#and i feel like the main things i would be interested in regarding june are mostly headcanon related anyways

[dungeons-and-dragon-age]

i love June lots and i want to see her in DA4 So Bad but. i should probably get Ari in there tbh.. Both for WoS Consequences TM and also so that i can witness bald guy on bald guy violence

[doll-elvis]

have you ever read child bride by suzanne finstead? do you find it accurate.

thank you very much for this ask ꨄ︎!!

I have indeed read "Child Bride” and as for its’ accuracy I wouldn't go as far to say it's entirely inaccurate but I do have several bones to pick with Suzanne Finstad as a biographer as I believe she has let her bias (obviously not liking Priscilla) get in the way of her better judgment, which in turn, has corrupted the overall validity of her book. For example, giving Currie Grant a platform to tell his version of events regarding Elvis and Priscilla in Germany, including a claim so egregious that I truly have trouble understanding why so many in this fandom praise this book 😭

I think a lot of Elvis fans consider/recommend “Child Bride” as the antithesis to Priscilla’s “Elvis and Me” which is fair considering Finstad highlights some very valid criticisms against Priscilla i.e her hiring a second, much more aggressive, lawyer to get more money out of Elvis, and her introducing her family (Lisa Marie and later on Navarone) to the “church” aka cult of Scientology etc. etc.

- however -

The book as a whole comes at the expense of Elvis and what I mean by that is that Suzanne Finstad is not someone who has his best interest at heart (I mean look at what she has said in some of these recents documentaries about Elvis) and in order to push her narrative that Priscilla was some fourteen-year-old s*xual deviant, she has made some incredibly inflammatory statements about their relationship, and it literally starts with the title of her book (referring to Priscilla as Elvis’ “child bride”)

And the main reason as to why I cannot comprehend how fans praise this book is that Finstad goes with the story that Currie Grants tells, which includes him saying that Elvis (24) and Priscilla (14) were having penetrative intercourse after their 3rd or 4th date ⬇️

excerpt is from “Child Bride” by Suzanne Finstad

So this is why I tend to cringe when I see other fans praise this book… I know it’s not their intention but they are inadvertently promoting a falsehood that says Elvis was committing statutory r*pe against a fourteen year old Priscilla

Not only does that go against what Priscilla and others have said about the physical relationship she had with Elvis in Germany, but it goes against the pattern that Elvis followed for almost every single (long-term) relationship prior to Priscilla and even after

A girl that Elvis deemed “special” or in other words- good enough to marry- was not a girl that Elvis was going to have penetrative s*x with, especially not when he had the more worldly starlets of Hollywood and the showgirls of Germany and Paris at his disposal

PRISCILLA PRESLEY: “In the past, he said that he wanted a virgin (to marry)”

DEBRA PAGET: “He always said he’d marry a virgin”

LAMAR FIKE: “Elvis respected virginity. He used to tell Alan, “I’ll never break a virgin. There are too many whores around”

We saw this with Dixie Locke, we saw this with June Juanico and Anita Wood, all of whom, in their many years of dating him never had penetrative s*x

We even saw this with women like Linda Thompson and Ginger Alden who he waited several months with before consummating

So because of that I have an incredibly hard time believing that Elvis would abandon his morals after just 3 or 4 dates with Priscilla, especially when he was having s*x with age appropriate girls like Elizabeth Mansfield, who often took Priscilla’s place in Elvis’ bed after she left

Another issue I have with “Child Bride” is that she has often either misquoted people, or written things that contradict what they have said to other biographers- basically many things haven’t added up when cross referencing between books

I have mentioned this one before but it is just so blatant, that I feel compelled to mention it again ⬇️

So here we have Joe Esposito re-telling a throwaway comment about Priscilla made by Elvis

excerpt is from “Good Rockin’ tonight” by Joe Esposito

And then here we have Suzanne Finstad’s retelling of that comment, where she has misquoted Esposito in order to make Priscilla out to be the s*xual aggressor

excerpt is from “Child Bride” by Suzanne Finstad

Instances like this give me extreme pause when determining if a biographer could be trusted or not- and when I was reading through her book again this comment about Sheila Ryan nearly made me bust out laughing

excerpt is from “Child Bride” by Suzanne Finstad

“Sheila never had an orgasm when she was with Elvis”… like are we talking about the same Sheila Ryan or-? ⬇️

excerpt is from “Baby let’s play house” by Alanna Nash

All in all, “Child Bride” definitely makes for an interesting read (mainly the second half of the book) but it’s one that I will probably never pick up again as I cannot get over Currie Grant’s involvement, especially his claims about Priscilla and Elvis that are completely unfounded

Scandal sells quite frankly and I no longer underestimate what people will say for money, ESPECIALLY when it comes to Elvis- I mean look at the claims made by Dee Stanley who got a whopping $100,000 from the National Enquirer to tell stories about a woman she never even met (Gladys)

So I would not be surprised in the least if Currie has been handsomely compensated for selling his stories to biographers like Finstad, because again, scandal sells, and him approaching Priscilla first isn’t nearly as page-turning as Priscilla offering up s*x in order to meet Elvis

[kef-meister]

Metroid Prime .... 4!

While they aren't Star Fox or F-Zero fans (I see you), the fans of the Metroid series have had their patience tested multiple times over the series' lifespan. On June 13th 2017, Metroid Prime 4 was announced to the world. Now, June 18th 2024, Metroid Prime 4 has been given a release window: 2025.

It's been seven very long, very interesting years. But instead of dwelling on that, it's time to go frame-by-frame on the release trailer and give some notes on why that particular part stands out to me. I've gotten so hyped I've gotten analytical. This is what it means to go even further Beyond. ________________ 1. "Cosmic Year 20X9 Galactic Federation Research Facility" Metroid (1986)'s manual states that the Galactic Federation was established "in the year 2000 of the history of the cosmos", and that the original story of Metroid starts in 20X5.

Given that the Prime games are allegedly happening in the story-lines between Metroid and Metroid II … there's a continuity error with the main series, which I'm hoping is addressed rather than hand-waved.

Metroid II: Samus Returns (2017) has a trailer claiming it took place "less than a year" since the previous adventure. So that'd be in either 20X5 or 20X6 - the latter of which would place it in the same year as Metroid Prime: Federation Force. If that's the case, then Super Metroid would take place in 20X6/20X7 … but Prime 4 takes place in 20X9???

That this sequence takes place on a Galactic Federation Research Facility is VERY interesting though, especially considering the Big Reveal later on. 2. Samus' Gunship!!! I've watched this frame-by-frame and I'm convinced that the ship which is landing is pre-rendered, whereas the stationary ship allowing Samus out is the actual model. It's an incredibly clever trick to save on resources.

The ship itself is the Hunter-class gunship from Metroid Prime 3! What stands out here is that Samus is leaving the ship from the TOP panel - where she previously would enter and exit this ship from the bottom lift just behind the cockpit. I think it's also missing the Ship Grapple upgrade. Then there's the recreation of Metroid Prime's intro with Samus' space jump; the music; the zoom-in; HUD turning on ... Uuugggh, 11/10. Give it to me now. Put it into my veins and make me a weird hybrid.

3. Samus' Power Suit! It's Metroid Prime 3's Varia Suit, right down to the missile launcher design. This makes me feel VERY certain this story is going to take place very shortly after Prime 3's conclusion - like how Super Metroid follows up almost immediately after Metroid II.

The Morph Ball seems to behave almost exactly like it does in Prime 1 with its wonky physics. Loving this, seems to suggest the Prime 1 Remaster had a very solid engine ready to re-use. Prime 2/3 remaster when? 4. The Heads-up Display The HUD actually matches Samus' actual visor design! After Prime 1, the visor changed shape but the HUD didn't - now it has the extra notch at the top. It's higher contrast; Energy goes into the top notch, and the Map (now all blue!) has directions on it now.

Missiles take up one of the four slots on the left is weird. Maybe there's less Beams. The HUD doesn't seem to react when Samus switches between Beam and Missiles???

The Combat Visor makes a great distinction between which things are friendly, which are hostile and what you're locked onto on its little mini-map in the top-left.

The Scan Visor isn't intrusive with its overlay - and shows 2D images instead of 3D ones. Seems to make a better distinction between things you have and haven't scanned yet.

Going off of Metroid Prime Remastered, I legitimately think there's a team at Retro Studios doing their best in regards to (visual) accessibility. Love that. 5. Space Pirate Action Scenes! These tube-tastic dipshits keep looking more and more like Halo Elites and it bothers me, but they're here and awful! Blowing up a door!

Around 1:05 there are Galactic Federation humanoids wheeling away a thing. We like things here. We also have some friendlies fighting alongside Samus here, but they're most clear on the minimap.

6. The Big Reveal Later On Holy shit it's Sylux MetroidPrimeHunters. Holy shit, it's about time this fucker showed up instead of being a 'secret ending' cameo. I am absolutely loving the guitar riff in the background for the stinger here.

I'm very convinced those floating jellies are Mochtroids - not Metroids. It'd explain why they aren't latching onto anything. The biggest question is whether Sylux used the egg he stole in Federation Force - or this GF facility has been making Metroids. The GF will never learn. 7. To Go Even Further Beyond Samus has left the building. In this shot she's still in the Varia Suit. These avians on-screen have longer necks and brighter plumage than the 'birds' we've seen on Talon IV; there's no other creatures on-screen.

BONUS: The logo looks like the rendering of a black hole. That's probably not important at all.

Okay thank you for reading. See you next mission!

[mirai-e-jump]

+act Magazine July 2023 Issue ft. Masashi Ikeda Interview (translation below)

Publication: June 12, 2023 (between episodes 15-16)

"First, please tell us how you were chosen for the role, and what you were thinking when the decision was made."

Ikeda: I originally auditioned for the role of one of the main five warriors (kings), and wasn't selected, but, there was an audition for the additional warrior (Jeramie Brasieri). When I was chosen to play the role of Jeramie, I was more confused than excited. Then, the realization slowy began to sink in, and my heart felt full of excitment and anticipation. I've been watching tokusatsu shows since I was a child, and I've always had a strong desire to become a hero. My favorite show was "Kamen Rider 555," and I was such a huge fan that I had all the transformation belts. But even still, it feels strange being chosen to be apart of a hero production.

"After appearing in a Sentai series, many of the actors are still active, as it's considered a gateway to success for young talents. What are your thoughts on this?"

Ikeda: I would like to grow as a person throughout the next year. I'm not content with just being in a situation that's considered a gateway to success, so I want to perform as well as the other actors, and I want to do my best as to not destroy the legacy or quality of the past works that my seniors have created.

"The character of Jeramie plays a very important role, but what was your first impressions of him?"

Ikeda: Since Jeramie is a "storyteller," my first assignment was to narrate the story. What I thought was most interesting, is that Jeramie has been narrating since the beginning with Episode 1. It's unusual for a hero to also narrate the story.

"Your first task was to record the narration, right?"

Ikeda: That's right. Actually, at the time, I myself didn't completely understand Jeramie. I also wasn't familiar with doing narrations, so I had a hard time trying to put Jeramie's character into it. In order to convey Jeramie's emotions, the director gave the advice, "Try moving like you're in a play," so I tried speaking while doing a flashy pose and putting my hand in my hat. It's a recording, so luckily the cameras weren't turned on (laughs). I tried various things out, so it took two to three hours to record the narration for Episodes 1 and 2. The phrase "tosa" was created at that time. It wasn't originally written in the script, but the director had the idea to, "add in "or so it goes" at the end."

"The phrase "tosa" is a strong and memorable one, isn't it?"

Ikeda: That one phrase helped me a lot. The unique way of saying "or so it goes" was the foundation of Jeramie for me, and I was able to envision his character.

"Jeramie is a character of many strong traits. In official material, it also describes him as having an "annoying personality" (laughs)."

Ikeda: Ahahaha! He's pretentious, has a high sense of pride as a storyteller, and has a repetitive way of speaking…Even still, I try to be conscious of the lines I perform, and try to speak in abit of a joking way, or speak with alot of tension when it comes to things he doesn't understand. Jeramie is 2000 years old, he's composed, and enjoys talking to people. That's the kind of character I try to create when performing.

"In regards to Jeramie, what did you and the director discuss about?"

Ikeda: Reading the script, within his annoying, awkward, and narcissistic personality, you can also find a cute and innocent side of him. We discussed how we should remember those points, and express them in order to make him a well loved character. Actually, when I'm told something happy or sad, I react to them honestly and show my true emotions. I'm the type of person who understand emotions easily, so I hope I'm able to show that off.

"How did the other warriors react to such an intense character?"

Ikeda: Everyone said, "You're a nice character. I'm envious" The way he appeared in Episode 11 was very cool, he may be the narrator, but he has an intense presence. He's not just weird and annoying, he wants to help the world for the better more than anyone else. Jeramie's father is a human, while his mother is a Bagnarak, and although he has complex feelings about being a "child of love," he is a pacifist who has a strong desire to help those living in difficult situations, and wants to stop the war between the humans and Bagnarak.

"On the first day of filming, were you deeply moved by the fact that you were finally able to join the heroes you had been longing to work with?"

Ikeda: When I first appeared, I was wearing the Spider Mask that hid my face, so I didn't really feel it then. But, when I was able to let go and take off the mask, I thought, "Uwa! I'm finally going to become a hero!" and an excited feeling overtook me. When we were filming the transformation, I thought, "What should I do? What kind of face should I make when I transform?…" (laughs)

"What kind of things were you conscious of during the transformation scene?"

Ikeda: Jeramie's fighting style is brilliant. He can manipulate spider webs at will, uses his two weapons, a dagger and shooter, he can fly around, and is very smart. When I transform, I don't do it with a lot of enthusiasm, but rather, with a sense of grace. However, the pose is a abit "pretentious" and is kind of annoying (laughs). To transform, I bend my body back as much as I can while saying "Royal Arms." Suspended by a wire, my body flies up, and in a blur, turns into Spider Kumonos, but it's also filmed from the camera above me. It was the first wire acting in my life, and when they first explained the moves to me, I was like, "Eh? We're going to do this?" It was surprising (laughs). Furthermore, my body felt really stiff, and even though they said, "You're not bending at all," I really was bending to my limit…The action director said, "It's difficult for beginners." He also said, "I'm know I'm asking you to do something impossible," but I felt frustrated that I couldn't do it, and my back and abdominal muscles were sore the next day (laugh).

"Do difficult transformation scenes await you in every episode?"

Ikeda: That was the main one for Episode 12, so I won't have to do it every time. However, the director told me to, "Keep my body soft," because it might happen again in the future. That's why I'm going to work hard on my flexibility and try to become even closer to Jeramie.

"What are some highlights to expect in Jeramie's future?"

Ikeda: The relationship between the five kings, Racules, the Bagnarak, and the consequences of their actions, will be the main highlights as the story unfolds. But, how will Jeramie be involved, and what kind of relationship will he have with other Bagnarak? I think it's worth paying attention to see what Jeramie's up to, and I hope you will look forward to the movie being released this July.

[acourtofthought]

regarding your previous anon I just wanted to say that in a fairly recent livestream/interview deal she did in the last few years she said 'not much has changed since my initial drunken ramblings in the beginning' I'm paraphrasing there, but I don't think she's gonna make any big ship changes when she's close to wrapping up the series (also it was so funny to see e/riel's being all over that like it was ever planned from the beginning lololol)

YESSSS!!!!

If you ever find out exactly which one that was, I would love to know because I remember hearing that but have since forgotten where so I was never able to include a screenshot or link in my posts. She said "not much has changed from that initial pitch but the world has now expanded".

If we think back to that drunken rambling and when she pitched her ideas to her then editor, we were told a few things.

She said she knew who the first two spin-off books would be about but she was keeping the third open. For the third, she was debating between 5 possible ships and was considering a book set Pre ACOTAR.

That particular drunk lunch took place in 2016 (I'm guessing) as she was still drafting ACOWAR.

If, in 2016, she knew who the first two spin-off books would be about then logically, who did that mean?

Nesta and Elain. Especially when she says in multiple interviews she would love to tell the sisters stories one day and we know she had already done research for Elain's book while pregnant with her first child who was born in June of 2018.

Who also had the most buildup as a possible love interest for the sisters in ACOMAF / ACOWAR? (around the same time she said she knew who she wanted the first two books to be about?).

Cassian and Lucien hands down. Lucien's ENTIRE story in ACOWAR was based around worrying for Elain's safety, fighting his way to be by her side, helping her through her depression, going after an army based on her vision, giving her time to deal with her engagement to Graysen, running all the way from the shore to find her after battle, his having met her father, her inviting him back to Velaris, him standing beside her during the meeting at the end of the book.

Az and Elain might have had a few "moments" in ACOWAR that E/riels use for their proof of endgame but Az was still 100% in love with Mor when you consider that he still looked at her with hunger in ACOFAS while Elain was sitting in the room with him. The question at the end of ACOWAR was not "will Elain and Az get together" but "what will Elain and Lucien do about her mating bond now that she invited him back to Velaris". When the author wasn't sure who was getting the third book and everything suggests Elain was getting the second, all signs pointed to Elain and Lucien as the main POV especially when you consider that as an individual Lucien also had way more buildup than Az in ACOWAR. He was SA by Ianthe, chased out of his home in Spring, was feeling sadness over not having a home when Feyre slipped into his head, guilt over Jesminda, the pull to Elain, the reader (but not Lucien himself) finding out Helion is his actual father, and he fought in his first war. SJM left us with too many unresolved plots for Lucien to not give him a book.

It wasn't until after the release of SF and she was discussing it that she made the comment above "my plan for the intial spin-offs didn't change but the world expanded."

And you know what expanded?

Az suddenly got a bit more of a mysterious background, he got a bonus with hints of a possible mating bond, and SJM introduced the possibility of time-travel what with Merrill's research and the Trove's ability to open doors between worlds. Az ended up connected to the crossover.

THEN it was later announced that she was contracted for additional books (and maybe a new series).

If her intial plan didn't change then Nessian and Elucien were always going to be resolved first and now Az's romantic arc / journey is the direction she decided to take things after finishing the main story of the Archern sisters.

Yes, Az and Elain nearly kissed and had a harmless flirtation going on but it never got off the ground did it?

Ever since the Elucien bond snapped into place, the real question has not been "will Elain and Az end up together" but "will Elain and Lucien end up accepting their mating bond?" And just as SJM had Nesta share experiences with others before ending up with Cassian, she had Elain attempt to have an experience with Az but I don't think he was ever meant to be more than a slight detour in the Elucien journey so as to make their path to one another a bit more tension filled. And I think the reason SJM introduced Az's possible mate in his bonus is that she didn't want readers to feel bad for him for too long because even though she's on track for an Elucien endgame, we know that Az isn't going to be sad for very long as he's got his own mate waiting in the wings.

[tornrose24]

Sorry for the wait for more of those TGAMM Aladdin AU ideas. I saw how long it took between the first and last post. I got very busy, especially with working on a certain fan fic. Here is part 2. (Part one is here in case you forgot).

-So as said before, Molly wants to pass herself off as a rich princess so that she can provide for her kingdom AND be able to see Ollie again. However, Libby (who is passing herself off as a handmaiden) forms the entire background and backstory of a made-up kingdom so that Molly’s lie isn’t exposed that easily. The main problem is ensuring Molly is convincing enough to sell the story since she’s not a good liar. Somewhere there is a montage where Molly is being taught how to lie and struggles with it (likely a certain fake magician is an unwitting test subject, much to her displeasure).

