rewatching black sails so funny because i know the plot i have seen the tragedies and the horrors so i know that flint's the fool and the martyr and the story not the hero but how come by season 2 i am fully believing in him and his cause and rooting for the fall of the british empire all over again like what do they put in this juice

Spelman Seminary, companionship, Sophia B. Packard, and Harriet E. Giles

Harriet Elizabeth "Hattie" Giles and Sophia Brett Packard in a photograph sometime before 1891. Image from Spelman College Archives and NYPL.

In 1881, Sophia Brett Packard founded Atlanta Baptist Female Seminary with her longtime companion, Harriet E. Giles. The school would later be renamed Spelman Seminary in 1884 in honor of John D. Rockefeller's wife, Laura Celestia "Cettie" Spelman, who was an active abolitionist and school teacher, since the latter had paid the balance to keep the school open, which opened its doors in 1888. Sophia would continue onward on the school's board of trustees, then as president until her death in June 1891, when there were 464 students and faculty of 34. There's more to this story than the four paragraphs on Sophia's Wikipedia page.

Sophia, my fifth cousin five times removed, was born in New Salem, Massachusetts in January 1824 to Winslow Packard (1790-1852) and Rachel Freeman (1788-1844). She had five siblings: Joseph Fairbanks (1812-1883), Jane (b. 1815), Mary (1815-1838), Hubbard Vaughn (1817-1861), and Rachel Maria (b. 1818). She would graduate from the Charleston Female Seminary in Massachusetts, work at the Connecticut Literary Institution in Suffield, be secretary for the American Baptist Home Mission Society. By the early 1880s she was committed to helping improve education for Black people, specifically Black women, in the South. She would later be described as a "woman of rare executive ability" and having an earnest, strong character. [1]

There is more to be said. You may have noticed earlier that I described Harriet E. Giles as her life-long companion. This is first evidenced by the fact that Sophia died from sickness while on a summer vacation with Harriet, and would be buried in Athol, Massachusetts. Harriet, who lived until 1909, and born in New Salem, Massachusetts like Sophia, would become the president of Spelman Seminary when Sophia died. One writer would call Harriet and Sophia a lesbian power couple, noting that they met each other in the mid-1850s when Harriet was a student at New Salem Academy and Sophia was the preceptor. Both would be buried next to one each other in Silver Lake Cemetery. They would also be described as "close friends and supportive coworkers" by Harry G. Lefever in his article on the early origins of Spelman College. He also noted note the New England-progressive outlook they brought to the school, noting their emphasis on liberal and industrial courses, but employed assumptions about gender roles, which became part of the curriculum while being self-sacrificing and putting others before themselves. At the same time, they never fundamentally challenged social injustices or inequities, either by staying silent about redistribution of land for formerly enslaved peoples, not actively lobbying to end lynching within the South, or having Black people in leadership positions. [2]

Further evidence shows Harriet and Sophia living together in Suffield, Hartford, Connecticut in 1860, within the Mather household, in this below census extract:

Sophia and Harriet are highlighted by a yellow box. Source is 1860 United States Federal Census for Sophia B Packard, Connecticut, Hartford, Suffield, Year: 1860; Census Place: Suffield, Hartford, Connecticut; Roll: M653_79; Page: 667; Family History Library Film: 803079

The same is the case in 1865, when they are living in the same household in Worcester, Massachusetts, along with many other teachers and students. She would still be living in Worcester, Massachusetts until at least 1867. At first I couldn't find her in the 1870 census, and her 1890 passport application does not mention Harriet. However, digging into it more, I found them together in Suffolk, Massachusetts, and it turns out that Harriet submitted a passport application at the same time as Sophia. Additionally, when Harriet died in November 1909 of pneumonia, an obituary in The Sumpter Enterprise at the time described Sophia as Harriet's "friend and co-worker". The Atlanta Constitution would use similar language in their obituary. They were both called "devoted Christian woman" in another article about Spellman, which isn't surprising considering Sophia had worked in a church and what became Spellman was originally in the basement of a church before moving to a new location. [3]

Otherwise, a 1853 student lists for New Salem Academy note that Harriet's father, Samuel, is the secretary of the academy, Harriet as a teacher of music. Sophia is not listed there. However, she is listed as a preceptress in 1855 and Samuel is still secretary of the school, and Harriet is a student in the school's classical department. I also found them together in the 1880 census, boarding on 275 Shawmut Avenue (which is seemingly just an apartment building) in Boston within the Ryder household, along with many other boarders. [8] Harriet would also write a moving eulogy to Sophia, and mentions "loving companionship" which is undoubtedly a way to allude to the romantic relationship they had together, whether it can be called a domestic partnership, romantic friendship, or something else:

It is not necessary to euloigize one so widely known. Her work speaks for her; and the monuments she has erected, will endure from generation to generation, in the lives made better by her influence. How large her bundle of sheaves! How thickly studded her crown with stars for those she has won to Christ! We mourn not for her, but for the work, and the workers who will so greatly miss her loving companionship and wise counsels. Surely "They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars forever and ever."

Both also opened the Rollstone School in March 1859 together, which ended after both accepted teaching positions at the Connecticut Literary Institution. They both, would also, teach at the Oread Institute in Worchester from 1864 to 1867, with Sophia as co-principal and Harriet as teacher of ornamentals and music. They also both co-founded the Woman's American Baptist Home Mission Society in 1877.

"Sophia B. Packard and Harriet E. Giles with Spelman Seminary Students" in 1886, via  National Alumnae Association of Spelman College

Spelman Seminary would later become Spelman College when its name changed in 1924. Otherwise, one article in The Springfield Daily Republican on November 25, 1939, possibly accessed using one of the libraries here, notes that an oil painting of Harriet was gifted to the Swift River Valley Historical Society. It is likely still in their collections, even though it is strange since the society wasn't incorporated until 1962.

While we don't know everything about Sophia, Harriet, and their relationship, which some have described as an iconic same-sex couple among many others, we can say that their legacy certainly lives on to this day.

Notes

[1] The National Cyclopaedia of American Biography, Vol. 2 (James T. White & Company. 1921), 270-271; "Spelman - Packard" clipping in The Boston Weekly Globe, Boston, Massachusetts, 30 Jun 1891, Page 3.

[2] The National Cyclopaedia of American Biography, Vol. 2 (James T. White & Company. 1921), 271; "Spelman - Packard" clipping in The Boston Weekly Globe, Boston, Massachusetts, 30 Jun 1891, Page 3; "Oread Institute," Lost Womyn's Space, Apr. 27, 2011; Riese Bernard, "16 Lesbian Power Couples From History Who Got Shit Done, Together," Autostraddle, Mar. 31, 2017; Harry G. Lefever, "The Early Origins of Spelman College," The Journal of Blacks in Higher Education No. 47 (Spring, 2005), pp. 60-63.

[3] Massachusetts, U.S., State Census, 1865 for Sophia B Packard, Worcester, Worcester Ward 7, image 4; U.S., City Directories, 1822-1995 for Sophia B Packard, Massachusetts, Worcester, 1867, Worcester, Massachusetts, City Directory, 1867, Image 173; U.S., Passport Applications, 1795-1925 for Sophia B Packard, Passport Applications, 1795-1905, 1888-1890, Roll 344 - 01 Mar 1890-31 Mar 1890, Image 368; 1870 United States Federal Census for Hattie Giles, Massachusetts, Suffolk, Boston Ward 08, Year: 1870; Census Place: Boston Ward 8, Suffolk, Massachusetts; Roll: M593_645; Page: 39A; U.S., Passport Applications, 1795-1925 for Harrich Elizabeth Giles, Passport Applications, 1795-1905, 1888-1890, Roll 349 - 09 May 1890-16 May 1890, Image 43; "Harriett Giles obituary - clip 1" in The Sumter Enterprise, Epes, Alabama, 02 Dec 1909, Page 3; "Harriett Giles obituary - clip 2" in The Sumter Enterprise, Epes, Alabama, 02 Dec 1909, Page 3; "Miss Harriett Giles Dead; Was President of Spellman" in The Atlanta Constitution, Atlanta, Georgia, 14 Nov 1909,  Page 8; "Death notice for Harriett Giles" in The Clayton Record, Clayton, Alabama, 26 Nov 1909, Page 1; "Spellman Seminary" in The Rochester Daily Register-Gazette, Feb. 16, 1898, via Ancestry.

[4] U.S., High School Student Lists, 1821-1923 for Harriette E Giles, New Hampshire, New Salem Academy, 1853, pages 2, 3 (exact source is Catalogue of Trustees, Instructors and Students of New Salem Academy, Massachusetts, for the year ending November 10, 1853 (Greenfield, MA: Charles A. Mirick, 1853), 2-3); U.S., High School Student Lists, 1821-1923, New Hampshire, New Salem Academy 1855, page 3-4, 6 (exact source is Catalogue of Trustees, Instructors and Students of New Salem Academy, New Salem, Mass., for the year ending November 15, 1855 (Greenfield, MA: Charles A. Mirick, 1853), 3-4, 6); 1880 United States Federal Census for Hattie S. Giles, Massachusetts, Suffolk, Boston, 715, Year: 1880; Census Place: Boston, Suffolk, Massachusetts; Roll: 558; Page: 62A; Enumeration District: 715.

Note: This was originally posted on May 8, 2023 on the main Packed with Packards WordPress blog (it can also be found on the Wayback Machine here). My research is still ongoing, so some conclusions in this piece may change in the future.

© 2023 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

Vishan.

I have no idea how i never posted him here before? Unless i did and tumblr’s search is just being dumb, in which case, forgive the duplicate.

Anyway.

Meet Vishan.

A devout demonhunter possessed of a magic silvered rifle which is also incidentally fond of killing demonkin of all kinds.

He had another name once, but he won’t admit to it in company or out. We know he left a heavy history behind when he chose his new name, that he lost his parents young, and was separated from his only living bloodkin - a sister, whose name he never shares - when he was still a small boy.

He’s now 25 and has supported himself variously as a simple laborer, a trapper, a horse trainer, a cowhand, and a lawman. He’s short and wiry of build, athletic and flexible. He is illiterate and uneducated, and rather coarse in manners, but he is clever and a quick study.

Minor spoilers for La Mala Suerte under the cut

He is technically married… to Ana Sophia Seshet Riga. The scheme was her idea, ostensibly to persuade her father to change his opinion of Arelis - a semi-nomadic people found throughout the marginal forests of the known word - and folks of mixed heritage.

John Riga remained fixed in his prejudice, and shortly thereafter Ana Sophia picked up everything and everyone in her household - including Vishan - and went west.

The marriage is a cold and distant one, though not even Vishan is certain of Ana Sophia’s opinions about this. No one speaks of it - except Teca, who spends many long weeks trying (unsuccessfully) to persuade Vishan to return to his wife and make a good life in the village.

Vishan has evidenced a strange affliction connected to his compulsion to hunt, which seems to cycle with the moon. He has been both friend and enemy to Tecbalor, a circumstance neither of them particularly understand… and it gets worse as they travel together and physical attraction enters the equation.

He can communicate with - and sometimes compel - animals of all kinds, though he prefers the company of horses above others. He seems to hear the earth herself, and also the rifle that called him to his vocation many years ago.

He’s also very, very bi, and traveling beside Teca gets under his skin in every possible way - despite, or maybe because of, his demonblood.

The Magician's Nephew (Review)

The Magician's Nephew. If The Last Battle is the Narnian equivalent of the Book of Revelation, then this book is Genesis.

In the Earth year 1900, we follow a young Digory Kirke and his friend Polly who end up getting whisked into the Wood Between Worlds by his uncle Andrew an amateur magician who was experimenting around with magic rings.

On a larger scale, the book answers many questions that the series compiled up to this point such as how Father Christmas entered Narnia nearing the end of the White Witch's reign and how Digory became familiar with Narnia as well as how the Pevensie children wound up in Narnia through the wardrobe.

As always, the imagery is on point: when Digory and Polly first visit Charn, it is a barren wasteland with the buildings reduced to ruins as though fantastical nukes were deployed.

And, of course, Aslan's creation of Narnia is majestic and magnificent. At first, the kids, Andrew, Frank, and Jadis all enter a world completely black and devoid of all life. And, yet, out of that darkness, there came a mixture of roaring and singing as the visage of a Great Lion stride in the darkness setting the stars in the sky. Land animals broke through having been formed from the dust of the Earth with each one appointed different tasks with the threat of their newly-found sapience being revoked should they disobey Aslan. And then Aslan blesses Frank and his wife as the first rulers of Narnia because "Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the Earth."

I like the concept that there is a multiverse in the Narnian universe because how it was mentioned how Aslan never wanted to feel tied down to one country and it certainly explains how Father Christmas was able to get to Narnia. However, other than the destroyed world of Charn, we don't get much insight into the other potential dimensions. I do understand but I couldn't help but be intrigued with what they looked like and what form Aslan took there.

However, the novel somewhat suffers from what could be seen as inconsistencies. For one, the Stone Table.

The Stone Table is, as you could guess, a large slab of stone that was inscribed with mystical symbols. Representing Deep Magic, it more or less ensured that all traitors belonged to the White Witch which made it legal for her to kill them.

Unbeknownst to her, there existed still a Deeper Magic from Before the Dawn of Time where if an innocent took the traitor's place on the Stone Table, it would crack, and death works backward. This was clearly what Aslan was intending when he voluntarily dies in Edmund's place.

The Stone Table is not mentioned in The Magician's Nephew, bizarre because the ritual was pretty ancient. Though, frankly, I am not bothered by that because you could make the argument that because Narnia was new, there was no concept of death because no one died at that moment before evil was brought into Narnia by the White Witch. So the Stone Table would not become a thing until thousands or hundreds of years later around the time the White Witch returned after the Tree of Protection repelled her for so long.

The series also makes it clear that the Emperor-Over-the-Sea created Narnia, but here, it is Aslan who is singing the world into existence. Again, it could be that the Emperor created Narnia through Aslan if you go by the notion that he and his father represent two parts of the Holy Trinity as evidenced by the Gospel of John referring to Jesus as the Word and how the Word was God.

With no mention of the Deep Magic and Deeper Magic here, I personally theorize that the Emperor already imparted the magic on Narnia before Aslan began creating the realm. Can't forget how the Tree of Protection and the silver apples are never mentioned again beyond this point.

Most damning has to be Jadis herself. The LWW has Mr. and Mrs. Beaver speculate that she was a giantess-djinn hybrid who also had some Lilith blood in her veins. But here, we learn that not only was a false ruler of Narnia, but she wasn't even FROM there originally. She was the matriarch of another world who was in a war with her sister over the throne. They both agreed to not use magic, but she claims that her sister was the first one to break that vow which led to Jadis paying a terrible price to learn the most dangerous and lethal of dark magic.

As her sister neared victory, Jadis spoke the Deplorable Word which left the speaker alive while it killed all other forms of life. And I mean it: everything died. No birds; no magical beasts; not even bacteria to decay any fabrics. A completely dead world wherein Jadis put herself into an enchanted sleep waiting for some schmuck to awaken her with the bell.

She at first tries to take over England and forces Andrew to serve her before she ends up in Narnia as it was being created. She tries to kill Aslan with a lamppost, but it bounces off him and is planted in the ground becoming the lamp post we see in LWW. She steals an apple from the Tree of Youth tempting Digory with an apple with which he could either eat it himself and become immortal alongside Jadis, or give it to his mother on Earth.

Of course, Digory elects to Aslan's words and while Jadis did obtain her heart's desire, it came at the cost of her being eternally miserable which turns out to be a bullet Digory unknowingly dodged.

Aside from those inconsistencies, the book does its job of adding lore to the Narnian series and setting the stage for the White Witch's eventual defeat.

Score: 7/10

On the Origins of Hook: The Complicated and Often Contradictory Backstory of a Villain

The story of Peter Pan has been told and retold in writing, on the stage, and on the big screen countless times, yet in the original storyline, we are thrust into a world with a pre-established (and presumably long-standing) relationship between its hero and villain with little information regarding their pasts. So far as the audience is concerned, Peter and Hook have always been a part of the Neverland...yet as evidenced by the many retellings that attempt to answer the question of these characters’ origins, clearly, people want to know more. Barrie, however, leaves a great deal to the imagination and while he tackles a bit of Peter’s past in The Little White Bird, there is significantly less information about Hook in his writings, and much of it is up for debate, as Barrie arguably contradicts himself. 

In terms of canon (which for the purposes of this article I am limiting to Barrie’s final published version of the novel), much of what we know about Hook can only be inferred from a few brief passages. In the initial introduction of the pirates, Barrie gives us the following description of Hook:

In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a raconteur [storyteller] of repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest part of him was his iron claw.

From this, we may be able to draw a few conclusions about who Hook was before he came to the island. (1) He was likely a sailor, if not a pirate, BEFORE he met Peter, given that he had previous interactions with “The Sea Cook”--that is, Long John Silver. (2) He was alive and most likely an adult by the mid 1700s, as in Treasure Island, Billy Bones--a former crewmate of Silver’s--has the date 1745 in his log and the dates 1750 and 1754 on his treasure maps. (3) Hook’s hairstyle and fashion is similar to that of Charles II, whose reign ended with his death in 1685. 

We are also informed by John that Hook was supposed to have been Blackbeard’s bosun. Blackbeard was born somewhere around 1680 and may have been a privateer earlier in his career at sea, but he didn’t actually take up piracy until 1716 and had only a very brief reign of terror before he was killed off the coast of North Carolina in 1718. Assuming Hook was meant to be Blackbeard’s bosun after he went pirate, this gives us a pretty narrow window of time during which Hook might have interacted with him. And, if we take the comment about the Sea Cook seriously, then Hook must have been pretty young at the time he worked for Blackbeard, given that there is a twenty-seven year gap between Blackbeard’s death and the earliest date Billy Bones offers in connection with Silver. 

Hook also uses words and phrases such as, “Pan, who and what art thou?” which would seem to indicate that he is from a time period centuries before the Darlings come to visit. (“Thee” and “thou” had pretty much completely fallen out of common use in English by the late 1700s/early 1800s.)

So far, so good. The dates might make it a bit of a stretch, but we can pretty comfortably say that prior to Neverland, Hook was a sailor--and probably a pirate--during the 1700s, was likely born in the late 1600s, and was possibly a related to Charles II, who had many illegitimate children. This possibility fits nicely with Barrie’s statement that, “Hook was not his true name. To reveal who he really was would even at this date set the country in a blaze.”

We don’t know much about his parentage, however, except that Hook’s voice cracks when he is speaking to Smee about mothers regarding the neverbird’s refusal to leave her eggs even after the nest falls into the water. Whether this is because he was close to his own mother and is lamenting her loss or he had a rather indifferent (or even cruel) mother and he is lamenting his own lack of a loving childhood is up for debate, though the official sequel, Peter Pan in Scarlet--written in 2006 by Geraldine McCaughrean--favors the second interpretation. (Again, however, for the purposes of this article, I am only considering Barrie’s published novel as canon.)

We also learn that Hook attended Eton, a rather prestigious school for boys between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. Assuming Hook completed his schooling there and was, therefore, at least eighteen by the time he joined up with Blackbeard, it would place his being born somewhere close to 1700. Assuming his interaction with Long John Silver was, at the earliest, probably around 1745, and that this interaction happened prior to his visiting the Neverland, it puts Hook (physically) at approximately age 45 by the time we meet him in the book, give or take a bit.

There are two potential problems with that timeline, however. (1) In Barrie’s original novel, only Peter stays young forever. The boys can technically grow up, and Peter “thins them out” when they do. (Decide for yourself whether that means banishment or something worse.) If this is the case, Hook shouldn’t still be alive or, even if the aging process is slowed down, at the very least, he should be an old man, given that the Darlings visit in the early 1900s...making him at least two hundred years old. (2) Near the end of the book, when Hook is trying to convince the boys to join his pirate crew and John asks innocently whether they would still be loyal subjects of the king, Hook responds with, “You would have to swear, ‘Down with King George!’” John (and likely the audience) assumes here that Hook is talking about King George V, who would have been the present king of England at the time the novel was published. If this is the case, how does Hook know who the king is? Has he been able to leave the island and find out this information? Or is Hook, perhaps, from a more modern era than we suspect? Cleverly, Barrie leaves this question open-ended, as Hook could just as easily have been referring to King George the First, who ruled England from 1714 until 1727. 

As for personal hobbies, we know only that he loves flowers and plays the harpsichord--an instrument that was once quite popular but which had fallen out of favor by the 1800s, replaced by the piano. 

The rest of the information we get from Barrie about Hook’s origins comes primarily from his “Hook at Eton” speech, delivered in 1927--many years after his original play (1904) and novel (1911). And here’s where things get interesting (read: contradictory). Because he wrote the speech so many years later,  as a sort of afterthought, and because of the inconsistences with the novel, I personally reject this information as canon. Nevertheless, it is Barrie’s take on his own character and, therefore, is worth at least considering.

