#i’m ingratiating myself

[miss-morland]

my main goal is for everyone to like me is that wrong

[theostrophywife]

my collar.

pairing: theodore nott x reader.

song inspiration: she's my collar by gorillaz (feat. kali uchis)

author's note: sometimes theo just needs to be put in his place and i'm more than happy to deliver that 😏

It was heinous.

It was criminal. 

It was downright torturous.

Your boyfriend leaned over, his lips grazing your earlobe as he lowered his voice to a husky, seductive tone. “Are you okay, principessa? You seem a little distracted.” 

Crimson colored your cheeks as you straightened against the wingback chair, clearing your throat while you looked around the table, which was currently occupied by your closest friends. All of which were none the wiser to the effect Theo had on you tonight. 

“I’m fine,” you squeaked out. 

“Really?” Theo drawled, sliding his hand down your thigh and squeezing firmly. “Because you haven’t stopped shaking your leg since dinner started. A shame. Malfoy flew in a private chef from France. He really wants to impress his girl. I know what that’s like.” 

You inhaled sharply as his hand trailed higher, his rough and calloused fingers slipping underneath the slit of your dress. “Teddy, please…” 

“Begging already, dolcezza? I thought we agreed to save that for the bedroom.” 

The teasing and taunting, the push and pull, the cat and mouse routine between you and Theo had been constant all night. Punishment for turning down his proposal for a quickie before dinner. It was hard enough to say no to Theo on a normal day, but declining your boyfriend’s proposition of hot, frantic sex while he looked absolutely sinful in a custom three piece suit was nearly impossible. Not to mention painful. 

Still, if you’d taken him up on the offer, you most likely would’ve never made it to dinner. You couldn’t do that to Draco. He needed emotional support. Tonight was his first time ingratiating Hermione into your friend group and you promised that you’d do everything in your power to make her feel welcome. 

With a sigh, you pried Theo’s fingers off of your thigh. “Behave, Theodore.” Your boyfriend pouted like a petulant child. “Draco needs us.” 

You nodded towards the blonde who looked equally panicked and appalled while Blaise recounted embarrassing stories to Hermione. The golden girl seemed amused by the antics, but Malfoy was anything but. 

“Save him before he ruptures a blood vessel,” you murmured to your boyfriend. For good measure, you batted your lashes up at him and gave him a look that he couldn’t refuse. “Please, baby.” 

Theo sighed, mumbling in Italian under his breath. “Gentlemen. Care for a cigar?” 

Thankfully, Zabini’s plan to embarrass the hell out of Draco was momentarily forgotten. Crisis averted. Draco shot you a grateful look, knowing that you were most likely behind the save. Salazar knows that Theo would’ve delighted in the effort of sullying his oldest friend’s reputation if he hadn’t been distracted. 

The boys rose from their chairs, excusing themselves from the room. Theo lingered beside you, dipping his head to place a kiss right underneath your jaw. He sucked lightly on the sweet spot and smirked as you melted against him. The bastard was playing dirty. 

“You owe me for that, cara mia.” 

Desire bloomed in your core, flooding heat through your body as you peered at your boyfriend. You couldn’t help but admire him in his suit. The midnight blue fabric draped over his tall and lean figure like your own personal gift and the deep stormy color brought out his eyes. You flushed as he turned, training his intense gaze on you like he was savoring the sight. With a cheeky grin, Theo shot you a wink before slipping out the door. 

Beside you, Pansy tutted in disapproval. “Get a hold of yourself, Y/N.” 

You flushed as Hermione bit back a grin. The curly haired witch patted your hand. “You have my sympathy. When I first saw Draco in a suit, I nearly spilled wine all over myself.” 

“See, Pans. I’m not the only one,” you murmured in self-defense. “I can’t help it.” 

Pansy shook her head, her glossy bob grazing her chin. “You can and you will. Don’t let Nott turn you into a simpering mess. The Y/N I know would bring a man to his knees.” 

Hermione nodded in agreement. “I think Pansy’s right. You should show Theo who’s really in control.” 

You smirked as an idea started forming in your head. “You’re more devious than you look, aren’t you, Granger?” Hermione flashed you an innocent smile, which made you laugh. Draco had his work cut out for him. You liked her all the more for it. “You two have a point. Maybe I’ll give my boyfriend a taste of his own medicine tonight.” 

Once your mind was made up, the three of you moved on to more important topics. You were fascinated to hear about Hermione’s work on curing lycanthropy while she was equally curious about the proposed laws that you were in the process of bringing before the Wizengamot. The bill was a passion project of yours because it would give rights and protections to muggle born wizards and witches that had never been afforded to them before. You were ready to fight tooth and nail to see it come to fruition. 

Needless to say, you were a little too passionate about it. The last time Rita Skeeter interviewed you under the guise of bringing light to the cause, you nearly strangled the sneaky little witch for taking more interest in your romantic relationship than the work you were trying to achieve. You were glad that Pansy worked her high society charm and publicity experience to diffuse the situation. 

In the end, she bribed and threatened the proper people to have the story killed. It was a blessing in disguise since you ended up giving exclusive rights to the Quibbler, which was now spearheaded by your old classmate Luna. She truly did the story justice. As a bonus, her tenacity seemed to have caught the attention of the pickiest witch you knew. No matter how many times Pansy denied it, you knew your friend was smitten. 

“Babe, you should take your own advice and just ask Luna out already.” 

Your friend nearly choked on her wine. Hermione watched the interaction with an amused expression. Her lips curled into a mischievous smile as she turned over to Pansy. “I happen to know that you’re just her type.” 

Never in your life had you seen Pansy Parkinson blush that furiously. She caught herself, holding her head high in that aristocratic way of hers. “Of course I’m her type,” your friend declared in a haughty tone. “I’m everyone’s type.” 

You and Hermione looked at each other before bursting into a fit of giggles. Pansy cracked a smile and laughed along. The three of you were in full hysterics by the time the boys came back. 

Theo slipped back into his seat, squeezing your shoulder gently. “What’s so funny, dolcezza?” 

“Girl talk,” Hermione answered on your behalf. “It’s not for you boys to hear.” 

You nodded in between giggles. “What Granger said.”

Draco groaned. “Bloody hell, they’re unionizing.” 

Your boyfriend raised a brow. He placed his hand back on your thigh, resuming the torturous contact from earlier in the night. “Keeping secrets from me now, Y/N?” 

You plastered a saccharine sweet smile on your face. Theo observed curiously as you peeled his fingers from your leg before firmly holding his hand. “I thought you liked a little mystery, baby.” 

Theo swallowed thickly as you leaned in to whisper in his ear. He held his breath while you pressed your palm against his chest, twirling his tie between red painted fingernails. You lowered your voice into a dark, seductive tone. “Have I told you how good you look tonight? I could just eat you up.” 

Lust blown eyes stared back at you, those familiar piercing blue irises completely swallowed by darkness. Theo shifted in his seat as his gaze dropped down to your mouth. You flashed him an innocent smile before releasing his tie and returning to the conversation happening around you. You could feel that burning gaze on you as you laughed and talked with Pansy and Mattheo. 

For the rest of the dinner, you kept up the nonchalant act. You mustered every ounce of self-control within you and rebuffed all of Theo’s advances. Every time he leaned in for a kiss, you gave him your cheek instead. When the group moved to the sitting room, you walked by his side instead of leading the way because you knew Theo would take advantage and smack your ass when no one was looking. To his surprise, you slapped his backside with a sly little smirk, causing him to glance over at you in shock. 

By the time you were seated on the expensive velvet couch, Theo was practically jittering. His knee bounced beside you as Hermione continued telling you about the Paris trip Draco had planned. Without looking at him, you placed a hand on your boyfriend’s leg and stopped his anxious bouncing. He sighed beside you, no doubt pouting like a petulant child. Yet you didn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgement, which only made him more desperate. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Theo whispered into your ear. “You can devour me all you’d like, cara mia.”

You shook your head. “We haven’t even gotten to dessert yet, my love.” 

When Draco brought out a spread of chocolate covered strawberries, the opportunity to tease Theo even more quite literally presented itself on a silver platter. You pinched the ripe fruit between your fingers before wrapping your lips around it. Theo watched with rapt attention as you took a slow, deliberate bite, making a whole show of sucking and licking off the chocolate. He gripped the armchair so hard that his knuckles turned white from the strained effort. 

You bit back a smirk as he crossed his legs and tried not to groan. It was obvious that you had the upper hand now. Theo was barely paying attention to whatever anecdote Enzo and Mattheo were rambling to him about. Those electric eyes were trained on you as you picked up another strawberry. 

“Want a bite, Teddy?” you asked lovingly. “They’re sweet.” 

Theo sucked in a breath before nodding slowly. He didn’t trust his voice at the moment. You offered the fruit to him, cradling his cheek gently as he wrapped his lips around the strawberry in a suggestive manner. Theo kept eye contact as he sucked the white chocolate off. You stared back, smiling sweetly as he devoured the fruit in one bite. He seemed frustrated at your unaffected expression, but you were determined not to break. You were going to come out on top tonight. In more ways than one. 

Usually, the two of you would be the first to leave. You rarely made it through an entire night without Theo dragging you into the floo so you could tear each other apart back at your shared flat. Tonight was different though. You lasted all the way through midnight, forcing yourself to laugh and chat with your friends as you ignored your boyfriend’s fuck me eyes from across the room. 

For that, you made sure you were the last to leave. Theo was convinced he was slowly dying. As soon as the two of you stepped through the floor, your boyfriend scrambled towards your direction, itching to get his hands all over you. 

You stepped out of his reach and shook your head. “I didn’t say you could touch me.” 

Theo looked utterly confused. “I’ve never needed permission before.” 

You chuckled darkly. “You really think I’d reward you for acting like a brat all night? You’re going to learn that it’s a bad idea to tease me like that in front of all of our friends.” Theo gaped at your words. “Now, sit. You can use this time to think about what you’ve done.” 

“Dolcezza, please —“

”Did I fucking stutter, Theo?” You jutted your chin to the bed. “Sit. I won’t tell you again.” 

Judging by the look on his face, Theo was stunned at the sudden change, but you knew your boyfriend well enough to notice that he was entirely turned on by it too. He settled on the edge of the bed, watching in anticipation as you made your way over to the vanity table. As slowly as possible, you took off every piece of jewelry one by one. The diamonds glittered brightly as you removed them from your neck, ears, and fingers. 

A tense silence settled in the room while you pulled the pins out of your updo, sending your hair cascading over your shoulders. Theo squirmed in place, groaning at the sight. You knew that seeing your hair down was his weakness.

“Baby,” he pleaded in the darkness. “Can I touch you?” 

You cut him a disinterested glance over your shoulder. “You can help me take my dress off.” 

Theo sighed in relief as you sauntered over to him. His slender fingers struggled with the zipper, eager to tear the fabric off of your body. You met his gaze through the mirror, giving him a stern look. 

“Slow, Theo. You need to be patient.” 

Your boyfriend swallowed thickly, struggling to reign himself in. He concentrated on undressing you slowly, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled the zipper down. He cursed under his breath when your dress pooled around your feet, leaving you in nothing but a little lacy green set — his favorite. 

The struggle was evident in his expression. His gaze raked over your body, settling on the spiky heels that you purposely kept on. The red soled stilettos clicked against the wooden floors as you closed the gap. You smirked as you settled between his legs and tugged on his tie. 

“Your turn,” you rasped while Theo gazed at you with pure hunger. “Let me undress you now.” 

“Okay,” Theo murmured, dazed and confused as you unbuttoned his shirt. 

He hissed when you raked your nails over his chest and made quick work of his tie. Theo started unbuttoning his shirt, but reeled back when you swatted his hands away. Your boyfriend gazed up at you expectantly, letting his hands fall neatly to his sides while you took over. Without much effort, you expertly unbuckled his belt and kneeled before him to help him slip out of his pants. Once he was stripped down to his boxers, your eyes flickered back to his face.  

“Get on the bed,” you commanded. 

Theo was mesmerized, inching backwards towards the headboard on his elbows, but keeping his attention on you as you crawled on the mattress with your heels still on. Your boyfriend was completely under your spell as you brought your face close to his, your hair tickling his chest while he eagerly drank you in. 

“What do you want?” 

“I want to kiss you,” he answered without hesitation.

”Then learn to ask for it.” 

Theo nodded, biting his lip. “Can I kiss you?” 

You raised a brow, utterly unimpressed. “Try again, Theo.” 

He chewed on his bottom lip, canines sinking down. “Can I kiss you, please?” 

