#I think I lost the point somewhere along the way but it's disorganized thoughts for a reason | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ohheyitsokay · 3 years ago

Text

found

pairing: Paz Vizsla x reader

wordcount: 3.3k

warnings: brief mentions of cannon typical violence, the general awkwardness of writing a new character, fluff

summary: you're someone surprisingly good st finding lost things, and you find a Mandalorian - who's looking for home

Trying to get over my need to over explain things by leaving random plot holes. Don’t think about it too hard.

The charred remnants of the base were in tragic, disorganized, smoking piles all around you.

Feet still, you breathed in through your nose and out through your mouth, too tired to be in awe of what had taken place, too overwhelmed to realize that you were unscathed.

When a figure stepped out from behind one of the heaps, only your eyes moved, impressed in spite of yourself that they had managed to stay silent. It was a being barricaded in armor, solid like they were carved from the mountain around you, but blue, shockingly, wonderfully, beautifully blue.

You wondered if you had it in you to fight him.

It hadn’t been so long ago, that you’d met other Mandalorians – their helmets so full of pompous you wondered how they could fly. As he walked closer, you noticed that he did not look like them, did not hold his chin so high it begged to be knocked with the blunt end of a weapon. There was pride in his shoulders still, but no more than was in yours, and he approached you with empty hands.

“What happened here?” his voice had a rumble but he seemed curious, not disbelieving or angry.

“I tricked them,” you told him, and you were surprised to find yourself unafraid of telling him plainly. “I was looking for a missing flock of sant birds, and found them plumping the bellies of imperial troops.” You gestured loosely to a sparse gaggle of silly little beaked creatures tied a string toward the edge of the rubble. “I muddled the communication signals until they believed there was an incoming attack, and their would-be rescuers believed their own troops were the enemy.”

The Mandalorian's back straightened slightly and his helmet tilted.

“You did that for sant birds?”

“I have no love for imps or those who take what is not theirs,” it came out defensive, although he hadn’t belittled your choice. “It was more effective than I expected, but there were not many living who are not anymore, just droids.”

“You are one who finds what it lost?” there was a question there, but not one spoken aloud, and the subtext screamed.

“Can I help you find something, Mandalorian?”

His shoulders rose slightly - just a hair, really - and you couldn’t sworn his helmet dipped.

“Yes.”

Your fingers danced along the buttons and levers of the ship’s control panels, waiting for a command from your mind that would never come. They moved when you thought, searching for a memory – you couldn’t help it.

Next to you, Paz watched, amused as your sharp eyes were unfocused, mouth open just slightly with unspoken words.

“What are you thinking of, little one?” he asked, as quiet as he could manage, snapping you back to the present.

“When we first met,” you turned to him with a smile that made him fidget in his seat. It baffled him, how good you were, and how steady you’d been by his side.

Paz didn’t respond with words, just a thoughtful hum as he watched the stars race by in streaks. You didn’t know, but he was a little embarrassed by it – how enraptured he’d been by you, how quickly he trusted you.

After being separated from his clan, injured and angry, he had spent months stewing and brewing plans for finding his brethren again to no avail. Paz even hitched rides with strangers and picked up less than ideal work, hoping for something of his people to point him in the right direction.

Still healing, he settled on a little planet known for its rumors, known for spreading and sharing information so fresh it hadn’t had time to be twisted. It was there that he waited for words of Mandalorians, met the… other clans, and it was where he heard of you.

On the surface you weren’t remarkable, the whispers said, just a traveler with an uncanny ability to find lost things, and just smart enough to bend the world to your will and just slippery enough to stay one step ahead of genuine trouble. They said you were caring and cunning and clever and had a knack for judging a person’s character. From word alone he liked that, liked you.

The farmer who owned the barn he was sleeping in told Paz that he had asked you to find an old necklace of his mothers. A day later, both the necklace and a long lost sister were joining them for dinner, and you shrugged off both the thanks and the payment with a smile. Paz knew, because he had heard you distantly, through the weathered slats of the barn, and it stayed with him.

The dismissive words reminded him of home - the first reminder that wasn’t painful - evoking moments that were sweeter than the ache of loss. He would have said the same thing, when the Mandalorian’s who were not warriors requested his help. It wasn’t strict custom, but the way, to accept meals instead of money, stories instead of useless metal. Your actions, words, and far-away laughter reminded him of his home.

And when he found you, uninjured, a glint of satisfaction in your eyes and pride in your shoulders as you spoke casually about justice he couldn’t go back. You were almost glowing in the light of the still smoldering embers, gorgeous and determined and he knew he only had one choice – one shot take you with him.

Paz wasn’t in the habit of making promises he wasn’t absolutely sure he keep but he made himself one that day, buried it like a time capsule somewhere in his chest.

And then immediately put it to the test, by testing you.

He looked over at you, your hands now fiddling with your chair, and he fought the urge to mimic the movements. “I evaluated you,” he hoped you could hear that he was smiling.

You snorted, an impolite noise that made want to laugh.

Standing, you widened you stance comically lifting your limbs in an effort to be bigger, mocking him and saying “If I hire you, little one, I must know that I can trust you,” in an exaggerated tone. The exact words he’d told you after his test was over, something you teased him about often. Paz was laughing, but he wondered if you liked how deep his voice was – it was the key change to your mimicry. Looking satisfied with yourself, you settled down again, reminiscing.

The test had been to accompany him on a mission he’d picked up for extra cash – there were plenty of opportunities to be reckless but you gambled with neither his life nor your own. It was one of those circumstances where you were moving and guarding cargo for a rich young diplomat. He told you afterwards he wanted to see if you’d pocket anything beyond your payment, and of course you hadn’t.

“I passed with flying colors.”

The mission had veered left, when a misinformed bounty hunter pressed the tip of a blaster against your throat. At the time you were nearly strangers, but you didn’t give him up, even when you realized the bounty hunter was looking for a woman.

Paz was as in awe of you then as he was now. You agreed to help him the remnants of his clan, and to travel with him, and his promise to himself remained intact.

He nodded.

When he was young, Paz had a sweetheart, a kind Mandalorian girl with whom he enjoyed spending time with. It fizzled as apprenticeships and training were traded politics and responsibilities, and he had always had fond memories of that time.

It paled in comparison to how he felt about you.

You had been searching on your own for something you swore would help your search, and had been gone for days. If he hadn’t been sure before, he was certain now – what you were to him was infinitely more than anything else he had ever known. Still, he felt like a schoolboy, missing you, glancing at the door to the ship with eagerness every time he heard a creak.

He had thought for weeks it was because you felt like home, had been sure it was your ease with mando'a and his culture that made take to you like a duck to water. It made sense, he reasoned with himself. Of course he missed his family, those he was raised alongside, the very people who gave him purpose in life - of course he was looking for any scrap or taste of that wherever he could get it. Nevermind that your smile made him feel like he’d been stunned, it was just because your personal culture fit his like pieces of his armor.

Anyone would have been pleased, half smitten with someone who allowed then onto their ship, especially one as functional as yours. It was perfectly reasonable that he was comfortable with you, since you were always so thoughtful and honest and caring.

And you were talented, useful, that was all. The reason he valued you so highly was that you made his life easier, matched him step to step and balanced out his strength.

But that was all over now. It was special, how well you fit with him, and not to be taken lightly the vulnerability you gave as you shared your space and rations and time with him. All those other things were true, certainly, tenfold the longer you stayed in his company, but he could no longer explain away how much lighter his heart felt when you trotted into the ship, windblown hair and triumphant eyes.

He wanted you to be by his side, preferably if you wanted to be there.

Standing, he moved towards you, wishing he could hug you as you unceremoniously dumped your supplies on the floor. Instead, he picked them up, piling them or putting them back where they belong as you both filled each other in onto the days passed.

Eventually, the suspense overflowed, your excitement bubbling out of you.

“I got it!” your voice did something when you were excited that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it made him smile.

“Got what?” Paz swallowed a cyar'ika.

Eagerly, you produced a small drive and plugged it into the display, saying, “A map!” with pride.

“We already have a map,” That time, he nearly choked on the mesh'la his instincts insisted on, looking at you with genuine confusion.

When you grabbed his gloved hand, he thought he might never let it go.

“Not one like this, Paz.” You turned to the floating miniatures, and he only watched your face under their glow a moment longer before he tore himself away to look as well.

It was distracting, how close you stepped to him as you pointed, but your words were thick with value.

The map had details of Mandalorian sightings and rumors and stories. Even more than that, many of the planets had extra information tacked on, about resource numbers. Paz drank them in, your excitement finally making sense as he realized you were starting to highlight the ones where imported goods didn’t match the populations reported. Your voice was telling him you’d find them soon, that for him, you would do whatever it takes. His longing had become yours, in this little ship half buried in the dirt, under the expanse of the sky.

His hand found your shoulder, gently turning you and carefully, carefully, he hugged you.

The first three planets they chased were driven by pure, unadulterated excitement. He was eager for his brothers, eager to go back to protecting those who raised him and those who were being raised alike. Eager to be home, wherever that may be.

But as the weeks wore on, a realization settled in his mind. Finding home would mean your job was complete – his loss would be you, instead of his tribe.

And he did not like that thought at all.

It became a harsh contrast to his eagerness, as jarring as cool water cracking over heated metal, raising a stink that made his eyes threaten to fill. With each lead the two of you chased, there was a twist in his gut, anticipation suddenly less solid in his heart.

Your ship was nice, cozy and reliable, and he had filled his bunk with anything he found in the markets that reminded him of home. In between searches, you always managed to find the littlest work for the highest pay off – and really, work for a Mandalorian and his lovely, cunning companion was more than available. It was nice, filling your little kitchenette with foods you had introduced to him, and whatever he could get his hands on of the ingredients from his memories.

It wasn’t the same as his old home, with the people and culture who had shaped him, but it was something, and he… liked it, a lot.

He had gotten used to you, the way when his frustration built how you’d match it when he needed to, or lock him in a room with a pile of rations, or slip your hand between the gaps of his armor and rub circles with your thumb. Once he’d gotten in his head about the Mandalore, gone so far he wanted to fight everything that moved, maybe even stop some of them from breathing. You walked right up to him, wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned your weight on him until he remembered to breathe. And he didn’t really think anyone else in the galaxy would’ve done that.

So how could he give that up?

There was an elderly woman, Kori, who had missed the battle. Paz told you excitedly that she was fierce and had fought the armorer for the right to travel, unaware of the trouble that followed his brother-in-arms and the child.

You had set up the meeting at a little cantina you knew, and watched as Paz paced around your ship in his newly polished armor.

The last few months with him had been like a dream – and you had never been more selfish. When you’d met this Mandalorian you had been in awe, despite the previous encounters with the beskar-clad race. More than his formidable size, he cared fiercely, almost seeming larger by the passion that filled his frame.

And the more time you spent listening to his stories, why it all mattered so much to him, and having him listen to you in turn, the more thankful you were that he found you, and continued to let you help him in his search. He didn’t need you, not really. The man was resourceful and intimidating and held himself with the confident grace of a predator - it would have been just as easy for him to take what he wanted and be on his way.

It was strange, how his blood was equal parts humble and proud, but you were drawn to it, intoxicated by him. No one had ever made you feel as protected as he did, as… valuable as he treated you, and you ached for him. You couldn’t bear not to help him as much as you could, but you already knew you would miss your long nights spent talking or the way his gloved hand would grab yours like it was his second nature.

When it was time for the meeting, you had put extra care into your appearance, as if it would matter, wanting to make a good impression. Your companion stopped, and looked you over, and your feet shifted on the bumpy ramp of your ship.

Paz rumbled, as he had the first time you’d met, saying, “What is this?”

It made you laugh, sometimes, that someone so powerful and in control could be so awkward at times.

“Is it bad?” you quipped, trying to sound as though you did not care what he thought. In truth, he was the only one you had ever wanted so badly to think you were attractive.

Paz made a small noise, one you thought you recognized as annoyed, and you turned in time to see his helmet shaking and his shoulders tense.

“Mesh'la,” his voice was lower than normal. Logically you should’ve expected it, but it was amazing, almost overwhelming how his hand enveloped your cheek.

“Thank you,” you whispered, leaning into his touch. It was warm, and you felt selfish for wondering how much moreso it would be without his gloves.

And then a moment later the touch broke and he was hurrying to the cantina with you at his heels.

Kori was there, and they embraced. She greeted you kindly, but you kept your distance as they talked.

You settled at the bar, trying not to mourn a relationship that was hardly more than friendship, as you felt the eyes of someone on the back of your neck. It was a familiar feeling, and you turned, assuming it was Paz – but finding a man making his way over to you instead.

He was handsome, too tight clothes stretched over the muscles of his chest and a sweet, crooked smile. It made you think, maybe a distraction wouldn’t be so bad – and it wasn’t, at first. The guy was nice, attractive and charming and respectful enough that you let yourself actually enjoy his company. You almost didn’t feel the Mandalorians watching you – and you certainly didn’t see your Mandalorian's hands clench on the table.

Paz had hardly said a word to you since he dragged you back to the ship. He knew it was making you anxious, knew you were already waiting for him to start packing, knew you deserved some type of explanation as to what was happened but he just couldn’t.

For the very first time in his life he was petrified of getting the words wrong, desperate to say everything as right as be possibly could.

He wasn’t trained in this – they would say it was the way and move on, or have heated conversations driven by what they knew was right. Mandalorians weren’t … tactful, tentative, tender people, but Maker, did he want to be, for you.

You, in your nice clothes, settled in a crate, watching him and waiting, looking just touch guilty.

It’s not your fault, he wanted to say. It was his, for not being honest sooner. For letting you think he wasn’t head over heels in love with you, for letting you believe he would, could leave you. But he was angry, at himself and at the karking boy for thinking he had any right you make you smile like that.

Angry that it took Kori one look to know what he had spent weeks denying, to unearth the promise he'd made himself about keeping you close.

Angry it took her hand on his fists, and her quite, “Home is where the heart is, adi'ka,” for him to realize.

And when Paz was angry, words slipped past his tongue back down his throat like bitter medicine, and he couldn’t make it stop. He was a man who had spent years of his life in absolute control over every muscle in his body but he always failed with one, the one that seemed to matter most.

In the end, he remembered to do what he wished you would do – he pulled you into him, pressing he forehead of his helmet against yours.

In a moment, he could explain himself, tell you he loved you, ask you to let him stay. In a moment he would thank you for finding him.

But for now, he watched as the confusion cleared from your eyes before they closed and your mouth pulled into a smile, and didn’t run from the pride that filled him from head to toe.

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost @writeforfandoms @beautyagegoodnesssize @princess76179 @mrsbentallmadge

#paz vizsla #paz vizsla x reader #star wars #the mandalorian #maybe i don't know people

92 notes · View notes

mwolf0epsilon · 4 years ago

Note

How about a Sammy and Wally teaming up for once to get out of a sticky situation only to never speak of it again as no one would believe they worked well together :3c

Summary: Just like how water and oil didn't mix, there was no way Sammy could ever be openly nice to Wally... Or could there?

---

[[MORE]]

Water and Oil. That was the sort of relationship Sammy Lawrence and Wally Franks had between them.

Under normal circumstances they did not mix, avoided getting involved with each other, and overall preferred to maintain a general distance.

Like both liquids, they were polar opposites of sorts.

Sammy was somewhat anti-social with a rather finicky temper that could be set off easily, while Wally was highly sociable, very easy-going and carefree.

Where the music director was a workaholic by nature (to the point it became quite detrimental to his own health), the janitor was more on the lazy side (only ever becoming invested in certain very particular interests of his).

So really, the hostilities and recurring arguments weren't unexpected whenever they crossed paths.

No one expected anything less from them.

Everyone knew that Wallace Franks was a friendly person. He was born and raised in Brooklyn and had quite a mind-boggling background that often contradicted itself or put in question what sort of upbringing his parents had subjected him and his sisters to.

Questions that were met with a smile, a shrug and an eagerness to follow a routine full of cut corners, cleaning up spills, ignoring Mr. Connor and trying to avoid stepping on both Sammy's and Mr. Drew's toes.

He didn't particularly dislike anyone (although Thomas's pretentious tone made his blood boil quite a bit), and felt a little off put when others found reason to pick fights with him (fights he could in theory win if he felt like getting into a scrap with any of these fancy white boys who never once so much as got a punch to the gut or a kick to the balls).

Avoidance was the best survival tactic, one he stuck to unless personally blighted by anyone that thought he wouldn't retaliate.

He was a friend you could count on, but also a natural trickster, so if he wanted to be a problem he certainly could be.

The two things keeping him in line were sheer laziness and a good disposition. Why make enemies when you could make new pals? And thinking too hard on things wasn't really worthwhile in his humble opinion… Just look at Sammy Lawrence!

Sammy… Wally didn't hate him (like most people thought he should, considering the blond was such an antagonistic asshole towards him). If anything he pitied the guy quite a bit.

The music director was an aggressive bundle of nerves. A ticking time-bomb that was just ready to be triggered, and it often seemed like no one cared enough to keep an eye on his well being.

Wally wasn't a medical professional of course, but even he knew when someone should step back and let themselves play stupid for a while to combat the amounting stress. Sammy was in his early forties (only 5 years older than Wally) and in desperate need of partying and some no-strings-attached sex. You know, the usual stupid adult stuff that got you in trouble if you weren't legal or if you weren't a straight white male.

Either way, all opinions aside, Wally didn't find reason to hate Sammy. He could understand why someone would carry themselves so tightly guarded when the economy was in shambles and you were trying to make something out of yourself. Although the same consideration did not apply to the other...

Because Sammy sure seemed to find reasons to absolutely despise him.

"He's an incompetent brat with no respect for others! He's a petty thief, inept at maintaining the pipes, sloppy with cleaning and absolutely infuriating in how he brags about skills and smarts he clearly lacks!" The Brooklynite winced as he hid behind Norman, who was glowering down at the blond nuisance currently screaming at him.

A leaky pipe in Sammy's office that he'd been trying to fix had gotten displaced and destroyed a nearly completed composition, setting back the band quite a bit. Naturally the head of the department (who'd gotten sprayed in the face as well) had lost his temper.

"Bite your tongue Lawrence, before I rip it out of your mouth myself." The much larger man between them growled in warning. "It was an accident, no need to go spittin' out such poison."

"You can't keep protecting that little… that speckled half-breed!"

"Now yous is really askin' for me to put my foot up your tight little ass!" Norman bodily shoved the belligerent ink coated man, the indignant anger in his voice pointing to the projectionist beginning to lose his patience. Not that Wally could say for sure, he was still very much hiding behind him. "Apologize to the boy before I deck yous in that big beak o' yours!"

"I'd rather die." Sammy hissed between his teeth.

"Why I oughta teach yous a good lesson on havin' some manners, you obnoxious little--"

"N-Norman that's enough…"

Both fell silent as he spoke up, the janitor moving back from the pair and looking down at his feet in defeat.

He had messed up and Sammy had every right to be angry, since he had ruined his work and consequently screwed over the rest of the department.

It wasn't fair if he got off completely scot free, even if he didn't want to face Mr. Drew soul crushing reprimands.

"I made a mess of things… I didn't pay attention and messed up the stinkin' pipe…" Sammy actually looked confused that he was just taking it for once, rather than getting out of dodge. "Now Mr. Drew's gonna be real mad and it shouldn't be the music department to pay for it…"

"Don't mean Mr. Lawrence gets to go havin' a dyin' duck fit! Hollerin' up a storm like that, you'd think yous went and deflowered his sister."

"Polk!" Sammy really did not like the sound of that. If he went any redder with rage Wally feared he might literally explode like a bomb. "How dare you?!"

"Don't feel too good when others go sayin' shit do it? Even if Wally here is takin' the fall, yous still gonna apologize to the kid." Norman stated.

"I will do no such thing."

"Good Lord in heaven, yous really are like water an' oil! You better start cleanin' up your act before I start usin' yous to grease up the projector belts!"

"Why am I the oil in this analogy?!"

"Must be because you're an unpleasant asshole."

The three turned to stare at none other than Thomas Connor who had a displeased look on his face and a toolbox in hand. Wally looked away, already knowing what was coming.

"Franks, get moving back into that office. You're fixing that pipe while I sort the ink pressure." Thomas passed him the toolbox without any second thought. "Mr. Lawrence, I'd suggest you go collect your things to keep them well away from the ink."

"I don't take orders from you, Engineering." Sammy huffed "I was already planning to do so before you decided to show your face around here."

"Then why haven't you?" The older man raised an eyebrow.

Well it turns out Sammy's face could get redder. That probably wasn't normal, but it did seem to amuse Norman quite a bit.

He snorted and shook his head.

"I needs to go downstairs t'get a new reel for the projector. I better not hear no more hollerin' when I get back." He gave Sammy a pointed look before looking at Thomas "And yous better get sortin' that pressure issue. If any more pipes burst in this little ol'department we might get another flood, and we still don't got no pump switch installed yet now do we?"

"At the end of the month that's getting sorted. For now, we do our jobs." Thomas huffed and moved to go check the utility shaft where most of the pressure gauges for the music department were located.

Wally watched quietly as both older men went their separate ways, leaving him alone with Sammy.

"Well,what are you standing there for? Go fix your fuck-up." The blond snapped at him as he went to pick up an empty box from the closet and began to stomp his way back to his messy office.

The Brooklynite gulped and took the toolbox he'd been given, hoping this wouldn't take long.

The thought of being alone in a room with Sammy when he was in a terrible mood wasn't particularly appealing.

Especially when he was pissed at him.

It was just one measly little pipe.

How hard a fix could it be?

Stepping inside, the janitor winced. The floor was absolutely coated in ink and the spill was beginning to spread.

Sammy was dragging his desk away, leaving marks on the wood that were then hidden away by the growing puddle. The bin he'd used to put under the flow was full to the brim and spilling out in rivets.

"Franks! Close the damn door and put that curtain under so it doesn't end up going into the actual band room!" The music director called out, startling him slightly.

"Oh, uh right. Contain the issue an'... Junk." He grabbed the curtain, something Sammy had put up himself to cover his office window because he couldn't be bothered to mess with the rickety shutters, and stuffed it under the crack of the door once he closed it.

There was a loud click but he elected to ignore it since he had his keys. He could just unlock it later.

"You need any help dragging that?" He asked as he began to look through the toolbox for a wrench.

"Just do your job."

"Right…"

They fell into silence, where Wally tried to figure out where exactly along the pipe did he actually have to sort, and where Sammy muttered to himself as he tried to salvage his papers.

The leak wasn't too bad all things considered. There was little to no pressure, which meant there might be a block somewhere else but that was why Thomas was checking in the utility shaft.

He just needed to fix this, tighten that, twist this doodad and turn that knick-knack… He winced when he heard papers crumple and get tossed into a wastebasket.

"Damn it, not one fucking sheet… I swear I had some notes somewhere… where did I put those…" The composer was going about trying to find his stuff, looking through a filing cabinet that looked just as disorganized as Wally's dresser. "Was it in E? Or… L? Do I even use the separators?"

It was amazing really, how easily Sammy seemed to lose track of things.

