#((listen- I love the new journey ending but I also love possessed!John))

[revrads]

THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT

[pulsar-the-northstar]

Grief as concept in The Gazette's 'Dark Age' - Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Introduction

Grief, in its essence, encompasses a myriad of natural responses triggered by the loss of someone significant in our lives. However, grief isn't confined solely to the departure of a loved one; it extends to the loss of meaningful connections, dreams, aspirations, and even possessions. Whether it's the end of a friendship, leaving a job or home, parting with a beloved pet, or the destruction of a cherished object, each instance of loss can evoke profound feelings of grief.

The notion of "grief work," originating from Freud's perspective, implies a process of detachment from the deceased. However, this concept may not always align with our personal experiences of grief (or with modern psychology’s approach). Similarly, traditional "stage theories" of grief tend to oversimplify the complex emotional journey by delineating distinct phases. Yet, grief is inherently subjective, and our experiences of it can vary widely, making it more apt to discuss the components rather than stages of grief.

Understanding the components of grief is essential, recognizing that they are descriptive rather than prescriptive. These components may coexist simultaneously, and some may be absent altogether. Grieving is not a linear process, there is no predetermined timeline dictating when one should progress from denial to anger, for example. However, the value of stage theories lies in emphasizing that grief is indeed a journey, and every emotion experienced along the way is valid and indicative of progress towards acceptance.

The album Dogma, released in 2015, stands out as The GazettE's most intense and meaningful work to date. Its powerful visuals, deep musical arrangements, and poignant lyrics evoke strong emotions and touch on a range of topics. After the release of Dogma, the band added two singles, Ugly and Undying, to round out the album's theme. Together, these three works, along with their accompanying Dogmatic tours, are often referred to as the Dark Age. Dark Age consists of several stages (like grief itself), and this dark period ends with the Dogmatic Tour Final, symbolically titled as 漆黒 (shikkoku, "the blackest black").

Just as Shikkoku represents the darkest and most profound phase of Dark Age, the Dogma-triptych represents the pinnacle of The GazettE's exploration into darkness. The songs and overall concept of Dark Age are intricate, yet this complexity allows for personal interpretation and reflection. Dark Age acts as a mirror - a dark mirror indeed - where listeners can continually uncover new layers of meaning. Beyond its surface themes, the songs of Dark Age also delve into the complexities of grief.

In the following sections, I'll take you through the songs of the Dogma album, as well as the singles Ugly and Undying, in the same order they were performed during the Shikkoku live. We'll explore how these songs relate to theories of grief and how they navigate themes of death and loss.

Part 1

The opening track of Dogma, titled NIHIL, derives from the Latin word meaning "nothing." This term symbolizes the initial phase of grief when a sense of emptiness and emotional numbness emerges. Sometimes, we may not fully grasp the gravity of the situation, leading to a feeling of detachment from reality. This aspect of grief, characterized by emotional detachment and shock, is identified by British psychiatrist John Bowlby as the first stage of the grieving process based on attachment theory.

The album's second track and title song is DOGMA, which in both its musicality and lyrics raises a very strong theme. The ominous, mournful sound of the harpsichord reminiscent of Bach is accompanied by heartfelt singing and a deep, slow chant: “I deny everything / I deny all of it", which introduces the concept of denial. “Dogma" is a Greek-origin word and can be translated as "what has been proven right". In today's sense, we use this word for a principle of a religion or ideology that is unquestionable – and what could be more unquestionable from a spiritual point of view than death? Although our minds are aware that death is a final state, we still protest against it.

Denial, along with the shock described in NIHIL, constitutes the initial stage of the "five stages of grief”, a widely recognized theory associated with Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. Originally developed for understanding the process of dying, as she was working in hospice care with terminally ill patients, this model may not fully capture the experiences of people who lost a significant person in their lives. Dr. H. Norman Wright later expanded the Kübler-Ross model into a seven-stage framework, refining its phases while preserving its fundamental structure.

DOGMA showcases a wide range of grief components: alongside the theme of denial, it also includes anger towards the stupidity of others, arguing with God, and mentions the funeral as a separating transitional rite (闇を纏い孤高は儀に向かう – "cloaked in darkness, I must face the ceremony alone"). However, the most beautiful expression of the true essence of grief may be found in the last three lines in English: "I will blacken out this world / Darkness in the world / Starts tonight" – because grief almost envelops the mourning person in darkness, marking the beginning of a new era – the Dark Age.

The third song on Dogma, titled RAGE, already alludes to the second stage of the Kübler-Ross model and the third stage of the Wright model: anger. The key question of this phase is "why did this happen to me?" (This question later recurs almost literally in BLEMISH, emphasizing that in the grieving process, the stages may repeat.) Anger during grief can manifest in various ways: towards the fact of death ("We cannot change this fact, it is done"), towards the "dumb" masses (as DOGMA also suggests) who are unable to understand what we are going through; it can be directed towards someone we consider guilty of the loss we suffered, towards the deceased who left us alne, and also - towards ourselves. In RAGE, Ruki uses vulgar expressions to express anger ("shithead", "dickhead", "shitty looser"), while outwardly addressing his words to a single person, who is none other than the "sad old geezer" (God?), who can no longer save us ("Too late / this asshole cannot be saved"), who betrayed us ("How do you use us?") and left us stranded, both as individuals and as a community ("The generation is our last one"). Addressing God is also part of the bargaining according to the Kübler-Ross and Wright modelsas spirituality frequently becomes a factor in grief, involving the higher power capable of granting and ending life.

As we move forward to the next track, DAWN, we encounter a subtle yet significant shift in tone. The very title of the song suggests the promise of emerging from darkness into light, evoking a sense of hope and renewal. However, despite this optimistic connotation, the essence of the composition remains entrenched in the depths of despair and uncertainty.

The song begins with a reminiscence, pulling us back into NIHIL (愛し果てた過去 抉り出し歌う /空白の底に - "I sing, digging up the memories of the beloved past", "An evil spell my life"). However, hope is best symbolized by the imagery of 惑乱の時を越え /あぶくを立てる感情を ("beyond the momentary confusion / emotions come to surface"), since grief requires the full spectrum of emotions for its expression.

DEPRAVITY again evokes the state of hopelessness after DAWN (どこまでも深く闇は俺を離さない - "darkness completely engulfs me and won't let go", 眠れぬ夜と生きた – "I lived through sleepless nights"), and also states that the emotions that surfaced no longer support the grief process (涙も枯れてしまった – "my tears have dried up"). However, the setback is only apparent: modern grief theories no longer think in such linear processes, but rather in a system where the griever oscillates between emotions. A "normal" grief (i.e., not "complicated" grief) follows a natural pendulum movement: sometimes focusing on experiencing the loss, sometimes shifting focus to the intention of restoration, and back. This theory of grief processing is called the associated with Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut, and could be illustrated with the following diagram:

DEPRAVITY introduces the theme of seeking meaning with its interrogation of God (執念の塊がぶちまけた暴力を / 罪と呼ばず神と讃えれるか？- "how can you praise a god who unleashes violence without calling it sin?"), questioning what kind of god allows suffering and the death of the people created in his image. In grief and loss, seeking meaning is a natural human reaction: we create mental models of the world in which fundamental truths (DOGMA) operate ("This cannot happen to me"), and when unexpected loss occurs, it shatters our previous worldview. In the process of rebuilding, it's not just the lost person that needs to be mourned, but also the trust in life itself – because if this horror can happen, which shouldn't have happened, then basically anything can happen. This distrust, or uncertainty, is what brings the need for seeking (and finding) meaning (Dr. Robert Neimeyer's meaning reconstruction theory): it necessitates the creation of new narratives, bridging the gap between past and future, transcending the experience of loss.

DEPRAVITY brings up realizations from the depths (真実の裏はいつだってそうさ – "there's always something behind the truth"), which we were not aware of before experiencing loss: how important the lost person was to us (繋いだ心が/ 通わせ合った願いが – "connected hearts / and shared hopes"), and with them, not only did we lose the other half, but also the future we had dreamed of, where the deceased had a place, and where the void formed (望まぬ終わりに何を失う？ - "what is lost with the unexpected end?").

PARALYSIS continues along the same train of thought, but much more prominently. Ruki stated about this song that it draws from a personal experience, a specific story, and is about his own weakness, vulnerability. Personally, I find it beautiful how Ruki integrates English idioms into Japanese lyrics because it gives a sense as if he's singing words highlighted in bold and italics: everything has emphasis, and it points back to the fact that despite seeking truth, secrets remain forever hidden from us ("Lies are stacking up", "Past... Buried... Forever"). Although the title of the song means "numbness," it rather refers to a numbness of action than emotional numbness, as emotions – especially pain – come back with renewed vigor (本能のまま絡まり出した感情が / わからないくらい痛い, "these instinctively tangled emotions / hurt more than I thought"), and cannot be suppressed (寂寞に埋まる 私の生命 / 吐き出せば また孤独に還ってしま, "my life is buried in loneliness / no matter how hard I try to vomit it out, loneliness always returns"). It's significant that he wants to vomit out loneliness (吐き出す, hakidasu – "to spit out, to vomit"), as continuous nausea, seemingly independent of any bodily cause, often appears among the physical symptoms of grief. (Other commonly occurring physical symptoms include: insomnia or hypersomnia, increased appetite or loss of appetite, headaches or other bodily pains.)

BIZARRE provides a momentary glimpse into the grief process, considering that here Ruki wrote the lyrics about a specific phenomenon, juvenile crime, yet this song also contains numerous references to violence and death, as if suggesting: hell itself is the terrible place we live in, where innocent people die.

Continue to part 2

[styx1an]

A Chat about Chat

A short fic about how Chat came to be a singular being, written by yours truly. By all means, this isn’t canon, it’s just my interpretation of things.

Word count: 1,863

Fandom: RTGame, Miitopia (NGL I’m a little displeased with how I wrote the ending, but oh well!)

You know, there is this odd sense of irony in knowing how terrified Chat was of Magical John when they aren’t even human nor a singular being in the first place. Wait, so you didn’t know? Of how they became such a being in the first place? (They chuckle.) Then I suppose that means I’ll have to tell you their story. Well then, shall we begin the tale of Chat? (You see the twinkle in their eyes. They must’ve been waiting a while to be able to do this.)

> You nod. You’ve been waiting a while to understand Chat’s origins. Tonight, like many others, belongs to the storyteller.

> You shake your head. No thanks, you think you’re too tired. Dawn shall rise anew soon, and you will not waste your time with tall tales.

(They nod, pleased with your decision.) Then I shall begin to relay their tale.

Our tale begins in the vast lands known as Twitch, a domain that belongs to another, a far crueler being whose tale is for another time. It is a place where one is free to express their opinions and whatnot (as long as it suits the many whims of its Amazonian overlords, of course), and many are versed in the easy to learn, but difficult to master art of gaming. Many such masters have gained a large following, and even if they do not possess such skill, more often than not their humor and charisma paves the way to fame.

One example of the latter would be RTGame, a man of sizable repute. Aside from the frankly ridiculous story of the origin of his moniker, he is also known for doing some… questionable things for the sake of entertainment. There are still tales of his quest in the bathtub along with Gilbert (yes, the very same Gilbert on the quest to defeat The Darker Lord Khadgar!), the night of the Painted Wall’s Communion, the birth of Mr. Compost- But my dear, we are here for one of his lesser-known exploits, one that would change the world as we know it.

> You lean closer to the campfire, watching the storyteller with a renewed interest. Where does the tale lead? Where does it end? You need to know.

> It’s getting even later. You think some rest will be needed before tomorrow’s travels begin. Perhaps the rest of the story can wait another time?

It was a dark and stormy night. The then-Dark Lord Von Karma had just been unleashed upon the land, and I Want Die set along the path of salvation with his fellow party members, Mr. Bean the Warrior, Goofy the Thief, and Mint the Horse. He was pleased with the ease with which they vanquished monsters and saved (literal) faces, but the lack of actual conversation within the party had begun to get to him. Mr. Bean had nothing to offer other than a simple “Bean!” every now and then, and Goofy terrified him with all the “hyuck!” and talks of absolving the world’s many sins. Mint is a horse and therefore cannot participate in a verbal conversation unless you happen to understand what her neighs meant. She also happens to be the most normal member of the party, strangely enough.

Either way, I Want Die longed for a proper conversation.

And God took notice.

It was inevitable. The fourth party member was always going to join, whether he wanted one or not. It shouldn’t be notable in any way whatsoever, yet here I am regaling this tale to you.

It is not how Chat had come to join the party that I wanted to explain, but rather how they came to be.

Do you remember the man I had called RTGame? I hope you had not thought of him as irrelevant to our tale, as he is the patron saint of I Want Die’s adventures. Surely you know of the vast armory that belongs to the party? The various delicacies fed to the team? All his work. Along with his followers’ contributions, of course.

Chat was what he called his followers, the ones who watched his various endeavors as he traveled across the land of Twitch. Oftentimes the crowd would conversate with him (hence their name), offering jokes and sardonic commentary whenever he did anything remotely comedic. Other times, RT would have to tell them off for being such a rowdy bunch- the usual group of thousands could never keep quiet for long.

It happened that Chat witnessed I Want Die’s pilgrimage along with RTGame. They all looked upon him with a jolly sense of humor (after all, their master is well-versed in the art of comedy), some wondering where his travels will bring him. The others who knew how it would all end kept silent at the behest of RTGame. Either way, every single one of them was enjoying the show he had put on for them. 

And came the time to summon the fourth member.

As per usual, RTGame withdrew into his workshop, closing the curtains around him so no curious onlooker could see inside. But that did not stop Chat from yelling their predictions and demands.

“EDGEWORTH” one cried.

Another begged for a certain “End Mii!”

“CHAT CALM DOWN!”

“!uptime”

“69420toesucker just subscribed for 5 months!”

“TURG”

RTGame smiled at them. He wasn’t surprised at all at their reactions, rather it was something he had hoped would happen.

“Alright then Chat,” he said, “here they are!”

His pale, thin hands reached out to open the curtains-

And unveiled a faceless, empty husk of a being. 

Under any other circumstances, Chat would’ve rioted, demanded justice against the irony of sending a faceless doll to retrieve the faces of others. But they had no time.

Almost in an instant, the skies darkened. Clouds swirled up above with vibrant shades of violet, cobalt, magenta. Bright blue lightning strikes a tree and dissolves it into dust. Somewhere distant, something roars. The air feels thick- something magical, something electric is positively buzzing. Magic truly is in the air.

And thunder strikes once again. 

The crowd is gone.

Silence fell. All that is left is the master and the doll, no longer an empty husk.

> You look up to the storyteller, their eyes reflecting the blazing flames. You have a feeling that you know how this ends, but you’d rather have them confirm it first.

> You’re sleepy. As tempting as it is to continue listening to their story, you must admit that the very idea of slumber is even more tantalizing.

RTGame had managed to do exactly what he wanted. Chat’s consciousness, placed inside of a single, physical being. A puppet controlled by a hivemind would not be very easy to control, yes. But the idea intrigued him. And wouldn’t it be better than having a large gaggle of people constantly behind him, watching his every move? It could help I Want Die on his journey too.

So it is settled. It happened that one of the members of his temple had just crafted a rather nice puppet, in case RT needed one. And he did come to use it. It does look a little plain, as both body and head are painted in the same shade of bright white. However, the face was not white like how it was in the beginning, but a disturbingly pitch-black space. No, that’s not the right word.

Rather, it was like a void had formed. That’s also not the right phrase to describe it either, as there were drops of ichor dripping down onto the ground, dissolving the once green grass. But I digress. 

Chat broke the silence that had fallen between them, wailing as a cacophony of noises and emotions spilled out. Despite what RT had done to them, they were still determined to voice their opinions. Quite in character, really. 

“RT WHAT”

“NO NO NO”

“!uptime”

“I'M ON TV!!!”

“bazingabanana just gifted 5 subs!”

“that’s kinda meta”

As their voices grew louder, ichor kept pouring out of the void. As expected, RT thought to himself. He still needs to act fast. So with a quick snap, he fastened a wooden mask the temple-goer made; the same shade of white, a pair of beady black eyes almost as dark and soulless as the void, bright purple ears. 

The yelling and complaining didn’t stop of course. Still, as their voices were muffled by the mask, it was an arguably better experience than the previous ear-splitting wails. And it was less deadly too. Ichor had stopped dripping down onto the grass, which meant that the constant sizzling would finally stop.

Now, one last thing.

RT stared into Chat’s eyes.

This in itself wouldn’t have been quite a remarkable action had it been anyone else, but it’s Chat that we are talking about. The very sensation of doing something as simple as gazing into a hivemind’s many souls wasn’t anything ordinary, either.

It felt like you had just plunged one of your hands into ice-cold water in the middle of winter and not only are you freezing, you’re scared and you don’t know whether you’d come out in one piece.

They all stared back. Thousands and thousands looked upon RT, all different yet whispering the same things, each claiming to be an individual yet virtually nothing distinctive belongs to them. A true hivemind. It’s exactly what he wanted, but he wondered if perhaps other troubles would arise.

He let himself go from their gazes. It asks too much of him.

“Alright then, Chat. Ready?”

A gaggle of voices reply, sounding their agreements.

“OK then!”

--

I Want Die finally opened the inn door, after convincing himself that he’d like this new friend. That this one would be neither an anime villain, a comedy star or a horse. Someone with actual rational thoughts and words to speak.

In front of the door stood a short figure, clad in a purple mage’s robes. Their pitch-black eyes looked at I Want Die, and a chorus of voices came from their permanent smile:

“Hi, I’m Chat!”

And I Want Die wondered if he had forgotten to cross off ‘hivemind’ off his list of potential party members.

Chat’s introduction ends here, of course. But not their tale. The journey was far from over in fact. The party had yet to meet the Royal Court, witnessed the court’s love affair, or get kidnapped by the Dark Lord Von Karma. Even the party wasn’t complete, as it was only the first party I Want Die would encounter in his tale of redemption.

And it’s not the only story either. You haven’t heard of Magical John’s past life, or how Cupcake isn’t as pure as she seems. Gilbert’s fear of the kitchen. How Jefferson came to be, and Obama’s past life with Mr. Bean.

But I’m afraid I must stop here, for it is late already, is it not? Our journey must continue tomorrow. Let us rest. Goodnight, may the stars shine for you. (They head off into their tent, leaving you alone with the flickering embers of a dying fire.)

> You bid the storyteller goodnight. Perhaps they’ll tell you another one of their stories, underneath the moonlight once more.

[thekinghazzastyles]

Black Lake // Remus Lupin x Slytherin Reader

Pairings: Young!Remus Lupin x Slytherin Fem!Reader Warnings: None Word Count: 2175 Time Period: Marauders Era Summary: Remus wants to introduce his girlfriend to his friends but it doesn’t go very well.  Requested: No Authors Note: I hope you enjoy!

Harry Potter Masterlist        Masterlist

You and Remus had been dating for almost a year. You both kept it private for the sake of not being judged. More so you because you’re in Slytherin. Slytherins and Gryffindors don’t date, they aren’t friends, they don’t like one another. But you and Remus didn’t care about the stereotypes forced upon your houses.

“Do you want to tell people about us?” Remus asked. You were both in the Room of Requirement. It was in a library form but filled with muggle books and a small rustic table with a pot of tea on top. There was a couch in the far corner of the room, it looked a little worn down but it was rather comfortable. You had taken a small nap but Remus wasn’t tired so he just stayed awakened to make sure you were always comfortable.

“What do you mean? Like, tell your friends?” You were timid for a Slytherin but, proud of your house. You knew how people from every house would react to you dating Remus. You were more intimidated by his friends' opinions. The Marauders were ruthless with everything they did. The entire house of Slytherin was already mostly on the receiving end of their pranks, bullying, and belittling; but to be singled out by Black and Potter was something you would most definitely not enjoy.

“No, I mean everyone, the whole school. I know you think my friends will do something to you but they won't. I promise.”

“I trust you, but how do you know they won’t? What if they think I’m not good enough for you?”

Remus has never seen or heard you talk so down about yourself. “You are enough for me Y/N, if anything I’m not enough for you,” you were going to cut him off but he stopped you. “You know me and my biggest secret, and after knowing it you still wanted to date me.”

You finally cut him off, “Remus John Lupin I swear on Salazar Slytherin's grave that if you talk about yourself in such a  manner one more time, I will hex you into oblivion. You are perfect, everything about you is perfect. I love everything about you, even if you don’t,” you finished.

“Now I never said I wasn’t perfect,” he smirked.

“Remus!” you laughed.  

“Really though, I want to tell everyone.” You both stared at each other before you nodded, “let’s just let everyone find out on their own, the news will spread quickly.”

* * *

Not a single one of your classes before lunch included Remus, so usually, you would both sneak away sometime during lunch to catch up. Now you’d be able to go up to him anytime you want without caring about anybody seeing. Sneaking away to somewhere private at Hogwarts during lunch had to be the most impossible thing you had ever done.

You had been in the library during your free period looking for nothing in particular. You did, however, find a muggle romance novel you had never read before. Pride and Prejudice seemed like it could be a piece of literature both you and Remus would enjoy. Also decided that this would be one of the best ways to reveal your relationship to the school, you were going to ask him if he wanted to go to your special tree at the Black Lake and read with you.

Briskly you made your way to the Great Hall and straight for the Gryffindor table. You could feel your nerves settling in but you didn’t let your face falter. You approached the table and caught sight of Remus and his friends as they were laughing about something,  not caring if they were irritating the people around them.

The silence in the hall seemed to diminish once you were behind Remus. Potter and Black looked up at you first and they both wore an equally disgusted scowl as they stared you down. “Remus?” you spoke softly, suddenly feeling timid. “I found a new book, do you want to go read it with me?” You failed to maintain eye contact with Remus as you continuously looked down at your feet and the book in your hands.

“What does this snake,” Black seethed, “want with you Moony?” Potter seemed to agree with him but Peter, who was sat next to Remus with Black and Potter on the opposite side, looked like he didn’t feel the need to contribute to this conversation.

Remus stood up and wrapped you in a hug whispering into your ear, “I’ll handle this, promise.” He turned towards his friends, “Guys, this is my girlfriend, Y/N, Y/N these are my best friends James, Peter, and Sirius.”

The entirety of the Great Hall was waiting for the reaction of ¾ of the Marauders. It was silent. No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity before James spoke up, “can we talk somewhere private?”

* * *

The Room of Requirement has once again aided one of your needs. On the journey there you were dreading the conversation that was about to happen. The five of you had been seated across from each without uttering a word for the past five minutes. You didn’t dare look up at the three boys across from you and kept your eyes trained on yours and Remus’ entangled hands.

“What is happening? How did this,” Sirius gestured at you and Remus, “happen?” Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He and James seemed to be the most concerned with Remus dating a Slytherin. You were completely harmless but solely because you are a Slytherin, they automatically despised you and everyone else in your house.

“No matter that, why would you let this happen, Moony? A Slytherin? Really?” James stood up abruptly which caused you to jump a little. Remus squeezed your hand to reassure you that he was there. “Are you under a love spell? Is it amortentia?” he turned to Sirius, “I think she has him under a love spell.”

They both began whispering amongst themselves and Peter kept to himself on the couch. You decided it couldn't hurt so you gave him a small smile and he gave you one back. You were pleased that he wasn’t completely against you.

Remus stood up catching everyone's attention, “Prongs, Padfoot, Y/N did not put me under a love spell. She has been my girlfriend for almost a year; I think it would’ve worn off by now. I love her and if you two can’t accept that I don’t think I will speak to you for a while,” he finished sitting back down next to you.

“Remus you can’t do that, they’re your best mates,” you scolded him. You didn’t want him to choose between you and his friends, who had been there with him for a lot longer.

“The snake is right Remus,” Sirius was cut off before he could finish.

“Don’t call her that. She is not a snake, she is my girlfriend and I love her. I didn’t think you two could be so close-minded. And I will not sit here and listen to you two belittle her just based on the robes she is wearing,” he finished as the room went silent. “Come on Y/N, we’re leaving.”

“Remus, wait! We can work this out, mate!” James called for him but you both kept walking. He kept walking until we were at the Black Lake. He was first to sit down and lean against the tree, Remus pulled you down softly to sit between his legs.

“Can you read it for me?” His voice was soft. You didn’t want to bring up what had just happened or the fact that you still had classes to attend because he needed this.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” You could feel his breathing slow down as you lay against his chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist, drawing random shapes on your side. You finished the first chapter and pulled out a bookmark before turning to face Remus. “Remy?” you asked quietly to not disturb him.

“Yes?” he asked, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I think you should speak to your friends, without me. I don’t want to be the reason you lose your best mates, Rem. They’ve been with you through everything, more times than I can count. You can’t end a six-year-long friendship over me, I won’t let you.”

Remus was quiet as you both sat there. He was playing with the grass when he gave you a slight nod and met your eyes. “I will speak to them. I’m sorry I upset you. And I’m sorry they spoke to you like that.”

“Remus all that matters is that you speak to your friends. I’m fine. I love you,” you finished, hugging him. He said it back and returned the hug. Remus stood up and held his hand out to help you up but gave you another hug.

What the two of you didn’t know is that Sirius and James had used the Cloak of Invisibility. They didn’t expect to see such an interaction. And they didn't expect you to tell Remus that he needed to speak to them. They had no time to dawdle and had to head back to the Gryffindor common room to listen to what Remus had to say.