In this work, we are told that Hook not only attended Eton but also--at least briefly--went to Oxford. This in and of itself poses no major problems for the timeline suggested by the novel.  What DOES pose a problem, however, is the fact that Barrie claims to have been in contact with Hook’s “Aunt Emily”--apparently his closest surviving relative--and has been in search of possible photographs of Hook during his time there. This would indicate that Hook MUST be from a much later, more modern era than the book suggests, as photography didn’t really come into fashion until the mid-1800s, and even if “Aunt Emily” is quite old (and she is likely a good fifteen to twenty years OLDER than Hook if we assume she is near in age to one of his parents) at the time of Barrie’s supposed meeting with her, she couldn’t have reasonably been expected to have been born before the early 1800s, placing Hook’s own birth nearer to the 1850s. While some of the information in the novel might be explained away to fit with this date (his choice of dress and hairstyle, for instance), he could not possibly have interacted with Blackbeard or Long John Silver. In fact, he could not have been a pirate--at least, not in the traditional sense--at all, as the Golden Age of Piracy (1650s--1730s) had long passed and the Age of Sail ended in the 1860s. Because of this inconsistency, some have argued that Barrie may have intended Hook to be a more modern man who essentially became trapped in a child’s fantasy land. He became a “pirate” only AFTER his interactions with Pan--that is, he took on the role of a villain because that is how Peter and the children imagined him--and that John’s assertions about his interactions with Blackbeard and Silver are merely rumors that the boy has heard.

Setting aside this apparent contradiction in the timeline, we DO learn some other interesting facts about Hook. For instance, Hook’s blood (which was said in the novel to be thick and strangely colored), is specified as having been yellow. This, along with his appearance having been described in the novel  as “cadaverous” has lead some to conclude that Hook was likely rather sickly as a child. We also learn that Hook enjoyed the Lake poets and strawberry mess (a dessert),  collected keys, performed well in sports while at Eton (though he did not like water sports as he rather surprisingly hated the feeling of water on his skin), and played the flute. We also learn that he was politically conservative and was probably never in a romantic relationship. 

There are a few other bits of information about Barrie’s idea of Hook that can be found in the early manuscripts for the play, which feature “deleted scenes.” One such manuscript--the earliest, I believe--can be found here. (Though good luck with reading it without going cross-eyed because Barrie’s handwriting is BAD.) However, I think this post has gone on long enough, yet we are still left with many unanswered questions. But perhaps this is what Barrie intended all along. Perhaps, fittingly, we are ultimately left to fill in the blanks about this villain of the Neverland with our own imagination. 

_____

Thanks to @katherinenotgreat for asking me to do a post on Hook’s origins. Thanks also to @concordia-cum-sinistro for your input. Feel free to add your own information regarding the original manuscript drafts, as I know you are more familiar with them than I am.

full name: montana kıvanç keyder (pronounced kuh-vanch kai-dir). nicknames: tan. gender and pronouns: cis man, he / him. age: thirty. date of birth: may 17, 1990. hometown: pleasance, ohio. nationality: american. religion: muslim. sexual and romantic orientation: bisexual biromantic. occupation: author & stand up comedian. living arrangements: lives with his family and a boarder (PLS GIVE ME THE BOARDER) languages spoken: english, conversational turkish. strange history: the death ranch.

trigger warnings: assault, death, injury, pregnancy.

this is the clown montana, but u can just call him tan. he grew up in pleasance but moved to seattle around 10-ish years ago to study law ( but also bc he had a falling out with his ex-bestie @kincadedonnelly​ which just made the decision to study out of state so much easier ) and only just returned last december!

tan is the middle child of three. he has an older brother and a younger sister. their family used to own a mom and pop store that has since then been bought out by alby and turned into the pleasance general store under new management in 2000. his father had since turned to various enterprises to try and support the family which included carpentry and being a delivery truck driver. his mother, on the other hand, took to music tutoring on the weekends apart from being a high school teacher. needless to say, things had been pretty tough financially on the family since alby took their business away from them.

growing up, tan was p much....mediocre. which was never a dirty word for him, but it was to his parents. it was actually their dream for him to become a lawyer, which he wasn’t exactly opposed to, mostly because he didn’t really have anything else in mind.

he had enough in the way of friends, played sports, did ok in school. wasn’t super smart but also wasn’t at the bottom. he just coasted by and it was fine. he was fine. at least he was funny.

when he was 21, he was accepted into law school thru a scholarship at the university of washington. it was the first time he’d ever really gone out of state, let alone lived away from home on his own.

but seattle treated him well. it was there that he was able to explore more of who he was and what he wanted to be—and really wanted to be—which was, to no one’s surprise, not to become a lawyer, but a writer. a storyteller. but knowing that he couldn’t come home without a law degree, he sought to finish his four-year stay and make his parents proud all the while harboring words in his journal as a hobby.

he was out drinking with his friends when he got into a drunken fight with another patron for some dumb reason he couldn’t even remember anymore even if he tried. it really started early into the night but then hours later when the group was set to go home, they had run into the patron and his friends outside. tan couldn’t keep his blasted mouth shut and the long and short of it is that he’d ended up in the hospital with a dislocated jaw, a broken nose, and a lesion in his brain after he took a crowbar to the head. he was on his last semester of law school.

which, of course, put a damper on his parents’ plans of finally having a lawyer in the family. and it took a while, but throughout the frustration of relearning how to put a shirt on or the staring spells he would have in the living room or the fact that he started having atonic seizures that required a service dog in his aid, he decided to see the silver lining coming about a year into his recovery.

meds were expensive and therapy didn’t come cheap, so when he submitted a column narrating his experience from small-town mediocrity from a turkish-albanian background to big city law school dropout now with a disability card to a local publication, he’d only expected the cash it came with in exchange for his submission; he didn’t expect an email from a guy who, as it turned out, was a pretty big tv producer saying that he’d read his column and wanted to meet up to chat about an ‘opportunity’.

said opportunity turned out to be a job offer. or, well, a trial offer— he was currently producing the second season of a show on comedy central and wanted to invite him on as a writer’s assistant. with no employment opportunities on his immediate horizon ( with the alternative being to book a plane ticket back to ohio ), he knew he couldn’t say no.

the job was not glamorous and the salary was dismal, but it helped him remember how to become a person again, this time in an environment he actually enjoyed. no more case readings, no more depressing internship hunts with law firms who didn’t want him.

as he became more and more immersed into the culture of the show ( and other programs in the network ), he was eventually given his own episodes to write, all the while making his debut on stage as a stand up comic ( which was a difficult feat to even try and muster the courage to face an audience, let alone an audience in bars ). shortly after he’d made a relatively dignified name for himself, he started working on publishing his first book, which he liked to describe as ‘part-memoir, part-fiction, 100% mediocre’ entitled ‘Stop and Smell the...’ which chronicled his experience as a small-town midwestern boy who gre up in an immigrant household and was then living in a big city with a condition that could very well be attributed to his big mouth.

and he was, by no means, famous. maybe not even quasi-famous. but his new life had allowed him to support his family back home especially when his father had come down with a mysterious illness that prohibited him from continuing work. on top of that, his younger sister had gotten pregnant and was then forced to marry a businessman in cincinnati just so she could raise the child.

his father finally succumbed to his illness last december and it was only then that tan finally came home to deal with the funeral arrangements. he took a sabbatical from work, with every intention of his trip back to pleasance being temporary, but it’s months and he still hasn’t found it in him to leave pleasance again.

extras:

he has been living with his family again and has no plans of getting a place on his own since this is just ‘temporary’.

yes, he also brought his service dog, dakota ( and yes, he’s montana and she’s dakota and they’re just quirky like that 🤪 ) with him to pleasance and he takes her everywhere. since the move, dakota has enjoyed the bigger spaces that pleasance has to offer and you can find the pair most often at the park or playing catch on death ranch where the thrill of getting caught has never gotten old since he was seven.

he’s bisexual and he came out in 2013. he’s always sort of known that he’s not just attracted to girls since he was younger ( as evidenced by the will-they-won’t-they relationship he had with his ex-best friend kincade fuckin rippp ) but he’s never really been open about that part of himself until then.

a serial dater and a serial flirt. also soooo so so needy.

he’s a taurus sun with an aries moon so he’s equal parts ‘date me uwu’ and ‘fite me uwu’

like his fc bariş, tan sports a half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm: (body image tw) click here for reference !! also a smiley on his right thigh, his siblings’ initials on his right ankle, and a small ‘K’ on his left hip.

his comedy is very hasan minhaj meets bob newhart: all the ~~~~woke millennial goodness of hasan wrapped with bob newhart’s brand of deadpan delivery sprinkled with a little bit of john mulaney’s observational humor.

Wes for the full clear on the OC asks? 😘😘😘

— OC QUESTIONS

BASICS

What’s their full name? Wesley Daniel Brooks

What does their name mean? Why were they named that? Wesley means “western meadow,” Daniel means “God is my judge,” and Brooks means “stream.” You can find my real world reasoning for choosing his name here. As for the canon reasoning, Wesley is a family name on his father’s side and Daniel is a good Christian name. 

Do they have any nicknames? Lots. Wes is the big one (Hwes if you’re Hurk Jr.), Rook, Dep (Deputy if you're as extra as John Seed), Bright Eyes (Raf only), Sundance (Nick only), Darling (Lyra, when she’s being cheeky), and probably a handful more that I’m forgetting.

How old are they? 28, almost 29 as of the start of FC5.

When’s their birthday? November 11, 1989

What’s their zodiac sign/element/birthstone/etc.? Do they believe that holds any significance? Scorpio sun, Aries moon, Aquarius rising. Year of the snake. Birthstones are topaz and citrine. He isn’t aware enough of any of this to believe in it.

What’s their species/subspecies? Do they have any special/magical abilities? He is a natural disaster in human form. His special ability is that he somehow manages to survive that for as long as he does.

What “class” do they belong to (for fantasy characters)? If none, what weapon do they favor? A revolver (Steel & Ivory), a sawed-off shotgun (Sin Eater), or basic hand-to-hand. Close combat is preferable to range. He also uses homemade C4 in his tireless crusade against cult infrastructure.

APPEARANCE

What do they look like? He’s 6′3″, has brown-ish hair (specifically, a warm golden bronze color) and hazel eyes with long eyelashes. Fit, moderate-to-lean build. Sharp features, angular jaw, a pronounced Cupid’s bow. He has the facial hair of a man who has forgotten to shave for two weeks, because he is—you guessed it—a man who has forgotten to shave for two weeks.

Do they have a face claim? Tomas Skoloudik

What’s their style like? Clothes, hair, makeup? Casual clothing—flannels (often tied around the waist), t-shirts, henleys, jeans, boots, jewelry (gold, leather), leather jacket, cargo jacket. His hair is messy and soft, just like he is, because he doesn’t overload it with hair products unlike some people. He’s got an ouroboros tattooed around the lower part of his right forearm and (universe-dependent) John and Lyra’s names on the inside of his wrists.

How do they carry themselves? What’s their default expression? He attempts to project swagger and indifference, but to anyone who knows him and is paying attention, he’s an open book. In a comfortable environment, he’s loose and casual. His default expression is fixated if he has something to occupy his mind and distant if he doesn’t.

Do they have any physical ailments or disabilities? No, but he’s got bruises and flesh wounds aplenty! He’s got bite marks and scratches galore! You want knife-slashing scars? He’s got twenty. But who cares? No big deal. Wes wants mooooore! 🎵

PERSONALITY

What’s their alignment? Chaotic Good/Chaotic Neutral

Which one of the 16 Personality Types do they fit into? ISFP

What are their hobbies and interests? Do they have any particular “favorites” (food, books, and so on)? I answered for his favorite films and TV here, and his favorite book is Watership Down. He likes the Beatles and bar snacks and black coffee. His favorite cultists are Lyra, John, and Shaggy—please don’t judge him.

What are they bad at? Dancing!

What kind of things do they dislike/hate? Hates being controlled, dislikes very sweet things.

Do they have any vices/addictions/mental illnesses? Impulsiveness, reactive behaviors. He smokes and drinks, although neither of those are done with a shocking amount of excess. Previously, harder drugs. 

What are their goals and motivations? Freedom and acceptance.

What are their manners like? Any habits? He’s not a jerk; he has passable manners when the situation calls for them, but Emily Post would like him not. His habits are covered in much more detail here, but the big one is that he tends to busy his hands and/or mouth with things wherever possible.

What are they most afraid of? Rejection, abandonment, enclosed spaces, death (specifically, the possibility of an afterlife). 

BACKGROUND

Where were they born? What was their childhood like? Born in Hope County. He was an only child and his home life was suspect, but made moderately more bearable by his best friend. Once he realized trying to please his father was a losing battle, he said hell yeah to a downward spiral of rebelliousness and troublemaking.

What’s their family like? His dad was a jerk of the sort that would never be satisfied. Big on toxic masculinity, short on acceptance. His mother loved him, but she fell in line more often than not.

What factions or organizations are they a part of? What ranks and titles do they hold? Hope County Sheriff’s Office (probationary sheriff’s deputy), Hope County Resistance (figurehead, pot stirrer, problem magnet). 

How do they fit into their “story”? Barely. Next question. I hate to use this word yet again, but it’s the only one that fits: his story is mostly about acceptance—self, fate, fault, sorrow, joy—because as much as he desired acceptance from others, he denied a lot of it for himself.

Where do they currently live? What’s their place like? He grew up in the Silver Lake trailer park, way up on the northeastern end of Holland Valley, near the Whitetails. For the duration of the game timeline, I picture him spending more time crashing where he can—with the Ryes, in the woods, wherever—but his own place would be sparse and fairly untidy, with clothes tossed everywhere. 

How do they eventually die? Wesley intends to live forever. How dare you insinuate—

RELATIONSHIPS

Do they have any friends? Would they consider anyone to be their best friend? Within the timeline of the game, he has quite a few. Raf is his best friend (and has been since they were kids), but Nick (and Kim) are both up there. He has a soft spot for Mary May; that seems to be reciprocal. He appreciates Grace because she doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. Sharky and Hurk offer unconditional friendship, which he appreciates and sorely needs. Adelaide is the vodka aunt who thirsts after his ex. She tries to rile him up sometimes (in a myriad of ways), but he likes her. And if you account for other universes, his friend count goes way up thanks to the various and sundry brat squad kids.

What’s their friend group like? What role do they play in it? When he was younger, he was the introvert-adopted-by-an-extrovert. He was a bit too withdrawn to have friends outside of that, though he wasn’t unfriendly. For a bulk of the current timeline, his friend group is “ragtag misfits” status and he basically gets ping-ponged between them as they try—with varying amounts of success—to fight a cult.  

What’s their love life like? (See also: ship question meme.) Do they have any kids? Depends on the universe. In canon, it’s messy but becomes significantly healthier later on. His previous relationship was promising and likely would have been ideal, except that they were young and unable (or unready) to deal with the realities of their situation. In AU, he is enemies-with-benefits but also grossly in love with the Judge of Eden’s Gate and her husband (who was a fun surprise, but it’s fine, because Wes got Lyra back by giving her a gracious two-for-one deal on children)!

Who do they look up to? Who do they trust? Whitehorse is something of a father figure, though Wes would never say that out loud. For the record, neither would Whitehorse (at least not directly to Wes)—mostly for Wes’s benefit. He trusts Raf, Pastor Jerome, and the rest of his friends listed above.

Who do they hate? Do they have any enemies? Joseph, because Joseph is daddy issues incarnate. Jacob, because Jacob understands Wes well enough to yank him around like a dog on a leash. By the time the Collapse hits, everyone is his enemy to some extent (as evidenced by the adorable horns and pointy tails drawn all over his wanted posters). Notable exceptions are John, Sharky, Hurk, and Whitehorse; however, all but the first are functionally unknown to him.

Do they have any pets? Just Boomer, who is the best emotional support animal a disaster could ask for.

Are they good with kids? Animals? He’s naturally good with both children and animals, but he lacks practical experience, especially with the former (shout-out to the Ryes for finally adding that to his resume).

FUN FACTS

Which tropes do they fit? Which archetypes? Tropewise, he’s Troubled, but Cute and I can’t refute it; apart from the high school thing, it’s a full BINGO clear. He’s also Bruiser with a Soft Center, Inferiority Superiority Complex, Cosmic Plaything, Desperately Craves Affection, Hero with Bad Publicity, I Am Not My Father, and almost certainly a whole host of shameful others that I don’t dare brave the rest of TVTropes to find. Of the twelve classic archetypes, he’s some combination of The Hero and The Outlaw. Otherwise: fallen angel, antihero, byronic hero, prodigal son. 

Do they play any instruments? Sports? He can play guitar, but only at an intermediate level. He’s not big on sports, but he can ice skate and he likes to swim.

What are some items they always carry? Steel & Ivory and a lighter; later, Sin Eater. In New Dawn he carries John’s watch.

Do they collect anything? Bad decisions. Minicultists, apparently. Nothing in particular.

What position do they sleep in? His default position when he’s alone and in a comfortable place is on his belly. There are exceptions listed in greater detail here.

Which emoji would they use the most? Honestly, he’s not really the type to use emojis, but he will send his love interest pictures of things he likes or finds pretty with no context. Otherwise, his texts tend to be short, to-the-point, and lacking in punctuation or capitalization. Believe it or not, he’d much rather communicate in person. My most frequently used emojis for him are 🍰 and 🐍. (Awww, cake and snake... They rhyme. How precious!)

What languages do they speak? English. He knows a limited amount of Spanish, but he’s better at understanding it than he is at speaking it.

What’s their favorite expletive? Damn or fuck.

What’s their favorite candle scent? Pine.

What songs remind you of them? I have a playlist for him here, but it—much like him—is a bit of a mess. I also have a playlist based on his own taste in music here.

Which animal would you say represents them? Snakes, stags, swans, scorpions.

What stereotypical high school clique would they fit into? Loners or troublemakers, probably. Stoners on a technicality—he doesn’t fit the stereotype, but he does have a history. He has some of the soul of an art kid but, tragically, none of the talent.

What would their favorite ride at an amusement park be? At a real amusement park, probably the roller coasters. At something more lowkey like a carnival, he’d like the classic, aesthetically pleasing rides like the Ferris wheel or the carousel.

Do they believe in aliens? Ghosts? Reincarnation or something else? He’s not an “I Want to Believe” sort of guy, but he still can’t explain the Larry Parker debacle. He tries very hard not to believe (or at least not to think about) any sort of afterlife, because he fears it.

Do they follow any religions/gods? Do they celebrate holidays? His family was Catholic, but he endeavors not to be. He likely wouldn’t celebrate holidays as a bachelor overmuch, but he would take part in holiday activities with others.

Which Deadly Sin do they most correspond to? Which Heavenly Virtue? Pride and Fortitude.

If you had to choose one tarot card to represent them, which would it be? The Tower, The Devil, The Wheel of Fortune.

15.07 Thoughts

So 

1. Y’all know I’ve been very opinionated about certain things, but my inbox has been such a perpetual onslaught that I haven’t had time to really *sit and genuinely write*

2. This is premised 100% off of an expansion on a beautiful post by @heliodean​ (x)  -- or more, I would say that heliodean already wrote most of what I would begin to say, and very elegantly about the text, subtext, representation, visibility, canonicity, but that all as a simple underline to the growth evidenced by Dean. 2b. That is to say, that while the queer text is itself indivisible from the original text, I would like to expand on a few points that are also character-specific, and I didn’t want to kidnap a representation-leaning post to discuss only phantasmally attached affairs.

So again, @heliodean‘s post is an absolute must-read, but building aside on the discussion of Dean’s growth as expressed in the episode, I wanted to focus on some personal John-facing issues.

While helio mentioned Lee’s last advent of Dean being when he idolized John Winchester, which is very true, but I think several of their engagements -- including, yes, the queer narrative but not dependent on it -- are hugely reflecting. 

Even if we take, in example, Dean, ass slaps, waitresses and Lee -- a common discussion point  is for example that despite open flirtation, Dean dismisses her like she brought his burger over too well done, implicitly. She was there, literally while they talked about double dogging someone down, and despite ass slaps and flirts and posturing, she just kind of vanished into the aether, a thought to neither of them.

How this attaches to the John related issues actually requires dropping a level deeper, when you realize that while the implication is itself surface level text, the words hang instead in old canons, just reflecting at the surface; the sense of history being tangible between them is there for a reason.  Even if you took the most heteronormative read on how to double-dick down an ungendered individual, that we hetly decide was female, and that the balls never touched or whatever because *big gay panic* the choice to literally bring that to center discussion after Dean implicitly seemed to forget it ever existed, or act like he didn’t want to talk about it until being charmed by the memory in particular.

Or perhaps, more realistically in the subtext to the *actual text* as expository line everybody is spinning circles on -- quite simply, there were triplets and there was a woman shared between them, but she wasn’t what he remembered. As far as Dean was concerned, there was one woman and, very quite-down-to-point, one man has was sharing. The fact that he happened to have trimmings of a spare woman as a commentary didn’t even plink his memory. *Holy shit* 

-- (and let’s be real, MOST OF THIS WAS IN DIRECT TEXT TOO. The only “subtext” is the most liminal understanding that words connect to each other and sentences are usually related to the discussion at hand, but that’s about what people call subtext these days. Dean literally forgot and had to be reminded. I guess “subtext” is applying the working adult brain to figure out how the FUCK you forget who you were putting your dick in. The tryst itself, the bizarre things Dean forgot, these are all... well, text. And the rest is so narrowly subtext that someone missing it out of genuine ignorance and not petty malice and active choice/reconfiguration is pretty much contingent on someone literally not thinking at all)

like

I’m not gonna heavily debate textuality in this post because at this point, fandom dialogue is a helium inflated parody of itself on most of that, but like I really? Don’t give a shit? How someone tries to move the goalposts around? Seriously grab that whole scene at the table front to back, and then the stage, and show that to some random straight guy you know that doesn’t even watch the show. I’m going to tell you 99.9999% right now the first thing to come out of their mouth is “That’s fuckin gay” or some variation of it into various fields of PC-facing culture. The hilarity of trying to run defense lines for them at this point is somewhere out in orbit in Alpha Centauri, bitching about a whole other solar system of shit.

