#Hospitalized Lyrics Broods

[herlondonboy]

I Miss You, I’m Sorry

pairings: Taylor Swift x gn!reader (platonic)

Summary: in which you’ve been at everyone of Taylor’s opening shows in the pit since the Fearless tour, but you’re not at the opening of the eras tour

warnings: angst, unspecified chronic illness, reader death, this was supposed to be happy, spelling mistakes, sad Tay.

word count: 1.5k

You had been to everyone of Taylor Swift’s tours. It was a known fact between the Swifties. So much so that people went go up to you at the beginning of the Reputation Stadium Tour and asked for your autograph.

You and Taylor weren’t necessarily friends, but she was well acquainted with you and how your wear obscure outfits to each show. She often found herself scouring the front rows of each show for a familiar, comforting face.

Many videos had showed how Taylor’s eyes would light up when she saw you and vice versa. How she’d wave giddily, and hold back a laugh at your costume and how you’d bounce up and down, screaming the lyrics louder than anyone else.

You weren’t the first Swiftie, but you had been crowned the biggest Swiftie.

At the end of the Glendale show, you had stayed behind to take a mass amount of photos in your costume. That was the first time you were taken backstage. Part of you thought that you were being kidnapped (three men in all black, looking all emotionless and brooding leading you somewhere dark was suspicious to say the least), but then Taylor was stood in front of you with a wide smile.

Your eyes were wide and your mouth was agape, not to mention that you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “H-Hi?” You squeaked out, afraid that if you spoke too quickly you’d wake from this dream.

“Hi! Y/N, I’m-“

“Taylor-fucking-Swift,” you cut her off with a gasp.

Tears welled up in your eyes. You were supposed to meet her at the Reputation Secret Sessions in New York, but something had come up, so you didn’t get to. Part of you wished this had happened three years ago when you weren’t so weak, but it was happening nonetheless.

“Can i hug you?” Taylor asked.

You nodded rapidly and Taylor leaned forward to wrap her arms around you. You melted into the hug, sniffling softly, “I can die happily now.”

Taylor chuckled, “I missed you at the Secret Sessions,” there was a frown in her voice that made you feel guilty.

“I caught the flu,” You lied, “I didn’t want to make you or anyone else sick. I really wanted to go, though.”

The blonde smiled, still hugging you, “Well, when my next album comes out, I’ll have a super secret session just for you. Since you’re my biggest fan,” She said and there was some truth behind her words.

You had been invited to Taylor’s house to listen to the songs on Lover a few days before the first Lover Secret Session. To say you adored each song (Death By A Thousand Cuts being your favourite) was an understatement.

Taylor didn’t notice how jittery you got when Soon You’ll Get Better was playing. It seemed like you had related especially to that song, whether you were the best friend of the person in the hospital room or you were the person in the hospital room.

Your sister, who was also a big fan of Taylor and had been accompanying you to each tour, had always skipped that song whenever playing the Lover album in order, it hurt.

When Midnights came out, you were practically promised a world tour since the Lover Fest was cancelled due to the global pandemic. That was a hard time Your you and your older sister. As if you weren’t sick enough as it was, you had caught the coronavirus and had been forced into a hospital where your family couldn’t visit you for months.

But it got better. The rerelease of Fearless and the release of Folklore came and some people had spammed your instagram account with the news of finding out that you had helped Taylor write the bonus song. Then not long after, you had been allowed visitors and your sister never left your side again.

Though you were bedridden, you kept a smile on your face. Most people weren’t bothered by your sudden disappearance, it had happened a few times in the past whenever you had gotten sick, because you always came back with a brighter smile.

Then Midnights came out and Taylor announced her Eras tour and TikTok was going wild. Some fans were complaining about the price, some were wondering if you had gotten tickets. That led to people beginning to worry. You had never been gone for two years, and worse, your sister was gone, too.

So, when March 17th rolled up, and Taylor opened the tour with Miss Americana And The Heartbreak Prince, Taylor and her fans searched for you in the crowd. You weren’t there. And the second night in Glendale, you weren’t there either, but your sister was.

And that gave Taylor a little bit of hope. She waved at your sister, who waved back, fiddling with bottom of the top that you wore to the opening of the Fearless tour back in 2009.

At the end of the show, your sister had been led backstage where Taylor had changed and attacked her with a hug. The blonde broke away with a grin, “Hi! How are you? It’s been ages!”

“I’m good, yeah, it has.” Your sister responded, “Life’s been cruel, you know?”

The blonde nodded and looked down, “Where’s?-“

“Y/N told me to give you this,” Your sister held out a diary, making Taylor falter.

“What’s this?” She asked, frowning at the title of it.

Your sister sniffled, “They said- They said that they’re sorry that they couldn’t make it this year, that something came up. They really wanted to be here, Tay.”

The blonde felt her cheeks begin to dampen as your sister continued talking.

“They wrote this when they realised that they wouldn’t-“ A sob tried to claw its way out of your sister’s throat. “M-make it.”

The blonde shook her head.

Whilst the two of you weren’t necessarily friends, you knew each other well enough to know that you didn’t need to label whatever it was going on between the two of you. Your sister’s shoulder’s shook slightly as Taylor took the diary and hugged the woman.

“I’m so sorry,” She apologised profusely. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

A few days later, It was the Las Vegas shows. And, though Taylor hadn’t quite recovered from the news, she couldn’t just not go and perform. So, swallowing down her tears, she made her way onto the stage and sang like she wasn’t feeling all of these negative emotions.

And when it came to her surprise songs, she was sat at the piano, blinking away her tears. She cleared her throat and looked at her fans with a small smile, “So, uh, How is everybody?”

They began screaming on top of each other, making her chuckle slightly.

“Um, I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, but my good friend, Y/N Y/L/N past away last year. Their- their sister told me after the second show in Glendale and they wrote down a diary, wording every thought that had ever crossed their mind about me. They said- they said if they ever died and we became friends they wouldn’t want me to cry for them because they’re ’no one special,’ but they were probably one of the best people that I have ever met.

“Y/N drew a sketch of what their next outfit to one of my tours would be,” The image went up on the screen, before a series of photos of you at tours, smiling at Taylor and the camera. “I just- I wanted to say that even though we didn’t do labels, you were probably my best friend, Y/N,” She sniffled, “And I love you.”

The chords to your favourite song began and as Taylor tried to keep the lump in her throat down and her tears at bay, and a slideshow that your sister had composed began playing in the background.

Your life played out in front of everyone from beginning to finish, from 1994 to 2022. All twenty eight years. The people in the audience watched as you lost your parents and then yourself.

And then in the end, a photo of you grinning tiredly flashed onto the screen as the song faded out. And just as it ended, your voice sounded through the speakers.

Is this recording? Yeah? I’m going to assume it is. Okay, um, it’s February 21st— Happy Birthday, Joe. Uh, i don’t know what I want to say. I mean, thank you to everyone that has made my life worth living. I mean, at fifteen I wore a stupid outfit to a Taylor Swift concert and now I’m friends with her? It’s kind of sad knowing that I’ll never get to hear Speak Now Taylor’s Version, but oh well.

I’m going to be honest, I’m so scared to die. Every night for the past six months I’ve been scared to fall asleep, knowing that there will be a chance that I don’t wake up. I don’t want to die, I’m terrified. I don’t want to leave my sister alone and I know that she doesn’t want me to know, but she’s been crying herself to sleep since we got the news.

I just want to know if you’ll look after her for me? I’m all she’s got. Thank- thank you. I love you.

There was silence followed by Taylor’s small, ‘I love you, too.’ And then cheers from the crowd. Some people were announcing their admiration for you and some were crying.

“I miss you, Y/N.” Taylor whispered. “I’m sorry for not being there with you.”

—

What’s your favourite Taylor Swift song?

[dustedmagazine]

Chris Cohen — Paint a Room (Hardly Art)

Photo by Kate Garner

At this stage in their respective careers, it’s hard to imagine Chris Cohen once played in Deerhoof. His last album with the band, 2005’s The Runners Four, still stands among their best, perhaps because Cohen’s gentle, whimsical aesthetic counterbalanced his bandmates’ tendency towards intense, scattershot garage-rock. Cohen’s fourth album, Paint a Room, contrasts markedly with Deerhoof’s recent prolific output. Rather than labor solely over his vision, as he’s done with the preceding records, Cohen enlisted his live band — bassist Davin Givhan, drummer Josh da Costa, and keyboardist Jay Israelson — to execute these subtle, finely grained songs. The result is perhaps Cohen’s best album since his solo debut, 2012’s Overgrown Path.

Cohen’s musical evolution is immediately evident in the brooding, noir-inspired jazz of opener “Damage,” which features rich horn arrangements by Jeff Parker. As a scene-setter it’s introspective but sophisticated, inviting the listener to kick off their shoes and settle in. While the primary lyrical thread in Cohen’s 2019 eponymous album was his relationship with his father, here he pans out to address societal inequity: “At the hospital and the middle school / Anywhere you look / Someone’s power over someone else / Protecting property / But only life is precious.” This melding of jazz and guitar-pop is beautifully rendered on the title track, with its snaking flute lines, swirling phaser effects, and wistful yet hopeful chorus. Flutes and saxophone also reappear on “Physical Address,” an earlier version of which was released by Looking Glass back in 2020.

“Sunever” is almost a country tune with its singalong vocal melody, bouncing gait, and jaunty fiddle solo, the lyrics offering a message of hope to young people navigating the tricky transition of adolescence: “Now, as childhood ends / Take a message to my friend / You’re gonna find a way.” “Cobb Estate” musters a shimmering, anti-gravity vibe by aping Andy Summers’ echoing guitar tone from “Walking on the Moon,” and “Wishing Well” shifts gears by opening side B with some breakneck jangle-pop. It’s a welcome change of pace, and it’s these unexpected change-ups that prevent the album from drifting into mid-tempo malaise. For a musician so fastidious about production, it’s fascinating to witness Cohen’s continued employment of such a brittle electric guitar tone, which contrasts with the warm timbre of all the other instruments. The comically off-key slide guitar line that bursts forth from the loping swing of “Dog’s Face” is a surprise delight, sounding almost like a trumpet.

Though there are no weak links in the 10-song, 30-minute track list, Cohen tucks the album’s finest moment midway into the second half. “Night or Day” is such a catchy, perfectly executed song that it deftly snaps everything into focus, prompting the realization of just how odd and sneakily exploratory Paint a Room can be.

Tim Clarke

[lyricallymnded]

lyricallymnded’s end of year celebration! | tahlia’s favorite songs released in 2019

hospitalized // broods

[headinthestaticsky]

The Dusk Calls for me: Jasper Hale x My OC, Fleur Swan, Chapter 6

AUTHORS NOTES: None of the characters in Twilight belong to me. All rights go to Stephenie Meyer.

I hope I don’t bombard you guys with too many chapters but... I really like writing this story. I keep getting ideas I don’t want to lose them. I hope everyone is enjoying the chapters! They take me awhile to write but they’re worth it!

WARNINGS: Talks of violence, self deprecation, and sensual moments

Lyrics also in this chapter: Warm Water: By BANKS

And all the ways you touch me 

Under the stars I always try to trace

 But if we never find a better place? 

I don't wanna go 

Just to let you know 

I’m already home

Last Night in Los Feliz: By Niia 

When Bella had left I stayed frozen in my place. I felt overwhelmed, it was like someone turned off the resentment for each other in both of us. I’d have to thank Tyler sometime. Yes, he caused me some trouble but, if it helped mend Bella and I’s relationship than I wasn’t complaining. A knock at my door broke me out of my thoughts.

“Come in!”

“Hey Petal, got dinner. Hope subs are good tonight.”

“Yeah that sounds good.”

“Come down when you’re ready, hope your head is feeling a bit better.”

“Yeah, it is, thanks dad.”

He nodded at me then closed the door. I then changed into more comfortable clothes since I still had the same ones on from school, they smelt like a hospital too. I opened my window in case Jasper wanted to come in tonight and then I left, making my way downstairs.

“Mmm smells good. I am sooo hungry.” I said

Dad and Bella chuckled as I grabbed my sub hastily. 

“I was watching the news today, they said it’s going to be sunny tomorrow. Something you’ve probably missed huh Bells?” Dad said.

“Yeah, been a while since I’ve seen the sun. Maybe I’ll finally get a tan.” She joked.

“We can all dream to get tan but let’s face it, we were meant to be pale for the rest of our lives.” I added.

Bella had laughed and bumped my shoulder playfully. Dad looked at our exchange, he seemed shocked.

“I don’t want to speak to soon but, are you guys starting to get along now?” 

Bella and I looked at each other and then looked back at him.

“Yeah, I guess we are.” I said.

“That’s... that’s great! It took you guys a while but you got there.”

“Took us long enough huh?” Bella asked.

“It did, it sure did. Oh yeah I just remembered, did you find anything else on that guy in Mason County?” I asked.

“We did actually it looks like someone broke into the place.” He answered.

“I thought you said it was some sort of animal.” Bella said confusingly.

“I thought that’s what is was too but, the break in looks too detailed for it to be an animal.”

My face had went pale and my heart had begun to race again. I couldn’t say anything though, that would drive the suspicion Bella had for the Cullens. 

“You feeling alright Fleur? You look pale again.” Bella asked

“I guess I’m freaked out about everything that’s going on today. It’s overwhelming.” I said.

“Don’t worry about it Petal, I’m sure everything is going to be fine.” Dad reassured me. 

“Yeah you’re right, listen I got some homework to finish, I’ll see you guys in the morning. Love you.” I said while clearing up the dishes of dinner.

“Love you two, goodnight.” Dad said.

“Night Fleur.” Bella said.

I made my way back upstairs and I had turned my back when I closed the door. When I turned back around I saw Jasper sitting on my bed reading a book. His face didn’t look very relaxed, he seemed tense.

“Jasper, you scared me.” I said while crawling toward him on the bed. I gave a kiss and then laid beside him.

“My apologizes, Ma’am.” He said a small smile made it’s way onto his face before dropping quickly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can feel your pain.” His hand trailed to the back of my head, pressing it slightly.”

“And the bumped on your head... It’s all my fault. I couldn’t get to you fast enough.”

“Jasper,” I sat up facing him “None of this is your fault. How were you suppose to know that van was going to skid across the ice?”

He looked at me with sad eyes, but didn’t say anything.

“You got to stop putting yourself down when I get hurt... I’m human, it’s bound to happen.”

“And I want you to stay that way, I would prefer it if you wouldn’t get hurt all of the time though.”

“I’m going to be a human for a while... I might get some scrapes on the way but, I’ll live.”

“I love you darlin.”

“I love you too. Something else is bothering you, I can tell.”

“I got tempted today, more than usual.”

“You know, another thing about being human. We have this really “sucky” thing called blood.” I said laughing at my own pun.

“Stop trying to make me laugh.” He said, he then turned his head trying to hide his smirk.”

“Sorry pal I can’t let that happen. This is a brooding free zone.”

He turned his head back around, a genuine smile adorned his face.

“I really do love you.”

I just smiled and pulled him in for a kiss and sat on top of him, wrapping my arms around his neck. His arms made there way around my waist pulling me closer. He turned flipped me over and hovered over top of me we broke apart due to my need for air. I looked up lovingly at him panting softly.

I think I may love you If you give me some time, Maybe you'll love me too 

I got this thing for you If you come closer I can whisper in your ear And if you wanna walk away I'll tell you all the things I know you wanna hear.

I pulled him back down and began kissing him again. My legs wrapped around his waist and our kiss became more heated. He pulled apart this time and kissed my forehead.

“We better stop darlin, we don’t need this to get to heated.”

“As much as we want it to.”

He chuckled and then pecked my lips he laid next to me and pulled me into his arms. I laid my head on his chest and signed in content. I would never get tired of this, no matter how old I got.

I think I may love you, if you give me some time, Maybe you'll love me too

I'll come closer To you if you Come over I know we'll go farther Farther with you With you I'm in warm water swimming down.

[sailordiavolo]

suicide prevention month 2021 - things that helped me stay alive

i heard that this month is suicide prevention month in the united states. as someone who’s struggled for many years with suicide myself, and is currently in the mystical “better place”, i feel it’s my duty to open this can of worms. i am unafraid of the stigma that comes with discussing such things.

i’ll go over things that helped me to cope during dark times. these may also apply to being depressed in general (?) because no offense but “drinking water” doesn’t help as much as google seems to think it does. note that these aren’t be all end all solutions, more like techniques that helped me to stay sane on some of my worst days.

1. get rid of everything that’s an immediate danger to your health.

if you’re actively a danger to yourself, safety-proof your home. don’t keep sharp objects lying around, or anything dangerous of the like. get rid of anything toxic or chemical, and don’t keep medicines in excess.

