#I really though the piercings and the tattoos and the drinking on live would rattle these freaks off him

[94erz]

I need more JK fans to stop treating him like a fucking child. He got signed to Calvin Klein as both a jeans AND underwear ambassador, meaning yeah, there’s a good chance he could model the underwear too. Yet for some reason I’m seeing a lot of his fans hate that idea? Some even going as far as to say it would damage his image? Fuck off. 

He’s already been sexualized to this point, what would it matter now if he modeled in some boxer briefs for a company that’s entirely known for its ad campaigns of people in the brands underwear? If JK didn’t wanna model being that exposed, he wouldn’t have signed with them under the label for jeans and underwear.

He was just on live folding a bunch CK gave him, hell don’t be shocked if that was his way of giving y’all a spoiler for what’s to come. Don’t drool over his abs and talk about how sexual he is and then get angry when it tips a point you now feel is ‘’too much’’. That’s HIS body, that’s HIS choice, either continue to drool over him or shut up.

[mattzerella-sticks]

metamorphosis

Chapter 1 (ao3)

Prologue (ao3) (tumblr)

What if, when Jack was born, he stayed a baby?

A retelling of season 13, with a few key differences.

No planned schedule, will update when I finish chapters lol

Chapter 1 - Dean I

           “Cas?”

           Dean waited, watching Cas’s lips. He waited for his name to be spoken, said in that same mixture of fondness and exasperation and gravel that ticked the tempo of his heart up a notch. He waited for his angel to smile, then tell Dean that he’s fine; that it wasn’t more than a scratch, that he’s still here.

           Any minute now.

           “…Cas?” Dean’s voice sounded scratchy, raw, like a needle ripped through a spinning record. He blinked back his tears, embarrassed, because Cas might wake soon and see him break, see him not be strong enough. His gaze broke from Cas’s bluing lips, staring at the starless sky above. He saw night begin its transition to early morning, a sun sliver dipping into the horizon, and wondered how long Cas will play with him like this. How long will Cas pretend to lie there? How long will Cas insist that he’s –

           “Cas!” Even with the extra help from gravity, Dean couldn’t stop the pinprick tears tracing their way down to his ears, wetness setting his skin aflame. He choked on a sob, the rubber band of his body snapping and recoiling into itself. His shoulders shook. He squeezed tight to his stomach. Dean closed his eyes, but inside that shuttered darkness was Cas, emerging from the portal. Cas with the blade in his hand. Cas with a blade, poking out his chest. “Oh… oh, God…”

           He’s really gone. He’s gone and Dean hurt. Dean hurt so much.

           Dean cracked one eye open, then another. In his periphery, he saw the tips of Cas’s limp fingers lying in the dirt along with the rest of his body.

           It was something he has wanted to do for some time now. Dean noticed what happens halfway into its journey, his trembling hand hovering over Cas’s. He lowered it cautiously. When there’s barely an inch of space separating his middle finger from Cas’s knuckles, Dean stopped. Dean couldn’t close that final gap. He stared at the emptiness between them, small but terrifyingly infinite, and was frozen in terror.

           “Dean!”

           Sam’s call stirred him from that horrid trance, urgency reminding Dean of all else that happened. Of Crowley’s sacrifice, of the portal closing, of mom on the other side; those events crashed into him like a terrible wave, washing him out into a roaring sea that denied him any sense or reason. Standing, legs ready to give out on him at any moment, Dean stumbled towards where he last heard his brother.

           He forgot about the steps. Sam caught him, guiding him past the threshold and into the cabin with lumbering haste. Dean’s vision returned to him soon, though. He drew Sam further to his side, for a loose hug, then shoved his brother’s oafish frame off of him. Dean supported himself using the wall instead. “What?” he asked, growling, “What is it?”

           Sam tried to speak but got cutoff by a shrill cry coming from another room. Sam shrugged, jerking his head to where, Dean guesses, the crying originated. He’d also take a stab at who’s responsible for crying, too.

           Kelly’s son. Lucifer’s son. The whole damned reason Dean’s life lay shattered in the clearing out back.

           Hearing those whines and sobs rattle the cabin’s chilly silence helped harden what remained of his heart, enough so that the baby’s shrieking echoed in the hollow chambers of Dean’s chest. It made what he must ask next much easier. “You didn’t kill him yet?”

           Sam visibly startled, jaw clenched that familiar way Dean knows meant an argument brewed within; his brother’s puppy dog features deceived, hiding his true feelings. Again, as Sam readied to speak, the baby took his cue and interrupted with a damning wail. Sam pressed his lips into a thin, mangled line while he waited his turn.

           A minute passed, and it’s doubtful the little guy would lose steam soon. Dean sighed. He pushed off the wall, passing Sam as he followed the noisy little bastard. Sam stayed right behind him, heavy footsteps and chiding tone mixing with the crying to shred Dean’s nerves into oblivion. “You are not doing this, Dean,” Sam hissed, tugging on his elbow, “we need to talk about it first –“

           “Who can talk over all this racket!” He wrenched his arm free, storming into the baby’s nursery while Sam dawdled under the doorframe. Their entrance meant little to the newborn, who continued crying despite their entrance. “And I’m not killing him –“ he kept his yet stored in the barrel of his mouth, unfired, conscious of how it will be received in the moment – “gonna shut him up for a while, s’all…” Dean punctuated his claim by grabbing the baby, Jack if the painted name on the crib meant anything, and tucking him into the crook of his arm. He bounced him like he did Sam decades ago, like he would for any normal baby, cooing sweet nothing that tumbled out of him as if they were sand in a broken hourglass, shards mixed within. Dean spied a rocking chair in the corner and, with Sam’s piercing gaze studying him, Dean collapsed into it.

           That seemed to work. Dean’s gentle rocking, paired with a hummed lullaby cherrypicked from his past, put the hellion in his arms at ease. Jack stared up, transfixed by what Dean guessed is the tall lamp casting a gentle glow on them both; a lamp Sam, now in the room and by his side, flicked on after Dean sat down. It must be the center of his focus, because Dean wouldn’t believe the baby looked at him like he did; like he’s a bright and beautiful thing, deserving of attention, of being the center of his known universe. He didn’t want that, especially from him.

           Dean swallowed a curse and ended their contest, sure if he looked into the baby’s eyes any longer, he would damn the consequences and wring the life from this tiny body nestled in his hands. He waited for Jack’s fit to tamper lower and lower, rising only after a moment of uninterrupted silence. Dean carried Jack back, returning him to his crib. He added another mistake into the column of ever-increasing errors and glanced at Lucifer’s kid a final time. He examined him, searching for little horns or a tail or tattoos of sixes; he found nothing. Nothing that proved he’s more than a child, innocent and carefree.

           Sam hung by his shoulder, buzzing halo bothersome in Dean’s ear. “I think he likes you.”

           Dean huffed under breath, “I wish I could say the same.”

           He left. Sam trailed in his wake; tread heavy from being constipated with a smug righteousness Dean dreaded will be shat all over him when Sam had the chance. He was silent until the kitchen, then Sam struck. “His mother just died, Dean.”

           Dean shrugged, “So did ours.” He expected that to feel weird saying, but it hadn’t. Sam gaped at him, like it had. Maybe Dean’s in shock. Maybe he was too used to having a dead mom. Dean carried on regardless. ��If you think a sob story’s gonna convince me of anything, try hitting me when the kids got enough pages to fill a book larger than Moby Dick’s, or ours. Right now, he’s a table of contents and not much else.”

           “Exactly,” Sam needled, poking Dean’s chest. Dean swat him away with the refrigerator door, creating a makeshift barrier to protect himself from Sam’s crusade. He dug around for something to drink, something boozy, as Sam prattled. “Look, Dean, we… I know our thing is – our thing is killing monsters but, Dean, he’s a baby. He – he didn’t do anything –“

           “He was conceived,” Dean said, “that’s enough for me.” His groping fingers pushed aside the carton of milk for a third time; he still couldn’t find the beer.

           “That wasn’t his fault.” Sam rested his hand over Dean’s where it rested on the refrigerator door, pleading for Dean to look at him by touch alone. Dean relented, darting his eyes for a fleeting glance. Sam’s brows were drawn in like a steep hill, and he appeared absolutely ghastly because of the refrigerator’s light. Dean fell back to his mission. “Lucifer… he set this in motion, and we’ve dealt with him.”

           “And what did it cost us?”

           Sam sighed. “Everyone we lost knew what this was about,” he told Dean, “knew how it might end. They were ready to risk their lives for this.”

           “We were here to take down Lucifer, end of story,” Dean spat, knocking items onto the floor in his fervor. He tore through like a whirlwind, throwing food everywhere. Eggs, lettuce, ketchup and pickles – no beer though. Dammit. “And with the kid kicking, we haven’t even finished our mission.”

           “Jack is not Lucifer!” Sam squeezed Dean’s wrist, begging for more attention. Dean’s spiteful, rigid glare burned a hole in the back of the fridge. He refused to move even an inch. “He’s a baby, and we… we kill monsters. We kill the ones who have no chance of being saved. He was just born, Dean. He had no choice in that.”

           “Who’s to say that he won’t choose to be a monster, once he’s old enough?”

           Sam strangled his wrist, now, Dean’s fingers numbing because of his brother’s impassioned grip. “We’ll make sure. We’ll raise him right.”

           This drew Dean out of the refrigerator. “We?” he laughed, bitterness churning in his gut. “We, really? You think…” Dean didn’t finish, speechless at the insanity Sam presented. He and Sam, raising Lucifer’s kid? He and Sam, sheltering the baby who ruined their lives? He and Sam… “I hate to break it to you, Sammy,” he continued, his voice returning, “but this ain’t the nineties. We can’t have it all, clearly. And we are not taking that kid in like some muddy stray.”

           “Cas wanted to raise him.”

           Dean gagged. The toxic rush of seconds ago disappeared, spilling out from the seam Sam pulled loose.

           Sam, at least, was aware enough to briefly mime an apology. His face contorted into a pained expression, exaggerated to better mangle his earlier fury. However, that’s smoothed and replaced with sterner features as he detached himself from his words, and the ugliness that they inspired. He stood tall, committed to the outburst, and from the curl of his scowl, Dean wouldn’t expect him to take back what’s been said. It will linger like the other ghosts.

           If that was how he wanted to do this.

           “Sure,” Dean agreed, “and that got him what, exactly?” He slammed the refrigerator door, startling both of them and the baby. Jack’s wailing picked up where he left off, although sharper and more annoying. Dean pushed into Sam, instinct urging him to soothe like he did earlier. Dean stopped himself, hesitating. He spun on his heel, leaving where he came in.

           Sam shouted, “You can’t just run away Dean!”

           “I’m getting some air, is all!” he yelled back, ripping the door off its hinges in his haste to leave.

           A terrifying gust rammed into him almost immediately, giving him the very air he craved. Then, a second wind blows in the opposite direction; stealing his breath as his gaze landed on the body of his angel, immobile, with black skid marks in a shoddy recreation of what might be wings splayed beside him like oddly bent branches. Dean blindly descended, too focused with Cas’s form than the stairs. When his feet reached solid, uneven ground, Dean slowed to a glacial pace. Cas didn’t react.

           Dean tried not to, too. Hand at his cheek, wiping some more stray tears, Dean failed.

           He ripped himself away, jogging from the backyard space towards the front where his true escape was. Dean white knuckled his keys, jagged teeth biting into the palm of his hand. Pain kept him from spiraling, from thinking, from staying there. And when he couldn’t use pain, key nestled in the ignition instead of his hand, Dean had the next best thing – open roads.

           The engine roared, overpowering the blood rushing past his ears. Dean demolished the speed limit easily, bulleting across the asphalt, pedal his trigger. It’s early enough he needn’t worry about highway patrolmen or wayward pedestrians. He drove fast, loose, and recklessly. Fuck Vin Diesel, Dean thought. Vin had nothing on him.

           Kelly’s cabin was a blurry spot in his rearview mirror, a speck he might scratch off with his nail if he pleased. Trees became indistinguishable from each other. Not that it mattered, Dean’s tunnel vision blocking his periphery. His eyes remained fixed ahead of him, uncharacteristically so. It took most his focus to keep like that, hands cramping on the wheel from throttling it. He counted dash after dash and tallied potholes as he hit them, stuffing his mind with senseless figures other than the lone one he abandoned in the field.

           Soon, Dean reached a nearby town. The greenery became sparser, leaves and wood replaced by buildings and city blocks and lampposts and streetlights. He hit his first light, a blip of red flashing for attention. Thoughtlessly, Dean flattened his foot against the brake; Baby’s tires squealing as she fought momentum. Dean knocked against his dashboard from the force, falling back only after his car fully stopped. He couldn’t see the streetlight dangling above. Dean knew he sat over the line, his Baby’s hood hanging in the intersection, asking for an accident.

           A second later, and what he was driving from caught up to him.

           Dean gasped, curling in on himself, hands glued to the wheel. His body seized with sobs that bruise, each tremor punching his gut. He used what little strength he had and glanced at his reflection. That speck on his rearview, that he foolishly clawed at, didn’t disappear; it was caught in his bloodshot eyes.

           He couldn’t continue driving like this.

           Red light, green light, it didn’t matter now. Dean crawled along to the nearest lot that belonged to a tacky chain eatery. Parking inside, Dean threw his car door open and spilled free of his Baby. He fell to his knees, hissing, denim ripping on impact and gravel scratching his skin. Dean staggered to his feet. Blood trickled down his leg from the open wound on his knee. He walked forward, dazed, while Baby idled at an angle, keys trapped in her ignition. If it were later in the day, someone might steal her. If Dean were acting like himself, he might care.

           He didn’t go far. Dean slowed as he approached the fast-food joint, stopping inches from the backdoor. His bottom lip wobbled, Dean raking his hair with twitching fingers. He stared at the door, at the wooden sign hanging by a single, rusted nail. It depicted a stereotypical pirate, with hat, beard, and eyepatch, painted on a blue background and encircled by cartoonish rope that framed this pirate’s face along with an oblong addition underneath of the word ‘BUCCANEERS’. The pirate glared ahead, at some far point, as if Dean weren’t there blocking it.

           But he was. Dean was here, while everyone else – everyone he cared about…

           “Why me?” he muttered, “Why’s it always… why do I have to deal with it, with the after, with picking up the pieces of someone else’s mess.” Dean growled, head bowed, eyes unflinchingly locked with the pirate’s. “Mom… Crowley… Ca” – he stuttered on his name, wounds still too fresh – “you’re gonna bring him back. You’re gonna bring them all back. After everything I’ve done for this shithole, that I’ve been through, it’s the least that I’m owed. I deserve to… I – I don’t deserve this.”

           The pirate ignored his pleas, it couldn’t answer him. And Chuck, apparently, wouldn’t answer him.

           “…Okay.”

           Dean launched himself at the pirate, picturing a brown beard instead of black, and a grayish blue eye where a black one was painted. He smashed it with one punch, face splintering and spraying everywhere. Dean continued wrecking it, nearly destroying the door in his fury. Aiming a final blow, Dean hit the sign off the nail and sent it flying from view.

           Exhausted, knuckles as bloody as his knee, Dean collapsed near the stacked crates and leaning pallets.

           A shudder traveled across his body, from the top of his head, dragged along each vertebra like a sharp, clawed finger, and finally making his legs seize and stretch out in front of him. Dean vacuumed in a deep breath, chest ballooning to contain it. He won’t release it willingly.

           “Dude…”

           Coughing, Dean glanced up at some teenager standing nearby, gaping at the scene. He wore a large brown jacket a shade lighter than his skin over a deep blue polo that matches the visor currently worn like a headband, so his bangs wouldn’t  his face. A ring of keys dangled in his hands. Keys that, Dean guessed, were for opening the very door he pummeled as if it were a punching bag.

           “Hey, man,” the teen asked, glancing between Dean and the wrecked door, “are you… like, good? Do I need to call someone?”

           A repairman. The teen’s manager. Neither would do Dean any good, but both will need to know about the damage he did to the property.

           Dean groaned, climbing to his feet. He swayed with the breeze, a lone willow in this blacktop clearing. Some of the blood from his knuckles drippled like morning dew would off its leaves. He advanced, the teen tensing as he moves closer. Their shoulders brushed, the younger of the two stumbling back a few inches, cowering in Dean’s presence. Dean thought he should say something, let him know there’s nothing to be afraid of.

           That felt like too much of a damned lie, so he caught the words in his throat and swallowed them down.

           He returned to his car, starting it like nothing happened, like his skin hadn’t torn and tears weren’t drying on his cheeks as he refused to wipe them off. Dean tapped the pedal and drove off. He drove the same path he took earlier, only in reverse. He drove to Kelly’s cabin, and all that waited for him there.

           Dean parked sloppily, again; however, pocketing his keys this time as he left Baby. He didn’t acknowledge the front door, shuffling into the backyard for another glimpse of Cas’s body.

           Cas was gone. His wings were still there, and Sam was, too.

           Sam dropped a stack of branches onto a large pile he must have begun gathering after Dean fled. He rubbed at his neck, steadily avoiding where Dean’s gaze was by looking at the pile. “I moved him,” he explained, “I figured we might as well start on the… on the pyres for him, and Kelly.” Sam paused. He grabbed a lone branch, snapping a twig from it. “I didn’t do anything else. Figured you would want to…”

           “Yeah.” Dean blinked, then imagined the shadows burnt into the ground rising and rising, flapping determinately, until they vanished. He blinked. Those wings hadn’t moved an inch.

           Dean headed into the cabin.

           He spied Cas’s body immediately, laid atop the kitchen table. Sam rearranged him during transit, closing his eyes and setting Cas’s arms at his sides. If he weren’t thinking about it constantly, weren’t reminded of Cas’s current state with every beat of his own heart, Dean might believe Cas was asleep. Or, at the very least, imitating it, since angels can’t sleep. They can’t eat. There’s a lot they can’t do. And Cas won’t ever not do any of that, not anymore.

           Sighing, Dean circled the table while tracing the edges of it with his fingertips. He reached the other side, where a gauzy pair of curtains hung. Dean swung his arm outward, going through the motions to free them. It’s quick work.

           Wrapping Cas with these curtains will take a lifetime.

            Dean started by lifting Cas’s head and slipping a strip underneath. He cradled him, unnaturally soft tufts of hair tickling his fingers. Holding Cas in such a manner encouraged further action, tempted Dean to do more. He succumbed to these voices, the fast few hours since they last sung weakened his resolve. Dean ran his bloodied knuckles across Cas’s face. He stained deathly pale skin red. He hissed, stubble like sandpaper against his cuts. He left no wrinkle untouched.

           Finally, Dean switched to his thumb and pressed it just below Cas’s lips.

