#wallace frost

[charlesmansonatwar]

Kids in Detroit

#Imagination for a small #classic children's yellow and ceramic tile bathroom remodel with ceramic tile #a white floor #a single sink #a two-piece toilet #and white walls and a wall-mount sink. historic renovation #bathroom #wallace frost #historic district #antique tile #vintage tile #yellow bathroom

[crazyclau]

Detroit Kids An illustration of a small, traditional bathroom design for children with white tile and ceramic tile flooring, white walls, a single sink, shaker cabinets, brown cabinets, a two-piece toilet, beige walls, an undermount sink, granite countertops, a hinged shower door, white countertops, and a built-in vanity.

#vintage #walnut vanity #wallace frost #antique #renovation #bathroom #marble

[rotomblr-island]

Please give someone a mirror! I want to see the random outfits they come up with

Sprite and Wallace both have mirrors! But also miis can change their outfits on their own anyway. As seen with Vanilla becoming "naked," Yin putting the banana costume back on after i changed her out of it, and also one i didn't mention which is that Clive took his wig off...

#islander: sprite chroma #islander: wallace nakajima #islander: vanilla cress #islander: yin axxad #islander: clive frost

[dccomicsnews]

"The Flash" Ends His Run in Season Nine, Showrunner Says.

“The Flash” Ends His Run in Season Nine, Showrunner Says.

The Flash has heard its final starting gun on The CW. Showrunner Eric Wallace has confirmed that the long-running – and remaining – Arrowverse spinoff will end with its ninth season. This is his official statement: “Nine seasons! Nine years of saving Central City while taking audiences on an emotional journey full of heart, humor, and [spectacle. And] now Barry Allen has reached the starting gate…

View On WordPress

#arrow #Barry Allen #Brandon McKnight #Candice Patton #Crisis on Infinite Earths #Danielle Panabaker #DC Comics #DC comics news #Eric Wallace #Frost #Grant Gustin #supergirl #The CW #the Flash

[ultrahpfan5blog]

I genuinely don't understand how Eric Wallace is bungling the final season of The Flash so badly. The Red Death arc was extremely ordinary. I liked Javicia Leslie as Ryan on Batwoman but she was genuinely awful as Red Death Ryan. And the last two episodes have not even had The Flash. This is literally the final season of the show and there have now been two episodes where Barry has not even used superspeed, let alone been in The Flash costume. I mean, what was the point of the Iris and Dreamer episode. Why on earth would major characterization of a Supergirl character take up time in The Flash in its final season? Makes no sense. Not to mention the absolutely horrifying handling of Caitlin/Frost/Khione and Chillblaine. I was starting to think the Chillblaine was making some positive progress but this season he has been super unlikable. And the fact that they basically killed off an OG character like Caitlin and they don't even properly address it is ridiculous. I can only hope that the final arc redeems the season somewhat because this season has so far been a major letdown after a much better season 8. Right now it genuinely feels like it will compete with season 7 for the worst season of the show.

#the flash #eric wallace #red death #khione #caitlin snow #killer frost #chillblaine #barry allen #iris west allen

[grandhotelabyss]

Wallace Stevens or Robert Frost?

Probably Stevens. There's more there conceptually, the types of things I think about (the role of art, the relation between literature and truth, our access as thinking beings to reality, etc.), and the language is rich and beautiful in a way I personally prefer, given its issuance from "an Italy of the mind." I still admire Frost's more laconic verse on its own terms, however.

#wallace stevens #robert frost #poetry

[archivyrep]

Film, novels, video games, and more: Archivists and archivy

For today's post, I'd like to highlight some archivists I've found in popular culture, making this similar to my post back in August. None of these archivists are in anime or animation, but they are worth mentioning. Perhaps my prediction of having trouble finding representation, when it comes to archives, won't come to pass after all!

Reprinted from my Wading Through the Cultural Stacks WordPress blog. Originally published on Oct. 17, 2020.

Let's start with Arthur White. He was an English actor who played Ernie Trigg in A Touch of Frost, a crime drama, a character described as a "police archivist" on his Wikipedia page. In the world of film, there's also The King's Case Note, a comedy film from South Korea where a king and his adviser, an archivist search to find the truth behind a crime which, according to the Wikipedia page, "threatens the stability of the kingdom." That reminds me of some plotlines in Tangled, where a number of episodes have archivy themes, which I may focus on as part of an upcoming post on this blog. In terms of other films, there is Cloud Atlas, where Sonmi 451 is an "Archivist" who records the story of a dissident in a device after her trial and arrest, which is also reflected in the novel too.

More subtle is Goronwhy, an unseen archivist in the 2010 miniseries, Wallace and Gromit's World of Invention. Finally, there's "Hyena," the June 2016 episode of 12 Monkeys, a TV series which was based on Terry Gilliam's bizarre 1995 film of the same name, where the protagonists search for an archivist, traveling through time to figure out what was happening.

There are some novels that also feature archivists as well. In the 2018 sci-fi novel, Record of a Spaceborn Few, by Becky Chambers, one of the characters portrayed is an elderly archivist named Isabel. Then there's the epistolary novel titled The Secret History of Twin Peaks which is part of David Lynch's Twin Peaks franchise, where there is a mysterious archivist who brings together a dossier of materials which is examined by an FBI analyst. I don't care much for the franchise, to be honest, or David Lynch, but it's worth mentioning this archivist.

Lynch, as IndieWire pointed out, "fetishizes an outmoded vision of American identity and bemoans its collapse" and was a vocal supporter of Reagan in the 1980s, even if his thoughts elsewhere are a mish-mash of ideas.

I also came across E.T.A. Hoffman's The Golden Pot: A Modern Fairytale, which includes a registrar who copies old manuscripts for an archivist, the latter who apparently cares about document preservation and is later shown to be salamander...who has to find mates for his daughters? This is one strange romantic story, to say the least!