But taking back to that -- that waitress, that woman that just evaporated. That was a different time. That’s when Dean wanted fodder between him and anyone else he had a deep connection with. That’s when Dean *did* womanize. Did bury himself in skin. 

And frankly that’s a Dean that hasn’t existed for a long time while fandom has sat in general denial about it, or the canonicity or *sets off carousel music*

(My mood every time a young bright eyed LGBT warrior thinks they’re doing a service by dismissing, deleting or denying low-visibility LGBT text)

Mutual ass slaps and vigorous bisexual reactions be damned, Lee’s adoration OF John was even brought into text, be it the solemn vigil he held up in his service, or his textual “I’m you” to Dean, and everything old Dean might have become if things hadn’t dramatically shifted gears in his life; but something the *here* and *now* is trying to make him become.

Reaching into the alchemical stuff again, be it Silver And Gold, or Nothing Gold Can Stay, or Golden Time, or now, the monster that spits out fake gold as long as you feed it, and stop caring. The thing Chuck is trying to make them. The things -- the people -- the building treasures in their life of Eileen, and Castiel, and yes, lost several episodes but not forgotten, Jack and Mary; Eileen treasure found anew, Cas a treasure lost that took the last light of his family, and Jack and Mary’s shadows, with him.

The force that broke their chain, the force that was first ready to face authority, because this was not a new battle to him; it had just been given new meaning, many years ago, when he first faced Dean. Dean echoes the broken despair Cas once saw life as from angelic roost, and Cas stands instead for every lesson Humanity taught him, and continues the fight, and walks away from a toxic vortex of destruction drilled and doubled down on by Chuck’s purposeful machinations -- machinations Dean convinced him to break from long ago, but the man that the angel fell for is not who he is now; the fire he gained from Mary went out in her death into the dark and obsessive and introverted blackened side of John Winchester, not the one that, taking his wife’s hand, disappeared into gold.

(Don’t even get me started on the recurrence of this exact shot in Dabb’s SPN, we’ll end up in a whole other aside.)

“Nothing Gold Can Stay.” This is the lesson Chuck has been trying to force down their throats alongside murder suicide. It is our target subversion, but--

This episode fundamentally *exists* to just *put Dean Winchester’s growth into perspective*. Be that textually affirmative bisexuality (regardless of if it’s visible enough for everyone’s taste, which I hold in bizarre levels of wtf question/suspicion), or about the boy of vices and basically casual misogyny and grim habit that has grown into a man that -- while he may remember it fondly with crinkles in the corner of his eyes, he doesn’t flit it to whatever filler is in the seats between them, but to that old “friend” that, you know. *jazz hands* 

About his fight with resignation that has griefed him since his first demon deal, and of self worth, and of what he has learned, and of what he will deep down never let anyone take away, even if he’s made to question it.

(Dabb on 14.13 Lebanon and the lessons imbued)

This episode??? Like??? Jeremy Adams didn’t blow me out of the water. I jettisoned somewhere into another galaxy or some shit. Here I am holding tentative resignation about how bad the new (presumed) straight white male author on crew is gonna do while looking at history, but giving benefit of the doubt, making a few jokes??? And then it’s like HELLO YES ALL OF THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE. WHAT KIND OF FIRST EPISODE BLACK MAGIC? THAT WAS A BOBO LEVEL FIRST EPISODE. 

Oh my god.

I mean, I’m sure we all saw it coming, like deadass you all know I’m not a genius for saying and expecting -- Dean, lessons learned and remorseful from these last few misadventures, coming in to want to talk to Cas, who has had no such giving and keeps his focus on the target, outside of his perceivably crumbled relationship. Like, expecting this is about as simple as expecting them to fight monsters, or Sam and Dean disagreeing over a method/plan. 

But as unsurprising as it is, it held weight and value, after the episode -- as given in my addition to the original referenced link -- spent its entire time framing loss of best friends, empty space, the ramifications of turning one’s back, and knowing gold when you have it and what’s worth fighting for. 

Now, to fall back to touching on the textuality topic: I thank 15.07 for the display of performative absurdity. It’s not the first episode to rip open and expose fandom’s dirty underbelly and intersectional marginalization forces wearing an LGBT Activism Suit -- 14.03 also did so loudly by Bobo (eg read: “The Problem with Dreamhunter” [A post that points out what people will accept for canonization when there isn't a rival ship or excessive projection of antis specific to a ship which is *SPOILER ALERT* nowhere near what everyone pretends is needed when they want to argue just to argue and some intersectional WLW vs MLM issues]) -- but it was the first to approach it directly with Dean, much less so textually. 

The ridiculous redefinition of words, of “what *I* think canon means” whipped completely out of fandom generated buzz and no dictionary on the face of the planet -- the demands, and the active erasure of existing LGBT text because it wasn’t *visible enough* -- really does show a seedy side of fandom that wears a nice Representation Warrior dress sometimes, but betrays a series of issues:

Most points boil down to “I won’t acknowledge any text unless it is loud enough to argue down any idiot I ever meet”, putting the focus not on representative resonance and value of quality of text, but on personal vindication for raw argumentation. A world where trolls and their personal agendas have actually taken *greater importance* to people than the representative text, and is an absolutely abysmal motivation or bottom line for any discussion and yes, if you recoiled and feel ashamed or called out about that, rather than patching over your pride and doubling down, maybe skim the reblog tags bisexual people have left on my several dozen posts about the damages of them being actively deleted is doing.

If you care about representation, you’ll think about that. Even if it’s not the loudly visible version of representation you *want*, it is what it is, and well--it is. Pretty simply. There is no perfect fantasy world where everybody understands and wants the thing you do. And I’m not just talking about LGBT rep. I’m talking about the people you pretend to need to argue gay canon with still being absolutely flummoxed by canon itself, like them saying “family don’t end with blood” and “found family” are “fanon concepts”. People that are confused where demons go when they die. People that rebuke literally many-times textualized non-gay things just to suit their personal agenda. And shockingly, they have a personal agenda about the gay content too.  

I’m talking about straight pairings like mulder and scully that got no romo’ed around even after they kissed and got pregnant and the whole nine, because bawww that’s not what the show is about so *allow me to build elaborate theories that make no sense and pretend they have standing in canon equal to the straightforward read*.

Cuz that’s where we’re at right now. Our fandom is just particularly bonky, and has been allowed to go so far off the edge of the map and away from center GA-resonant discussion that the bog standard antis have literally come up with body-mutilating necrophilia as an answer to avoid the gay, and somehow... *shruuuuug?* people act like these people not only are of equal worth but like... deserve... any consideration long term? Which is when we lean into the next point on MOTIVATION.

So ask at what point arguing with tinhats beat out your actual interest in representation and LGBT rights and media issues. Ask at what point you surrendered your focus on feeling resonant with a character that has been textually acknowledged, and traded that for implying you suddenly can’t relate to the character until he performs [X] exact function, exactly how you want, and when you want. Hell, I have even gotten an anon that literally said they would have acknowledged it if SPN had given them what they want when they wanted-- so basically, too late, not enough.

That’s not how text works. Whether the text came ten years ago or now, the text is the text. Your personal fulfillment aside, text is text. And I highly urge people to stop demanding tokenism above demographic-targeted representative types (eg bisexual, raised in the 80s in a patriarchal/power/grit based society and its own associated dogmas, fairly masculine identity, and so on) or demanding characters perform as if they were from another demographic (be it age or gender) because that’s your demographic. 

Once you start removing elements of the represented demographics (LGBT, male, age, origin, etc) and wanting it to perform by way of *your* demographic’s behaviors or base line needs/wants, that’s when we’ve left representation. That’s when we’re demanding tokenization. And when you’re demanding tokenization to win internet fights with people who don’t even believe what they say, you have long left the representation wheelhouse. That’s what we call troll wars. 

Do not let LGBT media representation be kidnapped into troll wars. Do not let content be degraded or removed just to engage in troll wars. And if you want to engage in troll wars, and you value the arguments more than the discussion *of* representation intersectional issues, and methods, and all around it -- then just... stop. Stop saying you want representation. Don’t. 

I’m tired.

Power Rangers Pirate Legends Set Sail

In space there is a legend of a ghostly ship. Captained by a cruel necromancer. Captain Necruel! It is said that when his ship was damaged by crossfire during a battle a Dark Spirit appeared to him and offered him a way to live. Necruel accepted and was turned into his current form, the spirit gave him the Eye of the Netherworld to use to get vengeance…. On the way to the Empire homeworld Doc, Lewis, and Zinda make two important breakthroughs. First they upgraded the Pirate Ranger Keys so that they can still use the power of past teams (however if the original Ranger is morphed at the time the Pirate Ranger cannot use that power until they demorph). Second they create a new Ranger Key, The Purple Privateer Ranger Key.

Zinda- 29- Purple Privateer Ranger- A classmate of Doc’s from the IIoS. She escaped the attack on the school and arrived on Earth where she found work in a repair shop. She reunited with Doc and helped repair damage to the Pirate Megazord. She would go on to assist the team many times before finally gaining a Ranger Key of her own. On the way to the Stellar Empire’s homeworld after the fall of the empire Lewis and Doc created the Purple Privateer powers for her. She uses the Condor Speeder as her personal zord and it gains a megazord form. Face Claim: Naya Rivera On the Empire homeworld the Pirate Rangers raid the Empire treasury and recover all the relics and artifacts (as well as a ton of money they take for themselves… they are pirates after all) The Pirates take it upon themselves to return the relics to the rightful owners. On their first stop they arrive on Grifforzar and are approached by a winged warrior (using the Neo Griffozar suit from Kyoryu Vs Go-Bust). Upon seeing him Lewis believes it’s Goldar and pulls out his weapon. The warrior explains that the Griffors are a race of honorable warriors and that Goldar was the exception. To this day they are haunted by the shame of his crimes as evidenced by Lewis’s reaction. After apologizing the group gets a horrible surprise. Goldar approaches. He has a squad of ghostly figures armed with scythes. These are the Reapers. The Rangers and the warrior engage Goldar in battle and defeat him, when he falls a giant eye appears in the sky and shoots him with energy causing him to grow, when they defeat him once more the eye appears again and seems to absorb his explosion. This pattern continues for a while, the Pirate Rangers return a relic and are confronted by an enemy thought dead. They travel to the world of Rangers and other Heroes (The rangers are some of the teams I’ve already covered and the other heroes I’ll cover in separate files) Each time the eye appears again. Each revived monster claims they are seeking vengeance. Finally during a battle with Darkonda the Pirate Rangers meet Captain Necruel. The ghostly captain tries to use the eye on Lewis. It seems that after the hit and run Lewis’s heart briefly stopped. A situation Necruel seeks to exploit. However Lewis resists and as he does his Silver Ranger Key and his Gold Anchor Key emerge and glow and become one. Lewis uses it and the Anchor Armor descends like usual however this time his visor turns a shining silver and the gold armor becomes one with his suit. Lewis has morphed into the Golden Pirate Ranger! Necruel admits defeat and retreats leaving Darkonda to face Lewis’s new power. He presses two buttons on his morpher and to his left and right the symbols of the Green Dragon and White Tiger Rangers appear and pull back revealing the respective Rangers. With a point at the enemy the Energy Clones attack. Lewis then uses the new key to activate his Final Wave attack. Above him a golden sun forms and Lewis rises his blaster. The sun attaches to the end of the blaster and Lewis shoots the Golden Solar Blast at Darkonda destroying him. However after beating him with the DrillRex Megazord Lewis passes out. A vision of Zordon reveals why, when he uses the Golden Ranger Key he taps directly into the Morphing Grid bypassing all safeties to do so. The human body cannot handle such power for long periods of time. Upon hearing this Marvelous talks to Doc and Zinda to discuss a project to take the burden off of Lewis. On the next planet the Pirate Rangers encounter a monster made from remains of footsoldiers that the Rangers of Earth have defeated. He calls themself Legion. Legion is one of Necruel’s Gravengers. The Pirates meet the other four soon. Tatauros- A bull like gladiator cheated out of his final victory and his life. Centeen- A centaur freedom fighter betrayed by one of her followers and executed Solien- A scientist who was forced to create an artificial sun to use as a weapon but used it on himself to keep his captors from using it as a weapon. Scorpiter- A scorpion like warrior who fought when her homeland was being taken over and fell in battle. Eventually Doc and Zinda finish their project. The Red Captain Ranger Key. A battlizer for Captain Marvelous. Red Captain Ranger- An armored version of the classic pirate captain. Full of the power of the previous Red Rangers from Earth (MMPR-Bushido) With these new powers at their disposal the Pirate Rangers begin to defeat the Gravengers and continue to destroy the revived villains. Finally Marvelous destroys Legion forcing Necruel to unleash his trump card and combine the remaining four Gravengers into a massive warrior named NOTOO (anyone who gets what those four and the combined form are a reference for gets a cookie) After a fierce battle Notoo falls, realizing the time had come Necruel lures the Rangers to the Dead System. A solar system where all life was destroyed after a weapon of war went out of control extinguishing the very sun. Finally the Pirate Rangers board Necruel’s ship and defeat him, however Necruel begins to laugh. He reveals that the Eye of the Netherworld has been collecting the energy created when a monster is destroyed. This has all been for a single purpose. Before revealing that reason Necruel reveals the legend was wrong. It wasn’t a Dark Spirit he made a deal with. IT WAS A DARK SPECTER! At those words Lewis urges a quick retreat. Indeed all the energy has been collected to restore Dark Specter to life! The ghostly ship is pulled apart by the Eye as Dark Specter tears a hole in the universe to pull himself out of the Netherworld. During the long battle the Rangers have to deal with villains attempting to escape the Netherworld while fighting Dark Specter himself. Eventually they get an idea and taunt the stronger villains that if Dark Specter escapes he’ll leave them all to waste away. Enraged the dead villains turn on Specter distracting him enough for the Rangers to push him back and destroy the opening. Dark Specter falls once more. On the way back to Earth they get a call from Cody. Cody reveals that much has changed while they were gone. The satellites used to broadcast the signal to rebel are now used to allow communication across the universe! Furthermore Earth has opened its arms to alien visitors and those seeking to live on Earth. Already at least 100 have moved to Earth. There is also a plan to create warp stations in every system to allow quick transportation throughout the universe! The universe has gotten bigger and smaller at the same time. The universe is changing… ———————– Set Sail Files The Space Sheriffs Elemental Squad The Silver Spider Ultraman ———————– MISC Each Pirate Ranger (and Dresk) have their own leitmotif song Marvelous- The Pirate in Red (invokes images of epic fights on pirate ships) Dresk- Give to Gain (a version of TPIR reversed) John- The Blue Swordsman (invokes images of sword fights) Lucy- The Yellow Bandit (stealthy quick song) Doc- The Green Scientist (techno beat) Zinda- Purple Science (remixed version of TGS) Amanda- Pink Princess (starts out royal and elegant and ends more adventurous and yet still elegant) Lewis- The Legacy (starts soft at first as Lewis is unsure of himself as a ranger especially compared to all who came before him, but by the end is triumphant as he has blazed a trail for those who follow) Relationships Marvelous- Thinks of his crew as if they were his own family. Knows for a fact that John is more than capable of taking him down in an instant. John- Sometimes annoyed by the antics of the others (especially when Marvelous gets drunk) but is willing to lay his life down to protect them all. In a relationship with Amanda by the end Lucy- Has a sisterly relationship with Amanda though sometimes wishes she wasn’t so fancy about everything. In a relationship with Lewis by the end. Doc- Amused by Lewis’s reaction to most things. Felt out of place among the crew until Amanda arrived. In a relationship with Zinda by the end. Amanda- At first is disgusted by Marvelous but learns quickly that the man makes himself sound worse than he is. So is drawn to John’s serious attitude. Relieved and thankful that the crew treats her as Amanda and not as a Princess. In a relationship with John by the end. Lewis- Looks up to the Captain and John. Enjoys hanging out with Doc (he dubs him DD upon learning his real name). In a relationship with Lucy by the end. Zinda- Gets along nicely with Lewis having spent more time on Earth then the others. In a relationship with Doc by the end. Fates of the Pirate Rangers Marvelous- He travels the universe in the ship offering his services when needed (be it transporting researchers or sightseers or adventurers) Misses the crew but knows he can quickly travel to them to see them again. Eventually gives his Red key to a stowaway named Scarlet making her the new Red Pirate Ranger while he uses the armor of the Red Phantom to continue his legacy

Scarlet- Second Red Pirate Ranger- 27- An escaped slave who stowed away on the ship after the team parted ways. Marvelous took pity on her and helped her get away from her pursuers. By the time of the first Universal Union conference she’s his first mate and the second Red Pirate Ranger. Face Claim: Karen Gillian John- Becomes the captain of the guard on Momos and eventually the King. Lucy- Lives on Earth with Lewis and spends a lot of time volunteering at an orphanage Doc- Opens a repair shop with Zinda and enjoys every moment. In his spare time he and Zinda try to create better prosthetics to heal those hurt by the Empire. Amanda- Crowned Queen of Momos she appoints John as the captain of the guard, he will one day sit on the throne next to hers. Lewis- Returns to finish school (he had dropped out of college prior to his accident) Lives with Lucy. Zinda- Opens a repair shop with Doc and also enjoys every moment. In her spare time she and Doc try to create better prosthetics to heal those hurt by the Empire. Thanks to the Pirate Rangers a new age has dawned across the universe. An age of unity and peace. Of hope and possibilities. (Bios by @dream-chef-flavors and @rosegrl18) Power Rangers Pirate Legends <————-Powerverse—————> Power Rangers Biotec Busters

‘Deed I Do

P A R T 1/3

After traversing the halls, John jiggling every ornate knob that hung proudly from heavy doors and ducking his head in before bouncing back out and leading you onward from one seemingly unsatisfactory room to the next, you were transported back in time. If it weren’t for the alcohol warming your face and belly, you’d feel like a young girl again, following John wherever he led, looking for mischief and enticing you with an irresistible smile long before he’d actually grown into it. Back when his teeth were too big and his knees were uncovered and playtime was still a requirement, not simply John’s subtle rebellion now that he was grown.

Just as you started to tease him about being lost in his own home, John found what he was looking for and pushed in the hidden door to his father’s barely used study. The walls were lined with books, including the door through which you’d crept, and the bar was loaded with untouched bottles of every vice you could imagine and some you couldn’t. There was a shiny silver record player tucked in the corner and you wondered why such a device didn’t have a more prominent place in the home. John moved toward it effortlessly, dropping your hand and gesturing toward the concealed bar at the same time, while he fiddled with the needle and pulled black discs from their yellowish paper sleeves to inspect them. He took his time as the words were obscured both by the comfortable darkness of the room which he’d made no moves to enlighten and his own inebriation. While you were crouched before the false door at the front of the mahogany desk, plucking another bottle to share from the secret cache, John had selected a tune for you two and it filled the enclosed space with raptious cacophony of brass and strings.

You stood quickly, too quickly, evidenced by the clear drops on the elder Whittaker’s desk from your attempts to pour two glasses. Once satisfied with your impaired barkeeping skills, you straightened and tugged at your blouse proudly. You turned to find your companion and immediately John’s hands were on yours again, ignoring the drinks you’d prepared in favor of swinging you around the room like he had before. His feet were surprisingly light, quick, and his apparent enjoyment contributed entirely to the fun you were having. Emboldened and liberated by the privacy, your laughter was almost as loud as the song, only matched by John’s own barking chuckle as you twirled and swayed and miraculously managed to keep from injuring each other with the frantic movements.

“I am amazed that you haven’t tired of me yet,” he smiled as he spun you out by one hand before yanking you back against his chest.

“Oh, John,” you said breathlessly as your bodies collided. “I love you and you know it!”

John laughed louder. “While the sentiment is returned, dear, in the interest of friendship, I must advise against it.” He spun you outward again, letting go our your hand to spin around himself. I am dreadful at love!”

You opened your mouth in protest, but John beat you to it.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a divorcee,” he said clumsily emphasizing each syllable. His arms extended in the air as he spun on his heels, enjoying his drunken state almost as much as you were.

“Oh that’s old news, John,” you waved a hand carelessly in his direction. “I was surprised at the letter I received, sure that my mother would have run barefoot across the country just to inform me that she was right about you.” John shrugged in acceptance as he grabbed the bottle you produced and took a long drink. “But you have-” you started, but stopped at the sound of John’s lips popping loudly as his pulled them away from the wet rim of the bottle with force.