2. if you can’t make yourself happy, try to mildly amuse yourself instead

thinking “happy thoughts” doesn’t really work for me, especially if i’m in the throes of a depressive episode. i do have many things that make me happy, but i seem to forget about all of them in dark times. that being said, really dumb jokes get me every time. if i can make myself laugh, smile or chuckle, i’ve already made it 10 times easier for myself. and if i can do that, usually it’s easy to make myself forget about the original reason i was upset in the first place.

dear reader, i don’t know what would count as “mildly amusing” to you, but here’s some things that work for me.

i have a self care playlist on youtube. mine’s pretty dumb, but making a playlist like that of things that you find entertaining or amusing might help. another amazing one is distantcry’s worst beat ever collection.

very specific songs that really get me going include metrostation’s shake it, botdf’s bewitched, rm’s expensive girl, and she past away’s ruh.

3. do some self care activities

self care is very very important. when you feel like you’re absolute worst, that’s a free pass to be as selfish as you need to be until you feel better. no job, no person, no drama is worth dying over. all of that can wait until after you’re finished what you’re doing. if you’re not really sure what to do as self care activities, i’ll list some suggestions.

take a hot bath, if possible. if you have the resources, add bubbles, flower petals, bathe salts or candles. i did this the other day and sat in the bath and ate crumpets. it was amazing. if not, have a steaming hot shower. (i know it’s hard to find the energy, but it’ll help, i promise)

watch your favourite childhood show, or your favourite show at the moment, or play a video game.

sleep all day, or take the day off.

eat your favourite food, or the best food available to you right now.

spend some money if you have it. personally, i never spend all my money in a week, i save some in case i have a panic attack or something so then i can spend money on something totally random to make myself feel better.

change up your appearance. i usually end up cutting my hair short or randomly dying it, but this can also mean dressing in a way that makes you feel good, painting your nails, or doing your makeup.

4. know how to comfort yourself

this is related to the last one but knowing what brings you comfort is very important. it took me a very long time to figure out what things i find comforting. list the things that you find comforting, and you can use those to help yourself feel better. it might be music, interests, even something abstract.

if you can’t think of anything, then make sure to pay attention to things that make you feel nice/comforted, and list them down. it’s also important to know what will send you over the edge, so you can avoid it.

5. distraction topics

this may help with anxiety as well, but having distraction topics can help you to calm down and forget about what you were worried about. it’s good to have a few distraction topics up your sleeve in case of emergency. i’ll list a few of my favourites, but if you ever need one don’t be afraid to ask me directly, or send me an ask on my blog! i have a ridiculous amount of misc knowledge just floating around.

dinosaur fossils of mothers protecting their nest have been found, meaning that dinosaurs probably felt some form of motherly love. love on earth is billions and billions of years old. creatures have loved each other on this planet since before the dawn of history. imagine being the first organism to love on this planet and what that must’ve been like

some cave paintings were animated. they had different frames painted over each other, and the flickering of a flame in the cave would cause the images to appear as if they were moving. isn’t that extremely profound?

i saw somewhere, that scientists attempted to see what an electron was made out of, or something to that effect. it’s made of a pool of energy, which is essentially nothing. no form, no matter. everything is made out of nothing.

6. romanticise your future

a lot of us probably don’t have a concept of the future, or if we do, it’s something that sounds absolutely horrible. well, forget about that! think instead about how hot n sexy you’ll be in your 30’s, 40’s, etc. don’t worry about how you’ll get there for now, your future self can take care of that. think about your ideal life, and get excited like it’s absolutely going to happen. the more you think about it, the more it will become true.

7. romanticise your current self

nobody in your life understands you? that’s because you’re the hot brooding mysterious one. struggle with very dark thoughts? omg you’d be so powerful as a jujutsu sorcerer. people are staring? it’s because they’re in love with you. people whispering as you go by? also in love with you. no friends? the universe had to keep you humble because otherwise you’d be too perfect. hate the way you look today? you’re just a littel troll babie. the more amusing these thoughts are, the better. and if you think these things for long enough, eventually it will trick your brain into thinking it’s true. who’s gonna check you? the telepaths?

8. put things into perspective

i am prone to delusional thoughts when i’m panicked, and i have to remind myself to reel it in. think about it, you’re more afraid of answering the phone than you are of death? doesn’t sound very cash money of you, bro.

think about how many years you’ve really lived, especially if you think you’ve failed in life. take 12 years off your age, because childhood doesn’t count. also take off any other years which you were forced to live the way someone else wanted you to live, rather than for myself.

for example, i’m currently 23. my household was pretty strict, so i couldn’t really do anything before age 18. which gives me a grand total of 5 years of me trying to figure out life by myself. it helps me to remember how young i actually am in the grand scheme of things, and that i have plenty of time to still figure things out.

9. find a safe outlet for dark urges

for me, art and journaling really helped. music too, especially when i felt like i could relate to either the lyrics, or just the tone/mood/feel of the song. it might be exercise, or you may like to do creative writing or make oc’s. sometimes you may just need a friend or someone to listen.

if you don’t have anyone to talk to, you can message me or shoot me an anon

10. sleep it off

sleep is not going to cure anything, but if i’m pushed over the edge and am struggling with dark thoughts, going to sleep almost always helps. most of the time i still feel like shit in the morning, but no longer in the mood to try anything hasty.

lastly: suicide is not the easy way out

note: i’m gonna be discussing my own experiences with suicide in this part, so if you don’t want to see that, then don’t read past this point

suicide is not the easy way out. it’s messy and it’s ugly and it’s painful and it’s gonna bring out the worst in people. i’ve been struggling with it since age 19.

one particular attempt landed me in the hospital after i swallowed a bunch of painkillers. i couldn’t think or speak properly, i was slurring my words and tripping over myself. my doctor brushed me off and said that it “would probably get better” with time, but it never did. it improved, but my mind has never been the same as it once was, and one of my biggest insecurities to this day is when i struggle to learn new things or get things mixed up that i shouldn’t. i struggle to learn the simplest of things, and my reaction times tend to be very slow.

the point is, sometimes you don’t die, sometimes you just end up hurting yourself in a way that won’t get better. nobody needs that. if had’ve known how to calm myself down back then, i might not’ve tried.

i don’t mind talking about it now, since i’ve dedicated so much time in learning how to uplift myself. i may be in the “better place” now, but you don’t need to rush yourself to be better immediately. sometimes you need to be patient, use baby steps, or learn to accomodate yourself where you are. these things take time. that’s okay.

and remember, you are loved and very much needed to be here on the planet with us.

[cybernaght]

Guardian rewatch: Episode 2

Continuing with my endeavour to recap the show with episode two, also known as Shen Wei Is Clever, But Also Not. 

I have said before that I cried during the opening credits, but it took me a little while to figure out why it’s so affecting now. 

Spoilers for the whole show ahead. 

Which is the lyrics: specifically this part of the lyrics. 

We will be holding on for the promise we kept for life

For the people we love are leaving. 

Please tell my friends we won’t be falling down 

As the sun will keen on shining and the story will keep on going 

Was this intending to foreshadow the end in which our heroes sacrifice themselves so that their friends keep fighting, so that the world keeps going, so that the magical Dixian light is shining? Because that’s just... cruel.

Moving forward, it’s interesting how Zhao Yunlan genuinely muses if he saw Shen Wei somewhere before. I’m not sure what to make of it. Because in the novel that is the case, with a cycle of reincarnation and all, but in the series it’s all time travel. I suppose, there might be a sense of “fate”; of their connection so strong, it’s palpable even to Yunlan, who is yet to become Kunlun. 

His musings are interrupted by Li Qian trying to commit suicide, and he of course rushes up to stop her. And then, Shen Wei helps Zhao Yunlan pull Li Qian to safety, and notices that Zhao Yunlan is hurt. It takes Shen Wei a while to battle with emotions here: he wants to heal but can’t, he wants to shout at Li Qian but can’t do that either. So he opts for a stern “no one should disregard their life like this”, because he may be powerful and ancient and clever, but he still is a bloody hypocrite.

“Professor Shen, are you married? You must have a girlfriend. <...> Many people must be chasing after you”. Wow. Yunlan. Subtlety is not your forte. 

After he stops looking flabbergasted, Shen Wei smiles, making a comment about Zhao Yunlan grilling him. And Zhao Yunlan stops, looks down shyly and honest to god Bites His Lip. Wow. Guardian. Subtlety is not your forte either. 

The is a lot to unpack in this conversation. There are social and philosophical issues surrounding Undergrounders, their powers and whether or not they are a threat. There is mental sparring, because they are both cunning and intelligent enough to arrive at a stalemate when Shen Wei promises to answer questions if Yunlan does not treat him like a criminal, and Yunlan realizes that this made it impossible for him to continue grilling and not break this arrangement. There is such softness there, already, even from Zhao Yunlan, as he asks Shen Wei if he can buy him lunch after the case, and Shen Wei replies “When that happens, it will be my treat”. The banter and flirtation that Shen Wei must remember from all those years ago are here, and there is even a promise of future conversations. No wonder he looks genuinely overjoyed. 

Shen Wei arrives to Li Qian’s hospital ward to find Xiao Guo  there and spends precious time doing the following: asking about Chief Zhao, speaking about Chief Zhao’s commitment, telling Xiao Guo that it is worth following his new commander. Shen Wei also brought spare food, because he thought that Zhao Yunlan would be here, and his urge to spoil the man is already present, despite them only meeting like five times this side of ten thousand years. His Kunlun may not not remember him, but that is not going to deter Shen Wei from being a perfect partner to him.

Xiao Guo’s special power is not fighting or research skills or knowledge: it’s his endless compassion. He shows it here for the first time, consoling Li Qian after her loss by telling her about his own grandmother. It’s lovely seeing it for the first time, knowing how this power grows in the future. 

I find it hard to fully understand why Shen Wei is so insistent on hiding his origin and position from Yunlan from the very beginning. I suppose, at this point, after his prodding and listening to the Chief’s neutral to negative opinion on the Undergrounders, he decides that he would shatter their buddying friendship by showing that he is one of those dangerous people. It’s still kinda cute the way he effortlessly fends off the Shadow Man and then smashes the room up to pretend to have been hurt in a fight. 

Yes, Shen Wei, I’m sure that table hurt your back a lot when you smashed it. Important to note, that seeing this truly believable sight of a man in pain, Zhao Yunlan abandons the pursuit of the Shadow Man, and rushes in to check on him.

Li Qian asks “If someone you hold most important is dying in front of you, what’s the strongest thought on your mind?” And Shen Wei answers honestly, “I’m willing exchange myself life for his”. It’s infuriating that he is unable to see this scenario - stolen life, and pain crippling those left behind - for the cautionary tale that it is. In the future, he will not only use the Dial himself to restore the life of the one he cares about most, but also throw himself into danger to protect him over and over and over again. Because he is very clever, but he is also an idiot unable to see the value of himself just as a person, and the soul-destroying anguish he would cause if he were to die. (This is the point at which my brain supplies me with a mental flash forward to Zhao Yunlan asking - no, begging - Ye Zun to kill him; thank you for the pain, brain)

A lot of the supporting cast is not amazing, but Dong Fan who plays Li Qian is packing a lot into her performance in this episode; she got serious acting chops. According to mydramalist, she is not a very busy actress, which is downright shame. 

Teleporting out of the car to make another dramatic entrance as Hei Pao Shi and then teleporting back into the car to stumble out of it as Shen Wei is ballsy. And kind of adorable. I forgot how adorable Shen Wei was before the world started to crash. 

Yes, Shen Wei, I’m sure the sight of all this magical mayhem was too much for you, mere mortal, to take in. 

Summoning of Hei Pao Shi for the first time is treated as something epic - and it is. The man really knows how to make an appearance doesn’t he? That is a lot of CGI smoke he has conjured.

First long conversation Chief Zhao has with Hei Pao Shi does not go very well, and both of them know it. Yunlan mistakes the other man’s protectiveness for assertion of power, despite Hei Pao Shi trying to convey his respect several times. The truce is reached, but it’s shaky. It’s a little bit sad how they are not able to have the level of understanding they reach as people when they talk to each other from the height of their respective positions. Makes me think how easier it would be if Shen Wei were to stop hiding his identity.  Instead of doing that, he silently summons Chu Shuzhi to speak with him and teleports out, probably to brood at his Kunlun shrine (which does not feature in the show - rightfully so, it’s creepy as all hell). 

Speaking with Chu Shuzhi is a decision which makes sense: the two are fairly close, after all. During this conversation Shen Wei asks Chu Shuzhi not to kneel, and lets him know that their relationship is not one of debt that needs to be collected. Because, as I’ve mentioned, Shen Wei is powerful and ancient and clever, but he is STILL a bloody hypocrite. 

At the end of this chat Old Chu laughs, realizing that his two bosses are very alike, equal in their cunningness. Shen Wei’s response? “I hope that we both take what we need”, as he looks forlorn. So many years, he was not that much involved with the SID, doing his duty elsewhere, waiting. Now, everything is in motion at the same time, and it must be so overwhelming.

Everything will continue being overwhelming for quite some time. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 11: You Don’t Come Around No More]

A/N: I apologize profusely for the long wait. Thank you all so, so, so much for your support. Every single reblog, message, comment, emotional rant, and/or screech of despair makes my day, and I couldn’t do this without you. 💜 Only THREE more chapters left!!!

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “More To Life Than Baseball” by Petey. 

Chapter Warnings: Language, angsttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

Word Count: 7.5k. 

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii���​​​ @bramblesforbreakfast​​​​​​​ @maggieroseevans​​​​​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​​​​​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​​​​​ @escabell​​​​​ @im-an-adult-ish​​​​​​ @queenlover05​​​​​ @someforeigntragedy​​​​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​​​​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​​​​ @deacyblues​​​​​ ​ @tensecondvacation​​​​ @brianssixpence​​​​​ @some-major-ishues​​​​ @haileymorelikestupid​​​​ @youngpastafanmug​​​​ @simonedk​

The Rain

I wish I felt empty.

I’m supposed to feel empty, right? I’m supposed to feel steeped in grey, oceanic misery; I’m supposed to dip in and out of depressive naps all day and sob delicately over creased photos and fading, wistful memories. I always envisioned heartbreak as a soft and inherently feminine sort of affliction: the hems of nightgowns and bathrobes sweeping along hardwood floors, Kleenex boxes and concave couch cushions, weepy phone calls to friends and aunts and mothers, Queen Victoria wearing black for the rest of her life after Prince Albert’s death, Mary Todd Lincoln sinking into dark and hushed obscurity. Women, hollowed out by despair, cross the history of the earth like lines of latitude.

I don’t feel empty at all. I don’t even feel sad. I feel razored by sharp, red, ceaseless anxiety. I am consumed by thoughts of what I did wrong, what I said that started the wheels of doubt spinning in his mind, if he had known how it would end from the start. I dream of white, clawed hands dragging me down through cold waves. I hear words scream to me as I toss at night in my suddenly too-spacious bed, words that now hit me like knuckles to the gut: Shhh, hey, it’s just me, don’t get up, as Joe slipped beneath the Arizonan blankets, wrapped an arm around my waist, kissed my collarbone as I tumbled back into sleep; I love you to death, as his Subaru idled in Charlie’s driveway; Baby Swan, listen to me, nothing is supposed to hurt, okay, so if anything hurts, ever, at all, you tell me and we stop, deal? as we stood in the doorway of our hotel room at the Four Seasons in Chicago. And now...and now...

And now everything fucking hurts.

It doesn’t make any sense; and yet it does. Look at him. Look at me.

The Polaroid photo from Homecoming was still taped to the top of my full-length mirror. I peeled it free like a layer of translucent, friable reptilian skin, tore it straight down the center, burned both halves over a brand new three-wicked, lemon-scented Bath And Body Works candle—a gift from Renee and Paul—and closed my eyes like a child casting a wish over her birthday cake like a spell. I wished for my memories to vanish with the photograph. I wished to get hit by a truck and wake up in the hospital with no recollection of the past two and a half months. I wanted the Lees to dissolve into distant, enigmatic mystery; I wanted to join the rest of Forks in believing that they were nothing more than bewildering and yet harmless freaks, barely worth noticing, one of those glitches of the matrix that were better off ignored like liminal seconds of déjà vu. I wished to carve out every part of myself that they had ever touched.

And Joe’s voice came rushing back from where we stood by that star-lit fountain outside the Church of Saint Lawrence, accompanied by falling raindrops and a crooked grin: I can make wishes come true.

The three tiny flames flickered in the breeze that sighed through my open window. The bright, citrusy scent of the candle reminded me of Lucy. I couldn’t fucking win. What else is new?

I turned back to the mirror. I flinched when my gaze snagged on my reflection: bloodshot-eyed, swollen-faced, utterly unbeautiful, restless like a caged animal. Look at him. Look at me.

I ripped the last memento off the mirror—Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!!—and watched the yellow square of paper catch fire, curl up around the edges, become unrecognizable, turn to ash. And I wished over and over again, like a poem, like a prayer: Let me forget, oh god please let me forget.

