#full body windup and everything

[missmisnomer]

photos taken seconds before disaster

[psionotic]

My favorite culture, 2022

I haven’t posted to this thing in years, and I’m not even sure if I have any followers left. But in any case, here are some of my favorite new (or new to me) things in what was probably the most difficult year of my adult life...? -Paper-

Mexican Gothic (2021). Sure, Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s novel is basically a postcolonial mélange of “The Fall of the House of Usher”, Jane Eyre, and “The Yellow Wallpaper”, with a little dash of Lovecraft, but it absorbed and upset and disturbed me throughout.

The Priory of the Orange Tree (2020). A queer retelling of “St. George and the Dragon” within a mix of eastern and western fantasy, Samantha Shannon’s novel is full of delightful characters and magical hijinks.

The Three-Body Problem (2016). I mostly hated Cixin Liu’s Cultural Revolution-inspired anti-Contact while I was reading it. The characters are awful, both in their limited development and in their naked, selfish cruelty. The narrator is detached, looking down upon us from some distant star, without a care for those characters or for humanity generally. It is so profoundly cynical and pessimistic, at one point I almost threw it across the room. But then I kept reading and made it all the way to the end, frustrated and horrified all the while, and… I haven’t been able to shake this book since I’ve finished it. It’s burrowed its way into my psyche and won’t wend its way back out. Read/avoid at all costs.

I also enjoyed: The Windup Girl (2009), Gideon the Ninth (2020), Winter Tide (2018)

I was bummed out by: The Testaments (2019)

-Funny Pages-

Runaways volumes 1 – 5 (2018-). I put off reading this for years, because I’m so attached to BKV’s original run, and those that have followed in his footsteps have tripped over their imprint. But YA author Rainbow Rowell proved me wrong, letting me fall in love with these characters all over again.

Something is Killing the Children volumes 1 & 2 (2020-). Tynion and Dell’edera’s gothic monster slaying comic is a little X-Files, a bit Buffy, a smidge Sabrina, and basically a whole lot of the things I like.

Vision volumes 1 & 2 (2016). I read Tom King’s sad, wonderful run of Mister Miracle last year. This series (a partial inspiration for WandaVision) centers on the titular robot’s attempt to build himself a wife, two children, and a dog—the perfect American family. Things quickly go very very wrong in some ways that of course involve superhero shenanigans, but just as in MM and WV, the story zeroes in on the smaller tragedies of its misfit toys/wanna-be-real-boys inability to ever belong. 

-Movers-

Nope. Jordan Peele’s horror films become more diffuse in their themes and criticisms with each new installment, and many were apparently disappointed by Nope, but it really worked for me. Alien invasion story? Fable about our relationship to nature? A commentary on what we sacrifice to glut the slavering maw of spectacle? In any case, the film’s elusiveness is perhaps its great strength, and I went on thinking about it for months after seeing it.

Werewolf By Night. A direct-to-Disney Plus Marvel holiday short, featuring a character called The Man-Thing would not seem to promise much, but composer Michael Giacchino’s love letter to classic Universal monster movies is so focused, so economical, so un-tethered and therefore un-burdened by the MCU juggernaut (not Juggernaut) that I was just completely taken by it. Elsa, Jack, and Ted forever.

The Northman. Robert Eggers’ third film does everything his first two do, albeit on a larger scale: A particular/peculiar view of the past through the eyes of rejects and outsiders? Check. Long close-ups of actors staring intensely into the camera? Check. The presence of Anna Taylor-Joy and/or Willem Dafoe? Double check. It’s of course very possible that in a few years Eggers will descend into self-parody and become widely belittled for his repeating concerns and stylisms, but I for one am on board ‘til the longship sinks. (Also, I’d just like to point out that Taylor-Joy is an immortal mystical being, and all of her ‘characters’ are just different guises she takes throughout history. Do the research and follow the signs, you know this to be true.)

Glass Onion. Rian Johnson can’t miss. The Last Jedi was easily the best modern Star Wars movie (duel me). Knives Out was a titanic hit, beloved by audiences and critics. Follow-up Glass Onion is just as tight and fun, and it heavily features Janelle Monae, which is obviously a double-plus. It’s also quite timely, with characters resembling some of our time’s most obnoxious and narcissistic Main Characters.

I also enjoyed: Guillermo Del Toro’s Pinocchio, Prey, Weird: The Al Yankovic Story, Doctor Strange and the Multiverse of Madness, It Follows (2015) I was bummed out by: Thor: Love and Thunder  

-Telefusion-

Andor. It’s hard to sell anything Star Wars to those who aren’t already there. Long-time fans largely aren’t to be trusted, and I say this as one of them. For the already initiated/indoctrinated, the current wealth of SW content would seem to be everything we’ve ever wanted. No doubt that it is for some, but for me, at least, for every worthwhile product (The Last Jedi, The Mandalorian’s first season), we have been given a Book of Boba Fett or The Bad Batch or—force help us—The Rise of Skywalker. The problem with Star Wars is its caretakers have become increasingly terrified of doing anything new or interesting lest the fanboys strike back. As a result, so much of what is produced is nostalgia porn and easter-egg bait, endless fodder for YouTube channels churning out videos like “37 things you missed in Obi-Wan!”, and the effect of most of it is just to continually remind us of better movies made 40 years ago, to which all new content eternally apes and refers back to. It’s just terminally up its own tauntaun. Not Andor, though. Showrunner and head writer Tony Gilroy doesn’t like Star Wars. And this is evident watching the show—a show with no space wizards, no muppets, no Skywalkers or Solos or really anything that reminds the viewer of what’s come before. The villains in Andor are bureaucrats and pencil pushers simply upholding a system that benefits them; the heroes are not chosen ones from a Joseph Campbell diatribe, but ordinary people just trying to live their lives under creeping authoritarianism. There is some action—a heist and a prison break are highlights—but mostly it’s a political thriller, with a writer’s room built from veterans of Michael Clayton, The Americans, and House of Cards. Andor is brutal and bloody and timely and occasionally even hopeful. It is, as Lisa Simpson once said, “what I believe in now.”

Severance. Part corporate conspiracy thriller, part allegory on the meaningless of modern work and the cheap mythology of the great man entrepreneur, completely riveting. The finale simultaneously spools out four separate cliffhangers, making for the most anxious hour of TV I saw all year.

The Sandman. But isn’t this just a pretty-faithful live-action adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s classic and probably superior comic? I mean, yeah, that’s it, that’s the show, and honestly it’s all I ever wanted.

Interview with the Vampire. AMC’s adaptation is both exceedingly faithful and revisionist, and if that sounds paradoxical, well, as the great man said, “Very well then I contradict myself”. The core of Rice’s story remains untouched, while the concerns have been expanded to illumine American racial and sexual politics, life under the pandemic, and more. And that cast is incredible.

Players. This mockumentary by the creators of American Vandal explores professional eSports, following a team of League of Legends players over the course of one turbulent season. It’s a sports story, and a satire, and a character piece, and beyond all expectation the most heartwarming thing I watched all year.

I also enjoyed: Ghosts, What We Do in the Shadows, Our Flag Means Death, Wednesday, Stranger Things 4, She-Hulk, Star Trek: Lower Decks, Star Trek: Strange New Worlds, Ms. Marvel, Lego Masters, How to Change Your Mind, Heartstopper, Murderville, Moon Knight, Star Wars: Visions, Light and Magic, Nailed It!, Rings of Power, The Wheel of Time, House of the Dragon, Get Up

I need to catch up on: Atlanta, Reservation Dogs, Derry Girls, Station Eleven

I was bummed out by: Obi-Wan 

-Pixel-o-Games-

Elden Ring. I played FROM Software’s newest opus three separate times this year, about 300 hours. I’m not sure that it’s my favorite of their games (that’s still Bloodborne), but you could make a real argument that it’s their best.

Fortnite: Zero Build. For about three months I played Fortnite. A lot of Fornite. I never thought I’d be one of those people who plays Fortnite. But I was, all summer. The new-ish no build mode means that even newb-plebs like me can occasionally win. Still the best monetization model of any free-to-play game: I spent $10 and played for about 100 hours.

Marvel Snap! A collectible card game for those who are bad at collectible card games. That means me. I’m bad at collectible card games. But the fast matches, equalizing random battlefields, and generous card distribution and monetization (I have spent a total of $2.99 over about 75 hours) makes this thing addictive as hell. Speaking of, I just got Magik, the greatest comic book character of all time.

I also enjoyed God of War: Ragnarok, V Rising, Vampire Survivors, Resident Evil Village: Shadows of Rose, Stray, The Past Within, Dicey Dungeons (2019)

I was bummed out by: Diablo: Immortal and its rapacious monetization

-Sounds-

Susanne Sundfør – Ten Love Songs (2015). I just discovered Sundfør this year, and this album dominated my drive time over the summer and fall. Hard to classify--arty Europop, maybe? But she switches genres so frequently, often within tracks, that all schemas fail. Those songs, though.

Phoebe Bridgers – So Much Wine. Leave it to Bridgers to put out the most depressing Christmas album ever made. A nice follow-up to her 2021 album Punisher, already a modern classic. 

Andor - Original Soundtrack. Nicholas Britell scores small prestige films (Moonlight), and big prestige shows (Succession), and his compositions for Andor work in party by taking as wide of a diversion from John Williams as possible. Instead Britell relies on moody synths and itchy atonal noise, punctuated by really striking percussion sections.  

-Cast Pods- 

You’re Wrong About. Even with Michael Hobbes’ recent departure, this is still the best debunker/trivia/nuance podcast around. Sarah Marshall is a national treasure, which is something that I’m certainly right about.

Triple Click. Talking vidya games with Jason, Maddy, and Kirk is still the highlight of my week. 

WTF with Marc Maron. This is one of the oldest big podcasts, but I only recently started listening. Maron’s interviewing style is divisive—he often interrupts, mostly to speculate or spool out an anecdote—and he’s certainly not for everyone, but the old man’s really grown on me. I mostly tune in to the shows where I like the guest. And my god, what guests! Just this fall I’ve listened to his interviews with Neil Gaiman, Patton Oswalt, Clea Duvall, Elvis Mitchell, Rian Johnson, Tony Gilroy, and Quinta Brunson.

I also enjoyed: Strong Songs, The Besties, Get Played, Video Palace (2018) 

-Tube You’ers- 

VaatiVidya. This is a channel specializing in FROM Software games’ lore and secrets. I’m obsessed with them, obviously, but also the host has the most charming, mellifluous British voice. 

Folding Ideas. Dan Olson’s video essays on politics and culture always get me thinking, and the breadth of the subject matter he covers is staggering. His video on crypto and NFTs, and his one on modern conspiracy theories, are musts.

Girlfriend Reviews. He’s a dork and a video editor. She’s a backseat gamer and performer. Together they mock video games and games culture. Much hilarity ensues. 

I also enjoyed: YongYea, Digital Foundry, Nerdwriter1, Pitch Meeting, PBS Storied, Zullie the Witch, Weird Rules, Alanah Pierce, PeruseProject, Ellie Dashwood, Second Thought, Emmalition, LegalEagle, Jim Sterling, Game Maker’s Toolkit, Penguin0

[unstoppableforcce]

beer pong

—trivia night universe (3)

pairing: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x bartender!reader

part 2 | next part | masterlist

a/n: I really enjoyed writing this moment between the two of them so I hope you enjoy the mix of fun and somewhat serious! there’s no smut in this part but the next idea I have for them is smut related, and if yall have any ideas, feel free to let me know! I love these guys !!

“Now, do you want to do this or do you want to fuck around?”

Santiago Garcia had never been more in love with another person than he had been in that moment. 

He had been dancing around the idea for about a week or two now, but never had such a foreign concept been so clearly illustrated to him before. It caught him every so often, for brief seconds or sometimes minutes, but it didn’t stop him in his tracks until now. 

There had been the morning that you insisted on going with him to the grocery store because he never bought the right kind of apples and danced around him in line humming whatever song had been on the radio while the two of you were in his car. There had been the day that you texted him asking him what his favorite color was then showed up later that night with your nails painted that color. There had been some smaller moments too. When you asked him to put your necklace on for you, when you came up behind him in the kitchen and trailed kisses across his shoulders, when your perfume lingered in his bathroom long after you left for work...

The thought had a firmly secured spot in his mind, but it took you standing across the table from him with a raised brow, quirked hip, and ping pong ball in hand and repeated the question, he knew for sure. 

He was head over heels, breath knocked from his chest, absolutely and indiscriminately in love with you. 

And he was going to kick your ass at beer pong at the same time. 

Frankie couldn’t help but laugh as he walked towards the table and handed Pope a fresh beer. He didn’t say anything aloud, but he could read it on his face. He was smug and Fish only got smug when he was seeing right through him, and just as Santi was sure that he was in love with you, he was also sure that Frankie could see that on his face. 

He caught the ping pong ball you threw at his head and rolled his eyes, “Honey, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I don’t know, you talk a lot of shit Pope, but this is kind of my realm of expertise.” You smirked back, bringing your beer to your lips as Benny joined you by your side with another beer. 

To think you had been so nervous about meeting the guys officially for the first time. He’d told you over an over again that you had nothing to worry about but it wasn’t until the two of you actually arrived at Will’s house and you truly met them. You fell easily into pace alongside them, bouncing back and forth with them like you had known them for years. It was everything Pope knew it would be, and maybe that made him love you a little bit more. 

“Ok, house rules here. Nothing too crazy.” Benny warned carefully as he waved his hands over the table as if he were blessing the triangular assortments of red solo cups. “And normally I’d argue the lady gets to go first but it looks like we’ve got an honest-to-god face off ready here so...”

“Damn straight.” You easily replied, holding the ball up as Santi mirrored your movements. “Give me your eyes, baby.”

“You have them, honey.” 

Frankie and Benny both shared in a whistle, and as Will came outside with a beer of his own and a plate of snacks, he joined in as well. But your stare stayed locked with Santi’s as you both counted off and threw the balls across table to the respective cups. 

Yours sank easily while his swirled around the edge of the corner cup and rolled out, leading to the first round of cheers shared between you and Benny. 

Fish landed a heavy hand on his shoulder and blew out another breath, “this is going to be fun.”

And that was exactly what it was, an extension of what it had been for the first hour of the night, an easy flow of fun times. At least until you guys came down to two cups left on each side. 

“Oh the pressure is building.” Benny mocked as he lowered himself to his knees to put his face behind the cups to distract Frankie as he faked a few tosses before finally throwing and missing by nearly a mile. “Oh! The pressure has claimed another victim.”

“Shut up Benny—” Fish fought but the two of you were laughing too hard as you bent over to grab the ball from the grass. “They are a dangerous duo—“

“You’re telling me.” Santi chuckled, lining up his shot as both you and Benny began to dance behind the cups to distract him. It almost worked too, but at the last second, he found his focus and his skill and nailed the water in the cup effortlessly. “There it is!”

He slammed his hand against Frankie’s in the most intense high five that they had maybe ever shared while you and Benny threw your hands up, exasperated as the cups in front of you now totaled 2-1, not in your favor. 

Passing your ball to Benny, you fished the other ball from the water, dumped the water out, and stacked the cup all before reaching for your own beer and taking a hefty swig. This was it. If there was ever a moment when you needed to call upon the skills you probably should have left behind in college, this was it.

“After you,” Benny gestured with another wave of his arm as you sat your drink down and you gave him a quick reciprocated nod. 

Santi and Frankie began a similar dance to the one that you and Benny had managed, pulling the edges of your straight-lined focused mouth up at the corners even as you fought it. And when Will laughed, the whole group was dancing and laughing, and you couldn’t keep a straight face but you were determined to keep your shot straight. 

“We don’t have all night honey—”

“I’m focusing—”

“Focus faster—”

“Shut your pretty mouth—”

“We’re waiting—”

The toss was perfect, landing in the cup with a satisfying splash and an echoing cheer taking over the rest of the group. “Worth the wait, baby?”

He pulled the ball out with a smile he couldn’t keep down. He tried to smother it with his drink as he flicked the water off the ball but it was no use, the smile was there. The smile was there and it was contagious to the three other men who considered themselves his closest and only friends. 

It was good to see him this happy. Overwhelmingly good to see him this overwhelmingly happy. How could it not make them equally as happy?

Though, Fish wasn’t happy to see his chances to win slipping through his finger tips. 

“Let’s see what you got, Benny.”

“Let’s go.”

“You got this.” 

He turned to you and gave you a solid fist bump, something that had slowly became your ritual the more the two of you played. Then he turned back towards the table and tossed without a practice windup or any hesitation. 

It bounced on the rim. 

Both you and him leaned with it. 

It bounced in. 

The shouting must have annoyed the shit out of Will’s neighbors but none of the five of you seemed to care. You all just burst out in obnoxious cheering, Benny wrapped you up in a quick hug, twirling you around before the two of you descended into laughter, relishing in your victory even more when you saw both Frankie and Santi throw their hands up. 

“Good game,” Frankie easily conceded but Santi just shook his head, reaching for his beer. 

“Great game,” you countered with a fully body chuckle as you grabbed your own drink and walked around the table to wrap your arm around Santi’s waist and steal a quick kiss from his lips. But as he tried to hide his smile still, you quickly broke through when you said, “do I taste like a winner?”

That not only broke his smile from him, but a full body laughter of his own as well as he shook his head and pulled back from you. “You’re breaking my heart, honey.”

“You knew what you were getting yourself into.”

“Nah, I’m calling for a rematch,” he said, turning back to the group and repeating himself, “A rematch, and we’re going to get Will in on this one.”

“He can’t accept a fair, honest game—” Benny shouted as you raised your bottle in agreement. 

“I want a rematch—”

“Sore loser.” You mocked, but another game happened anyways. 

Though, this time, there was much less structure to it. Benny was blowing balls out of the cups as they swirled, Santi was smacking away bounces without second thought, and even Frankie was leaning in from the sidelines to get in the way of shots. But it was fun. More fun than you could remember having in a long time. 

The night calmed down after that; not as high energy but equally as fun once you all moved back inside. 

Benny had a few questions about mixing drinks which ultimately moved all of you into the kitchen with half of Will’s liquor cabinet and refrigerator out on the counter. It was mindless fun for you and they all seemed to be having a good time, but it also meant that by the time you all decided it was a good time to go, you were very, very drunk. 

With your fingers intertwined, the two of you said your goodbyes and walked back out into the nighttime chill, swaying your linked arms between the two of you as you walked down the driveway to where Santi was parked on the street. And again, as you giggled, tripping over yourself slightly, he was reminded again of the fact that was becoming a more and more common fact of life for him. 

He loved you. He was in love with you. He adored every bit of you and, the two of you hadn’t been together for long, but he was sure of it. 

It wasn’t a familiar feeling for him, it wasn’t something he was anyway comfortable with admitting if he was going to be honest, but he was almost a hundred percent positive. 

He loved you. He was in love with you. And he was sure of it. 

“Why so quiet?” You hummed, swinging your linked hands back and forth with more force to attempt to snap him out of his own head as they two of you made it to the curb next to his jeep. 

“I’m not quiet.” He attempted to counter but as he stopped walking and turned to you, he could see the disbelief plainly on your face. 

“You sure you’re okay to drive? I can call a lyft—”

“I’m fine to drive, honey, I had maybe three beers since dinner—”

“Then why so quiet?” You fought, with maybe a bit more drunken determination than you typically had as you tugged on his hand more. “Come on, I thought tonight went well—”

“Tonight went so well, I had an amazing time—”

“Then what’s wrong?”

You sounded sad, he didn’t want you to be sad, there was literally no reason in the whole universe for you to be sad and he hated that you thought that something was wrong but... but he couldn’t get the words out. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t said them before, it was just that he had really never felt comfortable saying them. The few relationships he had where he did say it, they ended shortly after the three little words left his lips, and the last thing he wanted was for that to be the case here. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him and if he went too fast... if he said it before you were ready for it and he messed everything up...

He didn’t want to ruin this. He was terrified, and by the looks of it, so were you and that was his fault. 

Keeping his mouth shut was going to ruin it, telling you was going to ruin it...

“Nothing’s wrong, honey, I swear.” He said easily but as he pulled his keys from his pocket and tried to turn to the door, you kept your hold on his hand and kept him where he stood. 

“Did I do something wrong tonight?”

This was so far from fair to you. You were drunk and he was being evasive, giving you every reason to worry while he was trying to get you not to worry. 

How could a night where everything had gone right so far go south so fast?

If he could just open his goddamn mouth—

“Santi, I don’t understand—” You dropped his hand, bringing both of yours together in front of you, wringing them over each other as his silence held...

And he just couldn’t take it anymore. 

“I love you.”

He swore his heart was going to beat out of his chest, his stomach was filled with nerves he hadn’t felt in years and watching your face was doing nothing to calm him down. Half your face was cast in shadow from the street lights that lined the road, and as his eyes scanned over every inch of you, he still didn’t find anything to go off of in terms of your reaction. You held his stare with the same sad look you had been wearing before he said anything. 

What did that mean?

Was it too early? It had only been a few months, so he couldn’t blame you if you didn’t feel the same especially given how long it took him to open up to you about the littlest of things. He didn’t even know how long he was supposed to wait, was there some sort of timeline that healthy minded adults followed that he was just never told about?

Did he just ruin things? Was he moving too fast—

“Really?”

Really?

What did that mean? Did that mean that he said it too early and you didn’t believe him? Did that mean that you didn’t feel the same? Did that mean he just caught your off guard or did you wish he hadn’t said it? 

He could see what felt like a thousand emotions playing across your face and he didn’t know which meant what—

You lips cut him off before he got too deep into his thoughts. And it wasn’t just the surprise of your lips on his, it was the pure force you put behind it. 

He stumbled back into the side of his truck, catching you with his body as you pressed every inch of yourself into him. Your hands pulled at the sides of his face, tugging on his ears to get yourself even closer as he wrapped his arms around your waist and towards your back, holding you as close as you were holding him as his lips reciprocated the heavy kiss. 

There wasn’t a thought in his mind anymore that wasn’t you. Your intoxicated feet even stepped on his in your overwhelming eagerness, solidly holding every single part of you that you could against him. 

He wasn’t sure what it meant, but there was no way it could be bad news anymore, that he was sure of as your tongue pushed into his mouth and your hands trailed up to his hair, tugging with much more intensity than he was used to. 

But even then, he had to pull back to catch his breath and it was worth checking in with you as he did. With his forehead pressed to yours, his arms cradled around your back, he opened his eyes and found yours waiting there for him. “So...”

Your face twisted into an adorable intoxicated confusion, “So?”

“I just told you I loved you and you kissed me and I don’t know--”

You stole another kiss off his lips easily. “Are you kidding me?”

Was he supposed to know what that meant? Did he know what it meant and his brain just wouldn’t let him think it or was he just too hesitant? How could you kiss him with that kind of passion and still leave him so confused--

“No, I’m not—”

“Santi, I’m so in love with you...” 

Blowing out a breath of relief, he shook his head and pulled your face back towards his, reconnecting your lips and swinging you around to press you into the side of the car while you giggled against his lips. But then he pulled back again, leaving you chasing his lips. 

“What—”

“I have to drive home eventually, we can’t just have sex in Will’s driveway...” He laughed out, bringing his hand to your bare neck and the gold necklace that laid there and tracing it lightly with his calloused fingertips. 

“Why not?” You chuckled back, nudging your nose into his as his laughter melted together with yours, as hot as the sun despite the gentle chill of the night that surrounded the two of you. 

“Because I know he has security cameras and I have a very comfortable bed at home...” He countered, taking his keys back into his hand, unlocking the car, and opening the passenger door for you. 

“Fair point...” 

As he led you into your seat, he moved to turn away but you caught him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him back in for one last kiss. 

One last kiss he couldn’t pull away from. 

He didn’t know what was different about it from all the others, he definitely didn’t know why it stood out from the kissing session that had just concluded, but he knew that he could feel it was different. And you felt it too, because you lingered the same way, leaning out of the car to hold onto him, still by the collar. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me...” He sighed out against your lips, the words falling much easier now than they had around the three little words. 

He didn’t know if it was just the words of ‘I love you’ or just his own fears or his comfort now... He didn’t know what it was, but the words fell like dripping honey from his lips. 

“I don’t know, you’ve got three pretty good things in the form of your best friends who we just left inside and—”

“And they’re the best and I’d put my life on the line for them, I have before, but I’m not in love with any of them.” He continued easily, stealing one last kiss before shutting the passenger door and walking around to the driver’s side with a smirk he was never going to lose. 

Not as long as he was with you. 

And he was hoping that was going to be for as long as he lived. 

He got back into the car next to you and found you staring at him wide-eyed and surprised but his smirk didn’t leave his lips and he easily started the car. 

“Santi—”

“Now that I’ve said it, I’m going to be saying it all the time, I just want you to know that.”

Your slightly drunken brain had cleared up enough to leave you happy and sober. Your head finally caught with you and a smirk the same size as his grew on your lips. “Good.”

“It might even get annoying—”

“Do you worst.”

Yeah. He loved you. 

--

tags: (these are tags from teh first part, let me know if you’d like to be added or removed) @mandoplease​ @spider-starry​ @shakespeareanwannabe​ @mylifeliterally​ @this-cat-is-dea​ @woakiees​ @imananxiousdriver​

[windupnamazu]

bolt to the blue

ffxivwrite2021 #15: thunderous

⮞ lunya, fistoflightning's zaya, blackestnight's hanami, verbroil's rjoli, and winduphaurchefant's reese. a mention of windup-dragoon's kirishimi! 921 words. ⮞ post-shb, but pre 5.3, with a spoiler for the ffxv collab event. ⮞ lunya may be less inclined to show it like zaya does, but she does cause problems on purpose. or: water/lightning aspected siblings pioneer the dumbest form of travel eorzea's ever seen.

thunderous: relating to or giving warning of thunder.

"I can't let you do this," Reese insisted, wringing her hands in her robes as she paced before them. "It's way too unsafe—what if you get set on fire, or—or—what if you fall?! You will fall! Oh, gods, what am I going to say to the Scions..."

Lunya rolled her eyes. "Calm down, Mom. I can give us a safe landing." She snapped her fingers. "Like this."

A warbled scream erupted from Reese as she slowly began to float off the ground, glittering with faint traces of stardust. "Please put me down please put me down please put me—"

Rjoli reached out and grabbed her sleeve, smiling patiently as Reese wrapped herself around him like a koala and clung to him even after Lunya returned her gravity to normal.