“-AND!” he interrupted as if his addition were a source of great pride, waving a finger high over his head in order to steal your attention. It worked, leaving you unsure what to look at, his strangely excited face or the emphatic flapping of his hand above him. “My most recent engagement has met an untimely and rather inconvenient end...” he said, lowering his voice to a ridiculous octave at the end of his sentence, eyes rolling back dramatically for effect. “Or so my mother tells me.”

“Oh John....Sarah?” You sighed sympathetically and reached for his hand. He passed you the bottle instead, moving toward the small array of furniture in the middle of the room, while you followed. You took a sip and settled into a high back chair, removing the tapestry pillow with the dogs woven in and held it comfortably in front of you.

John fell haplessly to the settee, allowing his shined brogues to float up to the overstuffed arm, rolled tighter than the cigarette that threatened to tumble from betwixt his straight white teeth.

“So you hadn’t heard.” He mumbled barely keeping control of the thin white cylinder as it wagged with his words. Only after his statement, certainly not a question, could John’s Lips halt their movement long enough for the tapered end to catch the flame he offered. John snapped the metal top of the lighter with gusto, locking eyes with you as he released that first puff with satisfaction.

“I’m so sorry,” you offered genuinely.

“I’m not,” he laughed. That laugh that made the skin around his nose crinkle in delight, but also had just enough force to make one question it’s sincerity. It had been some years, but you knew the laugh well and after the night you’d spent tossing rounded pebbles through the broken window of the Brixton family’s potting shed, shattering glass and juvenile expectations held for each other, you could vouch for its authenticity.

“Can you mean it, John?”

“I certainly can,” he smiled, exaggerating each word as he peeled his lanky body from the cushions. You held out your hand to him as he made his way across the room. He grinned and shook his head, but immediately pulled the cigarette from his lips, pursing them to blow smoke out the corner of his mouth, narrowly avoiding your face as he passed you by. Your fingers touched as the cigarette traded hands with practiced ease. “You always were a grubber,” he chuckled, tucking a long finger under your chin so his dark eyes could peruse your features from up close. You let him, the drink not entirely out of your system and the warmth of his hand not unwelcome in the chilled air, smiling as you brought his cigarette to your painted lips. His eyes lingered on your concave cheeks, sucking in the blend you remembered as his favorite, before he turned away, continuing his walk toward an open glass door that led to a small balcony overlooking the greenhouse.

“A trade then?” You offered teasingly. John stopped in his tracks, the heel of one shoe planted but the winged tip waggled in the air as he considered the offer. The dreamy look in his eye and the rising smile told you that he too was lost in memory, recounting a game from your youth. So many afternoon suns sunk, so many corners of both estates, so many greenhouse windows had collected the hushed sounds of childhood bartering that grew more valuable and reckless in adolescence. Mother of pearl buttons for silver coins. An antique ivory cameo on black ribbon for a pilfered pocket watch engraved with a stranger’s monogram. Little trinkets traded hands carelessly until you both matured beyond gifts, but not the game that connected you. John invoked a trade when your equestrian skills surpassed his. He knew that his father’s old motorcycle had caught your eye and later that week you both found yourself with the wind in your hair, beasts of very different breeds between your knees. Just after learning that your mother was planning to “introduce” you casually to a young man whose family came from good stock and old money and was all of the things she expected you to desire in a husband, but your fifteen-year-old mind had only one desire.

“A trade, John!” Your voice was high and pleading as the lanky boy from over the hill walked away from you. “I’m begging you. As a friend!”

John spun on his heel then, some unrecognizable in his eyes as he stalked back toward you. A bitter young boy had transformed into a man on a mission before your eyes. “As a friend then,” he sneered.

You would have gasped, but John Whittaker’s lips pressed against yours stole breath and logic and time, each grasping hopelessly at the hand of its compatriots as they tumbled from your mind.

The kiss, magical as it was, ended far too quickly.

“There,” he sighed, running a thumb over your wrist, more than likely feeling the inhuman pulse against his fingertips. “That cad gets nothing from you then. You got your first kiss.”

“It’s a trade, John,” you reminded him, unsure what you could possible offer in return for such a delight. “What will you take in return?”

“Mine,” he answered honestly. Your eyes widened as his dark ones darted away, seeking the comfortable visage of the grass between you instead. Without warning he leaned up again, snatching another kiss, quick, your second, his too, before releasing your hands and turning away again.

“A trade?” His lips curled around the question in amused curiosity, though it seemed whatever was going on in the world around him, John was able to find something with which to amuse himself. “Offer your best.”

You popped his cigarette back between your lips, holding it carefully between your teeth to free up your hands. With one, you slid your glass of gin across the Victorian side table next to you. Holding it in front of your eyes, for dramatic effect and to focus your hazy vision on the project, you spun the crystal gently. Finally the offending mark revealed itself after several passes and you dragged your thumb over the faint red mark to clear it for him. John chuckled and took the glass before you were finished, pulling it up until his bottom lip rested directly over the spot you’d tried to wipe clean. After draining the tumbler and snapping his teeth in satisfaction, John’s lips pouted out for your observation.

“How do I look?” he mumbled through overly pursed lips that were now the faintest shade of your rouge.

“You’re beautiful and you know it, John,” you teased.

“I do know it,” he nodded, straightening his shoulders as he did. John continued on his previous, but momentarily interrupted, path to the glass balcony doors, propping one open with his foot as he swiped a thumb across his bottom lip, successfully removing the tint. “Though it was hardly a fair trade,” he leaned back against the door, opening the room even more and letting the breeze ruffle his wide and pleated pant legs. “You gave me my own glass,” he smirked as your eyes flew to the side table. Only then did you notice another glass, one much closer to your chair than the one you’d handed him. “ You’ve been drinking out of mine,” he chuckled, turning to look out over the glass peaks to take in the vast estate grounds that rolled out beneath you and well beyond. His heritage and his legacy, past and future found common footing in the acreage and had become an intimidatingly green reminder of who he was meant to be from now on.

“Your generosity is always appreciated,” you sighed, twirling your fingers carefully to let a cluster of hot ashes fall into a Waterford dish that was never meant to hold waste, but seemed as good as any ashtray in the moment. You stood from your spot and joined John at the door, welcoming the fresh country air and his closeness again.

“And reserved only for you, my darling, tell no one of the philanthropist before you,” he smirked, leaning back against the doorframe and rolling his head to face you, accepting the cigarette you extended to him. He eyed the bright red ring against the otherwise clean white paper, a perfect imprint of your lips, before pulling the stained end to his own lips, taking another slow drag and blowing it back out into the night air.

Drunk and tired, the two of you eventually found your backs flat against the expensive rug of his father’s study. The air was filled with static as John had grumbled while he stood to flip the record in the shiny silver box the last two times the music ceased before finally giving up and letting the needle graze the empty rings of the black disc while scratches and pops filled the room and gave you the perfect soundtrack for deep thoughts. You scrutinized the ceiling, noticing the yellowing along the edges and the thin lines carved into the plaster where you and John had lodged your brother’s throwing knives as teenagers. Such a long time ago it seemed, since the two of you could get up to mischief freely. The world changed with the Great War. It seemed the world had scrubbed it hands until the stains of red and black, of dirt and mud, were distant memories like the faces of the wounded and dead. The rest were left to reinvent their lives as if nothing had occurred.

“I don’t believe you’ve told me,” Johns voice interrupted your thoughts and in an instant you were drawn back to the Turkish rug. Your fingers mindlessly drumming against the floor while John fiddled with a loose thread that had been previously hidden in the pleat of your skirt. Drawing your middle finger and your thumb together, you reached down and flicked the nail against John’s wrist bone. Caught unaware of his actions, Johns hand pulled away dutifully but only for a hairs length of time before he was back, wrapping the thread around the knuckle of his fore finger and delivering a sharp tug until it snapped. Your face fell in mock annoyance and John responded as only he would, dangling the thread in front of his lips and blowing it directly into your face.

“You’re a child,” you giggled, batting at your nose trying to remove the thread and failing to do so.

“No, darling,” John corrected, propping himself up on one elbow next to you and leaning over to offer his assistance. “I’ve been assured that I am too grown to be a child,” he grinned, but the corners of his eyes did not cinch in the endearing way you often observed. With surprisingly delicate fingers, John stilled your hand and pulled the thread from the crease of your nostril and presented it to you, the same way he’d let it dangle in front of his own lips. You shot him a tightly drawn smile, a willing participant in his games but not without your own teasing reproach, and blew the thread from between his fingers and it floated into oblivion. It’s final resting place was unknown to you as Johns dark eyes held your own as a captive audience. “So tell me,” he urged with surprising sobriety. “Why are you here and not with your own husband?”

Your loud groan would have been berated by anyone else, but John Whittaker had a unique gift. He saw you, oldest of your family’s name, with expectations so heavy they would ruin your posture if you should shoulder but half, yet he never held you accountable when chose to ignore that particular detail of your existence.

If your arms weren’t so heavy with inebriation, you’d be grasping for the now empty bottle once more. Tracing the inside of the glass with your tongue, chasing the final drops of oblivion sounded preferable to speaking on a topic that had been talked to death in your family over the last months. You weren’t at all surprised that John was unaware or that he’d ask if he was, so your head lolled to the side, ruffling the back of your once delicate updo. The strands had fallen loose by John’s fingers only minutes earlier. The grown child had been dancing recklessly, twirling you around the room with no regard for your heart or the way his spinning and smiling was sending you reeling like the song that poured from the broad brass mouth of the phonograph. He always preferred your hair down and never missed an opportunity to remind you, ignoring decorum as was expected of him.

Your name never sounded better than when it was slipping from the full lips of your pal Johnny. With a sigh and a smile, you reached out to touch his face, somehow the same one you’d held in your childish gaze yet maturing, the weight of his dramatic year tugging the corners of his eyes down in fatigue.

“He is free to be someone else’s husband,” you stated simply with a swipe of your thumb just under his eye. “Or wife...” you scoffed, releasing John’s warm cheek. “Whatever he prefers.” John’s eyebrows shot up at the same time his mouth dropped open with a slight uptick in the corners, in what appeared to be curiosity bordering on morbid excitement over your own failed marriage. “Stop that,” you laughed, gentle caresses gone as you smeared your hand across his face. He attempted to pull away, but like a potter with stubborn clay, your hand extended further cupping his forehead to push the skin of his brows back into some semblance of concern. Unable to fix the smirk on John’s face, you sighed and continued with your story, one your mother had implored you to keep private. She’d also imploded you not to do anything rash, which your recent divorce and return to the family estate were both considered.

Sparing no detail, you recounted to John the woes of a loveless, touch-less marriage to the man hand chosen by your mother to take you away from the countryside you loved. He hung on every word, face vacillating between excitement over the gossip he knew no one else would receive and genuine pity. Right up until you shared the final detail.

“The footman??” John shot straight up from his resting place where his head was cradled carelessly across your lap and out of the reach of your storytelling gestures. He spun, torso twisting to look back you and your confirming nod. “In your bed??”

You rolled your eyes and joined him in a seated position, crossing your legs and tugging your skirt hem down over your knees. “His bed,” you corrected. “I’d taken to sleeping in a spare room, but jewelry of all things brought me back to his suite and...” you gestured vaguely, letting your lips flap under the force of an emotionally exhausted exhale. It all sounded so ridiculous out loud. It was ridiculous in your head too. Marrying young, being carted away to a new home, where you were promptly forgotten and apparently replaced by someone more suited to your husband’s desires.

John’s laughter was inappropriate given the nature of the conversation, but as always it was the only balm for a restless mind or a clenching heart. “So, is it fair to assume that you two never...consummated...your relationship?” You hated the way the word fell from his lips. Of course he would ask such an indecent question.

“We tried,” you shrugged, hoping your honesty would discourage further questioning.

John’s laugh was proof that your plan had backfired. “What do you mean you tried???” A beaming face, unable to contain excitement or curiosity, and loud guffaws inspired your own giggling, no matter how inappropriate.

“Will you stop laughing!” You chided as your stomach started to ache. Talking of a failed marriage shouldn’t ever be such fun and yet it had been the truth of more than a decade that John Whittaker managed to bring tears to your eyes in the best ways no matter what topic you two stumbled upon.

“You were married for three years!” He shouted.

“Only nearly!” You corrected him.

“But how on Earth did you manage?”

“I lived quite comfortably without anything between my legs since birth and have faired just fine, thank you,” you shot back, tone dripping with vitriol.

“That’s because-“ he started, but you quickly jumped in.

“Because what, John? I’ve not been to your bed?”

“I-“ he stumbled and coughed. “Yes, actually,” he said, chest puffed out. “If you’re worried about remaining a virgin at your advanced age, I’d be happy to take that off your hands.”

Your fist flew of its own free will, colliding with John’s shoulder just before he caught your wrist. You were laughing and expected the same of him, but upon seeing John’s face your laughter died on your tongue. His expression had suddenly turned so serious.

“I’m glad that cad got nothing from you,” he said, voice low and surprisingly sober. “He wouldn’t give you what you deserve.”

You swallowed, certain it would be audible. Stupidity and bravery battled for your response and as the words fell from your lips, it proved to be a tie.

“And what do I deserve, John?”

“You deserve to be ravaged,” he said in a low voice, his smirk turning almost sinister right before your eyes. But it was still so undeniably John’s. Like a child with a wicked secret, his smile grew wider as he leaned in close. “You need a man who desires you, all of you,” you hadn’t even noticed how close John’s face had come until his lips hovered next to your nose, dark eyes fixed on yours as you leaned back, afraid that the most innocent touch would set the room ablaze. The air was already so thick and warm, sharp contrast to the chill that had shrouded the room upon your entry. John’s intimidating stare, the alcohol, and gravity all worked against you until your back was hitting the plush rug beneath you. John’s hands had found their place next to your head, one still wrapped around your wrist and pinning it to the floor, his legs were pulled up and his knees rested just next to your left hip. His body stretched out across yours, not touching, just hovering and holding you, his willingly entranced captive, against the floor. “You need to be devoured,” he said, slowly lowering himself. Your eyes closed, out of fear or anticipation you weren’t sure, and fluttered open at the feeling of John’s soft lips against your forehead. Before he spoke, he pushed up against the floor and rose slightly. “You need to be shown how good it can be,” his lips fell again, just below your eye and next to your nose. “You need to be loved well.”

“I thought you were dreadful at love, John,” you said without thinking. Instantly his face pulled away and you were kicking yourself for not knowing when to shut up. It clearly wasn’t the time for teasing, but John rolled away, flopping onto the floor next to you with a huff.

“I am, dear,” he sighed, chuckling slightly. “But the other bits, I am very good at.”

“You think rather highly of yourself, don’t you, John?” You laughed, feeling the tension in the air start to evaporate and the usual playful conversation returning as easily as it had slipped away.

“You think rather highly of me too, darling,” he teased and you rolled your eyes. He was right of course. And he knew it of course.

“Well, we should fix that,” you announced, adjusting yourself until you were comfortable against the floor and turning your head to look at his smiling face. “Shall we talk about what ended your marriage next, hmm?”

“Infidelity,” John sneered as best he could. His upper lip twitched, revealing bared teeth as every consonant hit the roof of his mouth in a harsh staccato. But you knew better. There wasn’t a cruel bone in John Whittaker’s body and he could spoil his face with as many foul expressions as he pleased, you knew that he’d be smiling, or at least smirking, in no time at all. It was his natural state of being, even when he shouldn’t. Especially when he shouldn’t.

“You can’t blame Larita,” Johns jaw fell open and his brow furrowed, comically, but prepared to argue. “You can’t blame your father either.”

“I most certainly can-“ he started, gesturing wildly with one arm, while lifting his neck, head, and shoulders off the ground slightly

“You can only blame yourself, John.”

He laid back down and turned his head to you, a grave look on his face. “Did everyone know that my marriage would fail?”

You couldn’t bare to see pain in his eyes, already so dark and so full of everything. “Yes,” you said honestly. Relief flooded you as John shook his head smiling, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours.

“And you didn’t think to tell me...” he clicked his tongue in feigned disappointment.

“I did tell you!” You pulled back, only briefly regretting the space you created. “Everyone told you!”

“So they did,” John admitted, rolling to his back and tucking one arm behind his head. The shimmying of his shoulders pulled his body closer to yours as he tried to get comfortable against the Byzantine rug. “Perhaps I should have listened and married-“ he paused and closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose. While he held the breath, chest puffed and risen, you took the opportunity to ask.

“What really happened with Sarah? She doesn’t strike me as someone who would be unfaithful.”

John exhaled with resignation. “I’m told It was I who was unfaithful.” You leaned back, to get a better look at him, but also to create more space between you two. It wasn’t you he’d been unfaithful to, yet you took deep pains in his admission. Sensing your withdrawal, John turned his head to face you again, letting his free hand drop from its place on his chest to yours, gripping your fingers as if to reassure you. “Not with other women,” he clarified. “Or men,” he added, rolling his eyes at your furrowed brow. “She wanted something I couldn’t give her....just like Larita, I suppose,” he chuckled. “Don’t tell her I said that. She is no longer my fiancée, but if she learned I compared her to the American....” he shook his head. “I’d have even less to offer a wife, if you know what I mean.”

You covered your face, embarrassed for him. “How can you joke like this? You’re a man in ruin,” you teased.

“Only financially,” he smirked, but you uncovered one eye to glare at him. “And relationally,” he shrugged. “It would appear as if I am far too boring for some women and far too restless for those that are left.”

“So what of those in the middle, dear?”

“Is there such a woman?” He sighed dramatically. Yes. “I should marry her before her wits return from holiday.” John rolled his head back to look at the ceiling. “I should marry you.”

“Ha!” You laughed loudly into the night. “Can you imagine? Two divorces-“

“And a half,” he added with another of his boyish winks.

“Two and a half divorces,” you began your tirade again, “two failing estates. I can see the look on Veronica’s face now, when he she receives word that I am to be her next daughter. John, she’d slip into death willingly, simply to haunt the Whittaker house for the rest of our life.”

“It does sound fun when you put it like that...alright, I accept,” John laughed and you swatted his arm. “What’s next? A date perhaps? June is a lovely month for weddings.”

“Well of course, my love, pick a day any day!” You laughed, pushing yourself onto your elbows, then rolling to your hands and knees, trying to rise to a standing position, miraculously without falling over.

“The first!” He shouted jovially from his place on the floor. “I won’t wait any longer than I absolutely must!”

“June the first,” you muttered, opening and closing the ornate, but squeaky drawers of James Whittaker’s barely used mahogany desk. “Ah ha!” You declared victory, producing a sheet of thick paper and an ink pen. “John Whittaker and-“

“What are you doing, my dear,” John rolled to his front, watching you with his chin propped in his hands as you bit your tongue and wrote out the details in your best hand. “Come back to bed,” he flopped onto his back once more, arms spread wide to welcome you.

“You are not in bed, John,” you reminded him, still completely focused on your task.

“Then come back to the floor,” he whined, rolling to his stomach again and pushing himself up when he realized you wouldn’t accept his invitation, no matter how tempting. “What is this?” You felt his breath against the shell of your ear and his chest against your shoulder blades. His leaning against you only served to remind you how intoxicated he still was and your willingness to let him reflected your own state. There was mumbling in your ear as he read over your shoulder, one hand slipping around your waist until it rested upon your stomach. After aggressively crossing your final T, you placed the pen down hard against the desk blotter. John quickly snatched the paper from the desk and tightened his grip on your middle as he held the paper up to read.

Squinting as he ignored the beating you rained down on his chest, John smiled broadly. “I love it. First thing tomorrow, we’ll send it to everyone we know.” He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, no more intimate than any other kiss you’d shared with him, because the invitation he held in his hand, the one that bore your names in your best script, was for your blurry and tired eyes only.

For one night, you could indulge your gin soaked fantasy and pretend that your wrecked lives were about to face much happier days. That soon and very soon, John would announce a marriage that would stick. That you’d soon be the next Mrs. John Whittaker and your stint as Mrs. Henry Crane would be nothing more than a distant memory. You two settled back against the floor, though it felt more like falling, giggling as if the words were true with no fear of the future. For in the morning, your jokes would be long forgotten, the invitation discarded, and in a couple of days you would be returning home.

@something-tofightfor @the-blind-assassin-12 @strugglingsemicolon @littlemermaidprobz @suchatinyinfinity @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @breanime @disengagefrmreality

‘Deed I Do ( p a r t   o n e )

John Whittaker x Reader, 5k words

The Rest of the Story

Summary: A late night with your dear friend, John Whittaker, is equal parts fun and enlightening...though maybe some things are better kept in the dark.

After traversing the halls, John jiggling every ornate knob that hung proudly from heavy doors and ducking his head in before bouncing back out and leading you onward from one seemingly unsatisfactory room to the next, you were transported back in time. If it weren’t for the alcohol warming your face and belly, you’d feel like a young girl again, following John wherever he led, looking for mischief and enticing you with an irresistible smile long before he’d actually grown into it. Back when his teeth were too big and his knees were uncovered and playtime was still a requirement, not simply John’s subtle rebellion now that he was grown.