           It’s maddening, touching Cas like this, like he always wanted. He dreamt of being able to for longer than he could remember. Daydreams and fantasies of Dean, curled into Cas’s side, leisurely and lovingly memorizing every inch of the other’s face. Those moments were always pretend, too human to ever be real, to expect from an angel like Cas. Now, as his thumb swept along the bow of Cas’s lips, Dean paid his respects to the thousands of imagined mornings and nights that would not be. Dean worshiped Cas in a way he never wanted to, but in the only way he’d ever be allowed to.

           “I’m sorry…” Dean placed a featherlight kiss to the corner of Cas’s mouth. Then, unable to bear looking at him, he wrapped the curtain over his face.

           He shrouded the rest of Cas’s body with military precision, robotically completing his ritual. Dean hovered at his side, tightly clutching the final knot in Cas’s wrappings. His head hung listlessly, the foundations of a prayer forming on his tongue. He gnashed his teeth together, smashing it, and the sentiment’s remains tumbled backwards. It ripped apart his insides like glass. The only person who would listen, who’d care, who might heal this hurt, couldn’t.

           Cas was –

           Dean let go, marching into the backyard. Silently Dean joined Sam, amassing wood in his stead while Sam assembled the pyres.

           Together, they completed their duties by sundown. It might have been sooner if Sam didn’t slack off to play nursemaid to Lucifer’s kid. He ran off at the slightest bit of static coming from the garish, incongruently colored baby monitor clipped onto his belt loop, dragging their duties out because of intermittent breaks. When they finally set Cas and Kelly on their respective pyres, the sky darkened to the same shade it was that they lost both of them.

           Dean handled the fire. He struck two matches from a box buried in a kitchen drawer, then tossed them into the kindling. Sam, meanwhile, held a very fussy baby that showed no respect for ceremony. His piercing shrieks rung out clearly, somehow amplified by the open space. And as Jack’s cries mixed with the roar and crackle of flames, along with Sam mindlessly grunting back in a desperate plea for Jack to stop, Dean gave in. He stole Jack from Sam, nestling the baby against his chest.

           His temper lessened while in Dean’s arms, and Jack soon quieted.

           Dean felt Sam’s stare on his profile once more, an uncomfortable heat much different than what radiated from the cremating bodies before them. He hated it, being gawked at like some zoo animal. Yet Dean refused to turn, to bark at Sam that this momentary lapse meant nothing.

           He’s only exhausted. Too tired to shutter the devastation on his face, every crack of Dean’s heart was on full display. He’s not in the mood to fight with Sam, either, aware he needed him more than he needed to lash out. He’s broken and couldn’t even manage the energy to toss Jack into the fires like he imagined himself doing.

           Instead, Dean embraced him. He watched the smoke of his angel’s body drift upwards, Cas leaving him for good, forever, and rested his chin against the small, soft head of Cas’s destroyer.

Tagged List:

@llamasdumpsterfire

[mackgemma]

history is made at night.

when august 2014 where arkansas what gemma ( then known as ‘gwen’ ) and a friend take a night too far a/n done for task two - the first time. 2300 words of murder porn. literally.  triggers oh boy. murder, obviously. prostitution. sex. knife play. cutting. violence. vague domestic violent acts. 

Summer in Arkansas was unbearable. The heat was undeniable, and for those working at the local bar, drinking between customers was expected. The twang Grace had picked up was another affection of her new personality - Gwen, she called herself down here, a redhead with a propensity for whiskey, a little loud, a little slutty, and definitely not local. 

She’d settled in well enough - found a roommate, found a girlfriend, pierced her navel and eyebrow and got a tattoo on her hip of a bird. Generic, cheap - Gwen could be all of this and more. And it was her girlfriend - Phoebe, though if that was her real name, Grace’d be damned, but who was she to judge? - who showed her how powerful it was to sell her body to a man. To take his money, show him a good enough time, and know that they were merely putty in your hands. 

Empowering. Most would frown upon sex work - god knew, if her parents ever found out what their darling Grace was doing, they’d disown her immediately. And it wasn’t like she needed the money - no one questioned that her credit cards still said Grace Mack when she told them her name was Gwen - but it was still...liberating. 

Sometimes they sold themselves as a pair. Gwen and Phoebe, two for the price of one. Guys went nuts for it, especially the locals who’d never admit to spending their hard earned cash on the cute bartenders at the pub. Not to their friends, and definitely not to their wives. And while Phoebe definitely needed the money more than Grace, she refused to let her have it all. The one time she tried to take more than her cut, she’d wound up with a bruise on her face that she told people she managed to get from tripping down the stairs. 

Typical excuse for a typical small town. The fact that she was gay only made it more confusing - small little Gwen couldn’t have landed a punch like that, left a mark like that. But they didn’t know what Grace did - seeing her girlfriend crumbled up in a corner of the room, crying and begging her to stop, was the most intoxicating feeling in the world. 

It was everything. 

But she wanted more. Going after Phoebe on more than the rare occasion wouldn’t be enough - no, and if she went missing, the people of their town would take note. And Grace - well, she could run, but Gwen would definitely be a suspect. She needed to find someone who wouldn’t be traced back to her. 

She propositioned Phoebe with a gift - a trip to Texarkana, a reprieve from their day to day hell. A vacation of sorts, for those who could ever look at a spot on the map in the middle of the Bible Belt and call it a vacation. They could find someone new, a third who they could both use for their own advantage, and get a lot more cash than they were getting from the hometown boys who were hiding their own latent sexualities in hookers and booze. 

It was easy enough; find a popular trucker stop, wear a short dress, wait for the interest to come. When Grace told the man she was one half of a pair, his eyes lit up - an extra $500, no problem, he was in. Two nubile young girls, barely old enough to be on their own, much less violate - he’d pay for them. 

The motel room was chosen by Phoebe. Grace was ready to do it there in the parking lot, but Phoebe at least had the thought to remember that cameras were everywhere. A problem Grace had to contend with if she wanted to keep living as Gwen, or anyone else for that matter. 

The trucker wasn’t the worst looking guy, but he definitely wasn’t going to get Grace wet enough to fuck. It was the thought of what was coming that turned her on, that made her blood flow, her skin tingling with anticipation. She let him kiss her, touch her, alternating between herself and Phoebe on the other side of the bed, pulling her dress over her head. 

“Sometimes we like things a little more dangerous,” she cooed in his ear after a little while, his dick in Phoebe’s mouth as Grace trailed her fingers over his chest. “A little rougher.” 

“Oh, I can go rough,” he promised, but she shook her head, nose crinkling in amusement - she turned just enough to open the nightstand drawer, pulling out a knife they’d taken from the diner they’d been in just an hour before. “Oh,” he blanched, Grace smiling innocently as she ran it through her fingers, “you mean like - rough, rough.” 

“It’s easy,” she promised, kissing him gently as she passed it over to Phoebe who pulled herself away from their toy for the night to settle herself between Grace’s thighs instead. “You can watch us first, if you want.” 

He nodded, a little apprehensive, but Gwen and Phoebe had done this a hundred times over - small scars lined both their bodies, and Phoebe traced one on Grace’s thigh with her tongue, dangling the knife dangerously in her hand. But Phoebe knew the consequences of going too rough on Gwen - things could turn at the drop of a hat if they needed to. 

( grace so desperately wanted the excuse for them to. )

Grace let out an exhale as soon as the knife touched her skin - a little cool, the sharp edge just teetering against her. She nodded, and Phoebe smiled as she let the knife drag into Grace’s skin, a bright red line of blood exposed as Grace hissed; it was almost enough to let the energy inside of her come out, but tonight she’d get so much more. Still, the air made the cut sting, and Phoebe’s tongue lapped at the cut as she placed the knife down, Grace moaning in relief and desire. The man next to them had his cock in his hand, stroking himself as he watched them, and for a moment, Grace let Phoebe raise herself higher, her tongue against Grace’s clit, a finger buried inside of her, her mouth coated in blood and spit and a small orgasm rippled through her, one hand around the knifes handle and the other groping her own chest. 

“My turn?” he asked when Phoebe sat back on her knees, wiping her face off with the back of her hand and Grace laughed, nodding slightly, the manic feeling taking a hold of her. 

“Your turn,” she promised, pushing herself up ( the sting of the cut as it folded against her skin striking, Grace ignoring it as she sat up ) to straddle his waist. “Where do you want to feel it?” 

“Oh, uh, I thought I could like - for you, not - “ 

“Tsk, tsk,” she shook her head while Phoebe laughed, leaving the bed just to ensure the door was locked and the window curtains were closed. She turned the air conditioner on, Grace’s skin erupting in goosebumps as the cold air hit them, the noise rattling loudly enough that no one would hear them. 

( there was no one around to hear them, really. ) 

“Don’t you want to be a good sport,” Grace asked, letting the knife rest easily on his collarbone, dragging it down his sternum before letting the point just barely break flesh above his navel. “We all get to bleed here.” 

“I dunno,” he sounded nervous, his attention diverted between Grace and her knife, Phoebe crawling behind her and kissing her neck and the wedding ring on the nightstand. “I mean, I don’t - my wife - “ 

“You’re a trucker,” Grace promised, her voice smooth as honey, leaning forward just enough to pull his attention back to her. And he did seem distracted - though whether it was because her knife dug a little deeper or because he was staring at her breasts, she didn’t really care. “Just say it was an accident. A fight.” 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re both very hot but - “ 

Grace lost her patience, her eyes rolling as she let out a huffy sigh. “Get me the duct tape.” 

Phoebe was up and moving before he even seemed to realize what was happening - a plea, an argument, but Phoebe dutifully did her part, silencing him with a few pieces of well laid silver tape over his mouth, panic officially settling in. And he was big, but there were two of them - Grace let her knife clatter to the floor for a moment while they tied his hands up against the bed, the knots secure from weeks of watching youtube tutorials online despite his thrashing. 

“The more you panic, the more she loves it,” Phoebe whispered to him, and Grace was touched, that in such a short amount of time her girlfriend had learned so much about her. About her darker tendencies, the thrill of violence. She paused long enough to give her a kiss, offering the handle of the knife as they broke away. 

“Do you want the first slice?” 

“This is your dream, baby,” she breathed, and Grace smiled wider, the manic look in her eyes reflected in the adoration of Phoebe’s. “You do it.” 

So she did. 

A nice, thick slice down his thigh first - a tease, really, something she’d done to Phoebe dozens of times, and girls before her who were looking for a little help for self inflicted violence. But he shuddered, trying to scream behind his gag and Grace just let out a laugh, shaking her hair out of her eyes as she spread the cut apart with her fingers, letting Phoebe taste it off of her as he watched in horror. And from there, it was almost like a serene peace washed over her - every line on his body let out another frustration she’d had bottled up inside of her, another day she could look forward to in peace before the need hit her again. 

When they were done, she wasn’t sure who bore more blood - them, him, or the mattress underneath of him. But that was expected - she wouldn’t bother cleaning up after herself, had let Phoebe check them in, had stayed completely undetected the entire time. And as she stared at him, eyes wide in terror and mouth still covered with duct tape, she smiled peacefully to herself. It was an urge, a desire she’d held as long as she could remember, and now she’d done it. 

Murder. It wasn’t as hard as everyone made it seem - at least, not emotionally. Physically, she had to admit she was a little sore. 

“I’m going to shower,” Phoebe said, her voice wavering a little. She’d ridden the high of the act for as long as it lasted, but Grace could see her wavering now. The small frown tugging her lips down, the way she kept avoiding eye contact. 

She would freak out. It was inevitable. She’d panic, and tell, and while she didn’t know enough about Grace’s real identity to put an alert out, it would still raise alarms. 

Grace didn’t think twice. 

She’d packed gloves just in case, and she let Phoebe shower as she washed off the knife - evidence of herself, as best she could. They’d be able to tell there were multiple blood types, but Grace’s would be minimal compared to their victims and Phoebe’s. And without fingerprints, they’d assume the stage was set for what Grace wanted it to be - a murder suicide of a type, panic and nerves overtaking Phoebe as she took a John in a motel in the middle of nowhere. Gwen would die with her - she’d have to hitch to a new town, find some hair dye, pick a new name. But that was okay - Gwen was done with, and someone new was emerging inside of her. 

“Baby?” Grace called, Phoebe sticking her head out of the bathroom with her bottom lip worried between her teeth. “Come here.” 

Phoebe started blubbering almost immediately, but Grace had always been unaffected by tears. She nodded, pretending to listen, the blood soaked into her skin hardening, turning a dark brown from the violent red that had coated her earlier. She led Phoebe to the bed, and if her girlfriend noticed the gloves, she said nothing. Her voice was high pitched, nervous as she spit out question after question - what if someone saw them, what if someone was looking for him, what if they didn’t cover their tracks well enough - and Grace listened to her for a few moments while she assessed her. 

In the end, it was even easier than their original intention - he had been a game, but this was business. And after one too many questions, Grace merely raised the knife to her throat, slicing it before she could even question what was happening. She let the knife clatter to the floor, Phoebe’s eyes searching her own as the life trickled out of her. Grace merely smiled at her, kissing her forehead before removing the gloves she’d put on without Phoebe paying attention. 

“You were amazing, sweetie,” she promised, a glazed look starting to appear as blood slipped out from her throat. “You just were never going to be permanent. But thank you, really. You’ve given me the best gift I could ever ask for.” 

The only thing Grace decided to clean was herself; she ensured there was no evidence of herself anywhere, pulled the cash out of their truckers wallets and whatever Phoebe had had left. It was enough to get her to Missouri, maybe, or Florida. Maybe she’d go north - Michigan, or Minnesota. 

Whatever she did, as she let the door close behind her and she slipped into the darkness, she knew this wouldn’t be the last of it. The bloodlust had been satiated, calmed, but not diminished. Not forever. 

One day, she’d do it again. Whether that was as Georgia, or Gia or Gloria or Gabriella, she didn’t know. But she knew, with absolute certainty, that she’d found her calling. 

[yuudetama]

Goodbye, Peter Pan [Chapter 7]

And as we swim in the lonely sea, I wonder: who will be there to watch when we finally sink and drown?

CSI!Bangtan AU. Chapter 6 → Chapter 7 

Once, during your very first murder investigation as a crime scene detective, you had been summoned to the city cemetery in the dead of the night (as Jin had so wittingly put it). With bleary eyes and a yawn that no amount of instant coffee could subdue, you’d watched as the forensics team had carried out their usual routine among the gravestones, examining the bludgeoned body of a homeless man as best as they could under the erratic flashing of their lamps. Your senior officer at the time had been there with you, lips pursed, eyes raking over the crimson wounds, the scattered droplets of blood tainting the grass.

“Murder happens every day, all the time,” she’d finally said, nodding at the inert body. “Whether it’s at three in the afternoon or three in the morning, it doesn’t matter. People kill. People die. But even so, the world doesn’t care. It’s not so kind that it would wait patiently for us, for a more convenient time to start investigating, do you understand?”

And you, with the remnants of sleep still weighing down your eyelids, hadn’t quite grasped the meaning behind her words in that moment, but now as you stand at the front of the debriefing room with your team waiting in expectancy, you can’t help but think that she couldn’t have been closer to the truth. Time concedes to nothing, least of all death. People live, people die, and in either case, the wheel of time keeps spinning on, blithely ignorant to the unfaltering cycle of life and death. The murdered woman found in Ji Hana’s apartment? She will surely be missed by her family and friends, yes, but in the grand scheme of things, who really cares about her death? Certainly not the world. It’s both a lament and a cynical truth that you’ve known ever since your days at the academy: human beings are nothing more than lonely creatures swimming in the sea, and nobody but the sky is there to watch them sink and drown.

You brood over this rather depressing thought as you finish writing on the whiteboard. Victim- Ji Hana?, the board now displays, along with an intricate web of forensic photographs.

“Alright, let’s get started. Is everybody ready?”

You glance around the room. It’s barely seven in the morning and as such, the familiar scatterings of coffee mugs, pre-breakfast treats, and subtle (and in some cases, not so subtle) hiding of yawns make their appearances. Your team members are in their usual seats, with the exception being the newcomer, Jung Hoseok. Mr I’m-only-here-to-do-my-job is sitting at the end of the table, having chosen the seat with the widest vantage point of the room. He cocks his head as he watches you lead the meeting. The expression on his face is the same one he’d worn when you’d introduced him to the rest of the team earlier: politely bored of the formalities, but at the same time looking as though he’s amused by something only he knows about. You briefly hold his gaze before pointing to the board.

“The body of an unidentified middle-aged woman is found in an apartment unit, head and right hand severed and missing from scene.” Ignoring the show of grimaces and winces, you rattle off the details of the previous day’s autopsy. “Although we don’t have a current ID on the victim, we know that the apartment is leased to a Ms. Ji Hana. Aged thirty-three, single, and highly seclusive. Her phone is still turned off and we haven’t been able to get a hold of her, but apparently it isn’t unusual for her to fall off the grid like this.”

“Has someone tried tracking her phone?” Kim Sunggyu speaks. In all of the years that you’ve known him you’ve never once seen him without a surly expression of some sort, so you’re not at all surprised when he frowns at the whiteboard, scrutinizing the photos as though they will confess to all sins under his piercing glare.

“Yes, and as expected, it was a dead end.” You nod at Jimin, who sends you a sleepy grin in return. The head of the intelligence unit is dressed in his usual black tee and jeans, showing off the elaborate tidal design of his sleeve tattoos. “According to our resident hacker here, the location of its last signal was traced back to her apartment. So either Ji Hana is out there somewhere with a non-working cellphone, or the killer, for some reason unknown to us, switched it off himself and took it out of the unit.”

Jin reaches for the biscuit plate. Already half of the breakfast cookies are gone, no doubt thanks to Jin and his sticky fingers. Never one to sit through a meeting without snacks in hand, that man. “It’s more likely to be the second option, isn’t it?”

Lee Jieun pipes up. You’d heard that she, Jin, and Sunggyu had arrived back to Seoul quite late the night before, but the young woman looks as wide-eyed and attentive as ever as she looks from Jin to you and back to Jin. “But it hasn’t been confirmed that the victim is actually Hana, right?”

“Well, what are the chances it’s somebody else?”

“You never know. There’s really no telling for certain in our line of work…”

You cut them off before the debate can spark any further. “Her parents are coming in later today to identify the body, so we can settle the matter then. In the meantime…” Turning to the laptop placed on your desk, you press a few buttons and gesture for the lights to be switched off. A uniformed officer complies, and soon the room becomes encased in darkness as the projector hanging from the ceiling flickers to life.

You motion for Jungkook to join you at the front. “Guide us through it, Jungkook.”

The youngest member of your team slowly rises from his seat. Unlike the others, who have cups among cups of caffeine settled within their reach, Jungkook only has a sleek notebook and pen sitting in front of him. He hardly ever drinks coffee during these early morning meetings- an impressive feat for somebody whose job depends on the absolute powerhouse that is caffeine.

