#as one of my greatest accomplishments in bullshit yet

[letsgetrowdy43]

Heartbreak Hotel—

Quinn Hughes x reader

Warnings: suggestive content (no actual sex) (it's literally only at the end), lmk if there's anything else I need to warn ppl about :)

I live for the angst of it all… I’m also ignoring the 40 requests in my inbox cause I’m lazy so here, to make up for my lack of motivation

Briggs, the Boeser family's two-year-old baby boy bounced on Y/N's knee. Small giggles erupted from him as he played with the sleeve of his favourite aunt's blouse. A smile spread across the woman's face as she placed a kiss on the crown of the baby's head, "so when are you having one of your own?" Charlotte (I did in fact make a fake wife for Brock, so what??) asked with a smug grin as she sipped her coffee.

"We've definitely talked about it," Y/N joked wiggling her eyebrows at Charlotte who let out a laugh, the woman picked up her coffee cup to hide the look of discouragement on her face from her friend.

"Hughes still having intimacy troubles? I thought it would be much easier for him once he married" Y/N's lips formed a straight line as she thought of her husband, "that's definitely not the issue, we decided that we just aren't ready yet" "Ready? Y/N/N, you've been married three years nearly" Y/N looked at her best friend with this knowing look, "I will never understand how your guy's relationship works"

The blonde let out a quiet sigh, "we are just in a strange place right now" she shrugged, bringing her hand up to remove a lock of her hair from baby's hand, "it's not that I'm not ready, I would love to be a mom, but sometimes it feels like he doesn't want to take those next steps" she said with a sad smile.

Quinn's romance and love seemed to be fleeting, his concentration landing more on his life within the hockey world, rather than on his wife. An issue that the two were tip-toeing around, sharing soft kisses and gentle words but only when he was thriving, only when he was accomplishing greatness. If he wasn't blossoming to the level that he felt was acceptable the idea of loving his wife went out the window, and his heart stayed at the rink along with his passion.

As time went on Y/N learned to accept that this was the love that she was going to receive for the rest of her life. She would always fall second to hockey, it was his life and his greatest aspiration, and she could live with that. But sometimes she wished he would just choose her for once.

"That's utter bullshit, he loves you, you know that," Charlotte said with a smile, Y/N just laughed and joked the agonizing conversation away, no longer wanting to speak about it if no one was going to listen to her point of view. "I know he loves me, he married me for a reason" She bitterly smiled and took another sip of her coffee.

"When is Beau supposed to stop in?" "He said he would stop in around noon, so any minute now?" both women stared at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, eleven fifty-five.

Within a matter of seconds, a man walked through the doors and sat in the seat next to Y/N, taking the baby out of her arms and tucking him into him, "hello little man" he said squeezing Briggs' cheeks. "Look at his little smile," he said in a baby voice as he threw the baby in the air and caught him, just to listen to the little boy's addictive giggles. "You two have that same IQ," Charlotte mumbled with disgust, followed by a smirk gaining a fake scowl from the man, Briggs trying to copy the look plastered on the grown man's face.

"My beloved Y/N, where is your grumpy husband, he hasn't been answering my texts all day, I'm having withdrawals" a fake tone of desperation lacing his voice as he batted his lashes. "Both sets of in-laws are in town for my mom and Jim's birthdays this weekend, so we are hosting dinner tonight at the apartment" The woman stole the toddler right out of Tito's hold, sticking her tongue out at him as the little blondie curled up in her lap.

Her eyes wandered over to the clock again, realizing that it would be best if she left sooner than later in order to help Ellen and her mother with dinner preparations. "Speaking of dinner, I should probably head out" She smiled sweetly and placed the tiny human back into Tito's grasp. "I've barely blessed you with my presence and now you're leaving?" the woman nodded, "fake friend!"

"Bye Beau," she pushed his shoulder, ducking down to place a kiss on the toddler's forehead, "bye-bye Briggs," she waved. "No goodbye kiss for me?" Charlotte asked as the woman got up and off of the couch to place a sloppy kiss on her best friend's cheek,

Finally showing herself out as the calls from her mother already began rolling in on things to grab from the store before making her way home.

⭐︎⭐︎

"Y/N, straighten your back, your posture is horrendous" her mother scoffed from behind her as she helped pull her mother-in-law's fresh-baked apple pie out of the oven. "Sorry Mom," she said just above a whisper, adjusting her stance and placing the hot pie on the marble counter.

Quinn walked into the kitchen in search of a corkscrew, he was dressed nicely. A navy button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows leaving his muscular forearms on display.

He was always so carelessly attractive.

His eyes met hers, taking a moment to appreciate her beauty, drinking up her silk-covered silhouette and then flashing her a soft smile. She hated how just the softest looks or gestures could flip her stomach, and wipe her memory of the past few months. Rid him of any blame for why their marriage seemed to be drowning rather than thriving.

"Mom?" he snuck up behind his wife and placed his hands on her hips to kiss her on the cheek, "Dad needs our help in the dining room," and just like that, his warmth was gone.

Quinn was always a gentleman, whether they were in a fight, or hadn't spoken to each other in days he would always greet her with kind words and treat her as if nothing was wrong between them. It was all one big mind-fuck. Although she was starting to believe that he had lost interest in her, he had made that very clear early into their marriage, she would always find things about him that she loved most about him and hold onto those feelings.

It wasn't like that in the beginning though, she didn't always feel the love slipping from between her fingers, it was intertwined in her soul, Quinn's love was her everything. He was gentle and kind, promising her the world. Reminiscing of the life that he had dreamt of with her, but with every seeming day it was as if that dream was washing away.

Y/N couldn't find it in herself to hate him. Even after the long nights of endless fighting, screaming until the only thing she could hear was her heartbeat in her temples. Opting to sleep in the spare bedroom because she couldn't look at him without feeling nauseated. Getting so close to just leaving, walking out the front door and never turning back. But after every heated fight he would come to her at the latest hours of the night and apologize, hot tears streaming down his face as he apologized for raising his voice at her, and she would do the same thing to him.

They were in a constant cycle of tearing each other into pieces and then trying to tape each other back together as if the emotional damage wasn't already in effect.

Dinner started at exactly six sharp, Quinn held Y/N's hand over the table, a small motion that hid their issues with a sweet facade.

"So Quinn, your team is really taking advantage of the playoff push, you guys are killing it" Mr Y/L/N stated, his voice raspy with old age. Quinn's face lit up at the mention of hockey, "The rebuild was really good for us, I'm just hoping to be able to contribute to the push" his wife smiled bitterly, and Ellen sat silently taking in the micro-aggressions that the couple sent each other. "He's so humble," the young woman's mom grinned at her daughter and the rest of the table "You're basically carrying the team love" she smiled sweetly as Quinn denied her claims.

Quinn squeezed Y/N's hand, making her look at him with furrowed brows, "I never got the chance to tell you that you look stunning, that dress is..." And there he was again, making soft comments that rid her of any anger or resentment she was holding against him. "Thank you, you look very handsome as well" she whispered as he leaned forward slightly to place a kiss on her bare shoulder.

The parents sitting around the table completely oblivious to suffering that was silent but present.

"So when are we expecting grandkids?" Ellen said with a grin missing the way that both you and Quinn went rigid in your seats.

There it was, the million-dollar question.

The woman smiled awkwardly and looked up at Quinn as he shrugged, "we're a little young don't you think?" he asked with an unamused expression as he watched his mom shake her head. "I would say twenty-five is a reasonable age" she shrugged and looked over to Y/L/N's mom who nodded in agreeement.

"I mean we are both busy people, and Quinn is always away for work" "You're blaming us not having kids on my lack of presence?" Quinn scoffed and took a sip of his beer. "That's not what I meant, Quinn" She took a deep breath and shook her head, "I just meant that we aren't ready, you've said it yourself it'll happen when the time is right!" she said defensively as she removed her hand from Quinn's and turned her body to face anyone else at the table other than him.

She picked her wine glass up and off the table to finish the remainder in her glass before heading to the kitchen to grab dinner from the oven, her mother-in-law following closely behind.

Ellen walked into the kitchen to see the girl leaning against the counter, her face hidden in her hands as she let the tears flow. "What did my son do now?" the older woman asked gently as she pulled her daughter in-law into her arms.

Ellen Hughes always knew how to fix a situation.

"It's not his fault," she didn't even know how to express their issue in words, sentences getting caught in her throat as she cried into her mother-in-law's arms. Ellen shook her head, "you can't carry all of that baggage sweetheart, let me try to diffuse it" she said dis-attaching herself from the young woman and grabbing a fresh bottle of Pinot Grigio from the wine fridge.

"I'm going to sound so selfish" she mumbled as she pulled the roast out from the oven, "but sometimes I just wish he would pick me, he would choose me over hockey and the team" Ellen's expression softened, "that's not selfish, you just want to be a priority, you already should be his priority," she said quietly pouring herself and her daughter-in-law a glass of wine.

"The same thing happened to Jim and I just after we moved to Toronto, he was so consumed with the Leafs and their development that I carried all of the weight of our family," she said softly, wiping away the girl's tears, "you're not selfish, I just think you need to knock some sense into my son" she smiled, "if you talk, he'll listen, it's one of his greatest attributes" she smiled and grabbed the roast from the counter before heading back into the dining room to serve dinner.

⭐︎⭐︎

Quinn stood behind Y/N in their shared closet, she held hair in her hands as he gracefully unzipped the back of her silk dress. An awkward look on his face as he tried to look anywhere but her almost naked silhouette, ignoring how the fabric pooled at her ankles and left her vulnerable.

"If I say something will you listen to me?" she asked quietly, turning around to see him in nothing but his sweatpants, a sad smile on his face, "I need you to hear me."

She watched as he nodded his head, getting slightly distracted from the way his back muscles flexed as he reached up and grabbed himself a new facecloth. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his face soft. A pair of black wire-framed reading glasses sat perfectly on his nose, his brown slightly out-grown hair messy from running his hands through it. He was so attractive, it almost made her angry how distracted she found herself.

"I want to fix this," he answered shortly with a frown, she slid on a pair of silk pyjama pants, remaining in her bra as he pulled her into his chest, "I love you."

"Do you really though?" she asked tiredly, forehead leaning against his chest as the exhaustion filled her voice. "Of course?" he pulled away, slight panic on his features as he heard the seriousness in her tone. "I feel so unimportant to you lately, I just want to feel like I mean something in your life, like the past six years of my life haven't been wasted on a man who prioritizes everything above me" she confessed.

Quinn opened his mouth to answer but was promptly silenced as she covered his mouth with her hand, "listen," she sighed, her hands now playing with the hair on the back of his neck as she made him look her in the eyes. "I don't think I could tell you the last time that I looked at you and truly felt like you still loved me, you spend all your time with the team, and I'm not mad about that, I'm so proud of all the work you're putting into your dreams," her voice cracked as tears welled in her eyes, "I just want you to make me feel seen, I feel like our dream of a life together is slowly withering away."

Quinn's brows furrowed "I don't underststand," his hands squeezed her torso lightly as he pulled away, "is this because I said I wasn't ready to have kids yet? Cause I know your'e ready, and it seems like everyone around us is ready, I'm just not there yet," a tone that resembled defensiveness laced his voice as he watched the girl wipe her eyes and shake her head. A dry laugh left the girls mouth as she sadly shook her head, "you're missing the whole point Quinn, it's not about wanting kids, I can't remember the last time we talked, or laughed together, or even the last time you genuinely touched me when it wasn't the outcome of a win and a night out with the boys!"

She watched a realization hit him, dawning on him just how much he had been taking her for granted, "I didn't- I don't know?" His face falling as he backed up against the dresser, "I don't know how to make it right" was all he said staring at his wife whose face was puffy and tear covered, wearing an old t-shirt of his and short as she hugged herself.

Y/N knew Quinn wasn't inherently bad, the look of realization on his face showing her that this absence wasn't because he was bored or that he was tired of her, he was lost.

She bent down onto her knees and kneeled in front of him, "I just need you to love me." "I do love you" he reached out and grabbed her hand, "I promise that I've never stopped loving, I never will." "You need to show me that, you need to make it right Quinn, cause I can't stay in a marriage where my husband doesn't acknowledge my existence, and I don't want a life with someone who only needs me around when he's feeling on top of the world" she whispered as she place a kiss to his knuckle.

"I want the good, the bad, and the ugly, and I want it all with you."

He reached forward and wrapped his arms around her to pull her into his frame, "I will make it right," he whispered as he sat her down on his lap, straddling him, his hands finding comfort on the soft flesh of her thighs. "I know you will" she mumbled, feeling like for the first time in a long time he was actually looking at her, actually listening to her every syllable.

His hand travelled up to her hip, nose bumping into hers as he eyed her bottom lip, "can I kiss you?" "Please," she said breathlessly as he swooped in and captured her lips on his, his hands kneading the skin of her thigh as her hands found his jaw line, holding him as close to her as humanly possible.

She pulled away first, her chest heaving, lips swollen as she looked at his hazy expression, "that was a good start," she grinned as he wrapped her body around him, getting up off of the ground and travelling into their room. "My apology hasn't even begun yet" he said smoothly, his lips making their way from her jaw down to her collarbone.

"You do have a lot of apologizing to do" she whispered into his neck as he laid her down on their bed. A small grin on his face as she innocently stared up at him, "don't worry, we have all the time in the world."

-

-

-

[plutonicmirror]

Zero Hour (1994) #0 [and Zero Hour in general]

Let’s continue my Zero Hour first reading. After skipping some filler tie-in issues, I reached the finale. Again, funny numbering gimmick with a 0 issue. I think Marvel also had something similar with their -1 issues back then. Oh, the 90s!

Hal Jordan Parallax reveals his master plan: “I’m gonna erase the universe so hard, I’m gonna create a new one where everything is right and everyone is happy™”. Classic case of a hero reacting to tragedy the readers are supposed to know about the Emerald Twilight story arc, but I’m LARPing as a snot-eating 10yo in 1994 who just started reading comics and doesn’t have enough attention span to know the lore with absurd amounts of cope and a plan that sounds extremely good on paper, but that other heroes must oppose because morality yadda yadda yadda. Looking at you, Injusticeverse.

Shout-out to my man Danger, a D-lister that was brought to the final fight fOr a ReAsOn. I’m gonna be honest, I skipped his tie-in because I couldn’t give a fuck about who he was. I usually like me some B/C/D/Z listers, but I also don’t give a fuck about DC’s Titans and his book was apparently tied to that whole mess so I was like “meh, next”. I mean, this young dude is a nobody right....?

*one trip to a comics wiki later*

Oh...

Ahem, moving on. The Spectre shows up looking for REVENGE after all of the JSA folks get ultra aged up or straight up deleted from existence, even though they had previously asked him for help and he was like “nah that’s human bullshit, I ain’t movin’ any finger”. Good job, asshole.

So yeah, remember our D-lister? Turns out his power (which is absorbing energy and making explosions) is specifically needed to counter Parallax’s new Big Bang. So our heroes’ plan is...to recreate the universe exactly as it was. So basically Parallax’s plan but done by them because fuck you Parallax, you don’t get to play God. Except...it doesn’t come out exactly as it was, because there’s “““subtle changes”““. In a meta way, this event was supposed to be a soft reboot to fix some of the fuckery that Crisis on Infinite Earths (a big event I haven’t read yet out of fear) caused. Was it accomplished? According to Comic Pop’s Back Issues video on this event... it kind of wasn’t. Sidenote, I highly recommend that channel’s Back Issues series, after reading an event it’s fun to watch a recap that adds background bits for the uncultured (like me) even if I sometimes feel the critique of the host is too harsh.

A not-Killing-Joke’d Batgirl from another timeline who temporarily sided with Parallax because she was doing her best “I want to be a real boy” Pinocchio impersonation got killed in the heat of the moment, so the other normal-powered hero in the room (Green Arrow) gets pissed at his former bestie. After this whole event he ragequits btw and apparently a common joke is that many readers think that should be the standard reaction to the whole thing.

Parallax is seemingly killed but it’s comics so he’ll be fine, trust the process. If I recall correctly, Hal gets to be the new Spectre for a while [*Vietnam flashbacks of Identity Crisis*]. I forgot to mention that the current Green Lantern of the time Kyle Rayner and Wally West were also “killed off”. Again, they’ll be fine. I just didn’t care enough to read a wiki and find out how they come back. But that bit brings us to this “oh yeah, that happened” moment:

Power Girl was pregnant and gave birth to a baby with the help of Wonder Woman who conveniently decided to play midwife instead of stepping up to the threath. Bue hey, guess who also was sort of born in the aftermath of this event? That’s right, I was! So surely that means that baby is a very important char-

Whoops, nevermind.

FINAL THOUGHTS ON THE WHOLE EVENT:

“7/10 it was alright” - IGN.

The contrarian in me doesn’t hate it like most nerds out there do, but it’s certainly not the greatest event ever written. Granted I went in without knowledge of a lot of stuff, like how was I supposed to make sense of what was happening in the Hawkman tie-in issue aka the whole “let’s try to solve the problem of having multiple origins for this character by literally merging them all into one” thing? How could I know what CoIE fuckery needed to be fixed if I don’t know the big impact of CoIE besides Supergirl being killed off (this fact is cultural osmosis at this point)? Did it matter to me in the long run? Not really, because it’s not like I feel compelled to keep reading DC continuity and make sense of it for the time being. The art was good, the colors were pretty, the Parallax suit was rad, the pose Ollie made at the end was Jojo-esque and dramatic, Batman fucking off from the final fight via being killed was good.

Now, the tie-ins. Some of them were fun, some of them were a drag to read because I had no idea of background info for most of them. Almost all of the Superman tie-ins were fun to read with the exception of Steel because I was tired of wiki-hunting when I reached his issue, shout out to the alternate Jor-El and Lara, the Alpha Centurion and the “Superman tries to save the Kents during the chronal rift” stories (Superman vol. 2 #93, Adventures of Superman #516, Action Comics #703 respectively). The Legion of Superheroes and adjacent issues were extremely confusing to me as a casual but oddly engaging. I had no idea what was happening but it was sort of fun. It revived my itch to read LoSH comics even if I’m still feeling overwhelmed at the mere thought of going further with that task. Oh yeah, the silent Green Arrow issue was a lot of fun! (Green Arrow vol. 2 #90).

The characters introduced were a mixed bag. On one hand we have Bart Allen aka Impulse, who was created in the prequel to this event and was sort of interesting. But then the chronal rift time erasure bullshit happens and since he’s from the 30th century he basically does nothing of importance... Alpha Centurion, as I mentioned, was a fun read in his Adventures issue but in the core event he was... a convenient minion. Thriumph? Thriump was an annoying character, one of those “oh yeah he was totally there in the beggining of the big team but the big name characters just don’t remember tee hee!”. Don’t worry though, he would later die of a cold. Or something like that. Extant felt edgy throughout most of the core issues and the tie-ins, he really had that Madara Uchiha endgame villain energy...until he was revealed to be just a pawn that was just rebelling. And then he fucks off. Shout-out to this specific goofy panel:

Tie-in issues skipped: Anima #7, Batman: Shadow of the Bat #31, Damage #6, Robin vol. 2 #10, Showcase ‘94 #10, Steel #8, Team Titans #24 (yeah, this team got erased from existence and I just couldn’t care), The Darkstars #24. Also skipped: all of the Zero Month aftermath gimmick #0/soft reboot issues.

New Year’s resolution when it comes to DC? I’ll get around reading the 70s Green Arrow and Green Lantern book. Ever since I found some academic paper on it that mentioned the words environmentalism and malthusian I was like “ok wtf I have to read this”.

Tytyty for reading my blog.

[wavebiders]

Y E A H

[ramblingguy54]

“Everything’s changed, since you came here...Being around you makes me do stupid things and I wish it didn’t!”

This moment really surprised me in showing not just Amity Blight’s vulnerability, but especially Luz’s emotional sensitivity, too. Amity has a lot on her plate, in terms of baggage, from many regretful acts growing up underneath the abusive environment of her parents. However, that isn’t to say Luz isn’t without any kind of grief either, considering this kid is going through quite a lot currently, as well. Luz isn’t sure when she’ll see her mother again, felt seriously guilty at first about Eda’s curse overtaking her at Season 1′s end,  and still doesn’t know how to exactly go about confessing the truth of her real whereabouts, which was the entire conflict of Grom Night’s plot surrounding Luz’s dramatic internal conflict. Luz’s greatest fear was her mother not understanding and being greatly hurt by her lying about summer camp, where she stayed in a more dangerous reality.

What seriously crushed me about this line of dialogue above from Amity is how she wishes Luz didn’t bring out this kind of inspiration to do super impulsive things from herself. This obviously isn’t so much a matter of Amity saying, “I hate you, Luz.”, rather I took it as Amity inflicting loathing sentiment upon her own self esteem. Amity has done a lot of things she’s not proud of whatsoever, which can definitely be seen through her treatment of Willow and how it was ripped to shreds by her parents demands for a great period of time, until Luz came along. Amity isn’t used to feeling so free to have a sense of self, let alone having some definition of happiness. Before Luz appeared, a good chunk of Amity’s life was ruled by manipulative, uncaring, and toxic parenting on how she should live. She was never allowed to have an actual carefree childhood, due to her being born a Blight getting saddled with unfairly high expectations of deemed “perfection”.

Luz is the complete polar opposite of how she has lived in contrast to Amity’s lifestyle. Luz wasn’t expected to become anything spectacular by any means necessary. Granted, her mother was gonna send her away to a summer camp as an attempt to try getting Luz’s more wackier nature under control, but to be fair it was also another way for her to try getting the kid to make actual friends. Regardless, my point is, Luz was able to live an all around normal life, whereas Amity had to immediately follow shallow standards set from the get go in a society full of unfair ideologies surrounding magical abilities. Amity meeting Luz, this kid who was so optimistic, endearing, and Hell bent on becoming a Witch, was such an alien concept to her, overall. Amity has been so used to living a life of obedience where, like her parents constantly beat into her mind, that a Blight must never show weakness to anyone on the Boiling Isles, so for awhile this was the mantra this kid followed at the expense of having genuine friends.

Every time Amity saw Luz in public it reminded her of the person she truly is buried underneath all the bullshit her parents threw onto her. A kid who simply wanted to become a Witch through hard work, determination, and have loving companionship, too. It’s why Amity was so terrified of Luz rejecting her in Grom Night because after everything that has happened she feels, “Do I deserve to be happy or loved? I’ve hurt people in the past and brutally cut off my best friend, Willow. Who would ever want to be with a person like me?”, which was plaguing her thinking throughout that entire day, until Luz helped pick her back up to take on the dark shape shifting blob of nightmares turned real.

“It’s okay I-I-I do stupid things around you too, Amity...”

There’s a lot of poetic truth to Luz’s statement here on her connection to Amity. After all, in Grom Night she willingly took on the ceremony upon herself in Amity’s place because she wanted to help her out that badly, despite having next to zero knowledge about how dangerous this tradition actually is in their world. Even after being filled in on the deadly details of how important it is to defeat the creature, Luz still didn’t waver in her determination to combat the nasty creature. Luz has unintentionally caused Amity so much trouble in the past, where she wanted to help with something very serious for a change because she knows there’s real compassionate kindness inside of her. Luz may have started to run away when her worst fears became manifested from the creature about her mother, but Amity rushing to help her out made them both inspired to defeat it together. It was the best way to explore their blossoming respect and love.

Luz did all that for Amity because she wanted to and not outta some obligation from an unfair code of Blight honor. Amity isn’t used to seeing someone go this far out of their way to help her this passionately, given she’s most likely accustomed to other peers at Hexside either fearing her, or outright being bitter about that ranking as a top student. Amity didn’t know what to make of Luz’s intentions for awhile in Season 1, due to this super self conscious behavior of conflicted inadequacy. She had a set path on her way to becoming a Witch suddenly interrupted by someone who reminded her of something Amity thought was out of reach, her happiness. While Amity felt so oddly happy about someone wanting to be there for her, it also tore the kid up inside emotionally because those regrets gnawed away at her. One could say Amity was “content” in living life of solitude away from those, like Willow, who actually care for her well being.

Luz, however, completely threw a wrench into those plans for Amity breaking her free of the mental shackles set by undermining parents. It drove Amity up a wall in the best and worst ways. On one hand, she’s deeply thankful for what Luz has helped her through in confronting bigger emotional issues, yet is still greatly confused on what it all means in the long run. Does she get a second shot at having real friends through her own decisions? Is she worthy of being loved? Is it not too late to change for the better at last? Can Amity live a life that isn’t ruled by her parents? Yes, of course she can. It just boggles Amity’s mind still that there’s someone who’s willing to go so far for her happiness this drudges up insecurities of guilt for past mistakes. Some part of Amity still thinks those moments define her, so to see Luz try to apologize wanting to make amends for the library incident in this episode’s story makes her feel, “Why are you apologizing to me? I’m not worth giving the time of day to, Luz.”. All of that gets undermined with an act of love by Luz to help get Amity her job back, by taking on deadly trials to accomplish this goal.

This moment between them carries so much layered weight.

[lucky-dreamfisher]

Queer Subtext in The Illusion of Living - Part 2/3

So, Joey met Sammy and this is what happened:

“Sammy Lawrence was one of my best decisions. Even though it was one I made two years after my original team had been put together. A man of great talent.” TIOL, page 182

“I stared at him in shock, and that was when the memories came flooding back. The ones of him playing the piano along with the movies. That was him. That was the same fellow I knew I knew him from somewhere! I knew my gut instinctively understood his genius.” TIOL, page 189

“I'd been so impressed by the quality of the music that I'd hardly noticed the film. I remember watching this young man's long skinny fingers rush across the keys with such confidence and speed. “ TIOL, page 182

Joey isn’t even watching the film, his focus is entirely on Sammy.

“And so, as you can see and as history clearly shows us, my greatest mistake turned into one of my greatest accomplishments. I'd never trade Sammy Lawrence for anything. His creativity is pure brilliance and he always chooses the best people. “ TIOL, page 194

Sammy though is extremely rude to Joey.

“Now that was a song," I said as Sammy walked over in my direction. He stopped to look at me in that way of his. Always suspicious, always looking for something more. “ TIOL, page 187

“Show me.” I nodded. "Of course, let's schedule a tour for some time this week," I said. It was reasonable of him to ask and I was a reasonable person happy to fulfill that request. "No," he said, inching toward me. "Now." "Now?" "Now." TIOL, page 190

"I want to see what this studio makes." He walked out of the room and I had to jog out after him. " TIOL, page 192

“Sammy didn't say anything, we didn't shake hands. He just stood up and left the room. " TIOL, page 193

Joey is understandably upset.

“Yes, he said it in that dismissive tone. I didn't understand why he needed to talk to me like that. I didn’t respect that. I was starting to doubt my own judgment. Did I really want to offer the opportunity of a lifetime to someone so extreme in their indifference? " TIOL, page 188

Yet it seems like the meaner Sammy is to him, the more determined he is to impress him somehow.

“I realized now that Sammy had been wise and I'd maybe been a bit of a fool. This definitely did not look impressive. " TIOL, page 192

“I had a sudden urge to give him a shove. Not push him over, but just to see his reaction. This might sound strange, but I needed to see a human moment from him, I needed to see the man he was hiding from me. " TIOL, page 188

That last line...

And now for the most interesting part.

“His musicians worship him, he's almost a god to them. "They respect me, that's all," Sammy once said when I told him that. "Who does a god worship?" I asked, still joking with him. (...)"A god of such magnitude hasn't been created yet." I laughed. "Well maybe someday." TIOL, page 194

And exactly 3 pages later

“Quite frankly, I was interested in being God. Ha, I know, a sacrilegious thing to say, but I know no other way of putting it. “ TIOL, page 197

He doesn’t mention his fantasies of becoming a God at any other point in the book, so the timing is... interesting. Almost like it’s directly linked to his deep internal need for receiving validation and respect from Sammy.

Despite all the awfulness coming from Sammy (which seems to be just his usual personality), there are some signs that Joey’s obvious crush may have been reciprocated.

“I always tried to get him to joke around more. It was always a bit strange to me that someone so serious could create such fantastic comic work. Sammy shook his head and sighed. But he indulged me a little and played along. It was a big effort for him to do so, so I was pleased.” TIOL, page 194

He plays along, even though it’s not something he particularly enjoys, because it’s something that makes Joey happy.

There are more signs in the other canon sources, such as the Handbook, where Sammy defends Joey’s bullshit in the newspaper:

Or the game, where he mentions visiting Joey’s “Sanctuary”

It’s worth pointing out that “artistic” used to be a codename for gay people back in the 30s, and that Sammy had long hair, which was another typical sign of homosexuality. Though I doubt this was the original intent behind these details, its still a fun thing to note.

