#i mean my own experience aside i cannot even imagine trying to confess love to someone i'd only known for two weeks

[unopenablebox]

theres a post going around like "if you think slow burn fanfic is unrealistic, just wait till you hear about my real life, where i met someone on a tour and we spent all our time together and cuddled and went out for picnics and talked for hours while staring into each other's eyes and then never said ANYTHING or even HELD HANDS........... for TWO WHOLE WEEKS!!!!" (... "then after a month he sent me a letter saying he'd been in love with me the whole time.")

and like. i'm sorry. two weeks? two weeks is your example of 'an astonishing and ridiculous length of time for two people with an intense emotional connection to spend knowing each other without admitting romantic feelings?' two weeks? two weeks.

[the-girl-in-the-box]

Can You Imagine? XII

A/N: So I'm... not *entirely* satisfied with this chapter, at least the back half of it, but I didn't quite know what else to do with it without rushing it XD Anyway, here it is, and I think the next chapter will be a lot better! Already have plans for it, and I think now that I'm back in the swing of things with this one it'll be better going forward xD Skål!

Summary: Freydis was dead. At least, when she’d lost consciousness, she’d been sure she was. But now she has woken up in a cold, sterile environment, one she is certain is not Valhalla, and the world as she once knew it has changed. People now have strange abilities, some of them, and people they call ‘scientists’ are trying to give them to her. The bigger issue, though, is the fact they have also woken the very man who killed her. Ivar the Boneless lives again as well, in the same way Freydis does, and if they want to survive… she may have to learn to trust him again.

Masterlist

--

What I Wish I’d Known

The silence in the room felt far less awkward than Ivar had expected it to be. It was no less anxious than any other silence had been between them, as they both had much to say, and yet very little idea on how to say it. They were sitting in their living room again, side by side on the sofa, slightly angled toward each other for ease of communication. Well, if only communication could come easily.

Freydis finally decided she had had quite enough of the anxious silences, and so she took a deep breath to start talking. Someone needed to start this thing, and if it wasn’t going to be Ivar, then she figured it would have to be her. Much to her surprise, then, the moment Ivar realized she was going to speak, he cut her off.

“Freydis,” he began. When she began to try again, he shook his head, reaching over to put a hand on hers, and lifting his head to look her in the eye. “Please, let me speak.” She nodded, swallowing. “Before this past month, I believed we would have all the time in the world to come back together, to say what needed to be said, but then…” He paused, taking in a deep breath. “I truly believed I had lost you, Freydis. And when you woke, I realized the Gods were giving us a third chance, giving me a third chance to do this right for you. I don’t want to mess this up again and lose you for good.

“I should not have handled… anything, with you, the way I did. You did not deserve for me to treat you suspiciously, or coldly, or to blame you for anything that happened. You are right, I did not know you. Not your favorite things, and certainly not your heart. And for all of that, Freydis, I am sorry. I did not love you how I should have, and if you would give me the chance now… I would like to love you how you deserve.”

Freydis couldn’t help but smile at his words, at the way he spoke them and what he said. “You can,” she told him. “And I don’t mean that I am just giving you the chance, but also that I know you can love me that way. Ivar, when I was asleep, I had a vision.” Ivar watched her curiously, nodding as if to encourage her to elaborate. 

“We were in Kattegat,” she said. “And… we still had Baldur. He was your son, and mine, and… and he was healthy. Our kingdom was thriving under our rule. Baldur grew, and then… King Harald came. He took you, and he took Baldur, and my life halted. I did nothing but try to find you, until Lagertha came, with your brothers Ubbe and Björn. They ended up helping me retrieve you and Baldur from King Harald, and we all came to a truce. There was peace in Kattegat again, and they lived among us happily. Everything was good.

“But it was a dream. A beautiful dream, but still… that was all it was. That is not to say it had no meaning. The Seer was there, and it was through talking to him, and… surprisingly Lagertha, that I came to realize the meaning. Beneath the anger, beneath the betrayal, and the hurt, and the fear, I still wanted everything we could have had. That was why my dreams had taken that form. My desires laid bare of any distraction or bias I may have. And then… the message.

“I still love you, Ivar. You had time after I died, to think back on everything, time I never had, and so… I cannot say yet that I am ready to forgive you. But I do hear you. I hear you, and I want to be happy with you again. I will just need time- time to learn how to trust you again. If you can give me that, then I will do all that I can to give you my heart once more.”

Ivar nodded, and though it wasn’t as complete a resolution as he had hoped for, it was a resolution nonetheless. They both wanted their relationship to work, now, which was far better than what they’d had before. He couldn’t begin to guess, nor even imagine, what it was her powers had done, what they had shown her truly, aside from the things she’d told him already. But, whatever it was, it was bringing her back to him, breaking the walls built between them down, the very walls that for him had been demolished in Kiev.

But, just as she had said, she’d not had any experience which would have brought down those walls, not until she was reminded by her own subconscious of what she lost in locking out any chance of being hurt again. Love meant pain. Ivar had learned that in loving Igor, who he’d had to leave to rule Rus, and in loving Katia, who had chosen to stay in Kiev. In loving Hvitserk, whose life he saved by sacrificing his own. To truly love another person, one had to be willing to risk being hurt. He had hurt Freydis, and in return, she had hurt him. But now, he knew he was open to her again, even if it meant she hurt him again, because he never wanted to love her less than she deserved. That, he would never do again.

When night came, Freydis didn’t shut him out again, instead choosing to let Ivar into her room- their room- and her bed- their bed. They were married, after all, and both had reason, truthfully, that would be valid cause for not wanting to trust the other. She had betrayed him to his brothers, he had betrayed her and killed her. And now, he laid on his back, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, her head laid against his chest. They were choosing love, even if there was not yet full trust. It would come, as they each continued to prove it could.

“I wish I had known you better then,” Ivar whispered softly, suddenly, as if speaking the words only into the night. “I think if I had, I would have been better to you. I would have loved you better, and I think we would have been okay.”

Freydis gave a small sigh, which turned into a hum, as she considered his words. “We cannot know,” she said. “Say you had known me then, known me better. Who is to say that would not have presented worse problems than what we have already faced?”

“Or it could have been easier,” he said. “I did not know all you say you did for me, but if I had not been so caught up in myself…”

“Then you may have known and killed me for it, as opposed to killing me for what you did,” she pointed out. “The past is set in stone, and should be left behind. We can learn from it, but we must always move forward, dear Ivar. Never back. We won’t find each other there.”

Ivar gave a small nod, and Freydis smiled up at him gently, something soothing to him in that expression. “I missed you,” he said. “Every day after the Siege when I killed you, I wished I still had you at my side. Even if I was constantly trying to keep you from killing me.”

Freydis giggled a little bit. “I might have been more creative than you,” she teased him, rolling up so she could look down at him. “Though, I can’t say I’d have promised to love you and weep for you once you were gone.” Ivar chuckled and shook his head, lifting a hand to brush through her hair.

“I hope you would now, though,” he said. “Weep for me. Though I hope more that I do not ever give you cause to weep.”

“I would have wept then,” she confessed. “I told your brothers I wanted to see you hung from a tree, but if I had ever truly seen that..?” Freydis swallowed, and laid her head against him once more. “I think it would have been the last thing my heart could have taken.”

“You looked at me as if you hated me, the day I killed you,” Ivar said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“I wanted to, and I tried to, but if my dream revealed anything to me, it is that I never could,” she replied.

Ivar looked down at her thoughtfully, though he found that her eyes weren’t on him, but were focused on something that, if it were there, he was unable to see. He could tell things weren’t the same just yet, not the same as when he’d held her in Kattegat, before everything had gone so wrong. But progress was being made, and he hoped they’d get there one day. Even if it was something he fought for the rest of his life, he gladly would, even if it was only their last night on Midgard that they were finally truly healed.

Things were easier between them, after that night, and though they still took yet another step back from that place, the place which had allowed Ivar to hold Freydis once more, but he knew why that was. She needed time, just as she had said. And so, he’d give it to her, however much she needed. Just to see her smiling again, to live in the same place with her where she seemed happy, in some capacity, was good. He liked to see her happy.

Professor Andersen and Dr. Schmidt were also very pleased by this change. They’d come to visit as soon as they found out Freydis was awake, and upon knocking had heard her voice calling out for them to enter. Seeing her up cooking, and Ivar hovering over her, stealing pieces of the food she was making. In fact, watching her reach up and smack the back of his head, watching him laugh at this as she rolled her eyes and tried to shoo him away… Clearly, something had changed.

“You two seem very happy this morning,” Professor Andersen commented, leaning against the wall. “Something happen?”

“We had a good conversation, last night,” Freydis replied. “About… everything. I had a vision while I was asleep, and it changed much of how I see things now. There is still a long way to go, but…” She turned to smile softly at Ivar. “We will get there.”

Ivar smiled at her, and pressed a kiss to her head. “We will,” he agreed.

“Must have been… some vision, to have produced such results overnight?” Dr. Schmidt prompted. “Do you want to tell us about it?”

Clearly, she wanted it for their research. It was a shock to hear at all that Freydis had any vision, but if they could learn what exactly she saw, then that would be all the better. Freydis, however, shared a look with Ivar. They both knew what the vision had entailed, that it really hadn’t been a vision, that it had been Freydis’s subconscious, and the desires held there, that she had seen. Perhaps that would still interest the Doctor and the Professor to know, to hear how she had done it and to study what she had done, but neither Freydis nor Ivar truly wanted to give them that information. Something about it felt private and intimate, something they could share amongst themselves. And now that they were trying to grow closer again, it somehow felt important to start having those things again.

Freydis turned that knowing smile to Dr. Schmidt then, and shook her head. “No,” she answered. “I don’t think I will.”

It was the first time she had denied them. They were stunned, and shared a look with each other as Freydis called Ivar over to help her with something, and he did so gladly. As great an idea as they’d believed they’d had, in pairing up a husband and a wife as a team to work for them, they were now beginning to see the flaws.

Marriage meant loyalty, and if they were working out their marriage, choosing each other and choosing to stay together, then they were choosing that loyalty to each other. Loyalty which, if pitted against loyalty to those they were working with… They would choose each other now. The dynamics between the four had shifted again, and not in the direction Professor Andersen and Dr. Schmidt had wanted, or even foreseen. This could be backfiring on them.

But how could they even make an attempt at separating the two now? That would automatically create distance, but not in the desired way. Putting them together had clearly been a severe miscalculation, one they weren’t sure how to recover from.

When Dr. Schmidt and Professor Andersen had finally left, Ivar and Freydis felt relief. It was quiet, then, but Ivar was curious still about how Freydis had handled that question. No, I don’t think I will. And that little smile she had given…

They were on the same page with not wanting to share it, he could tell that just from the look they’d shared before she had declined Dr. Schmidt’s request for information. But why? Did they have the same thoughts on why that should not be shared? Or did she have some reason not to share, one that he couldn’t even begin to guess? The only way to have any idea was to ask. So, he did.

“I think I… do not want to share all things with them anymore,” she confessed. “You are my husband, not either of them. Why should I tell them all that I tell you?”

And so Ivar saw also that allegiances were shifting. It made him begin to think, and as he watched Freydis, he began to think more and more seriously about the implications of her words. There wasn’t one part of him which liked being held by these people, whose purposes and goals he couldn’t glean from what little information they’d been given. If it hadn’t been for Freydis, he may have tried to find an escape immediately. But if he could convince her to escape with him…

There was time. He wasn’t sure how she would feel about such a thing as escape, as making their way through this world together. There, locked up in that facility, there was nothing they needed to know of the outside world. If they escaped, they’d have a lot to learn quickly, but he knew he was willing to take that risk, if it meant they were free.

But in order to go anywhere, he would have to convince Freydis. He hadn’t come so far with her, gotten so close to having her again, to walk out now. If it would require him to leave or lose her, he wouldn’t do it. He’d made that call before, and he was never going to make it again.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius, @katfett, @sylki-simp, @heavenly1927, @punkrocknpearls, @pomegranates-and-blood

If you want to be added to the taglist, feel free to reach out either by commenting, reblogging, DMing me, or sending an ask, and I’ll be more than happy to add you!

[comrade-meow]

This is a transcript of a speech by developmental biologist Dr Emma Hilton delivered on 29 November 2020 for the ‘Feminist Academics Talk Back!’ meeting. This talk was originally published by womentalkback.org

Sex denialists have captured existing journals We are dealing with a new religion

Thank you for the invitation to speak today, as a feminist academic fighting back.

As ever, let’s begin with a story. And, trust me, by the end of this talk, you’re going to know a lot more about creationism that you expected:

1. In the 1920s, in concert with many other American states, the Tennessee House of Representatives passed the Butler Act, making it illegal for state public schools to: “teach any theory that denies the Story of the Divine Creation of man as taught in the Bible.” In other words, banning schools from teaching the theory of evolution.

Three months later, Tennessee science teacher John Scopes was on trial, charged with teaching the theory of evolution, a crime he was ultimately found guilty of. He was fined £71 – about £1064 in today’s money – so it could have been an expensive affair for him, had he not got off on a really boring administrative technicality.

Yet, despite the evidence against him and his own confession, he was an innocent man. Scopes was not guilty of teaching the theory of evolution. He admitted to a crime he had not committed. He even coached his students in their testimonies against him. So why would he admit to this wrongdoing of which he was entirely innocent? Why would he contrive apparent guilt? In protest. In protest against a law he viewed as fundamentally incompatible with the pursuit of scientific truth.

2. The history of creationism and education laws in the US is turbulent and often opaquely legalese, especially for those of us unfamiliar with US law. Some of the methods of the wider creationist movement, however, will be immediately recognisable as they are employed by a new movement, one which seeks to erase another scientific truth, the fact of sex.

Method 1. The framing of human classifications, whether it’s species or sex, as “arbitrary”. This leads to the premise that such phenomena are “social constructs” that need not exist if we chose to reject them. That truth must be relative and consensual. Never mind that these “arbitrary” classifications appear to be surprisingly similar classifications across all cultures and civilisations.

It also necessarily spotlights tricky boundary cases – not really a personal problem for the long-dead evolutionary missing links, but a very real problem in the modern world for people whose sex is atypical and who are constantly invoked, even fetishized, as “not males” or “not females” to prove sex classification is somehow no more than human whimsy.

People with DSDs have complex and often traumatic medical histories, perhaps struggling to understand their bodies, and they deserve more respect than to be casually and thoughtlessly used as a postemodernist “gotcha” by the very people so horribly triggered by a pronoun.

Method 2. The distortion of science and the development of sciencey language to create a veneer of academic rigour. Creationists invented “irreducible complexity” and “specified complexity” while Sex denialists try to beat people over the head with their dazzling arrays of “bimodal distributions arranged in n-dimensional space”.

Creationists, unable to publish in mainstream science journals because they weren’t producing, well, science, established their own journals. “Journals”. Sex denialists have captured existing journals – albeit limited to more newsy ones and to occasional editorials and blogs about gender (which is not sex), about how developmental biology is soooo complicated (which does not mean sex is complicated – I mean, the internal combustion engine is complicated but cars still fundamentally go forwards or backwards), about how discussing the biology of sex is mean (OK, good luck with that at your doctor’s surgery). Many such blogs and articles are written by scientists who simultaneously deny sex to their social media audience while writing academic papers about how female fruitflies make shells for their eggs (no matter how queer they are), about the development of ovaries or testes in fish and about how males make sperm.

The current editor-in-chief at Nature, the first female to hold this position, studied sex determination in worms for her PhD, and she now presides over a journal with an editorial policy to insert disclaimers about the binary nature of sex into spotlight features about research on, for example, different death rates in male and female cystic fibrosis patients.

The authors of the studies are not prevaricating or handwaving about sex, but the editorial team is “bending the knee”. I used to research a genetic disorder that was male-lethal – that is, male human babies died early in gestation. I’d love to know if this disclaimer would be applied there.

Method 3. Debate strategies like The Gish Gallop. This method is named for Duane Gish, who is a prominent creationist. What it boils down to is: throw any old argument, regardless of its validity, in quick succession at your opponent and then claim any dismissal or missed response or even hesitation in response as a score for your side. In Twitter parlance, we know this as “sealioning”, in political propaganda as the “firehose of falsehood”, although Wikipedia also suggests that it is covered by the term “bullshit”. So, what about intersex people? what about this article? what about an XY person with a uterus? what about the fa’afafine? what about that article? look at this pretty picture. what about what about whataboutery what about clownfish? The aim is not to discuss or debate, it is to force submission from frustration or exhaustion.

Method 4. The reification of humans as separate from not just monkeys but the rest of the living world. The special pleading for special descriptions that frame humans as the chosen ones, such that the same process of making new individuals, common to humans and asparagus, an observation I chose because it seems superficially silly – it could have been spinach – requires its own description, one that accounts for gender identity.

3. In the Scopes trial, which saw discussion of whether Eve was actually created from Adam’s rib and ruminations on where Cain got his wife, Scopes was defended by a legal group who had begun scouting for a test case subject as soon as the Tennessee ban was enacted. This legal group claimed to advocate for:

“Freedom of speech for ideas from the most extreme left such as anarchists and socialists, to the most extreme right including the Ku Klux Klan, Henry Ford, and others who would now be considered more toward the Fascist end of the spectrum.”

The legal group so keen to defend the right to speak the truth, in this case a fundamental, observable scientific truth? The American Civil Liberties Union, a group whose modern day social media presence promotes nonsense like:

“The notion of biological sex was developed for the exclusive purpose of being weaponized against people.”

and

“Sex and gender are different words for the same thing [that is] a set of politically and socially contingent notions of embodied and expressed identity.”

and shares articles asserting that biological sex is rooted in white supremacy.

Since the Scopes case, the ACLU have fought against many US laws preventing, or at least compromising, the teaching of evolution. I cannot process the irony of a group of people historically and consistently prepared to robustly defend the truth of evolution while now denying one of the most important biological foundations of evolution.

4. How do we fight this current craze of sex denialism? A major blow for creationism teaching was delivered in 1986 while the US Supreme Court were considering a Louisiana state law requiring creationism to be taught alongside evolution. The Louisiana law was struck down, in part influenced by the expert opinions, submitted to the court, of scientists who put aside their individual and, as one of them has since described “often violent” differences on Theory X and Experiment Y, to present a unified defence of scientific truth over religious belief. 76 Nobel laureates, 17 state academies of science and a handful of scientific organisations all got behind this single cause, and made a very real change.

Support for creationism has slowly ebbed away and the US is in a much more sensible position these days, although I still meet the occasional student from a Southern state who didn’t learn about evolution until college.

Sadly, one of the Nobel laureates has highlighted how unusual this collective response was and that he could not imagine any other issue that would receive the same groundswell of community support. Although he forged his career listening out for the Big Bang, so maybe I need to go through the list and find the biologists.

Part of the problem petitioning biologists to speak out is not necessarily fear of being cancelled or whatever, but simple lack of awareness of the issue, or incredulity that it is being taken remotely seriously. I’ve been working on a legal document and was discussing with a colleague about my efforts to find a citation for the statement, “there are two sexes, male and female”. He laughed at the idea that this would require a citation, told me to check a textbook, then realised that this statement is so simple that it would not even be included in a textbook.

And he’s right. I can find chapters in textbooks and hundreds of academic papers dedicated to how males and females are made, how they develop, how they differ, yet very few that feel the need to preface any of this with the statement “There are two sexes, male and female”. It is apparently something that biologists do not think needs to be said.

But of course, I think they are wrong, and that we live in a time where it does need to be said, where some aspects of society are being restructured around a scientific untruth, and where females will suffer.

Without recognition of and language to describe our anatomy, and the experiences that stem from that anatomy, mostly uninvited, we can neither detect nor measure things like rates of violence against women, the medical experiences, the social experiences of women and girls.

And, as for creationism, the reality of sex perhaps needs to be said by those with scientific authority, in unambiguous terms. Otherwise, we are living in a society that tolerates nonsense like there is no such thing as male or female, that differences evident to our own eyes are not real, that anatomies readily observable and existing in monkey and man alike do not actually exist. I’m sure this last assertion has the full support of the creationist community. And perhaps, as for creationism, a true tipping point will be tested when it is our children being taught these scientific untruths, or worse, when it is illegal to say different.

5. At the end of his trial, the only words Scopes uttered in court were these:

“Your honor, I feel that I have been convicted of violating an unjust statute. I will continue in the future, as I have in the past, to oppose this law in any way I can. Any other action would be in violation of my ideal of academic freedom—that is, to teach the truth as guaranteed in our constitution, of personal and religious freedom.”

I do not exaggerate when I say we are dealing with a new type of religion, a new form of creationism and a new assault on scientific truth. I also do not exaggerate when I say it may take a high profile court case to rebalance the public discourse around sex. There is only so far letters and opinion articles can go.

Two things I predict: 1. It will not be defended by the ACLU, and 2. With the recent proposals on hate speech law, it will probably involve a Scottish John Scopes, who finds themself in front of a judge for the seditious crime of discussing the sex life of asparagus at their dinner table.

Dr Emma Hilton is a developmental biologist studying aspects of human genetic diseases, and her current research focuses on a congenital motor neurone disease affecting the genitourinary tract, and on respiratory dysfunction in cystic fibrosis. She teaches reproduction, genes, inheritance and genetic disorders. Emma has a special interest in fairness in female sports. A strong advocate for women and girls, Emma tweets as @FondofBeetles.

[blkmxrvel]

Haven’t Forgotten My Way Home [17] - (CONVERTED)

Pairing: Kara Zor-El x Female!Reader

Summary: In the D/s society of National City, men and women abandoned by their Dom/mes or otherwise deemed unfit for life “outside” end up at the Mount Overland House for Orphaned Submissives. It is here that Kara Zor-El finds Y/N Hastings, broken and fearful from mistreatment at the hands of her former Dom. Can Kara coax Y/N back into the world that once so terrified her, and show her the true meaning of care and submission?

Warnings: Domestic Violence (Flashbacks, Mentions and Descriptions), Misogyny, Domination/Submission.

A/N: hi, back from the dead just to finish uploading this story conversion bc I’ve gotten a lot of asks about it! Still not writing anything myself so 😗 yeah Hope you enjoy

“Kara, is that a zip drive in your hand or are you just happy to see me?”

“… no?”

“I’m not watching any PowerPoints.”

“I brought cake?”

Lena sighed heavily and stepped aside to let Kara pass through the front door. “I regret ever telling you that cake is my weakness,” she pointed out. She closed the door and turned to Kara with a searching look. “And I imagine you’re here to talk to me about yours.”

“Am I that transparent?” Kara asked, sitting both the zip drive and the chocolate cake (extra icing) on the table. She sighed and sat down on the couch, then glanced up at the ceiling. “You don’t, er, have anyone tied up at the moment, do you?”

“No,” Lena smirked. “She’s gone to the pharmacy.”

“Oh,” Kara said as her friend sat next to her and crossed her legs. “I hope everything’s all right?”

“Everything’s just fine,” Lena said, and her smirk widened into a full-blown smile. “She’s gone for a pregnancy test.”

“Lena!” Kara gasped, launching herself at the woman and pulling her into a hug. “Lena, that’s amazing!”

Lena returned the hug, laughing. “We don’t know for sure yet, of course,” she cautioned. “But we’ve been trying for a little while and Sam's late, so…”

“This is the real deal, huh?” Kara said, pulling away and smiling with a wistful look. She’d known it was real when Lena had told her of her claim, but a baby… She couldn’t help but wonder what if-

“Kara?” Lena placed her hand on Kara’s knee, rubbing gently. Her voice was full of concern as she asked, “You’re not… jealous, are you?”

“What? No!” Kara said, shaking her head vigorously. She willed her smile to be a little less sad, realizing that Lena had completely misunderstood the emotion behind it. “You know I love you, Lena, but you also know I stopped caring for you like that a while ago.”

She hadn’t expected for their relationship to deepen the way it did. She was young and Lena was more experienced, both in their lifestyle and in life. Most people didn’t start relationships after their training was complete, but after Kara had spent her week on her knees learning from Lena, things had changed once she’d gotten back on her feet. In Lena she had found a caring Dominant, someone willing to take time for Kara, to teach her things that Kara couldn’t learn from books. And in Lena Kara had found an equal, someone who inspired her intellectually, met her attitude measure for measure, and had been responsible for more than just one awakening.

So it wasn’t any wonder Lena was concerned about residual feelings. Kara knew her feelings for the woman to whom she’d given her virginity wouldn’t just fade away, but she also knew that they could change. And, “It’s not really you I was thinking of,” Kara confessed, “It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N?” Lena said, seeming relieved.

“Just imagining what it would be like to know she was going out to buy a pregnancy test. For herself, or me.” Kara shrugged. “I guess I am quite transparent.”

“And a bit jumping the gun,” Lena said matter-of-factly. “I’m not sure either of you are ready for that leap yet. But you obviously didn’t make a PowerPoint to discuss what movies Y/N likes.”

“Wizard of Oz,” Kara muttered half to herself, and then sighed again. “I don’t suppose you really need to see the PowerPoint, though it’s a very good one, if I do say so myself.”

“And the subject?” Lena said, getting up to pour herself and Kara a drink and to cut the cake for them to share.

“Forty slides of reasons why I cannot fulfill Y/N’s request for me to dominate her.”

Lena’s hands stopped in mid-air, the knife hovering over the cake, and she gaped at Kara. “She asked you to dominate her?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m correct in assuming that you said no?”

“Would I be sitting in your living room, looking appropriately and movingly distressed if I had said yes?”

“Watch yourself, Kara,” Lena said sharply. “You know I will not accept disrespect, no matter how distressed you are, and even if you are not my submissive.”

Kara rolled her eyes, even as she winced. She well remembered the pain in her 17 year old bottom from every smack of Lena’s hand, and then the belt. But that didn’t compare to the humiliation of seeing Lena’s disappointed face beforehand as she gave Kara the lecture about respect, or being put over Lena’s lap with her skirt flipped up and her panties down.

“I’m sorry,” Kara said quietly. “I just…” She trailed off and accepted the drink and plate Lena handed her before sitting down next her again.

“You didn’t want to say no.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Then why did you?”

Kara shrugged again. “I don’t know. Because she isn’t ready. Because I’m not ready. Because she has nightmares every night of him. Because she flinches whenever I raise my voice? Because if I even say the word ‘whipped’ or ‘paddled’ or ‘punished,’ she looks at me like she’s seeing him. Because—“

“You’re scared.”

“I really hate how you put words in my mouth.”

“You hate the fact that I’m right more.” Kara hmphed, and Lena chuckled a little. “You’re scared to dominate her, but you’re not happy with just casually dating either.”

