#it's a lazy way to accomplish what artists can accomplish without putting in any of the fucking work

[pinkautist]

had to unfollow and artist i enjoyed bc they talked about how they use ai and took the stance of, "people need to stop attacking me for it bc it's been really helpful to me as a disabled artist 🥺 we should be standing together as artists not trying to divide ourselves 🥺" you know what else ai does? YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE AI DOES??? IT USES ENOUGH ENERGY TO KILL OUR PLANET MUCH FASTER THAN ANYTHING ELSE WE CAN DO ENERGY-WISE.

i am a disabled artist too. my cognitive and mental disabilities that make burnout a substantial roadblock aside, i can have frequent and extreme pain in my wrist (sometimes out of nowhere, sometimes as a result of drawing) that makes drawing an extremely painful and slow process for me (this is due to hypermobility probably). sometimes i draw in spite of the pain, and sometimes it's enough to have me taking long breaks. as a result of the combination of disabilities i have, i am an extremely slow artist. sometimes i struggle with having intense motivation to create, but no actual inspiration because of things going on in my head. and it's a struggle because i desperately want to create, but nothing is coming to me, which makes me feel really bad. and in spite of ALL of this, i still will not use fucking ai to "soothe the uninspired motivation" or to "create in spite of my pain". i will not hand my humanity over to ai because of such trivial reasons. ai could never do what i can, because creating is about the process, not the end result. i feel accomplished in a way that using ai could never provide when i see a piece coming together, something that i've created from nothing. ai will never provide that feeling.

[cancerjupiter]

🌱earth moons🌱

Those with earthy Moons react in a very grounded, matter-of-fact way. The reaction may be so self-contained in those with Taurus or Capricorn Moon, in fact, that others may wonder if there has been any reaction. Those with Virgo Moon, on the other hand, react rather quickly, mentally, and sometimes nervously to any stimulus in a way obvious to everyone, even if the person is trying to contain his or her emotional reaction. Just like the earth itself, those with an Earth Moon have a crust over their emotional reactions; and they prefer to present a certain form to the public rather than to reveal their vulnerabilities.

taurus moon

The Moon is extraordinarily happy in the comfortable, stable sign of Taurus, for the emotions are steady and the person has little self-doubt. Those with the Moon in Taurus are not easily perturbed, even by powerful attacks or shocking events that would strongly affect others. They are in fact amazingly resilient, bouncing back from any defeat, disappointment, or trauma. Perfect examples are politicians Bill Clinton and Joe Biden, and celebrities Demi Lovato and Lindsay Lohan; who, despite unmerciful attacks, still manage to have their shit together and maintain at least some degree of popularity.

The poise with which Taurus Moon people face life’s demands and unpredictability is remarkable, and they therefore have a steadying influence on others, who appreciatively value their reliability. Note that I said “reliability,” not necessarily readiness! This sign is known for being the slowest in the zodiac, moving actively only when they are good and ready and insisting on their own pace in everything they do in life. Their inner contentment and resistance to change can thus make them frustrating to deal with if their considerable stubbornness causes them to dig in their heels to resist what you want. The other side of the coin is their remarkable persistence when they are focused on attaining a certain goal.

Those with Taurus Moon are attuned to the rhythms of nature and the earth, and this gives them their particular pace of life and much of their strength. They are notably physical and sensual, and have a great need for the “pleasures of life.” And they insist on taking the time to enjoy them. This unique attunement leads to a trust in earthly life that enables them to accept others with few demands and to take life as it comes. They are pleased with life (generally) and rather pleased with themselves. This can of course result in smugness, conceited self-satisfaction, and self-indulgent laziness. As Grant Lewi wrote, the key to improving oneself for Taurus Moon is to “turn self-satisfaction into active self-confidence”.

Emotionally, those with this Moon sign are not at all cold, but neither do they readily reveal their feelings. They are good listeners and are usually warmly responsive and solidly supportive, but not gushingly effusive. They really prefer not to allow anything to affect them. Some comments from questionnaire responses add additional perspectives to this lunar type:

1. “Seems very positive, giving men good relationships with women. It also appears to give talent in crafts such as cooking and other home arts.”

2. “ … sensual, heightened sense of material/physical aesthetics (e.g., clothing, home, colors, etc.), wonderful sense of humor, stubborn, and sometimes impervious to what’s going on beneath the surface of things.”

People with the Moon in Taurus like to be touched, especially to be hugged. Also, I’ve noticed a certain resistance to change. This resistance ranges (in different people) between a reluctance to accept the moods of another and a reluctance to allow any out-of-the-ordinary spontaneity to enter their life (usually hate surprises).

virgo moon

Those with Virgo Moon need a sense of order in their own minds and in the environment to feel comfortable and secure. This leads to their instinctive analytical reaction to all life experience, sorting their perceptions and thoughts into categories and discriminating between them according to their personal principles or prejudices. This need for order also motivates their obsession with neatness and cleanliness. They likewise feel more secure by making definite improvements in their environment, in their scientific, artistic, or intellectual pursuits, or—something not always appreciated with this sign—in other people. In fact, as one woman wrote in a questionnaire, “Sometimes they can be busybodies, putting others’ lives in order with advice—usually not so tactful. They’re so busy organizing friends’ lives that they forget about their own”. This “workaholic” tendency can also manifest as a broad range of criticism from afar directed even at total strangers who, evidently, just don’t measure up to the Virgo level of perfection.

Being helpful makes them feel better about themselves and aids them in overcoming their habitual self-doubt and sense of personal imperfection. In fact, “perfectionism” is a keyword for Virgo, and their unavoidable awareness of their own imperfections leads often to excessive self-consciousness, sometimes of a type so severe as to render them unable to use their genuine gifts with any confidence. Their tendency to notice the imperfections of others, and to voice those observations far too often, frequently makes the other person feel uncomfortably and unproductively self-conscious. Those with Virgo Moon would do better to heed their deep need to serve and to help others or improve things in the outer world. By doing so, they can eventually gain a sense of having improved themselves—at least in the modest way they will allow themselves to acknowledge. Virgo is the most modest sign in the zodiac—one of the few, in fact. Virgo Moon people can seem shy and reserved.

Habitually nervous types with a tendency to worry, Virgo Moon people often find their personal tranquility and self-validation in work and compulsive “busyness.” Work also provides an escape from the unpleasant emotions or depressing feelings of guilt or worthlessness that so often afflict those with this Moon position. But, because emotions interfere with productivity, as Donna Cunningham points out in Moon Signs, they are conveniently put aside or suppressed in the routine of daily life. Hence, Virgo Moons are among the few people who love all kinds of petty, boring activities — even housework. A friend with this placement even admitted to dreaming about being a mother/grandmother, so she could do chores and serve her family all day (of course, she’s also a Cancer Rising).

Doubt and skepticism pervade their mode of thinking and reacting, and of course there is always something to criticize in any person, place, thing, or concept. The infinitely small is always available as a target! This constant mental tension and the sensitivity of their nervous system, and their hyper-attunement to hygiene and purity, make these folks fascinated by and eager for involvement in the areas of nutrition, biological sciences, natural therapies, the healing arts, and/or the medical professions. This natural affinity also, however, bends them toward hypochondria, at its worst, or at least to a sensitive digestive and/or intestinal system. The quality of the food they eat is of utmost importance, since it directly affects their nerves and mental state, not just their digestion.

Their talent for detailed work is without equal (except for those with certain other planets in Virgo), and they often get great satisfaction from employing their natural craftsmanship in the practical or fine arts. Because their mind can always find something wrong with any idea or plan, indecision often afflicts those with this Moon placement. Moral indecision as well is often observed, as their perfectionist and puritanical tendencies battle with their more practical or sensual needs.

capricorn moon

Those with Capricorn Moon, as is also the case when other major planets or the Ascendant are in Capricorn, seem unnaturally old and serious when they are young, but they can lighten up as they grow older. In their youth, they are unusually capable, disciplined, and conservative, taking the well-trodden path to their goals of worldly achievement or to follow a vocation. Their real confidence is late-blooming, as their sense of inner security develops over time and they feel that their age at least, if not their accomplishments, has earned them some respect they have always craved. Capricorn Moon people eventually learn to relax somewhat and to trust life and other people to a greater extent. The aura of melancholy that those with Capricorn attunement so often carry around with them can also slowly dissipate over time, sometimes helped by a more and more adventurous—but dry—sense of humor.

The fluctuating, responsive, emotional Moon is not at all naturally comfortable in a sign that is often rigid and distant, and prides itself on not revealing any sign of vulnerability or personal need. People with Capricorn Moon have instinctive reactions to life that are characterized by self-control and caution, and sometimes by a defensiveness or negativity that is almost shocking. They feel that they need to manipulate and control the world (and their feelings) in order to attain the power, authority, and recognition that they deeply desire. In fact, they are most secure within themselves when their identity is confirmed by a social role, title, specific duty, or mantle of authority. Even at an early age, Capricorn Moon people are comfortable assuming responsibility and feel perfectly at home in the role of provider, protector, or organizer. They are most relaxed and truly themselves when they are carrying some weight, or when others have to depend on them! Very hardworking, these folks share with Virgo first place on the list of people who absolutely love to work, which often ultimately results in professional success. They may not always be fun, but they will often get the job done.

Perhaps the most oppressive thing about this group occurs in those who become too obsessed with being recognized as important and having authority; sometimes, there is a persistent “one-upmanship” that pervades their personal and professional lives. The constant drive to be “on top” can cripple their capacity for any human intimacy and eliciting automatic distrust from others. As psychologist-astrologer Glenn Perry, Ph.D., wrote,

“The tight controlled responses often lead to loneliness and despair as it prevents the individual from flowing and responding to the changing mood of others. Moon in Capricorn nurtures by taking charge and giving orders. This dry mechanical approach to feelings is not sympathetic and tends to imply that the other is incompetent. Unable to respond directly to emotional needs, Moon in Capricorn gives the impression of being callous, hardened and unaffected by the tender side of life. (Aspects magazine, Fall 1981)”

If the emotional suppression and denial become chronically extreme and rigid, the result can be a person who others may respect but not love. However, from another view (from the inside, so to speak) of this Moon sign’s emotional nature, I quote here from an interview with a Capricorn Moon young woman who characterized herself to me as having “a seriousness about the emotional life, an interest in getting down to bare bones, an impatience with small talk, and a need to get to the core emotionally.” She continues:

“All Capricorn Moons I know (there have been a lot) have a certain gravity to them, an ability to take the emotional life seriously. The women especially are almost never giggly or flirty — we’re too serious to flirt much. The women are kind of ‘masculine’ I guess, sort of businesslike in their manner (men too actually… it’s not a placement I ever see that is friends with everyone and instantly, openly affectionate). I think ‘a few serious, long-term friendships’ sums up all the Capricorn Moons I know.”

A questionnaire reply from another woman also emphasized that women with this capable, ambitious orientation are liable to feel “ambivalent about their sexual identity,” although they have strong physical needs, and that women with Capricorn Moon have “a great need for appreciation to develop their self-worth”. Two other questionnaires confirmed the self-disclosure quoted above regarding the practical agenda underlying emotional commitments. The words they used were “cool in affections and looks out for self” and “very calculating—not necessarily bad—just a lot of planning, no spur-of-the-moment reactions.” Another quite thorough questionnaire reply from an experienced practitioner of astrology included the following:

“this Moon placement shows marked proficiency in handling the self in the material world, or at least a lot of concern over and attunement to material affairs. They are very shrewd in taking care of their financial needs. Very often they are involved in some secure structure, like working for the government, etc. They like a secure financial position. For all, they take things very seriously; they approach many things cautiously. This is also a very sexual placement in laid-back ways.”

In conclusion, the Capricorn demeanor of slowness, caution, and hesitation should never mislead you. They may be conservative in most attitudes, but they are actually very progressive and results-oriented in action. They just don’t like to make mistakes.

[skaylanphear]

Hi there! Do you have any advice on improving traction towards a fanwork/fic? I love writing—and it's not for notoriety by any means—but having validation and feedback also feels nice (I hope that's not conceited). What would you recommend to someone without a large audience/follower base? I do "advertise" on tumblr when my work is written/updated on AO3. How did your journey start? Thank you!

This is an interesting question and I doubt most people are going to like the answers, but here we go:

So, first and foremost, you need to be realistic about why you're creating in the first place. If you're doing work in a fandom that is older, where content has stopped coming out, or that is simply smaller, you're not going to get much engagement, period. There will, of course, be activity in these fandoms, but it will be far less and the people involved—while they may view your work—will be less likely to comment/spread it around simply because there's not much going on. So if you're creating in that sort of environment (which can be a really good environment if you're looking for something chill with no pressure), then you have to be prepared for low engagement, even if the people you do meet and who are willing to talk about your work are more regularly in your sphere. You can probably make better/closer friends in these sorts of fandoms, if you're willing to try.

But, on the other end of this, if you're coming into a huge fandom late, it's also going to be harder to wade through the massive following to get your stuff out there. For example, in both the Miraculous and Sk8 fandom, I started work pretty early on, when the shows were still gaining traction, and so my "name" as a creator gained traction parallel to that growth, as opposed to when I started writing in the Voltron fandom. With Voltron, I came in super late and so what few fics I had that did gain traction took a lot longer to get there because people already had their fav content creators in the fandom, etc. It's not impossible to get popular in this situation—far from it—but it does take longer.

You'll also benefit from having finished works early on in a fandom's lifespan, at least with writing. This is because there's less competition for views and so more people will be filtered to your work, initially. This means that you have a better chance of getting those comments and kudos. Having a finished work increases this engagement because people look for finished works before works in progress. Generally, the length of a fic doesn't matter much for popularity, so long as it's DONE. When I was writing in the ML fandom, quite a few of my earlier fics were shorter, and they compete in popularity with my longer fics, because people care more about having a finished story, not a long story. That's why when it came to Only Practice Makes Perfect in the Sk8 fandom, I worked hard to get that shit done, because it was the most popular story I had in the fandom and I decided—like an idiot—to make it a long fic. Which, yeah, means people probably love it/remember it more in the long run, but if I hadn't finished it in 2 to 3 months, I'd have lost considerable traction as far as making a name within the fandom.

This leads into one of the most important points, if not THE MOST IMPORTANT point in gaining an audience—consistency. If you do want to be a successful creator, you Have To Be Consistent. This is the most difficult hurdle for all creators, and it is oftentimes impossible to make happen. If you want to aim for professionalism, which a lot of fandom creators don't care about (which is fine), then consistency is how you get there. Nobody wants to read a fic or follow an artist who doesn't stick to creating what they start (RIP all my unfinished works and the people who left me as a result, LOL). Using my most recent works as an example, I very, very, very consistently updated Only Practice Makes Perfect multiple times a week. To the point where people got comfortable expecting it, which is the key variable here. When people become comfortable that you will regularly create content, they not only stick around, but will be more interactive with you and your work. Nobody likes the disappointment of getting involved with a work only for that work to rarely get updates. Most people don't have the attention span to care. I'll admit, if I read a fic that's not finished and the writer takes one week to update, then one week, then THREE weeks, I probably will, like, forget about it. That's just life.

The best thing you can do is schedule. And again, this is the HARDEST thing to do, because it holds the creator to a deadline. Most people who create in fandoms don't want that kind of pressure—and that's fine. I go back and forth on when I have scheduled releases and when I don't, depending on what I'm aiming to do. But if you to retain your audience, telling them that you will update a work regularly on such and such a day and such and such a time, it creates something for them to remember. If they're invested in your work, they will think, "oh, it's Friday, that means such and such is coming out with something new." But, with that in mind, you also have to commit to a schedule that people will remain invested in. Which basically means you can't put things out more than a week away from each other, unless you're really, really famous, lol. If I told people I was going to go on a two week update schedule, I would lose most of my audience. But a week is long enough for people to both still remember and anticipate. That's just how the scheduling of the world works. And if you're an artist that's working on a big project, then you have to share progress, or pieces of what you're doing on a regular basis. That's what generates "buzz" and keeps you relevant. And, yeah, that's a really hard schedule to commit to, because it's a lot of work. BUT this consistency is where you see people being successful. Popular youtubers may not have gained their popularity by being consistent, but most sure do retain it that way. And again, there are outlying exceptions, but they generally ARE exceptions.

Speaking of hard work, here's probably the second hardest thing to accomplish—you have to be prolific. Especially as a writer. You have to write A LOT if you want to gain an audience. And yeah, that means you have to work, a lot. I love my work, so I enjoy that "grind," and I also have developed a lot of strategies to work around writer's block and every other obstacle that tends to catch people up. I work in a very professional manner—I do outlines, and drafts, and plan. I do a lot of stuff that people who do this kind of thing for fun can't be bothered with (and that's fine), but that's because I find it to be what works best in creating an efficient environment. I'm also very, very NOT lazy, lol. I was raised in an environment where you have to work for everything that you want. My parents didn't buy me my first computer, or snowboard, or what have you. We were tight on money and if I wanted something, they couldn't help me—I had to get that shit on my own. And I also grew up on a farm, where hard work was a staple of how you did things. You did things the right way, even if it was the hard way. You can't cut corners and it's the same with this. If you want it, you have to actually do the work, that's it. Some people get lucky with popularity, most don't. Most famous actors didn't become well-known off their first efforts, they had to keep trying and keep working and then they have to continue to do that to stay relevant. So if that doesn't sound great to you, then you might want to not focus on your audience and just create because you enjoy it, lol. Sometimes that's what I do too, when I don't wanna deal with the pressure.

Moving on, here's another point that nobody is going to like. Simply put, you also have to be good at what you do. I think some people don't realize that I've been writing fic for over fifteen years. I currently have nearly 2 millions words worth of fics on AO3 and that doesn't include a majority of the stuff I've ever written. I practice A LOT. I write every day. And I'll tell ya, when I started out in middle school, my stuff was not good. But I worked hard, I ignored the hate, and I kept going. That is the only way you will ever get better at anything. There's no quick way to become a better writer, or artist. And a vast majority of people are only going to pay attention to your stuff if it's quality work. Getting to that point is a process, on top of then creating stuff that fits into popular molds. Not only am I good at what I do (and I don't care how arrogant that sounds—I've worked my ass off), but when it comes to fandoms, I rarely write "rare pairs" and "crack ships." Generally, if it's popular, that's where I am. That makes a big difference and I honestly don't have sympathy for people who write rare pairs and such and then complain about lack of engagement. You knew what you were getting into (it's mostly the Miraculous fandom that gave me this bitterness). If you're not writing what people WANT to read, then your audience is simply going to be smaller. And that audience doesn't owe you their attention, no matter how frustrating it is or how good your work is. I could be the best writer in the world, but if I'm writing RekixCherry fic, I have nobody to blame but myself when nobody reads it. BUT if that's your passion, and writing a certain unpopular thing makes you happy, then, again, you need to not be concerned with traction and your audience.

The last point I'll make is that it matters HOW you present yourself online. A good chunk of the well-known creators in any fandom are, simply put, older people. And those that aren't, and are able to connect with those older creators, have generally created a bubble around themselves of maturity and, like, of being nice, lol. A lot of creators are skittish these days, and if you're an asshole (anti) or fight a lot over stupid shit, you may get a bigger audience, but you will isolate yourself from other creators. And this is important because oftentimes it is your exposure to other creators that will get your work circulating. The reason I got popular in the ML fandom? I wrote a short angst fic and a really popular artist shared it/talked about it and the rest was history. But if I'd had a habit of being an asshole, probably wouldn't have happened. And, granted, I'm not saying don't voice your opinions, but if you're loud all the time, it does turn people off. Especially creators because they are oftentimes the ones being attacked. They don't want to pull more of that negative bullshit into their lives. I'll admit, when I was in the ML fandom, I was down for a fight, but then that's what people came to expect, and it probably did turn others off, and then when I didn't fight, or didn't think the way my audience thought I should, it, again, turned people off. It's really not worth it unless being that type of person IS your platform.

So, that's all the advice I can give, I suppose. And even if you do all this stuff, that still doesn't mean you're going to be popular. At the end of the day, the thing that I stick to is this—I do what I want, I love what I do, and I work hard. If I'm in a position to worry about all that other stuff, then sure, I do, but otherwise… There's no easy way to become popular and, quite frankly, it's better to just "live" working hard and being a decent person than it is to focus on all this bullshit. I've created a working environment where I function within these "points" quite naturally, so it's not something I think about (except for schedules, lol). Sometimes I get popular in fandoms, sometimes I don't. At the end of the day, it comes down to how much work you're willing to do, because you will always be giving more than you are getting back, so you have to at least enjoy what you're doing.

Seriously, just do it because you love it. And if the pressure of everything above is something you don't love (I like a good, high pressure situation, lol), then don't do it that way—it's not worth the grief.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

What happened w the rationalist community, if you’re ok talking about it?

LONG REPLY TIME.

In my Wild Youth (tm) I was hardcore in the rationalist/skeptic/humanist community. You know, the New Atheist types (the vast majority of the community didn’t call themselves New Atheists, that was mostly American Dawkins fans, but we were those kinds of people, just less arrogant-PR about it). For people who don’t know, the core philosophy of this subculture basically comes down to: - humans are mostly good people, or try to be good people, and we should act in ways that are good for humanity, the environment, etc. - people with better or more accurate information about the world are capable of making better decisions - it is therefore vitally important that we view the world as accurately as possible. Truth is inherently important and valuable. We should do everything we can to make sure that our beliefs about the world are as accurate as possible. - your mind will lie to you. Cognitive biases have their social and evolutionary uses, but they result in bigotry and bad information. We should do everything we can to identify and compensate for these, and think as rationally as a human is capable of. - while it’s not perfect, science is the most effective tool we have for determining what is most likely to be true. Rationalism is therefore massively pro-science and pro-science education. (This isn’t a blind trust; most hardcore rationalists are scientists and fully aware of the limitations of the messy reality of how science is funded and published and the biases that introduces. These are taken into account. The other hardcore rationalists tend to be magicians/illusionists.)

All of this is perfectly fine and a hill I’m still perfectly willing to die on.

When you get a bunch of people together who are sincerely seeking truth and want the world to be a better place, there are some fairly obvious groups that they’re going to tangle with. Before my time, when we were just called skeptics, the main targets had been psychics and life-after-death spirit-communing con artists (this is where our magicians came from, the philosophical descendants of Houdini, one of the earliest voices in the movement, and later James Randi). But the big proponents of harm in my time were the healing crystals/essential oils/faith healing people, and the ‘Creation should be taught instead of evolution’ creationists. We spent a lot of time trying to stop people from selling oils that they said could cure cancer, and fighting against science education being replaced with religious belief inserted in science classes. (I spent a lot of my teenage years debating creationists on the internet. I can summarise this experience as a frustrating waste of time on both sides of the debate. Neither side was going to accomplish anything in these discussions.)

This is all perfectly fine. I won’t pretend I’m completely happy with everyone’s actions; it’s the internet, so of course there were subgroups doing things like mass trolling conservative religion forums and stuff, which had no purpose except to piss off people we happened not to like, but you get that. The problem with this is that it’s easy. People can believe what they want, but if you’re coming into a rational debate, every pro-Creation, anti-evolution argument is complete and utter bullshit, mostly demonstrating nothing beyond the fact that the creationist debater a) doesn’t understand the most fundamental things about biology or b) does understand and is willingly misleading the audience. Every pro healing crystal, pro astrology or pro telepathy argument is fatuous nonsense. Twelve-year-olds could walk into these discussions and completely shred every argument put forth by big-name “creation scientists” in minutes -- I know, I watched it happen regularly. I was on our conservative creationist Christian-owned community TV station for awhile doing a little ‘creation vs evolution!’ debate against the wealthy station owner’s son to fill air time, and I’d see him do a couple of hours of research for anti-evolution arguments every time we filmed, and it always pissed him off that I’d shred anything he said immediately, having done no research whatsoever, because even to me, a child, the giant drive-a-bus-through-this holes in his arguments were obvious. (Also, they were old hash; I’d read all the books by his idols before and checked the reasoning myself long before.)

Fresh voices in the community came from two main sources -- people who’d been pro-people and pro-reason/science for years finding others like them, and ex-creationists and magic healer victims who’d eventually found the holes in what they’d been taught. This second group, for obvious reasons, tended to be the most passionately pro-reason and pro-science people, and discussing different experiences in a place where people could feel safe being critical and actively celebrate doubt was great. But, inevitably, we got lazy.

A lot of the ‘laziness’ was perfectly reasonable and practical. Time and attention is always limited, and when you’ve dealt with six claims of “the eye is too complex to have evolved!” and explained the flaws in the irreducible complexity argument four times that fortnight, when someone walks in with “blood groups couldn’t possibly have evolved, therefore the earth must be 6,000 years old”, you just don’t fucking bother, and you shouldn’t fucking bother, there’s no value in that discussion.

That’s not the kind of laziness I’m talking about. I’m talking about the part where we got so used to ‘that sounds so fucking stupid’ leading directly being able to tear an argument to pieces,that it became normal to assume that anything that sounds stupid on the surface MUST be obviously wrong. Where ‘this is weird, let’s examine it and check for flaws’ became ‘that person disagrees with my preconceived notions, let’s double down and explain why they’re wrong, because I’m already assuming that they’re wrong’. At some point, “we want to be as rational and accurate as we can be, we call ourselves rationalist and work towards that” became “we’re rationalists, so we’re more accurate and rational than average and probably right”.

You might recognise that as in fact being *the exact opposite of the proported philosophy*. There were always some overenthusiastic idiots in any group, but watching it slowly become normal for rationalising to replace active rationalism and for the names of cognitive biases to be thrown around as gotcha buzzwords rather than things people were seriously considering in their own arguments was... concerning. (There were a lot of very smart people in the community, which unfortunately made it far more vulnerable to this particular kind of thing. Smarter people are better at fooling themselves; a person good at reason is also good at rationalising, and you can’t tell the difference between these things when you’re the one doing them.)

In practical terms, this doesn’t matter that much when you’re playing in the easy leagues of explaining to someone that the overpriced eucalyptus oil they bought from an MLM won’t protect them against chicken pox. The person who’s gotten lazy is shit at being a rationalist, but your reasoning skills don’t actually need to be all that impressive for this. You know what they do need to be impressive for? For when somebody says, “women are taken less seriously than men in science and biased against in hiring, payment and promotion”, and this hypothetical you, a male scientist who’s never noticed this and already knows that his profession is full of smart and reasonable people who wouldn’t do something stupid like that, thinks “that is fucking stupid” and automatically, without thinking about it, puts their energy into shouting down and dismissing alternate evidence. Or when somebody points out islamophobia in the community, or passive racism, or... you get the picture. Social issues can (and should) be examined and interrogated using rational philosophies, but it’s so much harder to do that than laugh at creationists who are sending you abusive messages about going to hell. And given the particular hot-button issues in the community, most of the people there were interested in biology, chemistry or physics and simply had no idea how to *do* social sciences, treating the parts that were familiar from their own specialities as valid and the rest as irrational nonsense. And now, you have prominent rationalists panicking about Sharia law, sneering at the made-up problems of feminism, and generally making fools of themselves... because they got lazy.

Because, like how it’s hard to be a liberal (American definition) but easy to be a conservative in a gay hat, it’s hard to be a rationalist, but easy to be an arsehole with a big vocabulary. And that’s why I can’t gush about how great Richard Dawkins’ early science books are without somebody bringing up his bullshit twitter opinions.

[citrineghost]

On ADHD, Being Dramatic, and Being Lazy

Gather round everyone. It’s time for our every-few-monthsly post on ADHD by your local ADHD ghost. In this episode, we’re talking about ADHD and how it relates to “being dramatic” and “being lazy.”

On Being Dramatic

No doubt a lot of you have been told you’re being dramatic over the years. I know I have. There are a lot of reasons one might be dramatic, but they’re rarely about the drama.

If I’m to guess the origin of the word dramatic, I’d guess it probably has something to do with over exaggerating your response for the drama. I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of people being dramatic - on tiktok and vine, on youtube... drama calls for dramaticism.

Do you want to know what isn’t dramatic? Genuine reactions. That’s right - genuine reactions, inherently, cannot be categorized as dramatic or hyperbolic. There is nothing about them that is being overdone with the intention of getting attention or entertaining other people. So, let’s talk a bit about how this conflation has hurt us as a community.

Growing up, everything I did was “dramatic.” Crying because I didn’t want to do more chores was dramatic. Having a panic attack because there was a spider in the room was dramatic. Freaking out because I needed people to stop touching me was dramatic. Getting angry when my mother made jokes about my sex life as a teen was dramatic (and apparently abusive, but that’s neither here nor there). Nothing I did that involved a noteworthy amount of emotion was anything, if not dramatic.

On Being Lazy

I know a lot of you have also been labeled as lazy over the years. “Lazy” is the diagnosis everyone loves to give to those who don’t do enough, in their eyes. If you “could have” done something and then “chose not to,” you’re lazy... right?

