#he may yet yearn to be leashed and who better to do so than you?

[merbear25]

Hello!! :] for your kinktober list could you do day 28 for Doflamingo x Fem! Reader

Thank you for submitting a request! I had fun writing it and hope you like it 💜🧡

With so many others’ hands lingering on him, you were constantly reminded that he could never be yours and yours alone. Even though you agreed to the terms of this relationship, envy tinted you green and left you yearning for a reminder of who his main girl was.

CW: NSFW, MDNI, fem!reader, insecure reader, established relationship, open relationship, breast play, creampie, cum dump

The object of his desire (Doflamingo)

The ruler of this kingdom which was taken by force and deemed you worthy to be among the few to keep in his inner circle. It was an honor that shouldn’t be taken lightly, which you never did. However, there were moments when it felt less like an honor and more like cruelty.

He whispered sweet nothings to you behind closed doors, ones which blanketed your heart in a spell. Your bewitchment was one that kept you on a tight leash. Both of you were allowed your fun, but he gave himself a wider range: various partners, multiple at a time, exploration within the caverns of lust which you may or may not have always been invited to. It left you writhing at night because you had been promised to be each other’s home, and yet he was paying visits less and less often.

Looking at him with concern plastered on your face burned a hole into his back. He sighed before turning towards you with his arm casually slinging over the backrest of the chair. “What’s on your mind?”

He twirled his pen between his fingers as you attempted the best way to articulate this gnawing dread.

“I can’t help but feel ignored.”

A huff accompanied a crooked smile. “Hm? Do you really?” He rubbed the back of his head, while looking at you. That cocky demeanor lowered slightly the longer he looked at you—genuine heartache exuded from you and he would be lying if he said he didn’t care.

Without saying anything, he motioned you over with a couple quick curls of his fingers. Your feet carried you to him, knowing that your woes had been heard. After all, this wasn’t the first time you fell victim to your own jealousy. 

He would behave himself before going back to his old ways sooner or later. That was what you were craving. Even though it would be short lived, you needed it, and he wasn’t opposed to giving it to you.

As you sat down in front of him, the edge of the desk hoisted you up high enough for him to reach down to your lips easily, though only if he wished. A long sigh escaped him, while tilting his head to examine your face better. The hurt and uncertainty of where you stood with him swirled in those big beautiful eyes of yours. A smirk appeared on his face as he recalled all the times before: him getting too comfortable with others’ company, you coming to him with those sad puppy eyes, and demanding his full attention. It was like clockwork, and he was unwilling to stop the gears from turning.

You knew better than anyone that he got a power high from it. Knowing you’d eventually become so bitter from other people wanting his attention - and getting it so easily - it was foreplay at this point. The boiling point was a nirvana he could bask in before starting this all over again.

“And how exactly can I make you feel like you’re the only woman in the world this time?” His voice was smooth like velvet and sank into you like butter.

The recollections of the previous times played in your mind. Snippets of those you held the strongest grudges towards being strung up like puppets and humiliated for your entertainment was appealing, but not what you were in the mood for today.

“I want to feel you, all over you, over and over again.” Your eyes held on his. You spoke slowly and with a heaviness in your voice. The message was heard loud and clear.

His smirk changed into a faint mix of amusement and gratitude. To know that filling you to the brim was what it would take this time flattered him. He placed his hands on your thighs, his fingers kneading your tender flesh gently.

“Oh, that’s more than alright with me,” he purred. 

His hands trailed up your skirt, groping and massaging the curves of your hips and dip in your waist. Tenderness from the hands that caused so much strife roaming your body caused your heart to flutter. The one who brought on the undoing of many lives and here he was about to worship you, about to give you everything you wanted.

You arched into his touch, giving him those sweet moans of satisfaction he was after. He slipped his hands over your bra and rolled your nipples between two of his fingers. That sharp inhale you made was divine. He bathed your neck with wet kisses, sucking and nipping at your sensitive flesh. A whimper passed those gorgeous lips of yours. Those marks were only meant for you, and it would remind everyone who was truly his. 

He tugged down the front of your dress, so that your breasts were on full display. That long tongue of his swirled around those delectable erect nipples of yours, coating them in a thick layer of his natural lubricant.

Your hands found their way to his hair. Tangling in them, your grip tightened as his teeth grazed them. Shockwaves of pleasure coursed through your lower half. That was all the invitation he needed to press further.

His fingers hooked on the outer straps of your panties. He twisted them around his fingers, which tightened their hold around your already slick folds. Hearing your discomfort from the strangling fabric and feeling your face twist under your shared kiss made you that much more prepared for the taking.

They were snatched off of you before you were given any time to process. Their color had barely made it into your peripheral before he was on top of you. Your legs were splayed open, and his arms snaked under you to ensure you weren’t going anywhere. While he held you, the tip of his cock teased your entrance. Your molten core was already dripping for him and leaking around the head; it was something that no other partner could truly compete with.

Easing you down to savor each spasm of your walls giving way to him was never taken for granted. With all the others that came and went, all the one night stands, they couldn’t hold a candle to you. The beauty that exuded from you was seemingly endless and effortless. When he had you so vulnerable like this, it became damn near overbearing.

His thrusts soon grew urgent. It was as if the last time he felt you wrapped around him was ages ago, creating a sense of being starved for release. Just thinking about the loads of cum to be pumped into you sent both of your bodies on fire. You craved it. It wasn’t something you could ever simply ‘want’. The longer you spent with him, the more he formed into a life line. The rhythm of your heart beated only for him and his for you.

You gave him a look that made him weak in the knees, one which he hadn’t formed a resistance to quite yet and was the end of him each time. Spilling into you was second nature at this point. It was the only rule he stuck to because it was the one that claimed the most ownership over someone. You were the only one whose walls deserved being coated in him. The thick white liquid beaded around his length, while it was still buried inside you. Shivers were sent down your spine as your pussy throbbed against him.

Although round one finished faster than expected, the night was young. There were plenty of chances he’d have to hear your screams for him and enough hours in the night for you to be turned into an incoherent mess.

Feverish kisses and possessive hands filled the time before the next session commenced. You were never really given a break, but anything other than this would leave you unsatisfied. Bodies heated with the reignition of passion, reckless abandon fueled the remaining hours.

After each release into each other’s arms, the heavy breathing and sweaty bodies soothed your withered forms. Hearing and touching the other in such a state was reassuring in a way that you were the only one who could bring them to the brink of insanity time and time again.

The raspy and strangled cries of your ecstasy echoed through the room and trailed down the hall. Never having enough of the other, making him forget that there were others he’d laid with just the other night. You were the main focus, the apple of his eye that tied everything together.

This moment was fleeting and would only last for two weeks at most, but that period was one you’d use to your full advantage until the next time he had to remind you that you were the one he called home.

[darkdemeter]

WATCH IN SILENCE

✘DARKSIDERS FILED CLIPPINGS | Death x Female Watcher!Reader ─────────���──────────────

To the eldest as your charge, Death remained a permanently perplexing sort. This, from the wit of his banter and blunted sass, often leaves you fixated on the nature of his estranged and cold personality, however much you see the confliction of his inner turmoil within. But that is a personal affair you dare not intrude upon.

Most curious for a Watcher, Death often scowls in the closeted nest of his deepest thoughts. More so than not, Watchers tend to make a grand show of their power over the Horsemens’ leash, whichever sibling they hold to, it is but a taming of a trophy. A display, that in comparison to the feared Horsemen, the Watchers are the ones in power.

Darkened, boastful entities. Infectious, shadowy wisps that are bound and loyal to the Charred Council. Yet compared to the likes of your other wrist-shackled counterparts, you remain out of the way of his carnage-paved path. You don’t conduct yourself as a mouthpiece of sarcasm and venomous snark. Death already covers that trait and far more fittingly if you’re forced to confess. But no, you allow him his way without the threat of restraint, and maybe because he is the eldest of his siblings, he is granted that right.

But for you… well, the reason is not like that at all. At least, not entirely. You revere his strength and might, but in fact, you are also rather ‘young’. By this, you have very little experience amassed when chosen to govern a Horsemen; moreso that this is your first venture in doing so. You could also say you’re an admirer of Death. How precise he is in the midst of his outward battles, the radiance of his exuded power, it’s of little use to convince yourself otherwise by accompanying him as his so-called Watcher that you feel safe in his company.

And that is why you remain to that of a voiceless shadow. Quite literally. Upon first bindings to the one known as Kin-slayer, he has not so much as heard you utter a single word. And he knows not if he should be grateful or reserved. A Watcher that is silent?

He tries to not let it overcome his mind. But it's hard when he takes time of momentary rest such as this, to contemplate the path he treads and his next course of action, and then to lift his burning amber eyes to find you. Either staring at him or providing a level of cared attendance to Dust, adoring the crow’s purring chirps as his dark, crisp feathers quiver and fluff out.

When involving the former, all he can do is glare in return but that does little to deter you, gaze almost dream-like, as if you marvel at the sight of him in your muted presence. Though you may harbour a surmised amount of fear for Death, the dangers of other creatures scare you, and that fear only drives you closer to his side. Nights like this there crawls something sinister in the dark. It lingers there like a beast on the prowl. The wispy form of your blackened silhouette dances in hunched uncertainty, perhaps cowardly to the likes of his perspective, before a simple clutter of rubble ignites the last of your incited panic and you huddle to his side. Who better to protect you than Death? His scythes ring the song of victory without so much as a breath, the task of delivering those unto their demise one he is born and created to do.

Has been for many aeons. But he is still and undisturbed by the shifting of pebbles. He scowls, that much you can tell by the thinning of his amber eyes that burn with a thousand blazes of molten and fire.

“It’s nothing, little Watcher.” His voice is strung by the hoarseness of his remark, reprimanding you and your swiftness to scare easily. How often he’s marked you with such belittlement but you find yourself yearning for it. You interpret it as his term of endearment beneath that coarse exterior of his. Head fluttering in the direction of any miniscule note that sounds in the distance around you, you finally come from your hiding place, tucked close to his ribcage with a curious tilt of your head. Glancing from him to where you’d heard the noise, the trail of black at the end of your torso dances over his lap, stirring him with a chill that leaves a disgruntled noise to rise from his chest.

As ever the curious thing you were and that he’d come to know, your arms raise to bend at the elbows, nervously your tinged fingers ring together within your silent inquiry, Death takes an unseemly approach this time around; that of thoughtful gentleness.

“Nothing will come and harm you.”

This answer calms you. He tells by the fall of your shoulders that ease at his promise, and the way your head turns to view him with your eyes, glowing brightly as if you share with him a kind, thankful smile.

“So long as you don’t draw attention,” he quickly snips and that crinkle of your eyes wears away, that once illuminated smile within your gaze dims.

He’s not entirely sure if that was a necessity to add. By what logic would you draw attention to them? Half the time, your presence is invisible to the masked Horseman. Only made known in times where you guide him through his journey, a suggestive wave or push of his body to indicate a point of interest that may be of some use in his quest.

But other than quick outings to help him, watch over him, you don’t exactly serenade him with a chorus of banter he can combat with his own, and thus, enemies don’t take notice of your being there until you show yourself.

But nevertheless, he watches you hover towards him before coming to curl against him. Though he means to protest and brush you aside, you make yourself comfortable at his side and he’s forced to concede that this is where you plan to stay until you both are on the move again.

You sigh, the sound quiet and echoes faintly in the chamber of your enclosed, unmade mouth. Yet your jaw grows down in length as if to copy the motion to yawn and you rest your head against his shoulder.

“You know, you’re a very odd sort of Watcher,” he says to you, yet your eyes dwindle, slowly closing as you remain untainted by his words. They are not new to you. He’s commented a few times about your oddities. And you’re inclined to agree with a sluggish nod.

Still, he watches you, eyes cast upon you with a glare meant to intimidate you. But seeing the serenity of your peace when pressed to him, it comes to soften his gaze. Unexpectedly, something in his heart… beats. Blooms. A strange force threatens to dominate.

The blackened outline of your form fits to the line of his body, the fading tail at the end of your torso rests over in his lap.

Once certain that you’ve somehow drifted into some realm of slumber, his hand comes to rest along the ridge of your spine, he feels the pulse of energy within your shadowed, ethereal body.

The framing curtain of blackness that shrouds your head moves timidly like hair taken softly to the breeze. Much like a human, it is another quality that sets you far apart from the other watchers to relish in their power below the Charred Council’s will.

What Death finds himself now evermore torn and confused by, is the utterance of one word as you drift off into the sleeping abyss.

The quietness disturbed by a tune harmonic - angelic - that it fits not the occupation you find yourself in servitude under.

It is a word he often claims is in the interest of the balance only. That nothing else restrains him to such an esteemed and honourable title.

“Protector…”

[yandere-daydreams]

if request slots are open: consider. i know you don’t like shoto but listen listen. royalty!au in which the darling is also a royal, of an opposing kingdom. shoto just thinks they’re so soft and lovely and why won’t they accept his marriage proposal?

This is pure self-indulgence, really. I just want to use fancy language and imagery and say nothing bluntly ever because straight-forwardness was only invented in the 1900s, and this is a reality I accept.

TW: Dehumanization, Abuse of Power, and Metaphors.

~

Your kingdom was known for never refusing a guest.

It was a state more than a nation, really, a wonderful city that relied on trade and unity to sustain itself. As such, you were more of a diplomat than a ruler, a host dressed in jewels and made to entertain true leaders from the allies held in such high-esteem by your advisors. You’d mastered the art of meaningless conversation, your patience taught to you by decades of being talked-over, and although many royals had seen fit to test your policy, there was always a free room ready when they were prepared to humble themselves and accept it. You adored that part of your occupation, how kind you got to be, to your people, traveling peasants, kings and queens and anyone who crossed your path. You liked to be generous.

But, Shoto was not a Prince known for bringing out the best in people. And you were certainly no exception to his contagious aversion.

Usually, you would make an effort to greet your visitors in the courtyard, but his visits were too frequent and too impulsive for you to do so much as stand before his entourage was in your throne room, the young Prince standing before you. He didn’t seem to mind your lack of enthusiasm, the boy smiling so brightly as he stepped in front of the elevated platform. You didn’t doubt he would run to your seat, if given the chance, but your personal guards made their aggression known as soon as his foot touched the first step of the short flight. “My Songbird,” He greeted, instead, not seeming to notice the way you cringed at the nickname. “You haven’t been responding to my letters, but my yearning still persists. Have you grown tired of singing to me so quickly?”

“I do not see why it’s necessary to respond to inquiries I have already answered.” Your voice was cold, at best, frigid at worst. You didn’t have it in your heart to be cruel to anyone, much less a friend you had once held so dear. Even with how appealing he made cruelty seem, these days. “I am not your songbird, but if I was, I think you would dread having to hear the same two notes play on a never-ending loop. God knows my throat has grown sore from delivering them.” You paused, glancing towards the advisor on your left, positioned there on the chance your behavior slipped into something less than agreeable. She waited a moment, pondering, but a nod was all you needed to proceed. “You must be tired, Todoroki, please allow my valet to show you to your chambers. A long journey deserves an even longer rest.”

You saw Shoto falter, a hand unconsciously coming to rest on the sword at his belt. You guards mirrored the gesture, although you didn’t take it as a threat. “I am thankful for any note you grace me with,” He assured, taking another step forward. “But, there are three that would make me euphoric. Isn’t that what you should want? Why would you sing at all, if not to make someone happy?”

Straightening you back, you leaned forward, uncrossing your legs to better fill your throne. “I sing for my own joy, no one else’s. Be glad I am forgiving enough to let you listen from a distance.” He opened his mouth, but you carried on, drawing circles in the velvet under your arms. “My answer is no, and there is nothing you can do to change my mind. When I find a shelter I can roost in, one I choose to roost in, then and only then will make my nest. I have no desire to make my home a cage, regardless of how golden the bars.”