Just as you started to tease him about being lost in his own home, John found what he was looking for and pushed in the hidden door to his father’s barely used study. The walls were lined with books, including the door through which you’d crept, and the bar was loaded with untouched bottles of every vice you could imagine and some you couldn’t. There was a shiny silver record player tucked in the corner and you wondered why such a device didn’t have a more prominent place in the home. John moved toward it effortlessly, dropping your hand and gesturing toward the concealed bar at the same time, while he fiddled with the needle and pulled black discs from their yellowish paper sleeves to inspect them. He took his time as the words were obscured both by the comfortable darkness of the room which he’d made no moves to enlighten and his own inebriation. While you were crouched before the false door at the front of the mahogany desk, plucking another bottle to share from the secret cache, John had selected a tune for you two and it filled the enclosed space with raptious cacophony of brass and strings.

You stood quickly, too quickly, evidenced by the clear drops on the elder Whittaker’s desk from your attempts to pour two glasses. Once satisfied with your impaired barkeeping skills, you straightened and tugged at your blouse proudly. You turned to find your companion and immediately John’s hands were on yours again, ignoring the drinks you’d prepared in favor of swinging you around the room like he had before. His feet were surprisingly light, quick, and his apparent enjoyment contributed entirely to the fun you were having. Emboldened and liberated by the privacy, your laughter was almost as loud as the song, only matched by John’s own barking chuckle as you twirled and swayed and miraculously managed to keep from injuring each other with the frantic movements.

“I am amazed that you haven’t tired of me yet,” he smiled as he spun you out by one hand before yanking you back against his chest.

“Oh, John,” you said breathlessly as your bodies collided. “I love you and you know it!”

John laughed louder. “While the sentiment is returned, dear, in the interest of friendship, I must advise against it.” He spun you outward again, letting go our your hand to spin around himself. I am dreadful at love!”

You opened your mouth in protest, but John beat you to it.

“Haven’t you heard? I’m a divorcee,” he said clumsily emphasizing each syllable. His arms extended in the air as he spun on his heels, enjoying his drunken state almost as much as you were.

“Oh that’s old news, John,” you waved a hand carelessly in his direction. “I was surprised at the letter I received, sure that my mother would have run barefoot across the country just to inform me that she was right about you.” John shrugged in acceptance as he grabbed the bottle you produced and took a long drink. “But you have-” you started, but stopped at the sound of John’s lips popping loudly as his pulled them away from the wet rim of the bottle with force.

“-AND!” he interrupted as if his addition were a source of great pride, waving a finger high over his head in order to steal your attention. It worked, leaving you unsure what to look at, his strangely excited face or the emphatic flapping of his hand above him. “My most recent engagement has met an untimely and rather inconvenient end…” he said, lowering his voice to a ridiculous octave at the end of his sentence, eyes rolling back dramatically for effect. “Or so my mother tells me.”

“Oh John….Sarah?” You sighed sympathetically and reached for his hand. He passed you the bottle instead, moving toward the small array of furniture in the middle of the room, while you followed. You took a sip and settled into a high back chair, removing the tapestry pillow with the dogs woven in and held it comfortably in front of you.

John fell haplessly to the settee, allowing his shined brogues to float up to the overstuffed arm, rolled tighter than the cigarette that threatened to tumble from betwixt his straight white teeth.

“So you hadn’t heard.” He mumbled barely keeping control of the thin white cylinder as it wagged with his words. Only after his statement, certainly not a question, could John’s Lips halt their movement long enough for the tapered end to catch the flame he offered. John snapped the metal top of the lighter with gusto, locking eyes with you as he released that first puff with satisfaction.

“I’m so sorry,” you offered genuinely.

“I’m not,” he laughed. That laugh that made the skin around his nose crinkle in delight, but also had just enough force to make one question it’s sincerity. It had been some years, but you knew the laugh well and after the night you’d spent tossing rounded pebbles through the broken window of the Brixton family’s potting shed, shattering glass and juvenile expectations held for each other, you could vouch for its authenticity.

“Can you mean it, John?”

“I certainly can,” he smiled, exaggerating each word as he peeled his lanky body from the cushions. You held out your hand to him as he made his way across the room. He grinned and shook his head, but immediately pulled the cigarette from his lips, pursing them to blow smoke out the corner of his mouth, narrowly avoiding your face as he passed you by. Your fingers touched as the cigarette traded hands with practiced ease. “You always were a grubber,” he chuckled, tucking a long finger under your chin so his dark eyes could peruse your features from up close. You let him, the drink not entirely out of your system and the warmth of his hand not unwelcome in the chilled air, smiling as you brought his cigarette to your painted lips. His eyes lingered on your concave cheeks, sucking in the blend you remembered as his favorite, before he turned away, continuing his walk toward an open glass door that led to a small balcony overlooking the greenhouse.

“A trade then?” You offered teasingly. John stopped in his tracks, the heel of one shoe planted but the winged tip waggled in the air as he considered the offer. The dreamy look in his eye and the rising smile told you that he too was lost in memory, recounting a game from your youth. So many afternoon suns sunk, so many corners of both estates, so many greenhouse windows had collected the hushed sounds of childhood bartering that grew more valuable and reckless in adolescence. Mother of pearl buttons for silver coins. An antique ivory cameo on black ribbon for a pilfered pocket watch engraved with a stranger’s monogram. Little trinkets traded hands carelessly until you both matured beyond gifts, but not the game that connected you. John invoked a trade when your equestrian skills surpassed his. He knew that his father’s old motorcycle had caught your eye and later that week you both found yourself with the wind in your hair, beasts of very different breeds between your knees. Just after learning that your mother was planning to “introduce” you casually to a young man whose family came from good stock and old money and was all of the things she expected you to desire in a husband, but your fifteen-year-old mind had only one desire.

“A trade, John!” Your voice was high and pleading as the lanky boy from over the hill walked away from you. “I’m begging you. As a friend!”

John spun on his heel then, some unrecognizable in his eyes as he stalked back toward you. A bitter young boy had transformed into a man on a mission before your eyes. “As a friend then,” he sneered.

You would have gasped, but John Whittaker’s lips pressed against yours stole breath and logic and time, each grasping hopelessly at the hand of its compatriots as they tumbled from your mind.

The kiss, magical as it was, ended far too quickly.

“There,” he sighed, running a thumb over your wrist, more than likely feeling the inhuman pulse against his fingertips. “That cad gets nothing from you then. You got your first kiss.”

“It’s a trade, John,” you reminded him, unsure what you could possible offer in return for such a delight. “What will you take in return?”

“Mine,” he answered honestly. Your eyes widened as his dark ones darted away, seeking the comfortable visage of the grass between you instead. Without warning he leaned up again, snatching another kiss, quick, your second, his too, before releasing your hands and turning away again.

“A trade?” His lips curled around the question in amused curiosity, though it seemed whatever was going on in the world around him, John was able to find something with which to amuse himself. “Offer your best.”

You popped his cigarette back between your lips, holding it carefully between your teeth to free up your hands. With one, you slid your glass of gin across the Victorian side table next to you. Holding it in front of your eyes, for dramatic effect and to focus your hazy vision on the project, you spun the crystal gently. Finally the offending mark revealed itself after several passes and you dragged your thumb over the faint red mark to clear it for him. John chuckled and took the glass before you were finished, pulling it up until his bottom lip rested directly over the spot you’d tried to wipe clean. After draining the tumbler and snapping his teeth in satisfaction, John’s lips pouted out for your observation.

“How do I look?” he mumbled through overly pursed lips that were now the faintest shade of your rouge.

“You’re beautiful and you know it, John,” you teased.

“I do know it,” he nodded, straightening his shoulders as he did. John continued on his previous, but momentarily interrupted, path to the glass balcony doors, propping one open with his foot as he swiped a thumb across his bottom lip, successfully removing the tint. “Though it was hardly a fair trade,” he leaned back against the door, opening the room even more and letting the breeze ruffle his wide and pleated pant legs. “You gave me my own glass,” he smirked as your eyes flew to the side table. Only then did you notice another glass, one much closer to your chair than the one you’d handed him. “ You’ve been drinking out of mine,” he chuckled, turning to look out over the glass peaks to take in the vast estate grounds that rolled out beneath you and well beyond. His heritage and his legacy, past and future found common footing in the acreage and had become an intimidatingly green reminder of who he was meant to be from now on.

“Your generosity is always appreciated,” you sighed, twirling your fingers carefully to let a cluster of hot ashes fall into a Waterford dish that was never meant to hold waste, but seemed as good as any ashtray in the moment. You stood from your spot and joined John at the door, welcoming the fresh country air and his closeness again.

“And reserved only for you, my darling, tell no one of the philanthropist before you,” he smirked, leaning back against the doorframe and rolling his head to face you, accepting the cigarette you extended to him. He eyed the bright red ring against the otherwise clean white paper, a perfect imprint of your lips, before pulling the stained end to his own lips, taking another slow drag and blowing it back out into the night air.

Drunk and tired, the two of you eventually found your backs flat against the expensive rug of his father’s study. The air was filled with static as John had grumbled while he stood to flip the record in the shiny silver box the last two times the music ceased before finally giving up and letting the needle graze the empty rings of the black disc while scratches and pops filled the room and gave you the perfect soundtrack for deep thoughts. You scrutinized the ceiling, noticing the yellowing along the edges and the thin lines carved into the plaster where you and John had lodged your brother’s throwing knives as teenagers. Such a long time ago it seemed, since the two of you could get up to mischief freely. The world changed with the Great War. It seemed the world had scrubbed it hands until the stains of red and black, of dirt and mud, were distant memories like the faces of the wounded and dead. The rest were left to reinvent their lives as if nothing had occurred.

“I don’t believe you’ve told me,” Johns voice interrupted your thoughts and in an instant you were drawn back to the Turkish rug. Your fingers mindlessly drumming against the floor while John fiddled with a loose thread that had been previously hidden in the pleat of your skirt. Drawing your middle finger and your thumb together, you reached down and flicked the nail against John’s wrist bone. Caught unaware of his actions, Johns hand pulled away dutifully but only for a hairs length of time before he was back, wrapping the thread around the knuckle of his fore finger and delivering a sharp tug until it snapped. Your face fell in mock annoyance and John responded as only he would, dangling the thread in front of his lips and blowing it directly into your face.

“You’re a child,” you giggled, batting at your nose trying to remove the thread and failing to do so.

“No, darling,” John corrected, propping himself up on one elbow next to you and leaning over to offer his assistance. “I’ve been assured that I am too grown to be a child,” he grinned, but the corners of his eyes did not cinch in the endearing way you often observed. With surprisingly delicate fingers, John stilled your hand and pulled the thread from the crease of your nostril and presented it to you, the same way he’d let it dangle in front of his own lips. You shot him a tightly drawn smile, a willing participant in his games but not without your own teasing reproach, and blew the thread from between his fingers and it floated into oblivion. It’s final resting place was unknown to you as Johns dark eyes held your own as a captive audience. “So tell me,” he urged with surprising sobriety. “Why are you here and not with your own husband?”

Your loud groan would have been berated by anyone else, but John Whittaker had a unique gift. He saw you, oldest of your family’s name, with expectations so heavy they would ruin your posture if you should shoulder but half, yet he never held you accountable when chose to ignore that particular detail of your existence.

If your arms weren’t so heavy with inebriation, you’d be grasping for the now empty bottle once more. Tracing the inside of the glass with your tongue, chasing the final drops of oblivion sounded preferable to speaking on a topic that had been talked to death in your family over the last months. You weren’t at all surprised that John was unaware or that he’d ask if he was, so your head lolled to the side, ruffling the back of your once delicate updo. The strands had fallen loose by John’s fingers only minutes earlier. The grown child had been dancing recklessly, twirling you around the room with no regard for your heart or the way his spinning and smiling was sending you reeling like the song that poured from the broad brass mouth of the phonograph. He always preferred your hair down and never missed an opportunity to remind you, ignoring decorum as was expected of him.

Your name never sounded better than when it was slipping from the full lips of your pal Johnny. With a sigh and a smile, you reached out to touch his face, somehow the same one you’d held in your childish gaze yet maturing, the weight of his dramatic year tugging the corners of his eyes down in fatigue.

“He is free to be someone else’s husband,” you stated simply with a swipe of your thumb just under his eye. “Or wife…” you scoffed, releasing John’s warm cheek. “Whatever he prefers.” John’s eyebrows shot up at the same time his mouth dropped open with a slight uptick in the corners, in what appeared to be curiosity bordering on morbid excitement over your own failed marriage. “Stop that,” you laughed, gentle caresses gone as you smeared your hand across his face. He attempted to pull away, but like a potter with stubborn clay, your hand extended further cupping his forehead to push the skin of his brows back into some semblance of concern. Unable to fix the smirk on John’s face, you sighed and continued with your story, one your mother had implored you to keep private. She’d also imploded you not to do anything rash, which your recent divorce and return to the family estate were both considered.

Sparing no detail, you recounted to John the woes of a loveless, touch-less marriage to the man hand chosen by your mother to take you away from the countryside you loved. He hung on every word, face vacillating between excitement over the gossip he knew no one else would receive and genuine pity. Right up until you shared the final detail.

“The footman??” John shot straight up from his resting place where his head was cradled carelessly across your lap and out of the reach of your storytelling gestures. He spun, torso twisting to look back you and your confirming nod. “In your bed??”

You rolled your eyes and joined him in a seated position, crossing your legs and tugging your skirt hem down over your knees. “His bed,” you corrected. “I’d taken to sleeping in a spare room, but jewelry of all things brought me back to his suite and…” you gestured vaguely, letting your lips flap under the force of an emotionally exhausted exhale. It all sounded so ridiculous out loud. It was ridiculous in your head too. Marrying young, being carted away to a new home, where you were promptly forgotten and apparently replaced by someone more suited to your husband’s desires.

John’s laughter was inappropriate given the nature of the conversation, but as always it was the only balm for a restless mind or a clenching heart. “So, is it fair to assume that you two never…consummated…your relationship?” You hated the way the word fell from his lips. Of course he would ask such an indecent question.

“We tried,” you shrugged, hoping your honesty would discourage further questioning.

John’s laugh was proof that your plan had backfired. “What do you mean you tried???” A beaming face, unable to contain excitement or curiosity, and loud guffaws inspired your own giggling, no matter how inappropriate.

“Will you stop laughing!” You chided as your stomach started to ache. Talking of a failed marriage shouldn’t ever be such fun and yet it had been the truth of more than a decade that John Whittaker managed to bring tears to your eyes in the best ways no matter what topic you two stumbled upon.

“You were married for three years!” He shouted.

“Only nearly!” You corrected him.

“But how on Earth did you manage?”

“I lived quite comfortably without anything between my legs since birth and have faired just fine, thank you,” you shot back, tone dripping with vitriol.

“That’s because-“ he started, but you quickly jumped in.

“Because what, John? I’ve not been to your bed?”

“I-“ he stumbled and coughed. “Yes, actually,” he said, chest puffed out. “If you’re worried about remaining a virgin at your advanced age, I’d be happy to take that off your hands.”

Your fist flew of its own free will, colliding with John’s shoulder just before he caught your wrist. You were laughing and expected the same of him, but upon seeing John’s face your laughter died on your tongue. His expression had suddenly turned so serious.

“I’m glad that cad got nothing from you,” he said, voice low and surprisingly sober. “He wouldn’t give you what you deserve.”

You swallowed, certain it would be audible. Stupidity and bravery battled for your response and as the words fell from your lips, it proved to be a tie.

“And what do I deserve, John?”

“You deserve to be ravaged,” he said in a low voice, his smirk turning almost sinister right before your eyes. But it was still so undeniably John’s. Like a child with a wicked secret, his smile grew wider as he leaned in close. “You need a man who desires you, all of you,” you hadn’t even noticed how close John’s face had come until his lips hovered next to your nose, dark eyes fixed on yours as you leaned back, afraid that the most innocent touch would set the room ablaze. The air was already so thick and warm, sharp contrast to the chill that had shrouded the room upon your entry. John’s intimidating stare, the alcohol, and gravity all worked against you until your back was hitting the plush rug beneath you. John’s hands had found their place next to your head, one still wrapped around your wrist and pinning it to the floor, his legs were pulled up and his knees rested just next to your left hip. His body stretched out across yours, not touching, just hovering and holding you, his willingly entranced captive, against the floor. “You need to be devoured,” he said, slowly lowering himself. Your eyes closed, out of fear or anticipation you weren’t sure, and fluttered open at the feeling of John’s soft lips against your forehead. Before he spoke, he pushed up against the floor and rose slightly. “You need to be shown how good it can be,” his lips fell again, just below your eye and next to your nose. “You need to be loved well.”

“I thought you were dreadful at love, John,” you said without thinking. Instantly his face pulled away and you were kicking yourself for not knowing when to shut up. It clearly wasn’t the time for teasing, but John rolled away, flopping onto the floor next to you with a huff.

“I am, dear,” he sighed, chuckling slightly. “But the other bits, I am very good at.”

“You think rather highly of yourself, don’t you, John?” You laughed, feeling the tension in the air start to evaporate and the usual playful conversation returning as easily as it had slipped away.

“You think rather highly of me too, darling,” he teased and you rolled your eyes. He was right of course. And he knew it of course.

“Well, we should fix that,” you announced, adjusting yourself until you were comfortable against the floor and turning your head to look at his smiling face. “Shall we talk about what ended your marriage next, hmm?”

“Infidelity,” John sneered as best he could. His upper lip twitched, revealing bared teeth as every consonant hit the roof of his mouth in a harsh staccato. But you knew better. There wasn’t a cruel bone in John Whittaker’s body and he could spoil his face with as many foul expressions as he pleased, you knew that he’d be smiling, or at least smirking, in no time at all. It was his natural state of being, even when he shouldn’t. Especially when he shouldn’t.

“You can’t blame Larita,” Johns jaw fell open and his brow furrowed, comically, but prepared to argue. “You can’t blame your father either.”

“I most certainly can-“ he started, gesturing wildly with one arm, while lifting his neck, head, and shoulders off the ground slightly

“You can only blame yourself, John.”

He laid back down and turned his head to you, a grave look on his face. “Did everyone know that my marriage would fail?”

You couldn’t bare to see pain in his eyes, already so dark and so full of everything. “Yes,” you said honestly. Relief flooded you as John shook his head smiling, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours.

“And you didn’t think to tell me…” he clicked his tongue in feigned disappointment.

“I did tell you!” You pulled back, only briefly regretting the space you created. “Everyone told you!”

“So they did,” John admitted, rolling to his back and tucking one arm behind his head. The shimmying of his shoulders pulled his body closer to yours as he tried to get comfortable against the Byzantine rug. “Perhaps I should have listened and married-“ he paused and closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose. While he held the breath, chest puffed and risen, you took the opportunity to ask.

“What really happened with Sarah? She doesn’t strike me as someone who would be unfaithful.”

John exhaled with resignation. “I’m told It was I who was unfaithful.” You leaned back, to get a better look at him, but also to create more space between you two. It wasn’t you he’d been unfaithful to, yet you took deep pains in his admission. Sensing your withdrawal, John turned his head to face you again, letting his free hand drop from its place on his chest to yours, gripping your fingers as if to reassure you. “Not with other women,” he clarified. “Or men,” he added, rolling his eyes at your furrowed brow. “She wanted something I couldn’t give her….just like Larita, I suppose,” he chuckled. “Don’t tell her I said that. She is no longer my fiancée, but if she learned I compared her to the American….” he shook his head. “I’d have even less to offer a wife, if you know what I mean.”

You covered your face, embarrassed for him. “How can you joke like this? You’re a man in ruin,” you teased.

“Only financially,” he smirked, but you uncovered one eye to glare at him. “And relationally,” he shrugged. “It would appear as if I am far too boring for some women and far too restless for those that are left.”

“So what of those in the middle, dear?”

“Is there such a woman?” He sighed dramatically. Yes. “I should marry her before her wits return from holiday.” John rolled his head back to look at the ceiling. “I should marry you.”

“Ha!” You laughed loudly into the night. “Can you imagine? Two divorces-“

“And a half,” he added with another of his boyish winks.

“Two and a half divorces,” you began your tirade again, “two failing estates. I can see the look on Veronica’s face now, when he she receives word that I am to be her next daughter. John, she’d slip into death willingly, simply to haunt the Whittaker house for the rest of our life.”

“It does sound fun when you put it like that…alright, I accept,” John laughed and you swatted his arm. “What’s next? A date perhaps? June is a lovely month for weddings.”

“Well of course, my love, pick a day any day!” You laughed, pushing yourself onto your elbows, then rolling to your hands and knees, trying to rise to a standing position, miraculously without falling over.

“The first!” He shouted jovially from his place on the floor. “I won’t wait any longer than I absolutely must!”

“June the first,” you muttered, opening and closing the ornate, but squeaky drawers of James Whittaker’s barely used mahogany desk. “Ah ha!” You declared victory, producing a sheet of thick paper and an ink pen. “John Whittaker and-“

“What are you doing, my dear,” John rolled to his front, watching you with his chin propped in his hands as you bit your tongue and wrote out the details in your best hand. “Come back to bed,” he flopped onto his back once more, arms spread wide to welcome you.

“You are not in bed, John,” you reminded him, still completely focused on your task.