Dark clouds were beginning to roll in over the Floating City of Nym as the party stood on the cliff's edge, the winds kicking up fiercely as the rain approached. Lunya relished the feeling of an authentic La Noscean storm—it was too bad Wyda couldn't be home to enjoy it too. Kind of embarrassing, actually, that she was making her friends do something like this instead of heading back over to help out with the research. But Zaya was stretching at her side, a spark in their eyes that she hadn't seen in some time between everything that'd happened on the First. Their enthusiasm was palpable, rolling off them in static waves that raised every hair on Rjoli's body until he was a giant pink puffball. Every bit of movement any of them made created small crackling sounds.

"This is not how Noctis did his warping," Hanami said, crossing her arms as she eyed the storm warily. It was hard to tell if she was just as worried for them as Reese was or if she figured they'd learn their lesson the hard way.

"Well, I don't see Hien and Kirishimi warping around with 'the power of kings,'" snipped Lunya, unless Kiri knew something she didn't. Hanami and Zaya both made complicated expressions at the mention of the Doman lordling. "So we gotta do the next best thing."

Privately, Lunya knew full well that going out of her way to get hit by lightning wasn't at all the next best thing and nowhere close to what their otherworldly friend employed in battle. The technique she was going to use came from another of the Warriors of Light and Seven happened to use it without this dangerous aspect, which frankly just wasn't as fun. She sure as hells wasn't about to tell Reese that, though.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Rjoli signed, a bit stifled by Reese continuing to cling to him like an oversized stuffed bear. "Isn't Zaya's aether…"

"I know Zaya's whole aether situation is like trying to put a sweater on a greased goobbue, that's why they have me," Lunya emphasized with a wiggle of her incandescent, aether-coated fingers.

"That's why I have Lunya," Zaya agreed, giving them all a not very reassuring thumbs up, way more excited about this than any of the others felt they should be. Reese and Rjoli looked at them doubtfully.

The rain rushed in. When the first crack of thunder slammed above them, Lunya clapped her hands with glee, bouncing up and down on the spot. Zaya knelt on the dirt, her back turned to her. "It's time!"

"Like a frog," Hanami muttered, which Lunya luckily didn't hear.

Lunya climbed on Zaya's back. A iridescent sheen rippled across Zaya's scales and horns and down their skin as she pressed a hand to the back of their head, condensing her aether into a thick protective layer over them both. If her hair wasn't already a mess from Zaya's latent static earlier then it certainly was now as tension completely pooled around them and the rain began to soak them through. Every single hair on her body was standing on end and there was a low buzz that hummed in the air.

"At your ready, Cap'n Zaya!" she cheered. The others stepped far, far back, crammed together beneath Rjoli's Serpent of Ronka umbrella.

"Hold on," Zaya said raspily, teeth bared in a huge grin. Threads of aether swirled in Lunya's hands as she gripped Zaya's shoulders, electricity beginning to arc across their skin. The smell of ozone was overwhelmingly sweet in her nostrils, weighing metallic on her tongue.

Lightning struck them.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAA," they screamed in unison, like idiots, because seriously why did she ever think this was a good idea—but Lunya closed her eyes and searched, following the lines of aether that swirled in the air. She grasped at the lightning aether, grabbed her own in the other fist, and slammed them together. The lightning strike launched them upward and with her aetherial manipulation she pulled another bolt close and Zaya propelled them forward, high, high above the floating city. Lunya whooped in exhilaration as they leaped to the next lightning strike and the next and the next and the next, and the storm swelled fiercer and fiercer above them until they were out of sight, the only sign of where they were being the intensified sound of the thunderclaps and the shaking of the earth with each following strike.

"Um, now that I think about it," Reese said, breaking the silence that followed the first lightning strike for the three left on the ground. "Why did we let them take any ideas from Noctis when we watched him hit his fiancée with a car?"

[lordofcrowns]

LANGUAGES: CAPTAIN CYRIL STACY

SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1  /  2  /  3 + TONE OF VOICE: high  /  average  /  deep. ACCENT:  yes  /  no. DEMEANOR:  confident  /  shy  /  approachable  /  hostile  /  other. [ authoritative ] POSTURE:  slumped /  straight  /  stiff  /  relaxed. HABITS:  head tilting  /  swaying / fidgeting  /  stuttering  /  gesturing  /  arm crossing /  strokes chin  /  er, um, or other interjections  /  plays with hair or clothing /  hands at hips  / inconsistent eye contact  /  maintains eye contact  /  frequent pausing  /  stands close  /  stands at distance.

COMPLEXITY

VOCABULARY:  ◼ ◼ ◼ ◼ ◼ EMOTION:  ◼ ◻ ◻ ◻ ◻ SENTENCE STRUCTURE:  ◼ ◼ ◼ ◼ ◼ 

PROFANITY

PROFANITY:  ◼ ◻ ◻ ◻ ◻ [ highly situational - but he generally tries to avoid it ] CREATIVITY:  ◻ ◻ ◻ ◻ ◻ 

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY

arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shite. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

GIVEN PROPER RELIGIOUS CONTEXT 

christ on a bike. christ on a cracker. damn. goddamn. godsdamn. hell. holy shit. jesus. jesus christ. jesus h christ. jesus h. roosevelt christ. lord have mercy. jesus, mary and joseph. sweet jesus.

THIS OR THAT

contractions or enunciation?   straightforward or and cryptic?   jargon or toned?   complexity or simplicity?   finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind?   masculinity, neutrality, or femininity?   formalities or abrasiveness?   praise or equivocation?   frankness or lies?   excessive or minimal hand gestures?   name-calling or magnanimity?  friendly or blunt nicknames?

◈ IMPORTANT QUESTIONS ◈

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR MUSE?

almost always  /  frequently  /  sometimes /  rarely  /  never.

DOES YOUR MUSE’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK?

almost always  /  frequently  / sometimes  /  rarely  /  never.  

WOULD YOUR MUSE INITIATE CONVERSATIONS?

almost always  / frequently  /  sometimes /  rarely  /  never.

WOULD YOUR MUSE BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS?

almost always  /  frequently /  sometimes  /  rarely  /  never.

WOULD YOUR MUSE USE “WHOM” IN A SENTENCE?

yes /  no  /  only ironically.

YOUR MUSE WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? 

but /  though  /  although  /  however /  perhaps  / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR MUSE END CONVERSATIONS?

walk away /  ask if that’s everything  /  say that that’s everything  / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here  /  remain quiet  /  they don’t.

HOW DOES YOUR MUSE ADDRESS OTHERS?

titles /  first names / surnames / full names /  nicknames. [ pet names ]

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR MUSE BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK?

upper /  middle /  lower.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR MUSE SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? 

accent /  vocabulary  / tone  /  level  /  politeness /  brusqueness /  it doesn’t.

Tagged by: @ofthesilverlining​ & @windup-dragoon​​ ( Thank you both! )

Tagging: @manawalls​ @noscean-scholar​ @finalvalor​ @verdandir​ @coeurlfist​ @windupzenos​ @wanderlust-spirits @alinteau​ @amurr-reha​ @tay-ffxiv​ @alun-ura​ @cuffles​ @menphinasbow​​ @varae-ver-you-are​ @cero-tia​ @thebratcat​ @smolcatte​ @heathenfrolic​ & anyone else interested!

( As always, no pressure to do the meme - but if you would like to do it, here is your excuse! Please feel free to use me as your tagger even if I didn’t mention you, I’d love to read more of these! )

Continued Cyril ramblings under the cut.

I have one (1) brain cell at this time so instead of eloquently worded information and thought provoking headcanons, you - my dear and most sincerely appreciated reader - get a bulleted list.

Okay here we go.  ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Cyril is, in any situation, quite formal in his vocabulary and sentence structure. This goes hand in hand with formal mannerisms and carrying.

Typically, the only real vocal indication of hostility - or otherwise less than noble intentions - is Cyril growling. His tone, manners, and vocabulary will remain composed, even if he’s quite literally in the act of something unsavory.

Cyril typically speaks slowly, which can either put people at ease or instill the exact opposite feeling. Naturally this depends on the dynamic, but it’s a common thread that Cyril’s voice goes from being a soothing presence to a terrifying one.

In most scenarios, there is precious little emotion present in his voice - which can sometimes make him sound disinterested or unimpressed. That can either be an asset or a detriment, depending on who he’s talking to.

Most of his emotion - if he deems to show any - is present in his body language and, in conversation, displayed primarily through eye contact.

How Cyril speaks to someone is almost wholly dependent upon the dynamic between the two. Whether he’s stoic, gentle, invested, impatient etc will all depend on who he’s speaking to.

No matter the situation, Cyril’s voice always retain one feature that many will speak of: it’s loud. Or at least, it feels loud.

Cyril has a very authoritative demeanor and tone, and he does not allow people to speak over him. Because of this, he’s usually able to drown out others and command attention.

When speaking to crew or giving orders, all emotion will typically drain from his voice. This is the loudest and perhaps the most impatient he can sound - though whether or not the most intimidating is likely a matter of opinion.

The alternative for the most intimidating Cyril can sound is how he speaks when riled. While still formal and - until things begin to get violent / he loses his temper - quite calm and collected, he will snarl and growl low in the back of his throat to convey that he’s not playing around.

Full-fledged anger does not inherently mean he grows to be particularly loud - but his words and tone will be more aggressive and authoritative, similar in some ways to how his voice sounds when commanding the crew - but mingled now with unpleasant emotion. Most of his anger is conveyed in his actions, ie lashing out at others.

Genuine curses are rare. Typically foul language is reserved for use as a term / pet name to talk down to another.

Cyril never stutters or stammers his words - and he hates when people fumble over their words in such a manner. It’s common for him to blatantly ignore people until they can speak “properly” to him, without stuttering. In some cases he’ll cut people off and demand they start again, or repeat it until they can talk without fumbling. 

Eye contact is important to Cyril, especially in conversation. It’s also typical for him to get up in someone’s face to make sure they’re looking at him when they’re speaking. ( Again, very dependent upon dynamic, but still worth mentioning. )

Thank you for reading! 🌹

[freewheelshippin]

FIC: “What Do I Call You?”

There was something so honest about how she hyped the crowd, leaned so forward she seemed like she might leap into a crowdwalk, pointing at her ear until the whole crowd bellowed in their own guttoral harmony. And she smiled so much at her crewmates -- Ranmaru realized he was smiling, too, while she played guitar and accompanied the others’ solos, only breaking from her deep sway with the music to look at them with brightness and joy in her eyes. 

In those moments, Ranmaru understood something he hadn’t before, but it also made him realize that the hunger in him wasn’t being sated so much as it was deepening. 

So! I had some fun writing for the roleswap AU, where I’m the punk rock idol and Ranmaru’s the freelance artist getting some juice from all the love and music.

Not much by ways of content warnings -- lots of eating, a fair amount of alcohol, too, and you know, we utter the word ‘fuck’ a few times.  

Ranmaru swore as he dropped the case on his toe. He could tell immediately that this was one of those jammed toes that would hurt for days from the bruising, especially when he still had half of the city to cross before he could get back home. And what was home? His shithole apartment and limping around while he went on his rounds for the local cats? 

At least the train was empty enough he could sit alone, even comfortably with all his equipment. He was still cross that the live house didn’t have it themselves. Weren’t they professionals? Stupid. The show had sucked, too, with the band spending more time fucking around then putting on the damn show they were paid for, that their fans came out to see, that Ranmaru had put such care into getting the tech just right to enhance. And that one jackass trying to throw hands with anyone in the crowd. Nobody on staff did a fucking thing to kick him out until Ranmaru dragged him out himself, and now he had a black eye and the stink of shitty beer and stale cigarette smoke hanging on him to show for it.

Thirty minutes ‘til his stop. He could listen to some music to smooth over this shitty...everything. He slipped his headphones on, ready to mute the rest of the world and stop anyone from entering his. 

Reiji (12:42 AM) : Iiiiiiiiiit’s dropped!!!!!

What, your balls, Ranmaru thought ruefully to himself, unconsciously clicking his tongue in annoyance. He moved his finger to swipe and mute him for … a week, maybe, from how shitty he was feeling right now, but Reiji was too fast. The link appeared, and Ranmaru hit it, if only to have something concrete to be annoyed with him for. 

It was a preview for a new PV. That’s right. It was technically tomorrow already, the day this content was due, but this was still early. Reiji must have found a leak. Lucky he was such an otaku, Ranmaru never had to go hunting for sketchy files or talk with weirdos he knew he wouldn’t be able to level with outside of the crowd. There was a long windup before the music even started playing, the visuals building dramatic lighting and obscuring anything but their silhouettes, but there was the low fuzz of an amp before it all hit at once. 

Ranmaru didn’t want to admit that his eyes darted right to that flash of turquoise as the lights came up in the PV, because it would mean that he might’ve smiled at just the sight of her. No, it had to be the sound. That clean, driving guitar, that strong bass, it felt like Deep Purple and Iron Maiden, but pushed to be danceable and idol-friendly with synth and a digital drumkit beat Ranmaru could vaguely recognize parts of.  

His toe and face didn’t stop hurting and body didn’t stop aching, but he stopped feeling so mad about it for the minute he watched and listened. There was professional polish there he’d missed seeing at the shitshow that was tonight’s gig, but there was still that rawness there of a good, irreplaceable concert. Something less precise than other idol groups’ practiced, saccharine perfection, but Ranmaru found it more welcoming than any other group he’d seen or worked with. 

The camera cut to a focus shot. Her hair was as bright as ever, styled like she were one of those princely girls from anime, just somehow made real, and she turned to look right at him-- 

Reiji (12:44 AM) : Ranran~~ how are you liking your girlfriend in this one :3c 

Ranmaru actually growled a little. He only realized he had been smiling because of how intensely he frowned at that bastard, barging into his texts --  

Ranmaru (12:44 AM): shut the fuck up and let me watch it. don’t call her that   

Reiji (12:44 AM): Isn’t she doing all the things you like??? 

Reiji (12:45 AM): So handsome! So rock! So passionate!

Reiji (12:45 AM): Feels tailor made for you ;o 

Ranmaru (12:45 AM): I told you to shut the fuck up. go text natsuki if you have to annoy someone

Reiji (12:46 AM): Aww Ranran did the show go bad? :(

Reiji (12:46 AM): But I already did, you know! And I’ve already gotten twice as many sparkly sticker replies than texts you’ve sent me in the past week!!! 

(He had to admit he laughed a little at that. Reiji was probably getting another onslaught as he was typing, his own push notifications as clogged as he was making Ranmaru’s.) 

Ranmaru (12:47 AM): I’m muting notifs since you won’t learn how to fucking shut up 

Reiji (12:47 AM): ohhhh she’s getting ranran’s full attention~! You must really like this preview, huh? I guess it’s true love 

Ranmaru (12:48 AM): WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY   

Reiji (12:48 AM): You’re right, I should, I should be listening for wedding bells! 

Ranmaru (12:48 AM): go make out with your gacha girlfriend body pillow and leave me alone 

Ranmaru (12:49 AM): hypocrite 

He finally muted all his notifications. An hour should be enough to ride it out, he thought as he settled a little into the hard plastic of the seat, restarting the video. The anger from the past couple hours melted away as he watched, uninterrupted, and replayed it with eyes closed as the sound flowed in through his headphones and released the tension in his body bit by bit. 

--- 

The hour ran out when Ranmaru was squatting over an especially runty kitten, eating noisily while the others watched from a couple feet away. Why stray cats could understand him better than anyone else when he said to piss off, he’d never know. He swiped around to turn his notifications back off for the rest of the night before pocketing his phone again. 

“...Oi. Slow down.” He pulled the plate of food away from the kitten. It shook with hiccups as it watched carefully, almost fearfully, before it pounced back onto the food, gobbling it down like it was going to be its last meal. Ranmaru sighed but couldn’t blame the little thing. He dumped out the last of the food, gave the rest of the cats one last look as he stood up to walk away, and he heard the frenzied scratch of their claws against the pavement as they swarmed the plates of food. 

 Maybe it wasn’t so much they understood him as he understood them. To hunger like that, both literally and for something less physical but just as carnal.  

He plugged his headphones back in, listening to the leaked preview a few more times on his way back to the apartment. 

--

He liked this group to begin with mostly because of her. She dressed, talked, and acted more like someone from a band than an idol, and something about that felt weirdly familiar and good. The rest of the group were more unique than a lot of other idols -- you’d expect that from a unit made up of a pack of ragtag international recruits, sure, but it was refreshing how they’d made everything about their presence wholly their own. 

Hers just made the most sense to him. The brashness, the way she talked about music, the way she performed, it all felt like someone who was chasing and understood the same things he did. She even said her music was about giving people power in an interview Reiji’d dug up for him. 

“Beyond language, or the way words reach people,” she’d said in decent but definitely non-native Japanese; she’d grown up some in Okinawa while her family lived on the military base, but mostly shuttled between America and Bangkok before getting recruited by chance here. “I want to give everyone a home that makes them feel strong through my music.” 

He wondered, dimly, as he took a hot shower and stared down at his swollen red toe, if he felt drawn to the group because he wanted that for himself, or because it reminded him why he kept picking up jobs that made him as angry as tonight’s did. 

He went to bed that night with an ice pack balanced on his swollen eye, the frustration more or less passed as he listened to the classic bands that new song reminded him of. 

--- 

He woke up to his phone buzzing, the hold on push notifications finally expired, and he murmured in bewilderment at just how many there were. Not just from Reiji, but Natsuki, too. 

Rather than try and parse whatever the hell happened while he was asleep, Ranmaru just went into the group chat well after he’d gotten himself breakfast. 

Ranmaru (9:28 AM): what the hell happened last night that you had to blow up my phone 

Natsuki (9:30 AM): Maru-chan-senpai! Ah! You’re alive!!!! 

Ranmaru (9:31 AM): I just went to bed is all 

(“Why the hell are you calling me ‘senpai’?” Ranmaru had asked him, and Natsuki had looked at him with those big dopey eyes and earnestly said since he’d been a fan longer, he was naturally Natsuki’s senpai, and any protest Ranmaru made never stuck.) 

Reiji supplied a link without any fanfare, introduction, or goofy dramatics, which almost startled Ranmaru. 

Notice (posted by Ootori Eiichi x/xx/xx): 

We are currently seeking an emergency replacement sound/stage technician for performances at the following dates and locations. Inquire immediately. [PAID] 

Ranmaru stared at the listing, barely processing the lurch in his stomach that came from just reading it. It was for them. That act. The debut mini-tour for that new single. It’d take rearranging his sound editing queue and massaging some deadlines, but he could feasibly make all of those dates and times.

He thought for a moment of doing that sound check, and seeing for himself the electric energy of that live. Of working with that group whose respect for their audience he personally felt, of watching her prepare, having to talk directly to her as she tuned her guitar....

There was the very real possibility that it’d prove everything he believed about them - about her, really, that ethos he was drawn to - was just smoke and mirrors, too. 

Natsuki (9:35 AM): Can you do it, Maru-chan-senpai? 

Reiji (9:36 AM): Ranran, you have to do it. 

Ranmaru (9:36 AM): this is just a listing, just because I ask doesn’t mean it’ll go through 

There was a long pause, where everyone went on and off typing, never actually saying anything, and he frowned. 

Ranmaru (9:40 AM): can you all just fucking say what you’re thinking already 

Natsuki (9:42 AM): You really love their magic and energy, I just wanted to say I hope you do it and get it because your heart wants it! 

Reiji (9:45 AM): Yes, Nacchan, you said it! Ranran, I’ll give you all the free bento you need to keep your tummy full to go do this! 

Ranmaru (9:45 AM): don’t fucking do that, reiji, you’ll just piss of your sister. I’ll buy them myself

Ranmaru (9:45 AM): assuming I even do this 

Reiji (9:46 AM): I really think you should. 

Reiji (9:46 AM): Not because we want the insider scoop. But because when’s the last time you had fun at a live you worked? 

Ranmaru could curse Reiji where he stood. Whenever he stopped fucking around and got to his point, it was always a good one. 

---

He got the job, somehow, after a little emailing back-and-forth and negotiating the contract. Now he was on a train to Yokohama for the first gig, his case packed full, his backpack stuffed with supplies for a week. Comping travel, hotel, and meals was enough to take the job, even if it paid like ass, but it didn’t. The contract was actually pretty decent. They -- or, well, at least that Ootori guy -- were upfront that he’d be worked hard, the hours were going to be long, and there wasn’t going to be much room for rest or leisure. But the pay was good. Enough that if he had a dryspell of jobs afterwards, he’d be okay for longer than usual. 

It was worth it for other reasons, though, he thought to himself, stuffing spare merch he’d gotten in blindbags (and a couple other last-minute buys he didn’t tell the others about) into a bottom corner of his suitcase. None of it was of her, none of it for him. Something felt unprofessional spending this job acting like a fan, but at least there wasn’t any harm grabbing some signatures for friends who never made it to meet-and-greets. 

The single was out properly, now, and so was the PV. There was a section of it he especially liked and had gotten into the habit of watching on train rides, where she broke out of the dance routine to put her arms around her teammates, grin a dumb grin, and kick her legs high. It cut to a different shot of the group in different costumes but perfect sync, and when it cut back to that first shot, she stumbled and fell right on her ass, dragging the others down with her. Still grinning stupidly, and singing through it all. 

She didn’t take many vocal solos. She only had one line in this song to herself, and she was singing with the whole group for this shot. He read in an interview she wasn’t happy with the tone quality of her voice yet -- it needed to be richer, and she still needed plenty of training before it reached what her teammates and audience deserved. 

Ranmaru told himself, as the train was minutes away from the station, that this had to be the last time he watched this video and listened to the song like this. At least for the duration of this job. Every time he watched that shot, as she kept singing and the rest of the group tumbled down with her with the same dumb grin she wore, he knew in his gut the voice she sang in must’ve sounded like the soul of rock. Even if that gesture were directed and performed, there was still something genuine there that reminded him of those moments at concerts that convinced him to walk the path he did. 

Maybe he’d get to see it live. Maybe he wouldn’t. But he had to stop imagining it. She - this whole group, rather - was about to become real, and whether or not everything he imagined would turn out to just be something he made up to deal with his shit, he had a job to do. 

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

He had a chance to leave his clothes and belongings in the hotel before heading to the live house. Ranmaru was unsure why this Ootori guy had picked him. He didn’t have an exactly long resume with idol shows, but then again, this was a group that debuted without any typical idol sound. There wasn’t any gimmick to them (Ranmaru wouldn’t call being made up of foreigners much of a gimmick when it came to the music), and they weren’t afraid of reaching into all sorts of genres he more typically worked with. 

Right as he got to the live house, his phone rumbled with back-to-back notifications. 

Reiji (5:48 PM): Ranran~!!! Ganbarimachochho from us! 

Ranmaru wouldn’t deign the attached selfie with a response right now (he was about to work, after all), but he felt himself suppressing a smile. Reiji was sticking his tongue out and making a victory sign, Natsuki further in the background, half-buried in stuffed animals and doing the same. They were going to be streaming the event for special-tier fanclub members like REIJI, which Ranmaru had always harangued him for. If he was a fan, wasn’t it enough to just cheer their hearts out live, enjoy their music, buy a CD and shirt, and feel the energy they had to give that way? 

(He still pored over the behind-the-scenes and advance material Reiji forwarded to him and Natsuki regardless. Sometimes he translated the English from their social media accounts, even. It was satisfying, as stupid as it felt sometimes, to do those little things in between the real shows.) 

He’d never been to the live house before, but it had the same vibes as so many others he’d been to. He found the back entrance effortlessly, where a man with glasses almost took him by surprise. 

“Kurosaki?” he asked. His gaze felt just as intense as all the other communication they’d had over e-mail. 

“Ootori,” he grunted back. 

“You’re early,” Eiichi replied, grinning at Ranmaru. Not that it surprised him in the slightest, but it made him look less approachable and instead even more intense. “Good. I like that in a recruit.” 

Ranmaru gritted his teeth quietly. This guy was going to be an absolute bastard, he could feel it, but at least he seemed like he knew how to run a show. “Don’t say that like I joined your agency. Tell me where the group’s at with setup, and I’ll get started.” 

 Eiichi’s eyes glinted from behind his glasses. He looked too satisfied with himself for Ranmaru’s taste. “I liked how you didn’t beat around the bush when you reached out for the job, and it’s good to see you hold to it. They’re rehearsing in the space, but we still have equipment to unload and cues to sync. You read the notes I sent you, I trust.” 

“All forty fuckin’ pages of it.” Ranmaru left out that he’d actually found it pretty impressive, appreciating the thoroughness and ambition of the show for a smaller group and venue. “Are we going to stand around shooting the shit or are we going to get started working on them?” 

Eiichi laughed at that. Ranmaru wasn’t sure if it pissed him off or made him feel eager to get to work. 

“This way,” he said, showing him to a van stuffed full of equipment. 

------ 

Ranmaru went straight to the live house staff to start doing his work. The master controls were kept in a little room that overlooked the stage. His gut flipped when he first saw them all, rehearsing some specific-looking choreography that needed to adjust to a new stage.  He wasn’t about to let that interrupt work. This was just like any other job, except he liked the performers a whole lot more, and things progressed like any other job. Until she looked dead at him from the stage, calling out. 

“Heeeeey,” she said. “Scuse me, are you the new tech guy?” 

“Yeah.” Ranmaru forced the feeling rising in his throat back down (as much as he could with sheer willpower, anyway). “Whaddya want?” 

“I just wanted to ask your name! We gotta call you something!” 

“Ranmaru,” he answered, hoping dearly that whatever he felt burning on his face was hidden by the dim lighting. 

“Cool, OK. Ranmaru-san,” she continued cheerfully. Ranmaru felt his chest tighten as he heard his name on her lips. “Are we queued up enough that we can do this number with music?” 

“This is the one for the new single, right,” he called back. He took a look at the levels, gain, and so forth as they were and instinctively nudged the knobs where the countless plays of that new song told him to. He’d imagined the vision of its stage presence for weeks. “I’m gonna test out some different settings for the levels ‘n stuff while you do that.” 

She made an expression of surprise as it came on. Delight, even, as she rode out into the following beats. Ranmaru couldn’t help crooking into his own smile, satisfied his know-how just helped that vision become a little bit brighter. She flashed him a thumbs up, then a gesture to pause, still grinning. 

