#which Andrew has been taking impeccable care of

[emry-stars-art]

Hi Emry 🙂

How's the new house going? Do you have everything you need to let your creativity flourish?

I don't know if this question has already been asked, but what are the court customs for Christmas? Dances, sumptuous dinners or a meeting between intimates only?

Abram could give Andrew a new pair of earrings (they would look amazing on him) delicately move your Highness's hair to let him wear them while Andrew prefers humble gifts, a key that Abram will keep above his heart, who knows where it will lead 💝

Wish you a beautiful day 🤍🌸✨

Next year, if this whole art thing works out, I hope to be able to make some time for more worldbuilding and stuff because it’s SO fascinating and fun!! For now though I loveeeee putting in our real world traditions

And your points are perfect because 1) Abram giving Andrew different earrings and Andrew building a wholeeee collection of them is so sweet and 2) a key to Andrew’s room (“our room” as Andrew reminds him now) is absolutely Abram’s most precious possession

Me trying to decide on an outfit for Andrew, desperately scrolling Pinterest:

The gorgeous Andrew drawn by Peach: am I a joke to you

[vintagetvstars]

Fred Rogers Vs. Dick Van Dyke

Propaganda

Fred Rogers - (Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood) - Okay he may not have been Hot per se, but you know that man would take better care of you than anyone else on planet Earth. And that's hot af.

Dick Van Dyke - (The Dick Van Dyke Show, Diagnosis: Murder, The Carol Burnett Show) - First of all he’s a hilarious comic: he has impeccable comedic timing and his physical comedy talent remains one of the best of all time. Second of all he can dance AND sing AND act— truly a renaissance man. (He is one Oscar away from an EGOT, which is very cool!) Also, those eyes and dimples? There’s a reason he’s so shippable with everyone from Julie Andrews to Mary Tyler Moore: he’s a certified cutie! His looks combined with his talents and personality definitely make him THE hottest vintage TV man.

- No Negative Propaganda Please -

Master Poll List | How to submit propaganda | What is vintage? (FAQ)

Additional propaganda below the cut

Dick Van Dyke:

That twinkle! The physical humor! The wholesomeness! I love this man!

Rob Petrie (his character on the Dick Van Dyke Show) is one of the few good sitcom husbands. he's good at his job, he talks issues out with his wife and stands by her, and he's genuinely very funny and lovable. and that's not even getting into how brilliant his physical comedy is

His smile is charming his swag is unparalleled he plays a devoted tv husband and there’s nothing hotter than making me laugh

more like dilf van dyke am i right

[hopingforcoordinates]

Hi, first of all, I want to say that I admire you so much; all of your writing is impeccable. I love it so much that even with the ups and downs of life, you haven't abandoned Unkindness, thank you for that. Anyway, this has been on my mind since I read the latest chapters, and I had to tell you this: I really admire you as a writer. There are countless reasons that could reinforce my thoughts, but I just wanted to share this one: how you're able to develop characters. I won't even mention how some of the foxes have gained so much more depth in your hands, but what really caught my attention is your care, patience, and intelligence in portraying Andreil's feelings and relationship. And this really came to me in chapter 72, you give us Neil writing his initials next to Andrew's, (the N and the J, not the N and the W) and this whole action (besides being kind of cute) wasn't 100% thought out by him, as if it was more something subconscious. That really gets me, because of course, we have them making out and etecetera, but the little things, the sentiment its being build now, and i saw, i notice and tought: "she's GREAT on what she does"... Then they're at the pre-game restaurant, and you give us this: 'At the sound of his voice, Andrew looked up briefly from the napkin he was tearing into tiny pieces.' I mean, THE DETAILS, Andrew getting interested because he heard Neil's voice!! thinking about it as a whole, it’s not a big deal, but for me the perfection and the construction lie precisely in these details, which you masterfully execute. Anyway, sorry for the rambling here, but I had this on my mind, and I really wanted to tell you. I admire you a lot <3"

Omg thank you very much, anon!! I really appreciate you taking the time to send such a long and lovely message. I never know what exactly people are going to pick up from the chapters I post, so it's always great to hear the little details someone's noticed or enjoyed. It means a lot <3

[junipercreeps]

📖 Honorbound Summary:

June is part of a fraternity, an entry she effortlessly secured thank to her affluent parents. However, on the day of her initiation, as she swears an oath of unwavering loyalty to the fraternity, she realizes that she has committed herself to something that will severely test her moral compass.

What follows is a month of losing control, passion, and sorrow. Four weeks during which June either loses herself or, perhaps, undergoes a profound transformation.

🔖 Chapter One - Anxiety

All I ever wanted was to be enough for someone. A person to be proud of and to mention at family gatherings to show others that there was such a thing as a storybook success story after all. Someone whose name you mentioned when you wanted to set an impeccable example of education and hard work.

The truth was that at every family party I was only mentioned when they needed someone to shake their head at.

"June should try harder if she wants to go to Oxford."

"What was June thinking, just dropping out of ballet?"

"But she's got the scores, why doesn't she make something of it? Just send her to America."

"Has June put on weight? She should go on one of those shake diets."

"Take her on more holidays in the sun. She looks sickly."

June is me.

Junica Joan Langford. And I'm unfortunately my parents' only child, which is why I couldn't even hide behind an established sister or a successful brother. Instead, I learned that nothing was ever good enough for my parents. Whether it was reciting a poem flawlessly in front of Father Christmas, who was actually Uncle Andrew, on Christmas morning, or getting top marks in a subject my parents didn't care about, like creative writing.

It.

Was.

Not.

Enough.

When I applied for Oxford at the beginning of the year, I firmly assumed that my efforts of the last few years had not been enough either. But when the acceptance came in spring, I was happier than ever.

In my worst imaginings, I had already seen myself with my bags packed in a college in America. Far away from my family, so that my father wouldn't be embarrassed in front of friends and colleagues that I hadn't made it to Oxford in the end.

But it had been enough. It had been enough in the end. And now I was in. Literally.

Right at that moment, I stood in my small single room, which would now be my new home for at least three years. My two brown leather suitcases, the ones my mother had brought back for me from a shop in Paris over the summer, were placed right beside my desk. They were waiting to unpack a multitude of mundane outfits that needed to find their place in the double-door closet next to the room's entrance.

But I wasn't ready to unpack my things just yet. For the moment, I just wanted to stand here and look down at the park in front of my dormitory, where so many families were gathered. They were laughing, they were crying, and they were embracing each other. I suspected they were wishing each other success and happiness, parents hiding their tears so as not to unsettle their children, bursting with pride.

And I stood up here in my room.

Alone.

Neither my father nor my mother had taken the day off to accompany me to campus today. No one was here to accompany me into my new life. A driver had dropped me and my luggage off a little over an hour ago. He handed me the keys to my room along with a pristine white envelope bearing my name.

For the first time since I stood here in front of one of my two casement windows, I looked at that very envelope. I had placed it on the desk across from me, right next to the keys.

The driver hadn't told me who the letter was from, but he didn't need to. My mother's elegant handwriting was something I could recognize anywhere.

It wasn't easy to tear myself away from the view in the park below my window. I longed to be embraced too, and the more I watched, the more it felt like I was also receiving that familial affection. But I also wanted to know why my mother had handed me a letter.

Our relationship with each other was good. At least as good as it could be with a mother who expressed her love through silent gifts that would simply appear somewhere in my room.

I gathered my courage and snapped out of my daze. With a few steps, I reached my desk and looked down at the envelope. At the first touch of the paper, everything reminded me of my parents. It was smooth, cold, white - just like them.

My name almost seemed out of place on the otherwise flawless surface. It didn't display my full name but rather my nickname: June.

In the envelope, I could feel that there wasn't just a letter but also a plastic card. Did they give me a credit card?

As I turned the letter around and opened it, there was indeed a plain black credit card inside with my name and the silver logo of my parents' company. I set it aside with a furrowed brow and unfolded the letter.

June,

Your hard work has been rewarded. You are finally at Oxford, carrying on the tradition of our family by studying at the place where your father and I once met.

I frowned. My mother had never mentioned in her own words how or where she had met my father. Everyone knew. Me too, of course, but it was a fact I had picked up at one of the family gatherings. Reading it now in person from my mother felt almost intimate.

I want to confide something in you today, something your father and I have been waiting for many years. You are not only in Oxford but also a part of a fraternity that accompanied your father and me through many years of challenging studies. Brothers and sisters who have remained loyal to us even after we graduated. The family you need to be as successful in life as we are.

As you will be, June.

Let this bond pave your future path and show you that a solid house cannot stand on just one pillar. We hope that you will make many friends. That you will prove yourself worthy to be part of a community. A part of Samuin.

You will hear from them soon.

Coniuncti silentio.

Your loving parents.

Irritated, I turned the letter over again, just to be sure that there wasn't something written somewhere. But that was all.

I was supposed to join a fraternity? I couldn't imagine that with the best will in the world. My parents had often mentioned acquaintances and friends. Also, one of the judges who had ruled in my parents' favour in a dispute.

"An acquaintance from our Oxford fraternity," they had said at the time. And this was the fraternity I was supposed to join? Oxford was supposed to be a place that was about me. A place where I could step out of my parents' shadows.

I dropped onto my bed and twisted the black credit card in my fingers.

Coniuncti silentio.

What kind of motto was that for a student fraternity? United in silence. I looked through the bars of my window. The leaves of the oak tree were slowly losing their green colour and turning all sorts of autumn hues. My heart fluttered at the thought that I had to make forced friends with a bunch of other young adults because we had accidentally ended up in an elite fraternity through our parents.

I had been to a boarding school in the south of England until I was thirteen and then later to a public school in Westminster. The boarding school had been a wonderful place, but the public school had almost destroyed me from within. Children could be very cruel.

And I had hoped that Oxford would heal me. However, I could imagine that the brothers and sisters would mostly be from the private school faction.

My hands had turned ice-cold and were trembling. There was nothing left of the initial joy of finally being in Oxford.

Cold sweat formed on my neck.

"You will hear from them."

I didn't want to hear from them. I wanted to focus on my studies. Learn. Live.

Anxiety filled my mind and, almost simultaneously, my body.

A fear that paralyzed me for a while. Until the sunlight slowly disappeared behind the horizon, leaving me in darkness with my anxiety.

[denimbex1986]

'Those who have been following my stage reviews know I’m a big proponent of live theater. There’s no experience like it. Unlike a film, the magic is happening right in front of you, on a platform where no performance is ever the same from one show to another. Every high moment and mistake is there for the audience to see, to participate in, creating a different type of relationship. However, a downside is having to be present to see these shows, meaning they aren’t always easily accessible. So when you’re able to see a taped performance of a live show, such as Vanya, it’s the next best thing.

Based on Anton Chekhov’s classic Uncle Vanya, Vanya is currently playing on screens worldwide, thanks to National Theater Live, having recently played at the Duke of York’s Theatre in London. Vanya is adapted by Simon Stephens and Directed by Sam Yates, who also directed Magpie starring Daisy Ridley, which premiered at SXSW 2024.

Perhaps the most significant change is that Andrew Scott plays every part on stage, instead of an ensemble cast. As the only performer and co-creator, Scott carries this play on his shoulders.

[Warning: spoilers from Vanya are below!]

Vanya is a case study of humans and their relationships

I was unfamiliar with Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, which is pretty much a retelling of another work, The Wood Demon. The original play explores the interconnectedness between four people and the emotions that become involved as they grow closer.

The major players in this version of the story are Alexander, an elderly filmmaker, his young second wife Helena, his daughter Sonia, the exhausted doctor Michael who has been called to the estate to provide some care, and of course Vanya. Andrew Scott plays a total of eight characters, each one with a distinct personality, mannerisms as well as patterns of speech.

Vanya brings these characters with larger-than-life personalities to the stage, allowing audience-goers a moment to sit down and experience life among them. The play is a case study of the human experience, which is perhaps one of the best parts of the entire show.

It’s not a super active play, with a gigantic story that moves from scene to scene. Instead, most of the play takes place in one room, with these characters conversing their way through difficult situations. Through this moment-by-moment exploration of these relationships, we learn so much about not just the characters, but also ourselves.

This feat is only amplified when you remember that every one of these characters is played by the same actor. One scene could see Scott jump between any of the eight characters, sometimes all of them, having to change his voice and his mannerisms very suddenly. It takes a high caliber of talent to be able to do, and Scott does it with such ease.

Switching between a gregarious character bouncing a tennis ball around the stage to a delicate, feminine character who fidgets with her necklace and speaks in a soft tone isn’t easy. I’ve heard stories about how difficult it can be to hold a single character when acting, let alone bouncing between extremes. It speaks to the talent that Andrew Scott has, as not many actors could do what he does live, night after night on stage.

A confusing narrative in this Anton Chekhov play

While the talent is impeccable here, there are quite a few downsides to this version of Chekhov’s play, the first being how much I struggled to follow along with the narrative. Part of this problem is that there doesn’t seem to be a specific narrative that connects Vanya from scene to scene; which is a result of the above-stated human case study that the play offers. Vanya is a narrow view into a specific point in these characters’ lives. The audience is getting a snapshot of each character in this exact moment, which doesn’t necessarily lend itself well to an overall narrative.

Instead, Vanya feels like it’s meandering through a story where not much happens. For some, this may be perfectly fine. However, I prefer a bit more story to my stage plays. Adding to the confusing nature of Vanya is the quick transitions that Andrew Scott has to manage throughout the show. At times, Scott switches between characters so quickly, that it becomes near impossible to discern who exactly he’s supposed to be. There’s one scene in particular where he’s sitting on a swing and switches between two characters, with barely enough time to switch the mannerisms that signify who exactly he’s playing.

As a result, I spent a good chunk of time unsure of what I was watching or what was going on throughout the play. I thought that it had something to do with it being an adapted Russian classic, which has never been one of my favorite genres, but it seems to be more reflective of the creative choices for this specific version of Uncle Vanya.

That being said, the work and effort put into this show by Andrew Scott is something spectacular to behold. There’s nothing quite like seeing someone who is not only great at acting, but loves what they are doing, and doing it well. Scott is in his element, with this being another successful role(s) among a long list of fantastic characters he’s brought to life.

Final thoughts on Andrew Scott’s Vanya

While I was a bit confused a few different times throughout Vanya, this version still feels like essential viewing for theater lovers. Now that I’ve seen it once, I think I would appreciate it more on additional viewings because I have a better understanding of what is going on and who exactly each one of these characters is.

The love and work that Andrew Scott put into this show are apparent from the first moment he arrives on stage. Vanya should be at the top of your viewing list.'

[simoviacourt]

Channel 6 studios, outskirts of Zonneminster, late August - roughly three months have passed

*NOTE: this is a VERY long and text-heavy post discussing the current Simovian political situation, consider yourself warned*

Arturo: Good evening to our viewers and of course to our amazing studio audience! Welcome to another evening with The Talk! Tonight we’re going to dive into all the latest news of the week and with me around the table I have our wonderful guests for the night...

Next

Arturo: (continued) First, let me present to you Anne Kortehof, the controversial yet always impeccably stylish Queen of Simstagram!

Anne: Thank you Arturo, happy to be here tonight!

Arturo: We also have Simovia’s national pride and the newly minted captain of our national football team… Elmer De Marees! What do you think, will we bring home the world championship this year?

Elmer: We’ve got some tough opponents but the team and I will be giving it our best!

Arturo: Great to hear, it really has been too long! Then, I’m happy to introduce to you a woman I greatly admire - Iza Laan, the founder of the political think tank “Future Solutions” and the youngest woman to appear on the cover of Money Monthly! Welcome!

Iza: Thanks, Arturo, it’s a pleasure!

Arturo: And finally, my very good friend and a man whom we all adore - Nandu Talkar!

(huge applause from the audience)

Nandu: Thanks Ar, great to be here, as always! 

Arturo: Now, a little bird told me that you might have some new songs to share with us later tonight…

Nandu: Only if you behave…

(audience laughs)

Arturo: I’m sure I have no idea what you mean! But, first, let’s dive into this week’s headlines...

Arturo: (continued) Well, now that the summer is over, our newly elected parliament is in session, with a new prime minister! On Monday Her Royal Majesty officially took Mr Caan’s pledge of fealty and opened the parliament for the year...

(booing from the audience)

Arturo: Ah, it would seem that not everyone has much love for the Prime Minister..

Anne: Or they don’t see why a man should have to kneel in front of a useless woman…

Nandu: Oh wow, are we even five minutes in?

Iza: Well, I think that’s the last time we will see that man kneeling in front of anyone. 

Arturo: Not a fan of Mr Caan’s, Iza?

Iza: Not exactly, no, though I know Anne here adores the man. 

Anne: Me and half the country.

Iza: Which still seems ludicrous to me. But, populists will always have their appeal, I suppose. 

Anne: If by populist you mean that he isn’t afraid to go against the mainstream and say things as they are, then yeah, there’s definitely an appeal. Finally we have a prime minister who won’t play the same old political games that all the others have. Someone who will put Simovian interests first. 

Iza: And what does that even mean? He’d close our borders and end all international collaboration...

Anne: Which brought us to war once already and how well did that work out for us.

(cheers from the audience)

Iza: International collaboration also has created thousands of new jobs and there are countless businesses that rely on the good relations that the Queen works hard to foster. 

Anne: Ah yes, you’re one of those!

Iza: I beg your pardon?

Anne: Monarchists… you lot always -- 

Arturo: Hey hey loving the exchange of views but let’s keep it civil!

Elmer: This is exactly why I avoid these conversations.

Nandu: You and me both…

Iza: Easy for you both, with all respect. De Marees, doesn’t your grandfather sit in the House of Lords? 

Elmer: Yes, but…

Anne: The elite couldn't care less about the dealings of this country as long as they’re comfortable. 

Nandu: (laughs) Ha, that’s the first time someone has ever counted me among the elite! 

Anne: Well you mingle with them often enough… aren’t you friends with the Queen? 

Nandu: I’ve even never had the pleasure to meet Her Royal Majesty. 

Anne: Well, Prince Andrew then?

Nandu: I have met His Royal Highness and attended events with him, yes… but whether we’re friends, hard to say. He’s a nice guy, though, excellent company. But that doesn’t make me one of this “elite” you keep mentioning on your socials. I’ve worked hard to get where I am today. 

Iza: Yet your current position allows you to claim this apolitical stance.

Nandu: Just because I don’t like talking about politics doesn’t mean I don’t care or vote, for that matter. I’m not clueless. My family still can’t vote in this country and though I was born here and grew up here, I doubt Mr Caan and his party would consider me Simovian. 

Anne: That’s not true, he has nothing against new Simovians. 

Nandu: As opposed to what? The old Simovians? How many generations does it take to belong to that group?

Iza: And that’s just one of the reasons that I’m not a fan of Mr Caan, as you put it Arturo. His rhetoric is divisive at best and blatantly xenophobic at worst. And now he is the prime minister. I’m actually not a monarchist, there are so many things wrong with the institution but it’s times like these that I’m happy that we have a Queen who can push back on what he’d otherwise do to our country. 

Anne: Have you ever actually talked to him or attended one of his seminars? He has great plans for Simovia! I know that the media loves to paint him as this xenophobic loudmouth but he’s actually a really lovely man. He’s well educated but he doesn’t hide in his ivory tower. He knows that the people want freedom and he’s willing to give it to them.

Iza: You can’t be serious… freedom to what? Starve and end up on the street with no healthcare? I’ve read through his plans, they’re now out there on the government’s website and what I see is...

Anne: He just wants to encourage people to make the best choices in their own lives. Being controlled by some big political machine won’t let people do that. If you just opened your eyes, I’m sure you could see that.

Iza: I… Arturo please can we move on? Seriously... I can’t believe that I’m forced to debate politics with someone who clearly has no understanding of how society functions. 

Arturo: Now Iza, she does have a right to her opinion… but, it is about time we moved on. After the break, more engagement rumours between Her Royal Majesty the Queen and His Grace the Landgraaf van Hoensbroek...

Next

[palmett-hoes]

what's your take on the foxes mbti?

oh buddy ur never gonna believe this but i wrote a foxes MBTI post YEARS ago

im also not into mbti anymore and haven't been for many years so that post is probably still more accurate and in-depth than what i could give you now. i’m just gonna copy the whole thing but i read it over and it still totally vibes w how i understand the characters, like way more than i was expecting it to. i only made one edit (it’s marked) and it was to add a detail not change anything

i hope you’re really really into mbti otherwise this’ll probably be gobbeldegook

.

.

.

i used to be obessively into mbti so here’s an analysis based on cognitive functions mostly.