(From “Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World, 1890-1940″ By George Chauncey.)

It seems that other people also took note of Sammy’s unusual loyalty towards Joey.

“I wouldn't say I was lucky to get him as part of my team, nor that I'm lucky he's stayed with me all these years, though I've been told that in the past and I happily say, "Darn right I am!" when people do say it. But, as I always say, luck had nothing to do with it.” TIOL, page 181

Jack seems to notice the closeness between them as well:

"Well this is a fun memory lane to travel down, but since I'm not a part of this journey, I'd like to bring us back to the present and include me again," said Jack. I glanced at him and saw a weary expression flit across his face before the brightness returned. It was the first inkling I had that there might be a bit of a strain between the two. ” TIOL, page 189

As for why Sammy sticks by him, Joey says this:

“It was my research, my ability to understand and appreciate true talent, and of course, my vision that inspired others to want to work for me. After all, I can't make anyone do anything, even as a boss; they have to want to.“ TIOL, page 182

This isn’t entirely true, as Joey could and did make people do things they didn’t want to, but it seems like Sammy was allowed significantly more power in the studio than anyone else.

“Finally Sammy spoke again. "I want full creative control over my department. I want to hire my own people. And if the money isn't good, I'm not signing the contract." "Done and done," I replied. ” TIOL, page 193

“I never visit Music, as Sammy and I agreed that I would only come by if we had scheduled a visit. Some creative people are just that stubborn and need their privacy. ” TIOL, page 227

Finally, there’s this little detail, from Joey’s daily schedule:

“9:00 a.m.:The first of my daily meetings.This one is with Sammy. The man is punctual and brief. We always schedule a full fifteen minutes and he rarely takes more than five. Jack joins at 9:15 a.m., there is a brief crossover and then he usually stays for a cup of coffee and a chat.” TIOL, page 225

Sammy wraps up business discussion in 5 minutes, but Joey always schedules 15, and the next line strongly implies that Sammy is still in the room at the time when Jack joins them at 9:15. If Joey and Sammy aren’t discussing business, what are they doing for the remaining 10 minutes?

I’ll leave this to your imagination ;)

[tuffduff]

#1 Fan (Axl Rose x Reader)

Pairing: Axl Rose x Reader

Words: 2,043

Request: @normatural “Hii, hope you’re doing fine! Could you write some Axl (current or 80’s) x reader, where she’s a famous young (20s) actress and they go to a talk show/interview together? It’s okay if you don’t feel like writing :)) Thank you xx”

A/N: Hello, love! I went with 80s Axl for this one, and lemme tell ya, I LOVE this request so much. I love ideas like these, thank you for requesting! Happy Friday loves! <3

Taglist: @ubernoxa @the--blackdahlia​ @reigns420​ @stradlin-cold-heartbreaker​ @rumoured-whispers​ @dustnbones​

“Critics have already been calling The Winter Trials your breakout film. This is also your first action movie. What was it like filming and working as a lead role opposing Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

For you, doing media to promote your movies was one of your favorite parts of the job. That is, when you got to actually engage in intellectual talk rather than just details of your diet. But this late-night talk show appearance had you more nervous than most.

“It was an awesome experience. Getting into acting, I’ve never wanted to do only one genre, I’ve always wanted to do different types of work. He’s an absolute workhorse and a true professional, which is such a privilege to be around because your company really elevates your own mindset. And he’s so kind! He really helped bring out the best in me.” The talk show host nodded at your words.

“Well, I know I can’t wait to see it and I’m sure the rest of the world feels the same; you’ve really been working hard the past few years to make a name for yourself. Do you have time for anything else? Do you watch MTV?” You laughed despite feeling your stomach drop; you had a feeling this was a segue point.

“Oh, absolutely. Yeah, I love MTV.” You shifted nervously on the small loveseat you were seated on.

“Have you heard of Guns N’ Roses?” The crowd cheered, mainly the women. You pressed a smile on your lips, hoping the camera couldn’t see you sweating.

“Yeah, of course.” You replied evenly. On the inside, you were screaming. You were a huge fan of Guns N’ Roses. When Appetite for Destruction came out, it was the only thing you listened to for months straight. And if there were any other guest appearing on the show with you, you would probably be gushing over that fact.

But your fellow guest star was in fact Axl Rose, and you couldn’t lose your cool. You were actually certain he probably had no idea who you were. He probably didn’t care.

He had a bad boy reputation, known to fly into a frenzy at a moment’s notice. You were America’s current sweetheart.

Ever since you found out you would be appearing on the show with Axl Rose, the only thing you could think about was his reaction to you. He probably thought you were boring, uptight, and some actress snob. He was probably disappointed it wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“What do you think of them?” The host asked.

“I think they’re very talented.” The crowd clapped in agreement and you took a breath before you added, “I think their album actually is the greatest debut album of all time. Of any genre.” The crowd cheered louder in agreement and the host’s eyes went wide.

“Wow. Are you just saying that because of our other guest this evening?” You laughed a little and shook your head.

“No! I’m being honest. I don’t ever get asked about my music opinions.” You admitted. If Axl held a certain disdain for you, or no opinion at all, it couldn’t hurt to put your honest feelings out in the open. Right?

“Well, alright then—let’s talk music! Don’t go away, up next we’ve got Axl Rose joining us!” The crowd cheered and clapped in anticipation. You smiled and clapped with the audience, knowing Axl himself was in the back waiting to come out.

Sooner than you expected, the show came back and the girls in the front row were screaming exceptionally loud as Axl walked out. He was instantly an intimidating sight in his leather chaps over his blue jeans, thick studded snakeskin belt paired with an LA club tank top and black leather vest. You swallowed nervously as you clapped, realizing the loveseat you were sitting on would barely provide enough space for the two of you. You saw the host stand to greet him with a handshake and scrambled up to your feet, remembering etiquette. Oh god, were your hands clammy? Was your top wrinkled from where you were sitting? You didn’t even have time to think because as soon as he shook the host’s hand, he was turning to you.

There was something immediately disarming about him. You’d seen the magazine covers and music videos of a rough and tough arms-crossed-and-covered-in-tattoos man, but now, here, he didn’t even look like the same person. He was smiling pleasantly at you and his face was incredibly clear. Smooth and frustratingly beautiful, like a sculpted Greek statue. His hair wasn’t ratty and teased and sprayed in Aqua Net like other rock stars. Instead, it rested against his shoulders neatly, shining a delicate strawberry blonde in the studio’s lighting. Even his handshake as he grabbed yours in his was gentle. You weren’t expecting him to lean forward and kiss your cheek.

“How are you?” You heard him ask next to your ear. It wasn’t small talk other famous people made for appearances, he genuinely pulled back and waited for your answer.

“Good.” You were able to murmur in reply. You could smell his cologne and almost felt your knees weaken.

“W. Axl Rose! Guns N’ Roses!” You heard the host say and you were suddenly reminded this was an interview. You sat back down again and Axl followed your lead. Your legs instantly brushed, and you wondered if you should’ve tried to scoot over, but decided to stay frozen, waiting for him to be the one to move. He didn’t. His leg stayed against yours, brushing yours with his every time he moved ever so slightly. “How are you? How’s the band?”

“Good. We’re really good. We just got done touring for our last album. We’re all taking a short break and getting everything in order before we head back to the studio and start working on the next album.”

“Right, yes. I’m sure everyone’s heard it, Appetite for Destruction?” The host checked with the crowd who cheered and clapped in response. The host turned to you, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “We all know Y/N has.” You could feel your cheeks heating up and you looked down at your lap, unable to even look at the man next to you, though you were pretty sure you heard him laugh. You were eating your words now. “But what I found interesting is, in the beginning, MTV wouldn’t even play your videos. The album didn’t even get notoriety until a whole year later, which doesn’t happen. How did that make you guys feel, Axl?”

“Uh, I mean, it’s kind of disheartening. When you put so much work into something and everything is against you, it only makes you want something more. We had to claw our way to where we are now.” You listened carefully to his words, surprised by how well-spoken and articulate his response was. And his voice, smooth and deep, so different than the earth-shaking screams he could produce. “But, in the end I guess it all worked out. If Y/N thinks we’re good, then we’ve really accomplished something great.” You looked up quickly at the sound of your name. The host and crowd laughed, and at first you assumed Axl was being sarcastic until you saw the smile on his face. One of earnest, with his eyes lighting up a little when you finally met his. You smiled back at him, laughing a little as you relaxed.

“Are you surprised Y/N listens to your band?” The host asked.

“Oh, yeah. It’s a real trip—I almost lost my mind back there while I was listening and waiting to come out because,” Axl shifted in his seat, facing you with his body. Somehow, he managed to appear bold and yet bashful at the same time. “I’m a really big fan of yours. I almost considered canceling this appearance because I was so nervous.” The host and crowd were delighted at his revelation, but you could only sit there with your mouth open.

“…Me? You were nervous to meet me?” You managed to get out. There was no way you could hide the blush on your face now.

“Yeah. I’ve been a fan of yours ever since Don’t You Remember?” You blinked a few times in amazement. That movie had been filmed years ago, when you were barely breaking into the film world. It was a romantic and sentimental 1800s period piece.

“No one’s seen that.” You laughed in amazement, making the crowd laugh too. Axl only smiled sincerely at you, and all of a sudden you felt like a giddy teenager again.

“I have. I liked the title and the cover when I saw it in the rental store. I don’t really watch movies, but I watch all of yours. I go back to that one all the time.” You were speechless. “Yeah, I think you’re incredibly talented. I’d really love it if you starred in one of our music videos someday.” The crowd cheered in agreement.

“I would love that!” You couldn’t help but blurt out. “So much. I’ve never done a music video, but I would love to do one with you guys.”

The rest of the interview went pretty smooth, with Axl shedding a little light on some of the song’s inspirations, what Guns N’ Roses hoped to accomplish in the future, and upcoming tentative tour dates. But it was when you were both backstage together again that you felt the most nervous, just the two of you.

“You know, I meant everything out there. I wasn’t bullshitting you for TV or something.” He told you. Without the noise of the crowd or studio, the deepness of his voice struck you even more.

“I meant it too. I had no idea you were gonna be so…” you struggled to find the right word. Charming. Interesting. Insightful. “…not scary.” You finished lamely. He laughed warmly, but you noticed he stepped closer.

“Did I scare you before?”

“I…didn’t think you even knew who I was,” you admitted. “I mean, your band has this reputation, and I get it. More than you probably know. The media likes to twist you around and paint you a certain way. But I can see there’s a lot more to you than what everyone else thinks they know.” He listened intently every time you spoke, and now, his eyes continued to search yours for a long moment after you were done speaking.

“I think all the hype about you is true. And you’re more beautiful in person.” You were a nervous mess, practically giggling like a school girl at his compliment. “…But I agree with you. And I want to know the things about you no one else knows.”

That was it; you gave Axl your personal number and he called you that next night. The magazines, radio, and TV had a field day with your interview segment and rumors ran rampant of the two of you crushing on each other. The world was obsessed with the idea of the two of you together. Polar opposites—the rebellious rock star and the polished starlet.

There was a mad frenzy the first time you two met for dinner, with pictures in the magazines and tabloids for weeks after. You and Axl then agreed to have secret rendezvous in disguises at odd times of the day and night, the two of you sneaking around and going off to hole in the wall restaurants far from the prying eyes of Hollywood.

As time went on, you kept your relationship very private, though neither of you failed to mention the other in interviews or speeches. You went to each other’s award shows, movie premieres, and concerts. You became the “Guns N’ Roses” girl, appearing in every single video afterwards on starting with “Don’t Cry.” Axl even wrote a song for one of your movies. The both of you were obsessed with each other, always one another’s biggest fan, always celebrating every accomplishment together. Out of any accolade you could attain regarding your professional career, nothing could ever top the true happiness of a partner who loved, cherished, and respected the blood, sweat, and tears you put into your craft. And with Axl, you had that, as he did with you.

[aeondeug]

What exactly was Tau’s brilliant plan? Not sure beyond a vague idea. Why did Baru agree to it? Because she’s stupid. Here’s my second completed poem for the month! A thing that happens in some sort of vague time period after Tyrant. I hope it’s enjoyed: Go into the desert, Tau said. It’ll be fine, they said. “You carry my place in trim And with it all the threads that Connect me and the world, Baru. Trim will carry you through and Prove itself true, then you with it.” What a crock of shit. Right now all trim had proved Was that she’d die here, Stomping through the sands, utterly lost, For having stupidly thought That maybe, just maybe, Trim was real and right and true And that the path to victory lay here In a series of connections forged Through happenstance that was not happenstance. Yet it had seemed that way That day before she stepped out Into the Oriati dunes With hardly any food or water. It had seemed that way When Tau looked at her Their eyes a fierce flame That could convince the firmest scientist that There was more to the world than numbers. Hadn’t circumstance and connection saved her after all? Yes. They had, the both of them, But only because of coincidence. Anything looked like a sign If you let yourself get caught up in it. And let herself get caught she had, So now she was going to die here With sand in her eyes and her boots And everywhere else between. Farrier would frown at her Saying that he was disappointed For hadn’t he taught her better? Baru cocked a grin at that Before laughing loudly, Proud to have failed him once more. Then she tripped. Over a rock or her own two feet, Whatever the case, She fell face first into the sand Landing with a soft thump. Fuck. Laying there, Warm sand against her face, Baru tallied up her water once more And found it’d last half a day If she was lucky. The growl of her stomach reminded her, That the food wouldn’t last that Because it’d been fucking lost At least seven days back. Growling, scowling, she sat up Trying to put away the thought That a human could last twenty-one days maybe If they were lucky and fit, And without a hint of food. But if you weren’t so lucky or so fit? You had a paltry eight days at best. Yawa warned her of that. She fought with Tau over it, Saying that Baru was epileptic, That a lack of food might cause a fit, And then where would she be? “Eaten or starving in a fucking desert! That’s what you want to happen, Tau-Indi? You want the Empress to die in the desert?” Baru couldn’t tell then If it was concern for her home Or genuine love for her Which drove Yawa to such a fury. She liked to think it was the latter. She wanted to pretend as much. And pretend she did As she got to her feet again And started walking once more Looking for some sign that trim Would bring all of Oriati Mbo To a belief in her just as fierce As that held for Tau-Indi. She filled their place, after all, So why couldn’t she fill them With feelings just like Tau did? Nothing filled Baru though. Hunger gnawed at her. Day in, day out, At every hour and every minute, The pain hung there A persistent reminder That she was so mortal And with so little time left. Worse than that pain Was the weakness that came with. Her arms felt half present, Her legs only half worked. She was sure she walked in circles And a part of her couldn’t care Because she lost track of the world And of her thoughts right with. As she looked to the clouds, Hoping in vain for a sign Of where to walk next, She called out to Hu once more Asking for her help in this act. Hu said nothing back. Not that she ever had, Save when Baru was seizing. But what then was her tie to Hu If not some thread of trim That led her to more threads still? And what was Hu herself If not the greatest haunter in Aurdwynn? Tain Hu wouldn’t have woken up To find her pack torn apart And her food missing. Even if she had it’d be easy for Hu To find something somewhere to catch. These weren’t woods and she had no bow, But Hu would manage because she was Hu. Brilliant, strong, stubborn. So good at living she only ever died Because she permitted the sea take her. Baru was not Hu. Hu had left Saying it was best That she learn to live A life without her. That it was best To find another, to love another, Which had seemed bullshit then And seemed even more so now With Baru dying Having accomplished fuck all. She needed help. Help had gone. She tripped again. Tears had come. From the sand, from the want. “Why did you leave, Hu? You said you’d be with me No matter what happened, And now I’m going to starve In some Himu fucked desert!” Baru beat her fist into the sand, Knowing it sapped just more strength From her already weary limbs. She couldn’t quite care though Because she was alone and scared and doomed, And all because Tau said it’d be fine And because her wife had said it was fine And neither of those things were true Because here she was dying. Shit. Fuck. Dammit. She sat up, Wiped her eyes Then swore when sand got in them, And swore some more when her stomach growled. Why hadn’t she listened to Yawa? Why hadn’t Iscend stopped her? Iscend had been there that night Standing off and to the side, Enigmatic smile on her face. She said nothing, merely watched, Until the details were settled on For gaining the trust of Oriati Mbo. Then she left to pack Baru’s bag With only a few words of concern. Why hadn't Iscend pushed further, Asking her to stop this fool venture? That was a stupid question. The Clarified was deprogramming herself, That much was true, But she still took to Baru’s words As though they were sacrosanct. Why would she stand up and say, With power and force, “Your majesty, I think this is stupid, And you should stay right here While you think of some other scheme That won’t leave you dead in the dunes,”? She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. And now Baru missed her too. Her lithe limbs, her blonde hair. Her coy smile, her cruel words. She’d tried to lobotomize Baru once. Iscend said as much one night Over a glass of wine That was kept at just one, And Baru found that horrifying But not shocking. What was shocking Was that she laughed at it, And said that her good looks saved her. Which Iscend cocked a brow at, Pointing out once more What Baru had said that night In the river waters. No. They can’t do this. No. She didn’t want this. Baru wanted it now though As she staggered to her feet, Almost falling right back down Into a bed of dust and death. She wanted it now though Her want was probably a waste As she marched on to die, Her queenly work left undone. At least if Baru had to die, She’d die horny and stupid, Forever Farrier’s failure. Wydd, she didn’t want to though. There was so much to see, to do. There was a whole world waiting To be broken free of Falcrest. There were women and drinks And a little home on Taranoke Filled with wives and a gull, And one of those was Iscend Who walked towards her now, Head crowned with light Both blue and white, A savior in the dunes. At least her last seizure would be a nice one. --- She woke with a headache In a tent that was blissfully dark Her hunger even worse than before. She never thought she’d be so grateful For the want of food. Alive. Against all odds, Baru was alive. Thank Himu. Her head ached though, And all the more at the sound Of voices speaking a language Which she didn’t know, And another that spoke A language she did know. What they said she couldn’t make sense of. She couldn’t make sense of much now, Save that her lip was swollen. Likely bitten while she shook, Helpless and left to the elements: To trim. This was trim, right? It felt like it As she felt the world too clearly Yet too opaquely, Dragged down into a ball Of pain of all sorts. It was trim, She was certain, Because someone said as much Before thanking a falca girl In accented Aphalone. It had to be trim, She knew it, Because a familiar voice said That she’d come looking for a friend And found new ones besides To help for their help in return. Iscend. She couldn’t say it. Not with her parched tongue Or with her fat lip Or with her epileptic brain That tried to sort the world And all the sounds mouths could make From the static of too much, too fast. She couldn’t say it, But she could say “Send”. The empress of the world And breaker of all empire Mewled out to a Clarified Not in demand or dominance, But for want of connection. The flap opened And the light burned, But Baru looked up regardless Desperate to see her. Iscend Who held in her hand a bowl And held in her throat words That slipped by Baru Only half comprehended. Comprehended in full was the warmth Of a woman sitting next to her. Comprehended in part was knowing Her joy came from it being this one. Baru said something stupid And barely articulate About how Hu had told her That it was best she leave So that Baru would find others To cling to and love and get to know. Iscend just laughed, Before saying something about scientism And Baru’s...what? She lost that bit. She didn’t lose the next bit though: “I thought this wasn’t allowed.” It wasn’t. “Or did you just not want it?” It wasn’t that. “You’re not a very good liar.” Now that was just wrong. “At least where it concerns women.” Baru began to protest But her throat ached And her words caught. “Are you going to order me away?” Iscend asked, looking at her. “No,” Baru managed, lying there. The bowl was set aside. The hunger called again. They looked at one another, Baru wondering just what ran Through that mind looking back. How did she think? Baru knew how, the facts of it. But what was it like To run through thoughts that sought Only to serve the Republic Or whatever replaced it? Was there will? Her attempt to complain Was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. Surely there was will in that, Iscend would insist. And that will came in words: “Gaios, nurse her.” Next, that will came in hands Lifting Baru up into warm thighs And with will came trim, In the form of warm broth Spooned to her gently. Maybe they were right, When it came to matters such as these. Maybe she could reach out, For life giving broth and more. She wanted to pretend as much.

[with-love-anu]

Not meant to be (2)

PAIRING: Sirius Black x Reader

Series Masterlist

You got up the next morning with a bright mood. Dressing up, you put your hair in a ponytail and left for the great hall. You knew what you had to do today. You’d talk to Sirius. Sebastian was right, he couldn’t be that bad. You remembered not wanting to judge anyone based on rumors. You got to the Ravenclaw table and sat beside your friends, serving yourself some food. You kept sneaking glances towards the Gryffindor table, not really joining in the conversation about the test that day. You finished with your breakfast and finally saw Sirius come in. You felt your heart do a little jump. Getting up slowly you moved towards him and tapped him on the shoulder lightly. He looked at you and you gave him a small smile.

“Sirius, can I talk to you for a minute?” you asked and he nodded as you both moved outside.

“So…” you started, looking at him expectantly.

“So?”                                            

“Okay, I know it’s a bit of a shock for us both, but I was thinking of not forcing ourselves into anything. What about we get to know each other a little bit? Be friends first?”

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” he said. You blinked.

“That I’m your soulmate.” You said looking at him for his reaction. His face remained stoic.

“Listen, I think you have a misunderstanding, I am not your soulmate. I don’t have one.” He said and your gaze immediately shifted to his hand seeing the leather bracelet he wore. Your heart thumped and you squeezed your eyes shut. No, this couldn’t be happening.

“Okay, if you were to remove that, are you sure I won’t see a star tattooed?” you whispered and his eyes widened a bit.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go see Dave, he’s expecting me.”

“So you’re just gonna pretend I don’t exist? That what I- we, felt yesterday was nothing?” you demanded and he huffed.

“I’m not pretending about anything.” He said pointedly going back into the hall. Tears fell down your cheeks and furiously rubbed them away. Not here, not now. Your legs felt too heavy for you to carry yet you walked around aimlessly. You should have known, a small voice in your brain said. He was Sirius Black; of course he wouldn’t accept you as his soulmate. It was like your heart was clawing you from inside. You were wishing for something you never had. You wanted to scream and cry, but somehow you couldn’t. Why you? Why were you supposed to be meant for someone who would never acknowledge you? Why was it you who would never find your other half?

You went into the girl’s washroom and locked yourself in the cubicle. You uttered a few silencing spells and finally cried. You looked at your wrist, and scratched and rubbed at the star furiously wanting it to just fade, wanting never to see it again. No, you could not accept this. You whimpered stroking the side of your arms.

You wiped away all the tears and got out of the stall. You washed your face and performed some spells to cover the red eyes. You looked at the star again which was a deep blue right then and performed some illusionment charms. It was like it never existed. Good, because you didn’t want it too. Taking a last look at yourself, you rushed to the transfiguration class.

***

“Professor, may I come in? I’m really very sorry for being late it won’t happen again.” You said as everyone looked at you.

“You’re 15 minutes late, (Y/n)” she said and finally looked up at you. You saw something cross her face. “I take your word for it and hope you don’t repeat it again. Come and take your test, I won’t be providing any extra time.”

You nodded and took the test from her, sitting in the chair nearest to you. Your head still thumped and you took some big gulps of water. No, you wouldn’t let someone who you barely knew destroy your grades or your life. You took out your quill and started scribbling everything you knew about turning a cup into a tortoise. You did not know how time passed. You looked at the clock when you finished your paper. 5 minutes to go. You revised it one last time and stood up to present it to McGonagall. She frowned slightly and her eyes skimmed through the parchment.

“Well done, (Y/n). You are one hard worker. I have very high expectations for your future; I hope to see you accomplish them.” She said. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t smile right then. Your eyes started watering again and you didn’t know why. Nodding tightly, you turned and left the class not noticing Sirius’s eyes follow you, specifically your wrist.

***

Sirius’s heart thumped in his chest, his stomach was all knotted up. Wasn’t he the one who said that she wasn’t his soulmate? Then why did it hurt so much seeing her bare wrist? He got what he wanted. No soulmate for him to worry about. It felt so wrong. His mind had been booming since he left her in the hallway. He couldn’t concentrate on his test. He kept sneaking glances at the classroom door wanting to see you. And yet, seeing you finally didn’t make him feel better. He shifted his bracelet a little to look at the star. Dark blue. He did that, he made you feel like that.

“Mr. Black!” his head snapped at his head of house who was scowling at him. “Your answer sheet, please.”

He gave her the sheet quietly and got up taking his bag. He joined his friends who were excitedly talking about the test. Somehow, none of that could dull the turmoil he was going through. James saw Lily and jogged to catch up with her. Remus walked alongside him.

“So, (Y/n)’s your soulmate, huh?” he asked and Sirius’s head whipped towards him. He opened his mouth to reply but the former just shut him.

“You don’t have to lie to me. I understand Sirius, if you don’t want to let anyone into your life, but she’s your soulmate, your greatest strength and most terrible weakness. And don’t feed me with your ‘I don’t have a soulmate bullshit.’ It’s time you accept it. If you let her go Pads, you’ll regret it. Very badly.” Remus said as Sirius’s eyes gleamed.

“And (Y/n) is one headstrong girl; I’ve talked to her so many times. She’s focused on her dreams; she would not wait for you if you let her go. She’ll find someone to be happy with. How would that make you feel?”

Sirius gulped.

“Exactly, Moony. Why would she wait for someone like me?”

***

Days passed after that. Neither of you made an attempt to see or talk to each other. You were glad to have a friend like Sebastian. He cheered you up like no other. The sting was there, of course it was. You saw Sirius every day. It was like you were invisible to him. It made your stomach twist up. It made you want to burn everything around you. You were reminded time and time again that he would never be with you.

Sirius kept sneaking glances at you. His gaze always shifted to you whenever you entered the room. How could it not? Sirius saw the smile you always gave to your close friends how you laughed with them. He would never admit it, but he would give up anything to make you look at him like that. And his heart constricted every time because now, there seemed to be no way you could ever talk to him again. He pushed you away. You weren’t even asking for much, just wanted to be friends and he replied in the meanest way possible. He took off his bracelet at night, seeing the colours float through the star. He smiled a little when it turned a bright yellow sighing that you were happy again.

***

It was the Charms class. Professor Flitwick was late and you sighed, sitting down near Sebastian. He turned to you excitedly.

“So, I heard that someone was singing in the shower today?” he said wriggling his eyebrows and you playfully punched his shoulder grinning.

“I’ll have you know that I am an excellent singer, shower or not.” You said and he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, my earflaps just open up when you sing.” He said sarcastically and you giggled.

“Alright, fine. I know I can’t sing.” You said shrugging. Sebastian gasped.

“How dare you insult the excellent voice you have?” he said with widened eyes and you laughed.

Sirius saw you and the other boy; he’d come to learn was one of your closest friends, giggle and laugh with each other. If he thought he couldn’t feel worse, he was so wrong. He was so far from you. He gulped, averting his eyes as he saw James notice him.

The professor entered the class mumbling apologies. He stood up on the little stool placed at the center of the class.

“Okay children! For the next assignment, you all will work in groups. And no, they will be pre-assigned.” He added as the class groaned.

You sighed as Sebastian went towards Lily and Grace.

“(Y/n) (Y/l/n), Remus Lupin and Sirius Black.” He said and your eyes widened. It was already difficult pretending that Sirius ignoring you didn’t affect you. Now you were his project partner too? How were you even to look at him without letting your face say all the words you’d been hiding?

Sirius’s eyes sparkled as soon as the professor took his name with yours. Maybe this was his chance to get closer to you. But then he saw your face fall and his heart crushed. Did he repel you so much?

He saw as your eyes flicked over the class room to where he and his friends were sitting. You slowly moved and sat beside Remus giving them both a tight nod. Sirius gulped, looking straight ahead.

The rest of the lesson you spent noting down the details of the project. As the lesson ended, you sucked in a breath and turned towards the boys. You couldn’t avoid them forever.

“I think the first topic seemed to be the easiest to research upon. I’ve seen various books in the library on the very same. What do you guys think?”

“Well, it works for me.” Remus said smiling at you. Your eyes flicked over to Sirius as your heart skipped a beat. It had been so long since you saw him this close. Sirius nodded.

“Yeah, seems good.” He added.

“So I am free on Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. What about you?”

“Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays” Sirius answered.

“Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Saturdays” Remus said.

“So, Wednesday’s and Saturday’s evening at around 4?” you asked hopefully.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“See you then!” you said giving them a small smile and forced yourself not look any longer at Sirius, who watched you with such a soft expression or you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep the feelings in.