I'd also like to mention the Final Fantasy Record Keeper game, where players control a researcher who works in the history department. So perhaps that has some archivy themes. The description of the game on the official website makes this abundantly clear:

"In a glorious kingdom that thrives on the harmony between magic and art, epic tales of valor and hope have been passed from one generation to the next. The records of these great chronicles uphold the peace and prosperity of all civilization. The kingdom sealed these records inside paintings, to safeguard the balance of the world. That is until, without warning, the records within the paintings began to fade away... Darkness fell upon the world, bringing catastrophe and ruin. The time has come for you to save the kingdom's future. Tyro has restored the Battle Records held in the paintings, protecting the world from a terrible threat from beyond. Now as their investigation continues, they discover an ominous magic emanating from mysterious Corrupted Paintings. But these paintings do not hold Battle Records like the others. These new paintings hold Story Records chronicling the adventures of great heroes from across the realms."

On a totally different note, I found interesting the title of "Majumdar," occasionally used as a surname, which translates to record keeper or archivist from Arabic and Persian, according to the Dictionary of American Family Names. It comes from the words majuma (collection) and dar (possessor).

I would say that archivists are more than collections possessors, although there is occasionally gatekeeping in the profession and among some who are archivists for sure.

That's all for today's post. As always, I look forward to your comments and suggestions on what I should focus on next.

© 2022 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

#archives #archival studies #archival science #majumdar #names #a touch of frost #the king's case note #cloud atlas #somni 451 #wallace and gromit #twin peaks #ffrk #definitions #pop culture #reviews #record of a spaceborn few #novels #david lynch #reaganites #video games #Youtube

[filmnoirsbian]

Things read in May

Essays & Articles:

Ursula K. Le Guin on Being A Man

Investigating parents of transgender youth has agency on ‘brink of collapse,’ staff warns

Five Indigenous Speculative Fiction Authors You Should Be Reading

DECOLONIZING SCIENCE FICTION AND IMAGINING FUTURES: AN INDIGENOUS FUTURISMS ROUNDTABLE

Using Dogs As A Tool of Racial Oppression

Rings of Power: The new hobbits are filthy, hungry simpletons with stage-Irish accents. That’s $1bn well spent

First case of HIV cure in a woman after stem cell transplantation reported at CROI-2022

The Trees That Miss The Mammoths

NOPE’S SCIENCE CONSULTANT REVEALS THE NAME AND INSPIRATION FOR THE MOVIE’S ALIEN

Reflections on the Poetry of Eavan Boland

The dire state of trans healthcare in Ireland

How Letterkenny Got Indigenous Representation So Right

Einstein's Parable of Quantum Insanity

Surgical amputation of a limb 31,000 years ago in Borneo

Most Transgender Children Stick With Gender Identity 5 Years Later: Study

Were you a ‘parentified child’? What happens when children have to behave like adults

Fear of a Black Hobbit

It’s a ‘Full-Contact’ Haunted House. What Could Go Wrong?

The Craft: How a Teenage Weirdo Based on a Real Person Became an Icon

Remember When Multiplayer Gaming Needed Envelopes and Stamps?

‘We’ll Never Make That Kind of Movie Again’ An oral history of The Emperor’s New Groove, a raucous Disney animated film that almost never happened.

5 Incredible Sagas of Fandom Scams and Deception

I Used to Love British Period Dramas. Now I See Them as Colonial Propaganda

Why gender essentialism is a white supremacist ideology

Liberating Our Homes From the Real Estate–Industrial Complex

You Don’t Have To Be Pretty – On YA Fiction And Beauty As A Priority

Ten Years Later, There’s Still Nothing Like Tarsem Singh’s The Fall

Tolerance is not a moral precept

Scottish Poet and Publisher Derick Thomson 'Transformed' Gaelic Poetry

Poetry:

The Universe, as in One Last Song for the Lonely Hearts by Michelle Hulan

An Ordinary Evening in New Haven by Wallace Stevens

Heaven by George Herbert

Return from Death by Derick Thomson

Coffins by Derick Thomson

Chemin De Fer by Elizabeth Bishop

Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo by William Wordsworth

The Man and the Echo by William Butler Yeats

The Most of It by Robert Frost

Eros Turannos by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Books:

The Dark Yule by R. M. Callahan

The Invasion by K. A. Applegate

The Whisper by Aaron Starmer

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

Miss Iceland by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir

#tcp #this is late bc i just kept forgetting to post it all lol #an open window #articles #essays #poetry

[aboutbirds]

One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Wallace Stevens, "The Snow Man," from Collected Poetry and Prose

#wallace stevens #the snow man #collected poetry and prose #out of my collection #formative poems

[kvetchlandia]

Uncredited Photographer Poet Wallace Stevens 1916

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill;

And that in autumn, when the grapes Made sharp air sharper by their smell These had a being, breathing frost;

And least will guess that with our bones We left much more, left what still is The look of things, left what we felt

At what we saw. The spring clouds blow Above the shuttered mansion-house, Beyond our gate and the windy sky

Cries out a literate despair. We knew for long the mansion's look And what we said of it became

A part of what it is … Children, Still weaving budded aureoles, Will speak our speech and never know,

Will say of the mansion that it seems As if he that lived there left behind A spirit storming in blank walls,

A dirty house in a gutted world, A tatter of shadows peaked to white, Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.

-- Wallace Stevens, "A Postcard From the Volcano" 1923

[dostoyevsky-official]

I will do the "dostoevsky-official challenge" and begin with The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

#the ice cream king of poetry - i want to do one of his too #top choice for the “dostoyevsky-official challenge” from “hungwy” i'm not surprised #2 (ඞ!) (ඞ!) #2024 poetry challenge

[wistful-giselle]

❆ literature for winter & snowscapes ❅

Winter Recipes for the Collective ~ Louise Glück *

The Snow Man ~ Wallace Stevens *

Snowdrops ~ Louise Glück

Between Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice, Today ~ Emily Jungmin Yoon

Winter Trees ~ William Carlos Williams

Frost at Midnight ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Snow Queen ~ Hans Christian Anderson

The Snow Child ~ Angela Carter *

White Boots ~ Noel Streatfeild *

Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times ~ Katherine May

A Christmas Carol ~ Charles Dickens

A Winter Book ~ Tove Jansson

Little Women ~ Louisa May Alcott

Carol ~ Patricia Highsmith

Ice ~ Anna Kavan *

#please add on more I need recommendations myself <3 #mine #literature #poetry #recommendations #winter

[rotomblr-island]

Love bubble!

It's... Wallace!

He wants to ask out... Clive.

Isn't this, like, the third time you've tried to ask out Clive?! No! You can't have a GILF moment!