He often yelled at the janitor for misplacing his keys, yet here he was murmuring and rushing about all scatterbrained.

It was a little ironic.

"What are you staring at, Franks?!"

"Hm?" He hadn't even noticed he'd been looking. "Oh uh, was just gonna say this is almost done."

"Good. I want you out as fast as possible, so get that done and clean this muck so I don't have to see you for the rest of the day."

"Yeah yeah, this whole pipe stuff ain't too bad when the ink aint--" a loud groan interrupted him abruptly, and even Sammy seemed to pause to look up.

Both stood there, slightly alarmed by the sound.

"What was that?" Sammy asked.

"I…" Wally frowned and listened closely. It sounded almost like, like… "Oh crap."

Another much louder groan and then suddenly the Brooklynite was on the floor, ears ringing and mind blank from taking a sudden hit.

The pipe had completely burst now, due to a sudden change in pressure, leaving the two with a rapid cascade of ink.

"What did you do now?!" He heard once his hearing returned, but he didn't respond. Instead he sat up and stared at the pool of ink all around him. Where he sat it was steadily rising to his knees, and it was already covering Sammy's feet completely.

The office was filling up like a tub, and quickly.

"Oh boy…" he got up onto shaky feet and made for the door, wincing when he realized it had indeed locked.

He went for his keys but froze when he found them gone. "Shit, shit shit shit shit!!!"

"What now?!"

"I think we're in a bit of a pickle!"

"Why am I not surprised?" Sammy rolled his eyes, moving over to try the door. "Where are your keys?"

".... Uh…"

"Are you serious?" The blond groaned and began to try pulling the stuffed curtains from under the door to get rid of the flooding problem. The color draining from his face when he realized they wouldn't budge. "No…"

Wally bit his lip as he watched Sammy tug harder and then try the door handle with a little more urgency.

"No, no no no! I'm not drowning in my own office!" The music director let go of the handle and instead began to bash his shoulder against the door to no avail.

It wouldn't budge. "FUCK!"

Thinking quickly (and trying not to stare at the ink slowly raising up to halfway up his legs and nearing knee height), Wally began looking for his keys.

"I just had them!" He'd checked before entering the office. They must have fallen out when the pipe exploded and threw him down, so they had to be somewhere in the pooling mess. "Come on…"

He was practically on his knees searching while Sammy continued to assault the door.

There was no one to hear the noise, and if they didn't find a way out soon… Well… Wally's aunty Tess once told him drowning was a painful and far too long a death.

"This isn't the time to roll around like a pig in mud!" The blond shrieked at him, to which he couldn't help look back with a glare.

"I'm lookin' for my keys! They're somewhere in here!"

"Then move aside!" Sammy joined him and began to frantically palm the floor, trying to find the illusive circular keyring "If we survive I'm getting you a better ring!"

"If we survive you won't have to! Cuzz I'll be outta here!" Drowning was definitely not on the job description. This was good enough a reason to quit right?

"I'll believe it when I see it happen!"

No matter how much they desperately searched however, no keys could be found in a pool that now reached well above their waist.

Realizing just how dire their situation was becoming, both men looked at each other with dawning horror.

It was a matter of minutes… their lives were going to end in minutes.

Wally felt at a loss for what to do, while Sammy… Well the blond was already under enough pressure as it was, so naturally he broke.

"No… I can't die like this!" Fat tears began to run down his face as despair started setting in.

"Hey now, I know this ain't ideal but--"

"Ideal? Ideal?!" Sammy grabbed at his own hair and began to tug while he hiccuped hysterically. "I'll tell you what's not ideal! Drowning in this chemical mishap, with some brat from Brooklyn while my 16 year old sister is none the wiser at home, probably thinking 'Geeh I wonder where Sammy is, he usually calls if he's staying at work', only to then find out on the local paper the next morning that she's absolutely alone with no one to care for her! That! That isn't ideal!"

".... Oh you actually have a sister? I thought Norman was just provokin' you…"

"I WILL STRANGLE YOU WELL BEFORE YOU DROWN YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

"OI DON'T YOU GO CALLING MY MA A BITCH, SHE'S AN ABSOLUTELY SWELL LADY!" He yelled back, ignoring how both of them were now up to their chests (well he was starting to float since Sammy was taller than him) in ink. "HOW WOULD YA LIKE IT IF I CALLED YOUR MA A BITCH?!"

The blond head of the department screeching and lunging for him was all the warning Wally got before the two ended up tumbling in, heads fully submerged and bodies flailing as they attempted to restore their mothers' honors (if anything they probably looked like little kids fighting in a puddle while their parents looked away in embarrassment).

They only came back up to gasp for air and push themselves away from one another.

"Ok that was not my best idea!" Sammy coughed and looked around. "I can barely see the doorframe or the edge of the window… We're going to die in here and it's all Drew's and that infernal machine's fault!"

"... I." Wally paused "Wait, I ain't included in that?"

"No?"

"But the pipe, and what you were tellin' Norman and the fighting just now…"

"I was pissed because you aggravated an issue I already had! You also stole my sister's birthday cake that I spent money on, are a braggart of the worst kind, and a troublemaker, but fuck I'm not gonna blame you for this shitty situation!" Sammy threw his hands up in disbelief, yelping once he lost balance. He righted himself and looked back at Wally. "And the fighting was because you called my dead mother a bitch."

"Oh… My condolences… also that cake was yours? Man good taste! Nice stuff really… I uhm… I donno what to say… I just thought you hated me."

"... Well if we're going to die I might as well be honest." Sammy sighed "I don't hate you Wally. I just find you aggravating. You're an impossible optimistic guy in a world that eats brats like you for breakfast, lunch and dinner. If someone isn't hard on you, how are you meant to learn how to survive out there?"

"... That how you were taught?"

"..."

"Then no worries Sammy. I'm from Brooklyn! We're made of durable stuffs! Like our uh… like… roaches!"

"Durable like roaches… how reassuring…" Sammy held a hand up to reach for the ceiling. They were going to lose air in seconds. "It's the same as saying glass is strong unless it meets with a hammer…"

Wally stared at him before something clicked. The toolbox!

"Glass, hammer, the window!"

"Hm?"

"Sammy you're a genius!" The janitor took a deep breath and dove down to the floor. He blindly groped around for the toolbox and then for the hammer inside it.

He resurfaced to take another big gulp of air before showing his companion the hammer and diving back down.

All it took was a knock on the side of the glass for the whole thing to come down. Thank God for Joey Drew's not so safe work ethic and construction jobs!

Thomas Connor was having a rotten day. He'd gone down to figure out what the pressure issues were all about in the utility shaft connected to the music department and the sewers, and had then rushed to get Joey to bring him down and show him the root of the problem.

He'd become irate when he realized the man had turned on the machine during maintenance, and it took a newly returned Norman and a mildly concerned Jack to talk him out of kicking his employer's ass.

"With how irregular the pressure has been, turning on the machine was grossly negligent on your part! The more fragile pipes could have burst and then we'd be faced with catastrophic failure all around the studio!" He practically roared at the impassive grinning bastard. "Have you any idea how unstable the floors currently under construction are?! The building could collapse!"

"But it didn't."

"But it COULD have!"

"And yet it didn't." Joey's grin widened. "So I don't see what the big deal is, Mr. Connor."

"Sir I really think you should consider what he's trying to say. For uh, for everyone's safety…" Jack tried, only to be shrugged off with a wave.

"Mr. Fain I see no reason to worry. No catastrophic failure has occurred, and no one has gotten hurt." Joey insisted. "It's as they say. No harm no foul."

"No harm no foul?! What kind of business owner doesn't consider their workers's safety?!"

"Mr. Connor…" Joey rolled his eyes but stopped once he heard what sounded like a loud bang, before the band room was suddenly inundated by a massive wave of ink and random junk. Among said junk, lay a coughing and very disoriented Wally Franks (still holding a hammer) and Sammy Lawrence.

The foursome that had been arguing were now coated in almost as much ink as the pair, and looking stunned.

Once the coughing subsided, Wally raised the hammer in triumph.

"We're alive!" He dropped the hammer and flopped his arm back down weakly.

"Huzzah…" Sammy rubbed at his face tiredly before looking over at their audience. Once his eyes locked with Joey's, he seemed to regain all strength. "DREW."

"Shit." Joey turned around swiftly and began limping away at a considerable speed with aid from his cane, while Sammy scrambled onto his feet and began running after him.

"WE NEARLY DROWNED! YOU AREN'T GETTING AWAY SO EASILY! COME BACK HERE!"

"Someone cancel my appointments!"

"DREWWWW!!!!"

Norman clicked his tongue and shook his head while Jack helped Wally onto his feet and asked if he was ok.

"Oh, I'm good!" The Brooklynite smiled "Nearly drowned with Sammy, but peachy!"

"You nearly drowned?!" Thomas stared in disbelief.

"Yeah… but it's good. I broke a window but other than that everything should uh, be repairable I think? Might need a lot o' bleach to clean up… but you know." Wally shrugged.

"Should I ask what abouts happened in that office when yous was both alone in there?" Norman questioned "Besides nearly drownin' in Joey's hubris?"

"Uh… oh, you're asking if Sammy gave me any trouble aren't ya?" Wally shook his head "Not really. He was even nice to me for a little bit!"

"Nice?" Norman and Thomas both exchanged looks "To you?"

"Oh Geeh, I should get him checked, he might have swallowed ink and become delusional…" Jack whispered to himself in concern.

"Ye, nice! Sammy Lawrence was nice to me in a situation where we thought we were gonna die, so it had to have been genuine!" The janitor grinned. "But I'll bet by Monday he'll be back to being a grouch. Probably for the best… saying Sammy is nice is like saying water and oil mix."

Thomas stared at him before snorting.

"They do mix."

"What…?"

"Water and oil mix. It just takes the right conditions." He shrugged "Thought you went to college."

"Oh come on you're yanking my leg!" There was no way those two mixed, just as there was no way Sammy could be openly nice to Wally.

Could there?

The world might never know.

#Eps Writes:#Bendy and the Ink Machine #BATIM #Wally Franks #Sammy Lawrence

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rora-s · 4 years ago

Text

The Derivative Chapter 4: Talk

Chapter 1 <- Chapter 3

“In twenty years of teaching. I’ve never received evaluation comments like these.” Larry complained as we followed my uncle on an afternoon hike. “Boring. Me? Intellectually inaccessible.”

“I thought we came up on this hike to get your mind off of this ridiculous thing.” Charlie pointed out.

“I mean, one student even said I’m out of touch with cutting-edge thinking in multidimensional theory. That one alone kept me up at night” Larry explained as we scaled a small incline.

“The first two seem plausible but the third” I shrugged “don’t let it get under your skin”

“Thank you young enigma for the jaded advice” Larry murmured.

“Anytime” I replied with a smirk.

“Everybody gets bad evaluations now and then. Come on!” Uncle C hurried us along.

“Yeah, yeah says the professor who never received anything less than a rave” Larry replied sarcastically.

I chuckled “rave? Really?”

“Indeed student body favorite practically” Larry informed me.

“As with any large group, there are responses that cover the entire spectrum. I once had a girl in my combinatorics seminar tell me that I was disorganized and I talked too fast.” Charlie explained as Larry leaned on a branch to catch his breath and I took a sip of my water bottle, wondering how I managed to get dragged out here with these two.

“Well, that’s an accurate observation actually.” Larry admitted. Charlie gave a mildly bewildered look directed at me and I nodded my agreement “but, generally speaking, I mean, your students love you, whereas mine say my classes put them to sleep.”

“You’re an exceptional professor.” Charlie reassured his friend. “I should know I took classes from you.”

“Yeah but you were an exceptional young mind” Larry pointed out as a couple other hikers passed us “perhaps I’ve lost my ability to reach the more typical student”

“Hey Professor Fleinhardt,” one of the passing boys nodded to Larry.

“Hey” the physicist greeted happily “How’s it… how’s it… how you… how…” Each attempt made to continue conversation failed on the man’s part as the boys continued to walk either not registering or ignoring the professor's attempts. “See we’re not even in class,and still my students run away from me.”

“Hiking away technically” I corrected casually.

There was then the sound of a police siren in the distance “I don’t think that’s it” Charlie muttered from his higher vantage. He began to hurry off in the direction the students had gone. Me and Larry followed. “Right down this way. Hurry!”

What greeted us was a full scale crime scene. With a coroner's truck, police officers, and others gathered masses of observation. As we got around the corner of a police car I felt my feet freeze to the ground. There was a body laying a couple yards away below the bridge overhead.

I felt the ghost of rain drops on my skin and felt the family spiking headache rocket through my brain. They were in a red hoodie. It was a boy. But each time I blinked as I began to do so furiously I was switching between this reality and the one of the girl with bright red hair. The rain was picking up, the headache was pulsing. I couldn’t breathe anymore.

“Abby” I snapped my head around as a hand laid on my shoulder. Charlie was looking at me with concern evident in his features. “Are you alright?”

I bounced my eyes around the scene. It wasn’t raining, it wasn’t at night, and we weren’t out on that street. I took a couple calming breaths before finally replying “yeah yeah fine” I muttered.

“You sure?” Charlie asked again.

“Fine” I reiterated. I caught Larry eyeing me worriedly as well. “Guys seriously I just- I didn’t expect that” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the body I did not need, or want, to look at again.

“Me neither” Charlie murmured in agreement, taking his hand off my shoulder and his features turning to one of contemplation as he looked at the bridge.

“Very well, you were just exhibiting the common signs of what one might call a panic attack” Larry voiced.

“I’m fine, really just rattled” I tried to sound convincing. From the look on Larry’s face he wasn’t convinced but he dropped the issue and for that I was glad.

_________________

3rd POV.

Don sighed as he got out of his car and headed into the FBI building. His phone beeped as he made his way through the lobby and he looked to see it was Abby. “hey kid what’s up?” he answered trying to sound like he had some energy.

“Am I going to the apartment or Grandpa’s house after school today?” she asked, sounding about as tired as he felt.

Don thought about it for a minute “go on to your Grandpa’s alright I’ll call the school clear it up”

“So you are looking into the guy who jumped off the bridge?” Abby asked as Don clicked the elevator button.

“Just a little for Charlie’s sake” Don muttered then a thought occurred to him. “Wait how do you know about this? Charlie talk to you?”

“Uh… I was there when Larry and Charlie came upon the scene” Abby admitted.

Don let off a breath. “You alright? I mean that can be some scary stuff.” he couldn’t help thinking about his first jumper case.

“Yeah I’m fine I just wish people would stop asking” Abby grumbled snappily that did not reassure Don at all of her being fine.

“Abby, it's okay if some of this got to you” Don reassured as the elevator opened and he got on.

He heard her sigh on the other line “I know it’s just… it’s not what people think it’s about and it’s hard to talk about” Don was confused at the answer but before he could probe more she was continuing “I have to get to class now. See you later”

“Yeah okay, bye” Don muttered before she hung up. He let off a breath pocketing his phone. He was going to have to deal with that later, or maybe it would be better to let her work through it on her own? He was still contemplating these thoughts when the elevator opened and he was walking out. “Dad? What are you doing here?” he questioned seeing the man.

“I called you; you hadn’t called me back” Alan explained.

“Well, I would’ve eventually” Don assured “is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Alan muttered in reply “I need you to come to dinner at the house on Wednesday. Um, I have a date”

“Oh yeah? A date” Don tried to sound encouraging. “Hey, well, that’s good. With who?”

“Oh, someone Art knows from yoga” Alan explained. “Yeah, her name’s Jill. he says she’s smart, she’s funny, and, uh, quite flexible” Alan spoke the last compliment to the woman with a hinting look and slight chuckle “So I.. we’re having dinner at the house and I would like you to be there.”

“Wow, hey, no.” Don began to quickly try and work his way out of the perceivably awkward dinner. “Just take her somewhere low-key. You’ll be fine” he suggested leading his dad back to the elevator.

“Look, it’s my first date in over 35 years.” Alan grumbled “I would like ‘memorable’ instead of ‘low-key’”

“‘Low-key’ and ‘memorable’ aren’t mutually exclusive.” Don objected “you know what my favorite date ever was? Pepperoni pizza in a laundromat.”

“Yes, which explains the conspicuous absence of grandchildren.” Alan muttered then thought “well I guess planned grandchildren.” Don sighed and gave his father a look “So, Wednesday, 7:30. Bring a date?”

Don shook his head “I can’t. Dad, I’m busy, and I don’t anticipate meeting anyone between now and then either. By the way your unplanned grandchild is heading to your house after school in” he glanced at his watch “40ish minutes so you should get going.”

“Of course she is” Alan sighed “No, but anyway I just want to make it a couples thing, you know? Look like, seeming like…”

“Well I don’t think-” Don cut off as the elevator opened with a ding revealing Terry standing there.

“Hi” she greeted Don “hey Mr. Eppes” she also greeted Alan with a mild curiosity to his presence evident on her face. Her and Alan switched spots as she exited the elevator and he entered. “Good to see you”

“You too” Alan agreed as she walked away then he turned to his son “you’ll think of something” he made a suggestive nod after Don’s partner. The FBI agent sighed as the doors slid shut and he walked away.

________________

Abby POV.

I headed into my grandfather’s house tiredly. I hadn’t slept last night after seeing that boy the other day. Images of him and another memory from months ago swapping places and intermingling in my mind. It was like my brain was caught in a cyclone.

“Abby? You here?” Gramps called from his chair as I came in the door.

“Yeah” I called back.

He looked over at me, glasses perched on his nose. “You alright you look beat”

“Just tired,” I admitted taking a seat next to him. Tossing my bag on the floor.

“Rough day at school?” he quizzed.

I shook my head “trouble sleeping. Charlie didn’t tell you? A CalSci student committed suicide yesterday. Larry, Uncle C, and I stumbled upon the crime scene while going for a hike” I explained.

“Oh my word” Alan sighed “that’s horrible I mean I saw the news. That poor boy’s parents but you seeing that. I’m sorry”

I shook my head “no I’m fine it’s not-” I swallowed my words.

“Not what?” Alan prompted my abrupt stop. “Abby, listen if this is making it hard for you to sleep I don’t think it’s nothing. If you try talking about it maybe it’ll help”

“It’s just- it’s hard to explain sometimes.” I voiced carefully.

Alan put down the paper he was reading and removed his glasses shifting in his seat to face me. “It can’t hurt to try and explain it Abby”

I bit my lip but let off a sigh collecting my thoughts for a moment “because of my AEM, my memory thing, I- I get these- these attacks. It’s my memory but it’s things I don’t want to remember don’t choose to remember. And- and these intrusive memories they just- sometimes in the moment I can’t keep them straight from reality it’s it’s-”

“It's scary,” Alan finished my sentence, reaching out to give my hand a squeeze. I nodded “and these attacks they’re like panic attacks? Triggered by something?”

“Yeah they’re a lot like that” I replied feeling oddly better now that someone knew about it. “My blinders and music help calm me down” I told him, finding it easier to continue now that I’d started. Alan nodded taking in the information easily.

“So seeing that scene, this boy, it caused one of these attacks?” he deduced. I nodded “your mother?”

“No” I objected quickly, opening my mouth to say more but feeling it cut off by visions of red hair and pools of water on the ground under street lights. I swallowed.

“It’s okay if you can’t talk about it yet” Alan reassured me and I looked up at him again “just know when you do I’m here for you so is Charlie and your father. Now you might get tired of me saying this but uh.. Abby you’re not alone and- and if these intrusive memories are a struggle for you you should tell Don about them”

“I know” I smiled lightly “It’s just-”

“Hard” Alan finished my thought again “some of the most important parts of life are”

I sighed knowing he was right “thanks for listening”

“Of course” he nodded and picked his glasses and paper, back up again. “Oh, uh by the way. You’re going to be hanging out with your Uncle Charlie Wednesday night or otherwise at Don’s”

“Why?” I asked in confusion.

“I have a, uh, a date and I’ve asked your father to be there hopefully with his own date.” Alan explained awkwardly.

I scoffed “Don on a date?”

“Yes, that’s not a problem for you is it?” the man asked.

“No” I objected but the slight curling in my stomach was telling me internally the opposite. “I’m going to go work on my homework upstairs,” I told Alan, grabbing my bag.

“Alright” Alan nodded, perching his glasses back on his nose. I sighed getting to my feet and heading from the room.

____________________

“Let’s see how it does in high winds.” Charlie stated, beginning to type the information into the computer.

Larry made a humming noise and looked over at me “and what are you reading over there?”

“Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” I replied.

“Fascinating” Larry nodded “I have to say I wouldn’t have pegged you as one who read young adult fiction despite your age. I was informed you read quite a leap beyond your level”

“I do” I answered easily “doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good story and relatable characters”

“Fair enough” Larry agreed then made another humming noise of thought “you know young adult literature much like it’s intended audience tends to be underestimated in the long run by people. Such as the young man whose work we are interpreting was ignored by his elders in his warnings”

I scoffed turning the page of my book “preaching to choir here”

“School still won’t let you in advanced classes?” Charlie asked.

“No” I mumbled “I mean they do realize it’s not my fault I missed so much school”

“Yes, well if you ask me the greatest failing for one who wants to be an educator is to grow up and forget what it means to be young” Larry mused.

“How profound” Charlie muttered sarcastically “now can we focus please?”

“Why of course” Larry agreed, shooting me a look before I turned back to my story.

__________________

“Hey Chuck what’d you find?” Don asked, coming into the office alongside Terry.

“The problem is wind” Charlie explained, shuffling over to where Larry sat and I stood behind the computer.

“Wouldn’t they have already tested for stability in winds?” Don questioned, dubious.

“Engineers test structural response to gusts along two axis north to south and east to west.” Larry informed

“And, in those cases, a single side supported by two corners bears the brunt of the wind load” Charlie carried on the explanation.

“Think of a straight-on wind as two cars colliding” Charlie posed the analogy “in contrast-- excuse me--” he shuffled Larry out of his seat to take control of the computer “quartering winds hit a building at an angle, exerting pressure on two sides anchored by a single corner.”

“It’s like one target, two bracing going to two targets one bracing” I voiced with a shrug. The non-mathematically inclined people still looked mildly confused.

“Imagine a car getting hit from the back and the side simultaneously.” Charlie continued with the car analogy.

“Can those winds cause structural issues?” Terry inquired.

“Our tests showed that the Cole Center is sound for head-on winds of up to 90 miles an hour” Charlie showed them the simulation “but here’s what happens with quartering winds as low as 60 miles per hour” he plugged it into the simulation and began to narrate what we were showing them “first the steel frame bends beyond its limits and stays bent. Then this strained steel hardens and becomes brittle. Under continuing stress this steel will fracture, causing complete structural collapse.” the computer beeps rapidly as the simulation reached its third stage “Finn Montgomery found the problem in the building’s deflection. He suspected the effects would be serious.” Charlie stated as the digital building collapsed “he was right and he may have paid with his life”

“Alright we’ll bring it up to Cole, get people out of the building to start then start looking to see who’s responsible” Don assured.

“Thanks Don” Charlie nodded.

“Yeah well we still gotta see what Cole says, alright” Don told his brother.

