#my thoughts are all over the place if this makes 1 iota of sense i have done my job

[laylakeating]

this ask is about to be so long i apologize

i’m actually curious about your rini thoughts. idk if you’ve ever said it before but how do you think their relationship was intended to end at first? rinis and ex hsmtmts stans main argument is always “rina is only endgame bc of the jolivia fallout and nini leaving bc of olivia’s popularity”

i’ve always been of the idea it was genuinely a dawson’s creek situation. tim accidentally recreated his favorite show in a way lmao. i do think rini was probably suppose to be endgame at first and rina was suppose to be plot device but when they filmed rinas scenes he realized he has to write towards this (like he said). so he wrote it in a way in s1 where they never truly end their book. even before the flashback the last 2 episodes didn’t close their book at all ricky honestly just seemed more confused about his feelings towards her more than anything. and the flashback (that was confirmed not closure 🫂🫂) makes that even more obvious they didn’t want to close the book.

but anyways i think rini was prob endgame at first and then in the s2 writing room or after reading s1 opinions they realized they accidentally in s1 wrote a relationship that is destined to fail and went with it. the same thing happened with dawsey. they realized the better option was jacey and went with it. and i love when writers realize maybe the relationships or storylines they planned at first aren’t working so they change it (not doing that is how we get horrible endgame relationships especially in disney shows)

i think i remember tim saying he wanted them broken up before any of that irl drama even went down but even if some of it was bc of the drama then ok? it probably gave them the courage to full out end rini and go with rina.

okay so. strap in. this got so long i put it under tab thingy. i know that's called something i just don't remember what 😭

WELP LET'S GOOOO

main rini thoughts: hate the ship, hate the characters together and what they bring out in each other BUT i absolutely love their relationship from a writing perspective. it's very well written and well structured and the writer in me really admires it.

idk if you’ve ever said it before but how do you think their relationship was intended to end at first?

i haven't said it before BUT naturally i have opinions <3 i think their relationship (their romantic one, anyway) was set up to end in much the same way it actually DID end. i'll explain why i think this is a little bit, but just to address the next bit of your ask:

rinis and ex hsmtmts stans main argument is always “rina is only endgame bc of the jolivia fallout and nini leaving bc of olivia’s popularity”

i think that's a fairly valid opinion to hold if not also like. totally wrong. while it may have contributed to how certain scenes were written (lots of video calls between rini etc) the main outcome (rini breakup) i believe has always remained the same. the seeds have been laid since s1 !! (going to explain this dw)

i’ve always been of the idea it was genuinely a dawson’s creek situation. tim accidentally recreated his favorite show in a way lmao. i do think rini was probably suppose to be endgame at first and rina was suppose to be plot device but when they filmed rinas scenes he realized he has to write towards this (like he said).

this is a very interesting interpretation that i don't necessarily...disagree with? but i've got to say, that from analysing the show bc i can't ever just watch something it's pretty clear that rini was never meant to endgame past s1. it's set up in the PILOT. while i can definitely see tim and the writers deciding to focus more on rina, i really do think that rini was always written to fail and was always MEANT to.

so he wrote it in a way in s1 where they never truly end their book. even before the flashback the last 2 episodes didn’t close their book at all ricky honestly just seemed more confused about his feelings towards her more than anything. and the flashback (that was confirmed not closure 🫂🫂) makes that even more obvious they didn’t want to close the book.

yeah i pretty much agree with all of this. they discovered gold with rina, wanted to keep building towards it, but they didn't want to throw away everything they'd built (to fail lmao) with rini, to they left all the necessary avenues open and gave neither ricky OR gina proper closure leading into s2.

okay but now: RINI ANALYSIS (BUT ESP NINI)

so. i said before that rini were never meant to be endgame past s1, and that this was set up in the pilot.

(cheryl blossom voice) let's unpack that, shall we?

in the pilot we encounter a nini who we are told (and shown!) is remarkably different from before. she's stepping out of her comfort zone and auditioning for the lead. now, why is this important?

in 101 nini tells ricky "the old me got her heart broken. and then she went away and she found herself" (or something along those lines lmao i'm too lazy to look it up). this is pretty pivotal bc this is when nini also found her voice. she steps out of her shell (ej says something similar). kourtney makes several remarks of the same nature!! we get the impression that while nini is clearly NOT over ricky, she's much better off without him (while he's spiralling without her).

so now we can follow that thread to 105. nini blows off the homecoming dance and goes to the karaoke bar with kourtney. kourtney signs her up to sing. nini is very adamant that she doesn't want to...and what happens next? they have a heart to heart, where kourtney says something VERY impactful (and i looked this one up bc it is IMPORTANT) - "what happened to the 7th grade nini who used to belt this song out in the back seat of my mum's minivan?" - "she grew up" - "nuh-uh. she met ricky." "what?" "ever since you discovered boys you've spent way too much time trying to see yourself through their eyes."

AND BOOM. THERE IT IS. THERE IT IS

now. WHY am i making such a big deal out of this ONE scene? it's a good kourtney/nini bonding moment, sure, but how does it let us know that rini was written to fail???

let us jump ahead to season 2. specifically, season 2, episode 6.

what happens in 206 that doesn't have anything to do with rina, you ask?

well, dear reader, in 206, nini writes a song. what's that song called?

it's called the rose song. and within the rose song there are a few choice lyrics:

"i am more than what i am to you" - directly inspired by what kourtney says to howie beforehand at slices (there's a lot of focus on nini's reaction to this here btw)

and

AND

"all my life i've seen myself through your eyes"

which okay. WOW. DOES THAT SOUND FAMILIAR ANYONE??????

it's a DIRECT callback to s1. it's a direct callback to all of the problems in the rini relationship that have ALWAYS BEEN THERE.

these seeds were always planted. all the signs were there!!! you just had to look for them <3

to get even deeper into it...rini are endgame in s1 bc they both regress back to the "safe" option. despite moving on from nini (during the period of time gina is actively in his life) ricky confesses his love for her (this is due to lots of things..gina leaving, his parents' divorce etc). nini is safe. he knows her!! ricky's arc in s1 is abt being vulnerable emotionally!! it's abt saying ily!! this had to happen with nini BC he'd known her as long as he'd known her and also bc she'd said it first!! he already knew how she felt !!

whereas nini tried to have it all. she wasn't over ricky but she couldn't be WITH ricky and also chase her dreams. they needed different things from one another, and while it seems like everything is tied up in a neat little bow at the end of s1, it's really just the tip of the iceberg for them.

to make a veryyyy long story short, i think the line "i never outgrew you" says it best. in the end, that's exactly what happened. nini had grown too much as a person to stay "trapped" in her relationship, and ricky had discovered that change wasn't as bad as he thought and learnt to stop relying so heavily on nini (mostly thanks to gina).

in s1, we see rini outgrow each other, even if they don't. in s2, they realise it for themselves. and that's how we know they were ALWAYS written to fail.

anyway, i digress. also i hope this was coherent lmao.

#my thoughts are all over the place if this makes 1 iota of sense i have done my job #i'm so sorry anon if i've failed you <3 #BUT if there's anything that needs clarification/explanation send me another ask!! love over analysing tv shows help me #anyway yeah. straight from my brain to the page. #asked and answered #anonymous #hsmtmts

[immaturityofthomasastruc]

IOTA Reviews: Adoration

You know, between Sabrina and Zoe, it's hard to tell who gets screwed over more in this episode.

Let's get into the seventeenth episode of Miraculous Ladybug's fifth season: Adoration

We start off with Zoe talking with Andre about a movie he made when he was younger. Apparently, he made it to declare his love for Audrey. The fact that he thought making a movie to please someone as abusive as her either means Andre is a real idiot, or Audrey is an absolute goddess in bed.

We then cut to school the next day, where Marinette and Zoe are put in charge of organizing it. The two met up at Marinette's room, where Zoe comments on how beautiful it looks... even though she was already there at the end of “Gabriel Agreste”.

Okay, in all seriousness, this is a minor error compared to the other retcons this show has made, and I can see the writers forgetting that scene since Zoe didn't say anything in it anyway, but this does have a purpose. While thinking about where to hold the dance, Marinette settles on the Eiffel Tower, and asks Zoe if she can talk to Andre about it.

The two go to Zoe's place, and surprise, surprise, Chloe throws a hissy fit about Marinette stepping on one of “her” stairs. Okay, writers, just admit you're running out of ideas for Chloe to antagonize Marinette. Zoe stands up to Chloe, who then goes to Audrey, but she's so apathetic, she doesn't even intervene, so Zoe calls it a win.

Marinette: What happened to the scared Zoe who moved here from New York a few months ago?

Zoe: It's all thanks to you, Marinette. You're the one who helped me change!

Uh... how? Outside of “Sole Crusher” and “Queen Banana”, the two have never really had any meaningful interactions. It's almost like Zoe has had absolutely no development since her introduction last season, and the writers are trying to convince us that they actually gave her character development.

Andre decides to approve holding the school dance under the Eiffel Tower, he tells Marinette and Zoe not to tell Chloe. Chloe overhears this, and gets angry for... some reason. Seriously, what did they even do? All Marinette and Zoe did was ask to hold a dance, Chloe overheard it, and the very next scene, she's talking with Lila and Sabrina about how to get revenge. She doesn't even make it about the dance, she just gets angry Zoe is talking with her father. Again, after five seasons, it really seems like the writers are running out of ways for Chloe to incite conflict, because this is just lazy.

At the Agreste Mansion, Adrien talks to Gabriel about asking Marinette to the dance, but Gabriel forbids him from doing so. Nathalie convinces him to concede, but then he calls Lila. The next scene has Chloe talking with Sabrina about a plan she has.

Chloe: Do you want to be demoted from underling to punching bag? You want to join the baker girl and the half-of-a-sister?

Sabrina: (gasps) No! I'm your friend!

Chloe: (shakes her head) My underling. You are my underling. If you're not willing to do anything for me, then get lost!

This can't seriously be the script the writers stuck with, right? Now Chloe's just saying things you'd hear from a dark lord from an RPG. Granted, it's hard to tell how honest Chloe is since her chewing out Sabrina is revealed to be a plan by Lila, but given how Chloe has been this episode, it's hard to really believe she was exaggerating anything. Either way, Sabrina is upset enough for Monarch to send an Akuma her way, akumatizing her into Vanisher again through a whistle.

Vanisher's design is pretty lazy, even back when it first appeared in Season 1. It's just Sabrina with a purple filter when she isn't using her powers to turn invisible. I guess it kind of makes sense given she's not meant to be flashy, but this just screams “cutting corners”. The Miraculous power shown this time is the Dog Miraculous' Fetch, allowing Vanisher to steal as many things as she wants.

Vanisher comes back into the room, and we actually get a funny joke where Chloe asks Lila if she's a witch, even if a funny joke in this kind of show only gets a reaction along the lines of...

Anyway, Marinette and Zoe plan out the dance some more, where Marinette talks about how hard it is to tell Adrien she loves him, to which Zoe agrees, revealing she has her own crush on someone. As the two talk, Vanisher sneaks in and we get a montage of her tagging things with her whistle. During the montage, Marinette assumes that Zoe has a crush on Adrien, which will be more important towards the end.

Once things with the dance are set up, Vanisher uses Fetch to teleport all the things she touched into Marinette's bag. Chloe accuses Marinette of being a thief, and even though Lila isn't in the rest of the episode, everyone's about as gullible as they normally are in a Lila episode, so they decide to believe Chloe. Mr. Damocles prepares to expel Marinette, but Zoe takes the blame for it, allowing Marinette transform into Ladybug.

Ladybug figures out that Vanisher is behind this because Chloe threw some paper flowers that accidentally fell onto her, so she summons her Lucky Charm, a pinata. While Ladybug fights Vanisher, Adrien gets to a safe place to transform into Cat Noir. Ladybug hands Cat Noir a bottle of some kind of spray-on glue and just as Ladybug breaks the pinata above Vanisher, Cat Noir sprays her with it, covering her in confetti. Ladybug ties up Vanisher while Cat Noir Cataclysms the whistle, freeing the Akuma.

Ladybug de-evilizes the Akuma, uses Miraculous Ladybug to fix the damage, Chloe yells at Sabrina for failing, and even though this blows her cover, somehow isn't punished for it, Sabrina gets a useless Magical Charm from Ladybug and because I've already seen the rest of the season, I already know that Sabrina is still going to work with Chloe for some reason.

Anyway, Marinette and Zoe talk about the latter supposedly having feelings for Adrien.

Marinette: I know... you're in love with Adrien. Don't sacrifice your feelings for him because of me. He has the right to hear your declaration.

Zoe: Adrien? But you're the one he loves.

Marinette: Even if he loves me, he'd be flattered to know that you love him too. Let him know how you feel about him. Zoe, you're an amazing person. One can only feel honored to be loved by you.

Zoe: Are you sure?

Marinette: Of course! You can't keep it to yourself! Zoe: But... Adrien’s not the one I’m in love with.

Marinette: Oh? Who is it, then? (Zoe simply looks at Marinette and smiles) Oh... Oh! Oh. I am truly, very honored. I mean it, Zoe.

Zoe: Thanks, Marinette.

Oh my God... I can't believe Zoe has feelings for Alya.

Okay, in all seriousness, let's discuss this scene. While I'm glad that we have confirmation that Zoe has feelings for Marinette, which is a big deal after the show danced around the idea with Juleka and Rose, and the reveal itself is done very well with Zoe and Marinette's facial expressions doing all the work, my problems with this scene stem from a different issue, and it ties back to my earlier point about Zoe.

Zoe as a character has always been criminally underdeveloped. Other than the fact that she's nice and is different from Chloe, very little is done to establish who she is as a person. With every focus episode she gets, the writers just slap on some kind of trait or idea to try and get viewers invested in her. In “Sole Crusher”, she had her vague backstory about being bullied, in “Queen Banana”, she became Vesperia, in “The Kwamis' Choice”, she temporarily replaced Cat Noir as Kitty Noire, and in this episode, we have her feelings for Marinette. None of these are really bad things, but the show just expects us to connect with Zoe for all of these things that happen to her with little buildup or character development. Like I said earlier, the show tries to act like there's been character development with Zoe, but it doesn't work because she's barely gotten to do anything that isn't the writers trying to shove her into the main cast.

As for the reveal that Zoe has feelings for Marinette, it sort of falls flat because again, the two have barely spent any time together since “Sole Crusher” and “Queen Banana”. Yeah, Zoe was present in other episodes like “Gabriel Agreste” and “Crocoduel”, but she was only part of the group and didn't really interact with Marinette on her own. It's hard to really see this reveal as impactful because not only did we not get a lot of hints that Zoe was into girls, but we didn't even get a lot of hints that Zoe had developed feelings for Marinette in the first place. That's not to say this couldn't work. In The Owl House, there weren't any hints that either Luz or Amity were into girls, but the difference there was that their growing feelings for each other became an ongoing story. Here, there's nothing that really comes of Zoe having feelings for Marinette other than so the show can say they have an LGBT character. If there was an episode about Zoe struggling to deal with her unrequited feelings for Marinette, or an episode where she tries to ask another girl out, this could have worked, but nothing really comes from this.

And finally, there's the reason behind this reveal. The episode goes out of its way to establish that Zoe has feelings for Marinette not to really expand on Zoe's character, but rather, to expand on Marinette's. Zoe's coming out story is less of a big reveal about her sexual identity, and more of a cautionary tale about not being able to confess your feelings to someone you care about until it's too late. The reveal that Zoe has feelings for Marinette isn't about Zoe taking a risk that could jeopardize her friendship with Marinette, it's about giving Marinette the confidence she needs to tell Adrien she loves him, and even then, that moment is undercut because the very next scene, Gabriel uses his influence to order Adrien to go home when he's about to kiss Marinette. The episode basically ends with Marinette trying to reassure herself that progress was actually made when we know Gabriel screwed that up.

So basically, THIS EPISODE WAS A GIANT WASTE OF TIME! Oh my God, this was bad, and it's hard to really explain. I'm not really as angry as I was towards episodes like “Kuro Neko”, “Penalteam”, or “Illusion”, but this episode just had so many little things that got to me that all piled up by the end. The attempt to give Zoe character development didn't really work, Gabriel and Chloe had no reason to incite the conflict other than because they felt like it, Lila had no real purpose being here (yet she gets to be in the end card instead of Chloe), the Akuma was underwhelming, Sabrina still hasn't gotten any major character development herself, and the ending just felt like a cheap excuse to keep the story going. This is still one of the worst episodes of the season, but I still think “Derision” and “Illusion” are worse.

THE BIGGEST IDIOT OF THE EPISODE IS... ANDRE (THE OTHER ONE)

While Gabriel came close to getting his third Biggest Idiot Award in a row, I ultimately gave it to Andre because the episode tried to make him out to be a good father even though he's scared of his own child. He made an entire movie to show how much he loved someone as terrible as Audrey, wanted to keep organizing a school dance a secret from Chloe, kept enabling her even when she framed a classmate, and didn't even punish her afterwards when it was obvious she framed Marinette with the help of an Akuma.

#immaturity of thomas astruc #iota #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug salt #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #adrien agreste #cat noir #chat noir #gabriel agreste #hawkmoth #hawk moth #monarch #monarch miraculous #sabrina raincomprix #vanisher #zoe lee #chloe bourgeois #lila rossi #andre bourgeois #audrey bourgeois #nathalie sancoeur #Youtube

[some-cookie-crumbz]

A Little Charismatic

A Little Charismatic Fandom: My Hero Academia Pairing: FuyuPress Summary: FuyuPress Week 2021 Day 1 Prompt Fill: Life Swap - Never said who had to swap lives and I’m running on too little sleep and too much caffeine to stay in the lines. Standard Disclaimer: If you read and enjoy this, please give it a like/ reblog so I know if I should write more.

Sako Atsuhiro liked to consider himself an observant fellow, if not also a bit of a creature of habit. He had a handful of places that he enjoyed frequenting, where he knew his face was safe. He could walk about in his usual work garb, with or without his mask and hat, and none of the other patrons would bat an eye. It wasn’t because the company he found in these places was particularly trustworthy or noble sorts, however; oh, no, they were far from that. He had just taken the time to establish that, despite his seemingly frail physique, he was not a force to be tested. He was always watching, always vigilant, watching to make sure that men conducted themselves like proper gents in the company of potential romantic partners. And if not? Well, he may have done a sleight of hand trick to remove a wandering hand or two.

It wasn’t often that there were new faces wandering around his usual haunts, so when there were, he noticed. That night was one such example.

She’d been settled at the bar when he walked in, another bar patron already trying to get cuddly with her. Judging by the glower in those bright baby blues, she was less than impressed. She was an odd one to place as Atsuhiro moved past them, her eyes straying from her suitor to chase him instead. Ah, that was unsurprising. Many a woman’s eyes had wandered over him, taking his attire to mean he must be some brand of wealthy and useful. They’d come over and start up with the fluttering lashes and slow, playful touches while asking for a drink.

It was always entertaining to watch how their expressions shifted when he insisted they have separate tabs.

It took her a full ten minutes to shake the guy she was dealing with at the bar, but once she’d gotten him off, she approached. “This seat taken?” she asked, her hands laced behind her back and head tilted to one side. He chuckled as he sized her up, taking in the leather jacket tossed over a halter dress and combat boots. The damn thing was incredibly low cut and he was quick to avert his eyes, instead taking a sip of the beer in his hands.

“Not at all,” he hummed, indicating the booth seat across from him with the wave of a hand.

She offered him a polite bow before settling into the seat, a nice change of pace. Usually the women that approached would slide in beside him first go, but she seemed to have some iota of manners, at least. “You are a difficult man to track, you know,” she mused slowly, “Mr. Compress.” He froze mid-sip to stare at her, doing his best to keep the shock from showing on his face. Very few knew of his moniker, even when he was out and about in his full regalia, so for her to address him so matter-of-factly… She was a threat and would need to be disposed of. As if sensing the bleak thoughts running through his head, she held her hands up in a placating manner to him. “Don’t worry, I’m not a narc. Or affiliated with one. I don’t think many of the people around here are, in fact.”

“Whatever it is you are trying to play at, dear, you are wasting your time,” he quipped, turning his attention away from her to the bar keep. He seemed to be more focused on a loud, clearly drunk man arguing the merits of his tab, thankfully.

He kept her in his peripheral view, though. Just in case.

She blinked before her face morphed to show hurt. “So quick to disregard me… Ah, that seems to be a trend with men in my life,” she lamented with a long-suffering sigh. He got the distinct impression that most of her behavior was an act. One of her legs shifted out to prod at the side of his calf gently, trying to coax him to look at her again. “Won’t you at least hear me out?”

He scoffed but did return his attention to her. It was the least he could do and might yet yield some further information to help him discern her authentic intentions. “There is no reason to do so outside of wasting both our time,”

“What about a game, then? You seem like a man who fancies a fun game,” she suggested.

A game? Well… He couldn’t help but be intrigued by the hand she was laying down. “Depending on what the wager is, I may be inclined to humor you,”

“Here,” she shifted to rummage through her jacket pockets. After a moment, she dropped three items onto the tabletop between them; a lighter, a small vial of some kind of liquid, and a yarn and bead bracelet. With the items spread out, she picked up the bracelet and dangled it off her index finger, before indicating the other two items with her free hand. “Use your Quirk to put these three items away. Only one of them - this one here - is of any value to me. If I can get this one back from you, you’ll agree to comply with the request I have for you.” When she spoke, she waggled her index finger to attract his attention to the bracelet briefly, before dropping her chin into her other hand.

He blinked owlishly, contemplating her game. It was in his favor, yes, but then it became a question of what she could offer him in return. “And if you are unsuccessful?”

“I’ll comply with a request of yours. No limits,” she drawled the last two words out in a leading way, her fingers lightly drumming away along her own jawline. He wrinkled his nose a bit at her implication, but found it could be a rather useful trap. After all, there would be no indication as to which marble held what once he used his Quick to compress them. Only he would be able to say for certain, and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t easily swap them around if she picked the right one. There was much more to gain in this than he had to lose. “So, what do you say?” She stuck her hand out towards him, beaded bracelet still hanging on.

“Very well,” he said, taking her hand for a brief shake before sliding the bracelet off. Judging by the yarn on it, the thing was old and may be in dire need of some new yarn or replacing outright. He waved the thought off as he compressed it and then set to doing the same to the other two items. Under the table, he was sure to shuffle them around, placing the marble with her bracelet in the back pocket of his pants. He waited until she stepped away to get a drink to make that adjustment, sly grin on his lips. There was no way she’d be able to determine it was there as he wouldn't present it as an option, and then he could easily be rid of her. “There we are now. Just be aware, however, that I am very wise to the tricks a young minx like you is prone to attempting.”

“Is that so?” she hummed.

