#and i have my mid year review on friday which. i did not finish

[hythlodaes]

i'm going to try and catch up on xivwrite and wip wednesdays tomorrow, everything is a lil overwhelming atm :')

[queenshelby]

Unexpected Circumstances (Just Friends Part 7) - Cillian Murphy Imagine

Featuring: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: SMUT

Words: 5789

Notes: I have decided to include one of the requests I received in this series as I didn’t know how to best write it as a standalone at this point. I think it makes sense as part of this series as trust between Cillian and the Reader has been clearly established. I might still write a stand-alone piece as well incorporating the same request as this is the sort of Smut I like. So, stay tuned for that!

------

The Letter

It has been five weeks now since Cillian and you admitted your feelings for each other and things were going great.

Some days you couldn’t believe how lucky you were to have found a man like him, someone who cared not only for you but also your son Max.

Cillian adored Max and Max enjoyed Cillian’s and Cillian’s children’s company.

Cillian would often pick Max up from preschool when you had to work late and prepare dinner for you and Max. Max thought that this was fantastic since you were a terrible cook.

But, despite this, it was sometimes difficult to arrange dates when you both had children to look after. You both tried to work around this issue as best as you could but, realistically, you only managed to have three sleepovers per week, mostly when Cillian didn’t have his boys. This was when he came over to stay at your house and you always hated when he had to leave.

After all, you were madly in love, a feeling which was unfamiliar to you. You wanted to be around him all the time and whenever you weren’t together you missed him.

As expected, you received some backlash from strangers due to your age gap but you tended to ignore the frustrating comments. They didn’t know you and they didn’t know your relationship.

The comments you received from your friends were nothing but supportive and even your grandmother thought that Cillian was good for you, much unlike your previous partners.

You still haven’t told your parents about your relationship, but your sister was aware. She followed Twitter quite eagerly and loved Cillian’s TV Show hence the reason you told her.

Your sister was concerned that your father wouldn’t approve of your relationship due to the large age gap, but that wasn’t a problem you were ready to face yet and little did you know that you were about to have bigger problems than that coming your way.

Bad news was about to hit you like a freight train. It was 10am on Friday morning. You were working from home while Max was at preschool as the doorbell rang.

It was unusual for the postman to drop off letters personally. Usually that meant that you had to sign for your letters, which was never a good sign.

You thought that it must be a vehicle recall, or notice of some sort. But it was worse. It was a letter from your real estate agent advising you that you will be required to vacate the premises within 30 days.

You could not believe it. It was difficult enough for you to find this townhouse as a single mother in an area where the schools were decent enough. You were always on time with your rent and never missed a single payment. You had no idea why you had to move out.

You called the real estate agent immediately and were advised that the owner is returning from America and requires the premises at the end of the lease term. There was nothing you could do.

The real estate agent advised you that there were no suitable rentals in the area within your price range but that they were willing to give you a good reference should you find something else with a different agent.

You were devastated. The last thing you wanted is to take Max out of preschool just after he made some friends. Furthermore, Cillian’s youngest son was attending the same preschool and it was a perfect arrangement for the both of you.

As you went on with the day, you put your non urgent work aside in order to search for rentals online as, all of a sudden, the doorbell rang.

‘Oh Cillian… I totally forgot’ you said as you opened the door.

‘You forgot our date?’ Cillian chuckled as he walked in the door, giving you a quick kiss.

‘I must be the worst girlfriend’ you said with some embarrassment. You never forgot a date with your boyfriend before. After all, it was what you looked forward to the most.

‘Relax, it’s fine Y/N’ Cillian said before noticing that your face was slightly flushed and your eyes were red.

‘Are you alright though? You look like you’ve been crying’ Cillian said as he ran his hands over both of your arms. He knew that something was wrong.

‘Yes, I just had a very stressful and shit morning. I am alright now though’ you said as you walked into the bedroom to get changed, ready to go out for lunch.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Cillian asked from the hallway.

You took the letter which you received from the real estate agent from the sideboard in the hallway and handed it to him.

‘I’ve just been searching for a new rental but they are either too expensive or out of the area. But, I have found one in North Dublin and the schools there have halfway decent reviews so…’ you explained and, before you could finish your sentence, Cillian interrupted you.

‘The schools here are much better Y/N. I don’t think you should change Max mid-term; it will put him behind’ Cillian said.

‘Don’t you think I know this?’ you asked frustrated. You were still quite upset about having to move.

‘I will lose the enrolment as soon as I move out of area. Despite, I cannot drive backwards and forwards with work. I barely make pickup time now with the hours I am at the office’ you added just as tears began to build up in your eyes again.

‘Common, sit down’ Cillian said as he sat down on the bed next to you and wrapping his arms around you.

‘I might have a solution’ he said as he wiped your tears away.

‘Go on then’ you said, still sobbing.

‘You and Max could move in with me. That way, we could spend more time together and Max won’t have to change preschool and can start year one with Charlie’ Cillian suggested.

‘Move in with you? Cillian, don’t you think it’s a bit too early for that? We have only been together for 5 weeks’ you said.

‘Yes, but we’ve known each other for a few months now. Seems like a perfectly reasonable timeframe’ Cillian chuckled, making you laugh. You knew that he was being sarcastic. He always had a good sense of humour.

‘Coming from the man who just a couple of months ago didn’t want to settle down’ you smiled.

‘Well, that was before I got myself such a beautiful girlfriend’ Cillian said before giving you a passionate kiss. He could taste the saltiness from your tears but it didn’t seem to bother him.

‘You are crazy, you know that’ you chuckled after your lips drifted apart.

‘Well, you do that to me’ Cillian said while cupping your face with both of his hands.

‘We would, however, need to work on your cooking skills’ he added jokingly, earning him a nudge.

‘Very funny’ you said with a laugh.

‘Seriously though, what do you think?’ Cillian asked.

‘I think Max would really love this idea and I would love nothing more than sharing a bed with you every night. I am just worried that you will get sick of me after a while’ you said.

‘I don’t think I could ever get sick of you Y/N. Just your cooking’ Cillian chuckled before telling you that he loved you.

‘I love you too Cilly’ you said before kissing him passionately.

‘Is that a yes?’ he asked.

‘It’s a yes, thank you’ you said before pushing him back onto the bed.

‘The lunch reservation is at 1pm Y/N’ Cillian said as you hoovered over him.

‘Forget about lunch’ you responded just as you threw your t-shirt to the floor.

However, just as you were getting down to business, your phone rang, not once, but twice.

It was Max’s preschool and you knew that it was urgent.

You quickly returned the call and were told that you must pick up Max as he had a fall on the playground.

You got dressed quickly and drove to preschool to pick up Max. You were advised to go to hospital to see whether Max’s arm was broken.

Being cautious, you followed the teacher’s advice and took Max for an x-ray at hospital. Luckily, it was just a sprain which should resolve with some rest. Unfortunately, by the time you got to leave the hospital it was 6pm. You were there for hours.

Cillian suggested that you and Max come over to his place for dinner. You gladly accepted the offer and this allowed you both to talk to your kids about moving in together.

As you told them, they were beyond excited and Max was quick to arrange a sleepover for the following night.

You and Cillian agreed but, for a change, arranged a babysitter to look after your three boys allowing you to go for dinner and to the movies with your friends which was something you didn’t do very often.

Movie Night

The next evening, Cillian’s sister came over to watch the kids. This was the first time you met someone from Cillian’s family and she was quite excited to get to know you.

Apparently, Cillian had told her and his parents about you already.

After you chatted with her for half an hour, you both made your way to the restaurant.

Unfortunately for you, your friends had invited Jeremy, unaware of the fact that he continued to message you daily much to Cillian’s frustration.

Regardless of this, both you and Cillian were polite as you sat down across from Jeremy and your friends.

‘What did you guys do with the kids tonight?’ your friend Amy asked.

‘My sister is looking after them at my house’ Cillian responded.

‘What about Max?’ she asked.

‘Max is at Cillian’s house as well’ you said, which is when your friend Amy slipped the news. You had already told her that you would be moving in with Cillian just before he starts filming again.

‘Oh well, better to get used to it. Living with 4 boys soon Y/N eh? That shall be interesting’ she said.

Her comment quickly raised a lot of questions, in particular from Jeremy.

‘You really are becoming a sugar baby Y/N aren’t you?’ he said sarcastically, causing Cillian to laugh. He tried very hard to take Jeremy seriously, but it was difficult.

‘A sugar baby? Is that even a word?’ Cillian asked.

‘You know what I mean’ Jeremy said.

‘No, please enlighten me’ Cillian responded.

‘Alright’ Cillian chuckled.

‘It’s none of my business Cillian, but why is that you actors have to get involved with women who are so much younger than you?’ Jeremy said.

‘You are right, it’s none of your business Jeremy’ you said harshly while Cillian tried hard to bite his tongue.

Your friends quickly changed the conversation after that but you couldn’t keep your hands of your boyfriend that evening simply to annoy Jeremy and Cillian played along.

‘I am sorry he’s been a tool’ you whispered into Cillian’s ear as you walked to the movies with your friends.

‘I find it very difficult to remain polite around him’ Cillian said.

‘I know’ you responded just as the theatre opened.

You took your seats and, to your frustration, Jeremy sat down right next to you, causing Cillian to get annoyed.  

After what Jeremy had said to you and Cillian, you refused to speak to him and largely ignored him until the movie started.

About twenty minutes into the movie, you started to get rather bored. You couldn’t believe that you had to be there for another two hours. Who decided to choose a two- and half-hour movie in French, with subtitles? Of course, you did, without doing any research.

You looked over to Cillian and noticed that he was disinterested in the movie as well and stopped reading the subtitles. It was evident, he was somewhere in dreamland, probably thinking about how he could annoy Jeremy after his most recent insult.

Noticing your boyfriend’s disinterest in the movie, you reached for his hand, running your hand over the top of his gently. You had his attention now and he gave you a warm smile for all you could tell in the dark theatre.

Taking his hand into yours, you guided it on top of your thighs which is where it sat for a while. Not getting the hint, you arched back into your seat and guided his hand further up beneath your loose cotton skirt.

Whilst you couldn’t see much, you noticed Cillian turn his head towards you. Just as he did, you guided his hand further up your thigh while biting your lip. You tried hard for your eyes not to leave the movie screen.

He finally got the hint and squeezed your thigh gently before handing you your cardigan from your bag.

You placed the cardigan across your lap just as Cillian lifted up your skirt slightly beneath it, giving him better access.

You glanced to your right to ensure that Jeremy, who was sitting next to you, didn’t see what Cillian was doing.

Luckily for you, he was intensely focused on the movie although, no doubt, your boyfriend would have preferred if Jeremy knew what you were doing. After all, Jeremy had just insulted him and it wasn’t long before Cillian and you got together, that Jeremy had told him that he would like to get into your panties.

Just as Cillian’s fingers wandered up your upper inner thigh, you released a sigh and parted your legs slightly while making sure that your cardigan provided enough cover.

By the time Cillian’s fingers reached the apex of your thighs and touched your panties, they were already damp.

You were grateful that the theatre was so dark because your skirt was up to the top of your thighs and draped over Cillian’s hand which would otherwise have been clearly noticeable beneath the thin cardigan.

You were panting with desire, just from Cillian stroking and squeezing your thighs and running his hand over your wet panties.

You slid down a bit in your chair and spread your thighs even more. The adrenaline rush had your inhibitions going out the window.

You could hear a slight chuckle from Cillian as he noticed you pushing your body down against his hand.

Just in that moment, you felt his fingers sliding your panties to the side.

Within seconds, he dipped a finger inside your wet entrance, gathering some of your natural lubrication, then moved it upwards toward your clit.

You sucked in a breath through your teeth, hissing quietly. By that time, you both had completely stopped paying attention to the movie.

Cillian started in a slow rhythm, circling your clit a few times, then dipping down shallowly into your entrance, repeating it over and over.

Your fingers were digging into his forearm on one side and onto the armrest on the other.

Your hips were moving of their own accord as you were whimpering quietly as Cillian’s fingers moved in and out of you.

Suddenly, it hit. You groaned quietly, gripping boyfriend’s hand, pushing his finger into you even deeper and grinding your clit against the palm of his hand.

Your walls clenched around his fingers as your orgasm washed over you and you couldn’t help it but let out a shallow moan.

‘Are you alright Y/N?’ Jeremy asked, noticing the sound you made while looking at you with some confusion.

‘Yes, I am fine’ you said bluntly and with a deep breath while Cillian pulled his fingers out of you with a grin on his face.

You handed Jeremy your popcorn before rearranging your skirt and handing Cillian your cardigan. At this point, he needed it more than you as his erection pushed against the zipper of his jeans.

‘Follow me’ you whispered into Cillian’s ear before standing up and excusing yourself, walking past Jeremy.

‘Where are you going?’ Jeremy asked.

‘Bathroom’ you responded. You were still annoyed with him and he wouldn’t get anything from you but stern and short answers.  

Cillian waited another minute or two before following you so that he wouldn’t raise any suspicion.

You waited for him in the front of the cinema with a big smile on your face.

‘You choose the worst movies’ Cillian said with a cheeky smile.

‘I have been enjoying it so far’ you smirked before taking his hand and pulling him towards the parents’ room.

‘Y/N, I don’t think this is a good idea’ Cillian said as you locked the door behind you.

‘Relax, it’s 10pm. No one will need this room until tomorrow. We will be safe. Despite, I know you, this won’t go down any time soon unless we get to it’ you smirked as you placed your hands on Cillian’s crotch before crashing your lips onto his with haste.

Without wasting any time, you unbuttoned his jeans and pushed down his zipper before running your hand inside his briefs and stroking his hard cock.

‘You’ve got ten minutes’ you said after breaking the kiss and before turning around, leaning forward over the wash basin.

Within seconds, Cillian lifted up your skirt and pushed down your panties before lining himself up with your wet entrance.

You smiled at him in the mirror as he gently pushed your legs apart and grasped the perky butt cheeks before him.

Cillian pried them apart and stepped forward. He was flush against you and you couldn’t help it but release a soft moan.

His cock slipped between your legs, and the head glided across your sensitive lips.

‘Fuck I want you so much’ you moaned as you pushed back against him in anticipation.

Without words, Cillian pulled back a little and then pushed up into your tight tunnel.

‘Fuck’ you moaned loudly as your walls stretched to fit his length inside you.

‘You got to be quiet’ Cillian whispered from behind you as he began to thrust in and out of you.

He gave you barely a moment to brace yourself before he gripped your hips and pulled back. His cock slipped out almost the whole way before he thrust his hips forward and dived back into your heat.

Cillian set a hard pace, knowing that you didn’t have much time together before someone would get suspicious.

You could hear his laboured breathing behind you as you held onto the basin tightly.

‘God yes’ you moaned quietly as the tip of his cock hit your cervix over and over again.

Cillian smiled at your reaction and reached down to grab your thighs. He spread your legs even wider. By that time, you were on your toes, with no leverage of your own.

‘Don’t stop’ you whispered as you could feel another orgasm build up in your stomach and, within seconds, your walls constricted around him.

You cried out a little too loudly, and your whole body shook as your orgasm slammed into you.

Cillian kept his brutal thrusts up as you rode out the waves of pleasure. Your legs trembled before him and he smiled as you whimpered with every thrust.

The contractions around his cock and your moans sent Cillian over the edge also and, shortly after you came down from your high, he reached his and filled you with his warm cum.

‘Fuck Y/N’ he moaned quietly as he slowly began to relax, his face resting on the back of your shoulders, kissing them gently.

After he came down completely, he pulled out of you and you could feel the mixture of his cum and yours drip down your thighs.

Cillian handed you a paper towel but you declined the offer and simply pulled up your panties.

‘I like to remember this for the rest of the night’ you grinned before giving him another passionate kiss.

Your comment earned you a chuckle but, deep down inside, Cillian liked the thought of knowing that your panties will be wet from his cum for the remainder of the night.

After making sure that no one was around, you left the room together and made your way back to the theatre together.

‘You’ve been gone for a while. Is everything alright?’ Jeremy asked as you sat back down next to him.

‘Yeah, I had to make a phone call’ you said just as Cillian sat back down next to you.

You both had a cheeky grin on your face as you watched the rest of the movie.

‘The movie was great, wasn’t it?’ your friend Alice asked as you left the theatre and Jeremy agreed simply because he knew that you chose it.

‘What did you think about the twist towards the end Cilly?’ she then asked.

‘Yeah, uhm…yeah it was alright’ Cillian said, not knowing what she was talking about.

‘There was a twist?’ you whispered to Cillian as you walked outside the theatre.

‘I think we missed the majority of the plot babe’ Cillian whispered back before taking your hand into his and following the others to the pub.

Jeremy kept starring at you and Cillian and you could notice the frustration on his face. You enjoyed it, a lot.

Later at the pub, Cillian received the usual attention from some young females. It always made you chuckle but it really annoyed Jeremy.

Despite the fact that Cillian enjoyed Jeremy getting annoyed, it soon became too much for him and, after about three drinks, you both decided to leave.

Getting Down to Business

You called a taxi and drove back to Cillian’s house.

‘It’s unbelievable’ you giggled sheepishly and slightly tipsy from the three gin and tonics you had earlier.

‘What is?’ Cillian asked, closing the door behind you.

‘All the attention you get from all of these young women every time we go out’ you said.

‘What can I say, it’s Tommy Shelby Effect’ Cillian laughed.

‘Hmm I think I get it’ you said and, just after this comment, you kissed him passionately just as his sister walked out of the living room.

‘Alright, I am going’ his sister chuckled.

You both thanked her for looking after the children and made your way to the shower. You both smelled like beer and popcorn.

Just as you got into the large shower together and were talking about the evening, Cillian couldn’t help it but complain about Jeremy.

‘You know, I am yours Cillian!’ you said as you ran your hands over his chest.

‘You are mine, are you?’ he chuckled in response to your comment which reminded him on his script for Season 5 of Peaky Blinders.

‘Yes…’ you whispered into his ear just before biting his earlobe gently while the hot water ran down in between you.

Cillian’s hands soon moved from your back down to your naked butt cheeks while his lips kissed the bare skin on your neck.

‘I love you Y/N’ he said in between kisses.

‘I love you too Cillian and I want you to fuck me as if you own me’ you whispered. ‘Take me the way you want to’ you added seductively.

‘You’ve been watching too much of this TV show’ Cillian said with a chuckle, referring to a new TV documentary series that you were watching on Netflix about BDSM.

‘It’s intriguing though, isn’t it?’ you asked running your hands over Cillian’s chest and down in between his legs. He grew hard almost instantly as you touched him.

Your face was inches away from his and you could see pure hunger and lust aflame in his eyes as you were stroking him gently. His warm breath fanned over your face like an aphrodisiac and the want in his eyes was intoxicating.

He remembered the last episode of the documentary quite well and grabbed your hair at the back of your head gently, causing the hot water to run down your breasts.

You bit your lip with excitement, fire building up in your eyes.

‘You really want to try this don’t you?’ Cillian asked, causing you to nod.

‘Alright’ he sighed with a smile and, with his free arm, he pushed you onto your knees almost instantly.

That’s it, exactly what you wanted.

He pulled on your hair, making you look up at him while you were biting your lips.

You suddenly felt a wretch in your stomach. Cillian wasn’t normally that forceful with you and you knew that, for him, it was a roleplay more than anything. Being with an actor clearly had its perks.

‘Is this what you want?’ he asked, causing you to nod again.

With his hand still firmly in your hair, he guided your mouth towards his hard cock.

You open your mouth willingly and, within one thrust, the head of his hard cock hits the back of your throat, making you gag.

You didn’t even try to pull away and he slowly and deeply began to thrust in and out of your mouth, giving your barely enough time to breath.

You gave into his rhythm as the warm water was running over your back.

‘God, your mouth feels amazing’ Cillian moaned, knowing that you enjoy it when he is talking to you while were intimate. You loved the sound of his voice.

Just as you got used to the sensation of being forced up and down his cock, he began to tweak one of your erect nipples with his free hand, causing you to moan around him.

‘Good girl, keep going’ Cillian said with a slight smirk as he toys with your nipple, pulling and rolling it between his fingers.

The pit of your stomach was set aflame and your thighs were slick with your juices.

With his cock in your mouth and your nipples being aroused, you are under sensory overload.

As he continued to thrust in and out of your mouth, you closed your eyes trying to concentrate on the raw pleasure that was radiating from your body in waves.

‘Look at me’ he demanded, causing you to open your eyes again and dig your hands into his thighs as he kept going.

‘That’s it’ he moaned, thrusting into your mouth a few more times before pulling you away from his throbbing cock and your mouth comes off with a satisfying pop.

Some small tears were running down your cheeks, your mouth sore from opening so widely and your hair was still in his hands. He roughly wiped away the saliva around your mouth and wrapped his hand around your throat gently.

You looked up into his blue eyes and wanted nothing more than for him to take you, fuck you hard.

‘Common, let’s take this to the bedroom’ he said as he began to notice the water getting cold.

‘Yes sir’ you winked, earning him a chuckle.

‘You defiantly are serious, aren’t you?’ Cillian said as you dried each other off. He was slightly out of his comfort zone but decided to play along as he could see the desire in your eyes. You were by far the most adventurous and kinky woman he’s ever been with.

Moments later, you made your way to Cillian’s bedroom.

‘I don’t think so’ Cillian said firmly as you reached the edge of the bed.

With his hand on your throat gently again and the other on your waist, he guided you towards the large reading desk in the bedroom.

‘Turn around’ he instructed and, as soon as you complied, he pushed you down onto the table.

Just as you your face leaned against the cold wood, he took both of your arms and secured both your hands behind your back.

Electricity shot down your spine as you tried to struggle out of his grasp teasingly.

You were completely under his control just as you wanted.

He put your two wrists wrapped around one hand and with the other, slowly traced a finger up your inner thigh.

You bit your bottom lip to keep yourself from moaning too loudly.

Cillian took his time, exploring every inch of your thighs and ass.

‘So sexy’ Cillian said as his fingers brushed against your wet folds, causing you to whimper.

He continued to run his fingers up and down your pussy, teasing to put his fingers in.

You whined and struggled against his grasp, your wetness started trailing down your thighs.

‘Oh god yes’ you moaned as Cillian slowly eased his fingers inside, scissoring his fingers as he went.

‘Shh’ Cillian said, knowing that you had to remain quiet with the boys in the next room.

Your mind went blank as pleasure shot through your nerves, spreading like wildfire.

Cillian’s fingers swirled around inside of you languidly, leaving no space unexplored and, moments later, he brushed against your g-spot causing you to jerk.

‘Stay still’ he said as he pressed his body down, immobilizing yours.

He knew very well that you liked to squirm when he reached your sweet spot as the intensity was too overpowering.

This time, you wouldn’t get away, no matter how hard you try.

‘Oh god Cillian, please’ you yelped, the feeling of his fingers on your g-spot being too much for you to handle.

But Cillian wouldn’t let you squirm away and you soon learned that you had to just give in, surrender to him.

But, just as you relaxed and could feel your orgasm approach, he pulled his fingers out of you.

‘Did I say you could come?’ he teased as he placed his fingers into your mouth, making you taste your wet juices.

‘No sorry’ you said, hoping that he would put his fingers back inside of you.

‘Sorry what?’ Cillian asked sheepishly.

‘Sorry Sir’ you grinned just before you ran your tongue along the length of his fingers.

‘Good girl’ he whispered just as he trailed his fingers back down towards your wet entrance.

Within seconds, they entered you again and continued where they left off.

You tried hard not to come right away and, after several more minutes, you couldn’t control it any longer.

‘Cillian please, can I come?’ you moaned, your walls already beginning to contract around his fingers.

‘No Y/N, you cannot’ he said, withdrawing his fingers once again, pulling your head back on your hair and kissing you passionately.

