#I miss when this place was hopping with speculation and entertaining takes

[ihearthes]

There was a time we only had TEN solo Harry songs. I forget how incredibly comforting those two years were between HS1 and HS2 when we finally, FINALLY (!) had solo music to play whenever we wanted. That debut was so powerful, so overwhelming. The man did like 479 appearances and performances in the first week of release, and there was absolutely no way that we would have missed a single second. As newly born Harries, we had been waiting (im)patiently for what felt like decades during that first Hrought (Jan 2016-May 2017). And when he finally released the album, it was like drinking water through a full throttle fire hose. This place was lit with energy and commentary.

Sometimes it’s fascinating to go backwards and relive the beginnings of this solo fandom and simply appreciate the wild ride it’s been. Especially as we’re waiting for the next wild ride to grab us by the throats and yell at us to get on board!

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Ghost Driver” Part 2

When The Joker says you’re his, it means you’re essential to him because he needs your services for his own gain; it literally has zero affectionate connotations. Turbo is The King’s Ghost Driver and although she’s a legend, her life is far from perfect.

Part 1

Four Days Afterwards, 7:47pm

“Good evening, madam. I am tonight’s entertainment,” Frost blurs out as soon as you open the door and instantly regrets his pun. “Sorry, that was stupid to say,” he apologizes.

The reason why you look puzzled is not his joke, but another motive: you never saw Jonny wearing anything else besides a suit or military gear; the fact that he’s standing in front of you wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt is quite intriguing.

“Hi,” you move aside so he can come in.

“Did I wake you up?”

“I fell asleep watching a movie,” Y/N smiles at his comfortable attire. “No big deal. Did Mister Joker send you?” the subtle question indicates you want to find out the reason for his visit.

“No... I was just thinking… maybe we could… and it’s entirely up to you, no pressure… maybe you would want to go and watch the fireworks with me. I have food and sleeping bags, plus an ice chest with drinks in my truck.”

You seem confused.

“Mmmm, you know what? Forget about it. That was completely idiotic to suggest,” Frost realizes that asking a freshly divorced woman to get out of the house after she was kidnapped and starved into her ex’s basement only four days ago it’s not the most brilliant idea he ever had.

“You had me at food and fireworks,” you wink at his insecurity. “The drinks sealed the deal. I’m confused on one detail: do I have to change or can I come in my PJ’s?”

“PJ’s are perfect.”

“Awesome!” you grab the keys from the coffee table. “Where exactly are we heading?”

“Fire Creek Hill, it’s one of the best spots to enjoy the view,” Jonny replies.

“Isn’t that closed to the general public?” Y/N inquires and his logic makes you laugh while exchanging your socks for flip-flops.

“I doubt we’re considered the general public. I had to pull some strings though,” he admits, overjoyed you actually agreed to accompany him.

Not that he shows it in any other way besides the invitation he barely mustered the courage to extend towards The Joker’s Ghost Driver.

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

9:03pm  

“Oh, it’s starting!” you excitedly nibble on your Alfredo pasta.

The first fireworks bloom in the distance and Frost opens the cooler, pointing out the goodies he salvaged from the liquor store.

“Pick your poison: we have a bottle of premixed margarita, wine, whiskey, tequila and…,” he fumbles around,”…try to contain yourself: water!”

“You definitely bought some of my favorites , including the food. How did you guess?” the bubbly Y/N smiles.

“I pay attention,” Jonny mentions. “So what’s gonna be?”

“Margarita please,” you hold the plastic cup and can’t help snickering as he pours the liquid.

“What?” he suspiciously bites on his cheek.

“Nothing really… I was imagining you without the beard,” you decide not to keep it a secret.

“Damn!” Frost snorts. “I had it for years; didn’t consider shaving because our employer would freak out. Stop giggling, it’s not funny! He totally would!” Jonny elbows you.

“I bet you have a baby face underneath all that facial hair; if you shave I can promise a new nickname will arise: Baby- Face Frost.”

“Shut up!” he chuckles at your quirky proposal. “Yet I can’t deny it has a certain ring to it.”

“See what I mean? It might work!... Oh my God, that’s a huge one!” you gasp, distracted by the sparkling night sky. “What are they celebrating? 150 years since this piece of crap town was founded?”

“Apparently,” Jonny sighs and watches Y/N bundle up in the sleeping bag.

“Thank you for the feast,” your tone changes to a serious one. “I didn’t have this much fun in the back of a truck in a long time. Go ahead, laugh!” you pout at his reaction. “I’m aware how it sounds like; I didn’t mean it that way!!!”

“Still funny as hell!” Jonny is getting a kick out of the conversation.

“Psst! Hey, Casanova!” The Joker’s mop of green hair pop up from behind the car’s high railing.

“Mister Joker!” you get startled by his unexpected presence.

“Boss, what are you doing here?” Frost utters in disbelief.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone, huh?” J ignores his henchman’s inquiry.

“It’s in the glove compartment, sir. I’m enjoying the…”

“Pardon me for interrupting your date,” The King of Gotham huffs.

“We’re not on a date,” the attempted explanation gets cut short.

“Sell it to whoever wants to buy it,” The Joker growls at Jonny’s words. “I had to follow the signal from your cell and trace your location; what a marvelous bonus to find my Turbo also!”

The eerie grin makes you finally speak up:

“Do you need help with anything Mister J?”

“Do I?” he plays dumb. “Probably.”

Why does he have to ruin the night? Frost reflects, annoyed.

Nobody knows, but if he could spend ages in your company, he believes it would be an eternity well spent.

And The Joker had to ruin it.

Goddammit!

“Can you patch me up?” J takes of his jacket, revealing a blood stained shirt.

“What happened?” you and Jonny jump off the vehicle.

“I got myself in a little bit of a situation,” he grumbles. “It’s a clean wound; the bullet came out on the other side.”

“We should take you to the doctor, boos; you need stitches!”

“Thanks for your concern, Doctor Frost,” The Joker sassily remarks. “I’ll go in the morning.  I have more important matters to take care of tonight.”

You peel off his garment and assess the damage; he can’t hold it in:

“I bet you wanted to do this after I texted you my nudes, huh?”

You have to admit he caught you by surprise with his statement and the best solution in this situation is to cooperate:

“Been dreaming about it quite often.”

“Ha! I knew it!” The Clown cracks up. “Were you dreaming about it during your date?” he teases more.

“We’re not on a date,” you frown at the blood gushing from his wound.

“Interesting,” J expands on the subject. “At least you two have one thing in common: you’re both delusional.”

Frost rolls his eyes without J noticing and you signal him:

“Can I please get the whiskey? I need to disinfect this.”

“You have whiskey on your date?! Excuse me, non-date,” his majesty’s obnoxious temper emerges again.

You don’t engage for the moment, just open the bottle that Jonny gave you and splash a generous amount on the laceration.

“Jesus Christ!!!” The King shouts. “Be gentle woman, I’m fragile!!!”

“Sorry Mister J,” you mutter and Frost is certainly approving your tiny revenge scheme. “Can you please turn on the lights on your car? It’s getting dark and I can’t see what I’m doing,” you address The Joker’s sidekick. “Do you have a first aid kit in your vehicle Mister J?” you gesture towards his SUV parked a few feet away.

“I should,” a demented smirk flourished on his lips. “In the trunk!”

“Take a seat in the grass Mister J; I’ll go get it,” you urge the patient.

“Boss, are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the doctor?” Frost offers and instead of obliging your request, J pursues your steps because he doesn’t want to miss Turbo’s reaction.

“It’s fine, I’ll survive until morning time.”

You lift the trunk and gasp, stunned: your stellar ex-husband is tied up in there, duct tape over his mouth, clearly enjoying the repercussions of a confrontation due to bruises you can discern at a first glance.

“Oops, forgot about him,” The Clown yawns, bored.

Adam starts wiggling and mumbling whilst you can’t react.

“The fucker shot me!” your employer hisses. “Had the nerve to try killing me when he’s the one sleeping with MY girlfriend!”

“What’s the plan, sir?” Jonny intervenes, worried at your stunned attitude.

“The plan is simple: since Y/N is intimately acquainted with our guest, I’m willing to work out a deal. I don’t wanna to be accused of not listening to my associates.”

Adam keeps struggling and you finally reach and remove the duct tape.

“Honey, honey please!” he immediately rambles on, panicked. “You know I was joking about your weight, right? You don’t have to lose a few pounds! I admit locking you up in the basement was a huge mistake, ok? OK…? I’m sorry! I swear I’ll never cheat on you in the future. We can work things out, can’t we?” a glimmer of hope alleviates the somber perspective of his imminent demise once you begin searching his pockets.

He has the false impression you’ll untie him when in the matter of fact you are hunting down for his house keys so you can reclaim all the items you bribed him with when he signed the divorce papers.

Bingo! Treasure attained.

“So do you know him or not?” The Joker taps his fingers on the cold metal of his gun.

You take a deep breath, place the duct tape on Adam’s lips and sneer:

“I never saw this asshole in my life!”

“The lady has spoken!” J slams the trunk, unnerved. “Frost, you can go home; Y/N will take me to the warehouse on 8th street: she can borrow a car from there and split. I’ll send someone in the morning to bring it back.”

“Boss, we can leave your SUV here and I can drive you both…”

“DID I STUTTER?” The Clown growls, unhappy with Jonny’s shenanigans.

“No sir.”

“Mister J,” you distract his menacing temper. “Do you want me to bandage your injury now?”

“Nah, you can do it at the warehouse.”

More fireworks illuminate the skies and none in the small group is watching them anymore: the show is over for everyone involved.

You wave at Frost and hop in The Joker’s car as he positions himself in the passenger’s seat; you can tell something is off, besides the obvious of course.

If you’d have to speculate, you would say that his behavior is of a man who wasn’t hurt just physically, but on a different level he doesn’t understand yet: J went after your ex-husband alone when he doesn’t take unnecessary risks; enough proof to indicate he loved Ella and sought revenge for her betrayal without any of his team’s help.

You wonder what he did to the woman: did he kill her? Or worse?... You won’t dig to find out regardless.

The truth is you are The Joker’s Turbo and the statement works in reverse too: he is your Joker who undeniably needs cheering.

And you always deliver. That’s why you’re his.

That’s why you appreciate he made an effort to compromise on Adam’s predicament even if he didn’t mean it.

You steadily drive on the trail until you arrive to the main road, then suddenly accelerate with a specific purpose in mind. You take a sharp turn on Morrison Avenue, already at 100 miles per hour.

“What are you doing?” J bitterly enunciates.

“Why am I your Ghost Driver Mister Joker?” you reply with a question.

“Nobody can catch up with you.”

“Yup, the car to catch up with me hasn’t been assembled. Here they are, Gotham’s finest!” Y/N boasts at the lights glistening behind. “They always have a nightly patrol on Morrison Avenue ready to catch law un-abiding citizens,” you exclaim and J’s smirk widens at your proposition. “What do you say we make them work for their donuts, hm?”

“That’s my girl!” The King gives his blessing while Turbo speeds up the street in a frenzy.

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

11:58 pm

You barely returned to you apartment after the random factors which cut your rendezvous short when the cell chimes: a message from Frost.

“Did you make it home safe?”

“Yes,” you text.

“I’ve been busy. Wait, I’ll send you a picture.”

Downloading picture…

“Holy… shit!!!!!” you yell at your phone because the image depicts a portrait of a freshly shaved Jonny Frost.

“Do you like it?” the sentence appears on the screen concomitant with a knock at the main entrance.

“Who is it?” you drag your feet on the carpet.

“Me.”

As soon as you are standing in front of him, Frost hides his nervousness the best way he can; and he’s not a nervous individual per se.

“I thought you might want to take a closer look…,” he enters the hallway and you slowly lock the door behind him.

You don’t say anything, just touch his face and he pecks your wrist, confessing a secret he kept bottled up for years:

“Do you know I’ve been in love with you from the first second I saw you?”

Y/N doesn’t have to calculate in order to whisper:

“That’s a long time.”

“What’s the verdict?...“ Jonny insists. “You approve the change?”

“Yes,” you kiss him and he holds you tighter, thinking that if he could spend ages in your arms, it would be an eternity well spent.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Wattpad and Ao3 under the same blog name: DiYunho.

[heavymetalover]

Strangers In the Night (Xavier Plympton x fem reader)

Summary: You’re hitchhiking when getting picked up by an unexpected stranger.

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, oral sex, vaginal sex, daddy kink, fluff (omg).

Word count: 6.2k

A/N: im SORRY about the daddy kink AGAIN… i have daddy issues.

this ended up being wholesome, i feel letdown tbh.

