gifted the combs.  There had been a boy, missing a leg above the knee, and Erik had had a thought of something that could be constructed, jointed at knee and foot, to allow the boy to walk.  So simple really, it had taken him mere days to construct.  His parents had been overjoyed, and the mother had offered the combs in gratitude.  Erik had made to protest but ultimately had been unable to refuse and really, despite their uselessness to him, the combs were so beautiful they were hard to resist. 

The combs had made their way back here with him, surviving the travels and adventures he had had since leaving Persia long ago.  It had been a simple matter, among his tasks this morning, to return to his home beneath the Opera House and fetch some things away, the combs, a bit of pretty paper to wrap them in and a few other oddments that were here with him now in a cloth bag tucked by his feet.

Writing a note to accompany the gift had been quite a bit harder.  He had decided against lengthy explanations of how an Angel could possibly gift a material object…if the subject were broached later, he would come up with something.  Disguising his handwriting was old hat—his own handwriting was often rushed and scrawled as it attempted to keep up with the flow of his mind’s ideas.  The Opera Ghost had very different penmanship indeed than his own.  And so must the Angel, in a hand differing from both.

It was the sentiment that eluded him.  He settled upon writing that he would see her upon her return after the Christmas break, to remind again she needn’t show up for their lessons for those few days.  And then he thought to finish with “Merry Christmas” and realized he had never written, or spoken those words for that matter, in all the many and varied years of his life…

A sharp gust of wind that threatened to snap the edges of his cloak from his grasp brought him back to the rooftop.  Clearly the gift and note had been found and must have been passable, for Christine had already set the combs in her lush curls.  She was closer now, on the crowded sidewalk below, snowballs flying as a lone bicyclist, head down, rode close enough to become an instantly popular target, pelted with a will by all parties, save Christine.  The cyclist fell, knocking his cap loose, as his bicycle slid beneath him on the icy street. 

The bombardment was merciless as he attempted to retrieve his bicycle from where it had fallen…until Christine, arms raised, stepped next to him.  The assailants, seemingly chagrined, turned their attentions back to each other as Christine brushed the bicyclist off, retrieved his cap for him and sent him peaceably on his way.

Erik shook his head, his hands unaccountably warming again.  He would know her anywhere, he thought, simply by her actions.  A merciful, caring young woman, who would forgive her poor Angel for not understanding that people needed to play and rest.

The combs, silver and sapphire, sparkled in her hair. 

He was glad to have been able to gift her some laughter today as well.

She and Meg made their way to the front plaza to join a group constructing figures out of snow.  Ah, these must be snowmen, and snow ladies as well, for the figures were those of the principals of the Opéra  Populaire.  Simple shapes, made of three large snowballs stacked atop one another; nevertheless, due to the accompanying accessories it was easy to tell who was supposed to be who.  Christine and Meg helped with a figure of Piangi, a very large snowman indeed.

After a time, the girls left the group, and started, he knew, on their way to their homes.  Madame Giry drifted gracefully out to join them, and they began their walk.  Meg suddenly stopped, pulling her mother’s hands to stop her too, and she and Christine made their way over to an untroubled patch of snow.  Laughing, they flung themselves backward, arms sweeping vigorously from their sides to above their heads and the position of their feet indicating that their legs described arcs worthy of da Vinci as well.  Carefully rising so as not to disturb the patterns they had made, they hopped back to the sidewalk to admire their handiwork.  There, in the snowfield, two angels now appeared.  Christine patted at her hair, checking for her new combs, he fancied, and the trio, after some dusting off, continued on their way, to their waiting homes.

Erik watched until she was out of sight, watching longer still as the day began to fade toward evening.  The snowfall, which had continued on and off throughout the day, was on again, lazy flakes riding the wind and spiraling down like falling stars.

And now, he supposed, it was time for his own lesson. 

For Erik and the boy he had never had a chance to be.

He looked around the snowy expanse of the rooftop, and thought of Christine’s list.  The snowball fight had been accomplished.  Sledding…was not an option.  Oh, it would be quite possible on the higher, steeper pitched portions of the roof of the Palais Garnier, but the inevitable conclusion must give one pause.

Snow forts….again he considered the snow-covered Opera House.  Well, and he already had the grandest snow fort anyone could imagine.

That left only two items on the list, and he set to the snowmen with a will that surprised him.

In short order, he had two figures, one tall, one smaller.  He eyed the bag he had brought with him.  It contained buttons for eyes, blue for Christine, brown and blue for himself.  For his own figure, he had brought a hat, unused since a midnight sortie some months back had gone rather awry and he and the hat had had to make a quick detour into the Seine.  And for Christine’s, well, he had brought away the small unwanted hair combs when he had delivered his gift to her dressing room.  They would be returned of course, as the snow melted.

But…even with these accoutrements accounted for in the final design, the figures struck him as clumsy and unrefined. 

If he was meant to be having fun, damn it, it should be fun for him, not an assault on his artistic sensibilities.

He set to the figures again, shaping, sculpting, a dress here, a cloak there, adding snow as needed until the figures took on a fuller semblance of life.

He finished Christine first, her face taking shape beneath his hands, her hair now tumbling about her shoulders, a cascade of sparkling snow.  He stepped back, to consider.  Yes, this was recognizable as Christine to anyone who had even a passing acquaintance with her. Soft yet strong.  Demure yet commanding attention.  Graceful even at rest.

The buttons for eyes did not suit this sculpt, but the combs...  Carefully, he set them amid the snowy waves of her hair, and was pleased with the result.

His own form took shape even more quickly, lean straight lines, the billows of his cloak, long hands with icy frozen fingers of snow, shining slicked back hair.

The  face…  He sculpted the left side first, smooth unmarred features, half of a firm-lipped mouth, the long straight line of one side of his nose, jaw and cheekbone and brow sharp and defined.

And then he stopped, eyes closed, brow furrowed and surely it was only melting snow he felt upon his cheeks...

The decision reached, he faced himself again and with trembling hands worked on the right side of his face, sculpting not a mask, but a semblance which matched the left, his face as it should have been, in some world out of time where he had been born a boy who could go outdoors, who had learned how to play, who had known the joys of family and home and love.

Stepping back, he saw a man he did not know, but somehow wished to.  And next to the man, the girl who was fast becoming his teacher, perhaps leading him to come to know this strange version of himself at her side.

Shaking his head at his odd evening fancies, Erik delved into the bag, finding the hat, well suited to the figure before him, the hat having seen and been through much and lived to tell the tale.  Settling it on the figure’s head, he tipped it low on the right side, as he wore his own, and acting on some instinctual impulse, with his finger he drew a line on the snowy visage, slanting from the left forehead to the right corner of the mouth, which he found comforting in some unknowable way.

Well.  That left only one item on the list. 

Removing his cloak and hat, he sat in the snow some small distance from the snow people, and laying back, moved his arms and legs in great sweeping, freeing arcs, his length of limb creating a startling large angel when he stood and inspected it.

An Angel of Music. 