He picks up the projector remote and presses the play button. The security cameras are an old-fashioned model, he’d told you, resulting in a distinct graininess that not even Jimin’s team could perfectly enhance. With the hallway empty and the doors firmly shut, it looks more like an antiquated image frozen on the screen. The only thing warranting its playback nature is the running timestamp in the bottom righthand corner.

“This is footage of the CCTV on Ji Hana’s apartment floor,” Jungkook begins in his usual quiet voice. The video has no sounds accompanying it, but some of the officers sitting in the back have to lean forward to hear him clearly. “As you know, the body was estimated to have been left in unit 905 five hours prior to its discovery.” He points to the timestamp. 01:58:38, is what it reads.

“Unfortunately, the elevator cameras have been malfunctioning for the past week so we were unable to access the tapes there,” he continues. “But if you keep watching, in about ten seconds or so you’ll see what was filmed by the ninth floor camera.”

You exchange looks with Yoongi. He’s oddly quiet this morning, but you can tell from the sour look on his face that he’s mulling over the less-than-fruitful results of the security clip. You’ve already watched this clip a dozen times the night before, and as a result can narrate it play-by-play in your head: a hooded figure steps into the eye of the camera, wheeling a hefty suitcase behind him. Without pausing for break he strides purposefully towards the door of 905. His back is turned to the camera, but the ease with which he- or she- slips out a key and unlocks the door is easily discernible. The figure disappears inside and reemerges soon after, still holding the suitcase, still walking with an air of cool composure.

Jungkook waits until the figure disappears from the screen, then replays the clip. “I’ve reviewed all of the tapes from the past month leading to now, and this is the only footage we have of any person entering unit 905, besides Ji Hana herself. Assuming that the body was inside that suitcase, we can conclude that the killer took approximately-” he checks his notes- “six minutes and four seconds to dispose of it and clean any residual traces of himself.”

“It’s hard to tell, because of the hood and face mask,” you add, “But the build of his shoulders and look of his shoe size suggest we’re looking at an adult male, possibly in his late twenties to late thirties. Somebody with enough physical strength to pull around a suitcase with a human body in it… Then again we could be thrown off by the mask, so I’d like for you all to keep an open mind when finding potential suspects.”

Jin squints at the video. “Did he not realize that the cameras were there?” he wonders with an air of incredulity.

Beside him, Sunggyu crosses his arms. “I think he just didn’t care about them. Did you see the way he was walking?” He jerks his head at the silent screen. “He never once looks at the cameras directly but you can tell that he’s confident. He knows what he’s doing and he doesn’t care what the repercussions are, because he knows he’s not going to get caught.”

“He thinks he’s not going to get caught,” you correct, although a part of you wonders how true Sunggyu’s words will turn out to be. You catch Hoseok’s eye again and this time, as though reading the worrisome thoughts on your mind, he dips his head in a mock salute.

Jungkook shuffles ahead to a second clip. This one is of the building entrance, stamped to just a minute before the first tape. “The killer enters the apartment and leaves in just under ten minutes,” he carries on as though the interruption had never happened. “There are no cameras outside of the entranceway, so there’s no telling which direction he left in. The closest buildings to the apartment are a pub and convenience store located across the street- I’ve checked both of their CCTV monitors and he doesn’t appear in any of them.”

“So we’re basically hunting down a ghost,” the branch director finally scowls, while you press further, “And none of the employees saw anything suspicious?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook says curtly, and switches to yet another tape. The ninth floor hallway returns to the screen, but this time the timestamp is dated to 11 AM of the same morning. A man is recorded pacing slowly through the hallway, face concealed, stopping every now and then to stare at the taped-off door of 905. “But yesterday afternoon, when I retrieved the security footage from the apartment, the landlord reported a suspicious party at the crime scene.” He relays to the team what the landlord had told him the day prior.

“You think he might be the killer?” Jin says thoughtfully as he downs the rest of his lukewarm beverage.

“I don’t think he’d return to the crime scene right after our people swarmed the place, do you?” Leaning forward in your chair, you stare at the projector screen with a renewed interest. “Take a closer look at him. His mask is identical to what the killer wore, but he’s also wearing a baseball cap and his clothes fit differently. And he looks shorter, too, do you see? No, this guy is an entirely different person,” you decide.

“Maybe he was with the press?” Jieun offers.

“Or he could have been an accomplice,” Sunggyu muses.

“The media was barred from entering the building,” Yoongi reminds them. He spits out the word as though it stings his tongue like lemon juice. “But whatever this person’s intentions were, he had no business being there. Add him to your list of priorities. Whoever he is, I want him found and questioned immediately,” he says to you. As if you need the reminder, but you know he’s really only saying it for the benefit of the others.

Nodding, you ask the officer to turn the lights on. “In any case, what we need to do is establish a link between the killer and Hana,” you tell your team as fluorescent light floods back into the room. “If the victim isn’t her, then how did the killer know she’d be away from her apartment? Why choose to dump the body in there? It can’t be a coincidence.”

Jimin takes this as his cue to join the conversation. “We ran a more detailed background search on Ji Hana. Or at least, we tried to.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the already unruly chestnut locks. “Nothing came up. As far as we know, her record is spotless. There’s nothing illegal under her name- the worst thing she ever got was a parking ticket back in ‘07. We went through her laptop and the USB sticks which you recovered from the crime scene, but there was nothing incriminating on any of them.”

“And her emails?”

“Other than the odd message to and from her company, it was practically unused. Sorry to say, but her digital footprint led to nothing of interest. All she seemed to be involved with was her publishing projects and personal artwork.”

It makes sense, you think. The woman was- or had been- a professional artist, after all, and seemed to make a second living out of being a recluse. “She also had a separate computer for work. I’ll clear it with her company and arrange for it to be sent down here, so see if you and your guys can find anything on that.”

“You got it, Boss.” Jimin flashes you another grin.

The nagging voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like Yoongi scowls, telling you that Ji Hana’s work computer will also be of no help, but you ignore it in favour of turning to Jin. “Alright, moving on. How did it go in Gwangju yesterday? Did you guys manage to get anything interesting?”

Jin opens his mouth to answer, but Sunggyu beats him to the punch.

“Honestly? It was a complete waste of time.” The surly man prods his notes as though they’re the ones at fault for an unsuccessful trip. “Half the people we talked to could barely even remember the woman, and the ones who did basically said the same thing about her. That she was nice but a little forgetful, that she spent more time with her head in the clouds than she did here on earth. If she’s as scatterbrained as people say she is, than who knows? Maybe she really is just wandering around the city somewhere.”

“Her family has had limited contact with Hana since she moved down here,” Jieun adds helpfully. “Neither her parents nor her younger sister know much about her personal life. Most of her childhood friends have lost contact with her after graduating high school, and not one of them could think of a reason why anybody would want to harm her.”

“No ex-boyfriends? No reported stalkers?”

“None that were mentioned,” Jieun confirms. Yoongi scowls.

“So you’re saying you didn’t find anything useful at all?” He glowers at the trio who had journeyed to Ji Hana’s hometown. Jieun sends him an apologetic look, but the aggravated man isn’t having any of it. “Then what were the three of you doing yesterday?”

Sunggyu looks miffed at the accusation of dawdling, but it’s Jin who answers to the director’s temper.

“Is your memory that short? We just told you, we were interviewing Ji Hana’s family and acquaintances,” he says in an exasperated voice. Reaching over, he plucks another biscuit from its dwindling pile and shakes it in Yoongi’s direction, as if to pacify the chief’s anger. “The three of us were driving around town all day, trying to talk to a list of people on incredibly short notice. You should be thanking us, you know. Sunggyu and I both had to refill on gas twice.”

Jin takes a bite of his snack, ignorant to- or simply ignoring- the way Yoongi narrows his eyes dangerously his way. “We didn’t get much from anybody in Gwangju,” he continues through a mouthful of flour and sugar, “But there is one person who might be able to help us. Hana’s childhood friend, Lee Joohee, actually lives here in the city. Her mother gave us the address when we asked for a list of acquaintances, so as soon as we’re done I’ll go have a chat with her.”

“Take Jungkook with you,” you jump in before Yoongi has the chance to snarl at the older man. You already have one dead body to deal with; the last thing you need is another messy homicide on your hands, especially one that stems from a childish squabble between your superior and fellow officers. “See if you can find something about Hana’s history that we don’t already know.” Capping the lid of your marker, you turn to the other two of the Gwangju triumvirate.

“Jieun and Sunggyu, I’m putting you in charge of tracking down the men in the footage. Put out a witness appeal, get an e-fit made; do whatever you can to identify those two. As Inspector Jung hasn’t had the chance to look at the crime scene yet, he and I will be going back to Ji Hana’s apartment. If anybody needs us, you know what my number is.”

You end the meeting with a few last parting- and what hopefully sounds encouraging- words. Chairs scrape the floor and genial chatter fills the air as your team files out of the door. They trickle through the doorway, one by one, like droplets of water merging to form the river of an unhurried mountain, until finally it’s only you and Jung Hoseok who remain in the room.

And as you meet his eyes, it suddenly occurs to you that he hadn’t uttered a single word throughout the entire meeting.

“Well, Inspector,” he says when you don’t immediately rise from your own seat, “Your car or mine?” ------- There is something about a crime scene that brings two people closer together- the lingering presence of death, perhaps, or the haunting feeling that life is so easily harvested by the omniscient reaper- but in this case, you can’t help but think that it only wedges itself almost insufferably between you and the aloof inner district detective. Hoseok says nothing as he takes in the details of Ji Hana’s kitchen, and, not for the first time since your meeting, you wonder what he could possibly be thinking to himself. A man so immensely difficult to read; he’s like a closed book that refuses to be opened past the front cover.

And then, as if reading your mind, he breaks the silence of the room. “What is it?”

“... Sorry?”

He doesn’t look up from the counter he’s examining but you get the oddest feeling that he’s watching you from the corner of his eye. “Back in the meeting. It seemed as though you were holding back on something.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” you’re tempted to shoot back, but you think that might not be the best way to continue the conversation. Leaning back, you trail your gaze over the fridge, the small wooden table, the bone white tiles of the floor that had once been tainted with red. The forensics team had done their usual meticulous job of cleaning the scene, but the smell of disinfectant merely mingles with, rather than masks, the stench of week-old spilled blood.

“I was just wondering,” you say at last, “Where he could have gotten the apartment key from.”

Hoseok doesn’t need you to clarify the “he” in your answer. “Then I suppose you could add resourceful to his list of qualities.” He doesn’t bother adding anything else to his comment, but standing there with him in the near-foreboding kitchen, you think that he knows you’re not being entirely truthful with him.

You watch as he finishes surveying the counter and moves towards the table. “About the criminal profiling,” you say when another wordless moment has passed. “I’ve spoken with the chief and he agrees it should be looked into. I have the number of the last profiler we worked with- he’s helped us on a number of cases, actually- so I’ll give him a call when we get back to the station.”

“So your director agrees with me?”

Although his back is now turned to you, you shrug at the implications in his words. “I never said that I didn’t,” you respond. Checking your watch, you decide to take one last look around the apartment before the two of you head back to your car.

Your feet take you through the living room, the dimly lit hallway, past the opened door of the bathroom. Other than the absence of the body, Ji Hana’s apartment appears to be the same as before: the same desolate items in their places, the same impossible feeling of oneness. If anything, the lack of body makes the entire unit seem more lonelier somehow, and that, you think as you step inside the main bedroom, tugs at your heart a little more severely than you’d like to admit.

You can hear Hoseok following behind you. He flicks on the light switch and brushes past you through the doorway. As he does, you catch the faintest whiff of his cologne- distant, just barely there, but enough to momentarily drown out the disagreeable scent wafting in from the kitchen. 

He comes to a halt in the middle of the room. Slowly, purposefully, he inspects the contents of the missing artist’s bedroom, as though willing the scene to burn into his memory. You follow his line of sight, although you already know the threadbare contents of what this room has to offer. A ragged wastebasket. An empty bed waiting for its owner. The photograph of the old lady and children, still lying untouched in its spot on the desk.

You’re in the middle of reexamining the drawings pinned to the wall when he speaks.

“The lamp. It’s been moved.”

“Where?” You step over to where he’s crouching on the ground.

Hoseok points at the floor area surrounding the desk. Peering down, you can make out the faint trace of discolouration on the wooden boards. It’s very slight, only barely telling you that something has recently been seized from its poorly-guarded territory. The floorboards make it difficult to tell but the size of the faded circle appears to match the base of the lamp, which almost seems to defy the setting of the room as it stands alone at the front of the bed.

Carefully, you nudge the bottom of the lamp a few inches from its current place. The fixture gives way to reveal its private spot of flooring- smooth, even in colour, with not a blemish or even a single scratch in sight. He’s right, you realize. The lamp has been relocated, and, as the spot of discolouration indicates, it was done sometime recently, too.

He continues. “She wouldn’t have moved it. According to the landlord, this woman has been living here for the past six years, yet nothing seems to have been rearranged from its original place during that time. The Ji Hana we’ve heard about, she would have been too wrapped up in her own world to focus on redecorating or even moving a piece of furniture. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You meet his eyes. This time, rather than from an unspoken derision, his eyes are narrowed in a look of concentration. “The only other person who was known to be here in the past month was the killer himself. If it wasn’t her- and I’m positive it wasn’t any of our guys- then what reason would he have for moving the lamp?”

The corner of Hoseok’s mouth twitches slightly. “That’s what we’re here to find out, Inspector.”

A sudden noise distracts you from Hoseok’s discovery. It sounds as though it’s coming from the outside corridor, causing you to frown ever so slightly. The press? It had become something of a tradition to expect a lingering reporter or two when revisiting a crime scene (much to the ire of Chief Min), but you hadn’t seen anybody who could have been media on the way in… A nosy neighbour, then?

Deciding to investigate the source of interruption, you head for the door. “I’ll be right back,” you tell Hoseok, who merely nods in response.

The image of the CCTV footage flashes in your mind, prompting you to keep a sharp eye out for any sudden movements, but the outside corridor is only empty, showing no signs of recent visitors or tenants. Outside of unit 905 the hallway seems to be in a disjointed place of its own. The atmosphere here is too detached, too hauntingly quiet, to claim to be a part of where you had just stepped out of. With cautious movements you walk further down to where the elevator waits, but it, too, merely sits in silence, untouched by the diverging outer worlds. You examine the paint chips on the doors for a minute, wondering if you had simply imagined the noise in your head, before deciding to return to where your new partner awaits.

And that’s when you see him: a man, dressed in casual outerwear, standing directly in front of Ji Hana’s door. He must have been waiting behind the corner, you realize, pulse quickening, before approaching the unit himself. As quietly as your jacket allows, you reach for the standardized revolver that dangles from your hip. You had closed the door behind you on the way out, blocking off the advances of any unwelcomed visitors, but the man simply stares at the yellow tape that stretches across the doorframe, head tilted, arms crossed over his chest.

CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS, CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS, CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS…

“Don’t move. Hands where I can see them, now.”

Despite the warning in your voice that clearly leaves no room for negotiations, the figure turns around anyways. As you’d suspected, it’s the same man from the footage, the one whom the landlord had warned Jungkook about. Number two on your list of most wanteds, but too suspicious- and clearly reckless, as his sudden return to the scene suggests- to be treated as a regular person of interest. He has on the same cap and mask that he’d worn in the tapes, shielding his identity from view, but you can still see the way his eyes flicker towards your hip, assessing the handgun that’s exposed to view.

As if mocking your intentions, he takes a deliberate step towards you.

“You don’t want to do that,” he says in a slightly muffled voice, and reaches for something hidden inside his pocket.

[deathandrenegades]

Enscripted - Part 6

Summary: Soulmate AU between Dean and reader. Dean’s your new neighbor in a small town, which arises strange feels to implode from you. On top of it, there’s another face that seems to stir trouble. Could he be who he says he is?

Word Count: 1989

A/N: Sam’s a lil tipsy, Dean gets jealous.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

The night droned on, Sam staring at his drinks for most of the night, he seemed a million miles away. Every so often I'd go up to one of the few girls that came in, attempting to nudge them in his direction. Even if they walked over to him, he wouldn't bite, barely raising his head, he would wave them away.

I let out a loud “Last Call” then turn to Sam.

"So I think is safe to assume Dean left you stranded?" I smirked. Sam's eyes snapped up at me, bringing him out of a daydream.

"Yeah probably." He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

"I'll take you there then." I offered. He smiled back approvingly.

We stepped outside, the fog rolled in around us from the shadows, I ignored the eerie feeling that washed over me. We hopped into my car and I drove slow, chewing on my lip. I glanced over at him, he stared at the houses rushing by until it was just corn fields.

"Do you wanna come in for a drink?" I asked nervously as we pulled into my driveway. He looked at me confused at what he should say. We pulled into my drive way and I sighed, biting the bullet.

He refused politely.

"What the hell are you two doing?" Dean roared outside of my window, I yelped in response. He went over to Sam’s side and ripped the car door open, yanking Sam out of the seat. I lurched out of the car as Dean threw him against the side of it.

"Dean!" I yelled, rounding the car to him.

"Nothing happened Dean, what the hell has-" I felt a huge surge of anger flow through me from my core and I put my hands on the car, unable to breathe. Dean looked at me, bewildered by my state. He turned back to Sam.

"I swear to god-" Dean started to threaten, but Sam cut him off.

"She just asked me about our fight. You left me stranded and she wasn’t going to leave your brother there." Sam answered annoyed with his quick tempered brother. Dean let go, seething with rage, exhaling deeply as he looked over me. I stood, glancing between them both.

"Well that’s enough excitement for one night." I panted and turned to head inside.

"(Y/n) wait, I'm sorry." Dean called as he bounded up my porch, grabbing my hand.

I felt his sincerity in his touch, and I knew he could feel my pain by the way he recoiled almost immediately.

"I didn’t mean to scare you...I just got...jealous." He muttered bitterly. I swallowed, nodding as I turned inside, shutting the door behind me, cutting off his anger that was flowing through me. I gasped for breath, wondering if I’ll ever get a grip on this. I pressed my back against the door, trying to pull myself together before I headed to bed.

"Dean you really need to relax...are you okay?" Sam's anxious voice poured through my cracked window. I closed my eyes, my heart still erratic.

"I'm…fine..." Dean panted, sounding more like he was convincing himself.

"What is happening to you..." Sam's voice barely above a whisper. I immediately opened my eyes, tempted to go back outside into the dark night.

"Sammy...I..."

"Dean what the fuck is that? Is that...her…name..?" Sam asked, unable to believe the sight in front of him. My hairs prickled as I itched to look outside, my brain rattling off thoughts. Whose name?

My eyes immediately snapped down to my chest, the tattoo burning dully underneath my shirt.

My name?

"Yeah, it's hers. I noticed it one morning, and ever since then I've just felt...weird..." Dean said have muttering. I held my breath, inching closer to the window eagerly awaiting the next piece of information.