“Sounds like an early day tomorrow” Terry voiced “I better get home then”

“Yeah, thanks for coming tonight” He told her. Shuffling away from those of us still testing the math on the simulation by the computer.

“You’re welcome and it was for the most part enjoyable” Terry told him. “See you tomorrow. Have a good night you three” she called to us with a wave.

We called back fair wells in response as she headed from the office. “Alright kid we should get back too. Got school in the morning”

I heaved a sigh “right coming. Night Uncle C, bye Larry”

“Night,” Charlie called, not looking up from his computer and Larry offered a wave.

I grabbed my bag and books and followed Don out of the office. “So you and Terry had fun?”

“Uh yeah more than dad anyway. Bit of a train wreck for the poor guy” Don explained. I made a humming noise of acknowledgement wondering what had gone so wrong to qualify as a train wreck. “Listen, I know you said you were fine with this whole thing but- uh you know I’ve seen enough to be able to tell when someone’s not fine and it’s okay if you need space to deal with it or whatever but uh, I just I guess if you have to talk about it.” he kinda trailed off with gesturing hands as words failed him.

“We really suck at this communications thing” I determined.

Don scoffed as we exited the building “yeah well at least we’re trying”

“True,” I murmured and took a deep breath. “there is something I need to tell you. There’s this thing I have. Gramps correlated it with panic attacks but it’s part of my memory they call it-”

“Intrusive memory right?” Don interjected.

I snapped my head up to look at him “you know about it?”

The man nodded “yeah it was in your medical records. Social worker warned me about it. I am your legal guardian if you recall”

“Oh” I murmured realizing I probably should have realized he knew about this sooner “so why didn’t you say anything about it?”

“Well, I figured you’d talk to me about it when you were ready or at least not until you had an attack or something” Don explained awkwardly.

A small smile came to my face “thanks”

“Hey you’re my kid. As new as I am to this parent thing I can stand to get a couple things right” he told me.

I laughed lightly “okay”

“Okay” Don nodded “now let's get out of here it’s late” he pulled me into a small side hug arm around my shoulder as we headed toward the car and I couldn’t help but keep smiling.

________________

“Yo!” Don called coming in through the back door.

“We’re in here.” Alan called in reply.

A moment later Don came in with a box setting it on the dining room table “Hey, All right, FBI accountants went over all of Nevelson’s financials, and these are all the documents that relate to the foundation. Our people could find nothing.”

“So why didn’t you have Charlie look at the records in the first place?” Alan inquired as I continued to eat quietly. Saving my ‘I could help’ pleas for later.

“The FBI has a team of excellent forensic accountants.” Charlie objected.

“I know.” the elderly man clarified “but it wouldn’t be the first time you find something that they missed.”

“You know, a lot of mathematicians do have eidetic numerical memory” Charlie explained “similar to Abby’s ability to remember everything she encounters visually only specifically geared toward numbers that are repeated and in patterns”

“So my memories better” I commented with a smirk.

“Your visual memory yes” Charlie gave me a look as he got up and began looking through the papers.

“So I could be able to help,” I pointed out.

“Yes you-” Charlie cut off looking back at his brother “but you probably shouldn’t”

“Yeah and I’m saying you’re not going to,” Don declared as Charlie took the box and headed into the foyer.

I groaned rolling my eyes “you know once I turn eighteen I’m going to get my clearance and then you won’t be able to stop me”

“Yeah well right now you’re going to help me with dishes while he works on that” Don decided collecting plates “come on” he chided and I gathered my plate and cup as well as Alan’s.

“No here I got it uh…” Grandpa objected and glanced at my dad’s back who was walking into the kitchen as he stood up. “I want to talk to Don for a second alright?”

“Alright but if I happen to stay out here and see Charlie’s stuff for the case..” I trailed with a pointed look.

“Fine I’ll cover for you. Deal?” He replied.

“Best grandpa ever” I smiled and he hummed with an amused smile on his face as I turned and headed after my uncle.

_______________

3rd POV.

Don looked over his shoulder as he entered the kitchen and was surprised to see his father following him rather than his daughter. “What happened to Abby?”

“She had homework I made her go work on it” Alan replied “you know she’s stubborn about that stuff puts it off” Don let off a humming noise his instincts of suspicion kicking in “mainly cuz I wanted to ask you about something.”

“What?” Don gave his father a look as he put the dishes in the sink. This made more sense.

“You’re best date ever was with your partner?” Alan inquired and immediately Don realized why Alan had pestered Abby away before asking.

“Dad, please”

“No, it’s just a simple observation.” Alan defended as they put away the food. “I mean if it was so great why did you split up?”

“It was an academy thing” Don explained “we got posted to different places. We had our careers to concentrate on.”

“So now you’re in the same city, same careers”

“Same office” Don cut his father off “which, in our case, can be a dangerous thing.”

“Your mother and I met at work.” Alan posed.

“In the lunch line.” Don pointed out “Look, Dad, Terry and I have to see each other every day. You know? We have to look out for each other.”

“So that means any trust issues are already behind you.” the father suggested. “Plus Abby seems to like her”

“Look, just because you’re eager to start dating again-”

“Eager? Are you kidding me?” Alan cut his son off exasperatedly “you saw me last night. I know, I know, I know I got to get back into it. Your mother said I should meet new people after she was gone.��

“Well, that’s right. That sounds like her” Don agreed.

“I know she made me promise.” Alan sighed “I mean, she knew that, without a push, that I might not do it. So she pushed” Don nodded considering his father’s words. “And remember Donnie you’ve got more to think about than just yourself now”

Don sighed “yeah I know” he looked out the kitchen door toward the space in the house his daughter was somewhere.

“Being a parent is never easy and it’s twice as hard to be a single parent doing the work for two” Alan voiced. Don let out a breath and the two men were silent for a moment. “Just consider this your push”

A moment later Abby popped her head into the kitchen. “Me and Charlie found something in the records.” she announced.

“You and Charlie?” Don questioned giving her a stern look. “What happened to homework?” The teen grimaced slightly and shot a look to her Grandfather who held his hands up in surrender. Don sighed “show me what you found”

Abby led him out to the table in the foyer where Charlie had the records spread out under a light. “You’re never going to believe this,” Abby murmured.

“Believe what?” Don asked, confused.

“Fake people” Abby stated as if that were clearer.

Don looked to his brother “Now, here is a list of workers employed in building the foundation”

“And?” Don questioned.

“And a lot of them don’t exist.” Charlie stated “yeah. There’s a preponderance of fours and sevens in the union ID numbers, which could be due to accounting codes, except they show up in the overtime hours like, 14s and 17s everywhere here, here, and here” Charlie showed Don the various documentation. “These numbers, they can’t be explained by random occurrence. Somebody made them up. They’ve been fabricated by someone who likes these numbers who left behind a pretty obvious pattern.”

“Fake people” Abby reiterated.

“Well obvious to you” Don grumbled looking the paper over.

“People like us” Abby clarified “honestly your forensic accountants should have picked up on it”

“Here’s a very interesting thing also.” Charlie hurried over to the other side of the table as Don shot his daughter a warning look at her disrespectful tone. “All the, ah, all the workers we’ve identified as fake are listed as welders. Except there aren’t any other welders on the payroll backup.”

“Well you can’t build a foundation without welders” Alan piped in from the tv room “sounds like Nevelson was using a shadow crew.”

“So how would that work, Dad?” Don asked as Alan walked over.

“Non-union laborers, usually illegal aliens. They pay them under the table.” the former city planner explained “see, the contractors would use them at night to avoid the unions.”

“So what? Like lower pay, no overtime, medical benefits?” Don questioned.

“That’s right,” Alan nodded heading back to the kitchen.

“But people still get hurt,” Don voiced thoughtfully. “And there’ll be hospital records”

________________

Abby POV.

“So I am getting right back on that horse” Alan declared as the four of us sat at a restaurant eating. “Not that this lady is anything like a horse.” he added “she’s really quite attractive.”

“So it’s not a blind date?” Don clarified.

“No, it’s the butcher that sold me the duck.” Alan explained.

“No” Don chuckled.

“Yes” Alan insisted “yeah, she’s very nice and she really knows her waterfowl.”

“Right” Don scoffed.

“Good luck Gramps” I encouraged.

“Why thank you Abby” Alan smiled then turned to his younger son “Charlie. Charlie” When the mathematician was only somewhat responsive the elderly man turned back to me and Don “this is not the brilliant thought brood. This is the other brood.” he informed.

“You alright Charlie?” Don asked.

“You knew it was a suicide.” Charlie stated

“No look,” Don objected, shaking his head. “I said from the get-go I didn’t know, but I did suspect.”

“Despite all the variables and the inconclusive autopsy, and the layers of crime that were uncovered?” Charlie pressed.

“The fact that the kid exhibited suicidal behavior and then he did it.” Don explained. “It’s Occam's Razor, you know? I mean, the simplest answer is usually the right one.”

“Occam’s Razor?” Alan questioned.

“What?” Don gave us looks as we all began to chuckle slightly “I read a book every now and then. I mean I did help in the creation of the biggest book worm I know.” he ruffled my hair slightly.

“Occam was a philosopher, he wasn’t a mathematician” Charlie pointed out “and what he actually said was that you shouldn’t make more assumptions than needed. It’s the basis of methodological reductionism. So, any given data set,...”

“And I thought school was done for today” I muttered as Charlie began to scribble on a napkin. Don and Alan just scoffed and let the man go. He needed to talk right now.

Chapter 5 ->

#Don Eppes #Charlie Eppes #Alan Eppes #Terry Lake #David Sinclair #Larry Fleinhardt #Numb3rs #numb3rs season 1 #Abby Calvin #PTSD #episode per chapter #episode related #also posted on ao3 #also posted on quotev #anxiety attacks #math #amita ramanujan

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milowritesshit · 4 years ago

Text

[4]

"Here," he laid a cold can of soda on the back of his neck and then set it down next to him on the table. "Aww, you are doing my job? This is the type of relationship I like."

At this point, all he could do was roll his eyes, again, and ignore it.

"I put some notes, so you can finally finish."

"Thank you," Teru smiled, taking Akane by surprise as it wasn’t a mockingly smile, like all the others. He sat down and concentrated.

Akane could leave, although he always stayed with Teru until the last moment, now he had nothing to do. But that chair was a little too comfortable and the other's face was a little too pleasant, and for the first time he realized he had never really looked at Teru. The way his hair fell on his face as he leaned over the papers, his golden lashes, the little dimples that formed over the corners of his lips when he smiled, which was almost all the time.

"The fuck you looking at?" he mumbled without looking at him. Akane smiled slightly.

"Your dumb face."

"Ah! Straight to my heart!" He put a hand on his chest, playing along. He laughed a little and kept working.

He couldn’t understand himself. He joined the student council last year, for the simple fact that he’d always was there. It had started in middle school, when Ao-chan had mentioned it, but when he realize, he no longer felt like he belonged somewhere else. He had never enjoyed it. Teamwork was something bothersome, but once he committed to something, he wouldn't give it up.

He had to admit that since he had met Teru, the suffering was less common in the committee. That took him back a while, to when he had started first year- no, the previous summer. Of course he had heard of Minamoto-senpai, how couldn’t he? He was everyone's dream, including his Ao-chan. He was bitter with him beforehand and a little curious, what was so wonderful about him? That summer, they had both been members of the newcomers welcome committee, not just those who became first years, but those who transferred from other schools. They had spent long days organizing everything, days where Akane hated how friendly and joker he was, but had appreciated his speed and quick thinking to solve all the problems that came up.

He could understand to some extent why everyone liked him, that is, he was handsome and he seemed nice. But the more time they shared, the better he understood why he had no girlfriend.

Minamoto Teru had moments when he was erratic and had somewhat disorganized priorities, but, of course, no one saw that. Akane himself wouldn’t have discovered it if it weren’t for having grabbed him red-handed, one day he had forgotten a notebook.

Teru never had trouble organizing. It was natural for him. But his erratic nature came to the surface when he was stressed, and it swallowed everything. He left things unfinished, got up out of nowhere, remembering something else that he had left pending, opened packages of cookies and then didn't touch them. What Akane had discovered that day was Teru, on the verge of tears, as he organized his tasks. He had never asked him what had happened to him or why he was crying, he only asked if he needed help with those papers, to which he nodded.

Akane assumed he was stressed because it was Friday and he still wasn't done with all the work due, and that’d frustrated him so much it had left him on the verge of tears. He’d never stopped to think about it, actually, that that reaction was a bit of an exaggeration for the scenario he saw.

So, he noticed the problems he had in concentrating on one thing and proposed a solution to that (partly because he was done with him and partly to help): a list of everything he had to do, divided into little sub-tasks, so he could jump from one side to the other without leaving things halfway.

And the thing is, Teru had looked him in the eye and smiled.

"Thank you," so sincere, so grateful, as if he had finally managed to breathe after a long time.

He’d never imagined Teru was someone who had negative feelings, that is, Akane believed he was a bit of an air-head, intelligent, yes, but not someone who thought things through. After that moment, he began noticing small details. That his smiles were a bit false, that sometimes his gaze was lost, his anxiety and concern when he crossed his path while he was talking to his younger brother. Akane supposed, you never stop meeting a person.

CURRENTLY LOOKING FOR A BETA, someone that read proofs my shit, specially. FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER! Also, I’m doing comminsions (english or spanish), HERE, TAKE A LOOK.

FIRST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

#terukane #minamoto teru #aoi akane #jibaku shonen hanako kun #toilet bound hanako kun #hananene #mitsukou #milow #fanfiction

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monsterboyes · 5 years ago

Text

Welcome to Night Vale Fan Episode: Curly Fries

I wrote this Welcome to Night Vale fan episode for fun. I had a lot of fun writing out an outline of the story and coming up with ideas for dialogue. I might not have built up the outro as well as I wanted to, it’s kind of emotionally discordant with the story, but I had fun writing it all anyway. Honestly the entire story is based on me hearing the song I chose for the weather three times in one day, associating it with a concept from the series, and imagining Carlos and Cecil driving while it plays in the background. I wrote around that idea and this is what I came up with. I don’t promise official quality but I hope you enjoy! -------------------------- Cecil: Not all who wander...are lost.

...But, uh, we are. We are very lost. Please help. Welc-

Carlos: Ooh, let me do it! Carlos: Welcome...to Night Vale! Cecil: Listeners, today’s broadcast is very special, because as I’m sure you’ve already deduced, we have a special guest in our midst- my husband, Carlos! With whom I am hopelessly lost in the desert. Carlos: Hi everybody, really glad to be here! Cecil, we’re not hopelessly lost. We’re talking to Night Vale right now! They’ll help us! Cecil: I’m...sure they will. Not terrified in the least. We’re definitely not going to wander this hellscape for eternity. Anyway, uh, Carlos, what brings you to the show today? Carlos: Well, Cecil, as you know, we were out on a date at the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area, on a sunset stroll across the boardwalk, when we came across a vendor renting out metal detectors.

We rented one, went down to the...uh, beach...or, as much of a beach as it can be, considering there’s no water, and the ocean is only visible from the boardwalk itself, and started searching for treasures.

Cecil: Untold treasures.

Carlos: Yes, excuse me, untold treasures. Of the deep, you know, that sort of thing. But we wandered too far from the boardwalk and were swept out to sea by the phantom ocean, and we woke up...uh, here.

And now we’re stuck here, and we don’t know how to get home, and it’s very boring, so we’re putting on a broadcast together!

Cecil: Oh, it feels so good to be back on the air. Listeners, I don’t know how long we’ve been trapped here. My portable radio equipment doesn’t seem to be broadcasting, and my phone is dead. So I couldn’t reach anyone for help. Help we desperately need. Or we’re going to die here.

Carlos’ phone is fine, but he’s got no signal at all. He’s been trying to play Pokemon Go all morning and it’s just not working. It just shows his cute little trainer standing there in a big empty void of space, which is normal for the desert, but none of the Pokemon are showing up and it’s just been very frustrating for both of us.

Also, I wore these new boots, and I’m very upset that they are hurting my feet. They’re 6 inch high platform boots with a goldfish swimming in a little fish bowl embedded permanently in the platform with no hope of escape and no source of food, and after days of trying to break them in they still just aren’t comfortable for some reason. All things considered, this has not been a good morning for us.

Carlos: At first I thought we may be in the Desert Otherworld somehow, but that was quickly disproven when I realized my phone had no signal. Also, there are no mountains, or lighthouses, or crippling post traumatic stress reactions, or masked armies, or geographical loops. But mostly no cell phone reception. That place had incredible cell phone reception. Cecil: Really, the only thing here is lots and lots of sand, and also old televisions, refrigerators, mysterious piles of magnetic shavings, all sorts of neat stuff. It really takes my mind off the inevitable bleached skeletons we’re going to leave here in the desert. I’ve been playing with this metal detector and honestly, this place is a gold mine for neat junk that if we ever manage to find our way out with, I’m going to take home and then put in the garage, and every time I look at it I’ll think “Why did I bring this home with me? What was I thinking?”, before formulating plans to organize or dispose of it, only to keep it there forever as a monument to my obsessive need to collect mementos and symbols representative of my experiences in an attempt to create a physical record of the fact that I did something, went somewhere, was someone, even if they pile uselessly in a corner serving only to remind me that I opted for material goods and trinkets in lieu of crafting meaningful personal memories of events and loved ones that only I could ever truly understand that would die with me rather than be thrust upon whoever is saddled with the task of organizing my affairs after death, walking into my garage, seeing my pile of junk, and not grasping for even a second the depth of what I wanted it to mean and represent and communicate about my life, tossing it into the trash and along with it any dreams I may have had in the back of my mind of being immortal by way of inspiring others with my personality made manifest by collected worldly goods. Oh! And radio equipment! We found some radio equipment that seems to be working just fine, unlike mine. And to elaborate on this phenomenon, it’s time for the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner! Carlos? Carlos: Cecil, and kids at home, my running theory is that we are trapped in another time entirely. You see, we’ve dug up a lot of stuff here. But all of it is from the past. When scientists do a lot of digging- it’s called Earth Science, by the way- they often find things underground organized in layers of sediment, one on top of the other. As you dig further down, you find older things, and that’s how we know which fossils are older than other fossils. But here, no matter where we dig, we seem to find things at random, completely disorganized. It’s very unscientific of these random objects to appear all in the top layer of dirt. Meanwhile, Cecil’s portable broadcasting equipment seems to work, but based on how none of you came out here to rescue us during our first several broadcasts, it doesn’t seem to be reaching you. I believe that it can only broadcast to the present day, and- because we are surrounded by anachronisms, we are not in the present day. It’s 2019, I think. So we should, in theory, only be surrounded by things people use in 2019. But we’ve dug up several Furbys and at least one toot-a-loop, which indicate that it is not 2019, wherever we are. We’ve found such a wide range of things there’s no telling what year it really is! But this set of radio equipment we found is timelessly elegant in its design, and so I believe it probably broadcasts to any point in time. Also I can pick it up on the portable radio we brought with us to the beach, so it’s definitely working. Cecil: It is true that my equipment only seems to broadcast to the present day. I know my phone back at the studio sometimes makes and receives calls through time itself, but I don’t know that I’ve ever broadcast to another era...but it is also possible that our listeners just plain aren’t feeling very helpful today. Maybe they’re busy. Maybe we’re doomed. Maybe we’re just doomed. Carlos: Cecil, nobody is ever too busy to listen to your show. And we’re not doomed. Cecil: Oh, Carlos, you’re embarrassing me. And we’re probably doomed. Carlos: I’m sorry, but it’s true. And it has to be, otherwise my theory sounds ridiculous. And we’re not doomed. Cecil: Fair enough. It sounds very scientific to me! Anyway, this has been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. Also we’re doomed. Carlos: Cecil, I’m going to go run some tests with the metal detector and see if I can find anything to help us figure out where and when we are. And maybe a refrigerator that still has food in it. So far, besides the radio equipment, everything’s just a bunch of junk. I’ll take my radio with me so I can hear your broadcast, be sure to call me back if you need anything! Try to stay calm, alright? Cecil: Good luck, Carlos! Listeners, in the meantime, let’s get to the news. Local radio host Cecil Gershwin Palmer was reported as saying that despite the suffocating fear of eternity or the dark void of ceased existence, he doesn’t really mind being trapped in an endless mysterious desert, as long as it’s with his husband Carlos. He could, quote, “Do science here forever”, as long as it was with his handsome husband. Aw, isn’t that sweet?

Meanwhile, we’ve got...uh...there’s...hm. I’ll level with you, Night Vale. This place is booooo-ring. Nothing’s happening at all. There’s barely any plants. I’ve only seen one animal, and it was a lizard, and it was a very boring lizard. It only had 4 legs, and it just kind of sat there on a rock for a while. The fish in my shoes died, so their senseless agony is no longer a viable source of tragic entertainment. I can’t check my tumblr. It’s just dirt and sand and rocks and sun and junk. If we were going to be whisked away to a mysterious time and place, couldn’t it at least have been an interesting one? I do have to admit...I’ve tried to keep a strong, stoic face about this whole situation, but I’m getting a little worried. We don’t know how long we’ve been here. Carlos claims it’s only been a few hours, but you know how he is with time and perception and facts. There’s never any wiggle room with him for senseless anxiety and baseless assumptions of doom. I shouldn’t make fun, I’m sure he’s worried too. At least we’re here together, I suppose. Better than being lost in the desert alone... Oh, uh, looks like it’s time for Traffic.