Charlie keeps asking if I’m okay. The answer, of course, is no; but I can’t tell him that. So I wear a serene smile like clip-on fangs, a cheap polyester cloak, crimson smudges of lipstick like trails of spilled blood down the side of my neck. Every day is Halloween for me now. I dress up as someone who isn’t haunted, who hasn’t become a ghost.

And when Charlie turns up the World Series or I’d Do Anything For Love on his geriatric, staticky kitchen radio—the same radio he’s had since my mother was the one joining him for daybreak coffee and Pop-Tarts—I choke back tears like dragonfire.

Missing In Action (Revisited)

Joe wasn’t here. Neither was Ben.

Lucy, Rami, and Scarlett were sipping cups of tea at the Lees’ usual table, their eyes downcast, their voices low and murmuring, their pristine lunches neglected. Lucy and Rami were dressed in matching charcoal grey turtleneck sweaters; Scarlett had come from Fencing Club and was wearing royal purple yoga pants and a black tank top, her duffle bag of gear on the floor by her sneakered feet. Her hair was in a long fishtail braid. Archer hadn’t mentioned her since Joe broke up with me. That either meant that it was going blissfully and he didn’t want to injure me further, or that Scarlett had ended things as well.

Since Joe broke up with me. That sounds so fucking pedestrian.

I stared at the three present Lees, almost leered, commanding them to see me, to acknowledge me, to admit that I had once meant something to them, that this hadn’t all been some transitory delusion to fill the cavernous void of losing my home, my life as I knew it in Arizona. They took no notice whatsoever.

Jess kicked me beneath the lunch table. My attention snapped back to her.

“Sorry, what?”

“You want to go shopping with me and Angela tonight?” Jessica’s hands were folded just beneath her chin, her voice gentle, her eyes large and sympathetic and watery. This was her version of being supportive. I appreciated it...in a perpetually tormented and preoccupied sort of way.

“No thanks.” I forked my cold, sauceless spaghetti listlessly. I’d forgotten to pack a lunch. I didn’t have an appetite anyway. I had deleted the GrubHub app from my iPhone and had no intention of using it ever again in my comparatively short and calamitous human life.

“You could come to temple this weekend,” Jessica pressed.

“Uh.” Mingling with a churchful of sociable, wholesome, marriage-obsessed adolescent Mormons sounded like the absolute last thing I’d want to spend my evening doing. “That’s a really generous offer, but I’ll pass.”

“Well you have to do something,” Angela said. “You can’t just sit in your bedroom alone all weekend and stare at the wall and wallow in self-pity.”

We’ll see about that. I turned to Jess. “How’s Vodka Boy from your Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class? Did he ever reappear? What’s his name again, Elmo? Ellington? El Chapo?”

“Ellsworth.” She frowned as she slurped her patron-drink-of-Mormons Sprite. “And no, he definitely failed out or overdosed or something, because he never came back.”

“Tragic,” I noted.

“But I’m pretty sure Mike’s coming over this weekend, so we’ll see if I can get some Netflix and chill action going.”

“Jess,” Angela chastised, widening her eyes and nodding to me subtly (but not quite subtly enough). No talking about getting lucky in front of the heartbroken single loser, that look said.

“I think I can be emotionally supportive without taking a goddamn vow of chastity, Angela!” Jessica hurled back.

“I gotta go.” I stood, threw on my backpack, discarded my nearly untouched lunch.

“You’ve barely eaten anything!” Angela protested. “You’ve barely eaten for a week!”

“I’ll live.” I picked my umbrella up off the slippery tile floor—peppered with muddy shoeprints and pearlescent drops of water fallen from coats and limp, sopping locks of hair—and headed out into the pouring rain. I hated the rain. I hated it. Maybe I had forgotten that for a while, but it all came hurtling back now like a hurricane, like a hand cracking across my face. I ached for the desert, for blatant and unapologetic heat, for palm trees and cacti and naked stars in the night sky. I had been researching marine biology graduate programs in the Southwest. There were good ones at UC San Diego, UC Santa Barbara, Texas A&M, the University of Southern California, UCLA. I would miss Charlie and Archer—and maybe Jessica and Angela on occasion—and absolutely nothing else about Forks. At least, that’s what I promised myself.

This is a no-giving-a-fuck-about-Lee-boys zone, I thought morosely.

Ben was brooding at our table in Professor Belvin’s classroom. It was the first time he’d shown up to Chemistry since that day Joe met me on the beach at La Push, since the place I’d once occupied in his universe had closed like a wound. I took my seat beside Ben. The window was shut today, the downpour outside torrential. Ben recoiled, just enough for me to notice; he was wearing his oversized black hoodie and practicing his Welsh, his handwriting messy and unbalanced.

“You could have warned me,” I said.

Ben didn’t glance up from his notebook. “Would that have made it any easier?”

“No,” I realized in defeat. I guess it wouldn’t have. I pulled my own notebook, my favorite pen, and a can of Diet Coke out of my backpack.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ben said. “You really need to know that. It had nothing to do with you. And none of us are happy with the current situation. None of us.”

None of them. That included Joe. “Interestingly, that didn’t stop him from creating it.”

Ben was thoughtful, debating his next words. “We’re probably going to be moving soon.”

“What?” I startled; my turquoise blue pen dropped out of my grasp and rolled across the table. Ben snatched it up and returned it to me. “Really?”    

“Yeah.”

“And what, just redo this whole college thing?”

Ben shrugged. “We’ll probably start our junior years over again. Gwil will say there was some horrible family tragedy and we needed a few semesters off. I could use the extra time to figure out Calc anyway. Parametric equations make me want to kill myself.”

I just stared at him. It didn’t make any sense. “But...why would the whole family leave Forks? Because of me? One pathetic, aggrieved human? Do you all pack up and relocate every time Joe fucks and dumps someone? That must be exhausting.”

“It’s better for everyone if we get some distance. Put more space between our world and yours.”

“But...” I tried to imagine never seeing any of them again: no Mercy humming merrily as she tossed handfuls of homegrown carrots to the alpacas, no Dr. Lee dabbing away my blood with an ageless sort of patience, no Scarlett or Lucy or Rami, no brief glimpses of Joe as he avoided me in the campus library. It’s exactly what I wanted; and yet it wasn’t. It so, so, so, so wasn’t. It keeps getting worse. How is that possible? My voice was flimsy and quivering, absolutely pitiful. Disgustingly pitiful. “Who will be my lab partner?”

Ben peered over at me with wide, confused green eyes. And then—gingerly, awkwardly, like holding an acquaintance’s baby for the first time—he laid his hand over mine. “I’ll miss you too.”

Professor Belvin lectured about coordinate covalent bonds. I didn’t absorb a word. I conjugated Italian verbs with my turquoise blue pen, sketched disordered whirlpools of ink, tried not to think about whether this was my last-ever Chemistry class with Ben, whether it was my last-ever weekend sharing Forks with the Lees. Those rageful, frantic thoughts were back. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do right? Why did he have to leave?

My nomadic gaze caught on a flier on the wall next to our misted window. I had assumed it was a leaflet for some club or protest or seasonal dance that I would definitely not attend, but it wasn’t. It was a missing poster.

Have you seen this student? the flier asked in bold, businesslike black font. It was urgent, but not quite despairing; not yet, anyway. I could hear a Dean of Student Affairs cajoling some affluent, strings-of-pearls-adorned mother over the phone: Yes ma’am, you have my full attention and I can assure you that we’re very concerned, but I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding...he’s probably gone backpacking or sailing with some friends and forgotten to call home. You know how college students can be. Beneath a large photo of a grinning blond kid—pink polo, flushed cheeks, clever crop job to nix a can of Natty Light clutched in one fist—was a name: Ellsworth Jonathan Griffin.

Ellsworth, I thought, my stomach plummeting. The guy from Jessica’s Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class. He hadn’t failed out. He was missing. Missing like a 20/20 episode or a true crime podcast, missing like the pregnant stillness before a murder is confessed in some glaringly florescent-lit interrogation room, before a distended and bloodless corpse washes up on shore.

I turned to Ben. He noticed me eventually, crinkled his brow, shrugged in that way that seemed so petulant if you didn’t know him well enough to not be offended.

I pointed to the flier and raised my eyebrows. Ben twisted around in his chair to look. Then he sighed, scribbled a sentence in the corner of a piece of notebook paper, tore it free, and slid it across the table.

Ben’s note read, in atrocious penmanship: Are you seriously asking me if I ate that guy?

Maybe, I wrote back after a moment’s hesitation. Maybe that wasn’t exactly what I was asking; maybe I just wondered if he knew anything about it.

In either case, Ben’s reply was swift and resounding, and underlined three times: No.

Sorry, I wrote, abruptly remorseful. I am a jerk. And I added a frowny face for good measure. Ben chuckled when he saw it, shook his head, gave me a drawn little smirk. His words tiptoed around in my skull, leaving searing imprints like footprints in the sand. I’ll miss you too.

I have to forget about them. I drummed my turquoise blue pen against my notebook as Professor Belvin drew families of molecules on the whiteboard with squealing dry erase markers. I have to find a way to make myself forget.

Jessica was waiting for me in the hallway after class. It was part of her convince-Baby-Swan-not-to-jump-off-a-cliff initiative. “Hey.”

“Okay,” I told her with steely resolve. “I’m ready for you to set me up with one of those guys from your church or temple or whatever. I’m ready to be a nice wholesome wife, pop out like six kids, learn how to scrapbook, give up caffeine and horror movies, do the whole white picket fence thing. Sign me up.”

Jessica blinked at me. There were flecks of fallen mascara on her cheekbones like ashes. “What?”

“You’re a Mormon, right?”

“Girl, I’m not a Mormon,” Jessica said, puzzled. “I’m a witch.”

Lucille

I found Joe where he usually was these days: sprawled on the sofa, engulfed in the same blue Snuggie he’d been wearing for thirty-six uninterrupted hours, gazing catatonically at the big-screen tv. A 90 Day Fiancé marathon was on. Some rodentish guy named Colt was apologizing to his gorgeous, aspiring-green-card-holding Brazilian love interest for calling the cops on her during their last screaming match. He was also apologizing for the fact that they lived in a two-bedroom apartment with his mother. I didn’t need clairvoyance to see where their future was headed.

“Hey,” Ben said when he spotted me. He was sitting next to Joe and occasionally tried to shove pieces of popcorn into his mouth, which Joe accepted passively like coins plinked into a gumball machine. Ben had been his shadow for the past week; he was perhaps the best equipped of us to understand this degree of melancholy, of hopelessness.  

“Ciao.” And then, to Joe: “How are you?”

“Terrible,” he replied, not tearing his eyes from the tv.

“I figured.” I squeezed between them on the couch, curled up next to Joe, rested my chin on his shoulder. He ignored me completely. I could hear Mercy tapping at her laptop keyboard out in the dining room; she was browsing through Zillow listings in Portland, Buffalo, Pittsburgh, Cleveland. Dear god, please don’t let us end up in fucking Cleveland. “Guess what.”

Joe stared at the tv for a long time before he answered. “What.”

“I had a vision of you. Just now, as I was doing laundry. Crystal clear and very scenic too, I might add.”

“Fascinating,” Joe said flatly.

“What happened in this vision?” Ben asked, far more invested, which I was thankful for.

“It was pretty far away, maybe a year from now. I saw you in the desert at night, under a full moon. There were cacti everywhere. The shadow of the Milky Way was threaded through the sky, and the stars were very bright. I could make out the constellations Pegasus and Cassiopeia. You were filling up a tiny glass bottle with dirt.”

“That’s remarkably helpful,” Joe said.

“It is, a little bit,” I insisted. “It means you get through this. That you have a future. I get nervous when I go too long without a vision of someone in the family. But now I know you’re going to be okay.”

The reflections of the feuding 90 Day Fiancé couples danced in his glassy eyes. “Being alive doesn’t mean you’re okay.”

“That’s dark,” Ben said. “Even I think that’s too dark.” He pushed a handful of popcorn into Joe’s mouth. “Are you gonna hunt at some point or what?”

“No.”

“You’re just gonna sit on this couch and waste away?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to bring you anything? Grizzly bear? Brown bear? Fuck it, I’ll get you a polar bear if that’s what you want. There’s probably some on the black market. Rami would know.”

“He what?” Mercy called from the kitchen. Her typing had stopped.

“Nothing, Mom!” I shot back.

“I don’t want anything,” Joe said. That was a lie, of course. We all knew what he wanted. Rami couldn’t stand to be around him; the thoughts were relentless, smothering.

I linked my arms around Joe’s neck, laid my head against his chest, sighed deeply and mournfully. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I’m so, so sorry. And I’ll help however I can. We all will.”

And I had accepted that Joe wasn’t going to respond at all when he finally whispered: “I just wish I could forget.”

Cato

My rolling suitcase snagged on the cobblestone driveway. The tiny spinning wheels bashed against concrete as I scaled the front steps. As the taxi pulled away, I dug around in my suit pocket for my keys, found them, unlocked the enormous front door, stepped inside the palace as my suitcase trolled along the marble floor.

“Cato’s back!” Charity announced as she breezed down the nearest staircase, beaming and embracing me. She was a lovely, innately warm woman from Pointe-Noire, Congo; she still wore the silver cross necklace her mother had once given her around her neck. “Did you have a nice flight? Wait, let me check.” She pressed the fingertips of her right hand to my cheek. I felt the memories rush up like blood to a flushed face: the bite of sipped champagne against my tongue, the thin semi-transparent newspaper pages gliding between my fingers, the husky voice of the bearded, bearish naval officer who sat in the seat beside me, the misted silhouette of Vladivostok as it rose up out of the Pacific Ocean. “Uneventful, but pleasant enough. You flew commercial?”

“The jets were otherwise occupied, apparently.” Charity could see things with the predictability and precision that Lucy so often lacked, but only the past. I pushed her hand away. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re not mad,” Charity declared, confident, impish, helping me shed my suit jacket and draping it over her arm. “You’re never mad.”

She was very nearly correct. “Where are the rest of the kids?”

“In the kitchen. Go say hello, they’ve missed you dreadfully.”

“I know the feeling.” I kicked off my Berlutis, ran a palm over the wiry fur of the Irish Wolfhounds that appeared to greet me before they resumed padding watchfully around the palace, and went to the kitchen, my black socks slipping a bit on the marble floors.

I could hear their voices before I reached the door: laughter, teasing, complaints, requests. The scents of pancakes and cold butter and maple syrup were thick in the air. Charity was one of our four newest recruits, and they all still had that energetic lightness of being human, a youthful enthusiasm, a relative normalness. I spent quite a lot of time with them. It was my job—to help with the transition, to keep them happy, to facilitate the welding of their individual parts into the beastly machine that was the Draghi—but oftentimes it felt more like a reprieve. Some would stay close to me as they matured, others would grow in different directions, like ambitious vines climbing the skeleton of a garden trellis. I usually missed them when they ‘grew up,’ so to speak...although there were exceptions. I had never liked Liesl. I had always liked Ben. I opened the door.

“Ah, you are home!” Ksenia cried from where she stood over the stove, a spatula in her right hand, bouncing excitedly in place on her small bare feet.

“Hey!” Max and Austin called together. They were both sitting with their shoes propped up on the unglamorous kitchen table. There was a massive formal dining room that could accommodate up to twenty-five guests, but we rarely used it.

“Good morning,” I said, aware that I was smiling for the first time in days.

Max groaned as he scrolled through his Google search results on a burner phone. “What the fuck. My name is one of the top five dog names again. I think I’m gonna have to change it.”

I ruffled his long blond hair, stealing a piece of bacon from his plate. Max had grown up a trust fund kid in Perth, Australia. His mother was old money; his father was a professional surfer. “Your name is fine.”

“Really, Kato Kaelin? Is it really? How am I supposed to intimidate people when I have a fucking dog name?”

“So make them call you Maximilian,” offered Ksenia in a heavy Ukrainian accent. She’d only been with us for eight months, but her English was coming along swimmingly. She flipped a massive A-shaped pancake on the sizzling griddle. That one was for Austin.

“Seriously?” Max said. “That is just way too many syllables. They’ll be halfway down the block by the time I’m done introducing myself. ‘Hey, come back mate, I haven’t killed ya yet.’”

“At least you aren’t stuck with a basic-white-boy-circa-1992 name for all of eternity,” said Austin Tyler McInerny, originally of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He was chomping on a multicolored Fruit Roll-Up, which swung from his mouth like a lizard’s tongue. He’d been working at an ailing skatepark when Larkin found him. He still enjoyed showing off his kickflips, and kept insisting that he was going to teach me how to ollie. I didn’t have the faintest idea what an ollie was.

“Do you want a pancake, Cato?” Ksenia asked, passing Austin his plate and wiping her hands on her pink apron. Her black hair was tied in a high ponytail with a matching rose-colored ribbon. She looked so young. She was so young, actually. Nineteen. And she would be forever.