SKIP IF YOU WANT. for anyone with no idea how it works, here’s a quick rundown: cognitive functions are about the way people think, process, and prioritize information, not necessarily how they act, though people who think the same way often act the same. the 8 letters that make up a type represent how people process and prioritize internal and external stimuli. every letter actually has an ‘internal’ and 'external’ form so there’s Thinking (internal(ti) and external(te)), Feeling (internal(fi) and external(fe)), Sensing (internal(si) and external(se)), and iNtuition(internal(ni) and external(ne)) t’s always go with a corresponding and opposite f (like ti and fe always go together), same with s’s and n’s (ex: si and ne always go together). a set of  t, f, s, and n in a specific order makes an mbti type.

neil: intp (ti ne si fe)

neil has incredible analytical ability although it’s very programmed for survival but he’s also a fast thinker and very quick to adapt to new environments. he also approaches things from original angles that other people dont consider, all that sounds like high ti/ne. the lower functions fit well too. in times of stress, he returns to old habits and falls back on what’s familiar, that’s classic low si. his emotions are also very exterior. he’s bad with other people from lack of exposure, but he’s committed to harmony between those close to him and has an impeccable ability to read the emotional states of others while being completely oblivious of his own, and his sense of self is tied to exterior things like exy, friends, keys, and legal documents (lol) that’s fe

andrew: intj (ni te fi se)

ni is really hard to describe but it has to do with being able to draw conclusions from scattered input, which fits with andrew’s uncanny ability to spot lies and obsession with finding out the truth, especially with high te, which is about spatial order and logic, think of how prioritized he is with the physical order of things: who sits where, who wears what, etc. a lot of people want to make andrew infj i bet as like a “subversive reading” but he’s definitely not. i used to be really close to an infj and they have hyper-empathy, as in she would describe not just caring about other people and being able to read their emotional states but literally feeling the things the people around her felt. this is a common result of the ni/fe combo, and the reason why andrew is definitely not infj. tertiary fi fits very well instead because andrew is deeply attuned to his own inner emotional state. he’s self-confident and doesn’t care about other people’s perception of him, but he’s also very concerned with his own feelings and understanding them, even if they’re repressed. he’s also very aware of his physical surroundings, which plays into his deductive ability, although it’s not his focus. that’s low se

kevin: estj (te si ne fi)

kevin is a classic estj. he’s controlling, demanding, and driven. he tries to control the actions of those around him and gets very distressed when things dont run smoothly, as well as having strong feelings about improving efficiency. high te people make great managers. kevin’s whole story arc is about breaking old habits, which is a very si problem. it has to do with trusting and craving memory and familiarity, and explains kevins need for endless repetition. he’s innovative, though, coming up with new strategies and drills (ne), it’s just based on what’s already familiar, and you can see him spiral into creating all possible worst-case scenarios when he’s stressed (low ne stress reaction, they like to be prepared). finally, he’s a dick, but he cares about other people and wants to improve their lives, as well as being very reliant on other people’s perceptions of him to define his own self-image (low fe)

dan: esfj (fe si ne ti)

dan’s top priority, over everything else, is her team. she wants her team to improve, she wants her team to win, she wants her team to work together. it’s all about the collective. we also see that she’s very open with others and makes a lot of effort to both make new ties and maintain old ones, that’s high fe. she’s sentimental and attached to the past too (si)  esp the photo wall, but we also see her very unwilling to let go of the past ie the monsters but eventually willing to change and grow to mend team cohesion (ne). we also see the fight in underlying logic (low ti) with her: she knows the team needs the monsters to cooperate but she cant figure out how to do it

matt: enfj (fe ni se ti)

so enfj’s experience infj hyper-empathy too, but to a slightly lesser extent (primary fe is more group cohesion, secondary fe is more understanding others), and through this we see matt’s easy-going open friendliness and ability to befriend even prickly little neil, because he has an extremely good sense of what other people are feeling and need, it also explains why he doesn’t hold a grudge against the cousins in the same way dan does, because he understands where they were coming from. se is associated with a general boisterousness for life, as it’s about experiencing the world around you, which explains matt’s happy-go-lucky disposition and puppydog behavior. the ti aspects mostly go into supporting fe/ni empathic senses

allison: entj (te ni se fi)

i mean, allison’s controlling, both in that she orders other people around and in that her physical being and space are very planned and organized (her clothes, her hair, her makeup, etc) but at the same time there isn’t much sentimentality to her, like how she doesn’t care when her car was destroyed. she easily replaces things because she cares about the object’s purpose, not its history and that all smacks of high te/ni. and i mean, the se definitely contributes to her love of designer things and killer looks, because she cares about the world immediately around her, and why live if not in luxury? and fi? is there any character more aggressively self-confident than allison reynolds?? going against her parents’ wishes for her takes a really strong, independent sense of self, but we also see the problems that can come from not worrying about other people, in how she starts fights and can be abrasive and catty

renee: infp (fi ne si te)

okay this one was really hard tbh. a list of other considerations: isfp, istp, and infj. it’s very easy to read renee as high fe because she’s kind, but i think it’s a mischaracteration of why she’s kind. it’s not because it comes naturally to her, it’s because it’s a conscious choice that makes her feel better about herself. high fi people often read as fe because they’re so comfortable with themselves and in tune with their own needs that they can then go and provide for others. i associate her religion with ne, because contemplation and acceptance of the divine later in life is a very metaphysical undertaking that undoubtedly requires a lot of abstract thought. renee’s storyline also revolves a lot around using things from her past and putting a conscious effort into leaving things from her past behind (how she still uses the skills she learned from her past in new ways ie sparring with andrew and protecting the upperclassmen v/s how she held on to her knives even when she knew it was detrimental to her moving on) this sounds like si. her protective instincts also feed into the te need for order, but it’s a looser leash than say andrew, as it’s lower on her function stack but still present

nicky: esfp (se fi te ni)

godd nicky is like a prototypical esfp. i mean nicholas “sex, drugs, and parties” hemmick cant be anything but se dominant. nicky is all about living it up and living in the moment. like he’s sporadic and ive seen it lead people to think he could be enfp but he doesn’t think enough about the meaning of things to be ne dominant (like how he makes somewhat predatory jokes and such, he’s all about the here-and-now while ne is about the past and future simultaneously). also he of all characters has incredibly prominent fi, as his whole character is about living unashamedly as himself as a gay man and the immense self-awareness and inner strength it takes not only to come out to unaccepting parents but also to leave and start a new life when they rejected him. however, fi is also indicative of his communication problems with his family, as he’s unable to tell that the cousins are fundamentally different from him in their needs and boundaries, leading him to pushing them, making them uncomfortable, and being unable to help them, because he’s unable to understand them. the rest are much more hidden, but a party boy shopaholic like nicky would probably need some amount of te order in like an organized chaos fashion (and he’s often headcanoned as liking to throw parties) and you do see him become somewhat pushy, even controlling in those scenarios. ni is the hardest but could maybe be seen in how he’s attuned to the cousins reactions for all that he cant predict them/doesn’t do anything on his own part to prevent them (the way he handles andrew is like if someone poked a rattlesnake knowing damn well what it would do and then freaked out when he got bit)

aaron: istj (si te fi ne)

im a little iffy on this one and worry it might be an analysis based on his trauma instead of complimentary to it, but aaron’s arc is about breaking out of his habit of holding on to the past. he refuses to work towards moving on from his mother’s death, refuses to listen to things that contradict his preconceived notions, and refuses to make changes in his life that could improve it. that’s unhealthy si. he’s really a very unhealthy istj, and most of his traits manifest through his unhappiness with his life. take his te. that would imply that he needs control over his surroundings, but aaron is incredibly bitter and unhappy BECAUSE he doesn’t have control of his surroundings. he doesn’t get to make his own choices, he doesn’t get to control his space, and he hates it. his relationship with katelyn is also indicative of being an istj. it’s stable, not a passionate fling, but aaron is mocked for wanting that white picket fence, married with kids in the suburbs kind of life, and his relationship, which is his primary source of happiness, is built on stability, which is a very si thing to do. in terms of fi, it is aaron that ultimately forces change between himself and andrew. he may have been pushed but he ultimately came down to him knowing what made him happy and what made him miserable and acting on that. also, he’s an ornery asshole who clearly doesn’t care what other people think of him. fi. i dont really have anything to say in terms of ne, probably because he’s so unhealthy but also because he’s not too explored. heyy istj’s make great doctors

wymack: isfj (si fe ti ne)

okay this one was genuinely the hardest to decide on but ultimately i came to the conclusion that wymack, much like renee, is such a developed person that he loses many defining traits of the functions, and can be read in many different ways. so: wymack’s primary goal is the safety and betterment of other people (ie his team). he wants to help people overcome their pasts, which is a very atypical approach to si, but is si nonetheless. on a personal level, too, he’s never able to move on from people, and specifically never moved on from kayleigh,  continuing their shared dream of an exy team for abused kids long after her death. as ive said before, fe in a secondary position is about deep understanding of other people, and wymack’s ability to understand what other people are struggling through is legendary. the ti mostly serves as support to the fe, serving as the analytical backup in allowing him to understand others. as for ne: he is most definitely an innovator with unusual ideas, or the foxes wouldn’t exist

riko: estp (se ti fe ni)

riko is basically what happens when an estp goes bad down to the core. he’s obsessed with personal glory and immediate self-fulfillment (se) he has no impulse control or fear of consequences. interestingly, high se is often associated with athleticism, because high se people are intensly focused on their surroundings (exy). his ti is also super unhealthy as he gets obsessed with ideas that dont really work with objective reality, like his obsession with ownership and power dynamics despite them not actually being efficient, even backwards. the tertiary fe he uses to manipulate. he doesn’t empathize with others, but he can tell their emotional state and what’s important to them, and uses it to coerce them and destroy their sense of self, like how he knew he could get neil to the nest by threatening andrew. EDIT: /additionally, fe people especially in the lower half of the function stack tend to derive their sense of self from the perceptions of others around them, which riko very much shows in how he needs to be acknowledged as the best and won’t allow any competition for his title, as well as his desperation for acknowledgement from his family/. finally, that ni allowed him to keep multiple plans in place focused on one ultimate goal: getting kevin back. the sheer amount of schemes he sets up in order to fool and push people the way he wants is honestly kinda impressive, but he’s a toxic shithead and im glad he’s rotting. definitely not representative of all estp’s

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this is honestly SO funny to read back a few years later bc HOOOOO boy was i way too into this stuff. and this was written a couple years after my Peak MBTI Obsession, which was honestly scary

[luna-almighty-god]

An Ampora doesn't cry n°5 [HumanStuck]

Click here to read on Ao3

Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie

Please don't refer to this fanfic if you are looking for canonical information.

Rating M : presence of lemon / threesome becoming a foursome

Enjoy reading!

=== ===

Previous chapter

=== ===

The following week arrives quickly, and Eridan is proud to reveal, for the first time, his apartment. He took the initiative to invite the three idiots -yes, he insists on calling them that- using the excuse that "Since Gamzee is going to move in, we might as well take a look to see how he's going to settle in. And by the way, the other two can come so they'll know where to crash now."

Sollux remains dumbfounded, as do Gamzee and Karkat.

" ... An apartment big enough for two, you say? Damn it Eridan, you could house the whole gang, this isn't an apartment, it's a castle!"

Eridan answers them with a big smile. Well, he admits it, he was very modest when talking about his home. His apartment takes up a whole floor of the building, one would almost believe in a real house! The entrance hall leads directly to the large living room, which is itself connected to the kitchen. American style kitchen, beware! There is only a counter to separate the two rooms, giving a large open space. The living room has a large couch located in front of a flat screen TV, and Karkat is the first to get outraged:

"Holy shit, you have a curved TV?! You're kidding!"

The smallest one leaves to rave about the screen, while Gamzee quietly goes to open the doors. There are no corridors, the living room is the place to go from one room to another. Gamzee just takes a quick look: an office, Eridan's bedroom, a bathroom - gosh, there's a shower AND a bath? - as well as a laundry room...

" ... Wow bro, this is so cool!" comments Gamzee, his eyes sparkling, even if he doesn't seem that surprised. He must have lived in this kind of place before his parents kicked him out.

Sollux and Karkat don't know where to look anymore. It's not only the luxury of the apartment that disturbs them, but also the impeccable cleanliness. The living room is so... pure, devoid of personal belongings. You'd think no one lives there, that it's just a picture in a design magazine.

Sollux looks at Eridan, searching for the right words before asking:

"...isn't this...too big, for one person?"

In other words: didn't you feel fucking lonely the whole time?

Eridan gets embarrassed, pouts, looks away and shrugs:

"Better too much than not enough, right?"

In other words: Yes, but now I'm not alone anymore.

This makes Sollux smile, and he decides to relax and make himself at home. He goes to join Karkat near the TV:

"I brought my switch. Shall we connect it to the screen? It can be really good.

- Oh yeah ! A mario party ! Karkat is delighted.

- No, more like Mario Kart.

- In your dreams, you killed the game! There's no fun in playing when all you do is win!

- Winning? I don't win. I DEFUND you."

Sollux approaches a mocking face and Karkat blushes with shame:

"YOU'LL SEE, IT'S ME WHO'LL DEFEAT YOU!"

Eridan holds back a laugh, deciding to let them settle in while he joins Gamzee in... shit, where did he go? He glances around the other rooms, only to find him in his own room, collapsed on his bed.

Eridan clears his throat, hoping his embarrassment isn't too obvious. Other than Feferi, no one has ever been in here, let alone a handsome guy who has ever touched him a little too intimately.

"Gamzee?"

The respondent, who was staring at the ceiling, straightens up on his elbows and smiles at him::

"Hey bro~ Sorry, your bed looked so comfortable, I couldn't resist~"

Eridan shrugs, continues to look at him in silence, before hesitating:

" ... Are you alright? What were you thinking about?

- How lucky I am to be here! Eheh, this is great, too great!"

The taller one grabs him, pulls him to fall on top of him. Eridan lets out a squeak, turns crimson. Shit, he definitely can't get used to this kind of gesture.

"You're the best Eridan, frankly the best bro of all time!

- Pff... obviously, yes."

Eridan tries to keep his head up, to swallow his embarrassment, but it's hard to stay calm when someone is hugging you like that, on your bed, in your room, and then comes to kiss you on the cheek, then on the edge of the lips... and on the mouth...

"S-Stop!" exclaims the host, placing his hand over Gamzee's mouth.

The taller man blinks in surprise, and Eridan bites his tongue before looking away:

" ... L-Listen... it's not that I don't like it, but there... no. Not there, not like that, not here.

- ... Like this? Here?

- ... I... both of us... In my room... it's..."

Gamzee stares at him again, trying to figure out what he means, and Eridan holds back from calling him names for causing him such embarrassment. Damn it, does he really have to explain it like that, out loud?!

Eridan desperately flees his gaze, and feeling his breath against his palm doesn't help.

"...This is...too intimate..."

Gamzee finally seems to understand, as his eyes widen slightly. But instead of stopping, he grabs Eridan's wrist to take it off his mouth, and offers a mischievous smile:

"You want to close the door? The bros won't bother us~"

Eridan jumps to his feet and his expression is one of laughter. He winces under the panic, the embarrassment, the intense embarrassment that clutches his heart and makes him want to run away:

"NO!!!"

He has lost control of his voice, his scream echoes throughout the apartment. That's the problem with having a big space: the echo is too good. He and Gamzee stare at each other, one dead of shame, the other stunned. Eridan takes off, rushes towards the exit, crosses the living room to the kitchen. Gamzee follows him, his big legs allow him to catch up easily although he does not dare to touch him:

"Hey, Eri, was that a joke?

- Your jokes are shit!

- Well, maybe it was not completely a joke...?

- It gets better and better!

- You know I'd never force you to do anything, right?"

Eridan didn't answer. The memory of the amphitheater comes back to him, but he refrains from bringing it up. It would be too mean to accuse him of having forced him at that moment, knowing that Eridan somewhat indulged and enjoyed the treatment. But damn... !

" ... You're fucking boring." he said, sulkily, as he walked around the counter and focused on making a hot drink, just to keep his hands busy and not have to look at the others.

That doesn't stop Gamzee from coming and sticking to his back and hugging him shyly, with the attitude of the one who made a mistake and is trying to be forgiven:

"Sorry... are you mad at me?"

Eridan glances at him, tenses at his puppy dog look, finally growling as he refocuses on his drink:

"...no. It's not that.

- What is it then...?"

Karkat looks at them from across the counter:

"He's embarrassed, you idiot! You can see he's not used to it!"

Gamzee pouts:

"Is that true Eri? Are you embarrassed?

- N-No, I'm not embarrassed! I'm just...I... Argh, yes, I'm embarrassed! There, happy?"

Eridan gets out of his grip and goes to lean against the worktop, his drink in his hands. Karkat rolls his eyes and looks at Gamzee:

"You have to take it easy, idiot. Not everyone is comfortable with physical contact.

- Like you?

- I'M VERY COMFORTABLE WITH IT!"

It' s Karkat who is now crimson, and Gamzee laughs. He goes around to join the smaller one, leans over, winks at him:

"Well go ahead, show me~"

Karkat swears, comes to kiss him, but with such vehemence that their teeth clash, and the noise makes Eridan wince, as well as Karkat, while Gamzee blinks and finally explodes with laughter:

"Ahah, too violent little bro !~

- S-Shut up!!!"

Gamzee pats his head, amused, then walks away to join Sollux on the couch. Karkat seems to be the one pouting now. He joins Eridan in the kitchen, hands in the pockets:

"Tch, how boring..."

Eridan hides his smile and just shakes his head. He then proposes:

"Do you want to drink something?

- ... Mm... water, for now."

The host nods and serves him a glass. Karkat grabs it, takes a small sip, before setting the container back down on the counter without seeming to care more than that. He looks at Eridan hesitantly, seems to want to say something but finally remains silent.

" ... Is something wrong?" asks the one with glasses.

Karkat twiddles his fingers, eyes glued to the ground, wincing as he desperately searches for words. And obviously, being unable to speak, to explain himself, frustrates him enormously, makes him blush with shame. He just seems to want to run away, but is tugged by his ego, which is pushing him to face up, trying to get him to talk.

"I..."

Eridan isn't sure how to help him. So he remains silent, attentive, patient. What could the smaller one have to reveal, that it seems so hard to talk about?

"FUCK!" swears Karkat, who gets angry at himself, at the words that still don't come out.

He stamps his foot, opens and closes his mouth several times. Eridan feels bad for him, guesses how humiliated he must feel to give such a show. But even if he would like to reassure him and to take him in his arms, he is afraid that it doesn't help, that it embarrasses his comrade only more.

But Karkat suddenly grabs his hand, squeezes it hard, shaking, before closing his eyes, taking a breath, and unpacking in one go:

"CanIkissYou?!"

He almost screamed, and now he remains frozen, eyes closed, waiting for his answer like an ordeal.

Eridan blinks, bewildered:

" ... Kiss me?" he repeats, fearing to have misunderstood.

Karkat empourpre, nods sharply the head without daring to repeat himself. Eridan remains silent, taken by surprise, he clearly didn't expect such a request.

Suddenly, Karkat lets him go, moves back, as if he had been burned:

"No, No forget it, forget it, it was shit, forget it!"

He goes to leave the kitchen but Eridan holds him by the hand, sensing that something is wrong, that Karkat is no longer just nervous but downright panicked.

"But no, I was just surprised!

- Rah, no, leave it the fuck alone! I shouldn't have asked, I don't even know what I was expecting! I'm not Gamzee or Sollux, I don't even know why I'm trying!"

Eridan widens his eyes, before frowning and pulling him up, forcing him to face him, to look at him:

"But you don't have to look like them to kiss me!

- Of course I do! I'm not... I don't have the same ease or the same fucking way of turning the head! Look at this, in front of them you lose control, in front of me you talk to me like I'm a kid!"

Karkat releases his hands and brings them back against him, crossing his arms, shoulders hunched, closing in on himself as he looks down feverishly:

"You all do this... always treating me like I'm a fucking kid! They don't even give me a chance to be ..."

But he pauses, bites his lip, so hard that Eridan already perceives a little reddish liquid appearing. He understands that this isn't just a problem with him, but a problem with Gamzee and Sollux of which he has no knowledge. Although... he suspects, deep down, the nature of the problem.

"...I'm borrowing the bathroom from you." growls Karkat before leaving the kitchen...only to blush when he sees his two lovers staring at him from the couch. Shit, yeah, it's true that this fucking apartment doesn't have the concept of "private space."

Gamzee straightens up, concerned:

" ... Karka..."

But the smaller one ignores him, slams the bathroom door behind him. He doesn't seem so much to be mad at the others but rather at himself.

Sollux grimaces and leaves the couch, moves closer to the shower room, knocks gently:

" ... Karkat, open please."

Silence. Sollux insists:

" Can I come in? Only me? ... If there's a problem, I'd rather we talk about it."

A click. Sollux opens the door and rushes into the bathroom, taking care to close it behind him.

Eridan leaves the kitchen in turn to get a visual on Gamzee but is surprised not to see him. He walks around the couch, only to realize that he has curled up on it after pulling his hood down over his head. He looks so small and vulnerable in this position, Eridan feels his heart clench. He gets closer, sits down beside him, comes to rub his arm gently.

"...I'm such a fucking bad friend, aren't I...?" asks Gamzee piteously, hiding under his hood.

- ... No. You're just clumsy, like anyone else."

Gamzee shakes his head:

"... no... no, I'm such a jerk, I do nonsense... I do nonsense for my parents, nonsense for my buddies, nonsense for my boyfriends... I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm like this..."

Eridan would have cried about it. But it's not his place to be comforted now. He resumes a hard air, grabs the hood of the other without warning to pull it abruptly, revealing the defeated face of Gamzee. This last is startled, looks at him, the wet eyes, before remaining bewildered when he sees Eridan approaching and taking him a kiss. A long, voracious kiss, an experimental kiss too. Eridan has never done this, but he doesn't fancy a simple brush. No, he tries to devour his mouth, and this while pushing him back against the pillows.

Soon, the host finds himself astride his guest, breaks the kiss, breathless. Gamzee remains mute, breathes as fast as he does, and the situation seems so incredible. The taller man doesn't believe he's ever experienced this, no one has ever managed to just...submit him?

"F-Fuck bro..."

Eridan glares at him, and his voice becomes implacable:

"Apologize again for being yourself, and I'll slap you, is that clear?

- ... but...

- You're not an idiot, or a freak, or whatever the hell you've been told! You screwed up, it happens, but don't feel sorry for yourself for hours either!"

Because Eridan knows all too well that feeling of being the most laughable being in the universe, that feeling of shame and loneliness that makes you want to hide in a corner and never come out again. And there's no way he's going to let his loved ones experience the same thing.

Gamzee's laughter returns, more tender, more cheerful:

"Ahah... you're really... really the best."

Eridan relaxes a bit, finally laughing back:

"Yeah... Yeah, I know."

They take some time to calm down, before Eridan stands up, letting Gamzee straighten up. He goes back for his hot drink and takes the opportunity to bring one back to his comrade. They then sit down, one beside the other, in the sofa, waiting patiently for the two others to come back.

After about twenty minutes, Sollux is the first one to show up, very quickly followed by a Karkat with an elusive and slightly red look. Eridan and Gamzee hold back any comment but understand that he has probably cried.