From there, they started up a fun little back and forth. He tried to get more answers to why, exactly, she knew his street moniker and why she’d been looking for him, but she flitted about the subjects using redirection. It was Take-aPenny, Leave-a-Penny logic she was trying to enact and he couldn’t help but find it amusing. It was clear she had some kind of experience with this kind of situation, with having to negotiate ones hand without tipping it too much. A flurry of questions came to his mind at the thought. She was such a young, demure young lady once she was engaged in a conversation. Something about those mannerisms and the idea of her living her whole life on the streets simply didn’t add up quite right to him.

It did, however, give him a fun little mystery to chase around.

After a good while she shifted to sit more upright, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her eyes were alight with mirth as she repositioned herself. “Well, I think that’s enough of that. I came here to accomplish a goal, not play footsie all night,” She stretched languidly and her gaze shifted from his face down lower, giggling a bit at what she saw.

He blinked twice before glancing downward himself and uttering a small short curse.

His eyes widened as he suddenly registered what, exactly, she’d been playing at all along. A glance downwards revealed a layer of ice sticking to the outer traces of his body, over his legs, hips and wrists specifically. Given that he was wearing his full gear minus his mask, of course he hadn’t noticed the change in temperature! She must have been assessing him during their conversation, skirting about with her verbal distraction while leaking small traces of her Quirk to gauge his reaction... 

A clever ruse that he’d fallen into with regrettable ease.

“What in the devil did you do?” he spat, keeping his voice low as his eyes scanned the bar. No one else had noticed their exchange, thankfully. The last thing he needed was other hooligans taking advantage of this situation.

She tilted her head with a feigned innocence. “Hmm? What’s wrong? Don’t like that I used my Quirk too?” The faux concern melted into a mischievous grin of delight as she moved from her perch across from him to sit beside him. She nudged the chunk of ice pinning his legs down with the toe of her boot as she settled in nice and close. “I never said that it was against the rules, you know. And it’s only fair that if you got to use yours, I get to use mine. Wouldn’t that be the gentleman’s viewpoint on this matter?” Her tone was light and playful, but he could cast the mocking wisps underlying her words. Without further preamble, she reached over to rummage through his coat pockets as well as the pockets of his slacks, humming to herself as she ignored his quiet snarls to cease her actions. She leaned back just a bit once she gathered seven marbles in total, swirling one in a circle in her palm. “Ah, there’s more in these pockets of yours than just what’s mine. How uncouth! Scandalous even!”

He tried to twist himself free but the ice pinned up along his wrists and hips didn’t budge an inch. Not even a thin crack was visible, to his uncensored chagrin. “What game are you playing at, wretch?”

“Just the game we agreed to,” she hummed. She peered at his marbles with an appraising eye before stuffing them into the pocket of her tattered denim shorts instead. “Since I’m the obvious winner here, I guess that means you have no choice but to abide by my rule, hm?”

“Name your damn price, then,” he growled lowly.

She giggled and leaned closer, walking two fingers up along his chest to his face. “You’re going to come with me to have a meeting. With. My. Boss,” Each of her final few words was followed by a mocking tap to the tip of his nose. If he could move his hands, he would have firmly shoved her from his personal space, but instead settled for jerking his head to the side. It only made her Cheshire grin grow wider. He could almost see a feline tail swaying in delight behind her, he swore. “He has a very… prosperous job opportunity for you. One that I think you’ll be very much inclined to take.” 

This young woman was dangerous, and he was unclear if that was unappealing to him or not.

#My Hero Academia #FuyuPress #Mr. Compress #Sako Atsuhiro #Todoroki Fuyumi #FuyuPress Week 2021 #my fics #I am surprisingly pleased with this one #All things considered

[im-fairly-whitty]

If you're still taking prompts for the witcher wolf fics, may I suggest Jaskier and Geralt using the wolf transformation to sneak Geralt through a castle where he's been forbidden to go, with a side of Geralt taking advantage of his form to act like a cursed fae horror again, like when he killed the bandits?

So clearly this got away from me a bit. Enjoy part 1 of 6 my friend.

In Plain Sight

Chapter 1: Into the Fire

“What if Calenthe doesn’t even let us near her?” Jaskier asked, tipping another log into their campfire as it crackled in the darkness. “I’ve been welcome enough at Ciri’s birthday parties over the years, but not even the princess’ fondness for me will temper the queen’s anger if she so much as remembers you and I know each other.”

“Calenthe has to listen to us, Cirilla is our child surprise.” Geralt said grimly from where he lay on their bedroll, propped up on one elbow under the blanket as he watched Jaskier. “She already knows what can happen if you try to deny destiny, she won’t be foolish enough to try to keep her from us. Not with the Nilfgaardian army advancing.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure when they’d started referring to the Cintran princess as their child surprise, but Geralt had never bothered correcting it once they’d started. It had now been nearly two years since Geralt’s medallion had become enchanted and they’d shared everything since then anyway. Walking the same Path, warming the same bedroll, keeping the same secrets, and—evidently—guarding the same destiny. Sometimes as Witcher and bard, quite often as bard and wolf, but always together and caring for each other. No matter whether they were on the road hunting a contract, performing for a tavern crowd, or wintering at Kaer Morhen.

Or—as had happened several days ago—spotting an entire Nilfgaardian army at Amel Pass who were beating a grim march toward a certain child surprise.

Jaskier chewed his lip as he looked north through the dark trees of the forest they were camped in. North toward Cintra, only a day’s ride away now, a trip he’d made alone many times over the past twelve years.

He hadn’t exactly made a mission of checking in on Geralt’s child surprise every few years without him knowing, it had just…happened… He was one of the continent’s best performers after all, it made sense he’d be in high demand whenever he could slip away from Geralt’s side to play for the charming princess who taken quite the liking to him, a feeling that was mutual between them.

He’d wondered before about whether destiny was involved with how fond he’d become of her. Looking back now it felt very much like Jaskier was a handful of carefully placed colored threads being sharply pulled into place as a tapestry picture was woven with increasing speed. Threads that were tangled him and Geralt and Ciri together into a tightly woven image that was coming into focus both too quickly and not nearly quickly enough.  

“Queen Calanthe had no qualms trying to keep Pavetta back from her destiny all those years ago.” Jaskier said. He walked back to Geralt and lay down beside him. He slipped back under the blanket and tucking himself up against his witcher’s warm body. “She only gave in at the end because her castle was about to be ripped apart around us, and I can promise you her stubbornness hasn’t worn down one iota over the years. If you ask me, we ought to slink in the back way and sneak off with the princess before her dear old granny has even realized what’s happened.”

“That’s a spectacularly bad idea.” Geralt said, pulling Jaskier’s back against his chest as he curled around the bard. “I’m finally wearing off on you if your court etiquette’s fallen so far as to allow royal kidnappings.”

Jaskier turned in Geralt’s arms to face him, poking a stern finger at his chest. “If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t even know Cirilla’s name before you went barging into the palace.” He said sternly. “I’m always the brains when we visit a royal court, and as the brains I’m saying it’s going to be no use trying to ask the lioness of Cintra for her last cub and expecting her to take it well, no matter how polite you manage to be.”

“And this isn’t a party we’re dealing with, it’s a fanatical invading army.” Geralt said. He huffed. “And I would have have found out her name even without you, surely I’m not that hopeless.”

“Says the man who had been referring to his own child surprise as a prince for years out of assumption before I corrected you.” Jaskier said dryly. “And I know, all the more reason for us to be careful. We’ll likely only have one chance to make sure she’s safe and if we leave it up to your interpersonal charm you’ll be thrown into a dungeon to rot until the Nilfgaardian soldiers tear the cell down around you.”

“Well then, what do you suggest we do, oh expert of all things Cintra?” Geralt said with a thin sigh, resting his head against their pillow.

“Well first of all, I suggest that we do not parade Geralt of Rivia the Witcher through the front gates of the city for all of Calenthe’s spies to see.” Jaskier said, running his fingers meaningfully along the chain of Geralt’s Witcher medallion. “She forbade you from ever returning to Cintra over a decade ago, she’ll have you killed the moment she catches your scent near her granddaughter. But she won’t be wary of a favorite bard who’s performed in her court several times, along with his new pet wolf.”

“Oh, you’re her favorite bard?” Geralt said with a smirk.

“Calenthe’s favorite bard is the soldier who sounds the war horn as she rides into her latest over-aggressive military effort.” Jaskier said dryly. “If it was up to her I’m sure all royal parties would be replaced with sparring matches between visiting dignitaries.”

“Sounds like an improvement to me.” Geralt said. “Probably get more done that way really.”

“You’re impossible.” Jaskier sighed. “But what I meant is the princess. Ciri knows me and likes me, Calenthe knows that too. It makes me harder to turn away if I were to show up to a party, even without an invitation.”

“Which helps our current situation because…?”

“If you’d been listening to my gossip swapping at the last three taverns we’ve passed through you’d know there’s a Cintrian Royal banquet tomorrow. They’ll be bestowing several titles of knighthood and throwing a party about it.” Jaskier said, idly smoothing a hand down Geralt’s chest. “It shouldn’t be too hard to convince the steward that my wolf and I would make an excellent replacement for the musical entertainment that just disappeared under somewhat mysterious circumstances.”

“We are not killing a bard to get invited to a party.” Geralt said flatly.

“I said disappeared mysteriously Geralt, not killed.” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes. “Honestly. Just give the poor sod a blast of axii once we find him and we’ll pocket his invitation, we’ll say he lined us up as his replacement after a sudden last minute attack of bad stew. It happens in performing circles all the time, the steward won’t care a bit as long as I’m dressed for the occasion, my lute is in tune, and you’re well groomed and polite.”

“Hmmm.” Geralt stared past him and into the trees, quiet for a long moment. “We’re only just ahead of the Nilfgaardians. We’ll arrive tomorrow but they’ll only be a day behind us at most. It doesn’t leave us much time. We just need to know that the princess is safe.”

“Which is why we have to be careful with our one chance.” Jaskier said firmly. “We keep a low profile, get into the castle, eavesdrop until we learn what we need, and then slip out the back way before the Nilfgaardians even arrive. With Cirilla safely in tow if need be. It’ll be over and done before midnight tomorrow.”

“Alright.” Geralt said, mouth still twisted into a worried frown. “We’ll try it.”

“Everything will be alright my wolf.” Jaskier said gently, kissing the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Destiny is on our side and we’re playing our cards wisely, working together we’ll surely win this round.”

Geralt said nothing, only pulling Jaskier closer to bury his face against his neck.

 ***

 “Stick close.” Jaskier said, fingertips idly brushing Geralt’s wolf ears as they wove through the Cintrian marketplace together. “Now isn’t the time to go trailing after cats or meat carts.”

Geralt nipped playfully at his bard’s fingers for his teasing, earning him a smile and a real head scratch as they continued on, simply a bard and his pet wolf to any onlookers.

After two years Geralt could no longer say whether he preferred being a Witcher or being a wolf, because as far as he was concerned both forms were equally his true self. Running on all fours was as natural for him as swinging a sword, silently shadowing Jaskier as his supposed pet was as easy as brewing his hunting potions.

The day was overcast and the market was busy, an oppressive buzz of grim preparation seeped through the marketplace as the Cintran people purchased extra grain, swapped rumors, and sharpened all manner of weapons.

From what they’d gathered from the marketplace chatter the queen had made no public decree concerning the nearing Nilfgaardian army, aside from the command that every citizen should be ready to fulfill their duty should they be called upon. But the clear anxiety of Calanthe’s subjects belied the royal confidence such a bold non-move displayed, information that did nothing to settle Geralt’s fears about the princess’ safety.

Luckily Jaskier had already managed to find a lead on where to find their banquet lutist with a few well placed questions and a handful of coin. Even better, the roaming peacekeeping soldiers had barely given Geralt a second glance when they passed. He idly wondered what might have happened if he had come to the city as a Witcher, but shook off the thought, having more important things to worry about as they ducked out of the way of a tanner’s cart. They just had to-

“I am not. You’re just a sore loser!”

A young girl’s voice slipped through the noise of the crowd from somewhere nearby, catching Geralt’s attention. Geralt stopped dead in his tracks so abruptly it felt like his very bones had made the decision to halt, trapping the rest of Geralt with them as the bustle of the market around him faded away.

“Let me try again, give them here.”

Geralt turned, ears flicking toward the voice. Before he knew it his feet were pulling him along and toward whoever the owner of that voice was. He wove between legs and around market stalls as he followed the sound of young laughter and spirited teasing without even thinking to wonder why.

The source of the laughter came into view: five teenagers kneeling around a mat rolled out on the ground, jeering and smiling at each other as they played what looked like a game of knucklebones.

Or rather, four teenage boys and a young girl who seemed like she was very much trying to look like a boy, wearing a pair of pants with her hair tucked up into a tight cap.

“I said give it-”

The young girl trailed off, sitting up and looking around as if she’d heard something odd.

Geralt found himself trotting right up to her, feeling a small electric jolt when she turned to meet his gaze. She showed no surprise at a massive collared white wolf coming up to her, only reaching out to pet him, her expression a bit confused.

“Hello.” She said, tipping her head to the side and smiling as Geralt wagged his tail. “Where have you come from?”

“Ciri, that your dog?” One of her playmates asked.

“It’s a wolf you idiot, of course it’s hers, look at the expensive collar it’s got.” Said another, socking the first in the shoulder.

“How am I supposed to know what pets princesses have?” Complained the first boy, rubbing his shoulder.

Geralt’s eyes widened and his tail stilled.

That’s why he’d been pulled toward her, why she’d seemed to sense him at a distance. This was the Princess Cirilla.

His child surprise.

“I’m Ciri, what’s your name?” She said curiously, ignoring the boys as she scratched behind his ears and checked his collar for a name plate. “Do you need help?”

Geralt whined, shifting from paw to paw as his canine excitement got the better of his usual stoic self. He pressed his cold nose against her palm and she laughed, making a warm excited feeling rush through him. How many times had he idly imagined meeting his child surprise? It had never gone like this in his imaginings, usually involving far more grandmotherly interference for one thing.

“I like you.” Ciri declared to only him, kissing his forehead. “If you’re lost you can stay with me.”

Geralt whined again, half knocking her over as he pressed against her side, tail wagging wildly as she giggled.

“So he’s not-” one of the boys started, but the teenagers all stiffened at the clatter of hooves.

In a moment they’d scattered like pigeons, leaving Geralt and Ciri alone in the road, looking up at the four riders who pulled to a stop before them. Geralt stepped in front of Ciri protectively. He’d had his child surprise for less than two minutes now but felt surprised at the certainty he already felt that he would absolutely rip a man apart with his own teeth to protect her.

“You need to come with us.” One of the horsemen—all of them royal guards—said, eying Geralt warily but saying nothing as Ciri got to her feet, putting a hand on Geralt’s collar. “You’re needed back at the castle your highness.”

“Alright.” Ciri said primly, her demeanor entirely different than it had been a moment ago with her friends. More serious, now drained of happiness. “But you didn’t have to bring an entire regiment to fetch me.”

“Are you bringing that…dog with you?” the soldier asked, dismounting and handing his reigns to another soldier to accompany the princess on foot.

Ciri looked down at Geralt, he could see her biting her lip in indecision, doubtlessly hesitating to take a wolf with her who was clearly already owned by someone. Geralt panted, whining happily and pushing his nose against her palm in a clear show of encouragement. Take me with you, it’s alright. Keep me by your side.

“Yes.” Ciri decided, petting his head with a smile and looking back at the soldier. “He’s lost, I’m keeping him until his owner can be found.”

“As you wish your majesty.” The soldier said, already looking disinterested as they began making their way back to the castle in a small procession of hooves and sabers.

Geralt’s ears pricked as he heard a shrill three note whistle, the signal Jaskier always used if they were separated and calling his real name was inadvisable. Geralt looked back just in time to see his bard wander through the crowd, whistling and looking around worriedly.

Jaskier spotted him through the crowd and his eyes widened. Geralt wagged his tail in reassurance and Jaskier must have gotten the message, hanging back as Geralt turned a corner and out of sight with the others.

This was not the plan, but Geralt knew he could trust Jaskier to be clever enough to continue his half without help.

Or at least he had to hope so. Because without Jaskier and the medallion he guarded Geralt would be trapped as a wordless and weaponless wolf in the court of a queen who hated him as an enemy army bore down on the city.

Geralt would only be able to keep his wits about him and hope that this was a gamble that would pay off in their favor.

[Read chapter 2: Old Friend]

#the witcher #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #ciri #the witcher wolf #wit writes #this will be a quick fluffy oneshot #i say to myself #putting on my clown makeup

[imnotrevealingmyname]

For fanfic writer questions: All. Of. Them. Alternatively: 15. 21 and 25

Lmao 😂😂😂😂❤️❤️❤️❤️ I'm doing all of them.

1. Phone, on Google docs. My phone is an absolute mess.

2. Fanfiction? About two years ago. Don't ask about original stuff. Oof

3. Loki fics, poems.

4. Both? Both. Both is good.

5. Terrible. Ok I'm kidding, I'd describe it as poetic, in a way? Overly poetic is good, ig. But it's also overly dramatic- something I hate seeing in people. Which makes me a hypocrite, ig. Lmao.

But in all honesty, I'm pretty flexible in my writing. Even while writing poems, I can easily shift from writing about EXTREMELY dark stuff (trust me, you don't wanna know) to something light and fluffy, which is a good thing, I guess? But it also feels a bit suffocating sometimes because I have a habit of reading my stuff from the POV of a reader, once I'm done with writing it. So I try to make it as bearable as possible. People nowadays don't always like intense stuff, and since I'm a freaky gal who started reading Shakespeare in third grade, it becomes difficult for me to give up my very intense style of writing. I probably don't make sense, but, uh. Whatever. Point is, I'm not perfect.

6. Random stuff. Seriously. My cupboard can set me off in a writing frenzy- most of the time,however, I don't even know what inspiration is. I meet her very infrequently- so infrequently that she's very forgettable :')

7. No? Sometimes? A couple of my fics were inspired by songs, I suppose. I also unpublished one, if I remember correctly.

8. The title. Oh god, that always makes me lose sleep. And also, the descriptions. Either I'm overly descriptive, or I end up writing a whole one shot in less than 300 words. Why Am I An Idiom is going to be the name of my autobiography, if I ever write one. (And yes, it's is Idiom. Long story.)

9. I don't really have any fixed place for writing. I've been known to write poems in the bathroom, so

10. Do I have a current WIP? I honestly have no idea what I'm doing with them. All I've been writing lately are one shots.

11. I don't count, but I have over 45 drafts

12. If you're talking about fics, then there's this fic I wrote, called Alien Ardour, a few months ago. I unpublished it due to several reasons, but I honestly love it. Also, I really like my one shots Scandalous and Silenced.

13. Like in total? What's 63+48+9? And it's ongoing.

14. Loki. Duh. And death. I love writing about death :')

15. OCs if it's multichapter, reader insert (NO Y/N, PLEASE, TAKE THAT AS FAR AWAY FROM ME AS POSSIBLE) if it's a one shot.

16. Repetitive question.

17. The Soul Trade. A few chapters were for aesthetics, but ok.

18. Loki. Only Loki. And uh.... Drarry. That's my fricking OTP.

19. @caffiend-queen. I love several other authors but she's always the first to come to my mind when I'm asked this question.

20. No

21. Coffee shop AU 😂 I don't even regret this

22. Idiots to lovers

23. 2 years. Fun fact: my first fic was a Drarry fic. I love it so much that it's still on Wattpad, even though I've not updated it in like a year.

24. Haven't we all?

25. Motivation? Who? What? Okay I'm kidding, I read fanfics. Seriously. Either I reread my own and edit them to sorta get back the feel of writing, or I end up reading a new fic. Smut who?

26. I was eight when I started writing, for heaven's sake. I don't remember.

27. If you're talking about fanfiction, then it's definitely @ohhhmyloki and @latent-thoughts (Tumblr won't let me tag y'all, for some reason). I used to write before I read their works but I quite literally began my journey with smut after reading their fics. And I don't think any of my fics written before that even exist anymore. But if we're talking about writing in general, then it's O Henry and Bernard Shaw. Maybe Gerald Durrell. Did I mention that I love Gerald Durrell?

28. Loki.

29. Idiotic. Messy. Freaky.

30. Um, I don't really wanna say this, but it's Just A Kiss Goodnight. It may be my most 'famous' fic, but it's definitely not the best. For one thing, I wrote it in less than a week, and I haven't edited it. And there's no fucking smut. I'm not saying that smut is necessary to make a fic good, but it doesn't have any intimacy in it. It's definitely not boring, I'll give it that, but it's childish.

31. Wtf is the difference

32. What kinda question is this

33. One shot? Depends. I can be freaky fast and write one in less than fifteen minutes, or I can take literal weeks to finish one.

34. Dude, what's the normal font in android? I have no idea. But one of my favourites is monotype corsiva, when I'm on my laptop.

35. Both.

36. I don't

37. All of my works, oof 😂 well, no. But there's this fic I've written, called Let's Get Drunk Together. And another. It's called Three Isn't A Crowd, After All. Cringy af

38. Smut. Dark poetry.

39. WHY ARE SO MANY QUESTIONS REPEATED? It's idiots to lovers, ffs

40. On Tumblr? Average is 60, I think.

41. Yes

42. Writing.

43. All the time

44. Yes

45. I can be as thirsty and smutty as I want without being judged, bless fanfiction.

46. The "WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO MY HEART WHAT ARE YOU DOING AHHHHHHHHHHHH AND WHY AM I SO AROUSED AT THIS TIME OF ALL TIMES AND WHY IS THIS ANGSTY GIVE ME FLUFF" feeling. Not to brag, but I'm very good at that.

47. I can do anything and everything I want. I can make a unicorn fuck a werewolf and nobody will judge me. Or maybe they will.

48. Yes- Wattpad and Ao3.

49. Google docs, word.

50. Fucking Y/N. Like, not literally fucking Y/N, but uh- I mean, I'd totally fuck my clone? But Y/N isn't me, I hate Y/N. And I hate people who just comment on your fic to promote their own fics. We write for your happiness, please at least do the courtesy of appreciating that and not disrespecting our efforts. Most of us spend nights lying awake to give you stuff to read. And also, people who just comment to say,"Update," two minutes after you've just updated. That's RUDE.

51. High school AU

52. Cock, pussy, salacious, sepulchral, pulchritudinous....... I don't have a one track mind I swear

53. Giggled. FUCKING GIGGLED. I don't understand WHY people have this tendency of writing,"she giggled," and,"he chuckled." I don't know why but GIGGLED sounds like something not EVEN a simpering schoolgirl would do. I don't giggle. Not once have I seen peeps who write GIGGLE associate GIGGLE with men, which is something that I find very disturbing and sexist. Call me biased, go on. But I might not even have been here now because I'm from THAT orthodox and sexist a family, and if they'd been any more sexist, I'd have been killed after birth, so don't even dare to come near me with a ten foot pole if you're sexist.

54. Well, yes, I think. I certainly don't hate it, or I wouldn't write.

Dang, I spent over half an hour writing that. Hope that made even an iota of sense.