At that, he smiled, and you dug your nails into the soft fabric. “It would be a beautiful cage, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re intolerable,” You mumbled, deflating. It was hard to be angry, now, the disappointment cutting through you more deeply than the knife of loathing ever could. Marriage was not a necessity, to you. Unlike his own clan, your’s had never placed an emphasis on blood. You’d been an orphan most of your life, and you had no issue with continuing the tradition your childless parents had started. Children who’d never known love always seemed more appreciative when receiving it, although you’d admit Shoto’s existence contested that theory. “I cannot–”

“And a beautiful cage deserves a stunning creature to inhabit it,” Shoto continued, speaking over you without hesitation. Another step was taken, then another, leaving Shoto towering before you, too close for comfort. You were tempted to stand, if only to put the two of you at an equal height, but Shoto would’ve simply found another way to place himself above you. He was good at that, especially if it meant making you feel small. “Think of it as an alliance. Your country would have my father’s army behind it, and I would have you. Is that not a worthwhile sacrifice?” You weren’t given time to answer his question, Shoto dropping to one knee unceremoniously, suddenly. It caught you off guard, enough so for you to lean forward, moving to help him up. But, Shoto only took your extended hand, holding your palm to his cheek as he spoke. “Visits aren’t enough, this isn’t enough. I wish to have you as my partner, and if I don’t, I can not guarantee my next action will be one of peace.”

You jerked back, not asking for permission before pushing yourself onto your feet. It took more of your self-control than it should’ve to keep from telling him to leave, to get out of your castle and never come back. Your anger must’ve been visible, because your advisor reached out as soon as your fists had a chance to ball, a steady palm coming to rest on your shoulder. It was a small consolation, but it snapped you out of your rage nonetheless, even if your calmness was still volatile when regained.

“Rest, Little Prince. Exhaustion has clouded your better judgment.” His eyes widened, lips contorting into a frown, but you didn’t give him a chance to refuse. Instead, you made the first move, waving for your guards to follow as you descended the short staircase. “If I hear one more word about marriage, I fear I may be the one to abandon our treaties. This songbird wishes to sing in another court, for now.”

 Shoto was quick to stay on your heels, his excuses following just as closely. “But–”

“One more word,” You warned, his troop of guards and servants parting to let you through. “I don’t wish to make an enemy out of you. Please, enjoy my city and take advantage of my hospitality, but do not approach me with the same attitude. I have made up my mind, and my decision is final.”

And with that, you left. That was the advantage of his petname, you supposed.

Flying away was much easier when you were given wings.

But, Shoto was a beast of the ground, unfortunately.

He stayed as you fled, watching you run from him like prey from a predator. Part of him acknowledged your feelings, or the lack thereof, rather. He knew you didn’t love him, not truly, and he knew you didn’t care for him as he cared for you. He knew you didn’t want to be with him.

And yet, you were kind and welcoming and genuine. You were loving towards him, even if you didn’t love him.

Shoto took a moment to scan over the room. His guards surrounded him, as faithful as ever, each buzzing for an order. His father had never allowed him to travel lightly, even when Shoto was more than capable of protecting himself. Your nation didn’t have the same strength. With no standing army, no way to defend yourself, you relied on neutrality and alliances for protection. It was a symbolic security, but one that would stand unless a very powerful, very feared kingdom attacked.

Unless Shoto’s kingdom attacked.

He decided he would bring the idea to his siblings, as he waited for the room’s doors close behind you. It would be a controversial suggestion, but there was territory to be gained, resources that could help more deserving people. With their forces, it would be over in a matter of days, hours, even. He doubted your ‘allies’ would care, by the end of the week.

Besides, Shoto had a pet who needed to be put back on their leash. 

You seemed to think you’d outgrown your cage.

[after-l1fe]

May i please request a ghilley nsfw alphabet? I love all your current works and I can wait to see more

Ghilley x GN!MC Nsfw alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Likes to prepare a bath for you and kiss all over your face in case you two choose to bathe together sometimes that ends up in shower sex but that’s not really a problem😉, he also changes the sheets and brings you your favorite drink and even snacks if you’re feeling hungry.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He loves his hair, he likes how long it is and it’s softness, he would never cut it, if he did how would he wake you up or how would you pull on it with so much easyness?

He loves your face, it just shows so many emotions and it’s just so cute when you get mad at him for something he did, also when you’re frowning he can’t help but cup your face and kiss your forehead for you to relax.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Loves to do it messy and just see you covered in it, his favorite place is your face (extra points if you lick the cum near your mouth, you’ll get a reward for that)

He doesn’t usually do it inside you, the only time he does that is when he just CAN’T hold back.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He once thought it would be interesting if you were to put him on a collar or leash, he never actually told you because he was too shy to do so, but he really enjoyed the idea of having something pulling on his neck.

This idea came from his event SSR card where in his neck he has some sort of ring, and I just couldn’t help but be like ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) even if the ring itself meant nothing😂

Likes to put his hair on your face on purpose just to bother you and see you get mad, if you tell him something he’ll just say it was an accident, and do that laugh of his.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Doesn’t have any experience at all, you’re his first yet he has a LOT of knowledge about it and you wouldn’t even guess you were his first.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He doesn’t have a favorite one, he never uses the same one twice in a row, because he likes to keep things new or interesting. The ones he loves the most tho are the ones where he is completely in control and you can only be a total sub for him or try to be bratty for him, he won’t hesitate to punish you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

If he IS goofy it’s just to tease you and nothing else, still he’d much rather release dirty sounds into your ear. That works much better as a teasing method than a joke.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

The carpet does match the drapes.

His hair is just as long exaggeration obviously not THAT long, but more than normal down there so he trims it neatly.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He likes to plan jokes as much as he likes to plan stuff for you, even if it’s not that obvious which is part of the plan.

He IS indeed very rough during sex but he makes sure to show his more sweet side after you two are done with the stuff.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He likes to jack off a lot just because he’s sometimes most of the time horny and he can’t always go to you due to your manager duties, so instead of being all hot and bothered he chooses to masturbate.

He also likes it when you two are together and you watch each other masturbate.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He loves combining sensory deprivation and temperature play. The way you jump slightly when he passes an ice cube on your niples is something he can’t get enough of, specially as when you’re blindfolded you don’t see it coming which simply heightens the effect and makes you look even cuter. If you allow him to, he would also like to use some melted wax on you and drop it slowly over your body.

He also loves when you pull on his hair, he has it very well maintained for a reason and there is nothing that he loves more than getting his hair pulled as he is going down on you or thrusting into you.

Cock warming, he loves to tease you with this because most of the time you have some papers to sign or other stuff as manager, so he can just have his fun teasing you meanwhile you try to do your work only to ultimately fail in your attempt and end up asking him for more. He also likes making it a bit more fun with rules like ‘Don’t move/squirm’ .

He’s also a brat tamer and loves it when you play hard to get or tease him, so he can show you your place.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere mildly private, your rooms? definitely, your office? even better! A closet in the school? lots of fun!

He isn’t afraid of doing stuff in public, I mean he never gets found or seen so why not use that in his favor when it comes to pleasing you in public? You two will never get discovered, after all one of his traits is having no presence.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Anything really, it may be something he’s been planning, you being a brat for him, just him being horny for no apparent reason. There’s a lot going on through his head and he likes planning stuff even if it all seems random it most of the times is something he’s planned to have you in the palm of his hand.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

There isn’t much stuff that Ghilley wouldn’t do, he’s very open minded, so he’s up to do anything with you meanwhile you’re okay with it.

If you say ‘yes’ it’s a ‘yes’ for him if you say ‘no’ it’s a ‘no’ for him, that simple.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Funny thing, he has to tie up his hair so it doesn’t get in the way

He prefers giving and just watch your reactions, he loves to tease you by edging you and then stopping to move on to another part of your body. That can go on for hours until you’re begging for him to let you finish.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He loves starting super rough but then he slows down just to tease you and see how you beg him to go slower at the beginning and then faster.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He likes more long sessions where he can have more fun with you and enjoy more the moment BUT quickies are fun to do in semi-public places so he really likes them, it’s basically a 50/50 thing between quickies and normal sex.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Of course he does take risks, he isn’t afraid of getting found due to his lack of presence and he LOVES trying out new stuff with you, you could call him an experimentalist.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He never gets tired so when you stop it’s because YOU can’t anymore, he has lots of energy to spare so he puts all that into aftercare.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He does have toys aside from the ice and wax candles (in case you count those as toys) he has blindfolds, cuffs, gags, vibrators and lots of other stuff that can make you feel good or needy for him.

He loves using glass stuff because they are good temperature absorbers and sticking something hot/cold inside of you is something he loves, also they look really fancy which he likes.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Do I even have to explain this?

He loves to tease you 24/7. In the hallways you never hear/see him coming so he loves to moan/grunt in your ear or just give your butt a little spank and keep walking like he did nothing.

In private he loves to sit you on his lap and bounce his leg up and down to tease you, if you ask him to stop he’ll ask ‘why is there a problem?’ with a smirk on his face to tease you further

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He can completely hold back his voice but he doesn’t just because he knows you like hearing him and it makes you squirm a bit when he purposely lets out specially dirty sounds out right in your ear.

He also likes to walk past you and groan/grunt or moan slightly in your ear just to see your reaction.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He likes to wake you up by grabbing a bit of his hair and rubbing it in your nose. He also looks really happy when doing it and he likes to pretend to be asleep once you’ve woken up so you don’t know it was him tickling you it’s quite obvious tho.

He once left you tied up and with a little toy on you and left for awhile (with your consent) to do who knows what for not too long, so you where left there all needy till he came back to see how much you wanted him to let you come, as the toy wasn’t enough for you to do so. This guy finds new ways to tease you everyday, each one very unique.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Super long and slightly thicker than the rest of people.

He loves to tease you by keeping himself at your entrance as you try to push back onto him only for him to pull away, you’ll have to beg him for it.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Quite high, he just can’t seem to get enough of you, you seem to understand him so well and you just make him so happy, so he just HAS to please you and express his love for you a lot...and very often as well.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not fast at all, as I had said he has lots of spare energy and when you two stop is because you said so, he doesn’t fall asleep for awhile after you have, he loves to see your cute sleeping face and before falling asleep he always kisses the tip of your nose.

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with ULRIK BRAUN, who is FIFTY years old. He is often called ULYSSES by the MONTAGUES and works as their MEITITORE. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

TW: death, child neglect

He was born from an ABYSS; a seed shed from a fruit wicked enough to slip from God’s hand, leaving a honey-sweet trail along His chin and through each one of Eden’s skies, and not a single whisper of sound as it tumbled onto mortal earth. Such was how Ulrik viewed his own conception; a DIVINE OVERSIGHT. An error in the machinations of fate. A random challenge imposed on nothingness as it was dared to coil around itself and not be warped into a womb. Empty air, vacant space, a void taste on the tongue – that was all Ulrik could recall from the meager years preceding his adoption, and for a while, he would grow to forget it; although the years were meager still. At the beginning, his parents lavished him with love as though he had always been their own, caring for him and nurturing his quiet, closed-up growth; invigorated and eager to watch him flourish in a way that was nearly desperate. They made him the apple of their eye, but in turn, they made themselves blind. For when Ulrik unfurled, blooming and revealing himself to them at last, they wailed as their eyes began to bleed, DAMNING him as though he had poked his small, thin fingers into them.

He had always been strange; gifted with sharp senses and peculiar instincts, mannerisms that were more animal than human. If it was indeed a GIFT, then it must have been given to him with love as the ultimate PRICE to be paid in exchange, for his parents had no more of it to spare once they saw him for who he truly was. They scowled at him whenever they caught him sniffing the air or burying his nose in his food. They tugged at him as though he were a hound on a leash when they found him with his teeth sunken into the arm of one of his bullies. They stared at him in fear and trepidation when he would return from spending the whole day in the woods, feet filthy and bare, gaze sharpened and nose twitching. And it was then that Ulrik sought other worlds to escape his own, immersing himself in novels and poetry, imaginary friends and playing-pretend. It introduced him to the only happiness that he would ever come to know, and it also opened him up to his CURSE. Ulrik developed an appetite for fantasies, and as he devoured tales of princesses locked in lonesome towers and kings who were half-man, half-shadow, he grew to see himself in those stories. After all, why else would he have been born with these strange instincts? Why else would his parents cower away from him and condemn him as unworthy of their love?

It comforted him, to finally have an answer for his mystery-riddled existence. Yet even as he went on to harbor it in his heart for safe-keeping and hold it against his chest every night while the whispers lulled him to sleep, the years were still as MERCILESS as ever. When Ulrik was old enough to bear his teeth at them and condemn them in return, he decided that curses were made to be FOUGHT. So he began to rebel, snarling at his parents’ stares and hollering in response to their cruel words; weaning his knuckles on the taste of his bullies’ blood and teaching himself to find sustenance in the fear of others. Yet the higher he climbed, the harsher the fall whenever he would inevitably lose his footing; and at sixteen, he decided to run away from it all. He sought out his uncle, the only person in his family who had ever cared for him unconditionally. His uncle worked as a special agent for the government, and the longer Ulrik stayed with him, the more the man took note of the keen, otherworldly intuition he possessed. Only he didn’t shy away from it or seek to destroy it; instead, he PRAISED it, perceiving it as a talent that ought to only be honed and embraced. Finding long-lost acceptance and latching onto it with force, Ulrik went on to live with his uncle, shedding his family’s name and armoring himself with the one he had been given at birth. For the first time in his remembered life, the whispers of his curse were silent and still.

He grew to seek work alongside his nearly-retired uncle. Impassioned and driven as he was by the pseudo-training he had received since starting his life anew, Ulrik THRIVED, soaring through the ranks and earning himself the elite, covert position of cleaner. In the wake of any kill order, he was to be on the scene, warping it and disguising the murder so no trace of government involvement could be found. He found HOME in the detached dark of the job, in the brimming apathy and exquisite intimacy of SHAPING BRUTALITY into his own design, all at the hands of the very same gift that had once left him shunned and ostracized. It was everything that he could have wished for – until the abrupt passing of his uncle. The rotten hand that stole him away must have belonged to a fool, in Ulrik’s eyes, because it was immediately clear to him that his uncle’s death had been staged. Believing his superiors were behind it, he abandoned his position without a second thought. Yet before he could even entertain the intangible notion of a normal, quiet life, he found himself being HUNTED. They were nowhere, and they were everywhere; predators of his own caliber who lay in wait, silent yet HEAVING as they awaited the fateful baring of his throat. But Ulrik was no prey, and so he sought protection in the only place where he could find it – deep in the belly of beastly Verona, beneath the glaring, blood-red Montague crest. He offered them his unique skills and vast realm of experience, and in the face of such power, it was only natural that the living gods would not find it in themselves to refuse. They took his offering, and in return, pulled him into their embrace, crowning him with the title of meititore, their reaper, and laying the entire city out beneath his aching teeth. The Montagues were keen on stoking his hunger, but they ought to beware this ABYSS-BORN man. He is glad to be eating from their palm, but let it be known: Ulrik Braun can only live through biting the hand that feeds.

FAUST CONTRERAS: Curse-wielder. It happened shortly after Ulrik had joined the Montague fold, during a celebration of the new recruits in the hallowed Capital Library. In a remote corner, far away from the indulgence and the merriment, Faust stole a place for himself at Ulrik’s side; waving away the blackened mist of his solitude, bracing an elbow atop the table, and whispering of the Capulets and the death of Ulrik’s uncle. He claimed that the mob was behind it; roused into action after his uncle’s operations began to interfere with their business, and he cited his own network and prior knowledge of Ulrik’s work as evidence. Just thought you should know, he then muttered, shrugging and making a casual exit as though he hadn’t just ripped the scab of Ulrik’s grief clean from the wound with nothing more than his clawed handful of words. Ever since then, Ulrik has been plagued by uncertainty. What gave Faust the impression that Ulrik would care, or aim to act on the information? How had he come to unearth so much about Ulrik’s buried history? Was the motivation simply cementing his loyalty to the Montagues, or something else entirely? Ulrik seeks answers, and he has every intention of finding them.

REGINA DALY: Plaything. Either they have information on the death of Ulrik’s uncle or they have directly participated in it. After all, who would know better about Capulet justice than the very tool that is used in exacting it? As a spettro, Regina wields the only blade that could cut the truth from the lies, and so far, Ulrik has been content to simply watch her fiddle with it. He corners Regina where he can, relishing the tension the taut, predatory pull between them. Unused to being likened to prey, Ulrik’s prowl clearly eludes them; a fateful string that has tied them to one another from the moment Ulrik’s nose latched onto her scent. He has great interest in what Regina may or may not know, yet he’s driven to do nothing more than tug on his ties to the Capulet and watch how far they can stretch before they snap. It’s a game to him, and beyond that, it’s a test of his own will – of how far he can manage to starve his grief before he either throws it a scrap of bone, or lies helpless as it devours him.