"We need to figure this out." Sam stated. Their voices trailed off as they slowly walked to Dean’s house, I gasped for breath, sliding to the floor as my head spun.

I groaned as i woke up sprawled on the hardwood floors of my house.  slowly opening my eyes, my stairs staring back at me. Had I really passed out and collapsed here? My brain rushed back to last night,  head pounding, Was it all even real?

I peeked under my shirt, the grey smoke swirling around inside the tattoo, stinging duly. groaning louder, I covered my face with my hands.

Willing myself upstairs, I desperately needed something to clear my mind. Yawning and stretching I quickly changed into leggings and a tank top, lacing up shoes and shoving headphones into my ears. A jog is just what I need, hitting the play button. Music blasted into my ears, and I was grateful for my already racing thoughts to be drowned out. I bounced on my heels, stepping outside and closing the door behind me. The ground was crisp, my steps breaking into a light jog. I huffed my way past Deans house, making it a point to not even look mildly in his direction. I avoided taking the turn to the tracks, thoughts of the fog still sent chills down my spine. Instead I kept pushing forward, leaving thoughts of yesterday trailing behind me.

I stopped when I came to what appeared to be a very old cemetery.

Ironically enough I loved cemeteries, I thought stepping through graves.

I noticed fog seeping from the edges of the gravestones, swimming its way to me. I gasped and quickly turned away, only to let out a startled yelp at the figure in front of me.

"Kyle?" I panted, catching my breath. He grinned, his brown eyes dancing at my fright. "What the hell are you doing here?"

How weird was it that he was here at 9 am on a Monday morning, let alone in a cemetery. The fog around my ankles thickened and licked its way up to my calves.

"Uh, visiting?" His brow furrowed and I relaxed, realizing how skeptical I was being.

"Oh sorry.." I mumbled. I looked around, the fog still lingering, itching to kick it away. Kyle caught me eyeing the fog and chuckled.

"Yeah if there's one weird thing I noticed about this place it's the fog. Comes out at the most random of times it seems." He grinned thoughtfully.

"Yeah." I scoffed.

"So, wanna grab some coffee?" He asked brightly. My thoughts skipped to last night, Dean's anger flooding through me and how I felt him nearly lose control. The anger that rippled through me whenever he got jealous was unnerving. I closed my eyes and pushed the thoughts out.

"Why not” I replied, forcing a smile. Anything to get out of this fog and keep last night as far from my thoughts as possible.

"Great." He replied enthusiastically. He turned on heel and I followed him out, walking back to my house. I looked around us skeptically.

"So..did you drive here, or something..?" I stared into the road in front of me.

"Uh no I walked." He muttered.

"So you live close then?" I probed, though I hadn't been past Dean’s house much I don't remember even seeing a house that was close to the cemetery.

"Yeah kinda."

"I see." I murmured, not wanting to press him any further. Kyle hummed beside me, a certain skip in his step I couldn't place my finger on. He was unusually giddy this morning, I surveyed our surroundings, noticing Dean's house coming into view. I glanced behind us, cornfields on either side of the road with fog chasing us menacingly. I narrowed my eyes at the fog that lingered, then turned my gaze forward.

When we walked by Deans house I instinctively looked up staring in the windows, hoping to see him. He house was dark and still, sighing as I turned away, noticing Kyle scowling at his house.

"You okay?"

"Of course." His face broke into a grin as his eyes landed on mine. We hopped into my car and I drove swiftly to the nearest local cafe, the clouds clearing away from the sky.

We sat down at the table, I sipped my iced coffee as he drank a tea.

"So how has the bar been?" He asked lightly.

"It's good, I noticed you haven't been around much." I frowned at the thought. Matter of fact, ever since Dean’s been hanging around there I haven't seen his face much at all.

"Yeah, I've just had some stuff to take care of." He replied, looking out through the window.

"Oh, like what?"

His eyes turned back to me and I immediately looked down at my coffee, my tattoo felt like it was on fire. I sipped my coffee gingerly.

"Just some personal things I’ve been meaning to get in order." He answered dryly. I nodded. His eyes burned into me, and I caught myself completely caught in a trance. My tattoo protested at this, but there was something about his eyes that held me there, that I couldn’t break away from.

“Is Dean still hanging around you?” He asked, his voice cold, a dark shadow casted over his face at the thought. My heart rate picked up at the subject, I finally broke away from his stare and played with my hands.

“Well…” My voice trailed off, not even knowing where to begin with all this and how to explain it while remaining on good terms. I had a sneaking suspicion Kyle didn’t like the idea of me being with Dean. The door chimed as I attempted to come up with a response under Kyles glare.

"(Y/n)?" Dean's voice asked.

"Can I help you?" Kyle snarled. I looked up, realizing he wasn't talking to me. Dean towered over him, glaring down at him as a feeling of rage tore through me. I swallowed, trying to calm it.

"Yeah, you can start by getting up." Dean retorted.

“Oh I just thought I'd keep her warm for you.” Kyle retorted bitterly. Dean's gaze further pierced into Kyle, making my stomach twist.

“Don't let that anger get the best of you.” Kyle smirked, standing up. He took note of the anxious look on my face as I sat frozen peering at Dean who stood seething before Kyle. “You really want to be with a guy like this?” Kyle gestured to Deans rage. I swallowed, not meeting his eyes.

“Oh, a guy like-” Dean started before Kyle cut him off.

“I wasn’t talking to you, mongrel.” Kyle hissed, barely audible as his words slid from his lips.

Kyle turned on heel and stalked out of the coffee shop, Dean slowly sitting in his seat.

“What the fuck are you doing hanging around that guy?” He cursed.

“What's it to you?” I questioned, sipping my iced drink which was condinstating between my heated palms.

“Well, I'm not going out with any other girls.” He said carefully. I nodded.

“Good thing I'm not going out with him then.” I mumbled, bringing my hand forward and tracing circles on the back of his hand. My tattoo itched to be closer to him.

Dean hummed in response, gazing at my fingers trailing over his skin, still not fully satisfied with my remark.

“I don't think you should see him any more.” Dean said quietly. I sighed, nodding in agreement. There was no denying that Kyle seemed to create problems, and I couldn't shake the weird feeling I caught whenever I was around him. I knew that no longer talking to him would be best, especially if I wanted to continue seeing Dean. I chewed on my lip, debating on when or how I should tell Kyle to cool it. He seemed to just pop up at the most random of times.

“I have a feeling I might run into him soon enough.” I murmured. Dean swallowed and nodded.

“If he gives you any grief or anything just let me know.” He mumbled gruffly, not meeting my eyes.

[syrvses-blog]

❝ ┅ THIS GOT LONG. | QUESTIONNAIRE. |

everything you could ever want to know about syrus is under the cut.

death tw, smoking tw, alochol mention

❝ ┅ BASICS.

Full name: seung-jun han

Any nicknames?: syrus (please call him that), hades

Age: 27 (holla @ yo ridiculously young mob boss)

Birthday/Zodiac sign: january 7 // capricorn

Height: 6′2

Any tattoos, piercings?: no piercings, but he does have a few tattoos. the first and most prominent one reads “you will always be fond of me. i represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to admit” located on his right rib cage. this was done both because he is a nerd for classical literature and because the quote reminds him of his father, whom he never wants to become. he also has ( these ) two, in honor of cronus (eye) and his deceased best friend (rose), who died in a similar time span.

❝ ┅ FAVORITES.

Sound: yasmin’s voice…jk jk the small sounds that echo against the walls of a silent space. a clock ticking, methodical and orderly. the scribbling of a wooden pencil, curious and erratic. the turning of a novel’s page and the certain sense of completion, of progress that comes with it. the muffled bass of club nyra hammering below his feet. the various beats of life in the dead of stillness that keeps him on task, keeps him enthralled in his work.

Color: surprise, surprise, black. but, likewise – white. in fact, his flat above club nyra is nearly completely white with tiny pops of color, such as that in the green apples that sit on the marble counters of the kitchen area. even more surprising, he’s also rather fond of warm neutrals, such as those found on his blog. in complete contrast to his flat, his actual apartment that can be found in ever changing locations across nyc is very warm, very home-y, and washed in those soft oranges and browns.

Person: may he rest in peace, cronus. though his friend found deceased years ago does come in as a close second, no one has altered his life more than harvey johnson. the first father figure in his life to ever truly love him as son, to ever truly look at him and not see a tool or a potential weapon, but as a human being. he has fought for years to preserve the work cronus has done to promote the olympians, and he will continue to work tirelessly for the man who proved to him not all is bad in the world syrus was raised in.

Memory: for his twelfth birthday, his father took him and his now deceased friend to the metropolitan museum of art. whenever the story was shared (by his friend more so than syrus, who rarely speaks of his past), his friend would always claim that the museum “broke” syrus, who had always been a more reserved, professional person. this is because in those few hours, syrus was, for one of the few times in his life, a kid. having always been a nerd and especially a nerd for things that are old, being surrounded by so much history and being able to see the influences of the history he read on the artwork made him genuinely giddy. though his friend and father certainly weren’t as enthused as he was, they entertained him by allowing him to drag them around as he rattled on about certain eras and certain paintings and possible influences. he has a particular memory of a tour guide with long, dark hair and a friendly voice joking to her clients that they should simply follow him around instead of her as their group passed him by. this whole ordeal was a complete surprise to him, seeing as he thought his father was simply taking him and his friend out to breakfast, and though he usually isn’t a fan of surprises, this one was undoubtedly appreciated.

Place: he has three. the first is the metropolitan museum of art for the reasons described earlier. the second is the new york public library. it is no secret or shock that syrus is obsessed with books and with reading, so a place stocked with millions of books is a dream come true for the man. every single time he walks in he has a moment similar to the one in beauty and the beast when the beast guides belle into the library. of his few complaints about being a mob boss, not being able to read more is definitely one of them. continuing forward, his third and final favorite place is club nyra, minutes before it opens. he has a circular couch in corner raised up a few inches that he usually does business with other club owners in, and occasionally he’ll slide into the white leather seats with some paperwork for the club before the doors allow the mass of people to flow in. in his seat in the intersection, he can view the bartender wiping down the bar in the middle back of the club one final time and the dj readying the track list in the other far end. with the dancers stretching and julian speaking to one of the various workers and the faint smell of vanilla (proven to make people happier) in the air, it truly is a priceless scene. once the doors open at 11 pm sharp, the setting isn’t ruined by the influx of people. instead, it is enhanced, for seeing the success of the club he rebuilt essentially on his own brings him a joy little else can bring.

Vice: oh, syrus and his nicotine. he knows what it’s doing to his body and he knows that he’ll probably pass due to lung cancer if he lives long enough to develop it, but the addiction doesn’t seem to care. he doesn’t drink, primarily because he genuinely doesn’t like alcohol aside from a few of the club nyra speciality drinks and he will sip on wine to seem professional. likewise, he doesn’t dabble in any other drugs, nor is he a slave to sex. his only physical vice, truly, is the packet of cigarettes in his suit jacket’s pocket. to steal madi’s (current medusa/octavia) idea of my favorite vice for syrus, since nicotine is certainly his favorite vice, i have to admit–i love how unfeeling and unempathetic syrus is in times of betrayal or when people fail to meet his expectations of perfection. in my head he truly is horrifying when in “scary syrus” mode. if a character is having a meeting with syrus and they know they’ve disappointed him, they should be prepared for the absolute coldest aura surrounding a merciless man who won’t accept excuses, regardless of how valid they are. this is my favorite vice primarily because it’s so much fun to write and fits how i originally conceived syrus to be all the time (like honestly i was going to originally use these gifs a lot tbh). but, then he sort of turned into a very formal, very intelligent CEO with a Nerd Dad part tucked under all that professionalism and distance. i still love him with all my life, but there is something so satisfying about writing syrus when he is in his pique of ruthlessness.

❝ ┅ HAVE THEY EVER...

Been in love?: he has never been in love, nope! nor does he ever see himself being in love or getting married. to revive an old meme, my thoughts and feelings towards this are ( x ).

Done drugs?: his entire list of drug use starts and ends with his cigarettes.

Killed someone?: yes, of course. he is a mob boss, after all. he has killed 17 people and could tell you the names of all of them. names are actually quite important to syrus, seeing as he’s unusually terrible with them unless he has a reason to remember them. when he was younger, part of his training with his father was memorizing the names of everyone in the olympians. unfortunately, because syrus’ mother disappeared when he was two and he didn’t know the cause of her disappearance was something that would be so important to his beliefs until 18 years later, he never learned her name and doesn’t know it now. he also has no real way to learn her name, being that he has no contact with his family in korea and little access to the conventional methods of finding her name.

Betrayed someone’s trust?: aside from the whole “splitting from old olympus,” never.

Had their heart broken?: with the death of cronus and his friend, yes. but, in the implied sense of via the loss (whether it be through break up or through some other method) of a significant other, nope.

Lost someone?: far too many people.

❝ ┅ DO THEY...

Have any pets?: ah yes, the infamous dog megara (but her friends call her “meg”) – a border collie that he loves more than life itself. he adopted the dog when meg was quite young, probably around 1-2 years old, after his father passed away seven years ago. he absolutely adores and would happily be with her over most human beings.

Have a family they still talk to?: they’re all dead or chillin’ out in korea, so nah! the only family he would want to talk to even would be his mother, but being that she died when he was two, it would be sort of a difficult situation without a medium. perhaps he would also enjoy speaking to his extended family, seeing as he doesn’t know the name of his mother and would rather enjoy having that knowledge.

Have a best friend?: that’s…iffy territory? like, he trusts julian/dionysus quite a bit because he does manage club nyra but that’s definitely a very father/son relationship despite syrus being the younger of the two. likewise, he’s rather close with octavia/medusa and felicia/cerberus, though the former is certainly more of a working relationship and he’s sleeping with the latter despite also having a working relationship. continuing, he’s also decent friends with kit/icarus, though it’s more of an unconventional friendship. friends are quite difficult for him with his position and personality, but best friends are particularly hard to come by since that implies a certain level of trust that syrus hasn’t had with anyone since that friend.

Want to get married and/or have kids?: as mentioned earlier, syrus, at this very moment, never sees himself getting married. but, if he did find the right person (insert finger guns), he’d happily marry. he simply would never predict this for himself since he has issues with trusting people completely due to being ridiculously independent/worried about endangering those he’s close to. as for kids? oh god, though syrus is really just Dad somewhere under all that formal business talk, he is absolutely horrible with children. perhaps it is because he doesn’t quite know how to communicate with people who do not understand his language. but, i’m sure if (when) he does marry, he’ll be so enraptured with the person he’s with, he’d be more than glad to have children with them.

Want to leave?: if this question was posed not even ten years ago, syrus would have most certainly confirmed that he did want to leave and was planning on opening his own business in a place as far away as korea. but, being that he now has club nyra and a duty to protect cronus’ legacy from crumbling under the wrong hands, he could never picture himself leaving. his sense of duty to cronus and to the people who depend on him is far too strong for him to allow himself to fade away. he simply must protect his people, must protect the few things in life that keep him from falling into a state of complete roboticism.

❝ ┅ THIS OR THAT?

Phone call or text? face to face conversation? yes? no? anyways, though he sees the appeal and necessity of both with texts doing well for quick updates, organizing plans, and stealth operations, he prefers to call. when in “scary syrus” mode, as i like to call it, he can be rather terse. but, with the people he actually would like to call for reasons other than business, he can become very loquacious and quite the storyteller. furthermore, he enjoys hearing people’s voices when they speak, it adds on a sense of reality to the conversation.

Wealth or loyalty? regardless of the fact that syrus is a wealthy man himself and does enjoy the comfort of wealth, at the end of the day, he’d take loyalty over wealth without second thought. he may be seen as the ultimate traitor to old olympus, but his loyalty to cronus and to the people who follow him under new olympus spans far beyond the average human and he values loyalty from others just the same. though all human life is irreplaceable to syrus, those that prove themselves loyal to a strong cause and prepared to meet the expectations required to further that cause are especially valued.

Love or lust? n…either? syrus doesn’t have feelings–only a strong moral compass. joking, joking mostly. on a serious note, though he remains largely unaware of the benefits of love and how much he would love being in love at the moment, once he does get a hold of himself – love, all the way. lust is nice and he certainly won’t complain about it, but ultimately he would much prefer to be in love than in lust. wow i’m making him sound so soft those of y’all who don’t know syrus are going to be So Surprised when you interact with him and He’s So Not Soft.

5 Friends or 100 Acquaintances? 100 acquaintances, or “contacts,” as syrus would refer to them as. 100 people for him to reach out to to help advertise a new night at club nyra or to potentially persuade into doing something for the furthering of new olympus. in syrus’ mind, friends either leave with too much information or die and shake him out of his phlegmatic state. but, if he has 100 loyal acquaintances who know him to be trustworthy, then he’s set.

Summer or winter? winter!! wow, hades, you’re so surprising. albeit that summer is arguably a more profitable time for club nyra, syrus without a doubt prefers winter. this may be because i don’t think he owns a short sleeved shirt and his typical attire is a full on suit, or it may be because he runs both of his spaces at a below average temperature and enjoys it completely. winter is the time of year when the temperature outside matches the temperature of his homes, if not is far colder (which may be better).

❝ ┅ OTHERS.

Wanted plots/connections:

everyone: comes to new olympus k bye

new olympus: i’d love to plot with how and why the other character came to new olympus. what did syrus offer, whether it be an actual offer such as safety or just what made him seem better over zeus? did they have a past together or something? also, syrus makes a very good trainer if you need someone to help your character learn to punch someone.

old olympus: syrus grew up in the mob, so if your character has been in the olympians for a while, then chances are they knew each other. did they work together? did they get along/not get along? was syrus just some mystical figure in the background?

titans: this is a tad harder being that the titans were in germany for so long. but, if they’re a more recent titan addition, i’d love to have some like tension-y thing with syrus if they were active members of the olympians. he’d feel a little miffed that they chose to join the titans but skipped out on new olympus.

neutral: someone could be his neighbor at wherever his apartment is now! furthermore, if they are ex-olympians, we can develop a past from there. anything with club nyra could work out too!! whether it be someone was hitting on your character drunk and syrus kicked them out or they’re just regulars at club nyra.

anyone: my son adopts your child because syrus needs a million fake kids. also possible is to play off of syrus’ dad side where syrus finds your character drunk/hurt/etc and takes care of them. alternatively, we could have our characters start a book club.

[themockingcrows]

Actuality Flux- Ch. 4: Visiting Vanishment

From the Mixed Blessings Universe.

With Rose still deeply rattled from her horrifying visions, Maryam spends some time talking her down, and holding tight to the safety that love brought along with it. There's investigating to be done, people to check on and clues to find, but that needs to wait until the holder of her heart is satisfied and calm once more, safe to be on her own again. When the goddess checks in with Leijon, ominous warning and a vague vision of the future in hand, what Could go wrong may need to take a step back in the face of what new troubles present themselves.

