#i would never actually accuse them of not caring about es ;----;

[good-beanswrites]

"Prisoner @waivyjellyfish ! Milgramblrgram has judged you guilty for your crimes! It is time to meet your judgement. As the wardens' fang, I take that responsibility upon myself!" (Muahaha -- Es angst for you 👊)

Es clutched at their head. Their fingers tore through their hair. It was the middle of the night, so they resisted the urge to shout. They didn’t want to draw any attention to themself. If they remained completely silent, though, they wouldn’t need to refrain from crying.

And so they cried.

You see, there is only one sensation worse than waking up from an awful dream: waking up from a very, very, good one. 

Es had grown accustomed to the nightmares that Milgram produced. In these dreams, Es might take the place of the prisoners. Their stomach would twist with horror at the blood on their hands. Other times, they found themselves in the victim’s shoes. They’d wake in a cold sweat, feeling hands closing around their throat, or weapons swung at their temple. 

But they weren’t prepared for a dream of absolute peace. They were happy. They were laughing. There were people nearby, smiling. It was all emotion and no detail – not a single face, place, or voice, was clear – but they knew for sure what the dream had consisted of.

Es was with their family. 

They choked out another sob. 

For the longest time, they wondered if they even had a past to remember. But that was all foolishness – Milgram was in the business of judging humans, not creating them out of thin air. They’d tried asking Jackalope, once. He turned out just as cryptic as some of the prisoners in their interrogations. Another time, they had considered using the prison’s mysterious machine on themself. There was no way to operate it alone, though. And when it came down to it, they were always alone.

They curled themself tight, dragging the bedsheets with them. Usually when they wondered about their past, mere curiosity washed over them. Now, they were flooded with an entirely new type of longing. It filled their chest. No, that wasn't it. Rather, the feeling left a wide hole through them.

If they did have a family, had Es been stolen away? Could there be someone else out there right now, crying in the middle of the night, just as hard as Es was crying for them? The thought was not comforting.

Or, like Es, had they forgotten all traces of their connection? That possibility also did more harm than good.

Es tried to reassure themself – if this family hadn’t come looking for them, maybe it meant they weren't wanted in the first place. Maybe Es had been willingly turned over to Milgram, their parents glad to be rid of them.

That thought didn't help at all.

Something clattered out in the corridor. That must have been what woke them. They rose from bed, ready to raise hell. How dare one of the prisoners rip them from such a dream. Es could never return. The offender would pay for this. 

It took only a moment to put on their uniform and wipe the tears from their cheeks. They swung the door open to find Haruka stumbling down the hall. 

“Prisoner number one, what the –” they grabbed his arm. Only then did they notice the dazed look in his eyes. His body flinched, waking from what must have been sleepwalking.

“Ah! W-warden!” He blinked, his mind still stuck somewhere else. “I’m s-sorry! What, ah… I was dreaming... She was – she was right here…”

Es took a measured breath. They steeled their expression. There would be no unleashing hell tonight. They had lost sight of their role. They had gotten distracted with childish emotions and silly dreams. They were Milgram’s warden, not some kid like Haruka who wandered around the prison late at night looking for his mama. 

Es adjusted the hat over their hair. It was good, they told themself, that they couldn't remember a thing from the dream. They didn't need any of those people. They were perfectly fine on their own. Such a distraction would not happen again.

“Let’s get you back to bed.”

“But, my p-parents, they were–”

“They’re not here. Nobody is. Back to your cell, prisoner.”

[blessed-but-distressed]

#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

***

also on ff.net and ao3

***

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon  @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 2 of 2. Surprise, bitch. Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me!

***

Killian

How do you feel about improv? ES

Trepidatious. KJ

What if I told you some random just gave me last minute tickets to a Jane Austen inspired improv drag show, and I have a spare? ES

Curiosity alone compels me to say yes. Pleasance? KJ

George Square. ES

Thank fuck. I forgot my umbrella. KJ

If Killian had any sense, he'd approach the month of August the same way Robin did every year. Which mostly amounted to renting his house out to a troupe of Hungarian acrobats for extortionate sums of money and taking off for the south of France, thus avoiding the whole sorry spectacle.

A privilege reserved for those not living out of their older brother's spare room. Nor stuck writing Fringe reviews for his ailing periodical.

He thought his latest was his best yet.

Do you value your time? Your money? Your life? Then walk, don't run, as far from this act as you can. No one this incompetent should be wielding chainsaws, let alone juggling them. I may have been the only one-handed man at the preview, but with this shambolic spectacle set to run for the rest of the week, I expect I won't be the last. 0 stars.

Liam had accused him of being deliberately cruel, but he hadn't seen the show firsthand. The phrase 'culpable and reckless conduct' came to mind. His review went up online, unchallenged.

To his great surprise, his favourite show so far had been the improv show Emma had dragged him along to. It had all the subtle snark and invariable romance of Austen's classic novels, with the added benefit of Emma nearly passing out from laughing so hard. That alone would have justified his five star review, but the cherry on the cake had been when the man dressed as the elderley Dowager had picked August out from the crowd, and made him part of the act.

Killian generally condemned the casual cruelty of audience participation. Indeed, he lived in constant fear of it at every show he reviewed. But when it came for a certain novelist, he found his views on the matter suddenly rather... fluid.

Try as he might, he couldn't see what Emma saw in the man. What hidden virtues he possessed that had provoked such a ferocious loyalty. Killian wasn't stupid enough to voice such thoughts, of course, but that hadn't stopped him trying to figure it out.

The opportunity to continue this study was surely the only reason he'd opened an unsolicited DM from the man himself, when he should have been watching a Swedish comedy troupe send up classic films in a series of skits.

We have a mutual friend in need. How's your schedule looking uhhh… now?

Killian looked back to the stage. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the red streamers might signify blood. They were either up to Carrie or Jaws.

Trouble? Killian typed back.

Emma. The next message read.

We're in a bar in Leith and things have gotten a little… messy.

Killian checked the time. Barely past one in the afternoon. And fucking Leith? That didn't bode well. But at the same time, his review of the show was supposed to be online within the hour.

With a growing sense of unease, he typed out his reply. Which pub?

***

Stepping into The Marksman on Duke Street was not unlike stepping back in time. More precisely, to somewhere smack dab in middle of the Thatcher era, when Leith was a byword for deprivation and whatever comes after heroin chic. It was charmless, grimy and depressing, and Killian might've never understood the appeal until he caught the sign in the window. It opened at 6am.

Trying to avoid the abject stares of the locals, Killian found his quarry sat at the end of the bar on mismatching stools. Emma slumped forward, her face hidden, but August turned around swiftly at his approach, the alarm in his eyes quickly giving way to recognition.

"Oh thank god." August swept off his barstool, his relief so palpable that Killian thought he might hug him. He didn't look well. Thoroughly debauched, if one might say so, and in desperate need of a bath.

"Nice place," Killian remarked drily. "A bit off the beaten path…"

August pinched the bridge of his nose, looking weary. Or… wearier. "It's been a long night. And morning." He glanced back to where Emma sat propped by the bar, apparently still completely unaware of his absence, and drew closer, his voice lowering.

"You know that Graham guy?"

Killian couldn't explain it, but something inside his chest caught. Like flint striking steel. "Aye," he growled, not liking where this was headed.

"Married," August supplied, without preamble. "She didn't know. No one knew. She ran into them holding hands in the Tron. Matching wedding bands. The whole bit. So she threw her beer in his face and called it a day, right? But this morning, no, yesterday morning, the wife showed up. At the apartment. Emma's apartment."

Killian's fist clenched by his side.

"Yeeaah. It got pretty heated. Long story short, it's been a day and a half. I don't even remember how we got here. I'm not sure I even know exactly where here is. I have to be on a train at 4 to King's Cross or my publisher is going to sue my ass. Now, I can trust you? To get her home safely? You look at her like you're half a drink away from belting out Jessie's Girl at any given moment. I didn't imagine that, did I?"

Of all the places to grudgingly admit his feelings, not least in confidence to this man he wasn't sure he even liked, The Marksman was not the venue he would have chosen. And yet.

"There's very little I wouldn't do for that woman."

He was caught by surprise when the man launched forward and kissed him on the cheek, more still when he went back for the other cheek. August grinned enormously, grasping Killian by the shoulders. "Welcome to the family! Please don't fuck it up." And then consulting his phone, "I really need to go."

August made short work of the rest of his goodbyes, pulling Emma into fierce hug from behind, whispering something into her ear as he let her go. Then, with a wink in Killian's direction and a kiss blown at the nearest crusty Leither, he picked up his messenger bag and fled onto the street.

Steeling himself after that prologue, Killian turned back to where Emma sat by the bar, unseeing reddened eyes peeking out from under a tangle of blonde hair. He pulled out August's vacated stool, and took a seat.

"Swan," he began, with an imaginary tip of his cap.

"Jones," she replied, her voice flatter than he'd ever heard it.

"Of all the gin joints…"

She grimaced. Though her frown was so pronounced already, it didn't make much of a change. "We don't talk about the gin."

"At least tell me it was the good stuff."

She tried to smile, but the action seemed to cause her pain. "Don't do that. Don't be nice to me right now."

"Why not? You're not the villain in this story."

A small noise escaped her, half laugh, half sob. "Sure feels like it."

"No, that's the supermarket gin talking. We've talked about this. Nothing good ever came from a clear spirit at 35p a measure."

She sank further forward in her seat, her forehead resting against the bar top. "Don't be cute. Please just leave me alone to die," she mumbled.

He couldn't resist tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, making sure she could see him. "I'm not going to do that. I have a duty of care."

"Why? Because you'd have to find someone else to write a column about?"

"No," he replied levelly. "Because you're my best friend."

That had her lifting her head off the bar, albeit wincing as she did so. "I thought Robin was your best friend?"

He tapped his chin. "No, it's definitely you."

She considered that. Though how much of her internal brain processes had survived the pickling process over the last 24 hours, Killian couldn't be certain.

Of course, it was at that moment their bartender appeared, a middle aged woman with an ill-fitting polo shirt and bright green acrylic nails she drummed against the bar top. "Another top up, hen?" She didn't even glance at Killian.

He put his hand over Emma's glass. "Actually, I'm afraid we're on our way out."

Their server didn't much like that, a hand finding her hip. "Well that's up for the lass to decide, no?"

"It's okay, Tracy," Emma said, managing a consoling smile. "He's a friend. Are we all settled up?"

"We are." She gave Killian a cool once over. "Friend, you say? Mind you keep it that way. Looks like nothing but trouble to me. And you still raw after the last one. Liars and cheats, the lot of them."

Killian thought to take offence, but Emma already had him by the arm, pulling him off his stool. "Thanks, Tracy. Can you call me a cab?"

***

Getting her into the cab took some doing, not least because she had to pause twice to throw up in the gutter, and the first guy had driven off. Fair play to him. Thankfully by the time the second cab arrived Emma's stomach had settled, and she spent the drive curled harmlessly against Killian's side.

"Your lassie alright?" the cabbie asked, as Killian half lifted, half dragged her from the backseat out onto the gravel driveway. "You need a hand?"

It was a testament to how preoccupied he was that Killian didn't even stop to consider that might've been a crack about his prosthetic until Emma was already inside and passed out on his bed.

He texted Elsa first. A simple heads up.

There's an unconscious woman in the house. Don't freak out. KJ

It went about as well as you'd expect.

At least he had sisterly back up when he broke the news to Liam that he wasn't getting his review.

Needless to say, by the time Emma raised her groggy head from his pillow, the house was no longer silent, and it was no longer still. Elsa had insisted on rushing home, and boyish shrieks permeated the air, punctuated by the usual crashing and banging.

Killian sat in his one armchair, an ugly monstrosity of purple velvet which had been forbidden from the rest of the house, sipping his tea as she came awake. It took some time. One eyelid slithered open. Then the other. Never both at the same time.

"Do I want to know why someone is screaming in the next room?" Her voice was scratchy, and he motioned towards the glass of water by the bedside.

"Nephews," Killian said by way of explanation, as she crawled forward to grasp the glass in both hands, shaking with the effort.

She took a long draught, surveying her surroundings. He wondered how much she remembered from the last two days, if anything. If she even remembered his arrival at The Marksman, or August's leaving. She examined the ornate cornices, and floating beams. The collection of spent paperbacks stacked by the bed and the shabby, unmatched furniture.

"Your house. Your room?"

"My room," he confirmed. "We have guest rooms, but they're upstairs. And quite frankly, just getting you this far was nightmare enough. You're heavier than you look."

He earned a pillow to the face for that remark. It still smelled of her, which in her current state, wasn't much of a testimonial.

"Shower?" he ventured.

"Please," she said, rolling over until she could place both feet on the floor.

"Second door on the right. Elsa left some things out. Towels. Fancy shampoo. Paracetamol," he added with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Should be a set of clothes too."

She cringed. "Elsa knows I'm here?"

"Sorry. It's a new house rule of theirs. Radical honesty. Elsa knows you're having a rough time of it, and are convalescing. But that is the extent of her knowledge. Whether that remains the case, is entirely up to you."

"Right."

"Oh," he said, smacking his forehead. He scrabbled around on top of his dresser, before presenting her with a wooden triangle.

She took it automatically, seeming annoyed at herself for doing so. "Uh, thanks?"

"The bathroom door doesn't have a lock on it. Best wedge it under the door. Trust me when I say, you don't want Lachie walking in on you in the altogether. It's stressful for all involved."

"Good tip," she said, with a ghost of a smile.

She edged past him awkwardly to the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She'd already slipped into the hallway when her head appeared back around the door.

"Killian?"

"Aye?"

"I'm horrendously hungover so you probably can't tell, but I appreciate, uh…" she waved the wedge around vaguely. "All this."

"Swan?"

"Yeah?"

"I mean this in the nicest possible way, but please do shut up," he said with a wink. "Also, you're taking me out for pancakes after, so don't be too long."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, am I just?"

"You are indeed. Best thing for a gin hangover, in my limited experience. And it was very generous of you to offer."

"Very generous," she agreed, dubiously. "And Killian?

"Aye?"

"You're so full of shit. But... I do love pancakes. And one more thing?"

"Hmm?"

She kicked a toe into the carpet, eyes evasive. "You're sort of my best friend, too." Then she disappeared back behind the door, leaving Killian slack jawed.

***

He'd nearly finished two chapters of his book by the time Emma returned from her trip to the bathroom, shower soft and minty fresh.

"Better?" he asked, putting the novel aside.

"Much," she agreed. "Though full disclosure, I think I just used a $300 tube of lotion, and I kinda smell like a baby Porsche."

"The very best kind of Porsche," Killian assured her, offering her his prosthetic to take. "They're terrors once they hit the teenage years. Shall we?"

They crossed Bruntsfield Links just after sunset, the sky still streaked with pink and orange. He'd always loved summers in Scotland, that neverending twilight. It almost made shivering through six months of winter worthwhile. He was so busy admiring the scene, he nearly missed it when Emma detached herself from his arm, stopping in her tracks.

"Emma?"

She was standing entirely still, her eyes shut.

"Are you alright, love?"

Her eyes flickered open, almost surprised to see him still standing there. "Sorry, just… cataloguing."

"Cataloguing," Killian repeated, deadpan.

"Yeah, smartass," she said, walking forward to loop her arm under his again. "Cataloguing. Sometimes I forget, but this-" she indicated the kaleidoscope sky, the green-gold expanse of grass disappearing into the distant smudge that was Arthur's Seat, the group of laughing teenagers nearby trying to finish their mini golf game before they lost the light, "-Sometimes I still have to pinch myself."

She didn't elaborate, and Killian found himself oddly lost for words. He just reached over to squeeze her hand, and led her back towards the city lights.

For the time of year, they got lucky. The line was short, and it wasn't long before they were led to a red vinyl booth, complete with its very own mini jukebox. They both stared at it for a good minute before Emma fished a spare pound out of her pocket, and dropped it onto the table between them. "Your call. I'm going to the bathroom. Anything but Don't Stop Believin'."

Lord help him, but he thought he might love her.

He settled for a less foreboding tune, which morphed into another, then another, before he was fishing out his own coins to keep the party going. If he didn't know her any better, he might've thought she'd done a runner on him. Fortunately, he did know her better. Or at least, he was starting to.

She came back just in time for the guitar solo in The Chain, her I'm-bearing-up smile indicating she was doing nothing of the sort.

"Ruby texted," she explained, taking her seat opposite him. "About twenty times. She wouldn't stop until I FaceTimed her. I miss anything?"

"Just side one of Rumours. And your drink order." He indicated the glass of fizzy orange liquid in front of her.

She wrinkled her nose. "Fanta?"

"Irn-Bru. Best hangover cure there is."

She cast him a doubtful look.

"I'm serious. There's been studies."

"Oh well, if there's been studies." She slid the glass minutely closer, but didn't partake. Instead she watched as Killian lifted his own glass, and made a face.

He lowered his glass. "What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking about how I'm never drinking again. I didn't even know they served beer here."

"They do, but this is Dry Ginger."

She raised an eyebrow. "Ginger ale? You?"

Killian shrugged. "It's something I'm trying. Like a cleanse. But instead of drinking juice and doing yoga, I drink post-mix dry ginger and be less of a twat."

"Sobriety." Emma slapped her hand against the table. "I wish I'd thought of that. But I've barely seen you, when did you decide this?"

"Roughly…" he counted back the days, "43 days ago." When I thought I'd lost your friendship forever. But he didn't have to say it. From the look on her face, she already knew the significance.

"Huh." Emma sat back in her seat, absorbing that. But if she was planning on expanding on that thought, she was saved by the arrival of their waitress, who was all too eager to expound on the daily specials.

By the time they were alone again, Emma had cracked and was halfway through her Irn-Bru.

"I mean, it's not repellent…" she offered, by way of grudging approval.

"Trust me, it works." And then because he felt like they'd danced around it long enough, "So do you want to talk about it?"

She set down her glass, letting her fingers trace along the edge of the table top. "Nope. But somehow I feel like we're going to anyway."

"It was only about eight hours ago you wanted me to leave you to die in Leith's most depressing pub. I feel like it warrants at least a conversation."

She grimaced at the memory. Or perhaps where the memories ought to have been. It was hard for him to be sure.

"I fell in love with a married woman once. If you're worried about my judgement, you needn't be."

He wasn't quite sure where it had come from. This sudden urge to talk about Milah. But it was how they'd always operated, wasn't it? If he wanted Emma to take down her walls, he had to offer up a few bricks from his own. Well, this was more of a boulder, really, but at least he had her attention.

She snorted. "I wasn't in love with Graham."

"So what's the problem?"

"Because," she reasoned, tears springing into her eyes. "It's just so fucking mortifying. To be played for a fool, again. I thought I was smarter than that. I thought I could just, I don't know, flirt with a cute, intelligent guy and feel good about myself for five fucking seconds without it ending with his wife beating down my door demanding to know if I'd fucked her husband!"

She'd gotten a little loud towards the end there, with more than a few wary eyes glancing their way. Killian quickly stood up, and made his way over to her side of the booth, slipping in beside her. It was a tight fit, but it did succeed in sheltering her from most of the stares.

"Alright, so he's a tosser."

Another snort.

"Liam's bookie knows a guy. I could make a few calls?"

She shot him a sideways glance. "Don't tempt me right now. I just feel so stupid. But like, in an angry way."

"You're not stupid for being taken in by him. It's not a weakness to want to see the best in people, Emma. In fact, considering how many people in your life have disappointed you, myself included, I'd say it's pretty bloody brave."

Emma shook her head. "Is it though? I saw red flags. Even from the start he was kind of flaky. I wasn't even sure if I really liked him. It just appealed to my vanity, that he seemed to like me. So don't I deserve this? Just a little?"

"No." Killian wasn't sure where the vehemence came from, but he could feel it, welling up. "No, you don't deserve to be lied to, and dragged into the middle of someone else's messed up marriage without your knowledge or consent. No, you don't deserve being made to feel like the side-piece. You're not the side-piece. You're the heroine. And he's just a fucking wanker. What you deserve..." He looked up to see their server approaching the table, platters piled high with maple syrup topped goodness. He shot Emma a smile. "What you deserve, is pancakes."

***

It would've been remiss of him not to foot the bill, after his earlier declaration about her deserving pancakes, so there'd been a little bit of an argument about that as they wended their way down Clerk Street in the growing darkness. That Emma could argue about not paying for the pancakes he'd goaded her into in the first place, was a testament to the healing powers of Irn-Bru and a triple stack. No truly hungover person would have committed to such a futile battle.

But when they arrived at the beginning of her street, Emma stopped arguing and grabbed a hold of Killian's arm, pulling him up short.

She was shaking her hands out, like she was fighting off an attack of nerves, and Killian was instantly on the defensive. "Swan?"