Just as he pushed you back down, you could feel him line himself up with your entrance.

Your hands were still pinned behind your back as he pressed the tip of his cock into you slowly. Your walls clench instinctively.

‘Don’t you dare come until I’ve given you permission’ he murmured into your ear as he pushes into you torturously slow.

‘I promise I won’t come without permission’ you said as you could feel Cillian’s body against yours and his hands gripping over your hands pinned behind your back and your hair.

‘Good girl’ he whispered as he continued to push inside you slowly until he was completely inside.

You tried to wriggle so you could adjust to his size, but Cillian held you in place. He slowly moved out until only the tip remained inside and thrusts back in deeply.

You moaned loudly into the table as he continued his rhythm, fucking you slowly but deeply. Your mind blanks, pleasure rocking through your body.

You could feel him tighten his grip over your hands as he slowly pulls out and slams into you, eliciting a yelp.

‘Yes, oh god, yes’ you moaned loudly as he began to pick up the pace, knocking you almost breathless.

Your moans caused Cillian to place one of his hands over your mouth gently. You were way too loud.

You felt like a wound-up toy, yearning to be released from the tension. With every thrust, you come closer to your orgasm. He's hitting you fast and deeply, but not enough to send your over the edge. You whine and whimper, weakly struggling against his body. You are so close, teetering on a cliff.

‘Please’ you moaned into his, desperate for your release.

‘Please what?’ Cillian asked as he thrusts in and out of you and removing his hand for just one moment to allow you to speak.

‘Please let me come’ you responded.

‘You will need to do better than that’ Cillian said as he thrusts into you even deeper.

‘I do anything, please’ you moaned, your walls beginning to clench around him.

‘Anything? Hmm, alright, that seems like a fair deal’ Cillian said picking up the speed.

With those words, you let go. Pleasure rocked through your body like a wave.

You tried to fight the feeling of falling and flying at the same time as your orgasm washed over you.

Cillian moaned at the same time as he felt your tight walls close around his cock and, with three more thrusts, he came inside of you.

You could feel his cock throb inside of you as your legs shake from the powerful orgasm.

Just as you both came down from your high, he slowly pulled out of you, causing some of his cum to leak out.

He released your hands and helped you up from the desk.

You turned around to face him and, with one of your hands, you reached in between your legs collecting some of his cum before licking it from your fingers suggestively.

‘I enjoyed this’ you smirked, causing Cillian to stare at you in disbelieve.

‘You are naughty, aren’t you?’ he chuckled just before giving you a kiss.

‘Yes I am’ you smirked before you both made your way to the bed.

By that time you were exhausted.

You curled up in each other’s arms and shared some gentle moments together.

‘I am looking forward to sleeping in this bed with you every night’ you said.

‘So do I’ Cillian responded, before turning off the light.

Morning After

The next morning, you got woken up by the smell of pancakes and three missed calls.

Your father had tried to call you to congratulate Max on his recent soccer medal.

You returned the call and handed the phone to Max while you joined Cillian in the kitchen for a coffee. Just as you were drinking your coffee, you listened to Max speak to his grandfather on speaker.

‘So how have you been Max?’ grandpa asked.

‘Good poppy, we are having pancakes’ Max said.

‘Mum made pancakes? Do they taste any good?’ grandpa laughed.

‘No Cillian made pancakes. Mum and I are moving to his house soon and then we can have pancakes every weekend’ Max said.

‘Cillian? Who is Cillian?’ grandpa asked.

‘Mum’s boyfriend’ Max responded, causing you to choke on your coffee.

‘Can you please put your mother on the phone’ he said.

To be continued…..

  ‘

[kodzukyan]

two hearts, four broken pieces (now we’re unbreakable)

notes: happiest belated birthday to my grand king <3 lots of (long?) dialogue, long talks at the beach, kinda clunky, but i hope you enjoy :> song accompaniment recommendation: unbreakable by lauren dyson (carole & tuesday) & everything i need by skylar grey! also posted on ao3.

summary: you were there like the air when i felt like i was underwater. AU in which you have matching birthmarks on your heart as your soulmate. - oikawa/oc

wc: 6.2k

The clock ticks continually as you finish reviewing the club budget for the upcoming school year. As the last rays of the sun begin to dim into a darkening blue, the clock rings loudly, signaling the end of club activities. The other student council members routinely leave by five, and after a quick goodbye and wave, two hours pass by without you knowing. You glance at your watch, and you sigh softly as you see the shorthand reach seven.

There are still numbers that do not add up, but you suppose that has to wait. Getting up to stretch, you automatically head to the keys cabinet to see which keys are still missing. As usual, the keys to the volleyball gym have yet to be returned.

Like any other day, you sigh again. This is a rather normal occurrence as the volleyball team tends to stay as late as you do. Normally, you don't mind since it’s not a big deal - you’re usually still here to lock up after they leave. Today, however, you’re rather exhausted and would like to finish up your report and just go home. Putting on your white blazer and patting down the wrinkles of your tan skirt, you make certain you’re presentable before you head out of the room and towards the volleyball gym.

A resounding smack reverberates through the air before you even enter the gym. You knock twice on the gym doors, and when there is no answer, you open the doors soundlessly and enter the gym. The gym is unoccupied except for one lone player, making the echoes of each movement louder. 

He doesn’t notice you, and as you see him jump to hit a serve, you are in awe by the strength and impact of it as it lands. It astonishes you a little to discover the normally flirty eyes and teasing smiles with such intense concentration and seriousness. When you see a faint smile on his face as his serve lands within the lines of the court, you wonder if this is what he really is like. As he recovers another ball to try again, you clear your throat. This time, you catch his attention, somewhat.

“Sorry, Iwa-chan! You don’t have to wait for me. I’m almost done!” he calls out, eyes never leaving the court.

“Sorry, Oikawa-san. I am not Iwaizumi-san. While I do have to say I am extremely impressed with your tenacity, I am afraid it's late and time for you to go home,” you say politely with a perfectly practiced smile on your face.

The ball he tossed into the air previously drops straight down onto the floor and bounces as he hears your voice. He jerks his head towards you, and you almost want to laugh when you see his gaping mouth.

“Oh, Pres-chan! I wasn’t expecting you!” he recovers swiftly, a hand behind his head and his tongue sticking out humorously.

Ah, he’s back to his normal self.

“Apologies again,” you nod, a courteous smile never leaving your face, despite your slight disdain for your new nickname. You’ve learned it is easiest to deal with people with a perfect smile, lips upturned slightly at a 45-degree angle and eyes crinkled together lightly.

He stares at you intensely as you smile. While his eyes are analytical enough to press anyone under, it doesn’t bother you because you are used to such scrutiny.

“I’ll pack up! Pres-chan, wait for me! I’ll walk you home since it’s so late.” He finally softens in his stares and begins picking up the balls around the court.

“No need to worry about me, Oikawa-san. There are still some matters for me to finish up at the student council room,” you assure him courteously despite your mild annoyance at your stray strand of hair that fell out of your neat ponytail as you tuck it behind your ear.

“No, no! I insist! It’s so late, so it’s dangerous for cute girls like you, Pres-chan!” he protests as he continues cleaning.

You begin assisting him to pick up the balls and grab the mops to clean up the gym. The more hands there are, the faster you two get to leave. After cleaning up the gym and returning the keys to the student council room, you continue to decline his offer of walking you home. Being around him for a little less than 30 minutes has already tired you, but you find it more draining to talk him out of it so you just relent.

He accompanies you back to your house at your pace, constantly filling the silence with some sort of conversation. He seems to recognize your need for distance, so he keeps the conversation light, never diving in deeper than what you are willing to give. You respond as amiable as you could with this surface-level sort of conversation. This is comfortable, this is straightforward, this is not about who you are, so you find it easy to keep up your practiced smile and pleasantry. 

For what it’s worth, you can understand why he’s so popular. He’s attractive, and his personality is tolerable enough. But something about him is slightly unpleasant to you. You have an inkling of what it is, but you’re not ready to open the tightly sealed jar of emotions yet.

When you reach your stop and he bids you goodbye, you find yourself face to face with your cousin, who just squeals and questions you.

“Who is he?” she exclaims loudly, far too energetic for so late at night. “What if he is your soulmate?!”

You smile tersely, “He is just a classmate.”

She only looks at you in confusion. “Eh? You never know! Did you already see his mark?”

You flash her a practiced smile as you excuse yourself.

“No, I was born without one.” 

---

You like routine. This is something you’ve established for as long as you remember. If things are set in place, set in stone, then they are less likely to fall apart, to break.

So when walking home with Oikawa Tooru stays as a recurring part of your days, it makes you uneasy.

This is not part of your normal routine. But you suppose him returning the volleyball gym keys instead of you wrestling him for them is also not part of your normal routine.

“You know, for someone so smart, you’re kind of dumb."

You finally look up from your papers. Your pen still in hand, eyes in disbelief, and voice laced with venom as you hiss, “Excuse me?”

“Pres-chan, even I know when to stop. It's nearly 8 in the evening. Your body needs rest so you can function as efficiently as you always want to,” he rolls his eyes as he air-quotes the word efficiently. The volleyball gym keys jingle in his hand as he does so, and the sound of it aggravates your headache.

"This is coming from the one who stays behind two hours every day after club activity ends? Stop trying to preach what you don’t practice." Your grip on your pen tightens.

"I take Mondays off," he shrugs and offers a lopsided smile. There's a serious glint in his eyes despite his casual gestures.

You know he's right because the keys to the volleyball club always hang neatly and untouched every Monday. You know he's right when you finally let yourself feel the tiredness in your body. You know he's right when your headache finally catches up to you, but you simply cannot completely let go.

Maybe he sees your sagging shoulders and weary eyes, so he doesn't press the matter anymore. He hangs the clubroom keys in the cabinet before he walks over.

"You can rest, you know?"

You do, but you can't. Not when there are so many reports to fill out and papers to file, not when the club budgeting still isn't adding up, not when you have to be the you that your father created inside his head. Your brows cease together as your head throbs. Before you could respond, you feel a gentle pat on your head that brings you out of your thoughts.

"You're doing great, Pres-chan. Take a break," he speaks softly as he strokes your head.

You close your eyes at his touch, and you relish in his gentleness. For someone with such calloused hands, his touch is surprisingly tender. His voice sounds distant, and it feels like he's speaking past you, like he's speaking to whoever he sees in place of you. You think maybe this is what you needed anyways, this is what you want to hear even if he’s speaking to himself through you.

"Take a nap. I'll wake you up in 20 minutes," he ruffles your hair, messing up your perfectly tied ponytail.

You glance at him briefly, and his stupid smile irritates you. Maybe your headache is getting the better of you, maybe you’re just too tired, but you find yourself nodding as your shoulders finally drop in defeat. "10 minutes."

He laughs as he agrees, and when you finally lay your head down and close your eyes, you briefly feel the warmth of his jersey before you drift off.

When you wake, you find that Oikawa is sitting beside you, humming a soft tune as he scrolls on his phone. It takes you a moment to blink the sleep out of your eyes, and then it occurs to you that he never woke you up. Your eyes flutter to the clock, and when you see that it's a little past 9, you panic. You shoot instantly up from your seat, and your sudden movement leaves you dizzy as the world around you rapidly spins in color. Oikawa stops mid-hum as looks up from his phone before he secures your arm to steady you.

"Holy shit, I thought I told you to wake me up in 10 minutes. The papers need to be filed so we can work on the report due next week. I need to finish the reports, so I can turn them in on Friday. The budgeting excel -."

"Pres-chan." He cuts you off as he takes his hand off your arm and pokes your forehead. "I filed the papers on your desk. They go into their respective color-coded drawers, right? And the reports are just club updates, yeah? I arranged them by club type, so you can just sort through them later. Also, I put the volleyball club on top, so get to us first, okay?" he teases lightly and sticks his tongue out mischievously. "I didn't mess with your budgeting excel because it's not my place to, but don't you think you can ask your treasurer to explain their budgeting and money management so far?"

You blink at him in silence as you take in all the information he told you. You glance over at your desk and see the piles of loose paper gone. In place are new stacks of reports clipped together with the assortment of pastel paper clips you brought last month on a whim. Your surprise overtakes you as you let out a shaky breath. 

"Oh," you whisper, breath still quivering and voice slightly trembling. "Thank you."

You make a mental note to double-check everything again in the morning, just in case. That thought almost flies out of your head when you glance over, and the smile he flashes you is so bright you almost forget how to breathe.

"You're welcome."

When he accompanies you home that night, your steps feel a little lighter and your heart soars a little higher as you catch a glimpse of his profile, eyes fixated on the stars above as he tells you stories of constellations and aliens. 

---

While you’re not an avid volleyball fan, witnessing their defeat to Karasuno in such a close match, watching the light in their eyes dim into a quiet somber crush on your heart. When the match was over and they asked for the keys to the gym, you gave it to them without hesitation although the gym is supposed to be closed for cleaning later today.

Throughout the hours, you find yourself unable to completely focus on the paperwork in front of you. Your eyes keep trailing to the empty key slot where the gym keys are supposed to be, and your ears are fixated on each tick of the clock. Fidgeting with your pen, you finally give in and let out an uneven sigh when the clock rings eight. After smoothing out your skirt and blazer and retying your neat ponytail, you make your way to the gym.

As always, you knock on the doors before coming in. Only silence greets you.

The gym is vacant, and the cheering crowds and rest of the volleyball team members have long gone home after their spontaneous practice. Volleyballs are still scattered everywhere, the net is still up, but none of that matters as your eyes focus on the lone figure lingering in this solemn, almost crushing, silence.

His eyes are downcast, but you can tell from the hitching movement of his chest and the pooling puddle in his lap that he hasn't stopped crying. There is so much you want to tell him, but no words come to you. You’re not even sure if you’re in a position to say anything, but when you see him sitting there defeated and crying silently, a split image of yourself instead of him appears for a moment. The tightly sealed jar of emotions you’ve repeatedly tried to suppress opens.

"You don't have to be perfect, you know?" you tell him softly.

He doesn't look up and only clenches his fists.

You pat the creases out of your skirt as you squat down, hands gently touching his before clasping them firmly. The words burn in the back of your throat as your eyes tear because you know. You know this feeling, this absolutely crushing feeling when all you have is taken away and you’re just left with nothing. Maybe you’re projecting your failures onto him, maybe this is just what you wanted to hear, but you tell him all the same.

"You're so much more than just your losses," you whisper with gentle firmness, "This is not the end. Not for you. Not for your volleyball."

His calloused hands only grip yours tightly as his silent tears fall and roll off your skin.

"You are not your failures."

You barely detect the sound of him letting out a deep breath, but he squeezes your hands. It may not be enough, it may not be okay, but it’s a start.

As the two of you sit in silence, you can merely laugh at yourself for ever thinking Oikawa Tooru was anywhere close to perfect. He is incredibly fragile, human, and unlike a star that you thought you could never reach, he is here beside you. He sniffles every so often, and when every so often becomes more often than not, you laugh lightly and offer him a tissue.

He accepts it with a sniffle, and as he blows his nose, you could only crinkle your nose.

“Ew, you’re gross,” you lightly poke fun at him.

“I was going to say thank you, but I take it back now,” he gasps dramatically.

You roll your eyes as you offer him the rest of your tissues. “It’s fine. I don’t need your thanks. Just… feel better.”

“Thank you,” he whispers anyway as he props his head on yours.

---

You hear three knocks, two fast knocks, a pause as if it’s left for drastic effects, before the third knock, in a familiar rhythm. Instantly, the wooden doors of the student council room open, and brown hair and honey-colored eyes peek in.

“Wanna do something fun with me, Pres-chan?” Oikawa asks, eyes brilliant and smile equally mischievous.

"... Depends on what it is," you raise an eyebrow at him as you look up from finishing some preparations for university. You've substantially given up trying to advise him to wait before barging into the student council room.

He wiggles his eyebrows before he grins. “Let’s go to the rooftop!"

It takes you a moment to comprehend what he said because while it’s not that crazy, the rooftop is off-limits to students. Subsequently, it occurs to you that out of your three years here, you've under no circumstances done anything remotely rebellious. The adrenaline hits you, so you snatch the keys to the rooftop before heading out the door.

"Alright, let's go."

He freezes before his mouth drops and gasps dramatically. "Heh, Pres-chan, looks like you really aren't that much of a good girl after all."

You roll your eyes at him, and a soft smile finds a way to your face before you walk out. "Hurry up, or I'm leaving you behind."

"Wait for me!!" You hear the scampering footsteps, and you swear you can hear his pout.

This is the first time you’ve ever been on the rooftop, you think, as you finally unlock the door and step out into the sun. It’s a little past seven, and you think the sun is going to set soon as it slowly fades behind the Miyagi skylines in bursts of orange. You close your eyes as the wind blows, almost as if it’s greeting you. You can see why people skip all the time to be up here. 

“Feels pretty good, huh?” Oikawa stands beside you as the wind tousles his hair and the sun kisses his skin. He looks radiant under the sunlight, and you merely hope he doesn’t hear the fluttering of your heart.

“Yeah,” you nod along, “I… I wish I came up here earlier.

Honey brown eyes so deep and warm, staring directly at you, and there is something that you’re terrified to name. You always thought love was something dramatic, once in a lifetime, and it just hits you like a train out of nowhere. With Oikawa Tooru, it feels more like learning to walk - steadily, one step after another, until he becomes a part of your natural routine.

You can see the longing and something akin to love in his eyes, but you know it's not love. You know when he loves, he loves with all his being. Right now, there is something, but it's not love because he sees not only you but also past you. He sees the light at the end of the tunnel, the future where he's standing on a volleyball court with his name on the back of a national team jersey. He sees the passion and the love he has for volleyball beyond you, and even when he's here in the moment, even when he likes you, he sees something greater.

Your heart clenches because you want it to be you, you want you, this to be enough. But you know he is meant for something so much greater. He is meant for the stage lights of an international court, living and thriving with so much passion and love for the sport he dedicates his life to. He is unmeant to be here, to be held back by something called love.

You try ignoring the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, try ignoring the way his eyes linger at your lips as if he wants to kiss you. You try ignoring your yearning heart when all you can hear in your head is him telling you he's going to Argentina.

“You’re going to do great in Argentina.” You swallow the lump in your throat and interlace your own fingers together to prevent yourself from reaching out and holding his hand.

He blinks, and slowly retracts his extended hand, and swallows the words he wants to tell you. “Oh, uhm,” he hesitates. “Geez, Pres-chan! Don’t make it sound like we’re never going to see each other again!” he pouts dramatically, voice creaking just ever so slightly and eyes lacking the playful glint in it. “We’ll see each other again.”

He sounds hesitant, almost as if he’s doubtful if he can uphold the words of a promise. He doesn’t deserve to be held back by a promise.

You let him go.

It’s funny because you don’t even think he is yours to let go, but you smile anyway as you catch his unfaltering eyes back on the sunset. He is the one who teaches you a little bit about being okay, the one who first opens the tightly sealed jar and lets a gale of fresh air into your world.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly. Your hand finds its way to him, fingertips ghosting over his hand almost as if you didn’t just reject his moments ago.

The wind blows softly, and the blooming cherry blossoms flutter as he blinks in confusion before he smiles crookedly too. In a world where you are braver, you would have voiced the three words lingering on your mind instead of the two that came out, and your lips would have been on his instead of settling for a ghost of a touch of hands. But in this world, this is all you can do, all you can intend for.

Instead, the two of you continue to stand in silence, sharing this one last moment where he can stand on both legs without leaning to his left to accommodate for his right knee, where you can laugh in a loose smile and ruffled hair without feeling the need to fix them. It’s satisfactory, you tell yourself, this is enough.

While he may not be your soulmate, while you have no soulmate mark, it hurts all the same. Your heart still breaks as the falling sunlight fades into the deep indigo skies, as he waves goodnight, as you watch him go with the world on his shoulders and wings on his back. The hollowness in your chest aches, and you wonder if this is what heartbreak feels like.

---

“Funny, huh? Out of all the people in the world, out of all the places in the world, I end up meeting you on an Argentinian beach, thousands of miles away from home,” you stifle your laughter softly.

The hot summer wind blows into your unbound hair, bringing grains of sand and the scent of the ocean. The shore calls you, and you find yourself wiggling your toes in the clear waters. As you look to the horizon, you find that the crystalline waters contrast vividly against the soft pinks and oranges of the fading sun.  It’s so surreal, and it makes you momentarily forget that there are responsibilities, people waiting for you back at home. 

The faint rustling and the loud splash of water wake you from your trance, and you find Oikawa Tooru running into the waters carefreely. His pants are roughly rolled up just barely above the water level. His eyes are tender and his smile is wide as he holds his hand out to you.

“Come on, Pres-chan,” he gestures his hand in front of you again. “The water feels really nice!”

You take a moment to breathe because he looks beautiful with his brown eyes twinkling mischievously and lips upturned jovially and carefreely against the fleeting sunset. You smile once more, lips upturn softly instead of the traditional 45 degrees, as the last strands of your hair frees from your hair tie. 

You briefly remember being eighteen, standing on the rooftop of your high school. His hand is extended, but you were too afraid to take it, too afraid to become a burden. You blink once and think maybe this time, he should have a say in his own decisions instead of you selfishly making it for him. You take his hand, hesitantly and shyly, as you take your first steps into the water.

Time stills as your eyes meet his brown ones. He stares at you dumbfoundedly, and you are unsure if the pinks of his cheeks are from you or the sunset.

“You look happier,” he finally comments softly, “I’m glad.”

Now it’s your turn to stare at him dumbfoundedly. Your hand covers a slight laugh that breaks from your lips. You take in his wind-tousled chestnut hair and eyes closed from his laughter, his muscular body that no longer tends to lean on his left side absentmindedly to protect his right knee, and you realize he is more genuine, more candid, more Oikawa Tooru than the one you’ve known since high school.

“You do too.”

”Wanna grab drinks after?” Oikawa asks nonchalantly as the two of you finally make your way out of the water and sit under the broad umbrella from the blazing sun. His long legs are stretched out as he leans back, hands propping him up.

Despite his relaxed posture and even voice, you see his fingers wiggling in the sand and the pinks peeking on his cheeks and the tip of his ears. It almost makes you laugh because you’re certain you can reckon on one hand how many times Oikawa Tooru seems so timid.

“I mean”- he continues, taking your silence as a declination, -��just as friends, to catch up, you know? How have you been? Oh! What about your cousin? Didn’t she -”

“Okay,” you laugh lightly. “I’d be happy to.”

“-Oh, now that I think about it, what did you end up doing- wait -” he pauses mid-sentence as he stares at you bewilderedly, ”-okay?”

“Yes,” you laugh again, much louder and without restraint. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats after you again.

“Yes, okay.” You nod.

The smile he gives you is so bright it outshines the sun.

---

"So, how are you?" he asks again once you're seated beside him, a beer in hand and dusk in view.

You offered a general answer earlier, and it started a train of small talk that never breaches past the surface. It reminds you of high school and leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. 

The beach in Argentina is always full of life, but it's quieter now. Maybe it's the fact that it's getting late or the fact that you're on your third beer already, all you can focus on is the man beside you.

Maybe you're more honest now too because he looks like he wants to ask more. (Like he asks “how are you?” when all his eyes are saying is “I love you.”)

"I threw my phone into the ocean and got in a screaming match with my dad," you tell him honestly.

You can feel his gaze on you as he lets out a soft hum to let you know he's listening. It used to unnerve you whenever he looks at you like that, whenever he makes you feel so transparent. Now, it makes you smile because he always makes you feel so seen.

"He told me to be all these things that I am not because he wanted me to have a good life. I know his intentions and know it makes him happy. But I was so fed up with just constantly not being enough for who he wanted me to be, so I told him I just wanted to be his daughter."