Something he and Christine genuinely had in common.  Long before he came into her sphere, she had been visited by the Angel of Music; it was evident in her talent and passion and power. 

And despite the vagaries of his life and birth, one thing he was truly grateful for, one thing that had saved him time and again, one thing that he believed in above all else, was his own visit from the very same angel.

It seemed fitting that these snow versions of himself and Christine had their own angel, as well. 

He drew a staff in the snow between angel and student and teacher and with careful touches from the toes of his shoes, wrote a song in the snow for them to share.  Although at this point, on this day, on this night, it was really rather moot now as to who was the student and who the teacher.

Erik dusted himself off, donning cloak and hat again, rolling the bag of buttons small enough to tuck into his pocket, and strode to the edge of the roof to look out over the city.

Paris lay covered in an absolution of pure white snow, a forgiveness of drifts that gleamed and glittered in the city lights below.

Snow swirled in the wind, and he knew by morning, his and Christine’s snow features would be blurred into generality, the angel windswept to a soft impression of the powerful muse he knew, the snow song unreadable and unknown except to those who had been there when it was written. 

All fading into the past, leaving only tomorrow in view.

He felt again a tingle that he recognized as anticipation.  The break would not be too long.  Christine would return.  Their mutual lessons would resume.  Who knew what they would learn together?

Leaning out, over the roof’s edge, he spoke, and watched his words turn to mist, carried off by the ghost of an evening breeze.

“Merry Christmas, Christine…”

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

BONUS by @gracie-p8-officialblog​

[obxfics]

Help me, Rhonda

summary: sarah cameron is getting married to topper, and y/n wants to help her friend get over his heartbreak

pairing: john b x reader

word count: 1,405

a/n: the 1960s AU absolutely no one asked for lmao. john b isnt present in this fic a whole lot (discussed a fair bit though) and inspired by listening to my 50s/60s playlist and the Beach Boys. thinking of making this a series of fics based off songs from the era. anyways, i hope you all like this! also why are john b gifs so hard to find

“You hear about Sarah and Topper?”

You and Kie had been having a pleasant night at the drive-in with your brothers when the boys insisted you two go get some snacks before the movie. The line was long, but it was fine. The movie wouldn’t start for a while anyways. It seemed the whole drive-in was packed with teens waiting to see How to Stuff a Wild Bikini for some beach party fun for the summer, and you knew the Pogues were especially excited after seeing the poster. JJ insisted there would be some sex, but everyone had just rolled their eyes at him. You all knew there wasn’t going to be anything like that, but you were still happy to go out and see it. Your good mood, however, was soon dampened by Kie’s question.

“Who hasn’t heard?” you replied as you drew your brother Diego’s old letterman jacket tighter around your body. “Half the island was rejoicing, and the other half was disappointed but not surprised. I mean, everyone knew a relationship between a Kook and a Pogue was never gonna last.”

Kie sighed as you took a few steps forward with the moving line. Your best friend kicked at the ground with her Keds and shrugged.

“I don’t know, I guess I was just hoping she’d stick with John B.”

“We all did, for his sake, but you can’t tell me that you didn’t know deep down that she’d end up marrying Topper. Their parents have been pushing that since we were in the third grade.”

“So, what, we were just her rebellious phase?”

You shrugged and dug around in the jacket’s pockets for the cash your oldest brother Christian had slipped in there.

“Every girl who lives on the Figure Eight has one at some point, right? How many did JJ get with last summer?”

“Come on, Sarah is our friend... did you really never believe she could have changed? That she was serious about John B?”

“Hi,” you greeted the boy behind the counter with a smile, “one large popcorn and four Cokes, please.” You turned to Kie as the boy turned to shovel popcorn into a bucket. “I think she was serious about John B, but she’s just a lot more scared of what her dad would do if she didn’t do what he says this time.”

“He’d probably kill John B.”

“Exactly. And we spend too much time at his place for him to be killed like that.”

She laughed as you slid the three dollars across the counter and grabbed the drinks. “So you’d only be upset if John B died because we wouldn’t be able to hang around the Chateau anymore?”

“Yes, ma’am, that is the only reason.”

“Has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve been crushing on him since sophomore year, right?”

“Kie, I already have one brainless surfer with amazing hair in my life. I don’t need another Diego, thank you very much.”

“Right, and I’m sure that game of spin the bottle at Sarah’s boy-girl party last summer had no effect on you.”

“Well... I didn’t say that.”

The two of you dissolved into a fit of giggles and tried to shush each other as you climbed into the bed of Christian’s Chevrolet where your brothers were waiting.

“Y’all took quite a long time,” Diego said. “Gossiping too much to get me my Swedish Fish, I assume.”

“It’s called the screening of How to Stuff a Wild Bikini and the whole island coming out to see it,” you snarked back before shoving a handful of popcorn in your mouth. “The line was super long, Diego.”

“Whatever.”

You rolled your eyes and snuggled close to Kie under the blanket she had brought. The movie was about to start anyhow, and you weren’t about to miss it. Pretty soon into the movie the four of you realized Frankie Avalon was not gonna be a big part, and your interest in it quickly dwindled.

“It’s just not the same,” Diego ranted as the credits rolled onscreen. “You can’t have one without the other!”

“I liked seeing Buster Keaton,” Christian said, trying to stay neutral as always.

“Was it just me, or was that movie not as fun as advertised?” JJ asked as he appeared beside the truck.

“Was it because you couldn’t really see Annette in her swimsuit?” Kie teased.

You let out a laugh and turned your attention to John B as Kie and Pope got into an argument with JJ about the movie.

“Hey there, stranger,” you greeted, bringing his gaze up to you. “Haven’t seen you around lately.”

He offered you a bashful smile and looked down at his scuffed Chucks.

“JJ’s been taking me out surfing pretty much everyday, and whenever we stop at the diner, your pops says it’s not your shift,” he said. “It’s not like I’ve been avoiding you or anything.”

“Well now I’m starting to think you are,” you teased.

“It’s just been... you know.”

You looked at him and saw the bags under his eyes. He must not have been getting much sleep since hearing the news of Sarah’s impending nuptials. Going surfing everyday must have been JJ’s idea of taking his best friend’s mind off the heartbreak, but it did not seem to be working.

“Hey, you wanna get out of here?”

His head snapped up at your question, and you could see the relief in his face. So you hopped out of the truck and grabbed his hand.

“Come on, let’s go have some fun.” You began dragging him away from the others.

“Wait, what about your brothers and Kie?”

“They’ll be fine. Probably. You need me more than they do, and they’re busy talking about the movie to even notice we’re gone.”

John B laughed a bit as you led him through the many cars and people still loitering at the drive-in.

“Do you even know where I parked the Volkswagen?”

“I was just hoping I’d stumble upon it eventually,” you admitted. “But please lead the way because I will get us lost.”

“Oh, I know, babe,” the pet-name slipped out easily and you didn’t think he even noticed. “Remember when you got lost trying to get to the diner from my place?”