She stopped when he said her name, plastering on what seemed to him a rather brittle smile. "Hey. Sorry. I'm just wondering, would you do me a favour?"

He had to chuckle at that. "Swan, if the last twelve hours have proven anything, it's that yes, I am available for favours. Unless of course they involve you paying me back for the pancakes. Because I'm afraid I'm rather immovable on that front."

"Great. So umm… Ruby has this theory."

"Ruby has a theory?" he repeated, hoping at some point, things would start making sense. "What manner of… theory?"

"Oh, god this is so stupid," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm just going to say it. I'm just going to come right out and say it: I want you to kiss me."

Something very violent was happening inside Killian's chest, a feeling which was neither happiness, nor disappointment, but a crushing combination of the two. He felt hot and cold. He felt light-headed.

"You want-" he started.

Emma's eyes were screwed shut, as if bracing for a blow. Or in this case, the fallout. She already had regrets. And more than that, it had been Ruby's idea. But why would Ruby…?

Of course.

The best way to get over a man, was to get under a new one. Wasn't that the old adage?

It wasn't about him. It wasn't about them.

No, she'd been clear. I want you to kiss me. She'd chosen him. She trusted him to be the one to soothe her wounded pride. Maybe she'd hoped it would be him. Maybe he was just the most convenient option. In any case, the wondering would certainly kill him.

But not as much as going through with it.

He reached out and took her hand, waiting until she opened her eyes. By Christ, people weren't supposed to look so beautiful by yellow street light. It wasn't scientific. And yet.

"No."

Now it was her turn to look like someone had punched her in the stomach.

"Oh." She made to release her hand from his, but he held firm. In fact, he pulled her closer, just a little.

"No, I'm not going to kiss your bruised pride back into place. Because I promise you, it's going to heal just fine on its own. You don't need a kiss from me or anyone to remind you what you're worth. You never have. It's one of my favourite things about you. Understand?"

Her reply was a little choked up when it came. "Got it."

She gravitated closer, her eyes shining, and he felt like he was losing his mind. He was certainly losing his nerve. He settled instead for raising her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss across her knuckles.

"That's one for the road."

He released her then, though nearly every part of his was screaming at him to do the opposite. Thankfully, she looked just as shaken as he felt. He nearly twisted his ankle in a gutter trying to put a little distance between them. And then he had one perfect surge of stupid confidence, and turned back to face her. She was still standing under the streetlight where he'd left her, looking oddly incomplete.

"Will you do me a favour, Swan?" he called out.

She held up her hands in a helpless shrug. "Sure."

"When the time is right, ask me again."

Then with his heart hammering a million miles a minute, he turned away and slipped into the adjoining street, and back into the night.

[voleurdesoleil-archive]

Rub a dub

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles

Pairing: Nate x gender neutral detective

word count: 4.6k

read on ao3

It was late afternoon, judging by the warm rays of sunlight still coming through the high windows of the library where I had spent the whole day with Nate. The sunrays  were creating halos in which dust was slowly floating around, as if Time had slowed dramatically in the library to let us enjoy each other’s presence a bit longer.

This book-filled day had started with me telling the vampire about wanting to improve my Spanish, which we did at first. And to be fair, he was an excellent teacher. I could now see why Farah was so proud of him. But we had stopped long ago, favoring reading instead, although Nate had insisted on me reading a Spanish book. It will help you with your vocabulary, he said, flashing me a soft smile.  

But Spanish was far from our minds in this instant.

At some point during our reading, Nate had switched positions and was now lying comfortably in my laps. I had discarded my book to the side as I couldn’t focus on what I was reading with him in such close proximity. So I listened to his gentle voice as he was reading some Spanish novel, the words flowing out like a river of the sweetest honey. I watched his face closely, looking at every micro expressions he would make, such as the slight twitch of his mouth when something amusing came on in the book or the gentle frown that would settle in between his eyebrows as something not as loving was happening.

The sunlight made his eyes come alive, and the emotions he held in them were much more visible. Their color reminded me of the dark, varnished, most definitely antique furniture he had here, in his small sanctuary. His glossy hair was a little messy from moving around in my lap and I just couldn’t help myself but start gently playing with it, which I could notice awoke an immediate reaction within him.

Nate’s whole body relaxed as I raked my fingers through his beautiful hair. His reading came to a stop but I only noticed because his previously closed eyes were now peering into my own, curiously, studying my features, just like I did with him a moment before, in silent wonder. His deep gaze swept over my face slowly, like he was memorizing every feature of my face in fear that I would disappear.

My body reacted before my mind could comprehend what it was doing. I reached out a hand towards his face slowly, careful not to burst the bubble we had put ourselves into. With a breath stuck in my throat, I leaned closer and followed closely what they were doing. His skin was so incredibly soft and warm making my lips tingle at the thought of kissing him there. I enjoyed how he seemed to melt into my touch, his expression so open and welcome, making me wonder about confessing my feelings for him. Surely he would know already but there’s something about actually saying those words out loud that makes it much more real.

I was pulled out of my thoughts when a warm hand took mine and the softest pair of lips kissed my palm. My train of thought crashed through the front of my head and disappeared outside and suddenly any rational thought looked like a far away dream. The mischievous glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly how this affected me and that he is very much pleased with it, like he was counting on it.

In a futile attempt to regain my composure I spoke up, my voice almost cracking with every word. “Rebecca said most of these books belong to you, do you have any favorites?”

Nate’s eyes lit up, our bubble bursting as he immediately stood up. “I do! I have a lot of favorites actually!” The vampire started walking around the room excitedly, like a kid in a toy shop during Christmas season, meticulously pulling out books of the many shelves as if he knew exactly where each one would be. Disappearing for a moment, he kept on rambling, his voice sometimes barely audible as he was moving away through the rows of bookshelves. “Being able to read in multiple languages is an absolute gift when it comes to books, first of all, it just gives me more books to read, because a lot of foreign books aren’t being translated into English, except for classics, but mostly because those translations are awful!” When he reappeared, he was holding a pile of books taller than him, and I couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at how cute and overjoyed Nate looked. He carefully set the wobbling pile down on the coffee table before sitting back on the sofa next to me.

The pile was composed of mostly classics; Songs of Innocence, Leaves of Grass, Songs and Sonnets and a couple more collections of poetry. Authors such as Jane Austen, Edgar Allan Poe or Ernest Hemingway. The Catcher in the Rye, Wuthering Heights, The picture of Dorian Grey, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and many more, but one in particular caught my attention.

“A book about burning books, really?” I said, holding up Fahrenheit 451. I could understand why it was one of his favorites as it was also one of mines but, seeing how much he cared for his books, I couldn’t help but tease him.

To my utmost surprise, I could spot a few more contemporary books in there too.

“Percy Jackson?”

He started scratching the back of his neck, as I was pulling the series towards me. He owned the most beautiful edition I had ever seen. “Well I wouldn’t say it’s a favorite quite yet, but if I had to be completely honest, I’ve really enjoyed them and the whole universe, and this guy is actually one of the few to get his myths right, so it’s really close to being a favorite if that makes sense.” He gave me a sheepish smile.

“I can’t really blame you on that. I’ve read them way too many times not to have them as part of my own favorites.” I admitted with a laugh.

He was now sorting the books by languages in different piles. One pile in particular caught my eye and I leaned forward to read the spines. Les faux-monnayeurs, L’Oeuvre, La Peste, Parle-leur de batailles, de rois et d’éléphants, or Les Contemplations. I had to admit that seeing some of those titles had stirred in me a feeling I would have never expected: Nostalgia. Some of those books were part of my own collection, although mines did look a bit more worn out, as I had studied them back in High school, whereas Nate’s were in pristine condition, but some of them also held a special place in my heart. Just like the French language did.

“French books,” Nate said as he noticed where my focus had shifted.

His voice took me out of my trance. “You speak French?” I blurted out. “I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised because Farah did say you knew a lot of languages, but I never would’ve guessed French would be one of them.”

“Well…” his voice trailed off as he was pulling the pile closer to him. “French is actually one of my favorite languages…” He admitted almost in a whisper.

On hearing that, my mind quickly drifted away again and, ignoring the romantic thoughts that immediately started blinking in there like neon signs outside of a bar, I wondered if Farah had told him I was French.

I spent a couple minutes thinking of a way I could figure out if Farah had told him or not. A sheepish smile grew on my face as the answer was making its way into my mind. I was either the stupidest idiot or a genius.

“Will you teach me French?” I asked.

He looked at me, with a confused look. “You want me to teach you French?”

Oh god, Farah told him, I thought, but I still tried to play along with it and my smile turned into a smirk. “Of course! I’ve wanted to learn French for so long, and I bet you would be the perfect teacher!”

He seemed to think about it for a while and I couldn’t tell if it was because Farah had told him and he was wondering why I was lying, or if it was because he really didn’t know and was actually considering it. I chose to go with the latter when he agreed to teach me and asked if I knew any French words already.

“Well I do know some basic ones like ‘bonjour’, ‘mon ami’, ‘baguette’ and ‘croissant’”  I was trying so hard to fake my worst French accent, and Nate’s amused chuckle told me I was doing a good job. I tried to push my luck a bit more with my next move.

Trying to keep my voice as naive as possible, I asked: “There’s that one song I know that has some French in it but I don’t know what it means…”

“Tell me what it is and I’ll tell you!”

Trying to suppress a smile, I took a short breath. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

Nate instantly choked on the tea he was sipping, almost spilling the whole cup on himself. He slowly put down the cup, his eyes wide and his cheeks beet red as I was trying to keep my lips tight not to let out a chuckle, but that didn’t quite work as I couldn’t help but smile at his expression.

The vampire cleared his throat “Well, it simply means that hmm…” He stopped for a bit, not sure where to look. Then his embarrassed gaze landed on me, and he managed to turn an even brighter shade of red. That’s when I bursted out laughing.

“Oh honey…” I let out in between giggles. “I know what it means already, I’m just messing with you!”

“You knew!? You knew and you didn’t tell me?!” He pointed an accusing finger in my direction which made me giggle even more. “You just sat there and basked in my embarrassment! You’re evil!"

My smile fell a bit as I saw a pout forming on his lips. “I know another word in French…” my voice trailed off as I tried to think of a way to comfort him. Once again faking my worst accent, I said: “Tu es très beau.”

His long lashes flickered quickly as he processed what I had just said. "Wh-what did you just say?” he stuttered.

I reached out to gently cup his cheek in my hand. “Oh Natey, French really does put you in one hell of a state…” I stated jokingly, but I had to admit that the effect French had on him was quite impressive, if all it took me to break him was a simple compliment. I took my hand off Nate’s cheek, the tips of my fingers slowly brushing against his jaw as I did.

But before I could fully pull away, Nate grabbed my hand and intertwined our fingers together. “You’re very pretty too.”

My heart skipped a beat at his words, his voice sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. The way his eyes slowly glided over my face before finally setting onto mine. My breath hitched and immediately I was sucked into his deep gaze. It felt like I was drowning in the endless pool of brown that were his eyes, the warmth in them strangely making me feel at ease, like I had finally found my long lost home.

I slowly leaned closer and his gaze now rested on my lips. Giving him a small smile I brushed our noses together and leaned my forehead onto his. I heard him sigh in relief, almost as if me being away was physically painful for him. We stayed like that for a while, basking into each other’s presence and enjoying the quiet bubble we wrapped ourselves in.

___

A few hours later, after a heavy dinner that Nate had prepared for us, we were laying in the peaceful quiet of his room. The silence rarely broken by the other vampires living at the warehouse. I was laying in Nate’s arms, his usual dazzling smile plastered on his face as he was stroking my hair.

“Why do you love French so much?” The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. “I mean, it’s a rather difficult language to learn.”

“I know, but it’s still a beautiful language. I could talk for hours about how harmonious French sounds, but I’ll spare you that discussion.” He rolled over a little to face me. “It’s one of the first languages I’ve learned, and ever since, it has always had that resonance in me that most languages don’t have. It may sound a little silly, but I feel like it carries way more feelings than any other language I speak, and I’m not gonna lie…” A smirk had replaced his warm smile. He leaned closer, his breath tingling on my neck, to eventually whisper: “French is sexy.”

I almost choked on hearing that, rolling on my back and faking a cough to hide my mortified expression, but judging by the grin that Nate was giving me, my reaction was far from unnoticed. I couldn’t have possibly decipher if he was serious or just teasing me.

To spare myself further embarrassment, I quickly changed the subject and Nate was nothing less than eager to comply. Looked like he decided to have mercy on my poor soul. We talked until a word couldn’t come out of my mouth due to my tiredness and I fell asleep to the rhythm of Nate’s beating heart.

___

Nate was on his knees, crying for help as a blurred figure struck another blow. He barely had strength to lift his arms to protect his face. The chill of the rain was burning my face and seeping through my clothes as I tried to run towards him, but my legs gave in and I fell on my knees.

“Please stop! Stop hurting him!” I tried to yell but only a deformed wail came out of mouth. It was as if I was trapped in my own body. Unable to move. Unable to save him. My throat clenched as I tried to suppress a sob, but that didn’t keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks.

Nate took another punch, but this one seemed to be the last his bloody figure could take and I watched helpless as he collapsed on the floor. The aggressor was on him before he could even try to get up.

Now that the other vampire had slowed down, I could distinguish his features a bit more and a shiver ran down my spine as I managed to recognize Murphy.

I tried to get to Nate once again as he took a syringe out of his coat.

“Leave him alone!” Although desperate the words managed to come out of my mouth properly this time, but it barely got me a glance from Murphy whose sole focus was on Nate.

“It’s me you want! Take me! I’ll do whatever you want!” I pleaded. “But let him go… You don’t need him!”

This time it seemed like I had managed to catch the vampire’s attention. “You’re right detective… I don’t need him.” He said as he plunged the needle in Nate’s neck.

___

“Agh!” I woke with a start and immediately rolled over to search for Nate, but I was only met with cold sheets on the other side of the bed.

Panic seizing me, I fought to get out of the tangled sheets. “Nate?” I called in a whisper, afraid something would come out of the dark to attack me. I flinched with a shriek as the plushed rabbit from the Carnival fell at my feet, a folded piece of paper next to it.

Crouching on my knees, I grabbed both of the items. Immediately calming down as I recognized Nate’s fancy handwriting spread on the paper. “Went on a mission, will be back soon”, I read out loud. Clutching the little rabbit in my arms, I was surprised to notice that it smelled like Nate and without noticing it, I held it a bit tighter against my chest. A smile grew on my face as I read what was written inside the note.

“Nineteen Eighty-Four, page 124”. The vampire had drawn a little heart next to that sentence and I knew the exact line he was referring to.    

“I love you too” I whispered. The plushed rabbit being the only witness of that sudden confession.

Our discussion from earlier this afternoon came back to my mind and the idea of confessing my love to him resurfaced.

I settled behind Nate’s mahogany desk, set the note and rabbit before me and grabbed some paper to finally put down in words how I felt towards the vampire.

___

After a couple of hours, the sun was slowly rising on the horizon, peaking weakly through the tree crown. I stretched as I contemplated my finished love declaration.

I folded the sheet of paper and slid it along with Nate’s note in the pocket of my coat. “Time to go back to sleep” I mumbled to myself as I grabbed the plushy.

___

It felt like a couple of minutes had passed when I was woken up again by my phone buzzing manically on the bedside table.

Thinking it was a phone call, I brought the phone to my ear, my eyes still half closed. “Hello?” The only answer I got was a buzz. Bringing the phone back in front of my face, blinking painfully at the bright light, I managed to decipher the last text Farah had sent me, lost in a sea of question marks and my name in caps.

“Didn’t you say you were French?”

“I am”

“Then why did Nate say he taught you French yesterday?”

Fear gripped me as I threw off the bed sheets and jolted up out of bed. Furiously typing, I ran out of the room, barely managing to stop myself from bumping into Adam.

“Detective? Is there something wrong?” He asked, actual worry in his voice.

“Not yet!” I answered already running away. Halfway through the corridor I came to a stop and turned around. Adam was still standing in front of Nate’s door, looking at me with a confused look on his face. “Adam?”

The leader slightly shook his head. “Yes?”

“Do you happen to know where Nate and Farah are?”

“The kitchen I think. Nate said he would cook breakfast for you, before you woke up.” He threw me a grin. “I guess his plan kind of failed.”

“Thanks Adam!” I answered, running off. I waved at him when I turned at the corner.

When I finally made it to the kitchen, I stopped before the door, taking a moment to catch my breath. I ran my hand over my hair and lifted my phone to check myself in the reflection on my screen. I plastered a calm smile of my face before pushing open the door to the kitchen.

Farah was sprawled over a chair, as was her habit, and Nate was cooking, his back turned to me. He hadn’t noticed my entrance yet. Glaring at Farah, I mouthed the words: “Did you tell him?” to which she answered with a shake of her head. I let out a sigh of relief and that’s when Nate turned around.

His smile immediately grew. I walked to him and casually grabbed a cup in the cupboard above his shoulder, reducing the space between us to almost nothing.

“Comment va l’homme le plus sexy du monde?” I asked, turning away to hide the grin on my face as he dropped the spoon he was holding. I didn’t give him time to reply and kissed his cheek.

[ How’s the sexiest man in the world doing? ]

Grabbing the kettle and pouring water in my cup as if nothing happened, I tried to remember what I had written down during the night. “Tu sais, il y a ce garçon, tu devrais le voir, il ressemble à un dieu Grec, qui a ce sourire magnifique et à qui je pense énormément ces derniers temps. D’ailleurs, ça fait plusieurs jours que j’essaie de trouver comment lui avouer ce que je ressens.”

[ You know, there is that guy, you should see him he looks like a Greek God, who has that dazzling smile and whom I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. As a matter of fact, I’ve been trying to find a way to tell him how I feel for a few days now. ]

I leaned against the counter now facing Farah. The young vampire was sitting on the edge of her seat, almost gripping the table so hard that I was afraid she might break it from excitement. She was staring at me with her mouth wide open. Morgan was also now sitting beside her, caring enough to have forgotten to lit up her cigarette and Adam was entering the room.

I returned my attention to Nate. “Et hier, comme par miracle, il m’annonce qu’il parle français. Alors depuis j’ai bien réfléchi à ce que je pourrais bien lui dire; j’y ai même passé toute la nuit. Maintenant, je pense avoir trouvé.”

[ And yesterday, miraculously, he announces that he speaks French. So, ever since, I’ve thought a lot about what I could possibly say to him; I’ve even thought about it all night. Now, I think I’ve finally found the answer. ]

I could hear Farah gasp and say something along the lines of “I love foreign movies, Morgan please grab the popcorn and Adam do the subtitles.” Glancing at them, I could see Adam rolling his eyes, but he still, reluctantly sat next to Farah, still trying to understand what was happening.

Nate was now a confused mess, his usual smile had been replaced by tomato red cheeks and the food in his pan was starting to burn. I turned off the gas and sat on the counter, pulling Nate in front of me to be face to face with him.

“Alors voilà, je pensais lui dire à quel point je le trouve mignon, et qu’à chaque fois qu’il sourit, mon coeur se met à battre la chamade; mais ça, je pense qu’il le sait déjà.” I smiled to the vampire.

[ So here goes, I was thinking of telling him how cute I think he is, and that every time he smiles, my heart starts to pound wildly; but I think he already knows that. ]

In the corner of my eye, I could see Adam, finally understanding what was happening, standing up and grabbing both Morgan and Farah by their collar and dragging them out of the kitchen. Adam had the biggest smile I’d ever seen him with plastered on his face as he closed the door.

I knew from the noise outside that the stern vampire was probably guarding the door as Farah was trying to listen through it.

Putting my hands on the waist of a still speechless Nate. I softened my voice, making my confession more intimate as the words flowed out of my mouth. “Je voulais aussi lui dire que depuis que j’étais enfant, j’avais toujours rêvé d’apprendre à danser la valse avec mon âme soeur et que s’il voulait bien, on pourrait peut-être apprendre à la danser tout les deux. Que j’aimerais beaucoup passer mes après-midi avec lui dans son endroit préféré, la bibliothèque à l’étage du dessous, et qu’on pourrait lire nos bouquins préférés ensemble.

[ I also wanted to tell him that ever since I was a kid, I had always dreamt of learning how to waltz with my soulmate and that if he was willing to, maybe we could learn how to waltz together. That I’d very much like to spend all my afternoons with him in his favorite place, the library downstairs, and that we could read our favorite books together. ]

My hand reached up to cup Nate’s cheek. Still a flustered mess, his confusion had gone away and a wide smile started to grow on his soft face. He leaned in the touch.