A car, gliding effortlessly across the sands of a vast desert. The man inside turns up the radio, and hears a familiar story- familiar because it’s literally happening, right now. The radio describes his every action. The way he glances at the radio as if it is another human being to make eye contact with, questioning its words with his eyes. It describes the way he turns the dial to increase the volume. The way he furrows his brow, attempting to understand how the voice on the radio knows what he’s doing. The way he pulls out a set of beakers and places them carefully on the dashboard, normally a reckless act while driving, but completely safe in the flat, closed-course, car commercial style desert he’s driving on. He sends some colored liquids through swirling crazy straw tubes from one container to another, a bunsen burner aflame, attempting to science some sort of sense out of this disembodied narrator. The liquids are turbulent and sloshing, but he does not care. He looks out the windshield and stares at a dot, in the distance- and the dot stares back. He focuses all his energy, all of the vehicle’s horsepower, the entire weight of his leg on the gas pedal, and every photon receptor in his eyes on that tiny...little...dot. He stares with such intensity that his eyes start to lose track of their own interpretation of the light that enters them, blurring into one solid color, forcing him to focus on something else to be able to focus back on his goal. He blinks furiously. The dot becomes bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until finally- he sees that it’s me! Hi Carlos! This has been, Traffic. Carlos: Cecil, look! The metal detector came through! I found a 1987 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am 2-door coupe! And a renewed interest in those psychic energies I told you that you sometimes give off and that I really need you to let me probe into! Cecil: A car, that’s wonderful! We can use that to get...home. Assuming it’s...nearby, and that we’re...in the same timeline as home, and...in the same year. Maybe we’ll even be back by dark! The sun is starting to set... Carlos: Cecil, I know how to get back home. We’re going to be okay. Get in the car. Wait- first, help me take the t-tops off. On the drive back we may as well enjoy the weather. [THE WEATHER] Cecil: Listeners, we are home. As we drove dramatically with sweeping camera angles and rolling hills through that sudden downpour of mysterious flashes of light, pink clouds, psychedelic wind, nostalgic VHS fog, and laser beams erupting from the desert floor, the sun set and we could see in the distance a guiding light. As we drove towards it, we reached an old dirt road, and down that dirt road, we found a fence, and a gate, and a sign. I turned around in my seat to read the sign, and...well, you remember a few years ago, when we got the new landfill, which doesn’t accept any physical items? Carlos: My theory had one major flaw. I thought based on all the anachronisms we had found in the dirt, all at the same layer of sediment, we must be in some sort of mishmashed timeline, outside of the linear time that we’re normally outside of, but also outside of the non-linear time we’re normally not outside of. Some third form of time never before seen. But they...well, they weren’t anachronistic. There weren’t any items from the future. That would be anachronistic. Everything we found was from the past. Which is...normal. That’s just normal. That’s how time works, even here. Cecil: Yeah, we were...just...in the old landfill. Also my portable radio equipment was working fine, I just...forgot to...plug in the microphone. I was very stressed. I forget to plug in microphones when I’m stressed. Carlos: I guess the sand blew over top of it over time and hid it entirely, and the phantom ocean must have created a phantom beach next to the raised sands as a result, and we washed up on top of it. But, hey, even if my science was flawed, at least we got to spend the day together, and I got to be a big part of your show! Plus, it was my day off, so I really didn’t want to do any accurate science anyway. Cecil: Yes, we’ve never done a show together like this. It was a lot of fun even if I was terrified the entire time. Carlos: Cecil, I was scared too, but I didn’t want you to worry, so I tried to be strong, for you. And you know, despite the suffocating fear of eternity or the dark void of ceased existence, I also wouldn’t really mind being trapped in an endless mysterious desert, as long as it’s with you. I could, quote, “Do radio broadcasts there forever”. Cecil: Aw, you were listening! And so intently. That’s almost word for word, with adorable changes in perspective. And it’s a good segue into an inappropriately sappy closing statement for tonight’s broadcast. Listeners, Steve Carlsberg, my brother in law, speaks often of lights and guiding markers in the sky, telling him exactly how the universe works. I’ve never really believed in any of that stuff. But today, some lights in the sky showed Carlos and I the way home from the old landfill. As soon as we crested the horizon I saw them- and I’d recognize those lights no matter where they were, Arby’s or not. Sometimes I wonder if maybe they’re part of something bigger, too, like the lights in the sky Steve talks about. They lead us home today. And they lead us to each other years ago. Carlos, I’m glad we have each other. I’m glad we have this place. I’m glad we have delicious roast beef sandwiches and curly fries with horsey sauce. We have not eaten in days. I love you.

Carlos (mouth full of curly fries): Aw, Cecil, I love you too.

Cecil (mouth full of curly fries): Today’s broadcast is sponsored by Arby’s. Not officially, it’s just, (swallows), we’re currently eating Arby’s and I don’t know how to end the broadcast. I don’t normally do broadcasts off the cuff like this. Carlos: I know how to end it! Can I end it? Cecil: Well, I mean, it’s my show...I always...um. You know what, sure, it’s fine. Go ahead. Carlos: Good night, Night Vale! Carlos and Cecil: Good night.

#welcome to night vale #welcome to nightvale #WTNV #nightvale #night vale #cecil palmer #carlos the scientist #fanfiction

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let-it-raines · 5 years ago

Text

Not Your (soul)Mate {1/?}

Killian Jones doesn’t like the idea of soulmates. He sees how happy his friends are with theirs, but he still doesn’t like the idea, not when he’s found love and lost it time and time again only to still not know his sign. He has no markings on his skin, no voices in his head, but then one day he meets Emma Swan and everything changes. Because, well, he may not have ink on his skin to tell him who to love, but the very first time that he hears Emma’s voice he knows that she’s the one for him. Then again, that could simply be his desire talking. After all, for every word she speaks, he becomes aroused.

It’s not the worst thing in the world to be incredibly attracted to a beautiful woman, but things aren’t that simple when she doesn’t have any interest in being his soulmate.

He’s screwed. And not in the good way.

Rating: Mature (mostly for jokes now and for...other things later)

A/N: Hello, friends! It’s me coming at you with more words! This time they’re of the supernatural variety for @cssns with *gasp* a soulmate fic. It’s a fun one guys. Seriously. It’s an absolutely ridiculous concept (soulmates + aroused by each other’s voices), but I’m having fun writing it! I’ve got eight chapters written so far, and I’m itching to share them with you!

A special shoutout to @captainsjedi for her incredible artwork and for being my number one cheerleader as these words were dragged out of me. I feel super honored for her to have made this art for my story! And thank you to the organizers for doing such great work! So, everybody ready? 😁

Found on AO3 | Here |

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @dreameronarooftop15 @searchingwardrobes @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @artistic-writer @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @thejollyroger-writer @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81@thejollyroger-writer @xellewoods @cssns

-/-

One.

Two.

Three.

It’s the pattern he keeps tapping against his thigh as he sits at his desk, the clock on the wall ticking loud enough for him to hear. If he’s busy enough, it’s silent. But when he has time to idle and not focus on something in particular, when he’s anxious to get to go home, he can hear each individual tick as the seconds and minutes pass by. He’s always been sensitive to sounds, the quietest of whispers sometimes equivalent to yelling directly in his ear, but over the years, he’s learned to block the sounds out, to control how voices and taps and screeches affect him.

His clock is driving him insane.

He wants to go home.

And it’s not because he hates his job or anything. Sure, some days it’s like actual torture, nails on a chalkboard multiplied by at least seventeen, especially with the sensitivity of his ears, but most of the time he enjoys designing boats, ships, and the like. He enjoys working with Liam every single day and getting to draw up someone’s dream vessel like he often did as a child when he had nothing more than a pencil and a notebook of battered paper. Really, his job is a way to make his childhood dreams become a reality but in a financially responsible way.

For him. Not for the people who buy custom boats.

He likely wouldn’t enjoy it if he didn’t make any money. Designing boats is a hell of a lot of fun, but he does so enjoy having an apartment (some of the American terms have integrated into his vocabulary by now it seems) to go home to and food to eat. Honestly, he likes tea far too much to not be able to afford it.

How stereotypically British is he?

It doesn’t even matter. He likes tea, and he won’t let anyone try to convince him otherwise. His cabinet in his kitchen keeps him supplied with caffeine, and if it’s all arranged by size of bag and flavor, no one has to know that. He doesn’t live with anyone, so it’s completely fine.

Liam would make fun of him for ages if he knew of all of Killian’s little tendencies and specificities on how to run his life. Liam already has too much fun teasing him about the binders and books on his shelves in his office, but really, of all of the places to be organized, why not in the office? It’s not his fault that Liam lives in a disorganized mess.

Once a Navy man, always a Navy man doesn’t quite hold true when it comes to one half of the team at The Jewel: A Boating Design Company. He was never sold on the name, but it was Liam’s idea so he went along with it. And the odd name hasn’t seemed to keep any clients away, so it’s obviously worked out.

He still wants to go home.

And technically he could. Technically he’s a boss here and could go home whenever he wants, but he doesn’t like to leave before six. It’s bad business, and it’s never a bad thing to keep his mind focused on work. He’s always got a million thoughts whirling around in his head, and focusing on work keeps him grounded.

But today is a different day. Today is difficult for him. It’s an anniversary of sorts, but it’s not the good kind. It’s not roses (or sunflowers because in his opinion, roses are overrated) and wine and beautiful jewelry over a nice dinner with small servings when all people really want is to sit at home and eat pizza on the couch. No, it’s an anniversary of loss.

Of loss that’s not as final as death, and yet it still has its own particular sting that tends to linger. It’s a loss in his life that he’s felt many a time, but this one, this particular woman, well, her loss stung the most.

Her loss stings the most.

And it’s all because of the universe and its twisted sense of fate. He doesn’t mean that in a “weird shit happens” kind of way. He means that in the universe is a piece of shit that has lives decided before the people who live them are even born. It doesn’t matter what you do or how you live. The universe is always standing at the plate ready to throw a curveball and strike you out.

One strike.

Two strikes.

Three strikes.

You’re out.

Soulmate.

Or soul mate with two words. The universe has everything predestined, but apparently, they couldn’t decide on words in dictionaries and whether or not it was one combined word or two separate words. And that’s just scratching the surface of language and grammar, and he only speaks English and a tiny bit of French. Things just get more complicated when you move beyond that.

But that’s not the point. He can worry about grammar on another day. Right now he’s thinking about the unfortunateness of soulmates (soul mates…nope, he’s just going to decide it’s one word for him) and just how completely screwed up it all is.

No one really knows how the human race figured out that there are two people who are perfectly matched up in every single way. It doesn’t mean there aren’t fights and arguments and petty squabbles over who did the dishes or turning the air conditioner up too high. It simply means that somewhere out there, there’s a person who, when it counts, matches up to you so well that the universe has decided to they are your person.

They are the Christina Yang to your Meredith Grey.

(Yes, he’s watched Grey’s Anatomy, and no, he is not ashamed...of seasons one through six. It gets a little murky after that.)

But what happens if your soulmate dies? What happens if you never meet them? What happens if you fall in love with someone only to find out that their sign or their mark or their soul doesn’t at all match up with yours? What happens if you love someone so deeply that you don’t think your heart can take it anymore, and they leave you because the words written across their ankle are not also written across yours?

What happens if you don’t have words written at all?

He doesn’t. He doesn’t have the words. He doesn’t have any kind of indication as to how to find this so-called perfect match of his. He has no idea.

And he doesn’t need to ask the question of what happens when you love someone who is not your soulmate because he knows. He knows that the love can be real and deep and true, and yet the moment that person finds their matching mark, suddenly things start to crumble and fall apart. Questions begin to be asked, and there are no answers. There are no answers that are correct anyhow. It’s as if you’re taking one of those standardized tests where all four answers are correct, but you have to choose the one that’s the most correct.

Bullocks.

That’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, and yet he’s taken the standardized tests. He had to, but that’s really not the point.

(Also, he wonders if soulmate magic is real, are other types of magic real? Is Harry Potter based off of something true? Could he have gone to Hogwarts?)

Milah found her soulmate, and it wasn’t him. She loved him, but she let him go. And he cannot begrudge her for it. No, she’s doing what will truly make her happy, and he wants her to be happy. She deserves it.

He just wishes that it had been him.

The universe apparently had other ideas.

And four years later, he still doesn’t know his mark.

Four years later, he still loves her even if he shouldn’t, even if he knows he should have moved on.

Liam could hear Elsa’s thoughts at night when he was lying down to sleep. It wasn’t in his dreams, though he has heard of those, but simply once the darkness fell outside. They’d known each other in their thoughts since they were children, a love predestined and predetermined that found its way to life despite the countries that were spread out between them. He’s always been jealous of his older brother for a lot of things, but knowing who his love is and getting to know her for his entire life, that may be the thing which fills him with the most envy.

He’s not even sure that he wants to know who his soulmate is, but when he thinks of his brother and the happiness of his life with his wife and his children, he wonders how two people so genetically similar could have such different paths in life.

Robin’s had been a simple tattoo on his forearm. He knew that all he needed was to find his match, and even though it took into his mid-thirties, he did.

Mid-thirties are truly not old – especially since he himself just turned thirty five – but in a society that is obsessed with love and procreation, Robin might as well have been a lonely elderly man with no chance at love…and Robin’s a man. It’s much worse for women, which is fundamentally unfair. But he’s a designer of boats, not a designer of the universe, so he can’t exactly fix that.

Will, well, Will’s soulmate sign is one that Killian is rather fond of if he’s honest. He found Belle because he’d started spending time in a library, and whenever he would touch certain books, fingerprints would start glowing. They were small, dainty things, so he knew that they weren’t his. But the prints glowed, and as he moved throughout the library, he noticed that every book had fingerprints that glowed. And thus he found Belle, the librarian, and even though they don’t seem to match up, they do.

Everyone he knows is living life with someone they’re supposed to be with, happiness and issues all combined, and he’s…not.

He doesn’t think his life will suddenly become perfect if he were to meet this mystery woman. He doesn’t. His life is wonderful. He loves his friends and family. He loves his job and his hobbies. He loves his life.

Today is simply a hard day.

Today is simply a day of loss.

But tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow he’ll go back to normal, and he won’t feel the loss of his love so much.

As much.

“Hey, did you get the Santos order?”

“Shit,” he mumbles, jumping in his seat at Ariel’s voice. He knows that she likely spoke at a normal volume, but he wasn’t focusing and had zoned out. Her voice startled him. It doesn’t help that she takes pleasure in annoying him. “Sorry, love. You surprised me.”

“I knocked three times there, Jones,” she sighs, walking into his office and dropping a note down on his desk. “I know it’s late in the day and all, but you’re really zoning out.”

“That is the pot calling the kettle black, A,” he laughs, rolling forward in his chair to look at the note she has, her chicken scratch written across the notecard. “You zone out at lunch thinking about how someone invented the fork.”

“It’s true. You’ve got to think about things like that. You okay though? You’ve got that pensive, brooding look all over your face.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes before looking up at her and stretching his hands up behind his head, the small ache pleasant. “I’m going to fire you for someone who doesn’t know me as well.”

“My severance package would be fantastic, so you can go ahead and do that. But I also know you’d be lost without me, so that’s not going to happen. No one else in the world knows which pens of yours not to use.”

“That can be taught.”

“Yeah, but no one else is going to accept your weirdness.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Anyways,” she sighs, sitting down in the chair across from his desk and crossing her leg over her knee, “Eric and I are having a dinner at our house on Friday night, and you’re coming.”

He raises an eyebrow while he tries to keep his lips from curling up into a smile because he knows exactly why they’re having a dinner. She’s been his assistant for three years, and somewhere along the way she became one of his closest friends. She also drives him mad with how she doesn’t listen to him at all.

“Are you not even asking? Just demanding?”

She shrugs and flicks a speck off of her pants. “I’m telling you. It’s at seven, lots of our friends are coming, and you will be there if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

He hums and taps his fingers against the desk, the sound of his clock no longer in his earshot. “Fine. I think maybe I can be persuaded by some free food that I know is really a dinner party to announce your pregnancy.”

Her lips part, jaw nearly dropping, before she snaps it shut and gets up, walking over to him and knocking him upside the head. “You’re an asshole. That’s supposed to be a secret. How the hell did you know?”

“This note that you just gave me has baby names and a gynecologist appointment on it and not the Santos order.”

“Pregnancy brain is a real thing,” she huffs before slapping his head again and walking out of the room.

“Congratulations,” he shouts, leaning forward in his chair and smiling to himself. It’s a day of loss, but not everything is bad. It’s also a day of life.

He does spend the night drowning himself in a glass of rum, but it’s just the one filled a little too close to the brim. And he doesn’t spend entirely too much time thinking about Milah and all of the women and heartbreak that have come before her. He only spends what he would consider an acceptable amount of time, and if it was most of the night, no one has to know that but him.

Those are the perks of living alone.

Well, that and eating food in nothing but his boxers while watching reruns of whatever the hell he wants.

The Office.

It was The Office. He spends far too much time watching The Office and also…in his office. But that’s something else. That’s work, and it’s not filled with quite the same amount of comedy. Though he is thinking about putting Liam’s stapler in some jello. That’s not as funny in real life, but he’s not exactly sure if he’s desperate enough to wrap up Liam’s entire office in wrapping paper.

It’d have to be some birthday paper or something. It’s April, so Christmas paper likely wouldn’t work. Of course, it’s April, so Christmas paper would likely be on sale. This is sounding better and better, but he’s not going to do it. He’s going to keep on going with his life and make sure that Ariel isn’t setting him up on a date at this dinner party he’s been at for thirty minutes like he’s pretty sure she’s doing with her friend Jane.

Amazingly enough, the existence of soulmates does not keep people from setting him up on blind dates.

You’d think there would be at least one perk.

Besides the whole perfect match thing and all.

That’s supposedly a perk.

“Would you excuse me for just one minute, love?” he asks Jane, flashing her his most sincere smile and squeezing her shoulder before walking toward his brother who is talking to Will and Robin in the corner of the backyard.

“BJ,” Will greets, grinning from ear to ear as Killian shakes his head.

“You cannot call me that, Scarlett,” he groans. His protests don’t matter at all, but he can hope. He can hope that one day one of his friends will listen to him.

It’s a pipe dream.

“Well, baby Jones isn’t quite as funny as BJ.”

“You have the humor of a fifteen-year-old lad.”

“At least I’m not boring like you,” he scoffs before he takes another sip of his beer. “How’s your little date going over there?”

“So you can tell that it’s a set up?”

“Little brother,” Liam sighs, clapping his hand down on his shoulder, “you scratched your ear enough times for us to know you were nervous. Plus Ariel told us. She was practically jumping out of her skin with excitement.”

“Younger. I’m younger, and of course she did. Jane is…she’s a nice woman, but I’m not really in the mood for another date.”

Suddenly his head starts pounding, sounds muting for a moment before he hones in on a laugh, a laugh that has his skin heating and gooseflesh rising over his arms as he only focuses in on it before all of the other sounds come back to him, the laugh fading into the background. He doesn’t know what the hell just happened, but he’s not going to focus on it when he’s got to deal with his brother and his best mates being undeniable assholes.

Tuning things out has always kind of been his thing anyways.

“It doesn’t have to be a date,” Robin helpfully supplies, “but I think the lass likes you, so I’d turn her down easy.”

“There’s nothing to turn down.”

“She might not know that.”

“Anyways,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, “how long do you think A is going to drag this along until we get to eat dinner?”

“I’d say until she finishes talking to her friends over there.” Liam points to a group of women standing on the other side of the deck. He recognizes Ariel and her friend Mary Margaret. He’s been to her house and met her husband. David? He thinks his name is David and that he’s a detective. And obviously he recognizes his sister-in-law, but he doesn’t recognize two of them. One of them is tall, her legs stretching on for miles, and she’s got straight brunette hair that falls down her back with the tips of it covered in red. The other woman is shorter, but not necessarily short, and her blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail so that he can see the openness of her dress as it dips down her bare back and rests just above the curve of her waist. He doesn’t know her at all, and he wonders how. Ariel may simply work with him, but she’s made him such a part of her personal life that he feels like he knows all of her friends.

Then again, he didn’t know Jane, so obviously she has several friends she wants to announce her pregnancy to that he’s never met. They’re all ships passing in the night.

Of course, it’s not quite night yet and they’re definitely not ships, but his point still stands.

Or sails.

He can design a ship that would work for this purpose.

He has too much time on his hands.

All of the sounds mute again before the same laugh as before comes back, but this time he knows exactly where the sound is coming from. It’s coming from the blonde who’s talking to Ariel, and he can feel his skin heating up again, the flesh pricking and hair rising across his body as a shiver runs through him. He knows this feeling. He knows it well. It’s the start of something that he usually finds pleasant, but it’s not something that he finds pleasant while standing in a public place with all of his friends around.

Will may have the humor of a teenager, but apparently Killian has the uncontrollable sex drive of one.

Shit.

This is not good.

He needs to think of the government or his grandmother or people who think Hawaiian shirts can be worn to the office as casual wear when they live in Maine because his jeans are rather tight and he’s afraid that nothing can be hidden when he’s feeling a little excited.

Or a lot excited.

When he should not be excited at all.

Oh hell. He’s aroused. He’s not excited. He’s aroused, and there is absolutely no reason for it. Does he even need a reason? Probably not. Still though. This is a problem he doesn’t really want to have right now at his assistant’s barbecue to announce that she’s created a spawn of her loins.

Those are the only loins he should be thinking about.

Not Ariel’s loins, though. That is…this is all too much for him.

“Hey, lover boy,” Will whistles, and suddenly the laughter is fading away so that he can focus on the sound of Will’s whistle and the wind that’s causing the leaves on trees to rustle and mix in with all of the conversations that are happening, “you’ve got to stop staring at Emma or she will kick your ass all the way back to England.”

Emma.

“Who is that?” he ponders, reaching to scratch his beard. He should have shaved this morning, but he didn’t have time to clean his scruff up. “Emma? You said her name was Emma?”

“Aye,” Will confirms, his fingers tapping along the glass of his bottle and picking up the condensation. “Emma Swan. She lives with Belle. I’m bloody terrified of her sometimes, but she’s fun.”

“Why are you terrified of her?”

“Because she’s a cop. A detective, I think, and I’ve seen first hand just how good she is at kickboxing.”

“Why? Did you beat your ass for saying something dumb?”

Will rolls his eyes as both Robin and Liam chuckle, even if they try to muffle the sound. “I may have said something a bit unsavory one night, and she may have literally kicked my ass for it. But I’m on the straight and narrow path now.”

“Huh. So she did what we’ve all been wanting to do for years now. I like her.”

“Why don’t you go talk to her?” Liam prods, wrapping his arm around Killian’s shoulder and slapping him harder than he should. “Are you scared to talk to another girl? Is this going to be like teenage Killian who can’t flirt with more than one woman in a day without being terrified of having to do it again?”

“Sod off.”

“I’m telling you,” Liam starts, but Killian moves out from under his arm and walks away from the group of them so that he can go inside and get a glass of water, not really interested in hearing Liam teasing him about his childhood. It doesn’t bother him, but he’s heard it all before and doesn’t really need to hear about it again. It’s still been A Week, and there’s only so much teasing about his relationships that he can take when he’s still mourning the loss of one.

Once he gets into the kitchen, he grabs a cup off the counter and fills it with ice and water from the fridge, the sound of the ice machine drowning everything out so that he doesn’t hear someone come in behind him. He doesn’t hear her, so he’s got no idea that she’s within a foot of him when he turns around and hits her shoulder, the cup of ice cold water in his hand spilling all over the front of her dress.

Of Emma’s dress.

Of Emma’s white dress.

Because it’s the woman who he was just admiring who he spilled a drink on.

“Holy shirt-balls that’s cold.”

He wants to laugh at her words, at her The Good Place reference, but then it’s happening again. His skin is heating, his temperature rising by several noticeable degrees, and he can feel the hair on his body begin to rise while his jeans tighten. How are his jeans still tightening? His erection can’t get any worse.

Holy shirt-balls indeed.

What the hell is happening to him?

“I’m sorry, love,” he stutters, trying to focus his hearing so that everything won’t be so heightened, but then his eyes glance down at the way that the material of her dress is clinging to her skin, the edges molding to her breasts, and everything gets worse. So, so much worse. He loves women. He’s never denied that. But hell, he should not be having this kind of reaction. This is not some kind of bad porn movie.

This is not some kind of raunchy romantic comedy either.

This is his life.

She’s got fantastic breasts.

Nope. Nope. Nope. He can’t be thinking that. He shouldn’t be thinking that. Something is happening to him, and he needs it to stop.