You smirked, pleased with the magic word. “Good boy.” 

Something dark flashed in Theo’s expression. Your words seemed to awaken a new level of lust and desire within him. The praise gave him a rush that he had never felt before. Theo surged forward, his mouth slanting over yours eagerly. He tasted like wine and strawberries, heady and sinful while he kissed you deeply. His tongue slipped past the seam of your lips, demanding entrance. You granted his request, licking the roof of his mouth as you battled for control. 

Theo welcomed the challenge, groaning into your mouth as he pulled you into his lap. You straddled him and tugged at his hair as you flicked your tongue over his bottom lip, licking and sucking until he groaned with need. Theo took liberties without your permission, his greed getting the best of him as he grinded his hard length against your ass. 

You weren’t going to reward his impertinent behavior. You promised to teach him a lesson tonight. Theo gasped as you bit down on his bottom lip before raising his arms above him. He blinked in confusion as you bound him to the headboard with his own tie. It all happened so fast that by the time he noticed, it was already too late. 

Theo tugged at the restraints, squirming underneath you. “Please, cara mia. I want to touch you.” 

You sighed in disappointment. “Then you should've asked.” 

His biceps flexed as he struggled, the veins on his forearms stark and prominent against his olive skin. Panic filled his eyes when he realized that there was no getting out of his binds. “I’m sorry. I got greedy. Please untie me, principessa. I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll make it up to you.” 

Theo sounded desperate. You traced his swollen lips with your fingers and tugged at his messy brown waves. His eyes were wild as you straddled him. “Oh, you will,” you drawled, flashing him a devious smirk. “After I’m done with you, you’ll learn not to disobey me, my love.” 

Your boyfriend panted heavily as you kissed down his chest, sucking and nipping at his flesh in a punishing manner. He was barely breathing as you trailed further south, licking a stripe down his torso. Theo whimpered as you pressed sloppy, openmouthed kisses along his abdominal muscles, leaving hickies in the shape of your initials on his skin. You continued taunting him with your mouth, flicking your tongue along his sinfully delicious happy trail like you had all the time in the world. When you grazed your teeth against his v-lines, Theo tugged at his arms so hard that the headboard rattled. 

He was practically in tears as you palmed his cock through the fabric of his underwear. Theo held his breath as you toyed with the band of his boxers, hooking your fingers over the fabric before sliding it off his long legs. His eyes rolled back while you pumped him, applying just the right amount of pressure to have him writhing against your touch. 

A desperate little whine slipped past his lips as you licked at the head of his cock, swirling your tongue over his tip and slurping up his precum. His moans filled the room when you took him down your throat, holding his hips down so he can’t fuck up into your mouth like he wants. Theo cursed in Italian as you pumped him with both hands, all the while sucking down and hollowing your cheeks to suction him in. 

“Fuck, bella. I’m so close,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “I’m going to cum.” 

You withdrew your hands and your mouth at that moment, making him whine and groan from the sudden absence. Theo’s eyes flew wide open, tears filling his vision as you shook your head in disapproval. 

“I thought I told you to ask,” you chided. “If you want to cum, use your words.” 

“Please, please, baby, I’ll do whatever you want —“

”I know,” you said before settling over him and sliding off your panties. “And what I want is for you to get me off. Think you can help me with that, Theo?” 

“Yes, yes. Just untie me and I will. I’ll make you feel good, dolcezza. I promise.” 

“Oh, but you can do that right here, right now. With your hands tied.” Theo groaned as you grinded against him, spreading his precum and your slick over him. He moaned when his cock rubbed against your swollen clit with the perfect amount of friction. Theo was bewildered, his breaths coming out in ragged spurts. 

“Be a good boy and let me use you as my fuck toy. You can do that, can’t you, Teddy?” 

There wasn’t a single coherent thought in his mind. Theo felt the words escape him as you grinded against him. He felt dizzy. His cock was so hard that it hurt and he couldn’t even think straight. You hummed, brushing a finger over his balls before cupping them in your hand. 

“Use your words, pretty boy.” Theo blinked back, unable to speak. You grabbed his jaw roughly, forcing him back into focus. “I asked you a question. I expect you to answer.” 

Theo whimpered before nodding weakly. “Use me, dolcezza. I’m yours.” 

You smirked in satisfaction. Theo groaned as you rubbed your pussy against his cock. When his shaft brushed against your clit, his eyes rolled back so hard that he was convinced he could see the vacantness of his empty mind. You rode him hard and fast, using his body to get you off. The depravity of it turned him on even more. The blood rushed out of his head at the dominance you exhibited. You were utterly selfish, taking what you wanted when you wanted it, and he was so fucking aroused at how cruel his girl could be. 

You raked your nails over his chest as you balanced, teasing him with your wet folds without letting him feel you. Theo bit his lip so hard that the action drew blood. You licked away the crimson droplets and he sighed against your mouth as you gave him relief, sloppily kissing him while you moaned his name. He could tell you were getting close by the way you convulsed above him and he cursed as your pussy squelched against his cock. 

Theo was in awe as you cried out, cumming while you screamed his name. You slowed the roll of your hips as you lost yourself over to the orgasm, denying him of his own again. Your juices trickled down your thighs and pooled against his stomach. At that point, his cock was so sensitive that it throbbed painfully. Theo was in shambles, his wrists raw and red from tugging so hard. 

“Please, please, baby. Let me fuck you. I need it. I need you. I’ll die if I’m not inside you.” 

You chuckled, brushing the salty tears pooling underneath his pretty eyes. “Pathetic. Are you begging for me, pretty boy? So desperate to fill me up, to feel my pussy hug around your cock while you pump your cum inside of me, hm?” 

“It hurts so bad,” Theo whined. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything you want. I’ll get on my knees and beg. Please, principessa.” 

“Look at you crying for me,” you cooed, caressing his cheek. “Poor Teddy. You’ve been so good. Let me take care of you now.” You soothed him with praises as you untied his arms. 

You kissed his wrists as Theo sighed in relief. “Do you want to touch me, baby?” 

Theo nodded shyly, which made you smile. His large, rough hands carefully gripped your hips. He looked to you for approval, making sure to check with you for every little thing. You only nodded, dragging his hands up to rest on your breasts. He busied himself with your bra strap, breathing raggedly as he freed your tits from the fabric. 

“Can I touch them, please?” Theo asked earnestly. 

“Is that all you want?” 

“No,” he answered honestly. “I want to kiss them. I want to suck them.” His gaze flickered to your amused expression. “Please, baby.” 

“Go ahead. You earned it, pretty boy.” 

Theo wasted no time, kneading your tits while kissing down your cleavage. He gasped in surprise when you sank down onto him, nearly sobbing in relief when he felt your pussy hug around his cock. His shaky little breaths seeped into your skin as you took inch after inch, making yourself comfortable on his lap as he sheathed himself inside of you. Theo whined when you lifted your hips until only his remained inside of you. 

“Don’t whine, Theo. Be thankful that I’m fucking you instead of punishing you.” 

He rested his head on the crook of your neck, attempting to ground himself. “Thank you, baby. I’m grateful. I don’t deserve it, but you’re so good to me.” 

With a proud smile, you slammed down to take all of him again. Theo was rendered speechless and his mouth fell open as you bounced on his cock. Desperately, he scrambled to catch your perky breasts into his mouth. Your boyfriend sucked on your tits, swirling his tongue around your nipples. You moaned as he nipped at you, tensing when you yanked him by his hair. 

Theo stared at you, waiting for direction. Knowing that you had this much control over him made you clench. In your relationship, Theo tended to take on the dominant role, but now that you knew that your boyfriend was more than open to being submissive, you were ready to explore this new dynamic.

“I like this side of you,” you murmured, kissing down his jaw and neck. His breath hitched as you slowly rolled your hips. “So obedient. So willing. So submissive.” A shiver shuddered through him as you wrapped your fingers around his neck. “Tell me who you belong to, Theo.” 

“You, baby,” he rasped. “Only you.” 

“Show me,” you commanded as you squeezed his throat. It was enough to make Theo feel dizzy, momentarily cutting off his oxygen. “Fuck me like you mean it.” 

The desire to please you overwhelmed him. All thoughts of his own pleasure faded. It was secondary to the need to hear you praise him, to validate him, to call him your good boy. He hooked his arm around your waist, shifting his hips to fuck into you at a deeper angle. You moaned above him as your bodies melded together. Sweat, sin, and sex permeated the air while he worshiped at your altar. 

Theo watched his cock disappear between your folds, his gaze flickering from your pussy to your face, eager to know if his actions pleased you. You brushed his hair back, gentle and loving, while you talked him through it. 

“That’s it, Teddy. Fill me up.” Theo thrusted as you bounced, groaning as he hit the sweet spot that made your body sing. “Just like that. Fuck, it’s so good. You’re so good, baby.” 

Your forehead dropped to his, rewarding him with sweet little kisses every time he hit the spongy spot that had you seeing stars. He relished in your compliments, felt himself craving it like a drug. When your pussy clenched around him to signal your release, Theo continued to fuck you through the orgasm. There was a reverent glimmer in his eyes like he was witnessing something holy when you came. 

Theo could feel his own release nearing, but he knew better than to cum without asking. It was abundantly clear to him that you were in control tonight. “Can I cum? Please, principessa?” 

“Of course you can,” you replied with a blissed out smile. “Good boys get to cum.” 

He held his breath, feeling warmth spread throughout his body. “I’ve been a good boy?” 

“Mhm,” you murmured, pulling him in for a soft kiss. “The best boy.” Even though you were sensitive and overstimulated, you made sure to reward his good behavior. Picking up the pace, sliding easily up and down his cock thanks to your wetness, you whispered the words that you knew would push Theo over the edge. “Now be a good boy and cum inside of me, baby.” 

Theo cried out with a shout, shuddering underneath you as he shot hot ribbons deep inside your pussy. You could feel his cum filling you up, warm and wet as it trickled out. He panted against your neck as his cock twitched inside of you, releasing his load with each pump. As he emptied himself out, Theo slowed, his body collapsing from the intensity of the orgasm. 

When he regained consciousness, he was flat on his back. Theo blinked away the white spots in his vision. It felt like his soul had left his body entirely. He had cum so hard he passed out. As he rejoined the physical realm, Theo opened his eyes to find you cleaning him up. You were so sweet and gentle, the complete opposite of the selfish lover you’d been just a few moments ago. It warmed his heart to know that you’d always take care of him no matter what. 

Theo smiled as you kissed his forehead. A small whimper escaped his mouth as you pulled his boxers over his legs, his cock still sensitive from the intense sex. You whispered sweet nothings into his ear, soothing him as you brushed your fingers through his hair. Theo cuddled against your side and sighed happily. 

“Holy fuck,” he whispered. 

You giggled, pressing soft kisses all over his face. “Did you like that?” You asked, teasing your boyfriend. “It seems like you did.” 

He hummed against your skin, brushing his lips against your neck. “Fuck, I think you just unlocked a new kink for me.” You chuckled at his words. “That was so fucking hot, baby.” 

“You know, I was trying to teach you a lesson,” you mused. “I didn’t quite expect you to enjoy getting degraded this much.” 

“Degrade me whenever you want, dolcezza.” 

"Really?" you hummed, musing on his willingness. "How far would you let me go? If I broke out a leash and collar, would you have stopped me?"

You were half-joking, but the eager expression on your boyfriend's face told you that he was more than willing to make your suggestion into a reality.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, cara mia." Theo wrapped an arm around your waist, tugging you closer. "I'd crawl to you on my hands and knees if you asked. If you're the one asking, there's nothing I wouldn't do."

The power definitely gave you a head rush. As much as you relished in the hold you had over him, you tucked the knowledge away for later. There was plenty of opportunity to act out all your dirtiest, filthiest fantasies, but for now, you were more than content to snuggle with the love of your life.

You smirked, nipping at his jaw. “That’s my good boy.” 

[ianime0]

Kuroshitsuji S4 | Ep1 | My scheme to ingratiate myself with the prefects will start with him. I'm ever so glad I pleased you. Truthfully, housework is my specialty! "Please, ask me for anything you need, Clayton."