“No, thank you dear. I’m alright.”

“I like Alaric,” Max decided. “First king of the Visigoths. Alaric is a name fit for a vampire. Creepy, yet dignified. Or maybe Silas. Or Draco.”

Austin shook his head as he swirled a river of viscous maple syrup over his A-shaped pancake. “Definitely not Draco.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the Harry Potter connection is unfortunate. People will hear Draco and think of that obnoxious white-haired kid from the evil snake-people house or whatever.”

“Oh, right,” Max sighed. “Like I said. Alaric would work.”

“So many A-shaped pancakes!” Ksenia poured a K on the griddle for herself.

“It’s good for you,” Austin replied, pointing at her with his fork. “We’re practicing English.”

“Alaric Luther,” Max mused, scrolling through his phone. I didn’t think he’d find that on any list of trendy dog names. “Alaric Lothaire...Alaric Lucian...”

“I like your name, Max,” Larkin said from the doorway. None of us had heard him arrive. He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, wearing a deep maroon suit and a ring on every finger, grinning hugely. He was exactly as I remembered him: stunning, captivating, terrifying. The kitchen fell quiet. I could smell Ksenia’s pancake beginning to burn.

At last Max chuckled nervously, pushing soggy pancake hunks around on his plate with his fork, averting his gaze. “Guess I’ll keep it then.”

“I thought I heard you come in,” Larkin told me.

“It’s always a pleasure to be home.”

He nodded out towards the hallway. “Come. Regale me with the stories of your travels.” Then his eyes flicked down to my socks, and he grimaced—slightly, briefly—before turning away. “And find your shoes.”

I followed him through the hallway, the living room, the grand front foyer with the crystal chandelier, into the elevator. Larkin did not speak, but he hummed as we ascended: House Of The Rising Sun.

It hadn’t always been like this. It was difficult for me to pick out the details of what had changed—the tone of his voice, the proportion of wonder and gratitude I associated with him versus fear, the way this palace (or the one in Reykjavik, or Juneau, or Ivalo, or Murmansk, or any of the others) felt when I stepped inside it—but I knew something had. It had begun before Ben left. It was much worse now. Older vampires, in my fairly learned opinion, are something like the stars. They mellow as they age, temper their character flaws, grow wise and patient like Nikolai or Honora or Gwilym Lee; or they rage until they burn away every last atom of humanity, until they destroy themselves and take entire solar systems down with them. Increasingly, I harbored fears that Larkin was a vampire of the latter variety. And we were all his planets.

In his study, Larkin dropped into the chair behind his desk, brought a hand to his forehead, surveyed a disarrayed flurry of papers: letters, notices, deeds and titles, meticulously managed accounts of finances and disciplinary actions. Larkin had a laptop and burner phone, of course, as we all did; but he liked to work in paper as much as possible. That’s how he’d done things for centuries, since long before the name of the inventor of the internet (or harnessed electricity, for that matter) was a whisper on his parents’ lips. The sky outside was clouded and seeping soft rain.

“Things have been busy?” I ventured.

He frowned, gesturing to the cluttered desk. “I’m in purgatory.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Can I help?”

“The Lancaster coven says they’ll need an extension for their dues. That’s the second year in a row, now it’s not just an exception, it’s a precedent. If you let one coven bend the rules, others will follow. So something will have to be done. Then there’s Stockholm. Anders’ coven has eaten a few too many locals—including the mayor’s favorite niece—and now the city is launching an investigation. Fucking idiots. They’ll probably all have to relocate. There’s some new territory dispute in Lima between Alejandro’s coven and a group of strangers that just came out of the Andes. We’ll have to make their acquaintance, of course. And as if all that weren’t enough, Rigel accidentally fed on a heroin addict and he’s currently detoxing in a cell in the basement. Would you check on him for me? I’m sure your presence will be a...” He waved his hand distractedly, almost dismissively, searching for the words. “A comfort to him.”

“Of course.”

“How are the Lees?”

“Fine. Typical. Gwil’s putting in a lot of hours at the hospital. Rami’s planning to get another law degree. Ben is, uh, adjusting. Slowly, very slowly. He’s not particularly content. But he hasn’t murdered anyone that I’m aware of.”

“How nice.” Now his eyes darted up to catch mine: focused, luminous, unreadable. “Nothing new at all?”

And instantly, I wanted to tell him everything. I forgot why I had ever planned to blunt the girl’s existence, to conceal her talent entirely; I felt her name rising in my throat. And then I remembered again. I’m doing this for Gwil, for Ben.

I pretended to ponder Larkin’s question, as if it was so difficult to remember, as if there was nothing left to sift through but a trunkful of mundane details from the trip like a grandfather’s tattered correspondence and tarnished war relics. That was something an average family might have squirreled away in their attic, I assumed; I’d never met my own grandfather, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have had anything to leave me if I had. “Joe’s got some new girlfriend, but I don’t think it’s serious. I doubt she’ll be around long. You know how Joe is. Scarlett’s seeing someone too, actually. A Quileute kid.”

“Poor boy.” And Larkin grinned like a shark beneath burning eyes. “He’s in for a lifetime of disappointment. Who will ever be able to hold a candle to those memories?”

Larkin had a moderate preoccupation with Scarlett’s beauty, her...tenacity. Her lack of talent was a great disappointment to him, a somehow more egregious fault than Joe or Gwil or Mercy’s. What a shame, Larkin often said. And I believed I knew what came after in his mind, although never aloud: What a partner she could have been.

He was still grinning at me. His expression was hollow, vacuous. A shiver clawed down my spine. He was waiting for something. No, he was searching. I stared back, and I willed for that intangible, contagious harmony I carried around like a wedding ring to hit him like carbon monoxide or bromine: undetected and yet inexorable, knocking him off his path of inquisition.

What does he suspect? What does he already know?

“Anyway,” Larkin continued abruptly, turning his attention back to his paperwork. “I’m glad there’s nothing to worry about in Forks. Liesl will be back in the next few days, Rigel will be ready to work again, I’ll come up with a plan to handle all this and my mood will improve tremendously.”

And where has Liesl been? I almost asked; and then I didn’t. It was a good sign that she was coming home. I had looked for her once while I was in Forks. When I made up my mind to find someone—when that switch flipped in my skull or in the tangle of nerves of my solar plexus or wherever it lived—it wasn’t like poking around on Google Earth: zooming in here, scrolling over there. A goldish trail lit up on the floor, a ‘Yellow Brick Road’ Honora and I sometimes joked, and I followed it. And I had no way of knowing how far that trail might lead. A route heading dead east from the palace might stop in the next town over or continue across the Pacific Ocean; my search might last one day or a hundred. In Forks—as I perched in a soaring western hemlock tree in the forest outside the Lee residence on a cool October evening—Liesl’s trail had led north. North to Vancouver, to Victoria, to Dawson, to Alaska? Who the fuck knew. I was just relieved it hadn’t led to the tree next to mine.

“Well, as always, I’m happy to assist however I can,” I told Larkin. “Just let me know and I’ll be on the next flight out of Vladivostok.”

“I appreciate that, Cato.” He smiled, paternally this time. And then he spun his chair around to peer out the window into the episodic flares of lightning that illuminated great dark clouds like neurons in a celestial brain. I hate thunderstorms. They remind me of South Carolina. “But I think you’ve earned a rest.”

After checking in on Rigel—irritable, frenetic, pacing, and yet predictably pacified somewhat by my visit—I trotted up the main staircase to the second floor of the palace. I found her in our bedroom: sitting at her easel, a paintbrush held in one graceful hand, an image like a photograph on the canvas. I promptly pried off my Berlutis for the second time today and tossed them into the closet.

“Ciao, amore,” I said.

“Ciao!” Honora replied, beaming. Her curly brunette hair was pinned up and away from her face; wayward tendrils spiraled down to brush her bare shoulder blades, the back of her neck. “Just give me five minutes...I have to finish the shadow of this tree...”

There weren’t many in the Draghi who survived the transition from Nikolai’s leadership to Larkin’s, but Honora had. She was gentle to a fault, a hopeless warrior, turned into an immortal on her forty-fourth birthday when Rome was still an empire; and she was without any talents whatsoever, except for one which was useless in combat. Her paintings, drawings, and sculptures adorned every palace the Draghi owned. Each year, Larkin would ask her to paint all of us together, incorporating any new faces, erasing the memories of those who had proven themselves unworthy. One such portrait, I knew, hung in Gwilym Lee’s home office.

I went to the woman I called my wife, laid my palms on her shoulders, leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Take your time, love.”

“Everything’s alright?” Honora asked, looking hopefully up at me with large, wide-set jade eyes. No, not just hopefully. Trustingly.

“Everything’s alright,” I agreed, not knowing if I believed it.

Shadows And Spells

“He just...just...disappeared?!” Jessica sputtered, scandalized, gaping at me as she held a Styrofoam cup of spiked apple cider in her clasped hands.

We were on a quilt near the outskirts of the sea of beach towels and blankets that circled the bonfire. Women—wearing flowing dresses or robes or tunics or not very much at all—flounced around the flames banging tambourines and reciting chants that I didn’t know the words to. Some carried torches, beacons of heat and light in the darkness. Jessica was wearing a short black shirt, fishnet tights, and a black crop-top turtleneck sweater; I had opted for a bohemian blue dress patterned with stars, an old thrift shop find and the closest thing I owned to Wiccan festivities apparel. I had a cup of hot apple cider as well, enhanced with a generous splash of Captain Morgan, but hadn’t quite conjured up the rebelliousness to drink it yet.

I suddenly recalled Mercy bringing me an endless supply of virgin autumnal sangrias as Joe and I swam in the hot tub on the Lees’ back porch. As soon as you turn twenty-one, you can have the real thing. I frowned, shuddered, took a bitter and burning sip.

“Yeah,” I replied. “He told his roommate he was going to a frat party or something and never showed up and never made it back home either. The parents are blaming the university, the university is insisting he must be off with a girlfriend or on some hipster soul-searching nature adventure or whatever, it’s a mess.”

“Jesus,” she murmured. “What does your dad say?”

“He’s been helping the state police with the investigation. There’s really no evidence of anything. No witnesses, no footprints, no surveillance footage, no handy anonymous tips...”

“No body,” Jessica finished.

“That’s morbid.” I downed the rest of my cider. Was the world already beginning to list like a ship on choppy waves, or was that just my imagination? I guess it would be possible. I’d barely eaten all day.

“You were thinking it.”

“Well, one’s mind does tend to wander towards homicide under such circumstances.”

“It is the season of the dead.” She grinned wickedly, then took my empty cup. “He’s probably fine. I bet he wants to drop out to become a weed farmer and hasn’t worked up the guts to tell his parents yet. You want another?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. I’ll be right back.” Jess rose to balance on black boots with five-inch heels and staggered off to the foldable table piled high with cans and bottles and snacks. I was getting the impression that her Wiccanism was more of a novelty than a spiritual commitment.

The season of the dead. Now that’s VERY morbid.

There were some guys laughing, smoking home-rolled cigarettes, and toasting glasses of red wine on a nearby mandala blanket, bespectacled intellectual types who were probably getting PhDs in Anthropology or Medieval Studies at the University of Washington. One of them—curly-haired, pale-eyed, wearing a sweater vest and a cautious smile—raised his wine glass in my direction. I waved back without much enthusiasm.

“He’s cute, right?” Jessica asked, plopping back down onto our quilt and shoving a full cup of spiked cider into my grasp. She motioned for me to drink. I did. “That’s Sebastian, but he likes to be called Bash. He’s twenty-three and speaks fluent German.”

“Charming.”

“He’s very...uh...gifted. I’m not saying I know from personal experience, but I’ve heard it from a very reliable source. And his parents own a beach house in Monterey. You could go skinny-dipping.”  

“In the ocean?” The world was definitely wobbling now. I was warm all over, numbed, fuzzy; it was becoming difficult to picture Joe’s face, to hear his voice. This was good. I kept drinking. “No thanks. Too many sharks. They have great whites down there.”

Jess tossed her long, loose hair and sighed impatiently. “I’m just saying that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. So you should pursue that.”

“I’ll totally consider it.” I lied. I would not consider it.

She smiled, sympathetically, fondly. “I can’t believe you thought I was a Mormon.”

“I can’t believe I’m out in the Washington wilderness commemorating the Gaelic festival of Samhain, but here we all are.”

Jess glanced over my shoulder. “Oh my god. He’s coming over here.”

“Ugh.” I craned my neck to see. Sebastian—whoops, my mistake, Bash—was approaching. “Please distract him. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Also I’m pretty sure I’m getting drunk and I don’t want to do anything humiliating, like sob uncontrollably about how much I miss my ex-boyfriend.”

“Don’t worry. I gotchu, Baby Swan.”

“Hey Jess,” Bash said, but he was looking at me. He pitched his cigarette off into the trees. What the fuck, who does that?

“Only you can prevent forest fires,” I told him in a woozy, mock-Smokey Bear voice.

“What?” he asked, baffled.

“Ignore her, she’s drunk,” Jess said quickly. “So what’s up? Come on, sit with me. Keep me toasty. Teach me some German...”

As they chatted and giggled and snuggled closer together—I’m starting to think that Jessica might have been her own reliable source—I studied the forest, watching to make sure the cigarette didn’t begin to smolder in the damp brush. The voices and crackling of the bonfire and sharp ringing of the tambourines faded into one muted, uniform drone. The trees reeled in the haze of the spiked cider; the cool wind moaned through them. And then, for only a second: a glimpse of something impossibly quick, something silvery and reedy and sunless.

What was that?

I blinked. It was gone. I blinked again, staring penetratingly. The swarming heat from the cider evaporated from my skin, my blood. There were goosebumps rising all over me.

What the hell was that?

I remembered how Calawah University students sometimes reacted to Ben: flinching, withdrawing, autonomically fearing him on some primal, evolutionary level. They knew he was a predator. They knew they were prey. It was chillingly similar to what I was feeling now.

I have to get out of here. I have to go home.

I shot to my feet. Oh, wrong move, that was too quick. I swayed, and Jessica reached up to steady me. “Are you—?!”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I gotta go home now.”

“What?! We just got here! Look, chill out, let me get you some vegan samosas or something—”

“No, seriously, I have to go.”

“Okay, okay,” Jessica conceded. “I’ll finish my drink and we’ll call an Uber, alright?”

“Really?” Bash asked, crestfallen.

“I’ll call an Uber,” I told Jess. “You stay, I’ll go.” Maybe she shouldn’t stay, I thought foggily, irrationally. Maybe it’s not safe.

“I can’t let you go alone. I got you drunk and now you’re a mess and if you end up murdered it would be my fault. There are unsolved mysteries going around, you know.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Girl, there’s no way I’m gonna—”

“I’ll call you as soon as I get in the Uber and I’ll stay on until I’m physically inside my house, okay?”

Jessica considered this. Bash leaned in to nibble her ear. I could smell the red wine and nicotine and animalistic lust sweating out of his pores. And unexpectedly, agonizingly: a biting flare, a muscle memory, Joe’s fingertips skimming down the small of my back and his scent like winter nights saturating the capillary beds of my lungs. Stop, stop, stop. “Okay,” Jess agreed at last.

“Awesome.” I was already opening the Uber app on my iPhone.

My driver was a Pacific Northwestern version of Santa Claus: wild grey beard, red flannel, L.L.Bean boots, rambling about his upcoming trip to hunt caribou in British Columbia. I honored my promise to Jessica and kept her on speakerphone for the duration of the twenty-minute drive. I rested my whirling head against the seat, let my eyes dip closed, watched the intermittent streetlights appear and disappear through my eyelids. I let myself into Charlie’s house when I arrived, wished Jessica goodnight (and reminded her not to get pregnant), and meandered clumsily into the kitchen for a glass of water and a cookie dough Pop-Tart to ward off a possible hangover. Charlie was snoring quietly on the living room couch. I watched him for a while, smiling and achingly grateful, before heading upstairs to my bedroom.

My window was wide open; that’s the first thing I noticed. I didn’t remember leaving it that way. I was always neglecting to lock the window, sure—I kept forgetting that there was no one to leave it unlocked for anymore—but I hadn’t left it open when I went to meet Jessica this evening. Icy night air flooded in. The stars were bright and furious in an uncommonly clear sky.

“You trying to give me pneumonia, old man?” I muttered, thinking of Charlie. I tossed my iPhone down onto my bed and crossed the room to close the window. And as it creaked and collided with the sill, I heard my closet door open behind me.

Someone’s here. Someone’s in this room with me.

I turned, very slowly; it felt like it took a lifetime. She was standing in the doorway of my closet, sinuous and white-haired, wearing black leather pants and stiletto heels and a long-sleeved lace blouse the color of blood, the color of her eyes. And she was harrowingly beautiful; not like Lucy or Mercy, not like Scarlett. She was beautiful like a prehistoric jawbone, like a serrated crescent moon, like a blade.