* * *

Remus briskly made his way to the Gryffindor common room. Before you went your separate ways, he told you he would let you know how it goes. He was nervous to face the rest of the Marauders; maybe not Peter but James and Sirius had a vendetta against the entire house of Slytherin. When he entered the room the two out of the three boys were sitting down listening to James complain and watching him pace about the room. All three heads turned at the sound of the portrait door closing.

“Remus-,” James was cut off.

“I need you to have a seat and listen to what I am about to say.” James took a seat in between Sirius and Peter, waiting for Remus to begin. “Y/N is my girlfriend and I love her. She loves me for who I am, I trust her. I didn’t think you guys would react this way but this is exactly what she said she was scared of. I wish the three of you could just not care that she’s a Slytherin, she’s never done anything remotely evil, she reads and loves pastries.”

“I’m sorry,” Sirius started. “We’re sorry,” he emphasized. “We shouldn't have let this get out of hand. We trust you and your decisions, so we should’ve trusted you on this.”

“We shouldn’t have judged her so quickly,” James added.

“She seems nice,” Peter spoke.

“She is,” Remus smiled, “and I hope the four of you can set aside your differences and become friends.”

* * *

You were sitting in the courtyard working on your potions essay when two shadows loomed over you. Your eyes met with Sirius and James. Closing your book and putting away your parchment, you sat up a little bit straighter before speaking, “may I help you?”

“We wanted to apologize,” James spoke. “We shouldn’t have treated you the way we did and assumed you would be bad for Remus.” James kept his head, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

Sirius decided to speak as it seemed that James was finished, “we just want what’s best for him and if that's you, we have to get used to it. I hope we can set our differences aside and be friends.”

“Okay,” was all you said. You didn’t feel the need to scold them for their behavior, that wasn’t your place. The boys both nodded and walked away. You felt more at ease now that they didn’t dislike you. Your eyes strayed on the spot where the two boys had just been standing, not noticing another person who had just sat next to you. Remus watched you for a few seconds before clearing his throat. “They apologized,” you said, turning your head to face him. “I accepted it.”

Remus didn’t respond. You both sat there with your head rested on his shoulder watching as the sun gradually set. He stood up reaching for your hand. You both made your way to the Great Hall and toward the Gryffindor table. You were too tired to protest so you didn’t say anything. Your head was still rested against Remus’ shoulder even when you took your seats in front of the other three Marauders. You gave them a tired smile and they returned it.

Dinner continued rather quietly from your side of the table. Remus and you didn’t bother speaking to one another but silently communicated through facial expressions. He dragged you to the Black Lake for a moment before curfew set in. As you lay on his chest you focused on the way his heart sounded. “I love you,” you whispered.

“And I, you.”

Harry Potter Masterlist        Masterlist

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Do you have a list of first kiss recs?

Hey Nonny!

Ahhh okay, so I was initially going to tack this onto another person’s ask because I usually combine the First Kiss and First Time fics together, but then I realized that First Kiss can happen without the First Time, and I’m sorta dumb, so FOR THIS LIST, it’s gonna be mostly fics ONLY TAGGED First Kiss (I usually go “first kiss/time” if both are in the fic), so this is pretty much a T-Rated list, hee hee. So YAY another excuse for another new list hee hee!

Again, if anyone has any First Kiss fics WITHOUT the first times or it’s G/T/M rated, let us know!

FIRST KISS

See also:

First Time || [MOBILE]

First Time Pt. 2

First Time Pt. 3

His (Again) by patternofdefiance (M, 820 w. || Fluff, John Comes Home) – John wonders how he had never seen this before, never noticed before, how happy Sherlock can look, and also how lonely.

Tap by doctorcaseyholmes (G, 896 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Morse Code, First Kiss, Love Confessions) – Sherlock finds an unobtrusive way to let out his feelings for John.

First Kiss by jawnandsharklock (NR, 1,119 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Fluff) – "Look into the mirror. Do you see your mouth? Good. Go two inches to the right from the right corner of your mouth. Then two and a half inches up. Stop. I said two and a half inches, not five. There you go. Right there. That’s where this story begins. Or maybe that’s where it ends. Or maybe it’s all the same."

Ex by Itsallfine (T, 1,248 w., 1 Ch. || Angsty Fluff, Love Confessions, Coming Out, Exes, First Kiss, Fake Relationship, Getting Outed) – One night, in the midst of their post-case high and on the cusp of something more, John and Sherlock run into John’s ex. His ex-boyfriend.

Upon Reflection, Tenable Frippery by emmagrant01 (T, 1,299 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4, John’s Beard, First Kiss, Fluff) – John was, inexplicably, growing a beard.

A Better Fate Than Wisdom by flawedamythyst (G, 1,339 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, John’s Sexuality Crisis, Pining Sherlock, Happy Ending, Fluff) – Nearly four hours pass between their first kiss and their second.

I love you, I say by khoshekhskitten (G, 1,576 w., 1 Ch. || Pre & Post TRF, Hurt / Comfort, First Kiss, Love Confessions) – "I love you" is a phrase that follows John Watson through his life with Sherlock Holmes.

Santa Knows by Itsallfine (T, 1,719 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas Party, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Fluff, Matchmaking, POV Sherlock, Pining Sherlock) – Sherlock and John both get exactly what they want from the Yard's secret Santa exchange. Pure holiday fluff.

There's Always Three of Us by Itsallfine (T, 1,765 w., 1 Ch. || S4 Fix It Fic/Post TFP, Parentlock / Rosie, Angelo’s, First Kiss, January 29, Love Declarations) – Sherlock takes John and Rosie out to Angelo's and gets a chance to correct the biggest mistake of his life.

Christmas by thegirlinthedeathfrisbee (G, 1,768 w., 1 Ch. || Mistletoe, First Kiss, Fluff) – John goes home for Christmas -- to the Holmes home, that is.

Want by siennna (T, 1,806 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Pining, First Kiss, POV Sherlock, Requited, Second Person POV) – When John speaks, you hear more than words. You hear the rise and fall of his tone, the comfortable quake of his laughter, the warm pauses of silence in between. When John laughs, there are stars glittering on his tongue and galaxies resting just behind his teeth, and you wish you could press your lips there and burrow into the warm sound. Part 6 of sienna’s favorites

The Stranger by LaKoda0518 (T, 1,844 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting, Fluff, First Kiss, For a Case, Mysterious Madman, Lonely John) – John Watson is standing on the platform waiting to board a train to his sister’s after being invalided home from Afghanistan. A chance meeting with a mysterious madman turns his world upside down and changes his life forever.

Through A Glass by Mildredandbobbin (M, 2,012 w., 1 Ch. || Voyeurism, Masturbation, First Kiss) – There is an adjoining door in the bathroom at 221B that leads into Sherlock’s bedroom. The door, from the bathroom to Sherlock’s bedroom, is made of three glass, semi-opaque panels. It has suddenly come to Sherlock’s attention that if he stands in exactly the right spot in his bedroom he can see through said panels, and more to the point, can see John.

Duvet (green) by Mazarin221b (G, 2,021 w., 1 Ch. || Post-THoB, Mind Palace, Revelations, First Kiss) – Sherlock recalibrates and restructures his mind palace so it looks like 221b. What he chooses to put in John's room is a bit of a surprise, and a revelation.

The Marriage Proposal Negotiation by Goddess_of_the_Night (G, 2,161 w., 1 Ch. || Dev. Rel., Possessive Sherlock, Insecure Sherlock, Fluff, First Kiss, Post Mary) – Sherlock hasn't ever really done anything the traditional way, so of course it wouldn't bother him to propose to John even though they're not even dating. And the fact that John is already on a date with someone else when he decides to do it? Tedious.

The Case of the Made-Up Case by DoubleNegative (T, 2,394, 1 Ch. || Fake Relationship, Clubbing, First Kiss, For Science, Humour) - Sherlock takes John to a club. For a “case.” Yes, John, a case. Part 1 of The (Secret) Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

John's Drawers by JezebelGoldstone (T, 2,646 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, First Kiss, Romance, Humour) – Sherlock snoops through John's drawers and finds something. . . unexpected.

Crime Scene Procedure for Death by Drowning by paxlux (T, 2,668 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG, First Kiss, Sherlock’s Violin, Fluff) – He lies back in bed and listens to the notes and pictures them gathering around Sherlock’s feet like water. Part 1 of proper procedure

There'll be people By Ariane DeVere (T, 2,739 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Romance, Angsty Fluff, First Kiss) – There's a reason why Sherlock doesn't travel on the Underground, and it's not because he's a snob. John learns the reason the hard way. Although, given the conclusion, maybe this one Tube ride wasn't such a bad idea.

Let Go by thisisforyou (G, 2,743 w., 1 Ch. || Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Anxious / Worried Sherlock) – In the end, separating John's things from Sherlock's in the chaos of their sitting room is like pulling a limpet from a wet rock. Especially when the rock is clinging on for dear life, because Sherlock doesn't want to let go. Short, fluffy h/c Johnlock oneshot.

Closeted by Sexxica (E, 2,762 w., 1 Ch. || Trapped in a Closet, Panicking Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Coming in Pants, Awkward Conversations, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Fluffy Ending) – An improvised hiding spot and a bit of accidental voyeurism leave John and Sherlock in an awkward position.

BBCSH 'How To Save A Life' by tigersilver (T, 2,784 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Angsty Schmoop, Requited Love) – Pining, requited, and unabated spates of 'first kiss' fluff. Post Mary, AU, mildly cracky. John lays a smooch on Sherlock's nape in passing. The world does that thing it does when it wobbles and Sherlock practically falls off his own pins. Part 1 of 'How To...'

Better Late Than Never by sussexbound (NR (T), 3,021 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4 / TFP Doesn’t Exist, Sherlock POV, Love Confessions, Drunk Sherlock / Sober John, John Takes Care of Sherlock, First Kiss, Jealous Sherlock, Emotional Turmoil) – He suddenly wants John Watson out of his bedroom, out of his flat, out of his life, because he has been lying to himself these last few months, he realises. He doesn’t want John here, not with the way things are. He doesn’t want 221b Baker Street to be nothing more than rest stop John returns to on his journeys between women. He doesn’t want to play co-parent if Rosie is going to be snatched away from him and placed in the arms of whatever nameless woman du jour John lands on next. He doesn’t want to keep being so careful, so generous, so, so…

The General Idea by agirlsname (T, 3,022 w., 1 Ch. || Retirement, Promise of Forever / Proposal, POV John, First Kiss, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Soft Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Crying / Emotional Sherlock, Love Confessions) – After twenty years of friendship, John is used to Sherlock acting weirdly. But the news Sherlock finally brings himself to deliver change the carefully built dynamics between them, and John realises it's time to act.

Until the End of the World by SarahCat1717 (G, 3,049 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, First Kiss, Pining Sherlock, Oblivious John, Drunkenness) – Taking place in Season 3, John listens to an old favourite song and sorts through his memories and feelings about Sherlock and Mary.

The Sweetest Taste In The World by crossroads (G, 3,121 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Jealous Sherlock, Fluff, Pining, Friends to Lovers) – The sweetest taste in the world is rarely ever the easiest to come by.

On a Sunday Morning by SD_Ryan (G, 3,136 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, First Kiss, Obsessive Sherlock, Pining Sherlock) – Sherlock has a little problem. He can’t stop obsessing about John Watson.

it’s in the details by kimbiablue (T, 3,272 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, First Kiss, Pining Idiots) – Sherlock and John meet with a forensic artist to determine how capable they are able to describe each other. In which John struggles to adequately describe Sherlock Holmes, and also thinks about his lips a lot.

Wish I Was In Heaven Sitting Down by standbygo (M, 3,282 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S4, Five Plus One, Missing Scenes, Parenthood, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Declarations of Love, Fluff, Food, John Whump) – Five times when Sherlock and John ate together, and one time they didn't. A history of the boys, in food.

Atrium by kali_asleep (T, 3,460 w. || 5+1, Valentines Day, Fluff & Schmoop, First Kiss) – Five times Sherlock gave John his heart, and the one time Sherlock got a heart in return (literally).

Water Is Another Matter by cathedral_carver (T, 3,903 w., 1 Ch. || Sick Fic, Pining, First Kiss, Heat Wave, Skinny Dipping) – He thinks it’s in trouble, his poor heart.

Last Christmas by Mazarin221b (T, 3,911 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Pining Sherlock, First Kiss) – That Earth-shaking revelation, then, leads to a problem, and one that Sherlock realizes should be solved quickly, before John’s dates turn into girlfriends or boyfriends, because sometimes girlfriends or boyfriends can turn into wives or husbands while your back is turned. Every time John hums happily at the mirror as he shaves, splashes on a little gift cologne Mrs. Hudson bought him for Christmas, Sherlock is drawn back to that night by the fire, and the way John’s touch had made the world stand still.

Five Times John Cooked Something with Peas and One First Kiss by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for (T, 3,915 w. || 5 and Ones, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Cooking / Food, Sick Sherlock, Music, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss) – After John cooks five dinners that slowly reveal their hunger for each other, Sherlock and John finally share a first kiss.

Jukebox by standbygo (T, 3,990 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Singing/Music, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Hurt/Comfort, Humour, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss) – After the music halls of Sherlock's mind palace get damaged by accident, John learns that Sherlock never forgets a song. Even the ones he'd rather forget. But the random singalong brings some unexpected benefits.

The Oolong Disaster by unicornpoe (T, 4,151 w., 1 Ch. || John’s Beard, Fluff, Humour, Frustrated Sherlock, John Takes Care of Sherlock, Case Fic-ish, Pining Sherlock, First Kiss, Possessive Sherlock) – John has a beard. Sherlock has a panic attack.

Because Blah Blah Blah Happy by cwb (E, 4,578 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Cuddles, Kissing, First Kiss, Requited Love, Pining Sherlock) – John is entirely done with the milk situation and gives Sherlock a list of shit he's pissed about. Sherlock sets out to make John happy. John is happy. Sherlock makes his own list. They are both very, very happy.

We Bleed into the Grey by QuinnAnderson (T, 4,989 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Supernatural Elements, Fluff & Angst) – It was stupid, really. What was the point of having an ability if it wasn't even a useful one? Sherlock would just as soon be rid of his. Until he meets John Watson, that is.

A Study in Intimacy by doodle (T, 5,183 w., 1 Ch. || WEBARCHIVE LINK || PODFIC AVAILABLE || First Kiss, Virginity, Romance, Touching) – People don't touch Sherlock Holmes, not like they touch other people. Then he meets John Watson.

Welcome Home, John by slashscribe (G, 5,504 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S3, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Awkwardness, Stabbed Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, Panic Attack (Sherlock), Self Esteem Issues, Love Confessions, First Kiss) – When John moves back to 221B, he thinks he’s the broken one, but after a while, it becomes clear that he might not be correct.

Stranded by BeautifulFiction (T, 5,798 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Communication / Relationship Discussion, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, BAMF John, Doctor John, Case Fic, Drinking, Huddling For Warmth, Friends to More) –  When stranded on a derelict barge at high tide, John and Sherlock reconsider their friendship.

Closeted by sussexbound (T, 6,115 w., 1 Ch. || Love Confession, First Kiss, Games, Trapped in a Closet) – Sherlock and John get trapped in a closet while on a case. Some revelations are made while they play a game to pass the time. Part 1 of Intimacy

Disguises are always a self-portrait by yellowteapots (NR (T), 6,223 w., 1 Ch. || Case Fic, First Kiss, POV John, Fake Rel.) – Sherlock and John head out of town on a case of murder / suicide at a Pride Fest.

Survival Instinct by shirleyholmes (T, 7,162 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Kiss, Schmoop, Nightmares, Fluff & Angst, Grief, Idiots in Love) – After Sherlock's "comeback" John starts obsessing with constantly making sure he's alive (checking his heartbeat etc.)

The Light of Day by allonsys_girl (M, 7,297 w., 4 Ch. || First Kiss, Angst, TSo3-Fix-It, Possessive Sherlock) – Rewrite of the end of Sign of Three. John actually notices Sherlock leaving the reception early, and chases after him. Angsty Johnlock. Happy ending, for sure. Part 1 of The Light of Day

Speak My Language by Itsallfine (T, 7,479 w., 4 Ch. || Thanksgiving, Love Languages, Love Confessions, First Kiss, John Experiments in Sherlock) – When Mrs. Hudson introduces John and Sherlock to the concept of the five love languages, Sherlock descends into a dark mood and John’s curiosity gets the better of him. What is Sherlock’s love language, and why does the whole concept set him so on edge? Part 1 of A Holiday Triptych

The T-Shirt Thief by watsonsherlocksuniverse (T, 7,968 w., 5 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, Doctor John, First Kiss, Canon Fix-It, Developing Rel., Mutual Pining) – Sherlock steals John's t-shirt from the laundry. John catches him wearing it one evening, fluff ensues with an endeared yet teasing John?

The Engine by stitchy (T, 8,294 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Post-HLV, ASiP Do-Over, Sci-Fi, Time Travel) – Shortly after the events of His Last Vow, Sherlock has an opportunity to revisit the night of A Study in Pink and get some perspective on the destiny of he and John's relationship.

Never Been This Swept Away by estalita11 (T, 8,531 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TAB, Mary is Not Nice, Drug Use, First Kiss, Love Confessions) – Set immediately after TAB, Sherlock visits his brother to definitely not apologize about earlier and ends up finally learning a few things that would have been nice knowing about months ago. Mycroft never wants to deal with lovestruck idiots ever again.

High Tide by stardust_made (T, 8,540 w., 1 Ch. || Jealousy, Angst, First Kiss) – A little favour Sherlock stupidly agrees to do for Mycroft leads to John meeting a handsome, affluent man, who is going out of his way to woo him. Sherlock struggles with the situation and with his own reactions to it. Part 1 of The High Tide Series

Ravish Me by amalnahurriyeh (E, 10,025 w., 1 Ch. || UST / RST, Makeup / Lipstick, Sympathetic Sally, Experiments, Pining John, First Kiss, Face Fucking / BJ’s, Cuddling) – Sherlock is experimenting with patterns of wear on lipstick in daily encounters. John is going to go insane.

Their Great Reward by BeautifulFiction (T, 10,095 w., 1 Ch. || UST, First Kiss, Fluff) – Boxing day, in John's opinions, is the worst day of the year. Christmas is over, the tree is wilting and stripped of gifts, and there's a week of dead-time until the clean slate of the new year. However the combination of a blizzard, a power-cut and Sherlock might just make it a day to remember.

The Most Luminous of People by liriodendron (M, 10,979 w., 4 Ch. || Synesthesia, Pre-Slash, Developing Romance, First Kiss) – In which Sherlock Holmes finds out what it's like to truly want something, John Watson isn't too bad at deductions, and everything gets a bit bright for a minute. Part 1 of Conductivity

Say For Me, Love by MirabileLectu (T, 13,147 w., 1 Ch. || UST, First Kiss, Drama, Pining John, Victor Trevor) – If you had asked John this morning what the result of his quiet afternoon at home would be, discovering a truth about Sherlock's past startling enough to shift the foundations of their friendship would not have been his first guess. So naturally, that was what was bound to happen.

Licence to Kiss by fellshish (T, 13,739 w., 4 Ch. || Post-ASIB, Sort-Of Bondlock, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Angst and Humour, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock loves John, and John loves... James Bond. He only made Sherlock watch every single film. Tedious. And now John's birthday is coming up. Sherlock can't tell him how he feels, but he can organise an amazing gift: John's very own spy adventure. Sherlock begs Mycroft for a real case with some extra gadgets. And perhaps some actors pretending to be criminals. What could possibly go wrong?

On The Fence by BeautifulFiction (T, 13,770 w., 1 Ch. || Fencing, Case Fic, First Kiss, Insecure John, Pining John, Hug, Greg Finds Out) – The murder of the King's College fencing champion leads to revelations about Sherlock's past. Will it be the point that tips them from friends to lovers, or will they remain on the fence?

Hallowed Eve by EventHorizon (T, 14,750 w., 6 Ch. || First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Halloween) – It probably wasn't the smartest idea to let Sherlock choose the costumes for Halloween, but John never considered himself the smartest man in the room, anyway.

Wonderful, Etcetera. by VictoryCandescence (T, 16,955 w., 3 Ch. || Wonderful Life AU || Alternate Timelines, Brotherhood, Homophobia, Suicidal Ideations, Mentions of Drug Use, Friendship, Different TRF, Sherlock’s Past, Victor Trevor is Past Boyfriend, Depression, Hallucination, Love Confessions, Christmas, First Kiss) – Sherlock thinks everyone would be better off if he had never existed, including and especially himself. When he finds himself in a world in which his wish has been granted, he begins to think perhaps even he could be wrong – but it takes an unlikely chaperone to make him not only observe, but understand.

Let's Make a Bed Out in the Rain by theimprobable1 (M, 17,664 w., 11 Ch. || Pining Sherlock, Angst & Fluff, First Kiss, Unrequited, Jealous Sherlock, Protective Sherlock) – John is devastated after his long-term girlfriend leaves him. Sherlock helps him through it.

You're On the Air by prettysailorsoldier (M, 20,616 w., 1 Ch. || Unilock, Matchmaking, Radio, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Flirting, Bisexual John) – The Consulting Detective and The Woman dominate the airwaves of their university radio station, doling out advice on everything from meeting the parents to sexual positions. When their ratings start to dip before the holidays, however, manager Mike thinks it's time for some fresh blood, and who better to fill in the gaps than rugby captain--and notorious flirt--John Watson? Part 1 of 25 Days of Johnlock

Another Auld Lang Syne by DiscordantWords (M, 30,234 w., 31 Ch. || Post S4, Mutual Pining, Alternating POV, Introspection, Parentlock, Christmas, New Year’s, First Kiss, Past Drug Use, Angst with Happy Ending, Drinking, Sherlock Whump) – There had been years of missed chances.

The Winter Garden by Callie4180 (T, 31,213 w., 13 Ch. || Post-S4, Retirement, Christmas, Slow Burn, Grown-Up Rosie, Parenthood, Rosie’s Cat, Angst with Happy Ending, Holidays, Beekeeping, Magical Realism, Sherlock POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Future Fic, Sussex, Honey, Magical Healing Honey, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Scar, First Kiss, Touching, Mycroft is Dying) – As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical.

Chaperones by MissDavis (T, 34,114 w., 7 Ch. || 11 Years Post-S4, Fake Relationship, Parentlock, Disney World, Bed / Room Sharing, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, First Kiss, Obsessive Sherlock, Insecure John) – Right. Of course. Everyone assumed they were a couple and no one would question it. John put his elbows up on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. "You want to pretend to be a couple so we can chaperone a trip to Disney World with Rosie's class and you won't have to share a room with a stranger?" "Exactly." Sherlock beamed at him. "Don't worry about the cost. The Birmingham case last month paid more than enough to cover expenses for all three of us."

we have never seen a greater day than this by Lediona (T, 36,420 w., 7 Ch. || A Royal Night Out AU || WWII / VE Day, Prince Sherlock, Soldier John, Alternating POV, First Kiss, Bittersweet Ending, Homophobia, Dancing) – Peace. At long last. It’s VE Day and Prince William desires to join the celebrations. It is a night of excitement, danger and the first flutters of romance.

Inscrutable to the Last by DiscordantWords (M, 48,842 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF, Alternate S3, John’s Blog/S3 is a Story By John, Divorce, Marital Difficulties, John is a Mess, Emotional Reunion, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Grief / Mourning, Pining John, First Kiss, Adorably Clueless Sherlock, Nostalgia, Love Confessions, Eventual Happy Ending) – He wasn't Sherlock, he couldn't work miracles. All he'd ever been able to do was write about them.

Given In Evidence by verityburns (M, 97,884 w., 19 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Angst, Drama, Case Fic, Romance, BAMF!John, Submissive Sherlock, First Kiss, Humour) – Coming back from the dead can be a complicated business. With a new case on the horizon, rebuilding a life is one thing... rebuilding a friendship quite another. For Sherlock and John, things may never be just the same...

Definitions by siennna (T, 101,528 w., 12 of ? Ch. || Dev. Rel., Pining, Fluff and Romance, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Fluff, Cuddles, Girl’s Night, Texting, Virgin Sherlock, Drunk Sherlock, Background Mollstrade, Hair Petting, Laying on Lap) – Sherlock’s journey in defining his flat mate and stumbling through the muddled world of emotion. {{This feels complete; the chapter count is listed as ? but I feel like it is done}}

[mymelodyheart]

Miles Between Us Chapter 14 ~The Element of Surprise ~

WARNING: VERY EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT

Previously in The Reunion

They fitted perfectly, her softness cradling his boneless heap, making him hard as steel again. Some part of his brain must have still been functioning because he jerked and reached out for her bra to cover her when his doorbell rang. Christ!  Forcing his body to move with marginal success, he yanked her up and pulled up his jeans.

Claire slid off the table and grabbed her clothes. "Who could that be?"

"That better not be yer uncle or ..." Jamie trailed off, muttering curses under his breath, annoyed at the disturbance as he was just revving up for part two of their lovemaking. When he opened the door, a sense of deja vu hit him when he saw Mrs Fitz standing there with what seemed like a plate of a lemon meringue pie. What the fuck?

"Mrs Fitz!"

The older woman didn't bother to hide her curiosity this time as her eyes tried to peer past his shoulders. "Heard ye have company, lad, and I havenae seen Miss Claire the last couple of days."