~mostly inspired by the beautiful ones by prince~

~~~~

  You chew away on your gum, taking small steps through the gravel going towards your destination. Surrounded by nothing but a narrow road and some woods. As night begins to fall, you become a little more suspicious of each sound rocking in the trees. After all, there’s been a crazy murderer on the loose around LA. Gives you shivers just thinking he could be lurking, watching.

The sound of a car approaches and you follow the routine of turning towards the road and sticking a polished thumb up in hopes you’ll attract a Good Samaritan. The dusty red Nissan slows down to give you an unbearably loud honk and speeds away, you spit into the dust it leaves behind. “Fucker!” you yell out, although certain the road hog wouldn’t hear.

Another driver approaches, quite a large van. You shyly stick out your thumb again and feel a smile inching onto your face; sometimes friendliness can tempt the strangers. You can’t see them from where you stand, but their van pulls to the side of the road for you.

Not wasting a beat, you spit your gum out onto the road and skip over to the van. The window’s rolled down and a dapper man sits in the driver’s seat. Frosted hair hairsprayed to perfection, green tank top exposing his trim arms, and sunglasses tipped slightly over the bridge of his nose, exposing ravishing blue eyes. “Hey honey,” he greets with a smirk, “need a lift?”

You jump onto the step for the passenger’s door and lean into the window, head resting on your arms. “You headed north?” you ask, biting your bottom lip to entice the stranger.

“Sure am,” he replies looking out onto the road. “Just stopping at Oasis, is that far enough for you?”

You shrug your head into a shoulder, peering out onto the road with half a smile. You lean back on the step, gripping onto the window with your fingerless gloves. “Hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?” you joke, leaning back into the window and turning to look at the handsome man again. He’s taken his sunglasses off completely, biting the tips seductively with his dazzling eyes plastered on you. Your heart sinks in your chest, not even bothering to hold back your nervous smile. You run your tongue between your teeth and his eyes find the floor of his van.

He shakes his head and puts his sunglasses back on. “You better get inside before you get me in trouble, baby,” he says with a slight sigh.

You jump off of the step to swing open the door and eagerly hop into the passenger’s seat, throwing your backpack into the back of his van and slamming the door shut. Digging through your pocket for a pack of cigarettes that you stole from your roommate before fleeing; you hit the box, taking the single stick that jut out, and sticking it between your teeth. “Mind if I…?” you trail off, dangling the cigarette between your lips.

His eyes dart towards you and back onto the road, “Oh no, of course not. Go right ahead,” he blurts, adjusting himself in his seat. “Actually,” he reaches beside him and grabs a small lighter, “I got that for you.”

He hangs over his seat, keeping one hand on the wheel. He sparks the lighter once, twice before it ignites. He holds the flame to your cigarette, his eyes meeting yours only for a moment. You sharply inhale the oaky, bitter taste of tobacco before hastily blowing it into his face. He leans back into his seat, suppressing an obvious smile as he goes back to focusing on the road. “You’re going to get someone killed one day if you wanna act like a gentleman, lighting up my cigarette and being all chivalrous.”

“Pfft,” he jeers. “Can’t kill anybody when there’s no one around.”

He glances at you, cross earring hanging from one of his ears and you feel a drop in the pit of your stomach. “You look so familiar,” you mention before taking another drag.

“I get Simon Le Bon a lot,” he nods.

“No,” you shake your head.

“George Michael?” he guesses with an apathetic shrug.

“No, no, not like that,” you take another drag. “I’ve seen you -your face- before somewhere,” you tap your chin, “somewhere.”

“Oh!” he sounds enthusiastic. “I teach aerobics! Maybe you came by the studio?”

“No, I haven’t,” you reply mindlessly, drawing more thick smoke into your lungs and tapping the tip of the stick to remove excess ash. You’re searching every crevasse of your brain for where you’ve seen this man before, but coming up empty.

He looks nervous with the more time you spend silently pondering. “I’m a pretty serious actor, maybe you’ve seen some of my stuff,” he suggests, trying to break the silence.

Your heart skips a beat and you accidentally fling your cigarette out the window from excitement. “Oh my gosh! Yes! That’s where I’ve seen you! I have seen some of your stuff, ooh baby, I’ve seen all of your stuff,” you exclaim, pointing down to his crotch. “One of my old roommates was gay, had a total hard-on for your VHS.”

The man shakes his head, nervous laughter evading his lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Oh, don’t you dare bullshit me,” your voice cracks into a squeal as you push his arm. He’s still shaking his head as confutation. “No, no, no, don’t even deny it. I saw a skinny guy taking a hard piping from you! I know it was you, how could I mistake that beautiful face? And you even have the earring, c’mon.”

“Look, I don’t know who you think I am, okay?” he snaps in distress. He doesn’t entertain your claims, instead shaking his head weakly. “I’m not…” his voice quivers. “I’m not gay.”

You feel an instant pang of regret for making such a big deal about the tape. “Oh,” you sigh, “well, I never thought you, you were.” You slump back into your seat, positioning yourself to face the road again. The man has gone silent. “I mean, for what it’s worth,” you start, but your mind screams at you to stop. Just let it go, he’s clearly uncomfortable.

You purse your lips together and sigh, suffocating your hands between squished thighs. You fill your cheeks up with air in hopes it’ll get you to stop yapping. The only sound present is the tires going over the gravelly road. “For what it’s worth?” he finally asks.

You hold back a smile, turning back to him. “I was just going to say you looked like you were really good,” you blurt out. “And big,” you bring your voice higher in an attempt to sound more flirtatious, “very, very big.” He exhales a lazy snicker and shakes his head. “What?” you throw up your hands defensively, “It’s true!”

He continues shaking his head. “You’re too much,” he exhales.

“Well apparently you are too,” you quip, raising an eyebrow.

His mouth is agape, no words coming out and too stunted by yours to even attempt a rebuttal. He glances at you, eyes peeping over his glasses to get a better look. “Who are you?” he asks.

You perk up in your seat, offering your hand to him since he’s already proven himself to be a careless driver. “I’m y/n,” you say with a jaunty smile. “And you are?”

He takes your hand limply into his. “Xavier,” he says, leaning down to give a small peck onto your gloved knuckles.

“Classy,” you whisper while retrieving your hand, Xavier returns his focus to the road. Part of you is kicking yourself for even wearing the gloves and missing out on the feel of his soft lips against your skin. Dammit, why did Madonna have to make them so fashionable?

You itch to cross your legs in your seat, but knowing that would expose Xavier to what’s underneath your dress, instead you opt to just sit on them. Would it be so bad to expose myself to him? “Xavier,” you say his name to fill up the conversational lull. “Xavier, Xavier, Xavier,” you singsong. “Why did you stop to pick me up? Pick up a lot of hitchhikers?” you keep your eyes glued on him and lean your head back on the seat to get comfortable. His van does have a very homey feel.

“No, you’re my first,” he responds.

You dramatize a fake gasp, placing a hand on your chest. “Little old me? Why am I so lucky?” you press.

“Well, the sun’s setting, you’re in the middle of the woods and you’re a girl. Not to mention the lunatic Night Stalker going around the area, guess I was feeling a bit generous,” he smiles. You begin nodding your head, satisfied with his answer, when he cuts you short. “Or,” he adds, “maybe I just thought you were one, very foxy chick.” You feel your heart flutter and cheeks burn hot; you want to fan yourself like they do in movies. “Either way, I still picked you up, didn’t I?” He asks, cocking a brow.

“Oh yes sir, indeed,” you smirk with a slight shake to your head.

The woods have disappeared behind you two and in no time, you’ve reached Xavier’s destination on Oasis street. He parks his car on the side of the road and takes the keys out of the ignition, finally turning in his seat to face you like you’ve done during the whole ride. The sexual tension is beginning to become an insufferable elephant in the room. “Where you heading from here?” he asks.

You shrug your shoulders. “Don’t know, maybe crash at one of those twenty-four-hour diners until they kick me out,” you say with a slight chuckle, recalling how many times that’s happened to you before. “Just gotta get out of this place, y’know.”

He tilts his head up. “Running from something?” he speculates.

“Aren’t we all?” you roll your eyes with a slight nod.

He grins, “You can say that again.”

You take one long look at him before letting out a bitter sigh. “Goddamn it, I guess I should bounce,” you say with a frown. You reach into the back of his van to get your backpack, making sure to spend extra long bending over in your short dress. You lean onto his seat, feeling your ass press up against his arm and can only pray he’s getting a good look at it.

You eventually recover your bag from the back and sit down, body twisted towards Xavier. You prolong the inevitable, not wanting to leave his van, not wanting to leave him. There’s something about this stranger that excites you, that makes you thirst for more of him. You can’t explain it, there’s just an overwhelming attraction.

You open the door to leave his van, sliding out when he grabs your wrist. “Wait,” he protests. You stand on the step to the passenger’s seat. “Ehm,” the words get choked at the back of his throat. “I’m not in a rush, you can stay with me for a while and chat,” he suggests. “Only if you want to, obviously. You can leave too if you want, but… I think you’re a pretty cool chick.”

You purse your lips to hide a smile. “Thought I was a foxy chick,” you joke, adjusting the backpack that keeps slipping down your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he lifts his brows, “mighty foxy.” He nods his head, half-lidded eyes ogling you with a wide smile spread across his gorgeous face, you can’t resist him. You climb back into his van and shut the door.

You settle into the chair and he pulls out a box of cassettes from under the driver’s seat, fishing through them to find a keeper. You dig through your backpack and pull out a cherry lollipop, his eyes squinting in confusion as you unravel the plastic. “Don’t give me that look, I feel myself about to crash,” you explain yourself.

“No judgement here,” he replies, fingering through his cassettes.

You nurse your lollipop, peering into his box to find any recognizable artists, but they’re mostly mixtapes. You pluck out a black tape marked ‘Purple Rain’, the newest Prince album. “Didn’t this movie just come out?” you slur your words, lollipop sitting passively against your cheek.

He glances up. “Yes, but the album came out a while ago,” he explains, still pawing through his collection.

“Well, I haven’t heard it yet,” you shrug and shove it into the cassette player. The machine takes a moment to read the tape.

“Songs are a bit wonky and out of order, I recorded it from my friend’s album,” he confesses.

The album starts playing with a funky pop beat. “See, it’s working. Now, put that away,” you order, grabbing the box from him. “Let’s talk.”

You throw his box into the back of his van and spin towards him again. He looks up for a moment, seemingly in thought, then back at you. His enchanting light eyes capturing you from the lightening fast contact. “W-what are you running away from?” he asks with a moment of hesitation.

You take the lollipop out of your mouth. “Wow, already with the hard-hitting questions,” you tease. He stares at you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet the bright blue that sweeps you off your feet. Instead, looking at your hands and cleaning under your nails. “I guess just a bad living situation. Been house-hopping for as long as I can remember, but I basically just live out on the road now,” you meet his eyes for a second, only to embarrassedly look away.

“I get it,” he nods.

You finally look at him, sort of in disbelief. Usually the people who drive you places always lecture you about making better life decisions, finding a job, pursuing school, yatta, yatta, yatta. ‘The whole world is at your fingertips’ spiel. It takes you by surprise that he understands. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he breaks eye contact, his thumb ghosting his full bottom lip. “I was in a tough spot not long ago. We’ve grown up in the prime time of being doped up drug peddlers and I was dumb enough to fall into that bullshit. And I’m talking about the hard stuff, not like M.J. or cocaine.” I don’t do many drugs, maybe a bit of weed here and there, but I thought cocaine was a hard drug. “But,” he breaks your inner monologue, “the strongest people always go through the toughest shit.”

“Cheers to that,” you smile and cheers the air with your lollipop, penetrating the sticky candy between Xavier’s lips.  He accepts the intrusion gracefully, keeping the sweet, ravished ball of cherry between his lips. “Any summer plans?” you ask.

He takes the candy out of his mouth, the crimson orb glossing over his perfectly plump lips. “Nothing much, just teaching more classes. Got this gnarly gig up at some camp in a few weeks, should be fun,” he answers.

“I don’t know of any camps around here. Which one?” you ask, half paying attention and half peering onto the road.

“Camp Redwood.” Your head snaps back to look at him and you instinctively slap his arm in hopes it’ll get rid of the idiot in him. “What?” he shrugs.

“What’s your damage, dude?” you gasp with a facetious smirk. “Are you honestly telling me that they reopened Camp fucking Deadwood and you’re stupid enough to go work there? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Why? What happened there?” he asks, eyebrows knit in confusion.

You sigh, you’ve been on the road for so long and even you’re more up to date on the folklore of Camp Redwood. “There was a huge massacre there. Every single person ended up dead, stabbed to bits, and all of them had one ear missing. It was a psycho killer they called Mr. Jingles because his only giveaway was the sound his keys made,” you pause to imitate the sound of keys jingling, “ching cling cling, right before he slashed them to bits!”

He smiles and squints at you, taking a moment to absorb your story. “Not even! You kind of had me until you oversold it with the keys thing,” he exclaims, waving the lollipop around as he speaks.

“Xavier, I shit you not, that actually happened,” you explain, leaning closer to him. “And the worst part is that Mr. Jingles is still alive today. Probably waiting for the day that that fucking camp reopens to escape the loony bin and do it all over again,” you make your voice low to freak him out.

He scoffs. “So what? I’m not afraid of some drip named Mr. Jingles. If anything, he should be the one scared of me.”

You laugh a little too hysterically at his comment. “Mhm, yeah right,” you mock. “He’d take one look at your George Michael lookin’ ass and run in the opposite direction,” you deliver sardonically. You fetch your lollipop and slump back into your seat, turning the dial up on the radio. A song with a raunchy beat starts up and both you and Xavier exchange a glance. “What song is this?” you ask, puckering your lips against the lollipop.

He clears his throat, “S’called Darling Nikki.”

“Mmm,” you lean back in your seat, but keep your eyes locked on him. “It’s pretty sexy.”

He nods. “It is.”

His eyes meet yours, pink tongue running over his bottom lip. You shove the candy into your mouth, sucking on the sweet taste of artificial cherry. The song puts you in the mood. Not that you weren’t already in the mood, but it offers the perfect opportunity to stop beating around the bush.

You close your eyes and tilt your head back, bobbing on the lollipop in your mouth until the savory ball hits the back of your throat. Gagging, you pull it out of your mouth slowly, opening your eyes and giving Xavier a knowing look.

He slowly exhales watching you, now leaning against his seat and lightly covering the bottom of his face with one large, veined hand. “Holy shit,” you hear him breathe.

The lollipop clings to your lips before bursting out, keeping a connection through a filthy pink string of saliva. It detaches and smacks against your chin. You keep your eyes peeled on Xavier and he studies your mouth. You slap the candy against your sodden tongue and slurp up the mess you made, keeping the lollipop pressed against your lips. “You’re a nasty girl, aren’t you?” he whispers, white teeth tugging slightly at his lip. Fuck.

“You want to see something nasty?” you ask, leaning the passenger’s seat back in preparation. “I’ll show you something nasty.”

You suck on the lollipop one more time, slobbering on it just before it’s completely drenched in your saliva. Leaning back on the seat, you hike up your short dress and expose your favourite skimpy panties. After building up so much tension between the two of you, your pussy is already wet and craving the touch of his big hands.

You rub your clit in circles before pulling the fabric to the side. Xavier’s eyes watch every movement as you trail the drenched lollipop down your body, stopping at your pussy. You run the cherry-flavoured orb down your folds and press it against your tight hole. You apply pressure until it penetrates and let out a soft moan. Recalling how long and fat Xavier’s cock was in his dirty movie, you can’t imagine how it would ever fit inside of you.

You shove the lollipop further into yourself, trying to stretch yourself out a little bit in readiness for Xavier. Wiggling the stick around inside yourself and pushing it to the point of nearly disappearing inside your hole. You shimmy it some more before dragging it out against the resistance of your retentive walls. Reinserting the candy into your mouth and getting a saltier flavour this time.

Xavier shifts around in his seat, erection booming in his tight pants. A palm over his crotch for readjustment, he leans closer to you. You can feel the warmth of his body, it makes you tingle. “I find it rude not to share,” he finally speaks.

You take the lollipop out of your mouth and veer yourself towards Xavier, setting a small kiss on his lips. He puts a hand on your cheek, guiding more of your kisses towards him, while the other hand crawls down your body. His hand stops on your thigh and you feel a thousand goosebumps erupt on that leg, a shiver running through your veins.

His lips don’t part from yours, fusing with your face and sucking ever so gently on your lips. He combs his hand towards your pussy, fingertips grazing your thighs as he inches to the throbbing in your clit. You bring the candy back down to your folds, but he takes it from you, insistent on that whole ‘sharing’ rule.

Xavier leaves your lips for a moment to spit down onto your wet cunt, rubbing the candy against your slit before pushing into your hole. Once again, it demands a meager moan out of you, this time you moan onto Xavier’s lips. “That’s right, moan for me, baby. Moan for daddy.” You summon more moans as he fucks the lollipop into you, playing them up to turn him on even more.

You gnaw on your lip and look at Xavier, light sobs still faintly spilling from the back of your throat. You must seem irresistible to him because he mashes his lips into yours and leaves your pussy to place both hands on your face, pulling you closer to him. You pull out the candy he left inside of you and detach from his kiss to pop it into his mouth.

Xavier grabs both of your wrists and slips into the back of his van, bringing you along with him. He sucks all your juices off of the lollipop before spitting it out onto the floor. As he takes a seat in the back, you sit next to him, resting both of your legs on his thighs as you two join at the lips once again. His hands brush up and down your legs, feeling the rapid growth of goosebumps with each swipe.

The kiss intensifies, tongues colliding and lips smacking. You pull at his tank top as if silently begging him to take it off. A new song begins and he moans against your lips, pulling away eagerly and leaving you lovestruck, leaning in an awkward position and trying to reorient yourself. He slides away from you and pulls his top off over his head, then begins undressing you as well, pulling for your dress to come off. You lay onto your back and shimmy your dress off, still wearing a bra and panties set. In a matter of seconds, you’re skin to skin and Xavier is on top of you, teasing you with soft kisses. His lips pulling away to mouth the lyrics: “Baby, baby, baby. What’s it gonna be? Baby, baby, baby. Is it him or is it me?”

You bring him back, kissing the sweet cherry off of his lips. His hands rough up your body, grabbing a hold of every bit of you like he hasn’t touched anybody in years. One hand squeezing your hip while the other finds your cunt to rub back and forth on your swollen clit. When you push back from his kiss, pardoning a loud groan, he kisses your neck. He savours you, handles you like a prize possession, it makes you feel warm.

You palm the bulge in his briefs, feeling him grow and heat up under your touch. His breath catches and he jerks his waist away from you. You pause your kiss to shoot him a flustered grimace. “I want this to be about you, baby, not me,” he explains, before giving one more kiss on your lips. Then one on your neck, chest, belly, down to your pelvis. You let out a broken breath when he kisses right above the line of your panties. He slides them down your legs and taunts your aching clit with his delicate breath; appointing extra sloppy kisses on your thighs as he works his way to the main dish. He looks up at you, baby blue eyes unabashedly beaming with excitement before diving into your candied cunt.

You throw your head back as he begins licking you up and pushing your legs further apart. The pleasure so built and intense that you feel it hit the moment he lays his tongue flat onto your dripping core. You feel your muscles quivering under his lick, under his touch, and your body burns with desire. One hand lays limp on your leg while the other continues pulsing your clit, his tongue shoves its way down your gaping hole.

You reach down to grab onto him, grab onto something, anything. He holds up his hand and you lace your fingers with his, squeezing at each undeniable moment of pleasure. You scrunch up your feet as he quickens the pacing over your clit, then slowing it down. He plays your pussy like a gifted musician, speeding up and slowing down just when you need him to. “Please fuck me,” you beg, the words pouring out on their own, “Xavier, I want you inside of me.”

He stops gluttonously licking up your cunt to look up at you for confirmation on your words. “Y’sure?” he questions, making sure there are no misconceptions.

You prop yourself on your elbows, raking a hand through his perfectly gelled, thick head of hair. “Unless you’d like to stay down there, daddy,” you say, squeezing him between your thighs slightly on the pet name.

“Baby, I can stay down here forever,” he lays his head on your leg and you sit up, pulling him to meet your lips. His kiss makes the world feel dreamlike, so tantalizing and hypnogogic that you swear you’re tripping on acid when he touches you.

He gives an unexpected slap to your raw cunt and you jump, unable to hold back a short peep hiccupped into Xavier’s mouth. He smiles. “I love making my kitten purr,” he whispers into your lips, slapping you once again and you chirp another calculable yelp.

Xavier climbs on top of you with his lips pressed passionately against yours, fighting for dominance. His long fingers grip the back of your neck while his thumbs massage the curve of your jaw reverently. His big hands soon venturing to other parts of your body, running down your back and promptly unhooking your bra like a burden that could no longer be adjourned. The fabric falls artlessly and Xavier paws at your breasts before he can even see them. Still locked on your lips, he circles a finger around your nipple, motivating them to get hard sooner than you’d expected. Nipping at the tiny buds, he leaves your lips to suckle them; running his tongue against your areola and giving strong sucks. You appreciate the moment so much, watching Xavier suck on your tits like his life depended on it, that you completely forgot you were in his van.

You reach down to his crotch and he lets you this time. Rubbing his long cock in his briefs, feeling how rock-hard he is turns you on even more. A shudder rumbles through your body and you take his dick out. It’s already ready for you, long and thick, harder than ever. He stops worshipping your tits to kiss you again, this time lightly pushing you down so you lay in the backseat of his van.

He stands over you, holding his cock and spitting onto it to lube it up for you. He rubs his saliva onto the head and up and down the shaft before resting it on your hole. You prop yourself up to watch it go in, feeling your heartbeat quicken with each tiny amount of pressure he puts. “Are you ready for it?” he asks, smearing the head into your wet folds.

“Mmm,” you moan, just feeling his cock against you is enough to send you to euphoria. “Yes, daddy.” He slowly starts pushing himself into you, stretching you out so much that all you can do is stifle a moan. Your nails dig into his seats, no doubt leaving some kind of mark or even some polish flakes. “Slow, slow, slow,” you plead through gritted teeth.

He accommodates and moves into you at a snail’s pace, stopping every so often when he thinks he’s hurt you. Once he’s half in, he starts pumping in and out, stuffing you up with his chunky length. “Oh my,” is all you can contrive through deep breaths.

He sees how unravelled you’ve become and leans down so you could rest your head on his shoulder. “Hold onto me,” he requests. You follow orders, grabbing onto his back and guiltily digging your nails into him with every thrust. “Let me know if I’m hurting you,” he whispers into your ear.

The rational part of your brain has already called quits on taking his dick, but you’re too charmed by Xavier to tell him to stop. Of course there’s the pain, but his cock is so deep and so big that it vellicates a sensitive area inside your pussy that you’ve never felt before. Each plunge poking at it slightly and stimulating it just enough to keep you from surrendering to his length. You’ve explored your body enough to find your g-spot, but he tickles an area that’s causing you to completely shatter. He pumps again and you feel yourself loosening up to him, although that doesn’t stop your nails from clawing up his back.

All the pain you’ve felt is absorbed into overwhelming thrill. You sit up even more now and watch his cock pump into you, your pussy accepting more of him with each thrust. He keeps hitting that spot in you and your whole body tenses up with it. You look at him, trying to find his eyes, but he’s too lost in your pussy to meet yours. What kind of witchcraft is he doing to make me feel this way?

His hands, resting on your lower back, scooch you closer to him. He doesn’t even have to move much for the both of you to feel elated, just a slight wiggle is enough for you to feel everything. You sit up on his thighs and grind your hips against him. “Your pussy,” he whispers between breaths, “so fucking good, kitten.”

Your cunt writhes with each little movement, you can feel yourself dripping onto him. “Ugh’m God!” you throw away your integrity and scream. “Jesus Xavier, oh my…” you trail off, rolling your eyes back and feeling him hit that sensitive spot again. Your tendons tightening, teeth grinding, and eyes shutting with every movement.  

You lean your chin on his head, still slightly rocking your hips, but unable to bring yourself to complete the motion from crushing alleviation. His forehead is perched on your shoulder as he tries shimmying around inside your pussy. He’s too far gone to form a sentence, too. He holds onto your back, rests his head on your shoulder and breathes rapidly onto your chest. His eyelashes give your collarbones light butterfly kisses while he blinks himself back into reality.

The song is at its climax when you take the initiative to try to finish, unsure if you can even bring yourself to conclude this little affair. You start grinding harder against him, both of you undoubtedly withholding groans to save face. You rock yourself on him harder and he finally allows himself to make eye contact with you again. A pleading look in his pool-of-blue eyes already tell you everything you need to know without saying a single word.

You fuck him as hard as you can burying your head into the crook of his neck. You take in the smell of his cologne, now mixed with sweat. It smells so good. He contributes by gyrating himself inside of you.

“Fuck!” the word weeps out without your consent. You feel yourself unwinding, again you feel it coming with each thrust, the shattering. “Oh, my fuck! Daddy, your cock is so f-fuck!” you’re crying, jumping on his rock-hard dick.

“Shit,” he seethes under you, grabbing your hips and guiding them into his cock. “You fuck me so good, baby girl,” he groans.

You jump on him, his dick so deep you think it’ll push on your belly. “Son of a- huh,” you breathe, feeling yourself starting to come. You keep beating up that tender spot deep in your cavity, providing it all the love it was once deprived and smacking it with each stimulating bounce on his cock. “Yesyesyesyes,” you don’t take a breath, “ooh there.” You keep pummelling him into you, Xavier is close too. “Right. Fucking. There,” you breathe between each jump.

You can’t get any words out when orgasm engulfs you. You stand up to prudently pull his length out of your clingy lips, giving your clit a rub before soaking his cock in your juices. “Shiiiiit,” you moan, squirting a clear liquid out of your hole and all over him, all over his van.

“Damn, baby,” he utters. You feel a single tear drop escape your eye and swat it away before he can see. Without a word, you insert him back into your, now soaked, hole; not leaving until you’ve made him come as hard as you did. You slide him back inside of you, his length hitting you all at once again. It seems to hit him hard too, because his face knots the deeper you insert him. “Fucking tight,” he sighs.

He pushes you to lay back again and starts hammering himself into you. You moan with his harder thrusts, feeling him fill you up makes you fall apart; your whole body feels weak. He can’t control himself, contorted moans escape from deep in his throat. “Where do you want daddy’s come?” he asks, trying to hold himself together, but fails miserably.

“Right in my dirty mouth,” you reply, licking up your bottom lip.

He rolls his eyes back, “Oh, fuck you,” he says with a slight laugh. His smile immediately dissipating to a twisted expression. You feel him coming to release, his grip on your arm gets tighter and he pounds harder into your pussy. He pulls himself out of you and jerks his long length above your face. You obediently open your mouth and lay your tongue flat for him to use up.

He takes a second, zealously jerking himself over you, until he empties his seed onto your tongue. You feel the warm liquid hit your tongue and immediately swallow it down for him. Pressing your lips to the tip of his cock, giving a suck to clean him up and a small kiss on the tip.

He breaths out an exasperated sigh and limply lays down on top of you. “Get off,” you giggle, “you’re crushing me.” He rolls onto his side beside you and you roll onto yours so you’re facing him. He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers with a small frown. You grab his hand and band your fingers together, he smiles when you accept his invitation. A moment of silence is shared between the two of you, not awkward, just comfortable.

“You know you’re the only one,” he says, a slight crack in his voice. You lift an eyebrow in response. He looks down at the hand you’re holding onto, “Everybody that knows about that tape doesn’t believe me. They think I’m gay or… they just cast me out for even doing it in the first place,” he opens up, caressing your knuckle with his constricted thumb. You stay silent, letting him get it off his chest and studying the woe that washes over his face. “I don’t know,” he gives his head a slight shake.

“Fuck those people,” you shrug, “you don’t need them anyways.” His pillowy lips twist into a smirk. You use your free arm to prop up your head. “Besides,” you continue, “they don’t know what they’re missing. You snooze, you lose, right?”

He smiles. “I like you, y/n,” he sighs. “I’m not letting you slip through the cracks.”

You unbind your hands to move a piece of hair that was stuck to his forehead. “Don’t worry about me leaving, I have no where to go. I’m all yours, baby,” you say with a jokey tone, but you hope he takes you seriously. He’s usually easy to read, like an open book, but when his face turns neutral it’s agonizing to imagine what’s going on in that pretty head.

“So… you want to meet my friends?” he asks, breaking the silence.

You cock your head to the side. “Huh?”

“Come to Camp Redwood with me?”