#islander: wallace nakajima #islander: clive frost

[rankirakira]

WARNING SCOTT PILGRIM TAKES OFF SPOILERS

U have been warned so...

Aaaa I binged watch the Scott Pilgrim Takes Off anime in one day instead of doing college homework lol. I have no one to talk to about the Scott Pilgrim anime 😭 so here i info dumping and ranting it.

I read comics and watched the movie in highschool and i also played the game on my Switch. Gosh it's an amazing adaptation and it reference all of them in the anime. Also, the anime feels like a what if or alternate universe imo. I feel like it's better to watch the live action or read the graphic novel or played the video game first imo to understand the easter eggs and references.

Bcs I am so happy that Anamanaguchi came back from the Scott Pigrim game and aaaa there was the game soundtrack in the anime.

Also the ending and the plotline of Ramona being more responsible and facing her exes reminds me of Ramona's ending in the Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World video game. So I'm happy the anime took this route

Things I love in Scott Pilgrim Takes Off ❤️:

The animation and music ❤️❤️❤️

Scott and Ramona realize their mistakes in their past love relationships

Scott and Ramona dynamic is more cuter imo

Scene of Ramona dying her hair

League of Evil Exes interactions aka Gordon and Luke being besties

The unexpected character dynamics, for example, I didn't expect one sided Todd x Wallace 👀

Gayer scenes ( More Wallace and More Roxie)

So many Lucas Lee (He's my fav also I am a Chris Evans so I am bias)

Love how meta and self referential the anime is bcs they reference the original source and other adaptations

Simon Pegg and Nick Frost cameo

The Director Edgar Wright aka Edgar Wrong spoof

Epilogue and Side character developments basically the exes having good endings like Matthew Patel's musical career and Buff barista Lucas

Is the Musical a sign that we might get a Scott Pilgrim musical???

Sparks✨️✨️✨️

Things I wish was in the Scott Pilgrim Takes Off aka me being nitpicking sorry 😭

Hoping that Todd moves on from Wallace bcs the Wallace Heart tattoo is a red flag

Surprised there was no Wallace and Lucas interactions or Wallace's crush on Lucas scenes like the original

No Stephen's boyfriend, Joseph 😭 orStephen Stills being gay scene

Was hoping for a timeskip that Kim and Knives (as a college student) became a couple. Love the duet they had tho❤️

Hopefully there is a season 2 or spin-off perhaps. Overall, I am very satisfied and I would love to rewatch Scott Pilgrim Takes Off over and over again. I love it❤️❤️❤️ Sorry for the long rant. I have no one to talk to about it

#my rants #my thoughts #scott pilgrim #scott pilgrim takes off #scott pilgrim anime #Scott Pilgrim Takes Off spoilers #Spto spoilers #Spoilers #Scott Pilgrim anime spoilers

[ladamedusoif]

Baking (Dieter Bravo x OFC! Andie Wallace-Bravo)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 2

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar (click for masterlist)

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC!Andie Wallace-Bravo

Rating: Teen/Mature

Word count: ~1500 words

Warnings: Mild drug references, alcohol references, strong language, implied smut

Summary: Although he’d once been more known for getting baked, these days Dieter is more interested in baking of a different kind. 

Author's note: This entry in A Merry Fic-Mas is inspired by the very wonderful Curls series by @farawayfromwanting/@agentjackdaniels and @julesonrecord. It's an honour to have the chance to add my own tiny little scene to the Bravo-Wallace family story, and I hope their wonderful creator likes this humble little tale of Holiday Dandie.

Dieter Bravo was not what anyone would call a wholly domesticated man. Marriage and kids had encouraged him to embrace the joys of basic family cooking, but he still struggled with anything beyond the simplest of recipes. 

“I’m an actor, Mamá,” he’d protested as his mother tried to teach him a few of her staples. “It’s basically a given that we’re gonna live on takeout and on-set catering.”

But Dieter had a culinary secret. Baking. In the literal, not metaphorical, sense. Though that was a specialism, too. Less so, these days. 

Even at his hedonistic peak, he’d somehow still retained the ability to produce the best cookies - weed optional, though usually a given - anyone had ever tasted. He didn’t have an exact recipe, just went on vibes. It was soothing, all that gentle mixing and rolling and cutting and baking. He’d made full use of the in-house kitchen in rehab, churning out variations on his failsafe cookie recipe as a kind of therapeutic exercise.

Now, Dieter is swiping through holiday baking ideas on Pinterest while the kids dance energetically to the Bluey opening credits. He’s been the stay-at-home parent for the last couple of months, the strike and production delays for season two of When You’re Lost in the Darkness offering him a welcome chance to stay put and just be a dad. 

Andie walks into the family room dressed in her favourite smart casual outfit of stylish grey coat, white blouse and jeans, makeup subtle and dark curls arranged over one shoulder, her purse slung across her body. She’s in demand, these days, and with Christmas fast approaching Dieter wanted to give her a proper day to herself: get her nails done, have a facial, whatever she wanted. 

“You sure you don’t want me to stay? I feel bad heading out and not staying with you guys on my day off.”

Dieter looks up from his iPad and smiles at his wife. “When was the last time you had a day just for you, angel? We’re fine. Go! Relax! Shop! Do whatever!” He stands up from the couch and shoos her affectionately towards the door, barely letting her pause to kiss the kids goodbye.

Charlie and Ezra do not take their eyes off Bluey for a moment.

Dieter sits beside the kids on the big rug in front of the TV. “So…how’d you guys like to make a surprise for mama?”

Charlie shoots him a look so uncannily similar to her mother’s that Dieter has to pause for a moment. “We’re watching Bluey.”

Ezra nods, bright blond hair gleaming. “Boo-ee.”

“Okay, how about this: we make some cookies for mama, we have lots of fun, and then you can watch more Bluey. Hmmm?”

The children turn to each other as if conferring over their father’s offer. Charlie, as the eldest, assumes the role of spokesperson.

“Okay. But we get to eat cookies and watch Bluey.”

The Pinterest post Dieter had selected as inspiration showed a perfect, well-scrubbed family enjoying a platter of gorgeous, golden holiday cookies frosted and decorated with surgical precision. 

His kitchen, however, had disintegrated into a case of Pinterest versus reality, soundtracked by Dieter’s personal holiday playlist.