“Then come back to the floor,” he whined, rolling to his stomach again and pushing himself up when he realized you wouldn’t accept his invitation, no matter how tempting. “What is this?” You felt his breath against the shell of your ear and his chest against your shoulder blades. His leaning against you only served to remind you how intoxicated he still was and your willingness to let him reflected your own state. There was mumbling in your ear as he read over your shoulder, one hand slipping around your waist until it rested upon your stomach. After aggressively crossing your final T, you placed the pen down hard against the desk blotter. John quickly snatched the paper from the desk and tightened his grip on your middle as he held the paper up to read.

Squinting as he ignored the beating you rained down on his chest, John smiled broadly. “I love it. First thing tomorrow, we’ll send it to everyone we know.” He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, no more intimate than any other kiss you’d shared with him, because the invitation he held in his hand, the one that bore your names in your best script, was for your blurry and tired eyes only.

For one night, you could indulge your gin soaked fantasy and pretend that your wrecked lives were about to face much happier days. That soon and very soon, John would announce a marriage that would stick. That you’d soon be the next Mrs. John Whittaker and your stint as Mrs. Henry Crane would be nothing more than a distant memory. You two settled back against the floor, though it felt more like falling, giggling as if the words were true with no fear of the future. For in the morning, your jokes would be long forgotten, the invitation discarded, and in a couple of days you would be returning home.

My MCU Phase 4 Wishlist

So, over a decade and 23 fucking films later an era of Marvel’s Cinematic Universe has finally concluded with “Spider-man: Far From Home” premiering last week. 

It’s still staggering just how robust this franchise is considering in just eleven years’ time it already has amassed nearly as many films as the James Bond franchise and is arguably a more bankable series at this point than “Star Wars.” Though it’s not a perfect series by any stretch its success is nonetheless tied to its consistent, often magnetic charm and grand action set pieces and Phase 3 showed that it was even capable of some complex and nuanced growth. The third phase tackled deeper more emotional issues for our favorite super heroes while also giving many of its directors more free reign to do as they please with their scripts. Not always perfectly but it was more often than not hugely successful at reaching audiences on a personal level.

(Sometimes with mixed results...)

But as much as “Endgame” was a near perfect sendoff for this franchise, The Mouse isn’t done by any stretch with churning these films out seemingly until the end of time, so with that mind where should Disney go from here since it looks like the franchise will continue on indefinitely?

There’s a lot of ways to envision success for the MCU, and some wheels are already in motion between next year’s “Eternals” and Disney+’s streaming MCU shows but what would it really take for this series to get to the next level? Well this writer has some ideas and is more than happy to share a few of them.

 Make the Villains More Prominent (and stop killing them off!)

Less so in Phase 3 but consistently throughout most of the series has been a total lack in quality villain performances and story-telling. Whether they are generic mustache-twirlers, essentially dark mirrors of the hero or just plain half-baked characters, the MCU has really done a disservice to its robust catalogue of rogues by often wasting the talents of great actors and actresses all to just check a box in a super hero script.

And on top of that they are consistently dead by the end of each film giving them no chance for growth in a sequel. I mean it’s not like we haven’t seen that work before right?

(Case in point)

For phase 4, especially in the wake of two thirds of the Marvel’s Holy Trinity out of the picture, villains should take center stage now more than ever. The heroes of this newer, younger and developing Avengers are probably not ready for the responsibility of protecting the world and the universe as evidenced by the near catastrophic mess Spider-man commits in “Far From Home” and to have the villains of this next phase take advantage of that would be a smart move.

These villains need to be prominent, larger than life and command a nuance to them that much of the older films did not have. A character like Norman Osborn for instance could step in to fill the power vacuum left behind by Stark’s shadow as the new tech futurist of Earth but of course without the responsibility and good intentions of Iron Man. Doctor Doom could be a counter to Black Panther’s Wakanda as a polar opposite of nations in Latveria. And bringing on a character like Mephisto could further expand the mystical side of the MCU that started to be explored in “Dr. Strange.”

(But seriously, Marvel Studios, if I don’t get Toby Stephens as Norman Osborn I will riot...)

Either way, these villains need to carry on for more than one film for a change. Only Thanos, Vulture and Loki have managed to get past their first movies but if Phase 4 is going to be more distinctive it needs to have these villains come together in some way, perhaps even a *gasp* team-up! Having the villains form a super team to fight a younger more inexperienced Avengers could provide for some great drama and welcome change to the usual “fight an army of nameless goons, aliens and/or robots” of the previous era.

In any case, Kevin Feige and The Mouse need to have their sights set on truly developing these villains beyond just simple one-offs and into fully fleshed out characters that can continue to be trouble for our heroes across the series.

 Expand the Cosmic Spectrum of the MCU

The MCU is a science fiction series, if that didn’t already occur to you before, what with it’s iron-suited heroes, super soldiers and in these last two phases space aliens. With the latter the next phase really needs to lean into this and all its possibilities.

There’s a wealth of characters and worlds to explore on the cosmic level of Marvel Comics that not just the Guardians of the Galaxy can be a part of and Disney would be smart to bring even more properties into this real estate of the MCU.

It should namely start with Adam Warlock who was teased in the mid-credits scene of “Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2.” Warlock has long been a favorite character of mind, dating back to reading my dad’s old copies of the Infinity Gauntlet and Infinity Watch. He’s a charismatic character who effectively blends both the cosmic and mystical side of the Marvel Universe together that can lead to a wealth of possibilities across the new MCU. Who should play him is purely subjective at this point but I can tell you right now Zach Efron isn’t even my fourth choice on that particular ladder.

(Maaaaaybe?)

With the Fox deal, Disney also has the option to bring Silver Surfer and Galactus into the mix which they absolutely should at some point. Beta Ray Bill is also said to be making his debut in “Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 3” who can take over for Thor as Chris Hemsworth will eventually move on from the franchise at some point. Guardians will eventually need to retire too of course which opens up the possibility for the Infinity Watch with characters like Moon Dragon, Maxam and Pip the Troll and don’t tell me any of them wouldn’t work on the big screen. If Rocket Racoon can be a fan favorite Moon Dragon, Pip and Maxam can definitely make it too.

Either way the Marvel Universe is big fucking place and Disney would be dumb to not explore more of it for future franchises.

 Make better Original Scores

Johan Goransson’s Oscar win for Best Original Score for his work on “Black Panther” was a watershed moment for this franchise because it showed how super hero music can still be relevant. Imagine Christopher Reeve’s “Superman” without John Williams theme music or Christopher Nolan’s “The Dark Knight” without Hans Zimmer’s prominent percussion echoing the legend of Batman. Its not nearly as memorable and I feel the MCU has largely short-changed itself by not putting a higher emphasis on original scores during its decade-long run.

(*Bwaaaaaam BWAAAAAAAAAMMMM* I can hear this gif)

Phase 3 has definitely done a better job with this of course, Michael Giacchino’s work on Spider-man is solid, Alan Silvestri’s return to Avengers especially the “Portals” scene is epic as hell and again Goransson’s score is part of the reason we knew exactly what was coming next when Cap said “I know somewhere” before we even saw an image of Wakanda. But Phase 4, in my opinion, needs to make this more important as we introduce new characters.

Music has a way of echoing memories and ideas that we’ll immediately associate with an event or in this case a character and with the MCU heading into uncharted territory with what’s looks like even more unique characters, adding memorable music will help audiences identify with them. A catchy tune can go a long way to making a good scene greater just ask the binary sunset in “A New Hope” and it can make a character truly standout.

Imagine the next Avenger’s films if you will as all these new heroes come together on screen all their theme music coming together to culminate in one epic version of the Avengers suite. It will be glorious if done right and the MCU needs to make this happen with inventive composers and film scores in Phase 4.

 Save the X-Men for Phase 5

I know with the Fox deal and the whimpering flameout of “Dark Phoenix” fans are clamoring to see what Disney and Marvel Studios can do to bring in everyone’s favorite team of mutants but I say “hold up.”

As much as I would love to see a (hopefully) more faithful rendition of the X-Men I think we need a breather from Professor X, Cyclops, Beast and especially Wolverine. The X-Men franchise has been going on for over two decades and as much as we would all like to see these mutants get some much needed redemption after “Apocalypse” and “Dark Phoenix” I think general audiences need a breather. Yes, The MCU brought in Spider-man barely two years after the “Amazing” franchise which flamed out badly as well but Spider-man, even by its franchise standards, had a considerably smaller catalogue left behind when he made his debut in “Civil War.”

I think teasing the reappearance of the X-Men in Phase 4 is probably fine. Maybe dropping clues on the existence of mutants, maybe mentioning an alternate universe they come from because chances are their backstory will be retconned but either way the X-Men should be left on the backburner for Phase 4. 

(Deadpool though? Keep’em coming.)

Make Phase 5 all about the emergence of mutants, build them up as a great new team for the MCU and perhaps even pit them against the Avengers down the road. Either way, let the X-Men have a break for now. They need it after what Fox did to them.

 Bring in Diverse New Heroes

Oh, here comes that dreaded word that makes the slimiest denizens of the internet overreact and proclaim they’re not the “oversensitive” ones (in all CAPs of course).

The MCU had its fun with its main cast of primarily white Marvel staples over the past decade and if they’re going to show that they have new ideas and new stories to tell it should begin by bringing in browner heroes.

“Black Panther” was largely a breath of fresh air for the franchise because it told a very personal and relatable story to the society we live, primarily on the struggles of being a minority. The story wasn’t a simple good vs evil tale or nonspecific theme about family and love but of something deeply wrong in the world and it’s the reason it resonated as much it did.

The MCU is already making way for its first Asian American hero in Shang Chi, which is a good start but it shouldn’t end there either. Diverse heroes should be its next flagship for the new era of the MCU. Bring in Amadeus Cho, Ms. Marvel, and hell start teasing Miles Morales.

(And don’t give me that bullshit that black Spider-man can’t appeal to mass audiences...)

I can already hear the idiots shouting at the screen right now about “white erasure” or some other bull shit about reverse racism and/or forced diversity. First of all, these people would bitch about diversity no matter what way it was brought in. If a hero is turned from white to brown it’s “Why can’t they bring in a new brown hero?” If they bring in a new brown hero it’s “Why are they bringing in a new brown hero? No one cares.” And if people do care it’s “Forced diversity.” All I have to say to you people is you keep shifting around the goal posts so much to the point that it makes me wonder what you are actually angry about?

The MCU needs brand new blood and given that it again made a talking Raccoon a fan favorite there’s nothing that tells me this is a bad time to bring in more brown heroes from Marvel’s lesser known catalog. It isn’t that I or even other minority fans hate white heroes (I wrote an entire article on how much I love the MCU’s Captain America afterall) but for the sake of showing that these diverse heroes matter and giving them a chance to shine on the big screen this is needed. It wasn’t long ago that barely anybody knew who Black Panther was, now you have folks throwing up “Wakanda Forever” signs on their Instagram and social media and reading his graphic novels. So, open your mind up a bit and stop being a child about “forced diversity.” Thor was still epic as hell when he brought down Storm Breaker in “Infinity War,” Captain America still inspires patriotism in even the most cynical of souls and Iron Man saved the universe with a snap of his fingers. Your white heroes (and fragility) stories will survive a little spice in this franchise.

 How the MCU truly proceeds from here will be interesting. There are already projects in motion of course and fans should probably be excited for it regardless of what I have written here but I do truly hope a lot of these happen in Phase 4. Marvel needs better more consistent villains going forward, the cosmic side of the comics deserves more exploration, better soundtracks will make these movies better, the X-Men need a break, and after 23 movies we could stand add a few more brown people to the mix. 

Hopefully The Mouse is listening…

“Huhah! I own all future box office revenue regardless anyways, you peasants. Huhah!”

Almost Got ‘em

Written for the 2019 @spnsummergen. Rating: G Featuring: Original characters, and a couple familiar faces Word Count: 3,143 Warnings: foul language Author's Notes: The prompt was “Early season - demons in hell plotting to take the Winchesters down.” I was immediately inspired by the Batman: The Animated Series episode “Almost Got ‘im.”   Summary: Deep in the depths of Hell, a group of demons discuss the two latest pains in their collective ass: Sam and Dean Winchester. Rumor is that the brothers had found the Colt and even killed a demon. Of course, rumors are just big talk— yet a pair of demons patiently listen; their plan is already in action.

Two figures made their way through the halls of the third lowest dungeon in Hell.  As they walked the jagged stone walls seemed to close in around them, but their petite, female forms prevented the blade-like rock from tearing at their temporary flesh.  Even if they were injured it would be of no importance; they were demons and there was a meeting that they very much wanted to attend.

Both were wearing lean, blonde women who might’ve been mistaken for sisters, but that was the limit of their outward similarity.  The slightly older of them wore a gauzy, white dress that, when combined with her delicate steps, gave her the air of a drifting spirit.  Her partner was another story.  The younger demon’s black combat boots thudded with every step, announcing her presence.  Her attire was entirely leather—the cow sort, not human—dyed dark enough to hide spilled blood.

Neither of them said a word as they approached the auxiliary dungeon rumored to be containing an unusual sort of rendezvous.  The pair didn’t have anything more to discuss for the moment.  They both knew their immediate goals, responsibilities, and when push came to shove, which of them was in charge.  They damn well better have known.  Between the two of them, they’d spent over a decade putting their respective pieces in order and double-checking their work.

When they reached the unmarked door that they’d heard whispers about, the demon in the white dress pushed it open without hesitation.  She stepped through the door with an unassuming demeanor.  Her colleague followed her, studying the contents of the chamber with a wary eye.

Inside there were eight lesser demons standing or sitting around a storage room.  Three racks had been laid out flat, then pushed together to create an improvised conference table.  Five of the occupants were perched on crates of acid, steel nails, and other implements of pain.  The remaining three leaned against the far wall, cautiously keeping some distance.

A brutish-looking man with pasty skin, a pronounced brow, and stringy black hair glared at the newcomers from the opposite side of the table.  He stared with the intensity of someone who had taken charge—he certainly didn’t hold any noteworthy rank as evidenced by his badly calloused hands that hinted at many decades or centuries of wielding a whip, the shoddy ones meant for working souls.  

In a low growl he asked the two women, “What do you want?”

“We heard that this is the place to be if you truly hate the Winchesters,” answered the elder one.

He stared at them for a moment before replying, “Get inside and shut the fucking door.”

The pair entered, closing the door behind them.  From the way that everyone turned their attention to a stout demon sitting on a box labeled ‘spiders’ they assumed that it was his turn to speak.  The two women settled themselves on a non-technically-iron maiden that was lying along one of the walls as if it were a bench.

The stout demon resumed addressing his audience.  “So then I tore the cow apart—six chunks, big ones but still enough to spread around, and some smaller hunks.  You don’t want to waste it by piling the whole cow in one corner of the room.  You might as well not bother cutting the damn thing up—Anyway, I hung pieces of it throughout the house.”  The sound of scuttling inside the box he was sitting on filled the room as he fumed for a moment in anger.  “It’s a classic omen!  It’s a horror!  And the older of the brothers makes a joke about hamburgers!”

“So disrespectful,” muttered a female demon with hollow eyes and frayed white hair.  Several demons nodded in agreement with her comment.

“That kind of work takes time,” complained the portly demon.  “I’m not a high-caste demon.  I can’t just wave my hand and make things move.  Do you have any idea how long it takes to cut up a cow?  And the first cleaver broke and I had to find a store—”

“Was it a vegetable cleaver?” asked the lean demon with a mangled left arm and long, frizzy brown hair sitting next to him.  When he looked up at her face in confusion, she rested her hand on his thigh, then said in a soft voice, “Milmont, sweetie, two kinds of cleavers.  Vegetable ones aren’t made for bone.”

“I don’t fucking believe this,” muttered a red-haired demon.  He was dressed like Billy Idol but his rosy cheeks undercut the attempt at an edgy look.  “Did you fight them or not?”

“I fought them!” Milmont replied indignantly.  “I had a knife—”

“Paring or bread?”

“—and I swung at the older one’s neck.”

One of the demons standing in the shadows noted aloud, “Swung means a miss.  You got your ass kicked.”

The stoat demon flustered a bit before reluctantly explaining, “He shot me in the chest with rock salt and hit me in the face with his gun—” 

“You fell on your ass,” guessed the red-headed demon.

“The younger brother can perform an exorcism really fast,” Milmont said while shifting, jostling the box of spiders.

“You shouldn’t have gone after them,” said the brutish leader of the group.  “You’re too weak.”

The stout demon glared as he hissed, “I have every right to go after the prey I choose.  I’m allowed to prove myself!”  He waved his hand at the rest of the room as he asked, “How many of you have been exorcised by them?  If you’re here bitching about the Winchesters on your weekly one-hour break, yeah, I’m guessing they made you look like an idiot too.”

Several of the demons nodded in acknowledgement of the point or murmured agreement.  The leader let out a small grumble as he reached into an open crate next to him.  He pulled out an unlabeled bottle containing reddish-tawny liquid, then yanked the black cork from it with his teeth.  After taking a swig, he handed it to Milmont.

“Corceo.”  The stout demon toasted him before having a sip.  

“You’re lucky that you were only exorcised,” the hollow-eyed woman told him while reaching out, wordlessly asking for a drink.  Milmont passed it to her and she took a sip before continuing.  “Rumor has it they possess the Colt.”

“Dajhila, they don’t have the Colt,” replied the demon with the bad arm.  “I brawled with them ten days ago and they didn’t shoot me.”

“Maybe you aren’t worth the bullets?” jabbed the rosy-cheeked punk.

With her good hand, she picked a knife up off the ground and stabbed it into the wooden table in front of her, inviting him to fight.

Corceo, the leader, hit the table, drawing everyone’s attention.  “Tisha, don’t carve Frey a new asshole.  He has plenty already,” he joked, earning a chuckle from one of the demons watching from the wall.  “The fact is that they had the gun.  They killed Tom.”

“Tom was an idiot,” huffed Frey.  “The only reason he wasn’t wading through viscera like the rest of us was because he was Azazel’s son.”

“Apparently he was attacking Sam, and Dean shot him,” Dajhila explained.  “There were witnesses.”

Frey shrugged indifferently at Tom’s death.  “Silver-spooned nepotist should’ve been the one to get his ass beat before he got shot.”

“I’m fine with the younger Winchester getting that bludgeoning,” interjected Tisha.  She snarled, “You know that little shit is a psychic?  I was so close to killing them.  It took me three weeks to lure them to this abandoned insane asylum.  I’d murdered twenty people in there—six hunters came before the brothers finally took the bait.  That’s the shit I had to deal with in order to roll out the red carpet for those thick-brained, underwear-model-looking—“

“They aren’t that good looking,” said Milmont.

“They are,” countered Corceo.  “Now let her finish or I’ll tear your fucking tongue out.”

Dajhila with the hollow eyes quietly said, “We should’ve kept the talking stick.”

Frey held up the pointy, splintered remains of a blood-stained wooden dowel that had evidently been used to stab someone.  The woman shrugged, conceding that it had worked better in theory than in practice.  The red-haired demon tossed it aside, grabbed the bottle of alcohol from where it had settled on the table, then gestured to their current storyteller.

Tisha waited a beat to see if anyone would interrupt her before continuing.  “I swear on my life, that Sam kid really is a psychic.  They knew it was a trap.  I’m sitting there with a semi-automatic rifle—I’m not fucking around—and all of a sudden the sprinklers are raining holy water.”  Her lips curled downward at the memory as she snarled, “Sam used a megaphone from the parking lot to exorcise me.  I only got to see their faces as my cloud was getting dragged back down.”

“Jesus,” exhaled Frey.  “A megaphone… and you had a rifle.”

“What weapon did you go after them with?” asked Tisha.

He thought for a moment before finally admitting, “A big rock.”  Everyone stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter, so he added, “Sometimes simple is best.  We’re stronger than them and there was a big rock right there that I could throw—  It was a tactical decision.”

“With genius thinking like that, it’s no wonder we can’t catch a break against them,” said Corceo.

Dajhila commented, “The only good news is that the dad, John, he died two months ago.”

“John Winchester, hunter savante—  That piece of shit finally dropped?”  Milmont looked around, eyes wide with excitement.  “What did ‘im in?”

“I do not know.”  The hollow-eyed woman crossed her bony arms.  “Margot, down in processing, says his file is classified, but it is there.”

Frey leaned forward with interest.  “File—  We got him?  Fucker isn’t playing a harp?”

“In the pit as we speak,” she replied smuggly.  “Rumor is that Alastair’s working him personally.”

“Alastair?” asked Corceo.  “They’re breaking out the Grand Torturer himself for a Winchester?”

Tisha nodded slowly to herself as she put together a few pieces.  “Well, he is classified.”

The two women silently observing from their place on the iron maiden exchanged a knowing glance.  The one in leather subtly placed her hand on a bulge by her belt that was obscured by her jacket, but the woman in the white dress discreetly shook her head and gestured for her to wait.  At the order, the younger demon gave a quick roll of her eyes before relaxing her posture.  By the time they’d turned their attention back to the meeting, the conversation had switched back to discussing different methods of pursuing the still-living brothers.

“Dean is a hedonist,” commented Dajhila.  “Take a meatsuit with a figure as an hourglass and lay yourself in his path.”

Tisha raised an eyebrow.  “You really think he’s going to fall for something like that?”

“He’s young and proud.”