“In my defense, it was dark.”

“It was three in the afternoon!”

“Alright, alright, I am terrible with directions, you know that.”

“Well, Miss terrible with directions, where are we headed?”

You climbed into the van that was parked at the edge of the drive-in and shrugged. You hadn’t really thought that far ahead if you were being honest. So you glanced at him and swept your arm in front of you.

“The world is our oyster, John B. Why don’t you take me to your favorite place on the island? A place that makes you happy.”

He looked over at you. “Why are you doing this?”

“Being a good friend?”

“I mean... I guess that but... we...” He couldn’t meet your eyes, cheeks completely aflame. “The other night, when I opened the wedding invitation, we... you know.”

You nodded and played with your fingers. You reached out to turn on the radio, smiling when it started playing the new Beach Boys song that came out earlier that year. Perfect.

“John B, you know this song, right?”

“Yeah, of course. JJ always requests it on the jukebox at the diner.”

“Okay, well, I’m trying to be your Rhonda, John B. Because seeing you in pain, hurts me too.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really think you’re in the right place emotionally to talk about the why, do you? Right now I just want to take you to where you’re happiest on this island and forget about everything else in the world.”

Your eyes met again in the dimly lit van, and you felt what you did the other night, when you had comforted John B after he’d realized the girl he loved was getting married to another man. Your lips met almost hesitantly, like neither of you were sure this was a line you were allowed to cross sober, but eventually he gained some more confidence. His hand came around to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb brushing over your jaw, and you sighed when his tongue swiped at your lips. When you pulled back for air, some of your lipstick was smeared all over his mouth, but he didn’t seem to care as he stared at you. His thumb rubbed your bottom lip, and a smirk pulled at his lips when you nipped at it.

“Alright, then. Help me, y/n. Get her out of my heart.”

[punkenglishnerd]

I was tagged by @aconissa Thank you so much for tagging me, Ana!!!!!

🎃 Pumpkin: Favourite season? Summer! 👻 Ghost: Do you get scared easily? Yes!!!! I hate scary things :/// 🎃 Candy Corn: What’s your favourite kind of candy? I like gummy candy like Swedish fish, pick’n’mix, twizzlers, etc. I also like chocolate candies too, but only milk chocolate. 👻 Vampire: What is your favourite supernatural creature? Lesbian vampires :) 🎃 Witch: If you could have any superpower, what would it be? Shapeshifting! 👻 Trick or treat: What was your favourite Halloween costume? For my school’s Halloween dance when I was in 8th grade, I was Kiki from Kiki’s delivery service and my twin sister was Jiji :) That was fun! And in freshman year of high school I was in the beginning of my emo phase where I wasn’t brave enough to dress super alt on a regular basis, so I used Halloween to express myself and I dressed up as Abby Sciuto from NCIS. My lil emo heart was so happy!! 🎃 Black cat: Are you superstitious? There are certain things I don’t do because I’ve been taught about those superstitions. I don’t necessarily believe in it, but it’s just kind of natural and also cultural (e.g. not sticking chopsticks straight up out of your food, not whistling at night, etc).  👻 Ouija Board: If you could change your name, what would you change it to? I would probably change my first name to Katie (my nickname is Katie but my legal name is Katherine). I’d change my middle name to Kiyoko which is my Japanese name, but it’s not actually officially a part of my legal name. I’ve always been extremely bitter and upset that my first, middle, and last name are all very “white.” I think my sister and I are the only ones in our whole extended family who do not have a legal Japanese name, whether it’s a first, middle, or last name. Idk if I explained that well lol 🎃 Graveyard: Do you know any good scary stories? I hate scary stories!! My uncle would always purposely try to scare me by telling me spooky stories, but I don’t remember any of them so I must have blocked those memories out. 👻 Skeleton: Have you ever broken a bone? Yes, I broke my leg the night before my last day of kindergarten lol 🎃 Werewolf: What is your favourite urban legend? I don’t know if I know any? 👻 Horror flick: Do you like scary movies? No!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I can do suspense or thriller movies, but I can’t do actual horror. I did like Parasite which I think is more of a thriller. 🎃 Haunted house: Would you prefer to live in the city or the country? City!!!! I’m a city girl!!!!! 👻 Zombie: Do you think that you could survive a zombie apocalypse? Absolutely not!! 🎃 Cauldron: What kind of potion would you make if you had the opportunity? A potion to cure covid that would be readily available to everyone. 👻 Full moon: Do you prefer nighttime or daytime? Daytime!! 🎃 Corn maze:  What is your favourite autumn activity? I like going to my sister’s apartment and making drinks and then cozying up on the couch to watch a movie or show. I also like going thrifting! And I do enjoy autumn walks, but only in September and early October when the weather is cool but not cold; I live in MN so by mid-October it’s too cold for me to actually enjoy going on walks. 👻 Broomstick: What exciting places have you travelled to? My favorite place I’ve ever been is London, and I desperately want to go back for at least a visit, but ideally I’d love to actually live there. When I was studying abroad in London I also visited Stratford-upon-Avon and I want to go back there as well!!!! And I took a weekend trip to Brighton which was also lovely :)

Tagging (only if you want to!!): @ohthoumylovelyboy @maladyofreverie @queentoad @balalaikapattycake @by-thunder @evening-primroses @childofthehydrangea @keeperoftheflame @satans-classics @sarcasm-and-glitter

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  After centuries together, an unexpected astronomical event occurs that causes the Earth to slowly be absorbed by the Sun. As the end of the world draws near, Dracula and Agatha spend their final moments together. Embracing their love in an otherwise chaotic conclusion. *Warning: Major Character Deaths*

Rating: T (M is if I choose to release the alternate ending)

Ship: Dracula/Agatha Status: Complete

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N:  This is a rather dark, but romantic one shot. Yes, I know the sun wouldn’t do this, but for story purposes and how the Sun played an important role in Dracula, it seemed fitting. I hope you guys like it (or find some sort of appreciation since, well, two major character deaths). Might consider releasing the M rated ending that goes along with the picture above. Feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy! -Jen

                                        When We Collide

In reality, something was bound to happen eventually. As the years wore on, the planet had become more and more of a wasteland punished by mankind. Overpopulation. Pollution poisoning the very air needed to flourish. The sands of time had been emptying away for decades. Centuries. The only surprise was how quickly everything came crashing down.

Agatha carefully examined every dress hanging from the rack in her closet. Her eyes studied them, feeling the fabric between her fingers. Humming a nameless tone, she finally decided upon a dusty blue summer dress. It felt fitting all things considered. A smile graced her features as she took it down and began to change.

Colonizing on other planets had been a failed task. For a few decades, a select few had been sent to live on Mars. But the experiment only lasted for so long before the leaders of the world and scientific communities pulled the metaphorical plug. Earth proved to be the only habitable planet. A place that too soon would be just as lifeless.

She decided to leave her hair down that day. Usually how she always wore it. No silly updos or complicated styles. Just normal. How she liked it. How Dracula liked it. Smoothing out the creases on her dress, the former nun exited the room, closing the door one last time.