Ezra’s wails drown out the sound of Run DMC while Charlie protests that she wasn’t trying to eat Ez’s bowl of frosting. Her dark curls, meanwhile, are streaked with flour, dough, and sugary globs of red and white fondant icing.

They seem to have somehow used every single bowl in the Bravo-Wallace household, the kitchen countertops crowded with mixing bowls of various sizes and coated in flour and sugar. As Dieter turns to comfort Ezra he skids on what he rapidly realises is an errant egg white.

“Motherfuck- sorry, Charlie. And Ezra. Sorry, Charlie and Ezra!”

No sooner has he picked up his son than the oven timer pings, and Charlie is off her stool and opening the oven door - bare-handed - like a shot. Dieter throws himself across the kitchen as best he can, half-diving to get Charlie away from the hot surfaces while somehow still maintaining his balance with little Ezra in his other arm.

Now Charlie starts wailing. “I wanna take the cookies out for Mamaaaaaaaaa!”

Ezra joins in. 

José Feliciano entreats the Bravo-Wallaces to a feliz Navidad. 

Dieter takes a deep breath and tries to summon up what's left of his holiday spirit.

Andie Wallace-Bravo has had a manicure, a pedicure, a facial, and feels like a new woman. She even managed to get in some Christmas shopping at The Grove, stopping at the Farmers Market for a coffee before heading home. 

The house seems eerily quiet, though, as Andie opens the front door and steps inside. No TV. Just the faint sound of holiday music coming from the direction of the kitchen. She drops her purse on the hall table and goes in search of her little clan.

“Dieter? Kids?”

“Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! I made you cookies! Seeeeeee!” 

Charlie collides with her mother and Andie becomes conscious of something sticking to her favourite grey coat: a freshly-baked sugar cookie, shaped like what she suspects is meant to be a Chrismas tree, and dripping in frosting and sprinkles. 

“Oh! Yes, I can see - hey, where’s your brother?”

Right on cue, Ezra toddles around the corner. He is, from head to toe, almost entirely green. 

He extends his chubby arms towards Andie, who shucks off her coat and picks him up. So much for this blouse, she muses. 

“Dieter, why is our son green?”

Dieter is leaning against the kitchen island, sweatpants covered in what looks like flour and tiny white handprints all over his dark grey t-shirt. He turns to look at his wife and reveals a face covered in splodges of red and green frosting, and hair rendered white with powdered sugar and flour. 

“Hiiiii, angel. We, uh… we wanted to surprise you. With cookies.”

Andie’s heart swells so much that she’s able, somehow, to ignore the apocalyptic scene in every corner of her kitchen. “You made cookies, for me?”

Ezra claps his little hands together. “COOKEEE MAMA! COOKEEEEE MAMAAAAA!” 

Charlie joins in with the chant, beating a loud tattoo on an upturned mixing bowl, oblivious to the dough plopping onto the floor. 

“Dee, my love? How much frosting did they eat, exactly?”

Dieter had protested when Andie insisted on helping with cleanup. She silenced him with a kiss to his sugar-coated lips, tugging on a pair of rubber gloves to protect her sparkling festive manicure.

“We’re a team, baby. Anyway, if we didn’t tackle this together I think we’d still be cleaning it by New Year’s.”

With the last of the bowls finally washed and put away, Andie reaches into one of the high cupboards and retrieves a bottle of Irish cream liqueur. 

“It’s Christmas, after all, and I have been looking forward to this all day. Come join me on the couch? There should be some cocoa in the cupboard if you want.”

Dieter smiles and nods. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes, angel. Just want to check on one final batch of dough.”

When Dieter finally emerges, still in his deconstructed cookie-coated clothes, he’s holding a plate of plain cookies and carrying a mug of hot cocoa for himself. 

“The final batch of cookies.” He places them on the coffee table and sinks into the couch beside his wife, resting his head on Andie’s shoulder. “These ones are, uh, a little different. Special.”

Andie looks at him dubiously. “Special?”

He exhales and stretches out, picking up a cookie and nibbling at it. “Weed cookies. For some much-needed relaxation.”

“Oh. Ohhhhh.” Andie giggles and puts down her glass, picking up a cookie. “Well. Holiday cheer, indeed. Thank you, baby.” She takes a bite, chews, and turns to Dieter in astonishment. 

“Holy fucking shit, Dee? These are insane?!” 

He quirks a floured eyebrow and grins. “Still got it. Still making the best cookies in Hollywood.”

Andie is two cookies in when she starts to get giggly, tucking her feet under her and whispering sweet nothings at Dieter as he munches on another of his creations. 

“Merry Christmas, Mr Bravo. You’re the best, you know?”

Dieter hums happily to himself, a soft, blissed-out smile spreading across his face. “Mmmm. No. You are. You’re the best. The best best.”

She giggles again and rests her head on his shoulder. “We’re so fucking lucky. Aren’t we?”

He grunts in assent. 

Andie kisses Dieter’s broad shoulder through his t-shirt. “Hey, Dee. Hey. Wanna make out on the couch?”

No answer. 

“Dee?”

A soft snore. Andie melts a little at the sight: her beloved, still the handsomest thing she’s ever seen even if he’s covered in half the contents of their cupboards. She studies his face, reaching out to gently trace her fingers over his gorgeous features, and leans in to kiss his forehead. 

He tastes of sugar.

Another kiss. More sweetness. Andie giggles, and proceeds to kiss and lick the rest of the frosting off her husband’s face.

Dieter opens one eye, half-awake. “Angel, are you…licking me clean?”

She giggles before standing up and helping Dieter to his feet. 

“Sure am. So let’s go to bed where I can finish the job.” She reaches down to pat her husband’s ass, flour rising in a cloud of dust as she does so. 

“Always said you tasted sweet, baby.”

Dividers by @estrelinha-s

#a merry fic-mas #holiday fic calendar #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x OFC #dieter bravo fanfic #curls series #dandie at christmas #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Advent - a Malevolent fic

Winter is a quiet time.

A time for contemplation.

A time for memories.

And sometimes, a time for change.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis. Happy holidays, everyone!

AO3

---------

Winters were always rough for Wallace Larson.

He’d taught himself not to think about it, about the bitterly cold and cruel beauty that preserved his dead family even as it kept him from going for help. He’d focused on the glittery nonsense instead, on the parties and comfort true wealth could bring, on the chortling pride of being inside, warm and waited on, while the lesser men were trapped outside suffering (as he once had), unable to save themselves.