“I mean, I would say it’s not your fault, but you did spill the water on me,” she laughs, grabbing onto her dress and squeezing the water out a bit as she makes her way further into the kitchen to grab a towel and wipe herself down.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Again. You’re Emma, right?”

She’s still dabbing at her dress when she looks up at him and raises an eyebrow. Her cheeks are flushed red, and he’s not sure if it’s from spending the evening outside or from the embarrassment of him spilling water on her. But she’s got these beautifully flushed cheeks and light emerald eyes that can’t seem to focus on him, her gaze constantly changing.

With how uncomfortable his jeans are right now, he’s honestly kind of wishing that he had ice water dumped on him.

Seriously. What the hell is happening to him?

“Um, yeah. How do you know that?”

“Will told me. I’m…we’re old friends. Killian. Killian Jones.”

“Emma Swan,” she sighs, continuing to dab at her dress while he looks away. He has to look away or he’s going to do something inappropriate by anyone’s standards. Something is happening to him, to his mind and his body, and he needs it to stop right now. “You know, if you wanted to talk to me, all you had to do was introduce yourself, no spilled water involved. And if you wanted to see my tits, well, I should warn you that I carry around a gun for a living, and I don’t take too kindly to things like that.”

“I can promise you that wasn’t my intention.”

“Then why aren’t you looking at me right now?”

“Swan, if I’m honest, it’s because I can see both through and down your dress, and it’s not proper to look no matter how much I want to.”

Holy shit. Why did he just say that?

“Is it hot in here?” Emma asks, changing the subject, and he has never been more thankful for anything in his entire life. Though, really, if she could stop talking, he would be thankful for that too. Her voice is focused in his ears, every word reverberating and spinning around so that he can focus on nothing but her. It’s like her laughter earlier. His body instinctively tuned into it, focused on it, and it caused this same feeling of arousal to base itself at his spine.

And every word she says, makes it worse.

Fuck.

He somehow knows what’s happening, his brain instantly making the connections, and if he could walk out the front door and have never come to this party, he probably would.

Emma Swan is mostly likely his soulmate if the way his senses are picking up are any indication, and every word she says gives him the most inappropriate erection.

Her voice arouses him, and it’s not in a normal way.

Of all the soulmate signs, why this?

Couldn’t he have gotten a damn butterfly tattoo right above his ass instead?

#Not Your (soul)Mate #cs fic #cs ff #cssns #captain swan #captain swan fic

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borisbubbles · 5 years ago

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Eurovision 2010s: 65 - 61

65. Michael Schulte - “You let me walk alone” Germany 2018

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[2018 Review Here] (shared with Eugent)

When Germany revealed this homely carrot top as their entrant I of course IMMEDIATELY rolled my eyes at it. Discount Ed Sheeran, GTFO!! Idk what the general lowdown on Ed Sheeran is, but good lord that man is responsible for some really BORING and GENERIC music (I will never get the obsession with “Perfect”, ever.) and as you can expect that also bled into my initial opinon of Michael.

However, two things. A of all, “You let me walk alone” is a much better song because it is actually VERY catchy, in a good way. ONE love / TWO hearts / THREE kids / LOVING mum is among the more memorable hooks in this decade.

Secondly, Michael’s emotion is *real*. This is a song about his coping with his dead father and well... I am not made from stone. Dude was in GENUINE TEARS during the endgame!! And as someone who deeply loves his father, I can definitely empathize with that message on a personal level.

There are better songs around. There are better performers around. There is better emotional pull left in this ranking. Regardless, Michael was able to stun me into teary-eyed silence and that is a feat which earns nothing less than RESPECT.

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64. Softengine - “Something better” Finland 2014

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FANTASTIC INDIE ANGELS <333 The appreciation I have to Softengine I have is obvious, yes? Highly energetic indie rock song from one of my favourite Eurovision countries. 😍 That also did VERY well because it’s genuinely that good. Take THAT Finland bullies!!! #HeyaSuomi

However, Softengine offer even more than just a kickass rock song. They offer some of my favourite song lyrics ever? They are both puzzlingly weird and endearingly ESL Even Human Bound People Rolling Dice Such A Novel Life She Thought While Knowing Nothing At All~

What on earth is Topi singing about? 😍 Well actually, it’s the story of an old man looking back at the life he’s had and.. It actually has a LOT of emotional pull wtf? Take a look at the bridge:

ALL THESE WORDS SHE MEANT TO SAY TO ME

ALL THESE WORDS AGAINST MY FAITH

ALL THESE WORDS BEFORE SHE PASSED AWAY

ALL THESE WORDS WILL NEVER NEVER NEVER CHANGE

A wonderful display of juvenile energy that has me coming back craving for me. SHOULD HAVE BEEN TOP 10 but lol it’s Finland when is Finland not getting bullied by people with no taste. 😭

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63. Litesound - “We are the heroes” Belarus 2012

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More rock angels. 😍 However, Litesound rank on the other end of the quality spectrum, being great because of their incompetence.

Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything more endearing when the inept give it their all, completely oblivious to their amateurism, a description which -let’s be honest- is “Belarus in Eurovision” is in a nutshell 😍. Well that plus the hilariously rigged NF, remember that ALYONA LANSKAYA originally won Litesound’s NF and then had to bequeath her spot to them when her voting fraud was exposed. 😍 It’s not even the most hilariously rigged NF of the decade though, omg YES we shall discuss that whenever it’s “Samo shampioni’s” turn. 😈

Anyway, Litesound bring the a double whammy of hilarity with some A+ Bad English diction (let us all sing along)

WONEVER STEN INDO AR WEH WHEEL MEK IT FRU DE DEH CUZ WE AR DA WEINERS WE AR DA GEEROS

WIR BRACKING DOWN DA WALLZ GODDA HIT DE MALL CUZ WE ARE DA GEEROS WE ARE DA DRIMURS

and the fact that all Litesound members look like animals, introducing:

The seahorse

The afghan greyhound

the mongoose

and of course Dima who might be the lovechild of Alsou and an ostrich. 😍

All of this may make you believe I merely stan Litesound on an ironic level, but I actually LOVE them on an unironic level too. “We are the heroes” is a fun, futuristic electronic rock rollercoaster and Litesound strike a perfect balance between good song, disarming incompetence and going ALL OUT in proving themselves as high quality, laced with high voltage addictive rock beats. SO, NO MATTER WHAT THEY SAY, NO MATTER WHAT THEY DO, I’LL MAKE IT ALL RIGHT! I’M BRACKING DOWN THE WALLS, THEY ARE THE *HEROES*

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62. Justs - “Heartbeat” Latvia 2016

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AGE OF AMINATA <3 what a glorious two-piece act in the herstory of Latvia. To Latvia’s credit they completely reinvented themselves in the Supernova Era, usually resulting in bold entries (and Carousel).

If "Love injected” was the earthquake that shook Latvia AWAKE with her experimental masterpieces, then "Heartbeat” is the aftershock, providing the same avant garde novelty, but not as impactful with a lesser impact.

However, to recycle a phrase i’ve already used multiple times, a lesser Aminata is still fucking awesome. “Heartbeat” packs a massive emotional punch, being more aggressive and volatile than its predecessor, which... works out fine actually. Killer lines such as:

YOU’RE MY DESIRE AND MY PAIN BUT ALL THE BATTLES ARE IN VAIN YOU MEAN MORE THAN ANYTHING TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

need an emotionally intense delivery and Justs fucking GOES for it without any inhibitions for his own health and safety

and with every passing second

he gets more into the zone

right until the end, when he LOSES his voice and is reduced to panting an aspirated ”thank you”. 😍 If you’re going to sing about lost love, you’d better do it by also SCREAMING YOUR LUNGS OUT <3

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61. Hatari - “Hatrið mun sigra” Iceland 2019

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God I’ve been dreading this write-up. Not because of the Hatari stans (lol who is going to complain about getting ranked 61st out of 408), but can I do Hatari justice in print? Hatari weren’t as much as an entry as they were the fiery spirit of mischief, an existential manifestation of defiance, a gestalt of provocative resistance, all contained in the tiny package of two asshole hellraisers. Yes, assholes. You see, the one thing you NEED to understand before everything else is that Hatari’s poetic palestine shawl moment is one of grade A assholery. Pulling that at the last sec towards their hosts WAS a dick move and Hatari were fully aware of it. We MUST see this as a fact before we discuss anything else that is also Hatari-related.

However, that’s precisely the point? Provocation was the sensation that swept the icelandic nation and its idolization became Hatari’s vocation with dedication and its application in the humiliation and the vexation of the Israeli station in support of the Palestine civilization, leaving KAN in devastation after months of the rabid disorganization was a justification well worth the potential probation. In other words: GET REKT KAN SHIT HOSTS HOPE U GET BLACKLISTED LOLOL #Hatredwon 😈 😈.

ps: still getting the Israelis to cheer for them despite being OPENLY pro-palestine when will ur faves.

~My reasons~ for ranking Hatari lower post-show are less grounded in the politics (again, they were jerks but... that’s also the entire point of sending Hatari lmfao) and more determined by the actual live performance: I thought Klemens was underwhelming and his parts of “Hatrið mun sigra” were also the fave bits. 😭 On the flipside I thought Matthias was excellent (when he didn’t miss his cue) and I legit laugh out loud each time I see his hilarious OTT facial expressions.

What a justified use of guyliner <3 The act was yet again a diabolically brilliant clanging of chains, bashing of mallets, grinding of gears, steaming of punk, a satanic cirque du soleil come to rain justice and brimstone down on our hopeless souls. Hatari were the anti-heroes we needed and don’t deserve.

ps: i hope i will ever find someone who loves me as much as Klemens loves Teresa May.

Iceland’s chart looks much better than I thought it would, but the averages actually put them somewhere in the middle on average. Iceland are always hit-or-miss for me, much moreso in the 2010s than in any other decade and it’s largely down to them failing to pick the best available option because, you know, BadTastitis.

the next update... will be the FINAL one in this shade of green :o Yes, we are about to move on to the highest, upperest, bestest tier of Eurovision entries. The mind-blowingly amazing entries that are not off this fucking world. Find out who makes the cut and who doesn’t TOMORROW :o

#Eurovision #Eurovision Song Contest #Iceland #Latvia #Belarus #Finland #Germany #Hatari #Hatrid mun sigra #Justs Sirmais #Heartbeat #Litesound #We are the heroes #Softengine #Something better #Michael Schulte #You let me walk alone

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pomegranate-belle · 6 years ago

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For Day 1 of MattFoggy Week: Favorite Canon Scene/Favorite AU

There’s a special place in my heart for my “Turn Left” AU, where lil Matty doesn’t give Stick that friendship bracelet; as a result, Stick doesn’t leave, Matt ends up becoming a member of the Chaste, and he and Foggy only meet during the DD S1 timeline. God only knows when I’ll make the time to really round out this AU and post it officially, but here’s the MattFoggy bits.

Matt sat on the roof, back pressed to the access door leading down to apartment 6A, and lost himself to the noises in the rooms below him. Soft breathing, snoring, and the gentle cadence of three resting hearts. All of it cradled in a quiet, familiar-sounding ballad. He hummed along for a few bars, feeling buzzy and drunk, and the world went soft against his senses like silk. For the first time since returning to New York, he’d found something that drowned out the pain and terror of the city around him. Arms wrapped tightly about himself, Matt yawned quietly and settled in for the night.

Matt clutched the edge of the roof tightly, his heart pounding in his chest and his mouth dry with… With fear. The voice in the back of his head that sounded like Stick was derisive, but Matt’s ears were still ringing with gunshots and his nose burned with the scent of blood and Foggy Nelson had almost died.

And despite all his training and all his strength and all his haste, Matt hadn’t been the one to save him.

The words hot beyond all reason came to mind first. The guy was about Foggy’s height, wiry and well-built with bone structure that a Greek god would cry over. His brown hair was tousled from the fight, and the split in his lower lip only served to emphasize the insane perfection of his features. His cheap plastic black sunglasses were cracked across the bridge, his equally cheap shirt ripped and torn, and his cargo pants splattered with dark spots of blood. The sneakers on his feet looked about five years old and the laces were frayed beyond belief.

“Uh,” Foggy stammered. “What. I… Who are you?”

“Matt,” said the stranger with a sharp smile. “You can call me Matt.”

“If they’ve all been working together, where were you and your weird ninja people when the Russians attacked Jo? Or Karen? Or me?”

“The Hand is all that matters,” Matt explained matter-of-factly, tossing his shattered sunglasses into the dumpster clear at the other end of the alley with alarming accuracy.

“No it’s not!” protested Foggy.

Matt scoffed, shaking his head and still turned towards the dumpster, away from Foggy.

“You don’t understand,” he said, in a very patronizing voice that almost made Foggy rethink his attraction to him. “The Russians, the Chinese, even Wilson Fisk, they’re all… They’re only human. The Hand, they’re a—they’re a different breed altogether. They have access to power normal humans can’t even comprehend. That’s why the Chaste exists, to stop them. Everyone and everything else is just background noise.”

“Well excuse me if I’m not, like, super reassured by that since those ‘background noise’ Russian mobsters tried to turn me into Swiss cheese!”

“So that’s it then?” Foggy demanded, head still spinning. “You just… Just swoop in, save me from ninjas, and then flip away?”

Matt tilted his head to the side. His expression was smooth, calm, a little skeptical.

“Basically,” he concluded.

“What… What the fuck, dude, who does that?”

Matt’s mouth quirked up into a really, really infuriating smirk.

“I do,” he answered.

And then he leapt up, latched onto a fire escape, and scaled it to the roof. Within seconds, he was gone.

“What the fuck,” Foggy repeated under his breath. “What. The fuck.”

I said too much again, he realized with a groan, and ruffled a hand through his sweaty hair.

Always were a sucker for a pretty voice, weren’t you, Matty? mocked the voice in his head that always sounded too much like Stick. It wasn’t wrong, though. Something about Foggy Nelson… Something was throwing him off. And that would be bad for everyone.

He’d need to keep his distance going forward, Matt decided. Protect Foggy from the shadows. Be careful not to speak to him again at all, let alone too much.

Staying away altogether never even crossed his mind.

“Seriously, you saved my life,” Foggy said emphatically. “Whatever it is, it’s no trouble.”

Matt shuffled for a bit, picking at the threadbare fabric of his pants. His shoulders were up around his ears, and his mouth was twisted in a way that very clearly screamed ‘pain’. With how tense Matt was, Foggy was pretty sure he himself would have tapped out, like, instantly. But then, well, Matt was some sort of crazy ninja, so maybe it was a ninja code stoicism thing.

“It’s…” Matt paused, wetted his cracked lips, shook his head, and made an odd aborted gesture with his hand near his right ear. “Too much. Too loud.”

Foggy frowned. Normally, he’d tap his foot while he considered the problem, but if everything was already ‘too loud, too much’ that couldn’t possibly help. Instead he scuffed a hand through his hair.

And then paused.

“I’ve got just the thing.”

Foggy stepped as quickly and lightly as possible over to his closet, and began rummaging through the disorganized pile of boxes in the corner. Textbooks, knickknacks, Columbia sweatshirt… There!

He returned with his prize clutched in his hands. Matt tilted his head, eyes closed, and swayed a little, dizzily.

“Headphones?” he asked.

“Oh contraire, buddy,” said Foggy quietly. “Not just any headphones. These babies are noise cancelling, and they got me through three months of pre-divorce blowout from a couple in 2-C.”

He settled them over Matt’s ears gently and grinned at the sight. After a few moments of contemplation, Matt opened his sightless eyes and smiled too.

“Oh,” he said softly, the tension sloughing off his frame like rainwater, and it was probably the most delicate, precious sound Foggy had ever heard.

For a badass killer ninja guy who also spent a good amount of his non-combat time just being a huge asshole, Matt was just… Entirely too fucking adorable. Jesus.

“Better?” Foggy asked, wondering if Matt would still be able to hear him, if his senses were really that good.

Matt’s blinding grin was all the answer to that question Foggy needed.

“Much better. Thank you.”

Matt’s lips turned up at the corners in the most awkward, heartbreaking little smile Foggy had ever seen in his life. He slid his unfairly beautiful fingers along the frames of the glasses one last time and then slipped them onto his face.

“Well?”

Foggy swallowed.

“They, uh… Look good, buddy,” he said, as if that wasn’t the understatement of the century.

“Oh my god he’s straight,” Foggy groaned into his hands. “He was raised by nuns and Jedi ninjas. He’s got to be so straight. Kill me.”

“Is this really the sorta bullshit at the top of your priority list?” Frank demanded, turning to Jo and Karen for an answer since Foggy was clearly in no state to give one.

“We lead complicated lives,” said Jo. “Now come on, Foggy, it’s not all that bad.”

“You’re right, it’s worse.”

Frank continued to look completely done, and Karen shot Jo a helpless look. Jo returned it with a subtle ‘ok’ symbol.

“Thought tall sexy blondes were usually your type anyway,” she mused. “Y’know, like Marci. And Captain America.”

With a groan, Foggy let his head thump against the counter.

“Between you and Matt, I’m starting to think I have two types,” he mumbled.

Instead of being actually helpful for once, Jo just nodded sagely.

“Well. You are bisexual,” she told him. “Now we know you’re not a fraud.”

“I hate you.”

“We gonna talk about those damn Hand ninjas or what?” Frank cut in harshly, although Karen thought she could see the slightest hint of softness, amusement, in his expression.

“We could all be dead in the next week,” Jo pointed out blithely, shoveling another bite of pie into her mouth. “Now is not the time for sleeping on concrete and eating gruel, Matt. Hell, things get much worse and I might pop a handful of Benadryl so I can eat a goddamn pizza again before I die.”

“Is that—is that really how you’re processing your mortality?” Matt asked after a long pause.

“Yes. Also, hand me that caramel sauce.”

Matt passed it over, his face somewhere between baffled and disturbed. Foggy just bumped his shoulder gently, holding out the plate of cookies.

“Look buddy,” he said. “Conceal don’t feel might work for you, but the rest of us don’t get into deadly ninja battles every day. And it’s not like one night of junk food is gonna negate those frankly impossible abs, so c’mon – live a little! Jo’s chocolate chip cookies are to die for.”

Matt picked up a cookie and nibbled at the corner delicately.

“I don’t have to be able to see them to know that stains like this don’t wash out,” Matt said softly.

He reached up, ostensibly to wipe the blood from his cheek, but his fingers were so trembling and nerveless that he only smeared it across his face.

“Not like that they won’t,” Foggy said gently, purposely misunderstanding him. “But get a little vinegar on it and your shirt will be good as new, Matty.”

Matt smiled mirthlessly as Foggy lifted the washcloth and scrubbed the blood off him.

“And my soul? Gonna clean that with vinegar too?” he asked.

“If I have to.”

“Whatever you—whatever you think we are, friends, or… We’re not. You can’t be more important than the mission. Having friends is just another weak point that an enemy can exploit,” Matt said harshly.

“And if you don’t care about anyone, what then?” demanded Foggy, stung. “What’s even the point of saving the world if you don’t give a shit about anyone in it!”

“I want… To make things better for him. To get him the hell away from that freaky-ass Jedi ninja cult,” Foggy admitted, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. “Beneath all the brainwashing and kick-ass martial arts, he’s so… Soft. Bright. Good. But I don’t think he’ll stay. Not for me, or for anyone.”

Jo nodded.

“It’s his choice, Fog, he’s a grown man,” she told him quietly, thinking of the gentle wonder on Matt’s face at the feel of silk, the taste of chocolate. “But, I. Maybe, you just have to give him a reason to stay. A place that could be home. We can do that, Foggy, I know we can.”

“… Matt…?”

Foggy almost couldn’t believe his eyes. There was Matt, standing in the middle of Foggy’s living room looking like he’d been through a woodchipper and then been patched up by… Well, by a machine. Not badly, per se, but with no regard for appearance. Bare-minimum, Spartan care, nothing cosmetic, nothing for comfort. It made Foggy think of Stick, and his stomach twinged with acid.

“Hi,” Matt said softly, his voice hoarse.

“Jesus Christ, Matt, what happened to you? What are you doing here, you look like you need a hospital!”

“We… We won,” Matt said, swallowing harshly. “Nobu’s… Gone. The rest of the Hand has gone underground, for now. They’re not working with Fisk anymore. You won’t have to worry about them.”

It was absolutely a circumspect way to look at the situation, clinical and bare-bones. But Foggy Nelson was a lawyer. A damn good lawyer. And he was great at reading between the lines. Finding the things people meant but didn’t say.

“The Chaste is leaving, then,” he said, trying to keep his voice level and mostly succeeding. “You’re leaving. This is goodbye.”

Matt swallowed noisily again, and refused to show his face. He ducked his head and studiously picked at a loose thread on his hoodie. Foggy wanted to shake him, to cry, to make demands, but he knew that only deep, open silence would draw Matt’s words out into the air.

“There never—” Matt took a deep breath. “Foggy, there never should have been a, a reason to say goodbye in the first place. We were never supposed to meet.”

“I don’t believe that, Matt.”

Matt stood sharply and ran his busted-up hands through his hair. He laughed, but the noise was nothing like the night they had eaten junk food together and tried to forget the world around them. There was nothing bright or happy about it.

“It doesn’t matter what you believe, Foggy, it doesn’t. Matter,” Matt hissed, pacing the room like a caged panther. “I was never supposed to interfere. Or, or care. I’m not a—I’m not like you, or Jolene, or Karen. I’m not even like Frank Castle. I have one job, one purpose, and that’s to stop the Hand. However I can, regardless of anything else. For right here, right now, that job is done. I just came to—I just. I had to… Just one last time, I had to…”

Matt’s pacing slowed to a stop, and he shook his head. The expression on his face was torn, helpless, and Foggy’s heart plummeted into his stomach like a stone, like a lead weight. His chest was cold, and his pulse was steady, and even though Matt was only feet away it felt like it would take miles to reach out and touch him.

“You could stay,” Foggy said at last, and couldn’t keep his voice from breaking. “With me. With us.”

“Foggy, I can’t.”

“You’re not a tool, Matt, you’re a person. A person I care about, we all do! And Hell’s Kitchen is your home! You’re worth so much more than, than cannon fodder for the Chaste’s bullshit ninja war! You’re Matt Murdock and you belong here! You could belong here. You could have a life and… And things for yourself. You’re worth that, no matter what that asshole Stick told you. You’re so kind and good and you… You’re worth everything, Matt. You deserve so many good things.”

When Foggy stepped through the door with Matt on his arm, Jo’s apartment fell silent. Several mouths dropped open, but Foggy narrowed his eyes and shook his head minutely.

“Welcome back, Matt,” Karen greeted at last, gently.

Matt’s smile was tremulous, but it was real, and that was enough for Foggy.

“Thanks, Karen,” said Matt. “It… It, uh… It’s good to be back.”

“Your glasses are on the shelf to your right,” Jo added. “We hoped… Well.” She cleared her throat, then abruptly pitched her voice into a more jovial tone. “The rest of us look like bad Elton John cosplayers when we wear ‘em so thank God you two finally showed up.”

Laughter rippled through the room and broke the last of the lingering tension as Matt snagged his glasses from the shelf and slid them onto his nose. With that last barrier put up, a certain tension dropped from his shoulders. Foggy shook his head and couldn’t help but smile.