You don't realize your hands are shaking until you feel his hands on yours. He pulls the beer bottle out of your hands before he places them into his own and squeezes them.

"And what did he say?" he asks softly, recalling all the late nights and the mask you put on at school in the name of a shadow that always looms over you. He remembers the instant drop of your face whenever your father comes up, when the words duty and filial piety become a burden instead of pride on your shoulders.

"He just kinda stared at me and stopped talking. I think it didn't occur to him that this was a thought in my head. I cried a lot." You squeeze his hands back.

"Yeah, I'm glad you gave him a piece of your mind, though." His voice is gentle as his thumb brushes over your knuckles.

"He cut me fruit after, so I think we're okay," you laugh awkwardly as you flash him a smile. "I think I'm okay."

He smiles too when he notices your smile is a lot freer now, that the corners of your lips are no longer locked in place and forced in front of fake pleasantries. Maybe he's freer now too, he thinks as he looks at the brightly lit skies, as he continues his volleyball journey, feeling so fulfilled despite being thousands of miles away from home. 

"I used to think I wasn't good enough," he starts honestly with a small laugh. "No matter how hard I work, I could never be enough compared to geniuses who just get it." 

“I used to think you were so put together when I initially met you, like the universe's spotlight was meant for you,” you hum. “Until I realized you were the reason why the volleyball gym keys were never returned on time.”

He laughs light-heartedly. “Hey, I had an image to keep up, okay?”

You tuck in your knees and prop your head on top of them, eyes never leaving his, hand still in his. “I think I realized you were a lot more reachable, human even, when I saw you broke down after losing to Karasuno our third year.”

“Are you deriving comfort in my pain? How rude!” He pouts. “But I somewhat get it. I used to think you were super snobby with your fake smiles and your super tight ponytail. I used to think you were going to be balding early!”

“You were the one who habitually had a hoard of fangirls around you, and nobody could get anyplace in the hallways!” You retort with a fond smile.

Memories of high school seem so long ago, and as you recall each one, you see the light in his eyes waning and waxing with the tides. The feelings you try so hard to bury, the ones you try to let go of the day he set off to Argentina bubble through your chest and flow onto your lips.

"I think I was too scared to love you," you finally whisper as the moon rises and the waves kiss the shore.

He stares at you and blinks once, twice, before he breathes a soft, “Oh.”

You finally take your eyes off him, hand finally wiggling its way out of his to encase yourself as you bury your face in your knees. “I wanted to be enough. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t for my dad, wasn’t for myself, wasn’t for you.”

He leans closer and brushes a strand of loose hair off your face. “You are always enough. For your dad, for yourself,” he pauses and smiles gently, “And you are more than enough for me.”

You peek at him through your lashes. The ocean waves drown out the sound of your heartbeat as he stares at you earnestly, eyes honest and lips so, so close.

“I didn’t want you to regret me,” you whisper, voice barely audible, “I didn’t want to be someone who holds you back from your dreams. I didn’t want to be just temporary until you find your soulmate.”

His eyes widen, but he persists steadily close. “I don’t think I could ever regret you. My dreams will always be the national court, but you being there, by my side, would be the best part of it.”

He takes a breath as he reaches for your hand, much like he did at the rooftop of your high school.

“I was born without a soulmate mark. Initially, I was so upset because I thought no one would love me unconditionally like a soulmate is supposed to. But honestly, fuck that. Fuck soulmates. Fuck some pre-destined person supposedly made for you because no one is. We are in control of our own fate, and we are in control of whom we choose to love. And I like you Pres-chan. I have since I was eighteen and dumb. I still like you now at twenty and still a little dumb. But no matter how old I am, how old I will be, it’s always you. I will always choose to love you.”

You breathe in sharply as you listen to his words, every sound and syllable clear as his eyes as he looks at you, only you. There is only truth in his words, and as your eyes wander from his to his hand and back to his eyes, the overwhelming amount of sincerity overwhelms you. 

Oikawa Tooru has always been dedicated in all that he does, and the thought that he is offering you that very same dedicated heart of his becomes a consuming warmth in your chest. The heat of your fluttering heart radiates off your cheeks, and the feeling that has been blossoming in your heart blooms into an indescribable softness and affection.

Love has perpetually been something out of reach, something you witness in movies and read in books, something you witness in your friends and cousin. But love is here now, in the form of Oikawa Tooru with his hands stretched out for you to take, with his heart bare and exposed for you to have.

“I was born without a soulmate mark too. I used to hate it because it felt like it was another thing I was lacking in. I wasn’t even enough to have a soulmate,” you breathe out, eyes on the ocean that reflects on the moonlight. The last bits of the tightly sealed jar of emotions you’ve kept finally flows out.

“But if soulmates do exist, I would like to think they are made. Not in the sense that they are made for each other, because fuck destiny, but in the sense that we wake up every morning and choose who fits us and how they fit. And whatever this is we have between us, we forged it,” you start firmly as you place your hand in his, eyes meeting his. The last bit of bitterness flows into the sea, and the only thing that remains at the bottom of this jar is hope.

“I like you too, Oikawa. I have since I was eighteen and smart. I still do at twenty and moderately smarter but still trying to figure life out. And I don’t know what the future holds or even what I’m doing to do from here on, but I want it to be you.”

“I want it to be you too. I can’t promise you the world or where our lives will lead from here onwards. What I can promise is I will choose you, from the moment I wake up until the moment I sleep, from now until the end of the ocean.”

A promise, his truth. While the unknown horrifies you, this is enough. You smile as you squeeze his hand. When he grins and squeezes your hand back, you think maybe love is irrevocably here to stay.

---

“What were you before you met me?” He takes one of your hands in his and uses his other in an attempt to tame your unconstrained hair against the wind. He pouts when he finds that your hair just blows wildly and gives up, but he smiles, nonetheless, when he hears your unrestrained laughter.

You shake your hair out of your face and turn to face him, hair blowing wildly and freely with the wind. You tear your eyes away from slow waves of the ocean, illuminated by the brilliant reds and oranges of the setting sun, and you find yourself more captivated by glowing brown eyes than you ever could by the dazzling colors of the horizon. 

You stare briefly at him, looking into his eyes and seeing his relentless soul, and the butterflies in your stomach flutter like they did the very first time, feeling absolutely starstruck. You hum softly as you turn back to the peaceful waves and remember the tight ponytails and painted smiles of your high school days. You remember the weight on your shoulders to become someone ideal and the heaviness on your heart to become a you that only lives to make your father proud.

“I think... I was drowning,” you answer almost inaudibly but honestly, both hands gripping his tightly as if you’re holding a lifeline.

He pauses for a moment before he squeezes your hands again. He whispers then, reluctantly and almost fearfully, “And what are you now?”

You turn to meet his eyes. You recall him at seventeen and feeling annoyed because he mirrored every bit of the pretense you put up in all the undesirable ways. But you see him now, twenty and free of the inferiority and limitations he places on himself, and you wonder if you also look older, wiser, happier because you are now the you you want to be.

You have always associated him with air because he is terrible and unpredictable, destructive and clear, focused and silent. But he is also comforting and calm, like an invisible force, who's consistently going and going, with unhindered sight. He is always persistently here and cannot be turned away, and before long, you find yourself not knowing what to do without it.

At the moment, you find the last bits of the riptides that pull you under the waters finally cease, and as you enjoy the scent of the salty ocean and hear the lull of the gentle waves, you think you can finally breathe freely and vivaciously.

Slowly, you take a hand to trace the outline of the miniature matching sun tattooed on his chest, where the soulmate mark is supposed to appear. You smile undoubtedly and wholeheartedly.

“Water.”

---

you’re what i need cause now i can breathe; you put the beat in my heart. somehow we fit together, and now we’re unbreakable. 

[painterofhorizons]

Fanfic "time" meme: Wednesday, friday, september, and minutes

Thank you for the ask! From this writer ask meme, feel free to send in more. Under a cut because it's a bit lengthy, and partially copied from earlier answers from a while ago.

wednesday: name a fic which you have posted which you think is underrated? and

friday: most self-indulgent fic you have ever posted?

I'll answer them together, because the answer is pretty much the same:

Posted: I would say On the Helmsman’s Watch. Post-Feros Shepard/Joker friendship fic about beacon mind fuckery and Joker being awesome. I knew it was something that wouldn’t have a broad audience due to very specific topic and gen-fic and it's definitely one of my fics I hoped would reach a few more people nevertheless. But I really liked the idea and having @swaps55 as a beta reader made the whole writing process even more fun and helped me get exactly the story out in the end that I wanted to write. Turned out exactly the fic I wanted to write in the end, and I enjoy reading it a lot. :D

Written (but not yet finished/posted, hence self-indulgent only): The sprakling unicorn dildo fic. Sounds like crack, started as a total crack idea, more like a “what if I wrote about-” and I don’t even remember anymore what started it in the beginning. But it is SUCH a fun thing to work on. It turned out much less crack-y than the initial idea, of course having some major serious touches. But yeah, the initial thought might have indeed been: women should be talking about masturbation a lot more and more freely, fuck taboos, so why not write about it? And so I did. And I discovered that just writing about it very freely is so much fun, and getting feedback in bits and pieces from @chyrstis who enjoys the story a lot so far, too, has been a great experience.

september: share a comment or review which still warms your heart?

Again copied from an answer from ago, and lengthy, but maybe interesting because there might be (or might have been) a different comment culture on the german fanfic website and the english speaking end.

Story time.

Let me first say that I appreciate every. Single. Comment. So so much. Like. So much.

I was socialized ff-writing-wise on the german ff site (fanfiktion.de), going there first in 2004 shortly after they launched and not switching to AO3/english ff reading until ten years later (and writing seriously not until 2020). I have spent so much of my free time when I was a teenager on ff.de, both writing and reading. You know, the kind of teenager-ff-consumption where you write a chapter, upload it, get all your peers to read it and comment on it the same day and just writing and uploading another chapter the same day because of that. :D We were young and had nothing else to do, right?? So, writing/reading ff for most of the time for me was doing so in german on ff.de. And I think over there - and back then that is, as well as within my peer group of teenagers sharing the same interests - there was a whole different reading/commenting culture. More people commented in general, and comments were longer. Then when we grew older, changed fandoms, met new people and stuff, I was very lucky to find a wonderful peer group of adult people within the Criminal Minds fandom over there who was just dope. We were writing comments longer than chapters sometimes, essays really, character and story analysis and having deep discussions about stuff in the comments. (None of us was at tumblr, lol, so stuff happened in comments.) And I cannot start to tell you how much I appreciate those CM years in the mid 2010’s. We all moved on from that fandom/writing group by now, which is just how things go, but I treasure those writing years so so much. I could pull any of the comments I got in those years as an example, they are all just amazing. (shoutout to @sheeplessthings and @calendergirlff who remain from that group)

So, that’s how I was socialized ff-writing wise. Regular and lengthy, analyse and deep conversation like comments on whatever one wrote. ff.de didn’t have anything like kudos, just comments and PMs, and neither of us knew tumblr.

Well, you know AO3 these days works a lot different. And I still find myself mourning these “good old days” comment-wise, because honestly - I mean, every writer will understand. There’s nothing better then lengthy rambling comments on something you wrote.

That being said, a comment I treasure a lot - or many, that is - is everything left on my “20 times Akuze almost gets Shepard” fic. Let me explain (more words, yay. xD)

Gifted kid speaking. I know writing is not about getting good grades. And comments aren’t, either. And I love rambling comments so so much, much more than just “this was really good”. But for the 20 times fic, there was so much praise coming in. I mean “one of the best mass effect fics read”, right? Literal comment I got. And you know why that means so so much to me? Not because yay, I got a good grade at writing apparently.

English is not my first language. I have been writing in german ever since, and A LOT, and I am very confident about my (german) writing skills. It’s great to enjoy something and know you’re good at it, and being able to use it a lot in both private and professional ways. Writing in english though? It’s fun, too, but I’m not a native speaker, I have never lived abroad, didn’t grow up bilingual, I use dictionaries a lot and my grip on english as a language, the details, the knowledge and experience just isn’t the same I have in german. It’s lacking.

And with it being Mass Effect, I am just ANXIOUS about writing, okay? I was first introduced to Mass Effect ff by @tarysande s Grace Shepard fic. I found it when I was extremely depressed, MA studies having killed every last bit of join about reading. I hadn’t read in years for fun and enjoying it - then when I found her fic I have read hundreds of thousands words within I think 4 or 5 days. The pain of staying up all night for days with barely a handful hours of sleep because I had to read it all still feels very real. xD Her writing is so good. And after her fabulous, wonderful stories I have read so many more, and let me tell you, the english speaking ME fandom is incredibly skilled and talented. Amazeballs. Many of these fics are just so good you have no idea. I have read a lot in my life and you guys write stories, holy cheesecake. So ME is both a very emotional topic for me personally, keeping me sane in a very challenging time, as well as writing wise. I know writing isn’t about getting good grades, but as someone who always got good grades in writing in her native language and then coming to the english ME fandom and reading all these brilliant stories from all these incredibly talented people has me… anxious, so to say. Because I know I cannot live up to that. I cannot be as good as I’d like to be and there are so many so brilliant writers in the ME fandom. It’s intimidating. (And I have never met someone who wrote in german while german was their second language, so I only know the situation from one perspective.)

And damn, “20 times” got me really great grades. :D And more important, with all these amazing writers out there and amazing stories I have read? Someone saying they think “20 times” is one of the best ME stories they have read? That means so much to me. That’s like: damn girl. You did it.

minutes: how long does it normally take you to complete a fic?

*nervous laughter* Is a good answer to this question "yes"?

It depends, really. It can range from a few days up to forever. I'm not speaking longfic here (there the answer is: never), but simply a oneshot or one chapter, i.e. one text that is ready to be posted. I would say average between idea/first writing to finished version usually is some days, where some can be 3 or 20, mostly something like 4-8 or so. But since I write whatever sparks my interest and whenever I feel like writing, the whole process can last months, too. But yeah, if the writing mood hits and I am excited about a fic and have time on hand to actually write? I would go for something under a week. I love love love free saturdays that I can spend fully on writing if I'm deep in the process of a story. Best saturdays ever.

[letsdiscoverkitty]

"Life" Update - May 2021

This is the last of the three updates I have to post at the moment. If anyone actually reads these, especially in one go, you really do deserve a medal and I have no idea what I have done to deserve your kindness and support but THANK YOU SO MUCH (to all of you who are here, you are all truly wonderful and amazing) Okay, let's get going....

I suppose the title is a bit, well, overkill. To say that anyone has been had any sort of "life" over the past year would be a huge misuse of the word. The global pandemic has, quite literally, turned life upside down for the vast majority of people and I know that lockdowns, especially in the UK, have meant that anything other than what was deemed "essential" has been off the cards, which has hit us all hard.

I personally found it quite difficult whilst I was in hospital as although on the one hand it was good to know that there wasn't much that you were missing out on whilst locked on a ward with 15 minutes fresh air (if you were lucky), it did make it hard to find/hold onto motivation at times. Coupled with the fear of how my dad's condition would progress, whether he would make it and what sort of home life I would be going back to; the world suddenly felt even noisier than it had before (which I didn't think was really possible). The situation seemed to further heighten my fears as well as add to them. I found my mind was swamped with so many questions and fears, to then be asked about my future/what I wanted to do with my life (that classic question) and what my motivations were to get better, was too much. I fell blank.

I had completely lost myself and any shed of hope that was left inside of me. I tried to put on a smile; paint a different picture to the outside world but inside I was dark. I was hollow. I was empty.

What was the point? You never know what is waiting around the corner; everything can turn upside down overnight. What kind of 'life' would there be going back to anyway? Would it be possible to go to University anymore or would there still be multiple restrictions in place? would that make the huge financial costs worth it? What sort of society will we be coming out of the pandemic anyway? Will we even come out of this? Will people ever go back to offices again? Will we be able to see friends soon or go out to places? What about travelling? Fun? LIFE?

I found depression swamped me more than ever after dad's accident. I was trying to hold myself together for mum but I was losing all hope of anything ever being 'the same' or 'okay' again. In the end, the only reason I accepted the admission was for mum - I wanted to be able to support her with dad in hospital and us not know what the future held; as much as I wished I could be there all the time, I knew in the state I was that I couldn't. Initially I was told the admission would be a short one, that I could then go back home to support my mum through the family trauma...but that 4 weeks soon turned into over 8 months, which I still can't believe.

Gosh, I am sorry, I seem to have got a little distracted. This was meant to be the POSITIVE update. So let's get to those bits...

NEWS ONE: I HAVE A JOB (starting in Sept)

So whilst in hospital my consultant kept trying to get me to think about what I wanted to do with my life (just the small questions you know *lol*) - in her eyes she thought it would be risky to go back to University to do neuroscience/a degree so intense, and that instead I should think about doing something more creative, taking small steps to get a part time job and then go from there - which, as much as I hated to admit, I agreed with. However after one particularly bad run-in with the nutritionist when she decided to tell me that she didn't think I could achieve a life beyond Anorexia (it must have been mid-way-ish through my admission) blah blah blah (I get that she could have been trying to motivate me but there is a way to go about it and then there are ways to really not go about it and she chose the latter). Anyway, I was rather angry/mad and ended up doing basically trying to prove everyone wrong and started doing some research into my different options...

Long story short: I ended up applying to a degree apprenticeship scheme in business management...I've never really considered something like this before, perhaps partially because at school they drilled into me that business was a "soft" subject as it would not be looked upon very highly for Oxbridge applications *rolls eyes*. Thankfully I did a lot of research into Degree Apprenticeships a few years ago so I knew where to look online. Anyway, back to this application. I ended up going through the process/tests, somehow managing to make it through the initial online stages, then just before I was discharged I was invited to a online interview!

I only had a few days to do the interview before it timed out so I actually ended up doing it In the end the day after I was discharged (not ideal) and I was convinced that I had messed it up as it was one of those ones where you get shown the question for around 30 seconds before being given 2 minutes to respond - i.e. stress.pressure.anxiety.stumbling over words. HORRENDOUS.

I somehow passed the interview and the reviews before being invited to an online assessment centre in Feb, which spanned a whole day and included multiple interviews (the first was a strengths based interview with 2 interviewers for just over an hour - yuck!!!) as well as a presentation which we were given 24hrs in advance to prepare for (we were given 4 'topics'/questions and had to answer all of them in a 15 minute window using aids if we chose to, again to 2 (different) interviewers before having a 45 minute further interview - double yuck!)

Dare I say that I actually enjoyed the preparation for the presentation and the interviews?! It was so nice to have a focus and something to be working on that I was actually really beginning to connect with/want/see myself doing. The interviews and presentation themselves? HORRIBLE but the process reignited something within me. After the assessment centre day we were told it could be 7-10 working days to hear back from them - waiting for anything like this is just the worst so I wasn't looking forward to it and tried not to get my hopes up as these schemes are ridiculously hard to get into... Well, I got the call the next day saying that they were so impressed and out of something like 14,000 applications, I was offered one of the spaces on the scheme!! - I honestly still can't believe it and imposter syndrome is v real -

I know at the beginning of this I sounded very blase about the whole thing but as I progressed through the process, as I read more about the scheme and the business and what it would entail, the more I began to get excited. The more I realised how interesting it was and what an amazing opportunity it would be for me.

Despite this, I was also at the time, finishing up yet another an application to University (for the millionth time, I swear I must be a pro at these personal statements by now) this time for psychology and behavioural studies. This was before I got the offer of the degree apprenticeship scheme, which I knew was a long shot with only a handful of places given for thousands of applicants, so I felt I had to keep my options open (Neuro is still an area of fascination to me but not so much with the INTENSE LEVEL of physiology and pharmacology that I was doing at Bristol. Yes bits of it were good and interesting but that degree was ridiculous and, again, I felt far more drawn towards the behavioural studies and psychology when researching into Universities). I ended up getting 3 offers, 1 interview for Cambridge and 1 rejection (ironically from Bristol, even with my recommendation/support being from my previous personal tutor at Bristol!) - so I suddenly had options. And then the offer from the degree apprenticeship came through and there were even more options to choose from.

It honestly felt so surreal (and still does).

In the end, after a lot of thinking and debating and researching and talking, I decided to withdraw my University application and I accepted the degree apprenticeship role. Overall it is such an incredible opportunity that I knew I couldn't turn down, whereas University will always be there. I am actually getting a little excited about it (as well as extremely nervous, but I must say that the company has made a really positive/good impression thus far, even as far as creating MH podcasts with a psychologist for us and offering things like zoom baking sessions!).

So what is this degree apprenticeship? In short, it is a 3 year course during which I will have a Monday to Friday job at the company (for which the office is actually commutable from home - it is about 1hrs drive, which is not the best but it does mean that I can stay at home for at least the first year and there is a train I could get if I was too tired to do the drive all the time. As much as staying at home is not my long term plan it might help with the transition back to work/education to have a bit of stability and the support). During the first 2 years at the company we do four separate 6 month rotations in different areas to get lots of experience (marketing, supply chain, sales etc) whilst in the final year you get to put in a preference for where you would like to work for the year long placement. During this, every 6 or 7 weeks, we have to spend a week at University (which is not in commutable distance at all so the the company pays for our accommodation, travel and food during this time). As far as I have been told, we also get time during the working week allocated to do Uni work as well as our standard 'desk' jobs. Oh and not to mention one of the biggest sellers for degree apprenticeships....the company is basically sponsoring you so pays ALL of your tuition fees PLUS a basic salary! This means that you come out, in this case, with a Chartered business management degree, 3 years of hands-on work experience, as well as you being pretty much guaranteed a job within the company AND no student debt!!! How incredible is that? PLUS one big perk of the job is that they allow dogs in the office - I mean how could I say no to that?!!!!

So yes, by some magical miracle I actually have a job lined up for September! It still doesn't feel real and I am yet to fully process it. They don't know how it will be affected by COVID but the company did continue the programme last year (unlike some that postponed) so fingers crossed all should be going ahead. I have 'met' the other 4(?) who are on the scheme at my office as well and they seem lovely (including one other person who is my age/slightly older - which was such a relief as I was worried about it being only people just out of college).

I realise that it is going to be tough, I do not underestimate that at all, but I couldn't let anorexia still yet ANOTHER life milestone and opportunity away from me. There was a lot of questioning as to whether I should take it or not; I went back and forth between many spreadsheets that I made but I think this opportunity far outweighs going back to University. I have tried that route twice already and had to leave because of everything/haven't really coped (I think in some ways, being at Uni there is TOO MUCH free time and it allowed my perfectionism to run riot as I always felt like I was 'behind' in one way or another?). And that is not to mention that if I was going back to University, I would need to spend another 3-4 years studying, I would leave with little work experience or job in mind at the age of 29/30 with a mountain of debt.... And as I said before, I can always go back to University if I want to in the future/re train if I decide to, but this opportunity with a global company, well, this will never ever come my way again.

So yes that is my BIG BIG news. But I also have one more bit of news....

I'm getting a kitten. Yes, A KITTEN!!!!! I have so much more to say on this but for now you will have to wait and see. Photos will come when SHE does (a couple of weeks now)!!!

[slashhinginghasher]

Your writing is so awesome!! You’re doing an amazing job. :) Would you write a fic if a female reader trying her best to ask Asa our on a date and him just not understanding why anyone would want that?

Thank you so much!! Sorry Asa is barely in this, I got caught up in the banter bc I miss my friends :(

PItfalls of Modern Technology - Asa Emory x Female Reader

“Hey, Cas, you’re pretty oblivious, right?”

Cas choked mid-sip and narrowly avoided spilling his drink over the pile of student drawings on the coffee table. You had invited your best friend over to watch scary movies, greet trick-or-treaters, and get wasted, as was your long-standing Halloween tradition. Now, with the candy bowl and the pitcher of spiked punch both half empty, you finally felt sufficiently drunk to bring up the issue that had been on your mind all day.