Yet the smaller one stands in front of them, although he doesn't look directly at them:

" ... I'm sorry. I..."

He hesitates again, but this time he takes a breath, and suddenly glares at Gamzee:

"I WANT YOU TO LET ME DOMINATE! IT BORES ME TO BE ALWAYS PASSIVE! "

His face took again a beautiful red tint, but Eridan holds him in respect to be so honest on a subject which he considers so embarrassing. Gamzee, for his part, blinks before tilting his head, confused:

" ... Okay, yes.

- ... Seriously? You accept so easily? Karkat is astonished.

- We never tried, so yeah I'll try. Sorry little bro, I didn't think you were serious about it. I thought this 'want to dominate' thing was some kind of role-play where I had to submit you.

- BUT ARE YOU SERIOUS? I ASK YOU A MILLION TIMES!

- Yeah, every time we were in bed, so I thought it was a game?

- FUCK IT, I JUST HAD TO ASK YOU IN THE MIDDLE OF A CONVERSATION LIKE THAT? BUT HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO FIND THE OPPORTUNITY! IT'S FUCKING EMBARRASSING!"

Karkat plunges his face in his hands while howling of rage. Eridan realizes that Sollux, remained in the background, stifles a laugh behind his hand. He keeps himself from laughing, sympathizing with the poor Karkat who is dying of shame.

Gamzee opens his arms:

"Do you want to try now little bro?

- Wh- BUT NOT!

- Just a kiss?"

Karkat cusses, grunts, looks everywhere but at the other three boys. He finally gets closer to Gamzee:

"...If you mess with me, I'll take you apart...” he threatens.

He climbs onto the sofa, settles between the legs of the taller boy, puts his hands on his cheeks and looks at him shyly, seeming to gauge the situation, thinking about how he's going to handle it. Gamzee keeps his smile, curious and patient, while Eridan observes them from the corner of his eye with the embarrassing feeling of being a stalker.

Karkat finally comes to put his lips, much more lightly than the previous time, letting their mouths move one against the other. Without moving away he moves his head a little, changes the angle, presses harder while pushing Gamzee against the back of the sofa, coming to stick his body all against his. He comes to nibble the lower lip, licks it with the end of his tongue, and the bigger one shudders while opening gently his mouth. Karkat embraces his shoulders, deepens the kiss, slides his tongue against his sister in a hot sigh.

Eridan tears himself from his contemplation, the burning face. He fixes an invisible point, trying to ignore the movements of the couple, the wet noises which invade the room. Shit... Shit, they really don't know the term "privacy", do they?

He is startled when Sollux enters his field of vision, and he guesses at once that he has an idea behind the head. Difficult to ignore the one with the two colors of eyes when this one approaches you and that, in spite of his glasses, you feel his glance piercing your being. Eridan swallows, moves back by reflex against the back of the sofa. Sollux approaches an amused smile, takes him quietly his cup of the hands to put it back on the table, before climbing on the sofa and stuck it there.

"Relax..." he whispers.

He brings his face closer to his, and Eridan almost perceives a laugh when he asks:

"Can I kiss you?"

Even when Sollux whispers, his voice remains mesmerizing. Eridan struggles not to look away, especially fearing that the other two will continue kissing. My god, what is this situation? That appears normal to them, to them three, to kiss each other like that, in the middle of the living room? He raises his glasses feverishly, bites his lip, finishes by nodding gently.

Sollux loses his smile, becomes more serious while he puts his hands against the file, on both sides of the head of Eridan. He mimics Karkat and begins with a tender, patient kiss, to begin the contact, to feel their lips brush against each other, to caress.

"...open your mouth..." he whispers, and Eridan shudders and complies.

When he feels Sollux's tongue between his lips, he closes his eyes tightly and holds his breath. He thinks he hears the other laughing again, but he is too embarrassed to get angry right away. He is nervous, too nervous. The tongue brushes against his, wringing out a squeak, and Eridan opens his eyes in surprise, in a flinch that causes Sollux to back away.

"... uh... are you okay? " questions the one with the vairons eyes, a little worried to be gone too far.

Eridan hides his red face behind his arm :

"No! No, you irritate me, moron!"

Sollux finds his smile, takes his hand, obliges him to show his ashamed and shy expression. He comes back to kiss him, without begging the authorization this time. A muffled moan is perceptible, difficult to say who pushed it. Eridan wriggles, closes his eyes, the heat rising to his head. The tongue of Sollux returns to titillate his, their burning breaths mingle, and in this flow of sensation, Ampora seeks to what to hold on. He claws the sofa, but startles when he feels a hand taking his, intertwining their fingers. He half-opens his eyes, only to glance at it, to realize that it is Gamzee's hand.

But Sollux prevents him from thinking about it and pushes him to close his eyes, intensifying the kiss, tearing him another unspeakable noise. Shit ... He feels the hands leaving the file to settle on his shoulders, come to untie his scarf, exposed his neck to the free air. A shiver seizes him, followed by a weak whimper when the fingers come to caress his nape.

Sollux moves aside, and Eridan takes advantage of it to catch his breath. At least he thought he had the time, but he reopens his eyes abruptly as a groan, very strong, very real, escapes him and resounds in the living room. Sollux, that bastard... ! At what moment did he slip his face in his neck, did he have the audacity to come to put his lips there, to suck his skin?

Humiliated, Eridan tries to push him away with his free hand, the other still imprisoned by Gamzee's.

"Wh- Sto-StopAH!"

He finds himself unable to articulate, his throat is devoured, snatched up by greedy lips, pressed. Nibbled by teasing teeth, he squeals, twists, arches. Each corner of his skin seems to burn him, as marked by the least contact.

"S-SOL-UGH!"

He hiccups, his vision blurred, taken by a fever that he does not explain. He looks for air painfully, his heart beats too much, he hears almost only that. That and his indecent moans, those obscene noises he tries to keep quiet, in vain.

Is it good? He doesn't know, he doesn't understand, it's close to the sensations that Gamzee made him feel, he feels himself going just as crazy, and yet his intimacy is not touched, there is only his neck that is taken by assault. Is this normal? Is it normal to be in such a state for this, to moan like he does, to have this feeling of losing your mind?

The pleasure is being choked by the panic that grips his throat, by the apprehension of what is happening and what is coming next, what attitude he should have... what attitude is he supposed to have?

"S-STOP!"

Beyond the scream, it's the sob that petrifies Sollux and causes him to sit up, to look at Eridan.

Eridan who can't take it anymore, who gasps for air as he can. His skin is hot, his neck marked by hickeys and bites - not very deep, but still. Eridan, who doesn't even stare at him, but on the contrary flees eye contact, pulls himself out of Gamzee's hand to wipe his face, to try to dry the tears that have escaped him. He sniffs, feels ashamed to almost cry for that, does everything to regain his calm.

The silence strikes him. He realizes that he had to interrupt the other two, and guilt tightens his stomach. He didn't want to spoil the moment, he only wanted to slow down Sollux, to calm down the game. He doesn't dare say anything, doesn't even manage to apologize as the "sorry" itches his lips. But the silence that lingers scares him, he still doesn't dare to look at the others. Did he piss them off? Are they mad at him?

" ... Sorry, I scared you..." Sollux whispers softly to him.

Feverishly, Eridan looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and a wave of relief washes over him when he doesn't blame him for stopping him. But pride obliges, the Ampora bites his lip and crosses his arms, haughty:

"No! But we had said 'kiss', just 'kiss'!" he scolds, and this in spite of his glance still shining of tears, in spite of the traces that it left on his cheeks.

Sollux grimaces by observing him, doesn't believe for a moment in this false anger. He dares to stretch out his hand towards him again, Eridan tenses up but lets him put his hand on his cheek and caresses him gently with his thumb.

" Yes, excuse me, I rushed. Is that okay?"

Eridan hesitates, looks away, passes a hand over his eyes to wipe away the last of his tears.

" ... Yes.

- And the truth?

- But it's okay I tell you!

- Tell me again, looking me in the eyes."

Eridan gets annoyed, looks at him again, but swallows when he sees Sollux taking off his glasses, plunging vairish pupils into his own. It's unfair...it's really unfair, how can he answer with that penetrating look on him?

" ... I..."

Eridan purses his lips, and no matter how hard he struggles, he finally lowers his gaze. He tries to hide his weakness by taking off his glasses in turn, only to pretend to clean them, as he searches for his words, searches for a way to not humiliate himself further:

"...I just didn't expect you to do that, that's all. It's just surprise.

- Did I hurt you?

- Wh- But no, but it's not that!

- Fear then?

- No, no I wasn't scared!"

Sollux grabs one of his wrists, Eridan is startled and raises his head, and this time yes, this time it is well of the anger which starts to seize him and which pushes him to throw a black glance to his interlocutor:

" Let me go!

- Eridan, it's okay to be afraid, especially about this kind of thing.

- I am NOT afraid!

- You're shaking.

- NO! I'M NOT SHAKING!

- You're screaming.

- BECAUSE YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF!"

Eridan doesn't know with what strength he manages to straighten up, to push Sollux and make him fall from the sofa. Sollux who doesn't hide his astonishment by ending up with his ass on the floor, while Eridan stands up mad with anger:

"I DON'T NEED YOU TO THROW OUT THE OBVIOUS, I DON'T NEED YOU TO PATRONIZE ME, I DON'T NEED YOU TO MAKE FUN OF ME!"

Sollux frowns:

"What?! But I'm not making fun of you!"

And as he straightens up, he spits with deep annoyance:

"Stop being paranoid, shit!

- Paranoid?! No, but it's getting better and better! You're the first one to say I need to find the right partner, then you jump down my throat and I'm not even allowed to take it wrong?

- I didn't jump down your throat! And you should have stopped me earlier if it bothered you so much!

- I tried to push you away, you didn't want to hear it!!!

- Because you were moaning! You liked it, didn't you?!

- BUT I DON'T KNOW! I NEVER FELT THAT WAY BEFORE!

- I THOUGHT GAMZEE HAD ALREADY TOUCHED YOU?!

- THAT'S NOT THE POINT!

- YES OF COURSE! WHEN IT'S GAMZEE IT'S OK, WHEN IT'S ME I CAN GO FUCK MYSELF!

- THAT'S NOT WHAT I SAID!"

They are silent, only to catch their breath, their voices hoarse from yelling, but they continue to stare at each other. It's up to the one who will start again first, the one who will dare to break this brief moment of calm, the one who will provoke new hostilities...

But they are preceded by Karkat who interposes himself between them:

"Guys, seriously, calm down!"

And for it to be him who orders this, it is that they have to go. They break the visual exchange to observe the smaller one, only a few seconds, before Eridan turns away with a pest, putting a hand on his neck, hiding the marks on his skin. He makes about face and gains the bathroom, his steps clattering dryly on the ground, sign that his anger isn't appeased.

Karkat blows a blow, reassured that that doesn't start a fight... but it is Gamzee who makes the blow of grace by observing Sollux:

"Damn, he's the only one to make you scream so much."

Sollux chokes, blushes - of anger or embarrassment? - and retorts a magnificent "SHUT UP!"

Karkat rolls his eyes and gives him a blow of elbow:

"He's not wrong. First time I see you lose patience so quickly.

- Tch, I didn't ask you anything.

- Don't pout, Captor, and go apologize instead. Problems are best solved by talking, as you so aptly put it."

Sollux doesn't miss the mockery in the smaller boy's voice, though the latter is serious. He grumbles, massages the nape of his neck, before blowing and going in the direction of the bathroom, not without forgetting to put back his glasses. To believe that he is going to spend his evening in this room...

He knocks, but contrary to previously he opens without waiting for an answer, to fall on Eridan who stands in front of the mirror and who seems to disinfect some bites. There is a blank, the Ampora observes it in the mirror before simply ignoring it, frowned. Sollux enters and closes the door behind him, but the uneasiness is present. If he knows how to calm the game with Karkat, it is more difficult in front of Eridan.

"... I really thought you liked it." ends up saying Sollux, hands in pockets, without letting him out of sight.

The host grunts, continues to pat the slight wounds of his cotton, before taking out some cream and spreading a dab of it on his neck :

"... fuck you.

- I'm trying to have a conversation here. Can you be more open?

- To say what? To yell at you again that I DON'T KNOW? I don't know if I liked it, if I hated it, if you fucking hurt me and I want to do it again! I don't know, Gamzee drove me as crazy as you did, and if you must know I ended up crying in his arms! There, happy?

- ... But... Fucking happy about what?! I don't understand you, what's the problem exactly ? Are you angry with us ? Because we forced you ?

- No way! You didn't.. RAH!"

Eridan turns to him, annoyed:

"Forget it, get out, go back with the others, I'll join you!

- NO! Are you mad because you don't know what you feel? You always have to try new things, it's like with the motorcycle, you have to...

- I'M TIRED OF EMBARRASSING MYSELF!"

Sollux opens his eyes wide:

"...huh?"

Eridan nervously runs a hand through his hair:

"I'm tired of humiliating myself with every single thing I do, every single thing that happens! I'm sick of crying in front of you, saying stupid shit in front of you, freaking out over nothing, ruining the moment, just... shit, just shit, that's it! When I tell you that 'it's ok' can't you just accept it without questioning, without insisting and trying to do a fucking psychoanalysis? No because I have a shrink for that! Or I'll ask Lalonde, trust me that girl doesn't need a certificate to give you a full analysis!"

Sollux stares at him without a word, then massages his temples as he takes it all in:

"...no but...Damn it, Eridan Ampora, what's keeping me from hitting you?

- Wha...

- How do you expect me not to ask questions when you pushed me back to the edge of the tears? I forced you to the point of crying, and you want me to turn a blind eye to that? But who do you think I am, how can you expect me not to care if you cry? There is no humiliation! If anyone is humiliated it's me, me and my fucking guilt!"

Eridan further:

"Ok, I pushed you away too hard, but you were going too fast! That doesn't mean you should blame yourself, damn it! I don't need to be mothered at the drop of a hat!

- How should I know?! We've only been together for a week, let me learn to find the fucking balance, a relationship doesn't just work like that, at the snap of a finger!"

The tube of cream falls on the ground, surprises Sollux who is astonished, throwing a glance on the ground before looking again at Eridan who has the bewildered face.

"What? What?" he panics, fearing to have said a new bullshit which will start again a violent argument.

- ... We' re a couple?"

Eridan's voice was stunned. Sollux remained blissful.

" ... Huh?

- ... What?"

They looked at each other for a long time, equally confused.

" ... Eridan... We're... Yeah, we're together... ? No ?

- B-but I don't know, You tell me!

- What do you mean I have to tell you?! You should know!

- But how?! Well, kissing and touching me all the time doesn't mean we're a couple!

- Are you kidding me?! Do you let anyone touch you like that?!

- Of course not !! Only you!!!"

Eridan becomes flushed, brings a hand to his mouth as he looks away, suddenly more shy:

"B-But, it's just that... that I don't know, there was no... I never imagined... me, with you? It's...It's unthinkable."

Sollux frowns, takes a step forward:

"And why?

- But... But because it's me? I know you said you liked me, okay, but... Shit, look at me! Can you see yourself having a relationship with ME? A REAL relationship?

- Of course!

- I'm not talking about friendship or sex friend or..."

Sollux grabs his face, forces him to look at him:

"Eridan! I'm talking about being in a romantic relationship! Not just fucking!

- B-But...

- You, with me, Karkat and Gamzee! We all three agree, so..."

Sollux hesitates, bites his tongue:

" ... would you agree? You've already experimented a little... We thought you were already... okay?

- ... Honestly? I haven't thought about it at all...

- I mean, really... ? You let yourself be kissed without thinking?"

Eridan pouts, giving him a light flick on the forehead:

"Fuck you, it's hard to resist you..."

This time it wrings a smile from Sollux:

"Really? Why?

- Fuck you!

- We are irresistible?

- Damn it, Sol!

- Oh yes, sorry, you don't like my 'psychoanalysis' sessions ~ "

Eridan disengages with embarrassment to give him a blow in the shoulder, whereas that with the eyes vairons sneers. Annoyed, the Ampora picked up the tube of cream which he hastens to arrange, before passing his comrade to leave the bathroom. Sollux follows him with a smile in the corners:

" Come on Eri, say it! Say that you love us too~

- Rah, shut up!

- I won't let you go!

- I'm going to kill you Captor!"

Karkat and Gamzee see them return and exchange a look, holding back their relieved laughter. It's good to see that they've calmed down and are going to have a quiet evening again.

=== ===

Chapter 6

=== ===

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[ussjellyfish]

fic: work-life balance pt 4 | AoS| Philinda | mature (wheee!)

Note: Thank you so much for your support, likes, comments, kudos, I’m having a fantastic time writing this and it means so much to me that people enjoy it.

Summary: They've been friends for years but only got to be a couple for weeks before he died last time. How do they move forward as partners?

read on Ao3

Interdisciplinary Seminar 209 - Working in Partnerships

Her apartment smells like waffles when she wakes up. Phil's gone to the kitchen to cook, and the other side of the bed is cool. She leaves the bed naked, grabbing her robe from the closet. Phil's standing over a waffle iron that was not in her apartment yesterday, coffee in hand. He smiles at her in his pajamas, hair ruffled, wearing his glasses.   

"Morning."

"You weren't kidding about waffles."

"They're fun."

"They smell good." 

He circles the island, touching her shoulder. "Sleep okay?"

"It's nice, having you here."

"Because I'm warm?"

"And you cook." She turns into his arms, wrapping her hands around his neck. "I'm used to you already."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She kisses him, because then she doesn't have to talk. He always leaves. He doesn't want to, but he dies on her. Now he's back and they're really not in dangerous places but- does he want to stay? Can they really do this? They're good at being friends, partners, but they only ever got to be together for a few weeks in Tahiti. That was without jobs, without family, without anything to worry about except each other. Of course that worked. She couldn't mess it up. 

Phil strokes her cheek. "Hey, so, which of us is anxious?"

"What?"

"There's a knot in my stomach like a ice ball."

"Must be the coffee." 

He holds her hands, walks her to the table. "Sit, have some tea. What is it?"

"This is great."

"It is." Phil takes a moment, staying into her eyes. "And that bothers you."

Melinda wraps her hands around her tea, staring at the empty plates he's already set. "We don't get great."

"We do, we did, Tahiti--"

"Was wonderful until you died."

"I'm not dying now." 

He's not. He's healthy, whole. There's color in his face and he carried her up from the garage. He could barely stand at the end. He's fine. He could stay. They could really be together, get married, go to the movies and grovery shop and spend decades together. 

They could, but they're still them. They're not really good at domestic, staying in one place or relationships. Between them they have more than a handful of failed loves, almost including each other. 

She shouldn't say it, but she does. "But you died. I watched."

He winces, reaching across the table to touch her hand. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head, starting to take a sip of her tea, then stopping. It's not fair to blame him, but he is him. He made the same choices. "It's not even the dying, I got through that. It's that you chose."

Phil pulls his hand back and that hurt. She can feel the little cracks, like ice.  "I had to."

She should be better than this, but he's wrong. "You didn't."

"Wait a sec." He heads to the kitchen and returns, dropping a hot waffle onto her plate. Phil pushes the butter and syrup towards her, and points at the berries. "Eat while you yell at me."

"I'm not yelling."

"Maybe you should, might feel better." He takes a bite of his own and smiles, all gentle, apologetic. She can feel his remorse well up inside of him, and the affection beneath it. He loves her, and it's bright, almost too much so, like the sun over the clouds and she can't protect herself. 

"You chose to die."

"Daisy needed to save the world."

She stares at her fork, then her hands, and looks up. "I don't care." 

He nearly drops his own fork, eyes widening. "Oh?"

"I would have let the world crumble to save you."

Phil takes a breath, and her frozen knot of anxiety melts with his, twisting her stomach. "I know."

"Do you? Do you really know? I would give up everything for you." She would have let the planet crumple like wet paper if she got to keep him with her. That's terrifying. She's trained her life to save people. To serve, to give of herself until there's nothing left, but some part of her drew the line at him. She can make peace with Katya's death in Bahrain. She can grieve for Andrew and move on, but she can't face a universe without Phil Coulson. 

He toys with his napkin, twisting it in his hands. "You're too good for me."

"No."

"You are."

"Phil--"

He leaves his chair, circles the table and leans on it, right beside her. "You chose me, you always chose me. I don't."

"You don't have to, you shouldn't." She doesn't deserve that. Happiness is too fleeting for her, always has been. These beautiful days are going to leave, he's going to leave. She only has herself and people she looks after. That's all she's allowed. 

"Hey. If we're going to do this, us, I want to do it right. You and me, not for weeks, but for years, decades, I want to see your hair go grey, finally, at ninety." 

He's still too nerdy for her, except it's perfect, because if he was serious, she wouldn't be able to smile now. 

He doesn't know what he's asking. She can't look at him, because her eyes will give everything away. If she hasn't already radiated her worries through him. "It might not be that simple."

Slipping down, he kneels in front of her, hands on her lap. "Let's try it. You and me, for as long as we have."

"This feels like a proposal."

"Maybe. A little." He blushes a little so it wasn't what he meant but there's hope in his chest. That sings out through her so loudly that he might as well say it. 

"Do you want to?"

He kisses her hand and stands up, kissing her forehead as well before returning to his chair. "Kind of. Should do it better."

"Give me a few days?"

"That's not no."

He would always get a yes, and she smiles, weary and hopeful, almost dizzy with love. "It's not no."

"Okay then." Phil centers himself, and something in him finds a home. His resolve soothes her. There's a confidence- no- a choice. This time, now, when they don't have to save the world, now he can choose them. Her. "Should we talk about something else?"

She points with her fork at her plate, taking another bite. Talking around the waffle in her mouth, she smiles. "These are good."

"Better than take out?"

"I've never tried the Academy's waffles."

"Sneak some home and we'll compare."

"The company's better here."

"Good." He gets up again and returns with another waffle, setting it on a plate between them. 