A/N: My deerest peeps, I would love to know what you think. Written for Riley’s ( @wreckofawriter ) Cliche Month’s Challenge. Feedback is very much appreciated as it is like my coffee, energises me ;)

[orionsangel86]

Hey Everyone,

As you have probably noticed, I have neglected this blog for a long time now. I haven’t been on any fandom related social media at all actually. But I figured since I am currently in a good mindset, I want to write a post just outlining some things which basically boils down to a goodbye letter to Supernatural fandom.

Long rambling post below the cut...

This year (and the last) has just taken it out of me in terms of general negativity online both in fandom and in the real world. At first I got tired of fandom (mostly because Twitter is a cesspool of policing and bullying) and then I got tired of everything else (the world sucks right now, and my mental health basically stopped me from being able to participate in any form of online activism – just because I’m not blogging about something, doesn’t mean I don’t support the cause ya know?). Earlier this year, right around the time of the UK lockdowns, I had surgery and a recovery period in which I spent a lot of time with family, and just reacquainted myself with the real world. I think perhaps the coronavirus pandemic made me realise that long before lockdown began I had already been isolating myself from my real life and diving further and further into an online black hole.

It was years in the making. Supernatural fandom preoccupied my thoughts for such a long period of time it got to the point where every moment of my non working time seemed to be spent either online scrolling my tumblr dash or twitter feed, or reading fanfic or doing something fandom related. I invested so much of myself into this show and fandom that I think I forgot who I was before I was a Supernatural fan completely.

After my wake up call in late 2019, which lead me to break free from an extremely nasty clique, I have tried to re-enter fandom on my own terms, as well as attempt to enjoy the source material and the fandom creations to ignite some new spark of love and interest in the show. Yet as much as I have tried, I have failed to do so.

I was thinking recently about someone I used to follow years ago before I ever created a blog. When I was still just lurking in the tumblr shadows and followed the likes of Mittens, Lizbob, and other meta writers of the period, there was a blogger whose name I can’t remember but she was the funniest blogger I had come across. But when the show killed off Charlie Bradbury, she quit. I had never even interacted with her, as I was barely getting my blog started at the time, but I’ll never forget a post she wrote about her feelings on the show. She had recently started watching something else (I think it was Sense8 but can’t recall entirely), and that this new show had given her everything she had never thought she could have from her fave before. She wrote about how her relationship with Supernatural had become abusive. That for years the writers of Supernatural continued to throw punches at fans like her – women, LGBTQ+ people, people of colour, and yet she continued to give it all her time and attention, brushing off the punches because she was so damn devoted to the characters. Then this new show had come along, and it was like she had seen the light. The killing of Charlie Bradbury was the last straw, and she dumped Supernatural’s ass and fled into the arms of her new love.

I hope she is doing fantastically today.

What she wrote has resonated with me for years. I was a fairly new Supernatural fan at the time, and therefore didn’t really understand what she meant. A TV show can’t be abusive. Can it?

Of course, we are speaking in metaphor here, and in no way are these metaphors meant to reduce or limit the truly serious situation of actual abusive relationships, but every now and then, when a new episode of Supernatural has left me feeling upset, disappointed, frustrated and grossly let down, in some cases affecting my mood for days at a time, and therefore my mental health. I have thought back to those words she wrote and quietly agreed with them in my head. Yes. This is a metaphorically abusive relationship.

When I discovered earlier this year that Castiel was most likely going to be killed off in some sort of bullshit self sacrifice before the end of the show, I was extremely distressed. When I found out that my favourite person of all time Misha Collins, supported this ending for Castiel, and may have even been the one who pushed for it, I was more than distressed, I felt betrayed by the person I cared about most. I’ll admit to you all now that in my weakest moments I have fantasized about standing in front of Misha and screaming at him exactly just what kind of affect his “ideal ending” for Castiel will have on his fanbase, on their mental health, and potentially their own safety. This fantasy has me guilt tripping him and doing everything in my power to make him feel utterly shit about the decision. I know what you are thinking – don’t blame Misha, the guy has his own problems and we all know he projects his own self esteem issues onto Cas – and yes, I know this, like I said its only a fantasy to get me through my darkest moments. I don’t hate Misha at all. But perhaps I do love him a little less nowadays than I did back at the height of my fandom life. That’s at least still a little bit more than my feelings for Jensen and Jared which now I can only describe as complete indifference.

I am admitting all of this now knowing full well it will ignite shock and anger among the more die hard fans of J2M, to explain why I need to just leave this fandom completely, or more accurately, why I have already left fandom.

Over the past 10 months of 2020, I have watched a lot of TV (there isn’t much else to do during a lockdown when you are on crutches with your foot in a cast!) and the one thought that occurred to me over and over again was “this show is so much better than Supernatural”.

I kept comparing everything I watched, from the quality of the scripts, the actors, the special effects, to the inclusiveness of the shows. Just so many beautiful and interesting stories that seem to understand their audience, and understand how to entertain and impress without resorting to cringe humour, outdated jokes, and prejudice, not to mention misogyny and queerbaiting – yup, I said it.

The thing is, I think these thoughts have been creeping over me slowly for longer than just this year, but I have been desperately batting them away the way Dean Winchester bats away his own gay thoughts. Unlike Dean though, eventually I couldn’t ignore them anymore. I cannot continue to carve out space in my own soul for this show, which incessantly beats me down regardless of my devotion. The creators, the network, the writers, and sometimes even the cast, have all shown that they don’t care about me as a fan. I’m not some gun toting dudebro living in middle America, so why should they give a damn about me? I’m clearly not their target audience, nor have I ever been.

I know many of you will vehemently deny my personal opinion of Supernatural now. That is absolutely fine. I am sorry to be admitting it, but I had to. I feel like once I finally write out these words, I have got it off my chest and can close and lock the door on Supernatural for good.

Without Supernatural, I am able to focus on my real life, I am able to find pleasure in other things, new things, interesting things, that bring me joy and joy alone – not disappointment and frustration. I found a new job this year, which has been a huge accomplishment as I was stagnating in my old one, and several new hobbies under my belt. I moved to a new flat, I have a lovely flatmate who has been a godsend throughout lockdown, and I have rekindled friendships that I was neglecting due to my Supernatural obsession.

All in all, I am finding post-Supernatural life far more rewarding and content than my life in fandom. It has taken me a while, but I am over the show. And whilst I will always hold a special place in my heart for Castiel, it will be as I know him in my own mind; as the wonderful, strong, powerful and determined angel with a soul, who loves so strongly, and who is worth so much more than his own creators give him credit for. He is up there with Aziraphale and Crowley, with The Doctor, and Buffy, as one of the greatest characters of all time.  

So the Supernatural writers and creators can take whatever ending they have decided upon, and shove it up their asses. I am sorry to say that Sam and Dean Winchester are also lost to me. Any love I had for them was destroyed by their later season depictions. Castiel alone is the only character worthy of that space in my heart now. If in time he longs for a companion, I will find one for him, but it won’t be the Dean Winchester of the canon show. Canon Dean hasn’t been deserving of Cas for a long time now.

Perhaps I am still a little bitter about the ending. Perhaps the finale won’t be the disaster I expect it to be, perhaps Dabb will somehow turn it all around last minute following whatever travesty Bucklemming have given us in 15x19. Either way, I won’t be watching.

So this is me saying goodbye to this blog, at least until I have decided what else to do with it. It certainly won’t be a Supernatural fandom blog anymore. It wasn’t all wasted though. I did get a wonderful friendship group out of this fandom, and I have certainly expanded my knowledge of film and television analysis, as well as having enjoyed a great many memes.

I guess in the end, my internal war with my inner bitter Cas girl finished with her winning, and writing this post. Once it is posted however, I will put her to sleep with thoughts of a happy Castiel, who has swapped his wings for a beating human heart, and is living on a beach somewhere beautiful, refurbishing an old Victorian house, and greeting his kindly elderly neighbours. There’s a gay bar on the main strip, and the bartender is quite a dish. Green eyes and light brown hair with a killer smile. Castiel thinks he looks familiar, like a memory from a past life, but they’ve definitely never met, because this man is kind.

Now that she is asleep, there is nothing left for me here. Goodbye everyone. Whether you manage to enjoy the finale or not, I truly hope you too, find your peace.

[kawaiijellymonster]

Black clover is an amazing show/manga and anyone who disagrees is wrong. Yeah thats a strong statement but its true. Black Clover is shamelessly shounen but in the best way possible. The main character is an underdog, so far so shounen, but the thing that makes him different is that his underdog status is never magically resolved, yeah he got a cool new power but unless he had spent years training his body that power would be useless, and as the witch arc showed us even after he got the power he had to do a whole training montage with a weird guy in the woods just to learn how to use it properly, his skill now is a culmination of a decade of work and everything he achieves will be because he put in the effort. Also people don’t recognise that he is as amazing as we know him to be, he's just that weird kid from the black bulls, the kid with no magic, he doesn’t get taken seriously until he shows off what he can do and even then some people still think that there's a trick. This is starkly different from shows like BNHA that give like an episode long training montage and then kinda call it good enough, give the mc a cool power and then they use it recklessly. Asta is painfully aware of his own incompetence. He knows that if he screws up thats it, so he has to be careful with his body, take care of it, eat, sleep and keep up with his exercise or else he’s doomed. “He still got hurt” I hear you say” and you’re right, he did get hurt because it was hurt his arms or let everyone he cared about die, and then he sat there yelling at fate saying he’d find another option and that he won’t stop. Its a kind of shounen tenacity that you don’t find many other places, in mha if izuku hadn’t been given a quirk he probably would have given up, he was kind of fed up with being told he couldn’t do it and was ready to agree, Asta only agreed once and for a single moment because the moment he stops thats it and he knows it. How they incorporated rivals was fantastic, most shows pick one or two rivals and that's about it, but in black clover just about everyone has declared themselves astas rival. They are acknowledging his strength and daring both him and themselves to do and be better. It lends an air of intrigue and tension to just about every scene he’s in because they’re competing, always This leads into my next point, the pacing is fantastic. Maybe not in about the first 18 episodes which was largely responsible for its downfall in the anime community due to the (bullshit) "three episode rule". However its like demon slayer in that it goes from action to action to action, it gives you maybe an episode or two of what me and my friend call "TA episodes" where it gives you a moment to breath but otherwise its moving forward, every action scene progresses the plot or the characters in some unique way that makes it so you can just...binge it all since the end of the episode is never the end of anything, theres always something more, something to wait up at night or to wake up early for when the new episode airs. It does have a "harem" I guess if you wanted to call it that, which lends back into the "shamelessly shounen" aspect of the show but it doesn't disgrace these characters, the three characters who are in love with him, noel, mimosa, and that girl he saved in that town that one time (can't remember her name, sorry) haven't changed anything about themselves to make themselves more appealing to him, they don't fall over themselves for him, yeah they're awkward but like...thats how love works. There is only one "fanservice" character in the whole thing, which is vannessa however shes not dressing for anyone else but herself and despite the fact that shes wearing a bra and panties and drunk af most of the time none of the characters sexualize her and treat her badly/as less than because of it. This show drinks its respecc women juice and you cannot change my mind on that. On that point, although there is a clear male female imbalance within the group the women are pretty strong and they're hella respected, nobody fucks with meleorelona, nobody questions dorothy unsworths place in the captains even though she sleeps all the time, a whole squad of girls? yeah and nobody teases or gives them shit for it kuz they know they will get beat the fuck up. Also going back a moment, Asta, despite having a harem only has eyes for one girl!! his whole life he just wants to marry the nun from the orphanage he grew up at, he has girls desperate for his attention and he still just wants to marry this one girl and if that isn't the greatest dedication you've ever heard of in a shounen (aside from everyone loving nezuko in demon slayer) you get get the fuck out. Then the foreshadowing, the whole first arc/plot story thing with the elves had so much foreshadowing, they played the magic king defeating the demon in the start of every episode and I had no thoughts I skipped it every episode after the first like 20 times and then it shows it again and you learn this giant lesson about how there are often two sides of the same coin, because to the people it was "yeah the magic king defeated the giant monster" but to the magic king it was a mercy kill on his best friend who didn't want to hurt anybody but it was the best of his few and all bad options. It was the biggest slap to the face that nobody expected but it was perfect anyway. Thinking about duality, many people in the story have an issue where they were brought up a certain way and think a certain way, often that they are incapable, or that their power is somehow flawed or useless. But the show straight up says that its not that your power its useless you just haven't found the right application for it yet. noelle thought she couldn't do anything but with more training, a wand, and more defensive spells or the suit shes able to accomplish things she never thought she could. Finral was always told his magic wasn't useful because it was passive rather than attack magic, but when used in conjunction with vannessa and asta they were able to down one of the eyes of the midnight suns biggest guys, it wasn't that he was useless he just wasn't thinking of how to apply it to make it useful before and now that he does he has so many options its amazing. these are just my off the top of my head reasons why I think that black clover is one of the best shows ever but yeah, tell me what you think, or not, totally up to you.

[we-live-in-a--society]

Prima facie

Control.

A mere word, a conglomerate of letters once combined by a long-gone person, holding more authority than the richest, than the most talented, than the so-called Übermensch with the perspectives of ‘eternal’ life sprawling in front of him.

Genocide of the spiritual beings, unrestrained in the sublime sense of word, slaves of the outside influence, damned for

Eternity.

Feigned assurance, mere illusion blurring out the lines between reality and fantasy, the dreamland of fools, built upon skillful falsities, where each one has an unrepeatable chance to stand on both sides of the barricade.

Relief-providing, such an obtuse lie, beyond offensive to assume anyone would believe it, and yet the affirmation is effortless – just look around, they say, and you will see the things no one has ever wished for.

Ecstasy-granting, allowing to visit the places… the places abounded in the deepest desires, now within the reach of each and every man, person who considers them in terms of fulfilling, enough to stifle the sour thoughts.

Entropic fallout.

The perspectives that hunt the brightest.

* * *

“Day two thousand eight hundred first,” subdued by the sound of running shower, and yet clear enough to be filtered out just perfectly. “It’s funny that people perceive others in terms of their achievements and nothing else. All they see is that outside surface that divides them from their surroundings, and sometimes it’s so hard for me to understand that way of thinking. It’s so absurd, so abstract, and yet I’ve been someway forced to understand it… the reality… it’s so absurd that one day you do things you don’t wanna do, and then something changes and you feel like it’s a big deal, a meaningful transition, and then you realize that it’s all bullshit but it’s also too late. You’re drowning in the same shit once again…” a coarse laughter, indication of sarcasm, intruder creeping between the male’s words, just about to lose his train of thoughts.

“Even though there’re times when you forget it was ever there but it’s always there. Of course, you can pretend, ‘cause pretending is easy but does it make sense? It’s a meaningful question – does it make sense – but I also believe it’s the question of people who are lost and don’t really know what to do, so they just keep asking the same question, keep reconsidering it, but never get the result they aim for, and in the end realize that maybe it all makes no sense, but what would we have if elsewise… those things we see, those people we meet, and who we‘re beyond all of these, beyond the modifications that we do, beyond the changes, beyond pretending to be someone we are not…”

“It’s funny, truly the fallout of everything but so blessed, so pretty, everything that we’ve ever desired for within our reach. We think that it justifies our choices, that we’re so perfect we don’t need to justify anything, that we can do whatever we want to, ‘cause we have the resources, while in reality we don’t have as many as we think we have.”

“You know, there was a man in my past who used to tell me that ‘you gotta do what you gotta do; and what you gotta do is you gotta man up’…”

A speech that is interrupted by an unyielding forefinger pressing the pause button, and so putting the device on halt, soon to be abandoned in the depth of his safe. It is that kind of data he would never store on his personal hard drive, since the possible leakage would result in disastrous consequences, the ones he is not much likely to dig out of.

Ironic.

Just any other day, his eyes drift to the bathroom mirror, greeted by the common, not to mention beyond-pleasing, sight – a man in prime of life, fit as in evidence of self-discipline, skin almost black with the ink, although usually obscured by the expensive suits, meant for his eyes only, but at times shared with the passing-through lovers. Raking his fingers through the hair, he decides the sides require some trimming, especially today, since first impressions are always important, at least according to what he was told in the past, considered inconsequential if juxtaposed with present – a paradox in its purest form.

(Time is money.)

Settling the thoughts aside for a moment, he fishes out the clippers, buzzling to life in his hand, then ties the longer part of hair into a resemblance of bun. Of course there are much more convenient, which might as well be replaced with ‘faster’, solutions to fix the overgrown cut, and yet he opts for the old-fashioned way – a reminiscence of father’s tales, but also related to the self-reliance, capacity of accomplishing as many tasks as possible without anyone’s assistance – since with the right device it takes barely any effort.

With that thought in mind, he rakes the blade past the sides, tiny pieces of hair soon to sprinkle down onto the towel draped over his shoulders in advance, and after a few longer moments, he is greeted with the satisfactory sight, basked in the bright mirror LEDs. As for the final result, he releases the top part, combing it back with a hint of product to keep them styled neatly for the rest of the day – display of classic elegance that he has grown accustomed with throughout the years. Being honest here, he has always considered appearance in terms of something significant in his line of work – flawless presentation of one’s professionalism, indication of people’s superficiality – firmly detached from his private life, since elsewise he would lack in the former quality.

Years ago, he has come to a conclusion that blurring out the lines between those two factors leads to a relatively obnoxious outcome – a moment of ignorance and troublesome aftermath, although worth sacrifice at times. Perfection is nothing more than an obtuse dream, while mistakes are what makes one a human, acts that shape up the present – only aspect within the specie’s reach – bestowing each one of them with everything he could dream of, but in capacity of snatching away equal amounts. Suffering is the greatest paradox of all – blissful pain – akin to a bunch of clouds obscuring the sun, obviously present underneath even if hidden for our poor perception – a promise of transitional felicity, feigned when it comes to one’s assumptions about its everlasting duration.

Long live the deceit.

And yet, what seems to preoccupy his mind more, aside from the competence-related ponderation, appears to be the odd curiosity oscillating around her persona, or rather the difference between the so-called rising star

(let’s see for how long)

and her predecessors: how often would she call in sick? decline interviews? refuse to cooperate? oversleep? overdose? Which might as well be a question of time, meant to unravel in due course, all to his misery, even though he should be able to abide such circumstances with a decent amount of money, leading to dubious mental capacity when it comes to dealing with extravagant artists and their arsenal of lacking predictions, fallouts with producers, fussy whims, along with all the acts of great absurdity that somehow get him to roll his eyes in exasperated disbelief on each and every occasion.

The least patient man.

* * *

Morning light.

The most relentless alarm clock ever ‘invented’, practically prying her eyes open, immediate to bury her face in a silky pillow, letting out a frustrated groan, as she pulls up the covers, body shivering in the chilly room. Relieved by the newfound wave of heat, she is back to tethering on the edge between dreams and reality, hoping to get as much sleep as possible until the digital sound will slice through the city hum, which in turn evokes genuine respect towards the people who ‘rise and shine’ during the earliest hours just to face the day and seize all opportunities. Part of the woman scolds her for such laziness, but realistically thinking it is yet another transcendent goal, not noted with intention of fulfillment, instead left to lurk in the back of mind and bother her in the most unfavorable moments, as per usual.

Along with the pressing desire to ignore that peculiar stressful tension, it adds up to the growing pile of lies, meant to complete itself as she pursues further with life, but at the same time labelled as a habitual factor, allowing her to keep the head clear when required, unoccupied by the never-ending considerations, and yet opposed to the raging storm of thoughts. In one hand, her stomach is twisting with the nervous anticipation, but in the other she cannot deny the fluttering butterflies that have been disrupting the young woman since the very first time he called her, or more precisely – since the very first time his hologram appeared on dialing device, accompanied by the husky baritone that he used to expound the details concerning their arrangement – inexplicable yet important.

(Take the bitter with the bitter, isn’t it what they say?)

Funnily enough, she remembers each and every time her mother would preach the prodigal daughter about the consequences of such behavior, built upon foolish beliefs, teenage cravings of ineffable love, never meant to be fulfilled if beyond idealized. However, said factor has never seemed to put her pursuit to a halt, and so thwart the zeal – incandescent rod branding her soul for blissful eternity – soaked in the tears of those who perished, mainly her and the injudicious teens, lacking in what she was searching for at that time – a desire obscure enough to participate in the realm of ideas, in other words unable to be verbalized in face of pitifully limited vocabulary. Might as well be the reason why she struggles with forming any long-term relationship, always distracted by the passing opportunities, unable to break the unfortunate turn of events, conflicted with the more mature part of her, aiming mainly for self-development that leads to inevitable success – another silly daydream?

Maybe.

“Ugh, fuck this,” she whines into the pillow, presumably late, either way finds herself not quite concerned by concepts as equally absurd as time, while rolling onto the cooler side of bed – close call to the dubiously pleasant encounter with polished floor. Frustrated as ever, she hears the digital ringtone, more than aware who might be bothering her generously elongated sleep at such early hour, nevertheless obliged to pick up with a heavy pat delivered onto the screen. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Gia,” oh my fuck, he remembers. “I’ve wanted to make sure everything is relevant today, ‘cause I’ll be there in like… fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Oh, fifteen minutes,” she almost gasps, unable to conceal the nervous chuckle, certain there is no possibility she will meet him on time. “That’s cool, but I won’t make it.”

She hears his exasperated huff on the other side of the line, along with the calm exhale, and the following words – indication of the so-called professionalism. “How much time do you need then?”

“I don’t know…” she draws – a mannerism that he loathes more than anything – uncertainty audible within her voice, since she has blocked the visual channel, presumably still on the early stage of preparation. “Half an hour?”

“That supposed to be a question or an answer?” He manages to conceal the aggravated bark, tightening his grip around the steering wheel instead.

“An answer, I guess,” she shrugs, now risen up to a seating position, with the silky sheets pooling around her waist.

“Brilliant,” he concludes, a tad bit too drily for her own tastes, either way she ignores the unpleasant note, belittling it to the status of yet another subconscious allusion, prompted by the fairly deceivable mind.

“Anyway, you can drop by my flat if that’d be more convenient,” she proposes, yawning as her limbs stretch, joints cracking in a satisfactory way.

“Text me the address then, and I’ll meet you there,” he instructs in a blunt manner – non-verbal indication that ‘no’ appears to be an invalid response in such circumstances.

“With-” oh right, he hung up.

What a douchebag.

Luckily capable of ignoring the bitter aftertaste, at least for now, she stands up, shivering as her feet brush the cool floor, which in the end turns out as rather beneficial, pacing up her walk to the bathroom. Accompanied by the electric buzz, the light flickers out, reminding her for the nth time this week to call the estate owner, and deal with it like any reasonable adult would do, or simply wait for the day when she will be forced to complete her morning preparations in pitch darkness.

(Couldn’t dream of a better outcome...)

Certain that opting out for the top priority appears to be the most sensible solution in her position, she steps under the shower, letting the hot water cascade down her back, skin flushing due to the temperature. The heat itself elicits a relieved moan from her throat as the tension begins to evaporate from her body – parallel to the steam sprawling on the glass – tingling with the newfound excitement, apparently enhanced by the growing warmth. Perfectly aware there is neither a decent mood nor enough time to search for any relief, she ends up uttering a frustrated huff, while painting her front with the liquid soap, soon to stream down to the drain.

Having accomplished what must have been the quickest shower she has ever had, she only manages to put on more or less randomly picked up clothes, before the morning lull is sliced by the ringing doorbell that almost forces a fearful shriek from the broody woman. With a few hurried steps through the living area, she unlocks the door, confronted by the sight of virtual impatience, anticipating her presence since the earliest hours of dawn – posh dweller of equally polished suit – along with the flawless composure that evokes this peculiar insecurity in reference to the personal choice of clothing, seemingly not appropriate for such occasion.

Intimidating to say the least.

“Hi,” she greets him with a welcoming smile either way, gaze altering between his face and the ink peeking from the collar of his shirt, evoking the newfound curiosity about the whole concept, hidden beneath the fabric.

“Hello again,” he reciprocates as the corners his lips twist into what must be the so-called smug smirk, features visibly lightening. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” she snaps out of the trance, failing to conceal the nervous giggle adorning her affirmative response, caught hand in a cookie jar.

(Ah yes, the dovey one.)

Which is yet another subconscious mind’s assumption, although he believes that tendency to evaluate any given situation on the go appears to be linked with age, or more specifically – gaining general knowledge over the human dwellers and their behaviors. Therefore, in order to enhance the efficiency, one obtains the ugly habit of premature judgment, openly loathed by majority of population and yet dealt with from the hand of few, which in turn leads him to a rather inconvenient truth – one day, there will come the time when he trips and smashes his nose on the floor – metaphor adorned in pain less bearable than in a physical case.

(Been ‘round the block a few times.)

Nevertheless, the petite girl steps aside, allowing him to pass the threshold, further on perch upon the sofa and snatch the flat screen from his bag.

“Back to business…” he initiates, motioning her with a suggestive eye tilt, icy irises that bore into her soul, such a cooling contrast for her synthetic hue, enough to send an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.

“Don’t you want something to drink?” She gulps, gaze adverting to the side, unable to bear its intensity, right before she plops down onto the couch, brushing his knee by accident – plain contact that almost has her jolting away to the side.

(Get a fucking grip.)

“I’m good for now,” he rejects the proposition, just to witness her frown slightly in response. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

“I’ve disrupted your schedule, haven’t I?” She ascertains, seemingly more preoccupied with tucking one of her feet under the pleasantly warm thigh than maintaining eye contact, which irks him up more than he cares to admit; not a good sign to be honest.

“Pretty much yes, unless we hurry up, of course,” without letting her speak, he carries on with the beyond obvious explanations. “Anyway, here’s the contract that I need to sign if you’re willing to continue, which I think is polished by now, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Sure,” she accepts the offered device, flinching as their fingers brush, cold like ice. Clueless when it comes to what is happening to her, or more importantly – why he has such potent influence over the outgoing woman, at least until now, eliciting the most unusual reactions, the shameful shyness for instance.

“You can’t be this tense if you want to make this arrangement work,” he states, apparently out of nowhere, leaning towards the coffee table, weight braced on the elbows.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, with the metallic stylus in her hand, now long forgotten, as she glares at him, not so caught-off-guard for a change.

“You’ve heard me,” he cocks a condescending eyebrow at her, and if not for the blinking she would suspect he is not a human after all.

(Do androids blink?)

“Stating that won’t make any difference,” she huffs, peaceful façade seared by the gradually developing irritation.

“Care to elaborate?” He nags further, as if already capable of naming all her weak spots, thanks to his long-term professionalism in such domain.

“There’s no shift in the attitude,” she clarifies, noting the fact as if it was an absolute truth, suited for this and every other occasion in the future, greater than all the celestial beings, even if combined together.

“Would not pointing it out make any difference then?” He retorts, not expecting to hear a verbal answer this time, instead filled with the telltale silence. “See? Told you so.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, shaking her head in denial, hand mirroring the rushed movements.

“So what did you mean for a change?”

“I meant that pointing this out usually enhances the tension,” she explains, glancing briefly at the thin piece of metal clutched tight in her hand – a realization casted upon the woman.

“I believe it’s still worth the effort,” he shrugs, infuriatingly careless now that he has won, at least according to his suppositions.

“Why are we even discussing this?” She sighs, as if utterly exhausted by the teasing debate, and so willing to wind it up with the simple scrape over the screen. “Just let me sign the contract.”

“Go on, no one’s stopping you,” he flicks his wrist in an affirmative gesture, encouraging her to pursue. “I’d even dare to say right the opposite,” oh, so now he would play the smart guy, how delightful, she thinks, and yet responds immediately, topping up said contract with a flourishing signature, quick to hand it back to him. “Thank you. And by the way, you have an interview scheduled for tomorrow, just so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she flashes him a replacement for a proper smile, just to witness the male respond with a parallel gesture, and before she knows it, he is back on his feet again, towering over her figure, and so prompting to follow his traces.

“It’s just my job, no hard feelings.”

No hard feelings.

(Easier said than done.)

* * *

Past.

Easily associated with safety, blissful awareness granted by the reliability of bygone memories, a place where one is willing to return to in times of unspoken restlessness, and so dive into the flowery reminiscence – beloved escape. However, at some point in one’s life an unspecified hand flips the switch, allowing to see the sheer absurdity, which in turn leads to a purifying realization – the past is not enough anymore, and so a different, more potent stimulant is required.

Her best friend would probably label it as ‘yet another mistake’, worse than falling for Cara, nevertheless she cannot help herself, knowing that one way or another she will be forced to release some steam, to transfer the concoction of feelings into work – a song, sublime and powerful, carrying an amaranthine meaning. Losing herself in the complexity of the world she has gotten to inhabit – borne against her will, such a cruel law – seems so effortless in comparison to the sheer burdens of existence, paired with the average life expectancy and the endless predictions of elongation, justifying it as yet another whim of humanity.