Growing up, I was lazy too. I was lazy for avoiding housework. I was lazy for not wanting to brush my teeth. I was lazy because I didn’t turn in my homework. I was lazy for staying in bed, on my computer, most of the day.

If I’d only just “applied myself,” or if I would just “put in the work,” then I would be respectable to the people around me. But, because I wasn’t “willing” to put in the time and effort, I was lazy.

Why Is Emotion Dramatic?

The short answer is: it’s not. The real question is, why do people seem to perceive emotion as being dramatic? These are real emotions, after all - real and genuine feelings that are being dismissed as playacting. There are a number of reasons.

Why Are We Lazy?

Again, the short answer is: most people aren’t. The question here is, why do people see others not doing something and assume it’s because they simply don’t want to put in the work? Why do they not seek out an explanation or consider other alternatives? There are a number of reasons for that too.

The Answer...

Editing to put a Read More here because it’s very long

(TW for each of these sections in their name)

1. Sexism

At its core, seeing emotional outbursts or responses as dramatic is inherently rooted in sexism. Whether you’re a boy or a girl, man or woman, if your emotions are being mocked, it’s almost definitely because of our world’s history of sexism and relating emotion to women, who are “illogical” and “just want attention.”

And “real men” work! They work hard! They work long hours! They put themselves into an early grave, with pride, by never sitting down to rest! For this very reason, women, housewives of decades past, were expected, after a long day of doing housework and caring for the children - things that are just as exhausting as a full time job - to dote on their husbands who had just returned from work expecting a hot meal and a beer to be ready for them. Her work is devalued. It wasn’t grueling or tiring or important. It was just “women’s work.” A wife who does all of the housework and child rearing and fails to provide a hot meal and a warm body to her husband is “lazy.”

This is further shown to affect men as well. We can see, as early as non-manual labor-based jobs existed, the men who took them were lesser. Men who work at computers are seen as nerds and geeks - weak. Men who work in universities, coming up with new solutions to our medical needs and discovering the mathematics we need for space travel and advanced technology - they’re weak too. They’re unimportant to society because they’re not willing to get their hands dirty. Those men who prefer artistry are called gay and seen as disposable. It is irrelevant to the conservative man that his artistic counterpart designs everything that fills his home and office - that without artists we would have nothing.

2. Racism and classism

You might be surprised, but racism and classism both have their hands in this as well. I’m talking full on systemic oppression. The ability for people in power to look down on those they see as beneath them for being emotional or passionate about a topic or incident is all about power. You can see a million examples of this today. POC are called dramatic or are implied to be blowing things out of proportion by conservative white people because they want equal rights and feel they’re being treated unfairly. Their emotions are dismissed as irrational and dramatic. 

The cries of the poor, whether white or of color, are mocked. They have no reason to be having the emotions they’re having because they wouldn’t be in the position they’re in if they weren’t “lazy.” After all, only lazy people don’t have money. Only lazy people can’t get work. If they had just “applied themselves,” they would have an income, a home, and ample food on the table.

3. Ableism

And, last but not least, we have ableism. The neurotypical and abled people of the world, at large, cannot understand the experiences of the disabled, both emotionally(those with mental illnesses, disorders, and so on(whether or not certain disorders can be categorized as a disability in a just society is another topic entirely, but they are regarded that way, generally)) and physically.

If you have sensory overload, you are being irrational. It doesn’t matter to a NT if this is caused by an actually chemically different response in your brain. It doesn’t matter if it’s Real To You. To them, it doesn’t make sense, and so you deserve no compassion for your experience. Your emotional response is dramatic.

If you have executive dysfunction, you are simply choosing not to do your work. It doesn’t matter that there is an actual reason, buried in you somewhere, for why you have become Stuck. It doesn’t matter if you feel crippled by this aspect of your life. They see that you have neglected to do something they deem easy. Therefore, you are “lazy.”

ADHD and Being Dramatic

For those of us with ADHD, being called dramatic is a very familiar experience. After a while, we begin to internalize it. We must be dramatic, right? After all, so many different people have told us we are - and for good reason. We do tend to get overly emotional.

So the question is, why? Why do we get overly emotional? Why are our emotions so much different than those of our NT peers?

1. Lack of Emotional Regulation

A big part of ADHD, which is not yet a diagnostic criteria, is our emotional disregulation. ADHD, inherently, comes with some amount of disregulation in our emotions. We have a hard time controlling the emotions that we feel and managing the intensity of them. They may come across as overly intense, or they may seem subdued, both for reasons we can’t possibly figure out as individuals. This disregulation is entirely out of our control, happening at a neurological level. Our brain chemicals don’t work as they should. But, no matter how unregulated our emotions are, they are still real. We do still feel them, exactly as intensely as we think we do. Disregulated does not mean made up.

2. RSD

If you knew about RSD before, or you’ve read my last post on ADHD (under my tag adhdghost), which has gained some popularity, you already know what this means. For those who don’t, RSD is short for Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. This condition plagues something like 99.9% of people with ADHD (while not being ADHD exclusive.) It comes with the lack of emotional regulation and means we have a reaction, that seems out of proportion (or “dramatic”), relative to the thing that caused it.

In short, RSD episodes can look like an entire breakdown, a very sudden loss of any self esteem or confidence, the feeling that you are certain someone now hates you or has secretly always hated you, and/or an immediate need to get rid of the thing that caused it. These episodes are caused by any kind of perceived failure or disappointment. They can be caused by someone whose opinion or relationship we value who gives us a slightly judgmental look, someone saying they don’t understand why we like the thing we’re interested in, or even not living up to our own expectations. These episodes frequently lead to emotional outburts, episodes, breakdowns, and tears. Naturally, all of this is “dramatic,” despite it being very real and painful for those experiencing it.

3. Combination with Other Things

Emotional disregulation can interact with other parts of our lives as well. For instance, I have a lot of phobias. My reactions to seeing or being around the things that terrify me can be even more intense than how most people react to their phobias. They can cause anxiety attacks, emotional breakdowns, and lasting fear for hours or days after. My recovery from these instances is hindered by my inability to regulate the feelings they caused.

Emotional disregulation can also interact with triggers, trauma, sensory problems, etc.

ADHD and Being Lazy

And of course, if you struggle with ADHD, you want to know, “Why am I so lazy?” The answer is: you’re not! Laziness is a made up word. Laziness was created to pass blame onto people who struggle to do things that more typical people can accomplish with ease.

So, what is the reason we struggle to do these seemingly simple tasks?

1. Executive Dysfunction

This is The Big One. Of all the things that can cause an inability to do things, executive dysfunction is the Achilles heel of ADHD. Because ADHD causes a difficulty with prioritizing, rewarding actions with no immediate reward, and creating a list of steps for us to take (something that comes naturally to NT people), we sometimes get “Stuck.”

This feeling of being stuck may look like us just having fun and avoiding our responsibilities. You may be Stuck right now, scrolling through tumblr mechanically even though you’ve been needing to pee for three hours. Naturally, you’ve been wanting to go to the bathroom... you just don’t know how.

To a NT, this sounds ridiculous. “Just get up and go?!” I’m sure you can imagine your parents saying, when they simply don’t understand. The truth is, tumblr can be a nightmare for executive function. It endlessly scrolls, giving you post after post. There’s no natural stopping point. You keep an eye out for a natural end to this activity, but it’s hard to find the right post to stop on. If you find those, “This is your sign to go to bed,” posts helpful - otherwise locked into the activity of scrolling regardless of whether you want to - you might be struggling with executive dysfunction.

This inability to “queue” our actions or prioritize what we need to do, and in what order, can wreak all kinds of havoc in our lives. You remember you didn’t really understand that equation the math teacher explained earlier. You know today’s homework is related to its use. Therefore, you cannot start your homework. There are a number of possible solutions floating around your head. Maybe the book will explain it better. Maybe your parents know how to do this and you could ask them. Maybe you could Google it. It’s possible the homework is about something else. But, if it is, what if you don’t understand that? Maybe you should ask your teacher before class?

Even though you have all of these solutions in your head, because you don’t know which solution is the best solution, you find yourself unable to do any of them. You show up to class with no homework and your teacher gives you a disappointed look. “I don’t understand why you don’t just apply yourself more. You’re a very smart student.” The remark brings you to holding back tears, because you want, with every fiber of your being, to apply yourself and make your teacher proud, but you simply don’t know how.

This is the destructive nature of executive dysfunction, and it is not something to be taken lightly.

2. Distraction

For those with ADHD, the inability to regulate external stimuli makes focusing incredibly hard. You wake up one morning and plan to start that English paper after breakfast. You go to get yourself some cereal. You’re out of milk. You decide to make toast instead. You burn your toast because you lost track of time for just 30 seconds. You go to throw it away, feeling an overwhelming amount of guilt over the two pieces of bread you wasted. The trash is overflowing. You decide to take it outside. It’s a really nice day out. Maybe you should take your dog for a walk. You haven’t taken her on a walk in a while and you’re just now feeling motivated to, so you should take advantage of that. You go to retrieve your dog and take her for a walk. When you bring her back in, you go to get her treats from the shelf in the laundry room. Oh yeah, you’d been meaning to do laundry. You go to get your laundry hamper from your room and notice there’s a bunch of laundry on the floor. You begin picking up the laundry from the floor. You may as well tidy up the other things on the floor as well. You finally get around to taking your laundry to the washer. You’re out of soap. Maybe you ought to make a run to the grocery store. You take ten minutes to find your keys and wallet and then head out to the grocery store. When you get there, you’ve forgotten what it was you needed. “Oh, right! I’m out of milk!” You go and retrieve milk. When you get to the checkout and the cashier rings you up, you suddenly remember you need laundry soap. Well, it’s too late now. You’ll have to do laundry tomorrow. You can’t risk the cashier giving you a tired look by asking them to wait. You go home and make some cereal. You can’t really write while you eat, so you open tumblr. you scroll through tumblr for a while. Your cereal gets soggy, you notice, disappointed. You see a tumblr post reminding you that you forgot to order something important online that you need to get here as soon as possible. The day continues in this way until you finally realize at 5pm that you never started your paper. “It’s so late now... I’ll just start it tomorrow morning,” you tell yourself. Rinse and repeat.

If you relate to this, you might want to consider researching ADHD a bit, because this is a very typical ADHD experience.

3. Hyperfixation and Hyperfocus

The last prominent reason why people with ADHD are seen as lazy has to do with a cycle in hyperfixation and hyperfocus.

If you don’t already know, hyperfixations are those interests you have that fill you with an overwhelming love and which take up an incredible amount of your time, energy, and brain space. These could be fandoms, hobbies, characters, games, or otherwise.

Hyperfocus, on the other hand, can be related to hyperfixations or things that aren’t hyperfixations. Hyperfocus is when you get “locked in” on a task and can’t seem to put it down. If you started this post not knowing how long it was and find yourself still raptly reading, completely ignoring the world around you, you may have hyperfocused on it. If you ever start cleaning and just can’t stop until the whole house is clean, despite your lack of regularly cleaning for over a month, you are hyperfocusing on cleaning. If you write a 20k word fic in one night, you are hyperfocusing.

Hyperfocusing can leave you completely unaware of the world around you, causing you to neglect your own basic needs, such as food, bathroom breaks, water, and social interaction. 

Because people with ADHD are able to occasionally apply themselves to such an extreme degree, NT people don’t understand why ADHD people are unable to apply themselves to other things as well. The reason we can’t is because we do not regulate our hyperfocus. Hyperfocus comes from tasks that are giving us serotonin, to make up for our brains inability to give serotonin in the way it should - in the way NT brains do. Emptying the dishwasher just felt really good. The next thing you know, you’re filling it with more dishes and wiping off counters and sweeping the floor and, “oh god, it looks so nice what if I just-” and then you move on to the laundry and the living room and the bedroom and then somehow 6 hours have passed. You don’t know how it happened, but now your house is clean and you feel amazing... but also tired and hungry. So you go make some food and then pass out on the couch.

So, when NT people see this kind of laser focus, they demand to know why you couldn’t do that simple math assignment, or why you haven’t been returning their texts, or why you couldn’t apply the same level of energy and enthusiasm on that really boring geography project. They demand to know why you’re so “lazy” the rest of the time.

There’s also the element of hyperfixation. It is the ultimate distraction. Your parents tell you to do the dishes and you say you will. Suddenly, you’ve found a fanfiction about your hyperfixation and you can’t stop reading it. It’s 60k words long and it will take you all day, but you’ll find a break to do your chores somewhere in there, right?

Your mom is suddenly knocking on your door what feels like 5 minutes later, but it’s been an hour. She wants to know why you didn’t do the dishes yet. You’re upset at yourself, but you lash out at her, because you’re unable to regulate your emotions. “I’ll do it in a minute!” you say loudly from behind your door. She walks off, irritated. You ask yourself why you can’t just do it now. Why does it feel impossible to tear yourself away? Your hyperfixation is the ultimate creator of hyperfocus. It rules you.

Before you know it, it’s midnight. You’ve finished the fic. It was amazing. You realize with dread that you still haven’t done the dishes, so you sneak out to the kitchen, hoping your parents have gone to bed. They have, but you find the dishes have already been done by someone else. Suddenly, you’re holding back tears from the RSD episode this has triggered. You ruined everything. You disappointed your parents. You’re a lazy and terrible child and they deserve better.

The truth is, you’re none of those things. In fact, you’re struggling with one of the most difficult mental blocks someone can have. But to others, you’re just making excuses. To others, you should have been able to just do the dishes and then go back to reading. But you know it’s not that easy. But why?

It’s ADHD, Babey!

If this post is hitting hard in a way that feels like your life is being splayed out before you, you might just have ADHD.

The fact is you are not dramatic and you are not lazy. You are struggling with a lot of ADHD symptoms that are making functioning in a neurotypical world incredibly difficult. This world was designed by and for NT people. Your worth is not based in how you live up to their expectations.

If you think you might have ADHD, it might be time to ask your doctor about getting an ADHD evaluation. Please check out my last post (the one i mentioned is under my tag adhdghost) to get more information on RSD and on getting evaluated.

An Important Note

Many experiences and struggles caused by ADHD are also present in other disorders. For example, RSD can be seen frequently in autism as well as in anxiety, depression, and PTSD. Sensory overload, emotional disregulation, executive dysfunction, and so on, can all be present in things other than ADHD. If you want to know if you fit the criteria for ADHD, go check out the criteria on the ADDitude website, which is a great source for ADHD related information.

[yanderecandystore]

How would Jack react to an artistic s/o, like he carries a sketchbook with him at all times and once Jack saw that he had at least a full page of just Jack doodles and sketches

Yo, hello there! I'm sorry for taking so long to answer you, I was trying to find the right time to write! :3

Do y'all mind if I changed it up a little bit? Changing a little bit of "reader's role" in this headcanon, instead of always being the "one of his gang's members" and such. I decided to add a little more than one page of sketches though •v• because I'm an ass.

Also oh my God, I'm sorry for babbling so much at the start ;-;.

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

A cool and peaceful breeze in the middle of all Hell [Yandere!Delinquent OC Male artist!Reader - Headcanon]:

Let's set the stage, dear.

You're one of many students inside Saint Bernard's School for Prodigies, a place that since it's building process, was meant to be a safe environment to all gifted students, and even students that didn't seem to have any talent at all. It was built to be a welcoming place.

It was built to rival Amaryllis Academy. While Amaryllis was focused on a specific group of people (coff coff rich families coff coff), Saint Bernard's was supposed to be the… "Common crowd alternative".

It never got to the same level of development as Amaryllis did. Although there are rumours about the Academy being a breeding ground for prejudice and discriminatory behavior (involving a lot of bullying towards students that had paid their way into the scholarship), Saint Bernard's was basically disfuncional.

The only thing granting a base for it's failed and shaky structure, was government income and the rumours around the school. Student deaths, delinquency, gang fights, fragile authority that fails to reinforce school regulations, contraband inside school grounds, no security for both the faculty's staff nor the students, severe cases of bullying, etc, etc.

You heard that a billion times. And don't get me wrong, it is not like there aren't good people here, good people that can't afford a better place to go. But the bad overthrows the good.

So here you are, just another boy trying to pass through the school year like any other student. A guy trying to keep under the radar of… Basically, every single student and teacher in this place. You came with terms that, sadly, you couldn't trust no one here.

You saw what happens if someone like you starts to get comfortable around these people. They're brutal. The thought of getting out of this place has crossed your mind many times, but you don't really know where else to go. It's the nearest place to your house, and it's literally free to enter.

You're the silent type, you're not exactly antisocial by any means, you just prefer to be left alone with your pens and your trust sketchbook, although, it's kinda not having much space left, is it?

You don't have more money to buy a better set of materials, and to be honest, you're aware of how unkindly people would treat you if you bring something a little more pricey. There were students who were already picking on you for the fact that you just kept drawing and being a lazy bun, if they saw you with things that clearly looked (even a little bit) expensive you would never hear the end of it.

You remember seeing a poor girl (I mean literally) who had saved her money to buy a new pair of shoes, since her's were clearly old and tearing apart. Her tenacity was something really admirable, as she saved more than enough money to buy something actually good for her. Something she probably didn't seem to be accustomed with, as her reaction to getting her new shoes destroyed in front of her own eyes was absolutely heartbreaking.

Chills still run down your spine, as you remember one boy saying something like-

"- It's her own fault. She shouldn't have come to this place wearing that."

You really hate this place, the only shine of light though was what you heard another boy say.

"- Yeah, it sure is a poor girls' fault that a bunch of imbeciles are jealous of her accomplishments." That sarcastic tone was more than enough to get your attention, looking at the direction of the voices talking you saw the two boys that were talking.

One was clearly discomfortable with the situation, like he just said something stupid and is trying to not sound as bad as it was, and the other one who was not even looking at the asshole beside him, and oddly enough, he wasn't looking at the situation happening in front of everyone anymore. He felt like someone was looking at him, and coincidentally, there you were.

Of course, he looked at you like he would simply get up and beat the shit out of you for staring at him, he thought you had a problem with him, and he wouldn't mind starting a problem with you if that were the case.

The cold look was enough to send you the message, and not wanting to cause any trouble, you just moved your attention to somewhere else, ya know, like the girl suffering in the middle of the school's hall, maybe you shouldn't have looked at him for so long.

I guess you were just, caught up in his features?

Okay, maybe you have a problem now. You can't help but keep drawing him! Like, okay, you thought that maybe just one sketch would be fine. He has a lot of nice facial features and- and he is always with a closed expression. No emotions, just pure angst. You found yourself liking to draw him, and when you noticed, you had enough material to cover two pages. Two fucking pages filled with a boy don't even know!!

[Y/N], come on, get to your senses. You heard about the boy, he is one of the many delinquents running this place, if not the leader of one of the most influential gangs around this hellhole. Jack, was it?

Imagine having that guy and his gang come beat you up for being extremely nosy and drawing him so many times? You want to know what's worse though? One of these sketches were from a specific moment you saw this man without his jacket on, his shirt being see through and almost non-existent.

You need to burn all of them. Immediately. Or otherwise your school year will go from manageable to completely fucked. But some of these make great art studies tho-

"- Yo. I need to talk with you." Oh dear lord, your time has come.

"- S-Sup!" You try to hide the sketchbook before he notices some interesting depictions of himself. But honestly, it was too late boo, he already knew about it.

"- Mayday told me you've been stalking me." Jack said, not sounding even a little bit concerned about being "stalked".

You don't really know who is "Mayday", unless she is one of his gang's members. Actually, you may have a guess on who she is. You think you saw some girl giving you odd looks here and there, not really mean looks, but just "concerned looks", and now that you think about it, you saw her walking around with Jack.

Wait, was she the girl that got her shoes destroyed that day?

"- Oi! Aren't you going to say what the fuck is your problem?" While you were thinking about who that girl was, Jack took the opportunity to come closer and snatch your sketchbook.

"- Give me that. You better answer me or you won't see this until then." Jack had started to open the sketchbook up, to his absolute luck and to your demise, he opened up on that exact page.

"- Wait! Hold on, don't open it!-"

Too late though. His face said everything.

"- Woah. Interesting." Jack knows absolutely nothing about art and drawing and stuff like that. Yeah, he may know a couple of things about writing but, it's completely different to him. He is impressed with how talented you are.

That's so quite flattering details you managed to put in there, does he really look like that to you?

"- This is your work right? Is this why you kept staring at me?" He asks you, but honestly, what would answer? This guy has a whole group of people that can easily hurt you, so telling the truth can both free you and damn you.

"- Yeah, I did all of these… I'm sorry if it seemed like I was stalking you, well, I mea- I'm sorry if it made you feel awkward, I just thought you were a interesting model I guess?" There is no imaginable way of saying this without sounding like an stalker, right? God, this is so embarrassing…

Jack is absolutely flattered by this. Oh, yeah, it's creepy as fuck, love. But does he really care? I mean, dearest, do you really know him?

Mayday wasn't the first one to notice you staring, of course he felt someone drooling over him. It facinates him how ever since that day you kept being more prominent in his life, or rather, in his mind, as he never really made a move to physically interact with you.

He is surprised by how his acting skills have improved, he thought that he wouldn't find a way to convince you of his surprise when noticing your drawings for the "first time". Throughout this whole time he has thinking about you, is funny to see that in a way you were also thinking about him. Well, partially, you probably saw him as only a way to improve your art.

And honestly, he doesn't mind being your muse.

🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭

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

Prima facie

Control.

A mere word, a conglomerate of letters once combined by a long-gone person, holding more authority than the richest, than the most talented, than the so-called Übermensch with the perspectives of ‘eternal’ life sprawling in front of him.

Genocide of the spiritual beings, unrestrained in the sublime sense of word, slaves of the outside influence, damned for

Eternity.

Feigned assurance, mere illusion blurring out the lines between reality and fantasy, the dreamland of fools, built upon skillful falsities, where each one has an unrepeatable chance to stand on both sides of the barricade.

Relief-providing, such an obtuse lie, beyond offensive to assume anyone would believe it, and yet the affirmation is effortless – just look around, they say, and you will see the things no one has ever wished for.

Ecstasy-granting, allowing to visit the places… the places abounded in the deepest desires, now within the reach of each and every man, person who considers them in terms of fulfilling, enough to stifle the sour thoughts.

Entropic fallout.

The perspectives that hunt the brightest.

* * *

“Day two thousand eight hundred first,” subdued by the sound of running shower, and yet clear enough to be filtered out just perfectly. “It’s funny that people perceive others in terms of their achievements and nothing else. All they see is that outside surface that divides them from their surroundings, and sometimes it’s so hard for me to understand that way of thinking. It’s so absurd, so abstract, and yet I’ve been someway forced to understand it… the reality… it’s so absurd that one day you do things you don’t wanna do, and then something changes and you feel like it’s a big deal, a meaningful transition, and then you realize that it’s all bullshit but it’s also too late. You’re drowning in the same shit once again…” a coarse laughter, indication of sarcasm, intruder creeping between the male’s words, just about to lose his train of thoughts.

“Even though there’re times when you forget it was ever there but it’s always there. Of course, you can pretend, ‘cause pretending is easy but does it make sense? It’s a meaningful question – does it make sense – but I also believe it’s the question of people who are lost and don’t really know what to do, so they just keep asking the same question, keep reconsidering it, but never get the result they aim for, and in the end realize that maybe it all makes no sense, but what would we have if elsewise… those things we see, those people we meet, and who we‘re beyond all of these, beyond the modifications that we do, beyond the changes, beyond pretending to be someone we are not…”

“It’s funny, truly the fallout of everything but so blessed, so pretty, everything that we’ve ever desired for within our reach. We think that it justifies our choices, that we’re so perfect we don’t need to justify anything, that we can do whatever we want to, ‘cause we have the resources, while in reality we don’t have as many as we think we have.”

“You know, there was a man in my past who used to tell me that ‘you gotta do what you gotta do; and what you gotta do is you gotta man up’…”

A speech that is interrupted by an unyielding forefinger pressing the pause button, and so putting the device on halt, soon to be abandoned in the depth of his safe. It is that kind of data he would never store on his personal hard drive, since the possible leakage would result in disastrous consequences, the ones he is not much likely to dig out of.

Ironic.

Just any other day, his eyes drift to the bathroom mirror, greeted by the common, not to mention beyond-pleasing, sight – a man in prime of life, fit as in evidence of self-discipline, skin almost black with the ink, although usually obscured by the expensive suits, meant for his eyes only, but at times shared with the passing-through lovers. Raking his fingers through the hair, he decides the sides require some trimming, especially today, since first impressions are always important, at least according to what he was told in the past, considered inconsequential if juxtaposed with present – a paradox in its purest form.

(Time is money.)

Settling the thoughts aside for a moment, he fishes out the clippers, buzzling to life in his hand, then ties the longer part of hair into a resemblance of bun. Of course there are much more convenient, which might as well be replaced with ‘faster’, solutions to fix the overgrown cut, and yet he opts for the old-fashioned way – a reminiscence of father’s tales, but also related to the self-reliance, capacity of accomplishing as many tasks as possible without anyone’s assistance – since with the right device it takes barely any effort.

With that thought in mind, he rakes the blade past the sides, tiny pieces of hair soon to sprinkle down onto the towel draped over his shoulders in advance, and after a few longer moments, he is greeted with the satisfactory sight, basked in the bright mirror LEDs. As for the final result, he releases the top part, combing it back with a hint of product to keep them styled neatly for the rest of the day – display of classic elegance that he has grown accustomed with throughout the years. Being honest here, he has always considered appearance in terms of something significant in his line of work – flawless presentation of one’s professionalism, indication of people’s superficiality – firmly detached from his private life, since elsewise he would lack in the former quality.

Years ago, he has come to a conclusion that blurring out the lines between those two factors leads to a relatively obnoxious outcome – a moment of ignorance and troublesome aftermath, although worth sacrifice at times. Perfection is nothing more than an obtuse dream, while mistakes are what makes one a human, acts that shape up the present – only aspect within the specie’s reach – bestowing each one of them with everything he could dream of, but in capacity of snatching away equal amounts. Suffering is the greatest paradox of all – blissful pain – akin to a bunch of clouds obscuring the sun, obviously present underneath even if hidden for our poor perception – a promise of transitional felicity, feigned when it comes to one’s assumptions about its everlasting duration.

Long live the deceit.

And yet, what seems to preoccupy his mind more, aside from the competence-related ponderation, appears to be the odd curiosity oscillating around her persona, or rather the difference between the so-called rising star

(let’s see for how long)

and her predecessors: how often would she call in sick? decline interviews? refuse to cooperate? oversleep? overdose? Which might as well be a question of time, meant to unravel in due course, all to his misery, even though he should be able to abide such circumstances with a decent amount of money, leading to dubious mental capacity when it comes to dealing with extravagant artists and their arsenal of lacking predictions, fallouts with producers, fussy whims, along with all the acts of great absurdity that somehow get him to roll his eyes in exasperated disbelief on each and every occasion.

The least patient man.

* * *

Morning light.

The most relentless alarm clock ever ‘invented’, practically prying her eyes open, immediate to bury her face in a silky pillow, letting out a frustrated groan, as she pulls up the covers, body shivering in the chilly room. Relieved by the newfound wave of heat, she is back to tethering on the edge between dreams and reality, hoping to get as much sleep as possible until the digital sound will slice through the city hum, which in turn evokes genuine respect towards the people who ‘rise and shine’ during the earliest hours just to face the day and seize all opportunities. Part of the woman scolds her for such laziness, but realistically thinking it is yet another transcendent goal, not noted with intention of fulfillment, instead left to lurk in the back of mind and bother her in the most unfavorable moments, as per usual.

Along with the pressing desire to ignore that peculiar stressful tension, it adds up to the growing pile of lies, meant to complete itself as she pursues further with life, but at the same time labelled as a habitual factor, allowing her to keep the head clear when required, unoccupied by the never-ending considerations, and yet opposed to the raging storm of thoughts. In one hand, her stomach is twisting with the nervous anticipation, but in the other she cannot deny the fluttering butterflies that have been disrupting the young woman since the very first time he called her, or more precisely – since the very first time his hologram appeared on dialing device, accompanied by the husky baritone that he used to expound the details concerning their arrangement – inexplicable yet important.

(Take the bitter with the bitter, isn’t it what they say?)

Funnily enough, she remembers each and every time her mother would preach the prodigal daughter about the consequences of such behavior, built upon foolish beliefs, teenage cravings of ineffable love, never meant to be fulfilled if beyond idealized. However, said factor has never seemed to put her pursuit to a halt, and so thwart the zeal – incandescent rod branding her soul for blissful eternity – soaked in the tears of those who perished, mainly her and the injudicious teens, lacking in what she was searching for at that time – a desire obscure enough to participate in the realm of ideas, in other words unable to be verbalized in face of pitifully limited vocabulary. Might as well be the reason why she struggles with forming any long-term relationship, always distracted by the passing opportunities, unable to break the unfortunate turn of events, conflicted with the more mature part of her, aiming mainly for self-development that leads to inevitable success – another silly daydream?

Maybe.