Their society hadn’t really been built around casual dating, Kara knew. Back when her parents were young, when their parents were young, it was unspoken that when you found a Dominant, you were claimed by them before you even thought of doing anything with them. It was to be forever, a bond that was never to be broken. Kara had to admit that she preferred the way things were done now. If she had been born decades ago she would have never even thought about giving herself sexually first to Lena, instead of to her intended. But she was grateful for the experience, and even more glad that Dominants and submissives had the freedom to choose who they wanted to be with, and were allowed to have the sort of “trial and error” relationships that wouldn’t have been possible in the past. No longer did submissives feel as if they had to submit themselves to the first Dominant they came across, and no longer did Dominants feel as if they had to make a claim as soon as they reached a certain age.

And dating Y/N was nice… for the little time they had done it. Kara felt a particular twist in her stomach as she wondered if she’d ever be able to feel that way again, to be excited waking up the morning of a date. The rush of kissing in the moonlight before Y/N went inside Nia’s house. Sitting across from Y/N in a crowded coffee shop and knowing that Y/N only had eyes for her.

But Lena was right. For Kara, that wasn’t enough. She’d always pictured herself as meeting The One – the submissive with whom she’d share that unbreakable connection. She was probably too melodramatic for her own good, she’d been raised on musicals after all; but Kara had always imagined it would be the meeting of eyes across a crowded room. Two people gravitating towards each other, reaching out to grasp hands and… that would be it. Lover and friend, Dominant and submissive, together forever.

It was a child’s dream, and she was no longer a child. But that didn’t stop her from wishing.

“What exactly is it that you think I’m afraid of?”

“Why are you afraid of going to New York?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?!” Kara snapped, slamming her drink down on the table in front of the couch. She saw Lena’s lips tighten, and Kara took a deep breath. “Y/N seems to think I’m terrified of that as well.”

“And let me guess, you shut her down.”

“I didn’t shut her down; I merely told her the conversation was closed.”

“Refresh my memory on how that is different.” Kara didn’t say anything, just crossed her arms over her chest and glared down at the carpet. Lena sighed. “Do you remember when I was training you, and you sassed off at me so I whipped you?”

“How could I forget? I felt it for a week afterward.”

“And what’s part of the reason?”

Kara refused to look at Lena. “You accidentally wrapped the belt over my hip.” Lena had taken the utmost care with her, but she knew from her classes at the Academy that sometimes accidents happen. And that the most important thing was to tell your Dominant. But Kara had wanted to make Lena proud, hadn’t wanted the woman to see her as weak when Kara was working so hard to be good. A good submissive-in-training, a good Dominant. So she had kept quiet, even through the pain.

“And you didn’t tell me until I saw you looking at the mark in the mirror later that night.”

“No, Miss Lena.”

It felt weird, saying that, because she wasn’t a submissive and Lena wasn’t her Dominant, but Kara hadn’t spoken to Y/N for the last three days – she hadn’t called – and Kara had been struggling to maintain control of a life that she felt was spiraling out of her reach. Lena had always, ever since Kara was seventeen, been able to pull Kara out of herself and take that control, even for just a little while. Enough for Kara to clear her head and start thinking rationally again. Sometimes it was just nice to have Lena wrap her arms around Kara and pull her close, for Kara not to have to think about being strong and brave and dominant.

“What did I tell you that night, once I’d made sure you were all right and after I’d apologized for being careless?”

Kara nuzzled herself deeper into Lena’s arms, taking a deep breath and letting the worries that had overwhelmed her slip away a little. “That communication was important. That you can’t have a true relationship between a Dominant and a submissive unless both parties know they can talk freely, about anything and everything. But this is different,” she protested.

“No, it’s not,” Lena said firmly. “You’re afraid to go to New York, and you’re afraid to dominate Y/N just as much as she’s afraid to be dominated by you. You have a right to talk to Y/N about being afraid to dominate her, and she has a right to ask you why you’re so scared about that, and why you’re so scared to go to New York. And if neither of you talk about either of those things, then every fear you have right now of being like him is going to come true.”

“She’s not ready,” Kara said, sitting up. “She tells me that she doesn’t want to have to choose all the time, but how can she say that when she’s never even had choices?”

“You know,” Lena mused, smiling a little at Kara, “As much as I like wolves, you and the council did rather just toss Y/N out to them.” Seeing Kara’s look of confusion, she continued, “Think about it. Y/N’s life, although harsh, was all she’s ever known. And though she left on her own, she was still ripped away from it. And now you, and the council, and everyone involved is telling Y/N that she has to do it all herself, that she can’t have any support system. No wonder she’s terrified.”

“Having a support system is a lot different from being dominated, though,” Kara said, standing up and beginning to pace around Lena’s living room floor. “It isn’t as if she’s completely alone. She has Alex, and Maggie. Nia and her physical therapist and Miss Holliday. She doesn’t need to be dominated; she needs to learn what it’s like to have friends. She needs to learn it’s okay to have her own needs and desires and to have all of them met. She can’t do that if someone starts dominating her just months after she got away from that… that asshole. I can still be supportive of Y/N while not being her Dominant.”

“And you can dominate her without being her Dominant, and without taking away her choices.”

Kara didn’t see how that was possible. As much as just casually dating Y/N wasn’t enough, she didn’t think she could dominate her, either, not without the intent to claim her. And Y/N was nowhere near ready for that. Kara didn’t know if she’d ever be ready. No, the important thing was that Y/N knew she had choices, and that she learned how to make them. Maybe then, after a few years, they’d both be ready to try.

“Plus I could get in trouble with the council,” Kara offered, but knew by the way Lena rolled her eyes that she’d seen past the feeble excuse. She was good at that.

“The council,” Lena scoffed, shaking her head and moving to refill her drink. “The council, my darling Kara, is nothing but a group of old men sitting around thinking that they know what’s best for the Dominants and submissives of our society. And frankly I don’t think they should be telling me or you a damn thing about how to live our lives when they probably can’t even dominate their own penises into doing what they want.”

Kara choked on her drink and tapped her chest, spluttering. She stared at Lena in shock; her former lover simply smirked at her. “So you’re telling me to go against the council? Against what I think is the right thing?”

“I’m telling you to stop being so scared.” Kara sat back down on the couch and Lena once again patted her knee. “Tell me, when she asked you to dominate you, what terrified you?”

Kara thought for a moment. “How much she wanted me to punish her. I didn’t think, after all that she’s been through… I thought that would be the last thing she’d ask for.”

Lena nodded. “She probably wanted you to physically punish her too.”

“I’ll never,” Kara said vehemently. “I’ll never do that to her. Ever.”

“Notice that you just said you will never, not that you would never.”

“I hate you and your word-twisting ways,” Kara muttered, and Lena laughed. “I just don’t understand why she would want that. After everything he’s done to her, why would she want me to punish her? To spank her?”

“She obviously did something that made her think she needed to be punished.”

“She was being a grumpy brat.”

“Oh dear, you have met your match, then,” Lena said, sounding more than a little gleeful. “I can’t wait to see how this plays out.” Seeing Kara’s glare, she cleared her throat and continued. “So she did something that upset you, and she wanted to rectify the situation. In Y/N’s mind, wrongdoing equals punishment. Punishment results in forgiveness, forgiveness means moving forward with a clean slate. So that sounds remarkably—“

“Submissive,” Kara finished for her, sighing. “So it’s the not the punishment she wants, it’s something normal. Something she knows. Even if it means I’d punish her physically, she’d try to take it just so she could have that little piece of her life back. But isn’t that proof that she isn’t ready?”

“No. It’s proof that she’s trying to take control of her own life.”

Kara blinked. “I don’t follow.”

“A Dominant doesn’t need a submissive, but you can’t dominate anyone until you have a submissive. And you can’t have a submissive until one chooses to be yours. Until someone chooses to give you that control, you don’t have it. And Y/N made her choice. She took control of her own choices, her own wants, and tried to give you her submission. Everything you would be in that relationship is because she has made the choice to give it to you.”

“I don’t know if it’s me she wants, or just… someone to be nice to her.”

“No one’s saying for you to claim her.”

“Then what are you saying?” When Lena was silent, Kara pressed harder. “Lena, you know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t value your opinion more than most, probably even more than my daddies’. You’re the one that taught me, and if I’m going to be a good Dominant it’s partly because of what I learned from you. Please.”

“Do you think you’re going to be a good Dominant?” Lena met Kara’s eyes, challenging her. “Isn’t that what’s really holding you back, both from dominating Y/N and going to New York? You don’t think you’re good enough for either.”

Kara felt the chill run from the base of her neck down her spine, and she struggled to maintain her control over the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her at Lena’s words. How many nights had she lain in bed since she was 18 years old, dreaming of New York, of Broadway, of the school where people would appreciate her, where she would feel home? It had been a long time since she felt the excitement of new possibilities, of new discovery. She’d gotten used to getting up every day, the three cups of coffee before 9 a.m. that would barely sustain her for the rest of the day. Gotten used to meeting life’s broken, the castoffs, the unwanted, and feeling powerless to fix any of it. But gradually thoughts of New York had been replaced by helping who she could; dreams of Broadway had been pushed aside in favor of being the leading actress in a play of saving the world. Or at least the Lima part of it.

And then she’d met Y/N Hastings.

Now things were different. Now Kara got up every day not just thinking of the wounded submissives, but thinking of one. And lately the thoughts of one were overriding the thoughts of many. Y/N made her feel… awake, for the first time in a long time. Things that Kara hadn’t felt since she was on her knees for Lena, in Lena’s arms, in Lena’s bed came rushing back to her with a force that she hadn’t known even with her former lover. And there it was, the desire to care for one, the desire to control one, the desire to bring one to her knees and then lift her back up.

The one that felt like home.

But it scared Kara to death.

Because when she thought of Y/N on her knees, it wasn’t Kara herself she saw behind the other woman. It was him, with his harsh words and brutal hand. But the words were in her voice, the hand attached to her arm, and Kara knew she would rather die than be to Y/N what James had been. She tried to tell herself that there was no possible way she could be like him, that the very fact she’d rather die than treat Y/N badly would be the prevention of it, but Kara knew, again, that even experienced Dominants like Lena sometimes messed up. What if she destroyed Y/N even further than she had already been? What if she punished her the wrong way, said the wrong thing, was the wrong Dominant for the girl and neither of them realized it until it was too late? What if, just like in her dreams for Broadway, Kara suddenly found herself lacking?

What if she wasn’t good enough?

“You’re getting too far inside your own head,” Lena said quietly, a hand on Kara’s shoulder pulling her out of her thoughts. She smiled fondly, wrapping her arm around Kara and hugging her close again. “That’s why I almost never put you in the corner that week. I don’t know if you noticed that. But I could see that you liked to think about things far too much, and you’d end up beating yourself far more than I ever would.”

“What if I’m not good enough?” Kara asked bluntly. “What if I do this and I’m not what she needs, what if I’m the worst possible person for her and I end up hurting her worse than even he did?”

“Again, no one’s asking you to claim her. You just need to find a good balance, something that works for both of you.”

“How do I find that balance?”

Lena smiled and squeezed Kara. “By listening to your nature. To what’s in your heart. Kara, you’re more than good enough. For Y/N, and for New York. You’ve been wonderful, taking care of your father and doing your job. But maybe now it’s time for you to focus on yourself, and on Y/N too. You’ll never know, you might find out you’re exactly what she needs. And she might be exactly who you need. But you never know until you try. Oh, and Kara?”

“Yes?”

Lena hugged Kara close to her, pulling the girl’s head onto her chest. “I am so proud of you.”

Lena’s words echoed in Kara’s head hours after, when she lay in her bed in the darkness, idly petting Arnie and staring at the phone resting on her chest. People had told her before that they were proud of her, her fathers mostly, but somehow it was different, coming from Lena. It was almost like vindication, reassurance that the path she was on was the right one. Even if she wasn’t sure of it.

She glanced at the clock. Two twenty-three a.m. She glanced down at the phone again.

What would it take, Kara wondered. What would it take for her to stop being scared? What would it take for her and Y/N to throw caution to the wind and trust each other? What would it take for her to find that balance, the mix of dominance and freedom that Y/N not only craved, but needed? What would it take for Kara to be who she was born to be, and to maybe find the person she was born to be with?

A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

Kara picked up the phone and took a deep breath, pressing a button. The speed dial kicked in instantly.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Then, just as she was about to hang up, a sleepy but panicked voice. “A-are you all right? Do you n-need anything?”

Kara smiled a little to herself, reaching up a hand to wipe at the tears that had begun to fall.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, Y/N, I do need something.

[g-perla]

The ACOTAR Series is a Romantic/Gothic Horror Stage and Only Nesta Got the Memo

Not even SJM knows what’s going on.

Ok, this is going to seem off the rails but bear with me.

So I'm a big fan of Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (top 5 books and all that jazz) and I was thinking about it because it deals with themes of the Other and the supernatural, Nature as Character, the overlap of the animalistic and human, blurring of established binaries...fun, Romantic shit like that. Interestingly, this overlaps with how SJM illustrates her world and characters a lot of the time, hence why I was considering it while working on my Nesta project. I’ve mentioned before that Nesta really gives me Byronic heroine vibes and that’s a character construct of precisely this literary tradition.

I started thinking about Heathcliff and Cathy and how they're ridiculously extra and just feel the most intense emotions towards each other but also towards literally everything (nothing half-assed ever, this is a Romantic novel after all). I then remembered how so many people ship them, but like in earnest, in a totally aspirational way. It's not a #cursed ship to them at all. It's...romantic to them not Romantic. I even read often that people quote it at their weddings, specifically the infamous "two souls" quote.

Then I had an epiphany. I was like "wait, what if SJM is one of those people?? What if she has the energy of a Cathy/Heathcliff earnest shipper and that's why all her ships are messy??" Because if that is the case, my friends, oh boy oh boy would it explain so much. I will post some sections from Wuthering Heights:

Doesn’t the acotar series seem like a 1/50 dilution of that energy?? And that is barely a taste of all the spiciness this book has to offer. To illustrate further: SJM gave us the F/eysand suicide pact and the near-death battlefield Nessian scene. One is certainly more outlandish than the other, but both are the result of intense emotions. To that Emily Brontë raises the following: Heathcliff asking the sexton to dig up Cathy’s grave to see what’s up because her ghost has been haunting him since he personally dug up her grave 18 years prior and she has been haunting him ever since. He later demands to be buried in the same exact grave when he dies so they can decompose together. They both married other people though which only adds to the mess. (I am not lying to you the Romantic tradition really gave us these gems lmao. As an aside, Mary Shelley was also a writer of the Romantic tradition and she confessed her love to husband Percy Bysshe Shelley on her mother’s grave. Her mother was liberal feminist icon Mary Wollstonecraft by the way which only makes this even more amazing. Additionally, biographers believe that the Shelleys also had sex there. Talk about Romantic 😉.)

Then I had ANOTHER thought! (Dangerous)

If we read the series from the point of view of just another YA high fantasy things might get a bit boring because the world-building is honestly lazy and the magic system is pretty soft, which isn’t a pre-requisite in high fantasy (The Lord of the Rings has a soft magic system) but it's not the norm and it doesn't pay off in this series. Not to mention that the plot is pretty lackluster and derivative. To add to that the romantic and sexual relationships are questionable in their healthiness and consequently are the source of much argument in the fandom. 

But, dear reader, if we think about the ACOTAR series as being a sort of thematic and ideological 21st century YA homage to the Romantic tradition of the 19th century (within which Gothic Horror also lives), things get REALLY, REALLY SPICY.

No longer do we just have a romance fantasy with messy, hyper-emotional, animalistic characters who constantly partake in morally grey situations rife with dubious dynamics. No longer does plot really matter. No longer do we require quasi-scientific descriptions of the world and the magical system. No! All that matters now are the characters and the mood. Now we have potential! Add a lot of Nature ambiance: expanses of dark woods, great mountains, the unknowable and sublime energy of the ocean, a violent rainstorm/hurricane/tsunami, an impending snowstorm whose intensity reflects the growing emotional intensity of the characters as the story goes along (I’m looking at you impending snowstorm in acofas that curiously matches the growing complexity of Nesta’s emotional state). Blur the lines between any imaginable category: life and death, human and animal, known and unknown, Self and Other, beautiful and monstrous, good and evil, masculine and feminine, the list goes on. Most importantly make your readers uncomfortable by frustrating their desires to sort things into easy binary categories and don’t apologise for making them question their assumptions about the world, morality, gender, and any other kind of previously constructed Order. 

Basically write the story with Dionysus-in-a-Greek-tragedy energy and bring to us mere mortals artful Chaos.

Once that is done we can have a literal Romantic/Gothic Horror story.  The Acotar series could have been this unapologetically, with the added element of being told through the eyes of the "Cathy" character instead of through the lens of a third person getting second-hand accounts about what went on. This whole series is honestly enough of a chaotic mess of Byronic-like heroes and heroines and cursed familial relationships that it could have been that. That alone is peak entertainment. The problem, however, and the main reason why I can’t really say that this series truly delivered this wackiness is that SJM committed the act of not fully committing to the bit (very un-Romantic of her, I know). Now, I am not saying that SJM actually intended this. I’m just saying it really could have accidentally been this genius with some tweaks. Unfortunately, she made the crucial mistake of trying to justify too much, trying to make things too neat, too tidy, too sensical (in other words: the reason we really can’t have nice things). 

I could end this here, lamenting the potential of what SJM had set-up for us were it not for one element, one gift:

Nesta 

OHOHOHO DO THINGS GET GOOD HERE SO BUCKLE UP

Most of the characters refuse to fully commit to the bit in their desire to satisfy modern sensibilities, by which I of course mean they want ridiculous things like political power, to conquer lands, to be a Girl Boss, to get married, have kids, celebrate holidays, converse about mundane things, be relatable, etc. You know, pretty pedestrian stuff that only requires a bit of genetic luck, a sprinkle of energy, and the right circumstances within the world of Acotar. I would like to reiterate the beginning of this paragraph: most of the characters. 

Let’s say you’re stubborn and you decide to still read the series through the lens of the Romantic/Gothic tradition, what happens then? 

The most hilarious thing (for the Nesta stans that is. The antis would probably hate this)

Nesta, based on what we know about her through Feyre and the limited amount of other scenes, is the only character who really takes the performance seriously. She's the only one that SJM hasn't managed to confine through justification. Nesta just shows up and simply refuses to make sense (her POWER what a queen 👑). She is endlessly fascinating because she just exists in her world on her terms, established categories be damned, and in this manner she frustrates not only the sensibilities of the characters in the stories but those of the reader as well. This double duty is, I suggest, the result of the other characters not fully inhabiting the nebulous world of Romantic characters and thus being a little too plausible and understandable even if they are not justifiable. 

Ok, you may say, but I relate so much to Nesta. I do understand her. I don’t justify all of her actions, but I understand where she is coming from. (You’re not alone, friend. I like to think these things too. Alas, we are but plebs).

To that I reply; Nesta does things, certainly, and we can spend hours trying to explain through extrapolation, educated guesses, and personal experience why she did those things, but the fact is we really don't know why. We are never explicitly told. Our insight into who she is and her motivations comes predominantly from the understanding of her youngest sister and from our own interpretation of the actions she takes. I must make clear that our own interpretations are rooted in pre-established assumptions about what is sensical and orderly in our own world and in our own lives. We cannot interpret with the tools available to us that which may be, by definition, unfathomable. It is simply paradoxical. Nesta, as we currently know her, is a construct derived from a limited number of scenes and our interpretations and projections of these scenes. Even the scenes where we get third person narration don’t explicitly tell us her motivations and her logic. For all we know there really is no comprehensible reason for her actions and that is endlessly amusing to me in how utterly Romantic it is. Acosf may and likely will change this of course, but as it stands, Nesta is a whole Romantic character. Her divisiveness in fandom and in the narrative could be due in part to her refusal to fit the discrete categories available in her world and ours. 

Isn’t that wonderful?

To illustrate this a bit more I will share some details SJM gives us about her/ elements she sets up that fit in with the characteristics of the Romantic tradition (these are not exhaustive by any means):

The absolute pettiness (and extra-ness) of being so angry at her father’s inaction that she is willing to starve to death to see if he does something.

How in Acowae she is described as shifting between emotions as if she were changing clothes and feeling everything too strongly (probably to the point of destruction)

She is constantly being compared to animals, even when she is still human. Granted, SJM compares everyone to animals, but that strengthens the blurring of lines between usually discrete categories. It is still most powerful when used as a comparison when she is human because it dehumanises Nesta.

Often, SJM describes her characters as forces. Forces of nature, for example. Acofas is full of details like this in relation to Nesta. There is a storm brewing leading up to the solstice party and it is in full swing when she arrives at the townhouse. The language used there suggests that Nesta herself may be the storm (against the onslaught of Nesta). It really adds to the Maleficent energy tbh.

She is often associated with death post her transformation

She is Other even to Others. She was Made like Elain, Feyre, and Amren in a sense, but the process of her specific transformation differentiates her greatly from the others. As it is, she doesn’t fit in anywhere

Her intense attachment to her femininity and its expression are at odds with the ideas and assumptions about the performance of womanhood and a woman’s role in her world and even in ours. She is unapologetically feminine in her physical presentation, but her character, her thoughts, and possibly even desires transgress the unwritten rules of acceptable femininity (unfortunately there still are abject expressions of femininity in our ‘”progressive” mileux

She displays in many of her actions a disrespect towards authority and to the status quo. This is particularly notable when her intensely polarised sense of right and wrong is aggravated.

Her self-destructiveness. This is referred to most strongly in Acofas, but I would say she was remarkably blasé about self-preservation in Acowar as well

She is described as intelligent, cunning, ruthless, attractive, and prone to debilitating extremes of emotionality. All of these are characteristics of Byronic heroes, a subtype of the Romantic hero

Here are a bunch of quotes that touch on many of the elements that I have discussed above:

“I looked at my sister, really looked at her, at this woman who couldn’t stomach the sycophants who now surrounded her, who had never spent a day in the forest but had gone into wolf territory...Who had shrouded the loss of our Mother, then our downfall, because the anger had been a lifeline, the cruelty a release. But she had cared--beneath it she had cared, and perhaps loved more fiercely than I could comprehend, more deeply and loyally.” 

--Acotar, emphasis mine, note the strong emotions. This is a recurring element for Nesta.

“Cassian’s face went almost feral. A wolf who had been circling a doe...Only to find a mountain cat wearing its hide instead.” 

--Acomaf, animal comparison

“Nesta is different from most people,” I explained. “She comes across as rigid and vicious, but I think it’s a wall. A shield--like the ones Rhys has in his mind.” “Against what?” “Feeling. I think Nesta feels everything--sees too much; sees and feels it all. And she burns with it. Keeping that wall up helps from being overwhelmed, from caring too greatly.”

--Acomaf, emphasis mine

“I knew that she was different [...] Nesta was different [...] as if the Cauldron in making her...had been forced to give more than it wanted. As if Nesta had fought after she went under, and had decided that if she was to be dragged into hell, she was taking the Cauldron with her.”

--Acomaf, Nesta had her own plans for the Cauldron what a queen

“Something great and terrible.”

--Acowar, referring to her eyes. Oooh, spooky Nesta 👻

“The day she was changed, she...I felt something different with her [...] like looking at a house cat and suddenly finding a panther standing there instead.”

--Acowar, a two in one here: difference + animal comparison. Boy does SJM really go heavy when establishing Nesta as Other.

“‘Not in flesh, not in the thing that prowls beneath our skin and bones...’ Amren’s remarkable eyes narrowed. ‘But...I see the kernel, girl.’ Amren nodded, more to herself than anyone. ‘You did not fit--the mold that they shoved you into. The path you were born upon and forced to walk. You tried, and yet you did not, could not fit. And then the path changed.’ A little nod. ‘I know--what it is to be that way. I remember it, long ago as it was.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’“

--Acowar, show don’t tell gets thrown out the window here, but it is useful for the present purposes

“What if I tell you that the rock and darkness and sea beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something--something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth. What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of Bastards?

What came out was not what went in [...] How lovely she is, new as a fawn and yet ancient as the sea. How she calls to you. A queen as my sister once was. Terrible and proud; beautiful as a winter’s sunrise.”

--Acowar, who knew rocks, darkness, and the sea were such gossips, but look how many connections to nature! To be compared to the sea, a significant example of the sublime, is peak Romanticism. If any of you have read Moby Dick, think about what the ocean and the white whale might have represented there and how that might relate to Nesta.

“I think the power is death--death made flesh.”

--Acowar, Feyre referring to the possible nature of Nesta’s power. Alluding to her powers possibly being related to death is quite significant because that is something most of us cannot comprehend, nor can most of the characters. For Nesta, a “reborn” but very much living character to have death associated with her is a strong blurring of the lines. The case of her being labelled a witch is similarly significant as it solidifies the elements of the supernatural while simultaneously comparing her to pretty much the only exclusively female-coded monster in western pop culture. I will touch more on this when I do my study of Nesta through the framework of Barbara Creed’s Monstrous Feminine.

“I am not like the others.”

--Acowar, we love a self-aware queen.

“Nesta took in his broken body, the pain in Cassian’s eyes, and angled her head.

The movement was not human.

Not fae.

Purely animal.

Purely predator.”

--Acowar

There are a lot more details and quotes that support this interpretation, but I didn’t write them all down in my archived notes. This post is obscenely long, however, so even though there is more to be said, I’ll leave it for another day. If you made it this far you really are an MVP and probably love Nesta to a concerning degree like me. Please rest your eyes if you’re actually reading this 😂

I’d love to read about any other takes and thoughts that might have come to your minds after reading this monstrosity,

G

[am-imagines]

Experience. Alex Morgan Imagine.

This was suppossed to be a short and sweet Imagine as per this anon request:  Is it alright for me to request something? Anyways: reader and Alex are together but the team except for Kelley (being the best friend of r) doesn’t know. Kelley and r are such good friends the others (and maybe the fans) start to tease them about being a couple. Obviously Alex doesn’t like that and gets jealous/possessive and probably spills the secret by accident? 

But this isn’t exactly short. It was a trip to write and one I truly enjoyed so I hope all of you do too. I apologize for any and all mistakes, those are only mine.

Words: 3332

Warnings: Swearing.

“Get a room, lovebirds!”

“Go eat a bird, Lavelle,” you say with a glare before resuming your conversation with Kelley.

Every single time someone implies you and O’Hara are together, it rubs you the wrong way. There’s nothing wrong with Kelley, she’s your best friend since the moment you met her, but there was never an attraction between you two. Maybe it irks you because you’ve told the team so a thousand times, but they keep pushing it no matter what you do.

“Come on! It’s time for you to accept it. We’re not gonna judge.”