(Even rhymes with immortality, what a coincidence.)

Why would anyone even crave something so insane – eternality – unaware of the real meaning hidden behind these ten letters, bound by the long-gone linguist – extinct specie? Expression of their thoughtlessness? Might as well be.

At this point it appears as quite tough to specify, her mind delving into far too many places at once, incapable of maintaining the indispensable concentration with Nova running through her bloodstream, retreating the human ability to focus on a single factor. As the reality begins to fade away, various background noises dull into one unpleasant screech, inseparable, her ears ringing as the first wave rocks through her body, a vague pat on the back, followed by the tingling sensation of a relatively cool hand tracing her spine. While a minuscule part of her loathes the feeling of metallic digits dancing over the heated flesh, the more influential one is flying sky too high to care, remaining still in that one inconvenient pose, leaning towards the shiny table.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” His hand slides further down her back, playing with the hem of the low-cut dress she has opted for today, its silvery hue reflecting the colorful lights. “What do you say, sweets?”

“Mhm, yes… exciting… exciting it is,” she barely formulates the affirmation, her brain clinging to the established choice of words, out of capacity to exchange it for anything more intricate. “But I think I gotta… I think I… I gotta go I think.”

“So soon?” He questions, both eyebrows risen in feigned disbelief, chrome digits dipping underneath the fabric only to find the silky strap in process, stimulating enough to occupy his carnal interests for a brief moment.

“I’ve paid you… I’m sure I have…” she mumbles, involuntarily jerking away from the touch, muscles twitching as an innate response to the unwanted contact, lost in between her attempts to complete the sentence, “for the pills, I mean.”

“Well, yes, that’s correct, you have,” he agrees, albeit immediate to clarify, “but I’d like something more from you.”

“What?” She frown in confusion, eyes staring into the distance, blurred outlines of dancers rushing through her mind, hips swaying to the beat. “No, I… take me home… please.”

“Maybe later, ‘kay?” He proposes, still patient, fingers stroking the smooth skin in an attempt to soothe the confused female.

“No… I wanna…” she counters, one final time, although enough to crack his resolve, hand abandoning its previous track, leaving only the fleeting remains of proper touch on the heated skin.

“Quit whining and get up,” he huffs, audibly irritated, and she cannot help but wonder about the causes, random associations blending into one shapeless pulp – concoction of equally indistinguishable elements.

“No!” She squeals, a little louder this time, as a stab of pain shoots through her arm, almost yanked out of its socket, at least according to her perception, attracting attention of a passing female, although definitely short-lived, soon to mingle in the crowd.

Because who cares?

“You. Are. Coming with me,” he punctuates the words, delivering another harsh tug, intent to force her to move. “Whether you want to or not.”

Unable to verbalize the evident objections, let alone break away from his iron grasp, she can only follow his traces, while trying oh so desperately to figure out what is happening around her, cling onto at least one given stimulus. Her vision is blurry, blinded by the neon lights, as if her eyes were tearing, but at the same time she doubts she has ever felt that helpless, that fearful, emotions running all over the place, full of contradictions, frenzied and delirious.

Searching for physical support, she leans in to his frame as soon as the man stands still, but due to the black spots staining her perception, she can barely make out where they are, especially with her head is spinning like crazy. Before she knows it, his arms encircle her waist, preventing the young and oh so promising musician from a disastrous rendezvous with equally unforgiving floor, much to his exasperation.

Overall, the plan has been a little different, certainly not featuring the scenario in which she passes out, another unconscious body to take care of, whist also ‘unfuckable’ in such state. Therefore, the most he can do for the woman is to dump her by the corridor wall, as befits the ‘immature dickhead’, certain that no one would attempt to link her with him, at least according to the general numbness in the so-called ‘world full of cruelty’ and the glorious lack of interest in dealing with minor crimes.

Morality?

Shattered?

(And what else?)

* * *

The first time she experienced something like this was approximately about sixteen years ago, give or take, although she prefers to keep such stories to herself, since people tend to label it as rather dubious and the last renown she aims for is ‘untrustworthy’. Nonetheless, it all appears to be rather simple – high fever tends to retreat distant and prompting visions, mainly associated with sensory memory, aspects that are supposed to remain out of reach, and yet linger somewhere in the back of one’s mind. Take for instance the sensation of being rocked to sleep in mother’s arms, deprived of any distinctive images, just the monotonous lull and mere hum of her silvery voice, singing some nonsensical song, its lyrics undistinguishable by now.

Ergo, for a brief moment, yet to collide with reality, she is convinced that she has forgotten to swallow the necessary medicaments due to her ailing state, evident in the disastrous headache, possibly linked with abnormal temperature, and mind drifting towards obscure dimensions once again. Before she gets a chance to familiarize with the newfound vision, it is disrupted by a harsh jerk, so unlike her parents’ manners, forcing both eyes open and so greeting the woman with a sight she is not braced for yet – a guy, recognized as a bartender, shaking her awake, not Carlos who might as well be long gone by now.

“Gia?” He frowns, visibly puzzled, both hands resting on her shoulders, warmth atop icy skin, sending a pleasant wave of heat through her half-conscious body.

Unable to grant any sensible answer, she blinks a couple of times, trying to adjust to the neon lights, with her vision still a little blurry, before she actually manages to formulate a proper response, voice croaky, as if not hers at all. “What’s going on?”

“I could’ve ask you the same,” he reciprocates, audibly annoyed, hands now abandoning their previous spot upon her shoulders on behalf of a more convenient squatting position.

“I don’t remember much,” she admits, clenched fists rising to rub her eyes in hopes it will somehow bring her back to the land of living.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” He huffs, accusation evident in his voice, or maybe it is just fatigue, disappointment with her countless predicaments, not that he is the only one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shrugs, the least talented liar ever born, beyond embarrassing to pursue.

“Whatever Gia, I don’t give a shit,” he sighs, utterly defeated. “And I’m resigning from babysitting you tonight. Work schedule, you know.”

“I-”

“No time for that,” he interrupts, remains of the so-called empathy long gone by now, granting the blossoming irritation with essential space. “Someone’s gotta drag your ass from here, I mean the club, and take you home.”

“I can’t stay here?” She frowns, disappointed with the unfortunate turn of events.

“What?” He laughs in disbelief, a mocking tingle that enhances all negative emotions disrupting the guilty songbird. “Of course not, it’s a club, not drunk tank.”

“But-”

“Just find someone who can take you out,” he instructs, glancing at the door, hoping the manager has not noticed his absence by now. “And tell him it’s fucking urgent.”

“Okay,” she agrees, displeased with his harsh approach, irritation evident within her voice. “Just give me some fucking space.”

“Sure, I gotta head back anyway,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden – feigned façade mastered over the years. “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t feel like checking it by myself,” she utters a nervous chuckle, hand already outstretched for the bartender, and who is he to leave her hanging like this, ever the gentleman. “Could you help me?”

“Sure,” he throws her a fleeting smile, and with a steady grasp on the woman’s arm, he hoists her up from the ground, knees seemingly too weak to hold the rest upright. However, the necessary support is granted by the wall, allowing the female to brace her weight on the forearms and press the forehead to the concrete structure as a potent wave of dizziness rocks through her fatigued body.

“Thanks,” she murmurs faintly, still in the process of dealing with the unpleasant aftermath of earlier decisions, and so dangerously close to throwing up on the polished floor.

“It’s nothing, Gia, really,” he assures, his mind already circling back to work-related issues. “Just get your sorry ass outta here.”

“Sure,” she huffs, rolling her eyes in an almost theatrical manner, as if to ensure he gets the message with plenty of reserve. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too.”

And with that careless response, he walks away, hasty steps echoing in the corridor, soon to disappear around the corner, and so leave the hall altogether. Finally deprived of any company, she fishes out the phone from the depths of her purse, and calls the only person she can think of in such circumstances – Connor, or Connie, since the choice is apparently not his to make. At this point she is practically trembling with that peculiar concoction of excitement and exhilaration, fingers crossed he will pick up at such late hour, since wishing for anything else seems like a childish exaggeration now.

“You better have damn good reasons for calling me in the middle of the fucking night,” ever the most talented in the field of pleasant conversations, he opts for greeting her with such expression, voice rough with sleep, sending a shiver down her spine.

“So I got into some trouble tonight and-”

“Just cut to the chase,” he barks out a blunt order, his patience running low in the face of increasing exasperation. “I don’t have energy to listen to some background bullshit.”

“I need you to take me home from Interstellar,” she states, having decided that to keep it simple means to succeed, rather than to bestow him with countless euphemisms, supposing it would justify her irresponsible behavior.

Right?

“Excuse me?” He chuckles in disbelief, a mocking laughter that almost has her snapping at him – the most immature reaction she could ever imagine. “Seems like you might’ve mistaken me for your fucking chauffer, who I’m not by any means, so thank you for such divine opportunity but I think I’ll pass.”

“Why are you always acting like a fucking dickhead?” She sighs, voice smaller than she would like it to be, as the day-long fatigue settles into her bones, which combined with the unpleasant tone nearly has her bursting in tears.

“And why are you always getting personal?” He jeers, a crude remark to stab her right in the chest, and so discourage to pursue. “It’s just work, nothing else, and the sooner you learn it, the better for you, ‘cause I’m not hired to deal with your non-career issues.”

“It might become a career issue if someone finds me here,” she reciprocates, betrayed by the not-so-subtle hint of desperation lacing her voice, shaky at the end.

“Tryna out-talk me?” He chuckles bitterly, his head lulling slightly to the side in her mind’s eyes – a mannerism she has grown accustom with during those few weeks. “C’mon, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I just wanna go home,” she tries once again, now actually on the blink of tears. “Please.”

“Pathetic,” she hears him spat on the other side of the line, probably not meant to reach her ears, but it does either way, forcing Gia to suppress the choked sob threatening to escape her constricted throat. “No, just no. I’m not doing shit for you. You’re a fucking adult, so I think you’ll find your way outta here.”

“But-”

“No, enough of that,” he interrupts, annoyance evident in his voice. “It was nice talking to you, but I’m going back to sleep now. Have fun.”

“Don’t hang up, please…”

Oh right.

Douchebag.

Fighting the urge to cry out in exasperation, she dials his number once again, dangerously close to chanting an actual lucky prayer, nevertheless determined to make him comply for a change, since in this case hope indeed appears to be the mother of fools.

Ironic.

“The fuck you’re calling me again?” He barks out, absolutely furious.

“Will you come? Please,” she sobs, finally letting the tears stream down the sides of her face, way past her breaking point now. “I don’t wanna stay here. It’s so cold, and I’m so tired.”

“You won’t let it slide, will you?” He sighs, a realization casted upon the man for a change.

“No,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes with the free hand, black dust from the so-called ‘waterproof’ mascara coating her fingers. “They’ll throw me out elsewise.”

Nothing.

(Silence speaks a thousand words.)

“Connie?”

“Fucking fine,” he gives up after a longer pause, seemingly ready to consent to her wish. “Just stay right where you are until I get there. We’ll meet by the main entrance as soon as I text you, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she gulps, trying to conceal the exited squeal threatening to slip past her lips as a result of his approval.

“Very well. See you.”

“Connie?” She calls out one more time, voice laced with distinctive hesitation.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure, no big deal.”

And with that he hangs up, on one hand leaving her with a bitter-sweet wish they would chat a little longer, while on the other she is well aware it would be simply nonsensical, lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. Once again deprived of the craved-for company, the sensory aspects hit the woman with full force, the pounding ache of her own body, betraying in the midst of crisis, arms encircling her trembling frame in order to deliver at least a mere illusion of being held by someone.

(Connie?)

(Ha! You wish!)

(He doesn’t even like that nickname… the fuck is wrong with me?)

Unable to keep herself upright, she plops down onto the cold floor, with the bottom part of her dress hiking up, and so exposing the legs to icy air which, enhanced by the fatigue, has her trembling on the ground. In hopes it will somehow allow to maintain the essential warmth, she curls into a ball, resting her forehead on the bent knees, eyelids shutting on their own, which in turn bestows her with odd solitude, even though there is no possibility she would drift to sleep in such circumstances with her body trembling like a leaf in the autumn breeze.

Minutes upon minutes, she is gradually beginning to lose the track of time, not daring to glance at the clock even once, surprisingly patient for a change, maybe in the face of feasible fulfillment. And yet, despite the aforementioned calmness, she almost jumps out of her skin as soon as she feels the phone vibrating in her hand, not wasting any time to check the incoming message.

“I’m here,” it reads, which puts a relieved smile on her face, and so she is rather quick to stuff the device back into her purse, then get up with a renewed vigor, walls granting the necessary support.

Pushing the heavy door open, she walks out to the guests’ zone, greeted with all its splendid virtues: loud music and insufferable crowd, which prompts her to circle the dancefloor and so avoid the troublesome encounters. Lucky to get past without any of that, she steps through the reception area, soon to make her way out of the club altogether, cool evening breeze palpable on her face, sweeping the bangs away from her forehead.

Nevertheless, with more pressing matters occupying her mind, Gia is immediate to spot him, leaning by the side of his car – such an unusual sight to behold, without one of his beloved suits, exchanged for the benefit of more casual attire. She blinks a couple of times, as if to ascertain he was not mistaken for another man, having assumed he would be the only person waiting outside, and to be honest she cannot conceal the relieved sigh slipping past her lips as a response to the inviting gesture – a graceful flick of his wrist.

“You look absolutely miserable,” he notes, and even in face of the gruff greeting she almost fails to restrain from hugging the coarse man as a thank-you gift. “C’mere.”

“I owe you,” she declares, a steady exclamation until disturbed by his hands gripping her arms, leaving the woman confused for a moment.

“Yes, you do,” he agrees, frowning as she reciprocates the gesture, lithe fingers wrapping around his biceps; and hell, it is just to prevent her from hitting the pavement, not indicate anything sexual. Why does she have to read every message wrong? “Now get in the car.”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant,” she huffs, visibly annoyed, and so seriously considering the break-away from his not-so-loving grasp.

“I’m being practical not unpleasant,” he rolls his eyes in response, blatant and unashamed, choosing to release her this time, intent to open the door for his female associate, “since I don’t think you’d like to experience yet another encounter with a ground of any kind.”

“Sure, thanks,” she reciprocates, cold as ice – terribly feigned façade, although immediate to get in the car, letting him shut the door for her, then ride away in what seems like a blink for her limited perception.

At least according to what she keeps telling herself.

(Liar.)

* * *

“I’ve left you a glass of water on the bedside table, ‘kay?” He throws a brief glance at her figure lounging on the bed, now clad in a monochromatic tee, suppressing the urge to linger on the exposed skin for a little longer.

It is always hunting him, the flesh.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” she mutters, voice muffled by the pillows, not caring to throw him a merest glimpse.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you’ve left me a glass of water on the bedside table,” she complies, as if fed up with his never-ending requests oscillating around definite responses, ever the hypocrite.

“Very well,” seemingly pleased with her response, his lips twist in what must be a ghost of a proper smile, although the following words fail to satiate the prominent craving, much to her displeasure. “So sleep tight and make sure you call me as soon as you wake up.”

“Connie?” She calls almost at the spot, having decided to take the matter in her own hands this time, afraid that if he gets up, nothing will be enough to stop him from leaving altogether.

“Connor,” he corrects, voice laced with an audible hint of annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” she dismisses, while urging her body up on the elbows to look at him properly for a change, at least according to the etiquette of any decent conversation. “Stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” he counters, cold as ice once again – a notion enhanced by the neon lights casting shadows on his sharp features.

“Why?”

“’Cause I’ve driven your sorry ass home which is enough of selflessness from me for the following month,” he spats bitterly, intent to rise from his spot on the couch and walk out of the door, leaving her hanging, as if it was the most convenient solution ever imagined.

“Why do you have to be such an ass?” She huffs, disappointed once again – an impression she has learned to associate with him on the course of their encounters, and yet never failing to disturb her, even if only in the emotional sense.

(Helps me to keep the distance.)

“Nothing personal,” he claims instead, not even blinking as the words slip past his lips. “I’ve got errands to run tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe you,” she confronts, now seated properly with her back supported by the wall, as if to grant the superior position in their flimsy quarrel.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he reciprocates, infuriatingly calm all of sudden, shoulders shrugging at her furious expression.

(So easy to rile up sometimes…)

“I-”

“What?” He snaps, head twisting in her direction, eyes meeting with a metaphorical shot of electricity through her body.

“Is it so hard to understand? The fact that I don’t wanna be alone tonight?” She sighs, now in genuine doubt whether he is a human after all, which might as well be linked with the flawed perception, based on her own attitude – blemished. “You know, it’s just… today’s been so messed up and I just… I don’t know...”

“Got anything to confess?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, as if attempting to conceal the previous irritation with some careless swagger.

“I don’t remember much, but I have a feeling that something bad has happened to me,” she begins, having decided to choose her words carefully, since indicating that she is yet another pathetic junkie is the last direction she is aiming towards.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, really,” she refuses to cooperate, instead gets up from the bed and takes those few steps towards the couch to plop down beside him, shortly before resuming with her undefined explanation. “I’m aware of what I was doing throughout the day, but the evening memories are all vague, are… um… all fuzzy, and honestly I have no idea what to think about this.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He questions, seemingly relaxed, if not for the corner of his lip tilting in an unnerving way, proving that said proposal carries some hidden meaning as well.

“Yes,” she nods, since playing by his rules appears to lay beyond the realm of conscious control for now, no idea why.

(Sure.)

(Is that his voice? The fuck is wrong with me?)

“So tell me the truth.”

Speak of the devil.

“It wasn’t all a lie,” she scoffs, and yet cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, focusing on the small reddish stain decorating the coach cushion, wine presumably.

“Sure,” he hums in agreement, soaked in bitter irony, although pleased with the confirmation of his little theory. “But I wanna hear a genuine story this time, or none at all. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she affirms with a telltale burning upon her cheeks that appear to disrupt the defined vision of proper explanation. “So, I wasn’t alone at the Interstellar, I was with someone…”

“With whom exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses once again, shaking her head, as if more to clear out the mind before the key explanation than emphasize the earlier words. “The thing is, he gave me one of those pills he had, and I took it, so that’s why I don’t remember shit.”

“Well, that I’ve already figured out myself,” never the one to disappoint, am I right? “So where’s the catch?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake… I mean doing something like that in his company is a mistake itself, but… I don’t know… I feel so messed up,” she rubs a single hand across her face, hoping it will somehow soothe her, but nothing like this happens, so instead she slips it in his, searching for physical support – a gesture that catches him off guard for a brief moment. His flesh is cool to touch, most of it covered in some bizarre ornaments, black upon white – pale skin that looks almost eerie underneath the neon lights – her gaze following the pattern up his arm, until their eyes lock once again – tangerine and steel.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he affirms with a subtle smile, squeezing her hand in a skillful manner, enough to fulfill said wish without causing unnecessary discomfort.

“That was the first time something like this happened to me though,” she confess, throwing their linked limbs a brief glance, as if to ascertain he is still there, like in flesh and bones, not a passerby from a parallel reality. “It freaked me out.”

“No wonder it did,” he concludes. “Losing control can be one of the worst nightmares.”

“Tell me about it,” she huffs, rolling her eyes – a gesture to top the sarcastic remark with. “I don’t get it. Even though I’m aware of the consequences, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again… Hell, I’m so happy I have an opportunity to die.”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” he chuckles – not the exact reaction she intended to gain from him, but that will have to do for now.

“Aren’t we all?” She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him, her eyes glistening with an ghost of amusement, rather unexpected in such circumstances, which is also a good sign to be honest, the fact he is able to elicit that kind of response from her.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for listening though,” she ignores the little hypocritical attempt, indicating the blatant disagreement.

“Anytime Gia, anytime,” he bestows the woman with a smile for a change, even if fleeting – odd beauty to it all.

As her focus drifts towards the places of unknown, with the pensive silence settling over them, she fails to notice the subtle shift of his position, until their intertwined hands rest on her thigh, eliciting an embarrassingly audible gasp from the female, knuckles teasing the tender flesh as his tendons flex, supposing to prevent the nerves from getting numb.

“What are you expecting from this situation?” He interjects, his gaze focused solely on hers with intensity that has the female almost backing away – soul-drill to crack her attitude in two.

“Feelings are not to be verbalized,” she reciprocates, rolling her eyes at the inappropriate question, and yet opts for going out on a limb, since what goes around comes around, right? “And also, I think there’re more pressing matters to clarify anyway.”

“Such as?” He turns towards her, and now that Gia has his undividable attention, she is ready to put her inconsistent plan into notion.

“Ever wondered what would it be like… to kiss me?”

An exclamation that has him laughing out loud this time – such an unusual occurrence, although not the best sign to be honest – and yet she can work with that, glaring at him once the sound dulls down. With amused glimmers dancing behind his gaze, he appears to be studying her expression, as if in an attempt to read his songbird like an open book he would like her to be, at least for him, and yet, aside from the blatant desire for attention, the rest is buried somewhere deep, deep down, safe from his prying curiosity.

How infuriating.

Nevertheless, he is well aware what to do to gain the essential answer – break the not-so-stern rule, temptation in its purest form, granting the special privilege of seeing her gasp in shock, feign indifference just to throw herself in his arms as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

Sublime. Sadistic. Selfish.

Simply what he needs right now.

“To kiss you? No…” he draws on the syllable – a purring baritone that catches her off guard for a brief moment – not even supposing he is capable of making such sounds. “But to fuck you… now that’s a whole different story…”

(What the hell?)

“But we can just kiss if you prefer the PG-13 version,” he cocks a challenging eyebrow at her, and she takes the bait, all to his pleasure as far as it matches the plan, crafted on the go.

“I don’t-”

“No need to lie to me, Gia,” he interrupts, leaning slightly towards her, just enough to brush her chest, breath palpable on the exposed neck, prickling her skin with goosebumps. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

“Right now? For you to kiss me,” she gulps, failing to pursuit with the seductive tone, muscles twitching as she feels his arm snaking around her waist, still hoping she would maintain the confidence throughout the act.

(With him touching you like that? Sure.)

“A bit boring but if that’s what you want…” he chuckles, breath flaring through her hair, quick to catch the woman off guard again by yanking her onto his lap, one thigh pressed in between her legs.

“You’re such a dick,” she gasps at the unexpected contact, her insides coiling in anticipation to satiate whatever ache has been blossoming inside the artiste the moment he laid his eyes upon her.

“Sure, whatever,” he hums, careless as ever, tickling the side of her neck with feather-like kisses, barely present, like wind whispering patterns on her skin, ready to fly away and forget as the scent of his cologne engulfs her senses. Some twisted part of her wants to witness him break first, give in to the temptation, with dilated pupils and disheveled hair, rake his fingers through the strands, but nothing like this happens. Instead, he keeps teasing her with the gentle touches, tips of his fingers tracing the hollow of her spine, up to the point where she cannot take it anymore – the merciless tormentor – and tilts his head to the side, crashing their lips together.

(So it is on.)

With his arms around her body, he gains the essential motion range, ability to maneuver her upon his lap and of course guide the kiss, but since their plans seem to differ, she attempts to squirm out of the grasp – a matter he is quick to rectify with a harsh nip upon her bottom lip, drawing a surprised squeal from the woman. Even though she is already past the point of wondering whether he would be gentle, whether he would treat her like the finest china or just another frivolous chippie, she has not expected such straightforward approach, at least not from the very beginning, since that is what all the previous partners accustomed her with – the cautious build up leading to more ardent acts, while he appears to be toying with both contradictories, leaving her in anticipation for more.

(Fucking douchebag.)

With Gia gliding through her thoughts, he opts for seizing the opportunity now that her mouth is agape, seemingly beyond realization yet, and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip, relishing in the tremor that runs down her spine as a response to the caress, palpable underneath his hands. Right when she expects him to dive straight into it, he breaks away, eliciting a disappointed whimper from the singer, a whimper that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants like some immature teenager, intent to switch to her neck and mark the flawless canvass – now simply pale and pure. As if put on repeat, she mimics the earlier sound – a response to the harsh suck – leaning backwards, expecting him to continue the established path further down, and yet he is back at the face level within a matter of seconds, having stained her flesh with a purplish bruise.

“I do mind that a bit, you know,” she huffs, feigning annoyance, even if only in a partial sense, unable to ignore the rapid pulsing of violated skin, akin to a sisterly heart drumming just underneath the surface.

“Didn’t see you complaining earlier,” he hums against her lips, planting a lingering kiss on the plump pout. “If I were in your shoes I’d be happy to have something to eye in the mirror when the lover boy is gone. Which, by the way, reminds me that I gotta be going, now that I’ve clearly overused your hospitality.”

(Like flipping a switch.)

“You gotta what?” She frowns in confusion, squealing in surprise as he slides her off his lap, leaving the female perched on the sofa, beyond agitated.

“Sleep tight and remember to call me in the morning.”

And with that he is gone, slipping through the door like a desert dust carried with the wind, its remains inhabiting every space imaginable, forgotten to be swiped away even while cleaning; since he would be damned if he allowed some brat to flash him her bits, get him all riled up just to back out in the end with whatever pathetic excuse she manages to make up on the go.

So instead he prefers the prevention strategy.

Leave her hanging.

Desperate for any kind of attention.

As for the clever, cunning.

Sadist.

* * *

It is safe to assume that getting used to the thought of her and Connor together took the young singer a fair amount of time, and not only that. What else was required to accomplish such inhuman target must have been the so-called emotional tranquility, not her most spectacular forte to be honest, and furthermore accepting the fact that he wants something more from her, whatever that something is.

The very thing that destroys her?

Might as well be, not that it would surprise Gia, considering her ever-present knack for involving in presumably not the most beneficial relationships, just for the sake of illusionary intimacy justified by equally tentative trust, the need to keep people close, lend them a helping hand in hope they will reciprocate someday. To contribute but never to be rewarded, at least with the desired amount of compassion, always judged through the prism of her performance, the outer surface – tissue-thin epidermis – deprived of human curiosity to dip millimeters underneath, and so discover what else she is willing to offer, beyond the carnal realm.

Cruelty of the

Arbitrary

Resolution.

And yet, she cannot stop thinking about him, imagining how his steps would echo in the corridor leading to her flat, how his hand would rise to press the button, how his feet would tap the ground while waiting for her to meet him by the entrance, far more preoccupying than she would like it to be. Tethering on the edge between two parallel dimensions – corporeality and conceptuality – she barely notices the slicing sound, tearing up the multi-level reverie into a bunch of useless pieces – a ring reverberating in the air.

“Fuck,” she curses, startled by the way too real noise, almost tripping, as she shoots up from the couch, rushing to open the door. She is greeted with the oh so unexpected sight of the ‘lover boy’ – display of vibrant confidence, obscuring the hint of impatience that must be lurking just beneath the surface, once again without any of his posh suits, although not lacking essential elegance, having opted for simple black pants and matching shirt, keeping the top buttons undone, certain she would notice. As per his earlier assumption, her eyes linger on the exposed flesh, also marked by the ink, evoking the wonder about how far it actually reaches, which in turn leads to the much more risqué concept – the fact that tonight she is meant to clarify all doubts.

(Fuck.)

“Ever bother to check the visual?” He leans against the doorway, clearly waiting for any invitation, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at her – an indication she catches sooner than later, allowing him to step inside, and shut the door. “Or is it the perspective of seeing me that distracts you so much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she throws over her shoulder – feigned carelessness – as she follows him to the living area, frowning when he perches atop the mattress instead.

“And depend on random compliments?” He chuckles, fingers stroking the silky sheets, as if to approve their law of existence as a part of her bedding. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sure you will,” she rolls her eyes, nevertheless allows him to pull her onto the plush surface, their knees bumping as she settles down beside the man.

“What a clever girl you are, truly astounding,” he purrs – the exact same tone he used just a few days ago, and yet so much different – fresh and bold, evoking the insatiable desire for more. “Which reminds me that I’ve brought some wine for us.”

“I’m more of a Tequila girl to be honest,” she bestows him a fleeting smile, thrown off guard by the brush of his fingers upon the exposed thigh, now that her dress has ridden up a little, nevertheless quick to return on the abandoned track of thoughts, “but wine is a classic, so I appreciate it.”

“Sure, Sundance,” he teases, tickling her skin with feather-like strokes – another call-back to their last encounter – although this time her muscles quiver as he skims the golden ring adorning her shapely leg.

“So do you want to drink it now, or-”

“Why the nerves?” He frown, in time with the touch-deprivation, placing the aforementioned bottle by the foot of her bed with a soft click – unsettling since terminal, at least according to personal perception – supreme deceiver. “It’s not like I’ve came here to hurt your or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, reaching out for his hand to thread their fingers together. “But you’re just something… something new to me, and I have no idea what to expect, that’s all.”