“Can we take it from the top? Five, six, seven, eight---” 

-------- 

Ranmaru had never felt this sort of contradiction. She was restringing her acoustic guitar, from steel to nylon strings, as she hummed and practiced segments of songs, and Ranmaru was adjusting amplifiers and other equipment on the stage nearby. His head swam with the thought and excitement they were sharing the same stage, even just as a tech and pre-show performer, but approaching her felt like being both sides of a magnet at once. 

But that push and pull gave way, eventually, as the guitar finished being re-strung and tuned, and the humming turned into full-on singing. Ranmaru fought desperately to make sure he wasn’t just confirming what he’d already imagined, to just appreciate her live voice on its own merits and flaws. But he could feel in his chest that that character, that quality he’d responded so much to was there, that even with some lacking technical skill, there was still a rich tone color you could only get with passion and the spirit for rock. 

“You doing any solos tonight?” he asked in English. 

“Hm?” She looked caught by surprise. 

Ranmaru answered, already anticipating the question. “I’m half-American. I speak it fluently enough.” 

“Well, shit,” she said with a grin. “That’s convenient for us. I mean, I don’t mind Japanese if it’s easier…” 

“‘Sfine. Do what you want. I won’t complain about the practice, though.” 

She chuckled. “Man, maybe losing our usual guy from the agency was a stroke of good luck.” 

Ranmaru laughed challengingly. “Say that after the show goes well. And you still haven’t answered my question.” 

“Oh, uh. Right. Not really? Why do you ask?” 

“Why not?” 

She took a moment and laughed brightly in reply. Ranmaru could practically hear the insecurity she was covering up. 

“‘Cuz we’re an idol group.” 

Ranmaru gestured and murmured in vague acknowledgement. “You still have less solo lines than everyone else.” 

“Oh, do I,” she replied flatly, going back to her guitar, trimming overhanging strings. “I guess you would know, now that you’ve gotta manage all our sound.” 

“I just think it’s stupid you’ve clearly got your own voice but can’t think of sharing it without hiding behind everyone else’s.” 

She looked up at him incredulously. “Ranmaru-san, right?” 

“...Just call me Ranmaru.” 

“Alright, Ranmaru.” She looked at him again. Somehow when she looked at him dead-on this time, nothing went to mush inside of him. “Don’t fucking talk to me like our group voice isn’t the backbone of everything we’re trying to do.” 

“Nothing’s wrong with your group voice,” he shot back, getting heated. “It’s good. I can feel the soul behind it all, even when you’re rehearsing.” 

“So why are you fucking complaining?” She was still smiling, laying cheer and energy over her growing frustration. “Is there something you wanna say to me about my crew’s voices?” 

“They’re fine!” he barked back, frustrated she wasn’t getting his point. “This isn’t about them! You have something your audience is gonna be lit on fire hearing more of, that’s all!”  

Some eyes were starting to fall on them, but Ranmaru could barely notice them over the way her chest rose sharply and her expression became inscrutible. 

“...how about,” she said, speaking slowly as she deliberately, diplomatically pulled out her words, switching back to Japanese. “You save any notes you have for after the show.” 

“......Sure.” His stomach flipped again, more intensely and more painfully than the last few times. He went back to fussing with the amp, and she laid the pliers she’d trimmed her strings with on it before heading backstage until the show started. 

--- 

The show was electric. Ranmaru couldn’t say he was the right audience for most idol groups -- not so much out of distaste as much as incompatibility, he guessed. The way Reiji and Natsuki would lose their minds over their favorites’ cheerful cuteness or the kindness in their voices, Ranmaru wouldn’t. The fanatical, cult-of-personality devotion some other idols could curate with otaku-types, he didn’t connect with, either. What spoke to him was passion, backed by steely sounds and the sweat behind them; the excitement and fervor of rock and a crowd stinking of sweat; how well you could make someone scream themselves hoarse for that one, shining moment without any care for how sore they’d feel the next morning. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline from earlier, but when he could look away from the tech, he felt that here, too. There was no drum or bass player onstage, but he could still feel the beat thrum through his chest and rumble through his bones until his breath quickened, like he were jumping and dancing with the crowd. There was joy in their teamwork. In how they shaped their bodies together in song and in voice, and pushing and pulling the spotlight until it was something brighter, something shared and tangible between them and the audience.

His eyes fell on her. What should he call her? She had a stage name in Thai, but she was open that wasn’t her given name or anything friends and family called her. “Aroon” was just something she picked so she could wear her heritage proudly. It meant ‘dawn,’ it sounded cooler, more idol-ish than her Western name, which wasn’t a secret, by any means, but he heard her called by so many versions of it, none felt real. 

It only felt so weird because seeing her onstage, he felt far beyond any confirmation bias he could’ve had that the person he’d seen in the PV’s was every bit as real as he’d hoped. He saw someone who didn’t just fit on stage, but relished and grew like a plant in the hot lights burning down on them. There was something so honest about how she hyped the crowd, leaned so forward she seemed like she might leap into a crowdwalk, pointing at her ear until the whole crowd bellowed in their own guttoral harmony. And she smiled so much at her crewmates -- Ranmaru realized he was smiling, too, while she played guitar and accompanied the others’ solos, only breaking from her deep sway with the music to look at them with brightness and joy in her eyes. 

In those moments, Ranmaru understood something he hadn’t before, but it also made him realize that the hunger in him wasn’t being sated so much as it was deepening. 

They got cheered back on for an encore. And towards the end of that last song, Ranmaru watched as she broke choreography to literally lift the one Natsuki was convinced was a fairy, spinning them around as the practiced moves dissolved into joyful chaos. The whole group ended the song arm in arm, sloppily holding mics for each other as they alternately laughed, belted, fumbled, and shouted thank-yous into the audience.

Ranmaru still felt something tug at him as the mic got held in front of her, she grabbed it, and handed it to someone else. Just sing, damn it, he thought to himself. It didn’t matter if it was perfect, it just mattered that it was hers. 

Didn’t she realize she deserved to be adored the same way she wanted the rest of her group to be? 

Ranmaru cut everything as they filtered offstage, staggering and softening the mics as they put them back and let them go. He took a deep, sighing breath in and out, almost like he’d been holding it for the entire concert, as his stomach growled. 

Maybe he should’ve taken some more of Reiji’s bento, after all, and give Natsuki’s cookies another try.  

-------- 

They closed up quickly. With the group no longer bound by rehearsal, takedown went faster than ever, and there wasn’t any meet-and-greet at today’s venue. Ranmaru dimly considered looking at the merch table, but he had a week to do that and had other things to finish with today’s closeup, anyway. 

He could hear the group discussing amongst themselves in English about where to go for a late dinner celebrating a good show.

“I want chicken,” she pleaded. “Is there one of those Taiwanese shops where you can get boba and chicken around here? You know, the kind that comes in a little bag and a toothpick?” 

Eiichi approached them, and she started to repeat herself in Japanese before he asked to interrupt her. 

“We’re all headed to the izakaya two blocks from here,” he announced to everyone. “I’ve already called ahead to reserve the space. Consider it a reward for a triumph of the first show on tour.” 

“But is there chicken,” she repeated in Japanese in mock desperation as she mussed her own hair, fussing it out of the careful styling she’d had it in for hours. 

Ranmaru’s phone buzzed from the notifications he missed, shutting them off for the duration of the show. Mostly from Natsuki and Reiji. He scrolled through the groupchat as they reacted live to the stream and tried to compliment Ranmaru on managing sound so well, though he was sure it couldn’t have possibly made much of a difference for the stream. 

Ranmaru (11:37 PM): it was a killer show, wasn’t it 

Ranmaru (11:37 PM): they’re talking about craving chicken right now. Guess it’s too bad we don’t have a kotobuki bento branch around here. 

Ranmaru (11:38 PM): i could go for a kara-age bento 

Reiji (11:38 PM): Ranran….! 

Natsuki (11:39 PM): Waaaah~! I hope you find some kara-age soon and share it with your shining star! 

Ranmaru immediately locked the phone after that. His stomach somersaulted once more time. He stood by what he said to her earlier, but he couldn’t imagine she’d want to talk after the way things had gone. Better to leave the group to that postshow glow, feed himself, and head back to the hotel. 

--------- 

The room was swimming just a little. Ranmaru blearly looked at his phone, trying to ignore the fact that he’d drank beyond his limit like an idiot. He knew he was like this, so why did he keep downing beer after beer? He’d gotten too used to needing as much as he could stomach to tolerate Reiji’s antics (and, he knew dimly, he was just too used to being able to rely on him once he’d hit his limit). 

She was seated right across from him, because of course she was, but they didn’t exchange any words or even eye contact. She was entirely focused on the rest of the group and the meal itself, laughing loudly between boisterous stories and jokes and devouring whatever snacks she ordered. 

Ranmaru got up. He could make it back to the hotel by himself, probably. Nobody asked as he left, which was how he’d preferred things, right? 

If there was such thing as taking a desolate wizz, maybe this is what it felt like, he thought to himself as he dried his hands on his shirt and left the restroom to step outside. Just for a moment. Just to get some air. 

Eiichi followed him out. 

“Can I help you,” Ranmaru said roughly after Eiichi caught the door behind him. 

“Hardly.” He had the same look in his eye as before. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to say well done.” 

Ranmaru grunted. “You still have six more shows with me. Compliment me when I’ve nailed all of them.” 

“Hm. I’d certainly expect no less. But,” he continued, that grin going places Ranmaru especially didn’t like. “I can’t say that was what I was referring to.” 

Ranmaru looked at him suspiciously. 

“She’s been a tough nut to crack,” he continued. “I’m glad my instincts were right, Ranmaru Kurosaki, your brusqueness and deep experience with music laid her heart bare enough she recognized some changes she needed to make.” 

He didn’t think, and only saw red -- he couldn’t blame the alcohol entirely, but the haziness was enough that his brain needed a moment to catch up to his gut reaction. 

Eiichi laughed, unfazed by Ranmaru’s hands on his collar or snarling expression. 

“Bastard!” he barked. Eiichi’s eyes glinted behind his glasses. 

“I heard your little conversation. Do you not stand by those words?” 

“Of course I do,” Ranmaru snapped. 

“They reached her,” Eiichi cut in before Ranmaru could think of what to say next. “She’s already asking me about extra vocal training before the next recording sessions.” 

“She doesn’t need more training!” He threw Eiichi back, finally letting go. He barely needed any effort to recover, and Ranmaru just glared at him as he kept raising his voice. “And I’m not your for-hire music coach! Is this how you treat all your contractors, you rat bastard of a producer?!” 

He just laughed that laugh of his, making Ranmaru even angrier. “Your passion for music and straightforwardness was evident, even in your initial inquiry. It was just excellent luck your technical skills were just as useful for sending this idol group hurtling towards their fullest potential.” 

“If you want her to reach it, you’d tell her she doesn’t need any extra lessons. You’d just tell her she’s a great goddamn idol the way she is right now,” Ranmaru spat. “Trusting her voice is just what’ll make her into a better one.” 

“I hear some selfish intent in that, Kurosaki.” Eiichi looked like he was burning with excitement. “But that just means I can trust your intentions more than anyone. You speak as someone whose heart’s already been moved. A fan...a loyal follower who desires their success. Perhaps even more than she does.” 

“I’m going back to the hotel.” Ranmaru strode past him, feeling himself burn from top to bottom. He gave Eiichi one last look in the eye. “If you need me before the show tomorrow, find someone else.”  

------- 

The next day and next show went uneventfully. Now that he’d met the group at Yokohama, he was travelling with them in the cars and equipment vans, and he made a point of finding a back seat nobody wanted to share, stretching out, and napping the whole ride. The setup at the next live house was a pain in the ass with their unusual devices and systems, but Ranmaru was quietly grateful to have his hands full. He liked having a good reason for not wanting to talk to (scold) anyone but the live house staff itself. Being irritated they went for weird, cheap models with lower quality helped him double down on the attention needed to make the group shine. They collectively got ramen afterwards. The only words he exchanged all meal were with the one Reiji liked so much, ferrying his ramen order for him when he got frustrated with the shop crowd and left to go wait outside. 

(He’d have to find a way to talk with her later about Reiji. Not just for the autograph -- he opened up his phone, ignoring any notifications that weren’t his work email, and messaged him. 

Ranmaru (9:42 PM): send me a pic of your Mae shrine 

Reiji (9:45 PM): ehh? Ranran, what for? 

Ranmaru (9:50 PM): just send it 

Dutifully, Reiji did. Ranmaru couldn’t have imagined he really had no idea what he planned to do with it, but if he wasn’t just playing dumb, at least he’d be getting one hell of a surprise.) 

It was during the third show that things started to happen a way he could scarcely believe. The show went pretty normally, except for one point where she stumbled badly enough during a complex turn she completely ate shit. But she played it off into something hammy and funny, rolling out of the way of the others, lying like she were posing in a cheesy beefcake calendar while she found the beat again to sing. 

Ranmaru still thought she needed to own up to her lack of courage and just sing more, but putting it like she was a coward was a mistake. He thought dimly to what Reiji had said that had convinced him -- “when was the last time you had fun working a stage like this?” And he wondered if he’d ever had fun onstage like he saw. He might’ve tasted the glory and passion of the stage, the delicious energy of the audience, and the power of rock -- he knew he did, he’d looked an easier, blander life in the eye and felt too desolate to walk that path, even with his inescapable debt. 

But it could be more fun. That audience could feel more, even more connected, that he could smile through mistakes when the performance came from camaraderie as much as passion and soul. Things could be better when they were shared beyond just the respect of an audience and a performer.

He didn’t realize he was smiling as much as he was until his cheeks were hurting, but that was also because he felt hungrier than he’d ever been.  

----

He couldn’t help calculating how many meals he’d be cutting into as the convenience store clerk rang up everything, even though he’d already gotten Eiichi to confirm he was going to expense him the bill and get refunded every cent. 

The show closed late. They had a special meet-and-greet he didn’t need to be around to handle, but none of them had had the chance to eat much outside of some spare snacks. He figured something fast and easy before they could collapse in the hotel would fit the bill. 

She wasn’t there when he went around knocking on the hotel room doors and delivering the goods. Gone out to relax on the roof, they said, and when they offered to hold her food, he said no, he’d take it right to her. 

The sound of the roof door opening looked like it startled her, and he didn’t know what else to do but hold up the bag full of food like a peace offering. 

“Eat something,” he said in English, tossing her a banana from the bag. She caught it before eyeing him up and down, then settled back to the outdoor lounge chair she’d been resting on. Ranmaru took a seat in the one across for her, setting the bag on the ground as he pulled the rest of the food out. She looked hesitant, only speaking until he’d laid everything out, even the drinks.

“...That smells good,” she said in Japanese. “What’s that, kara-age?” 

“I heard you guys were craving chicken.” 

 “I mean, I sure was. Thanks.”

“I told you English was fine,” he said, back to Japanese. 

“My Japanese is fine,” she said, tearing into the banana first. 

“Yeah, but if you’re tired of speaking outside of your native tongue,” Ranmaru started, already feeling himself get heated. “Why wouldn’t you take the chance to just rest?” 

She finished her bite of banana before giving him a look. “...If you insist.” 

They just sat in silence as she ate for a bit. 

“Is there something else you want from me?” she asked. She left half the kara-age and bottled tea.

“...No, not really. I wanted to say sorry for the other day, though.” 

“Ah.” She smiled knowingly, though she didn’t look happy about it. “Don’t worry about it. It sure isn’t the first or last time I’m gonna be criticized in this industry. I can handle it.” 

Ranmaru murmured in acknowledgement, not sure to what end making himself clear to would earn, but he had to, anyways. He stared down the half-full kara-age container. 

“...This is your goddamn food, you know.” He pushed it closer to her. “Eat it.” 

“Oh, you’re sure?” 

“I didn’t have a meet-and-greet that made me miss dinner. Do you really wanna work a tour on an empty stomach?” 

She scooped it up with a knowing ‘hmm’ and a half-smile. After polishing it off, she let out a heavy sigh. 

“You are right, though. I’m being a coward, not singing more.” 

“You’re not,” Ranmaru grumbled. 

“Sure,” she said dismissively. “But I guess I should apologize for getting so defensive. I thought you were just another macho shithead trying to talk the piss out of our group and the voice we have.” 

“That’s nothing to apologize for,” Ranmaru said resolutely. “....when I was in a band, I wish I’d had bandmates who’d do that kinda shit for me.” 

“Oh, shit, what’d you play?” 

“Vocals. Bass. Rock.” 

“Aw, c’mon, get more specific than that. Surf rock? Indie boy shoegaze? Folk punk with a little dash of polka?” 

Ranmaru gave her an incredulous look. “...Oi. Do I look like a polka guy?” 

She grinned widely, looking very satisfied with herself. “I dunno, you never know who’s got a secret accordion! I could see you, maybe you painted half of it, like, red to match that edgelord RPG hero heterochromia thing you got going.” 

Ranmaru grumbled, looking away. She laughed. “....I just like rock. If you had to pull my leg I guess I’d tell you hard rock. Maybe a little alt and prog.” 

“Ooh!” She exclaimed, barely letting the sip of tea get down her throat. “That’s the good shit! Did you ever record anything?”

Ranmaru hesitated. “...Yeah, but nothing that anyone can listen to anymore.” 

She seemed to understand without much more explanation. “...Well. You’re fucking good at the sound engineering side of things. Don’t tell management this -- or well, just don’t quote me on this --  but I like you a hell of a lot more than the guy we were supposed to have from the agency. He doesn’t know shit about how to make music that’s about soul and hype. It’s like, all one level the whole time, you know? Like it’s just sitting at an 8 the whole time, we don’t really get to do stuff like crescendos. Or like, punch someone in the dick by taking it from a three and shoot it to an eleven, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Ranmaru said, throwing a hand up. “What’s with that shit? There’s a bunch of stupid clients I had who were like that. Just one kind of loud, the whole album or concert through. What’s the fucking point if you aren’t gonna make people hear something other than just fuckin’ loud?” 

“Yeah! You get it!” she whooped, before she held her hand out for a fistbump. 

It surprised Ranmaru enough that it took a moment to register. But he smiled a little and pounded it. 

------

“Man-eating momma, steam-driven hammer

Sorts the men out from the boys--” 

She slid her arm around his waist, and he nearly choked on his beer. 

They were at Korean barbecue tonight, their own private room. The last meal, after the last concert, after the last meet-and-greet, after the last frantic merch sales. Ranmaru tried to buy himself a shirt, but instead was presented with a staff hoodie for the tour and a “one of everything” comp for the rest of the merch. They were now safely tucked with other goods he’d gotten signed for Reiji and Natsuki last night while everyone hung out in their big hotel suite. Hotel management made a mistake and upgraded the whole crew to their biggest room with extra cots to fit them all, and they spent the entire post show in a dizzying, joyful, communal haze. Ranmaru even told stories of the embarrassing depths of his groupchat’s devotion to the group and each of their favorites, and everyone took turns recording chaotic, personalized videos for Ranmaru to share later. They fell asleep at a truly stupid hour, and Ranmaru wondered if this is what having sleepovers as a kid felt like. 

“Takes no messing, all-in wrestling

Is one of her pride and joys” 

Ranmaru recognized the words as she pulled him closer, swaying after slamming her beer to the table. Maybe less the tune, since that was being yelled more than sung. 

“She's a classy, flashy lassy

Imitation sapphire shine-- c’mon, dude, you know!” She looked at him expectantly. She was very, very flushed, and at this point, he had to be, too. 

“We’re not at a karaoke bar!” he barked. 

“Where’s all that ‘you gotta sing more, fuckass’ energy now, huh,” she said, lowering her voice so much to mimic that Ranmaru briefly questioned if this is what he sounded like to her. 

“....Fine! If you’re gonna sing it, actually fuckin’ sing it, don’t just yell!” 

“Oh yeah,” she said with what passed for a shit-eating grin with her. “Then show me, partyboy. Hey, everyone, meet my new vocal coach! Hold onto your dick, folks, he better fuckin floor you with all the shit he’s been talking --”  

Ranmaru looked at her a moment as she kept ranting, first with incredulity, then with a weird surreal awe. What the hell was happening?  

Why the hell should he bother questioning it? 

“-- Two-faced liar, full of fire

But I know the flame is mine!” He cut off her rant, singing as much as he could like this were a stage. 

She -- and a bunch of other staff at the table -- whooped and cheered and laughed, but she and only she joined in with him without a care in the world. “Rocka Rolla woman for a Rocka Rolla man

You can take her if you want her

If you think you can--” 

He let the arm that’d been just awkwardly dangling behind her wrap around her shoulder. He felt warmer than he’d ever had, burning all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“Rocka Rolla woman for a Rocka Rolla man

You can take her if you want her you can!” 

They hung on the last note of the chorus -- she hung on comedically long before dragging them both up to bow while everyone else clapped, laughed, cheered. A server came, yelling that they had an order of grilled beef up. Eiichi, from the other end of the table, gestured that he’d ordered it, but passed it down until it sat in front of Ranmaru. 

-------- 

They had an overnight bus trip to get back home -- or close enough to home, anyways, Ranmaru still had another long train ride waiting afterwards, so he’d planned to sleep the whole bus ride. 

But she wound up sitting next to him, and even if he could pretend like that didn’t make his heart thump now by itself, she was chatty. 

He didn’t mind the conversation, though. They mostly talked about music, sharing concert stories and albums. He even talked a little about what he wanted to do now in between all the freelance work, and when she wished him luck and couldn’t wait to hear it, he didn’t feel like she was just blowing smoke. 

There came a pause while she downed a bottle of tea. 

“...I meant it when I said there’s something in your voice the audience oughta hear,” he said, looking at her intently. 

She laughed uncomfortably after she swallowed. “Thank you. I’ll…..I guess I just have to go for it, huh.” 

“What’s stopping you?” 

“I...hm….” She paused in intent thought for a while. “Well, for one, the technical control isn’t there.” 

“Yeah, but you’ll improve that by doing it.” 

“Yeah, yeah. But there’s more than just that, I guess.” 

“Like what.” 

“...Well, you know how this industry is. It’s…hard. Finding the balance of what you’re good at, what people want, and what the higher-ups think they want. I don’t think I’m anywhere near figuring that balance out...”

“Forget all that.” Ranmaru looked at her very seriously, shifting in place so he could look her in the eye a little better. “Don’t worry about any of those things.” 

She laughed disbelievingly. “Okay, sure, lemme just. Throw out my job description while I’m at it. Dude, the whole point of this job and this work is to make other people happy.” 

“I was happy hearing your voice just as it was that first day. You just. Sang the way you wanted to. I liked that. It felt good. Genuine.” He took a moment to recall the words he found at the beginning of the tour. “...You like it when people connect with your group’s voice ‘n adore your groupmates. So let ‘em adore you some.” 

“Oh, cuz I’m so adowable,” she joked, laughing as Ranmaru scowled. 

“I mean it. I….” he started. “...The audience is going to be better for hearing more of you. Whatever that means.” 

She thought about that for a moment. “...I...you know. I don’t think I’ve ever asked myself what that looks like. Or let myself realize it, anyway.”

“You can handle the criticism if it comes. If that’s something you’re scared of.” 

“...Maybe it is. Thank you, Ranmaru, I’m going to think about that and kick everybody’s teeth in the next time we record.  

“‘Snothing,” he murmured, but he felt like his heart was going to soar out of his chest, and later, as they both nodded off and slumped over each other as the road stretched on, he realized he felt sated in a way he couldn’t remember being. A weird sort, that took away the pang of hunger, but made him feel it more deeply through his whole being. 

---- 

When he arrived ‘home,’ it was lunchtime, and he was too dazed, hungry, and tired to weather one last long walk home without some food in his stomach. It was on the way-- he may as well go to Kotobuki Bento and make Reiji make good on the free bento offer. 

(His sister rang him up, and Ranmaru paid up.) 

Reiji found him after the meal, and he wound up heading to Reiji’s room. To give him the merch, theoretically, but after Reiji earned enough grouchy monosyllabic replies, he brought something that sounded like an actual question. 

“...So, Ranran, while you were away…” 

“Just say it,” Ranmaru muttered, eyes too tired to focus. “I’m too fucking tired for you to take the long away around.” 

“Nattsun’s friend wants to join our little fanclub!”

“....And.” 

Reiji shrank a little, speaking more sheepishly. “The thing is...we mentioned you and....he’s pretty sure you two already know each other and you’d want nothing to do with him.” 

Ranmaru hazily tried to recall who that could be. There were too many people whose guts he hated for him to figure it out by himself. 

“Who is it,” Ranmaru growled tiredly. “Just fucking say it.” 

“Does...Hijirikawa ring a bell?” 

It did. Ranmaru fumed in silence for a moment, thinking about the whirlwind of disaster that name was attached to, but also the vague memories of that quiet, serious boy in traditional dress who fretted after him when they were too small to know of things like debts and bankruptcy...

“...Whatever,” Ranmaru muttered. He looked at Reiji’s bed and decided he wasn’t going to tolerate any more of this exhaustion -- he had a reliable neighbor to leave food out for the cats, anyway, what was a couple more hours? “It’s not really much of a fanclub if it’s just the three of us. He can join if he wants. It’ll give you ‘n Natsuki someone who’s better at responding to your crazy nightlong gushing than me.” He tossed the dakimakura on Reiji’s bed, dented in the middle from so much hugging, to him, before he shrugged closer into his staff tour hoodie and slumped into Reiji’s bed. 

He could practically see Reiji stammering, even as he turned away and settled into the comfort of eyes closed and a real bed. Clearly, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting, and it wasn’t the one Ranmaru was expecting to give, either. 

“-- R...Ranran, you really--” 

“Yes! What the fuck wasn’t clear about what I said! Masato can join! Go add him already! Just let me sleep, you noisy bastard!” Ranmaru barked one last time at Reiji. 

Ranmaru ignored whatever last jabbering Reiji had for him, already carried off to proper sleep. He wondered what he could possibly dream about that would rival the past week and this satisfying feeling, cradled in his new hoodie.  

(I perform semi-professionally -- not as an idol, mind, but I’m still getting up on a stage/camera to entertain people on the reg -- and it was so weird but also really......doki-inspiring, let’s say, to imagine Ranmaru being a fan of my stage bravado :’’’’’D To be honest I’ve been feeling a little discouraged and burnt out by it lately but this really refilled my tanks!!!) 