"How many people are you cooking for?"

"They freeze."

Melinda nods. "You're staying long enough to start filling my freezer?"

"Frozen pizza and ice cubes isn't really enough."

"I think I have some pork buns."

He tears the waffle in half and adds half to her plate. "Eat."

"Phil, they really are good."

"Took me forever to get the recipe right."

"Oh?"

"It's all about egg whites, finding the right balance, but the first few times you try it just says 'fold them in' and that's not helpful."

"It doesn't sound helpful."

"You'd fold them like a shirt, wouldn't you?"

"Or a towel. My laundry skills are fine."

"Your laundry skills have never been in doubt."

"I'm glad you can give me credit somewhere."

"Your linen closet is impeccable."

"Thank you." 

He clears her plate, but lingers, touching her shoulder. She sighs, content, even in the pit of her stomach. He might have something more permanent than just allowing the Academy to think they're married in mind, but he'll wait. He's never quick with things, so a few days could easily be weeks. That's fine. This is all right. If they're going to choose each other, they should do it when most things have been said. 

Tugging him down by his pajama shirt, she kisses him, deep and slow. This they don't have to wait for. She has time this morning and for once she's not wishing desperately for a nap. Phil sets the plate down on the far side of the table, giving his full attention to what she's doing to his mouth. 

"Well, good morning," he teases, catching his breath. 

"It is." Melinda leaves her chair, opening her robe a little over her chest and pulling his hands to her hips. He strokes her skin through the thin fabric, running his hands up towards her waist while he looks at the table. The sensible thing to do is drag him back to the bedroom and tear off his pajamas, but it's a sturdy table. She takes a step back, pressing her thighs against the wood.

"Here?"

"You want to wait?"

He lifts her up, setting her on the table as he opens her robe as if unwrapping something precious. His rush of arousal brings color to his face and settles hot between her thighs. He wants, she needs, she demands, he offers: it all spins in her head. Colors and sensations, chaotic, desiring-- holding onto his shoulders helps keep her head from spinning and the sensation frustrates her. She's been lightheaded hundred of times, usually because she's bleeding, but this time she doesn't have that to blame.

"You okay?"

She hums in response, pulling him closer with her legs behind his back. 

His thumb brushes her cheek and he kisses her again, too gentle. "Suppose it's too easy to figure out what I'm thinking now." 

"I have a few ideas."

His thin pajamas leave very little to the imagination, and they're definitely sharing the same heat, even if her head's struggling to connect to the rest of her. 

"Should we?" he starts to ask, sliding his fingers up her bare thighs. 

"What?"

"Are you- birth control--"

She kisses his neck, making it impossible for him to finish a thought, let alone keep asking if they need to be careful. "You can't get me pregnant right now."

He rubs his thumb over her thigh, staring at little, pausing, and she sighs, tilting her hips closer to his hand. That distracts him. Phil toys with her a few moments longer, not touching but close, so close that the heat of his hand taunts her. He distracts her with kisses, with his tongue on her breasts, but she wants and he's ready and they touch, deepen, melt--

She grabs his back, digging her fingers into his muscles, tugging him close, rocking her hips against his. 

She moans, sighing into her skin.  "I missed--" 

He doesn't let her finish, and she loves that about him. He slips within, full, hot, familiar. Nodding, she arches her back towards him, head spinning with pleasure instead of the other thing. He guides her thighs closer to the edge of the table, parts her legs, shifts the angle and there- fuck-- his hand dances over her clit, teasing, promising and it's quick, but it's been forever and days and being in contact was so necessary that it ran over their skin like static. His rising orgasm heats her neck, pulsing through her while he thrusts. 

She gasps, panting, teetering on the brink of her control. It's too soon, but he's so close she can taste his release and they've been orbiting each other, growing closer like missiles. They needed this.

She crashes and he groans and she tightens, holding him until he thrusts again, the orgasms. Her teeth tingle as her blood rushes hot, filling all of her, even the foggy corners of her brain. He holds her close, letting her slump against him while she catches her breath.

"You're incredible."

Kissing his neck, then his shoulder, she creeps back to his mouth. "We can do better."

"Do we need more practice?"

"Just like cooking, I imagine."

"Imagine is right."

She glares, then drops her robe to the table and slips off, walking naked towards the bedroom. "I can let you imagine by yourself if you'd rather."

"Practical experience might be more fun."

"Then get your clothes off, Phil." 

He meets her in the doorway to her bedroom, catching her waist. He kisses her neck, then down her shoulders, moving her hair out of the way. "I remember wanting to do this in Tahiti."

"You did."

"It wasn't the same." He runs his hands over her hips, teasing. "I couldn't pick up you up and put you on the table."

"That was nice."

Phil kisses her, insistent, hungry, wanting, and she melts into him. He's half-hard again against her stomach, and he'll need time. Her head's a little foggy, but it's so much better than being exhausted that she can't explain. Maybe not up against the wall this time. 

She leads them towards the bed, letting his hands wander her skin while they kiss. He has so much more strength than Tahiti, and there's nothing to fear. No waiting darkness for them. They can take their time, enjoy it. There's no bitter. 

"I'm going to need a few minutes."

"I'm sure you can find some way to entertain yourself." She leads him to the bed, tugging him back. He starts to sit, but she shakes her head. "You can be on top."

Phil's eyes widen. "You're always--"

"You're special." 

"Oh I am?" He's teasing but her heart trembles. He's everything. She loves him, and being in love, letting go is so hard. She doesn't deserve it. She can't-- Believing is so hard for her and so easy for him. 

Phil's hand runs down her stomach, stroking lower, delicate and playful. "I can think of a good way to pass some time." 

"That's why you're special." 

He brushes her breast with his other hand, toying with her nipple. They're a little heavy, even sore. Does he feel that? Did she share it? He softens, turning his focus downward. He guides her onto the bed. "Sit." He parts her legs, kissing her inner thigh while she runs her hand through his hair. 

Phil glances up at her breasts, kissing her chest once before parting her thighs. Has he noticed they're different? He spent so much time with them... she can't worry about that. He's here and they shouldn't waste this time before she has to go to work. She puts the thought away, focusing on Phil and this moment. He adored making her orgasm in Tahiti, leaving her gasping while they waited for him to recover. It wasn't minutes there. He was tired. 

Now he's full of life. 

He kisses his way up, opening her up with his fingers before he finds her clit with his tongue. She moans, panting while he slips his fingers inside. He curls them up, in, sliding deep because she's so wet, wanting. 

"Phil--" She digs her hands into his hair, pulling him closer, trying to get him rougher, more pressure, but he's a tease. He softens his tongue and she could flip him away and finish it herself.

Or wait. Tremble. Beg. 

"Please." 

He sucks, brushing her clit against his chin, his lips and sparks rush behind her eyes. Pleasure builds, threatening, taunting- can she share it with him? Can she hold it back? Control slips from her, falling away and he knows, so he slows his hand, he licks instead of sucking and without the pressure it's like she's lost the air in the room.

"Dammit, Phil, please."

Harder, tighter, closer- he's such a tease. He loves that. He wants her to beg. She rocks closer and he pushes her back. One hand runs down her chest, squeezing her breasts, running his palm over her stomach. His hand inside curls a little deeper, rougher and her head spirals. He sucks again, hot and sweet and she twists her hands in the sheets, arching her back.

He pauses.

Of course.

"If you stop now I will kill you."

And she could, in several quick ways, slow ways, but he knows better. He likes the brink, the begging, the tension. This time, she can share it with him. Project her desire, desperation, longing, that maddening--

Orgasm hits hard, rushing up from her belly, blooming hot behind her eyes. Melinda might share that too, she's not sure how her abilities work with such things. His eyes are dark when she opens hers, and he strokes her cheek, kissing the sweat from her forehead. He pulls back but she tugs him in. He'll give her a minute, bring her water, hold her--

Or he could take her again, press her into the mattress, fill her. She opens her thighs, wraps her legs around his, pulls him over her. 

"Melinda--" 

"It's all right."

"I can feel you." He kisses her, resting on his elbows. "It's incredible."

"You were incredible."

"I was, wasn't I?" He smirks, lowering his hand to slip his cock inside of her. 

Her body's still trembling from the last, but she can control that, pull him in. Her teeth tingle and he's heavy over her, hot inside. He thrusts, brightening the stars behind her eyes. She arches into him, tilting her hips, letting him take her deep, He moans, panting in her neck. She digs her fingers into his back, holding him close, pulling him in, sharing that wanting- needing- completeness. 

Melinda focuses on her affection, her love, her desire, and lets him feel it. She drops her control and meets his eyes, pouring her soul into him, heart and body. For a second they breathe as one, overlapping before they crash. He orgasms, hot and deep, and she laughs, moaning and content

"That's a hell of a thing," he says, breathless in her arms. "That's what it feels like for you?"

"Just with you."

"Melinda-" 

"You're the only one who've I've been able to share that with." 

"It's intense."

"You okay?" 

He laughs, kissing her forehead. "You'll have to give me more than a minute."

Curling into him, she sighs, closing her eyes. "I have class in an hour, meetings after that."

Phil toys with her hair. "That's a lot."

"This is my slow day." She snuggles in, taking the time she has.

"It's a lot."

"Yes."

"Are you all right?" He asks so sweetly that her chest aches. 

"Tired."

"I've never seen you this tired, and I've seen you during three week deep over assignments where no one slept."

"We were younger." 

"We're not that old."

Phil chuckles. "Speak for yourself."

"Hey, I'm older than you now."

"What?"

"Think about it. You're from more than two years ago. I'm older, so I'm tired." 

He sits up, resting on his elbows. "That's all it is?"

"Mmm-hmm." She kisses his chest, eyes still closed. "I'm all right."

"Let me help."

"You are helping."

"This is all you need?"

She strokes his chest. "This is nice." 

He sighs, and she can picture his face without looking. That face means she needs to open her eyes. She lifts her head, meeting his gaze. 

"How can you help?"

"How many classes are you teaching?"

"Several."

"May--"

"It's fine."

"And meetings, you must have at least three a day." 

"Meetings aren't new, Phil."

"I know, I know." He lifts her face with his hand under her chin. "I'm good at meetings."

"You're not the director of the Academy."

"I could be her right hand."

She laughs, resting her hand on his chest. "Are you offering yourself a job?"

"You've been everything I needed, for years, decades. You were my council, my support. Let me support you."

She sits up, her hair falling heavy over her shoulders. "Phil--"

"You don't have to answer right away, just, think about it. You're carrying a lot. You're exhausted. I can help. I know SHIELD. I know you. I'd be good at it." 

Melinda kisses him, smiling as she shakes her head. "You'd be great at it." 

"Think about it in your meetings."

"When I think about you, I'll think about much more fun things than work." She kisses him one more time, then leaves the bed. 

"Well that's a great use of your meeting." 

She ducks into the bathroom, cleaning herself up. He'll probably distract her more if she takes more time to get ready. He's still in bed when she returns, smiling, flushed, very pleased with himself, as he should be. She starts getting dressed and he watches, patient, fascinated, and still very much enamored with her. That tingles on the back of her neck, warm and wonderful.

Buttoning her blouse, she returns to the bed to kiss him. "Offering to do my work with me is one of the sweetest things you've ever done."

"Thanks for not asking me to shoot you in the head."

She shuts her eyes, smiles, laughs in relief. "You couldn't handle that."

"Not at all." He stands up, chooses her earrings and hands them over. "These ones."

"Thanks." Melinda kisses him again, standing on her tiptoes and pulling him close. This should give him something to think about all day. "See you tonight."

[antspaul]

happy holidays @lollercakesff !!! I wrote you a fic! I hope you enjoy it ~ and have a wonderful holiday season! 

I am posting the fic here, as well as on ao3, as it’s a little long (~10k). 

charity (who is helping who?) 

Summary: AU in which Anne is a little more poor but just as vivacious while Gilbert is a lot more wealthy and a little more cowardly. 

Based somewhat loosely on the book Daddy Long Legs, written in 1912 by Jean Webster. There’s a movie with Fred Astaire and a wonderful musical based on the book. I always thought that Jerusha, the main character, was very reminiscent of Anne. The title comes from the song “Charity” from the musical. 

PART I.

13 July 1899

Dear Ms. Shirley-Cuthbert, 

I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected to receive a full scholarship to the University of Toronto. This scholarship allows deserving young men and women invested in the arts to attend college in pursuit of strengthening their craft. You were selected on the basis of your imaginative and enjoyable writing, which the University hopes that you will pursue once on campus. 

The scholarship will cover your tuition and board for the four years it will take you to earn your Bachelor of Arts, provided to you from a very generous benefactor. There is also a small account in your name that will provide for your books. The funds in this account are stable and will not be replenished, so you are advised to spend very wisely. All additional details about your award are on the attached page.

In order to keep your scholarship, you will write your benefactor letters, at least once per month throughout your tenure at the University of Toronto, informing him of your progress, both academic and creative. Your benefactor will remain anonymous, and you may only address him as “Mr. Smith.” The address is provided below. You may use your book account to purchase postage, if necessary. 

Congratulations once again. We at the University of Toronto will see you come fall. 

Alastair Pendleton 

Director of Financial Aid and Scholarships

University of Toronto

1 September 1901

To my magnificent benefactor, 

I am sorry but I cannot address you as “Mr. Smith”, not when you have changed my life for the better in such a profound way. I can hardly believe that scarcely two months ago I was lamenting my future stuck on the farm and now I am here at the University of Toronto, ready to learn all there is to know in the world! And I have you to thank. 

Please don’t think that I’m an ungrateful child. I truly appreciate everything that everyone has done for me. Until six years ago I lived the sorrowful life of the unwanted child that I was. You see, Mr. Smith, my parents died when I was only three months old. Does knowing I’m an orphan make you think less of me? I hope it doesn’t. I imagine a man as generous and kind as you wouldn’t care. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be giving charity to poor girls such as I. 

Anyway, I lived in an orphanage, among other places, until I was thirteen and the most wonderful people in the world adopted me! Their names are Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert and they are brother and sister. I lived with them on a farm on Prince Edward Island. Have you ever been to Prince Edward Island, Mr. Smith? If you haven’t, you must go. I am quite certain it is the most breathtaking beautiful and splendid place on the planet. 

I was told when I spoke to Mr. Pendleton in person that you don’t need to know anything about my life beyond my schooling and my writing. But since I will likely be mentioning Matthew and Marilla quite frequently, I thought that I would tell you who they were. 

Will you be reading these letters? On the long train ride to Toronto, I thought long and hard about what I would do if I were a mysterious, filthy rich old man giving heaps of money to farm girls who couldn’t otherwise afford college. After a while I just gave up because I am not any of those things and could simply not put myself in your shoes. Marilla always berates me for my vanity, which leads me to think that I could not remain anonymous for very long. My opinion doesn’t matter, of course, but I do hope you read my letters. I intend to pour every speck of gratitude towards you that I possess onto these pages.

What is there left to talk about? Classes don’t start until tomorrow. I know that you wanted to know about my academics, but there isn’t any to talk about yet. I wanted to draft my first letter to you before homework became too overwhelming. Would you like to hear about my friends? My friendships certainly count as personal, but since I will mention them in the future as well, I will introduce them now. 

My best friend and roommate is Diana Barry. Oh, how to describe Diana! She is the most dearest girl in the world. I met her when I had just arrived in Avonlea and immediately recognized her as a kindred spirit. Sharing a room with Diana is a dream come true! Her parents are rigid and close-minded. Perhaps I shouldn’t have written that because they are also very rich and seem to know every other rich person in North America. I don’t mean to be harsh but I’ve seen them make her cry enough times that I think I am entitled to my opinion of them. 

Ruby Gillis is my second best friend. She’s also from Avonlea. She’s a wonderfully nice girl, maybe too nice for her own good. Ruby lacks imagination, perhaps, but sometimes an imagination as big as mine, I have found, can be a burden, as when you can imagine a beautiful future it sometimes leaves the present looking grayer than ever. 

Who else is there to mention? Jane Andrews is the only other girl from home who also got in to U of T (University of Toronto, as I’m sure you know — writing it like that gives me such a thrill!) but I doubt I’ll be seeing her much, as she’s taken residence with her aunt and uncle in town. I’ve also met some new girls and we’ve become fast friends. Their names are Priscilla Grant, Stella Maynard, and Philippa Gordon. As I have just come to know them, I can’t tell you much except I can already tell they are kindred spirits. It’s just something you feel. I feel that we are kindred spirits, too, Mr. Smith. 

I apologize if this letter has gone on too long, or if it’s not the type of letter you wanted me to send you. The letters that come from my desk usually go to someone I know very well, like my friend Cole or Diana’s Aunt Josephine. 

Oh, those are two others I’m sure to mention a lot — Cole is an artist and is the kindest, most gentle soul I have ever come across. Aunt Josephine is a rich old lady who is a sort of parent to Cole. Perhaps you know her, though when I asked Aunt Jo if she was acquainted with an old rich man who sends orphan girls to college to be writers, she said she knew of none. 

All that is to say that I don’t know who you are or what sort of person you are but I vow with all of the strength in my heart to do my very best to write these letters well. 

Until next month!

Your eternally grateful friend, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S.: I know you insist on remaining anonymous, but if I were to receive some sort of occasional acknowledgement that you are getting my letters, that would be more than welcome. I only thought I’d let you know. 

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

21 April 1902

To my beloved benefactor, 

 I have not been able to stop smiling all week! Priscilla tells me I look crazed, with this Cheshire grin stretching across my face but I simply can’t contain myself and it’s all because of you! I don’t know how you found out that it was my birthday last week but your gift came just in time. My handwriting has never looked more beautiful than it does underneath the words “FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT.” Just seeing it on my table sends a thrill down my spine knowing you so thoughtfully ordered this for me yourself. How I wish you would have sent some sort of personal note with it. I know you have never answered my questions before, no matter how many I have asked. I am sorry to tell you that you’ll just have to deal with it as I can’t help but want to know you. Can you really blame me? 

Classes are going much the same as in my last letter. I retook my geometry test and did much better, I am happy to report, due to Phil’s untiring help with studying. I even started to draft some short stories that I have been thinking about, though I find it difficult to put aside the time to write them as my studies keep me more than busy. 

Here, Mr. Smith, is where I get more personal so if you still feel obliged to ignore ramblings about my social life skip to the end of the letter now. 

As you know my birthday was last Thursday. Priscilla, Stella, Phil, Ruby, and Diana decided to surprise me and take me out for dinner! They escorted me to the most charming and expensive restaurant within five miles of our boarding house. At first I felt overwhelming unprepared and underdressed for such a formal occasion, sure that I stuck out like a sore thumb around all of the elegant ladies and gentlemen dining nearby. But soon the waiter brought out course after course of wonderful, delicious food and we were having such a pleasurable time that any insecurity slipped my mind completely. For a moment it seemed that nothing at all could tarnish such an impeccable moment!

But of course as soon as this thought entered my mind Gilbert Blythe showed up to ruin the dinner. As I have not yet mentioned Gilbert to you (that I remember, at least) here is all you need to know about him: he did something terribly humiliating to me when we first met in school at age thirteen and I have never forgiven him for it since. If he had left it at that we would be on better terms now but soon after he left Avonlea and on the few occasions we’ve seen each other since he has made a routine of offending me similarly. So as you can see why his presence at my special birthday dinner was less than welcome. 

Perhaps, had I not known what kind of person Gilbert is, it would have offended me less when he sent a bottle of wine over to our table and offered to pay for my meal. But no doubt he only intended to flaunt his wealth before us like some peacock parading its feathers! He likely thought we would struggle to afford our meal. I have no aversion to certain types of charity, Mr. Smith, as you know, but his assumptions, and that inappropriate bottle of wine, nearly had me storming out of the restaurant in a rage. Diana and Ruby calmed me down and we politely but sternly declined his offer to the waiter. I didn’t see Gilbert’s reaction but I wish I had seen the smugness drop from his face. 

It was a thoroughly exhausting affair. Emotionally, of course. 

22 April 1901

I’m sorry for the interruption. I heard Diana call for me and it sounded quite urgent— a bouquet of flowers, it turns out, had arrived at the front door and were addressed to me. Thinking they were a belated birthday gift I readily accepted them. Imagine my surprise when the note inside revealed they were from Gilbert Blythe himself! I wanted to scream from the nerve of him and throw the flowers out but they were still quite beautiful so Ruby convinced me to keep them. The note on the inside wished me a happy birthday and apologized for his impertinence on my birthday. It almost made me regret writing those harsh things about him above. Almost. 

Anyway, Mr. Smith, this is where my personal ramblings end if you don’t care to read them. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you that I spoke to one of the instructors here about my stories and she said they sounded promising and recommended that I submit one to the University literary journal! I might get published before the end of the term, if all goes well! If you care to read my work, I’ve attached the first four pages of a recent story to this letter. 

Yours, 

19 year-old Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, soon-to-be published author

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

5 February 1902

To my dear but frustratingly mysterious benefactor, 

Can you believe it’s been a year and a half since I found out that you had selected me for the scholarship? I can’t. Since this letter will likely be incredibly short (examinations are upon us and will start soon, so I have little time to write) I wanted to start this letter by offering my undying thanks to you. So here it is: thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! And I’m so horribly mortified that I wrote to you in the manner that I did in my January letter. At the time I felt horribly unsympathetic to the wealthy and took out my frustrations on you. I wish every wealthy person were as kind as you. I suppose I really don’t know how kind you are but something tells me you are wonderfully nice. 

Classes here are going well. I’ve said it before but I love being a sophomore! I finally feel like I truly belong at the University of Toronto. As much as I love Avonlea— have you visited yet? — I’m equally glad to be exploring the world on my own. As stressful as exams are, I love being at school. Even though I’ve been to only a few places in my life living in a city as large as Toronto makes each new day an adventure. I could explore this city for years and still find new nooks and crannies. 