LEONA GWAN: Shadow. The moon hangs from the hollows of their eyes, beautiful, but futile when it comes to concealing the emptiness that pours at the call of its tide. Yet when they first met, Ulrik could only watch in awe as light – dim, frail, lively light – slowly overtook it, and it’s been shining through their gaze ever since. For all his idle detachment and cold curiosity, for all his willingness to watch from afar as all things good and fulfilling rotted before they could make their way into his life, Ulrik couldn’t resist their pull. It’s a dangerous thing, to be seen. He knows that. Yet he knows just as well that safety could be found in it, if one only knew to look for it. Once he glimpsed it in Leona, there was no turning back. Now he calls them his wolfling, catering to their darkness as though it were his own and promising them the world on a golden platter, as a meal for the two of them to share.

HARRIET D’ANGELO: Light. He is a man who yearns for light just as fiercely as he craves shadow, and Harriet is one of the few damned souls who have allowed it to shine upon him. It must have been for the best, then, that he was lured away by his promotion and she was caged into her responsibilities well before anything could fully bloom between them. They recently reunited, only with far too many skeletons crowding into the space between them. She has lost her son, and he has lost his uncle, but they seem hesitant to share anything beyond that with each other. Ulrik fears what might become of her if he gets too close again, yet he fears, and the fact that he does intrigues him far too intensely for him to make any genuine effort to pull away from her. At least if she burns, he’ll burn right alongside her.

Ulrik is portrayed by MADS MIKKELSEN and was written by JEN. He is currently OPEN.

[thelaundrypool-a]

@hylianremnants sent / meme ;

“ so what if i’m a puppet? once upon a time, you were, too! ” ( from wild, perhaps )

' i chose my fate. did you? ‘ the words come out sharper than the katanas at his hips as he whirled upon link, the rare flare of sooga’s temper appearing the harshness of his voice, the manner in which he nearly collided with the small hero in his momentary burst of fury. poking and prodding and needling, ever since their convoy had made it to hyrule castle, it had been nothing short of hell whenever link was in the room. he had to be kicked out of the discussions with the yiga, for both he and sooga were far more eager to rip into one another than to carve out a momentary truce for their respective leaders.

now, parted from the sides of those who could draw their leashes taut and keep them from lunging for one another’s throats, sooga felt the building frustrations over the last few weeks spilling forth. link may not be able to witness his snarl where it laid beneath his mask, but he would hear it.

‘ hero you may be, link, ‘ he hissed between clenched teeth. ‘ but don’t think i do not know how fate guided your puppet strings to your position today. wielder of evil’s bane, do you choose to wear the weight of the world on your shoulders, or do the goddesses still pluck at your strings yet? ‘

while his beloved princess seemed ignorant to how her knight served beneath the mounting pressure of his reputation, sooga had a far keener eye than she. the imperceptible ways a man cracked, sooga could see such from a mile away, for he had been trained to exploit it--and what he saw was a boy doing all within his might to uphold all that hyrule wanted of him. including the princess who looked at him with such fondness in her eyes.

‘ i chose to serve the yiga as i have, in spite of the fact i could leave at any time, ‘ sooga continued on. the knuckles of his left hand blanched as they gripped his katana ever tighter, knowing better than to pull it from its sheath, but yearning to find it a new home in link’s gut. ‘ you’re still a puppet. a toy of divine beings. do not speak to me as if that little sword you have makes you superior, when all it is is a brand marking you as hylia’s servant. ‘

[wheresfury]

Only Mine to Humiliate

~Pairing - Vers x fem!reader

~Sex slavery AU, Public sex/ humiliation, degradation, daddy kink, dirty talk, face slapping, spitting, breath play, Oral sex on strap, face fucking, Bdsm dynamics if anything.

~Word count - 1,649

- if there are any other triggers let me know - I will tag in future. Also sooo many pet names I can’t stick to one so yeah. Also not really a summary kinda just something from my brain. May do more from this universe. Hope you enjoy ;)

It was a beautiful evening on Hala. Your mistress was invited to a celebration for the starforce. She was of high status in the ranks and you were given to her as a gift a few years back, which is tradition on Hala for commanding officers. She was given the right to choose who she wanted and she could not keep hers eyes off of you. You got lucky with Vers. She treated you like any other Kree, like you weren’t a sex slave, only in the confines of your home. Unfortunately the rest of the population isn’t accepting of slaves being treated as anything other than property. In private you could be a normal couple but in public, you had to follow the rules and sometimes you make a mistake.

You made the mistake of addressing her as her given name and not of what you’re meant to call her in public. You could have called her Sir, Mistress, Master, or Daddy (which is both of your personal favorite.) But you had to go and fuck it up calling her Vers. Yon-Rogg happened to be present and he raised his hand to slap you when Vers grabbed his wrist and held on tightly. She was angry, glaring at him. I’m sure she was also not too happy that she would have to publicly punish you as well. She’s not too fond of punishing you publicly but she knows you get off on it. Being humiliated in front of so many people, letting them know who you belong to. Who owns you.

“How dare you raise a hand to my girl! No one touches her but me!”

He rips his arm away from Vers and glares down at me, “You dare let her speak your name? Don’t tell me she’s made you soft, Vers?” He taunts as his eyes snap back to hers. She huffs angrily and raises her hand.

Which is why you are suddenly on the floor after Vers slapped your cheek sending you to the ground holding your right cheek, a burning sensation heightened with the use of her powers.

She grabs you by your collar and pulls you to your knees. She looks down at you asking with her eyes if you were okay. You nod slightly, slick between your thighs. She knows what she’s doing to you, she can smell your cunt already. She licks her lips and smirks down at you.

“What does your collar say, babygirl?”

You whimper and dart your eyes around to the crowd of people gathered near you. She bends down and grabs a fistful of your hair pulling back till you yelp and set your eyes on hers.

“Eyes on me, little one. They don’t matter, I do. I asked a question. I expect an answer.”

You swallow what moisture you had in your mouth, “Good girl.” You whisper. She huffs and tightens her grip on your hair. “Say it louder, for the people in the back.” You stare at her arousal prominent in both of your eyes. “Good girl!” You say louder, voice hoarse from need. She hums, satisfied and let’s go of your hair. “Now, Y/N, why would your collar say that you are a good girl if you are not one? When really what you are is a desperate slut? A bad girl? Shall I get that changed? Hm?” You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the ache in your dripping pussy. She sees this action, laughs and proceeds to kick your legs apart. She grabs your chin roughly and tilts your head up. “Open.” She says. You quickly open your mouth and stick out your tongue knowing what’s coming. She spits in your mouth most of it falling on your tongue, your pussy contracts around nothing, you make a show of swallowing it for her. She gets down on one knee her hand trailing down your body and under your skirt. Her fingers rub your pussy over your panties before sliding them to the side and trailing her fingers through your slick. She lazily strokes your pussy from your entrance to the edge of your clit never really touching. Not where you most needed her. What a fucking tease. You grow desperate in need of release. “Daddy please.”

“What princess? What is it you need?” She smirks at you knowing exactly what you needed. You were going to give a smart ass remark but then remembered you two were not alone. You did not want to make it worse for yourself, you can be bratty in private.

“Daddy please fuck me… I need you, please.” You whimper desperate for anything really. Vers always had a way to make you yearn for her touch all the time. She grins with smug satisfaction whilst taking her hand off of your cunt. You open your mouth to say something and she immediately sticks her fingers in, “Suck.” You swirl your tongue around her middle and index fingers moaning at the taste of yourself.

“Only good girls get fucked by Daddy. Bad girls get punished.” She forces her fingers further down your throat causing you to gag. “Let’s see what that mouth can do, hm?” She removes her fingers from your mouth and points to her pelvis. Your eyes widen. Was she really going to make you do this in front of everyone? You grow increasingly frustrated, your juices rolling down your thighs. Skin sticky from sweat and arousal. She grabs your hair and roughly pushes your face into her crotch. “Do not make me repeat myself, little girl.” You moan as she grinds into your face the familiar feeling of her strap beneath her pants. She pulls your face away to give you room to unzip her pants. You work the strap out of the zippered part of her jeans and start moving your hand up and down all 6 inches. She pushes your head closer and taps the tip of her cock onto your lips. You open your mouth, sticking out your tongue, licking the tip and slowly taking it in. You look up at her and see the annoyance on her face. She smirks, gripping your hair tighter and thrusting all the way into your mouth making you gag. You relax your throat, breathing in through your nose, as she stills giving you time to adjust. She pulls out and slams back in once she knows you’re okay.

“Look at you, drooling on Daddy’s cock. In front of all these people, you’re enjoying this aren’t you, slut?”

You hum around her cock looking up with wide eyes. Her hips thrust at an animalistic pace, your eyes start to water, you put your hands on her thighs for some type of support. She stops thrusting, her cock buried in your throat.

“What’s my name, little one?” She pulls out, spit connecting in a string from your mouth to her cock. You wheeze catching your breath, her grip on your hair relentless.

“Daddy. Your name is Daddy.”

“Hm that’s right, baby girl, and who do you belong to?”

You look up at her, eyes shining with love, admiration, and lust, “You, Daddy, I belong to you.”

“Good girl.” She says as she thrusts her cock back into your mouth. She holds it there, her other hand that is not in your hair coming up to pinch your nose closed. Your eyes widen, tears leaking out. You look up at Vers and you can’t help but feel warmth in your soul, she’s staring right back at you with that same fire in her eyes. I love you. She finally releases you, the strap glistening with your saliva. You want her to fuck you and she knows it.

“Sorry, little girl, this is a punishment which means you don’t get to cum.” She looks at you and smirks, tapping your cheek lovingly. She puts her strap back inside her pants and readjusts herself. She walks over to the coat rack by the entrance and retrieves your leash. You stay kneeling, knowing better than to get up, not wanting another punishment. Vers returns and attaches the leash to your collar. You move to get up but she stops you, “Tsk tsk, little one, this is a punishment you get to crawl back home.” She tugs on your leash once you’re on your hands and knees, “Let’s go, slut, I’m not done with you yet.” You whimper, pussy clenching, god you couldn’t wait to get home. You start to crawl next to Vers, all eyes on this spectacle and you couldn’t be more proud to be owned by her.

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

“How’s your cheek, and your throat?” Vers asks as she closed the door to your shared room. She pulls you close, hands on your waist, and examines your face. 

“I’m fine, babe. You know I like it rough.” You respond as you wrap your arms around her neck. She leans in and pecks you on the lips.

“I know, I just hate doing that in public. I want you all to myself all the time,” She pouts, “I hate sharing.” You smirk at her possessiveness, “I’ll try not to fuck up next time.” You move to hover your lips near hers. She chuckles, “And yet I find that hard to believe, baby girl.” You laugh as well closing the distance and claiming her lips in a passionate kiss.

[roxannepolice]

Rocky path of a heroine in a galaxy far far away

Do you have those moments when you have some sort of sensation that you can’t really put your finger on and it keeps nagging at you with its unconceptuability until one day you discover a word that expresses exactly what you’ve been feeling? Like finally finding out the wonder of the word Weltschmerz which suddenly makes your world so much more understandable?

Well, today I had this experience regarding the sequel trilogy when I read this I won’t exactly say great but being definitely a good introduction to the heroine’s journey article and in it saw the word aridity. Oh, yes, isn’t that the word which suits best what it feels like to imagine epix consisting of Rey the maiden of light vanquishing evil Renperor with some straightforward bigger scale pewpewpew in the background. Arid. Infertile. Unproductive. Bringing nothing new into the overall saga. Actually sounding as if it was here only to let the creators shake off the Skywalkers once and for all. Waste of a good heroine.

And aridity is exactly the word used in the article to descibe what for so many is the only obvious way for epix to go. In it are presented following stages of a heroine’s journey, as based on Maureen Murdock’s Woman’s Quest for Wholeness (they are all better descibed in the article, here I give only the desciptions I find most important to the argument):

HEROINE SEPARATES FROM THE FEMININE

IDENTIFICATION WITH THE MASCULINE AND GATHERING OF ALLIES 

ROAD OR TRIALS AND MEETING OGRES AND DRAGONS

EXPERIENCING THE BOON OF SUCCESS by overcoming the obstacles.  This would typically be where the hero’s or “shero’s” (a female protagonist on a hero’s journey) tale ends

HEROINE AWAKENS TO FEELINGS OF SPIRITUAL ARIDITY / DEATH because the new way of life is too limited.  Success in this new way of life is either temporary, illusory, shallow, or requires a betrayal of self over time 

INITIATION AND DESCENT TO THE GODDESS.  The heroine faces a crisis of some sort in which the new way is insufficient and falls into despair.  All of her “masculine” strategies have failed her

HEROINE URGENTLY YEARNS TO RECONNECT WITH THE FEMININE

HEROINE HEALS THE MOTHER/ DAUGHTER SPLIT  

HEROINE HEALS THE WOUNDED MASCULINE WITHIN

HEROINE INTEGRATES THE MASCULINE AND FEMININE to face the world or future with a new understanding of herself and the world/life. Heroine sees through binaries and can interact with a complex world that includes her but is larger than her personal  lifetime or geographical/cultural milie

So, this peaked my interest, considering how only yesterday I was venting out about how I feel there’s something wrong about this trilogy’s doubtlessness, how it doesn’t fit in with the overall symphony. But the prequels were a tragedy, plain and simple, whereas the originals were a hero’s journey. I won’t put here all of Campbell’s hero’s journey stages but basically the hero has more doubts at the beginning (clue in Luke’s I’ll try and You ask the impossibe), then has an apex (facing Palpatine and leading to Anakin’s salvation), followed by overconfidence, “refusal to give up his divinity” (basically creeping up on your nephew at night, reading his mind and igniting a lightsaber because you’re Luke Skywalker) and only recovering peace and purpose when that has been defeated (with an outside help, no less). Tu juxtapose, a heroine has a moment of overconfidence coinciding with what would have been an apex in a hero’s journey, followed by realisation of aridity of her hitherto path and a crisis, leading to healing and reintegration.

What I think is the general belief of the audience - definitely ant*s, but I think also the vast majority who aren’t really against “anything” but just can’t see how “that” could be and a good deal of reylos who read Rey as patiently waiting for her prince to disenchant himself - but more importantly, of Rey herself, is that she has reached her apex, her inner journey is finished, she is now the goddess she was meant to be, saviour of the Resistance and the last Jedi.

And that would be true. If hers was a (s)hero’s journey.

Having the Beast on a leash

There are many great edits paralleling Ben at the end of TLJ with Beast after letting Belle leave the castle, which appears to be point 4 of heroine’s journey. While the separation is important here, the above notion that this stage parallels hero’s apex had me reconsider what is the must, the essence of what happens here. It may sound weird, but I think this is the point where the Beauty “defeats” the Beast, the moment where the power imbalance shifts, where he does what she asks - or is on his knees before her. I think this “defeating” element is the best visible in one of the simplest renditions of BatB, legend of st. Martha and dragon Tarasque that I have a personal sentiment for because I used to resent my first name until I saw a picture of my namesake with a freaking dragon on a leash. There it is heavily underlined that she manages to tame, place in her - or, at least, God’s through her, it is a christian legend - power the beast most valiant heroes couldn’t defeat.

Now, Rey has in fact been in position of power over Kylo Ben twice already in the story - first on Star Killer Base and the second time when she woke up first in the Throne Room - and on both occasions didn’t use that power to finish him. Which is exactly what heroes do in this story but I’ll elaborate on that below. But what is worth noting is that the resident Beast has - or at least hopefully has - a subjective power shift when on his knees on Crait. Whatever he splurted out minutes ago, he now realises he won’t be able to do. Even if he doesn’t understand, he remotely feels his disempowerment.

Journeys  and trope subvertion or why serious reylo duel is actually possible

The fact that the crisis in the heroine’s journey comes after her heroic apex is conceptual expression of the shivers I get whenever I hear Kylo Ben say when the time comes, Rey’ll be the one to turn. Now, it’s tempting to assume he was overconfident and Rey overcame every obstacle but that’s turning a blind eye to the fact that heroine’s crisis is yet to come. As stated, Rey herself thinks she overcame every obstacle but how naive this assessment of facts was is probably best expressed in the smut hut, when she - beautiful as it was - tells Ben it’s not too late for him to turn. Just like Han, she underestimates years of manipulation he’s been through. She’s just been through what should be a sort of nadir for her so if she can go on, he’ll have no problem returning to the light, right? Note, this is something she just believes in, she says that before the force vision.