This chapter is SFW

AO3 Mirror [X]

    Rose sighed and finally felt calm. True calm. Maryam's room always offered her respite, and in her lover's arms, it was an extra level of comfort as well. Rather than stay in her room once the boys left and be stuck looking at the table, feeling the vibrations of what she had seen in the air or in the back of her mind, Maryam had decided to take her away entirely to a space untouched by her viewings. While her own room was living bookshelves and growing plants, soft shadows and swaying light, this one was the smell of soft, green, new things and the subtle warmth that not even the sun could offer.

    Maryam's room was bright and comforting as a spring day, but the spaces were more separate than other rooms Rose had been in, or even her own gradiently organized habitat. One space was a lively garden, flowers in bright colors and climbing trails of baby's breath and aromatic herbs tucked away from the forever blooming perfume from the lilac bushes. The other, closed and comfortable and slightly dimmer, was a cocoon of solitude. Blankets abounded, books were piled in different neatly stacked shelves, cloth and fabrics were settled here and there, and so too was a constant sense of safety.

    No lingering darkness could trespass in such a clean, bright place. The only inch of darkness welcome was Rose herself, a fond joke considering she no longer leaked the dark oil that she had while at the end of her human life. Figurative habits took the place of the literal now.

    Though she had been set on her feet upon entering the grassy space, Rose took a moment or two to begin walking towards the bed, distracted by her surroundings as ever, so much to see and enjoy. Upon arrival she promptly dropped her arms to her sides and threw herself face first onto the welcoming blankets and the layers of soft bedding piled beneath them, heaving out a heavy sigh as the weight of the world fell from her shoulders. True, it would return soon enough.. but for now, there was safety and respite.

    Time to breathe.

    “Do you want anything to drink?” Maryam asked. When Rose grimaced at the idea, she grinned. “No, I meant a drink-drink. No more purposeful visions for you today, something to relax with.”

    “Are you offering something soothing, or something to knock me for several loops? Because the background noise visions I can ignore pretty well already, and I can have my hands slapped if I try to scry.”

    “Whichever would be most helpful for you right now,” Maryam said, coming to sit by Rose's side while she thought. When she took too long to make a decision as they sat in silence, the elder goddess tipped herself to lay across Rose's upper back, hugging her tight. “Or would I be the most helpful?”

    “You're already always the most helpful, you know that..”

    Maryam grinned and shifted her weight again to slip off Rose's back, tangling her up in her arms so Rose's side was pressed against her chest and slinging a leg over her thighs to fully cocoon her lover best she could without disrupting the blankets they lay atop. More freedom to pet at her and cuddle her neck and face at the same time this way, which was always a bonus.

    “You flatter me. But, really, now would probably be a good time to enjoy something soothing to take the edge off, and to help fill any gaps of worry. I can hold and comfort you, but I'm fairly sure we both know I need to go and see what's happening. I was in your visions, and the path I took makes sense.. I need to speak with Leijon about this. Jake as well. I don't want to leave you alone and upset in the interim of that however. I'd rather go and travel once you're happy as I can get you, so when I come back safely I'll be seeing the same smiling face that I always keep close in my heart.”

    “You're sappy,” Rose said with a grin. “You're also babying me, it feels like.”

    “It comes with the territory, Rose, I baby everyone to a degree. But it's not my intention right now, telling you all this,” Kanaya promised, squeezing her tight and kissing at the crook of her neck with soft, warm lips. “I want to leave and come back without causing you worry, or making you want to use your abilities to find me. No scrying for the day. Rest is what you need. No more anxious happenings.”

    “If something goes wrong, I'd rather know!” Rose started, only to be shooshed gently by cool fingertips pressing to her lips.

    “Rose, even if something were to 'go wrong', I would be able to handle it. Nothing in this world or whatever lies beyond it could keep me from coming back to you. I don't want you working yourself into tangles trying to poke and prod at a potential future trying to find where something would go wrong. I'm a goddess of beginnings, of birth, even if an end approached me, there would -always- be a new beginning following after. You've seen how many times John has died, right?” Maryam pointed out, moving her long fingers in a petting motion along to edges of Rose's face and cheeks, then down towards her collarbone. “If I die, I would simply come back. I'm not entirely certain WHERE I would come back as opposed to the precise spot my death occurred, but I'm capable of it as any other god or goddess and would come back to you soon as I was able. I've just got much less experience with my own rebirth than with all the others I guide.”

    “.. Right. Right, I keep forgetting that,” Rose murmured. “I still cling to a lot of values and beliefs from humanity, and death for us was extremely final. We had more hope for the life beyond this than what was here.”

    Maryam continued to move her hand down Rose's throat and along the front of her ribs, pausing to gently press against a breast as if appraising and appreciating the weight it held before continuing down along her stomach to gently rub in circles near her navel. Familiar, sweet touches that never failed to bring warmth to Rose's very core.

    “What sorts of beliefs were they? The hopes for this other world? I don't think I've ever actually asked.”

    “Well,” Rose said as she cuddled down and relaxed under the familiar hand, reaching down to lace their fingers and squeeze a bit. “It was meant to be better than our life, if we were good. We would reap the benefits of a virtuous life. For some it meant coming back to the world someday as a new baby for a new life, for others it meant staying forever in this perfect paradise, getting to meet and wander with all our gods and goddesses in our midst like mindful, wonderful parents. Others I think believed it would be more of a period of paradise and learning then moving on to nothingness or the rebirth again.”

    “Well, that sounds lovely, but I feel a bit bad for leading others on. None of us traipse about with the dead except Makara,” Maryam said, clasping at one of Rose's hands before moving their joined hands in a gently patterned jiggle, glad to feel Rose's muscles finally start to relax. “There's a sense of happiness when there's new life born, though. At least for me. You've felt the same brief sensation when someone worships you, right?”

    “The tingle? I like the tingle,” Rose said with a grin. “But it is very different than I thought it would be. All of it is. ..Maryam does it hurt to die like this?”

    “I'm not going to die,” she said firmly again, “but even if I did the pain is brief. I'd more be curious as to how I'd be reformed, sometimes we come out a bit different than we began, and I've not passed in quite some time.”

    “Different? How so?”

    “Well. Dirk died once and came back with long hair. He kept it tied back for ages before cutting it, it looked quite nice on him. He doesn't change much physically, but I know once in a while he'd leave certain battle scars and let others fade away, or fix his crooked nose till it was broken again,” she said. “Pyrope used to be much curvier in form, much shorter of limb as well for many cycles, but she said she was tired of being short and enjoyed being taller now. I've no doubt she'll go back to how she used to be, with how fickle she is. John tends to keep a similar appearance since he's so vain, but he changes his clothing any time he revives, calls it a fresh start. I'm fairly sure there's new piercings half the time too. I expect him to return with tattoos any time.”

    “Did you look different in the past, then? During different times alive?”

Maryam grinned at her.

    “I looked different as well, yes. I had the same symbols of my shrine marked upon my flesh, unwoven spirals and loops like fresh spring seedlings unfurling. I kept my hair long, as well. It was a time of beauty and freedom, that youth.. I changed to looking a bit older and less intense to blend in easier. I realized that while the new life enjoyed my bright appearances, sometimes those being blessed by the gift were a bit confused by me and didn't focus as much on the life as who had given it to them. A soft glow now and then and looking this way was easier to sooth with than when paired with busy lines back then I think. More.. maternal? Matronly. I don't know how best to describe it.”

    “Youth? It was that long ago?” Rose asked, surprised. Wow. John died as many times as he had clothes in his wardrobe, it sounded like, and here Maryam was going on about changing her appearance to be less striking because humans were more focused on her than the blessing they'd received. It made sense, but still didn't sit quite right with her for some reason. “If you ever reform, even without death, I'd love to see you wearing your lines. Humans can deal with you as you are, and if they're too foolish to focus.. well. That's their fault. Look how you want for yourself now. They're not huddled in the dark with sticks fighting shadows alone any longer, they'd love you however you appeared. We were taught to respect the changes of gods and goddesses, and welcome them. We'd know them by their feeling, not always their appearance. Gods in disguise and all that.”

    Maryam kicked up her usual steady glow even brighter, twinkling stars instead of soft moonbeams, and chuckled in amusement.

    “I'll be sure to show you them someday, pick out something I'd like and that I'm fairly sure you'd enjoy as well. I've got a feeling you're calmer now, yes?” Maryam asked, kissing the side of Rose's head when she sighed.

    “Yes, a good deal. I know if I dwell on the thought too long, if I let my mind weave back, it'll be just as bad as before. But for now, it's not as urgent feeling any longer.”

    “Will you be alright with me going to check in with Leijon now, then? Or should I remain till you fall asleep instead?” Maryam spoke softer now, not wanting to pull away just yet no matter the answer. Things had been so busy lately, just getting to hold Rose close like this was something precious to not be squandered away or taken for granted. The reason for the cuddle might have been something sad originally, but now it was a gift.

    “I'd prefer you to stay, but I already know you'll go eventually. ..Maybe since you saw as well, you'll be able to change the fate I saw. Perhaps what I saw was even incorrect, or could be avoided entirely if you leave at an earlier time.” Rose worried her lip for a moment before continuing. “Perhaps you'll see Megido, catch her in a good mood, get some information out of her about what she's been up to for so long.”

    “Ah yes, for I am the Megido whisperer.”

    Rose pinched Maryam's side till she laughed and slapped at her hand to make her stop.

    “I'm being serious you know. You have a way with people.”

    “Perhaps that is why I'm the one to go see Leijon then, instead of the others,” Maryam said, slowly beginning to get up from the tangle so she could rise to her feet and straighten her clothing out.          “Jake could likely speak to her about it, but without knowing these particular ins and outs, I don't think much success would be had as someone with my specialty. I do hope the beasts are not dead though, it would absolutely destroy her, they're like her children.”

    Rose remained on the bedding and shifted, rolling to her stomach and rising to her elbows, not feeling like getting out of bed yet. Perhaps she'd do her best to nap once Maryam went traveling.

    “If they are, I assume more can be born. They wouldn't all drop dead at once, right? You'd be able to help more safely arrive?”

    A look of worry crossed Maryam's features and she tightened her hands into fists for a flex before letting them hang loose at her sides again.

    “If they are to be born, I can help them arrive. But if there is nothing to birth more great beasts, there is nothing for me to help be born. They are not spawned out of thin air, Rose, they are created the same as any other creature that is born. I can urge some miracles occasionally, gift a birth that would not have happened.. but without something to give that birth, no beasts would arise in the forest again.”

    “No great beasts.. what a thought.”

    “A grim one that I hope is a true flaw to your vision. May some of the infants survive whatever future you held in your grasp, let their hope be strong enough to let them thrive.”

    Turning and bending, Maryam took a moment to take a proper kiss from Rose's lips, fitting herself into place and stroking the side of her uplifted jawline with the pads of her fingers before letting her bright glow fade down again. “Try to rest while I'm gone. If you wind up leaving, I'll try to catch up when I return. Perhaps we can go somewhere else, make a day of it, take in a nice view? There were some places you wanted to go with me eventually that you caught glimpses of, right? Like the grove on the mountain?”

    “The one with the ivy and the flowers that smell like plums, that's the one,” Rose said without missing a beat, lowering her upper body so she was resting her cheek against her folded forearms, wondering if she could lure in a nap by getting into a more prepared position. Troubled mind or not, the callback to her origins was hard to ignore.

    “You can tell me about it again when I get back, and if nothing else is prepared to set itself ablaze, we should be able to slip out and have a good evening together,” Maryam promised.

    “Shouldn't be any trouble with sudden fires, Dave is with John and Dirk, he should be plenty entertained enough to keep from being a destructive little gremlin.”

    “Some things never change,” Maryam sighed as she headed for the doorway, popping it open with a steady arm and turning for a final farewell before exiting to the darkness.

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

    “How long did she know,” Leijon asked, voice angry, tense.

    “Not long,” Maryam promised.

    “How. Long. Did. She. Know,” the goddess demanded, growing louder. “How long did she know this was happening, or going to happen? How long could I have had to prevent this from potentially happening?”

    “Leijon, she only saw this earlier this very day. Rose had no reason to look towards anything like this before now, or you'd have been told,” Maryam promised, frown touching her lips.

    “So what am I to believe? That she's seen so many things and never once spotted whatever tragedy is supposed to befall MY creatures, or that this is all supposed to start happening en mass soon?”

    Leijon had already been on edge when Maryam turned up, not enjoying sudden visitors at the temple aside from those devoted enough to her ways to come seeking the spaces out to give offerings, but allowances had been made. Maryam was one of the goddesses her own world was intrinsically in balance with, forever dancing in a circle of birth, life, and death.

    “Please. Really, there was no way to know this before now. Something may have changed to cause this to be a potential future, you need to remember that's how the sight works. Nothing is truly set in stone, what will be will be, but only if you take all the steps needed to get precisely to that point. We found out, and now you're being told. There were a great many troubling things she saw, not just things to do with you, if you recall.”

    “When will it happen, and how do I fix it. Were they just... dead? Laying there? Were they sick? Slain?” she asked, words becoming even more intense at the idea of someone purposefully taking down all of her beasts by the herd. “Will it spread to the human's beasts?”

    “It wasn't that clear or detailed, I'm sorry. Just that they were laying dead,” Maryam said softly. “All I know is what I saw, which may change at any time. We are just as confused as you are, but you already know if something was to be said about this to you, I'd say it. I dislike playing the same games we play with humans when it comes to working with each other,” Maryam promised.

    The view from the temple had changed over the years, improved in some ways and fallen further apart in others. As humans grew denser in population in the cities, the urge to return to their roots gave way to those who made pilgrimages to put in effort at beautifying Leijon's temple. There were usually some form of offerings around for her, new polished offering bowls and trays and platters, incense and cleaned down places to put smoked meats and dried vegetables and grains above repaired floors.

    Sometimes they left money, which was essentially worthless to her, but which Jake took with him back to the cities whenever he went around. Supposedly, he and John would find those who were down on their luck, hoping and praying for change, and give them a small windfall or arrange for them to locate the coins and strange looking bills on their own. He promised her that he tended to aim towards people who didn't feel destructive, or who tended properly to the animals in their care, and made sure there were leads back to her as a source to gain more followers or at least more direction in which to lead their second chance on life. Jake's judgment in these matters seemed more hit than miss, so Leijon was content.

    Rarely, humans would camp out in the temple and near its grounds for the evening, leaving with no complaints from the goddess nor her protege so long as they tended their circles of fire properly and took whatever rubbish they brought into her woods away with them when they finally left.

    It was soothing actually, that scent of old moss and fresh water and smoke this far in the quiet coolness of the woods. It spoke of age and time unchanging, memories of when she'd visit humans clustered around their fires, ready to fight the moon itself if it disappeared from the sky for too long. She wanted to sit down and relax, savor it, maybe even have a drink if she could get Leijon to lower her guard and relax again. Never took forever, if memory served Maryam right. Just needed patience.

    “Then I'm going to stay still and fend off whatever I can if it approaches, and try to fix what I can. I refuse to let these animals die. They're too precious to me, they're the guardians just as much as I am, and I am sick to the teeth of outside forces forcing change on me and mine,” Leijon said, stance taking on a more fluid saunter as she stalked the front of the temple, unable to just stand still any longer.

    Part of what was upsetting her so much right now was simple that until Maryam had appeared, nothing felt amiss. Nothing for now, at least. But when would it happen? Would it even happen at all? Was there still something that could be done..? Future sight was bullshit, and if she could blind the seer, Leijon was sure she would in a heartbeat. Not seeing something coming was normal, tragedy was tragedy yes, but normal. Seeing something coming swathed in Maybe and Perhaps and Nearly with little way to know for certain if it's a Definitely till the moment happens? Maddening.

    “If the giant beasts are well, are the animals the humans rely on for food well?”

    “Far as I know, yes. There's been no outcry to me, and nothing being put on offer to ward off signs of illness that I have heard. The same animals being fed and tended in larger numbers for a larger cluster of humans, nothing to report there.”

    “..Is there anything you want to do just in ca-”

    “Maryam, you're fussing. I need you to stop fussing, and let me do my job. You do yours, I do mine, we overlap and clasp hands as needed, but please. If there were sudden mass death of animals, or the forests were going vacant, I would feel it sure as I felt the ache of the encroaching civilization before they turned their sights elsewhere than the deep sanctuaries.”

    The tall goddess sighed, shaking her head slowly. She could feel a headache coming on.

    “I know I'm fussing, but I'm worried. You're so connected to your creatures, the fact that there was such an ominous thing that Rose saw.. I needed to come check in.”

    “It's not the old days, Maryam, save your sweet words for your little light. ..But thank you,” Leijon said. “I'll stick to myself here, and check in if needs be. Jake can handle the cities, there's no need for me to go anywhere right now. If there's a threat, the beasts need me more than any human could. They can take care of themselves in the beds they've made.”

    “..Well. I mean. It would be a little bit of an issue if their animals all died as well. It could potentially mean a lot of deaths, huge spreading disasters.”

    Leijon shrugged and gave Maryam a hard look.

    “More work for you and Jane, then, and a much better set of decades for me in exchange,” she said cooly, satisfied to see the slight bristle in Maryam's body language. They may get along well, they may work together, but it was always fun to just as easily turn that around and get under her skin. Keep her on her toes.

    Good. She was prettier when she was a little annoyed and that jade color in her eyes stood out even more against the growing intensity of her glow.

    They didn't get to edge further towards argument nor peace after that. A flurry of activity, darting ever closer, caught Leijon's attention and made her focus solely to the side. Who..? Oh. Jake. She'd know that jumpy teleportation style travel anywhere, but the accompanying feeling was one of alarm. Before she could call out to him to see what felt off, she was jumping and hissing at a sudden hand on her shoulder. Roxy jumping out of one of her dark voids without a whisper of sound in front of the temple, grip tight on the goddess's shoulder, expression grim, was not a sight Maryam had expected to see today during this visit.

    “You're still here, good! Good. We need you to be not-here,” she said hurriedly. “Well. I mean, not-here like not in this particular spot, not gone entirely. We don't need more of that.”

    “What are you going on about? I'm not going anywhere, I'm needed here,” Leijon insisted, swatting at Roxy's hand to make her step off. “Jake's coming this way, have him go wherever it is you're talking about, he can handle it I'm sure.”

    “I couldn't get him to stop rushin' but we're here for the same reason, he's going to want you to go as well.”

    “Where? I already said I'm not going anywhere.”

    Jake finally came close enough to switch to normal running, shouting as he came.

    “LEIJON! Leijon, come quick, please! Please, something's wrong! I need help!” he all but bellowed, slowing as he drew nearer, realizing Roxy was already there beside the goddess, and focusing on Maryam himself now. “Maryam you too, -please-, something terrible has happened,” he begged, leaning over his own knees to take in heavy gulps of air.