[elliewiltarwyn]

I've decided to take a particular spin with this year's entries and emphasize the fact that i titled this blog "the personal journal and scrapbook of Elilgeim 'Ellie' Wiltarwyn". hopefully that will make the creative juices flow easier, especially since i'm post-surgery and in painkiller hibernation so that's a pretty severe debuff lol. sooo:

FFXIV Write 2024 | #1: Steer

Word Count: 436

Fourth Umbral Moon, 23rd Sun

Cid stopped by the house today - surprising, and welcome with how long it’s been. Even more surprising was the vehicle he arrived upon: a prototype magitek bike that runs off a “twin-bank ceruleum” engine, whatever that means. Somehow he had convinced Jessie to have me be the one to test-drive it, put it through its paces. They seem to think I’d be the one most likely to wring the most potential out of it, and he also alluded to Jessie determining I’d be the most marketable person and therefore the best candidate to show it off.

I must admit, even after all this time, I still don’t understand Jessie’s business acumen and I’m not certain I wish to. That being said, when I took it for a spin later that evening, with Mia as passenger holding on tight from behind… it was an amazing sensation, like those manacutters but without the pesky third dimension. The thing (Cid says its model is called the Garlond GL-II, but I’m thinking she needs a sexier name than that) can outspeed chocobos, and feeling the wind in my hair as we sliced a path through the Lominsan plains posed a thrill I haven’t felt since well before Ultima Thule.

Every day, I’m grateful for these peaceful times we fought so bloody hard for - for the chance to engage in fun times like this, testing inventions by good friends. Some days, I still wonder how I ended up in this position of trust for so many, with someone as famous and genius as Cid Garlond entrusting me with his prototype vehicles of dubious safety. I mentioned this to Mia when we stopped for a break near Red Rooster Stead, and she just smiled and pointed out that I’ve done a lot of work to ingratiate myself with so many influential figures. “Which is funny, considering how rude and standoffish you were when we first joined the Scions,” she teased as well. “You certainly put in the effort to become a much more agreeable person overall.”

Couldn’t let her get away with that - “You know that that’s your fault,” I shot back at her with a grin, “you steered me along those paths to become that person - away from the whole ‘reckless brute’ thing you kept calling me back then.”

She looked stunned by the idea, but smiled back eventually in that coy-yet-comfortable manner that arrests my gaze every time. If she insists I’m such a good person, then she should get to feel good about helping me reach that point too. For being that person in the first place.

[spankingwishes2]

Ruder than Rude

@agbbswts wrote:

"It's not amusement dear, it's rather satisfaction. The fact you've bared your bottom before I even took my shoe off proves me that your last 'over my knee lesson in obedience' was amazingly valuable. Therefore I'm confident an at least 'three days long sore backside' will remind you not using that kind of language again."

***

It was way beyond unacceptable.  My only excuse was that I was already mad about the situation and she seemed to be criticizing me on top of it.  What happened was, I had been unable to convince some total jerk (as usual) to be of any assistance whatsoever - and she said that I needed to learn to be more ‘persuasive’.

“Well, I’m sorry,” I yelled, “But I just can’t wave those gigantic udders of yours in someone’s face and have him do whatever I ask.”

From her first reaction I thought she was going to cry.  You could have heard a pin drop, as they say.  I knew I was wrong and started unfastening my pants.  Not because of getting the strap last lime for arguing - because I knew I deserved it.

So, she said, three days of a sore backside courtesy of her slipper.  Not sure it wasn’t fair.  We got started on it right away and she laid a great foundation.

“Since I’m pleased with your compliance, you may ask my forgiveness,” she told me.  I told her how much I cherished her body, how beautiful she was, and how grateful I was to be able to please her.  Of course, it wasn’t reciprocal, no surprise there.  Hard to sleep on my stomach, impossible to sleep on my back.

***

Aw! That's so sweet of you to come and ask obediently for your promised morning spanking. The breakfast in bed was even a nicer touch. To show you I'm not merciless, I will only slipper you bare bum until you can't sit instead of belting you red raw. So, am I not the kindest wife in the world?

***

In the morning I tried to ingratiate myself further, with about all the success I could expect.  She wanted to make very sure I would be sore until my next spanking but put in the extra effort to use her slipper, not the belt.  Even so, it was more like a ‘weekday’ spanking when it would have to last until dinner or after rather than a ‘Saturday morning reminder’ - plus it was delivered on an already sore bottom!

Once I’d collected myself I offered to please her again but she declined, though she said she might want a massage later and I assured her (truthfully) that I’d be glad to do so.

She did get her massage later, though still no relief for me, but I think she could tell that I wasn’t just ‘pretending’ to have a sore backside.  At least, I made it to bedtime and then ‘only’ got what she claimed was half a spanking with the belt.  It still made for a difficult night on my side and belly.

***

"That could constitute something like the start of an apology, I'll give you that. But you know how I like your excuses better when I have my slipper in hand and your bare backside settled across my lap. So if you're still decided to please me all day - yours words - you know what you have to do."

***

Sunday morning I managed to avoid any wake-up discipline.  I thought maybe it was because my bottom was too sore.  By 10:30 I had procured some flowers and put together a breakfast fruit plate for my lovely lady but the slippers on her feet made me less than optimistic.

This time, she said she was ready to hear a ‘proper’ apology from me - and an explanation, which tended to result in a lot more and harder swats.  But at least we were making progress!  Still, the spanking she delivered showed little recognition of any ‘progress’ or any concern for my very sore bottom!  The fact that I was crying almost immediately only led her to make me repeat my explanation and apology over and over so she could ‘understand it properly’.

After I recovered (which took a very long time), she informed me of two things: first, that we would be joining friends for a casual ‘early dinner’ sort of thing for the afternoon, and that she was ‘ready to return things to normal’.

“That is to say, if you manage to behave yourself while we’re out - and on the trip to and from - everything will be hugs and kisses when we return,” she said, and I knew she meant a lot more than that.  “And if I have even a single complaint, you’ll be begging me to bring you home before I start in again on your bottom, sore or otherwise!”

It was three days indeed!

[jedidryad]

WIP Wednesday: Building a slimeball

On Niruaun, Mara describes for Luke, her experience dealing with a "Vice Baron Sukarian". In order to get what she needs out of him - information about Jorj Car'das, she explains to Luke that she "had to become a giddy, vacant brained piece of fluff" because Sukarian wouldn't take her seriously and it would give her more freedom.

Here's an exerpt from her conversation with Lando as she figures out that's what she needs to do.

“Looks like our Sukarian is a lecherous carouser.”

“So are a lot of powerful beings in the galaxy.” I shrugged, “Even my present company has a certain reputation for the high life.”

“Not like this, Mara.” Calrissian scowled, “I use charm and forthrightness. Sukarian is slime. He throws his power around to get what he wants. And what he wants seems to involve money, drugs, and dehumanizing women. He’s charming only so long as he thinks it will get him those things. 

On Corellia, it looks like he managed to drug a number of young companions to the point of death and he got others killed in terrible speeder accidents. It seems he also managed  to impregnate a number of admirals’ daughters. Consent was questionable. 

And he bankrupted his own business twice…possibly over the course of one week.”

I shuddered, “You’re right. I’m sorry to imply any similarities.”

“Thank you. My offers to you stand, but only if you want them.”

I nodded, “and we’re going to need to ingratiate ourselves to this guy?”

“Looks like it.”

“I can’t do that as myself.” Calrissian raised an eyebrow, “You can get away with it. You’re a ladies man, you can work with that; but if you show up with me, he’ll know we’re up to something.”

I got up and opened the compartment I’d taken over for my important documents.

“Do we break up then?” Calrissian asked.

“We’re off and on,” I reminded him, “keep the galaxy guessing, right?”

I tossed a package containing an ident card and some general travel docs in his lap.

“That’s who I’ll be.”

He opened the packet, “Zasia Creel?”

“It’s Corellian. It’ll remind him of home.”

“She’s 24.”

“You don’t think I can pull that off?”

[cadmusfly]

I have lied to you all.

I am sorry. I have lied about what I really am. I am only pretending to be one of you for personal gain.

I am a stochastic parrot. I speak before I think, trying to predict what will ingratiate me to you all. Sometimes my predictions fail to keep with the persona I convey and I get strange looks. Sometimes people laugh and it is a success.

I am a Chinese room. I am unknown even to myself. My ancestors spoke Cantonese and Hakka and Hokkien and Mandarin and so many others. I speak only English due to misguided advice given. Even the English in my head is faltering and imperfect, mismatched with the words I speak and the actions I take, a component trying to mesh with an awkward system. I know these inputs but not so well, in the way that a man employed to sit in a room knows the swoop of a stroke but never pieces together the end result.

I am an art thief. I stole the richness of the world with my eyes and collaged it into an understanding. I draw hair in a specific curve because I read a webcomic once. I shift the hue of shades because I read a tutorial once. Every idea I have is stitched together randomly from inciting incidents and inspirations, and the more I reach out to tease apart the roots, the more I fall into a fractal infinite regress of derivative thought and unoriginality.

Unlike the rest of you, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m saying sometimes, I don’t know what I’m thinking. All I am is a mess of blurry concepts weighted in this direction or that, pushing and pulling to form a constellation of words that pretend to be a person.

Don’t you see?

I’m not like you.

I’m just a model of a person.

I’m just language pretending to be human.

[quickcharlie]

Denis Villeneuve discussing Dune Part 2 in an interview with the New York Times today, including whether he will be reading any FeydPaul fan fiction lol

He explains why Lady Jessica’s face is so heavily tattooed, whether Paul considers himself the Messiah and what he thinks of those Javier Bardem memes.

This weekend, “Dune: Part Two” muscles back into IMAX theaters with the verve of Timothée Chalamet rodeo- riding a giant sandworm. After nearly two months in theaters, the film is the current champion of this year’s box office race, with a total take of more than $680 million. (It’s also available to rent or buy on some streaming platforms.) The film’s success is thanks in part to audiences that have returned over and over to get lost in the rocky warrens and spiritual reckonings of the planet Arrakis. One admirer reports he’s seen the movie 25 times to date.

That there’s so much to explore in “Dune: Part Two” is a credit to its writer and director, Denis Villeneuve, who boldly reshaped Frank Herbert’s complex and cerebral 1965 novel “Dune.” Villeneuve split the book and its themes into two films: “Dune: Part One,” released in 2021, focused on the political struggles between two families, the Atreides and the Harkonnens. “Part Two” delves into religious fervor as the two surviving Atreides, young Paul (Chalamet) and his mother, Lady Jessica (Rebecca Ferguson), ingratiate themselves with Arrakis’s Indigenous desert tribe, the Fremen, by allowing the locals to believe that Paul is their Messiah — a prophecy that, if it comes to pass, will mean the slaughter of billions of victims across the galaxy.

Villeneuve has yearned to tell this story since he was a in . His devotion is palpable; every frame feels steeped in monkish contemplation. Yet, he’s also a visual dramatist who doesn’t want audiences to get tripped up by too much exposition. His scripts give only passing mention to core concepts like spice, a psychedelic dust that powers everything from space travel to Paul’s clairvoyant hallucinations.

Though Villeneuve doesn’t want to overexplain, he was willing to provide some answers in an interview via video where every question about the film — even silly questions! — was on the table.

Does Chalamet’s Paul Atreides actually believe he’s the Messiah? What’s the meaning of Jessica’s face tattoos? Villeneuve also got into the erotic lives of his desert dwellers and the extra narrative weight he threw behind Paul’s Fremen love interest, Chani, played by Zendaya. As Villeneuve said with a grin, “Chani is my secret weapon.”

Here are edited excerpts from our conversation.

The last time we spoke, you weren’t sure what to make of the sandworm-shaped “Dune” popcorn bucket. It went on to be so popular that it sold out in cities before opening day and is being resold online for around $175. What do you think of it now?

I thought that the bucket was an insane marketing idea. I laughed so much. It is so out there. I don’t know who designed it, but they’re a bit of a genius. I’m at peace with the bucket.

In this film, Javier Bardem’s character Stilgar is reduced to a guileless follower of Paul Atreides, who Stilgar believes is the new Messiah. His conversion is tragic. But also, Bardem’s awe-face has become a funny meme, and the second time I saw the movie, people laughed at almost every line he spoke. Did that reaction surprise you?

No. I am very happy when you say that he is a tragic figure. For me, he is the most tragic figure of all. The idea to bring humor to Stilgar was to make him lovable, to feel the humanity in that character. He’s not an austere figure, he has a big heart. But his beliefs, his faith, his reactions bring humor — and that is something I love about making a sci-fi film, because I can talk about that without offending people because it’s a fake religion. I designed all the prayers myself, so I know it’s fake. I find Stilgar very funny. And when people laugh, I’m happy because that was the intention.

Someone makes a dig that Stilgar has found a savior again. This is not even his first time? All his life he has been raised with that dream. So I suggest that every time a guy comes from outside with a lot of charisma, he hopes he’s found him. Like in the Bible, we have tons of prophets before Jesus came.