~~~~

smallest fucking taglist:

@codyswhore @odongreentea @liliesandforgetmenots @avesatanormalpeoplescareme

[strangebrews]

tea for two

Summary:  After nearly two hours of preparation, Alfie was finally ready. The table was set, the tea was brewed, and the poison watched at the end of the counter. That was Alfie’s source of entertainment. // Alfie engages in tea party Russian roulette that he himself organized. Tommy, eventually, reacts.

Notes: i had a tiny idea regarding alfie organizing lethal tea parties for funsies a while back, and it became this. also thank you to @sholomons + @those-peakyboys for reading bits of this as a sanity check <3

Warnings: Suicidal Ideation/Suicide Scare/Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms/ - those are the main ones, but if you think there should be more let me know. The rest of them can be found on the AO3 post. I promise this isn’t some devastating ending though, lmao, technically is supposed to be //romantic// in a twisted Tommy Shelby way.

On AO3

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

Alfie indulged in the art of organizing tea parties later in life, once the crime became routine and uninspiring.

The idea came to him one afternoon, while thumbing through the day’s post. He was struck by a revelation, of sorts, “yeah, because when I went to pick up my cup, right,” he had described the moment to Tommy in detail, “I noticed that there, at the very bottom where the tea leaves floated—there was a message.” His eyes had narrowed, voice low, fingers motioning in the air trying to conjure up the image, “and you know what they were saying to me, those leaves, Tommy—they were saying Alfie, you have got to stop hanging around that Shelby—his witchcraft and madness are starting to rub off on you ” he’d cackled then, which meant the origins would remain unexplained. 

Alfie did, however, commit himself to the task. 

He decided the event would take place in his dining room, using the hand-carved table featured there. Tommy watched him prepare from afar the day of the first tea party. He did not endorse the fucking behavior, but he was curious—it was rare to see Solomons fuss over plate placements.

A frilly tablecloth was dug out from the back of a cupboard, and freshly picked flowers decorated the middle. Alfie used his best porcelain set—the one he claimed was the last heirloom still in his possession from the mother’s side of his family. That bit was a lie, he had admitted to Tommy one day. Instead, he had Ollie scavenge it from some shop window with a sock over his head and tears in his eyes—but that tale was far less interesting. And the foundational role of any host, Alfie knew, was to entertain his esteemed guests.

Tiny silver spoons—ones which nearly disappeared in Alfie’s hand—lay atop carefully folded napkins. He drew the shades, and arranged the biscuits, lips pursed in concentration. The scene looked quite pretty, actually. Meticulously organized—an unexpected detail coming from Alfie Solomons. 

And after nearly two hours of preparation, Alfie was finally ready. The table was set, the tea was brewed, and the poison watched at the end of the counter. 

That was Alfie’s source of entertainment. 

  +++

  His guests were an array of different people. Old friends, new enemies, long standing members of his payroll, a few of the fanciest individuals he knew—each person with some form of stain on their record, at some point having wronged him. Alfie was not entirely cruel. 

“It’ll be a shame,” he had said, “but everyone dies at some point, yeah?”

The trick about the poison was that it took a while to pollute the veins. Alfie had considered this detail as thoughtfully as he had the decorations—determined to avoid frothing mouths from ruining the appeal of his parties. The winners would appear fine until the next morning, so the poison was untraceable in both taste and source. 

For a while, at least. Though even if the pieces were eventually slotted together—who would be brave enough to accuse an aging man of serving tea?

“It just might be genius, Tommy.” Alfie had lifted the vial towards him, eyes glazed over with self-admiration. Going after him would look ridiculous, Alfie knew this. Tommy knew this, and he smiled besides himself. Perhaps it was.

And as any good host, Alfie partook in the activity himself—an equal player in the game. A few clear drops coated the bottom of a cup, the cups were mixed up, the location was forgotten.

The fact that Alfie had grown desensitized towards his own death was no shock—he and Tommy shared the same indifference. Though what Tommy struggled to understand was his sudden interest in openly pursuing it. 

Though, didn’t they do that already? Alfie had asked. Their years brimmed with pacts, vindictive partners, with mouthing off to men whose fingers trembled against triggers. They had never run in the opposite direction of death, rather alongside it—the place where their paths would converge had always been just along the horizon. Alfie’s behavior was nothing but a variation of that.

“More creative.” he had claimed—better than being killed by a gun or a knife, “Or by a blade sewn into a fucking hat. Imagine that.” he smirked. It was only funny because they were past killing each other now—Alfie had beaten Tommy to the initiative.

+++

  Of course, the cordial invitation had been extended to Tommy Shelby as well.

“And how have I wronged you?” Tommy had asked. Alfie laughed, promising it would be a clean cup, but Tommy refused regardless. The whole matter was much too dramatic for his taste.

He would stay the night of the tea party, though—was due for a fuck, anyway. 

-

In truth, Tommy had been staying the night more frequently. 

It was Alfie who had initially offered to move the location of their meetings . The official reason he’d cited was for more security, but Tommy had seen him holding his back in pain each time he’d stepped out of the office. 

Fucking in a bed, as opposed to on a desk, toed the line with an intimacy Tommy was cautious about crossing, but the suggestion was too enticing to refuse—aging had not been doing either of them any favors. And because it was Alfie who had made the proposal, Tommy still had room to cut himself free of any strings attached.

The routine had continued as usual at first—business, fuck, leave. Tommy would gather his clothes frantically afterwards, hopping out the door with only one sock on. He was terrified of the implications staying longer would have—the consequences it could bring.

Though that chaos eventually transitioned into a slower collection of his belongings—fatigue and the haze of his orgasm tethering him to the bed. He stayed for longer, counted the cracks in Alfie’s ceiling and the number of stripes on his sheets. These extra moments seemed progressively less threatening. 

“Are you truly that desperate to return to that lonely fucking castle of yours, mate?” The question came months later, while Tommy sat on the side of the bed, rubbing the stiffness from his legs. He was startled by the voice—Alfie tended to slip into a slumber nearly immediately after they’d pulled away from each other. 

Lonely castle. It sounded worse when phrased that way. A kingdom crafted at the expense of everyone around him. Pitiful.

Tommy had not entertained Alfie with an answer, but still chose to lay back down—comforted by the idea of a few more hours of sleep. He left the next day wordlessly, and sleeping over became routine. The castle would still be standing in the morning.

Yet that change didn’t mean anything, Tommy reasoned. Whether he permitted himself to stay or not, it was still just fucking —nothing more complicated than that. 

So perhaps it’d be a shame if Alfie finally won one of his rounds, Tommy thought the evening of that first tea party—his business would be missed. But he remained, on the whole, unbothered by it.

Everyone died at some point.

+++

  Each chair was occupied with an esteemed guest the first time. They were all impressed by the sudden burst of hospitality—thankful for Alfie’s unspoken forgiveness of their past transgressions against him. 

Assumption was quite lethal. 

Meaningless chatter swelled the air in the room, shrill laughter echoing off of the walls. Alfie floated from place to place, offering stories and more food, savoring each one of his sips.  He chuckled often, rolled his eyes on cue, and held his pinky up.

It was a performance, yet no one in attendance was aware they were a part of the show. 

He caught their attention in particular with a story from before the war. Something to do with a stray dog, an appalled mother and a wet carpet—certain elements of which were exaggerated. “Oh Alfie!” he’d felt a small pat on his shoulder, a gesture which in any other circumstances would have earned the person a cut on the cheek, but Alfie simply smiled and patted back. It could be you . 

Alfie found excitement in it all—an ironic strengthening of the energy which had been slowly draining from his body. 

It was nearly enough to forget about the cancer.

-

Cancer could have been considered a motive—it was the letter from the doctor speculating about his expiration date which had sparked the inspiration for the tea party business. Though Alfie didn’t like to dwell on that coincidence. Much rather preferred to keep the reason as Alfie’s sudden burst of twisted thrill-seeking . Not that anyone would know about the sickness, regardless—Thomas Shelby included. He fully intended to live out these days undisturbed by sympathy.

He came to bed that night with cheeks flushed and things to say. Granted, Alfie always had a mouth full of words, but they were stories this time—things he’d seen and heard. Tommy had propped himself up against the headrest, pulling on cigarette after cigarette, feigning disinterest. 

A cousin of the Sabini’s had brought Alfie a bottle of wine, he learned. There had been a bit of tea spilling on the carpet sometime in the middle, though it had occurred after a refill, Alfie reassured. Nearly everyone offered some comment about the design on the porcelain, sniffed the flowers, and claimed they had enjoyed themselves in the doorway.

“Silly little puppets, yeah—every last one.” Alfie had laughed and blown the candle on the nightstand out. It was nice, actually, being able to share this bit of secrecy with Tommy. An outlet, of sorts, and it helped that Alfie did not have to truly explain himself to him. 

It was the first night Tommy stayed which did not involve fucking.

+++

Tommy continued accepting the invitations to be an invisible guest. 

Unsurprisingly, one party had not been enough to satiate Alfie’s newfound appetite for this version of Russian roulette and finger sandwiches, so he kept organizing them. It tended to be the same crowd each time, with a few new faces here and there—replacements for any vacant seats. 

Alfie gradually grew fancier—a nicer tablecloth, more biscuits, a larger array of tea. He had different stories to tell, new rings to show off and even Ollie had grown quite fond of the flower picking aspect of his job, asking a few days in advance if he had any preferences. 

Alfie collapsed beside Tommy after the fifth party, exhausted and unwilling to relay the night’s events. It wasn’t necessarily healthy for his back, Tommy had mused—all those hours of wandering around the room, hunched over chairs—but his mouth stayed shut, and they fell asleep in silence. 

-

Even after nights when his insomnia had been generous, Tommy woke first. 

Alfie breathed beside him.

It was a relief, Tommy admitted—spared him the dramatics of having to drag Alfie out from between the sheets himself. He’d imagined that scenario once or twice while waiting on Alfie to stop his entertaining, considering what exactly he would do with Alfie’s body just—laying there. Notify the staff most likely, but he wasn’t quite sure what beyond that. Perhaps shake his hand, or pay his respects through a whispered congratulations , yet Alfie always managed to interrupt that train of thought before anything concrete was decided on. 

He was hesitant to leave the morning after the fifth night, oddly disappointed that Alfie had not shared any stories. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but he decided to wait until Alfie woke. There was time to spare, Tommy argued with himself, it was the weekend—as if that meant anything in this line of business. 

Idling in bed until the moment arrived was out of the question. Roaming his halls also seemed inappropriate—and risky, in case Ollie had let himself in. So Tommy settled on visiting the kitchen to eat. Attempt to, at least.

Preparing food provided only momentary relief from the fact that staying had been an absolutely idiotic idea. Tommy brewed some tea—for the irony, if anything else—and made toast. Some for him, some for Alfie, though he winced at the choice and threw Alfie’s portion in the bin. Too much.

He opened the morning paper. Squirmed in his chair. Checked the time. Returned to reading. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Alfie eventually joined him in the kitchen, sleep still settled on his limbs. His hair was sticking up in uneven tufts, beard flattened on the side he’d been lying on. Nothing indicated he was surprised that Tommy had remained in the house.

“So you’re still here then, eh?” Tommy said, eyes on the news, but desperate to fill the silence.

Alfie only ran a heavy palm across his face. “Yeah, still fucking here.”

+++

  The parties remained successful and Alfie’s enthusiasm persisted. Guests streamed in week after week—whether out of fear or curiousity was unclear. It was quite unusual to be in Alfie Solomon’s presence within an unthreatening environment, but they seemed to appreciate his change in character. 

And the tea was always delicious. 

It was Tommy who suffered the change in opinion, pacing the bedroom with a clenched jaw.  He had certain ideas—to make an appearance, peek through keyholes or press his ear to the door, to somehow interfere—but he cast them all aside.

Time alone had never been healthy for him. Funny, for a man who ensured his own abandonment.

-

 Nervous. The word finally rose above all of the other thoughts at one point and settled bitterly on his tongue. Tommy was nervous. 

“Aren’t you fucking bored of this yet, Alfie?” he asked as casually as possible, in between pulls of his cigarette, but Alfie had shook his head.

“I should have done this sooner.” he claimed, eyes dancing, and for some reason the sentence felt like a slap to the face.

Tommy did not fight back. 

+++

Alfie retired earlier than usual one night, reasoned it was due to a headache. Tommy bit down on his lip to prevent any visible reaction.

He slipped under the covers, hand searching for the band of Tommy’s pants —ar ousal had always reigned above pain for Alfie —but Tommy swatted it away, ignoring the slight tenting. “Not today, Alfie.”

Alfie grunted. It was not necessarily unusual for Tommy to refuse him, though Tommy’s face was flushed, teeth gnawing at the inner flesh of his cheek. There was still potential in the moment.

“But Tommy,” he whispered, sliding up against him, lips grazing Tommy’s neck and fingers playing at his hip. “I may be dead tomorrow.” and he placed a firm kiss to his Adam’s apple. It was only meant to be a teasing remark —nothing more than Alfie’s greedy attempt at extracting a fuck out of the other man—but the words wrapped themselves around Tommy’s throat.

Tommy snatched Alfie by the hair, tearing him away from his skin. Their eyes met, Alfie squirming besides himself under the cold stare. “You might be dead tomorrow.” Tommy repeated, nodding in agreement. Out of reach . 

And he kissed him.

Once. Twice. Grip slowly loosening, hips finally shifting into Alfie’s touch. His hand remained in the hair, the other one snaking around Alfie’s waist, clothes being peeled off feverishly. Alfie’s efforts proved successful.

They fucked that night to the brink of exhaustion, wrapped in the darkness, spent and gasping for air, and when Alfie pulled away, Tommy choked on a please echoing in his throat. 

It was a hollow plea—for something he was too terrified to admit.

+ ++

The following morning after he woke, Tommy lingered in bed.

Alfie snored facing him, rested on top of his left arm. Sleep softened him, Tommy noted—hid the pain behind his eyelids, smoothed the creases from his forehead. He reached out hesitantly to run the backs of his fingers across Alfie’s shoulder, along the shell of his ear, his jaw, tugging down the covers to find his thighs. It was a peaceful moment—rare and terminal—and Tommy was suddenly gripped by an urge to memorize it. Drink in every detail. 

Tommy took advantage of the safety unconsciousness had provided him and settled back down, shifting closer to Alfie’s body—close enough so that the tips of their noses were brushing against one another. He lay still, soaking in the warmth of Alfie’s exhales, and tried to align their breathing. 

The task proved to be more challenging than expected. Tommy stumbled over his own inhales, yet Alfie continued to be one breath ahead of him. Inhale. Exhale . Out of sync. And it was a silly effort, naive and trivial, but Tommy’s heart still hammered at his ribcage in frustration. Because there had to be something there , in the alignment. Some kind of meaning, a mutual understanding shared between their bodies. A form of reassurance. A sign of togetherness —that Tommy was not fucking mad for wanting to share these breaths with Alfie for longer than the bastard had planned for himself.

But each attempt sputtered and failed.

He slammed his fist into the mattress and rolled off the bed, waking Alfie in the process.

-

The toast was burnt that morning. 

No tea— fuck tea. 

Alfie walked into the kitchen, rubbed a palm across his face instinctively. The regular question never arrived, but he answered its ghost regardless. “Still here.”

Yes , Tommy thought, miraculous . 

He left for Birmingham immediately after breakfast, and abandoned his tendency of visiting Alfie in between the special occasions. He would know when the next party would be—the invitation would arrive in the post a few days before it.

+++

A week later, there were only 16 people in attendance, two couples were missing. Whether they had grown suspicious or were dead was left unclarified—Alfie was only interested in one outcome. 

The event proceeded as usual: eat, laugh, sip, Alfie refilling his cup more frequently than usual. Nobody questioned the absence. It was normal.  

And then it was not, because Tommy Shelby walked into the room — eyes bloodshot, scanning the scene. 

There was a 1 in 16 chance that Alfie poisoned himself today, Tommy noted, but he had endured this night after night and he found he’d grown quite bored of the adrenaline. The uncertainty. So he took a stand at the head of the table this time around, his hand hidden behind his coat.

It was meant to be a distraction, perhaps a form of confession —anything to get Alfie to stop these fucking games. Whispers swept the room, mouths parted in surprise—it was a rare occurrence, seeing Tommy Shelby in attendance—and Alfie sighed, because he knew, he fucking knew that Thomas was here to spoil the fun. 

The gun pointed to Tommy’s head, and Tommy’s head pointed towards Alfie.

“One,” 15 pairs of alarmed eyes stared at Tommy’s finger on the trigger. Only 1 pair glared back into his own. Alfie refused to set the teacup down.

“Have you gone fucking mad, mate?” Tommy had actually heard they called this love . 

“Two.” The guests were moving, tripping over chairs, rugs, each other, searching frantically for the exit. The taboo of witnessing a potential suicide outweighed their curiousity, it seemed. So easy to clear a room.  

The doors slammed shut, silence replacing the sound. It was empty now. Just him, and Alfie, and the gun, and the poison laughing out from one of the cups. 

“Three.” Bang.

Tommy’s body crumpled to the floor.

-

He was lying half underneath the table when Alfie finally walked over. His eyes were wide open. Unscathed.