  If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

If you wish to read this from the beginning:

AO3 link

Tumblr link

  Six Days Later

Claire's heavy eyelids fluttered open, her brain still addled by sleep. It took her a while to gather her thoughts and remember how she'd made it to bed last night. She shifted slightly in bed, but there's a two-hundred-fifty pound of hard-muscled, naked male restricting her movement. Jamie's arm was draped across her waist, securing her against his chest, her legs confined under his heavier ones. She could feel his soft, steady breathing blowing warm air on top of her head, reminding her how well he'd been sleeping the last few nights. There had been no night terrors or unpleasant dreams interrupting his sleep, and she put it down to his workload during the day and their physical activities between the sheets at night.

Today was Friday, and the realisation caused a huge smile to spread across her face. Last night she'd worked late until past ten, and Jamie had found her fallen asleep in front of her laptop in her studio shed. He'd scooped her up in his arms and helped her get ready for bed, and just before sleep claimed her, he'd whispered he had a surprise for her today. 

She wondered what the surprise was and guess it would probably be a long lie-in for them and breakfast in bed. Looking back, the past few days had flown by in a blur, packed with work and catching up with her uncle Lamb during nights. Ever since her emotional reunion with Jamie, her work-related things had gone from a shamble of mess to running smoothly. It's as if the universe had decided to grant her reprieve as everyone went out their way to appease her. Even her boss John seemed to have given her space and was allowing her to work in peace. Somehow, deep down, she had a sneaking suspicion Jamie had something to do with it. 

It had all began at the start of the week when Jamie had been at work. Tom had stopped by the cottage to hand her a signed contract agreeing to his book's publication. By the time she'd told John the good news, he'd been in his element detailing his main point plan for getting the word out and announcing the book deal to Tom's adoring followers. She'd thought her boss would demand to get her and Tom on the next plane to London, but instead, John had told her he'd arranged a team to fly to Inverness for a formal meeting with their new author. As if that wasn't enough, two days later, Mary had produced enough drafts for Claire to work on and promised there would be more on the way. Her uncle, sensing work was piling, would occasionally stop by either to whip up something to eat or bring food while she'd been ensconced in her studio shed. Not that it was unusual for her uncle to perform domesticated pursuits; however, it's still surprising that he was going the extra mile to help around the house when he had the Highlands at disposal for his adventures being an outdoor person that he was.

It's becoming clear this week was proving to be a period of many turning points. She had no idea what the future had in store for her and Jamie, but she knew something had shifted in their relationship, and it was definitely for the better. Though she's still the same girl who's still trying to find her place in the world and fit in, she knew she'd changed, too. A few months ago, she would have probably backed down from any forms of conflicts, citing life as complicated enough without adding more complications. But she'd learned how to respond, choose fights that are worth fighting for and cast aside that wasn't deserving of her peace of mind. She'd also learned that once in a while, it's good for her sanity to give propriety and rules the middle finger when a situation called for it. 

It's hard to believe she's planning her life in the Highlands, the place where her parents had met and found love in each other. In her quest to get to know them more, she'd spent her holidays here to be closer to their memories and live that adventure they'd so craved. Now, she was involved with a man tormented with demons. If her parents were still alive today, she wondered how they would receive Jamie. Would they have been like Jenny or her uncle, suspicious and sceptical of their relationship? Or would they have been happy with her choice just like Willie, Brian, and Ellen have been with Jamie's?

Deep in her heart, she knew that her parents would have taken one look at them and understood that Jamie was special and meant to be her life adventure. From what Claire had surmised from uncle Lamb's stories, her parents have been that kind of people, magnanimous of spirit and always saw the best in others. Jamie was like that too. He'd taken a gamble with her despite their differences and the geographical challenges ahead. Though it seemed she was helping him with his condition, unbeknownst to Jamie, he too was helping her heal the part of her that became an orphan. In some invisible way, he was repairing something in the fabric of her world that had been torn down the middle when her parents passed away. She absorbed that thought and was reminded of what Uncle Lamb once told her, that her father always had a peculiar sense of humour. With that in mind, she'd like to think that just maybe her father had sent Jamie her way on purpose. His way of telling her to let go of the past, not over-think, embrace the Highlands as much as he had and just love.

Lying next to Jamie in bed, she felt totally at peace. They might have had a crisis of faith, but she was confident they'll find their way through whatever path was laid before them. Their love wasn't and probably never going to be easy, given their journey had been emotional, tangled with roadblocks, denials and self-preservation. Still, she wanted to find her way with him. She'd just discovered this strength she didn't realise she had, and Jamie continued to surprise her with his single-mindedness purpose to be cured. Someone once said there's no fulfilment without a bit of struggle. Just like in the stories she hoped to publish one day, the heroes had to break down first and bleed before earning their happy ending. Well, if that's the rule, she couldn't envision facing life's trials and tests with any other person to stand beside her other than Jamie.

Her smile was still in place when her thoughts were suspended by a rush of heat as Jamie's hand coasted over her hip to disappear between her thighs. A sudden thrill shot through her, making her breath catch in her lungs. He shifted the leg holding her thighs down and deftly opened her to his touch, stroking the sensitive flesh in between. She felt his shaft stir against her bottom as she scooted closer to him, eliciting a guttural sound to escape his lips.

"I can practically hear the cogs turning in yer head, Sassenach," he muttered thickly, his breathing turning shallow at the back of her neck. He nipped her earlobe between his teeth and tugged. "What's going on in that mind of yers?"

"Oh, this and that and how you've been sleeping soundly ...these last few nights." She gasped out loud when he rubbed her nub with a calloused thumb. She tilted her head back to look at his face, and her lips were met by a long-drawn, possessive kiss. By the time their mouths parted, she was panting for air and squirming against him mindlessly. 

"Christ, ye're ready for me. Why did ye no' wake me up?" He thrust his finger deep inside her, fondling the spot he knew drove her wild and frantic. "Next time ye want me, wake me up."

"I-I couldn't. You were sleeping so peacefully." 

He paused his ministrations. "That's no' the answer I was hoping to hear."

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! "Y-yes, next time, I'll wake you up!"

"That's my lass." He sank another finger into her entrance. But as she tried to clench around him, his fingers slid out, using her wetness to coat her nub and gently rub her aching flesh. She wanted to scream at him for teasing her, but he only softly chuckled against her neck. At that moment, she needed to come more than she needed air. She hoarsely whispered his name in a plea for release. "Ach, no' yet, Sassenach ... ye listen better when I'm touching ye." She yelped when he suddenly yanked the covers away and flipped her on her stomach, the crisp morning air caressing her heated skin. "Let me see first that beautiful arse of yers." He shoved a pillow beneath her hips, putting her in a highly arousing position, her face mushed against the mattress and her bottom in the air. "Such a beautiful bum."

"Jamie ..." 

He kneaded the curves of her buttocks as he let out a frustrated male groan. "Let us talk first. This is the only time I'm pretty sure ye're no' gonnae argue with me with what I'm about to say. Ye listening?"

"Yes, yes ...get on with it, damn it!"

He laughed out loud just before his lips travelled along the path of her spine, kissing and nibbling her flesh. One hand slid around her belly and down the apex of her thighs, slipping blunt fingers into her folds as his mouth moved to her neck. He lingered there, biting hard and then soothing the sting with a lick of his tongue. Anticipation pulsated within her body, and goosebumps erupted on her skin as the weight of his erection slid against her upturned bottom, and Jamie positioned himself behind her. When he hefted her higher with his forearm, she let out a squeak. "Ye'll no' be working this weekend."

"Jamie," she whimpered. "B-but I can't."

"Oh yes, ye can." Skilled fingers stroke her sensitive nub, and with one thrust of his hips, he completely filled her, taking her by surprise. She nearly screamed, pressing her mouth against the mattress, suddenly mindful of nosey neighbours. She remembered what Jamie had told her about Mrs Fitz and muffled her moans on the covers of the bed.

"Oh, God, this is not fair," she breathed on an uneven exhale.

"I told ye last night, I have a wee surprise for ye. Ye've worked long enough this week. Ye're taking a wee break this weekend." When she didn't respond, he stilled his hips and took out his fingers from inside her. "You need a break, Sassenach. Now, for the love of God, just say yes, Jamie."

When Jamie drew out his hardness and plunged deeply back into her, heart-stopping sensations coursed through her whole body. Something about how he positioned her, the fluid, smooth drives of his movement made her mad with need. She wanted to urge him to go faster, but she clamped her mouth shut. He was deliberately torturing her and forcing her to agree with him. So she decided she was going to get her own back. Contracting her inner walls, she clenched around him. From experience, she knew the more he had to work to push into her, the wilder he would become. Just when she thought she finally got the upper hand, he paused and dropped his weight, stopping just short of squashing her. "No, no, no! Please don't stop!" she wailed.

"Oh, aye." He pushed his lower body tight to her bottom, his erection throbbing inside her. When she tried to wriggle her bum to urge him to start moving again, he firmly gripped her hips in place. "Ah, I ken what ye're up to," he whispered hotly in her ears. "I'm no' taking no for an answer. Ye owe this break to yourself."

"You don't play fair."

"Neither do ye."

Thinking she could compromise later after spending the whole morning with him, she finally conceded. "Fine. Just keep moving, for God's sake!" she hissed.

He let out a pained laugh and pressed his lips on the crook of her neck. "Good lass, ye ken it makes sense." Then cursing under his breath, he moved all the way out in one smooth slide before deliciously gliding deep back. "Christ, I can feel ye want to come, but ye're going to stay with me a little longer. Ye fell asleep on me last night, leaving me with a painful cockstand." 

"Jesus, Jamie."

"Aye," he rasped hoarsely into her hair. "I said the same thing when ye wriggled that pert arse against me and fell asleep immediately."

The way his thickness was invading her from an angle almost sent her hurtling over the edge. And it gave her a new appreciation for math. The thought almost made her laughed out loud if it wasn't for the pulsing pleasure between her legs.

"Christ ...look at ye," Jamie gritted, his voice sounding raw and almost severe. "So bloody perfect." 

He nudged her legs wider and changed his movements to short, strong strokes, increasing his pace with primitive energy that left her gasping for breath. With the sound of their slapping bodies, the earthy scent of arousal, the sweaty slide of skin, her belly began to tighten and coil.

"I just want to make ye happy, Sassenach," he groaned, bearing down his upper body more, his hips relentlessly pounding into hers. "So just say yes to my wee surprise, aye?" 

"Yes, yes, yes." Their voices sounded so far away, and her initial hesitation about taking a break from work almost forgotten. Not entirely, though. She tried to grasp that mental note about emails to be sent, but the hand gripping her hips moved, and fingers slid to rub her nub, stroking and pushing her further towards her peak. She gave in and widened her thighs to let him fill her more. But it left her no time to prepare for the release that shattered her apart, her love for him and the physical pleasure fusing to intensify the sensations blasting through her. It threatened to overwhelm her, but Jamie's presence anchored her as he followed her over, groaning her name, gripping her hips with a fierceness as he claimed her for his. 

Moments later, he pulled her boneless body in his arms and tucked her into his chest, tugging the covers over them and curving his front to her back. He held her tightly as the morning light streamed through the windows. 

Battling to keep her eyes open, thoughts of work slithered in, but it kept flittering away with her consciousness before she could dwell on it. Maybe just for a minute, she thought. But Jamie smelled so good, and his tender strokes enticed a hazy sleep to claim her muscles, dragging her down into the dark. Just one minute. 

As she eased into sleep, his whisper drifted toward her unconscious. "It's still early, Sassenach. Sleep a wee bit more. Your wee surprise will come soon enough."

..........

Claire woke for the second time that morning with an unladylike shriek when the mattress dipped and moved. Muddled, she jackknifed into a sitting position, eyes scanning wildly around the curtain-dimmed room for a trespasser. Claire knew someone was there, her gut instinct telling her it wasn't Jamie. Summoning her eyes to refocus, she collapsed with relief when she realised who it was sat at the foot of the bed.

"Surprise!" Annalise squealed, clapping her hands.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" She swiped her bedraggled hair out of her face. "You scared me bloody witless."

"Bloody hell, you're jumpy." Annalise shifted a hip on the bed. "Jamie's bad dreams rubbing off on you now, are they?"

"That's not something to joke about," she glowered at her friend, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Annalise' smile waned a bit. "Hey, what's up? I'm not making fun of Jamie's nightmares, and you know that." Her shoulders slumped. "In case you don't know, bad dreams can happen to anyone. In fact, I had a bad dream a few days ago. I was being chased by a pirate."

Suddenly feeling bad for snapping at her friend, she mentally dispersed the sleep fog in her brain and gave Annalise an apologetic smile. So this was her surprise, she thought. Not that Claire wasn't happy to see her friend, but she'd expected Jamie's surprise to be a romantic weekend with him. She let out a sigh. "Chased by a pirate, huh? Let me guess ...sunken chest and no booty?"

Annalise perked up at Claire's feeble attempt to sound less grumpy. "Har de har har! I didn't realise you could be funny before coffee. A total package for a marauding pirate if I may say so."

"Tell that to Captain Beard," she mumbled, getting out of bed. 

"Aye, matey!" Annalise mischievously winked. "That's if he happens to be in Isle of Harris this weekend. Which is where, by the way, we're going, as in, now! So get packing!"

Claire stilled and shook her head. "Wot?" She began to shake her head, tugging the covers around her as she made her way to the dresser. "Oh no, no, no! I'm not leaving this place for any man or woman, including you, blondie! I've got a pile of work to do. You know I have deadlines."

"Oh no, you don't. You stop right there, missy! Have you forgotten you agreed with Jamie to take a weekend break?" 

Claire's eyes widened. "Oh, did he also tell you how he got me to agree?"

"No. But you can tell me later on the plane."

"Plane?" Claire dropped her face in her hands. "Oh, God, I can't believe I agreed to this. Jamie never told me anything."

Annalise stood up from where she was sitting and crossed her arms across her chest. "Hmmm, you don't look too happy to be spending time with me."

She puffed out a breath. "It's not that ..."

"We haven't had girly time in ages, Claire. Jamie thought it would do you a world of good to have a bit of fun."

"So now what? You and Jamie plotting and ganging up on me behind my back, is that it?" Claire accused. "What about Willie? Surely, you miss him more than me. When was the last time you saw him?"

Annalise grinned. "Don't worry about Willie. We have been doing a lot of catching up all night last night, and you want to know what he did?"

Claire's face crumpled in disgust as she held up a hand. "Oh, gross! Too much information. I don't want to hear about your sex life."

Annalise laughed out loud. "Fine, I won't discuss our sex life if you start packing now. Besides, you wouldn't want to waste the tickets Jamie worked so hard for, now, do you?"

Oh dear Lord, save me from well-meaning friends! She didn't really want to leave, but if Jamie had spent money organising this trip, she wasn't about to let it go to waste. But ... "How about uncle Lamb? He came to see me, and I can't just leave him."

"He knows all about the trip, and I've been told he's got a few excursions planned around the Highlands." 

"Oh, well ...if that's the case, I need to call Mary and John and let them know what I'm up to this weekend."

Annalise grinned. "Jamie's sorted it already."

"Wot?" she exclaimed with disbelief, her hands landing onto her hips. "Jamie's been planning this with you all along, hasn't he?" She shook her head. "I-I can't believe it!"

"You better believe it."

Claire blew out a breath of exasperation. "Fine! Grab my suitcase. It's in the airing cupboard."

"Yay!" Annalise whirled on her feet and pumped her fist in the air. Claire couldn't help but smile as enthusiasm began to wiggle its way through her system. Maybe Jamie was right. She owed it to herself to have a break, and probably a change of scenery was what she needed. After Mary had delivered the goods, Claire had worked herself to the bone all week and sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. She was already in her second round of edits on the extensive manuscripts Mary had submitted and must admit they were indeed making progress. As for Tom, her job with him was done, and the team organised by John should be arriving next week. It was definitely time for a bit of fun. 

On second thoughts, though it was generous of Jamie to arrange the trip, it would have been nice if he could come along too. But the idea of Jamie's condition worsening with something as simple as weekend trips away brought a feeling of melancholy to descend upon her. She had no doubt Jamie would be cured, and they'd be able to travel together one day, so she forced herself to shake off the momentary bout of wistfulness when Annalise came bounding back with her small suitcase.

"So ...you talked to Jamie. Where is he, by the way?" she asked, grabbing clothes from the dresser and throwing them in the bed. "He left early this morning."

"Oh! Jamie said he needed to be somewhere important, and he'll see you when we return. Willie will be driving us to the airport." When Claire frowned, Annalise came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, we'll only be away for two days, and you'll see him again Sunday night."

It was apparent to Claire she'd been at a disadvantage waking up to the news of the weekend trip because if Jamie had suggested it a few days ago, she would have definitely put her foot down and refused. Unfortunately, Annalise and Jamie knew her too well; hence they'd planned this trip in secrecy.

Claire absorbed that for a few heartbeats and felt a tad of guilt. It had been a while she'd spent time with Annalise, and once her job was done in London, she'd be living with Jamie. Plus, who knew when she'd have another chance to hang out with her best friend ...just the two of them and in the Isle of Harris at that. Besides, they always had a great time together. There was no sense in spoiling their spontaneous weekend with her stubbornness. She might as well make the most of it.

Claire turned to face her friend and smiled. "Do I have time to shower?"

"Plenty of time," Annalise beamed. "While you get ready, I'll make some coffee. I know what you're like without your cuppa first thing." And with that, she danced out of the room, whistling, leaving Claire to shake her head in amusement.

Later that morning, as they drove past the motorway exit for the airport, Claire shifted restlessly in the backseat of Willie's car, watching the familiar structure pass by in a blur outside her window. She frowned. Willie must have forgotten to take the turn. Uh oh! But before she could say anything, Willie veered to a different dual-carriageway. She tried to relax back into her seat, thinking there was probably a different route to the airport she didn't know of.

Eventually, they pulled to a stop in front of a building that didn't resemble a terminal, but there was an airfield and a charter plane coming out of the hangar. When Willie stepped out of the car, a man with worn jeans, a black leather jacket and a pair of aviators waved. He looked kind of familiar, but Claire was unsure.

"Who is that?" Claire asked quietly.

Annalise followed her line of vision. "Oh, I thought you knew that guy." She frowned when Claire shook her head and squinted to get a better look. "I was told the guy flying our plane was the soon to be famous Highlands' ultimate guide to Scotland." As if on cue, the man removed his aviators and started walking towards their car, a smile plastered to his unshaven face. When he waved at them, Annalise giggled, and Claire's eyes widened in confusion. "You probably can't recognise him from afar ...it's your author, Tom Christie," Annalise announced with a satisfied smile and to her utmost shock. "He's flying us to Stornoway."

What the bloody hell? Jamie arranged this?

 Dear Readers,

Thank you all for your readership and the feedback from the previous chapter. I'm super thrilled a lot of you enjoyed it after what I put you all through with Jamie and Claire's roller-coaster journey. I hope it was worth it all in the end.

Speaking of the end, the next chapter will be the last for this arc, and after taking a break, I will start arc three of the WONDERWALL series. I'll keep you updated here. Meanwhile, feel free to speculate what the next chapter will be. Until my next update, wishing you all good health and vibes. X

[thosequeenboys]

Super Trouper (John Deacon x Reader)

Summary:  You and John Deacon became good friends during college.  When John joins a band, you both thought it was a fun hobby - until it became more. Over the years, you each followed your own career paths and shared your love of music, staying in touch mainly through letters, as friends -- until he invites you to Queen’s show at Madison Square Garden in 1980.

A/N: This piece was written for @imcompletelylost for the Possessed by Love Event.  I was so excited to be your creator, as we have some musical interests in common that I incorporated into the story. I hope you enjoy them. The story is based on my favorite ABBA song. Thank you @yourlocalmusicalprostitute for coordinating this event.  Thank you, @warriorteam1924 for great beta reading, ideas & support.  Also thanks to @mirkwoodshewolf and @iwilltrytobereasonable for brainstorming and your terrific ideas.

Warnings:  2-parts fluff to 1-part angst.  Band and song dates may not perfectly align with the story time frames.  I hope music historians will be forgiving, and any lapses will not detract from the story.

 It’s 1971, and you and your best friend, John Deacon, were in the cafeteria line pushing your trays along the railing.  Each of you grabbed a plate of sodden fish and chips from under the orange warming lights. After four years, you still missed a good old American burger and fries, but aside from the food, attending college in London had been a great experience.

“They asked me to audition. Seem like a good gaggle of guys.” John laughed at his alliteration.

“They call themselves Queen? Like, Your Majesty?” you queried.

“Indeed,” John affirmed. “The lead singer, Freddie, is an art student. He’s drawing a crest. And there’s Brian and Roger.  They’re science students.”

“Lovely!” you enthused.

“A good distraction from studies.” John concurred. “Though they do seem quite ambitious.”

“Can’t hurt to give it a go,” you shrugged. “Though good thing you all will have those polished degrees to fall back on,” you said, only half joking.

“I am pleased to confer your degrees upon you. Congratulations to the class of 1972,”  the Dean asserted with a tight grin.  The audience broke out into polite applause.  You looked around a bit bewildered. You missed the American tradition of giddy graduates tossing their mortarboards in the air with abandon. After a quick embrace, you and John made your way to the local pub to meet up with his band mates, now considered your friends.

“So, Y/N,” Brian said, placing a beer down before you, “You’re heading back to America next year? So willing to leave our lush gardens, cultural sophistication -- and our dear friend, John?

“Not to mention, the next band destined for greatness,” Freddie declared with a broad smile as he tucked his chin slightly, his long hair falling into his face.

“Yes, well,” you took a deep breath feeling four sets of eyes upon you. “The advertising agency I worked for during school offered me a position in their New York office.  Always wanted to live in New York.  I will miss London’s beauty and culture,” your voice lilted with the faint British accent you had picked up.

“And…” Roger prompted you to respond to the end of Brian’s statement.

“And, yes, the people I’ve met,” you spat out. You shot a glance at John, and you melted as you felt his eyes meeting yours. “And the memorable times I’ve had. With them.” you added, trying to sound light, but you felt tears collecting on the rim of your eyes and you blinked to dissipate them. You knew their presence resulted from the thought of leaving the most important person to you-the lithe, long-haired brunette, whose grey eyes you were now lost in-your best friend, John. Only a friend, the last four years had established. You grabbed a napkin and subtly dabbed at your eyes.

John blinked, and his lips fell into a grin that made his eyes crinkle. “You can’t be talking about our first day as chemistry lab partners when your signature hand movements to Dancing in the Street knocked the beaker clear off the table, smashing it to a million pieces.” John smirked.

“No,” you laughed, moving past your embarrassment to counter, “I’m actually thinking about the time we stayed up all night to write our English papers and finished each other’s sentences, taking sips of beer after each successful line.”

“Some of the best writing the University has ever seen,” John deadpanned, as he looked up wistfully. “And one of the highest English scores I ever earned, legless or sober.” He added, rubbing his chin.

“There it is then,” Roger interjected.

You both looked at him mystified.

“You’ll stay in touch by writing letters. Though you’ll each have to finish your own sentences, I suppose.” Roger concluded, unleashing his playful smile.

*****

Your tight bell bottoms skimmed the floor and the loose open-neck cotton blouse with colorful embroidery flowed around your curves. You glanced at your bags piled by the door, moving over to check one to distract yourself from the impending onslaught of emotions. A soft knock interrupted your nervous efforts. You rezipped the bag as John entered and halted, taking you in.  His swallowed, and his mind revisited the thoughts he repeated to himself over the last few weeks. If only. If only this conversation could be different. If only I said something sooner. If only we wouldn’t be risking our friendship. If only you wanted this to be more. ‘If I only had the words to tell you, If you only had the time to understand. Though I know it wouldn't change your feelings, And I know you'll carry on the best you can.’ (1) You’d probably go anyway, he had concluded.

“Thanks for seeing me off,” You said, avoiding his gaze.

“I…I brought you something,” John blurted out, as his long fingers dug into the front pocket of his faded bell bottoms. He thrust a rectangular box toward you.

You forced a smile through your tense face and lifted the lid. You pulled out a delicate sterling silver chain that held a mounted luminescent grey oval stone with angular cuts that refracted blue hues.  “John, it’s…beautiful,” you said, as you reached behind your neck to fasten it.

“Here, let me,” he moved behind you, his strong fingers overlaying yours to ease the clasp, as he thought of the day he purchased the gift. Brian had accompanied John to the jewelry shop, and as they peered into the display case, Brian suddenly gasped. “Oh, a moonstone. So beautiful how it catches the light and changes colors.  This is really exquisite, John.  And, it will be a reminder that even apart, you’ll still share the same moon.”

Back to the present, John stepped in front of you and admired the gift resting splendidly between your collarbones, perfectly framed by your open blouse. “I’m not into all that crystal nonsense,” John said, “but it’s said to be a calming gemstone. And a wise man said, it will remind us that though we’re apart, we’ll be sharing the same moon.” John figured Brian wouldn’t mind him lifting his line.

“Oh John, that’s lovely,” you leaned in to hug him, and as he returned the embrace, your denim jeans pressed together and your arms pulled each other close. How could you be leaving this, him? You had to accept that nothing more was meant to be.

“Wait! I have something for you!” You pulled away suddenly, knowing time was of the essence, and reached into your bag, retrieving a long black box.  You held it out to John, who opened it quickly. He held up the beautiful pen engraved with JRD.

“Now that we’ll be writing to each other….” You indicated.