Moving Kell’s legs from your lap, you get up. You’re just not in the mood to deal with them right now. The teasing could have been considered funny at the beginning, and maybe it would still be if you weren’t in love with someone else; someone trying really hard not to snap at Rose and Sonnett at the time.

Practice ended a few minutes ago, but you were talking with Kelley and were in no rush. Now, you gather your things; ready to head back to the hotel and hide from the team. Your conversation with Kelley will have to wait: which sucks because you’re in the middle of a really important conversation and the planning of a super secret surprise.

“Talk to you later, Kells.”

You spare a longing look at your girlfriend but can’t do much more without the rest of the girls knowing. Both of you had agreed to keep the relationship a secret until you felt ready.

“Y/N, wait!” Kelley calls and catches up to you after grabbing her bag.

“Why is it so hard for you to accept your feelings?”

By then it doesn’t matter who asked that. They’ve been pushing you for so long that the last drop makes you snap. The whole situation frustrates you to no end because it’s not the team anymore. The fans have theories about your secret romance with Kelley, and the press is starting to bring attention to it on every interview.

You know these sort of things were bound to happen since you’re a public figure. That’s exactly why you decided to keep your relationship hidden. But it makes you wonder how they can interpret the looks you share with your best friend as love, and yet ignore the way you look at one of the team’s captains.

There are things you cannot hide no matter how hard you try.

“Because there are no feelings between us!” You practically shout. “We’re friends. She’s my best friend, and yes, I love Kelley O’Hara but not in the way you all assume. I’m tired of this; of the way none of you listen! And I’m done: done with this and all of you.”

You leave without another word and Kelley follows closely. The way you two act around each other might not help what they think, but she knows you better than anyone else. She has had your back since the first day, and you have hers.

By then, you don’t know how the world doesn’t know the truth yet. It’s not like you’re tired of waiting or regretting the secrecy of your ongoing romance, but everyone is too stubborn or too damn oblivious to see the truth.

Your relationship with Alex Morgan has been a secret for little over a year, but as soon as someone flirts with you, Alex intercedes. When the press started questioning Kelley about the nature of her relationship with you, Alex made a point of being as close to you as possible for all of them to see. She almost kissed you after the match with France, and Kelley jumped towards both of you to cover the cameras.

Loving her is the best and greater thing you’ve ever done.

But you wish the rest of the world could let you be. Even if you were in a relationship with Kelley, or felt something else for the defense, you wish they could allow you the time to come to terms with your feelings at your own pace.

It’s too much to ask from the press; even from the fans. But you expected more from the women you consider family by now.

“I’m sorry,” Kelley says when you leave them behind.

That infuriates you even more because it’s not her fault.

She’s the only one that knows the truth since your love for Alex was nothing more than a crush. She was there to witness the beginning of your relationship and gave the shovel talk to Alex and then to you. She has kept your secrets and respected your wishes for privacy.

That’s probably why the entire world thinks there’s something else going on. Apparently, you can’t just be close friends anymore.

“No! It’s not your fault.”

You pull her into a hug and she laughs before poking your sides until you join her. She holds you for another moment; waiting patiently for the anger to fade away before relenting her embrace. She knows you too well, damn it.

“Call her. Pretty sure she needs it as much as you do after that fiasco. Then, you and I are gonna finish all the preparations. I’m pretty sure it’ll blown Janice off her socks. Only you could be that cheesy, Y/N. I’m telling you.”

“We’re in France, Kelley!” You say while spinning around with your arms extended. “We have to live it up to the city of love!”

“Yeah, yeah.” She responds shaking her head, although you can see her smiling. “Hurry up and make your call or I���m leaving you stranded on the Eiffel Tower.”

“You love me too much for that.”

Still, you get your phone to ring Alex.

The conversation is short lived; she’s trapped with the guys as they keep discussing your love life and you can detect a hint of anger as she tells them to shut up. You barely manage to tell her where you’re going; or close enough as to not spoil the surprise, and the time you will be back. The call ends with you telling her how much you love her and her tone softens when she whispers I love you too.

Everything goes as according to plan as it can afterwards. When you make it back to the hotel you almost ditch Kelley in your effort to make it to the room you share with Alex. It’s not like your best friend takes offense; she’s the one sending you off when the elevator finally reaches your floor.

Alex exits the bathroom just as you enter the room and your gaze falls on her perfect figure. She’s wearing one of your oversized sweatshirts and her hair is still wet from her shower.

It’s a beautiful sight and you almost choke on air.

“Hi!” You exclaim still breathless.

“Hello yourself,” Alex answers with an amused smirk. “Welcome back.”

She knows exactly what she’s doing when she closes the distance with an extra swag on her hips. You can’t move as she approaches you and her arms sneak around your waist. Alex pulls you closer until space is non-existent between her body and yours.

A second later her lips are on yours.

You know Alex better than anyone, and as soon as she kisses you, you know exactly how she feels. You don’t think she truly realizes her own jealousy, but the hunger in that kiss is a clear sign.

Alex is not always this desperate when jealous, because she knows what drives you crazy. She knows that the possessive flare here and there can make you putty in her hands and she can be rough when she knows you crave it.

This time, she’s trying to make a claim.

A subtle tilt of her head and your lips part for her. She nibbles your bottom lip before deepening the kiss; making it sensual in a way you can fully explain. It makes you shiver and your knees go weak. Thankfully her arms are holding you up.

You’re hers and Alex Morgan doesn’t take it well when people think otherwise.

The agreement you had changed nothing. Sure, neither of you is completely ready to come out to the public yet, but that doesn’t mean anyone else can have you.

When the kiss ends, you’re a little bit out of it. That’s the effect Alex has on you.

“I’m sorry.”

Alex would never apologize for a kiss like that and immediately you know that’s not the reason behind her words. You see the truth in her eyes when she rests her forehead against yours; you see the love and adoration, but also find traces of longing and heartache.

“We’re in this together, Al. None of this is your fault, and no matter how much I’d like the rumors to stop, I love having you all to myself.”

You’ve been able to explore and grow your relationship without the press trying to get in between or the world offering unwanted opinions. The main focus was always on your career rather than your love life, and your value wasn’t suddenly attached to the person were dating.

Every single moment shared with Alex is a gift. And you treasure every single one.

“I wanted to tell them the truth this morning,” she confesses. “I wanted to leave with you instead of Kelley. I know they care and want you to be happy. I wanted to tell them that you already are, with me.”

“Maybe it’s time to tell them.”

“Maybe.”

You’re in the middle of the world cup; about the face England in the semis. It’s not the right time, and both of you know it. But still, there’s only so much you can handle.

***

You won the match against England and Alex scored on her birthday. A mix of happiness, excitement and adrenaline are still running through your body when you’re called aside for an interview. You can barely focus on the reporter in front of you for a couple of minutes.

“Y/N, congratulations on the win. Great game today.”

“Thanks. We’re really excited to be on the final. We’ve fought so hard to be where we are.”

“Is it the excitement of the World Cup that made you finally come clean on your relationship with Kelley O’Hara?”

That cuts right through your dazed state and you stare at the reporter blankly.

“What?”

“This morning a video invaded all social media where it’s clear you two are more than friends. What do you have to say to all the fans that suspected already? Do you think it’s wise to prioritize a relationship when you’re aren’t champions yet?”

Your mind can’t even process half his questions as you shake your head trying to stop the claims. Where the hell did they hear that? You can’t even mutter a word before Ash steps in, tells him the interview is over and guides you to the locker room.

There’s a chorus of apologies and regretful looks that explain absolutely nothing. Alex is pacing from one side to another; anger clear in her eyes as Kelley tries to calm her down.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

That stops them all but Alex.

“Show her.”

A tablet is on your hands a second later with a video already playing. You can see pictures taken the day before as you explored France with your best friend.

 “Many people have speculated about an ongoing romance between members of the USWNT: Kelley O’Hara and a fan favorite: Y/N. The rumors started months ago but have resurfaced when the pair was seen around the city of lights without the rest of the team. It would seem they truly can’t resist the magic of the city.”

There’s a short video of you saying almost the same thing to Kelley after you left practice, but of course everything that was related to Alex is missing. Either they decided to cut it out, or whoever recorded you only captured a piece of that conversation.

“No, no.”

  “The apparent couple never made an official declaration, but what can contradict this?”

You don’t expect to hear your own voice and the first word is enough for you to know the rest of that sentence.

“She’s my best friend, and yes, I love Kelley O’Hara…”

Your voice trails off and you pause the video. This seems like a really bad joke; one with the worst timing. It’s not like Alex is having the happiest of birthdays, and you don’t blame her one bit.

You don’t even have a chance to talk to her for the rest of the day. Her family is there to celebrate her birthday, while paparazzi swam the hotel in hopes of capturing a moment of you and Kelley together. You can’t even go for a walk with your best friend, and your girlfriend doesn’t have a moment alone.

You wait and cheer at her party; not wanting to ruin her special day even more, but the surprise you had planned is ruined. There are cameras waiting for you to come out of the hotel, and they won’t stop following you.

Kelley sends you a text at midnight when the party is already winding down. No, it’s not safe to come out yet. With her text, your heart finally breaks. You’re not even sure how you manage to keep it together; smiling even when Alex notices something’s wrong.

Of course she notices. She has been trying to reach you since you were in the locker room, but the team kept apologizing and asking if you were okay. The press had swarmed her about the victory and her celebration.

The little things kept getting in her way, and her frustration is obvious by the end of the night.

Only when her arms are around you while you lay in bed, you break. You’re breathing is ragged as you try not to cry. It’s something stupid, you try to tell yourself so, but the surprise was important to you. You wanted the day to be special, perfect even. You can’t help but feel like everything is your fault and before you know it, the tears fall.

“Y/N, love...please don’t cry.”

She cups your face; worry clear on blue eyes but you can’t really stop.

“I had a surprise for you, Al. I wanted to take you to this vegan restaurant Kell helped me find. Then we’d visit the Eiffel Tower and watch the city and then see the lights. And I...”

You choke then because you can’t exactly tell her you planned to propose.

“We can still do that tomorrow,” she says. “We can do everything you planned and pretend today didn’t happen.”

She’s trying to comfort her and you pretend to believe her. You bury your face in her neck as she keeps talking about the many things you can do and how nothing has changed. But you know the press will not leave you alone. You know the final is days away and time is the last thing you’ll have. Jill won’t let you escape and your only chance was Alex’s birthday.

You know it, and so does she. Her breath comes uneven and you feel the way she’s struggling to talk. You don’t see the tears slowly rolling down her face, but you know they’re there. When silence feels the room, you’re still holding each other.

“I love you, Alex.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

For now, all you can do is keep holding on.

***

The most stressful week of your life ends up in the best way possible as the whistle ends the match. The USWNT raises and conquers the top of the world for the fourth time.

You’re the world champions and you’re not even sure how to celebrate. It’s an emotional moment and you want to cry. You look around to find an armful of Kelley O’Hara jumping to your arms and you laugh with her. Tobin and Ali join the celebration before the whole team is huddled together; everyone cheering and sporting wide grins.

Your eyes meet Alex and she opens her arms for you. Without a single moment of hesitation, you leave the rest of the group and jump into her embrace.

“We did it!” You say with a laugh. “We won the world cup.”

There’s a moment of charged tension between the two of you, and there’s nothing you want to do more than lean down and kiss her. For a split second you don’t care about the cameras following your every move. You don’t care about the rumors spreading like wildfire. None of that can reach you when you’re on top of the world.

Alex licks her lips and nods. She’s ready; just like you.

But then Pinoe and Allie are running towards you.

The moment -along with the spell-, is broken and you can only smile coyly at your girlfriend. The champion shirts are distributed as the trophy ceremony gets set up.

Everyone is too happy to think clearly, the conversations are a mix of broken words and sounds of excitement. And then Kelley goes to the stands to kiss her girlfriend, JJ does the same with her husband, and bit by bit everyone flows to their loved ones.

You hold Alex; press your forehead against hers while cupping her ridiculously attractive face. And then, without allowing the world another chance to stop you, you kiss her.

The noise of the stadium stops and your heartbeat is all you can hear. It happens every time you kiss Alex, but this is a completely different experience. That moment is the greatest of your life. You won the world cup with an incredible team behind you, and Alex by your side.

The World Cup is officially over while the rest of your life is about to begin.

“Marry me,” you say when you break apart.

“What?”

There’s an incredulous look on Alex’s face even when she’s still smiling. There’s no doubt she heard you, but maybe a proposal on the middle of the field is not what she expected.

“Hey, lovebirds!”

That word would drive you crazy if Kelley wasn’t the one saying it, alas, you give your best friend an exasperated look because you’re kinda in the middle of something. And yet, when she throws a particular box your way, it’s obvious she knows you better than anyone.

With a chuckle, you kneel down in front of Alex and open the black box to reveal the ring.

“Alex Morgan, winning the world cup,” you still can’t believe you actually managed to pull it off, “wouldn’t have been the same without you by my side. This could easily be a perfect day, but there’s one thing that could make it even better, and that’s knowing that you’ll be by my side for the rest of our lives. Would you marry me?”

“Yes.”

She pulls you back to your feet and into a kiss with one swift movement and she doesn’t stop kissing you until you have to go up and lift the cup. When she holds it above her head, the ring shines under the stadium lights and you’re not quite sure which achievement makes you prouder.

You dreamed your whole life of that moment...and now you’re also a World Champion.

Uh, who would have thought?

***

“Hey, lovebirds!”

You glare at Rose, Mal and Kelley. They’ve been overusing that word for what feels like months when in reality it’s been just a couple of hours.

“Say that one more time and I’m kicking you three off this plane.”

“You wouldn’t do that!” Kelley protests. “I’m your best friend.”

“Don’t worry, pretty sure there’s a parachute somewhere.”

You turn back to the livestream where you and Kelley cleared the rumors and well...if the whole proposal wasn’t obvious, you and Alex came out as a couple.

“So, yeah...Kelley O’Hara is my best friend and I love her even when she’s a pain in the ass.”

“Hey!”

[horizondawn]

I got so much more from my experience playing The Last of Us Part II than "revenge is bad". It's something I've literally and heavily been dealing with just this past month. I have a lot of deep thoughts here, so here we go. This isn’t saying you’re horrible if you didn’t like the game, but after sitting on it for a while after finishing, these are my thoughts of the series from my perspective through my real life experiences and own personal morals/beliefs and how I try to grow as a person. Key word: Try.

I have a family member who was murdered over 3 decades ago, and it still haunts me and my family to this day. I've had night terrors similar to the ones Ellie had in the game, even if I didn’t see the actual act, so I can only imagine how traumatizing it is for her. The murderer has been locked up and on death row ever since, and for a while I was set on going to the eventual execution. My anger fueled me for an awfully long time, but it wasn't until a few years ago I realized that is not me. Killing him (or in my case wanting satisfaction by watching a live execution) won't bring that family member back, and I would lose a part of myself if I actually went through with what I intended and held onto those feelings. And that was identical to what was happening to Ellie. I didn't want her to lose herself, because going down that destructive path means you come out in the worse possible way. Even worse than the ending we got. I was frustrated with Ellie because I understand her pain to an extent even if the situations are nothing alike, and that is the reason why I bonded, cared, and loved her even more, and I didn't think that was possible. The killing we committed as Joel didn't bother me as much in the first game because they were a bunch of hunters we never really understood. The one time I sat there unable to pull the trigger for a good while was when I was forced to shoot the surgeon, who was later revealed to be Abby’s father. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to in order to finish the game. In Part II we saw so many perspectives on top of knowing Ellie was losing it by deliberately going after these groups of people. The further on I played, even before getting to Abby's perspective when I hated her, I still didn't want Ellie to go through with it. From the very beginning, even though it was going to be brutal, I absolutely did not want Ellie to accomplish this goal. That’s mainly because I know the feeling, and it really does consume you.

It fucking hurt and I was so frustrated with Ellie when she left Dina, JJ, and their life together, but it was because I care so much for her and desperately wanted her to let her anger go rather than the actual writing. I felt for her as a real person rather than just a character who was written. Even if she has lost everything she ever had though, Ellie didn't lose herself or her humanity and ability to care in the end, and that sliver of hope made me feel relieved. The symbolism of her leaving the guitar Joel gifted her, that she could no longer play properly, was a sign of her forgiving him, and letting go.

And that's only from Ellie's perspective. I had to stop playing for a bit the moment I had to start playing as Abby, the biggest emotional whiplash ever. Holy hell though did my perspective change and I eventually loved her as a character. Even if I still hated her I love getting to see different perspectives. Seeing Abby’s story as well contributed to why that final fight made me sob. I stopped controlling Ellie and had her just standing there on the beach because I knew what was about to happen, and I did not want that. I really didn’t know if Ellie was actually going to kill Abby or not. And I cannot describe how many of the tears that were shed were from relief when she didn’t. I would literally love to play a game just focused on Abby and Lev though and see where they go as their dynamic was absolutely amazing and I will fight anyone who hates on Lev; he is such a treasure. And even though I will never forgive Abby for what she did, I’m tired of hanging onto that kind of anger, even if it’s for a fictional character. I want to understand everyone better in reality, because we are all human, and that makes things so very complicated. Add a fallen society after a world wide pandemic that has wiped out most of humanity and it makes it even more complicated. The human experience is insane and no one will ever be able to understand everyone else’s experiences and pain, and that’s what makes individual lives so vast and important. 

I didn’t know any of the spoilers aside from Abby killing Joel, but I didn’t know the specifics, and I didn’t see a single screenshot spoiler. I still have no idea what the spoilers were beyond that. The moment it was announced a sequel was coming out I had a very big feeling Joel was going to die though, so I was okay with that if it happened from a narrative perspective. And you know why? Because the world of The Last of Us is cruel, and people are taken from Ellie in the blink of an eye. One moment Ellie confessed her love to Riley while sharing a sweet kiss and dancing and the next she’s bitten and we know what happened from there. One moment she’s travelling with Joel and Tess and Tess is gone. One moment she’s sharing a wonderful moment with Sam and Henry, and then they’re both gone. In the most brutal and cruel manner that fed her survival’s guilt. And that is why she was so upset with Joel. She lost so many people literally right in front of her. Then she learns the Fireflies are gone because of the one person she was able to grow to love as family, something she never ever had in her life, which also means her previous guardian, Marlene, her mother’s close friend, is gone as well because of him. As Tess quoted, “Guess what, we’re shitty people Joel; it’s been like that for a long time”. Tess was right. Joel was not a good person, and that is what made him unbelievably fascinating as a playable protagonist. But the player grew to know him from Ellie’s direct influence, not from the hardened person he became after 20 years of emotional distance from anyone following the death of Sarah. And that sudden harsh cruelty is exactly what I was expecting in the sequel, even if I wasn’t mentally or emotionally prepared for it. I certainly still got upset with every death there was: Joel, Jesse, Mel, Owen, Yara, everyone. The Last of Us is not focused on happy endings. At all. Of course we wish for that, and the new menu after completing the game shows that there was definitely some hope following what happened on that beach, but the world is more about human emotion and the crazy things we do for the people we love, even if it’s in the worse possible way, and it gives us that bit of questioning wonder with a tiny dash of hope for Ellie and her humanity. That’s exactly what Joel’s actions were for his love for Ellie at the end of the first game. This was Ellie doing the same for her love for him. And what Abby did for her love for her father. And the thing is some people wish we understood Abby from a different order, and I totally understand and respect that. But again, in real life we don’t get the background knowledge of everyone’s pasts either if not for research of some kind, which is why we need to make an effort to learn if possible. That’s all The Last of Us really has to offer, no matter which character’s story we are following, and that is what makes it so special. The second game isn’t driven by hatred alone. It’s about the other gruesome side of things for love.

Now gameplay wise, yes, I do believe structure could have been improved or done differently to help with the flow of the narrative here and there. And there were some moments that felt dragged. But that’s gameplay, not the story itself. I thought The Last of Us was emotional whiplash. That was just preparation to the roller coaster Part II would bring. And I’m not saying Part II is better. Both games are very different stories with very different perspectives, so I honestly can’t compare them. The original game brings the bond of two characters we all grew to fearlessly love. Part II brings what exists outside of the world of those two characters, and that they aren’t the only ones on this teeter totter of having done horrific things in the name of love in this cruel world they live in. Because we’re all only human. In game as Ellie, Joel, and Abby we pick up all of these letters throughout both games about these characters we don’t even see, let alone meet, and yet I want to know more about what happened to them. What are their stories during all of this? And even if you still hate Abby in the end, which is fine, there was that chance of seeing someone else’s story as well that intertwines with Ellie. I personally LOVE it when this happens. And all of us, no matter how horrible the world seems to fall apart, are capable of learning through the knowledge of other’s experiences.

[fictionalnormalcy]

Sinister Future

Okay, honestly I am loving the concept of Sword Art Online: Project Alicization. Let me first say this. I called it!!! I always had the theory that someone from Laughing Coffin who had survived the game would come back and attack Kirito! I’ll admit that I forgot a third perpetrator had escaped from the Gun Gale attack. However, I did not imagine that they would try to get revenge on Kirito. I still wonder for what reason Johnny Black attacked Kirito. Was it because he caught his partners, or that he was part of the group that eliminated his guild in Sword Art Online?

I tried to give a little evidence to my theory, to try to lean toward a side. I haven’t caught up on all of the episodes, I still have about four episodes left to catch up. So these questions may yet to be answered. Okay, so we know that Black knew Kirito personally, in that knowing that the young sword-fighter seriously kicked his ass and got him imprisoned. In the midst of attacking Asuna, when Kirito rushed in and defended her. But for sure, Black remembered those faces. Now, from what we saw of the Gun Gale attack, the people who were attacked alongside Sinon, were not SAO survivors. Just people that they did not approve of. But I wondered, two of the three perpetrators were SAO survivors, while the other was a heavy GGO player. It made me wonder, did the Laughing Coffin members ever actually consider SAO players to be targets as well? We saw that Death Gun had a personal drive to kill Kirito in Bullet of Bullets, but since Kazuto’s body was actually protected unlike the other targets, maybe they just couldn’t make him one as well. 

When we saw Shinkawa declare his love for Asada, yet still threatening her, it was in the nick of time that Kazuto came to save her. But because he interfered in Shinkawa’s intended actions, the syringe was buried into him instead of Asada. Incidentally missing him because an electrode had been left behind. I guessed that he would be attacked in the same way at some point in the future. There were SAO survivors who carried their grudge from the virtual world into the physical world. But we saw Kirito being targeted more often than Asuna, who was there at the same time that they acquired that grudge against the Black Swordsman. 

Just want to put this out there, but I feel that Johnny Black looks like Shigaraki Tomura from My Hero Academia, with a few differences lol. Okay moving on. It also brings me to wonder why it took a year (it seems a year because Asada is enlisting Kirito’s and Asuna’s help for the next BoB, and then with Eugeo saying he was eleven when Alice was taken, suggesting that both he and Kirito are 17), for Black to find Kirito. And he could clearly see that it was both the people he harbored hatred for, and the same thing occurred. Black dove forward, and Kirito shoved Asuna aside to take on the full brunt of the attack. 

We can also see that a Death Gun still existed from the first episode, when we see that the group of friends are fighting off player killers in GGO. Those few scenes, when a man looks through the drone’s camera, and sees two kids who are unmistakably Kirito and Asuna, and asks his boss if he can join his comrades in the field. He’s refused, but when we see him pull up his hood, we see the distinct appearance of Death Gun. 

Interestingly, the injection came to play in with the other side of the plot. In the first episode I was confused, because seeing a younger Kirito made my eyes widen. When I was introduced to Alice, I instantly thought, Alice in Wonderland. And she’s dressed really similar to her! We were also given an almost immediate sign that it was a virtual world of sorts, and you could tell that Kirito had really bonded with Eugeo and Alice. Also something that was crystal clear was the fact that you could tell Kirito was different than the others. I mean, he was the one to push them into exploring the cave. He was the one who tried to fight the Integrity Knight so they wouldn’t take Alice. He was the anomaly. 

Yet when Kazuto talked about it in the real life, you could tell that he didn’t recall his actions, or have access to his real life memories when inside the virtual world. When watching the Project Alicization episode, I did get some answers and evidence, but some questions still lingered. At the moment that Black injected Kazuto, it was in the same area where he had said earlier that there was an electrode. So for a while I thought that it was a repeated event, just like with Shinkawa, that maybe Black had miraculously missed. However, when we see him collapse to the ground, unconscious and clutching his shoulder, we see that unfortunately, Black struck true. 

My mind makes me think something else happened. That Black injected right next to the electrode, and somehow it caused him to enter the virtual world once again, but this time maintain his memories of the real life and not be the boy who had been only eleven. Kirito himself said he didn’t remember anything from when he dived into the virtual world at his job. Who knows how many times they had Kirito dive and maintain that same Kirito persona, the boy who had grown up with Eugeo and Alice. They also don’t mention just how long Kirito had been at this part-time job. From what I can predict, as well as blocking Kirito’s own memories, the ones in the virtual world had their memories altered as well. So that history had passed, like Kirito had never existed. The memory block went both ways. Affecting Kirito as well as those in the virtual world. 

Let’s add the new input of information. Kikuoka confesses to Asuna how Kirito was actually being used in the experiment. One of the three crucial people needed for the AI experiment. Kirito was effectively put into a world as a corruption, where he would be the one who would change things. But when he was pulled out of that world after he caused Alice to be taken away, history was changed like he had never existed. Eugeo never says it, only says that he and Alice had ventured to the caves and that she’d placed the tips of her fingers into the Dark Territory. But he didn’t know, that if he had remembered properly, it was Kirito’s fault for what happened to Alice. Eugeo could come to hate Kirito for what he had done. 

Things have changed now. A 17-year-old Kirito has now stepped back into the world, with no one knowing who he was. He is effectively, the Kirito from another reality, not the one Eugeo had grown up with. Yet still the corruption he had once been. He’s still inspiring a spur of movement. Kirito once again gained a friendship with Eugeo, and made the other boy look at Kirito in awe. Even though Eugeo did not remember Kirito, you could see that some of the younger Kirito’s influence still lingered subconsciously. The fact that Eugeo returned to get the Blue Rose sword, that he remembered the story of the hero Bercouli, and that Kirito was still the drive that pushed him to fight. 

Kirito is still a corruption, because he hastened a Calling that had been in place since the beginning of time. Using the sword instead of the axe, and chopping the demon tree that had been there and chopped at for over 300 hundred years. The goblin attack had changed both Kirito and Eugeo, made them stronger so they now had authority over the Blue Rose sword. The reason why they had to undergo the attack, was because they went looking for Selka. Another sign of corruption, no one had ever told Selka what had happened to her older sister, and hence Kirito did, having no idea of what would come of the consequence. She went to the cave, and almost got herself kidnapped. Eugeo was almost killed, because of a newcomer who was an anomaly. 