“Oh honey,” he smirks, eyes glinting with a lingering promise that leaves her determined to uncover the truth behind his intents, “you’re gonna love this, I promise.”

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for that then,” she shrugs, allowing him to pull her onto his lap once again, calves on either sides of his thighs for a change.

“Guess you’ll have to.”

And with that, their lips collide, sucking a breath from her lungs, and so shaping up the focus – tunnel vision, disability to judge the situation through the prism of a bigger picture, especially when his hand reaches the zipper of her dress, soon to drag it down, exposing the pale flesh to relatively warm air. In spite of that, her skin prickles with goosebumps, failing to contain a violent shiver, as his fingers explore the area in sync with the sensual dance that is their kiss – awakening of the burdened desire, prompt to shove him down, check whether he would crack in response – such an absurd idea, downward foolish, although that she is yet to realize, all in due course.

Puzzled with the sudden shift in her attitude, he peers up to the woman, forehead marked by a frown of confusion, until his gaze follows a path further south, halting once it reaches the disarranged cleavage, tops of her breasts peeking through the fabric. As if with a mind of its own, his hand reaches out to tease the feminine curve, eliciting a gasp from his not-so-stern partner, leaning towards his touch – fleeting scrape of butterfly’s wings upon the heated flesh, meant to enhance the inborn craving for more.

“C’mere,” he purrs, low baritone that sends a vibrant buzz straight to her core, and yet she hesitates to comply, tethering on the pinnacle between elongating the mild, although undoubtedly pleasant, experience and succumbing to the whispering prompts of her instinct, too caught up in the trance to deny the subconscious responses delivered by her body.

Seemingly unable to defer anymore, she leans in to him, sighing as he cups the perky globe in one hand, teasing the protruding nipple with the pads of his fingers, until she gasps his name – a single word, yet potent enough to cloud his eyes with a resemblance of lust, mirroring the fiery hue of her own irises. With the self-control aspect casted aside, she allows him to pull down the fabric and so expose the upper half of her body that he appears to be quite fond of at this point, attempting to ignore both the burning gaze upon bare skin and the growing hardness in between her legs, applying pressure to the dampening folds.

Intimidating to say the least, considering it has been a while since she was placed under such circumstances – a penis owner in her very own bed, grazing the lacy cloth with barely palpable shifts. In the midst of honesty she is ready to admit that the concept of stuffing a rigid member inside has always filled her with some odd kind of nervousness, disgust maybe – determinant of established preference, leaning more to the opposite option.

Even so, she has found herself attracted to the Connor almost at the spot, the exact moment his eyes landed on her figure by the doorway – initiation of the merest physical attraction, meant to blossom into something of entirely different nature, something that scares her more than she cares to admit. Furthermore, the last issue she needs to deal with is unrequired love, considering he is not the man who gives his heart away to each and every person he crosses paths with, unlike some people – hit for the metaphorical nail, precisely why she possesses so much hatred for him, at least a part of her does, while the other is drowning hopelessly, claiming she is a unique being, crafted for him like personal software.

With all that crap in mind, there is still the third aspect to it all – lust-laced craving, the carnal impulse that has her thighs fluttering in anticipation for what he is intent to deliver as his eyes bore into her – burning itch atop the exposed skin.

And that she is dying to find out.

“Mmm… fuck,” she moans, dumbfounded by the unusually intense sensation, rocking her hips to relieve the tension – subconscious response to the lack of direct stimulation – eliciting a throaty chuckle from the man below.

“So soon?” He teases, flinching as she presses closer to him, radiating with natural heat that has him twitching in some animalistic need to dive straight to the main business, even if for a split second. “How about a little variety first?”

“What variety?” She frowns, the movements of her hips halting as his hand abandons her breast, curious, or maybe just anxious, about his intensions.

“Ever been blindfolded?”

The question left to linger in the air for a split second, required for the artiste to comprehend its meaning, garnishing her cheeks with a reddish hue that laces his lips in yet another version of the so-called smug smirk, cocking an anticipatory eyebrow at the female. With her faced marked by the concoction of embarrassment and most importantly lust, she is no more no less a sight to behold, chewing at the corner of her lip in restless wonder – overthinking, burden of humanity. Even though it last for only a few seconds, he perceives it at least as a million

(what a surprising turn of events…),

yet maintains the essential patience to hear Gia’s response as his hands stroke her sides in some mindless form of caress, and so delay the decisive process, maybe without realization. What requires that brief struggle – point of discussion – is her return from the voluptuous trance, featuring the flash of seemingly every possible scenario, frenzied enough to appear as embarrassing, she shakes her head no – brisk denial – still leaving the matter pending.

“Wanna try it out tonight?” He proposes, to which she nods for a change, feverishly enough to fuel the cocky smirk upon his features – a concoction of lust and amusement. “Say it.”

“Yes, I wanna try out tonight,” she complies, without hesitation this time, as if he managed to strike some cord deep within, a cord that has her thighs twitching in search for the relief-granting friction.

(Fuck… that’s too much.)

“Very well then,” his gaze adverts to the side, indicating Gia to follow the established direction, settling once it reaches the flimsy gown hanging on the door of her wardrobe. “Give me that silky ribbon from your robe.”

Without further ado, she rises from the well-accustomed-with spot, and with a few, rather wobbly, steps, snatches the aforementioned item from the hanger, quick to pass it to him, indifferent whether it will reach its destination as smoothly as desired. In spite of that, he catches the belt with distinctive grace, twirling it in between his fingers for a brief moment, up to the point of fatal distraction – Gia discarding her dress to the side, allowing him to steal a glance of red lace covering the place of his interest, before she joins him on the bed, settled upon his lap once again.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, failing to conceal the breathy note marring the flawlessly composed voice – a nuance that appears to slip past her attention, without a doubt on his benefit, excited to follow his request, shivering at the first brush of silk over her skin, although not meant to relish the sensation for a longer while, since he is quick to tie it at the back of her head and so obscure the vision.

Pitch black.

“Lie down,” he bestows Gia with a concise order, having deprived her from the steady grip, hands now flying to grasp his shoulders, afraid to lose balance now that she is blind.

“How about a little help?” She huffs with a lingering hint of annoyance marring her voice, prominent enough to reach the picky ears of her paranoid manager. “I don’t fancy slamming my head in the wall, you know.”

“Don’t use that tone on me,” he snaps – an exclamation laced with a tethering promise, indicating that he is indeed a man of little tolerance to any form of misbehavior, which is not much of surprise to be honest, especially when considered through the prism of what she has witnessed him perform on the strictly professional ground.

“Or what?” She taunts, too blind, in the metaphorical sense of course, to realize how ridiculous she appears to him at the moment, pawing at his shoulders as the self-preservation instinct fully kicks in, working against her benefit, at least when it comes to narrow extension, yet to reach the verbal realm.

Which is exactly what elicits a mocking chuckle from the male, followed by an equally derisive comment, more than aware how to get under her skin. “Don’t tempt me, Sundance.”

“Like you wouldn’t want it,” she rolls her eyes, even though he is unable to see through the silky ribbon, letting out another vexed huff, cut short by the sudden flip that has her squealing in surprise, all against the conscious will. Some part of her finds such capacity rather unsettling, precisely how he can manhandle the dainty body in any desired position, while the other – dug out of the subliminal depth – relishes the sensation of physical submission, shivering in anticipation for more.

Luckily, that he is able to deliver, at least according to what she is hoping for, although the following action leaves her puzzled and most importantly alone on the mattress, almost prompting to remove the fabric in order to check why he has abandoned her. However, before she settles on any specific choice, she hears him rummaging through the bed drawer in search for hell knows what, and even though she is probably supposed to cut such liberties short, the woman remains still, well-aware of what he is looking for in there and yet caught in denial.

“If that’s what I think it is...” she begins, unable to conceal the subtle hint of trepidation within her voice, clearly excited to verify the inkling.

“What? This?” He pokes her in the side with the not-so-foreign object, buzzling to life in his palm, eliciting a shocked squeak from the female, much to his amusement. “Knew a lonely lady like you would have one.”

“I’m not-”

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums as if in some derisive form of agreement, lacking in pity but making up with condescension, now seated beside the partner, evident in the teasing brush of his pants’ fabric against her thigh. “But if you’re denying it so fiercely… then maybe I should stop?”

“No, I-”

“Just say it,” he prompts, tracing the golden ring encircling her thigh, which sends a resonating tingle all the way to her throbbing nipples. “Say that you want it, and it’ll be all yours.”

“I want you to touch me,” she states, feigning indifference, if not for the subtle hint of trepidation betraying her in the times of trial, which is no more no less than a hyperbole, but still – perception is delusive.

“Then beg,” he reciprocates, smirking as she twitches under his touch, subconsciously drawing her legs further apart – an instinctual invitation.

“But you said-”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts – a manner that elicits an audible huff from the dependent woman, supposed as a provocation, but at this point he is too amused to let such a silly misbehavior unhinge him. “So now I wanna hear you out for a change.”

“Please?” She asks – blunt and accusatory.

“Oh c’mon,” he frowns, undoubtedly displeased with her lack of dedication to the prior request – another polished façade he tends to display when needed. “You’re not even trying.”

To that, she has no response, at least throughout the course of several dozen seconds, required to verify the so-called balance of burdens and benefits, all while attempting to ignore the teasing brushes atop her exposed skin. She has never experienced anything like this – being so responsive to any form of touch, no matter how gentle, how fleeting, casted upon her flesh akin to some grotesque shadow – substitute of proper caress – which might as well be the real reason for cracking her resolve.

“Please, I need you to touch me so badly,” she strives for the most docile version of her tone, not used to such deal of resistance from the second participator, puzzled with the amount of self-control he has been displaying throughout their encounter. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?”

(Asshole.)

“No,” she sighs, beyond impatient, desperate to alleviate the tension blossoming between her legs, retreating the merest ability to focus, as if all pitiful remains of poorly constructed concentration have been thrown out of the window.

(Entropic fallout, wasn’t it?)

(Huh?)

All too soon, in one precisely brisk maneuver, he is hovering over her form, surrounding the female with natural body heat, as his lips trail butterfly kisses over the tender flesh of her neck – a gesture she would consider sweet under any other circumstances, albeit this time convinced that he is intent to transfer it into yet another merciless act. With the ability to contain her reflexes long gone, now that she is receiving any physical attention, she arches towards him, failing to contain a breathless gasp slipping past her lips as a response to his gesture – tracing the outline of her breast, as if to draw a spiral pattern to the middle – a fiery brand upon the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” she squeals, synchronized with the harsh nipple pinch, eliciting an amused chuckle from the arrogant lover who is now preoccupied with stroking a line down her stomach, tensed with the anticipation for the coming dive.

“Mmm… fuck…” he groans into her ear – billowing puff of breath – heat over heat – as his fingers skim the lace-covered folds, greeted by a soaking amount of wetness that speaks to the most primal parts of his brain, that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants, wishing to launch for the simplest cut-to-the-chase, even if for a brief moment. “That excited already?”

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, pushing her hips up in an attempt to meet the hand hovering just above the delicate material – merciless denial that has her muscles twitching in anticipation, enhanced by the sensory deprivation, lack of vision that forces her to ponder upon each and every outcome. “Please, I need- uh, f-fuck…”

A mere plea, uttered in the state of lust-laced deliriousness, disability to comprehend what is happening around her, caught off guard by the following action – a dive straight to the main point of interest, no more excess teasing, fooling around with the fleeting touches that set her skin aflame, wordlessly begging him to pursue. Instead, he replaced the previous tickling with firm pressure, smirking as her hips buck in response, determined to fulfill the innate craving for more direct stimulation, not separated by the thin lace – flimsy barrier that has risen to a rank of an ultimate obstacle, obviously thicker than she would like it to be.

“Take them off, please,” she whines, all too familiar with the burning frustration, laced into her being, taking a form of some grotesque thread, stinging like a sharp needle, crying to be removed.

“Seems like you’ve been demanding a lot lately, don’t you think?” He taunts, almost back to the smooth baritone if not for the lingering hint of restrain hiding behind his voice, the smoky gaze he has been casting upon her exposed body for quite a while, perceivable on the intuitive aspect alone.

“No, please,” she cries in despair as his fingers abandon their previous spot, beyond desperate to complete the process, hands reaching to grasp him, but he evades the clumsy clutches, letting out an amused chuckle at the frenzied attempt.

“Relax,” he purrs into her ear – a sound that sends a resonating shiver down her spine, which paired with the abrupt nip delivered on the tender earlobe almost has her moaning out loud, “I’m far from done with you yet,” an exclamation meant to elicit another violent shiver, accompanied by his throaty laugh. “But before we move on, any specific requests you have in mind?”

“No, just touch me,” she whines, too unhinged to bother with general appearance, clenching her thighs to alleviate the ache, in foolish hopes it will somehow slip past his attention.

(Sure.)

“How exactly?” He continues, quick to grasp the woman by the shapely muscle and draw her legs apart, all for the purpose of witnessing Gia trembling in frustration.

“However you want,” she reciprocates, already past the point of bothering to conceal her responses – polar opposite to the moderate man beside her, which might as well be yet another foolish assumption, if missing out the lustful glint in his eyes, silvery hue that has transferred into one of these restless storms – dark and predatory.

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums – a conclusion laced by a lingering hint, somehow sinister, indescribable with the human vocabulary, probably unsettling in the eyes of the young artiste – a final warning – but she is not in the mood to dwell on any underlying doubts, meant to be clarified as soon as he presses the vibrating bullet to her clit, forcing a choked moan from the equally astonished female.

“Fuck,” she gasps as another incomprehensible wave rocks through her body, muscles twitching in response to the increasing pressure, once again dying to get rid of the flimsy barrier, “off, please.”

“Lift your hips,” he instructs, almost at the spot, maybe fed up with drawing the inevitable as well, to which she complies, allowing him to slide the lacy panties down her legs, then approximately toss them aside.

Settled beside his lover again, evident in the heated exhales palpable upon her cheek, he resumes the initiated activity, dragging the buzzling bullet up her folds to circle the swollen nub, eliciting another reedy squeal from the squirming partner, which in turn has him wondering whether it is her casual reaction to such form of caress – inability to remain still, shifting from side to side as if caught in some frenzied state of lust. Therefore, to facilitate the process, he opts for an alternative position, tugging Gia in between his legs, back to the firm chest, now able to hold the woman more steadily with an open palm sprawling across her abdomen. Even if that simple, the act affects him more than he cares to acknowledge, at least when attempting to match the distinctive candor, marveling at how lightweight she is – penchant for dainty women in general – which combined with the soft moans slipping past her lips has him twitching against the swell of her ass.

Despite the thick curtain of lust clouding her mind, she can feel him perfectly through the thin layer of clothing, more than nervous to acquaint the full length, considering there is barely anything appealing about said part of male anatomy. Furthermore, her attitude leans more to the category of ‘intimidated’ than ‘excited’, while pondering upon the possible outcome, someway obliged to convert it into ‘inevitable’ – a trait that tends to lead people on the baneful avenue.

As well as concealing the truth.

“Enjoying yourself?” He mutters into her ear all of sudden, dragging the woman back to the contemporary realm, at least as much as the carnal aspect allows to, mind foggy with desire, relishing the temporal docility that she is displaying, more vulnerable than ever.

Seemingly not in the mood to oppose, she hums in affirmation, twitching as her body surges with the approaching wave of ecstasy, surprisingly close by now, considering how little physical attention she has received on the course of their encounter, maybe due to visual deprivation as for the enhancing factor. With the heightened sense of touch, the low vibrations on her clit feel divine, otherworldly even, as a part of her wishes to tether on such stage for blissful eternity, explore the unknown realm at leisured pace.

Unfortunately, it turns out that she will not be the judge of that, since he removes the toy, not quite certain when exactly, since the ability to evaluate the passing time has abandoned Gia as soon as he pressed the bullet to her clit. As if caught in some tunnel-vision state of lust, she attempts to reach out for him, unfortunate to slash through the thin air, which has her groaning in frustration, and despite more than evident amusement, he soothes her with a warm palm on her thigh and a whispering promise, dedication that causes her to choke on own spit, head snatching in his direction, more than certain that she must have misheard him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I wanted to taste you,” he repeats, the same purring baritone as before reverberating in her ear, sending a violent shiver down her spine – a throbbing buzz straight to her clit. “What? Man’s never gone down on you?”

“Man? No,” she counters, still in genuine shock due to the least expected proposition, especially from the lips of the most arrogant, selfish bastard she has ever encountered, opting to dismiss all sensible doubts, when considered through the prism of his potential intentions, certainly not featuring the direct aim for climax. “But please do go on, I’m interested.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he reciprocates, a sarcastic comment that somehow slips past her attention, most likely because she chooses to ignore it – negative for picky with more pressing matters occupying her mind.

“Can I get rid of the blindfold first?” She verbalizes what is germane, hands already reaching up to untie the knot, but he halts her with a disapproving click of his tongue, not intent to expand it to the physical realm, by grasping her wrists for instance.

“I don’t know, can you?” He teases, eliciting a frustrated huff from the female, as her hands fall to the chest, waiting for his approval, which pleases him more than she suspects, and so prompts to let it loose with a negligent tug.

Blinding light.

“Fuck,” she gasps, shielding her eyes from the city neons illuminating her face, bright and aggressive, marring the vision with ghoulish spots – temporal disability, excluded from the flawless world, shoved away as soon as it bumps into any of its dwellers, wandering in search of an ultimate place.

Chaos.

Parallel with humanity?

(Don’t be ridiculous.)

Smart enough to wait until it subsided, she adjusts their position, now chest to chest with Connor, as her sight shifts towards him, taking in the contours of his face, now accentuated by the artificial light, caught on the glimmering hint of chrome decorating his cheekbones – sharp and unyielding. Giving as good as he gets, his eyes bore into her façade – resemblance of a steel tool, corresponding with the icy shade, now reflecting the female’s image – orchid hair and tangerine irises, almost auburn in the dim illumination. There is something devilish about her, the intimate setting she is aiming for, the dainty hands braced on his chest, the affection in her gaze, prominent enough to unsettle the steady man, even if subdued by the membrane of lust, screaming warning to accelerate the process.

“Lie down,” he prompts, palms on the either sides of her hips as if to ensure she would move, “or else I might think you’ve changed your mind about this.”

“Sure,” she purrs, lips inches away from his, but still, the abrupt closure catches him off guard – firm pressure applied on the tender flesh – pouring every ounce of the bottled-up emotion into the kiss as for the vulnerable creature she is, meant to shatter in his callous grip, knowing it will be too intricate to comprehend if transferred into words. He lets her go with offbeat reluctance – a hint that she is able to catch, detached from his usual composure, topping it up with yet another fleeting peck, before she actually rolls to the side, nestling in the silky sheets – indication to pursue.

(Control-wrecking.)

With her spread out like this, prolonging the inevitable appears as beyond pointless, foolish dreams of a self-centered man with reliable composure, superior when juxtaposed with the pitiful rest, and yet succumbing to the carnal desire – spirited among the spineless, spineless among the spirited – civilized paradox. All meaningless in face of the feminine creature, lying on the velvety fabric, one knee bent, anticipating his touch, craving the flattery if only in the tactile realm, the synthetic hue of her irises now obscured by the eyelids – a detail at odds with his tastes and so a matter that he is quick to rectify with a stern grip upon her chin, eliciting a discontented whine from the young artiste.

“Eyes on me,” he bids, voice laced with proficiently concealed impatience, if not for the lingering hint marring the quintessential presentation – evidence of the lustful longing within his gaze, within the manner it outlines her curves, following up to the partly confused façade.

“I thought you-”

“Then you were wrong,” he interrupts, almost trespassing the point of autocracy that has her laughing out loud, albeit still capable of transferring it into a mere shadow of a proper smile – a nuance not meant to evade his perception, heightened by an animalistic instinct. “Don’t tempt me to wipe that smirk off.”

“What?”

Without bothering to clarify the four-letter query, as per usual, he retreats to the initial intention, determined to fulfill the shared craving – polar opposites that mingle into one, overlapping both perspectives – a prelude to the everlasting doubt:

To give or to receive?

(That is the question.)

In consideration with the dualistic lack of competence to put it to an end, and yet each time the occasion arises, every average scum would ask about interlocutor’s preference.

It must be the people who are damaged,

Shattered akin to a splinter of glass.

(Give me a fucking break.)

“Connie?” She frowns in confusion, clearly the one to be left hanging this time, albeit not only at loss in such realm – an exclamation shattering his reverie, not that it bothers him much under current circumstances.

Hence, being brought up to a point of boiling impatience, he opts for the simple cut-to-the-chase move and so settles in between her legs, pried apart with the telltale pressure of his hands applied onto the tender insides. Unable to ignore the tingling of her thighs, now grasped in his palms – slim and dainty in comparison, which evokes that odd concoction of contradictions – anxious but

(to the point of)

aroused, almost trembling with excitement for what is about to come.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Practically keening due to the freshly occurred friction, fleshy and tangible on the swollen folds, drawing a throaty moan from the woman – not the most appealing sound she could have uttered, but still, there is always a room for improvement, she thinks bitterly – caricaturistic resemblance of Connor’s notions. Little does she know, he is far from displeased, now that his hands are clasped around her thighs, and the tongue is tracing the feminine outline with deliciously firm strokes, having opted out of the warm-up, considered nonsensical after all prior actions.

In spite of the so-called burning frustration, each stroke is languid, leisure, as if it was his elementary intention to memorize the shape through such manner, but at the same time prevent from overwhelming her on the very first shot. That, paired with the poor concentration, limited to the heady flavor occupying his mouth, has his eyes adverting to the side, lids heavy with the decadent intoxication, mind much drowsier than before, so instead of maintaining the direct contact, he allows them to fall shut, even if for a mere moment.

Deprived of the visual stimulus, the object of main focus shifts to the taste-related factor, linked with a nuance that he has always perceived as interesting – each time it manages to satiate the fussy palate, which might as well be a direct result of pheromones’ presence – a bitter reminder that even below all the meticulously crafted layers lays yet another insignificant human, succumbing to the innate whim. A human barely able to maintain the substantial concentration with the rhythmical pumping of blood audible in his ears and an evidence of ardent lust crawling down his neck, beyond positive that his skin is hot to touch now, matching the tender flesh that is clutched in his hand, hard enough to bruise, he somehow manages to keep the pace, occasionally sucking at the swollen nub, intent to get as much from her as possible.

“Fuck, more,” she whines, urgency evident in her voice, shifting beneath the unyielding man, clenching around merciless nothing, “I need more.”

(There it is. More.)

“Already?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the frustrated vocalist, infuriatingly dapper in its condescension, tickling her with a mere stroke of his tongue upon the heated folds.

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, twitching due to the moderate caress, up to consider locking his head in between her thighs, even if for a split second, required to brace for the simplest of requests, “please.”

“And why is that?” He reciprocates in a teasing manner, now halting his movements all together to eye Gia with the signature intensity, still nested in the exact same spot. “Better not disappoint me with the answer, Sundance.”

“You’re such a-” she begins, soon interrupted by a cruel nip delivered right to the tender flesh of her folds – brisk, and so mind-clearing, but not harsh enough to hurt severely, and yet she cannot bother to hold back the boiling curse. “Ah- fuck you,” she spats, clearly not in the mood for any excess teasing, fed up with his never-ending talk, queries uttered in the most unfortunate moments, catching her in that peculiar state of delirious fogginess, as if intent to receive the most feverish answer.

“Well, I don’t see that coming,” he baits, still amused with each rising attempt to dethrone him from the superior position, feigning obstinacy to crack his resolve, check whether she has the capacity to break him – foolish pursuit of a permanent idealist. “Although I appreciate the sentiment.”

“What?”

“So,” he ignores the confused exclamation once again, determined to gain the desired answer from the woman, itching with impatience, enhanced by the lingering aftertaste upon his tongue. “Still so keen on disappointing me?”

“No, please,” she practically whines, dreaming about locking her legs to ease the ardent crave for friction. “It hurts.”

“I know it does,” he reciprocates, almost getting the hair-thin thread of longanimity to snap, thanks to the signature smooth swagger, especially when his eyes shift to the heaving breasts, pulsing with unresolved tension.

“Then ease me,” she suggests, not so demanding despite the straightforward nature of prior verbalization, laced with a prominent hint of desperation, impossible to be omitted. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?” He flashes her a pitiful smile, albeit this time she does not bother to formulate any retort, already shoved past the point of carnal urge, with tunnel vision drifting the hopeless individual towards her final destination – inevitable wreckage. To be honest, he must have lacked the corporeal form to omit all of these: how she is practically dripping on his tongue, quivering under the precise manners he glides her with, wave after wave, climbing higher and higher, up to the point where the rhythmical pulsing becomes tactile on the moist muscle. He is well aware of how little it would take to unravel the dumbfounded artist – three, maybe five sucks if he decides to embrace the latent potential for generosity – and yet the sadistic component wants to witness the scorching heap of frustration, spatting and cursing him to the nth degree just to get back on track with begging, merely a brief moment later.

(What a merciful man I am.)

(Merciful, huh? Now prove it.)

Almost sobbing in relief when the first tide rocks through her tingling body, she arches off the bed, damned if these were not stars she was seeing – nova, luminous explosion, blacking out the vision for a split second, yet enough to miss the hubristic glint in his eyes, relishing in the way her thighs quiver on both sides of his head. Allowing Gia to ride out the aftershocks, he bestows her with a milder alternative, barely skimming past the abused flesh, until she tugs him away by the hair, denying the access altogether, now that she is too sensitive to continue.

“That was nice,” she mutters, glancing at the rising man whose hands are now preoccupied with unbuttoning the burgundy shirt, “thanks.”

“Your ’nice’ is a fatal understatement, don’t you think?” He retorts, bitter once deprived of the physical connection, although the unravelling sight acts as enough of a distraction from the sour timbre, right at the gates of finding out about the authentic expanse of his tattoos.

“Maybe…” she drags on the syllable, drowsiness evident in the leisure mannerism, allowing her eyelids to fall shut for a longer moment, as if positive the resting interval between the tandem of acts is more than essential, “I don’t know…”

Conditional.

Blindness.

Once again without the visual stimulus, as if filtrating the faint shuffling in the background, her focus drifts towards more unnerving matters, towards how bizarre it will be to experience the subsequent intercourse in the manly way after those few years, now that she is a mere step from clarifying the preposterous doubts. Although she is certain he has no intentions in making her feel uncomfortable, out of place, as if she belonged elsewhere, as if she was incapable of transferring their time together into an enjoyable record for both of them – insecurity laced in between the strings of her being – she still hesitates, tethers on the pinnacle determining the predictive outcome.

(Now that is absurd.)

“C’mere,” he prompts, and if not for the purring baritone – a note that she has had a fair amount of time to get accustomed with – gentle tug of a dainty hand, she would remain trapped in the conceptual dimension. Instead, he settles Gia on his lap, eliciting a choked gasp from the artiste once she discovers the blunt lack of any form of clothing, all sturdy flesh below her petite form, eyes drifting to the stygian patterns marring the pale skin.

Vessel for conspectus.

Corporeal form.

Flattery of artistry.

Asseveration of one’s mindset.

Mysterious understatement.

“What does it mean for you?” She inquiries – a doubt popping out of blue, laced with apprehension of discovering the possible truth lurking behind his polished façade, emerging to the surface as a form of carnal avidity he eyes her with – a man starved, restive due to the intentional delay. “Sex.”

“Sex, huh?” He smirks – a ravenous glint enlightening his countenance. “Sex means power.”

(At least he is frank.)

(Sometimes, I feel sorry for him.)

“No, I mean this,” she gesticulates, pointing at each of them, albeit missing the amused tilt of his lips as a response to the untimed query, “you and me.”

“Entropy,” he bestows her with yet another evasive answer, now that he is so keen on pursuing further for a change, hands taking a steady grip on either sides of her waist, before he leans in for a kiss, meant to prevent the innocent doubt from blossoming into a full-blown sparring match – an overflow of endless qualms. In spite of her, rather disputable, judgment, she returns the caress, scooting closer to him – blatant euphemism since her breast are practically mashed against his chest, with frenzied heartbeat resonating through the ribcage.

Crescendo.

Pinnacle where one is deprived of the human ability to perceive reality as a compound of coherent particles, instead gradually declines into a place where most aspects acquire a diametrical form – indiscriminate and so considered unimportant through the prism of future reference. Analogy parallel to her current state, each and every worry evaporating in the night’s breeze, as his lips brush – no – claim the lonesome territory, hands trace the outline of her hips – reminder of the primordial intention – a mere breath away from flipping Gia on the back to clasp her hands above the head and… the rest speaks for itself.