“Ugh, fuck this,” she whines into the pillow, presumably late, either way finds herself not quite concerned by concepts as equally absurd as time, while rolling onto the cooler side of bed – close call to the dubiously pleasant encounter with polished floor. Frustrated as ever, she hears the digital ringtone, more than aware who might be bothering her generously elongated sleep at such early hour, nevertheless obliged to pick up with a heavy pat delivered onto the screen. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Gia,” oh my fuck, he remembers. “I’ve wanted to make sure everything is relevant today, ‘cause I’ll be there in like… fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Oh, fifteen minutes,” she almost gasps, unable to conceal the nervous chuckle, certain there is no possibility she will meet him on time. “That’s cool, but I won’t make it.”

She hears his exasperated huff on the other side of the line, along with the calm exhale, and the following words – indication of the so-called professionalism. “How much time do you need then?”

“I don’t know…” she draws – a mannerism that he loathes more than anything – uncertainty audible within her voice, since she has blocked the visual channel, presumably still on the early stage of preparation. “Half an hour?”

“That supposed to be a question or an answer?” He manages to conceal the aggravated bark, tightening his grip around the steering wheel instead.

“An answer, I guess,” she shrugs, now risen up to a seating position, with the silky sheets pooling around her waist.

“Brilliant,” he concludes, a tad bit too drily for her own tastes, either way she ignores the unpleasant note, belittling it to the status of yet another subconscious allusion, prompted by the fairly deceivable mind.

“Anyway, you can drop by my flat if that’d be more convenient,” she proposes, yawning as her limbs stretch, joints cracking in a satisfactory way.

“Text me the address then, and I’ll meet you there,” he instructs in a blunt manner – non-verbal indication that ‘no’ appears to be an invalid response in such circumstances.

“With-” oh right, he hung up.

What a douchebag.

Luckily capable of ignoring the bitter aftertaste, at least for now, she stands up, shivering as her feet brush the cool floor, which in the end turns out as rather beneficial, pacing up her walk to the bathroom. Accompanied by the electric buzz, the light flickers out, reminding her for the nth time this week to call the estate owner, and deal with it like any reasonable adult would do, or simply wait for the day when she will be forced to complete her morning preparations in pitch darkness.

(Couldn’t dream of a better outcome...)

Certain that opting out for the top priority appears to be the most sensible solution in her position, she steps under the shower, letting the hot water cascade down her back, skin flushing due to the temperature. The heat itself elicits a relieved moan from her throat as the tension begins to evaporate from her body – parallel to the steam sprawling on the glass – tingling with the newfound excitement, apparently enhanced by the growing warmth. Perfectly aware there is neither a decent mood nor enough time to search for any relief, she ends up uttering a frustrated huff, while painting her front with the liquid soap, soon to stream down to the drain.

Having accomplished what must have been the quickest shower she has ever had, she only manages to put on more or less randomly picked up clothes, before the morning lull is sliced by the ringing doorbell that almost forces a fearful shriek from the broody woman. With a few hurried steps through the living area, she unlocks the door, confronted by the sight of virtual impatience, anticipating her presence since the earliest hours of dawn – posh dweller of equally polished suit – along with the flawless composure that evokes this peculiar insecurity in reference to the personal choice of clothing, seemingly not appropriate for such occasion.

Intimidating to say the least.

“Hi,” she greets him with a welcoming smile either way, gaze altering between his face and the ink peeking from the collar of his shirt, evoking the newfound curiosity about the whole concept, hidden beneath the fabric.

“Hello again,” he reciprocates as the corners his lips twist into what must be the so-called smug smirk, features visibly lightening. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” she snaps out of the trance, failing to conceal the nervous giggle adorning her affirmative response, caught hand in a cookie jar.

(Ah yes, the dovey one.)

Which is yet another subconscious mind’s assumption, although he believes that tendency to evaluate any given situation on the go appears to be linked with age, or more specifically – gaining general knowledge over the human dwellers and their behaviors. Therefore, in order to enhance the efficiency, one obtains the ugly habit of premature judgment, openly loathed by majority of population and yet dealt with from the hand of few, which in turn leads him to a rather inconvenient truth – one day, there will come the time when he trips and smashes his nose on the floor – metaphor adorned in pain less bearable than in a physical case.

(Been ‘round the block a few times.)

Nevertheless, the petite girl steps aside, allowing him to pass the threshold, further on perch upon the sofa and snatch the flat screen from his bag.

“Back to business…” he initiates, motioning her with a suggestive eye tilt, icy irises that bore into her soul, such a cooling contrast for her synthetic hue, enough to send an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.

“Don’t you want something to drink?” She gulps, gaze adverting to the side, unable to bear its intensity, right before she plops down onto the couch, brushing his knee by accident – plain contact that almost has her jolting away to the side.

(Get a fucking grip.)

“I’m good for now,” he rejects the proposition, just to witness her frown slightly in response. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

“I’ve disrupted your schedule, haven’t I?” She ascertains, seemingly more preoccupied with tucking one of her feet under the pleasantly warm thigh than maintaining eye contact, which irks him up more than he cares to admit; not a good sign to be honest.

“Pretty much yes, unless we hurry up, of course,” without letting her speak, he carries on with the beyond obvious explanations. “Anyway, here’s the contract that I need to sign if you’re willing to continue, which I think is polished by now, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Sure,” she accepts the offered device, flinching as their fingers brush, cold like ice. Clueless when it comes to what is happening to her, or more importantly – why he has such potent influence over the outgoing woman, at least until now, eliciting the most unusual reactions, the shameful shyness for instance.

“You can’t be this tense if you want to make this arrangement work,” he states, apparently out of nowhere, leaning towards the coffee table, weight braced on the elbows.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, with the metallic stylus in her hand, now long forgotten, as she glares at him, not so caught-off-guard for a change.

“You’ve heard me,” he cocks a condescending eyebrow at her, and if not for the blinking she would suspect he is not a human after all.

(Do androids blink?)

“Stating that won’t make any difference,” she huffs, peaceful façade seared by the gradually developing irritation.

“Care to elaborate?” He nags further, as if already capable of naming all her weak spots, thanks to his long-term professionalism in such domain.

“There’s no shift in the attitude,” she clarifies, noting the fact as if it was an absolute truth, suited for this and every other occasion in the future, greater than all the celestial beings, even if combined together.

“Would not pointing it out make any difference then?” He retorts, not expecting to hear a verbal answer this time, instead filled with the telltale silence. “See? Told you so.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, shaking her head in denial, hand mirroring the rushed movements.

“So what did you mean for a change?”

“I meant that pointing this out usually enhances the tension,” she explains, glancing briefly at the thin piece of metal clutched tight in her hand – a realization casted upon the woman.

“I believe it’s still worth the effort,” he shrugs, infuriatingly careless now that he has won, at least according to his suppositions.

“Why are we even discussing this?” She sighs, as if utterly exhausted by the teasing debate, and so willing to wind it up with the simple scrape over the screen. “Just let me sign the contract.”

“Go on, no one’s stopping you,” he flicks his wrist in an affirmative gesture, encouraging her to pursue. “I’d even dare to say right the opposite,” oh, so now he would play the smart guy, how delightful, she thinks, and yet responds immediately, topping up said contract with a flourishing signature, quick to hand it back to him. “Thank you. And by the way, you have an interview scheduled for tomorrow, just so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she flashes him a replacement for a proper smile, just to witness the male respond with a parallel gesture, and before she knows it, he is back on his feet again, towering over her figure, and so prompting to follow his traces.

“It’s just my job, no hard feelings.”

No hard feelings.

(Easier said than done.)

* * *

Past.

Easily associated with safety, blissful awareness granted by the reliability of bygone memories, a place where one is willing to return to in times of unspoken restlessness, and so dive into the flowery reminiscence – beloved escape. However, at some point in one’s life an unspecified hand flips the switch, allowing to see the sheer absurdity, which in turn leads to a purifying realization – the past is not enough anymore, and so a different, more potent stimulant is required.

Her best friend would probably label it as ‘yet another mistake’, worse than falling for Cara, nevertheless she cannot help herself, knowing that one way or another she will be forced to release some steam, to transfer the concoction of feelings into work – a song, sublime and powerful, carrying an amaranthine meaning. Losing herself in the complexity of the world she has gotten to inhabit – borne against her will, such a cruel law – seems so effortless in comparison to the sheer burdens of existence, paired with the average life expectancy and the endless predictions of elongation, justifying it as yet another whim of humanity.

(Even rhymes with immortality, what a coincidence.)

Why would anyone even crave something so insane – eternality – unaware of the real meaning hidden behind these ten letters, bound by the long-gone linguist – extinct specie? Expression of their thoughtlessness? Might as well be.

At this point it appears as quite tough to specify, her mind delving into far too many places at once, incapable of maintaining the indispensable concentration with Nova running through her bloodstream, retreating the human ability to focus on a single factor. As the reality begins to fade away, various background noises dull into one unpleasant screech, inseparable, her ears ringing as the first wave rocks through her body, a vague pat on the back, followed by the tingling sensation of a relatively cool hand tracing her spine. While a minuscule part of her loathes the feeling of metallic digits dancing over the heated flesh, the more influential one is flying sky too high to care, remaining still in that one inconvenient pose, leaning towards the shiny table.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” His hand slides further down her back, playing with the hem of the low-cut dress she has opted for today, its silvery hue reflecting the colorful lights. “What do you say, sweets?”

“Mhm, yes… exciting… exciting it is,” she barely formulates the affirmation, her brain clinging to the established choice of words, out of capacity to exchange it for anything more intricate. “But I think I gotta… I think I… I gotta go I think.”

“So soon?” He questions, both eyebrows risen in feigned disbelief, chrome digits dipping underneath the fabric only to find the silky strap in process, stimulating enough to occupy his carnal interests for a brief moment.

“I’ve paid you… I’m sure I have…” she mumbles, involuntarily jerking away from the touch, muscles twitching as an innate response to the unwanted contact, lost in between her attempts to complete the sentence, “for the pills, I mean.”

“Well, yes, that’s correct, you have,” he agrees, albeit immediate to clarify, “but I’d like something more from you.”

“What?” She frown in confusion, eyes staring into the distance, blurred outlines of dancers rushing through her mind, hips swaying to the beat. “No, I… take me home… please.”

“Maybe later, ‘kay?” He proposes, still patient, fingers stroking the smooth skin in an attempt to soothe the confused female.

“No… I wanna…” she counters, one final time, although enough to crack his resolve, hand abandoning its previous track, leaving only the fleeting remains of proper touch on the heated skin.

“Quit whining and get up,” he huffs, audibly irritated, and she cannot help but wonder about the causes, random associations blending into one shapeless pulp – concoction of equally indistinguishable elements.

“No!” She squeals, a little louder this time, as a stab of pain shoots through her arm, almost yanked out of its socket, at least according to her perception, attracting attention of a passing female, although definitely short-lived, soon to mingle in the crowd.

Because who cares?

“You. Are. Coming with me,” he punctuates the words, delivering another harsh tug, intent to force her to move. “Whether you want to or not.”

Unable to verbalize the evident objections, let alone break away from his iron grasp, she can only follow his traces, while trying oh so desperately to figure out what is happening around her, cling onto at least one given stimulus. Her vision is blurry, blinded by the neon lights, as if her eyes were tearing, but at the same time she doubts she has ever felt that helpless, that fearful, emotions running all over the place, full of contradictions, frenzied and delirious.

Searching for physical support, she leans in to his frame as soon as the man stands still, but due to the black spots staining her perception, she can barely make out where they are, especially with her head is spinning like crazy. Before she knows it, his arms encircle her waist, preventing the young and oh so promising musician from a disastrous rendezvous with equally unforgiving floor, much to his exasperation.

Overall, the plan has been a little different, certainly not featuring the scenario in which she passes out, another unconscious body to take care of, whist also ‘unfuckable’ in such state. Therefore, the most he can do for the woman is to dump her by the corridor wall, as befits the ‘immature dickhead’, certain that no one would attempt to link her with him, at least according to the general numbness in the so-called ‘world full of cruelty’ and the glorious lack of interest in dealing with minor crimes.

Morality?

Shattered?

(And what else?)

* * *

The first time she experienced something like this was approximately about sixteen years ago, give or take, although she prefers to keep such stories to herself, since people tend to label it as rather dubious and the last renown she aims for is ‘untrustworthy’. Nonetheless, it all appears to be rather simple – high fever tends to retreat distant and prompting visions, mainly associated with sensory memory, aspects that are supposed to remain out of reach, and yet linger somewhere in the back of one’s mind. Take for instance the sensation of being rocked to sleep in mother’s arms, deprived of any distinctive images, just the monotonous lull and mere hum of her silvery voice, singing some nonsensical song, its lyrics undistinguishable by now.

Ergo, for a brief moment, yet to collide with reality, she is convinced that she has forgotten to swallow the necessary medicaments due to her ailing state, evident in the disastrous headache, possibly linked with abnormal temperature, and mind drifting towards obscure dimensions once again. Before she gets a chance to familiarize with the newfound vision, it is disrupted by a harsh jerk, so unlike her parents’ manners, forcing both eyes open and so greeting the woman with a sight she is not braced for yet – a guy, recognized as a bartender, shaking her awake, not Carlos who might as well be long gone by now.

“Gia?” He frowns, visibly puzzled, both hands resting on her shoulders, warmth atop icy skin, sending a pleasant wave of heat through her half-conscious body.

Unable to grant any sensible answer, she blinks a couple of times, trying to adjust to the neon lights, with her vision still a little blurry, before she actually manages to formulate a proper response, voice croaky, as if not hers at all. “What’s going on?”

“I could’ve ask you the same,” he reciprocates, audibly annoyed, hands now abandoning their previous spot upon her shoulders on behalf of a more convenient squatting position.

“I don’t remember much,” she admits, clenched fists rising to rub her eyes in hopes it will somehow bring her back to the land of living.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” He huffs, accusation evident in his voice, or maybe it is just fatigue, disappointment with her countless predicaments, not that he is the only one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shrugs, the least talented liar ever born, beyond embarrassing to pursue.

“Whatever Gia, I don’t give a shit,” he sighs, utterly defeated. “And I’m resigning from babysitting you tonight. Work schedule, you know.”

“I-”

“No time for that,” he interrupts, remains of the so-called empathy long gone by now, granting the blossoming irritation with essential space. “Someone’s gotta drag your ass from here, I mean the club, and take you home.”

“I can’t stay here?” She frowns, disappointed with the unfortunate turn of events.

“What?” He laughs in disbelief, a mocking tingle that enhances all negative emotions disrupting the guilty songbird. “Of course not, it’s a club, not drunk tank.”

“But-”

“Just find someone who can take you out,” he instructs, glancing at the door, hoping the manager has not noticed his absence by now. “And tell him it’s fucking urgent.”

“Okay,” she agrees, displeased with his harsh approach, irritation evident within her voice. “Just give me some fucking space.”

“Sure, I gotta head back anyway,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden – feigned façade mastered over the years. “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t feel like checking it by myself,” she utters a nervous chuckle, hand already outstretched for the bartender, and who is he to leave her hanging like this, ever the gentleman. “Could you help me?”

“Sure,” he throws her a fleeting smile, and with a steady grasp on the woman’s arm, he hoists her up from the ground, knees seemingly too weak to hold the rest upright. However, the necessary support is granted by the wall, allowing the female to brace her weight on the forearms and press the forehead to the concrete structure as a potent wave of dizziness rocks through her fatigued body.

“Thanks,” she murmurs faintly, still in the process of dealing with the unpleasant aftermath of earlier decisions, and so dangerously close to throwing up on the polished floor.

“It’s nothing, Gia, really,” he assures, his mind already circling back to work-related issues. “Just get your sorry ass outta here.”

“Sure,” she huffs, rolling her eyes in an almost theatrical manner, as if to ensure he gets the message with plenty of reserve. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too.”

And with that careless response, he walks away, hasty steps echoing in the corridor, soon to disappear around the corner, and so leave the hall altogether. Finally deprived of any company, she fishes out the phone from the depths of her purse, and calls the only person she can think of in such circumstances – Connor, or Connie, since the choice is apparently not his to make. At this point she is practically trembling with that peculiar concoction of excitement and exhilaration, fingers crossed he will pick up at such late hour, since wishing for anything else seems like a childish exaggeration now.

“You better have damn good reasons for calling me in the middle of the fucking night,” ever the most talented in the field of pleasant conversations, he opts for greeting her with such expression, voice rough with sleep, sending a shiver down her spine.

“So I got into some trouble tonight and-”

“Just cut to the chase,” he barks out a blunt order, his patience running low in the face of increasing exasperation. “I don’t have energy to listen to some background bullshit.”

“I need you to take me home from Interstellar,” she states, having decided that to keep it simple means to succeed, rather than to bestow him with countless euphemisms, supposing it would justify her irresponsible behavior.

Right?

“Excuse me?” He chuckles in disbelief, a mocking laughter that almost has her snapping at him – the most immature reaction she could ever imagine. “Seems like you might’ve mistaken me for your fucking chauffer, who I’m not by any means, so thank you for such divine opportunity but I think I’ll pass.”

“Why are you always acting like a fucking dickhead?” She sighs, voice smaller than she would like it to be, as the day-long fatigue settles into her bones, which combined with the unpleasant tone nearly has her bursting in tears.

“And why are you always getting personal?” He jeers, a crude remark to stab her right in the chest, and so discourage to pursue. “It’s just work, nothing else, and the sooner you learn it, the better for you, ‘cause I’m not hired to deal with your non-career issues.”

“It might become a career issue if someone finds me here,” she reciprocates, betrayed by the not-so-subtle hint of desperation lacing her voice, shaky at the end.

“Tryna out-talk me?” He chuckles bitterly, his head lulling slightly to the side in her mind’s eyes – a mannerism she has grown accustom with during those few weeks. “C’mon, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I just wanna go home,” she tries once again, now actually on the blink of tears. “Please.”

“Pathetic,” she hears him spat on the other side of the line, probably not meant to reach her ears, but it does either way, forcing Gia to suppress the choked sob threatening to escape her constricted throat. “No, just no. I’m not doing shit for you. You’re a fucking adult, so I think you’ll find your way outta here.”

“But-”

“No, enough of that,” he interrupts, annoyance evident in his voice. “It was nice talking to you, but I’m going back to sleep now. Have fun.”

“Don’t hang up, please…”

Oh right.

Douchebag.

Fighting the urge to cry out in exasperation, she dials his number once again, dangerously close to chanting an actual lucky prayer, nevertheless determined to make him comply for a change, since in this case hope indeed appears to be the mother of fools.

Ironic.

“The fuck you’re calling me again?” He barks out, absolutely furious.

“Will you come? Please,” she sobs, finally letting the tears stream down the sides of her face, way past her breaking point now. “I don’t wanna stay here. It’s so cold, and I’m so tired.”

“You won’t let it slide, will you?” He sighs, a realization casted upon the man for a change.

“No,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes with the free hand, black dust from the so-called ‘waterproof’ mascara coating her fingers. “They’ll throw me out elsewise.”

Nothing.

(Silence speaks a thousand words.)

“Connie?”

“Fucking fine,” he gives up after a longer pause, seemingly ready to consent to her wish. “Just stay right where you are until I get there. We’ll meet by the main entrance as soon as I text you, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she gulps, trying to conceal the exited squeal threatening to slip past her lips as a result of his approval.

“Very well. See you.”

“Connie?” She calls out one more time, voice laced with distinctive hesitation.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure, no big deal.”

And with that he hangs up, on one hand leaving her with a bitter-sweet wish they would chat a little longer, while on the other she is well aware it would be simply nonsensical, lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. Once again deprived of the craved-for company, the sensory aspects hit the woman with full force, the pounding ache of her own body, betraying in the midst of crisis, arms encircling her trembling frame in order to deliver at least a mere illusion of being held by someone.

(Connie?)

(Ha! You wish!)

(He doesn’t even like that nickname… the fuck is wrong with me?)

Unable to keep herself upright, she plops down onto the cold floor, with the bottom part of her dress hiking up, and so exposing the legs to icy air which, enhanced by the fatigue, has her trembling on the ground. In hopes it will somehow allow to maintain the essential warmth, she curls into a ball, resting her forehead on the bent knees, eyelids shutting on their own, which in turn bestows her with odd solitude, even though there is no possibility she would drift to sleep in such circumstances with her body trembling like a leaf in the autumn breeze.

Minutes upon minutes, she is gradually beginning to lose the track of time, not daring to glance at the clock even once, surprisingly patient for a change, maybe in the face of feasible fulfillment. And yet, despite the aforementioned calmness, she almost jumps out of her skin as soon as she feels the phone vibrating in her hand, not wasting any time to check the incoming message.

“I’m here,” it reads, which puts a relieved smile on her face, and so she is rather quick to stuff the device back into her purse, then get up with a renewed vigor, walls granting the necessary support.

Pushing the heavy door open, she walks out to the guests’ zone, greeted with all its splendid virtues: loud music and insufferable crowd, which prompts her to circle the dancefloor and so avoid the troublesome encounters. Lucky to get past without any of that, she steps through the reception area, soon to make her way out of the club altogether, cool evening breeze palpable on her face, sweeping the bangs away from her forehead.

Nevertheless, with more pressing matters occupying her mind, Gia is immediate to spot him, leaning by the side of his car – such an unusual sight to behold, without one of his beloved suits, exchanged for the benefit of more casual attire. She blinks a couple of times, as if to ascertain he was not mistaken for another man, having assumed he would be the only person waiting outside, and to be honest she cannot conceal the relieved sigh slipping past her lips as a response to the inviting gesture – a graceful flick of his wrist.

“You look absolutely miserable,” he notes, and even in face of the gruff greeting she almost fails to restrain from hugging the coarse man as a thank-you gift. “C’mere.”

“I owe you,” she declares, a steady exclamation until disturbed by his hands gripping her arms, leaving the woman confused for a moment.

“Yes, you do,” he agrees, frowning as she reciprocates the gesture, lithe fingers wrapping around his biceps; and hell, it is just to prevent her from hitting the pavement, not indicate anything sexual. Why does she have to read every message wrong? “Now get in the car.”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant,” she huffs, visibly annoyed, and so seriously considering the break-away from his not-so-loving grasp.

“I’m being practical not unpleasant,” he rolls his eyes in response, blatant and unashamed, choosing to release her this time, intent to open the door for his female associate, “since I don’t think you’d like to experience yet another encounter with a ground of any kind.”

“Sure, thanks,” she reciprocates, cold as ice – terribly feigned façade, although immediate to get in the car, letting him shut the door for her, then ride away in what seems like a blink for her limited perception.

At least according to what she keeps telling herself.

(Liar.)

* * *

“I’ve left you a glass of water on the bedside table, ‘kay?” He throws a brief glance at her figure lounging on the bed, now clad in a monochromatic tee, suppressing the urge to linger on the exposed skin for a little longer.

It is always hunting him, the flesh.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” she mutters, voice muffled by the pillows, not caring to throw him a merest glimpse.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you’ve left me a glass of water on the bedside table,” she complies, as if fed up with his never-ending requests oscillating around definite responses, ever the hypocrite.

“Very well,” seemingly pleased with her response, his lips twist in what must be a ghost of a proper smile, although the following words fail to satiate the prominent craving, much to her displeasure. “So sleep tight and make sure you call me as soon as you wake up.”

“Connie?” She calls almost at the spot, having decided to take the matter in her own hands this time, afraid that if he gets up, nothing will be enough to stop him from leaving altogether.

“Connor,” he corrects, voice laced with an audible hint of annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” she dismisses, while urging her body up on the elbows to look at him properly for a change, at least according to the etiquette of any decent conversation. “Stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” he counters, cold as ice once again – a notion enhanced by the neon lights casting shadows on his sharp features.

“Why?”

“’Cause I’ve driven your sorry ass home which is enough of selflessness from me for the following month,” he spats bitterly, intent to rise from his spot on the couch and walk out of the door, leaving her hanging, as if it was the most convenient solution ever imagined.

“Why do you have to be such an ass?” She huffs, disappointed once again – an impression she has learned to associate with him on the course of their encounters, and yet never failing to disturb her, even if only in the emotional sense.

(Helps me to keep the distance.)

“Nothing personal,” he claims instead, not even blinking as the words slip past his lips. “I’ve got errands to run tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe you,” she confronts, now seated properly with her back supported by the wall, as if to grant the superior position in their flimsy quarrel.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he reciprocates, infuriatingly calm all of sudden, shoulders shrugging at her furious expression.

(So easy to rile up sometimes…)

“I-”

“What?” He snaps, head twisting in her direction, eyes meeting with a metaphorical shot of electricity through her body.

“Is it so hard to understand? The fact that I don’t wanna be alone tonight?” She sighs, now in genuine doubt whether he is a human after all, which might as well be linked with the flawed perception, based on her own attitude – blemished. “You know, it’s just… today’s been so messed up and I just… I don’t know...”

“Got anything to confess?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, as if attempting to conceal the previous irritation with some careless swagger.

“I don’t remember much, but I have a feeling that something bad has happened to me,” she begins, having decided to choose her words carefully, since indicating that she is yet another pathetic junkie is the last direction she is aiming towards.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, really,” she refuses to cooperate, instead gets up from the bed and takes those few steps towards the couch to plop down beside him, shortly before resuming with her undefined explanation. “I’m aware of what I was doing throughout the day, but the evening memories are all vague, are… um… all fuzzy, and honestly I have no idea what to think about this.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He questions, seemingly relaxed, if not for the corner of his lip tilting in an unnerving way, proving that said proposal carries some hidden meaning as well.

“Yes,” she nods, since playing by his rules appears to lay beyond the realm of conscious control for now, no idea why.

(Sure.)

(Is that his voice? The fuck is wrong with me?)

“So tell me the truth.”

Speak of the devil.

“It wasn’t all a lie,” she scoffs, and yet cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, focusing on the small reddish stain decorating the coach cushion, wine presumably.

“Sure,” he hums in agreement, soaked in bitter irony, although pleased with the confirmation of his little theory. “But I wanna hear a genuine story this time, or none at all. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she affirms with a telltale burning upon her cheeks that appear to disrupt the defined vision of proper explanation. “So, I wasn’t alone at the Interstellar, I was with someone…”

“With whom exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses once again, shaking her head, as if more to clear out the mind before the key explanation than emphasize the earlier words. “The thing is, he gave me one of those pills he had, and I took it, so that’s why I don’t remember shit.”

“Well, that I’ve already figured out myself,” never the one to disappoint, am I right? “So where’s the catch?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake… I mean doing something like that in his company is a mistake itself, but… I don’t know… I feel so messed up,” she rubs a single hand across her face, hoping it will somehow soothe her, but nothing like this happens, so instead she slips it in his, searching for physical support – a gesture that catches him off guard for a brief moment. His flesh is cool to touch, most of it covered in some bizarre ornaments, black upon white – pale skin that looks almost eerie underneath the neon lights – her gaze following the pattern up his arm, until their eyes lock once again – tangerine and steel.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he affirms with a subtle smile, squeezing her hand in a skillful manner, enough to fulfill said wish without causing unnecessary discomfort.

“That was the first time something like this happened to me though,” she confess, throwing their linked limbs a brief glance, as if to ascertain he is still there, like in flesh and bones, not a passerby from a parallel reality. “It freaked me out.”

“No wonder it did,” he concludes. “Losing control can be one of the worst nightmares.”

“Tell me about it,” she huffs, rolling her eyes – a gesture to top the sarcastic remark with. “I don’t get it. Even though I’m aware of the consequences, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again… Hell, I’m so happy I have an opportunity to die.”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” he chuckles – not the exact reaction she intended to gain from him, but that will have to do for now.

“Aren’t we all?” She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him, her eyes glistening with an ghost of amusement, rather unexpected in such circumstances, which is also a good sign to be honest, the fact he is able to elicit that kind of response from her.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for listening though,” she ignores the little hypocritical attempt, indicating the blatant disagreement.

“Anytime Gia, anytime,” he bestows the woman with a smile for a change, even if fleeting – odd beauty to it all.

As her focus drifts towards the places of unknown, with the pensive silence settling over them, she fails to notice the subtle shift of his position, until their intertwined hands rest on her thigh, eliciting an embarrassingly audible gasp from the female, knuckles teasing the tender flesh as his tendons flex, supposing to prevent the nerves from getting numb.

“What are you expecting from this situation?” He interjects, his gaze focused solely on hers with intensity that has the female almost backing away – soul-drill to crack her attitude in two.

“Feelings are not to be verbalized,” she reciprocates, rolling her eyes at the inappropriate question, and yet opts for going out on a limb, since what goes around comes around, right? “And also, I think there’re more pressing matters to clarify anyway.”

“Such as?” He turns towards her, and now that Gia has his undividable attention, she is ready to put her inconsistent plan into notion.

“Ever wondered what would it be like… to kiss me?”

An exclamation that has him laughing out loud this time – such an unusual occurrence, although not the best sign to be honest – and yet she can work with that, glaring at him once the sound dulls down. With amused glimmers dancing behind his gaze, he appears to be studying her expression, as if in an attempt to read his songbird like an open book he would like her to be, at least for him, and yet, aside from the blatant desire for attention, the rest is buried somewhere deep, deep down, safe from his prying curiosity.