“Et je voulais aussi qu’il sache que s’il le fallait, pour gagner son coeur, je lui dédierai tous mes écrits. Que chacun des mots que j’écrirai, à partir d’aujourd’hui et jusqu’à la fin de ma vie, seraient pour lui, et lui seul. Maintenant, je sais très bien qu’il pourrait trouver mieux que moi, mais que s’il le voulait on pourrait se lancer. Parce que moi je pense que ça peut donner quelque chose de beau, parce qu’après tout…” I leaned closer, to whisper in his ear. “Je l’aime…” My voice trailed off as Nate’s hands to came to rest on my waist and that his head came to rest in the crook of my neck. I could feel his tears crashing on my skin.

[ And I also wanted him to know that if it was necessary, to win his heart, I’d dedicate all of my writings to him. That every single word I would write, from today until the day I die, would be dedicated to him, and him only. Now, I know fairly well that he could find someone better than me, but that if he was willing to we could try. Because I think it could end up being something beautiful, because after all… I love him. ]

“And what’s the name of this guy?” he eventually whispered.

“His name is Nathaniel Sewell, but he prefers Nate.”

After a few moments that actually felt like an eternity, Nate lifted me off the counter to pull me in a tight embrace, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. “Did you fake not knowing French?”

I nodded. “I’m French silly…”

“You are?!” He almost dropped me. “Sorry…” he said as he let me down on the counter again.

“I am. I was surprised to discover Farah hadn’t told you as soon as I told her to be honest.”

“Farah knew?”

“Yes, it came up when she visited me at the station last time. Sorry I didn’t tell you.” I gave him a sheepish smile “And I’m sorry I lied to you yesterday, but when I realized you had no idea, I thought it would perhaps be a good idea to confess like that…” I glance around the kitchen and let out a chuckle. “Well that’s not exactly how I had planned it, but I panicked when Farah texted me this morning, I was hoping it would be more romantic… Gosh I’m rambling…”

“I don’t mind…” he said as he leaned closer. Our lips were a couple centimeters apart, but he didn’t move closer, as if he was waiting for the permission to kiss me. I leaned forward and captured his lips and it seemed that right in this moment, time itself stopped. The kiss was everything I have hoped it would be. It set my whole being on fire, making my body tingle all over with happiness. His lips were the sweetest thing I had ever tasted in this world, making me addicted and never wanting to let go of him.

I pulled him closer by his belt loops, wanting, needing him to be closer. The kiss was so soft it made me feel like I was floating to the sky to gently lay on those fluffy clouds. It made me feel whole and happy. Nate made me happy.

And I hoped I made him happy too.

[quixotic-writer]

The Impractical Gattosby: Chapter 1

~Oh???? My god???? This was fucking INCREDIBLE!!!! Thank you for this spectacular submission! I’m truly blown away! Please please PLEASE post this on AO3 or Wattpad because I want you properly credited with this work and I want so many others to read this!

In Murr’s younger and more vulnerable years his father gave him some advice that he’s been turning over in his mind ever since.

“James, whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told him, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

He didn’t say any more but they’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and he understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence he is inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to Murr and also made him the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that at college, Murr was unjustly accused of being a ferret, because he was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently he has feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when Murr realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. He is still a little afraid of missing something if he forgot that, as his father snobbishly suggested, and Murr would snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of his tolerance, Murr came to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point he didn’t care what it’s founded on. When he came back from Staten Island last autumn he felt that he wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; he wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gattosby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from Murr’s reaction—Joe Gattosby who represented everything for which Murr has an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “comedic genius"—it was an extraordinary gift for confidence, a type of shamelessness such as Murr has never found in any other person and which it is not likely he should ever find again. No—Gattosby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gattosby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out his interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

Murr’s family were prominent, well-to-do people in the northeast for three generations. The Murrays are something of a clan and they have a tradition that they’ve descended from Italian and Irish nobility, but the actual founder of his line was his grandfather’s brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale business that Murr’s father carries on today.

He never saw this great-uncle but he’s supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father’s office, sporting a shiny bald head. Murr graduated from Georgetown University in 1915, and after he decided to go to New York and learn the motion picture industry. Everybody he knew was in the motion picture industry so he supposed it could support one more single man. All his aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for him and finally said, “Why—ye-es” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance him for a year, using the funds that would have otherwise gone towards purchasing for him an automobile, and after various delays he went to New York, permanently, he thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and he had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that they take an apartment together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the place, a weather beaten cardboard apartment at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Los Angeles and he went out to the country alone. Murr had a dog, Penny, at least he had her for a few days until she ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made his bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than Murr, stopped him on the road.

“How do you get to Staten Island?” he asked helplessly.

Murr told him. And as he walked on he was lonely no longer. Murr was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on him the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—he had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. Murr bought a dozen volumes on motion pictures and cameras and they stood on his shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton and Rudolph Valentino knew. And he had the high intention of reading many other books besides. He was rather literary in college—not only was he an English major, but one year Murr wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Georgetown News"—and now he was going to bring back all such things into his life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that he rented an apartment in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous boroughs, identical in contour and separated only by water, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Upper New York Bay.

Murr lived at Staten Island, the—well, the less fashionable of the two boroughs, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. His apartment was at the very tip of the island, only fifty yards from the Bay, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on his right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gattosby’s mansion. Or rather, as he didn’t know Mr. Joe Gattosby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. His own apartment was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so he had a view of the water, a partial view of his neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable Brooklyn glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening he took the Staten Island Ferry there to have dinner with the  Vulcano-Quinns. Sal Vulcano was his former brother-in-law from when Murr had married Sal’s sister for three days, and he’d known Brian “Q” Quinn in his Monsignor Farrell High School days.

Sal’s husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever worked for the Fire Department of New York—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family was enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d come to Brooklyn in a fashion that rather took one’s breath away: for instance he’d bought three cats named Benjamin, Brooklyn, and Chessie. It was hard to realize that a man in Murr’s own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came to New York, Murr doesn’t know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Sal over the telephone, but Murr didn’t believe it—he had no sight into Sal’s heart but he felt that Q would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable fire to fight.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening he rode the Staten Island Ferry over to Brooklyn to see two old friends whom he scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than Murr had expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Brian Quinn was at the front porch.

He had changed since his Monsignor Farrell High years. Now he was a sturdy, dark-haired man of thirty with a rather magnificent beard and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant hazel eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his newsboy cap and silk American-flag print scarf could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were guys at high school who had hated his guts.

“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” They were in the same Improv Club, and while they were never intimate Murr always had the impression that Q approved of him and wanted him to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

They talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

“It belonged to Mrs. Calabash, my neighbor.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”

They walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two men were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their clothes were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. Murr must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Q shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two men ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. He was extended full length at his end of the divan, completely motionless and with his chin raised a little as if he were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If he saw me out of the corner of his eyes he gave no hint of it—indeed, Murr was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed him by coming in.

The other man, Sal, made an attempt to rise—he leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then he laughed, a loud boisterous laugh that soon had him falling to the floor, and he laughed too and came forward into the room.

“Oh my gawd, I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.”

He got up to  only laugh and almost fell to the floor once again, as if he said something very witty, and held his hand for a moment, looking up into Murr’s face, promising that there was no one in the world he so much wanted to see. That was a way he had. Sal hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing man was Jost. (Murr has heard it said that Sal’s murmur was only to make people lean toward him; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate Casey Jost’s lips fluttered, he nodded at Murr almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped his head back again—the object he was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given him something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to Murr’s lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from him.

Murr looked back at his former brother-in-law who began to ask him questions in his low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. His face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright green eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in his voice that men who had cared for him found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that he had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

[inawickedlittletown]

I’m With You (19/22)

Summary:

Having a crush was nothing to be ashamed of…lying to the family and friends of said crush about being the guy’s boyfriend, that was a whole other problem. When Buck saves the life of Andrew Diaz and accidentally makes a nurse think that he’s Andrew’s boyfriend, Buck soon finds himself lying to Andrew’s firefighter friends/coworkers as well as Andrew’s family including Andrew’s very suspicious and attractive brother, Eddie.

Based on the 1995 movie While You Were Sleeping.

Words: 3,568

Read on Ao3

Masterpost

Previous Chapter

–

The moment that Maddie accused him and Buck of sleeping with each other, Eddie had been filled with a cold dread. The plate he was holding in his hand had fallen and he hadn’t know how to form words, especially since he was sure that everyone had heard Maddie. She was wrong, too, of course. He and Buck had shared a kiss and nothing more, but even that was a breach of trust...and it would hurt Andrew but a kiss felt like a lesser betrayal. 

Everything that happened after that, Eddie hadn’t expected it and maybe that’s why his entire reaction had been to be frozen on the spot, seething, but without managing to express any of his feelings. 

Pepa had been so angry and Eddie had felt when it was directed at him. Pepa was scary. Then Buck had been there apologizing but not because he had cheated on Andrew — even if it wasn’t what Maddie said — but because everything had been a lie. And Eddie’s whole world had fallen apart and even while the anger wanted to burst out of him, Eddie hadn’t had the energy to let it. 

Afterwards, when Buck left the kitchen, Eddie had felt like all the air had been taken from his lungs...like Buck had taken it with him. Buck had lied to all of them. He’d lied about who he was and kept the whole thing going for weeks and weeks. Eddie had known. He’d been right all along to suspect that something was going on. Being right shouldn’t have made him feel the way he did. Suckerpunched and defeated. 

Legolas barked and suddenly, he could move. Andrew, he realized, had gone after Buck. Everyone else had either gone back outside or they were talking amongst themselves but they were at least distracted from looking at Eddie until Andrew was back and suddenly in front of him. He could tell that some of the others were trying to figure out if they should approach Andrew or not. Weirdly, he didn’t want to be right...not like he had back at the beginning. He didn’t want to be right, he wanted Buck to still be there even as Andrew’s boyfriend because at least that would mean that Eddie got to keep him in his life. 

Andrew looked like none of it had affected him but before he could say anything to Eddie, he was tugged away by Pepa and Eddie could only watch as she spoke to him and then motioned at abuela. 

“It’s such a shame that happened,” Pepa said. “Estas bien, Andrew?” 

[...“Are you okay, Andrew?”]

“I’m fine, Pepa. Really, I am. Is abuela okay?”

“Yes. I’ll take her home now so she can get some rest. I’m sorry we let this happen, we should have asked more questions or looked into him a bit more. I’m just so sorry.”

“No es tu culpa, Pepa,” Andrew said and he hugged her. 

[“It’s not your fault, Pepa”]

Pepa turned to Eddie, then, and she looked reasonably contrite but she didn’t say anything. Instead she pulled him into a hug and Eddie was surprised by how much he needed it. 

“I’ll see you both soon,” Pepa said. 

No one was bothered with the food anymore, Eddie noticed. Instead, they were all — other than the kids — outside and probably discussing the whole thing like the big gossips that they all were. 

Eddie couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the last fifteen minutes, still. It wasn’t just the whole lie thing but also that there was no knowing if Buck would have kept the thing going or if he’d been planning on telling them. Buck was a guy that he had trusted with his son and that Eddie had...he kissed him. It felt far away, like it hadn’t happened just a few hours earlier and yet it was hard to forget how much Eddie felt for Buck. 

“Somehow, I didn’t think you’d take it this bad.” 

Eddie was startled out of his thoughts. Andrew was looking at him, frown in place and his arms folded and Eddie knew he was right. It should have been Andrew who was upset. Andrew who had believed that Buck was his boyfriend and whose house a complete stranger had been hanging out in while he was in a coma. 

“He lied to us,” Eddie said and it stung to say it, to think back to all those times that he’d spent with Buck. 

“He was lonely.” It wasn’t Andrew that spoke but Josh. 

Eddie looked at Josh and his surprise must have shown on his face. Josh shrugged at Eddie and Eddie was suddenly reminded of how he’d accused Buck of cheating on Andrew with Josh. He’d been so jealous. 

“Yeah, I knew,” Josh said. “And I also know it was eating him up inside to keep lying. He’s wanted to come clean for a while.” 

“None of that makes it okay,” Eddie said and he hated that he was the one saying that. It was just that he felt like he’d been taken in. 

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t change that he’s a good guy who never meant to hurt anyone,” Josh said. 

“But he did,” Eddie said. 

“Andrew looks like he’s okay,” Josh said complete with a shrug. 

Buck had shoved into their lives and he’d made all of them like him and Eddie had been suspicious from the start but it had been only too easy to like Buck and to include him and want him around and in Eddie’s case...he’d been attracted to him — was still attracted to him. He’d been torturing himself with the guilt of falling for a guy that was supposed to be with his brother and Buck must have known — he certainly did after that kiss. Maybe Andrew was unscathed from it all, but Eddie wasn’t. Worse, if Buck could do that to him and know how Eddie felt and not say anything then...then didn’t that mean that Buck felt nothing for Eddie? Somehow, that was worse. 

“Anyway,” Eddie said. “He’s gone. Probably for the best.” 

Saying it made him feel cold. It wasn’t for the best. It wasn’t...not when Buck had brought this warmth to everything. But he’d taken it with him, Eddie realized. 

“Eddie—” Andrew began. 

Eddie shook his head. 

They were interrupted by Karen and Hen. Both of them hugged Andrew, coming up on either side of him. 

“Never meant for your party to be so dramatic,” Hen said. 

“It’s okay,” Andrew said. 

“We’re taking off. But we’re so glad you’re out of the hospital and back on your feet.” 

Andrew smiled. “Thanks.”

“Get back to work quick, won’t you?” 

“I’ll try,” Andrew said with a laugh. 

“Bye, Eddie,” Hen said and touched his elbow. Karen hugged him and then they were gone. Eddie noted how neither of them mentioned Buck directly, like it had been a choice they made to not bring him up. 

“I think I’m gonna go too,” Eddie said. He needed to. He didn’t know if he could hang around Andrew’s house where so many of his memories with Buck lived. 

“Eddie, don’t,” Andrew said. “Stay. We should...we should talk about it. About Buck.” 

Eddie shook his head at once. “I don’t think there is anything else to say about him. We barely knew him and he was a liar. So that’s that.” 

“That’s what you do, isn’t it? You just pack all of your feelings in a tight little ball and hide it away somewhere instead of dealing with them. Come on, Eddie, this isn’t that simple.” 

The last thing that Eddie needed was his brother talking to him about Buck. Andrew didn’t know him and he certainly didn’t know how Eddie felt or how Buck had let him feel guilty when Eddie had gone and kissed him. There was nothing more left for him to do than move on. 

“I gotta go,” Eddie said and stepped around Andrew. 

Out in the living room Christopher was sitting with Denny and had at least managed to get through most of his food. Legolas was sitting on the couch by the window that looked out to the front of the house and Eddie didn’t think he was imagining that Legolas was missing Buck. 

“Hey, kid. We’re gonna go.” 

Denny was also getting his stuff together to leave, he realized. Christopher didn’t make a fuss and it didn’t take him long to be ready to go. 

“Crazy stuff tonight,” Hen said. 

“I hope he’s okay,” Karen said. 

“Who? Andrew?” Eddie asked. 

Karen shook her head. “Buck. At least he has his sister. That must have been tough on him, though.” 

Eddie decided not to respond. When they got outside he busied himself with Christopher and then waved at them before he helped Christopher get in the car and got in himself. The emptiness didn’t want to go away...but the anger remained too.

—

After everyone left, and it was just him and the dog, Andrew finally had a moment to take in his place. It was a little messy and there was going to be food in his fridge for days, but none of that took away from the fact that he actually knew his house. He knew where all his things were and what his things were too. It was nice to have all the blanks filled in and all he’d needed was to go home. 

Andrew didn’t care to clean up the mess his friends had left, so he locked up and headed upstairs. He hadn’t been up there once since getting back yet and he wasn’t surprised that it looked like nothing had been touched. Other than...it was possible that the dog had been sleeping on his bed. There was also a good layer of dust on most of his things including the clothes he’d left lying on the floor. 

“So, I guess we’re doing laundry, dog,” Andrew said. 

Legolas glanced at him and then walked away and Andrew couldn’t help but chuckle. He heard the dog go down the stairs. 

Andrew spent a half hour getting everything down into the washing machine before sitting down in his living room and turning on the tv. Legolas sat by the window, looking out as if he expected to see someone that wasn’t coming. Andrew already knew it was Buck. 

“You got attached to him, huh, boy?” Andrew asked. 

Dogs really were not Andrew’s thing. Animals in general were a bit difficult for Andrew because of all the work that went into caring for them. Dogs were especially difficult with all of the things they needed. With everything that had happened to him, though, things hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Andrew knew he was going to be spending some time in the morning making a few calls. The most important being finding out where his car was. 

The one number that Andrew wished he had was Buck’s so he could call him and explain his side of things. Buck hadn’t looked good when he left. Eddie had maybe looked even worse, though and Eddie would probably be harder to deal with because Andrew wasn’t stupid and even though he was sure that Buck and Eddie hadn’t slept together, something had happened. It must have for Eddie to be so angry. All that anger could not have been for his benefit, that was for sure. 

Legolas didn’t even follow him up to his bedroom when Andrew finally had clean sheets and duvet. He had made his bed back up when his phone rang and he wasn’t surprised when it was his mom. 

“Hi, mom,” he said and wondered if she knew about Buck already. 

“Hi, Honey. How are you? Back home, right?” 

“Yes,” Andrew said. “I’m home.” 

Andrew listened to her as she talked about how she’d wanted to be there when he left the hospital and wondered if maybe he should mention everything to do with Buck or let her find out from someone else. There was no telling how his mom would react to that. She gave him the answer herself a few minutes later. 

“And I do hope Buck stayed with you because I hate the idea of you alone in that house.” 

“I have Legolas,” Andrew said even though the dog wasn’t anywhere near him. “And, um...well, Buck wasn’t really my boyfriend, mom. I’m not...I’m not gay or bisexual.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Andrew took a breath. “Mom, Buck and I were never together. It was a misunderstanding and he didn’t know how to tell everyone the truth.” 

“But we...we let him. Andrew, he was a complete stranger? That’s...that’s not—”

“He’s good guy, mom. None of that changes. I knew pretty quickly after I woke up and things kind of blew up here so I don’t know if any of us will even see him again.” 

“Good. He lied to everyone, Andrew.” 

Andrew sighed. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Can’t blame him for it, though. You guys were all so welcoming to him, of course he wanted to stick around. Anyway, I’m gonna go to bed. Talk to you soon, mom.” 

“Love you,” his mom said before he hung up. 

—

“Explain it to me. All of it,” Maddie said. 

Buck didn’t know if he even wanted to. He was still mad at her...well, mad that she had forced his hand because Buck had wanted to do it less like ripping a band-aid off and more like taking baby steps. The hard part was not knowing if his way would have left him feeling so lost again. At least he had Maddie. 

She’d gone through the trouble of making him breakfast as some kind of apology, but nothing had any taste to it. 

“I already told you,” Buck said. “The misunderstanding at the hospital and I kept the whole thing going.” 

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me about Eddie,” Maddie said. 

Eddie. Buck had expected him to yell and rage and get angry but instead he’d been oddly silent but when Buck did look at him, he’d seen that he wasn’t taking it as well as Andrew had. Buck couldn’t help but wonder about what might have happened after he and Maddie left. 

“Andrew’s brother,” Buck said. “We got to be really good friends while Andrew was in the coma.”

“And more,” Maddie said. “So, I was right? You are—”

“No,” Buck said, cutting her off. “No. That never...I liked him. Probably more than I realized I did but with Andrew and with everything else, I couldn’t exactly tell him. Not without telling the truth.” 

“Which of course, you couldn’t do,” Maddie said pointedly. 

Buck didn’t look at her. Instead he looked at his eggs and he poked them with his fork. He wanted to keep the kiss to himself, to hold on to it and cherish it because Eddie had felt the same way even if maybe everything else that happened had soured that entirely. 

Buck stood up and he left Maddie behind in the kitchen, not sure that he could sit there with her any longer. He missed them all, but none more so than Eddie. He missed their friendship and the place where they had gotten to after Eddie stopped being rightly suspicious. There was Hen too and the easy way that she’d befriended him. Bobby and Athena had welcomed him in with no question and although Buck hadn’t seen them as much as he did the others, they were still decent people. Then there was Pepa and Isabel...they had felt like family. Like family that he hadn’t had for a long time. 

“I’m sorry, Buck. I really am,” Maddie said, touching his shoulder. “I just...I saw the way you looked at Eddie and I just...I jumped to conclusions when I shouldn’t have and after all the lying I knew you were already doing, I—”

Buck waved her off. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

Buck had gotten a text from Chim early that morning, followed by a few from Josh but he hadn’t felt up to talking to either of them even if they could tell him how everyone was doing now that they knew everything. 

—

Eddie was glad that he didn’t have to go into work the day after the party at Andrew’s house. He took Christopher to school and knew after he got back that if he didn’t have Christopher, he likely would not have left his bedroom at all. 