The idea with the injection is just a theory. The episode Project Alicization did provide some insight in what the virtual world actually is and what role Kiritio plays in it. The fact that he’s the anomaly that will bring the AI’s to commit murder so they can be put to military use. Think about it though. Kikuoka confesses that they had to lie to Kirito so they could employ him. Rath is a straight-up sinister organization. For me, it’s still not crystal clear whether or not Kirito was incidentally placed into the virtual world, or as part of the “treatment program”. Because at the same time, there is evidence to support either option. Kikuoka admits that Kirito was put into Underworld as a young child, of the anomaly to be raised as a young child. So that covers the first time around, what we see in the first episode, and how Rath sees that Alice is someone they could get to deviate from the system. But Kikuoka doesn’t mention the second time, where Kirito is as of that moment. 

I also believe, that if they did place him in the virtual world for a second time, why leave him with his real life memories this time around? They took complete advantage of the injection. I’m going to say it again, Rath is STRAIGHT-UP SINISTER. They employed a 17 year old boy, one who has several years of experience with VRMMO worlds, and who is an SAO survivor. A boy who was completely ideal, because aside from him and his other friends, we aren’t given the implication that other SAO players are still playing video games. However, they recruited a boy whose past still haunts him even after all those years. Lying to him in the process, because if he knew Rath’s true intentions he would never have agreed to take on the job in the first place.

I mean, but look at the other side of this. The reality. Asuna found Kirito, and she told the other girls. But what about Mrs. Kirigaya? She receives a call that her nephew, the boy she practically raised, was attacked and injected with a killing poison. She arrives to the hospital, to discover that they managed to save him in time, but there’s a high probability that he will never awaken, and that he requires further treatment that the hospital cannot provide. She is then approached by a man who has worked with Kirito, told that her nephew can be transferred to another facility that had the proper treatment needed. Give him a more likely chance of awakening from a poison that was supposed to leave the victim for dead, their heart stopped and damage irreversible. She consents, and then arrives at that facility to see the condition of Kirito, only to be turned away. Lied to, when in truth her son was transferred to a remote island, in the middle of the sea. Maybe Suguha told her after she found out from Asuna, but that still doesn’t make matters better. It’s basically a repeat of the Sword Art Online incident, a long period of Kirito asleep, unknown if he would ever awake, but at least at that time his family had access to him. 

Rath places Kirito back into the Underworld simulation, so that even while he’s unconscious yet still receiving treatment and staying alive, he’s fulfilling what they recruited him for in the first place. So his role as a corruption would bring the concept of murder into the simulation. They aren’t giving the treatment as a benefit for Kirito, it’s for themselves. It’s like,” Hey this kid was injected with a really lethal drug, his brain was damaged, and he might never wake up. Let’s put him back into the Underworld, but he can have his memories this time. It won’t matter, probably won’t wake up anyway, and he still won’t know what we’re using him for. How convenient for us, that the boy we’re using for this operation was attacked.”

Sword Art Online: Project Alicization is following this basic timeline. Kirito is given a part-time job for an organization that is seeking to use beings with Artificial Intelligence for military use, but to do that they must be willing to commit murder, and not have to worry about facing a consequence. The first trial is proving to be successful, but then a real-life event occurs that takes away any restrictions the trials previously had. Kirito stands almost to no chance of ever awakening because of the lethal injection, and is trapped in a virtual world. And the biggest problem is, there is no ending to this. I mean sure, we could get the happy ending where Kirito does wake up in his reality, but it doesn’t seem likely. The world he’s placed into only has one ending, should Kirito not achieve what he was placed in for. (which he most definitely will, judging by the later episodes) Kirito can’t log out, he can only grow old, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that once he’s killed or dies naturally he’ll wake up in the real world. 

The events of Season 3 weigh on Kirito being exploited and his friends not being able to do anything to stop it. All because a man hell-bent on revenge succeeded in injecting his final victim with a lethal injection.

But hey at least Kirito is being paid for his service for the malicious organization of Rath. Or wait, the treatment could be his “payment”.

[abraidoffrostandfelt]

Happy 145th Birthday, Harry <3 <3 <3

Sending out happy birthday wishes and positive energy in the way that comes naturally to me....words and poetry. The poems were written over the past year and are mine and read by me (click on the title, if it is a link, to listen.) (Pictures are either mine or details of images from “Houdini: His Legend and Magic” by Doug Henning)  

elusive when it comes to illusions

first two truths: 1. i love Houdini (though that you already knew) 2. seeing magic performed makes me mildly uncomfortable both are absolute truths. maybe that makes me inconsistent though i would describe myself as extremely consistent. maybe that makes me a liar, magicians hold old truths and lies and are good at confusing which is which i am not skilled in magic tricks, though i am good at keeping secrets read my mind. no. don’t. you have better things to read, and, i confess, i have forgotten the code words, the keys and what is there i would like to keep- for myself, to myself because if i muddle it up with what is yours we might change and i like you this way, as you are, as what i know of you, as what my mind makes of you, which of course is not you, and that’s okay because you belong otherly so do not use any of your mind reading on me because i have no plans to deceive and so much is spoken for and of that some things unsaid, unread are key even if you are guessing, are fishing, are making things up and out of nothing like silks and cards, like feathers and fortunes all gently lifted, out of thin air and into existence and placed before me until the odds open up and chance meets recognition to open our mouths and we gasp and give ourselves away in a sense of shock and forgetfulness of the trick it is easier than you may think to get swept up, and we sweep each other off our feet, feather light like the feathers and familiars of long ago like the fortunes we were trading in just before this is arcane, this is aching this is a moment made for silence, so stop saying and let the old images speak, because they will call them up- out of cards, out of memory dusty symbols and ancient art, all are heavy and compact contained and arranged as slip in your pocket portable meanings meant to take anywhere, carried through time intact, charming and capable of charming disarming, the undoing of skepticism and rules let me see your cards. that would be cheating. fine, keep the rules with no peeking. and it seems silly to think you could read what i am not saying silly, then scary so there is laughter to fill, our mouths open with it even though i know it is all code and guesswork though i forgot my words, my clueing conversation, my ways of giving you my mind within words within waves, waves of words without mistake so sure that it makes truths shine like stars in your mind and you want to close your eyes to see where they align into constellations, into myths and histories and what is our hands full of truths, our cards only for the present this now, lifting yes, like flying, it can feel that way trust me in this telling, feet off the floor, because absolute statements can lead to more so subtle that it makes the impossible seem easy be that, seemingly with me comfortably contrary

by, earthboundpixie

submerged, with a magician made mostly of water

was he some kind of minor water god? that would explain some slippery things though he would not have liked the word minor maybe, he simply haunts the rivers, the water contained and wild, the river banks, inhabits and escapes still, any one man is  minor once in the mouth of a river, once in the context of a river the slick-slap, sink-fall, slink to drop below the surface swallowing him holy into the blessing and hell of the east river the industrial grab of it, the wild pressed right to the city edge and he in the unseeing depth, below the clouds of mud and making though his name is already made, and remains and i am in deep dreams gasping for handfuls of air, before sinking under sleep like river water drawn over once dry sheets murky lungfuls seep as i sink until there is a click and a shudder and you lift me from under out of nowhere, out of nothing into thin air, like a metaphor you once used like i am not soaked heavy holding city water, and the stretch of time—told different, told strange and we are strangers, here with the river to remind ourselves unarranged, and shaken out of metal and water and silt and reality out of the river plants’ pull against our freedom and there is tearing and there are tears to bring us here and you lift me high, like leaping right against the edge of you into air, dry, like i am nothing a lightness, like i am air and dust and dream and i forget which one of us is the dream with your hands to my hips, helping and for a moment it is possible to believe we both are and i whisper some small words, of prayer of gratitude, into your currents before i sink with your name held in my mouth like a key i breathe again, finding my surface

by, earthboundpixie

i like to think of him in the half-light of seance rooms trying to believe…the magician and the medium, well meaning letting their guards down, letting themselves learn

Houdini thinks he’s holding my hands against tricks and even as i rub along his thigh with my wrist, his grip stays strong he is a careful control, thinking he is in control thinking too much, and of me as a wrongful witch when i am a wishful one, as witch will align with wishes and who am i to judge? and who is he? here to see what i can do, and him wanting it to be nothing, wanting it to be everything wanting it to be something more than, less than what he does to himself, to his audience when here he is mine and so he should rightfully leave the edges for me to define telling truths in a mixture of artful and necessary lies and reality becomes suspended so we wait together to see if it can escape with him thinking he can whisper to it his ways and i have my own ways, and he has his own wants and both of us are wishing me real and not because what maker of magic does not want to be made more real? and that is how his security in not believing in me makes him feel safe in this darkness, the sounds of breathing only ours and the spirits say skepticism tied their hands and he likes that—clicks the locks and keeps the keys confident that he alone can trigger the release slips his hands up to my wrists and insists that i hold his pulses pressed over tendons and no fingers move, each secured into our own truth, we are held together the table center and it is a circle under, our arms a circle over a sense of roundness with time feeling less sensible in this telling, in this story a tremble of the untold, and no one lets go because people want to think there is something more —that’s why they come to us both and they want to believe me, and they want to believe you so to each there may come their own wishful truth and in our shadow tied, soft spoken circle of arms, i give you my truths over my lies, because in the end we can both be magic and pretending and in agreement we proceed because i offer no foolishness, no leads because i will only speak to spirits in bodies because you chose to walk in and gave me permission to play because your spirit has enough to say on its own and so we ask the candle to flicker, ask our heartbeats to quicken close your eyes and feel the rich layers of what is and this stops us surmising so many steps ahead, we give the future a rest in the dark of this circle, in the close of our hands here there are no bells, no guesses, no pasts retold only the present, and this pattern of your breathing is no deception that patter of possibility, that almost feels good, feels familiar you do know how to give the audience what it wants how to push the possible enough to allow a glimpse of chance and that is how i like to see you —your mouth opening to say something silent, maybe wow so present, so here you can’t think to ask because there is no question of how everything happening as firmly as your hands holding my wrists because you never let go, so all appears in your control so you think, so you experience, so our spirits run with it i just want to give you this side of a show, what it is to not always know, to slip just a little beyond control just a few fast breaths, and let go nothing too far, no step you can’t take back i promise you will walk away, through doors rather than walls, with all your beliefs intact and so we release hands, all wrists returned proper manners called back, to lips to knuckles, in kisses, with all punches politely pulled because this is business and we are manifesting what are spirits, what are desires, what are wishes? —if not what we make of them all appear out of nowhere, nothing, out of our skilled hands upon this secluded stage with practice and presence, and no applause and later you draw a card from your pocket, as i placed it to remember sometimes a seance is a skillful trade -of mindfulness, of magic rearranged as you would have it, as we practiced as i showed and we both emerged unhurt with a sense of the unknown, given and grown with the memory that witches hold wishes, and much can manifest in studied silence, in shared control, in stories told and only he can say what amount of truth escaped, and how real we were each made

by, earthboundpixie

something shared

a so-called medium and a so-call magician standing so close, in the room looking into the beyond with all names and titles and claims left at the door and this is a secret poem so you must not tell and if that is not possible you must stop now because every step on is a consent shared this is a poem pressed into the stretch of time so you must not count the years or the unspun, unstepped space because none of it will make sense though in a seance room all sense is set aside and you stepped inside, and together we turned out the light so here we accept that we cannot see, so much left to the leading pull of our imagining so much subjective understanding and i accept you and your disbelief and if you lean close, and closer i will disclose, just to you, only to you, and even then concealed in code that i do not believe though i do think that this is magic still, even knowing it is my making, my skill and i give you my hand cupped full of secrets now pressed into your palm, brought to your mouth, so swallow them fast- like keys, like sewing needles, like string like trust the taste of things hidden, these secrets shared among secrets given to be kept and kept, revealed with myself, only over swears and promises and oaths this is my apparition, my warm pulse of blood bound beyond skin, my offering and yours this choice- to be here, to accept, to turn away from or further toward logic it is in your hand, as i am in your hand and we are breathing together in a trusting way, breathing into the roots of a shared trade and in the unseen we are identical to both life and dream, identifiable as ourselves, even outside ourselves and we are remembering who we are and falling beneath the surface, a surface, this surface a temporary lapse, as temporary as us, grounded in our shared power to choose this we walked willing into the darkness all the candles extinguished, and the walls expand and what who where we are also expands, and dissolves in curious questions that we are both trained to ask so let me lie to you, sweet and smooth only listen and i will place your fingers to my pulse, so you can sense for my truths because sensation, over sight and sound, offers better proof and my heartbeat is steady and my lies fall nice, feel nice even though in your mouth my secrets are now needles ready to reappear, safely threaded at careful intervals nice and neat, and though i cannot see them in this dark i can feel that they are sharp, and as real as spirits and i trust you to keep them all and so we go on speaking in our comfortable languages, trading in threads touching on and where they overlap, coincide, merge and re-emerge as who we are our mouths full of spirits and tricks and silence that we will carry with us out the door and into normal life again into that lighted everyday where the impossible stays securely impossible, left to dreams, locked up in truth, and no one writes so-called secret poems about it

by, earthboundpixie

in which i could have implied how he walked through walls, and did not “I do not dematerialize or materialize anything; I simply control and manipulate material things in a manner perfectly well understood by myself, and thoroughly accountable for and equally understandable by any person to whom I may elect to divulge my secrets.” —Harry Houdini, A Magician Among the Spirits

such secrets as they may be set against the upset of implied mediumship, guarded, gifted, burned and kept beyond intent it does make sense to have so much skill and practice, set to purpose to be written off as extrasensory gifts, dismissed to have it be that simple, when nothing is that simple to hold your secrets out in silence, their sweet existence somewhere in time, enticing as you were somewhere in time, using the last of your time to remind us that eyes and ears and hearts are often wrong that emotions offer shadows over logic that they can create their own spells that the results are all yours by suggestion that you need no magician, by any name, to reach them and that is accepted and fine, a cautionary tale, likely right though emotions can cast their own light, are unruly, unreasonable, impractical and across time names are still called in wishful, in angry, in want, in all wrong in caution called out and kept quiet, the frustration and sensation whispered and written and shouted proud and said without saying, with nothing changing, in placement or manifestation, no melting through glass, no locks unlocked, though there is still change, with nothing choreographed or staged i remain on the same side of the wall, hand pressed to the sense of where yours is upon the other, and i hardly feel the brick and if it were possible to be otherwise, other ways this would never remain the case though there are secrets and modern means, ways of increasing proximity unseen, unheard, and even though i know, i am trying not to let my heart be misled alone because, even if i fall for the illusion, i still trust that you are human maybe i fall further, because you are forthright and fiery and fueled by protection for your stage, your craft, your name because you cannot fall through walls and that feels safe, with all sides kept to their divide and so you must ask politely, while casually reaching into your mouth for a key, your fingertips within reach of both methodology and means and there is a hinge and a threshold and your body moving through only air until step by step and secret by secret you stand on a shared side, and no one has anything to hide beyond the bricks, beyond the spirits i am seeking to understand in the press between our palms still holding the roughness of that once surface now gone from sight and mind, as the imprints too will fade and be gone and i wonder if all the forgotten mediums envy how you and your secrets stay strong they want your name, as it is still spoken out and we fall through the wall, which cannot happen, and does eyes and ears and heart, all wrong all logic banished, forgotten and gone and there is change, even as the secrets stay

by, earthboundpixie

[lala-kate]

Until That Day:  Chapter 3

This is a belated birthday present for my amazing adopted little sister @ninzied. I hope you like it, Nina!  

You can read it here or on ff.net. Have a lovely day, everyone!

April 18

Tomorrow we shall marry.

When I gave birth to Henry, I gave up all hope of one day becoming a proper wife. But worse than that, I believed that my actions had robbed my son of the opportunity of ever having a good father, one who would love and accept him as his own and care for him the way he deserves.

Then you came into our lives, and everything changed.

You make it very evident that neither the fact that Henry was conceived out of wedlock nor that he is not yours by blood mattes one whit, and that means more to me than anything I could ever wish for myself. He adores you--wants to be more like you, has even asked me if he can start calling you Papa immediately after the wedding.

You have no idea what that means to me.

Well, perhaps you do, for you have told me repeatedly how you feared that no woman would accept and raise Liza as her own because of the circumstances of her birth. Yet loving that little girl requires no effort at all, and when she reaches those pudgy arms of hers out to me and snuggles into my chest, I forget that I didn’t give birth to her. Parenting is a choice, and becoming a mother to your two precious children is an honor I do not take lightly.

From this time tomorrow, they shall be mine just as assuredly as Henry is.

Can I tell you again how strange yet wonderful it is to know that you do not view me as a fallen woman worthy of censure but rather as a woman with whom you have chosen to spend your life and to mother your children? That when you caress my cheek or kiss my lips, all of the shame of my past seems to melt into a puddle at my feet?  That strolling through town on your arm makes me feel as though I’ve just emerged from a cocoon of censure and am allowed to spread my wings for the first time in my life?  

I am so giddy with happiness I fear I may not sleep tonight.

It’s difficult for me to believe this is truly happening, that tomorrow night I shall be sleeping in your bed rather than here in Widow Lucas’s guest room, that your body will provide me with a warmth far more intimate than that any quilt can provide. Of course, after the way you kissed me earlier this evening, I have to wonder just how much sleep I shall actually be granted on our wedding night.

I somehow think the answer to that is very little.

My skin is still tingling in wake of your caresses, my lips still burning from the imprint of your own upon them. You draw feelings out of me I’ve never known, Robin, sensations that stagger me with their intensity and persistence and carry me into dreams from which I am loath to wake. Would you be shocked to know that I touched myself last night in order to quell the ache that wouldn’t let me rest?  Would you be scandalized to learn that my own hand brought me pleasure even as my lips breathed your name, that I trembled in the darkness, imagining what it will be like to feel all of you inside my body while your lips explore me in places some would deem perverse?

I somehow doubt you would, and for that, I am thankful. I am weary of living under the self-righteous judgment of those who prefer condemnation to grace and deem our bodies as shameful. I am ready to live freely with you, to be your wife in every way without reservation, to finally be at peace with who I am.

________________________________________________________________

Dearest Regina,

Today is the day.

In a matter of hours, we shall speak vows and bind our lives together. I shall look into your eyes and be able to call you my wife rather than my intended. I shall be able to kiss you in places on your body that have been hidden to me, places I look forward to revealing in all their splendor and beauty.

I cannot wait to bring you home tonight.

Home. How different the word feels as I write it in my journal, how it dances from my quill to the page, how it warms me in a manner I’d nearly forgotten after I lost Marian. This home will feel complete again with you and Henry inside it, for as much as I love my children, there has been an emptiness that can only be filled by a life companion. How thankful I am that my new life companion will be you.

How thankful I am that I actually placed that advertisement for a wife.

I nearly talked myself out of it, you know. Several times, in fact. But as I rocked and walked with Liza for hours one night, as I heard Roland stir fitfully in his sleep, I decided I would take a step into the unknown for the sake of my children, if not for myself. I did so with trembling hands and a dry mouth, and the day that your letter arrived, I very nearly refused to open it out of absolute fear.

How thankful I am that curiosity combined with fatherly determination triumphed over nerves and prompted me to open and read your response. The tightness in my chest eased, my breathing steadied somewhat as your letter took root and began to blossom in what I had feared to be barren ground.

Now, because of you, Dearest Regina, what was once frozen has sprung back to life.

I must stop writing now and get the children and myself ready, for we have a wedding to attend this afternoon, one I have no intention of missing. Until then, Regina. I know you will be the most beautiful bride for whom a man could wish.

I shall meet you at the altar.

________________________________________________________________

April 19

I am your wife.

I am struggling to find words adequate enough to describe the emotions bubbling over inside my chest this morning, but as I sit here and watch you sleep, I must try, for this is a moment I want to press into memory forever.  It is odd, feeling somewhat sore and stretched in places rarely discussed, but God in heaven, such tenderness is a small price to pay for the ecstasy that brought it about and one I will gladly pay again and again.

My God, Robin. How you made love to me last night.

Parts of our wedding day are a blur, I must confess, regardless of the small audience in attendance and the tiny yet perfect details seen to by Widow Lucas. The wedding cake, the flowers, the fact that Marco is quite an adept fiddler, each individual item in itself was far more than I could have ever imagined. Henry and Roland looked so handsome in their suits, although I must admit to missing my youngest son’s floppy curls that were trimmed into as much submission as much as they could be.

Have I mentioned how much I love the fact that I can now officially refer to Roland and Liza as my son and daughter? There is such a rightness to it that warms me deeply. My family feels complete now. Actually, I suppose it would be more appropriate to say our family.

Ours. What a powerful word. How it changes absolutely everything. From my shame to our marriage, from my illegitimate son and your illegitimate daughter to our children, from my solitude to our family, from my loneliness to our love.

I do believe that our is the most beautiful word in the English language.

Speaking of our baby girl, Liza looked absolutely adorable in her new dress, even if her unruly locks kept trying to take center stage and made it look as if we did not even bother to comb her hair. Mr. Nolan dotes on her, as I am certain you’ve noticed, and after the ceremony he referred to her as a burst of wildfire. It is almost frightening how accurate his assessment of both her hair and personality is.

Speaking of Mr. Nolan, I think he may be sweet on my Aunt Mary Margaret.

The fact that you secretly arranged for her to be here for our wedding, that you both paid for and booked her passage, that you arranged for her to stay with Widow Lucas for a few weeks so she can get to know you and the children might be the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. Well, besides Aunt Mary Margaret taking me in and giving me a place to live after I discovered I was expecting Henry. I was so surprised to see her when I walked into the church, I nearly squealed as I walked down the aisle.

Have her here means the world to me. But I believe you already know that. You seem intent upon seeing to my happiness, and that is something I’ve never before experienced.

Now I get to experience it every day of my life.

When you took my hand within your own, when you repeated the vows spoken by Reverend Hopper and gazed into my eyes as if you could see forever, I had to keep reminding myself that this was really happening, that maybe, just maybe, I shall be given a chance at a happy ending after all.

It still seems somewhat unreal to me, but then I look over to the bed--our bed--and see you sleeping peacefully, your bare chest on full display for me to both view and appreciate. I remember how it felt beneath my fingertips, how the smattering of light hair on your chest tickled my breasts as our bodies pressed together when you were buried inside me. I can still taste the salt of your skin on my tongue, can feel the stirrings of fresh desire as they tingle and tease my inner thighs and nipples, and I am tempted to lay my quill and journal aside and return to your side beneath the quilts.

How would you react if I awakened you with my hand? Would you be scandalized by your wife initiating sex, or would you grin that devilish grin of yours and let me have my way with you? I am fairly certain I know the answer to that, and so I shall abandon this entry and return to your side to test this theory so I can know for certain.

________________________________________________________________

April 19

You’re a minx, Regina Locksley. And by God, I love you for it.

How thankful I am that Widow Lucas and your Aunt Mary Margaret volunteered to watch the children last night. It was lovely to have some time to ourselves without having to worry about little eyes seeing something they shouldn’t or little ears hearing the sounds you coaxed out of me this morning when you woke me up in the most incredible way possible. I adore the fact that you feel comfortable enough to explore my body the same way I’ve already come to love exploring yours, even though we’ve been husband and wife less than twenty-four hours.

You have initiated a craving inside me I fear may never be sated as long as we both shall live.

For you are exquisite, Regina. Every plane of your body, every small expanse of skin, every freckle, every hair, even the marks left by childbirth you feared I would find unattractive. You are a feast for a starving man, a goddess worthy of worship and adoration, a woman who has suffered much yet possesses an incredible capacity for love and tenderness.

The trust with which you honored me by placing your heart and body into my keeping humbles me to my very core. Kissing you feels like coming home, and being inside your body completes me in a way I find nearly impossible to put into words. Watching you respond to my touch, feeling you come apart around me….I have no words for the fire you’ve so expertly kindled

and now stoke with each glance and every touch, regardless of how innocent in nature it might be.

And as I watch you slumber after our morning love-making, I relish simply being able to gaze at you openly without fear of censure or reproof. I love that I can slide in the bed beside you and cradle your nakedness, that I can touch what before remained hidden and openly confess the thoughts I have held at bay.

For I love you, Regina Mills Locksley. Within a short time, you have become a trusted friend, a mother for my children, a lover, a partner, and a confidante. And I count myself the most fortunate man on earth that I now have the privilege of calling you my wife.

[apositivelifeaffirmingway]

I’ve been stewing on this for days now, biding my time and trying to sort out my feelings. It’s been rough and hard and painful and I know that things will never be the same for how I feel about this show, or Robert and Aaron as a couple. 

But, I think it’s time to let this out in as coherent a way as I can - and this isn’t even that coherent; this is my attempt to get it out of me so I can try to move past. Because it happened. So I gotta deal. 

This isn’t even everything I have in my head, I just can’t seem to organize all my thoughts about this - but it’s the broad strokes. I welcome civil discussion about any of it. I’m not active on this blog right now but I will see your messages and respond if anyone wants to keep talking about this.

I’ll start by saying I’m not done with the show. Yet. I’m waiting to see what might transpire. There are definite *things* that if they happen will cause me to tune out for some time (maybe forever), but I’m WAITING TO SEE.

As a lifetime viewer of soaps, I logically understand what the show thinks they’re doing, and in some ways I’ve started the journey towards acceptance that THIS was what they decided to do. But emotionally? I am completely compromised and my heart is destroyed. I hadn’t realized how much these two had seeped into my body and soul - how much I had put on them as a surrogate for my own non-existent happiness - until this complete and total trainwreck of an event occurred. If nothing else, last week has *cured* me of this show and of Robron. The show and the pairing are not the same anymore, and it won’t be the same for a long time (ever?)...and that’s probably a good thing for my own mental health if I’m honest. 

As for the actual *thing*...I find fault with ALL parties. I mean, aside from the asinine writing of the actual episodes (meaning FULL BLAME TO THE WRITER AND THE SHOW BUT SINCE THIS IS THE SHIT THEY GAVE US I HAVE TO MAKE IT MAKE SENSE SOMEHOW). 

No one comes out of this CLEAN or totally blameless.