Alfie snatched the gun from his hand, clicked open the cylinder. “Tommy, you know, you’re not fucking invited to the next one, yeah?” the first shot had been a blank, but there was a single bullet inside. “Right—on account of the fucking mess you’ve made here today.” 

“I’m well aware, Alfie.” he was tracing the pattern of the table’s wood with a shaky finger. Alfie grunted and tossed the gun aside. He collapsed awkwardly beside him, taking Tommy’s hand into his own. It would weather his joints even further, lying down here on the floor, Alfie was well aware, but this was the only act of affirmation which seemed appropriate. 

He did not ask about the bullet. He knew why it was there. Kept as a precaution—in case Alfie had decided to drink anyway. 

They breathed together. 

[jafndaegur]

A Dazzling Catalyst for the Future

Zen x MC

Part One | Pro Figure Skater!MC AU

You'd been stuck at Rika's apartment for a few days now. Much to your coach's horror and your own chagrin. But you promised after the party you would still be able to make it to the Championships—grateful that this year they were held in Seoul—and that your "voluntary charity work" would not be getting in the way of your actual profession. After much insistence that this had been your idea and that you were not being held against your will, your coach had reluctantly allowed you to stay. Not like you really offered much of a choice. Seven ensured that.

But the illusion for both you, your coach, your sponsor, your curious fans. All of them were appeased at your spontaneous 11-day mission work you'd decided to partake in before the big day.

Speculators and sports announcers wondered if you were stalling the inevitable. At age twenty-six, you were basically on last tendrils of the sport. Some wondered if you would retire at twenty-eight, others figured this would be your last year.

The World Figure Skating Championships were no small deal after all.

This year's routines had been specialized for difficulty in particular to advance you as far as you could with just technical score... but with almost an entire two weeks away from the rink, you tried not to fear the worst.

Seven hardly allowed you to leave the apartment. Runs at the wee hours of the morning were all he risked, and only with complete tracking. Swallowing your pride you took what you could. Afterall, even as you tried your best—making impromptu workouts to take up the parts of the day not overrun with party business, and filling the rest of your time ceaselessly going over your choreography and jump sequences—your heart swelled as someone else tried his best.

Zen.

Out of the all RFA—without knowing who you were—he connected to you as a performer, entertainer, and storyteller before all else. He figured fast that you were an artiste of some sort. Although you didn't want to worry him with the fact that you desperately needed a place to practice, so you didn't mention exactly what sort of performer you were. When you sent a picture to the chatroom of the post-it notes you'd laid on the floor (which he claimed looked like the position tape on a stage) for your routine, it almost gave you away. Bit by bit, as you both talked and talked and talked, something else other than admiration wiggled it's way into your relationship. The smile in his voice gave it away whenever he called. Every pitter-patter of your heart betrayed yourself.

Every moment spent together whether in the messenger or in person nurtured a shy and fluttering romance.

Even when the world worked against you both with Echo Girl threatening Zen's career and Seven nearly blowing you to smithereens, still the passion and love flourished.

It wound its way around you both and tied you two in an inseparable and steadfast bow. Like laces on a pair of skates.

So as Zen sat chatting excitedly beside you during the night of the party, you couldn't shake the growing pit in your stomach. Tomorrow was the big day, not that the RFA party wasn't a big day, but this one...

Would there be another chance next year?

"Babe," Zen leaned down for you to hear him in the loud ambience of the lively atmosphere. "Your brow's doing that thing again. What's wrong?"

You worried your lip and wondered if you should just leave it be.

"Just tell me, MC." He laced his hand in yours, giving your arm a light encouraging tug.

You caved, not able to handle that soft upturn of his lips and the gentle furrow of his brows as he concentrated on you.

"I have a performance tomorrow afternoon."

No time passed before the panic swept over his face. "Why didn't you say anything?"

You shrugged weakly. "What could I do? It wasn't like I was allowed to leave until I was forced to... and then with the party—"

You hadn't even finished as Zen pulled you along. He spotted Jaehee in the crowd and called out to her. She waved at him and made her way over.

"Zen?"

"Jaehee, with all the trouble I caused, I shouldn't be asking this. But can you and Jumin cover for us?" Zen raised your hand a bit. "Please. It's urgent."

You tried to force away the blush on your cheeks.

She took one good look at you both before deflating just a bit, still Jaehee nodded and shooed you away. "Take the back exit. I'll make sure Mr. Han draws the reporters attention."

Giving your sincerest thanks, the two of you escaped out the back—surprisingly enough, someone as flashy as Zen could still be stealthy. He hailed a cab, and you both hopped in. Once you were seated, he took your hands in his and gave you a stern look.

"The minute we get home, you have to go to bed, m'kay? You need 8 hours of sleep and no less. What time do you need to be at the pre-performance rehearsal?"

You scratched the back of your head sheepishly. "There's only warm-ups. After that I'll be waiting with the other skaters until my routine."

"Wait," he murmured. "Skaters?"

"Yeah," you drawled, realizing you really probably should not have kept this a secret. "I'm a figure skater."

He stared at you for a moment before his hand braced his forehead in disbelief. "You're the missing skater they've been talking about on the news—your coach said you had a sudden change of heart and disappeared to do charity work before the competition started... That's why Jumin or Seven didn't want me announcing your name at the party."

"Unknown slipped me the phone on the way from the airport." You stared down at your hands. "This may very well be my last time on the ice as a skater. I can always take up coaching, but I had wanted one last chance to show...to prove..."

Your voice caught in your throat and you found that you couldn't find the words. Junior debut at fifteen, pro-debut at seventeen, you'd been chasing this dream of yours for as long as you could remember. And to fade into obscurity because you failed both programs in the last leg of your career tore at the flesh of your heart.

"Babe..." a mixture of emotions crossed his face. Anger, worry, frustration, it all painted that beautiful face of his before he exhaled and calmed. Wrapping his arm around your shoulder, he pulled you close. A silent camaraderie, his understanding of the things unsaid overwhelming you as you shook.

Needless to say, after a gentle kiss on the forehead, Zen guaranteed the moment you returned his place—you went almost instantly to bed.

...

You woke up alone in the bed. A half-hearted giggle worked it's way out of you as you went to the bathroom to wash up and get ready. The beast probably made him sleep on the couch.

You'd texted your coach ahead of time so he would bring your makeup and costume, you just needed to get ready and leave. You wondered if Zen had left for his own rehearsals when you found him hunched over his computer watching—to your chagrin—recordings of your past competitions. His chin rested on the back of his hands, and his lips pursed in an uncharacteristically serious frown. Honestly it was kind of cute.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him with half-hooded eyes and a warm blossom in your chest. "Zenny?"

"Can I go?" He said, pulling his gaze from the computer to you. His hand reached out fingers outstretched to you. "I want to see your story unfold."

Your fingers interlocked with his and he tugged you over.

A smile seeped onto his face, and the determined look in his eyes sparked something bright and flashing in your stomach. "It's you MC, you won't go out with anything less than magnificence."

The confidence rushed you. If Zen cheered you on, there was nothing you couldn't do. "Of course you can come with." Your heart thundered in your chest, pounding against your ribcage as Zen jumped up with excitement to go get his motorcycle helmets. He was determined to get you to the rink earlier, you needed the best jump ahead of everyone if you didn't want to clearly display your disadvantage. The fact that he knew that, the fact that he took the time to study your style and technique and interpretation, the fact that he took the time to learn about you...

If you were going down after this, you were going down with Zen tracking the blazing wake of your passion. This story of yours wouldn't end on the ice, long after the fluttering tails of success faded from the limelight—a strong hand would continue to pull you forward into the conflagration of dazzling light. Because everywhere Zen went, he sparked a catalyst of inspiration.

And you wanted to do the same, with every spiral, with every leap, with every poise of grace. This sport had always been your dream, and into the future you were sure it would continue to be. Just now it was yours to share freely with the Adonis of Storytelling himself.

Clenching your fist, you grinned.

[canvaswolfdoll]

CanvasWatches: Carole & Tuesday

A charming SciFi anime focusing more on the cast’s day-to-day lives than some major sociopolitical conflict that requires laser gun diplomacy? Set on a Terraformed Mars with brick and mortar solarpunk aesthetic? I can get into that.

The fact that Carole & Tuesday is a science fiction story came as a surprise, as most of the buzz and promotion that crossed my social feeds focused on the street performance aspects. Then, surprise! Tabletop fast food ordering and pizzerias that grow their tomatoes in house![1] Which is the sort of speculative fiction I’m enjoying nowadays: normal life with the fantastic acting as seasoning to spice up the world around them.

I’ve never paid special attention to music. I listen to music obviously, but rarely in any sort of analytical capacity. It’s pretty sounds that help fill in the background while I write, or to convey emotion in a musical, or to mark the start and end of a show I’m watching. I’ve never sought out music to listen to when looking for entertainment, it’s always a byproduct of whatever media I’m engaged with at the moment. Heck, these days, when I’m too lazy to set my car radio up to play a podcast, I just drive in silence.[2]

I sometimes feel I’m missing something by not engaging with the art form in a more conscious manner, and I only recently became aware that albums are a carefully curated thing instead of a collection of the performer’s most recent songs, so… yeah. Kind of a cultural blindspot.[3]

This tangent doesn’t even end with a neat little note of how Carole & Tuesday had inspired me to consume music in a more deliberate and contemplative manner. The soundtrack includes plenty of insert songs I happily threw on my background noise playlists,[4] and what few albums I seek out are video game and anime soundtracks.[5]

Carole & Tuesday was chiefly directed by Shinichiro Watanabe, who’s name was made with the Jazzy Space Epic Cowboy Bebop and Hip-Hop Samurai Series Samurai Champloo. It was probably inevitable he would produce an anime where music took front stage instead of informing tone.

Carole & Tuesday takes inspiration from Pop, but is unafraid to feature and mix other genres, such as Opera and Rap.[6] What’s really exciting is the decision to have the insert songs performed in English.

Historically, when diegetic music is present in anime, the song is performed in Japanese, and most dubs make the smart decision to leave the japanese audio and subtitle them. I may prefer dubs for my various reasons, but I wouldn’t dare ask for the policy on subbed music to change. Carole & Tuesday took an international view to its production, and thus used the most widely spoken language when no one (reasonable) would begrudge the use of Japanese performers.

Netflix picked up the show as part of their continued haphazard attempts to seize the genre with an attitude out of the early 2000s, and the company tapped to record the English dub did an admirable job matching voice performances believably similar to the singing voices.

Which may be the first time that speaking actors were hired to fit the singers.

The story takes place on Mars in the future year of… 50 years after humanity started migrating to Mars. I cannot find a year cited, which is the smart and wise choice and I am super annoyed I’m not going to be able to make jokes about the production's attempts and failure to predict the future.

50 years after starting to migrate over to the red planet, humanity has terraformed large swathes of Mars into a Solarpunk paradise. Earth is apparently not in a great state as refugees are desperately making their way to the planet, but Earth remains offscreen for the entire run. Fortunately no one has any giant robots,[7] so the two planets aren’t at war. While Mars has been made hospitable enough, the atmosphere does occasionally mess with the genetics of residents.

That’s just background details, however. The story is really about the titular duo. Tuesday is introduced fleeing the mansion of her politician mother, hopping onto a cattle train like Kiki, and riding off to Alba City with only a quitar and robotic luggage to keep her company, where she stumbles upon Refugee Orphan Carole busking with a keyboard. The two have a jam session and decide to become a musical act.

Meanwhile, famed child star Angela Carpenter[8] is setting to transition from a modeling career to an exciting career singing. Her mother pulls strings and utilizes her connections to team up with Tao, a genius of Artificial Intelligence Design who is willing to use his technology to provide Angela with computer generated music and lyrics.

Thus we have the start of a sci-fi John Henry Tale where the battle is not hammer and steel but instruments and voice.

I say ‘the start’ because while the two teams utilize different methods to produce their music, their methods are never weighed against one another. In fact, there’s barely a one-sided rivalry, as Angela is jealous of the titular duo’s ability to enjoy their career, and our two heroes take only a polite, professional view of Angela’s rising career.

Carole and Tuesday are both weighed down by a common problem with anime protagonists: they’re just nice. There’s a certain fear when writing protagonists, especially females, of accidentally making them off-putting that the writers overcorrect and don’t let the hero make mistakes or have much personality, to the point that Carole and Tuesday have very little agency.

Instead, it’s Gus, the ex-rock star manager the duo acquire, that does the leg work and takes risks while Carole and Tuesday just sing nice songs then sit back while the plotlines orbiting their rise to success are resolved by the men.

The show also can’t choose a lane, playing with several story threads that could carry full 24-episode stories by themselves, but instead are dealt with as lightly as possible.

We start with the story of a run-away from decadence and a refugee bringing their world views together, but that instead goes into a tournament arc disguised as a talent contest, then the drama of navigating the music industry, before ending with the presidential run of Tuesday’s mother causing public unrest. Carole and Tuesday don’t make a meaningful choice that affects any of these stories.

Meanwhile, Angela gets a story of asserting her identity while already in public view, facing dangers both external and internal on her journey.

Surprisingly, this is the first show in a while that I didn't resent for transitioning out of the episodic, playing with the premise portion. While Carole and Tuesday were attempting to get their big break, bopping around misadventures trying to get contacts, gigs, and filming a music video, Angela looms in her plotline, building up to the inevitable rivalry.

Angela is introduced just before her mother, Dahlia, starts reworking Angela's career from modeling to singing, hiring Tao, renowned AI designer, as Angela's producer. Angela experiences mild paranoia from Tao's standoffish nature, machinery, and making a holographic simulation of Angela. So Angela had a more consistent narrative during the first arc.

Introductions out of the way, it's time for everyone's favorite trope: the tournament arc! In the form of ‘Space!'s got Talent’ Generic Brand Named into Mar's Brightest. The main duo meets their rival, backstage drama ensues, some very good music is performed, and things are set up to technically give both Carole and Tuesday as well as Angela a win at the end.

With publicity achieved, Gus starts getting to work preparing the girls' debut album and booking appearances, as well as meeting other artists and (briefly) Carole’s father. We learn about Gus’s past client, Flora, who dropped Gus as soon as she found success, then found herself without a support base and spiraled into depression and addiction. Carole and Tuesday remain upbeat and optimistic.

Meanwhile, Angela starts getting harassed by a stalker and feeling helpless and poorly supported by those around her. Tao takes point on stopping the stalker when the police fail, ultimately taking him down before the stalker could pull a Mark David Chapman.

The story bleeds into the final act, as the presidential campaign of Valerie Simmons, Tuesday’s mother, moves forward in prominence. The AI algorithm Valerie is utilizing suggests she take an anti-immigration stance, which the woman follows in an attempt to further her career. Musicians are getting harassed by law enforcement, Tuesday’s brother Spencer is becoming uneasy with being an accessory to the campaign, and starts meeting with a reporter with information that Valerie’s campaign manager orchestrated a terrorist attack to villainize immigrants. Spencer and the reporter argue over how many chances to give Valerie, and agree on Spencer taking the evidence to Valerie, and if she doesn’t back down, then they’ll leak the scandal. Valerie, seeing the crimes committed for her benefit, gracefully renounces her candidacy. It’s very heart warming.

Carole and Tuesday write a protest song, and gather friends to sing it. This protest song has no observable impact.

Meanwhile, Angela learns she’s adopted, and her mother suffers a heart-attack shortly before Angela is set to win a Martian Grammy, and Angela spirals into depression and prescription drug abuse, to the point of collapsing at the end of her Grammy performance, being rushed to the hospital and missing her mother’s passing and funeral. Angela is adrift. She has no family, no support, and is just lonely.

Tao, who was working to sabotage Valerie’s campaign and burning as many bridges as possible after being targeted for refusing to assist the campaign, appears in Angela’s hospital room to drop a bomb: both he and Angela are designer babies, and though Tao must go into hiding now, he does intend to look out for his little sister.

Angela joins the performance of Carole and Tuesday’s protest song.

If it’s not already clear, I feel the story of Carole and Tuesday themselves was pretty lacking.

So, how would I rework this? Step one: we’re either cutting Carole and Tuesday, or combining them into a single character and making Angela the second. With the second option, Angela can maintain her backstory, but take Carole’s introduction of fleeing her family mansion and attempting to strike out on her own, meeting up with Carole and forming an act. To maintain the final arc, Carole would need to be reworked into the abandoned daughter of Tuesday’s late father, making her the half sister of Spencer and something to be hidden by Valerie Simmons’ campaign.

We then intermingle the two plotlines: Gus maintains his managerial position, and eventually convinces Angela to use her connections and mother to get her career jumpstarted, Ms. Carpenter still brings in Tao to write music, and now we can lean more into the AI-written music versus human compositions subplot as well as creative differences, which can lead to an arc where Angela and Carolday split to attempt solo careers, each taking a different manager.[9] Dahlia still has her issues and passes away, Angela her depressive spiral, but now Gus gets pathos by being there to help his client out of self-destruction, and the final number can also be a reconciliation of the main musical duo. The song can even be a combination of AI and human composition.

Carolday, meanwhile, discovers her relation to the anti-immigrant candidate and has to decide if she wants to finally have a family with Valerie and Spencer or stand up for her beliefs and assist a politician in bringing the campaign down. The resolution of the political plot can remain a happy compromise, but Carolday gets a slightly more active role in it.

The animation and world-building is great, and Angela’s arc is very strong. But the writing was too afraid to let either Carole or Tuesday dip into unlikeability that they become props to their own storyline, which is made further unfortunate as their supporting cast that do make decisions are mostly men.

The series is also riddled with a lot of good starts. Many short vignettes or minor details that could be made into full animes by themselves. Show more of Carole and Tuesday’s attempts to break into the music industry while also trying to pay bills and put food on their table. An expansion on the other competitors at Mars Brightest.[10] Heck, expand the roster of the competition and dig more into backstage drama. Carole’s father, who was sent to prison and found his wife dead and daughter sent to another planet upon his release, could carry a story of his own on his back! Valerie’s presidential run and the plight of Earth immigrants given more attention. Heck, even the story of how Earth, the origins of the human species, fell into being a third-world planet people are desperate to leave.

I’d even watch a series about the solarpunk pizzeria that grows their own tomatoes.

The music is really good, however, featuring many artists and styles, and those by our main duo wouldn’t sound out of place on a car radio or licensed on a primetime television show.

It’s a good show, but not an eternal classic. Maybe a second choice for someone digging deeper into anime. However, if its placement on Netflix means it’s someone’s introduction to Anime, that wouldn’t be terrible. Give it a watch if you want something to wind down for bed, or want inspiration for your own speculative fiction.

Kataal kataal.

-

[1] Solarpunk’s neat. [2] Mostly because I lost all my preset stations last time I took my car in for fixing, and I don't actually know any to punch in. Also, I use youtube for music when writing. [3] Also means I’m wholly unprepared to find music when I finally get a podcast project off the ground. [4] The soundtrack is very present on Spotify, which is nice. [5] I am finding myself increasingly intrigued by vinyl records, however. Probably a bit extravagant, and difficult considering my narrow interests. [6] Presumably to annoy fans of both. [7] Bam! Gundam reference! Anyone have Bingo yet? [8] Though I could swear they never use her last name on screen. [9] I’d find it amusing if Angela takes Gus and Carolday teams up with Dahlia, but the rest of my outline works better if Angela remains with Dahlia. [10] Though this one’s not a major loss. Typical tournament arc stuff.