“It’s perfect.” John said his eyes shifting between you and the gift.  Before you could embrace again, a horn blared. “Cab’s here. Let me grab some bags,” John looked down, hefted two bags and headed out the door. You looked around your flat, grabbed your last suitcase and purse.  As you entered the hallway and slowly shut the door, you knew this special chapter in your life had ended.  And you hoped Roger was right: that your friendship with John would continue from afar.

*****

Sirens blared outside as you dragged yourself up the four flights of stairs.  You felt a corner of the record digging into your side through your thin fabric bag. Once inside your apartment, you pulled the record out of the beautiful jacket, and read the song list on the label.  You propped open the heavy lid of your record player and blew on the vinyl disk before placing it gingerly on the turntable.  You flipped the on switch, and the album turned rhythmically.  You carefully lifted the needle, hovering it over the fourth groove as the record turned, waiting to release it at just the right place to start the song, at just the right indentation to avoid a scratch. You steadied your fingers and eased the needle down carefully. After a beat, success! ‘Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?’ (2)  You took a deep breath as the beautiful, familiar melody consumed you, taking you on an emotional journey, flooding your small flat. You kicked off your heels, curled up on the couch and grabbed your writing kit from the side table.

Dear John,

I’m listening to Bohemian Rhapsody-on my own record player! What a work of art!  I loved your last letter describing your creative adventures with the boys at Ridge Farm. The song sums up how I’ve been feeling recently: my fantasy of working at a big ad agency has been replaced by the reality that starting out, it’s more grunt work than glamour.  Accepting that helps me stick with it. And, it calls into question, what really matters in life?  And what is Scaramouche, anyway? Ha-ha. Give the boys my love and let them know I am so proud of them and so pleased you’re all getting deserved recognition.  Too bad those hard-earned degrees are going to waste! Cheers, Y/N

Dearest Y/N,

Yes, the reception for A Night at the Opera has been a whirlwind and exceeded our wildest dreams.  Speaking of which, I had a dream we were back at Uni playing the finishing sentences game in your flat. I handed you my notebook and instead of words, there were musical notes. Probably because I’ve been writing some songs. In fact, I wrote You’re my Best Friend for you.  True story.  Yours, John

*****

Dearest Y/N,

I know we were both disappointed that we missed each other during our recent US tour. I hope your business trip was all it was supposed to be. Well, we’re back in London now, having had to cut the tour short in Boston, as Brian was very ill-and is still recovering from Hepatitis. Suffice it to say, it was very scary. But, you know him, as ill as he was, he was still writing. He was afraid we’d kick him out of the band, which we would never do. We are brothers, family.  I thought the band was just a hobby, and now I can’t imagine my life without being part of Queen.  Love to you always, John

Dear John,

My goodness, I hope Brian has recovered, and you have as well from a stressful trip. Speaking of trips, mine was…very good. I met someone special… Eric. We just clicked-about life. He’s in Boston. And get this! He was supposed to see the show you had to cancel because of Brian’s illness. He was so impressed that I knew you all ‘way back when.’ Can’t wait to see him next weekend. Not picking out the wedding gown yet….But, I did pick up Billy Joel’s early album Street Life Serenade. The Entertainer reminds me of you and the boys: ‘I am the entertainer. And I know just where I stand. Another serenader. And another long-haired band. Today I am your champion. I may have won your hearts. But I know the game, you'll forget my name. And I won't be here in another year, if I don't stay on the charts.’. Well, you don’t have to worry about the last line. You guys will be on the charts for the foreseeable future-and beyond. I also thought it was funny that he wrote, ‘if you’re gonna have a hit, you gotta make it fit, so they cut it down to 3:05.’ (3) Tell Freddie he proved that wrong with Bohemian Rhapsody! Take care and hugs to Brian. Cheers, Y/N

****

Dearest Y/N:

That’s a great song! Joel’s descriptions are certainly accurate, but they don’t capture everything. It’s been a tough time. Tensions permeate the group, and there are lots of arguments. I do think in a weird way they help to fuel creativity, but it can feel exhausting. Even though you and I are not together, I feel you with me, soothing me, steadying me. Truthfully, that helps calm me-and helps me to soothe the boys and try to keep us all focused. I hope you are happy. You’re my Best Friend. Love, John

Dear John,

I’m sure you are a great calming influence for the band. You are a stalwart trouper during tough times indeed!

Speaking of calming, your beautiful necklace has been soothing me as I try to move on from the failed love affair with my Bostonian. The line from Summer, Highland Falls sums it up: ‘How thoughtlessly we dissipate our energies. Perhaps we don’t fulfill each other’s fantasies. We are always what our situations hand us-it’s either sadness or euphoria.’ (4) It was a roller coaster of grand fun and tense irreconcilable disagreements. He was very inflexible, wanting everything on his terms. I realize everything was easy with you and me; there was a give and take.  Knowing you’re there for me – and that we share the same moon – helps.  Cheers and love, Y/N

*****

The boys were nursing warm drinks in a Munich bar, as John pulled the letter out of his jacket and scanned it again.  The boys eyed him, sensing relief that John found hard to cover.

“It’s OK to gloat, John.  Glad she dumped that selfish bloke,” Roger said. “You’ve been a trouper all these years, being a great friend to Y/N. It must be hard though.  I mean, you’ve always wanted more…”

Freddie put his beer down loudly on the table and took a commanding tone. “Enough with this letter-writing rubbish.  Now is your time, John!  Invite her to our upcoming Madison Square Garden show! YES!!! We’ll have your dressing room decorated with lights and big bouquets of fragrant flowers brought in from the nearby Flower District!  And Moet of course!” Fred’s words spilled out of him, as the images came into focus.

Roger jumped in. “We’ll arrange a limo to bring her to the show. She’ll be escorted to her front row seat-and then backstage after the show to meet you privately. Finally! You’ll tell her how you feel; ask her to move to London and….”

“Guys, wait, wait!” Brian said in a measured tone.  “This is John’s decision.  It’s a big step for him, and he…”

“Really, Dear,” Fred interrupted, trying to hold back an eye roll and a disdainful tone, “Must you be such a Dolly Downer?”  

John looked at his band mates warmly, touched that they clearly wanted what was best for him.  “Well, I do appreciate the premiere matchmaking services of Mercury-Taylor. And May is right, it’s a big step.” John hesitated. He felt he was on a precipice looking out into a sea mixed with excitement and anxiety, like waves gathering, crashing gently toward each other before rushing out at low tide. He added haltingly, “It…it may be too late.”

“Well, you won’t know unless you try.  It would be nice for you to share the same moon on the same continent,” Brian said with a wink to John.

John smiled as a lyric came to his mind, ‘You can't be everything you want to be before your time. Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight.’ (5)  “Maybe it’s my time. Our time,” he said, casting a smile at his friends.

“Wonderful! I’ll tell Miami the arrangements to be made!” Freddie said decisively.

******

Your office meeting stretched into the night, not an unusual occurrence, though the head of the firm addressing a small team of top-performing staff was unprecedented. “We have acquired a number of significant clients in London, and we will be expanding our office there.  If any of you are interested in a position, please let me know in the next two weeks.”  As the meeting ended, your colleague turned to you, “How about we let off some steam at the Palladium?” Sounded good to you. After the bouncer removed the velvet rope, you were welcomed to the club by pulsating music and lights thrown off a large disco ball hanging from the ceiling.  You entered the dance floor and started to move to the blaring beat, ‘Gimme gimme, gimme a man after midnight.’ (6) You realized it wasn’t any man you wanted. It was John.  Maybe you should take a position in London.  Maybe you and he….But you were getting ahead of yourself.  Tomorrow you’d have a front row seat at Queen’s Madison Square Garden concert and a private reunion with John afterwards. For now, as usual, you let the music envelop you and move through you, expressing your feelings.

*****

You were ready to go in a black leather miniskirt, white sleeveless tank top and your white go-go boots. Your nerves were making a cameo; as you clasped John’s necklace your fingers shook.  You entered the waiting limousine and stretched out in the back, enjoying the rare city view from a car.  It sure beat riding the subway.  Upon arrival at the VIP entrance, you were escorted to your seat.  Your stomach felt hollow, and you had to consciously remind yourself to breathe.  As you settled in, taking in the huge stage, thoughts coursed through you:  Here you were: sitting front row at Madison Square Garden, seeing Queen-a band you knew and truly admired, reuniting with John -- and hopefully clarifying your future.  You tried to push it all aside as the hot spotlights lit the stage, signaling the start of the show.

In the wing backstage, John shifted from foot to foot as he peered out onto the stage lit only by four glaring spotlights that cascaded over the smoke. He could already feel the heat from those lights, but he knew there was more to the warmth creeping through him: you were out there, and the two of you would be reunited soon. A smile bloomed across his face as he took in the roar of the crowd. ‘Suddenly I feel all right, and it's gonna be so different when I'm on the stage tonight. Tonight, the super trouper lights are gonna find me shining like the sun, smiling, having fun, feeling like a number one, Tonight the super trouper beams are gonna blind me, but I won't feel blue like I always do. 'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you.’(7)

Ratty gave the queue, and Freddie led the boys in a bounding stage entrance. John took his place behind Freddie’s piano. The powerful beams prevented him from seeing the fans, but he wasn’t blinded. He saw more clearly now than he ever had.

The show was magnificent, and after the encore, the boys met again in the stage wing, as the roadies handed them towels.  

“Your dressing room is ready!” Freddie reassured. “We snuck in a few candles, though we are violating New York City Fire Code,” he added with a wink, and glance at Roger, who tried unsuccessfully to conceal a laugh.  

Brian rolled his eyes and raised his hands dramatically in front of himself. “News Headline:  Queen burns up Madison Square Garden.  Literally.”

“For a good cause, though!” Roger defended.

“Thanks, Guys,”  John said softly, nodding to his best friends. “Wish me luck.”

John’s heart beat faster with each step down the long corridor.  As he opened the door he spotted you seated on a couch, and he gasped.  You stood, and he reached out his hand, which you took, as you swayed your hips slightly to release some nervous energy.  

“Y/N, I’d hug you but…I’m a sweaty mess,” John said, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re so beautiful.”

“You look gorgeous-you always did,” you said. “The show was fantastic!  And I love what you’ve done to the place,” you said coyly, gesturing around the romantically lit room, dotted with lush bouquets and a champagne bucket. “Who knew The Garden had such impeccable decorating taste?”

“It was Fred and Roger’s doing, actually,” He chuckled.  “Sit, sit.” He bent into the couch and still holding your hand, he eased you down with him.

You both started to speak at the same time:  “Y/N, I wanted to tell you that I….”   “John, my company has positions in the UK and I’m thinking of taking one….”

“Is that what you want? To return to London?” John asked, trying and failing to temper his excitement.

You stared at each other.  “If,” you said, gathering courage and then shaking your head to change the point. “It isn’t just work I want to return for…It’s…well, I know you probably have girls lining up, but I…”

“No.” John cut you off.  There’s never been anyone serious. There couldn’t be.  There’s only been you.  All these years.” He swallowed before continuing. “Tonight…the reason for all this, I was planning to tell you that I love you, always have, always will, and ask if you’d consider coming back to the UK.  Back home, to me….”

“Yes! A definite yes!”  You embraced with some distance between you, and John broke apart sporting a broad grin.  “Oh, Y/N!  I…. I need to shower and then we can continue our plans. I’m so happy!  And I need to tell the boys that their matchmaking efforts worked-and that as Brian said, we’ll be enjoying the moon together-from the same place.”

‘Whenever we’re together, that’s my home,’ (8) you said, letting your happy tears flow.

Song Notes

1.    If I Only Had the Words, Billy Joel

2.    Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen

3.    The Entertainer, Billy Joel

4.    Summer, Highland Falls, Billy Joel

5.    Vienna, Billy Joel

6.    Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (A Man after Midnight), ABBA

7.    Super Trouper, ABBA

8.    You’re My Home, Billy Joel

[ratingtheframe]

Enola Holmes, The Devil All the Time and i’m thinking of ending things: Everything I watched in September.

Thank God we are almost at the end of the year. With October just around the corner and 2021 in full view, it seems like the film industry is slowly piecing themselves back together after months of being on a complete hiatus. Cinemas are slowly starting to return back to normal and streaming services are now full to capacity with content.

Netflix in particular has some exciting things to come and the successful release of Harry Bradbeer’s Enola Holmes and Antonio Campos’ The Devil All the Time, has proven that their ability to produce outstanding content hasn’t been stunted at all by COVID-19. Here are the 31 titles I watched this month and for you to add to your watch list. 

Searching (2018) as seen on Netflix

Searching recently came onto Netflix, however the film was actually first released in 2018, screening at Sundance Film Festival. It had a very impressive response and grossed $75 million worldwide and with a budget of only $880,000 it was certainly a success. I rate this film highly, due to the simplicity and execution of it, with a lot of twists and turns in appropriate places. Structurally, the film is flawless and it’s clear a lot of thought had gone into the payoff of the entirety of the film. Certainly an indie filmmaker's dream and a film to watch to learn about the “less is more” rule of screenwriting.

Score: 10/10

Zodiac (2007) as seen on Netflix

I’ve been avoiding Zodiac on Netflix for a loooong time, and after watching it I wonder why I didn’t check it out sooner. David Fincher’s (Fight Club, Panic Room, the Social Network) thriller based on the case files of the “Zodiac Killer” stars the likes of Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Junior and Jake Gyllenhaal, all of which had amazing on screen chemistry. The dialogue and structure is Aaron Sorkin-esque as you figuratively become one the detectives, unravelling the case as the two and a half hour film delves deeper and deeper. You honestly feel as if you become one of the team whilst watching Zodiac and just for that, it goes down as a praise worthy film with a perfect structure and surprising twist to the end. Zodiac is the thriller of thrillers.

Score: 11/10

I See You (2019) as seen on Netflix

Now a film like I see you has me questioning

Netflix’s

choices a little. The film scores handsomely on

Rotten Tomatoes

, with a metric score of

78%,

which is quite high for a largely gimmicky film. I can’t quite fault the overall concept, however the story itself fell flat by the end. Things just seemed to mount too much to the point that it became overtly inauthentic and questionable. Instead of paying attention to the movie, I found myself picking up all the irregularities such as why a police man would suffocate someone, drive them to their own home and then shoot them in the head. Surely a policeman would just leave her in the woods? On a brighter note,

Judah Lewis’ (Babysitter: Killer Queen)

was quite praiseworthy in his performance, but it wasn’t enough to drag the film out of a hole of confusion.

Score: 2/10

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998) as seen on Netflix

If there is one film that you NEED to watch from this list, it would be Terry Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The crackhead energy in this film is OFF THE CHARTS as Johnny Depp and Benecio Del Toro play two drug addicts exploring Las Vegas. The production design in this is marvellous and really captures the psychedelic world the two men enter every time they’re high. I particularly enjoyed Depp’s narration throughout this; his voice is the most sensual yet hilarious thing to listen to for 2 hours straight. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is HILARIOUS and such a well rounded, off the wall film to watch.

Score: 12/10

I’m thinking of ending things (2020) as seen on Netflix 

Even though I watched i’m thinking of ending things nearly a month ago, I’m still recovering from it. Charlie Kaufman (Adaptation, Being John Malkovich) directs this satisfying yet highly confusing tale based on the Iain Reid book with the same title. Despite it’s perplexing plot, I certainly can’t fault the film’s performances or set design. Jesse Plemons, Jess Buckley, Toni Colette and David Thwelis made a surprisingly good ensemble and the makeup in this film is probably the best I have ever seen. HOWEVER and this is a big however, the waywardness of the story can’t override the success of artistry behind the film. I feel like there’s becoming a trend where films are visually perfect but make zero sense. By sense I mean a clear, concise story, that has character journeys and some sort of resolution at the end, no matter how big or small. I’m thinking of ending things that had just about NONE of these elements, and that doesn’t make it a bad film at all. It’s certainly not a film I’ve seen before and perhaps it raises the questions whether films need to make complete sense in order for them to be good. We can take a look at experimental cinema to delve deeper into that theory, for within this type of cinema, films can still be appreciated even when they are confusing. Perhaps the meaning of i’m thinking of ending things, is more powerful and higher than the average movie goer can understand, but still appreciate.

score: 9/10

Hacksaw Ridge (2016) as seen on Amazon Prime

Again, another film I’ve been avoiding for a loooong time and regret not watching sooner. The film stars Andrew Garfield as a devoted Christian who goes to war to serve his country, but refuses to carry a weapon yet lives to tell the tale. Preacher Desmond T. Doss saved the lives of between 50-100 men on Hacksaw Ridge during the Second World War. He was heavily commended for his service and the film itself earnt 6 Academy Award nominations. It’s a story that was born to be on screen and it’s hard to believe it was all true. Andrew Garfield’s performance was exemplary and he is definitely underrated as a truthful actor.

Score: 10/10

Fear (1996) as seen on Netflix 

I am sucker for a thriller, good OR bad and this one from 1996 was surprisingly decent. Starring Mark Wahlberg and Reese Witherspoon in their early days, Fear follows a pair of young lovers whose strong relationship turns into a possessive one, when Witherspoon’s character, Nicole learns the true intentions of her boyfriend. It's a 90s teen flick that isn’t talked about enough and certainly an easy one to get sucked into as a guilty pleasure.

Score: 10/10

Make Up (2019) as seen at the BFI Southbank 

Make Up first screened at the London Film Festival last year and was later released this year. I wanted to catch it at the festival and was glad it made it into cinemas. The eeriness of the british film directed by Claire Oakley, was a slow burnt, intriguing watch, however as artistically visual it was, a satisfying resolution to the film was missed. The payoff of the story was easy to define despite it’s ambiguity, however it wasn’t as hard hitting as it should’ve been, which is common in most indie features. The better ones expose ideas and truths in a punchy way, such as La Haine or Whiplash. The film’s genre was also undefinebale and although the story was interesting, I wouldn't be inclined to come back for more of it. 

Score: 7/10

Zoolander (2001) as seen on Netflix

I’m not a huge comedy fan, however it’s about time I watched Zoolander, for it’s probably one of the most iconic films of the early 2000s. The film follows a model targeted by a fashion brand who wants him to kill the prime minister of Malaysia. Anyone who was anyone in the 00s is in this film, from Naomi Campbell to Lil’ Kim, Paris Hilton, Donald Trump, Lenny Kravitz, Natalie Porter and even David Bowie. How they managed to get these famous faces as well as the actual cast (Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller and Will Ferrell) onto this film is certainly a mastery at casting. As far as comedies go, Zoolander is iconic and a must watch for those who are thoroughly in love with these types of outlandish films. 

Score: 8/10

American Pie (2001) as seen on Netflix 

This is the my first time seeing American Pie and for someone who hates comedies, it thoroughly made me laugh. I definitely had to look past at the amount of misogyny and questionable scenes in this film and just sit back and enjoy it all. I felt that all four leads (Jason Briggs, Thomas Ian Nicholas, Chris Klein and Eddie Kaye Thomas) were well casted as an ensemble and were really down to earth in their performances. They were authentic in being high school boys still figuring themselves out and in the end I found each one to be highly likeable. As a comedy, this is definitely a go to and an iconic film from the early 2000s. 

Score: 9/10

Clemency (2019) as seen on Amazon Prime 

A Sundance Film Festival graduate, Clemency was a deeply moving and well shot film that exposed the shocking reality of prison inmates on death row in the US. The word clemency is essentially a term used to define an act of mercy by the justice system, who at the last minute of a prison’s life can grant “clemency” if they feel worthy of doing so, stopping them from being executed. Factors such as new evidence or a parole grant can influence this decision and this film shows the abrasiveness of such an idea. Imagine being a prisoner moments away from death and because of Clemency, you sit there thinking your life can still be saved. But as this film depicts, this isn’t always the case and the masterful acting of Alfre Woodard puts this grief into context beautifully. Her performance ignited this film and it was easy to see this story got to her on a deeper level, that went beyond serving a character. A seriously good film that is professional, dynamic and heart wrenching.

Score: 10/10

Gladiator (2000) as seen on Netflix

I never saw myself as someone who would like Gladiator, however Ridley Scott’s Oscar winning film thoroughly surprised me in an unexpected way. Moving past the amazing visuals and outstanding production value of this film, the actual story itself was just so damn good. It had an excellent, Hollywood worthy structure that saw a hefty and clear journey of it’s lead, Maximus (Russell Crowe). I was VERY surprised to see Joaquin Phoenix play alongside Russell Crowe, who gave a great performance as a bratty roman emperor. Gladiator was nominated for 12 Academy Awards in 2001, which is unsurprising seeing as it's a pretty much flawless film, with the character’s fierce journey being the main contributor to this. 

Score: 11/10

American Pie 2 (2001) as seen on Netflix 

Now sequels are known to be the downfall of some films, especially as the first films were okay on their own. However, I definitely enjoyed American Pie 2 as much as I enjoyed the first. The performances of all characters seemed to get better with time and it still remained outlandish and hilarious to watch. 

Score: 9/10

3096 days (2013) as seen on Netflix

When you laugh more at a film than you should have, there’s something clearly wrong. This Netflix film based on the true story of the kidnapped Natascha Kampusch was directed by German-American director Sherry Hormann. This is gonna sound whack, but one of the most annoying things about this film was the lighting. It felt as if it was never truly dark in this film and because of that, it distracted from the fear of the situation young Natascha was in. Lighting plays an important role in thrillers and horror films, as the idea of these films is to keep people constantly on edge and the dark is something that does that perfectly. I felt safe when watching this film and although it’s meant to be a biopic, I don’t think it captured Natascha’s situation as best as it could have. Another thing that really let the film down was the dubbing from German to English. This is a pet peeve I have with films, but is understandable seeing as the majority of people are too lazy to follow foreign language subtitles and miss out on some of the best films ever made. Because of this, it forces foreign language films to cater towards an English speaking market so the film becomes more viable. I would’ve respected this film a lot more if it was completely in German and had English subtitles.

Score: 5/10

Cruel Intentions (1999) as seen on Netflix

About a year ago, I saw the Glenn Close and John Malkovich film version of the french novel Dangerous Liaisons and I fell asleep. Maybe it was the film I had seen before it that had made me nod off or the fact I couldn’t understand what the hell was going on. However, Cruel Intentions follows the same story with younger leads; Sarah Michelle Geller, Ryan Phillipe and Reese Witherspoon and is set in the modern day. As you can probably tell by now, I am a sucker for a 90s teen movie and Cruel Intentions was all that and more, for the performances and story structure in this film were top notch. Ryan Phillipe is a much underrated actor and heartthrob, playing a jealous and callous Sebastian, the step brother of Sarah Michelle Geller’s character, Kathryn. Both of them were spiteful, abrasive and mean and I LOVED IT. Their non-fuckery was enviable as they cheat and turn the lives of others upside down. Reese Witherspoon was an angel in this film, and I thoroughly appreciated the strength of her character throughout. Cruel Intentions sits highly as a film from the 90s and boasts a hoard of young talent from that era.

Score: 10/10

Wildlife (2018) as seen on Netflix

If you are in love with Paul Dano as much as I am, you’re gonna want to marry him after you find out that he’s also a director. His first feature Wildlife, stars Jake Gyllenhaal and Carey Mulligan as a couple battling the demons in their relationship whilst caring for their young son. I really really REALLY can’t wait to see what Paul Dano directs in the future based off this film. It’s everything I love about a good indie film; well shot, a perfect cast and a touching story. It truly is a beautiful film and one I would recommend to my indie lovers out there.

Score: 10/10

The Perks of Being A Wallflower (2012) as seen on Netflix

My excuse for not having seen The Perks of Being A Wallflower is that I thought it would be yet another predictable high school blunder, with flat dialogue and basic character arcs. And I was half right in that. The first half of the film (mostly exposition) was filled with cringey dialogue and basic high school motifs that set up the film. Some moments were overtly far fetched and it took me a while to fall in love with the main character instead of feeling desperately sorry for him ALL THE TIME. Ezra Miller, Emma Watson and Logan Lerman all together as an ensemble was whack casting that just about worked. However, once we made it through the blizzard of exposition and got to the heart of the story, it truly was a touching and tear jerking movie to watch and for that, it scores highly. “We accept the love we think we deserve” was the ringing message of the film and certainly something I carry around with me daily as I reflect on the unfulling crushes I’ve had in the past.

Score: 9/10

The Devil All the Time (2020) as seen on Netflix

Probably my most favourite film on this list, The Devil All the Time is pure ART. I have a full review uploaded onto my tumblr account so please do check it out to see an in depth review of the Netflix film. All I will say is that it is a must watch film with an unreal cast and story.

https://ratingtheframe.tumblr.com/post/629443058079055872/the-south-of-america-meets-gritty-gothic-horror

Score: 11/10

Way of the Gun (2000) as seen on Amazon Prime 

Ryan Phillipe and Benicio del Toro star side by side in this action packed crime thriller about two guys who kidnap the wrong woman. Simple in it’s log line with the potentiality to be limitless in its telling; ie the basis of every good film. Juliette Lewis (the it girl of the 90s) also stars in the film and really compliments the performances of both leads. Any film that Juliette Lewis is in, is a good film and she is an actor with a very impressive portfolio of work under her belt.