The television was on in the living room programmed to the news. Her eyes flickered briefly to the screen, taking in the images of panic broad-casted across it. Even with less than twenty four hours left, some people still seemed to have hopes of escaping. Hiding. While others just wanted nothing more to add to the mayhem and disorder. She turned back around, paying no mind to it as the sound of footsteps pulled her attention away from the distorted screams.

"You look utterly exquisite."

Dracula smiled broadly as he strode over and took her hand in his. She was unable to suppress a small chuckle when he brought it to his lips and kissed the top gently. How gentlemanly of him. Letting her arm fall back to her side, she looked her husband over. Well-groomed, as he always was. For a moment, a wave of sadness fluttered in her still heart as she gazed into his dark eyes. Even though she'd known him so well for centuries, she couldn't bear the idea of being apart. But she quickly pushed past that, not wanting to upset him too.

"You look quite presentable yourself." And she pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Always have a way with cleaning up nicely."

The Count smiled before a flash of recognition crossed his features. "Oh, I got you a little something." Agatha watched as he hurried back into the kitchen only to return with a bouquet of fabric lilacs. "I know they aren't the real thing," he admitted as she took them. "But you can't find live flowers nowadays."

"They're beautiful," she smiled. "Thank you."

Dracula walked over and turned off the television just as the sounds of gunfire and screams vibrated through the speakers. He made his way back over to her, reaching down to interlock his fingers with her free hand. She felt his cool skin against the rising heat of their very home. The hot temperatures didn't bother either of them. Their flesh void of blisters and burns. A vampiric perk.

"I was doing some deep thinking this morning," Dracula began. "About where we should go? I thought about the shore, but it'll most likely be crowded. People are throwing parties. An interesting way to celebrate the end."

"I've never been one for parties." She admitted, squeezing his hand. "Where else?"

"The old abbey is out of the question for obvious reasons." He glanced down at the watch on his wrist-a gift from Agatha from years ago. "Fylingdales Moor in Scarborough? It'll be a walk, but we have all the time in the world." The vampire snorted at his morbid joke. "What do you say?"

Agatha pondered his words before giving him a smile. "It's a good thing I have my walking shoes then."

When the word broke out about what was happening, the media ate it up alive. Theories. Conspiracies. Not a place, person, or thing was safe from being blamed. In the end, no one knew exactly why it was happening. Why the very star that provided so much for life was now about to extinguish it all. The outcome was simple, the Sun was absorbing the Earth at record speed. As it turned out, the damned thing was really deadly to vampires after all. Oh the irony of it.

The earth and its vegetation surrounding the little manor Dracula had built for the two of them had grown brown and dusty. As the sun's rays drew closer, everything had begun to wilt away. Agatha tried not to look at her garden, at the ruined flower beds she'd put so much effort into. Even the vegetables she'd tended to-all of the produce she gave away for free at the farmer's market-gone.

"You always had the prettiest roses," Dracula said, breaking the silence. "I don't care what the judges at the festival said. You should've let me take out Mrs. Robertson when I had the chance."

"Murder is not the answer when winning a competition." His wife stated, rolling her eyes. "Besides, she was old. I would've had an eternity to beat another."

Dracula visibly flinched and Agatha felt a pang of guilt. He had, after all, promised her the world. Enteral life. Immortality. And yet, she felt truly fulfilled. Her experiences, her memories, how she treasured them. It was for those reasons she was at peace with what was coming. Agatha only wished Dracula felt the same.

"Dracula," she began. "I think we should talk…"

"No," the vampire said abruptly. "We agreed that today was going to be a good day. Let's not ruin it with such discussions." Agatha sighed in defeat as the man pulled her along. "Remember our trip to Sweden?"

"You mean the one where I refused to let you feed off an innocent Swedish man and thus you were unable to successfully pick up the language?" She smirked at the memory. "If I recall correctly, I believe you called our innkeeper a 'rotten potato'."

"You're lucky he didn't kick us out," Dracula remarked. "We would've been forced to sleep on a pile of rotten potatoes then." He couldn't help but smile at the sound of Agatha's laugh. "Quite frankly, I don't know how I've managed to put up with you for so long. You can be quite domineering you know."

"If it weren't for me, you've been lost a long time ago," she countered. "You're lucky to have me around, Count Dracula."

He met her eyes, his mouth curving into a genuine grin. "I suppose I can't argue with that."

Besides the sound of their footsteps, the environment around them was quiet. Many of the animals had succumbed to rising climate change. As water sources dried up, the creatures that depended on them died too. Agatha distinctly recalled walking by Whitby beach one afternoon to find that much of the shore had been covered with decaying fish carcasses. The smell was almost so unbearable that her stomach lurched. There weren't any visitors that day, or even the week that followed.

"We really should have reconsidered going back to Transylvania," Dracula stated, breaking the silence. "It would've been nice to see the castle again. Or even Hungary?"

"Yes, because we had the greatest time in Budapest." Agatha replied, giving him a look. "No, England has been our home for so long. It seems fitting that we stayed here. It's nostalgic."

"You and your sentimental nature," he husband scoffed. "Sometimes I wonder if you reverted back into your human form."

"And would you still love me if I had?" She questioned, studied his face carefully. "If I was human?"

"Even if you put a stake to my chest and called me a despicable beast-which, I might have, you've done in the past, I would most certainly." The vampire smiled and took her into his arms, kissing her softly. "You were always my most promising experiment."

"You and your elegant way with words." Agatha smirked, rolling her eyes. "I should have worked with you on that. But it would've taken away from that charismatic charm of yours."

"Are you mocking me?" Dracula asked, a brow cocked.

"Just merely stating a point." She answered, reaching down to once again reclaim his hand. For a second, her eyes glanced up towards the sky noting how scarlet it'd already become. "We should hurry. I'd like to enjoy the fields before it's too late."

It was odd that despite the millions of people who called England their residence were not out and about. Not once since they'd left their house had they come across another person. Not that they were complaining, both Dracula and Agatha wanted privacy. And as they approached the rolling hills of their destination, the vampires stopped.

"This looks like a lovely place." Agatha said, turning to Dracula. "Wouldn't you agree?"

The elder vampire's face had fallen void of emotion. He let go of his mate's hand and stared upwards, the corners of his lips turning downwards into a frown. Agatha forced a smile as she watched him, trying to hide her own disappointment. The air was getting hotter and they both knew their time was closing in.

"I lied to you."

At first, Agatha wasn't quite sure if she heard him right. It was an odd statement, something she hadn't expected. When she tried to catch his eyes, he didn't meet hers. Instead, he continued to look off into the distant as if deep in thought.

"Dracula…" She said hesitantly, reaching out to grab his arm. "What are you talking about? What do you mean you lied?"

The man merely sighed, pinching the brim of his nose before finally finding it in him to face his wife. "I promised you forever," he exclaimed. "From the moment I turned you, I assured you that I would make you last. Bond together for eternity. But this," he wildly motioned at the sky. "Is not what I meant."