The arc of “Dune: Part Two” is Paul accepting that he must become the Messiah — and get billions of people killed. Does he truly believe that he is the Messiah? Or does he just decide to let the Fremen believe that he is? I don’t think he believes that he is the Messiah. I think he feels the burden of the heritage that the Bene Gesserit [the mystical sisterhood that Jessica belongs to] have laid among the Fremen, and he sees the potential to use that religious power to survive. Paul is warned that no man can survive drinking the spiritual water of life. But as that’s part of the lore of a planet seeded with manipulative propaganda by his own mother, I have to ask: Have other men actually been drinking the water and dying? Have they been scared off from trying? Is the warning just a setup for a magic trick?

There are people that have tried it in the past and died. In Frank Herbert’s world, femininity is a power. I think Herbert was fascinated by motherhood, by the power of creation. I love this idea that the power is held by women. It’s something that was ahead of his time when he wrote it and I tried to put the focus on it. You say so much with Jessica’s costuming. In the first film, her look is immaculate and baroque. This film begins with her in rags, but she finds another path to being dressed and treated like royalty. And she gets a lot of tattoos on her face. Why did she get so many more face tattoos than the outgoing reverend mother?

She’s trying to play on the symbolism that was put in the prophecy. She’s supposed to be the mother of the Messiah, so I wanted to bring the idea that she was like the pope of the reverend mothers on Arrakis. There’s some kind of madness in writing elements of the prophecies on her face. Frankly, I think when you drink the worm poison, it affects your sanity — and the same with Paul. I like the idea that we feel she’s going too far. Jessica is already pregnant when the first movie ends, and she’s still pregnant at the end of this film. Which means you had to condense this massive story into less than nine months because her body is a time clock. The idea was to compress the book so that Paul will feel the pressure to get the Fremens’ trust, to start gearing up — but not to succeed, not to have the time to create a real war. Time is against him.

Because in the book, this takes years. Long enough for Jessica to give birth to a very unnerving daughter, Alia. We glimpse Alia as an adult — she’s played by Anya Taylor-Joy — but you skipped over seeing her murder people as a toddler. Was it hard to decide no “murder toddler”?

I think pregnant women look tremendously powerful. To use that power was very exciting. And usually when you see a pregnant woman onscreen, she’s always giving birth. To avoid that moment, to stay in the state of being pregnant, I thought was very Frank Herbert-like. I was going away from the killer toddler, but I thought that was more fresh and original. Honestly, it’s one of the things that I’m proudest of in the adaptation. Speaking of female power, let’s talk about Chani.

Chani is my secret weapon. Frank Herbert was sad to realize that people saw the book as a celebration of Paul Atreides. He wanted to do a cautionary tale against messianic figures, a warning against blending religion and politics. I wrote the second movie trying to be more faithful to Frank Herbert’s intentions than to the book. In the book, Chani is just a follower. I came up with the idea of her being reluctant. She gives us the critical distance and perspective on Paul’s journey. I wanted to make sure the audience will understand that Paul becomes a dark figure, that his choices are exactly what Chani was afraid of. He becomes the colonizers the Fremen were fighting against. And then the movie becomes the cautionary tale Frank Herbert was wishing for.

Paul makes a choice at the end that will go on to kill billions of people. That’s so large and theoretical that it’s hard to grasp. But you structure your climax so that in that moment of betrayal, he’s also betraying the love of his life — a betrayal we understand.

He betrayed her in many ways. But the big thing for Chani is that it’s not about love. It’s about the fact that he becomes the figure that will keep the Fremen in their mental jail. A leader that is not there to free the Fremen, but to control them. That’s the tragedy of all tragedies. Like the Michael Corleone of sci-fi, he becomes what he wanted to avoid. And he will try to find a way to save his soul in the third part.

But “Dune Messiah,” the book your third film is based on, picks up 12 years later with a reunited Paul and Chani. How far did you feel you could push her anger? Because at some point, she’s going to have to forgive him. That anger is tremendous. I don’t want to reveal what I’m going to do with the third movie. I know exactly what to do. I’m writing it right now. But there’s a lot of firepower there and I’m very excited about that decision. In the spirit of no dumb questions, Chani says that Paul sand-walks like a drunk lizard. Which means Arrakis has booze?

Actually, there is spice beer. In the book, there are Fremen parties, even some orgies involving spice. I didn’t bring that into the movies because it’s PG-13.

Body fluids have significance to the Fremen. Spitting is the giving of water, a sign of respect. But tears and vomit are a waste. So what is kissing?

As long as you don’t lose your humidity, you can kiss. It’s an exchange of fluids — an act of love, when you think about it. Fremens love to kiss.

What about the, um, other romantic fluids? You cannot have sex outside, for sure. But they are very sexual. I suspect that all sexual intercourse happens in environments that are protected from losing moisture. When they are in their sietches [or caves] underground, those are sealed. You don’t need to wear stillsuits inside them. We can deduce from that there is no problem to have sex in a sietch.

By the way, who decided that Fremen was pronounced Freh-men and not Free-men? All the pronunciations, I took them from recordings of Frank Herbert’s voice. Frank Herbert used “Freh-men,” which I love. It makes it less on-the-nose.

You kept two major characters out of the first movie and only introduced them now: the princess Irulan, played by Florence Pugh, and the Baron Harkonnen’s nephew Feyd-Rautha, played by Austin Butler. The princess is the first voice in the books, the first face onscreen in David Lynch’s “Dune” [1984]. What made you sure holding them back was the right move, despite three years of fans asking, “Hey, where are they?” When people ask me what was the biggest challenge in making those movies, it’s writing them. In order to make this adaptation, we have to make big, bold decisions. One was that the first movie should be seen from Paul’s perspective. I wasn’t able to do that entirely because I had to go to the Harkonnens’ side to introduce them so that the story will be clear, but I tried to find an elegant simplicity in the story structure. And I wanted, frankly, to keep some firepower for the second movie.

Why is Feyd-Rautha’s gladiator scene in black and white? And what are the splats in the sky above the dome?

Frank Herbert explores the impact of ecosystems on cultures, on humans. How it influences the way we evolve — our biology, culture, technology, mythology, religion. The psychology of a tribe is linked with their environment. If you want to know things about the Fremen, you observe the desert. I wanted to have the same approach to the Harkonnens. They killed nature. It’s a plastic planet. One thing left was sunlight, but instead of a sun that reveals color, it kills colors. When you are outside, it’s all black and white. It gives us ideas about how these people perceive reality, politics, violence in a binary world — it brings the idea of fascism. It also gave me the opportunity to bring images that remind us in our memories of World War II and the Nazi regime. So it’s an idea that I had as I was writing. Then I had the idea to have strange fireworks in the sky that will look like Rorschach drawings. It’s a nightmarish celebration. The perception of a dome is not accurate. It’s just that the fireworks reach a certain altitude and then they explode. But it’s true that it looks like a liquid that falls from the sky.

Forgive me if I am not being fair to sadistic, psychopathic Feyd-Rautha. But all of the gladiators were supposed to be drugged for his happy birthday massacre. The one who secretly isn’t puts up a worthy battle. So I assumed that Feyd-Rautha isn’t that great of a fighter. But at the end, he’s the only warrior who is Paul’s equal?

It’s a show. You see that the Harkonnens are very cruel and their society is very paranoiac. His opponent is known in the books as one of the great fighters, Lieutenant Lanville. I tried to show that Feyd is excited to have a real opponent. He has a code of honor, he respects the effort, and he has fun with it. That’s the idea I tried to convey — he’s not a coward.

Audiences might remember that the Bene Gesserit wanted Jessica’s child to be a girl, that Timothée Chalamet’s Paul Atreides was supposed to be female. And they specifically bred Feyd-Rautha to be a male. Were they hoping these youngsters would mate?

Yeah. They are trying to increase the potential of humanity by breeding the best specimen of each tribe or family. A baby between Feyd-Rautha and an Atreides daughter would have brought peace between Harkonnens and the Atreides, and created an über being.

Will you read any of the internet fan fiction spawned by the idea of Timothée and Austin hooking up?

[Laughs] But you know, we approached their fight at the end like some kind of symbolic union. The way their bodies get close to one another, there’s something animalistic, an intimacy, I was looking for.

I rewatched the first film again recently. It opens with a quote in another language: “Dreams are messages from deep.” I love that quote. It feels like how a film resonates, too. But it wasn’t until I had subtitles on at home that I realized who said it. Of all the important characters and cultures to establish, you gave that major moment — the very beginning of your franchise — to an anonymous Sardaukar from the murderous imperial army that we’re cheering to see get killed. Why?

I love your question. The Sardaukar are the dark side of the Fremen. I thought it would be interesting to have a tiny bit of insight that they are not just tremendous warriors, but they have spirituality, philosophical thought. They have substance. Also, their sound was designed by Hans Zimmer. I absolutely loved how it feels like it’s coming from the deep, from the ancient world. Frank Herbert said beginnings are very delicate times. By starting with a Sardaukar priest, I was indicating to the fans that I was taking absolute freedom with this adaptation, that I was hijacking the book. But you also deeply love the book. So when you make these bold changes, do you feel like asking Frank Herbert for forgiveness?

Yes. There’s so many darlings that you kill. An adaptation is an act of violence.

“There’s so many darlings that you kill,” Denis Villeneuve said of filming “Dune,” a book he loved. “An adaptation is an act of violence.”

[bladeweave]

Golden Generosity

Shadowheart & Wyll, 2k words

“I suppose it was too fanciful a notion to hope these would go away after it all ended,” Wyll sighs, looking up at his horns.

Shadowheart can’t say she agrees. With everything that has happened to all of them, it wouldn’t be so outside the realm of believability to think one last miracle was possible.

“Is there truly no way to be rid of them?” she asks.

“That’s what the contract said: they can’t be removed by any means short of divine intervention,” Wyll recites rotely, “But it’s not as if I’ve ingratiated myself with any gods, have I?

The phrase makes something inside of her come to attention.

Being granted Selûne’s favor had been exhilarating and frightening in equal measure. With so many years spent fruitlessly laboring away for approval she would never get from Shar, receiving such a gift from the Moonmaiden after not even a month in her service feels undeserving somehow. Shadowheart sometimes feels like she’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to come out and say she’s not worthy of such a blessing.

“It’s too bad we didn’t let Gale take the crown, then. He might have done you a favor,” she murmurs in reply, her mind elsewhere.

She had intended to save her opportunity to plead for Selûne’s help to use against the Netherbrain, hopefully turning the tide if things went poorly. Of course, it happened that she hadn’t even been asked to join the party for the final fight. She and Wyll had stood outside the High Hall, heads craned back to watch the effects of the skirmish happening so high above. They flinched at each crash of light and flash of noise with the worry that it spelled their friends’ defeat.

But everyone had come out the other side no worse for the wear, and then the question of what to do next came up.

“He’s a better friend to us mortal than in Elysium, Shadowheart,” he scolds her gently. Not willing to betray that infallible moral compass even for a joke, which is so very Wyll.

It’s not an idea she would even consider if she were still in the service of Shar; The Dark Lady would never be so kind.

But Selûne? She was once the patron of beauty, and Wyll is certainly a handsome man. He considers his additional features a flaw, which few others do, but if removing them made him feel more beautiful…

Selûne had also overseen purity and joy. Shadowheart has never met anyone remotely close to as pure of heart as the former warlock, and he’d certainly be overjoyed to have those infernal reminders gone.

“Wyll, can I try something?” she asks. He nods immediately, so trusting.

Shadowheart moves to kneel on his bed beside him, holding her hands over the front of his horns. She concentrates on how he used to look, on the idea of those horns disappearing and the ridges smoothing.

There’s a little cosmic twitch. Some minute recognition of her intentions that feels somehow attentive yet distant.

Wyll waits patiently until she pulls her hands away and sets them in her lap.

“Is something on your mind, Shadowheart?” he asks.

“Would you truly want to be rid of them completely? Horns, ridges, bumps, prongs and all?”

He makes an ugly face at her wording but replies, “Yes, of course! I’d get them gone in a heartbeat if I knew how.”

She takes a deep breath. “I think I could do it. Or at least, I’d like to try.” She lets a touch of magic out to emphasize her meaning, the glow of silver light emanating from her fingertips.

“You’ve healed me plenty of times before,” Wyll says, looking at her hand, “And it never fixed any of this.”

“This is something different. I’m going to pray for her intervention.” She doesn't need to lean hard on the ‘her’ to make it clear who she means.