He’d saved himself. He had. So winter was fine. Really.

Not this winter, though.

He had no parties to head. He had no cronies to woo. Instead, as the temperature dipped in the mornings and frost began to gather in the corners of the windows, all he had was the ghosts of memories, the weight of his dead wife, the connection of sun glinting on untouched snow like it had when he made his way to the shed every morning to ensure his family was still frozen solid.

So that was great. Terrific. It wouldn’t affect his work at all.

He tried to fight it. Threw himself into translation, into sensation, into the rich furs the Dancers provided and the mulled wine made available and steaming at every corner.

It didn’t work. His mood simply dipped, like an animal burrowing beneath the earth, waiting for spring.

Keeping busy was the key. It’s not like he could pursue any of his usual distractions; he hadn’t earned that freedom yet (though he would), and there simply was no one here he wanted to be near except for the King in Yellow.

Who was busy with his daughter.

Fuck them both.

Oh… no, that was not a safe thing to think, and if it slipped out at any point, he knew he’d be forfeiting something worse than his life. But it was impossible not to resent them now, today.

They were out there in the frost, laughing as he taught how to extract the slightly humid chill, how to create ice from air and death from cold, casually gamifying the kind of power that she could use in time to bring nations to their knees.

Would he have done that with Addy?

(There was that thought again, traitorous, surfacing like a damned watery corpse that hadn’t been weighted down.)

“Fuck,” he murmured.

The Librarian got his attention with a series of page flips, and when he looked over, presented its head, an open book, with a single question mark.

“Sorry, your honor,” he said (since nobody had ever explained how to greet this thing, and he still hadn’t found the right words). “Just got me thinking about people I’ve lost. Winter’s a hard time to keep your thoughts occupied.”

The Librarian considered this, pages rifling thoughtfully, and then produced a book.

He stared.

Its head did the thing, pages flying, and settled on an image of Larson (surprisingly accurate) beside a fireplace, reading.

He did not know this book. “Memories of Old?” he read. “I don’t recognize this from the translation list.”

More pages fanning, so rapidly they moved the air. A picture now of Larson and….

Ghosts? The same image of him by the fire, but with smoky, undetailed beings, hovering around him.

He stared at the book, then at the Librarian. “Reliving memories?” he guessed.

A nod.

“I don’t… know that’s such a good idea.”

A shrug. He could or could not; it was completely up to him.

Wallace sighed. “Thank you. I’ll… think on it.” And he tucked it into his fancy little bag and got back to work, focusing on what he needed to do, because that was better than thinking about the rest of this nonsense.

#

“Oh, shit,” Parker said the next morning, sitting up in bed to stare at the glittering, icy wonderland that his balcony had turned into. “Carcosa gets snow?”

Every now and again, Sunny said, though I imagine this is more of a consequence of the time of year in this part of the Dreamlands. There was quite the storm last night; the wind practically howled. Never fear, though; I doubt the gardens have been affected negatively.

“Wasn’t worried,” Parker said, crossing his legs. The chill was nearly palpable through the glass doors. Light, reflecting off the snow, made his bouquet on the nightstand look edged with frost. “Just haven’t really seen snow in all our travels. Is it really wintertime?”

In some parts of the Dreamlands, yes, Sunny said, voice warm. Some places eschew seasons, but the fruit and nut trees of Sydrathia need different temperatures to produce, and a dormancy period to rest. We must be far north. I wonder why the King elected to stay in this area? Maybe for Faroe?

“Heh. I don’t mind. Haven’t seen snow since we left Earth.” Parker flexed his knuckles, testing them against that familiar ache.

Would you like me to warm up your hands? Sunny said, low and purring and sultry.

“Stop that,” said Parker, voice playful as he brought his hands to their shared mouth, and shuddered as healing warmth spread through his hands at the touch of their lips. “It’s nice, you know. Kinda missed this. Once a real good snow like this comes in, it makes me start lookin’ forward to seeing all the Christmas stuff go up.” He laughed. “Though I guess there ain’t none of that here, is there?”

I must confess, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Sunny said.

“Bullshit,” Parker said. “You went to New York City a lot.”

Not in the winter, usually. The roads were bad, and… Larson doesn’t… like the winter very much. His voice dipped in that way that heralded the resurgence of bad memories, but he picked his voice up through sheer force of will. Usually he would host a large dinner around the solstice for the Order, but… I, uh. I didn’t tend to be very… present for those.

“Not a holiday guy, eh?” Parker said, low and heated, but he made himself drop it, made himself smile, and shook his head. “That’s a shame. Y’know, it’d be worth a drive to Boston to see them light the tree; I’d take you. Wrap you up in a big coat so you don’t get cold, just so I can watch your face when they turn on the lights.”

The fantasy of two bodies, in Boston, was so lovely that Sunny almost missed the most salient question: Why would you put lights on a tree?

“No idea. But it’s gorgeous; big ‘ol pine tree, decorated with tiny glittering bulbs, blown glass ornaments. Back in ‘18, Nova Scotia sent us a tree to thank us for helping out after some ships exploded in one’a their harbors, and that one was real special. We did it every year since 1912. They do it in New York too, in a couple’a parks, but the Boston one’s bettah.” He leaned back against the headboard, pulling the blankets up a bit more. “We were too poor to have a tree of our own, so we would go see it every year. And then you get to see the decorations, all over the city proper, and all the displays in the windows. But my favorite part…” He sighed, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “Mrs. Kerning would start makin’ Christmas cookies. She’d do it early, and the gingerbread would make the whole floor smell absolutely amazing. Sometimes we’d gather and sit outside her window, just to smell it, and she’d have us taste-test bits and pieces there.”

Christmas cookies, Sunny said, reverently. What makes them Christmas cookies?

“Time’a year, mostly—would feel a little weird to eat a gingerbread man in the middle of summer.” And he laughed. “You probably don’t… okay, imagine a little spice cookie, shaped like a guy, right? And you dress him up in little outfits made of icing.”

You mean to say… on Earth, people make effigies of men? To eat, as part of a celebration?

Parker snorted. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

And you think Carcosan customs are strange.

“You’ll change your tune when you try it,” Parker said, laughing. “I’m sure we can get the cooks to help us. If you don’t find that too strange.”