He was still angry at Buck. Everytime he thought about him the anger came back. Worse of all, all he wanted to do was go and see Buck although he wasn’t sure exactly what the purpose of seeing Buck would be because as much as Eddie wanted to go over and yell at him, there was another part of Eddie that was also well aware that the obstacle of Buck being with his brother was gone. Buck was free. Eddie just didn’t know if that was enough. 

At one point, Eddie remembered not answering a call from his mom. He figured she probably knew about Buck and she was the last person that he wanted to talk to because he knew she would blame him for not figuring Buck out. That was just what his mom did. 

Instead, Eddie caught up on his and Christopher’s laundry. There wasn’t much cleaning for him to do since his mom had done such a thorough job when she was around that nothing had gotten messy enough yet to require attention. Eddie spent some time paying his bills and making sure that he wasn’t forgetting anything else, and then he sat down in his room and he let his mind go back to the day before. 

Buck’s sister had accused him and Buck of sleeping with each other and Eddie did have to wonder about why she’d drawn that conclusion especially after how she mistook Eddie for Andrew at first as well. Eddie hadn’t been able to tell what Maddie knew. He was also very curious about her being back especially after everything Buck had ever told him about her. It worried him a little even though it wasn’t his place to worry about Buck. It was just that Buck had been hurt by her deeply and now she was back and she’d also been the catalyst to end the lie Buck had kept going. 

Eddie must have been lost in thought, because he didn’t hear anyone knocking on his door or even someone opening the door until Andrew was standing in the doorway to his bedroom. 

“So, you’re not answering calls?” Andrew asked. “I wanted to let you know my car is just fine. Could have used a ride to go and pick it up, but I can see you’re being angsty today.” 

“Angsty,” Eddie repeated.

“Wallowing. Like that better?” 

“Go away, Andrew,” Eddie said. “What are you even doing here?” 

Andrew crossed his arms across his chest and leaned into the doorway. “I came to check on you and to have that talk we didn’t get to have yesterday. Really, I’ve been everywhere today and this is my last stop.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy?” 

Andrew rolled his eyes. “I’m fine. But I still have a few questions. Mostly to do with Buck.” 

“With Buck,” Eddie repeated and he hated the way that Buck’s name sounded on his lips. 

“Well, more to do with you and Buck. Because see, I figured I’d give you the night to sulk but we still have to talk about this and whatever happened. Because something did.”

“Yeah, some random person decided to pretend to be your boyfriend and we all let him. I let him watch my kid. I was right to not trust him but since everyone else liked him—”

“Eddie,” Andrew said. “Come on. It’s more than that.”

Eddie knew it was more. He also knew that it would be easier to just forget it all and to move on and not think about Buck at all. It was all over and looking at Andrew and the calm way that his brother was taking it all, it made it easier to decide on that. Wouldn’t it be better for all of them if Buck just wasn’t a part of their lives. He wasn’t the guy that Eddie had thought he was because that guy wouldn’t have lied or kept something like this going for so long. He wouldn’t have let Eddie kiss him…

“Eddie, he’s a good guy. And I know you care about him.” 

“How would you know? You were in a coma, Andrew,” Eddie said a bit harder than he’d intended. None of this was Andrew’s fault. 

“I have eyes,” Andrew snapped back. 

“And no memory,” Eddie muttered. “You don’t even remember your freaking dog.” 

“I remember everything,” Andrew said and anything that Eddie might have wanted to say faded away. “I remember everything including that dog. Legolas. Which...I gave him that name as a joke. I had him for a day before the accident and I didn’t get him for me. You forget how well you know me. I don’t like dogs, Eddie! I also have never been interested in dick! But you...you like both.” 

–

Next Chapter

Notes: The last line in this chapter might very well be my favorite line in this entire fic, quickly followed by the last line of ch. 17. 

I actually had a hard time writing this chapter and I still am not entirely happy with it but could never pinpoint the exact reason why but I hope all you enjoyed it.

 And just three more chapters left. Eeek. 

Thanks to everyone reading and let me know what you all thought. :)

Tagging: @tranquility-or-chaos @diazbuckleysworld @stilesgivesmefeels

[galaxierowls]

The Great Gatsby

by

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;

If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,

Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,

I must have you!"

—THOMAS PARKE D'INVILLIERS

Chapter 1

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing any one," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

"How do you get to West Egg village?" he asked helplessly.

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.

"Now, don't think my opinion on these matters is final," he seemed to say, "just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are." We were in the same Senior Society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.

"I've got a nice place here," he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.

Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

"It belonged to Demaine the oil man." He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. "We'll go inside."

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.

The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

"I'm p-paralyzed with happiness."

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)

At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.

I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

"Do they miss me?" she cried ecstatically.

"The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore."

"How gorgeous! Let's go back, Tom. Tomorrow!" Then she added irrelevantly, "You ought to see the baby."

"I'd like to."

"She's asleep. She's two years old. Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never."

"Well, you ought to see her. She's—"

Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

"What you doing, Nick?"

"I'm a bond man."

"Who with?"

I told him.

"Never heard of them," he remarked decisively.

This annoyed me.

"You will," I answered shortly. "You will if you stay in the East."

"Oh, I'll stay in the East, don't you worry," he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. "I'd be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else."

At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely!" with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.

"I'm stiff," she complained, "I've been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember."

"Don't look at me," Daisy retorted. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."

"No, thanks," said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry, "I'm absolutely in training."

Her host looked at her incredulously.

"You are!" He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. "How you ever get anything done is beyond me."

I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done." I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

"You live in West Egg," she remarked contemptuously. "I know somebody there."

"I don't know a single—"

"You must know Gatsby."

"Gatsby?" demanded Daisy. "What Gatsby?"

Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch open toward the sunset where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.

"Why candles?" objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year." She looked at us all radiantly. "Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"We ought to plan something," yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

"All right," said Daisy. "What'll we plan?" She turned to me helplessly. "What do people plan?"

Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.

"Look!" she complained. "I hurt it."

We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.

"You did it, Tom," she said accusingly. "I know you didn't mean to but you did do it. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great big hulking physical specimen of a—"

"I hate that word hulking," objected Tom crossly, "even in kidding."

"Hulking," insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here—and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.

"You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. "Can't you talk about crops or something?"

I meant nothing in particular by this remark but it was taken up in an unexpected way.

"Civilization's going to pieces," broke out Tom violently. "I've gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read 'The Rise of the Coloured Empires' by this man Goddard?"

"Why, no," I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

"Well, it's a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don't look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It's all scientific stuff; it's been proved."

"Tom's getting very profound," said Daisy with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. "He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—"

"Well, these books are all scientific," insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. "This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It's up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things."

"We've got to beat them down," whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.

"You ought to live in California—" began Miss Baker but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.

"This idea is that we're Nordics. I am, and you are and you are and—" After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again. "—and we've produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?"

There was something pathetic in his concentration as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

"I'll tell you a family secret," she whispered enthusiastically. "It's about the butler's nose. Do you want to hear about the butler's nose?"

"That's why I came over tonight."

"Well, he wasn't always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose—"

"Things went from bad to worse," suggested Miss Baker.

"Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position."

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom's ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.

"I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn't he?" She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation. "An absolute rose?"

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said "Sh!" in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.

"This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor—" I said.

"Don't talk. I want to hear what happens."

"Is something happening?" I inquired innocently.

"You mean to say you don't know?" said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. "I thought everybody knew."

"I don't."

"Why—" she said hesitantly, "Tom's got some woman in New York."

"Got some woman?" I repeated blankly.

Miss Baker nodded.

"She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner-time. Don't you think?"

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

"It couldn't be helped!" cried Daisy with tense gayety.

She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me and continued: "I looked outdoors for a minute and it's very romantic outdoors. There's a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He's singing away—" her voice sang "—It's romantic, isn't it, Tom?"

"Very romantic," he said, and then miserably to me: "If it's light enough after dinner I want to take you down to the stables."

The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn't guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking but I doubt if even Miss Baker who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy skepticism was able utterly to put this fifth guest's shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.

"We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we are cousins. You didn't come to my wedding."

"I wasn't back from the war."

"That's true." She hesitated. "Well, I've had a very bad time, Nick, and I'm pretty cynical about everything."

Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.

"I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything."

"Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?"

"Very much."

Thank you.

[sommniac]

breaking down "life sucks” by ha:tfelt

Life Sucks by Ha:tfelt (real name: Park Yeeun, nickname: Yenny) is an underrated masterpiece. I loved Pluhmm but this song is the one that really drew me in. One thing that I adore is how the music video pairs with the song to create a vivid image of Yenny’s mindset during this period of suffering.

To kick everything off, I need to explain what the general song is about. Life Sucks is Yenny speaking out about her father who abandoned her family when she was a child and wormed his way back into her life for money once she got famous. She cut him off repeatedly, but felt guilty because he was still her family so she would always let him back in. Then he was caught soliciting fake donations from the church he was the pastor of and using her name and fame to gain his victims’ trust. He claimed she was an accomplice in all of this, even though she was entirely innocent. Although her public comments were minimal, she was emotionally distraught and later admitted to being depressed and suicidal during this period and its aftermath. Luckily, she found the strength to pull herself out of the darkness and released this song dedicated to the pain she’d undergone at her father’s hands.

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Note: All of the analysis below is my own interpretation and should not necessarily be regarded as fact.

Trigger Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, self hatred, and homicidal thoughts

Yenny begins the music video on the floor, in a room covered in plastic, cloth draping, and newspaper articles. Curled into an almost fetal position, she rocks back and forth with blood dripping from her hands and dress, pooling beneath her. At her feet are a broken mirror displaying the fragments of a warped reflection and a knife, close enough to grab. Scattered through the room are red shoes, matching the blood splattered against the walls.

The room itself likely represents her own head, covered in reminders of her father and herself and everything the media has collected about their (alleged) wrongdoings. Everything is sterile and white except for the darkness of her blood and hair which pierce through the cleanliness of it all. The color and size of the chamber and somewhat reminiscent of a padded cell, implying that she is trapped in her own mind where no one can ever hear or see her suffering in silence. She slowly lifts her head up to directly face the camera, blood smeared across her face in an acknowledgement of the eyes on her.

For the first time in my 29 years Daddy sent me a letter Never knew how wack his handwriting was I guess I should've known better

This part is depicting Yenny reconnecting with her father for the first time since her parents’ divorce. Although its meaning seems relatively simple on a surface level, there’s an interesting note about how she didn’t know “how wack his handwriting was,” implying that in her whole 29 years of living, she had never once seen his handwriting. It really goes to show how estranged they were from one another.

In the music video, her back is to the articles, all talking about what’ll happen to her and her eyes are blindfolded, insinuating she was naive and blind to what was going to happen in the near future.

That's why mine is so ugly too That's why mine is so ugly too For the first time in my 29 years Daddy wrote me a letter

These lines are far more tragic. As you’ll come to see, a recurring theme throughout the song will be Yenny noting her similarities to her father in a defeated sort of way and that is visible here as well where she repeats “that’s why mine [handwriting] is so ugly too.” She’s acknowledging that he and her are closer than she would like and this little mention here devolves into deeper, more scathing self hatred later on. 

How's your mom? How's your sis? I really miss ya But you better not come here I'm sorry, but don't you worry 'Cause I'm prayin' for your health and future

Like the snake he is, Yenny’s father returns to her life in a trojan horse constructed of pleasantries and false pretenses. He pretends he just wants to reconnect with his daughter, claiming that he “really miss”es her and is “sorry” but, as we see in the next verse, he only wants something from her, namely money. He doesn’t actually care about her as he claims to.

In the video, Yenny sits on a bed, dragging the knife from the first scene across the mattress before lifting it up to survey. Perhaps too obviously, it appears she’s looking at the knife that will metaphorically stab her in the back, examining his claims with hindsight she couldn’t access before.

Oh dear, sweetheart Things have gone a little south My girl, need your help Could you bail me out

This is where we see his true intentions. The attempts at rebuilding the father-daughter relationship that he so selfishly destroyed were, all along, just efforts to coerce her into giving him her hard won money. The word choice of “bail me out” is especially apt considering what he needed that money for.

The video depicts her singing from behind a piece of plastic that’s obscuring her face for the first line of the verse, representing how her vision still was not clear. It is only when he begged her to bail him out that she stepped out from behind the distortion and finally understood his true intentions.

Life sucks for everybody (No need to cry, no no no) Life sucks for everybody (Act like no child, no no no) I'm just survivin' everyday Right at the edge of losing my mind Life sucks for everybody Just let me find peace of mind

The lyrics for the chorus are pretty plain in their meaning. It’s an explicit expression of vitriol toward the world and her father. At first, Yenny’s words seem almost comforting, telling the listener that life sucks and they don’t need to cry because she understands them. But then she sings “act like no child” and it becomes clear she’s speaking to herself with a sort of spite, ordering herself not to cry. And it’s really really sad to hear. It’s voices in her head whispering to her to not cry like a child. That’s why she’s “right at the edge of losing [her] mind” and why she’s begging the voices to “just let [her] find peace of mind.”

The newspaper articles around her are the physical manifestations of these voices, surrounding her and caging her in accusations and hatred. There are flashes of her with the knife and the blindfold before entering into the chorus and each of them mean different things. The first shot is a look to the future where Yenny is more closely scrutinizing the knife now that she knows what it’ll do to her. The second shot is set in the past, where she is boxed in by the fabric and plastic on either side of her and her blindfold is still on, blinding her to the lie her father has trapped her in. The rest of the chorus is dedicated to shots of her singing in the room, nothing extraordinary to point out.

If only I could go back and tell myself "Don't you trust him, he already hurt you" When you cried on your knees Showing some regrets Wish I could've known better

People don't change so easily, nah People can't change that easily If only you meant all you told me that night But, guess I'd better blame myself

Here, she’s speaking from the future, cursing her naive past self for being so foolish as to believe her father, considering their history. She wishes she hadn’t been so eager to assume that he’d changed from the man he was when he left her family.

The video shows her shining a flashlight around the walls, looking for something beyond the articles that surround her.

Even though she clearly wasn’t at fault for having hope that her father wasn’t as awful as he really was, she unfairly blames herself for everything for being oblivious to the future. This furthers the themes of self hatred first introduced during the verse about how her father’s handwriting was as ugly as hers. Especially self hatred regarding her relationship with her father, blood or otherwise.

This part of the video is, perhaps, my favorite. She rips away newspaper articles talking about her present connection with her father to open a window into the past. A crayon drawing, clearly done by a child, appears beneath the controversy to expose a house beside the image of a bloody, hanged man that, supposedly, represents her father. The cadaver is separate from the house, implying her father and the concept of home are two different, individual ideas. Depicted visually in a single shot is Yenny’s current and past relationships with her father, both equally twisted and tragic.

How's your night? How's your sleep? Have you ever woken up by your conscience? Well I'm sorry, I've got no worries All I have are wrath and disgust

Here, Yenny is speaking directly to her father, asking him all the questions she never got to after he betrayed her. She’s sarcastically asking him how he’s been, wondering how he can sleep at night despite being such an awful person. She assures him that she isn’t worried about him, she’s just wrathful and disgusted. Her hatred toward her father is overwhelmingly clear here. She really does despise him for all he is.

To be honest, I don’t know what this scene of the music video means. She’s sitting on the bed, ripping apart red high heel shoes which would insinuate the red shoes have some meaning but I don’t have any definite ideas, just some theories. The first is the red shoes represent home like in the Wizard of Oz and she’s ripping them apart because home doesn’t exist anymore since he destroyed it. Another theory I have is the red shoes represent danger as the color red is often associated with that. It implies she’s ripping the danger out of her life. However, I’m not so sure how much of a stretch these ideas are and so I’ll refrain from saying anything conclusively.

One time, you said "Must obey or be cursed" You were right, I am cursed Running your blood in my vein

Yenny repeats a phrase her father employed to scare her when she was younger: “must obey or be cursed.” And she affirms that she was cursed, but not for disobedience. It was from her biological relation to him. The very blood running through her veins taints her existence. Her hatred of her father and her self hatred connect spectacularly here as she once again proves that a large reason she despises herself lies with her father and the DNA and features and blood they share. She loathes him to the point she also abhors anything related to him, including herself.

In the video, she speaks the first couple of lines facing away from the camera, talking to someone unseen, imitating her father. She then slowly turns to stare directly into the camera, singing straight to him to tell him that he’s wrong, yet right at the same time. During the last line, her hand creeps up her neck, strangling herself in a physical representation of how the idea of her father’s blood running through her veins makes her feel.

Life sucks for everybody (No need to cry, no no no) Life sucks for everybody (Act like no child, no no no) I'm just survivin' everyday Right at the edge of losing my mind Life sucks for everybody Just let me find peace of mind

The lyrics and meaning have not changed from the last chorus so I’ll jump right into the video because there is a significant difference in how this part is visualized in comparison to the rest of the song. Yenny has managed to be composed up to this point, looking at everything almost apathetically, stood up straight, not betraying any emotions. This is the point where that careful facade absolutely shatters. She collapses to the floor, the camera shaky and blurry as she claws at the floor and her head. By the end of the chorus, she’s back to her carefully constructed self but the time where she completely shattered is not forgotten. It’s a quick glimpse behind the mask of the perfect Kpop star into the head of a broken girl who is perpetually “right at the edge of losing [her] mind,” on the precipice of deciding that maybe the effort it takes to continue “survivin’ everyday” and soldiering through the pain just isn’t worth it.

I might pull the trigger, you know I might do it for good, you know I might pull the trigger, for both of us I might do it for all, you'll see

I might pull the trigger I might do it for good, you know Pull the trigger Do it for all

The lyrics here are chilling, especially in their repetition. She’s talking like a martyr, claiming that “pull[ing] the trigger” would be good “for all.” The “all” in question isn’t specified. Is it just for the “both of [them]”? Is it for the victims? Is it for humanity in general? She isn’t clear but perhaps that was the point. Yenny sings about how she wants to kill herself and her father with a certain oxymoronic apathetic vigor. She just sounds so confident in her words, that she’ll do it and everything will be better afterwards.

At this point, the music video reconnects with the beginning. As Yenny sings to the camera, blood flows from the ceiling, covering her face and dress and hair in red. She tries wipe it from her face but only succeeds in smearing it. Her expression is wholly apathetic, matching the nonchalance with which she speaks the lyrics. The state she is in at this point is the exact same as the one from the beginning of the video, creating a sort of loop. This likely represents how she was stuck in an endless cycle in her head, a time loop of guilt and loathing and death. For years, her mind was a broken record of her father’s crimes and her relation to him.

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Life Sucks is a painfully sad song of self-condemnation and mental suffering. For listeners, solace can only be found in the knowledge all of this happened in the past. For the most part. This is the type of event someone can never truly recover from and, as much as I would like to believe the contrary, I doubt Yenny is the exception. She’s a bright soul who deserves infinitely more than the life she’s endured and I’m glad she’s found the strength to move on that many others can’t. For now, we can only support her and her music. Her latest album “1719″ is a masterful body of work that reflects her mindset over the past few years. I would highly recommend it, especially Pluhmm, Sky Gray, and Cigar. Her latest release is La Luna and the music video, while having highly, highly dubious scenes, is visually beautiful.

[good-beanswrites]

So. It turns out I can't read. Have a random drabble of Mikoto + Tears because I misread one of the requests asdfds (featuring the smoking group :)) I thought of some juicy drama, but I'll admit his situation may not be as dramatic as this lol, just a thought about his emotions I was toying around with.

It had taken a bit of time, persuading, and bribery, but Mikoto reluctantly showed up to the smoking group’s next session. He looked like shit compared to them, but neither seemed to care.

Though he tried to refuse, they’d given him refills for his e-cigarette so he could participate. Shidou claimed he was quitting, but he didn’t strike Mikoto as the type to stop cold turkey. He stayed quiet most of the time, listening to the usual stories of days gone by.

Shidou asked about Kazui’s recent interrogation. Mikoto would have rather spoken about literally anything besides their situation as prisoners and murderers, but Kazui’s unlikely honesty caught his attention. The man admitted to getting rather worked up in front of Es, nearly to the point of tears.

Rather than offer any sort of comfort, Shidou chose to list off the benefits of crying in response. 

“It actually releases stress hormones,” he was saying, “and has been linked to better sleep, improved immune systems, and balance within your nervous system.”

Mikoto shared a smirk with Kazui, the cigarette angling between his lips. He wasn’t as quick as he thought.

“And what is that face for?” Shidou turned to him. “I do hope you’re not one of those types who think men shouldn’t cry. I’m sure you have plenty of times. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Mikoto was going to drop it; he wasn’t one of those people, after all. Unexpected thoughts struck him before he could dismiss the accusations. The rapid emotions that flashed over his face had the others waiting for his reply.