    “Shhh, shh, take a breath. Please, either of you can you be clear? What's happened?” Maryam asked, worried eyes looking around in hopes of getting a better sense of the situation from body language as much as words. Well. Rose hadn't spotted -this- happening... had something else changed? Maybe that had been a Maybe. Or perhaps out of order.. Sight was confusing when it was as aimless as a Seer's visions.

    “It's Janey,” Roxy said, finally releasing her grip on Leijon's shoulder, tugging her hand back when Leijon caught her with a sharp nail hard enough to sting the skin. “She's gone.” The words had a flat, upset stomach tone to them, and the usual dark lipped smile was twisted downward into a disconcerting grimace instead.

    “Got herself killed again? Been a while for her. She'll be back, just need to hunt her down. ..Odd, I didn't feel anything change,” the wild goddess said, stepping back a pace or two and warily eyeing Roxy. Too close for comfort, too much grabbing, not welcome, not wanted after the upsetting conversation with Maryam earlier and the apparent risk to her beasts. Jane hadn't been involved in their fate, at least according to what she'd been told to expect. Perhaps things were changing for the better now that things were changing, and they'd leave and she could remain to fight whatever threat was coming, if the vision was still to be believed. An immortal being misplaced was strange but surely not that horrendous, and almost certainly not a Her problem.

    “No, she ain't been killed she's.. she's gone,” Roxy said again.

    “Where's she gone?” Maryam asked, confused. “Was she meant to be doing something specific and you need her back, or..?”

    “Gone,” Jake said as he straightened back up, still breathing heavily. “Just.. She just up and vanished! We were talking, and she just froze for a moment and went wide eyed, opened her mouth and she.. she disappeared. Everything went silent and then there was this flash of light, I've never seen anything like it. It's like she was trying to talk but noise stopped working, or my ears broke, then it was like going blind for a second.”

    “Any idea what she was saying?” Maryam asked, going closer to Roxy herself now that a trail had potentially opened up. An unexpected trail, but hints and opportunity nonetheless, and the void would be much more accurate to go where they needed to in a rush.

    “No,” Jake said, shaken, worried. “No she just.. We were talking about food and the fact that it was almost time for children to go to the temples, and she was telling me about what the locals in that city do for the festival that goes with it now compared to the old ways, and new trends. The cakes and candies.” He was quiet for a moment, then seemed to remember something else. “She asked if I heard something, but I hadn't aside from her voice. Then the quiet and the light and Jane was gone. I need your help, I need to find her, something's wrong, something -feels- wrong,” he said worriedly.

    “I wasn't right by them when it happened, but I was pretty close nearby and saw the flash. It was huge! Like it came outta the sky, but then like it was comin' outta the ground. When I went to check it out, Jake was already frantic and sayin' he was gonna come get Leijon for help. So I guess you'd have an idea what to do or how to help? Maybe how to track her,” Roxy said, shifting her weight and glancing to her portal, making sure it stayed solid as a blank space in the air, all light disappearing into its matte surface. “There were scorch marks on the ground, though. Like lightnin' strike, but no fire damage. I'm pretty sure that was where she was standin', but Jake can show you the exact spot in case I'm wrong.”

    Leijon looked a bit alarmed as well now, but just as hesitant to let Roxy guide her to the void where despite it being a shorter journey, her senses would be all but useless till she came out the other side. A goddess disappearing was one thing, a goddess being.. struck down and disappearing into unknown light without a trace was more in line with Rose's visions of disappearance and blocked sight. Instead of choosing immediately, she shot a look to Maryam who nodded.

    “Let's go. Jake, show us where you two were when this happened, will you? Close as you can get. If we hurry, maybe we can find clues and figure out where she may have gone. Rose saw flashes of light, but not what happened after the dark spots appeared, and this wasn't foreseen at all from the peeks I could do in the bowl! We might be able to stop the others from happening.”

    It was a lie. Maryam knew deep in her gut that it had to be a lie, or at least a heavily weighted truth. From the look on Jake's face as he glanced her way, he knew the same thing from instinct alone, but it was he who grabbed Leijon by the shoulders and steered her towards Roxy's void portal.

    “Please, Leijon, I'll make it up to you later. I'll do whatever you need me to. But I need your help right now, Jane needs your help right now. The temple will be fine without you here for a little while, and I'll give it a thorough wash later if you want or bring you your favorite smoked fish offerings. Forgive me this one favor.”

    “You'll have your work cut out for ya,” Roxy warned. “I couldn't see anything, I tried lookin' once Jake took off this way, but there's not much left behind but the marks. Humans all cleared out shoutin' about gods being angry and storms in broad daylight. It's a mess.”

    Though still agitated, Leijon looked a little more placated. It was a tall order.. but she was fond of Jake, having spent so long with him, and if anyone was to hunt someone down, who better than a huntress? With Maryam flanking, Roxy widened the portal and stepped inside, closing the gap when the space behind them disappeared and the new location in the heart of the city opened in yawning greeting to the unknown several feet ahead.

    Hopefully, Maryam thought, it would open to more answers.

[storiesbybrian]

Sexy Abe (June, 1999)

Part I          

His heritage was dormant inside of him. Why should he care about his people’s legendary dealings with sacred powers? Life was good. She was hot and they were gonna get drunk. He thought he might even love her.  

           Anyone could see that Lori was special, with her honeyed hair spilling past wicked eyes. She told dirty jokes and liked sports. And dogs and old movies. Abe’s friends would all agree this was the best one yet. He met her at a party where they talked about Woman of the Year. Abe happened to know that the bar where Tracy and Hepburn got drunk and fell in love actually existed somewhere near Union Square, a factoid he remembered from his one semester of film school.  

It stood lower than the sidewalk, cowering in the gutter. It was the type of place that fills up in broad daylight and, full, has an assortment of canes and crutches leaning against the bar while the rusty stools get gobbled up by a floppy row of gin-pickled asses scarcely contained in cheap fabrics. At the hour Abe and Lori stepped down to its door, the street’s neon lights had just been switched on. It was a summer evening and nightfall was hours away, but the blaring pinks and blues adorning most of the storefronts were so luminous that the sun’s own rays seemed enfeebled, creating the affect of a premature dusk.  

           He led her inside, where a jukebox rattled the bottles. Abe was ready. They sat in a booth in the back. There were rips in the burgundy naugahyde upholstery and a carved orgy of letters coupled and tripled in every conceivable position on the lacquered surface of the booth’s table. Abe looked around to see if anyone was impressed with him for bringing in such a beautiful girl. Nobody seemed to care, which felt unfair to him. He realized that the frivolities of this crowd were different than his own, but he still expected appreciation for brightening up the spot with such a hot babe. And yet he tried to blend in, unaffected, real. He even tried ordering drinks in a down to earth manner since he wanted Lori to think he was a man of the people.  

           Inconsistent as he was though, Abe wore a shirt the color of blue tin foil. This was set off by shiny shoes, shiny hair, a shiny gold bracelet, and dead black pants. His baller-est stuff. He leaned against the bar, then turned around to look at Lori. The bartender was was adorned with tattoos, piercings and a gorgeous belt buckle depicting dice bouncing along under the slogan “LADY LUCK.” A light emanated from under the bar, shadowing her face like a ghost storyteller on a camping trip, which frightened Abe when he turned back around to face her. But he played it cool. He waited politely while she toweled the bar. He looked back again at his date and she waved through the dark at him.  He nodded and turned to the bartender and said, “ ’Scuse me.”

           She looked up at him and sneered, revealing a small blue rhinestone grafted into the gum above one of her canine teeth. It had a brief morse code conversation with Abe’s shirt.

           “Is this the bar from Woman of the Year?”

           “Check.”

           “Pinky here?”

           “Stabbed and eaten by his youngest granddaughter.”

           “Oh. Uh, do you have Amstel Light?” he asked.

           The bartender turned towards the line of dusty beer bottles on a shelf behind her. There, standing between the silver and red of Coors light and the fake plant green of Heineken, was indeed a bottle of Amstel Light. Abe stood by the bar waiting for the woman to bring him two of them. After a moment of silence she was about to go back to her grey rag so he said, “Two please?”

           Another idle moment ticked away before he gave in and said, “Two Amstel Lights…. please.” He wanted all encounters with all peoples to go smoothly on this date.

           While LADY LUCK took her time getting the beers from a cooler, Abe surveyed the company and was surprised to see, among the usual suspects, a middle aged Hassidic Jew drinking a fruity vodka drink with what appeared to be a lady of the evening; or, in this case, late afternoon.  

           “Stop staring,” said the bartender as she stamped the bottles onto the bar so that foam dribbled from their spouts. “Eight-Fifty.”

Several drinks later, Abe had moved over to Lori’s side of the booth. They sat with their arms touching, sharing whatever fact about themselves seemed relevant. Unlike most of his dates, Abe was not in control. He was well practiced in the art of self presentation. But with Lori, he felt he was over-extending himself, awkwardly groping inward to bare his most soulful qualities instead of casually whipping something out from his usual jackpot of admirable character traits. Since Lori was so special, he tried very hard not to cheapen her by using any of the techniques that always worked on dumber girls. So, instead, he found that he was promising himself to live up to personal standards that he was creating on the spot.

           “Smoke?” he asked, mainly to see if he had permission to do so himself.

           “Never,” she said with a corroborating smile.  

           “Are you warm enough?” Abe asked.

           “Why don’t you check?”

           Abe moved closer and slid his arm around her. She was burning, which somehow made Abe shiver.

“Where does your family come from? Originally, I mean,” she asked hiccuping softly.

           “Lawrence.”

           “Funny, you don’t look Algonquin.”

           “Wha?”

           “I mean, like Poland? Russia? Lithuania? Germany? Which old country is your country, Abe?”    

“Oh. Um, Poland, I think. I never really knew my great grandparents, so…  What about yours?”

           “Well, my dad was born in Russia but my grandpa earned enough money over here to send for dad and grandma just before the war. And then my mother’s parents were survivors.”

           “You mean, like, the Holocaust?”

           “Yeah,” said Lori. “Auschwitz.”  

           “Wow.  I mean, you know.  I don’t mean to sound happy impressed but, I think...” Abe trailed off. He withdrew his arm from Lori’s shoulders, thinking hard for something interesting to say.

           “Is your family religious, Abe?” she asked.

           “Oh, yeah,” he lied. “Yours?”

           “Yeah.  I went to Yeshiva,” she said. “You’ve gotta funny looking shirt on, Abraham.”

           “Want me to take it off?” Abe asked with his hands already throttling over the blue buttons. He had an impressive physique.

           “Maybe later.”

“Do you want another drink?”

           “Sure,” she said and leaned her downy head on his shoulder.

           “I wish they had table service here.”

           “Mmmm, me too.”

           Abe sat there with Lori, in awe of her. He could just imagine the kind of happiness she must bring her family. The Yiddish word for it is “nachas” but Abe didn’t know that. He only knew that Lori seemed to have given her parents more to be proud of than Abe had his. But he knew better than to get down on himself like that in the middle of a date.

           “Lori, wanna do a shot?”

           “Alright.”

             Abe decided to buy in bulk from the bar so he would not have to go far from Lori again for a while. He snuggled back into the booth with a salt shaker, a dozen lime wedges and three shots apiece of tequila.  

           “What should we drink to?” Lori whispered.

           “To… to heritage. Yours and mine,” Abe said. Lori shrugged and threw the pale liquor down her throat. Abe looked at the flash of her delicate neck and lurched violently with longing. He wanted so badly to grab Lori and kiss her but something stopped him.  What? Did kissing Lori like this on the first date turn her into just another chippee? No that wasn’t it. It was her grandparents. Lori had used the past tense when she mentioned them, but to Abe, they were sitting in the kitchen, numbers peeking out of their bathrobe sleeves, waiting up for Lori with a nice piece of cake. Waiting to hear if this evening had brought her any closer to giving them great grandchildren. And then Abe realized that yes, he could be that man with this beautiful girl. Of course, he would have to become more serious in his own life, but, hell, that was no problem. Not if it meant Lori. He looked at her with more meaning but he still couldn’t kiss her.

The incongruity of this perfect, drunken moment and his total lack of resolve was brand new to Abe. He knew that if he didn’t want to completely blow it with Lori forever, he must not get caught being so materialistic and so assimilated. His eyes darted around in 359 degrees of avoidance while he tried to remember hot narrative passages from the cheap romance novels he and his friends used to read in junior high school.

As Abe slumped towards Lori, he tried to remember things that other girls had liked about him.

           “Know one of the things that amazes me about you, Lor’?”

           “Hmmm.”

           “You’re so fuckin’ smart. See, in my family…  And your legs. You’ve got the most wonderful legs. I love how the narrowest parts of them are your kneecaps, like a heroine in a comic book. The swells of your thigh and your calf,” but then he stopped talking and just shook his head with admiration before he could finish reciting something his father had written in one of his medical journals about the marriage of femur and tibia in a symphony of bone and cartiledge. Abe’s dad was an orthopedist.

           “Thanks.”

           Silence hung between them and she looked at him again but Abe still couldn’t kiss her. He excused himself and walked very quickly up to the bar.

             “’Scuse me,” Abe mumbled, tapping the Hassidic man at the bar on the shoulder.

           “What?”

           “Look, I know this is gonna seem weird, but, well, see that girl over there?”

           The Hassid turned and peered through the thick darkness at Lori. She waved at them.

           “I’m sorry,” said the Hassid. “I don’t know her.”

           “Yeah, I know,” said Abe. “But, well see, she’s like kosher and all and I grew up reformed and I don’t really know anything to say to her but I think I’m really in love with her, so I was, like, wondering if you could tell me something Jewish to say. You know, like a Mel Brooks movie I can watch. Something like that. What’s your name?”

           “Mendel.”

           “Abe,” he said, shaking the other man’s fat hand.

           “I don’t think so,” Mendel said and turned back to his date.

           “Look!” Abe said and wheeled the older man back around by his short arm. “I really don’t think you’re in a position to gimme any of this high road shit. Know what I mean? Now can’t you just help me out a little? Come on, bro, I’m askin’ you nicely.”

           “I think you’ve had too much to drink. Smells like tequila.”

           Abe felt he had been bullied and condescended all evening by these losers at this dump and it was time to assert himself.

           “Look, old man,” Abe whispered.

           Mendel turned to face him with a pleasant expression on his face and blinked innocently. This mollified Abe and he got ahold of himself.

“30 seconds. Ok?”

“Do you really believe,” asked Mendel, “that devotion to God is going to help you get laid?”

“Well, you’re getting laid, aren’t you?” snapped Abe.

“Well, yes but certainly not because I’m religious.”

“Dude, are you gonna help me or not?”

“Young man,” began the Hassid.

“Abe, please.”

“Avram-“

“No. Abraham.”

“Whatever.  Look,” said the older man, “I suggest you go back to your date and allow me to attend to mine. I judge by now you know that you are wasting my time as well as my money?”

But Abe was possessed of a different logic and so he was not deterred.  “What do you do?” he asked Mendel. “For a living.”

“I own a toy store in Brooklyn.”

“Well, here,” said Abe and pulled two crumpled $100 bills from his pocket.  “That’s fair, then. Right?”

Mendel eyed the money drunkenly. His date and the bartender watched his face, silently rooting for him to push the money back to the obnoxious boy. The man stroked his beard with his thick, dry fingers, sighed and shook his head slowly. He turned his gaze from the money back to the boy and nodded him back to his date.

“What does that mean? Aren’t you coming over to talk to her?”

“Listen. Kid. You’re not doing me any favors. You’re trying to buy me so I can chant a few magic spells for you and stir your little golden bowl of borscht over there to a boil. Wait. Please, let me finish. It’s true that your money would help me. Your $200. But I don’t think it would help you much. I’m not sure that anything would.” And with that, the older man turned to the girl on his left while sliding the money back to Abe on his right. The woman and the bartender nodded their approval and then glared at Abe, LADY LUCK’s sapphire gum glinting brilliantly in the dim light of the bar. Abe’s shirt had no response.

Abe ran both hands through his hair, unsure what to do. He turned back to Lori who lolled her head about drunkenly, her birch hair brushing down her cream neck.  

“Alright, look. Keep the money. Just tell me like, where’s a good synagogue or deli or something. A’right?”

Mendel ignored him.

“Hey! I asked you a question!” Abe hollered.

“Drop dead you bourgeois high school jerkoff!” said the hooker.

“Hey, you can’t talk to me like that you fuckin’ whore!” And all heads not confined to neck braces turned toward Abe, except Lori’s, who could not hear any of them over the loud jukebox.  

“Wuddy say?!” asked one of the older customers with a gnarled hand cupped behind his useless ear.

LADY LUCK looked at her watch, upset that the bouncer wasn’t due in for another two hours. Mendel’s hand gripped his drink tightly but still he remained turned towards his date and away from Abe. Abe was by far the youngest, strongest, healthiest person in the bar.

“OK, OK, look, I’m sorry I said that. Alright?”

Mendel winced his eyes shut in prayer. The bartender threw two beers at Abe just to get him away from the customers at the bar. Abe’s pretense of virtue, rooted in some mythical Brooklyn where the first generation of American Jews grew up to be Gershwin and Heifetz, scattered quickly into his generation’s spoilt Long Island reality. Abe was mad at the people at the bar. But Lori’s grandparents, still seated hopefully in their kitchen in his head, shook their heads sadly and shamefully at Abe. And Abe couldn’t argue with them, especially now that their sleeves were rolled up. He took the beer back to Lori. He left the money on the bar.

“Look, I’m drunk,” he told her when he got back to the booth. “You wanna go?”

“Alright.”

As they were gathering their things, they were approached by Mendel’s date whose hard stare implored both of them to sit back down in their booth.

“You know your friend here,” she told Lori, “wanted to buy Jewish lessons from my uncle over there at the bar. But I think you should have it. I think you could find a better catch willing to blow $200 on you too, sweetheart.”

Lori looked through her bleary eyes at Mendel’s niece in delightful amazement. The woman liked Lori immediately because she could see that Lori had the good sense and class to avoid the mock empathy that most non-working girls threw her way. Then they both looked contemptuously at Abe.

Abe snatched the money from the hooker’s extended hand and said, “Christ!”

“Maybe that’s where you should go, kid,” the hooker said and traipsed back to Mendel at the bar.

Abe could feel Lori staring at him and he wanted to hide under the table. He wanted to punch the wall until his hands bled. He drew a deep breath and then turned toward Lori but she was gone. He looked around the place but it was just a regular Thursday evening. The light had gone off in Lori’s grandparents’ kitchen, too. He sucked down the beer he had gotten from LADY LUCK and then started in on Lori’s bottle.  