–Elsewhere Jinx is angry about the loss of the lamp and is looking for other methods. Ollie shows suspicion, which makes her further eager to hurry up. Except there’s a big commotion that disrupts her and it’s coming outside…

–There’s a huge procession leading up to the Chen’s palace. Singing is optional (I’m not sure Scratch would be keen on singing in this case, but the “Physique, weak at my knees” line would need to be omitted if that happens since that’s not appropriate to sing regarding a young teenage girl. If you want to imagine him dressing in drag, you are free to do so).

-So they enter the palace. Molly barely manages to be convincing as she tells Reuben and Esther that she wishes to provide some financial aid for the kingdom. However she is completely thrown off when they assume that she is here for their son’s hand in marriage. Molly tries to backpedal and say that’s not why she was here.

-But of course, Scratch (who is posing as her advisor and disguised as a human, as you might recall) makes things worse by saying that she’s trying to figure out if OLLIE is good enough to be married to her. Libby has to do quick damage control before both Molly and Scratch anger the sultan and his wife by asking if they should stay for the night since it’s the festival today (this plot point comes from the 2019 film). Reuben and Esther manage to agree since they are desperate for someone by this point.

-June sees right through the BS. She can tell there’s something off about this princess, unlike the others who came before her. What kind of princess wouldn’t know that her brother was available for marriage? Also wow that advisor is kind of a jerk and doesn’t seem to have any problems speaking so casually with the princess in public.

–Ollie is just not comfortable with the whole thing. He feels like this princess is trying to sell herself off and doesn’t actually care about providing financial aid.

-Jinx watches all this and she finds the princess to be oddly familiar-looking.

-The night of the festival arrives. There’s dancing and food (guess who goes for the latter and terrifies the onlookers?) A lot of people are showing great interest in Molly and want to know about her kingdom, but she wants to talk about theirs and how she could help them. Thankfully Libby is still guiding her a few times. She is able to win everyone over with her joy and eagerness. Even Reuben and Esther are starting to be impressed.

-Eventually, Molly just wants to party with her friends. She even gets Scratch to dance with her and he is starting to have fun with her. She is happy that she got him to open up a bit more.

–The latter does not escape Ollie. He is not used to seeing a princess treat her subjects as equals like that, and it’s oddly refreshing. June voices her concerns to Ollie that Molly might not be who she claims to be, and advises him to be cautious.

-Libby found a way to sneak in the magic carpet and offers it to Molly, because she is a bit of a shipper and knows what can set the mood.

–Scratch finds out and isn’t impressed. He thinks it would be neat if Molly did manage to get herself a prince, but he’s starting to worry that maybe he’s getting her too deep into things. Also, he doesn’t like how Jinx has been constantly looking at Molly.

-Molly eventually tries to approach Ollie. June gets in her way at first, but the girl realizes Molly has at least been sincere in wanting to aid the kingdom, so she lets her meet up with her brother. June intends on learning more about the girl, because maybe this could be someone Ollie might want to be with someday, compared to the usual girls.

-Ollie tries to explain to the princess that he is NOT interested in marrying so soon. He already has a lot to shoulder before he’s old enough to take the throne, and finding a wife this soon is the last thing on his mind. Molly admits that’s not what she wants either, and that most kids should be thinking of boyfriends and girlfriends instead of future husbands or wives. She also tells him that he truly could be a great ruler if he was free to rule as he wished.

–Somewhere around this time, Molly accidentally reveals something that gives away her identity. Likely a phrase or key word. Ollie catches it as Molly offers him the experience of a lifetime–riding a magic carpet–and to just get to be a teenager for one night and not think about huge burdens.

-Cue the ‘Whole New World’ montage where its two kids going on a carpet ride, exploring the lands beyond the city, and falling in innocent young love.

-As Molly and Ollie stare out at the city, Ollie’s suspicions grow. He is able to trick Molly into revealing that she’s the girl he met that one time.

–In a panic, Molly (as expected) lies and claims that she is a real princess who was in disguise since she doesn’t want to admit the truth or give away who made her a princess. A part of Ollie isn’t convinced, but he goes with it.

-Scratch finds out that Molly lied and is not impressed, even if he appreciates that she was trying to keep him a secret. In fact, he’s getting a bit concerned.

-Ok, so the drowning scene would be a combination of the original and 2019 films. Jinx has Molly captured, chained up, and taken to a body of water. Libby is the one who catches this and takes the lamp and carpet to follow after them because she is scared that things will go south.

–Jinx accuses Molly of not being who she is and that she has the lamp. Molly lies (partly because she does NOT want Scratch to end up in this woman’s possession, and she’s gotten an idea of what her fate would of been, had she brought the lamp to her.)

-The drowning scene plays out how you’d expect. Molly ends up in the water, but gets the lamp and activates it. Scratch panics and has to get her to make her second wish to be saved and he gets her out of there before she drowns. She is relieved to be saved and he is upset because he almost lost her and he’s grown attached to this girl. In fact she is the first human he’s ever cared about to this extent.

-Scratch enters ‘Papa Wolf’ mode as he returns to the palace with Molly in human form and demands the attention of June and Ollie because he knows someone tried to kill Molly and they need to bring that person to justice. He is mad as hell and terrifies the siblings a bit, but Molly calms him down and tells him who was responsible, which leads to everyone to make a plan.

-June had done some research beforehand and realized that Molly’s kingdom is entirely made up. However, she sets aside confronting Molly about it since she finds it odd someone would go out of their way to drown her.

-The next day, Jinx is shocked that Molly is alive. The girl has told Reuben and Esther what happened, and they confront Jinx and want to know what is going on. In a desperate move, Jinx tries to hypnotize the couple into believing her lies… and at this point I realize that I didn’t think of giving her the staff. Let’s just say that she has one, and Molly can figure it out and breaks it.

Of course, even though Jinx ends up getting arrested, she not only escapes, but she realizes that Molly does have the lamp. Not only that, she is able to correctly guess who Scratch is. The fact that their seems to be a genuine friendship between the two doesn’t escape her notice.

–Reuben and Esther are thankful to Molly and say that they are in debt to her. They say that they would gladly be happy to have her as their son’s future wife. Molly tells them that she doesn’t think she is ready to marry Ollie, and wants to respect what he wants. The couple is still insistent, and Molly tells them that she would genuinely need time to think about that, because all she wanted was to help the kingdom. However they are still insistent and in her panic, she runs away.

–She is too overwhelmed. Even if she likes Ollie, she knows that she is not ready for that future right now, not to mention the lies she told that could get her in trouble.

-While Molly and Scratch are alone, he snarkily wonders if Molly is going to take back her promise to free him and use her last wish on herself. To his shock, Molly does NOT want to go back on her word. However, she needs to figure out what to do about the situation she is trapped in, without resorting to that. She tries to reassure Scratch that she will free him like ehe promised…

-“Whoah, I didn’t ever say I wanted to be free, Moll. Do you have any idea what that would mean for me?”

–And so, Scratch gets defensive when Molly tries to figure out why he would suddenly be so against the wish when he has made it clear that he HATES the position he is stuck in. He explodes on her and tells her that being reduced to a powerless, pathetic mortal who can easily die without any magic to protect him like her and everyone else is the scariest thing he can imagine. Molly counters that while that could happen, living out your life, no matter how short, is better than being trapped, alone, and forced to answer to another if you don’t want that.

–Scratch gives up and locks himself back in the lamp. A frustrated Molly leaves the palace.

–Molly returns home to her family who are relieved, and she tells them everything. She tearfully admits that she doesn’t want to have to keep living a lie for the sake of everyone and she doesn’t want to abandon her family or get married so young. She also deeply regrets pushing Scratch and wishes that she could help him be happy.

–Pete and Sharon tell her that it is better to be yourself. They don’t want to see her suffer and to be honest they aren’t ready to give her up yet, even if it was to a prince. They also tell her to give the situation with Scratch time and maybe the two could talk things over. If he wanted to, he could even stay with them (Though he has to get his own food).

–Molly smiles and tells them she will do that and mention that offer. Besides, she could gift him the carpet if he wants to see the world. However, she must be honest with the royal family first–this is one problem she needs to solve on her own.

–As Molly heads toward the palace someone bumps into her on the streets. Confused, Molly continues on, but fails to realize Jinx was in disguise and took the lamp.

–A wickedly delighted Jinx summons Scratch out of the lamp in private. He is deeply confused at first and is about to grumble to Molly until he realizes who awakened him. He then realizes that things are about to go south, but unfortunately, he can’t do anything about it.

To be continued in part 3.

[a-froger-epic]

New Interview with Rose Rose (June 2023)

As some of you know, I have friends in the Russian Queen fandom (a handful of lovely Ukrainian and Russian ladies who are translating my writing) and so I was linked to this. It’s an exclusive interview Rosemary Pearson (Rose Rose) gave to the Russian translator of her books. The questions came from people in the main Russian Queen fan forum. The interview was posted in Russian. 

Here are some excepts in English.

Question: If you could turn back the clock, would you break up with Freddie again [...] or would you stay in a relationship with him, and what would happen?

Rose: I would break up with him again because he was, well and truly, attracted to men.

Question: Did you share the details of your childhood that you described in ‘Growing Up’ [Rose Rose’s new book, ‘Growing Up With ‘Filthy Lucre’’] with Freddie? If so, how did he react? Did he tell you about his childhood?

Rose: No, we didn’t tell each other about our childhoods, except that he and I went to boarding school. I mentioned this in my book.

[…]

Question: Which album covers and which Queen videos did you find artistically interesting?

Rose: The most interesting for me in that regard is the video clip for “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

Question: What are your favourite Queen or Freddie Mercury songs?

Rose: I like “Bohemian Rhapsody” the most.

Question: Did you and Freddie mostly coincide when it came to your tastes in music and art, or did you often have disagreements?

Rose: At the time, our tastes completely coincided. Jimi Hendrix is still my favorite artist.

Question: Which artists was Freddie particularly drawn to during his years at Ealing College? In your opinion, did Freddie imitate someone in his artistic work during his studies in Ealing? How would you describe his painting style in those days?

Rose: Freddie liked the work of Russian futurists especially and Russian ballet costumes. But, to be honest, he was not particularly interested in anything but his own imagination and the pop culture of the 60s.

[…]

Question: Did you and Freddie give each other gifts (like birthday gifts)? If so, which ones?

Rose: No, we never gifted each other anything. We weren't that sentimental about it.

[…]

Question: Have you seen the 2018 movie Bohemian Rhapsody? If so, how do you feel about the film?

Rose: I’ve seen it. About half of the movie is completely false.

[…]

Question: [...] Not so long ago, [Mary Austin] decided to auction off most of the art collection and personal belongings of Freddie’s. What would you have done with those things if you were Mary?

Rose: If I were Mary, I would donate it all to the Victoria & Albert Museum in London. Freddie would have preferred it this way, and it just goes to show how few people really understood him. It’s a shame that it won’t happen, as the museum staff are keen to preserve Freddie’s heritage for future generations. [The Victoria & Albert Museum researcher recently approached Rose for advice about the young Freddie Mercury’s interest in the museum’s expositions, in particular, of Russian ballet costumes, but this is a different story. - Note by the interviewer].

Question: What would you say to Freddie if you had the chance?

Rose: I’d say, “I’m so happy that you were able to realise your potential in such a brilliant way!”

[…]

Question: How do you respond to criticism of your work?

Rose: I ignore it!

Question: Did any of your children inherit your desire to become an artist?

Rose: No, they all hate what I do.

[…]

Question: What creative ideas or projects would you like to accomplish, but lack the opportunity? Does it bother you or do you prefer to focus on achievable goals?

Rose: I’ve done everything I wanted to do.

---

Honestly, I liked Rose Rose always, but now I properly love this woman. What a legend.

[dayfaresthenight]

Name: Ozymandias

Alt Names: David Crane

Special Titles: The King of Sand and Ash.

Username: TheKingOfSandAndAsh

Nicknames: Ozy, Dad, The King Of Lies

Chronological Age: ???

Age: 42

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Demisexual

Gender: Cis Male

Species: Deity (90%), Human (5%) Spirit (5%)

Disorders: Schizophrenia, Impostor Syndrome, Pathological Lying, Intermittent Explosive Disorder

Religion: Is a god. Kind of.... follows himself.

Job: Theater Director, Writer.

Lives in: Nowhere in particular, earnestly just traveling around.

Languages: American-English, Various Ciphers, Dutch.

Height: 6'2

Race: (Covered by Helmet)

Ethnicity: (Covered by Helmet)

Accent: Thick, Dark, commanding, similar to a military Commander.

Spirit Level: Denial

Powers: Strings, World Creation, Fire Magic, Shapeshifting, Illusions, Cursing, Mind Reading, Mind Control.

Weaknesses: Redacted by Crane. (This, is the one thing I will intervene on.)

Weapons: Midas (Long Greatsword)

Robotics/Augments: TRUESIGHT Eyes (Able to let him see significantly further than the normal person, and be able to see in the dark.) Strength-Enhanced Arms and Legs.

Alignment: Lawful Evil

Text Color: Orange

Main Hobbies: Writing, Directing, Acting.

Favorite Food: Ribs.

Favorite Flower: Sunflowers.

Scent: Like an old book.

Handedness: Right-Handed.

Blood Color: Red.

Awareness: Somewhat Aware. [Effect: Neutral]

Birthday: June 27th.

Theme:

Playlist: N/A, For now.

Fun Facts: Him and his brother used to write stories all the time together as children. Its been a passion his entire life.

Special Interests: Classical Theater, Mythology.

Stims: Foot Tapping, Pacing.

Comfort Objects: None.

Family:

Daniel Crane (Brother) ...

Alicia Gates (Ex-Wife) I don't blame her.

Are Yoru (Adopted Daugther) I... I feel quite strange emotions regarding her. She is but a child needing protection.

Friends: None.

Romance: None, Currently.

Enemies: Kriston (A man that scares even myself.)

Brief Personality

Backstory: "Have you ever wanted to write a story before?

I did, once upon a time. Many drafts, many attempts. Yet none of them ever sparkled. Each and every time, I felt as if something wasmissing from them. They felt flat, bland, and uninteresting.

That is- until the day I found that book.

Do not ask me where it came from or how it truly works—that is something I am uncertain of. However, when I made contact with it... I awoke in a blank, white void. I was confused at first and frankly horrified. Would I ever be able to return to the mortal coil? Was I dead? Is this what the afterlife is like...? As the certainty of the situation began to set in, I screamed out of frustration, "LET ME OUT OF THIS GOD-FORSAKEN PLACE!" Then, right before me, a door appeared. It was almost as if genuine, true magic had occurred in front of my very eyes. Walking forth, I pressed my hand on the door... And I was back in my study.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------Weeks turned into months, and it grew into an obsession. Whatever I wished for became true within that void. My stories finally had color to them—my MASTERPIECES finally had that spark that they were missing. It all made sense. I was not a poor creative; I was merely missing my final piece! I was merely missing the light that had begun the universe.

Finally, I was able to see my puppets perform for me personally. Nothing else mattered, as the world was my stage now, and there is nothing else that mattered.

There's nothing else that ever truly mattered."

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

[battlekidx2]

The Ghost and Molly McGee Season 2 Thought So Far

I can’t believe I haven’t talked about The Ghost and Molly McGee yet. I have multiple drafts in my docs and on tumblr but I could never really get my thoughts across as well as I would like but I’ve decided to just put my thoughts out here because I really do enjoy this show.

The ghost and molly mcgee is one of those shows that shocked me with just how much I enjoyed it. I think that’s purely because it doesn’t fall into the tone of show I usually lean towards. I usually gravitate towards shows like Arcane, Invincible, Amphibia, and The Owl House to use recent examples. Shows that are very bittersweet (or in Arcane’s case straight-up tragic) and know how to gut punch you with emotional moments. I feel seen in certain aspects of these shows and the hard truths they portray that many people have experienced but that isn’t what I need all the time and the Ghost and Molly McGee perfectly fits what I need outside of those types of shows.

It’s a show that champions joy and connections and it sees the best in people. In a time that seems to be filled with hate and is hard to experience day to day, this is the type of show I need to unwind and feel a bit more hopeful.

The Ghost and Molly McGee had a phenomenal first season. It was an amazing introduction to the characters, world, and themes of the show that ended on a bang with Molly vs the ghost world. I had a lot of excitement heading into the next season, but was unsure of where the show would go from that explosive finale and I can safely say that the second season is off to a great start. 

I love the introduction of the Chens and how their profession of being ghost hunters comes into conflict with their friendship with the McGees. It's an interesting dynamic that adds a level of tension to Molly and Scratch’s adventures that wasn’t present in season 1. There wasn’t much of a threat of anyone discovering Molly’s friendship with Scratch or exposing their escapades, especially after Libby was brought into the fold, so I really like the decision to add threats on the human side of things.

The Chens themselves have a lot of potential as characters and are already interesting foils to the McGees. Most of them don’t have much development yet and they are very similar to the McGees in terms of personality, but the show has already set up very interesting plotlines for them. 

Ollie in particular has a lot of potential due to his discovery at the end of “I Really Wanna Dance with Some Ollie”. He made the conscious decision to not tell his mother that he discovered that Molly is friends with Scratch which sets up an interesting conflict in his character and it adds depth to his actions and bond with Molly. 

Right now he is a copy of Molly in many ways (as are all of the Chens with the McGees) but it’s only a few episodes into season 2 so there are a lot of opportunities for growth.

I also really like June and love that she’s canonically autistic. The Ghost and Molly McGee is great when it comes to representation. It is very racially diverse and I appreciate that it has background/normalized lbgtq+ characters and is now including main characters that are intentionally and explicitly neurodivergent. Representation matters. I’ve written about why I believe representation is important before so I’ll spare the essay but I believe that people being able to see aspects of themselves not depicted as frequently in media in characters on this show, especially this show’s age demographic, is a good thing.

Another development I really liked is what the show has decided to do with the ghost world, specifically the chairman. The idea that Scratch is forced into a role of authority after the events of the finale is really interesting. There are so many directions they can take this idea and it’s a really good way to force Scratch out of his comfort zone and get him to grow. This also expands on the lore in regards to the ghost world which we still know little about. I look forward to the ways in which this can explore Scratch’s character and give us more insight into the show’s lore.

Scratch gets some very poignant character moments even outside of the chairman development  in these episodes with the best example being “A Soda to Remember”.

“A Soda to Remember” is my favorite episode of the batch that dropped because of how it juxtaposes Scratch’s character and the glimpse of his past with the wacky antics of the episode. There’s a palpable melancholy to the flashback at the end of the episode that works so well considering the overall tone of the show. It builds a lot of emotion and intrigue around it that makes the episode and Scratch’s arc in it hit a lot harder.

Episodes in The Ghost and Molly McGee almost always end on an optimistic note so that final scene strikes a unique emotional cord within the show. This technique was used sparingly in the first season with it only occurring in the episode “Out of House and Home” when the McGees lose their house and when Scratch is taken back to the ghost world in “The Jig is Up”. The show knows when to slow down and allow these emotional moments to sit which is part of why I enjoy it so much.