“I’m not that oblivious!” Cas protested.

“You didn’t realize Alex was flirting with you until six months after they gave up and started dating someone else.”

“Touche, and also fuck you. What’s on your brain?” You sighed and tore open a fun-size pack of M&Ms.

“How the hell do I ask out a guy who doesn’t even seem to realize that I like him?”

“Have you tried flirting with him?” You glared at Cas and popped a candy in your mouth.

“Yeah, no shit I’ve tried flirting with him, dummy. It just bounces right off. Also it’s hard because he’s so serious and I wanna stay professional, and I don’t know how to professionally say ‘I want your dick’.” Cas tossed his head back and laughed.

“How a woman who writes for a living can be so bad with words is beyond me…” He shot upright, eyes lighting up. “Wait, are you talking about Bugman? You’re trying to hook up with the Bugman?”

“Oh my god, stop calling him that!” you screeched, pelting Cas with a mini Twix bar. “You make him sound so.... un-sexy.” You tossed back the rest of the M&Ms like you were taking a shot. “But yes. And for the record, he’s an entomologist with a PhD.” Cas held his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay. So if you wanna seduce Dr. Bugman--” He effortlessly deflected the Butterfinger you sent flying at his head. “You have a graduate degree in scientific communication, how do you suck so much at this?”

“It’s different!” you protested. “I don’t wanna fuck the science. Also, I can sit down and re-write it however many times I need to.” For some reason, this sent Cas into hysterics. You raised an eyebrow and sipped your punch until he was able to choke out a few words.

“Send… him… an email…” 

You pictured sending Asa a letter like some lovelorn Victorian debutante and immediately cracked up.

“God, could you fucking imagine?” You reached for your laptop and opened your email. “‘Dear Dr. Emory, I hope this email finds you well. I am writing to you about an issue of utmost importance: specifically, your dick.”

By the time you and Cas had finished composing your imaginary letter, you were both wheezing. You tossed your laptop to the side, leaving the message in your drafts alongside several other emails. Over the next few hours, you handed out candy, watched Tippi Hedren scream her head off, and polished off the rest of the punch. Rather, you, specifically, polished off the rest of the punch. Cas had backed off, saying he needed a clear head if he was going to decipher six-year-olds’ chicken scratch.

“Does that say ‘Mr. Uncle Cas’?” you slurred, looking over his shoulder at one of the drawings. Cas groaned and put his face in his hands.

“Livvie’s got almost half the class calling me that now,” he said mournfully.

“I knew I liked that kid,” you cackled, mentally high-fiving the administrator who had placed Cas’s niece in his first grade class.

“Of course you do; she’s a horrible little gremlin,” he said fondly.

The rest of the evening passed quietly, the two of you just enjoying each other’s company. Cas finished grading the rest of his students’ assignments - the prompt was “If I was a monster,” which had resulted in some extremely entertaining drawings and stories - and you slowly melted into your couch. Around midnight, you declared the stream of trick-or-treaters officially dried up, and Cas headed out. He paused in your doorway, one hand on the knob.

“Hey, Y/N.”

“Hmmmm.”

“...Mister Doctor Professor Bugman.”

You threw the entire candy bowl at his head.

***

***

You were almost sick with nerves when you walked into Asa’s office on Monday morning. I am an adult, I am an adult, I am an adult. The mental chant did not make you feel very adult-like.

“Dr. Emory? May I speak with you for a moment?” You had been hoping against all hope that Asa hadn’t even seen the email, but the icy look in his eyes told you he had. He nodded. Once.

“I…” You twisted your fingers together nervously. Just get on with it, Y/N. “I wanted to apologize for the email you received over the weekend. I was trying to send you a portion of the article for review and clicked the wrong button. My friend and I were a bit… overzealous with our festivities on Friday, it was never meant to be sent.” The words came out in one long rush. Asa remained silent the whole time.

“And do you often mock your work associates when you are intoxicated, Ms. L/N?” he asked at last.

“Do I…” Lost in the depths of his dark eyes, you found yourself scrambling for words. And you noticed something else in his expression.

Hurt.

“Dr. Emory. Asa.” He started slightly at your use of his first name. “The tone of that email was unfortunate,” you forced yourself not to wince at your incredible understatement, “but I can assure that the sentiment was completely honest. I like you. I find you attractive. I would have liked to go on a date with you, but I supposed I’ve demolished my chances of that happening now.” Your courage began to fade as fast as it had appeared. “I’m sorry again. I acted very unprofessionally.” You turned on your heel and fled his office before he could respond, cheeks burning.

***

You received an email from Asa that evening. No subject line, not even a sentence long, but it sent your heart soaring.

Friday. 8:00 pm.

[monggu-eomma]

Don’t Touch That!

Pairing: pinning!Jungkook along with platonic!NamJin

Genre: Hogwarts!AU, crack

Prompt: Don’t touch that!

Word Count: 2.5k words

Prompt: Don’t touch that!

Summary: This is a story in which everyone, including the author, is whipped for Jungkook. Just kidding (not really). Jungkook finds himself in dire need of extra help to study for an upcoming Potions mid-term. The solution to his problem involves him sacrificing his pride, but Namjoon sweeps in to save the day for five seconds. 

Author’s Note: I never cared about a person’s teeth until I saw Jungkook smile. With that being said, I have crawled out of my hole and this scenario is the first of many that will come as a result of my participation in BTS Ghostie Writer’s Net Bingo Bash. This scenario falls under the “Don’t touch that!” prompt. Also, on a completely random note, I have missed writing in third person. I don’t own anything from the world of Harry Potter, but with that being said, this fic can not be modified, re-posted or translated without my permission. Credit for the image belongs to BigHit.

“I don’t think that I’m going to be able to play in next week’s match,” Jungkook said as he laid on a bed and stared up at the ceiling of the Room of Requirements. His heart clenched as the ceiling reminded him of the ceiling of the attic at his home. 

“What do you mean?” Namjoon asked as he approached the bed that Jungkook was lying down and sat down by his feet. “The Ravenclaw team isn’t going to play without their seeker.”

“The mid-term for Potions is next Monday and then the match is Wednesday. If I fail this mid-term then I won’t have the grades that I need to play,” Jungkook explained. Namjoon looked back and watched as Jungkook sat up on the bed. His dark wavy hair was disheveled from lying down, but Namjoon was sure that all of the female students, and a considerable amount of male students, at Hogwarts would still find Jungkook attractive. 

“I thought you were doing really good in Potions,” Namjoon said. 

Jungkook fidgeted. “Well I’m doing good, but I’m not doing good enough. I need at least a 90% to be able to play on Wednesday and I know that Snape is going to make this mid-term extra difficult, since we’re playing against Slytherin.” 

Namjoon blinked and tilted his head to the side. He didn’t know that the standard for playing Quidditch was that high. “I’d offer to help, but...” Namjoon said trailing off at the end of his sentence. Jungkook threw his head back and laughed. He knew exactly what Namjoon was talking about. The elder was an absolute liability in Potions and it was a wonder that Namjoon was still allowed to take Potions. 

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure Snape already hates me enough as it is,” Jungkook said after his laughter died down. “I don’t need to give him another reason to like me even less by taking Potions lessons from you, no offense.” Jungkook extended his hand and laid it on Namjoon’s shoulder.

“None taken,” Namjoon replied. He pursed his lips for a moment and pondered over Jungkook’s dilemma. “Why don’t you ask Yoongi to tutor you?” 

“I already asked. He can’t help me because he’s juggling taking the practice exam for NEWTs and duties from being Head Boy,” Jungkook said with a sigh. 

“What about Jimin?” Namjoon asked. “Or Taehyung?”

“Both of them are taking the practice exam for OWLs,” Jungkook said. “And Hobi got an Acceptable in Potions for his OWLs. I need someone who knows what they are doing.” 

“Jin did better than Hobi, he got an Exceeds Expectations. It’s because of him that I managed to barely scrape by in Potions section of the OWLs with an Acceptable. You should ask him,” Namjoon suggested. 

Jungkook’s shoulders sagged and he shook his head. “I can’t ask him.” 

“Why not?” 

“I just can’t.” Namjoon gave Jungkook his infamous that’s-not-a-good-enough-reason look and Jungkook scooted forward on the bed to sit next to Namjoon. “I can’t ask him. Asking Jin for help gives him too much power over me. It’ll give him too much leverage. I can already see what will happen if I ask him.” 

“What do you think is going to happen?”

Jungkook stood up, his Ravenclaw uniform slightly crinkly from lying down, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Ugh. I can see him going like ‘It’s about time you came around asking for my help, kid!’” Jungkook began to say as he placed his hands on hips and mimicked Jin’s ‘old man’ gestures. Namjoon laughed at Jungkook a-little-too-spot-on impression of Jin. “‘It looks like our little golden boy still needs help from time to time. HE HE HE HE.’” Tears fell down Namjoon’s cheeks upon hearing Jungkook’s imitation of Jin’s laughter. Jungkook couldn’t help but smile with his adorable teeth showing as he watched his elder laugh. 

“That was too good, Kookie,” Namjoon said as he wiped away his tears. Jungkook’s smile softened and he looked down at his feet in defeat when reality returned to creep over him. 

“He’s never going to let me live it down if I ask him for help.” 

Namjoon stood up from the bed and smoothed his Gryffindor tie and dress shirt before placing a comforting hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. 

“How about I ask him to help me out with Potions?” Namjoon said. Jungkook looked up, confusion clouding his brown eyes. “I’ll ask Jin if he can tutor me and then you can tag along.” 

“What if he says no?” Jungkook asked with doubt laced in his voice. 

“Don’t worry. He won’t say no.”

“How are you doing to get him to agree to tutor you?”

“Well... How about this? I’ll tell him that since I got an Acceptable in Potions for my OWLs that I’m going to help you out and tutor you in Potions.” 

Jungkook blinked and understood immediately what Namjoon was trying to get at. There was no way that Jin was going to let Namjoon do anything that involved the words ‘help’ and ‘Potions.’

“Jin’s busy with classes today and tomorrow is Friday, right?” Namjoon asked. 

Jungkook took a moment to make sure that the following day was indeed Friday. “Yeah, it is.” 

“Good. I’ll tell him tomorrow and after Jin finishes with his scolding, we can start studying Friday afternoon.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday afternoon arrived within a blink of an eye for Jungkook. Namjoon had told him right after breakfast that Jin would tutor the both of them at the library after their last classes of the day. According to Jin, “There was no time to waste for the school’s walking disaster and the school’s golden boy.” Jungkook, begrudgingly, couldn't agree more. 

Jungkook’s school bag bounced against his hip as he walked to the library. The giggles from a group of Hufflepuffs girls passing by Jungkook as he entered the library went through one ear and out the other. He had one thing in mind and no one person or thing was going to get in his way from achieving success. 

“JUNGKOOK!” Jin whisper-shouted from a bookshelf near the entrance of the library, which earned him a nasty glare from the librarian. Off to a great start, Jungkook thought to himself as he forced a smile towards the librarian in hopes to ease her anger. The elderly lady was immune to his charms and her scowl deepened. Jungkook quickly scurried to the bookshelf that Jin was standing by.  

“Hey, Jin,” Jungkook awkwardly whispered. Jin grinned and patted Jungkook on the shoulder a little too enthusiastically. 

“Come on, kid. Namjoon got us a table in a more intimate part of the library. We don’t need students distracted by my infamous looks while I help you and Namjoon with Potions,” Jin proclaimed. Jungkook suppressed the urge to facepalm, since the act would give Jin the you-are-not-as-handsome-as-you-think vibe, and Jungkook did not want to get another lecture from Jin about “respecting his elders.” 

“Thanks for helping out. I know that you’re busy,” Jungkook said as he and Jin approached the table that Namjoon occupied. 

“I’d much rather help than see the fallout from Namjoon attempting to help you with Potions,” Jin said as he pulled out a chair and sat next to Namjoon. Jungkook sat on the opposite side of the table, in front of Jin. Namjoon laughed at Jin’s remark and along with Jungkook, he pulled out his notebook that was primarily for his Potions class. “So what do you need help with, Jungkook?”

“What about me?!?” Namjoon asked with indignation. Jin glared at Namjoon and turned to face Jungkook.

“Jungkook’s problems with Potions are the easiest to address first,” Jin began to explain as he pulled out an all-too-familiar textbook. “Your issues with Potions require you to start with reading over the basics, again. I need to see how much you’re retained.” 

Namjoon nodded his head and adjusted his glasses. “I’ll just start reading that,” Namjoon awkwardly said, looking at the first year Potions textbook. 

“Start with reviewing how to cure boils,” Jin said as he pulled out his Potions notebook from his fourth year at Hogwarts. It was common knowledge that Jin liked to keep notebooks that contained notes from all of the classes that he had taken at Hogwarts. Those notebooks, and Jin, were among the most coveted things by the students at Hogwarts. “Here we go, antidotes to Potions. This is the core of what you are learning about in Potions, right?” 

“Right,” Jungkook said. 

“Are there any Potions that you’re struggling with?” Jin asked. He skimmed through his notebook to refresh his memory of the Potions that he had learned about. 

“The Ageing Potion,” Jungkook replied. 

“Oh! I know that one!” Namjoon exclaimed. Jin rolled his eyes and playfully smacked Namjoon’s hand. 

“You don’t know anything,” Jin said. “You can’t even brew a Pepperup Potion to cure the common cold.” 

Jungkook’s eyes widened in surprise. He knew that Namjoon struggled with Potions, but he didn’t realize that his struggle led him to not even be able to brew such an essential potion. 

“I almost did last time! I just forgot to add the Mandrake root!” Namjoon said in reply. Jin huffed and stared pointedly at Namjoon. 

“Speaking of which, although it’s good that you’re trying to do better with Potions, shouldn’t you be studying for the upcoming Transfiguration mid-term that you have next Thursday?” Jin said. 

“How do you know I have a mid-term next Thursday?” Namjoon asked. 

“Hobi was complaining about it since it’s right after the big match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. He wants to watch the match, but McGonagall is testing you guys on human transfiguration.” 

Namjoon gulped and nervously adjusted his glasses. He looked down at the Potions book and contemplated the current use of his time. 

“Hobi said that he was going to be in the Room of Requirements to practice, if you want to join him,” Jin suggested with a shift in his tone. Gone was playful Jin-- he was now replaced with wise Jin. Namjoon looked at Jungkook and grimaced. Jungkook felt bad for the elder. Snape’s tests were notoriously hard, but McGonagall managed to make her tests even harder. Jungkook had heard many sixth years complain about the Transfiguration class and how they were struggling to even understand what McGonagall wanted them to do.  

“You should go study with Hobi,” Jungkook encouraged. He swallowed his pride and sighed before admitting what he wanted to avoid saying in front of Jin. “I’m the one who needs help.” 

Namjoon nodded his head and immediately stood up from his seat. “I’ll go meet up with Hobi. Sorry about this,” Namjoon said as he gestured to the barely read Potions textbook. 

Jin shrugged, unbothered by Namjoon’s sudden need to leave. “No worries. You’ve got more important things to worry about.” Namjoon sighed in relief and hung his school bag on his shoulder. “I’ll save you a seat at dinner.” 

“Thanks!” He said in reply. “I’ll see you guys later.” 

Once Namjoon was no longer within earshot, Jin closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “I know I can give him flack, but Namjoon’s the smartest among us. I’m sure he’ll do just fine on McGonagall’s test.” 

“Yeah. I’m sure he’ll do good too,” Jungkook said as he looked down at his barely legible notes from Potions class. He figured a good place to start with understanding the Ageing Potion better would be to compare his notes with Jin’s old notes and make a detailed guide to understanding and brewing the potion. 

“Why did you ask for help to study for this mid-term, kid?” Jin suddenly asked as Jungkook was furiously writing important notes that either he had neglected to get down or Snape had neglected to talk about in class. Snape had a habit of expecting students to do a lot of learning outside of class, so it was most likely the latter. 

Jungkook looked up from his scribblings, his doe eyes wide in surprise. Jin’s body was leaning against the table, his eyes studying the younger boy. 

“What do you mean?” He asked. 

“Jungkook, you’re a smart kid,” Jin started to say. Jungkook was in awe. He never thought he’d ever hear those words come out so easily from Jin’s mouth. “Not as smart as me, but still smart.” Jungkook rolled his eyes. “But you’re doing well-enough in Potions. You don’t need my help to score high enough to play in the match against Slytherin on Wednesday.” 

“I don’t want to do ‘well-enough,’ I want to do better,” Jungkook said. Jin moved back to let his back rest against the chair as he pondered over Jungkook’s desires and intentions. As he was lost in thought, Jungkook pulled out a folder from his school bag and papers started falling out. 

“Don’t touch that!” Jungkook exclaimed in panic as he saw Jin grab a worn out folded piece of paper that fell out of his messy folder of papers.

“What is this?” Jin asked with a hint of teasing in his tone. 

“Nothing!”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” Jin pointedly said as he opened the worn out folded piece of paper. He could tell from the crinkles that this paper had been open and folded countless times. 

A deafening silence hung in the air as Jungkook awaited Jin’s reaction to the contents of the piece of paper. 

“So that’s why you’re studying so hard. It isn’t just so you can play the game,” Jin stated after reading the first few lines of the note. Jungkook expected his tone to be mocking, but instead it was soft. “You like someone.”

A blush crept on Jungkook’s neck and he hung his head low. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled in hopes that Jin would drop the subject. He didn’t want to be humiliated by the elder for having a crush and going to such great lengths to impress someone. 

“It matters if you wrote out your feelings in a note and are going out of your way to study a subject that you already excel in,” Jin said as he folded up the note and gave it back to Jungkook. He looked up at Jin in surprise. Was he really not going to tease him? 

“I--”

“You don’t have to say anything, kid,” Jin said. “And if you don’t want me to, I won’t tell anyone, especially the person that this note is meant for.” 

Jungkook’s tensed shoulders sagged in relief as he stared at his older friend in disbelief. 

“I’m confused.” 

Jin kindly smiled at Jungkook and patted him on the head. Jin understood what Jungkook was trying to do. Getting a high grade on the mid-term wasn’t just for the match, it was to impress the person that Jungkook was crushing on. 

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll give you a hard time about it later, but for now we’re gonna continue going over these concepts,” Jin said, gesturing at the notes that Jungkook had been taking. “And I’m gonna make sure that you ace the Potions mid-term.” 

Jungkook wanted to ask about Jin’s intentions, but he didn’t want to push away Jin’s help. He would ask Jin about what he was talking about later, after he catches the snitch and wins the match against Slytherin on Wednesday. He wasn’t going to do good, he was going to do great.

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Ian Martin’s Strange Paradise, Part I: The Top 5 Best Things

SPOILERS FOR LATE MALJARDIN AND BOTH DESMOND HALL ARCS

Hello and welcome again to my Garden of Evil, where this week I’m doing something a little different. Episode 44 having marked the departure of co-creator and original headwriter Ian Martin, we have officially reached the end of an era of Strange Paradise history. No longer will discussions and speculation on Martin’s authorial intent be relevant to the happenings on this show (although I will continue to give my thoughts on the Lost Episode summaries), now that Bob Costello is running the show with a different authorial intent.

Ian Martin’s episodes contrast with the second half of Maljardin in many ways. The pace is slower, the structure and characterizations more like those of a standard soap, and the tone at times borders on comedy. He also appears to have put more thought into the characters’ backstories than any of the other writers, much of which he never got the chance to show on screen. Moreover, of all the show’s writers, he seems to have put the most of his own heart and soul into it, if the death of his first wife six years earlier and his reuse of elements from the series in his later works are any indication.

That brings me to my plans for this week in my Garden of Evil. Before moving on to review Episode 45, I will post my final thoughts on his episodes, first listing what I consider the top five best things about his period headwriting the show. Next, I will make another of the top five worst things about the first 8.8 weeks of Maljardin (because no creative work is perfect). So without further ado, here are (in my not-so-humble opinion) the top five best things about Ian Martin’s Strange Paradise:

5. Clever, memorable dialogue and (sometimes) clever wordplay 

I say “sometimes,” because (as we all know) Jacques loves his puns and Devil jokes, which tend to be as cornball as they come. The (intentional) humor in Ian Martin’s dialogue tends to be hit or miss, but when it hits, it hits harder than the chandelier hit the séance table. Even when the jokes miss, it’s clear that he tried hard to make the show both funny and scary, and some of the worse ones still amuse me in a dad-joke sort of way.

Some jokes from SP that I find genuinely funny:

Jacques: “‘Prisoners’ is such a harsh word, Alison. Now, actually, I prefer the [terminology] ‘detained guests.’“ (Episode 14)

Alison: “I find you and everything you’ve done distasteful and revolting." Jacques: "Methinks the lady doth detest too much." (same)

"I wish my mother was on canvas instead of always on my back.” (Holly, Episode 18)

Dan: "Knowing how much you loved Erica, I can appreciate your display of courage." Jacques: "It was either that or letting myself go to the Devil!" (same)

Jacques: “Such a delightful bedside manner. Why not let her operate?” (Episode 21)

Jacques: “If your room is a prison cell and you are a prisoner, well, I invite you to your last hearty meal.” (same)

Holly: "Would you like to see my scars?" Jacques: "Well, lead us not into temptation...now, that isn't from Shakespeare, is it?" (Episode 25)

Elizabeth: “It seems to be your opportunity to entertain, Reverend. May I suggest Song of Solomon?” (Episode 40)

Also, some things that aren’t jokes per se, but still clever wordplay:

Matt’s name, a reference to the Tarot card The Fool, or Le Mat in French.

Jacques: "Well, Dan, are you going to join me in some kippers this morning, or haven't you finished fishing for the day?" Dan: "Just lowering the line, and I'm afraid you're going to get hooked." (Episode 26)

The whole kippers thing from the same episode.

The scene transition lines.

Two things that Curt pointed out to me a while back: the recurring “little bird” motif and the fact that Jacques, who was “shackled to the Temple” for three centuries was also shackled through the temples with the silver pin. (Thanks!)

Of the later writers, Cornelius Crane (who will write the last two weeks of Maljardin and most of Desmond Hall Arc I) will be the only other to consistently use humor in his SP scripts. His will be a different style of humor, lighter on wordplay and heavier on wit, satire, and snark between characters, in many ways reminiscent of my favorite Dark Shadows writer Violet Welles. While the style of humor in Crane’s episodes has generally aged better, I can’t deny the cleverness and charm in the lines quoted above.

4. A more complex story than later arcs

Compared to all other arcs of the show, early Maljardin has, by far, the most subplots. You have (1) the main plot that revolves around Jean Paul’s attempts to preserve and resurrect Erica, which leads to his desperate attempts to protect the cryonics capsule, Jacques’ freedom and repeated possessions, and Raxl and Quito’s search for the conjure doll and silver pin. Directly connected to this are (2) Jacques’ murder of Dr. Menkin, (3) Alison and Dan’s search for the true cause of Erica’s death and for Dr. Menkin’s missing notes, and (4) the love triangle/square between Dan, Alison, and Jean Paul/Jacques. Then you have the four interconnected plots directly involving Holly, including (5) her romantic pursuit by Matt, Tim, Jacques, and Quito; (6) her conflicts with Elizabeth including direct competition over Jean Paul/Jacques; (7) her torment by Erica’s spirit; and (8) Tim’s subplot about the damned Holly portrait. Then there are (9) the saga of the missing cyanide and (10) the guests’ resistance to Jean Paul’s imprisonment of them on the island. In addition to these, we have (11) the history of Jacques, which may have included innumerable subplots of its own had Ian Martin been allowed to explore it thoroughly. We know that Jacques’ pursuit of Alison and Elizabeth would have connected to this, given their previous incarnations as Rahua and Tarasca, and that Martin originally planned for Tarasca to have her own storyline. If we include the aborted arc about Elizabeth’s possession by Tarasca, that would have made a whopping twelve subplots(!), unless I’m forgetting about something.