[khhunniewriting]

No Coincidence

As you got closer and closer to the semi-finals of Show Me The Money your fanbase grew. Not only were you gaining credibility as a rapper but also great friends and future business partners. Since you were basically an unknown underground rapper the biggest question on everyone’s mind was who you would end up signing with.

You were always sending love to Yoon Mirae making people think you wanted in with Feel Ghood. But then again you were in Zico & Dean’s team. “I swear I’m going to make my own company and sign you.”

You laughed, it was getting late and you were still caught up rehearsing. Coming up with your next performance for the show was proving to be difficult. Hangzoo had already gone home while you remained. “Give me a good contract Boss and I’ll sign.”

“Really?” Dean asked in shock. He too thought you were after Feel Ghood. 

“Honestly,” your hand pressed against your chest. “I’m open to all offers but I do have a list.” You shot a wink at Zico, “I’ll add you to the list Boss.”

“I like being called Boss,” Zico sat taller feeling like he had just been crowned king. From now on you should just call me Boss.”

“Show me the money first,” you shot back causing the filming staff and Dean to break out in laughter. 

\\\

Unfortunately, your next performance was your last.

You hugged Hangzoo and congratulated him for being the last member of the team. “You have to win this,” you encouraged while shedding a few stray tears. It was an emotional time, on one hand, you were sad to go but on the other, you had done your best and showed what you were made of.

Hangzoo nodded as held you. He really didn’t want to see you go while he stayed. Zico and Dean joined the hug and gave you words of encouragement that brought back your smile. 

On all sides, the other producers and remaining finalists waited to also bid you farewell. You were the final female rapper, your leaving meant the stage would be all men again. They would be losing their witty queen who had a comeback for everything. 

“We’re going to miss you Y/N,” Tiger JK gave you a final comforting pat on the back. He slid you a card making you gawk at both him and Bizzy.  “That’s my wife’s number.”

“Are you serious? I have Yoon Mirae’s number?” Finally, you had managed to get your favorite rapper to notice you. Everyone wanted to take a look but you quickly held it to your chest obstructing their view and jumping with joy. 

That’s how filming ended for you... or so you thought. 

As you walked out into the parking lot you ran into Jay Park. “Going home?” he asked rhetorically. He knew you used public transportation and wanted to offer you a ride. This just seemed like the proper thing to say first before doing so.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“Even though you got eliminated today, you’re a winner and you should be sent home like one.”

You had to admit you blushed hard just in time for Dok2 to see it too. He came out almost out of nowhere like he was waiting for you somewhere in the shadows.

“What’s going on?” His question was directed at Jay who he thought had already left. 

“Just some business.”

“Business?” you asked now realizing what this was about. You were being scouted by CEO Jay Park. “You want me in H1ghr?” That was the label he seemed to be recruiting for recently but he shook his head.

“AOMG.”

Your hands clasped over your mouth to muffle your loud gasp. Could it be true? Were you really being offered the chance to be the second female signed to AOMG? “Like with Hoody and Simon and Gray-”

Jay laughed, “yes to everything.”

“Shit-” you muttered to yourself. First, you got an invitation to Feel Ghood and now one to AOMG. Could things get any better?

Zico approached the three of you with an amused smile. He had expected this. You were truly talented, a diamond in the rough that people were desperate to get their hands on and help shape into something even more amazing. “Is everyone trying to take my talent?”

“Your talent?” Dok2 asked completely unaware of your little conversation with Zico the week before since the episode had yet to air. None of the other producers even knew Zico planned to open up his own company. 

Zico nodded, “I am now officially CEO of KOZ Entertainment.”

No one was as taken back as you though. “Damn Boss, you really did it?” Because even if Zico had told you about it you didn’t expect him to really want you in his label. By no means was any of this expected.

Dok2 did not appreciate how close you had grown with Zico or how he towered over you as he showed you some pictures of his new office that was yet to be seen by anyone else. He, on the other hand, had to keep from conversing with you.

“Is Illionaire looking for their first female rapper?” Jay asked. Even though he was personal friends with Dok2 he didn’t know he was interested in you. When everyone else talked about you he seemed particularly quiet. He did, however, catch him staring a few times. “Were you eyeing her all this time?”

You nearly got whiplash from how quickly you turned to look at Dok2. 

With all eyes on him, Dok2 had no choice but to say something. “Depends on Y/N.”

The weight of his words made it hard to breathe. “Woah, okay I think I might be dreaming.” For once you had no response to offer.

“If this were a dream I don’t think you would have lost...” Jay pointed out.

“True,” you straightened up and looked each one of them in the eye. All three CEOs were skilled and respected in the community. There was no wrong answer but a decision like this couldn’t be made on the spot. “I appreciate all of this but I need to think about it for a while.” 

It was understandable, this was your future- the future of your career. “And as for the ride- I just don’t want to show favoritism to anyone so I’ll just go home the way I usually do.”

And just like any other day you walked down the street to catch the first bus that would take you to the subway station you frequented. All the while you thought of how you had ended your time on the show by crying. “God~” you whined pushing your forehead against the window making the person sitting beside you question your sanity. “Why did I have to go out like that-” your eyes widened as you saw the familiar Rolls-Royce Ghost of a certain CEO. 

You scowled in its direction as you stepped out off the bus. After only a couple of steps, you heard your phone begging to be dug out of the small red leather crossbody bag you carried daily. You knew he was watching you through his heavily tinted windows. So you rebelled, you shook your head refusing to answer.

Dok2 gave up. He stepped out in his Gucci bomber and tugged on his beanie. “You know I don’t like being ignored.” 

You sighed as people started to notice him and by default- you.  It was inevitable if he was around. “And I don’t like standing out in public.” Ironic- with your passion of performing and aspirations of breaking out of the underground scene into mainstream media. You turned him around hooking your arm with his and dragging him back to his car as quickly as possible- before anyone could act on the fact that you two were speaking to each other on the streets, 

Not forgetting his decorum, Dok2 opened the door for you. “You sure about that?” The way you auditioned for Show Me The Money told him otherwise.

Your eyes followed him as he made his way around the front of the car and into the driver’s seat. “Why are you mad?” Weren’t you the one who was supposed to be mad? He was the one who suddenly showed up.

“I’m not mad.” Correction- he was annoyed, maybe even irritated.

“Well I am,” you crossed your arms over your chest. He was jeopardizing everything you had worked hard for. “Joonkyung all I wanted was to prove myself. I wanted people to see my talent.” 

For the past two years that you and Joonkyung had been dating no one had managed to find out.  At first, it wasn’t intentionally meant to be a secret. It was just you two trying things out without putting pressure or having to explain anything to anybody. Now you were used to it. The two of you were becoming increasingly serious as your name was starting to gain some recognition.

That’s why you decided to audition for Show Me The Money- before anyone could pin your success on your relationship with Joonkyung. You intentionally kept your audition a secret from him, chose a different team, and kept your distance from him to avoid speculation.

“You proved yourself,” Joonkyung reached for your hand holding it up to his lips. “Baby you did good.”

His sincerity warmed your heart but you couldn’t smile. Instead, you leaned over the center console to place your forehead on his shoulder. “I lost Joonkyung~” your voice came out whinier than you intended but dammit you were sad. “All I wanted was to win so I could join Illionaire.”

Dok2 wrapped his arm around you as you began to cry. “If you wanted to join all you had to do was ask.”

“Ugh,” you pushed off of him with a groan. “You don’t get it. I don’t want you to just get me because I’m your girlfriend. I want to earn it.”

“You have earned it.” The whole reason he met you was because Hyoeun told him about you. He had seen you at one of your shows at a bar that was well known for its hip-hop performances. “I didn’t just run into you when we met.”

“What do you mean?” you asked intrigued by where this was going. The remaining 50% of your makeup that had managed to survive your tears at the filming was now gone. You dabbed at the edges of your eyes trying to regain composure.

After two years he was finally confessing how he had admired you from afar before chasing you. How he had intentionally booked Hyoeun and Hash Swan at an event you were performing at just so he could have a way to get close to you. “I liked your music, then I liked you too.”

“Babe-” you cut yourself off as you hid your face in his neck. You hugged him tightly, not wanting to let go or he’ll see how hard you were blushing. 

Dok2 didn’t care, “So you can forget about the other offers now.” He pulled you over to his side making you sit on his lap. Space was tight as you tried to keep from pushing any buttons. 

There was something strange in the way he said those words. It seemed like he was happy, relieved even. “Well, I have to at least talk to them. I didn’t even get to congratulate Jiho.”

“Jiho?” Dok2 tilted his head giving you a questioning look. He wondered when you started calling him by his name. 

“Yeah, he’s my friend- very funny. One time he and Hyuk-”

“You’re friends with him too?”

You nodded, “the episode didn’t air yet but we went to the arcade together as a group.” The arcade was your all-time favorite place to go. When Zico and Dean took the team you were the most excited. “They’re all pretty cool.”

“Babe you can’t just tell your boyfriend how cool other guys are. Especially when I just saw you being with them for months while you ignored me.”

“I had to ignore you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“You can’t be jealous.”

“Why not?” Of course he was jealous. You were beautiful, talented, and potentially single to everyone else. He had to think about the possibility of someone trying to make a move on you. 

“Because I’m already your girlfriend.” The thought of Joonkyung being jealous never even crossed your mind. "You're always so confident and sure of yourself. Do you honestly think I would leave you for Jiho or Jay?”

“I never said anything about Jay.”

You sheepishly smiled, ”Guess I was just thinking about him.” When you saw the flash of jealousy you confirmed he was indeed the jealous type when it came to you. Instead of holding it against him you put him at ease with a kiss. “Just kidding~”

-end-

A/N: Yeah so what do you guys think about CEO Zico and KOZ?

[convivialcamera]

The Time Before, Part 2

Part 1

My evening meal was not going as planned. The pub was as English as could be desired, and the shepherd’s pie just as delicious, but instead of a short and quiet meal with my uncle that I could easily slip away from, we were saddled with Dr. Randall. He was in his element talking archeology with Uncle Lamb; he also couldn't keep his eyes off me. I was sure my annoyance was written all over my glass face, but it didn’t deter him in the least.

The pub was just up the street from the museum, and we had walked over together in the heat of the late-afternoon sun. Dr. Randall had removed his jacket and was now in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows and vest unbuttoned, in deference to the heat. He was slender, but I could see the muscles of his forearms quicken close under the skin as he gesticulated with his elegant hands. I sipped my pint of ordinary bitter, suddenly trying not to think about what those academically-minded, lecturing hands would feel like on my...

“Oh, Claire is thinking of entering university, aren’t you, dear?” My uncle’s question jolted me out of my reverie and back to the reality of the pub and my supper companions.

“I think you’re thinking of my entering university,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. This had been a minor point of contention during our last weeks in Peru. Uncle Lamb thought our stay in London would be perfect for me to begin classes, while I was more apprehensive. I hadn’t spent a day of my life in a classroom; I learned everything I knew from Uncle Lamb or in tutoring with Firouz and didn’t particularly see a need to stop now. I smiled brightly at him. “I’ve spent practically my entire life as your apprentice, Uncle Lamb, what could a university teach me?”

“You could learn something other than how to excavate old pottery from the ground,” Uncle Lamb said, nudging me with his elbow. “You won’t be following me to the ends of the earth on digs forever. And...”

I knew what he was going to say next and ruthlessly cut him off. “I never touched your Persian grave figurines, so I don’t know what you’re on about.” I wiggled my eyebrows at Uncle Lamb, and then leaned across the table towards Dr. Randall. “He’s been scheming to be rid of me for years. He tried to drop me at a boarding school once,” I said, just loud enough for Uncle Lamb to hear. This was an old joke between us, and he laughed heartily.

“I’m sure Dr. Beauchamp would never dream of abandoning you to the savage wilds of a girls boarding school,” Dr. Randall said, rather gamely playing along.

I straightened up, in my best faux-haughty manner. “I didn’t even make it out of the car, and yet he still tried.” Both of my companions laughed, breaking the air of pretense. I sat back in my seat and wrapped my hands around my drink. It felt just barely cold on my skin; I placed the inside of my wrist against the glass and felt my blood cool at the touch.

“If you don’t want to attend university, then what do you wish to do?” Dr. Randall asked me.

I tilted my head to the side, appraising him, and took another drink of bitter. He met my gaze directly, his eyes drinking me in. I could easily be lost. The pub was dim, and the heat suffocating, and I felt a small pebble of ice grow in my stomach. I smiled, hoping my face didn’t reveal my nascent anxiety about my future. “My only ambition, Dr. Randall, is to seek entertainment and diversion while we’re in London.”

“I’m sure you’ll find many avenues for amusement, Miss Beauchamp,” he said.

“Indeed,” I replied, I hoped enigmatically.

Uncle Lamb, finished with his meal, was standing to go. I jumped up to follow him, smoothing the skirt of my dress, and shaking out my curls. “Are you headed back to the flat?” I asked.

“No, my dear,” he said, walking out of the pub and onto the street. “I still have some work to do at my office.”

Dr. Randall was right behind us. “I’d be happy to escort your niece home, Dr. Beauchamp,” he said ingratiatingly.

Before I could even open my mouth to object, my uncle (the traitor) had agreed. “That would be wonderful, Dr. Randall. Do phone when you’ve found that fascinating manuscript; I would very much like to examine it myself.” Dr. Randall doffed his hat, and Uncle Lamb turned to me. “I won’t be home tonight, Claire. Don’t you and Firouz wait up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I kissed his cheek. He turned back toward the British Museum and I quickly turned the other direction, looking for a bus stop, or maybe the Underground station —  Tottenham Court Road wasn’t far. Twilight had fallen on the city, and the streetlights were lit, making the night bright as day. I had become accustomed to the darkness of the wilderness, with only fires, torches and oil lamps for illumination after sunset. I paused at the streetcorner, bustling with people and vehicles, to marvel at the sight of modernity.

Of course, this gave my new shadow a chance to catch up with me. “Miss Beauchamp!”

“Oh, bloody hell,” I muttered. “Yes, Dr. Randall?” Traffic cleared and I began to cross the street, but he was at my elbow and showed no signs of letting up.

“Perhaps we could get a cab to your home? Where is your uncle’s flat?”

“Since I’m not going to the flat, I’m sure that’s none of your business.” I picked up my pace, but he had gently grabbed my hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. I pulled at my hand, trying to dislodge it. “Thank you for your kind offer of escort, but it won’t be necessary.”

“What do you mean, you’re not going to the flat?” Dr. Randall asked, rather flabbergasted. “Where are you going?”

I rolled my eyes to heaven, seeking patience with this handsome man who was bound to ruin my evening. “If you must know, I’m headed to Regent Street, for a start.”

“Regent Street? Unescorted?” He seemed shocked.

“I have lived in some of the most dangerous places on Earth, Dr. Randall,” I laughed at him, deliberately trying to bait him. “I think I can handle myself in London.”

“The jungles of Timbuktu are hardly central London at night.” His face showed genuine concern, which was rather endearing, if inconvenient. “There are many who would take advantage...”

“I’m sorry, but are you about to imply that I’m going to be robbed by highwaymen?” I teased. “Or locked in the Tower of London for the crime of walking about without a man?”

“I cannot, in honor, abandon you,” he said, with both worry and good humor.

I stopped under the glow of a street light that brightly shone on a bus stop, and eyed him speculatively. I could do more to dissuade him, but it seemed I wasn’t going to be rid of him easily. And he might become useful as my plans for the evening unfolded. I glanced behind my shoulder, and then gave him my most exasperated look. “Well, then, you’ll just have to come along, won’t you?”

Just as I anticipated, the next bus stopped and opened its door right in front of me. I hopped on, nodded to the driver, and started walking up the aisle to a pair of open seats about halfway back. I watched through the window as Dr. Randall quickly deliberated his next move. “Are you getting on, mister?” the bus driver yelled. Dr. Randall startled, and then a moment later decided: he followed my path up the stairs and down the aisle, sitting next to me in the empty seat.

“So, what exactly is on Regent Street?”

I smiled brightly at him. “Paradise.”

The entrance to the Paradise Club was a small crimson door between two large department stores with its name neatly painted on the front in block letters. Dr. Randall opened the door for me and followed me inside a long, narrow corridor that led to a second door, where a man in a dark suit on a tall stool waited for us. I could hear the faint sounds of the band, playing a jazzy tune that I couldn’t quite recall, but felt familiar regardless. The man took a sharp look at me, and then glanced at Dr. Randall, who had removed his hat, revealing the neatly combed and pomaded hair beneath. We must have looked like the right sort of people. The doorman stood from his stool and swung open the door; the music swelled in volume and I stepped inside, my shadow at my elbow.

It was marvelous and I paused to take it all in. There was a dance floor next to the band; small tables to the left where couples were sitting scandalously close in conversation and — yes, one of them was definitely kissing passionately. The cocktail waitresses were all smartly dressed in shiny blouses and neatly-coiffed finger waves (to which my hair could never aspire), and the bartenders wore tuxedos while serving rainbow-colored drinks in tall cocktail glasses. I could see into some alcoves where gaming tables were set up. I started to wander toward a table not too far from the dance floor, taking in the sights. My heart swelled; it was almost everything for which I had been searching. My shadow, sitting down next to me (and about as close and the other couples), was not as enraptured.

“I think I’m going to have some champagne,” I said to him, raising my voice to be heard over the music, “and then I’m going to play some dice.” Dr. Randall leaned closer to me, not hearing what I said. I repeated myself loudly and directly into his ear: “Champagne, then dicing!”

His eyes bulged dramatically at me, like a cartoon mouse I had seen at the cinema. He put a hand on my shoulder and brought my ear close to his face. “How do you know how to play dice?” he asked urgently.

A waitress had arrived. She didn’t say anything, just looked her question at Dr. Randall as if he knew what she asked. He did, of course. “Scotch, neat,” he practically yelled, “and a champagne for the lady.” He immediately turned back to me, asking his own question with his expression.

“What do you think we do in the jungle?” I said into his ear. “I’ve been gambling for years with the laborers. It’s how I learned I’m at a terrible disadvantage in poker.”

“Your uncle will have me flayed and professionally ruined if you get arrested for illegal gambling in my care.” He was scolding me almost like I was a child — not that I’d had much experience; Uncle Lamb had never said a harsh word to me in my life. I tried not to roll my eyes at him.

“Well, you insisted on coming along. Don’t be a spoilsport.” I then laughed, entertained by the idea of Uncle Lamb harming anyone at all. “And my uncle wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less you.”

The drinks arrived and Dr. Randall took a brooding sip. I was clearly dragging him out of his depth and into dangerous waters. I sipped my own drink, the bubbles tickling my palate, and smiled at him over the broad rim of the champagne glass. I hadn’t had champagne since... yes, the night we had finally fully excavated the ancient warrior from his makeshift tomb in Ollantaytambo. The warrior had been well-preserved and an important find about which Uncle Lamb had been most excited. We had drunk the small supply of champagne Uncle Lamb meant for the last night nearly four months early. The memory made me smile.

The band struck up a slower, softer song, and I watched the tension leave Dr. Randall’s face. My glass was empty, and I started to look to the edges of the club, scoping out the best game to join. “Perhaps you’d like to dance?” Dr. Randall asked, nodding his head towards the dance floor. He was clearly trying to distract me from more dangerous pursuits, but I quickly nodded my acquiescence.

A short, rather rotund man in a white dinner jacket and bowtie had stepped to the microphone, clearing his throat before gently crooning the lyrics in a lovely tenor: “You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss; a sigh is just a sigh...”