How had it come to this? He was an inexperienced brooder but he was overcome by a horrible sadness, not only for his own loss but for the splintering of the collective identity of these people whom he considered his own. Boy, girl, Hassid, whore- weren’t they Jews above all? And wasn’t Abe an exemplary specimen of Jewish manhood, strong, handsome and rich? The specter of Lori’s grandparents now sat at his table, their sleeves rolled back down but their heads shaking heads back and forth. No one in his community ever shook their heads like that at their children. They got disappointed in their children just like anyone else, but not with such sadness.  

Maybe if Abe had ever felt sheepish before, he wouldn’t have slept with nearly 50 women by the age of 24.  But now he realized that all of the sparks of attraction he had felt with other girls that sent his penis toward them like a dart; all of the hours or weeks he spent with them angling, positioning, trussing them up for conquests had ill prepared him for his date with a nice Jewish girl. Deep down, Abe knew that with a girl as bright as Lori, manipulation and deceit were the only ways to prolong her inevitable rejection of him. Until when? Yes, it was true. Abe had been foolish enough to think that if he could just get her into bed, then she would love him despite their ultimate incompatibility. But, if they weren’t right for each other, why did he want her at all? Abe knew the answer to this, too. Lori was right for anybody. It was Abe who was wrong. Finally, her grandparents nodded.

    Part II

             The young reporter popped a fresh cigar into Abraham Lincoln’s mouth and lit it for him, careful not to singe his whiskers, which had become scraggly in the recent weeks since the election.

           Lincoln puffed on it and grumbled out of the side of his mouth, “Thank you, Mr. Bellingsworth.  Thank you, indeed.”

           “Not at all, Mr. President. I assure you that the honor is entirely mine to have the opportunity to share my joy with our nation’s chief executive. A-hum! A-hum!” chuckled Bellingsworth, the buttons of his stiff white shirt glinting like silver coins as his fat belly heaved up and down with delight.

           “Won’t you sit down, please?” invited Lincoln with a sweeping movement of his large, wood-colored right hand.

           Bellingsworth quickly took up the flaps of his blazer and rushed his substantial posterior into the nearest chair. Seated, he delicately crossed one well-tailored pants leg over the other. Lincoln fell into the small wooden chair behind his desk and folded his big hands before him.  

           “Well, Mitchell-” began the President.

           “Mitch, please, Mr. President,” said Bellingsworth. “If you’ll permit me to interrupt.”

           “Little late for permission… Mitch. Hmm Hmm Hmm,” said Lincoln.  Bellingsworth joined him in the riotous cackling, his whiskers puffing out as he rolled his head about his pillowy shoulders and, for the second time within a minute, the Oval Office was filled with the hearty cheer of the two boisterous men.  

           After a moment, Lincoln snapped his mouth shut while Bellingsworth continued to quake with delight. Lincoln waited patiently for Bellingsworth to calm down. While he waited, he mused to himself that Bellingsworth reminded him of an overheated stove on the brink of combustion. Finally, Bellingsworth regained control of himself and nodded formally to the President that he was ready to continue their meeting.  

           Lincoln decided to extend the informality a bit further so as to put Bellingsworth at ease. He asked, “So, what’s the delightful little scamp’s name?”

           The reporter’s eyes glowed with pride that the President of the United States of America should take such an interest in his affairs, when it was he, Mitchell Stacey Bellingsworth, who was dispatched by his publisher to jot down a mere thirty minutes worth of Abraham Lincoln’s comments regarding his assumption of a second term of office. He summoned the finest timbre he could and purred out his favorite words in the world, “Victor Lamonte O’Hanagan Bellingsworth, Mr. President.”

           “Alright. Damn fine name. Damn fine,” said Lincoln who, ever since amending the Constitution, had come under the impression that his opinion was valued in all matters. “Now, Mitch. Let’s get down to the railroad spikes. What would you like to talk about today?”

           “Ah, well, Mr. President, I know your time is limited and I don’t want to rush uncomfortably into anything too blunt, but, that is, if we could discuss your policies with regard to a few of the recent tariffs, if it seems a reasonable thing for you… Well, Mr. President, ah, you see, several states, that is to say that you’d care to opine wherefore we might…”

           The President’s eyes began narrowing suspiciously but Bellingsworth did not fall silent until one of Lincoln’s hands unfastened itself from the other and raised up like a paddle to halt his fumbling speech. Lincoln’s stern demeanor softened once again as he stood up and turned around. He twisted his head back towards the reporter and offered, “Drink, Mitch?”

           “Oh,” stammered Bellingsworth. “Oh, hum, well. Well, certainly, Mr. President.”

           “Please. Call me Abe.”

           “Beg pardon? Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly… President Lincoln, perhaps... or maybe- um- that is- on the most chumly of occasions- Abraham. But, oh dear.”

           “Nonsense,” said Lincoln as he turned back around to face Bellingsworth with two crystal bulbs of port in one hand, his cigar in the other. He slid one of the bulbs across the desk to Bellingsworth, hammered the ash off the tip of his cigar, sat back down and swung his enormous feet onto the desk. Tilting his drink towards the reporter, he said, “Mitchell. I want you to call me Illinois Abe. Alright? Now that’s an order. You’re a proud father and here we are hoisting better days ahead, toasting camaraderie and such and I’m asking you, man to man, to call me Illinois Abe. Now say it.”

           Bellingsworth, aghast, shot back his port and on his rheumatic exhalation muttered, “Illinois Abe.”

           “See?” said Lincoln as he leaned across his desk to refill Bellingsworth’s glass.  “That wasn’t exactly a debate with Douglas, now was it? Now I’m going to sip my drink, remove my shoes and we’re going to pick up where we left off.”

           Bellingsworth was dumfounded. He had interviewed Lincoln several times before and had heard at press functions of some of the strange tactics he had used upon younger, greener reporters than himself, but neither he, nor anyone else to his recollection, had never been confronted by two gigantic yellow feet propped upon the nation’s most prestigious desk, sharply undermining the quality of the world’s most hallowed office’s air. Again Bellingsworth referred to his crystal bulb and again the President slopped him more of the thick purple drink from the black bottle.  

           “What do you think of these socks, Mitchy?” asked the President, dangling the things over his desk. “My secretary, Mrs. Kennedy stitched them for me last winter. Man my size needs custom made everything. Even underbritches! Wanna see?”

           “Really, Mr. Pres-”

           “Oh, come on! Don’t be such a stick in the mud! And I’m not going to tell you again what you’re supposed to be calling me,” the President chided playfully as he lightly cuffed the journalist on his ample chin.  

           As Bellingsworth’s friend Marsh had noted during the campaign of 1860, Lincoln’s frequent attempts at gentle horseplay usually resulted in painful cracks and bruises. Bellingsworth rubbed his chin that throbbed with the privilege of such treatment as he remembered Marsh’s observations. He had watered his share of punch bowls and clogged his share of muskets during his days at Dartmouth. And, while a stickler for decorum and gentility, Bellingsworth had always been careful not to place himself above those whose regard for propriety was somewhat laxer than his own. For Bellingsworth understood that a lack of refinement was almost always (and certainly in the case of the sitting President) the result of a lack of opportunity. And yet, for the first time since becoming White House correspondent in mid-term of the Buchanan administration, Bellingsworth, like a child’s innocence being stabbed viciously by adulthood when he sees the first crack of fallibility in his parents, began to consider the possibility that Abraham Lincoln might be something of a boorish ass.  

           Despite his foppish stammerings, Bellingsworth’s composure had an epic threshold. So, as Lincoln arose from his chair and softly rounded the desk while unbuckling his vest, Bellingsworth calmly reached around the President’s slender waist and helped himself to another serving of port. After a moment of unfastening, Lincoln’s winglike hands were hooked around his hips and his pants sat loosely about his ankles.  

           Bellingsworth took a moment of his own to summon the timbre of voice that would not betray his shock before saying, “Well, Illinois Abe, I can see why you need bespoke underbritches.” Then, reaching onto the desk for his note pad and pen, Bellingsworth knocked over his empty glass. Its crash on the floor startled Lincoln and he hopped up in surprise. Because of the position of his trousers, he keeled over instead of landing on his bare feet.  Bellingsworth quickly helped the President up, brushed some of the crystal shards from his bare thighs and set about sweeping up his mess with one of his shoes.

           “One second, Mitch,” said Lincoln. “I’ve got an idea.” Lincoln pulled up his pants and made his way to a closet on the left side of the office. He returned with a small red bundle. “You know, Mitch. Sometimes being President is a lot like having a pregnant wife. It can get quite lonely, if you know what I mean,” he said, batting his eyes coquettishly at the journalist.  

           The blue in Bellingsworth’s blood boiled in astonishment of the President’s behavior. But, rather than allow himself to be carried away by his upper class sensibilities, the fourth estate in Bellingsworth began to wonder how much of this peculiar interview would make it into the morning papers. The entire country wondered how President Lincoln dealt with the loss of his own two sons. Was this it? As he daydreamed of the headlines, Lincoln approached him with the small bundle.

“Man my age, my size?  Well, let’s just say you eventually learn how to fulfill your needs in the most precise of fashions,” Lincoln whispered into Bellingsworth’s ear as he removed the reporter’s blazer. “Oh now I can understand if you’re still locked in to the archaic ideal of love.  Plenty of men in your station are. Especially the new fathers, all humbled by the frailty of new life, marvelling at the vague lightening of infantile comprehension, the gray strands of electricity wandering from synapse to vein, searching for a connection of bio-logic. And then some are not. Shall I name them for you? Oh not that you belong in the same pile of conquests with those other louts. I’ve always cherished the moments you and I have spent together here. Anyway, as I was saying, sometimes the rush of war-“

“War?”

“Yes the cut and thrust of battle, the marching formations of men. It can whip up such a lust in a man that one simple evening in the company of an old-fashioned prude like Mary Todd just doesn’t do the trick. I swear to you, Mitchy, that woman belongs in a goddamn convent!”

           Bellingsworth shivered beneath the grasp of Lincoln’s hands, one of which crept around and began unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

           “Illinois Abe, might I be so bold as to request a new receptacle for your delicious port?”

           “Not until you’ve cleaned up the remains of your first one, big boy.”

           And with that, Lincoln tore Bellingsworth’s shirt from his back, balled up the stiff white linen and tossed it aside. He forced the shorter man down onto his hands and knees before the littered pieces of glass.  Then, with a flourish, Lincoln whipped the red bundle into its full expanse and draped it across Bellingsworth’s shoulders.  Had the reporter glanced up for a moment, he would have seen the flash of the Stars and Bars as they came swooping down on him like a spangled insect. Lincoln had also donned his stovepipe hat, which clung miraculously to his large skull.  

           Although Bellingsworth was already prone, shamefully huddled under the confederate flag, Lincoln issued the orders, “Now on your knees, boy! Clean up that mess! Whoop-dee-daw!”

           All of the private tutors and gourmet meals and lolling about the mahogany furniture of Europe’s finest salons that had sailed through Mitchell Bellingsworth’s life in such a splendid stream of pageantry so that he may, among other things, keep his dignity firmly intact under the most bizarre of circumstances, flitted away like smoke in the rain. Were he sober enough to be conscious of his thought process, he would have been surprised by the enthusiasm with which he fell to his duty. When the spanking began, he welcomed it as if his backside had throbbed coldly with neglect until the President’s merciful attendance.

           “Come on now, boy!” yowled Lincoln. “Ever last crumb!” And he straddled Bellingsworth and began riding him around the Oval Office, tugging on the man’s ears and scooping behind him for turgid fistfuls of flesh. Bellingsworth panted and groaned and shuttled the President around his desk, awaiting his next delicious humiliation.  

           “Giddap, you fat floozy! Giddap!”

           But then suddenly, Bellingsworth’s hand mashed down on an object that sent a fierce pain charging all up his arm and into his chest. This sensation put his quivering body over the edge and, after the dam had broken, he rocked to one side to get his hand off of the burning cigar.  Lincoln toppled from his saddle, taking Bellingsworth over with him in the vice grip of his five-miles-to-school thighs. Bellingsworth licked his hand and squirmed his behind towards the President for more contact. And all the while, the cigar beckoned him to remember little Victor Lamonte.

           Breathless, the two men embraced on the floor, Bellingsworth’s girth a worthy match for the span of Lincoln’s condorlike arms. Bellingsworth snuggled his bald head into the thick whiskers of Lincoln’s chin and sighed exhaustedly. Lincoln hardly seemed tired at all. In fact his caresses seemed perfunctory, as if he would take his leave the moment he was sure it wouldn’t hurt the reporter’s feelings, and even that consideration was rapidly fading.

           “Oh, Illinois Abe,” said Bellingsworth.  

           Lincoln smiled craftily, unseen by Bellingsworth as he figured out how to escape from the journalist’s pudgy reach. “Mitchy?”

           “Yes, Illinois Abe?”

           “Congratulations again on the birth of your son. I’m sure you and the wife are beaming with pride.”

           The wife. Bellingsworth looked ahead in terror at the thought of returning to bed with little Victor Lamonte’s mother, a woman he had known since his boarding school days. She may not have been Mary Todd Lincoln, but how in the world would she react to his plump behind wriggling around her in the hopes that she might just brush against it accidentally? Was she an astute enough lover to distinguish his theatrical sighs from his involuntary shudders? And how would he react when, thrashing through the sheets towards her while the dawn gently overtook heaven’s blackness, he learned of her indifference towards him; of her distant routine that he had been buying as genuine intimacy all these years? It was too much to bear and only one solution presented itself- spend more time with the Lincolns. And as he loosed himself from the bony tangle of limbs and beard and stood up, he searched his mind for the first opportunity for a get together with Illinois Abe and Mary Todd. And then, as he was unballing his shirt, he recalled that the wife and he had extra tickets to the new production of Our American Cousins.

[lifeonashelf]

CINDERELLA

It is one a.m. A massive explosion has just ignited mere yards from my apartment. Thunderous, powerful, disturbing. The sonic shockwave of the blast pierces my ears, rattles my windows, makes my balcony physically shudder beneath my feet. Off in the distance, I hear a cannonade, seemingly endless sonorous reports at various sites on the horizon. Mingling with these, there is also an inharmonious descant of smaller discharges, sustained staccato pops that ring out in the night like the deadly buzzing of machine guns. The sky is full of shrapnel that has been launched into the air, and my rudimentary understanding of physics tells me that what goes up must surely come down somewhere. I am not a praying man, but I nevertheless conjure a silent thought in my head and do my best to beam it into the universe, hoping that none of this fiery flak touches down on my roof to trigger a conflagration. Long moments pass and the discordant, jarring cacophony does not abate—more explosions, more gunfire salvos. Another hugely loud boom rings out, this one the closest yet, so close that I can see the light of its discharge dancing on the side of the building across from mine. It sounds as if I am sitting in the epicenter of a warzone. It sounds like a nightmare. It sounds like the end of the fucking world.

It’s not the end of the world, though. It is the 4th Of July. Which naturally means that all throughout my neighborhood, packs of heavily-intoxicated alpha males are “celebrating” how awesome our country is, in the most traditionally American way possible: by detonating a shitload of cheap and dangerous explosives made in Mexico.

And that’s not even the ironic part. The really ironic part is that these discourteous douchebags are commemorating the day our ancestors declared independence from a tyrannical king and the imposition of Christian doctrine, in 2018—a year in which we are presently ruled by a tyrant who is actively striving to expunge every safeguard that will prohibit him from occupying his dominion for life, and a cadre of puritanical legislators who are actively rewriting our laws in accordance with their selective interpretations of Christian doctrine.

Of course, like our forefathers, we are taking bold and decisive action against despotism. We’re posting memes on Facebook like crazy, for one, a strategy which I imagine will eventually get a whole lot of stuff accomplished. We’re also rising up and marching, showing solidarity, letting our fascist-in-chief know we won’t stand idle while women and people of color are being treated as marginal citizens and children who come to this country seeking asylum are being detained in concentration camps. And since July 4 is the linchpin of our freedom, the one day which all of us have agreed upon as an occasion to unite as a nation and show the world, and each other, what America really stands for… Well, it stands to reason that in this critical annum of 2018, while our noble democratic experiment is enmeshed in the most dire jeopardy it has ever faced, we are presented with a golden opportunity to make our grandest statement yet, to stand in defiance of the current status quo and announce to those who seek to subjugate us that we are not credulous automatons who will simply lay down and allow ourselves to be crushed under the wheels of the machine. This year, truly—as Bill Pullman said in that movie where Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum beat up a bunch of aliens—we celebrate our Independence Day…

Nah, not so much. We were too busy attending barbecues and having parades and drinking beer and blowing shit up today. But in our defense—from the sound of things outside my apartment—we bought waaaaaaaaay more Mexican-made explosives than ever this year.  

This is ‘Murica. And right now, America sucks.

Given the statements I made in my introductory paragraphs, it probably won’t surprise you that I’m not particularly fond of fireworks. And given the statement that comprised the last paragraph, it probably won’t surprise you that I’m not particularly fond of America these days, either. (I do love that the principles of this land still allow me the freedom to type the words “America sucks”—although, if the bridge-troll in charge at the moment has anything to say about it, that probably won’t be the case for long). There are those who will read my proclamation and issue some sort of gut-check response like, “if you don’t love America, then git the hell out.” To which I say: 1) fuck you, because that brand of idiotic nationalistic rhetoric is precisely why we’re in this mess to begin with, and 2) if you honestly can’t comprehend how someone who has lived in this country for the past forty years could find so much to loathe about its contemporary state of affairs that they would profess to loathe the nation’s prevailing identity as a whole, then I would strongly recommend opening your eyes to what’s crashing down around you because your willful ignorance of just how fucked this place is right now is a far bigger concern than anything I could possibly write.

Then I would ask you a question: Why are you still so stoked about America? Okay, two questions: Is your ardor based on any measured assessment of what this country stands for now, or are you simply rah-rah-ing the home-team? Most of my educated acquaintances would likely answer with some variation of the standard “it may not be perfect, but it’s still the best nation in the world” reply. Which is a perfectly acceptable response… Except it’s simply not fucking true. Because America is not the best at anything anymore. We lead the globe in mass shootings and shitty hip-hop artists with face tattoos, and that’s about it.

So under what criteria is America “the best”? I’m not posing that question in the spirit of communism, I’m posing it in the spirit of pragmatism. Because, lord knows, I DON’T WANT TO FEEL THIS WAY. But it’s goddamn difficult not to when every single day I see more and more increasingly abhorrent events unfolding on the news, I see a vile cackling shithead mocking all of us from his ivory throne while he assaults every trace of common decency we had left just like he has assaulted women his entire life, and I don’t see a single ray of light on the horizon. My heart isn’t broken, it hasn’t stopped beating, it has simply filled to the brim with disgust—viscous, black, oozing, poisonous disgust. And I am drowning in it. I am disgusted by Donald Trump. I am disgusted by every single person who voted for Donald Trump. I am disgusted by every single corrupt sycophant in his party who facilitates his evil machinations. I am disgusted by every single person I see wearing t-shirts with images of AR-15’s emblazoned on them. I am disgusted by every single asshole who is still exploding M-100’s in my neighborhood even though it is now 3 a.m. And while there is plenty of overlap in each of those categories, if you added up all of those people, they comprise about half the voting population of The United States. We’ve already discussed how much I despise math, but even with my limited grasp of arithmetic, this seems to suggest that roughly 50% of Americans are abominable, racist, ignorant, and/or fundamentally stupid. So, I return to an expanded version of the question at the top of this paragraph: How can any country where this is the case possibly be “the best”?