For comparison, here are the major subplots from Desmond Hall, during the period when Cornelius Crane did most of the writing: (1) Jean Paul’s possession by the Mark of Death; (2) the coven’s schemes to undermine the Desmond family, which led to the disappearance of Philip Desmond; (3) the Evil Serpent plotline; (4) the Hamlet subplot involving Cort’s conflicts with his mother and dear stepfather; (5) the love triangle of Cort, Holly, and Philip’s ghost; (6) the second love triangle of Ada, Laslo, and Irene; (7) all of Jean Paul’s romantic entanglements; and (8) the attempted possession of his fiancée Helena by Erica. That’s still a lot of intersecting plots, but not quite as many as in early Maljardin.

I know I’ve complained in the past about the recap that makes up about half the dialogue in early Maljardin, but the sheer number of plots may have required it to ensure that returning viewers remembered everything and new viewers weren’t completely lost. I don’t have to like the constant recap, but I must admit that it was probably necessary even for the fans who managed to catch every episode during its original run.

3. Stronger characterizations than under the writers of late Maljardin

Like a traditional soap opera, the first half of the Maljardin arc is character-driven. Most important plot points occur on Mondays and Fridays, leaving the mid-week episodes for (mostly) minor plot points, subplots, and character development. We see Alison’s relationship with Jean Paul evolve from friendly in-laws to potential lovers, only for her to tire of his constant mood changes and withdraw from him. We see Reverend Matt Dawson’s crisis of faith, from his stalking Holly out of an allegedly spiritual love to his questioning his disbelief in demons while trapped on Maljardin. We see Dan lose all respect for Jean Paul as he becomes convinced that his employer murdered Erica and Dr. Menkin. We also see Jean Paul grow increasingly volatile even when Jacques isn’t possessing him, making his prisoners try harder to escape and creating a vicious cycle of repression and paranoia on the island.

After Robert Costello becomes producer, the arc shifts to a more plot-driven narrative. In a span of just four weeks, Erica will be resurrected and proceed to murder most of the characters. Character development will lose its importance in late Maljardin, and the characters of Elizabeth and Holly (and later Jean Paul) will become almost unrecognizable. Although Cornelius Crane was a competent writer who gave strong characterizations to the characters he created, he makes it clear that he didn’t care much for Martin’s creations through how quickly he kills off most of them and alters the personalities of two of the ones left.

2. Actual research

This one is most noticeable in two areas: the scientific subjects discussed and the way that Martin uses the Tarot. Before writing for SP, he worked on The Doctors and The Nurses, both early medical dramas with soap opera elements. Little survives from either The Nurses or the 1960s era of The Doctors[1], but one can imagine that he got into the habit of researching medical topics then--perhaps not including subjects as far-out as cryonics, but maybe some of the others discussed on SP like cellular reconstruction, organ transplants, and eclampsia. Here on SP, he’s referenced specific scientific studies, including Miroslava Pavlović’s study of brain transplants in quail embryos, Kenneth B. Wolfe’s “Effects of Hypothermia on Cerebral Damage Resulting from Cardiac Arrest,” and--most fascinating of all--W. Grey Walter’s robotics article “An Imitation of Life,” whose potential significance to Erica’s backstory I discussed in the final part of my Shadow Over Seventh Heaven review series.

His penchant for research becomes even more obvious when we explore his use of the Tarot and compare it to the way the cards were used on the show’s inspiration Dark Shadows. Despite also having done research on various occult matters--the most obscure being the use of I Ching wands for time travel[2]--DS’s writers were notably lazy in their use of Tarot symbolism, sticking mostly to the Major Arcana, often interpreting their names literally, and using the Tower of Destruction so often that one would think that copies of the Tower comprised half the deck. Not so on SP. Although he did have tarot reader Vangie Abbott use Death literally in Episode 7, and he does portray the Nine of Swords as “the card of death” when it typically means nightmares, suffering because of loss, and inner torment, his use of the Tarot typically shows careful research into the meanings of mostly cards from the Minor Arcana (the suits of wands, cups, swords, and pentacles). He uses it both as a means of giving character profiles and for foreshadowing, although the cards often foreshadow planned events that never took place because of script rewrites.

He did, however, take some artistic liberties with other subjects that he must have researched while writing the serial. I mean to write a detailed analysis someday comparing and contrasting the show’s portrayal of vodou with the reality, but I’m not satisfied with the scanty amount of research that I’ve done so far. I have already written about the Great Serpent and how Raxl appears to syncretize the loa Damballah with the Aztec feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl, but there are other related subjects I want to discuss someday in other posts. The short version: the “voodoo” portrayed on the show is a mixture of elements of genuine Afro-Caribbean religions (worship of a Serpent God, belief in zombies, use of drums in rituals, the titles “Conjure Man” and “Conjure Woman”) and traditional Mesoamerican religious practices (Quetzalcoatl, Aztec human sacrifice, Raxl’s mention of curanderos). The evidence suggests that he picked and chose elements from these traditions for Maljardin’s “Conjure Faith” in a way reminiscent of the real-life phenomenon of religious syncretism. While somewhat problematic, the obscurity of some of the things he picked and chose shows that he must have conducted some research even on these subjects.

1. The best Jacques

Jean Paul Desmond may be the protagonist, but, in the first seven weeks of the show, it’s his devilish ancestor Jacques who truly steals the show. From his evil laugh to his snarky commentary on the happenings on Maljardin to the hilarious and adorable expressions he makes as he plays with his detained guests, there’s no denying that Jacques is the star of Martin’s SP. When he’s absent, the whole show suffers from a lack of his mischief, not to mention that smile that stirs up desires in me that can never be righteously fulfilled. If there’s a Devil, I bet he resembles THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES in looks, voice, and demeanor--the better to seduce you with (and by you, I mean me). Horns and a pointy tail, after all, don’t tempt half as well as a beautiful black cape and Bissits Face™.

The Jacques of late Maljardin will be a far flatter character, more outwardly evil but less charming and consequently less entertaining. In Desmond Hall, his role will be reduced significantly and he will have very little dialogue, mostly just the same clip of his laughter repeated. He will have a few fun scenes in the second Desmond Hall arc, but the post-Martin Jacques is no devil, just an ordinary man with a slightly different personality, led over to the dark side. This is understandable--the thought of the supernatural embodiment of evil remaining imprisoned for three centuries is quite far-fetched, and Desmond Hall Arc II writer Harding Lemay wasn’t fond of all-evil characters[3]--but I still find the original Jacquet the most fun by far.

That concludes this post on my favorite things about Ian Martin’s Strange Paradise. Stay tuned for my list of some things about his writing that needed improvement.

{ Next: The Top 5 Worst Things -> }

Notes

[1] The Thousand Oaks Library in Thousand Oaks, California has ten of Martin’s scripts from The Doctors from shortly after the series switched from its original experimental anthology format to a traditional continuing soap.

[2] The portrayal of the I Ching as a means of time travel on Dark Shadows almost certainly came from William Seabrook’s book Witchcraft: Its Power in the World Today, where he describes the 49th ko hexagram’s use in a form of past-life regression in New York magick circles in the early 20th century. See Seabrook, “Werewolf in Washington Square,” Witchcraft (New York: Ishi Press, 2015), pp. 164-175.

[3] Harding Lemay, Eight Years in Another World, chap. 3, Kindle edition. In this chapter, Lemay discusses his conflicts with Irna Phillips, the creator of Another World, over how to portray soap opera characters. According to him, Phillips believed that characters should be depicted as either “Saints” or “Sinners,” the only permitted nuance being that female Sinners had to love their children if they had any. Lemay disagreed with such black-and-white characterizations, finding them unrealistic, and made the serial’s characters more morally gray.

[bittysvalentines]

Are you partners?

From: @redneterp

For: @jeanjacketbittle

I hope this little story of these giant boys brings you joy!

Rating: T | Pairing: Ransom/Holster| Content warning: injury

When Holster is injured during a hockey game, Ransom is by his side every step of the way (literally), and realizes he has Feelings for his bro. Will those feelings be reciprocated? Will Holster be able to return to the ice? Read on to see how the original D-men Best Bros navigate these unexpected questions.

Friday Feb 12th 2016.

Samwell vs Harvard.

Four minutes remaining in the third period with the game tied 2-2.

Ransom put on a burst of speed to pressure Harvard’s right winger towards the boards, but at the last moment the guy dumped the puck behind the net. Still marking his man, Ransom spun just in time to see Holster rushing back for the loose puck. There was a flurry of sticks and limbs, and then somehow Holster was down and sliding towards the goal at great speed. Fuck, did that asshole right winger trip Holzy? Wait, did he hit the post? Shit, he’s not getting up.

Somewhere in the confusion, Chowder managed to get a glove on the puck on the far side of the crease, and the ref whistled the stoppage in play. Abandoning his mark, Ransom rushed to the goal, dropping to one knee at Holster’s side. 

“Holtzy? Bro, are you ok?”

Holster was curled up on his side, stick abandoned, nearly in a fetal position with his right skate still within the goal. He groaned as he turned to face Ransom, his face a ghostly shade of white under the arena lights. “Uggh, fuck, my knee,” he moaned, clutching the joint with his still-gloved hands.

“Shit, did you go knee-first into the post?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Fuck… Can you move it?” Ransom asked.

Holster tried, shifting his skate an inch or two on the ice, with a wince of pain. “Not really.”

By then the trainers had arrived, sliding across the ice on their shoes, confirmed that Holster hadn’t injured his head or spine, and gave permission for him to try and get up. Holster slowly got up, bracing himself on Ransom, but wasn’t able to put weight on that right leg. He balanced on his left, arms wrapped around Ransom and Whiskey’s shoulders as they carefully skated him over to the bench, where the trainers took over helping him down the hallway. Ransom was tempted to follow him, but a raised eyebrow from Coach Hall reminded him there was still a game to play. While he’d been occupied the ref had sent the asshole winger off with a major for hooking, and Samwell’s power play lines were about to hit the ice.

Moments later, the final buzzer sounded. Bitty had scored on the power play off an assist from Ransom, handing Samwell the victory. Their celebration, however, was muted out of concern for their teammate. As soon as the handshakes were over, Ransom made a beeline for the dressing room, where he tugged off his skates before rushing to the trainers’ room still wearing the rest of his gear. He arrived to find Holster sitting on the bed, stripped down to his UnderArmor with icepacks on his knee, which was visibly swollen. He grabbed Holster’s shoulders in a hug, careful not to jostle his leg. As he was checking in with his bro, Chowder arrived sans leg pads and skates, radiating concern and apologizing on behalf of the goal.

“Wait,” Ransom interjected. “C, you’re not responsible for the goalpost being where it’s always been, blame this on the fucker who tripped him.”

“Yeah, C, you may be one with the posts during the game, but this was 100% not your fault, bro,” Holster confirmed.

“Ok,” Chowder eventually agreed, “but anything I can do to help you, anything at all, you just say the word.”

And with that, trainer Sara shoo-ed them out, sending the back to the dressing room to shower and change with promises they could return after she’d finished examining Holster’s knee.

_X_

Two and a half hours later, Holster slowly made his way up the Haus’ staircase. One arm was slung around Ransom’s shoulder as he half-lifted Holster up the stairs, and Chowder followed one step behind, one hand on Holster’s back for balance. A trip to the small local hospital allowed for X-rays that had shown no fractures, so the team doctor had arranged for an MRI in the city the next day. 

Once they reached the first floor landing they paused for rest and the bathroom (“Bro, once we’re in the attic we’re not coming all the way back down for you to brush your giant teeth, do it now.”), before continuing their awkward hop-shuffle up to the attic. With Holster safely perched on the lower bunk, Chowder ran back downstairs promising to get some of Bitty’s after-game peanut butter cookies for Holster as Ransom helped him tug off his tracksuit and prop his leg on a pillow. He tried to be as gentle as he could, but Holster still winced with the movement.

Shortly thereafter, cookies eaten and contacts out, Holster decided to call it a night, and Ransom helped him settle back on the bed. Once the pillows supporting the injured knee were arranged to his liking he turned to go, but was stopped by Holster’s hand grabbing his wrist.

“Stay?” Holster asked.

“Sure, if that’s what you want bro, let me just get the lights,” Ransom replied, doing so before carefully settling on his side beside Holster, whose injured knee was safely up against the wall.

They laid there for several moments, quietly breathing in the dark, before Holster finally spoke in an uncharacteristic near-whisper. “What if this is it? What if I blew my ACL, and I’m out for the rest of the season? This is our senior year, so what if this is it for me, no more hockey? I’m not ready for it to be over, I thought we still had another month at least, then the playoffs.”

Ransom couldn’t deny that similar thoughts had been racing through his anxious brain. He knew enough not to belittle his bro; knee injuries were the bane of hockey players’ careers. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on Holster’s arm and tried to make his voice as reassuring as possible as he answered. “No matter what, I’ll be here with you, bro, we’ll figure it out together.”

“Thanks, dude,” Holster whispered before drifting off to sleep with an assist from the pain meds he’d received from the doc.

Ransom laid awake much longer, realizing that what he’d said was the absolute truth. Holster was the most important person in his life. As he laid there, tucked in next to him on a too-small bunk bed, he finally asked himself what Holster meant to him. He allowed himself to think of their past and future, and finally admitted to himself that his feelings could be romantic love, not just best-bro-love. The realization brought peace to his mind, and he followed Holster into sleep imagining a future together.

_X_

The next morning, Matt the trainer arrived bright and early to drive Holster to the city for his MRI, and was unsurprised that Ransom planned to join them. The Saturday morning traffic was light, and they made it to the hospital with time to spare. Holster’s knee was still sore, and he didn’t protest being directed into a wheelchair for Ransom to push him through the maze of hallways to diagnostic imaging. Registration completed, the clerk directed them to the changing room. “Are you Adam’s partner?” he asked. 

Ransom confirmed that he was, and was allowed to stay. Squeezed into the tiny changing room outside the imaging suite, Ransom helped Holster into a hospital gown that was way too short for his giant d-man self, barely reaching his mid thighs. After removing the tensor bandages to reveal the knee that was still giant and red, they sat to wait again.

“You know,” Holster began, “I think they were asking if you were my partner-partner, not my D-partner.”

Ransom looked into Holster’s eyes. Time for full honesty. “I’d be your partner in every way, if you’d have me.”

“Really?” Holster asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah.”

Before Holster could reply, a technician stepped into the hallway. “Adam Birkholtz? Time to come on in,” she said as she propped open the door so he could wheel himself through. “You can wait back out in the waiting room,” she instructed Ransom, “it’ll take a while.”

Forty-five minutes. 

That’s how long Ransom sat in the waiting room as Holster’s knee was being imaged, worrying alternately about what the MRI would find, and what Holster thought of his declaration of feelings. He wanted to pace, but kept himself in the seat next to Matt, knee jiggling. Had he really ruined everything with his bro? He hoped not, but …

Finally, Holster emerged from the back, still in the hospital gown but with a blanket over his lap. Matt directed them through the hospital to a clinic room where the knee specialist would see them. As they walked, Matt explained how the Samwell team doc had sweet-talked the radiologist and the orthopedic surgeon into be available on the weekend to urgently read the MRI and examine Holster, respectively. Once in the room Holster made it onto the small exam bed with a bit of help, leg stretched out in front of him, Ransom standing at his side. Matt stood at the doorway, keeping an eye out for Dr Wong, so Holster spoke quietly.

“Hey Justin?” he asked, reaching out his hand to softly touch Ransom’s hand. “I’d have you. I mean, I want that.”

“Partners?” Ransom asked.

“Partners. Dating. Whatever, so long as it’s with you.”

“Sap,” Ransom said, but still slid his hand to intertwine their fingers.

Minutes later, Dr Wong bustled into the room, followed by an exhausted-looking resident. After asking a few questions, they thoroughly examined Holster’s knee, poking, bending and twisting it as he grimaced and squeezed Ransom’s hand.

“Ok, I think we have good news for you, Adam. I’ve reviewed your MRI with Dr Chadra, and both the MRI and our exam now don’t show any evidence of a ligament injury. It seems you sustained a direct force to the front of the joint, and while your gear protected the patella from fracture, the impact was enough to cause bleeding within the bursa in front of the patella,” he explained, pulling up diagrams on his phone to demonstrate. “With the basics - ice, anti-inflammatories and rehab - I think you could be back on the ice in 2-3 weeks. Although that means you’ll be back in time to face off against my alma mater, BC, so maybe I should make you wait another week?” he finished with a laugh.

And with that, after a few specific instructions from the doc to Matt about the rehab plan and follow-up appointments, they were free to go. 

Ransom and Holster settled on a bench outside the entranceway as they waited for Matt who’d run to get the car. It was nearing noon, and the sun was out, a warm enough day for boys from Toronto and Buffalo to sit outdoors. As they waited, leaning together shoulder-to-shoulder, they chatted about the remainder of the season, and the chance that Holster could be back in time for the ECAC tournament playoffs. As they discussed the logistics of getting around campus on crutches, Ransom pulled out his phone to confirm Holster’s schedule and his eye caught on the date.

“Bro, tomorrow’s Valentines day. I should ... can I take you on a date? I’ll need to get back to you on the details, once I figure out where I can take you while on crutches, that hasn’t been reserved for weeks.”

“Such a romantic sap. Yes, you can take me anywhere, anytime,” Holster said with an atrocious waggle of his giant eyebrows.

“Dork.” 

“And yet you still want to date me.”

“I do,” Ransom confirmed.

“Well good, because I want to date you too. In fact, I think this is the perfect moment for a first kiss, don’t you?”

“Are you seriously imagining our lives as one of your romcoms right now?”

“Stop fighting it and kiss me, bro,” Holster insisted, leaning even closer.

And so Ransom did just that. Tilting his head to avoid Holster’s glasses, he pressed his lips to Holster’s in a soft kiss, before pulling back to see the giant grin on Holster’s face that surely matched his own. Leaning in again, his hand came up to Holster’s face, fingertips brushing against the day-old stubble he found there as he deepened the kiss.

The moment (and it really was an epic, screen-worthy, moment, Ransom had to admit) was interrupted by a brief toot of a horn. Matt had arrived with his car. Once the passenger seat was pushed forward as far as it would go, Holster slowly slid into the backseat, leg partially-extended in front of him. Ransom jogged around the car to slide into the backseat next to him, pressed up close against his best bro-now-date, fingers intertwined. 

Ransom was a planner, and this wasn’t at all in his plans when he woke up the day prior, but he realized there was nowhere else he’d rather be. He was with his favourite person, and they’d figure it all out -- Valentines, hockey, romance, life after Samwell -- together.

[irisbleufic]

Happy 2020! Can I tag you to do that 2019 Fic Year in Review thing?

Happy New Year to you, too!  Sure thing.  I can’t remember the last time I did one of these; since 2019 is the end of a decade, it feels fitting.  Here goes…

14 February 2019: After spending 14 of my 15 years (2020 marks the start of my 16th year) in Good Omens fandom working on it, I finally finished and posted the 75th and final installment of Crown of Thorns [The Walls, the Wainscot, and the Mouse] ’Verse.  LiveJournal was still the fandom’s primary posting hub when I posted the first-ever installment, A Better Place, on 1 October 2005.  The series didn’t get its second installment (The Walls, the Wainscot, and the Mouse) until 2010, but work on the series from that point forward was pretty much constant.  2012 saw a higher number of CoT updates than any year previous; that was also the year I transferred it to AO3.

25 February 2019: I finished and posted the last chapter of my third Good Omens collaborative fic ’verse with @procrastinatingbookworm, Turn In Your Arms.  We couldn’t believe there was no Good Omens fusion with Tam Lin, so we went for it.  Given our first collaboration in 2018 was a Good Omens fusion with Groundhog Day (Game Over, Insert Coin), that wasn’t a stretch.

27 February 2019: @aspiringjedi and I posted the first of our two Good Omens meta-essays, Making An Effort: Queer (Trans) Masculinity in the Ethereal & Occult Beings of Good Omens.  Yes, it’s 1,990 words due to the novel’s publication year.  When you’re just under 2,000 words anyway, why not?

28 February 2019: @procrastinatingbookworm and I followed up Turn In Your Arms with a brief sequel, Burn After Reading.  All of our collaborations to date have ended up as multi-story mini ’verses.

25 March - 20 April 2019: I went about as livid over Gotham’s Season 5 as I did over Season 3 and wrote Darkroom to address how dirty the show did Bruce and Jeremiah.  I had a stand-alone Season 4 fix-it story (focusing on Oswald and Edward, like most of my other Gotham work) called Triage from 2018 that had never quite felt like it was meant to be a stand-alone.  Triage and Darkroom became the first two installments of a series called Playing for Keeps, to which I added another 6 stories by April 20th.  Darkroom somehow got more traffic than any of my other Gotham pieces since When You Find It, Run over in DDO ’Verse (although those two stories are keystone pieces in much larger series, they can both be read as stand-alones).

4 April 2019: In the midst of working on the aforementioned, @aspiringjedi posted our second Good Omens meta-essay, Southern Pansies: Subversive (Trans) Masculinity in the Ethereal & Occult Beings of Good Omens.

8 May 2019: Brief blip back into Pacific Rim fic!  I posted a missing Anthology correspondence/inset ficlet called L’amour, c’est comme la guerre.  For anyone who ever wanted more of the email correspondence in Anthology’s final chapter, this fills in some gaps you didn’t know were there.

16 May 2019: Thanks to some behind-the-scenes persuasion from several really tenacious Gotham readers who didn’t want me to abandon it / shut down DDO ’Verse, I completed The Knights’ Tour after almost a year on hiatus from it.  This turned out to light a fresh fuse on DDO, because TTK didn’t end up being the final story in the series like I had once planned.

18 May 2019: The only His Dark Materials fic I’ve ever written, also a Gotham fusion, got a belated new final chapter.  Gold Dust is sort of an alternate take on DDO ’Verse, one in which Dust and daemons are present.

23 May 2019: I posted what I thought would be a stand-alone Gotham story called The Meaning of This City.  It manages to be a marginally less dark and complicated take on the Bruce-and-Jeremiah situation (than Darkroom over in PfK ’Verse, that is) without sacrificing some of the most difficult features of what they need to overcome.  More on why this didn’t remain a stand-alone in a bit.

6 June 2019: Good Omens requests came around, one of which led me to follow the Imagine Hastur Ficlets (which themselves exist thanks to the accidental prompts at @imaginehastur) interlude in CoT with The Imagine Hastur Epilogue.  This was a sort of neat in-narrative way to deal with having gradually come out about my biological (inter)sex and (nonbinary) gender identity over the 14 years I worked on CoT. 

15 June - 1 July 2019: I posted another Good Omens collaboration-set with @procrastinatingbookworm called Have Faith at the series-title level.  The two stories in it, You Bloody Snake and Enough of a Bastard, focus almost entirely on Hastur and Ligur.  Seeing Aziraphale and Crowley through different (and less favorable) eyes was a weird pleasure; seeing people indignantly realize they were enjoying fic about Hastur and Ligur was even more of one!

15 August 2019: @verumx persuaded me to watch Jamie Marks Is Dead with her and @one-eyed-bossman, and then implored me to fix it.  Using Our Words is the stand-alone that resulted, which is no shock given I can’t resist ghost stories.  It’s unique among this year’s stories in that it may be the only genuine stand-alone aside from the Gotham piece called Gold Dust.

17 August 2019: After an experimental in-character snail mail letter-writing exchange that lasted about 6 weeks, @verumx and I transcribed the letters and framed them in a piece of collaborative Gotham fic, We Were All Forgiven.  Since about late April, I had been getting progressively sicker and sicker (didn’t know yet that I had cancer).  Keeping busy as things got worse helped at least in the psychological sense, but by mid-August my exhaustion and difficulty eating were hitting their peak.  I was hiding it from everyone except my partner.