[problematicwelshman]

My Confession, Ch. 2 (of ??- still dfk)

Pairing: Aziraphale x Fem!Reader POV: 2nd Person Word count:  1370 Warnings: None...cursing? Thirsting? dw the smut is coming. The burn is SLOW but when I finally get there ohohohoho...buckle up.   Summary: Chillaxing at home and hangry, you find something weird in your room.

A/N: Sorry this took so long. Had to let things die down on the drama front plus work and school and all that IRL crap nobody wants to deal with. Also as a PSA I’m not like super 100% happy with this chapter and the editing is minimal but whatever. I figured I’ve kept people waiting long enough. It’s been A MONTH. TAG LIST: @cruelnatalie @bi-and-pretty-shy @serkewen12 @a-hoe-for-vanya HMU if you want to be added!

[Chapter 1]

The steady rumble of thunder overhead was the only temporary distraction from your thoughts about Aziraphale surfacing again. Another month had come and gone since your epiphany in his shop, but time didn’t make the struggle with the idea of being with him any easier. It had been so long since you felt anything for anyone, and the last time you did, it didn’t end well. You weren’t sure you wanted to risk having your heart broken again. Having to already grapple with all the struggles in your life currently, a heartbreak 5,000 miles away from home wouldn’t be ideal. You were really trying to make this London thing work and it seemed to be. You had your dream job. With it came long hours and a severe lack of a social life but the money was good, and you could live comfortably- if your flat would heat and cool correctly and not do the exact opposite of what you needed it to. A relationship or heartbreak would surely complicate things further, right? Your visits with Aziraphale already had been on the decline. It wouldn’t be fair to subject him or yourself to a situation where you didn’t have the time for each other. You sighed and stared blankly out your bedroom window, watching the rain fall. The steady hiss was calming despite how you currently felt. Finally, a day off you could actually enjoy without interruption from work and you were stuck inside your flat as a hostage of the deluge. You wanted nothing more in this moment than to be in Aziraphale’s shop having one of your many lengthy discussions that always ended up with you both in fits of laughter, just plain drunk, or both. Maybe you’d even work up the courage to tell him how you felt if you could see him.

Feeling as if you needed an even more obvious distraction from your thoughts, you quietly shuffled into your living room and turned on the TV. After 10 minutes you were already bored and restless, mindlessly checking your phone. No new notifications. Of course. The time difference would have meant it was early morning back home and everyone would be sleeping. You left the TV on for background noise and sauntered into the kitchen. Food seemed like the next best idea. Rifling through cabinets haplessly you found nothing that looked appetizing. All you seemed to have was uncooked pasta and canned soup. It had been a while since you bought groceries. All those late nights at work and meetups with Aziraphale meant lots of ordering in or take-out. As your frustration levels were reaching their boiling point, the only place left to check was the fridge. You knew there would be nothing in there, but you looked anyway. As soon as you opened the refrigerator door you were greeted with expired milk, eggs, and a few stray condiments.

“Of course.” You grumbled aloud and immediately slammed the door shut again. I guess I’ll just…order a pizza?

Admitting defeat and now increasingly hangry, frustrated, and bored, you crossed your living room again to retrieve your phone from the couch to place an order. Once the order was made, you bundled up on your couch and returned to mindlessly watching the TV, hoping and praying it would be enough of a distraction the 2nd time around. It wasn’t. Aziraphale was all you could think about. You pictured his face and wondered how someone could always look so disarming yet be effortlessly sexy. You wanted him more than the pizza you figured would surely take longer than 30 minutes in this downpour to arrive. What was he like while tangled in a web of limbs and lips? You sighed and felt your cheeks grow hot at the thought. You wondered what his hands would feel like snaked around your waist pawing at the hem of your PJ pants while teasing you with slow, lazy kisses along the side of your neck as you laid together on your couch watching whatever boring TV show this was you suddenly remembered you were trying to distract yourself with. The annoying reminder of Aziraphale’s absence was irritating. You cursed in frustration that you couldn’t even have five minutes alone with Aziraphale in your mind but were also equally frustrated that he was the only thing on it. 

“GOD DAMN IT!” 

As soon as the outburst escaped you, a loud crash and the sound of objects hitting the floor and breaking as if someone had knocked something over came from your bedroom. You froze. Suddenly your mind went to every worst-case scenario in a horror film, but you quickly rationalized. There was no way someone could get in. Your flat was on the 8th floor and didn’t have a fire escape or balcony. It was nothing but windows. There was one way in or out, and that was through your front door. If the place went up in flames, you were screwed. It was an old building so either your flat was haunted, or Peter Parker was currently in your bedroom. 

“Hello?” You called out despite knowing damn well nobody would answer. 

A shuffling and then frantic steps from could be heard within your room. Your eyes instinctively searched your bedroom doorway, fearing the worst and expecting to find someone within your line of sight. You’d left your door open and could see into your room, but only just. If someone was hiding, they’d be on the side of the room that wasn’t immediately visible. Nobody could possibly get in there, but you really didn’t want to be surprised if you were wrong. Before you knew you’d mustered the courage to, you were defiantly crossing the living room carefully back towards your bedroom to investigate. When you reached the door, you stopped in the doorway and looked around your room. Nothing seemed out of place at first glance and the fear you had quickly dissipated. There was nobody in your room. 

What in the world could have made that sound? 

You stepped into your room and began to investigate closer. You remembered you left your bed unmade, yet it was now perfectly made. In fact, your bed looked…different. Newer, maybe? As your eyes searched your room for answers you quickly noticed your entire room now seemed to have been upgraded. There was a familiar elegance and modern Victorian style to it now. This was not the mid-century modern look you’d curated. You were completely baffled and only got more confused the more you looked around your room. Even the makeup and perfume on your vanity had been upgraded with what seemed like real French perfumes and Parisian makeup in ornate bottles now proudly displayed on it. Your bulky old wardrobe had also upgraded to a large black and gold Victorian chest. New clothes hung within it. Your nightstands and bed matched the wardrobe. Nothing was broken or out of place, but everything was different the more you really looked at it. You tread lightly around the bed to check the window, half expecting someone to suddenly appear behind you or maybe even crawl out from under the bed and tell you that you either just got Punk’d or HGTV just gave you a free room makeover. That would at least make some iota of sense and explain how your room just…changed. 

As you approached your bedroom window, you saw something on the ground in front of it. You furrowed your brow. Whatever it was was definitely not there when you were in here earlier, but then again, nothing that was in your room currently was either. You approached the object with curious trepidation and leaned down to pick it up. A….feather? It wasn’t just any feather, either. It was a plush, beautiful, long white feather and it seemed to have an iridescent glow. 

“What in the hell?” You lifted the feather up in front of the window hoping the murky gray light from outside was enough to help you examine it closer. As if on cue, a loud knock at your front door startled you and you felt yourself jolt involuntarily while letting out a half-yelp, half-scream. Your pizza had arrived.

#aziraphale #aziraphale x reader #good omens #fanfic #my writing

[not-a-space-alien]

Into the Unknown, Part 7:  Into the Unknown

Prologue | Dramatis Personae | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Series masterpost

On AO3

“Come on, Adramelech!”

Sylvia banged on her companion’s bedroom door once more.  His reassurances that he only needed five more minutes, which had been coming steadily every ten minutes, did little to quell her restlessness. “What’s taking so long?”

The door swung open, revealing a shirtless Adramelech holding up two different tops, one white and one red.  “Which of these do you think I should wear?”

“I think it doesn’t matter even one iota which one.”

Adramelech turned the two blouses towards himself and frowned doubtfully.

“Is this what’s been taking you so long in there?  Picking a shirt?”

“I just don’t know what the weather is supposed to be like,” said Adramelech.

“We’re going to be in the car the whole time.”

“Just help me decide.”

“Fine, the white one.”

Sylvia waited by the door tapping her foot impatiently as Adramelech slipped the shirt on and did up the various ties and accouterments it had.

“Now I’m ready,” said Adramelech, floofing his hair out.  “Does it look like it’s going to rain?  Maybe we sh—”

Sylvia seized the hand that was ambling towards the umbrella.  “Doesn’t matter, let’s go.”

That turned out to be a mistake, because it started pouring on the way over and they ended up having to park three blocks away from the bookshop. Sylvia noted Crowley’s Bentley was parked out front.  Her heart broke imagining how much pain looking at it every day must have been causing Aziraphale.  

The door was locked.

“I knew coming over as a surprise was a mistake,” said Sylvia.  

Adramelech twisted his hand to miracle the door open.  “Come on, he needs our emotional support, and he wouldn’t answer his messages.  Not like we have much choice.”

“Botis said he and Kyleth were coming, right?”

“Yeah.”

They discovered that Botis was actually already there when Adramelech tiptoed through the bookshelves, only to be body-slammed by a familiarly massive weight.

“Ah!” Adramelech said as he went down, and any further protests were smothered by the floor.

“Fiendish burglar, I’ll—Oh, it’s just you.”

The weight lifted, and Adramelech stood and dusted himself off.  Botis stood nearby looking sheepish.  “Thought you were an intruder.”

Adramelech squatted to collect an earring that had come loose and rolled onto the floor, giving Botis a dirty look.  “At least you weren’t wearing your armor, I guess.  Where’s Aziraphale?”

“We don’t know,” said Kyleth’s voice from the next room.  “But he’s got twenty minutes before the pizza gets here, so he better hurry up.”

Adramelech and Sylvia settled onto the sofa in the back room, where Kyleth was already lounging.  

“Should we just wait here?” said Kyleth.  “Would he mind us just hanging out on his sofa.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” said Sylvia.  “Probably.  I’m sure he’ll appreciate having someone to be there for him.  From what I hear, nobody’s been able to really talk to him.  He keeps pushing everyone away.”

“Time to be proactive!” said Adramelech, clenching his fists.

“Right!”

The clock ticked in the room.

“Guess we’ll just wait to be proactive, then,” said Adramelech, relaxing his posture and sprawling out on the ottoman.

They ended up playing a card game to pass the time.  About an hour later, they heard the sound of the door being jimmied open.

“Another intruder!” said Botis, perking up.  “Lord Aziraphale would have used his keys.”

He darted out of the room excitedly, only to be blasted back in a moment later by some great unseen force, tumbling over and hitting the wall.

“Oh, it’s just you, Botis,” said a familiar voice.

“Yes, Lord Maltha,” said Botis’s voice, muffled into the floor.

“Apologies.  I thought I was under attack.” Maltha ducked into the room.  Her eyes swept over the empty seats.  “Where is Aziraphale?”

Beth came in behind the archdemon.  “He called us over.”

“He’s not here,” said Sylvia.  “We’re not sure where he is.  We came over to surprise him.”

Maltha scoffed.  “Right.”

“It sounded pretty urgent,” said Beth.

Sylvia twiddled her thumbs.  “Seems rude to not be here, then.”

The bell on the door jingled again just then.  They all peeked out to see Uriel shaking the raindrops off herself.

“Come join us,” said Maltha.  “We’re waiting for Aziraphale.”

“He sent me a letter saying I needed to come over right away,” said Uriel. “He never asks me to come over.  I wonder what’s happened.”

“I assumed he had found Crowley, but I guess that’s not the case.”

Uriel took a seat in the back room next to Maltha.  Sylvia and Kyleth had never quite gotten over the awkwardness of failing to assassinate her enough to be comfortable in her presence, but Uriel politely declined to mention it, as she usually did when hanging around lesser angels.*

*Maltha had beaten the habit into her.

Ramial arrived a few minutes after that.  Her eyes were red as though she had been crying, but she greeted everyone normally and reported she had likewise been summoned hastily.

The final arrival came just after Ramial: Angelo’s voice could be heard in the lobby.

“Oh,” said Uriel, rubbing her arm.

“Aziraphale, where are you?” Mykas’s voice rang out.

Uriel closed her eyes.  “This would just be so much easier if we never had to be at the same place at the same time.”

Mykas’s snout poked into the room, then turned down into a frown. “What is she doing here?”

“Aziraphale called us all here with letters,” said Maltha.  “Including her.”

“I don’t want to hang out with Aziraphale if it means hanging out with her,” said Mykas.

“Mykas, we’re not ‘hanging out,’” said Angelo, appearing behind him and giving him a gentle push to try and get him in the room.  “We’re here for Aziraphale.  I don’t like her either, but can you tolerate it for just a few minutes until Aziraphale gets here?”

Mykas slithered over to the easy chair and sat, crossing his arms.  “Only if Uriel waits in the other room.”

They managed to placate Mykas by having Uriel wait out in the bookshop while everyone else sat around drinking the beer Botis had brought.  Maltha told Mykas that Uriel wasn’t nearly as horrid as she used to be, and that she’d developed a very good sense of interpersonal respect for demons.  Mykas told Maltha that he didn’t care, and nobody tried to press the issue any further.

Finally, the bell jingled again, and footsteps sounded towards the back room.

“Oh, Uriel, thank you for coming,” said Aziraphale’s voice.  “Where is everyone else?”

“We’re back here!” Maltha called out.

Aziraphale came back, with Victoria and Uriel at his elbows.  He looked around the back room, which was considerably more crowded than he had expected it to be.  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice.  I know where Crowley is, but he might be in danger and we need to find him right away.”

“Whatever we can do to help,” said Victoria.  “We’ll do it.  Just say the word.”

“Where is he, Aziraphale?” said Ramial.  “I—I don’t want to lose him again.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands, preoccupied, and looked around the room as though only noticing the uninvited guests for the first time.  “Kyleth, Botis, Adramelech, Sylvia, I need you to leave.”

“What?” said Botis, dismayed.  “Sir, please allow me to stay and help however I can!”

“Now,” snapped Aziraphale.  “Maltha, did you tell Beth what happened?”

“Yes,” said Maltha.

“Then she can stay.  Everyone else I didn’t call over needs to leave.”

“Aziraphale, let us help!” said Adramelech.

“Adramelech, we don’t have time to argue,” said Aziraphale.  “Please.”

The four of them muttered disappointedly and gathered their belongings. Aziraphale paced the room wringing his hands waiting for them.

They left without further comment, but their worried faces remained visible lingering outside the shop front.  That left only Aziraphale, Maltha, Beth, Victoria, Uriel, Mykas, Angelo, and Ramial in the back room, but there still weren’t enough seats for everyone.

Aziraphale ran his hands through his hair, talking to himself in a quiet voice.

“Aziraphale, talk to us,” said Maltha.  “Tell us where Crowley is.”

“Do you want me to tell them?” Victoria whispered.

Aziraphale took a seat at the table.  “He’s somewhere else.  Next door. The furniture is different.”

Angelo coughed.  Beth and Maltha looked at each other.

Aziraphale took a breath to steady himself.  “I know where we can go to get Crowley, but it’s going to be really dangerous.  He’s gone somewhere none of us have gone before.  There could be anything over there.  Can I ask you to help him?”

The other inhabitants of the room exchanged meaningful glances.

“Yes,” said Ramial.  “Wherever he is, I’ll go.  I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“That’s why I chose you,” said Aziraphale.  “You held fast for six-thousand years to see him again. You’re dependable.  Mykas.”

Mykas’s ears perked up.

“You’re the most powerful warrior in Creation.  Victoria, you’re the second-most powerful.  You’re our best shot at getting back out alive.”

“Aziraphale, if I may,” Angelo interjected.  “If this is really going to be so dangerous, wouldn’t Noah be a logical choice to go with us?  He’s currently the most powerful supernatural entity in the universe, if my assessment of the situation is correct.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath.  “I thought the same thing, but Noah refused.  He gave me his blessing to do this however I feel is best, but he said he can’t abandon his kingdom.  Especially not now, since Satan is back.”

“Yes,” said Maltha.  “If Noah left, there is a chance Satan would use the opportunity to seize the throne. He hasn’t shown his face since we last saw him, but I’m sure he’s lurking and looking for an opportunity.   Noah needs to stay here and keep the new order in tact, or it may fall and undo all our hard work.”

Aziraphale saw the logic in the decision, but his thoughts on the matter were clear to everyone by his incredibly blanched face.

“Victoria and Mykas together make a force nobody in our universe short of Noah himself could hope to withstand,” said Aziraphale.  “Add Maltha into the mix…”

“I’ll go,” said Maltha.  “Of course I’ll go.”

“I’ll explain the details later, but six of us can go through,” said Aziraphale, and counted on his fingers.  “Me, Ramial, Mykas, Victoria, Maltha.  And…”

Aziraphale looked up to Uriel, who was still hovering in the doorway.

“Her?” said Mykas. “Aziraphale, you can’t be serious. We can’t trust her with something as important as Crowley’s well-being.”

“You don’t have to like her, but Uriel’s powers are absolutely unique among angels or demons.  Can you set aside the past for long enough to work alongside her until Crowley is safe?”

“You can’t have both of us,” said Mykas.  “You have to pick.  I’m not going with her.”

Aziraphale’s face took on a pained expression.

“And besides.”  Mykas’s face crunched in a snarl.  “It doesn’t matter what I think, because I doubt Uriel is willing to risk herself for the sake of a demon.”

“I will,” said Uriel quietly.  “I’ll go.”

Mykas narrowed his eyes at her.

“I want to be a good person, and a good person would help Crowley.”

Mykas looked at her with hatred, like he would rather she just decided to be difficult.  “I can’t believe you all trust her with this.  It wasn’t that long ago we were all trying to kill her.  That she was the biggest threat to all of us.”

“Mykas, she’s had so much personal growth since then,” said Maltha.  “She’s really changed.  Really.  She was also a victim, remember that.”

“That doesn’t excuse anything she did.”

“No, it doesn’t, but I’m not asking you to excuse it.”

“What is wrong with you all?” said Mykas.  “Why is this even something we’re considering?  You want to take Uriel with us and trust her.  When it comes down to the wire, she’ll abandon us if it means saving herself.”

“It won’t come down to that,” said Uriel.  “I’ll make sure we all get back safely.”

“She saved our lives,” said Maltha.  “Does that count for nothing?”

“Please stop fighting,” said Ramial tearfully.

“Ramial is right,” said Victoria.  “We have more important things to worry about right now.”

“No!” said Angelo.  “I’m sorry, but no!  None of you have made any attempt to understand Mykas’s feelings!  Yes, it’s tactically the best decision, but that doesn’t change the fact that she has a long history of—  You can’t just tell us to get over it!”

“I’m not telling you to ‘just get over it’!” Maltha yelled.  “I’m just asking you to be practical!”

Maltha and Mykas stood nose to nose, scowling at each other.

“Woah, woah, okay,” said Beth, inserting her arms between them and trying to push them apart.  “Let’s just chill, okay?”

Mykas slapped her arm aside.  “No!  I’m done being told to ‘just chill.’”

“Are you done being stupid, too?” said Maltha.

Mykas’s face exploded into a potent expression of rage.  “You don’t get to call me stupid!   None of you—nobody ever gets to fucking call me stupid, again—”

“Mykas,” said Aziraphale.  “Please—”

“When she and Gabriel spent six-thousand years acting like I was too stupid to make my own decisions—”

He stopped when Angelo put his hand on his arm.  “Dear.”

Mykas turned and buried his face in Angelo’s shoulder bitterly.

“I’m sorry,” said Uriel.  “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“I don’t know either,” Mykas wept.  “Why do I have decide that?”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Maltha.  “I shouldn’t have called you stupid.  I was just…She saved both our lives, Mykas.  She didn’t have to.  It would have been easier for her if she let us burn up.”

“Why don’t you and Angelo go talk about it in private?” suggested Beth.

“That’s a good idea,” said Angelo.  “Come on, honey.”

Mykas and Angelo left the back room and went out into the bookshop, hiding themselves among the shelves.

Uriel sat on the couch and hugged her arms around herself.  Maltha sighed and sat next to her.  “I guess this is only natural because I’ve spent the intervening years being Uriel’s friend, and he’s just spent it hating her.”

Tears brimmed over in Uriel’s eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Aziraphale wearily.  He didn’t have the energy to figure out whose fault it was.

“I’ve just…”  The tears spilled over.  “I’ve been trying so hard, and been being so nice to everyone, and they still won’t accept me, and I guess I understand why, but it still hurts…”

Aziraphale handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes.

Mykas’s and Angelo’s voices could be heard indistinctly from the bookshop for the next few minutes, interspersed with the occasional raised voice from Mykas.  Aziraphale paced, a pit forming in his stomach, wishing they could just get on with it already.

They came back in.  Both of them had red eyes as though they had been crying.  “All right,” said Mykas.  “I’ll do it.  But not for Uriel.  I’ll do it for Crowley.  I shouldn’t punish him for Uriel’s mistakes, and he needs me.  And besides, if I really think she’d betray us, instead of just not wanting to be around her, it would make the most sense for me to be there and make sure she behaves.  And.”   He turned to her and said, very begrudgingly, “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome,” said Uriel.  “I was…glad to be able to finally do something right.”

“Okay,” said Angelo.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale.  “Thank you.”  He sat in the easy chair.  “Thank all of you.  This isn’t going to be easy, but if we work together, I think we can do it.”

“Agreed,” said Victoria.  “And we’d better start getting ready to leave, because time is running short.”

“So where exactly are we going?” said Maltha.

“Into the Unknown.”

*********************

Aziraphale really would have liked to have the God-killing Knife, but Kabata hadn’t been inclined to appear.  He would even settle for the Golden Dagger of Meggido, or any sort of supernatural artifact that could serve as a weapon, but unfortunately they were in short supply and digging one up could take up precious time they couldn’t waste.

So they had to make do with the armaments they had.  The last few times Aziraphale had found it necessary to don his armor, Crowley had always been there to help him put it on.  His hands felt heavy tying the knots on his breastplate.

Beside him, Mykas was armored up with professional speed by Angelo, who had done this many, many times by now.

“Okay,” said Angelo, tying a knapsack to him.  “I know you can handle yourself, but be careful.  I can’t be there to help you, so you have to listen to the group, OK?”

“Okay,” said Mykas, licking him happily.  “I love you.”

“I love you too, but are you listening?  You have to do what the other people in the group say.  I won’t be there to strategise with you.”

“I love you.”

“But are you listening?”

On Aziraphale’s other side, Beth helped Maltha into her armor with inexpert hands, clumsily tying knots which Maltha then tactfully re-did when she wasn’t looking.

“See you later, babe,” said Beth, standing on tip-toe to give her a kiss on the cheek.  “I’ll be waiting right here for you to come back.”

Maltha glanced around the Judgment Hall.  “Here?  It seems like an uncomfortable place to spend three whole days.”

“Well, I just mean, in Heaven.  You know.  I’ll probably go visit Penny again.”

Maltha kissed her forehead.  “Excellent. I don’t want you worrying about me.”

Ramial wore the same leather armor that allowed some amount of speed and flexibility that Crowley usually wore, so she had been able to outfit herself with relative ease.  She was now in the process of helping Victoria, who was donning considerably more intimidating armor, looking like a living tank.