“Gonna make room on the couch for us?” he asked. “Or do I have to sit my shapely Irish ass on someone’s lap?”

Matt clenched and unclenched his hands a few times, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“I’ve been what I am for—a long time,” he choked out. “And I know I can’t erase that but I’m not sure it’s what I want to be anymore. You know?”

Melvin nodded with a quiet hum of agreement.

“I was like that too. But Betsy says, she says you can always do better and change, if you wanna. Betsy helps me be good. Maybe your friends can help you.”

“Yeah. Maybe they can. But I think… I think I need your help too, Melvin. I need you to make something for me.”

“They’re in his apartment,” Matt said into the phone, making sure one ear was tilted towards the window – and Foggy and Karen’s heartbeats – even as he spoke to Jo. “He’s not even trying to hide. He wants to— to lure us out. He doesn’t even know Hoffman is missing yet.”

“They… Do they sound alright?” Jo asked weakly.

Matt took a moment to listen closer to the penthouse apartment. The heartbeats within were racing a bit, but Matt didn’t hear bones creaking when they shifted. He didn’t smell blood either. Fisk’s mountain-heavy steps thudded rhythmically across the floor of the room. Back and forth, back and forth. His voice, still low and growling, paced the same away. A quiet pendulum, a monologue.

“He hasn’t hurt them,” Matt assured Jo at last. “We’ll go in soon. Call Officer Mahoney, we’ll leave Fisk for him.”

Matt was distracted for a second by the restless movement by his side. Frank checking and rechecking his guns. He didn’t comment – the impatience was understandable, and it was thrumming through Matt’s veins too.

“You two,” Jo said, and Matt could hear her swallow nervously. “You be safe, both of you, and… A-and bring them back.”

Matt smiled.

“We will. See you soon, Jolene.”

Jo laughed, though the sound was wavering and edged in fear.

“You don’t see shit,” she said.

Then they both hung up.

“Finally,” Frank muttered. “We gonna go or what, Red?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

Matt slipped his clubs from their holster and dropped the phone into their place.

“Matt…”

“Can I… Can I…?” he asked softly, desperately, his hands still framing Foggy’s face.

“Yeah, I…” Foggy nodded. “Sure thing, buddy.”

Then Matt leaned in and kissed him – soft, quick presses of lip to lip. One, two, three, four, five as though he had to keep making sure that Foggy was still there, still real. Each one sent a spark of warm electricity jumping down Foggy’s spine.

“Hey,” he said at last, between kisses. “Hey. I’m right here, Matt. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere, so just…”

Pressing forward and smoothing a hand through Matt’s tousled hair, Foggy eased them into something slower and lingering. The tension dropped from Matt’s shoulders and he made a soft noise that had Foggy wanting to bundle him up in about fifteen fuzzy blankets.

“Foggy,” Matt breathed when they parted for air, resting his forehead against Foggy’s. “Foggy, I… I’m so sorry, I couldn’t… He should have never…”

“Hey, c’mon. I’m fine. Karen’s fine. You and Frank saved us, Matt. It’s over, ok? It’s over.”

“You made the right choice, you know?” commented Karen. “I think… This is where you’re supposed to be.”

Matt grinned, the smile huge and dorky and wonderful.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think so too.”

It was a heartwarming idea, Foggy reflected, to be able to believe that in the end all roads lead you home. He generally considered himself something of a skeptic – but with a cheap beer in his hand, pressed against Matt at shoulder and thigh, able to look at the full room of friends around them, it seemed about right.

#mattfoggy #mattfoggyweek #daredevil #writing #turn left au

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adamcoled · 8 years ago

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a world on hold | adam cole

A/N: I haven’t got a clue if Adam’s ever been camping or not, but this was too good to pass up, if not for anything else than for my own love of Adam fluff.

As a young girl, I’d gone on numerous camping trips with my family, enamored by the beauty of wilderness which I admired with childish innocence and bemusement. Those years were long ago, however. I’d been far too long since I’d even thought about sleeping in a tent, surrounded by nothing but endless trees, but I could remember very vividly just how cleansing it felt. It was almost like putting real life on pause, stepping away for just a few days to refresh and prepare for the upcoming chaos. So, that’s why I immediately suggested a camping trip when the rare off weekend for both Adam and I came up, though that isn’t to say he was instantly as keen on the idea as I was.

“Camping?” he repeated incredulously once I’d mentioned it, more than likely hoping he’d heard me wrong.

“Camping,” I confirmed.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Adam ran his hand along his chin, lost in thought about something or the other. “You mean, like out in the woods, sleeping in a tent camping?”

“Well, yeah. That is what camping is. You’ve never been?”

“Nope.”

I guess I half-expected Adam to have some camping experience under his belt; he seemed like the kind of guy who would have went at least once in his life. Admittedly, his lack of experience did throw me off a bit, since I’d just assumed we’d both know a little about being away from human habitation, but not to the point that the entire idea was worth scrapping.

“Lucky for you,” I began, smiling as I pointed a finger at him, “I happen to have lots of knowledge on the art of tent-sleeping. C’mon, it’ll be fun, babe.”

A slight chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head at my antics. “Really?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “When’s the last time you went?”

“Um…12-13 years ago?” I admitted sheepishly, laughing as he buried his head in his hands.

“We’re doomed.”

Even Adam’s bouts of apprehension weren’t enough to prevent us from venturing out of our comfort zone and into the woods, because here we were, unloading our disorganized supplies in the middle of an otherwise unoccupied maze of trees. We’d left the comfort of our four-walled, air-conditioned house only two hours prior, when the sun was just coming up to paint the sky a breathtaking array of blue, orange, and pink. It was a bit difficult to part ways with our comfortable bed, even if it was just for the weekend, knowing we’d instead be opting for the less-comfortable air mattress stuffed inside a small tent. I’d suggested sleeping bags, more as a joke than anything, but Adam had shot that idea down quickly; we were already true enough campers, according to him.

“Well,” Adam breathed out, admiring the set-up we’d come up with, “I think we did a pretty damn good job.”

He pulled me to his side, pressing his lips to the side of my head. When I pushed him away softly, gesturing around us in hopes of him detecting the problem himself, he just looked utterly confused. Poor guy thought we were done.

“The tent, Adam,” I deadpanned.

The look on his face was enough to tell me that it’d slipped his mind out of both pure forgetfulness and his own wishes. There was plenty of reason to doubt that Adam would know how to put up a tent, considering there was never any reason for him to, but I surely couldn’t do it on my own. With enough effort, and time, we’d be able to get it up, but neither of us were particularly patient and something told me it would take a lot longer than necessary. Perhaps we weren’t the best people to be out here on our own, far from any possible helping hands.

“Right. The tent, got it,” he dashed to the car, pulling out the box and getting to work without a moment’s thought. I knew very well that he’d underestimated the difficulty of putting up a tent, but I couldn’t help watching him struggle for just a bit. Each time he thought he had it, raising his hands in success, something would go wrong. Soon enough, he’d given up and made his way towards one of the chairs we set up, huffing all the way.

“Need some help?” I offered, laughing as he looked at me wordlessly. It was clear the tent had won this battle. “C’mon, we gotta have somewhere to sleep tonight.”

Though he shook his head, remaining in his seat for a second, he followed me back to the spot the tent was lying at defiantly. “I’m just sayin’, maybe it’s broken.”

I stifled a laugh, figuring I’d poked fun at his struggle enough for one day. But, that didn’t stop the words that left my mouth at his silly insinuation. “Adam, it’s brand new, there’s no way it’s broken. Did you even read the instructions?” I asked, picking up the forgotten booklet that lay on the ground a few feet away.

“Do you think Adam Cole needs instructions?”

As soon as I flipped through the pages a bit, getting a general idea of how it worked, I hastily put poles in the ground, poles in other poles, until eventually, it came together just fine.

“There. All you had to do was read,” I joked, poking fun at his cockiness with my tongue stuck out.

“I’d be lost without you, baby,” he grinned, his flirtation a cheap attempt to distract from his mistake.

“Probably.”

It’d gotten hot quite quickly, the sun beating down on us with a fiery vengeance but failing in its efforts to derail our trip. Nothing could stop us from enjoying the view from atop the hill we’d hiked up or the feel of the cool lake water. Luckily, we were both adamant about making the most out of our time here, especially since it was Adam’s first camping experience. I had that overwhelming desire to make sure it was unforgettable, taking him on all sorts of adventures. The smile that seemed to never leave his face was reason enough to believe I was doing a pretty good job.

“C’mere,” Adam motioned while we were both splashing each other in the water. There was no way to be sure it wasn’t just him trying to send water my way yet again, so I decided all I could do was hope he’d given up for just a minute. I swam to him, his arms coming around to bring me closer. “I’m glad you took my camping virginity,” he laughed, causing me to scoff and splash him yet again.

“I can’t believe you,” I rolled my eyes, joining in with his laughter nonetheless.

He wiped his face with his hand, getting rid of the water I’d gotten in his eyes. “Really though. I’m having a great time.”

Rather than responding with another teasing remark, I leaned forward in his arms to connect our needy lips in yet another one of our intoxicating kisses. All these years together and they still managed to be even better than the last. When I pulled back and grabbed hold of his hand, aiming to bring him with me to the shore, he groaned but followed me regardless.

“I was enjoying myself,” he complained.

“Yeah, well, you can enjoy yourself even more when we make some food.”

That idea seemed to perk him up as he rushed in front of me and made quick work of getting to our site. A gracious breeze came over the forest, shaking the trees gently and providing us with a much needed break from the relentless heat. While I grabbed a towel from the car, wrapping it around the ends of my hair to dry it a bit, Adam wasted no time in starting a fire for our meal.

Though I wouldn’t tell him, I was a little shocked when he took it upon himself to cook it all. Maybe I was a fool for leaving it to the inexperienced neophyte, but I can’t lie when I say the food was damn good.

Finally, the sun had set, taking with it the awful heat and replacing it with a much cooler atmosphere complete with the soft sound of trees shaking and occasional pops of the burning fire. I was perched in one chair, my knees pulled up onto it as I listened to Adam bring up how Kenny, Nick, and Matt didn’t think we’d last a day out here. In this midst of it, I remembered the one thing I’d made sure to bring when I was packing up our essentials.

“Give me one minute!” I exclaimed, hopping out of my seat while he watched in confusion. My eyes found the bag of absolutely necessary items easily, and when I made my way back to the fire with the mystery clutched in my hand, all Adam could do was wonder what, exactly, was so important.

“I’m a child, I know,” I smiled, pulling out the box of graham crackers, bag of marshmallows, and chocolate bars and placing them beside me, “But I couldn’t let you camp for the first time without making s’mores. Go find a stick.”

“I’ve had s’mores before, babe.”

“Shh, no, nope, you haven’t,” I hushed, my excitement a little dampened by his previous experience, “Sticks, please.” But, not enough to destroy my childish desire to indulge myself in the gooey goodness of a perfectly-made s’more. Instead of arguing, Adam rolled his eyes playfully before heading to find sticks like I’d asked. I guess he didn’t have to look very far, because he was back in just thirty seconds, handing them to me while he popped a marshmallow into his mouth, winking while he put another one onto his stick.

Everything seemed fine as he stood before the crackling fire, waiting for his marshmallow to reach maximum tastiness, myself doing the same beside him. But just as he withdrew his hand a bit, the marshmallow fell right off of the stick and into the awaiting fire, instantly succumbing to the flames while Adam watched on silently.

“You gonna tell me there’s instructions for making s’mores, too?” he asked, already reaching into the bag for another.

“Nope. That’s just you being an idiot,” I laughed, to which he stuck up a deserved middle finger. Thankfully, his next attempt went much better, both of us able to enjoy our dessert over laughter and serenity.

After the disaster that was setting up our air mattress, which shouldn’t have been a disaster at all, and extinguishing the fire that had stolen Adam’s earlier s’more, we decided to get some sleep earlier than usual to prepare for whatever adventures the next day may bring. It wasn’t our brightest idea to only bring one blanket, but we hadn’t even thought of that until right this moment. I’d absentmindedly yanked some of it towards me after feeling a breeze on my leg, signaling I wasn’t fully covered. Little did I know, that’d taken all of the blanket from Adam. What ensued was all out war- a game of tug-of-war for the blanket that ended with me claiming most of it.

“You’re a blanket hog!” Adam declared.

“Fine, take it,” I accepted, trying to divide it equally between the two of us. “Now sleep. Goodnight, I love you.”

“Night, I love you too.” I could tell he was grinning over getting his way without even looking at him.

And not even a minute of silence passed before he was speaking up again, shifting slightly and causing the tent to rustle as he did so.

“Hey, Y/N? Could there be bears out here?”

“Shut up, Adam.”

#adam cole fanfic #adam cole imagine #adam cole fanfiction #adam cole x reader #adam cole one shot #roh imagine #wrestling imagine #roh fanfic #wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine

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handofvictory · 7 years ago

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Hi I redid Allen's questionnaire but did better this time.

What is your characters name? Does the character have a nickname?:

Allen Cooper. He lacks a nickname, though he has the title of Shadowblade.

What is your characters hair color? Eye color?:

His hair is black, and his eyes are now purple since he's become a shadow ascendent.

What kind of distinguishing facial features does your character have?:

… I’m not sure how to answer the question, honestly.

Does your character have a birthmark? Where is it? What about scars? How did he get them?:

He doesn’t have a birthmark, but boy does he have scars. He has been whipped for his crimes more than once, and in some universes that’s not all that happened to him. The scars of his beatings are large and ugly, and will never truly fade. He has scars on his hands from various incidents, many he can’t even remember. He has managed to avoid receiving any scars on his face.

He also has scars on his soul from his torture from the Legion, as well as from being thrown into the Void. He has suffered immensely and has the marks to show it.

Who are your characters friends and family? Who does he surround himself with? Who are the people your character is closest to? Who does he wish he were closest to?:

Allen's family would have to be Ellisse, Devon, and Malkhaz, whether or not he fully acknowledges any one of them. His friends would be Dar'nul and Althrich, more probably pending. Hand of Victory is in general a family to him, which he sort of accepts.

Allen honestly considers himself close to just about everyone he bonds with (due to how few he really bonds to), though to Devon moreso than others. There's a common bond between the two of them, and Devon is a father figure to him who has guided him through a lot of his problems and continues to help him to this day.

Ellisse and Malkhaz are sibling figures to him, and he has specific feelings regarding the two of them.

Ellisse he viewed as a savior for a long time, much as he knew it was unfair to her. To him, she was his chance to seek redemption, which he had no clue how to find or even how to start to look. He latched onto her and assumed that by following her, he might find change. He has since let go of that a lot thanks to serious amounts of recovery, but he still cares for her deeply as a sister.

With Malkhaz, he has chronically worried about failing him, and that fear is still there. Memories of his old teacher still haunt him, and he worries that the example he'll impart to Malkhaz will be the same one his teacher gave him. He didn't think of Mal positively initially, but he still did his best for him and tried to encourage his growth, and as a result he grew on him.

Allen doesn't actively seek relationships, but he does wish to mend his relationship to other guild members.

Where was your character born? Where has he lived since then? Where does he call home?:

He was born in some obscure kingdom I have yet to name that's based off of Latin America. Nowadays he's an adventurer, but the guild's home base counts as a consistent place he can call home.

Where does your character go when hes angry?:

Allen is chronically angry, so he doesn’t really “go” anywhere. He does try to go somewhere quiet and secluded to calm down when it gets to be too much for him, but that’s frequently unsuccessful and he becomes angrier as a result.

What is his biggest fear? Who has he told this to? Who would he never tell this to? Why?:

He fears losing all the progress he has made in his recovery and his redemption. He fears going back to the way he was, at which point he'd rather just kill himself because that is not a life he wants to live again. He hasn't said this to anyone, but the most likely one to hear about it would be Devon (followed by Dar'nul, oddly, then his two siblings maybe).

Does he have a secret?:

Not really. He doesn't tell everyone everything, but he's not really secretive either.

What makes your character laugh out loud?:

I have no clue how to describe his sense of humor but it's considerably easier to get him to laugh nowadays, even with dumb jokes.

When has your character been in love? Had a broken heart?:

He's never been in love, although he's been heartbroken by various traumatic events in his life. Losing his family twice comes to mind.

Then dig deeper by asking more unconventional questions:

What is in your characters refrigerator right now? On his bedroom floor? On his nightstand? In his garbage can?:

His room is a mess, but not a COMPLETE mess. Papers are on the floor, a book is on the nightstand, candy wrappers in the trash, along with other forms of garbage. He also has several books on the floor, and his room is completely disorganized.

Look at your characters feet. Describe what you see there. Does he wear dress shoes, gym shoes, or none at all? Is he in socks that are ratty and full of holes? Or is he wearing a pair of blue and gold slippers knitted by his grandmother?:

He wears leather boots that tend to be worn, but are still completely functional. Whenever they start losing their function, he makes new ones. His pants tend to be tucked into his boots.

When your character thinks of his childhood kitchen, what smell does he associate with it? Sauerkraut? Oatmeal cookies? Paint? Why is that smell so resonant for him?:

Allen doesn’t remember much of the kitchen from his childhood, but if he were to try hard enough, the smell of tomatoes would come to mind, and he has no clue why.

Your character is doing intense spring cleaning. What is easy for him to throw out? What is difficult for him to part with? Why?:

Allen finds it difficult to do any serious cleaning. If it isn't garbage, he finds it near impossible to throw out. He also has a difficult time motivatinf himself to clean. This is caused by his depression, but also he has spent his entire life only owning what he could carry, and so he tends to try to keep whatever he can.

Its Saturday at noon. What is your character doing? Give details. If hes eating breakfast, what exactly does he eat? If hes stretching out in his backyard to sun, what kind of blanket or towel does he lie on?:

Assuming he has nothing to do (which is not often the case), Allen is probably reading some historical fiction with some kind of food on the highest spire of either Dalaran or Silvermoon. The food is likely a candy or a sweet (coffee cake, for example). He may also have tea with him.

What is one strong memory that has stuck with your character from childhood? Why is it so powerful and lasting?:

The second time he lost his family sticks out to him, primarily because he tried to keep them together, and ended up badly beaten as a result. He remembers the aftermath, wherein his life was saved by Wolfgang. He then insisted that Allen owed him, and he suffered horribly under his tutelage for years without ever fully recovering from his loss.

Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where is he going? What does he wear? Who will he be with?:

If it's a night out, he's probably being dragged out by someone else. He himself has no ideas in mind as to where he would go, and would probably let Devon dress him up, because otherwise he would just show up in the blandest clothing imaginable.

Character Questionnaire 2 These questions are frequently used in interviews so you may want to pretend you’re interviewing your characters.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?:

"I’m not proud of what I’ve done."

What is your idea of perfect happiness?:

"General peace, I guess...?"

What is your current state of mind?:

“Tired.”

What is your favorite occupation?:

"Being a monk was... nice. I don't think I'll properly go back to it, but it was a good change of pace that I shouldn't have abandoned."

What is your most treasured possession?:

“... nothing, at the moment. I just enjoy having things, to be honest...”

What or who is the greatest love of your life?:

"I'm not answering this."

What is your favorite journey?:

“… I don’t think I could pick a favorite, I’m usually just here for the ride.”

What is your most marked characteristic?:

“Uh. I used to say it's my eyes, but I'm not sure anymore.”

When and where were you the happiest?:

“I'm not answering this.”

What is it that you most dislike?:

“... hm. I despise loud, sudden noises, and I hate [cotton] fabrics. Itches like hell.”

What is your greatest fear?:

"I don't know anymore. I think I've seen too much."

What is your greatest extravagance?:

“I suppose any time I buy myself something to eat, otherwise I try to spend only when I have to.”

{

Which living person do you most despise?:

Sigh. "I don't have the energy to hate anyone specifically. Catahecas comes closest, I suppose, but even then, I'm just too... tired to make note of him when he's not in proximity to me, or when I'm not joking about how loathesome he is to guildmates."

What is your greatest regret?:

"Everything. Just... everything. Let's leave it at that."

Which talent would you most like to have?:

“I don't think I can think of anything. Maybe be a good speaker.”

Where would you like to live?:

"I think where I currently live is fine."

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?:

Allen looks to the side and seems to become lost in thought. His expression becomes somber, and he's unresponsive for a bit. The question is never answered.

What is the quality you most like in a man?:

His cheeks darken, and he clears his throat. "Next question."

What is the quality you most like in a woman?:

His cheeks darken a little further. “Next question!"

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?:

Gestures to his entire self.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?:

"It's hard to think of one, seeing as I have a hard time actively hating people. I suppose I avoid people who would take advantage of me or my loved ones the most."

What do you most value in your friends?:

“… kindness, compassion, a willingness to listen, that sort of thing...”

Who is your favorite hero of fiction?:

"I can’t say I have one."

Whose are your heroes in real life?:

"I suppose there are people in my life who count, but I... don't really see them as heroes per se. They're extremely important to me, but not... heroes."

Which living person do you most admire?:

“Shut up.”

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?:

“I don’t see how any of them could be overrated, they’re virtues for a reason.”

On what occasions do you lie?:

"When necessary. I don't like doing it, though. I then have to go along with the lie and it becomes a chore I don't want to do. I'd rather be honest if I can."

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?:

“Any time I talk about my past. 'In my lifetime' I should really just tell myself to shut up.”

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?:

“I'm working on changing what I can, but I would make myself less judgemental.”

What are your favorite names?:

“… names for what? You need to be more specific here, because I don’t think about peoples names all too much.”

How would you like to die?:

“Painlessly. Just... painlessly."

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?:

Allen sighs. "I've never been given the choice, to tell you the truth. I don't think many people do. I think I'd rather just play the hand I'm dealt rather than imagine what could have been."

What is your motto?:

“Mottos are overrated.”

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fajrihanny · 7 years ago

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Backstreet Boys 2017 : Larger Than Life

Oh my God, we’re back again~

So a few months back, there was that little news on my Facebook that Backstreet Boys were coming back to Singapore for one night only - and it’s their only stop in Asia in 2017!

Did I rush to get the tickets? You bet I did.

But this is to note that Singapore Sports Hub ticket system sucks - that virtual waiting room just got me so nervous. I needed to open few different browsers so I got more chances in the ticket!

Anyway, I got the ticket and I upgraded myself (and Husband, of course) to the ...2nd cheapest class available. Haha.

Oh well, at least this is not our first time. I mean, we saw them back in 2015 (has it been 2 years?!) and we pretty much knew what we were expecting.

The concert was held in NATIONAL STADIUM. OK, they only opened half of the stadium for the concert but man, I was really surprised when I saw the venue! I imagined it’s going to be big and full of a blast!

But was it?

The concert was supposed to start at 8.30 pm so we did Maghrib first at home. When we reached the venue, it was close to 8 pm. We thought we still had time for some snacks cause we were both quite hungry. Alas, we didn’t.

My friend who was already inside the stadium since 7 (!!) texted me and said that the security check took a while so I better queued early. Meh.