Since time is running short, here are several quick updates: 

Ruby is still considering dropping out. Diana and I desperately try everyday to convince her not to, but our pleas seem to have done nothing to change her mind. It will be sad but not totally unsurprising to see her leave. 

Ever since Aunt Josephine intervened with Diana’s parents, she has more confidently pursued her music. If you’re ever interested in hearing beautiful songs played on the piano then she plays a concert once a month. You could come and I wouldn’t even know you were there! It would be worth it, I promise. 

Stella, Phil, and Priscilla are doing fine as well! Priscilla gets herself into trouble for pulling pranks on our new house matron, but scoldings never seem to bother her. Beautiful Philippa frustratingly has no shortage of suitors willing to do anything for her. It’s maddening in a funny sort of way to watch them trip over themselves to impress her as she pays them barely any notice at all. 

What else? I have started to write for the newspaper! Just as I did in school. I will put in the envelope my very first story. It’s only a little book review but seeing my name in print gives me the same thrill as it did last spring when my story was published. I hope this time my writing will be met with less harsh criticism. 

Well, that’s all I can think of to say today. I’ll try to send a longer letter next week if I can. 

Faithfully, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. I forgot to ask— if it isn’t too much trouble could you send me more stationery? I’m almost out of the paper that you sent me for my birthday. 

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

10 May 1903

My deeply appreciated benefactor, 

I deeply apologize for the time it took me to write you this letter. I'm also sorry for how many of my letters start out with an apology. I realize it's been more than a month since I sent my last correspondence. Can it be called correspondence if you never write back? You've sent me gifts, which I cherish with all of my soul, but never once have you sent me a single word back. After three years you'd think I would just resign myself to the fact that all you'll ever be to me is a mystery shrouded in enigma, albeit one I'm relentlessly grateful for. But if you know anything about me by now, Mr. Smith, as you should if you've read any of my letters, is that I am as stubborn as a mule. Every person I've ever worked for or belonged to has said as much. 

As I wrote that above paragraph I've realized that some of my words to you could be considered rude. Would you mind terribly if I apologized again? It's just that this week has been one of the worst I have ever experienced. May I tell you about it? I suppose one of the good things about never hearing back from you is that you will never tell me I can't. 

As I write this it's Friday, and the dreadfulness started Monday. What makes everything seem worse is that the weekend was so wonderful. Ruby came for a visit, sporting gifts for all of us from her and Moody's recent visit to America. Seeing her glowing face (I think she may be expecting but if she is, I doubt she knows herself) and hearing about how happy she and her new husband are softened the blow of her departure from school last year and everyone had a delightful time. Then she boarded the train back to the Maritimes Monday morning and everything seemed to put on a shade of gray. 

For the rest of the day both me and Diana were terribly irritable in our sadness to see her go. Our crossness culminated that night when Diana and I had a horrible argument. I can barely recall how it started— I think that I made some offhand comment disparaging Gilbert and she jumped to his rescue, and everything devolved from there. We were shouting horrible things at each other that should never be said out loud, things we didn't truly mean but hurt regardless. We haven't spoken since and though I know we are both regretful I don't know how to approach her and I think she feels the same. Our friendship isn't over, at least, but I yearn for normalcy. Concentrating in class has proved near impossible, even in the classes Diana and I don't share, because I'm so distracted by my guilt and shame. 

To make matters worse, yesterday I checked my mail at the post office and what would be there but not one, but TWO rejection letters from literary magazines. I was reading them up in a secluded tree behind the library, thinking I was alone. The first was firm but polite in their rejection. We regret to inform you that we will not be accepting your work at this time, but please submit more work in the future. The kind of dismissal that comes with an impermanent sting. The next, however, was clearly more personal. The letter described my writing as infantile, superfluous, and shallow— I starting crying on the spot. In my twenty-one years of life, I've been on the receiving end of much harsh criticism, coming from my peers, my teachers, even those I considered my friends. I often turned to writing as a way of comfort and solace in those moments. The thought that I wasn't even good at my one talent was too much to bear. So in my privacy I sobbed harder than I had in years. 

But apparently my spot in the tree was not as concealed as I originally thought. Just as I was about to collect myself and climb down, I heard a man clear his throat and call up to me, "Miss, are you alright?"

I looked down and almost fell off the branch as I realized who it was. "Gilbert?" I exclaimed. 

He looked surprised to see me, a wonder since that day I wore a bright yellow dress and my hair is as red as ever. "What are you doing up there?" he asked me, knitting his eyebrows together in that infuriating way he always does. "Have you been... crying?"

I shook my head but I'm sure it did nothing to hide my frazzled state. 

"Do you need help coming down from there?"

"No," I said but he offered me a hand anyway and I accepted it. 

As I brushed the leaves and bark from my skirt he asked me, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

My meltdown had caused me to miss lunch so I accepted. At the tea house, he as always volunteered to pay for everything which I found frustrating but I've gotten more used to Gilbert over the years.

We talked idly for a while. I asked him about his classes. He's a medical student, did I tell you that? Not in medical school yet, but in a pre-medical program. With all of his money, I don't know why he needs a career but I suppose you have to do something to fill your days. Anyway, I knew this term he's had a number of terribly strenuous courses and I was curious how he was handling them. Everything was going well, he said but didn't appear that interested in talking about himself. 

"Do you want to talk about why you were so upset earlier?" he asked me suddenly. "I would understand if you don't, of course, but perhaps if you told someone you'd... feel better."

I sighed and pulled the letters from my pocket, handing them over to him. He scanned them quickly, raising his eyebrows. 

"Wow," he said once he finished reading. "How could they be so..."

"Blunt?" 

"Wrong," he finished. "These people clearly know nothing. "

I was a bit nonplussed at his reaction. "I should have worked harder on the stories, instead of rushing to send them in. I'm more angry at myself than at those who rejected me."

Gilbert shook his head. "Your work is far from shallow, Anne. If you wrote it, then I'm sure it was amazing." He scoffed at the letter. 

“I didn’t know you had read any of my writing,” I said. 

“I read your articles in the newspaper,” he was quick to reply. 

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t judge my writing on those little book reviews in the newspaper.”

“No— I meant the newspaper back home. In Avonlea. Bash would send them to me here, and I always loved what you wrote. Everything you wrote carried so much meaning. That stuck with me.”

"Well, thank you, Gilbert," was all I really could say. I felt a strange burst of affection towards him at that moment and it struck me that we are truly friends. Close friends, as close as I am to Priscilla, Phil, and Stella. 

Gilbert has changed these last few years, too. It's the strangest thing. When I first met him and he was a boy of fifteen, he was much like every other boy I met back then— confident, rowdy, foolhardy. Then his father died and on the rare occasion he came back to Avonlea, he seemed to have retreated into himself. We blamed it on the grief and all of the money he came into with his father's inheritance (and, reportedly, that of a wealthy aunt). But recently traces of the old Gilbert, the one who defended me from Billy Andrews and called me Carrots, have resurfaced. I don't know really how I feel about all that. I just know that I was incredibly thankful to have him as a friend yesterday in the tea house. 

Anyways, I know that all of that might have been too personal. I'll stop myself now as I hear Diana coming up the stairs and writing this letter has motivated me to mend things with her. I’ll write more to you in a few days with updates on my courses and all of that (everything is well, don’t worry) but I simply wanted to tell someone. 

Thankful as always, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. It’s Saturday now and Diana and I are on good terms again. I showed her the letters and she too thought they were preposterous. Diana has read the stories I sent in and liked them a lot. Because of her confidence and my talk with Gilbert on Thursday I’ve decided to send you one of my stories. I know you at least like my writing so perhaps someone will enjoy them. 

PART II.

“It still doesn’t feel real,” Anne told Diana as they walked, arm-in-arm, through the front doors of the lecture hall. “Can you believe that it was three years ago that we first walked into this building for our first class?”

“We were terrified, if I recall,” said Diana. “Look at us now— tall, beautiful, intimidating senior girls!” She struck a pose, silly and exaggerated and the two dissolved into giggles. 

They found seats, two right next to each other near the front of the room. Twenty minutes early as they liked to be to every class on the first day, only a few other students had yet arrived. 

“I remember being frightened of the older girls when I was a freshman,” Anne said, pulling out her notebook and pen and placing them squarely on the table in front of her. “Now that I am one, I don’t know what there was to be frightened of. I scarcely feel older than I did back then.”

“Do you think that there will be many lower-years in this class?” asked Diana. 

“I don’t know. If this course was offered my first term here, I would have stopped at nothing to take it.” Anne breathed out dreamily. “To think we’ll be studying only contemporary women writers— this is exactly the kind of course I envisioned taking when I first thought about going to college.” 

“It’s too bad that the others couldn’t fit this into their timetables.”

Anne sighed. “Such is the busy life of a senior. Everyone says that we’ll have loads and loads more coursework this term but I think that I’ll hardly notice if the extra work is something I enjoy. Don’t you agree?”

Diana nodded firmly, and the room started to fill up with other students, mostly girls but a few boys showed up as well. Their instructor, the soft spoken but kind Professor Abbott, arrived five minutes prior to the class’s scheduled start time. He walked through the front door, trailed by none other than Gilbert Blythe, and the two seemed to be engaged in conversation. As they approached the chalkboard and instructor’s desk, Gilbert thanked the man and they shook hands before Gilbert left him. 

“Hello Anne, hello Diana,” Gilbert said, standing in front of their table. “May I sit next to you?”

One of the only free seats in the room was right next to Anne, so she nodded, then asked, “You’re in this class?” 

Gilbert sat down. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Diana gently elbowed Anne for her rudeness. “We’ll be glad to see you at least twice a week now,” Diana said. “Last term we could barely catch a glimpse of you once a month.”

He chuckled. “Yes, the medical faculty keeps us quite busy. If this is how rigorous pre-medical program is, I can’t even begin to imagine the real thing.”

“You’ll get used to it, I’m sure,” Diana said. 

“I have no choice,” replied Gilbert, sardonic but Anne could tell he was in a good mood. 

Up front, Prof. Abbott ordered a red-faced sophomore boy to hand out papers with the reading list. He had prepared one paper for every three students, so Anne, Diana, and Gilbert shared a paper.

“Oh no!” Anne exclaimed as she read one title on the list. 

“What happened?” asked Diana. 

“I forgot to bring a book with me from home. This one here— Elizabeth and Her German Garden— I read it last summer and meant to bring my copy from home so I didn’t have to purchase another. But now I realize that I forgot to pack it, and we’re reading it next week.”

“Don’t despair, Anne, you can borrow mine when I’m done reading the assigned sections,” offered Diana. 

Gilbert cleared his throat. “Actually, I happen to have an extra copy, if you wanted it, Anne.”

Anne perked up. “Really? Thank you, Gilbert!”

After class ended, Gilbert and Anne said goodbye to Diana and started the walk to Gilbert’s nearby apartment. Gilbert leading Anne, they reached his street only a few minutes later, as Gilbert lived only a street or two away from the main campus of the University of Toronto. The houses that lined the road embodied wealth and luxury. Though she had never been there, Anne knew that Gilbert lived in a small but ridiculously comfortable apartment at the top of one of these red bricked buildings. 

She had never been on his street, either, but still the name— Sherbourne Street— felt familiar. As the two ascending the stairs of Gilbert’s building, Anne realized why: somewhere on the street, among its seven miles of fancy house after fancy house, live Anne’s mysterious benefactor. 

Anne laughed out loud. 

Gilbert turned around and threw up an inquisitive eyebrow. “Is something funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Anne. “It’s only that the world of the rich is so remarkably tiny, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so,” answered Gilbert. “Why do you say that?”

They reached the top step and Gilbert pulled out his key to open his door. 

Anne told him, “I’ve realized that you live on the same street as someone I know.”

Gilbert paused, his key only halfway in the lock. “Oh? Who?”

“Well, I’ve never met him. This might sound strange, but he’s— are you going to open the door or not, Gilbert?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Gilbert let them in. “You were saying?”

“He’s an old rich man who’s been paying for my education. I’ve never seen him in person, you see, but I’ve written him letters for the last three years so I feel like I know him quite well.”

Anne followed Gilbert through his apartment, which was quite larger than it appeared on the outside, until they ended up in a large library room with a fireplace and massive chairs with vast, soft-looking cushions. It was exactly the kind of library Anne yearned to possess herself, where she could sit with a warm cup of tea on a cold winter’s day. 

“The book is over here,” Gilbert said, pointing to a shelf and directing her there. “So… your… old man has written you back often, then?”

“Well, not exactly. But I believe that you don’t have to know a person to know them.”

“That doesn’t make much sense at all, Anne.”

She pouted. “Never mind then. Maybe it isn’t meant to be understood by anyone else but me.”

He laughed, then, a soft chuckle that surprised Anne in its clarity. He pulled a book off the shelf. “Here it is,” he said, handing over his copy of Elizabeth and Her German Garden. 

As Anne took it graciously, she couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t have another copy on the shelf but decided not to mention it. 

~

The rest of the course was as enjoyable as Anne and Diana had hoped. Tuesday morning before class often brought Anne, Diana, and Gilbert together to a nearby tea house to eat lunch and discuss the week's readings. Anne looked forward to their meeting more than almost anything else. Gilbert seemed to appreciate the literature as much as Anne and Diana, even though the books were by women. He was able to offer both a male and medical opinion, the latter of which being particularly valued in their discussion of The Yellow Wallpaper. Both Anne and Diana thought his enjoyment curious, but their instructor was also a man after all. It wasn't so strange, and to have a man appreciating the words of a woman rather than the other way around was empowering to Anne as a writer herself. 

Anne had never seen Gilbert so relaxed as he was during their Tuesday morning book discussions. Usually, in most other occasions when their paths crossed, Gilbert always seemed to be in such a rush, stressed out about business, or class, or some other small thing. Anne had always felt sad for him because of this, but to see him truly at ease painted him in a different light in her mind. His presence became something welcome, more soothing than it had ever been. She had realized they were good friends less than a year ago, and she wondered if Gilbert's father had never died, if business had never kept him away from Avonlea, they would be as good of friends today. 

The term flew quicker than Anne had anticipated, as it was want to do, and soon Christmas was over and exam season was upon them. Anne barely caught sight any of her friends for those two weeks, as everyone boarded themselves in their rooms to study and write essays. The only person Anne saw with any sort of regularity was Diana, which only happened because the two shared a room. 

The Monday of the second exam week, Anne and Diana decided to take a much-deserved break, going for a stroll in a nearby park to clear their minds. 

"Have you seen Gilbert lately?" Anne asked Diana. 

"No," said Diana. "I imagine he is incredibly busy with his own exams. Studying for our exams is hard enough. Can you even imagine what his must be like?"

Anne shuddered. "I would rather not. While I find the human body and all its functions endlessly fascinating, I've caught a glimpse of his more complicated textbooks. I won't be joining the pre-medical program any time soon."

"At the very least, we'll see him at the exam for women's literature," said Diana. 

But when the day came, Gilbert did not show up. Diana and Anne showed up their usual twenty minutes early, expecting to see their friend, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

As the minutes to the exam's start passed, Anne became nervous for her friend. She rose from her chair and said to Professor Abbott, who was seconds away from starting the test, "Excuse me, sir, but shouldn't we wait until Gilbert is here?"

Professor Abbott fixed her with an odd look. "Mr. Blythe won't be sitting the exam."

Had something happened? Had Gilbert dropped the course last-minute? That couldn't be right. He had attended every class. 

Anne badly wanted to ask why, worried about her friend, but Professor Abbott gave her no room to do so, starting to read the instructions for their timed essay. She wrote a fine essay, though it took her longer than it would have had she not been so distracted by the empty spot next to her. When the exam finished, Anne wasted not a second to ask her instructor what he had meant. 

"Mr. Blythe was only auditing the course," was his answer. "Therefore, he did not have to take the exam. I thought you knew that, him being your beau." 

Heat rushed to her face. A younger Anne might have argued that Gilbert was not her beau in the least, but today she thanked him and left with Diana. 

On their walk home, Anne clung to Diana's arm and asked, "It seems very strange that Gilbert would audit a course." 

"It's not so strange," replied Diana. "Gilbert has always been interested in literature, and likely wanted an excuse to read more without having another exam to prepare for."

"Why do you think he didn't tell us?" asked Anne. 

Diana peered at her, a curious glint in her eyes. "I have a suspicion." 

When Diana didn't elaborate immediately, Anne stopped them in the middle of the walkway. A disgruntled set of girls behind them rolled their eyes to wind around them. 

"What is it?"

With a small grin, Diana answered, "I think Gilbert took the class because of you."

"Me?!" Anne said incredulously. "Why would Gilbert do that?"

"You really don't know?" 

"Know what? What is there to know?"

"Never mind," Diana said slyly, pulling them back into motion. 

"Diana, quit messing with my head and tell me." 

Diana laughed. "Are you saying that you really don't see the way he looks at you? He obviously loves you."

Anne didn't say anything, trying to wrap her mind around Diana's words. 

Sighing, Diana continued, "If you don't believe me, just ask him yourself."

Anne huffed, confused at her irritation. "I think I will."

It took a few days to pin down Gilbert, as his exams kept him busy and occupied at the few moments he was usually reliably free. But finally Anne managed to catch him at their favorite tea house, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee, and sat down without invitation. 

Gilbert looked surprised to see her there. "Anne, hello." He folded his newspaper and set it down in front of him. "Not that you're unwelcome, but what are you doing here?"

"Stella said she saw you here," Anne said.

"Oh," said Gilbert. "Well, do you want something? On me, of course."

"No. Actually, I have a question. An important question. Well, maybe it's not so important, but it could be. Depending on your answer."

"Anne— just... ask the question."

Gilbert looked a little nervous himself, shifting in his chair. 

Anne took a breath. "Right. Sorry. I was only wondering... why did you take the Women Authors course?"

"Oh." He was quiet for a moment and Anne studied his face. "Well, I wanted to educate myself, I suppose, about literature written by women. I felt I didn't know much about the subject."

Unsatisfied, Anne shot back, "You decided to take an extra class for no reason in your last year of the pre-medical program?"

"I wanted to read something other than dry medical books. I'm sorry... did you want another answer?"

Anne sighed and stood up, more dejected than she thought she'd be. "No. I was just being silly. I'm sorry for bothering you, Gilbert. I should go."

"You don't have to."

"No, I should. I have a letter to write."

~

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

1 May 1904 

Dear Mr. Smith, 

It felt right to address you in a more formal manner today because we have formal matters to discuss. As I graduate in three weeks, I imagine that this will be my last letter to you for some time. Don’t worry, I intend to tell you as soon as something big happens with my writing. You’ll be the first to know, before Marilla or Matthew or even Diana. I could never forget that you are the reason I was able to go to school and reach my full potential. Because of you, I’m not stuck at Green Gables, shoveling hay alongside Jerry or teaching at the small Avonlea school house and never seeing the world for the rest of my life. 

You’ve already given me so much, Mr. Smith, and it doesn’t feel right to ask for more but I can’t help it. It would feel even less right to graduate without you in the audience, watching me. 

Say you’ll come, won’t you? I know you wish to remain anonymous. Your decision to hide your identity has been my constant turmoil for the last four years and I don’t think I could bear to go out into the world without putting a face and a name to the man who has changed my life completely. 

Please don’t be afraid that you’ll disappoint me. Is it presumptuous to tell you that? For all I know, you don’t care about me one bit and haven’t read a single one of my many, many letters. But if you have, and if you have found any meaning in them at all, please tell me you’ll come. I already love you with all my heart. 

If you are brave enough to come, I have included in this envelope the invitation. Matthew and Marilla regrettably can’t make it so if you come, you’ll be the only one there specifically for me. If you aren’t, then I’ll try to forgive you. I’m not sure I’ll be able to, but I’ll really, really try. 

Hoping to see you soon, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

~

“Perhaps he’s running late.”

Anne slumped against the stage wall. “There’s no use. He isn't coming." 

Diana pulled back an inch of the stage's curtain once more. She must have seen the same empty seat as before, as she said, "I'm very sorry, Anne."

"What are you two up to?" 

Anne and Diana turned to see Gilbert, dressed in the same black and white graduation robes as them. 

"We're trying to see if Anne's benefactor has shown up," Diana informed him.

Gilbert adopted a pained expression, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "No luck so far, then?"

"The ceremony starts in five minutes," said Anne miserably. "He isn't coming. I don't know why I expected any different. I've written him for four years with barely any response. I'm a fool for thinking today would be any different."

Diana crouched next to her, placing a reassuring hand on her back. "You're not a fool, Anne."

"Perhaps he got called away on urgent business," said Gilbert, with a tone perhaps meant to be reassuring but that came out with a slight irritation. "You never know."

"He's a coward," Anne declared, crossing her arms. "He never cared about me at all."

"You can't possibly know that," Gilbert said. 

"Yes, I can. I can just feel it."

Gilbert infuriatingly pointed out, "Just last month you could feel that he was a kindred spirit."

"Would you stop taking his side?" 

"I'm not taking his side," Gilbert insisted. "But perhaps your day wouldn't be ruined if you tried to consider things from his perspective—" 

"I'm glad to graduate. Then I can finally wash my hands of rich men trying to control my life!"

Gilbert was quiet for a moment. "Is that all you think of me? Just another rich man controlling your life?"

Anne huffed but before she could respond, the professor organizing students called for graduates with B last names. 

Diana stood up next to Anne. "We should probably go line up, Gilbert." 

As they walked away, Diana turned around to shake her head at the other girl, sympathetic but disapproving, a look Anne had been on the receiving end of many times over their nine years of friendship. 

Anne tried to compose herself after that, tried to still enjoy the moment she had anticipated for all her life. But as she walked across the stage, she couldn't stop her eyes from stinging or her heart from aching. 

~

After the ceremony, the University arranged for a banquet of sorts for the recent graduates and their families. When picturing the moment in her head in the weeks prior, Anne had imagined her and her benefactor, who showed up perfectly on time for her graduation and had instantly turned into a grandfather of sorts, walking arm and arm through the crowd so she could introduce him to all of the people she had mentioned in her letters over the years. But in the face of the actual thing without any new friend or grandfather figure, Anne wished to skip the ordeal altogether. 