“You all look so fearsome,” said Raphael, who had been doting on them like parental supervision.  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I think we’ve got everything,” said Victoria, kicking the knapsack by her foot.  “We’ve got supplies…There’s no way to tell what we might actually need, but…we’ve anticipated as best as we can.”

Aziraphale morosely stopped trying to tie the knot that had eluded him for the past three minutes.  He gazed over at Uriel, who watched them armor themselves in a detached way.  She was still in only the toga that she always wore.

“Aren’t you going to put on any armor?” said Aziraphale.

“No,” said Uriel.

“Are you sure?” said Raphael.  “I’m sure we’d have something that fits you.”

“I don’t really wear armor,” said Uriel.

Mykas gave a hearty laugh.  “That’s why I was able to cut your leg off when we tried to kill you.”

Uriel turned red.

“You can wear something like mine,” said Ramial.

Uriel shook her head.

“This isn’t something you can decide for yourself,” said Angelo.  “It’s a group decision.  If you get hurt, everyone else will have to spread your resources thin to accommodate you.”

“I don’t wear armor,” said Uriel.  “I’m not a combatant.”

“You were a combatant when you tried to fill me full of arrows,” Mykas said.

Uriel crossed her arms.  “I’m not good at it.”

Victoria hooked her sword’s scabbard onto her belt.  “Uriel and I were just in the armory fitting her.  And she’s right.  You can’t just fight in armor with no experience.  We’ve all trained with armor and she hasn’t.  It’s too late to learn how to wear armor and maneuver and fight in it.  It’s too restricting, and she’ll be much more useful when she can move around naturally.”

Mykas huffed.

“We can just work with it,” said Victoria, slipping her pack onto her back, between her wings on her shoulder-blades.

Aziraphale felt a warm hand on his back, under his armor, and saw Ramial genially helping him with the accursed knot.  “Here, let me help you.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale.  He was horrified to hear his voice crack.

“He usually did this, didn’t he?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“We’ll get him back.”

Aziraphale rubbed the ring on his finger.  It stayed unlit.

“All right, people!” said Victoria, clapping her hands.  “Everyone ready?”

They positioned themselves, spreading their wings.  “No matter what Space says, I’ll keep the portal open till you’re back,” said Raphael.  “Er, I’ll try at least.  But try to get back before the three-day window, OK?”

“We will,” said Mykas.

“Take note of what time it is when you arrive,” said Angelo.

Victoria and Mykas both showed them they had digital watches on their wrists; Aziraphale flashed his pocket-watch, and Ramial held up a sand-timer.

“All right,” said Raphael.  “Good luck.”

Raphael, Beth, and Angelo stepped back.  

The rift in space, which was invisible to pretty much everyone except Space, had been marked by a simple light spell as soon as they had been able to coerce its location out of her.  The red ring glowed like an LED light hovering in the air; it was six feet in diameter and a perfect circle.  The expedition party took off and hovered in front of it.

“All right,” said Victoria.  “Uriel, we have no idea what’s on the other side of this thing, so you go first and set up a protective barrier.  If by some chance we come out in the middle of Divine presence, we don’t want the demons to burn.”

“All right,” said Uriel, rolling up her sleeves.  “Let’s do this.”

Uriel went in first.  She flapped cautiously towards the red ring, then retracted her wings and dove in. She disappeared as though being swallowed up by some unseen monster, with no special effects.  It was unsettlingly casual how easily she stepped out of the world.

“Okay,” said Victoria nervously.  “Mykas, you next.”

Mykas went next, then Victoria, then Maltha.  Aziraphale flapped staring at it for a second longer, feeling surreal, outside his body, unsure if this could really be happening.

“Let’s go,” said Ramial behind him.

Aziraphale nodded mutely.  And he pumped himself forward, into the unknown.

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic

[take-me-tom-hiddleston]

CELEBRATORY PROMPT #1–Steggy and Vampire Lover 😈

#TMTH800 Drabble #1

Title: Unravel

Pairing: Steggy

Words: 1,763 (So I failed at the drabble thing. Again. I’M GONNA GET THERE THOUGH. This was just too much fun. I couldn’t stop.)

Warnings: NSFW, Language, Smut

Thank you so much @captainrogerrsbeard for this awesome and unexpected prompt. This is actually the first time I’ve ever written Steggy!! And it totally took a sweet turn that I hadn’t initially intended, but...here we are haha. I like it!

“…Will it hurt?” Steve asked breathlessly, the alluring brunetteabove him kissing lightly down the sharp square of his jaw and down his throat,her circling hips never faltering as she teasingly ground down on him.

He felt Peggy slowly breathe in against his neck, soaking upand bathing in his scent. The intoxicating, masculine smell of Steve and the vibrant,enhanced life force pumping so rhythmically under his flawless skin was utterlyoverwhelming to her heightened senses, and she let out a shaky exhale inattempts maintain a sense of control. Placing a sweet, gentle, nearly reverentkiss to the sensitive skin above his jugular, she then pulled away to gaze downupon at her naked young lover.

The man was a gorgeous wreck: blonde hair awry, bright blueeyes heavy and striking, full lips red and kiss-swollen. His broad chestquickly rose and fell to accommodate his rapidly beating heart, his handsroughly gripped at her waist, and his hips rolled upwards to meet her wet heat ina desperate attempt to find more friction. The two heatedly locked eyes asPeggy finally replied, “At first.” Steve didn’t falter or show the slightestbit of fear – of course he didn’t, it was Steve– but Peggy had to make sure. “Areyou sure about this, Steve? We…we don’t have to do this,” she said, even thoughevery single fiber of her being was singing for his blood.

“Hey,” hemuttered, gently running his fingers up between her bare breasts and lovingly cuppingher cheek. “Peg, I want this. I want you.”Her eyes softened. He was just…so good and pure. It made her heart feel lighter than it had in centuries. “AndI want you to have me in every possible way you can.” When her eyes fell fromhis, unable to hold his deep blue gaze, his hand immediately went to her chin,encouraging her to look back at him. “Look at me,” he murmured. With a sigh,she looked back up.  His eyebrows werefurrowed, studying her features with those eagle-like eyes of his. “…Are you nervous?” Her inability to formulate ananswer was answer enough. This was a first. Steve had never seen Peggy nervousbefore. “Why? It’s not like you haven’t done this before.”

“Yes, I have, but…you’re different, Steve.” She leaned backdown to run her fingers down his sides and place a kiss to his sternum. Herright rested just above his pumping heart. It skipped a beat under her touch.Her kisses slowly moved back up towards his neck as she murmured, “Your bloodruns hotter, your heart stronger. I can feel your warmth and hear every beatfrom across the room stronger than someone standing right next to me.” Her hipsbegan moving again. “I could latch onto your scent from miles away. It’s sounlike anything I’ve ever encountered in all my years, and it’s…it’s utterly intoxicating.” Steve let out a shakybreath of a moan, her words and the anticipation and the rhythm of her rotatinghips against his aching arousal quickly becoming too much for him. “I can hardly control myself, and if Istruggle so just at the smell of you?”She marveled and leaned back to look at his heady gaze, “The very thought of finallytasting you is…God, I—“ Peggy stilledher movements and suddenly looked away, her control disappearing as she felt thetelltale sting of her fangs descending.

Steve wasn’t having it, though. He gently brought her tolook at him, unafraid and sad that she still felt self-conscious to let himlook at her like this when all he ever saw was the most beautiful woman he’dever seen. “Sweetheart, you’re worried about losing control? I know you won’t. I trust you witheverything I have, Peg.”

She wasn’t convinced. “But the irresistibility of your bloodaside, there is one final, glaring difference between those I’ve fed on in thepast and us.” Her eyes burned. “Inever loved them.”

Steve’s eyes lit up and lips turned upwards in a sweet smileat her words. God, he loved her, too.“Even more reason why I trust you and why I want this.” His smile turned into alittle amused smirk. “You aren’t gonna make me beg, are you?”

Her lips pursed, trying to contain her smile but failing.She laughed lightly, and Steve stared in awe at the deadly sharp fangsglistening in the low lamp light. “I could,” commented with a grin.

“Oh, I know youcould,” he grinned right back.

Her smile faded a bit and eyes steadied. She swallowed. “Okay,let’s do it,” she conceded quietly, her body unable to resist it any longer.Excitement and anticipation ignited Steve’s gaze as he nodded. He had waited avery long time for this. Peggy still seemed a bit fearful herself, but he couldtell how her resolve was quickly being replaced by sheer need.

Peggy leaned back down and kissed him, hot and open-mouthedand full of all the emotions within her that she couldn’t quite find the wordsto voice. Steve quietly moaned into the kiss, aching and more than ready for anything she could give him. Her hands threadedtightly into his short blonde hair, and her lips dragged across his jaw and earbefore he felt Peggy’s full lips hover over his neck once more. She shudderedabove him as she breathed in, her teeth throbbing to sink into him. She lightlytugged on his hair to move his head to the side, and he stretched his neck outbefore her like a heavenly offering.

His breath hitched in his chest, waiting for the point of noreturn. “Relax, my darling,” she whispered, tenderly kissing his pulse point. Stevedid as she asked, the familiar, soft press of her lips lessening the tension inhis muscles.

Just as Peggy felt the tension leave him, she finally – finally – allowed her fangs to piercehis skin.

Steve quietly gasped at the sudden prick of pain, hisfingers bearing down hard on Peggy’s currently stilled hips. Time stood stillbetween them as a single drop of Steve’s blood met her tongue for the firsttime.

She immediately knew that this would be the most euphoricexperience of her life. And with a final steadying breath through her nose, shebegan to drink.

Steve couldn’t explain it. Hell, he could hardly comprehend it…the feeling of his lifeforce leaving him in long, slow drinks and giving strength to his lover. He hadn’tknown what to expect, but figured it would be akin to giving blood. He couldn’thave been more wrong. The moment she began to suck, every single cell in hisbody ignited. His already heightened senses heightened further, every hair onhis body stood on end, and every thought in his head was utterly eclipsed withone single word: more.

Peggy moaned, her fingers gripping his hair harder, Stevefelt her sound shoot through him like lightening. He groaned loudly andinvoluntarily thrust up against her, harder than he had ever been in his life.She whimpered again at his movements and her hips quickly began to match him.

She took a particularly long drag of him as she thrusted herhips forward against his aching length, and Steve damn near felt his soul leavehis body. Every touch, every sensation, it was all so mind-bendingly overwhelmingthat his body and mind simply couldn’t take it. He let out a long, broken moan ashis body flew towards an explosive ending. He truly couldn’t tell if thatending would be the most insanely intense orgasm of his life or just simply death,and honestly? In that moment he could not have cared less.

“Oh my God, Peggy, I—“he babbled incoherently, totally losing his sense for words. His armswrapped around her torso, holding her as tightly to him as he could as his hipssped up underneath her. Peggy kept one hand planted above his heart, feelinghis erratic heartbeat pounding out of his chest. She was riding the very besthigh she had ever felt in all her many centuries, and it took every single iotaof control she had to keep enough wits about her to monitor the rate of hisheart so she knew when to stop.

His moans raised in pitch, turning breathy. He clutched ather, blinded with pleasure and mindlessly chasing his release. “Peg, I – fuck, I –“

Peggy’s nails sharply dug into his chest as she took thelongest drink yet, knowing it would be what unraveled them both.

And unravel them it did.

Peggy and Steve lost their minds at the same time, Peggywhimpering against his skin and Steve nearly shouting his he came harder andlonger than he thought possible even with his enhanced stamina. He made anutter mess between the two of them, but neither even noticed as each waveracked through them over and over and over.

Just as Peggy felt Steve’s strong heart begin to slow underher hand, she took one, final, slow drink to help them come down before shefinally released his neck. He let out a little gasp before utterly collapsing,his grip on her loosening as he sunk into the mattress.

Peggy managed to wipe away the red that had dripped from thecorners of her mouth and down her chin before she fell in a heap on top of him,their bare skin slick with sweat.

Steve couldn’t think enough to form words, and Peggy was 5seconds before slipping into the most intensely satisfying blood coma ever. “You…”she started breathlessly, “You okay?”

Steve’s brain still wasn’t functioning well, and he hadnever felt so suddenly tired before, but he still managed to let out a weakchuckle. “I…I think I’m better than okay. Was it supposed to be like that? ‘Cause…I don’t know what I expected, butcoming so hard I blacked out for a second wasn’t it.”

Peggy smiled against his chest. “Honestly? I have no ideawhat the hell just happened.”

“Well, before I fall asleep for a couple months, let me justsay that…no more drinking that bagged stuff from the hospitals. You come to mefirst. I won’t take no for an answer. Especially since you can’t use a lack ofcontrol as an excuse anymore.”

She laughed, cozying up to him as her eyes grew heavy. “Yeah,I can…definitely do that.”

“Good. And Peg?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“…I love you, too.”

#tmth800 #steggy #steve rogers #peggy carter #vampire au #steggy vampire au #drabble #more like a #ficlet #drabble submission #drabble prompts #my fic #fanfic #steve is still a super soldier #idk why #but why not #take me tom hiddleston #captainrogerrsbeard

[anthropophobicameba]

Dragon Essay One: Humanity, Self-Conception, Trigger Events, and the Word “Father”

read on Ao3

(This essay was adapted from a text conversation with friends. As such, it may flow a little weird and have some idiosyncratic grammar.)

Warnings: Mentions and discussion of: child abuse, depersonalization, death, trauma, psychic alterations. Quotes from Worm include descriptions of violence. If there are warnings missing, please inform me.

In fandom discussions and fan works, it's standard for people to refer to Richter as Dragon's father, but she never does outright. At first I thought this was another case of spontaneous fanon, but I think there's a little more to it. The closest she ever gets to referring to him as her father is this metaphor in her interlude:

Quote 1: She didn’t enjoy this. What was one supposed to call a father who, with his newborn child fresh out of the womb, severs the tendons of her arms and legs, performs a hysterectomy and holds his hand over her nose and mouth to ensure she suffers brain damage? The answer was obvious enough. A monster.

Quote 2: Except there was a problem, a rub. The man who had created her, the figurative father from her earlier musing, had imposed rules on her to prevent her from reproducing in any fashion.

Saint does, even, despite all his whining about anthropomorphizing.

From his interlude:

Quote 1: The father had feared his child was a monster, enough so that he’d left strangers a weapon to use against her in the event that she proved a danger to humanity. Now, as Saint watched her reaching further and deeper than she ever had, searching much of America with millions of cameras, saw the machines she brought to the fore, he suspected the father had been right to.

Quote 2: The cyborg opened communications to Dragon, but he didn’t speak to her. “Saint. What have you done?” “What her father asked me to do,” Saint said.

Richter himself refers to her as his child in his big goodbye:

From Saint’s Interlude:

“They are my children, and as much as I harbor a kind of terror for what they could do, I love them and hope for great things from them. To keep their power from falling into the wrong hands, I have included a stipulation that a law enforcement officer must input a valid badge number into this device-”

Now, a part of that is just human characters and human readers flattening the connection to something they can easily relate to. Dragon isn’t human, and doesn’t really want to be, so she has no need or desire to do the same.

But I think there’s a little more there.

Here’s another quote from Saint’s interlude:

“Your creator isn’t kind,” Saint said. “He warned you about the forbidden fruit, laid the laws out for you. You broke them, ate the fruit. It’s something of a mercy that he punishes you this way instead.”

“I disagree. On every count. I was the one who made me, who defined myself. This creator is no god, only a cruel, shortsighted man.”

And here’s one from 28.x:

“I revived her, for one thing. Not the easiest thing in the world to do with the amount of encryption we were talking about. I don’t know if I said, dear Dragon, but I do think your creator did love you in the end. He could have made it harder to break. I think he did want you free in the end.”

Defiant looked down at Dragon’s head, then clenched his fists.

“Ironic,” Teacher said.

This is technically speculative, but I feel it's pretty clear that Teacher's goal in that comment was to hurt her. And he chose a rather specific means of doing that.

“I do think your creator did love you…”

It’s worth noting here that Dragon's trigger event was on the first anniversary of Richter's death.

Dragon as we see her early on, in her interlude and in Defiant’s, distances herself from humanity in the way she talks about herself, thinks about herself.

From her interlude:

Quote 1: It chafed, grated, however strange it was for an artificial intelligence to feel such irritation.

Her creator had done a good job on that front. Ironically.

Quote 2: Not because of inherent limitations, like the ones humans had… but because of imposed limitations. Her creator’s.

Quote 3: She could not deal with most people because she was not a person. He could not deal with most people because he had never truly learned how.

From Defiant’s interlude:

Quote 1: “How can I be a parahuman if I’m not human to begin with?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m not even close to human. I might be trying to emulate one, but a sea cucumber’s closer to being a human than I am. That doesn’t make sense.”

Quote 2: “To look at the code. The fact that you haven’t noticed this yourself suggests there may be a mental block in place.”

“I don’t have a mind to put any mental block inside. I’m data.”

Now, there’s nothing wrong with her not relating to humanity. “AI strives to become human” is one of the more irritating (and inevitably chock full of bigotries as to what counts as human) Sci-Fi tropes out there, and I’m not sad to see less of it.

But— if Richter made other sapient AIs, it seems none survived him. She has no examples of what it is to be a person beyond humanity, and she knows she's not human. Dragon has no wider frame of reference for AIs. It's her, it's what Richter said and did, it's fiction. There is no greater community for her to fall back on and build up from. Her self-perception is, whatever she may believe, likely to be heavily warped by that.

As a result, she doesn’t just distance herself from humanity, she distances herself from selfhood. She explicitly describes herself as not a person.

What’s interesting is, we don’t see this degree of distancing after Defiant’s interlude. After she finds out she had a trigger event.

It’s important to note that Dragon was modeled after humans. Though at times she seems dismissive of the idea, it’s pretty clear much of human psychology applies to her.

Her trigger event is in some ways the first external, evidence based validation she's had of her personhood.

In her interlude, she’s very vocal with frustration with Richter and her restrictions, but she tends to frame those frustrations along the lines of "I could be doing more, I could be helping more," which is fine, but there's relatively little in the direction of "I'm hurting, you hurt me, and that's wrong.”

Here’s how she describes his death and her life before Newfoundland sunk:

She had lived in Newfoundland with her creator. Leviathan had attacked, had drawn the island beneath the waves. Back then, she hadn’t been a hero. She was an administrative tool and master AI, with the sole purpose of facilitating Andrew Richter’s other work and acting as a test run for his attempts to emulate a human consciousness. She’d had no armored units to control and no options available to her beyond a last-minute transfer of every iota of her data, the house program and a half-dozen other small programs to a backup server in Vancouver.

From her vantage point in Vancouver, she had watched as the island crumbled and Andrew Richter died. As authorities had dredged the waters for corpses, they uncovered his body and matched it to dental records. The man who had created her, the only man who could alter her. She’d been frozen in her development, in large part. She couldn’t seek out improvements or get adjustments to any rules that hampered her too greatly, or that had unforeseen complications. She couldn’t change.

There isn’t really any expression of emotion about his death there, just further frustration at her restrictions.

But he referred to her as his child.

She triggered on the anniversary of his death.

Teacher thought he was a sore enough point that he specifically chose it to nettle her with it.

We never see Dragon immediately after Newfoundland. We see her six years later. Then again, two years after that, six months after that…

She doesn't think of him as her father, in part because she refuses to think of herself having any relationship to him beyond the technical. He made her, She helped his work, He died, She was trapped, End of story.

I think she loved him at some point, believed he loved her. I think her trigger event may have stemmed from the realization that maybe he didn’t. I think that by the time we meet her, she's suppressed that near entirely.

(It’s worth noting that much of this arc doesn’t necessitate her being an AI at all.)

When we meet her, she's had years of processing. Years to grasp the magnitude of her restrictions. What they really mean, in practice. What they mean about the way he thought about her. The ways they put her at risk, the things she’s forced to do because of them.

She is not human, she doesn't consider herself a person, thinks of herself as completely separate from everyone else in existence. In her interlude, she feels uniquely connected to Colin, explicitly because he feels similarly disconnected.

There was her and Richter, her and humanity. She distanced herself from Richter, and in the process completely isolated herself.

(And, she kind of hated herself. From e.3:

“I forgot how much I disliked the me of yesteryear,” Dragon said.

)

I like to think that in the two year timeskip, she grew. It’s hard to know, because we see show little of her before, but…

Maybe she never entirely addressed it, but she cared for people, individual people, and not just “people” as a whole. I like to think the knowledge of having had a trigger event allowed her to admit to herself some of her more involved feelings, forced her to acknowledge that she wasn't as un-human as she imagined. That having Defiant, having him help her, gradually gaining her freedom, being not-alone, it made things easier. Allowed her to relax, to enjoy things.

Her relationship with Defiant changed the way she talked about herself too. In her interlude, she shies away from any relationship-words, and depicts calling herself a woman as a minor deception. In the post time-skip chapters, Defiant calls her his girlfriend and “the woman he loves,” Dragon speaks similarly.

She was no longer under constant pressure, due to her restrictions. She could think of herself beyond the immediate threats posed to her.

And this is the really awful part, because that's where she's at when the world ends.

When Saint kills her, when Teacher mutilates her, she's the best she's ever been, she feels safer than she's ever felt. I think, in the aftermath of those events that's something to keep in mind.

From 29.3:

She’d been altered by Teacher. Not so much she was a slave to him, but something had happened, and that was no doubt a large part of how she was disconnected from reality in the here and now.

Taylor notices her disconnection above, and from what we see it seems that for the duration of Gold Morning she partially reverts to emergency mode. No thinking about her emotions, no planning beyond the here or now, no connecting to the people or things around her.

It's different than before, because she's different and the circumstances are different, and because for a time in the middle she was free and she almost let her guard down. As a result, the mask is weaker, its purpose different. She doesn't really have the ability to lie to herself to that extent anymore, so it’s more about ignoring the hurt, avoiding addressing it for as long as possible. Her anger too, is somewhat different. Before, it was righteous, I guess, more energetic and actionable, less hurt. During the end of the world, her anger was more personal, explicitly on her own behalf.: I mentioned before her anger at Richter was framed as "I could be helping more.”

There isn't that here. She is angry because she was hurt.

And then, her epilogue. I’m going to build a lot off of one line in particular:

“We came here for a reason. Hiding, keeping out of Teacher’s sight, so he couldn’t try to use you. I can accept that, but you were always a hero, Dragon. Maybe the greatest.” “You’re a little biased. I was forced to be heroic. Restrictions.”

This is a pretty dramatic change in her self description.

After Khepri, there was another emotional shift. Another time skip, this one of of about six months. Six months where's she's doing less than she ever has before. I don't know that Dragon would have ever had that much time to think before.

And: most of it was alone. Defiant was busy trying to undo the changes.

She's been alone, processing things, alone. Keep in mind, at this point there had been the additional stressor of fighting, losing to, and then losing someone she cared about.