I do blame Aaron a teeny tiny bit (like 0.05%) for not telling Robert about his torment inside; about the REAL reason he’s using. Not that it would have made a difference but maybe it would have? Communication. Sigh. (also? If Aaron hadn’t been in prison this wouldn’t have happened. I know that’s a completely and totally unfair statement to make, but it’s also true. A minuscule silver lining? What happened wasn’t about Aaron not being enough for Robert, or Robert having feelings for someone else...it’s all a byproduct of that stupid Kasim thing. Of Aaron (Robert’s moral compass) being absent, suffering on his own of course, and pushing Robert away because of his experiences. I mean, this is indicative of a highly unhealthy codependency from both parties but I think we were all aware that was the case. Regardless...at least the circumstances for this happening were this extreme? Yeah? ha...I need to seek out any little bit I can that might help me feel even slightly better about this shit.)

I blame Rebecca (about 25%) for taking advantage or Robert’s emotional state, and his physical state. Because she did. She overheard Adam say where Rob was - that he was upset. Then she got that vague text from him asking if she was around and she ran off. He didn’t ask her to come (that we saw onscreen, which is all that actually counts)...she stuffed her phone in her pocket and ran off to Mill because she knew he was there. (so in my mind, Rob wasn’t lying on Friday when he said to Chas that she just showed up). I also 100% do not buy into the fact that she didn’t know Robert was playing her. She knew he was drunk - REAL DRUNK. I don’t think she really believed his “we’re over” rant. Rather, she chose to believe it, and in that I think Chas was absolutely right when she said Robert only used her because Rebecca allowed him to. Yep. Fuck her. I was still trying to give her a chance but now I’m just done. 

I blame Robert most (the remaining 74.95%), of course (Or rather, the pod person that took over Robert’s body and reverted him about three years). He’d been TRYING so hard for so long and decided to just give up on all of it. I can relate to what he said to Chas on Friday - that Aaron had hurt him and so he wanted to hurt Aaron, and “once the idea took hold I couldn’t stop it”. Yep. I’ve done many self destructive things to myself because I couldn’t get rid of an idea...So I understand that perspective. But it doesn’t make it okay, or forgivable.

Robert’s struggle the last few weeks has been interesting to watch, and I’ve loved it. His dynamic with Liv especially has been FANTASTIC. The problem is the show didn’t give it more time. His breakdown after Aaron essentially said “leave me alone” was so unearned based on the very few things we saw onscreen. I suppose we were meant to think it was a breaking point for him? That Robert was upset because Aaron was drugged up, and didn’t care about Liv’s troubles, or that Robert had been worried??? But none of that came across very well in the dialogue. And Aaron could have been (should have been!) a lot more cruel to Robert to elicit the EXTREMELY OTT reaction from Robert that we got. I don’t know. It was so badly handled and makes no real sense. I just.... 

I am dead inside.

(btw - are we supposed to think that Aaron’s story about the guards finding stuff in his cell is true? because if it is, and if what Aaron said about convincing them it wasn’t his is also true, does that mean he threw Ethan under the bus? Put the blame on him?? Nice cellmate he must be. sigh.)

I did believe Robert’s shame and agony and guilt on Friday. Even if it took Rebecca threatening to tell Aaron the truth for him to come clean to Chas. He still did tell her when it came to it. He didn’t try to excuse it away but he did try to explain his thoughts and feelings which...is also a new thing. So. That’s...something. (I guess). And another something is that it’s perfectly clear (at least to me) Robert doesn’t harbor any actual, real feelings for Rebecca outside this supposed ‘friendship’ they had. And I think (maybe I just hope) that she’s finally had enough of him, too. Robert only wants Aaron...but now that he’s fucked up royally who knows if/when that’ll ever happen. You know - all I wanted was for them to be okay when Aaron got out, so we could see a truly happy, loving reunion and now that won’t even happen. For CERTAIN Chas will stop Rob confessing on Monday, and so whenever Aaron is released Robert will still be sitting on all his guilt and so, while it might look happy from the outside it really won’t be. Fuck I want to throw up. Will watching this show ever be fun again? 

Also? I cannot IMAGINE how/why Chas would leave if Robert and Aaron are split and Aaron is not in a good place. Or how she would leave them knowing what she knows about Robert? Or does the truth come out and Aaron and Liv leave with Chas and they all go away for varying amounts of time? Like...???? I hate this show so much, the timing of all this makes NO sense. LOL.................(I laugh, or else I’d cry - again). I also suspect Lucy has filmed a lot of scenes that will air further into the future than what we think. 

On top of all that, I just cannot imagine ANY possible scenario that would have Aaron forgiving Robert for this. Aaron could forgive Robert a random, I think, but not HER. Never her. That’s what makes this all so unbelievably BAD and tragic. 

Like I said above...I know how soaps work - I’ve been watching them off and on for 25 years. American soaps no less where there are literally no rules, where tired cliches and the worst of the soap tropes RULE THE DAY, where there’s little to no character development at all, and where lazy plotty-ness is applauded and often awarded. I KNOW how things go with daily dramas. The difference here is that Emmerdale knowingly played with fan expectation. They pulled the rug out from under us just weeks after making us all putty in their hands with that pointless wedding, and all that press and such. It was extremely cruel and unnecessary. Also? I simply thought the show was better than this kind of cheap drama.

I didn’t expect Robert and Aaron to go untouched or to be exempt from shitty soap plots; I didn’t expect them not to have relationship struggles. But I had hoped so hard that they would be free of the boring as hell cheating story. That any struggles they faced would be something exterior - something they could face together with some angst and arguments along the way. I guess some could argue since the circumstances around this event are extreme and have nothing to do with feelings or lack thereof that it’s not a typical cheating storyline. But still. Aaron was supposed to be different. The number of times Robert assured him, and told him how much he meant...I can’t believe any of that anymore. 

We the audience know Robert’s struggle. We know his emotional state and honest to goodness regret over the event, and that it happened with HER. But Aaron can’t see that, and won’t see that, and he shouldn’t have to see that. Which is why I just cannot fathom HOW this can possible be made okay again. 

I think, for me, this all would be so much easier to handle right now if that damn fucking wedding (which has been forever tarnished for me, so great job show) hadn’t happened. If the show hadn’t spent all that time and energy to tout this event so much. I just don’t understand WHY???? Why did EVERYTHING have to happen RIGHT NOW??? If they wanted Lucy and Isobel around for a wedding, they should have postponed it to when both were back. Because this...they’ve ruined it. For me...it’s ruined and possibly forever. I mean, am I wrong?

This is why, last fall, I fought with myself so hard against wanting or accepting an engagement or a wedding so soon. Because I knew, as soon as they were *happy*, then things would go to shit and they’d be broken. That’s how it is for popular soap couples. They don’t get happiness for any length of time. Ever. And so I should have known, or expected this. Except I thought the STRUGGLE for this current period was just prison. Not prison, and drugs, and cheating. Like.... TOO MUCH SHOW. Just one of those three things would have been enough. There was really NO NEED TO PILE IT ON. NONE AT ALL.

This is also why I tried so hard not to assume anything about Mill. The show made a point to say it was Liv’s money buying the house. There was never anything said about it being Robert’s, too. Just because there was a set didn’t mean Robert would be living there. But...I kept my mouth shut because who likes rain on their parade? Now I wonder...did they seriously build that set just for what happened last week? because if so? Fuck You Emmerdale. Truly and Sincerely, ME.

I try so hard to stay positive here - which is why I’m not really around right now. I’m not positive. I’m broken and upset and angry. I’ve lost all interest in making content. I’ve blacklisted all the tags because I can’t bare to even look at a single gifset. At all. I can’t watch any old clips because it all feels like manipulative lies. I don’t know when (if) that’ll change. As it is, right now I CANNOT WAIT for non-Robron episodes.

...this is just a small part of what’s been circling in my head the last four(ish) days. Writing this out has made me feel a teeny bit better - but not much. Sigh. If you read this all, thank you. I know there are things I missed and points I probably meant to make or expand on that I lost in the stream of my consciousness...

Though perhaps everyone is sick to death of talking about it. In which case, you probably didn’t get this far in the first place.

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

Cola de Golondrina

Funerals are weird.

And more or less, grandpa has been acting weird the whole afternoon.

In one hand it is totally understandable, since his wife is dead and her burial was just a few hours ago, but there is something else about his behavior, something odd, something that truly concerns her. During the ceremony itself, she got the impression as if he was not accompanying them, as if he was somewhere far, far away, lost in his own thoughts – his body ever present but soul – right the opposite.

When it comes to her grandpa, he is an incredibly stern, ambitious person, living according to the set of rules made up by whoever was fucked up enough to create anything of that sort, according to the needs of whoever was fucked up enough to actually follow them. His smile is one of the rarest sights ever encountered, not because of the dental aspect, but because he rarely feels like it is necessary, to flash anything more than a bitter smirk, since ‘it may ruin his image’.

Aside from that, he always wears a suit, but not the basic kind, only the expensive, fancy one. She literally never got a chance to see him in a different kind of clothing, which only adds something more professional to his exterior as if he was not professional enough, as if the neatly slicked-back hair, surprisingly thick considering his seventy years, was not enough.

But when is it ever enough for such an overachiever her grandpa is?

In all honesty, she has never viewed him as a typical kind of grandpa – the one who would read stories to his grandkids, who would build them a treehouse, who would go fishing with his neighbors. No, he was far from it. But instead of that, he is renown from his work skills, the way he always cracks any case – at least according to what he tells others, but it does not seem to lay too far from the truth. Otherwise people would not be hiring him for such ridiculously high amounts of money.

“You loved her, didn’t you?” She asks softly, enlacing their arms together, as they mindlessly stare at the marble gravestone. “I mean, I guess I can’t imagine how it feels, to lose someone you spent so many years with. Maybe you should at least consider taking a break from work.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, child. The defendants won’t guilt themselves,” he huffs, already getting impatient. How can she be so short-sighted? Ah yes, youth defines itself by the very unique set of principles, not that he understands them anymore. It seems like he is well-aware of their existence, but not really to the point where he knows what they truly mean, beyond that.

“But-”

“And grieve is a waste of time,” he states with a careless brow raise.

“So you are just planning to move on, forgetting that it ever happened at all?” She questions again. “If you really loved her, I feel like you should sort of, I don’t know, think of it as a tribute.”

“If I really loved her,” he snorts mockingly. “Think of it as a tribute.”

“Jeez, give me a break,” she sighs, clearly getting fed up with his bitter attitude. “Why do you always have to be such a jerk about everything?”

“Because being a jerk gets you further than being a non-jerk.”

“So what?” She dwells on further. “You’re trying to say you never loved her?”

“In fact, this is true. I don’t think I ever loved her,” he avows bitterly, catching her out of guard for more than a brief moment. “Don’t look so surprised. She was a good woman, my best friend actually, but I never loved her. Why should I?”

“Because you were married to her?” She implies sarcastically.

“Darling,” he flashes her a pitiful, patronizing smile that she hates more than anything. “It’s not that simple.”

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes, starting to regret even bringing up the subject in the first place. “Were you ever in love with anyone then?”

Her question is followed by a few minutes of perfect silence with only a few birds chanting in the distance, and when it occurs to her how unlikely it is to gain such an answer from him, he speaks again.

“I think that maybe, just maybe, I was in love once.”

She gasps as soon as she hears his unforeseen confession, her eyes igniting with that kind of childish excitement that infuriates him more than anything.

“What happened?”

He chuckles bitterly at the foolish question. How come a girl her age cannot figure it out on her own truly lays beyond his understanding.

“I wasted my chance, that’s what happened.”

* * *

The scent of freshly made coffee stirred within his nostrils, enveloping him pleasantly, at least as pleasantly as it could, considering the fact that it is six in the morning.

Although he would be lying, if he said he never liked to get up early for work, he indeed has never been able to find the process itself appealing, but has always considered it as the essential part of the play – some sort of a compromise he is forced to lean into, if he wants to drive to his love of beloved law firm.

Since he was a kid, he has had the need to possess, to earn money and buy the things that create his flawless image, that make him appear as a certain kind of man in the eyes of others. He will never admit it, but he spends enormous amounts of money on all these tailor-made suits, at least according to Jane, but it is not like he cannot afford them. He has too much money anyway, and nothing fancy to spend it on, nothing fancy except for the suits – nothing too quirky, just an attempt to look more like a well-dressed lawyer than a badly-dressed lawyer.

“Chester invited me to dinner tonight,” he announces between the two cautious sips of coffee. “Would you like to come with me?”

“You know we’re not very fond of each other,” she smiles apologetically. “I don’t like him, I really don’t. I’m sorry, darling.”

“It’s an important meeting,” he adds, although he knows that in this case even reasoning will get him nowhere.

“I know, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes once more – a slightly annoying habit of hers, but he is well aware of the fact that it comes from the need to make others feel better, even if she refuses, and to suppress any discomfort the act causes.

“It’s fine,” he shrugs, although he knows it will not stifle her guilt.

Because the guilt has to stifle itself.

“I’ll just go alone then,” he reassures with a forced smile plastered to his lips. Maybe her absence will only turn out for the better, since she will not have to listen to Chester’s remarks all evening. “Don’t expect me till late.”

Before she gets a chance to apologize once more, he gets up, desperate to avoid any more excuses. He kisses her cheek as he goes and leaves the empty cup in the sink – his last attempts to remain a decent husband.

“Have a nice day, darling,” he greets from the hall, not really paying attention to her response, already deep in his thoughts about the job.

And has he ever loved his job…

As far as he can remember, he has treated the law firm as a prove that he falls into the category created for successful men, successful enough to maintain their prestige titles throughout the years. He takes pride in that, in the fact that he is still the best, renown due to his experience and professionalism, renown due to his hard work.

Little he knows, today’s car ride is meant to lead him towards an inevitable end.

His inevitable end.

But he is yet to realize that.

* * *

Candice moans softly as the late morning sunlight tickles her closed eyelids as if trying to force them open, to force her to greet the brand new day.

As if she even wanted to do that.

There is no such thing that she hates more than getting up in the mornings. Or maybe she hates her father more, even though she is hesitant whether he is supposed to be classified as a thing, or is it supposed to be any of her concern where he fits in the end?

It probably shouldn’t, she thinks as she carefully untangles the man’s arm from around her waist, getting up as quietly and as quickly as she can, setting the former one as her top priority for now. She collects her clothes, deciding to ditch the panties, since he will probably keep them for whatever reasons, and she does not have time to dwell upon where to find her lingerie. Also, it will not be considered as the worst thing that has ever happened to her – a twenty minute long car ride without underwear – she managed much worse before.

The tsk sound coming from behind makes her flinch, immediately reshuffling the Order of Greater Importance – quick above quiet.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Fuck.

“Wherever that isn’t here,” she back talks smoothly, topping it with a bitter smile. “And I’d much appreciate if you let me out. I’m running late.”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of rude to leave like this?” He questions, raising a single judging eyebrow at her.

Well, seems like he is one of those guys.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of illegal to keep people in the place of your choice against their own will?” She mocks, silently hoping it would be enough to break him.

“Unless they’re together as a couple,” he shrugs, feeling beyond ludicrous to be forced to explain such an obvious thing to her. If her level of stupidity is really that high, then maybe he should break up with her?

“I don’t think so, honey,” she brushes off his reasoning, too poor to be even considered as such. “Now let me out.”

“Is it your way to break up with me?” He frowns, truly puzzled with her changing attitudes. His father used to warn him about women – they are sly and sinful creatures that lead good and decent men on the wrong path.

“Take it however you want,” she rolls her eyes dismissively, somehow amazed with how closeminded a man can be, and somehow amazed with how she could even find him attractive last night. Maybe the reason was tequila, or whatever she decided to drink, since it probably was not just the tequila. “But let me out.”

* * *

The bitter taste of a cold coffee settles upon his tongue, the clearest evidence of her unhuman incompetence. How had she even managed to cool down his coffee before it was served on the desk? Had she been waiting until the beverage’s temperature fell to serve it? Is it how she spends her working hours every day – cooling down his coffee? To be honest, the positive answer would not be much of a surprise.

His secretary is the most useless person he has ever met. Sometimes he wonders whether she is aware of her existence that reaches beyond the critical point of her polished nails, or whether the critical point of her polished nails is equal with the critical point of her existence.

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” He exclaims in disbelief, after almost spitting the contents of his mouth back into the cup. “It’s fucking salty! The coffee is fucking salty! What the fuck is wrong with you?! You added fucking salt to my fucking coffee!”

“I’m sorry sir,” she adverts her gaze, bashfully eyeing her bubblegum nails.

“I bet you are,” he nods with a mocking smile enlightening his handsome but cold features. “Now tell me, what do they teach you wherever the fuck they make secretaries like you? To salt my fucking coffee? That has to be the second most disrespectful thing that has ever happened to me, since the first was recruiting you as an employee.”

“Sir I-” she tries interrupting him, but her effort remains unnoticed by him, lost in his own rage, rage caused by a single cup of salted coffee.

“To be honest I pity your parents, I pity them to have such a failure of a child. I mean, I would’ve fucking slit my throat open, if I were them-”

“There’s no need to get personal,” she interrupts once more, this time successfully as if to remain the world’s ever present rule of balance.

“There is, because you salted my fucking coffee,” he rubs his aching temples – a gesture she has seen him perform more than once during any heated argument with a client. “You know what, I fire you! I fucking fire you, and I want you to be gone in fifteen minutes, I don’t care how, I don’t care where you go, just get out of my fucking sight.”

“You’re the worst boss I’ve ever had!” She fusses childishly, much to his amusement.

“Probably the only one who made the mistake of hiring you,” he tops his speech with another bitter remark, silently hoping she will leave without throwing a tantrum, since his head is truly killing him.

My God, he really is getting too old for this.

* * *

“You need to get your shit together,” she sighs, her gaze fixated on the brownie crumbs for a few seconds. “I mean it, Madelaine. How long do you think you can keep doing this?”

“As long as necessary,” she sighs, combing the tickling strands out of her face in a nervous manner. “I was working so hard to get this job, and I won’t be able to pay the bills if I drop out.”

“You have any leftover respect for yourself?” Candice shakes her head in disbelief. “Why you let him treat you like this?”

“Why are you so rude when it comes to him? He’s your father. You should be grateful for what he does, and all you do is talking behind his back.”

“So I’m not allowed to tell the truth about my family members just because we’re fucking related?” she raises her voice, just enough to make the woman in front of her tense but not enough to attract anyone else’s attention yet. Despite the morning situation and all of the past ones, she still remains somehow amazed with how closeminded a person can be.

“Sometimes I wonder if you do this just to make me drop out and take my place,” she sighs carelessly on the surface, but aiming for another drama deep down. If she was honest, she would admit Madelaine is willing to do anything to cause a good drama as if it made a proper substitute for food in her case.

“What-the-fuck-ever, Madelaine,” she shrugs, not wanting to give her even the slightest taste of satisfaction. “Seems like you’re qualified enough to make your own stupid decisions.”

“Excuse me?” She exclaims with a slight raise of her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. Of course, Chester’s secretary has to keep a flawless appearance.

“You heard me, so I don’t think there’s a need to repeat myself,” she huffs, another bitter smirk already threatening to mark her reddish lips. “By the way, I also happen to wonder sometimes. I wonder if you’re trying to befriend me in order to keep your job.”

“Of course not,” she chuckles nervously as if her previous words have not given the game anyway. “I’m sorry, Candy.

(don’t fucking call me Candy)                                                        

I know I might seem rude sometimes, but I’m just trying to be honest with you. You know, like friends are, and… I’m just so, so sorry, I really am.”

As she speaks, Candice can only sigh helplessly, grazing at her with pity, before asking one last question – the one that is supposed to make her wonder.

“Are you familiar with the term of a golden cage?”

* * *

Slowly, maybe even hesitantly, the man untangles a simple red tie from around his neck, lying it on the pearly bathroom stall. For a moment he is mesmerized by the way it reflects the fluorescent light, its cool tone illuminating his cheekbones, giving him the sinister look he often obtains in this particular gleam.

Douglas can be classified as the lucky bearer of this particular kind of cold charm, the one that allowed him to attract some of the college girls since the broadcast of An Evening with Fred Astaire. What a stupid fucking show, he used to think, but since he learned how much Jane loves it he somehow found the will to tolerate it as the essential part of his married life. Although it used to be the last thing occupying his mind back then – if the show was stupid or bearable – throughout his college years he also learned that a lot of things change when you form any kind of relationship with someone.

There are days when he really misses college, and today seems to fall into the catalog created especially for all of these days. He was the Man back then, not the Lawyer Man, but just the Man and sometimes he feels like he went back in the terms of self-improvement, instead of forward like he is supposed to, by adding the L-title. Now he is the Lawyer Man but also the Lawyer Man amongst other Lawyer Men, and back then he was the Man of His Campus, although at some levels he had to share this title. It seemed like he reached the end of eternity, the point where our reality curves so much that it feels like you stand in the final point of your life, the point where you are immune to any charms expect for the Suspension and the Expulsion.

But what is the threat of a flimsy suspension and a pathetic expulsion for the young, ambitious, and soon-to-be-a-lawyer man?

As much as the concept of Roman Law for any secretary he has ever employed.

One day he realized that it was not the final point of his life, that there was a curve he had not noticed before, the curve that has led him to another part of his confined reality, the part where he owns a law firm and is married to Jane – a woman who absolutely adores An Evening with Fred Astaire. As a matter of fact, he will never admit that throughout all these years he has grown to undoubtedly enjoy any re-watch of An Evening with Fred Astaire.

In the course of our lives we come across these moments that can be addressed as the Turn – a critical point of our lives, a gate to an entirely new place. In his case that moment was when he watched An Evening with Fred Astaire for the first time, accompanied by his yet-to-be wife, when he realized he wanted to marry her, not that he would but that he was willing to. Maybe not propose to her in that specific moment when the host said: “We’re gonna get together on the show before the evening’s over”, but somewhere in the future, when they would both graduate, find stable jobs, or whatsoever.

But back then the only thing occupying his mind was the soft piano tune of ‘Man with the Blues’.

* * *

Slowly, maybe even hesitantly, the woman applies a thin line of jet black eyeliner, double checking if it looks even, comparing to her first attempt. For a moment she is mesmerized by the perfection of a black curve, the way it makes her sapphire irises stand out on the pale canvas of her face.

Candice can be classified as the lucky bearer of this amazing ability to make anything she decides to pull on herself look decent. It does not matter whether she shaves the sides of her head, applies some weird cheap lipstick, or changes into these old sweatpants she has had since the release of Sudden Impact – a movie Chester loves more than his own daughter. She has no idea why he has chosen this particular one to endow with the title of ‘his favorite movie’, and yet she needs to accept the way things are – Chester prefers Sudden Impact above her.

Actually Chester prefers a lot of thing above her, Sudden Impact making just one of them.

Sometimes, when she is unable to sleep at night, her thoughts drift back to the movie’s implications. There surely is something misogynistic about Harry Callahan, which is probably why Chester esteems him so much. By any means, she is not implying that the policeman is a chauvinist in general – shout out to The Enforcer – but he has that small dose of sexist attitude, or maybe this is just misanthropy, but he still reminds her of Chester under specific circumstances.

There are other times when she seems to associate herself with Harry Callahan, but the truth is that if you are resolved enough, you can find a connection between any character and yourself. It is simply because all of them are created to visualize some of the social attitudes, tendencies, or motives (not a good choice of words considering she is thinking about a mostly homicide cop but whatsoever), but it does not change the fact that she is aware of the correlation between her and the inspector.

First connection that comes to mind is the assumption about ketchup and hot dogs, or at least what lays beyond garnishing your sausage with ketchup – the act that is considered to be sickening in its sinful form. During one of the sleepless nights she came to the conclusion that it might refer to the process of maturing, but everyone laughs at her when she states it, forcing her to turn it into a joke attempt. The question that causes them to silence and then erupt in one of those silly giggles goes something like this: aren’t adults supposed to search for more sophisticated sensations than the sweetish taste of ketchup on their tongue?

Or maybe Harry Callahan just hates ketchup.

Another aspect, not the last one but the only one that is worth mentioning while she is unremittingly trying to iron her dress with a hair straightener

(is it even supposed to be ironed?),

is surprisingly a quote, not as iconic as the punk one but still important enough to bother her in its rough form. First of all because the chances of it being the last sentence she bestowed Chester with are quite high, and second of all because it seems to define her life attitude – “Go ahead, make my day”.

She has always enjoyed to challenge people, to see if they are confident enough to repeat any mean remark that slips past their lips – a prove most of them treat it as a way to vent of any negative emotions. If they restate it, they become special for her, at least some sort of special, not enough to like them yet, but enough to memorize them as people who had the balls to admit what was on their minds and not be afraid of it, afraid of who they are underneath all of those professional façades.

It is a rare trait – a white raven amongst its black kinsmen.

* * *

Knock.

She opens the door as if a confident knock was a command, which it is in some sort of a way, revealing tonight’s guest – Chester’s love of beloved associate who probably, at least according to her speculations, is not very fond of him, although he stays in touch. It is most likely a money thing anyway, but she is still somehow surprised to see him. It has been quite a while since they saw each other for the last time, and it feels kind of odd to have him glaring at you from the doorway.

It feels out of place, or Out Of Time as someone once said.

“Candice,” he flashes her a small smirk, just barely lifting the lip corners as if he treats it more like a suggestion than an actual act of smiling.

Last time they met, a good ten years back, Candice was a teenager – a sassy yet somehow charming girl, who was nice to talk to from time to time. By the way she used to carry her looks, he could easily tell she was just about to blossom into a beautiful woman, but never shared his remarks with her, since compliments, especially connected with her physical appearance, seemed to infuriate her for whatever reasons.

Although he was positive about any of his conclusions, the sight of her standing in the doorway, as if to prove he was not mistaken about a single detail, somehow interrupts his train of thoughts.

She looks divine.

And on contrary he looks married.

“Mister McConnell,” she mimics his expression, and steps out of the way, inviting him in. “Long time, no see. Isn’t it what they say?”

“It can be if you put it this way,” he shrugs, somehow glad that she is the one who greeted him tonight, not Chester. He is pretty sure he would implode, if Chester’s voice was the first he was meant to hear.

Candice could say a lot of things about Douglas, but since they have not seen each other for quite a while, she is diffident about their topicality, so she lets them slide by, focusing just on the appearance.

First thing she notices about the aforementioned aspect of the proud man in front of her are his eyes. If eyes are the windows of the soul – is it not what they say? – than he has the coldest set of eyes she has ever came across, the icy irises staring at her as if they were poking her spirit in a way that can only be described as an odd cause of her fascination and fear.

The second thing she notices is the fact that he is wearing a tailor-made suit – perfectly fitted piece of some expensive fabric – but has decided to skip the tie.

Who the fuck spends his money on tailor-made suits?

No one, at least no one in her circle of friends.

Then maybe it is just the lawyer thing.

“Tell me, Mister McConnell, if I get the wrong impression, but I feel like the suit is only meant to make you appear as someone more sophisticated, not that you actually need it.”