Still, she had watched the graduations of other students older than her with jealousy for three years, anticipating her own shining moment. So Anne changed out of her robes, put on the new dress Marilla sent her as an apology for not being able to attend, a beautiful, soft blue thing, and resolved to enjoy herself. If she had to avoid Gilbert, then so be it. 

Anne, Diana, and Diana's family sat at a large table under the largest white tent that Anne had ever seen. The sunset cast a pink and orange glow about everything and the faintest chill of evening air had begun to take hold, bringing a divine atmosphere to the banquet. Anne had almost started to relax when Gilbert approached their table. He had something in his hand which he seemed insistent on hiding behind his back.  

He first greeted the Barrys, who always loved Gilbert Blythe, and then turned to Anne. "I was wondering if we could talk." 

Anne swallowed and nodded. Gilbert led her to a bench under a tree, away from the crowds of people. 

"Look, Gilbert, if this is about earlier today, before the ceremony..." Anne was quick to say, "I'm sorry. Really, I am. I had a horrible moment and ruined the day for you, too."

Gilbert shook his head. "I was trying to comfort you, but I only made things worse. And truly I am sorry that you were disappointed so sorely today."

"You aren't to blame," Anne told him. "It's Mr. Smith that I'm the most angry with."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Well, I didn't bring you here to apologize. I mean not just to apologize. I mean— these are for you."

He held out a bouquet of flowers, beautiful pink camellias, which Anne only now noticed were the object he hid behind his back. 

"Oh, Gilbert, these are beautiful," she told him, eagerly taking the bouquet from his hands. "This is the most lovely apology I've ever received."

Gilbert looked down, a small smile forming on his mouth. "It's not just an apology. It's also a thank you." Then he looked at her, the smile growing to fullness. "You don't know how... valuable your companionship has been these last four years."

Heat rushed to Anne's cheeks as she thought of her reprehensible behavior towards Gilbert the first few years of her time at the University of Toronto. "Even after how horribly I treated you freshman and sophomore year?"

"I probably deserved that," Gilbert said, laughing. "After I left Avonlea, I barely spent any time with people my own age who didn't own at least three homes. I'm afraid I often forgot to act around normal people."

"Still, I could have been a little less harsh." 

"Perhaps that's true."

"So I'm a normal person, then?"

"You're anything but, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert." 

They were quiet for a moment. The wind rustled the leaves of the tree above them as the final few rays of sun sunk below the horizon. 

Suddenly, Anne had to ask a question with an urgency that surprised her. "Gilbert," she said. "This isn't a goodbye, is it?"

He looked at her in surprise. "No. Never." 

"Oh. Good," Anne said, relieved. 

Gilbert looked like he was about to say something, but at that moment a little girl with light brown skin and curly black hair ran up to him. She couldn't have been more than four. He laughed, picking the little girl up.

"Who is this?" asked Anne, not thinking about how disappointed she felt in that moment. 

"This is Delly, my friend's daughter," Gilbert said. He stood up and sighed. "I should probably get her back to her family."

Anne stood up as well. "Yes, probably." 

He walked a few steps away before turning around. Again, he looked like he wanted to say something. Instead, he picked up Anne's hand with his free one and kissed it. "I'm really proud of you, Anne."

Her heart beating loudly in her ears prevented her from making any response, and she was only able to watch him walk away, back to the crowds of people, as she tried to reckon with her own feelings. 

~

A | S | C

1 June, 1904

To my forgiven benefactor, 

I know I said that the last letter would be the last letter. I had thought that because I had imagined the last week would go a lot differently than it has. 

If you had come to my graduation, there would have been no reason to continue sending letters in this manner. As I intend to stay in Toronto for the foreseeable future, I had pictured us having tea once a week and discussing books and my writing and the weather or any number of other things. But, as we both know, you did not attend. Before it happened, I had thought that I could never forgive your absence. I know I said that I would try but I was already certain that I wouldn't be able to forgive you. But I have surprised even myself. 

I have realized that I don't know you at all, Mr. Smith, and have made my peace with this. I didn't come to this conclusion easily, that much is certain. I haven't the faintest idea why you never wanted to write back to me, or why you didn't come to my graduation. Perhaps you were busy. Perhaps you have not read a single letter I've sent. Perhaps you were as scared to meet me as I was to meet you. Whatever the reason, I'm afraid I have lost sight of everything you've given me. If our relationship, however one-sided it is, ends with scorn, then every time I think about University and all of the opportunities it has afforded me I would have to think about my anger. A younger Anne would have been content to live that life, but I certainly am not. So there you are, Mr. Smith. This young, foolish girl forgives you. 

I've only now realized how valuable writing these letters has been for my personal development. You are my closest confidant. You know things about me that even Diana doesn't know, which is saying a lot. Had you responded, then I doubt that I would have been as honest as I was. If you'll allow me to be honest one more time, I have quite the dilemma. You see, these letters have allowed me to sort through confusing feelings and I feel more confused right now than I had ever been. 

You see, Mr. Smith, I think I am in love. I wish you could help me. I could use some wisdom right now. As much as I have longed to be in love my whole life, I never thought to think about what it would actually be like. 

When I'm with him, time doesn't exist anymore. And then he leaves, I'm aware of how quickly time passes by and I want to sob. I want to share everything there is. I want him to be there in the morning when I make porridge and I want to be there with him when he's doing the most boring business possible. Every time I read a good book, or think a funny thought, I wish he was next to me so I can tell him about it. At night I hate the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me. Do you understand what I mean? I really, really hope that you do. I think anyone who has ever been in love would understand. 

Here is my problem and the source of my anguish: the man I am in love with is Gilbert Blythe. This may come as a shock to you, since I have frequently spoken ill of him in my letters. For this very reason, I am afraid I preemptively damaged my relationship with him permanently. We have since become close friends, but how could he forget how horrid I was to him, enough to love me back? I'm sure he'll also want to be with a distinguished woman from wealth, like that beautiful Winifred Rose I spotted him walking arm-in-arm with last February. I will forever be the red headed orphan girl who slapped him with a slate when I was thirteen. 

I know you won't respond, but I still have to ask you. What do you think I should do? If you could just read this letter and think your answer really, really hard then I am certain I will feel better. 

I will miss writing these letters and I will miss you, Mr. Smith. I will continue to think of you every day of my life. 

Sending you all the love in my heart, 

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert

P.S. In this envelope I have included my final transcripts as well as a check for $100. The check is not for much compared to all that you've given me but it's a start and I intend to pay you back every penny that you have spent on me. I received a small sum of money for a short story that will be published soon, and it's a start. 

P.P.S. Did you notice my new stationery? I bought it myself also with the money from the advance. 

A | S | C

6 June 1904

Dear Mr. Smith, 

YES! I will be there— Saturday at noon. I can’t believe that I am finally going to meet you. It doesn’t feel real. 

Love, love, love, 

Anne

~

Once Anne arrived at the address told to her by Mr. Smith, she recognized the building as the tea place she, Diana, and Gilbert went to nearly twice a week during the Fall term. Had her and her benefactor ever been there at the same time? Had they ever crossed paths before, said hello to each other on the street without knowing each others' identity? For the first time in nearly four years, how close they lived to each other truly struck Anne. She knew he lived in Toronto, even knew what street he lived on thanks to the return address on the stationery he sent her every birthday. But they knew about the same businesses, ate at the same places! 

All that time being so close and yet he still never made an effort to visit. Anne wondered if she would come to regret her choice to meet Mr. Smith here today. But she was too curious and had come so far. So she pushed her shoulders back in resolve and entered the tea house with as much confidence as she could muster. 

A waiter in a nice blue jacket greeted her immediately. 

"I'm here to meet with Mr. Smith," she told him.

Comprehension bloomed on the waiter's face. "You must be Ms. Shirley, then. Follow me."

He escorted her past large rooms with tables full of people eating lunch, past the kitchen door, past the restrooms, to a private tea room with a large window facing the park across the street. A large table sat in front of the window, meant to accommodate a large party of people. A single figure stood in the window, a silhouette in the face of the bright sunlight that streamed inside. This was it. She would finally meet her benefactor. Anne's heart stopped as the man slowly turned around. Only, when he did, he wasn't Mr. Smith. He wasn't even an old man. 

He was Gilbert Blythe. 

"Gilbert?" Anne cried. "What are you doing here? 

"Hello, Anne." He swallowed visibly. 

"You must leave now. I'm meeting someone very important and undoubtedly he'll be here soon, so if you could—"

"I know," Gilbert said. 

"If you know, then you know why you must leave," Anne told him, irritation setting him. She approached him to try and push him towards the door. "How you could possibly know is another thing. Did Diana tell you? I told her not to tell anyone."

"No, Anne—" He paused, firm in his footing and grabbed her gently by the shoulders. "I know why you're here because you're here to see me. I sent you that letter."

"Did you impersonate Mr. Smith?" 

"No, what I'm trying to tell you is..." he dropped his hands from her shoulders and moved one to scratch at the back of his head. "I couldn't impersonate Mr. Smith. Because he's me."

Well. Anne wasn't expecting that. She stopped in her tracks, mouth agape. 

"Please, say something," Gilbert begged, a tremor to his voice. 

"You?" was all that she could get out. 

"You're Mr. Smith." 

Blood rushed to Anne's face and she felt her heart and breath speed up dangerously. She grasped the back of a chair, tightly clutching the wood. 

Gilbert pulled out another chair. "Perhaps you should sit down." 

She did take a seat, but it wasn't the one he offered. "You're my mysterious, anonymous benefactor."

He gave a feeble laugh. "One in the same." 

"I don't understand. How can you be Mr. Smith? You're not even old."

Sitting next to her, Gilbert said, "I never understood why you always wrote about my old age. I certainly never said that." 

"Rich men who give orphan girls enormous scholarships are old. That just makes sense," Anne told him, nearing hysteria. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "They aren't pre-medical students I hit with a slate when I was thirteen!" 

"I owe you an explanation. That's why I—"

Anne's hands flew to her mouth in shock. "My goodness, the letters! Every horrible thing in the world about you I wrote in those letters!"

"You said a lot of things to me in person, too," Gilbert pointed out dryly.

"That's different! I didn't know I was insulting my benefactor to his face!" If it were possible, Anne felt her face growing even warmer. She surely looked like a tomato, with her face red enough to match her hair. "And you read my letters?"

"Every single one. They were the best part of my month."

"Every single one?" Anne echoed. "I suppose there's no hope that you skipped the last one, then?"

"I meant every one." 

She buried her face into the table. "If Mr. Smith had been my matron from the orphanage, it would have been easier to take."

He patted her back awkwardly. "Well, I'm not so bad, am I?"

Anne wanted to scream, taking a deep breath to avoid doing so. "Could you just promise to forget about the last letter and never mention it ever again?"

"I'm afraid I could never do that, Anne." 

"And why not?"

"Well, I— I just couldn't." 

"Why would you do this, Gilbert? I can't wrap my mind around it. I just don't understand."

Leaning back in his chair, Gilbert paused a moment before saying, "You wouldn't have let me pay for your education any other way."

"You still should have asked."

"Maybe so," Gilbert said. "But come on, Anne, I've known how stubborn you are since we were kids. I had the bruises to prove it. And when I heard that you had been accepted into the U of T but couldn't go because of money, well, I had to help."

"But why me?" Anne asked him. 

"You deserved it. And, well, maybe I was selfish."

"Selfish?"

He took a deep breath. "Maybe because I knew I was also going to Toronto. And maybe I wanted you there, too."

Anne didn't know at all how to respond to that. Her mind raced, replaying every moment they shared over the last few years. How her benefactor happened to know her birthday, when Gilbert had bumped into her at her own birthday party. How her benefactor didn't come to her graduation, when Gilbert was graduating himself. They even lived on the same street. Of course Gilbert was her benefactor. It made sense. 

"Why did you agree to meet now? Why not before?"

Gilbert exhaled loudly. "You don't know how many times I almost told you, or how many letters I started to draft but threw away before I could. I didn't know if I should be Mr. Smith telling you I'm Gilbert, or if I should be Gilbert telling you I'm Mr. Smith."

"Mr. Smith doesn't exist," she said. 

That made Gilbert go quiet. "I suppose he's not," he said finally. "Are you terribly mad at me?"

Anne sighed. "You lied to me and betrayed my trust for four years. I don't know how I could ever forget that."

"And yet?"

"And yet..." Anne was surprised to feel a smile forming and at last she laughed. "It's you, it's really you."

Hope or something like it bloomed on Gilbert's face. He grabbed her hand.

Anne told him, "You never answered my question."

Gilbert took a shaky breath. "Because," he said, "When I read your last letter, I realized you needed to know everything before I did this."

"Did what?" she asked, but she knew he was already leaning in. 

Gilbert kissed Anne, and while Anne had imagined her first kiss much more chaste, she put all of the emotions she felt into it. When they pulled back, Gilbert had a goofy grin adoring his mouth that she was sure matched her own. 

"Anne," he said urgently. "I love you."

"I'd tell you the same," she said, "but something tells me you already know."

~

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED 

TO THE WEDDING OF 

ANNE SHIRLEY-CUTHBERT

and

GILBERT BLYTHE

Saturday, October 4, 1904

3 o’clock in the afternoon

At the St. Andrew’s Church

Toronto, Ontario

Reception to follow.

 / fin

[sortasirius]

A Life Worth Living

Pairing: Dean/Cas Dean/pretty much anyone he’s had a relationship with in the show and original characters bc I have a problem

AN: Looks like I’m down the rabbit hole with Dean coming out lol.  This is angsty......very angsty.

Warnings: Abuse, Alcoholism, John Winchester being a horrible parent, Violence

Words: A very gratuitous 3643

As always, up on my AO3 here.

Dean’s first crush was Eleanor Andrews when he was four years old.  She was blond and had pink ribbons at the end of her pigtails.  She and Dean pretended to get married in the playground in Lawrence, Kansas and promised to be together forever.  The last time he saw her was the day that Mary died, and he had given her a worm he found in the grass.  She said she’d keep it forever.

When Mary died, John made Dean become a man overnight.  He was four years old and told how to hold a shotgun that was taller than him.  They spent the next few years on the road, or at Bobby’s, or at Pastor Jim’s.  Dean saw less of his father than he’d like to admit, but took care of Sam, because that’s what John told him to do.  “Watch out for Sammy” was the constant mantra he was never, not for one second, allowed to forget.

When Dean was eight and Sam was four, John started taking him on the road with him.  Different hotels, cities, towns, highways every week.  At first it was cool, Dean liked watching the winding asphalt roads, twisting up towards mountains or around lakes, sometimes windy, sometimes still, sometimes hot, and sometimes snowy.  Hotels always had TV and a bed all to himself.  He would take Sam to preschool and walk over to school himself, where everyone always thought he was cool because he was always the new kid.  He would leave school, pick up Sam, walk back to whatever hotel they were staying in that week, make Sam dinner, tuck him in, and then keep watch for anything that might come in.  It was kinda lonely sometimes, especially since they moved around so much, but that was okay, as long as he could take care of Sam.

When Dean was ten, he met Sarah Deleon when John had them stay in Lafayette, Indiana for two months while he hunted some ghouls.  She had brown hair and bright green eyes and wasn’t interested in talking to him, which made Dean want to talk to her even more.  He met her when he was trying to drag Sam out of the library after school.  He recognized her from his class and had swaggered over to her the way he had seen the cowboys do in his favorite Western movies.  She had barely looked up from her book until Sam asked what she was reading.  Turns out it was a book about a cowdog named Hank, and Dean ended up stealing it from the library and reading it every night.  He really wanted to live on a ranch sometimes.

She, Dean, and Sam were pretty much inseparable for the next few weeks, staying at the library right up until closing, until Mrs. May told them all to go home before it got too dark.  Dean liked the way Sarah laughed at him and told him to read more, and he really liked the way she listened to Sam.  When John came back and told them to get in the car one early morning, Dean felt an ache in his chest that he didn’t get to say goodbye.

As the years wore on, the novelty of travel wore off.  Hotels weren’t interesting anymore, just more of the same.  The food was almost always bad, and the cool factor of being the new kid transformed into being the weird kid by the time Dean hit middle school.  Dean was Sam’s constant protector, and even though he would do anything for his brother, even give him the last of the Lucky Charms, sometimes he just wanted to be able to get a soda without worrying about what John would say if he did.  But, of course, the one time he did that, a shtriga almost killed Sam, and John, bursting in at the exact right moment, did what Dean couldn’t do, and never looked at Dean the same way again.

Dean’s first kiss was a girl named Bria Zuniga, and she kissed Dean behind the school in Pinedale, Wyoming when he was thirteen.  She had black hair and bright blue eyes, and Dean remembered how nervous he had been when she had leaned in, he thought he was gonna be bad at it.  John had dragged them out of there two days later, and Dean had given Bria another kiss before they left.  John had clapped him on the shoulder.

Things got complicated when he turned fourteen.  Dean and Sam, who was growing like a total weed and was going to be taller than Dean, damn him, were left in Riverside, Iowa, James T. Kirk’s future birthplace, which was totally awesome, while John hunted a demon in the area.  That was where Dean met Jim Barnes, and it was like he could see through Dean’s cool guy loner persona.  He had light brown hair and dark brown eyes and they bonded over Star Trek and Batman, and Jim even showed Dean his comic collection, which was pretty cool.  He introduced Dean to Kurt Vonnegut and gave him the copy of Cat’s Cradle Dean still has to this day.  Dean introduced him to Led Zeppelin, and when Sam was studying at the hotel and insisted that he could take care of himself for a couple of hours, they went out to the movies and saw Jurassic Park.  That night, they walked back towards Jim’s house, talking about which dinosaur they would keep as a pet, when Dean kissed him.  It was simple and short and kinda sweet, and afterward Jim put his hand in Dean’s and Dean walked him to the door.  Four days later, right after school, John was waiting for them, the Impala running and the kind of look on his face that told Dean not to push any buttons if he didn’t want a black eye, but he was always a risk-taker, so he ran back inside and gave Jim one last kiss in the dirty school bathroom before watching Jim Kirk’s future birthplace fade away like fogged breath on the window of the Impala.

Dean was sixteen when John had told the cops that he could rot in prison.  He had given the cop a black eye and they had shipped him off to Sonny’s and even though it hurt to be away from Sam, for the first time in his life, Dean had friends, he did well in school, he made the wrestling team, and he met Robin.  She had dark hair and dark eyes with a kind smile. Sonny never made him feel like he was less than, and for the first time, he didn’t have to think about what was out there in the dark.  He still missed Sam, but not having John around was like being able to see blue sky after years and years of overcast. He told Robin his dreams, talked about his love of cars, how much he liked to sing.  She listened, and he listened to her dreams, let her take all the photos of him she wanted, and sort of, kind of, fell in love with her.  She kissed him on Sonny’s couch with a guitar between them, and he made promises to her that he really wished he could keep.  And when John came back on the night of his first school dance, his dance with Robin, he really wished he could be someone other than Dean Winchester.  Sonny gave him a choice, gave him a chance at normal, at Robin, at a family that didn’t drink too much and bruise your wrists when you didn’t do the dishes.  But when he looked out the window and saw Sam with his stupid toy plane, he knew.  Dean couldn’t, wouldn’t leave Sam.

After Robin, Dean didn’t really pay attention to anyone but Sam.  He met girls, flirted with girls, kissed girls, hooked up with girls, and then left girls as easy as drawing breath.  And hell, when you move around every other week it was easy.  Arrogance and disdain for school bought him cool guy cred, and cool guy cred usually meant that people left him alone.  When he was seventeen, he met Amanda Heckerling at Truman High.  She was blonde with blue eyes and was whip smart.  She kissed him and it tasted like candy.  He liked her a lot, but he didn’t want to feel that vulnerability he felt with Robin, and when she called him out for being afraid, he did what he did best. He ran away.

Dean got his GED at nineteen and watched Sam go from little brother to actual man.  He studied hard and Dean was fiercely proud of him for it.  And then, one night, when Dean was twenty, he came back from a bar in Flagstaff, Arizona where they were staying, and Sam was gone. Panic settled in his throat like someone was choking him.  He spent a week without sleeping, looking everywhere for Sam.  He checked every hotel, snuck his way to every security room with cameras he could, asking anyone who would pay him the time of day if they had seen him, but no one had.  And then, nine days after Sam had disappeared, John came back, and if Dean had wished he was dead before, it was nothing to what John made him feel.  He was pretty sure his jaw was fractured and he knew he had some cracked ribs, but that was nothing to him, all that mattered was finding Sam, getting Sam home.  John found him in some shitty little apartment on the outskirts of town with pizza boxes and a dog and a stolen car outside.  Dean had gripped him tightly and ignored Sam’s questions about the state of his face.  He tripped, he said, coming out of a bar.  Sam told him he drank too much.  Dean looked at John’s bruised knuckles and quietly thought he didn’t drink enough.

Dean met Andrew Hawkins on his twenty-first birthday in Roundup, Montana.  Sam was studying for the ACT, whatever that is, and John was out on an extended rugaru hunt or drinking binge.  Andrew had hazel eyes and dark brown hair and they made conversation over a friendly game of pool.  A friendly conversation turned into too many shots, and then they stumbled into the alley behind the bar, away from the prying pink neon lights, and Dean let himself touch and be touched, knowing that it meant nothing, but meaning everything in the moment.  Andrew took control in a way that Dean had never known, and when he came back to the hotel with too many hickies on his neck, Sam laughed and said he hoped she didn’t look half as bad as Dean did.  Dean laughed to hide the shame that rose like vomit in his throat.