Score: 9/10

Judy and Punch (2019) as seen on Netflix

I’ve been waiting since the end of last year to see Judy and Punch and was thrilled to see it had been put onto Netflix. However, after watching it, that thrill deteriorated and what was left was a disheartened feeling towards this film. It’s a shame to say this, seeing as the story of Judy and Punch is so satiable and fulfilled in its possibilities of telling it. However, probably the biggest problem within this film was its pace; it was too quick of a film. The beginning was organic and smooth, but as it went on it started to become continuously rushed. There were characters I didn’t have time to get to know and actually didn’t even end up knowing their names. There’s a point in the film when Judy is welcomed into an isolated society outside of her home, most of which in that society were women. I would’ve liked to get to know them better and see how they influence Judy’s character and revenge on her husband. The film felt very rushed, which is a shame because everything else; acting, production and story were well aligned.

Score: 6/10

22nd July (2018) as seen on Netflix

I remember the 22nd July 2011 as clear as day but for all the wrong reasons. On this day, 77 people in Norway were killed by a terror attack caused by a right wing, anti-immigrant supporter, Andres Brevik, who was a member of a radical organisation and spent nine years preparing his attack on Oslo and Utøya Island. The most shocking part of this massacre was what happened on Utøya Island, which was the main body of Netflix’s film 22nd July. Viljar Hanssen was a teenager attending a political youth camp on Utøya Island in the summer of 2011. Whilst on the island with his younger brother, a bomb went off in the centre of Oslo, outside a government building, killing 8 people. By the time news of the attack got to Utøya Island, its perpetrator had also arrived, and begun gunning down the kids on the island. 69 people were killed, most of which were under 18. Viljar Hanssen was shot five times, in the head, arm, legs and hand. The attack lost him an eye, several fingers and bullet fragments still remain in his brain. He also lost close friends and the ability to perform in many activities he used to do growing up. His ordeal and that of many on the island, is captured in 22nd July, that from beginning to end, approaches this story with sensitivity and facts. Out of the many events I have heard of that include a massacre of some kind, this attack always sticks out in my mind. The perpetrator was truly merciless in his rage against immigrants coming into Norway and he made sure to express that hatred in such a shocking and profound way. The entire story is one that is so hard to believe and is important in preventing future attacks of this kind.

Score: 11/10

Les Misérables (2019) as seen at Curzon Bloomsbury

Les Misérables was nominated for Best Foreign Language film this year at the Oscars and despite it being thrilling and highly well made, I felt quite disappointed by it. The film was accurate in exposing the many communities now prevalent in France today and it was definitely one of those gritty, Cannes worthy films to sink your teeth into. It's not a bad film at all, it's just one I found hard to relate to and therefore I switched off whilst watching it. In fact, I think Portrait of a Lady on Fire was a better contender as Best Foreign Language film at the Oscars and I was left fuming when I found out it hadn’t been nominated in that category. Les Misérables is a film I’d recommend but found it hard to love it overall.

Score: 9/10

A Cure for Wellness (2016) as seen on Netflix

The logline for Shutter Island (2010) is as follows: Teddy Daniels and Chuck Aule, two US marshals, are sent to an asylum on a remote island in order to investigate the disappearance of a patient, where Teddy uncovers a shocking truth about the place. 

And the logline for A Cure for Wellness is as follows: Lockhart, an executive, is sent to a wellness spa in the Swiss Alps to retrieve his company's CEO. At the centre, he encounters strange activities that make him investigate the illness of the people.

Notice anything? They are literally the same film and it's not just the loglines that share an alikeness. On watching A Cure for Wellness, I noticed how similar it was to Shutter Island, from the location, to the colour grading, costumes and even lighting. Both films are almost identical and I pretty much hate both films anyway. I’ll admit, A Cure for Wellness has a better story and tells it better as well, but if it's just a rip off from Shutter Island, is it all that good? I appreciated the production value of this film yet it was hard to tear it away from Shutter Island’s own production. Overall, I found it quiet gimmicky and too close to Shutter Island for it to have much originality.

Score: 6/10

U want me 2 kill him? (2013) as seen on Netflix 

The only thing that let this film down was the acting. There’s something about solely British productions that rub me the wrong way. Admittedly, their structure is always good and the story is well put together, however the artistic side of these films lacks in parts, from acting to set design. U want me 2 kill him? Is based on a true story which really alleviated the film. I thoroughly enjoyed delving into this story and it was an interesting, engaging plot. However, its production value and acting is what let it down.

Score: 7/10

After (2019) as seen on Netflix

So in short, this wasn’t a good film. The twist was satisfying, however the rest of it was just plain annoying. Any film that uses reality tv type music in its montages pisses me off. It's just such a cringey way of showing emotion on screen and I’d much rather they use music with no lyrics or music that actually conveys the emotion of the scene. The relationship between the leads, Hardin and Tessa (Hero Fiennes-Tiffin and Josephine Langford) was very predictable and the conflict between the two only made up like 5% of the film; 2.5% at the beginning and a further 2.5% at the end. For the rest of the 95% of the film, they were pretty much happy throughout, meaning the story had nowhere to go, besides the fact that Tessa’s mom disapproves of Hardin. But besides that and a shocking revelation..that was about it. No one died, no one was really hurt. Hardin was made out to be more troubled than he actually was (his dad is chancellor of a college for fuck’s sake) and I found myself laughing when I shouldn’t be. As for After We Collided, I can’t wait to tear it apart this month.

Score: 4/10

Miss Juneteenth (2020) as seen at BFI Southbank

Miss Juneteenth is the underdog movie of the month for me. You can read a full, in depth review of it right here:

https://ratingtheframe.tumblr.com/post/630357041253400576/she-my-dream-now-miss-juneteenth-review

Score: 11/10

Monsoon (2020) as seen at BFI Southbank 

Why this film was praised by critics is unknown to me. The number one thing that this film did wrong was not showing ANY conflict on screen whatsoever, the characters merily TALKED about conflict. Conflict and actions based on those conflicts is what moves a story forward, and this film was certainly static. The story follows a man (Henry Golding) and his return to Vietnam as he learns about the war and the life he left behind. But the film shows no war, no deprivation or heartache that many vietnamese people had to go through. It's just filled with empty shots of Vietnam and Henry Golding looking out at the city. Why not just make a documentary about The Vietnam War with Henry Golding presenting it, as that is what this film was virtually. You can’t get away with nice looking shots to produce a praise worthy feature. Maybe I’m getting the wrong jist of the film, but in terms of its telling, I didn’t feel anything at all whilst watching it and if I didn’t feel anything, I wasn’t thinking about anything because it was so mundane.

Score: 5/10

The Riot Club (2014) as seen on Amazon Prime 

I’ve had a strong soft spot for Sam Claflin since he played Finnick in The Hunger Games. My crush on him was further confirmed with The Riot Club a British Production based on Laura Wade’s theatre play Posh that shows the ongoings of Oxford’s Riot Club. The group of ten men are all self entitled posh twats who think their education and parent’s money allows them to act in a horrendous way, with their initiation ceremonies and club rules. Sam Claflin plays Ryan, a 1st year student at Oxford and one of the Riot Club’s newest members. Max Irons plays Miles, another new member of the club, who becomes the focal point of Ryan’s jealousy, causing him to do some unspeakable things in one night out of envy for Miles. The ten men in the film work brilliantly as an ensemble, which is unquestionable seeing as five of them went to Guildhall School of Music and Drama, three went to LAMDA, one studied drama at University and the last went to Bristol Old Vic. All the leads in this film are well trained and it's clear to see that in their performances. A really enjoyable, yet eye opening film that exposes the privilege of some living right in the UK, including Boris Johnson and David Cameron, who were former members of this heinous club.

Score: 10/10

Enola Holmes (2020) as seen on Netflix 

Hmmm...there is a great deal of hype going around for this film and with a 92% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, Enola Holmes is well liked. This is understandable, seeing as Fleabag’s director Harry Bradbeer directed this film for Netflix and the cast includes the likes of Millie Bobbie Brown, Henry Cavill and Sam Claflin. I have never seen Millie Bobbie Brown in anything and yet I don’t think she’s doing anything special for me at this moment in time. As a viewer, I am 100% not into actors talking to the camera, a communication technique that I think should stay in theatre. I get this is a big part of Fleabag however I think Enola Holmes could have done without it. Another movie pet peeve is when the opening of a film explains what the film is about directly, something Enola Holmes did in an artistic, yet blatant way. Audiences aren’t dumb and will catch on with given clues, there’s no need to go through a character’s entire history in the opening of a film. For kids aged between 8 and 12, this film is great and Enola Holmes makes a great hero for many young girls. I don’t fall in this age bracket and therefore I enjoyed it a whole lot less.

Score: 6/10

American Murder: Family Next Door (2020) as seen on Netflix

Netflix is known for producing some of the finest, most eye opening documentaries out there. Despite this one being quite simple using found footage, its impact is certainly something that grew organically throughout the documentary. You can read my full review of American Murder: Family Next Door here:

https://ratingtheframe.tumblr.com/post/630780350645354496/netflix-documentary-delves-into-the-murder-of-a

Score: 10/10

Peppermint (2018) as seen on Netflix

I was thoroughly shocked to discover this film was made 2 years ago. You’d think we’re past a time of creating bad films that actually get released, but I guess we’re not. Peppermint was released in the same year as The Favourite, Blackkklansman and A Star is Born, three courageous films, all of which were showered with awards. Peppermint had two major problems; 1) it was boring and 2) the lead wasn’t orchestrated properly. The mexican drug cartel who murder the protagonist’s (Jennifer Garner) husband and child was almost insulting. Because it felt so inauthentic and gimmicky, I didn’t really understand why the drug cartel in the film was even mexican. Peppermint proves that a good story can turn bad in the wrong hands. The script was quite terrible and surrounding that was the nonsensical, half asked directing which saw Jennifer Garner get way too many injuries to still be alive in the end. The whole thing just had my eyes rolling, as nothing about it was original or provoking at all. In fact, the film didn’t even EXPLAIN how Garner’s character became a bloodthirsty vigilante. It merely showed us her training as a cage fighter. Das it. Nothing else in her character made her into this dominant and highly skilled fighter who takes down an ENTIRE DRUG CARTEL ONE HANDED. It, made, no, sense and sits a good example of how NOT to make a film. Also the only reason why it was called Peppermint was because of peppermint ice cream...yeah I don’t get it either.

Score: 2/10

And that is September, which marks an entire year since I’ve been critiquing movies and in that time, I’ve watched well over 350 films. There’s a lot more to come though, for the London Film Festival commences in October and titles such as Dune and the No Time to Die await a winter release. Stay tuned!

[some-lists]

All the Disney Princesses Ranked From Worst to Best.

(Sorry, no Vanellope.)

14. Merida

I know Merida has really badass archery skills. She’s also outspoken, strong willed, and clever. But she’s still my least favorite princess. I just didn’t like her. Maybe it’s the fact that she wanted to change her mom. And she actually went through with it. Of course, she didn’t actually know what was going to happen, and the journey brought them closer together. She grew as a character and that’s good. But just seeing her disrespect her mother, especially publicly in front of all the clans, is hard to watch. It doesn’t help that I thought Brave was one of Pixar’s weaker movies and essentially Brother Bear all over again.

13. Anna

Not gonna lie. I hate Anna. She’s so damn pushy and combative. I know, it’s all her parents’ fault. All of it. But still. She doesn’t listen to Elsa at all. She pushes and pushes triggering Elsa’s ice outbursts, which become more visible as they build along with her anxiety. Every uncontrolled “accident” Elsa has in the first film is because Anna didn’t listen to her. Of course, she also didn’t listen to Elsa’s warning about marrying Hans either. She foolishly left the kingdom in the hands of an outsider, someone she didn’t even know.

She definitely shows improvement in the second film. She becomes more sensitive towards Elsa’s feelings and her powers. She’s also very loyal and brave, risking her life for Elsa, yet again. She’s still very clingy and desperate for people’s love. It manifests in her fear of losing Elsa and Kristoff. I do not like her humor or awkwardness. I don’t find them relatable, but rather annoying. But I do appreciate that those insecurities are real and that’s what makes her more relatable. Her relationships with the other characters, especially Olaf, is what saves her from being last on my list.

12. Tiana

There’s nothing wrong Tiana. I think she’s great. She’s hardworking, determined, and a realist. Those are great qualities that I’m glad Disney decided to focus on too. The downside of this is that she comes across as rather boring. The film relies on other more colorful characters to bring the personality and charm. I think that’s a shame. She also suffers from starring in a weaker film.

11. Aurora

I like Aurora. What little we see of her anyway. We can tell by the way she interacts with the fairies, woodland creatures, and Prince Philip that she’s smart, sweet, shy, kind, cautious. She’s a dreamer, but not foolish. It’s too bad we didn’t get to see more of her.

10. Snow White

Snow White, in my opinion, does not get the respect she deserves. Was she stupid to take that apple from the very obviously evil hag? Yes, she was. But people have forgotten all about the really great qualities she possessed too. When she walked into the dwarfs’ cottage, it was a disgusting, unlivable nightmare. The dwarfs were pigs. They didn’t clean their home or themselves. They bickered all the time. Snow White changed all of that. She created order where there was disorder. And she didn’t do it alone. She delegated chores to each of the animals and made sure they did them right. That’s some managerial skills! She got a bunch of unruly little men to wash, sleep at a decent time, and behave. That’s authority. Those are some real life skills I wish I had more of. Yes, she cooked, cleaned, and sewed, but Snow White wasn’t a servant. She was in charge.

9. Cinderella

Like Snow White, Cinderella has gotten a bad rap over time, but I will defend Cinderella anytime anywhere. Those who say she “needed a prince to save her” lack compassion and are completely missing the point. Cinderella was a young woman who was abused by what family she had left. At a young age she experienced loss, grief, then neglect and emotional abuse. But Cinderella was resilient. That abuse didn’t stop her and it didn’t change her. She could’ve become mean, bitter, and jealous. She could’ve continued the cycle of abuse like her stepsisters. But Cinderella didn’t allow their mistreatment to define her. She remained kind, empathetic, patient, humble, and hardworking. She also didn’t allow herself to become a victim. She didn’t mope or give up on herself. When the ball was announced, she worked hard and believed she would go. When she got help from the fairy godmother, she accepted it and rocked that ball gown. She didn’t go to the ball to be rescued. She went because she wanted to, and she did. Moral of the story is do not let others’ treatment of you determine who you are or what you’re worth. Cinderella had awesome inner strength.

8. Ariel

I will admit that as an adult, Ariel’s appeal fades. She made really bad choices and sacrificing her voice for a boy is a terrible message to sell to kids. But for a 5 year old girl, only two things mattered. She was a mermaid and she could sing. The Little Mermaid kick started Disney’s renaissance and set a new precedent for its movies. Unlike previous princesses, Ariel was the first princess full of life, passion, and adventure. She had an exciting and lovable personality and a Broadway singing voice. Credit goes to Jodi Benson for bringing Ariel to life and the writers for getting the world to fall in love with her. She made a huge impression (hello, mermaid craziness everywhere!), even if she was a total idiot teenager.

7. Jasmine

What’s great about Jasmine is she can see through people’s BS and she doesn’t put up with it. She isn’t impressed by the superficial suitors that come her way. She stands up to Jafar. She catches on pretty immediately that Prince Ali is actually Aladdin. She sings like Lea Salonga, Disney and Broadway legend, and she has a pet tiger. What’s not to love?

6. Pocahontas

Pocahontas was the first Disney princess to not go after her dreams, but instead chose family, community, duty, loyalty. That’s incredibly mature and selfless. She taught a racist, arrogant, ignorant man to love and respect others different from him. She followed her intuition, was one nature, and dove off cliffs. The only minus is falling for John Smith over Kokoam. I don’t know what she was thinking!

5. Moana

Moana is not qualified for her mission. She has no experience and no skills required for sailing across the sea, finding Maui, and defeating a lava monster. But it’s her purpose. She was chosen. So she sets out and figures it out along the way. That’s an inspiring example. It’s not until the end that we find out why she was chosen. She sees Te Ka for who she truly is. Te Fiti. The image above is one of the most powerful moments in all of Disney’s films.

4. Rapunzel

Similar to Cinderella, Rapunzel has been abused throughout her childhood. IMO, Rapunzel had it worse because she believed Mother Gothel was her mother. Their relationship was nonstop manipulation, infantilization, and gaslighting. But Rapunzel was brave enough to go after what she wanted and smart enough to find a way to do it. On top of that, she was creative and artistic, incredibly strong from years of hauling Mother Gothel up the tower, and had magical hair with healing powers. In the end, she does what we didn’t get to see in Cinderella. She stands up for herself and confronts her abuser. She’s a real survivor and victor.

3. Belle

I love Belle because she is a true introvert and a true individual. She’s not very social, doesn’t gossip, doesn’t fawn over Gaston, doesn’t follow the townsfolk’s way of life. She literally just does her own thing. For that, she’s misunderstood and judged by the village. I think that’s very relatable. But she’s also intelligent, curious, adventurous, honorable (she keeps her promise to stay with the Beast), and stands up to the Beast when he’s out of line. She’s the only one that truly challenges the Beast and he grows because of it. And she saves him.

2. Mulan

Similar to Belle, Mulan is a bit of an outcast, because she’s individualistic in a society that values conformity. She’s socially awkward, clumsy, but brave. That bravery saves her father and all of China. She’s a true badass warrior.

1. Elsa

Elsa is technically not a princess, but a queen. She still counts and she tops my list. Out of all the Disney princesses, she is the most real and fully developed. She’s beautiful, kind, brave, strong, but also very flawed. Many people have identified with Elsa in different ways because her flaws are so real and so relatable. The LGBTQ community has adopted her as a symbol of their own. For me personally, I see a mental health issue. I think she’s a highly sensitive person with anxiety. Her ice powers are a beautiful symbol for that anxiety and the struggle over her mental health. Her journey to accept herself for who she is, to embrace herself for who she is, and to find her place in a world that deems her different is truly beautiful and empowering.

[letterboxd]

Watching John Malkovich.

To understand better why Letterboxd members set out on quests to watch specific actors’ entire filmographies, we invited Tim Rod to describe her dangerous and seductive journey through John Malkovich’s screen history.

For many film lovers, 2020 has been a year of catching up: on franchises, on directors’ filmographies, on historical gaps and top 100s. But for some Letterboxd members, the year indoors has been an opportunity to hyper-focus on a single actor and their work.

Jeremiah Lambert is on a Bacon Fest, Naked Airplane has embarked on a wild ride through the works of De Niro, Hackman, Hoffman, Nicholson and Pacino. Joey is preparing for next year’s centennial of The Kid by churning through Charlie Chaplin’s catalog (with David Robinson’s biography Chaplin: His Life and Art in hand). A quick Twitter survey found others churning through a performer selection as wide-ranging as Burt Lancaster, Parker Posey, Maggie Smith, Nicolas Cage, Cary Grant, Kevin Costner, Robin Williams, Adèle Haenel, Alan Arkin, Sam Rockwell and a Seth Rogen thirst project.

It can be a bumpy journey. In one performer’s oeuvre the quality will range widely, the genres too. But the rewards are many in a close study of craft, and there are revelations, whether it’s that Australia’s Miranda Otto deserves more recognition, or it’s “the total acceptance, lack of judgment, and vulnerability with which Alan Arkin has played so many of his flawed and wonderful characters”.

With Christian Bale in ‘Empire of the Sun’ (1987).

In 2020, no fewer than three movies and two television series starring John Malkovich have been released: Arkansas, Valley of the Gods and Ava, as well as The New Pope and Space Force. The legendary actor has kept himself busy, and I know this because I have seen most of his filmography—41 films and two series—in the span of a single month. I adore Malkovich, always have, and I came out of this experience with a deeper admiration for him, and with some thoughts about his unique, remarkable skills as an actor. (And, I had a really good time.)

Allow me to begin by saying that John Malkovich is the best part of every movie he is in. No matter the movie, Malkovich will always steal the spotlight, and he can turn a good movie into a masterpiece, or an average movie that wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention into one worth watching, if only to see him do his thing.

He’s starred in movies that are considered masterpieces by many: Being John Malkovich (1999), The Killing Fields (1984) and Empire of the Sun (1987). Movies that may be considered the opposite of masterpieces, like Supercon (2018), Eragon (2006) and the most recent Ava (2020), and he’s also starred in some gems that I knew nothing about but am glad to have discovered, such as The Convent (1995), Eleni (1985) and The Ogre (1996). Malkovich has brought to life iconic characters including Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Tom Ripley, Hercule Poirot (in BBC’s The ABC Murders), the artist Gustav Klimt, and several of David Lynch’s people, in the short film Psychogenic Fugue (2016).

As Mitch Leary in ‘In the Line of Fire’ (1993).

Malkovich has received two Academy Award nominations, for Places in the Heart (1984), in which he played Edna’s lodger, the solitary yet kind Mr. Will, and for In the Line of Fire (1993), where he played the complete opposite: the psychotic Mitch Leary, determined to kill the President of the United States. Though Malkovich is not a classic action-film actor, his work in that genre is driven by logic, intellect and emotion, and the delicacy that he employs to challenge concepts of masculinity and keep us guessing. His soft and collected voice threatening Clint Eastwood over the phone is scarier and more effective than a deeper one would have been.

That voice. Malkovich has admitted that he hates the sound of it, that he would always avoid listening to it, just like so many actors avoid watching their own films, but I’m bewitched by his voice and I could never get enough of it. It can be tender, sweet and calming, seductive when the role requires it, and terrifying. With that versatility, it’s not surprising that he has done some narrating work as well, for films including Paul Newman’s The Glass Menagerie (1987) and Alive (1993).

Malkovich is at his best when seduction and villainy combine, as they do in Dangerous Liaisons (1988). Vicomte Sébastien de Valmont has been performed by many actors over the years, but I find Malkovich’s take to be the most memorable and exquisite. He captures perfectly the depravity and evilness of Valmont, but also the nuances, his journey from womanizer to man genuinely in love and, ultimately, his tragic redemption. He even brings a comedic aspect to the character that adds more depth and dimension.

With Glenn Close in ‘Dangerous Liaisons’ (1988).

Valmont is an awful human being, a monster even, and yet, every time I watch this movie, I find myself fascinated by his mastery of the deception, his sensuality and complete control of the situation, until the situation is “beyond his control”. In her review of the film, Catherine Stebbins calls John Malkovich “a sexual force of nature”, and I completely agree. If you want to see more of Malkovich’s sensual side, other notable mentions include The Sheltering Sky (1990), The Object of Beauty (1991) and Beyond the Clouds (1995).

And then there’s Being John Malkovich (1999), in which ‘John Horatio Malkovich’ displays so many facets of his craft. The fictionalized Malkovich is possessed by different characters, one of them a woman. Catherine Keener’s character falls in love with a subtly different version of Malkovich, when he is a vessel for Lotte (Cameron Diaz). Even though Lotte doesn’t have full control of Malkovich, he uses his femininity to bring the character-inside-the-character to center stage, delivering a subtle-yet-perfect performance. Even when we don’t see Lotte, we know she’s there.

John Malkovich as John Horatio Malkovich possessed by Lotte, in ‘Being John Malkovich’ (1999).

Not many actors could pull this off as brilliantly as John Malkovich does. To be fair, not many actors have been given the chance that Spike Jonze and Charlie Kaufman gave Malkovich: a film with his own name in the title.

I’ve discussed some of the most well-known of Malkovich’s performances, but I’d like to mention an overlooked one that I found heartbreaking and noteworthy. I didn’t know of the existence of The Ogre (1996) until I took a closer look at Malkovich’s filmography. It’s not without its flaws, but I found myself absorbed in the fairy-tale story of Abel, a naïve French prisoner of war who is taken to Nazi Germany and used to recruit children for Hitler’s Youth. Once again, the actor’s duality is on display, as Evan writes in his Letterboxd review: “Malkovich is both queasy and endearing as the (ig)noble simp who just wants to save the babies.” The Ogre tells a tragic story, but thanks to Malkovich’s tenderness, we can’t help but have sympathy for his character. At times it reminded me of the innocence of Lennie in Of Mice and Men (1992), another of the actor’s more noteworthy performances.

One of Malkovich’s great contributions to cinema is elevating an average movie just by being in it. One such role is as English conman Alan Conway in the bizarre true story, Colour Me Kubrick (2005). Malkovich admitted in an interview that he thought his performance was good, and I agree. If there’s one reason to watch that film, it’s to see Malkovich playing an eccentric conman who poses as Stanley Kubrick, using different voices and accents. As TajLV writes, “if there were anything to commend this film other than Malkovich, I’d happily rate it higher”.

As Alan Conway in ‘Colour Me Kubrick’ (2005).

One fun fact: I sometimes forget John Malkovich is American. Maybe it’s because he has starred in many European productions—out of the 41 films I watched, 18 were European. Malkovich is of European descent, has lived in France for a decade and speaks fluent French, which allowed him to star as the mysterious Baron de Charlus in Time Regained (1999), with entirely French dialogue. He also delivers lines in French and Portuguese in A Talking Picture (2003) by Manoel de Oliveira.

You’ve probably heard Malkovich use words, expressions and even entire lines of French dialogue on more than one occasion. He does this often, which gives him a certain European vibe, consistent with his own character, mannerisms and dress sense—elements that he sometimes brings to his characters. Maybe that’s the reason he has played so many intellectuals and artists: professors, scientists, detectives, painters, writers, a scientist and a robot, and even the Pope… It seems there’s nothing John Malkovich can’t do, including directing.