"No, you're right…" Agatha began, moving closer. "It wasn't what either of us expected. But my dearest Count, you did give me a full life. Centuries that I would have otherwise never had." She reached up, resting a hand against his cool cheek. "I'm not upset or scared about what is to come. I'm not alone. I have you, don't I?"

"Well yes," Dracula agreed, still grimacing. "But now I've doomed us to becoming nothing more than ash-if we are lucky to become only that."

"Then let us become ash, or particles, or whatever else happens when we burn," she murmured. "If this was what life had intended for us, then in the end, I'm glad I was with you." Agatha chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Funny to think I wouldn't have agreed to that those many, many centuries ago. Back at the convent. You remember yes?"

"How could I forget," he smirked. "What a feisty personality you had as a nun."

"We went from wanting to kill each other to wanting to die together." Agatha sighed, gazing deep into his eyes. "Irony has truly followed us throughout the years. But I wouldn't change a second of it. Not a moment." The ground around them began to smoke, but she ignored it. "Do you love me, Count Dracula?"

"More than I'll ever be able to comprehend." He answered, pulling her close. "You, my beloved, have always been my true bride."

The air was scorching now, a blinding orange glow radiating from every direction. The skirt of Agatha's dress was now encircled by a brilliant ring of red flame. She didn't seem to notice though as she pushed herself up to kiss Dracula on the mouth hard. His arms wrapped around her as he held her close.

"Don't let go." she whispered, allowing her eyes to close for one last time.

"Never," he answered. "Not in a million years."

And together, as the mighty star drew in closer, the lovers were pulled into the Sun's welcoming embrace. Forever lost in their eternal love.

[marthfador]

Stole this from Twitter lol. Lost the og post but here’s the blank!

I tried to go for some bands that aren’t as completely well-known as well as some popular ones. I even tried to add some albums I’m fond of for those that I can tell the difference with! Breakdown and song recs under the cut! 

(U don’t gotta for the meme, I just like talkin abt music lol)

Going by rows, we’ll start with Gorillaz. They’re usually the band I mention if someone asks my favs because I’ve been with em since their first album. All of their albums are really good, but I think I’ve had the most fun with Plastic Beach! Humanz is probably my next choice followed by Demon Days. An underrated song from Humanz is Out of Body!

Daft Punk is another group I’ve been with since Discovery, which is quite frankly still one of the best albums out there. Everyone loves One More Time and Harder Better Faster Stronger but one of their overlooked songs that I’m fond of is Face To Face!

Nine Inch Nails.... SIGH. Gotta be that edge, right? But let’s be fair, I’ve gone to the past like 5-6 concerts they’ve put on, I can’t say I’m NOT a fan lmfao. No fav albums since again... 5-6 concerts. That’s 5-6 album drops. They’re all so good. Not to mention I love Trent Reznor... One song I’d say doesn’t get as much attention as the rest is God Given. (But again... Ow the Edge)

Studio Killers! Hello! The band Tumblr has babied up since they first started... I even cosplayed as Cherry for the one con I went to haha. Everyone knows the Ode to the Bouncer, Jenny.... But the most absolute BOP that I’ve fallen in love with the instant I bought their album was Friday Night Gurus. Just WAIT til the chorus, okay!!!

Scissor Sisters start the next row and like... What can you even say about them. I’m surprised they aren’t more of a thing here on Tumblr, their music is so catchy and bouncy and they sing about the wildest things, not to mention I’m pretty sure most of the band is LGBT in some way! While I try to aim for the more vague songs, Don’t Feel Like Dancing is my jam morning noon and night. (Also just LOOK at that video!)

In This Moment was actually a surprise get for me. I first got to see them opening up for another couple of bands and they absolutely stole the show. If you can ever get the chance, see them in concert!! I describe her as the Lady Gaga of metal- her outfits are fantastic and she’s got some hella backup dancers! As for songs, the list goes on... Whore, Blood, Black Widow... But here, have her singing with Judas Priest in Black Wedding. Yes, another edgy band but it’s metal, what do you expect.

Janelle Monae’s entire Dirty Computer album is fantastic and if you haven’t watched the little movie she’s shot to go with it, go do it now! It’s on youtube, what are you even waiting for!! We all love Pynk, The Way You Feel, Crazy Classic Life... But not gonna lie, Americans still gives me chills when I hear it. Not only is it a bop but Janelle def doesn’t shy away from Shooting Shots.

Beck lmfao. I honestly wouldn’t have thought to add him if it wasn’t for the concert I managed to get tickets to not long ago. His concert was PHENOMENAL, not to mention this new album of his was so fun and catchy... I just can’t help now but to say I love him. Not to mention his older hits like Where It’s At and Loser... Colors and Up All Night are so good but the song that blew my mind in concert and I had to get the instant I got home was Saw Lightening.

Des Rocs actually popped up on my Pandora and I had to look him up! Not only do I dig the whole look and aesthetic (black leather jacket wearing greaser guys? Hell yea) but I absolutely do love the sound. It’s got this retro rock feel and like... If you could Bang a Voice, I’d def choose this one lmao. Let Me Live/Let Me Die was the one that started it for me... But don’t miss out on Used To the Darkness either!

Mitski... It actually took me a few times to get onto this Tumblr train but once I got there I wallowed in it. Most of her songs are on my Sad Bitch Hours playlist but you know what? I’d describe listening to her music as sort of cathartic, I can lay down and stare at the ceiling listening to Mitski for an hour and somehow feel rejuvenated. I think Geyser was actually the one that got me into liking her, but Pink In the Night and Strawberry Blonde of course are good.

Florence and the Machine is kinda in the same playlist as Mitski, but I do absolutely love a lot of her songs. Many of them make me rather emotional (My work started playing Hunger and I nearly teared up at the register? Wtf?) but I think that’s kinda why I dig it. Dog Days Are Over is gonna always be my most favorite of them, but if you want one I don’t see many others chatting about, go for Cosmic Love. Big God is also a wonderful video if you haven’t seen it yet.

I’ve already talked and mentioned the Dead South in a previous post, but man do I love these boys! People talk about Gothic Cowboys and boy do these guys deliver. Their songs can be about death, adultery, literally losing your mind, so many other sort of dark topics but with such a catchy tune! Long Gone is a song that I get stuck in my head quite often!

Gogol Bordello... Wow, there’s so much I can say about this band. I believe the lead singer is from the Ukraine, his pal on the fiddle is from a country I cannot pronounce, he has twin backup dancers that are Swedish-Chinese, he has a guitar player from Honduras- this really is just a rag-tag group of people from all over the place making some fantastic music! I was lucky enough to see them in concert and their energy is off the fucking charts, I absolutely adore this group! Most people learn of them from Start Wearing Purple, one of my faves tho has to be When the Trickster Starts A-Pokin’... Also they performed with Madonna once? Hello? (Also I’m in love with Sergio’s fiddlin tbh)

Sofi Tukker is another artist I stumbled upon while listening to Pandora. It seems like many of her songs have a different style than the others, but they’re all so very catchy and have a wonderful energy to them. Speaking of... The song that got me into her best was Energia. I literally cannot listen to this song without moving a little to it, it’s such a poppy and fun song! For an English song though, try Best Friend. (Batshit Crazy is one I find funny too!)