I could be convinced, Sunny said in the tone of one who needed no convincing whatsoever.

#

John remembered snow!

He wasn’t sure where he remembered it from, or when. Who cared! He remembered snow!

Arthur shivered and curled a little tighter. “Shit,” he mumbled in his sleep.

Arthur! Arthur! It’s all white! Look!

More curling.

Perhaps it made sense. Arthur didn’t have a lot of… padding. Arthur!

“Fuck me,” Arthur muttered, regrettably not literally, and somehow curled tighter. “What the fuck?”

Snow! Ice! Look!

“Did we leave the window open? Fuck…”

The balcony’s always open. Let’s go look! Let’s go look, Arthur!

Arthur literally took the bed with him, or at least everything that had been on it—sliding off in one huge mass, clutching the blankets and bedsheets around himself as he inched toward the balcony in sleepy concession.

Look! Snow!

“I can’t see it, John,” Arthur muttered.

It’s beautiful. The sun has turned it into a thousand thousand crystals. Some swaths are pink with the morning light, but the rest is a pure and glorious color, like clouds brought down. There aren’t any prints—I don’t know how Hastur did that—so it looks like a frozen sea, still and curving and so smooth that it tempts to the touch.

Arthur stood there, shivering like a wet puppy. “Wow,” he finally said.

You have the soul of a bleached rock.

“‘Kay,” Arthur muttered, and shuffled his way back toward the bed.

Come on, Arthur! No, don’t go back to bed!

“I’m cold,” Arthur said.

I’ll warm you up. A pause. That wasn’t a come-on. I mean I know how.

“I don’t feel up to casting magic.”

I was thinking more of a hot shower, warm clothes, a brisk walk, and food.

“Oh.” Arthur perked up; his hunched caterpillar-form stood taller. “That’s a good idea.”

Do you always get this muddled in wintertime? said John, unable to keep amusement from his voice.

Arthur sighed. “Parker called it my hibernation phase. Whatever. Let’s do your plan.”

It was a good plan. Before twenty minutes were up, they were steaming, thoroughly layered in thick, warm clothes, and beginning a brisk walk before breakfast.

And Arthur suddenly stopped dead. In the mirrors, his eyes were huge, and his mouth hung open.

What? said John.

“I smell… gingerbread?”

John did not remember gingerbread. You smell what?

“Gingerbread. It’s a biscuit—ah, a cookie—from Earth. A spice-cookie, usually with some icing. I didn’t know they knew how to make gingerbread here.” His face softened, grew fond. “I haven’t had that since… fuck, do you think we might be able to get some fresh ones? They’re usually best when they’re decorated, but I think a cup of tea and some warm gingerbread would go far to warm us up.”

John wasn’t sure what to do with this information. If you’re smelling it, doesn’t that mean they’re making it fresh right now? Baking, I guess?

Arthur brightened like the sun shining on snow, and made for the kitchen at speed.

#

It had taken ten minutes of lively discussion with the cooks and a trip to the Librarian, but Parker and Sunny had emerged victorious with a recipe for gingerbread in hand. The cooks nearly fell over themselves in excitement as Parker explained, though the concept of man-shaped cookies (but without genitalia) made them laugh uproariously in a way that turned Parker’s ears pink, and soon the smell of ginger and molasses and cloves wafted through the air.

The warm cookies had gotten Sunny’s seal of approval, and the cooks judged them fair enough to continue making after the first batch had emerged and promptly been devoured by all present; now that the second batch had cooled, Parker was having a more difficult time with the decorating aspect of the whole ordeal.

“I dunno how Mrs. Kerning made them look so nice,” he groused as he clumsily trailed royal icing off of the cookie and onto the countertop. “Guess I was never meant to be a pastry chef, huh?”

You should give him a little pocket watch, Sunny said. And he needs a mask!

“Hey. This one’s mine, you get the next one,” Parker laughed.

I don’t have hands! I need you to do it for me, whined Sunny. Please?

“Fine. But this one gets suspenders.”

Suspenders and a pocket watch.

“Where’s he gonna put his pocket watch if he’s only got trousers and suspenders?”

Don’t insert logic into our elaborate confectionary world, Sunny groused right back.

A drip of icing made the suspenders go long. “Guess it’s a trenchcoat now,” Parker said. “Our guy’s a hardboiled detective.”

And with perfect timing, Arthur peeked around the corner.

To be fair, it was John who peeked. Arthur sniffed, and licked his lips. “Hello?”

They’re in here, John whispered badly and unhelpfully.

“Who?” said Arthur.

For a brief moment Sunny went deathly quiet; and then he huffed. A trenchcoat it is, then.

“Mornin’, English,” Parker said, an easy grin on his face.

Arthur looked so relieved that it was hard to find fault in it. “Parker!”

Parker is teaching me about Christmas cookies, Sunny said, and his voice didn’t wobble even a little bit. He’s making a detective!

Arthur blinked a couple of times. “You baked cookies?”

It looks pretty good, John admitted, though I’m not sure what the little…. human shapes are wearing.

Sunny gasped in indignation. They are wearing clothes! Or the suggestion of them!

“Harder than it looks,” Parker said mildly. “The Librarian had a recipe and the cooks figured it out real fast. You want some, Arthur?”

“I’d love some. I haven’t… gods. I haven’t even smelled these in so many years.” He headed for the counter, slowly.

John disliked the reminder, disliked feeling less. You can all smell them, right?

Yes, Sunny sighed. They smell warm, and spicy, like… like the spice markets of the colonnades of the city, but sweet. He let out a little hum of thought. It’s like… I’m not sure how to describe it. I don’t have much of a sense of touch.

You do, accused John. Your lips. You can even ki—

“This smells incredible,” Arthur said quickly. “I don’t know if I can help decorate, but… I’m willing to try.”

“We got dozens of ‘em. Would appreciate the help,” Parker said. “Though I guess that’s more for John? You should eat one first, though. Grab a warm one.”

As if on cue, one of the cooks set down a plate of fresh gingerbread, still hot enough to be soft. Nervously, they peered at Arthur on the other side of Parker, half-dozen eyes full of worry and shame and apology.