[ducktracy]

vintage toys and appeal

i love my vintage toys. i think they have a lot of personality and character, and it’s also fascinating to see how the standard of toys have evolved. i thought it’d be fun to compare various vintage toys (as in 30s-50s vintage) with toys from now, around 90s-20s (god that’s weird to say).

starting off with my favorite toy, a windup toy from the 30s. they had a whole line of these, sometimes he was a cowboy, or dressed in a suit and top hat, i’ve even seen one of him beating a drum.

what makes it appealing? porky translates well into toys because of how round and circular he is. he has good construction, and toys (especially in the 30s and 40s) took advantage of that. even though his face is kinda smooshed in, he has a solid construction. his body builds up—he has a foundation. parts aren’t just slopped on. not to mention, the aging makes the colors like even nicer, a nice yellow tinge. even though he has a standard expression, it isn’t blank. he isn’t staring off into space. he looks warm and inviting and even playful—they weren’t just like “ehhhh, let’s put his pupils to the side.” the toy maker thought he’d look best with the pupils to the side, and they were right.

here’s a goodie from the 50s, a squeaky toy. very appealing! the proportions are just right. the key for cuteness is to make the head bigger than the body (think of every cute cartoon baby, usually their heads are way bigger than their skinny bodies). the giant bow is another good touch. his cheeks are full and round, and he still has a relatively solid construction. good pose with the hands behind the back AND the legs together. it translates better than normal shoulder-width-apart legs. he’s been slimmed down (though he’d continuously get thinner and thinner as the years wore on), but still has a bit of a potbelly going on. it makes it fun to hold and touch.

so, what about toys today?

here’s a toy from around today. it’s cute, don’t get me wrong—cuter than some of the stuff i’ve seen as i frantically scrolled through my “porky pig toy” google image search. but it certainly feels lumpy, doesn’t it? i know it’s a plush toy, so it’s going to be lumpy, but there can be plush toys that aren’t too lumpy or bulgy. there are worse ones out there, but anyway. he doesn’t feel like he has a foundation. not necessarily discombobulated, but it seems like whoever made him just attached the various parts to him like a mr. potato head instead of stepping back and analyzing the hierarchy of his body. his legs stick out and his arms stick out, and his head looks flimsily attached, like it would flop back if you picked him up. and what is he looking at, his nose? i love my crossed eyes, but this feels like they didn’t know where to put his pupils and just put them to the bottom of his eyes. i think that’s my biggest problem with these toys—i guess all toys have some sort of a vacant stare, but this feels even more aimless and vacant. still cute nonetheless, though.

here’s some more. thay first one is what i was talking about with the squeaky toy’s legs and the arms behind the back—that toy does have the legs together, but it feels like they’re backwards. if you want him to be cutesy and bashful, put the knees together, not apart. instead he looks like he’s lining up in the von trapp family, ready to sing for a bunch of party guests. his head also doesn’t feel very well constructed, and his eyes feel like they’re sliding down his face. he doesn’t have a discernible expression except for happy neutral. that open mouth can’t fool me! do something with the eyebrows! body language! and he’s also really thin. second one, too, with the aimless pupils placed haphazardly towards the bottom. what is he looking at? why is he looking away? i know the vintage toys have him looking away, but he still feels like he’s acknowledging your gaze, somewhat. here it looks like he’s purposefully avoiding you, like he’s hiding something. i do like the subtle line of action, though.

here’s what i mean by toys feeling lumpy. another mr. potato head syndrome. i think the biggest difference between toys 80 years ago and toys now is that there was some form of artistry involved. the people making the toys back then had an eye for graphic design and knew how to translate a character onto a toy. they wanted kids to enjoy them and play with them, they wanted the toys to be FUN. and they were! now these just feel like the equivalent to “here, play with this thing while i watch tv and drink a beer”. i’m sure all of these recent examples were made in a factory somewhere, though, so that’s obviously a big factor.

i do like this one—at least it has some personality, somewhat. but again with the indiscernible expression. his cheeks slightly turn upwards, hinting at a smile buried in there somewhere, but it looks like he’s hesitant to take a bite, like he shouldn’t be doing it. where’s the excitement? anyone who gets to eat a sandwich that big should be happy! make the eyes and eyebrows speak for themselves!

here are a few more vintage goodies. some of the porky toys (well, a lot) looked “off model”, like the second one, but it’s still really appealing. solid construction and good body language, he looks happy and confident. and when’s the last time you’ve seen a porky toy using his design from the mid 30s? and i love the first one. who doesn’t want a porky bank with a log? i can only imagine what it looked like as a brand new toy!

this isn’t to say everything made today is BAD, certainly not. those newer toys are still cute, but they lack personality and confidence. the love for vintage toys also comes from “wow, i’m looking at something from 80 years ago that’s still been preserved. even though i’m not even 20 years old, i’m lucky enough to be looking at these relics from a time way before my own”, but i think there’s still a discernible difference between the two eras.

[fullmetalirin]

Fullmetal Alchemist OG vs. Brotherhood: Reconciliation with Al (OG 23-24, BH 09)

OG stretched this into two episodes, adding its own subplot for the second one.

Fullmetal Alchemist Episode 23: "Fullmetal Heart"

Ed, recovering from his wounds from the laboratory, is scolded by Ross for almost dying. Needing his automail repaired, Ed calls for Winry to come to Central. When Winry arrives at the train station, Al still contemplates what Barry had told him. After the brothers refuse to tell her about the events, Winry leaves in a fury and is dragged off by Hughes to his daughter's birthday party. Hughes tells her that men tend to hide things so as not to worry anyone. Al decides to confront Ed about what he was afraid to tell him, asking if he was really an artificial soul.

Ross slaps Ed. During her scolding she continues the "you're just a kid" theme, and asks him to trust her more.

Cartoon face when Winry realizes she forgot the screw. Appropriate, given Winry's established character and the fact this is a breather episode.

The military is investigating the laboratory. Hughes says they're explaining it away as Scar's doing.

Some of the prisoners blabbed that they saw Grand. I again have to wonder what Envy was thinking.

Oh, I spot Izumi in a crowd shot!

Hughes is purposefully keeping Mustang out of the loop.

Cartoon skit where Winry tries to convince Ed to take his milk.

Winry admonishes them for not telling her about the danger they're in.

Hughes explicitly says Winry's like a sister to Ed. Ew.

Gracia made a cake for Ed. That's sweet.

Al sulks because Ed brings up a memory he can't remember. If he really was just constructed memories, surely Ed wouldn't point out the holes? Also why would Ed have made so many personal sacrifices for him. He's so stupid to fall for this.

Ed tells Winry everything, and he thinks Al's mad at him because he didn't make the Philosopher's Stone. Ed admonishes himself for not doing it, even when Winry says obviously Al wouldn't want him to. This is shaping Ed into a pretty dark character.

Winry knows what Ed wanted to tell Al but Al cuts her off. This is so contrived.

And now Al is convinced that everyone he's ever known being in on the conspiracy is more plausible than him being real. Seriously?

Al hits Ed so hard it splits his lip.

Ed plans to jump off the building after Al and has to be restrained by Winry.

Fullmetal Alchemist Episode 24: "Bonding Memories"

Al has run away after not receiving an answer from Ed. He soon runs into Scar, who has been hiding among other refugees from Ishbal as they are terrorized by mercenaries posing as the state military soldiers with Barry accompanying them. After being reunited with his brother, Ed and Al reaffirm their existence.

We open with the Ishbalan camp. It's attacked by the military, including Barry. Suddenly he is being portrayed seriously.

An alchemist uses harpoons to make a transmutation circle that sends electricity everywhere.

Ah, Scar actually is badly injured from the 5th laboratory.

After the OP we get an abridged flashback to last episode's ending, which I don't think is necessary.

Pathetic fallacy: it's raining now, when it was a clear sky last episode.

Sloth picks up the call from the soldiers tailing the Ishbalans. Ominous!

Al thinks about how strange it is that Leo wants to forget his memories, because wow, that's the exact opposite of him! This seems unnecessarily waffling, probably added to fill time.

Al calls Ross, so she continues to be the more important one.

Old dude says Ishbalans value blood above all else.

Ah, but when Leo reached out for his mom when the invaders came, she ran away from him. Wow, that's heavy.

Al uses alchemy to cage the soldiers while he's outside the building. How did he know where to aim?

Al is unscathed after a direct hit by a bazooka. How strong is this armor???

Ed makes a wall to protect them, but it doesn't hold up for longer than a few seconds.

Okay, so the harpoons aren't making the glyph, they just make a circle and the glyph magically appears. I don't think that's kosher, but I believe alkahestry can do that in the manga so what is consistency anyway.

Barry dies, having fulfilled his purpose, instead of sticking around for another arc to stalk Riza and make more jokes about how hilarious murder is, because that would be weird.

The locket protects Rick, and breaks open in the process. They find eye medicine that shows their mom was going blind, so she actually thought she was running towards them, not away. That's sweet, if a little contrived.

The alchemist runs back to Sloth, who drowns him with her liquid body while calmly sipping tea. Our first look at her powers, and nicely creepy to boot.

The Elrics see the Ishbalans off. Scar affirms Al's humanity, which is nice of him. Ed just tries to grill him on Ishbal's Philosopher's Stone, to which he does not answer.

I'm not sure how I feel about the resolution to the mom – I'm generally not in favor of "blood is everything" or "one grand gesture makes up for a lifetime of petty abuse" as tropes. They could have easily just had the mom abandon them and have that be the last word. But this is a nice ending, and it's good that the Ishbalans get at least a little happiness here instead of only being used as a prop for the white characters.

And you know, it actually does strike me how much this episode really is about the Ishbalans. Despite ending last episode implying this was going to be about the brothers, Ed is almost completely absent and Al is a leaf in a river. Leo and Rick drive the plot, and Scar is actually the one who defeats the antagonist.

FMA Brotherhood Episode 9: "Created Feelings"

Edward is hospitalized following the incident at the fifth laboratory. Needing his automail repaired, Edward calls for Winry to come to Central. Winry arrives and repairs Edward's arm, adding the small bolt she forgot to insert back in Resembool. Alphonse still contemplates what Barry had told him about being a doll created by Edward. Hughes invites Winry over to his daughter Elicia's birthday party, where she laments that Edward and Alphonse never tell her anything. Hughes tells her that men tend to hide things to avoid worrying anyone. Alphonse then confronts Edward about whether he is really an artificial soul. Edward storms off and Winry yells at Alphonse, telling him that Edward was terrified Alphonse may have blamed him for getting him stuck in the armor. The Elric brothers then fight, with Edward emerging as the victor. They both reminisce about their past fights, reaffirming their existence. Meanwhile, Scar wakes up in the care of Ishvalan refugees.

We finally stop with the alchemy exposition opener.

Still get a recap of the last episode, though.

Cartoon skit where Ed's angry the laboratory was destroyed.

Ross still slaps and scolds Ed, but it's played for comedy before abruptly transitioning into seriousness because what is tone. She also has Brosh play backup. Her speech is pretty similar. Though she gives the same line about trusting adults, she doesn't call Ed a kid.

Comedy skit where Ross worries Ed would penalize her for slapping him because what is tone. We do get the additional information that State Alchemists have the rank of major, though.

Does Ross have a different voice actor in Brotherhood? Her voice sounds a lot higher-pitched and more childish.

Ed calling Winry is more comedic, and he asks her to do a service call instead of her volunteering.

Oh wait, we do get a flashback to Winry finding a missing screw. Did I forget that? It's hard to keep the two continuities straight sometimes.

Comedy when Brosh calls Winry Ed's girlfriend, followed by him tearing his wounds open, I think? He has to go in a wheelchair afterwards.

Ed generally does not seem to be acting like he's injured or in pain at all. In OG he seemed visibly drained.

Al sees a kid with a windup toy and gets sad. I feel like that's a bit too on-the-nose.

Winry complains the train ride was uncomfortable.

Izumi still gets a cameo, walking behind Winry. We see her face so it's a bit more obvious.

Ed needs to be admonished by the peanut gallery before he comforts Winry for blaming herself. Wow, he's a dick.

Same bit with Ed refusing his milk, but it becomes a full-on skit complete with Armstrong barging in.

Ed's the one to bring up Al acting weird.

We see Winry sneaking the screw out of her bag to put it in, which I think is a nice bit of subtle comedy.

Since Al isn't wrecked here, we spend more time on him walking around and doing stuff while he sulks, which feels like filler to me.

Hughes assumed Ed called Winry over so he could bang her and we get comedy about it. Thank you for cutting that, OG.

Hughes drags Winry to his house without telling her it's Elicia's birthday. It seems like the only purpose is to make a joke when Winry is confused.

Winry is enamored by Elicia's cuteness.

Winry is the one who says they're like brothers. Ewwwwwww.

Hughes' pep talk is similar, so the weird gender thing is here too. It's actually worse – he says it's Winry's duty to be receptive to them when they do open up, not that she should be proud she's the one they open up to when they can't keep it together. Maybe that's just different translations, but…

Cartoon skit where Hughes threatens kids to treat his daughter nicely. Not necessary.

Gracia offers to house Winry as long as she's in Central, which is nice of them, and an echo of their offer to the Elrics in episode 1. This is doing a good job of showing they're good people.

Similar thing where Ed jokes he wishes he had Al's body. Al's reaction is much more dramatic, to the point I can't take it seriously. Less is more.

Cartoon when Al makes his accusation. Seriously?

Ed walks out instead of talking to Al, because the idiot ball's getting passed around today.

Cartoon when Winry smacks Al because lol female on male violence is funny.

Winry does get to tell Al, and we even get a full flashback to Ed telling her.

Winry points out the plot hole of why Ed would sacrifice so much for a doll.

Al runs after Ed and Ed fights him. This is stupid. Al points out he should be opening his wounds, but he does not, which is stupider.

Oh, but I see the real point: Ed beats Al for the first time. Because that's what's really important here, the winning.

The reminiscence scene is similar, but Al adds that they fought over who got to marry Winry, and Al won but she shot him down, thus foreshadowing the Edwin romance.

Ed is more aggressive towards Al, asking rhetorical questions about if he really thinks all his desires are fake.

Then Winry agrees with Hughes that the manly way of not needing to talk about feelings works sometimes too.

Flashback to Kimblee in the war before Scar wakes up.

We end with Scar saying he got the arm from his family; I think that's the first time we've heard that in this continuity.

Conclusion

So as you can probably guess, I like OG better. Brotherhood just can't stop the madcap comedy. Every time it attempts to be sad and somber, it falls completely flat. Al has even less reason to believe this or care without the addition of Tucker literally doing exactly what he fears plus his memories fading, and it's all resolved too quickly and neatly. The drama just feels so manufactured: the author was like "WHAT IF THERE WAS TENSION BETWEEN THE BROTHERS WOULDN'T THAT BE COOL", made everyone hold the idiot ball to contrive it into possibility, then it's wrapped up in one episode and we're done. Like Nina, it's not a thing that builds or goes anywhere or matters.

On the flipside, I think this is a rare instance of OG not spending enough time talking about feelings: Ed's confession isn't engaged with or reflected on at all, it just gets the same "of course I don't hate you!" response seen every time this trope appears. If there was ever a time to throw the action to a grinding halt for some navel-gazing, that was it. And I actually did think Brotherhood's flashback felt more vulnerable and genuine than Ed's confession in OG, though the difference wasn't by orders of magnitude.

On representation: OG is better. Brotherhood says the woman will deal with your feelings, then turns around and has her declare that actually toxic masculinity is great. Her only purpose is to be a plot device and cheerleader. OG actually deconstructs toxic masculinity by having Al spiral so bad he doesn't let the woman deal with his feelings, forcing Ed to actually open up instead of fighting it out because he is a MANLY MAN and that is the only language he knows. In OG, their fight is serious and Ed gets seriously injured. In OG, we have the emotional intensity of Ed nearly leaping off a building because he can only think of Al. In OG, we have the genuineness of Ed spending a whole day trying to rescue Al. Actions rather than words, eh? OG continues to be miles ahead of Brotherhood at the "let's talk about our feelings" genre, even when hampered by the source's utterly moronic plot.

And by God it is moronic. I'm trying to think of a way you could fix this plot and I'm not coming up with much. You could maybe go deeper on the Philosopher's Stone thing, with Al seeing Ed's willingness to kill people for it over Al's objections as proof Ed only really cared about fixing himself… That would fit well with the theme of miscommunication, since Ed sees it in the exact opposite way. I could even buy him working himself into a conspiracy that Ed only made him to carry him back to the Rockbells when he was bleeding out, or maybe, what with Tucker and his Nina clones, he thinks since Ed went there with the intent of getting someone back, he decided to make a doll to keep him company when Plan A failed… but ugh, even that doesn't work because he should have made a doll of the person he was actually trying to get back. Maaaybe instead of thinking he was a total fabrication he might think Ed just made the memories instead of getting the real Al's soul, but that wouldn't actually change anything, ultimately. Ed and the audience are still invested in him, so it doesn't matter.

The conspiracy of everyone they've ever known needing to be in on it is just so absolutely ridiculous. It's not impossible to make someone emotionally compromised enough to believe that, but I can't think of what could possibly push Al that far. Ed would have to be treating him completely differently, like not trying to sacrifice himself for Al every five seconds and constantly fussing over him and just generally loving him 24/7. Like seriously, why would Ed give himself up to Scar for a doll? How did Al just conveniently forget that? And that's not even getting into the fact that Winry and Pinako recognized him even in the armor when there is no way the unconscious kid in his arms could have possibly coached them on his grand conspiracy in advance… None of it makes the slightest bit of sense.

[horrorsleazetrash]

“Men Without Women” by Joseph Ridgwell

Jack and Dan were in their local boozer, The Flower Pot, known locally as – The Pot. They had been at the bar for a good two or three hours and were well on the way to being in a condition known colloquially as – Steaming.

‘Ow’s that internet dating lark going then?’ said Dan.

Both men were in their early forties and hadn’t had a relationship with the fairer sex for five or six years. In Jack’s case it was closer to ten. Nearly a decade without a woman had compelled Jack into drastic action. He had in fact joined the legions of lonely hearts.

‘It’s pony mate.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ve signed up to a few, but all they want is money.’

‘Rip off is it?’

‘Proper. And there’s the birds.’

‘Tasty?’

‘Far from it. Before ya sign up you get to see all these pics of what on the surface appear to be little sorts, but as soon as you’ve paid up reality kicks in.’

‘Mingers?’

‘Mingers, pyscho’s, fruit loops, and just ordinary basket cases.’

‘I did try to warn ya – same again Vick and a pack of pork scratchings.’ Dan looked to Jack. ‘Pack of pork scratchings?’

‘Na, get us a pack of salted peanuts.’

When the drinks and savoury snacks arrived Dan continued the convo. ‘All the sorts get snapped up in their twenties by the ambitious fuckers. The ones who have to have something pretty dangling from their arm every time they go out and who see everything in life as a commodity. Every now and then an older sort might come back onto the market – you know when her old man has got tired of fucking her and traded her in for a younger model. But mark my words – if they’ve kept their looks and figure – they won’t be on the market for long.’

‘What about a young bird?’

Dan wondered if his best mate was on a windup. ‘What young girl, in her right mind, is gonna take one look at the likes of us?’

‘What about a retarded one or something? You know, fit body, but not all there upstairs.’

‘Fuck me, you really are getting desperate.’

‘I was joking.’

Dan eyeballed Jack. ‘Could’ve fooled me. Na, the only bird that would consider us as potential husband material will be either pig ugly or on her last legs.’

‘So what you’re saying is that as far as any relationship with the fairer sex goes we’re both fucked?’

‘Basically, yeah. But don’t worry my son it’s not all doom and gloom.’

‘It ain’t?’

‘No it ain’t. Little Legs told me about it the other day in the Swan.’

‘Told you what?’

Dan leaned in a little closer and began whispering. ‘About grapefruit love.’

Jack did likewise. ‘What the fucks that?’

‘Fuck wasting time looking for a Doris, just get yourself a grapefruit every morning.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘Feels just like a cunt.’

‘What does?”

‘A grapefruit.’

‘What?’

‘You cut a hole just big enough for your old boy to fit in and then bash one out.’

‘Serious?’

‘Ya can’t tell the difference. All you’ve gotta do is close your eyes.’

‘Close your eyes?’

‘And put a towel down as it can get a little messy.’

‘Fucking hell.’

That night as he made his way home Jack passed the 24hr Turkish grocers. As he did he caught sight of a tray of grapefruits. Dan’s words floated through his boozy frontal lobe. ‘Feels just like a cunt.’

And before he knew what was happening he had stepped inside and purchased five grapefruits.

‘No tins tonight then?’ asked Hassan the proprietor, somewhat amazed.

‘Na, I’m going on a health kick. The grapefruit diet comes highly recommended.’

‘If you say so geez.’

The next day Jack awoke bleary-headed as usual, like his head was full of cotton wool. He got up, took a horse piss, and then grabbed a can of Tizer from the fridge, downed the contents in one, and clocked them. On the kitchen table was a bag, the contents of which had spilled onto the floor. On the laminate were five grapefruits. Jack picked up one of the grapefruits and wondered. Then he got to work. Always horny after a session, he grabbed a knife and cut a hole into the fruit about the size of a fifty pence piece, all the way down. He took a towel from the bathroom, lay it onto the bed, and placed himself onto the towel. Then he took the fruit and forced it onto his erect cock. At first the hole wasn’t quite big enough so he went back to the kitchen and enlarged the hole with the knife until it fit perfectly – nice and tight. He went back to bed and lay down. He closed his eyes and conjured up an image in his minds eye of his line-manager – a sexy redhead in her mid to late forties. He moved the grapefruit up and down. Fucking hell Dan had been right. It did feel like a cunt. His hand moved slow – then fast – as images of a sexual nature played themselves out in his imagination. Pretty soon it was all over and he had come all over his managers saggy tits.

Jack opened his eyes and looked towards his midriff. Grapefruit juice and bits of pulp covered his stomach and legs. And there was his cock, still erect, a spunk-splattered grapefruit stuck to it, harpoon style. Jack looked at the yellow ball and for the first time in his life contemplated suicide. Then he got up, chucked the messy fruit into the bin, and took a shower.

[genericpseudonyms]

memento mori - 3.6.2018

I remember sitting in the living room. I was four or five, staring at the windup clock on the wall. The pendulum swung back and forth, back and forth. I did this for hours. My father walked past, and for once, he noticed me.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’m thinking Papa.”

That made him laugh. “What do you have to think about?”

At that age, you don’t have the words to describe thoughts or feelings beyond happy, angry, scared, or sad. So I shrugged and he lost interest.

I still stare at clocks sometimes. Mostly when I’m trapped somewhere, waiting for something. I retreat inside myself and watch as the second hand ticks and ticks and ticks until it’s back where it started.

-

It’s a bad day to walk in a miniskirt. The winds are fierce and it’s sleeting. I’ve been so eager to declare winter over, I’m only wearing my thin leather jacket. Still, I have a perverse love of walking through storms. I like the way the wind whips through my hair and the rain soaks through my skin. At the stoplights, I like to close my eyes and feel Mother Nature remind me that I am mere flesh and blood.

I’m sinking into one of my trances. This happens if you leave me alone with my thoughts too long. I’m supposed to meet H at Bluestockings on Allen St. A sensible person might’ve rescheduled. We are not sensible women.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. H says she’s on her way, but I am already there. Five minutes past our agreed meeting time, but we are not punctual women either.

‘Happy browsing!’ her text reads. I’m not mad in the slightest—there’s no place I feel more at home than in a bookstore. I try not to believe in fate, but I do believe the universe will find ways to put the right books in your hands when you need them.

I am wet and dripping from the storm. At some point, I slipped on the curb and landed myself in a freezing puddle. But at least my hands are dry. Frozen, but dry. I walk down the aisles and let my fingers run across the spines. I know I shouldn’t buy anything—my to-read pile is enormous and I haven’t been able to focus on any novels for over a month. Books have always been my truest and oldest friends, so it’s been painful.

My hands stop at the Trauma and Violence shelf. Bluestockings is a radical feminist queer bookstore, so the shelves are stocked with titles I’ve never seen before. Usually I stick to science fiction, fantasy, or memoirs, with a smattering of magical realism and lit-rah-cha. But in this instance, my hands stop at Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman, MD. I flip through the pages and end up at Chapter Five: Child Abuse. 

I read, and it feels like someone has drawn a map of my mind.

“Abused children discover at some point that the feeling [of abandonment] can most effectively be terminated by a major jolt to the body. The most dramatic method of achieving this result is through the deliberate infliction of injury.”

I close the book, and buy a cup of tea. 

I sit down, and start from the beginning.

-

H shows up forty-five minutes late. By then I have read the history of PTSD and how it manifests in women who have been raped.

It is both validating and condemning. Yes, I think to myself. I am profoundly broken. I will never be unbroken. I wonder if I should buy a warning label and paste it onto my forehead.

But it’s easier to push those thoughts away now that H is here. I emerge from the well of my feelings and my shoulders are lighter. We chat about things. Some light, but others real. We talk about her depression and how confusing my bisexuality can be sometimes. About how hard it is to live with narcissistic parents and how to erect boundaries. We discuss the patriarchy and then we get on the topic of tattoos.

“It was in college,” she says. “Someone asked me, ‘So H, when are you gonna get inked?’ And that’s when I said never because I hated it was expected of me.”

We are the same in that way. I’ve been told what to do my whole life that nowadays I often do the opposite of what I should out of spite. My therapist says it’s borne from my need to define things on my own terms. I just think I love to make things difficult for myself.

“I’ve always wanted one,” I say. “The only thing stopping me is the look on my mom’s face. I’m still struggling to give myself permission to do the things I want.”

“Do it,” she says. “You absolutely need to do it.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know. I already found an artist and have a concept.”

And there. I’ve done it. I’ve opened Pandora’s box.

“Oh? Tell me.”

So I do. I tell her about the image I have in mind. I explain how I want it to be a reminder of how I once almost killed myself. How I don’t want to ever get to that point again. She stays silent throughout and anxiety floods my veins. Suicide is one of those things people would rather not talk about. It’s always a tragedy when it happens, but it happens because we do not talk about it. We can reblog to save a life with suicide hotline numbers, but it’s not something we acknowledge affecting people in our actual lives. We don’t bare souls outside art, and art is up for interpretation.