Gold Fish was one I actually had to dig for at the time- one of their songs was playing in the background of one of those shitty Kia Hamster commercials lmfao. It was SUCH a bop even in the commercial that I had to find it! (It was Fort Knox btw) Again, as a lot of my poppy choices here, there’s such a good energy and upbeat sound to everything they do, it’s wonderful listening to. I actually love putting these guys on when doing chores around the house, it’s fun and gets the energy flowing and makes things a little more enjoyable! One that I also love to turn people towards is Get Busy Living. If you can’t tell between these two songs, they’re actually a sort of DJ-ish band- different vocalists and different sounds mixed in, but it’s all very well done!

Jain, another found treasure from a commercial... (Makeba was in a Levi’s commercial lol) I was reading that she was born in France, went to live in India for schooling, and wound up in South Africa to learn different musical stylings there- and it all very well feels like her music flows with all these different influences! I hate when stores use the generic word “ethnic” but I think her music and voice can very well fit in that sort of category. She’s got a lot of bouncy, poppy songs, but also a few more mellow songs as well... But of course I really love the bouncy stuff haha. If you need a song to get your heart pumping in the morning, I’d def recommend Star! A stranger sort of song that still has a great feel is Hope! 

[poeticsandaliens]

Hold My Beer

Pairing: Debbie Ocean/Lou Miller

Rating: Mature

Summary: The Life and Times of the Heist Wives family, chronicled by things attempted after speaking the timeless declaration, “hold my beer” or Five Times Lou Miller said “hold my beer” before doing something spectacular and stupid, and a couple times someone else did.

I owe this ficlet to a conversation I was having earlier with @smashingmagicklovely​ about

1. how I wanted a full compilation of everything Lou has ever done after saying "hold my beer"

2. How Lou is badass but Soft on the Inside and Debbie is a non-romantic smartass but Soft For Lou.

and 3. how "my womb says yes but my heart says no" essentially sums up my entire attitude toward writing Heist Wives domestic fluff.

This is the fruits of my labor. Thanks Em for drop kicking my muse at ten o'clock at night.

Tagging @casliyn, @louxdebbie, and @oceansnineball because I feel like Dani and Darcy became ‘a thing’ somewhere between the three of them and an onslaught of adorable Instagram AUs.

Lou sprawls across two separate bar stools in Nine Ball’s pub, watching Debbie beat herself at a game of pool. “I got good in prison,” she had explained the first time she creamed Nine Ball.

“You had a pool table in prison?” Nine Ball asks incredulously, blowing a cloud of smoke over the table.

Debbie shakes her head. “Nope. I had a pen and some paper, and once I finished the Greatest Heist of All Time I calculated the angle of every shot in a standard game of pool and invented new scenarios until I ran out of ink.”

Not for the first time tonight, Lou wonders how she got so lucky as to love a woman as clever as Debbie Ocean. She’s not stupid—Deb is lucky as Hell to have Lou covering her ass, but that’s the magic of it. They click like a hairpin and a padlock, picking their way through barriers and unhinging each other as they go.

Lou turns to Amita, who’s perched demurely beside her with a fucking spectacular cosmo. Lou knows—she made Nine Ball show her the recipe. “Hold my beer,” she instructs Amita, sliding it down the counter to her. She steps on her bar stool, swaying as it spins.

“Holy shit,” she hears Debbie murmur, looking up from her one-sided game. “Lou—”

Lou steps onto the bar and weaves through a line of empty drinks until she’s perched on the corner, in front of Debbie. She fishes through her pocket until she finds the ring. She drops to one knee, knocking over a half-empty margarita in the process. She can feel the tequila soaking into the knee of her jeans.

“Debbie Ocean, darling, m’love, my partner in crime, my favorite felon on the planet, I love you from the bottom of twisted criminal heart. Will you marry me?”

2. 

They host the wedding reception at Tammy’s, because unlike the warehouse, Tammy’s place has grass and trees and aesthetic value; no to mention it lacked the warehouse’s air of chaos. It also smells of hydrangeas, rather than takeout Chinese food and expensive perfume—which mattered, apparently. At least, Rose and Daphne seemed to think so, and by that point Debbie and Lou took the backseat in planning their own wedding ceremony. They were perfectly content to marry in a courthouse, surrounded by their friends, but apparently that lacked romantic oomph.

(For her part, Lou found the idea of eloping in secret very romantic, but she can’t deny the feel of grass under her bare feet and the tickle of a breeze through her cream-colored suit.)

Lou and Debbie wander from the small party as the sky darkens. Fireflies drift through their vision like tiny lanterns, and gypsy moths swim in their path, clumsily seeking the porch lights. They stroll hand in hand down Tammy’s endless driveway, buzzed on quality alcohol and the undeniable high of their own marriage. Lou lets her eyes wander down Debbie’s figure, striking in an royal blue dress that whispers sprite-like across her skin.

No white, she told Rose, to the designer’s loud protests.

White is the color of a wedding dress.

No, white is the color of ‘purity’ and has too many connotations attached. It’s not even about virginity—I’m a con artist, for fuck’s sake. You’re an amazing designer, and you have my full confidence, but it feels wrong for me to marry Lou in angel-white.

Lou stops before a shiny object on the ground; squinting in the vanishing daylight; she makes out the outline of a child’s Razor scooter. An idea crosses her mind, too quickly for her to refuse it.

“I know that look,” Debbie warns her, eyeing the scooter.

“Hold my beer, darling” Lou says, handing Debbie her drink—not a beer, in fact, but a flute of champagne—and flips the scooter onto its wheels.

“Lou this feel like a bad idea.”

“Nonsense.” She kicks off, barefoot in her wedding suit, and sails down the driveway. She’s done wheelies on her motorbike before; this has to be easier. She jumps once, twice, then lifts up the front tire—and topples over onto Tammy’s lawn in three awkward, lunging steps.

Debbie cackles. “Not quite a motorbike, is it Lou?”

3. 

They honeymoon on Daphne Kluger’s private beach, because of course Daphne Kluger owns a private beach, a tiny tropical place sprung from the Caribbean, half a mile long. Perhaps it’s excessive, extravagant, but they’re not complaining when Daphne offers to let them stay in a fucking gorgeous beach house and have the ocean to themselves for two weeks.

“We should crack open one of those coconuts.” Debbie gazes at a hunched palm, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her skin has warmed and bronzed; her mischievous grin is infectious. Lou can’t say no to those soft brown eyes.

“Want me to knock one down?”

Debbie smirks. “If you can,” pretending she doesn’t know Lou will take it as a dare.