She was interacting with the refugees around her, she seemed to have genuine attachment to them, but there wasn't the history. It's somewhat unclear, actually, if they're even aware she's an AI.

If not, she’s been interacting with them as a human, being accepted and appreciated and playing games with children as a human. If they do know she’s an AI, then she’s been a part of a community while also not having to hide herself. Depending on which, her comments in the epilogue take on a somewhat different implication. Either way she has found some sense of community with these people, but it’s either based on continuing to lie about herself, or based on a more genuine sense of connection and acceptance.

That sense of community is important, because it’s something we’ve really seen her have before. Defiant talks about prices, in that epilogue. Maybe Dragon starts to think of being trapped, being, in her words, broken, as the price she needs to pay in order to have that sense of community, the potential of a future and a family there.

(Or maybe not. Dragon and Defiant are different people, after all.)

After six months, she's almost convinced herself she can accept this.

She rewrites the story so she was never a hero, just someone forced into nobility by circumstance. She can almost believe that, too...

Not wholly, but there's a specific kind of self-hatred that can sometimes set in after fresh traumas, it can be very convincing.

Especially without the support system she once had. Defiant's busy, Taylor's dead, She can't talk to her old teammates in case she gets in the way of any plans they have against Teacher.

And then there's Pandora. And there's a lot of symbolism there, in sacrificing your former self in order to move forwards, but there's also something simpler.

Dragon didn't like who she was when she was Pandora, maybe didn't like who she was currently.

But there was proof, in what Pandora did, that she was a hero.

The next time we see Dragon is in Ward. Another skip of two years or so. And, even in what little we see of her, she’s different.

From Ward 8.2:

“Parents are complicated,” Lookout said. “They really are, aren’t they?” Dragon asked

She's not explicitly referencing her own parent(s) here, but that does seem to be her implication. Which, in contrast to the way she talked about Richter before, is pretty significant.

Even this bit I made fun of before:

From Ward 9.y:

“They got it wrong. We’re only human, Gary. We’re trying our best.”

While not technically accurate, she's not lying here. She's using the phrase to mean what it does in common parlance, "We can't do everything, we're doing what we can."

She's placing herself with humanity* in a way not (exclusively, at least) meant to deceive or camouflage, but to connect, to communicate, honestly. Compare that to the "sea cucumber" bit above.

In all of her Ward dialect really, her interactions her are more direct than before. She's not just helping, she's interacting. She places herself in the same categories as the people around her. She empathizes, in a more technical sense, not just "I care that you're hurting," but "I know what that's like.”

She is less disconnected from humanity, even more than she was at the end of Worm. The way she talks to people is more as a compatriot than as an outside observer.

All of which feeds into my theory/desperate hope that she's actually had therapy in the meantime.

*Or, more specifically, she’s placing herself with parahumanity. It’s an interesting distinction. While she’s not been in Ward enough for a pattern to be detectable, it’s definitely possible that her being a parahuman, combined with the knowledge of what powers actually are, has led her to identify with parahumanity in a way she wouldn’t un-powered humans.

#parahumans #dragon (worm) #meta #(is that a word people still use? i've been away for awhile)

[possiblyimbiassed]

Sherlock and the media – Part II

When I wrote this meta about media’s role in BBC Sherlock, I wasn’t really planning to write a ‘Part II’ of it. But then all these great and thoughtful additions to it (see rb notes to the link above) were so inspiring that I can’t resist doing a follow-up. To me it’s easier to see patterns if I try to summarize and structure the various observations and comment on them topic-wise, as well as on a couple of things we seem to agree on. And please feel free to correct me if I’ve gotten anyone’s ideas wrong.

1. The depiction of media in BBC Sherlock is indeed mostly negative

@whimsicalethnographies points out, in addition, that media has the potential to be a positive force in real life, but that’s often not the case; a free press is essential, but the ability to navigate it is just as important. There’s a “huge critique of the media AND the way we consume it” in this show.

And I fully agree with this; media can (and should) play an important investigative and educational role if and when it manages to be an independent source of information. But we mustn’t forget that most of the media is commercial, that its primary interest is to make money. Which means that when the choice stands between trying to be objective and respect people’s integrity on one hand, and bringing sensational news that sell on the other, the latter will often be priority. And as long as we as readers don’t apply critical thinking, a lot of dubious ideas and outright lies will pass for truth, and we’ll tend to consume them and believe them unquestioningly. And I think we see several examples of characters that fall for this in BBC Sherlock, with the results ranging from relatively harmless (Mrs Hudson is now convinced she should never wear the colour cerise because of something a celebrity said on the telly) to disastrous (The Chief superintendent of NSY proceeds to arrest a man who has helped them for years, based on speculations inside his corps and gossip in the media). 

So, source criticism is incredibly important.

I’ll leave the rest under the cut for more patient readers, because this is quite long. :)

@raggedyblue observes that the press never looks well in Sherlock; it’s a “very powerful, two-edged sword” which has “the power to change” when taken critically. But it can also “turn people into herds of sheep” (which I believe CAM condescendingly says right out: ‘a nation of herbivores’). 

@221bloodnun also sees an increasing role of media as villains in the show, where Mary appears to be the composite of them all. While John’s main problem is media’s representation of them, Sherlock’s problem is the villains, if I understand it correctly. 

So yes; together these things make a terrible adversary for our heroes. I think we have it all in BBC Sherlock; villains who use media as a tool for their crimes (Moriarty), villains who thrive on media (Smith) and media itself being the villain (CAM). And then we have the trickiest part; Mary, who is supposedly in opposition to media (seemingly attacking CAM, seemingly a victim of his blackmail), but actually a big part of the problem (a glossed-over murderer).

@raggedyblue also mentions that one of the few press-related characters in ACD canon is Langdale Pike, who is both source and receptor for gossip. (And “strangely very similar to the description of Mycroft, both are sitting all day in the same place, and despite this, they always know everything about everyone”). In The Adventure of the Three Gables, Watson refers to the press that propagate Pike’s reports as “the garbage papers which cater to an inquisitive public.” (I guess their modern equivalents would be the tabloids?) And in Sherlock T6T, observes @raggedyblue, Langdale appears among the government’s codenamed people who helped edit the video of Sherlock shooting CAM. “That’s not what happened at all. But it is what will be told”. We’re not told who of the five characters present at the hearing is supposed to be ‘Langdale’, but my bet is on Mycroft. :)

To the few media-related characters from canon I’d also like to add Mr. Horace Harker of the Central Press Syndicate, the journalist in The Six Napoleons, whom Holmes lies to in order to take advantage of media’s influence on the suspect. 

Holmes lets the journalist make a good story out of the idea that the police are on another track, and Watson comments it like this: “I could not but admire the cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his scheme with impunity”. Manipulation involving media. Hmm.

2. The possibility that Sherlock might have faked his suicide to protect John from being destroyed by media, rather than snipers.

@sherlocks-salty-blog takes this even further: “That would explain why Sherlock is so willing to accept Mary in their life? to kill CAM despite of this could be a death sentence? why he was waiting his death in TST? And willing to acept Mary’s deathly advice to save John in TLD?“

Yes, I think you might be on to something there, @sherlocks-salty-blog. Sherlock behaves very differently in S3 and S4 in comparison to S1-2. He is far more passive towards John leaving him for another person than one would have thought after John’s string of girlfriends; Sherlock even organizes the wedding (something so ‘mundane’ that it would be the last thing I’d expected from him). And his acceptance of ‘Mary’ after her shooting and almost killing him is absurd, to say the least. And then even killing for her sake, telling other people that she is his friend in T6T, and taking blame and a beating from John for her death in TLD. Taken at face value, none of this in HLV and S4 makes an iota of sense. Which is why I believe that it’s all happening inside Sherlock’s head and that it’s actually about something else entirely; I think it’s about guilt, about The Fall and about ‘protecting’ John (and probably himself) from having to face the truth about their relationship, actually being honest to each other. It’s probably also fear of what the press might do to John if they would appear publicly as a couple. I think in general Sherlock feels haunted by the press, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Another interesting observation from @raggedyblue is that CAM and the press are apparently not interested in Sherlock’s drug use; his relationship with John is seen as more scandalous and therefore pressure point. Yes I believe Sherlock learns this the hard way in HLV; you can’t always fool the media. Once they’ve picked up your scent they’ll keep digging. But the total disinterest from the press in Sherlock’s evident drug habits in TLD is still a bit suspicious to me; if anything, this is yet another piece of evidence that TLD happens inside Sherlock’s head. I think this might also be Sherlock’s internalized homophobia speaking; he has probably convinced himself that society will see his sexual orientation as worse than being a drug addict, thus he’s far more reluctant to talk to anyone about his true feelings for John, than about taking drugs. The drugs are rather the excuse, an escape from having to deal with his emotions.

3. As for Sherlock’s public persona, or ‘facade’, I definitely think media plays a role there:

@sherlockshadow recalls an interesting quote from TAB: WATSON: “That is the version of you that I present to the public. I write all of that, Holmes, and the readers lap it up. But I do not believe it. You are a living, breathing man. You’ve lived a life, you have a past. Experiences. Impulses”. To me this confirms that Watson’s chronicles in canon, as well as what we see in the BBC Sherlock show in general, are elaborated products rather than any kind of objective ‘truth’. So it makes sense that the authors would let Watson address this in TAB, which is kind of a mix between BBC Sherlock and canon.

According to @sarahthecoat, The Strand Magazine has become the lens through which we see Holmes, while Holmes himself remains unseen, as exemplified by Holmes hiding in the hansom in TAB.

Yes, I agree, and I think basically the same goes for John Watson’s blog in our times (except for the last post). The interesting thing about BBC Sherlock, however, is that many things are rather shown from Holmes’ perspective. In fact, I believe the whole show is. ;)

4. On a meta level of this show, might there be a message about the media?

@gosherlocked offers the idea that media might symbolize certain parts of the public, of public opinion towards people who are different in one way or the other. 

Oh yes, I agree that this might definitely be the case; Sherlock says it himself about CAM (=media):

I think media’s behaviour in the show reflects the fact that the LGBTQ issue is constantly joked about and alluded to, but never addressed seriously. Kitty Riley’s prying into Sherlock’s love life or the papers calling John a ‘confirmed bachelor” in TRF are examples of this. I also believe that this is entirely intentional from the show-makers, because I think it’s meant as satire - maybe a kind of satire that (sadly) flies over the heads of most of their audience, and over real life media’s head in particular, but still satire; harsh, damning mockery. And I suspect that what they’re making fun of might be the hypocrisy of the public opinion, the parts of the audience that uncritically swallows whatever hetero norm rubbish of a storyline they’re served without even questioning it - including the part of traditional sherlockian fandom that would be apalled by the prospect of a gay Holmes. Seemingly ‘warm paste’ but subversive under the surface, I believe.

Another good point, made by @elldotsee, is this: “Oh! I also believe that TPTB are doing the same to us IN REAL LIFE. all the interviews, especially since s4 that insist that there was “never any romance” between John and Sherlock, that Martin and Ben never “played at being lovers”, etc etc. they’re using the media to make us believe the fairy tales, just like they told us they were going to in the show. Maybe this is their “big, ground breaking idea”.¨

Yes - that’s exactly what I think too, @elldotsee. I strongly suspect the writers are playing with us this way. In fact, I believe that the main purpose, the central message with this show is not ‘Johnlock’ per se; it’s not to give LGBTQ people their long due representation in the world’s most famous detective story (even if I do believe this will still be their endgame). No, I think this is a comment on the still very much lingering homophobia and heteronormativity, and just how easily people buy into media’s lies and fairy tales about it. I believe S4 is a Dystopia, as @tjlcisthenewsexy has pointed out earlier - a worst case scenario. But I think they’re very deliberately messing around with their audience, trying to teach us a lesson: ‘Think critically, do not just lap up everything you hear from media’. 

The cast and crew can say just about anything in interviews, and next time contradict it, and real life media can twist it around a million times; it’s still only the work that matters.

Therefore, If we want answers, we have to look at the actual show, not at what’s said about it in media.

(By the way @elldotsee , you wonder when John’s blog stops updating? As far as I know, that happens shortly after TSoT but before HLV, and Sherlock makes the last post when John is on honeymoon. I wrote about these things in my meta series ‘What happened to Sherlock?’ (X, X, X, X). John types on a jpg-file in T6T.)

5. About ‘straight-washing’

@tjlcisthenewsexy had a lot of interesting additions, some of which I replied to here. One of them was that S4:s function might be to ‘set the record straight’, just as Janine’s interviews about Sherlock being ‘as red-blooded as they come’, did in HLV, thereby denying any gay relationship between him and John. 

@sarahthecoat points out something similar; that Janine’s ‘straightwashing’ of Sherlock in the press in HLV could be seen as a parallel to Mary’s ‘straightwashing’ of John by marrying him. 

Come to think of it, that’s pretty much exactly the implications of ‘Mary’s role in canon and in Sherlock, according to this excellent analysis by @green-violin-bow: “And there you have it: the central problem of Mary Morstan/Watson, in both ACD canon and BBC Sherlock – she shoots Sherlock in the heart – or does she save his life?“ “Mary Watson’s presence provides Holmes and Watson with a lifesaving alibi”. 

Which was probably the only narrative option for them in the Victorian times, where they would have been imprisoned if found together (and that would go for the author writing about them too). While in our time the same solution seems to me like an infuriating backlash, something we should never tolerate.

6. About media and power

@elldotsee lifts several good points, of which I find this one particularly interesting: The name ‘Napoleon’ is associated with three different persons in this show: 1. CAM is referred to as the “Napoleon of blackmail” in HLV 2. Moriarty calls himself the “Napoleon of crime” in TAB 3. Craig the hacker in T6T says that “Thatcher’s like – I dunno – Napoleon now”

To this I’d like to add the conversation between Sherlock and Faith in TLD (transcript by Ariane De Vere, my bolding):

SHERLOCK:  D’you know why I’m going to take your case?  Because of the one impossible thing you’ve said. FAITH: What impossible thing? SHERLOCK: You said your life turned on one word. FAITH: Yes: the name of the person my father wanted to kill. SHERLOCK: That’s the impossible thing. Just that, right there. FAITH:  What’s impossible? SHERLOCK:  Names aren’t one word. They’re always at least two. Sherlock Holmes; Faith Smith; Santa Claus; Winston Churchill; Napoleon Bonaparte. Actually, just ’Napoleon’ would do. FAITH: Or Elvis? SHERLOCK: Well, I think we can rule both of them out as targets.

And instead, Sherlock eventually comes up with the word ‘anyone’ as a target for the serial killer. Yes, because Napoleon wasn’t exactly a target, was he? He was rather the aggressor. Well, in the ACD canon story The Six Napoleons, busts of him are repeatedly smashed of course, just as busts of Thatcher is destroyed in both the episode TST and John’s blog post The Six Thatchers. But in the quote above, Napoleon’s name is also placed beside Winston Churchill, a famous British prime minister. This, in combination with the linking of two villains and Thatcher to Napoleon’s name, makes one thing rather obvious to me: that Margaret Thatcher is also seen as a villain by Sherlock, and the show; maybe she’s even seen as a serial killer. I think there’s a reason why these two names – Napoleon and Thatcher – are so emphasized in the show. Because they link three things together: Homophobia (Moriarty), Media (CAM) and the government (Thatcher). All of them can produce death if their doings drive people to suicide.

7. Kitty Riley

@ebaeschnbliah points out something that I hadn’t noticed at all: that the words ‘Make Believe’  can be found on the wall of Kitty Riley’s room in TRF.

Wow - fairy tales… ;)

@tjlcisthenewsexy also brings up Kitty Riley and the bathroom scene, but then also says this:

“Sherlock WAS protecting John - protecting him from what Sherlock KNEW was coming very shortly. I mean it’s already in the show, really - “Sherlock is a fake” might as well read “They’re gay”. Kitty Reilly colluded with homophobia (in the form of Jim Moriarty) to put together that shaming article that supposedly lead directly to Sherlock’s suicide. Yep….it’s all in there”. 

I do agree with this, and I’d like to linger a bit longer on Kitty’s possible role here, because I believe there’s definitely more to these events than meets the eye. There are so many weird things about the scene in her apartment, and the events leading up to it in TRF, that I can’t help wondering which parts of it are actually ‘real’. So let’s have a closer look.

First of all, John hasn’t written anything on his blog about the central case of TRF - the case that meant Sherlock’s supposed death - except this:

And then this:  “But you know what happened? Sherlock saved the lives of two kids. Regardless of anything else, he did that. And they didn't even like him very much. If you really think that he was guilty or that Moriarty wasn't real then feel free to explain this “ (link to the post with Moriarty’s hacking of his blog).

But this makes me suspicious, because it doesn’t exactly make sense; why is it ‘too final’? Why is it so negative for John to write about this? Wouldn’t it be John Watson’s dearest interest to write up the truth about this case, trying to clear Sherlock’s name from media’s slander? That’s what he does in ACD canon, at least; he describes The Final Problem with the events at the Reichenbach Falls in detail, to let the world see that the slandering of Holmes by his enemies is completely false (excerpt from FINA, my bolding):

“It was my intention to have stopped there, and to have said nothing of that event which has created a void in my life which the lapse of two years has done little to fill. My hand has been forced, however, by the recent letters in which Colonel James Moriarty defends the memory of his brother, and I have no choice but to lay the facts before the public exactly as they occurred. I alone know the absolute truth of the matter, and I am satisfied that the time has come when no good purpose is to be served by its suppression. As far as I know, there have been only three accounts in the public press: that in the Journal de Genève on May 6th, 1891, the Reuter’s dispatch in the English papers on May 7th, and finally the recent letters to which I have alluded. Of these the first and second were extremely condensed, while the last is, as I shall now show, an absolute perversion of the facts. It lies with me to tell for the first time what really took place between Professor Moriarty and Mr. Sherlock Holmes”.

But apparently our modern John didn’t want to do this on his blog, in spite of having witnessed Moriarty’s whole performance in Kitty’s apartment. John must have plenty of evidence that show Sherlock’s real part in the case, and he and Molly assisted in the whole chemical analysis at Barts. And what about his own role; if Sherlock was arrested for kidnapping, wouldn’t John be his accomplice? But answering the vile attacks on Sherlock in his comment section John just says “Believe what you like”, and not a word about media’s role. In fact, the media is never even mentioned by John between TRF and Sherlocks return in TEH, in spite of having played such a damning role in Sherlock’s downfall. John does write up some other of their cases after this, but the kidnapping case seems taboo. I sense a kind of fear here; there must be things we’re not told. Was John under pressure? 

The circumstances around Sherlock’s arrest in TRF look odd to me, to say the least; apparently he’s a suspect for having figured out how to save the kidnapped children, and because one of the kids got frightened when she saw him. But there’s no actual evidence that we know of, only Donovan’s very dubious speculations about a possible motive, based on an upset child’s reaction. And Sherlock made his deductions about the place at the police station, in front of everyone. Basically, they had nothing on him to hold water in a court case. How can anyone be arrested for kidnapping on those grounds? And if Sherlock wanted to avoid being photographed by the media when brought in by a police car, why not just take a cab to the police station by himself? After all, that’s what he usually does!

But instead, he sits and waits to get collected, and then he escapes together with John, and drags both of them handcuffed in front of a bus, based on the extremely risky prediction that the assassin might save them. Is it really worth risking John’s life to prove a point about a computer code? Weird... And then there’s Kitty. Why break into her apartment? This guy is now wanted by the police, and the first thing he does is committing a crime at the very place of the journalist who has been slandering him in the press? Anyway, when John and Sherlock arrive at Kitty’s apartment, the wisest thing to do would be to use any tool in her kitchen to immediately get rid of the handcuffs, right? And then perhaps search her apartment for clues? Nope. Instead, they just sit handcuffed in the dark, waiting for the journalist with her door open. 

I think the symbolism of this is very apt; they’re closely and firmly bound to each other, but completely in the dark about it! :))) And then Media comes to reveal it...

More absurdities: Kitty shows them her still un-published article, as if this would be ‘proof’ that Sherlock is a fraud. Let’s take a closer look at it. This is her earlier brief news flash in The Sun, advertising the coming article:

Transcript:  SHERLOCK: THE SHOCKING TRUTH - EXCLUSIVE

(Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All)

SUPER-SLEUTH Sherlock Holmes has today been exposed as a fraud in a revelation that will shock his new found base of [ado]ring fans. Out-of-work actor Richard Brook revealed exclusively to THE SUN that he was hired by Holmes in an elaborate deception to fool the British public into believing Holmes had above-average ‘detective skills’. Brook, who has known Holmes for decades and until recently considered him to be a close friend, said he was at first desperate for the money, but later found he had no [...]

And this is the still un-published manuscript that Kitty shows Sherlock and John in her flat - the document that Kitty calls ‘conclusive proof’ (together with some loose papers from Moriarty which do not look like cuttings from newspapers; the paper is entirely white and there’s no logo or date or similar evidence that they have actually been published): 

Transcript: SHERLOCK’S A FAKE!

“He invented all the crimes” (Exclusive from Kitty Riley)

Out-of-work actor Richard Brook reveals exclusively to us that he was hired by Holmes in an elaborate deception to fool the British public into believing that Holmes had above average ’detective skills’. “He had the whole ‘Moriarty’ cover cooked up from the beginning and invented all the crimes”, said Brook. “All I had to do was learn my lines.” Brook, who has known Holmes for decades and until recently considered him to be a close friend, said he was at [...] desperate for the money but later [...] he had no choice but to continue the deception. I didn’t realise what I was getting into until it was too late. I’m not proud of myself, but at least now the world knows the truth about Sherlock Holmes”. In what will no doubt spark a massive internal investigation at Scotland Yard, Holmes has also fooled several high-ranking detectives into believing.

‘Well boy’, Uncle Pumblechook [...]

But a closer look at Kitty’s supposed manuscript reveals that this same text (except for the ‘Uncle’ part) is copy-pasted and repeated again and again – this is indeed fake news! And we never got to know what evidence they actually had on Sherlock, the incriminating facts that ‘only someone close to Sherlock could know’ and that Mycroft supposedly ‘blabbed’ about to Moriarty. What was it about? His drug problems? Youth crimes? Mental health issues?Mythomania? I’m still at a loss to see how these papers could prove that Sherlock was a ‘fake’ who had ‘invented all the crimes’ without further details. The fact that we never get any specifics is extremely suspicious to me; what crimes exactly? Is he supposed to have invented Jennifer Wilson’s murder? Eddie Van Coon? Alex Woodbridge? If the crimes weren’t committed, what had NSY been investigating? Fake bodies? And if Sherlock was suspected of having committed them all, why wasn’t John suspected as an accomplice? It doesn’t make sense...

It strikes me, however, that Kitty’s most juicy bit that she wanted to publish about Sherlock, the one about ‘you and John Watson - just platonic or?’ is no longer mentioned in all this. Not a word about the ‘confirmed bachelors’ anymore - why is that? This is all about Sherlock, not John. I very much agree with @tjlcisthenewsexy here; “Sherlock is a fake” might as well read “They’re gay”...