I motion to the scars on my left hand. The one that has no less than six scars from a serrated knife.

“For years this reminded me that I don’t want to die. Not really. I was so ashamed when I saw how my sink was just full of my own blood. I stitched myself up, didn’t even go to the hospital. I could see the tendons in my hand and everything.”

I am waiting for her face to change. It happens, more often than I’d like. You invite people into your conquered darkness and it’s too much. They nod understandingly, and then gradually leave your life. It sucks. It doesn’t hurt any less each time it happens. It’d be easier not to say anything, but I believe in honesty. 

H is a dear friend, and I want her to know. I want to believe in people and I want to give them a chance.

Her face doesn’t change at all. Her eyes are fixed on mine and inside, my heart beats a sigh of relief.

“Recovery is hard,” I say. “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning and these scars don’t really work as a reminder anymore. So I want that tattoo to remind me that eventually, I have to die anyway. Memento mori and all that. I might as well make the most of my life before then.”

“I think you deserve that,” she says. She goes on to tell me about the time she wanted to die too. And I breathe.

It’s easy to forget that you are not alone.

-

My best friend says her greatest fear is that she’ll come home one day to my dead body. My heart sinks because I know exactly what she means. I’ve just told her that weeks ago, when she was in the shower and I was feeling low, I took the paring knife and traced my old scars. I pressed the blade to my hand. Hard enough to sting, soft enough so it wouldn’t break skin. I did it until the fog in my head cleared—until I could remember who I was and why I didn’t want this at all. Then I put it back, went to bed, and promptly decided to forget it ever happened.

The only way to survive a totalitarian, neglectful, abusive childhood is you learn to show people exactly what they want to see. She knows me well enough to know if everyone pressures me to be better, I will pretend I am better. Because that’s how it’s always had to be. 

She knows if I want to kill myself, if I really really want to kill myself, no one can stop me.

“You owe me a few more decades,” she says one night. “Don’t make me go to therapy for the rest of my life.”

She’s right. She would be the one I choose to find me. For over half of my short life, she’s been my one constant. There’s no one I would trust more with that gruesome task.

But I’m not so far gone to do that to her. Still. I resent that people try to convince me I ought to live to spare them grief. That my memory would haunt them forever.

I don’t believe that’s true. Everyone is forgettable. I have always stepped lightly on this Earth—the wreckage I leave behind would be minimal. 

Human hearts are resilient. Whatever scars I leave, time will inevitably heal.

It makes me think about a passage from my favorite book, Cloud Atlas. There’s a bisexual composer who puts a bullet through his head when he finishes his life’s work. Suicide, he says, isn’t cowardly at all. It requires great strength of mind. It’s not selfish, he insists. What’s selfish is asking someone to endure an unbearable existence simply because you don’t want to deal with the aftermath. 

I don’t agree with the passage, per se. But I understand it.

“If I was going to do it, I wouldn’t have told you any of this,” I reassure her. "I’m telling you because I want to live. Desperately so. I’m just not always sure I’m strong enough to make it.”

“You’re so goddamn stubborn,” she says. Her eyes are watery. “I’m counting on that to keep you alive.”

We sit in silence. I think we both want to believe it because the alternative is too morbid to contemplate.

“You know,” she says, “You don’t always have to be strong.”

“Yes I do,” I say. 

The way I see it, I have two choices. I either keep fighting, or I end it now and give the people I care about more time to forget me.  

-

I’m sitting alone in my room on a Sunday morning. My dog is sleeping beside me, her fur is silky soft and she whines when I scratch her behind the ribs. She’d miss me I think, but I know she’d be taken care of. 

If I were inclined, I could do it now. I could write out my note and swallow all my pills in one go. Or I could stick my head in the oven. Very Sylvia Plath. Or I could slit my wrists and go for a soak in my freshly scrubbed tub. I could jump into an oncoming train—I’ve seen it happen before in Tokyo. I was in the car when a man jumped. The impact threw me off my feet and when I looked up, his blood was splattered all over the windows. The smell isn’t anything I’ll ever forget.

My door is open and I can see the knives in the kitchen from my bed. I know I am fully capable of doing all those things. But I won’t. Not today. Hopefully, not ever.

I have the words my four or five-year-old self didn’t. Time moves in circles. The same people come in and out of your life. The same feelings leave and return, over and over again. Life is paradoxically too short and too long all at once. Nothing lasts forever, and yet if you wait long enough, the things you lost will return. One day I will die—it’s just a matter of whether or not I have a hand in it.

Soon, I’ll pop my headphones in and go out for a long, long, long walk. I’ve never been to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens and it might be nice to wander and breathe in all that life. 

After all, the world is wide, and I have only seen a fraction of it.

[meshugana1]

hey there, first time asking here. Was wondering if you could do a "breast theft" related prompt about this mom being jealous over her daughter's bigger breasts? Like make it possible to the point when the mother grows, she practically makes her breasts all her focus in life and nothing else (she's an E cup while her daughter is a J cup)

She was sooooo god damn arrogant about those tits of hers. It was blatantly all over her face. Astrid always wore those tight tank tops and showed them off. Her daughter was starting to flaunt them more and more wearing her immodest clothes. Sarah wasn’t a prude or anything, she didn’t mind donning some risqué clothing and going out on the town trolling for a boy or two. But her daughters breasts were so large that they made even normal t-shirts obscene.

Sarah also wasn’t lacking in the titty department with her E-cup sweater puppies. But her daughter had started to fill out her training bras at 14, matched her own mammaries at 15 and totally eclipsed her at 16. Now almost 19 her breasts had become huge triple J-cups, and she was already pushing past that. If Sarah didn’t do something to curtail her daughters forming habits the she might windup becoming one of those cam girls or something.

She started trying to find a solution at her doctor’s office, but that didn’t turn up much more that surgical options. She knew her daughter wouldn’t do anything of the sort so she continued her search. She found online tons of things about making breasts bigger but so little about shrinking them. She occasionally found an ointment or a tablet that claimed it could reduce breast mass, and since she was desperate she tried them.

She just switched them out with her regular body lotion. Of course they didn’t work. One ointment even seemed to make them grow a little bit bigger! She even started to try homeopathy and Wicca junk. But they turned out little better than placebos. She was just about certain her daughter was stuck in her slutty path when she found a new site. It was some kind of magic shop online. It was curated by someone called “Meshugana”.

She started up a chat with them and Sarah poured her heart out. Everything about her daughter and her huge tits and her worries about her future. They were pretty understanding and offered Sarah a solution. He told her that magic was in fact very real and her knew a spell that might cut her daughter down to size. But there was a catch, they couldn’t just erase some of Astrid’s big bust but the mass could be transferred to another person.

They suggested that Sarah be the one to take the extra peck padding. Sarah agreed quickly and asked them to cast the spell. They warned her one last time about the spell. It would operate on her worries about her daughter. If she was just worried about her daughters future and the direction her big beautiful breasts would lead her then the spell would only transfer enough to assuage her worries. But if it was really jealousy that drove her then the spell might go out of control. She brushed off their warning and urged them to cast the spell.

She tried to offer them money but they refused, saying that helping a family was all the compensation they needed. A few moments later she actually felt a sort of deep tremor in her body. Not a second later they told her the spell was cast and nothing could stop it now. She asked why her bountiful boobies didn’t seem bigger, they had told her that she would need to be in the same room as Astrid for it to take effect.

She thanked them and headed into the living room to help change her daughters life for the better. The two met in the hallway and before they could say hello Sarah had felt almost a tension feeling in her tits. Astrid was feeling a similar sensation and she watched as it looked like her mother’s smaller breasts were being pull toward her. Sarah watched as her tits were being pulled directly towards Astrid and were even starting to pull her off her feet. “Mom, what’s going on?” Astrid said as her mothers heels were being dragged along the floor toward her.

Suddenly the pulling in Sarah’s boobs intensified and she was being pulled by her breasts toward her daughters own chest very fast! The two pairs collided into each other and started to take on a very faint glow. To both of their surprise the clothing covering their breasts just seemed to melt away, leaving the two pairs nude and pressing into each other by some unknown force. “Mom! Wha…what the hell is going on?!?” Astrid yelled trying to push her mother away, but finding it impossible. Then Astrid felt an uncomfortable feeling of fullness in her chest, while Sarah was feeling an emptiness in hers.

Sarah felt a sort of gently pulling sensation and the empty feeling started to pass. She looked down and saw that her daughters breasts had finally begun to shrink. Slowly at first then the pace began to quicken. She started at triple J, then it looked like double J, the just J. It cascaded down to I, then to H, then G. Now Sarah was the bigger of the two, just like the people said the mass had been transferring to her. Sarah now sported a fantastic and firm looking pair of I-cup lovelies. She expected that their breasts would disconnect and she could explain what had happened and why she had done it, but they didn’t.

The gentle pulling continued and Sarah wanted as her breasts continued to inflate and her daughters continued shrinking. Astrid quickly went from G to F, E, D, C, then it began to slow at a B-cup. Sarah on the other hand only continued to grow so large that she could barely see anything below her daughters head. She didn’t understand, she wasn’t jealous! She just wanted to help her daughter, not steal her boobies completely!

But that is what she did. Her daughters breast continued to shrink past B into A cups, then into little mosquito bites. Then finally with a “POP” their chest finally disconnected. Astrid fell backwards and landed on her ass. She felt totally off balance, and realized why when she looked at her bare chest. They were totally gone, 100% gone. She had no breast tissue left, she looked like a child, a little boy! She looked up angrily at her mother with tears in her eyes.

She couldn’t see her, all she could see was her mother’s new mountainous mammaries! It looked like Sarah had Beachballs attached to her chest, Sarah needed to hold each breast up with one in each of her arms just in order to stand up with the new weight. Sarah stated in awe at each one of her new tits. They were…glorious! They were truly perfect in every way. “Sorry Astrid, I’ll explain later. Love you bye!” She said as she hefted her tits and rushed to the bathroom, leaving Astrid confused and pawing at her new flat as a board chest.

Sarah burst through her bathroom door and slammed the door with her ass. She then turned to the mirror and marveled at her new self. She plopped her titanic tits onto the counter top and began to explore and fondle them. It was only a few seconds but she was already deep into the throws of passion. She was amazed, how could this be the spell going wrong when it felt so right? The thought of her now flat chested daughter popped into her head and it only drove her passions more to think what she did to her.

“Sorry baby, mommy didn’t mean it. But if it make you feel better you helped mommy realize just how important having the biggest titties really is!” She truly did understand it now. She thought about her dead end job as an executive and thought that I’d be such a waste for he melodious melons to be confined in a cheap suit. She should quit immediately, but she still needed money. Then it hit her, she should just model her bodacious boobies. She could get a web cam and charge people to watch her fondle her big breasts. She was gonna do it all the time anyway, might as well get paid for it!

The End. Hope you like it!

[1upmushrooms]

The First Rebel Chapter 4 (1up Deadfic)

Chapter 4: Prepping for a Road Trip.

That nightmare I had about Koopa felt so real, the crescent moon in the window, the torn up office, that fire, Christ that fire. The only thing I can do is deal with it as it comes. Who's knocking at the door anyway?

The Rebel got up from his coat, apparently having pulled out the pillow and blanket and walked to the door. He opened the door to find Wario with a box filled with thousands of items. Inside it were fuses, little windup legs, wind up keys, gun powder, matches, circle shells with many holes, little gadgets that connected to the wind up key, little caps with holes in them, black, white, and grey paint, some black string and cu-tips. This made the Rebel smile.

"Finally," he said, "I get to do what I love."

"Did I get everything?"

"Yep, everything's here. Now if you excuse me..."

He took the box from Wario, put it on the desk and motioned Wario to leave as he closed the door.

"The manufacturer is at work."

He sat at the desk, and took out a long white sheet. After laying it on the desk, he took out the cu-tips, circle shells, and gun powder. He carefully took a drip of gun powder and put it on the cu-tip. He then took the circle shells apart and started spreading the gun powder with the cu-tip on the shells. For about 4 minutes he did this until all shells were completely full. Then he took out the gadgets and the matches. He quickly assembled each gadget to look like a sort of elaborate match lighter that would raise the match to a hole that lead to a black string which light up to the fuse.

He carefully put the match in the hole where it was supposed to go, doing the same thing to the other gadgets and matches. Then he put each elaborate match lighter into each shell that had the right holes to connect to. He took out the wind up keys and connected each of them with the shells that had the right holes to connect to. He then took each half of a whole shell and carefully combined each half as to not have the gun powder slip out. Now he grabbed the caps and tightly screwed them on the top of the shells. Then he took out the fuses and the wind up legs. He first put the fuses on the caps, making sure they wouldn't fall off. He fit the wind up legs on the bottom part of the shells. Then, he took out the paint and paint brushes. He completely covered the shells in black while adding two bits of white paint for the eyes.

Finally, he put the black string where it was supposed to go while connecting it with the fuse. It was done; he managed to make about 80 of these in about an hour. Opening the door revealed Wario standing right outside, he threw one at him.

"You're a patient man Wario."

"These are nicely done." Wario said, admiring the smoothness of the weapon.

"I learned a few tricks before I got locked away."

"So what did they call these things again?"

The Rebel gave a wicked grin as he said, "B-bomb."

Wario grew a smile himself as the B-bomb was thrown back at the Rebel. Wario then went to deal with things of his own as the Rebel was left to think:

Well, I got the weapons, Wario's got the men, Mona's got the car, and everything is ready. All we have to do is not get caught and we're back in the city. I can't wait to get my hands filled with Koopa's blood. I've waited too long to do such an easy task and nothing's going to stop me!

The Rebel got on his coat, took the papers which he wrote on plus the stuff they bought at the thrift store and headed out the door of his quarters. In the main area he saw Mona aiming the flamethrower at a car while Tyler stood and watched. In about 3 seconds she fired and the flaming fireball hit the car at 100% accuracy. Tyler was then given the weapon.

"And that is how you do it baby," she said while giving his hair a stroke.

The Rebel walked to them after putting the items down.

"What are you teaching him to shoot for?"

"It's not the first time" She said, "I taught him a month ago but when he's going he has to learn how to shoot well."

The Rebel was surprised by this,

"Going," he said, "As in with us?"

"What did you think I meant?" Mona said getting slightly irritated,

"Are you sure that's a smart thing to do?"

"Of course, he's becoming a good shot."

The Rebel walked closer to her, seeing Tyler aiming the flamethrower.

"I'm not sure that he's useful for the trip. He may become a burden, he may even get killed."

"Well he can't stay here, I can't take that risk."

"Ah yes so bringing him into a bigger risk of danger is the smart thing to do."

"What's the matter? Your bleeding heart can't help but not let an innocent boy possibly get murdered?"

The Rebel looked at her, giving her the creeps as he slowly whispered:

"No, I just want to make sure that you're fine with the possibility of having his blood on your hands."

He rubbed her hands with his own as he added:

"Perhaps literally."

That was enough. Mona yanked her hands from the Rebel and gave him a nice punch in the gut.

"You like talking about my kid getting killed?" Her fury was dripping from her mouth that shook along with her body.

"You like getting him killed?" The Rebel spurted as he gasped for air due to that vicious punch.

Mona threw him a scowl as she walked outside the warehouse with the items to put in the car. The Rebel gave a look at Tyler shooting at the car with complete accuracy.

Maybe he's useful after all.

He then walked to Tyler with a little grin.

"So," he said, "You excited?"

Tyler stopped practicing and looked at him.

"I guess so. It's pretty important huh?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"So what is it really, the trip I mean?" Tyler said while checking out the flamethrower with deep interest.

"It's nothing, just a meeting with your dad's friends."

"And you don't know them do you?"

"Not really, no."

There was a block of silence there until Tyler broke it as he aimed the flamethrower at the car.

"So...you're saying we're screwed."

"Yes, that's probably the outcome here."

Tyler threw the flamethrower at him.

"You better practice then."

The Rebel scoffed, "Me, practice?"

He then aimed the flamethrower at the car. Turning it to the side and with one hand he pulled the trigger. The fireball travelled to the car quickly and lit it up like a house fire. He turned to see a very impressed Tyler.

"Wow." He said, "Where'd you learn how to shoot like that?"

"At my own home when I was 8," He said looking at the damaged car, "So is that all your mother taught you do when in battle?"

Tyler thought for a bit, "No."

The Rebel looked away as he said, "Oh, well what else did she teach you?"

He then heard a noise as he looked back and saw Tyler holding a switch-blade.

"Hand to hand combat too huh? Jesus, your mom's not wasting time."

"Who's Jesus? Another one of your friends?"

"Umm," The Rebel gave out a chuckle as he said, "Never mind."

"Well anyway, Mom's been helping prepare for the trip."

The Rebel dropped the flamethrower.

"Well, with trips like these, you can hardly blame her."

"Can you help me practice?"

The Rebel stood there, watching Tyler twirl the blade around.

"Sure, if you want me to."

Tyler then ran forward as the Rebel grabbed his hand with the switch blade and twisted it though not to the point where it'd him. However, Tyler pulled out another switch blade and swung around. The Rebel however was on his guard as he grabbed the other hand. He then began twisting both hands but Tyler escaped with a nice kick in the soft spot. Falling to the ground, The Rebel released both hands and then whacked a switch blade out of one. Tyler tried to get it back but by the time he reached for it, The Rebel already had it.

Both blades clanged as the two went at it for about two minutes. Tyler then punched the Rebel and almost stabbed him, stopping at his chest. They both couldn't stop breathing, or sweating for that matter. Tyler let him get up as he took both switch blades and put them in his pocket.

"Well, I think you're ready." Tyler said,

"Yeah, hey, have you ever used a B-bomb before?"

Tyler shook his hand. The Rebel got one out and wound up the key. Soon, the fuse lit and he raised it with his left arm aiming it at the car. When the fuse was almost out he threw it at the car, the bomb landed in the window. In a matter of seconds the car exploded with great force as he and Tyler hid in another room. When they went back they found the car in half, one side was on the left and the other was on the right and both were on fire. They both got a bucket and filled it with water. After a couple of minutes the fire decreased.

"That was awesome," Tyler said.

"If you think that was awesome you should have seen what happens when you turn it all the way."

"QUIT SCREWING AROUND," Wario screamed, "COME ON LET'S GO!"

You don't need to shout. It seems Tyler's more trained for combat than I thought. Then again these are Wario's friends and he's been known to hang around with the incredibly dangerous. It could be worse though.

Outside was the old car that Mona drove to get here. It was an average looking car that had a trunk filled with supplies. The windows were cracked; the passenger door was severely dented, and from what The Rebel could tell the brakes were almost off. He got in the passenger seat with Wario and Mona as Wario turned the car on. Tyler slept in the back, stretching across the four foot seat while resting his head on the inside of the door. Soon after 5 minutes the car was already out of Petals-Burg and headed into the next town. When they approached this town called "New Hope", Wario parked the car next to the sidewalk and got out. Mona followed as the Rebel got out of the passenger door.

"Should we wake the kid up?" He asked Wario,

"Nah, this won't take long. It's just a little meeting."

The Rebel looked at Mona but she ignored his glare. The place where the meeting was held was an old diner that looked like it forgot it wasn't in the 1950's. It was called "The Classic Eatery" and it barely had any customers. When they walked in they found the place, to be mostly deserted. The only customers there were a group of three at the far back. Two of them wore masks and held flamethrowers while the one in the middle just sat there, laying his back on the chair while smoking a cigarette.

His red jacket had more colour than Wario's hat and his white pants were whiter than his own teeth. His face had that "I don't care what the hell you say to me" look to it as his white glasses only reinforced the fact that this guy was intimidating. He motioned them to come over to where he was as he took a long drag from his cigarette. Wario was the first to walk over as he shook the man's hand.

"How are you Jimmy?" He said with a grin,

Jimmy flicked his cigarette into an astray and got out another.

"Good," he said, "I've had better days but I'm good."

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

Author’s Note: So for starters, there’s this minor detail about the crescent moon showing up in last chapter’s dream. At this time, I was fixated with Disney’s Alice in Wonderland and the one visual that stuck out to me was the crescent moon that eventually turned out the disembodied grin of the Chesire Cat. I then thought “This world is supposed to be a rather insane one, practically run by madness. Wouldn’t it be cool to have the crescent moon be a visual reference to this. As if it’s a sign that says: “We’re all mad here”. Of course now, the idea doesn’t seem as brilliant as it used to but hey, it’s interesting trivia.

After that, we get to see a big clue (the first clue since I think the second chapter) that the Rebel’s more than just a pissed off ex-worker who’ a jerk at times and may be more sinister than we initially thought. Yeah, there’s anti-heroes and all, but this seems to be goingway beyond that.

We then get to see how this fic’s version of the Bob-Omb’s work, with a huge load of detail....that probably wasn’t necessary but hey, I was on a groove at the time and thought “hey, wouldn’t it be cool to show someone making a Bob-Omb?”

We also get to see more bonding between the Rebel and Tyler with demonstration of the weapons the group have collected and a switch blade battle...that’s a bit ridiculous now that I read it again but I don’t think it’s too bad.

And finally, we see that Mona wasn’t the only Warioware character that came to this universe. But we’ll save that for a later time. ;)

[macaroni-rascal]

proper motivation: bawson smut fic

So this idea held and wouldn’t let go, basically: what if Mike decided to motivate Ginny in a slightly unorthodox way...

(cross posted on ao3)

Ginny is having a bad game. 

Her arm isn't bothering her at all, her life has been drama free recently, the Padres have even been on somewhat of a winning streak, but something is just off. She can't find her rhythm. Mike's calls have been fine, they went over the hitters and agreed on mostly everything, there's no reason for her arm not to do what's it's always done. 

But she's still having a bad game.

Mike has already made two trips to the mound and it's only the top of the fourth. She's walked too many players by her own standards and judging from the look on Al's face when she’d walked back into the dugout after the end of the third, her pitching wasn't up to his standards either. She's frustrated with herself and her body for not cooperating and doing what she wants. If she doesn't get it together soon they are going to pull her and it will just make her more angry. It may be her second season with the Padres but she still feels a certain amount of pressure to prove herself, prove that she belongs and has earned her spot.

After she walks another player, Mike calls time again and Ginny is about ready to pull her hair out. She takes a few deep breaths trying to center herself as her captain walks his way lazily up to the mound. 

Mike has a look in his eye that makes her pause and quirk an eyebrow. She tends to only see that expression when they are alone and most likely naked. He even has a little smirk playing at his lips, hidden slightly by the beard but she knows him well enough to recognize the expression for what it is.

"How's your day going, Baker?" He tucks his glove under his arm and starts rolling the ball between his hands casually, like they aren't in the middle of a game, like 20,000 pairs of eyes aren't on them, like they have idle time to chat. 

She rolls her eyes at him, "I've had better, how's your day going?" she asks, playing along with whatever he's doing.

"Not as bad as yours, that's for sure," he chuckles lightly, the ball still in his hands, rolling back and forth.

She waits a beat, expecting him to continue, or give a speech, or something in the vein of how he normally helps her when she's off her game. When he just smiles at her knowingly she gets impatient.

"Any advice, captain?" She asks, just wavering on the side of sarcastic.

He takes a small step closer, not too close, but enough that her body tightens slightly. What was he doing? 

"I think you're lacking proper motivation, rookie," he still calls her rookie sometimes, usually when she’s being argumentative or not listening to his calls.

She's confused for a second; never in the two years he's known her has he ever questioned her motivation. He's even called her one of the most motivated people he knows, that it's something he admires and loves about her.

"Lacking motivation?" She can't keep the disbelief out of her voice as she looks at him like he just told her she should give up baseball for a career in professional soccer.

He passes the ball to her, grabs his glove and puts it back on before covering the bottom half of his face, eyes going dark and he leans infinitesimally closer to her. She breaths in quickly against her better judgment and is completely unprepared for what comes out of his mouth. 

"For each batter you strike out, I'm going to make you come," his voice is low and reminiscent of the night before when he'd been so deep inside her she’d felt him in her finger tips. Her entire body clenches and she's momentarily struck dumb at his proposition.

The smile is clear in his eyes and he winks at her, "Motivation enough for ya, Baker?"

With that, he turns quickly and makes his way back to home plate, leaving a slightly breathless and turned on pitcher behind him. 

Ginny lets out a small incredulous laugh and rolls her shoulders trying in vain to stop herself from squeezing her thighs together. This was certainly new. Maybe he figured only something completely out of left field, so to speak, would snap her out of her funk. She won't lie and say it doesn't make her eye twitch a little that he was so unprofessional. They normally maintain complete professionalism while at work, but she's mature enough to admit that she does feel more motivated.

She adjusts her cap and looks down home plate to see Mike crouching down, the next batter digging his feet into the dirt. When their eyes meet, he shoots her a quick wide grin before schooling his features and putting down the sign for her cutter. She rolls her shoulders once more, takes a deep breath and goes in for the windup. 

She's annoyingly happy when it's a perfect strike; she can almost feel the satisfaction emanating from the catcher’s box. 

If this is how he wants to play it, then she'll play. Mike is more than aware of how much she likes to win and he's betting on that and she knows it and he knows it and a small, selfish part of her can't wait for the game to be finished so he can follow through with his proposal. This is what he wanted: he wanted her impatient and provoked and driven. She refuses to disappoint.

She strikes out two players that inning, then another one in the 5th, and all three in the 6th. She gets relieved in the 7th by Javanes because the Padres are sitting pretty with a 5-run lead and Skip wants to keep her pitch limit low and not over-tax her arm. She's both disappointed and grateful, she could have gotten to double digits but she supposes six is still a respectable number. Judging from the proud and knowing smile on Mike's face when their eyes meet in the dugout, he's happy with the number too.

They maintain their lead, win the game, and even though her and Mike are invited out with the team for drinks, they politely decline, eager to get home. Ginny wants payment for her performance in full. 

She tells him she's going to get changed then they can go but he crowds her into her separated area and makes her come swiftly, one hand down her pants and the other covering her mouth to muffle her moans as much as possible. He groans when he feels how wet she is, has been since he "motivated" her, and she falls apart so quickly it robs her of her breath. She sags completely onto his body, spent and a little dazed. He pulls his hand from her uniform pants and sucks on his fingers unashamedly, moaning at the taste. She shudders in his arms and tries valiantly to center herself.

"That's one, rookie," he whispers in her ear before turning around and walking out.