“Actually… uh…” He let out a nervous laugh. “I just realized, I haven’t. You know, h-” Mikoto’s voice faltered. It felt strange, speaking about the situation so casually. But he could trust these men. They’d never turned against him, or flinched away from him, even when the others had. Regardless, he was going to have to acknowledge it eventually.

“...He’s the one that gets to cry.”

The others stayed silent. Kazui took another drag. It wasn’t like it was a secret anymore, but he was sure that neither had come prepared for a conversation like this. Wisps of smoke slowly circled them.

"Whenever I got upset, he was there. If anything brought me to tears, then he… took care of it.” Not that Mikoto ever knew it was happening. In hindsight, it was maddeningly obvious how his blackouts corresponded to rough times. 

His breath shook the next time he inhaled. He took a pause. He had to stay calm. The line had been thin, these days, for when emotions would prove intense enough to send him over the edge. With all the underlying stress, even the most minor inconveniences could cause him to lose control.

The vapor he blew out left a trembly trail in front of him. He tried to sound lighthearted, but knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I guess I always thought I was one of those guys who didn’t cry as much, or got less worked up about things. My coworkers always talked about breakdowns. I never had a single one. I didn’t really dwell on it. Why would I?” His smile was as wobbly as the laugh that bubbled out of him. “So, uh… I guess you were wrong, Shidou. I can’t remember the last time I shed a single tear.”

It didn’t take a doctor to know the kind of toll that takes on someone. 

Mikoto dropped his head, suddenly ashamed of his honesty. He must have sounded completely insane. He ran a hand through his hair. They were probably looking on with horror at what a mess he’d revealed himself to be. 

“I should go,” he muttered. He was already pretty upset and couldn’t risk hurting anyone else.

Shidou placed his hand gently on his arm. He didn’t look horrified in the slightest. Neither did Kazui. “Wait...”

He shrugged his arm away. “Leave me alone.”

“Mikoto.”

He paused only a moment in the entryway, as Kazui called to him.

“Thanks. I know it's not easy to talk about your true self.”

He wanted to accept it. He wanted to stay and keep talking and laughing as if nothing were wrong. He wanted to thank them for their kindness. But he couldn’t allow himself the luxury, now. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters.”

“It does.” Shidou told him. “Mikoto, I know things have been difficult. We just want to help you.”

“Yeah,” he said bitterly. The smoke shifted in his wake. “That’s what he said, too.”

[senboago]

THE BIG BLEACH HC MEME centering around politics, repost & fill out! For anyone who wanted to explore those aspects more, considering it played a big role in the story. Some things may be unknown to your Muse, just think in WHAT IF then & well, have fun and take your time!

BASICS

Name:   Kaede Shiba    / / /    Age:   500+    / / /    Gender:   female Race:   Shinigami / Quincy / Hollow / Fullbringer / Visored / Human / Other Currently lives:   Soul Society / Hueco Mundo / Silbern / Living World / Hell Exact Location:   seireitei, gotei 13, nibantai Group(s): gotei 13, omnitsukido, shiba clan

QUESTIONS

- Would your muse consider themselves more: GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL ? - Would your muse consider their group more: GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL ? - How does your muse think others see them: GOOD / EVIL / NEUTRAL ? - How does your muse think others see their race: GOOD / EVIL / NEUTRAL ? - How does your muse think others see their group: GOOD / EVIL / NEUTRAL ?

- Is your muse considered a threat: YES / NO ?  From whom?:  hollows, wandenreich, criminals - Is your muse powerful: YES / NO ?  Could they be considered OP:  YES / NO ? - Did your muse any crimes: YES / NO ? - Does your muse think they are doing mostly the right thing: YES / NO ? - Would society think the same: YES / NO / MIXED OPINIONS ?

- Does your muse think they are treated unfairly: YES / NO ? - Does your muse feel understood from others: YES / NO / NEUTRAL? - Is it important for them what others think of them as a person: YES / NO ? - Would they welcome death:  YES / NO ? - Will they ever find peace:  YES / NO ?

01.0.  Do they fully stand behind the group they are part of? YES / NO. Why is that? Explain: This only applies to the gotei 13, not the Shiba clan (who she’s actually most loyal to). She knows of quite a bit as she does work in the stealth force. Having been the former detention unit commander, she’s fully aware of the dangerous people regularly imprisoned, and just how central 46 deals with their disappearances; especially those sentence to the muken. She doesn’t agree with it. It’s hurt many good people with good intentions and exiled a few of her friends too. 

02.0.  Do they like as things are in Soul Society? YES / NO. 02.1.  Is there anything they would change? Explain here: Certain laws, and the punishments for others. She would also like to see an aid to poorer rukongai.

03.0. Would they ever actively try to bring change (in general)? YES / NO. 03.1. Is your muse more: passive / active ?  Introverted / Extroverted ? 03.2. Does your muse care more about: others / themselves ? 03.3. Do they trouble their mind over a lot of problems, others? YES / NO. 03.4. Do they mostly involve: the world / everyone / themselves / comrades / friends / family / elderly / kids / teenagers / home / workplace / strangers / souls / humans / quincy / shinigami / nobles / fullbringer / visored / hollows / espada / arrancar / (former) boss(es) / pets / animals / zanpakuto spirit / enemies / partner / lovers / soul king / god / other…(add more) 03.5. Name (up to) three which are the most on their mind (optional, adding names): - friends & family, including her lover - work  - themselves (mostly training)

04.0. Do they think frequently about politics? YES / NO / SOMETIMES. Why is that? Explain: As both a former noble and member of the omnitsukido, it’s a part of her daily life. Even if the Shiba clan has no place in it anymore, it still dominates her workplace. She isn’t always the biggest fan of it, but knows better than to ignore it.

05.0. How do they feel in their current location, more: POSITIVE / NEGATIVE / NEUTRAL ? 05.1. Why is that?: Even if she disagrees with the way things are ran, it’s still her home. The Soul Society is where her family is. As for the second division, she’s spent centuries here, made many deep and meaningful bonds. It is and always will be her second home. She will always be loyal to them, specifically Soi Fon. 

06.0. Does your muse have any goal: YES / NO ?  BIG / SMALL ? 06.1. Does it involve anything world-changing: YES / NO ? 06.2. If goal or not, any future plans? Share here: Maybe settle down eventually; get married and have children. It’s a far off thought though. For now, her biggest concern is the second division and the omnitsukido.

07.0. Does your muse know about the original sin of soul society*: YES / NO ? * curious? Read about it here. 07.1. If they knew, would it change their views on Soul Society: YES / NO ? 07.2. More: POSITIVE / NEGATIVE / NEUTRAL ?

08.0. Who is the worst person in their eyes?: aizen. 08.1. What should happen to them?  Execution (quick / slow death) / Imprisonment / Stripped of their powers / Torture / Repay for their sins / Pay a Fine / Social Work / lose their loved ones / Exile / other… (add more). 08.2. Explanation: Originally I wanna point out that Kaede also hates Yhwach. Both men were merciless to both their enemies and allies. They literally used their allies. It’s an unforgivable act, one that deserves execution. However, the main focus here is Aizen, who can’t exactly be killed. Truthfully, his crimes actually outweigh Yhwach’s on a personal level, as it directly affected her friends and a former member of her clan.

09.0. Thoughts on the Quincy Massacre if they knew: POSITIVE / NEGATIVE / NEUTRAL ? 09.1. Would they be alright with such thing happening again: YES / NO ? 09.2. Would they try to prevent it: YES / NO / DEPENDS ? 09.3. Explanation: She would have spoke up, sought for an alternative. Genocide is just never the answer.

10.0. Would they ever switch sides: YES / NO ? 10.1. If yes, What could bring them to do so?: Conflicted values and morals, forced exile, etc. 10.2. Would they create a new one: YES / NO ?  or join a current one? If so, which:  n/a.

11.0. Does your muse follow a certain moral code*?:  YES / NO / GRAY AREA ? * (ethics) A written, formal, and consistent set of rules prescribing righteous behavior, accepted by a person or by a group of people. 11.1. What does it involve?: Basic human decency, respect to other lifeforms, protect the weak, helping those in need. 11.2. What does it NOT involve?: Unprovoked violence, unnecessary killing, ignorance of another’s struggle.

YOUR MUSE’S VIEWS / OPINIONS ON THESE GROUPS ?

Central 46:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: She has many disagreements with 46′s decisions. But her line of work requires she follows each order. She knows the consequences of insubordination, so her cooperation is granted.

Four Great Noble Clans:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: It’s neither positive nor negative. She has no feeling of them except her ancestral clan; the Shihoin. They are the only ones Kaede has any hardships, since they cast her mother out while pregnant.

Royal Guards / Gotei 13:   positive / negative / neutral .   ━   because: She doesn’t know any personally. Nor does she have any real opinion of them. She understands their responsibilities, but it doesn’t mean she isn’t salty about their ever late intervention in the war.

Fullbringer:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: Again, there’s none she knows personally. They are simply humans with unique abilities.

Visored:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: She sees nothing wrong about them. They were victims, ones that had every right to hate the whole Soul Society for wrongful accusations. As she’s friends with Shinji, she has much more positive outlook on them. There is still the occasional wariness of the inner hollow, but it doesn’t make her hate the person.

Espada:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: A former enemy, ones who blindly followed the biggest traitor of the gotei 13. It’s lightened over time, her opinion swayed to a more gray area.

Quincy:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: Another enemy, but this one of an actual war that killed innocence. [the askin ship only; It’s much more grayed since coming to the comfort of his presence. She’s learned their side, at least from his point of view. Thus she’s less angry towards them.]

YOUR MUSE’S VIEWS / OPINIONS ON THESE (IMPORTANT) PEOPLE ?

Aizen:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: His selfishness cost many people grievance. It affected her friends and comrades, and even a now former member of her family. She has a strong distrust and hatred of him for the wrongs he’s caused.

Yhwach:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: There is a bit of a personal bit, as she did face his clone-- who caused the large scar on her side. Other than that, she’s more upset at the lives claimed and near end of the world.

Mayuri:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: She holds little to no trust in him, and holds caution in his presence.

Kurosaki:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: He’s saved the Soul Society countless times. His selflessness is admired.

Soul King:   positive / negative / neutral.   ━   because: He’s simply an entity there to keep the world stable. There’s no other opinion about him.

CONGRATS, you managed till to the end, now tag your fellow bleach partners!

TAGGED BY: stolen from @hirako5hinji TAGGING: @kenpxchi @bazzardburner @krinji @elxfi @equipollency @kazeshinigami @levaer @tatarfora​

[my-sherlock221b]

My Wincest ficrecs

I started this rec list a while ago and then real life got super hectic but I have been travelling for  work and continuing to download and read ridiculously enormous amounts of wincest fics!! Have been very bad about going back online later and giving kudos or posting comments even though some of them were just amazing! So instead, as atonement, I am going to rec them here and I hope some of you who read them will send the authors much love and kudos and comments.

I will keep adding to this list as I keep reading and someday may even get organized enough to have little sub categories..... ( wishful thinking!!) so go ahead and enjoy these! Heed the tags in each individual fic.

1. https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094764?view_adult=true

My Love, the Pleasure's Mine by Eugara

Author’s summary: Season 3. While investigating a rash of magically-induced hook ups, Sam and Dean get hit with a fuck or die curse. It would be a lot easier to deal with if the witch wasn't being such a smug bitch about it all.

--It is a delightful story which gets Dean’s inner voice so absolutely perfect it’s a joy to read!Tons of angst and feels and a casefic as well as sex of course.

Some hilarious and perfect parts I have to quote here:

“Don’t worry, I’m sure my brother’s card will work.” He tries to communicate the name issue to Sam using only his eyebrows, but he probably just looks like he’s having a small seizure. Luckily, Sam is fluent enough in Dean-ese to catch his drift. He steps forward, pulls out his money clip, skips over a couple of possibly risky cards, and hands the clerk their brand-est, shiny-est, new-est American Express. He’s also doing a very good job of not looking like he wants to set his brother on fire with his brain. Dean’s so proud. 

…….

Dean lies on the cheap comforter for a few minutes, then shifts his head to the side and calls out, “Hey, Sam. D’you think that ‘fraud’ could be the name of a bird?” Sam pops his head out again, holding a washcloth this time, and gives Dean a weird look. “Y’know, like a ‘black-breasted fraud’ or something.” Dean kicks off his boots as best as he can without unlacing them. “‘Ivory-frauded warbler’.” Sam just stares at him like he’s lost his mind, then shakes his head in mock exasperation and ducks back out of sight.

…..

Sam looks adorably touched at Dean’s stupid little display of affection and gives him a much broader smile in return. Dimples and everything.

…..

They eat shitty sausage pizza, and watch some mind-numbing documentary Sam found about health insurance, and recover until the sun goes down. 

 2. If the dam breaks open many years too soon deirdre_c

Author’s summary: Sam’s soul springs a leak, and Dean’s the one who can repair it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/559187

 My favourite lines:

Dean is an asshole.

My Favourite Lines:

Dean is an asshole.

Okay, Sam will admit Dean can be heroic and generous and loyal and stupidly sentimental, but the rest of the time he’s a fucking asshole. Especially right now.

 .

Dean is nesting. That’s the only way Sam can describe it. He discovers Craigslist and spends hours dragging Sam around the streets of the Upper West Side bargaining with old ladies and empty nesters over a sofa and lamps, a table and an old television.

It’s amusing and bemusing, this new side of Dean. He buys towels and an ottoman and a colander and other mundane things Sam never would have imagined Dean caring about. Sam purchases the few items he needs for his room—an old double bed that’s slightly too short, a nightstand, a desk—and leaves it at that. Dean on the other hand, is displaying an unexpected talent at trash-picking and trolling estate sales and is swiftly filling up the apartment with stuff.

3. The Bedtime series by Marie_Tomas

https://archiveofourown.org/series/219962

 After a night of drinking, Sam and Dean accidentally cuddle. Sam secretly likes it, but Dean seems to hate it. Then it happens again, and again, and again.

 My summary: A very sweet series with lots of fluff and shmoop and eventually some sex too. But is a slow burn, lovely fic with an endearingly confused Sam and a canon compliant Dean who wants nothing to do with expressing feelings or heaven forbid TALK about what is going on  but finds himself wanting to cuddle Sam every night and going slightly mad because he can’t accept why.

 4. Convince Me by WincestSounds (Cammerel)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/721717/chapters/1338514

Sam proposes that he and Dean disguise their selves as a gay couple, looking to become parents, while on a case dealing with Changelings. They end up getting a lot more than they were expecting.

My notes: Beautiful characterization of Dean, revealing his sensitive side. Very sensual and hot sexy times and a parent!fic done superbly.

 5. I feel your hunger in your touch by whispered_story

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314924

Sometimes, in a post-hunt rush or when emotions are running too high, they have sex, but it doesn't mean anything. They don't talk about it, but there's an unspoken rule between them: They are always back to normal the next day and they never let it affect their relationship.

Until Dean sneaks into Sam's bedroom in the bunker one night and changes the rules on him.

6. The Claiming by waywardelle

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166644

Read everything by this author!!

At age 32, Sam Winchester presents as an Omega. No one is more surprised than Dean, the Alpha who's been pining over his little brother all his life. Canon divergence after scene with Piper in 11x04, "Baby."

 7.  jesus christ, dad, i sure hope not

https://candle-beck.livejournal.com/117393.html

Again-would recommend everything by this author!

Dean gets stuck in his head like a song sometimes. It's usually when Sam is tired or sick or bored out of his skull, and he's learned to take it as it comes. It's no good fighting it.

It's another thing they can blame on their father. He gave Sam to Dean seventeen years ago, and there Sam has remained, locked into his brother exactly as far as Dean is locked into him. John put them in the back of a car and drove around for a decade while only occasionally glancing over his shoulder to check on them, and in the meantime Dean became every constellation and every guidepost, the single element of Sam's life that has never changed.

  8. Give the Lie by dreamlittleyo

It turns out Dean was wrong when he said there was no such thing as unicorns. It also turns out that when a unicorn steals your memories, you have to play nice to get them back. But what's a Winchester to do in the meantime?

 https://archiveofourown.org/works/178577

A lovely crack-y fic with a case and amnesia and romance and angst and a happy ending !

9. Five Times Dean Winchester Accused His Brother of Being the Antichrist and One Time Sam Actually Was (But Dean Didn’t Care) by leonidaslionhttps://archiveofourown.org/works/402101/chapters/662748

Brilliant and funny! I would recommend anything by this author!

10.  charmer & gentle by Askance

A delightful little fic about an outside POV on the relationship between Sam and Dean.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932184

The afternoon girl calls them Big and Tall, the strangers who come in late every now and then, buying this or that. The night girl doesn't think those names fit quite right.

[perspective-series]

A Third Perspective (12)

By: @arc852 and @hiddendreamer67

Warnings: Fear, and unwanted grabbing/touching

(Check the reblog for the links to the previous chapters!)

 Roman raced home, taking the stairs up to his apartment two at a time as his bag swung to the side. Biology seemed to last longer than ever before today, as Roman’s mind had been preoccupied for the entire two hours with a certain tiny friend. Finally Roman reached his own door, swinging it wide open as he waltzed inside.

 Despite knowing there was a borrower in his bag, the human was not being careful at all. Virgil found himself sliding back and forth in the bag, becoming disoriented and even hitting the wall with his sore arm. Which sent a sharp pang up it. He groaned as the bag finally calmed down, allowing him to sit in the middle and calm himself.

 He was suddenly much more worried for Patton’s state if this was how the human had been treating him.

 Roman plopped down on the couch, setting the bag down on the cushion next to him. He turned to it, viewing it like a child coming down the stairs on Christmas. Not wanting to wait any longer, Roman reached his hand in and grabbed the borrower inside, pulling them up into the light.

 Virgil expected it, as soon as the bag had stopped moving and he felt it being set down, but he really wasn’t prepared for it. He tried to scoot away, but the hand grabbed him no problem. He struggled within the grip as he was taken out of the bag and suddenly face to face with another human.

 “Ah!” Roman let out a startled shriek at the unexpected tiny person. In his surprise, Roman’s grip loosened and the borrower fell back into the bag.

 Virgil yelled as he fell back into the bag, groaning as he landed on his arm. “What the heck?!” He yelled up before realizing what he did.

 Roman winced, peering into the bag to get a second look at the stranger. “My sincerest apologies. I just…. I wasn’t expecting you.” Roman gazed around the rest of the bag. “Wait just a moment, where is Patton?”

 Virgil hadn’t expected an apology. That was...weird, coming from a human. At the question, he shrugged. He knew Pat was probably with Logan...but what would this human do with that information?

 “And who are you?” Roman squinted suspiciously, not sure if the borrower was holding back information. Roman found himself now bursting with questions, pulling the borrower back out in a loose fist.

 “Ah, hey!” Virgil yelled at being picked up again, before closing his mouth tight. What was with him and suddenly yelling at a human. Did he have a death wish? Either way, he found himself struggling within the grip.

 “What’s your name?” Roman turned the tiny person this way and that, inspecting him from all angles. “Where’d you come from? Why were you in my bag?”

 Virgil bit his tongue and didn’t even look at the human as he continued to struggle in the grip. If this was Logan, he’d be inclined to answer because he knew what Logan would do if he didn’t. But maybe...he could get away with not speaking?

 Probably not, but he was going to go as long as he could.

 “...Why are you so quiet?” Roman frowned, already missing Patton’s bubbly demeanor. What had happened to that little guy, anyhow? Roman felt a large mix of anxiety and fear brewing inside of him as he began to think where the borrower might be. After all, Roman was the one who had told Patton nothing was going to happen. If Patton was in trouble, it was Roman’s fault.

 Virgil simply glared at him, giving the human a look as if to say ‘why do you think?’ His struggles continued, but he could already feel himself getting tired.

 “Oh, that’s right.” Roman thought back to when he and Patton had first met. It felt as though it was only yesterday. Mostly because, well, it was. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” Roman looked down at the borrower with a brief look of pity.

 Virgil stopped at that, to send the human another glare. “Well duh!” He couldn’t help but say. His heart beat hard and fast inside his chest. Yes, of course, he was scared. Who wouldn’t be when faced with a literal giant who has you in their grasp!

 “It’s okay!” Roman chuckled slightly at the response he got, glad they seemed to be getting somewhere. “You don’t need to be afraid of me, lil’ guy! I’m not going to hurt you, I swear it.”

 “You already have!” This was what Virgil hated, the human’s saying one thing but doing another.

 “Wait, what?” Roman’s eyes widened, quickly moving his hands about so that the borrower sat in his cupped palms. “I’m so sorry, I truly didn’t think it was so far of a fall…”

 While Virgil was glad the fingers were no longer constricting him, being in the hand was still less than ideal. “Not just that, but your carelessness walking up the stairs and just letting the bag I was in swing whichever way it wanted! Honestly, I’m worried about the state you left Patton in!” Virgil glared at the human for a moment, before realizing what he had said, about Patton. His hand flew to his mouth. Crap.