How infuriating.

Nevertheless, he is well aware what to do to gain the essential answer – break the not-so-stern rule, temptation in its purest form, granting the special privilege of seeing her gasp in shock, feign indifference just to throw herself in his arms as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

Sublime. Sadistic. Selfish.

Simply what he needs right now.

“To kiss you? No…” he draws on the syllable – a purring baritone that catches her off guard for a brief moment – not even supposing he is capable of making such sounds. “But to fuck you… now that’s a whole different story…”

(What the hell?)

“But we can just kiss if you prefer the PG-13 version,” he cocks a challenging eyebrow at her, and she takes the bait, all to his pleasure as far as it matches the plan, crafted on the go.

“I don’t-”

“No need to lie to me, Gia,” he interrupts, leaning slightly towards her, just enough to brush her chest, breath palpable on the exposed neck, prickling her skin with goosebumps. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

“Right now? For you to kiss me,” she gulps, failing to pursuit with the seductive tone, muscles twitching as she feels his arm snaking around her waist, still hoping she would maintain the confidence throughout the act.

(With him touching you like that? Sure.)

“A bit boring but if that’s what you want…” he chuckles, breath flaring through her hair, quick to catch the woman off guard again by yanking her onto his lap, one thigh pressed in between her legs.

“You’re such a dick,” she gasps at the unexpected contact, her insides coiling in anticipation to satiate whatever ache has been blossoming inside the artiste the moment he laid his eyes upon her.

“Sure, whatever,” he hums, careless as ever, tickling the side of her neck with feather-like kisses, barely present, like wind whispering patterns on her skin, ready to fly away and forget as the scent of his cologne engulfs her senses. Some twisted part of her wants to witness him break first, give in to the temptation, with dilated pupils and disheveled hair, rake his fingers through the strands, but nothing like this happens. Instead, he keeps teasing her with the gentle touches, tips of his fingers tracing the hollow of her spine, up to the point where she cannot take it anymore – the merciless tormentor – and tilts his head to the side, crashing their lips together.

(So it is on.)

With his arms around her body, he gains the essential motion range, ability to maneuver her upon his lap and of course guide the kiss, but since their plans seem to differ, she attempts to squirm out of the grasp – a matter he is quick to rectify with a harsh nip upon her bottom lip, drawing a surprised squeal from the woman. Even though she is already past the point of wondering whether he would be gentle, whether he would treat her like the finest china or just another frivolous chippie, she has not expected such straightforward approach, at least not from the very beginning, since that is what all the previous partners accustomed her with – the cautious build up leading to more ardent acts, while he appears to be toying with both contradictories, leaving her in anticipation for more.

(Fucking douchebag.)

With Gia gliding through her thoughts, he opts for seizing the opportunity now that her mouth is agape, seemingly beyond realization yet, and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip, relishing in the tremor that runs down her spine as a response to the caress, palpable underneath his hands. Right when she expects him to dive straight into it, he breaks away, eliciting a disappointed whimper from the singer, a whimper that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants like some immature teenager, intent to switch to her neck and mark the flawless canvass – now simply pale and pure. As if put on repeat, she mimics the earlier sound – a response to the harsh suck – leaning backwards, expecting him to continue the established path further down, and yet he is back at the face level within a matter of seconds, having stained her flesh with a purplish bruise.

“I do mind that a bit, you know,” she huffs, feigning annoyance, even if only in a partial sense, unable to ignore the rapid pulsing of violated skin, akin to a sisterly heart drumming just underneath the surface.

“Didn’t see you complaining earlier,” he hums against her lips, planting a lingering kiss on the plump pout. “If I were in your shoes I’d be happy to have something to eye in the mirror when the lover boy is gone. Which, by the way, reminds me that I gotta be going, now that I’ve clearly overused your hospitality.”

(Like flipping a switch.)

“You gotta what?” She frowns in confusion, squealing in surprise as he slides her off his lap, leaving the female perched on the sofa, beyond agitated.

“Sleep tight and remember to call me in the morning.”

And with that he is gone, slipping through the door like a desert dust carried with the wind, its remains inhabiting every space imaginable, forgotten to be swiped away even while cleaning; since he would be damned if he allowed some brat to flash him her bits, get him all riled up just to back out in the end with whatever pathetic excuse she manages to make up on the go.

So instead he prefers the prevention strategy.

Leave her hanging.

Desperate for any kind of attention.

As for the clever, cunning.

Sadist.

* * *

It is safe to assume that getting used to the thought of her and Connor together took the young singer a fair amount of time, and not only that. What else was required to accomplish such inhuman target must have been the so-called emotional tranquility, not her most spectacular forte to be honest, and furthermore accepting the fact that he wants something more from her, whatever that something is.

The very thing that destroys her?

Might as well be, not that it would surprise Gia, considering her ever-present knack for involving in presumably not the most beneficial relationships, just for the sake of illusionary intimacy justified by equally tentative trust, the need to keep people close, lend them a helping hand in hope they will reciprocate someday. To contribute but never to be rewarded, at least with the desired amount of compassion, always judged through the prism of her performance, the outer surface – tissue-thin epidermis – deprived of human curiosity to dip millimeters underneath, and so discover what else she is willing to offer, beyond the carnal realm.

Cruelty of the

Arbitrary

Resolution.

And yet, she cannot stop thinking about him, imagining how his steps would echo in the corridor leading to her flat, how his hand would rise to press the button, how his feet would tap the ground while waiting for her to meet him by the entrance, far more preoccupying than she would like it to be. Tethering on the edge between two parallel dimensions – corporeality and conceptuality – she barely notices the slicing sound, tearing up the multi-level reverie into a bunch of useless pieces – a ring reverberating in the air.

“Fuck,” she curses, startled by the way too real noise, almost tripping, as she shoots up from the couch, rushing to open the door. She is greeted with the oh so unexpected sight of the ‘lover boy’ – display of vibrant confidence, obscuring the hint of impatience that must be lurking just beneath the surface, once again without any of his posh suits, although not lacking essential elegance, having opted for simple black pants and matching shirt, keeping the top buttons undone, certain she would notice. As per his earlier assumption, her eyes linger on the exposed flesh, also marked by the ink, evoking the wonder about how far it actually reaches, which in turn leads to the much more risqué concept – the fact that tonight she is meant to clarify all doubts.

(Fuck.)

“Ever bother to check the visual?” He leans against the doorway, clearly waiting for any invitation, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at her – an indication she catches sooner than later, allowing him to step inside, and shut the door. “Or is it the perspective of seeing me that distracts you so much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she throws over her shoulder – feigned carelessness – as she follows him to the living area, frowning when he perches atop the mattress instead.

“And depend on random compliments?” He chuckles, fingers stroking the silky sheets, as if to approve their law of existence as a part of her bedding. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sure you will,” she rolls her eyes, nevertheless allows him to pull her onto the plush surface, their knees bumping as she settles down beside the man.

“What a clever girl you are, truly astounding,” he purrs – the exact same tone he used just a few days ago, and yet so much different – fresh and bold, evoking the insatiable desire for more. “Which reminds me that I’ve brought some wine for us.”

“I’m more of a Tequila girl to be honest,” she bestows him a fleeting smile, thrown off guard by the brush of his fingers upon the exposed thigh, now that her dress has ridden up a little, nevertheless quick to return on the abandoned track of thoughts, “but wine is a classic, so I appreciate it.”

“Sure, Sundance,” he teases, tickling her skin with feather-like strokes – another call-back to their last encounter – although this time her muscles quiver as he skims the golden ring adorning her shapely leg.

“So do you want to drink it now, or-”

“Why the nerves?” He frown, in time with the touch-deprivation, placing the aforementioned bottle by the foot of her bed with a soft click – unsettling since terminal, at least according to personal perception – supreme deceiver. “It’s not like I’ve came here to hurt your or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, reaching out for his hand to thread their fingers together. “But you’re just something… something new to me, and I have no idea what to expect, that’s all.”

“Oh honey,” he smirks, eyes glinting with a lingering promise that leaves her determined to uncover the truth behind his intents, “you’re gonna love this, I promise.”

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for that then,” she shrugs, allowing him to pull her onto his lap once again, calves on either sides of his thighs for a change.

“Guess you’ll have to.”

And with that, their lips collide, sucking a breath from her lungs, and so shaping up the focus – tunnel vision, disability to judge the situation through the prism of a bigger picture, especially when his hand reaches the zipper of her dress, soon to drag it down, exposing the pale flesh to relatively warm air. In spite of that, her skin prickles with goosebumps, failing to contain a violent shiver, as his fingers explore the area in sync with the sensual dance that is their kiss – awakening of the burdened desire, prompt to shove him down, check whether he would crack in response – such an absurd idea, downward foolish, although that she is yet to realize, all in due course.

Puzzled with the sudden shift in her attitude, he peers up to the woman, forehead marked by a frown of confusion, until his gaze follows a path further south, halting once it reaches the disarranged cleavage, tops of her breasts peeking through the fabric. As if with a mind of its own, his hand reaches out to tease the feminine curve, eliciting a gasp from his not-so-stern partner, leaning towards his touch – fleeting scrape of butterfly’s wings upon the heated flesh, meant to enhance the inborn craving for more.

“C’mere,” he purrs, low baritone that sends a vibrant buzz straight to her core, and yet she hesitates to comply, tethering on the pinnacle between elongating the mild, although undoubtedly pleasant, experience and succumbing to the whispering prompts of her instinct, too caught up in the trance to deny the subconscious responses delivered by her body.

Seemingly unable to defer anymore, she leans in to him, sighing as he cups the perky globe in one hand, teasing the protruding nipple with the pads of his fingers, until she gasps his name – a single word, yet potent enough to cloud his eyes with a resemblance of lust, mirroring the fiery hue of her own irises. With the self-control aspect casted aside, she allows him to pull down the fabric and so expose the upper half of her body that he appears to be quite fond of at this point, attempting to ignore both the burning gaze upon bare skin and the growing hardness in between her legs, applying pressure to the dampening folds.

Intimidating to say the least, considering it has been a while since she was placed under such circumstances – a penis owner in her very own bed, grazing the lacy cloth with barely palpable shifts. In the midst of honesty she is ready to admit that the concept of stuffing a rigid member inside has always filled her with some odd kind of nervousness, disgust maybe – determinant of established preference, leaning more to the opposite option.

Even so, she has found herself attracted to the Connor almost at the spot, the exact moment his eyes landed on her figure by the doorway – initiation of the merest physical attraction, meant to blossom into something of entirely different nature, something that scares her more than she cares to admit. Furthermore, the last issue she needs to deal with is unrequired love, considering he is not the man who gives his heart away to each and every person he crosses paths with, unlike some people – hit for the metaphorical nail, precisely why she possesses so much hatred for him, at least a part of her does, while the other is drowning hopelessly, claiming she is a unique being, crafted for him like personal software.

With all that crap in mind, there is still the third aspect to it all – lust-laced craving, the carnal impulse that has her thighs fluttering in anticipation for what he is intent to deliver as his eyes bore into her – burning itch atop the exposed skin.

And that she is dying to find out.

“Mmm… fuck,” she moans, dumbfounded by the unusually intense sensation, rocking her hips to relieve the tension – subconscious response to the lack of direct stimulation – eliciting a throaty chuckle from the man below.

“So soon?” He teases, flinching as she presses closer to him, radiating with natural heat that has him twitching in some animalistic need to dive straight to the main business, even if for a split second. “How about a little variety first?”

“What variety?” She frowns, the movements of her hips halting as his hand abandons her breast, curious, or maybe just anxious, about his intensions.

“Ever been blindfolded?”

The question left to linger in the air for a split second, required for the artiste to comprehend its meaning, garnishing her cheeks with a reddish hue that laces his lips in yet another version of the so-called smug smirk, cocking an anticipatory eyebrow at the female. With her faced marked by the concoction of embarrassment and most importantly lust, she is no more no less a sight to behold, chewing at the corner of her lip in restless wonder – overthinking, burden of humanity. Even though it last for only a few seconds, he perceives it at least as a million

(what a surprising turn of events…),

yet maintains the essential patience to hear Gia’s response as his hands stroke her sides in some mindless form of caress, and so delay the decisive process, maybe without realization. What requires that brief struggle – point of discussion – is her return from the voluptuous trance, featuring the flash of seemingly every possible scenario, frenzied enough to appear as embarrassing, she shakes her head no – brisk denial – still leaving the matter pending.

“Wanna try it out tonight?” He proposes, to which she nods for a change, feverishly enough to fuel the cocky smirk upon his features – a concoction of lust and amusement. “Say it.”

“Yes, I wanna try out tonight,” she complies, without hesitation this time, as if he managed to strike some cord deep within, a cord that has her thighs twitching in search for the relief-granting friction.

(Fuck… that’s too much.)

“Very well then,” his gaze adverts to the side, indicating Gia to follow the established direction, settling once it reaches the flimsy gown hanging on the door of her wardrobe. “Give me that silky ribbon from your robe.”

Without further ado, she rises from the well-accustomed-with spot, and with a few, rather wobbly, steps, snatches the aforementioned item from the hanger, quick to pass it to him, indifferent whether it will reach its destination as smoothly as desired. In spite of that, he catches the belt with distinctive grace, twirling it in between his fingers for a brief moment, up to the point of fatal distraction – Gia discarding her dress to the side, allowing him to steal a glance of red lace covering the place of his interest, before she joins him on the bed, settled upon his lap once again.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, failing to conceal the breathy note marring the flawlessly composed voice – a nuance that appears to slip past her attention, without a doubt on his benefit, excited to follow his request, shivering at the first brush of silk over her skin, although not meant to relish the sensation for a longer while, since he is quick to tie it at the back of her head and so obscure the vision.

Pitch black.

“Lie down,” he bestows Gia with a concise order, having deprived her from the steady grip, hands now flying to grasp his shoulders, afraid to lose balance now that she is blind.

“How about a little help?” She huffs with a lingering hint of annoyance marring her voice, prominent enough to reach the picky ears of her paranoid manager. “I don’t fancy slamming my head in the wall, you know.”

“Don’t use that tone on me,” he snaps – an exclamation laced with a tethering promise, indicating that he is indeed a man of little tolerance to any form of misbehavior, which is not much of surprise to be honest, especially when considered through the prism of what she has witnessed him perform on the strictly professional ground.

“Or what?” She taunts, too blind, in the metaphorical sense of course, to realize how ridiculous she appears to him at the moment, pawing at his shoulders as the self-preservation instinct fully kicks in, working against her benefit, at least when it comes to narrow extension, yet to reach the verbal realm.

Which is exactly what elicits a mocking chuckle from the male, followed by an equally derisive comment, more than aware how to get under her skin. “Don’t tempt me, Sundance.”

“Like you wouldn’t want it,” she rolls her eyes, even though he is unable to see through the silky ribbon, letting out another vexed huff, cut short by the sudden flip that has her squealing in surprise, all against the conscious will. Some part of her finds such capacity rather unsettling, precisely how he can manhandle the dainty body in any desired position, while the other – dug out of the subliminal depth – relishes the sensation of physical submission, shivering in anticipation for more.

Luckily, that he is able to deliver, at least according to what she is hoping for, although the following action leaves her puzzled and most importantly alone on the mattress, almost prompting to remove the fabric in order to check why he has abandoned her. However, before she settles on any specific choice, she hears him rummaging through the bed drawer in search for hell knows what, and even though she is probably supposed to cut such liberties short, the woman remains still, well-aware of what he is looking for in there and yet caught in denial.

“If that’s what I think it is...” she begins, unable to conceal the subtle hint of trepidation within her voice, clearly excited to verify the inkling.

“What? This?” He pokes her in the side with the not-so-foreign object, buzzling to life in his palm, eliciting a shocked squeak from the female, much to his amusement. “Knew a lonely lady like you would have one.”

“I’m not-”

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums as if in some derisive form of agreement, lacking in pity but making up with condescension, now seated beside the partner, evident in the teasing brush of his pants’ fabric against her thigh. “But if you’re denying it so fiercely… then maybe I should stop?”

“No, I-”

“Just say it,” he prompts, tracing the golden ring encircling her thigh, which sends a resonating tingle all the way to her throbbing nipples. “Say that you want it, and it’ll be all yours.”

“I want you to touch me,” she states, feigning indifference, if not for the subtle hint of trepidation betraying her in the times of trial, which is no more no less than a hyperbole, but still – perception is delusive.

“Then beg,” he reciprocates, smirking as she twitches under his touch, subconsciously drawing her legs further apart – an instinctual invitation.

“But you said-”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts – a manner that elicits an audible huff from the dependent woman, supposed as a provocation, but at this point he is too amused to let such a silly misbehavior unhinge him. “So now I wanna hear you out for a change.”

“Please?” She asks – blunt and accusatory.

“Oh c’mon,” he frowns, undoubtedly displeased with her lack of dedication to the prior request – another polished façade he tends to display when needed. “You’re not even trying.”

To that, she has no response, at least throughout the course of several dozen seconds, required to verify the so-called balance of burdens and benefits, all while attempting to ignore the teasing brushes atop her exposed skin. She has never experienced anything like this – being so responsive to any form of touch, no matter how gentle, how fleeting, casted upon her flesh akin to some grotesque shadow – substitute of proper caress – which might as well be the real reason for cracking her resolve.

“Please, I need you to touch me so badly,” she strives for the most docile version of her tone, not used to such deal of resistance from the second participator, puzzled with the amount of self-control he has been displaying throughout their encounter. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?”

(Asshole.)

“No,” she sighs, beyond impatient, desperate to alleviate the tension blossoming between her legs, retreating the merest ability to focus, as if all pitiful remains of poorly constructed concentration have been thrown out of the window.

(Entropic fallout, wasn’t it?)

(Huh?)

All too soon, in one precisely brisk maneuver, he is hovering over her form, surrounding the female with natural body heat, as his lips trail butterfly kisses over the tender flesh of her neck – a gesture she would consider sweet under any other circumstances, albeit this time convinced that he is intent to transfer it into yet another merciless act. With the ability to contain her reflexes long gone, now that she is receiving any physical attention, she arches towards him, failing to contain a breathless gasp slipping past her lips as a response to his gesture – tracing the outline of her breast, as if to draw a spiral pattern to the middle – a fiery brand upon the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” she squeals, synchronized with the harsh nipple pinch, eliciting an amused chuckle from the arrogant lover who is now preoccupied with stroking a line down her stomach, tensed with the anticipation for the coming dive.

“Mmm… fuck…” he groans into her ear – billowing puff of breath – heat over heat – as his fingers skim the lace-covered folds, greeted by a soaking amount of wetness that speaks to the most primal parts of his brain, that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants, wishing to launch for the simplest cut-to-the-chase, even if for a brief moment. “That excited already?”

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, pushing her hips up in an attempt to meet the hand hovering just above the delicate material – merciless denial that has her muscles twitching in anticipation, enhanced by the sensory deprivation, lack of vision that forces her to ponder upon each and every outcome. “Please, I need- uh, f-fuck…”

A mere plea, uttered in the state of lust-laced deliriousness, disability to comprehend what is happening around her, caught off guard by the following action – a dive straight to the main point of interest, no more excess teasing, fooling around with the fleeting touches that set her skin aflame, wordlessly begging him to pursue. Instead, he replaced the previous tickling with firm pressure, smirking as her hips buck in response, determined to fulfill the innate craving for more direct stimulation, not separated by the thin lace – flimsy barrier that has risen to a rank of an ultimate obstacle, obviously thicker than she would like it to be.

“Take them off, please,” she whines, all too familiar with the burning frustration, laced into her being, taking a form of some grotesque thread, stinging like a sharp needle, crying to be removed.

“Seems like you’ve been demanding a lot lately, don’t you think?” He taunts, almost back to the smooth baritone if not for the lingering hint of restrain hiding behind his voice, the smoky gaze he has been casting upon her exposed body for quite a while, perceivable on the intuitive aspect alone.

“No, please,” she cries in despair as his fingers abandon their previous spot, beyond desperate to complete the process, hands reaching to grasp him, but he evades the clumsy clutches, letting out an amused chuckle at the frenzied attempt.

“Relax,” he purrs into her ear – a sound that sends a resonating shiver down her spine, which paired with the abrupt nip delivered on the tender earlobe almost has her moaning out loud, “I’m far from done with you yet,” an exclamation meant to elicit another violent shiver, accompanied by his throaty laugh. “But before we move on, any specific requests you have in mind?”

“No, just touch me,” she whines, too unhinged to bother with general appearance, clenching her thighs to alleviate the ache, in foolish hopes it will somehow slip past his attention.

(Sure.)

“How exactly?” He continues, quick to grasp the woman by the shapely muscle and draw her legs apart, all for the purpose of witnessing Gia trembling in frustration.

“However you want,” she reciprocates, already past the point of bothering to conceal her responses – polar opposite to the moderate man beside her, which might as well be yet another foolish assumption, if missing out the lustful glint in his eyes, silvery hue that has transferred into one of these restless storms – dark and predatory.

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums – a conclusion laced by a lingering hint, somehow sinister, indescribable with the human vocabulary, probably unsettling in the eyes of the young artiste – a final warning – but she is not in the mood to dwell on any underlying doubts, meant to be clarified as soon as he presses the vibrating bullet to her clit, forcing a choked moan from the equally astonished female.

“Fuck,” she gasps as another incomprehensible wave rocks through her body, muscles twitching in response to the increasing pressure, once again dying to get rid of the flimsy barrier, “off, please.”

“Lift your hips,” he instructs, almost at the spot, maybe fed up with drawing the inevitable as well, to which she complies, allowing him to slide the lacy panties down her legs, then approximately toss them aside.

Settled beside his lover again, evident in the heated exhales palpable upon her cheek, he resumes the initiated activity, dragging the buzzling bullet up her folds to circle the swollen nub, eliciting another reedy squeal from the squirming partner, which in turn has him wondering whether it is her casual reaction to such form of caress – inability to remain still, shifting from side to side as if caught in some frenzied state of lust. Therefore, to facilitate the process, he opts for an alternative position, tugging Gia in between his legs, back to the firm chest, now able to hold the woman more steadily with an open palm sprawling across her abdomen. Even if that simple, the act affects him more than he cares to acknowledge, at least when attempting to match the distinctive candor, marveling at how lightweight she is – penchant for dainty women in general – which combined with the soft moans slipping past her lips has him twitching against the swell of her ass.

Despite the thick curtain of lust clouding her mind, she can feel him perfectly through the thin layer of clothing, more than nervous to acquaint the full length, considering there is barely anything appealing about said part of male anatomy. Furthermore, her attitude leans more to the category of ‘intimidated’ than ‘excited’, while pondering upon the possible outcome, someway obliged to convert it into ‘inevitable’ – a trait that tends to lead people on the baneful avenue.

As well as concealing the truth.

“Enjoying yourself?” He mutters into her ear all of sudden, dragging the woman back to the contemporary realm, at least as much as the carnal aspect allows to, mind foggy with desire, relishing the temporal docility that she is displaying, more vulnerable than ever.

Seemingly not in the mood to oppose, she hums in affirmation, twitching as her body surges with the approaching wave of ecstasy, surprisingly close by now, considering how little physical attention she has received on the course of their encounter, maybe due to visual deprivation as for the enhancing factor. With the heightened sense of touch, the low vibrations on her clit feel divine, otherworldly even, as a part of her wishes to tether on such stage for blissful eternity, explore the unknown realm at leisured pace.

Unfortunately, it turns out that she will not be the judge of that, since he removes the toy, not quite certain when exactly, since the ability to evaluate the passing time has abandoned Gia as soon as he pressed the bullet to her clit. As if caught in some tunnel-vision state of lust, she attempts to reach out for him, unfortunate to slash through the thin air, which has her groaning in frustration, and despite more than evident amusement, he soothes her with a warm palm on her thigh and a whispering promise, dedication that causes her to choke on own spit, head snatching in his direction, more than certain that she must have misheard him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I wanted to taste you,” he repeats, the same purring baritone as before reverberating in her ear, sending a violent shiver down her spine – a throbbing buzz straight to her clit. “What? Man’s never gone down on you?”

“Man? No,” she counters, still in genuine shock due to the least expected proposition, especially from the lips of the most arrogant, selfish bastard she has ever encountered, opting to dismiss all sensible doubts, when considered through the prism of his potential intentions, certainly not featuring the direct aim for climax. “But please do go on, I’m interested.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he reciprocates, a sarcastic comment that somehow slips past her attention, most likely because she chooses to ignore it – negative for picky with more pressing matters occupying her mind.

“Can I get rid of the blindfold first?” She verbalizes what is germane, hands already reaching up to untie the knot, but he halts her with a disapproving click of his tongue, not intent to expand it to the physical realm, by grasping her wrists for instance.

“I don’t know, can you?” He teases, eliciting a frustrated huff from the female, as her hands fall to the chest, waiting for his approval, which pleases him more than she suspects, and so prompts to let it loose with a negligent tug.

Blinding light.

“Fuck,” she gasps, shielding her eyes from the city neons illuminating her face, bright and aggressive, marring the vision with ghoulish spots – temporal disability, excluded from the flawless world, shoved away as soon as it bumps into any of its dwellers, wandering in search of an ultimate place.

Chaos.

Parallel with humanity?

(Don’t be ridiculous.)

Smart enough to wait until it subsided, she adjusts their position, now chest to chest with Connor, as her sight shifts towards him, taking in the contours of his face, now accentuated by the artificial light, caught on the glimmering hint of chrome decorating his cheekbones – sharp and unyielding. Giving as good as he gets, his eyes bore into her façade – resemblance of a steel tool, corresponding with the icy shade, now reflecting the female’s image – orchid hair and tangerine irises, almost auburn in the dim illumination. There is something devilish about her, the intimate setting she is aiming for, the dainty hands braced on his chest, the affection in her gaze, prominent enough to unsettle the steady man, even if subdued by the membrane of lust, screaming warning to accelerate the process.

“Lie down,” he prompts, palms on the either sides of her hips as if to ensure she would move, “or else I might think you’ve changed your mind about this.”

“Sure,” she purrs, lips inches away from his, but still, the abrupt closure catches him off guard – firm pressure applied on the tender flesh – pouring every ounce of the bottled-up emotion into the kiss as for the vulnerable creature she is, meant to shatter in his callous grip, knowing it will be too intricate to comprehend if transferred into words. He lets her go with offbeat reluctance – a hint that she is able to catch, detached from his usual composure, topping it up with yet another fleeting peck, before she actually rolls to the side, nestling in the silky sheets – indication to pursue.

(Control-wrecking.)

With her spread out like this, prolonging the inevitable appears as beyond pointless, foolish dreams of a self-centered man with reliable composure, superior when juxtaposed with the pitiful rest, and yet succumbing to the carnal desire – spirited among the spineless, spineless among the spirited – civilized paradox. All meaningless in face of the feminine creature, lying on the velvety fabric, one knee bent, anticipating his touch, craving the flattery if only in the tactile realm, the synthetic hue of her irises now obscured by the eyelids – a detail at odds with his tastes and so a matter that he is quick to rectify with a stern grip upon her chin, eliciting a discontented whine from the young artiste.

“Eyes on me,” he bids, voice laced with proficiently concealed impatience, if not for the lingering hint marring the quintessential presentation – evidence of the lustful longing within his gaze, within the manner it outlines her curves, following up to the partly confused façade.

“I thought you-”

“Then you were wrong,” he interrupts, almost trespassing the point of autocracy that has her laughing out loud, albeit still capable of transferring it into a mere shadow of a proper smile – a nuance not meant to evade his perception, heightened by an animalistic instinct. “Don’t tempt me to wipe that smirk off.”

“What?”

Without bothering to clarify the four-letter query, as per usual, he retreats to the initial intention, determined to fulfill the shared craving – polar opposites that mingle into one, overlapping both perspectives – a prelude to the everlasting doubt:

To give or to receive?

(That is the question.)

In consideration with the dualistic lack of competence to put it to an end, and yet each time the occasion arises, every average scum would ask about interlocutor’s preference.

It must be the people who are damaged,

Shattered akin to a splinter of glass.

(Give me a fucking break.)

“Connie?” She frowns in confusion, clearly the one to be left hanging this time, albeit not only at loss in such realm – an exclamation shattering his reverie, not that it bothers him much under current circumstances.

Hence, being brought up to a point of boiling impatience, he opts for the simple cut-to-the-chase move and so settles in between her legs, pried apart with the telltale pressure of his hands applied onto the tender insides. Unable to ignore the tingling of her thighs, now grasped in his palms – slim and dainty in comparison, which evokes that odd concoction of contradictions – anxious but

(to the point of)

aroused, almost trembling with excitement for what is about to come.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Practically keening due to the freshly occurred friction, fleshy and tangible on the swollen folds, drawing a throaty moan from the woman – not the most appealing sound she could have uttered, but still, there is always a room for improvement, she thinks bitterly – caricaturistic resemblance of Connor’s notions. Little does she know, he is far from displeased, now that his hands are clasped around her thighs, and the tongue is tracing the feminine outline with deliciously firm strokes, having opted out of the warm-up, considered nonsensical after all prior actions.