This actually might be the plotline I am most interested in seeing explored in the future.

Overall I think the second season of The Ghost and Molly McGee is off to a great start!

[artofmimi]

Hi idk if you ever go on here but Twitter confuses and scares me . I saw you retweeted some art of Sethos, and I really like that guy and I also think ur opinions on stuff are really interesting, so I wanted to see if you'd said anything specific about him. However, Twitter confuses and scares me, and I scrolled through some of ur tweets and realized that i'd only made it to June 30th and did not have the mental fortitude to keep going. All that to say, if you have any particular opinions on Sethos I would like to read them here on Tumblr. Obviously ignore this whole thing if you just don't want to respond , and sorry that this is weird

hello there! first of all, i don't think this is a weird ask at all. there is nothing wrong with asking questions so please don't apologize :)

secondly, i really like sethos – a lot! i feel like i don't talk very much about cyno but he is, in fact, one of my favorite characters from genshin. the opportunity to learn more about cyno's backstory and the fact that he gained a new narrative FOIL really excited me. juxtaposing the physical and personality differences between both of them (sethos with his green eyes/brown hair/inviting smile/sociability vs cyno with his red eyes/white hair/resting bitch face/social awkwardness) really highlights their character traits, i feel.

one of the things that drew me in lot about sethos (and this may be a tired comparison so apologies in advance) is that he reminds me a lot of claude from fe3h. not just the physical similarities or the fact that he's an archer, but it was mostly his sense of curiosity and his disposition towards other people. the lines he says, i can see coming from claude's mouth. he gives off a strong sense of intelligence and cleverness.

but honestly that's really as far as i can do for (admittedly very surface-level) analysis for sethos! i haven't played cyno's second story quest yet so i don't know anything regarding the temple of silence plotline or what role sethos plays in it other than what the version update trailer teased. i know that sethos is a reference to the egyptian god, set, and he juxtaposes with cyno, a reference to anubis. i know that set is the god of disorder, violence, foreigners (out of many things) and one of the main stories he is known for is how he usurped his brother – so i have my guesses as to how the genshin storyline goes. however, obviously, my knowledge of egyptian mythology is very shallow so i don't want to make too deep of an analysis unless i really know what i'm talking about haha

anyways, i'm glad that you find my opinions interesting and that you at least tried to scroll through my twitter LMAO i do check tumblr semi-often bc i do still like reading the tags people read on my posts. i still find tumblr's askbox system and archiving system by far the best out of the "big" social media platforms these days but i've gotten really accustomed to just saying out inconsequential thoughts on twitter and rambling out analysis threads on there. they do get lost very easily though so alas. once i do finally finish cyno's story quest, i promise i'll come back to this post and share my thoughts on sethos, just for you anon <3

[alyjojo]

June 📿 2024 Monthly - Pisces

Preshuffle: Chaotic energy 🫨 You’re overflowing with emotions because you can’t handle everything coming at you at once, or it’s unreliable. It’s like you can’t commit to one lane for more than two seconds before something else needs your attention, and rather than getting a card of feeling overwhelmed, it’s feeling more like you’re about to act out emotionally, or…cry. Scream into the void. Snap 🫰

Meditation: It was a well, you know, for water. A deep one. Couldn’t even see the bottom. I was afraid of falling in. And I heard the song title “A Deeper Well”. Literal and to the point, that’s it. I really don’t know this song at all, but it must resonate to be so literal.

Main energy: 5 Cups

This energy is very tricky because of what I’m seeing - which won’t apply to everyone. I’m seeing “survivor’s guilt” first off, if you don’t know what that means then you’re lucky. There’s a possible car wreck, some kind of disaster where someone else got hurt, and you didn’t. But should have? I’m also seeing prison. Probably involving a friend, Friendship is focused here. Maybe you can’t afford to pay someone’s fine or help them get on their feet, but you really want to. For some a person may simply have made their own bed 🛏️ and what can you do? They’re stuck with it now. But this causes you to feel deeply sad, remorseful, focused on regret, pain, and what is lost. If you’ve had to separate from people for whatever reason, it’s made you sad, and I’m definitely seeing regret on your end for where that applies. Regarding what - I don’t know. Could’ve should’ve would’ve - if I knew, sort of energy.

What’s going on in June:

The Magician:

You’ve manifested a stable connection, home, relationship with someone that is a fuckboy/girl at heart, unreliable, non-committal, doesn’t take things seriously, reckless with their impulses, does stupid shit and has no control over themselves. Maybe moved in with them? Could be family. You didn’t know that when you made this decision (who does?) Or perhaps you were the one impulsive, in order to help someone else. Could be love, but I’m getting more of a roommate or friend - platonic with shared interests, maybe a coworker kind of vibe. Could be switched and you’re the one that flakes out of something that was solid - or that was the goal at least.

9 Wands rev:

It’s possible you spent a lot of money on a person or situation - I’m seeing a savings for disaster kind of fund, being dipped into for the sake of saving someone’s ass. And that you didn’t or don’t necessarily have it to give. If not money, then you’ve been forced to release something you’ve held onto very tightly. Could be the connection itself. 4 Swords rev following can show something that *can’t heal* - and there is a lot of independent energy here. Spontaneous actions fucked something up for sure, and it could be financial, a whole relationship, or even the worst case scenario - someone’s life. Having to let go could be literal. 5 Cups can be mourning, if that’s you I’m sending you big hugs & I’m very sorry.

4 Swords rev:

This can show already being healed - but with 5 Cups running the show it’s more like something that can’t fully be healed. Someone is beyond pissed, this Queen of Swords may be you or the other person - because regret is here if it’s you. Sadness if it’s not, while simultaneously being pissed off that someone would put you in the positions you’ve been put in. This Queen is guarded af, she’s very smart and protective over her heart - which is there, and big, but it’s under quite a bit of logic first. She uses her head to deal with problems - not her heart, which this person has (had to?) become for whatever reason. It’s not being more specific so, different reasons for all. One thing is for sure: you don’t appreciate people making stupid decisions that mess with *your* life and relationships. I mean, who does? For most it feels like them. If it’s you, it was unintentional or wasn’t supposed to play out in this way - but it’s over with now and there are regrets. There’s no fixing this, whatever it is, someone goofed up and the other person has their sword up, ready to strike.

6 Swords:

Moving on is the only thing you can do, for most again this is someone else’s problem, someone else’s monkeys, they done fucked up and all you can do is release it. Move on. Easier said than done. I don’t see any emotions or depth to this connection, so this could be like…you have a roommate that sells drugs, you have no idea, they get caught up in some bs and you’re now having to go to court, be a witness, get all involved in something you didn’t even do, don’t appreciate, and there’s no reciprocation for this thing. You don’t get time back, repayment for damages, an apology even for some, it’s just throwing in the towel, *fucking wasted*. Effort, money, time, emotion, a lease, that’s what I’m seeing with this. The Moon at the bottom shows things being hidden from you, you probably don’t have the whole story, and maybe never will.

Temperance rev & The Tower rev:

There’s not much wiggle room with these interpretations. You’re pissed off 💯 as much as sad. You avoided the worst of it, that’s a good thing, or it could have been worse and you should be thankful for that…but I don’t see you seeing it that way. You’re focused on the failure, the wasted effort, time, money, love even, everything that’s falling out of these 3 Cups…friends. Friends may hurt you, ones you wanted to keep but couldn’t, and in many cases they did it to themselves or can’t forgive you for something you’ve done, either/or. Temperance rev shows no reconciling, which is a repeated message, no healing, no fixing, there’s just - the end. Forcibly. That could be super fkn traumatic depending on the situation so…

Advice: The Hermit, and with that I heard the Serenity Prayer, which idc what you believe in or don’t, it’s your call - but that’s what I heard. Stay out of this one, there’s nothing you can do. 333 may mean something for you.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Signs you may be dealing with:

Scorpio, Gemini, Sagittarius, Aquarius, Libra & Aries

Oracle: ✨

33 Integration 🧬

We are a sum of all of our experiences in this and other lives. We all bring forward a wealth of knowledge, talents, and wisdom. One of the challenges is remembering who we are. We are bombarded every day in every way with messages on who we should be, what we should do, what we should wear, how we should live…

These messages coming from the media, society, our family and friends, and even strangers can drown out who we are really meant to be: who we have grown into lifetime after lifetime. Find some quiet moments in your day to identify and start a relationship with that small, strong voice inside of you. Pretty soon you won’t hear the other messages. Many times in your interactions with others, you hear that small voice tell you something is not right. Your logical mind tells you stop it, nothing is wrong, you’re being silly/dramatic or overreacting. You may ignore your inner voice in a quest to fit in, be loved or admired. You do not realize that your inner voice is warning you that the other person’s energy is not matching their words or actions. Listen to your instincts about this situation or person.

We enter into June as:

The Lilac Key 🔑

“The last thing out of Pandora’s Box was hope.”

Change is coming. It is imminent and cannot be avoided. The desire to run from this situation is tempting. However this is a necessary challenge for you. You are going through the labor pains of birth. This may indicate a painful divorce or partnership ending bitterly. In all situations it represents a death of an old way of living, thinking, and surviving. Lilac Key appears when mere survival is not enough for you. Your will to live is what is forcing the change. It is a change of consciousness, which in turn will lead to a balance of harmony in all areas of your life. Cleaning up the past is a process that is often painful; yet hope and joy are the after effects. Remember, once the key has been used to open the door, once you have entered this new consciousness, you cannot go back. You will be left with a new way of living, one without keys - for where you are heading there is no need for locks 🔒

What is to be learned in June:

Sun Sparkler 🎇:

“Integrity is what turns on the light.”

Sun Sparkler reminds us that it is through kindness to others and being of service that we are abundant. Are you living your life as fully as you can? Are you being honest and kind to others? Do you hold the door open for people on the elevator, or let it close? Do you let people merge over in traffic, or pretend not to see them? When we put a blinder on one area of life, it creates the same blind spot in every area. You can’t shut out pain without shutting out pleasure too. Sun Sparkler reminds you of the miracle of honesty, it leads to integrity. You may have done work for another but do not expect a reward, revel in alignment with Spirit, self-esteem is the gift. You’ve been elevated to a new level spiritually, continue to serve others and life will prosper beyond your wildest dreams.

Yellow may be a lucky color 💛

[ix-c-999]

Hihi!! I followed you from the soulbonding anon ask, its nice to see other people with similar experiences. May I ask what its like for you? I've only been able to talk about this with one or two other people and I'm terrified of overstepping boundaries or misunderstanding something hff im trying to understand myself a bit more but also stay respectful about it- I've seen quite a bit of syscourse already and its stressful ;w;

Hello! Thanks for your message and your interest!

Firstly, I should explain that I (Vyvian, the original host of the system) don't actually identify as a soulbonder, although I don't really have a problem with people thinking of me as an unintentional one as long as they think of me as a non-created system first.

What happened in my case was that, at more or less the exact same time, 1. I was removed from a formerly abusive situation and placed in an isolating one, 2. I started self-shipping with my main F/O (F.ord Pr.efect from Hit.chhiker's Gui.de), and 3. my system went into total dormancy.

(Note about my system: we're traumagenic and have never fully intentionally created an alter, so we're very different from the rest of the soulbond community in that regard in that our experience can be explained by a psychological process our brain already does. You can see why I don't really consider myself part of that community.)

Anyway, because of how lonely I was (both from the isolation and from my alters not being around anymore), I leaned very very heavily into my self-ship with Ford and coped by imagining him with me constantly. With my self-ship friends and on the blog I ran at the time, I talked about him like he was real, e.g. "Ford and I went to the store today" or "I showed Ford this meme and now I'm showing you".

Every so often, though, I'd have moments where I dissociated and where the house I was living in seemed unfamiliar to me (I had just started living in it, but I'd been familiar with it for months before then). These were accompanied by an intense sense of alienation, unfamiliarity, non-humanity, and being trapped - things that Ford canonically feels as an alien from Betelgeuse stuck on Earth but that I just chalked up to dissociating while feeling weird about my new living situation.

About eight months after fully beginning to self-ship, I had a manic break in which I was compelled to write a series of spiritual Documents. My F/O is notably non-spiritual and I was too consumed by the mania to imagine him on purpose.

At the most intense point during the break, I involuntarily felt Ford's presence as intensely as I would feel someone physically next to me (I've never felt it that strongly before or since) and got the impression that the spiritual ideas I was writing about could be viewed psychologically as well (which is more in line with what Ford would say). This was immensely helpful, as I believe that, had I not incorporated psychological views of spirituality into the Documents, things could have gone a lot differently for me in ways I wouldn't want them to.

Some members of my system think that Venn split during this incident but didn't knowingly front until the rest of my system came out of dormancy. Some think that it was a major event that contributed to his development as an alter but that that wasn't the event that brought him into existence per se. Some think that Venn is a literal spiritual gift from Betelgeuse (our guardian star) and that Betelgeuse gave him to me at the moment when my mind would be the most receptive to accommodating spiritual entities.

Either way, Venn either continued to form for the next few months or else had already split and extremely covertly co-fronted with me some of the time. I was still imagining Ford around me as a fictional character and I recall that it became easier and easier to imagine him, to the point where I didn't need to consciously do it anymore.

My system fully came out of dormancy last June after about a month of me feeling like they could come back. I correctly predicted that my system's new lineup would include a Ford fictive induced by self-shipping. I was not able to predict some of the ways in which he would very quickly diverge from my already canon divergent characterization of him, nor that he would become the new host of the system (to the point where, for a while, I was only a co-host as opposed to a secondary host. My system now has two hosts and two co-hosts.)

I think the fact that I imagined Ford with me CONSTANTLY is what contributed to Venn becoming a host. If my brain is used to Ford as a constant presence, it makes sense that the alter of him would be constantly around. However, some of the members of my system who attribute a spiritual explanation to Venn's existence think he's a host because he's a spiritual entity and therefore behaves anomalously compared to other alters.

A TLDR to your question about what it's like: I imagined my F/O with me constantly and treated him like he was real with no expectation that it would lead to an alter in my then-dormant system, and then when my system came out of dormancy, it included a fictive of him that became a host.

As you can see, I'm unable to speak to the experience of intentionally creating a non-physical entity, and the involvement of spirituality is ambiguous at best. So I hope my base of knowledge is still helpful! If you have any additional questions and feel comfortable with it, feel free to DM me (which goes for anyone reading this)!

(Additionally to your thing about discourse: I would recommend a system in your situation to follow tags like "endo safe" and "endos please interact", as well as "pluralgang" which is intended to be endo-friendly, although I'm not sure if you identify as a system and thus how useful those suggestions would be for you. In general, I recommend occasionally looking at the tag "endos dni" for the express purpose of blocking everybody who uses it.)

[dustinfrueh012]

The Astronaut's Wife (a Film Review)

Negative Reviews Aren’t Necessarily a Bad Thing

Prompted by Tubi to finally watch The Astronaut’s Wife before it left the streaming platform on Friday, June 3oth, I went into it kind of expecting a less than stellar film. I was, however, cautiously optimistic that I’d like it. I was hoping to find one of those rare gems of filmmaking that I’d, at the very least, respect and appreciate, and maybe even love. Those type of experiences don’t happen often, but when they do, it’s worth every second to risk it. To better illustrate my point, it’s entirely possible that I might not have tried it at all, were it not for the film’s alleged saving grace: the performances.

 According to pretty most reviews, (both professional and everyday consumers,) the one quality that saves it from being tossed in the proverbial rubbish heap is the performances of its stars, Johnny Depp and Charlize Theron. They’re said to be on-point. That alone convinced me.

”What I am is a true American hero. Now, the President of the United States of America said that, and you heard him.”

Written and directed by Rand Ravich, The Astronaut’s Wife reeled me in with its opening scene, and it isn’t long before I’m transported by it. Some of those first scenes are beautiful to behold, and I don’t compliment it lightly. It’s fascinating to simply watch the actions of the main players and listen to their carefully chosen words. It’s through those that the audience learns about the close-knit relationship between Depp’s Spencer and Theron’s Jillian, whom he affectionately refers calls Jill. Their marriage is complicated, and is seemingly made stronger by their mutual respect and a deep, admirable love. There’s a lot at stake, and in Ravich’s directorial debut, he makes those stakes clear.

Par for the course, it’s not long before everything they thought they knew and believed to be true comes crashing down like a riotous game of Jenga. Their world can only implode. The latter is emphasized for dramatic effect, because one of the common criticisms speaks directly toward this. With an approval rating of just fifteen percent on Rotten Tomatoes, and an audience score of thirty-three percent, the critic’s consensus is that the film “moves at a snail’s pace and fails to generate enough intrigue to keep viewers interested.”

Not to be dismissive of many, highly regarded reviews (even Siskel & Ebert said that while they didn’t hate The Astronaut’s Wife, untilmately they were apathetic towards it,) but the first act isn't meant to fly by with lightening-quick speed. It’s just not. Furthermore, the pacing is near perfection. In fact, I wouldn’t object to a little more time with Mr. and Mrs. Armacost, to sit with them before the inevitable craziness ensues. Instead of a plot moving at breakneck speed, it’s a predominantly taut, psychological thriller set in a similar vein as The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, with a fairly even balance of science fiction and horror.

As the title suggests, the main focal point revolves around Jillian, as it explores the impact on her psyche and her physical and mental well-being. Theron gives everything to her portrayal of the doting wife and the passionate educator. In many ways, she’s the victim, though she doesn’t come across as such. She has to be the pillar of strength, because her character is intentionally left in the dark and she has to discover what really happened in those mysterious two minutes of her husband’s failed mission. There’s more to everything at stake for her character, but anything more would spoil it. One scene, in particular, between Spencer and Jill, was extremely moving and contrary to many criticisms, the dialogue is on-point. It’s powerful, relatable, and it never feels disingenuous. There’s a strong resemblance to real life to it, almost as though it was taken from an actual conversation.

 None of it seems unrealistic or far-fetched, despite it being science fiction. And that’s saying a lot, because there are plenty of stories in the genre that feel a little unrealistic, and require the suspension of disbelief. I’m not even entirely certain how the filmmakers made it seem so grounded in reality, while simultaneously keeping solid ground in the speculative nature of the story. In response, I can only shake my head in disbelief, wondering if the naysayers somehow forgot that it’s predominantly sci-fi, a genre that almost celebrates the improbable, the unnatural, and the fantastical. Plus, it’s fiction. Escapism at its finest. Making sense or being completely logical isn’t always a necessary ingredient. Why else do we consume fiction, if not for escapism?

 Actually, with the exception of the ending, there isn’t a lot that’s extravagant or impossible. But I love the dramatic culmination of events. It doesn’t really bother me that what took place can’t happen like it did. In context with everything that came before, the resolution felt natural, like it was meant to be. Earnestly, I can’t imagine it ending any other way.

 ”There is something I need to tell you, Jill...About what happened. All there was...was the cold. I knew what the cold was...it was death. Then the cold faded and then I felt warmth. It was the warmth of you.”