But again, did she have a nadir? Did she have a moment which challenged all of her previous beliefs the way Luke fidning out Vader is his father did? It’s extremely important Luke finds out in ESB something new whereas Rey is faced with a truth she has been denying. We don’t know how Luke dealt with his vision in the tree on Dagobah, but we know how he reacted to its realisation in action.

Of course, regardless of how hysterical this was, he still did the right thing and epically refused. But he’s shown to accept the fact that Vader is his father and it affects all of his future actions leading to his heroic climax I only later realised how this sounds but I won’t change it.

So, the cave scene. There are quite a few interpretations of what exactly this scene meant. Some intrerpret it as Rey finding out the dark side will give her no answers - which makes little sense as an element of her journey as juxtaposed with Luke on Dagobah. If, however, the cave did give her some answers, either telling her to stop giving f*cks about her parents, making a symbolical expression of their nobodiness or hinting at her future - again, she denies them. When Kylo Ben has her finally face the truth, she seems to take it pretty well - which is good but isn’t good in a heroine’s journey. A journey isn’t from point A to point A, there has to be a percepetion change, the new unerstanding of world/life/self. I bring back the heroine faces a crisis of some sort in which the new (post-apex) way is insufficient and falls into despair.  All of her “masculine” strategies have failed her.

Now, I would prefer to detach Rey’s journey from masculine-feminine categories, mainly because it frustrates me that a woman’s journey should be considered in terms of relative gender ideas rather than more absolute ones. Call it a yin and yang and it definitely has a lot to do with light and dark side. Now, as far Rey’s separation from whatever is concerned, I’m a bit uncertain what to think. Can it be said that TFA and TLJ are about Rey separating herself from her scavenger personality and embracing the jedi knight/resistance saviour one? Which would mean that she’ll later have to reembrace while reinterpreting her tendency to “salvage broken renperors things”? Still, this interpretation is hardly expressed in the movies. Overall, it does make sense, as in TLJ her outward motivation is that of the newly taken title of resident force sensitive on a quest to get Luke Skywalker to save the galaxy the way Reistance knows it’s to be saved. 

Heroines tend to be more dissonant than heroes, though I’d argue it’s mainly due to the fact that their stories tend to be more introspective, character driven, allowing more nuance in their attitudes than the latter, more action oriented (and when I say tend to, I mean tend to, not that it’s a rule). It’s not an inherent trope in heroine’s journey or female literature, though it is bound to the fact that a hero will have his doubts expressed and refuted in the earlier parts of his story. A heroine can feel one way but to the outer world and more importanty, her own consciousness, she’ll frame her motivations in a way more acceptable in the 2-4 stages of her path. So, Christine Daae isn’t fascinated by the mysterious man with a disturbingly sexy voice, she’s taking music lessons. Belle is in Beast’s castle so that her father can be free. Rey only hopes that Ben can be turned because that’s how Luke saved Darth Vader and the galaxy (notice - she aspires to acting like the resident hero, and Luke in the novel and comic repeatedly expresses his fear of how much Rey - a heroine - wants to be him - a hero not that he’s thinking in those latter terms, they’re just deeper implications of structures). Needless to say, Christine wouldn’t be enthusiastic about music lessons with anyone else, Belle starts enjoying her “captivity” without noticing when and Rey has very personal interests in Ben’s brightly illuminated pecs future. 

The crucial mistake that’s so easy to commit while analysing a heroine’s journey is to assume she has all figured out by the stage 4. Again, she would have - if she was a hero. A hero let go from his captor’s castle has triumphed, he has nothing to look back to. A heroine will realise - though doesn’t really realise in the moment she’s leaving, usually due to the fact that she has more urgent matters like a sick father or trapped resistance to attend to - that she’s left her heart there. Matters become even more complicated if she appears to have overcome her ultimate trial before leaving that castle. But again - was that an ultimate trial for her? Was it an actual dilemma in which both choices are equally bad or equally good? No, it was a choice between selfishness and altruism, which is a no brainer for a selfless person, regardless of innocent manipulation used. This can suffice as an auspicious switch for a hitherto morally inferior character, but not the morally superior journeying hero/ine. For the latter, real challenge is a choice between altruism and altruism, marry me and then I’ll save your friends, kill your father and become the hero fanbase half thinks Luke is, slay one person to save thousands. Again, Rey has already faced this last dilemma twice - but never time with immediate pressure of highest stakes. But in the end, it appears the only thing that was challenged in TLJ, prior to the apex of her hero’s path, was her hope for Kylo Ben. Her apparent nadir followed by a climb up is her facing the results of her naive hope in the Throne Room and learning to never do that again, overcoming the flaw of overgenerosity.

Yet if a heroine is to progress, she has to stop being a hero. And Rey's symbolic nadir was the cave, only the actual crisis and climb are yet to come. And Rey hasn't been overgenerous towards Ben, her going to him wasn't out of selfless generosity alone.

So, the three matters to adress while thinking about Rey’s journey in epix are

will her crisis come?

how stubborn will she be about her “new path”?

will heroine’s journey be subverted?

As far as point 1 is concerned - well, if they are doing a heroine’s journey then yes, she’ll have some crisis of her beliefs. Lack thereof is basically the “aridness” viewers feel thinking of lack of some tension within the resistance. The question is, how deep will it be. It could simply be a sort of Amidalaesque “what if the republic has become the very evil we promised to fight?”. The problem is, Rey is quite capable of denial. She’s patient, she can clench her teeth and continue doing what’s right, which is a great quality, most of the time. But when a crisis does come, it will be one of lifelong proportions. The point is, she had no time to properly face her axis mundi having been overthrown and I’m not really sure she wants to face it. And in the end, I don’t think the audience wants her to face it. And yet face it she must for real progress to come.

How does a reylo duel fit into this whole rambling? Well, basically it’s the result of wondering how strong a factor will it take for Rey’s crisis of beliefs to come. Would a person who waited for 15 years for people she knew to have sold her avidly oppose the galactic heroes apparent because of their basic aridity? Or would it take a deeper denial of self over time? Again, I’m considering an actual dilemma situation, right choice vs. right choice, high stakes and immediate action. So... yeah. If right circumstances appear at the right point in Rey’s journey a serious reylo duel, at least on Rey’s part, is a very serious possibility.

Now, it should be argued that dragon slaying is a hero’s job and Rey’s a heroine. But there are two “buts”: first of all, if the duel should happen before the crisis, trigger it actually, then Rey would still be in her “hero stage”. Secondly, and that’s probably the most interesting part, the path has to be subverted. Don’t forget, this IS what happened with Luke, the resident journeying hero of originals. As so many viewers refuse to understand but has been true since the 80s, Luke’s heroic climax lies in throwing  away the lightsaber, in refusing to slay the dragon or even dragon’s evil wizard overlord, against common sense, mentors’ advice and contrary to what he’s been doing for two episodes, one might add. If the hero’s journey is made peaceful, it appears symmetrical for the heroine’s to become aggressive, or at least have an aggressive moment. Because obviously, Luke’s peaceful action still led to hero’s finale where the dragon killed the overlord and then himself burned to release the hero’s boon princess daddy. In the same manner, heroine’s eventual healing and integrating could come despite - or even because of - an aggressive action.

What can poor Beast do ‘xcept to sing for rock’n’roll band?

There’s yet another point to be considered while discussing a heroine’s journey in the form of BatB theme - the Beast’s seperate progress. Now, the question of what will renperor be like is one of the most frequent in the fandom and I dare say JJ will manage to surprise most of us anyway. Personally, I sorta stan a not so bad renperor but  that’s more of Henry Fonda in 12 angry men attitude: everyone is sure he’s guilty but I’m not so I’ll say he’s not guilty and wait to be persuaded. 

However, there is an argument to be made against a really evil renperor based on BatB theme and heroine’s journey - the fact that her post-hero’s apex progress has to involve rejection of her chosen path’s aridity. On a psychological level it takes more complex forms, but in a space opera it’s likelier to be outward. I’m not exactly saying that it’s even most remotely probable that Rey would defect to FO though if that happens I will open a fortune telling business but her eventual life with Ben cannot be as or even more arid than as... ugh... next republic’s (talk about infertility?) jedi hero, vide in prison or exile. Nope, there’s healing and reintegration for her in store, not keeping her two paths separated.

I guess we all agree that if there’s happily ever after but for reylo, it will be because renperor will screw up, not because resistance will be mean. The most basic story would have Ben be depressed and locked up in his tower, but the simultaneously good and bad news is, it’s not an unalterable must. The Beast can f*ck up the story - to his own and Beauty’s detriment and there’s little the latter can do about it. Vide: Phantom of the Opera, focusing on the book. I’m not bringing this up to conjure any what ifs or legitimize and delegitimize ships, but to analyse a BatB version written to end in tragedy. The point is, Erik does in no way alter his behaviour because of Christine after the first time he lets her go. He continues to strangle opera employees and dropping chandeliers when they’re apart - I’m absolutely sure evil renperor would be force dropping chandeliers - and in the end becomes a completely arid option for Christine, even if she does feel compassion for him and has her sexual awakening because of him. It makes an unsatisfying story and leaves Christine an unfulfilled heroine, yet that’s because her “hero” path was still less arid than the continuation of heroine’s, and only on a meta level because of fin de siecle morals. 

Now, the good news is that the above negative example shows passivity isn’t Beast’s obligatory narrative choice, where there’s down, there’s up. I’m far from some sort of dream galaxy saviour visions, but tbh I haven’t been bi*ching for three paragraphs about narrative logic saying epix is to bring moral challenges to pronounce that no morals will be challenged.

Morality that isn't challenged isn't a living messy inner process, only an externalized frozen set of rules called ethics - which can be auxillary in solving uncertain difficult moral dilemmas, but cannot substitute morality. Some change in the Star Wars morals is due and considering the frozen ethics is good rebels-evil empires-one redeemable character, some element has to go, qualitatively change or be added, considering the frozen ethics prequels gave originals was only good republic-evil empire.

So, end of the day, what is to be pronounced that will happen in epix? As always, it’s all speculation that’s a fun way to employ creative powers. TBH, I really think that JJ will surprise almost everyone.

[silvysartfulness]

Of course it had been another dead end. Of course it had.

He should have known better than to dare hope, for a brief moment, to find answers after all this time, and it was with great frustration at himself he had to admit disappointment. A sharp and burning sting clawed at something deep within his chest, and it was unusually hard to find again the comforting cold indifference that had become his equilibrium long ago.

He had known he was unlikely to find answers here in the Floating City, at the filthiest lowest corners of decadent Machra-la - but unlikely as it had been, when the rumour had reached him of a name long unheard whispered in this wretched place, he had followed it desperately nonetheless.

No longer believing he would see that smiling face again – that was a hope long forsaken – but to maybe, finally learn the truth. Surely, after all this time, the young woman who had impossibly, inexplicably managed to get past all walls to touch his hardened heart must be long dead, swallowed whole without a trace by this dark and unforgiving place. The flare of pain burned brighter at that bitter thought and he pressed his lips together, forcing it away. No point in grief, or vain hope, or foolish emotion, he harshly told himself. Nothing had ever been accomplished by succumbing to such weakness.

But the pain lingered all the same.

The colorful butterflies of the Floating City melted aside after but a single glance at his unrelenting face, courtesans, traders and revelers, granting him passage. Colored lanterns came alive all around as the first drops of rain fell from a darkening sky, the tied-together garish rafts forming uneven, unsteady ground as the waves beneath heaved restlessly before the coming storm. If the rise and fall made him uneasy, he refused to acknowledge that as well, falling back on instinctive warrior's balance to keep himself steady.

Lost in dark thought, he finally stopped and frowned, realized he'd unconsciously followed a sound both alien and familiar, the quivering mournful notes of Ku'Ombian pan pipes cutting through the din of the crowd. Bringing back memories, none particularly pleasant.

The sound came from a small raft off the main thoroughfare, cheap lanterns lighting the rough boards of a simple shed, and the face of the fluteplayer. Actually from Ku'Ombos, he noted dryly, no doubt an exotic commodity of quite some value here.That would explain the pipes, he supposed, drawing attention to rare, red skin.

He almost resumed his walking, then, but something at the back of his mind had cut through the haze of melancholy, making him stop and take a closer look. The sharp features of the playing courtesan were familiar, too familiar to be waved aside as simply being accustomed to living among the people to the east. Aquiline nose and stark cheeckbones; the face may be older now, and drawn, but even beneath the thick make-up he would have known the face of his once friend-turned-traitor anywhere.

”You have a good eye, sati,” an ingratiating voice cut through his stunned contemplation. The flesh-peddler sitting beneath the swaying lanterns was a lanky middle-aged man with oily demeanour and hard eyes. He stood to gesture at the ruined prince cowering in cheap robes, bedecked with cheaper still jewelry. ”Do you like what you see? Evening like this, the storm brewing, people stay indoors and business is slow. No need to be cold and lonely when the rain comes. I'll give you a good price.”

Maqaxha's eyes were closed as he played, unaware he had been recognized. Still somewhat unable to tear his eyes from the familiar face, he narrowed his eyes. This was certainly not what he had come to the flotsam city to seek, but it would seem fate had other plans for his evening.

”How much?”

At his voice Maqaxha finally lowered the pipes, a look of vague alarm crossing his face, as though he couldn't place what was wrong but suddenly smelled danger. Still, he didn't open his eyes.

The Machralese stepped closer and reached out to place a comradely hand on his arm, met his eyes and clearly thought better of it.

”A distinguished man such as yourself? Surely you could spare twenty copper stars for an hour. I assure you, it will be worth it - have you ever been with a Ku'Ombian before, sati? They're a fiery breed, known for their deviant ways among the sheets.”

He scoffed.

”Not particularly, no,” he stated, thinking back on the modest and devout people. ”I'm not interested in an hour. What's the blood price?”

The man raised his eyebrows, and you could all but see the numbers flashing by behind cold, flat eyes as he recalculated his fortunes. Behind him Maqaxha had lowered the pipes into his lap, all color slowly draining from his face.

”Would you take my dear Kitsune away from me, sati..? He's like a child to me, my dearest friend and family in the world. I don't know if I could bear it...”

Feeling sullied from the crass bartering over no doubt well-used flesh, he none too subtly rested a hand on the hilt of his sword.

”Just name your price. Make it fair and I will pay you. Do not try my patience.”

”Master, please, no...” Maqaxha said, and it was so alien to hear that familiar voice coming from the blood red lips. Still the fallen prince kept his eyes closed, reaching out to place a beseeching hand on his master's arm, and it only now dawned on him that the man was blinded, eyelids sewn shut, the sutures hidden among painted lashes. Suddenly his skin crawled, and he wished nothing more than to leave this filthy place.

”Please,” Maqaxha repeated, barely veiled panic in his voice now. ”Master please, don't. Don't sell me for this, not to him, please!”

With a shrug the Machralese shook off the blindly fumbling hands without a second glance, all business now.

”Three thousand, sati. If you want his life, I'll need to buy another slave.”

Maqaxha made a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, falling limply to his knees, still silently begging, tugging at his master's sleeve, a whore so pathetic he couldn't help but wonder for a moment if he had been mistaken. And yet, but for the garish make-up and hollowed face, he could still imagine all too well those pale green eyes shining with cruelty as the prince spoke his servants' death sentence. No mistake, he knew who it was he had found.

The price named was ridiculous, but if it meant he could finally leave, he would gladly pay it three times over.

”Accepted. You may keep his name and possessions. I'll take him with me.”

Nodding, the man turned to pluck brass bracelets and earrings from his weeping slave, ignoring the whispered pleas for mercy, swatting his clinging hands away in annoyance, clasping a simple leash to his collar. A brief transaction of money took place, and avoiding physical contact as much as possible he accepted the leash into his hand.

”He's all yours, sati. Enjoy,” the Machralese stated, having crassly counted his coins, apparently satisfied. ”It will be a cold night. I advice you to find somewhere warm before the storm hits. Now, if you will please excuse me...”