Lou looks up at the palm tree, laden with four coconuts. It doesn’t seem particularly difficult to shimmy up, but the tangerine sunset and her fourth drink of the evening has her seeing the world through a pair of rose-tinted, how-hard-can-it-be glasses. She makes up her mind.

“Hold my beer.”

Lou squeezes the tree trunk between her thighs and begins to climb. The bark scrapes her skin; sure she’s only wearing a bikini and a breezy blouse, but the glint in Debbie’s eye promised a lusty reward for her efforts. She hangs from the top of the tree and kicks a coconut. The palm leaves catch her button-up and scratch along her exposed torso. Her efforts pay off—a massive coconut drops to the sand below with a decisive whack. Debbie whoops. Lou shimmies down the trunk and downs the rest of her drink.

When they relay the story at home, Daphne asks how the hell Lou managed to climb a palm tree in a bikini.

“Drunkenly,” she replies, “having forgotten what thigh chafing feels like.”

4.

A car revs outside the window. Lou looks up from the textbook length Swedish instruction set. “Fuck,” she mutters.

“This isn’t happening today,” says Nine Ball, gazing over the sea of bars and screws that could theoretically build a crib.

Lou groans and sips her beer. “Tammy you’ve built one of these. Help us out?”

Tammy shrugs. “They’ve changed the design since Alicia was born. Sorry.” But she’s made more progress than the rest of them, having managed to fit the bottom boards of the crib together into a solid surface.

“You’re a fence; I thought you knew how this shit worked.”

Tammy crossed her arms and got up from the floor, dusting off her jeans. “Yeah, I don’t build the things I fence.”

“Uh-huh,” says Nine Ball. “I always thought you’re one of those… DIY moms.”

“Only on occasion.”

The front door of the warehouse slams shut. “Where the hell is everyone?” Debbie’s voice echoes from the floor below them.

The group of them, somehow sweating and sore from failing to assemble the worlds’ shittiest IKEA crib, emerge from the room. Lou leans over the railing and smiles at her wife, who at six months pregnant (and beyond over it) has managed to carry four-and-a-half people’s worth of Chinese takeout in her arms while balancing an extra-large 7-11 lemonade between her chin and her baby bump and sucks nonchalantly on the bright red straw.

Sight for sore eyes, Lou thinks fondly, because she’s a fucking sap who loves this woman more every day.

She turns to Nine Ball. “Hold my beer,” and swings her leg over the railing. Nine Ball rolls her eyes as Lou slides down the spiral staircase at breakneck speed. She attempts to flourish as she rounds the final bend, but it quickly becomes an emergency crash landing, as she topples spectacularly onto the warehouse floor. With all the confidence of a clumsy woman who’s convinced the world she’s graceful, she dusts herself off and proceeds to trip over the couch, which has apparently moved three feet since last she saw it. She eats it again and finally stands to meet the half-amused eyes of Debbie Ocean.

In lieu of a greeting, she presses a kiss to Debbie’s lips, then to her neck, then to her belly for Creature (as they’ve insisted upon calling it, to everyone else’s chagrin) and then her lips again for good measure.

“I swear to God, Lou, if you die before this kid is born... ”

“Never,” Lou replies. Her hands curiously search Debbie’s midsection for a kick from Creature. “Just a couple of bruises. Although we might want to move the couch back to wherever it was.”

“No one moved it Lou. Your muscle memory isn’t worth shit.”

5.

Before Darcy is born, they take a vacation. Dani stays with Tammy—the “adult friend,” as Debbie so delicately put it when Constance asked why she couldn’t watch their child for a week. They rent a place along the Baja peninsula, a hidden coastal oasis to themselves, complete with a jacuzzi and an underground spring that bubbled into a natural pool. Overlooking the pool, to Debbie’s delight, a cliff perfect for high dives.

“How are you doing?” Debbie emerges from the house sporting a craft beer and an impressive sunburn.

Lou lifts her sunglasses. “Distracted,” she mutters.

“And how is Nessie doing?” Debbie asks, plopping onto the chaise. Her gaze softens, and pulls Lou into a warm kiss, slipping her hand under Lou’s green button-up to where their second daughter grew.

“Playing me like a fucking marimba,” Lou says softly, resting her hand over Debbie’s, over the taut skin of her belly. It’s funny, she can’t help thinking, the undisguised tenderness with which Debbie touches her. When Debbie was pregnant with Dani, she was all tough shell, and the entire nine months had been a stressful road littered with complications and doctor’s appointments and a couple close calls.

No way in Hell am I doing that again, Debbie swore, and quite understandably. Nope, no way, miracle my ass.

Well then I guess it’s my turn, Lou promised and kissed her against their creaking headboard.

Her turn—an unspeakably weird turn, she realized when first the alien creature moved inside her. Curious, the way it’s spoken on black and white British TV—curious. Weirder, perhaps, Lou woke one more to find Debbie softened like honey, curled around the new-to-them curve of her abdomen and smiling the sweetest thing she’d seen in months. Captivated the way she couldn’t be with Dani, and Lou in turn was bewildered by her.

“No shit,” Debbie whispers now, feeling Nessie (a nickname coined by Rose, of course) press against her hand. “You’re on vacation,” she mutters to the errant alien foot. “Relax.”

Lou tosses back her head and laughs. “Your voice only riles her up,” she says, shooing Debbie away with her hand.

“Her or you?” Debbie retorts, voice full of promise. So far, this vacation has rivaled their honeymoon in terms of good food and better sex.

“Both of us.” She pulls Debbie close and kisses her with fervor, pressing her thumb between Debbie’s thighs to elicit a rewarding groan. “God, you know how hot you are,” Debbie growls, her words slurring into something needy and near-impossible to resist. Debbie pinches the sensitive skin of her breast, and she’s wet already, God help her.

Debbie’s lips are running a full-on expedition of her body, tanned legs straddling her and her hand inside Debbie’s swimsuit, when few sharp sucker punches from the baby force her to break away. Debbie grumbles softly and runs her hand through Lou’s sun-bleached hair.

“More later,” Lou murmurs, low and husky, “when Loch Ness quiets down.” She’s gone on this woman, gone on Debbie Ocean forever. They’re conquering the goddamn world every second they spend in the same room. She doesn’t want Debbie more than three feet away, especially not now.

“Fine,” Debbie acquiesces. It’s playful, frustrated all the same. Debbie stands up at the promise of later. Then, her gaze fixes on the waterfall, and her eyes light up. “Hold my beer.” She shoves her drink into Lou’s hand and races to the pool.

“Fuck you, that’s my line!” Lou calls after her.

“Not anymore!” Debbie clambers up the slick rock, hauling herself onto the rock’s edge. She gets a running start, hurling herself into a front flip that from Lou’s vantage point is executed perfectly. Until it isn’t. Debbie hits the water in what can only be described as the most painful belly flop Lou has ever witnessed. She stands stone-still in the pool for a full minute before making her way to the edge.