 Now, was the basic concept of the film unoriginal? To some extent, yes. Frankly, it’s something that the sci-fi/horror community has seen many times. At the same time, though, it’s not always about originality. Sometimes, execution takes precedence, and I love that about this film. The thing I appreciate most about The Astronaut’s Wife is that its emphasis is on the characters (Jill, specifically,) as opposed to the Other. There’s a beautiful examination of what it means to be human, to be flawed as well as moral. Whereas a lot of stories have a tendancy to simplify good and evil, the film seems to cast a spotlight of understanding on both sides of the coin, and that’s very refreshing.

 The outstanding performances weren’t limited to Johhny Depp and Charlize Theron, either. Girl, Interrupted’s Clea DuVall’s portrayal of Jillian’s empathetic sibling was nothing short of moving, and my appetite for her scenes insatiable. And almost juxtaposed with DuVall’s Nan was Joe Morton’s Sherman Reese (Speed,) a disgrunted NASA representative who might or might not be in his sound mind.

Needless to say, I love everything about this film. The cinematography is beautiful. The haunting notes of the score is the perfect accompaniment, complete with a sense of palpable dread and suspense. The special effects are neither over or underdone, and kudos to all involved for not making it look or feel like CGI. I could go on and on, but reading my high praises is probably starting to sound repitive and nauseating, so I’ll wrap this up.

 If you’re at all curious, I encourage you to give The Astronaut’s Wife and chance and form your own opinions. You might just find another film that you enjoy. If not, then at least you can honestly say that you saw it, didn’t like it, and give your reasons why. If nothing else, go into it strictly for the rock star performances. I hope that I never forget this underrated, extremely polarizing film.

Rating: 5/5 stars

[ykoriana-imperatrix]

SDC Month - December 2022 - Monday #1

Today, we welcome back the "unpopular opinions" project. As I said back in June, said opinions might or might not actually be unpopular; it is difficult to know for sure in a fandom this small. But the name remains just as catchy, and perhaps that is all that matters.

The obligatory disclaimer: if you feel there is the chance you might be even the slightest bit offended by any opinion expressed in this post, you are of course entirely free to avoid it entirely. To quote my June self, perhaps some of my other SDC month projects (or other SDC-related posts) will be more to your liking.

(Cut for content and spoilers for roughly the entire series, just to be on the safe side.)

And now, for my maybe-controversial statement for this fine day: The main impact of the difference between SDC years and ours when it comes to characters is making Aurum's feats for his age seem even less plausible.

Let me emphasise one thing: by no means do I think that said difference is an unnecessary worldbuilding aspect or anything of the sort. No, actually I do very much find it an interesting part of the world as a whole, though for the most part, I think that it does not impact the story and in-universe events all that much... and on that note, what I wanted to address here is how it intersects with out-of-universe perception of the characters (well, one in particular).

This said, the above may be a bold statement still, but think about it. Regarding the really young characters (Ykorenthe, Leaf, Poppy when we're first introduced to her, etc.), the difference the conversion makes is so small as to be (in my humble opinion) practically negligible. Then we have the characters who start the series in their teens, 20s and even early 30s, for whom, yes, there is a bit more of a difference, but is your view of, say, Carnelian as a character changed that much — or at all — when you consider him to be nearly 16 rather than nearly 15 at the start of the series? Or Molochite and Osidian being closer to 15 than to 14? Even the likes of the older Keal, Jaspar, Vennel and Grane are only gaining a couple of years at most via the conversion. (And sure, there can appear to be a big difference between, for instance, 30 and 32 when it is your age that is personally involved, but when considering fictional characters from an outside their world perspective? Not so much.) We do start seeing more of a gap when it comes to the characters over 40, but even then, I'd say it's not the sort of thing that would tend to change one's view of any of them all that much? An age gap is less significant the older a person (real or fictional) is, after all, and I have to say, the actions and motivations of these characters, and the general way I view them, remain the exact same when I take into account that Ykoriana's 41 years at the start of the series would be 44 in our world, or that 42-year-old Sardian would be the equivalent of 45, or that Akaisha's 51 years would correspond to 54 of ours, and so on. And then we get to the characters who are already considered elderly in-universe. To me, Legions and the rest of the centuries-old Wise remain just the same when accounting for their age in real-world years: unbelievably ancient. Others might disagree, but seriously, is someone being closer to 748 years old, already unimaginably old (not to mention, well, impossible in reality) by human standards, that different than them being closer to 700? Within the limit of normal human lifespans, Nurpayahras and Nayakarade's ages at the beginning of the series (81 and 76 respectively), for instance, do become more impressive in real-world years, but then again, we never see them do anything that would be too unbelievably physically strenous for someone the equivalent of 87 or 81 years old? (The staves could help with any mobility issues, for one, and travelling from the Masks forbidden houses to the Chamber of the Three Lands for the election could be completely atypical in terms of their usual day-to-day physical activity, for all we know).

But now we get to the Ruling Lord Aurum, the clear outlier, who — don't be fooled by his birth year on the family tree — has been confirmed by the author as indeed being supposed to be 80 (SDC) years old at the start of the series. And yes, I know that people who are in remarkable physical shape in their 80s and 90s do exist in real life, but in those cases, said people usually maintained constant levels of significant physical activity throughout (most of) their lives. The fact that Aurum endures a cross-continental journey (and the return back not too long after) at that age — and bear in mind that no matter how much he might try to keep physically fit and active, this is for all intents and purposes a pampered nobleman that most likely had never left Osrakum before — is nothing short of mind-boggling. This is a man who keeps up (or at the very least manages to keep up appearances in that regard) with people four to six decades his juniors. And all this, to be quite frank, does already stretch my suspension of disbelief quite a bit — now add to it the fact that at the start of the series, Aurum is supposed to be the equivalent of a real-world 85-year-old. Let me tell you, my fellow fans, either this (fictional) man was blessed with exceptional good fortune and genetics... or at bare minimum, something does not quite add up here. (But fun as that would be, let us leave conspiracy theories for another time, shall we?)

[333creolelady]

Hmm.

I have a lot of conflicting feelings about this chapter. I guess I’ll list it all in order. First of all, I think I’ve told you that you need to be a writer on a show. I’m sure that the other writers in this platform understand how hard it is to world build. It’s incredibly tempting to just go straight for what you want in a fic. It’s easy to get to the meat and potatoes but you’ve never been one of those writers to rush for the table. You always have a ritual or an order to the way you write and establish certain plot points before you even TOUCH the main course. I respect you so much for that because it’s been incredibly influential for how I learned how to properly set up a story. Whenever you do something, you do it correctly.. in respect to the art of writing. So instead of jumping around to all my favorite parts or lines, I’ll actually talk about this chapter in chronological order. The opening scene with Dean and June was super intriguing. The way you write around a “thing” is so enthralling. You make June more interesting in what she doesn’t say. The line at the end, “don't make me lie to you.” This line in particular was haunting because if anything, it encompass’s just how in the dark we are as an audience. We still don’t know the depths of this club and all of what they do. We don’t know what the characters do outside of the spotlight that you give them. There is still a blind spot in regards how dangerous the members in the club are. It’s easy to forget.

——————————-

Next, the way reader recalls the memories of her parents inside the home. Living with ghosts, living with memories that have nowhere to go. You capture the complexities of complicated parent and child relationships so well. Because truthfully it’s not all good but it’s not all bad in real life as well? Reader has plenty of funny and lighthearted memories to look back to. Interesting that reader views her reconnecting with Roman and her reignited feelings for Roman as repossession—in the same breath dealing with topics of death and grief and memories. “...the deep rumble of his humming, taking against the air feather like. soothing and tender. his body sitting leisure on the floor, tall and upright against the couch. your mother tucked into his side. their fingers folded, one into the other...fifteen and wondering then, slowly creaking in from that long stretching hallway, to watch them sit in silence. the florida nights not nearly as hot as they are now. the house smelling like lavender and leather and little bits of tobacco. sticking so well into the build of the walls that it still lives here. like a stain of fragranced oil on the skin. there are remnants of it still. that lavender and leather and tobacco. earthy and old and thick in the nose. filling up the lungs like the rising in of a well. seeping into the cracks till its soaked to the core of that strong brick. and this is what that light, gentle work of the melody does faithfully. it fills in. brings life to dead things.” Wow, what a gorgeously painful way to recall a memory. It’s beautiful that reader can recollect a time where things were stable between her parents but the bitterness that it won’t ever happen again? To live with that. It’s devastating actually. I get the same distant feeling of her recalling the breakdown of her parents as I do her relationship with Roman. It’s almost as if I’m being pushed to look at it through the same lense and notice the parallels of it. The connection between her and Roman is still as momentous as the memories of her parents. I worry for reader because I believe she needs more support than what is being given to her. Or maybe she’s not signaling that she needs the help…which is frustrating. I’m sure that almost everyone who reads this story can relate to her in that sense. Is the help being offered and even if it’s was—would she take it? Would we take it ? I feel that Cody senses that which I can appreciate. And maybe it’s a selfish thing to consider. From the looks of it—everybody in that club needs help in some way. I worry for reader when she’s alone. At least Cody’s presence brings solice to reader in some way. I want things to get better for her truly.

———————————-

You told me about Punk’s POV and it was still a pleasant surprise. Have you done a stint in prison that I don’t know about sister ? You’ve perfectly encapsulated the feelings of someone in confinement. That stunning feeling of being pushed into a new environment after being alone for so long. Maybe even finding some acceptance in the loneliness of imprisonment. Maybe the acceptance comes because nothing will change ? This characterization of punk is perfect for his on stage persona. His latest match for “hell in the cell” sort of highlights how far he takes things and the lack of hesitancy that seems to come naturally to him. Punk would absolutely go to jail if he cared about something or someone enough. Punk is yet another person who needs help and support the same reader does. I like that punk is able to draw parallels between the reading he’s done and himself to express how he feels. After being in prison, the only thing that someone can do to relate to their world is draw from what they’ve learned. What else is there to do really? It’s nice that punk has community unlike reader who I believe holds herself apart at times. Her community is there but as I’ve said before… does she always accept the help?

———————————

Giana’s POV was seriously needed this chapter . For the very first time I realized that I actually might have more in common with Giana than I thought. Giana is far from stupid and we’ve discussed this before. I think her point of view was the saddest. Coming into this space where everybody has already established these lengthy relationships/friendships and being on the outside of that. It almost seems impenetrable. It doesn’t really matter what she says or does to make nice —it will pale in comparison to the history of the club. I’ve been there. I’ve always been there so it resonated with me a lot. The scene where she’s looking at the photos and seeing just how out of place she is and recognizing that. Roman and Giana are not a match but what’s even more infuriating is that he won’t just say it to her. Even when she got upset with reader I wasn’t necessarily mad at her. I’m mad for her..mad at the situation. She just realized her position and she’s crashing out. I can’t say I haven’t been there. I actually hope Giana does Roman worse than reader—not that it would hold any weight. His heart isn’t with Giana so I’m not sure it would be nearly as impactful.

——————————

Roman this chapter has…. infuriated me. I understand his qualms and frustrations with reader. The way he talks to reader towards the end of the chapter just frustrates me. I can’t help but wish that people handled reader with a little more care. Sometimes he’s so ready to jump down her throat just for a reaction. When he starts to touch her I almost wish she smacked the taste of his mouth —deadass. It’s always a “gotcha” with him and it’s starting to piss me off badly. The hole just keeps getting deeper and now reader has graduated from being kissed to fingered! And even then he can’t even be honest with himself about how he feels. I need him to get it the fuck together asap.

——————-

Despite my obvious biases—every character is so well written. So much time and care was put into this story. This chapter was of course a 10 just like all the others. Looking forward to how Roman and reader continue to move forward. Excited for more interactions with Cody. Hoping that cody doesn’t get hurt or at least stays a safe space for reader when he inevitably finds out. Wishing Giana the very best and that FAWK nigga the very worst. Actually. Reader and Giana —-just kiss.

tanks of blood (8) - muddy coffee & supermarket cake

pairings: biker!dean ambrose x june (plus size black!oc) | biker!cody rhodes x black reader (fluff) | biker!roman reigns x black reader (mature/explicit) warnings: mentions of criminal activity. descriptions that imply stalking. story dialogue that implies suicide, but not from any of the in-universe characters, reader being a little needy and making selfish decisions? unsavory language concerning addiction (cigarettes) which isn't present much but is mentioned with a one off line. description/talks of reoccurring panic attacks. authors note: multiple pov's in this chapter and intro-ing new characters! some world building. this chapter might take a long, thorough read, which is a bit time consuming BUT i think, for whoever reads it, you'll be thoroughly satisfied by the end... i hope... HAPPY READING! word count: don't get me started (17k) tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @kill-the-artiste @sortudademais

only at june's house, does this spooky, overworking buzz come. a dizziness. an undulation. like being caught up in the ripple of vigorously treaded water, but behind the eyes. the pull out before that tall, wavy, rush in, crashing over him in the morning. a float in his bones, in the body, his head drifting a ways away from him. from arms and legs and that grimy, nightly fearsome sense that sticks to him like thick summer air.

warmth covers deans face and his feet give an easy take to the floor boards. steps so light it's like he's hovering over. and fuck what a feeling it is. a feeling that yes, happens to only be a morning thing. a too bright summer daylight happening. gently giving a stir into a mug. having the type of patience and attention for such quiet work here that he teems with too much energy. almost like he can't hold the softness of it.

coffee thats not too light but not too dark either. an even brown with hints of sugar. because june likes it like this. likes the curtains peeled back to let the sunrise in. likes to nest under pillows and have her breakfast at her bedside. likes to wake up too damn early before her rush to leave the house because perhaps she'll cave under the pressure of the day if she just doesn't soak in that morning glow. 

the waft of the coffee curls up at him. blows in thick and homey. steams white over his bones till they ache from the weight of having to carry him up whole. brewing and lazying under the sunrise as it comes, a ritual he'd miss once upon a time to beat it entirely. a barely heard departure before the shutter of his car engine broke over the early morning day air. his walkings and his doings and his business better suited sunless. before june could ever have the chance to come from that sleep of hers.

but now he stays. stirs coffee filled mugs. bones and brains like feathers. high off that terribly spooky feeling that sweetens the blood just too much. makes everything sharp. the mint on his tongue. the emptiness in his belly. the break of light pass the window. that earthy coffee smell that pulls in strong. it's all just a little more here. the boldening of usual thin lines. a filling in, a filling over, till it's doubling to spill and flood and consume. only in the morning though, and only at june's house. 

"we playin house now?" 

june holds sleep in her voice well. so good that it makes dean shiver. like old, tired, almost too sad jazz. warm to him. cradling and soothening up against those dirty strong bits of resolve. an easy persuasion for him to come in further and further till he's setting down the cup of coffee and claiming her full soft cheeks instead. his lips trying to savor the life of this good sort of troublesome, spooky little whatever that rattles him whole. tongue unable to perform fast or deep enough, because this is june's house and dean can't work now, with the same ease and finesse that he uses on his bike when he's roaming about and doing club related business.

yeah, no, not on this street, in this house, where his precious little june stays. and she hates that name. precious. but he loves it. her body taking a smooth glide up and over the muscle of him till he's nestled under her and laying against the sheets. silently arrested. his fingers at her nape, running over short, tapered, coiled up hair, her touch curling into his chest. like carving into him to open him up wide. he groans, like he's content to rest here for sometime, moving and pushing against her till they lay parallel. pecking and licking and teasing at each other. 

her lips thick and gentle. meshing and pulling and the air that rolls out between them accented with bright thin sounding short caught up breaths. 

his chest does away, a hint of inconsistency. a beat that skips. fingers strong, curling into the warmth of her skin. her eyes so dark, they're near black, even when living amidst that spill in of shine from beyond the windows. eyes like the night, like the ether. 

dean nestles into her neck. nose running to get it's fill. something sweet with hints of spice. far too earthy to be wholly summer inspired. a groan lingering there as it escapes his throat. that swimming sensation behind the eyes still rocking with great force. lulling and caressing and coaxing him in. his tongue slipping over his lips. athirst. 

his teeth nip into her neck. fingers finding a home in the bend of her knee till they shift one of her thighs to fall over his waist. "this is premium domesticity", a mumbling sort of purr. oozing off the tongue like it'd been aching to leave him. mouth pursing to litter affection along that column of skin. "white picket fence, house on the prairie shit". reaching over to grab the mug he'd spent too much time stirring. because june hates when those bits of sugar remain at the bottom with the coffee dregs. her round cheeks grimacing, mouth full of unmixed sugar and coffee sediments. and dean doesn’t like the unhappiness of that expression. the way it casted over to rule with an unsavory air about everything. "two sugars and a splash of cream". 

june sits up from under his hard body. the sheets joining her to cover well as she rests against the headboard. eyes like obsidian. sharp and with a means, if hot enough, to cost him terrible ruin. cutting over him without delay. "this is a ploy", she gives. a smile thats all knowing. wry and anticipatory. "i'm gettin buttered up for grade A fuckery". 

he chuckles. palms running over thighs under the sheets. "fuckery requires plots and schemes and a whole lot of trouble honey. i got a maybe simple question for you at best, but nothing worth that look you givin me".

the air stutters. that dreamlike glow it'd helplessly soaked itself in dimming abruptly. june blinking. like the waking up from a daze. a blank destructive stare over the rim of her mug. like she's just gotten a mouthful of grainy sugar and those coarse grounded sediments. the porcelain of the cup clacking hard against the nightstand as it rests, a hardening of the eyes. this grand assessment. "so what?", she starts. a flare in her nose before it settles. "you couldn't inquire about nefarious little bullshit before sticking your dick in me last night?..." her fists balling and retracting. an edge to the voice, even in the permanence of its softness, these jagged corners about her words, shaped in a way as to mimic the dangerous work of shards of glass. a cutting sort of quality that pierces better than it should. better now than it would've some months ago. the natural dregs of him muddying her morning. something she has never been too fond of. "...and again after i woke up earlier?" the sheets ruffling, flipping over at the expense of such sudden anger. 

and dean is lost. dizzy still, like that ugly forceful jolt the body takes after an abrupt wake up. because they'd had a delicate passion before early daylight. something tender and skin burning. but this was not that. this was the beginning of its end. that harsh final moment of a dream, knowing the body will break and become alive again out of all that made up, distorted greatness. june's body naked now as she plucks up a robe to cover herself. giving the loose belt of it a mean, swift knot tie. 

"that's not what—"

"thats some wierdo shit ambrose", she cuts. a snarl of words that itch his skin in a bad way. and then they take on a smallness. like the low affections of their existence is too much to say loudly. "that doesn't feel gross to you? like—like a transaction?"

dean's palms grow damp. a slipping off sensation. the morning light stabbing his eyes. that lulling little swim behind them calming to a terrible stillness. like the receding pull in before a storm. "well...thats just wrong...", dazed and his words failing to meet strong. confusion forming still. because they were fine. wrapped up in each other and such. "thats not what this is". 

june scoffs. shimmy's into a pair of slacks that form over her legs just right. refusing to meet his eye line. the stark feel of something vicious in his chest, a pang that works so well he might bruise from it. going on with a greatness that he refuses to acknowledge the full brunt of it. 