 Now the human would know that he did, in fact, know about Patton.

 “Now hold on just a moment!” Roman transferred the borrower so that he was only cupped in one hand, using the other to point an accusing finger. “Granted, I may have been a bit careless then, but I am doing my best. I never laid a finger on Patton! I would never dream of it. Patton is my friend, all I want to do is protect him and keep him from getting hurt. And if you have any information about his whereabouts you’d better spit it out so we can find him before he gets himself into trouble.”

 If Patton was where Virgil thought he was, then he was already in some serious trouble. At the very least he was sure that Logan wouldn’t be revealing their kind. But that didn’t mean Logan was going to stop with his ‘research’ either. A sudden picture of Patton being held in a beaker broke his heart and made him worry about Patton even more.

 But this human didn’t seem much better, honestly, no human would be better. So despite his worry for Patton and his fear towards this human, he glared. “And what if I don’t?”

 “Well, I, ah…” Roman found himself momentarily at a loss for words, his finger dropping back down to his side. He hadn’t actually thought that far.

 “I suppose I’d just find him alone then, eventually.” Roman shrugged. “But I would certainly think very poorly of you. Especially if you truly think of yourself as a friend of Patton’s. How could you live with yourself knowing that Patton suffered longer simply because you didn’t trust someone who was trying to help?”

 Virgil froze, gritting his teeth. “Don’t.” Virgil stood up and glared at the human. “Patton is my best friend. And the only reason I’m not telling you where I think he is, is because I’m protecting him.”

 Virgil wanted to get Patton away from Logan. He really did. But he didn’t want to trade Logan for this human either. Despite how intimidating Logan is and all his research, Virgil was never hurt. So while Patton might be scared and stuck in a beaker at least he would physically be fine.

 But with this human? Well, he had only been with him for a few minutes and he had already been hurt. This human was careless and could very well be lying to him. So if he had to, he would find a way to get Patton away from Logan himself.

 “Protecting him from what?” Roman scoffed. Honestly, this borrower was so judgy.

 “From you!” Virgil exclaimed, almost as if the answer had been obvious. Which, to Virgil, it was. He didn’t let up on his glare.

 “I am not the enemy here!” Roman emphasized his point by bringing his free palm to his chest.

 Virgil scoffed. “You keep telling yourself that.” The borrower crossed his arms and looked away, even though the action sent a spike of panic in him.

 “I will, Mr. doubtful dormouse.” Roman huffed. He was determined to prove he was worthy of all borrower’s trust, even this stubborn one who still had refused to share his name.

 Virgil highly doubted that. “Can you put me down?” Virgil decided it was at least worth it to try to get the human to put him down.

 “...Oh, right.” Roman realized that he had been holding the little guy for a while. So, he set his palm down on the coffee table.

 Virgil was actually kind of surprised that the human had listened. He slid off the hand and onto the coffee table, looking up at the human before looking away. His arms were back to being crossed. He looked at the apartment around him, already trying to come up with a plan of escape.

 Roman slid off the couch, coming to rest on the floor in order to be more eye level with the table. He crossed his arms, placing them on the edge before resting his chin atop.

 Virgil looked back towards the human at the movement. Watching him warily. As the human settled and looked at him, Virgil couldn’t help but ask, “What?”

 “Now will you tell me about Patton?” Roman said, daring to be hopeful with a small smile.

 “No.”

 Roman deflated slightly, but he didn’t give up. “Come on, what’s it going to take for you to trust me?”

 “Leave and never come back.” Virgil deadpanned.

 “Stop being so dramatic.” Roman pouted. He tried to think back to the things he knew Patton enjoyed. “We could watch a movie. Are you a Disney fan, too?”

 “Disney?” Of course, he knew what movies were, but Disney was another thing. He had never heard of the word before. Was it...a type of movie?

 “Oh, you poor soul.” Roman reached across the table, grabbing the remote and turning the tv on. Netflix was still open from earlier that morning when he and Patton watched Aladdin. “That’s Disney,” Roman said, pointing to the screen.

 “Huh.” Virgil had to admit he was kind of intrigued. Not that he would let the human know that. “Looks boring.”

 Roman made a noise of offense. “Blasphemy!” He declared, already clicking play. “Disney is a series of beautiful masterpieces, this being one of them. Prepare to be enthralled, oh ye of little faith.”

 “Oh joy.” Virgil looked back at the TV as the human clicked play. Virgil, while actually interested in the movie, didn’t feel like watching it.

 He was then struck with a sudden realization though. If the human was distracted by the TV, he just might be able to escape! This was perfect! So, Virgil pretended to watch the movie but kept an eye on the human.

 Roman, meanwhile, was keeping an eye on the borrower. He had already watched Aladdin earlier in the day and was more focused on gauging his new friend’s reaction. Unfortunately, the little guy seemed to spend more time turning back to face him than actually watching the screen. Then he would quickly turn back, as if hoping Roman wouldn’t take notice. Roman frowned, wondering what was up. Was the borrower still just frightened? He did seem a lot jumpier than Patton. Although thinking back, Patton was pretty jumpy too.

 Virgil was getting frustrated because the human was paying more attention to him than the actual movie. Virgil mentally groaned. How was he supposed to escape now?

 “Are you enjoying it?” Roman asked hopefully, wondering if this was just how all borrowers watched movies.

 Virgil had no clue what was even going on in the movie, spending all his focus on the human. “No.”

 Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he was seemingly trying to annoy the human, what with him being a human and all, but Virgil had to admit it was kind of fun. But he couldn’t ignore how dangerous it was either.

 Roman let out an irritated exhale so strong he could see it ruffle the borrower’s hair.

 “Well, you could have just said so!” Roman was disappointed that he had both not enjoyed the film and hadn’t felt brave enough to speak up about it.

 “Could I have?” Because Virgil had a feeling Roman would have tried to make him watch it regardless.

 “Of course!” Roman reached over to the remote again, clicking back to the menu. “There are plenty of other Disney films we can watch.”

 Virgil narrowed his eyes. “And what if I said I didn’t want to watch anything.”

 “That’s fine.” Roman insisted, shutting off the screen. “I was just suggesting something for us to do, and I knew that at least Patton enjoyed this so I thought you’d be the same. Nevertheless, it is clear you are two very, very different individuals.” Roman pasted his signature smile back on, determined to stay upbeat. “So! What do you want to do then?”

 Virgil thought about answering, but he decided to stay silent. Even though it didn’t go well for him with Logan.

 Roman glared down at the borrower. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his cool despite the fact that this emo nightmare seemed determined to test his patience.

[angrypixie-sarisa]

Hasta pronto, mi corazón.

Piedras rodantes Pt. 9

Sam x Mexican!Fem!Witch!reader x Dean (polyamorous)

Warnings: fluffy and kinda sad. Crowley appears in this one. And i guess it’s a long one. 

GIf is not mine, credits and love to the owner. 

It was perfect, everything was just perfect. You never thought it could be possible for you to pass more time together, but since that night, you hardly kept your hands off each other. And you finally understood what the big deal was. You always heard the songs of Calle 13, talking about how sex was great, really, really great. And in its majority it was, not at the point where you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself; until you had a taste of Sam Winchester. Then you became a song, a song of sex and passion, sex on the floor, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, without clothes, in the morning, afternoon, night, for breakfast, for dinner… It was all exquisite.

You still hadn’t named it, although you were both damned sure what you were. But you still had no rush in pinning what you had into a certain category. You just enjoyed each other so much and you knew at least the feelings were mutual and real.

“So get this…” Sam said behind you. He hugged your waist and rested his chin on your head. It was morning and as much as you enjoyed his company, you really appreciated when no one talked to you in the mornings. You considered yourself a morning person; you just needed some moments of silence before you collected yourself. And as well as any rational human being, you needed caffeine and a good breakfast. It was important. If your breakfast wasn’t at an acceptance level, then you knew it was going to be a long day.

Even so, you let him whisper whatever thing came into his mind as you pressed the on button of your coffee maker. You would’ve preferred it French pressed, but Sam wasn’t into those “fancy things” as he called them once.

“There’s this new latino bar that opened a few days ago.” You turned around in his embrace and slowly started to smile. You liked the way this conversation was going.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and I figured we could go tomorrow. I’ll take a day out of work.” You hummed dazedly, the smell of coffee started to fill your kitchen, you could already taste it.

“What?”

“Under one condition, corazón.” You smiled naughtily.

“Which is?”

“You let me teach you to dance.” Sam groaned and pulled away, already regretting telling you about it.

“Come on! You don’t expect me to go to a latino bar and not dance. It’ll be fun! I’ll teach you cumbia, bachata, salsa, reggaeton…” He looked away. You glared at him.

“Sam, don’t make me pull out the big guns.” Then he looked at you, mock in his eyes.

“Oh, I’m so scared.” You gasped, raised eyebrows and all, passing your tongue underneath your teeth slightly and putting your hands on your hips.

“Okay.” You shrugged. “Fine, I’ll dance with someone that actually wants to dance with me. Because that’s all I wanted, to dance with you. Pero el señor no quiere, so I’ll just conform for people inviting me to dance. Yes, to dance those songs that require such little space between two people…” You then slightly closed your eyes as you graced your fingers from your neck through your cleavage, sighing.

Sam suddenly picked you up, placing you on top of your tall kitchen table, earning a squeak from you when he made you lean backwards a little bit so his lips would have access to the exact part you caressed.

“You win, I’ll do it.” He said between kisses.

And you laughed, for you knew you both had better things than breakfast in your minds.

“Y/N, I cannot do this!”

“Yes, you can! You just gotta fall into rhythm and move your hips! Come on, it’s not that hard, Sammy. Concentrate.”

“There are two options, either I concentrate in moving other parts of my body or I concentrate of moving my hips.” You groaned in annoyance.

“Como eres payaso. It’s not that hard.” You took his hands and placed them in your hips. You decided first to teach him what you thought would’ve been the hardest, and you were right, it was the hardest for him.

His head was resting in your shoulder, whining in defeat.

Your lips touched his ear, placing a quick peck underneath.

“Look at me, Sam.” You whispered. He took in a deep breath before complying. You pulled your soft but firm eyes, with the light entering your living room, they sparkled. Or maybe you made them sparkle.

“Feel me, corazón. Feel how my body moves, forget the music, that’s what my body responds to; find your own center of command. Find what moves you.”  Another song started playing. To be honest it was one of your favorites. Hay una mujer, que domina mis sentidos con solo tocar mi piel. Y como a mí también, a otro hombre esto le puede suceder. Que sólo por un beso, se puede enamorar. Sin necesidad de hablarse, sólo los labios rosarse, cupido los flechara. Un beso significa amistad, sexo y amor, en cualquier parte del mundo no importa la religión. Por un beso de su boca voy al cielo y hablo con Dios, alcanzó las estrellas de emoción.

“Sammy, you’re doing it!” All that time he was looking into your eyes, sneaking glances into your lips, singing along the song. Now, he looked down, he was indeed moving his hips in sync with yours. His leg was between yours, he could literally feel everything going on.

You were right, this dances barely left space between two people.

He was happy you made him dance with you.

After that, the other dances, the other songs came more natural to him, what make him learn them so well was, well, you. You and your damned charm.

  “Hey! What ‘ya painting?” Diego asked as he made his way out of the portal you had opened for him.

“I don’t know yet. Wanna see?” He came to stand beside you and adopted your same expression. He placed his hand in his chin, looking at the not empty but not complete canvas.

“How do you think it looks?” You took a seat, stuffing some Oreo’s into your mouth, still thinking.

“It looks like sorrow. Girl, are you alright?” You swallowed before answering.

“Alright? I’m at my best. I have a guy who fucks me so good.” You sang the last part. “But I agree with you, the painting looks sorrowful; I just don’t know why.”

“Maybe it’s because of that Winchester.” You both heard an all too familiar voice. Diego got nervous instantly, however you remained calmed. You turned around to see Crowley pouring himself some of your best cheap wine. That bastard.

“I’ll never understand why you like to paint in your kitchen.” He added.

“Okay, first of all, the lightening is better here. Second of all, who gave you permission to grab some wine? Third of all, what do you mean it’s because of Sam?” Diego started to shield his figure behind yours, making the demon smirk.

Eres un collón, Diego.

Es Crowley, mija. A ti no te va a tocar ni un pelo, pero no dudaría en que a mí sí.

You rolled your eyes.

“I don’t need your permission, little one.” You stood up, placing your hands on your hips. Crowley resisted your stare for one whole minute before cracking.

“Okay, fine, may I have some wine?”

“Please?”

“Please.” You nodded and took out another glass so he would pour you some as well.

“Anyway, would you argument your opinion? Why do you think the canvas represents Sam?” Slowly, Diego made his way closer and closer to the kitchen table. You thought Crowley was having fun seeing him all scared up.

“I don’t know, maybe because he’s a hunter and a Winchester.”

“So?” Both men scoffed at your question.

“What, you’re taking his side?�� You accused your fellow witch friend.

“Y/N, I don’t think you’re hearing him. Sam is a hunter, not just any hunter, he’s a Winchester. Sí, a lo mejor las cosas ahorita son de color rosa, but you gotta understand que tal vez no lo serán por siempre.”

“Yeah, whatever he said.” You squinted at the demon.

“I thought you knew Spanish.”

“I lied and that’s beside the point. Look, I may not be the nicest guy…” Diego laughed at this, muttering under his breath a Yeah, no kidding.

“But I care about you. We care about you; we don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Wait, you’re coming in behalf of everyone?” Crowley shrugged but didn’t correct you.

You were someone kinda special. You were really good friends with Crowley, even though you didn’t approve of his methods or always changing plans. You were one to believe that just because something, someone is supposed to be evil by popular opinion, it didn’t exactly mean that it was the case. Of course, the first time you met he was a total dick to you and planned on lore you into making a deal with him, as every other demon you had met. However, you weren’t one to fall into temptations easily or one to let anyone treat you without respect. Apparently they liked that. By the passing of time, here you were, friends with the dangerous and evil.

“Oh my God, well that’s just great. Well…” You took a swig of your wine. “Here’s the deal, everyone respects my decision, don’t stick their noses where they’re not wanted and trust my ability to kick Sam’s ass if he ever disrespects or harms me or anyone that I love. Have I made myself clear?” The men shifted their feet, looking down at them.

“I cannot hear you and I assure you I will not repeat myself.” They sighed before muttering their agreement.

“Good.” Crowley hugged you from the waist and placed a kiss on the top of your head.

“I gotta go, see ya, little one.” In the blink of an eye he disappeared. You looked at Diego who visibly relaxed at the disappearance of the demon.

“You gotta stop being afraid of him.”

“Ya’ha, when pigs fly, honey.” He hugged your shoulders and mimicked the kiss the last mentioned gave you.

“Seriously, Y/N, if you ever need help for anything, you know I’m here for you, right?” You sighed placing your hands on top of his.

“I know. Thanks.” For a long silence you stood there, enjoying each other’s company, until he got a text message.

“You know mom and dad miss ya, Tyler too, he wants to hang out sometime, wants you to read his cards.” You chuckled.

“I’ll visit soon, I promise. I would never refuse some good ol’ New York pizza and entertainment.” He patted your back before saying goodbye and stepping into the portal. You finished yours and Crowley’s wine from one gulp before closing the door.

  You were nervous; Sam had called you a few minutes before he got out of work, saying he’ll be staying the night. It usually didn’t take him long and it was a small town, the traffic wouldn’t be that bad and if it were, you were sure he would’ve told you so.

You didn’t want to feel this way, but you knew being a hunter, a Winchester, brought a lot of trouble even when he pulled himself out of the lifestyle for a while.

You heard his footsteps before hearing him knock at your door. You quickly got up from the couch and hurried to open the door. The words something’s not right, repeating in your head as you swung the door open.

“¡¿Qué?! ¡¿Qué chingados?!” You took his hand, resisting the nausea of the feeling of the sticky blood and guided him towards your bathroom immediately; not even letting him shut your front door. He was going to question you about it until he heard it shut behind both of you. Something inside him wanted to think the wind shut it but he knew better, he knew you had something to do with that creepy thing scary movies did. Because it didn’t shut with a loud bang, on the contrary, it shut gently barely making any sound.

You sat him on the edge of the bathtub and as you moved to reach for your first aid kit, you hesitated.

“You didn’t get injured, right?” You wanted to believe it badly. Sammy was fine, he was just covered in blood, but maybe it wasn’t his blood. Only that made matters worse. Or it could be someone else’s and his. Or it could be all his.

“I… Yeah, I did. But!” he added as he looked at your worried face. “Not badly, just some cuts, some bruises, no major injuries.” You still took out the first aid kit though you didn’t open it. Instead you leaned in and opened the shower tab and waited for the water to be at an acceptable temperature.

“Clothes off, now.” If he hadn’t just fought his fellow hunter friends, if they weren’t willing to put his co-worker in danger, he would find himself turned on. However he relaxed at the thought of a shower; starting to discard his clothes. You took them once he was completely naked and went to throw them into a trash bag. You doubted the stains would come off and if they did, you doubted Sam would want those particular clothes back. His shoes being the only thing you could save.

You stayed nearby the shut door of the bathroom, alert at any sound of distress or cry for help or hurting. Luckily there wasn’t any of that. But he did take longer, he kept thinking of the scene and the girl he had to keep safe. He kept thinking about the hatred in the men’s eyes and couldn’t help but to think that it was indeed all his fault. He wanted nothing more but for everyone to be safe, for you to be safe and if the world ended, he wouldn’t… He wouldn’t forgive himself if anything ever happened to you. He took another look at his wounds. She’s gonna kill me, he thought.

He comes out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, holding the first aid kit in his left hand. As soon as he gives one step you’re already close, clasping his hand in yours and guiding him to sit at the edge of your bed, ready to patch him up. He could’ve done it himself, but he knew better than to tell you that. He let you take care of him, knowing how anxious it made you not to do anything knowing you could be helping.

Sam’s hands rested on your waist as you cleaned and passed your fingers over the last and most superficial bruises, those being in his face. He gulped.

“Are you sure it’s alright to… to heal them with magic?” You didn’t answer, passing your hand once again at a bruise on his shoulder, knowing it could be healed better.

“You’ve told me before that sometimes it wears you out to use magic in these situations.” You meet his eyes; your mouth was a thin line. You shrugged and closed the kit before setting your hands gently on his shoulders.

“They’re not that severe, I’ll be fine.” You ignored the starting ache at your left wrist. This was something you hadn’t yet talked about with him. Not because it ashamed you, you literally forgot about it, the subject never came up and the bother wasn’t that intense to make you vomit or pin you in your bed until you passed out. It was such a normal aspect of your life it had never occurred to you that people didn’t or needed to know. You were so oblivious to it.

“Sweetheart.” He whispered. His hand placed at your aching wrist, which was shaking slightly. He took your hand up to his lips and kissed him, thinking it was just your worried nerves. It was when you didn’t relax that he started to worry.

“What is it?” You shook your head; tears starting to form in your eyes.

“Nothing, it’s…” You cleared your throat. “No es nada, corazón. No te preocupes.” But you kept trembling and the pain started to expand towards your elbow and your shoulder.

“Fuck, might as well tell you, right?” You laughed nervously, supporting yourself with your right hand in his shoulder and he now kept a firm hold on your waist. If your knees failed he’d catch you.

“I have…” Your breath falter, the pain was growing bigger. You took some deep breaths, concentrating only in the air coming in and out of your lungs. “I have this thing called nociceptive pain, specifically somatic pain. It’s… It’s a type of chronic pain in my arm. I had this… This injury in my arm a couple of years ago and it healed, but… I still feel the pain, from time to time.” You close your eyes as a sad smile spread in your face. “I didn’t think healing you will trigger it, I guess I was wrong. Sammy, what happened?” You kept controlling your breathing. It was alright; certainly you had been through worse. What pained you was the worried look he gave you and how he didn’t hesitate to hug you, to comfort you. “It got bad again, sweetheart. Things are getting bad. I…” His eyes started to glass up.

“I guess I kept things from you too. The, uh, apocalypse, I…”

“What?” You jerk your head to look at him dumbfounded. Slowly you reach for the kit again; you had enough of the pain, and took an ointment out. Sam helped you apply it, he didn’t need to know what it was, if it helped you he was down for it.

“There’s this kind of prophecy where Michael and Lucifer are going to fight each other and that… They… They need vessels for the battle and I’m...Lucifer’s.” His fingers spread the ointment up to your shoulder as you vaguely indicated. They pain had eased up, however its presence was still there.

He kept explaining everything, the fight at the bar, what he and his brother had gone through and the way they found out. How it was his fault that the gates of hell opened. Lilith, Ruby, Castiel. The demon blood was the worst. Somehow, his body relaxed, as if an imaginary weight was lifted from him. It was nice to confess those things to someone that wasn’t a hunter, someone that listened before judging. Someone as kind as you.