She gathers herself, sitting down and taking a few breaths, letting her heart rate return to normal before she changes on unsteady legs. Mike is waiting for her at his locker and he says nothing as she approaches, just lifts himself and they make their way out of Petco together, the air charged and heavy. She shivers when he runs a warm hand down her back before she gets into his car. 

Once they get home, he leads her into the shower and gets her off twice more, once with his hands again and once with his mouth, putting the built-in bench they have to use. She's completely at his mercy and more happy to be there.

As they dry off, or as he dries them off, spending extra time on her breasts and legs and ass, keeping her in the state of arousal she's been in for what seems like hours, he finally speaks again.

"That's three. How's your day going now, Baker?" He has the smuggest look on his face and she can’t even pretend to be annoyed. He did make her day a lot better and helped her up her game. She's not mad in the least; she's in heaven. 

"Much better, thanks for asking," she replies with a small grin of her own, "you are only half way through your promise though." His eyes go dark and serious, he tosses the towel off to the side and presses himself into her.

"Well, the day’s not done. Patience, rookie," his big hands settle on her hips, squeezing tightly before he leans in and kisses her, softly at first then deeper and searching. Soon he's all but devouring her, lips and tongue coaxing small moans from her. Ginny’s hands wander around his back, enjoying the play of muscles and delighting in the groan he lets out when her fingernails dig into his skin. 

She loves doing that, loves that he gets twitchy at the sharp sting of her hands, loves that he always holds her tighter in response, loves that she's the only one that gets to do it. She just loves him and everything he does for her and to her. 

Mike walks them out of the bathroom only to fall unceremoniously on the bed, still kissing and caressing each other. She wants him between her legs again, loves it when she's laid out for him, open and splayed. It's easier on his knees when he can just lay down and lick and suck at her lazily, just pure warmth and pleasure.

She gently but decisively shoves his head down and he lets out a small chuckle as he kisses her way down her body. Not that he'd ever complain about going down on her, he loves it almost as much as she does, has told her so and demonstrated as such an innumerable amount of times.

"Your wish, my command," he mutters playful as he bites her hip before kissing the mark left behind, she moans in response and tries to squirm closer to him and his mouth. She is about to tell him how dangerous those words are but all that comes out is a choked gasp when he all of a sudden spreads her legs and has his tongue inside of her. She's so sensitive from her other orgasms that her hips retch violently under his mouth and he plants a hand on her pelvis, keeping her firmly in place and not letting up for a second.

Ginny's whole body is on fire, she curls her legs around him as much as she can and tries to move away from the sensations he's creating while also desperately attempting to get as close as possible.

"Oh! Oh my go--" Mike’s unoccupied hand drifts to her center and gives her three of his fingers to grind down on as his tongue writes sonnets on her bundle of nerves. Her hands scramble for purchase uselessly, trying to gather her bearings. She comes with his tongue licking back and forth over her, but he doesn't let up and she’s losing her mind. He just keeps pressure, keeps his fingers curled in her so perfectly that she comes again, shouting her release and trying as hard as she can to scramble away from the truly spectacular feeling he's providing her.

She's both numb and hyper aware of everything, all she can hear is the rush of blood in her ears and the small kisses he's planting on her thighs, his breath coming fast and blowing over where she's wet and sensitive. She feels the light tickle of his beard as he makes his way up her body slowly, kissing her and sucking small marks where he pleases. 

He drops a kiss to her mouth but she barely has the energy to pucker her lips. Her eyes are closed but she can feel his breath on her face, coming out in a chuckle, no doubt laughing at the openly debauched state of her. She can smell herself on his beard and despite how used her body feels, she's still a little turned on.

"Remind me, Baker, how many is that?" His voice is full of mirth, but gritty and low, and it makes her legs twitch.

She finally opens her eyes to see him hovering other her, beard shiny and eyes bright with lust. She's honest to God lost count and it takes her a minute to think back before answering.

"That's five, old man," she barely recognizes her voice, it sounds hoarse and used, still disconnected and boneless from her orgasms. Her five orgasms. 

"One more to go then, huh?" He says causally and god, she loves him so much. 

She wants to ride him but she's fairly certain she doesn't even have the energy to lift an arm, so that's not happening. She needs him inside of her. Ginny can feel him, hot and hard, pressing against her side. She moans pitifully when he ruts against her, he laughs at her again but she's unbothered. 

Mike gently rolls her over, making her whine, moving her to her side and lifting her leg so he can curl easily into her body. He wraps an arm under her to grasp at her breast and he pinches her nipple once, just to hear her gasp, before he grasps himself and slowly slides into her.

She lets out a deeply satisfied moan despite how raw she feels, tries to gather the strength to thrust back into him but he just holds her tightly and starts moving his hips lazily. Long, gentle drags that have her panting into the pillow, hands curling into the bed sheet. He moans every time he bottoms out and she can feel his beard, still wet from her on her back and on her neck and she feels so dirty and perfect and lethargic and loved that she wants to exist in this perfect, weightless moment as long as she possible can. 

"Jesus, Ginny!" He exclaims when she clenches the muscles that are holding him so perfectly, the only thing she has the strength to do. She smiles as his hips start to move faster, thrusting with more purpose and precision. She's so sensitive and so over-used that she doesn't know if she can come again, letting out little whimpers and finally starting to rock her hips into his. 

Mike, nearly at his peak and hearing her frustrated moans, brings a hand around and gives her his knuckles to grind against, the pressure is perfect and overwhelming. Before she knows it, she's coming for a final time as he follows right after her, groaning his release. They stay connected for as long as they can; she's trembling so much she doesn't know if she'll ever stop and she thinks she's going to melt right into the mattress. 

He pulls out and cleans them quickly, cuddling up to her and wrapping himself around her body once more. After what could have been minutes or maybe hours, Mike finally breaks the silence.

"So, how's your day going, Baker?" The smile is clear in his voice and she starts laughing, doesn't stop laughing until he kisses her soundly.

[candideangel]

🌹+ A celebration at the Crystarium, with fireworks and people dancing. She and G'raha dance and smooch while everyone watches the fireworks.

First Spark “Words are not often needed, not when the actions can speak so much louder.”Word Count: 3506@windup-dragoon

“Why dost thou not join her?”

That had been a single inquiry to the Crystal Exarch’s mind, crimson eyes had been caught staring ever so longingly at the one person who had been his inspiration for a good full century, mayhap even longer. With the night sky returned, and events had brought to a temporary peace as well as recovery of the Exarch himself, a celebration was certainly in order. The Crystarium labored, citizens flitted to and fro for event preparations, and even as the tent had gone up the Bard was kind enough to offer her support whether by holding beams while clothes for tents were put up to the main square or keeping the young ones out of the adults who needed the space. With everyone working together, the festival was set up in a matter of days and once it was ready the square outside the Crystal Tower was crowded to say the least from normal citizens to those from Eulmore who wished to partake in events. There had been entertainment, meals, everything needed to bring joy to others, but the Exarch himself had not partaken in any of the games provided rather he preferred to be the casual observer. 

And casual observer he would become as he watched Angelique, the hero of two worlds, his inspiration. Someone long gone in his time, living, breathing, and truly having a good time after all the hardship. Hardship he had put her through…the deceit, the glamour, the half-truths, he still never truly had forgiven himself for putting her through those painful times, the time in specific when her body nearly consumed by Light…the hand that had reached for him, that pained voice calling out to him, so pleadingly, so hurt.

“G-G’raha…Tia!”

Ah to this time, it echoed in his sleep, but he had to shake himself from those dark thoughts. The time had passed and now remained the time of the present. Time had changed them both, and for the better he believed. Angelique had used to be so mammet-like, now her green eyes sparkled with a life shining like a thousand stars, and her voice? Oh, her voice was something the Gods had gifted her, sweet and gentle notes singing while fingers moved across the strings of a harp; it brought comfort to those who heard it making everything just melt away and he had heard it himself. Ears free from their confines they flicked a little as he tried to make out her voice through the buzzing of excited chatter, but his gaze did see her sitting comfortably on a stack of crates, performing a little tune for the people who looked at ease. How much he desired to be there by her side.

And it had been that moment when Urianger had come to him with that question, but the simple answer? The Exarch believed he didn’t deserve to be by her side. Though his heart raced with a frantic beat when his observation had come to an end in the form of Ryne and Alisaie talking to Angelique briefly and the Warrior of Darkness left in pursuit with her companions while the sun’s light was starting to wane and a thin veil of navy in the distance was starting to form on the horizon of the coming night. 

They had been gone for a long while, the Exarch had noted as the lanterns strung throughout the square were starting to come alive with their warm glow, and the minstrels had begun to truly come together. Couples, friends, all joining together in a few dances from traditional, to ones a little more free of movement. Even as he stood sentinel with Lyna soon joined to his side, his crimson gaze caught sight of something through the gaps in the crowd, something that had nearly caused his heart to seize and breath to stop short in his throat. Alisaie and Ryne had returned, but Alphinaud had gone over to greet them on their return, and on his hand like a princely gentleman was a picture the Exarch in all his wildest imaginings would have ever gotten to see.

On Alphinaud’s hand was Angelique, the Warrior of Darkness, who often dressed practically; ready for battle, no matter what day. Gone was her bow, her quiver, even her breeches, knee high boots, gloves, and even her bun that kept her hair away from her face. In their place had been a simple dress, white with short sleeves and a blue see-through material that draped and flowed down from her wrists to where they practically floated in the breeze, and the skirt stretched down to her knees though more open in the front and the blue material fluttered in a similar way with the white. And her hair was down, brushed neatly, a braid resting on each side to possibly combine to one in the back. At least…that was what he believed even as he watched the young male counterpart of the Leveilleur twins bring her into the crowd of onlookers, bowing politely before that despite his slightly shorter stature, lead her in a dance to the slow tune of music.

Oh how he desired to be in his place. But he feared his own dancing was quite out of practice…and he didn’t want to accidentally start becoming left-footed.

“My Lord?” Lyna’s voice finally shook him from a daze he didn’t realize he had fallen into, “You have been staring at the Warrior of Darkness for quite some time. While I usually don’t like the idea of meddling in your personal affairs, I will be straightforward. If you desire to be by her side then do so.” The Vii would cross her arms, her purple orbs staring down at the Mystel who had raised her, one who was her grandfather in a way.

The Exarch looked up in surprise and though the shock didn’t last long he gave a faint chuckle, “You act as if you wish to set me up with the Warrior. Much like you had once tried to do with countless suitors and suitresses.” A small smile at the fondness of his memories, and how many times he couldn’t think to count of tears he had to wipe away from the child’s face as failures settled in. In truth, he knew she wanted him to be happy, but his heart desired only one…and even though she was here before him, brought to this world by his own hand, his courage and hope has long since waned thin.

“I would much rather you didn’t bring up such an embarrassing thing again.” Lyna replied curtly, a faint shade of red forming on her cheeks, but she focused on Angelique for a moment, the music had picked up an upbeat tempo, steps would grow at a faster pace. She even watched as her partner switched from the young man and into the arms of the other hume that had come to their home; Thancred if she remembered properly.

Then came the laughter, clear, joyous, like a melodic bell.

And that was when the Exarch’s attention was drawn back to her once more, and his ears lowered, eyes slightly widening at the display Thancred was showing, fully picking the bard up by the waist and giving her a little spin before settling her down, that was the cause of her joy. That was when he felt it though, a stab like a knife between his ribs, but there was something so much more than that, a feeling of anger that he had not felt since Emet-Selch dared try to weasel out information about his fondness for the Warrior of Darkness. A momentary lapse in the dark side of his mind wanted to at the least break the man’s wrist. It was wrong, it was possessive. It…was jealousy. The Exarch barely had a moment to process the fact that he was striding forward, mind a haze…

“G’raha?” 

He stopped short and the haze faded and he blinked several times, realizing he had left his post from the base of the Tower…to here, standing in front of Angelique and Thancred. His ears perked straight up at the shock, tail lashing absently under his robes. His crimson eyes met the green ones that looked to him with concern making his ears lower and his fingers began to rub at his wrist. “I…um…That is…” words failed him, when he chanced a glance he wished his heart didn’t pound so hard that it made blood pump in his ears, breath gone for a moment. Truly before him was a beauty tucked away under a strong facade with the weight of the world gone from the shoulders if only for a night.

“I do feel like our friend wishes to cut in.” Thancred spoke and his hands would leave the hold on Angelique’s waist. He was no fool. “I think I will take this as a chance to see about taking Ryne around for a dance or two. Have fun.” His stay was short-lived, waving behind him as he went to approach the Oracle of Light who had become like a daughter to him throughout this entire journey.

And here the two stood, the Warrior of Darkness plucked from her homeland though she could go to and fro as she pleased, and the Crystal Exarch…the misplaced Miqo’te who slept for years to awaken to a world in ruin. Angelique reached up and absently twirled a loose strand of hair around her finger slowly as she started to fidget in her own way as G’raha did too. “Um…the party is great.” she tried, watching as his ears perked slightly, a faint twitch to show he was at least listening. “…I haven’t had this much fun in a while…and it’s mostly wonderful to see the people so happy.”

Relief filled his veins for a moment and he turned his head to watch everyone dance the night away, though some had parted away to get refreshments and rest themselves. “Yes. While the people of the Crystarium certainly managed to hold their own in unity, to see them have this joy after everything is a sight to behold.” He gave a faint, proud smile, but when he looked back to her, and his heart almost went to his throat again, which caused him to swallow it down in order to be able to keep speaking. “Ah…ahem…do forgive me, it seems for a moment my manners were…rather misplaced. You are so…”

“Different?” She interrupted, tilting her head curiously.

“Ye-I mean NO! I mean…yes…yes it is different from all the times I have known you whether they have been the present or my distant past. But…those weren’t the words I wanted to say. I wished to say are…you look absolutely breathtaking this night.” He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, watching for her reaction. A play of emotions crossed her face, uncertainty, shyness, but then…he watched as her pale cheeks blossomed to a color of red that could have been the envy of a rolanberry.

“I…I…um…” Stammering, she was at a loss for what to say. Angelique wanted to vehemently deny it! She wasn’t pretty! There were others around her with so many more beautiful traits, but compared to them the bard was simply…average. Casting her eyes down at her feet, she let out a soft sigh, “…Thank you…” she replied to G’raha’s kind words, even if she felt like she didn’t deserve them, but he at least deserved the respect for offering the compliment.

Silence fell between them then, just the sound of the populace laughing and cheering, clapping and the music still flowing like a river. Looking down at his hand for a moment, the Crystal Exarch took in a deep breath to calm himself, then he would start to take a few steps closer. If there was anything he could offer her besides well-mannered words…it would be this.

“Understand that I have been out of practice for a long time, but Angelique, my friend, will you share a dance with me?” While he swept into a bow, he held out his flesh and blood hand to her, waiting for a few moments, a fear in his mind wanting to make itself apparent that she would simply reject him. However, everything seemed to vanish like a gust of wind when the mystel felt a hand delicate and calloused from the hold of a bowstring would lightly place in his. He lifted his head and saw that she smiled at him so sweetly. Like an infection, G’raha found himself smiling just the same, a flicker of youth starting to come from the embered coals within.

“I would love to.”

When they had begun to dance, it had started off a little bit awkward having been out of practice, but Angelique had been patient as a saint for him. Then as the music continued on, they would still move to the steady rhythm, often exchanging stories, reminiscing on memories he had thought long forgotten. It was like they were the only ones in the world, even though they did feel the stare of a few onlookers, and perhaps even heard a faint giggle or two. The gossip certainly would be going down the grapevine by the new morning. However, for someone who didn’t enjoy the sound of idle gossip, tonight it would seem his inhibitions had been temporarily shed.

The space between the Exarch and Warrior had been almost at arm’s length when they began. A strangely professional distance that a line they didn’t cross. It wasn’t until they would start to enjoy each other’s company did the line start to vanish, slowly steps closer, holds changing. Music had started back down to a slow, mellow sound, and by this point they had subconsciously drawn close until they could feel no barrier between them. Steps had become slow, easy, unlike a fast paced waltz or one of the traditional dances in Novrant, an ever so gentle sway.

Words had long gone at the moment, but letting off a soft sigh, Angelique would slowly release his hand and instead wrap her arms around his shoulders, cheek lightly pressed close. Ah, G’raha willed his heart to not pound for her to hear, so close and intimate they had come in during the course. Though his mind spun as slowly he would allow his hands to settle gently to her waist, closing his eyes as he simply indulged in the selfishness to set his head atop the bed of golden locks. If this was a dream, he dared not wake from it so soon. Surprisingly she didn’t flinch and that made him smile a little to himself, for he remembered how adversed she was to being touched back in their youthful days at NOAH. It seemed that her time out on those grand adventures had done much for her.

Slowly opening his eyes a bit from his momentary dreaming he glanced down at the relaxed face of the woman who had been his inspiration, his hero, his friend, his…first love that he never got to reveal. “Angelique, might you permit me to speak my mind?” he asked, tone soft, but easy to hear now that the music had started to fade off to softer tones, pulling himself back.

“Hm?” Angelique hummed and opened her eyes to look to him, as if she had woken from her own slumber, “Of course, far be it for me to stop you from speaking. What is on your mind?”

G’raha took a deep breath to calm himself and would slide his hands back up to gently take hold of her hands in his, honestly he wanted to say this, he HAD to let her know. Even if she were to simply reject the feelings. He was more than happy to remain as friends, but if he were to one day die, he would want to do so without regrets. Especially if it were to fall to her hand to deal the blow, to get her friends home. “Many a time has passed, a long while since we explored the mysteries of the tower. With your aid, we ended up finding something what I was destined to do, though it felt like our time together had been short.” His grip absently tightened and he dropped his gaze a little, “While I’m not that youth that you remember, I am a man who had time to think about his regrets in his life. Finding too many to count, even as I found ways to right those wrongs. There has always been one that I have long wished to correct, but fear will always be its hindrance. However, if you will permit me to say this, and no matter what the outcome, always…always understand that I will respect it. Understand that I will still care for you.” 

Angelique tilted her head confused, though she wanted to chuckle slightly, because honestly if he hadn’t been around to help take care of her, she was certain she would end up nearly passing out from exhaustion. But instead of giving him words, she waited patiently, her green eyes met those ruby colored orbs again…almost taken aback by how they glistened with a faint touch of moisture from the possible emotion building up.

“Ever since our time at NOAH I’ve always wanted to tell you, but I feared our working relationship would become damaged and tarnished. I feared if I said anything you wouldn’t want to be my friend any longer, but the moment those doors sealed away…I felt every stab of guilt for not saying anything, for not defying destiny and allow myself to be selfish and happy.” His hands gripped tighter to hers though not too tight to bruise just to stop himself from possibly shaking. It helped ground him, even if part of him wanted to stop and turn. Flee. Flee from this. “Angelique, you are my dear friend both past and present, my inspiration, the woman who had become simply acting like a sword pointed at the enemy to a kind soul who despite everything can still manage to pull herself through to the end. Even after all the deceit…you still came to save me…” Slowly he would release a hand and reached up to gently cup her cheek, his thumb stroked lightly against the soft skin. “I realized then, that what I felt in my youth wasn’t a mere flight of fancy, nor a passing wish for a dalliance. It was something so much more, a desire to stand by your side, to go on countless journeys, to camp under starry nights, tuck into caves during to wait out the strongest of storms. To be that person you can rely on.” Closing his eyes he took a moment to collect himself, “Understand, it is not the Warrior of Darkness I speak to when I say this, but to you…Angelique Candide; from the bottom of my heart wish to say that I-!” 

A loud bang and flash of color interrupted him, making them both jump but not apart, turning to look towards the interruption as soft gasps and cheers started from the crowd. Their attention drawn as an orange star streaked into the air and when it seemed to flicker out would suddenly explode into a beautiful rosette of golden color. Then another in pink, then blue, then soon the sky was starting to fill with the explosions of fireworks going off and the cheering, hollering and clapping. The Exarch’s ears lowered a little bit, it would seem that his time to try had come to an end, for what normal hume could hear what he had to say in this fervor?

Then he nearly jolted when he felt a hand against his cheek, turning his gaze away and staring down to the bard being illuminated by the colors of the festivities and his heart finally started to pound against his ribs, threatening to break free of its restraints. There was a sparkle there in her eyes, a knowing sort of look, the one that his words need not be finished. She knew…by Azeyma she knew.

This caused his restraint to break from the relief, and before he knew it himself he swept the blonde right off her feet even with a barely heard squeak of surprise, gathering her into his arms, holding her close. And even as the cheers and hollers of the crowds, the loud bangs of fireworks turned to nothing but a dull roar, he would lean in and soon their lips would find each other in a gentle kiss as her arms wrapped around the back of his neck once more. They had no need for words any more this night, not when their feelings could be expressed for themselves.

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Nansook Hong – In the Shadow of the Moons book, part 3

I am holding our first baby, and Hyo Jin is holding the youngest child of Sun Myung Moon.

In The Shadow Of The Moons: My Life In The Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s Family by Nansook Hong  1998

Chapter 4    

page 74

I entered the United States illegally on January 3, 1982. In order to obtain a visa, the Unification Church concocted a story about my participation in an international piano competition in New York City.

Had American immigration officials only heard me play, they would have recognized the ruse immediately. A pianist of my limited abilities would not have been among the contestants had such an event actually existed. To lend credence to the claim, the Reverend Sun Myung Moon had the best piano student at Little Angels school accompany me to New York for the same phony recital.

I confess I did not give much thought to the deceit that frigid winter day when my parents and I waved good-bye to my brothers and sisters and left for America. We accepted the Reverend Moon’s view that man’s laws are secondary to God’s plan. By his rationale, a fraudulently obtained visa was no less than an instrument of God’s design for my Holy Marriage to Hyo Jin Moon.

The truth is, I had not been thinking much at all in the six weeks since our engagement. Looking back, what I most resembled was a porcelain windup doll. Turn the key and she walks, she talks, she smiles. I was a schoolgirl, overwhelmed by the transformation I had undergone literally overnight. One day I was a child, shooed from the room whenever adults were discussing serious matters. The next day I was a member of the True Family, fumbling for the appropriate response when my elders bowed before me.

After Hyo Jin and his parents returned to America, my mother and I spent weeks shopping for a wardrobe that would match my metamorphosis from girl to woman. Gone were my school uniforms, my T-shirts and blue jeans. My teenage self was buried beneath tailored business suits and conservative sheaths. Awkward though I felt in this new role, I savored the attention. What girl would not revel in a round of dinner parties thrown in her honor? Whose head would not be turned by the solicitations of those so many years her senior?

If there was any hint of the troubles to come, it was in the discomfort I felt in the company of my intended. In December Hyo Jin Moon returned briefly to Korea, without his parents. Our meetings were strained as much by our lack of common interests as by his relentless pressure for sex. My mother had given me several books to read about marriage, but I was still unclear what the sex act actually entailed.

Hyo Jin took me to the Moon family’s home in Seoul during his visit and, under the pretext of showing me his room, cornered me by his bed. “Lie down with me,” he said. “You can trust me. We’ll be married soon.” I did as he asked, only to stiffen with fear as his clearly experienced hands groped my body and his fingers fumbled with layer upon layer of my winter clothing. “Touch me here,” he instructed, his hands guiding my own along his inner thigh. “Stroke me there.”

Sex before marriage is strictly prohibited by the Unification Church. Because Sun Myung Moon teaches that the Fall was a sexual act, incidents of premarital or extramarital sex are considered the most serious sin one can commit. Here I was, a scared and virginal girl of fifteen, having to remind the scion of the Unification Church, the son of the Messiah, that we both risked eternal damnation if I did as he demanded. He seemed more amused than angry at my righteous naivete. For my part, I believed with all my heart that God had chosen me to guide Hyo Jin away from his sinful path.

I had no idea how difficult that task would be. Even as the Korean Airlines jet landed at Kennedy International Airport in New York, I gave no thought to what my life actually would be like in America, a world away from everything I knew and everyone I loved. Humbled by my selection as Hyo Jin Moon’s bride, swept up in events being orchestrated by others, I did not ask myself how a mere mortal would fit into the “divine” family of Sun Myung Moon or how a virtuous girl could tame an older rebellious youth like Hyo Jin Moon.

As we deplaned in New York, I became separated from my parents in the crush of travelers being herded into lines for U.S. customs. The uniformed agent looked annoyed when I handed him my two large suitcases. He spoke brusquely to me, but because I did not speak English, I could not answer his questions. There was a flurry of activity and some shouting before someone came to assist me.

I watched as the customs agent dumped my neatly folded clothes onto the counter, searching the side and back pockets of my luggage. What was he looking for? What would I have?

It did not occur to me that the customs agent had reason to be suspicious. Where was my sheet music for this piano competition? Why had I packed so much for such a brief trip? Wasn’t I wearing thousands of dollars’ worth of necklaces given to me as engagement gifts in Korea? Hadn’t church leaders told me to hide them beneath my sedate brown dress?

I was arriving in the United States at the height of American antipathy toward Sun Myung Moon. He was reviled in the United States as a public menace on the order of the Reverend Jim Jones, the leader of the Peoples’ Temple cult who, in 1978, had fed more than nine hundred of his followers cyanide-laced fruit juice in a mass suicide in Guyana. The newspapers in America were full of stories about young people being brainwashed into following Sun Myung Moon. A cottage industry of “deprogrammers” had sprung up across the country, paid by parents to kidnap their children from Unification Church centers and “reeducate” them.

Having been born into the Unification Church, I knew little firsthand about the recruitment techniques that had made the church so controversial. I was skeptical about such melodramatic descriptions as “brainwashing,” but it was certainly true that new members were isolated from old friends and family. Church members were encouraged to learn as much as possible about new recruits in order to tailor an individual approach to win him or her over to the Unification Church. Members would “love bomb” new recruits with so much personal attention it is hardly any wonder that vulnerable young people responded so enthusiastically to their new “family.”

It was a recruit’s old family that usually suspected sinister motives in this all-embracing religious community. The year I came to America, it was not uncommon for travelers to be approached at airports, at traffic signals, or on street corners by young people selling trinkets or flowers for the Unification Church. Begging is hard and humiliating work and followers of Sun Myung Moon did it better than most. Asking for money is easier when you believe your panhandling is going to support the work of the Messiah.