The easy conversation had still not returned since the betrayal and punishment, but Parker was determined to repair what remained. “You’re alright,” Parker said, gentle. “Could we please get some coffee? I’d make it myself, but uh.” He held up his sticky, icing-covered hands. “Unless you want tea, Arthur? Feelin’ real posh today?”

“We can do both.” Arthur had that hopeful look that was somehow fragile, a look that upset Parker, though he couldn’t verbalize why.

“Well, you heard the man,” Parker said to the cook. “Please and thank you.”

They were happy to comply, murmuring among themselves, as much background as doves in the bushes.

Arthur inhaled. “Are these ready?” His hand hovered, maybe sensing heat.

“Got ones ready to decorate over in front of you,” Parker said, picking up the plate to move it between them. “But these ones are real fresh. And they’re real fuckin’ good, too.”

It tastes like… like sitting next to the fire after you were out in the cold, Sunny said abruptly, feeling his way through his analogy. And it’s almost too much at first. It’s really strong, that warmth; but then the sweetness seeps in and it softens it, helps all of you warm up. And it’s… safe, and makes you want to smile. Does that make sense, John?

Arthur’s eyes were wet. He didn’t seem to know.

Yes, John said, subdued. Thank you.

“We can do this,” said Arthur. “Your hand and eyes.”

John widened those eyes, suddenly on the spot. Slowly, as if being asked to take a scepter, or maybe a sword from a stone, he reached for the icing bag.

Parker passed it over without fuss. “Arthur, you’re gonna have to hold the top and squeeze,” he said, positioning hands. “John, you lead.”

Parker, your god demands another sacrifice, Sunny said, prim and proper. Please.

Parker snorted, picked up the half-decorated detective, and took a bite.

Sunny gasped. He wasn’t done!

“His trenchcoat was lopsided anyway,” Parker laughed, spraying his palm with crumbs. “Fuck that’s good.”

Slower. Icing was harder than John thought. No, not that slow!

“I had a boyfriend in college,” Arthur suddenly said with no preliminary whatsoever, and Parker choked on his cookie.

John jerked hard, tearing the icing bag, splutting all of its contents onto the cookie and Arthur’s hands. Arthur!

“What?” Arthur said, absolutely defensive.

“Wha—” Parker continued hacking up crumbs.

Like hell was Sunny letting this continue. No! I’ve got this. Ahlw'nafhor!

Parker’s throat cleared up, which he proved by shouting, “What the fuck, Arthur?”

The cooks were frozen statues, not even daring to breathe.

“It’s not that weird,” Arthur said defensively, trying to wipe icing off his hands. “You know that. Musicians are… expressive.”

“Expre— Arthur. Lester. Pal. You never told me!”

“I barely even told you I was married!”

“Yeah, but you—” Parker made the most frustrated sound he’d ever made. “Do you know what I would’ve done if you had?”

Arthur looked blank. “No?”

Parker, said Sunny, voice shaky.

Parker inhaled. If Sunny wasn’t okay, this—no matter how good an opening—didn’t matter. “Okay, we ain’t gonna—”

Then John just went there. You wanted him, didn’t you?

At this point, the cooks decided they were urgently needed elsewhere, and filed out of the kitchen.

Parker and Arthur faced each other, making eye contact though Arthur couldn’t see.

Sunny was quiet, but present, moving their tongue nervously.

“Hold on, you two,” Parker said, and turned away. “Sunny. This is the thing we talked about.”

I know.

Parker’s voice was low, barely audible, his words for Sunny alone. “He’s open. Right now. We could fucking close this book, finally. But if you’re not up for it, we don’t do it. You come first, partner. It’s you. He’ll be open another time. You come first.”

And there was that hint of a tear welling in the corner of his eye, and his mouth quirked into a smile without his input. Thank you. I… I’ve got your back, partner. Go get ‘em.

Parker smiled. Then he set his jaw and turned back around.

Arthur was busy reaming John out. “No! You can’t just say things like that to people!”

But I’m right!

“You don’t know that you’re right!”

 “You know what?” said Parker. “Yeah. He is right. I did.”

A beat.

“What?” said Arthur, high and shocked, startling with his whole body.

“You’re not the only one who can drop bombs over breakfast,” said Parker, and took a bite of gingerbread.

I knew it! I knew it! John crowed.

“You… what?” said Arthur in a small voice.

“I loved you, you moron,” said Parker. “You dumbass.”

“I loved you too, that didn’t mean—“

“More than friends,” said Parker. “Look. It’s okay. We’ve all moved on. I got Sunny, and that’s where I wanna be, and you got whatever the hell is happening with Hastur and John.”

He’s mine! John snapped at the same moment Arthur said, “Nothing is happening!”

“Well maybe it should,” said Parker, and took John’s hand to give him more icing. “I didn’t know for sure you swung both ways, Arthur.”

“That isn’t… it isn’t really a… it’s not a ways thing! It’s about… it’s got to be the right person!” Arthur stammered, then winced. “I’m sorry. That sounds so insulting, when I say it like that.”

“Except I speak Lesterese,” said Parker, pointing a gingerbread leg at him. “You’re saying you didn’t know how I felt, not that I couldn’t’ve tuned your piano real damn good.”

Arthur went very, very red.

“Gotcha,” said Parker.

“Did… I hurt you?” said Arthur after a moment.

“A little. Not bad, Lester. Just that ache of what could’a been. I knew you weren’t rejecting me. You were just dumb. You dummy.”

Sunny choked back a laugh. Shockingly, John took it up, a dark and weirdly joyful evil sound.

“Hey,” said Arthur without much rancor.

He can be so dumb! John confirmed, and this time, Sunny laughed with him.

Arthur grinned and rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

“Smartest damn idiot I ever knew,” said Parker with pride as if he’d grown Arthur in a garden.

Arthur laughed, then felt for undecorated cookies. “All right, all right. I can’t argue. Parker, I… I’m sorry I never noticed.”

“Eh. It’s okay. Everything that happened would’ve been a lot harder to deal with if we had worked that out,” said Parker with a sort of gentle and horrible pragmatism.

Arthur hunched, processing; then he sighed. “You’re right. It would.”

John’s voice was tight. You mean if you’d been together when I—

“It’s all right, John,” said Arthur. “We weren’t.”

Parker reached up and stroked his jaw. “Worked out for the best. I meant it—I’m never going back to Arkham, I told you. I’m happy, Arthur. If all I had to do was die for all this to happen, then I got no regrets.”