The owl. The goddamn albino owl.

I recognized her immediately. I heard Joe’s words as he introduced each vampire in the immense painting hanging in Dr. Lee’s upstairs office to me, though I desperately didn’t want to: She’s literally Satan, only blonder.

Her name tumbled from my trembling lips. “Liesl.”

“Wonderful, we can skip the introductions.” Her voice was like windchimes, cutting and brisk, with a hint of an Austrian accent like a shadow. Now she was at my bedside and picking up my phone, scrolling through it with lightning-quick and dexterous thumbs. “Hm. No texts from any of the Lees in the past week. So we don’t have to worry about them dropping by, I suppose. Joe got bored with you already, huh?”

“Evidently.” My own voice was brittle, anemic, weak; just like my ineffectual human body.

“That’s quick, even for him. How sad.” She sighed, tucking my iPhone into her red Chanel purse. “There’s a private jet waiting at the Forks Airport. Pack a bag. You have five minutes.”

“Please don’t hurt my dad,” I whispered, scalding tears brimming in my eyes.

“Of course not,” Liesl replied with a savage, saccharine smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

[childrenoflight-darkness-nothing]

For when the words return from war! Lost boys song prompt: the Black Parade! No hurry at all 💙💙💙💙

Okay so like, this goes with the lyrics absolutely 0%. But it’s where I went with it, so we’re leaving them in. 1456 words, and I’m not really sure about the ending, but like I can keep reworking it and hating it more or I can post it... so here we are...

When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city to see a marching band. He said, “Son, when you grow up, would you be the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned?”

Castor ground his teeth. Music wafted through the room as he pushed himself up between the bars. His weight was fully supported on his arms. Dragon had set them up earlier. Two parallel bars set up in an old storage room on base where Castor was supposed to be working with Dragon and Adair to learn to walk again. But the icy cold teenager had had other plans when he’d found himself there alone in the middle of the night. The base, mostly quiet, and his brothers asleep.

He was frustrated, to say the least. His progress, slow.

Castor shifted his weight from his hold on the bars to his leg. His good leg planted firmly on the floor. Cas held the position for a moment. One breath. Two. And then he tested the prosthetic, his grip remaining firm on the bars though the muscles in his back shook. Not from the strain, no. But it had been one thing he’d struggled with; trusting the contraption on his leg to support him.

“Because one day, I’ll leave you a phantom to lead you in the summer to join the black parade.”

Dragon had assured him he’d walk again. And that with the right training, and the right prosthetic he’d even be able to fight again. The bright eyed teenager—younger than even Adair and Ewan—working tirelessly to craft something that’d give him nearly his full range of motion back. From the prototypes Castor had seen already it looked like something out of a sci-fi novel, wires and metal and gears. And Dragon hadn’t even asked for anything in return, just got an excited glint in their eye at the prospect of having a new project when they’d found their way into Castor’s hospital room and offered their expertise.

Castor’s teeth ground together with more force as he pulled his weight back off of his legs. And his knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the bars. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get himself to take a step. To try.

He just needed to make one step. One. And then another after that until he was walking again.

Such a simple thing. And yet he couldn’t.

Sometimes I get the feelin’ she’s watching over me, and other times I feel like I should go. And through it all, the rise and fall, we want you all to know. We’ll carry on.

“What are you waiting for exactly?” a voice called from behind him, and Castor’s gaze narrowed as he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Ewan. Leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Castor hasn’t even heard him come in. The noise drowned out by the music and the thoughts in his head. “If it’s more of an audience you might have to wait a few hours for the world to wake up.”

His brow was raised in a challenge as he shoved himself off the wall, and took a step closer. Almost to say, go on.

“What are you doing up?” Castor ground out, ignoring his frustrations. Or at least trying to.

“I think we both know I wasn’t actually asleep. And I heard you leave, you’re not exactly quiet nowadays.”

A muscle in Castor’s jaw ticked as he turned his gaze away. “What are you doing here then?”

“Followed you.” Castor would swear he could see Ewan shrugging his shoulders, an attempt at indifference.

“Why?”

And though you’re dead and gone, believe me. Your memory will carry on. We’ll carry on…

“Why haven’t you taken a step yet?” Ewan countered. “You’ve been standing there brooding for five minutes at least. I mean if you’re going to sneak off for a private training session, you might as well do something right?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Doesn’t have to be that difficult either.” Ewan definitely had his arms crossed now, there was no question about it. Even if Castor couldn’t see him. Wouldn’t look at him. Ewan took three steps closer as he continued, “What are you afraid of? That you’ll fall? So get back up. You’ve done it before. You always get back up. This isn’t any different, Cas.”

From decimated dreams, your misery and hate will kill us all. So paint it black and take it back, let’s shout it loud and clear. Defiant till the end, we hear the call.

“What if I can’t�� get back up?” The words fell out of Castor’s mouth before he could stop them. His voice was quiet and betrayed his fear.

Fear. Not that he couldn’t get back up if he fell. It wasn’t that simple. But fear that he couldn’t be who he was. That he had fallen, and wouldn’t be able to pull himself back up. That he couldn’t pull himself back up. Not this time. He hadn’t been able to do it so far. That fear stopping him from even trying. Every time he was close something pulled him back down. An excuse. A crutch.

“Your problem is that you’re doing this alone. That you think you have to. ‘I’m Cas and I have to be tough and put together and I can’t rely on anyone else for help because I’ve constantly got to be there for everyone else.’” Ewan’s voice was scarily similar to Castor’s as he impersonated him. Air quotes around the words as he strode into Castor’s view. “But you don’t. You’re not alone in this, you haven’t been for a long time. You fall, maybe you pick yourself back up. Maybe you get some help from your brothers. But you’ll get back up.”

“Are you done?” Castor leveled Ewan with a sigh, his gaze hard.

Ewan wasn’t wrong. Not entirely. And Castor knew it.

“I don’t know, are you going to take a step? Or do I get to impersonate you some more? I think I’m getting quite good at it, just got to scowl and brood some more and then I’ll have it down.” Ewan grinned, and nodded his head towards his brother. The challenge in his eyes, gone. Now, just a simple show of support.

We’ll carry on, and though you’re broken and defeated, you’re weary widow marches. On and on, we carry through the fears.

Castor glanced down at his chest, at the ink scrolled over it. Over his ribs. And he looked down at his foot bare against the mat, and the prosthetic beside. It was a simple one, nothing near the high-tech contraption Dragon was putting together in their spare time between Renegade duties and school. But it was sturdy.

One breath. Two. Three.

Cas shifted his weight. First to his leg. Getting a feel for the balance before he shifted to both. His grip on the bars loosened, though only slightly as he shifted his weight between each leg. Letting himself get comfortable with the feeling before he tried to take a step forward.

Do or die, you’ll never make me. Because the world will never take my heart. Go and try, you’ll never break me.

“That’s good, come on,” Ewan directed him to keep going. He came to stand in front of Cas, between the bars, when the older teen pitched forward. Cas had only barely managed to catch himself.

They continued on for what felt like hours to Castor, though it was really nowhere near that long. Cas took a step, and Ewan stayed right in front of him to offer support if… when he stumbled.

“Just one step, only ever one step in front of you. And then you take another.”

We’ll carry on, we’ll carry on.

Castor didn’t thank him when they were done. There wasn’t a need to. Both boys exchanged silent nods when Cas made it to the end of the bars and exchanged them for crutches. In almost silence they walked back to their shared apartment on base together, taking a quick detour to enjoy the night air before returning home.

“Stop that, would you?” Cas said when Ewan started lighting a cigarette once they were outside. He made an attempt to bat it out of the younger boy's mouth. “Bad for your lungs.”

“Bad as a mother-hen. And you’re really one to talk, Cas,” Ewan said, taking a step back out of Castor’s reach. He leaned against a pillar and raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest.

“I quit.”

“Did you now? News to me.”

He said, “Will you defeat them? Your demons and all the non-believers? The plans that they have made?”

[path-of-my-childhood]

Producer Joel Little Talks Connecting With Taylor Swift For 'Me!': 'We Just Clicked Creatively Right Away'

Billboard // by Gil Kaufman // May 13th 2019

In an exclusive interview with Billboard, Little says after he met Swift at that Broods show in Los Angeles they ended up hanging out when she was in New Zealand on tour last year.

"I have this amazing photo of my daughter in tears of joy meeting her backstage at the concert," he tells Billboard by email. "Once we got to know each other a little I think we realized we could probably write some good songs together, and a few weeks later she asked me to come to New York to work." The rest, of course, you can hear on the exploding pop bubble that is "Me!," Swift's hit collaboration with Panic! at the Disco's Brendon Urie. Below, Little also talks about what excited him about working with Swift, the origins of "Me!" and how touched he is by the Swifties' embrace of the tune.

What excited you about working with Taylor? First of all, I’m just a massive fan of hers, I think she’s a genuine songwriting genius and she’ll go down as one of the most iconic pop stars of all time. She’s in that upper echelon, where getting to work with her is like the holy grail for pretty much every pop songwriter. I was absolutely shitting myself before our first session, but it went great. We just clicked creatively right away and it was so easy, like we’d been writing together for years. I couldn’t believe it.

What was the genesis of the song? What ideas/lyrics did you start with and how did it develop? We were actually finishing up another idea at the time. I think I was tidying up some vocals and she just sat down at the piano and started quietly playing an early version of the chorus. I remember turning around and saying, "What’s that?" and her saying something like, "Just this little idea I came up with in the car." So we quickly started building things from there.

How did she describe what she was looking for? What ideas did that spark for you? She wanted it to have a bit of a classic throwback thing to it, with horns and organic elements mixed with modern production. The chorus melody has this huge celebratory feel to it that immediately made me think of 1960s big bands, so I wanted to incorporate a bit of that world in with all the other stuff I like to do. It was also important to her that the song didn’t take itself too seriously, that we kept it tongue-in-cheek and just let it be a fun, feel-good tune.

You’ve worked with so many iconic pop acts, but is there something next-level about trying to come up with a fresh sound for someone like Taylor Oh, totally. A lot of my success in the past has been with helping new artists figure out their sound, like with Lorde and Khalid early on before they became huge. Working with an artist like Taylor, who already has so many bonafide classic songs, was definitely a bit of a "mom's spaghetti" moment for me, just like, "Don’t fuck this up, man." But she’s so good at what she does that you just step your game up, too. Once we started working together and found out that we really complement each other with the way we do things, it just became super fun and inspiring and easy.

What’s your feeling about the audience reaction to the song? It’s been totally nuts watching it all unfold, just crazy. Her fans are some of the most committed and passionate people in the world and I’ve loved watching all the reaction videos and the covers and the people singing along in their cars. The other day, I came across a video of this little kid sick in the hospital grooving along to it, which was really special. The main purpose of a song like this is just to try and brighten up people's day, so it’s nice to know it’s working.

[wheremytwinwatches]

[Where My Twin Watches]: Full Metal Alchemist Brotherhood Episode 16

Work continues to drive me crazy, so of course I make my life more complicated by getting online classes set up for the fall. That, and I kinda don’t want to see our babies learn about Hughes. Blissful ignorance, am I right? *sigh* Onwards with Brotherhood.

Do we have captions this time? We do! Awesome, it was so irritating last time not knowing if I was mangling names or not. We’ve got the second intro featuring the Xing contingent, curious how influential it’ll be having a foreign prince bopping along with the Elrics. (Also, I continue to be juvenile and giggle at one of the lyrics in the new song being “shite”. Hee.) We open up with a bird's-eye view of Central, then with Ed yawning at the train station. Al mentions that being spied on for hours is pretty tiring. Right, Ling’s ninja squad don’t trust the Elrics. But where’s the Prince? The Ninjas proceed to freak the heck out, Fu runs around the traintops calling out for the young lord as Lan Fan worries about him collapsing. Is Ling fainting a common thing, then? Ed just shrugs his shoulders at the absence of the freeloader and heads off with Al and Winry. Huh, music’s getting ominous. Oh, there he is, doing a Brooding Anime Rooftop Stare on the station’s clock tower, looking towards the center of the city. [Ling]: “Something about this country doesn’t feel right.” Well, the current speculation (backed by the freaking Fuhrer being a Goth!) is that they’re sacrificing people to make Philosopher’s Stones, so… don’t know much about Xing so can’t say if they’re any better, but it’d be pretty hard for them to be worse. Episode 16 - “Footsteps of a Comrade-in-Arms” In a run-down area of the city, a car stops and the blond-haired smoking guy (Havoc?) of Roy’s crew is checking in with the grey-haired member (I’ll get their names some day, I swear), dropping off food from the colonel. Oh, guess Grey’s been guarding Barry, who cheerfully recognizes “the smokin’ guy”. Not tied up and playing chess? Are they keeping him prisoner to try and get more info or more protecting their only source? Well, I suppose for a serial killer like Barry being kept inside at night and denied any chances to chop someone up would be uncomfortable. Still, Grey’s bored with the assignment, asks how much longer it’ll be. Havoc just says that Roy apologizes for the dangerous assignment, that Grey’s absence it being treated as sick leave… and if he’s seen in public by anyone he’ll get court-martialed. Yikes, ok then. No breaks for poor Grey. Any good news? [Havoc]: “Falman, I found myself a girlfriend!” ...well that’s nice and all for you, buddy, but I think Falman (thank you!) was looking for good news for him. Poor, poor Falman. Hey, it’s Ling! Taking another impromptu nap? A couple of cops are asking if he’s ok, he whispers about food… ah, trying for another free meal? Unfortunately for Ling, the cops less interested in feeding him and more interested in seeing his entry visa. Cue irritated cops dragging a crying Prince away. [Cop 1]: “Outta the way, everyone!” [Cop 2]: “Illegal alien coming through!” The Ninjas continue to freak over the absent master, while Ed says that they should stop by the military offices. Winry… decides to go straight to the Hughes’ house. Oh boy. [Winry]: “I can’t wait to see Miss Gracia and cute little Elicia!” Uuuuuugh. Make it stooooop. The Brothers are off to meet up with Hughes himself, while they think Hughes might have been stymied by Bradley’s orders to stand down they have info on the Homunculi now (and still don’t know the Fuhrer himself is one, gah!). Off to the court-martial office! Quiet somber music as the brothers run through the park. And right by the phone booth that Hughes was murdered in. Bleh this episode is not going easy. In the office, Sheska’s carrying around some books when another lady officer asks for a key to Room #3. Which freaks Sheska out, and she babbles about cleaning up the mess first? What, have you made that your private reading lair or something? Nope, not your lair it seems, but Colonel Mustang’s private napping chamber. Yikes, hope you had an alarm set, and it only wasn’t Sheska waking you that kept you from being late to a freaking Council Meeting. Wait, Council? I don’t think I’ve heard of that group before, I’m just assuming by the tendency for Anime Councils to be Big Deals that it’s the same in the FMA universe. The highest-ranking officers of the military? Sheska worries that Roy’s not getting enough sleep, he just waves her off and goes to the meeting. Staying up late doing research on the conspiracy, I gue- GAH new voice! Sheska freaks and identifies them as Captain Focker, who asks about the open storeroom and what Roy was doing. Uh oh, a watcher sent by Bradley? Double uh oh, in her concern for Roy’s state Sheska is telling Focker about how he seems to be researching the Fifth Laboratory. And the Hughes case. Bleeeeeh, more Hughes feels as Sheska gets sad about her getting her job through Hughes. Captain Focker walks away deep in thought, glasses obscuring his eyes. Uh oh. But then the looks up in surpr- That’s Captain Focker! Oh my Leto, that’s the real Captain Focker! Real Focker’s too busy looking at some piece of paper to notice a shapechange and red electricity as Envy takes on a new disguise. Shapeshifters: A security nightmare.