"you have impeccable fuckin timing then", her voice gritting out. cold and loud. a steel impact.

and then comes a deep wavering, like the silent, disruptive ask for a reprieve. and this is no sign of some humble defeat no, but a tactical retreat meant to benefit them both. a fluid lift up off the bed to garner more space. to breathe in full, till the air encompasses his lungs enough to settle nerves. counted breaths. maintenance of a once piss poor disposition at the arrival of—of inadequate communication. the shock of her voice, the pitch and the height of it, jostling his belly. cold eyes a terrible opposition to how cute and full her cheeks are. but this abrupt elevation does him a shitty bout of violence. harsh bellows and mean crackling smacks against wood dirtying his ears. his fathers older brother, making it everyone's business to know of his wrath. memory working cruel. 

"hey", dean gives. eyes flitting up. the semblance of a warning. "lets keep it at an eight AM volume alright?"

"yeah keep your bullshit at an eight AM volume". 

"june...", dean sighs. restless in the space he's created. a cautious stepping up into her semi-walkable closet. fingers reaching for a touch. for that tender slip of skin that makes him feel high. 

she shifts hard. snatches herself away. "don't touch me". 

dean is grateful, he hasn't eaten yet. belly whirling about ridiculously. something akin to fear silhouetting already dark eyes. the hesitation of it cruel all on its lonesome. like she's unsure if her denial is sin. a punishable offense. the way his body holds up the space of the door, looking to envelope without any initial regard. like that way of being is something of a second nature to him. sewn into fabric. but dean steps back. releases the tension without much delay. closing in and crossing up his arms for good measure. "listen", watching her button up a collared shirt. "i'm not checkin in on you weekly and layin it on you raw just to tease little bits of information from you. i could do that with anybody that calls themselves a lawyer. especially greedy ones looking for a little extra cash—" 

"but you just implied—" 

"i misspoke, alright? i don't got the way you take coffee committed to memory cause i'm lookin to gain something. it's cause i like remembering stuff about you". 

june does that blinking she likes to do. assessing and reassessing. blank stares and wordless little evaluations. 

"look, lets drop it. i don't have shit to ask, ok?" 

"ok", she relents. meeting his eyes wearily. 

"can i touch you now?"

hesitation plays. performs in the fingers as she fiddles with the buttons of her shirt. mulling over the request. testing the weight of his desire to be near her—dean is sure—to see just how true it feels to her. something she does often. a short shuffle up to his hard body. peering up just under her feathery lashes. a gentle resignation she won't rest in for too much longer before her uncertainties take her again. because it's in june's job description to question and nitpick and pry and pull. but the tug of her lip under teeth is evidence enough of some wiggle room being granted in his favor. a chance to remedy. her own release of tension made despite poorly placed words and odd timing. 

"yes". 

stalling isn't dean's game. never has been really. the boots he wears too thick and loud to ever hesitate on anything. the vice president's patch on his kutte silver and too prideful about how long the stitching has lasted. a forever condition made by that earned worn leather, so surely theres nothing stopping him here. no hindrances in his spirit or ill skittish feelings that leave him unable. palming june's cheeks to kiss her firmly. lips meshing quick to dampen all that unwanted, shaky, shilly energy binding her up stiff. and when she's melting into him again, albeit slow and half committed, fingers running up his arms and her breathes short and pitchy, he peaks his tongue out for good measure. lures her into the beginnings of a dazing distraction. the wet slight of it along her full lips, drawing up a moan from her throat that sinks into him cunningly. like it's been formed and made as a counter to his own ministrations. her palm sweeping low. over the end his hard belly, just near his-

"how you gettin to the office?", thumbs over her cheeks. 

she pushes. slots her lips over again for delicate takes of affection. pats his arm dearly, a smirk playing as she steps back into her closet for shoes. "you're taking me. call it premium domesticity". 

"touche". 

but this all feels too easily done away with. surely the other shoe will drop soon. she'll rear back with something else. proclaim him guilty again of poorly chosen words given at terrible times. revoke her affections. point to the leather hanging over her dresser messily . cast a darker hatred over it. 

...nefarious little bullshit... as she so nicely put it. 

"hey", dean calls. that sensation in his hands again. a grief the palm feels after something has been dropped from the safety of it. "i'm sorry".

she hums. consideration. packing an accordion briefcase., with documents and slimmer folders. "it's noted". 

he dresses. a quiet efficiency. those harsh rays of daylight falling away to hide behind the build of the house to give his eyes neither that stabbing pain or the accentuation of some swimming daze of a dream. it leaned into neither extreme, but suffered the room to live as it did any other. with a normalcy. like the coming together to meet in the middle, the compromise of violence and a dream. because that's all there is to anything. violence and dreams. 

he plucks his leather off her dresser to put it on. the material heavy and singing in that odd scrunchy way that only leather can. eager maybe to fill the air. to attempt to conform to it, or have it be conformed to. who knows? 

"i'll be in the car when you're ready".

and remember? stalling isn't deans game. boots too thick and heavy and dark and worn and terrible to be anything else but sure footed. so why does his step falter, making to leave the bedroom, the house, foot hitching like it means to stop and retrace. waiting for another word of something to lighten the damn air. just a little something to re-brighten the room. restore it to former glory. an unrests of movements that usually live with a predetermined motivation. and he hates this. a calculated silence isn't it? punishment. torture. for letting the night in during daytime. for not keeping his boots and his leather far enough away from her bed. 

the summer breeze is as thick and mean and chill-less and disgusting as its ever been. the crown of his head performing dramatic like it's already been hit. like the other shoe has already dropped. something about his chest squeezing so odd, enough that it's troubling. the car air blowing hot and gross as he waits for it to cool. that inconsistency again. a skip near where his heart beats before its plummeting sorely into his belly. laying at the base there, spreading about to undo him messily. 'it's noted'. what the hell does that even mean? like she'd taken his sincerity and scribbled it on some feeble piece of loose leaf. words in the breezeless wind. the summer heat singeing the lined paper till it's a palms worth of billowing ash. 

...nefarious little bullshit...

..."its noted"...

he wants to bang his head into the steering wheel. feel it bluntly till that sweet swimming sensation is given back to him. 

the passenger door opens. a settling in accompanied with a long, thought filled sigh. like she's prepped for the ride. prepped to deal with the silence she's so graciously ushered in to sit between them. 

"what was your question?" 

dean can see the brown in june's eyes. curiosity fragile and warm. and he rather her eyes be darker, blacker like in the safety of her house. an unmitigated replica of nighttime. piercing him whole and sharp and without delay. but not this, an earthier blooming of a softer color. he doesn't like it.

"june...", like a plea to stop. 

"just ask". 

his throat thick and the words forming solid, almost cruel like. which is odd, silly even. because didn't there always live an intention to pick her brain? to ask? to meet at that middle place of a sweet dream and the reality of some always alive, waiting in the shadows violence. dwell in it for a moment before the easy retreat into a too beautiful thing. her lips and her skin and her hair and the smooth aching take of her words over his skin. a simple question that she'd answer without wait or overthought. a done up finely concession. dean huffs. his thumb and pointer squeezing to pull at his nose. a reprieve frustratingly sought after, in vain. 

he'll settle for a minimal thing. broach with a less worked curiosity. 

"had a car come by the shop recently. i think the plates on it might've been a clone. know anything about that?' 

she sighs. words cautious as they give. "i've heard some things, a few cases...", her lip skating to pull from under her teeth. mulling over her phrasings. "...charges for speeding, drag racing, red light runs. stuff like that...and then just clients disputing the fines, fighting charges...". her fingers pulling to press a scratch into the roots of her hair. brows pulling. everything of her unsure. a display dean's yet to witness till now. "...the cloning stuff, it's not new but, it's a bit more dialed for sure".

"ok". 

finally the air in his car blows cooler. rushes out hard and fierce. like it means to ache him quickly. 

"why'd you wanna know?" 

june's eyes are not so dark like obsidian. beautiful still but no, they are not colored with a nighttime darkness. june's eyes are burnt umber brown. an old, earthy, fine, warmth. it would be terrible wouldn't it? to ruin them. 

"don't make me lie to you". 

suffocating. roman is got-damn suffocating. a terrible issue since you were sixteen. hitches in your breath and small tremblings under the skin. and yeah, it was petulant then. a little gross in how full of adolescence it was. excusable behavior though for a young girl who'd never been touched by the crazed, racy desire of a boy. but this? this is stupid. that tight, airless feeling in the lungs still, after so much time. stifled and choking and helpless and weak. his mouth soft and his hands too strong for the body to do anything within them but succumb to that exacting tug and give. and yes, you were exhausted from work, delirious even, but it didn't mean you were supposed to like it. like the lazy slip of his tongue and the grip of his palm at your neck. his groaning and the flex of taut muscle under the pull over of your nails. teeth sinking into your lip to prick mean, like he was forcing you to remember him, to acknowledge the weight of his existence. his body tall and wide and fastening you to the wall and—

it's all your father's fault really. because kendrick greggs was a picture taker. kept memories stilled forever like any enthusiasts of a thing would. aimless photos of wheels and fenders and chrome, till the interest grew. his camera everywhere, clicking at everything. at his biker brothers, and his wife. so it didn't take long, for his lingering eye to catch you wrapped up in the arms of a boy amidst the reveal of the viewfinder. but not just any boy. roman and his fingers filled with finesse. mouth inching close and sneaky and faint. like that lewd twist of a kiss would give up everything. 

"don't pussyfoot around with my kid. if you gon kiss her, then do that shit with some balls!"

he'd made a fucking spectacle of it. the both of them did. KG smiling mischievously behind that metal little camera, clicking away as roman smothered your mouth whole. stealing the air from your lungs and humming. 

and he hadn't said much then after. your nerves split raw at the seams, waiting for him to draw up ballistic, because you'd heard the menace he could fall into. could feel even the darkness of it settling in, roman pressed into your body waiting just the same. but your father had only ever tugged a smile onto his mouth. something small. an acknowledgment that lived minimally. enough for recognition and nothing more. 

"i'll allow it", he'd given. turning to leave you be. 

it was enough for roman then. at seventeen and eighteen and nineteen and twenty and then at twenty one. it was enough for him to grow eager in how breathless he left you. and the time, the distance, did nothing to change it. 

it's a haunting really. something like a repossession. a mixture of both. the way he'd held at your nape, breaths cascading, like he'd meant to drape himself over you. it'd only been a week, but the impression of it stuck. nestled it's way to live in already terrible dreams. his presence troubling your sleep, rattling an imagination with a penchant for disturbed things. because the busyness of new york had done well in drowning out the older, terrible, unspeakable things. things riddled with blood and bones and dust that not many knew about. but your old house and the hot florida air and roman's everything, have all managed to fall into one another with this painful compliance of tearing you apart. a violent undoing that leaves you to break awake, sweaty and looking for air. 

you're sure, your heart would trouble itself with a dramatic rupturing if it were any weaker. 

and your phone bursts alive. a blaring little ringer and it does your head in. the morning's here at your parents' old house, too quiet. pin drops like the awful droning tumble down of an avalanche. 

but the number is unknown. (850) 201-7794. "hello", your throat dry. scrapping together to give weakly into the phone. a heavy breath plays. like it only means to listen. like it's waiting. "hello? who is this?" a growl gives. performing in the background. the snarl of a dog maybe. surely. disgusting, curt, barks echoing to punch into your ear. 

"who the fuck is this?", you grit. a small shake in your hands. a weariness from poor sleep and the disturb of this.

movement goes over the line. those heavy, painstaking breaths again, before an abrupt, nervy "fuck", is left, the dread of an accident already done, just before the drop of the call. leaving you alone to deal with the aching swim in your gut. a war of a headache at the forefront of your skull. pain just behind the eyes. 

8:22 AM. all this bullshit at 8:22 AM. 

a tired breath blows. surrendering to that sluggish, restless nag coddling your bones. a grogginess that leaves the eyes dazed and your hands slow. reaching for your phone again to tap at the screen. leaving it to ring in your ear. bottom lip tucking under your teeth as you wait for him to answer. and it's new york all over again. slipped under the cool of those too grey sheets, laying up in the bed of a cramped apartment amidst the dreary, rainy, bustle of the city. the drone of it lulling you in and out of a hazy sort of sleep. flashes of dreams but nothing sticking well enough to settle with a true definition. the disjointed blur of something awful, taunting. your hands shaky and unsure, the drag of your phone against the bedside table, a terrible fog behind the eyes as you make to call. looking for that thing, for him. for the sweetness in his tone and the warmth of whatever words would come with it. 

but that was then, the distance making it hard to reach him. clinging only to his voice, begging for it to settle your bones, and the aching cold growing over them.

now though, now is something else. something a ways more liminal and undefined. 

"yes?" a tired, deep drawl to his voice. skating delicate, seeping in, unfurling hot. 

you hum, nestling into it. "did i wake you?"

he's groaning in your ear and shifting about, the rasp of it taking you in whole. a small smile pulling even as you tug your lips still with your teeth. imagining all that taut muscle moving about. pale gold and herculean. the shine in his sky blue eyes and the slipping take he gives with his tongue over his teeth—

"i gotta get up anyways, s'fine", his throat clearing. trying to get away from the sleepiness of it. "you alright?" 

"yeah...", reaching over to the nightstand for a loose torn piece of paper and a pen. "yeah, i'm good", writing out that number from moments ago. "can you stop by before headin' in today?" 

"what's wrong?" 

a sudden shift into readiness, into urgency, this endearing little work that makes the nasty remnants of sleep and terrible dreams less awful and a little further away. phone tucked in to hold at your ear. rising up to throw on thin shorts and a loose—just on the precipice of too worn—flannel. tucking that piece of paper into the chest pocket. 

"might just wanna see you. is that allowed?", you play. 

"you'll see me then". 

the call drops comfortably. the air less thick. moveable, though remaining in it still is that almost silence. a just barely perceptible chord. this dull, bass filled, strumming hum. the compilation of everything far and deep and odd and unknown. the graceful taunting performance of a foreboding thing. or maybe you just need coffee. a bit of fresh air. some sun. the quiet of the house too quiet. from your bed to the bathroom, and then from your bathroom to the kitchen, a heavy stillness that is just too surrounding to live well enough in without the self given threat of going mad. but that's always been a condition of the house. the creaky hardwood floors and the walls and the air forcing you to fill in it's silence. to save it from itself. from the emptiness given to it. 

a light, sweet, melodic tune plays, setting an old record onto the player your father kept in the living room. 

...the deep rumble of his humming, taking against the air feather like. soothing and tender. his body sitting leisure on the floor, tall and upright against the couch. your mother tucked into his side. their fingers folded, one into the other...

fifteen and wondering then, slowly creaking in from that long stretching hallway, to watch them sit in silence. the florida nights not nearly as hot as they are now. the house smelling like lavender and leather and little bits of tobacco. sticking so well into the build of the walls that it still lives here. like a stain of fragranced oil on the skin.

there are remnants of it still. that lavender and leather and tobacco. earthy and old and thick in the nose. filling up the lungs like the rising in of a well. seeping into the cracks till its soaked to the core of that strong brick. and this is what that light, gentle work of the melody does faithfully. it fills in. brings life to dead things. folds over to embrace with tender touches, humming a soothing, ache-less song. carries over in the air like a breeze with sure directions. 

and kendrick greggs loved music. loved his wife, his daughter and his motorcycle. but God did he love his coffee. would pour out great, disturbing heaps of it to be filtered into water. a muddy, thickness to it. the smell filling up the house whenever he decided it was a good time to return. his palms holding the cup strong, despite the scars from old wounds over his knuckles painting the skin and etching in permanent like white inked tattoos. his silver rings clinking nearly everything they touched. leather over his shoulders like it'd been sown into the skin beneath it. the grays in his beard more white than gray and his eyes a mahogany brown that lives richly enough still to haunt your dreams. sipping his coffee and staring over everything. his kitchen and his couch and the walls cluttered with too many pictures. the patterns of the floor boards and his old record player and your face. 

sipping muddy, sugarless coffee, his eyes forlorn, prickling your skin.

"...you look like your mother...", he'd said. "...and i ain't all that pretty so...that's a good thing...".

you'd smiled tight lipped. sipped muddy coffee with him and dealt with the silence together. formed a thousand questions and had them die on the tongue before you ever mustered the courage to ask. because if you looked like her, enough for his sorrows to drown him whenever he looked up to meet you at the eyes, then it was true, you'd wind up leaving like her too right?  

the percolator rumbles to life. begins that process of making too strong, muddy coffee. the knob of the front door twisting as the lock clicks. heavy boots trying not to be too heavy. 

"it's me!"

the domesticity of it all runs a skitter under the skin. a comfortable feeling. 

"kitchen!", you throw over your shoulder. pulling draws to bring pots and pans up onto the stove. 

his approach is cautious and gentle. rounding the island as you maneuver about. his hand giving a squeeze to your arm, "good morning", before he's pecking your cheek gingerly. the touch of it safe and quick and not enough. 

"i got up, so i guess so right?" 

you wrangle a number of things from the fridge to set them aside. a line of a shiver drawing small down your back. those sky blue eyes trailing, and digging softly, looking. you can feel them working. cody's voice less horse from sleep but sure moving still. tired and sweet and low. 

"talk to me". 

"s'nothing...", trying to abate the mess of the morning. the aches and the shivers from unknown things. "...just a bad dream"..., turning to face him. "...it kinda fucked me up a bit but i'm good".   

"you shouldn't sleep in that room", his arms folding up to cross. a regard filled with concern. too much concern. "my mother sleeps in their bed still, says she can feel him at night, can smell him. thats not easy to deal with". 

"m'still cleaning up the others...", eyes squeezing tight. your hands slipping over your eyes and cheeks, as if it'd wipe away the full, overwhelming warmth stored there. "...it's a whole process". 

"cause you're refusing help, my help". 

you sigh. "i need to do it for me cody". 

"i hear you". 

and this, here with cody, is different. something like the deep pull of an inhale. tired muscles, tired still, but that faithful pulse of an ache, wavers. conceding for a moment. a strong, fine, tenderness that can only be made in the stillness of this liminal space. all the words of sharply defined things left to be nestled on the tongue and at the back of the throat. lodged for safe keeping. waiting to live and be spared from their silence, even if they're made to leave a little sputtered and awkward and graceless. and of course it's no different from that terrible suffocation, just as adolescent feeling under the skin. a frustration there too. like maybe you should have more finesse about this. not be so hesitant and artless. 

you reach for him. pulling at the fold of his arms, bringing him in to close up all that dead, needless space between the two of you. "be closer". 

he leans a hand against the counter, peaks of tattoos drawing up the arm, exposed by the scrunch up of his sleeves. fingers adorned with silver rings that used to be his fathers. his body leaning in so well that it fills the air in your nose with the spiced smell of his leather. his other hand pulling up under the baggy fall of your flannel, thumb nestling where the line of your spine ends. a shiver and a hum playing as you move to cradle his face. closer till he's nudging his nose and skimming his mouth to tease. his jaw cutting sharp, but the skin soft. your touch playing in delicate circles. shuddered little breaths that grow sore in wanting a better fullness. 

the splay of his palm, pushes in. brings you to flush against him. "m'following your lead on this. i don't wanna overstep and it takes us somewhere we don't want to be". 

you smile. "such a gentleman". 