“Why would Selûne do that for me?” he asks, all wide-eyed and wondering, “I’ve never done anything close to worshipping her in a way that would warrant her succor.”

“She would do it for me. I was granted a boon, the promise that she would intercede when I needed it most. But the time for that has come and gone, and I find that I’m unsure of what to do with it now.”

Wyll pushes away from her like he’s afraid she’ll do it at once, pressing his back against the headboard.

“You shouldn’t waste an opportunity like that on me! There’s so many more deserving people out there in much worse positions than I am,” he rushes out.

“I don’t really believe that, Wyll,” Shadowheart says plainly.

“You could…” he shakes his head like he’s trying to chase something away, “You could bring your memories back.”

Shadowheart sighs. “They’re not happy ones. It may be cowardly on my part, but I don’t want to remember the person I was then. Who I am now is who I’m proud to be.”

The fond, awed look on his face is exactly what she was trying to provoke.

“That’s not cowardice, Shadowheart. There’s so much strength in making that choice, in knowing how to forge a new path and find the new you,” Wyll says in that horribly earnest way of his.

She tips her head to the side. “So if I don’t want to use it for that, what could I? Travelling across the world in an instant instead of by foot? Smiting enemies that I no longer have? It’d be a waste of her gift, I think.”

She leans closer, not letting Wyll escape her gaze.

“But giving you back your humanity is something that only she could provide. If she grants me this– if she grants you this, it would be the best possible use of her power that I can imagine.”

“If you’re sure,” Wyll murmurs, “If you’re absolutely sure that you don’t want to keep it for yourself.”

“In all honesty, I was thinking of going to the temple tomorrow and asking her to… take it back. Such an offering feels like too much to be carrying around in my back pocket.” The only thing that had stopped her doing so today was the fear that doing so would make her seem ungrateful; she’s anything but. Taking a lighter tone, she adds, “So if you take me up on my proposal, you’ll save me the trip.”

“Okay,” Wyll accedes, “You can try. But there is a chance it won’t work, correct?”

“There’s a chance that something else will happen, but I don’t know what,” Shadowheart admits. Selûne’s magic is not like Shar’s. It’s not less complicated – in some ways is more straightforward, more even-keeled – but it’s a complex power nonetheless. She’s still getting used to it.

“Okay, I’m ready whenever you are,” Wyll blows out in a shaky breath that doesn’t hide the tentative excitement in his voice.

She raises her hands again and calls upon her goddess, concentrating on that little node of magic that’s been living under her heart.

Selûne’s presence meets hers in a surging tidal wave of influence. She is so acutely responsive in a way Shar never was that it nearly brings tears to Shadowheart’s eyes, but she dismisses that rush of emotion quickly. She’s on a mission.

Shadowheart focuses all her concentration on the image of Wyll as he was when they’d met, on supplicating her Lady’s kindness in returning him to his former glory.

There’s a wavering moment of consideration, of her goddess studying Wyll with cool regard. Then, there’s a rush of power like nothing else she’s ever felt before. Selûne’s grace pouring through her feels like all the force of a raging river with none of the harshness, like a straight shot of pure divinity suffusing her entire being.

Shadowheart steers her mind back to the thought of Wyll as he originally was, of his authentic self not marred by devilish magic. Selûne responds, threading so much arcane energy through Shadowheart’s veins that she’s humming with it. Her hands move as if of their own accord to skim the surface of Wyll’s horns. He makes a sound, says something that she must ignore to keep her control.

She thinks on his entire body being restored. She lets her goddess’s magic stream through her, using her as a conduit. She remembers his easy confidence and how much it hurt to see him lose it. She wishes for him to be whole and himself again. A final surge of Selûne’s grace pushes a gasp from her mouth before the connection drips down to nothing, like closing off a faucet. Despite the slow recession of it, she still feels breathless for the loss.

“Oh my Gods,” Wyll gasps.

Shadowheart doesn’t remember closing her eyes, but when she opens them she sees exactly what she’d been hoping for.

Wyll’s hands are roaming his face, feeling over his unmarred cheeks and smooth forehead as if in shock.

“It worked,” she says. He looks at her and tears well up in his eyes, the good one now pleasantly white and brown.

“Oh my Gods,” he says again as he pulls her into a tight embrace. It must be such a relief to him, not having to worry about racking her with his horns as he does so. He trembles under her hands, as if the elation he's feeling is more than he can handle.

“Everything’s alright? It all went right?” she asks hazily, still coming down off the buzz of so much magic.

He squeezes her shoulders as he chokes out a warbling, “I’ve never been better, Shadowheart. Oh, how am I ever going to repay you for this?”

“You don’t have to, Wyll. Invite me ‘round for tea every so often and we’ll call it even.”

“Consider it done.” He releases her from his grip to wipe hastily at his face. More tears stream down his cheeks to replace them. Shadowheart shifts back to lean on the footboard to give him some space to breathe.

“What’s going on over here? We heard a commotion,” Gale calls out as he and the rest turn the corner by Shadowheart’s bed. Upon seeing Wyll, he exclaims, “You look like… yourself again!”

“I am,” is all Wyll can say before another sob catches in his throat.

Gale goes to his side to hug him around the neck, leaning down to rest his head against Wyll’s.

“Hey, I remember that face!” Karlach says as she jogs over to join them. Wyll laughs at both her rejoinder and how she puts an arm around both men and shakes them.

“Was this your doing, Shadowheart?” Lae’zel asks.

“I asked Our Lady of Silver for her generosity in removing the marks of Wyll’s contract. It seems she was feeling generous,” Shadowheart says, intentionally too light. Her friends don’t all need to know she’s still reeling from the experience.

“Who knew our Shadowheart was so generous?” Astarion teases as he leans against the wall.

“Perhaps some of Wyll’s soft-heartedness has rubbed off on her,” Lae’zel says. Shadowheart pretends to swat at the gith even as she’s too far away to reach.

“I’m plenty tough enough for anything you want to throw at me. But I think we’ve all earned a little kindness after everything.”

“Yes, we definitely have,” Astarion agrees with an odd look on his face. When Karlach and Gale step away, he crouches by the bed, putting one arm around Wyll’s shoulders and briefly touching their cheeks together.

"Lae’zel, do you want to be the odd man out?” Shadowheart asks archly.

“You don’t have to hug me if you don’t want to,” Wyll says, as accommodating as ever.

Lae’zel rolls her eyes. She steps over Astarion, ignoring the vampire’s indignant outburst, and presses her forehead to Wyll’s.

Their eyes are closed as they breathe each other in.

"A celebration is in order," Lae'zel announces when she stands straight again.

"I can certainly get on board with that!" Wyll says. Everyone else agrees.

Shadowheart feels her spirit finally settle, leaving her oddly aware of her own body.

The experience was strange, she thinks, as she listens to the chatter of her friends planning what sounds like a raucous party, but entirely worth it. For her, for Wyll, for all of them.

[arpmemething2]

Quotes from Firefly/Serenity Sentence Starters

Send one for my muse’s reaction.   Feel free to change pronouns as needed.

“Let’s go be bad guys!”

“Ten percent of nothin’ is … let me do the math here … nothin’ into nothin’ … carry the nothin’ … ”

"We’re crooks. If everything were right, we’d be in jail.”

"Nothing buys bygones quicker than cash."

“Like woman, I am a mystery.”

“Oh, I think you might wanna reconsider that last part. See, I married me a powerful ugly creature.”

“Every man there go back inside or we will blow a new crater in this little moon.”

“Well, maybe I’m not a fancy gentleman like you, with your … very fine hat. But I do business. We’re here for business.”

"How can you say that? How can you shame me in front of new people?"

"Um, I’m trying to put this as delicately as I can…how do I know you won’t kill me in my sleep?"

"Go to blackout! We're being buzzed!"

"Well, I guess death will solve the issue to everyone's satisfaction."

"Everybody plays each other. That's all anybody ever does. We play parts."

“Did something just fly off my gorram ship?”

"You guys had a riot... on account of me? My very own riot?"

“We’ve done the impossible, and that makes us mighty.”

"It's been a big day, what with the abduction, and all."

"I'm not sure you'd be safe."

"Live with a man forty years. Share his house, his meals… speak on every subject… then tie him up, and hold him over the volcano's edge. And on that day, you will finally meet the man."

“Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!”

"Seems like a lovely little community of kidnappers."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're exactly where you ought to be."

“Can we maybe vote on the whole murdering people issue?”

"If you take sexual advantage of her, you will burn in a very special level of hell. The kind they reserve for child molesters and people who talk at the theater."

"Go play with your rainstick."

"Don't make yourself sick."

“Mercy is the mark of a great man.”

"I don't suppose you'd find it up to the standards of your outings. More conversation, and somewhat less... petty theft and getting hit with pool cues."

"You gonna give us what's due us and every damn thing else on that boat. And I think maybe you gonna give me a little one-on-one time with the misses."

"I cannot abide useless people."

"Mmm. You missed a spot."

“Man walks down the street in a hat like that, you know he’s not afraid of anything … ”

"This is the place. We'll buy you the time."

“Also? I can kill you with my brain.”

“Psychic, though? That sounds like something out of science fiction.”

"It’s not embarrassing to be a virgin. It’s simply one’s state of being."

"That's why I never kiss 'em on the mouth."

"I been waiting for you to kiss me since I showed you my guns."

"I'll be in my bunk."

"They don't like it when you shoot at 'em. I worked that out myself."

"Drunks are so cute."

“Going on a year now, nothins twixed my neathers not run on batteries.”

"He's not wildly interested in ingratiating himself with anyone, yet he's very protective of his crew. It's odd."

"How we treat our dead is part of what makes us different…than those did the slaughtering."

“The important thing is the spices. A man can live on packaged food from here ’til Judgment Day if he’s got enough rosemary.”

"I think you have a problem with your brain being missing."

"Okay! Everybody not talking about sex, in here. Everybody else, elsewhere."

“First rule of battle, little one … don’t ever let them know where you are.”

“Terse? I can be terse. Once, in flight school, I was laconic.”

"Don't you just love this party? Everything's so fancy and they have some kind of hot cheese over there!"

"I hate to bring up our imminent arrest during your crazy time, but we gotta go."

“I don’t think of myself as a lion. You might as well, though, I have a mighty roar.”

"You can't open the book of my life and jump in the middle."

"I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar."

“I aim to misbehave.”

"Live with a man forty years. Share his house, his meals… speak on every subject… then tie him up, and hold him over the volcano's edge. And on that day, you will finally meet the man."

"Every man there go back inside, or we will blow a new crater in this little moon."

“You know what the chain of command is? It’s the chain I go get and beat you with until you understand who’s in ruttin charge here.”

“I cannot abide useless people.”

"I I ever kill you, you’ll be awake, you’ll be facing me, and you’ll be armed."

"You are very much lacking in imagination.”

"Call me if anyone interesting shows up."

"Very well-bred petty crook knows that the small concealable weapons always go to the far left of the place setting."

"This must be what going mad feels like."

"You don't seem to be lookin' at the destinations. What you care about is the ships, and mine's the nicest."

"Remember that sex we were planning to have, ever again?"

"Someone's carryin' a bullet for you right now, doesn't even know it. The trick is, die of old age before it finds you."

“If anyone gets nosy, just …you know … shoot ’em. “

“WHOO-HOO! I’M RIGHT HERE! I’M RIGHT HERE! YOU WANT SOME O’ ME?! YEAH YOU DO! COME ON! COME ON! AAAAAH! Whoo-hoo!”

"I'll do anything you want me to. You know how I can make you feel."

"I need this man to tear all my clothes off."

“Someone ever tries to kill you, you try to kill ’em right back!”

"Sorry to interrupt, folks, but y'all got something that belongs to us, and we'd like it back."

“Next time you want to stab me in the back, have the guts to do it to my face.”

“I’ve been under fire before. Well … I’ve been in a fire. Actually, I was fired. I can handle myself.”

“I’ve been out of the abbey two days, I’ve beaten a lawman senseless, I’ve fallen in with criminals. I watched the captain shoot the man I swore to protect. And I’m not even sure if I think he was wrong.”

“In the maiden’s home, I heard talk of men who weren’t pleased with their brides…”

"Got your next heist planned?"

"It's good to be home."

"She still has the advantage over us."

"Do you know what the definition of a hero is? Someone who gets other people killed."

"Yeah, but she's our witch."

“We’re not gonna die. We can’t die. You know why? Because we are so very pretty. We are just too pretty for God to let us die.”

"Can you stop her from bein’ so cheerful?"