In spite of the so-called burning frustration, each stroke is languid, leisure, as if it was his elementary intention to memorize the shape through such manner, but at the same time prevent from overwhelming her on the very first shot. That, paired with the poor concentration, limited to the heady flavor occupying his mouth, has his eyes adverting to the side, lids heavy with the decadent intoxication, mind much drowsier than before, so instead of maintaining the direct contact, he allows them to fall shut, even if for a mere moment.

Deprived of the visual stimulus, the object of main focus shifts to the taste-related factor, linked with a nuance that he has always perceived as interesting – each time it manages to satiate the fussy palate, which might as well be a direct result of pheromones’ presence – a bitter reminder that even below all the meticulously crafted layers lays yet another insignificant human, succumbing to the innate whim. A human barely able to maintain the substantial concentration with the rhythmical pumping of blood audible in his ears and an evidence of ardent lust crawling down his neck, beyond positive that his skin is hot to touch now, matching the tender flesh that is clutched in his hand, hard enough to bruise, he somehow manages to keep the pace, occasionally sucking at the swollen nub, intent to get as much from her as possible.

“Fuck, more,” she whines, urgency evident in her voice, shifting beneath the unyielding man, clenching around merciless nothing, “I need more.”

(There it is. More.)

“Already?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the frustrated vocalist, infuriatingly dapper in its condescension, tickling her with a mere stroke of his tongue upon the heated folds.

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, twitching due to the moderate caress, up to consider locking his head in between her thighs, even if for a split second, required to brace for the simplest of requests, “please.”

“And why is that?” He reciprocates in a teasing manner, now halting his movements all together to eye Gia with the signature intensity, still nested in the exact same spot. “Better not disappoint me with the answer, Sundance.”

“You’re such a-” she begins, soon interrupted by a cruel nip delivered right to the tender flesh of her folds – brisk, and so mind-clearing, but not harsh enough to hurt severely, and yet she cannot bother to hold back the boiling curse. “Ah- fuck you,” she spats, clearly not in the mood for any excess teasing, fed up with his never-ending talk, queries uttered in the most unfortunate moments, catching her in that peculiar state of delirious fogginess, as if intent to receive the most feverish answer.

“Well, I don’t see that coming,” he baits, still amused with each rising attempt to dethrone him from the superior position, feigning obstinacy to crack his resolve, check whether she has the capacity to break him – foolish pursuit of a permanent idealist. “Although I appreciate the sentiment.”

“What?”

“So,” he ignores the confused exclamation once again, determined to gain the desired answer from the woman, itching with impatience, enhanced by the lingering aftertaste upon his tongue. “Still so keen on disappointing me?”

“No, please,” she practically whines, dreaming about locking her legs to ease the ardent crave for friction. “It hurts.”

“I know it does,” he reciprocates, almost getting the hair-thin thread of longanimity to snap, thanks to the signature smooth swagger, especially when his eyes shift to the heaving breasts, pulsing with unresolved tension.

“Then ease me,” she suggests, not so demanding despite the straightforward nature of prior verbalization, laced with a prominent hint of desperation, impossible to be omitted. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?” He flashes her a pitiful smile, albeit this time she does not bother to formulate any retort, already shoved past the point of carnal urge, with tunnel vision drifting the hopeless individual towards her final destination – inevitable wreckage. To be honest, he must have lacked the corporeal form to omit all of these: how she is practically dripping on his tongue, quivering under the precise manners he glides her with, wave after wave, climbing higher and higher, up to the point where the rhythmical pulsing becomes tactile on the moist muscle. He is well aware of how little it would take to unravel the dumbfounded artist – three, maybe five sucks if he decides to embrace the latent potential for generosity – and yet the sadistic component wants to witness the scorching heap of frustration, spatting and cursing him to the nth degree just to get back on track with begging, merely a brief moment later.

(What a merciful man I am.)

(Merciful, huh? Now prove it.)

Almost sobbing in relief when the first tide rocks through her tingling body, she arches off the bed, damned if these were not stars she was seeing – nova, luminous explosion, blacking out the vision for a split second, yet enough to miss the hubristic glint in his eyes, relishing in the way her thighs quiver on both sides of his head. Allowing Gia to ride out the aftershocks, he bestows her with a milder alternative, barely skimming past the abused flesh, until she tugs him away by the hair, denying the access altogether, now that she is too sensitive to continue.

“That was nice,” she mutters, glancing at the rising man whose hands are now preoccupied with unbuttoning the burgundy shirt, “thanks.”

“Your ’nice’ is a fatal understatement, don’t you think?” He retorts, bitter once deprived of the physical connection, although the unravelling sight acts as enough of a distraction from the sour timbre, right at the gates of finding out about the authentic expanse of his tattoos.

“Maybe…” she drags on the syllable, drowsiness evident in the leisure mannerism, allowing her eyelids to fall shut for a longer moment, as if positive the resting interval between the tandem of acts is more than essential, “I don’t know…”

Conditional.

Blindness.

Once again without the visual stimulus, as if filtrating the faint shuffling in the background, her focus drifts towards more unnerving matters, towards how bizarre it will be to experience the subsequent intercourse in the manly way after those few years, now that she is a mere step from clarifying the preposterous doubts. Although she is certain he has no intentions in making her feel uncomfortable, out of place, as if she belonged elsewhere, as if she was incapable of transferring their time together into an enjoyable record for both of them – insecurity laced in between the strings of her being – she still hesitates, tethers on the pinnacle determining the predictive outcome.

(Now that is absurd.)

“C’mere,” he prompts, and if not for the purring baritone – a note that she has had a fair amount of time to get accustomed with – gentle tug of a dainty hand, she would remain trapped in the conceptual dimension. Instead, he settles Gia on his lap, eliciting a choked gasp from the artiste once she discovers the blunt lack of any form of clothing, all sturdy flesh below her petite form, eyes drifting to the stygian patterns marring the pale skin.

Vessel for conspectus.

Corporeal form.

Flattery of artistry.

Asseveration of one’s mindset.

Mysterious understatement.

“What does it mean for you?” She inquiries – a doubt popping out of blue, laced with apprehension of discovering the possible truth lurking behind his polished façade, emerging to the surface as a form of carnal avidity he eyes her with – a man starved, restive due to the intentional delay. “Sex.”

“Sex, huh?” He smirks – a ravenous glint enlightening his countenance. “Sex means power.”

(At least he is frank.)

(Sometimes, I feel sorry for him.)

“No, I mean this,” she gesticulates, pointing at each of them, albeit missing the amused tilt of his lips as a response to the untimed query, “you and me.”

“Entropy,” he bestows her with yet another evasive answer, now that he is so keen on pursuing further for a change, hands taking a steady grip on either sides of her waist, before he leans in for a kiss, meant to prevent the innocent doubt from blossoming into a full-blown sparring match – an overflow of endless qualms. In spite of her, rather disputable, judgment, she returns the caress, scooting closer to him – blatant euphemism since her breast are practically mashed against his chest, with frenzied heartbeat resonating through the ribcage.

Crescendo.

Pinnacle where one is deprived of the human ability to perceive reality as a compound of coherent particles, instead gradually declines into a place where most aspects acquire a diametrical form – indiscriminate and so considered unimportant through the prism of future reference. Analogy parallel to her current state, each and every worry evaporating in the night’s breeze, as his lips brush – no – claim the lonesome territory, hands trace the outline of her hips – reminder of the primordial intention – a mere breath away from flipping Gia on the back to clasp her hands above the head and… the rest speaks for itself.

(Better show than tell.)

And so, in order to keep up with the rush of concepts clouding his perception, he fulfills the aforementioned, eliciting an outraged gasp from the surprised female, as soon as she comprehends the abrupt reposition. Deciding to test the waters, she tugs at the makeshift binding, expecting him to tighten the grasp, but nothing like this happens, as if he managed to outrun her suppositions, and while it is still relatively firm, the pressure remains unchanged.

Queer.

Deep in her personal probe, she fails to notice his progressing movements, until he nudges her legs apart, right at the threshold of sliding in, twitching against the slender thigh in excitement. Due to the interval dividing the last and tonight’s encounter, rather generous in length, she acquires that peculiar like-a-virgin attitude, tensed and nervous, valuating the possible amount of discomfort, parallel to the potency of pain, almost blocking the way when he prods at her entrance, presumably by accident considering the following statement.

“You don’t have to impress me, okay? Just relax.”

Probably his first and only display of sweetness she would ever witness.

(Enjoy while it lasts.)

Which is exactly what she opts for, having taken a deep breath, hoping it will calm her rapid heartbeat – not only a futile but also naive attempt – prelude to the tearing entrée that forces a choked whine from her constricted throat, that has the hybrid nails biting crescent shapes into the heel of her palm. Although partly drowned by the feminine whimper, he utters his own groan – evidence of layered frustration, eased by the surrounding tightness, even if for a brief moment – while a part of him struggles to maintain still instead of nailing her to the mattress, not so metaphorically anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, chest heaving with each uneven breath, and what he suspects must have extended to hours and hours of malevolent interlude, in reality requires less than a minute to feel the woman shift below, hips bucking in form of a silent plea.

And who is he to deny her that?

Having opted for such choice, he rocks into her, at this peculiar state of awareness when it comes to each scrape, each flutter, each alternative in pressure against the throbbing member that forces a barely audible gasp from the preoccupied male. Always so self-contained, so persistent, so… composed, and yet she has managed to shatter the inch-thick pane with the merest nuances – a blemish of honor – which disturbs him more than he cares to admit.

In a heap of developing necessity to shove the thought aside, he picks up the pace, forcing his eyelids open to observe the variety of reactions manifesting themselves on her face, too monotonous for his own liking, as if something was preventing the artiste from enjoying their encounter, as if a part of her was immune to the charms he used to enchant a number of lovers throughout the years. Even though she is, indeed, responding, uttering a soft mewl here and there, for some reasons each time he attempts to add his duos, the equalization grants him with an answer of three, as if a single particle was missing, which infuriates him even more than the stain once did.

Matter laid in his hands.

Before she gets a chance to take a grasp on what is happening, he leaves her lying cold by his side, even if only in a metaphorical sense, struggling to relocate in the changing settings, if the abrupt emptiness counts as one, beyond confused and so determined to express her immerse displeasure with the recent turn of events. While he however, less than keen on hearing whatever complains she dares to throw at him, shushes her in the most brusque way possible, at least if considering it through the prism of abusing the physical superiority

(is this even the right expression?),

by tugging her over his lap once again, albeit this time getting Gia to face the window, which has her frowning in confusion, all before he somehow situates himself inside once again, eliciting a throaty moan from the woman, surprisingly husky in contrast with the usual honeyed tune.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, clenching around him, positively caught off guard due to the fresh angle, squirming as she tests the waters – an action that has him hissing in discomfort, full of hatred towards the sensation that comes with being teased.

“Glad to hear that,” he mutters into her hair, breath tickling the tender skin below her ear. “Now grind your hips.”

Puzzled with the sudden shift in his attitude – giving up the control from before, at least as an initial impression – a matter of delusional deception – she halts instead of complying, which prompts him reiterate.

“C’mon, don’t make me repeat myself,” he purrs into her ear, lips stroking the sensitive flesh as he speaks, intent to discover what pace does the trick for the young artiste in his arms, and with that thought in mind, he allows himself to sigh as soon as she begins to move. Despite being well aware it might not be the most convenient position to lead, he intends to find out about the unspoken preference – reason of their misconception – and much to his surprise, she seems to enjoy whatever is happening between them now, having settled for the slower pace.

Soft and tender.

“Touch me, please,” she whines, grasping him by the arm in order to direct it in between her legs, when all off sudden, instead of fulfilling her wish straight away, he grasps her by the hips, putting the leisure interlude to an end, replaced by his own thrusts, meant to elicit that husky moan once again. Therefore, he slips his hand right where she wanted it merely a moment ago, drawing a honeyed mewl instead as it circles her clit, teasing the swollen nub with the same languid pace that almost had him tremble in frustration before, dying to witness the myriad of responses lying in her capacity.

“How does it feel?” he rasps, voice hoarser than ever before, clouded with a dense fog of lust, as if indicating the non-acceptance of disobedience in any form. “Tell me.”

“So good… so…” she begins, struggling to find the right words, the bodily influence over her mind more than evident under the current circumstances, “so… relieving… just keep going, please. ”

In spite of the hackneyed cliché, the sentence itself creates a binding influence over the male, combined with the layer cake of various frustrations, filled with piling impatience, and so enough to prompt him to fulfill the wish straightaway. Ergo, he increases the intensity of both aspects, which has her writhing atop him, squirming and whining for release, mouth agape and back arched, soaked in the neon glow – foggy reflection in the glass pane, branded underneath his eyelids for plenty of nights in the future.

Carnal fixation.

Who twists her neck to steal a kiss, bumping their noses together, dying to taste him once again before the final climax – elsewise pleonasm – fluttering around his girth as a prelude for what is inevitable, beyond anticipated, while he appears as perfectly capable of sensing her need, and so returns the caress. Albeit this time, it is safe to assume he is not just toying with her anymore, now that he is creeping closer and closer to the personal pinnacle, thighs twitching as she clenches around him to the point of vice-tight, almost preventing any movement, which might as well be a matter of hyperbolizing, but still, he would never allow it to end prematurely.

(A blemish of honor, was it?)

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps, with the self-control aspect running thin, evident in the loss of rhythm, perceptible even if not absolute.

“I- ah-” she gasps after a particularly rough thrust, interrupting whatever train of thoughts she has been gliding through, rewarded with a sharp nip on the side of her neck.

“Tell me,” he reiterates – gravelly groan that sends a tremor down her spine – rubbing the sensitive nub in firm circles, up to the point where she cannot help but buck against his hand, right at the cusp of bliss, ready to fall.

“I want this, plea-ease,” she whines, stuttering at the end, voiced laced with sheer desperation, dying for the final push.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Mouth agape in a silent scream bubbling inside her constricted throat, she arches into a telltale bow, head falling onto his shoulder, as she flutters around him – rhythmical pulsing that pushes him over the edge, muscles twitching below. Never had she allowed a man to use her like that, and while the artiste was once positive it must be the single most distasting experience of one’s life, she finds herself relishing in the inglorious sensation, trembling as the wave of aftershocks rocks through her limp frame.

(Fucking hell.)

(Fucking hell.)

Tangled on the silky sheets and coming down from their heights, neither of them dare to exchange a word, and so break the comfortable silence – tranquility emerging from the storm – instead bask in the afterglow, with him nuzzling her hair, seemingly in a moment of weakness, lacking the previous rapture. As if unable to foresee the inevitable, she utters a whine of protest the moment he pulls out from her body, having settled the partner aside once he collapses onto the mattress, fatigue evident in his movements, and yet allows her to curl into his side, even intertwine their fingers.

Interesting.

What else might be considered in such terms is the contrast, beyond stark, both in color and texture – creamy and tender juxtaposed with the inky pattern, flesh that is rough in to touch, indicating he must have been working in an entirely different field from the current corporative line – a layover on the methodical path to the ornament itself. Examining the small tattoos drawn over their length, she finds the disability to identify what has been depicted on his skin in such a dim lightening a tad bit infuriating, although not mood-defining, which would be rather odd elsewise – getting emotional over some minuscule detail.

(Hypocrite.)

“Did they hurt?” She asks, breaking the drowsy lull that has settled over them, a question that prevents him from dozing off for now, which might turn out for the better in the nearby future, since he is not quite fond of random modification in the hygiene routine.

“No,” he bestows her with a dismissive answer, once again and much to her annoyance if under any other circumstances, certainly not when she is lying half-asleep beside another warm body. “Mind if I use your shower?”

“No,” she mimics his most recent answer, nevertheless positive when it comes to the veracity of said statement.

What a terrible misconception.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – peaceful if not for that peculiar inkling lingering in the back of his mind, as if to indicate some ominous turnabout he opposes to discover. Pairing it up with one of the most loathed traits – attempting to fool himself – does nothing to alleviate the situation, instead enhances the disquietude that has been occupying his soul for quite a while, which in turn brings the anticipation of any possible denouement to the light, craving for certainty rather than a bunch of arising assumptions, even if it would lead to a minacious discovery.

Paradox.

Imminent downfall.

But a lesson from the most experienced teacher.

Life.

Life that has managed to educate him on a carnival realm, including even the least expected plot twists, the most obnoxious outcomes, begging for correction, a correction beyond qualifications, evoking the ardent embarrassment that follows in the wake of incapacity.

Although this time what initiates the process is an act.

An act so simple.

Nearly offensive.

A telephone.

No.

Let’s try that again.

It all starts out with a telephone from an old pal.

“Buenas noches, Connor,” he greets with a throaty tune that the manager has almost brought himself to forget – a road paved with good intentions. “Long time no see, eh?”

“Yes, most certainly,” he reciprocates, albeit surprisingly brisk to block the visual, all while striving for a note as calm as possible, burying all worries underneath the surface, at least for now – flawlessly polished façade.

“Oh c’mon, why so formal?” He whinges, smirk audible in his voice. “We haven’t talked for how long? Seven? Eight years?”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs, feigning indifference – desperate attempt of a drowning man. “It’s work related anyway.”

“Still concrete, I like this,” he remarks – deceptive tease.

“Flattery is useless,” he counters, tone harsh akin to a dagger – a reminiscence from the old times. “Unless, of course, you’re calling ‘cause you’re bored to shit and have no one to fuck. But I believe that’s not the case, now is it?”

“Sadly no,” he sighs, as if truly upset. “I have a wife now, so you know…”

“Oh and that’s stopping you? Fuck…” he rolls his eyes in mock disbelief – an involuntary response to the smoky tone. “But okay, let’s assume it does; then what’s the real issue, where’s the fucking catch?”

“You see people change-”

“And you believe in it? An old dog like you?” He interrupts – a retort followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Give me a fucking break.”

“Yes, I do believe it now,” he counters, voice laced with a hint of annoyance. “You see, I don’t like people within my scope, what’s mine stay mine. And who would understand it better than you, am I right?”

He only hums in approval.

“Very well,” he must be smiling now, not that he would want to see anything of that sort, but still, it disturbs him more than he cares to admit – a malevolent omen. “So I want you to do something for me, you know, for that time in New Mexico. I hope it rings a bell.”

“Yes, most certainly,” he mimics the prior answer, which has the man huffing in annoyance, although not interrupt his train of thoughts, if so enhance the need to spill the tea now that he has been given a chance.

Disastrous decision?

Well again, not really.

“Still remember how to kill?”

How many words?

Five?

Five words to utter the contrasting sentence, indicate the earth-shattering proposition.

Five words to send him straight to hell.

In business class.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Do you have the slightest idea what the fuck are you talking about?” He responds after good three minutes – a fleeting expanse of time, slipping out of attention’s grasp, unnoticed by the stern man – voice marred with helpless wrath. “I won’t get involved in any of your shady little businesses.”

“And why is that?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the empty screen, wishing Connor could see this – a victory amongst the vicious.

“Fuck you,” he spats, hands twitching in immerse rage. “Just- fuck you!”

“Better not piss me off, chico, ‘kay?” He interjects – an exclamation laced with blossoming annoyance now that his interlocutor has allowed himself for far too many liberties. “I’m nice, ‘cause we’re friends, but I won’t be nice if you piss me off, está claro?”

“Can’t you hire anyone else?” An attempt of discussion? Really? Downright pitiable. “I bet you have multiple sidekicks that would gladly do this for you, ‘cause now I don’t have any time to deal with your shit.”

“Pfft… as good time as any,” he counters, oh so unexpectedly. “Plus I think you’re gonna do this far better than any one of them, not to mention – for free.”

“The first one is a fucking lie, which we both know, and the second-”

“Oh I beg to differ,” he interrupts, still vexed although convinced that what Connor needs is time, time to get accustomed with the inevitable concept, matter extending beyond the realm of personal control. “Both are relevant. You’re the best and you’re gonna do this for free ‘cause you fucking owe me. End of the story.”

“I don’t-”

“Oh you do,” he cuts off once again, intent to get the best of him – calm attitude and meticulous precision, “so just fucking listen for once.”

“What is it even about?” He queries, now that he has managed to satiated the ardent rage, at least enough to circle back to the milder tone, a tone that would fit Thiago’s tastes. “Business? Revenge?”

“Well, both I’d say,” he bestows him with a brisk affirmation, not that he is surprised, “but I don’t wanna get into many details now that we’re on the line, not that anyone of those sacks of fuck would care, but still, you know how it is… Anyway, his name is Carlos Vásquez, and two, three years ago he was just a pimp, a regular pimp, ‘recruiting’ regular people to do regular shit, nothing special, right?”

“So what has changed?”

“He’s extended his business’ interests to the drug market, but even that wouldn’t concern me much, at least not that much to kill him,” he halts, possibly to enhance the suspense, which combined with exasperating Connor creates quite a lucrative form of entertainment. “Which was until that pendejo, pedazo de hijo de puta, sent a bunch of assholes to kidnap my daughter, my fifteen-year-old daughter, my Ava. You’ve never met her, but I believe I’ve mentioned her once or twice in New Mexico.”

“If only,” he huffs – a mannerism deliberately ignored by the influential businessman – rolling his eyes in a display of thespian impatience.

“And let me tell you, I’ll never, ever let that motherfucker get away with this,” he continues – malicious promise, albeit paved with good intentions.

“Where is she now?” He interjects, a blunt query that has his friend, supposing he can be labeled as such, laughing out loud.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft all of sudden… Christ.”

“It’s a practical question,” he explains, apparently displeased with the obligation to enlighten the aforementioned. “’Cause I want you to know from the very beginning that I ain’t gonna save her.”

“Oh, thank you kindly for your compassion, but she’s safe now, which is all you need to know,” he clarifies – an exclamation that has the manager sighing in relief, considering his reluctance when it comes to any dramatic rescues.

“And the details?”

“I’ll send them later,” the Mexican flips him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, having forgotten he has blocked the visual, not that it bothers him much anyway. “You know, photos, business associates, lovers’ names, blah, blah, blah…”

“Sure you will,” he nods, feeling obliged to clarify all matters despite the boiling tension, threatening to leak onto the surface – indication of the so-called professionalism. “Any special requests?”

“Well… actually yes.”

(Ah, of course. Fuck me up, will you?)

“I want it the old-fashioned way. Strangle him for me. Bare hands.”

(Sure, and what else?)

“Sure, customer is king,” and he even manages to pull off a smile.

Sick.

“Glad we agree on this one, but don’t forget to record it,” he reminds – an unprofessional explanation, beyond obvious, and so to the point of offensive. “It’s gonna provide me a prove of you work, plus later on… who knows? We could… reprogram it into a simulation for instance.”

“Sure,” he agrees – a brisk affirmation, a signature of his.

“And maybe, just maybe, don’t get too hooked on the idea, you’ll get some spare cash after all, from the sale of course,” he proposes, not that it bothers Connor at this point, lacking the essential turnabout.

“Mhm, merciful,” he remarks, ever the sarcastic. “But what now? Should I wait for some kind of a call or…?”

“Yeah, just wait,” he bestows him with yet another terse confirmation, indicating whatever low-class joke that has been blossoming underneath his skull. “Dulces sueños, babe.”

And with that he hangs up.

Son of the bitch.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – release of her debut album, and so considered as an entry ticket to the variety of possibilities, reserved for the elite only, at least according to what she thought at that time.

Obso-lite.

Obtuse.

Lie.

Therefore, as the years pass by, so does her confidence when it comes to the human potential, artificial power that he has gained through the achievements of the most sublime minds, possession of little respect, taken for granted. All for the convenience of the beneficial ones, monstrous corporations with tremendous influence over the common men lead by the exceptional – an astral being that transcends human consciousness, marking its presence in the society’s genome for generations.

Ridiculously potent.

Romantic phantasy?

But worth recommencing.

Ergo, she has decided to make a use of all the interludes in between their meetings, and so replace the prior mindless fumbling with an action far more directed when juxtaposed with hours and hours of staring at the celling. For months, she was struggling to realized how many inhibitions were piling up to form one grotesque stack, defining the incapacity, artistic lameness that accompanies them, crossing creator’s steps, interfering with the futuristic vision.

And so, she has transferred the mental freedom into work, resulting in a trio of fresh composition – a birdlike tune, cyber tweet – with more than a little help from the synthesizer – an attempt to retreat it in the limelight as a substitute for the dreamy vocals that would play the first fiddle in her debut album. Regardless, as a slave to consumerism, she cannot fight the nervousness that comes with driving down the less explored road, hoping it will pick anyone’s interest and so curries favor with the influential corporation, at least according to what Connie has asseverated.

Risk.

The most influential spice…

But that was before the article.

“Gia?” She hears a male voice addressing her, audible due to relatively close proximity – a factor rather important in the buzzling club. “I haven’t seen you here for a while. Why?”

“Um, I’ve been busy,” she explains, lifting her gaze, only to be greeted with a sight of an infamous Interstellar bartender, leaning by the table top to face her, “but I needed to let off some steam, so that’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Cool,” he nods in affirmation, a matter to cut the topic short. “So what’s you poison?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting?” She eludes, eyes glued to the array of various liquors preening from behind his back. “The fact that we say ‘poison’ instead of ‘alcohol’, ‘drink’ or whatever as if it was some kind of an indication?”

“Honey, I’m a bartender,” he smiles, apologetic yet condescending – such an odd composition. “It’s my fucking job to sell them, so what are you expecting me to say?”

“I don’t know, nothing probably,” she shrugs despite the burdening weight draped over her shoulders – non-verbal indication of a missing query.

“Look at me,” he prompts, to which she complies, locking their gazes together, even if for a split second. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know either,” she sighs for a change, distracted by the subtle clink of glass against the polished table top – water, she presumes, satisfactorily sparkling. “I mean, it’s just… Have you seen the articles?”

“‘Romance with an outlaw?’” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the woman, unable to miss the reddish tint blossoming upon her checks as a response to the ridiculous headline. “Yes, and sometimes I’m amazed where the fuck they dig that shit from, which is probably the Net, but still, their ‘dedication’ is incomprehensible for me.”

“He’s not even an outlaw, so I don’t get it,” she shakes her head – expression of a deep-rooted disapproval.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden. “I just think the editors assumed it’d sell itself as, I don’t know, romantic or some shit, but that’s by the by.”

“I mean the real problem is that he hid so many things from me,” she frowns, gaze glued to some mindless spot on the bar – venomous green, absinthe maybe? “And although he has never been the one to discuss his past, I was surprised when I read the article, and I’ve been surprised ever since.”

“Mhm, so tell me now, have you ever asked yourself just why he did that?”

“Yes, but um, it was just… a weird experience? I don’t know,” she sighs, hybrid nails scratching at the pale temple. “I feel like he should’ve told me since we’re together, ‘cause that’s… that’s what I’d do.”

“I believe not,” he opposes – dry and unyielding, beyond unexpected.

“Oh great, so now you’re defending him,” she fusses, exasperation evident in her voice. “That’s exactly what I need, thank you very much.”

“Christ, Gia,” he rolls his eyes, sometimes just as equally tired with her pendulum-like moods. “All I wanted to say was that it’s nothing but an academic example. Take for instance that moral dilemma with pedestrian crossing. You’re sitting at home, drinking tea, while choosing to murder random groups of people. And that’s absurd, ‘cause in real life it’d never happen, and even if, when push comes to the shove you might act out of pure instinct, deprived of warm beverage and blanket. So what I’m trying to say is that those hypothetical scenarios… they are all just assumptions, no more no less, and we’ll never know what we’d do unless we find ourselves involved in a certain situation.”

“Okay, but I still think he should’ve told me,” she justifies, seemingly at loss of the mental flexibility.

“How long are you together?” He questions, as if only to prove a point. “Two? Three weeks?”

“Four,” she corrects – a matter considered beyond insignificant by the bartender who is relatively quick to brush the artiste off in resemblance to Connor, and so much to her exasperation.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause, you know, not anyone feels ready to spill the guts after twenty-something days of personal relationship.”

“I was just trying to be honest with him, ‘kay?” She counters, attempting to mitigate the prior surge of spite with an apologetic explanation. “Show a little empathy, or something.”

“So you’re telling me your ‘empathy’ is uniformed when it comes to, I don’t know, traumas?” He retorts, as if genuinely tired with the lacking logics when it comes to justifying her motives.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sorry,” she sighs, once again back to the resigned attitude, now that the ire has evaporated. “It’s just… he’s killed people there, and I don’t know… I feel like it’s a lot to digest. Especially since I got furious and pushed him into telling the truth, and he… he told me so many horrible things, he told me they-”

“Which war was that?” he interrupts, having sensed the approaching lachrymose confession. “Climate one?”

“Yes, the Fifth,” she bestows him with a terse affirmation, swallowing the thick lump in her throat.