(Better show than tell.)

And so, in order to keep up with the rush of concepts clouding his perception, he fulfills the aforementioned, eliciting an outraged gasp from the surprised female, as soon as she comprehends the abrupt reposition. Deciding to test the waters, she tugs at the makeshift binding, expecting him to tighten the grasp, but nothing like this happens, as if he managed to outrun her suppositions, and while it is still relatively firm, the pressure remains unchanged.

Queer.

Deep in her personal probe, she fails to notice his progressing movements, until he nudges her legs apart, right at the threshold of sliding in, twitching against the slender thigh in excitement. Due to the interval dividing the last and tonight’s encounter, rather generous in length, she acquires that peculiar like-a-virgin attitude, tensed and nervous, valuating the possible amount of discomfort, parallel to the potency of pain, almost blocking the way when he prods at her entrance, presumably by accident considering the following statement.

“You don’t have to impress me, okay? Just relax.”

Probably his first and only display of sweetness she would ever witness.

(Enjoy while it lasts.)

Which is exactly what she opts for, having taken a deep breath, hoping it will calm her rapid heartbeat – not only a futile but also naive attempt – prelude to the tearing entrée that forces a choked whine from her constricted throat, that has the hybrid nails biting crescent shapes into the heel of her palm. Although partly drowned by the feminine whimper, he utters his own groan – evidence of layered frustration, eased by the surrounding tightness, even if for a brief moment – while a part of him struggles to maintain still instead of nailing her to the mattress, not so metaphorically anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, chest heaving with each uneven breath, and what he suspects must have extended to hours and hours of malevolent interlude, in reality requires less than a minute to feel the woman shift below, hips bucking in form of a silent plea.

And who is he to deny her that?

Having opted for such choice, he rocks into her, at this peculiar state of awareness when it comes to each scrape, each flutter, each alternative in pressure against the throbbing member that forces a barely audible gasp from the preoccupied male. Always so self-contained, so persistent, so… composed, and yet she has managed to shatter the inch-thick pane with the merest nuances – a blemish of honor – which disturbs him more than he cares to admit.

In a heap of developing necessity to shove the thought aside, he picks up the pace, forcing his eyelids open to observe the variety of reactions manifesting themselves on her face, too monotonous for his own liking, as if something was preventing the artiste from enjoying their encounter, as if a part of her was immune to the charms he used to enchant a number of lovers throughout the years. Even though she is, indeed, responding, uttering a soft mewl here and there, for some reasons each time he attempts to add his duos, the equalization grants him with an answer of three, as if a single particle was missing, which infuriates him even more than the stain once did.

Matter laid in his hands.

Before she gets a chance to take a grasp on what is happening, he leaves her lying cold by his side, even if only in a metaphorical sense, struggling to relocate in the changing settings, if the abrupt emptiness counts as one, beyond confused and so determined to express her immerse displeasure with the recent turn of events. While he however, less than keen on hearing whatever complains she dares to throw at him, shushes her in the most brusque way possible, at least if considering it through the prism of abusing the physical superiority

(is this even the right expression?),

by tugging her over his lap once again, albeit this time getting Gia to face the window, which has her frowning in confusion, all before he somehow situates himself inside once again, eliciting a throaty moan from the woman, surprisingly husky in contrast with the usual honeyed tune.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, clenching around him, positively caught off guard due to the fresh angle, squirming as she tests the waters – an action that has him hissing in discomfort, full of hatred towards the sensation that comes with being teased.

“Glad to hear that,” he mutters into her hair, breath tickling the tender skin below her ear. “Now grind your hips.”

Puzzled with the sudden shift in his attitude – giving up the control from before, at least as an initial impression – a matter of delusional deception – she halts instead of complying, which prompts him reiterate.

“C’mon, don’t make me repeat myself,” he purrs into her ear, lips stroking the sensitive flesh as he speaks, intent to discover what pace does the trick for the young artiste in his arms, and with that thought in mind, he allows himself to sigh as soon as she begins to move. Despite being well aware it might not be the most convenient position to lead, he intends to find out about the unspoken preference – reason of their misconception – and much to his surprise, she seems to enjoy whatever is happening between them now, having settled for the slower pace.

Soft and tender.

“Touch me, please,” she whines, grasping him by the arm in order to direct it in between her legs, when all off sudden, instead of fulfilling her wish straight away, he grasps her by the hips, putting the leisure interlude to an end, replaced by his own thrusts, meant to elicit that husky moan once again. Therefore, he slips his hand right where she wanted it merely a moment ago, drawing a honeyed mewl instead as it circles her clit, teasing the swollen nub with the same languid pace that almost had him tremble in frustration before, dying to witness the myriad of responses lying in her capacity.

“How does it feel?” he rasps, voice hoarser than ever before, clouded with a dense fog of lust, as if indicating the non-acceptance of disobedience in any form. “Tell me.”

“So good… so…” she begins, struggling to find the right words, the bodily influence over her mind more than evident under the current circumstances, “so… relieving… just keep going, please. ”

In spite of the hackneyed cliché, the sentence itself creates a binding influence over the male, combined with the layer cake of various frustrations, filled with piling impatience, and so enough to prompt him to fulfill the wish straightaway. Ergo, he increases the intensity of both aspects, which has her writhing atop him, squirming and whining for release, mouth agape and back arched, soaked in the neon glow – foggy reflection in the glass pane, branded underneath his eyelids for plenty of nights in the future.

Carnal fixation.

Who twists her neck to steal a kiss, bumping their noses together, dying to taste him once again before the final climax – elsewise pleonasm – fluttering around his girth as a prelude for what is inevitable, beyond anticipated, while he appears as perfectly capable of sensing her need, and so returns the caress. Albeit this time, it is safe to assume he is not just toying with her anymore, now that he is creeping closer and closer to the personal pinnacle, thighs twitching as she clenches around him to the point of vice-tight, almost preventing any movement, which might as well be a matter of hyperbolizing, but still, he would never allow it to end prematurely.

(A blemish of honor, was it?)

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps, with the self-control aspect running thin, evident in the loss of rhythm, perceptible even if not absolute.

“I- ah-” she gasps after a particularly rough thrust, interrupting whatever train of thoughts she has been gliding through, rewarded with a sharp nip on the side of her neck.

“Tell me,” he reiterates – gravelly groan that sends a tremor down her spine – rubbing the sensitive nub in firm circles, up to the point where she cannot help but buck against his hand, right at the cusp of bliss, ready to fall.

“I want this, plea-ease,” she whines, stuttering at the end, voiced laced with sheer desperation, dying for the final push.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Mouth agape in a silent scream bubbling inside her constricted throat, she arches into a telltale bow, head falling onto his shoulder, as she flutters around him – rhythmical pulsing that pushes him over the edge, muscles twitching below. Never had she allowed a man to use her like that, and while the artiste was once positive it must be the single most distasting experience of one’s life, she finds herself relishing in the inglorious sensation, trembling as the wave of aftershocks rocks through her limp frame.

(Fucking hell.)

(Fucking hell.)

Tangled on the silky sheets and coming down from their heights, neither of them dare to exchange a word, and so break the comfortable silence – tranquility emerging from the storm – instead bask in the afterglow, with him nuzzling her hair, seemingly in a moment of weakness, lacking the previous rapture. As if unable to foresee the inevitable, she utters a whine of protest the moment he pulls out from her body, having settled the partner aside once he collapses onto the mattress, fatigue evident in his movements, and yet allows her to curl into his side, even intertwine their fingers.

Interesting.

What else might be considered in such terms is the contrast, beyond stark, both in color and texture – creamy and tender juxtaposed with the inky pattern, flesh that is rough in to touch, indicating he must have been working in an entirely different field from the current corporative line – a layover on the methodical path to the ornament itself. Examining the small tattoos drawn over their length, she finds the disability to identify what has been depicted on his skin in such a dim lightening a tad bit infuriating, although not mood-defining, which would be rather odd elsewise – getting emotional over some minuscule detail.

(Hypocrite.)

“Did they hurt?” She asks, breaking the drowsy lull that has settled over them, a question that prevents him from dozing off for now, which might turn out for the better in the nearby future, since he is not quite fond of random modification in the hygiene routine.

“No,” he bestows her with a dismissive answer, once again and much to her annoyance if under any other circumstances, certainly not when she is lying half-asleep beside another warm body. “Mind if I use your shower?”

“No,” she mimics his most recent answer, nevertheless positive when it comes to the veracity of said statement.

What a terrible misconception.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – peaceful if not for that peculiar inkling lingering in the back of his mind, as if to indicate some ominous turnabout he opposes to discover. Pairing it up with one of the most loathed traits – attempting to fool himself – does nothing to alleviate the situation, instead enhances the disquietude that has been occupying his soul for quite a while, which in turn brings the anticipation of any possible denouement to the light, craving for certainty rather than a bunch of arising assumptions, even if it would lead to a minacious discovery.

Paradox.

Imminent downfall.

But a lesson from the most experienced teacher.

Life.

Life that has managed to educate him on a carnival realm, including even the least expected plot twists, the most obnoxious outcomes, begging for correction, a correction beyond qualifications, evoking the ardent embarrassment that follows in the wake of incapacity.

Although this time what initiates the process is an act.

An act so simple.

Nearly offensive.

A telephone.

No.

Let’s try that again.

It all starts out with a telephone from an old pal.

“Buenas noches, Connor,” he greets with a throaty tune that the manager has almost brought himself to forget – a road paved with good intentions. “Long time no see, eh?”

“Yes, most certainly,” he reciprocates, albeit surprisingly brisk to block the visual, all while striving for a note as calm as possible, burying all worries underneath the surface, at least for now – flawlessly polished façade.

“Oh c’mon, why so formal?” He whinges, smirk audible in his voice. “We haven’t talked for how long? Seven? Eight years?”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs, feigning indifference – desperate attempt of a drowning man. “It’s work related anyway.”

“Still concrete, I like this,” he remarks – deceptive tease.

“Flattery is useless,” he counters, tone harsh akin to a dagger – a reminiscence from the old times. “Unless, of course, you’re calling ‘cause you’re bored to shit and have no one to fuck. But I believe that’s not the case, now is it?”

“Sadly no,” he sighs, as if truly upset. “I have a wife now, so you know…”

“Oh and that’s stopping you? Fuck…” he rolls his eyes in mock disbelief – an involuntary response to the smoky tone. “But okay, let’s assume it does; then what’s the real issue, where’s the fucking catch?”

“You see people change-”

“And you believe in it? An old dog like you?” He interrupts – a retort followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Give me a fucking break.”

“Yes, I do believe it now,” he counters, voice laced with a hint of annoyance. “You see, I don’t like people within my scope, what’s mine stay mine. And who would understand it better than you, am I right?”

He only hums in approval.

“Very well,” he must be smiling now, not that he would want to see anything of that sort, but still, it disturbs him more than he cares to admit – a malevolent omen. “So I want you to do something for me, you know, for that time in New Mexico. I hope it rings a bell.”

“Yes, most certainly,” he mimics the prior answer, which has the man huffing in annoyance, although not interrupt his train of thoughts, if so enhance the need to spill the tea now that he has been given a chance.

Disastrous decision?

Well again, not really.

“Still remember how to kill?”

How many words?

Five?

Five words to utter the contrasting sentence, indicate the earth-shattering proposition.

Five words to send him straight to hell.

In business class.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Do you have the slightest idea what the fuck are you talking about?” He responds after good three minutes – a fleeting expanse of time, slipping out of attention’s grasp, unnoticed by the stern man – voice marred with helpless wrath. “I won’t get involved in any of your shady little businesses.”

“And why is that?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the empty screen, wishing Connor could see this – a victory amongst the vicious.

“Fuck you,” he spats, hands twitching in immerse rage. “Just- fuck you!”

“Better not piss me off, chico, ‘kay?” He interjects – an exclamation laced with blossoming annoyance now that his interlocutor has allowed himself for far too many liberties. “I’m nice, ‘cause we’re friends, but I won’t be nice if you piss me off, está claro?”

“Can’t you hire anyone else?” An attempt of discussion? Really? Downright pitiable. “I bet you have multiple sidekicks that would gladly do this for you, ‘cause now I don’t have any time to deal with your shit.”

“Pfft… as good time as any,” he counters, oh so unexpectedly. “Plus I think you’re gonna do this far better than any one of them, not to mention – for free.”

“The first one is a fucking lie, which we both know, and the second-”

“Oh I beg to differ,” he interrupts, still vexed although convinced that what Connor needs is time, time to get accustomed with the inevitable concept, matter extending beyond the realm of personal control. “Both are relevant. You’re the best and you’re gonna do this for free ‘cause you fucking owe me. End of the story.”

“I don’t-”

“Oh you do,” he cuts off once again, intent to get the best of him – calm attitude and meticulous precision, “so just fucking listen for once.”

“What is it even about?” He queries, now that he has managed to satiated the ardent rage, at least enough to circle back to the milder tone, a tone that would fit Thiago’s tastes. “Business? Revenge?”

“Well, both I’d say,” he bestows him with a brisk affirmation, not that he is surprised, “but I don’t wanna get into many details now that we’re on the line, not that anyone of those sacks of fuck would care, but still, you know how it is… Anyway, his name is Carlos Vásquez, and two, three years ago he was just a pimp, a regular pimp, ‘recruiting’ regular people to do regular shit, nothing special, right?”

“So what has changed?”

“He’s extended his business’ interests to the drug market, but even that wouldn’t concern me much, at least not that much to kill him,” he halts, possibly to enhance the suspense, which combined with exasperating Connor creates quite a lucrative form of entertainment. “Which was until that pendejo, pedazo de hijo de puta, sent a bunch of assholes to kidnap my daughter, my fifteen-year-old daughter, my Ava. You’ve never met her, but I believe I’ve mentioned her once or twice in New Mexico.”

“If only,” he huffs – a mannerism deliberately ignored by the influential businessman – rolling his eyes in a display of thespian impatience.

“And let me tell you, I’ll never, ever let that motherfucker get away with this,” he continues – malicious promise, albeit paved with good intentions.

“Where is she now?” He interjects, a blunt query that has his friend, supposing he can be labeled as such, laughing out loud.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft all of sudden… Christ.”

“It’s a practical question,” he explains, apparently displeased with the obligation to enlighten the aforementioned. “’Cause I want you to know from the very beginning that I ain’t gonna save her.”

“Oh, thank you kindly for your compassion, but she’s safe now, which is all you need to know,” he clarifies – an exclamation that has the manager sighing in relief, considering his reluctance when it comes to any dramatic rescues.

“And the details?”

“I’ll send them later,” the Mexican flips him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, having forgotten he has blocked the visual, not that it bothers him much anyway. “You know, photos, business associates, lovers’ names, blah, blah, blah…”

“Sure you will,” he nods, feeling obliged to clarify all matters despite the boiling tension, threatening to leak onto the surface – indication of the so-called professionalism. “Any special requests?”

“Well… actually yes.”

(Ah, of course. Fuck me up, will you?)

“I want it the old-fashioned way. Strangle him for me. Bare hands.”

(Sure, and what else?)

“Sure, customer is king,” and he even manages to pull off a smile.

Sick.

“Glad we agree on this one, but don’t forget to record it,” he reminds – an unprofessional explanation, beyond obvious, and so to the point of offensive. “It’s gonna provide me a prove of you work, plus later on… who knows? We could… reprogram it into a simulation for instance.”

“Sure,” he agrees – a brisk affirmation, a signature of his.

“And maybe, just maybe, don’t get too hooked on the idea, you’ll get some spare cash after all, from the sale of course,” he proposes, not that it bothers Connor at this point, lacking the essential turnabout.

“Mhm, merciful,” he remarks, ever the sarcastic. “But what now? Should I wait for some kind of a call or…?”

“Yeah, just wait,” he bestows him with yet another terse confirmation, indicating whatever low-class joke that has been blossoming underneath his skull. “Dulces sueños, babe.”

And with that he hangs up.

Son of the bitch.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – release of her debut album, and so considered as an entry ticket to the variety of possibilities, reserved for the elite only, at least according to what she thought at that time.

Obso-lite.

Obtuse.

Lie.

Therefore, as the years pass by, so does her confidence when it comes to the human potential, artificial power that he has gained through the achievements of the most sublime minds, possession of little respect, taken for granted. All for the convenience of the beneficial ones, monstrous corporations with tremendous influence over the common men lead by the exceptional – an astral being that transcends human consciousness, marking its presence in the society’s genome for generations.

Ridiculously potent.

Romantic phantasy?

But worth recommencing.

Ergo, she has decided to make a use of all the interludes in between their meetings, and so replace the prior mindless fumbling with an action far more directed when juxtaposed with hours and hours of staring at the celling. For months, she was struggling to realized how many inhibitions were piling up to form one grotesque stack, defining the incapacity, artistic lameness that accompanies them, crossing creator’s steps, interfering with the futuristic vision.

And so, she has transferred the mental freedom into work, resulting in a trio of fresh composition – a birdlike tune, cyber tweet – with more than a little help from the synthesizer – an attempt to retreat it in the limelight as a substitute for the dreamy vocals that would play the first fiddle in her debut album. Regardless, as a slave to consumerism, she cannot fight the nervousness that comes with driving down the less explored road, hoping it will pick anyone’s interest and so curries favor with the influential corporation, at least according to what Connie has asseverated.

Risk.

The most influential spice…

But that was before the article.

“Gia?” She hears a male voice addressing her, audible due to relatively close proximity – a factor rather important in the buzzling club. “I haven’t seen you here for a while. Why?”

“Um, I’ve been busy,” she explains, lifting her gaze, only to be greeted with a sight of an infamous Interstellar bartender, leaning by the table top to face her, “but I needed to let off some steam, so that’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Cool,” he nods in affirmation, a matter to cut the topic short. “So what’s you poison?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting?” She eludes, eyes glued to the array of various liquors preening from behind his back. “The fact that we say ‘poison’ instead of ‘alcohol’, ‘drink’ or whatever as if it was some kind of an indication?”

“Honey, I’m a bartender,” he smiles, apologetic yet condescending – such an odd composition. “It’s my fucking job to sell them, so what are you expecting me to say?”

“I don’t know, nothing probably,” she shrugs despite the burdening weight draped over her shoulders – non-verbal indication of a missing query.

“Look at me,” he prompts, to which she complies, locking their gazes together, even if for a split second. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know either,” she sighs for a change, distracted by the subtle clink of glass against the polished table top – water, she presumes, satisfactorily sparkling. “I mean, it’s just… Have you seen the articles?”

“‘Romance with an outlaw?’” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the woman, unable to miss the reddish tint blossoming upon her checks as a response to the ridiculous headline. “Yes, and sometimes I’m amazed where the fuck they dig that shit from, which is probably the Net, but still, their ‘dedication’ is incomprehensible for me.”

“He’s not even an outlaw, so I don’t get it,” she shakes her head – expression of a deep-rooted disapproval.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden. “I just think the editors assumed it’d sell itself as, I don’t know, romantic or some shit, but that’s by the by.”

“I mean the real problem is that he hid so many things from me,” she frowns, gaze glued to some mindless spot on the bar – venomous green, absinthe maybe? “And although he has never been the one to discuss his past, I was surprised when I read the article, and I’ve been surprised ever since.”

“Mhm, so tell me now, have you ever asked yourself just why he did that?”

“Yes, but um, it was just… a weird experience? I don’t know,” she sighs, hybrid nails scratching at the pale temple. “I feel like he should’ve told me since we’re together, ‘cause that’s… that’s what I’d do.”

“I believe not,” he opposes – dry and unyielding, beyond unexpected.

“Oh great, so now you’re defending him,” she fusses, exasperation evident in her voice. “That’s exactly what I need, thank you very much.”

“Christ, Gia,” he rolls his eyes, sometimes just as equally tired with her pendulum-like moods. “All I wanted to say was that it’s nothing but an academic example. Take for instance that moral dilemma with pedestrian crossing. You’re sitting at home, drinking tea, while choosing to murder random groups of people. And that’s absurd, ‘cause in real life it’d never happen, and even if, when push comes to the shove you might act out of pure instinct, deprived of warm beverage and blanket. So what I’m trying to say is that those hypothetical scenarios… they are all just assumptions, no more no less, and we’ll never know what we’d do unless we find ourselves involved in a certain situation.”

“Okay, but I still think he should’ve told me,” she justifies, seemingly at loss of the mental flexibility.

“How long are you together?” He questions, as if only to prove a point. “Two? Three weeks?”

“Four,” she corrects – a matter considered beyond insignificant by the bartender who is relatively quick to brush the artiste off in resemblance to Connor, and so much to her exasperation.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause, you know, not anyone feels ready to spill the guts after twenty-something days of personal relationship.”

“I was just trying to be honest with him, ‘kay?” She counters, attempting to mitigate the prior surge of spite with an apologetic explanation. “Show a little empathy, or something.”

“So you’re telling me your ‘empathy’ is uniformed when it comes to, I don’t know, traumas?” He retorts, as if genuinely tired with the lacking logics when it comes to justifying her motives.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sorry,” she sighs, once again back to the resigned attitude, now that the ire has evaporated. “It’s just… he’s killed people there, and I don’t know… I feel like it’s a lot to digest. Especially since I got furious and pushed him into telling the truth, and he… he told me so many horrible things, he told me they-”

“Which war was that?” he interrupts, having sensed the approaching lachrymose confession. “Climate one?”

“Yes, the Fifth,” she bestows him with a terse affirmation, swallowing the thick lump in her throat.

“The Fifth one… okay, so think about it now,” he waves his hand in a self-indicating gesture, accompanied by her eyes following the movement, even if for a split second. “He must’ve been like, I don’t know, twenty at best.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” she nods, face marked by a perturbed frown – indication of worry, “but then I started digging, and I’ve discovered some really weird shit.”

“Like what exactly?”

“It’s like he’s been alive for eight years or something,” she begins, having reversed the chronology, at least according to his assumptions, considering she tends to do that sometimes. “I mean he told me he had had some kind of an accident there or whatever, got half off his organs replaced because of that. But when he had gotten better, they were to send him back on the field, right?”

“Right, but what about these eight years or something?” He inquires, attempting to redirect her train of thought to the clarifying realm, now that he is getting curious.

“I’ll circle back to it later, ‘kay?” She sighs, albeit this time to indicate the vexation evoked by his query. “So the last thing he told me was that he deserted, right?”

“Right,” he nods in affirmation.

“And that was when Cara pushed me to start digging,” she reveals, emphasizing it with the click of her cantaloupe nail against the table top.

“Cara? I thought you two were-”

“Yes, we are, but that’s not important now,” she interrupts, determined to set the record straight now that he is interfering with her vision, even if unintentionally. “Anyway, after the desertion there is like… a blank spot on his record – six years or something – and then he’s back in the corporative class.”

“Where have you learned that?” He frowns – puzzled expression dancing over his features.

“In the Net,” she states – a sentence considered beyond obvious, redundant, waste of a triple nature.

“Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?” He indicates, hesitating when it comes to veracity of said assumption, but at the same time uncertain whether it is a sane idea to confirm her beliefs. “Maybe he moved to his parents’ house, wanted to get some rest, or something? Wasn’t active on social media? Christ, I don’t know.”

“I mean it was just the Surface that we managed to check, so…”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here!” He exclaims, shaking his head in disapproval, now that the realization has been casted upon him. “To pay that sleazy son of fuck to get you down to the Dark, now am I right or am I correct?”

“You know where is he?”

“No,” he negates, careless all off sudden, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, “and I haven’t seen him tonight at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” she states – dry and demanding when refused.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he smiles – both apologetic and condescending once again, prompting her to finish this conversation, no matter how helpful it turned out to be.

“But thanks anyway,” she concludes, having opted for a lighter undertone, since a part of her refuses to treat him akin to some pitiful pushover, not that he would care much in such circumstances.

“Sure, you’re welcome, Gia.”

A greeting appropriate just for tonight.

Indication of lacking fortune.

* * *

Breathing.

It is a simple act, lasting in a self-repeating loop – inhale and exhale, entwined with each other on the model of the aforementioned construct – remaining out of notice due to its permanent presence throughout one’s life. Which is why he considers meditation as worth the effort, since it lets his focus switch to the routine activities connected with the process itself: steady rises and falls of his shoulders, expansion of the ribcage conditioned by the diaphragm’s contractions – a way to get rid of what is redundant but also a method of relaxation, capacity valued in the times of trial.

Times such as now.

Times when he is forced to circle back to the past, and so to break the promise, ideological contract signed by the immaterial stylus, undoubtedly requiring the highest penalty.

Times when the dim lights become blinding.

When the silhouettes stop moving.

When the music dies down.

Leaving him alone in the secluded dimension.

Wiped away from the memories.

From the consciousness.

Buried deep enough to prevent the excavation.

And yet he is standing there, just at the doorway coexisting in two realms – both virtual and metaphorical – ready to take the leap.

Just a mere step

Pass the threshold.

“Everything’s ready?” He ascertains, struggling to recognize the rasp of his own voice.

“Yeah,” he hears the cracking noise reverberate in the earbud, before the connection steadies, allowing him to distinguish the following words properly. “Push it now.”

“Mhm, sure,” he hums, acting as per her request just to be greeted by the sight of a luxurious penthouse, impossible to be swept as a whole.

“I’ll lead you through, ‘kay?” She has a nice voice – a nuance that does not slip past his attention – smooth as molasses.

“Well, I hope so,” he teases, having decided to stray from the subject a bit, even if only for the entertaining purposes. “But, you know, I’ve been wondering what it is that you’re actually risking by helping me?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses to clarify – ice-cold queen. “It’s not like I’m doing it, ‘cause I have the softest heart ever. It’s that kind of shit you get paid for. Generously.”

“No need to lie to me, you know,” he nags further, as if to determine her tolerance for such attitude in general, now that he intends to redirect his train of thoughts – transition between tension and thrill. “Thought you might like to talk, but if not, I get it, no pressure. It’s just… I’m curious, and probably just as fucked as you are, but that’s by the by.”

“Connect to the monitoring system,” she directs – blunt and reserved.

“Sure, anything,” he affirms with a hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fingers fishing out the portable device from the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to jack in. “Not in the mood to talk?”

“I? Not in the mood?” She retorts, presumably a query, but the flat tone might be delusionary. “What a plot twist.”

“Mhm, most certainly,” he agrees – a humming baritone that resonates through his chest.

“Mhm,” she mimics the sound, milder when juxtaposed with the prior accusative timbre. “Thanks for not fucking this up by the way.”

“So you’re in the system?” He ascertains, rising an inquisitive eyebrow – a conditional reflex – despite the fact she is unable to see him now.

Or is she?

“Yeah,” she bestows him with a brisk affirmation just as he steps through the threshold of the security room, intent to hide in the opposite area, and so seize the opportunity to sneak up on the pimp from behind.

“Should I worry about anything else?” He inquires – a matter of clarification – now that he is leaning by the quartz pillar.

“For now? No, just wait,” she instructs, probably for the last time this evening, which evokes that odd tension once again, indicating the inevitability of the climax. “He’ll be here soon.”

“And just how’d you know that?”

“’Cause I’ve fucking fried his security system, which means he’s got the message that there’s a malfunction?” She snaps, voiced laced with a distinctive hint of sarcasm; and it suits her, he thinks. “What did you expect?”

“Certainly much more fumbling,” he explains, having opted for ignoring the accusative tone, at least for now, although a part of him still considers it weird, the fact that he is in full supervision of his own security system – dictated by the trust issues maybe?

“Better lower your expectation for the next time, huh?” She suggests, allowing herself to switch back to the bedroom area that he is currently occupying, even for a brief moment, a moment of distraction, curious about his appearance, which might as well be the second most irresponsible decision of this month, but still, she cannot help herself.

It has been sane to say they are both equally fucked.

“That’d actually set them higher,” he chuckles – a sound that catches him off guard for a split second, enhanced by the fact he is the one to voice it – a paradox maybe? “’Cause if I expect a relatively tough situation to run smoothly, it means that I set my expectation high, at least when it comes to the fortunate circumstances or my capacities.”

“But isn’t it like this sometimes?” She ponders, metallic nails scratching her chin, as she drinks in his features – ash blonde hair, geometric cheek implants, and tall silhouette, clad in dark clothing – interesting to say the least. “That, um… that you do something unintentionally or by accident, and in the end it turns out for the better?”