“Sam…” He wasn’t meeting your eyes nonetheless he didn’t pull away either.

“I think we both know what’s on your mind.” You whispered. You leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his neck.

“Listen to me, Sam Winchester. When I found out you were a hunter I didn’t give up on you. I went in knowing what could happen, knowing that one day there’ll be this job that involved people needing you. And I’m not selfish enough to keep you from saving the world.” He looked at you then, hesitation still printed in his gaze.

“You better save the world or I swear I’ll find your ass in the astral realm and kick it so hard you’d bounce from realm to realm and you’d be known only for that.” How were you still capable of making him laugh? Even in moments like this?

“I’m not joking.”

“I know.” He whispered as your noses touched and he granted himself a goodbye kiss.

Ay, corazón, this isn’t goodbye. Your voice sounded in his head. If you hadn’t eased him up on it, he’d be freaking out. But it wasn’t going to be the last time you pulled a trick or two out of nowhere.

I promise I’ll come back. He thought.

Not breaking the kiss, you intertwined your pinky finger with his.

Hasta pronto, mi corazón.

[antialiasis]

Matilda

Matilda was one of my favorite books when I was little. I got it as a present, with a cover based on the 1996 movie, and immediately decided it looked stupid and I wasn't going to read it. Then one day I was sick with nothing to do, and I reluctantly reached for this book that I hadn't read yet, and whoops I loved it. (This was also my reaction to the first Harry Potter book, and to the Pokémon games. My actual tastes were not a great match for my stubborn contrarianness.)

So when I heard Tim Minchin was writing the songs for a musical based on the book, I thought that sounded pretty cool. I'm not sure I actually went and listened to the soundtrack until after I'd gotten into Groundhog Day, though. Either way, once I did a couple years back, the changes it implied from the book fascinated me, and I dug up my copy of the book and reread it. Later, I went on to see the musical in London, then the Icelandic production of it earlier this month, and finally the other day we watched the 1996 movie adaptation, the one piece missing from my Matilda experience before I could write a lengthy Tumblr ramble about this book and its adaptations, as one does.

It never occurred to me reading it as a child, but from an adult's perspective, and a writing perspective, I have a strong suspicion that it was written on the fly - that Roald Dahl did not know what would happen later when he was writing the earlier parts, and the draft was only minimally edited from there. I actually think that's kind of neat - it provides something of a raw window into the author's process. But it does lead to the book having some noticeable flaws that the adaptations try to fix.

Structurally, Matilda the book is split into distinct sections. It starts with a bit of an intro where the narrator vents their frustration with the way that parents are annoyingly convinced their children are perfect, adorable angels, even when they're actually total little shits - complete with hypothetical acidic reports with colorful metaphors that they'd love to give some children's parents if only they could. It's funny, and educational (this is where I first learned about cicadas), but undeniably kind of mean-spirited, and has very little to do with the rest of the book - from there, we just segue to introducing Matilda, the very opposite of these children, who is genuinely brilliant and delightful but treated with contempt and derision by her deeply unpleasant parents. She's left to fend for herself a lot of the time and becomes very independent, and she begins to visit the library to read books, starting with finishing all of the children's books and moving on from there, with the help of a kind librarian, to an extensive list of literary classics.

Here we start the first major section of the book, Matilda's efforts to strike back at her parents when they wrong her. For several chapters, we follow the Wormwoods (well, mostly Mr. Wormwood) being awful and abusive, followed by Matilda thinking up a prank to play in retaliation - the iconic superglue in the hat and bleach in the hair tonic, plus one involving borrowing a neighbor kid's parrot and stuffing its cage into a chimney that both adaptations leave out, probably wisely. Roald Dahl loves thinking up pranks and karmic punishments - this is a recurring theme in his children's books - and basically all of this section is extremely him, but doesn't have much of a sense of progression to it and isn't leading towards much of anything.

Then, we're quite abruptly off to the next section, where Matilda goes to school. She's enrolled in Miss Honey's class, Miss Honey recognizes her talents, and we follow Miss Honey's unsuccessful attempts to convince first Miss Trunchbull and then Matilda's parents that she should be moved straight up into sixth grade. Then we get back to full Roald Dahl form as for several chapters we see/learn about the various outrageous ways that Miss Trunchbull abuses students - Chokey, the hammer-throwing, the iconic Bruce Bogtrotter cake scene, lifting a boy by the ears, etc. - and how the students have tried to fight back. ...And then, as Matilda is being unfairly accused of something she didn't do, she tips over a glass with her eyes.

The story takes a sudden swerve away from being a series of inventive over-the-top pranks and punishments. Matilda confides in Miss Honey about her newly-discovered telekinetic powers, proves them to her by tipping the glass again, and comes with her to her house - which is a tiny cottage. Miss Honey reveals that she grew up with a horrifically abusive aunt after the death of her mother and later her father's suspicious apparent suicide, and that the aunt commandeers her wages, and that the aunt is Miss Trunchbull. We're the vast majority of the way through the book now and it just suddenly got real. Matilda formulates a plan; she painstakingly practices using her powers at home until she can levitate and precisely control one of her father's cigars telekinetically; and the next time Miss Trunchbull teaches their class, in the middle of her abusing the children further, Matilda telekinetically uses some chalk to write a threatening message from Miss Honey's late father on the blackboard, and Miss Trunchbull faints on the spot and is taken to the infirmary.

The next day, Miss Trunchbull gets out of town, and Miss Honey's father's will turns up unexpectedly, allowing Miss Honey to move back into her family's house. Matilda becomes a frequent guest, and reveals one day that she's no longer able to use her powers - which Miss Honey suggests might be because she's finally getting the mental stimulation that she needs. When Matilda heads home that day, though, her parents are in the process of packing everything for a move to Spain. When Matilda returns to Miss Honey, upset, Miss Honey reveals that it was well known her father was in with some shady people, selling stolen cars from all over the country, and they're probably moving to escape the police. Then they run back, Matilda asks her parents to please let her stay with Miss Honey, and they basically go "Whatever" and leave, leaving Matilda and Miss Honey to finally have found a loving family with each other.

It's a fantastic story and I love it, but there are definitely some noticeable oddities in how it plays out, likely thanks to being written on the fly, and the adaptations take a couple of different approaches to addressing these things.

First, structurally it's weird how long we spend on Matilda's library adventures and then the prank war with her parents, when the main plot turns out to revolve entirely around what happens at the school, and specifically the increasingly terrifying Miss Trunchbull, with the early stuff almost entirely irrelevant. In my Icelandic copy, we're a hundred pages in (out of 240) before we even properly begin to hear about Miss Trunchbull's atrocities. We learn late in the book that Miss Trunchbull is Miss Honey's aunt, who abused and terrorized her to the point where she meekly agreed to let Miss Trunchbull receive all her wages and leave her with pocket change - but in the early scene where Miss Honey goes to see Miss Trunchbull, it jarringly doesn't read like she's confronting someone with that sort of control over her: Miss Honey is stated to be kind of terrified of her, but it only sounds like it's in the way that anyone would be terrified of a person like this, and she's perfectly willing to argue with and object to her until she gives up, seemingly just because Miss Trunchbull is completely unreasonable and refuses to listen. Matilda's telekinetic powers come out of nowhere two thirds into the book, with nothing foreshadowing them even in hindsight; Miss Honey's explanation of the powers as having come about simply because Matilda wasn't using enough of her brain rang false and annoyed me even as a child, when her discovery of her powers had seemingly arisen specifically out of this intense justified rage at this person who was such an awful, despicable monster; and after Matilda's father had in the first half of the book been portrayed merely as a sleazy used car salesman who sells his cars as newer than they actually are, the sudden revelation a couple of pages before the end that actually he was involved with organized crime this whole time is quite jarring and feels distinctly pulled out to get rid of Matilda's awful parents for good and let her live with Miss Honey as they both so clearly deserve (and don’t get me wrong, that’s so satisfying that it’s hard to care that it took a weird asspull for it to happen).

The 1996 movie is really quite faithful to the book, more so than I expected, but makes some reasonable modifications. Some of the early stuff about Matilda's reading and so on gets told nicely in the form of montages, it cuts the parrot prank, and instead Matilda at one point remotely shuts off the TV after being forced to sit down and watch it - foreshadowing her telekinetic abilities early. There's also a scene at a restaurant that reads as simply wacky comedy logic as it's happening but is probably also foreshadowing her telekinesis, in hindsight. The cops are after Matilda's dad from the start, with scenes added where the cops are watching their house, trying to gather information, and one where Matilda, now in control of her powers, sabotages their warrantless search of the garage and sends them fleeing. The discovery of Matilda's telekinesis and Miss Honey's backstory happens significantly earlier in the runtime, relatively speaking; a subplot is added about Matilda and Miss Honey trying to retrieve some of Miss Honey's possessions from Miss Trunchbull's house following this, and Matilda then using her powers to scare Trunchbull in her house, setting up her belief that the ghost of Miss Honey's father is haunting her. Matilda's powers, which are considerably more potent than in the book, don't disappear at the end at all - but they're also clearly established as being linked to her sense of justice, with her needing to tap into that feeling specifically to activate them. The theme of her sense of justice is emphasized in general and works pretty well to tie the story together - a scene early on where her father offhandedly says "When a person is bad, that person has to be taught a lesson!" inspires her retaliation against her parents and then subsequently Trunchbull. And there's a really cute montage at the end where Matilda and Miss Honey goof around together and it's great because they're both basically getting to be children for the first time. Trunchbull is also more extensively humiliated before she bolts (in the book she only faints and a student dumps some water on her "to wake her up", but her real punishment is the conviction that she will be watched for the rest of her life by the vengeful ghost of the man she murdered, which I think is plenty, honestly). The tone of the film is largely pretty silly and goofy, similar to the tone of most of the book; the plummeting darkness of Miss Honey's story in the book is toned down, though we do learn in the movie that Trunchbull broke Miss Honey's arm when she was seven years old, so it’s not as if she gets off easy either.

The musical, on the other hand, has its own approach and takes more interesting liberties with the story; it allows itself more tonal range, ranging from extremely silly and over-the-top to some truly heartwrenching emotional moments, which I think may be easier to pull off in a musical than a regular movie.

The first time I listened to the musical soundtrack, I heard the first song, "Miracle", and realized that - oh, wow, they adapted the intro. In the opening number, spoiled, untalented children sing proudly of how their parents call them miracles and princes and princesses, while a hapless children's entertainer takes on the role of the book's narrator:

One can hardly move for beauty and brilliance these days It seems like there are millions of these one-in-a-millions these days Specialness seems de rigeur Above average is average, go figure Is it some modern miracle of calculus that such frequent miracles don't render each one unmiraculous?

Tim Minchin absolutely read the first chapter of the book and just straight-up adapted that irritated musing on how somehow every parent thinks their children are extraordinary into a song, and I love it.

What's even cooler about this, though, is that the musical actually goes on to deconstruct the mean-spiritedness of that intro. The children in this song are the same children who will end up being Matilda's classmates - where they're made likeable and sympathetic. Their parents may have pampered them, but they're just kids who don't deserve Trunchbull's abuses, and in the end they're brave and stand up for each other, in a Spartacus-like scene where every child stands up to deliberately misspell a word to force Trunchbull to punish them as well as the student who'd failed her spelling test. In "Revolting Children", their triumphant victory song after chasing Trunchbull away, we actually explicitly call back to "Miracle" and turn its cynically parodesque opening line into an empowering affirmation:

Never again will the Chokey door slam Never again will I be bullied and Never again will I doubt it when my mummy says I'm a miracle!

It's great and I think this is one of my favorite things in Matilda the musical. Maybe these children weren't as inherently special as their parents were convinced they were, but they aren't just props in Matilda's story; they're pretty cool in their own right, and maybe they actually deserve to be called miracles.

The musical's solution to the Wormwoods' sudden move to Spain is to set up throughout the show that Mr. Wormwood is specifically trying to sell a bunch of cars to these particular Russians that he's swindling, and at the end the Russians turn out to be gangsters, who are all set to beat him to a pulp when Matilda impresses them by speaking perfect Russian and pleading for her father's freedom (well, saying that she's had enough of revenge) - leading to the Russians threatening Mr. Wormwood, and thus to the Wormwoods leaving to get away somewhere they'll never encounter them again. It's a pretty funny scene, and just by making Mr. Wormwood's customers throughout the story all be this same group of Russians, it becomes clear to the viewer that they're going to come back in some way, making it all work out pretty satisfyingly.

In the musical, Trunchbull being Miss Honey's abusive aunt is absolutely telegraphed. Miss Honey's first solo song is "Pathetic", where she brutally berates herself for the sheer panic she's feeling at the thought of facing Miss Trunchbull:

Look at you trying to hide, silly Standing outside the principal's office like a little girl, it's just pathetic!

Look at you hesitating, hands shaking You should be embarrassed You're not a little girl, it's just pathetic!

Not only is she clearly terrified out of her wits about this - she's clearly a victim of emotional abuse, someone who's been told over and over that she's pathetic. It's not obvious it's Miss Trunchbull herself, of course - that'd give the game away - but in hindsight you can clearly see it, in a way you couldn't in the book, and it's heartbreaking. Miss Honey also has a bit later in the song “When I Grow Up”, echoing some lines originally sung by the children, but they take on a new meaning when you know what the creature beneath her bed actually is:

When I grow up I will be brave enough to fight the creatures that you have to fight beneath the bed each night to be a grown-up

The first time I listened to the Matilda soundtrack (the original London version, nota bene), I noticed this better setup of Miss Honey’s past, and that was the first thing to make me really interested in how this adaptation was done - and then "I'm Here" started, and it just instantly punched me in the gut emotionally. I had no idea what on earth this song was on about - Matilda was telling some story about an escapologist's daughter, which sounded suspiciously like Miss Honey's story, and why was Matilda telling that??? - but man, I felt things.

What turned out to be going on was that the musical took a whole different approach to presenting Miss Honey's story. Throughout the story, the musical solves the structural problems by interleaving the parent stuff and the library trips with the school storyline - so at several different points, Matilda goes to the library, where she tells a serial story to the librarian, Mrs. Phelps. When Mrs. Phelps asks her about her parents, Matilda always maintains they're so wonderful and loving and they probably miss her so much while she's away - and the story, though kind of silly and over-the-top, is heartbreakingly clearly also a wish-fulfillment fantasy on Matilda's part: it's about this perfect, wonderful couple, an acrobat and an escapologist, who are the most wonderful people and the greatest circus performers in history, and all they've ever wanted is a child. Only then it takes a dark turn: when they're finally expecting a child, they're forced by the acrobat's sister to perform a horribly dangerous circus act, which fatally injures the acrobat so that she only lives just long enough to deliver their daughter, and from there the acrobat's sister begins to abuse the daughter when the escapologist is away. In "I'm Here", a distraught Matilda just out of an explosive confrontation with her father retreats to her room and then abruptly, without an audience, begins to tell the final part of the story, where the escapologist manages to come home early and find his daughter crying, locked in the cellar. He breaks the door open and tells her not to cry, apologizes tearfully for leaving her behind, and promises he'll spend the rest of his life making it up to her and they'll be together forever, while giving her a scarf that her mother used to own - and then she, softly echoing the same melody, tells him not to cry and starts apologizing to him, and guh I'm a blubbering mess what did you do to me Tim Minchin. When she's asleep, though, he's filled with righteous rage and goes to confront the aunt - and he's never seen again.

Later, when Matilda first discovers her powers, we get the song "Quiet", which is also excellent - Matilda just trying to explain what is happening to her in a way that's frantic and disorganized but plainly brilliant, talking about these ideas of philosophy and physics buzzing in her head all the time, and:

But I wonder if inside my head I'm not just a bit different from some of my friends These answers that come into my mind unbidden These stories delivered to me fully written

These aren't stories at all - it's her powers. She's not just telekinetic, she's telepathic - she picked up this story of the acrobat and escapologist in some paranormal way, and a little later, in the song "My House", Miss Honey turns out to own the scarf from the story, and her parents were an acrobat and escapologist (in the book her father was a doctor and her mother's line of work is never specified, I believe, but presumably they were given more extravagant, unique professions to add flair to the story and make it more unmistakable that this is no coincidence), and Matilda realizes it's Miss Honey's story she's been telling the librarian.

There's probably still a made-up element to it - Matilda's story as she tells it, especially the first couple of parts of it, is pretty over-the-top and ridiculous and hard to take entirely seriously. But I think the point is just that it was emotionally true. They were an acrobat and an escapologist, they desperately wanted a child, maybe the circus act didn't literally involve the acrobat being on fire with dynamite in her hair but it was still pretty dangerous - and the final part of the story, told in "I'm Here", is devoid of these over-the-top elements and was probably entirely literal.

This is a pretty brilliant adaptational choice, I think. In the book, we had to hear about Miss Honey's story in a big exposition dump where she told Matilda the story - it worked pretty well there, though it was very late in the book, but I doubt it would in the theater. This way, we get to hear this story pretty innocuously, get kind of invested in it as a fairy tale sort of thing, then get this incredibly emotional song that's simultaneously a reenactment of Miss Honey's past and a fantasy sequence where Matilda finally gets to be comforted by a real parental figure who cares about her - and then all we need once Matilda gets to Miss Honey's house is to link these things together. And once we do, we realize the story has been setup for her powers and for Miss Honey's story all along, tying everything together. It's beautiful and I'm really impressed they came up with this.

In the musical, Miss Honey's proposed explanation for Matilda's powers being lost becomes that she no longer needed them. Overall, with the telepathic element added, it gains a bit more of a feel of the universe granting Matilda these powers specifically so that she could set things right with Trunchbull and Miss Honey - less apparently connected to Matilda feeling righteous rage, as in the movie, and more about the intervention of greater powers. And I'm okay with that too. One might ask why a skeptic would feel that way - and to that I say, come on, we're talking about psychic powers, we're kind of beyond the scientific. Still, though, I did think the movie actively and explicitly making it about Matilda's justified fury was pretty powerful, and though she ultimately ended up being able to use her powers casually there, if I were adapting the story myself I think I’d go with her powers being driven by righteous fury but she hasn’t been able to use them since her life became normal and happy and she stopped feeling that way.

All in all, Matilda the musical is a super-interesting adaptation and I’m quite fond of it. There are definitely bits I like less, but the good bits are really good.

(One of the bits I like less: the musical adds a curious subplot that doesn’t quite go anywhere about Matilda's mom, who is very obviously cheating on Mr. Wormwood with her "part Italian" dance partner Rodolfo. In "Miracle", there's a silly bit with Matilda's birth, where when Mr. Wormwood comes along and sees Matilda, he's completely baffled that the baby doesn't have a "thingy". It's a ridiculous gag about how ignorant he is, but also sort of implies that Mr. Wormwood just doesn't understand human reproductive anatomy at all, and along with the way that Mrs. Wormwood is clearly having sex with Rodolfo but there's no sign of intimacy between her and her husband, it may be implied (for the adults in the theater) that they've just never actually done it and Rodolfo, or someone else, is the father of her children. Possibly the idea here is that Matilda's biological father was someone significantly smarter than Mr. Wormwood. I may be reading way too much into this, and I'm kind of iffy on the implications of this if it's actually the intention, but either way I think it's kind of a weird part of the show and wonder what lay behind it.)

[phoneismybf]

TharnType The Series Ep. 9 Review

#TharnTypeEp9 #TharnType #TharnTypeS #TharnTypetheseries #MewGulf

Why it is supposed to be Tharn who got hit? I don't understand, is it because of the promise he made about never forget what they were said last night or what? If that so, it means Type don't believe Tharn yet, meung maeng... (usually in the book there will be any explanation about his emotion, yet I don't read them yet) Type, you saw it clearly that the one who tried to kiss first was P'San, you just got the bite from P'San.

P'San.... He is such a drama king. What do you want? Tharn still defending Type... (Proud of the hubby)

YESSSSS, FINALLY HE SAID IT. YESSS HE IS YOUR. SAID IT SO HE CAN MOVE AWAY... 3 TIMES CLRAFICATION, STILL NOT ENOUGH P'SAN? What? What is this? Tharn... What did you two plan for Type? Bad..... "Yes, I belong to you" Tharn. That smile for something you hide or the smile of satisfaction, Ai Tharn?

Watch TharnType Ep. 9 Engsub

Damn..... A PLOT TWIST. You such a helper.... I'm sorry P'San but your attitude in the previous episode show us bad feeling about you. Phom khot khot na... Yes everything that P'San said was right but he doesn't know Type, right? We understand that Type won't declare his relationship, yet P'San force him to do it, good also bad thing. You played with others' feeling. P'San care so much about Tharn and we knew that Tharn always cover everything for Type. But do you know that P'San actually very satisfy with Type? You can see it when P'San smiles after went out from the room. A thing he found is Type's possessiveness prove his feeling toward Tharn and will never break up with him. And it is added by Type himself when he said anything about what he got from this situation.