With a polite bow he turned to snuff out the lanterns, then disappeared through the curtains into the shed, leaving them alone in the oncoming rain. Maqaxha had collapsed into a weakly sobbing heap at his feet, and for a moment he coldly contemplated if he would have to drag the man by the leash all the way to his ship. He tugged none too gently on it to get his attention.

”Do you know who I am, Maqaxha..?” he asked, deathly quiet.

Gasping at that forbidden name, the shivering creature nodded, the make-up smeared now by tears.

”Yes,” he managed, a broken sound, likely not even realizing he still spoke heavily accented Machralese. ”I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything. Please, sati... Have mercy, please...”

Unable to hold back a grimace of disgust he straightened.

”This is mercy. Get on your feet.” He gave the leash another tug. ”You have the judgment of a world to face.”

At first it seemed the man would not be able to stand, shaking violently, but fear of further punishment apparently won out and he painfully slowly hauled himself to unsteady feet, hiding his face in his hands.

Severely yearning to finally leave the foul Floating City and never come back, he turned to lead the way, the blinded traitor-prince stumbling wretchedly along behind him.

[aggresivelyfriendly]

~Meet Me In The Hallway~

Special thanks to my feedback leavers and my betas!

Love you @emulateharry and @nocontrolforlouis

Chapter 9-Sightseeing

I wandered down those paths most nights in those days. I’d think about what ifs all the time and I was painfully aware of my feelings. 

The way he looked at me sometimes....

 In the beginning they were filled with me climbing onto my self-created rack and stretching my feelings long and taut. I felt ridiculous.

My stomach fluttered whenever I saw him, and those days when we were reunited after stretches away from each other were particularly bad. I was, to quote the great Britney, not a girl, but not yet a woman, but my pubescent response to him was stupidly overwhelming. I was not a fan girl. I spent a tremendous amount of time with a bunch of dudes who had fan girls. They were treated like something apart, something more than human.

In my real experience, they were more human than human, they sweat and farted and bled freely and often. It pissed me off that Harry was able to reduce me to the fluttering mess he was. My only hope was that he was unaware. I could not imagine he knew what he did to me, or his flirty little touches and open self disclosures would be the cruelest lead.

If so, he was a mean master and I was pulled along on his leash.

I told myself, in those long early days, that he didn't mean any harm. From what I came to know of him, what I still believe I know of him, is that the last thing that Harry wishes to give to others is harm.

Even when he was a randy man child coming to grips with the spotlight and all of its privileges and pitfalls, I don't think he ever intended to hurt anyone. Least of all me. He liked me always, as a person and as a friend at least. I'm not exactly sure looking back when it happened. When it became more for me, when it became more. I knew better than to like a guy who was my friend.

It didn't work out. But, by the time we had rejoined the tour and I'd been welcomed back into Harry's arms and bed, I had feelings for him. Those bastards kept cropping up, like weeds in a well-tended garden. I took the time and spent hours tending to it, every night I would talk myself down. Phrases like:he could have anyone, you are lucky he cares for you like a friend, he always takes you in, don't ruin it, he's so much fun, don't miss out on that because of stupid tummy swirls, you know how this ends, don't do this again- those were my lullabies.

Every morning I'd wake up with him tangled around me. Spider arms wrapped around my neck, or shoulders or torso, and I'd be a willing fly in the web. We'd laze about, and have talks in the half-light or bright sunshine, depending on our jet lag and then we’d eat together. We were sharing at least two meals together most days, no one seemed to notice, but all that broken bread meant we couldn't help but be making something together.

He flirted too, and he was a horrible flirt, truly. Harry's hands found my body in almost every interaction that we had. Unknowingly while he slept, unconsciously while we played video games or ate, and purposefully when he hugged me hello or goodbye, dropping candied kisses on my cheeks as well. My feelings were confused, or I liked to pretend they were, and I didn't have the huztpah to ask him about his own. I feared his rejection more than the pain I was putting myself through. I would have missed him terribly had he pushed me into the hallway after I revealed myself. I may have been in his bed then physically, but emotionally I was standing in a long chamber between countless doors waiting for him to open one.

There had been times when he slipped, Freud level oppsies that kept me on his hook. I was his own big mouthed bass, gape open and waiting. Casual I love you's were shared-"I love the way you laugh, kick my ass, make fun of Niall, talk, smell."

I wanted him to love the way I tasted.

The near miss kisses we shared may have been a teasing taste had we ever collided. Those I thought of too, lying in white fluff, smelling the tang of his sweat and gradual pleasant sour of his breath. The scenarios I came up with started to ramp up after our wish fulfilling movie night. Before watching Wesley and Co. defeat evil princes, I had daydreamed about kissing Harry.

Sitting on my bed far far away, I had thought about what he would move like. Would I taste him or just the spearmint of the gum he chewed constantly? Would the mint cool my mouth giving me a bracing inhale that one time we went to the snow in New Zealand, freezing throat of like menthol with the fiery other being our lips meeting. Would the kiss be a peck followed by an awkward sputter as it flared out? Or, would mutual attraction be enough oxygen to cause a flare?  Would the tinder be rich enough that we lit up and were consumed? Would it lead to more, be an amuse bouche, a taste of things to come?

After he sat his bony hindquarters on me and leaned in so close, the daydreams changed. I was no longer some corseted heroine being taken by his Fabio-esque rakishness. All those fantasies I built from books still in my head were replaced by little realities. His nose glanced off of mine during our Eskimo kiss, so I could fill that in to my imagined scenario. His breath was minty, but the onion from his burger had a sharper bite when I tasted his breath. His hands did span the back of my neck doubly, one could wrap around my throat with ease. Up close the green of his eyes were translucent and the blue ring at the edge was pushed out when his pupils dilated. His lips tipped up enough around the edges so that they touched my own when he leaned in, long before the interiors were in danger of connecting. And when he spoke at that proximity they moved against my own like silk sliding over my hips, a snag or two on the dried pieces of skin Lou hadn't exfoliated off yet.

The new sensations to go along with my wishful thinking fueled my late night yearnings. It only got worse after that.

I tried not to think about him, not to give myself to him when I had no assurance that he wanted it. I'd go out and try to distract myself. But I had built habits around being hisbiis eyes in the cities he moved through without seeing.

I'd pass a bit of street art, graffiti, dude with a funny sign, ocean view, mountain vista, piece of kitsch, slice of Americana, and I'd snap it. Send it. I'm surprised my phone did not automatically forward pictures to him. All those algorithms failed me there.

Even now, when I'm in a new place, or see a new wonder, I capture it for him before I do for myself. Last week, before I headed out from Singapore for a week long work trip, my friends dragged me out to celebrate my new gig with a night out. After shots and dancing and karaoke, and more shots, I was in the Chomp Chomp Centre watching the late night hawkers, and all I could think of was how watching the life in this place would light up his face. The wonder he would have, his chin would tilt up and he'd stop breathing for just a moment, and then his eyes would cloud, gloss, and he'd close them to get ahold of his emotions.

Maybe now he had grown comfortable with how weepy he could be. I was always impressed with his deep feeling, how things cut to his bone so swiftly. The armor I wore blanketed me from my emotions and my natural inclination to introspection meant my feelings were only known to me, and then I'd dissect them out of existence. I did not possess his glass face, but I coveted it. I also loved to provoke the deep feelings when I hit upon something that moved him.  I knew this place, it's pace, would do just that. I could imagine him going from stall to stall, looking for the longest lines like a local. He'd want to share.

"Try it." His low tone would bring me in, his personal space my own as I tried to hear him over the din of drunken company men and metal spoons scraping woks.

In the beginning, I'd shyly open and receive his offering, a child at first communion. Near our end, I was more the naughty school girl hoping to seduce the new young priest. I'd suck his fingertips and look at him through my lashes. The dilation of his pupils and other measures of his mania for me I'd have studied like an acolyte. By the end I was more than ready for ordination.

I wondered what he'd put on his chicken rice, if his British sense of taste would be satisfied by the fragrance of the grain steeped in stock, or if he'd grown as much as me in his travels and would heap on the chili sauce. If he couldn't come with me, I wondered if the kisses we shared when I made it back to him would be spicy, and his lips would burn with mine from dual appetites.

I snapped pictures, for him, and long dead habits seemed to be surfacing. The three years since I'd last seen him erasing my consideration of him in my day to day life. I made a conscious effort to stop, I had taught myself to seek my own interests and pleasures. It was when I couldn't walk out without the banana sweet I realized I hoped to see him in Shanghai.

I don't even like banana.

The yearning for him is what I remember most. It was my constant companion. It’s shadow was long and dwarfed me when I slept in his arms but didn't have a room in his heart. It cast itself like it was noon when I was sure of my place, only to grow long in absence. When we were apart, the want of him was huge. It overshadowed me. I can't say it was the same for him. Our final separation saw my shade become greater than myself. It was so large, there was nothing left of me for longer than I care to admit.

I'm not sure I ever made such an impression on him. I suspect I was more like an amenity.

I am being unkind, especially to myself. He would be disappointed. I wish I did not care.

I'm still watching the back of his head as he makes his way away from me to the elevator, to the next place. He's surrounded by people, I can hear his voice and I know the tone. He is teasing the man with short hair beside him. I can't make out the words, but the guy’s tone is low and full of affection, he wraps his arm around a woman among them and I wonder if the affection is towards her or Harry. Probably Harry, he provoked that response in strangers, let alone people he liked enough to tease.

His fingers extend to press the call button and I am distracted by his long fingers. I've watched the skinny digits pluck away at a guitar and my nipples and my body twinges at the memory. My attention strays from his nail beds, still chipped with polish. I smile involuntarily that he still likes them painted until my eye drifts to the cluster of silver near the top of his palm. My breath catches.  He couldn't possibly still wear that ring. When his hand pulls back, the light catches the metal circle and I can almost read it. I know what it says. It was my wish for him while he was surrounded by chaos. It was what I hoped I gave him a measure of in the rooms we shared, a moments peace.

His head rises up, and the mirror next to the elevator doors catches his attention. My focus shifts to where he is looking.

He is looking at me.

[carousels-on-fire]