“Maybe it is,” he shrugs, glancing at the camera’s lens, as if he sensed her gaze on him, which has the woman adverting it to the side, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Ridiculous. “Maybe I even dare to say I agree, but-”

“Okay, C,” she does not even know his name, for fuck’s sake. “Sorry to interrupt, but he’s here. Luckily alone.”

“Yeah, right according to our assumptions,” he nods, calmer when confronted by an factual information. “So how much time do I have?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” she vacillates – feverish, and so incapable to decide, even if for a split second. “A minute? Two maybe?”

“Couldn’t you like… tell me earlier?” He frowns, voice laced with a hint of accusation.

“Maybe if you weren’t fucking distracting me?” She mimics his tone – indication of an approaching argument, although she is yet to surprise him in that realm.

“Well, I tend to do that sometimes,” he teases as per usual, maybe to conceal the fact she appears to be quits in that matter, eliciting a vexed huff from his female partner on the other side of the line.

“Uh just- I don’t know, good luck.”

Beep, ensued by silence.

Alone again.

Although not for long.

Indicated by the click of the front door and cautious steps reverberating in the adjoining area, or rather the creeping climax acquiring a form of a male with chrome hand – external damnation – from where he can see approaching the security room with a gun clutched tightly by the synthetic digits.

Closure.

Closure that grants perspectives.

Perspectives at hand.

Hand of providence.

Providence of a man.

Man to replace the God.

Unbelievable.

One step, two, then three… from or towards the target? Clueless, deprived of an ability to count, with tunnel vision drifting him towards the goal – a man leaning by the table, gaze fixated on the computer screen, scrolling through the program.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself – a sound that sends a shiver down the manager’s spine, but also prompts him to move forth, closer and closer to the man, echoing in the mental dimension, on the pinnacle of tensity, bracing for a fall.

A fall that comes with a surge forward, with a clasp of his hands around the pimp’s throat, with a choked groan, uttered in an empty space.

A hiss recognized as his own, evoked by the sharp pain resonating from the wrist, clasp in between the artificial fingers, biting in the flesh.

An idea, out of pure instinct, to pull the target down to the ground, before he manages to elbow him in the gut and so wriggle out from his grasp.

A contact – interference of gazes, dazed juxtaposed (mingled?) with determined, face flushed due to the effort, piercing red irises staring right at him.

A mere adjustment – evidence of skill and practice – to cut off his blood flow, switch from choking to strangling.

A fall that comes with a dull thud – head colliding with the polished floor – body slack in his hands, hands that keep their hold around the victims neck for a few longer moments – a procedure to ascertain that his brain remains hypoxic for long enough to cause fatal damage.

Terminal.

Taxing.

Transitional.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, once again struggling to recognize the sound of his own voice, as he scoots away from the body, finding the necessary support in the nearby wall.

With back pressed flushed against it, head tilted to the side, he is vaguely aware of the dull throbbing resonating from his wrist, now that he is coming to senses, which prompts him to rise the violated limb to the eye level. He is greeted with a sight of reddened flesh, indicating the inevitable appearance of a purplish bruise, albeit deprived of any nasty outcomes – no sprained joints and crushed bones – much to his relief.

Clean work, as for the professional.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, massaging the achy spot with the opposite hand, as he attempts to swallow the thick lump down his throat, parched to some inhuman degree.

Delirious.

Incognizant of what has just happened on the security room’s floor.

Incognizant of the body lying at his feet.

Incognizant of the myriad of possible consequences.

Just tired.

And thirsty.

“Water.”

And with that thought in mind, he makes his way to the kitchen, as if only for the sake of delaying what is inevitable.

Aftermath of conscience.

* * *

Emptiness.

Vastness of possibilities?

Dimension for creation?

Vicious end?

Dreadful perspective?

Sacrifice worth the grief.

Or a decision that has been bothering him since he passed the threshold of that fatal penthouse, burdening him with a distinctive realization – he is far from proud or pleased with the turn of events, all against his will, forced to succumb, degraded to the level of some common mercenary.

Unbelievable.

How many days was that? Two thousand eight hundred and fifty six?

And now? Ten?

A missing piece of puzzles – that is what it feels like – a habit he has grown accustomed with throughout the years, a channel to pour sorrows to, and now? How is he supposed to record his ideas, intents, or insights when he has none, no inquiries, no impressions.

No fate.

An ending line, elongating past the point of a broken promise – informal, yet more meaningful than any other he has ever concluded – indicating the disastrous vision acquiring its vessel’s form – sticky liquid, leaving indelible stains on each and every surface as if to mar it for all eternity.

(That’s a tad bit dramatic, don’t you think?)

(Romantic?)

To be fair, he is far from the level of knowledge that would allow him to elaborate a romantic expertise, not only a loathsome trait, but also lethal, lethal to consider suicide as a redemption from some tragic love – factor that is meant to shatter their proximate universe. As an individual (what a fitting term) he conjectures it to be far more than just plain dangerous: following their obsolete beliefs, soaking up their wisdoms, switching to their philosophy of life – simply damnation-granting. Nevertheless, the contemporary world appears as beyond deprived from any excess traces from the bygone times, pitiful remains that are swept away with the passing years – an eternal river – all to the convenience of its dwellers.

Which leads him to yet another assumption.

What if he is wrong? What if it is bound to indicate a conclusion of entirely different nature, a conclusion leading to an ultimate enlightenment – our future is what we consider it to be, a conglomerate of particles, of events to be foreseen, of idealistic visions and rational objectives, transcending human comprehension, so fatally finite?

With us occupying the creator’s chair.

“People are marred,” he states all of sudden, which captures the artiste’s attention, and so prompts her to rise from the lounging position on the sofa, legs still draped over male’s lap as his fingers trail mindless serpentines over the ivory skin, “damaged, shattered, akin to a glass pane.”

“What makes you think that?” She inquires, forehead marked with two thin lines – indication of puzzlement – with her gaze lingering on male’s profile, on the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, up to the subtle geometric line adorning his cheeks, and the intricate patterns decorating the side of his neck.

“It was just a random thought, nothing significant.”

(Sure I’d believe that.)

“Mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?” She frowns once again, confused due to the alternating course, watching him from the propped-up position, not the most convenient to be honest.

“Only after sex,” he bestows Gia with a brisk clarification, offering her a helping hand as she rises from the spot, now kneeling beside him with his arm encircling her waist, palm flat on the hip. “So?” He cocks an expecting eyebrow at her, as if searching for an answer. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head no, shivering once his hand abandons its previous spot, and so deprives the female from his body heat, no matter how moderate it has been until now. With her eyes following the leisure movements that result in lighting up a slim cig, held delicately in between a pair of his long fingers, she cannot help but dwell upon each and every notion evoked by the unfortunate publication, the fact that he barely talks about himself as if he could not trust her – a partner who is supposed to be the person to open up to, a friend to soak up all sorrows, a guarantor of the so-called unconditional love.

But is he even capable of that? Of romantic affection? Or is he simply yet another cold-hearted inhabitant, so fitting in the cruel world, a place where vulnerability overlaps with divergence, a place nowhere near to be considered as home, vast and empty, of multiple dimensions and unexplored concepts?

“What else have you been hiding from me?”

“And what is it that you’re expecting to hear?” He glances at her from the seat by the open window, face illuminated by the shimmering neons. “Some kind of a story?”

“That’s what I’m counting for,” she affirms, fixing the tee that has ridden up her thighs, as if sensing that excess exposure is rather unfavorable in such case.

“Fine then,” he agrees, taking the last drag from the half-smoked cigarette, before he tosses it out of the window, much to her distaste. “I’m gonna tell you a story, a story an idealistic girl like you would never understand.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you know what it feels like… being forced to kill?” He begins, having ignored her opposition, all considered trivial when juxtaposed with his attempt of confession. “Answer me.”

“Why do you think you, or anyone else, have the right to kill?” She huffs, a concept laying beyond her comprehension – a superior man, the one to overuse his authority.

Lord of Life and Death.

Disgusting.

Or an inquiry that has him chuckling in response, a bitter laughter that echoes in the empty space, even if metaphorically so, ringing in her ears as they receive the stimulus.

“And the body? What it smells like? How heavy it is?” He continues, leaning backwards, elbows supported by the window frame, as if bracing for the lethal leap. “Impossibly so. It’s like you can barely lift it… perhaps because of the emotional baggage? Who knows?”

The words that reverberate in the fragile expanse of her mind.

Words that shatters her affection, her deep-rooted fondness.

Everything that she has ever bestowed him with.

And it strips her bare, naked in front of his penetrative gaze.

“What have you done?” She gulps, anticipating the terminal answer with parched throat and tensed muscles.

“And against your conscious will? That’s truly the debasement of humanity,” he shoves the query aside, at least for now, intent to explain everything on his own conditions. “Just imagine that, you have no fucking money, and it forces you to fuck some sleazy pimp in order to provide all necessities. And you hate yourself for that, ‘cause it’s fucking disgusting, fucking… hideous as it seeps through your pores. But you can’t deny it, and more – gotta accept it as a fact, ‘cause there’s no other way.”

“Oh, man of little faith,” she rolls her eyes – a mannerism he chooses to ignore, along with the pitiful comment – a sack full of idealistic absurdities.

“For almost eight years, I thought I could escape my past, ‘cause I’d think that’s where all bygone actions belong,” he continues, gaze fixated on some unidentified spot decorating the opposite wall. “And then I got a phone call from an old pal. You know what he told me?”

“I’m not omniscient,” she retorts, choosing to be sarcastic all of sudden, a turnabout that he finds oddly amusing.

“Oh you’re not? Okay,” he throws her a brief glance, lips laced in a condescending smirk – a signature of his. “So he called me because of a favor. Old times, saved my life in New Mexico, and you’ll never understand what it means, unless you experience that kind of bond. It’s something that’ll always defy the laws of physic, finding its way back to the surface, no matter the amount of stones you use to drown it.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Of the non-negotiable kind,” he clarifies, a matter offensively obvious in his notion, “and what was that favor you may ask? Fairly simple, get rid of some overconfident pimp, the rest is not important.”

A mere statement.

Not to mention beyond expected.

And yet potent enough to drain blood out of her face, push past the pinnacle of emotions, coiling just underneath the surface, coiling and wailing to be released from the confinement of their prison.

Resurrection that comes with catharsis.

Rampant rage.

“You didn’t have to do it, you know,” she spats – blunt and accusatory. “And the fact that you did it only makes you a coward – no – it makes you a hypocrite, who is also a coward, for not following his beliefs, ‘cause… you know what defines one as a human?”

“What defines one as a human, miss Ortega?”

(How dare he!)

“The quality of being good,” she explains, struggling to keep up with the calmer tone, not willing to blow up just yet, “the quality you clearly lack. And it pains me to see how much mistaken I’ve been.”

He laughs again.

And this time it has her blood boiling hot.

“It’s so ease to judge others, don’t you think?” He retorts, calling back to that ridiculous conversation at the Interstellar, just few days prior, or a lifetime maybe? “Especially when all you have to worry is ‘being a good person’. It is an incredible privilege to choose between those two factors – what’s moral and immoral – a privilege not everyone can afford.”

Up to the breaking point.

“You’re incomplete,” he continues, rising to walk towards the door, indicating her inevitable departure that creeps closer and closer, tightening its claws around her weeping soul, “and you’ll always be until you understand that other people’s beliefs don’t define who you are.”

Snap.

“You know what? I hate you! You’re the most hideous, the most disgusting-”

“Sure I am,” he nods – a terse affirmation, so laconic it almost has her slapping him, safe only due to the fact she is putting on her pants. “But I believe you’ve already mentioned that.”

“I- I-”

“Oh do go on, tell me,” he interrupts – a jeering remark, a mannerism that she loathes more than anything else as an evidence of her disastrous tendency to maneuver between the polarities, “share your very important beliefs.”

“No, fuck you!” She exclaims, fingers clasping around the material of her coat, soon to yank it from the hanger. “I’m leaving and I can guarantee you won’t see me. Ever. Again.”

“Overly dramatic, but okay, I can cope with that,” a response that consists of a mere shrug, as if it was the only action laying in his capacity after those few months together – the most vicious farewell. “And whatever you’re planning to do with yourself… good luck with that.”

“Dickhead,” she throws over her shoulder – an expression of bitter virulence – ready to depart with a heavy slam – indication of a bygone phase, never to be retreated, fleetingness laced with some odd kind of beauty, the one he has almost dared to forget throughout the years, all of sudden thirsty for its everlasting charm.

Ergo, he remains awake that night.

Staring at the celling until sunlight accompanies the neons.

* * *

“Day twenty seventh,” he begins, the sound of running shower acting as his lonesome listener, not that he needs any audience today. “I’ve noticed an interesting pattern recently, or maybe I’ve just been reminded of its existence... I don’t know…maybe… The thing is, I’ve got some vague memories of my childhood, maybe because I was trying so desperately to push away the past, to treat every day like a rebirth, and so forced myself to forget… Actually, that sounds ridiculous when spoken out loud, but it’s fine, I can cope with that.”

“So as a kid I’d perceive world in terms of a simple black-and-white matter, which had me thinking my curiosity was soon to be satiated, kind of ironic… Anyway, as I was getting older, I also came to a conclusion that our world is run on secrets, and despite the years that have passed since then, I still agree with this sentence. It gets me to wonder how much of the given information applies to the reality, which makes quite an important factor in the contemporary world, but that’s by the by.”

“Cutting to the chase, realizations are like cycles, and by saying so I meant that they pay us a visit in self-repeating patterns. Which indicates the so-called tendency of changing one’s mind that sometimes allows us to circle back to the starting point. Quite interesting to be honest, especially in the face of some intense experience, both physically and emotionally, that is… that is, um… capable of rearranging the entire sequence of outlooks.”

“For years I’d think that what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over, or something, I’m only paraphrasing… but this seems to sum up why I’ve decided on all these tattoos, hours and hours of stinging discomfort. But it was nothing compared to being obliged to see all the scars, not because of the aesthetics but because of the continuous pain… the continuous pain and its physical reminiscence. At that time I couldn’t accept it, but now… I don’t know… it’s weird, both relieving and chilling, as if a piece of puzzle was missing… which makes me think that I’ll just need some time to get used to it. Either way it’s refreshing, so blissfully refreshing… fuck, I love it.”

“Normally at this point I’d remind myself of that crappy shit I was told in the past, maybe because it was my only way to connect with it, and fuck… it makes me such a fucking hypocrite, but now… I doubt whether I need it anymore.”

“’Cause I did fucking man up. End of a story.”

Created: 12/28/20 Completed: 03/11/21 Edited: 03/17/21

[ramblingguy54]

True Colors: An Emotionally Fantastic Serious Game Changer.

If we’re to look back at Reunion as Season 1′s dramatic pay off for Amphibia’s message of toxic friendships, as Anne & Sasha’s conflicting dynamic showed us, then True Colors is a colossal expansive note on this big theme of the series. True Colors makes Season 1′s finale look like a walk in the park for what angst goes down between our three main heroins in Season 2′s climatic resolution. Everything that can go wrong does go oh so painfully wrong for these three kids. Anne, to no one’s surprise, gets double crossed by Sasha leaving things between them a Hell of a lot more bitter than they were previously, as if that couldn’t already be topped when Sasha tried to kill the Plantars before. Anne has had enough of her lies and manipulation not being afraid to tell Sasha straight up how awful of a friend she’s been in general, even hitting her where it hurts most of all saying, “No, I’m done listening to you! I’m done trusting you! You’re a horrible person and I am done being FRIENDS with you!”, going so far as to get a shaken reaction out of Sasha dropping her brave face act, making this girl try to wipe away the frog family.

Right off the bat, True Colors makes it highly evident this isn’t just another story of stopping a bigger threat, but one hitting much closer to home, overall. Yes, King Andrias is certainly a dangerous villain, who makes his presence and intimidating nature known to the others by True Color’s final act, which despite this Amphibia isn’t entirely putting him at the forefront, rather focusing on a more intimate study of Anne, Sasha, and Marcy’s big emotional conflict. This finale knows exactly where to put its focus of importance on, so I love that instead of it being action packed we’re getting the spotlight shined on just how screwed up these three of a friendship have, in spite of Marcy claiming in The Dinner episode, “We’re supposed to be friends for life. We don’t split up!’ . Very ironic stuff right there, indeed.

True Colors’ most powerful strength it adds to Amphibia’s ongoing profound story about healthy friendships is the thorough deconstruction of these girls defined “ideal relationship” as people. Before Anne came to the world of Amphibia this kid was afraid to stand up for what she believed in, even knowing especially well that stealing the calamity box was morally questionable, but did it anyway. Sasha was super manipulative, abusive, and used her power to control people, like she did a lot of toward Anne in their lives. Marcy, while very smart, wasn’t the most competent physically, who soon grew into being more independent without needing to rely on Anne always having to be there for her. These three were changed immensely by the events of being thrust into this world of sentient amphibian creatures. Anne benefited morally most out out of all three in taking up the mantle of responsibility and ironing out her own issues. She’s become a much stronger person all around. 

This episode asks us an important question though in nutshell with, “Have Sasha & Marcy truly changed for the better?”, since Anne has reached a point in her arc feeling genuinely content with who she’s become and the bonds that have been made with the Plantar family shown most notably with Sprig Plantar. Hence the whole purpose behind the song, It’s No Big Deal, with Anne feeling proud for who she is, yet not noticing a bigger issue right underneath her nose. That previous episode was meant to bring Anne’s happiness up only to bring it all crashing down in a devastating display of new revelations in True Colors. Every dramatic emotional beat isn’t just earned. Each significant moment is completely knocked out of the park by terrific voice acting, beautiful animation, and music composition that gave me serious emotional goosebumps. True Colors did exactly as Not What He Seems accomplished for Gravity Falls in shaking up its own respective dramatic stakes just when you thought it couldn’t get any higher for these protagonists. Shit seriously hits the fan here.

Did it ever occur to you, Anne? Sasha? That one of you knew more, than she was letting on? That ONE of you might’ve gotten you stranded in Amphibia on purpose...?

The big bombshell twist of Marcy playing a part too in getting them into this whole debacle completely flips everything upside down. Sasha pushed Anne into taking the Calamity Box, yes, but if Marcy never sent that photo because of her desire to stay with them together forever, then they wouldn’t have been stranded in basically a world full of dangerous creatures and who knows what else. Easily my favorite part of the episode, considering it adds more nuance to a situation that defined Amphibia’s story. It wasn’t just one person’s fault at the end of the day. Sasha bullied Anne into taking the box, Anne didn’t put her foot down to make a stand for something morally questionable, and Marcy took advantage of them both to benefit her own selfish desires for supposedly a “happy ending” not involving them staying apart, due to her parents moving away for a new job. All three girls played an important part on why they got landed into Amphiba. It’s why Anne’s statement to King Andrias, “The three of us may have made some mistake, but you...You’re evil and I’m gonna stop you!”, holds such a real weight to it, as this story continues to solidify how genuinely fleshed out their dynamic is.

Marcy’s super desperate plea to be understood by Anne & Sasha when Andrias revealed her getting them thrown into Amphibia purposefully was hard to watch. On one hand, I felt for Marcy because she didn’t want real life circumstances to tear apart that close connection she had to Sasha & Anne. Sure, she could’ve just kept in touch with them over the phone or chatting online, too. However, Marcy had known them since very early childhood. When you’ve been so attached to someone it can be a devastating thing, depending on just how vulnerable you are emotionally, to start drifting apart. Marcy represents that embodiment of toxic need for togetherness and couldn’t bear to let a possibility, like moving away, throw a wrench into her happiness and friendship, as well.

Never mind Marcy wanting to stay permanently in a different reality, rather than face her’s, but it made this person feel like something more. It gave her a chance to feel truly special in being able to live out a fantasy dream of having such power and freedom that a kid, like herself, couldn’t have had. The freedom to know she is plenty capable of making it out there on her own without Anne having to watch this kid like a hawk. So, to have someone, or something, try taking it away from her terrified Marcy of facing a terrible truth. That she isn’t strong enough after all to live a life without Anne & Sasha by her side completely, where Marcy will never feel truly worthy enough to blossom into her own person. It’s why that line, “I just...didn’t want to be alone...”, carries such a deep pain to it all. Marcy just crumbles into pieces accepting her greatest weakness. As much as Marcy fumbled the ball big time, it’s so easy to empathize with her on the idea of feeling competent enough. Marcy never meant to hurt Anne or Sasha, but the sad crushing punchline is she very much did.

Speaking of which, Anne had every right to be upset and mad, obviously. Anne has been missing so many things from her life before everything went off the wall. Hopping Mall especially highlighted Anne’s emotional desire to give anything just to hear her mother’s singing again. This teenager has been really dealing with a lot of grief in general quite honestly. Anne got into a high stakes battle against Sasha to save new friends, who’d practically became like an adopted family, which left the poor girl traumatized and heartbroken over the end result. She thought finding Marcy would help compensate for it and eventually be able to mend those complications with Sasha to boot. It’s simply painful to see it all blow up in Anne’s face to know not only Sasha betrayed her trust yet again, but realizing Marcy also played a part of responsibility in getting them thrown here. Matt Braly really just decided to slap future trust issues onto Anne finding out Hop Pop, Sasha, and Marcy were all super dishonest in their intentions at one point or another. Damn, I feel so bad for her.

It makes their embracing hug back in Marcy At The Gates so much harder to watch. Anne was super glad to see her again. Anne had wondered what became of Marcy or even possibly started to think she could even be alive at all. Then come to find out later on Marcy having intentionally ripped her away from a normal life must’ve felt worse then what happened with Sasha. Anne, already done with all of Sasha’s bullshit, thought she could at least expect better from Marcy not letting her down, but that too wasn’t the case. Marcy is very much as flawed as Sasha in what she has done. To think, Anne wanted so badly to get back home, yet she’s staring the very person dead in the eye, who ripped her away from it to begin with. Marcy knew Sasha would talk Anne into taking the box from that thrift shop, even if she wasn’t completely certain it would successfully teleport them away. Regardless of whatever good intentions someone can have in why they did what they did, it still doesn’t absolve them of said mistake. Fact of the matter is, Marcy tragically made her own bed, by choosing to mess with forces she couldn’t begin to comprehend and now has to face consequences, in spite of her not deserving them.

What really got to me was when Marcy tried to spin around Anne’s personal growth and close friendship with the Plantars as all entirely thanks to her. When she said, “I gave you this! I gave you everything!”, I was like, “Nope, that couldn’t be any further from the truth.”, seeing everything that has culminated in Anne’s journey of bettering herself. Marcy didn’t give Anne anything, but a one way ticket to cutting the kid off from her family, presuming she’d be fine with this idea. It’s all kinds of messed up, however what it boils down to is Marcy undermining Anne’s independence and agency. Anne’s moral judgement in decision making was what allowed her to create this new life she made for herself in Amphibia. Anne’s honesty as a whole led her down a path of togetherness, while Marcy’s lying landed her in a result of not wanting to be alone, costing her so much.

“I don’t believe this. We were so focused on each other we couldn’t see what was right in front of us!”

True Colors excels at earning each of its emotional beats because they line up with character motivations down to the last letter. Anne doesn’t want to trust Sasha anymore because of their already rocky past, which leads to her helping King Andrias regain control of his kingdom. Sasha not keeping a lid on her temper, wanting to rule over Amphibia, and trying to reinforce that power dynamic with Anne & Marcy only made things worse for her image of a changed good friend. There wasn’t a chance in Hell Anne would hear Sasha’s reasoning after she flat out tried to take away her frog family, by attempting to use the Calamity Box a bit ago in the episode. Marcy wanted to believe there was a happily ever after in seeing this world traveling idea as their only chance for salvation as friends for life, but it turned out to be something much more sinister, when learning of Andrias’ backstory and his true scumbag nature. All three of their motivations come clashing together, blinding them from a much bigger danger. Something that effectively puts everyone at stake.

Amphibia’s Season 2 finale works so excellently, given it covers important dramatic elements it’s been stirring around since Season 1′s early rumblings. Amphibia is a story centered around people’s need for emotional connections. True Colors builds miraculously off what Reunion already did quite well in showing friendships can become rough and they are never easy to deal with. When you have to make a stand it can be a tough pill to swallow on the reality check of maybe this “good friend” of your’s isn’t as nice as you previously thought them to be. Anne having been hurt one too many times now by her former friend sends that message close to home, so much so even Sasha begins to question her morality as a human being. It poignantly encapsulates how this trio’s complex friendship is a serious growing issue needing to be reexamined, overall.

What if Anne’s right..? What if I am a horrible person...?

Something I absolutely love to pieces about True Colors, also a testament to Season 2′s darn good writing, is how much introspective we get from each character on what they’re feeling. We’ve seen plenty of Sasha’s vulnerability before in other episodes centered on her issues, but now we’re getting to the root of it. Sasha is really taking everything more to heart, little by little. Sasha’s understanding what kind of an effect she has on people, seeing the damage it has caused made evident by Percy and Braddock in Barrel’s Warhammer. Grime once told her, “Some dreams have a price and not everyone is willing to pay it.”, where she’s questioning that idealism every passing minute the invasion plan proceeds further into reaching success. Sasha isn’t sure what to do with herself anymore feeling aimless. Those previous episodes had a real impact on her priorities more than she cared to let on with Sasha’s typical tough girl act. This kid has let her guard down more, which scares and confuses Sasha. She’s always used to playing the role of protector it contradicts everything Sasha stands for when the roles are totally reversed because now Anne has made her feel the tremendous change in their growth as individuals.

Sasha’s lifestyle has been all about control that after somewhat learning to be more considerate to Anne & Marcy’s feelings she feels beyond conflicted about what truly matters to her. The most screwed up part of it all is Sasha didn’t want to fight anymore, taking up a pacifist approach after seeing what King Andrias had been hiding from everyone. It’s a fitting punishment for Sasha to try bringing Anne over to work together once more, but getting her pleas for companionship outright ignored. Anne was correct that Sasha had wasted all the chances to be reasonable. Boonchuy tried to hear out Sasha before at The Third Temple. One wanted to start things over again to iron out their serious issues, but the other was driven by bitterness, while only remorseful to a degree at best, of seeing their once weak friend become so independent, mature, and stronger that it drove her up wall. Sasha wanted to take away that “problem” being the Plantars, since in her eyes they’re the source of Anne’s strength, driving a wedge further between the two girls in their heated Reunion 2.0 battle.

True Colors demonstrates the horrific price of no trust, communication, nor teamwork from the three main girls that Andrias smoothly took advantage of, as if they were fiddles. 

“That’s the thing about friends isn’t it? The more you love them, the more it hurts when they go.”

King Andrias is quite literally what I wanted Lunaris to be, where DuckTales’ Season 2 finale didn’t impress me on doing. He’s a serious big baddie to the main cast, who follows through on his threats of violence to demonstrate his wide array of arsenal and power. Andrias doesn’t just emotionally manipulate characters, like poor Marcy, but utterly crush them without an ounce of remorse for his actions. When he dropped Sprig out that window after Anne willingly let him have the Calamity Box back I thought they were legit gonna kill this boy off. The way Anne’s flashback montage of her good times with Sprig were eerily shot really didn’t help either on that note. Anne’s Calamity power finally activating is easily up there among stuff, like Dewey risking his life for Della’s disappearance in Last Crash, where the cinematography is shot and animated brilliantly. You feel Anne’s blind raging sadness in every hit she landed on those robots and Andrias. If anyone didn’t believe Sprig was like a little brother to Anne, then I dunno how anyone couldn’t view their bond anymore as such after this hugely defining scene. Anne went bloodthirsty when she believed Sprig to be dead further evidenced when she hugged him in relief afterwards exclaiming, “Sprig!? You’re alive!? Oh, thank goodness...”, which cuts deep so damn much.

Anne was ready to fight every one of Andrias’ troops in that castle to the death, if need be. Before Sprig came back from falling, thanks to Marcy’s quick acting, to comfort Anne, her only goal was to slaughter every opponent in that throne room, along with making Andrias pay dearly for even daring to lay a single finger on anyone of the Plantars. I’m not gonna lie, this pivotal power up reminded me so much Gohan turning Super Saiyan 2 after Cell curb stomped Android 16 into pieces with a smirk on his face. Anne Boonchuy’s maddening outburst is a classic testament to the idea of, “Piss off the nicest person and they’ll make it their mission to instill the biggest kind of fear/terror into you.”. showing this kid at her most vulnerable mental state, yet. Sprig & Anne’s cathartic embrace really messed me up in reinforcing just how these two respect, love, and would go above any of their limitations to help the other out. Sprig’s “death” scene was a masterful bait by the writers into making us think someone was gonna die and it was gonna be a poor kid, no less.  