To end my marathon, I watched his directorial debut, The Dancer Upstairs (2002), an assured movie adapted from a novel about the Maoist uprising in Peru in the 1980s, starring Javier Bardem. It was a nice surprise, and a strong start to what could have been a career as a film director, if not for the fact that he doesn’t have the patience to do it again. I recently read an interview where Edgar Wright revealed advice he always gives to directors, which is to make their second movie the one that will define them. I wonder if we will ever see John Malkovich’s second film, but for now, I hope he keeps gifting us with more unforgettable performances. At least we know that in the distant future, along with all the movies he has already appeared in, people will enjoy a never-seen-before performance when Robert Rodríguez’s short 100 years is released in 2115.

If there’s one thing I have learnt after watching most of his filmography, it’s that John Malkovich is one of the best and most versatile actors of our time, with the most unique voice I have heard in cinema, and with a rich filmography that encompasses every genre. And he’s not only a brilliant actor, but also someone I find personally fascinating. I truly find comfort in him. I hope we all get to enjoy his art for years to come, because his talent is limitless and I know he still has so much more to give. John Malkovich deserves all the praise for being a force of nature in the theater and film industry for over 40 years.

Tim is a Letterboxd member based in Spain, who has recently moved on from her John Malkovich marathon to a Sacha Baron Cohen quest.

[artcenterstories]

Experience Seeker: Meet Artist/Author Dominick Domingo

ArtCenter: What inspired your current creative project? Dominick Domingo (Illustration ‘91) arist/author/designer: A prolonged hospital stay and the proverbial brush with death. Being in touch with my mortality has lit a fire creatively and put legacy at the forefront. My latest IP, mythic fiction novel The Seeker is a parable of my recent trials and a portrait of all I’ve learned about the spiritual journey we are all on.

AC: What have been some of the most memorable twists and turns in your professional/creative journey after graduating ArtCenter? DD: A month after graduation, I began work at Disney Feature Animation on a small film to later known as Lion King. Having interned there between fourth and fifth terms, I visually developed the film during preproduction, then went on to paint production backgrounds. I continued on with Disney Feature for 11 years, in L.A. and Paris, painting backgrounds and creating visual development art for Pocahontas, Hunchback of Notre Dame, Tarzan, Little Match Girl and One By One.

I then attended New York Film Academy and began making independent live-action films as an auteur. My films won awards in the festival circuit and garnered distribution. Original screenplay credits on SAG/IMDB films led me to put my lifelong love of writing on the front-burner, while keeping one foot in animation by freelancing for major companies like Mirada, Blue Sky, Dreamworks TV, Nickelodeon, Disney Interactive, etc. The electives I offered for 20 years at my alma mater, ArtCenter, became the foundation of what has diverged into today’s Entertainment Arts and Entertainment Design tracks.

My essays and short stories have been included in anthologies and collections, some winning awards (most recently Writer’s Digest 2020 and Craft Literary 2020). My young adult trilogy, The Nameless Prince, launched in 2012 through Twilight Times Books. The Seeker marks my debut in the mythic fiction-meets-visionary fiction genre. I’ve had the good fortune of crafting a career that spans various formats and genres, all expressions of a drive I consider essential to the human condition: storytelling.

AC: What’s been the most unexpected or valuable takeaway from your ArtCenter education? DD: I am grateful for the ArtCenter legacy of excellence, and its stellar reputation in the fields of art and design; both have served me well. The demanding program and high expectations of instructors like Gary Meyer, David Mocarski, Jon Conrad, Harry Carmean and Burne Hogarth taught me to strive for excellence, believe in my potential, and push boundaries. At ArtCenter I learned nothing less than the art of alchemy and manifestation, to co-create with the universe and use my authentic gifts to contribute to our collective transformation.

AC: What’s the one tool you can’t do without? DD: My imagination. Like many artists, I consider myself a storyteller with different modes of expression. Whether editing a film in Final Cut, modeling in Maya or SketchUp during visual development or painting concepts in Photoshop, the common denominator is my imagination! My fingers come in pretty handy as well. And my eyeballs.

AC: What design cliché are you most tempted to use? DD: In my teaching, I've heard myself say, "Know the rules before you break them!" With regard to figurative and representational work, I am a big fan of buckling down and applying the discipline to master foundational principles at the outset. Whether Chevreul’s laws of color theory or Gestalt studies, internalizing theory with the faith it will become second nature is precisely what eventually allows one to take risks and explore. In developing one’s authentic voice, a framework of regiments and a clear vision can, in the end, free up the intuition to orchestrate magic that may not occur if one is struggling with technique or "finding one’s way…"

AC: What’s the first site you look at when you open your computer in the morning? DD: I tend to check e-mail and (UGH) Facebook first. But NEVER before putting caffeine in me and getting a change of scenery. As a long time freelancer/independent contractor, I like to get a walk in and listen to inspirational content (blogs or podcasts) before settling in front of the computer. Novelty is crucial for the ol’ dendrites and for brain plasticity!

AC: If you could trade jobs for a day with anyone, who would it be? DD: Pretty much anyone at Laika, as I would kill or die to get in there. I love their brand, its spirit, and the content they produce. As a kid who once knew every dinosaur that ever walked the earth and the period in which it lived (although they’ve changed them all), I'm often baffled I did not make every attempt to work with Stan Winston on Jurassic Park. I guess I was busy at Disney, but I often kick myself as that ship has clearly sailed… Also, Peter Jackson — he is living my dream!

AC: What books are on your bedside table? DD: Rather than imposing my recommendations (like "all artists should read Letters to a Young Poet or all humans should read The Alchemist,) I will give an honest answer: I don’t have a bedside table. However, on my coffee table currently: The Kybalion, Giant, 12 Years a Slave, and Jane Fonda’s autobiography, My Life So Far. Jane is an inspiration: the fact that she still gives a damn and gets up every morning and walks the walk. I also admire her tackling ageism head on, the societal ill I am most passionate about rectifying at over half-a-century. As a writer, I read a wide variety of genres. Neil Gaiman, Junot Díaz, Davy Rothbart, David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs are also huge influences.

AC: What is your prized possession? DD: I have two. One is an amazing painting titled The Three Muses painted by the formidable John Watkiss, with whom I worked on Disney’s Tarzan and who has since passed. The other is the traditional animation desk I had commissioned in the '90s using Disney’s patented design. There was one architect in the world with the Mouse’s blessing to use the patented design. But none of that is what makes it a prized possession — the reason is this: I nearly lost it in a fire. But unbeknownst to me, rather than taking the charred thing to the dump as discussed, my father secretly took it home and brought it back from the dead. Refurbished every bit of charred wood, every molding, right down to the laminate and the proper finish. Like new.

AC: What’s your best piece of advice for an ArtCenter student who’s interested in following your career path?​ DD: Remember why you do what you do. There are plenty of times in life when we must keep our noses to the grindstone and work can feel like drudgery. But inspired work energizes — the opposite of drudgery. Whatever is paying the bills, I would be sure it’s something that contributes to your personal transformation on the micro level and to our collective evolution on the macro. The artistic journey is lifelong: We may find our authentic voice, but it’s ever-evolving. I would encourage all artists to take stock now and then, and assess whether that voice has been married with a sense of purpose. And whether that purpose contributes to the dialectic of our human potential!

[mrepstein]

‘THE STARMAKER WHO BURNED TOO HOT’ (The Sunday Mirror - June 14, 1970) The above piece is an extract from journalist Godfrey Winn’s 1970 autobiography ‘The Positive Hour’

Brian Epstein built an empire around the Beatles - but he carried the seeds of his own doom

By GODFREY WINN

BRIAN EPSTEIN was the business brain behind the pop revolution of the sixties. He discovered the Beatles and made them millionaires. As a star-maker, Epstein's career was spectacular but brief. He was thirty-two when he died in August, 1967 - poisoned by an overdose of a sleeping drug. With his love of show-business, GODFREY WINN - Britain's best-known journalist - was a long standing friend of Brian Epstein and watched the pop impresario build a world wide entertainment empire. And he was close enough to Epstein to see the tragic consequences that instant fame and untold fortune had on the young genius.

I found myself one Saturday evening in 1963 climbing the stairs of an anonymous building close to Cambridge Circus, in London’s theatre-land.

In a barren, unfurnished room the walls, with their peeling paint, were decorated with posters of such plays as A Taste of Honey and The Miracle Worker.

i looked at the posters, and decided that there was a certain symbolism, a link here with the intriguing encounter that lay ahead of me.

I thought, too, of all the players who had rehearsed in this room for a multitude of productions: so full of hope that success was this time almost in their grasp, and so often to be reminded that half the members of the actors’ union, Equity, are permanently out of work.

Acclaim

Would it be different for the latest Merseyside group who, already acclaimed in the provinces, were about to have their most important challenge to date, the star spot on the Sunday Night at the Palladium television show?

The Beatles, with the hair-style that they made their own, were still not much more than a name to me.

A few days before I had talked with their manager and discoverer Brian Epstein in the lounge of the Grosvenor Hotel next to Victoria Station.

He was dressed in the kind of silk suit that pop groups wore like a uniform. But there, all comparison ceased.

For at that time he had not yet discarded the solid air of the middle-class Jewish back-ground from which he was sprung.

Unreal

Epstein’s tragedy was that, in surrendering one background, he became so overwhelmed by the trappings of the world into which the fantastic success of his proteges catapulted him that he was never able to put down roots into reality again.

This son of a prosperous Liverpool store-owner was the classic example of the actor manque.

He was nearly thirty when we first met, but as soon as he started talking of the time when he had enlisted as a student at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, his voice had the eager lilt of a stage-struck youth.

A moment later his expression had changed. He was earth-bound once more as he described his return to Liverpool and entry into his father’s business.

And how, one day, while he was serving behind the record counter of one of his father's stores, a customer asked about a record made in Germany by an unknown Merseyside group.

And how he tracked down the record, later saw the group performing “for peanuts” at the Cavern in Liverpool, and sensed "something dynamic”; then peddled their tapes around London recording companies.

“And do you know, that tape, that very first record, Love Me Do, sold a hundred thousand. We were IN."

Just as I was in, now - the only spectator at the Beatles' private rehearsal for the Palladium.

Screams

Or rather, myself plus the tailor who had brought with him the four new suits, black like a matador’s, that Epstein had ordered for them to wear, replicas of his own. They put them on and pranced round the rehearsal room, bowing to an imaginary audience of fourteen million viewers.

“Ladies and Gentlemen: We are very pleased to be here at the Palladium.

Suddenly, uncontrollable excitement possessed them. The Palladium. The Palladium, they shouted out, screaming like their own fans, as other pilgrims have cried across the centuries. Jerusalem on high.

It was the youngest who spoke the introduction. He wasn't satisfied till he had taken them through it a dozen times.

"It's the moment before the curtain opens," Paul commented with the air of a veteran. “You finger your guitar and hope they won't start throwing things."

The moment they started to tune their guitars they seemed to fill the shadows of the lonely rehearsal room, darkening into twilight, and at the same time to grow in stature themselves.

The Beatles will always be held in high regard for what they have achieved by the unique sound of their music.

Having been among the first to recognise their talent, I feel I am in a position to suggest now that what has gone wrong somewhere along the line has been their inability, especially in the case of George Harrison and John Lennon, to pour back sufficient of the bounty that has fallen into their lap.

Perhaps it has been part of their appeal for the adolescents, that they themselves have not grown up in the full meaning of the phrase, any more than Brian Epstein was able to do.

Right up till his unnecessary, wanton death Epstein went on referring to his discoveries as his “boys,” seeing himself as the fifth member of the hierarchy, the eldest Beatle.

Then, when the group ceased performing together except for recording sessions, he could not help feeling to some extent excluded, even though he was still their manager - “the boss,” as they called him.

Dire

So in order to try to prove that he was someone big, in the theatrical firmament, in his own right, he started producing and putting on plays, with dire results.

He had all the money in the world to squander, but too little productive talent of his own.

Disappointed, and depressed, though he would not admit it, he finally turned to pep pills by day, and sleeping pills by night, a diet that was ultimately to destroy him.

Once he proclaimed to me, standing outside the Palladium: “All that matters is to have your name in lights.”

I could not persuade him otherwise, though I had persuaded him to spend the Sunday before the Whitsun holiday, making the journey all the way to Bolton in Lancashire, to hear an unknown singer in a pub, who had been recommended to me with such persistence and such enthusiasm by one of my readers, that in the end I felt it churlish of me not to do something about it.

Kinder?

The singer’s name was Michael Haslam. He was married and worked by day in a local tannery, and he specialised in singing ballads.

As it happened, Epstein was looking at that moment for a ballad singer, as a contrast on his touring bills to such of his properties as Billy J. Kramer and Gerry and the Pacemakers.

Otherwise, I doubt whether he would have ever listened to my suggestion, and in a way now I wish I hadn’t been persuaded myself to make the effort.

To have done nothing might have been kinder in the long run to the dark, tall young man, with the sort of looks which Elvis Presley first made fashionable, and the physique of a miner, who packed them in at weekends at The White Hart.

Except that if the Beatles’ impresario had not turned up that Sunday evening in Bolton, yet another pub singer might still be imagining he was there only because the luck of being discovered had just never happened to come his way.

Certainly the audience reaction that evening in Bolton was tremendous and entirely spontaneous. I can hear it, smell it how. Even so, I was not entirely convinced myself.

Undoubtedly there was a voice of some lyrical power, but did he also possess sufficient personality?

And how would he stand up to another environment, bereft of his regular admirers, alone on a stage, or in front of a TV camera?

Epstein brushed aside my doubts. On the spot he decided to sigh Haslam up, with the arrogant impetuosity of a Tsar.

Anxious

Two or three evenings later, Epstein and I met again, this time in my London home. We had arranged that he should pick me up and have a drink, en route for the Palladium.

He was eager for me to see another of his proteges, This time the girl, also from Liverpool, who through his astute judgment had with surprising sped reached what used to be the Mecca of all music hall artists.

Cilla Black.

In the fervent hope that one day Mike Haslam, equally skilfully projected, would reach the same goal, I accepted, though Miss Black’s nasal voice with its Liverpudlian vowels screaming at me over the radio at breakfast time had not created in my mind the most enticing of images.

Doubts

However, none of that was my affair. I could switch off the knob.

Whereas the other artist, uprooted and disorientated, was to some extent my responsibility.

In the forty-eight hours which had intervened, my initial doubts had only grown.

“After all, Brian, if I hadn’t dragged you to Bolton, you would never have heard of him.” Even to myself, it sounded like a self-accusation, but my guest again brushed aside my fears.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, with a rajah-like wave of his hand.

“But I do worry,” I protested anxiously.

“You shouldn’t. Don’t you realise, it’s nothing to do with you anymore. Mike Haslam belongs to me now.

“From this moment he is my discovery, and I shall look after him completely, change him, mould him, fit him into my set-up.

“All the credit, all his future success will be entirely my doing. You merely introduced him to me. Anyone might have done that.”

I was flabbergasted rather than relieved by this lofty declaration.

Rebuff

In an instant he had assumed the air of the great, international impresario slapping down a small-time sleazy agent who had dared to suggest that he should have a slice in the property value of the unknown name about to be groomed for stardom.

Of course, I wanted no financial stake in the young man’s future. I was not in show business in any shape or form.

At the same time, I surely had an ethical stake. A moral stake, if you like. Anyway, something quite different and rather more binding.

But I was meeting the real Brian Epstein for the first time.

Gone was the mask of mock humility, worn by the apparently modest young man fresh from the provinces, who in his original talk with me had praised and congratulated everyone except himself.

For the first time I glimpsed the strong streak of paranoia, which was swiftly to grow into a kind of sickness.

Welcome

Not surprisingly, I was dismayed and we had an uncomfortable evening, saved, as far as I was concerned, by the affectionate welcome I received in the dressing room of Frankie Vaughan, who was the real star of the show.

He and the boys in the band were deep in a poker session, but the occupant of the coveted No. 1 room broke off without a trace of annoyance and jumped up from his seat to offer us drinks.

How different had been my reception in the No. 2 dressing room.

Miss Black was seated in an ungainly position, her legs sprawled out in front of a portable television set, and did not trouble to get out of her chair, or to make any attempt at conversation.

After a few embarrassed moments, I backed out into the passage again, and it was then, at my suggesting that surely his new girl needed a matronly, experienced woman in attendance to help and advise her back-stage, that Epstein made the comment that having your name in lights was the only thing which mattered.

I expect he thought my suggestion was an impertinent one, though it was only intended to be constructive.

Unfortunately, I had already promised to have supper with him afterwards, and then to see his new house, and Miss Black, dressed in a black leather coat, more suitable for the back of a motor-cycle, came along, too.

Surprise

Not wishing to lie openly about my reactions to her performance, and searching for some topic of conversation which would be of mutual interest, I asked my host if he was contemplating adding any other female singers to the troupe of artists under his banner.

I am still surprised when I recall the reply I received, uttered with absolute and final conviction.

“No, I do not need any other women artists. Cilla is the Edith Piaf of England.”

Whatever she was or has become - and Miss Black has undoubtedly achieved a large and loyal following among her contemporaries - she is not another Edith Piaf, that great Parisian singer. How could she be?

Despite all Epstein’s confident assertions, Mike Haslam failed to float for long in the larger pool.

Symbols

Even while he was still alive I never talked with Brian Epstein alone again, after that evening at the Palladium, when in the small hours I found myself standing in a room in his house dominated by a row of telephones of different colours on a long desk.

Nothing else about the house, the modernistic innovations of which suited his temperament, left any mark upon my memory.

Only the telephones, those inanimate props of a tycoon existence, stare at me like a blown-up photograph on my desk. The symbols and instruments of a certain kind of power.

“I lift one receiver,” he told me exultantly, “and say to the operator ‘Get me a Hollywood number.’ I book in that call, and five minutes later I am talking to New York.

“Hardly have I rung off, when it is Australia on the line. Everyone wants me, everyone wants the Beatles. Everyone wants all my boys.”

“What about the time factor?” I asked. “For instance, when it is mid-day here, and perhaps three o’clock in the morning there, or vice-versa?”

“I don’t mind about that. I am ready to take calls all round the clock. I like it best sitting here by myself through the night, doing business. Big business.”

His usually deceptive, quiet voice rose to a crescendo: he was playing the big scene in the third act from all the stage and screen dramas of which he had been cheated by his inability to make the grade as an actor in the legitimate theatre.

But I had no desire to play in turn the part of the stage stooge, and fled from that house in Kinnerton Street to walk home through Belgrave Square, where at the corner of Chapel Street and Groom Place the nocturnal life of the fifth Beatle was finally to snuff out in the last of his London homes, whose larger rooms he had furnished in even more grandiose style.

Some months before that happened, he had a breakdown, which was hushed up, and then they put him in a private nursing home at Roehampton, in Surrey, which caters particularly for patients whose minds have been temporarily disturbed.

Guarded

After that he was never without a friendly and considerate bodyguard, who became his shadow.

Except on that final weekend when, in a sudden change of mood, he decided to drive himself from his country home at Heathfield, Sussex, back to London, though it was a bank holiday.

The Chapel Street house was only a stone’s throw from where my elder brother lives, and sometimes, when I was dining with my family, my sister-in-law, more in bewilderment than disapproval, would comment:

“Such strange people hang about Mr. Epstein's house.

“I suppose they are waiting, hoping that one of the Beatles will come out.”

That Sunday afternoon, when the news of his death broke, and the police cars drove up, the flower boys and girls in their peacock clothes left the Kings Road parade and crowded into Chapel Street, as though they were queueing up for a pop concert.

As far as I was concerned the epitaph was spoken by David Jacobs - not the disc jockey but the lawyer, with the looks himself of a film star - who acted for so many other names in show business beside the Beatles.

Freedom

Now that it was all over, the final battle lost, Epstein's adviser from the start spoke to me with a freedom he could not have done before:

“The trouble with Brian was that he had everything, and yet nothing.

“He had a strong family feeling, right till the end, and his loyalty towards the Beatles and his other properties, like Cilla Black, was fantastic.

“I suppose you could describe it as a kind of love affair on his side, but nothing stands still in life, and he was conscious that they were inevitably growing away from him, as they matured both as artists and people.

“This made him more and more restless and unhappy, though he wouldn’t admit it except in one of his increasing moods of depression, when all I could do was to remind him how much he was worth, in money and properties.

“But even that knowledge began to lose its flavour. It was then that he started taking pills to try to recapture the sense of euphoria he had had at the beginning.

“It was imperative for him to feel that he was still in the swim himself, not just taking a percentage of their earnings.

“I hoped so much that the house at Heathfield would make a difference.

“He had gone down that weekend for the Bank Holiday. But after dinner on that Friday evening, he suddenly changed his mind and drove himself back to London, alone.

“What would I have done had I known? It’s always so easy to be wise after the event.

“Sometimes one has a kind of instinct, and can act swiftly, but even then it can be too late, or impossible to protect the person indefinitely against himself, if the seeds of self-destruction are strongly developed in him or her.

“In this case we shall never know for certain exactly what happened. Except that he went to sleep again that night, and never woke up.

Loner

“In a way, I was closer to him than anyone. He really unburdened himself to me.

“He was not so much a loner, as a oncer.

“What do I mean by that? I mean that he was incapable of any lasting physical relationship with anyone. He was incapable of love.”

All too soon David Jacobs himself was to discover his own torments.

[classpect-crew]

I dont really know if you are closing askboxes or something like that... But if not, how about a Heir of Doom!

Thanks for your question, Anon! Sorry it’s taken me so long to get to these. I actually have about 204 asks in my inbox right now! I’ve decided not to close my askbox at any point, though, because I tend to answer asks as I see fit when I have the energy, rather than answering them chronologically, if that makes sense. Sometimes I’ll use a random number generator to be a bit more fair to those who sent in asks a long time ago. Also, I finally got a new computer keyboard, so I can type ‘s’ again! (Long story short, my ‘s’ key broke a good while ago.) With all of that said, let’s get into the Heir of Doom!

Now, we already have a canon Heir of Doom to look at: Mituna Captor. What we don’t have, though, is a detailed view of what he was like before his ultimate sacrifice, so a lot of this will be personal speculation. Doom, as we know, is an Aspect of rules, systems, and great power at the cost of incredible personal sacrifice. While this certainly sounds like a depressing Aspect to inherit, there’s actually quite a lot of depth to this sort of understanding. Those who are influenced by Doom can be extremely understanding people, having been through many a personal crisis themselves, and it’s not uncommon for Doombound players to have firsthand experience with mental illness. I won’t fall into the common trap of romanticizing mental illness, of course. It can be absolutely debilitating for many people. If there is any silver lining to it, it’s the empathy that comes from such experiences. Many Doom players are also drawn to interests that involve clear-cut systems and rules, such as video games, computer programming, and such. Their experience with such restrictions often leads them to an incredibly in-depth understanding of their abilities, whether physical, mental, or otherwise. I’ve personally met a good few Doombound people who have chronic pain issues and have had to come to terms with their own limits. This certainly wouldn’t be uncommon in a true session, though it’s absolutely not a requirement, merely a correlation. They also have a tendency toward self-sacrifice, often giving up their time and energy for others, even when there won’t be compensation. This may seem surprising, given the dreary reputation Doom has, but one needs only look at our canon Doom players to understand how sacrifice is baked into their Aspect.

The Heir is a Class of inheritance, as the name suggests. They receive great boons from their Aspect from the very beginning of their journey, often embodying qualities that are associated with their Aspect even before entering their session. Though this can be said of many Classes, the Heir is the most obvious when it comes to possessing their Aspects qualities. John, our most prominent Heir, showed a great deal of frustration at the restriction of his personal freedom at the start of his journey and only continues to embody this trait, longing for the ability to make his own choices and “do his own thing” rather than listening to the voice of, for example, the Wayward Vagabond. He then went on to become the literal embodiment of Breath during his quest on many occasions. The Heir of Doom, one can assume, would play much the same role in their own session, as someone who starts their journey keenly aware of the limitations and rules of the game itself, no doubt understanding it through a love (or begrudging appreciation) for video game logic and programming know-how. The Heir typically isn’t a Class known for sharing loads of Aspect-related knowledge, however, so they’re likely to keep their understanding to themselves. Their power will certainly grow throughout the session, as is typical for Heirs, and as long as their “sacrificial state” doesn’t come too early, they’ll be an incredible powerhouse in the late game. The ability to literally become the embodiment of rules, systems, and the literal foundation of the session’s programming is an incredible ability, perhaps allowing the Heir to rewrite the rules as they see fit in order to benefit their team. When they do end up sacrificing a great amount of their ability to further affect the narrative, however, it will grant them an insane amount of destructive force as they push themselves far beyond their limits in a show of unprecedented power. This may be in the form of a literal explosion, as Doom players are fond of doing, or it may open up the possibility for massive changes to the session’s rules, much like a skilled hacker burning themselves out over several nights in order to, well, hack the Gibson.

[englass]

Bury Me Low

Pairing(s): Yandere John Seed x Reader

Warning(s): Yandere themes; non-consensual touching/kissing, possessive behaviour, imprisonment/kidnapping (kind of...)

Word Count: 4,952

A/N(s): Inspired by @yanderedad‘s Doki Doki AU. I don’t really know what happened to this fic along the way, but it’s finally done and that’s all that matters; I just really wanted more yandere John in my life and this is the result. Now, I’m gonna go to bed because I’m shattered, but happy reading!

Likes, reblogs and constructive feedback is always more than appreciated!

- - -

The air is stale, thick as congealed tar and laced with an underlying bitterness, a metallic twang that taps at the tongue like a beater to a triangle. It rings on the taste buds, defined but not completely obvious at first taste. There is a sickly sweet aroma that also intermingles with the varied smells, a spray of too much perfume that has bile fingering the back of your throat, invasive and acidic.