But it looks like Envy might have made a mistake, as Real!Focker’s now saying good morning to Sheska, who is rightly confused. A simple “Laugh at this clueless character” moment, or a break for the good guys? Roy’s washing up in a bathroom for this Council Meeting, takes a moment to stare mournfully into the mirror- until with a flush of a toilet his angsting is interrupted by The Mighty Armstrong, glinting manfully in his bandages while towering over the stall door. Hah! Armstrong remarks that Roy looks a bit peakish, who asks why Armstrong is bandaged. Oh right, Armstrong was involved in killing all of Greed’s human-chimera crew down South. He mentions that he ran into the Elrics down there, on their visit to their old teacher. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell them about Hughes. Armstrong makes his way out- [Roy]: “The Fifth Laboratory and the Philosopher’s Stone; the Stone’s key ingredients are live humans.” Armstrong comes to a halt. Roy continues about how Hughes died following up on the Elric brothers’ investigation, and how if/when they find out they’ll blame themselves. He says Armstrong not telling them was kind, and Armstrong compliments him on figuring out so much. But warns him that he never knows who might be listening. Riza’s waiting out in the hallway when Ed walks up and says hi, although he’s not as happy when Roy joins them. Oh yeah, Elric didn’t know about Roy’s promotion. Now if he’s hanging out in Central it’ll be the same place as good old Colonel Mustang. The sarcasm in Ed’s “Great” is astounding. As for the Elrics, they’re just doing some information gathering. And might pay Hughes a visit later in the day. Where is he, anyway? Roy… says that Hughes retired. Went out to the country with his family to run the family business. Really, dude? I get that it’s a sore subject, but the “he went out to the farm” excuse only works for so long. They deserve to know what happened. Well, with the false story the boys think that they should tell Winry, they spin around only to run into Lieutenant Ross. She asks about the rush, Ed mentions that they heard about Hughes… and Ross isn’t in on the “tell them the farm story” excuse. Oh boy. Uuuugh, the two conversations sliding right past each other here is painful! And here’s the kicker: [Al]: “He retired to the country and they promoted him?” Ross realises she did a no-no, covers her mouth to keep from saying anything else. And Ed realizes the truth. Mid-episode cards: Captain Focker with an Envy silhouette behind him, and a downcast Gracia Hughes on the second. Notable for both Narrator “Full-Metal Alchemists” being the sad, somber one. Out in the city, Winry’s shopping for apples, presumably to give to the Hughes’ family. And Ed races out of the building after hearing the new. [Lt. Ross]: “Brigadier General Hughes is dead… He was murdered shortly after you were discharged from the hospital, Edward. I’m afraid we still haven’t found the person responsible.” As he runs and cries, Ed blames himself for pulling Hughes into the investigation. Flashes of Happy Hughes and his family, a memory of Hughes seeing them off at the train station and inviting them to drop by again, hosting dinner, first meeting them and inviting them to his home… Al catches up with the suitcase and then stands there silently as Ed slumps against the wall. And now we’re with Winry, who’s arriving at the apartment. The door swings open- [Elicia]: “Daddy?!” Oh no, that’s fine. I didn’t need that heart anyway, go ahead and use it as a footrest show. The Elrics have arrived at the apartment building, when Al asks what they should do Ed tells him to go back, that he’s “the only one who has to take the blame for what happened.” Oh my Leto kid you have enough self-imposed guilt from Mama Elric and Nina, stop taking the weight of the world on your shoulders! Al argues that it’s on both of them, and double all my protests that Ed does not deserve this for his little brother as well. Ed tries to dissuade Al again- [Al]: “We made up our minds; We said we were getting our bodies back, no matter what. But if people are going to die because of that… then I don’t want mine back.”

Freaking A, Al. I cannot overstate how much damn respect I feel for you right now. You are a poor boy, trapped in a cold metal body from a horrible accident. Getting your body back has been your driving purpose, along with healing your brother. But when you discovered that the cost of making a Philosopher’s Stone was human sacrifice, you discarded the method. And when you discover that a friend has died in the process of helping your investigation, you are fully prepared to renounce your goal in order to protect others. I salute your selflessness. Gracia opens the door, and gives the Elrics the same sad smile that she gave Winry, telling the brothers that Winry’s already arrived. The mechanic’s sitting quietly in a chair with Elicia curled in her lap, she looks up with Ed quietly enters. Ed then asks to talk to Gracia and Winry about Maes. The quiet sad theme starts playing as Gracia recaps the Elrics’ message; that Hughes looked into the Philosopher’s Stone, and was killed as a warning against the brothers. Gracia looks down at sleeping Elicia, as Ed bows his head in grief and gasps out “sorry” again and again. [Gracia]: “That would be just like him, dying while trying to help someone else.” The Trio look up in surprise. [Gracia]: “My husband. He always was a busybody and a meddler, and it got him into trouble. A lot. But you know… I don’t think he ever had regrets. Not any… not even in his dying moments, Edward.” So many people to respect in this episode, seriously. Al being prepared to give up on getting his body back, and Gracia insisting that they can’t give up, or else Hughes died in vain. With a little smile, even. Forget about the dead end of the Stone, there still might be another way. [Gracia]: “You boys have to keep moving forward… any way you can.” The door closes as the Trio exit the apartment, Ed turns to look at the others- [Elicia]: “Mommy?... Mommy, please don’t cry.” ...damn you, show. Later in the day now, the sun is setting as the Trio walk through the streets to a sweeping cello melody. The Elrics see Winry to a hotel room, and then go to their own. Right, because they… used to stay at the Hughes’ residence. Winry’s quietly resting on her bed, Al’s sitting in the living room, and Ed’s downstairs in the restaurant too upset to eat. Now he’s knocking on Winry’s door, asking if she’s eaten yet, and she should hurry because the dining room is closing soon. The parallels are strong here: when they were children the Rockbell’s fed the Elrics, and now Ed’s trying to make sure Winry keeps up her strength now. When Winry doesn’t make a move Ed excuses himself to his room, but Winry grabs his automail hand. Aw, aw no. She still has the basket of apples she was planning to take to the Hughes’ family. Seems she was planning to make apple pie. And had hoped that Mr. Hughes would get to try some too. Winry cries as the screen fades to black. WOW OK talk about rough transitions, we’ve got Chimeras in cages. And eff you it’s the Goths, Lust leaning on Gluttony as she talks with still-disguised Envy. Now they know that Roy’s been looking into the matter, and may have found some things out. Lust gripes that they orchestrated Roy’s move to Central to keep a closer eye on him, and it’d be a waste to lose an important sacrifice candidate. Wait… [Envy]: “Haven’t been able to learn anything from your new boyfriend?” Aw hell no, I’d thought that Havoc gushing about having a girlfriend was just a little joke at the beginning of the episode, like a running gag about his relationships or something. You’re telling me Lust is playing Havoc? Run dude, run! Lust goes off to gather more info, calls for Gluttony like a loyal little attack dog. Envy chides Gluttony for leaving some bones scattered around… but then gets an idea. Uh oh, we’ve got string music as Envy suggests making another “play”, giving Roy a bone to chew. What are you up to? We’re at what appears to be a cafeteria now, when someone comes up and taps Lieutenant Ross on the shoulder, introducing himself as Henry Douglas from the Provost Marshal’s office. Flanked by goons, he says that Ross has to come along with them, and demands her gun? Wait, is Ross being arrested? Brosh, where the heck are you, come defend your partner! Whoa whoa what?! They’re accusing Ross for Hughes’ murder?! What the heck, how can you make that claim? What evidence do you have for that absurd claim? Besides… well, besides the shapeshifter accosting Hughes in the phone booth while looking like you… uh oh. Riza is updating Roy on the situation, saying that Ross (man, there are a lot of R-characters involved in this case, huh?) is pleading not-guilty on all charges. The Flame Alchemist just tells Riza to gather all the info on the suspect that she can, secretly. Dramatic string music continues as we see Havoc buying some flowers and then running along to his “hot date”, stubbing out his cigarette as yup, “Solaris” is Lust. Who demurely asks Havoc to sit down and tell her about his day. AAAAAAARGH! Ok then! Was putting off this episode because I knew there would be Feels about Hughes, and damn if it didn’t deliver. But like Gracia said, they can’t let Hughes’ death be in vain, and they can hardly just give up and let the killer go free. Speaking of, framing Ross? As if I didn’t have enough reasons to hate you jerks, Goths! Ugh, this is gonna get complicated, isn’t it?

[taylorswifthongkong]

Joel Little has been in the studio with a galaxy of stars over the past seven years. The New Zealand-based producer has written and produced hits for everyone from Lorde ("Royals," "Yellow Flicker Beat") to Ellie Goulding ("The Greatest") and Khalid("Young Dumb & Broke"), among many others.

But it was a chance meeting at a show by another act he's long been associated with -- New Zealand sibling due Broods -- that landed him on the song that currently resides at No. 2 on the Billboard Hot 100: Taylor Swift's "Me!"

In an exclusive interview with Billboard, Little says after he met Swift at that Broods show in Los Angeles they ended up hanging out when she was in New Zealand on tour last year.

"I have this amazing photo of my daughter in tears of joy meeting her backstage at the concert," he tells Billboard by email. "Once we got to know each other a little I think we realized we could probably write some good songs together, and a few weeks later she asked me to come to New York to work." The rest, of course, you can hear on the exploding pop bubble that is "Me!," Swift's hit collaboration with Panic! at the Disco's Brendon Urie.

Below, Little also talks about what excited him about working with Swift, the origins of "Me!" and how touched he is by the Swifties' embrace of the tune.

What excited you about working with Taylor?

First of all, I’m just a massive fan of hers, I think she’s a genuine songwriting genius and she’ll go down as one of the most iconic pop stars of all time. She’s in that upper echelon, where getting to work with her is like the holy grail for pretty much every pop songwriter. I was absolutely shitting myself before our first session, but it went great. We just clicked creatively right away and it was so easy, like we’d been writing together for years. I couldn’t believe it.

What was the genesis of the song? What ideas/lyrics did you start with and how did it develop?

We were actually finishing up another idea at the time. I think I was tidying up some vocals and she just sat down at the piano and started quietly playing an early version of the chorus. I remember turning around and saying, "What’s that?" and her saying something like, "Just this little idea I came up with in the car." So we quickly started building things from there.

How did she describe what she was looking for? What ideas did that spark for you?

She wanted it to have a bit of a classic throwback thing to it, with horns and organic elements mixed with modern production. The chorus melody has this huge celebratory feel to it that immediately made me think of 1960s big bands, so I wanted to incorporate a bit of that world in with all the other stuff I like to do. It was also important to her that the song didn’t take itself too seriously, that we kept it tongue-in-cheek and just let it be a fun, feel-good tune.

You’ve worked with so many iconic pop acts, but is there something next-level about trying to come up with a fresh sound for someone like Taylor?

Oh, totally. A lot of my success in the past has been with helping new artists figure out their sound, like with Lorde and Khalid early on before they became huge. Working with an artist like Taylor, who already has so many bonafide classic songs, was definitely a bit of a "mom's spaghetti" moment for me, just like, "Don’t fuck this up, man." But she’s so good at what she does that you just step your game up, too. Once we started working together and found out that we really complement each other with the way we do things, it just became super fun and inspiring and easy.

What’s your feeling about the audience reaction to the song?

It’s been totally nuts watching it all unfold, just crazy. Her fans are some of the most committed and passionate people in the world and I’ve loved watching all the reaction videos and the covers and the people singing along in their cars. The other day, I came across a video of this little kid sick in the hospital grooving along to it, which was really special. The main purpose of a song like this is just to try and brighten up people's day, so it’s nice to know it’s working.

[scapegrace74-blog]

fic trope mashup: 19, 88

So, this was too ripe for hilarity to pass up.   Here are my thoughts on a mash-up of a Summer Camp AU and Erotic Dreams.  Disclaimer: the author of this mash-up does not endorse sex between minors.  She also doesn’t endorse sending your kids to summer camp, because it is an eight-lane freeway leading directly to sex between minors.

1.  It’s Fox Mulder’s third year as a camp counselor on Lake Damariscotta in Maine.  He’d probably be head counselor this year, but for the toad licking incident of two summers ago that lives on in infamy.   He’s off to Oxford in August, but he first has to shepherd fourteen teenage boys through a month of home sickness, armpit farts, wild parsnip burns and furtive masturbation.  Well, he doesn’t have to guide their masturbatory activities - those will happen with or without his supervision.

2.  Dana Scully is a first year physics major, but by lacing her application with subtle references to Indigo Girls lyrics and attaching a laudatory reference letter from the leading cardiologist at Georgetown Hospital, she has managed to filibuster her way into a job as assistant camp nurse at Wavus Camp for Girls, across the lake from Fox Mulder and his gang of gonads.  The head nurse is a seventy-four year old retired RN named Mabel who spends her days teaching the younger girls how to appropriate Native American art forms by weaving dream catchers with leftover wool yarn, and sneaking out behind the maintenance shed to smoke pot with the camp cook.   Dana is effectively the camp nurse this summer.

3.  The only time Lake Damariscotta isn’t covered in a flotilla of small water craft and ringing with loud teen voices, both high, low and indeterminate, is first thing in the morning.   Fox Mulder wakes early and swims across the lake and back, brooding about his past.   Dana Scully wakes early and wanders the rocky shoreline, making plans for her future.  It is inevitable that they meet.  Unfortunately, the circumstances are less than perfect.  Usually a strong swimmer, he navigates into some lake weed, panics because he thinks he’s being mauled by a cryptid, and starts to take on water.  Called to action by his gurgled calls for help, Dana dives into the lake fully clothed and tows him to shore, where she zealously performs mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a live person for the first time.  Mulder rises to consciousness to find a strange girl’s tongue in his mouth.  Between breaths, she brushes the hair back from his forehead in some form of first aid manoeuvre that is not part of the St. John’s Ambulance curriculum. .

4. Naturally, they fall in love.  The simultaneously revered and mocked nerd-jock and the ambitious, rule-abiding but secretly rebellious Susan Sontag acolyte.   They find ways to see each other nearly every day, even when their respective bosses find out about it and try to separate them for fear of a scandal.  Except for their looming separation at the end of the summer, there is only one tiny obstacle that stands between Mulder and heretofore unknown contentment: Dana Scully doesn’t put out.   Raised strictly Catholic, she makes such excessive demands of his tongue that he takes up eating sunflower seeds in order to cross-train his mandibular muscles, and she repays him in kind.  But he’s eighteen for crying out loud.  He’s harder than the red spruce that gird the lake and just as apt to burst into seed.  Which is how things go so horribly wrong.

5.  As the senior member of his cabin, he is the only one with a double mattress and no top bunk.  He also has camp-provided bed linens, washed to near-gossamer thinness over the years.  His dream life has always been vivid and realistic, and it’s no surprise where his fervid imagination takes him most nights.  Before the night in question, he and Dana hadn’t met for their usual two-hour tryst in the forest after dinner because she was busy handling a mass outbreak of poison oak on her side of the lake.   To say he was a little worked up was an understatement.  He should have whacked off in the tiny outhouse behind their cabin, but instead he fell asleep, where dreams of Dana assaulted him.   Dana blowing his dick like an alto flute.   Dana spread out over a pommel horse wearing a Romanian gymnastics team uniform.  Dana in black leather holding a riding crop.   Dana tickling his anus with a feather boa.   The images come at him like a high speed film montage and eventually his body capitulates as he lets loose a hoarse cry of “fuck me in the ass Nadia Comaneci!”  He wakes in the pre-dawn light to see fourteen pairs of horrified eyes staring down at him.  His erection, ecstatic at finally playing his Dana-induced fantasies through to culmination, is waving the soiled top sheet about like a rainbow flag at a pride parade.

6.  He leaves Lake Damariscotta that summer without a letter of reference.  Dana enters the pre-med program at Georgetown University where she gleefully surrenders her virginity to her forty-year old mentor.   They exchange letters for a few months before he meets and falls for Phoebe Green, who already owns a riding crop and a pommel horse.   Neither think much more about the other, until one day in 1993, at the J. Edgar Hoover Building…

[the-awkward-writer]

Abandoned Rings

Pairings: Zendaya x Reader, Tom, Jacob

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING CONTENT. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION: harassment and fighting. There is fluff at the end, though.

A/N: Alright, so here’s the long promised Zendaya fic. If I’m being completely honest, I’m not too proud of it. This may be rewritten later or even taken down, but I’ve been brooding over this for weeks and I needed to get it out here. That being said, there is some potentially triggering content, so please read with caution. I have warned you so I don’t want any messages about not giving you enough warning. There is potentially triggering content here. Harassment and fighting. Please read with caution. There is a fluffier ending Anyway, I’m done ranting and raving now, so please, tell me what you think and enjoy!

Swinging the door to your home open, you playfully call out to your wife of six years, “Honey, I’m home!”

You kick off your shoes and throw your backpack under the small table, completely elated to be home after a double shift at your local hospital.

You heard Zendaya chuckle from the living room as she came to greet you at the door with a kiss, “How was work?” She asked, he hands gripping your hips.

You bring your arms up to drape across her shoulders, “Tiring,” you said, “Like usual-” you pointed one finger in the air, “- but I didn’t have to pull a dildo out of someone’s ass again, so that’s good.”

Zendaya laughed, her head falling back and her curls brushing across your fingers, “Ah, the trials and tribulations of being an ER nurse.”

You giggle and kiss her nose, “I need to go take a shower.”

The twinkle that forms in Zendaya’s eyes is familiar, something you’ve seen nearly every time you tell her you need to shower. “You can join me if you can catch me!” You tease before sprinting up the stairs, leaving your stunned wife in your wake

“Oh you are so gonna get it!” Zendaya yells after you. Zendaya’s long legs make the task of catching you a piece of cake; you had just made it to the top of the stairs when her arms wrapped around your waist, bringing you to her chest with a squeal. “You know,” she said, throwing your over her shoulder, “You’d think that after six years you’d stop challenging me to races.”