“Excuse me?” He looks at her with astonishment, blinking a few times.

“You’ve heard me,” she cocks a single eyebrow at him, waiting for his answer.

“No,” he smirks bitterly. “I don’t think I got it right. Say it again.”

“I said that in my opinion you wear those tailor-made suits to appear as someone more professional, elegant, or richer maybe, not that you couldn’t get away with a regular one,” she repeats, much to his annoyance. He expected her to back off, to apologize, or to brush it off, pretending as if it never happened, but she did not.

She surprised him.

“I hate to disappoint you, but come to think of it, I have this constant burning need to have them in my life,” he demurs, giving her his best patronizing look as if attempting to show her how silly it was to even consider going against him like this.

“Do you now?” She inquires in a rather rhetorical manner, before finally gesturing him to follow her down the corridor all the way to the elegant dining area.

The place itself has not change much since his last visit as if it was meant to become some sort of a contrasting factor for Candice. The mahogany table is still where it used to be back in the days, sprawling across the floor, giving him the impression as if one day it will push away any other expensive pieces of furniture just to take their place. Whereas, the upholstered chairs still surround it as if their only life goal was to be decent servants to the table.

“And who’s that man?” His jovial tone cuts through the previous comparative silence, almost making him roll his eyes at the silly welcoming. “Doug, it’s so great to see you!”

“And vice versa,” he replies – a mere, futile attempt to sound polite.

“C’mon, take a sit. We were just about to serve.”

He can give one thing to Chester – he has the most comfortable set of chairs he has ever had a chance to sit on, but little does he know, the dinner will not be served tonight. Although it starts off as usual – with Chester’s misogynistic crap – so that none of the participants will suspect anything, it is meant to resolve into something neither of them expect.

“Women: can't live with them, can't live without them,” he chortles coarsely, making Candice visibly cringe at the sound. “Isn’t it right, my dear friend?”

“You expect me to say something about words of wisdom?” His eyebrows raise as if anticipating his answer, but even Chester knows better to keep his mouth shut. “Am I right?”

“As usual,” he agrees, which gives Candice an impression that Douglas has to possess some kind of a divine

(or devilish)

ability – Chester never agrees with others just for a simple sake of denying.

“So Clinton’s wifey,” he resumes, not waiting for anyone’s response. He has been dying to discuss this with Douglas, or maybe not discuss since he treats such conversations as one of major ways to express his insights, not to actually listen to the other side’s outlook, which kind of disagrees with the whole idea of debating.

“She has a name,” Candice interrupts him, her words flooded with some kind of venomous indication that he is not yet to catch. “Don’t be afraid of saying it. She’s just a woman, so it doesn’t hold any special powers.”

“Men are talking, my dear,” he sighs, a well-known saying that infuriates her more than anything. “Men are talking, so stop interrupting.”

“I think you should let her speak,” the lawyer implies, a slight, barely noticeable shift in his tone indicating the irritation, which still is not enough for a man like his associate, man who needs a clear and direct statement instead of a blurry implication.

“With all due respect, my dearest friend, I know what’s best for my daughter,” he smirks bitterly. He has never been able to understand Douglas’ attitude towards women – those flimsy creatures inhabiting the men’s world.

“If you say so,” he replies carelessly, still hoping Chester is not planning to bring back Kennedy tonight. Who is he fooling at this point is even beyond his own reasoning – of course he is aiming to disinter the former president from his grave.

“Actually I can’t believe he let her speak in that hotel,” he shakes his head in utter disbelief as if he simply let Douglas’ words slide by. “What a way to ruin your image, such a shame, really. Sometimes I get the impression that our world is overpopulated by fools, isn’t it?”

“Sure it is,” he snorts, obviously referring to one and only – the Chosen Fool.

“Hope we won’t get another Kennedy,” he chortles again, this time causing the lawyer to frown at the disgusting sound. “I mean, establishing PCSW was a clown act in its purest form. It was like a ticket for women to empower men.”

“If women are so weak, then it shouldn’t concern you this much,” Douglas snorts bitterly, letting him simmer on the sarcastic tingle in his voice for a couple more seconds, before continuing. “Giving them a ‘ticket’ won’t do any harm.”

“C’mon, mate,” Douglas cannot help but roll his eyes at the foolish term. “I bet you don’t even believe in the word you’re saying. You shower me with all those stupid statements simply because of the pressure that society-”

“You want honesty, Chester?” he raises his eyebrows, glaring at him with his signature bitter smirk. “Then let’s play open cards for once, like friends do. First thing you should know is why I haven’t fired your fucking misogynistic ass yet, despite the amount of cases I almost screwed up, thanks to you. Maybe it’s my langsyne, maybe it is what makes me weak, the fact that I couldn’t break the entailments. But you know what? I feel like today is the day to break the fucking entailments, because why not?”

“I-”

“Do not fucking interrupt me right now,” he almost snarls. “You always bitch about Kennedy, anytime we meet. I know that it still torments you very much, but it was years ago, and you’re unable to change anything now. Our society is progressing, and if you don’t get it, then you’re just like an overripe apple amongst those freshly out of an orchard – not rotten yet but already on your way there.”

“Et tu, Brute, contra me?” Chester shakes his head in disbelief, pushing another prim Latin quote between parts of Douglas’ monolog. “After all these years you just brush me off like this, you just-”

“Give me a fucking break with all your Latin quotes,” this time Candice is the one who interrupts, her eyes practically shooting daggers as she gazes into his. “You think that knowing them makes you a smarter person? Whatever, right? It’s not like I care anymore, since arguing with you on this one would be a fucking waste of time, you wouldn’t get it anyway.”

“You fucking ungrateful, bitch,” he snarls, ready to yank her by the collar of her dress and slam her down on the table, which does not get past her attention. “I raised you, I gave you my money, my time, and what you give me in return?”

“Go ahead, hit me, make my fucking day,” she taunts, her gaze piercing and a little wild as if some twisted part of her expected, maybe even anticipated, him to do that, as if it was searching for an excuse to accomplish what was on her mind for quite a while now.

“If you hit her,” he stops, letting him soak over the words, letting them ring in the air for a couple more sinisterly quiet seconds. “I’m gonna fire you, I can assure you that.”

The heavy weight of his words settles upon Chester’s shoulders. He cannot be serious, considering he is referring to a woman, which in turn makes him wonder whether this whole display is connected with something sexual – maybe, just maybe, he pretends to be some kind of a prince charming just because he wants to fuck her. Well, that would make a lot of sense, at least more than any scenario where he actually means what he said, which leads him to another crucial conclusion.

Which opens a door to the reality where he slaps his daughter across the face.

And where she just stares at him with her cheek hot and flushed, and her lip quivering slightly – one of the saddest images Douglas has ever seen. Then she smiles at him – one of the most sinister smiles he has ever seen – and speaks – one of the most purely honest words he has ever heard.

“Good luck for the rest of your life, but I’m fucking outta here, once and for all.”

And then she leaves, just like that, as if nothing ever happened, and he lets him watch her until she disappears in the doorway, before finally fulfilling his promise.

“And I fire you, just like that, because I can,” Douglas flashes him a genuine smirk this time, one of the smuggest he has ever seen settled upon his lips. “And because I’m fed up with you bringing back Kennedy during every fucking meeting.”

“What? I-”

“Just stop talking for at least one goddamn second,” he rubs his aching temples – a gesture Chester has seen him perform more than once at work. “What a fucking relief I won’t be obliged to see your fucking face ever again.”

And then he leaves, just like that, as if nothing ever happened.

* * *      

“Bad life, or just bad day?” She chuckles bitterly, very much aware of the fact that there is only one man here who is be willing to talk to her, and who will not cause any more unnecessary dramas.

“Just bad evening, I guess.”

“Ouch,” her mouth falls open in a mockingly shocked expression. “That was the insult that truly insulted me.”

“Then I’m terribly sorry, darling,” he teases, plopping down on the porch stairs next to her.

“Are you now?”

“And aren’t you cold?” He asks, glancing at her slightly trembling figure.

“My God,” she laughs, throwing her head back. “That’s so cheesy. I mean it’s nice, but still cheesy. It reminds me of those romcoms, where the female gets cold, so the male offers her his jacket and so on, and so on… as if she couldn’t take care of herself.”

He only huffs in response, always annoyed with any kind of rejection.

“Tell me, Dougie,” she silently takes pleasure in the way his jaw tenses at the given nickname. “Are you always this grumpy?”

“I’m just a realist, darling.”

“Being a realist doesn’t necessary mean being grumpy,” she states, raising a challenging eyebrow at him as if waiting for him to fight back.

“Seems like in does, at least since you’ve given me that horrible nickname,” he almost smiles, thinking about how silly it sounds inside his head. “Now tell me, darling. What’s on your mind? What’s bothering you?”

“Everything and nothing at the same time, I guess,” she laughs softly, feeling somehow stupid for exposing this more vulnerable side of her. “Just my father and all of his misogynistic crap, no more no less.”

“That wasn’t very hard to come up with, but anyway, thanks for setting the record straight,” he replies with a sarcastic tingle marking his voice, something he will never be able to fully get rid of, and decides to go against her for once, actually draping the expensive blazer around her shoulders. She shivers at the sudden temperature shift, but takes advantage of the situation in the meantime, secretly inhaling the spicy scent of his aftershave. When she starts to suspect that by any chances he might be a nice person, he adds a new request, unpleasant as always, but not entirely. “Just don’t get any dirt on it, it’s probably more expensive than you can afford.”

“Thank you for informing me, before I got to welter in that mud over there,” she replies with the same, as if perfectly mirrored, sarcastic tingle that annoys him

(gets him going)

more than anything else.

“I mean, let lying dogs sleep, or sleeping dogs lie, or whatever,” she shrugs, laughing softly at the stupid metaphor. “But he doesn’t get it, he never did actually.”

“Sounds more like Chester than anything I’ve ever heard,” he snorts. “I know he can be a little… how to put it correctly… authoritarian?”

“So do you,” she snorts. “But you know what differs him from you?”

“I most certainly do not,” he rolls his eyes. “Enlighten me.”

“I feel like you actually care about what I’m saying,” she stares into the darkness, letting the words flow freely through her lips. “And that you don’t underestimate me because I’m female. I mean, he’s genuinely the only person I know who treats women like this. And I’m forced to cope with him, listen to him telling me college was a waste of time. Where does it even come from? That way of thinking, of processing reality?”

“Most likely he’s been raised this way, and now he’s too old, too close-minded to change,” he ponders, blunt nails scratching over his chin. “I think you should focus on something else, since there’s nothing you can do about this.”

“Okay,” she hesitates for a moment. “How about you help me to focus on something else?”

“What do you mean?” He frowns, flashing her a confused expression.

“Let’s get out of here, let’s go somewhere,” he notices her eyes flash, and she is glowing, at this particular moment she is glowing, glowing with some kind of a childish excitement. “Just for tonight.”

“For tonight, huh?”

(What about Jane?)

(Jesus, relax, it’s not like I’m planning to cheat on her.)

“Just for tonight, I promise,” she smiles softly. “Dougie, c’mon, live a little.”

C’mon, live a little.

This is the phrase he has heard many times before, from many people, in many places and many occasions. He presumes that by saying this, they all meant something different, maybe it was just a slight shift but still a shift – a source of change. Most of them did not make any advance for him – people say a lot of things, just for the sake of speaking, not signifying anything – but there was that one time he keeps in mind as something important, that one time from the past that has changed everything and nothing at the same time.

And moving back in time never flirts with self-improvement.

“You know what?” He smiles, he genuinely smiles this time, maybe even grins, but that might be a false belief. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

Something tickles her calf, a mere brush on the exposed skin that sends a disturbing tingle through her body, this particular kind of tingle that can be either unpleasant or pleasurable. However, she ignores it, waiting for it to fade away, as she follows him further down the seemingly secluded path.

There has to be something sinister about forests at night. The darkish gleam of moonlight, barely sipping through the canopy layer, leaves most of its parts indiscernible to human’s eye, imposing her to wander in the poorly visible surrounding, where her visual range is rather scarce. These blurred shadows casted by the conifers, overlapping into something that causes shivers to run down her spine. Nevertheless, there is some kind of sacred beauty within it, the one that is yet to be discovered, the one that is not within her reach.

What seems to be within her reach is the decaying tree line and the shiny water below with a tiny, barely noticeable glimpse of sun bashfully popping out of ocean’s surface.

“This is a nice sight,” she notes with a small smile lacing her lips as he stretches his arm towards her – a hint for her to grab it as she jumps down on the sandy surface. His skin is cool to touch, since he has decided to leave the blazer in his car and roll up the sleeves of his shirt – “they’re too expensive to get any dirt on them,” was what he said as he was doing so.

“Indeed it is,” he murmured more to himself than to her, mindlessly enlacing their arms together, as they walk down to the water.

Why has he even brought her here in the first place?

Because he misses the past – that is why he has brought her here.

Because he misses the college days.

Because he misses the way things used to be before the broadcast of An Evening with Fred Astaire.

Sometimes he wishes he has never met Jane. She has changed him in the ways he has never wanted to change – she is the source of shifts, the force that drags him over an itchy carpet until he decides to succumb for his own good and pretend that he is interested in her tales about any mundane things she was doing through the day. He has never been able to understand why she stays at home instead of working, since he could easily hire a maid to fill in her place, but any time he had brought up that topic, she refused.

Furthermore, she limits him in the ways he does not want to be limited. He finds it utterly infuriating, the fact that all factors which seem to play the crucial part in her life are stability, domesticity, or routine, and of course there is some kind of beauty in all of them, but he has always thought that by doing so she deprives herself from any other benefits that come with life. It wearies him, her attitude wearies him, bores him to the nth degree, and all he craves for is a little bit of variability in life.

As he is standing here, on the sandy beach, he cannot even recall why he proposed to her right after the graduation. Maybe he should have ignored An Evening with Fred Astaire, move on with his life and forget about her, but for some unknown reasons he did right the opposite.

Jane is the most benignant and compassionate person he has ever encountered. It has never ceased to amaze him how she puts others before herself, how other people’s problems upsets her, how she offers them emotional reassurance, a shoulder to cry on whenever it is necessary.

Why is it not enough for him?

Why?

“When you look at the sky, what does it tell you?” She asks as soon as she catches him staring at the gradually vanishing stars, snapping him out of the trance.

“What does it tell me, huh?” He repeats, scratching his chin with his free hand. “The sky confirms my belief that our lives are somehow meaningless, if we compare it to the vastness of the universe, and yet they’re everything we have.”

“Fair enough,” she nods softly. “But when I look at the sky, it gives me hope, hope that we’re never alone, that we won’t be alone until the last star is burning. I’ve read once that stars are supposed to resemble hope, tranquility, just like swallows do… and sometimes it makes me feel like it all makes sense, at least this is what lightens my life… and this is meaningful.”

“Is this why you carry one of them around your neck?”

“I know the answer will be disappointingly obvious for you,” she smiles merely as her fingertips brush over the metallic lavaliere. “But yes, I carry a swallow around my neck because of that.”

“Surprisingly, it’s not as disappointing as I thought it would be,” she notices the corners of his lips quiver slightly as if he was just about to smiles but never did. “Trust me, I’ve heard far worse.”

“Like what?”

“Are you sure you want an example?”

“No,” she hesitates for a split second, a split second she need to quickly reconsider what has been on her mind since they sat on the porch stairs together. “But you know what I want?”

“What do you want?”

He already expects one certain kind of answer, and yet, as far as he is concerned, it is not going to disappoint him.

However, her answers is everything but verbal.

Her answer consists of a kiss – a simple, classic, chaste kiss that makes his lips tingle as hers brush them softly – just a mere stroke, and yet this is all it takes for him to fall, to throw all his insecurities out of the window, to forget Jane and all the women before.

His hands find their place on the dip of her waist, squeezing the soft flesh, as his palms cradle the sides of her ribcage. Her lips part subtly in response, a soft moan slipping past them, as he teases the side of her breast mindlessly, fingers fiddling with the silky fabric of her dress. It feels nice to touch someone like this again, to share this particular human contact – sweet yet laced with a hint of lust that threatens to soak through the cloth of decency, which he is planning to avoid.

At least on the exposed beach.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he chuckles, like genuinely chuckles, between the kisses, gently pushing her away. “Let’s take it somewhere else. You know, I’ve seen that motel down the road and-”

“No,” she shakes her head softly, staring at him with some kind of pensive awareness. “Because you’re gonna change your mind.”

“Trust me, I’m not.”

And yet, for some unknown reasons she does not trust him.

* * *

The motel’s name is Burning Giraffe, and she gets the impression that it would sound weird, if she said it aloud. Maybe because the place itself looks as if it was from a different reality, as if it was something she was never supposed to come across but she has anyway.

Everything seems to be on its appointed spot and yet it still look out of place

(Time),

especially the giraffe neon – its sinister reddish gleam reminds her of something malicious, evil, something that is not meant to be discover, something that was never supposed to appear in any parallel reality. But it has anyway, and because of some abnormal turn of events she is here to witness it, which is most likely not a good thing.

All motels seems to feed on sins, on wicked, salacious behavior of equally wicked, salacious people. This place is no different, that is for sure, but underneath all of these lays something else – a source of everything nefarious and malevolent, yet alluring and enticing in its sinful form.

Hypnotizing like a soft click of the lock reverberating in the air, like a quiet creak of the door – genesis of their shared damnation.

She senses his looming presence behind, his diffusing body heat causes her to shiver in acknowledgment to her own feverish hotness that tickles over her nerves as if opening a gate to some delusional place of eternal bliss. Hearing the door shut, she turns to face him, his face bathed in ominous light, sharp cheekbones enhanced by its crimson gleam.

“Strip,” he demands gruffly as if taunting her to evade, but she decides to deprave him of this pleasure, to dance to his tune for now. She unzips her dress, tugging the zipper as low as her arms allow to, and lets the garment fall down her arms, silky fabric pooling around her feet. The act itself remains surprisingly graceful until she steps out of the ring and kicks off her shoes – way to ruin the impression, but Candice is not a woman who would shy away because of such a stupid reason.

“The rest too,” his voice still sounds a tad horse, but the stern cadence is long gone as if he was somewhere else, taking to someone else,

(your little Giraffe Motel poses the ability to attract distant memories)

(huh?)

(it feeds on them, it needs them to endure, remain here in its advanced form).

So she takes the rest of too, breasts spilling from the confinement of her brassiere, panties rolling down her smooth thighs only to drop on the floor with a nonexistent thud. He remains fully clothed – of course – while she stands stark-naked in front of him, her skin pricking with goosebumps, as his gaze rakes over her bare form. She looks sinful, bathed in the red gleam, as if she was meant to become his eternal damnation, his inevitable end that creeps closer and closer with every step she takes.

She is twenty six, his conscience scolds him, its voice laced with utter indignation towards the action he is about to perform.

But she is twenty six, he almost shivers at the lecherous purr of his own voice, whispering lewd phrases into his ear.

While Douglas is a lawyer, a stern man who tolerates no disobedience, who creates his own set of rather socially bankrupt rules only to follow them and crack any case, he is just a man too, and most men do not poses the immunity for stark-naked women.

So he does the only reasonable think for his blasé mind right now – with two long steps and a harsh push he pins her to the wall, bodies flush against each other as their teeth clash in a feverish bruising kiss. He pulls on her plush bottom lip, biting hard enough to break the tender flesh, and in this peculiar moment she considers whether he might get off on her mewls.

Soon enough he allays the doubt, a brisk swipe of his tongue against her bottom lip and a hint of cooper lingering on her taste buds prove it well enough. It is like an unspoken agreement between the two of them – pleasure that mingles with pain, and both of them conceive it to the point where it is possible to remain nonverbal.

She should have known better, since they met for the first time, what kind of man he is, that kind of man who would be meaning to break her just to hear her desperate pleads – a rare, maybe even extinct sight, in terms of Candice. Some twisted part of her brain is willing to see how far he is planning to push in order to accomplish the goal of shoving her past the personal breaking point.

“What should I do to you, sweetheart?” He inquires, speaking more to himself then to her, his fingers dancing over her exposed cleavage, skipping past the tops of her breasts. He twists one of the hardening peaks, maneuvering it between the pads of his fingers, before he tugs it sharply, eliciting a quiet gasp from her slightly parted lips.

“Taste me,” she taunts, both eyes and voice laced with a smoking hint of lust – a hint dedicated to him and only him. She mindlessly arches to his touch as his hands stroke down the length of her body, brazenly kneading her breasts as he makes his way to the floor.

He kneels in front of her, his movements slow but deliberate, a sly smirk playing upon his lips as he watches her thighs quiver slightly. He would be lying, if he said it does not fuel his pride, seeing her fall apart, piece by piece, her tough demeanor unravelling as soon as he grips her hips, the smell of her sex makes him throb in way that is equally pleasant and disturbing.

She is going to taste divine, he already knows that.

Douglas has always enjoyed going down on women. There is something about the power he holds over them during this peculiar act, the way they squirm underneath soft but firm pressure of his mouth, how he coaxes them to open their legs with sweet promises of an unforgettable experience, how they are willing to do anything he wants right after their worlds shatter into pieces.

And besides, he has really missed it since he got married.

He grips one of her thighs and she gasps softly, his touch leaving her skin tingling in the most exquisite ways. He orders the brunette to hoist it up his shoulder, pinning her to the wall, trying to gain some more leverage. She whimpers softly at the unpleasant sensation of wallpaper’s porous texture, which becomes long forgotten as his lips find their place between her legs.

Sweet kisses on her thighs, almost too sweet for a man like Douglas, as his lips gently tickle her tender skin. A few seconds pass before she allows herself to lean into the sensation, her eyelids falling shut, shivering as his tongue glides over her heated flesh. His cool hands feel like heaven on her overheated skin, soothing the burning of her sinful agony, despite the protruding sting of his nails digging into her outer thigh.

However, what comprehensively brings her back to reality after those few carefree moments, is a harsh nip that causes a shrill tingle of pain to lick over the nerves, but also increases the itchy throbbing of her clit. When their eyes meet, she gets the notion that he looks a way too smug, his teeth remarkably straight and astonishingly white which gives her the impression that he had to whiten them at some point of his life.

He glares at her, cocking a mere sardonic eyebrow that infuriates her

(gets her going)

more than anything else. If he asks her to beg, she will much likely slap him across the face, which makes her even more surprised when she hears his answer.

“Touch me, or I’ll fucking-”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head in disapproval. “Say ‘please’.”

“Douglas, I swear I’ll-”

“Say ‘please’,” he murmurs against her skin, a mere tip of his tongue pressing against her quivering entrance as if he wanted to give her a taste for what is about to come but not any real relief.

“You’re such a fucking-”

“Tease? Asshole? Jerk?” He gauges with amusement. “C’mon darling, it’s not that hard.”

“Fucking fine,” she sighs, in one hand considering the act of begging itself to be humiliating but in other hand he has brought her to the point where she is too desperate to care. “Please touch me before I bite your dick off.”

“Was it that hard?” He asks rhetorically, deciding to ignore the sarcastic tingle of her voice and the mocking promise. Since she could make an exception for him, he can undoubtedly return the favor, he can and he will.

She moans in relief, pretty sure he feels her throbbing, as he licks a broad stripe down her folds, shunning the tingling nub on purpose. He smirks against her flesh, somehow amused by her reaction – a frustrated huff followed by another breathless gasp of his name. The sensation is ticklish, barely there to feel, all wrong considering the sticky wetness covering her inner thighs.

She feels beyond desperate for more, her dainty form quivering slightly, cadenced with the throbs of her swollen clit, mingled with the prickly sensation of her nails digging crescent shapes in her skin. In addiction he looks rapt, absolutely entranced, with dilated pupils, the cavernous ebony of his pupils almost swallowing the icy blue, as he gazes into her eyes. For a brief moment she catches a glimpse of something almost maniac, something that might concern her, unless he envelopes her tingling bundle with his greedy mouth.

Her ears prick at the high-pitched squeal, sound that is entirely foreign for her, until she realizes it has been released past her trembling lips just seconds prior. His grasp around her thigh emphatically tightens, drawing a sinful cry from her constricted throat, mauve bruises already forming beneath his fingers. In response to the harsh gesture, she grabs him by the hair, barely noticing hints of whatever hair product he uses coat her fingers, her hips rolling unwittingly. She can hardly keep an upright posture at this point as he slowly devours her, the agonizing pace that causes her to tug at the strands hard enough to make him groan against her sensitive bud.

As the time passes, his movements become a way more expeditious, brazen even, to the point where she aches to scoot away, escaping from his touch, but he holds her steady, preventing any excess writhing. However, her whole body jerks in one rapid motion in time with a gentle prod of his tongue against her entrance. She nods, already short of breath, her hips unconsciously grinding against his mouth, desperate for him to fill her in any way he pleases.

“Say that you want it,” he growls, the animalistic hoarseness of his voice causes her to shiver in his grasp, but she remains silent, no words slipping past her trembling lips. He nips at her folds, drawing another pained squeal out of her throat. “Fucking say it.”

“Yes, I want it,” she pushes past the inability to form any coherent sentences, her approval coming as a trembling whine that makes him twitch within the confinement of his pants.

“How badly?” He inquires, forcing her blasé brain to come out with another response, while he seems to suck it right through her pussy.

“Badly,” her response is muddled but her gestures exigent – hips bucking on their own, seeking for more stimulation.

“Badly, huh?” He teases, right before the tip of his tongue delves inside, drawing a salacious purr that turns into a moan as soon as he begins to move. His thrusts are erratic, relentless as if he was starving and she was his meal, lacking in any kind of rhythm, in any kind of cadence. He laps at her with obscenely loud slurps as if driven by some sort of carnal lust, insatiable, desperate for more, and she keens with pleasure, messily grinding against his mouth, willing to take anything he offers.

Nevertheless, there is something feral in the way he eyes her, shallow exhales billowing upon her heated flesh, and she cannot help but wonder how is he able to breath with his nose practically mashed against her clit. All of sudden, another wave of heat washes through her dainty body, breaking her poor reverie, licking over her nerves with this peculiar pre-orgasmic fiber of pleasure. It is harsh, rapid, ravenous, and she is drowning in it, so, so close to the blink.

And then it happens – the fall, with a mere scrape of his teeth, applied in just the right way, he pushes her over the edge. She moans vaguely, incoherent chain of words slipping past her lips, some of them consisting of odd variations of his name, while others – not so much. As her high subsides, she tries to push him away but he ignores her attempts, shamelessly drinking up any traces of her arousal, humming pleasantly at the musky taste lingering upon his tongue.

“Stop, please,” she whimpers pitifully, tugging at the darkish strands to discard his face from its place between her now quivering thighs. “Too much.”