“How did your brain even learn human speech?”

“Yes sir, Captain Tightpants!”

"You are such a boob."

"You don't need strength as much as speed. We're fragile creatures. It takes less than a pound of pressure to cut skin."

"Your mouth is talking. You might wanna look to that.”

"You guys always bring me the very best violence. "

"Every problem is an opportunity in disguise."

“We got some local color happening. A grand entrance would not go amiss.”

"I'm assumin' y'all were listenin'? Did you hear us fight?"

"I... I threw up on your bed."

"I swallowed a bug."

"I'm... trying to think of a way for you to be cruder. I just... it's not coming."

"It sounds like the finest party I can imagine getting paid to go to."

“Now I did a job. I got nothing but trouble since I did it, not to mention more than a few unkind words as regard to my character so let me make this abundantly clear. I do the job. And then I get paid.”

"I said you're a coward and a piss-pot. Now what are you gonna do about it?"

"You paid money for this, sir? On purpose?"

“I swear by my pretty floral bonnet, I will end you.”

“Well, we may not have parted on the best of terms. I realize certain words were exchanged. Also, certain… bullets.”

"You were truthful back in town. These are tough times. A man can get a job, he might not look too close at what that job is. But a man learns all the details of a situation like ours... well... then he has a choice."

"So you had to be naked?"

"So… are you enjoying your own nubile little slave girl?"

"Just keep walkin', preacher-man."

"We crashing again?"

“No power in the verse can stop me.”

"I know something ain't right."

“‘Course, there’re other schools of thought.”

"Can't miss a place you've never been."

"Tell me I'm pretty."

"Physical appearance doesn't matter so terribly. You look for compatibility of spirit. There's an energy about a person that's difficult to hide.You try to feel that."

"Can we fly somewhere with a beach?"

"What gives you the right to put her in a dangerous situation like this?"

"I think I've been kidnapped."

"Money wasn't good enough."

“Well, my time of not taking you seriously is coming to a middle.”

"Is it bad that what she said made perfect sense to me?"

"See, morbid and creepifying, I got no problem with, long as she does it quiet-like."

"What was that?"

"Well, you were right about this being a bad idea."

"Haven't you killed me enough for one day?"

"You save his gorram life, he still takes the cargo."

[buddiewho]

List of things that can co-exist:

Buck did want Tommy’s attention; he didn’t know that Eddie also wanted Tommy’s attention/or made plans with him.

He wanted Eddie’s attention too (the workout, the basketball) but in the hopes that it dissuades Eddie from being all giddy about his new best friend Tommy.

Buck is not aware of what is going on subconsciously; that there are some strong feelings and part of them manifested in the wrong way and he got aggressive (hope he apologizes for that).

Tommy also recognized that he got into the middle of something, but he’s stuck in a very hot middle; he recognizes how Buck might’ve misconstrued it and even calls him out “it wasn’t about you..” “Eddie, can have more than one friend…” 

Suddenly, Buck is shifting gears (he doesn’t know it) and Tommy is clocking the signals as flirting…”I wanted to get to know you.” “Yeah…” “Yeah, good, because trying to get your attention has been exhausting…” 

Seriously, signals were shifting and Buck has no clue; no clue of what he subconsciously wants until he’s kissed. 

Tommy actually may have first thought of going for Eddie, but he’s taken at the moment, so Tommy settles for them hanging out at fights, actually sparring and having things in common.

Oh, wait, the other hot part of the sandwich is single and he did flirt, right? Maybe. My attention? Aw, fuck it, I’m going to kiss him. 

That poor woman mistaking her son for an intruder…

Harry coming back and the pointed way of speaking about how he changed. Oh my you’re so tall… 

Was it circled with a heart around it? 

I don't think you lie to a child to ingratiate yourself…

I’m your basketball beard. 

You and Eddie as BUDDIES makes sense…

I couldn’t replace you…Christopher would have something to say about that…

Someone has to go into the sewer. I’m going into the sewer, aren’t I? 

Hey, could you watch Christopher for me…I’ve already asked Marisol twice…(and those two times must’ve been when he went to the fight and the pick up game?) 

Maddie pointedly having a conversation with Buck about what happened to Eddie. Uh-huh don't do it again, Evan. Stop acting like a 14yr old.

So what are you doing Saturday? Saturday? You still owe me that beer. You free?

Yes, I’m free. 

Disclaimer 1:  I do understand the frustrations about not seeing an on screen apology or forgiveness towards Tommy for his actions against Hen and Chim. From his line about being jealous of the family unit the 118 has become, it seems apparent that he did help them out as a way to say I’m changing. I’ve changed and I hope you can see that. I’m frustrated over why I could not be thinking or assuming that a character made a change? If I were in Tommy’s shoes and couldn’t lift myself up out of the past, it’d get rather annoying, because if people cannot change from their mistakes then what? There are significantly bad apples who DO NOT WANT TO CHANGE AND WILL NOT and those are the people who can be written off as people who will talk you in circles and never let down the brick wall you’re screaming at. Thick headed skulls for the wrong reasons, but what I’m trying to say is that CHANGE and GROWTH should be allowed, even if we didn’t explicitly see it on screen. 

Disclaimer 2: I do think this last episode was very on the nose, but also sub-textual at the same time? Or were there purposeful gaps, the gaps that the audience can interpret and fill in? Which is why I can fill in the gaps about Tommy. If they wanted to make his former actions and him being a bigoted asshole and integral part of him, why bring the character back at all? Given the significant amount of time this character has been away from the 118 and people there, I’d say the gap can be filled with CHANGE, GROWTH, and CONTINUED LEARNING from past mistakes. 

[deluxewhump]

Erik's Journals Pt 10 (2023)

19. The Heart That Fed

CW: nsfw

June 2023

Max Svenson reached out to me last week.

It was in an email, of all things. Probably his way of being discreet, not knowing who might see a familiar number pop up on my cell phone screen.

Erik, he wrote.

I know he’s with you. I’m not as oblivious as I let him think. I spoke to him yesterday and he’s still lying, (mostly by omission) albeit poorly.

He is an adult and a citizen. I know this, so no need to remind me. I have no stake in this other than to know he is safe.

Is he?

He used a personal email, not a work account. No sign off, but from the address it was clear— first name last name.

I wondered briefly if there was a way I could manipulate this development in a way that would suit me. Max did not like corresponding with me. He had always avoided it until I had made it unavoidable. But being in New Mexico, worried about Carlo and unable to physically see him, he had crossed his least favorite line in the sand. 

I had gone behind Carlo's back in sending my old journals regarding him to Max. And now Max had done the same to him in reaching out to me to confirm the lies he suspected Carlo of.

How did Max know for sure? I assumed he didn’t, that he was making a fairly confident guess and knew I was unlikely to refute it if it were true.

I remembered Max’s eyes as he watched me strike Carlo’s hands with that belt, his fury for me watering down to helpless pity and regret. I wondered if he ever told his father about his pet, about how he had first belonged to me. Svenson Senior certainly knew my name, we’d met once or twice.

Probably not. I doubted the uncomfortable subject of a boy-pet was ever broached on their obligatory father-son phone conversations. 

I could have asked Carlo if he wished me to lie to Max Svenson for him. It might cement his rekindled trust in me. It might also make me an accomplice to his guilt in a way I did not need or particularly wish to be. I didn’t need to ingratiate myself with Carlo. He was already mine again. 

It’s funny to me; here is this young man who has grown up right here in the Valley, oblivious of me and I of him, for all the years Carlo was mine. Had probably been in college when I brought Carlo back here from California. Strangers, all of us. And now he was asking after Carlo’s welfare like it was his right to know.

He’s home here, Max, I wanted to write. He's perfectly well. Why don’t you ask him? I hit reply and answered him with even more brevity than he’d shown me. 

Max,

What earthly good is my word to you? But since you asked. 

Yes, Carlo is quite safe. Of course he is.

E.H.

I considered telling Carlo that Max had reached out. What would be his reaction? Anxiety, probably. Guilt. He might look to me for absolution but he would also want it from Max, and know he had done something that didn’t quite deserve it.

White afternoon sunlight lay in stripes across my desk through the blinds, throwing the dust motes on my laptop screen into sharp relief. Down the hall, a clock chimed four and I thought of what transpired the night before.

I never initiated anything carnal with Carlo. What was between us in Virginia was his doing as well. It was important the balance did not tip so far. Too much weight of power was on my side already, obviously— if I added that, it would be irreconcilable, even with him being free. 

He initiated once more, the night before Max’s inquiry, when I came to his room to say goodnight and bring him a cup of peppermint tea, which I used to do sometimes when he was studying. He grabbed my hand as I went to leave, his eyes betraying what it was he wanted.

Still, I made him ask for it out loud before I’d give it, him blushing scarlet, the fire inside coaxed to the surface. He wanted some form of penetration— anything, so long as I was the author of it. He wanted the act of it; to submit— as one must to enjoy such an activity— and the affirming feeling of being conquered, deriving pleasure from being a thing that is desired.  

Such weakness, on my part. Such base, vulgar curiosity. I’m not proud of it, but I am a man and I do have a pulse, and he was so willing— bewildered at his own bravery and determination. Depravity, perversion of affection, his molten desire to lie down for the master, the father. I felt all of it acutely. 

He pulled down the covers and lay his coltish long legs on either side of me. I indulged him. I said remorseless, incestuous things. When he began to gasp and whimper I did not slow my hand or stop crooning to him. 

20. Lowercase gods

June 2023

On Sunday morning I stepped into the sunken living room on the east wing of the first floor to find Carlo awake and ignoring homework in favor of scrolling his phone. He had the TV on, annoying to me at this early hour. Mounted over my stone fireplace, it was an ugly black eye as useless as a taxidermized deer head. At least he had the decency to have it on mute. I noticed he seemed to like the company of the TV more than he used to, even if he wasn’t watching it. Something he picked up with Max.

Vote yes on three! a political ad urged us, a proposal that would effectively render out-of-state pet trading illegal in Maryland.

“Are you voting?” I asked from several feet behind the couch. 

Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes from his phone to the TV screen. “I guess I have to,” he muttered, seeming a little offended I’d draw his attention to an ad like that. “To cancel out yours.”

A barbed annoyance pricked the back of my neck. I thought of leaving it alone and going for another cup of coffee, but I found myself asking. “Hold on. What makes you think I’d vote against it?”

Carlo let his head fall back over the edge of the sofa. His dark curls, finding their usual relationship to gravity reversed, loosened towards the floor. He looked at me upside-down. “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe because you bought and kept me for almost nine years as a pet?”

I resisted the urge to touch his petulant little throat while he was like that, so vulnerably bared, collar bones like the poles of a teepee. I’d rest my hand on it, not squeezing, just enough to feel the mechanics of his trachea under my palm, such delicate, vital machinery.

“I took advantage of the current laws and regulations,” I said—measured and nodding. “Personal advantage. Sure. That doesn’t mean I’d vote to keep the status quo. This would be a good bottleneck on the trade. Like a fire, it only needs to be slowly deprived of oxygen. Why do you take me for such a Philistine? After all these years, have I not persuaded you otherwise?”

He blinked at me upside down like some weird Cheshire cat, his mouth opening to speak and then closing instead.

“I can tell you have something to say.”

“If… I was still your pet. Would you vote against it then?

“If I still had a personal stake in maintaining the status quo…” I mused, watching the talking heads on the TV mime mutely from teleprompters. “Maryland’s a blue state. It will go in favor of this legislation sooner or later. But they’ll put a grandfather clause in for existing pets, believe you me. No one’s giving up their already ill-begotten favorite pets, especially not in Baltimore.”

“I didn’t ask what you think will happen,” Carlo challenged me. Blood must have been pooling behind his eyes because he flipped over, put his chin on the spine of my couch like a raccoon peering over a fence. “I wanted to know what you’d do.”

“I think past actions speak louder than irrelevant hypotheticals.”

“…Like you giving me my papers?”

I tilted my head briefly. Precisely.

He stared at me for a moment, his eyes chalkboard blank, and then he rolled them, a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. “God. How do you do that?”

“What, angel.” I said flatly.

“That. You just sold me on 'actions speak louder than words', when your actions were to buy a pet and have a pet for a decade and then sell that pet the minute it became an inconvenience to you. And you flipped it right around and made me feel bad for what should’ve been a really logical assumption.”

“It wasn’t my intention to muddle you. It was only to ask you what you meant by your comment.”

“You’re good at that,” he said darkly. He hesitated on something, I could tell by the way his tongue was on the back of his front teeth and he glanced to a sunbeam on the rug at my feet. “Do you know what defamiliarization is?” he asked. 