“The Fifth one… okay, so think about it now,” he waves his hand in a self-indicating gesture, accompanied by her eyes following the movement, even if for a split second. “He must’ve been like, I don’t know, twenty at best.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” she nods, face marked by a perturbed frown – indication of worry, “but then I started digging, and I’ve discovered some really weird shit.”

“Like what exactly?”

“It’s like he’s been alive for eight years or something,” she begins, having reversed the chronology, at least according to his assumptions, considering she tends to do that sometimes. “I mean he told me he had had some kind of an accident there or whatever, got half off his organs replaced because of that. But when he had gotten better, they were to send him back on the field, right?”

“Right, but what about these eight years or something?” He inquires, attempting to redirect her train of thought to the clarifying realm, now that he is getting curious.

“I’ll circle back to it later, ‘kay?” She sighs, albeit this time to indicate the vexation evoked by his query. “So the last thing he told me was that he deserted, right?”

“Right,” he nods in affirmation.

“And that was when Cara pushed me to start digging,” she reveals, emphasizing it with the click of her cantaloupe nail against the table top.

“Cara? I thought you two were-”

“Yes, we are, but that’s not important now,” she interrupts, determined to set the record straight now that he is interfering with her vision, even if unintentionally. “Anyway, after the desertion there is like… a blank spot on his record – six years or something – and then he’s back in the corporative class.”

“Where have you learned that?” He frowns – puzzled expression dancing over his features.

“In the Net,” she states – a sentence considered beyond obvious, redundant, waste of a triple nature.

“Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?” He indicates, hesitating when it comes to veracity of said assumption, but at the same time uncertain whether it is a sane idea to confirm her beliefs. “Maybe he moved to his parents’ house, wanted to get some rest, or something? Wasn’t active on social media? Christ, I don’t know.”

“I mean it was just the Surface that we managed to check, so…”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here!” He exclaims, shaking his head in disapproval, now that the realization has been casted upon him. “To pay that sleazy son of fuck to get you down to the Dark, now am I right or am I correct?”

“You know where is he?”

“No,” he negates, careless all off sudden, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, “and I haven’t seen him tonight at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” she states – dry and demanding when refused.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he smiles – both apologetic and condescending once again, prompting her to finish this conversation, no matter how helpful it turned out to be.

“But thanks anyway,” she concludes, having opted for a lighter undertone, since a part of her refuses to treat him akin to some pitiful pushover, not that he would care much in such circumstances.

“Sure, you’re welcome, Gia.”

A greeting appropriate just for tonight.

Indication of lacking fortune.

* * *

Breathing.

It is a simple act, lasting in a self-repeating loop – inhale and exhale, entwined with each other on the model of the aforementioned construct – remaining out of notice due to its permanent presence throughout one’s life. Which is why he considers meditation as worth the effort, since it lets his focus switch to the routine activities connected with the process itself: steady rises and falls of his shoulders, expansion of the ribcage conditioned by the diaphragm’s contractions – a way to get rid of what is redundant but also a method of relaxation, capacity valued in the times of trial.

Times such as now.

Times when he is forced to circle back to the past, and so to break the promise, ideological contract signed by the immaterial stylus, undoubtedly requiring the highest penalty.

Times when the dim lights become blinding.

When the silhouettes stop moving.

When the music dies down.

Leaving him alone in the secluded dimension.

Wiped away from the memories.

From the consciousness.

Buried deep enough to prevent the excavation.

And yet he is standing there, just at the doorway coexisting in two realms – both virtual and metaphorical – ready to take the leap.

Just a mere step

Pass the threshold.

“Everything’s ready?” He ascertains, struggling to recognize the rasp of his own voice.

“Yeah,” he hears the cracking noise reverberate in the earbud, before the connection steadies, allowing him to distinguish the following words properly. “Push it now.”

“Mhm, sure,” he hums, acting as per her request just to be greeted by the sight of a luxurious penthouse, impossible to be swept as a whole.

“I’ll lead you through, ‘kay?” She has a nice voice – a nuance that does not slip past his attention – smooth as molasses.

“Well, I hope so,” he teases, having decided to stray from the subject a bit, even if only for the entertaining purposes. “But, you know, I’ve been wondering what it is that you’re actually risking by helping me?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses to clarify – ice-cold queen. “It’s not like I’m doing it, ‘cause I have the softest heart ever. It’s that kind of shit you get paid for. Generously.”

“No need to lie to me, you know,” he nags further, as if to determine her tolerance for such attitude in general, now that he intends to redirect his train of thoughts – transition between tension and thrill. “Thought you might like to talk, but if not, I get it, no pressure. It’s just… I’m curious, and probably just as fucked as you are, but that’s by the by.”

“Connect to the monitoring system,” she directs – blunt and reserved.

“Sure, anything,” he affirms with a hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fingers fishing out the portable device from the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to jack in. “Not in the mood to talk?”

“I? Not in the mood?” She retorts, presumably a query, but the flat tone might be delusionary. “What a plot twist.”

“Mhm, most certainly,” he agrees – a humming baritone that resonates through his chest.

“Mhm,” she mimics the sound, milder when juxtaposed with the prior accusative timbre. “Thanks for not fucking this up by the way.”

“So you’re in the system?” He ascertains, rising an inquisitive eyebrow – a conditional reflex – despite the fact she is unable to see him now.

Or is she?

“Yeah,” she bestows him with a brisk affirmation just as he steps through the threshold of the security room, intent to hide in the opposite area, and so seize the opportunity to sneak up on the pimp from behind.

“Should I worry about anything else?” He inquires – a matter of clarification – now that he is leaning by the quartz pillar.

“For now? No, just wait,” she instructs, probably for the last time this evening, which evokes that odd tension once again, indicating the inevitability of the climax. “He’ll be here soon.”

“And just how’d you know that?”

“’Cause I’ve fucking fried his security system, which means he’s got the message that there’s a malfunction?” She snaps, voiced laced with a distinctive hint of sarcasm; and it suits her, he thinks. “What did you expect?”

“Certainly much more fumbling,” he explains, having opted for ignoring the accusative tone, at least for now, although a part of him still considers it weird, the fact that he is in full supervision of his own security system – dictated by the trust issues maybe?

“Better lower your expectation for the next time, huh?” She suggests, allowing herself to switch back to the bedroom area that he is currently occupying, even for a brief moment, a moment of distraction, curious about his appearance, which might as well be the second most irresponsible decision of this month, but still, she cannot help herself.

It has been sane to say they are both equally fucked.

“That’d actually set them higher,” he chuckles – a sound that catches him off guard for a split second, enhanced by the fact he is the one to voice it – a paradox maybe? “’Cause if I expect a relatively tough situation to run smoothly, it means that I set my expectation high, at least when it comes to the fortunate circumstances or my capacities.”

“But isn’t it like this sometimes?” She ponders, metallic nails scratching her chin, as she drinks in his features – ash blonde hair, geometric cheek implants, and tall silhouette, clad in dark clothing – interesting to say the least. “That, um… that you do something unintentionally or by accident, and in the end it turns out for the better?”

“Maybe it is,” he shrugs, glancing at the camera’s lens, as if he sensed her gaze on him, which has the woman adverting it to the side, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Ridiculous. “Maybe I even dare to say I agree, but-”

“Okay, C,” she does not even know his name, for fuck’s sake. “Sorry to interrupt, but he’s here. Luckily alone.”

“Yeah, right according to our assumptions,” he nods, calmer when confronted by an factual information. “So how much time do I have?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” she vacillates – feverish, and so incapable to decide, even if for a split second. “A minute? Two maybe?”

“Couldn’t you like… tell me earlier?” He frowns, voice laced with a hint of accusation.

“Maybe if you weren’t fucking distracting me?” She mimics his tone – indication of an approaching argument, although she is yet to surprise him in that realm.

“Well, I tend to do that sometimes,” he teases as per usual, maybe to conceal the fact she appears to be quits in that matter, eliciting a vexed huff from his female partner on the other side of the line.

“Uh just- I don’t know, good luck.”

Beep, ensued by silence.

Alone again.

Although not for long.

Indicated by the click of the front door and cautious steps reverberating in the adjoining area, or rather the creeping climax acquiring a form of a male with chrome hand – external damnation – from where he can see approaching the security room with a gun clutched tightly by the synthetic digits.

Closure.

Closure that grants perspectives.

Perspectives at hand.

Hand of providence.

Providence of a man.

Man to replace the God.

Unbelievable.

One step, two, then three… from or towards the target? Clueless, deprived of an ability to count, with tunnel vision drifting him towards the goal – a man leaning by the table, gaze fixated on the computer screen, scrolling through the program.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself – a sound that sends a shiver down the manager’s spine, but also prompts him to move forth, closer and closer to the man, echoing in the mental dimension, on the pinnacle of tensity, bracing for a fall.

A fall that comes with a surge forward, with a clasp of his hands around the pimp’s throat, with a choked groan, uttered in an empty space.

A hiss recognized as his own, evoked by the sharp pain resonating from the wrist, clasp in between the artificial fingers, biting in the flesh.

An idea, out of pure instinct, to pull the target down to the ground, before he manages to elbow him in the gut and so wriggle out from his grasp.

A contact – interference of gazes, dazed juxtaposed (mingled?) with determined, face flushed due to the effort, piercing red irises staring right at him.

A mere adjustment – evidence of skill and practice – to cut off his blood flow, switch from choking to strangling.

A fall that comes with a dull thud – head colliding with the polished floor – body slack in his hands, hands that keep their hold around the victims neck for a few longer moments – a procedure to ascertain that his brain remains hypoxic for long enough to cause fatal damage.

Terminal.

Taxing.

Transitional.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, once again struggling to recognize the sound of his own voice, as he scoots away from the body, finding the necessary support in the nearby wall.

With back pressed flushed against it, head tilted to the side, he is vaguely aware of the dull throbbing resonating from his wrist, now that he is coming to senses, which prompts him to rise the violated limb to the eye level. He is greeted with a sight of reddened flesh, indicating the inevitable appearance of a purplish bruise, albeit deprived of any nasty outcomes – no sprained joints and crushed bones – much to his relief.

Clean work, as for the professional.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, massaging the achy spot with the opposite hand, as he attempts to swallow the thick lump down his throat, parched to some inhuman degree.

Delirious.

Incognizant of what has just happened on the security room’s floor.

Incognizant of the body lying at his feet.

Incognizant of the myriad of possible consequences.

Just tired.

And thirsty.

“Water.”

And with that thought in mind, he makes his way to the kitchen, as if only for the sake of delaying what is inevitable.

Aftermath of conscience.

* * *

Emptiness.

Vastness of possibilities?

Dimension for creation?

Vicious end?

Dreadful perspective?

Sacrifice worth the grief.

Or a decision that has been bothering him since he passed the threshold of that fatal penthouse, burdening him with a distinctive realization – he is far from proud or pleased with the turn of events, all against his will, forced to succumb, degraded to the level of some common mercenary.

Unbelievable.

How many days was that? Two thousand eight hundred and fifty six?

And now? Ten?

A missing piece of puzzles – that is what it feels like – a habit he has grown accustomed with throughout the years, a channel to pour sorrows to, and now? How is he supposed to record his ideas, intents, or insights when he has none, no inquiries, no impressions.

No fate.

An ending line, elongating past the point of a broken promise – informal, yet more meaningful than any other he has ever concluded – indicating the disastrous vision acquiring its vessel’s form – sticky liquid, leaving indelible stains on each and every surface as if to mar it for all eternity.

(That’s a tad bit dramatic, don’t you think?)

(Romantic?)

To be fair, he is far from the level of knowledge that would allow him to elaborate a romantic expertise, not only a loathsome trait, but also lethal, lethal to consider suicide as a redemption from some tragic love – factor that is meant to shatter their proximate universe. As an individual (what a fitting term) he conjectures it to be far more than just plain dangerous: following their obsolete beliefs, soaking up their wisdoms, switching to their philosophy of life – simply damnation-granting. Nevertheless, the contemporary world appears as beyond deprived from any excess traces from the bygone times, pitiful remains that are swept away with the passing years – an eternal river – all to the convenience of its dwellers.

Which leads him to yet another assumption.

What if he is wrong? What if it is bound to indicate a conclusion of entirely different nature, a conclusion leading to an ultimate enlightenment – our future is what we consider it to be, a conglomerate of particles, of events to be foreseen, of idealistic visions and rational objectives, transcending human comprehension, so fatally finite?

With us occupying the creator’s chair.

“People are marred,” he states all of sudden, which captures the artiste’s attention, and so prompts her to rise from the lounging position on the sofa, legs still draped over male’s lap as his fingers trail mindless serpentines over the ivory skin, “damaged, shattered, akin to a glass pane.”

“What makes you think that?” She inquires, forehead marked with two thin lines – indication of puzzlement – with her gaze lingering on male’s profile, on the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, up to the subtle geometric line adorning his cheeks, and the intricate patterns decorating the side of his neck.

“It was just a random thought, nothing significant.”

(Sure I’d believe that.)

“Mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?” She frowns once again, confused due to the alternating course, watching him from the propped-up position, not the most convenient to be honest.

“Only after sex,” he bestows Gia with a brisk clarification, offering her a helping hand as she rises from the spot, now kneeling beside him with his arm encircling her waist, palm flat on the hip. “So?” He cocks an expecting eyebrow at her, as if searching for an answer. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head no, shivering once his hand abandons its previous spot, and so deprives the female from his body heat, no matter how moderate it has been until now. With her eyes following the leisure movements that result in lighting up a slim cig, held delicately in between a pair of his long fingers, she cannot help but dwell upon each and every notion evoked by the unfortunate publication, the fact that he barely talks about himself as if he could not trust her – a partner who is supposed to be the person to open up to, a friend to soak up all sorrows, a guarantor of the so-called unconditional love.

But is he even capable of that? Of romantic affection? Or is he simply yet another cold-hearted inhabitant, so fitting in the cruel world, a place where vulnerability overlaps with divergence, a place nowhere near to be considered as home, vast and empty, of multiple dimensions and unexplored concepts?

“What else have you been hiding from me?”

“And what is it that you’re expecting to hear?” He glances at her from the seat by the open window, face illuminated by the shimmering neons. “Some kind of a story?”

“That’s what I’m counting for,” she affirms, fixing the tee that has ridden up her thighs, as if sensing that excess exposure is rather unfavorable in such case.

“Fine then,” he agrees, taking the last drag from the half-smoked cigarette, before he tosses it out of the window, much to her distaste. “I’m gonna tell you a story, a story an idealistic girl like you would never understand.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you know what it feels like… being forced to kill?” He begins, having ignored her opposition, all considered trivial when juxtaposed with his attempt of confession. “Answer me.”

“Why do you think you, or anyone else, have the right to kill?” She huffs, a concept laying beyond her comprehension – a superior man, the one to overuse his authority.

Lord of Life and Death.

Disgusting.

Or an inquiry that has him chuckling in response, a bitter laughter that echoes in the empty space, even if metaphorically so, ringing in her ears as they receive the stimulus.

“And the body? What it smells like? How heavy it is?” He continues, leaning backwards, elbows supported by the window frame, as if bracing for the lethal leap. “Impossibly so. It’s like you can barely lift it… perhaps because of the emotional baggage? Who knows?”

The words that reverberate in the fragile expanse of her mind.

Words that shatters her affection, her deep-rooted fondness.

Everything that she has ever bestowed him with.

And it strips her bare, naked in front of his penetrative gaze.

“What have you done?” She gulps, anticipating the terminal answer with parched throat and tensed muscles.

“And against your conscious will? That’s truly the debasement of humanity,” he shoves the query aside, at least for now, intent to explain everything on his own conditions. “Just imagine that, you have no fucking money, and it forces you to fuck some sleazy pimp in order to provide all necessities. And you hate yourself for that, ‘cause it’s fucking disgusting, fucking… hideous as it seeps through your pores. But you can’t deny it, and more – gotta accept it as a fact, ‘cause there’s no other way.”

“Oh, man of little faith,” she rolls her eyes – a mannerism he chooses to ignore, along with the pitiful comment – a sack full of idealistic absurdities.

“For almost eight years, I thought I could escape my past, ‘cause I’d think that’s where all bygone actions belong,” he continues, gaze fixated on some unidentified spot decorating the opposite wall. “And then I got a phone call from an old pal. You know what he told me?”

“I’m not omniscient,” she retorts, choosing to be sarcastic all of sudden, a turnabout that he finds oddly amusing.

“Oh you’re not? Okay,” he throws her a brief glance, lips laced in a condescending smirk – a signature of his. “So he called me because of a favor. Old times, saved my life in New Mexico, and you’ll never understand what it means, unless you experience that kind of bond. It’s something that’ll always defy the laws of physic, finding its way back to the surface, no matter the amount of stones you use to drown it.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Of the non-negotiable kind,” he clarifies, a matter offensively obvious in his notion, “and what was that favor you may ask? Fairly simple, get rid of some overconfident pimp, the rest is not important.”

A mere statement.

Not to mention beyond expected.

And yet potent enough to drain blood out of her face, push past the pinnacle of emotions, coiling just underneath the surface, coiling and wailing to be released from the confinement of their prison.

Resurrection that comes with catharsis.

Rampant rage.

“You didn’t have to do it, you know,” she spats – blunt and accusatory. “And the fact that you did it only makes you a coward – no – it makes you a hypocrite, who is also a coward, for not following his beliefs, ‘cause… you know what defines one as a human?”

“What defines one as a human, miss Ortega?”

(How dare he!)

“The quality of being good,” she explains, struggling to keep up with the calmer tone, not willing to blow up just yet, “the quality you clearly lack. And it pains me to see how much mistaken I’ve been.”

He laughs again.

And this time it has her blood boiling hot.

“It’s so ease to judge others, don’t you think?” He retorts, calling back to that ridiculous conversation at the Interstellar, just few days prior, or a lifetime maybe? “Especially when all you have to worry is ‘being a good person’. It is an incredible privilege to choose between those two factors – what’s moral and immoral – a privilege not everyone can afford.”

Up to the breaking point.

“You’re incomplete,” he continues, rising to walk towards the door, indicating her inevitable departure that creeps closer and closer, tightening its claws around her weeping soul, “and you’ll always be until you understand that other people’s beliefs don’t define who you are.”

Snap.

“You know what? I hate you! You’re the most hideous, the most disgusting-”

“Sure I am,” he nods – a terse affirmation, so laconic it almost has her slapping him, safe only due to the fact she is putting on her pants. “But I believe you’ve already mentioned that.”

“I- I-”

“Oh do go on, tell me,” he interrupts – a jeering remark, a mannerism that she loathes more than anything else as an evidence of her disastrous tendency to maneuver between the polarities, “share your very important beliefs.”

“No, fuck you!” She exclaims, fingers clasping around the material of her coat, soon to yank it from the hanger. “I’m leaving and I can guarantee you won’t see me. Ever. Again.”

“Overly dramatic, but okay, I can cope with that,” a response that consists of a mere shrug, as if it was the only action laying in his capacity after those few months together – the most vicious farewell. “And whatever you’re planning to do with yourself… good luck with that.”

“Dickhead,” she throws over her shoulder – an expression of bitter virulence – ready to depart with a heavy slam – indication of a bygone phase, never to be retreated, fleetingness laced with some odd kind of beauty, the one he has almost dared to forget throughout the years, all of sudden thirsty for its everlasting charm.

Ergo, he remains awake that night.

Staring at the celling until sunlight accompanies the neons.

* * *

“Day twenty seventh,” he begins, the sound of running shower acting as his lonesome listener, not that he needs any audience today. “I’ve noticed an interesting pattern recently, or maybe I’ve just been reminded of its existence... I don’t know…maybe… The thing is, I’ve got some vague memories of my childhood, maybe because I was trying so desperately to push away the past, to treat every day like a rebirth, and so forced myself to forget… Actually, that sounds ridiculous when spoken out loud, but it’s fine, I can cope with that.”

“So as a kid I’d perceive world in terms of a simple black-and-white matter, which had me thinking my curiosity was soon to be satiated, kind of ironic… Anyway, as I was getting older, I also came to a conclusion that our world is run on secrets, and despite the years that have passed since then, I still agree with this sentence. It gets me to wonder how much of the given information applies to the reality, which makes quite an important factor in the contemporary world, but that’s by the by.”

“Cutting to the chase, realizations are like cycles, and by saying so I meant that they pay us a visit in self-repeating patterns. Which indicates the so-called tendency of changing one’s mind that sometimes allows us to circle back to the starting point. Quite interesting to be honest, especially in the face of some intense experience, both physically and emotionally, that is… that is, um… capable of rearranging the entire sequence of outlooks.”

“For years I’d think that what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over, or something, I’m only paraphrasing… but this seems to sum up why I’ve decided on all these tattoos, hours and hours of stinging discomfort. But it was nothing compared to being obliged to see all the scars, not because of the aesthetics but because of the continuous pain… the continuous pain and its physical reminiscence. At that time I couldn’t accept it, but now… I don’t know… it’s weird, both relieving and chilling, as if a piece of puzzle was missing… which makes me think that I’ll just need some time to get used to it. Either way it’s refreshing, so blissfully refreshing… fuck, I love it.”

“Normally at this point I’d remind myself of that crappy shit I was told in the past, maybe because it was my only way to connect with it, and fuck… it makes me such a fucking hypocrite, but now… I doubt whether I need it anymore.”

“’Cause I did fucking man up. End of a story.”

Created: 12/28/20 Completed: 03/11/21 Edited: 03/17/21

[callmeblake]

JULY 31st, 2019

Frank Iero Reflects on “Barriers,” Growing Up and Making Mistakes: “The Universe Has a Way of Figuring Things Out”

Photos & Interview: Shannon Shumaker

With an ever-changing lineup of musicians and a new band name accompanying each release, rebirth and reinvention are a common theme among Frank Iero’s three solo albums. From 2014’s Stomachaches, which Iero admits initially wasn’t meant to be released, to 2016’s emotional release, Parachutes, which arrived just weeks after the band was involved in a life-threatening traffic accident, each album serves as a snapshot of Iero’s life - something born out of necessity and a desire to create. Now on Barriers, his third solo release with his new band, the Future Violents, those needs haven’t changed, but Iero’s outlook on life has.

More below the cut

Like the two albums that came before it, Barriers wasn’t something that Iero planned on writing or releasing. As he puts it, it was an opportunity that he just couldn’t pass up when the now-members of the Future Violents (previous collaborator Evan Nestor on guitar and backing vocals, Murder By Death’s Matt Armstrong on bass, Thursday’s Tucker Rule on drums and Kayleigh Goldsworthy on piano, organ and violin) suddenly became available. The resulting twelve songs, recorded to tape with Steve Albini, are easily Iero’s most dynamic, honest and fearless work to-date. The reason? Because he wasn’t afraid to make mistakes.

It’s all in the name; Barriers is all about breaking down walls and taking risks, and that’s reflected directly in the sonic landscape and lyrical content of the album. From the hopeful opener, “A New Day’s Coming” and the dark anthem, “Young and Doomed” all the way to the sorrowful “24k Lush” and explosive “Moto Pop,” Barriers showcases an immense amount of growth from Iero, who even admits that the album is his favorite of the three so far. And lyrically, there’s plenty to unpack on the album, whether you’re sixteen and think you know it all, in your mid-twenties and unsure of what you’re doing, or like Iero, in your thirties and finally realizing that you don’t have it all figured out - and that’s okay.

The Prelude Press: You’re out on the road right now in support of your new album, Barriers. Now that it has been out for a little bit and you and fans have had the chance to digest it, what are some of your favorite things about the album?

Frank Iero: I think one of my favorite things is just playing with the people in this band. It’s so rewarding to play with this caliber of musicians, just people that I’ve looked up to for a long time and wanted to be in a band with for a while. And then you know, you work tirelessly on the songs and then finally get to kind of unleash them into the world. To play songs that you wrote together, play them live together, is a wonderful thing.

That actually sounds simple, but the first few records, I didn't get to do that, you know what I mean? Like, I wrote something on my own, for or the first one. I had my friend, Jarrod Alexander, play some live drums on it. But we didn't tour together, so it was like, teaching those songs to new people. And then for Parachutes, that was me, my brother in law, Evan, and our drummer at the time, Matt, but we didn't have a bass player, we didn’t have a full band. So again, we had to teach a newcomer to play the songs. So it always felt like you didn't get to play it with the people there that wrote it and recorded it. So finally, I get to do that, and it feels so wonderful, so powerful. Like, the songs just feel so powerful.

And it’s an actual band now, and not just you.

Exactly, exactly. And how boring [laughs].

What do you think they were able to bring to the record during the writing process? I’m sure they had some input as well.

Oh absolutely. You know, everyone in this band is a very accomplished, talented musician. So, there was no slouch, it was just impressive, impressive. I just always felt like, I've always gotten better as a player when I've gotten put in a room with people that are better than me. You kind of force yourself to reach a new level. And that’s how it went. You know, being in the room, recording together simultaneously, recording live to tape at Electric, it was just everything that this record needed. Because you get this - and not in like a bad way - but it’s almost like one-upping. You’re impressed by somebody and you’re inspired so you want to keep doing that for other people, and it forces you to play at a higher level.

That makes a lot of sense. I think in any art form, if you are challenged or if you have people inspiring you, you’re going to work a lot harder.

I totally agree. On this record too, there’s songs on this record, like “The Host” and “Ode To Destruction” that started with elements of aggression or riffs that Evan brought to the table and “24k Lush” is something that started with Matt. So that’s a new thing too, to have these outside influences come in and we work on them together and make it a full band recording which is really awesome.

So I mean, it’s kind of in the name - Barriers is all about breaking down walls and challenging yourself and doing shit that scares you, so did you have any goals when you first started working on the album, or anything that you wanted to try that you hadn’t before?

Yeah, I think a lot of it. I think sometimes, you grow as an artist and you almost put yourself in this box, or people expect you to be put in this box. I think on this record, maybe even more so than any other that I've ever done, I felt like there were no rules, and I could kind of chase the things that I've always wanted to chase, you know? To write a song like “A New Day’s Coming” or to work on a song like “Six Feet Down Under,” these are styles and feels that I've always enjoyed, loved and wished I could put forth with my own spin on it, but just maybe always felt a little self-conscious or felt like, “Well, you know, people think I should be doing this other thing. Maybe I should just only stick to what I know or what I've done.” So that was a huge thing too, to break down that barrier, and to feel like, “You know what? I can do anything I want to do.” And sometimes, just attempting it and failing is rewarding, you know? But this time around, I think we really did push that envelope and succeeded every time.

Well I will say that having listened to the album a few times, it’s easily the most wide range of sounds you’ve done so far, too.

Thank you, I appreciate that. I think that was the thing too, working with Steve and knowing what to expect with him. Like, I knew that we were going to be able to chase the tones on this record, and not really have to worry about, “Oh no, we have this song that’s kind of half written, we’re going into the studio, we're going to need a lot of time for that.” I knew what the song needed to sound like, I knew what I need to say in it, so the time was really spent on finding the correct sonic landscape for it.

Lyrically, one of the things that resonated with me is, when you’re a teenager or even in your early twenties, you have this mentality of “Oh, I’ll have my shit figured out by the time I’m this age,” and this album is very honest and real, and it’s obvious that you’re still figuring shit out. So how do you feel that you’ve grown with the writing of the album?

That’s a very good question. And that’s the thing, when you’re a teenager, you feel like, “Oh, no, I got this all figured out, I'm good, don't worry about it.” And then, around twenty-one in the real world you're finally like, “Oh, cool, I get to use all this stuff that I know because I know everything so well.” And then at twenty-five, you go crazy, because it's not that way, you know? And then by thirty, you’re like, “Nah, nah I got it figured out now.” And then you start to go crazy a little bit again and you finally realize by your mid-thirties, it's like, “Hey, guess what, I don't know anything, I'm still learning, and that's cool. I'm fine with that.”

I think that that realization that like, our parents didn't have it figured out, either… You’re told to believe that grown-ups have it figured out. You can feel safe now. If you knew then what you know now, you would never feel safe. So to be an adult now, and realize that I’m still learning, I don’t have it all figured out and that’s okay, I think that’s the most comfortable I’ve ever been. It’s okay to not know and to still continuously want to learn. I think that’s when you run into problems, too, even in an artistic sense, is when you’re like, “Oh, nah man, I’ve taken lessons, I’ve played in bands, I’ve sold records, I’m good, I know what I’m doing…” It’s like, fuck you, no you don’t. [laughs]. Once you think you’re done learning, that’s when you die - it’s over, it’s dead.

And you get lazy, and nothing changes.

Exactly, yeah.

So, branching off of that, I know it’s probably night and day, but how have your goals for your music - or life in general - changed since you first started playing in bands to where you are now?

Oh man. Recently, like, in the past three years, I realized how important my time is. And happiness. You know, I used to subscribe to that no regrets thing, and I don’t think that that's realistic. I think it's actually kind of asinine. I think that you should have regrets. I think that living life without regrets is actually not living at all. I think you should get hurt and you should hurt other people, and you should feel sorry about that. You should know what kind of weight words carry, and your actions, and that's the way that you grow as a person.