So we ditched our original plan and went to queue early. Poor Husband who was so hungry :(. When we reached the first security check... oh man, I started to appreciate how swift security check at Star Vista. They were fast, efficient, and most importantly, everything was done in an airconditioned room!

I digress - but the weather was really killing us outside even at night.

When we finally passed the last check, it was like 8.20 pm so we rushed to our section which was.... so far at the back LOL. Even my seats back in 2015 were SO MUCH BETTER and I paid less!

Anyway, enough of my rants. Let’s get on with the concert review.

***

At 8.30 pm, the big screen played a medley/remix of Backstreet Boys’ songs. That’s new (for me). The screen also flashed lots of clips from their music video - kinda like a mash-up.

That’s how far our seats were from the stage

The medley went on for about 10 minutes before finally, the concert started with “Larger Than Life”. So apt.

The crowd went wild but I stayed calm in my seat. LOL. Age is really catching up with me now. The boys (well - men) looked all smiley and did their best to open the concert with a bang, but I noticed that everyone’s voice was too tired.

Next on the list was “The One”. Brian’s voice was a bit off and he couldn’t hit some of his notes in this song. And, as usual, the crowd cheered the loudest for Nick. Ah well, the teen heartthrob still has it. They continued with “Get Down”. Not my favorite so I tended to skip. Kevin had a long hair and meh. Seemed like they toned down some parts of the choreography - maybe to cater to their age. After all, they are all backstreet dads now. Heh. When the song was done, they started the first chat session. AJ has always been the heart of the party and this time it was no different. Nick followed afterwards and man the cheers could make my ears go deaf! He complained of how humid Singapore was that night and .... *drumroll* he also announced NEW ALBUM.

PLEASE OH PLEASE MAKE IT BLACK AND BLUE VER 2.0!

Next was Kevin and I just wanted to chop that long hair of his. After that short break, “Drowning” was played. Everyone looked so mellow. And at this point of the concert, I was starting to get annoyed at how bad the sound system was and how Brian still couldn’t hit some of his high notes right. What’s up with these?

The mellow mood continued with “Incomplete”. Meh. I am usually OK with Backstreet Boys’ slower songs but they didn’t sound... suitable for this open-air concert.

Luckily the next song was more upbeat. Now, this is weird but why was everyone so excited about “Quit Playing Games”? I mean, it’s a song about a man who got cheated on by his girlfriend! We were served with another intermission. Now it’s few slides which showed each member’s now and then. Wanna guess who got - like 50% more cheers than the others?

(Hint: it was not AJ nor Brian nor Kevin nor Howie) I was expecting more songs after those slides were over, but apparently... there was a bit of dance break. Yeah, forgot to mention that they brought a HELL lot of back dancers for this concert. Not really interested in the dancers so I took that chance to rest my voice. I haven’t stopped singing while I was having a pretty bad cold and my throat was killing me.

The dance show was finally over and... “Show Me The Meaning Of Being Lonely” was on. Oh crap.

I am always weak for this song ;_; At some point of this song, I think I got some tears in my eyes. And finally, Brian hit his high notes perfectly!

They took a lighter mood with “I’ll Never Break Your Heart”. The crowd was swaying their heads to the left and right. Awww~ I have to say though that AJ’s adlib was awesome. How come his voice was that stable - this is no joke man! Next on the setlist was “Anywhere For You” and sorry, I was just not feeling it. My least favorite song of the night.

... Or so I thought. Until next song was up and I didn’t even recognize the song?! I took my phone out and Soundhound-ed it and found out that it’s called “Darlin’”

Apparently, the stadium thought the same as me cause I swear I didn’t hear any choir from the crowd when this song was sung. Why was this song even on the list?

There was another dance show after that and I groaned - again?? Next song was “Undone” and the audience died down LOL. Maybe because this song was not nostalgic enough. But again, AJ’s voice~ <3

The men (HAH!) had another break and Brian took the crowd. “We are only halfway done!” Seriously? The concert was already on for almost an hour and according to my ticket, it’s supposed to be only for 90 minutes. No way we were getting 2 hours concert right?

Brian said that their next song was his favorite and it was...

“As Long As You Love Me”

OK WHERE WAS MY MICROPHONE.

And the best part was, THEY DID FREAKING CHAIR DANCE GUYS. Granted, it was only for mere 30 seconds but COME ON IT’S THE LEGENDARY CHAIR DANCE. PS. Anyone can guess why is it that this song is Brian’s favorite? (Hint: His wife. You are welcome)

Well, there was another intermission after the song ended. Now it’s another medley of their songs - one of those is “Everyone”- a less popular song from their ‘Black and Blue’ album. I couldn’t help but wonder why were there so many intermissions in this concert? And almost all of them were so abrupt and so disorganized. Honestly, I was a bit annoyed and feeling like this concert was really lacking in preparation.

We were left for about 20 minutes. After the intermission was done, suddenly there was a phone ringing somewhere and I knew exactly what was the next song....

“The Call”

I sang my voice out lol. I knew I was getting myself a lot of trouble but come on, it’s THE CALL. They had a lot of back dancers for this song by the way. Concert moved on with “Get It Down” and “Get Another Boyfriend”. Followed by the last intermission from Howie.

I could feel that the concert was reaching the last spurt. And I was expecting “I Want It That Way” any moment LOL. But no. It was “More Than That” which was a welcoming breather after so many dance numbers.

Next came up “Shape Of My Heart”. I pretty much lost my voice at this stage. Playback was too strong and the inconsistencies in the sound system became more and more apparent. Another dance show was up and for once - this was a number that I can appreciate. The dancers danced to “Straight Through My Heart” and “It’s Gotta Be You”. Man, their energy didn’t seem to slow down.

And finally, the intro to “I Want It That Way” was played. I ROSE FROM MY CHAIR OK. This is the legendary song from the epic 1999 - the only song from Backstreet Boys that I am willing to dance to. And I think the whole stadium agreed with me that night cause the choir was SO LOUD I didn’t think the group needs to sing at all lol.

When the song finally finished, everyone seemed to notice that the concert was going to end soon. Oh well. Everything good will end eventually. But of course.. there’s still an encore... “Backstreet’s Back”.

Unfortunately, I was already too tired to even sing along lol.

Once the encore was done, the group waved goodbye and went to the backstage. The crowd moved fast to the exit - age is really catching up with us. Enough of nostalgia. Time to go back home and to reality.

***

Honestly, if you asked me, I don’t really like this concert. It felt too commercialized. It’s weirdly tied to WTA finals. if you buy a package of WTA finals ticket and Backstreet Boys concert, there will be freebies or upgrade if I remember correctly. Talk about profits.

With 20,000 people buying the tickets, you would expect that they would have extra screens in the Stadium - but no, there was only ONE giant screen in the middle of the stadium. And guess who couldn’t even get a look at the group? People who sat on the side - like us. I know - beggars can’t choose, but come on, we paid for our tickets.

The sound system was blah. Often times the playback was even stronger than the boys’ singing and it was so off-putting. The back dancers were such eyesores at some points of the concert - not their fault but they made the concert felt like just another Vegas show instead of a concert for Singapore fans.

The humid weather didn’t really help either. But again, this could be solved by ... I don’t know - extra fans? The organizer should have more experiences how to troubleshoot this right?

And lastly, again perhaps it’s the age, but Backstreet Boys looked so tired. They jetted to Singapore for 30 hours straight from the other side of the globe. From what I saw in their social media, they were still in the US two days before the concert! So if that’s true, they had no rest before they appeared in Singapore.

I sounded like an angry fan - but if you compare this concert with their 2015 concert, it’s like heaven vs earth. Maybe because they were a bit younger back then? Or maybe because the 2015 one was indoor and it was more intimate with only 5,000 attendees? I don’t know.

I think, twice is enough. It has been fun to sing along with the other fans but now, let me just rewatch their old videos and soak into nostalgia at the comfort of my bed.

#Fanny Talks

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erinkappeler · 7 years ago

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“We travel far in thought”

I'm not quite sure what this piece is: a travelogue, a defense of tastelessness, an exploration of the meaning and value of the sign "woman" now, a manifesto for living, a meandering record of thought. It's mostly a collection of things I needed to work out for myself that I post here in the hopes that they'll resonate with someone who's also trying to work some of them out.

I. Itinerant "My imagination wandered at will; my dreams were revealing.... Thoughts were things, to be collected, collated, analysed, shelved or resolved. Fragmentary ideas, apparently unrelated, were often found to be part of a special layer or stratum of thought and memory, therefore to belong together; these were sometimes skillfully pieced together like the exquisite Greek tear-jars and iridescent glass bowls and vases that gleamed in the dusk from the shelves of the cabinet that faced me where I stretched, propped up on the couch in the room in Berggasse 19, Wien IX." -- H.D., Tribute to Freud

I came to Vienna, like so many before me, for Freud.

In between conference presentations (one at the American Comparative Literature Association's conference in July in Utrecht and one at the Modernist Studies Association conference in August in Amsterdam), I am loosely tracing threads that made up the poet H.D.'s life a hundred years ago, including her time as an analysand of Freud in 1933 and 34. This has meant taking a meandering path from Amsterdam to Berlin to Prague to Vienna to Rome to Corfu to Athens to Syros to Lesvos to Zurich and back to Amsterdam over the past six weeks, planning each leg as I get to it, taking fast trains and slow ferries, writing and thinking all along the route.

There is no particular reason to follow these threads now. I teach H.D. occasionally, and I wrote an undergraduate thesis about her, but I don't work on her anymore (my conference presentations are about Mary Austin and James Weldon Johnson, contemporaries of H.D.'s who had nothing to do with her). But when I realized I was going to have a little over a month to travel in Europe, when I thought of where I wanted to go, I thought of Corfu, where H.D. had a vision that was significant for her, and that thought has shaped the contours of this trip.

It's fitting, given the Freudian connection, that as I've traveled I've discovered a number of submerged reasons for the sudden desire to return to H.D. now. They have to do with loss, and identity, and class, and criticism, and taste. They have to do with recovery, and with poesis. They're about solitude and connection. They're about the disconnect between my personal and my professional lives and the submerged threads that loosely bind them.

I started reading and writing about H.D. about the same time I started a relationship that lasted through almost all of my twenties. Though the relationship is long over, the process of sorting out the stories and the selves it generated hasn't really stopped for me. Is this an overdue project? Yes and no. Somewhere in A Lover's Discourse Barthes writes about those who are disorganized by mourning for longer than is acceptable. In Freud's terms, such a person is melancholic -- they can't get past an event or a feeling. I am prone to melancholic loops. It takes me ages to fully process emotions and to understand intellectually what I've been feeling intensely. Common knowledge has it that it takes half the lifespan of a relationship to get over it. If that's so, I'm well past the expiration date for thinking about this one in any kind of sustained way. But what does it mean to get over a part of your history, a part of the things that make you you? What would it mean to fully process it? What about the lingering emotions and questions that exceed the memory of the person or the relationship itself, which is really what I'm talking about here, since I no longer know the person(s) my ex has become, just as he no longer knows me? Isn't it worse to fail to reconcile with these lingering questions, to just put them aside, to pretend things end neatly, or at all?

Rebecca Solnit's A Field Guide to Getting Lost is one of the books I loaded on my Kindle before leaving the States (I know, I know -- a little on the nose for traipsing around Europe), and I was struck by the following lines in the essay "Two Arrowheads":

"A happy love is a single story, a disintegrating one is two or more competing, conflicting versions, and a disintegrated one lies at your feet like a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different story ... The stories don't fit back together, and it's the end of stories, those devices we carry like shells and shields and blinkers and occasionally maps and compasses."

One mirror shard: we made each other worse versions of ourselves. Another: I was cruel. Another: from the beginning, he had a lot of stories about who I was that didn't have anything to do with my experience of myself, that were classed and gendered on both sides.

I think that on some level, with this trip I'm trying to go back to a point before that doubled and multiplied story, to tell a new one of myself in relation to myself, my thoughts, my non-romantic relationships, places, books, systems, landscapes, genealogies. These are all stories I already tell myself, that I already share with others, that I already live, but I think I wanted to make them mappable. All of the international travel I've done in my adult life was with that partner; this is my first overseas trip alone. It is a chance to carve out new territory, layer new experiences on the old. It's a chance to, so to speak, reclaim my time, in a political era that is both hostile to my existence as a woman and that commits violence in the name of a quality it ascribes to my body (white womanhood, always in peril).

I wrote my undergraduate thesis about H.D. after falling in love with her epic poem Trilogy in a class on American women writers. At the time I knew it was pretentious to talk about this project as the beginning of my intellectual career, but I also really liked to talk about it in those terms. I had always been the smart kid, but this project was the first time that it truly seemed that ideas could be, not just instrumental (good grades, college admissions, stable career), not just interesting, but the stuff of a fulfilling life's work, a significant part of a life. The class in which I first read Trilogy was all about taking womens' ideas seriously. My undergraduate advisor took mine very seriously, encouraging me to apply for fellowships, nominating me for prizes, helping me to see my ideas as part of a conversation with "real" scholars -- the first of a long line of women to do so, to whom I owe the career I have now.

One of H.D.'s favorite tropes to play with was the palimpsest. "Palimpsest" refers to a piece of parchment or paper that has been written on, partially erased, and then overwritten with another text. The first writing is obscured and fragmentary, but still there as an echo or a trace. In extended, metaphorical usage, "palimpsest" is anything that has been reused, written over, but that still has some evidence of its earlier forms. It is the perfect image for a poet who wanted to think about history and the unconscious and trauma -- for all of the things that seem to be over and gone that keep returning in altered forms.

[Palimpsest in Ermoupolis]

The image of the palimpsest that H.D. worked and reworked is a way to think about loss differently-- to look at all the layers that make up a life, including the traces of things that have ended or been destroyed, that shift to form patterns and shift again to create a blur that maybe becomes a pattern again. I realized consciously, standing in front of the reconstructed Bella Venezia hotel in Corfu town (the original was destroyed, collateral damage of WWII), the site of H.D.'s Corfu event, that I came on this trip to think about my own personal palimpsest -- an image that's complicated and simple and meaningless and my entire world, the way that all individual lives are infinitessimally small and infinitely large at the same time. (At a Passover dinner in Missouri this spring, part of a new layer in my palimpsest, my friend Rachel read us the Talmudic saying that who saves a life saves the entire world. I think of this often when I'm tired of/from activist work in the Trump era.) My palimpsest includes that relationship that defined my twenties, but it does not start or end there, as I sometimes used to like to pretend it did.

Others have made the case for the seriousness of womens' thoughts and lives and creations in ways I now find more compelling, but H.D. will always be the first who made me think in a sustained way about these things. For that reason alone I wanted her to be part of the palimpsest or pattern or constellation I decided to trace this summer. I wanted to weave her more fully into the life that tendrils out from Iowa to Amsterdam to Corfu to Zurich to Missouri and on and on. And so I came to Vienna, and Corfu, and kept going.

II. Corfu: Vision "We had come together in order to substantiate something. I did not know what. There was something that was beating in my brain; I do not say my heart -- my brain. I wanted it to be let out." -- H.D., Tribute to Freud

I haven't thought about H.D. much since I started grad school. When you talk about H.D. in academic circles, you have to hedge and qualify. There is something embarrassing about her. She is excessive -- excessively melodramatic, excessively self-serious. And yet. And because. I like excessive women. I especially like women who insist on giving weight to the experiences and emotions that get coded as melodramatic or self-indulgent. I like H.D.

H.D. had a breakdown/breakthrough in Corfu town in 1920. She was fleeing London and WWI and what she experienced as the total fragmentation of her personal world and the world at large during the war. While staying at the Bella Venezia hotel, she had a vision of mysterious hieroglyphic writing on the wall of her hotel room. Much later, in 1933, she underwent a brief period of analysis with Freud in Vienna during which they tried to decipher what the writing meant.

[The new Bella Venezia]

I took great pleasure in re-reading H.D.'s account of her analysis with Freud on the train from Vienna to Rome, adding another layer on top of her narrative of their interweaved patterns, which linked Vienna and Rome and Corfu. I had forgotten how much I admire Tribute to Freud in all its excessiveness. It's self-indulgent, yes, and free-associative, yes, and at times utterly impossible, but it's also a text in which H.D. asserts her authority to interpret her own life in ways that Freud did not sanction, and in which she insists on a reparative reading of history, in spite of the very real trauma she lived through (H.D. experienced much of the violence of both world wars at firsthand -- she lost a brother in WWI, suffered a miscarriage, had a severely shell-shocked husband return home to her, and then lived in London during the Blitz).

In Tribute, H.D. repeatedly stakes a claim to her right to interpretation and to self-knowledge that both depends upon and is separate from Freud's authority. H.D.'s palimpsest involved stories and symbols from all kinds of classical mythological worlds, which overlapped with Freud's more skeptically tinged interest in antiquities and the history of religion. She explained that due to this overlap, "Sometimes, the Professor knew actually my terrain, sometimes it was implicit in a statue or a picture, like that old-fashioned steel engraving of the Temple at Karnak that hung above the couch. I had visited that particular temple, he had not" (10-11). It's a small but important moment in which H.D. asserts the value of her personal experience as part of her dialogue with Freud. He may be the analyst, he may have the collection to testify to a vast body of knowledge about the classical world, but she too had her ways of knowing.

[Part of Freud’s antiquities collection, which I spent a long time examining at Bergasse 19]

Famously (among H.D. scholars, at least), H.D. wrote that "there was an argument implicit in our very bones" (17), and that, though she "was a student, working under the direction of the greatest mind of this and of perhaps many succeeding generations ... the Professor was not always right" (24-25). Their argument came down, essentially, to hope; Freud diagnosed H.D. with a type of religious monomania -- the desire to found a new religion -- and saw her desire for meaningful signs and symbols, for a pattern or order in the world, to be a dangerous symptom of a delusion.

This was especially true when it came to what she called the "writing-on-the-wall" episode in Corfu.

[Writing on the wall 2017 -- the more things change. I’m writing this caption the day after Charlottesville.]

In her long description of the vision and her argument with Freud about the vision, H.D. explained,

"We can read my writing, the fact that there was writing, in two ways or in more than two ways. We can read or translate it as a suppressed desire for forbidden 'signs and wonders,' breaking bounds, a suppressed desire to 'found a new religion' which the Professor ferreted out ... Or this writing-on-the-wall is merely an extension of the artist's mind, a picture or an illustrated poem, taken out of the actual dream or day-dream content and project from within (though apparently from outside), really a high-powered idea, simply over-stressed, over-thought, you might say, an echo of an idea, a reflection of a reflection, a 'freak' thought that had got out of hand, gone too far, a 'dangerous symptom'" (75-76).

A hysterical woman, or an artist? Irrational emotions or ideas worth attending to? Her right to her ideas -- to stay with them, to think about them intently, to consider what they could signify aside from some kind of disorder in her mind -- is at the heart of Tribute to Freud as much as her genuine homage to the man who "had first opened the field to the study of this vast, unexplored region," the "shapes, lines, graphs [that made up] the hieroglyph of the unconscious" (140). It is this fight that remains at the heart of my love for her work.

III. Rome: Scale "What does it mean to call something petty, or to be petty yourself? Pettiness has to do with being out of scale. We might understand pettiness as a relation between attention and object of attention: you are being petty when a small or seemingly irrelevant detail generates disproportionate irritation; you are also being petty when irritation leads you to pay disproportionate attention to a small detail."

Though I didn't see it when it started (indeed, I didn't see it until after very many years of therapy and much nudging from my own analyst), the relationship that defined my twenties involved a lot of him telling me that my ways of being in the world were wrong -- something I had accepted in part because this was a recurring experience I had in college, at an institution that I at first romanticized and very quickly became horrified by, as I was trained out of old habits and systems and assumptions and socioeconomic expectations and behaviors (some amalgamation of lower middle class/middlebrow, always haunted by the specter of slipping back in the poverty of previous generations, never secure about money or status, not trained to like the "right" things or to behave in the right ways) into new ones (the cruelty of old money, the desperation of new or aspiring new money). I value some of this retraining when it comes to the scholastic realm, but a lot of it never really took. This failure to be retrained shapes the kind of thinker and critic and teacher I am now. It has a lot to do with why I live in Missouri and why I felt immediately connected to my community there even as I'm exasperated by it. It is part of why I'm writing this as a blog post and not as a piece of professionalized writing.

The only physical book I brought with me on this trip is the third volume of Elena Ferrante's Neapolitan novels because I was right in the middle of it when my flight took off and because I couldn't bear to be apart from the story. (I'm dragging it around now even though I've finished it and don't have room for it in my backpack for the same reason. I almost tried to squeeze in a visit to Naples and Ischia but couldn't swing it, so Rome had to stand in.) These novels often get reduced to "those books about female friendship," which they are, but they are also about the details of what it means to be trained out of the class you were born into, and about what it means to think about womens' lives as part of larger movements and systems but also as outside of and irreducible to those systems. They're about what women lose, intentionally and not, under patriarchy and capitalism, how the game is rigged and how it forces you to play anyway.

Sarah Blackwood and Sarah Mesle are currently my favorite readers of these novels because of the ways they've thought about how criticism isn't really up to they challenges they pose. In "The Function of Pettiness at the Present Time," Blackwood and Mesle read Ferrante's novels as, paradoxically, importantly petty. It is the pettiness of the details of the womens' lives in the books, they argue, that manage to accurately capture "the grinding quality" of gendered experiences of "rape, loss, poverty, abuse, marriage, friendship." I write this in the days immediately following the clip of Maxine Waters reclaiming her time going viral, another perfect example of the huge importance of pettiness. Steve Mnuchin is of course the one actually being petty by refusing to answer Waters's question, but Waters is the one forced to repeatedly assert her right to not have her time wasted with bullshitting. She has to say it over and over and over and over and over. And she does because she is a goddamn heroine, but she still has to engage in the grindingness of the exchange.

A petty, huge fight I had with the first person I dated after the relationship that defined my twenties ended started with the words "what's so bad about sexism really, though?" I only wish that that person, bless his heart, could have realized how fully he was enacting sexist violence through that question and his continued insistence throughout the fight that my nuanced arguments came down to "it makes women feel bad" -- a petty reading of a grinding experience indeed. In our era of presidential gaslighting, of re-entrenched sexism and misogyny (what a joke -- as if it had ever been uprooted an inch), I don't want to talk to anyone who isn't being petty, who isn't thinking about the minutiae of daily life and how fucking irritating it is to deal with this shit all of the goddamn time. Mesle and Blackwood:

"The Neapolitan novels feel weirdly capacious to us because they have allowed space for ugly feelings to exist, and importantly not only in their fictional depiction. One thing that this ugliness has allowed us is new purchase on the experience of reading, interpreting, and practicing criticism as women. It seems to us, personally, and as women, that to love these novels is to hate how most everyone else talks, argues, and makes claims about them. In fact, to love these novels, as women, might be to hate everyone; that hate might be one of the best (yet still limited) tools we have to understand how gender continues, obstinately, to shape individuals' entrance into interpretation."