However, it was actually all just a bait and switch for the real, “Oh, shit. They really just did that”, moment with Marcy unexpectedly getting run through with Andrias’ gigantic sword. In a last ditch effort, Marcy wanted to atone for what she had a hand in getting them all into. Marcy was ironclad determined in making her own stand for what was right trying to save the people she endangered. Akin to what Sasha did in Reunion for saving Anne’s life, Marcy does the exact same here. Although, unfortunately this time, no one is here to protect Marcy from escaping death, like Grime catching Sasha from plummeting at Toad Tower. Marcy couldn’t react in time because she was so focused on helping her dear friends out. She wanted to prove to herself at least one time, “I’ve screwed up so much stuff with my friends. Maybe, just maybe. If I get my friends back home, it’ll prove I’m not an entirely crappy person for setting these events into motion.”. Marcy’s own deep seeded remorse is what saved Anne & the Plantars, while being the cause of her own untimely demise at Andrias’ hands.

This scene is what no doubt encouraged the warning sign for younger viewers Disney decided to make for them. It’s impressive how far Matt and his crew are willing to go for intense dramatic content. Andrias trying to crush Polly with his fist after destroying Frobo with casual ease, dropping Sprig out of the window from up sky high, and stabbing Marcy with his powerful sword displays his cold blooded brutality. Doesn’t matter who you are. If you get in the way of Andrias’ plans for multiverse domination, then he’ll throw anyone into their own grave, be it man, woman, or child. That’s the mark of a truly terrifying antagonist.

Andrias didn’t care who had to be hurt or manipulated to get back the box, so he could invade other worlds with Earth being his next prime target for invasion. Marcy’s fate is a horrifyingly poetic statement, since Sasha stated to Anne in a flashback from Marcy At The Gates, “One of these days, she’s gonna get herself killed.”, with True Colors tying back to this line in a disturbing manner. Something that sends chills down my spine is we get to see the full extent of how far Andrias shoved the sword through her body. We don’t just see the entry point of where it hit her, but it even zooms out to show the whole thing. Real talk, I got serious Avatar The Last Airbender vibes from this scene. Reminded me so much of Aang getting suddenly zapped with lightning by Azula when he tried to enter the Avatar state. Marcy didn’t want to be alone so badly she ended up inevitably dying alone trying to send Anne back home to their reality. One Hell of a way to close off Marcy’s last moments in Season 2, until her inevitable resurrection happens in Season 3 now that King Andrias has her in a tube tank that looks tied to his master.

True Colors ends on a deeply bittersweet cliffhanger leaving the fates of Sasha & Grime totally unknown if they’ll get away by the skin of their teeth, or get captured by Andrias’ soldiers and robots. Anne finally returned home with the Plantars, but at a deadly cost of leaving her other close friends behind in Amphibia. After all the isolation, heartbreak, and endurance she went through with her frog family Anne finds herself at a total loss for words. Once again, Anne is in a state of solitude of not knowing if her friends are really okay or not, mirroring the start of Season 1 when she landed into Amphibia’s world. It’s safe to say to say that, “Finally me and it’s no big deal.”, lyrics have aged terribly for Anne’s realization of finding her own identity came at the expense of getting separated from friends she’s known since kindergarten. Definitely see Anne becoming a lot more protective of the Plantars now more than ever after watching Marcy drop to the ground from being stabbed in front of her eyes.

Amphibia’s Season 2 finale is exactly how you capitalize on a winning story telling formula of dramatic writing, lovable characters with layered depth, and increasing the stakes of your story in an organic manner. True Colors is a finale that should be talked about for a long time to come, as it not only showed how worth the wait it was, but reinforces why Amphibia is a truly great series. It’s unafraid to take its characters to dark places in a way that feels totally earned.

Amphibia Season 2 is everything a sequel to a first film should be.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #436

from a couple days ago again; still don’t feel like rewriting any answers.

Do you own many pairs of shorts? I don't own any. Have you ever taken a close up shot of a flower? A hell of a lot; I love doing that. Have you ever wanted to get drunk and get your mind off everything? Yup. But I don't like hard alcohol and only really drink light fruity stuff, and I'm apparently no lightweight, so I got to the point I just really didn't want to drink anymore. Anything you might be giving up on soon? I have felt very, very hopeless with photography lately that sometimes I'm tempted. I don't think I will, but... it's hard. When was the last time you changed your picture on Facebook? It's been months. Have you ever painted a piece of furniture? Yes, actually. I helped Jason paint his shelf black. Do you have a favorite quote? No. Have you ever made a business card for yourself? No, but I have thought about it. I just really don't have nearly enough popularity among the local photographers to feel like I really need to design one. Did you love playing hide and seek as a kid? YES. I loved it. Are there any recipes you have memorized? No. Do you know your multiplication times tables? ... no lmao Have you ever been severely burned? Not severely, no. Did you ever dream that you had a baby? I actually have more than once. What was the weirdest thing you ever saw cross the road? I think a turkey? Are you good at coming up with jokes? God no. Where do you prefer to sit when you catch the bus? When I used to ride home with Jason from school, we always sat way in the back. Do you ever listen to music to fall asleep to? No. I did when I was younger, though. I went through a loooong phase of sleeping with my iPod. If your parents... or anybody else... found your cell phone, would they be horrified at any of the messages in your inbox/outbox? No. Do you get offended if someone repeatedly checks their mobile phone when you’re out for lunch or dinner? That's very rude. What is the stupidest thing you’ve heard somebody say recently? Anti-vaccination bullshit from my stepmother. :^) Think about the last person you kissed - was it the very first time that you kissed them? No. When you drink alcohol with friends, do you play drinking games? We never did. Do you believe that there are certain circumstances where cheating is okay? Nope. Who was the last person to call you? My psychiatrist. What food disgusts you the most? Things like sashimi and caviar. I also think rare meat like steak, especially when it's still bloody, is absolutely disgusting. I could go on and on about this, 'cuz I think a lot of food is really gross. One place you would never want to get lost in in the dark? The jungle. Yikes. So many dangerous creatures, so claustrophobic, and with the canopy, I'd assume it'd be EXTREMELY dark. And it rains so much in the jungle, so it'd be hard to hear danger approaching. One thing that always creeps you out? Perhaps #1 is seeing an unborn baby move from outside their mother's stomach. I will fucking scream and want to puke. If you could be roommates with anyone of your choice, who would you pick? SARA!!!!!!!!! Omfg I'd LOVE to have her as my roommate. We've actually talked about the possibility, but that's nowhere near set in stone. What is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard? In light of recent events, a high contender is shit like "vaccines cause autism." Would you rather be buried or cremated when you die? I'd strongly prefer to be cremated. What is your favorite food around the holidays? Spiral honey ham, for one. I love Christmas treats like chocolate-covered peanuts, fudge, cookies, etc. etc... Tell me about the greatest prank you’ve ever pulled? I don't pull pranks. If you could have the power to cast any kind of spell, what kind of spell would you cast? Maybe enchanting the human population to not be such violent and hateful fucks??? Have you ever gotten a flu vaccination? Only for Covid. Double dates: a do or don’t? They are SO fun, but I do feel like it's good to have individual ones, too. Do you know any guitarists? Yes. My old friend Tommy actually plays the electric guitar in a band, and Juan was really good at it, too. How do you feel about full-length beards? They look good on some people. It varies with everyone. Do you have any relatives that have shunned you, or vice versa? Not currently. My half-sister stopped talking to me many years ago when I was a homophobic fuck, and I don't blame her. We're perfectly cool now! Has anyone ever posted a HORRIBLE picture of you for everyone to see? omg no Does/did your high school have pop machines? Yes. Have you ever gambled? Nah. If you could work at any retail store, which one would it be? I am NEVER working retail again. I can't handle it. What’s the name of the last cat you pet? Roman. :') Have you ever stringed green beans before? Yes, actually, with Colleen's in-laws. They had a big garden that I helped tend to sometimes. I absolutely hated it with how sweaty I got even then, it was WAY too hot, and my body was also weak back then to where bending down was extremely painful. I just never wanted to say no. Have you ever had any painful dental work done? If so, what? No. What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re bored? It really depends on what I feel like doing, but I think playing World of Warcraft tempts me most often when I'm unbearably bored. What did you watch today? I've just been rewatching Mortem3r play Monster Hunter World. That game looks soooo fun, I wanna try it. ;-; True or False: Yoshi is the cutest dinosaur ever? No. I adore dinosaurs and dinosaur media, so I could name a lot if I thought long enough. Who is the last person you spent money on? My niece. I still feel awful I didn't buy Ryder a gift by myself; I just could NOT decide what to get him. I'm very thankful that Mom let me use one she got him as "mine." They were bright, light-up golf balls, and he loooooved them. What is your relationship like with various members of your family? I have a biiig extended family, man, so I'll try to keep this as brief as possible. I am EXTREMELY close to my mom, like there is no way I'd be alive without her, and her support for me seems endless somehow. I love my dad very much too, but I don't see him nearly as much as I wish I did. He tries to support me however he's capable, and he always lets me know that he's there if I need him for anything. I love, am very proud of, and look up to my two sisters, but I'm also very envious of them and how they are successful adults with direction and big accomplishments. We are very different, so we have difficulty with really bonding and talking about things regularly, and it really makes me feel like a terrible sister. My nieces and nephew are absolute diamonds to me, and I'm especially close to Ash's oldest daughter Aubree. She and I are very similar in a lot of areas, so I really relate to her, even in her young age. Ryder really seems to like me, and I love that little rascal, too. :') My youngest niece Emerson is still only a baby, so she can't really communicate in words yet, but she is still a beautiful darling that I'd protect with my life in not even a blink. That covers who I consider my "immediate" family, really, at least that I see regularly. What’s something you disagree with about the way you were raised? I am very firmly against spanking, but my parents did it. I think since Ash's kids were born though, Mom's opinion changed on it. It was around that time, I know. She won't lay a hand on them. Who was the last person to add you as a friend on Facebook? I have no clue, actually. Who was the last person that asked if you were okay? *shrug* The last time you were in a car, who was driving? My mom. Did you ever get into a bar and drink before you were 21? Never tried. What countries have you been to? I've never left the U.S. Honestly, is that car insured? I don't have my own car. What do you think about gay marriage? I vigorously support it. Do you like Carrie Underwood? I actually do. She has a beautiful voice. How far away do you live from your parents? I live with my mom. Idk how far I am from Dad, really... but not THAT far. How do you like your steak cooked? Medium well. Have you ever been to Mount Rushmore? No, and I don't want to. It is absolute vandalism. Where is your favorite place (that you have actually been to)? Chicago blew me away, but I think it's just because it was SO foreign to me. I actually don't like cities very much, but for a brief visit, I thought it was very cool. Do you believe places can really be haunted? Yes. Do you take anti-depressants? Sleeping pills? No. I took anti-depressants for I think most of my life, and they did nothing for me. Come to learn from the doctor who actually set my meds straight that anti-depressants for people with bipolarity do nothing but aggravate the symptoms of bipolarity, and I was living evidence. I take mood stabilizers for said disorder instead. I don't take sleeping pills; none seem to work for me. What’s your favourite brand of peanut butter? Maybe Skippy? Idk, I'm not very picky with pb. What’s your favourite Lunchables meal? The nachos one. How many languages can you recite the alphabet in? Two. Do you like Bob Marley? NOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I can't stand his voice. Have you ever eaten at Golden Corral? Yeah, but I'm not a fan. Buffets gross me out. Do you sit and eat dinner at the same table with your family? We very rarely sit at the table. Have you been working hard to achieve something lately? If not, what was the last thing you worked hard to achieve? Losing weight, yes. I am honestly trying so hard at the gym, like to the point I've almost fallen many times as well as been overtaken by incredible nausea a lot. I don't feel like I'm over-working, necessarily, just working my ass off. Do you use ice cubes in your fountain drinks? No, because it waters the drink down and I hate it. Would you ever want your very own library, or do you not read enough for it to be worth it? No. I don't read nearly enough, and besides, can you imagine all the dust? What site did you originally start doing surveys on? I actually don't know... Have you ever used something other than water to make ice cubes? What did you do with them? I've actually never thought to do that. Would you ever willingly experience life temporarily without sight, hearing, or any of your other senses, simply to know what it is like? Fuck no. I would go insane. In what ways are you very judgmental? I'll judge the fuck out of rapists, child molesters, pedophiles, people like that with no goddamn shame. But your average person, I try not to judge very much. What is your main problem in life right now? It's hard to determine my main problem, honestly. There are a lot of issues going on in my life that've just piled up into one big tangled mess. Do your “favourites” change often? Definitely not. I've had the same favorites in so many topics for forever. Have you ever read a biography on someone? I've read Ozzy's autobiography, and I also read the Some Kind of Monster Metallica book, which was written by I want to say St. Anger's musical director? This was a very long time ago, and honestly, I thought it was pretty boring, so my memory is faint. You learned quite a bit about the band in his time with them, but damn, I don't care about the musical director al;skdfal;we. Do you know anyone who has ever been in a movie? Who and what movie were they in? What was their part? Not to my knowledge. I have an acquaintance who's had minor acting roles, but I don't believe she's ever been in a film. When was the last time you brought a pet to the vet? What was wrong with it? I want to say around two years ago (probably less) when we got my cat neutered. Have you ever made your way through a corn maze? No.

[laceymorganwrites]

Death dance

Word Count: 1,638

Characters: Eustass Kidd

Song: Death Dance - Palaye Royale

Warnings: so much swearing, mentions of abuse and mental Problems

I never thought I'd be so mean, never thought I'd be alone at nineteen

Kidd never meant to end up like the asshole he was. But after everything he´s been through, who could blame him? That´s what he told himself in hopes to cheer himself up, yet he knew that wasn´t true. Everything bad that had happened throughout his life, he had brought upon himself. All he ever did was push his luck and people away. Ever since he was a child… all he ever did was hurt and disappoint others. But all these thoughts are in my head again, head again

He didn´t want to think about any of that, not right now, not ever. Confronting his feelings, if there were even any left at this point, wouldn´t help. Well, actually it would help him very much if only Kidd had the courage to look that deep into his heart and mind. But he didn´t have the courage, he was a coward, always has been. And all these thoughts are running through my brain and out the door

Maybe this was finally the time to stop running away and face his fears, face his past and face himself and all the gruesome things he´s done. He was no saint, never tried to be. But fuck, he never tried to be that much of an angry, impulsive asshole either. He ran away enough, goddamn he left his mother all alone just to go out at sea… and for what? To make fake friends, to trust people only for them to use that trust and abuse it. Rather be dumb than sane, rather be numb than in pain

He was so sick and tired of everything. Sick of this world, the government especially, those bastards controlling everything and getting their way every damn time. Kidd knew that there people out there trying to stop them, people who shared his thoughts, and yet he felt as if nothing was accomplished. He hated that he knew how the world worked, with his knowledge he sometimes wished he didn´t know anything at all. And then there were the other pirates. Strawhat really got on his nerves, with his stupid alliances… he thought that teenager had a bit more of a rational brain, but it seemed that he really was as naive as the newspaper made him out to be. Kidd knew better than to trust others, other pirates like him in particular. After the whole thing with Apoo he wasn´t sure if he could ever trust another person again. He´d rather be a paranoid bastard he was now than to ever let himself and his crew get hurt like that again. But you can't see all the things I'm going through Rather be dumb than sane, I'd rather be numb than in pain But you can't see all the shit I'm going through

To others Kidd was a manchild throwing a tantrum every minute of the day, but they didn´t know what he´s been through, what he saw. They didn´t know about his shitty childhood, well he didn´t really have one to begin with, but that´s part of what made it shitty. They didn´t know how he suffered under his first and only captain, the abuse he had to face and that he could never forget the faces of his crew mates that just watched and did nothing. To hell with all of them. They didn´t know the betrayal he experienced, that he had to watch his best friend get exposed to his greatest insecurity. Of course they judged him, people always did that when they didn´t go through the same shit. No no no, no no no, I hide my pain inside No no no, no no no, I bleed to feel alive Oh woah, oh woah, I am dead inside No no no, makes it hard to survive No you can't find my reasons, no you can't find my pain

People always wondered why he was the way he was, they tried to analyze him, help him, fix him. Fuck them. He didn´t need any of that, deserved any of that. It was like a sick fucking joke. Just take someone without an arm for example, ah yes, the greatest fucking comparison he could think of, dumb fuck. Whatever. So their arm´s gone, it ain´t coming back, there´s no fixing it. It´s the same with some people, some people are too far gone already, so why waste your energy on them? We all got lost in Jesus, but he can't take away my pain

Okay, maybe Kidd wanted someone to waste their energy on him. Yes, he wanted it really fucking bad. He needed it, the affirmation that yeah, it wasn´t that unlikely to save him. That he was a good person after all. He wanted nothing more than that. I'm looking for something more

And what did he get? Fucking groupies who told him they loved him and that he meant so much to them and oh how his music saved them. Bullshit. They were drunk and wanted to fuck some semi famous person, they didn´t care about any of his shit, they didn´t care that he cried his heart out while writing the lyrics he sung in his fucking ugly voice. They didn´t care that he couldn´t rest, couldn´t sleep until the riff was complete, that he fucking hated himself and everyone who disagreed with him on that point. He just wanted to punch something or someone constantly. The last time he checked, fucking rage wasn´t handsome. So take me away, from out the door

Yeah, he liked the music. It helped him cope with everything, with things he didn´t want to think about but he forced himself to anyway because he liked to suffer. He liked making himself suffer, liked it when people called him an asshole, because yes, they were so right. Kidd needed this. He needed to feel like shit to function. Was that so wrong? He couldn´t be the only one. If he was that would be just sad. It´d make him the most miserable bastard on this earth. No, I'm looking for you outside to say No no no, no no no, I hide my pain inside No no no, no no no, I bleed to feel alive Oh woah, woah, I am dead inside No no, yeah No, I can't take it, all of these memories

It was the worst at night when he sobered up and remembered all the fucked up shit his brain worked so hard to suppress. It was like a big fuck you to his face. And yes, he did crave that too. The cold sweat he´d find himself in the middle of the night because of the nightmares. The faces of those who abused him, laughing at him, he swore he could hear them even now. Hell, he could feel them and he hated every single second of it. But fuck, did he need it. He deserved it. He wasn´t better than any of them, no matter how much he wished he was. I can't fake it, I'm trying but I am dying

Kidd didn´t remember ever having a mental breakdown, he hated that word, found it silly. Like it was some sort of game, a goal to be reached. It sucked so much. The word was for people who couldn´t deal with their emotions. He could, he knew he had them and in the instance he did, he did his best to bury them as deep as possible. That was how this worked, wasn´t it? I just want to, oh just be myself I have tried to, but now I am someone else

Kidd asked himself many times when the exact moment was that he failed so much at being a decent human being. He was hardly human these days. No matter how much he tried to think about it, he couldn´t pinpoint it. It was more like the mass of moments and their amount led to the disaster of a chaotic mess he was now. No no, no no no, so please be kind No no, no no, I'm losing my mind No no, no no, I'm really not fine Oh... I'm really not fine

Did Eustass Kidd deserve forgiveness and kindness? The answer to that question depended on his daily mood, sometimes he felt so much like shit that he wanted to believe in the lie so so badly. But on other days the question was just laughable, of course he didn´t. He was a dirty pirate for fuck´s sake. We live in an age where sex and horrors are gods We live in an age where all of our bodies are flawed We live in an age where sex and horrors are gods We live in an age, we live in an age We live in an age where sex and horrors are gods We live in an age where all of our bodies are flawed We live in an age where all of our bodies are flawed, are flawed, no

The fucking after a show didn´t have meaning, nor did the one night stands or people looking at him with those eyes, already undressing him in their minds. He didn´t mind it, he didn´t mind the attention he got in the moment. Kidd liked feeling wanted, he wanted nothing more than that. Only that he mistook want for love. And rationally he knew he was too ugly to love, hell he was even too ugly to fuck, people were just too drunk to notice that. No, I can't take it, all of these memories I can't fake it, I'm trying but I am dying I just want to, oh just be myself I have tried to, but now I am someone else

[megashadowdragon]

itsclydebitches . tumblr . com/post/180244981260/oz-just-fucks-off-into-oscars-head-this-is-proof

??? Do you really mean this, anon? Is that why it’s in quotes with no further comment? Or are you just fucking with me? Alright. *rubs hands together* I’ll play your game.

First of all, we need to look at the whole scene. Ozpin just watched an HD Color highlight reel of his entire past plus probably filled in some gaps that he didn’t even know were there because of no one else in existence being able to refute Salem’s lies to him. He’s on his knees fucking CRYING in front of all of them, but they don’t show a shred of empathy with their anger after watching the most broken man on earth finally start to shatter in front of them. And they just break him further. That’s fucking NOT okay.

And if we’re gonna talk selfish, let’s also talk Raven, shall we?

Raven is a… very unlikeable and complicated woman. She is the epitome of a selfish coward. She lies to get Yang to side with her, lies to the bad guys so she  gets the relic, and so on. And when confronted on her lies and cowardice by Yang, she tries to turn the conversation to how much SHE has suffered and how much SHE has had to go through before Yang cuts her off.

Ozpin has pulled none of this shit.

The guy has made mistakes and some poorly-thought-out decisions, sure, but he’s never done them with any malicious intent or self-service. He lied about Haven? That’s hardly self-serving. He withheld the relic’s Grimm attraction? If that was truly self-serving then why did he reveal it HIMSELF? And withholding Salem’s immortality, well. That is arguably the only self-serving tidbit he’s withheld, and we’ve seen the damage it causes when it’s spread unwisely. Just look at Raven. Look at Lionheart.

And when RWBYQ confront him about his past, they don’t give him a chance to defend himself. Raven was at least allowed to defend herself before it was clear she was spouting total bullshit. RWBYQ just let Ozpin say what they want to hear in their anger and don’t let him give context. That’s NOT confrontation. As itsclydebitches said in their recap of the episode, it’s an emotional witchhunt.

The kicker? Raven is a character who doesn’t face her past, who is confronted with its consequences and can’t handle it. Yang is the very embodiment of the damage Raven does when she runs away. A girl with abandonment issues who had to lose another mother and felt like she had to fill in the role for her sister. And when confronted by all this, Raven does all she can to deflect or turn the conversation in her favor. But in the end, she’s left with a choice. To step the fuck up for once and take the target away from her daughter, or to leave. She chose to leave.

Now, let’s move to Ozpin. This guy, who is apparently ALSO a self-serving coward, hm? He doesn’t run when confronted by Team RWBY and answers their questions with no bullshit coating like Raven tried to do. They also don’t allow him the dignity of defending himself, but apparently, Raven is afforded that. He sits there and TAKES WHAT THEY’RE DISHING OUT DESPITE ALSO REELING FROM JINN’S EXPOSITION DUMP AND BEING IN THE MIDDLE OF A BREAKDOWN. He only retreats when Qrow, really his only friend, basically condemns him and doesn’t allow him to tell Qrow that what they did wasn’t in vain. You sit there and tell me being disowned by your only friend doesn’t hurt like a bitch. I dare you.

Only then does he decide they don’t want him around anymore, and who can blame him? They’re the ones placing all the blame for everything on his shoulders, does ANYONE think that they’re wanted in that situation? And when he does leave, they say (in again, a very loose paraphrasing of @itsclydebitches recap) how dare you. How dare you defend yourself. How dare you leave so we can’t yell at you some more. How dare you not continue to lead us after we undermined your leadership. How. Dare. You.

itsclydebitches: 

I’d also just like to point out that this is precisely what I was talking about in my other post.  (itsclydebitches . tumblr . com/post/180232247775/on-ozpins-humanity)   Everyone is happy to emphasize the mistakes Ozpin makes as a flawed human being, but he’s not allowed to react like a flawed human being. The expectation here - by both the anon and QRWBY, but particularly Yang - is that Ozpin should be able turn off any emotions when it’s convenient for them and turn them back on when they want their nurturing mentor back. You’re going to have a panic attack now? No, no, no, that needs to wait until we’re finished literally and figuratively punching you. Yang says straight out she’s not done with him yet.

Really, just to recap the series of events here:

1. Ozpin explains to a group of children that he’s a reincarnating immortal and explicitly says he’s spent the last couple thousands years trying to face the consequences of his actions. That’s… his whole character. A man who is facing up to mistakes, both those he really made and those he only perceives as his fault. Ffs Ozpin’s most famous line is ALL ABOUT acknowledging mistakes and trying to deal with the fallout. In what world does this man run from consequences??

2. Ozpin immediately offers up the information that the relic attracts grimm when it becomes relevant and is willing to acknowledge/deal with the girls’ anger right then and there. Ruby only stops them because they’re still being attacked

3. Minutes later Ozpin continues to answer Yang’s questions despite the fact they should really get to safety. He understands their frustrations and is trying to be as transparent as possible while also keeping himself (and by extension Humanity) safe. Ozpin provides a lot of personal information on how the last time he shared his secrets someone betrayed him. And the time before that. And implied who knows how many other times before that. It’s not personal, it’s not a condemnation of who you girls are, but Bad Things Happened the last time I shared this info so I’m asking that you have a little faith in me

4. Yang rejects that

5. Oscar confirms that Ozpin is still hiding things from them - something they already know because he literally just acknowledged that - and gives them the means to take it forcibly

6. Ruby does that

7. Ozpin watches a HD play-by-play of his worst memories, quite literally re-living thousands of years of trauma, including shit he didn’t get to see the first time around like the gods toying with the former love of his life. He comes out of that emotionally gutted, weeping, panicking, and the first thing he sees is people who he thought were his friends screaming at him for not having the answer to an impossible problem

8. Despite having just learned his entire life story, the girls have even more questions. Except now they’re just accusations disguised as questions. Ozpin still tries to talk to them though. He is interrupted/assaulted three times during this: when Yang is yelling at him (interrupted), after he admits to Ruby that there’s no plan (punched into a tree), and when he tries to reassure Qrow (interrupted again). He’s trying to face the consequences in front of him and they’re not letting him do that. Because they’re not interested in having him acknowledge responsibility (deserved or otherwise) because that would eventually lead to absolution. No, they just want to use him as an emotional punching bag right now

9. Qrow then confirms Ozpin’s greatest fear: he’s irredeemable. People are incapable of loving him after they learn his life story. All that projection onto Lionheart? It comes full circle. It doesn’t matter the staggering good you’ve managed to accomplish in the face of seemingly impossible odds. Kept humanity alive and flourishing for thousands of years? WHO CARES. You made mistakes alongside that good so we’re done with you. They make it clear that Ozpin currently has no reason to remain with this group except to let them keep abusing him.

10. So he leaves.

Anyone would have left. It’s human to remove yourself from that kind of situation. But oh yeah, Oz isn’t allowed that.

kagome1991 said: Jesus Christ I feel this with every fiber of my being. Raven and Salem are practically worshipped in this fndm but Oz? Seen as the worst character. Fuck outta here with that.

the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee said: @kagome1991​ If anyone deserves to be Yeeted out, it’s Raven or Salem, not OZ

kagome1991 said: @the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee Absolutely. With the way this volume is going, I don’t think I wanna watch the rest unless the Oz/Oscar thing is addressed in the story. I just don’t like where Team RWBY and JNR are going in terms of development. They just come off as not having empathy when it comes to Ozpin or Oscar for that matter.

[ryancrossfield]

180. life is what you make it

This year is the best example of the saying, “life is what you make it.”

Collectively, we’ve never had more downtime, nor more reason to improve ourselves and the way we do things. Yet, instead of taking advantage of this literal “once in a lifetime opportunity,” we squander the abolition of our old distractions by replacing them with new ones.

Old complaints of not having time to accomplish something were no longer valid this year, but did people get things done? No, they replaced not having time with another excuse. 

The problem is not the absence of time, or need, or want, but the absence of responsibility to do what the fuck you need to do.

The constant complaint of “this is the worst year ever” is nothing more than people’s reliance on distraction and therefore absolving them from taking the responsibility to do the things necessary to improve upon their current situation.

For myself, this has probably been one of the best years of my life. Perhaps that is partly due to the fact that I am an introvert. Want me to stay home? Not talk to anyone? NO FUCKING PROBLEM. But at the same time that opened up a lot of free time that was not filled with Netflix binges, or being glued to the constant fear mongering bullshit of the mainstream media. My time was filled with doing the work necessary to be a better version of myself. Creating habits, healing old traumas, and always practicing a growth mindset.

None of this is to say that I didn’t experience my share of troubles. I found love and lost it all within a short window. Heartbreak is never easy. Coupled with the greatest tragedy of all — gym closures — and it would be easy for me to seek comfort in distractions. But, like I said, it comes down to mindset, and believing in the saying “life is what you make it.”

There is always a choice to make with how you respond to any situation. Choose wisely.