The American government had as many questions about Sun Myung Moon’s finances as American parents had about his theology. Senator Robert Dole, the ranking Republican on the Senate Finance Committee, had concluded hearings on the Unification Church with a recommendation that the Internal Revenue Service investigate the tax status of the Reverend Moon and his church. Only a month before my engagement, a federal grand jury in New York had indicted the Reverend Moon, charging him with evading income taxes for 1972 to 1974, as well as conspiracy to avoid taxes. No doubt that indictment had more to do with the scrutiny I received at JFK International Airport than the size of my suitcases did.

I knew none of that then, of course. I knew only that I was coming to America to join the True Family. Hyo Jin Moon paced impatiently outside the customs area. As I emerged, shaken from my ordeal, I looked around for the reassurance of my parents, but Hyo Jin hustled me to the parking area and his black sports car, an engagement gift from his father. He carried a small bouquet of flowers but was so exasperated by the delay he almost forgot to give them to me. My parents would meet us at East Garden, he said. I was too tired to object.

It was a silent, forty-minute drive north from New York City to Westchester County, through the wealthy suburbs where Manhattan’s corporate executives and professional elite make their homes in quaint, rural towns along the Hudson River. It was late. It was too dark to see much and I was too tired to care.

I paid more attention as we drove through the black, wrought iron gates. This was East Garden, at last. Hyo Jin acknowledged the guard at the security booth and headed up the long, winding driveway. Even in the dark, I thought I could make out the exact spot on the rolling lawn that I had gazed at reverentially for so many years. In our home in Korea, my family displayed a photograph of the True Family, seated on the emerald green grass of their American estate. I used to stare at that photograph, unshakable in my belief in the perfection of the individuals pictured there. In their expensive clothes, posed in front of their magnificent mansion, they represented the ideal family we prayed to emulate. I treasured that photograph the way other teenagers treasured photographs of rock ’n’ roll stars.

The Reverend and Mrs. Moon and the three oldest of their twelve children greeted us at the door. I bowed down to Father and Mother, humbled to be in their home. I listened for the sound of another car as I was led through the enormous foyer into what they called the yellow room, a beautiful solarium. Where were my parents? When would they and the church elders come? Surely I would not have to converse alone with the Reverend and Mrs. Moon!

As I entered the house, I stopped to take off my heavy winter boots. In Korea one never enters a home without first removing one’s shoes. It is a sign of respect as well as an act of fastidiousness. Hyo Jin’s sister, In Jin, stopped me. I should not keep her parents waiting. In the yellow room, we exchanged pleasantries about my trip. I smiled and said little, keeping my eyes downcast. It is impossible to overstate the level of my nervousness. I had never been alone in the company of the True Family. I was nearly paralyzed by a mixture of fear and reverence. I was relieved to hear the slam of a car door signaling the arrival of my parents.

While our parents conversed downstairs, Hyo Jin took me on a brief tour of the mansion. As large as it was, the house seemed to be bursting with children and their nannies. When I arrived in America, Mrs. Moon was pregnant with her thirteenth child. Most of the little ones and their baby-sitters were asleep that night in their barracks-like quarters on the third floor. Seeing them tucked in their beds made me ache for my own younger brothers and sisters back home in Korea, especially the youngest, Jin Chool, who was six years old.

It was well past midnight when we said good night to the Moons and a driver took my parents and me to Belvedere, the church-owned estate a few minutes from East Garden where guests often stayed. First my parents were shown to a room, then I was escorted down the hall to the most beautiful bedroom I had ever seen. Decorated in shades of pink and cream, the room was fit for a princess. In addition to the queen-sized bed, the room had a living area with a large couch and comfortable armchairs. It had a crystal chandelier and two walk-in closets bigger than some of the rooms we rented in Seoul when I was small. The bathroom was enormous, its original blue-and-white hand-painted tiles retaining the elegance of the 1920s, when the mansion was built.

I had never seen such a room. There was even a television set. I fumbled with the controls, and though I did not understand a single English word, I quickly discerned that I was seeing some kind of advertisement. I wish I had a photograph of my expression when I realized that I was watching a commercial for dog food. Special food for dogs? I was transfixed by the scene of a dog scampering across a kitchen floor to a bowl full of brown nuggets. In Korea, dogs eat table scraps. I fell asleep on my first night in America in a state of wonder — I was living in a country so rich that dogs had their own cuisine!

In the morning a driver returned to take my parents and me to the Moons’ breakfast table in the wood-paneled dining room at East Garden. This is where the Reverend Moon conducts his business and church affairs. Every morning leaders come here to report to him in Korean about his financial enterprises around the globe. At the long rectangular dining table, the Reverend Moon decides what projects to fund, what companies to buy, what personnel to promote or demote.

The Moon children do not eat their meals with their parents. They appear at the breakfast table to bow to the Reverend and Mrs. Moon each morning to begin their day. Then they are led away to the kitchen, where they are fed before school or playtime. On this morning, the older children joined their parents and mine for breakfast. I caught sight of the little ones peeking through the kitchen door to steal a glimpse of me, their new sister. I felt warmed by their giggles but shocked to learn that the younger Moon children did not speak Korean.

The Reverend Moon teaches that Korean is the universal language of the Kingdom of Heaven. He has written that “English is spoken only in the colonies of the Kingdom of Heaven! When the Unification Church movement becomes more advanced, the international and official language of the Unification Church shall be Korean; the official conferences will be conducted in Korean, similar to the Catholic conferences, which are conducted in Latin.” I knew that members around the world were encouraged to learn Korean, so I was confused by the failure of the Reverend and Mrs. Moon to teach their own children what I had been taught was the language of God.

I was overpowered that morning by the strange smells of an American breakfast. There was bacon and sausage, eggs and pancakes. The sight of all that food made me slightly nauseous. In Korea I was accustomed to a simple morning meal of kimchi and rice. Mrs. Moon had instructed the kitchen sisters to serve papaya, her favorite fruit. She knew I would never have tasted such an exotic delicacy and she kept urging me to try some. She showed me how to sprinkle the fruit with lemon juice to enhance the flavor, but I simply could not eat. She looked displeased. My mother ate the papaya placed before me and praised Mrs. Moon for her excellent choice.

The Reverend Moon sensed my unease. He spoke directly to Hyo Jin: “Nansook is in a strange place, in a foreign country. She does not speak the language or know the customs. This is your home. You must be kind to her.” I was so grateful to have my fears acknowledged by the Reverend Moon that I only vaguely noticed that Hyo Jin said nothing in response.

Hyo Jin did come to see me at Belvedere but his few visits were not reassuring. They only reinforced how ill-suited we were to one another. I was afraid of him. He would try to embrace me and I would pull away. I did not know how to be with a boy, let alone with a man I was soon to marry. “Why are you running away from me?” he would ask. How could I tell him what I was too young to understand myself? I was honored to be the spiritual partner of the son of the Messiah but I was not ready to be the wife of a flesh-and-blood man.

I passed through the next four days as if in a series of dream sequences. I moved from scene to scene, numb from exhaustion and the magnitude of unfolding events. I went where I was directed. I did as I was told, concerned only that I make no mistakes that would displease the Reverend and Mrs. Moon.

Mrs. Moon took my mother and me shopping at a suburban mall. I had never seen so many stores. Mrs. Moon gravitated to the most expensive shops. At Neiman-Marcus she selected unflattering, matronly dresses in dark colors for me to try on. She chose bright red or royal blue outfits for herself. I suspect that she resented my youth. She had heard her husband on my engagement day say that I was prettier than she. It was hard for me to imagine a woman as stunning as Hak Ja Han Moon being jealous of anyone, especially a schoolgirl like me. She had been only a year older than I when she married Sun Myung Moon. At thirty-eight, pregnant with her thirteenth child, she still had the flawless skin and facial features of a great beauty.

She was outwardly generous to me, summoning me to her room that first week to give me a dress she no longer wore and a lovely gold chain. I took the chain off in her bathroom as I tried on the dress and mistakenly left it on the sink. She sent her maid to me later at Belvedere to give me the necklace. Mrs. Moon opened her closet and her purse to me, but from the very first, I felt she closed her heart.

The position of first daughter-in-law in a Korean family is, by tradition, an exalted one. She will inherit the role of mother and be the anchor of the family. There is even a special term for first daughter-in-law in Korean: mat mea nue ri. It was clear from the beginning that I would not fill this role in the Moon family. I was too young. “I had to raise Mother and now I have to raise my daughter-in-law, too,” the Reverend Moon always said. It was only later that I recognized that no outsider would have been allowed a key role in the Moon family. As an in-law, one had to know one’s place. For me that meant when the family was gathered, being the last person to sit in the seat farthest away from Sun Myung Moon.

Given the attention of customs officials that I had attracted at the airport, the Reverend Moon decided it would be prudent to stage a piano recital after all. I was in a panic. I had not practiced. I had brought no music with me. My mother assured me that I could get by with a Schumann piece I had memorized for class at Little Angels. I thought perhaps I remembered it well enough. Hyo Jin and Peter Kim, the Reverend Moon’s personal assistant, drove me into New York City one afternoon to give me a chance to practice on the stage of Manhattan Center, the performing arts facility and recording studio owned by the church in midtown, where the recital would be held.83

I sat alone in the backseat of one of the Reverend Moon’s black Mercedes, staring out at the city as its skyscrapers came into view. I knew I should be impressed, but it was a cold, gray January day. My only impression was how lifeless New York City seemed. In retrospect, that dead feeling may have had more to do with my own emotions; they were as frozen as the concrete landscape outside my window.

At Manhattan Center, we met Hoon Sook Pak, the daughter of Bo Hi Pak, one of the highest-ranking officials in the church. She was Hyo Jin’s age; he had lived with her family in Washington, D.C., during his tumultuous middle-school years. She would later become a ballerina with the Universal Ballet Company, Korea’s first ballet troupe, founded by Sun Myung Moon. They greeted one another warmly in English, though both spoke fluent Korean. I stood there mute while they chatted at great length. I could feel my cheeks burn. Why were they ignoring me? Why were they being so rude? I got even angrier when Hyo Jin left me in a small anteroom while he went to talk to some other people. “Stay here,” he instructed as if I were a puppy he was training to obey.

I felt a surge of that familiar stubborn pride that had provoked so many childhood arguments with my brother Jin. As soon as Hyo Jin was out of sight, I went exploring. The performing arts center is adjacent to the old New Yorker Hotel, now owned by Sun Myung Moon. The church uses the hotel to house members. The entire thirtieth floor is set aside for the True Family, to accommodate them on their overnight stays in New York City. I wandered around, jiggling the doorknobs of locked rooms.

Hyo Jin was furious when he returned to find that his pet had not stayed put, as ordered. “You can’t just go off like that. You are in New York City. It’s dangerous,” he screamed. “Someone could have kidnapped you.” I said nothing but I thought, “Pooh! Who would kidnap me?” Mostly I hated that this rude boy thought he could tell me what to do.

Hundreds of church members filled the concert hall on the night of my performance. I was a small part of the evening’s entertainment. I was the third of several pianists to play. I wore a long pink gown that my mother had bought for me before we left Korea. My stomach was doing somersaults, whether from the sushi I’d eaten at lunch or from the prospect of performing for the True Family, who were seated in the theater’s VIP box. In Jin, Hyo Jin’s sister, spooned out Pepto-Bismol for me to drink. It worked. I thought of that pink liquid as I did dog food: one of the wonders of America.

I played too quickly. The audience did not know I was done, so there was a delay in the applause. I was just relieved that I had made it through the piece and only missed a few notes. As soon as I got backstage, Hyo Jin and In Jin told me to change into my street clothes. I did as they said, not realizing there would be a curtain call for all the performers at the end of the evening. I could not go onstage dressed so casually, so I took no bows with the others.

In the Moons’ suite in the New Yorker after the show, the Reverend Moon was so pleased with the evening that he decided that a real piano competition should be an annual event. Mrs. Moon, however, was icy toward me. “Why didn’t you take your bow with the others?” she snapped. “Why did you change your clothes?” I was taken aback. What could I say? That I had done as her son instructed? Hyo Jin watched me squirm and said nothing. I just bowed my head and accepted my scolding.

My failure to appear for the curtain call was not my first infraction, it turned out. Mrs. Moon had been keeping track of my missteps. She enumerated them all for my mother the next day. I had been rude to enter their home wearing my boots; I had been careless to leave the necklace on the sink; I had been ungracious not to eat heartily at mealtime; I had been thoughtless not to take a bow at curtain call. In addition, she told my mother, Hyo Jin complained that my breath was stale. Mrs. Moon sent my mother to me with words of caution and a bottle of Listermint mouthwash.

I was devastated. If first impressions were the most lasting, my relationship with Mrs. Moon was doomed my first week in America.

The wedding was set for Saturday, January 7, in order to accommodate the school schedules of the Moon children. There was no marriage license. We had had no blood tests. I was a year below the legal age to marry in New York State. My Holy Wedding to Hyo Jin Moon was not legally binding. Not that I knew that, or cared. The Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s authority was the only power that mattered.

We attended breakfast with the Reverend and Mrs. Moon in the morning. My mother urged me to eat. It would be a long day. There would be two ceremonies. A Western ritual would be held in the library of Belvedere. I would wear a long white dress and veil. Afterward there would be a traditional Korean wedding, for which Hyo Jin and I would wear the traditional wedding clothes of our native country. A banquet would follow in New York City.

My mother asked Mrs. Moon if I might have a hairdresser arrange my hair and apply my makeup. A waste of money, Mrs. Moon said; In Jin would help. I worshiped In Jin as a member of the True Family, but I was not so certain I trusted her to be my friend. She did as her parents asked, winning their praise for her kindness to me, but I could see that I was no more her type than I was Hyo Jin’s. As she dusted my face with powder, she offered me some advice. I would have to change, and fast, if I was going to fit in with the Moon children, especially my husband. “I know Hyo Jin better than anyone,” she told me. “He does not like quiet girls. He likes to have fun, to party. You need to be more outgoing if you want to make him happy.”

Hyo Jin looked pleased enough when he stopped by to see me just before the ceremony, but I knew I was not the source of his happiness. On this day he would be his father’s favorite, the good son, not the black sheep. He even agreed to trim his long shaggy hair to please his parents.

As I walked alone down the long hallway that led to the library and my future, an old Korean woman whispered to me, “Don’t smile or your first child will be a girl.” That was an easy instruction to follow, and not just because I knew the great disappointment that greeted the birth of females in my culture. My wedding day was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, but all I felt was numb. I want to weep for the girl I was when I look at the photographs in my wedding album. I look even more miserable in those pictures than I remember feeling.

There was a crush of people on both sides of me as I entered the library and made my way across the room to the Reverend and Mrs. Moon in their long white ceremonial robes. The library was very hot, packed with people, all of whom were strangers to me except for my parents. It was an impressive room, its dark wood-paneled walls lined with old, unread books, its high ceilings hung with chandeliers. It was hard not to believe in that setting that I was fulfilling God’s plan for me and for the future of the True Family charged by him with establishing Heaven on earth. I was an instrument of his larger purpose. The marriage of Hyo Jin Moon and Nansook Hong was no silly, human love match. God and Sun Myung Moon, by uniting us, had ordained it.

It was a smaller group of family and church leaders who attended the Korean rites upstairs in Belvedere. I was learning that the Moons do the most momentous things in life in a hurry, so I barely had time to arrange my hair in the traditional style before I was summoned. I forgot to dot my cheeks in red in the customary manner, a failure noted by Mrs. Moon and the ladies who surround her. Hyo Jin and I stood before True Parents at an offering table laden with food and Korean wine. Fruits and vegetables were strewn beneath my skirt as part of a folk tradition meant to symbolize the bride’s desire to produce many children.

I remember little of the actual ceremony. I was so tired that I relied on the flash of the official church photographer’s camera to keep me focused. I was grateful for orders to “stand here” or to “say this.” If I kept moving, I would not collapse.

A driver took Hyo Jin and me back to East Garden to change our clothes for the reception that would be held in the ballroom of Manhattan Center. He delivered us to a small stone house up the hill from the mansion. With its white porch and charming stone facade, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. This is where Hyo Jin and I would live. We called the place Cottage House. There was a living room, a guest room, and a small kitchen on the first floor. Upstairs was a small bathroom and two bedrooms. Our suitcases, I saw, had been delivered to the larger of the bedrooms.

Hyo Jin insisted that we have sex. I begged him to wait until the night — True Parents expected us to be ready to leave within the hour — but he would not be put off. I did not want to be naked in front of him. I slipped into bed to remove my clothes, a practice I would continue for the next fourteen years. I had read the books my mother gave me, but I was totally unprepared for the shock of sexual intercourse. When Hyo Jin got on top of me I did not know what to expect. He was very rough, excited at the prospect of deflowering a virgin. He told me what to do, where to touch. I just followed his directions. When he entered me, it was all I could do not to cry out from the pain. It did not take very long for him to finish, but for hours afterward, my insides burned with pain. “So this is what sex is,” I kept thinking.

I began to cry, from pain, from exhaustion, from shame. I felt we were wrong not to wait. Hyo Jin kept trying to shush me. Didn’t I enjoy it? he wanted to know. It was very “ouchy,” I told him, using a little girl’s word for a woman’s pain. He said he’d never heard that reaction before, confirming all the rumors I had heard in Korea. Hyo Jin had had many lovers. I was shocked and hurt that he would confess his sin in such a callous and cavalier way. I wept even harder, until his sharp tone and angry rebuke forced me to dry my tears. At least I now knew what sex was and who my husband was. It was horrible; he was no better.

While we were dressing, a kitchen sister called to say that True Parents were waiting for us in the car. We rushed downstairs and into the front seat of a black limousine. Mrs. Moon looked at me accusingly. “What delayed you?” she snapped. “There are people waiting.” Hyo Jin said nothing, but our flushed faces and hastily arranged clothing made our actions evident. I was glad the Moons were in the backseat so that they could not see my shame.

I fell asleep on the drive into Manhattan but my rest was short-lived. The ballroom of Manhattan Center was filled with banquet tables and hundreds of people, most of them American members. They cheered as we entered and took our seats at the head table. I was tired of all the hoopla, but there still were hours of entertainment and dining ahead of me. It was an American meal of steak and baked potatoes and ice cream and cake. My mother urged me to eat, but everything tasted like sand. Despite the Korean flavor of the entertainment, the entire evening was conducted in English. I understood not a word of the many speeches and toasts raised in honor of Hyo Jin and me. I smiled when the others smiled and applauded when the others did likewise.

The language barrier had the effect of making me a spectator at my own wedding. I was in this group but not part of it. I looked around at all the Moons singing, clapping. Everyone looked so happy. It was pretty exciting to watch. I was yanked out of my isolation when my father, who also did not understand English, told me he suspected I would be asked to make some brief remarks. “In English?” I asked, terrified. “No, no,” my father reassured me. “Hyo Jin will translate for you.” My father told me to keep it short, to thank God and the Reverend Moon and to promise to be a good wife to Hyo Jin. When the time came I did as my father said. The room erupted in shouts of “What did she say?” from the non-Korean audience. “Oh, it was nothing important,” Hyo Jin told them as he went on to make his own remarks in English to tumultuous applause.

I kept my hands in my lap as I clapped. The Reverend Moon instructed me to lift them onto the table and told me to applaud more openly to demonstrate my joy on my wedding day and my appreciation of Hyo Jin. I did as he instructed, thinking all the while: “I am such an idiot. Can’t I do anything right?”

The festivities did not end even after we returned to East Garden. It is a Korean tradition for wedding guests to strike the soles of the groom’s feet with a stick for his symbolic thievery of his bride. Back at Cottage House, Hyo Jin put on several pairs of socks in preparation for this ritual assault. The Reverend and Mrs. Moon laughed as church leaders tied Hyo Jin’s ankles together so he could not escape. Every time they hit Hyo Jin’s feet Father would express mock outrage: “Stop, I will pay you not to hit my son.” Those wielding the stick would take his money and resume their beating. “I’ll give you more money if you stop,” the Reverend Moon would shout and again the laughter would begin as they stuffed Father’s money into their pockets and began hitting Hyo Jin again.

I watched the proceedings from a soft armchair that threatened to swallow me straight into sleep. Everyone commented on my calm demeanor. “She does not cry out to them to stop hitting her husband.” I was not calm; I was numb. At the urging of the crowd, I tried to untie his ankles but I was so tired Hyo Jin had to do it himself.

The next morning we all gathered at the Reverend Moon’s breakfast table. Hyo Jin disappeared early, I don’t know to where. I stayed to wait on the Reverend and Mrs. Moon. I was not certain what my role should be in the True Family, and my new husband was little help in guiding me. I fell naturally into the role of handmaiden to Mrs. Moon.

It was not until after the wedding that anyone suggested to me that Hyo Jin and I might take a honeymoon. He wanted to go to Hawaii, but the Reverend Moon suggested Florida instead. Ours was not a conventional wedding trip. We made an odd threesome: husband, wife, and personal assistant to Sun Myung Moon. The Reverend Moon had handed his assistant, Peter Kim, five thousand dollars, with instructions to drive us to Florida. No one told me where we would be going or what we would be doing. My mother, accustomed to the formality of East Garden, packed a suitcase full of prim dresses for me, and I tossed in a single pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt.

Peter Kim and Hyo Jin sat in the front seat of the blue Mercedes. I sat alone in the back. They spoke in English for the eleven-hundred-mile trip down the East Coast. My sense of isolation was complete. The two men decided where and when we would stop to eat or sleep. I remember fighting off tears at a gas station rest room. I could not figure out how the hand dryer worked. I thought I had broken it when it would not stop blowing hot air. It was a small moment, but a lonely one. Such a simple thing and I had no one to ask for help.

I brightened a little when we arrived in Florida and Peter Kim suggested taking me to Disney World. I was a fifteen-year-old girl. I could not imagine a more wonderful vacation spot. Hyo Jin was unenthusiastic. He had been there many times before. He reluctantly agreed to stop in Orlando. It was cold. A light drizzle was falling, but I did not care. I walked down Main Street USA toward Cinderella’s castle and understood exactly why they call Disney World the Magic Kingdom. I kept my eyes peeled for Mickey Mouse or any of the familiar costumed characters, but I would not have an opportunity to see any of them. Ten minutes after we arrived, Hyo Jin declared that he was bored and wanted to leave. I was astounded by his selfishness, but I followed a few steps behind as he led the way back to the Mercedes.

The Reverend Moon had suggested we drive to give me a chance to see some of the United States, but Hyo Jin soon ran out of patience with that plan as well. He summoned a security guard from East Garden to fly down to Florida to pick up the car. We were flying to Las Vegas, he told me.

I had no idea where or what Las Vegas was and neither Hyo Jin nor Peter Kim bothered to enlighten me. Neither did they tell me that the Reverend and Mrs. Moon and my own mother and father were vacationing there. I did not know we would be joining our parents until we walked across the hotel restaurant to the table where they were seated. My mother chastised me for gazing distractedly around the room as I walked toward them. It would only have been disrespectful, I told her, if I had known that the Moons were there and I did not!

I was all the more confused when I learned that Las Vegas is a gamblers’ paradise. There were slot machines in the restaurants, casinos in the hotels. What were we all doing in a place like this? Gambling is strictly prohibited by the Unification Church. Betting of any kind is seen as a social ill that undermines the family and contributes to the moral decline of civilization. Why, then, was Hak Ja Han Moon, the Mother of the True Family, cradling a cup of coins and feverishly inserting them one after another into a slot machine? Why was Sun Myung Moon, the Lord of the Second Advent, the divine successor to the man who threw the money changers out of the temple, spending hours at the blackjack table?

I dared not ask, but I did not need to. The Reverend Moon was eager to explain our presence in a place I had been taught was a den of sin. As the Lord of the Second Advent, he said, it was his duty to mingle with sinners in order to save them. He had to understand their sin in order to dissuade them from it. I should notice, he said, that he did not sit and bet at the blackjack table himself. Peter Kim sat there for him and placed the bets as the Reverend Moon instructed from his position behind Peter Kim’s shoulder. “So you see, I am not actually gambling, myself,” he told me.

Even at age fifteen, even from the mouth of the Messiah, I recognized a rationalization when I heard one.

Chapter 5    

page 94

I returned to East Garden a married woman in the eyes of the Unification Church, but to all appearances, I was still a child in need of schooling. If I had harbored any doubts about my second-class status in the family of Sun Myung Moon, the discussions about my education certainly clarified my standing.

With the exception of my new husband, who at nineteen still had not completed high school, the school-age children of the Reverend Moon attended a private academy in Tarrytown. Mrs. Moon made it clear that she had no intention of paying the forty-five-hundred-dollar-a-year tuition at the Hackley School for me. Public school would do.

Early in February, Peter Kim drove me to Irvington High School to enroll me in the tenth grade. We stopped at a convenience store first to buy a notebook and some pencils. I would use the name Nansook Hong. No one was to know of my marriage or of my relationship with the Moon family. Peter Kim presented himself to the principal as my guardian. My report cards would be sent to him. I had been in the top 10 percent of my class at Little Angels Art School back in Seoul, but the prospect of attending an American school filled me with dread. I walked behind Peter Kim through the noisy corridors of this typical suburban high school, taking in the laughter and casual dress of the teenagers rushing past me. How would I ever fit into this scene of pep rallies and junior proms? How would I even understand my English-speaking teachers? How would I ever reconcile being a serious student at school and a subservient wife at home? How would I be anything but lonely living this double life?

I woke every day by 6:00 a.m. in order to greet the Reverend and Mrs. Moon at their breakfast table. The mornings were crazy in the mansion kitchen. No one was ever certain what time the Reverend and Mrs. Moon would come downstairs, but when they did, they expected to be served immediately. The two cooks and three assistants would have prepared a main course, but as often as not, they would have to scurry if the Moons preferred something else. I would already have had a bite to eat in the kitchen before the Moons arrived at the table with a host of church leaders. I would drop to my knees for a full bow when they appeared and wait to be dismissed to the care of the driver who delivered me to school.

I was usually very tired in the morning because Hyo Jin never came home before midnight and demanded sex when he did. More often than not, he was drunk when he stumbled up the stairs of Cottage House, reeking of tequila and stale cigarettes. I would pretend to be asleep, hoping he would leave me alone, but he rarely did. I was there to serve his needs; my own did not matter.