Uncommonly and much to her surprise, he obeys, no words added, no vexing remarks, just a reticent rise from the previous kneeling position. She backs away, even if for a one little step – innate response for his now towering position. She has never bothered to notice how tall he is, comparing to her, and although she is not very short herself, she finds him utterly intimidating, gazing at her with features framed by the crimson neon.

She approaches the bed at his nonverbal command – a simple shift of his eyes towards the mattress – and plops down onto the coarse sheets, propping herself on the elbows to watch his movements with silent intent. He clearly takes his time, much to her exasperation, removing the pieces one by one, nimble fingers dancing over various expensive fabrics that cover his lengthy frame. He discards them onto the armchair one by one as she keeps staring, her gaze fixated on the unveiled bare skin. Maybe it is impolite to stare, but she cannot help herself, driven by some kind of a burning need to memorize everything about his appearance, all the little details that are poking her eyes as if they craved for her undivided attention.

Maybe they do.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he jeers

(he is nothing but right)                  

with a subtle yet mean cadence lacing his voice in a tight knot that seems to clench around her throat, retrieving any ability to fight back.

Instead she bestows him with a different kind of response, with a simple gesture of drawing her legs apart, even if for the slightest bit, but still enough for him to pick up a hint. He looks painfully hard, feels heavy and hot against her slick thigh as he settles between her spread legs, accidently nudging her clit. Her hips buck instinctively at the jarring stab of pleasure, already craving for more friction, but he simply retreats with the same blatant amusement as a few minutes prior glimmering in his eyes.

However, she does right the opposite, pushing him away in order to switch their positions, but fails completely as he snaps out of her grasp in an unnervingly swift movement, preventively pinning both of her wrists above the head. She is about to writhe away from the docile position he has put her into, when all of sudden he thrusts into her with a low groan – an action that is followed by another sharp cry, undeniable reason of the painful intrusion. He does not seem to care, or maybe this is just his unique Art of Fucking, claiming her with rough shoves that send her to the pinnacle of incoherence, that leave her torn between pleading him to slow down, or begging for more.

He is everything but gentle, his movement deliberately rough, but the jarring stab of pain only fuels her pleasure, contrasting yet mingling together so perfectly. It brings her to the point of inevitable contemplation whether he is doing it just to see if he can break her.

Who is she trying to fool? Of course he is.

Her fleeting conclusion becomes long forgotten as soon as his hands release her now sore wrists only to wrap around her throat a brief moment later. Although he refrains from choking her, his grip is firm as if he was meaning to indicate some kind of a threat, as if he was trying to tame her. She swallows hard, staring into his eyes with fazed look upon her flushed face, but it does not seem to scatter his concentration if not the opposite. His brows are knitted slightly, eyes wide open and awake, lean body bathed in the sinful crimson, forming an image that is meant to invade most of her dreams in the following years.

Her newly released hands rest upon his shoulders – an attempt to steady her jerking body, to anchor herself to passing reality with a firm grip around his rounded muscles. It feels good to be able to touch him, to squeeze his heated flesh in time with the rapid thrusts as if she intended to distract him with the oddly soft gesture. She is unusually close by now, so close that she can almost taste it, her stomach coiling with unbridled desperate excitement, her hips bucking half-consciously to match his movements, the willpower to savor the moment lost somewhere between pulsing waves of heat. Her back arch from the mattress, her eyes shut, ready to savor the upcoming bliss, and then, all of sudden, he simply halts, making her whine in utter frustration.

“Really?” He chuckles, his features marked with an expression of blatant amusement that infuriates her almost as much as his denial. “You thought I would let you cum that quickly? Then you clearly underestimate me, darling, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re a fucking sadist,” she hisses, frustrated with the rejection, her body burning with the need for release, stomach coiling disturbingly. He is most likely to punish her for the mean remark, but she finds herself not caring for the slightest at this point.

“Fucking sadist…” he mutters under his breath as if he was considering the sincere meaning of her confession. She shivers at the disturbingly soft manner of the spoken words, and yet decides to overstep her boundaries once more, to test him, to see if she can be the one who breaks him for a change.

“You know what? ” She inquires with a mischievous glint in her sapphire colored eyes, the distinctive hue temporary latent by the crimson light. “I bet your wifey doesn’t let you fuck her like this.”

“And yet, I bet you envy her anyway,” he jeers, tightening his grip around her throat, forcing a choked moan out of her constricted windpipe.

She definitely should not have said that.

I definitely shouldn’t have said that, she thinks, shivering as he eyes her dainty form with some kind of unsettling malevolence dancing in his icy irises, now fierce with passion. She stares at him, her chest rising and falling in time with every sharp breath she takes, pretty much aware that irking him is equal with playing with fire.

Maybe she wants to get burned.

He finds another steady rhythm, slower than before, but still deep enough to repetitively nudge her g-spot. She lets out a weak moan in response, her legs wrapping around his waist in search for a different angle, nails digging painfully into his shoulders

(she wants to hurt him),

drawing a hoarse groan out of him. She clenches around him purposely, already close to the blink due to both of the previous and the ongoing stimulation, somehow desperate to see him fall apart. His head drops to the junction where her neck meets the shoulder, teeth nibbling at the skin to muffle the innate sounds threatening to slip past his lips, when suddenly, completely out of blue… he stops again.

And again.

And again.

And maybe once more, it is hard to tell since her perception is rather poor, considering, give or take, four nearly schematic sequences of bliss and denial.

“Please, please, please, I- I-” she sobs helplessly, her insides aching to the point where she is willing to make any exception for him if that will guarantee her the much needed gratification. “Let me cum, I need to cum.”

“I don’t think you’ve earned it, sweetheart,” he counters despite his obvious inner struggle, still grazing the swollen nub with reticent strokes of his thumb – a refined action that leaves her writhing below him, burning for release.

“I don’t care,” she whimpers desperately, at the blink of tears. “Please, let me.”

And so he lets her, he lets her because she clearly had enough

(she is not the only one),

angling his hips just right to push her over the edge. She screams, although she is unable to hear it, her senses remain somehow muted as it washes over her, wave after wave, her body tossing and turning, nails raking fiercely down his back

(crimson nails in crimson neon),

unconsciously drawing blood, which elicits another pained groan out of him. All of these little sensations showering her trembling body, from the pulsing of her core to the tingling of her clit, immerse Candice to the point she is barely aware of what comes next.

(the unawareness has always been a blessing)

With a last snap of his hips, last throaty groan, last squeeze of her bruised flesh, he comes, his movements halting as the bliss washes over him, blacking out his vision for a mere second, all while he is shivering in her arms with rapid aftershocks. It takes him a few longer moments to come to his senses, pull out (“Jesus Fucking Christ, Douglas!”) and roll over onto his back.

The aftermath is always weird, nothing has changed in that matter, but today it has been enriched with something else, something that he has not experience in quite a long time, if ever, something that allows itself to be describe as bittersweet, and yet he has no idea how to call it. Melancholy? Is it melancholy? Maybe, maybe not. Nevertheless, as a coping mechanism with the so-called ‘melancholy’, he drapes one forearm over his eyes, shielding himself from the debauchery of the crimson light, from the debauchery of his deed.

Why does he have to keep doing this?

And why does it have hurt so much tonight?

Why?

(World is an empty place.)

* * *

“Check the mail, darling, will you?” He asks, unusually preoccupied with cutting the vegetables. To her it seems like he might have finally found out what his true and only passion is, or maybe she just gets that kind of an impression, because she is acting like a geek again.

The second one.

“I will,” she agrees, mindlessly staring at the porch. Today seems to be one of these days when her mind leaves its body to travel to places that she wishes she could visit instead.

“By the way we have to finally take care of seating our guests in proper spots,” he reminds, much to her annoyance. “I feel like your father shouldn’t sit with Tammy, otherwise they’ll eat each other alive. No offence, but you know how triggered she gets with all of his chauvinistic crap.”

“Yeah whatever,” she replies with a careless shrug, suddenly filled with a burning need to collect any possible letters.

And so she does, stepping out of the house, all the way down the driveway to reach the mailbox – a simple routine that she normally hates, apart from all of the times when James decides to ask her a question connected with the organization of their Big Event. Today’s mail is supposed to be just an ordinary mail – no letters, because who would bother to send them if he can replace any papers with an email? Despite the obvious reasonability of this fact, James feels some kind of need, apparently determined by internal factors, to check it anyway.

However, today something catches her attention – a bouquet of dead flowers tied with an elegant velvet ribbon along with a small card attached to it, filled with equality elegant handwriting.

~Happy Wedding Day~

All of sudden, she laughs, cackling a laugh that is jarring, bone-chilling, and almost maniac, foreign even for her. It cuts through the peaceful silence of a plain Sunday morning like a metaphorical knife through the mist, mist that has been clouding her life since the Giraffe Night, that has been floating back and forth as if waiting for her to finally loose the last bits of sanity she has been so unwearyingly holding onto.

Of course, Dead Flowers. How sweet of him.

“What’s going on honey?” James asks from the threshold, probably lured by her sick cackle, his worried voice breaking her reverie.

“Nothing,” she replies mindlessly, staring at the gift with a small, bittersweet smile. There are some days when she really misses him.

Her mother was right and she was right, that day when he left her.

World is truly an empty place.

 Created: 02/24/20

Completed: 04/18/20

Edited: 04/20/20

[nolimitsongrace]

January 9: Where Is Your Faith?

Where Is Your Faith?January 9, 2020

That your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of God. — 1 Corinthians 2:5

I was speechless the first time I attended a meeting where I saw the power of God in demonstration! The reason I was so shocked was that from childhood, my denomination had taught me the age of miracles had passed. We had been indoctrinated that miracles such as the ones we read about in the New Testament had ceased and passed away with the death of the apostles. “Miracles were part of the apostolic age,” we were told, “and they no longer occur in today’s world.”

So you can imagine how stunned I was when I saw miracles happening right before my eyes! At that service I was attending, I remember feeling like a whirlwind of power passed through that auditorium — and with my own eyes, I saw miracles happening all around me! A miracle of healing happened here, there, and everywhere. Soon people were lining up near the stage to testify about what had happened in their bodies. Wheelchairs were emptied; paralyzed people got up from their stretchers and walked; blind eyes were opened; deaf ears were unstopped; and the mute were starting to speak!

All my doubts about God’s miracle-working power still being in operation on the earth today were eradicated that day as I watched those wheelchairs being emptied and people who had been brought in on stretchers walking and even running from one end of the stage to the other. Soon the entire front of the auditorium and the aisles were jammed with people who had come forward to give their lives to Christ.

*[If you started reading this from your email, begin reading here.]

In a matter of hours, all my denominational teaching about the lack of miracles in this present age melted away. As much as I loved my denomination, I could see with my own eyes that I had been wrongly informed my entire life. After that experience with the power of God, I was changed, altered, and forever impacted because of what I witnessed. When I went back to my church and told them what I had experienced, they tried to talk me out of it. But all of their talking was a lost cause! It was too late, because I had personally seen and experienced the power of God!

There is nothing like an encounter with the power of God to alter one’s way of thinking and believing. Often we preach and appeal to people with all the right words, but we stop short of the one thing that will put an end to all doubts: one outstanding demonstration of God’s power. A real miracle or healing demonstrated right before the eyes of doubters can have a greater impact than years of coaxing and begging. The fact is, there is NOTHING more gripping than an actual, personal encounter with the power of God! When we allow God to “show off,” that supernatural manifestation drives the message deeper into people’s hearts and makes a far greater impact than we could ever achieve with mere words.

When the apostle Paul first started preaching to the Corinthians, who were deeply pagan and immersed in gross darkness, he knew words alone would never do the job. To reach them, he would need a demonstration of God’s power. In First Corinthians 2:4, he reminded them about the manner in which he first preached to them. He said, “And my speech and my preaching was not with enticing words of man’s wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power.”

In the next verse, Paul continued to tell them the reason he wanted them to see a demonstration of God’s power. He wrote, “That your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of God” (1 Corinthians 2:5).

Just as I was so deeply impacted by the miracles I saw in that meeting many years ago, the apostle Paul knew that miracles, healings, and other displays of power would have a great impact on his listeners. If all he offered them were “enticing words of man’s wisdom,” they could argue, disagree, or debate with him. But if an unquestionable miracle happened right before their eyes — a demonstration of supernatural power that literally knocked them off their feet — they would know that God Almighty was behind the message Paul was preaching!

I’ll never forget what one great man once told me about the power of God. He said, “You can’t win an argument with a man who has had a supernatural experience.” This is true! When people have an encounter with the power of God, it puts an end to all speculation and all arguments.

Paul knew that a display of God’s power would have a great influence on his audience, so in addition to carefully crafting a message that would touch their hearts, he took it one step further and made the choice to allow the power of God to do its unparalleled work. Paul knew the power of God would melt away every doubt and put an end to all debate, so he stepped aside and allowed God’s power to show off and thus confirm that the message he preached was indeed the truth!

Paul later told the Corinthians the reason he took this approach: “That your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of God.” The word “stand” in this verse is the little Greek word en, which simply means in. As used here, this word describes the medium in which faith is rooted. It could be translated, “I took this approach so your faith would not be rooted in the wisdom of men….” Then he continued to write, “…but in the power of God.”

The word en is used again when Paul referred to the power of God, which lets us know that Paul wanted his listeners’ faith to be rooted deeply in the power of God. The word “power” in this verse is the Greek word dunamis. This well-known, often-used word denotes the mighty power of God. In this verse, it denotes not merely power, but tremendous power. This word dunamis denotes God’s supernatural power, which is explosive, mighty, and awe-inspiring to those who see it or experience it.

Paul’s words in First Corinthians 2:5 could thus be paraphrased:

“I took this approach so your faith would not be rooted in the wisdom of men, but so your faith would be steadfastly rooted in the power of God.”

Don’t make the mistake of taking only a mental approach when you preach the Gospel or share the Word with people who are less informed than you are. Of course, you must use your mind to its maximum capacity. God gave you your mind and expects you to use it as you share Christ and His Word with others. But you should always get quiet in your heart first and ask the Holy Spirit what He would like to do in those moments. What needs in the lives of your listeners would He like to step in and meet supernaturally to reveal His great love for them? He’ll lead you each step of the way if you’ll stay sensitive to Him.

And if you ever come to a standstill in a conversation — when it is your word against another person’s — that may be the golden moment when you need to step aside and allow God to step in and do what only He can do! Give His supernatural power an opportunity to intervene and confirm the truth you are attempting to drive into that person’s heart.

When you come to one of those moments when the greatest efforts of your mind seem futile, yield to the power of God that resides within you and allow the Holy Spirit to do what you could never do by yourself. When the Spirit of God is finished confirming the Word with supernatural demonstrations of power, all arguments will cease, the case will be closed, and the person you are trying to reach will be convinced!

MY PRAYER FOR TODAY

Lord, I ask You to teach me when to step aside so that You can step in to do what I cannot do. Help me to speak the right words, to say those words with the right attitude, and to speak them under the anointing of the Holy Spirit. But also help me to know when words are not enough. Help me stay sensitive to You and to be bold to allow You to move through me in supernatural ways to confirm that the message is accurate and true.

I pray this in Jesus’ name!

MY CONFESSION FOR TODAY

I confess that God is my Partner! It is His work to step in and do what I cannot do when I am presenting truth to people who are in darkness. The Holy Spirit’s power is always available to confirm His truth, and it is the Father’s desire to demonstrate His supernatural ability to people in order to bring them out of the darkness and into the light. So starting today, I will always ask the Holy Spirit to demonstrate His power as He desires through me. From this moment onward, I will look to Him as my Partner to flow through me with His power to fulfill His purpose in every situation and to meet the need of the moment in convincing unbelievers and doubters about the truth of God’s Word.

I declare this by faith in Jesus’ name!

QUESTIONS FOR YOU TO CONSIDER

Can you think of a time when you were trying to share God or impart truth from the Word and you felt crippled or impaired to fully make the point? Did you say everything you knew to say, and still the listener did not agree with your point?

Have you ever had a moment when you stepped back and let the power of God do the convincing work for you as you allowed His power to flow through you? What happened when you allowed that opportunity for the Spirit of God to work? What did God do that utterly convinced that person of the truth you were trying to impart?

After reading today’s Sparkling Gem, what changes do you need to make in the way you share Christ and the Word with others? Why don’t you take a few minutes to pray over what you have read today and let the Holy Spirit sink this message deep into your own heart.

[westboast]

Pas de Deux

And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul. And Saul took him that day, and would let him go no more home to his father’s house. Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul. And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle.

1 Samuel 18:1-18:4

I once went to a therapist in Seattle who spoke only in questions. I expected him to be like my college therapist: warm, compassionate, and empathetic. I was ready to be open with him. But all he did was ask questions, and I got so nervous that instead of establishing a rapport with him I simply confessed everything to him, every insecurity and every secret. I wanted him to pause and validate something, show empathy, but instead he just moved on to the next question, and the next. In a desperate attempt to make him pause on something, anything, and show he cared about what I was saying, I ratcheted up the intensity of what I was telling him. Finally, at the end of the session, I asked him why he only spoke in questions. Why did he make no declarative statements? He then snapped awake, his face flooded with life, to explain the methodology of his coursework. He said something about Lacan, and that name made me wilt. I wasn’t a person to him. I was data. He got me to tell him everything, all my secrets, things I have kept concealed for years, in forty-five minutes. Of course I never went back.

Lately, living overseas has been a little like that. I want to regurgitate everything and see what happens. I want people to know the “real me,” whatever that means. Japan is a tricky place to try this, because you won’t ever get a lot of pushback. People don’t say “No” in Japan. They say “It’s a little difficult…” No one will slam the door in your face. They’ll simply glide through it when you aren’t paying attention. It’s hard to express your feelings here, to be sad here. Feelings are intimate and precious, the holy of holies, guarded deep within. They are not meant to be exposed to the light.

Japan provokes questions but gives me few answers directly. I have to search for the answers myself. For me Japan has been a glass of water into which drops of food coloring are placed. Watch them swirl. Japan is Narcissus’s pool. In it I long to see myself, know myself. I get closer and closer to the surface, examining every contour of my face. I fall in, and no one is there to pull me out. Japan is a hotel. There is comfort but only for a while. At some point I will check out. Sometimes an entire day passes here and all I have done is talk about the weather, or clothing, or food. What are you interested in? What do you like? Surely I must know these things about myself, but often I cannot remember.

Japan is consistent. There is a man who walks by my apartment with his white dog every day at five o’clock. He has been doing this for two years. At the Family Mart down the street the same clerks have been there every morning. For two years. Japan is so quiet. In its silence I have vomited up every feeling in order to fill the space. Japan is zero gravity. I release water into the air to watch it split into drops and float around forever. It will never pool.

On the news the other day I saw that a singer had ended her own life. The news crew interviewed her neighbor, who said that “she was getting really sad.” One of my principals pulled me aside at a party once and told me that he was immensely lonely. He works alone in his office. He sleeps alone at home, separately from his wife. His father is already asleep when he comes home at night. We drank coffee in his office together once, maybe twice. We communed in loneliness.

I am alone yet seen. My neighbor keeps an eye on my trash and tells me when trash day is. My coworker tells me that a student saw me running the other morning. Which student? Where? On one of my worst days, my principal appeared behind me, said nothing, and placed a bag of my favorite snacks on my desk. He knew.

I took the Shinkansen from Fukuoka to Hiroshima a few weeks ago to visit R. It was a clear, blue-skied day. I looked out the window while listening to Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers” as the landscape soared past. I had never been on a train that fast, and my forehead was sweating nervously. The buildings streaked past the window too quickly. It felt wrong. My friend said that riding the Shinkansen is like being on a plane that is always about to take off. I would add that it’s like watching a movie that has been sped up a little bit, just enough to unsettle you, make you grip the armrest a little tighter.

For a little while there my clothes smelled like Bulgari cologne.

I can no longer listen to an Indonesian song called “Jauh.”

The drama of the landscape. The mountains are undulating by. All of the houses settled in the valleys. The colorful diesel train cars chugging through the whole scene. The teenagers in their black and white uniforms moving in groups on bicycles. It’s gorgeous, but in a matter of minutes an earthquake could turn it all to tinder. The thing that is most likely to kill you in Japan is the landscape, though I imagine loneliness is up there. 

Everything but the landscape is just so in Japan. Nothing is out of place. Everything is on time, predictable, safe. America looks like the Apocalypse from here. Chaos is reserved for the cities at night. One of the strangest things you will ever see in Japan is a young salaryman in a crisp black suit, surrounded by other young men dressed the same way, vomiting into a grate. Everyone drinks in Japan, but there are no alcoholics in Japan, only “people who drink every night.” No one says “You are wrong” in Japan. They just say “Maybe…” People work themselves to death in Japan, open the office window one clear day and walk out of it into the void. Everyone is at once happy and unhappy, but do not press this point in Japan.

Do not be greedy. Do not be bothersome. Do not tell anyone if you are having a bad day. Whatever you do, do not fall in love. Place your hand on the surface of the water, but do not reach in, because the fish will all scatter. Things are offered until eventually they are no longer. Conversations are started but never finished. They slowly dissolve.

Japan is the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Japan is one of Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Rooms. I turn to scrutinize the different reflections. Which is the most realistic me? The most convincing me? Who is buying any of this anyway? Probably no one.

Japan is none of these things. Japan is Japan. Japan is not a metaphor. Japan defies metaphor.

Japan does not exist for my pleasure. I understand that. I love Japan. It’s just that I don’t understand it a lot of the time. Being invited to live here is the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. When things are going well, they go extremely well. But when they aren’t, I realize how far away I am from everyone and everything I know. It’s part of “the experience,” right? 

Right?

Lately I’ve been thinking about the Adrienne Rich poem “Diving Into the Wreck,” about a diver exploring a shipwreck. The diver descends through the deep until finding it:

I came to explore the wreck.

The words are purposes.

The words are maps.

I came to see the damage that was done

and the treasures that prevail

I stroke the beam of my lamp

slowly along the flank

of something more permanent

than fish or weed

the thing I came for:

the wreck and not the story of the wreck

the thing itself and not the myth….

Japan for me is now the thing itself, or maybe I am. People go abroad to “find themselves,” don’t they? Yes, that’s it. How cliché. It’s me. The thing I came looking for. The thing to which curiosity brought me. The problem with being a curious person is that sometimes you learn things that you wish you hadn’t.

For a little while there my clothes smelled like Chanel cologne.

I can no longer listen to a Japanese song—my favorite Japanese song—called “Sukiyaki.”

The loneliest I have ever felt in Japan is standing on the roof of Oita Station at night one November, alone, watching the lights twinkle on all of the buildings. No, I’ve been much lonelier than that. Maybe it was at the hostel in Okinawa on Christmas Eve two years ago. Or in my apartment on any given Tuesday. Maybe it was at a party. Maybe it will be in an hour.

A Japanese phrase that I hear a lot: the nail that sticks up will be pounded down.

Another one that I like: a frog in a tank does not know the sea.

In Japan there is a tradition of women, called the ama, who wear goggles and plain white diving suits and dive to the seafloor to retrieve pearls. I keep a picture of them on my desk.

***

After partying all night in Fukuoka recently, my friends and I took the train to the suburbs for ramen. I listened to the pas de deux from The Nutcracker and watched the buildings pass, more slowly and more sadly than they did on the Shinkansen. I watched a salaryman as he looked out the window.

When we got to the restaurant, we all ordered ramen, but I couldn’t eat it. My stomach was still rolling from the night before. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to go to Mass, and I got on a bus back into the city. My phone wasn’t working, so I had to try finding my way without it. I got so lost. I think that’s the loneliest I’ve felt recently: running through the streets of Fukuoka attempting to get to Mass.

The priest gave a homily on marriage. He said that we are not meant to be alone. I don’t know if we’re meant to be married, but I don’t believe we are meant to be alone.

Afterward I went out for drinks with some of the congregants. One of them said: “Michelangelo was probably gay, but who cares? If you’re good at something, it doesn’t matter.”

This irritated me. If you ask a Catholic what God looks like, there’s a good chance they’ll tell you he looks like Michelangelo’s image of him, in billowing pink, stretching out on a cloud toward Adam on the roof of the Sistine Chapel.

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “Another way of looking at it is that Michelangelo’s gayness informed how beautiful his art was.”

When I went to Hiroshima, I didn’t buy any souvenirs. The only thing I did buy was a string of pink rosary beads made of glass, imported from Italy. The nun who sold them to me asked if they were a present. She smiled when I said no.

Japan is the most beautiful place I have ever been. There are the blue waters of Okinawa, the cliffs of Yamaguchi, Takachiho Gorge, Mount Aso, the rolling hills of Miyazaki…

Japan is a hallucination. It must be. The last two years cannot possibly have happened. How long have I been dreaming with my eyes open?

My friend says I should write about what it’s like to be gay and living in Japan, but I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t want to talk about it because it’s too sad. And also because if I talk about that, I have to talk about that night at the club in Beppu, and suddenly I hear the music and see the lights. I have to talk about the escalator in Bangkok, the flower garland from the street vendor. I have to talk about the beach party at Iki Island, the laughter and salt at the beach. I have to talk about that day in Hita, the cologne mixing with the onsen steam and evaporating into the leaves overhead.

Gone.

Cut to: Itsukushima Shrine, the tide in. Soundtrack: “O Soave Fanciulla,” sung by Placido Domingo and Montserrat Caballé. I’m there with R, and the knowledge that even though things ended we still care about each other so much. We ask a French couple to take a photo of the two of us with their Polaroid. We are both smiling widely, so clearly happy in spite of the circumstances. Itsukushima Shrine is built on a platform above a tidal plane. It appears to be floating in the sea. We pull each other close but in sadness, and the speed of the movie changes. All of the tourists seem to slow down. Everything that happened between us soars through the camera shutter as it is opened to the light—light bouncing off of the red torii gate, light bouncing off of my sunglasses, off of his smile, off of our torsos which are close but not touching.

I’m there with the knowledge that he’s safe. When we were together I couldn’t sleep at night because of what he told me about the political situation in his country, where people like him—people like us—are occasionally stoned to death. But that won’t happen to him now. Now my insomnia comes from somewhere else.

“Isn’t this song beautiful?” I ask him.

“It makes me want to kill myself,” he responds.

The record skips. Put on a new one.

Soundtrack: “Ave Maria,” by Schubert.

September 11, 2017: “In my mind there is a Baroque cathedral built to honor all of the things I want but cannot have.”

Running.

Where the fuck is the church? I don’t remember which side of the train station it’s on.

Why am I writing this? Why am I trying to write about something that is still so alive? I’m foolishly trying to write about something that presents itself anew each day…

Living in Japan is a gift.