Tisha countered, “He’s a paranoid with low self-esteem—“

“Here we go,” muttered Milmont.

“—You all think they’re heroes out of a fucking Greek epic, but they’re just men—feeble, petty little things—“

“Little,” Frey scoffed.  “Have you even seen them?”

Tisha slammed her fist on the table.  “They are mortal children, too absorbed by their grief and self-pity—Yes, they are little, but that makes them paranoid, partially-psychic, sneaky cunts who use megaphones.”  She paused a moment to look around the table at the others, then said, “And maybe they don’t have it now or maybe I wasn’t worth the bullets, but they know about the Colt.  They know how to kill us—  Kill, not exorcise.”

After a brief, pensive silence, Milmont asked, “When was the last time you heard of one of us getting killed?  Cain going nuts and turning traitor?  That was almost 150 years ago—Earth time.”

Corceo nodded.  “Half the crew in my dungeon wasn’t even turned back then.  The sniveling pups thought we were immortal until they heard the news:  the fucking Winchesters killed Tom.”

There was a grumble of shared frustration at the indignity.  Humans had managed to kill demons, for the first time in over a century—and the bastards hadn’t even had the decency to stick around long enough to be killed in return.

“We have to stop them,” said Milmont quietly.  

Frey scoffed.  “Have you been listening or are ya’ as dense as iron?”

“Oh, choke on a ball of blades,” Tisha hissed.

The red-haired demon waved his arms, sarcastically miming fear.

“Save it.  The enemy is up there.”  Corceo waited to see if anyone would interrupt, then continued.  “I’m tired of all this theatrical, solo bullshit.  We murder them in their sleep.  If they salt the door, we use guns.  If they ward the building, burn it down.  Fucking drive an oil tanker truck into them—this is war.  So how do we find them?”

Milmont replied, “Since their dad died, my denmate, Bahshin, spotted them a few times with another hunter:  male, middle-aged, reddish-brown greying hair and beard, baseball cap, one of those grizzled sorts.”

Tisha nodded.  “I know the one.  His name is Bobby—don’t know the last name.  I’ve run into him and his partner a few times.  He sticks to the north central U.S.  Rural looking, lots of plaid.  He had an old truck.”

“Fucking hick hunters,” muttered Frey.

The woman in leather sitting along the wall wordlessly withdrew a small notebook and pen from her pocket, then wrote down, “Margot:  soul processing department grunt,” and “Bahshin:  den-dweller, has an Earth pass.”  

Corceo eyed the two silent newcomers from his place at the table.  “Taking notes?  Dainty little things like you gonna go gunning for the big bad Winchesters?”  He laughed.  “Well get in fucking line.  You come here, don’t say shit, and crib off our hard work—  How close have you come to offing them?  What makes you so cocky you’re gonna be the ones to kill the bastards?”

The woman with the notepad gestured to her partner, inviting her to address the challenge.  The demon in white stood up and smiled, unconcerned by the hostile attitude of the others in the room.

“We haven’t tried to kill them,” she replied.  “And we have a plan, the likes of which history has never seen.”

“Ready to shared with the class?” Frey asked.  “What brilliant plan are you two peons gonna try?”

“We’re gonna give them what they really want.”

Corceo’s eyes passed over the two women.  “A pair of eager-to-please blondes in suggestive clothes?”

The woman in the white dress corrected him.  “The only one we’re eager to please is our lord, Lucifer.”

A few of the demons chuckled at the absurd statement.  Lucifer was a fairytale, as much as God and angels were to the humans.  

“I’ll bite.”  Corceo’s mouth curled into an amused grin, punctuated by the occasional barbed fangs.  “What are you gonna give them?”

“We’re gonna make them heroes.”

The demons around the table laughed outright at the reply.

“You’re going to make them heroes?  Those hunter bastards know about the Colt.  They killed Tom.  They’ve been exorcising us.”  He placed his hands on the table and stood up, ready to confront them.  “The Winchesters aren’t scared of us—not the way they should be.  We’re demons.  That still means something.  So I don’t know what crazy scheme you’re thinking up, but it isn’t happening.  They don’t get to be heroes.  They die.”

“They’ll die when we—” She gestured to her partner “—say they die.”

“Looks like we have something of a race on our hands.”  Cerceo walked up to her and stood so that they were only a few inches apart.  A head taller than her, he glared down at her before hissing, “You think you can beat me to them?”

Her eyes turned white, causing his jaw to drop.  “Child you’re busy boasting and we’re on step fifteen.”  Lilith waved her right hand, locking the door to the room.  In a quick backhanding gesture, she threw Corceo against the far wall, then turned to look at her companion.  “Ruby.”

Ruby stood up and smiled as she drew her knife from the holster on her belt.  She systematically worked her way through the room, killing the others while her partner held them in place with telekinesis.  Afterward, she placed the bodies on the table, then rested her palms on the topmost corpse.  A few lines of Aramaic later, blue flame engulfed the bodies, destroying the evidence.

While watching the fire, Lilith asked, “Is Meg ready?”

“She’s still running recon on the other children.  In terms of pressure points so far:  four have lovers, eight of them are close to a parent, and we have a few like Sam where the sibling could be an incentive.  As of yesterday, she was watching the stoner with imprinting telepathy to figure out his achilles’ heel.”  Ruby wiped her bloody blade on the sleeve of her jacket to clean it while asking, “Did you take care of Crowley?”

“I encouraged several of his aides to let a few deals lapse.  Numbers are down.  He’s dying to get a big deal.”  Lilith looked at her.  “The second Dean Winchester’s soul comes across his desk, he’ll sign off on the contract just to get his name on something.  The grubby-fingered broker didn’t check the fine print on John; why should the son be any different?  I’ll hold Dean’s contract and the moment he bites it, he’ll get expedited delivery to Alastair’s dungeon.  No official processing.  No gossip—”  She gestured to the smoldering remains of the demon who had accidentally outed Margot as a leak in the processing department.  “—No mistakes this time.”

Ruby huffed an unamused laugh.  “The two of us sure as hell won’t have time to clean up any messes once this show gets rolling.  Round one we could afford to have things go a little sideways.  Once we pop up on Sam’s radar, that’s it.  We’re in, and I’m not coming back downstairs on a fucking milk run.”

“It will all turn out,” Lilith assured her.  “Our lord wills his return.  He cannot be denied.”

Ruby didn’t reply to the pious statement.  Instead she studied the charred racks in front of them.  “I know he’s your mentor and we couldn’t have done this without him, but Azazel can’t survive this.  You know that, right?”

Lilith nodded.  “When he finishes aligning his pawns, he’ll throw the fight.  He knows how important it is that Sam’s anger be directed solely at me.  That means clearing the field for the next generation of nemeses.”

“Don’t worry,” Ruby placed her hand on her partner’s shoulder.  “When I’m done with him, Sam will be foaming at the mouth to kill you.”

“I envy you,” Lilith sighed.  “You’ll live to see our lord.  It’s going to be beautiful.”

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

If you enjoyed this story, check out my Sam/Ruby Fic Masterlist or my Full Fic Masterlist.

Before the Hood - 1/6

For @jade4813 from @backtothestart02​ -I’m not going to lie. This gets pretty angsty pretty quickly and ends on a bittersweet note. But it’s meant to be the prequel to my Robin Hood westallen AU that I plan to write eventually (yes, this is a Robin Hood AU, you got me), and that fic will end very happily, so if you’d like, you can consider that your fic too. I hope you’re able to enjoy this fic though!

I so appreciate you as a person and a shipper and a writer. I am always so inspired by you and your talent and appreciate so much how kind you are. So I was unbelievably excited when I received your name as my giftee (you write such incredible AUs!). Hopefully you will enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it and be hopeful about what comes after instead of in a puddle of tears. I hope I can do your masterpieces some justice and that you have an amazing Christmas and holiday season!!

Merry Christmas!

…

(All of these chapters have been lightly proofread, so feel free to do a re-read once I post them to AO3 & FFnet, b/c I’m sure they’ll be in much better condition then.)

Fun Fact: I did some medieval research for this story that I did try to incorporate. (1) People were not meant to be educated unless they were upperclass/royalty/clergymen. (2) Women were rarely educated period, unless upperclass and then very little. They were expected to marry and raise children. (3) The Crusades and everything according to the Robin Hood legend that I googled I tried to incorporate to some degree, since I did keep the story set in the Middle Ages. (There’s prob more, but I can’t think of what at the moment.)

…

Chapter 1 -

Collin Woods.

A place thick with trees, alive with wildlife, and far from any central city on the map, two hundred miles away from the literal Central City. Within the woods contained the small town of the same name, the only structure cresting above the trees being the stone castle of the royals. Previously residing there was King Richard – a loyal, good king who took care of his people and flourished the town with bountiful riches and a thriving population. But within the past several months he had left the town and its people to embark on the noble quest of fighting in the Crusades. In his place, he left his younger brother, Prince John, a selfish, spoiled, adolescent fool who little by little drained the small town of its resources until the only thing rich and satisfying to the eye could be found within the castle grounds.

Many of the young men of the town had gone off to fight in the Crusades with their King. Not all could go, because work needed to be done that could not only be sustained by older men, women, and children. But some left not only for the cause itself but to escape the death trap that had become their once thriving homeland. War with all its drudgery, pain, and rate of death on the battlefield was still a welcome reprieve. To those that survived, they only hoped their king would return with them and so sustain the lands they used to call home and create a small paradise once again for themselves and those they loved.

Beside Prince John was his wise and yet often taken for granted advisor, Sir Hiss – not his actual name of course, but his natural born lisp that often affected his speech had granted him the title. The superficial prince did nothing to correct it. Since he relished as well as mocked his only true friend – if he could be called that – the name suited him in the latter case. Trained guards were at Prince John’s disposal, as well as the particularly greedy Sheriff of Collin Woods, Clifford Devoe.

Amongst the townspeople was the West family, but with the father, Joseph, and the son, Wallace, off to fight in the Crusades, and the mother, Francine, passed many years ago, the daughter, Maid Iris, was ordered by Prince John to live under the care of Sheriff DeVoe and his wife, Marlise. Iris was rarely seen after that, except for at festivals hosted by Prince John. And by one other, who she risked everything to see night after night by moonlight, hidden amongst the trees lining Silver Lake.

Barry Allen.

Bartholomew was his given name, but hardly rolling off the tongue, his best friend, Cisco – who’d also shortened his name – decided on a nick name for the young Allen. To those around him, it had stuck.

Barry was the only child of Henry and Nora Allen. The former was the only doctor in the town. He had taken a young pupil under his wing, a girl – which was most unheard of, Caitlin Snow. He’d tried to lure his son into the teachings of medicine. There were few things greater than the ability to heal, he would say. But young Barry would have none of it. And being a friend of Caitlin himself, Barry encouraged the union. There should be more than two doctors in one town, should one fall ill, heaven forbid. But it wasn’t going to be him. Most of the time when he wasn’t home, he traveled into town to offer his skills – that of repairing homes and entertaining children – as proof of his servitude. His mother, Nora, who was a seamstress to nearly everyone found this to be a great addition to the work force. And since she needed to do little to win over her husband, most of the time he relented.

But Barry didn’t spend all of his time tending to the needs of the townsfolk. His favorite pastimes were narrowed down to three: fishing with his best friend, Cisco, practicing archery from his handmade bow and arrows, and visiting Maid Iris by moonlight.

One late afternoon in June, finished with his tasks for today, Barry idly leaned against a tree and carved himself some new arrows, preparing to get some practice in. For the Crusades he would tell his father if the subject ever arose. But it hadn’t yet. Only his friends knew of his hobby, and it was kept amongst them. It was no secret Barry didn’t want to go to war.

“Hey!”

The disgruntled voice pulled Barry out of his reverie, and he saw an unamused Cisco standing inches beneath where his arrow had landed, a hole piercing his new hat as it stay pinned against the tree behind him.

Barry had the decency to blush.

“Sorry, Cisco.”

Cisco carefully pulled the arrow free and his hat with it and placed it back on his head.

“Watch it. My mother made that.”

Cisco’s mother was not the greatest seamstress – as was evidenced by the seams falling apart of the hats she made for her son, even without arrows being shot through them. But his parents looked down upon the Allen’s for Henry’s audacity to train a young girl in medicine, to educate a peasant girl whose duty it was to marry and raise children, not attempt to heal people. And also, because Barry’s parents were not stricter with him. As a result, they forbid their son from being friends with Barry – an order he ignored fervently.

“My mother could make you a new one,” Barry offered, not for the first time, as he turned his full attention to his friend.

Cisco snorted. “My mother would know. She knows she can’t sew. It has never been her talent. And if she saw how neatly the seams were sewn, she’d know where I had been.”

Barry nodded. He knew. He just couldn’t help but offer.

“Did you see Caitlin today?” Cisco asked casually, leaning against the tree beside Barry.

Barry shook his head. “I left early this morning. Ralph was off with Sue again, so he wasn’t around to watch his younger brothers and sisters. I offered my services.”

Cisco’s lips turned up in a smirk. “Of course you did.”

“It is my contribution,” Barry said, picking up another arrow and shaving down the sides so it would fly more smoothly.

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe you’re just jealous Ralph can spend time with Sue in broad daylight when you have to sneak around with Iris by moonlight.”

Barry froze, his eyes wide as he turned to look at his friend.

“What? You thought I didn’t know?”

Barry turned his body fully.

“I’m your best friend,” Cisco said, offended.

“You’re not- You didn’t- Does anyone else-”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course no one else knows. At least not because of me. I won’t tell a soul.” He paused. “At least not until you do.”

Barry snorted and returned to his arrows.

“I’ll never be able to do that,” he muttered under his breath.

“You never know,” Cisco said, softening.

Barry picked up his bow and arrow and aimed for a farther tree.

“As long as King Richard is fighting in the Crusades and Iris is cooped up with that awful Sheriff DeVoe, there’s no way we can be together openly. She’ll probably marry that awful knight Julian,” Barry said, scowling.

“I thought he’s planning to leave for the Crusades,” Cisco said, his brows fusing together.

“Not before obtaining a marriage proposal, I bet.”

“And why would the Sheriff say yes to him? He gains too much by keeping Iris locked up. He feeds off her inheritance.”

Barry lowered his bow. “Because Julian is a knight, and his father is in Prince John’s royal guard. He probably thinks Julian won’t return from the Crusades and he won’t have to worry about it.”

“But if he does return…”

“He’ll have to own up to the promise. And Maid Iris will have no choice in the matter.”

Cisco shoulders slumped, and then he gathered himself together, determined to let them not both be burdened down by this possibility.

“It might not happen,” he offered. “Julian’s thirst for war might overcome his desire for Iris.”

Barry looked at him. “It does.”

Cisco’s brows furrowed again.

“Julian wants her because I have her. It’s his petty jealousy for everything I have that is greater than his thirst for war. All the medals and glory in the world would mean nothing to him if they didn’t also crush me into the ground in the process.”

He shot off another arrow, this one recklessly into the air at a distance. Someone could trace it, find him, discover his hobby and somehow use it against him. But he didn’t care. Few things stifled his hatred for Julian Albert, son of the guard, knight in training, who gloated about all that he would receive on his return from the Crusades. More than once Barry had wanted to retort bitterly, ‘If you return.’ But he’d held his breath. He wouldn’t sink to his level.

“And what do you have that he doesn’t?” Cisco asked, though he knew at least some of what his answer would be.

“Both parents, friends, the right to choose what I want to do, and a father who is willing to bend the rules for the sake of the people.”

“And the love of Iris,” Cisco added, which made Barry’s anger finally fizzle out.

“Yes. And that.”

…

In the quiet cottage just off the edge of town, Nora Allen sat in her rocking chair and picking up a new color of yarn to add to her nearest quilt. She hummed quietly to herself, a melody to harmonize with the blue birds chirping outside the window. The sun shone through it, warming her face, and with the scent of biscuits wafting out of the oven, she knew dinner would soon be at hand. The chicken was ready, and the corn. With the prepared food would come her husband, her son, and the young girl Henry had taken under his wing, Caitlin Snow.

Caitlin was a quiet one. With long brown locks and the same purple, cotton dress she wore day after day, only changing the ribbons in her hair on occasion, Nora had taken to mothering her. She’d never had a daughter, and there was much about Caitlin that appealed to her. From her determination to chase after her dreams to her polite refusal of anything that might inconvenience anyone, Nora welcomed having her in their home and at their table. A few times she had studied her son’s interactions with her to see if there was any spark. She certainly wouldn’t mind having Caitlin officially part of their family.

But Caitlin, it seemed, was in love with a slightly older boy, Ronnie Raymond, who had gone off to fight in the Crusades. And Nora’s boy, Barry, she had begun to suspect, still fancied Maid Iris.

It was a star-crossed romance she’d hoped her son could avoid. Not because she held anything against Iris or her family, but because it would be nearly impossible for them to find happiness together in a practical sense with Iris being elevated in her father’s and brother’s absence. In addition, she knew the feelings had not been one-sided before Joseph and Wallace had left for Crusades. That made the young romance even more devastating.

But Iris lived with Sheriff DeVoe now, who was snide and arrogant and in line with that terrible Prince John who was constantly raising the taxes. She hoped Marlise DeVoe, who while loyal to her husband, didn’t appreciate his tactics, had taken Iris under her wing and protected her. Heaven only knows what kind of atmosphere existed in that house if she hadn’t.

With Prince John’s almost constant raising of taxes – and demand in paying them being more frequent – Nora worried that soon Henry would allow appointments without pay. He tried to be firm and decisive on the outside, but on the inside his love for her and his son and the townspeople had turned him to mush. After all, once Barry had made it clear he would not be following in his footsteps, Henry had sought out a pupil and had no qualms whatsoever about taking on Caitlin Snow.

The sound of the heavy wooden door being opened interrupted her thoughts, and the sound of her husband’s warm voice made the sadness of her thoughts all but disappear.

“Something smells good,” Henry said, walking through the door. “You smell that, Caitlin?” The young girl nodded beside him. “It smells wonderful.”

Nora smiled to herself, set aside her tools and yarn and walked into the entryway adjoining the kitchen.

“You’re home,” she said, to which her husband crossed the distance between them and placed a kiss on her cheek. “It smells so good.” He pulled back. “Is it biscuits?”

She nodded. “Yes. And chicken and potatoes.”

Caitlin’s eyes lit up. “You have potatoes?”

“Yes. And I’m going to mash them. Would you like to help?”

Caitlin nearly bounced up on her toes. It never ceased to amazing Nora how this girl could go from being shy to eager and excited when new opportunities presented themselves. She wondered what that meant about her home life but decided not to think on it.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she chuckled. “Come on.” She nodded her head towards the hot pot over the fire and grabbed some pot warmers so as not to burn herself. “Grab a bowl from the bottom shelf. We’ll put them in there first.”

Caitlin did as she was told and used the large spoon to transfer the vegetable. Nora looked over her shoulder at her husband as she did so.

“Have you seen Barry today?”

“Not this morning,” he said on a sigh. “But the Dibny’s informed me he spent all morning with their rambunctious children, so he must’ve done some good today.”

“Henry.” Her voice lowered, and he reined himself in.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s a good thing what he’s doing. It’s better than just lying around this place all day. I’m glad he’s getting work in and that he’ll help out with the harvest in the fall.”

“Oh!” Caitlin interjected, spying the individual in question walking passed the distant window. “I think I see him.”

Moments later, the door opened and Barry walked in, a basket of freshly pulled carrots in his arms.

“Carrots,” Caitlin said, awe-struck by yet another delicious food being added to the menu.

“What a brilliant idea, Barry. Thank you for thinking of it,” his mother said.

He forced a smile that matched his father’s until Henry felt the glare his wife was delivering to the back of his head.

“I thought it might…add something,” Barry added lamely, avoiding his father’s gaze.

“I talked to the Dibny’s earlier today,” Henry said, pushing bitter feelings behind him for the sake of the meal and the company. “It sounds like you were very helpful to them this morning.”

Barry looked at him, then glanced at his mother and Caitlin and knew he had to do something to release the tension.

“Well, someone had to be, what with Ralph running off with Sue just as his brothers and sisters were waking up.”

Henry softened, a proud smile gracing his features.

“I’m glad you stepped up, son.” He gripped his shoulder. “It’s good to know what’s important in life and not go running after a lass before you’ve found your place.”

He glanced over at Caitlin.

“Nothing against you, of course, Caitlin.”

She grinned sardonically.

“Of course not. I’m special.”

Barry shook his head at the comment, but it had the whole family laughing, and so the tension was broken.

…

Night descended over Collin Woods about an hour after dinner. Caitlin had returned home, promising to meet Henry at his clinic the next day as early as she could. He promised to bring food with him and Nora insisted she come home with Henry for dinner again. Caitlin was reluctant to make that promise, so she just smiled as a goodbye and waved her hand on the way out. Barry watched her from the front window and thought about the impact she made on their home. He was glad to have her in his life, and glad even more so that she’d provided an escape for him from his father’s profession. But he worried some about her home life. Whenever he saw her about in town, there was no light in her eyes. She looked sullen, almost like a young child. And he saw the tight grip her mother always had on her even though she was three years into adulthood at age fifteen. It just made him more aware of the destruction Prince John had brought upon their little town.