Arthur’s lower lip trembled, and he abruptly dropped the cookie and came around the counter.

Parker did the same.

They met halfway, wordless, and joined in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Arthur.

“Don’t be,” whispered Parker. “It’s all water under the bridge. And I still love you, idiot. Just not that way.”

Arthur clearly needed to hear that. Tension left him. “Same. It never changed for me.”

“Good.” Parker sighed, pleased. “Good to know you still got my back.”

“Always.”

They stayed in that embrace—a years-late but still needed closeness.

[I knew it. I knew it! I knew he wanted him, but Arthur didn’t believe me. I was right!] John said, rumbling in R'lyehian, but Sunny didn’t go into celebration.

[He really is mine,] said Sunny softly. [I’m so lucky. I thought I might lose him, even now, if Arthur… responded.]

John sputtered. [You thought you might lose him? Why?]

[No one’s ever wanted me,] Sunny replied, voice tight. [But he does. He… he really does.]

John sounded so young. [You’re a god. We are. They can… not want you?]

Sunny’s tone turned gentle, warm, reassuring. [Arthur has only ever wanted you. You’re safe, John.  And… and Parker wants me.] And he let out a soft, dark, relieved chuckle.

“I knew I smelled cookies!” Faroe said, stepping into the kitchen, her cheeks red and shiny, her coat crimson with fur lining white as sun-kissed snow.

Hastur hovered in behind her, robe so bright and yellow; around his crown, Faroe had woven a long, beautiful chain of snow flowers, all brilliant blue petals with red stamen.

“Faroe!” Arthur cried, and went for her.

The King in Yellow eyed them, taking a moment to read the situation.

The embrace, interrupted. The condition of Sunny, of John. The mess of cookies and icing, and the complete lack of shame or guilt from his own.

Hastur knew humans better (in his opinion) than almost any god of his stature, and he understood the important thing: they were all right. Whatever had happened was big (and awkward, judging by the mess on the counter and Arthur’s red eyes), but they were all right.

It was some kind of winter solstice miracle. These four hadn’t needed to be locked in a closet. Apparently, they’d needed baked goods and a lot of creamy white glaze.

Heh, heh, heh, Hastur thought, pleased with himself for that one.

Faroe laughed. “It’s all over everything!”

“Yeah, I made a mess,” Arthur laughed with her.

“Got plenty more, you want to decorate,” said Parker.

“Decorate?” said Faroe, lighting up like she had over discussions of exploding enemies.

“Come on over here and I’ll show you how,” said Parker with a grin.

Of course, she did.

Thus abandoned, Arthur stood slowly, smiling, trying to wipe his hands clean on a towel.

“What has happened here?” said Hastur so quietly, just checking.

“You were right,” said Arthur.

Oh! Well, being right was one of his favorite things. “About?” said Hastur, tentacles undulating in anticipation.

“Later,” said Arthur, frustratingly, predictably, and went to join his daughter and his friend in making a great, big mess.

Fine. They could do that. He had things to—

“You’re not going back to work right now,” Faroe informed him with authority, and that was how the King in Yellow ended up decorating strange sexless human-cookies with eldritch runes until his family ate the very last one.

#

Last night had been… very bad.

Larson had sat by the fire in his silent room at two thirty-eight in the morning and stared at the smiling, ghostly figure of his wife.

It wasn’t her. This wasn’t pulling souls from the dead.

But it was his memory of her, clearer than he’d honestly expected it to be, wearing homespun he hadn’t seen in a long time, her hands more dry than he’d recalled, her smile more crooked than he’d remembered. Really, she wasn’t as lovely as he’d once thought, or even as young; his standards for both had changed since he’d gone up in the world, and he knew better as he looked at her now: a poor woman, whose teeth weren’t great, who’d done what she could with what she had, who’d worked very hard, and—

“Happy Christmas, Wallace,” she’d said.

He’d curled down over his lap and cried.

#

This morning, he hid his swollen eyes (damned pale skin showed everything) and red nose, and returned the book to the Librarian before breakfast.

It was waiting for him. It didn’t speak, couldn’t; but the way it tilted the tome of its head, the way it waited while he held out the book, spoke volumes.

Larson could feel the questions. Instead of answers, he gave a question of his own. “Why’d you give this to me?”

The Librarian’s head flipped, pages flying, and fell open at a two-page illustration of Larson himself.

On the left, at the bottom of the page, he was in a pit. Before him was a rocky, rugged, ugly path, climbing precipitously all the way to the right and out of the book at the corner of the page.

Larson swallowed. It had always treated him well, never less, never as if he were on some kind of parole, and he’d assumed…. Well. He’d assumed it knew nothing. “What did the King in Yellow tell you about me?”

Pages flipped. And there, right there, was the sigil of the Order of the Fallen Star.

“Ah,” said Larson, heart sinking.

The Librarian closed its head and just… waited.

Larson sighed and handed the book back. “Rootin’ for me, are you?” he said, and couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice. “Is that what this is? What, you’re on my side?”

Pages fanned. There, the Yellow Sign (“Of course, you’re on his side,” Larson said), and then back to that image of him, in the pit, at the bottom of the path, facing a long climb out.

Larson wanted to ask why.

He wanted to ask if Hastur had put it up to this.

But all of that would be opening the door to the path he saw before him, literal and otherwise—a path away from the power he’d earned, the lethality he’d honed, and the ascension he was owed.

And toward what?

Mortality? Morality?

Weakness?

…happiness? Was that what it offered? Was that—

The fucking Saint’s laugh echoed down the hall, toward the kitchen, and Larson snapped his attention toward that disgusting sound. The lightest waft of gingerbread came with it as the lot of them—the Saint, Yellow, Lester, John, the King in Yellow, and his adopted daughter—headed toward the breakfasting area.

The Saint, who smiled and walked around, head unbowed, like the world owed him everything. Who’d gotten away with it all, and never earned a damn fucking thing.

Larson’s jaw clenched. He’d made the choices he had for a reason. The kind of happiness this fool of a book offered could be taken away. The kind he was seeking for could not. “Thanks,” he said, low. “But don’t get your hopes up. See you after breakfast.” And he turned and walked away.

The flip of pages behind him were like a sigh.

Larson chose, with full intent, not to look back.

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