Friday: I am waking up. Now the sun streams into my room. Now I am making coffee. Now I am running by the river, the water is flowing over the rocks, and white egrets are leaping from the riverbed. Now I am at school, where the students and I are still learning how to talk to each other. Now I am counting money. Now I am on a bus ascending the mountains and descending into Fukuoka. Now I am in the city, and there are lines of people waiting for ramen or ice cream. There are people everywhere. They are cast in neon light, they are holding hands, they are buying cigarettes. We are bumping into each other, we are descending into the subways, we are gathered at restaurants. Sumimasen. Now we are ascending to the sidewalk. Now we are drinking together, now we are stumbling to the club, now we are on an elevator pressed against one another, now we are all dancing. Now the sun is coming up, What’s your name? Now we’re jumping into taxis, now we’re awake, friends with arms wrapped around each other.

Friendship is a gift.

Love is a gift.

Everything is now seen from Japan, and I see the different parts of me, through time, which exist at once. There is the little boy at Catholic school who is always designated to say Catholic grace at family dinners. There is the seventeen-year-old me in Maryland, driving through a corn field, not seeing the stop sign soon enough, slamming on the brakes and suddenly realizing that the brake pads are worn down to nothing, and the car flies into the intersection anyway at sixty miles an hour. But there isn’t any traffic and I get to keep living. There is the twenty-year-old me in Vermont, in a snowstorm, with uncontrollable feelings about basically everything, so certain that my life and opinions are terribly important. There is the twenty-three-year-old me in Washington State, alone in a beautiful house on an island, realizing that nothing really added up and yet here I am, worried I’m coming apart. Now there is the twenty-six-year-old me, who puts on a tie in the morning and rides a bike through a Japanese lumber town to a school where I can’t understand most of what is being said around me, but I’m trying.

I went to a riverboat dinner event last year, and someone took a photo. In the background are illuminated lanterns. My friend Shantel is on my left and my friend Ryu is on my right, with his arm around me. It’s the kind of photo that is immediately nostalgic, as if it was already twenty years old the moment it was taken. It says, like all photographs do, that we were here, in this place, at this time. So far from home. I’m real to many people, but to others I’m just photographs. David who lives in Japan, smiling near a boat. In the photograph, I’m thinking that different parts of me exist through time, but different selves all exist now. David the teacher. David the friend. David the party person. David the quiet person. David the son. David the brother. David the boyfriend.

I’m thinking of the way that surfaces slide over one another, the way that things deceive. In Washington I lived for a year near Deception Pass, where the Admiralty Inlet meets the Salish Sea. The currents are extremely powerful and dangerous, but you wouldn’t know from looking, because when the waters move past one another they give the surface a glassy appearance, like a colonial window. It is some of the most fatal water in Washington though. The Deception Pass bridge is a marvel of engineering. It is also a favorite suicide spot in Washington. Every so often I would check the news and see that a car had been discovered near the bridge in the morning, and soon after the search would begin for the driver, presumed to be somewhere in the water.

People have sliding surfaces too, which is why it’s wise not to make assumptions about human beings. You think you understand someone but then the current changes. Your leg is sucked under. And me? I can deceive myself too. Queer people know this too well. You come out, and then suddenly you’re on an archaeological dig through your past, searching for clues among the self-deception. Ah, that makes sense. Ah, no wonder my friends were always girls. Ah, no wonder people talked to me like that. Behaved like that.

The current picks things up from the bottom and drops them on the shore. Like this: one of the students collapsed during a performance last year, and my first reaction was to clasp my hands and bow. Hail Mary, full of grace… Spare her, have mercy. Someone dies unexpectedly and it’s the same thing. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women… Receive her soul in heaven. How many pearls can I pull from the bottom? Enough to make a rosary?

Wait, do I believe in heaven?

Pray for us sinners.

Other questions: Is there really such a thing as a good person? Do people have souls? Why am I alive?

Catholics seek to reconcile apparently contradictory concepts. For example: God is omnipotent and omniscient, and yet human beings have free will. Also: the world is fundamentally mysterious, and yet we must have faith that everything happens as part of a larger design. Mystery is what I can’t stop thinking about. It’s unbearable. Why does anything happen? Catholics believe it is the will of God. Which is a way of saying: it’s a mystery. Things just happen. Things just are. Maybe there’s a why, but it’s too much to understand. It’s God.

Now and at the hour of our death.

What of my own mysteries? I touch my hand to the holy water as I enter the church. I think I know the real me now, the architecture which holds everything else up, but I’m not sure. Japan gave this understanding to me. Gayness is a sexual orientation, but for me it’s also a spiritual one. It’s the Catholicism which collapsed and was filled by Saint James Baldwin, Saint Freddy Mercury, Saint Marsha P. Johnson, Saint Beyoncé, so many saints. Gay people love to beatify. My favorite saint is Saint Madonna. She’s Catholic, you know. But in “Like a Virgin” performances in the early nineties she used a lot of “sacrilegious” sexual imagery, enough that, due to protests from the Vatican, she was forced to cancel her shows in Italy during her tour. She prayed before every show, hands clasped with her dancers.

I write my own prayers.

What’s your name?

And lead us not into temptation.

Should we go somewhere else?

But deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory.

I’m sorry, I’m nervous.

Forever and ever.

Amen.

—Japan

[acnaivyram]

The Lover

I am not “better looking” or “a lot younger” than the wife. I am not a “glamor girl” or a doll with mind-blowing looks and a body to die for. I am as regular as a woman can get, with bad hair days and dark circles and bags beneath my eyes. I am not a “kept woman”. I work, pay rent and take care of my bills. I may struggle at times, but have never really had the “need” to rely on a man financially, regardless of my situation. I pick up the check, I book movie tickets, I arrange surprises, I shower him with gifts. I serve as a release. A place to go to, a person who understands, the comfortable shoulder to cry on. As crazy as it sounds, after he spends some time with me, he goes home a happier man, husband, and father. I am his own little Nirvana, if only for a few hours. It is not always fun. It hurts to be in love with someone whom I cannot spend important days, special occasions or holidays with. For all the pain I have caused his wife, I suffer in my own way too. I don’t go out of my way to justify my wrongdoing; but I am not this horrible, heartless woman anyone would imagine. Sometimes you can’t choose whom you love, and just because that person happens to be married doesn’t mean I’m evil to the core. I am not an overly sexualized predator nor an irresistible temptress. Mine is a complex, personal, and extremely difficult position. The stats are very much against me. I read somewhere that only three percent of men end up marrying the “other woman” and I have a very firm belief that he is not a part of that percentage. Our relationship always had its own complexities, and it is difficult to understand our dynamics from the outside. I have long accepted the fact that I will always be painted as the villain, a home-wrecker, a monstrous seductress. I constantly try to prepare myself for the consequences of my choices and the responsiblities I must bear: To be quiet. To be patient. To set aside expectations. Esther Perel once wrote, “Just because something is hurtful, does not mean it’s wrong.” and somehow, it stuck with me. A sort of solace and self comfort that something about my situation may be right, after all. I read a lot of articles and watched a ton of clips tackling the idea of infidelity and the pain that inflicts on all parties involved. I was in search of self-help books that could “potentially” shed some light onto my “insanity” because deep in my heart, I know I am not in this for fun and games. How could I tell people that yes, I am madly in love with a married man and I know there is more than a slight chance that I may ruin a family, but fuck it, I am happy, so I just brush the guilt off? There is no stepping back from that. There’s no way I can downplay the harsh reality that I am the other woman, the lover, the mistress. I always thought of how his wife was probably once in my current state of bliss. She probably also fell in love with him from the other side of the table, too. In an attempt to keep myself “dignified” in my own terms, I never asked him to leave his wife nor felt any resentment that he doesn’t even bring up the idea of giving things up for me, for us. Although I must confess, I felt a certain glow when after three and a half years into our affair, he finally admitted that they were not okay. That he was not happy. That I “ruined” his standards in terms of intimacy. That I was the only one whom he felt comfortable sharing his deep thoughts with. That only I could persuade him to let go when he felt the need to unload and cry. For some reason, this was an entitlement for me. I may not be his wife, but I was everything else. In turn, I controlled my curiosity, always hung on to the thought that what I don’t know can’t hurt me. I am not proud of it and I don’t seek approval from anyone. He and I had unspoken conditions in our relationship. There’s heart-stopping excitement, moments of desire and the need to be together even to this day. He’s brought me so much love and joy, more than anyone could imagine. I’ve always said it was the kind of happiness I wish everyone would have the pleasure to experience. The mere existence of somebody who genuinely appreciates you is pure ecstasy. We endured a lot of devastating sadness, too. To the point that we tried to stay away from each other, but just like magnets, we kept coming back to our little bubble we liked to call “The Matrix”. This love we have for one another is tricky. It sometimes astounds me how loving him can cause so many feelings. Our love is so beautiful. As much as it is beautiful, we can easily and comfortably become lost in it. The thing about being lost is the inevitable cold hard truth of our reality. When I think of the love I have for him, I think of the happy kind of love, the kind that is beautiful and unique. It’s a love that breathes life into me. There is, however, a much darker and sadder side to the love I feel for him. There is a side to this love that doesn’t signal the beginning of something beautiful, but rather the knowledge that it is the type of love that even though it was meant to be, it may never amount to anything more than what it is. It’s that love that leaves a longing because I love someone I cannot be with and may never have. It does not matter that I love him with all my soul, I am not able to have the chance to be with him. I know he loves me from the depths of his soul, and yet there is no possibility that the two of us can be together. It’s a sad truth, but a truth, nonetheless. The fact is, love is not enough. All those fairytales, all those stories and movies I heard and watched growing up, they’re all lies and fantasies. Love is never enough because love is not rational. We are forever running from reality, but the real world always catches up to us and forces our irrational illusions to dissipate into thin air. When the reality hits me, it cuts deep, it scars, and the pain isn’t easy to handle. But what would I be without him? He has become part of me and to let go would feel like I was no longer whole. Sometimes I wonder if he would feel the same way if I was no longer in his life. If he lost me, would he feel a vacant space in his life that was once filled with something beautiful — even if that something beautiful was only the dream of having someone he knew could not have? I am sure that I would feel vacant, it hurts to even imagine the feeling if I were no longer his woman. I ask myself, do I really have the right to call myself his woman? He already has a woman in his life; a woman who wears his ring on her finger. A woman that came before me. A woman that is the mother of his children. A woman, he says, that doesn’t want him the way I want him, that doesn’t satisfy him the way I do. I am her husband’s best kept secret. Sometimes I am so full of guilt. I know she would not believe me if I told her that I wish I wasn’t doing this. I am sure she would call me selfish if I tried to explain that my love for her husband has pulled me in so far, and I cannot find my way out. She would hate me; his family would hate me. I am the other woman, not HIS woman. The truth is that I might be the other woman, but I am not a monster... I am just a woman. A woman who will end up with a broken heart. I will never have him next to me all night, share a holiday with him, know his children, or know his family and friends... I will have a few stolen minutes (or hours, if I am lucky) and a lot of time alone to grieve over the fact that he's at home with his family, and not with me. But through all this, no matter how hard I try to pull away, I find myself broken and unhappy beyond words when I don’t have him. Even if I have to love him from a distance, I will. Even if I have to wait, I will. I know it sounds weak and unreasonable, but things just aren’t the same when I don’t have him. Everything just seems like a huge blob of mess. I keep myself occupied and I enjoy the flourishing success of my career; but at the end of the day, I only want to share it with him. It’s like none of these things matter when he’s not around. My bad days become the worst, and it’s not even funny how only the awful things get magnified whenever I feel like we’re not okay.

I could go on and on, and don’t get me wrong, I am not seeking to defend my situation. We are all bad in somebody else’s story. It is the reality of life, and these things happen by choice. It is not something that we woke up to one day, we didn’t find ourselves caught in an affair just because ‘it so happened’. It was a choice we both made. It was something we both wanted.

So, I’ve decided that I have to stop blaming myself for everything. Whatever happens, happens because two consenting adults simply chose to do what felt ‘right’ for them. I know I will get a lot of judgment for my ‘misjudgment’, but I realized only the people who has been through the same would understand. If only we could all control our emotions, the world would be a different place. They said it’s common knowledge that a woman only becomes a mistress if there’s emotional involvement. Well then, there’s been a whole ton of emotion for almost four years now.

For 1335 days since our “butterfly effect” day, we never promised each other anything. We have done pretty much everything you can imagine, professed our love for each other, but always had a silent rule between us to never make promises. One fine day exactly 51 days ago, he made the first one: that he will never love anyone else after me.

Yes, they’re just words. But knowing him and knowing how our relationship had always been, this was it. I may not have signed papers, may not have a ring on my finger (actually, I do. It was a gift from him on my 27th birthday), may not ever get the chance to walk down the aisle… but this was something I could hold on to. This was something I could keep in my heart and in my mind. Something I could look back on maybe years and years from now, even if we don’t end up together, and wonder if he ever kept it.

So, no; I am not your average “mistress”. I am a lover who loves and is loved in return…

And my story never ends.

[juderyanreiling]

Finding True Refuge

A mindfulness tool that offers support for working with difficult emotions

By Tara BrachSPRING 2013

Photograph by Matt Walford

Imagine you just found out that your child was suspended from school. Imagine your boss just told you to “start over” on a report you’ve worked on for a month. Imagine you just realized you’ve been on Facebook for three hours and have finished off a box of cookies in the process. Imagine your partner just confessed to an affair.

It’s hard to hang out with the truth of what we’re feeling. We may sincerely intend to pause and be mindful whenever a crisis arises or whenever we feel stuck and confused, but our conditioning to react, escape, or become possessed by emotion is very strong.

Yes, there are times when being present feels out of reach or too much to bear. There are times when a false refuge can relieve stress, give us a breather, and help lift our mood. But when we’re not connected to the clarity and kindness of presence, we’re all too likely to fall into more misunderstanding, more conflict, and more distance from others and from our own heart.

About 12 years ago, a number of Buddhist teachers began to share a new mindfulness tool that offered in-the-trenches support for working with intense and difficult emotions. The tool is called RAIN (an acronym for the four steps of the process), and it can be accessed in almost any place or situation. RAIN directs our attention in a clear, systematic way that cuts through confusion and stress. The steps give us somewhere to turn in a painful moment, and as we call on them more regularly, they strengthen our capacity to come home to our deepest truth. Like the clear sky and clean air after a cooling rain, this mindfulness practice brings a new openness and calm to our daily lives.

I have taught RAIN to thousands of students, clients, and mental health professionals. I’ve also made it a core practice in my own life. Here are the four steps of RAIN, presented in the way I’ve found most helpful:

Recognize what is happening 

Allow life to be just as it is 

Investigate with kindness 

Non-identification

RAIN directly deconditions the habitual ways in which you resist your moment-to-moment experience. It doesn’t matter whether you resist “what is” by lashing out in anger, by having a cigarette, or by getting immersed in obsessive thinking. Your attempt to control the life within and around you actually cuts you off from your own heart and from this living world. RAIN begins to undo these unconscious patterns as soon as we take the first step.

Recognize what is happening.

Recognition is seeing what is true in your inner life. It starts the minute you focus your attention on whatever thoughts, emotions, feelings, or sensations are arising right here and now. As your attention settles and opens, you will discover that some parts of your experience are easier to connect with than others. For example, you might recognize anxiety right away, but if you focus on your worried thoughts, you might not notice the actual sensations of squeezing, pressure, or tightness arising in the body. On the other hand, if your body is gripped by jittery nervousness, you might not recognize that this physical response is being triggered by your underlying belief that you are about to fail. You can awaken recognition simply by asking yourself: “What is happening inside me right now?” Call on your natural curiosity as you focus inward. Try to let go of any preconceived ideas and instead listen in a kind, receptive way to your body and heart.

Allow life to be just as it is.

Allowing means “letting be” the thoughts, emotions, feelings, or sensations you discover. You may feel a natural sense of aversion, of wishing that unpleasant feelings would go away, but as you become more willing to be present with “what is,” a different quality of attention will emerge. Allowing is intrinsic to healing, and realizing this can give rise to a conscious intention to “let be.”

Many students I work with support their resolve to “let be” by mentally whispering an encouraging word or phrase. For instance, you might feel the grip of fear and whisper “yes” or experience the swelling of deep grief and whisper “yes.” You might use the words “this too” or “I consent.” At first you might feel you’re just “putting up” with unpleasant emotions or sensations. Or you might say “yes” to shame and hope that it will magically disappear. In reality, we have to consent again and again. Yet even the first gesture of allowing, simply whispering a phrase like “yes” or “I consent” begins to soften the harsh edges of your pain. Your entire being is not so rallied in resistance. Offer the phrase gently and patiently, and in time your defenses will relax, and you may feel a physical sense of yielding or opening to waves of experience.

Investigate with Kindness.

At times, simply working through the first two steps of RAIN is enough to provide relief and reconnect you with presence. In other cases, however, the simple intention to recognize and allow is not enough. For instance, if you are in the thick of a divorce, about to lose a job, or dealing with a life-threatening illness, you may be easily overwhelmed by intense feelings. Because these feelings are triggered over and over again—you get a phone call from your soon-to-be ex, your bank statement comes, you wake up to pain in the morning—your reactions can become very entrenched. In such situations, you may need to further awaken and strengthen mindful awareness with this step, the I of RAIN.

Investigation means calling on your natural interest—the desire to know truth—and directing a more focused attention to your present experience. Simply pausing to ask, “What is happening inside me?” might initiate recognition, but with investigation you engage in a more active and pointed kind of inquiry. You might ask yourself: “What most wants attention?” “How am I experiencing this in my body?” or “What am I believing?” or “What does this feeling want from me?” You might contact sensations of hollowness or shakiness, and then find a sense of unworthiness and shame buried in these feelings. Unless they are brought into consciousness, these beliefs and emotions will control your experience and perpetuate your identification with a limited, deficient self.

When I first shared the RAIN acronym with students, many of them had problems with the investigation step. Some said things like “When fear arises, my investigation just takes me into thinking about what is causing it and how to feel better.” Others reported, “I can’t stay in my body long enough to investigate where an emotion lives in me.” For many, investigation triggered judgment: “I know I’m supposed to be investigating this shame, but I hate it. . . and I hate myself for having it.”

All these responses reflect our natural resistance to feeling uncomfortable and unsafe: thoughts swarm in our head, we leave our body, we judge what is happening. What my students were telling me was that RAIN was missing a key ingredient. In order for investigation to be healing and freeing, we need to approach our experience with an intimate quality of attention. We need to offer a gentle welcome to whatever surfaces. This is why I use the phrase “Investigate with kindness.” Without this heart energy, investigation cannot penetrate; there is not enough safety and openness for real contact.

Imagine that your child comes home in tears after being bullied at school. In order to find out what happened and how your child is feeling, you have to offer a kind, receptive, gentle attention. Bringing that same kindness to your inner life makes inquiry, and ultimately healing, possible.

Realize non-identification.

The lucid, open, and kind presence evoked in the R, A, and I of RAIN leads to the N: the freedom of Non-identification, and the realization of what I call natural awareness or natural presence. Non-identification means that your sense of who you are is not fused with or defined by any limited set of emotions, sensations, or stories. When identification with the small self is loosened, we begin to intuit and live from the openness and love that express our natural awareness. The first three steps of RAIN require some intentional activity. In contrast, the N of RAIN expresses the result: a liberating realization of your natural awareness. There’s nothing to do for this last part of RAIN—realization arises spontaneously, on its own. We simply rest in natural awareness.

Guidelines for Practicing with RAIN

You can practice the steps of RAIN during a formal meditation whenever a difficult emotion arises, or you can call on it in the midst of daily life. Either way, the key is to be conscious and purposeful as you initiate the practice, knowing that you are offering a committed presence to what is true, here and now. Here are some more specific suggestions that have emerged as I’ve taught RAIN:

Pause. 

Before you begin RAIN, take the time to pause. The pause might be in the form of a physical “time-out” that removes you from immediate external triggers. More importantly, it is an internal “time-out” from the reactive tumble of thoughts. In a pause, you intentionally create a space in which you set aside distractions and pay attention. This willingness to deliberately interrupt habitual activity and dedicate time to being present will lend increased focus and clarity to your practice.

Give yourself the support of a regular meditation practice.

A regular meditation practice directly awakens the key ingredients in RAIN—mindfulness, openheartedness, and inquiry. During my evening walk, the skills developed through past meditation training served me in several key ways. My practice in being mindful of thinking helped me to be aware of my thoughts without getting lost in them. Similarly, my practice in bringing presence to unpleasant experience allowed me to open to the raw feelings and sensations in my body. Maybe most important, my practice with awakening self-compassion, a key element in my own meditative path and in my teachings, enabled me to bring a warm, intimate attention to the onslaught of judgment and blame.

Cultivate flexibility.

You have a unique body and mind, with a particular history and conditioning. No one can offer you a formula for navigating all situations and all states of mind. Only by listening inwardly in a fresh and open way will you discern at any given time what most serves your healing and freedom.

As you practice RAIN, keep in mind that the sequence I’ve suggested is neither rigid nor necessarily linear; you may need to adapt the order as you attend to your inner experience. You might find, for instance, that as soon as you feel rising anxiety, you recognize it as a familiar inner weather pattern that happens to you and most everyone you know, and hence does not feel so “personal.” In moments like these you have already arrived at the N of RAIN; so rather than any continued “doing” such as investigating with kindness, you might simply rest in natural presence. Similarly, you might end your RAIN practice before formally moving through all the steps, or you might cycle through the process again if you encounter something unexpected.

As you listen inwardly to what is needed, you may also feel drawn to weave other forms of meditation into your practice of RAIN. To ground yourself, you might begin with a body-based reflection, yoga, or a walking meditation. If strong feelings arise in the midst of RAIN, you might take some time to simply focus on your breath. Or you might find that a few minutes of lovingkindness practice help you to bring a gentler and more compassionate attention to investigation. This kind of inner listening and adaptability can help you transform what at first might seem to be a mechanical technique into a creative and vibrant means of awakening on your spiritual path.

Practice with the “small stuff.”

The 6th-century Buddhist master Shantideva suggested that by staying present “with little cares, we train ourselves to work with great adversity.” Each time you bring RAIN to a situation that usually causes you to react, you strengthen your capacity to awaken from trance. You might identify in advance what, to you, is chronic “small stuff”—the annoyance that comes up when someone repeats themselves, the restlessness when you are waiting in line, the frustration when you’ve forgotten to pick up something on your shopping list—and commit to pausing and practicing a “light” version of RAIN. By pausing many times throughout the day and bringing an interest and presence to your habitual ways of reacting, your life will become increasingly spontaneous and free.

Seek help.

Practicing RAIN can intensify your emotional experience. If you are concerned that you might become overwhelmed by your feelings, postpone practicing RAIN alone and seek help. Particularly if you are working with post-traumatic stress, it can be important, and even necessary, to have the support of a therapist or a psychologically attuned meditation teacher. The presence of a trusted and experienced person can help you feel safe enough to connect with inner vulnerability and also help you to find relief if what arises feels like “too much.” 

Let your senses be a gateway to presence.

The practice of RAIN comes alive as you learn to step out of your thoughts and connect with your body’s experience. Many people move through daily life obsessed with thoughts and, to varying degrees, dissociated from the felt sense in the body. Strong emotional trauma or wounding makes dissociation from bodily awareness particularly likely. Whether you are working through deep fear and shame or a less acute emotional reaction, your inner freedom will arise from bringing attention to how the experience is expressed in your body. On my evening walk, the pivotal moment came when I could directly feel how layers of judgment, assumed unworthiness, and grief were squeezing my heart.

Be mindful of doubt.

Doubt acts as a main impediment to RAIN and more broadly, to any gateway of true refuge. The Buddha considered doubt (along with clinging and aversion) to be a universal “hindrance” to spiritual freedom. When you are stuck in beliefs like “I’m never going to change,” “I’m not cut out for spiritual practice,” or “Healing and freedom aren’t really possible,” you get stopped in your tracks.

Needless to say, some doubt is healthy, as in “I’m no longer certain this job is in line with my values,” or “Maybe I’ve been the one who is avoiding intimacy,” or “I wonder whether I can trust a spiritual teacher who speaks disrespectfully of other teachers.” Like investigation, healthy doubt arises from the urge to know what is true—it challenges assumptions or the status quo in service of healing and freedom. In contrast, unhealthy doubt arises from fear and aversion, and it questions one’s own basic potential or worth, or the value of another.

When unhealthy doubt arises, let it be the subject of RAIN. It helps to say to yourself, “This is doubt,” consciously acknowledging its presence in your mind. By recognizing and naming doubt when it arises but not judging it, you immediately enlarge your perspective and loosen the bind of trance. If the doubt is persistent, you can deepen presence by regarding it with kindness. Rather than being controlled and perhaps paralyzed by doubt, let it be a call for clear, mindful presence.

Be patient.

Patience gives you joy in the process of awakening. Without patience, you may find yourself at war with your own forgetfulness or reactivity. Long-term meditators or therapy clients often complain, “I’ve been dealing with this same issue for decades.” They are troubled by their “regressions” into old feelings of being worthless or rejected, unsafe or ashamed. Such bouts of trance can be accompanied by desperation and the fear that there will be no end to the cycling of unhealthy patterns of feelings and behaviors. While RAIN reduces the grip of trance, it is rarely a one-shot experience. You may need to go through numerous rounds of RAIN, again and again meeting entrenched patterns of suffering with attention and kindness.

The belief and feeling that “something is wrong with me” was a key theme in my first book,Radical Acceptance, and this feeling continues to be part of my life. But my many rounds of meeting it with presence have had an effect: the trance is much more transparent, short-lived, and suffering-free. Often it makes a brief appearance, and then there’s recognition, “Ah, this again…” and a letting go. It’s not that “I” am letting go, but rather the old false sense of self just dissolves when it is seen. What remains is an invigorated realization of the heart-space that holds this life, and a trust in the tender awareness that lives beyond the trance.

Each time you meet an old emotional pattern with presence, your awakening to truth can deepen. There’s less identification with the self in the story and more ability to rest in the awareness that is witnessing what’s happening. You become more able to abide in compassion, to remember and trust your true home. Rather than cycling repetitively through old conditioning, you are actually spiraling toward freedom. 

Be sincere.

An attitude of sincerity in approaching spiritual practices like RAIN orients your heart and mind toward freedom. Let yourself recall again and again what for you is “the most important thing.” Perhaps you long to realize the truth of who you are, to love well, to touch peace, or to live more from presence. Whatever you most care about, let this tenderness of heart energize your meditation. The sincerity of your longing will carry you home.