But you know, I also had this thing in me where I was very much a people pleaser, trying to make everyone happy. I think that as I've grown, I realized that you can't do that, because when you do that, you're you're definitely not happy, and you’ve definitely not made everyone else happy. No one is happy at that point. So you do the best that you can, and ultimately, you have to do what makes your soul feel good, you know? So if you can sleep well at night, then you're doing a pretty good job.

“So you do the best that you can, and ultimately, you have to do what makes your soul feel good…”

That doesn’t mean you’re not making any mistakes.

No, you’re still making tons of mistakes [laughs]. Because we’re human and we have to, and that’s fine. That’s kind of what’s so intriguing and beautiful about us. But yeah, it’s about just spending your time wisely, and spending it with people that you care about.

Is there anything that you wish you could say to your past self?

Oh man, yeah. If I could just let my past self know, like, “Listen, don’t worry so much, it’s going to be okay.” I think I would have had so much more fun. I was definitely - and I still am - always a worrier. Like, oh my gosh, is this gonna work out? I need to know the next thing, and the next thing, and the next thing and plan so far ahead that you didn't really enjoy the moment you were in. And I think that's my biggest thing. I wish I had enjoyed it more.

And then the next day you think about it and you’re like, “God, what the hell was I thinking?”

I know. I think that’s the thing - ultimately the universe does kind of figure it out. I had this discussion recently with a friend, and I do think it's kind of true, that the universe has like this roadmap - these signs - right? And artists are the only ones that can really see them. It’s not like we're these amazing creative beings, it's just that we see the things that nobody else sees, and we create from that. You know what I mean? And that’s not saying that you can't just ignore it and deviate from that path, but the universe has a way of figuring things out, and I think that if we were to just kind of be a little bit more calm and feel more comfortable in our own skin, we could enjoy it a little bit more.

You’ve mentioned before that you kind of never expected to do one solo record and now you’re at a third one. I assume that you didn’t plan to write it, and it kind of just happened?

Yeah. No, that’s exactly what happened. It’s weird, you know I wrote the first record not thinking anyone was ever going to hear it. It was really just for me to just have. I was dead set that I was going to do something completely different than music. I was like, “Alright, I did music, I did it with a band, I did everything I ever wanted to do, I’m gonna try something new.” But I just had these songs in my head, so I was going to keep track of them, so that when I become like sixty years old, I can show my kids that I wrote a record. Then someone heard it and passed it along, and before I knew it, there was interest in it, and blah, blah, blah life happened.

Now I’m on my third one, and I think it’s the best one. I don’t know, it’s weird. Again, this does branch off of what we were talking about. Life happens, and the universe kind of just tells you what you should be doing. You can listen to that or not. I’m pretty ecstatic that I did. I don’t know what else I’d do. I’ve done this for my entire life, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, is write songs and have people sing along and play shows. Ever since I was literally six or seven years old, that was my dream. I started my first band when I was eleven, played my first show at thirteen, went on my first tour at seventeen, and now I’m gonna be thirty-eight, so I guess this is it. I guess this is what I’m supposed to do.

“Life happens, and the universe kind of just tells you what you should be doing. You can listen to that or not. I’m pretty ecstatic that I did.”

Yeah, there’s no going back now. I’ve talked to a few people about it, and it’s funny because any musician will say the same thing that it’s shitty and stressful and there are some days where you really want to quit, but it’s kind of like an addiction. You can’t.

Oh totally. For me it’s like breathing. You can’t not do it. You have to create because you have to create. Does it love you back? No, not all of the time, at all. And is everything that you create wonderful and fantastic? Fuck no. It’s not always easy, either, but you still have to do it. I don’t know any other way.

So even if I did, all those years ago in 2014, if I had decided, “No, I’m gonna do something different,” I’d still be writing songs. It’s in my DNA.

So I’m guessing this is a daunting question, but what’s next, then? Do you know what you want to do after this?

I don’t know. I really don’t. Sometimes I think like, a trilogy, that’s pretty good. Go out on that. But you know, who knows what other opportunities will present themselves. I didn’t think I was gonna write another record after Parachutes and the accident happened three years ago, and I was like, “You know what, I can’t do this anymore - I don’t know how to do this anymore.” And then all of these musicians that I wanted to work with for twenty years were free and wanted to make a record, and how am I going to say no to that opportunity? I can’t.

So, what do I think is going to come next? Probably another opportunity that I can’t say no to. [laughs]. Who knows.

STAY CONNECTED WITH FRANK IERO: Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Website

Frank Iero and the Future Violents are currently in the midst of a headlining tour in support of Barriers alongside Geoff Rickly of Thursday. For more information, tour dates and tickets, click HERE.

SHANNON SHUMAKER

[coconutknightshade]

Merlin Versus IKEA

Rating: Gen Word Count: 3,300 Summary: 

In which Merlin is 50 Shades of Over he and Arthur's trip to IKEA.

----

Merlin gasps dramatically. Arthur looks down- The label on the sheets read GÄSPA.

AO3 or Below

"Hey- Hey, Arthur!"

The man in question comes to a stop, eyes falling shut as he fights to keep his patience. They've been working through IKEA for only a few hours, and Arthur is on a mission. It's near closing time, and they've not seen another soul for nearly a half-hour. And as dull and tedious as this trip has become, it's clear that Merlin is struggling even more so than Arthur.

"Merlin, I swear to God. If this is another-" Merlin collides into Arthur's back, forcing the man to stumble a step forward. He whirls on his boyfriend, glaring at the shit-eating grin on his face and completely ignoring the phone Merlin has trained on him. In his other hand, he's carrying a set of sheets. This has been going on for almost an hour now.

Merlin gasps dramatically. Arthur looks down- The label on the sheets read GÄSPA.

Arthur's jaw clenches as he tries to keep a straight face. As Merlin continues to laugh at his own joke, Arthur cracks, laughing traitorously and pushing Merlin away from him with a huffed, "You're not funny, Merlin."

He's a good seven feet away when Merlin finally stops laughing long enough to catch up.

"I don't think you have the necessary koala-fications to make that judgment call."

"I need to find a shop attendant. Somebody's lost their child in the store."

"Oh hoh, look who's got jokes now."

They go on like this for a while-

"Arthur, I don't think we've got any of these. Or you don't, anyway." It's a kitchen pan labeled TOLERANT .

"Arthur, I'm so skilled at this." Merlin flips around a set of notepads, the label reads SÄRSKILD. Arthur is not impressed.

Merlin's holding a notebook, the label reads KÄNNETECKEN. Arthur's already shaking his head when Merlin snorts, "Arthur, I just canna take it anymore."

Until finally, Merlin grows bored of the antic. Having been distracted by a mahogany table, it takes him a moment to notice that the other man has become unusually silent. It's with some trepidation that he slowly turns around, eyes scanning for his wayward boyfriend.

"Merlin, what the fuck are you-? Do not!" Arthur hisses quietly, glancing around hastily in fear of a shop attendant walking upon the pair. Merlin, the menace, is bent over, hands braced on a large display bed for balance as he toes off his shoes and clambers up, muttering to himself about looks being deceiving.

At Arthur's, it wasn't an outburst, outburst, Merlin grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he stretches out.

"Ya know," he says, completely ignoring the blond in favor of wiggling further up the bed, arms moving in a way reminiscent of making snow angels. "I really didn't expect this to feel as nice as it does."

"We're not here for a bed. Get up," Arthur says again, voice dropping an octave, but sounding more pleading than dangerous. Once again, his eyes dart around for any sign of employees. A derisive and somewhat amused snort pulls his attention back to Merlin.

"We absolutely are buying a new mattress. Mine is busted and yours- Well, let's not forget that I've seen first-hand the lads you used to parade through our apartment. We'd do the world some good lighting that mattress on fire. "

"Oi! Ironic, you knocking my taste in men when you're the one I'm parading through my apartment now." Arthur's taken a step forward, standing in the thoroughfare separating the bedroom section from the third kitchen section they've seen in the last three hours. He's got his arms crossed over his chest and is smirking at his long term friend turned boyfriend.

"Obviously, your tastes have matured." Merlin rolls onto his side, using a hand to prop up his head and running the other over the comforter, shooting Arthur a playful come hither look. Arthur, however, isn't having it.

"Merlin, I'm serious. If we get caught-'

"We aren't going to get caught! Have you seen the size of this place? They've not enough staff to patrol. I mean Christ, Arthur, how long has it been since we've seen another person? How long has it been since we've seen sunlight?"

He collapses onto his back dramatically, giving up now on trying to lure Arthur over to the bed. "We're mole people now."

"Considering you spend almost ten hours a day holed up in our bedroom, I'd say you were already halfway there."

Merlin gasps theatrically. "I'm an artist, Arthur. Those comic books aren't going to art themselves!"

Whatever retort Arthur has dies on his lips as Merlin's expression morphs into one of genuine consideration. He's braced his feet on the bed, sitting up and crossing his legs before bouncing in place. Arthur scans their surroundings once more before taking the final few steps towards his boyfriend. Merlin isn't usually this childish, but Arthur can't really blame him. If he's honest with himself, Arthur's confident the only reason he's not cracked himself is due to years of tedious work his father had pushed on him as a child.

"Arthur!"

The blond jumps, startled at Merlin's saying his name in a voice that indicates it's not the first time he's said it in attempts to get the man's attention. Regardless, Arthur shoots his boyfriend a withering look, eyebrows drew together in his signature "What the fuck, Merlin" expression. An expression that never accomplishes anything shy of Merlin grinning mischievously and Arthur's scowl deepening.

"Seriously, Arthur. This bed was made for my arse. And by that, I mean you," Merlin tries again, humming as he leans back against the thousands of pillows placed meticulously against the headboard. He's let his eyes fall shut in content, wiggling just a little bit further down the bed into a position more comfortable. Arthur rolls his eyes and steps closer to where Merlin is sprawled so that he can flick the man's ear. When Arthur inhales deep, ready to tell Merlin precisely what he thinks of the man's behavior, he instead yelps as arms drag him abruptly onto the bed.

“Merlin!” he gasps. “Merlin, no! Stop, I’m serious!”

Merlin does not stop, and Arthur only half-heartedly struggles to free himself from the other man's grip. He continues to squirm, however, trying to get his ass off the side of the bed so that he’ll maybe have enough leverage to slip free. But Merlin, laughing open and unashamed - damn him - has a solid grasp on Arthur and isn’t letting go anytime soon. They struggle for a bit longer, and Arthur, now laughing himself as he tries to wrestle free from his boyfriend, finally submits, letting his arms fall to the side. Merlin crosses his arms over his chest and grins down at Arthur, who is practically in his lap now, triumphantly.

“You’re a child, and, quite frankly, Merlin, I don’t know why I have anything to do with you.” He’s pouting now, eyes shut, and nose upturned in a very holier than thou expression.

Merlin laughs, placing a hand reverently to the side of Arthur’s face and brushing his thumb softly against the man’s cheekbone. “Because you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

At this, Arthur opens one eye and then the other. They sit like that for a moment- Merlin’s soft expression melting Arthur’s dramatic, cool exterior.

“You sound fairly sure of yourself. Is that your final answer?” Merlin doesn’t take the bait, instead choosing the lean in, pressing a kiss to the blond’s forehead. Arthur’s eyes fall shut once more, and a lazy smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. Merlin leans forward another few inches and properly kisses Arthur, whose soft lips are warm and pliant beneath his. The angle is awkward, but who is Merlin to complain? He’s confident that between Arthur landing a new job across the country, and the two of them finally admitting feelings for the other, Arthur hasn’t rested longer than a few hours at a time. It’s sweet, this. Even if it is in the middle of a goddamn IKEA and he himself is ready to pull a fire alarm if it means hightailing it out of there.

This time when he pulls away, Arthur chases after, seeking one more kiss that Merlin indulges him in before rolling away and out from under the blond.

Arthur shoots him a questioning look because, really, there’s no telling what Merlin is going to get into next. The man is unpredictable at best, and yeah, maybe - just maybe - Merlin is right; Arthur wouldn’t have him any other way.

He pushes himself up onto one elbow, twisting his torso to better watch Merlin as he bounces up and down on the bed with an all too endearing expression of pure concentration. At the sight, Arthur struggles to hide a helpless grin, knowing well if Merlin spots it, it’ll only encourage him further.

The effort is futile, as Merlin grins openly when he meets Arthur’s gaze. “Can you feel that?”

“Feel what?” Arthur asks suspiciously because no, he can’t feel anything. Apparently, this is the right answer, because Merlin’s face only brightens further.

“Sold! It’s settled. We’re taking this bad boy home.” He hops off the bed and circles around to where Arthur’s legs hang over the bed, and where Merlin’s shoes still lay abandoned.

“Yeah? How do you figure?”

Merlin rolls his eyes indulgently as if Arthur were missing the obvious. It’s not until he raises an expectant brow that Merlin caves, sighing dramatically as if Arthur is putting him out by having him explain. “You didn’t feel anything. That means whenever I get up in the night to take a leak-”

“To snack, you mean.”

“- you won’t be disturbed. And I won’t wake you in the mornings when I get up early for a run.”

Arthur snorts. “It’s not you crawling out of bed that wakes me, Merlin. It’s your complete inability to do so quietly and without knocking over everything on the dresser and bathroom counter.”

Merlin’s right, though. The mattress lacks the dip and shifts their current one is unfortunately infamous for. This would, of course - Merlin’s late-night snacking or no - make for a much more peaceful and healthier night’s sleep. Arthur tilts his head, considering. Idly, he can hear Merlin in the background offended and protesting the charges laid against him. Too busy to further roast, Arthur tries to work the price slapped onto the headboard into their tight budget.

It’s Merlin’s deep sigh after a moment of silence that pulls Arthur from his thoughts. With two elbows, Arthur props himself up from where he’s been lying, and better eyes Merlin, who is standing between Arthur’s legs with arms crossed over his chest petulantly.

“I mean, I guess if you aren’t satisfied, we can continue to shop. But who knows how long it’ll take. We could be here for days. Maybe even months.” Merlin once again sighs, turns his head to stare dramatically into the distance- very ‘when will Johnny return home from the war?’ style. Arthur rolls his eyes at the theatrics, but the corners of his mouth twitch threateningly into what might’ve grown into an amused grin.

“I thought you’d already said sold.” Arthur finally pushes himself into an upright position and pokes Merlin’s abdomen. The man’s face immediately lights up, sending a wave of warmth through Arthur’s chest at the sight.

“Does this mean we’re free? ‘Cuz I saw this place up the road… Go-Karts, Arthur. Go-Karts. I’m dying to kick your arse!” Arthur huffs in exasperation. And that would explain the daunting and near-immediate boredom on Merlin’s part upon stepping into the shop. With a smirk, he wraps his hands into Merlin’s scarf and tugs him close, Arthur’s thighs locking him in place.

“You’re gonna-? My, aren’t we optimistic today, Mr. Emrys. I sure hope you can deliver.” At this, Merlin raises a challenging brow before his expression twists into something more devious.

“Oh, I’ll more than deliver,” he teases, tilting his head down to capture Arthur’s lips with purpose. The promise of more sends chills down Arthur’s spine and pools low in his abdomen.

Arthur’s hands untangle from the scarf and drop to Merlin’s hips, fingers digging in as he pulls the man snug up against him. His own hips roll lightly when Merlin’s hands find their way into Arthur’s hair and give a sharp tug so to better control the angle. A quiet whine escapes him when they finally part, breathless, and wanting more than their environment will allow.

“I’ll make you a bet,” Merlin says, voice strangled as he pulls once again at Arthur’s hair until the man is less focused on his own breathing and more on the way Merlin’s mouth moves as he speaks. “And when I win, you, Arthur Pendragon, are going to-”

“Excuse you!”

The two men startle, Merlin jerking away at the same time Arthur tries to stand, both nearly tripping over the other in the process. They wear matching expressions of pure mortification as the sharp blue eyes of the man standing before them, mouth downturned and eyebrows furrowed in disapproval, pierce through them.

“Do you, or do you not, see that overbearing sign with large, bold letters stating that the beds are not to be laid or sat upon?”

Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur elbows him in the side before he can say anything too snarky.

“I am-” he voice cracks, still very affected from moments ago. He clears his throat before finishing, with as much dignity as he can muster, “- so sorry about that.”

Now, standing beside the bed, he absently fiddles with the silver ring on his thumb, ignoring the way his cheeks flush still with embarrassment. He can’t be sure exactly what the man - Mordred, his nameplate reads - would have heard had he happened upon them a mere few seconds later. Knowing Merlin’s filthy mouth, it likely would have been scarring for everyone involved. As it stands, Mordred’s expression does not waver at the uncomfortable apology. Arthur’s eyes cut to Merlin when the man turns towards him fully hands on hips with an appearance reminiscent of a parent about to scold a child.

“Arthur!” he says with an exaggerated and exasperated sigh. “What was I just saying? You can’t wander around testing other people’s beds.” Merlin places a hand over his heart apologetically, turning back towards Mordred, who is watching them still with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Let me assure you, this will not happen again.”

Merlin plasters on the most trusting smile he can manage. All Arthur can do is stare at his smug boyfriend, jaw nearly dropped, in pure disbelief. Mordred rolls his eyes, spinning on his heels and walking off with a threatening "it better fucking not”  huffed under his breath.

As soon as the man is out of sight, Merlin’s fake smile morphs into something more light-hearted and teasing. He turns to Arthur, who immediately grabs a pillow off the bed and smacks Merlin square in the face, nearly knocking him off balance before hitting him once more, this time over the head. The surprised look on Merlin’s face is priceless, pulling effortless laughter from the blond. He tosses the pillow back onto the bed and crosses his arms triumphantly while Merlin processes having taken a pillow to the face in the middle of IKEA.

Arthur’s smug grin, however, falters when Merlin’s eyes sparkle with something that always ends in trouble. He gets so far as "Merlin, whatever it is you’re thinking"  before Merlin’s arms are wrapped tightly around his waist. They both hit the bed with a thud, bed lurching several inches to the left. The deafening screech of metal against tile and a damning crack - the two of them a sudden, scary four inches closer to the ground at an angle awkward enough they begin sliding towards the floor - has Arthur’s grip on Merlin’s shoulders tighten.

When they hear a loud curse and the sound of shoes swiftly heading their way, they both roll, tumbling to the floor in a heap of flailing limbs. Arthur pushes against Merlin’s gut as he scrambles upright before making a mad dash to escape the scene of the crime, very every man for himself  schoolyard rules as they desperately try to ensure they aren’t the one to get caught. Merlin isn’t too far behind, but without his shoes, his socks slip against the tile, and he hits the ground a second time before finally gaining enough traction to take off towards the kitchen section.

Arthur has lost track of Merlin, and while he thinks he should pause to maybe listen for him, Arthur knows it will be futile, as all he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears. It’s because of this that he doesn’t hear Merlin whisper-shouting his name until he turns a corner, full speed, and slams into the man.

It’s a miracle that their collision doesn’t send them both to the ground, but Merlin somehow managed to steady both of them… Not that it really mattered. Merlin hasn't actually slowed down upon their collision. In fact, in the process of trying to steady Arthur, Merlin's hand had gotten wrapped in the blond’s leather jacket, throwing him even further off balance. And Merlin, damn him, had burst out laughing before slapping a hand to his mouth in order to muffle the noise before taking off again.

Rude.

Mordred now forgotten, Arthur takes off after Merlin, whose eyes widen at the realization, and who throws a breathless,“It was an accident”  over his shoulder while managing to pick up his pace.

It’s when they hit the tile in the bathroom section that Arthur knows he’s got the edge. Stumbling still though in a fit of laughter when up ahead, Merlin’s socks once again slip, and he nearly tumbles to the ground. The floor inevitably wins out- This Arthur knows when up ahead he sees Merlin turn a sharp corner of display counters and, not three feet down the aisle, trip, upper torso disappearing from Arthur’s sight and never reappearing.

When Arthur finally catches up to him, Merlin is laid out on his back, arms outstretched, staring up at the ceiling in defeat, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Arthur comes to a stop beside him and bends over, hands on his knees as he too tries to catch his breath. They’re both red-faced, breathless and laughing.

After a moment, Arthur reaches out a hand and pulls Merlin to his feet. They’re both grinning, Merlin bent sideways with an elbow resting on one of the counters, when Arthur punches his shoulder, which, honestly, only makes Merlin laugh harder.

“Oi! What was that for?”

“You almost threw me to the ground back there!” He says it like they were in the trenches.

“I was not about to get caught!” Merlin exclaims indignantly. “You heard me! I assured him that it wouldn’t happen again. And I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”

“Merlin, you're an absolute prat.” At this Merlin grins, turning around and drawing Arthur closer by the very jacket he’d nearly dragged him to the floor with. Arthur scowls but lets himself be pulled into Merlin’s embrace. When Merlin kisses the corner of his lips, still laughing softly to himself, Arthur tries and fails to smother a grin of his own.

“Of course, I am. But I’m your prat.” Merlin flashes Arthur a proud, cocky smirk and slides his hands from Arthur’s hips to his lower back, pulling him even closer. Arthur looks at Merlin’s stupid attractive face and his stupid warm eyes, and fuck, he absolutely loves this man.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.” Arthur buries his fist in the front of Merlin’s scarf and leans in, kissing him with fervor until the man melts against him with a small, pleased sound. Eventually, Arthur pulls back with a mischievous expression and starts navigating his way towards the nearest checkout, dragging Merlin with him.

“Now let’s go order that bloody mattress so I can beat your arse at Go-Karts. And afterward, I’ll tell you, as the loser, exactly what you can do for me tonight. In excruciating detail.”

Merlin thinks maybe losing wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

[georgevilliers]

In-Depth Numerology Report for Colin Morgan

Life Path 8

Destiny/Expression 4

Soul Urge/Heart Desire 4

Personality 9

Birthdate 1

Second Period Cycle 1

Second Pinnacle Cycle 8

Challenge Numbers 0, 6, 6, 6

Hidden Passion 3, 5, 9

Karmic Lesson 2, 8

Balance Number 7

Life Path 8: The Powerhouse/ Balance and Power

The foundations for life path 8 are karma, reaping what is sewn, power, and financial success. 8′s are can-do people. They have a knack for making people around them feel assured of their efforts and abilities. Life path 8 is all about success and ambition especially within the business world, but 8 is also a karmic number. An 8′s rise to the top must be done ethically and morally otherwise karma will come back at them twofold. The duality that comes with an 8 is evident. One minute they may be spending with abandon, and the next they’ll be pinching pennies. 8′s are practical and goal oriented. They are well-spoken and tactful, and this is often why they are successful. They can often solve a problem before anyone else has even realized a problem has arisen. It’s worth noting the implications of the number 8 on a global level. 8 has represented cosmic order in Egypt, rebirth and the universe in China, the sun in splendour in Babylon, and the path to Nirvana in Buddhism. It’s no wonder why this life path is so highly sought after, and why people flock to those who do have a life path 8. They possess the innate ability to inspire people to follow them on their life journey. 8′s must learn the lesson of greed and the real value of money early otherwise they risk financial ruin. They have resilience and are often able to bounce back from failure and defeat. 8′s are a good judge of character and often attract the right types of people, and they like to keep them around as well. 8′s like a large family-type environment. They must be careful of becoming stubborn, intolerant, overbearing, and impatient. Life path 8 people often have strong physiques, which is a symptom of their resiliency. In alignment they are financially abundant, authoritative, powerful, in control, and giving. Out of alignment they are egotistical, controlling, opinionated, forceful, OR passive, victimized, powerless, insecure, fearful of success, and blaming.

Healing Crystals: Leopard Skin Jasper, Mookaite, Serpentine, Snowflake Obsidian

Planet: Saturn

Zodiac: Leo

Tarot: Strength

Destiny/Expression 4

Disciplined, strong, stable, pragmatic, down-to-earth, reliable, dependable, hard-working, frugal. They are the bedrock of society, the foundation of any enterprise. They are an organizer and manager. Their approach to life and to problems is methodical and systematic. They are a builder and a doer. They turn dreams into reality. They possess a highly developed sense of structure. They are not the type to embark on any trip without a map. They take obligations very seriously, as a result they are reliable and responsible. They enjoy seeing a project through from start to finish, but can become too narrowly focused. They put their nose to the grindstone and have a tendency to become a workaholic. In relationships, they tend to be somewhat moralistic. They are extremely honest and sincere. They have integrity and are trustworthy, but can also be rigid and stubborn. They must not let their strong likes and dislikes overrule their common sense and compassion, and be more understanding of others' shortcomings. Because they tend to focus on details, they can fall into a rut and become a little dull and overly serious. Often, people born with the 4 Expression need to lighten up and have more fun. In their conservative and careful way they are good with money. They are a good parent, and love to be involved with children. They relate a little more than others to the innocence and simplicity of children, perhaps seeing a good deal of themselves in them as they, too, are idealistic. They can be attracted to the arts and music, but will likely bring their love of structure and order to any artistic field. Classical music and opera are often particularly appealing and inspiring. They have a keen eye for detail. They have great stamina and can work conscientiously and persistently toward their goals. 

Soul Urge/Heart Desire 4

They like to live a stable and well-organized life. They can establish and maintain a routine, and they strive to be dependable and a rock of strength for others. Work is central to their life and they may have a tendency to go overboard, and they should avoid being a workaholic. They are great in family situations and make good parents, but must learn to be flexible. They need and want much love, and are honest and unpretentious. They hate liars and affectations.

Personality 9

9′s have an impressive and almost aristocratic bearing. They are very much in control of the image they send out. Many actors, dancers, and other performers have 9 personalities. They are much admired, but also can be hated as they may be perceived as arrogant. A great struggle of the 9 type personality is being able to bring themselves down to earth and relate to everyone on a personal basis. 9′s have great compassion and sympathy for others, but may be better at working on a grand scale rather than a one-on-one basis. They have excellent taste, a good deal of artistic talent that shows in their homes and clothing

Birthdate 1

They are pioneers, gamblers, and initiators. They have great ambition, strong drive for success, are highly independent, and dislike the restrictions of having to work with others. They easily become frustrated with routines. They are very creative and possess a keen and rapid mind. They possess a broad vision and a great capacity for motivating others. They have great will power that will be tested, especially during the years 28 to 56, but their opportunity for accomplishment is enormous. They are generally open to the ideas of others, but can be extremely stubborn and hardheaded once they become attached to their plans. They must avoid laziness and procrastination. Their determination, will power, and inventiveness are the keys to their successes. 

Second Period Cycle 1

The middle years of their life (approximately ages 30 to 60) find them on an intense path of personal growth. They are required to adapt frequently to the many ups and downs in life. When 1 rules the second Period Cycle it focuses on self-empowerment. To facilitate this, situations occur that force them to dig deep to find the courage required to face challenges. They have love and support, but circumstances will often demand that they rely heavily on their own strengths. Fortunately, throughout this approximately thirty-year period, they often have confirmation that their gut feelings are correct and feel they are moving in the right direction. They will likely find themselves in a leadership position, strengthening their self-confidence even more.

Second Pinnacle Cycle 8

They will be able to organize large enterprises. Problems do not threaten them so much as provide a challenge. They sense their own enhanced personal powers and feel a growing sense of stability and centeredness. They will be capable of influencing matter in an almost magical way. As a result, they are extremely goal oriented, moving toward the realization of their dreams with confidence and clarity.

Challenge Numbers 0, 6, 6, 6

0: Numerology views this as a very undemanding challenge. Growth is able to take place without any serious obstacles. This doesn’t mean there won’t be any obstacles at all, but there is no overall theme, or consistent challenge. They must stay faithful and focused on their overall ideals. 

main challenge 6: This challenge deals with distorted idealism. Their ideals are unrealistically high, making life difficult for them and others. They have a hard time being satisfied with anything they do. At bottom, this challenge is about having blinders on. They are unable to see a broader view, which makes them think they have all the answers. Their desire to be of service to others is sincere. However, it may be blocking them from seeing the necessity of working on their own inner development. They can be domineering and righteous, often telling others what is right and what is wrong. They often feel a lack of appreciation from others. There is an opportunity to be of service, to teach and heal, but they will have to achieve a balanced perspective between idealism and resistance to personal transformation.

Hidden Passions 3, 5, 9

3: They are highly social and have a gift for self- expression. They love to entertain and attend parties. They are exceedingly popular, and a good friend. They are highly talented in one or more of the arts - writing, acting, music, or painting. They need excitement. When things are dull, they tend to fantasize and sometimes exaggerate. They are very inspiring and motivating to others. They are blessed with a considerable amount of charm and charisma. They are highly optimistic, which can make them a bit of a rolling stone. They think that the grass is always going to be greener on the other side of the hill. They need discipline and focus to make the most of your talents. 