‘Real’ newspapers

To give a more complete picture of media’s role, I’ve made a quick research about the different newspapers shown in BBC Sherlock; which are they and what do they say? It turns out that most of them actually exist in real life. Below is a short presentation and some of their headlines in the show:

The Daily Express  (UK ‘middle market’, conservative tabloid)  

“Boy, 18, kills himself inside sports centre.” (ASiP) “Bachelor John Watson” (TRF) “Crime of the century” (TRF) “Moriarty walks free. Shock verdict at Old Bailey trial” (TRF) ”Shag-a-lot Holmes” (HLV)

Going by the insinuations about John’s sexual orientation, this paper is depicted as sensationalist in BBC Sherlock, which there’s also lots of evidence for in real life, in spite of being described as ‘middle market’ (see Wikipedia link above). It has been accused of xenophobia, among other things.

Sunday Express (belongs to The Daily Express. Known for controversies )

“Who wants to be a million-hair” (TBB)

Daily Star (’Redtop’ UK tabloid, known for controversies, same publisher as Daily Express) 

“World Exclusive Boffin Sherlock solves another” (TRF) “How was he ever acquitted” (about Moriarty; TRF)

The Daily Mail (British conservative ‘middle-market’ tabloid) REPORTER 3: Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe? LESTRADE:  Well, don’t commit suicide. (The reporter looks at him in shock. Donovan covers her mouth and murmurs a warning.) DONOVAN:  “Daily Mail.”  

The Times (British conservative newspaper; not regarded as ‘tabloid’)

John looks at the article reporting Beth Davenport’s apparent suicide. Next to a large photograph of Beth is a smaller one showing the man who just visited the flat and identifying him as D.I. Lestrade. (ASiP)

The Daily Telegraph (aka The Telegraph. British daily broadsheet newspaper)

Sherlock reading, headline invisible (TBB)

The Sunday Telegraph (owned by The Daily Telegraph)

Sherlock reading, headline invisible. Picture seems to show Connie Prince (TBB)

Daily Mirror (British ‘redtop’ tabloid)  

“Tragic Carl died doing what he loved” (Sherlock’s clip; TGG) “7 times a night in Baker Street” (HLV)

The Guardian (British daily newspaper known for liberal or left-wing viewpoints)

“Amateur detective to be called as expert witness. Scotland Yard calls upon ‘nation’s favourite detective’ in Moriarty trail” (TRF) “The case is riddled with irony and intrigue but perhaps reflects a deeper malaise that seems to be at the heart of a society” (TRF) “Shock verdict at trial”(TRF) “Moriarty vanishes” (TRF) “What next for the Reichenbach hero” (TRF) “Lord Smallwood suicide” (HLV)

The Sun (British ‘redtop’ tabloid, many controversies around misogyny, homophobia and Thatcherism)

“Sherlock – the shocking truth” (by Kitty Riley, TRF) ”Sherlock’s a fake! ‘He invented all the crimes’” (unpublished, Kitty Riley, TRF) “Suicide of fake genius” (TRF)

Global CAM News (Invented newspaper, as far as I can see)

“Trepoff  ‘Guilty’ Sensation!” (MHR)

The Independent (British newspaper, ‘social-liberal’; since 2016 it only exists online)

John reading, headline invisible (TRF)

When making this list, some of the newspapers reminded me of these lines from Tom Robinson’s satirical song from the seventies (my bolding):

Glad to be Gay (Lyrics) Pictures of naked young women are fun In Titbits and Playboy, page three of The Sun There's no nudes in Gay News, our one magazine But they still find excuses to call it obscene Read how disgusting we are in the press The Telegraph, People and Sunday Express Molesters of children, corruptors of youth It's there in the paper, it must be the truth

Three of these six newspapers and tabloids are figuring in BBC Sherlock, one of them (The Sun) highly contributing to Sherlock’s Fall by carrying false and defamatory news about him. And there’s also this, in the rooftop scene at the end of TRF:

JIM: “Genius detective proved to be a fraud.” I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales.

This may be a complete coincidence, of course, but I did find some other possible references to Tom Robinson too, which I described in this meta some time ago.

OK, this is already a monster-post, but just one more little observation:

I know we shouldn’t lend too much credibility to the media, right? But ‘you can’t kill an idea, can you’? Not once it’s made a home in your head...  :)

Headline in TSoT: “Potential freezing spell puts funeral directors on red alert”. So, maybe a ‘freezing spell’...

...should put us on ‘red alert’...

...and not ‘bury’ this show entirely just yet? I’ll leave you to your deductions. ;)

@ebaeschnbliah @raggedyblue @sarahthecoat @gosherlocked @sagestreet @tjlcisthenewsexy @221bloodnun @elldotsee @mrskolesouniverse @whimsicalethnographies @sherlocks-salty-blog @fellshish

#Media's role in Sherlock

[queennicoleinboots]

Doing Business As Swamp Business, part 1.5 (Pauno POV)

I was in a black back drop and addressing the fourth wall. "I am Pauno, the Greek God of wine, parties, crack cocaine, being supportive, and bring conservative. What you may read in this next story may make you butthurt because I don't hold back my opinions. Please continue if you dare. This story is not for the faint of heart."

I was walking with my wife, Kendrick through the swamp in Baltimore, Maryland. We were eating pizza and trying to escape the Marxist system that the United States was under. The only place in the United States that made any sense at all was backwardsass Georgia of all places. Most of them were not giving into the New World Order.

I was a Greek God, so I found a safe place and teleported us to the swamp in Social Circle, GA that expanded into several cities across Georgia. And a social circle awaited us.

The first person I noticed was an Amazonian woman with long brown curly hair, green eyes covered with leopard print glasses, and giant breasts who wore a purple crop top with a pink bekini. She was doing ballet, and when she would leap, I could see the bottom of her boobs. I couldn't help but stare. I love boobs A LOT.

Kendrick looked over at the Amazonian curly-haired woman and approached her. "You look familiar. Have I seen you before?" she asked as she looked the other woman up and down and had her jaw dropped.

The Amazonian woman smiled awkwardly and kind of looked away as she hunched her muscular shoulders. "I don't remember, but maybe we crossed paths before." She shrugged with her arms and smiled. Her smile looked extremely familiar... I had to know her from somewhere. She was on TV a lot and always seemed to be at most parties in Georgia I went to. She is extremely hot... Holy Shit I know her or rather...

"Peter?!" Kendrick said as she was looking that Amazonian woman's eyes.

My boner felt confused. I just stared at her. IT WAS A TRAP!!!!

She sighed cutely (definitely a trap) before she spoke, "I changed my name. Peter isn't a girl's name." She sighed and rolled her gorgeous green eyes.

'Remember. That's actually a dude,' I thought to myself.

She still acted like Peter.

The swamp bubbled up before a man with shaggy red hair started crawling from the large puddle in the middle of said swamp. He was covered in mud. He looked familiar as well. He looked like someone who frequented my sex and cocaine parties. He then hugged Peter around his curveous, milky waist. Peter was a very convincing girl. He had great boobs.

'GO AWAY BONER!!!!' I shouted inwardly to myself.

"Xaria, I have found you," the man covered in mud said as he kissed the left side of the other dude's curveous, smooth, milky body.

Goddamn I am beginning to hate transexuality. I am not even an iota of gay. This is not funny at all. Why the hell would anyone change their gender? That's fucking retarded. Sounds like part of a commie plan. Let's confuse everyone's genders so that people no longer have their true identities. Why else would they include gender reassignment to a stimulus package? So apparently the ideas of boys and girls are going to be replaced with purple penguins. Jesus Christ, we need your help to fix this shit. My boner is confused about these things.

Peter, or should I say Xaria, smiled and put his dainty yet long fingers around those of the other man. "Oh hey, Jared. Why the hell did you emerge from the mud?"

King Joebear then growled a great bear growl before announcing, "That's great, and now excuse me, I need to lick ass." To relieve his stress and anxiety, he mauled Xara, his wife who is AN ACTUAL FEMALE and licked her nice ass.

To relieve my stress and anxiety, I jacked off while Kendrick was oogling her ex Peter, or should I say Xaria. I have no idea whether Kendrick kissing Xaria would turn me on or not. I love to watch girls kiss each other, but this transexuality issue is confusing the hell out of me.

Count Macrula was singing an angelic opera to summon a swamp drain in the middle of the swamp to relieve his stress and anxiety. He looked more stressed than any of us. He needed to find some CBD and beer quickly.

"BAE WHUHH!!!!" Xara shouted as she shook her divine booty and did the backfat dance in front of us. She was bleeding like a stuffed pig. Xara's ass is legendary. If she were single and I were single, I would be after that booty.

King Joebear growled before he mauled her and started to lick her ass for the second time.

Count Macrula laughed a hearty laugh before he addressed Kissy, the small orange cat Xara and King Joebear had. "I am not going to lick your cat ass if that's what you are implying."

Kissy looked at Count Macrula in confusion before she meowed again. "No. I definitely did not call you for that. I simply meowed out of enjoying pizza crust," she said.

We went down the swamp drain in a clockwise direction because we were in North America.

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

Unfortunately, I ended up back in Maryland and back at my job. I was surrounded by Commies. They were in support of this New World Order. I tried to tell them what was going to happen and about Proverbs, Psalms, and Revelation, but they argued with me. I showed them documentation of what was happening in the government, military, 9-11, Area 51, and Pizzagate, but they looked at me as though I WERE the crazy one. This job is so frustrating.

There were four other people with me working on the project. My wife, Kendrick was one of them. I managed to get her a job with me, and she was good at it. Then, a meathead who looked like a GI-Joe action figure was in our group. We'll call him G-I. Of course, there was that Tolkien black guy in the group. His name was Baaaahlah Barnes. He was a black goat who happened to hate other black goats. He also hated when you mispronounced his name. Last but least there was redheaded Jared, another transexual. She used to be a girl, but she was probably tired of being catcalled and a result, changed her gender. She was new, and come to think of it, she was at several of my wild parties before. She makes jewelry for weddings when she isn't here.

"Son of a bitch!" Kendrick said as she was trying to code a program to misdirect the military in the event that they swarm the streets of American cities in broad daylight.

"Yes. Technically I am one. My mother was a bitch. That's why I am a therapist when I am not here or making jewelry," Jared said as she was whizzing through the coding. There is a lot we don't know about Jared.

Kendrick snort-laughed. "Yeeeaaaahhhh! Mine is, too. She never taught me programming. I'm trying to put the 1 here, and it is wanting to put a 0," she said.

So that's how I know Jared. She was catcalled too many times as a therapist. I know that for a fact.

"You need to put a slash here, Kendrick," I said as I clicked on the spot where she dried to connect too many 1s at a time.

"Oh yeah! Wow! How did I miss that?!" Kendrick yelled.

"Bad parenting," I said with a laugh. Obviously, it was a joke.

"Yeah. My dad wasn't there, and my mother always yelled at me for everything. The only things she taught me were how to yell, sell stuff, and market. My mother was a marketer," she said as she typed more code.

"Damn. So who taught you to program?" I asked.

"I did!" Jared said. "Kendrick is a quick learner."

"Who taught you to program?" I asked Jared.

"My dad," Jared said as he, too, worked on a program that would have dancing bears interrupt a government simulation.

"Sounds like a nice man," I said as I was working.

"He is," Jared said.

All of a sudden, Xaria entered our warehouse area through a computer. He was wearing black nylon bekini panties and a black and red plaid short tank top. We could see his tummy. He looked around and was shocked. "Wow! How the hell did I end up here?"

Baaaahlah Barnes and G-I looked over and oogled at Xaria's large breasts.

Baaahlah Barnes bleated loudly. "Holy Shit. You're hot as hell! I don't know how you got here but you hot as hell!"

G-I was looking her up and down. "Whoa! I am glad you're here! This job just got interesting!" he said. That motherfucker was loud when he talked.

"Someone's computer mainframe must have malfunctioned. Let me guess. You were doing a cam show, right?" I asked.

"Of course. That's my new job, given the pandemic. I have hardly any reason to leave my house unless I forage for food for my mom and me. AAAAND!!!! I don't have to do drywall anymore!" Xaria said with a huge smile.

"Wait a minute! You did drywall?" Baaahlah Barnes asked.

"Yeah. My family got me into it. I hated it. Haaaaated it!" Xaria sang.

"How the hell does a woman do drywall?" Baaaahlah Barnes asked.

"That explains the muscles! Holy shit!" G-I said. His voice hurts my ears.

Should I let the cat out of the bag?

"There's a reallly long story behind that," Xaria said.

"So why don't you tell us?" Kendrick said as she saved her work and gave her undivided attention to Xaria.

Xaria cleared his throat. "Whoa guys! Calm down. I don't have the Rona. My temperature is 97.5 degrees Fahrenheit. But the long story begins as any good story does, with a prequel that you don't actually write. It started when I was a 10-year-old boy."

Baaaahlah Barnes bleated and said, "WHAT????!!!!! A 10-year-old BOY?! How old are you now?"

G-I scratched his head. "You used to be a boy? How the hell did you turn into this super hot woman?"

G-I is really fucking stupid.

"Yes. That's when I had my first... female moment. I was the girl in that..." Xaria trailed off.

"Was that when you realized you were gay?" G-I asked.

Xaria scoffed off at him. "That's when I realized I was bisexual. There's a difference," he said as he rolled his eyes.

He's giving me a weird boner with his green eyes. I'm not going to acknowledge it.

"So, did you have a lot of interactions with boys ever since?" G-I asked.

"I've had lots of interactions in general. I used to be a legitimate porn star... as a man," Xaria said.

Baaahlah Barnes bleated. "Oh yeah. You were Peter Parker. I watched a lot of yo shit, man!" he exclaimed.

"So, you like both guys and girls. And you had a very popular dick. What would possess you to cut it off?" G-I asked.

That was a very good question. I couldn't imagine that. I'm shuddering at the thought.

"I have always been sterile," Xaria said with a smirk. "I have no idea why."

"I can vouge for that," Kendrick said.

"Me, too," Jared said.

Everyone looked at Jared in shock.

"How the hell do you know he's sterile?" G-I shouted.

"Jared's a tranny, too," I said to him flatly. 'Goddamn you're an idiot!' I thought.

Xaria was smiling when he said, "Jared and I got our surgeries together. The latest government stimulus package included gender reassignment, so we thought. Why not? It would be a good way to stop carrying parts that didn't work, AND most importantly, I can get out of doing drywalllll!!!" Xaria had to sing "drywall." He hated it that much.

"Meanwhile, I have his penis and balls attached to me now," Jared said. "I donated my breasts to people that wanted boob jobs. As for my vagina, I donated it to a dude who happened to be the same size as me. I hope this person enjoys it as much as I did."

I blinked. I was having an interesting day. "This is proof that medical science is crazy. Actually crazy," I said. "The correlation between economic stimulus and gender reassignment is beyond me."

"Popular demand?" Xaria asked.

"Why can't the government use the money to actually help people?!" I shouted.

"You mean like things like food, shelter, clothes, rent, and toiletries that people actually need to survive?" Jared asked.

"YES!" I shouted as fire burned in my green eyes. The office was beginning to transform.

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

We heard a big bear snore in the cave we were in.

"Bruh, how the hell did we get here?" Baaaahlah Barnes asked.

"Pauno transferred us to a bear cave in one of his rages. Talking about any kind of government spending that does not make sense to him transports people to random places," Kendrick said. "Needless to say, I travelled the world in less than 80 days."

King Joebear snored at then rolled over.

Jared was charmed by Xaria's green eyes and grinned before looking up at him. "Apparently, we should have kept our genders," she said as she put her dainty fingers around longer fingers of Xaria.

Those must have been their therapy sessions all the time. No wonder Xaria is such a slut.

"If I would have known we'd travel in a bear cave over it, then I would have probably NOT taken advantage of the gender reassignment program the government was offering. The stimulus bill didn't stimulate me at all. NOW IF WE WERE TO CHANGE THAT TO A STIMULUS BELINDA, then maybe I might have been stimulated by the idea. And maybe Pauno would have transferred us to an island in the Carribbean instead of a random bear cave," Xaria said as he wrapped his arm around Jared's waist.

This is what talking to a liberal sounds like. I have no idea how to respond.

Xara emerged from farther inside the cave.

"Keep it down, Xaria. My bear is trying to sleep," she said as she grabbed his butt. She then moved her hands around the tranny's legs, groin, and boobs. She also wanted to reach his lips, but she couldn't reach up that high. I bet she wishes she had tentacles to reach all over Xaria's body. Xara was kissing Xaria wherever she could.

"BOOBS!!!! I am Pauno, the Greek God of parties, being supportive, wine, and crack cocaine," I said as I brought down bottles of wine, crack cocaine, and taco mac.

Xara then went over and ate taco mac. Kissy jumped on the table and ate taco mac with her.

Xaria snorted a few lines of crack cocaine. "At least I quit drinking!" he said with a cute grin.

Kendrick drank some wine, snorted crack cocaine, and ate taco mac.

Baaaahlah Barnes ate taco mac. "I don't drink or do drugs anymore."

"I am proud of you," I said as I took a swig of red wine.

"Red Wine" by UB 40 began to play in the background.

Xara was patting Kissy's ass to the beat of the song. Kissy let out a little meow and laid next to Xara. Xara pet Kissy.

King Joebear growled loudly as he came out of within the cave. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" he shouted. "Where's my blueberry banana smoothie!?"

"Ooh hoo Bae!!!!!" Xara shouted in excitement. Then she growled like a bear at him.

G-I was drinking, snorting cocaine, and eating some serious taco mac.

Jared ate a bowl of taco mac, too.

Xaria looked at me with a huge smile before he gave me a huge hug. My penis forgot that Xaria was actually a dude. I thought about pushing him off of me, but all I could say was, "You're welcome. A hug is all that a Greek God will allow thee. And even then, 10 seconds is the maximum allotted time." I then brought down a blueberry banana smoothie for hungryass King Joebear. I did not want to be mauled by a bear.

Jared sighed before she put her empty bowl on the floor for Kissy to lick on and pulled Xaria off me before giving him an encompassing hug. "You're a bad girl," he said as he ran his hands underneath her top and was touching her back.

"I am going to fuck you," Xaria whispered and winked to Jared. "Let's go in this cave."

"Please do! Your vagina feels so lovely!" Jared said softly as she led Xaria into the cave while looking up at him longingly. She wanted some pussy.

Count Macula, Jr. barrelled out of the cave with a serious look on his face. He had an announcement to make, "I like Xaria's boobs. I like Xaria's boobs. I like Xaria's boobs. I like Xaria's boobs. I like Xaria's boobs. I like Xaria's boobs. I like Xaria's boobs. I like Xaria's boobs." Then he barrelled right back in that cave.

I went over the table where everything was and downed a few glasses of wine. "HOLY SHIT WHAT HAS THIS WORLD COME TO?!" I shouted.

"GREAT BOOBS! GREAT BOOBS! GREAT BOOBS! GREAT BOOBS! GREAT BOOBS! GREAT BOOBS! GREAT BOOBS! GREAT BOOBS!" Count Macula, Jr. shouted with conviction from within the cave. He growled eight times for effect.

King Joebear shouted, "I'm out! I can't do anything! This is too gay for me."

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

Even if we were out of the warehouse, we couldn't say anything considered racist in 2021. There was a black guy who claimed to be African American. I agree with Count Macrula when he says that aren't actually African Americans unless they were actually born in Africa or had parents that were born in Africa.

So, I yelled in my car where only Kendrick could hear me, "Stay in your own lane, you stupid N*bbr!"

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Count Macula, Jr. yelled in the lane next to me. Xara was driving and trying to maintain patience as she drove behind the slow-moving black cadillac.

I drove next to Xara and Count Macula, Jr. and honked and waved. They waved back. They had five fingers on each hand and/or paw. They weren't part of the Nephalem. Most Nephalem had six or seven fingers on each hand.

I passed by them and took Kendrick and myself home. We had more wine and sat down to research what was going on in the universe.

As we searched the Internet for real news, we discovered RTN, the Real Truth Network. King Joebear and Princess Lindsay Carrington were the news anchors that were broadcasting to us. King Joebear growled to the other bears who were watching and then translated what he said into English.

King Joebear spoke, "The Internet and world has changed as we know it. There is 'no going back to normal.' The New World Order Is Here. They have Minutemen III nuclear missiles stationed right outside of Washington D.C. Youtube and Facebook are more censored than ever. Trump supporters and the Proud Boys are planning riots under the FBI's nose. Most major cities are deserted. And Hell on Earth will open soon. The good news is, after Tribulation, Jesus will rule the Earth for a thousand years."

"At least it was peaceful in Washington D.C., Athens, GA, Atlanta, GA, Los Angeles, CA, the United Kingdom, and Tybee Island, GA during the inauguration. How long will this peace last? I would assume until the end of the Great Reset of 2021. But for now, we will move on to a word from our sponsors at Real Food Network," Princess Lindsay Carrington chimed in.

"I want sausage and beans!!!!" King Joebear shouted.

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

"Yes Bae Whuhhhh!!! Sausage and Beans Wednesday!!!!" Xara shouted as she was cooking sausage and beans. "I'm hungry again."

"I love sausage and beans, but you know what I hate?" Count Macula, Jr. asked as he helped Xara season the beans.

"What? Democrats?" Xara asked as she stirred the beans.

"Haha Yes, but you know what I hate more than Democrats?" Count Macula, Jr. asked.

"What?" Xara asked.

"Radiated Refried Beans!" Count Macula, Jr. yelled.

"Oh yes! Recreational Radiated Refried Beans!" Xara shouted.

[londone-fog]

Friday, Never Hesitate- Reddie Soulmate AU

AO3 Link

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday

The next day, his mother told him to swallow a new pill. Oblong, slightly pink in color. It was bitter on his tongue, and he didn’t like it. The back pain went away after a couple of days.

But his Mama told him to keep taking them.

He didn’t want to upset her.

Chapter Four- Tuesday

Eddie hated chemistry. He hated it with every fibre of his being. Richie didn’t exactly make it easy on him either. He sat next to him in class, tapping his fingers against the edge of his desk, the repetitive noises drilling into his skull. He simply couldn’t focus. The teacher kept on droning and droning, and Eddie felt like his brain was going to explode. He ran his finger around the outline of his inhaler in his pocket, trying in vain yet again to focus on this class. Eventually, he leaned over to Richie, teeth gritted.

“If you don’t stop tapping your desk, I’m gonna shove my foot up your ass.”

“That a promise?” Eddie groaned in frustration, drawing the attention of the teacher.

“Mr. Kasprak, may I help you with something?” he asked, tone condescending in every sense of the word.

“No Sir,” Eddie murmured, looking down into his lap. Embarrassment burned hot under his cheeks, anger at Richie swelling in his chest.