Dr. Randall led me onto the dance floor, and then swept me up in his arms, taking one hand in mine and placing the other on my back. It wasn’t an improper embrace by any means, but his touch was ever-so-slightly lower than strictly appropriate. The warm quiver in my belly returned, and I allowed myself to slide into the feeling as he led me through a simple, elegant step. It made me want more; it made me want him. I pulled him ever-so-slightly closer to me, brushing my chest against his and moving my hips in consort. His grip on my back tightened in mutual appreciation. I gazed up at him, peeking from beneath my lashes, and his eyes met mine. He lowered his face to mine, and just as his lips were about to make contact the song ended and the band immediately stuck up a loud, fast number — startling both of us. I jumped away, breaking his grip on my body.

He was looking at me dolefully, but I was in no mood to humor regret. Spotting my original objective, I grabbed his hand and excitedly pulled him through the club to a dice table. There was a small crowd of men gathered while the game manager, in a well-worn tuxedo, stood above everyone on a stool. The crowd parted for me, the only girl, and I stepped up to the table — the wood was sturdy when my hip pressed against it, and the blue velvet that tightly covered the top was soft on my fingertips. The game manager, an older gentleman with thinning blond hair, met my eye. “The lady will set the point,” he announced, passing a set of dice to me. “Place your bets!”

All eyes were on me as men put money on the table. When the game manager nodded at me, I dramatically kissed the dice and then shook them in my hand, letting them fly across the table. They landed with a 4 and a 2 up — and I grinned at the assembled men; there was a good probability I could roll a six again. Dr. Randall had scooted through the crowd and was to my right; I noticed he had placed a 5-pound note on the table. I nudged him playfully with my elbow, and took up the dice again. Again the center of attention, I rolled: a 4 and a 1.

But something didn’t quite feel right as I gathered the dice for the third time. Some of the men were looking apprehensive. I carefully felt the dice in my left hand, and then tossed them to my right, mentally quantifying their shape. I tossed them once more: a 4 and a 5. Damn. But my suspicions were close to being confirmed. Dr. Randall was staring at me, watching my face closely. I met his gaze and for a moment let my face show everything I was thinking, but then quickly tried to re-school my features into a mask of gaiety. I rolled the dice for the last time, as the crowd held its breath: a 4 and a 6. The crowd sighed in disappointment, and surrendered their money to the game manager.

“The dice are weighted.” I said loudly, looking the game manager straight in the eye. “This one just rolled a 4 four times in row.” He sneered at me, clearly displaying his guilt to the crowd, and then moved to grab me.

Dr. Randall had his hand on my arm and was pushing me behind him before the game manager could react further. “Excuse us, gentlemen, I believe the lady has had too much champagne,” he said in a placating voice, guiding me away.

“But...” I started.

“Not here!” He whispered harshly, now pulling me behind him by the arm as we briskly fled the club. We flew through the tables, past the dance floor, out the door and then into the long corridor and onto the street. The crimson door closed with a slam behind us.

“You accused the house of cheating! Do you want to start a riot?”

“But it was unfair!” I protested. “Those dice were weighted.”

He put his hat firmly on his head and then leaned against a brick wall, putting his head in his hands. My heart was racing, and I could feel my blood run fast through my limbs; I was like a live wire, ready to spark and catch fire. I paced in front of him as he regained his composure. Dr. Randall looked up and met my eye, and then started to laugh. I laughed too, breaking the nervous tension.

“My God,” he said. “What am I going to do with you?”

I beamed at him. “I’ve got one idea.” 

End part 2

Part 3

Author’s note: 

I have been privately calling this section, "In which Claire walks into a night club and starts some shit."

I have no idea if the Paradise Club is a real place, but I was inspired by a photo I found on Twitter. 

“As Time Goes By” is most famous in the U.S. from the 1942 film Casablanca, but it was actually released in 1931, which I was very pleased to learn (I think it fits perfectly in this story).  

I based the dice game on a modern casino game called Street Dice. This is obviously a bastardization, but the idea is that once the point is set, the player has three tries to roll the same number. 

Thanks for reading, and happy Thanksgiving!

[fuckyeslilkim]

Throwback Interview: The Mask Of Lil’ Kim

In a nondescript warehouse in Manhattan's Chelsea district, the rapper Lil' Kim is being primed for yet another fashion shoot. The theme of the day is baby-doll innocence, and the 4-foot-11 celebrity is appropriately undressed in a sheer blue and pink negligee and high-heeled sandals. With the final touches of turquoise eye shadow, pink lips and, of course, her trademark blond wig and blue contact lenses in place, the picture is complete. Sex symbol. Feminist icon. Freak mama.

Change the circumstances only slightly and you could imagine a porn shoot happening in this warehouse. The final products--the photographs that will sell Kim's raunchy lyrics and persona to the world--often come close to that. A full-page advertisement for her new album, "The Notorious K.I.M.," shows the star in the back seat of a limousine, naked except for black spike-heel boots and a safari-style hat. It's like the kind of pinup men find useful in prison cells and toilets.

But nobody seems bothered by the actual work of this shoot--least of all Kim, who patiently strips down. Quite the contrary: She considers herself a good role model--an empowered, independent woman in the highly misogynistic world of rap. Her fans include many young women who find in her an enviable example of personal strength.

To cash in on the marketing moment, corporate America has come running, showering her with endorsement offers--from Candie's shoes to Viva Glam lipstick. She earns cover treatments from mainstream and edgy magazines alike: The Source, XXXL, Vibe, Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, Jet, Interview (on which she appeared wearing nothing but head-to-toe Louis Vuitton body tattoos). And now, Atlantic Records has provided the 25-year-old with her own label, Queen Bee.

From the moment she was discovered by rapper Christopher Wallace (a k a Notorious B.I.G., a k a Biggie Smalls) as a round-the-way girl roaming the streets of Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood, Kimberly Jones has set new standards for female rappers. Her 1996 solo debut, "Hardcore," made the highest-ever debut on the Billboard charts for a female rap artist. An unparalleled fusion of hip-hop and pornography, the album opens with a scene in which we hear a fan buy a ticket to a triple-X flick, and then loudly pleasure himself while watching Kim onscreen.

At last year's MTV Music Awards, her outfit spawned a media frenzy fueled by the shocked response of presenter Diana Ross, who reached out and jiggled Kim's exposed breast on national television. (Ross later offered a public apology, noting that she thought Kim "was beautiful and . . . didn't need to dress in that manner.") The incident solidified Kim's image of sexual fearlessness--and her career as a fashion trendsetter.

We've seen so much of her, and yet nothing at all. Who is Lil' Kim, really?

Talking to her, you're taken by any number of contradictions. She considers herself a devoted child of God, for example. "I'm not perfect," she explains. "I mess up. I'm not Miss Sanctified, but I believe in my Father. We have a really good relationship."

She has allowed powerful men to shape and exploit her sexpot image, but touts her own brand of feminism. "If you look at me, no man has really given me anything," she contends. "I got my own money."

She raps about the joys of fellatio, but likens herself to Queen Elizabeth, the so-called Virgin Queen of England. ("I watch that movie over and over again," she says.) Like Elizabeth, she has had an unhappy love life. "I had a lot of guys betray me," Kim says, "and she reminds me of myself because, toward the end, she really wanted a man. She was lonely. She didn't wanna be this strong woman that everybody portrayed her to be, but she had to be."

On one point the star is adamant: Lil' Kim is not Kimberly Jones.

Except: "Most of the things that I talk about [in my lyrics], yeah, they're true." In the song "Hold On," for example, "I talk about the pain of being pregnant and having an abortion."

"I talk about the things that women have gone through that they don't think I've gone through," she says. "Like fightin' with your man or losin' a man to death. Being alone. I talk about just bein' in the streets having no money and having to do illegal things to get the money."

All of which happened, too.

So, after one spends many hours with both Lil' Kim the rapper and Kimberly Jones the woman, the similarities between the two become as apparent as the differences. "We wear the mask that grins and lies," wrote Paul Laurence Dunbar, "with torn and bleeding hearts we smile."

It is not easy to remove the mask of Lil' Kim, which she wears as a brilliant defense against full disclosure. She doesn't want to show us all of the damage that lies underneath. Like many other black women, she has become so good at conjuring the mask--signifying at a moment's notice, for hire--that we no longer know where it ends. Or where Kimberly Jones begins.

In the June issue of Vibe magazine, there is a photograph of young Kim dressed in a neat school uniform: plaid dress, white blouse, knee socks. She is brown-skinned, with brown eyes and nappy hair, neatly pulled into a bun. She sits like a proper schoolgirl with her hands folded in her lap and legs crossed at the ankles, smiling and polite.

But inside, she feels ugly. She thinks of herself as too dark and too short. She has just moved to an all-white neighborhood in suburban New Rochelle, N.Y., where little blond girls tease her and confirm her monstrosity.

Her mother, Ruby Mae Jones, brought her to live there, at age 8, fleeing the ruins of a marriage. But Kim wants to go back to Brooklyn. She wants to go home, to her old neighborhood where little girls look like her. Even if it means going back to the home of her father, Linwood Jones, a former military man who enforced a brutal discipline on wife and children.

"There was a great deal of verbal abuse," she recalls. "And there was times . . . when my mother had black eyes. My father told people she had fallen."

Linwood Jones could not be reached for comment, and there is no record of his having spoken publicly about his daughter's career or her allegations of physical abuse. According to Kim, he did comment privately on her overtly sexual image, asking that she "tone it down."

After her parents' separation in 1983, Kim's life became increasingly unstable. At first she and older brother Christopher stayed with their mother, who relied on the kindness of friends for shelter--including the time spent in New Rochelle. But when options ran out, Ruby Mae Jones granted custody of her children to her husband.

"I was basically living out of the trunk of my car," Kim's mother explains over a posh dinner in a New York restaurant--a contrast made all the more striking by her fur coat and her gold-and-diamond-spangled hands. "And I didn't feel it was appropriate for [the children]. So I let Kim go to live with her father."

When he was away--sometimes for weeks, for reserve duty--the children were deposited with an aunt who was raising several sons of her own. "I grew up around . . . maybe eight guys in my family," says Kim. "I stayed with my cousins when my father went away. They lived in the projects."

"Kim had no sisters," adds Ruby Mae Jones. "She was surrounded by boys all the time. But she had such a strong personality, I never had to worry about her taking care of herself. I knew that she would be able to do that. From when she was like 2."

Despite the frequent absences, father and daughter remained on good terms during Kim's prepubescent years.

"We were very close," she recalls, "until I was about 13." Which is when Kim committed an egregious offense in her father's eyes: She liked a boy and agreed to be his girlfriend. Although the circumstances seemed innocent enough by Kim's account--the boy was 15, a schoolmate--Linwood Jones was outraged. Kim says he called her a bitch and a whore, "just like your mother."

The words had a devastating effect. "If he hadn't said what he said to me," speculates Kim, allowing the idea to play in her head for a moment, "I probably would have stayed a virgin until I was 21. But after that I rebelled."

Fights between father and daughter became more frequent--and violent, she says. On at least one occasion, Kim remembers, her morning wake-up call was a fist crashing into her face. At the age of 14, she packed a bag and hit the streets, wandering in and out of neighbors' homes. Lil' Kim has often described her life during those years as a procession of doing "whatever I had to do to survive."

She peddled drugs for boyfriends. Worked odd jobs in department stores. And had sex with the men who housed and fed her. By the time she met up-and-coming rapper Biggie Smalls at the age of 17, Kim was, by her own admission, desperately in need of protection.

Biggie, who at age 19 was a 6-foot-3, 300-pound drug dealer who had already done nine months in jail, signed on for the job--bringing Kim into the fold of what everyone called the "B.I.G. family." There was Sean "Puffy" Combs, who had been working day and night to launch Biggie on his emerging label, Bad Boy Entertainment; Mary J. Blige, whose success as an R&B artist had also been strongly influenced by Puffy's hand; Damion "D-Roc" Butler, Biggie's friend and security guard; and "the boys"--James "Lil' Caesar" Lloyd, Antoine "Banga" Spain, and Money-L, who would later become members of Junior M.A.F.I.A. (Masters at Finding Intelligent Attitudes), a rap group Biggie hoped to launch on the momentum of his own success.

"She came from the streets," says 22-year-old Spain, who lives today, along with several of the other "boys," in Kim's New Jersey mansion. "I could relate to her 'cause my mom sent me to the city when I was, like, 13."

It was at Wallace's behest that Kimberly Jones assumed the role of Lil' Kim--a vulgar-mouthed emblem of what had been dubbed "porno rap." Following Biggie's lead, the young protege exploded onto the hip-hop scene as the lone female member of Junior M.A.F.I.A. at the age of 20.

Almost immediately, Kim became the showcase of the act. They were like "peanut butter and jelly," says Voletta Wallace, Biggie's mother. "Kim and Christopher were the same voice."

And that voice was determined to push the limits of gangsta rap, a genre whose biggest selling points were unabashed violence and uncensored sex.

By the mid-1990s Biggie Smalls and his crew were at the top of their game. Biggie's second album, "Life After Death," would eventually sell eight times platinum, and with the release of her 1995 solo debut, "Hardcore," Kim arrived in her own right. But the good times were not to last. Kim loved Biggie and hoped to be his wife, but he married and then quickly separated from R&B artist Faith Evans (who would also become the mother of his son, Christopher). There were rumors that Evans had been having an affair with rapper and longtime Biggie rival Tupac Shakur. One Biggie music video co-starred Kim as the defiant and loyal mistress.

Amid the lovers' quarrels and sexual betrayals, tragedy struck in the early hours of March 9, 1997. Following a Soul Train Music Awards party in Los Angeles, a still-unknown killer approached the passenger side of Biggie's GMC Suburban and unloaded seven rounds into the rapper's head and body at close range. Both Lil' Caesar and Damion Butler were unharmed as they ducked down in the back seat. Puffy, who was driving his own Suburban in front of the target vehicle, rushed to Biggie's side reciting psalms. But Christopher Wallace was dead at age 24.

Since the loss of her mentor, Kim's allegiance has remained eerily well preserved. In the immediate aftermath, she and the Junior M.A.F.I.A. boys stayed in Big's New Jersey condominium--where, according to Kim, she shared her slain lover's bedroom with her would-be mother-in-law, Voletta Wallace, and T'yanna, Biggie's daughter from a previous relationship.

In an article for People magazine, a mourning Kim posed for the camera draped in Biggie's shirt, coat and hat. Even today, more than three years after his death, she often refers to her "big poppa" in conversation and lyrics, and even credits the rapper as a posthumous producer on her new album. The bond seems unhealthy, as even Kim's friend Blige noted in an interview: a "kind of co-dependency with someone who just isn't here anymore."

It took Kim four years to release her second album, which had been held up due to conflicts with her label, the theft of material by bootleggers and her own creative process. Meanwhile, Kim's marketing machine hummed along, patiently building her image despite a lack of new releases.

"She's brilliant," says Michael Elliot, president of Source Entertainment. "I mean, here's a woman who [hadn't] had an album out in years and she's a presenter at award shows, and a successful model. She's found a way to market herself and, at the end of the day, she's a businesswoman."

"I think she's a feminist in a funny sort of way," says John Dempsey, president of MAC cosmetics, one of many packagers that hold up the Kim image as a bold new form of sexual expression. "She speaks like a man would speak."

Her fans agree. "She doesn't care what anybody has to say," says 19-year-old Teena Marie Schexnayder, a Los Angeles psychology student and aspiring singer. "She's a bad girl . . . doing whatever she has to do to survive. She's deep. I love the stuff she talks about."

While '80s female rappers like Queen Latifah and MC Lyte embraced "womanist" images, combining ancestral and gender consciousness, Kim provides a very different social commentary for young black women and men. The message behind Lil' Kim is, in fact, heartbreakingly feeble.

Sex, she believes, is a commodity. It is a way for a woman to earn money--and, in her view, respect. She learned that lesson on the streets. As for the women selling their bodies, "I don't see anything wrong with that."

"Money is power," says Kim, and "a lot of women out there are just givin' it away." Kim aims to change that. As she raps in her new single "Diamonds" (sung to the tune of Diana Ross's "I Want Muscle"):

"She says she wants a man / To buy her a Lexus Land/ Well that's all right for her / Still it ain't enough for me / I don't care if he's young or old / Just make him very rich / I want diamonds / This p---- ain't for free."

Is this really feminism?

"I'm a feminist because I love women," she ventures, graciously asking her interviewer to correct her if she misunderstands the term. "And I feel like, in this rapping game, men have been bashing women for years. But some women overemphasize that feminism word. And some of them are very male-bashing. I'm not a male basher."

In her collection of images titled "Women," photographer Annie Leibovitz captures something of the inner sorrow of Kimberly Jones, a black girl who covets blue eyes and blond hair. Juxtaposed with the image of a gloriously dreadlocked Toni Morrison, who is seen looking into a wide expanse of clouds and possibility, Kim appears small and helpless against a wall of color that threatens to engulf her--her nipples visible beneath a trashy net T-shirt. In this image, we see more of Kimberly Jones than Lil' Kim: the real woman who has masked private suffering as public defiance.

"She's just like every little abused girl that I knew growing up," asserts Asha Bandele, a poet, author and critic who is attuned to hip-hop culture. "I do not believe that Kim is in control of her image because there's nothing powerful about it, nothing rounded, nothing human. It's a caricature. Just like when you see a male presenting himself as only a gangsta. . . . We're so much more complicated than that."

But if it is icon status we're shooting for, Kimberly Jones is the real deal. Closer in spirit to Monroe than Madonna, she is a genuine enigma, which is precisely why she intrigues us. The same little girl who remembers jumping into the middle of a fight between her father and older brother (taking a chair across her stomach in the process) became the grown-up Lil' Kim, who prefers "big poppa" lovers because daddies "don't let nothin' happen to their baby girl."

"Kim needs to ask herself what she's selling," says Voletta Wallace in her Jamaican-accented, no-nonsense way. "When my son was here, that's all you would hear: Kim and Christopher [saying], 'Sex sells, sex sells.'

"But . . . when you look at Kim, the strength is there. The beauty is there. The talent is there. And she needs to let [the world] know . . . they need to see a human being. She needs to find her inner self and see what she has to offer."

At the Gazelle Beauty Center and Day Spa in Manhattan, I have requested a private room in which to interview Kim. I am trying to get closer to the real woman, to get behind the mask. But it is a busy day and there are constant interruptions from other clients (who include guests on "The Montel Williams Show"). Nevertheless, Kim and I enjoy a lunch of Caesar salads, as well as joint manicures, pedicures, massages and facials.

We are two sisters drinking herbal tea now, and Kim is relaxed, makeup-less and wearing a cozy white robe and paper slippers.

Unanswered questions have been nagging at me. Kim is like so many other women, it seems to me, who have grown up with trauma. And yet there is no talk of the long-term effects. I decide to put the question of sexual abuse to her plainly. She tells me that yes, something did happen in the home of a relative when she was a girl, but she doesn't want to get into the details. She has never talked about this before. She doesn't want to dwell on the pain. I am saddened by her admission, and the fact that so many years later, she is still so clearly devastated.

And I am saddened that even here, in a place for relaxation and nurturing, she is unable to divest herself, even for a few hours, of the blue contact lenses and blond wig.

"Think about it," she confesses when I ask her to talk about her experience of skin color. "The girls that [men] dated when I was younger were light-skinned and tall. I'm short and brown-skinned. And I always wondered . . . how do I fit in?"