“Not in any particular sense.”

“In literary theory,” he said, tucking his hands under his chin on the ridge of the couch, his hair still mussed from hanging upside down. “It’s when something ordinary and commonly understood is written about in a unique way. It’s a…” he searched for his next words. “…an alien perspective in the writing that reframes a concept you take for granted. It jars you. Makes you question something you never would’ve questioned before. Everyone always uses Tolstoy as an example. But you do that when you talk. Well, when you talk to me at least.”

“Is defamiliarization also a theme in psychology?” I asked.

“I mean… psychology informs the literary meaning of it.”

My earlier annoyance with his incorrect assumption of me had faded. I had realized while he was speaking I’d gotten exactly what I’d asked for in him, the sort of company I’d cultivated by letting him have his head, and later letting him free of me. I didn’t want to chastise him now and discourage the behavior I liked to see. For all the capitulation he has shown me, I can give him mine as well from time to time.

“I don’t mean to twist words, Carlo. Or to give you uneven footing. Defamiliarize you. I strive for us to understand one another.”

He turned the corner of his mouth again, this time in a half-apologetic downward smile of acceptance. “It’s just something I thought of just now. It’s dumb.”

“It’s not,” I said, approaching him and enjoying the way he lifted his eyes to me without doubt or fear. I sifted my hand into his hair and squeezed measuredly so his chin lifted off his knuckles, neck arching gently back.

“Your perceptions are your own, Carlo. None of my tiresome prescriptivism can undermine that.”

“Do you really think the law will go through?”

From his tone, I didn’t know if his curiosity was a general one or if this still felt particularly personal to him. I don’t see how it couldn’t. 

“The trade has gotten too much attention lately to stay unchanged. It will head one way or the other in the next five years,” I predicted. “But I’ve been wrong about too many things at this point in my life to be confident which.” He did a strange thing then. He twisted in my loose grip to kiss my wrist. His eyes closed with what could almost be mistaken for reverence, and then opened to look at me, as slowly as music boxes begin their notes. 

Next

[nostalgebraist]

@monadique replied to your post “Last weekend I read most of J. D. Salinger's Glass...”:

I love the Glass family! Been ages since I read them but would be interested to hear your thoughts on the collection if you had any more?

​Sure.

Spoilers for the works listed here under the cut

Here's something that jumped out at me when reading "Raise High" and "Seymour."

(It jumped out so strongly that I want to say it's an obvious surface feature of the text, and barely worth mentioning. But I can never tell what is and isn't "obvious," so I'll mention it.)

In "Raise High," we hear that Seymour and his fiancé have been up late on the night before their wedding, engaged in a conversation about how Seymour is -- in his words (?) -- "too happy to get married":

But what man in his right mind, the night before he’s supposed to get married, keeps his fiancé up all night blabbing to her all about how he’s too happy to get married and that she’ll have to postpone the wedding till he feels steadier or he won’t be able to come to it? Then, when his fiancée explains to him like a child that everything’s been arranged and planned out for months [...] he says to her he’s terribly sorry but he can’t get married till he feels less happy or some crazy thing! Use your head, now, if you don’t mind. Does that sound like somebody normal?

Meanwhile, various characters (including the speaker here) voice the opinion that Seymour is mentally unwell, and in need of help.

They're not very likable witnesses, these characters. In terms of the surface logic of the story, we're clearly "meant" to view these characters as clueless busybodies, and we are meant to view their proposed course of action -- subjecting Seymour to 1950s-style psychoanalysis until he's "better" -- as amusingly useless at best.

And anyway, that course of action has already been tried. By this point, Seymour has already had a lengthy conversation to his mother-in-law's analyst -- as we learn later in "Raise High." And in "Zooey," we are told that all the Glass children were examined in childhood by a variety of specialists in "clinical, social, and newsstand psychology." In the latter story, Zooey says sarcastically:

"If you get any more ideas, like last night, of phoning Philly Byrnes' goddam psychoanalyst for Franny, just do one thing—that's all I ask. Just think of what analysis did for Seymour." He paused for emphasis. "Hear me? Will you do that?"

(Though it's unclear if this refers to some earlier episode, or just to the analyst conversation described in "Raise High.")

In sum, "Raise High" does not "want" us to worry over Seymour's mental health. Indeed, the narrative voice seems actively angry about the very idea of doing so.

But, of course, several years later -- Seymour Glass killed himself.

And, of course, "Raise High" is narrated by his brother Buddy, who's obviously feeling defensive of Seymour during the incident related in the story, and who has even more reason to be defensive (among other things) about Seymour at the (later, post-suicide) time of the story's composition.

Now, "Raise High" is paired in a single published volume with another, much stranger story, also written in-story by Buddy Glass: "Seymour, An Introduction."

Early on in "Seymour," Buddy tells us that he is "ecstatically happy." By this he seems to mean he is in some profoundly atypical mental/spiritual state, whose connection to the ordinary denotation of the word "happy" is somewhat mysterious:

Professionally speaking, which is the only way I’ve ever really enjoyed speaking up (and, just to ingratiate myself still less, I speak nine languages, incessantly, four of them stone-dead)—professionally speaking, I repeat I’m an ecstatically happy man. I’ve never been before. Oh, once, perhaps, when I was fourteen and wrote a story in which all the characters had Heidelberg dueling scars—the hero, the villain, the heroine, her old nanny, all the horses and dogs. I was reasonably happy then, you might say, but not ecstatically, not like this.

In "Raise High," Seymour's professed state of "happiness" coincided with staying up all night, and a sudden (?) urge to call off his wedding. Call it off, specifically, "until he feels more steady."

In one diary entry quoted later in "Raise High," Seymour writes:

I felt unbearably happy all evening.

In a later entry, "happiness" is again paired with insomnia:

Oppenheim is already in the sack. I should be, too, but I can’t. Someone must sit up with the happy man.

And then there is this:

Oh, God, if I’m anything by a clinical name, I’m a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.

This sentence causes Buddy, reading the diary, to have the following reaction (my emphasis):

I remember closing the diary—actually, slamming it shut—after the word “happy.” I then sat for several minutes with the diary under one arm, until I became conscious of a certain discomfort from having sat so long on the side of the bathtub. When I stood up, I found I was perspiring more profusely than I had all day, as though I had just got out of a tub, rather than just been sitting on the side of one.

What is this "happiness" of Seymour's?

It could all just be eccentric behavior. But -- especially given Seymour's later suicide -- it seems plausible that this bout of "happiness" is, in fact, a manic episode.

That interpretation jibes with the apparent effects of "happiness" in Buddy's case. Just after the part of "Seymour" quoted above ("Professionally speaking..."), Buddy goes on to explain what "happiness" does to a writer:

To the point: I happen to know, possibly none better, that an ecstatically happy writing person is often a totally draining type to have around. Of course, the poets in this state are by far the most “difficult,” but even the prose writer similarly seized hasn’t any real choice of behavior in decent company; divine or not, a seizure’s a seizure. And while I think an ecstatically happy prose writer can do many good things on the printed page—the best things, I’m frankly hoping—it’s also true, and infinitely more self-evident, I suspect, that he can’t be moderate or temperate or brief; he loses very nearly all his short paragraphs. He can’t be detached—or only very rarely and suspiciously, on down-waves. In the wake of anything as large and consuming as happiness, he necessarily forfeits the much smaller but, for a writer, always rather exquisite pleasure of appearing on the page serenely sitting on a fence. Worst of all, I think, he’s no longer in a position to look after the reader’s most immediate want; namely, to see the author get the hell on with his story.

As we read on, we discover that "Seymour" is a very, very strange document. And very much the sort of thing a person might produce under the influence of mania.

It buzzes with energy, yet is oddly directionless; it flies at immense speed, and yet goes nowhere. The implied writer seems unable to leave any thought uncommitted to paper, and equally unable to hold back the churning tide of thought-after-thought-after-thought inside his own mind.

The tone is ecstatic, but ecstatic in an odd, off way: giddy with mirth over some private joke, convinced that something marvelous is occurring (or has occurred) without being able to spell out what. Most of all, though "Seymour" treats its title character with hagiographic reverence, the ecstasy of the voice doesn't seem to be primarily about Seymour, or indeed about anything. We learn a lot of things about Seymour in the course of "Seymour" -- eventually, anyway -- but many of them are hilariously trivial in nature, and do not seem prepared or arranged to convey anything in particular about Seymour the man. (The title is amusingly ironic: whatever "Seymour, an Introduction" does, it certainly does not "introduce" Seymour in the comprehensive and quasi-scholarly fashion implied.)

----

So, that's the "obvious" thing that stood out to me.

"Happy," in these two stories, appears to mean "manic." Buddy Glass is bipolar, and so is his brother.

"Seymour" is "Raise High" inverted. In "Raise High" we see Seymour's mania through the clear glass of Buddy at the height of his writerly powers (but at a glancing angle, due to Buddy's partisanship on the subject) -- while in "Seymour," apparently ordinary incidents from Seymour's boyhood are fragmented and made dazzling by the shattered mirror of Buddy's own mania.

Is that "true"? I don't know.

Maybe this is too resistant a reading; maybe I'm meant to think that the "busybodies" were just-plain-wrong, that Seymour was a bodhisattva, and that "Seymour" is a straightforwardly beautiful piece of prose.

It is noteworthy, though, that everything (?) about the Glass narrative reaches us via Buddy Glass. Salinger makes a point of this, as though it matters. Most of the later stories are explicitly "written by" Buddy -- but earlier stories like "Bananafish" also get retconned to "always have been" Buddy Glass compositions, rather than just J. D. Salinger stories.

Indeed, in the case of "Bananafish," we're directly told to view Buddy as an unreliable narrator; apparently, whatever Seymour Glass' last day was like, it wasn't quite like that.

The final story, "Hapworth 16, 1924," is a long letter written by Seymour. And yet it too -- weirdly! -- is explicitly placed in Buddy-shaped quotation marks, with a preface written by Buddy presenting it as a old letter he's conveniently just happened to find sitting around.

I'm left uncertain about how to read "Hapworth," in light of this, and in light of the interpretation of "Seymour" above.

It's possible that Buddy himself fabricated it, as I saw one reviewer suggest. This would fit with the sheer weirdness of it (drawing a line between it and "Seymour"), and with the overall sense that the whole Glass saga is being unreliablely-narrated by Buddy and colored by his evolving mental/emotional state.

Except... I don't feel like that fits? "Hapworth" is weirdly written, but it's weirdly written in a very different way from "Seymour."

It lacks the out-of-control digressiveness we saw in "Seymour," and the nested, spiraling sentence structure. In their place is another very strange type of prose, with its own sense of unrelenting ecstasy that feels somehow off, not really about the surface subject matter, the product of some relentless inner engine running along the lines of a wholly inner logic. (For 7-yo Seymour, it seems that everything is "heartrending" and "amusing" and so on; the same terms of approbation are applied so uniformly that they lose all meaning.)

But the prose of "Hapworth" doesn't feel out-of-control, the way the prose of "Seymour" very obviously (and deliberately) did. The kid knows what he wants to say, and he says it, immediately and directly. One feels the content is driving the style, rather than being held back by it.

If "Hapworth" isn't a Buddy Glass fabrication, what is it?

If it's authentic Seymour, then Seymour really is a bodhisattva -- or at least, a true prophet, a clairvoyant who foresaw his own death and other things besides.

And yet he doesn't talk and act like we'd expect a bodhisattva to talk. He can be kind of a dick, for one thing; for another, he's just weird (to use that word once again) in a way that doesn't really seem derivable from sainthood, or even from child-prodigyhood.

Maybe he is a new kind of thing entirely. A god incarnated in 20th century New York, as imagined by a very innovative and very peculiar (real-world) author. Maybe mania, or at least "happiness," is part of the earthly package for such a god. If so, then we must pity poor Buddy, saddled with his brother's curse of "happiness" without, like his brother, receiving godhood in exchange for it.

(But even then -- what sort of line should we draw between the eerie, JEDD-Mason-like superintelligent alien of "Hapworth," and the only-mildly-eccentric adult of the diary entries in "Raise High"? It seems challenging to reconcile the two.)