Let me tell you about the love I’ve been carrying in my chest for 9 years. But never felt like I was allowed to talk about because ‘I should have gotten over it by now.’ (Note: I changed names and pronouns of those involved, even if no one would know anyone mentioned anyway. I probably slip up and change from they to he, but both are correct. ) Looking at old photos pushed me back into a depressive spiral I’ve been drifting in and out of for 9 years now. I don’t think I’ve written out the full story yet. Of that one relationship that brings me back to this place. Not where people can see it. I always allude to it. Or I tell part of the story. Or I try to downplay it. I tell people: “It was just a thing that happened. It was a two week thing, not important.”But it was the most painful and definitive experience of my early 20s, and even now, nearly a decade on, I still haven’t recovered from it. It fundamentally changed me as a person, and like the earth blackened by forest fire, I can grow around it, but that blackened layer of soil is part of my history. In 2009 I started college. Two months after my mother’s suicide attempt. I was 18, freshly out of high school; and lived the kind of sheltered life where I was terrified to even use a crosswalk for fear of getting hit by a car. I was kept on such a tight leash that I hadn’t experienced much of life at that point. Naive, emotionally vulnerable, and terrified of the outside world. I was left at the curb of my new dorm and for the first time I was on my own, with no one to answer to. I clung to the one friend who made that high school-to-college transition with me, my best friend who was older and seemed much wiser than I was. But it was a crutch. Something to fill that void of authority I’d always operated under. I never knew what to do with myself because i’d always had someone dictating where I went and how I spent my time. On my first day of drawing class I got there early and had to sit out in the hallway to wait for class to begin. And while I was sitting there I saw a person walk, quickly and almost comically past me carrying a music case and a bag, and then comically walk back and ask me where the practice rooms were. I told them I didn’t know because it was my first day and they decided to stop and chat with me because my class had yet to start. This person, who I will refer to as Des from here on out, was equal parts baffling and charming. They were gregarious, punctuating each phrase with a hand gesture, their entire demeanor being slightly manic, but in such an earnest way that you couldn’t help but be charmed. At the time I was entirely unsure what to make of this person, but they were nice, and they were talking to me, and I was happy to have a friend in this strange new world. They mentioned that they saw me in our Sociology class and I made a point to look out for them.  We started meeting after class everyday to go eat breakfast together in the dining hall. While they were still gregarious and charming and odd, they had a temper too. One that would manifest itself in a kind of righteous anger at one thing or another. There was a carefully hidden sadness there too, a kind of haunted edge to their countenance that you wouldn’t notice unless you happened to catch them in the stillness between words, in the quiet moments when they didn’t realize you were watching and they could pause the act and breathe. They were also the first gay person I met at college. I’d recently, a couple years beforehand realized I wasn’t straight and realized that I had a crush, not on the very pretty emo boy that I “obsessed” over, but his female equivalent in a new friend. And spent many years of unrequited pining wishing they would notice me. But they were straight and it wasn’t to be. Where most people entered college with a few relationships under their belt already or having married their high school sweethearts, I went with nothing at all. With the memory of never being wanted by any of the people I had ‘crushes’ on and determined to change that. I was so sure college would be it. College would be where I’d meet the love of my life and be married by the end of it. But once I got to college and was finally placed within meeting distance of other gay kids, I realized how out of my depth I was. How scary other people were and how scary this entire world was. So I kept pining after my highschool crush, praying that maybe, somehow they were interested and I’d misread the signs.  But Des was the opposite of me, approaching relationships with a confidence and lackadaisical familiarity that I could never had. They seemed to find new people to experiment with at the drop of a hat, and at the time I didn’t register my jealousy for what it was. I simply listened when they described making out with this person or the other. Shrugging, but also subconsciously seeing them in a slightly different light. Though, because I was still pining, I buried that feeling, filing it away for future use. They were just Des, a constant presence that sometimes scared me with their intensity, but never in a way that I would consider leaving. Enough that, like with my parents, I managed their emotions and sidestepped as to not be in the line of fire. Though their rage was almost never directed at me. I soon introduced Des to my best friend, we’ll call them Lee. Lee and Des took to each other immediately, having more in common and being more similar in demeanor than Des was with me. I was immediately relegated from center of attention, when it was just the two of us, to side character, third wheel. Des always tried to include me, but the damage was already done, in a way. Des brought in his friend, Ria and the four of us became inseparable. I was always hurt that Des never seemed to care as much as he did at first, but I was content to be the third wheel as long as I could be with them, as long as I didn’t have to be alone. I couldn’t change the fact that the two of us had far less in common, and my quietness simply couldn’t compete with someone much more sure, much more confident, and better at speaking than I was. It was easy to be talked over so I let it happen. I looked away when they would be so physically near each other in a way that Des and I couldn’t. I tried not to be jealous. But I was. We formed a cosplay group, modeled after one Des found on Youtube. We all picked characters and started calling each other by our character’s names instead of ours. It went from being a hobby to something we did 24/7. We’d wear our cosplays constantly as casual cosplays, try to do things in character, and even do videos and photoshoots. Over time it became a crutch for all of us. All of us dealing with broken home lives, abusive parents, or whatever problems were going on away from school. And dealing with gender and sexuality issues that we didn’t even have vocabulary for. All we knew was that wearing the skins of those characters was so much more comfortable than our own skins. I was part of it, but also deep in my Emilie Autumn phase. They were the cocoons I wrapped around myself to protect myself from the world, and from them to an extent.  But the first time I ever “realized” I felt anything for Des was when we did a photoshoot together in character. We were wearing our wigs and decided to pose together in ways that were sort of in character but not really. But it allowed me to be close to them or touch them in ways I hadn’t until that point. And while the tension was there, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. Unlike all my high school crushes where I obsessed over that person, I never once thought about how Des made me feel. It was going on instinct alone. Part of me knew there was something there, but I never obsessed over it beforehand. It simply was, an objective reality with no need for contemplation. The more time we spent together, the more I realized we made excuses to be close to one another, or excuses to touch the other, just innocently. But it frustrated me that every time we’d get close, Lee, our other friend would find a reason to join in or the moment would end. I couldn’t have their attention just focused on me. As selfish as I knew it was I yearned for it. And every time they gave me their undivided attention, it was like water to a parched man. I knew I was a goner one day when we were hanging out in Ria’s dorm room, and Des decided to put on her wig and dance around the room. It was silly, but I just remember making eye contact with him mid-spin, and he grinned at me in this way that was completely open and happy, and this realization just hit. But I still approached it so much more carefully than any of my high school crushes. For the first time I knew what it felt like to have someone reciprocate, and be almost sure. It wasn’t the carefully walled off no to avoid hurting me. But the apprehension of not quite knowing what this thing was. There was still jealously to contend with, but I felt like this thing we had was strong enough to win out against everything else. I had to content with my third wheel status, and that attraction I knew was there between me and Des.  The relationship, as it were, started the night Des and I shared a bed, and a first kiss. It was never really decided upon, just something that happened. Des had been sharing rooms with each of us to avoid their roommate and roommate’s boyfriend. The twin bed was just barely big enough for the two of us. And unlike that moment we stayed asleep together in Ria’s dorm room bed, we had the room to ourselves. Well aside from my own sleeping roommate. But it may as well have been just the two of us. After that we couldn’t avoid talking about this thing we had. It was tangible now. We were awkward around each other for a week until I finally got the courage to ask if that kiss had been a one time deal, and whether or not we should try a relationship. I had never been in a relationship but always wanted to be. Des had, but didn’t want to deal with people in our friend group knowing about it. So we started dating, albeit secretly. I had to keep the thing I wanted to scream from the rooftops secret. We met when we could alone, held hands walking through the campus, but we could never be public with our displays of affection. And me, being me, was still a little afraid to show affection in public anyway. And it hurt, to have this thing I’d wanted for so long, but not be able to say anything and to have to act like we weren’t together when we were among the other members of the group. I hated having to share him, even if I knew it was selfish. Other people got to spend so much time with their SOs, and I wanted that too. But I had everyone else vying for his attention. As the year progressed that cocoon of cosplay and group solidarity started to unravel. All the things we had tried to get away from by being other people, were starting to bleed into our college lives. The breakdown of Lee’s mother, the violent fallout of Des’ abusive homelife, and the disintegration of our little cosplay group as we brought in more people was a powder keg of post-adolescent drama. As our friend group expanded and included people only interested in using our intense, fragile connections for their own ends, cracks started forming in the facade of our friendship. Des became more and more withdrawn, or equal parts fury and aloofness that I didn’t know how to handle. But Lee did. When handling my parents emotions it was always step back and wait for the storm to clear. But with Des, I wanted to help him, but was completely out of my depth. He was subject to a pain and helplessness so deep I didn’t have the tools to help. I lacked the kind of empathy that he required. And, as horrible as it was, I was jealous that Lee could comfort him in a way that I couldn’t. Lee had a similar enough situation to know how to help, and I didn’t. In a lot of ways, our relationship was shallow. Des never wanted to hurt me by handing me all of his burdens, so he handed them to Lee. They got closer, while we got farther apart, ironic if you think about it. They were physically closer as well, showing each other affection, even if platonically, in ways the two of us couldn’t. We spent a single night together at my parents house before returning to college after the winter break. After that we seemed to grow further and further apart, not for lack of trying, but because the problems Des was dealing with in their own life were so beyond me. They’d started counseling months before that, and seemed to be falling apart at the seams, as much as I tried to help. Finally, in some odd twist of dumb, teenage logic, I decided the only way to help Des was to give them some space so they wouldn’t have to deal with a relationship on top of dealing with home issues and abusive parents and trying to protect their beloved sibling long distance. I met them in the study room we’d always met in as a group, to have the talk that led to our separation. And I remember, holding them, and realizing what a huge fucking mistake I’d just made. For years after I’d replay that moment in my head again, and again, and again for years just wishing that I’d said “Wait, no, I don’t want to be apart, please stay with me, I want to help you.” I’d have dreams where things worked out, then wake to the cruel reality that was being alone. I never really wanted to break up with them, I still loved them more than I ever thought I could love another person. But I wanted to help them so much that I overrode all logic to do the only thing I could think of. It was the single dumbest mistake I’ve made in my life. I threw away something that, might have been fine if I’d waited until Des sorted their problems out themselves and been there to stand beside them. I still, through some convoluted logic thought that maybe they’d want to get back together later. What I didn’t expect is that my friend, we’ll call him Seth, who’d innocently asked me if Des and I were together would go on to ask them out before Valentine’s Day, two weeks later. I never really realized what I’d lost until I heard they were together. Lee told me. Lee called me up to their work office, to tell me about how they’d planned to confess their feelings to Des in this whole set up way. But hadn’t had the chance. I never even realized that Lee felt anything like that for Des. But it didn’t register until then. I finally told them about that short, month long, hidden relationship that I’d stupidly ended weeks before. I was crushed. My entire world seemed to stop and go still the moment he told me Des was seeing someone. Not two weeks after we broke up. I felt betrayed and had no right to. I really had no right to feel bad since I initiated the end, but I did. It was a kind of grief I never felt before. I realized the mistake I’d made and knew that it was too late to go back. I think somehow, in some twisted bout of logic I thought maybe if I broke up with Des, that somehow he’d say no, and say that they loved me and actually wanted to be together. I didn’t expect them to let me go. And so easily. I realized then that as much as I loved Des so much that it physically hurt to be apart from him for more than a couple hours, Des only saw me as maybe a fun brief relationship, but otherwise another blip in his life. Where I had to beg him to come spend time with me, they were sneaking off with Seth at all hours. They were allowed to be open with their relationship. They could write about it on facebook, meet the parents. Where we had to hide it. My heart sunk down into my stomach every time I saw them together, and it took all I could to not burst into tears every moment. It was then that the depression started. The first thing I did after finding out was sit at my dorm room desk and cry, and then I called my two other best friends and they asked me for Des’ number so they could call and reprimand them for making me cry. But even if he hurt me, I couldn’t bear for them to be mean to Des. I couldn’t do it. I carried my grief inside, trying to exorcise it with art or poetry or anything I was always told would help. But it was an open wound inside my chest, a crushing weight, a reminder that I was unlovable that played inside my head day in and day out. My grades started to suffer. And through it all, I was never allowed to tell anyone why. Because I wasn’t out, the relationship was a secret, and I’d been the one to end it after all. I had no right to be sad and yet it ate at me day in and day out. My friends tried to set me up with other people, but I was still so in love with them, or maybe the idea of him that it was no use.  Later I wrote a love letter to him and met with him, because I knew once I saw them, I couldn’t hand them my pain. So I just gave them that letter. And they told me that one day I’d find someone. It was vague enough that I still had hope, but also that I had no closure. It hurt to be told to find someone else when I still felt so much for him. Des tried so hard not to hurt me, that he inadvertently hurt me worse because I was never really allowed to grieve. I couldn’t get over it, because I still had some vague hope that maybe one day Des would come back. Maybe they could feel something for me again. No matter how many people I told my story to, they didn’t get it. No matter how many counselors I told my story to, they didn’t get it. Because even with all my writing skill, I could never convey that feeling and the depth of it. I could never, out loud say that I loved him because it felt like too much. Like a harsh blinding spot light that I had to use words like “adore” or “really like” because saying love, saying I loved them, felt like a blowtorch melting my skin away and I couldn’t function under that pressure. I felt like if I admitted it, then I’d have to deal with the fact that I let go of someone I loved, really loved. Our group friendship kept unraveling. I remember sitting in a study room with our entire cosplay group, and Des, and Seth. Another friend of ours had a knife and I asked to see it. And I just thought “I could slit my wrists with this, right here, right in front of everyone and none of them could stop me.” Except they did. They must have seen something in my face and took the knife away from me. I was starting to fall apart too. Des and Lee and I started sniping at each other. Des would say cruel things to me. Things that he must have seen as some one off comment. But things that haunt me to this day. We had one big fight as a group. I said something cruel to Des that I will never forgive myself for, but luckily, another friend made us talk to each other and we made up. It was strained though. I still loved him deeply and could do nothing about it. I was too afraid to ever bring it up after the love letter, and he, wanting to spare my feelings would never say that he still knew I was in love with him. I think he knew, I would read him stories that I wrote or poetry, which were always indirectly about him, and not say anything. But his eyes always had this sad look, like he didn’t know what to say to me. We both played our parts of feigned ignorance. It was how we kept the peace. But the worst part is we stayed friends. I moved in with him a year or so later along with 3 or 4 other people. Even though it had been so long, and I liked his new partner as a person, it was an open wound. I had to watch them be a couple up close and personal, I had to watch them retreat to their room together, hear about their exploits from friends, and know that it could have been me but it wasn’t. Every time they touched each other it was like a cigarette being put out on my skin, a dull thudding ache in my chest that never seemed to go away. And I had to smile through it. Because still being in love with someone two years after they break up with you is something a crazy person does. So I kept it to myself, I wrapped my heart up in gauze and tried to keep anyone from seeing that it was still bleeding. I swallowed the pain down and tried to do other things. I tried to start a band. I tried to meet new people. I lost myself in new music obsessions. I dove into my Emilie Autumn obsession like never before. But in the back of my mind, through all of it was this voice saying: “You gave up the one person you will ever love, and it’ll never happen again.” I went and created an okcupid account. I exchanged numbers a few times, met one in person and accidentally met a new friend. But I just couldn’t connect with anyone. I would always compare them to Des. They weren’t Des, and I could feel nothing for any of them. I met a girl who I wanted very badly to love, because she was kind of androgynous, kind of loud and ‘fuck the world’ in the same way Des was. But, I just didn’t feel anything. We tried to be a couple, but eventually admitted that it was more convenience than anything and ended it after a few weeks. And stayed friends. The worst part was listening to Des excitedly tell me  he’d heard that I was in a relationship, and having to tell them it was over. It hurt that he was excited for me, even if I appreciated it. Every time he’d push me to talk to girls all I could think was “It could be you, I want it to be you, I don’t want anyone else.”  Eventually Des and my new roommates got into a huge fight and he moved out. As hopeful as I was when I heard Des was excited to be my roommate, it hurt to see him leave. No matter how much shit my new roommates talked about him, I could never see him as anyone other than this person I loved so dearly. But life went on, Des moved out to live in Vegas, and I created a new crew with my new roommates. We spent every moment together, along with Lee. But I never stopped thinking about Des. His name was a dirty word in our new accommodations because of the aforementioned fight, but I didn’t care. I held my love inside and tried to go on living. I started my band, got a lip ring, tried out that second and last relationship and tried to be a person. Later I found Des’ blog and went through reading whatever I could. Because as much time as we knew each other, I knew so little about him. I read that they were starting to question their gender and it scared me, not because I disapproved, but because I was so insecure in my lesbian identity at the time, that I thought if they transitioned to a gender that I’d swore up and down I wasn’t attracted to, could I still love them? This broke me anew because I was adamant in my identity, but so afraid of what felt like ‘losing them.’ But eventually I decided it didn’t matter. I loved them no matter what. I hadn’t yet heard the terms queer or nonbinary, but knew that my love transcended gender identity. Des started talking to me again after leaving town. It had actually been months, and while I was sad over it, I was determined to wait for him to text me first. I wanted to see if he cared. And eventually I got a message. He started telling me about his crazy life out in Vegas. His relationship ended around this time, and I had hope again. I never said anything, but I always had that what if in the back of my mind. We started talking regularly again. It was shallow, surface level stuff about life and comics. But that connection was there again. I always looked for clues that maybe he was interested again, but being a person who’s naturally affectionate and prone to speaking in character role play, I could never be certain. The crush started to wane a bit. Eventually I decided the college I was at was not conductive to either my fashion designer goals or my quest for a  relationship so I put in paperwork to transfer. I began the terrifying journey to not only moving three hours away from my parents, but three hours away from everyone and everything I’d ever known. I was left right in the middle of a brand new city at an expensive college and was determined to start over. While I’d still, always, hold some love and hope that Des would return to me, I tried to be hopeful about finding love at this new school. In spite of whatever was going on in my life, I was always searching for a relationship. And I thought there was no better place to find other queer people than at an art school in a liberal-seeming artsy city. But eventually I’d learn it wasn’t. I moved to the city and was confronted with the exact same fears I had at the beginning of college. I thought that maybe I’d just run into someone, just like my first years of college. And I did, but no one like Des.  The longer I spent at school, the more I realized that not only was my art not up to par, but the dream relationship I’d been searching for my entire life was simply not to be. Each new person I met was not who I was looking for. I looked for Des in everyone, but he was singular and unique. I tried to bury that disappointment and try to love someone, anyone. I kept at okcupid, installed dating apps, but still nothing. I started sleeping a lot. I stopped forcing myself to go to college events. Eventually everything started to feel like a chore. I sunk deeper and deeper into depression when I realized that while I’d changed schools, I brought all my pain, all my fears and everything else with me. I started gaining weight, I cut all my hair off. I looked horrible, I felt horrible. I ended up breaking my ankle over the summer and gained even more weight. I returned to college with a noticeable limp. I was embarrassed of every photo my new friends tagged me in because I didn’t look or feel like myself. I couldn’t bear to actually go on any dates because I felt ugly and unlovable. And the fact that no one had wanted to date me since him seemed to cement that fact. Then one day, out of the blue, I got a text that Des was back in my city. The city I’d chosen to go to college was actually his hometown. It had been years since we’d seen each other in person. I was apprehensive because it had been long enough that we were very different people. I met him in a coffee shop, and was delighted to discover that we actually had more in common now than we ever did in our early college days. Des decided to explore the wild side that you simply can’t explore in our middle of nowhere, wants-to-be-a-city where we met. And as much as I thought ‘ok, it doesn’t feel electric anymore every time you get close to me, but there’s still something there.” I was still hopeful, because at that point no other relationship had worked out. I still remember what it felt like to be loved, and wanted that again.  Des avoided talking about his relationships while out in Vegas and I respected that. I enjoyed just listening to him talk about his exploits, knife fights, and everything else he’d been up to. I told him about college and art school. But one thing that had changed is our easy familiarity. While Des had always put a hand on your shoulder or had no concept of personal space while telling a story, it felt stilted, different. All his affection for me seemed completely gone. And it crushed me again in a new way I didn’t think I was capable of feeling. I was afraid that any shred of love, any shred of hope was gone now. I knew that love, real love, doesn’t fizzle out, so if I feel less now, then what does it mean? I was pretty sure that Des was in a relationship at that point, but until he confirmed I didn’t want to think about it. We had this stilted, but still close friendship borne out of shared trauma, in a way. But I could never shake that longing.  Which ran the gamut from barely noticeable to this all-consuming pining. It went on and off for years. Buoyed by some off hand comment or touch, and sunk by suspicion that he was involved with someone else. I remember one meeting of being so convinced that the chance I’d been waiting for, for years was finally at hand,and I remember hinting at to Des in a noticeable way. But he deflected that comment and I didn’t bring it up again. I didn’t want to press further and risk shattering the illusion of hope I’d created for myself. So I went back to my old ways of pining, but trying not to make it obvious. I would take any shred of affection he could give me. And those shreds were what kept me going even as the depression that the original hurt had set in emotion was beginning to become noticeable in ways that even my closest friends were aware of. I started going to counseling regularly and started taking meds for depression right as my final year of college was at an end. I’d mostly gotten over the relationship, but not entirely. The fact that no other relationship with any other person seemed to work out was beginning to wear on me. It felt like something wrong with me as a person. It had been 7 years at that point, and not a single person after that second relationship, so much as looked at me. That combined with a future made bleak by student loan debt made me sink deeper and deeper. At some point I decided I’d kill myself right after graduation but could never bring myself to do it. I stayed in that city, worked horrible retail jobs and suffered through as best I could. And then, fate decided to bring us together again. My car had broken down earlier in the week, just stalled out in the middle of the road. And I took a bus to work that let out in the mall. And Des, just happened to be driving by and called my name. At that point it had been months since we’d seen each other, even if we lived in the exact same city. He a half hour outside, and me within the city. We started talking again. I was still hopeful, but less so. My suspicions he was with someone were confirmed and it crushed me at third time. At this point I was used to the heartbreak and it hurt less than all the other times. I decided, at this point, that as jealous as I was, I would try to be happy for him. It no longer mattered what I felt because I knew it would always be one sided. Even if I asked every tarot spread if we’d eventually end up together. Even if every wish on every set of birthday candles I’ve made since 2009 have been to bring him back to me. Even if I’m fairly sure I will never love anyone else the way I loved him, I still want him to be happy. So I decided I would try to be as enthusiastic about his new relationship as my heart could take. That I would try as hard as I could to make her feel included in our little friend group. Even if part of me dies every time I think about it. I dressed up and drank my sorrows on new years. I realized that he loved her in a way he could, and would never love me, and there was no changing it. And I was going to try as hard as I possibly could to support him in that. I was going to try so hard to finally bury these emotions and not let them hurt him. But they’re always going to be part of me. I think I had something once in a lifetime. Even if it must be platonic, we’re soulmates. There was a connection there once, and I don’t think that goes away, but he moved on a long time ago. And maybe, one day I’ll be able to move on too. But not now. Now I still think back on it all, and cling to it, because my present is such a depressing mess of pain and sadness and hopelessness. I still hope, but its a futile hope I realize. I’m still so happy whenever I hear from him, the way I’m not happy for anyone else. I’m still going to try to be there for him as much as I can. It still hurts, but he always mattered more to me than I do, so it doesn’t matter.  I think I always wrote these things in the hopes that he’d see them and give me some kind of closure. But he doesn’t really read them, and I don’t blame him. He has enough to deal with, without the weight of my sorrows adding to it. And, I think, both he and I know it would be hard for me to handle the weight of that finality if he did finally tell me it would never work out. The vagueness of it seems like something warm and comforting to return to. A what if where there’s no other hope. He told me: ‘one day, maybe, when we’re different people’ and that is what keeps me going some days. I’m always torn between wanting to know, and not wanting to know. I do, but god, it’s going to hurt so much. But that’s the story of why I can’t move on. Why I’ll never love anyone as much as I loved him, and why every other relationship seems so shallow in comparison. This still isn’t all of it. But there are some things I want to keep for just myself. Some details that are ours alone.  Maybe one day I’ll be able to love someone again.