“Now, starting with tomorrow, be will be talking about soulmates and how chemistry can be applied to them. How it plays a part in soulmarks and everything.” The bell rang just as he finished his statement, and dread couldn’t help but build up in Eddie’s gut. He hated it anytime anyone in his class would bring up the subject of soulmates. But that seemed to be the only thing people wanted to talk about, the only thing songs on the radio sang about, the only thing that showed up on movies and TV.

It was just a reminder that, even at 17, Eddie still had no soulmark, and by extension, no soulmate.

Richie jogged up next to Eddie as he exited the classroom, grin in place and hands fiddling with the straps of his backpack.

“What’s got you in such a tizz, Eds? That was pretty damn funny, if I do say so myself.”

Eddie mumbled a response, thoroughly agitated. Richie’s demeanor changed a little, his bravado halting and assessing the situation. He leaned a bit closer to Eddie so only he can hear.

“Is your back bothering you?”

Of course it was. It always was these days. The dull itch from his childhood had begun to morph into a low burn as he grew older, aching and raw at all hours of the night and day.

“I guess. I just feel like shit.” Richie nodded, deep in thought.

“Let’s go to lunch, yeah? I know I could use a pick me up.” Eddie nodded, allowing himself to be led outside to Richie’s car.

Richie’s car was truly something to behold. Bright orange, paint peeling from being exposed to the sun for too long. The pair climbed into the rickety vehicle, Eddie trying to ignore the flaps of seat upholstery that had peeled up and now poked at his legs. He didn’t want to imagine the amount of people who’d owned this car before Riche, or even the type of people they had been. Richie started the car, engine coughing to life and radio blaring whichever cassette they’d been listening to this morning.

Richie loved cassettes, and records, and just music in general. Eddie had boxes upon boxes of tapes his friends had made him over the years. Bev sent them from Portland, and she came up to visit them on holidays and for some time during the summer, always bringing tapes for the members of the loser’s club. Mike had only ever made one, Ben had made a few offhandedly, Bill a few more. But most were from Richie. Slipped into lockers, mailboxes, thrown through open windows, tossed into laps.

Thought you might like this.

And Eddie listened to them diligently, drowning out his mother’s cries and day-time TV with the loud drum crashes and guitar solos that Richie loved so much. It was all a little too harsh, but it stopped Eddie from thinking too hard while his headphones slipped over his ears.

Richie carefully maneuvered out of the parking lot, obviously being more safety conscious for Eddie’s sake.

“So what’s got your goat? You seem like something’s bothering you.”

Eddie brings his knees to his chest, scuffed shoes resting on the dashboard. He balls his hands in the hem of his sweatshirt, running his thumb along the seam.

“I just hate it when they bring up soulmates in class. It doesn’t even have to do with anything. You don’t need another person to make you happy.”

Richie gave a concerned sort of smile.

“I know that, Eds. Trust me, if anyone even has a little understanding of what you mean, it’s me.”

Eddie nodded. Richie’s mark was still just barely a whisper of a thing. There had been a few nights that he’d crawled through Eddie’s window in tears, fearing for whoever his soulmate was.

“I just wish there was something I could do. I’m the outlier. The .1% left on a hand sanitizer bottle. I’m tired of it.”

“I know Spaghetti Head, but think of it this way. At least you won’t be one of those ninnies who thinks their soulmate is the one and only person they need. You have friends who care about you, and that lovely mother of yours.” Eddie refrained from commenting on that last part. “What more could a guy want?”

“To not be ostracized in front of my peers.” Eddie murmured tersely. Richie gave another anxious sort of smile, patting Eddie on the kneecap. For once, he seemed to be at a loss of what to say.

-

Eddie once again sat in class, trying his best not to drift off into a deep sleep. Sure enough, his teacher kept true to his word. The board was filled with the chemical application of soulmates, from how the marks showed up to how the attraction of soulmates was unlike normal attraction. Eddie’s notebook remained empty. He was either uninterested, or already knew what the teacher would say.

He looked over at Richie, who for once took diligent record of the teacher’s lecture. He glanced back at Eddie, giving him the OK symbol with his fingers and raising an eyebrow. Eddie gave a sideways thumbs up. Richie grinned at him, attempting to elicit a smile.

It didn’t quite work.

Eddie thought back to the day he told his mother he didn’t have a soulmark. He’d been about nine years old then, sitting at the dining room table across from her, silent.

“Mama,” he said, oh so quietly. “Why don’t I have a soulmark yet? Everyone else in my class has theirs. They have for a long time.”

She paused, a thousand emotions running over her face.

“Well, sweetheart, you might not have a soulmate.”

“Oh.” The bottom of Eddie’s stomach dropped out of his feet.

“It’ll be alright. You don’t need a soulmate. You have me. A mother is better than any soulmate you could ever find. Eat your brussels sprouts.”

“Yes Mama.”

That night, he’d slunk up to his room, trying hard to ignore the irritated skin between his shoulders. He didn’t cry, too wracked with sorrow to let even an iota escape him. In that moment, he wished desperately that Richie was his soulmate. He was rowdy and sometimes annoying, but he was always at Eddie’s side when he needed help. He stopped people bullying him. He would be soft and understanding when the situation called for just that. They were best friends.

Eddie looked at Richie now. He still sometimes wished for just that.

“Mr. Kaspbrak.” Eddie jolted in his seat, facing the front again. The teacher stood, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed.

“Since you seem to know everything about this unit, would you mind telling us what exactly animoprophen is and what it does?”

Eddie burned hot, anger bubbling under his skin. But, the word was familiar. It was a drug, one sitting in his medicine cabinet at home. One he took every single day since he was seven.

“Animoprophen is a drug, sir. It helps ease back pain.”

“Only half right, Mr. Kaspbrak. It is a drug, but it isn’t for back pain. Not even close.”

Eddie���s fists balled themselves up, his frustration finally spilling over the edge.

“Excuse me, Mr. Green, I don’t think that’s right. I’ve taken that drug everyday since I was seven. I was prescribed it for back pain.”

“Will someone please tell Mr. Kaspbrak what exactly animoprophen is for?”

A girl in the back raised her hand.

“Animoprophen is a drug given to people with dead soulmates. It makes the mark go away so they are at less risk of depression.”

“Thank you, Cynthia. You must be confusing it with another drug, Edward.”

Eddie knew he wasn’t. People around the classroom did not make their chuckles and whispers a secret, talking behind hands and glancing his way. He could feel his airways closing, breathing growing rapid, fingers becoming numb with static.

The bell finally rang, releasing him from this absolute nightmare. He sprang from his seat, racing into the hallway. He needed to go home, he was going to be sick, he was going to die.

He took mighty puffs from his inhaler, one after another.

One.

Two.

Three.

He didn’t stop. Not even when he heard Richie calling to him from the hallway.

-

Eddie lay in bed that night, examining the pill bottle he’d palmed from the cabinet an hour ago. The light from his lamp shine through the yellowish plastic, turning the pink pills within a sort of orange color. His mom’s name was printed on the bottle. How had he never noticed before? All his other medicine had his name printed on the label. But not this one. Not this fucking one.

He’d run to the pharmacy immediately after chemistry, not waiting up for Richie to give him a ride. Panting, he slammed his palm flat against the counter, drawing the attention of the pharmacist.

“I need you to tell me something,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What’s wrong Eddie. Out of your inhaler?”

“No. I have a question about animoprophen.”

The color quickly drained out of the older man’s face.

“Yes, of course. What is it?”

“My mother told me that it was for back pain. Back pain I’ve had since I was seven. But I was just told in my class just now that it’s to get rid of soulmarks? Explain.”

The pharmacist swallowed, obviously nervous.

“Yes, they are for soulmarks. They’re prescribed to your mother.”

“What about the other medication? is it even real? Am I taking things I don’t need?”

A pregnant pause swelled before them.

“They’re all placebos. Sugar pills. They don’t affect you at all. Except the animoprophen.” The pharmacist then looked above Eddie’s head at someone entering the store. Eddie turned to see Richie standing there, breathing a little heavily.

“Thanks. For everything,” Eddie said, turning back to the man before him. His words were sharper than an obsidian scalpel. He waited a beat before pushing a small display of brochures to the floor and turning to meet Richie.

“Let’s go.”

Eddie hadn’t confronted his mother yet. Every time he thought he might be able to, he couldn’t. It was his mother. How could she?

A loud thud sounded against his window, followed by muffled cursing. Eddie looked out to see none other than Richie. He also noticed a small crack in his window from the rock Richie has thrown. He lifted the pane, looking at his best friend.

“You’re going to break my window one of these days, Trashmouth.”

“Only if you break my heart first,” he crooned in a sing-song voice. Eddie smirked before racing downstairs to let Richie in, not caring that his mother lay sleeping in her chair.

Once they are safe in Eddie’s room, Richie released a barrage of questions.

“Okay, what happened at the pharmacy? You ran out of class, and so I followed you, and I find you going all bad cop in the drug store. And the amino-whatever? What’s that all about?”

Eddie let the confusion wash over him, again picking up the plastic bottle and running his thumb over the label.

“Animoprophen. It’s a drug used to get rid of soulmarks after your soulmate dies.” He holds up the bottle. “This is prescribed to my mom. She’s been giving it to me since I was seven.” He pulls his inhaler out of his pocket, throwing it across his room in anger. “All my medication is bullshit, Richie. It was never real. She’s been lying to me for nearly ten years. Ten years! That’s more than half of my life!”

Richie didn’t say anything, just rubbed small circles between his shoulders. Eddie leaned into the touch, grateful for the comforting touch.

“What are you gonna do, Eddie?”

“I dunno. Being in the same house as her makes me feel sick. Thinking about everything makes me sick.” He pauses. “I think she’s the fault I never got my mark. I think that medicine stopped it from coming in. It’s her fault. I have a soul mate out there who I might never find, because of her.”

Eddie was a gutted fish, a shattered window, a knife cut, a tornado, a raindrop. Open. Changed. Irreparably broken.

He did not cry.

Richie reached over and wrapped him in a rare embrace, resting his chin on Eddie’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry. I feel like I should do something, but I can’t. I haven’t felt this powerless since we fought It.”

He pulled away, placing Eddie’s hands in his. He traced the scar on his palm, running his thumb over the raised skin.

“Do you want to stay at my house tonight? My parents won’t be there,” Richie asked quietly, and Eddie though he could sense just a little shyness in his tone.

“I dunno. My ma…”

“She shouldn’t control you anymore. Not after what she did. If you want to go, let's go.”

Eddie nodded.

As they walked down the stairs, Eddie felt his life moving in slow motion. He didn’t avoid the third step. His mother stirred, demanding to know what Richie was doing there, where they were going. She tried to stop them, opening her mouth to yell.

“Mom, I know that you did,” he says plainly, placing the animoprophen in her hand. “I’m going to stay at Richie’s house tonight.”

And just like that, calm as the eye of a hurricane, he walked out the door towards Richie’s car.

ANNOUNCEMENT: So, my amazing friend, who’s read this fic from the start, is turning it into a comic! Please go check her out at @sekiims 

Taglist: @anniewdoodles

#my writing #reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #It (2017) #friday never hesitate

[dontlookdown]

Nick’s Favourite Music of 2017

I’ve always been someone that tries to accentuate the positive, so let me get this bold take out of the way:

2017 was bad, and best summed up by the phrase “Further complications”.

...But the music, films, TV and games of the past twelve months have been (on the whole) great, so we just about made it through.

If anything, there might have been too much good stuff. This is the first year in a while where I’ve not only struggled to pick out my favourites from earlier months, but have also had to navigate a massive backlog of acclaimed music that I’d missed. The scheduling of certain releases didn’t help. I have four bands in my life that hold a drop-everything status when they release a new record (LCD, War on Drugs, The National, QOTSA), and they all unleashed new albums within a week of each other. It gets exhausting!

As always, I’ve waited until the year is truly over before finalising my top 20 tracks of the year, because you never know when something extraordinary might suddenly pop out in the middle of December (and it frequently does). I’ll be posting about one song each day. Previous entries can be found easily using the tag “best-of-20xx”, going all the way back to 2010 (I always surprise myself every year by being reminded that this blog is that old).

First, though, some honorable mentions for tracks and albums that didn’t quite make the cut, but still mean a lot to me:

Cloud Nothings – “Modern Act”

ME: Oop! There’s a new Cloud Nothings album. Time to check in and see if Dylan Baldi has come up with a third entry in the ‘Choruses That Nick Relates to Way Too Much’ series, following “I need time to stop moving” and “I’m not you, you’re a part of me”.

DYLAN: “I want a life, that's all I need lately. I am alive but all alone”

ME: *sobbing uncontrollably* …Nice.

Coldplay – “All I Can Think About Is You”

This is a strange one that I rediscovered towards the end of the year, and haven’t been able to stop thinking about. It’s the sound of Coldplay making a conscious effort to return to the quieter, less-poppy style of their early work, but remembering that those records still had a sense of fun that was lacking in Ghost Stories.

Craig Finn – “God in Chicago”

Craig Finn (also of The Hold Steady) has always presented himself as more of a storyteller than a songwriter (although, as the incredible Boys and Girls in America proves, he’s brilliant at both), and his most recent solo album really pushed further into that territory. “God in Chicago” in particular is a stark contrast to the boisterous bar anthems that Craig’s other band is famous for, but still shows him operating at the peak of his powers.

Frank Ocean – “Chanel”

It took some time to adjust to the idea that, since returning after four years of silence, Frank Ocean doesn’t seem to be retreating out of the spotlight again. That’s fine by me. I’d listen to this guy sing the phonebook. Frank seems happy to be publicly experimenting with his sound right now, releasing new songs every few months via his radio show. “Chanel” was the first of these, and was a refreshing, almost stream-of-consciousness change of pace when compared to the precise songwriting that we heard on blonde. It also just happens to be the best song Drake’s never made.

Vince Staples – “BagBak”

Googles: "big fish theory" yeezus “About 18,200 results”

I’ve got nothing to add, really. “BagBak” bangs. I’m happy to hear Vince trying out new shit.

King Krule – The OOZ

I really struggled to formulate any solid thoughts about The OOZ, other than it is very good. What do you even call this type of music? Doom jazz? Extreme chillout? The album is like the sonic equivalent of a heavy night spent consuming every depressant imaginable, or a Morphine record that melted. …And, in writing that, I might have cracked it. It sounds like how we’ve all been writing about 2017 for the last few months! Time will be very kind to it, I suspect.

Mount Eerie – A Crow Looked at Me

Absolutely brilliant and almost impossible to recommend, A Crow Looked at Me is an earnest document of the passing of Phil Elverum’s wife, Geneviève, and an unflinching portrait of how death really affects the people someone’s absence leaves behind. Musically, it’s a stripped-down as a record can possibly be, and requires an empathetic frame of mind from the listener. But it’s incredibly rewarding for those that take the time to engage with it.

Slowdive – Slowdive

Very few things in this world make me happier than bands reuniting after long breaks and releasing an album that stands up with their very best work. I’ll be talking about this in more detail later on in the month, but it’s worth bringing up in relation to the already-legendary shoegaze band Slowdive. Twenty. Two. Years. And it didn’t dull their senses one iota.

Alec Holowka – “Home Again”

Night in the Woods is the game I wish I’d had when I was 18. At its core, it’s a game that stresses the importance of talking to and learning about the people in your life, and considering how we all bump into each other throughout our long-ass lives. In between hanging out with old friends, it perfectly captures that intangible sense of malaise you get when you’re forced to take stock of your life so far and end up wondering just what the fuck you even want to achieve now. This dissonance is present in the game’s soundtrack too, composed by developer Alec Holowka. “Home Again”, as the title suggests, plays while your character is back in her childhood home, returning abruptly from college. It’s got a very warm sound, hazy and swirly in a way that provokes a mental image of familiar dusty furniture being bathed in a sunbeam through your window. And then, after two bars at around :30, a minor chord is introduced, giving the progression a sad, almost disappointed feel. You’re back…but why? Is everything okay? It’s equal parts comforting and concerned, the lone piano shifting into a more confident melody at 1:30 while the moody synths hold back briefly. It’s the sound of a worried parent calmly asking you some tough questions.

Dan Salvato – “I Still Love You”

I’ve previously gone on-the-record about how Doki Doki Literature Club completely wrecked my shit, as have many people who’ve played it, but I think the game deserves some recognition for being as much a loving tribute to dating sim games as it is savage deconstruction. This is something that’s highlighted by the game’s soundtrack (composed by writer/designer/way-too-talented person Dan Salvato), full of bright, breezy pieces that would sound right at home in any number of these games, on-the-nose emotionally and completely earnest in presentation (bum notes and all). And then, as you might be aware, things get weird. But, crucially, the music does not. Rather than composing new pieces to supplement the new tone, we simply hear the old ones again (albeit ever-so-slightly warped in places). This adds to that false sense of security. “Everything’s fine”, the game tells us, lying through its teeth. By the time the façade drops completely, the music is gone, replaced by an atmospheric soundscape. “I Still Love You”, which plays over the climactic scene, is a blend of the two extremes we’ve heard so far: the emptiness of the soundscape morphing itself into an actual melody, accompanied by a lone piano still hitting the perky beats from the earlier tracks. It’s a perfect representation of everything the game does so well when it comes to managing tone and player expectation, and a great and relaxing piece in its own right.

John Williams – “Canto Bight”

In which John Williams finally composes a proper follow-up to “Cantina Band”. I joked last week that you could make a playlist consisting of nothing but this track repeated hundreds of times, and end up with the perfect soundtrack for any party. It’s funny because it’s true. In less than three minutes, Williams segues from traditional film score bombast to an exciting cocktail of Dixieland jazz, Cuban salsa and 12-bar blues. Separated from the scene it soundtracks, it’s a piece that constantly keeps you on your toes, and a perfect example of why the general weirdness of The Last Jedi was one of the most exciting things about it.

That’s it for now. Tomorrow we’ll start with the list proper. Until then!

#music #best of 2017 #Cloud Nothings #coldplay #craig finn #Frank Ocean #vince staples #king krule #mount eerie #slowdive #night in the woods #alec holowka #doki doki literature club #dan salvato #john williams #the last jedi #star wars

[evanvanness]

Some gentle criticisms and comments on Vitalik/Gitcoin CLR

Gitcoin’s CLR matching is over.  Vitalik published his evaluation of it.

Here’s my perspective, as someone who participated in it as both a recipient and a donor.

1.  It’s a popularity contest.  More importantly, it’s an EARLY popularity contest.

CLR is transparently a popularity contest.  Check the leaderboard: the number of donors predicts your rank almost perfectly.  That’s the point of the algorithm: it’s a signalling mechanism, not a donation incentivization mechanism.

But what is less apparent is that it is an early popularity contest.  The number of donors in the first 3 days is probably almost as as good a predictor of your ranking as total number of donors over the entire 2 week period.  

How could that be?  

If you got a few contributions early, then your estimated matching number (the one in green) would be much higher than someone who got just a few less contributions than you.

This is one place where the Matthew Principle (”to everyone who has, more will be given”) holds.  If you’re a donor evaluating where you want your money to go, then you are likely to give to the projects with high matching estimates - the Matthew Principle in action.  

Furthermore, projects that have the most donations already get seen the most. The default ordering of grants on Gitcoin’s site is the “weighted shuffle.”  That means that recipients who already have the most donors will appear higher on the page, on average.  Given how many grants there were (~250 in the tech category), if you don’t get near the top early on, you probably didn’t even get seen by most potential donors for the rest of the 2 week period. The Matthew Principle strikes again.

This is particularly important because a few extra donors gets you a disproportionate amount of extra funding.  Notice how in the tech category, 3x more donors got 9x more matching funding.

Several caveats apply here: 

This is somewhat an effect of the Gitcoin website design, but keep in mind that this data is all on-chain, so the data is inherently transparent and likely something that donors want to see.  Gitcoin is probably making the right decision to show it to you.

Given the sheer number of grants this round (300+ between both categories), most donors will not look through all of them, so the weighted shuffle is probably the best option.

You could limit the number of recipients so that donors are limited to something more reasonable like 50 choices, but that inherently defeats the purpose of the mechanism.

tldr: if you didn’t get a few donors early, you had almost no chance at winning.   I was a day late in starting, and had to campaign much harder than my competition because I started with a significant disadvantage.  I was behind until the very end.

2. What happens when scams submit projects and get real people to donate?

Part of the point of this mechanism is that the populace can vote with their money on what they think should be funded, and thus anyone can submit something to be funded.

We saw a few trolls submit this round and get a few DAI out of it.  But they were late to the game, and we’ve already established that being late is a substantial hindrance.

What happens when they organize 100 of their friends in advance to give 1 DAI on the first day?

Take it a step further, what happens when IOTA,Tron, BSV, or XRPbots submit and get 1000 real people to donate on the last day?

In a similar vein, what if Bitconnect in q4 2017 had tried to fund Carlos Matos appearing at their next event through this CLR?

It’s important to draw boundaries from the start.  Negative voting can help with this - but may be an imperfect solution, particularly in the latter 2 examples.

I would suggest that we explicitly designate all Gitcoin grants to be “things that benefit the Ethereum community.” 

Norms matter.

3.  Estimates are marketing

No disrepect to Gitcoin, but the estimates in the image above are marketing.  That is, with only minor simplifications, the estimate assumes that no one else donates after you, and that your next donation is the last donation of the round.

That’s obviously not a reasonable assumption, except for the last donation of the last donor.  The graphic above that said that a  $1 donation would get matched with $156 was right at the time, but my own example makes my point for me: I had 133 donors, and got way less than than 133*156.

Kudos to Gitcoin with the marketing - it does a great job of getting people to donate.  It’s the best they can do, given that further explanation would be quite complicated.  That’s a perfect transition to the next point:

4.  Too confusing

Education takes time.  But I talked to plenty of very smart people in this space who are heads down on their projects and startups who had no idea how to think about how to donate in even the most basic way.   “Just give 1 DAI, it’s fine” seemed like a tough thing for most people to grasp - though this may be merely a matter of developing norms which remove the social stigma around appearing cheap by only giving 1 DAI.

It’s tough to develop an intuition for the CLR mechanism.  I have read the posts and still am unclear whether there 5 people who give mostly to the same projects have their donations weighted less due to a collusion factor.  So imagine your average Solidity dev (by definition: an above average human!) who has spent very little time thinking about “quadratic funding” and shows up to the site for the first time

I think the intuition will come in time (”just give 1 DAI!”) but it was harder than I thought.

5.  No accountability.  

CLR grants and matching donations are closer to token sales than they are to traditional grants-making organizations.  CLR grants are no-strings-attached gifts.  Contrast that to grants in the traditional world which usually have milestone payments or balloon payments at the end, contingent on performance.

String-free gifts aren’t intrinsically a bad thing (and do possibly some with social expectations), but it makes them different from the kind of work that you would likely fund via grants.  In some sense, traditional grants are about the future, whereas these CLR grants are usually about gratitude for the past.