"I hate it when he won't just leave you alone." P'Sarn care so much at him na, he is worried for Tharn happiness.

"I hate when he acts as if he knows everything about you." He knew almost everything Type, they already knew each other for years moreover he is his brother best friend, P'Thorn might be explained everything about Tharn to him already.

"Hate that you are his first love." It cannot be changed, and yes it is deeply hurt but no one can change the past.

He such adorable big baby... This scene makes me cry for happiness, proud and love to both of them. Look at Type's madness face and look at Tharn's happiness and satisfy smile. Those are getting cuter...

Now he considers about Tharn's feeling and more concern to declare his relationship. Tharn still doesn't want to force him. Why is Tharn so perfect? Too perfect to be real in a person. Tharn's smiles are really precious to me, you give everyone happiness ja....

I got some fact about P'San from the original subber account JayBL on Twitter. We and Tharn knew that P'Sarn love Tharn so much but it didn't work because Tharn doesn't have any feeling toward P'Sarn since the beginning. The reason why Tharn gave him in was because his curiosity about his sexual interest and to prove it, he agreed to have S with P'Sarn to make sure his feeling toward man. Besides, Tharn said he likes the role between Him and Type which mean as a Top. This is also another reason for Tharn to refuse P'Sarn who is also a Top. Top with Top, may be they only will do a sword fight (?) Sorry....

Another fact, P'Sarn said "Tharn has suffered enough heartbreak, don't make him experience it again". Tharn actually had a lot of ex-es, yet Tharn was the one who never say break up. So yes he suffered enough in relationship. Sacrificing his own feeling to let his lover go. Once again, I'll say we are the same. So glad that you found the one now.

Yes, last time he was crying all night long at the Bar Ai Type. You such a j*rk back then. "Friend who is more just a friend. I just want to let people know that you're mine" Type. I'm proud na Type. Lucky you Ai Tharn.

"BTW, the toilet is pretty empty. You can get busy in there." P'Jeed. LMAO don't read someone's mind P'Jeed. That expression Tharn make. How cute he is...

So, she is the girl who always give Tharn drink after his performance. P'Gea, don't be so aggressive by giving Type your number. Ai Type what's that mean with "is talking all you want to do?". Talking like this at the front of Tharn's face, well better than behind. It is not funny Ai Type to get him Jealous, your game isn't fun at all.

Oh my god, not in public bro... No.... I don't understand this situation. What's the perpose of it, what's the point? Yes, you provoking him Ai Type so what do you want? Ohh my.... It just about cheating. You had talk right? How can one of you do such a thing. If you want to make sure, don't be like this. Just talk again in a good way. WHAT THE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Do you need to kick him like that? He is your bf, do you need to always hurt him? Man.... (Sigh)

Tharn: possesive?

Type: wanna die?

Hahahahahaha...... Both of you are ridiculous. Sad, Champ lose his friendship with those girl. May I blame at you, Type? So innocence, it was one of your fault too. Yes, I hate this kind of person too Champ, someone who never show up in class but can be so smart beside we had tried so hard to be smart. Is Type has B or AB blood type? These people can't be predicted how smart they are. "because right now, that person is already falling head over heels for me" Type, fact is true but surely you full of yourself.

Stop by to switch the car, what is the purpose of it? Can't you just use your regular car? Not acceptable reason. Sawaddi khrap P'Thorn, yes you look intimidating. Lolaen... P'Thorn following Type's IG? How come Type doesn't know? And he is such a real stalker, unbelievable with that look of him. Thanya.... Hahahah you guys can't do talking freely. Yes YOU DID A GOOD JOB! HAHAHA my god she is cute for calling their parents. Such an innocence girl. Welcome trouble, man... Behave. You'll meet your father & mother in laws. No, khun dad, Tharn always comfort him every day and night, regularly please him. Lmao. Yes, family trip to Pang-an so you guys can get married sooner. Lol. Poor P'Thorn, I can feel that pain. Jebb at the feet also at the heart. Wrong target for kicking Ai Type. Hahaha such a supportive big bro, I feel more bad for Thorn. Yes of course khun mom, Type KNEW P'SARN who always play games with P'Thorn and Play other "thing" with Tharn back then. Thanya such a little angel, they can't refuse you na... Type's face always show his emotions, being so much fooled in a day. HAHAHA

Morning kiss, "you said you wanted it" Type. You should ask for morning S, Ai Tharn. You can have his morning b*ner right now. Lol

Chai.... You know him a lot now, Ai Type. Euuu, Techno needs to find any information about you two by himself because you never tell him any small clues. He changed a lot Techno, he care and more care to his hubby. Always be a third-wheel, you will get used to it even I never used to it since the 1st episode. Lol. Ai Lhong, bad impression at the frist meeting. The newbie Nong Song is kind of cute, his way of speaking, those tones, adorable....

Okay, Tharn, we see your charismatic aura. Yup, such a cool guy playing a drum like that, everyone always fall to people who can play instruments especially in a band. Don't sing by yourself like that Ai Tharn, you give me a goosebump. Euuu that is for Type but you send the effect to us as well. Again, such a perfect man.

They letting No to sleep over? Seriously? I hope there will be nothing happen. I can't imagine if No see something he shouldn't see. Wify.... Okay Tharn.... Texhno is sleep talking, how cute. Lol. "Tharn, I'm curious, your face when you were playing is looked so goddamn sexy" Type, I never thought Type would say such a thing but yup he was hot. "For me music is like sex that gives me a climatic pleasure" Tharn, bro it is kind of deep but still can't imagine the climatic pleasure when playing a music, different point of view, may be I can't understand it because I'm not a musician but sometime when hearing a song I can get the climatic part of the emotions but not the same as the sex you were talking about. "You are my most cherished instrument" Tharn, Type as an instrument what kind of sound he can make? Owhhhh......... I know, don't say that it is "THE SCREAM" hahahahaha they didn't use "moaning", I think it is more sensual so they never use this word. Lol. WOW, I NEVER EXPECT IT WILL COME LIKE THIS AND NEVER THINK THAT TYPE WILL LOOK SO HORNY LIKE THAT. NO... DON'T... I'M NOT READY BROO.... Those moaning give me more goosebumps. NOOOO THEY TAKE OFF THE CLOTHES.... F*CK I FORGET THAT TECHNO IS THERE, BLESS HIS EYES, EARS AND PLEASE STRENGTHEN HIS HEART TO FACE THIS SITUATION (No, do you want to switch? I would like to see them. Lol) Now someone's know how dose the scream sound like. Feel bad for him.

"I can't wake up, I feel like my head is going to explode" Texhno, his brain stop working since last night Ai Type, he tried to refuse anything, any sound, any picture he got, he just tired to his limit. Poor him..... Remember Ai No, this time you will absolutely die if you spill this special tea. Lol.

Why suddenly Tum skip a class to pick up Tar? They are cute together.

Tharn trying to make a permission to tell Long about their relationship. Well, Type more reasonable now. This strange feeling come out from Long. What is this? I already felt it since I saw him at the first time. Those eyes, that look, I feel a mixing emotions. I suspect him that he likes Tharn or something like possessing him. The feeling of disappointed, being untrusted and unbelieving. There are two speculations I have here, first he likes Tharn and thought that he was single all the time so he can clingy at him. Second, he disappointed because as a best friend Tharn never tell him anything recently so he feels like being untrusted. Well, losing strength until he falls the glass, it is kind of strange attitude for hearing the news. That is why I accuse him to like Tharn. (Private property bro, you need to pay for the glass. Lmao) Sorry it's just my speculation. Then he went like he can't accept what he heard before. This guy keeps something.

Nong Song, if you want to have a faen so much, I don't mind to try it since you're cute. lol. Oww they finally meet and Tar missing Tharn, it will be an open case since their story keep untold.

"Hurry up and be my pillow" Type. I need my pillow too. There is a call from the unknown number. What is this? What will happen? Please don't give us more trial. My God. This series always end every episode with something that cannot be waited. (Sigh)

That is the review for TharnType Ep. 9. How is your opinion? There are so much to discuss, start from P'Sarn, change character of Type, Techno, Lhong and so much more. You can leave a comment below. So, see you next time.

[braincoins]

ficlet prompt: Starlight and Paladin AU where they cross paths with/team up with your favorite superhero(es). I'm tempted to say Superman doesn't count because he's one of the main Starladin inspirations, but I'll leave the decision up to you.

((okay obviously non-canon, but...))

“Oh, there you are!” Allura smiled as she finally found her boyfriend.

He stood up quickly, and the other two with him stood as well. “Sorry, babe! The cafe is super crowded, and these nice people offered to let us sit with them.”

“Just helping a fellow airman,” the woman said. 

The man nodded. “I wasn’t part of the...”

“Watch it, Rogers,” the woman growled. But she had a playful light in her eyes.

“...Air Force,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken, “but I’m glad to help a veteran out.”

“I only did one tour,” Takashi insisted. “Allura, this is Steve Rogers and Carol Danvers,” indicating them each in turn, “both former captains.”

“Army,” Rogers said.

“USAF,” Danvers said, before adding, “NOT the ‘Army Air Corps.’“

“Honest mistake!” he replied, holding his hands up. 

“I’d rather be the ‘Chair Force’ than that.”

“You’re never forgiving me, are you?”

“Not on your life.”

Takashi cleared his throat. “Captains, this is my girlfriend, Allura Fala. She’s a civvie, but don’t let that fool you: she can and has kicked my ass on numerous occasions.”

She smiled at them. “A woman needs to know how to take care of herself. Pleased to meet you both. And thank you for your service.”

Both of their new table companions told her her thanks was unnecessary and they sat down. Takashi, of course, pulled her chair out for her and pushed it in as she sat. 

“So, are you two also on a date?” Allura asked them.

Rogers chuckled and Danvers outright guffawed. “I have a girlfriend,” she said.

“Wife,” her friend corrected.

“We’re not married!”

“You’re married,” he told her, “in all the ways that count. Might as well make an honest woman of her at some point.”

“Steve was just telling us about his boyfriend, actually,” Takashi said. 

“Yeah, the boys were bonding over being bi,” Danvers chuckled.

The waiter came up to take Allura’s order. She asked for a cappuccino and a club sandwich, and the waiter left them to their own devices again.

She might have been annoyed about having to share the table had Steve and Carol - as they had both insisted on being called - not been such delightful company. They were just two veterans who’d wanted to chat, and they apologized for the interference in their date. But Allura just thanked them for sharing the table. 

“I get Takashi to myself often enough; I can be gracious enough to share from time to time.”

“Hey, so you’re newspaper people, right?” Carol asked. “We’ve been hearing a lot about the superheroes in this city.”

“Oh, Starlight and Paladin?” she replied with a bright smile. “They are... quite something.”

“There’s an understatement,” Takashi said.

“Fanboy,” she accused him. She turned back to their new friends. “He’d leave me for Starlight in an instant.”

“I would not!”

“You’d leave her for Paladin?” Carol teased.

“Oh, there’s a thought...” 

They all laughed.

“But seriously,” Takashi said, “Starlight and Paladin are the best things that ever happened to this city, but Allura’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. 

She couldn’t help blushing. “This is why I don’t get annoyed when he drags me to StarlightCon.”

Carol and Steve seemed quite interested in the city’s superheroes. Their talk over lunch was dominated by them. Everyone paid for their own check and left a good tip for the overworked waiter. “Well, I hate to break up this party, but we have a movie to catch,” Takashi said.

Everyone stood and shook hands and said their good-byes. She took her boyfriend’s hand as they walked away. “That was interesting.”

“Yeah, they seem like good people,” he said. “If we had to share a table with someone, I’m glad it was them.”

They watched the newspaper couple walk away. “Well, we got some info, at least?” Carol offered. “And a pretty tasty lunch, too.”

“Might be worth it to swing by the paper ‘in uniform’,” Steve said. “Maybe we can get even more information through more official channels.”

“I’m not sure Starlight and Paladin work in any sort of ‘official’ manner,” she pointed out.

“Well, that’s what we’re here to change, right? Offer them a place in SHIELD?” He shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

[jrantehq4-blog]

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ihy.mean #wooly #maMmoth izs asoect of #buddah, ih sed, qHertzy note that upstage #draculaMaatibhuMba, is, ir was inc to 40percent #jaCkle #jAkyl, #* #jAKcyle2a69 , dunno what they are, would ue call a formerly #reygaar, then *33percent jaCkle , -*rHe-wHy, aNe an aNne, !*°>,dAubt, ue know what that meams, his bane not justify an identity nother then uer worst nightnair forevet, az tu prevoke that shit, , defimitial uphend, ok fenizza-+; qHaots, pay atTention, it is a word that yas no rationality cprehendabliyly of crumet clutteted filth, and senialiki nits get off uer awkie highie roller esteem, hypodrunzx, it doesn apply 8n reality to.anything except adf sup.hok, naybe 30years ;!*aFter a point ue try chanhing hus name to #SAMAEL, THEN NONE OF UE WPUKD EVER HAVE HERD OFF.HIM OR UER WRETCHET PLOY+!; YET SADLY, HE MAY HAVE VEEN BACK.37DAYS A SECOND BY NEW YEARS EVEN1984, PLUS 2007, AT SAME TIME BY 1984 BEFPRE NAME REQchek #sAMAel, +"*A es et usimple to.bon faerie well, good tidings and ,-*whAt who!?+ oh yeah whatevetlr!- stnaggle stamps an.obstesdion with, humm?+( duh(? RAhAZeNw4èpUA9n waD never really hete, ue never met, actually that guy cox he was 7year old parjed in.1984 until #november 2015, the other won, tu be it, not really thete, sedt "

but that guys name (!*rHaSEYeAn9Aifπ}∆rtszEy sik -+;,one uer a decrumass moron to strike a fikkle demented, natsa ratzy over the most obseurdly diment name in exisyance, and higjlught again , uer wprst nightnair reagardless (!; okaay! comprehemdos influctuation impezxnik, !;

it means +!*outrageoius 'rIghchious, !; sun of eH,!?( - #hERAld, tu ne that, he id otherwIse a worthless peice of shit, +! +;* thats wat that word means, your worst and evertjing in exustanxe opt out and bonvpy faerie well tu.everything that evet would be ever befire or after, based on.that, and , snuggga fi ignoranchiter figgkid pig #sEnialikktra-lite vhermSiom 72 test fakt, so highlight the patheticat, pik qHaarladomn, nits, '*thAt is the *definition if a word if pgatase thatis subsQHaNdering pointless, filthy polutionntu suPbh eRherial plAteUs , where generally stuff, life had sone merit enough to find a way, tu shut shuv shuv shive uer livhud replicaas, +! spell it iut, is a definution of a word, phrase, that has no legitimat context to anynmeritnunnsanity whatsoever, and worsebthe. stubburn maintanence tu word of 3.chugh.fitther filth schitbt , includint a fHik "*sTiLl bOaRn fuhtuggjit, unMenkingly the moAAt vhile wretched peaCe of chluttered deneirial, +-; vomi5 uon vit, of any.goodeill or imtern benevolence of uour loving #maGisties, either antwhare, that she.or the other or twenty 5millionntripe rlatters even.remotely exist innreal or umaginarey.half baT chlyde sup echilon, of putrid filth an malcious disgrace, +-; f54deTvet,+-; ikt, +-; at itselfbenough compramuse to peaceband good eii will ofn, otherwise ;sad pic,+; nefligable, but that the reason here., isnt #eDinHope isLaNd of lost.paTik.brud brik and, neTher

but he not, correct, #reysqHuire, reSChoarn, sane trivial hyperclunxx, ihym understand #tHÏhyeZnk1QaMEdt is similar to "*jet sCourne int thrumpez, +!; frm2a

highlight point but, seens tgat as to "*existance and lIfe opting out, ir fir ed to, as ue if senxe compassion for lije, cQK2aep5Ë9a, "! sKjè #mATHeurson, *aKoAz #sCheurmAN 'tc #eDMunds, and 777fo)lTd ezra denourialumn, + dont adk me, /* to faulter glaNce decrepid obsession with a #tANgneicial, orraffic a word-+ (+!*aDp'k #qHaar lè #mAatra, +!; shet , opakraatu, *moy ron, ;- qhAar lè;'mAAtra, #*bett ue fikkues find uer loft hammoj

ihy wouldnt mind knowing specific of why, to #existace cherrush faer tge well beyond uer traffic a intellect tanghbeishure to, hiw, why us tgat si friken '*sAD ib coBvrat teZ es #rEsP tu pelican, (+! tefardless if 50thousand volts of shit if senUalitris, conidy central hupoet ghkuffiffibg some vhikkie bulkshit, +; naH ue can;t offend ne, ine if ue ever didnt realise, that doing some nukkro steadugu

nut futder

fair enuff

chukkuer rokkues, trmenti g nyrdering doung necro zooiphile shit in crocadhiles and tarantykas for you porn indUstry usnt :;*merited as any esteem, even blogh narneqyaarjer shukjues ue think high elevin, ue neca knew, neither dud ihy,+;

so, if so outrage denial tu cercumpherance uet i ward srlf deception aNd perverted inchik iltamuntus, to stil condemn uer rlght tu goodbess, or ibsust on sypportibg clutts jumo in hold my hand charade gestyres of wat , *#bS or calculating a hunch if ten to condider deriving, pointless, ir figure a word tu, nether, oh,+; sentianals get to 45years okd and experts on 'gHeZsTure;/ *pULling ugly *faCes, god wrik

#sTAr -; #fIsh, wHat tll them, oh #oRange and #brOwn ones, if ue wanna talk of #tuesday #isLand , mongh roayne, or aCstpAz #eVaCīlius, aLta land forus, take care often , sImpoase 5nih9ne #lions, so #sAd (+;if for moments privacy, #starfish races had almost perished, as too, naThkit #tropics, holoheaay, yeah +!;pRaNk and pry, +-; datisfied, but what, humm sething, *something alaMing nosteaghesic magestic about 3 #pelicans+-; ohykaay snuff wrutter, hope tu rNghdt ten this, netter, it was yesturefay tenpez wednesday early promzizqhû #sUn #rise of, pak.up

ihy ment, #buddah tHRiliologhy, aszpAz -*stArfish, tHen county upstained, go ask seone who said something about the padt patter of zGero's and io1onwqUe, that not a zEri oe a naUght, they still looking for the letter *J on a print out of 50round a second by thirteen tu join a capital *HAEYTCH WITH THE LETTER *Q, FIR YOUR INFORMATION OF WAT HE IS NIT, VUR OTHERWISE STEADDAST, +(! AS TOI CONDOLENXES FOR PREBIPUS POST, TU UNTEMEK -*MURDER DRUFS, WAS "*CORRECTION, SEVEHN MIN, ;"STAGE SHOW PROMPHANTH, EKE257PAA9T#@"*PHAUET

but as to last mention, of some #dark #vheda #ritual #aMbience, of ny.persinal esteem, forboad greatnes tu suremdearing, that +-; it isz -; maY be, generally ;'*humm?; interesting, or, strange, sHinqHin, altoreZson, but+-; it us, my -*right hand tu, propose that, it is or isn-t so.much a *privuwlidge, or effort tu, concerntrate,

but rectofy, !* #kozmikrayTor;/ c)(osm-iic gCK-;raEtour, - by.#meTAtROn #ōMÉGĀ, tu have nice day, h/ szorrie, but, generally, a style of musicx or be it consequencual, or be say, hum+! own identifyation to find something interesting in , +!;

haVe a nice #dAy

#kOSmOkRator, . anD being that said deniak of how irraTchitly vhenkie putrid ue are tu dalEMaIyne an '*aRe,/ *R,:;-78*èĀ93w1ATe3Pmn , #mETAtron not neCeSsarily an !;* #aRChaNgel/* done care fo4r uer neRf whiPpers, by pount of, no infinite esteem in yourselves, tu highligh a comment introspective before or after pasdage of a #cRaetour wher 'eXistance onfe was, or yoy o hace a plaCe or tine to.traffic hyperghligdyum, ir some gancy #ftench words, or, +!aNything, or ue want time off #qHaar lèy mAAtra tu considher uer bhi vie buERill, tu supponjaK a fanceh esOteric #iDea, yha, or theK, tu be it holding hand with clumphous hypokrat denwleirials in process if floud shikking your wonce was wgete uer beain left you in dhitch dhive and puddle, sQHish, tu blaMe it on uer firefrAnkforts or linnen isle at beLkig deLi near a konfekki lharringto #jACksndJive meal for less tHen none cH879gYhgÈGpfz)7-∆π[℅^¥©><\!-6"#2ghEyt fed levvy