I tiptoed around our room in the mornings, though there was little danger of waking my husband. He slept soundly well into the day; sometimes he was still sleeping when I returned from school. He would rouse himself, shower, and then return to Manhattan to make the rounds of his favorite nightclubs, lounges, and Korean bars. At nineteen, Hyo Jin had no trouble being served in the Korean-owned establishments he frequented. He often took his younger brother Heung Jin, then fifteen, and his sister In Jin, sixteen, with him on his late-night drinking jaunts.

Hyo Jin invited me to join them only once. We drove to a smoky Korean nightclub bar. It was obvious that the Moon children were regular customers; all the hostesses greeted them affectionately. A waitress brought Hyo Jin a bottle of Gold Tequila and a box of Marlboro Lights. In Jin and Heung Jin drank right along with him, while I sipped a glass of Coca-Cola.

I tried to hold them back, but the tears came in spite of my best efforts. What were we doing in a place like this? All of my childhood I had been taught that members of the Unification Church do not go to bars, that followers of Sun Myung Moon do not drink alcohol or use tobacco. How could I be sitting in this place with the True Children of the Reverend Moon while they engaged in the very behavior that Father traveled the globe denouncing?

In the world of funhouse mirrors I had entered, their behavior was not the problem. Mine was. “Why are you being like this?” Hyo Jin demanded before moving in disgust to another table. “You are spoiling everyone’s good time. We came out to enjoy ourselves, not to be your baby-sitter.” In Jin slipped into the chair beside me. “Stop crying or Hyo Jin will get very angry,” she warned me sternly. “If you act like this, he won’t like you.” I had no time to compose myself before my husband yelled, “Let’s go. We’re taking her home.”

No one spoke to me during the long drive to East Garden. I could feel their disdain pressing against me in the overheated car. “Don’t cry,” I kept telling myself. “You’ll be home soon.” Just before Hyo Jin dropped me off, he picked up one of my classmates, a Blessed Child who shared the Moon siblings’ passion for fun. She squeezed into the backseat, not even acknowledging my presence. They practically left skid marks on the driveway in their rush to return to New York.

That was the first of so many nights I cried myself to sleep. On my knees for hours beside our bed, I begged God to help me. “If you sent me here to do your will,” I prayed, “please guide me.” I believed in every chamber of my young heart that if I failed God in this life, I would be denied a place in Heaven with him in the next. What good is a happy earthly life if you don’t go to God?

My knees were raw with carpet burns early the next morning when Mother summoned me to her room. Hyo Jin and the others still were not home. Where were they, she wanted to know. Why wasn’t I with them? Prostrate before her on the floor, I wept as I recounted the events of the previous evening. It was a relief to share this awful burden with Mother. Maybe now something would change. Mrs. Moon was very angry, but not at Hyo Jin, as I had expected. She was furious with me. I was a stupid girl. Why did I think I had been brought to America? It was my mission to change Hyo Jin. I was failing God and Sun Myung Moon. It was up to me to make Hyo Jin want to stay home.

How could I tell her that when her son did stay home, things were no better? He had usurped the living room in Cottage House for the use of his rock ’n’ roll group, the U Band. I hated their all-night practice sessions. The whole house shook when they played or listened to music on his stereo. Hyo Jin insisted that my training in classical music had made me a snob, but my distaste for his band had less to do with the music they played than with the way they behaved in our home. Band members would begin to assemble in the early evening, joined often by other Blessed Children who lived nearby. No sooner would I hear the guitars tuning up than the smell of marijuana smoke would drift upstairs, where I would be doing my homework.

My shock was a source of amusement to Hyo Jin and his friends, I knew, but the truth is my feelings about them were conflicted. I did not want to engage in proscribed behavior, but I was so very lonely upstairs with my schoolbooks. I did not want to join them, but I longed to be asked. I found myself living in an upside-down world, mocked by my peers for believing what we all had been taught, and chastised by my elders for failures that were not my own.

How could I tell Mrs. Moon that her children’s barhopping was the least of their sins? I said nothing while she berated me. It was not long afterward that Mrs. Moon called my mother to her room to catalog my failings. In Jin had reported that I had worn my wedding ring to school. In Jin said I was asking around about Hyo Jin’s old girlfriends.

I had done no such things, but it was impossible to defend myself before the Reverend and Mrs. Moon without seeming to criticize their own children, and that would not be tolerated. I tried to explain this to my own mother, but her only counsel was that I must be more careful not to offend the True Family. I must be cautious when I spoke. I must pray to become more worthy. That didn’t seem possible. I was criticized at every turn, judged guilty without a fair hearing. Too often falsely accused, I became wary of trusting anyone.

How I wished that my father or my brother Jin would come from Korea! The Moons had sent my father back to Seoul soon after the wedding. Jin was still there, too, waiting to finish high school and obtain a visa to join his wife, Je Jin Moon, in the United States. When he came, I knew Jin would be preoccupied with his own life. He talked of attending college at Harvard, and the Reverend Moon seemed willing to send him, my brother’s academic success a feather in the Messiah’s cap. I was thrilled for Jin but sad for myself; I would have to remain in East Garden, surrounded by those who hated me.

Un Jin Moon was an exception. She was a year younger than I. She did not get along very well with In Jin either. We became friendly soon after my arrival at East Garden. I will always be grateful for Un Jin’s kindness in those initial months. Everything was so new and I was so terrified of doing the wrong thing. At the first Sunday-morning Pledge Service I attended in East Garden, for example, I wore my long white church robes, only to discover all the Moons dressed in suits and dresses. I was mortified as only a teenager who is conspicuously dressed can be. I was embarrassed by my ignorance and hurt that no one had offered me guidance to such simple practices. Un Jin stepped in to fill that role, telling me what to expect at family gatherings and church ceremonies.

The Pledge Service was held in the study adjacent to the bedroom of the Reverend and Mrs. Moon. I was amazed at those services to realize that the Moon children did not know the words to the Pledge that I had been reciting from memory since I was seven years old. After the prayer service, the church sisters would bring snacks for the True Family: juice, cheesecake, doughnuts, and Danish. I would serve the Reverend and Mrs. Moon until it was time for us to go to Belvedere at 6:00 a.m., when the Reverend Moon preached his regular Sunday sermon before a gathering of local members.

It was an honor for me as a young woman to be able to hear Sun Myung Moon preach every week. He spoke in Korean, so it was easy for me to follow him. The American members relied on the rough translation provided by his assistants. I wish I could capture what it was about the Reverend Moon’s sermons that touched my heart. It was not that he was especially profound, or particularly charismatic. In truth, he was neither. Mostly he urged us to dedicate our lives to serving God and humanity by becoming moral and just individuals. It was a noble calling. Most of us in that room at Belvedere on Sunday mornings really believed, however naively, that by our goodness alone we could change the world. There was an innocence and a gentleness about our beliefs that is seldom reflected in the denunciations of Unification Church members as cultists. We may have been seduced into a cult, but most of us were not cultists; we were idealists.

While the other Moon children went drinking in New York, Un Jin and I would stay up late into the night baking in the mansion’s kitchen, chatting in Korean. Un Jin was a wonderful cook and a generous spirit, sharing her chocolate chip cheesecakes and homemade cookies with the security guards who had an office in the basement of the mansion.

The church members who composed the household staff were more accustomed to taking orders than gifts from the Moon children. The True Family treated the staff like indentured servants. The kitchen sisters and baby-sitters slept six to a room in the attic. They were given a small stipend but no real salary. The situation was little better for security guards, gardeners, and handymen who took care of the Moon properties. The Moons’ attitude was that church members were privileged to live in such close proximity to the True Family. In exchange for that honor, they were ordered around by even the smallest of the Moons: “Bring me this.” “Get me that.” “Pick up my clothes.” “Make my bed.”

Sun Myung Moon taught his children that they were little princes and princesses and they acted accordingly. It was embarrassing to watch and amazing to see how accepting the staff were of the verbal abuse meted out by the Moon children. Like me, they believed the True Family was faultless. If any of the Moons had complaints with us, it must reflect not on their expectations but on our unworthiness. Given that mind-set, I was especially grateful for Un Jin’s kindness. She never acted superior toward me; she seemed to like me for myself.

In Jin disapproved of my friendship with her sister but she could be nice to me herself when it suited her purpose. She came to me once, asking to borrow some clothes so she could sneak out that night. Her own room was next to her parents’ suite in the mansion and she did not want to risk running into Father. Why not? I asked. She told me that recently she had come into her room on tiptoe about 4:00 a.m. It was still dark. She thought she was in the clear, when she saw Father’s shadow in a chair across the room.

As Sun Myung Moon struck her over and over again, his daughter told me, he insisted he was hitting her out of love. It was not her first beating at Father’s hands. She said she wished she had the courage to go to the police and have Sun Myung Moon arrested for child abuse. I lent her my best blue jeans and a white angora sweater and tried to hide how shocked I was by her story.

As much as anything about my new life in the True Family, the antipathy between the Moon children and their parents stunned me. Early on, I was disabused of the idea that this was a warm and loving family. If they had reached a state of spiritual perfection, it was often hard to detect in their daily interactions with one another. Even the smallest children were expected to gather for the 5:00 a.m. family Pledge Service on Sundays, for instance. The little ones were often sleepy and sometimes cranky. The women would spend the first few minutes trying to settle them down. The Reverend Moon would become enraged if our efforts to shush them did not succeed immediately. I remember recoiling the first of so many times that I saw Sun Myung Moon slap his children to silence them. Of course, his slaps only made them cry more.

Hyo Jin never disguised his contempt for Father and Mother. He seemed to consider them as little more than convenient sources of cash. We had no checking account or regular allowance when we were first married. Mother would just hand us money, a thousand dollars here, two thousand dollars there, on no particular schedule. On a child’s birthday or a church holiday, Japanese and other church leaders would come to the compound with thousands of dollars in “donations” for the True Family. The cash went straight into the safe in Mrs. Moon’s bedroom closet.

Later on, Mrs. Moon told me that fund-raisers in Japan had been assigned to provide money for the support of Hyo Jin’s family and that funds would be sent regularly for that purpose. I had no idea how the mechanics of this worked. The money did not come directly to us. In the mid-1980s, money deposited in the True Family Trust was wired to Hyo Jin, and the other adult Moon children, every month. Hyo Jin received about seven thousand dollars a month, deposited directly into the joint checking account we had established at First Fidelity Bank in Tarrytown. The specific source of that money, beyond “Japan,” was never clear to me.

Hyo Jin would go to Mother regularly for large sums of cash. She never said no, as far as I could tell. He stashed his money in the closet of our bedroom, dipping into his cash reserves whenever he headed out to the bars.

I was terrified one evening when he began screaming and throwing things around our room as he prepared for one of his evenings in Manhattan. “I’m going to kill you, you bitch,” Hyo Jin yelled, as he rummaged through his closet, knocking clothes from their hangers and ties from their rack. “What did I do?” I asked apprehensively. “Not you, stupid. Mother. She’s trying to ruin my life.” His money was missing. He assumed Mother had come into Cottage House and taken it in order to curtail his drinking. I was doubtful. I had seen no evidence that either the Reverend Moon or Mrs. Moon tried to exercise any control over their children’s wild behavior.

As I picked up his rumpled clothes, I found a wad of cash on the closet floor, wedged between a pair of shoes. It must have fallen out of a coat pocket. I counted more than six thousand dollars. Hyo Jin snatched the money from my hand, continuing to denounce Mother with a string of profanities as he nearly knocked the door from its hinges on his way out to the bars.

School, as difficult as it was for me, was a haven of sanity compared with the chaos of Cottage House. In English class I memorized lists of vocabulary words with no idea what they meant. In biology class I stared blankly as the teacher spoke directly to me and the class convulsed with laughter at my total lack of comprehension. It was only in math class that I saw a glimpse of the competent student I once was. For those forty minutes we all spoke the universal language of numbers. I was only a sophomore but I was enrolled in a twelfth-grade algebra class that covered material I had mastered in fourth grade in Korea.

I sat with other Blessed Children from Korea at lunch and sometimes studied with them as well. My position as the wife of Hyo Jin Moon lent a formality to our relationship that precluded real friendship. That cafeteria table was just one more place where I did not quite fit in. Two of my Korean classmates came to Cottage House one afternoon to study with me. They asked for a house tour. I showed them the practice room crammed with guitars and amplifiers and drums of the U Band. I showed them the bedroom and my study, where Mrs. Moon had installed a desk and bookcases for me.

“But where do you sleep?” one of the girls asked. “In the bedroom, of course,” I said, realizing too late that they were staring at the queen-sized bed. As members of the church, they knew of my marriage to Hyo Jin Moon, but they must have assumed it had not been consummated. That was not such a foolish assumption, I realize now. The age of consent in New York State is seventeen. Hyo Jin could have been arrested for statutory rape.

My embarrassment turned to shame when one of the Blessed Children turned on the television and an X-rated movie in the VCR came on the screen. I had never even seen Hyo Jin use the VCR. I checked the television cabinet and it was full of similar movies. Hyo Jin only laughed later when I confronted him about the pornographic films. He liked sexual variety, he said pointedly, in his life as well as in his entertainment. I should know that he could never be satisfied with one woman, especially a girl as prim and pious as I.

Hyo Jin even went to his mother to complain about my lack of sexual maturity. She called me to her one day to discuss my wifely duties. It was very awkward. I had trouble following her euphemisms about being a lady during the day and a woman at night. We must be friends to our husbands in the day but fulfill their fantasies at night, she said; otherwise they will stray. If a husband does stray, it reflects a wife’s failure to satisfy him. I must try harder to be the kind of woman Hyo Jin wants. I was confused. Hadn’t Sun Myung Moon chosen me for my innocence? Was I now expected to be a temptress? At fifteen?

I was beginning to see the truth: our marriage was a sham. Hyo Jin had gone through with the wedding, but he had every intention of living the life he had before. I suspected that Hyo Jin was having sex with the hostesses at the Korean bars he frequented, but I had no proof. When I would ask him what he did when he stayed out all night, he told me that it was impudent of me to question the son of the Messiah. I would lie awake in our bed, imagining that I heard his car, when it was only the sound of the wind.

Soon after our wedding, I had physical proof of his promiscuous lifestyle, but I was too naive to recognize it. Within weeks of our marriage, painful blisters began to appear in my genital area. I had no idea what had triggered the eruption of such terrible sores. Perhaps it was a normal reaction to sexual intercourse. Perhaps it was a nervous reaction.

It was no such thing, of course. Hyo Jin Moon had given me herpes. For years I would have to undergo laser treatments and apply topical ointments whenever the rash erupted. I spent one entire night soaking in a warm tub after a laser treatment inadvertently burned the delicate skin in the affected area. Hyo Jin watched me crying in agony in that tub that night and never told me the true source of my pain. It was years before my gynecologist told me explicitly that I suffered from a sexually transmitted disease. I needed to know, she said, because in the age of AIDS, Hyo Jin’s adulterous behavior was not just a risk to his soul. It was a risk to my life.

In the spring of 1982, though, I knew only that Hyo Jin did not love me. Within weeks of our wedding, he told me we should go our separate ways before we ruined each other’s lives. “We can’t,” I replied, stunned and tearful. “Father matched us. He says we must live together. We can’t just split up.” That was when Hyo Jin told me that he had protested my selection, that he had never wanted to be matched to me, that he went through with the wedding only to please his parents. He had a girlfriend in Korea, he said, and no plans to give her up.

I don’t know which was more painful, his infidelity or the delight he took in flaunting it. Had he wanted to be discreet, Hyo Jin could have spoken to her privately. Instead he took sadistic pleasure in telephoning her in front of me from the living room in Cottage House. When he wanted to isolate me in East Garden, he spoke English to his friends and family. When he wanted to hurt me in my home, he spoke Korean to his girlfriend. “You know who I’m talking to, so go away,” he would laugh, before loudly proclaiming his love for the girl at the other end of the telephone line.

Several weeks after our wedding, Hyo Jin left for Seoul with no word to me on why he was going or when he might return. He did not come home for months. He was not there the morning I suddenly became ill during a birthday celebration for one of his younger siblings. My mother helped me from the table, knowing instinctively what I did not even suspect. I was pregnant.

I responded to my pregnancy like the child I was. How would I finish high school? What would the other kids say? The larger questions, about my lack of preparedness for motherhood, about the perilous state of my marriage, were too difficult for me to face. It was easier to worry whether I could make it through the school year without my condition’s becoming apparent to my classmates.

The news of his impending fatherhood did not bring Hyo Jin rushing home from Seoul. He never even called or wrote to me. I called him once, only to have him chastise me for wasting Father’s money. He hung up so abruptly that the Korean operator had to tell me my call was disconnected. I felt as though I had been slapped. When he did call to talk about the pregnancy, Hyo Jin spoke to Peter Kim, not to me. I was about to enter the kitchen one morning in the spring when I heard Peter Kim relaying to my mother the substance of that telephone call. I held my breath while I eavesdropped. What could possibly happen next? Even I was not prepared for what I overheard.

It was Hyo Jin’s position that since we were not legally married, he was under no obligation to me, he had told Peter Kim. He intended to marry his girlfriend, who was not a member of the church. If the Reverend and Mrs. Moon wanted to take care of me and the baby, that was their choice. He wanted out. I was very scared, listening to Peter Kim and my mother, who said very little. Could Hyo Jin do this? What would happen to me and my baby? How could Hyo Jin break apart what Sun Myung Moon had joined together?

Hyo Jin soon returned from Korea and, without a word of apology or explanation to me, moved out of Cottage House. “I’m sure Father will take care of you and the baby,” he said coldly. He even had the temerity to call to say that he would come by later that night to retrieve a prescription to treat his herpes. I was so incensed that before he arrived I unscrewed every light bulb in Cottage House so that he would have to stumble his way to the medicine chest. What satisfaction I took in my childish prank was short-lived. He was gone and I was alone and pregnant.

I had no idea where he was. It was not until later that I would learn that he had used the money we were given as wedding presents to pay for his “fiancee’s” airfare to the United States and to rent an apartment for the two of them in Manhattan. On his return to East Garden from Korea, he had told the Reverend and Mrs. Moon that he intended to live with the woman he chose. Neither parent made any attempt to stop him. I always believed that the Moons were afraid of their son. Hyo Jin’s temper was so volatile, his moods so irrational, that the Reverend and Mrs. Moon would go to any lengths to avoid a confrontation with him.

Instead, True Parents sent for me. I bowed before them, remaining on my knees, my eyes downcast. I hoped they would embrace me; I prayed they would reassure me. On the contrary, the Reverend Moon lashed out at me. I had never seen him so angry; his face was twisted and red with rage. How could I have let this happen? What had I done to so displease Hyo Jin? Why couldn’t I make him happy? I did not lift my head for fear Sun Myung Moon would strike me. Mrs. Moon tried to calm him, but Father would not be appeased. I had failed as a wife. I had failed as a woman. It was my own fault Hyo Jin had left me. Why hadn’t I told Hyo Jin that I would go with him?

My own thoughts made little sense. How could I go with him? To live with him and his girlfriend? I had high school to finish. I was frightened by the Reverend Moon’s fury but I was also hurt at being wrongly accused. Why was it my fault that Hyo Jin had taken a lover? Why was I to blame because the Reverend Moon’s son did not obey his father? I knew better than to voice these thoughts, but I had them just the same. It was my lot to humble myself before them, to take their abuse, and to speak only when spoken to. Tears burned my cheeks. I stayed on my knees, silent before the Lord of the Second Advent, but I seethed inside at the injustice of his attack on me. “Get out,” he finally screamed, and I scrambled to my feet. I ran all the way back to Cottage House, blinded by my tears.

I felt utterly abandoned. My mother was no use to me. She was trapped in the same belief system that ensnared us all. If Sun Myung Moon was the Messiah, we must do his will. None of us was free to choose. It was my fate to be in this situation. I had to deal with it as best I could. Only God could help me. In my room at Cottage House, I wept and prayed aloud for God not to forsake me. If he could not ease my pain, I prayed he would make me strong enough to withstand it.

I was full of self-loathing for my weak tears. I was ashamed to cry in front of God. He had chosen me for this holy mission and I was not only failing him, I was surrendering to self-pity. I prayed for God to strengthen my faith, to grant me the humility to accept the suffering he sent me.

On one such occasion, I had not realized that my mother was downstairs, listening to my prayers. When I came down, her eyes were as red as my own. It must have been hard for her to watch her daughter suffer so and feel powerless to help. I am only guessing at her emotions, though. We never spoke of our feelings. Perhaps we feared that if we acknowledged one another’s pain, we would only be driven deeper into despair.

I was learning early in my marriage that hiding my feelings would be the key to self-preservation. I spent my days going through the routines of a seemingly carefree schoolgirl and my evenings on my knees in desperate prayer. Every afternoon that spring, I paced around the wide circular driveway in front of the mansion, trying to sort out my thoughts. One of Sun Myung Moon’s early disciples joined me one day as I walked. No one in the Moon family had offered me any comfort. I was only assessed blame, which I was duty bound to accept. The church elder circled the pavement with me, urging me not to worry. My misery could harm my baby, he warned. Hyo Jin would come to his senses, he promised. I was embarrassed that my humiliation was such public knowledge, but I was grateful for the kindness of a respected elder.

That spring my brother Jin had finally come from Korea to join Je Jin at Belvedere. He had barely arrived when this crisis erupted: One afternoon the Reverend Moon summoned In Jin, Jin, and me to his room. “Should we throw Hyo Jin out of the family for what he has done?” the Reverend Moon asked us all, though it was clear that he expected only his daughter. In Jin, to answer. In Jin argued that Hyo Jin was young and wild but that he would listen to reason, that he would come home in his own time. It would be destructive for the church, as well as the True Family, to disown the heir apparent to the Unification Church. Jin agreed. I said nothing.

If Hyo Jin returned, Father said, we must all forgive him and help him adjust to his responsibilities. I, especially, must hold no grudge, the Reverend Moon instructed. He conceded that this was a difficult time for me but said I owed it to the baby to pray for God to soften my heart toward my husband. He and Mrs. Moon would get Hyo Jin back. The rest of us were to welcome him warmly on his return.

The next morning Mrs. Moon took one of the prayer ladies with her to the Deli, a diner in Tarry town. What I did not know was that Mother had arranged to meet Hyo Jin’s lover there. She arrived defiant, intending to fight for my husband. She told Mrs. Moon they would not let religion stand in their way, that Hyo Jin was prepared to leave the Unification Church for her.

I was told it was a spirited performance. But his girlfriend left that diner with a full wallet and an airplane ticket to California. The Moons paid her off, sending her to Los Angeles in the care of a Korean woman whom she would soon ditch in order to make her own way in the world.

The Moons were very pleased with themselves. They had gotten Hyo Jin back home to East Garden. Never mind that they were ignoring the underlying issues that made him leave in the first place. Never mind that he was returning even angrier than when he had left. By all appearances, everything was back to normal, and appearances were everything to Sun Myung and Hak Ja Han Moon.

One morning soon after Hyo Jin’s return, I came to greet True Parents at their breakfast table. I was surprised to see that they had been joined by the Buddha Lady, the Buddhist fortune-teller who had blessed my match to Hyo Jin the previous fall in Seoul. Mrs. Moon urged her to tell us what the future held for Hyo Jin and me. “Nansook is a winged white horse. Hyo Jin is a tiger. This is a good match,” she said. “Nansook will have a difficult time in life but her fortune is very good. Hyo Jin’s fortune is tied to hers. He can be great only if he sits on Nansook’s back and together they fly.”

Mrs. Moon was so pleased by the Buddha Lady’s optimistic forecast that she went out and bought me a diamond-and-emerald ring — the fortune-teller had told her that green was my lucky color. A few days later the Buddha Lady came to see me secretly at Cottage House. “Please remember me when you are a very powerful woman,” she said. “Remember the good fortune I saw ahead for you.”

What lay ahead for me was nothing like what the Buddha Lady foresaw. Hyo Jin was furious that his parents had interfered in his love life, but he was also a realist. He was in no position to follow his lover to California. He had no money, no job, no high school diploma, no means of support besides his parents. In the end, Hyo Jin was all talk. True love paled next to the prospect of being cut off from Father’s money.

Hyo Jin and this girlfriend would continue to correspond for years. He often left her love letters out in the open for me to find. When Hyo Jin learned that she had moved in with a new lover in Los Angeles in 1984, he was so distraught that he shaved his head.

In the spring of 1982, though, he had returned to Cottage House more angry than heartbroken. The indifference Hyo Jin had felt toward me in the winter had hardened into something much colder, much more frightening. I embodied his lack of choices in life. I represented his dependence on the two people he most needed and most despised in this world: his parents. Hyo Jin Moon would spend the rest of our life together punishing me for it.

Nansook Hong interviewed (with full transcript)

In the Shadow of the Moons book, part 1

In the Shadow of the Moons book, part 2

In the Shadow of the Moons book, part 4

In the Shadow of the Moons book, part 5

In the Shadow of the Moons book, part 6

WBZ News and Mike Wallace interview Nansook Hong

Second Generation gives a testimony on life with Hyo Jin Moon

Hyo Jin Moon came to court in Concord in the company of no fewer than four high-priced attorneys to fight Nansook Hong

Nansook Hong – [C-Span] Book Discussion – ‘In The Shadow of the Moons’ with FULL TRANSCRIPT

[madzhughes147-blog]

Remarkable Camping Lights

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If you’re planning on getting out into the wonderful outdoors for some overnight stays then obtaining the right kind of camping lighting will make all the variation, even if you strategy to hit the hay the minute the sun goes down. You’ll never know when a very good light to guide you securely to the toilets might come in helpful, specially when you have to maneuver about other tents that have ropes and tie downs just waiting to trip you up!

Of course the romantics amongst us would say a straightforward candle would be adequate, even so these are not only hazardous, but very vulnerable to that gust of wind correct when you require it to stay put. More importantly, any open fire is a danger in New Zealand during the summer time months so going a small higher tech is not only recommended but a have to.

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Will there be young children with you?

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How vivid do you want your light to be?

If you are doing anything that requires vivid light for extended intervals, you may be very best with an LPG lantern as they are very brilliant. If you have access to mains energy, a fluorescent light might also be a great alternative. LED lights these days can be extremely brilliant, but have not come to the level of being as vivid as an LPG lantern on full.

Can you uncover more fuel if essential?

If you run out of fuel where you are camping, where is the nearest location to get fuel? This applies to electronic kind lighting too. What variety of batteries does it get? Do you have spares?

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