[enticque]

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME - ANDRÉ ANCIMAN

This book is hot. And that heat is not just exclusively originated from the steamy sex scenes between Elio and Oliver but also from the trains of words hushedly collide onto eachother and the intense longing. André Anciman acutely prescribes and dissects the development phases of desire like a skilled surgeon: stubborn denial then shattering acceptance and giving in. Those phases do not follow a chronological order but instead, they take place and fight for dominance simultaneously in our hearts. What do we desire in others if not the hints and possibilities of self completion and unity and the feeling of wholeness?

Elio Perlman is a wise, naïve but bold 17 years old son of a famous and sophisticated proffessor in Italy who is smitten with the seductive, chill and American 24 years old Columbian proffessor Oliver. Oliver is staying in Italy for a short vacation with the Perlman family and he quickly slips his way to everyone’ hearts with his oddly charming Americanism prudeness, sophisticated etymological knowledge and a knack for the apricot juice of Elio’s mom. The narrator confesses that he is not a victim to his passion and he always keeps his desire on a leash but still desire strucks him unexpectedly. He thinks he just simply falls in love with Oliver’s devious smile but little does he know, “all he really wanted was skin, just skin.”

His desire runs deeper and more inward than just merely the appreciation of the aesthetic value of Oliver. It is the desire to copulate, to be with him, to be in him and ultimately to be more of himself by being Oliver. Elio projects an intense desire that borderlines on twisted obsession on Oliver because he sees in Oliver the opportunity that leads to self realization and self completion. But he does not fully accept and completely surrender to the acknowledgement that by himself, he is incompleted and unfulfilled and in the act of assimilating with Oliver, there is a slight chance of unity and wholeness. He is afraid of the assimilation so he tries to smother and kill off the speck of desire in him because to assimilate and desire another person is to acknowledge the edges between you and them and your incompleteness.

Elio fantasies about killing Oliver so that “at least his death would put an end to it” and he even takes a step further by saying that “if I didn’t kill him then I’d cripple him for life” so that he can “feel superior to him and become his master”. Desire reveals his lackings and his inferiority and in a feverish, delusional and desperate attempt to gain back control, he fantasies about killing off the object of his desire. Because the act of desiring someone is to reach out from your spot and yearn for that person who is not in the same place with you, there is a much needed space between the two, metaphysically speaking. He can not mitigate, subdue and adjust the intensity or the direction of his desire and that realization strips him of a sense of control and superiority in his own mind and induces fear in his heart.

Elio sways between obsession and hate and this volatility reveals the required paradoxical nature of desire. He needs first to resist in order to be able to surrender absolutely to Oliver later. He needs to arm himself up in walls so he can disarm himself completely in Oliver’s touch. His obsessive desire for the death and ruination of Oliver’s life can quickly wax and wane back and forth into an insatiable and shameless craving for his attention and affection. “Two words from him, and I had seen my pouting apathy change into I’ll play anything for you till you ask me to stop, till it’s time for lunch, till the skin on my fingers wears off layer after layer, because I like doing things for you, will do anything for you, just say the word, I liked you from day one, and even when you’ll return ice for my renewed offers of friendship”.

What does he see in Oliver that induces in himself such violent and obsessive desire? “His ability to intuit things in exactly the way I myself might have intuited them. This, in the end, was what drew me to him.” Elio sees a possible self of him, a future self of him that is kept from his current self and that future self is currently manifesting in Oliver and by merging with Oliver, he could perharps place his hand on that self and bridge the gap between the notget and the gotten. I by myself am not complete and by desiring you, I can learn more about myself and by assimilating into you, I can be whole again. It is the desire to rekindle a torn in half form that has been in a milenary sleep since Zeus had seperated our ultimate human form which had 4 hands, 4 legs and 2 heads into two halves that would always desperately try to find the other. This is ultimately what Elio craves, not Oliver but the hints of self completion presented in Oliver.

When the two missing parts assimilate, there is an exchange whereas one protruding part of the first part would enter the missing part and become a part of the second part and vice versa. They dilute into eachother in the darkness of Oliver’s room facing the French balcony. When they make love, Elio would ask Oliver to call him by his name so whenever Oliver trails his fingers along his spine causing him to shiver like a root in the rain, Elio would cry out “Elio, more!”. Oliver would reciprocate the pleasure back by moaning “Oliver, more!” as Elio licks and kisses his smooth and soft feet. By asking you to call me by your name, I am undoing myself, peeling off the skin on your face layer by layer, entering and becoming you so that I can become myself better. I am diluting myself into you so that I can become whole again. What he wants in assimilation is fulfillment

Desire in itself is an endless loop that sustains itself on much needed contradictions and paradoxes because the one who desires is caught in a state of acknowledging the possibility of attaining and fulfilling his desire yet is kept from executing it. For this game of chasing and being chased to continue, the space between chased and the chaser must never be bridged. Assimilation risks annihilation. That’s why after successfully fucking and making Oliver confess his feelings, Elio wakes up with a stinging sense of guilt, regret and doubt that have never been felt or given thoughts on before. Those guilts and regrets do not stem from the acknowledgement of the morally debasement of their acts and in fact, the fact that he is underage and this is wrong never stops Elio from debauching again and again. He feels regrets because the assimilation does not lead to that eureka, exhilirating blisss of enlightenment in his soul and now he is still incomplete, sole and lacking! In the act of obsessively pursuing Oliver, regrets and second thoughts have never crossed his mind because those things are the aftermath and consequence for who bridges the gap between the one who desires and the desired.

In this case, does assimilation lead to annihilation? Only partly. He does not completely rebuke his desire for Oliver but now that desire has a new component: guilt and regret. After that, he reminds himself to cool off his heart and familarises himself with desire so he can neutralise it. But everytime when he has successfully managed to colden his heart, desire would sweetly peak again and he would fall into Oliver’s embrace again, every single damn times. Every single affairs would always follow up with self hatred and guilt on Elio’s part. In this case, desire is not annihilated, only debased and distorted into a twisted and ignoble version of itself. Pure, hot desire should never be mixed up with guilt and regrets.

“Call me by your name” is an autobiography of desire. It narrates why do we desire in the first place and how desire cooks up, peaks in us and what ultimately brings the demise and distortion of it. Desire condemns humanity to a perpetual state of unrest and suffering because it is meant to never be fulfilled, it ceases to exist when we successfully bridge its gap but it is not our duty to abolish desire and live a life of indifference and callousness. It is the human’s condition to perenially be caught in between what and where we are and what and where we want to be. We should strive to find happiness and joy not in the blind point where the gap is bridged but in our process of sterily attempt to bridge that gap.

And what is the ultimate desire? We may think that we have a lot of desires but we have only one. To be whole, completely and absolutely whole.

[kusunogatari-a]

[ Key ] [ @ofascxnsionss / @scxrlctiisms ] [ Suigin Ryū, Kazanbai, Tokima Shieru, Takanashi Ryōta ] [ Death mention, blood mention ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ]

One moment, Ryū looks over the body-strewn street of the village she was meant to aid, gaze wide with disbelief and breath caught in horror.

The next, she barely deflects kick to the temple, arm raised with a shield along her sleeve. The force still sends her flying, managing to maintain her footing as the shrouded figure follows up with a second attack.

And no matter her defensive training, she can't hold off someone of this level for long. An elbow to the base of her skull makes her vision flicker, body going slack as she crumples into the dust. The last she sees before darkness is a hooded figure knelt at her side, a grin wickedly curving their lips.

Then silence, and stillness.

Consciousness drifts to and fro as hours pass, never quite enough for her to surface completely. Humming voices and vague sensations are all she knows until, finally, she drags open her eyes to see only black.

...have I gone blind...?

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

With a strike, a match lights to fuel a lantern, held by the same figure from before. His tone is masculine, hood still drawn as he holds the light to her face.

Squinting and shrinking, it's then the medic realizes that she's upright. Bonds capture her ankles, wrists, torso and throat against some solid surface to her rear. Taking a moment to think, she attempts to draw upon her chakra...but to no avail.

“No need for that. You will call upon your chakra only once I give you permission. Until then, we don't want you doing anything foolish.”

“...what do you want?”

“I find there's little need to explain. You are our means to an end. Nothing more, nothing less. Besides...it may yet become clear.”

Moving to her left, he sets the light upon a stone pedestal. Unable to turn her head, Ryū can see little from her peripheral view beyond its basic shape.

“Teikoku, gather.”

Silently, nine other figures appear along the rim of the lantern's light, all cloaked as well, though several abandon their hoods. Among them, a tall woman of rose hair, and a boy not even Ryū's age. He glances to her with eyes of hazel, brow slightly wilted before looking back to what must be his leader.

“I require constant patrols – five kilometer radius around the site. If you find or sense anyone within the perimeter, kill them. I will not risk being exposed before the time is right. Arrange shifts between yourselves – two or three to a group, and at least two groups at once. Supply runs will be made accordingly.”

“Kazanbai...do you require more eyes and ears here, as you work?”

“Those not on patrol will rest when necessary, or remain here should something go wrong. But I do not plan on any interruptions, Jinpū.”

A woman simply bows her head.

“Now, settle duties amongst yourselves, and leave the chamber. I will begin.”

The rest disappear in a flicker, and silence seems to echo.

“Now...” Approaching his prisoner, the man withdraws a blade. “A little something from you, my dear.” A flick opens the flesh of her palm, blood gathered into a vial before being taken back to the pedestal.

Ryū only grunts, unable to move chakra to heal the wound.

“...a small sample from the offered to begin.”

Straining to see, the medic can just make out the taken crimson as it pours into the center of the stone. A palm held over the pool, chakra sparks, and seems to initiate a chain reaction.

Glyphs carved into the rock glow white, the light spreading down the podium to the floor, where they continue to bloom until the entire chamber floor – a perfect circle – is alight with characters she cannot read.

Last, they crawl up the wall upon which she's chained, casting her in the same ghostly light. Seals upon the shackles glow, and the contact immediately burns. A screech involuntarily flees her lips, every muscle tensing as lightning seems to strike through her nerves.

As though in reply, the symbols glow brighter, and an orb of white begins to gather in the center of the chamber. Small, at first...yet it could just be seen to be growing.

Somewhere, through the pain, Ryū recognizes another feeling – chakra being withdrawn from her system. And yet, somehow, it's not just her own – she knows this sensation.

Nature chakra.

They're...gathering nature chakra...? She manages to shut her jaw, teeth gritting against the agony. But the rest of her body resists her control, too overwhelmed by the pain. But...h-how? I'm not...meditating...!

“I'm sure you have questions,” the man offers, and she suddenly remembers his presence. “Given that the process seems to be well on its way, I will entertain your curiosities.

“This chamber was constructed long ago, by a handful of the first shinobi bound to Ryūchidō. Here, they used their abilities to connect to the chakra of nature, and could store vast amounts of energy. But the war-torn clan – so easily brought to violence by their own inherent instability – hardly survived long enough to make use of it. Most fled and scattered. You know one as Jūgo – the companion of Uchiha Sasuke, and a distant cousin of your own line. He is among the last.

“And yours...yours has been trained and molded into something more...refined. Your abilities are harnessed, easier to handle. And so it is you, the last of your line, that will be used for our purposes.”

To what end? A weapon? Ryū's head bows, shaking as the energy continues to rip from her body. She is a living conduit between the mechanism, and the nature energy around them. I...can't let them...!

“Until we are able to better inspect the machine and its capabilities, a time frame is yet out of our reach. You may be here days, you may be here years, until we have the energy we need...” The grin returns. “...the energy to overtake that of the Kyūbi. To create a bijū even more powerful than the tailed beasts of the Ōtsutsuki. With such power at our disposal, there will be no resistance. Any goal...any prize we wish will be but a demand away.”

A hand reaches out, grasping her chin tightly and forcing her gaze to the shadows beneath his hood. “...and it's all thanks to you, little Suigin. You will be the key to creating the world's most powerful beast, at our command. A new world order – mankind brought to heel beneath a single banner. We have much to thank you for.”

The hold releases, and Ryū's neck slackens, body too weary to hold itself up.

“Not to worry – we do not forget our debts. We won't kill you, if it can be helped, once it's all over. After all...” Teeth flash. “We will need a jinchūriki to keep this beast on its leash. And who better than she who birthed it? Less chance for an...unstable reaction. But for now, you'd best get comfortable. We have a long ways to go.”

In the chamber's belly, the orb continues to grow, pulsating like a heartbeat. Lifting her head to gaze at it, Ryū can't help but see it as an egg...one she cannot allow to hatch into the monstrosity they yearn for.

...everyone...I'm...sorry...!

     HOLY SMOKES FINALLY. Alec, hun, I’m so sorry this took so long OTL I am horrible. I just...could NOT think of something to write, and then I decided to just...make a wee snippet of that plot I told you about a while back. A bit bare-bones, as I dunno if I’ll ever actually WRITE the whole thing, but...hopefully it’s offering enough =‘D      Ryū’s gone and gotten herself into a wee bit of trouble, caused by none other than Teikoku. Let’s see if we can get someone in there to save her =‘D      Anyway, I hope this is all right hun - lemme know if you need anything changed! <3

[ultralifehackerguru-blog]

New Post has been published on http://lifehacker.guru/the-13-best-movies-you-didnt-see-in-2018/

THE 13 BEST MOVIES YOU DIDN'T SEE IN 2018

LAST YEAR, FOLKS in the US spent $11 billion going to the movies. Yet the bulk of those people, and those dollars, went to the mega-blockbusters—the Panthers, the Venoms, the Avengerseseses. Even though indies are getting a renaissance thanks to streaming services, there’s just not the same thriving middle-class that there was in decades past, and a ton of legitimately great films still don’t get in front of as many eyeballs as they should. So, fine, you let some smaller gems slip by; now’s your chance to make things right. Got a few free evenings over the holidays? Queue up these 2018 unsung heroes first.

Suspiria

Amazon Studios’ art-house horror flick did modestly well in its small theatrical run, but limited distribution meant it didn’t get the attention it deserved. Directed by Call Me By Your Name‘s Luca Guadagnino, the film is, on the surface, a remake of Dario Argento’s horror classic of the same name. But it’s also much, much more than that. (Star Tilda Swinton, who actually plays a few roles in the film, went so far as to refer to it as a cover version of Argento’s original.) Beautifully shot, with an appropriately haunting performance by Dakota Johnson, this Suspiria goes beyond the tale of a witch-run dance school by digging its nails into the many ways the past will forever haunt us. It’s not for everybody, but if you have an itch for something truly gruesome and mind-bending, this’ll scratch it. —Angela Watercutter

First Reformed

Here’s a sentence I never imagined myself writing in 2018: Ethan Hawke gave one of the best performances of the year. It’s not that I didn’t think he was capable; I just didn’t see him showing up in a dark eco-conscious Paul Schrader film wherein he plays an alcoholic priest trying to keep his sanity and his congregation together. And yet, here we are. Moody, existential and even a little bit ethereal, First Reformed is one of the year’s craziest headtrips—right down to the ohshitwhatthefuck? ending. It got a very limited theatrical run but has been playing free to Amazon Prime subscribers for a while now (as well as Kanopy). If you happen to be one—or even if you’re not—go watch it immediately. —A.W.