"so i've been told", words licking into your mouth with the slight of his tongue over his lips. taking a small little taste before he's on you and pulling tender. warm lingering kisses that leave an essence of mint in your mouth. his throat humming again, deeper this time. not like contemplation, no, like satisfaction. like the enjoyment of this is too much for words and all his body can spare is the buzz and rumble of that noise. 

and then he sweeps in wet. teasing like. a sharp, fierce, excitement. lapping at your tongue in a thick, languid fashion that forces you to inhale. to breathe before pushing in for more. a purr bleeding hot and easy from your chest till it's alive in your fingers. clutching at the silver skull buckle of his pants. nipping his mouth and smiling delirious into his touches as his palm lowers and presses in. long fingers curling in at the fat of your ass. smothering there then with a kneading touch that makes you pulse between your thighs. 

another deep breath as you part to look at him. fingers having traveled into his hair. holding him so you can see that hot glimmer amidst all the soft blue in his eyes. "the coffee is almost done. you should stay for breakfast". 

"can't". apologetic. a short kiss to your mouth. then to the corner of it. "gotta be in on time. a lot of stuff to handle today".

your touch plays persuasive, drawing down his arms till you're guiding him to hold you closer. impossibly closer. hugging him in.

"you're handlin now". 

he chuckles. perfect teeth and all. a thumb of his raising to catch at your lip. your lips tender and swollen some. "i'd love to take care of you, i really would, but i can't stay that long". 

you kiss his thumb. short lingering little pecks. "that long huh?"

"it's been a while, a lot of ground to cover. i need time". 

"good to know". 

he sweeps your cheek. a gentle little strum along your face before it's meeting his other hand to rest comfortable at your hips. making a home out of the heat teeming there. "am i seeing you later?" 

a dramatic breath huffs, the evenings events forming back into a shapely remembrance. not just any welcome home celebration, but a bloodline welcome home celebration. the night bound to hold some fuckery to it somewhere.  dropping your head into his chest. "i don't have a choice", you grumble. "i was told to make a cake. m'being reeled in by naomi for hospitality duties". 

cody chuckles. rubs up your back. consoling. "like you never left. this is a good thing".

"is it?"

he takes your face. cradles it firm. forces your attention on him. "yes. stop worrying". stepping away to walk heavily towards the door. "walk me out". 

you follow. that spiced leather smell trailing in towards you still as you step behind him. the slim take of an emptiness growing in your belly, like a slow paced simmer, where the warmth had decided earlier to bloom and spread at the touch of his fingers and mouth. need. it's need. the same need that worked and curled in your voice with bits of persuasion to get him to stay. to get him keeping his mouth on you and his touch as firm as it was. the same need that fluttered your chest to live amidst the heavier morning aches and pains. that twisting in your belly after breaking awake hard and the unease beneath your skin after the strangeness of  that phone call—

"wait", pulling his arm to stop. his body standing tall in the doorway. "forgot to give you this". pulling out that torn piece of paper from the chest pocket of your flannel. giving it for him to take. "got a call from this number earlier...it was before you got here. something felt off, weird. look into it maybe?"

his eyes don't break from the paper. and he doesn't move in the doorway. giving short hard blinks. like he's gathered his thoughts away from you to be else where.  

"cody, is everything—"

he moves. quick. abrupt. out of his head. a firm peck at your cheek before he's stepping down swiftly to his bike just in front your house. "i'll see you later". he mounts. swings his leg over and secures his helmet. that playful, teasing air to him gone away so well, it's like it never was there. "call if you need anything".

the engine roars to life, a rumble forward till he's gone and disappearing down the street. 

sixteen and seventeen and eighteen, jitters all up in your skin from the slyness of him. that breathlessness of yours and those sweet bouts of trembling, nearly half his height way back when, just where his chest puffed out strong, but always having to look up to take him in. little flinches away but tugs to his belt loop to bring him closer too. hitches in your breath before that melt into the softest sound. a drawling, helpless little moan of a thing. like your needs and wants were playing too well against each other, warring and laying waste enough till there was nothing much left for you to do but grow weak and breathy for him. all the noises charming his ears. and it's natural isn't it? eventually growing out of all that unruliness in the body. being able to take the force of him without losing yourself. hell, by twenty four, trembly and overworked or not, you became real good about accepting the finesse of things. him handling your inner thighs and the hot whispers in your ears. his tongue pressing into your neck and his teeth pulling over your lips. the weight of him blanketing over. sounds he'd never heard before, sounds he fought to remember. 

but no, the unruliness of it all, that part of you is still there. a permanent housing that makes his chest swell. 

there in the bathroom of the clubhouse, grazed and bleeding and depleted of a long standing control, roman had done a not smart thing. throwing away nearly a decades worth of resolve and patience for ancient feelings. like the buzz of a taste after being faithfully cold sober. that slipping chill that courses the body. a too friendly reacquaintance.  

it was one of the dumbest things he'd done in a long time.

"can we see each other later?" a working there in giana's voice and in the run of her fingertips. gentle circling motions that attempt to root up a deeper intimacy. a leg thrown over his waist and her lips laying to kiss him. fingering with his beard and snuggling in closer every second. all this delicate allure draping over her, a thin veil to cover that growing necessity for other things. hooded eyes trying to claim him to a focus. a reel in from those far away thoughts—you— that plague him brutally in the mornings. "we could have a part two of last night", purring smooth and slipping over to straddle him more. her warm legs spread over him and her lips taking him in for another kiss.  

sharp quick flicks of tongue. exacting. like with the make of it comes too much method. too much forethought. like maybe it's all meant to please him. 

but bullshit begets bullshit. one dumb thing after another. a snowball of errors that roll into an avalanche. 

your face, the taste of your mouth, and the way your tired body surrendered with a faithfulness in the small corner of that clubhouse bathroom. memory sore as it corralled back into place under your skin. one image and then another, till he could hear and feel you too. his belly tight and his breath shuddering in that disgusting way. stuttered and weak and all consumed. loud and messy and lax all over. subdued and—

it was dumb. caught up in whatever throes of passion then, just last night, with a beautiful woman, with giana, but thinking about another. his everything haunted and possessed. crawling from the ground these undead things, pulling his muscles up taut to yank and prop and puppet him. his tongue curling in giana's mouth to find that taste again. holding her tight, and moving and doing, and these dirty little whispers in her ear, just the way you always liked it. a secret just for the two of you alone. shivering delicate in his hands so good, so sweet, that he'd kiss you sloppily from the drunkenness that came from him being all wrapped up in your embraces. nails in his skin, just deep enough there to make him groan and shake—God!— 

roman shifts, slips out of the sheets. the bed too hot and his chest racing. blood pulsing about the lightening draw of his veins, thundering hard there after. 

he slips on a pair of sweats, baggy and black and sitting low at his hips. fingers combing and tying his hair up into a knot. something untidy and loose and rushed, much like that curling feeling beneath his skin. eyes else where. trailing and cutting up and away and skating along but never meeting giana really. like coasting the borders of the bed where she lays still. beneath fluffy sheets all content and comfortable. 

his bedroom connects to a bathroom. flicking the light on quick. everything in his body, pressing out with a particular speed. that leather over his shoulders, resting over thick and black and absorbing, can't come fast enough. the rushing wind from the drive of his bike and the blurs of lights and bodies along the street. 

water over his face. a splash that chills the heat over his cheeks. his routine as efficient as it is hasty. like the time in the day here, in this bed-connected-bathroom, is passing too slow, forcing his bones to form over with metal. weighty and tougher to carry. a swirling in his belly, mint on his tongue and his eyes fresher now. is it horrible to leave her here like this? to deny her requests for something a little more? not extra, no, but more? padding back into the bedroom for a t-shirt. white and bright against the sun. plain but contrasty against that old, worn, black, grimy leather. 

this ugly little stomach feeling, it isn't new. no it's old. has upturned, pretty little defying eyes and a sweet mouth made just for him to feel. it presses his gut and roughs his nerves hard. almost like it's daring him to do something about the way it's living again to oppose him and all the progress he's made living without it. and so be it then. so fucking be it. 

"there's a thing happenin' tonight...", he gives. words working against that continuous twist in his belly, but against the other hesitancies as well. a war with many armies. "...one of our guys just got out, s'like a little welcome home party...", black jeans pulling up to rough along his legs. eyes flicking to giana in the large dresser mirror before he's moving and skating away from that lingering regard again. "...i'll be tied up there for the night if you wanna—but...", stopping hard to break course, because she doesn't want that. it's not really in the bounds of their situation, "...chillin with the club ain't all that appealin to you—"

"should i bring something?" 

no one ever really wins, when the war has too many armies do they? and if all the battles are within him—the work of keeping you undone from him, from his blood and his brain, something like the greatest brass shield and keeping giana's curiosities from lingering too far into a dangerous territory, like the finest double edged sword—housed in his belly so that it tatters him raw, then he becomes the only one to triumph and be defeated yes? right? a win and a loss just the same. 

but bullshit begets bullshit. one dumb thing after another. a snowball of errors that roll into an avalanche.

"a dessert or whatever...", looping his belt through his jeans. the buckle of it a snake. the head eating the tail. the silver metal of it so cold it tingles. looking to her finally. expectant, hooded eyes. "...nothin over the top, and no alcohol. punk doesn't drink". 

"punk?" 

and this is it no? the product of their agreement. a situation. because her eyes always slid over his leather with bits of apathy. flinching in his hold when he touched her with rings decorating his fingers. never remembering the names of his street brothers and cringing at the sweet nasty song of his bike engine. shuffling up to his door step only after the sun had set and leaving just before it rose up. there was never reason to know anything about anything. so yes, this was the product of a pre-determined wish. something she now so suddenly wants to break. to overcome and reset for whatever reason. 

roman sighs. a slight bristling effect in his shoulders. "thats what we call him". 

"oh..", eyes wide. a new understanding. settling into it before that full acceptance. "..uh, ok". 

and he waits after that. sipping coffee with a terrible sensation in his palms, in the fingers they stretch to, holding a mug. fully dressed and his feet begging for the mercy of leaving. for a reprieve. for fresh air and the way his bike cuts through it. waiting for her to ready herself. waiting for giana to leave. but it seems all her maneuvers vie for some form of normalcy. for an air that only settles comfortable with slow sips of morning coffee and talks about the weather. little pan sizzling pops and the steeping in of a heavy hot aroma that clues into the greatest breakfast. but this was not that. could not be that. and damn it, she'd agreed it'd never get there didn't she? so what was this? her lingering? her attitude at the funeral. a little brazen and curious then too.

when giana does go, she parts with a kiss. presses and holds at his mouth dearly. like his mother would his father. a tight look over him like an attempt to keep him hostage. some delicate arresting that never really takes him completely. 

and it irks him. he should want this shouldn't he? move onto something new and let those old failures be? 

the ride to the clubhouse isn't as comforting as he'd hoped it'd be. the air hot, always hot, but it seems that the mugginess of it all just presses into him so that it dirties everything. muddying up already terrible nerves. like that awful, grainy taste of the dregs and sediments left over at the base of good coffee. the goodness of it no longer mattering, because all thats there, sticking to tongue and teeth, are the loose, earthy bits. 

that slipping off sensation living in his palms still. like the dropping of some fragile thing is soon to come. looming to tease with a vicious smile. it flutters his skin when he handles the bars of his bike, hot wind zipping over, and when he bends the corner to enter the clubhouse lot, and even now, never leaving, as he moves to dismount.

and he shuffles up to hard, overworked, wooden steps. the face of the clubhouse like a porch. painted a black once that looks more gray now. a shabby, distressed, unreliable looking thing of a build to the eyes. an outward deception. but that seems to be the beauty of it. the way the wood and the work of it have all managed to survive in spite of. a consistency not known to many, not even to the most faithful of men. but it doesn't do much to help roman. no it makes that terrible grief in his hands worse. 

because it was sure to happen then right? all that beautiful rich color of control and command will wither and distress into a graying one day wouldn't it? ease out of his hands and crash into a sharp breaking. 

the wooden boards of the porch creek. roman caught out of his daze to find cody standing in the corner. his eyes facing out just opposite of where roman is, staring out somewhere far. here but not really. leaning against the banister and his cheeks hallowing to pull from the burn of a cigarette. 

the smell of it carrying over too well, roman stepping up the porch till he's just in front the double doors of the clubhouse. the acrid twist of it, thick in his nose and ugly feeling in the lungs. a grimace tainting his lips, his face, but not from the smell, no. it's from the way cody inhales the plume of smoke. the way his teeth clench to pull it back into himself. unrestrained and needful. like he's looking for a full consumption of it. that slip in roman's fingers again, like he's losing. because this is not such an unusual thing, but old things never are. habits and copings dying so hard they only really lose breath for sometime before reaching up again to feel the fresh air. yeah, roman has seen his before. stood in front the terrible reflection of this mirror. 

"i thought that was done?", roman gives. voice cutting hot, thick, air. 

cody turns. sighs. blue, far away, eyes coming back to the safety of this off-colored clubhouse. taking in the burning end of the cigarette before looking up to roman, "it is. just needed...y'know...something to carry me over till later". 

"you sound like an addict", roman cuts. annoyed because the anger becomes real in his belly now. because wasn't this over a long time ago? a fire snuffed out at it's core. "stomp it out. eat something", he roughs. trailing in with heavy thuds of his heel toe. the sound along the floors like a wordless call. like a command to move and do under the eye of his will. and it happened, as it always does. the guys all falling in behind him, wordless or loud or somewhere in between, till the double doors of the church push to their limits, accommodating that great big swell of men. 

the table still a polished perfection, ageless in that way really. the image of a snake carved at the heart of it. deep moving grooves and ridges that make the image of the soul of the clubhouse. 

the ouroboros. the head and the tail. the beginning and the end. one taken into the other to complete a never ending circle. 

roman sits at the head of the table. slips the handle of the gavel in his palm. the shine of it eternal. his wrist giving an upturn before it lays to knock the wood into the sounding block. a hard thwack! that silences the room. a call to order. 

"first order of business, before we get into all the ...extracurriculars...", he starts. eyes falling on him expectant. always expectant. "...we had a brother come out the cage yesterday...", the room erupting with a hasty excitement. fists banging the table and deep, doggish hoots. "...so if you gotta show up later filled with bullet holes and half yah dick in hand then thats what it is, but ya'll better show up. i need to be seein' all of ya'll there...", tone as meaningful as it is serious. "...punk did five for us, so we can take a night off from the shelf—"

the room breaks with a chorus of groans. childish little rumblings. teeth sucks and "boo's", thrown in the air. a semblance of a smile slipping onto roman's lips at the way they mock and scoff. 

punk's ideals were always a little more controversially charged than some others. a faithful way about him when it came to living his life completely dry one hundred percent of the time. 

those firsts taste for most of them, of whiskey or rum or tequila or vodka, as young boys woefully playing as men, like a baby's first ride atop a bicycle. 

"..you killin' me here uce...", jey drags. 

"...no bullshit...", jimmy chimes. 

dean scoffs, laughs, a mixture of both really. "cold sober and listenin' to seth whine about a bullet lodged up his ass for the tenth time this week like it's a day old IUD...", he jokes, fingers at his temple like a gun to pull the trigger. "...mine as well be showin' up with half my dick in hand. could give the people a real show, somethin' to remember".

"only half?...", seth rasps. a wicked sort of smile playing. "...figured you be dickless by now, the way june's got that shit choked up in a vice grip, you're givin' all the beta's with real commitment to the cause a bad name". 

the room "Ooo's". chuckles and grins spread about everywhere. dean flipping seth off before directing his attention back to roman. 

"speakin of june, if this issue we got is real, cloned plates and all, then it's not the first case of it". 

roman's jaw clenches slow. a pressing in that lives to stress that meddling skate beneath his skin. "what'd she say?" 

dean slouches, settling into the creaky wood of his chair. "s'alot of fraudulent games being played...of the vehicular variety of course. spooky petty stuff though", his hand smoothening over the reddish color of his beard, "red light runs, drag racin', etcetera. mostly with ghost cars". 

"rhea got pinched for racin' a while back...", the natural soothed drawl of jey's voice playing. "bad plates too. took the fall for mysterio's boy". 

jimmy chuckles. a wry little go of it. "you still messin' with screamo?"

and little noises of amusement ruffle the air. jey's eyes cutting to his twin brother. "she listens to metalcore dumbass, and we not messin with each other...", his neck maneuvering oddly. awkward. like the beginnings of a secret threaten to inch their way up his nape for some untimely reveal. "...it's just a calm..lil vibe".

jimmy points. "was". 

"was", he huffs. "…a calm lil vibe", arms dropping from that cool, eased, positioning. flustered and flailing down for some strained release. "...we just cool like that, damn". 

roman sighs. the sun breaking through the window behind him to heat up his neck and the leather draping him whole. "make your point jey".

"point being, if it's anybody that knows something about all of this, then it's her...", his fingers twisting the metal rings about his fingers as he thinks. "...it'd probably be better though to connect with priest. whatever the maneuver is, if we get in alright enough with him, she'll follow". 

"set up the meet then...", roman charges, to which jey accepts. "...i want a place and time tomorrow latest". the room falling quiet again. an inching in the air that forwards itself towards the head of the table. carries with it the eyes and ears of all these metal clad, leather born men. an expectancy that itches and delights roman in equal measures. sweetening his blood and aching his fingers. the impression of the gavel there still. always there. "what's the word on nico? he discharged yet?" 

the attention shifts in intervals. those fall of eyes staggering away from roman to cody. his bout of silence being urged to be done away with. 

and roman's words bite along the tongue as he speaks them. bits of a bitterness that form ugly and loose. something similar to bile. like the slip of it, is an admission only now given to live along the air, for, if given any earlier would cause for this taste in his mouth to live longer. breathe and rage and fester and spread and mold over. "you said before that she mentioned nico...", because mentioning nico, to cody no less, means that they'd had moments together wouldn't it? would affirm a fall they've taken, into a sort of vulnerable intimacy, where such unsavory things can be brought into question. his jaw pressing again, beneath his beard, where none are wise to notice. "...did she say anything else?" 

cody clears his throat. his eyes a cold blue. bright and unrelenting. softening at the mention of you. something in roman's belly jostling then as he listens. "i didn't give her anything worthwhile. she took the hint and stopped asking". 

a sharpness in his hand twinges. like the prod of a thousand tiny terrible little needles. that impression of the gavel still breathing to live in the skin. "...this shits gotta be flipped around quick...", his nails digging into the palm there, the ball of a fist that begs for it's own relief. "...i wanna know where this kid eats, where he sleeps, what room he stinks up when he shits, where his burnt skin peels and falls...", that wood and shape so true and longstanding in it's touch that it burdens him. wills roman into something hot and nearly unmodified. "...he's too unim-fuckin'-portant to be this much of an inconvenience". 

seth scoffs. grunts hard as he shifts in his chair. eyes narrowed and harsh and bordering on the promise of some ill-advised action waiting for it's release. "those assholes put a bullet in me. i'm sorry but i need a little more than some street espionage". 

"easy", dean pipes. "you'll get yours soon".

"solo", roman calls. his younger cousin stepping forward. "...the info, get on it".  

solo nods slow. a quiet steady air about him that promises.

the gavel catching up in roman's palm again. swinging to crack against the sound block. a call to order once, now a call to completion. but that usual wholeness of the moment is lost here. the bits of it chipped like too old, too dried up paint. the rich brown finish of the sounding block rubbed away to reveal the inner color of the wood and the head of the gavel slightly splintered with a faint crack. like a small break finally, from time and too much violence. from too many summers and schemes and leather bound meetings. words a little thicker and heavier in the throat and on the tongue. like the finality in them, the way it plays to be sure, is the greatest falsehood. 