Sam left for Stanford when Dean was twenty-two.  When he told John, during the middle of an argument, because Sam always had impeccable timing, Dean felt like the world was falling out from under him.  Who the hell was he if he didn’t have Sam?  He couldn’t even remember being his own person anymore. John had tried everything, screaming, slamming things into walls, breaking glass, getting in Sam’s space, but Sam wasn’t afraid of him anymore, and John had never hit Sam, not that Dean would ever have let him.  Sam left that night, taking only what he could carry in a bag and looking back at Dean with what Dean thought might be an apology in his face.  John had yelled after him that if he was going to go he should stay gone, and that was that.  The frail wooden door slammed behind him, and Dean’s little brother was out on his own.  Even years later, Dean didn’t tell Sam about the rest of that night, but he was lucky to survive it.  He kept John at arm’s length after that, after his right arm had healed, anyway.

Dean tried to be a nomad, not get attached to anyone for anything except for the Impala.  He and John made tracks across the country, so many miles on the odometer he almost expected it to break.  John routinely dragged them to the west coast just to see what Sam was up to, and that was when he started to let Dean off on his own.  The grooves in the highway were his best friends, and he went places John would never go.  The deep South, the Canadian border, bigger cities, all the places he had wanted to be when he was younger.  He fought ghouls and ghosts and demons and vamps.  He repaired junker cars when he stopped by Bobby’s every so often.  He checked in with John every other day and they sometimes met up for a hunt.  He met people, fucked them, and then left.  Had the bendiest weekend of his life with Lisa Braeden.  It wasn’t really freedom, but it was about as close as he could hope for.

Dean met Cassie in Mississippi when he was twenty-four.  She had dark hair and dark eyes. She was smarter than him, prettier than him, and even though he had a pact with himself to never get attached, she made herself comfortable in his heart.  He felt himself falling, like he had taken a running leap off a cliff and there was nothing below him but endless air and sharp rocks at the bottom.  So, in the middle of the night, he did what John would have done, and he left, trying to ignore the tears that spilled from his eyes as he crossed the Alabama border.

John gave him the Impala on his twenty-fifth birthday.  She was everything he had ever wanted in a car.  His first home, with his and Sam’s initials carved in the back.  John had bruised the back of his neck with his hand and told him to take care of the car.  Dean swore he wouldn’t let him down.

It all went to hell when Dean met Connor Stevens two months later.  He was on a routine hunt with John.  Vengeful spirit, whatever.  He was doing research in the library when this dorky guy with glasses, a bow tie, red hair, and blue eyes sat down at his table.  The got to talking about what they were reading and ended up having dinner at a way too nice restaurant that Connor suggested.  It was a break from burgers and beer and the ever-looming presence of John.  Connor asked him halfway through if this was a date, and Dean blushingly said he hoped so. They ended up back at Dean’s room since John would be out most of the night.  Until, of course, he wasn’t.  Dean was used to being afraid of John, but never before had he felt terror like that. John didn’t speak to him for nearly two months, and Dean was left floundering in a lake of guilt and shame, mixed with a healthy dose of defiance, but he always came back to John, because that’s what a good son does.

When John disappeared when Dean was twenty-six, he didn’t have anyone to turn to, so he went back to Sam.  He hated that he had to take Sam away from his life, where he was clearly thriving with his very pretty girlfriend Jess and his good grades, but Dean was no soldier with no one to follow, and he swore to himself that once they found John that he would let Sam go.  But the universe never seemed to give him what he wanted, and Dean had to drag Sam away from Jess burning on the ceiling, just like their mother had.

He and Sam become hunters together, and even though he knew he could never heal the pain of losing Jess, he could at least make it so that the Impala became Sam’s home again.  Her tires sped along the winding roads all across the country, and even though it was selfish, having Sam back made Dean feel as calm as he had in years.

John died when Dean was twenty-seven.  Dean felt his heart break, but also felt like someone had taken handcuffs off him that he had been wearing for so long he didn’t even realize he was wearing them.

Dean went to hell when he was twenty-nine. The sound of the hellhounds tearing through the house towards him were terrifying, but the knowledge that he had done this for Sam made him feel a little better about getting ripped to shreds by dogs from hell.

Hell was worse than he could have ever imagined.  Torture was about the best thing that could happen to you down there.  Allistair had convinced him to pick up a knife, and even though he knew it was wrong, he knew that John would hate him for what he was doing, he took the knife from Allistair and thought, what the hell, John hated him anyway.

Dean met Castiel when he was thirty.  He had black hair and blue eyes and giant black wings.  He left a mark on Dean even before they met.  He stood too close to Dean and made him feel like he was being x-rayed every time they made eye contact, but Dean could never make himself look away.

Dean settled down with Lisa Braeden when he was thirty-one.  She had black hair and brown eyes and the kindest and most beautiful heart he had ever known.  He was very lucky to have her and Ben.  Probably a little too lucky.  He slept with a gun under his pillow every night.  You never knew what was waiting in the dark.  He had nightmares about Sam throwing himself in the pit and she would comfort him, and when Sam showed back up when he was thirty-two, she let him go hunt with him.  He made her forget him when he was thirty, and that was a wound that he knew would never really heal.

Dean went to Purgatory when he was thirty-four.  He spent a year there with Benny, vamp turned new best friend in tow, and every night, when he was trying to sleep, he would think of one thing, where, how, when to find Cas.  It was stupid, he was probably dead, Benny said pretty much every day, but until they found a pile of bones with a trenchcoat, Dean wouldn’t believe that.  They ended up finding him, and losing Cas to Purgatory just as he and Benny escaped made Dean want to jump right back into it, and he wasn’t really sure why.

He met Amara when he was thirty-seven. She was all powerful and deeply frightening, but Dean felt a pull towards her that he had never felt towards anyone or anything.  She knew this, she tried to use it against him, but something broke when she started torturing Cas, probably because they were best friends.  Because Dean needed Cas.  He needed Cas.  He needed Cas.

Dean lost Cas to an angel blade held by Lucifer when he was thirty-nine.  He begged God, Chuck, whatever to bring him back.  It was like someone punched a hole in his chest, and when they burned his body, it sort of felt like Dean was burning too.

Jack brought Cas back when Dean was thirty-nine.  It felt like he had aged forty years since he last saw him.  He didn’t tell Cas that he didn’t cope well with him being gone, but he thought Cas knew, because Cas knew everything about him.  They went back to the way things should be.  They hunted, watched movies, sang terribly in the Impala, and Dean felt like he really, truly, had a family again.  He would look at Cas when he didn’t think Cas could see, and even though he knew they were best friends and nothing more, sometimes Dean would think about just how beautiful Cas was.

Dean kissed Cas when he was forty-one. He was older, that there was less time, that Chuck was going to kill him one way or another, and Dean didn’t want Cas to be another what if, especially if he was about to spend eternity in Hell, which is probably where he would end up anyway.  He kissed him in the Impala, when he and Cas tried to escape Belphegor’s incessant talking and Sam had disappeared to read in his room in the bunker. Zeppelin played softly from the Impala’s speakers, and Dean instinctually leaned forward, like he had meant to do it all his life.  Cas’ lips were chapped and soft and Dean didn’t ever want to pull back from him.  But when he did, Cas gave him the kind of smile that made it all worth it.  The pain, the self-hatred, the hunting, the angels, devils, destiny, and God himself are all worth dealing with if it meant that this moment could exist with Cas in the Impala.

Dean told Sam the truth when he was forty-one.  He told him about John, about Flagstaff, about Stanford, and about Jim, Andrew, Robin, Cas, and all the rest.  Dean laid his heart out on the line, because if anyone deserved to know who he really was, it was Sam.  And Sam, because he was the best brother in the world, didn’t say anything, just leaned forward and hugged Dean as tightly as he had when Dean left Sonny’s.  It was one of those hugs that sort of made the world turn a little easier, and Dean knew that he was still the luckiest guy on earth to have Sam Winchester as his brother.  His family, Sam and Cas, they’re what make life worth living, and even if they had ten years of ten minutes left together, Dean was finally going to make the most of it.

[beatrice-otter]

Fic: Here We Are Together (My Fair Lady, Eliza/Henry)

I wrote three stories this year for Yuletide! I was assigned to write for alestar, and what I ended up writing (My Fair Lady) wasn't what I wanted to write. They had some excellent prompts in other fandoms, and I'm not a Henry/Eliza fan in general. Their prompt for Dr. Facilier in The Princess and the Frog was really interesting, but I couldn't get good enough reference material on Voodoo practices to feel comfortable writing it. (Everything in the library system was written by outsiders.) They also had interesting prompts for the movie Hancock, which I remember fondly but only ever saw once years ago, and I couldn't find a copy to watch, and I wasn't about to write a fic based on a decade-old memory and clips on youtube. So My Fair Lady it was, and I'm pleased with what I ended up with. Title: Here We Are Together Author: beatrice_otter  Fandom: My Fair Lady Rating: G Warnings: none Written For: alestar  in yuletide  2019 Betaed by: kalypsobean  Summary: Eliza and Freddy are working together. Henry isn't happy, and makes sure everyone knows it. At AO3. Dreamwidth. Pillowfort.

"If we could but get the funding, Mrs. Doolittle, so much more might be accomplished," Freddy said earnestly. "Your contributions, both financial and practical, do so much good, and of course your greatest contribution is the time you and your husband give to veterans who cannot pay for your services, but unfortunately the scale of the situation—"

"Yes, yes, the number of men who returned with severe wounds is alarming, and their needs are many and great," Eliza said. "You would think that the thanks of a grateful nation would extend to paying for treatment for the injuries taken in the service of that nation."

"I sometimes think they would prefer if we had died, so that they could take out our pictures once a year on Armistice Day, and not have to deal with the inconvenient reality of our survival." It was a touch of the old, romantic, dramatic Freddy she had first met over a decade ago, although of course far bitterer than anything that young fop could have imagined.

"Perhaps I should mention the subject to my father," Eliza mused. "Much as he hates it, he needs respectable causes to mix in with his disreputable ones, if he wants to get anyone else in Parliament to actually work with him. And one can hardly get more respectable than poor veterans in need of medical care and other aid."

"It cannot hurt," Freddy said, "although far too many politicians are willing to give flowery speeches in public, and then tighten the purse strings in private. I begin to understand your preference for actions over words."

"Mm," Eliza said, making a note to write to her father. "Now, about—"

"ELIZA!"

Freddy twitched at the sound of her husband's stentorian bellow, and he turned pale so quickly she was afraid he might faint. Repeated calls did not help, but roaring back at her husband to be quiet would hardly be any better. Freddy, like so many veterans of the Great War, did not handle startlement well.

"Eliza, where are you, that great clod Bloxham was unbearable, he's the son of a grocer, he's no call to treat me like the help!" Henry strode through the door of the drawing room like a motorbus through Picadilly, coming to a crashing halt when he saw she was not alone. "Freddy," he said, wrinkling his nose. "I didn't know you were visiting."

"You are setting a poor example for the children," Eliza said firmly.

"I most certainly am not," Henry scoffed, flopping into one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He swung his legs up over the arm of the chair, twisting his body in a position that might have been leonine in a more graceful man, and he pouted. He would not call it that, but in that moment he might have been any one of their four offspring.

Eliza stared at him for a few seconds. Long experience had taught her that while immediately answering such a flat denial would only bring a round of squabbling to rival the worst the children were capable of, pinning his attention and then speaking firmly had a high rate of success. "You were shouting down the house. This is not a fishmarket, and you are not a fishmonger, though you may bellow like one. And then you were rude to a guest."

"Freddy?" Henry said incredulously. "I'm to be polite to Freddy Eynsford-Hill in my own home?" He shifted his shoulders slightly and sagged further down in the chair, a sure sign that he knew he was in the wrong but determined to be so. It was a legacy of his mother constantly demanding that he sit up straight. In Henry's mind, Eliza knew, sullen defiance and slouching were inextricable.

"Yes," Eliza said. "To his face and behind his back, both. Certainly whenever the children are present."

"Are the children present?" Henry frowned; he'd probably lost track of time and hadn't realized they were home from school. He peered around the room and found Aurelia in the windowseat with a book, Emily playing with her stuffed dog on the floor by Eliza's feet, and Edward and Andrew playing chess in the corner. All had stopped what they were doing to watch their father's dramatic entrance. "Shouldn't you be in school?" he asked.

"It's over for the day, father," Andrew pointed out.

"I should be going," Freddy said, as if he hadn't noticed the awkwardness. "We've covered the main points, and in any case Anne will fuss if I'm not home for dinner."

Normally, Eliza would say that he shouldn't let Henry drive him off, but they were mostly finished, and she could see how his hands were trembling on the head of his cane. "I shall definitely contact my father about funding, and if there's anything else I can do for your organization, please let me know."

"Your expertise is more than enough," Freddy said. "Good day, Mrs. Higgins. Professor." With gracious nods to both of them he left, leaning on his walking stick more than he usually did.

"Freddy," Henry said with distaste as soon as the front door had closed on him. "What does he want now, more charity cases to fob off on us?"

"You like working with veterans who have developed speech impediments or vocal wounds," Eliza pointed out. "It's a much more interesting challenge than teaching parvenus like Bloxham how to pretend they've always been upper-class."

"Yes, but it doesn't pay well," Henry pointed out.

"And the parvenus pay more than enough to cover the time we spend on charity cases," Eliza said. "What is it really? You've been like a bear with a sore head about Freddy for months, and frankly I'm sick of it."

"I'm volunteering my valuable time, and I don't like how he keeps asking for more."

"Not from you," Eliza pointed out. "And mostly he's asking for organizational help. I'd send him to your mother, if her health were better."

"Mother would have had him settled weeks ago," Henry grumbled.

"Possibly, but she has many more decades of experience organizing charities than I do, and a great many more contacts."

"Then Freddy should go find someone else to bother for help, someone like Mother who's spent the last fifty years organizing everyone else's lives," Henry shot back.

Eliza sat bolt upright as enlightenment dawned. "You're jealous!" she said in astonishment.

"No I'm not!" Henry said, voice climbing querulously.

"You," Eliza said, enunciating very clearly, "are jealous of Freddy Eynsford-Hill."

"Why would Papa be jealous of Mr. Eynsford-Hill?" Emily asked.

"Because Mr. Eynsford-Hill is more handsome than he is," Edward answered her.

"He is not!" Henry declaimed. "His profile is insipid."

Aurelia snickered at Henry's words.

"Aurelia, you shouldn't snicker, it's not polite," Eliza said. "And Henry, you shouldn't lie to your children. Or to yourself. Freddy is far more handsome than you are, but if that were important to me, I'd have married him instead of you."

"Was that an option, mother?" Emily asked, closing her book with a finger to hold her place.

"It certainly was," Eliza said. "He asked me before your father did. And I certainly considered it; besides his looks, he would have been far easier to live with than your father is."

"Then why did you marry me, if I am such a trial?" Henry said, with a mixture of curiosity and sarcasm.

"Because I don't have to hold back with you," Eliza said simply.

"Hah!" Henry said, sitting up straighter. "And yet you complain about my manners!"

"One can be assertive without being rude; your mother is the most forceful person I know, and her manners are impeccable," Eliza said. She turned to Emily, who at fourteen was beginning to notice men, and explained further. "You see, it is very unpleasant to live with someone who steamrolls over you, who dominates you, who controls you, even if they are not trying to hurt you. And when two people are not equals in that way—when one is always the leader and the other is always the follower, or when one is stronger and more forceful than the other—it is not healthy for either. At the time, Freddy was pleasant, but … easily led, shall we say. If he had any great depth of thought or character, he never showed them to me. I could have always had my way with very little effort, which would have been pleasant for me, but perhaps not good for me. And certainly not good for him."

"Whereas with me," Henry said, "you knew I would never let you have your way without a fight."

"With you the question was, could I get you to stop being a bully and a tyrant," Eliza said, turning back to him. "Fortunately, your bark is worse than your bite, and once you knew that I would simply leave if your conduct became intolerable, you amended your ways. I can keep you from running me over like a motor-bus, and I certainly don't have to worry about dominating you. If you'd kept treating me as you did when we first met, I'd have married Freddy and learned to be gentler."

"Mr. Eynsford-Hill doesn't seem shallow to me," Andrew said.

That was probably the source of Henry's jealousy, Eliza realized. Henry had been amused at Freddy's puppy love when they were first married. "He's changed quite considerably since he asked me to marry him," Eliza said. "He is much quieter and more thoughtful since he came home from the war."

"The Army was the making of him," Henry proclaimed, an opinion he had picked up from Colonel Pickering.

Eliza considered the way Freddy's hands sometimes shook, and how he flinched at loud noises that came unexpectedly, and the haunted look she sometimes caught in his eyes if he thought no one was looking at him. "No," she said soberly, "I think it was the breaking of him."

After dinner that evening, Eliza worked on her plans for the next day's clients, while Henry helped the children with their schoolwork, their education being far more like his had been than Eliza's.

"I still think we should send the boys to school, at least, even if we keep the girls here," Henry said as he got ready for bed that evening.

"What can they learn there that they can't learn from the perfectly good school they go to now?" Eliza asked, laying her gown neatly on the dressing room chair for Susan the maid to take care of in the morning. "Or from you?"

Henry grumbled, because he knew better than she did that the school the boys attended was as strong academically as any of the more prestigious schools they could have sent the boys to, and it was almost as distinguished. The difference was, in their current school the boys could live at home instead of boarding. "They could make good connections," he said at last, grasping at straws.

"Hah!" Eliza said as she climbed into bed. "That's rich, that is. How many connections did you make at school that were of any lasting value?"

Henry grumbled some more and climbed into bed beside her.

"Besides," Eliza said, "you'd miss them as much as I would, and you'd hate being outnumbered by women."

"True," Henry said at last. "Bloxham's going to send his boys to Eton and his girls to Cheltenham. He was bragging all about it. The blasted fool had never even heard of Tonbridge." Henry sniffed at this slight to his old school.

"You're one to talk about foolishness, wanting to send our boys away to school just because a fatuous idiot who made a fortune during the war is a snob," Eliza said. "Not to mention being jealous of Freddy, of all people."

"Oh, Eliza, must we go into that again?" Henry said, running a hand down his face. "I know I'm an old fool, you needn't rub it in."

Eliza paused and looked at him, really looked. He was so familiar to her, she knew his face better than anything in the world, and yet it suddenly struck her how old he was. When they'd married, he'd seemed ageless, powerful, in the prime of his life. And that was how she'd always thought of him; his force of personality had certainly not diminished. But he was in his seventies, now, and his face was deeply creased with age. Though his hair was receding, it was almost as dark as ever.

"I knew you were almost thirty years older than I am when I married you," she said at last. "If I'd wanted a younger man, I could have had one then. Freddy, or some other chap your mother could have found for me. I chose you, and you know how stubborn I am. You're mine, now, and I'm not about to give you up."

Henry sighed. After a few seconds he turned off the lamp on his side of the bed and slid down under the covers. Eliza followed suit, and waited to see if he'd say anything. In bed, in the dark, he was sometimes willing to be more honest than during the daylight hours.

"I feel old, Eliza," he said at last, staring up at the ceiling. "Old, and useless. I look at the men we treat, the veterans, and I'm glad Edward and Andrew are the age they are. If they'd been born a decade earlier ... All those young men chewed up at the front and spat out with their lives destroyed, and for what? So idiots like Bloxham could make their fortune in the munitions factories? So all of Europe could be laid waste? And then I read the papers and look at the fashions and the books and plays and art that are being made these days, and I don't understand it. It's all so different. All the rules of how things work that I've known all my life, they just don't seem to apply any longer." He fell silent.

Eliza waited to see if he would say any more. When it was clear he wasn't going to, she spoke. "You never liked the rules anyway."

"But I knew what they were, and how to break them," Henry said. "Now … you understand things much better than I do. You fit better than I do. You could bob your hair and go find a man who fits better than this old Victorian relic lying next to you."

"I'm not that much younger than you are, dear," Eliza pointed out dryly. "I doubt there are very many forty-year-old mothers of four with bobbed hair and short skirts in the dance halls even these days. And while I could throw you over and find a younger man, why would I want to? I've got you trained just the way I want, and I'd have to start all over again. You're mine, and you may not fit the world very well but then you never did—and you fit me quite nicely."

Henry reached over and took her hand. Eliza snuggled closer to him, and they fell asleep like that.

[oscar-isaacs-number-one-bitch]

“A Star Is Born” Movie Review

A Star Is Born is the now third remake of the classic tale of musicianship, relationship, fame, and what it means to be true to yourself and others. Bradley Cooper stars as Jackson Maine, a famous country (?) musician who loves a good drink and occasionally a little something extra. While on the road, he walks into a drag bar where he hears the voice of Ally (Lady Gaga) bursting into a soul-melting rendition of “La Vie En Rose.” Believing that she really has the stuff to make into the music industry, he invites her out for a drink to tell her as much. The two bond over the course of the night, and that night becomes the starting point for their falling in love and making music together. Directed by Bradley Cooper and also starring Sam Elliot, Andrew Dice Clay, and (very briefly) Dave Chapelle, A Star Is Born is here to introduce us to 2018’s Oscar season. And when all is said and done, it’s bound to be in that nominations list itself.

We all saw the trailer for this movie when it first came out, and there wasn’t a single person I talked to who wasn’t just blown away by the staggering editing and musical poise that both Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga introduced us to, but luckily enough, Cooper also co-wrote and directed an entire movie past the points the trailer shows to put in theaters for us to see. This movie is a masterwork of character, music, and raw emotional drama. When I first heard about it, I wasn’t sure. I’m not the biggest fan of country music, and that seemed to be the vibe going in. But what’s truly refreshing about this remake of the classic tale is that it’s not necessarily about a country musician (though Cooper’s apparently immaculate voice does lend itself well to the genre), but rather that at its center, this is a film about addiction and the truths that we hide from. Frequently in this film, Cooper’s character talks about having something to say with music, and that it doesn’t matter how long you get to say it for or by what method you deliver your message, it only matters that you say what you have to say. Not only is this refreshing to hear this theme throughout the movie, Cooper weaves it into the narrative with such subtlety you’d barely know that on a metaphorical level, he’s referring to it not mattering that he’s remaking A Star Is Born, because he has something to say about fame and addiction, and how one often feeds into or leads into the other, or vice versa.