1 September 2019: Returning to two stories I’d written for Batman: Europa, I created a series umbrella called Once Is Not Enough and explicitly placed London (Letting Go) and Five Love Affairs under it as companion pieces.  Between Thursday Friday of this particular week, I experienced an increasingly more frightening set of symptoms that landed me in the ER and got a sequence of diagnostic tests finally rolling.

22 October 2019: After receiving a diagnosis of colon cancer on 10/1/19 and starting medical leave Monday of Halloween Week, I decided to complete the sequel to The Meaning of This City, which was a Gotham piece I’d left hanging mid-progress for weeks.  The Maze of Your Ingenuity was hard for me to complete due to constant blood tests, CT scans, and outpatient procedures in the lead-up to my Thanksgiving Week major inpatient surgery, but I did it.

23 September - 11 December 2019: My longest Gotham fic ’verse (Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed, a.k.a. DDO), having refused to die even once The Knights’ Tour was complete, got an entirely new ending stretch of stories focusing on, of all people, Jerome Valeska and Five (514A).  They were the only two characters from canon who I had mentioned and/or shown briefly in passing earlier in DDO, but whose arcs from canon (and onward into my fic) I had done nothing to wrap up.  Challengers, Thicker Than Blood, Take This Waltz (It’s Yours Now), Finally Fair (In Love and War), and What We’re For (And What We Want) may, collectively, be the best writing I did during the entirety of 2019 (unless you count what I wrote in February to finish CoT).  The experience of terrifying, unexplained illness and harrowing treatment was entirely too timely to one of my two protagonists in this set of stories.  They were worth their weight not just in distraction, but also in catharsis.  Five survived, and so did I.

[pcttrailsidereader]

Trevor’s Eternal Trail

As a parent and a PCT hiker, I can’t imagine a more difficult but therapeutic testimonial for a father to write. Doug’s son, Trevor, died on March 27th after slipping on ice and falling several hundred feet to his death near Apache Peak not far south of Idyllwild.  This poignant reflection that will help Trevor be remembered as a complex, passionate young man and not just a statistic.

In Memory of Trevor Laher by Doug Laher

I am the father of the Pacific Crest Trail Hiker, Trevor “Microsoft” Laher, who perished in the mountains south of Idyllwild, California, this past Friday, March 27, 2020.  As you can imagine, we are devastated by the loss of our son. But somehow, my wife and I want to let the world (or at least the hiking community) know who our son was, how much he loved hiking, and why (despite everyone’s best efforts) he chose to stay on trail.

We just don’t want Trevor’s legacy in the hiking world to be that of an anonymous asterisk in PCT lore of someone who died doing what they love.  He was a man, a brother, a son, a grandson, a cousin, a friend, and boyfriend to his lovely girlfriend, Elise. He had his whole life in front of him.  This is who he was, and this is his story.

One of the greatest days of my life was the day he was born (Feb. 12, 1998, in Cleveland, Ohio). He loved playing sports as a child, but soon realized he didn’t possess the dexterity and speed to compete as an athlete, so he turned his interest and energy to academics, where he excelled.  And although we relocated to Texas in 2010 due to the recession, we still cheered on and watched our beloved Ohio State Buckeyes on Saturdays. Some of my fondest memories I have with Trevor are the times we spent watching our team as we proudly donned the school colors of scarlet and gray.  The 2010 move of the family to Texas, for a new career opportunity, was tough on 12-year-old Trevor. He threw himself into academics and video games as a mechanism to deal with the sorrow of leaving everything behind in Ohio.

Trevor was introduced to hiking in 2015 when a friend invited him on a trip to Yosemite National Park. They day hiked more than 50 miles in three days. He walked away in love with the hiking and instantly knew that he wanted it to be a mainstay in his life—to climb to mountain peaks and see the soul of our planet. It was as if the world that had existed before had only been visible to him in black and white and now suddenly everything had turned to vibrant colors. He loved the beauty of the trail—the experience and the solitude. He loved the endorphin rush of a physically exhausting climb. He loved hiking by himself.  He loved hiking with others. He loved the trail.

Shortly after his trip to Yosemite, he immediately began planning his first overnight backpacking trip with his close friend Alfredo. The flu prevented Alfredo from making the trip with him and thus began my love of hiking with my son. I served as his back-up and went from “Couch to AT” in 12 hours.

We were completely ill-prepared as we set off into the Smoky Mountains on our first backpacking trip.  We predictably made all the classic first-time hiker mistakes. We carried too much food, packed for our fears, and off we went with 50-pound packs saddled on our backs. Trevor knew I was not in shape to do this hike when he asked me to join him.  I agreed to do it to spend time with my son. He told me, “Dad…I’m getting you to the top of this mountain—you lead the way. We’ll go at your pace. Stop as frequently as you need to. We’ll get through this together.” It took nearly five hours to traverse more than 3,000 feet of elevation gain over five miles to the first shelter.  Trevor offered multiple times that we could head back down to the trail head and call it a trip. But we hadn’t driven 12 hours to turn around and head home. We persevered. The trip took a physical toll on my body (chafing, exhaustion, soreness, and two lost toenails). And despite all that, it was an adventure of a lifetime that I will cherish forever.

When it came time to go to college, there was really no decision to be made. Ohio State was the easy choice. While there, he blossomed and turned into an amazing man. He joined the Trekking Club at Ohio State. He hiked the Presidential Traverse in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and the South Kaibab Trail in the Grand Canyon (down and back in less than six hours). He also made at least one trip back to the Smoky Mountains every semester with his good friend Chandler. Trevor simply loved hiking.

Trevor and I would try to schedule hiking trips together when we could, mostly while he was on break from school.  Our most recent adventures included Eagle Rock Loop in the Ouachita National Forest and the Outer Mountain Loop in Big Bend National Park.

It was during this time at Ohio State that he developed a passion for exercise and fitness. He was obsessed about being physically fit because he knew he would need it for something he had been dreaming about since he was 17 years old.

About 18 months ago, Trevor told me of his intentions to carry extremely heavy course loads over his next three semesters at Ohio State so that he could graduate a semester early to hike the Crown Jewel of all long-distance trails, the Pacific Crest Trail. I objected at first. It was a source of contention with us for several months. Then, approximately a year ago, I started buying in to the concept of him hiking the PCT. And if he was going to make this hike, I was going to serve as his wingman, his trail manager so to speak.

For months on end, I spent hundreds of hours watching PCT vlogs, reading books, and watching gear reviews.  I began the long process of purchasing all of the gear he would require for his adventure. Trevor had two main agendas during this time. First, to study hard so he could finish school early. And second, to focus on maintaining, and even increasing, his already high level of fitness. Trevor ran 30 miles a week to keep himself in top physical condition.

We both obsessed over the trail. As the research and days passed, I became more and more emotionally invested in Trevor’s hike. I wanted this adventure for him as much as he did for himself.

Trevor hiked Big Bend a second time right before Christmas 2019 with his best friend Domenic. In grieving with each other this past week, Domenic told me that “Trevor and I had just finished the trail. I was exhausted and I was looking back at the mountains with amazement, bewilderment, and wonder. It’s at that moment Trevor looked at me and said, ‘Now you know why I’m so passionate about hiking the PCT!’ ”

Trevor’s need to put mileage under his feet prior to his trek was one thing, but his training for the PCT was next level. He deprived himself of comforts knowing that he would not have them on the trail. On our last training hike together (a quick 15-miler), he laid down in the creek bed soaking himself through.  Trevor knew there would be stretches of the PCT that he would need to hike soaking wet, tired, and exhausted.

Trevor’s cadence might be as slow as 2.6-2.7 miles per hour when doing a leisurely hike with me, but he could instantaneously turn on the jets at a moment’s notice.  I was always in awe to see him hike at a 3.5 mile-per-hour cadence up steep climbs. And he could maintain that pace for hours. He was 6’3” and 200 pounds. He had long legs with a huge stride. If God wanted to create his vision for a perfect hiker, it was Trevor.

Unlike most PCT hikers, Trevor knew he was not going to make it to Canada. Trevor was a brilliant computer coder.  He was offered a job at Microsoft, starting mid-July. So, when it came time to securing the permit for a PCT start date, he knew he would have to start early. Even with starting early, he would only have around 100 days on the trail. His target was to reach Crater Lake by July 1 and call it an adventure.

We knew starting in mid-March had its risks. We developed a plan accordingly. If there was heavy snowpack in the Sierra, then he would bail at Kennedy Meadows and head immediately to the Southern Terminus of the 800-mile Arizona Trail. We felt our alternate plan wouldn’t be needed as reports of a low snow year in California made an early start on the PCT possible. We were happy his plans were coming together.

So on March 9, roughly a month after turning 22 years old, Trevor, my daughter Olivia, and I headed to Phoenix, Arizona, to spend a week with his grandparents, after which they would drive him to Campo a week later. Everything was in great shape. And then, suddenly, everything started to unravel.

We got to Phoenix on Monday the 9th. There were growing concerns about the coronavirus, but nothing significant—at least that’s the way it was when we boarded the plane. Upon landing in Phoenix, the world was changing in front of our very eyes. The stock market had crashed. Concerns of the virus were growing with each passing day. That week was full of excitement for Trevor and anxiety for me.

The day before we left, I told him that maybe going on the hike was not such a smart thing to do anymore. But he was within spitting distance of the Southern Terminus of the PCT in Campo, so the yearn to start on March 16 was strong. In his mind, he was practically touching the Southern Terminus. Nothing was going to stop him now.

His sister (Olivia) and I flew back to Texas on Friday, March 13. Saying our final goodbyes at the airport, Trevor gave me a longer embrace than usual—much longer in fact. And in that embrace, he whispered to me, “I love you Dad. Thanks for all you’ve done to help make this adventure a reality for me.” To which I replied—“Go hike the shit out of that trail!”

His grandparents dropped him at the terminus on Monday morning.  A few quick photos, big smiles, and some hugs. Then he was off on the adventure of a lifetime.

Trevor pushed himself to Lake Morena on day one. He couldn’t have been happier. It was in Lake Morena that he connected with his tramily. The tramily would morph into larger and smaller groups of people over the coming days, but there were three gentlemen whom he consistently stayed with through the entire journey: Leo from Milwaukee, Jannek from Germany, and Cody from Australia—the latter two were with him on the morning of Friday, March 27, when the accident happened.

His group hiked through a snowstorm, pulling into Mount Laguna on Wednesday. They were fortunate enough to hole up in one of the tiny houses to escape the snow. Their game plan was to stay there two nights as heavy snowfall was scheduled through Thursday. But they wanted flexibility in their plans and only booked one night. When they called the next morning to book a second night, they were told the tiny house had already been booked. They had no choice but to head back out into the snow.

I spoke with his hiking partner, Leo, this past Saturday. He told me how miserable that day was. They were cold, soaked to the bone from the heavy wet snow. They were miserable. The group struggled unsuccessfully to find a protected location to set up camp. It was in that moment, during their first real moment of adversity on trail, that Trevor told him, “It’s during these moments of adversity, through trial and tribulation and our actions in dealing with these moments that define who we are as human beings.” Hearing Leo recount this to me brought me to my knees. I had been sobbing all weekend after I learned of his passing, but this shook me to my core.

That same day, the day of the snowstorm, the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA) had issued a statement that all thru-hikers not yet on the trail should postpone their hike, and that all hikers already on trail should get off due to COVID-19 concerns. I pleaded with Trevor that it was time to end his dream. To come home. The trail would still be there for him next year. Or five years from now. Or even 10. Trevor said that until it became illegal to stay on the trail, he was going to continue hiking. “This is my dream Dad…I’m living it right now. The views, the vistas, the things I get to see are the most beautiful that I’ve ever seen in my life. If I lose this opportunity now, I’ll lose it forever.”

And so became our daily argument for the next week. I begged him to postpone his trek. I told him he was being selfish. I told him he was putting himself and others at risk. That he wasn’t thinking about Elise, his sister, his mother, or me. I threatened I was going to withdraw financial support and would no longer resupply him (my last option). I think we both knew I would not do that.

I said things I regret. I even lobbied the USFS to terminate all PCT permits to no avail. The most haunting, prophetic thing I said to him was, “Please come home. I don’t want you to get sick on the trail—or worse yet, die. It would devastate me if I had to be the one to call Elise and tell her something happened to you.”

After about 5-6 days of trying to convince him to come home, I realized he was staying put. There was no getting him off the trail, at which point I would focus on supporting his hike. I vowed to myself, if he wouldn’t come home, then I’d at least do what I could to keep him as safe as possible with current information and good resupply boxes.

Trevor and the group trudged on. They were closing in on Warner Springs, having just passed PCT mile 100. I sent Trevor a text and asked him how he was feeling and how his body was holding up. He told me other than a few pesky blisters, he was feeling great and that his body was strong. I remember him saying there were a couple of members in his tramily that were nursing some injuries… sore ankles and knees, but he said could not have felt better.

Trevor’s closest trail friend, Leo, was nursing a bum knee after hiking several days without a break. Leo got a hitch from Warner Springs via the PCT Trail Angels Page on Facebook to a hotel to take of couple zero days to heal up. Leo encouraged Trevor to take those zeros with him but Trevor, Jannek, and Cody were still feeling strong. Trevor had limited time on the trail. They were going to press on without Leo. While sitting in his hotel room for a couple of days watching the news, Leo learned of the severity of COVID-19. He decided to end his hike at this point. I’ve asked myself multiple times, “What would have happened had Trevor stayed back with Leo that day?” His decision to press on will haunt me forever.

Our last communication with Trevor was on Thursday night. They had just pulled their 8th straight day of “twenties” (twenty-mile days) by completing a 3,000-foot climb. Arriving to their camp site at PCT mile 166.5, they hunkered down for the night. Trevor sounded exhausted. He was eager to complete the last 14 miles into Idyllwild where he, Cody, and Jannek were planning to take two zeros. While in town he’d pick up his resupply (which included his ice axe and microspikes) in preparation for Mt. San Jacinto and Fuller Ridge. He never made it to Idyllwild.

A friend called me on Friday to notify me of a tragic accident on the PCT close to Trevor’s last known location at mile 166.5. Of course, at that time, we didn’t know the hiker involved was Trevor. The news report mentioned a hiker had succumbed to their injuries before the rescue team arrived.  The report suggested the rescue occurred “near” Mountain Center, of which Trevor was close to the prior day. He was now some 10-15 miles past that point. But when you’re dealing with the wilderness, the word “near” could mean one mile, five miles, 10 miles, or even 25. I was slightly concerned and would remain that way until I heard from Trevor, but I was confident he was well past the search area. I had two thoughts. First, Of all the hikers on the trail, what is the likelihood this deceased hiker was Trevor? Second, He had his driver’s license with him. If it was Trevor, Search and Rescue would have certainly reached out to me by now. I was confident it was not him, but would remain mildly concerned until I heard his voice. That voice never came.

7 p.m. rolled around in Dallas/Fort Worth. I knew Trevor would have been in Idyllwild by now. Every time I tried calling, it went straight to voicemail.  He would likely have access to internet in town. Therefore, he would most likely be on his phone. It was also about this time every night that he would check in with us via call, text, or his Garmin InReach.  I started to worry. I called the Riverside County Sheriff’s office.

I won’t go into all the details of the next several hours, as some of those details will only remain with my family. Speaking to the Sheriff’s Deputy who orchestrated the Search and Rescue, and then subsequently to the Coroner were some of the most difficult conversations I’ve ever had to have in my life. My life was changed forever when the Coroner told me, “We have Trevor.”  

To the best of our knowledge, Trevor slipped on a patch of snow-covered ice near Apache Peak (PCT mile 169.5). Trevor’s accident was first reported by Cody and Jannek via their emergency GPS device at roughly 9:38 a.m. PT. Rescue crews from the Riverside Mountain Rescue Unit and the California Highway Patrol Medic and Air Operations Unit arrived on site at roughly 10:30 a.m. Five fire trucks, two helicopters, and more than 24 rescue personnel fought the elements during the rescue mission.  One helicopter focused on rescuing Cody and Jannek while the other attempted to locate Trevor. Dangerous terrain, coupled by severe weather, prevented the helicopter from locating Trevor. They were able to locate a safe landing spot to drop Medic Charles Rhodes of the California Highway Patrol (CHP) onto the trail. Medic Rhodes hiked and eventually bushwhacked a total of five miles to reach Trevor at 1:30 p.m. Sadly, prior to Medic Rhodes’ arrival, Trevor had succumbed to his injuries from sliding several hundred feet into a steep ravine. I am grateful to the men and women who risked their lives to recover my son. I will forever be in their debt.

As you can imagine, Friday, March 27, 2020, was the darkest, most painful, heartbreaking moment of our lives. The grief of losing our son has hit us like a tsunami. The unstoppable waves drown us in grief each time they hit. There’s nothing that can be done to stop them. It’s several days later now, and the waves still come.

I yearn for the day when Trevor’s family and closest friends can talk about him and look at photos without pain or grief, but instead smile and recall the happy times we shared together.

Trevor was not a statistic. He was not a PCT asterisk. He was everything you want in a son. As parents, we were so proud of him. He was our child. Trevor LOVED hiking! He was handsome, responsible, and smart. He was going to make this great world a better place. He was convinced he would someday write a computer program that would change the world. Most importantly, I want people to know that he cared deeply about his family and friends. He was philosophical. He was a deep thinker. He genuinely cared for others, encouraging those closest to him to be “the best version of themselves they can be.”

Just as in life, Trevor made the same impact on others during his brief time on the PCT. As communicated to me by his close trail friend Leo, who said, “While our time together was brief, it was intense. We had several deep conversations on the trail and my viewpoint on the world has in many ways changed because of Trevor.”

My hope and wish is that Trevor’s death can start the healing of a hiker community that has been ravaged and torn apart by COVID-19. What was once a free-spirited group who loved “The Trail,” the community has become name callers who have hurled insults at each other because of one’s position to hike or not to hike. I beg of you, that if there is one way we can honor Trevor, I ask that you put aside your differences and come together as a community. And I ask that you not judge Trevor for his decision to remain on the Trail. COVID-19 did not kill my son. His death could have happened to any one of us, in any year.

In closing, I’d like to leave you with a quote from Trevor shared with me by his girlfriend, Elise. In which Trevor says, “We are not individual souls, but a collection of the souls of the people we love the most—we are one in the universe.”

Be good to each other. Love each other. Come together as one hiking community and heal the pains by which the coronavirus has inflicted upon this community. That’s what Trevor would have wanted.

Hike on, my son. I count the days when we’ll be rejoined again on the highest of all mountain peaks in Heaven… on the Eternal Trail. The trail of eternal life.

[forallyourikemensengokuneeds]

Raising a princess ch 3

The alarm went off and he groaned. He had not slept well since he realized he liked the woman at the daycare. His dreams had become invaded by x rated things that he never imagined doing to another person but he woke up every time extremely hard and even more lonely. He honestly was not looking forward to seeing the woman today. He didn’t know if he could look her in the eye with the things he had been dreaming about her.

Sakura was already up and waiting for him. she had been this way since hey had changed schools. She was waiting impatiently for him to finish putting on his uniform so they could sit and have breakfast together. “So Sakura Miss Kristy may be taking you home today or tomorrow. I don’t know which day I will have to stay late.” He said breaking the silence in the room as he made her waffles.

“Okay daddy.” She said with a smile.

“Will you be a good girl?” he asked.

“Daddy! I am always a good girl.” Sakura said and he looked at the small girl and almost laughed. She was the most precocious child on the planet.

“Okay. Just be good. I may need Miss Kristy to watch you again.” He said.

“Okay.” Sakura said as she put on her backpack and he wrote out the check for the daycare before they left. He stuffed it into his pocket and grabbed his own bags and helped her in the car. She sat in her seat and buckled her in. “I love you daddy.”

“What do you want?” Mitsuhide asked as he looked at the little girl who was beaming up at him like an angel.  

“Nuthing daddy.” She said and he chuckled.

“Okay then. I love you too sweetheart.” He said as he got in and started the car. He drove off towards the daycare and in the silence he schooled his facial expression to hide his feelings about the person who would undoubtedly be at the school waiting to greet them for the day.

When they pulled up into the parking lot Sakura waited for him to unbuckle her and then she hopped out of the car. He watched his tiny little princess as she twirled about and he grabbed her bag and slung it over his shoulder. He reached out his hand and soon enough her tiny one was in it. He looked down at her and smiled as the walked into the building. There was no one in the front of the school which was rare. He walked back to the classroom and helped Sakura put her things away. She went off to the teachers and he signed her in to the room. He walked back slowly and saw the tiny woman who haunted his dream for the past two nights sitting in the office.

“Good morning Miss Kristy.” He said as he neared the office.

“Oh Mr. Akechi I didn’t see you or Sakura come in. Good morning.” She said as she smiled her smile that seemed like a warm ray of light.

“I  have Sakuras next month payment.” He said as he held up the check to hand to her. She reached out to start writing a receipt for him and their fingers brushed. He almost dropped the check completely. “I may need someone to watch Sakura tonight or tomorrow depending on when I have my meetings.”

“When you find out just give me a call. I can do it either day. I don’t really have a life.” Kristy said with a light airy laugh.

“No significant other?” he asked.

“God no.” she said. “I have been so focused on school that I kind of forgot about that part of life.”

“That I understand.” He said chuckling.

“I guess you would.” She said as she looked at him. She went back to writing the receipt for him.

“If it is today do you need me to leave the car seat for you?” he asked.

“No I have one in the back of my car.” She said and he tilted his head to ask a question. “As I told you a lot of my cousins and I went here as kids, well their kids also go here as well as my nieces and nephews. I get to bring them home sometimes. I just keep one in the car for those times.”

“Oh I see.” He said. “I meant to ask you what year are you on in medical school?”

“I have one more class that I missed my last year. It fills up quick and I will be done. I am hoping to get it this semester. Then I have to figure out the mcats.” She said.

“Impressive.” He said. “We never discussed a fee either.”

“That is because I don’t charge.” She said.

“What?” he asked.

“I love these kids like they are my own family. I don’t charge people to watch them for a few extra hours.” She said.

“But I have to pay you something.” He said. “It wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t.”

“We will talk about it later, Mr. Akechi.” She said with a smile.  “Where did you want me to take her?’

“You can bring her back to the house if you want. She would probably behave better there.” He said, “There is an extra key in her backpack in the small pouch.”

“Alright.” Kristy said as she looked up as she handed over the receipt. “You have a good day Mr. Akechi.”

“You too. Miss Kristy.” He said as he pocketed the receipt and started out the door to begin his day.

Her aunt Ruth walked in. “A single father like him would be perfect for you.” The older woman said.

“Aunt ruth please. He is focused on his daughter and her well being. I am sure he could have any woman in the world with the way he looked. He wouldn’t like me.” Kristy said as she looked out the window to the man getting in his car. It took everything she had to remain calm when he was even near the building.

“Child come on. You are beautiful and brilliant who wouldn’t want someone like you to help them raise their daughter? A strong woman is the best role model.” Ruth said as she looked at the younger woman.

“Like you aunt Ruth?” Kristy asked as she hugged her aunt.

“You are twice the woman I was at your age.” Ruth said with a fond smile and a pat on the head. “I remember the day you walked in here for the first time. You looked at everything and you sat in this office and told me ‘yo esta aqui’ and you did. You stayed right in that spot for the rest of the day. You refused to learn or speak English I think for months though you were right there sitting. In a way I knew you would be a strong woman then and you have not disappointed me.”

“Thank you Aunt Ruth.” She said as she remembered that time as well.

“Now what about him?” Ruth asked.