Your breath stutters at every breath you take, staccato bursts that you work feebly to get a handle on; deep inhales followed by slow exhales that each catch on one another as you quiver. Hands clasp tightly to your chest, fisting at your well-loved jumper in a poor attempt at comfort, as you plead with watery eyes for your drumming heart to let up in its relentless beat; so tight and tangled within the box of your chest that it physically hurts, battered in its gruelling journey so far.

A ghostly touch plays on the keys of your spine like a piano, perfectly tuned to elicit the sweetest response out of your quaking form. It is a perverted blend that gets you to play so beautifully, a radiating fear that feeds off of wild assumptions and known tellings in equal abandon, lingering beneath the residual chill of the metal maze that you find yourself lost in. A rat in brutal testing.

Pressing tightly between a cluster of wooden crates, joints aching at how tightly wound they are, you tilt your head back to glance at the ceiling of your metal tomb. Red engulfs the walls, emergency lights painting bloody lines into the bends and crevices, haunting shadows reaching out from darkened corners just out of sight, but never far from mind. Dread creeps like a devouring ivy beneath your skin, pushing into the foundations as they burrow deep, carving a place for themselves as they watch on uncaringly as their host falls to ruin.

The walls moan gloomily, rattling echoes that cast a despairing spell throughout the ants nest of a bunker. Winding paths stretching on, dull and never ending, leading to nowhere but subjugation. Cages made of steel and sin, rooms of iron and blood; intentions paved by pain and falsehoods. Crude promises of salvation mar the walls with sharp words, cutting in image as they are from tongue. The bunker is empty, hollow, so cold and distant, and it nurtures the moulding terror in your marrow with a soggy touch.

A writhing shiver worms at the base of your neck, teasing your body into tensing before refusing to rise to the horrifying occasion that you have found yourself trapped in. It sits in a twisted anticipation that has you twitching.

With a wrecked sigh you bow your head, body sliding weakly down the wall, to press into the pad of your bent knees; curling in on yourself as a headache pounds cruelly behind your eyes. Thoughts rearing against thoughts, logic gasping in the face of the illogical, as your instincts war over the other in a harrowing cry for action; or a lack thereof.

This can’t be happening...

Leaving the soft comfort of your jumper, an old buy that feels too long ago, your hands trail to cup over your eyes, shielding them from the crimson dyed world you are now a part of; nails scratching at skin as your fingers grip for purchase. Something to hold on and weep to. A new wave of tears threatens to get the better of you, teeth biting hard into your bottom lip at the situation you are stuck in. An anguish so raw, and a loneliness so visceral, that you can not help the clawing sob that they retch from you. The idea that you can never leave, that you are forever stuck and may very well die down here, is suddenly a very real and terrifying one.

Taking a deep breath you raise your head back, bashing it gently into the metal wall behind you, the sound small enough that there is only a fleeting second of worry, as you hiss out a broken curse between your teeth. Another quickly follows, bashing the back of the head a little harder as your jaw tightens and your teeth ground against each other, a bite of anger slipping into the deluge of your despair. Blinking hard in an effort to ease the sting and fatigue from your eyes you suddenly wish you had not run, had just sat there and let him do whatever it was he was planning to do. He was right after all; you are trapped. There is nowhere else to go.

With a deep and rickety breath you press yourself into the crate beside you, concentrating on the rough wood digging into you as you try to remember how you got out of this world all the times before this. You are not sure exactly how it worked, but it seemed to be based on the concept of ‘Will’ if you understood it well enough. A theory that you would quietly talk to yourself about as you paced back and forth in your bedroom with bitten nails and a ticking mind; the more you focused and willed yourself to leave the quicker you could. The only problem was that every time you caught yourself here (not here here, but in this world as a whole) you found it getting harder and harder to pull yourself back out. As if it was chipping at something within you that you could not touch nor protect.

Quickly, it became a painful cycle.

While nursing a bloody nose after another fateful escape, one that had taken far longer than any before it, you had figured that they were getting stronger, that their influence was steadily growing. Every time you found yourself here they were more prepared, able to keep you locked down for longer while you struggled to evade and escape. Always on your tail, always talking and propositioning– near on begging for something that you were not willing to give to them.

You didn’t want to be here, you didn’t want to be a part of their twisted fantasies, you didn’t want them constantly taking you every time your mind wandered; you didn’t want to be the flu shot that was gradually immunising them against you. It wasn’t fair that while you had gotten weaker, lost control over something that you owned and had held dear, that they had only gotten stronger. They were now at that point were they could change and mould the world however they wanted it; free to hack into the code and make it all a special playground just for them. Their very own Eden.

Only the truth is they never got stronger.

A low whine eases against your throat, a sound full of shame, arms wrapping around to hold onto yourself tightly as you nurture your still bleeding pride. You had thought yourself so sure, knew how this world worked and what you had to do to get out of it. Foolishly, you had started to grow accustomed to the abrupt trips to the County beyond the screen; became frustrated as your fear at the unknown and unbelievable began to grate against the uncanny familiarity you were forced to face against every other day. Shamefully, arrogantly, you had thought yourself in control. That you were better. That this was your game (you were real, they weren’t) and therefore you had a say in it. You had a choice.

They made sure to prove you wrong.

For a second you find yourself broken away from your helpless thoughts, a question on the brain as you listen into the dying silence; a new sound suddenly prowling the halls. With a sharp jolt you look up, eyes wide and ears open as a familiar tune slinks against the walls. Sharp and high it cuts through the labyrinthian bunker better than any blade, the telltale hiss of a particular breed of serpent making your blood freeze with a revitalised fear.

He’s here.

Your breath picks up, short bursts that you try to keep quiet at the expense of your shaking heart, as you war over what to do; do you cut your losses now, hand yourself over and get it done with, or do you just keep running until one of you finally gives up the ghost?

Truly, it’s a pointless battle.

You know he won’t give in. He’s committed, ruthlessly so. Sadly, you’re not. You are already so exhausted, pushing yourself past limits you shouldn’t be crossing in a failing bid to escape from this hell-scape. Trying to find a freedom that is now nigh on impossible. How much longer can you really go on for? How long until your legs collapse from underneath you, until your wailing from the weight of your own body? You don’t imagine it’s much longer if you’re actually thinking of giving in.

It’d be so easy. Just one word, just one small word, and this chase would be over. This cruel game of cat and mouse finally brought to a close. But the humiliation, the embarrassment you’d face... the last vestiges of your wounded pride shiver at the thought. Despite all of this, all that you’ve been and are now going through, your pride still holds as tall and firm as an old king refusing to give up his crumbling throne; even in the face of irrefutable defeat.

What a petulant child they are.

Before you can even decide whether to bolt from your fortress of crates or remain tucked against them like a mouse hiding from the local cat the decision is taken from you, an evenly paced tapping beating to the viper’s hiss. Whatever chance you may have had is now slipping through your fingers like water, and worryingly enough you are not too sure how you feel about that.

The tapping stops, a loud and final ring that brings with it the weighted anticipation of a gong announcing an awaited sacrifice; pure and virginal and a promised meal for a beastial deity. Slowly and shakily your hands move to cup over your mouth, vainly attempting to soften your breathing as it races to compete against your quaking heart. Eyes wide and dilated as you silently beg to whatever god that lays beyond and within this coded space to show you even an ounce of mercy, to get him to walk away and leave you be.

You should know by now that no such god exists.

Catching the faintest ruffle of what sounds suspiciously like clothing you bury yourself as much as you can between the crevice of the crates, praying that your dark clothing will be enough to shield you from his keen eyes. He is much closer than you assumed he was if you can hear the shifting of his clothes, the sharp ‘tsk’ of his serpentine tongue as he stands meters away, unmoving.

The silence that follows the universal reprimand does nothing to quell your rattled heart, barely containing a strangled whimper as a hollow buzz washes through the bunker. White noise staining the walls in static sounds that reverb and move like roiling maggots, chewing at the mind as if it is a festering carcass, as you get lost in its numbing haze. Time unknowable and inconceivable.

You very nearly jump out of your skin when the silence shatters, your heart tripping over its own beat as ice burns through the blood in your veins, sharp and needling. A new wave of despair pins you down like an avid butterfly collector would their treasured specimens when he starts to speak; his voice as refined as a blood-cut diamond and laced with powdered bone. Darkened promises that speak threats of painted gold lurking within the underground twang of his muted accent.

“Dearest,” he drawls with a mocking lilt, tone a soured saccharine that faintly echoes throughout the bunkers skeleton, “as much as I love a good chase I do believe it is about time for you to come home. I didn’t exactly appreciate you running out on me like that after all; you hurt my feelings. Although I must admit, you certainly caught me off guard. I didn’t take you to be the rash sort, but I suppose we are still getting to know each other after all.” A secret chuckle ricochets through the bunker, a bitter admission that sands down into a blissful sigh.

“But, that’s alright. I’m not angry; this is all so new to you that you merely got cold feet. Joseph always tells me that I have to have patience, that I need to give you time, and that with it you will eventually come to us. You’ll come to me. And yet,” his tone twists, snaps into a restrained snarl, a bite of annoyance. “I have given you time. I have given you space, free reign within my own little piece of Eden, and yet you are still not here. You still refuse to listen to me, refuse to accept me and everything I could give you! I could-”

He cuts off, holds his tongue and lets the space fill with a pregnant pause that tugs the walls in tighter; crowds the already cramped space until it chokes. There is a faint shuffle, a shift in movement, before he speaks again.

“However,” he sighs, anger drained but forever lurking like an eldritch horror, “we– I have ways been very good at making people listen, showing them the errors of their ways and helping them down a greater path so that they may be set free. Helping to cut out the sins that they bury so low within themselves, an infectious collection of dirty secrets just begging to see the light. To be ripped out for all to see and bare witness to! And you? Oh dearest,” the hiss of a laugh between the viper’s fangs overshadows the affectionate purr of the endearment, turning it sour and rotten, “you harbour the prettiest collection.”

You are not too sure how to respond to such a comment, wide-eyed and as petrified as you are, but you do find yourself slightly thankful in the knowledge that he hasn’t quite found you yet. Although, how long he will put up with your resistance is a beast you would rather not think about. John is eager – ravenous – in his desire for attention (attention you unknowingly fed him), and there is nothing more terrifying than a man with nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“And I understand,” his chuckle is low, a drag around his words that would make you question whether he truly does or not, “oh truly, I understand. This must all be so... deeply overwhelming for you, darling. You must be so scared, lost in my bunker; lost in a world that you thought you knew. Thought that you understood,” he ‘tsk’s’ something disappointed; a pitying reprimand for someone who doesn’t know better. “But, you don’t. You are still young, riddled with the temptations of sin; the promise of something less than glorious. You don’t understand. You don’t see. But that’s alright. You will. All you have to do is accept the truth. Accept the Word of The Father into your heart – accept me and all that I can offer you...

“I can keep you safe. I can you give everything you have ever wanted, anything in the world and I can give it all to you! You have a choice here, darling. So, either you keep yourself in denial, connected to a world that does not care or want you, refusing to make a choice just as you are right now between those crates-” what, “Or, you could be a good little girl and come to me willingly. Accept the truth – the devotion that I can give you, that I want to give you, and this little game of ours can very well end. All you have to do... is say yes.”

The silence hangs, his tongue dragging lecherously around his favoured word; skimming along the walls as a rising sun, filled with the promises of an ill fated day ahead, dawns within you. He knows where you are. That revelation alone is enough to scare you solid, any half-conceived plans falling to ash in the wake of his admittance. Just what do you do now? Surely there’s nowhere left to run to, and even if there is how do you get there; where do you go?

What do you do?

“I won’t ask again, dearest,” he chimes with a dark lilt. “You are testing my patience as it is; do not keep me waiting.”

Still and racing, empty and stuffy, your thoughts get caught in the crossfire of your vibrating nerves. So violent in their frequency you start to feel dizzy, off kilter, as your head pounds and your stomach rolls.

The silence lays thick for an agonising beat.

“For fucks sake!” His shout makes you jump, the following bang, quick on its tail and roaring through the bunker, makes you scream. Blinded by fear you don’t even realise you’ve made a dash for it until you go sliding around a corner, shoulder bashing roughly into the jut of a bunker wall, the corner of a crate catching your hip, as you stumble and cry out.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You hear the spoiled call of your name, a tangled mess of interwoven threats and lacing pleas that do nothing but push you to run faster, to get out – to get as far away as you possibly can.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, this was never supposed to happen! You feel the panic rise with the speed of a broken dam, rapid and crushing, as the walls narrow and the air fizzles and the bunker keeps going and going and going.

This isn’t real it can’t be real, dear god don’t let this be real–

You startle, exclaim, try to stop, trip, collide into a stack of crates that weren’t there but now are. Vaguely you see them shimmer, iridescent flashes that glitch with shapes and textures that don’t belong until they do. The air warbling as if impersonating a mirage as different scents flutter in and out, change and remain, swap and shift, until it settles on that initial metallic twang, underlined with something sweet with the faintest brush of an ensnaring spice that looks to pull and hold; never let go.

One crate topples over, shakes loose from the mountain it is a part of, as you grip your bruising arm with gritted teeth and wet cheeks. It’s tender, your whole body feeling beaten and exhausted, as you slide down against the remaining crates. Legs giving in with the loss of your momentum. The wood scraping against the cotton of your jumper as you deliberately press into the stack of crates to keep yourself standing; hunched over your throbbing arm as you cradle it against your abdomen.

A dreadfully familiar voice chimes throughout the now tunnel of a bunker, malicious mirth buried low within the undertones of a plastic sympathy. A show decorated with a spiteful substance that you know, with unquestionable certainty, will burn you worse than any acid ever could.

Your eyes close tightly with the sharp prick of defeated tears.

“See? I told you that you didn’t understand, dearest. This is my world now, my Eden, not yours to run around and play pretend in; this is mine. And if I want to keep you locked up within it, within my home or my bunker, safe from the intentions of my brothers and anyone else that would dare to come between us, then... well,” his chuckle is low, head ducked as he looks at you with electrical eyes; charged on greed and sparking with sudden flashes of lust and muted flares of wrath, “I will damn well do so.”

No response could do the utter insanity behind his declaration justice. The only thing you are even able to utter is a hushed and broken, “you’re crazy.”

For a second John tenses, screwed too tight with a primal and instinctual need to lash out, to correct and reprimand. Only as quickly as he tenses does he visibly relax, the tension coiled tight like an aggravated snake within him loosening in its constricting hold; huffing a breath of a laugh as his expression lightens, turning into a soft and fond smile. Under a different circumstance, not drowned within crimson lighting and buried low beneath the map, he would no doubt look absolutely breathtaking.

“Only for you, dearest.”

That is far from a comforting thought.

You shake your head, a slow and terrified rejection as you feebly try to bury yourself into the crates behind you; trapped at a dead end. Tears running fresh trails down your cheeks as a heavy hopelessness begins to physically weigh you down, slivers of a fleeting courage draining like water spilt from a shattered glass.

John must be able to see the cold realisation on your face, the dreadful fate that you are still pitifully trying to reject despite the hollowed acceptance that you have reached, as he takes a step toward you. You only hug yourself tighter, allowing yourself to fully slide to the floor on aching joints; knees pulled stiffly to your chest. Eyes falling downcast as he stops in front of you, kneeling on bended knee.

For a moment nothing happens; the silence chiming like a ceremonial bell as the bunker groans like a sleeping giant on every toll. Creaking and moaning as your thoughts go painfully still, stale and empty. Despair chewing through you until there is nothing but a gloomy void in its place; a swallowing maw.

Flinching you glance up, eyes caught in a tangled web of stark blue; a mirrored maze of crystallised turquoise that gleams on cut and unpolished edges, raw and unrefined, masquerading as the smoothest of gems welded onto the finest of crafted metal.

John’s oceanic eyes never leave yours as his fingers skim against the apple of your cheek reverently; water changing, ebbing and flowing, as emotions dance like fading stars.

With a startling amount of focus John watches, tantalised and near disbelieving, as his fingers explore your features; the pads of his fingers trailing unhurried paths across your nose, cheek, jaw and down your neck. If he notices the way you jump and flinch at his feathered caresses he doesn’t comment, merely continuing until his free hands joins the other in its exploration.

Following down – lingering on where your collarbone lies shielded by your jumper – his hands flatten against your arms, rubbing a brief, and intended, comforting touch against you before sliding down the line of your arms; stopping, contemplatively, at your wrists. With ease your slim wrists fit effortlessly within the bars of his light, but caging grip.

Shifting his hold slightly he raises your wrists to press them against the bunker wall and beside either side of your head, fingers loosely curled in a surrendering gesture, as he edges forward, invading your space to press his forehead against your own; his nose brushing against yours in a faint display of affection. His deep and blissful sigh does not go unnoticed.

Fearfully you allow the contact, the potential consequences that could very well be brought down upon you if you weren’t to allow it running rampant. You don’t even realise you are trembling, whining quietly within your throat like a frightened puppy, until you feel the gentle pressure of John’s thumb against the pulse of your wrist; drawing indiscernible patterns, back and forth, as he cooes adoringly at you.

“Shh,” he soothes, crowding closer, “it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay; I’m here now, dearest. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

He reluctantly pulls away a few inches, eyes twinkling chasms formed from frozen seas. His smile is serene, a loving expression that looks to put the mind at ease, but is tipped with an edge of something that you can only describe as erratic; restrained, but vibrating. A rotary blade buzzing hungrily.

There is a strange stillness that ripples between the both of you; a heaviness that darkens his eyes a shade or two, makes them glint within the abyss, before he glances down at your lips. Suddenly, you find yourself reminded of why you ran in the first place. Why, with invisible hands on your shoulders – pushing and shoving and guiding, you had bolted from his home and found yourself lost within the endless maze of his bunker; manipulated codes glitching and looping as he saw and sees fit.

With a tightening chest you take in a shuddering breath, shrinking in on yourself as your eyes sting with the onset of fresh tears. There lies no comfort in them.

“Please,” you plead with fear-ridden eyes, water in your voice, “don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

“But I do,” a smile plays on his lips, the end of a failed laugh trailing into something weaker and uncertain; doubting. “How else would you stay with me otherwise?”

There is something so broken in the way he says it, so raw and heart wrenching that you go cold. With a disjointed interest you watch as his Adam’s apple bobs with an anxious swallow, his aqua eyes tracking your every flicker of emotion with an obsessive intensity. Slowly, cautiously, you shake your head.

“This isn’t how you get someone to stay.”

“Then what will!” His grip tightens, jostles you in sudden flare of rage, ocean eyes ablaze with frozen fury and a horrendously hidden hurt. “I try to be nice. I try to have patience, but you do nothing but resist me. You do nothing but say no– just say yes! Please, for fucks sake, just say yes!”

A cry catches in your throat as your head collides with the wall, hands feebly flailing to shake off his hold as you twist, attempt to stand and dash; body wailing at the strain, begging you with creaking bones and stiffened joints that have you crying in distress. He only pushes closer, allows you to shift and struggle until he’s above you, pinning and straddling your hips; his breath fast and frantic, daring and desperate as you go still and tense and cry beneath him. Ocean eyes widen, spark and glitter, engulfing you in waves that look to submerge and drown. The light of an acquired realisation turning those shallow waters deep.

“Please,” he whispers in a hoarse voice, accent drooling as his eyes dart between every feature, “please let me do this. Let me prove how good we could be together; how good I could be for you. You don’t need anyone else, but me, dearest. Please. Please, let me...” there is a panic to his words that taint his next actions, the intended chaste press of his lips scorching fierce with a ravaging hunger. You let out a startled gasp as his lips press aggressively against our own, tongue not wasting time and slipping into your mouth. Teeth clacking against your own as he furiously devours you, grip pulling and tugging you as close as he possibly can; hips rocking against your own as he looms over you, his hand sliding under your jumper, kneading the flesh with desperate, clawing touches.

He growls something feral against your lips, a breathless curse spilling like liquid lust as he pulls away, pants into the curve of your neck as he rolls his hips; a whine falling unbidden, uncaringly, from his parted lips. Muffled pleas scraping against your flesh as his teeth nibble and press into the sensitive skin there, threatening to bite and mark and bleed.

Whimpering you turn your head away, nuzzling weakly into the cotton of your hood beneath and taking what fabric you can between your teeth; cringing at the texture against your tongue and the weight of John above you, the wet drag of his own tongue flat against your throat and the leisurely grind of his hips against your own.

“I promise you, sweetheart,” your sides tingle at the new endearment, his breath hot and hushed against your ear, “you’ll want for nothing with me. I’ll provide everything you need and more. I’ll guide you,” a fractured laugh, a huff of delirium, “I’ll guide and lead you just as I’m supposed to; teach you how to say ‘yes’. You can’t fight fate after all, dearest; and this,” his hand under your jumper, stroking absently against your waist, moves to press lightly against your stomach; a trembling caress to an unspoken promise, “this is where our future lies.”

A sob shatters from your lips, cutting and splitting, as your heart ceases at the implication. Your now free arm falling over your eyes; a poor hiding spot as you grit and gasp in newfound anguish.

This is really happening... fuck, this is really happening...

All the while John comforts you. Gentle reassurances coupled with softened touches; carefully controlled. Pulling your arm away so he can see the way your eyes sparkle, submissive stars drowning beneath the waters of your fear, under the blood-tinged lights that illuminate you so prettily. The silent need you hold for direction and acceptance a sacred song that cannot be silenced nor ignored; and it is one that John intends to listen and dance to for longer than infinity.

And as you cry and whine helplessly beneath his disease, moulded and devoured into one, safe and secure and forever his within the ones and zeros, he buries you low within the gilded embrace of his corrupted Eden.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

5th November >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Luke 15:1-10 for Thursday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time: ‘There is rejoicing among the angels of God over one repentant sinner’.

Thursday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time

Gospel (Except USA)

Luke 15:1-10

There will be rejoicing in heaven over one repentant sinner

The tax collectors and the sinners were all seeking the company of Jesus to hear what he had to say, and the Pharisees and the scribes complained. ‘This man’ they said ‘welcomes sinners and eats with them.’ So he spoke this parable to them:

‘What man among you with a hundred sheep, losing one, would not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the missing one till he found it? And when he found it, would he not joyfully take it on his shoulders and then, when he got home, call together his friends and neighbours? “Rejoice with me,” he would say “I have found my sheep that was lost.” In the same way, I tell you, there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one repentant sinner than over ninety-nine virtuous men who have no need of repentance.

‘Or again, what woman with ten drachmas would not, if she lost one, light a lamp and sweep out the house and search thoroughly till she found it? And then, when she had found it, call together her friends and neighbours? “Rejoice with me,” she would say “I have found the drachma I lost.” In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing among the angels of God over one repentant sinner.’

Gospel (USA)

Luke 15:1-10

There will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents.

The tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to listen to Jesus, but the Pharisees and scribes began to complain, saying, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So Jesus addressed this parable to them. “What man among you having a hundred sheep and losing one of them would not leave the ninety-nine in the desert and go after the lost one until he finds it? And when he does find it, he sets it on his shoulders with great joy and, upon his arrival home, he calls together his friends and neighbors and says to them, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you, in just the same way there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance.

“Or what woman having ten coins and losing one would not light a lamp and sweep the house, searching carefully until she finds it? And when she does find it, she calls together her friends and neighbors and says to them, ‘Rejoice with me because I have found the coin that I lost.’ In just the same way, I tell you, there will be rejoicing among the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”

Reflections (4)

(i) Thursday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time

A question we might sometimes ask ourselves in our more reflective moments is, ‘What do I really value in life?’ At the conclusion of today’s first reading, Saint Paul gives his own answer to that question, ‘I believe nothing can happen that will outweigh the supreme advantage of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord’. For Paul, his relationship with the Lord is the supreme value, before which even those religious credentials he boasted about in the past now seem of little value, such as keeping the Jewish Law faultlessly. We spend our lives growing in our appreciation of the Lord as our supreme value, as ‘my Lord’. What did Jesus really value in life? Today’s gospel reading suggests that we are all his supreme value, especially when we find ourselves lost in some way or other. The two parables Jesus speaks in response to the criticism of the Pharisees and the scribes reveal his real priorities. He is like the shepherd searching for his lost sheep or the woman searching for her lost coin, in that his whole ministry is driven by his search of those who feel lost in themselves or lost to God or to the faith community. Jesus valued those whom the religious leaders of the time dismissed as sinners. The Lord values us, even when others are tempted to give up on us, or we are tempted to give up on ourselves, because of what we have done or failed to do. To the extent that we grow in our appreciation of how much the Lord values us, we will be freed to keep valuing him above all else in life, recognizing with Saint Paul, ‘the supreme advantage of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord’.

And/Or

(ii) Thursday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time

We spend a certain amount of our time looking for something, and that is certainly true if you are as prone to loosing things as often as I am. We also find ourselves looking for people in various ways. Parents look for their children if they ramble off. Men and women look for someone they can share their lives with. We all look for friends, people with whom we can journey and who want to journey with us. Underneath all this searching and longing is a more fundamental search for God who alone can satisfy the deepest longings in our hearts. Saint Augustine wrote that our hearts are restless until they rest in God. Even more fundamental than our search for God is God’s search for us. God’s search for us took flesh in the person of Jesus. He said of himself that he came to seek and to save the lost; Jesus gave expression to God’s longing to be in communion with us. The shepherd who searches for his lost sheep and the woman who searches for her lost coin in this morning’s two parables are images of Jesus’ search for us, of God’s search for us in Jesus. God never ceases to seek us out because we are all lost in different ways. Our search for God is always in response to God’s search for us. In the words of the first letter of Saint  John, ��We love because God first loved us’. If we open our hearts to God’s searching love for us in Jesus then we will be moved to search for God.