Did she ever overcome the feeling of being ugly?

"I really haven't," she admits. "Honestly, though, I think being Lil' Kim the rapper helped me deal with it better. Because I got to dress up in expensive clothes, and I got to look like a movie star or whatever. I think doing photo shoots and seeing all the people respond to me has helped. [But] I still don't see what they see."

can't help but think of Kim as standing on a precipice, making a great leap toward transformation. In recent years, she has expressed a desire to tone down the raunch and express more of "who I really am." There are rumors that she was wary about spreading her legs for the photo shoot for "Hardcore," and she herself has said she would have rather done four sexual songs instead of seven. "You get tired of certain images," she explains.

So what's stopping Lil' Kim from showing us more of Kimberly Jones? "It's hard," she says. "Because in our world, the rap world, you have this thing called selling out. You don't want people who liked you for doing a certain thing on your first album to not like you for not doing it on the second album. So I have to stay in that realm."

Yes, there are market forces pushing her to stay in the same place, but the market is also a fickle lover and people tire of what is too easy to predict. "Notorious K.I.M." started out at No. 4 on the Billboard album chart, but has slipped to No. 35.

"How much more of her body can she show?" asks Ramon Hervey, manager for R&B artist Kenny "Babyface" Edmonds. "From Madonna to Prince, everybody has to re-create themselves at some point."

"I see the strength in her," Mary J. Blige says of her friend. "All she's gotta do is let go of the fear."

Source: The Washington Post

[meteora-writes]

Can you do FTWD Troy and Nick a few years down the line on Christmas morning with their kids (ones that they rescued throughout the years) and Daisy? 😃

OMFG YES! I was in line at the post office when I got this request and I made a ridiculous noise when I read it. I will gladly write this. And after I finish here I’ll post it to AO3 so everyone else can see the fluffy masterpiece.

~~~~

Everything We Ever Wanted

Set 7 years into the future of The Trick To Being Happy

Troy x Nick

Warnings: Diabetic coma inducing Fluff

~~~~~

Troy awoke to the sound of the bedroom door creaking open slowly. Given that Nick was still pressed tightly against his back, he knew there were two possible reason the door would be opening. A moment later the options narrowed down to one at the sound of small feet padding across the hardwood floor to circle around the bed.

Troy kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep as the bed in front of him dipped a bit. “Daddy..” A too loud whisper sounded in front of his face. “Daddy, wake up.” A moment later tiny hands were peeling one of his eyelids open and Troy blinked at the little girl that was grinning at him showing off her missing front teeth.

“Celia, it’s not time to get up yet.” He grumbled, slipping an arm out from under the blanket to warp around the little blonde 5 year old and pull her down to cuddle against his chest.

Celia huffed, but curled up against Troy’s chest regardless. “But uncle Victor is already making breakfast.”

“Uncle Victor is a mad man that likes to wake up at 5am every day.” Nick said blearily from his place plastered to Troy’s back.

Troy chuckled at that, looking over his shoulder at Nick, who still had his eyes closed, though he looked ready to get up.

“That’s not very nice, papa.” Celia chided from her place tucked against Troy’s chest.

“Baby, why don’t you go get dressed and play in the snow until breakfast is ready?” Nick suggested, pushing up onto one shoulder to look down at Troy and their daughter.

“Really?” She asked, blue eyes going wide as she looked up at him.

“Yes, really. Just make sure to stay in the yard.” Nick added as he watched the 5 year old hop out of their bed and take off running towards the door. “Take your brother with you!” He added, receiving a hollered ‘okay’ in response as she disappeared out the room in a flash of waving blonde braids.

With a sigh Nick flopped back down onto the bed. “What time is it?”

Troy leaned over and click on the bedside lamp before picking up his watch and inspecting the time. “6:47. How much longer do you think we can sleep before they realize we didn’t get up?” He mused, clicking the light back off before turning to curl up at Nick’s side.

Nick hummed in thought, letting himself be enveloped by Troy. “Normally I would say an hour, but given that it’s Christmas, I’d say 25 minutes.” He speculated.

Heaving a sigh Troy snuggled closer to Nick. “Okay, so, we get up now, have some coffee while the kids are out playing, and then we can all have breakfast and watch the kids open presents?” Troy proposed, smiling at the face Nick made at the words ‘get up now’.

“You’re lucky I love you.” Nick finally grumbled after a moment before pushing himself up out of Troy’s grasp into a sitting position.

Troy just chuckled and pushed himself up as well before wrapping his arms around Nick’s shoulders and nuzzling at his cheek. “You’re the one that insisted we celebrate Christmas every year after we found Celia and Michael.” 

“True.” Nick said, turning his head to capture Troy’s lips in a quick kiss. “I’m gonna go take a quick shower. Go get the coffee ready.” he said before slipping free of Troy’s grip and out of bed.

Troy watched him go with a smile before getting himself up and dressed. Once he was clothed he made his way down stairs to the kitchen, where Strand was in the process of making some kind of dough. “Morning.” he said, waving to the other man on his way to the coffee maker.

“Morning. I see Celia didn’t heed my advice not to wake the two of you.” Strand said lightly, continuing to work the dough on the floured counter before him.

“She literally pulled my eye open.” Troy said, shaking his head as he opened the cabinet that housed the coffee before pulling the container out and starting to fix a pot. “How long was she up before she came and woke me and Nick?”

Strand chuckled. “She got up at about 6. I had been keeping her entertained with helping me make cinnamon rolls, but she lost interest about ten minutes ago when Michael woke up and started asking about presents.”

Rolling his eyes Troy turned to lean against the kitchen counter and look out window that sat behind the sink. Celia and Michael were both outside playing in the snow. It was barely light out, but the back yard was illuminated by several flood lights Troy had set up years ago. They looked like colorful birds playing in the white landscape thanks to their snow suits. “How long till breakfast is ready?”

“Twenty minutes. Once these are in the oven I’ll make some eggs and grits so the kids don’t just have sugar for breakfast.” Strand said, rolling the dough out once last time before starting to sprinkle a mix of cinnamon and brown sugar on the top.

“What’s wrong with just having sugar for breakfast.” Troy joked, face serious before he cracked and grinned at the older man. “I’m just kidding. Thanks for making breakfast.” he said before looking back outside to watch the kids as they threw snow balls at each other and squealed in delight as it began to snow softly.

Troy lost track of time watching them, only snapping out of his daze when he felt Nick’s arms wrap around his waist and his chin come to rest on Troy’s shoulder. 

“They look like they’re having fun.” Nick said, voice soft in Troy’s ear.

“You missed it, Celia tackled Mikey and collapsed their snow fort.” Troy said with a chuckle as he continued to watch the two run around in the snow.

Nick raised a brow at that. “I swear that kid acts more like you every day.” 

Troy just turned his head and grinned at Nick “Yeah, and Mikey acts like you. Ironic, given that we aren’t actually their parents.”

“They’ve both picked up traits from the both of you. It tends to happen after three and a half years spent together.” Strand chimed in from where he was stood at the stove stirring a pot of grits, a smile on his face that was barely hidden by his beard.

Troy just snorted at that. “Uh huh.” is all he said before stepping away from the counter and out of Nick’s arms to go open the back door. “Hey!” he yelled out into the early morning cold, making both kids look up from their snow angel making. “Breakfast is almost done, why don’t you guys go wake up your aunt.”

In a flash both children were running inside, trailing snow through the kitchen on their way to shed their suits and boots in the foyer before dashing up the stairs.

Nick laughed as he walked over to the closet beside the back door to grab a broom.”Alicia is going to be kill you.” he said as he began to sweep up the snow before it had a chance to melt.

“Well she hasn’t yet, I doubt she will over telling the kids to wake her up.” Troy said with a shrug before pouring both Nick and himself each a cup of coffee.

A few minutes later everyone was sitting at the kitchen table, the adults watching in amusement as the kids went to town on their breakfasts.

“Auntie Licia, are you going to go back to Mexico after Christmas is over?” Michael asked, blinking at his aunt with wide hazel eyes.

Alicia looked up from her breakfast to meet his gaze. “Nope. I’m staying until the spring kiddo.” She said before ruffling his shaggy jet black hair. “Besides, there’s too much snow for me to try and drive out anytime soon anyway.”

Michael hummed in response happily before shoving half a cinnamon roll in his mouth.

Soon everyone was finished and the kids ran into the living room to sit on the floor in front of the tree. It made everyone smile as they watched the excited 5 and 8 year old skid to a stop and wait for the adults to filter in to take up seats around them.

Strand took up an arm chair, Alicia taking the other while Troy sat on the couch beside a sleeping Daisy. Nick took his place on the floor beside the tree, since celebrating Christmas was his idea he was told he had to be the one to hand out presents every year. A duty he greatly enjoyed if he was being totally honest.

It made everyone happy to see how excited the kids got over their gifts. They were both given a sled, which was a major pain to find. Mikey got a soccer ball, Celia got a barbie with a box of clothes, and the kids had made each adult a card, which was to be hung in each of their bedrooms along with everything else they had made their adoptive family since they came to live with them.

After they finished up with presents they all took the kids outside to sled down the slight embankment just outside and to the right of the stone wall. Even Daisy came out, albeit she was on Troy’s shoulders the entire time and looked mildly annoyed the the falling snow.

They stayed outside until it was lunch time and the adults were too cold and hungry to stay out any long. There was no protest from either child as they were told they needed to stay inside the rest of the day, both happy to play in their rooms with their new toys until it was time for bed that night.

That night everyone went to bed with smiles on their faces. All thoroughly exhausted and content from celebrating a truly happy Christmas.

[talesofmundanemagic]

Gertie and Bridget join a club

“COME JOIN THE MAGIC CLUB,” read big, bold letters on a flyer pinned to the dorm bulletin board, impossible for Gertie to miss even before her morning tea.

Meeting in faculty sponsor Mr. Jerson’s room, Haste 209, Fridays from 4-5. Don’t have to bring anything but yourselves! Sincerely, Club President Charlie Nessing.

***

Gertie managed to drag Bridget and Ernest along with her to the meeting, while Vivien came willingly.

“It’s those guys who beat up Jodie and Nick and their group,” Ernest said. “Do we really need more bullies in our lives?”

“Maybe there will be others who are interested in magic,” Gertie argued. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have more friends?”

Gertie wore a black, wide-brimmed hat that she wore to functions where entertainment was key. The flyer didn’t state to bring any magical demonstrations, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt.

As they walked, she practiced releasing colorful sparks from her hands, using the powers granted to her by the hat. She even managed to shape them into a heart before they fizzled away.

Some other students were in Mr. Jerson’s room already - a few that Gertie recognized, but most she had never seen. Gertie ignored the urge to sit in her assigned seat, and sat in the front row with her friends.

“Nice to see you here,” Mr. Jerson, her Potion’s teacher, said to her, his smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

Gertie nodded, nervous energy coming out in drumbeats from her fingertips.

More students filtered in as the clock ticked on. Marissa Hanler, a straight A student, came and sat in front, begging to be noticed by Mr. Jerson. Darryl Fudin, another classmate, came in and sat behind Gertie.

“I thought you’d be here too,” he said with a grin.

“I didn’t know you would!” she said, pleased that her potions tutoring had seemed to actually plant a seed of interest in magic.

“I mean, I have plenty of time in my schedule,” he said sarcastically. “What’s one more after-school activity? I can sneak pizza into the computer lab so I don’t have to eat while running to football practice.”

All together, the club consisted of about twenty-five members. Gertie beamed. There were so many people interested in magic! Who knew?

Then came two of the new students Ernest had worried about: Peter and Faye Nessing. Faye quickly chose a desk off to the side. She placed her backpack underneath, pulled out a book, opened to a bookmark and started reading. Bridget frowned. An animal anatomy textbook? What high school freshman needed to know that?

“Peter, good to see you,” Mr. Jerson said. “Where’s your brother?”

The tall senior slicked back his hair - still wet from swim practice - and shrugged. “I’m sure he’s coming, sir. We can probably start introductions without him?”

Mr. Jerson nodded his approval.

Peter stood at the front of the class.

“Hi, everyone. Thank you for coming. My name is Peter Nessing, and I’m the Vice President of the Magic Club.” He fidgeted with a charm on a leather necklace. “Let’s see. I’m a senior. My siblings and I just started school here last week. Fun fact about me is that I’ve been accepted to Wespire University on a swimming scholarship - I’m on the swim team here too - and I’m going to study Business. How about we-”

The classroom’s phone pealed, loud and irritating, until Mr. Jerson answered it.

“Yes?”

He listened for a moment, his hand gripping the receiver harder and harder as the person on the other side spoke to him.

“I’ll be right there,” he said. He stood and addressed the club. “There’s a little...problem in the healer’s office. They need some help brewing a proper potion.”

Mr. Jerson hesitated, trying to decide if he should tell the students to leave.

“I can handle it, sir,” Peter said. “We’ll just do introductions and take down some suggestions for club activities.”

Mr. Jerson nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

As soon as he left, there was murmuring about what could be going wrong in the healer’s office.

“Jodie Migaran threw up in fifth period,” someone whispered. “I wonder if it could have anything to do with that?”

“What? Nick did too. He seriously looked green!”

“Ok, everyone.” Peter held up his hands. “There’s no reason to speculate. As I was saying-”

Suddenly Charlie, the middle Nessing sibling, burst into the room.

“I need help!” he shouted.

“What?” Peter frowned. He looked over his brother as he came to the front of the class, searching for injury. “What’s wrong?”

Charlie pulled his backpack off his shoulder. He unzipped it and turned it over, dumping notebooks, pencils, and a strange golden box onto the demonstration table in the front of the classroom.

The box was tied with twine that glimmered with an enchantment. It was clearly the only thing keeping the box closed, as the flip lid struggled to open, rattling ominously.

“What is it?” someone asked.

“I don’t know!” Charlie’s eyes were wide and panicked. He gestured to the box wildly. “It was just...in my suitcase! I was unpacking and it just started shaking!”

“What’s the string?” Darryl asked.

“Just some store-bought trap twine.” Charlie pushed his thick rimmed glasses up his nose. “It’s all I had. The enchantment’s not going to hold very long.”

The box jumped into the air, the lid struggling against the twine.

“What’s in there?” Peter got closer to the box, staring at it.

“I have no idea!”

“Have you tried a Sparkness circle?” Vivien asked. “It’s a good generic containment spell.”

“Of course I tried that already.” Charlie rolled his eyes. “My parents invented it.”

“Your parents what?” Gertie repeated.

“They work at Sparkslab,” Peter supplied. “Well, they did until recently. Our dad quit to run for Mayor. They’ve invented tons of stuff.”

A student reached to peek into the box, curious about what was inside. The box opened as far as it could given the twine, and orange goop sprayed all over the place, covering the student and those behind him.

“Uck! What is this?” the student sniffed at his shirt and made a face.

“I know, it’s gross!” Charlie wrinkled his nose. “I was able to get it off with some nail polish remover I borrowed from one of my floor-mates.”

Those hit with the sludge left, struggling to wipe off the stickiness with towels from the potions lab, smelling like overripe fruit.

“You know…” Marissa stood, grabbing her backpack. “This isn’t what I signed up for. Not when Mr. Jerson didn’t even mention anything about extra credit. I have homework to do. Good luck with the box.”

She hurried out of the classroom, following the other students.

Vivien traced over one of the symbols etched into the gold side of the box. “Wait, I know this!” she said. She pulled her laptop from her bag and started searching. “It’s a newer magical dialect. I researched it when looking into homunculi.”

“Homunculi?” Charlie repeated.

Vivien nodded, oblivious to his approval.

Gertie looked over her shoulder, kneeling next to her desk. “We can translate it. Maybe it’s a spell that will help?”

Charlie nodded. “Please, anything.”

The box rattled in place, as if it was worried it was being forgotten.

“I wonder what’s even in there,” Bridget mused. “If it could cause us danger, I would think I’d see a vision of it.”

“Did you say ‘vision’?” Peter asked.

Bridget flushed, annoyed she had let it slip. The other students, debating what to do with the box, didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. I sometimes get visions,” she said.

“That’s amazing!” Peter said.

To his surprise, Bridget shrugged and pulled out her phone, seemingly disinterested in coming up with a way to make the box safe.

“If there’s something alive in there, maybe I can calm it down,” Ernest said. He started to whistle a tune, and the box started rattling harder.

It wasn’t the only thing. Faye’s backpack starting jumping into the air.

“What’s that?” Darryl asked. “A magic backpack?”

The flap fell open revealing a rabbit with his ears pointed toward Ernest. It stumbled forward, its back leg in a cast.

“No!” Faye said. Her voice sounded odd, like it was laced with magic. Bridget watched with her enchanted eye as one of her bracelets sparked. She had recognized one of the girl’s necklaces as having a charm to talk to dogs. Could she also talk to bunnies?

“You get back here!” Faye ordered the rabbit, as it hopped to Ernest. It stopped and turned back toward her ruefully, but it didn’t budge.

“Faye,” Peter said, a warning in his voice. “I thought you weren’t supposed to bring him to class anymore.”

“I’m almost finished healing him,” Faye grumbled.

Ernest stopped his whistling, and the rabbit turned back to glare up at him, wanting him to finish.

“Then I’ll put him back in the forest.” She picked up the rabbit and put him on her desk. “Stay here.”

It pouted, but laid down on its front paws, its ears and nose twitching in annoyance.

The box continued to clatter ominously.

Ernest frowned, and started whistling a different tune. There was a click as the box’s two clips flipped down. The box shook, but the lid wasn’t cracking open anymore.

“Nice job!” Charlie said. “You’re the Yilnog right? I saw you in the yearbook.”

“Yeah.” Ernest shrugged. He didn’t get along with the rest of his family, despite its fame as one of the oldest magical clans. It rivaled even Gertie and Bridget’s, the Mallons.

“It’s good to meet you!” Charlie smiled. “Music magic is a wonderful specialty. Good choice! You know your stuff.”

Ernest didn’t know if he’d ever heard someone compliment his skills like that before. He smiled hesitantly and nodded at Charlie.

At the first success with the box, the other students seemed to relax. They started chatting amongst each other, trading their histories with magic and their skills.

“Done!” Gertie announced, holding up the notebook that she and Vivien had been translating the box spells into. A couple club members glanced over it, admiring their work.

“Should we try it?” Vivien asked.

The box shook, daring her to.

Charlie nodded. “Maybe it’ll shut it up.”

Vivien gestured that Gertie should cast the spell.

Gertie waved her hands over the box, reading from the notebook, summoning the magical energy she had stored in her various keychain accessories.

At the last word, the clips flipped back up and the box lid opened, breaking the twine that had somewhat contained it.

“Uh oh,” Gertie said.

It released a puff of smoke, filling the room with the noxious smell of burnt sugar. Peter tackled the box, slamming the lid shut, but the damage was done.

The other students started coughing, all clamoring to escape the room.

Including Darryl. “Sorry guys,” he coughed, fleeing.

“I can fix this!” Gertie shouted, pulling her t-shirt over her nose and mouth to filter out the smoke.

She searched through the cabinets over Mr. Jerson’s desk until she found a glass cup. It had a symbol etched into the side for “clean,” in a magical language. It was used to clear a room of any airborne potions - and this was close enough.

She held her hand in front of the symbol and said, “Begin” in its magical language.

The smoke cleared from the room, swirling away and disappearing into the cup.

“I really should get myself one of these,” Gertie said, coughing up the last of the smoke.