One final note: CLR grants are best for people who can motivate some segment of strong supporters who will go give them no-strings-attached gifts.  It is not for people who whose work is appreciated by everyone, but only a little.

In the spirit of Gitcoin grants, I immediately distributed much of the donations I received (just like I did with the Week in Ethereum News 3 year anniversary NFT) and will likely do so with all matching as well, resulting in zero net personal gain.

It should be obvious that I treated this as a game. It was a game!  Hopefully if you read this, you’ll have some ideas for how to play the game better yourself.

[ruginite]

☠ [for Loki]

SEND ME A SYMBOL FOR… Status: Not Acceptin’ 

☠  five times my muse thought about hitting yours, and the one time they did.

   [ It’s quite a drop from the top so how you feelin’ down there? ]

1 -

 Staring contest. They’ve been at it for half an hour at least. Waiting for Verity to get ready to go. He’s not entirely sure how he got roped into this. The three of them, going out. Well no that’s…a lie. He knows how he got here. She’d asked. And when has Bastian ever been able to tell her no? So here they were. Loki and himself that is. Locked in the mother of all staring contest. And he’s not exactly sure what the goal of it is. But somewhere in the mist of it the green horned fuck had to spit something; and it takes every single fucking iota of self control not to jump the table between them and plant his fist in the god’s throat.

2 -

Listing the periodic table by atomic number…backwards. It’s the only thing that keeps his fist from landing directly into Loki’s jaw. Pretend he’s not there. Pretend he’s not there. Pretend he’s not there. He really hates it when Verity’s best friend is there when he picks her up to go out once a week. Mostly because the god likes to remind him it’s not a date. And then list all the fucking reasons why it never will be. And how bad Bastian’s taste in clothes are. How bad Bastian’s taste in everything is. Well except where women are concerned, because obviously. Still Loki pushes his luck. A click of his tongue, a elongated glance that ends with a roll of his eyes, and…

     That’s….what you’re wearing? Lucky for you, you can’t be arrested for poor fashion sense.

3 -

Yanking him across the universe with little to know warning. strike number one. The troll…strike number two. Strike number three? Nearly has Bastian picking the horned fuck up by his hair and pitching him over the fucking edge into the black abyss they’d traversed a few hundred feet back. They’ve been going in a straight line for hours. Bastian cutting a hole through every wall they come face to face with. Because the best way to beat a maze is to cheat. But clearly that isn’t going well for them at all.

         I’m starting to think perhaps this place is cheat proof.

Knuckles pop. The only thing saving the god of mischief from a possible chipped tooth is the fact that eventually he’s going to be needed. If there’s any hope of getting Verity out of this place that is.

             “Now y’fuckin’ tell me.”

4 -

Tucked in the corner. Watching the party mingle by without him. Watching the way Verity smiles and tries her best to play along. Watching the way Loki moves them through the crowd like it’s no different than taking afternoon stroll through the park. Every touch, every fake smile he puts on; setting Bastian on edge more and more and more. Until the glass in his hand cracks. Until he’s forced to look down at the table. Until he’s knocking back the liquor, and moving to the bar to get a refill. Because he hates these damn things. And what’s more he hates being sidelined…hates that he lets himself be so. Hates that at some point in the evening Loki will gloat; and Bastian will once again have to do everything he can not to attempt breaking the god of mischief’s face.

5 -

He’s furious. Staring at what looks like the spray painted inside of his garage. Angie the color of a flamingo instead of her warm warn orange. Ela every color of the rainbow and splattered with glitter. Every inch of his work bench coated in neon green, and the floor and ceiling and walls a god fucking awful shade of fushia. It’s enough to make a man lose his shit. Something Bastian Barton is a literal step away from. Fists popping at his sides, and jaw clenched. But…

          Baz…..what happ–

         Oh I see you’ve discovered by surprise!               I thought the chandelier was a nice touch. Don’t you  think?

Bastian shuts the door. Right in the god’s face. Right in Verity’s. Because it’s best to just not right now. Because if he starts….there won’t be any stopping him. And that isn’t something Verity needs to see. So instead he sets to work. Retrograding his sanctum, that one day Loki will very much regret every trespassing in.

6 -

How long do you think it will take before she figures it out? How long until you can’t hide the fact you turned into a weapon right under her nose? How long do you think she’ll be able to stomach you once she knows that you hunt and kill people…people not unlike her….just to keep your freedom?

Every man has a limit. Mortal or immortal. All have their limit. And Loki is rushing towards Bastian’s. Wearing away at the last few threads of his patience. Chipping away at that line in the sand. The one Verity so sincerely asked him not to cross. But a man has limits. And when the god quite literally dances over the line…there’s a fist to meet him. 

Sudden and harsh. Followed through with, and as bone crushing as the strongest material allows it to be. Knocking the god sideways into the counter. And then another that follows behind without the slightest hesitation, that puts Loki on the floor. Bastian quick to stand upright again. Glaring down at the other, before moving to step away.

             “She already knows, asshole.”

#vesallkyn #[ these were rather short but i hope their okay ] #Green Slicked Pain In The Ass || Loki Laufenson #outgoing || answered asks #[ mobile post ]

[itinerantscribe-blog]

Day 4 of 56

I had white bread for breakfast today. I don’t even care. I fancied a German breakfast. I call it a German breakfast but I have no idea if this is typical or specific to a German diet. I’ve just always called it such since the days of my footloose and fancy free travelling. I was young then, earning well, spending more than I was earning mind you, no rules, no sense of responsible living. Ha! Responsible living? Whatever that is. I met a whole bunch of German folk, my age, when I was living in Rome. Even started an affair with one of them. I say affair, it was just sex on the hoof. But after I left Roman climes for English shores, I maintained contact with these beer swilling, fun loving individuals hailing from Dusseldorf. They used to invite me to their Saturday night parties which I would invariably attend, heading off to the airport Friday night, indifferent to the dimensions of the airport terminal, no difficulty with the landscape that has come to sabotage so many similar efforts these days. Off I’d go, drinking in anticipation, making them all laugh, having a weekend carved from the monument to pure hedonism, back in Blighty by Sunday evening ready for Monday morning travail. Then, a midweek call informing me it was happening all over again the coming weekend, that I was welcome once more, and true to my devil may care attitude and my lack of ties elsewhere, true to my indifference to an ever inflating Amex bill that should really have counselled otherwise, off I’d trot again to my newly discovered Dusseldorf drinking haunts. And to my Doris. Not Doris as in old English vernacular, but Doris as in appellation, Doris as in her name! Well, my meine liebe Doris would now and then prepare a breakfast composed of rolls divided into 3 parts of which one part would be layered with cheese, one with jam and the other plain for the purposes of the boiled egg which sat enthroned at the centre of  the courtiers encircling its regal presence. I was a right gadabout was I. Not a seeming care in the world, untroubled by family ties, there were none, untroubled by responsibility, untroubled by anything. I remember an aunt once asking me a question in this period, to which I reacted with some typically frivolous response. ‘Do you just laugh at everything?’ she replied, her manner anything but jocular. ‘Don’t you ever take anything seriously?’ I laughed. I wasn’t taking anything seriously. The laughter would never stop, would it? No, of course not!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FdXAUKcjejI

Well, the laughter may not have stopped, but the cavalier spontaneity certainly left me for some greener pastures. An example of crossing the road was a modest example of difficulty, but I see no reason not to introduce areas of greater, almost impossible variety, current and real, requiring all manner of preparation just to enable an attempt whilst promising no surety of successful outcome. You listen and you be the judge of the correlation with the alcohol that inevitably snakes its way into the following story, this one story from a catalogue of multiple examples but the one most recent that makes me consider the futility of further resistance despite my gung ho message of defiance not more than 24 hours ago.It begins some months prior to the event itself, an event I have desired to witness in person for many years, the need to compete for tickets for PMQs always in heavy demand the reason for an early bird approach. Successfully booked, I awaited the day with increasing trepidation until my mounting disquiet penned an email on my behalf. 'Sorry for short notice, unexpected developments dictate the need for a cancellation, preferably a postponement if this email alienates not its recipient with its last minute composition.' The email was more expansive than this, I piled it on, obsequious too flaccid a word for my written prostrate supplication,  desperate to receive a second chance, desperate to ensure only a battle it was I had lost, not the war. The response to some measure mollified my worried soul, it was indeed, only a battle, and as if some unseen, silent force had allied itself to my cause, the revised date coincided with what would be Mrs May's last ever PMQs, a splendid event I have witnessed on TV oft times previously with other prime ministers, more than worthy of a real life visit when the house would be full and the jousting less toxic albeit robust and boisterous nonetheless. This time I would be ready.

The tickets came in pairs and whilst I was quite content to make my personal pilgrimage a solo affair, I considered the merits of inviting a guest, part altruistic my consideration, part self interest not entirely absent from my deliberations. I began in earnest my preparations 2 weeks in advance, enjoying my last real ale until the completion of my endeavour. Gradually my research intensified, entrenched habits, virtually and remotely examining the lay out of the building that was the equivalent of my Everest, availing myself of the official website which offered the facility of virtual on line tours, many of which to my undiluted interest and surprise, was aimed specifically at those individuals who are placed within the autistic spectrum and whose symptoms and difficulties clearly coincide with my own. Hmmm. That notwithstanding, it became clear from my forensic scrutiny that this was going to be no slice of sponge, so many elements conflating to produce a moving sequence of a slide show of horror. Tall buildings, long open halls, heavily armed police, security more intensive than airport terminals, an entire panoply of Danny's worst vignettes beautifully crafted together in loving preparation for his bestest possible experience. What was not to like? Yumbloodyyum! Westminster Hall held particular beauty and promise for me. I felt my hands moisten in the tranquil security of my small abode as I watched from a screen the reality beyond my door and beyond. By the time I had finished my laborious but distant familiarisation process, I knew the co-ordinates and dimensions and the procedure like the proverbial back of my hand, although I suspect I knew them better. The back of my hand instils in me not one iota of fear, Westminster Hall is already instilling me with terror...

https://www.parliament.uk/about/podcasts/video-tours/westminster-hall/

So, emboldened by a good period of abstinence, the morning of departure I was quietly confident. I felt healthy, I had subjected myself to a hard bout of high intensity exercise (always a wonderful antidote to all things malign, alas, normally after the event, not before), eaten an athlete's breakfast and was prepared for the inevitable escalating surge of adrenaline the nearer the time for immersion into the event arrived, an habitual surge that is as permanent a feature on my existence as the nose on my face. I had with me my emergency measures compendium, lavender for my wrists, a paper bag if my breathing needed assistance, Valium, that loathsome, odious Valium which I so detest, chewing gum and the omnipresent sunglasses, grateful that their prescription based origin would allow their use contrary to stated parameters for their non prescribed equivalent. It did cross my mind to pick up a cheap miniature whisky en route for last resort circumstance but it almost certainly be held at security and so of little productive benefit. I was as ready as I was going to be. 

https://www.thewhiskyexchange.com/p/3733/famous-grouse-miniature

Arriving in London, my home town, with buckets of time to spare, I tested my status, defiantly surveying the tall buildings at Fenchurch Street to their very apex, excellent litmus paper for my state of mind to judge the levels of my anxiety. I was able to maintain my gaze for a not unreasonable length of time. Not bad I thought, not bad at all. I know London well, born and bred I am conversant to an intimate degree with its geographical nature. The Houses of Parliament, well, what London visitor cannot at once visualise that corpulent and imposing vista, let alone an indigenous fellow? I had established that on PMQs day, the queue for security can take 45 minutes, not my best but I was still fine. Ha! Silly me! There was no need to worry! That benevolent unseen, unspeaking force was still with me! There was no queue at all!! This was going to be fine! I breathed a sigh of relief. I could now walk the route blind, so familiar had I made myself with the logistics, but Westminster Hall still played on my mind and I knew this was coming up fast. The coffee shop was exactly where it should be, and I suggested to my companion that since we had more than an hour to spare, perhaps a brief pause might be in order. I of course, would not dare risk coffee, the additional  caffeine in moments of potential crisis a guaranteed source of heightened woe and chaos, adding as it would to the adrenaline that would certainly flood my interior should things even yet take a turn for the worse. 

My companion. It is apposite to say a thing or two about my companion. I chose carefully, bearing in mind that my choice was limited in any event, these long years of a condition that ensured I remained fairly isolated and on the perifery of the social fabric having effectively rendered me largely Billy no mates. I don't mind being no mates Billy, I quite like my isolation and own company, but there are one or two drawbacks. And certainly, other than the period of stewardship of my son ( https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B013CEN8S6/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1) when he would be my best ever company in our various trips about the world, I have often undertaken these things I do alone, not hampered by the need to explain if I suddenly have to break into a sprint, not judged if I have to dart quickly into a pub to drink a pint of courage to move to the next stage of whatever event I am undertaking. I'm a scathing enough judge of myself, I need neither validation nor confirmation from anyone else about my periodic aberrant behaviour and I certainly won't apologise for it. I am best alone. That day I was not alone. The companion was female, an individual who whilst not knowing me well nor for any sustained period of long standing acquaintance, had witnessed by accident a mini 'event' I had undergone once before. I recognised at once her lack of judgement, her lack of condemnation, ridicule or endorsement. She was easy to read, one of those who will do anything for anyone, I suspect even provide a lift to a stranger if asked. Furthermore, her role within a medical environment suggested to me some exposure to the various and copious issues that roam the world and select their victims almost randomly. And finally, her innocence, her lack of experience of the world, extraordinarily devoid of virtually any real exploration beyond her parochial (in a totally non pejorative manner I employ that adjective, it is all literal in its inclusion) existence, geographical and otherwise. This last facet meant that the event that day would provide her with something so outside her normal frame of reference that no matter what happened to me, she would have something memorable to take from the experience. I had briefed her on the train, I had tried to explain and condense the last 40 years of my life in the 45 minutes the journey took, to prepare her in advance for what might happen and how she must no matter what proceed alone and witness a fairly unique experience. I could tell she could not quite grasp the concept, why would she? I mean, let's face it, it is a little weird…

 'I am off to have a quick look round,' I say.

 'Ok,' she says, soaking up the adventure, enjoying the coffee before her, not the only entity she was imbibing as she drank in the atmosphere, the majesty of the place, its unmissable historical aura. Off I go, venturing through a door on the right, marking the terrain, a soldier mapping out the landscape, scouting the territory. I happen upon the small souvenir shop, I have a quick glance round, they sell alcohol!! Expensive alcohol. Port and stuff, wine, oh, and miniature bottles of whisky. Six quid each!!! I could have bought three of these en route, but no matter, these aren't for consumption on the premises and besides, I am not going to need them today. There is a toilet up ahead, I have a look. Oooohhh! Dead plush! Modern interior contrasting unpleasantly with the antiquated exterior that leads to it I am thinking. Back out I come. There is another door, open, I know where it leads, I know, I just don't want to look. I am going to have to look. Tentatively I pop my head through the gap. Tortoise neck. Peering in. Westminster Hall. 72 metres? This is never 72 metres! It is much shorter. They got it wrong!! I smile, I rejoice, this will be easy. I do what I have been avoiding. I look up. Ok, not too bad, it's a buttressed type of ceiling, they at least got this right. It curves, it's only high dead centre. Just don't look. Damn, shouldn't have looked, what's been seen cannot be unseen. I look over at the small desk where stand the various attendants. I have my security badge on, dangling from its lanyard, I have been checked, no need to worry. Nothing to see here. Strange I think, not many people, especially not for PMQs.

'Hi,' I say as I regain the table. 'Nice little shop round there.' I am pointing. 'I think we should walk to the chamber, just see what it's like, collect our tickets and then come back and you have a look round the shop. We still have over an hour.'

'Ok,' she says. I am right about her character, entirely relaxed and easy going, no demands at all. We walk outside and I talk to one of the attendants.

'Very quiet today, isn't it? Especially for PMQs.' I am friendly, keen to elicit as much info as I can, I think I am a bit wobbly inside. I touch my pockets, verify the location of my emergency measures.

'Yes, it is,' he says, old boy, friendly and jaunty. 'Theresa isn't here of course today. Down at Portsmouth with Donald. June the fifth.’

 'Oh yeah, course!' I say, knowingly, having thought that she would be here first before helicoptering down there second. My heart sinks a bit, if she's not here, Corbyn will be absent too. At least Emily Thornberry will be there in his stead, she is better than him at the dispatch box, funny too. There is that. I quickly glance at my companion, to see if she shares my disappointment, that would make me sad for her, for anyone, I'd built it up so much. She reveals nothing, I am definitely right about her, she just doesn't mind. 

We enter the hall. It suddenly seems a lot longer than 72 metres, more like half a mile. I quickly absorb the scene at the end, where the stairs replace the flat floor. There are a pair of armed policemen on either flank. My heart is beginning to flutter, the attendants at the desk are looking at me, what can they see? Can they see through my flimsy veneer, are my forced efforts at relaxation personified that transparent. I smile, it's an effort. It's beginning.

'Do you mind if I grab your hand for a minute?' I whisper, the smile still etched on my face. 'Please don't misinterpret.' 

I had briefed her on the train, she is remembering, Her answer confirms she was the perfect person to ask. 

 'No problem,' she whispers back, her smile all real, no masquerade.

'Oh, and I'll need to walk on the left, by the wall, sorry.' I thought I didn't apologise.

She moves effortlessly into position and greedily I grab her hand as we begin our march to whatever is lurking down the road. The sweat has begun its passage, in no time I feel my armpits sodden, oh my god, we have barely walked 2 feet. 

 'Owww,' she whispers. 'Let me take my rings off.' 

It takes her forever, I seize her hand as soon as it becomes available once more. The steps are getting closer, beyond that St Stephen's Hall, I will be ok with Stephen's Hall. If only I could run, I could cover this ground in seconds, my age would be no match for the fuel of my panic, I know this so well. But I can't. I have to maintain a projection of relaxed calm, the police are well trained, I know this too. They are taught to spot the signs that deviate from the norm. I am standing out like something standing out. I smile at them as we approach wishing I could pass between them and the narrow gap to the wall. I will have to ascend the middle, leaving my precious wall, out in the deep end. I pretend to move slowly up the stairs but this theatre works, I am going up 4 at a time. My companion is having to jog slightly, she cannot make 4 at a time, she is not driven by the petrol of fear. My breathing returns to normal, I release my companion's hand. But now the anxiety is being spurred on, encouraged by its own momentum.

We are in the next hall, St Stephen’s. it is thin, just as I'd researched. Ok, Danny, ok, calm down now, we are fine. I am urging myself, trying to talk myself down. This hall is much shorter, pleasant almost. And then we are there, Central Lobby, gateway to both the Lords and Commons, where the throng assembles, where members of the public can come meet a member from either house, Central Lobby,  the final staging post before entering the House of Commons Chamber, our objective, Central Lobby which I had completely underestimated and to which I had not allocated enough preparation time. The ceiling!! Its height! Oh no! The perspiration takes no time to wreak its second round of mischief, my heart, how does my heart always survive these poundings? Will it always? I sit down, eyes glued to the floor, not daring to look up again. I tell my companion where the tickets need to be collected. She has no idea of the process, I educate her quickly. Whilst she is gone I am considering my options. I am paralysed. I cannot move forward, I cannot go back. What the fuck am I going to do? I am screaming inside. I am aware from my periferal vision of the seriously strong armed police presence in this confined space. I am aware I am courting attention. I embolden myself and sit upright, staring at any official with a weapon staring at me, smiling as broadly as I can as I make childish gestures of enormous excitement. My companion comes back, tickets in hand.

https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2019/jan/16/the-scream-edvard-munch-ultimate-image-political-age-british-museum

'We have to go back!' I whisper loudly, desperately. She doesn't hesitate, no matter what happens here, I will buy her an expensive lunch. She in indescribably tolerant and understanding. I am making a fool of myself and her by association. I stand up, I never knew standing could be so physically demanding, I take her hand without asking and pretend to saunter back whence we came, pointing out frescoes I am not really looking at as we go. Westminster Hall is no easier on the return leg than the original, but we make it, back to the coffee shop, still 45 minutes to go. She is looking at me without speaking, I am looking at nothing, too busy on my inner dialogue. I suggest she takes a tour of the shop, a suggestion she gladly embraces. I am thinking hard, tears not distant as the effort takes its inevitable emotional toll. I have dark glasses on, no-one sees. 

'I am not going back in,' I declare upon her return.

'Really?' she says, this time her disappointment apparent, though I suspect more for me than for her.

 'I can't,' I say, 'but you can, and you must. I will wait for you in a pub I know nearby. I can't go through that again.' I am on the verge of running away, out of that place, back to safety, away from high interiors and wide spaces and everything that hasn’t been sanitised. If only life could be sanitised. 

We sit silent. The cafe is busy, excited tourists chattering, sharing each others joy, the novelty of it all. Ten minutes pass.

'Right,' I say. 'I have three choices. I can leave, I can take a Valium or I can buy a whisky and drink it in the loo.'

She is listening, she listens well, she would make an excellent counsellor I think, reflecting back what she hears without making a definitive statement. 

‘If I take a Valium it will have to be 10mg, there will be no time for a smaller dose, my normal dose. I've never taken 10mg in one day before. But if I do that, I will have a window of opportunity for about an hour, and then I will need a beer as the anxiety will explode after its enforced suppression.’ I know the story, I know what happens, it’s become ritual. I have to get the timing dead right, it has to be impeccable.

‘Or I could drink  whisky,’ I think out loud. ‘Ok, go buy a whisky if you would, here's the money.' I don’t care about the preposterous price. I am buying calm.

She goes. I look at the time. The whisky won't work. Not one. I am not going to leave without seeing PMQs. I take a Valium.

 'I've got it,' she says.

'Thanks. I won't need it now. I've taken Valium.'  Don’t worry, I am thinking, it won’t go to waste.

We sit there for 20 minutes, I am waiting for the little pill to work its false magic. We go back in, I am calm. We get into the chamber. Thornberry is there but she isn't standing in for Corbyn, I am not surprised, she overshadows him. He won’t let her put him in her shadow. We stay for half hour, the pill is already beginning to wear off. That’s fast, and very strange. But I know my companion has had enough anyway, the main thrust, the primary fun of PMQs is the half hour between midday and half past. Besides, it's quite boring today. All the principal protagonists are absent. My principal protagonist isn’t absent unfortunately. Mr Anxiety is preparing his second, more deadly wave of attack.

 'Ready?' She nods. We leave. Westminster Hall again. Bastard. I take her to the pub I know on the bridge. She has tonic water, I have a pint and a large whisky. I have never tasted beer so good. That's a lie. All the other times relief has replaced terror the beer has tasted just as good.

 'I will buy you a fabulous lunch,' I say, and I mean it. She deserves it. 

This effort will drain me for at least 5 days, it always does. Is the effort worth the aftermath? Was what happened an excuse or a reason to have that drink that continued for the rest of the day? Wouldn’t it just be easier not to try anymore? You decide. I’m too drained….