“Nothing.” Kristy said, “I am doing a little extra work for him concerning Sakura. I may be watching her a few days this month.”

“Oh is he going on dates?” Ruth asked.

“No working late.” Kristy said.

“Well have fun then.” Ruth said as she walked around to the other rooms and all of her children were arriving. She thought of every child that came to this small school was either one of hers or like a grandchild.

She had pictures of past students as they grew up all over her walls. Including the first group that was her actual children and nieces and nephews. They helped build this school into the special place it was now. Every child here was important. Ruth had taken an interest in the small girl named Sakura who only had a father. It would be nice to see her niece settle down and have a family of her own as well. The small girl would be a nice addition to the actual family Ruth thought with a smile as she looked over all the three year olds in the class with fond eyes for the smaller girl who excelled at nearly everything she did.

 It was mid-day that he knew the long meeting would be that day instead of the next. He went back to his office and took out the slip of paper that Kristy had given him the friday before out. He called the number.

“Hello?” she said as she picked up.

“Hi, Miss Kristy. This is Mitsuhide Akechi, Sakura’s father.” He stuttered out and he began to feel like a complete moron.

“Hi Mr. Akechi.” She said. “What can I help you with?”

“I just found out the meeting I told you about this morning is today and not tomorrow but may go into tomorrow.” He stammered out.

“So you need me to watch Sakura tonight?” she asked.

“Yes.” He said wanting to slam his head against his desk.

“Not a problem. I am probably going to take off in an hour is it okay for me to take her then?” Kristy asked.

“If that is what you want to do. I have no problems with it. If you want to go back and get her that is fine too.” He said.

“I’ll take her.” She said. “I will stop and get my books for review and them we will be at your house. Is this a good number for me to reach if there is a problem?”

“Yes. I will have my phone on me.” He said. He felt like a complete loser when he thought of how he sounded.

“Alright I will see you when you get home.” Kristy said and for a moment he could let those words mean something completely different.

“Sounds like a plan.” He said, “Thank you again Kristy.”

“Not a problem at all Mr. Akechi.” She said and hung up. She saved his number in her phone. She then went on to finish the things she needed to do for their new computer system and then she would be ready to leave.

She walked into the room of three year olds and spotted her as she came running over. “Miss Kristy!”

“Well hello My favorite little flower.” Kristy said as she got down to the little girls level. “I just got off the phone with your dad. I will be taking you home and watching you for a little bit okay?”

“That sounds fun, Miss Kristy!” Sakura said. Kristy stood up and signed out the girl to the raised eyebrows of the teachers.

Kristy turned around and looked at them ,”I am watching Sakura tonight while her dad has a late meeting.”

“Good bye Sakura.” Her teacher waved as the other also waved.

“Come on Sakura.” Kristy said as she walked out of the classroom with a small backpack over her shoulder. “We are going to go get some of my books for my school from my house and then I will take you to yours.”

“Will daddy be coming home soon?” Sakura said.

“I don’t know when your daddy will be home but we will have some fun. Do you like the princess’s?” Kristy asked.

“Yes!” Sakura said.

“Which one?” Kristy asked as she lifted the little girl up into the car seat.

“Ariel!” Sakura said.

“Belle is my favorite.” Kristy said.

“You like princesses?” the tiny girl asked with wide eyes.

“Of course I do!” Kristy said with a laugh and she got into the car and started it up. She talked the whole way with the little girl in the back seat who was even more animated then she normally was. That was when Kristy realized she had no one else who would talk to her about the things that little girls normally liked. Kristy thought she might bring up an idea to help her father with this later when he got home. Right now she had more important things to do like get some books and a movie for the two of them to watch.

[debbie-tanthorey]

65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony.  A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently.  An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up.  Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended).  Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch)  He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.”  The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot.  B-word leads to the C-word. 

Alone now in my car, I fall apart.  Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see.  A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac.  Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this.  (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔)  Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion.  The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week.  What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions.  All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying.  Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.”  His reassurance tempers my panic . .  life resumes. 

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't.  Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda.  Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor.  Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.  

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.”  Did.  Friday, March 6.  Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one. 

“Sure” 

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’  She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her.  She and Ian were married 18 months ago.  Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9.  Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk.  Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn.  Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread.  Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work.  This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before.  A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10.  Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect.  She's calm.  So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second.  Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs.  The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head.  It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me.  Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope.  I do.  And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters.  Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed.  A mistake, surely so.  Just a glitch in the system.  “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in.  I’m in luck, they can.  So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery.  Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away.  Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either.  Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one.  Fact of the matter, there is NO lump! 

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia.  He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again.  This day I say, ‘ok'. 

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case.  ????  While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy.  Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson.  I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though.  COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car.  At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone.  And it's too quiet in here.  The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here.  I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important??  Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease.   Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it.  (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!)  In reality, robotically, walk over to look.  There it is, plain as day.  The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot.  Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh.  No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me.  The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me.  No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop?  That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a  face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure.  There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below.  Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed.  Needles are fun, aren't they??!  (eye roll)  Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me.  (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room)  And it begins.  Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells.  Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way.  Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY.  First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door.  Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator.  Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks.  As I wait, pilfer on my ipad.  Name is called, off I go.  Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me.  He begins  talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”  

IT 

“...(I go effectively deaf)  blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly.  What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE.  Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently.  Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?)  REALITY  Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally.  Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available.  (drifting off  - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.)  Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine.  The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!!  THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it.  Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP.  Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag.  Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.  

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door.  (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19.  Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk.  I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place.  Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids.   Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth.  All the while knowing the beast is growing.  

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16.  Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know.  I have breast cancer.  There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG.  Am a zombie.  A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.  

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek.  Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb.  Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention.  Vomiting would be a blessing about now.  I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??  

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed)  I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces.  Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that.  Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces.  Watch them absorb what they now understand.  I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George.  This is the first time I will say the words.  Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her.  (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright.  She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast. 

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went.  Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there.  Am thankful I am not them.  He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question.  My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit.  Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.  

Life is insane. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between.  Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it.  What to do. What. To. Do.  Staying right-minded is the aim.  Crave it.  C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there.  OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3.  I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me.  Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event.  Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy.  Every day I plow through my work to-do list.  Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.  

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery.  Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow.  A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus.  A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives.  In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.  

Sleeping is not an issue during these days.  It’s my safe place.  Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago.  (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.  

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation.  I waffle.  At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace.  Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children.  No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go.  Acknowledgement.  A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them.  They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them.  They’re part of who we are.   Mine are set for execution.  It’s them or me.

Time ticks by. 

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15.  Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive.  True.  This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor.  I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING.  So expect the worst.  Naturally.  Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk.  I notice what great hair he has.  Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first)  expect that.  Did.  Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything.  Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core.  What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.”  Meaning that tiny prick was it.  Say what now?  Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes.  I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home.  Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for.  Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them.  Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020.  DtoDD DAY.  Death to DD’s Day.  (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom.  Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same.  Gee, I hope I come back.”  Melodramatic to a fault I am.  Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour.  Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed??  Well, it is.  Apocolyptically-quiet.  Surreal.  Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though.  Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain.   I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes.  Dark room, humming machine.  Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m.  Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real  Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal.  I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest)  you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?”  (yes, I really did say it)  Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table.  I do.  My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here.  In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things.  Arms, legs . .  belt around my abdomen.  Am picturing masked-ants.  Busy, busy.  Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head.  I feel FINE  Am here, but not here.  Oh God.  Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air.  Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating,  “Debbie, wake up.  Can you hear me?”  Awake.  Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD” 

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it.  Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened.  Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me.  I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me.  Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how.  Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive.  Not moving.  Lord, what have I done?  Ice packs under both arms.  Detest feeling this gross.  I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself.  Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????!  God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors.  Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor.  No big deal.  Not much to tell.  Post on facebook that I survived.  Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME.  Here’s where it gets funny.  Seriously.  Humorous.   Reality.   My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days.  Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance.  Stubborn.  Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds.  First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch.   Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not.  Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!”  Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge.  “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!”  She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed.   Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction.   With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!!   It works!!  Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.  

Drains.  Grateful to only require two.  Three times a day they need emptying.  Unceremoniously, Leah’s job.  When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery.  These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side.  The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice.   (you winched at the visual, didn’t you?  haha)  They get full.  Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color.  Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction.   eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing.  (shudder)  Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.”  (rap, rap, smack)  “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).”  My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot.  Really HOT.  She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading.  Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her.  Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23.  A week passes, mostly uneventful.  Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing.  Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD.  I feel terrible.  Blah - which to me, IS terrible.  No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’)  Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day.  The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately.  I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive. 

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim.  (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL  Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power.  I have no power, drained dry.  Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area.  Pitiful.  I hate this.  Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me.  My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room.  sigh  I need a transfusion.  I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back.  Where’d Debbie go??!! 

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait.  Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction.  I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS.  (how embarrassing)  “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you.  STOP THEM.” 

huh?????! 

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.”  Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius.  (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze.  TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!!  Geez . .the tunnel, the light . .  THIS IS WHY!!!  TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!!  Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well.  Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there.  In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment  with oncologist in May to discuss options.  Why???  Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting.  Yes and no, in that order.  Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’.  For good reason.  Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!!  And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it.  Too few days of relief pass swiftly -  the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself.  But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that.  I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored.  ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL.  It’s normalcy.  And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March.  Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work.  Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way.  I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

THURSDAY, APRIL 30.  Meet-my-oncologist day.  (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??!  Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further.  Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!!  Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone.  Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in.  Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair.  I absorb the room.  Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do.  A few patients are here.  One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there.  Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban.  And there’s me.  Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.  

Name called.  BP and weight.  Perks of the day . .  bp is good, especially good for me.  Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs.  I’ll take it!!  Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction! 

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire.  Ugh.  Bottom of the page.  Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation.  Here we go . .  Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying)  Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals)  Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S.  Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”)   Janice / mom / is 81.  Terry / brother / is 55.”  Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . .  Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart.  Two verbal inquires of me - 

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely” 

He pauses.  He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details.  “Never?” he queries again.  Shake my head in the negative.  Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer.  No sense at all.” 

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!)  the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me.  Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally.  I consent.  He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated.  Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream)  If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen.  Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc.  Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures.  (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE)  Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back.  Come see me in two weeks please.   Oh wait . .  you drive quite a distance to get here, right?  Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh  . . .  so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way.  CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on  ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’.  TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results.   (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator.  Am still me, after all.  My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment.  By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score.  Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself.  I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd.  Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office.  One last day not having to call, know anything.  Ignorant bliss.  Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center.  I stop breathing.  Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’  Not breathing.   HERE WE GO  (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart.  Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.)  Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%.  Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?”  17    “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call.  Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . .  with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH!   For the moment, issued a reprieve.  I soak it up.  Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing.  Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)

[meta-squash]

Lipstick Traces Review/Thoughts

(I wrote this 2 years ago but didn’t have a tumblr to post it to at the time)

So I’ve just finished reading Lipstick Traces by Greil Marcus. And it’s fucking long with so much information and I’ve been having a lot of thoughts. Some just about little specific things mentioned in the book, and some more about the themes of the book written in the 80s compared to our current epoch of technology and politics and art and culture industry etc.

I mean, a lot of the stuff in the book/the thoughts the book gave me are things I’ve rambled about before on tumblr. But I guess it’s stuff that’s still in my head, that still bothers me, that I still have no solution for, or that I can find cracks in my arguments for solutions.

Mostly what I took away from this book was a giant feeling of conflict and ambivalence and uncertainty. It is, ultimately, a book of regret. It’s a book that explores these artists and movements and ideas and people that made a series of tiny but huge impacts to art and creation, who could have made a huge revolutionary change, but whose small revolutions were lost to time. It is a book about anger or frustration that incites a change, an avant garde, and how that anger fizzles out or is smothered and forgotten. It is a book about the cycles of history and how the new, the angry, the ones pushing back, are always eventually suppressed. In a 1994 quote Richey said, essentially, that you only really get remembered if you’re an Einstein or a Newton– a person who creates or discovers something that is such a massive revolutionary change that it affects the way the world is perceived and how it is believed to function. This book talks about those who aren’t Newtons and Einsteins. Those artists that made little waves that changed a few but didn’t change enough.

And it’s simultaneously fascinating and exciting and depressing, reading and thinking about this. That this book is a book of regret written in the 1980s, and 35 years later things have only gotten more extreme, and the regret can only feel heavier. The anger is still there, too, but it was more potent in the 80s and 90s, it had more potential. Now the anger is becoming impotent, or trapped. Either the meek inherited the earth and forgot what it was like to be meek, or the ones who inherited the earth were strongmen wearing the masks of the meek and the ambition of the avant garde.

Honestly, the biggest takeaway I got from this book is how drastically things have changed. How the way the book compares the Dadaists to the original punks is a fairly close, similar type of comparison, with similar movements, ideas, ideals, messages, and actions. And how the comparison to both of those with any sort of movement that might happen in the next decade or so will be massively, drastically different because of how much culture has changed, media has changed, access and accessibility has changed, government, education, class awareness, and on and on. How, honestly, I’m not sure if there could be another movement like the dadaists and like the punk scene, because to be reactionary and avant garde and revolutionary is something very different these days.

Already Greil Marcus discusses speed and the culture industry. Which makes sense, since his primary theoretical sources are Guy Debord and Theodor Adorno. But it’s fascinating to see these theories–both written and published in the 40s and 60s–being used to critique and analyse culture and art back then, much closer to the texts’ inception. Those theories were new-ish in terms of being put into words back then. The idea of the prison of capitalism, the labor that turns the proletariat into machines and then sells them back to themselves, the speed and change of media, the homogenous nature of entertainment and pop culture. All of that was relatively new, at least in terms of being stated outright.

And people were frustrated! People have always been frustrated! The Dadaists were frustrated by the war they didn’t want to participate in, and then in the monotony of the post-war expectations that everything go back to normal, when nothing was normal. They were frustrated by the Modernists, by the Expressionists, by art becoming something that gave you Status rather than something that you just did because you had the urge. Punks were frustrated with the economic and social malaise, the labor issues, the failed ideals of the hippies, art and music stagnating, the lack of platforms for them to express themselves. But they were able to use art to express that anger, that frustration, that feeling of nihilism or of glee at meaninglessness, that feeling of “fuck it, we have nothing so let’s do what we want.” Both generations did it in different styles, but both threw convention out the window, focused on what was taboo, what was weird, what was scandalous, what they wanted to say but society didn’t want them saying.

What’s interesting about the book is that it expresses admiration for this, for the daring and avant garde and original and clever and badass nature of both Dada and Punk ideals/styles/philosophies/actions/etc. But it also expresses regret. Regret that it only lasted so long. That it didn’t leave any major effect on art or politics or life or society (that is, aside from what capitalism stole or what minor underground movements admired or were inspired by). That it was stolen by capitalism. That it inevitably fell apart as time moved forward.

But for those glorious few years….

And what it made me think of, which (like I said) Marcus talks about quite a bit, is the effect that the culture industry and the speed of culture/media/news had on both movements. For the Dadaists, it was more about the speed of the news and also just blindly making, with no knowledge of a goal or ultimate desire, that resulted in the group eventually separating into other factions and the movement petering out into other artistic ideas and styles. The Dadaists were reacting to the war, to the newness of certain parts of culture, to the personal conflicts between artists. The punk movement was more affected by the ever-increasing speed of culture and media as well as news. Things were moving faster. Styles and ideas were coming into fashion and then becoming old hat more quickly. Punk started out as avant-garde, as a refusal to conform, as an excuse and/or reason to speak out and act out and express oneself. Especially in communities that weren’t being heard. It started out as a way for individuals to force society to acknowledge them. And then capitalism and the culture industry got their hands on it and began to use it as a marketing ploy, as fashion, selling punk back to the masses it was intended to belong to.

It’s pretty obvious that the world has sped up immensely since the 1970s– media, news, and culture industry included. Things that are new on Monday are old by Friday. Memes that are hilarious and circulate social media for weeks are dead by the time companies try to capitalize on them (see: Zumiez etc making Grumpy Cat shirts etc). Music or films that are popular fall out of popularity in just a few weeks, unless they’re vapid pieces of media or unless the creators/artists continue to hype themselves over and over again in different ways. It is impossible to create focused critical art because there is always so much going on in the news and in world politics or social issues; everything is so intertwined it’s impossible to pick out certain things to criticize. Artists and art movements and things of meaning and import fall by the wayside. It’s hard for me to imagine an avant garde or artistic movement within a community growing in popularity and staying strong for long enough to really make an impact or a difference. And the speed of the news is insane now. Things are only big news for a few days before vanishing under the avalanche of new stories and new events. Things stay big news within the communities that care about them (ie Black Lives Matter, Flint MI, Grenfell, DAPL, etc) but not within the eye of the media. News changes as fast as a feed can refresh.

I also have the feeling that art doesn’t have as much power. Subliminal marketing power, sure. But the last few art pieces I remember hearing even random people talking about were Shepard Fairey’s 2008 portraits for the Obama campaign, Ai Weiwei’s Han dynasty vase smash (which was from 1995 but came back into the spotlight in the mid-2000s for some reason) and Yayoi Kusama’s infinity mirrored room. It’s hard now, with the constant barrage of information and images and sounds, to figure out what is important and impactful art, and what is rubbish (or advertisement). It’s also hard to figure out what to focus on when making critical art: what moments or events in politics and current events will be remembered long enough to be used in critique; what will people remember and be affected by? Maybe hindsight is 20/20 tunnel vision or the gaze towards the past is tinged with roses, but it seems as though art had a larger significance. Barbara Kruger, for example. The Sex Pistols, The Guerilla Girls, Robert Mapplethorpe, Keith Haring, Annie Liebowitz, and (obviously) Jenny Holzer. All used their art to critique various current events, social/political/global issues. They had an effect on viewers in their time as well as after it. It seems as though, now, there’s no during-and-after. There is only during (like Shepard Fairey’s portraits).

A big reason for that, I think, is because of the disintegration of Dadaism and Situationism due to speed and capitalism. Basically, Situationism was created to force those going about their daily lives to stop for a second and think about their situation, to make a moment of “real living,” to jolt people out of the stupor of the daily grind and make them remember. Remember they’re alive, remember they shouldn’t be living a life of a drone, remember they’re consuming things they’re being told to instead of doing what they want to. And those moments were created through graffiti, through the detournement of taking normal comic strips and rewriting dialogues to critique the world, through the music and fashion of punk, which shouted out the flaws in society without caring that it was supposed to be kept hush-hush, through visual art that confronted the viewer with critiques (like Barbara Kruger or Jenny Holzer), etc etc. But now, do something like that and you’re called “edgy” and mocked. Why? Probably because of the likes of Banksy. I say this because Banksy often creates graffiti pieces that probably should or would have meaning, or should or would make you stop and think. Except that they’re pieces by Banksy, famous for being edgy, whose pieces are worth thousands or millions of dollars. Who rarely actually has a statement, except money-making. How many of us howled with laughter when he made that nightmare-Disneyland piece? Because it was edgy and unoriginal. Because we already know we’re living in a slowly growing dystopia, and being told that by a guy who benefits from said dystopia and gets so much money from criticizing it is bullshit.

It’s also because it feels like there’s nothing new under the sun. Now, Greil Marcus kind of talks about this. The punk movement expressed this too. The nihilism that nothing is new, that everything has already been said. But it did so gleefully, embracing the nihilism in order to laugh at it and point it out and roll in that glee. There is nothing new to be said, they thought, but there are new ways to say it. Because we’ve been saying things for centuries but nothing has changed, except the way it gets said. The problem now, in the 21st century, is that nothing new under the sun is now nothing new under the sun and that can no longer be used as a statement. “It’s all already been done, just say it in a new way” is no longer good enough. Ideas have to come out of a vacuum— except if they come out of a vacuum, they’re either never noticed or they’re appropriated by the media and capitalism.

Basic Adorno, basic culture industry theory. But Adorno would have a fucking aneurysm if he could see how his theory holds up in the 21st century compared to 1944. And honestly, that is a terrifying sentence to type. That Adorno and Horkheimer published Enlightenment as Mass Deception in 1944, that they were noticing this in the 1940s. And every point in their essay has only increased exponentially since then.

Greil Marcus hints at the whole “punk is dead” thing throughout the book without actually saying those words. I don’t think the phrase really existed as a buzzword type thing when the book was published. But I think the points and ideas expressed in Lipstick Traces kind of say what my thoughts have always been on that idea. Punk is dead, and punk is also not dead. Punk is dead; its looks and sound were stolen by the media and by capitalism and sold to the masses, sold back to the kids who created and popularized it. Punk was the sound and creativity and style of the kids who had nothing and wanted to be everything, so they made it all themselves. They created their own style and said what they wanted to say. High fashion stole it, television stole it, department stores stole it, ad agencies stole it, and sold it back. “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” Punk is dead, as an original movement, as an original fashion. But! But, punk thought is not. Punk as an ideal, as a philosophy, as thought, is very much alive. Punk, as the idea that you make your own, that you use your own creativity and express yourself the way you want to. That it’s passion and not necessarily talent that matters. That wearing what you want, saying what you want, confronting the issues that need confronting, being whoever you are so long as you’re not hurting or fucking over an innocent person, that’s still very much alive. The original punk fashion has been stolen. But punk fashion still exists, in people that make their own clothes or wear strange things even though they get stared at. Punk in art still exists, in people that make their art for themselves, or who make art with friends despite knowing they might go nowhere, just because they have the passion. Punk music is the same. The ideals and thought is still thrumming and alive. Its parent has been consumed by consumerism, devoured by capitalism and marketing and fashion. But the orphaned offspring is still hiding and alive.

And yet there’s another ‘but.’ The depressing one. Which is that it feels as though punk, in the early, original days, gave the youth a label, an identity. This goes for plenty  of other youth movements as well, and art movements, etc etc. But these days it seems a community identity hardly exists. And it’s hard to push a movement, create a feeling of community or solidarity, without some sort of shared identity. Perhaps the label of “Millenials” and “Gen Z” are the closest we’ve come so far. But those are so broad, and so often used in a derogatory fashion (although, I suppose, so were “punk” and “mod” and “hippie” and “teddy boy” etc etc).

And I also think that everything is so fast now, and moments are so fleeting, events are so quick to be forgotten, that it is hard to impress an idea or affect change or put an artistic statement or movement out there for long enough to make a true impact. I would say that maybe a large amount of the generation(s) banding together to make a statement would do something, would make that change. But Black Lives Matter was made up mostly of Millenials, young people, people under the age of 35. And yet it slowly petered away into almost nothingness with no changes.

But the kids of the next generation, Gen Z, do give me hope. Like that other person’s post going around says, they’re pissed, they were raised on a steady diet of dystopian literature with strong main characters, they’re highly aware of the state of politics and the job market and the economy, they’ve seen how fucked Millenials are and they know it’s not going to get much better for a while. And maybe they’re the next ones, the next to say “fuck it, we have nothing and we are nothing, let’s do whatever we want because we haven’t got anything to lose”. And maybe the millenials will join.

That’s what I hope. That’s what Greil Marcus’ book seems to be trying to say. That these sorts of movements don’t always have massive, lasting effects in the grand scheme of the world and society. But they leave cracks, and fragments, and shrapnel, and artefacts, for the next generation or the next movement to find and use. That dadaism might have faded away and punk might be dead but the dadaist yell is still echoing and punk thought is still very much alive. And it’s up to us to hear it, to use it, to find the crack in the culture industry and capitalism and society and somehow find the next avant garde, the ideas and movement that will stick and create an identity for unfettered expression, if only for a little while. That “the moment of real poetry brings all the unsettled debts of history back into play,” and it is up to us to figure out what we have to do or say to ignite all of that history and to wield its power. And how we can make our own history or try and settle the debts of the past.

(And yet…. And yet…. And yet I can’t help but doubt that the speed of the world will allow this to happen. And yet I want to believe that something can be done to create critical work that sticks. And yet how do you make critical work without it being eaten up by the culture industry and disappeared into homogeneity. And yet we have technology and creative mediums now that we didn’t in 1977. And yet punk is dead. And yet punk thought is not. And yet, and yet.)