 And/Or

(iii) Thursday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time

At the beginning of today’s gospel reading Jesus is criticized by the experts in the Jewish Law for sharing table with sinners, those who were adjudged not to keep the Jewish Law, the Law of God. In reply to that criticism, Jesus speaks the two parables we have just heard, one which features a man and the other a woman. The actions of the two characters in the two stories seem a bit extravagant. Why would a shepherd abandon ninety nine sheep, leaving them at risk, to go in search of one sheep that has strayed? Having found that sheep and carried him home on his shoulders, it seems a little over the top to invite friends and neighbours to join in a celebratory meal? The same questions could be asked of the woman. Why spend the day searching for a lost coin, and then entertain friends and neighbours to celebrate with her when she found it? The cost of entertaining was probably more than the value of the coin. If the actions of these characters seem a bit extravagant, it is because, in telling these stories, Jesus is really talking about the ways of God, which are extravagant by human standards. Jesus is saying that God’s love for us is so strong, God’s desire to be in communion with us is so great, that God seeks us out with great energy whenever we stray from him and end up lost. Then when we allow ourselves to be found by God, God’s joy knows no bounds. This is the God whom Jesus revealed in his style of eating, his way of life, and that he continues to reveal to us today.

 And/Or

(iv) Thursday, Thirty First Week in Ordinary Time

The joy of the gospel has been a very strong theme of the preaching and writing of Pope Francis. His recent letter on the call to holiness in today’s world was entitled ‘Rejoice and Be Glad’. The note of joy is very strong in today’s gospel reading. When the shepherd finds his lost sheep, he ‘joyfully’ takes it on his shoulders and when he gets home he calls together his friends and neighbours, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me!’ When the woman who lost her coin finds it, she too calls together her friends and neighbours together and says to them, ‘Rejoice with me!’ The shepherd and the woman are both images of Jesus. He is seeking out the lost, as they did, and gathering them together into a new community. As he does so, he says to all, ‘Rejoice with me’. ‘Rejoice at God’s good work’. However, there were those who, far from rejoicing with Jesus, took offense at what he was doing, ‘This man welcomes sinners and eats with them’. On another occasion, Jesus compares such people to children who refuse to dance when other children play the pipes. Their sullen response to what God was doing through Jesus was in sharp contrast to the rejoicing in heaven. Jesus wanted some of that heavenly joy to be reflected among those who witnessed what he was doing. God’s good work continues today through the risen Lord and the Holy Spirit, even in the midst of these difficult times for the church. There is something here to rejoice in. The Lord continues to say to us, ‘Rejoice with me’. In the words of Paul in the first reading, we all possess what he calls ‘the supreme advantage of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord’. We know that the Christ Jesus our Lord is at work within us and among us and that is reason for joy.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 43)

A Week Apart

Reader has to live with with Arthur’s absence, how’s she taking it? This chapter and the next few will focus on her relationship with other gang members. We chat with Molly in this one, I have never really written for her before so I hope I did okay. A little warning for a short scene of a suffering animal in this one!

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

-

A week passed quickly in Lakay. The first week in a new camp always did, everyone was so busy getting settled, setting up our temporary home, making sure everything had made the journey unscathed and in working order. What saddened me was the fact that we didn't even bother with any of the homey touches we had in other camps. Photos stayed tucked away, tables weren't put out so everyone ate on their laps or at whatever surface they could find within the numerous shacks, Arthur's bed… Arthur's bed stayed on the wagon. Miss Grimshaw said there wasn't room for it, and Arthur would have to sleep on the floor with the rest of us once he returned. But even so, it was a further reminder that he wasn't there.

A whole week without Arthur. It felt unbelievably wrong and as a rule, I tried not to think about it. When I did think about it, my mind turned down a dark and scary path, filling me with intrusive and ugly ideas of what had happened to him, so I distracted myself. In the daytime I helped cook, and when we were really desperate, I took on guard duty. It's funny, you kill two men and suddenly you're worthy of protecting the whole gang. I had little choice, without Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, John, Bill, Micah and Javier around, we needed everyone to up their responsibilities. I didn't like guard duty, but I made sure to do a thorough job and I took it very seriously. Luckily, nobody had set foot close to camp while I was on; I dreaded the day I had to use my gun again. 

But I would, if it meant keeping those I cared about safe. 

In the evenings I drew a lot, sitting in one of the shacks towards the back of camp, where the wall was painted with a lovely, gestural image of figures dancing around a fire. The expressive strokes reminded me of Charles Châtenay's work, and brought pleasant memories of Arthur and I's day spent together in Saint Denis. 

I was sitting on the ground in the middle of the room, my legs dangling down through the hatch that opened up to the space below the building, my sketchbook on my lap. I was working on a sketch, my only reference the crisp image in my memory of Arthur standing among trees, wrapped in a frame and hanging on a wall in Saint Denis' gallery. He'd looked so handsome in that photograph, part of me wanted to go back to the gallery, seek out that photographer and purchase a print for myself. I wasn't sure when I was going to see Arthur again and I longed to have something far better than my drawings to keep his image fresh in my mind. 

The door behind me opened, and I twisted to look. Every time someone entered a room my heart would skip with hope, longing for it to be him. When a flash of vibrant red hair appeared in the doorway, I was surprised. 

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise anyone was in here," Molly said, backing out. 

"You can come in. Plenty of room in here for both of us," I smiled before she closed the door, and she hesitated for a moment before finally slipping inside and shutting the door behind her. "How're you doing?" I asked. 

She ambled inside, eyes drawn to the painting on the wall. She approached it, her hands and fingers wrestling themselves. "I'm alright. Things are too cramped over there," she gestured briefly to the other shack where most people congregated. I nodded in understanding, it was why I avoided it until bedtime. "Can barely hear myself think. Mr. Pearson and Mrs. Adler are bickering again."

"Really? I guess the close quarters are getting to people already," I sighed sadly, looking back down at my drawing and shading the folds in Arthur's jacket. 

"And Karen's drunk again," she added, her tone quite harsh. I didn't know what to say to that. Karen certainly had been hitting the bottle a lot lately. "What're you drawing?" Molly asked, and my face quickly heated up. 

"Oh, it's…" I trailed off, deciding to simply show her. 

Molly came and sat down beside me, taking the sketchbook from me. I saw her painted lips curve just a little. 

"This is good, you know," she told me. 

"Thank you."

"D'ya miss him?" She asked, not looking up at me. In the resulting silence, she nodded, "course you do." 

"And how are you holding up?" I gently inquired. 

"You're the first person to ask me that," she breathed a dry laugh, handing my sketchbook over. "I suppose you and I, we're in a similar situation."

"I suppose," I nodded after a moment to consider.

"Well, I don't know how I'm doing. I thought I'd be in bits but in reality I don't feel much at all," she admitted, stating it matter-of-factly with very little fanfare. "I miss him, sure. But to be honest, I was missing him long before that bank job."

I met her eyes, and she must've seen something in mine because she chuckled. 

"Don't look so surprised. I know the whole camp has heard us arguing. I know they all talk about us– me, thinking I'm some kind of moron," she said, words coming fast, I got lost in the rhythm of her Irish accent. I had never heard Molly talk so much and I realised I could listen to her for hours, no matter what she said, with that voice.

"I don't think you're a moron," I told her, shrugging. "I think you love someone who has far too much on his plate to give you the right amount of attention."

"Dutch never used to be this way, ignoring me for days on end, barely looking at me, let alone touching me," she told me softly, and I closed my sketchbook, putting it aside and giving her my undivided attention. "In the beginning, he was lovely. He was perfect. Otherwise I never would've agreed to join his gang, no offense to anyone, but I'm hardly the kinda girl who's built for living in the middle of a swamp without access to regular baths." 

"No offense, but it's evident," I smiled in good humour, looking at the clothes she was wearing. Far, far richer than anyone else's. She laughed quietly then leaned her head against her hand. 

"You know, I came to America because I was bored. Thought I'd find something new and exciting, and I did. But the novelty wore off eventually, and now I can't help but…" she paused for a while, her tongue wriggling along her bottom lip as she considered her words, "I sorta miss home."

"You ever thought about going back?"

"In the last few weeks? All the time," she nodded. That surprised me, and my brows raised. "It's been a real shoddy couple'a months for me," she added. 

"I'm sorry," I told her quietly. 

"I even looked into how I would go about travelling back home. There is a boat from Saint Denis, I could go back to Ireland from there," she told me, leaning to peer down the hole in the floor briefly. "It's a long trip. Bloody awful. I gave up on the idea initially, but now this has happened."

"You don't want to wait for Dutch to get back?"

"I might be waiting a long time," she said bluntly, darkly. My heart hurt. "But even if he made it back, I can't see him runnin' into my arms and everything being hunky dory."

"You've gotta do what's best for you. What you think will make you happy," I told her. 

"Yeah, well, truthfully I don't think I can take any more heartbreak," she said, toying with the golden pendant hanging around her neck.

I watched her quietly, waiting for her to go on. She released a tight yet shaky sigh. 

"The thing is, if he never came back– well then, that's one thing I'd have to deal with. But if he came back and everything was just the same as it has been, and he walks through that door and doesn't even look me in the eye, well… I think that might be worse," she explained, head nodding slowly, agreeing with herself.

"What if he does come back and run straight to you?" I challenged her, and she laughed. 

"Do you see that happening?" 

"I don't know," I shrugged, "I'm asking you."

"Well, I don't think it would. But if it did," she began, sighing and gnawing on her bottom lip for a moment, "it'd only be a matter of time before he got bored of me again." 

That hurt. It hurt her to say it, I could see it on her face, but it also hurt to listen to. 

"You wanna hear what I think? Feel free to tell me to shut up," I offered, and she looked at me, her brows arched a little in interest. 

"I'm all ears," she said. 

"Molly, I've barely spoken to you. Barely know you," I prefaced, leaning back on my palms, "but you're telling me you're having all these doubts, you're considering leaving the country, you felt as though you missed him while he was still around. It sounds to me like… like you know already if you and him are meant to be, and you've just gotta admit it to yourself." 

Molly didn't even flinch at my words, didn't seem surprised at all. I thought back to the time she'd come up in conversation with Arthur, and he'd told me Dutch had a way of treating his women that wasn't always fair. He was quick to replace. I could've tagged onto the end that I thought she should ditch him and run, find someone who would give her the time of day. But I didn't.

"Alright," she nodded, her gaze dropping to my lap distractedly. "You know, I've always been a little bit envious of you." 

"Me?" I quirked a brow.

"Because of Arthur," she told me, and I felt a surprising flair of possessiveness pass over me before I battered it down and listened to what she had to say about him, "the way that man looks at you," she shook her head, lips curling into a smile that flashed her top teeth. "I've watched you pair together, and he's lovely to you. He always listens to you, looks at you when you're speaking. There's plenty of other things, but that alone. Do you know how lucky you are?"

"Yes, I do," I nodded. She met my eyes at that. 

"When a man shows you he loves you in the little things…" she began, letting the sentence taper off. She sighed. "You're just lucky. What I wouldn't give to have that with Dutch. Or with anyone."

"You deserve it, Molly. I think everyone does."

"I think so too. And hey, do you want to hear what I think? About you and Arthur?" She asked. 

"Okay," I said hesitantly. 

"If he ever makes it back here, you grab him with both bloody hands and get the hell away from here," she said with a straight face. I was silent for a moment, then shook my head, frowning. 

"Ain't as simple as that."

"That makes it sound like you've tried."

"Not quite," I breathed, smiling in mild amusement. I chose not to tell her about our plans of running after the bank job. A plan I had no idea about the status of, whether it still had any chance of happening.

"You don't think he'd leave if you asked him to?" She queried. 

"No, I think he would," I said honestly. If I really asked him to, pleaded with him… Arthur would. Deep down I knew that, so concerned with doing right by me he was. "But for me to ask that of him, just like that–" I clicked my fingers and shook my head– "I couldn't. This is his family."

It was part of the reason I felt so strange about our plan in the first place. At least it was his idea, at least it came with the condition that he'd see to it that those he cared about were provided for and able to live peacefully. Still, it was all too ideal. 

"I'd call you a fool, but I understand," Molly said quietly. "Either way, if he comes back, don't ever let him go. When you find love, and I can see just by lookin' at you that you do love him, you gotta do your damnedest not to let this cruel world take it away from you."

I looked her in the eyes, her very pretty green eyes, and nodded. 

"I don't think I've ever wanted anything more than I want him to come back home," I said quietly. I had to not think too hard about the words I was hearing and speaking, otherwise I would get too emotional. I'd been trying so hard all week to keep my emotions under control, and the bulk of my tactic was just not talking about it. But it felt good to let a small token of my feelings out. 

Unexpectedly, Molly wrapped her arms around me. I stiffened in her embrace, eyes going wide, but after a moment I softened and returned the hug. It went on for longer than expected, and the way she clung to me told me that she needed it more than I did, so I didn't try to pull away until she did. 

"Do me a favour and don't tell anyone I've been thinking about going back to Ireland. They already think I'm awful, I don't need to hear 'em all whispering about that too," she said stiffly after backing off. 

"I won't," I smiled at her, one she returned. "And you're not awful. I'm glad we spoke… I'm sorry I've never made the effort before."

"It's alright. It's a two way street, I'm half to blame," she shrugged in a very dainty way and clasped her hands together in her lap, looking down the hatch in the floor again a little sheepishly. 

The door opened for a second time, and the two of us looked up. Charles stood in the doorway, glanced between the two of us, silently assessing the mood. That was a requirement these days. You never knew if you were going to walk in on someone crying or arguing or having a private, heartfelt conversation.

"My secret spot ain't so secret now," I said playfully. 

"I'm sorry for intruding," Charles said, and I shook my head. 

"You're okay. They ain't started killing each other in there yet, have they?" I asked. 

"Just got off guard duty. Swapped with Lenny, then walked immediately away from that place," Charles entered the room, shutting the door. I did a double take when I saw him properly. I was still getting used to his new hairstyle, shaved at the sides and braided down the middle, hanging way down his back. 

"I haven't heard any yelling, can't be that bad, surely?"

"It's worse. Nobody's speaking," he said, dragging a chair over from the corner and sitting himself down nearby. "And that's coming from me. I like the quiet, but not when it comes with a side of glares and awkwardness." 

"I'm hoping it's just because of the move, and because everyone is stressed out right now. This really ain't an ideal time for fallings out," I murmured, scratching an insect bite on my arm irritably. 

"You're right," Charles nodded, "how're you two doing?"

"Sick an' tired of this dump, but other than that," Molly replied drily. 

"Well, hopefully it won't be for too long," Charles assured her, then looked at me, his eyes attentive and sincere, waiting for my response. 

"I'm fine," I nodded. 

"I was thinking you and I could go hunting tomorrow. We're running low on food," he suggested. "That's if you're feeling up to it."

"Of course I'm up to it," I nodded, "actually that sounds real good, getting out of here for a while."

"Alright, we can head up north. Bring back a couple of deer. Maybe people won't be so angry with their bellies full."

-

Charles and I headed out first thing in the morning, riding our horses up through Bluewater Marsh and out onto dryer grounds, heading towards Van Horn. We had ridden up mostly in silence, neither of us feeling the need to speak; Charles was quiet, always was, I tended to be about as vocal as whoever I was with, so I didn't say much either. I left it to him to decide how much he wanted to speak, and he seemed content with the occasional remark about how far we had to go, or a warning about a change in the terrain.

We didn't have to stray too far to get to where we could find deer tracks. That was the useful thing about deer, they seemed to live damn near everywhere. Charles spotted them, slowing down. We followed them a short way on horseback, closing some of the distance until we decided we'd be better off on foot to avoid scaring them off. We took our bows and quivers, hitching the horses up on a solid tree; one that didn't look as brittle and dead as some of the others in the area. 

We followed the deer tracks, light on our feet, quiet. I hadn't been hunting in a couple of weeks and I realised how much I missed it once I was back in the mindset. That silent, focused, peacefulness that came over me once the game was in range, when all I had to focus on was the tracks in the mud and the sounds around me, always waiting for a target. Being with Charles also helped, he was quiet, yes, but also a calming presence. I'd always thought that of him. 

"If we come across a group of them, we can time our arrows right and down a pair right away, get this thing done," he said to me, his voice a low hum under his breath, but strong, never having to fight with the noises around him to be heard. I nodded my head. 

We crouched, the tracks looking fresher, with some scattered droppings for us to avoid stepping in. We came up upon the peak of an incline, allowing us to see the lower ground ahead. There were the deer, a group of them, a mix of does and bucks. Charles' eyes slipped to mine briefly, then the two of us readied an arrow, lifted our bows.

"I'm going for the far left," he whispered, and I nodded. I went for the buck on the far right to completely avoid going for the same one. "Do you want to count?" He asked, and I nodded again. 

I drew the arrow back, taking aim, seeing Charles do the same in my peripheral vision. 

"On three. One… two…" I took a steadying breath between each count, emptying my lungs a final time before– "three."

Two arrows pierced through the air, sailing almost perfectly in sync, hitting our targets almost simultaneously. Charles' went through the head, killing it cleanly. Mine went through the neck, not quite killing it; the poor thing wailed, dropping to the floor, struggling. A piece of ice cold guilt shattered inside my heart, sending painful shards to every limb. 

"Shit," I hissed, standing upright as the other deer scattered, drawing another arrow, shaking as I fired it, missing completely. The poor animal sounded as though it was crying, agonised mewls, it's legs kicking harshly. I took another arrow out, ready to fire it, but I felt my eyes growing wet and I could barely see! I cursed under my breath again, blinking away my tears and trying to calm my breaths, otherwise I'd never hit it–

The cries of the animal stopped suddenly, and I looked at Charles as he lowered his bow, slinging it over his shoulder as he stared at the deer, making certain it was out of its misery. 

I stared at him with parted lips then slumped to the ground, sitting down on my backside and dropping my head into my hands. I felt his hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle pat. 

"It's okay," he told me, and I shook my head, "it happens."

"Thanks for doing that," I sighed. 

"Are you okay?" He asked me. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," I told him, lifting my head and pushing myself up to my feet, sniffing and blinking my eyes dry. I made for the deer. 

"So you keep saying," Charles noted, following me down the gentle hill, "it's okay if you're not."

"I have to be fine, I'd be useless if I wasn't," I exhaled a hollow laugh. 

"You've never been useless," he assured me. We reached the deer and he tossed his over his shoulder with ease. I did the same, with a lot less ease and plenty of struggle, but I managed to get the thing balanced on my shoulder, despite being far smaller than Charles. 

"You've been real quiet this week. Not that you don't have good reason to be, I just hope you're not too in your head with everything that's been going on," he said as we walked back to the horses. 

"I'm extremely in my head with it," I admitted, feeling him staring at me, "but I don't quite think I'm ready to speak about it."

"That's okay. Just know that nobody expects you to keep things bottled up. You can speak to any of us," he told me, and I felt a lump form in my throat. Damn it Charles, being so nice.

"Thank you. The same is offered to you, of course. Anyone asked how you're doing?"

"Here and there," he nodded, "haven't really spoken much about it."

We reached the horses and hoisted the deer onto their backs, securing them with rope. I took a second to catch my breath, then looked at him over the top of Rayna's back.

"Must be a lot. People have started looking to you and Sadie for leadership, that's not something you originally signed up for, I'm sure."

"She's a lot better at it than I am," he said, a flash of teeth appeared with his smile. 

"You're doing alright, if you ask me."

"Sure," he laughed. The two of us mounted up. "This is all just crazy. Things are kind of a blur right now."

"Right," I agreed, nodding. 

"But with any luck, the others will get back to us. Then we'll be able to make some decisions. It's difficult right now, we're sitting ducks where we are, but we aren't really in a position to go anywhere. If the others come back, we need to be here, ready for them," he sighed. We started riding, slowly, in the opposite of a hurry to get back to Lakay.

"Do you think they're coming back?" I asked him. 

"I don't know," he told me truthfully, his tone low and drained, "I damn well hope so."

"I want to be optimistic, but I also don't want to build my hopes up," I admitted, and he hummed in acknowledgement. 

"I know. Part of me wants to tell you to expect the worst, then you can only be pleasantly surprised. I don't think that's a very nice piece of advice, though," he said, and I laughed despite the topic. 

"It's sound advice, but yeah, upsetting," I smirked at him.

"If it's any consolation, if Arthur can come back, he will. If I know him, he won't stop at much to get back here. He worries about this gang, cares a lot," he said, and I nodded slowly, picturing his face the way it crumpled into barely hidden hurt every time something bad happened. Like Sean dying, or Jack going missing, or me getting attacked by an O'Driscoll. 

"Yeah, you're right."

"And now it isn't just the gang he's thinking about," he looked at me, "Arthur really… I can tell you mean a lot to him."

"Yeah?" I met his eyes and he nodded. 

"When I split off from the group after that bank job, he seemed torn. I think he wanted to come with me, but if the law got wind of the fact that it was him running… he's got a way higher price on his head than me. He wouldn't have made it back through the city the way I came. He knew that."

"God," I closed my eyes, "it must've been awful for you. Charles, you're real brave."

"Someone had to come and tell you guys," he said quietly, staring ahead, "and let's face it, I got out of there. I'm the lucky one."

"Don't be so humble. What you did took guts, and you did it for us. Thank you, Charles," I told him, still looking at him, noting a distant sadness in his eyes. 

"I just… I hope they're okay. Arthur, especially. He puts up plenty of fronts but he's a good man."

"You're worried about him," I said, my heart aching. Of course, I'd been swept up in my own concern, I was too distracted to think about how he might feel. He and Arthur were friends. 

"Who isn't?" He murmured, "he's a good friend. If he never made it back, I'd miss him," he nodded. 

"Yeah, me too," I sighed, stating the painfully obvious. "What about Dutch?"

"Dutch. He helped me, took me in, fed me, gave me something I guess I could call a purpose. He saw my potential, my worth; but he saw my worth as a criminal. That's what he does," he said with a long exhale, "if he never came back, I'd miss his leadership, I think. But only for a while. Someone else would step up, just like Sadie has."

"Is Dutch your friend?"

"No, I don't think he is," he looked over at me, a serious expression wearing a crease between his brows, "it's not a personal thing, or that I don't like him. I just feel there has always been a wall between us. Between him and most people, I guess. Like he's our boss, the authority figure that… well, that Dutch claims to despise."

I looked down, frowning slightly as I considered his words. I'd never thought of it like that, but I felt as though he had a point. In the beginning I'd felt an urge to please Dutch, preening whenever someone told me I had, feeling dread when I feared I hadn't. He was like a boss, in that sense. Of course, those feelings blew away as soon as I'd started losing respect for some of the decisions he'd been making, and when he'd started treating Arthur and I's relationship with contempt. Now I didn't particularly care what he thought of me.

"I get it," I nodded. "He is like a boss. I catch him treating Arthur like he's gotta be working twenty-four-seven."

"Yeah? That doesn't surprise me."

"Mm. Has him thinking he needs to set the example. I bet it puts pressure on him."

"That man never took a break before you came along. Would be like pulling teeth just getting him to sit down by the fire in the evening. It's done him some good, having you, it's given him a reason to slack off every now and then," he smiled at me.

"I think that's why Dutch doesn't like me," I snorted. "He burst into Arthur's room one morning without knocking," I began unthinkingly, then felt a pang of embarrassment as I realised where it was going. 

Charles was looking at me expectantly. 

"Well, he got angry with Arthur about the fact he wasn't doing anything productive."

"Right," Charles said, a smirk on his face from badly concealed amusement. I shook my head and smiled. He was plenty capable of coming to his own conclusion no matter how I phrased it. 

"Little things like that. Making a big deal over Saint Denis. It just seems like he doesn't want Arthur doing anything for himself, like he's worried it'll let down the gang," I added.

"You really see it like that?" He asked. 

I shrugged. "I don't know how else to see it."

"I can't pretend I don't see your point," he was hesitant to say, "maybe he thinks Arthur will decide he cares more about making a life with you than he does following Dutch. Maybe he's worried he'll leave." 

I kept my mouth shut, directing my eyes straight ahead.

"Which, for the record," Charles continued quietly, "I don't think would be a bad thing."

"Really?" I swivelled to look at him. 

"Well, yeah, this life isn't exactly sustainable. We can't keep robbing banks and trains and stagecoaches for a living; the world's changing. If Arthur finds his place in the world by your side, he'd be a fool to deny himself that over something that stopped working a long time ago." 

I pressed my lips together, aching to tell him about our plan, but too nervous to do so. Instead, I deflected the attention to him. "Where do you think your place in the world is, Charles?"

"I don't know. Never have known. I floated around on my own for a long time before I met Dutch. I joined 'cause I thought this might be it. Turns out, it probably isn't." 

"I think you'll find it eventually. You have a place, just like anybody else."

He made a humming sound, neither agreeing or disagreeing, merely acknowledging. "So, your place; you think it's next to Arthur?" He asked. 

I thought for a moment. "I would like it to be." 

He looked at me, nodded and passed a small, easy smile my way.