Shoplifters

I’ve tried half a dozen times to explain director Hirokazu Kore-eda’s teleportative tale—about an ad hoc family living in near-poverty in urban Japan—and failed in each instance. So instead, here’s what Shoplifters is not: mawkish (though it is deeply moving); downbeat (despite its character’s increasingly desperate turns); nor needlessly twisty (though the family’s backstory is full of slow-building surprises). Instead, it’s a lovely, quite funny accounting of ordinary people staring down extraordinary circumstances with pragmatism, wits, and sporadic joy. And, in a year full of movies that viewed tough realities with deep empathy—from Roma to First Reformed to First Man—it’s the denizens of Shoplifters that have lingered in my mind the longest: Wondering where they are now, hoping everything turned out OK. —Brian Raftery

Mandy

You know what sucks? The fact that so few movies today are confident enough to feature coked-out demon biker gangs, strange Jesus cults, and a truly off-the-leash Nicolas Cage. Luckily, though, there’s Mandy—director Panos Cosmatos’ movie starts with that grand trifecta and goes about a thousand steps further. Shot using lush nighttime colors that would make the Stranger Things crew jealous, the revenge tale follows Cage’s Red Miller as he goes searching for his girlfriend who has been taken in by the aforementioned cult. Explaining it any further would ruin the fun (it’s also kind of impossible), but rest assured it has one of the best eviscerations of fragile masculinity ever put onscreen. —A.W.

Miseducation of Cameron Post

If you were an indie movie fan in 1999, you remember a delightful little film called But I’m a Cheerleader. It starred RuPaul as an instructor at a gay conversion camp and Natasha Lyonne and Clea DuVall as two of the unfortunate souls sent there for “treatment.” The Miseducation of Cameron Post, based on Emily M. Danforth’s novel of same name, is a much, much less campy version of that. In it, Chloë Grace Moretz plays the titular Cameron, a teenage girl who gets sent off to a conversion camp after getting caught in the back of a car with another woman the night of her prom. Heartwarming and heartbreaking, director Desiree Akhavan’s adaptation of Danforth’s novel is as vital and necessary as Cheerleader was in the late-1990s. It just has fewer laughs. —A.W.

Matangi/Maya/M.I.A.

The last time you heard from (or about) agit-pop hitmaker M.I.A. it likely had something to do with her flying her middle finger at the Super Bowl or the term “truffle fries.”That was years ago, and a lot has changed in terms of how the public, and pop culture, treats its female artists. Well, maybe not a lot, but there’s been progress—and in Steve Loveridge’s documentary, the ways in which Maya Arulpragasam was mistreated and misunderstood couldn’t be more obvious. Built on archive footage and personal footage shot by the Sri Lankan artist over years and years, it creates a fuller picture of M.I.A. than any magazine profile or online hot take ever could. It might be a little late, but it’s also right on time. —A.W.

Shirkers

The set-up for Sandi Tan’s autobiographical Netflix doc sounds like something out of a pop-culture thriller: In 1992, Tan and two other bright, outsidery teenage girls decided to make a semi-surrealist feature film in their home country of Singapore. They were aided by a mysterious older American man who absconded with the footage—and then all but disappeared from their lives. Yet Tan’s story doesn’t involve tidy resolutions or shocking twists. Instead, Shirkers is actually something infinitely more compelling: A gorgeous-looking self-interrogation about creativity, power, and the strange twilight zone between adolescence and adulthood. It also contains the most succinct one-liner about ’90s alt-teen life I’ve ever heard: “When [we were] were 14,” Tan says of her pals, “we discovered unusual movies and unpopular music.” Decades later, they all reunited for a film more unusual and profound than they ever intended. —B.R.

Tully

Here’s the thing about Tully: It builds up to one really great twist. I won’t reveal it here, and maybe you’ll guess it before getting to the end anyway, but it’s a gut-punch. Before that happens, the setup is fairly simple. Marlo (Charlize Theron), a mother of three children, hires hip twentysomething Tully (Mackenzie Davis) as a nanny for her new baby. Over the course of weeks, Marlo and Tully become close and Marlo begins to yearn for the life she had when she was Tully’s age. Sounds dry, but this is a project from director Jason Reitman and writer Diablo Cody, a pair that has wrung blood, sweat, and tears out of domestic dramas (Juno, Young Adult) twice before—and does so double-time here. The quest to prolong youth while also raising children has never been so cuttingly portrayed. —A.W.

The Favourite

I truly thought that nothing could top Suspiria for the most haunting final moments of any film in 2018. I was wrong. Director Yorgos Lanthimos’ film about the love/hate triangle between Queen Anne of England (Olivia Colman) and her companions Lady Sarah Churchill (Rachel Weisz) and Abigail Masham (Emma Stone) ended on a note so unsettling, I’m still not done processing it weeks later. (I won’t spoil it, but I will say I’ll never look at rabbits the same way ever again.) Much like with his film The Lobster, Lanthimos’ latest lands somewhere in the gaps between drama and farce. It is, instead, a crooked glance at humanity’s relationship to power—the things people do to get close to it, to claim it, and to throw it away. In Lanthimos’ askew version of history, when Sarah’s relationship with the Queen is threatened by the arrival of her cousin Abigail, she does what she feels she must do to wrest back control and steer Queen Anne’s War to her liking. Anne, sensing the manipulation, grows closer to Abigail, only to realize her intentions might not be much better. It’s an unparalleled study in the utter lack of trust that accompanies being in charge, in the dread that comes with knowing those who seek your favor may never have pure intentions. It’s as bleak as it is laughable—and one of the most wonderfully weird tales to hit the screen this year. —A.W.

Annihilation

Director Alex Garland‘s adaptation of the first book of Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach trilogy was easily one of the best dystopia films of 2018. It was also one of the year’s finest specimens of female badassery, featuring Natalie Portman, Tessa Thompson, Gina Rodriguez, and Jennifer Jason Leigh as a team sent on a expedition to find out why nature’s rules seem not to apply in the mysterious, government-protected space known as Area X. Haunting, unpredictable, and science-y (someone turns into a plant!), it was a whirlwind head trip—and a weird examination of what it means to exist. —A.W.

Eighth Grade

Even the title strikes fear in the hearts of anyone who didn’t have the easiest time walking the halls of their middle school/junior high. In writer-director Bo Burnham’s film, that uneasiest of times is compounded by the fact that it takes place in the modern world, where all insecurities are reinforced by un-Liked Instagram posts and unreceived Facebook invites. Heroine Kayla Day (Elsie Fisher) knows she’s on a pretty low rung in her school’s social hierarchy and with each new YouTube video she posts full of advice she doesn’t take, her story becomes more and more poignant, more and more real. And whether you grew up in the social media age or not, it’ll punch you in the heart—and make you glad you survived adolescence intact. —A.W.

Leave No Trace

Debra Granik, who every reviewer will remind you made a star out of Jennifer Lawrence with her film Winter’s Bone, pulled off another wrenching look at a family on the edges with this year’s Leave No Trace. When Will (Ben Foster) and Tom (Thomasin McKenzie)—a father-daughter pair who have been living off-the-grid outside Portland, Oregon for years—are arrested and put in the system, it tests their bond in new ways, and exposes Tom to a life unlike the one she’s lived with her father. Granik’s latest is almost deafening in how quiet it is, but its message about finding one’s place in the world is loud and clear. —A.W.

Three Identical Strangers

Were you surprised by the twist? What about the one after that? These are kind the kinds of questions folks ask you after seeing this documentary about three identical triplets who discover each others’ existence in their teenage years. At the time they found each other, they became America’s latest talk show feel-good story and national intrigue. Everything that happened after that, though, is so unbelievable it pushes all boundaries of credulity. It’s a Can you believe? story that quickly becomes an examination of heredity and (possible) corruption that goes beyond unbelievable into truly mind-boggling. —A.W.

(C)

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with HUGO KIM, who is TWENTY-NINE years old. He is often called HELENUS by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

TW; DRUGS, DEATH

He came from nothing, quite literally. His father came to Italy with nothing but the clothes on his back, four euros in his pocket, and his wife’s hand held tightly in his lap. And from that nothing, he built and EMPIRE. Not the sort one would think, not one to be gawked at or fiercely envied, but the kind a hard-working man loved to call his own. A restaurant that soon became his pride and joy, his two sons, Albert and Hugo, growing up in diapers behind the counter and emerging young men in the kitchen. Always looking up to his older brother, Hugo modeled his entire WORLD around him, only to be disappointed every time he had to work one of his shifts, or cover for him with his parents when he didn’t come home at curfew. But no matter what Albert did, Hugo always found a way to love him even more. He wrote him off as just a wildcard, someone who lived to grab life by the heart, seize every opportunity, and take as many risks as possible. And he didn’t mind being the one to pick up the slack, in fact, he LOVED it. Home is always where the heart is, and Hugo’s lied with his family and God, above all else.

It was only natural that he took to charity like his mother, spending what little free time he could conjure to devote himself to the CHURCH. Hugo walked in her footsteps, starting from the ground up as he sat behind the booth at food drives and collected clothes for the homeless. But what others would call tiresome work, hopeless and a waste of energy, he could only smile at. For helping is what brought him true happiness. Cracking open his chest had become second nature, offering up his HEART the only thing he was confident enough to do. Generosity flowed through his veins the same way heroin flowed through Albert’s, and while one was by the grace of God, the other was the work of the Devil. Of that his parents were positive, each and every time they brought over Father Salvatore to speak with his older brother. As if divine intervention was all he needed, to let Jesus into his life as his Lord andSAVIOR. But what Hugo knew were the harsh realities of the world outside their doors, the hurt and pain his mother and father close their eyes to. It couldn’t happen to their children; it wouldn’t. Not after all they’d poured into giving them a better life than the one they had.

It wasn’t long before altar boy turned Sunday school teacher entered the SEMINARY, but as is His will, Hugo accepted it had always meant to work out this way. He was a soothing voice through the violence and terror that shrouded Verona. A wise and soft man, gentle enough to counteract the heinous deeds of his older brother. But God had always favored Abel’s SACRIFICE, hadn’t he? Cain never stood a chance. The bang sounds at a quarter to three in the morning, waking Hugo from a dead sleep. Panic and adrenaline force him from his bed, rushing toward the sound he thinks was a gunshot. His suspicions are confirmed as he rounds the corner into the living room to find Albert, who he hasn’t seen in three years—not since he stole the cash from his wallet, the keys to his car and took off in the night—being held at the scruff by some thug in a leather jacket. His mother’s lifeless body rests atop the hardwood, BLOOD beginning to pool beneath her. He’s next, the stranger grunts and points the barrel at his father. Unless you give us the money, right now. He shouts and shoves his older brother to the floor, laughing as his head smashes into the dining room table leg. In this moment, the world slows down. Time grows still as Hugo watches his entire life crumble, the home his parents built sullied in a matter of seconds, splattered in the viscera of his brother’s SINS. And it is then he decides what must be done, that this cancerous tumor Albert calls purpose and being needs to be removed once and for all. Intruder now distracted by lighting a cigarette, he sets his gun atop the kitchen table, and Hugo sees his chance. In two strides, his finger is on the trigger, the still-warm barrel pointed at his brother’s forehead. BANG. It seems as though his parents had been right all along, all his brother truly needed was divine intervention, Hugo just hadn’t seen he would need to be the deliverance.

I’ll work off his debt. That was all it took, five little words and he was theirs. The easiest decision is no decision at all, and that’s what joining the Capulets was. Set in stone by the actions of the brother he killed, or rather put out of his MISERY, but he’d surely pay for it. In blood, sweat, and tears, all his own. His hands became a thing to be feared, a weapon to use when the truth needed extracting or a body needed burying, but each Sunday morning he was there. Perched atop the altar in his golden robes, a SERMON on the tip of his tongue. Lead them, they told him when the sun was high and His song was on their lips. And he does so with such benevolence, as if God as entered him for but a brief thirty minutes, with nothing but grace and absolution pouring from Hugo as he preaches. They flock and he guides them, a SHEPHERD to Cosimo Capulet’s people. Bury ‘em with the others, they ordered by the cover of night, stars glimmering overhead as a thud hit the dusty ground. Sweat gathered along his brow and dread filled his chest, but Hugo did as he was told. He picked up the shovel and served his penance as any good, little Catholic boy would. Paying no mind to the fact it was he who had beaten the man to death.

ROMAN MONTAGUE: Curiosity. Such delicacy must be handled with care, no? So he wonders how the heir fares coddled in the bosom of bloodshed and brutality, and yet manages to be so exquisitely tender. It was but a glance, but a kind word offered in a moment of weakness on Hugo’s part, but he has been eternally grateful ever since. He knows not Roman’s sins, but would listen with a bent knee and a keen ear if ever given the chance. If ever allotted the opportunity to get to know him further, to deepen this likeness he feels for the Prince of Verona. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Hugo’s passion for the inexplicable, his downright yearning for its approval and its warm embrace. The Montague is everything unexplained, everything unexplored, and Hugo wants nothing more than to chart a course, however sinful or full of betrayal such a journey may be. Enter a curious Capulet and a gentle Montague.

HALCYON SANTOS: False deity. She’s his guiding light, the only reason he’s made it this far. He trusts her words more than anyone’s, more than perhaps even Cosimo’s, though that wouldn’t be too unbelievable considering all the things that man has made him do. But Halcyon understands him, feels the same white light in her heart for Him, and what’s more, he thinks he can see it. That light, shining through her eyes every time he dares to steal a glance. Sometimes he’s afraid to look, though, worried if he does, it’ll swallow him whole. So he listens, he does what he’s told. Holy water spills from her divine tongue, and though she asks for blood—always more blood, more bullets, more death—he’s always happy to oblige. To follow orders from such a saint is a blessing in his eyes. But all gods devour, don’t they? They feed on their worshipper’s sacrifice like a dog takes to a bone, and Hugo can’t help but wonder when she’ll devour him, too.

MIKAEL FALCO & EASTON CRAVEN: Brothers-in-arms. They terrify him, the both of ‘em. For entirely different reasons, of course. Hugo can see the dark path Macbeth walks hand-in-hand with his Lady, bound together by a halo of thorns, and he can only imagine the destruction that is to follow. He knows what it means to be lost, to feel abandoned and forgotten by Him—even Hugo has lost his way every now and then—but the path with which Mikael aligns himself causes a knot to form in the pit of his stomach. Edmund is something else, a creature of chaos and ruination. They whisper bastard in his direction, but Hugo knows what that word truly means. The kind of man such shame elicits, and such a thing is oh, so dangerous. Something to be watched and carefully guarded. But the leash just keeps getting longer, doesn’t it? He’s given an infinite amount of slack, allowed to behave as unabashedly as he wishes. But no matter how hard Easton tries to shed that seven letter word, all Hugo can see is him earning it time and time again.

LAWRENCE VERNON: Confessor. It was a week ago, half-past one in the dark Cathedral, when he shed his sins in Hugo’s confessional. The liquor on his breath was no mask, there wasn’t one thick enough to hide the voice so clear in his ear, though his face was obscured by thin wooden mesh. Hugo knew him to bleed just as he, however opposite his allegiance was, though it seemed he sinned tenfold. Years of abhorrent crimes, sins against father, sister, and lover spilled from his lips between sobs, and though at times incoherent, Lawrence laid his soul bare. If he didn’t know any better, Hugo could have sworn that was the plan all along. Anyone who knew him worth his salt, knew Father Kim to be a good and honest man, trusted among his congregation, and surely such a revered priest wouldn’t break a sacred oath. They are bound to one another one now, tied together by the loose strings of a drunken confession, and to use his words as ammunition would shatter the good name Hugo has built for himself in this house of God. But desperate times always call for desperate measures, don’t they?

Hugo is portrayed by STEVEN YEUN and was written by SIDNEY. He is currently OPEN.