“Are you alright, baby?” Lou shouts, half-teasing and half dead serious. Because when Debbie emerges from the water, she is the color of cheap boxed wine from her neck to her knees, pinching her stinging midsection with both hands.

“Fuck off,” Debbie mutters, but she’s chuckling through her pout, an indicator that she’s not severely injured herself.

Lou hands her back the bottle, cocking her eyebrow dangerously. “That’s what happens to people who laugh at me for getting stuck in the jacuzzi.”

6.

It is the twelfth anniversary of the Toussaint heist. Tammy, good friend that she is, offers to host the barbecue. She’s just purchased a backyard trampoline that has automatically made her the “most cool aunt” in the eyes of Dani and Darcy, and really, who can protest?

Debbie the grillmaster is flipping burgers, chatting with Daphne Kluger about her latest endeavor in directing, which is generating a fair amount of Oscar buzz. Amita and Constance are teaching Darcy how to steal jewelry off a person’s body without being caught, and what kind of hypocrite would Lou be o protest that it isn’t a useful life skill? Dani, predictably, has climbed onto the trampoline.

Lou’s heart swells as she watches her daughter bound across the elastic surface. “Hey,” she says to Rose, “hold my beer.”

She strides over to the trampoline and climbs on, shoes and all. She takes a couple steps onto the trampoline. “Hi Ma!” Dani cries enthusiastically.

“Hi Darling, are—” Her feet drop from under her. Apparently, the three-inch stiletto heels on her boots were less than ideal for a sheet of kevlar and rubber, because they’ve split two holes in the trampoline, and the woven strips of it are springing up everywhere, and Lou is flat on her ass beneath it.

Dani peers down at her, howling with laughter. “Ma you broke it!”

Lou scooches out from beneath the gaping hole, ass first, with the shreds of her grace and dignity.

7.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Darcy asks her older sister as Dani straps on her helmet and elbow pads.

“Great idea,” says Dani. She fixes her gaze on the massive pipe she’s rolled into the warehouse parking lot. On the other side of the pipe lies a ramp, and on the other side of that, a curb and chain-link fence she’ll just have to steer away from.

Dani mounts the skateboard and tests its wheels. Sturdy, smooth, waxed.

“You only finished it yesterday,” Darcy says skeptically.

“Yeah but it’s, like, the third prototype. This is the perfect board; trust me.” She’d snatched the old parts from junkyards and the back closets of skate shops and finagled them together into a board all her own.

“You have the camera rolling?” she asks, wiggling her board underfoot. Darcy nods.

“Great.” She quickly tames her hair into a top-knot and adjust the knee-pads on her torn jeans.

“Last chance to back down. If Ma sees you hit that ramp, she’ll read you the riot act,” Darcy warns her.

“Pssssh, have you seen the old photos of her on the motorbike? She used to take it to California and do some crazy shit out in the desert.”

“She still does. Doesn’t mean she’s okay with you hitting that ramp on your skateboard. Don’t be a jackass.”

Dani shrugs. “Takes one to know one, sis,” she says with a grin that her sister quickly returns. “Hold my beer.”

Her drink and camera safely in Darcy’s hands, Dani kicks off down the empty lot. She jumps into the pipe, listening to her wheels rumble on the plastic, then gives herself a boost before hitting the ramp. All of a sudden, she’s flying. It’s fucking fantastic. She flips the board once for good measure and lands beautifully, but before she can gloat the chain link fence is upon her.

Right. This is why you don’t put a ramp near a fence. She collides head on, and damn, she thinks, it’s a good thing this fence is pliable. It spits her back out like a catapult, and she lands on her ass on the concrete.

Darcy runs up to her. “Are you alright?” she repeats, taking Dani’s hand and helping her to her feet.

Dani nods shakily. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, that went great for the first trial. Did you catch me eating it on camera?”

[drev-the-ambassador]

Hey! I know this is a bit short notice bUt I was wondering if you could tell us about the origins of the word for 'Finland' in Finnish? (and why is some variation of 'Finland' used everywhere *except Finland* lol).Its something i've always wondered and what a better opportunity to find out than here! (I hope this makes sense aah) Thanks! ☆

Thank you very much for the ask! It makes sense, don’t worry, and it is also a very good question!

Finland in Finnish is Suomi, and indeed, it is used for Finland only in most of the Baltic-Finnic languages, like Karelian suomi, Estonian soome and Votic soomi. 

The origin of the name Suomi is… unclear, to say the least. Actually, nobody knows where it comes from, but many theories exist! Some say that Suomi comes from the word suo or suomu, meaning swamp and a scale (like on a fish) respectively. We do have quite a lot of swamps here, according to some sources as much as a third of the whole land area (which would make Finland the most… swampiest country in the world), and fish has been quite a common source of food here, thanks to all those lakes and the sea and also rivers. 

Others say that the word Suomi is a loan from somewhere, perhaps the Baltic šama-, which comes from proto-Baltic žeme, both essentially meaning land (the word zemlja/ земля in Russian is a descendant of this word, too), which would mean that Suomi means… land. Just plain land. A bit anticlimactic, isn’t it?

Well, there are also other theories, none of which have been and probably never will be proven right (or wrong for that matter). Suomi used to mean the part of Finland that nowadays is called Proper Finland, this area here.

By Pera7 - karttapohja Care, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8954505

Why the name of Finland is Finland or a variation of the word almost everywhere else, that’s quite easy to answer. 

Finland is also the Swedish name for Finland. Finland was a part of Sweden for around 600 years, from the 1200′s to 1809. Before that Finland had never been a unified country, or any kind of an organized society. Since Finnish wasn’t an official language, and was looked down upon by the Swedish-speaking upper class as a language of the commoners, the name that ended up being used in all the official contexts was the Swedish one. 

Oh, but the origin of the name Finland is just as unknown as the origin of Suomi. The -land in Finland means, well, land, but the Fin-part is a bit more complicated.

Some say it comes from the Scandinavian male name Finn. Others say it comes form the Swedish adjective fin, which means the same as fine (though grammatically it should then be Fintland (unless it’s just been shortened) because land in Swedish is ett land and the adjective should be in the correct form or whatever), and others say it comes from the Swedish noun fiende, meaning an enemy. Funnily enough, among the theories there is the Germanic word fen, meaning swamp, and also the word fin, as in the fin on a fish. 

Some have suggested that it comes from the Swedish verb finna, to find, referring to the way the ancient Finns gathered their food like ye olden hunter-gatherers from the youth of our species (Finland has always been a little behind on these hip new things like hunting and agriculture). Some have also suggested the old Scandinavian word finnr, meaning a human, that has been used to refer to both, Finns and the Sami people. 

Wherever the fin- comes from, it’s been around for a loooong time, since a people named the Fenns far in the north were mentioned by the Roman historian Tacitus, and that Greek guy Ptolemaios told about the folk called phinnoi who lived in the northern parts of the Island of Scandia. However, it is unsure whether they’re talking about Finnish or Sami people. But yeah.

I hope this helped!