You roll your eyes even though she couldn’t see, “I should be mad,” you said, “But your ass looks really good in these jeans.”

Zendaya laughed again as she shouldered the bathroom door open and pinched your ass playfully, “Hey, buddy. My eyes are up here.”

“Well I can’t exactly see them, now can I?” You retort sassily.

Zendaya bends down, setting you back on your feet. She shuffles over to the shower, turning the taps and turning the shower on.

While you waited for the water to warm up, you undressed, peeling off your light blue scrubs and throwing them in the hamper in the corner of the room.

You hopped up on the sink counter, sitting in your bra and underwear. Once Zendaya was undressed, she stood in between your legs, her back to you as you pulled her curly hair into a bun, tying it with the hair tie around your wrist.

It’s not that Zendaya couldn’t put her hair up herself, but you did it the first time you took a shower together, and nearly a decade later it had become a sort of habit.

Zendaya turned around between your thighs, reaching up to pull your hair from its hair tie.

You kiss her softly, “C’mon, before the water gets cold.”

You take off the rest of your clothes before stepping in, “Jesus Christ, Z! It’s freezing!”

Zendaya rolls her eyes as you turn the hot water up, steam filling the bathroom almost immediately. “You’re gonna burn yourself!” She protests as she grabs the shampoo from the rack, but she makes no move to change the temperature, knowing that you would only change it back.

You scoff, “Then so be it.”

You turn around to allow Zendaya to wash your hair, something she insisted on doing every time.

You played with the water that hit your chest, splaying your fingers out against the spray from the shower head. You took the time to clear your head from the usual stressors of working in an emergency room, letting the cruel words of difficult patients roll off your shoulders, and allowing the thought of your lost patient be moved to the back of your mind.

Zendaya tapped your shoulder a minute later, a signal to turn around and rinse your hair out. “What am I making for dinner tonight?” You ask, scrubbing your scalp with your fingers to rinse the bubbles out of your hair.

“Oh!” Zendaya said as she grabbed your conditioner, “Tom and Jacob invited us out to dinner tonight at Johnny’s Sushi House.”

You smiled, “Thank God. I really didn’t feel like cooking tonight.” You turn back around to face away from Zendaya.

She squeezes your shoulder, “But we don’t have to. I know that work has been really stressful for you recently, and you’re probably exhausted from the double shift.

You shake your head as her fingers smooth the conditioner into your hair, “No, you’ve been working your ass off too. You deserve a night out.”

Zendaya kissed your shoulder with a small thank you as she handed you your loofah.

“So, love,” you said as you reached across Zendaya to grab the soap, “How was your day?”

You giggled as Zendaya rolled her eyes, “Stressful. Did you know that collaborating with a millionaire can be really tiring?”

You laugh again, “But it’ll all be worth it in the end, Z.”

Zendaya sighs as she switches with you to wash the soap suds off of her body, “I know, I know. It’s just stressful now.”

You hum lightly, “Well I’m proud of you anyways.”

Zendaya smiles at you, eating up your compliments.

After rinsing off the body wash, you behind yourself,  turning off the water and following Zendaya out of the shower. You gratefully accepted the fluffy towel she handed you, wrapping it around your torso and another around your hair.

You walk over to the sink, pulling your makeup bag out from under your side. With a sly smile, Zendaya grabs her own makeup bag and turns some music on, fully prepared for the inevitable dance party you were about to have.

You both dance around the bathroom in your towels as you get ready to go out, belting out the lyrics to your favorite songs, and pausing only when absolutely necessary (like putting mascara on).

As you blow dry your hair, Zendaya comes up behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist, swaying back and forth with you, singing softly in your ear.

You giggle and stutter out apologies when you accidentally knock her over the head with the blow dryer.

“You’re mean!” She says as she rubs the lump on her head.

You giggle and roll your eyes, sticking your tongue out at her through the mirror, “Well you shouldn’t be standing so close, then.”

Zendaya’s mouth drops open. She looks genuinely offended, but you knew she wasn’t.

It took a little bit longer to get out the door than necessary because someone had to get a little handsy, but the two of you were eventually climbing into your car and on the road.

“I don’t wanna talk about that!” Zendaya whined when you brought up one of the times she got drunk, admittedly one of the most embarrassing, and funny, times.

You were seated in a booth next to Zendaya, Tom and Jacob sitting parallel to you.

You snorted softly and kissed her cheek, “You just don’t like this story because you admitted you wanted to marry the dog.”

Tom and Jacob each threw their heads back laughing, catching the attention of a few other people. Not that they minded, however.

Zendaya crossed her arms, “It’s not fair! You never get drunk!”

You smile cheekily, “That’s what happens when you’re the designated driver, love.”

Zendaya rolls her eyes but perks up once she sees food approaching the table.

The conversation lulls as everyone digs into their food, only small comments passing between the four of you.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” you say, kissing Zendaya on the cheek. She shoots you a small smile of recognition before she’s sucked back into her conversation with Tom.

When you finish in the bathroom and swing the heavy door open, more than ready to return to your friends and wife. What you didn’t expect was to see a man standing in front of the women’s bathroom, blocking your path.

“Hey, pretty thing,” he said immediately. He instantly set off alarms inside your head. He moved closer to you, trapping you against the wall, “What do you say we go get a drink?” His breath reeked of alcohol.

“No, I’m good. I have to get back to my friends,” you say. You avoid eye contact, keeping your eyes on the ground as you try to spin out of his grasp.

“Not so fast, sweetheart,” he says, grabbing your arm tightly, you cringed at the pet name.

You immediately open your mouth, wanting to yell for your wife, for Tom, for anyone, but the man clamps his hand over your mouth, “You aren’t going anywhere, baby. I’m about to show you a good fucking time.”

You felt the bile threatening to make its way up your throat, but you swallowed it down, choosing to bite his hand instead and stomp as hard as you could on his instep.

He let go of you with a yelp, and you took the opportunity to sprint off as fast as you could, “Oh you dirty bitch!” You heard the man yell after you.

You rush back to the table, grabbing Zendaya’s hand, “We have to go!” You tell her.

She looks confused, bewildered, your words were a surprise to say the least, “What? Why?” She glances over your features. You were sure you look a mess. Your hair was probably all over the place, your shirt was stretched out, and your eyes held a certain note of fear.

“I may or may not have just pissed some guy off because he was trying to rape me, so we have to go!”

Zendaya doesn’t fight you as you grab your hand and lets you drag her out of the restaurant, leaving a concerned Tom and Jacob in your wake.

You pull Zendaya out to the car with shaking hands and even shakier breath. You don’t care about what people think about you in your bewildered state. You’re just lucky that there isn’t any paparazzi around.

You drop into your car, and before Zendaya can even close her door all the way, you’re speeding out of the parking lot.

“What the fuck was that, Y/N?!” Zendaya yelled once you pulled out onto the highway.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your tears at bay. Not only was this an extremely stressful situation, but Zendaya was yelling at you. Your wife never yelled at you. Never. You had told her how much you hated it and she swore that she would never do it again. Now, six years later, there seems to be some misconceptions.

“I told you. Some guy came up to me and he,” your voice catches in your throat, “He wanted to do shit to me. We had to get out of there.”

The rest of the ride home is silent. Not the comfortable silence that you’re used to. No, this one was tense, you could slice the air with a knife, and waves of anger were rolling off of your wife. Your heart was pounding, head spinning as the adrenaline wore off. All you wanted to do was curl up in your bed with your dog and cat and wife, but judging by her reaction, you knew that wasn’t likely.

When you pulled into the driveway Zendaya immediately jumped out of the car and stormed through the front door. Usually she would wait for you by the hood of the car and you would walk together. You knew you pissed her off, and you knew this was your fault.

You pulled the keys from the ignition with a sigh. You grabbed your phone and wallet before making your way to the front door. It was going to be a long night.

You shut and locked the front door behind you, throwing your keys, phone, and wallet on the small table pushed against the wall of the hallway, and hung up your coat.

You knew you needed to find Zendaya and talk this out, so you wandered to the living room, hoping to find her there. With the couch empty and the TV off, your next step was the kitchen, where she was leaning up against the kitchen counter, one hand holding a glass of water, and one arm wrapped around her torso.

She didn’t move when she heard the clicking of your heels getting louder, coming closer. She chose to stay staring at the wall, but couldn’t help but notice you standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

You fiddled with your fingers, tears brimming your eyes, “I’m sorry about tonight,” you whispered softly, the lump in the back of your throat made it hard to talk.

You weren’t sure how you thought Zendaya would react. Sure, you knew she’d be upset. Maybe she’d throw her hands up in the air and storm off, but you never expected her to react the way she did. You never expected her to let out a dry, sarcastic chuckle and say, “Sure you are.”

The words were like a knife through the heart, piercing the deepest parts of your soul, “W-what?” You stammered.

Zendaya’s head snapped towards you, her eyes ablaze, and her face hard lines and rough expressions. “What the hell were you thinking?” She slammed the glass down so hard you were afraid it was going to shatter.

You sucked in a breath, jumping back, your heart racing in your chest. You had never seen this side of Zendaya. In your six years of marriage and four years of dating, she had never raised her voice like this. She had never slammed things down. She had never made you feel so… so unsafe.

It scared the shit out of you.

“I was thinking that I wasn’t gonna make it out of there!” Your voice broke as you thought about what could have happened. What almost happened.

Zendaya scoffed, “We didn’t even get to say goodbye to them! I swear to God! This is the one day off I have and you manage to ruin it! What if there were paparazzi? Y/N, it would have been everywhere! They would have spun it out of control! It would be impossible for me to get a job! You could have been arrested!”

You thought it couldn’t have gotten worse, but your heart shattered at your feet. You thought her sarcastic chuckle did you in, but no. No, it was this. She didn’t care. Zendaya didn’t care. You could have been raped, killed, kidnapped, all of it, and she didn’t care. She wouldn’t care. Zendaya didn’t care.

Zendaya didn’t care.

The thought ran around in your head like a dog chasing a squirrel.

Suddenly, you were very calm. Your voice was even, your hands didn’t even shake as you pulled your wedding band and engagement ring off your finger, slamming them down on the kitchen island, “It’s good to know your job is more important than your wife.”

Without another word you grabbed your keys and stormed out the door, the sound of the slamming door resonating inside the silent house.

You climbed into the car, slamming that door too, before peeling out of the driveway.

Trophy wife, you decided. You let the tears fall: you were a trophy wife.

Zendaya stood at the counter, stunned. Her eyes moved back and forth between the rings on the island and the doorway you had just retreated from.

The weight of what Zendaya had just done hit her like a freight train. She had done the one thing she had sworn she wouldn’t do, and you left.

Zendaya crumbled to the floor, sobbing. Tears poured down her face, and it was getting increasingly hard to breathe as her heart rate picked up further. She held her head in her hands as her world spun on its axis.

Call her. Zendaya’s brain couldn’t form coherent thoughts, but the two words stuck out enough for her to take action. With shaky hands Zendaya reached for her phone in her back pocket. She immediately dialed your number, only sobbing harder at your contact name: ‘Wifey’.

She prayed to every God there was that you would pick up, but the sound of your phone buzzing from the counter sent her reeling. It was going to be impossible to reach you.

Her breathing became even more unsteady. She was having a panic attack, that much was simple. Usually, Zendaya would just call you and you would be able to talk her down, but not this time.

You were gone and Zendaya was afraid you were never coming back.  

Zendaya scrolled through her contacts once more until she reached Tom’s name.

“Hello?” Tom’s voice was gruff, probably from sleep, making Zendaya realize how late it really was. “Z, what’s wrong?” Tom was wide awake upon hearing Zendaya hyperventilating on the other line.

Zendaya shook her head frantically, almost not wanting to say the words out loud, “I-I-It’s Y/N. She’s gone. God, Tommy, I fucked up so bad!”

Tom didn’t know what was wrong, exactly, but he rushed out of bed, pulling on the closest pair of pants he could find, “I’m on my way, Z, hold on, okay?” Tom’s soft voice was a stark contrast to the chaos on the other line. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Zendaya was able to whimper out an “Okay,” before Tom hung up and raced out to his car.

The five minutes that Zendaya had to spend alone was utterly terrible. Zendaya was alone with her thoughts. Her terrible, terrible thoughts. You were gone, honestly and truly. She was going to be a twenty-six year old divorcee and lose everything that was important to her. She was going to lose you. She was going to lose herself. She was going to lose her future, her entire fucking world.

Zendaya laid curled up on the floor, sobbing her heart out while she waited for her best friend. She was sure she just reeked of helplessness.

True to his word, Tom burst through the door five minutes after he hung up, even though he lived ten minutes away.

It didn’t take Tom long to find Zendaya; all he had to do was follow the sounds of her sobbing to the kitchen. He didn’t even think, he just dropped to the floor next to Zendaya, bringing her into his arms, “Hey, shh, it’s okay.”

Zendaya shook her head against Tom’s chest, “No, Tommy, you don’t u-understand. She left her rings. She’s l-leaving me, Tommy. I fucked up so bad. I fucked it all up!”

Tom kissed the top of Zendaya’s head, “What happened, Z?”

“I told her that I didn’t care. She was harassed and I acted like I didn’t care!”

Tom sighed heavily. He didn’t know the full extent of the story, but he had never seen Zendaya so worked up over something before.

Tom held Zendaya for an hour while she cried herself into exhaustion before carrying her to the couch, covering her with a blanket.

Tom paced the floor while he called your phone, but soon found out what Zendaya had only hours earlier. You had stormed out and left the only way of contacting you on the kitchen counter.

He knew that it was just a waiting game now. All they could do was wait for you to come back, that is, if you ever did.

You had been driving for hours. You had no destination in mind, so you drove in a straight line, not stopping until you hit the ocean.

You sat on the hood of your car watching the sunrise; it was nearly five o’clock in the morning, and you had been driving for almost seven hours. You had cried all the tears you possibly could and now you were just numb.

You couldn’t describe how you were feeling other than numb. There was a hole in your chest. You felt like you were hallucinating, maybe even in a nightmare. Your brain seemed to be three steps behind your body.

You missed your wife. Every fiber of your being was begging, pleading you to turn around and go back home. The words running around in your brain, however, made it impossible for you to do that.

Zendaya doesn’t care. You’re a trophy wife. Zendaya doesn’t care. Zendaya doesn’t care. You’re a trophy wife.

You watched the sunrise in silence for a few moments before reaching behind you to grab your phone from your back pocket to take a picture. If everything was going to explode in your face when you got home, you at least wanted one tiny, little, minuscule good thing to come from it.

You froze when you didn’t feel your phone. You climbed into your car, rooting around in the center console, the passenger seat, the glove compartment, and even the backseat.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” you grabbed your hair by the roots. You left your wife alone at home. You knew this had to be tearing her up, right? She had to be upset. You had left your rings on the island for God’s sake!

If anyone were to ask you what had happened in that moment, you would tell them that your brain finally took control again. It was like finishing a cup of coffee in the morning. You were finally fully aware of your surroundings and the fact that you just left the house for seven hours with no way of communication. Your brain finally caught up to your heart, letting your heart take control of the situation for just a moment.

“Fuck!” You yelled, before putting the car in drive and speeding back home.

When Zendaya woke up, she didn’t remember anything. That is, until she rolled over, reaching for your body, but found only couch cushions.

Zendaya’s eyes snapped open and she sat up ramrod straight. Her stomach churned and she threw the blanket off of her legs, racing to the bathroom to throw up last night’s dinner with tears already rolling down her face.

Zendaya jumped when she felt a pair of hands pull her hair back and place a cold rag on the back of her neck. She desperately, desperately wished it was her wife instead of her co-star, but she knew it wasn’t. She knew you weren’t home and it was quite possible you were never coming back.

“Shh, it’s alright. Let it out,” Tom said soothingly. Zendaya felt a sharp guilt shoot through her. Tom shouldn’t have to be doing this.

When she was done, Tom helped Zendaya up, keeping her steady while she brushed her teeth and lead her back to the couch.

Zendaya couldn’t feel a goddamn thing. She felt numb.

She didn’t even know how she got to the couch. All she knew was she was in the bathroom one second, and on the couch the next with Parks and Recreation playing on the TV, and a blanket draped over her lap.

She looked up at Tom as he came in the room carrying two steaming mugs of, what she assumed was tea. Zendaya cleared her throat softly; her throat still felt raw from the bile, “Did Y/N ever come back?”

Zendaya almost didn’t even want to know the answer, and when Tom answered with a negative, she felt her heart breaking all over again.

Zendaya held the warm mug in her hands, she didn’t even remember grabbing it. You were driving while upset. You had been out all night with no money and no phone. You could be dead on the side of the road by now and no one would know.

Zendaya dropped the mug onto the coffee table in front of her and buried her head in her hands. Her whole body shook as Tom wrapped his arms around her, trying to calm her down.