I haven't wanted to talk to anyone who isn't feeling petty about gender since November 9th. But I also don't want to talk to anyone who isn't feeling petty about class and race, and in the academy, I find that people are rarely petty enough, for my taste, about class, Mesle and Blackwood included (we do slightly -- only slightly -- better about dealing critically with race. And of course it needs to be said, over and over and over, that these are not extricable categories -- you can't talk about gender without talking about race without talking about class. Though you wouldn't know it from the constant headlines about Trump voters, the "working" class is not exclusively composed of angry white men).

Two things irritated me about Mesle and Blackwood's brilliant reading of being irritated by readings of the Neapolitan novels: one petty and one very large indeed. The petty (which is of course to say the still large): they read a scene in which "Lenu realizes that her entire critical and creative life might be 'reduced merely to a petty battle to change her social class,'" which is indeed a crucial moment. The Lenu who has changed her social class has this thought, yes, that the fight may have been "mere." But when I read this line, the affirmation that such a battle would be petty, all I could think of was the bitter catharsis I saw in some of my middle school classmates, listening to Everclear on the back of the bus that took us home from school, singing along with the lines, "I hate those people who love to tell you / money is the root of all that kills/ they have never been poor / they have never known the joy of a welfare Christmas." It's merely changing your social class once you've done it, but there's nothing mere about it when you're living day to day, bracing for the petty economic catastrophe that could ruin you at any minute. (Would such a change be "mere" to the Lila who had to stop her education after elementary school, who destroys her body and mind working in the sausage factory?) In the context of the novel, the "mereness" has to do with a failure to live according to revolutionary political ideals -- to fit the personal into the larger systems that shape it and to take on the larger systems rather than the "mere" individual life. But the novels also show us the consequences of living for those ideals in the story arcs of Pasquale and Nadia. The system doesn't change, the individual life is ruined or corrupted anyway.

What I love about these novels, what I haven't seen discussed yet in criticism about them (which could be my own blindness, because I keep reading the articles focusing on gender), is how they also capture the grindingness and pettiness of the experience of "merely" changing one's socioeconomic status, in addition to capturing the ways it can make one myopic and self-centered. Lenu is an outsider to the world of the Italian academy -- it is a shock to her when she is admitted, tuition-free, to a university in Pisa -- and she marvels at her professor's children, who seem to move so naturally in a world of ideas she has to work to come to grips with. The passages about the frustration of not knowing how to navigate new social spaces, of not understanding what the rules are -- that show how difficult it can be to figure out what the game even is, let alone how to play -- struck me so forcefully. (This is why, of all the novels in the world, I will always remain deeply, intensely attached to Great Expectations. Pip never really gets it -- the game plays him, and he doesn't understand anything about it until it's far too late.)

[This is also why I was thrilled to see The Goldfinch in person in the Hague; Donna Tartt's novel of the same name is a reworking of Great Expectations.]

What you learn is to shut up, to imitate, to not speak up when an idea or assumption seems wrong to you, because you know that any wrongness is always located in the things you learned as a member of other, unprestigious communities, from people with no status. Take, for instance, Lenu's account of a discussion of an article she hadn't read about Italian politics:

"The subject made me uneasy, and I listened in silence. ... I was informed about world events only superficially, and I had picked up almost nothing about students, demonstrations, clashes, the wounded, arrests, blood. Since I was now outside the university, all I really knew about that chaos was Pietro's [her fiancee] grubmlings, his complaints about what he called literally 'the Pisan nonsense.' As a result I felt around me a scene with confusing features: features that, however, my companions seemed able to decipher with great precision, Nino even more than the others. I sat beside him, I listened, I touched his arm with mine."

Nino, who comes from the same place as Lenu, understands the game faster than she does (or at least appears to), and we see her here in some ways trying to take a shortcut through him -- attaching herself to his body, desiring to take on some of his facility in this world of ideas through physical contact, the same way her husband Pietro, of that academic, petit bourgeouis class, provides her a way in.

The novels also beautifully, simply, killingly describe the ways that changing one's socioeconomic status can alienate you from your family and them from you, temporarily or permanently. Lenu's family is of course proud of her, but also resentful of her and ashamed when she brings her new realm to them. When she finally brings her higher-status fiancee home, she waits until the last minute to tell her parents he's coming, which causes the following scene with her mother:

"She attacked me in very low but shrill tones, hissing with reddened eyes: We are nothing to you, you tell us nothing until the last minute, the young lady thinks she's somebody because she has an education, because she writes books, because she's marrying a professor, but my dear, you came out of this belly and you are made of this substance, so don't act superior and don't ever forget that if you are intelligent, I who carried you in here am just as intelligent, if not more, and if I had had the chance I would have done the same as you, understand?"

I still have a hard time thinking about how angry I was with my family for not preparing me better for the violent competitiveness, for the disillusionment, for the fundamental pettiness, of social climbing via educational institutions in America. They couldn't have, of course, and it wasn't actually them I was mad at -- it was the people constructing and enforcing the rules of the game -- but that didn't make the conflict any less real. It didn't make it any easier to go home, to see the ideas and ways of knowing and cultural productions I was now supposed to scoff at, to be better than.

A petty incident I haven't let go of and will never let go of (the same way I will not let go of ending sentences with prepositions): in a creative writing class, a fellow student wrote a story about meeting an autodidact. It was, to my mind, a shitty, condescending portrait written by a shitty, overprivileged prep school kid. The professor praised it as a true portrait of what autodidacts are like. I fumed for days to myself about this and was never able to express how fundamentally gross the whole exchange was. It was so dismissive of this character, of their way of processing the world, which irritated me deeply because of how many autodidacts I grew up with, who were autodidacts because education is a class-based system even in our supposedly democratic nation. Of course you process the world differently if you have acquired knowledge without the guidance of institutions designed to shore up class differences, which are also gendered and raced differences. Why that should then become a source of bemusement for people with access to those institutions, a way to write cute stories about how smart and talented they are after all their years in those institutions...well. It's a thing I have no desire to reconcile myself to. (And, it needs to be said, this truly is a petty incident, compared to the serious aggressions my non-white classmates faced daily in virtually every classroom, every space on campus.)

So, the petty irritation with Mesle and Blackwood's reading: it's not petty enough about classed experience. The larger irritation: I want them to go further, to double down on claims they gesture toward or feint at here that they assert forcefully elsewhere. In a non-scholarly article, they argue that "taste is just another name for misogyny," but in this piece they argue that this claim, when presented "as a truth claim at the foundation of an argument rather than the argument itself...can't hold ... it is out of scale with itself." But of course this claim can and does hold, and can be backed up with all kinds of careful, rigorous scholarship, as can claims that taste is another name for racism and for classism. Take Michael Omi and Howard Winant on racial formation, "the process by which social, economic and political forces determine the content and importance of racial categories ... in the cultural realm, dress, music, art, language and indeed the very concept of 'taste' has been shaped by racial consciousness and racial dynamics" (qtd. in Bibby 493). Take basically all of Pierre Bourdieu's work, or the whole field of cultural studies, or race studies, or gender studies, or queer studies -- all of it provides more than ample evidence that taste is another name for oppression. I want Blackwood and Mesle to own this, to say, not just that taste is misogyny, but fuck the very idea of taste. It is worse than useless; it's violent.

I write "fuck taste," and take great pleasure in writing it, and mean it sincerely. And yet, as of April 2016, I am in a position to be the gatekeeper, the one who tells students that their ways of knowing are wrong, that there are other evaluative standards than the ones they know that they must apply if they want to enter a world of ideas. I spend a lot of time telling students that the ways they're used to reading literature will no longer work for them, at least not in my classroom. But I do what I can to explain that ways of knowing, ways of reading, are situational. They depend on communities and contexts, and the way they learn to read in the classroom isn't the only or even always the most desirable way to read.

When I teach, I focus my students' attention on particular texts not because I think they're objectively good, as if that's something that could ever be evaluated, but because I think they contain ideas that my students need to encounter, to think about, to wrestle with to live lives that don't remain petty and quotidian, even as they remain grounded in those categories. I don't want them to have to be trained into a new class, though I want them to have the tools they'll need if they want to fight that battle. I want to make their worlds bigger. I want them to think about the types of communities they want to create for themselves, at all scales. I want them to dream, and to create their own palimpsests, and pull together the texts and experiences and people that they need, that define them, that make them bigger and better versions of themselves, that add to their stories. This project seems so much more urgent than evaluative criticism ever has been or could be. That probably makes it utopian and quixotic. But I also know that already, for a student or two, this approach has mattered.

"Good" is a useless term; "worth thinking about" is better. I want to live in a world in which people say "that's not for me" rather than "that's objectively bad," where we ask "what do the people who it's for like about it? What's interesting about this object when I try to remove my ego from the conversation?" and so I do my best to create that world for myself and my students every day. I can't make anyone else dwell there with me, but I try to make it an inviting place.

IV. Syros and Lesvos: Re-enchantment

[I was a free [woman] in [Lesvos] / I felt unfettered and alive]

Like a lot of women, I've been trained out of feeling that self-expression is seemly or necessary. This happened insidiously in various complicated ways, most of them having to do with writing. I've always written -- I made picture books out of construction paper bound with masking tape before I understood the alphabet; in elementary school I wrote stories in which I was a genius child detective; as a teenager I wrote a ton of earnest poetry about how many feelings I felt (one of them even won an award and I got to read it at a public event -- unsurprisingly, it bummed the audience out); as a young adult I tried to write fiction but quickly felt that I would never be successful at it (one of the last pieces I wrote in fact was about my fear of failure, inspired by the panic attacks that a change in anti-depression medication caused during my junior year of college. It lives on online, because what is millennial self-expression if it's not on the internet?). I discovered uncreative writing; I started dating someone who believed that self-expression was essentially just narcissism. After college, I stopped writing anything that wasn't career-oriented. I didn't even journal for myself anymore.

Being trained out of your class, being socialized as a woman, means learning to distrust your instincts and to put aside the things that merely make you happy in order to make room for the things that are Important, according to Important People. This trip has been at some level about reenchantment, about following desire and sensation just because they exist and I exist. Because I fucking love existing, and I fucking love writing about existing. (Someone I dated briefly told me he liked being with me because I took so much joy in the things I loved -- I believe his exact words were "experiencing things with you is fucking exhilarating." It remains one of my favorite compliments, one that I try to live up to.)

Something that had been shifting inside of me for a while broke open when I read Maggie Nelson's The Argonauts last fall. The way that she used academic criticism to think about her life was so elegant and free and liberating. It made me want to write again -- to give shape to my thoughts other than the very specific shape required by academic writing. It made me want to think about living as a creative act. It felt like one while I was on Syros and Lesvos.

I captured some of what Syros was like for me here. I slept in; I wrote my academic writing; I swam in the sea; I drank ouzo and tsipouro and wrote my non-academic writing. I went for night swims and hikes and ate every fig I could find. I sat one day at the top of Ermoupolis, under pine trees overlooking the port and read Tribute to the Angels, book two of H.D.'s Trilogy.

Ermoupolis is named for Hermes. I had forgotten that Tribute opens with an invocation of Hermes:

Hermes Trismegistus is patron of alchemists;

his province is thought, inventive, artful and curious

Tribute is a book about reinvention, recreation after absolute destruction, pursued through writing. One of the central images is the vision of a holy woman, a palimpsest of Mary and Eve and Lillith and Isis and Astarte and Ashtaroth. The woman is described as "Psyche, the butterfly, / out of the cocoon." I don't believe in signs and wonders the way H.D. did, but, when I read those lines, a butterfly flew across my line of sight, and stayed, fluttering up and down on the wind until I finished the book.

no trick of the pen or brush could capture that impression

Lesvos was, if anything, more magical than Syros, which I didn't think was possible. I only saw a very tiny corner of the north of the island -- essentially just Molyvos and Eftalou, but it was more than enough. The hot springs in Eftalou alone...

On Lesvos, I started reading Alana Massey's brilliant and funny All the Lives I Want, and made a million notes in the margins that were all variations of "fuck. yes!" The title essay, about Sylvia Plath fangirls, is especially marked up. Massey argues that Plath's poetry and journals, and the fan art on display in certain corners of the internet, are "ongoing act[s] of self-documentation in a world that punishes female experience (that doesn't aspire to maleness)," which makes them "radical declaration[s] that women are within our rights to contribute to the story of what it means to be a human." Reading the final line of The Bell Jar ("I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am."), Massey notes, it's difficult "to think of any line of thinking more linked to being a socialized female than to consider the declaration of simply existing to feel like a form of bragging." Massey stakes a claim for girlhood, for effusive emoting and navel-gazing introspection, as sites of strong affective attachments and sharp intuitions about the world that should be valued: "Young girls are smarter than they're given credit for, and more resilient, too. They like what they like for good reason."

In general the rating system on Airbnb makes me uncomfortable the way all rating systems make me uncomfortable, but my hosts on Lesvos wrote, "Erin is a joyful and adorable person." I was so tickled by their choice of words because they capture the spirit of girlhood that Massey champions:

"I want to call out to the girls who repeat Sylvia's poisonous directive, 'I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.' This is a fallacy, a lie intended to kill the spirits of girls so that they might become what we have come to expect of women. ... Glitter is the unbridled multitudes of shining objects that have no predictable trajectory and no particular use but their own splendor. A glow is contained. Its purpose is to offer a light bright enough that those who bear it will cast a shadow, but not so bright that their features will come fully into focus. 'Never surrender your glitter' sounds like the cliche battle cry of a cheerleading coach or a pageant mom, but I still find it a suitable message for young girls."

My favorite beach in Syros was full of mica schist -- as you swam in the clear blue Aegean, the mica filled the water and glittered in the sunlight over your skin. I bathed in glitter every day on that island. Signs and wonders.

V. Zurich: Out of Line

In fifth grade, my teacher told my mother that I was a pleasure to have in the classroom. Without missing a beat, my mom replied, "You don't know what a viper you're nursing at your bosom." They were both right. I am joyful and adorable, and I am almost always, on some level, furious. (Someday I hope to work at Sam Irby’s school for girls with bad attitudes.)

I was made to feel unsafe three times on this trip: twice men followed me as I walked alone at night, and once a bus ticket taker didn't exactly assault me, but he didn't exactly not assault me. I expected things like this to happen on this trip, because they happen everywhere. But god. The way a patriarchal world will try to shut you down every time you try to take pleasure in it.

Maggie Nelson writes about the "many-gendered mothers of the heart” who help her live in the world; Massey writes about her famous friends (celebrities she's never met) who help her do the same. For me as for Massey, Courtney Love is one of those many-gendered mothers who helps me cope with the constant misogynistic violence of the world. Courtney was loud and messy and dramatic and ugly and gorgeous in the 90s, when I first became aware of her. Though I didn't exactly have the language or the concepts for it then, I felt the truth that Courtney embodied "female rage as ... the logical response to a hostile world,” as Massey describes her:

"When evil is done to a person, it gets under their skin, if there is enough of it, it'll sink down through the flesh and into the bones, becoming part of its target. For most of us, the pain is absorbed as poison rather than power. We see a world awash in women's blood and tears. We endure claims that the most profound kinds of pain are the exclusive possessions of men, that they are best equipped to make art from this suffering. Instead of bearing witness to it, we are asked to be killed by it, quietly if possible. But Courtney did nothing quietly." (Courtney: "honeysuckle / she's full of poison / she obliterated everything she kissed")

Like Massey, "I have not seen a fraction of the cruelty that the world is capable of, but I have trembled often enough in the aftershocks of my own resistance to a world built to break me to know that female brutality is not just an acceptable response, it is the most sensible one, too." I saw Courtney in the play Kansas City Choir Boy at the Oberon theater in Boston a few years ago. The play was...not for me (it was for a certain kind of creative white man), but Courtney was. She passed so near my seat at one point I could have reached out and touched the tiny flower tattoos on her arm, could see the glitter eyeshadow she wore. I was so, so happy sharing space with her. I love that bitch. I love her for being angry and messy and never apologizing. I'll hold that moment in my heart forever.

Of course, to refuse to behave respectably, according to gendered, classed, raced codes, is a particularly fraught survival strategy for people who inhabit bodies that tend to get disciplined and punished. (Just look at the police response to an actual fucking Nazi rally and compare the way they’ve treated peaceful black protestors.) I read a lot of books by white women on this trip -- actually, a lot of books by white women my age, who spent their late teens/early twenties in and around New York -- in part because I wanted to navel gaze, to dive into my own experiences and identity. But of course identity, experience, only happen in relation to other identities and experiences. The women I've been reading have suffered, have felt pain, have expressed it in ways I've found compelling. But they're also insulated from some types of pain, the same way that I am, by my whiteness, by what some people read as "adorableness" or attractiveness. It's easier for me, and for the women I've been reading, to access some survival strategies than it is for other women. White girls can act out with relatively less punishment than black girls; those of us who write/think for a living often have access to grants and funding structures that allow us to be selfish, to take the time to pursue ideas.

I stopped in Zurich for a day and a half on my way back to Amsterdam because it is where H.D. lived in the last years of her life, where she wrote a few of her major works. It is also near where my paternal ancestors are from, so it was a chance to take a selfie in Kappeler alley and Kappeler park.

I thought a lot about privilege in Zurich, one of the most insanely expensive cities I've ever visited. The places where H.D. lived and wrote in Zurich are gorgeous and peaceful.

[The Klinik Hirslanden, where H.D. spent her final days]

The peace she found there was hard fought, and it makes me happy to know she was able to make that place for herself. But she was able to make that place because of her heiress lover, her whiteness, her access to certain kinds of privileged spaces.

In Zurich I started How to Murder Your Life by Cat Marnell (which is such a compelling read). It's another story of a privileged white female writer, but it's also the story of an addict. And oh my god, if you want your heart broken, read Marnell's description of what her parents did with her zine. The way they shut down her means of self-expression, of effusion, of girlish excitement and emotion, is brutal, and brutally common for girls, even if they're rich, even if they're white. Marnell, like Love, survives by acting out, by refusing to conform, to be quiet and docile. It's not necessarily a good strategy -- Marnell's is not a happy story, and it's questionable how long she will continue to survive. But it is a significant strategy, a way to protest, "the logical response to a hostile world." (It can't destroy you if you destroy yourself.)

[There is a beautiful cemetery across the street from the Klinik Hirslanden, full of statues of women like this. They mark women whose lives are long over, who may or may not be remembered. They seemed to me both tragic and defiant, poignant symbols of loss and endurance.]

***

What does it mean for me, a white cisgender woman, to remain invested in the category "woman" now? What does it mean to claim my experiences, my existence as important, when I exist as a white woman in a country where white supremacism is newly emboldened and sanctioned? (And, to borrow a phrase from Mesle and Blackwood, let’s be crystal fucking clear about this: white supremacism has always been there. It’s structurally a part of our country in a million different ways. What we’re seeing today isn’t surprising or new; it’s the logical outcome of our failure to confront how white people maintain oppressive structures because we benefit from them.) As Mesle and Blackwood argue in their reading of Ferrante,

"it is worth saying that 'woman' is obviously a troubling category. 2017 is a year when the world has emphasized both how radically women are vulnerable as women, with pussies to be grabbed, and also has made the violence that white, straight, middle-class women do to others crystal fucking clear. (Trump's voting block depended precisely upon the pettiness of white women.) Further, we can't even use the word 'woman' without mobilizing a language that is inherently false, and heterosexist, in its understanding of what it means to be human. Perhaps 'woman' is a word that should have no force in criticism. Many people think this, and we see their point. Yet we - we, the writers of this piece -- are uncomfortable with the way this formulation allows human knowledge, here literary criticism, to hopscotch yet again over the responsibility to understand the particularities of women's experiences, in the way that science and medicine and economics and history often have done. ... This is the tension of the sign of 'woman': that it is out of scale, simultaneously universal and particular, simultaneously useful and an obstacle, outmoded. We have to talk about it, and yet can't."

I don't believe that there are any universal or essential experiences of womanhood. "Woman," "female" are of course socially constructed categories, not empirical realities. But the experience of being socialized as a woman does things to you. It creates problems and opportunities and frustrations and acts of violence and intense, intense pleasures. It creates the particularities of individual lives. The experiences of people who live as women matter to me, fundamentally and completely. My attachment to the sign "woman" is serious and real, even as it's fraught and falls apart as soon as I start to interrogate the category with any rigor. Perhaps "woman" is simply the sign for what Mesle and Blackwood identify as "a kind of ecstatic bitterness that is the opposite of consensus making or persuasion. It is aligned with the lived-ness of gender, with the deauthorization of all those whose lives never stand as common sense. This bitterness reminds us that it is always a privilege to have the luxury of leaving pettiness behind."

VI. Missouri: Enlargement

This has been a hard year, personally and politically. I love the new life I started making when I accepted my first tenure-track job in the spring of 2016, but making a new life is difficult and draining work. I think I would have been emotionally tired no matter what. But this was also a year in which I decided I'm going to keep consciously rejecting the versions of adult female life that are legible to people, which is right for me but also a difficult thing to do. And, of course, it was the year of the worst imaginable presidential election outcome, and of moving to a state where the state government is actually worse than the current presidential administration. It's hard to realize how many of your neighbors are contemptuous of you just because you're female, and of your friends because they're trans, gay, bi, non-binary, not white, an immigrant, economically disenfranchised, neurodiverse, ill, and on and on and on. By the end of the spring semester I was tired and emotionally sick in a way I've never been before. Planning this trip was a way out of that structure of feeling for me -- it was a way to chart a new course, build a new structure, enlarge the space in which I feel safe and free to exist.

Years ago, when Sheila Heti's How Should a Person Be? first came out, I fell deeply into that book and spent a lot of time thinking about it. I copied the protagonist and made a mental catalogue of what non-material things I had at my disposal. I wrote it down on an abandoned blog somewhere. I'd forgotten about it until I read re-read this passage in Tribute to Freud:

"We [H.D. and Freud] had come together in order to substantiate something. I did not know what. There was something that was beating in my brain; I do not say my heart -- my brain. I wanted it to be let out. I wanted to free myself of repetitive thoughts and experiences -- my own and those of many of my contemporaries. I did not specifically realize just what it was I wanted, but I knew that I, like most of the people I knew, in England, America and on the Continent of Europe, were drifting. We were drifting. Where? I did not know but at least I accepted the fact that we were drifting. At least, I knew this -- I would (before the current of inevitable events swept me right into the main stream and so on to the cataract) stand aside, if I could (if it were not already too late), and take stock of my possessions. You might say that I had -- yes, I had something that I specifically owned. I owned myself. I did not really, of course. My family, my friends and my circumstances owned me. But I had something. Say it was a narrow birch-bark canoe. The great forest of the unknown, the supernormal or supernatural, was all around and about us. With the current gathering force, I could at least pull in to the shallows before it was too late, take stock of my very modest possessions of mind and body, and ask the old Hermit who lived on the edge of this vast domain to talk to me, to tell me, if he would, how best to steer my course" (17-18).

I got to pull into the eddy and take stock this summer. I am grateful; I am well supplied. I am ready to put my oar back in, which I must, because the current is still gathering, and we all have to do our individual parts to deal with the destruction that is here and that is coming. I am ready. I am, I am, I am.

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