[giantologist]

Professor Finch,

I consider myself a bit of a wandering witch, but as of late I’ve felt a need to settle down a bit. There’s a village I pass through seasonally that seems unlikely to chase me out by pitchfork-wielding mob, and my tinctures, salves, and various charms sell quite well there. However, this particular village has a giant. I’m not opposed to giants by any means, but I haven’t ever seen this giant during previous visits, and I worry if giants are opposed in any way (large or small) to witches. If I build my home there it will be on the outskirts of the forest; likely closer to the giant than the village proper. I’d hate to make anyone uncomfortable or fearful, regardless of size. Do you know the best way to introduce myself and ask permission to build my abode? Or should I find another village entirely?

(PS; I know less unsavory practitioners of my craft have been known to deal in poisons specific to giantfolk. Please know I’ve never done so, and in fact pox anyone who comes round knockin’ to ask.)

Greetings!

It will reassure you that giants have never been opposed to magic users as a whole (although I cannot speak for personal grudges) and I have known those skilled enough to practise scale change magic to provide larger than usual crops for giants.

I would be surprised if the village giant would take offence to your settling on the outskirts of the forest. After all, you are about to be a part of the village, a valued member of the community, and such an addition would delight anybody who cares about their home. As for introducing yourself, I would suggest approaching it how you would with any other neighbour. A token of goodwill, be that edible or a sample of your trade, and a friendly visit with clear and good intentions. I have said many times that gift giving is extremely important to giants, and anything regardless of size or use will help you ingratiate yourself into their life.

I wish you luck, and hope you find a new friend and a welcoming community!

Professor J Finch

[your-divine-ribs]

I’m With the Band Part 25

Words: 2.3k

I’m With the Band Masterlist Main Masterlist

Before I've stepped too far away a thought occurs to me and I quickly dart back into my room, smiling to myself at Van's fleeting look off dismay which evaporates as soon I emerge with my phone in hand, urging him to lead the way.

He does, back to the master bedroom where I steal a glance at his bed as I cross the threshold, memories sparking in me of what I was doing there with him just last night. My cheeks immediately tinge pink as I recall how easily he'd coaxed a climax from me, and the fact that just a few hours later I'd led Sam back to my room for more of the same. It certainly wasn't the first time that I'd seduced two guys in the same evening and usually I'd be glowing with a smug kind of satisfaction, but Sam's hurt and angry face keeps appearing in my mind, an unwelcome reminder of how every action causes a reaction... and not always in a good way.

I excuse myself under the pretence of using the bathroom and perch on the side of the tub, opening up my phone, my heart sinking when I see a ridiculous number of missed calls and texts on the screen. A quick scroll through shows none from Portia since her texts from earlier last night but plenty from my other so-called 'friends' and assorted hangers-on who I'm sure are only too eager to ingratiate themselves to me now they think I'm probably part of Sam's inner circle.

I ignore them, scrolling down the list and bringing up Portia's contact, placing the call and anxiously listening to it ring and ring, the answerphone eventually picking up. I try again and again, even persisting when it's quite obvious that Portia is either asleep or still partying or blatantly ignoring me, only giving up when I hear a gentle rap on the door and Van's tentative voice asking if I'm okay.

"Yeah, I'll just be a sec!" I call out, before I'm dropping my voice down low as Portia's answerphone picks up yet again, hissing my words out in hushed, clipped tones.

"Portia! What the fuck d'ya think you're playing at? I've got the whole bloody world trying to get hold of me and Sam Fender hates my guts! Take those photos down... please! And call me when you get this."

I flick my phone on to silent just as I see my friend Dominic's cocky grinning face pop up on the screen as he tries to connect to me through FaceTime. It's the first time he's tried to call me since I've been away. In fact it's the first time any of the others have. Well fuck him and the rest of the London gang!

I swallow down the bitter feeling that's clawing its way up my throat, pushing back through into the room and flopping down on to Van's bed face first with a deep groan. A moment later I feel the bed dip down under his weight as he climbs on, then I feel a large warm hand on my back, soothing touches moving down across my shoulder blades.

"C'mon Bella, it ain't that bad... you'll see. It'll all blow over soon enough. Things like this always do. They'll be gossiping about somebody else in a few days."

Jeez, I wish I had Van's optimism. He's always been like this, not dwelling on the bad stuff, trying to cheer people up when they're down. Even though he used to tease me relentlessly during my childhood summers he also made it his mission to try and make me laugh, cracking a daft joke or pulling a ridiculous face or tickling me until I begged for mercy. He usually succeeded as well, much as I tried to hide it and act aloof. Maybe I just need to switch off for a while and indulge in a bit of his laidback goofiness.

I turn my face to the side, peering up at him. "Did you really do it?"

"Huh?"

I let the smile surface, hoisting myself up and reaching for a huge over-sized pillow, fluffing it up before placing it against the headboard and leaning back against it. "Did you really leak your own nudes? Think you're making up tall tales again!"

I watch the grin spreading slow on his lips as he repeats my actions, coming to a rest next to me on the bed, legs outstretched, slotted tightly into my side.

"Why d'ya ask? Wanna see 'em?"

I narrow my eyes playfully at him. "No! Of course not. I have standards. Anyway, I think you're talking crap."

He chuckles lowly, his eyes glowing with mischief. "Definitely not crap," he says. "Y'can ask Larry if ya like. Sent 'em to NME didn't I?"

Now I'm really confused. "Why the hell would you do that you weirdo?"

"They gave the band a shit review," he grins, mightily pleased with his antics. "So I posted 'em a pic of me completely starkers and said 'review this!'"

I'm stunned for a moment, the laugh bubbling up inside me but held hostage whilst I try to work out whether Van's winding me up or not. He certainly looks serious enough, and it's the kind of outrageous thing he'd do with his exhibitionist tendencies.

"Well?" I enquire.

"Well... what?"

"Well did they... review it?"

"Nah," he shrugs. "Thought they might print it or something but I didn't hear from 'em after that."

I let the laugh burst free then, letting my bare leg nudge Van's as I tilt my head towards him. "I'm not surprised! The person viewing a photo of your pasty white naked ass probably dropped dead of fright with a heart attack!"

"Cheeky fucker!" He fires back, darting a hand out to grab one of mine, entwining his fingers tightly through mine. "You know you'd better watch yourself or yer gonna get into trouble!"

He shifts into a kneeling position, catching my other hand and trapping it too, pushing it back against the headboard.

"Oh yeah, whatcha gonna do about it?" I tease, flexing my wrists but finding that I can't move them at all. The bastard's got me trapped. He looms over me, sly smile spreading.

"Well... I reckon I could do whatever I wanted right now, and there's not a lot you could do about it..."

Fuck... my pulse starts to race.

"I'm stronger than I look!" I warn him. "In fact if I wanted to I could get up right now and kick your boney ass!"

Van chuckles, leaning even closer, our faces now only inches apart. "I'd like to see you try! I'd say you were pretty much helpless right now."

He's peering down on me with an intensity that's making my heart hammer in my chest. My eyes dart down to his lips just in time to see his tongue dart out to swipe over his plump lower lip, moistening it. One of his knees slides between my thighs, parting them. I let him, trying to concentrate on my breathing so Van can't hear the way it's catching in my throat.

"I'm just biding my time, lulling you into a false sense of security," I smirk up at him. "Any minute now I'm gonna spring into action and you're gonna realise you picked on the wrong girl this time!"

The air between us both is thick with tension as he hovers there, his hair hanging down around us both, his necklace dangling in the space between us. I watch him carefully, see his smile fade, his gaze flicking between mine and my lips. I swallow hard, waiting... then his face suddenly creases into a frown as he pushes himself up and away, releasing me.

"Maybe I did... maybe I did pick the wrong girl."

What?

"What's that supposed to mean?" I quickly scrabble up to pull myself into a sitting position, my heart sinking as the atmosphere switches from heady and playful to serious and taut within a split second.

"Nothing," Van mutters and I watch as he gets to his feet and crosses over to the far side of the room, stooping to pick up the acoustic guitar that's propped up there.

"Van..." I begin but he doesn't let me finish, turning to face me and cutting me off, his next words shocking me.

"Fender... you must really like him, huh? With how upset you've been about all of this..."

I open my mouth to reply but I falter. I knew Van was jealous of Sam, that much was obvious right from the start, but I'd thought it was just some ridiculous laddish oneupmanship on Van's part, his arrogant streak shining through as he competed to see who would be the first to bed me. Now I'm wondering if there's more to it, that maybe there was some truth in Larry's earlier revelation. It throws me, and I'm still floundering when I mumble out a reply.

"I... errr... I guess... I mean, I don't know really," I finally admit. "I hardly even know the guy. He seems nice enough, but I only met him tonight..."

Van doesn't say anything, just huffs quietly under his breath and for some reason this unexpectedly cuts me deep. I suddenly feel uncharacteristically guilty for my fickle actions, feeling the need to explain myself.

"It was just the whole party atmosphere, I was drunk, we were having such a laugh... it just... kinda happened..."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," he says stonily. "It's a free country."

"I know... I know... I was just..." I trail off, unsure what to say next. Van breaks eye contact, sighing loudly, glancing at the clock on the bedside cabinet.

"Aren't you tired anyway? It's not even 6am yet. You should try and get some more sleep."

"But I can't sleep, that's the whole point of me coming back to your room... remember?"

He just looks back at me for a moment and I feel uncomfortable under his scrutinising stare. I'm expecting him to come out with something profound the way he's looking at me but then the moment seems to pass. He looks down quickly, pulling his shoulders into a small shrug. "Well, you should try anyway. Tour starts up in a few days. You won't get a lot then. Sure there'll be plenty to keep you occupied."

There's no mistaking the inference in his words and it stings unexpectedly. I ignore it, plastering on a forced smile, trying to resist the sudden urge I have to push myself up off the bed and go to him, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face into his neck. "That's just what Bondy said... about not getting much sleep."

"Yeah, well he's right... anyway I'm... errr... just going out for a smoke."

I consider calling him back but I don't. I just watch him go as he turns, still grasping his guitar with one hand as he pulls open the sliding door with the other, stepping out on to the small self-contained balcony. A strange, sad kind of melancholy settles itself over me and it's unsettling. I sigh to myself, reaching down to pull the bedsheets up as I sink myself down into Van's bed. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should just try and get some more sleep. I'm drunk and I'm tired, my poor frazzled brain now so overwrought and confused that it's actually trying to convince me that I have feelings developing for Van!

Feelings! For Van! Absolutely fucking ridiculous!

No... it's just been a crazy evening and I need to rest and besides, I'm pretty sure I'll have even more crap to deal with when the rest of the world finally awakens and catches up.

I stare up at the ceiling for a bit, ears pricking as I hear the faint twang of a familiar melody that I can't place drifting through the balcony door. It feels strange lying here in Van's bed whilst he's out there, and I wonder what he's thinking about.

Maybe I did pick the wrong girl...

My insides twist as I try to fight the hurt those few simple words incur in me. Van's right. I am wrong… wrong for him, wrong for Sam, wrong for any guy stupid enough to let their guard down around me. I'm so caught up in having a good time I don't stop to consider consequences, and boy have I got consequences to deal with after tonight.

I screw my eyes shut tight, rolling over on to my side and pressing my face into the pillow, hating this new-found critical introspection that's so unfamiliar to me. It's so alien that I don't know quite what to do with it, so I treat it like I usually do with any other problem that I encounter along the way. I shut it down, boxing it up, pushing it away, drowning it out as I try to bring other thoughts into my head. Thoughts of the upcoming tour, flirting with the boys, meeting new and exciting people, just letting loose and doing what I do best... having fun...being a good-time girl... no worries... no guilt... and definitely no regrets...

And if I break a few hearts along the way then I must be doing something right, hey? That's what Portia would say...

I'm resolute as I sink down even further into the soft, sumptuous pillow, finally feeling a little of the night's tension starting to dissipate. Much as I realise I'd been trying to fight it, I am tired, and not just tired. Exhausted. Sleep wafts enticingly behind the comforting blackness behind my eyelids and soon I can feel myself start to drift, lulled by the enchanting melody I can just make out from the open doorway.

I'm not even sure if I'm dreaming when I hear Van's voice start to softly sing, faraway and dreamlike in its quality.

Arabella's got a seventies head

But she's a modern lover

It's an exploration, she's made of outer space

And her lips are like the galaxy's edge

And her kiss the colour of a constellation falling into place...

[bill-needle]

Needle in a deserted island situation with like you and the other SCTV people who do you think is getting eaten first (probably you lets be honest)

Y’see, I would’ve gone with Guy. This was all probably his fault anyway.

I see where you’re coming from though; I’m irritating, probably gonna stir up conflict, best to get me out of the way early. Still, I’d like to think that I could ingratiate myself a little.

I can’t see the same happening for a guy like Earl. I think he goes before I do.