Make no mistake, Donald Trump did not create our present debacle. Sure, he’s the pus-dribbling herpe at the tip of this diseased penis, so it’s easy to erroneously label him the culprit. But no matter what medicine you apply to that sore, the virus remains. People voted for him. LOTS of people. Lots of Americans. If any evidence was required to demonstrate that our democratic structure has massive systemic problems, there you have it. I understand that we as a nation aren’t necessarily defined by our President, who merely serves as a temporary figurehead—even if this particular figurehead embodies the most horrific symbol imaginable of our national paradigm: an uneducated jingoistic criminal buffoon with no respect for anybody; Donald Trump represents the espoused virtues of America about as well as Jaws represents the gentleness of marine life. However, let me repeat: he is the President because millions of Americans voted for him. And they did so despite the fact that his being an uneducated jingoistic criminal buffoon with no respect for anybody was not only common knowledge but something he openly boasted about. So, not to belabor a point, but this alleged “greatest country in the world” is comprised of millions and millions of individuals who think these are desirable qualities for the person who controls the largest stockpile of nuclear weapons on the planet to have. This alleged “greatest country in world” is also home to multitudes of people who have indicated they would vote for Kanye West if that megalomaniacal psychopath ran for President. Clearly, the masses who ultimately chart the course of this nation are not intelligent enough to make any decision with such weighty consequences. And this is why we can’t have nice things.

Yet so many among us still cling to time-honored fallacies about our superiority. To them, America is like The Beatles—unassailable, immune to criticism. To them, it’s just blindly accepted that America is the world’s zenith. So pass the fireworks and don’t tread on me, motherfucker.

And maybe that’s a big part of the problem. Maybe too many of us have been impetuously clinging to this tarnished ideal, clutching our flags to our proud red-white-and-blue bleeding hearts, oblivious to the feces smeared all over the fabric. We still think we’re Let It Be, even though the music we’re making these days sounds a lot more like Ringo Starr’s solo albums. So maybe, just maybe, it’s time to accept the sad reality that our magic moment has passed, that Yoko has sapped the soul of our foundation and torn us apart from within. Then maybe we’ll start caring enough to actually fucking do something about it.

Hey, the dudes up the street are. Two more roaring explosions just resounded across the blue-black firmament. It is 4:14 a.m. It’s never too late to celebrate America, apparently.

But this isn’t what you want to read about right now, is it? I suppose you saw the header of this piece and assumed I was going to write some eloquent, reflective treatise about the band Cinderella. Well, I cannot. And it’s not just because despite my overly generous appreciation for the hairspray hard-rock of my youth, Cinderella’s limited charms place them in the bottom tier of those outfits. Even their very best song, “Nobody’s Fool”, exists squarely in the middle of the road—it’s neither great nor awful, it’s just sort of… there. Tom Keifer does a decent impression of AC/DC’s Brian Johnson, and the Night Songs disc I’m listening to right now is enjoyable enough for me to accede that Cinderella was probably a better band than Bang Tango, but those merits are woefully inadequate to justify my writing anything of substance about them.

And even worse: I can’t write anything of substance about our country’s dismal state of affairs, either.  I have no solutions to offer, no wisdom to impart. I am merely a broken man sitting at his laptop trying to make sense of the madness suffusing the world around him. And here’s the worst part of the even worse part: all of it, every insane and malevolent thing that is happening to us right now, makes absolute sense to me. I told everyone close to me that Donald Trump was going to win this past election as soon as he announced his candidacy, a prediction which was roundly scoffed at by the smartest people I know. Being right doesn’t make me a soothsayer or a political genius, it simply makes me an overanxious pessimist who has been gauging the very worst in humanity long enough to assume that the very worst thing which can happen in any situation where humanity is involved is more likely than not the thing that is going to happen. Therefore, it was only natural for me to assume that Trump was going to happen.

Whether we like it or not—and this is the thing we’re going to have to accept about the modern American identity if we ever want to make the situation any better—the ethos of Donald Trump’s reality-show sensationalism epitomizes more Americans than the ethos of an arrogant professional shrew in a pant-suit does. The reasons I voted for Hillary Clinton had nothing to do with her dogma speaking to me and touching my soul and igniting a spark of patriotism in my heart—no, those were the reasons I voted for Barack Obama twice. I actively revile Hillary Clinton; I just revile her a whole lot less than I revile Donald Trump. I wasn’t With Her, I was merely Against Him. And I was not alone in this perspective. And I think this is rather emblematic of the broad-spectrum mediocrity and complacency which is inherent in present-day America: legions of the best among us were willing to embrace a patently unexceptional figurehead simply because she wasn’t as bad as the alternative. We didn’t demand the best possible representative of our values, we were prepared to settle for someone who obfuscated her shadiest tenets instead of flaunting them as selling points like her opponent did. “Good enough” was good enough for us. But being a better candidate than some of the truly abhorrent alternatives did not make Hillary Clinton the best candidate. Any more than being a better republic than some of the truly abhorrent alternatives makes America the best country.

No, I am not especially proud to be an American. Especially not at the moment. Why should I be? My nationality is not a product of any extraordinary accomplishment on my part, it is a product of my being lucky enough to be sired by parents whose ancestors managed to slip across the border before ICE existed. I’m certainly not saying I hate America—it’s where I live, it’s where my friends and family live, and it’s where my record collection lives; it has some appealing qualities. Yet espousing our nation’s superiority while disregarding its numerous and glaring failings is a lot like rooting for the New England Patriots despite their legacy of cheating and dishonor because they win more games than they lose. Donald Trump didn’t invent corruption and atrocity; America has a long history of both, one which we conveniently discount while championing its greatness. But here’s the thing there: we treat those unpleasant facets of our bygone chronicle as if they are challenges we have overcome, as if we have somehow evolved past them. Yet, if there’s any salient wisdom to be gleaned from the events of the past two years, it is that we as a society have not actually progressed as much as we claim. How dare we assert our enlightenment when we still live in a land where a man can rape an unconscious woman with a foreign object in an alleyway and be virtually immune to punishment because his white scholar-athlete eminence is hoisted as an exemplar of the American ideal. How dare we claim to be the best at anything when first-world nations around the globe continue eclipsing our finest accomplishments while we’re busy playing Democrats vs. Republicans, battling each other like boorish Neanderthal contestants on the same sort of trash television programs which launched our current President to notoriety.

Trump’s ascendency has legitimized his most repugnant traits and demonstrated that there is a vast and ravenous fan-base for cruelty among our populace. It has proven this country is laden with people devoid of empathy, callous budding sociopaths who were just waiting for someone to come along and tell them that their deep-seeded bigotries and intolerances are venerable assets. Which is why simply removing one fiend from office will not be enough to pull us out of our extant quagmire. That resolution will be like remedying our slit throats with kisses from our mamas—it may feel good for a moment, but it will not suture our wounds. Because America has been hemorrhaging for a very long time and we have chosen to ignore that. Donald Trump merely rubbed that blood over all of our faces for the world to see.  

If you’re proud to be an American, that’s just fine. But what are you so proud of right now? It seems to me that anyone who truly loves this country should want it to be the very best it can be. And it seems to me that the first step toward achieving that is acknowledging that the American essence needed drastic and sweeping improvements well before Der Fuhrer took office. It’s time for us to admit that we are not the greatest country in the world; such a contention only rings as superciliousness at this juncture, in light of the all the evidence to the contrary. Because as long as a maestro with absolutely zero redeeming qualities is orchestrating our symphony, we need to account for the pandemic narrowness among the citizenry who handed him the baton. The time has come to concede that a body riddled with cancerous cells cannot possibly be the healthiest. And to ask ourselves what redeeming qualities we have left—what can we possibly stand for—when enough of us decided that an unprincipled monster represented our nation’s spirit to put one at the helm. Then, and only then, can we begin to cure our sickness.

Okay, here’s how we fix everything…

Nope. I told you, I have no answers for you. Because a large and terrified part of me suspects we may have already cued the band to play our funeral march the moment that diminutive orange hand touched a Bible and sealed the oath that made him the global symbol of what America represents in 2018. And this absolutely fucking devastates me. I may not adore this country at present, but of course I want to it to survive. Because if it does, maybe there’s a chance we can eventually make it the greatest country in the world for real.

For now, everyone I know is resolving to hold on tightly to the masts until the storm passes and the great vessel stops listing. Regrettably, I think there’s a very strong chance our ship will sink before that happens. Regrettably, perhaps it already has. I’m not sure there’s any coming back from the path we’re on now, if this much damage can ever be undone. I’d love to say I’m hopeful, but most of my “Hope” went away when the singularly kind and inspiring man who delivered that slogan did.

That’s why I wasn’t out watching others wave sulphuric pom-poms in the sky to rejoice in the majesty of America tonight. I was huddled inside my apartment, seeking shelter from the onslaught, listening to the terrible sounds of the world exploding around me and knowing I was utterly powerless to stop it, desperately wishing the trauma would end and hoping that when the new dawn finally came my home would not lie in ruins.

After all, it’s 2018. That was the most appropriate American experience I could think of.  

 July 4, 2018  

[blythejohansen]

1. What are you watching on Netflix right now? I am actually currently between shows. I just finished The Haunting If Hill House and it was spectacular. I love thrillers and such so it was very interesting. 2. If you're not watching Netflix, what are you doing? Playing with Camila, Amelia, and Zoe or dancing at the studio at Johansen Performing Arts Center. It’s very relaxing for me to dance freely, rather than for work which makes me a bit stressed. 3. Can we find you on Twitter or Instagram? You can, my handle on both networks is dirtydancer. I made the accounts shortly after Dance to the Top so people could find me if they wanted to, which I’m averaging over 5 million followers at this point, I believe. 4. Who should EVERYONE be following right now on social media? I think that everyone should be following a majority of the elite community really because use our platform on social media to make people aware of so much that is going on in the world. We use it to inform about charities and different causes to give to in the world. It’s a good way to inform fans of things that really matter. 5. What's your coffee shop drink? Coffee or tea? I used to drink a lot of tea but as I’ve gotten older I’ve found myself drinking a lot of coffee. I’m pretty sure my girlfriend would agree I’m a real grouch before I’ve had at least one cup in the morning. 6. What's playing on your Spotify right now? Oh my gosh, I don’t even know. It varies from day to day because I have such a wide variety of things that I like. One day it could be country, the next rock n roll, the next alternative or pop. I believe this morning though I was listening to Bowling for Soup which was a band I really listened to a lot growing up. I like to reminisce on the past a lot when it comes to music. 7. If we were to break into your phone, what was the last text you sent? Oh God, um, let’s see here. Oh yes, I sent Thea a text because I had to get up before her and the kids and I told her that I loved her and to give Camila and Amelia a kiss from mum before they left for school. 8. If you were to get a tattoo in an hour, what would you get and where? Well, as you can see, I have an array of tattoos all over me so where would be harder to figure out considering there isn’t many options at this point but I think I would get a lioness and little lion cubs to represent myself and my girls. I’ve always wanted to get something in honor of them because they saved my life really. 9. To be or not to be? If I’m understanding the question really as its being asked, I would say to be. I tell my daughters that they can be anything they want as long as it makes happy and they work hard. Not to be would be an incredible waste of someone’s character. 10. You're in a pet shelter. What do you adopt, if you have to adopt something? Oh, I just love animals but I would probably say a cat for myself but the girls have actually been begging me for a puppy so I’m sure I’ll cave eventually. 11. What's the best gift you've ever received? Oh, sh*t. Pardon me, um, I would say best gift would be my children. I would never thank the man who gave them to me because he was horrid but I am grateful for them and they have been the greatest gift the world has ever given me. Also, for Thea and Zoe, they changed our lives in a positive way of course. 12. What is the best gift you’ve ever given? Hm, I would think the best gift I’ve ever given was to my girls. We moved to London when they were almost 3 years old and being able to stay in one place and not travel some much has been a gift for them and when we moved into our house I bought them this huge doll house and they positively loved it. They still play with it with little Zoe. 13. Where's your next dream vacation? Well, I just got back from Bali with Thea but somewhere I really want to go is to either Ibiza or Dubai. I’ve never been to either and I think those places would be rather lovely even though Bali was a complete dream. 14. On a Sunday morning, would we find you in sweatpants or all dolled up? One hundred percent sweatpants. If I’m not leaving the house, I’m in sweatpants. As soon as I get home, I put in sweatpants and take off my makeup. I’d wear them all the time if it were acceptable but in my case, it is not. 15. How do you destress after a long day? Well, when I come home usually the girls are about and acting crazy so as soon as they go to bed I’ve got my glass of wine and Thea snuggled up in the couch or in bed. It really doesn’t take much but most nights it ends up being me with a glass of wine in the Jacuzzi if there is any problems at the club that she has to go take care of. 16. If you had one superpower, what would it be? I would be able to teleport. I have so many things to do on some days that it’d just be so much easier and I wouldn’t be late so much. 17. What’s your favorite flower? I love white carnations. My mum used to have them in our green house and she would always bring me one when I was feeling down. 18. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? My short fuse. It doesn’t take much to get me rattled and I wish I had more control over it so I didn’t let others get the better of me. 19. Who do you miss most? I miss my mum a lot. She’s only a flight or a phone call away so it’s not so bad so for missing most I’d say my niece, Skylar. She was only two and the girls and her were still so close. It’s hard sometimes to even think of her. 20. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? My manager, discussing rehearsal times for Best Foot Forward 21. What do you want for dinner tonight? A lot of the time I will eat something different than what they children eat. I don’t let them eat unhealthily but their meals consist of a lot more carbs than I allow in my diet especially during Best Foot Forward season so I’ll probably eat grilled chicken and some kind of veggies. What I want is different than what I actually eat. If I had it my way, I’d eat a huge cheese burger. 22. Three people alive or dead that you would like to have dinner with? Oh my God. Oh, well, I’d have dinner with my granmama, which is my mums mother, my niece, Skylar, and probably Michael Jackson because I have been listening to his music since I was little. 23. Where were you born? Brisbane, Australia. I lived there until I was twenty-years-old. 24. What would be the title of your autobiography? I’ve never thought about that before so I’m not sure. Something about dancing or twins. Maybe something like Breaking Double, I’m not really sure. 25. Who are you crushing on? I’m always crushing on Thea. She is just so amazing on the inside and of course she’s incredibly beautiful on the outside as well. I don’t know why but I had a feeling about her whenever we first met but I never imagined we’d be where we are now. 26. Think anyone has a crush on you? I can’t say for sure but Thea had better. Anyone else, I would have no idea. I’m sure a fan somewhere is crushing on me but that’s a normal response, I think. 27. Last photograph you took? I took a photograph of Camila, Amelia, and Zoe whenever we got back from Bali. Camila and Amelia made us a welcome home sign and were waiting for us when we arrived. 28. What kind of vehicle do you get around town in? I mostly take a town car especially on busy days but I have a black Cadillac Escalade that I drive around when I have the kids and a gray corvette z06 that Thea and I usually take on date nights. The corvette was one of my biggest purchases I made after landing my gig on Best Foot Forward, after my house of course. 29. If you're taking out food to eat at home, where's it from? Japanese. I love sushi and have since I was a kid. Even my girls rather enjoy it. 30. Are you a big spender, or do you pinch pennies? It depends really. Like I said my house and the corvette have been my biggest purchases since I got into the elite world and as children we had a lot of money and were always taught to be humble so I’d say I pinch pennies more than spend my money. A lot of my money goes towards savings for the girls. 31. If you could volunteer your time to a cause, what would it be? Sexual assault. I know many people who have been sexually assaulted throughout their lives and who have children due to these assaults. Their voices need to be heard. 32. If we opened your fridge, what would we find? Oh, milk, juice, wine, those little Halloween sugar cookies for the kids, um, various meats like beef and chicken, I keep my loaves of bread in the fridge, yogurts, lettuce and stuff for salads. Nothing too scandalous. 33. You're mixing me a cocktail. What am I drinking? Hmm, possibly a gin and tonic or maybe a margarita depending on my mood really. 34. Where are you going right after this? Well, I would really love to say home but I have to go to Elstree and rehearse for next week’s episode 35. Who was the last person you kissed? Thea, of course, before I left this morning 36. Who is the next person you'd like to kiss? I think I will stick with kissing Thea. I like her a bit and I don’t think she’d be too thrilled with me kissing someone else. 37. What's your star sign? I am a Libra, actually. 38. Do you believe in love? I very much do. Before Thea I had never believed in any other love than the love you can have for your children but Thea changed my mind on that. 39. Do you have any piercings? I do, I have my ears pierced like most do and I have my belly button and my nose pierced. 40. What's your guilty pleasure? Those rare nights that I am all by myself. I love my girlfriend and I love our children but there is just something about being in a room and it being dead silent. I feel like I can think. 41. Who is your best friend? Thea or Blaze I would think. I have had many ‘best friends’ since joining this elite world but friends come and go in this line of work. I have friends and acquaintances but my best friends are definitely Thea and Blaze. 42. What's one thing you can't live without? My cellphone. I feel like such a millennial saying that but I have my whole life on this thing. My schedule it in it, all the important numbers are on it. People who take care of my kids call me on it if there is an emergency. It’s my lifeline. 43. I'm hungry. Do you have a snack for me? Hmm, I might have a protein bar in my purse. I tend to skip meals when I’m busy without realizing it so I always keep something on me just in case. 44. Are you an introvert or an extrovert? I’d say I’m probably between the two. I think I may have more introvert tendencies than extrovert but if I’ve had a few to drink I’m one hundred percent an extrovert. 45. At the club, do you dance, or do you sit back and relax at the bar? Depends, some nights I just want to chill and sit at the bar but other nights I am feeling really happy I’ll want to dance and have a good time. 46. What are you looking forward to this week? I am looking forward to seeing what my contestant has and working with them to win this season of Best Foot Forward. 47. What are you least looking forward to this week? The long hours. I will be beat every night when I get home this week from so much rehearsing. 48. What's your worst habit? I am horrible about running my fingers through my hair which of course makes it look horrible a majority of the time. I do it more when I am nervous but it makes for a lot of ponytail days. 49. Do you love the city, or the country? I like the country. I grew up just outside of Brisbane and I am raising my girls on the outskirts of London and I like the serenity of it all. 50. What's next for you? Hopefully winning this season of Best Foot Forward and getting to go on tour again next year.