"we're done here". 

sometimes he can't breathe. an exaggeration maybe, because yes, he is breathing. he has a pulse. can feel that intake that funnels the air into his lungs. but isn't it just easier to say he can't breathe when it feels like this? and well, he won't say it with his mouth, because no one needs to know he can't breathe. but here in the face of this bathroom mirror, he can tell himself he can't breathe, can rest odd in the terrible restriction of it. an ache in the chest like something there has decided to slowly tear him asunder. a meticulously drawn out clawing up to the surface. shuddered breathes and a running under the skin that goes on long with the fear of being caught. a marathon of anticipation. but this is not the first time this has happened. no, six days before his release he'd told the county jail nurse that his teeth ached and that he couldn't breathe. she said he was having a panic attack. he told her she was full of shit. 

the bathroom sink water rushes out cold. punks hands tight against the counter. for stability. he might fall if he lets go. because the weakness here in his knees, was not a symptom before. it's a new arrival. the toilet untouched. maybe she was right. fuck. maybe she was. 

a knock on the door, and then doom curling under flesh, giving a cold bite to his bones thereafter. his stomach lurching, from this coat of fear that comes with lack of breath and from the stomachs own emptiness. "m'takin a piss, gimme a second", grumbling. the water rushing still. coming down and out too fast, with too much pressure to ever successfully simulate a decent sounding ten-one. but he tries anyways, to hide behind this water white noise sanctuary, till it's no longer the sink of an old, still standing house, but the great pouring down of a waterfall. a flow strong enough that it undoes his feet from the ground and takes him in. takes him away. but that can't happen so swift and as easy as it used to, because it doesn't have to happen anymore. but whose going to tell his mind, his body, that neither need an escape to that drowning sort of safe space?  

another knock at the door. a quick steady pace into the wood. like it means to pry him from the closeting of this bathroom. like a call meant to will him up and out of drowning in that white noise waterfall. 

the door handle twitches. sharp and impatient. a warning before entry. the threat of seizing his space against his will. his shoulders hitching to tighten, squaring off. ready. that tingling in his fingers performing sorely, an exhausted guard that brings itself to work in spite of its age, as he holds his side of the door handle. "you wanna come hold my dick for me or you gonna let me finish?" 

"open the door punk". 

but it's not a command, no. not urgent or mean. it's something far worse. the type of plea that mixes itself in with a concerned sort of compassion. pity. fucking pity. and punk can't fight against that can he? not when the voice of a brother goes on with this tone of sadness. to work and war against it, would only serve to affirm his standing in this low place. so he opens the door. tries his hand at a deep breath. his palm slicking back his hair and the other twisting the knob of the door to open.

randy orton, the sergeant at arms, standing here in all his protective glory. tall and wide and with a look to his eyes that punk decides, leaving the full safety of the bathroom, he hates. the natural low sitting of them, always calling for the anticipation of something menaced and brutish. but they're far too tender for that here. too warmed over and patient as they wait. 

and this means the following in of an explanation doesn't it? his chest aching and the words lodged in with those shallow bits of air, needing to corral something together anyways to appease. to mend the confusion after his sudden disappearance. if so, then how does he explain this weak kneed, heavy chested problem without the exposure of that terrible fragility attached to it? 

"you got a bunch of people out back waiting...", randy gives. the voice of him deep and mellow and too cool to live amidst this awful, silent, ripple in punks skin. in his fingers and toes and about his bones. "...grand entrance out of the hole remember?"

punk scoffs. "oh?...", pulling air tight in his nose. his hands falling over his face to push in there. like if he wipes away at the skin, then the warmth in his cheeks will disperse enough to chill him. but that is not the case. the heat remains, pricks his neck and draws out into his shoulders. "...didn't realize the festivities were in my honor". a mirthless little chuckle. 

"you need another minute to bitch, or you gonna talk?" 

it's evident isn't it? the war, the silent hell in him. metal caged and immovable from the depths of this too low place. the smell of iron stuck in his nose and the repetition of that rattling song. the shuddered knock of the doors pulling to close in on him. "i did five years randy", he gives. hands resting on his hips and his head hanging low. the belief of it never taking him whole till this very moment. 

"i know". 

the darkness is clear. a nothingness that gives no rise for escape. "that's not a hole. holes have air. they have a way out". 

randy leans up against the wall opposite of punk. a resignation into something less protective. that faithful shield of a disposition waning till it's diminished enough for punk to breathe easier. without the threat of judgement from it's weakness. and this simple maneuver has somehow made randy appear less large. his eyes more curious than pitying. searching for the answer too. "what are you in then, brother?" 

punk lets his eyes meet here, and for the first time since his release, they linger. taking on the regard of another despite the turmoil of being seen, of being looked upon and read. "there's a book by this guy, Jerry Mayer, s'called 'the last man', you ever read it before?" 

randy motions with his hand, come hither like, curious to know. "tell me about it". 

"its a collection of short stories written by the last man on earth...", punk starts, fighting hard to hold randy's eyes. because maybe, if he keeps him here long enough, holds his attention, then all the novelty of the moment can be replaced with a question-less understanding. "...and he's just roamin' around. he's got all this air, all this space, but it's just him. nobody to share it with, and no rhyme or reason to do anything but be alone. in the last chapter of the book he digs a ditch. he said,

‘for the first time in a long, long time, i feel the embrace of something warm. the earth smelling strong as i lay, as my fists knock in, power in me once again, commanding the dirt to cave in over head. the sleep is good here, in this low place, and all the words i'd have to speak for how well this does me, stay laid, waiting in my throat. mixed in with that good bitter grain of dirt. finally, i am no longer the last man on earth'

"you remember all that?" 

"yeah", punk sighs, wearily. "i do". 

and randy hums. a slow, low, consideration that eats at the air. at the silence of it. his palm rubbing up at the stubble along his chin and his cheeks. and maybe this is too much. an overshare that unveils the scattered, caked up, muddiness of the mess sitting low in his underbelly. where all the other easy to break things lie. the pit beneath his stomach that rolls over sore, making him hungry and hunger-less just the same. yeah, this type of talk isn't for other ears is it? it's for those lonely, muggy, sheet-less nights. a deep stare into the ceiling as the fan whirls a janky tune. for him alone—

"well...", randy says. a drawling inflection to it like he's concluding his thoughts as he speaks. "...you're not dead till you're dead, and you're not alone". 

"five years...", chuckling mirthlessly. "...what do i have to show for it? gray hairs and shitty tattoos". 

randy smiles. "you'd be surprised, chicks kinda dig the grays now..."

"i'm being serious". 

randy pushes off the wall. standing to full height again. his palms coming up to rest along punks shoulders, as if, at one time or another, he'd been split into two halves. his heavy hands pushing in, thumbs into his shoulder blades, to will the two halves into a whole. and even if this isn't the intention, the burden of his hands and his height and his eyes, all speak for randy like it's true.  

"walk briskly to what you want. run to get the shit you need". 

punks eyes roll. "and what genius said that?"

"me". 

the hallway fills with small, comfortable amusement. punk's breathing not so caught up, and randy's eyes less pitying. 

"c'mon", randy patting punks back. "let's go get some cake". 

an error made by and against the self is the more terrible of the two, the other being, errors made against the self by others. yeah, the latter calling for a rich sort of righteous anger. done up so well in the blood that it draws in delicious. days, weeks, months even, settling to sit in high and justified. but this is not that, no, this is the sharp sickening twist of the former. a disgusting trouble that undulates the belly. makes it swim and swish and roll. because it was a funny little thing wasn't it? a short, sweet, silly little go of comedy to giana. because a guy could have enough morals to be straightedged, but not enough to keep himself out of jail? she needed someone to make it make sense. the store bought supermarket cake weighty in her hands. eyes slipping over the homey decor of the address roman texted her. framed photos littering everywhere, like the house was built to be more of a memorial sight than a living space. 

and the endless stretch of hallway connecting the kitchen to the backyard stands a little too lively for giana's taste. cluttered, maximalist bullshit. photos and paintings and plants. like the regressed, toothy smile, of some nostalgia ridden "remember when" story threatening to break against the air. a flavor so rich it becomes too thick in the mouth to handle. those little jogs to the past are terrible and lengthy, her feet a perpetual skate at the border, waiting for entry. to be folded in. on jokes and tears and old bouts of anger diffused now to underbelly deep bits of laughter. 

but this is the way in right? this is the key that opens the door. that settles her in more comfortably. store bought vanilla icing cake and a toothless smile. and how could she be any worse than him?, than punk—or whatever the fuck his actual name is—if she happens upon hypocrisy just as easily, making the mistake of a self made error. 

the photo at the end of the hall, just before the sliding door that leads to the backyard, works like an old, tired anchor. takes a joyful rusting to her eyes and her skin and the sure breaths in her chest. the patience in her body, stored in her fingers holding this cake, trembling, warming red and chemically undone. a tiny mahogany frame to enrich the delicate form of this memory. teenagers all lined up chaotically, drunkenly even along a sandy beach. the sun beating over harsh. twisted in an endless glee. and roman can't be unseen. his height and his face noticeable anywhere. a cheesy adoration about him. his arms holding a girl like she's his bride, eyeing her as she points to the camera. and he pays the picture no mind. seemingly enraptured and fine with his arrest. 

and the girl is not so unfamiliar. her face similar to the woman giana saw at the funeral some weeks ago. the same funeral she could not wait to escape. the same woman roman could not bother to speak to, but could not bother to look away from. 

surely, the hypocrisy of being here of her own free will without wanting to is no different from a straightedged man going to jail. it's just as laughable anyways. hypocrisy is always laughable. 

but the backyard is lively, loud and full in the ears enough to deaden that taunt of amusement she can't help but to give herself. bodies everywhere and a soft bass bleeding into the short grass so well it thumps into her feet. and this is ridiculous isn't it? the sudden shift. impatience. an appetite for more. feeling odd enough for an uncomfortable suffocation to come about amidst the boundaries she'd created. because they were fine. giana and roman were fine, albeit existing along a blurred line of a relationship in ways. not together but... together. ending and meeting where it only felt viable. so yes, only at night or, only when bored. 

that woman from the throwback photo, from the funeral. giana can see her face more clearly here, as she stares and stands intimately in front one of roman's boys. his hair cut a short blonde and his expression playing with notes of admiration. all of this she gets just next to the sliding door, but to decipher the skitter here in her skin is harder. theres no reason for hatred is there? for disdain towards a woman she doesn't know. but her familiarity is troubling. even as she moves away from him, floating almost and speaking and indulging about the grass and amidst this great guarding fortress of people, with hugs and smiles and those pretty shaped eyes. and God no, giana doesn't want to be her, but the comfortable way she goes about all this is envying. to have to not impress, is it's own nice little thing. 

the dirt and grass and wood chips crunch. roman and a new sort of color to his eyes as he comes up slow.

“you made it". a statement of surprise giana is sure. the way he says it, like he's trying to confirm more with himself than with her. like the possibility is so unbelievable. 

and he looks good. smells better. hair tied into a knot and those stray lines of gray in his beard like some tantalizing decoration. leather over his shoulders. an itch to touch him, to feel the worn texture of his jacket. to have it, for once, not tingle wearily and stress her nerves there in her fingers. but how do you find favor with a dead-lively sort of thing like this. his leather, just a tough little fabric stretching over skin, but the wrinkles and slim distresses like veins full of blood. pumping and beating to give life to something so far beyond her, but connected dearly to him just the same. this sort of urge new. rolling in with her appetite for more.

“i did". 

his eyes flit to the covered dessert. a blink-less stare that doesn't mean to offer anything but the blank of it. and maybe here, for the first time, or the second even, giana can feel it in the pit of her curiosity. this short, fast uprooting desire to know his thoughts. to look past the guard of his eyes and feel him wordlessly. forgoing the usual resignation that befalls her when he chooses to keep things close to the chest and undiscovered, for the sake of course, of staying within those drawn boundaries she'd made. but that was a while ago wasn't it? when she told him the conditions. made it so that they'd only meet to fulfill something lustful. but rules have always been made with the possibility they'd break. right? 

"you bought cake". 

the curt way it leaves him. like she wasn't supposed to. 

"you said to". 

and when the weight of the cake finally leaves her, giana is glad for it. roman taking it upon himself to set it along a table lined with other sweet treats. 

she could very well be wrong about this too couldn't she? those distracted little glances he'd taken at the woman from the funeral, the same ones he takes now, these could all be intricate looks of disdain maybe? a sharpness to his eyes that lends to some deeper hearted vexing. 

the grass and the dirt and the wood chips making terrible little impressions beneath her sandals. the air hot and thick. made thicker by this energy of celebration giana has yet to really settle into. like even the access of it is limited to just breathing. words and gestures too valuable for her to afford. 

and roman is there still, not at the center of the life of this thing but amidst it. orbiting close enough that his importance doesn't go without notice. but he's far away still. captured else where as he smiles and indulges in his own ways. like any president would. 

he's only abiding by the conditions isn't he? the rules of engagement made at giana's word. 

...only when bored, only at night....

giana could very well be wrong. the twirl in her gut. the warm prick at her ears. they all speak wordlessly, saying so with great volume....no, you're not wrong...these are not intricate looks of disdain, but the terrible masking of undead desires. and here, giana feels like nothing more than a bystander. a witness. watching on as roman gives away pieces of himself in the silence to be known to this woman. like a reveal of his hand, a proud little daring statement only made with the way his eyes bore into her. undressing and taking and spreading without ever moving from where he orbits the center of this celebration. 

giana's fingers tremble. the sort of shake that happens after a faithful endurance has waned from holding a too heavy thing. that store bought cake cut up and plated but somehow in her palms still. 

a coarse voice breaks. scrutiny and amusement bleeding. "...what dumbass bought supermarket cake?..." 

because her's was vanilla flavored. brightly colored and pristine in that professionally made way. packaged with the store label and too damn perfect. the other cakes and pies and pans and trays of food, housed in those homey little containers, like they came straight from decades-owned-home-kitchens and into cars and to this hot as hell backyard. 

her rules of engagement and conditions didn't involve fucking home made cake. fingers tingling as she moves quietly to the sliding door, a deep regret running to bed itself into the skin. the type of ruefulness that comes after the fall away from a not tight enough hold on a fragile thing. 

that old, hanging photo just inside by the sliding door, and this too long stretch of a hallway. minutes that feel like hours, till she can get to the front of the house. the air not so thick, not so filled and taken up by that overworking of a celebration she can't seem to break into. her temples pulsing sharp and an itch on the mouth. feeling her way into the bag slung over her shoulder till a box of cigarettes slip in her palm. an opaque orange lighter flickering before it burns the end. her cheeks hallowing for a deep generous pull. white plumes into the air to join the sticky heat. 

that dirt deep bass of the music, bleeding in faint from the backyard to the slab of sidewalk just in front the house, like it means to run under and loom over. have giana remember her failures. 

the front door opens as she drags long from her cigarette. hissing to pull in the smoke of it. hesitant steps that follow a gentle closing click. 

she looks over her cigarette like she would a fresh set of nails—a chilled satisfaction—and then casts a glance over her shoulder.

the woman from the picture, from the funeral. the one roman can't seem to stop eye fuck—

"giana right?" 

her throat clears. wrestling out the inconsistencies for something whole and uninterrupted. "yeah". 

and as she, you, step down the summer warm steps, giana wonders if this is a game. that when you stop at the step just before the sidewalk, do you mean to look down at her purposefully? to make it known without words what the balance of this is. or is this all by chance? coincidences and nasty, tired, angry tricks being played by the mind to ruffle her into some irate storm to punish her for trying to impress the black leather crowd with supermarket store bought cake and a silent disposition. another pull from her cigarette. a simple drag and a flick to watch the embers fall and die. the silence threatening to swallow them up whole less they say something. but giana's already failed once tonight, and never has such a thing happened before. she doesn't wish for that type of emptiness again. 

"look...", you start, shifting terribly odd till your arms cross up. throat clearing in that same way giana had done, to rid your words of inconsistencies. for something sure and measured. eyes carrying a serious weight. regret. "...m'sorry about that...the guys can be dickheads sometimes, but it was sweet what you did. bringing the cake". 

"s'alright". 

"you mind if i bum one?"

"uh..", frozen amidst the heat of the night. giana, of all the things she'd expected, had not expected this. "...yeah, no, sure". the silent intimacy of giving away a measly cigarette and reaching to burn the end of it with her lighter. your bodies so close for these little slip aways of some seconds. the fire of the lighter and your eyes meeting. 

"thanks".

there is no reason to hate you. to grow weary from a stomach troubling sort of disdain. not yet anyways. 

but you don't pull from the cigarette like you need it. small, dainty takes that barely get the end to burn. like maybe this is all for a better establishment of rapport. and giana wonders, as you look to the orange burn of tobacco, if your hands grow tired the way hers did. aching from the weight of supermarket cake. from a try that doesn't hold enough effort. 

giana smiles at all this. amused by your trying. "you don't smoke much do you?"

"i used to...", sheepish. like the call out isn't something worth defending much. "...or tried anyways. i think i wanted the addiction too much, so it didn't really stick". your eyes taking to every part of her. but not like you mean to commit to memory. more like, you're attempting to remember. to sift through the histories to place her face. a look thats unnerving. the way it lingers here. like her face is only good enough for some distant recollection, but not for a readymade decent into remembrance. a bystander on the peripheral too far away to leave a stark enough of an impression. 

"do you know me?" 

"i think i do". 

giana hums. chuckles a little. "is this the part where you ask me who my father is?"

you smile. understanding. "it is".

smoke pulls from that burning orange. tobacco full in giana's nose. "he's done with it now, but he used to make jewelry". 

your eyes light. forsaking your smoke to eat at itself as it burns the paper. "ronny right? simmons?" 

"yeah". 

"he made all my fathers rings... small world". something soft and wistful in your tone. notes of a somberness that cool over the heat in giana's belly. and it'd be terrible to decide on some resolute disdain now, wouldn't it? when you've gone about bringing yourself to the front of the house to mend up that awful attempt of breaking into the seams and vein like distresses of all this ancient leather. giana is unsure of where exactly all this goes. the pleasantries and silent tobacco filled air. adjusting the sling over of her bag against her shoulder as you go to speak again. "...the guys are good people...it takes time, they just—they take some warmin up to". 

the picture near the sliding door that leads to the backyard. how would you know that exactly?

giana's cigarette proves shorter as she holds it up to her lips. a patient pull before release. "how long did it take you?"

"we were all young when i met them...just kids...the history there, for me, is different". 

"so i guess you wouldn't really know then..."

"i guess not". 

"you looked real cozy with him, so i just assumed you and blondie were together", giana gives. "i guess that's why i asked".