Barry lay in bed until he could hear his parents’ snores drifting down the hall. Deeming it safe to slip out, he pushed open his window and carefully climbed over the ledge to the other side. He closed it after he’d landed in the grass, keeping it open a crack so he wouldn’t have difficulty going in, and then slinked away from his home, taking off as fast as one of his arrows as soon as he’d reached the cluster of trees thickening like a swarm of flies on the way to Central Pond.

He got to the edge of the water, looked up and saw some hazy clouds crossing over the moon. He worried for a moment that she wouldn’t come. They had always said that if it was a cloudy night, maybe it was a sign they shouldn’t meet up that night, that there was somehow a better likelihood of them being caught, even if logically that didn’t make sense. They should be harder to see with no grand moonlight making figures known amongst the trees.

But he didn’t have to worry long. Because mere moments later, a tap came on his shoulder, and he nearly fell into the water because of it.

“Barry!” she quietly shrieked, pulling him back by the fabric of his shirt, and then dissolving into a fit of giggles when she did. Putting a hand over her mouth, she tried to compose herself. “I’m sorry.”

He was flushed, breathing heavily for a few moments, but then a silly grin stretched across his face.

“No apology needed,” he said, then took her hand and led her away from the water into the woods. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

“So was I,” she said. “The clouds were so much thicker from my bedroom window.” She came to a stop and held both of her hands in his, swinging a little on the balls of her feet. “But I thought I’d make a try for it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”

In truth it had been two days, and the only reason they hadn’t met up was because of storms, rain that poured hard and for hours. But it still felt like an eternity. Every moment apart felt like a lifetime.

“I know,” he said, intertwining their fingers together. “It’s been forever.”

He couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled on her hands with his own, instantly bringing her closer, and met her lips with a sudden kiss. She melted into it, and so did he. His arms moved to settle on her waist as hers wrapped around his neck. And for a while they stood there in the filtered moonlight, just ignoring the world around them.

“Oh, Barry,” she murmured, eventually pulling back enough to lay her head on his chest. He swayed them gently. “I wish it could be like this forever.”

He rested his cheek on the top of her head and shut his eyes, listening to the sway of her long dress in the night breeze.

“So do I.”

“I dream at night about us, you know.”

He smiled to himself. “You do?”

“Well, don’t you?” She lifted her head to look up at him.

“Of course, Iris. I dream about you even when I’m not sleeping. I almost shot Cisco with an arrow today because I was so distracted dreaming of you.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You wouldn’t have hit him.”

“I don’t know…I was pretty distracted.”

“You never miss,” she said. “Not even when you’re distracted.”

“I might’ve made an exception for Julian,” he joked lightly.

She smirked. “I might’ve let you.”

He didn’t know if her not liking Julian any more than he did made their situation even more tragic, but he decided he liked it. Better the knight not be his competition when it came to Iris’ heart. In any other way, he could deal, even if he didn’t want to, but if he was unsure about where her heart lie, he was sure he would die.

“Come on,” he said, stepping back enough to just hold her hand. “I want to show you something.”

Iris bit her bottom lip and ran with him through the woods until they came to a large tree. She stopped before he did and looked up at the spectacle before them.

“It’s amazing,” she said, awestruck.

“It’s old,” he responded. “And probably shouldn’t be climbed on.” He bent down to pick something off the grass just around the old oak. “But it’s unlike any other tree in the whole forest, and I think we should make it our own.”

He came back to her and handed her a rock, sharp and narrow at the end. She looked at it strangely and met his eyes with a quizzical expression.

“What are you thinking, Barry?”

He grinned and pulled her to the large, oak tree. Then she watched as he used his own rock to painstakingly carve his initials into the wood. He made a small cross beneath it and stepped back. He glanced at her when she didn’t move.

“Your turn,” he said.

Excitedly, though she tried to contain herself, Iris stepped forward and carved her own initials in. Then, without any prodding, she drew a large heart around their letters and stepped back, looking at their masterpiece proudly.

“I love you, Iris,” he said, softly, and she turned to find him staring at her, so much love in his eyes. She didn’t doubt his declaration for a second.

“I love you, too, Barry,” she returned, taking both his hands in hers as they’d been before.

“I don’t know how long we can be like this,” he admitted. “But I’m going to treasure every moment.” He brought their clasped hands to his heart and held them there. “You’re my home, Iris. And that’s one thing that will never change.”

Her heart aflutter, and all words fallen away from her memory, she smiled softly in response. Then she tilted her face up, closed her eyes, and waited for him to kiss her.

people are looking for a leader with integrity.

yet, the most significant thing is to acknowledge our Creator as King of your heart (your eternal spirit)

this is the True illumination of the Son and the only Kingdom built upon real Justice, mercy, and Love.

rebirth is everything.

and the Son is known as the Word who is seen revealed in the first chapter of John’s book in Today’s reading of the Scriptures:

The Word was first,

the Word present to God,

God present to the Word.

The Word was God,

in readiness for God from day one.

Everything was created through him;

nothing—not one thing!—

came into being without him.

What came into existence was Life,

and the Life was Light to live by.

The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness;

the darkness couldn’t put it out.

The Book of John, Chapter 1:1-5 (The Message)

with the whole chapter in The Voice:

Before time itself was measured, the Voice was speaking.

The Voice was and is God.

This celestial Word remained ever present with the Creator;

His speech shaped the entire cosmos.

Immersed in the practice of creating,

all things that exist were birthed in Him.

His breath filled all things

with a living, breathing light—

A light that thrives in the depths of darkness,

blazes through murky bottoms.

It cannot and will not be quenched.

He entered our world, a world He made; yet the world did not recognize Him. Even though He came to His own people, they refused to listen and receive Him. But for all who did receive and trust in Him, He gave them the right to be reborn as children of God; He bestowed this birthright not by human power or initiative but by God’s will.

The Voice took on flesh and became human and chose to live alongside us. We have seen Him, enveloped in undeniable splendor—the one true Son of the Father—evidenced in the perfect balance of grace and truth. John the Baptist testified about Him and shouted, “This is the one I’ve been telling you is coming. He is much greater than I am because He existed long before me.” Through this man we all receive gifts of grace beyond our imagination. You see, Moses gave us rules to live by, but Jesus the Anointed offered us gifts of grace and truth. God, unseen until now, is revealed in the Voice, God’s only Son, straight from the Father’s heart.

A man named John, who was sent by God, was the first to clearly articulate the source of this Light. This baptizer put in plain words the elusive mystery of the Divine Light so all might believe through him. Some wondered whether he might be the Light, but John was not the Light. He merely pointed to the Light. The true Light, who shines upon the heart of everyone, was coming into the cosmos.

The reputation of John was growing; and many had questions, including Jewish religious leaders from Jerusalem. So some priests and Levites approached John in Bethany just beyond the Jordan River while he was baptizing and bombarded him with questions:

Religious Leaders: Who are you?

John the Baptist: I’m not the Anointed One, if that is what you are asking.

Religious Leaders: Your words sound familiar, like a prophet’s. Is that how we should address you? Are you the Prophet Elijah?

John the Baptist: No, I am not Elijah.

Religious Leaders: Are you the Prophet Moses told us would come?

John the Baptist: No.

Religious Leaders: Then tell us who you are and what you are about because everyone is asking us, especially the Pharisees, and we must prepare an answer.

John replied with the words of Isaiah the prophet:

John the Baptist: Listen! I am a voice calling out in the wilderness.

Straighten out the road for the Lord. He’s on His way.

Then some of those sent by the Pharisees questioned him again.

Religious Leaders: How can you travel the countryside baptizing people if you are not the Anointed One or Elijah or the Prophet?

John the Baptist: Baptizing with water is what I do; but the One whom I speak of, whom we all await, is standing among you; and you have no idea who He is. Though He comes after me, I am not even worthy to unlace His sandals.

The morning after this conversation, John sees Jesus coming toward him. In eager astonishment, he shouts out:

John the Baptist: Look! This man is more than He seems! He is the Lamb sent from God, the sacrifice to erase the sins of the world! He is the One I have been saying will come after me, who existed long before me and is much greater than I am. No one recognized Him—myself included. But I came baptizing with water so that He might be revealed to Israel. As I watched, the Spirit came down like a dove from heaven and rested on Him. I didn’t recognize Him at first, but the One who sent me to baptize told me, “The One who will baptize with the Holy Spirit will be the person you see the Spirit come down and rest upon.” I have seen this with my own eyes and can attest that this One is the Son of God!

The day after, John saw Him again as he was visiting with two of his disciples. As Jesus walked by, he announced again:

John the Baptist: Do you see Him? This man is the Lamb of God, God’s sacrifice to cleanse our sins.

At that moment, the two disciples began to follow Jesus, who turned back to them, saying:

Jesus: What is it that you want?

Two Disciples: We’d like to know where You are staying. Teacher, may we remain at Your side today?

Jesus: Come and see. Follow Me, and we will camp together.

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when they met Jesus. They came and saw where He was staying, but they got more than they imagined. They remained with Him the rest of the day and followed Him for the rest of their lives. One of these new disciples, Andrew, rushed to find his brother Simon and tell him they had found the One who is promised, God’s Anointed who will heal the world. As Andrew approached with Simon, Jesus looked into him.

Jesus: Your name is Simon, and your father is called John. But from this day forward you will be known as Peter, the rock.

The next day Jesus set out to go into Galilee; and when He came upon Philip, He invited him to join them.

Jesus: Follow Me.

Philip, like Andrew and Peter, came from a town called Bethsaida; and he decided to make the journey with Him. Philip found Nathanael, a friend, and burst in with excitement:

Philip: We have found the One. Moses wrote about Him in the Law, all the prophets spoke of the day when He would come, and now He is here—His name is Jesus, son of Joseph the carpenter; and He comes from Nazareth.

Nathanael: How can anything good come from a place like Nazareth?

Philip: Come with me, and see for yourself.

As Philip and Nathanael approached, Jesus saw Nathanael and spoke to those standing around Him.

Jesus: Look closely, and you will see an Israelite who is a truth-teller.

Nathanael (overhearing Jesus): How would You know this about me? We have never met.

Jesus: I have been watching you before Philip invited you here. Earlier in the day, you were enjoying the shade and fruit of the fig tree. I saw you then.

Nathanael: Teacher, You are the One—God’s own Son and Israel’s King.

Jesus: Nathanael, if all it takes for you to believe is My telling you I saw you under the fig tree, then what you will see later will astound you. I tell you the truth: before our journey is complete, you will see the heavens standing open while heavenly messengers ascend and descend, swirling around the Son of Man.

The Book of John, Chapter 1 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is Joshua 22 about the Israelites vowing to remain faithful to God:

Then Joshua called together the Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh. He said: “You have carried out everything Moses the servant of God commanded you, and you have obediently done everything I have commanded you. All this time and right down to this very day you have not abandoned your brothers; you’ve shouldered the task laid on you by God, your God. And now God, your God, has given rest to your brothers just as he promised them. You’re now free to go back to your homes, the country of your inheritance that Moses the servant of God gave you on the other side of the Jordan. Only this: Be vigilant in keeping the Commandment and The Revelation that Moses the servant of God laid on you: Love God, your God, walk in all his ways, do what he’s commanded, embrace him, serve him with everything you are and have.”

Then Joshua blessed them and sent them on their way. They went home. (To the half-tribe of Manasseh, Moses had assigned a share in Bashan. To the other half, Joshua assigned land with their brothers west of the Jordan.)

When Joshua sent them off to their homes, he blessed them. He said: “Go home. You’re going home rich—great herds of cattle, silver and gold, bronze and iron, huge piles of clothing. Share the wealth with your friends and families—all this plunder from your enemies!”

The Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh left the People of Israel at Shiloh in the land of Canaan to return to Gilead, the land of their possession, which they had taken under the command of Moses as ordered by God.

They arrived at Geliloth on the Jordan (touching on Canaanite land). There the Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh built an altar on the banks of the Jordan—a huge altar!

The People of Israel heard of it: “What’s this? The Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh have built an altar facing the land of Canaan at Geliloth on the Jordan, across from the People of Israel!”

When the People of Israel heard this, the entire congregation mustered at Shiloh to go to war against them. They sent Phinehas son of Eleazar the priest to the Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh (that is, to the land of Gilead). Accompanying him were ten chiefs, one chief for each of the ten tribes, each the head of his ancestral family. They represented the military divisions of Israel.

They went to the Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh and spoke to them: “The entire congregation of God wants to know: What is this violation against the God of Israel that you have committed, turning your back on God and building your own altar—a blatant act of rebellion against God? Wasn’t the crime of Peor enough for us? Why, to this day we aren’t rid of it, still living with the fallout of the plague on the congregation of God! Look at you—turning your back on God! If you rebel against God today, tomorrow he’ll vent his anger on all of us, the entire congregation of Israel.

“If you think the land of your possession isn’t holy enough but somehow contaminated, come back over to God’s possession, where God’s Dwelling is set up, and take your land there, but don’t rebel against God. And don’t rebel against us by building your own altar apart from the Altar of our God. When Achan son of Zerah violated the holy curse, didn’t anger fall on the whole congregation of Israel? He wasn’t the only one to die for his sin.”

The Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh replied to the heads of the tribes of Israel:

The God of Gods is God,

The God of Gods is God!

“He knows and he’ll let Israel know if this is a rebellious betrayal of God. And if it is, don’t bother saving us. If we built ourselves an altar in rebellion against God, if we did it to present on it Whole-Burnt-Offerings or Grain-Offerings or to enact there sacrificial Peace-Offerings, let God decide.

“But that’s not it. We did it because we cared. We were anxious lest someday your children should say to our children, ‘You’re not connected with God, the God of Israel! God made the Jordan a boundary between us and you. You Reubenites and Gadites have no part in God.’ And then your children might cause our children to quit worshiping God.

“So we said to ourselves, ‘Let’s do something. Let’s build an altar—but not for Whole-Burnt-Offerings, not for sacrifices.’

“We built this altar as a witness between us and you and our children coming after us, a witness to the Altar where we worship God in his Sacred Dwelling with our Whole-Burnt-Offerings and our sacrifices and our Peace-Offerings.

“This way, your children won’t be able to say to our children in the future, ‘You have no part in God.’

“We said to ourselves, ‘If anyone speaks disparagingly to us or to our children in the future, we’ll say: Look at this model of God’s Altar which our ancestors made. It’s not for Whole-Burnt-Offerings, not for sacrifices. It’s a witness connecting us with you.’

“Rebelling against or turning our backs on God is the last thing on our minds right now. We never dreamed of building an altar for Whole-Burnt-Offerings or Grain-Offerings to rival the Altar of our God in front of his Sacred Dwelling.”

Phinehas the priest, all the heads of the congregation, and the heads of the military divisions of Israel who were also with him heard what the Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh had to say. They were satisfied.

Priest Phinehas son of Eleazar said to Reuben, Gad, and Manasseh, “Now we’re convinced that God is present with us since you haven’t been disloyal to God in this matter. You saved the People of Israel from God’s discipline.”

Then Priest Phinehas son of Eleazar left the Reubenites, Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh (from Gilead) and, with the chiefs, returned to the land of Canaan to the People of Israel and gave a full report. They were pleased with the report. The People of Israel blessed God—there was no more talk of attacking and destroying the land in which the Reubenites and Gadites were living.

Reuben and Gad named the altar:

A Witness Between Us.

God Alone Is God.

The Book of Joshua, Chapter 22 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Sunday, August 23 of 2020 with a paired chapter from each Testament along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

Today’s message by the ICR:

August 23, 2020

Like the Most High

“I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the most High.” (Isaiah 14:14)

These are two of the “I will’s” of Satan—or Lucifer—as he aspired to usurp the throne of God as ruler of the universe (see Isaiah 14:12-15; Ezekiel 28:11-17). Not content to be “the anointed cherub,” the highest of the angelic hierarchy (Ezekiel 28:14), he wanted to be God, and this monstrous pride became “the condemnation of the devil” (1 Timothy 3:6) so that he is now “fallen from heaven” and will soon be “brought down to hell” (Isaiah 14:12, 15).

Lucifer, of course, is not the Creator, for he was “created” (Ezekiel 28:15) himself. It would seem therefore that for him to rationalize his ambition to be like the most High, he must somehow persuade himself that he is like the most High—that is, that God is a created being like himself and thus can be defeated. He only had God’s word that he had been created by Him, and he evidently chose not to believe what God said (just as do multitudes of men and women today).

He, like they, chose rather to believe that the eternal cosmos had somehow created them all by its own powers. The great cosmos (call it Mother Nature, perhaps) has “created” spirit beings, as well as men and women, and all the worlds inhabited by them. In this scenario, the true Creator God is viewed as only one of many. Therefore, He is vulnerable to defeat—or so Satan evidently believes.

Thus, Lucifer became the first evolutionist, and this great lie by which he deceived himself became the basis of his later deception of Eve and then of the founders of all the varied pantheistic religions of the world, as well as modern evolutionism and New Age philosophies. Nevertheless, God is still on His throne, and “the Lamb shall overcome them: for he is Lord of lords, and King of kings” (Revelation 17:14). HMM

Don’t Be Scared Of The ’80s Revival – Here Are 5 Trends To Steal

From Seattle grunge to Kate Moss minimalism, every '90s aesthetic has dominated our wardrobe over the past few seasons. Same with the ‘70s (think corduroy, flared denim and Penny Lane-style suede coats) and the ‘60s (you can thank the V&A’s Mary Quant exhibition for all those Mary Janes and scalloped hems you’re lusting after). But the '80s? It’s the decade everyone thought would never return, banished to the annals of history with its garish neon spandex and hair metal rock. Yet the ‘80s are back, and there's no need to be afraid. From Secret Cinema taking on Stranger Things to Joanna Hogg’s phenomenal film, The Souvenir, via the return of the mullet, we’ve seen nods to the ‘80s in entertainment and beauty, and the catwalks of SS20 were no different. Rollnecks layered under blazers à la Brooke Shields, chunky gold jewellery that channels a young Joan Collins, and Princess Diana heritage tweed and monochrome polka dots were all key features during fashion month. So while you might want to leave the backcombed ‘do and legwarmers in the past, there are plenty of wearable ways to pay homage to the era.  From slouchy suits fit for Wall Street to retro jewel tones and high-glamour power shoulders, click through to find the trends we’re nabbing from the ‘80s archive.

Jewel Tones From sapphire to quartz, the '80s threw up some pretty powerful shades. An antidote to our penchant for pastel hues, designers across the board, from Mugler and Balenciaga to Victoria Beckham, gave us a punchy colour-blocking '80s palette. Wear head to toe and with white accessories for the ultimate throwback. Zara Satin Wrap Dress, $, available at Zara Isabel Marant Étoile Frill Trim Dress, $, available at Far Fetch & Other Stories Jacquard Puff Sleeve Wrap Top, $, available at & Other Stories

Metallic Bold Shoulders Manmade fabrics thrived in the '80s but sequins, lamé and crepe were three particularly strong contenders. With a booming nightlife scene, one needed to stand out on the dance floor and shine as bright as the disco ball. Shimmer and sparkle in tandem with power shoulders made for one hell of a look, to which LaQuan Smith, Saint Laurent and Vivienne Westwood all returned for SS20. Maje Clunny Ruffled Lamé Blouse, $, available at Net-A-Porter Topshop Silver Plain Pussybow Blouse, $, available at Topshop Ganni Metallic Jacquard Blouse, $, available at mytheresa

Statement Suits Gone are the bookish tweeds and groovy kick-flare hems of our favourite '70s suiting. Trouser suits in the '80s were breezier and lighter, but no less statement. Think of Michelle Pfeiffer's white suit in Scarface and the shoulder-pad-heavy suiting in Heathers. For SS20, Agnona, Proenza Schouler and Annakiki gave us wide shoulders, long hemlines and paperbag-waist trousers. See you in the boardroom. ASOS DESIGN Oversized Double Breasted Dad Suit Blazer, $, available at ASOS Theory Double Breasted Grain De Poudre Wool-Blend Blazer, $, available at Net-A-Porter Mango Pinstripe Suit Blazer, $, available at Mango

Polka Dots Everyone from Virgil Abloh to Alessandro Michele has been inspired by Princess Diana's '80s looks over the past few seasons, and polka dots have reigned supreme (some say overtaking the ubiquitous floral print) for some time now. As evidenced by Elie Tahari, Balmain and Balenciaga at fashion month, you'll continue to go dotty long into 2020. Vestium Vintage Vintage Polka Dot Dress, $, available at asos marketplace & Other Stories Polka Dot Puff Sleeve Chiffon Blouse, $, available at ASOS Kitri Lana Polka Dot Vintage Dress, $, available at Kitri

Aerobics Aesthetics Let's get physical! Physical! The immortal words of Olivia Newton-John will be circling around your head this season, thanks to the return of aerobics aesthetics. Think Jane Fonda spandex, neon colour-blocking and thigh-high cuts, it's time to take your gym gear to the streets. Look to GCDS, Hermès and Chromat for inspiration: we're donning leggings with tank tops and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt for extra Dirty Dancing vibes. Lululemon x Roksanda Face Forward Define Jacket, $, available at lululemon Nike Plus-Size Medium-Support Sports Bra, $, available at Nike P.E Nation Full Court LS Knit Top, $, available at P.E Nation

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