[doomedandstoned]

The Bog Wizard Sees All!

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

Review by Billy Goate

Album art by Al Seamer

Michigan's BOG WIZARD was introduced to us in last year's Doomed & Stoned in Detroit compilation when they shared "The Wizard in the Bog." The lyrics carry a similar sentiment to "The Troll" by Saint Vitus, though arguably the latter was a more sympathetic character than this:

In the bog, he plies Dark and twisted blackened sorcery

He shapes, he knows Never ending hatred for humanity

Their lies, death throes Neverending fuel for his treachery

Now following the EP, 'Campaign' (2018), which was the culmination of more than a decade of casual jam sessions, the Ludington trio of Ben Lombard (guitar, vox), Harlen Linke (drums, synth, vox), and Colby Lowman (bass) have battened down the hatches to bring us an ambitious 12-track album approximately an hour and five-minutes in length.

I suppose it is fair to say that 'From The Mire' (2020) does not behave like the typical album, but its episodic quality sure would make it an attractive soundtrack to an indie film.

They'd make one hell of a good pairing with Psychic Dose, too. Both are fascinated by the swamp as a setting for mythical lore, both have a similar lo-fi production epic, and both have some of the meanest growls and nastiest riffs in the entire marsh.

The record opens by sampling a preacher sharing his laundry list "dangers" that Dungeons and Dragons portends, undoubtedly from one of those scarey Christian video tapes that got passed around to concerned parents (mine included) in the '80s. "Is this dangerous? You decide."

Right on the heels of that statement the Bog Wizard comes stomping out of the muck and into your earspace in classic doom fashion, accented by sludgy southern riffing and vocal harmonies reminiscent of Brimstone Coven.

"Submission In Defiance" is a promising beginning and bleeds right into "Tarrasque" (a dragon-like creature from the D&D universe), which is presented with epic doom bravado. "City in the Mountain" follows in like manner and its forlorn quality gave me flashbacks of the late, great Rhode Island doom outfit Pilgrim (another band that incorporated fantasy RPG themes in their music).

Doomed & Stoned · Bog Wizard - From The Mire(2020)

Without these programmatic elements to guide me, my first listen got a little bogged down in the album's mid-section, particularly with some of the instrumentals (e.g. "Gnarled Cane," though that bass does eventually get down and dirty like we're used to hearing from Missoula's Swamp Ritual). Second listen had me better acclimated.

It's worth noting that when you hear clean singing alternating with much grittier strains on a song like "Shapeshifter," that's not two people, it's just one: Ben Lombard. I found his vocal performance pretty darned convincing on the whole. His range isn't operatic, but it can soar when he wants to and his "dark side" vox are achieve the tone and pitch that Lamb of God frontman Randy Blythe might reach if he could, you know, sing.

Overall, the album is a grower, with a good handful of songs that will grab you right from the get-go and others that will probably take a time or two to fully digest (like the grand finisher, "Swamp Golem"). Then again, you just might be in the mood to slow headbang all the way through.

Bog Wizard's From The Mire surfaces from the swamp waters of doom this Friday, July 3rd (pre-order here). Today, Doomed & Stoned is bringing you its world premiere.

Give ear...

From the Mire by Bog Wizard

A Listener's Guide To Bog Wizard

By Harlen Linke

The album was put together earlier this year, self recorded and produced in our drummers basement, where we usually practice. We sound-treated the space, dividing it off from the rest of the basement, placing the guitar cabs outside of the drum area, and recorded directly on bass, so we could get away with playing everything live together without much bleed between mics. We tend to have a fair amount of tempo changes and it would be a nightmare to try to record every part separately, our music is very go-with-the-flow.

We worked with Max Schoenlein of MAS Audio (who also does shows with us, doing lighting usually) who ran the board. We worked with him on our original EP as a two-piece a few years ago. Our bassist Colby used to own a recording studio, and I've had experience mixing music, as I've dabbled a bunch in the past on various projects and mixed/ mastered our EP, so collectively we had all the pieces to self produce this full length album.

We recorded the whole thing over the course of 4 weekends in January 2020, and Colby and I passed a few early mixes of one song back and forth for awhile before settling in on a rough template to apply to the rest of the album, doing a massive amount of iterating and adjusting over the next few months, finishing the process of mixing and mastering in May. It was a pretty great learning experience, and I think the end result turned out great for what was a pretty thrown together studio. We're very proud of it.

Our bassist joined in November of 2018, and we've been working on writing this album since then, in addition to learning some covers and doing live shows locally. Ben and I tend to split the writing between the two of us, with one of us coming up with a few cool riffs and concepts, and jamming on it to figure out where it takes us. We tend to improv jam a lot of our new ideas and record everything we do, going back and listening to what we did and picking out the good parts to apply to a more structured song that we refine over time.

Thematically, we have a focus on fantasy/Dungeons & Dragons, as well as spoofing off of the '80s Satanic Panic era, but role playing games have a pretty big influence on how we go about writing our lyrics as well. I'm credited in the liner notes as "DM" or Dungeon Master, which in D&D context is the person who runs the game and story that plays out, with the players interacting with it. And while I do usually handle running our games outside of the music, we also apply this dynamic to our lyrical writing process.

Often I'll lay out a rough idea or story we want to make our song about, and Ben and I will talk through where it heads, with me leading the narrative and Ben refining it, and eventually writing the lyrics to fit the idea. While not all of our songs are handled this way, the ones that are end up as very linear story based songs.

One example, the song "City in the Mountain" tells a tale of a visitor experiencing the wonder of a sprawling underground city, with the lyrics seeming to be from almost a tour guide describing the city to them as they enter. The song has this looming theme of misearned wealth and power accumulated in the city, culminating in the reveal of an ancient magical creature contained under it that is driving it's growth, and the sacrifice of the listener being the final step of their trip deeper into the city, to placate the creature.

Or "Submission in Defiance," which the first act of the song is about an adventurer setting out to confront a highly intelligent mind-controlling enemy, and their realization that the only way to get close is to allow this creature to take control of them, and the existential struggle that a decision like that requires. However, the second half of the song describes their new mental state after this happens, which is complete submission to the enemy, doing the entities rage-filled bidding as almost part of a hive mind, with an implied complete failure of their original intended goal.

Overall, our From the Mire takes heavy fantasy influence, a few songs being straight up retellings of D&D games we have played together in the past ("Shapeshifter" being the most notable example of that, which is actually a game that had a character my daughter ended up getting named after), but we do sprinkle in our fair share of social commentary and deeper thoughts about the world applied to the setting.

From the Mire by Bog Wizard

The Bog Wizard himself is a recurring character in the album, a crotchety old bastard of wizard, living in isolation in his swamp, who doesn't take kindly to trespassers. Our single "Swamp Golem" is a song about the conjuring of a massive hulking creature created from swamp muck (featured on the cover of the album and CD itself, drawn by Al Seamer) to enact revenge on a nearby village for that very sin. He's a very "get off my lawn" type, taken to the extreme.

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[ratsontheroad]

Translation of the Ghost cover feature in Finnish music magazine Soundi 06/2018

[T/N: SO I finally finished this translation that I had been meaning to work on ever since I first saw this magazine on the shelves back in June. It’s a really interesting, detailed article with some new insight to how Tobias views the past and future of Ghost, so I would highly recommend giving it a read!

Thanks to @mistashadesu​ for proofreading!]

Ghost – Against the odds

Matters of Faith

Heavy rock bands capable of making an international breakthrough have become a rarity nowadays. During the past few years, one band has succeeded in this feat better than others: Ghost. Its story is already filled with an astounding amount of interesting turns and strange coincidences, but if we ask frontman Tobias Forge, Ghost has only taken its first steps.

Prologue: Once upon a time…

…there was a little boy from Linköping, who took an interest to heavy rock music thanks to his older brother. Around the same time, the boy, named Tobias Jens Forge, grabbed the book Stone Alone which was about the life of The Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman. The reading experience was so fascinating that the boy started devouring the biographies of other musicians as well. One of his most influential early musical experiences was Metallica’s colossal The Black Album, but soon the darker, more mysterious and dangerous paths of death and black metal swept the boy with them.

In 1998 the boy had grown into a young man, who founded the death metal band Repugnant, whose only album Epitome of Darkness came out in 2006, after the band had already disbanded. On the verge of adulthood, the youth also played the guitar in other underground acts, such as Magna Carta Cartel as well as an early incarnation of Crashdïet.

The same year Epitome of Darkness came out, a song in Swedish, Satans Natt, was conceived “for a possible new project”. A musician friend of several years [of Forge’s] heard the “not particularly serious” demo version of the song and urged him to compose more songs in the same vein. That’s what happened.

Soon the project got the name Ghost, and in 2008 the title of Satans Natt was changed to Stand by Him, whose lyrics begin with the sentence “Devil’s power is the greatest one”. Bingo! Like almost always in the case of the best rock music, the deal with the good ol’ Devil had been sealed.

Ghost did not hurry, however, since the air was thick with a fragile “now or never” atmosphere that was not worth shattering with something unfinished. The D-Day dawned on Friday 12th of March 2010, when Ghost released a three-song debut demo on their plain MySpace Page.

First Act: Year Zero

It’s April 2018, and Tobias Forge has arrived at the Universal Music facilities in Södermalm, Stockholm. The slender musician has taken off his black leather jacket, whose front is adorned with Misfits, King Diamond and Venom pins among other things, and settled into a comfortable position on one side of the black sofa in the conference room. Forge, who has been extremely busy during the past decade, has had some free time with his wife and two children during the past couple of weeks.

It doesn’t require being an adept judge of human character to notice that Forge is positively exuding happiness and calm. Though why wouldn’t he be, seeing as his dreams for his musical career have come true. Even the wildest ones of them all.

–When I founded Repugnant, I was hoping for the band to become a big name in the field of death metal. I was dreaming of achieving something that for example Amon Amarth have reached. Anyway, it didn’t come into fruition for a multitude of reasons. For starters, our timing was completely wrong, since the popularity of death metal was at a low while nu metal was dominating the charts. No matter what I tried, Repugnant didn’t seem to provoke much of a response. It was inevitable that my enthusiasm started to wane.

Despite his adolescence having been permeated by extreme metal, Forge has always been far from a thick-skulled metalhead, who refuses to see past the end of his nose. The time had come to do something other than death metal.

–If you ask what my favorite album is, I might mention Season Of The Dead by Necrophagia, but I could also mention a thousand other albums. My earliest musical memories have to do with the releases of Rainbow, Iron Maiden, Kiss and Mötley Crüe – especially Shout At The Devil terrified me as a kid – and I still love these bands. Queen, Misfits, Pink Floyd and The Doors have always been huge favorites of mine. I really like many Swedish artists, such as Lars Winnerbäck. The world of AOR has killer names like Journey and Foreigner who have affected Ghost’s vocal harmonies tremendously. Yeah, I could continue this list endlessly.

When Forge started planning “yet another project”, that is to say Ghost, his idea was to combine Satanic and occult imagery (“I read Necronomicon at a young age and its impact was pretty huge”) with progressive and organic hard rock (Uriah Heep, November, Blue Öyster Cult), mystic and sinister heavy metal (Mercyful Fate, Pentagram), obscure metal (Voivod) and huge, shamelessly catchy hits (Africa by Toto).

The end result was a some kind of cross between Black Sabbath and Abba.

–After a few Ghost songs had been finished, I started looking for a singer for the band. I’m a guitarist and I wouldn’t have thought I would become the band’s singer. I inquired the interest of many of my famous colleagues, such as Messiah Marcolin of Candlemass, but no candidate expressed any. Not a single one. However, I still wanted to play the cards I had been dealt, so I had to be the singer.

“From rags to riches in one night” is a horrible cliché, but that is exactly what happened to Ghost, at least to some extent.

–I uploaded the demo songs on MySpace and turned off the computer for several hours. When I turned it back on again… Well, I could hardly believe my eyes. During a short time, the page had been flooded with praise from fans, record labels and colleagues alike. At that moment I realized that if I had been given one chance to succeed in the world of rock ‘n’ roll, its time – Ghost’s Year Zero – had now come.

Mysterious are the workings of higher powers, which is something Tobias Forge got painful proof of later on the very same day. Only a few hours after Ghost’s emergence Forge’s world collapsed: his 41-year-old older brother – his mentor and role model – had passed away.

–Two of the biggest changes in my life up to that point happened on the same day. I don’t believe in the supernatural, but the timing of these incidents made my skin crawl.

Second Act: I love Ghost

Ghost’s explosive popularity on MySpace really set things in motion, and it wasn’t long until they signed a record deal with the former Napalm Death and Cathedral singer Lee Dorrian’s Rise Above Records. Their first album Opus Eponymous was released towards the end of fall 2010.

–When Opus Eponymous was released, I was 29 years old and had been playing in different bands for maybe 15 years. I had been involved in making albums that music magazines didn’t pay any attention to – they didn’t even bother to review them. At some point I was seriously plagued by self-doubt, and daunting thoughts like “maybe I will never have a successful music career“ crept into my mind. After all this, the warm reception and positive reviews Opus Eponymous received felt fantastic, Forge says.

–I am a perfectionist, and Opus Eponymous is, of course, far from being a perfect album. If I listen to it today, I find myself constantly thinking that “I could have done that and that so much better.” But Opus Eponymous is a product of its time and it opened countless doors for Ghost. The material on the album was written with no plans for a future record deal on the horizon, and this is why the album is extremely stripped-down and genuine. In many ways Opus Eponymous is and always will be my most important release, because it gave me a chance.

When Opus Eponymous was released in mid-October, Ghost hadn’t played single gig. And performing is at least equally as important as recording to Forge, who has loved the performing arts ever since he was a little boy.

–We played our first gig in Germany at the Hammer of Doom festival five days after Opus Eponymous was released. The gig was such a bizarre experience… As I said, I have the identity of a guitarist, and only doing the singing felt weird at first. And I looked weird too, in the mask and robes of a satanic pope, Forge laughs.

–I felt that the hype around Ghost also caused the audience to just observe the gig instead of really enjoying it. The atmosphere was reserved and I couldn’t really tell if they liked us at all. Luckily we performed in London the very next night, and the atmosphere at Camden Underworld was fantastic. The venue was packed and everyone sang along with the lyrics like there was no tomorrow. It was one of those important moments when I understood that Ghost could really become something.

The character of a satanic pope that Forge, who had been impressed by the “skull mummies” in Indiana Jones films already as a kid, had created answered to the name Papa Emeritus I during the era of the debut gigs and album. For their next album Infestissumam (2013) Ghost “changed singers” and Papa Emeritus II, who of course was Forge’s next character, took the stage. A similar metamorphosis occurred with the album Meliora (2015).

–During an early stage of planning I decided that songs like these that flirt with mysticism and occultism cannot be performed dressed in a t-shirt and jeans in the corner of a pub. In other words, it was as clear as day from the start that Ghost’s show had to be very memorable visually. One of the ideas had to do with the stage, which I had wanted to look like a church of some kind. This in turn led to the thought that the night’s Master of Ceremony had to be some kind of a satanic clergyman or the leader of a cult. The system that the Catholic Church and the Vatican have had in place for centuries, where a new pope rises to power every now and then, offered the perfect model for Ghost’s upside-down world.

Ghost’s concept is so ingenious that it instantly arouses the question of why nobody came up with it earlier. Something that further adds to its ingenuity is that if Forge starts running out of ideas at some point, he can turn his attention to years past and reanimate Papa I or some other former frontman of Ghost. And the fans will rejoice.

–Nostalgia is an important part of rock culture – and it has become even more important as many of our heroes have passed away. Some older rock fans are extremely proud about having seen Led Zeppelin live in the 1970s. Or if we consider Metallica… Did you already discover them during Cliff Burton’s era, or did you only get excited about Load? For die-hard fans this is a question of life and death.

Speaking of Metallica – even though Ghost is superior among newer bands, it would not have reached its current status without James Hetfield. When Metallica played in the Ullevi Stadium in Gothenburg in summer 2011, Hetfield appeared in an interview in a live broadcast on Swedish television wearing a Ghost shirt. “Papa Het’s” comment “I love Ghost” reached millions of metal fans through the internet, which marked the end of Ghost’s days as an underground band.

–We performed at Roskilde that same night, and suddenly my phone was full of messages telling me that Hetfield had praised Ghost on television. It did feel incredible, Forge reminisces.

–It’s been baffling to notice how adaptable the human mind is. As you get to know your childhood heroes personally, they become less exceptional. I don’t mean to say that meeting James Hetfield isn’t great every single time, but nowadays things like these are a part of my life. Just like endless travelling. Before Ghost, I had barely travelled anywhere and now I have visited dozens of different countries.

When did you visit the USA for the first time?

–Oh, this is a fun story! I was determined that I would only go to the United States when I had a gig there, and that’s what ended up happening when we played at Maryland Deathfest in the spring of 2011. It was an unbeatable feeling!

Third Act: My name is Tobias Forge

And the Grammy goes to… Ghost!

Who would have thought that a Swedish metal band in the beginning of their career would win a Grammy, the most esteemed award in the world of pop music, with some help from Metallica or not. That’s what happened, however, when Forge and his then-nameless ghouls picked up the award for Best Metal Performance in Lost Angeles in winter 2016.

–[The Swedish producer] Max Martin probably has something like 50 Grammys, but otherwise there aren’t many of those within Sweden, Forge says.

–I was already dumbfounded by the fact that we were nominated, so winning felt completely unfathomable. So many famous bands have been nominated for a Grammy numerous times but never gotten the award, and we took it right off the bat.

–My mother was so excited about the news about the Grammy that she started telling everyone about “her son’s band Ghost”. Despite all the times I had emphasized that we were going to hold onto our anonymity as long as possible… Well, I did know that the rocketing growth of Ghost’s popularity meant that our road of being anonymous and faceless would end sooner or later.

The words “My name is Tobias Forge and I am the singer of Ghost” were broadcast on the frequency of a Swedish radio station late in the summer of 2017 [T/N:  Here the author misquotes the Sommar i P1 interview slightly – what Tobias actually said was more along the lines of “My name is Tobias Forge and I am the man behind the mask in Ghost.”]. It was the first time Forge had publicly admitted to being Ghost’s frontman.

–I am a control freak, but unfortunately controlling everything is not possible. Especially not when a rock band grows faster than anybody could have expected.

Forge having to reveal his identity has to do with disagreements that arose following Ghost’s success. Some of Ghost’s background musicians – the no-longer-so-nameless ghouls Simon Söderberg, Mauro Rubino, Henrik Palm and Martin Hjertstedt – sued their former boss in the spring of 2017. The reason? Nothing particularly surprising. The four of them thought that they had not been paid enough.

As an outsider, it is easy to understand the views of both the visionary dictator Forge and his former bandmates. It’s one thing to dream of a jackpot, but during Ghost’s early days no one could have predicted the diabolical heights that they would reach. As their popularity skyrocketed, and the original lineup consisting of an old group of friends had no written agreement, both sides could claim anything.

–A famous musician said to me that all successful bands have to settle their accounts in court sooner or later. He added that things like this are a sign of success and that many things have been done correctly. He was right.

The legal battle remains unfinished, but the former members of Ghost got one small win so far – at least if their purpose was to throw a wrench in the works. After all, isn’t it the case that the mystery surrounding Ghost has somewhat decreased, now that everyone knows the identity of the visionary behind it all? Or is it?

–Well, the situation is what it is and there’s no changing it. If Ghost’s brand is as strong as I hope and want it to be, the band will survive this with no significant repercussions. It’s true that a part of the mystery is gone forever, and if someone can no longer enjoy Ghost after seeing my face, so be it. But ultimately I’m not that worried, since I can still control the publicity fairly well. I have no intention of going to speak nonsense in some reality show.

Fourth Act: Don’t you forget that you will die

This summer marks the beginning of yet another era in Tobias Forge’s unholy books. The recently released fourth studio album Prequelle mischievously flits from one atmosphere to another, and has already become a cornerstone in Ghost’s constantly strengthening fortress.

As is the custom, the frontman of the band has “changed” yet again and Papa Emeritus III, who became a fan favorite with the album Meliora and the EP Popestar, is gone with the wind – at least for now – and the group is currently led by Cardinal Copia.

A cardinal is below the pope in Vatican’s ranks, but only a cardinal can be elected Pope, and Forge intends to make the most of the possibilities that the band’s “new and wild figurehead” offers. For example, it’s worth checking out the promotional video for Rats, a song inspired by former bandmates (“Them rats,” Forge croaks) – no Papa could ever have executed such dance moves.

The instrumental songs on the new album are in a league of their own. When I first listened to the advance copy of Prequelle, the stylishly flowing Miasma and Helvetesfönster took me by surprise. Ghost goes… Vangelis?

–I dig instrumental music and was planning a few instrumentals already for Meliora. My plans didn’t pan out back then, but this time I was determined to not leave those ideas unused. Naturally, I also wondered if I was completely nuts for releasing 12 minutes of instrumental music… After all, it is quite a lot in this golden age of short hit songs and music streaming. Well, if someone dislikes Miasma or Helvetesfönster, there is nothing I can do about it, Forge laughs.

–I intend to continue in a similar vein in the future. Ghost absolutely isn’t a band that keeps on releasing the same record over and over again. I could have played it safe and written ten songs like Square Hammer or He Is, but that would have been dreadfully boring. In other words: I love Ramones and AC/DC, but Ghost is a band more like Queen – always surprising and exciting. To me, Prequelle sounds just like that – sometimes the music makes you smile but sometimes cry.

A key song on Prequelle is also the delicate and beautiful Pro Memoria.

–The song is about death, such as the deaths of legends like Lemmy Kilmister and Ronnie James Dio. “Don’t you forget that you will die” is a reminder that you must enjoy life in the present and not take things for granted because tomorrow it may already be too late. For example, if Alice Cooper has a show in your city, you should go and see him, because there might not be a next time, Forge reminds me.

–Death has already been sung enough about in the circles of heavy music and usually the point of view is always the same, which is to say that death is praised and glorified. Ghost’s message is different, a slightly more positive one. I want to remind people of how great it is to be alive and how tomorrow things may already be better, even if you feel low today.

Prequelle is a crucially important album for Ghost, who have managed to gain a foothold in the difficult to break into US market – Prequelle might even be the “make it or break it” release that determines the rest of the band’s career. Forge knows it better than anyone, but he refuses to take any pressure about it.

–Nowadays Ghost has many fans all around the globe, and they will surely check Prequelle out. Will they fall even deeper in love with Ghost, or find the album lousy? I don’t know, I really don’t. But what I do know is that I wrote every note and every word on Prequelle from the bottom of my heart.

Epilogue: One more time…

Who would have thought that an unconventional underground band calling itself a “satanic doom metal band” at the start of their career would rise to world fame? No one, not even Tobias Forge himself, though he knew his own skills as a songwriter.

But this is where one of the greatest attributes of rock music lies. You can make all kinds of probability calculations, but the weight of strange coincidences and sheer luck in the equation cannot be measured.

Now Ghost is on the threshold of an ultimate breakthrough. The band is facing that imposing gate that leads to fame similar to Black Sabbath’s, Iron Maiden’s and Metallica’s.

Towards the end of this year, Ghost will be performing at Forum in Los Angeles and at Barclays Center in New York among other places, and both of these two American venues fit approximately 20,000 people. Strangely, even concert plans this huge feel like a logical next step for Ghost.

Tobias Forge, what will Ghost be doing in 2051 when you turn 70 and reach Lemmy’s age?

–(Pauses to think and starts laughing) By then Ghost will be the biggest theatrical rock band in the world, the Queen and the Rolling Stones of its time. Do I really think this will happen? Maybe!