Bradley Cooper’s direction makes it seem like not only has he been involved in the movie industry for decades, he’s been directing motion pictures with Clint Eastwood levels of confidence for years, making the fact that this is his directorial debut all the more impressive. His direction is assured as he takes us through the struggles of both Jackson and Ally. We feel for both of these characters right away, and even in their worst moments, we never feel as if they’re bad people, just struggling people. That in itself is difficult to do with characters like Cooper’s who frequently turn to the bottle when they’re down or having problems. His relationship with Ally never suddenly turns abusive or negative; it’s only the bottle he abuses, but never her. In addition to this, Ally’s struggle with welcoming the fame that comes with being a pop musician in this day and age is nuanced and heartfelt, never devolving into a “pop isn’t real music” realization or anything of the sort. It truly is an astounding feat for Bradley Cooper to pull off, and might likely land him a Best Director nod at this year’s Oscars.

Of course for there to be sympathetic characters, a movie needs great performances, and boy, does this movie have those in spades. We knew Bradley Cooper was a great actor already from such things as Silver Linings Playbook, but this seems like a new level of performance even for him. Much of the reason that Jackson is a sympathetic character at all is due to Cooper’s natural ability to make whatever character he plays likable in some form, shape, or fashion. You feel for him when you’re meant to, and you cheer for him when you want to, and his chemistry with Lady Gaga is impeccable and unmistakable. And speaking of Oscar hopefuls, you better believe that both of them might end up there with their performances, because this might be one of the more impressive musician-turned-actress runs I’ve personally seen coming from Lady Gaga. The care that she brings to Ally, the confidence in her shyness, and the breakout moments all come from a place deep within herself that I didn’t know she could pull from, and she nearly steals the show when herself and Cooper share the screen together. Whether supporting or lead, Gaga makes the absolute most of what she’s given, as does every performer. Even Sam Elliot, Dave Chapelle, and Andrew Dice Clay (especially Clay) manage to make impressive turns when they don’t have to.

The music is also top-notch stuff. Aside from the instantly iconic “Shallow,” which both Cooper and Gaga perform as a duet, this movie boasts some of the best movie music since Sing Street. Every song is either toe-tapping, insanely fun, or packed with heart, and often all these aspect converge on each other during the truly show-stopping moments, of which, yes, “Shallow,” is one. I may not be a fan of country music, but I’m definitely a fan of whatever is in this fabulous picture.

In the end, I don’t have a lot to say about A Star Is Born other than that this is easily the most confident start to Oscar season in a few years, and Cooper’s directorial debut has set a pretty high bar to clear for the rest of awards season. The music is great, the performances are fantastic, and one leaves the theater immediately wanting even more despite the fairly long runtime. This is easily one of the best films of the year so far and I would highly recommend going out and seeing it as soon as you can. Get ready, Academy; the race has officially begun.

I’m giving “A Star Is Born” a 9.5/10

[jumperlink2-blog]

Your Complete Guide to the Most Stylish It-Girls of All Time

Plenty of celebs are well-dressed—but it takes something truly special to elevate a person to “style icon” status.

The women who reach that rarefied realm do so in many ways. They might define an entire genre of style, like Brigitte Bardot did with her effortless, French-girl chic. They could be masters of using style to communicate emotional states, like Princess Diana did in her famous post-breakup “revenge dress.” They could embrace a totally unique vision, like Solange Knowles in her ethereal, avant-garde designs. Or, like Tommy Hilfiger ambassador Gigi Hadid, they might simply exude youthful joie de vivre in a way that captures everyone’s imagination—and inspires legions of imitators.

Whatever the special alchemy is that makes a stylish woman an It-girl, the 16 women ahead definitely have it. Read on for the legends who defined—or are re-defining—style as we know it.

Gigi Hadid

More than any of the other young models and influencers known as the “Insta Girls,” we’ve loved watching Gigi Hadid’s evolution into style icon. Hadid has a way of mixing streetwear, sexy basics, and high fashion, and she can definitely turn it all the way up to high glam for a night out (as she did here in a metallic mini dress).

But Hadid is the opposite of the haughty fashionista—she has a sunny spirit that imparts every look with a breezy, care-free elan. Like Christie Brinkley or Lauren Hutton before her, Gigi is a very American sort of fashion icon.

Photo: Raymond Hall/GC Images/Getty

Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell

Why yes, we are cheating by including these two legends in one pic. But Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss were simply the alpha and omega of ‘90s supermodels, badass Brits, and style icons. Fashion-wise, they were worlds apart—Naomi favored body-conscious, high-glam creations from designers like Azzedine Alaia while Kate favored a quirky mix of thrifted finds with avant-garde designer pieces.

But they were both supernova-hot, impossibly chic, and had an irresistible It-factor that made them the ones everyone wanted to swill champagne and kick it with them. Name a more iconic fashion duo—we’ll wait.

Photo: Dave Benett/Getty Images

Francoise Hardy

A singer-songwriter who emerged from France’s early-'60s “ye-ye” scene, Francoise Hardy was the sensitive girl with a guitar and a killer sense of style. With her wardrobe of slim-cut trousers, wide leather belts, Chelsea boots, and teeny miniskirts—and, of course, those iconic blunt bangs—she cut a figure of tomboy elegance that set the template for Daisy Lowe, Tennessee Thomas, Alexa Chung and so many It-girls since.

Photo: Andrew Maclear/Redferns/Getty Images

Chloe Sevigny

It’s a sad fact of fashion that an outfit that looks au courant right now will look a little tired in one year, and downright laughable in 10. But Chloe Sevigny has the miraculous ability to overcome this curse: Somehow, the looks she wore in 1998 and 2008 look just as amazing in 2018.

Maybe it’s because she never blindly follows the trends du jour, but instead works her own quirky, vintage-inspired style. Unlike many celebs who look “dressed” or “styled,” Sevigny looks like herself, and rarely like anyone else. She's the quintessential New York cool girl.

Photo: Gustavo Caballero/WireImage for Dan Klores Communications/Getty Images

Rihanna

Rihanna is the embodiment of DGAF. When she wears an underground designer, it can literally put them on the map (hey, Adam Selman, creator of the instant-legend “naked dress”), and when she embraces a trend, she instantly inspires a thousand imitators overnight (hello, every Instagirl wearing teeny shades).

She’s always willing to experiment with outlandish silhouettes, and unapologetically loves and flaunts her body through all its fluctuations. She dresses for herself and no one else—a true inspiration.

Photo: George Pimentel/WireImage/Getty Images

Marisa Berenson

A granddaughter of legendary couturier Elsa Schiaparelli, a model who was a fixture in late-'60s Vogue, and a muse to everyone from Halston to Yves Saint Laurent—fashion credentials do not get much more purebred than this, people.

But Marisa Berenson was so much more than just a pretty face: She was a fixture on the socialite scene, a patron of the arts, and a pioneer of the luxe-bohemian style that today finds expression in women from Mary-Kate Olsen to Rachel Zoe.

Photo: Gian Paolo Barbieri/Condé Nast via Getty Images

Solange Knowles

Anyone who still describes Solange Knowles as sister to a certain superstar is missing the point. Not only has Solo fully emerged as her own unique talent, with plaintive songs that explore love, loss, and Black identity, she’s done it all while pioneering a new kind of otherworldly style.

Ethereal layered gowns, metallic ruffled tops, dramatic jeweled headpieces—Solange effortlessly embraces avant-garde looks and serves up space princess like no other.

Photo: Mireya Acierto/Getty Images

Brigitte Bardot

Along with Marilyn Monroe, Brigitte is the woman who defined “blonde bombshell.” She also unwittingly created the blueprint for that whole French-girl chic that everyone’s still obsessed with (even if they don’t want to admit it).

Her striped, bateau-neck tees; slim-cut capri pants; ballet flats; cat-eye makeup; and what can only be described as “bedroom hair” single-handedly created the “pouty French beauty” archetype to which many women still aspire.

Photo: Sunset Boulevard/Corbis via Getty Images

Alexa Chung

After years of Hollywood starlets such as Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton dominating the gossip pages, Alexa Chung was such a breath of fresh air when she hit the scene around 2007. The gravelly-voiced Brit with a cheeky sense of humor and winsome, '60s-inspired style had plenty of wit to go with her beauty.

After Alexa, every indie girl worth her salt invested in a Peter Pan-collar dress, a pair of ballet flats, and learned to flick her eyeliner—a look Alexa borrowed from Francoise Hardy and brought into the 21st century.

Photo: Ricky Vigil M/GC Images/Getty Images

Diana Ross

It is impossible to overstate the importance of Diana Ross. She was many things: An iconic singer with the Supremes and solo, an Academy Award-nominated actress, a fashion and beauty icon, and one of the world’s first Black superstars—all feats she achieved in an era of widespread discrimination. And yes, she was also a diva whose style was always about capital-g Glamour, darling: sequins, feathers, gowns down to there, and hair to the sky.

Photo: Waring Abbott/Getty Images

Meghan Markle

So much recent ink has been spilled about the Duchess of Sussex, it almost seems like overkill. But Markle’s impact on the royal family and the world of style truly matters—she’s the first truly fashion-forward royal. While women like Princess Diana and Kate Middleton were undeniably graceful and always occasion-appropriate, Markle brings a sense of experimentation and youthful sophistication to her tea-length skirts and sheath dresses that sets her apart from any royal before.

Photo: Chris Jackson/Getty Images

Bianca Jagger

This Nicaragua-born model and actress officially entered the realm of style icons when she married Mick Jagger in Saint Tropez in 1971, while wearing an impeccably cut white suit. Throughout the ‘70s, she emerged as the reigning queen of the Studio 54 scene, holding court with luminaries from the art worlds (Andy Warhol, Grace Jones) and bringing an unforgettably dramatic flair to her style—think giant flowers in her hair, red-sequin gowns with matching berets, and, oh yeah, that time she arrived to her birthday party in an off-shoulder dress riding a white horse.

Photo: Central Press/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen

Their fashion sense may be divisive—especially Mary-Kate, who tends to favor more eccentric looks than her twin—but in 2018, no one can deny that these women are fully-fledged style icons, both for their personal fashion and for the work they’ve done helming their luxury label The Row.

In fact, they don’t always get credit for embracing trends years before the rest of us catch on (Birkenstocks, circle sunnies, and Celine-esque oversized layers all spring to mind). But that probably doesn’t bother them—these are women who do their own thing, and let the rest of the world catch up.

Photo: Rabbani and Solimene Photography/Getty Images

Princess Diana

From the moment she announced her engagement to Prince Charles in 1981, Diana had an uncanny ability to connect with people and inspire fashion fervor. While some of her ‘80s formal looks veered into ruffly excess (it was kind of the style at the time), she always had a joyful approach to color and silhouette that thoroughly modernized the formerly-stuffy House of Windsor.

By the ‘90s she’d dropped her philandering husband and pared her style down to just the basics: sleek silhouettes, and sexy shorter hemlines that many interpreted as the ultimate revenge.

Photo: Jayne Fincher/Getty Images

Carolyn Bessette Kennedy

The fashion publicist entered the world stage fast when she began dating John Kennedy, Jr. in 1994. The pair were constantly followed by paparazzi, and Carolyn’s minimalist, luxe basics—sleeveless turtleneck sweaters, pencil skirts, kitten-heel pumps—was widely imitated by women everywhere, and defined chic in the mid-'90s.

A savvy, New York City blonde in the fashion industry with impeccable style, we see a lot of Carolyn in Carrie Bradshaw, and so many women since who come to the big city to pursue their fashion dreams (and maybe find love, too).

Photo: Lawrence Schwartzwald/Sygma via Getty Images

Source: http://stylecaster.com/most-stylish-it-girls/

[queerbrownfox]

Another Queer Bites the Dust at This Year’s Golden Globes

Awards Season!

If you’re like me, you’re probably suffering right now with an existential quandary, somehow caught in the space between knowing that award shows do not matter in the scope of things and only represent the Hollywood establishment which is only a tiny portion of the arts and being glued to your TV set to see who wins best picture this year.

And if you’re also like me, by which I mean queer (or care about queer stuff), you were probably pretty psyched for this awards season. The Favourite, The Green Book (not to be confused with The Green Mile), Bohemian Rhapsody, Can You Ever Forgive Me?, Boy Erased, Rafiki, Colette, Lady Gaga’s existence, and more . . . there have been so many queer films to come out (heh) in 20gayteen. 

At the Golden Globes this past weekend we saw an array of queer films nominated, and, I’ll be honest, I was pumped. It looked like it would be a great year for representation.

But then.

So without further ado, here’s the piping hot dish of queer erasure casserole that was the 2019 Golden Globes, folks.

Thought this year was a success for queers everywhere after the Golden Globes? Well, in point of fact . . . nope. Despite wins by The Green Book, Bohemian Rhapsody, The Favourite, and The Assassination of Gianni Versace, which all told queer stories, this year’s Golden Globes failed queer audiences massively.  Let’s break it down.

1. The Green Book? More like The Story Book.

The Green Book is a film that tells the story of Dr. Don Shirley, an insanely talented black pianist, and his white driver, Tony Vallelonga as they travel through the deep South on tour. Shirley, who happens to be a queer black man, and Vallelonga, despite their early differences (like Vallelonga’s being super racist), navigate issues of race and class throughout their journey and eventually end up as friends and comrades.

Sounds great. Except. 

First off, the movie was adapted and directed by Nick Vallelonga, the son of Shirley’s driver, who wrote the book that The Green Book was adapted from. In other words, it was the white man’s version. The film has come under constant fire since its public debut from none other than Shirley’s family, particularly his brother. Mhmm. Bad news.

Next, the trailers released for the film and other promotional materials don’t even nod to the scenes in the film in which it is revealed that Shirley’s oppression is criss-crossed with his identity as a queer black man. True, the preview shown during the Golden Globes ceremony did include a clip that revealed the pianist’s identity, sandwiched between shots of Vallelonga beating up people who were attempting to assault him. 

All in all, the movie smacks not only of queer erasure, but an elixir for white guilt. We as white people love to eat up feel good stories about white people who reach across culture and race boundaries to form “color-blind” relationships built on true empathy and compassion (see The Help, Shawshank Redemption, Hidden Figures). Stories that often take place, (coincidentally?) in the 1960s at the height of segregation. Which is funny, because it perpetuates the idea that race issues are all resolved now, as a result of the compassion shown by white people to black folks Way Back When. As anybody who’s got a sense of what’s going on in the world—or their own backyards—that’s far from the case.

Just sayin’.

2. The Assassination of Gianni Versace: Or, Another Straight Gets a Golden Globe for Playing a Gay and Everyone Eats it Up.

Ah, Darren Criss. This isn’t the first time we’ve been down this road. Have we. 

It started with Glee. Criss played Blaine, opposite Chris Colfer’s Kurt Hummel, an adorable baby gay with an impossibly effeminate singing voice that was ear candy if I’ve ever heard it. Criss, of course, very talented too. I lived for their relationship as boyfriends on the show, and tried to suck it up and pretend not to be disappointed when I found out that Criss (somehow???) was not queer in real life.

Then there was Hedwig and the Angry Inch, and now, Gianni, in which he plays the famed designer’s killer, Andrew Cunanan. All gays. All roles he was praised the hell out of for performing. He even won a GG for best actor in a limited series last Sunday.

And sure, Criss recently stated in a Bustle interview that he will no longer play gay characters so as not to be “another straight boy taking a gay man’s role” as the actor said.

That’s all fine and good, but that article was published in December. And at the GG’s this year? No mention of it in his acceptance speech. At all. If it weren’t already too little, too late for the guy, that last snub certainly makes it so.

I mean, I sort of forgive him for Glee though.

And finally. The worst offender of them all. 

3. Bohemian Rhapsody, But, Like, Without the Part Where Freddie Mercury Dies from AIDS.

This one pains me. I don’t want to admit it happened. But it did. And it was REAL bad.

Rami Malek. Even as a lesbian, I love him. Okay, I said it. He’s a cutie, and he’s extremely talented (See Mr. Robot), and his voice sounds like how coffee would taste (I imagine) if I liked coffee. And when I saw the first trailers for Bohemian Rhapsody, I was PUMPED. Thank God they got an actual person of color to play Freddie Mercury who, most people don’t even know, was also a person of color (yeah, his name was Farrokh Bulsara). The likeness, too, was pretty impeccable.

Freddie Mercury was one of the most famous bisexuals of his time, rivaled only by David Bowie, perhaps, who together produced perhaps the greatest and gayest moment that rock music ever saw when they collaborated on “Under Pressure.” Malek, always an enigma, I’m not going to jump to conclusions about his sexuality since he’s never stated it publicly, but, let’s just say he’s only ever dated women. 

Which is all fine and good on its own.

But Bohemian Rhapsody had already come under scrutiny for “straight-washing” after the release of its first trailer, which completely masked Mercury’s queerness, quickly followed up by another trailer that gave audiences a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it dose. As an article featured on Into stated regarding that sprinkle of queerness, “It’s the kind of passable moment that straight audiences wouldn’t take offense at and gay viewers could feel like they had some semblance of representation.”

Needless to say, we were off to a rough start.

So while I was watching the Golden Globes, watching Rami Malek walk on stage and accept his Best Actor award, of course I was nearly praying in my head that Malek would mention Mercury’s queerness. That would have made things better for disappointed queers. And honestly, Mercury’s memory deserved it, along with all the others who had their lives cut short during the AIDS epidemic.

So what brilliant lines had he to say about that? Nothing. Not a mention of AIDS or Mercury’s queerness was uttered by Malek or the production team who accepted the GG for best Drama.

Frankly, I wish I could say I was surprised. Or enraged. Or something. But as the 2019 Golden Globes ceremony came to a close half an hour late, I just had a kind of half grimace on my face.

As my mom would say about every fashion choice I made in high school: Disappointed, but not surprised. 

It was looking like it was going to be a good year for queers during award season, but we’re really not starting off on a great foot. Yet, I should add, we queers and allies should take courage, and tell ourselves that it’s not over until the last white guy receives an Oscar. Our fates are not yet writ. With a little over six weeks left, we have two options.

First, for those of you who are staying tuned in, have hope. There are a lot of queer films, TV shows, and artists in the running at this year’s award shows. The Golden’s are pretty indicative of how the Oscars turn out, but they’re not a direct reflection. And there’s still time for people, (Ahem, Rami Malek and Darren Criss) to do justice to the queer community as potential allies.

Second, for those of you who don’t care about awards shows, take pride in knowing that you’re probably right. It probably doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters, after all . . . ♫

[the-desolated-quill]

Once Removed - Inside No. 9 blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

Writing a farce is difficult enough. Writing a farce in reverse must have been an absolute nightmare. But Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith pull it off.

Once Removed couldn’t be any more different from Bernie Clifton’s Dressing Room. The previous episode was an intimate two hander and an emotional powerhouse. Once Removed on the other hand is very much firmly in League territory here with darkness and weirdness aplenty. What I especially love is how quickly the tone shifts. I mean you get the sense from the start that something isn’t quite right here, with Monica Dolan’s character shaking like a leaf and Reece Shearsmith in a pink dressing gown that’s two sizes too small for him, but there’s no slow buildup or anything. It’s just ‘WHAM!’ and the whole thing gets turned on its head.

In fact that’s something Series 4 has been extremely good at so far. One of the major problems I had with the previous series was that Pemberton and Shearsmith were getting too wrapped up in shocking the audience with bigger and bigger twists to the point where it started to have a negative impact on their writing. Not only has Series 4 reduced the scale, it has also put more emphasis on good storytelling rather than just simple shock value. There was no real twist in Zanzibar and the twist in Bernie Clifton’s Dressing Room was very much downplayed in favour of strong character interplay. Here they just get the twist over and done with in the first five or ten minutes. There’s a bunch of dead bodies all over the place, and the rest of the episode is about explaining how the fuck this happened in the first place.

In some ways, Reece Shearsmith’s assassin character is the main protagonist. The put upon victim the farce surrounds. He’s there just to kill a woman for a client, but circumstances keep getting in the way. With each crimes he commits, more witnesses arrive, which means more people to kill and more bodies to hide. It’s a classic League setup given an extra shot of inspiration thanks to the reverse farce premise. Usually farces go from A to B, with each new plot element and character adding to the chaos as the protagonist tries desperately to restore the status quo. In theory Once Removed could easily have been a conventional, if slightly dark, farce and it would have been fine. But instead the episode starts with the chaos and we go backwards from there. We’re not being swept along for the ride like we would in a traditional farce. Instead we’re taking a more analytical stance. The episode piques our interest and curiosity. What were the circumstances that led from A to B? It adds a whole new dimension to the story and makes it all the more engaging. It’s a bit like a Rubik’s Cube. We’re seeing all these mismatched colours and squares being slotted into place with a satisfying click. 

This episode rewards repeat viewings when you know the full context behind everything. You start to pick up hints about the affair and the hitman early on. A lot of credit has to go to director Jim O’Hanlon for his care and attention to detail. Every minor detail has some significance, right down to the screwdriver Monica Dolan’s character has at the beginning, which is revealed to have been used to remove the screw from the door sign, turning the No 6 into a No 9. All the actors are great in their roles and of course Shearsmith and Pemberton’s writing is impeccable. Things like the father thinking he’s Andrew Lloyd Webber and the removal man with erectile dysfunction were really funny, but by far my favourite bit was when Steve Pemberton’s estate agent character gets in a fight with the assassin. It reminded me a lot of the Pauline/Ross fight from the League of Gentlemen Season 2, right down to the ineffective weapons. In League it was pens, here it’s bubblewrap.

Like A Quiet Night In, this is an episode that you really have to watch for yourself in order to fully appreciate it. Apologies if this seems like a cop out. The long and short of it is Once Removed is bloody good. If you haven’t already, watch it.