Tom felt almost as helpless as Zendaya. It hurt him to see Zendaya so worked up. He wanted to be mad at you, he really did, but he knew that you never stormed out of an argument. Tom always thought it was so annoying, but he genuinely understood now. He knew that you never stormed out of an argument unless it was really, really, dreadful.

Within the hour, Zendaya had cried herself to sleep in Tom’s arms once more.

It was nearly one in the afternoon when you finally pulled in to your driveway, barely even a drop of gas left in the tank. You noticed Tom’s car in the driveway, guilt immediately filling your stomach. You knew Zendaya wasn’t doing well if someone was over. She was always so fiercely independent, it was something you admired greatly about her, but it also meant that she was desperate and hurting.

You walked into the house, shutting the door quietly behind you. You kicked off your shoes and set your keys on the table, taking in a deep breath. You didn’t know what you would be walking in to. You and Zendaya had never fought this hard in your entire relationship. You hoped you would be able to fix it; this woman is the love of your life. You want to raise kids with her, grow old with her. You want to spend the rest of your life with her.

Taking one last breath, you walk through to the living room, your socked feet making no noise. The sight that you walked in to shattered your heart: Zendaya was curled up in Tom’s arms on the couch, tear stains running down her face. The sight of her being comforted by another person hurt more than you ever thought possible. That was your job. You were supposed to hold her when she cried, and you sure as hell weren’t supposed to be the one to make her cry.

You gently shook Tom awake, startling him with your sudden appearance.

If you were being completely honest, he looked like shit. The dark purple bags under his eyes suggesting an utter lack of sleep, the bleariness they held telling you it had been a hard night for him too.

You were more than thankful for his lack of judgement as he stood up and laid Zendaya down on the couch carefully. He hugged you tightly and kissed the top of your head, silently reassuring you that everything would be okay.

“Thank you for taking care of her, Tommy,” you whispered.

Tom nodded, “She was really broken up. I’ve never seen her like that.” Tom looked back at Zendaya’s sleeping form solemnly, “I don’t wanna overstep my boundaries, cause I don’t know what happened, but please don’t leave her,” you couldn’t believe that tears were forming in his eyes, “I don’t think she could handle it.”

You shook your head, “I don’t think I could either, Tommy,” you admitted honestly.

Tom nodded softly, and with one last comforting kiss to your head, he quietly left the house, leaving you alone with your sleeping wife.

You felt your throat close up as you knelt in front of Zendaya. You reached a hand out and ran it down the side of her face, your finger tracing the tear stains. You picked up her left hand, which lay limp on the couch beside her, and kissed her ring finger. You love this woman with all your heart.

You didn’t want to wake her up, knowing that she needed to rest, but you also didn’t want to leave her side any time soon.

Entangling your fingers with hers, your other hand found her hair as exhaustion hit you like a truck. You laid your head down on the crook of your elbow. Admittedly, it wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, but you were finally granted some piece of mind now that you were back home.

Soon enough, you were asleep too.

Zendaya didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but the first thing she had noticed when she woke up, was you.

She felt her heart squeeze and flood with relief. She couldn’t be happier to see you right now; she had been so worried about you.

Zendaya didn’t particularly want to wake you up, but she needed to see you. Talk to you. She desperately needed to talk things out with you. She untangled her fingers from yours, reaching up to shake your shoulder gently, “Y/N, Y/N, wake up, baby.”

Zendaya smiled softly as she watched your eyes flutter open, almost laughing at the confusion that filled them, then watching as it changed to recognition and you were launching yourself into her arms.

“I’m so sorry I left like that, baby. I-I swore I wouldn’t but I d-did,” you rambled into Zendaya’s shoulder.

Zendaya shifted with you in her arms to a more comfortable position, and you took the opportunity to wrap your arms and legs around her and bury your face in her neck. “You have no reason to apologize, love. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was such an asshole. You had every right to leave.” Zendaya grabbed the sides of your face, lifting your face to hers, “I am so sorry. I never should have said those things. I love you so much.”

You took a deep breath and looked in Zendaya’s eyes, “Z, I thought I was gonna die. I didn’t think I was gonna make it out of there. I didn’t think I was gonna be lucky enough to come home with you.”

Tears ran down Zendaya’s face, “I know. I was just so scared of losing you. I was scared and I didn’t know how to react and I reacted the complete wrong way. I deflected everything and twisted it around to make it seem like it was your fault, and that is just crazy manipulative and just… insane. I mean, I acted like my job was m-more important than you. Than the love of my life.”

You leaned your forehead on Zendaya’s, “I know, honey.”

Zendaya shook her head, “No. It’s not. You said it yourself: you could have fucking died.”

You took a deep breath, “Neither of us handled the situation well, Z. I shouldn’t have stormed out, and you shouldn’t have said those things, but it’s over now.”

Zendaya looked up at you, surprised, “So,” she swallowed thickly, “You’re not gonna d-divorce me?”

You chuckle lightly and wiped the tears off of Zendaya’s face, “No, baby. I’m not. We had a fight, granted, it was a pretty big fight, but what happened last night was a stupid mistake and I’m not about to throw away 10 years of something great just for one stupid little thing. I love you too much to do that.”

Zendaya kissed you forcefully. It was the first time she had kissed you since you had left, and it felt like a breath of fresh air. You gladly and enthusiastically returned her kiss, more than happy that you had started to resolve the issue.

You only pulled away when it was getting hard to breathe, “Why don’t we go up to bed, yeah?” You asked, your fingers lightly tracing the bags under her eyes.

Zendaya nodded, “A shower and a nap sound heavenly, if I do say so myself,” she said.

Before you could even think of clambering off her lap, she stands up with you in her arms causing a loud squeal to burst from your lips, “Zendaya! What are you doing?”

“Quick pit-stop, love,” she said. Only a second later she was setting you down on the kitchen island.

She reached down next to your thigh and grabbed your rings. With gentle hands, she slid them on your left ring finger and kissed them softly, “You scared the shit outta me, you know?”

Tears brimmed your eyes once more, but you push them down, “You scared me too, Z.”

She kisses you gently, “Let’s go take a shower, yeah?”

A sly smile crosses your face before you’re jumping from the counter and sprinting upstairs, “Only if you can catch me!”

what did you think? want be added to my tag list?

[lyricallymnded]

hospitalized // broods

[dweemeister]

Joker (2019)

On March 30, 1981, John Hinckley Jr. shot and nearly killed United States President Ronald Reagan, wounded a police officer and Secret Service agent, and permanently disabled Press Secretary James Brady (whose death in 2014 was ruled a homicide from the gunshot wound thirty-three years prior). Found not guilty due to insanity, Hinckley obsessed over Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver (1976) while planning his actions. Like Taxi Driver’s protagonist Travis Bickle, Hinckley plotted to assassinate a famous politician. Besotted with Jodie Foster (who starred in Taxi Driver) and disappointed by not attracting her attention after stalking her, Hinckley planned the assassination attempt to impress the actress.

Hinckley and Taxi Driver were both on my mind when watching Todd Phillips’ Joker. Not only do they share thematic connective tissue and similar color palettes, but both films have been plagued by discourse about whether they will inspire someone to commit horrific violence – I respect Taxi Driver as one of the best films released in the 1970s, but it is not something I could rewatch easily. Filmmakers, indeed, should have a sense of social responsibility in their creations. Joker, as a character study first and foremost, paints its politics in broad strokes – preferring to submerge, as character studies should, the audience into the mindset of its protagonist. Joker invites the audience to empathize with a tortured soul who, failed by the state and refusing to hold himself responsible for his worst actions, consciously moves beyond redemption. That point, where the Joker is beyond redemption, is found where Batman fans know him best: murdering only to see if that murder is funny. Whether he reaches that point within the bounds of this film is up for debate.

It is 1981 in Gotham City. The city belches with urban malaise. A garbage collectors’ strike roils the city; socioeconomic inequality is rife; “Super Rats” plague the streets; the municipal services are overwhelmed. Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix) is a clown-for-hire living and caring for his aging mother, Penny (Frances Conroy). Money is sparse and one of the few joys Arthur and Penny have is Murray Franklin’s (Robert De Niro in a role not far removed from his turn in 1983′s The King of Comedy) primetime talk show. Arthur suffers from random paroxysms of laughter (a real-life affliction known as emotional incontinence, among other names) that, at the very least, invites disdainful looks from strangers who then avoid him. Arthur is seeking help for his depression and other unspoken problems, but Gotham’s social services are soon defunded by the city government and various other events force him to his breaking point.

Also featured in this film are Arthur’s hallway neighbor Sophie (Zazie Beetz) and cameos from Thomas Wayne (Brett Cullen), a young Bruce Wayne (Dante Pereira-Olson), and Alfred Pennyworth (Douglas Hodge).

The film does not glorify any of its hideous violence, but those who are not critical consumers of media will interpret this film how they will. Nevertheless, Joker is less on the side of its protagonist than the likes of Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange (1971) and will likely result in a similar reverence once this film has exited theaters. Within the film’s confines, there is nothing surprising about any of its violence; how the violence happens is shocking in its immediacy and realistic ferocity. It is contextualized as being the inevitable result of a sociopolitical system that cares not for the downtrodden, the mentally ill – to reiterate, Phillips is painting with broad political strokes. Arthur, who keeps on seeking professional help and ways to quell his silent rage, is attempting to stay his destructive behaviors long after his first homicide (as the film does not glorify violence, it also does not target those with mental illness; it directs its ire towards those without sympathy for the mentally ill). Those efforts are stymied by factors beyond his control – an almost-plot twist to shock even ardent Batman fans, the idolization of an unnamed clown who has executed three members or accomplices of Gotham’s elite.

It is here that Joker separates itself from the social cynicism and post-Vietnam War disillusionment and of Taxi Driver; it is here that Philipps’ film becomes just as much a reflection of the era it was released in and the nation of its origin as Scarface (1932 original with Paul Muni), Bonnie and Clyde (1967), and The Dark Knight (2008) once did. Those films respectively capitalized on fears of Italian and Irish mafias making urban centers their criminal playgrounds, countercultural diehards claiming free-wheeling Jazz Age outlaws as their own, and a vast surveillance state crafted to declare war on terrorism. For Joker, the societal diagnosis by Phillips and co-writer Scott Silver (2010′s The Fighter) is double-sided, damning those with and without power. The film decries individuals and groups who deify charismatic or compelling figures claiming their actions and/or rhetoric to be indicative of the common person’s interests. These revered figures incorporate grievance into their persona, weaponizing the language of victimhood not only to bring attention and (justifiably or unjustifiably) force change on a problem, but to absolve themselves of their personal sins. They are, dare it be written, populists. Beware those who invoke “the people” to vindicate their crusades.

Arthur Fleck, as an underemployed clown, does not ask for the attention of the masses. He wishes, “to bring laughter and joy to the world,” yet finds fulfillment in making a handful of children’s hospital patients smile. During Arthur’s first appearance as Joker, he assumes the accidental and public mantle that has set Gotham aflame – legitimizing the homicides he has committed and the public’s brutalization of authority figures by playing victim. He is consumed in self-pity; his words become a simplistic screed. Notice how appealing his words are, how rapidly rhetorical animosity precludes political violence. In Joker’s darkest sequence, the protagonist will destroy the last remnants of Arthur Fleck and become the popular icon of violent upheaval rarely seen in any of his depictions in DC Comics. This is Joker at its most dangerous, if only because of how violence – whether in oppression or in resistance – is as integral to the United States as political compromise.

We hear these beats of populism elsewhere, too, mixed with capitalist can-do. It is present in Thomas Wayne’s television appearance announcing his candidacy for Mayor of Gotham City – “I alone can fix it,” this man of wealth implies. This is a departure from otherwise sympathetic depictions of Bruce Wayne’s father over the decades in Batman comic books. As a plot development, it (along with the “almost-plot twist”) seems unnecessary if only to ground Joker in the Batman mythos. Contrast this to the Marvel Cinematic Universe, where ill-intentioned, humorless capitalists operating within the military-industrial complex are repelled by the wisecracking “good” capitalists within that same system (see: Tony Stark). Murray Franklin, as a talk show host, concocts a scheme to bolster his ratings by humiliating someone in a worse life station – no background checks needed, let alone any semblance of attempting to understand his subject. Thus, Gotham is subject to personality- and grievance-based politics wrung through the corporate avarice of Network (1976). Joker may not have to space to critique capitalism in its entirety – it is a character study, after all – but the entire apple barrel seems spoiled here.

The least controversial element of Joker is Joaquin Phoenix’s magnificent lead performance. Phoenix has made a living playing men whose lives contend with inner turmoil and unsympathetic worlds. His work in The Master (2012) remains has career-defining role, but as Arthur Fleck and as Joker – through the pained laughter spells, his bodily contortions with his ribcage jutting from his frame, and a brooding nature tempered by an initial gentleness – this will be the role that crosses artistic and popular boundaries that segregate filmmaking. Phoenix may now be defined by this role, as Cesar Romero (a solid contract actor for 20th Century Fox despite being typecast as a Latin lover) and the late Heath Ledger (whose work in The Dark Knight overshadows the rest of his filmography) have been.

Director Todd Phillips, best known for The Hangover series, does an excellent job making Gotham City a character. So often consigned to be the faceless and unfortunate city wracked by domestic terrorism from curiously-named villains, never in a film has Gotham seemed like a place with its own history and haunts. The scenes on mass transit alone sell the city. Phillips’ indulgence for slow-motion (with cinematographer Lawrence Sher’s fawning camerawork) during dance sequences and almost constant dollying can be irritating. One montage between Arthur Fleck and Sophie – specifically, when he enters her apartment, confirming how unreliable a narrator he is – displays a lack of trust in the audience to make their own inferences.

Icelandic cellist and composer Hildur Guðnadóttir has crafted a score for her second film for a major American studio. Guðnadóttir’s career has been defined by an unpleasant mix of bass strings, percussion, and synth, droning repetitively, lacking the emotional catharsis that the films she has worked on are striving for. Her work on Joker is an improvement, but this is as difficult a listen as Joker is to watch. The score is almost entirely texture, not melody – melody is for those older films with sugary sentiment and Hollywood endings that do not reflect life’s ugliness, we are increasingly told. Outside of those with an ear for experimental classical music or instrumental music that groans amelodic passages rather than combining lyrical voices, this music has almost no life outside of the movie. Finally, Guðnadóttir’s style fits the film she has scored for.

As a psychological character piece, the only way that Joker could have secured a wide theatrical release in 2019 would be to tie it to bankable comic book lore. Even as Phillips pitched the idea, Joker faced stiff resistance from Warner Bros. executives – including former chairman Kevin Tsujihara and Greg Silverman – who still had the 2012 massacre in Aurora, Colorado on their minds (that tragedy took place during a screening of The Dark Knight Rises). Warner Bros. noting how poorly Zack Snyder’s vision of DC Comics adaptations was faring, needed to extricate itself from Snyder’s adolescent approach.

In the months before Joker’s release and even within the film, Warner Bros. has embraced its past. Of all of Hollywood’s major studios, Warners always seems to be the most conscious and celebratory of its history*. During the 1930s, Warner Bros. became known for the darker content of its films (its rivals MGM, Paramount, and Fox preferred spectacle, maximizing production values, and prestige pictures). The studio became the spiritual home of the gangster film and hardboiled dramas that pushed the boundaries of violence in American cinema – but not for the sake of depicting violence. Even in their musicals (a genre stereotyped as pure escapism), Warner Bros. layered progressive social commentary amid economic depression. Joker – though its own commentary could be more focused and succinct – inherits the legacy of The Public Enemy (1931), I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang (1932), Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933), and its numerous Warner Bros. ancestors.

How curious that a drama with origins from superhero comic books has been little praised for not following the assembly line production methods of numerous films from similar source material. Cinephiles fret, correctly, that movie theaters are becoming a home to superheroes/villains and explicitly-for-children animated features to the exclusion of everything else. The mid-budget character piece is endangered; certain genres have vanished from theater marquees. Joker, to some consternation, has it both ways. It is an excellent, arguably irresponsible, work to be seen with wary eyes.

My rating: 8/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

* Okay, okay you classic film buffs who have already recognized Joker’s references. Modern Times (1936) and Shall We Dance (1937) are from United Artists and RKO, respectively. But both films have long been part of Warners’ library by acquisition.

[cooldavid123posts-blog]

Lyrics-Hospitalized Song-Broods | Don't Feed the Pop Monster

Lyrics-Hospitalized Song-Broods | Don’t Feed the Pop Monster

Lyrics-Hospitalized Song-Broods | Don’t Feed the Pop Monster

Description: Lyrics-Hospitalized Song-Broods are provided in this article. This is a New song which is prepared By Famous Singer Broods. Don’t Feed the Pop Monster is the album ofThis song which is released on 15th December 2018.

If You are Searching Lyrics-Hospitalized Song-Broods then you are on the right post. Without wasting more…