"oh?...", pulling the cigarette to your lips finally. a longer draw from it than giana has seen before. cheeks hallowed and that white plume meeting the air with the strain of a laugh that dresses over a minor cough. "...yeah thats...thats complicated". the air in your throat restricted. the bane of every amateur smoker who feigns the need to look professionally verse and addicted. but maybe it isn't the smoke, giving another one of those lingering glances giana's way. thinking and sifting. that pull in of toxic air just a nasty blanket for the dirtiness of words that hesitate—"how long have you and roman been—"

"together?" giana wants to laugh. wants to feel the richness of this reversal in it's fullest fashion. because this isn't a pure streak of kindness is it? it's the heaviness of supermarket cake. that after taste of the too sweet icing thats coated itself on the tongue. the way it vies to impress the palette but fails from overwork. "we're not...it's just. it is what it is with us". a phrase he'd used before, when giana's appetite for more began to simmer hot, abruptly so, from a lukewarm staleness. flicking her cigarette to the sidewalk in what feels like some small victory. because theres room for some contempt now isn't there? "so should we get into it now? hash it all out or do we wanna twiddle our thumbs a little more for the fuck of it?"

"excuse me?"

giana's eyes roll. mirthful. "...we could make a schedule for it...something tentative...", body buzzing over. a frenzy. bliss. that faux clueless light about your eyes darkening slowly. "...we could meet up. exchange notes on how absolutely fan-fucking-tastic the dick it". 

incredulous. "wow, ok". your finger flicking away the cigarette you'd let burn to nothing. 

like you're suddenly unaware of such context. 

like giana is stupid. 

"or am i still pretending thats never happened ever?"  scoffing dirty. an annoyed disgust. "or that he hasn't wasted a second eye fucking you since we've been here?"

and here giana can see the dissipation of all that terribly built cordiality. the complete draw back of the curtain. an amusement to you that aches her belly and heats her blood. standing on that step above her still, looking down. "blaming me because the man you let hit it raw or otherwise has no self control is nasty work. very much, unwell behavior. lets maybe reevaluate who the issue is for you". 

"lets dead the formalities yeah? you thinking you need to play nice". the air hotter than it's been all night. and that grass deep bass of the backyard music finding it's way to her feet again. to pulse and disturb. "i don't need you rollin out a welcome mat, and i don’t need to be small talked 'cause you're all curious, and feel some way about fuckin' my man once upon a time, thinkin' now, that you need to connect with me. trust, it's no sisterhood here 'cause we both happen to know what he tastes like". 

your feet take to walking up back to the door. something wry and rotten spreading a smile on your mouth. "not to be that pedantic bitch but he can't be your man if you aren't together. thats not how those words work". 

this is all so damn silly, isn't it? the smoky burning taste still lining itself at the back of your throat from that cigarette you'd attempted to suffer through out of obligation. and yes, it was out of obligation, out of a sure founded kindness because the guys could be so brutish and exacting and ill-fit to empathy sometimes. just a little too comfortable in their insensitivities when it comes to the smaller, more trivial things. the apology was a nice thing to do wasn't it? an attempt at mending her feelings. to set over a new foundation after the careless breaking of the old one. because she was new and out of the loop on all the nuance. how would giana know that dean was being a dick, but in a simple, amusing, non-threatening way? a rough sort of fun making. no, what you'd done—trying to bridge the gap—is initiative is what it is. fucking initiative. right? right. 

and to think that you'd spared her from the details. eye-fucking is just the tip of the iceberg of whatever mischief she thinks her boyfriend-not boyfriend gets up to. 

a feverish buzzing, helped by the summer heat, sticking to your skin till its beneath it and melting over bones. talk about fucking audacity! being blamed for his lacking in decorum. it's pure bullshit. 

and was it so evil, to hold a bit of curiosity about the status of their...thing? considering roman had put in a sizable amount of effort into blurring the lines of your perception on it all. again...sparing her the details out of kindness. 

but there is another issue to all of this isn't there? a smaller formed thing, that lays at the base, waiting for some much needed uprooting before it can expand to a full truth. takes the burned bitter taste of that cigarette on as it's own till it's painting over your tongue and down low to bruise your stomach. but you were being nice, had left the backyard party with the fullest intentions of—then why did this feel so odd? an unsettling drive in the line of your fingers. something impending in your palms. like the endurance of them is sure soon to fail—

steps sound over the hardwood floors, inching towards the kitchen from that endlessly long hallway. heavy boots that make no qualms about their heaviness. and you know it's him, can feel it in the way the heel-toe drops into the floor. a patient swagger thats paced only to please himself. a sort of rhythm that conquers the time and space it walks through. 

an unsettling drive in the line of your fingers. like the endurance of them is sure soon to fail...

and you'd made it a point to engross yourself in the festivities of the night. break so deeply into the celebrations that you wouldn't have to face him. but now it all seems like a complex task done in vain. his leather dressing cooly over his broad shoulders and his fingers adorned meticulously. hair pulled out of his face enough that you can spot the edge to his eyes as he makes to pass the kitchen, phone slipping from his ear to his pocket. 

but this can't be ignored too much longer can it? someone will have to take a knife to the air eventually. cut through it deep enough for a compromise of the shared space. your arms folded up, and your teeth threatening to bite sharply into your lip as you lean against the kitchen counter just where the sink is. "can we talk?" 

he stops. bringing himself to the edge of the u-shaped counter space to lean over onto it. his leather singing as it bends and adjusts and touches up against the marble as he moves. the kitchen lights yellow and far too dim feeling here, or maybe it's just him. a moment of a drink in to really look at him. the night time rendering the homey space darker than usual even with all the small kitchen fixtures giving off their bits of brightness and warmth. the way they spill above him, shinning his hair but never really catching all of his eyes. a curl in your belly as you watch his jaw shift beneath his beard. like whatever he's thinking can't help itself enough to remain hidden away from his tells. that jaw tick did always give him away didn't it? 

'm'listening". 

"...we're in, maybe? stable situations right now...", fighting to keep that strength of voice. "...you have your person and i have—which...y'know, i'm happy for you", the waver of it just there. amidst the way the words tumble. forming as they air without much forethought. "...an i'd just—it'd be nice to co-exist without all the..."

he sighs. "say what you mean". 

you clear your throat. ridding it of all those nasty, bitter inconsistencies. "it'd be nice if you didn't stick you tongue down my throat again without permission". 

he scoffs. a dirtied sort of wryness to it. "without permission?" 

and maybe your wording wasn't the greatest in the world there. thoughts stuttered by the width of his presence. by the air about him and that ruinous look in the eyes. yes, maybe it'd be better to just have him leave you be all together wouldn't it? conditions of permission aside. a peaceful compromise of co-existence where you don't have to worry about the darker lustful streaks of his intentions. attempting maybe to relive something ancient and far away. yes. it's better this way. for all involved. especially for his girlfriend, whose not really his girlfriend, but wants or thinks the position is assumable off the basis of whatever bullshit she's got cooking up in side that smoked out brain of hers. 

that acrid taste on your palette again. less like burnt leaves and more like bile maybe. a small thing trying to expand to some bigger truth. but thats a worry for later, when you're alone enough to roam freer in all this uncomfortable thought. 

"...i spoke to giana". 

he stands to full height. leather sounding just the same. breathing to take bits of the air with it, with him. "about what and why?"

...say what you mean...he'd said that didn't he?...

"i've taken up so much of her attention tonight, i figured thats what she wanted...", a mirthless spread over your lips. all those former pleasantries and bids for something diplomatic and cordial, shedding off like a fast to slip second skin. because no one wants the niceties it seems, so why should you? "...i guess i didn't realize you fuck girls with no etiquette till now, so yeah, thats on me for trying to be nice". 

you hate his laugh. the way it plays snarky and oddly pitched. too high to be suited to his regular tenor. almost like the unusualness is on purpose. "nice?"

"m'not sure why she isn't, but she should be just a little more receptive when someone makes an effort to—"

"effort huh?", rubbing up along his beard. thumb and pointer tugging and combing through to play at a mull over. for some better take of amusement obviously. mouth spreading for a coarse smile. "you tried to take a big dick swing, i already know". 

"thats not—"

"that toxic nice bullshit". finger jutting out to point. the sharp precision of a dagger. nicking the air to poke at the thickness. like if he wanted, he could give it a less dull slicing for some fuller feel of relief. but he doesn't. heavy boots claiming the kitchen floor slowly. a steady-tempered pace. the patience of a snake. laughing in that way again that shivers your skin. "you played a game and loss". 

"you think everything is a joke". cutting thin through your teeth. 

"you tryin' to play the manipulation game for details on my dick is funny, so yes, it's a joke....", and where did all the light go? all those small bursts of warmth from the kitchen fixtures swallowed up as he makes to creep up closer. a devious streak against brown eyes. "...especially since it didn't need to be done...", those mellow notes of pine pulling in full to swim in the lungs. clinging to his leather for some years. now stretching out for an embrace, making to ruin your sense of—"...it's clear there's a deficit in attention being given if you're so curious". 

this is sixteen and seventeen all over again isn't it? the body outdone by history. that dangerous inability to do or be anything but weak and arrested. "i don't need a damn thing from you—", an abrupt press in. slotting up short to wedge you in place. your arms unfolding fast, fingers bracing against the counter. palms digging into where the edge starts, and his thigh slips out to nudge. breaking in to push between. "don't—"

and he's hot everywhere. his breath and those sly touches. or maybe its the summer air. that saturation of pine. ancient things sweetening your senses. arms like pillars for a fortress, holding the counter at your sides. that small, nasty, disturbed thing welling up so well in the body as it expands, you can feel it in your ears and behind the eyes. dazed and wordless from it. from him. from the way he uproots it. 

"the only thing new york made you is distant and delusional, but i see you. i know you. been knowin' you all your life, and this shit is so shameful you can barely look at me". his pointer curling beneath the line of your jaw to bring your eyes to him. "you left me, could give less than a fuck about what and who i was doing, but now that you're here, you gettin' real bold ain't you?" thumb sweeping in to roll over the soft line of your lip. his sights taken there. but taken at your eyes to. "got the nerve to feel threatened about a position, a space, you gave up" and then that pitiless streak, in his brows, in the firm touch at your jaw. triumph. "you can't get rid of me, and that eats you up bad don't it? because now you gotta remember how needy you used to be. so damn greedy for attention. you still are". 

and theres no fight really. not anymore. all that wrestling for air in the lungs gone and the small buried things you'd hoped saw no great uprooting, fully bought up pass the surface. nerves in disarray and his thumb pulling up to sooth over you cheek. hooking the other fingers under to hold your face. seated in his palm just right. but he had to be wrong. the cigarettes and small talk, it wasn't all a facade. there were bold enough streaks of  sincerity there. you felt for her. felt for that on the outs feeling. but it couldn't be helped. soft, pitched breaths, almost tasting the ginger beer on his tongue. no it couldn't. that nagging curiosity, a terrible need in the pit of your belly. having to know just what it all was between them. it'd make this better wouldn't it? or maybe easier even, to sit in. the desire and the suffocation. 

"i need that permission of yours". 

that dark tenor rumbling into a strong bass. rolling over till you're shivering. 

"we shouldn't—", pushing at his leather jacket. or bracing into it maybe.

"look here", tugging your face. 

a hum like thunder from his chest. meeting him whole at the eyes. a string together of silence to catch those deeper breaths. and you hope this fall into him is enough permission granted. slipping your tongue through to push pass his mouth. slow and languid and slightly messy. desperation corralling sharp in the skin, like all that space and time apart has no use for anything refined and modified. a drawling mezzo of a moan that spurs him into action. palms shaping down the outline of your body till he's pulling at and kneading in. something firm and testy just under the zipper of your jeans. palming to cup there as you grip into his jacket tighter. 

nose knocking into yours. a little more tender than expected. his tongue lapping over into a kiss to savor. "you're still the same", he hums. peeling down the zipper. smiling and so damn satisfied. "still so responsive", fingering pass the thin underwear to glide through slowly. your head falling into his chest. a warm embarrassment in your cheeks. "always been sensitive, right?", hooking in to swirl two fingers against your wet clit. breath hitching at the touch. that firm tenderness old but new. "real nice for me". adulation. his other hand bringing you back into him, cradling your nape to adjust for a lingering kiss. 

you can feel him breathing. stealing all of your air. your body trembling and clenching about nothing but that sweet anticipation. and he knows it doesn't he? smiling and tensing his teeth over your mouth. groaning long and lazy, rubbing sweetly into the tender beginning of your pussy. prolonging and biding time, like it's been made for him. like at any moment all those backyard eyes and ears wouldn't be turned to the both of you. 

"spent the last week wondering if you feel the same. kept dreamin' about it". 

"...please...", your hips twisting into fingers for better friction. clit catching to work along the length of it. lips falling open in that swimming daze. 

his mouth trails over your cheek. kissing and breathing to pull in the scent as he goes. tongue lapping into your neck, the wet slight of it just where your pulse is. a groan breaking through in attempt to mask the deep tremble that takes him. nose roughing in as he suckles and prods wet. "still smell the same". dipping his fingers in easy. gathering the drool of arousal to push in patient till he's nestling in at the base of his knuckles. 

"..ohhfuckk..", a tight breaking out from the throat. rutting into his palm again as he holds, cupped against your clit. a salacious little song playing as he drags out to just the tips of his fingers. stroking in shallow to tease and play before he's slipping in again to the hilt. nudging softly at that sweet, deeper place. resting and sweeping just how he used to. to elicit a more reckless tune. broken little things that just barely form. "..ah—rightthereee.." 

he grunts. scoffs. a mixture of the two and something a little lighter in amusement. taking the grip at your nape and placing it to guide and push into the back of your jeans. shoving off the fabric there to claw in and tuck his fingers where your ass curves under. steering the soft, tight, riding grind of your pussy as keeps his fingers slotted deep. "...after all this time and you still can't take much without makin' all that noise...", mouth breaking from your neck to kiss at your lips again. "..s'pretty though..". messy still and indulgent. but he'd always kissed you a little messy. not like he had no qualms about it, no, more like, he just couldn't help himself. like he couldn't make a more refined work of it, if he tried. 

your body seizes, holds in to clench dangerous about his fingers, nailing into his leather as all the breath you'd lost returns. funneling in fast with that hot take to bliss. the summer heat breaking over your forehead and cheeks and at the back of your neck. hushed little curses tipping off your lips in between the kisses of his. 

the backyard music cuts abruptly. voices carrying in loud. a rush in that breaks the ending bits of all that lingering pleasure. your awareness coming back to you in a less than steady fashion. shaky and drunk still. his hands easing out to let you fix yourself up. 

but you don't miss the way he suckles his fingers clean. like that course of action was somehow more functional and faster than using the sink just behind you. snagging a piece of tissue to wipe his palm before he's creating the distance again. heavy boots thudding against wood till he's out the door. 

[a-silent-symphony]

NIGHTWISH Welcomes Bassist JUKKA KOSKINEN As 'Official' Member

NIGHTWISH has announced the addition of bassist Jukka Koskinen (WINTERSUN) as an official member of the band. Koskinen, who made his live debut with NIGHTWISH in May 2021 at the band's two interactive experiences, had spent the last year touring with NIGHTWISH as a session musician.

Earlier today (Sunday, August 21),NIGHTWISH released the following statement via social media: "We're delighted to announce our dear friend Jukka Koskinen is officially inaugurated as a member of the band. We've been incredibly thankful to have him on our side while touring and it only feels natural to have him join the band officially."

Koskinen joined NIGHTWISH as the replacement for Marco Hietala, who announced his departure from NIGHTWISH in January 2021, explaining in a statement that he hadn't "been able to feel validated by this life for a quite a few years now."

Back in June 2021, Koskinen spoke to Kaaos TV about how he landed the NIGHTWISH gig. He said: "I received a phone call from the NIGHTWISH camp and was being asked if I would be interested [in] the bass player position regarding what has happened, that Marco has left the band. And, of course, obviously, when I got that phone call, I thought it was, like, 'Woah.' As an outsider, obviously, I couldn't think that, especially in NIGHTWISH, I couldn't think of it even that this sort of thing could happen. But, of course, life is life. And, yeah, absolutely, I immediately, of course, said that yes, definitely I would be interested."

He continued: "I always listened to NIGHTWISH; I always liked their music a lot. [It's] very soulful music. And then we made a few arrangements. [In April 2021], approximately, I was in Finland practicing. I had a meet-and-greet. We had a meet-and-greet before as well, but another one where we practiced together for the first time to see how, playing-wise, the chemistry was going, and get to know each other more. Kind of [like] an audition — obviously, of course. Any band who would find new guys to come in or so, you would need to have these things. I would do the same if I would be on the other side of the table, if you know what I mean. So, yeah, everything went good. After the audition thing, everything went very smoothly, and the guys said, 'You're in.' And what did I say more than with the happiest smile, I said back [to them], 'I'm in.' But we're talking, of course, as a session musician spot now for the upcoming 'Human. :II: Nature.' tour."

Asked if he had ever played any NIGHTWISH songs in the past, Jukka said: "No, I hadn't played [any of that material]. I've listened to NIGHTWISH ever since the early Spinefarm days, when they were [signed to the label] — [1998's] 'Oceanborn'; maybe from that [album] onwards. Music-wise, I played in the past with a few kind of, like, not similar, but maybe that style or genre of music in the past. But I never played NIGHTWISH music. That was kind of, like, from a player's point of view, I couldn't believe it that when I started practicing the songs, or trying them out even before everything was settled, I just thought that I would try it out, it just felt that my playing style is something that really fits to this — I had this feeling. And it was really, really, of course, great to see then afterwards, hearing from the other guys — they basically told me that 'it feels like you've always been playing bass here.' It felt very natural."

Koskinen made his live debut with NIGHTWISH at the band's two interactive "An Evening with Nightwish In a Virtual World" concert experiences that kicked off the "Human. :II: Nature." run. NIGHTWISH performed in a tavern called "The Islanders Arms" built in a virtual world for two nights. On both nights, the fans experienced a one-and-a-half-hour performance, hearing songs live off "Human. :II: Nature." for the first time ever. These two nights had their own, slightly different setlists.

In May 2021, NIGHTWISH keyboardist and main songwriter Tuomas Holopainen said that Hietala's decision to leave the band "came as a bit of a surprise." He added: "It was a really tough pill to swallow. And for a few days, I was actually quite confident that there's no coming back, that this is it. I remember talking to Emppu [Vuorinen], the guitar player, and we were, like, 'You think this is it?' 'Yeah, I think this is it.' I mean, enough is enough. So much has happened in the past. Something that broke the camel's back, as they say. Then, after some time had passed — a few days — we started to think that it's been such a ride of 25 years, with so many ups also, that this is not the way to end it."

Tuomas elaborated on NIGHTWISH's reasons for carrying on, saying: "I think we still have something to give, and that's the main point. The music is still there. We felt that there's still so much music that needs to come out from this band that, 'Okay, let's give it one more shot.' And then finding the new bass player was really easy."

He added: "It's not like we do this just because we need to do it and there's nothing else to do. On a personal level, I feel that there's still so many stories and melodies that I want to share with the world with one lineup or another, so that's why you want to continue and keep on going.

"I've said this a million times, that a lineup change is the ultimate energy vampire, and that's how it really felt and still feels."

"Human. :II: Nature." was released in April 2020. The follow-up to 2015's "Endless Forms Most Beautiful", "Human. :II: Nature." was a double album containing nine tracks on the main CD and one long track, divided into eight chapters, on CD 2.

Photo credit: Jeremy Saffer for NIGHTWISH