“Where did you get this box?” Vivien asked, wiping away tears from the smell.

Charlie just shrugged, looking mystified. “It was just...there. In my luggage.”

“It’s a joke,” Bridget suddenly said, standing up. She held out her phone.

Magical A-Musings presents the Caper Carton! Confound your friends! Trick your enemies! It rattles, it shakes, it slimes and it smokes! While perfectly harmless, it is the most irritating riddle your victims will come across. Want to end the madness for them? Just press the hidden button in the back to reveal it was empty the whole time!

Bridget walked up to the box and scratched her nails against its back until she found the hidden compartment diagramed on the website. She flipped it open and pressed the bright red button.

The rattling stopped. Bridget opened the lid of the box, and nothing happened. Just as the advertisement said, it was empty.

“So who tricked you?” Bridget asked, looking up at Charlie.

“No one,” Charlie mumbled. “I just...I found it. But thanks.” He nodded. “Really, thank you. I wouldn’t have thought to look it up. It seemed like an artifact.”

The silence stretched on until Peter clapped his hands together. “Well, I think that wraps up our first club meeting,” he said. “I’ll send out an email and hope that anybody comes back.”

“Will you?” Charlie asked Bridget, Gertie, Vivien and Ernest.

Bridget was hesitant, but Ernest broke into a wide grin. “Yeah! This was fun!”

Gertie nodded along. “We’ll definitely be back.”

***

After everyone left, Charlie gathered up the box and the discarded twine.

“That’s the first time anyone’s figured out it was a cheap gag,” Charlie mumbled.

Peter nodded. “But, come on, it wasn’t that bad,” he said. “We found some talented classmates. I think we could have a lot of fun while we’re here. And two Mallons and a Yilnog? We hit the jackpot.”

“There’s something great about this pit of a school after all,” Charlie agreed. “If they can be persuaded to bend the rules.”

Faye picked up the rabbit, holding him in one hand and her textbook in the other. “You guys need to be more careful. The Potions teacher probably knows that someone magicked those bullies to be sick. He’ll be on the lookout for who.”

“They deserved it,” Charlie muttered. “Magicaless oafs.”

“If you get in trouble again and it gets back to dad, we’ll never hear the end of it,” Faye warned.

Peter scoffed. “We don’t make trouble, it finds us.”

Charlie smirked. “For now.”

[ckatmyla]

#trypodcast (AKA read please)

Ah, Podcasts. Some people love them and listen to hundreds of episodes in one sitting, others take their time, slowly savoring each individual word. Others just stare at them and wonder; 'What's a podcast?' If you are one of those in the latter category, fret not. In essence, podcasts are pieces of audio entertainment comprising usually of chat shows (based on a specific topic) or some form of radio play (like the kind from before tv, and with about as many ads :P ). Just like any other form of entertainment, you can find practically any kind of podcast for any of your interests/preferences. You can download them from iTunes or some other format, or listen to them sometimes on youtube or on the show's website. Now you might be wondering; "Some of these podcast thingies have 100+ episodes. Do I have to listen to them all in order?" Well, that depends. If it's a radio play type format, you might need to listen from the beginning to get the whole story, but I know some people like to just dive in on the latest so --- do what you want, I'm not your mom. (With chat shows you can typically hop in anywhere, since they don't tend to have an overarching storyline.) But once you have found a podcast you enjoy, you can put them on your mobile device and listen to them pretty much whenever and wherever you want. Now, if you have any other questions about podcasts, feel free to ask me. I'm happy to help spread the word for this under-appreciated entertainment venue. ^^ Some shows I currently listen to and recommend: •Chat Shows• - Once Upon a Timing: A show dedicated to going through episode by episode the latest seasons of the ABC series Once Upon a Time. They recently have also done shows on the series's spin off show OUAT In Wonderland. Abby and Beth (and sometimes other guests) are always fun and I very much enjoy fangirling and speculating (and sometimes complaining) along with them. - The B-Movies Podcast: A movie (and sometimes tv) review show. The hosts (William Bibbiani and Witney Seibold) discuss movie news and chat about new releases in a fun, irreverent way that I like to listen to on occasion (when they do a movie I wanna hear about or have a guest I like). They once had on Alex Hirsch, the creator of Gravity Falls. So that's pretty cool. That's actually how I discovered them. - The Cracked Podcast: A show created and hosted by the writers of the comedy website Cracked. Their episodes are on a variety of topic (but a lot of the time tend to be pop culture related) and I find their discussions not only funny, but at times informative and thought provoking. This is another one where you can jump in anywhere. Whatever episode title grabs you from How Your Brain Warps Everything You See and Hear to 25 Bizarrely Specific Ways Movies Get Reality Wrong and everywhere in between. •Story-based Podcasts• -King Falls AM: A recent discovery of mine, this show is part Gravity Falls, part Night Vale, part Supernatural. Taking place in the small mountain town of King Falls, Ben and Sammy host a nightly chat show in the very, very wee hours of the night. It's a call in show so (I think rather cleverly) most of the "action" is done through calls and interviews. That's when things take a turn for the strange. In the first episode alone we get an alien abduction live on air. There are also werewolves, witches, skin walkers, and two very famous apparitions haunting the local library. The comedy is well worth a mention too, even if they slip into using colorful language every now and again. If you like tales of weird, mythical, and supernatural things, you just might want to check this out. - Hello From the Magic Tavern: About two years ago, our main character Arnie fell through a dimensional rift behind a Burger King into the magical, fantastical land of Foon. And every week he host a podcast from the tavern - The Vermilion Minotaur - in the town of Hogsface, in the land of Foon. He is nearly always joined by his friends Chunt the shapeshifter (usually in the form of a Badger) and Usidore [FULL NAME EDITED FOR TIME] the wizard. Most episodes find our heroes interviewing some magical resident of this world, with usually hilarity ensuing. The comedy is all improv, which can be hit or miss for some people but a good amount of time is hard to tell. This is definitely an *Adult Content* podcast so, beware of that. Notice I didn't say "mature" :P - Welcome to Night Vale: Probably the most well-known of the ones on this list, Night Vale is similar to King Falls in that it is a fictional radio show broadcast from a small town (this one in a desert) where strange things happen. The differences though are fairly clear once you've listened to them both. While KFAM is a call in show where the callers comment on all the weirdness, WTNV is a community announcement type show and where none of the weirdness is remarked upon as strange at all. A faceless old woman who secretly lives in all of the houses? Sure. A Five-Headed dragon runs for mayor and gets accused of a murder conspiracy? Why not. An enormous glowing cloud dropping dead animals from the sky (ALL HAIL) and then becoming a member of the school board? Sounds good to me! Give Night Vale a shot if you like the strange and unusual. Or if you yourself are strange and unusual. And now, the weather. And hey, if you're already a fan of podcasts, leave a comment here and tell me about your favorites. ^^

[vitalpen]

An Act Most Unusual

(Hey, so I needed to post something tonight because the bullshit with the magical disappearingwords got me down.  This is an old favorite.  Probably one of the best things I’ve ever written, at least if you ask me.  It’s a story about a unique circus act.  Enjoy.  Or don’t.  Your call really.  Either way, have a good one.)

It was on a windy night, when we were all tucked in bed, that the fliers drifted in.  In the darkness they were swept onto the streets from places unknown.  When they were discovered, some jumped for joy, counting the hours, while others grimaced, and counted the seconds.

Merely two days passed and up went the tents, the gates, the stands, and the forty massive towering poles that marked the show’s arrival.  The Circus had arrived with its menagerie of impossible wonders.

No matter our many opinions, we descended upon the grounds like a pack of wolves, lips wet with anticipation.  The individual displays that populated the grounds drew in many, but for those of us who knew, who’d heard from a friend of a friend of a friend, we headed for the center, to the tallest tent of them all.  We were the ones guided by well-dressed men and woman up polished wooden stairs, to an arena suspended high off the ground.

A spotlight above came alive with a pop. We were treated to the view we’d heard of in sly, tantalizing passing mentions.  Who we were didn’t matter; what we saw here was the only thing of consequence: a cage, in which a great pit yawned before us, and the spiders web of wires than laced across it.

There was the sound of gears and wheels turning, and a small, circular platform lowered from the abyss above us.  A man with a tailed coat, a top hat, and a hooked cane stood upon it, looking over the crowd as he descended.  The light shined down directly upon him, causing the brim of his hat to shadow his face.  Upon reaching his destination, he immediately hooked his cane around the metal pole and gave a deep bow.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”  He boomed assertively, hushing us all.  “Tonight,” his volume plummeted, knowing he had our attention, “tonight it is my ultimate pleasure to bring you a show like no other.  Your presence here denotes that you are informed, that you stepped onto the fairgrounds knowing exactly which tent you wanted.  The young star of this show is all too eager to reward you; she will dazzle you and amaze you, make you grip the edge of your seat, but what’s more,” his tone darkened, “she will worry you, unnerve you, bring fear to the surface and make you stare it in the eye.  This show is not for the faint of heart; people rarely earn a profit doing something safe.  If there are any among you who are not quite sure, I implore you, save yourself. Better to regret not seeing than never being able to unsee.”

Of course, none of us moved.

The light returned to his face abruptly, “Then without further ado, I present to you the song and dance that looks death in his bony face and offers him tea and a nice chat, the sounds of Annabelle the Acrobat!”  With that, he ascended back up into the darkness above.  We applauded at first, but with no clear act, it quickly died down. What remained was a din of speculation.

Finally, the platform descended once more, but this time there was a new occupant upon it; a young woman, no more than a teenager.

She was dressed halfway between a clown and a ballerina; a frilled blouse with gleaming gold buttons down the center, ending at a tutu and tights.  The ensemble was bathed in mute black and shining red, trimmed with white, and punctuated by pure ivory face paint.  Her makeup transformed her face, detaching it from identity, making it flawless.  It was blank canvas, untouched snowfall, waiting for us to entertain fantasies of her who she was.  She was no girl we knew, and yet she was all of them.  Our neighbor, our daughter, our sister; all could be upon the platform, ready to perform for us.

With her eyes closed, she breathed gently, in and out.  We leaned in slowly, our breathing matching up with hers.

Then, quite abruptly, her eyes revealed themselves, amber rings around her pupils.  She glanced all about her and half stepped, half hopped off the platform and onto one of the web’s wires.

It made an odd humming note as it responded to her weight and we were silenced.  She balanced herself a moment, then stepped to the next.  The shifting weight unbalanced her, made her wobble. We gasped and for a moment she looked like she would fall.

How tragic that would have been.

But she regained herself, standing with a foot on each wire.  She breathed in and out deeply, relief plain on her face.

She moved to another line, not stopping this time but bouncing across several wires.  A new sound, a pleasant string of notes, echoed into the air.  She stopped at the edge with a hand wrapped around the chain link fence that separated her slender form from our amorphous one.  The threshold of her metallic bubble was so thin, so porous, we could have reached out and touched her.

Her eyes darted this way and that, her head bobbed a few precise times, counting something.  Then she was off and out of our reach, bouncing across several seemingly random strings, each one increasing in pitch, going higher until she was directly opposite where she had been previously.

Then again, the same notes, but backwards. Once more and we finally understood.

She was checking the tune of the strings.

Each string had a tightener at the edge. Whenever she found an offending note, she adjusted it accordingly, checking them after each twist with a light tap of her finger.  Once the last of the adjustments was done, she hopped back to the center, then did a quick spin around, taking in the entire audience.

With a step off the platform, she began her first movement.

No longer did she bounce between strings; as the opening stanzas of her piece began, her pace was almost lazy.  Every few steps she drifted to one side or the other, as if by a gust of wind.  It wasn’t long before some of us recognized the tune, Beethoven’s Fur Elise.

Each step was placed perfectly on each wire. She never ceased for a moment; her legs guided her on her web as certainly as ours did on solid ground. No sooner had her tribute ended, a new song began.  From petite steps and quick soft notes, to bounding leaps and crashing symphonies, she played across the stage.  Back and forth, in and out, she journeyed all over, delivering melodious harmony.  The pieces she played were ones none of us had ever heard before, either from an artist we did not know, or of her own creation. Finally she landed back upon the middle platform, crossed one leg in front of the other, and gave a deep bow.

For just a moment, there was nothing. Not a peep, not a cough, not a whisper.

Then we erupted, standing up from our seats, marveled, astounded, amazed, and jealous at the talents of the artist before us. As she picked up a bottle upon the platform and drank from it deeply, several hoops descended on ropes from above. They stopped a few feet from the wires, and the spotlight dimmed and died, leaving us all in shadow.  With two short claps from the dancer, the hoops set ablaze with an otherworldly purple flame.  This new promise silenced us once more.

Just like that, she was off again, playing a sweet song that defied death and fire.  She leapt through the hoops, each smaller than the last.  Flames licked her outfit and grasped at her hair, but were ultimately disappointed.  Each landing brought new music flowing about the stadium, caressing us all, inspiring greed for more.  As she came to the final hoop, a ring so small that it was barely wider than her, she stalled, playing a few extra notes.  

What if she missed, caught fire; what a tragic spectacle that would surely be.  What a memory it would make.

But she dove through the hoop with practiced skill, landing unscathed.  Her arms spread out in a grand gesture and once again, we were left wondering through our applause how she could cheat death in such a way.  So entranced were we that we hardly noticed her heavy breathing, the sweat on her brow, the stress in her eyes.  With both height and flame bested, our inhibitions quickly began to ebb away, hunger rising to see the next performance.

Up went the rings and a new set took their place. Upon one side was a half circle wooden wall, painted with targets in various places. . On the other side a new performer descended on their own platform.

This new man was a tall, thin, clownish figure, in a baggy suit of pale gold and rich crimson, with frills at the neck and wrists, and a jester’s hat enveloping his head.  His face was covered by a simple mask, with two wide oval shaped eyes at a sinister slant, and a carved smile in it.  Painted around the left eye of the mask was a jet black spade that some of us mistook for the eyehole at first.  We thought it to be a statue for a moment, as the figure did not move even an inch on the platform.

None could say what, but there was something unnerving about the man.  Afterward, some of us would claim it was the way his head drooped, his shoulders sagged and his arms hung limp, some would insist it was the fact that we could see no skin, only the suit which, as we looked closer, was disheveled and worn, with the colors fading and irreparable tears that could not hope to be mended. Even his face behind the mask was covered in a black veil.  Others still would propose that it was the nervous expression on the acrobat’s face as she watched her cohort.

After his position had fully descended, he seemed to come slowly to life.  His head creaked up and his legs moved woodenly, unnaturally.  The right foot was placed in front, and the left to the side just slightly.  Slowly, it brought both arms up, displaying to the audience the twin knives in its hands. The long, slim, curved blades gleamed malevolently, the ornate guards practically glowed bronze.  Each looked like it would have cost hundreds at the very least.  From the hilt of each a long red ribbon hung lightly, catching the air and floating once in a while.

Once more the dancer took her place upon the musical web, and stayed where she was.  She eyed her fellow performer as it began to move its limbs once again. With finger and thumb pinching the blade tightly, an arm slowly rose up until it was vertical.  Before we could blink, the arm was down, before we could gasp, the girl was away, before we could understand, a loud thok echoed and the knife was buried several inches deep into the wooden wall.  The throwing arm now hung limp at the jester’s side, swinging ever so slightly.

The pattern that followed made us shift uncomfortably.  A new melody played, an uneven one, an uncertain one, silences, then a cacophony of notes almost at once, always accompanied by a methodical thok, thok, thok as the jester produced seemingly endless blades to assault the dancer with. If one did not know better, it could be assumed that he was trying to hit her.  

What if he did?  What if one of those gleaming blades pierced that slender form?  They were so long, so sharp, maybe they would go all the way through, impale her through the chest, and come out her back. Or her leg, where she would never be able to walk again, let alone dance.

How cruel that would be.

We followed the movements of the dancer, flinched with the rhythm of the blades, gasped whenever one nearly touched her. But not once, not even once, did a single one of us cover their eyes.  To do so would have been insult to the performance and our own entertainment. An affront to the entire show. Any of us who had been found to be such a coward would have been cast out.

As the last knife pierced the wood, the jester stopped.  His arms hung limp once more as the workings hidden above raised him up.  We all expected him to disappear from sight, but he was stopped with his feet just level to our eyes.  Further machinations above drew our attention now.  The show had been -granted new pieces.

Five new platforms arrived, each with two new figures upon them.  Nutcracker soldiers with identical smiling masks covering their faces stood in a uniform line, like a firing squad.  At each man’s side stood a rifle.  The girl moved back to her center platform, kneeled, and leaned forward, pressing herself against the base.

In unison the men picked up their rifles, took aim, and fired.  Ten very real bullets struck, cutting deep and sending small splinters into the darkness below.

Then the girl stood, and looked back at the wall. When she saw the marks, an expression came over her that suddenly took over us all.  Dread.  What if…

How grisly it would be...

She looked at the men and nodded, and then jumped off the platform, onto the wires.  She hit the first, and bounced high up, enough to see the viewers at eye level.  As she was in the air, the squad fired again.

She dropped to the wires and a new melody began. Sporadic strings of notes, then aerial pauses for the lead drumline.  Another drop, another stanza, another bounce, another hail of bullets. Again, again.  

Then we heard it.

The sharp sound of metal on metal, a ricochet.

At the height of her jump, the child jerked, arched her back forward, her face twisted between agony and surprise.

What a tragedy it was.

Time froze, we couldn’t move or think.  We could only stare as the talented, young girl screamed soundlessly, a bullet in her back.  She finally began to fall, heading for the wires.

There was a dissonant jumble of notes as her body landed, convulsing from pain.  Her jaw clenched, her back jerked and bent, and her fingers wrapped around intersections of wires and gripped them so hard they looked ready to snap.  We could see her eyes, but they could not see us; they could not see anything.  When finally her movements stopped, the light and pain were gone.  There was only emptiness.  Her grip loosened, and her hand slid off, leaving her arm to hang limp above the void.  The shift in weight caused the wires to move, her body became unbalanced and she began slipping.

We rose from our seats, ran to the edge, trying to keep her in sight.  A hundred hands grabbed the fence, reached in, but to no avail.  Some shouted to her cohorts, who remained motionless.  There was a screeching above as the announcer in his tailed coat slid down, his cane hooked around the pole.  Just as he reached her, she was gone; the last of her legs slid off and she plummeted below.  Death’s percussion was a sickening one.

“Lower me!”  The man shouted upward, echoing pathetically.  The creaking of gears came from above once more and the platform was lowered into the abyss.  We heard faint sounds of movement, then the clear shout of “Raise it up!”  The platform began slowly rising back to us, daring us with its pace to stay and witness that beautiful and broken corpse.

But a corpse we did not see.

Two stood upon the platform: the man, who welcomed us to the show, and the beloved, coveted, talented, dead performer.  She stood there, refuting our sorrow and mourning with a smile of triumph and graceful but excited waves of her hand.

We were stunned, unable to comprehend.  She had been shot.  She had fallen upon her web in spasms and clenches of death, then fallen to the black maw, swallowed whole by it with a sickening crunch.  Yet here she stood, unharmed, smiling, greeting us all.

As we would look back, many would remember happiness, excitement, relief.  We would forget the feeling of being manipulated, or even worse, the feeling of disappointment.  Others, though, would remember unease, barely hidden agony, a chipped smile.  We would remember silent pleas in the eyes of a child in pain. We would remember an oozing wound, just next to her lower spine.

We would remember blinking, and finding the hole had vanished.