5: They love travel, change, and new challenges. Highly adaptable and versatile. They have a talent for languages, are generally good with words, which makes them good at writing and public relations. Sensual and a bit over-impulsive, they love to satisfy their senses which can get them in to trouble. Overindulgence in food, drink, drugs, and sex is not uncommon. They are resourceful and original with a good sense of humour and a quick tongue. The desire for freedom is strong, and it will take much effort and discipline for them to stick with something after starting it. They are interested in many things which may make it hard for them to focus on one thing and excel at it. Very unconventional.

9: Warm, generous, and compassionate. 9′s are often creatively inclined but it may not come out until adulthood because it was repressed as a child. They have a strong desire for insight and knowledge. They are emotional even though their feelings are not always sensible. They can get caught up in dreams. Blessed with oratorical abilities. They are driven to do their own thing and are very independent.

Karmic Lesson 2, 8

2: They must learn to be more diplomatic and tactful, accomplish things without the need to be praised, and to work as a team. Must learn to be more sensitive to others’ needs and feelings. They will find themselves in situations where the only way forward is with patience, attention, and working closely with others.

8: They are highly independent and do not want to be told how to do things. They might have a know-it-all attitude and can be stubborn therefore they can run into issues with authority figures. This can prevent them from knowing their limits, and while they likely will attract lots of money, they may spend too much of it as well. Learn limitations, and be efficient.

Balance Number 7

They retreat into some safe haven within themselves and hope they will not have to deal with the issue at hand. Yet, the clarity and analytical abilities of their minds are sufficient to provide them with insight into the problem, and a clear path to its solution. They have to work at confronting themselves and the issues they face unemotionally and calmly. They can be engulfed in the emotional aspects of the issue.

[sunkissedpages]

We’re Only Kidding Ourselves- Part Twenty-Two || Tom Holland x Reader

A/N: apparently there’s no waffle house in ny so my story takes place in a reality where everything is the same except there’s waffle house in ny

Prompt: Enemies to lovers au (from @marvelellie‘s 1k writing challenge!!)

Summary: You work as a production assistant for the Spider-Man: Far From Home crew, or rather as Tom Holland’s handler. The two of you don’t get along very well to say the least, but you won’t quit and he can’t fire you so you’re stuck with each other.

Warnings: swearing, angst, mentions of previous smut

What I listened to while writing: free spirit by khalid

Word Count: 3.9k

Series Masterlist

“What did Harrison want last night?” he asked, starting to run his hands through his hair again even though the crew was constantly telling him to leave it alone. 

“I’m...not exactly sure,” you said slowly. “Actually, have you talked to him today?”

“Not really, we left the hotel separately, why?” “Um, no reason, just that he knows.”

Tom made eye contact with you through the mirror and wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion. “Knows what?”

“About us. I mean, us sleeping together, that is.”

Tom turned back around to face you properly again. “You told him?”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, nervously, wondering if he was actually upset. “Not exactly,” you said hesitantly. “He saw my neck and uh,” you lifted your shirt slightly to show Tom the waistband of his briefs you were still wearing.

“Are those mine?” he asked, not being able to hide a grin of what looked like pride.

“Who else’s?”

“I don’t know what kind of shady men you’ve been hanging around,” Tom quipped snarkily, keeping his eyes trained on your midriff, not even pretending he wasn’t enjoying it.

“Just the one,” you said pointedly and rolled your eyes. “And he’s a dumbass.”

Tom scoffed. “You’re one to talk.”

You pulled your shirt back down, not missing the way Tom’s eyes traveled up and down your body.

“For fucks sake, my eyes are up here, Tom,” you mumbled with a soft smile, not able to commit to being mad about it when you looked at his flushed cheeks and pink lips. “Never thought I’d have to say that wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.”

“You’re not wearing a bra either,” he said, dumbfounded, and not paying attention to a word you said. “Fuck, what is it, my birthday?”

You quirked an eyebrow. “Can you keep it together, Holland? You do know that suit is skin tight, right?”

“I’m trying my best, but you’re making it so hard!”

“Pun intended?”

“Oh fuck off, y/l/n,” he groaned, taking a step away from you to gather himself and his thoughts. “Was Harrison mad?”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted. “He thinks we’re being irresponsible.”

“We are being irresponsible,” Tom agreed, taking two steps forward and kissing you suddenly as if to prove a point. You were tempted to kiss him back, he smelled so good, and even if you couldn’t admit it to yourself, seeing him swing around in the spiderman suit did things to you.

You pulled away. “You’re going to get us caught!”

“Would that be so bad?” Tom asked, lazy grin playing at his lips.

“Yes! I’m already skating on thin fucking ice, I’d be so fired.”

“Wait, why?” Tom asked. “Did you do something?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you brushed it off, not wanting to get into how you accidentally told everyone you’d had a sex dream about him. It would only inflate his ego even more, which was the last thing you needed.

“If we get caught, then we’ll just have to pretend that it’s not just sex and that we’re madly in love.”

“That would never work, no one would believe us,” you said miserably, not noticing the way Tom frowned.

“Did Harrison say anything else?”

“No.” Not anything that Tom needed to know, anyway. Blurred images of Harrison laying on the bed next to you last night, gazing into your lost eyes with his own confident, yet distant ones filled your mind.

“But you told him not to tell anyone, right?” Tom looked at you expectantly. “Y/n? You did tell him not to tell anyone, right?”

“I figured it was implied?” you said weakly.

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” he said, sounding more panicked than you expected and his face growing red and blotchy.

You tugged on the scrunchie in your hair anxiously. “I- it slipped my mind! I had a lot to deal with, by myself. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Are you blaming this on me now?”

“I’m not not blaming it on you,” you said honestly, crossing your arms over your chest.

Tom stared at you incredulously. “Can we please not do this right now?” he begged and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have bigger problems to handle.”

“I don’t get what the big deal is, Tom. He’s our friend.”

“Y/n, I love Harrison, but you know he can’t keep his mouth shut. We both had to learn that the hard way.”

“He wouldn’t tell anyone, he knows what could happen!” you assured him. You wanted to reach out and rub his shoulder, but you were afraid he’d shrug you off. 

“Yeah, except for maybe my brother!”

“Shit.”

You tore out of the tent first, before Tom got the chance, breaking into a full on run for the second time that day. You could feel him on your heels, though, gaining on you with every second.

The sun was blinding, making it harder to pick people out of the crowd. You frantically looked around for a head of blond hair or red hair or both. No one batted an eye as you ran past them, nobody paid much attention to you usually anyway, but you saw heads turn as they clocked Tom running after you and realized they probably thought he was chasing you, which would have been laughable in any other circumstance.

You could feel sweat gathering on your brow and the back of your neck, making your shirt stick to your skin and hair curl at the ends. You hadn’t even been on set for an hour and you already felt like you needed a shower.

As you started to fall behind Tom you realized it would have been easier to find them if you had split up, but upon spotting a lanky boy with a shock of bright red hair you knew it didn’t really matter in the end anyway.

As it turned out, Harry and Harrison were together, huddled by one of the cameras on standby, talking about something you couldn’t hear, but knew immediately when you saw the smug look on Harry’s face from a distance.

You and Tom reached them at the same time, both out of breath and gasping for air. You were worse off, doubled over with hands on your knees hoping you weren’t about to have an asthma attack. Tom looked like he’d just finished a light jog. His face and neck were flushed and he was breathing hard, but his curls were still in place and he’d barely broken a sweat. Meanwhile you could only imagine you looked like someone who’d had to crawl across the finish line at a marathon even though you’d run the same distance.

“You just couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you?” Harry asked, looking at Tom with a smirk.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Haz?” Tom groaned, expressing exactly what you would’ve said if you had the capacity to speak.

“I figured he already knew!” Harrison said defensively, and to your surprise a little angrily.

“No one knew!”

“He’s your bloody brother, mate! How was I supposed to know?”

Tom put a hand to his forehead, taking a minute to compose himself. “You were just supposed to keep your mouth shut!”

“I mean it was only a matter of time anyway,” Harry spoke up, coming to Harrison’s defense.

“What do you mean?” you asked having finally regained your breath enough to contribute to the argument.

“Please don’t tell me I’m the only one who’s noticed Tom following you around like a puppy these past few weeks.”

“Harry, I’m going to kill you,” Tom said through gritted teeth.

“If I had to watch you gaze at her longingly from across the room with those stupid eyes of yours without doing anything about it one more time I was going to throw myself off the Empire State Building,” Harry said with a look of accomplishment only an asshole younger brother could have.

You saw the embarrassed flush creep up from Tom’s neck to the tips of his ears and tried not to laugh as Harry easily dodged Tom lunging for him.

You grabbed Tom’s shoulder and pulled him back to keep him from tackling his little brother to the ground. To your surprise, he relaxed under your touch and took a step back, even though he was obviously still fuming.

“Okay, can we at least establish that this is a secret that stays between the four of us going forward?” you asked, looking around the small circle of boys.

They all gave you looks like it should be obvious, but nodded anyway and you relaxed a little. This was your fucking life now.

Your pager buzzed, alerting you that the makeup artist had finally arrived at the tent, but Tom was nowhere to be found.

“Tom, we have to go,” you said, breaking the silence. “You need to get ready for the rest of the scene, they’re waiting.”

Tom followed you as you walked, deep in thought. You wondered if he was thinking the same thing as you- that what you were doing together was dangerous. That much was clear from the conversation you’d just had.

“Tom-”

“This was a bad idea,” he said, cutting you off. “We should have never slept together. I shouldn’t have let myself...” he trailed off.

You pursed your lips at what he was implying, thinking maybe he was right, but not wanting him to be. In reality, your relationship was too complicated, too entangled, to ever be more than handler and actor. But somehow every time he looked at you you were reminded of the way his laugh filled the whole room, the way his hands felt on your body, and all of the little moments together that led up to now.

Half of you wanted to laugh. Your acquaintances with benefits deal- if that’s even what you could call it- hadn’t even lasted forty-eight hours.

You stopped walking and stood in front of him with your arms crossed, looking at the ground. “Should we end it?”

Tom didn’t answer right away, and you hated yourself for the way your heart felt heavy in your chest. Hated yourself for being stupid enough to think you could handle a casual fling without getting emotionally attached.

You looked back up at Tom finally, thinking this was it, this was the end, but was surprised to see a glint of determination in his eyes.

“No, I’ll see you in your room tonight.”

Tom kept his promise and showed up outside your hotel room promptly at ten-thirty with two quick raps on the door. You unlocked and opened it to see him standing in the hall wearing pajama pants and holding a six-pack of wine coolers. He held it up with a proud smile, pausing to admire the way the way you looked, even though you were just wearing the same pajamas you had always worn in Italy.

“This feels like high school,” you said, shaking your head with a laugh as he placed a kiss to the corner of your mouth and slid past you into your room.

“Oh?” he asked, not hesitating to set the wine coolers on the dresser and pop one open. “And what kind of girl was y/n y/l/n in high school?”

You gave him a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “None of your business.”

Tom came back the next night, and the next, and the next, never empty handed, never staying long afterwards. Leaving you satisfied, yet also somehow lonely in the hours that followed. Trying to fall asleep in the empty hotel room alone was a bigger task to take on than one might think. Every time as Tom was getting dressed you tried to make conversation, tried to get him to stay for just a few minutes longer, but he always ended up leaving.

The sex was good, sure, there was no denying that, but you wished that just once he would stick around and hold you until the both of you drifted off, naked, limbs tangled together, dead to the world until you were both bathed in sunlight in the early hours of the morning. You knew it was too much to ask. He had made your arrangement very clear, at least that’s the way you remembered it, and the way he was always in such a rush to leave made you think there wasn’t a chance in hell of it ever happening anyway.

Perhaps the most embarrassing part of it all were the “you up” texts shamelessly sent to you in the middle of the night that you responded to every time. Tom knew you weren’t asleep even when it was late and he knew how good he gave it to you and he wasn’t afraid to use the information to his advantage.

More than once you found yourself doing the walk of shame from his hotel room to yours at two, three in the morning, wearing the crumpled clothing you’d shown up in, trying to not to make any noise or run into any other cast or crew members who might also be up at that hour. Was it humiliating? Yes. Were you going to stop doing it? Unfortunately, no. The bright smile Tom gave you when he opened his door to see your face was motivation enough, even though it was completely pathetic.

“Are you hungry?” Tom asked, watching you pull on your flannel pajama pants and black sweatshirt from his bed. The week was almost over and you had started ending up in his bed (a few hours after he had been in yours) more nights than not.

“Hm?”

“Do you want to get something to eat?”

“Is anything even open at 2am?”

“We’re in New York City,” he reminded you “something’s gotta be.”

“Yeah, okay,” you agreed.

“Great! Let’s go!”

There was that smile again. The one that had you completely whipped. No wonder you could never say no to Tom.

“Wait, are we going in this?” you asked, looking down at your pajamas.

“Why not?”

And that’s how you ended up in the middle of Times Square at two am wearing your pajamas with Tom Holland. Tom was shocked to see that no one paid him any attention, even with his hood down. No one cared about him or you and you could tell he was ecstatic about it. He watched in awe as pedestrians passed you by, not even giving a second glace to your pajamas. It was New York City, you weren’t even the only two in pajamas on that specific corner. 

All of the lights and billboards were a little overwhelming, but you liked the way they illuminated the boy in front of you dozens of different colors like some sort of indie movie.

“Do you know of any good places to eat?” Tom asked as you started walking in a random direction.

“What?” You stopped in your tracks. “You’re the one who suggested we go get food!” you cried in disbelief.

“Because I’m hungry!”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“So I keep hearing,” he said with a cheeky grin, pink light reflecting off of his face.

“Uh, we could always find the nearest Waffle House,” you suggested. “They’re open twenty-four/seven.”

“I’ve never been,” Tom said indifferently.

“You’ve never been to Waffle House?” you nearly screeched.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a staple of American culture!”

“That’s not as good of a selling point as you think it is, y/n.”

“We’re going.”

“Google says the closest one is four miles away.”

You shrugged. “We’ll take the subway.”

“You’re set on Waffle House aren’t you?”

“You asked if I knew any good places to eat, this is a good place to eat. I’m doing you a favor, Tom, trust me.”

“Okay, okay,” he surrendered. “C’mon, I’m starving.”

You dragged Tom to the nearest subway station and bought the both of you tickets, despite Tom’s insistence that he buy them. You inserted your credit card into the machine before he even pulled out his wallet. You snooze you lose.

“I’m just a booty call, Tom, not your girlfriend,” you reminded him. “I can pay for us.”

He bit his lip at that, looking like he wanted to argue, but ultimately letting it slide.

The two of you stared at the map of Manhattan with all of the routes on it for an embarrassing amount of time, trying to figure out which line would get you closest to the diner, before finally agreeing Q would make the most sense so you didn’t have to switch trains.

“How obvious is it that we’re tourists?” Tom whispered in your ear once you were standing on the platform together.

“Overwhelmingly.”

The platform was mostly empty, save the couple deep in conversation and group of drunk friends egging each other on to lick the tiles on the wall a ways down from you.

Since it was late, the trains weren’t coming as often leaving you sitting on a bench talking to Tom about everything and nothing for almost twenty minutes. You rested your head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around you, listening to you ramble about the different things on the Waffle House menu for ten minutes straight without interrupting.

When your subway finally pulled into the station, you and Tom were the only ones from the platform getting on, leaving the strangers you’d felt an odd sort of connection to behind.

The car was also relatively empty, giving you plenty of options for seating. There was a woman asleep towards the back, and a young family of vacationers on the other side, looking exhausted out of their minds.

You were following Tom to the back of the car where he seemed to be aiming for when you felt the train lurch forward, catching you off balance and sending you flying into Tom, who caught you with his body. You both fell onto one of the open benches with a loud thud, you hitting your head on the window on the way down.

“Steady,” Tom said, looking up at you with a lopsided smile. He was gripping your hips firmly to make sure you wouldn’t go flying anywhere else. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Are you?”

“I’m fine,” he assured you, letting go so you could sit up. “I guess we’re sitting here.”

“I guess so.”

Tom stared out the window and you watched over his shoulder as dark shapes flew past, unable to make anything of them. Stops passed and you kept track of everyone to who got on and who got off, though most of the time neither happened.

“I’m convinced the subway system exists alternate universe,” Tom said suddenly with a shake of his head. “There’s no way that something with this sort of... odd energy exists in any sort of reality.”

“It’s the only possible explanation,” you agreed. “How different is it from the tube?” You tried to use somewhat of a British accent at the end, only to be met with a look of horror from Tom.

“Please never try that again,” he pleaded.

You laughed. “You didn’t like that?”

“Not at all.”

You tried again. “What ‘bout this?”

“What the fuck was that supposed to be?”

“Australian!”

“Really? Because it just sounded offensive.”

“Offensive to who?”

“Anyone who has ears!”

You shoved him playfully and let him attempt to teach you about the different accents he’d learned in school. He was really good at most of them, but he was having a hard time teaching you, which only frustrated him and made you laugh.

You were so caught up in conversation, that you nearly missed your stop, only noticing when the electronic voice repeated herself for the second time. You jumped up from your seat and yanked Tom off the train, leading him all the way up the stairs and out onto the street. You hadn’t even realized you were holding hands until he interlaced his fingers with yours more firmly, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand as you walked.

“Are you ready?” you asked him once you were standing in front of the brick building with the bright yellow roof. “I’m about to take your Waffle House virginity.”

He made a face. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

You were seated in a matter of seconds and having your drink order taken by a sweet Southern sounding woman as soon as you slid into the booth. 

“I’ll have a sweet tea, please,” you asked.

“Coffee for me,” Tom said with a smile. He looked back at you once she was gone. “I can’t believe you drink sweet tea.”

“What, why?”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Says the boy who puts milk in his tea.”

“That’s how you’re supposed to do it!”

“Whatever, I’m not having this conversation with you,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’ll just have to try mine when it comes.”

“Deal.”

Your waitress came back with your drinks and promptly took your orders, yelling them to the cooks behind her at the griddle as you spoke. You ordered hash browns with cheese and ham and Tom ordered a chocolate chip waffle.

“Okay here,” you said and pushed your glass towards him. “You said you’d try it.”

Tom took the cup from you and brought it to his mouth, sipping from the side, and gagged dramatically when he tasted it. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

You shook your head. “You’re wrong. That’s the only acceptable answer.”

“I’m not going to fight you on this, you seem really passionate about it,” he said with a chuckle.

“Smart boy.”

Tom smiled and rested his hands on the table, frowning when he felt it. “Is it just me, or is our table kind of sticky?”

“They all are,” you assured him. “Everything is. It’s part of the charm.”

He picked his hands back up and settled them in his lap instead. “Right. Charm.”

“Stop being a baby and try to have fun,” you hissed. “This waffle’s going to change your fucking life.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“That waffle changed my fucking life,” Tom sighed on the subway ride back to the hotel.

“Not gonna say I told you so, but-”

“I think you just did.”

“Whatever, can’t you just admit I was right?”

“Fine, you were right. It was good. I had fun.”

You smiled. “I had fun too.”

He wrapped his arm back around you as you settled into your seat, full, happy, and increasingly sleepy.

You hadn’t even realized you’d drifted off until Tom was gently shaking you awake, telling you that it was your stop. You let him half lead you, half support your weight as you made your way off the train and up the stairs back into Times Square.

You were too tired to talk and so was he, so you just leaned on each other more or less putting one foot in front of the other until you were in the elevator at the hotel.

“Oh shit, I left my pager in your room, can I grab it?” you asked, remembering that you had set it aside before letting Tom take off your shirt.

“Yeah, sure.” He nodded and stifled a yawn, making you smile.

The room was exactly how you’d left it, sheets a mess, pillows on the floor. Tom helped you search for your pager through piles of clothes and paperwork until he finally found it on top of one of the pillows that had been thrown to the side.

“Thanks,” you said with relief, reaching out to grab it.

He closed his hand over yours as you grabbed your pager from his palm, making you jump.

“Why don’t you stay with me tonight?” he asked, eyes soft and inviting.

“What?” you asked, not completely sure if he’d said what you thought he’d said.

“Stay. Please?”

fun fact: something like that actually happened to me on the subway where the train started moving and I fell into some random guy’s lap but it was much, much worse than this lmao. I hope you guys liked this part it was fun to write!! lmk what you think I always appreciate feedback!!

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[purplesurveys]

1014

What snack food could you not live without? I feel like “can’t live without” is pushing it too far, but Pringles is my favorite and I imagine I’d be pretty miserable if they hypothetically suddenly disappear or stop production. Can never get enough of those.

What/where is your favorite restaurant? And what do they specialize in? Yabu. It’s Japanese, but they mainly specialize in katsu so they don’t have sushi or ramen or sukiyaki or other types of Japanese food. I haven’t had my usual since February or March, so I can’t waaaait until I can finally order for myself.

How do you waste time when you are procrastinating? Looking for anything I can watch on YouTube. Once I’ve found a video it usually is able to send me into a black hole of other videos, so it’s been quite the effective way to avoid tasks or things I’m worrying about.

Do you follow any celebrities on social media? Who? I don’t, honestly. I never understood it about myself lol; I’m fascinated by a number of celebrities but the idea of being constantly updated about their personal lives just never seemed appealing to me. I guess I just like them for what they do and the celebrity that comes with it. The only one I follow on Twitter is Hayley Williams.

Who do you admire for what they have accomplished? Probably Arlan. Dude had like 10 orgs while in college, was in the college student council, and he got accepted to Columbia’s graduate program for journalism for the next school year. Idek how he even finds the time to sleep.

Would you like if you never had to work again? Lately I’ve been learning about myself that work gives me a sense of purpose, so even if I was offered all the money in the world, I’d take it but I would still want to work (assuming I’m in a job I like and care about). I never want to go back to how shitty I felt in September when I was neither studying nor working.

Are you a big sports fan? What team and sports? I like watching basketball and volleyball games, but only the ones played in our local university league – that said, I obviously root for my school lol. I like pro wrestling too, but they don’t work in teams.

Do you believe in following your dreams? Yes, but the way there is vastly different for everyone in that some people may have the connections and resources early on, while some will have to work and claw a little harder. The playing field isn’t always level, unfortunately.

Do you like to play board games? They’re fine, but I typically prefer to watch from the sidelines mostly because I’m terrible at following instructions and retaining them in my head as I play.

What were your favorites games as a kid? Does it have to be board games? I played outside way more often and my favorites were patintero, 10-20, and a game we called ‘ice ice water,’ which is really just freeze tag. I also liked pick-up sticks.

Would you like to be a “stay at home” mom or dad? I dunno if I would enjoy that, honestly. Like I said, I like the idea of working as it makes me feel productive...but who knows? I’m only 22, literally a fresh graduate, I don’t have kids, and it’s a long way before I can possibly become a mom. But my priorities could always change; I could wind up being a mom who is content with being a housewife. I really have no clue, and I’ll never know until I get there.

How are your “direction skills” when you are driving? Yeah, they’re nonexistent. I need Waze all the time if I’m the one driving, even if it’s going to a place I routinely travel to.

Do you need to be in charge or are you happy to let someone else take charge? It depends on how confident or familiar I am with the task at hand. I can handle being either a leader or a follower; but I do think that, for all tasks I’m involved in, I do like to help call the shots and decide on things on some level, no matter how little it is. I never just follow, if that makes sense.

Would you rather “talk it out” or “let it go” and hope it’s forgotten about? Talk it out. Communication is really important to me.

What celebrity have others told you that you look like? Anna Akana and Lucy Hale.

Do you like to dance? What kind do you enjoy the most? Only either when I’m alone or have had a lot to drink. I don’t actually know any types of dance.

Do you feel anxious right now? Eh, not really. I’m a little sad, but getting out of bed to sit at my desk has slightly fixed that for the meantime.

Do you like to eat breakfast for dinner? What are your faves? Sometimes my dad will make breakfast food for dinner, yeah. I’m never enthusiastic about it lol, but I don’t complain.

Do you feel like you will ever have enough money to make you happy? Sure, I think so. I know I definitely don’t want to end up being extremely selfish about money.

What is more appealing to you: a pub crawl or a wine tasting? Pub crawl, for sure. I hate wine anyway.

What classes or courses would you take to learn more about? International relations, biology, and anthropology.

Would you ever get a tattoo? What kind would you get? Idk if I would ever get one, but one of my ideas is to have Paramore’s lyrics “For all the joy that is to come / Just let the pain remind you hearts can heal” on my wrist, kinda like as a reminder that there are brighter days ahead. That’s not the correct sequence of lyrics, but combining those lines together was what spoke to me the most. 

How much time do you spend working out a week? (you can fib a little) I don’t work out.

Do you dress up for Halloween? What was your best costume? Only if my friends have something planned. I’ve mentioned this several times lately but my personal favorite costume was going as my old best friend, Sofie. It was so low-effort but everyone understood who I was and had a kick out of it.

How often do you like to shop online? I never really did it regularly before since I had been on a tight allowance throughout college, but now that I’m earning on my own I could see myself ordering stuff online 1-2 times a month.

Have you ever spent time “online dating?” No. I had Tinder before, but just to people-watch. Still not interested in it now.

Do you ever hang out with your parents? How about your siblings? No. We don’t do one-on-one bonding; we’re all emotionally unequipped for that lol. I hate that I missed out on family things like that; and my future kid/s is/are definitely getting a lot of solo dates with me.

What is the number one way that you like to spend your time? Probably going on YouTube. There’s always something to watch over there.

Is it easy or hard for you to be lazy all day? Easy for the most part, but if I know I have work to do I also like getting my ass up to wrap that up as quickly as I can.

How similar are you to your zodiac sign characteristics? Based on what’s been shoved down my throat from social media, Tauruses  love their food, hold grudges, are fiercely loyal, resistant to change, and annoyingly stubborn. Those things are all me.

What are you addicted to? I don’t have any addictions.

What is the last song that you saved to your playlist? Haven’t been using my playlists lately.

If you could listen to only one artist, who would that be? Paramore.

Who would you like to be president right now? We have a dictator of a president at the moment and the list of potential candidates for 2022 isn’t looking too great either, so...who the fuck knows. I’m hoping someone capable – and someone preferably younger – steps up to take the challenge before 2022. I look forward to the day we take to the streets to celebrate the same way America did today.

Were you popular in school? I mean in high school I was kinda on the radar, but I still liked staying at the sides and let my more popular friends take the spotlight. Besides, I was already linked with Gabie and I didn’t want teachers and staff to be on our asses. 

What is your favorite place that you have ever visited? Locally, Sagada. Outside of the country, probably Shanghai.

What places do you want to travel to before you get too old? Ideally I’d want to travel to as many countries as I can, to be honest. Doesn’t matter where. But if I can only afford to do so a handful of times, I’d spend that money on Morocco, India, Thailand, Egypt, South Korea, Iceland, Peru, and Spain (and then maybe go on a European road trip from there).

What is the perfect work schedule that you would love? I’m happy with my current 9-6 shift.

What was the best party that you have ever been to? Rita’s sister’s org’s Halloween party from last year.

Did school come easy for you or was it hard? High school was easy, but I purposely didn’t put much effort into it. I didn’t see the point, considering a) teachers have their established favorite students early on and I knew I wasn’t one of them and no matter how well I did I knew I wasn’t going to get recognized, and b) workplaces could not care less about your high school record. College was also easy, and I found balancing my academics, org life, and social life to be fun and fulfilling.

What language do you enjoy listening to? English or Filipino.

Would you take the time to learn a new language? Sure. I’ve done that with Spanish and Korean before.

If you had a personal assistant, what would you have them do? Make them do the phone calls whenever I would have to at work.

Who is the funniest person that you know? I have several people in mind, honestly - Andi, Kate, Jum, Aya, JM, Hans.

Who is the worst pain in the ass that you know? My mom. Sometimes Cooper.

Whose life do you look to as a “model” of what you would like yours to ultimately look like? Anna, one of the moms from the Korean reality show I watch. Her amazing attitude towards life, her parenting skills, cooking skills, aesthetic, and overall life is all I want.

How much money do you save from your paycheck? I have no idea how to budget yet. AAAHHHHHHHHH

Which is a stronger emotion, fear or joy? I think both can be felt strongly.

What types of people do you follow on social media? Athletes, Influencers? Mostly irl people. The only famous people I follow are AJ Mendez (though she’ll always be AJ Lee to me) and Hayley, like I said. OH WAIT I also follow the entire GMM crew! Idk why I missed that.

Would you ever like to work remotely and travel? That’d be nice, sure.

When were you the poorest that you have ever been? Quarantine.

[thesinglesjukebox]

LADY GAGA - STUPID LOVE

[6.42]

Far from "Shallow" now...

Brad Shoup: Thudding sixteenths and vocal chop straight out of a Todd Edwards remix... it's always great when she visits. [8]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: It must be exhausting to be Lady Gaga. Here's a short list of her accomplishments since 2013's ARTPOP: winning a Grammy for a jazz duets album, winning a Golden Globe for her role in American Horror Story, headlining the Super Bowl, co-hosting arguably the best Met Gala in years, winning an Oscar for A Star is Born, getting a number one Billboard single from the soundtrack, launching a vegan make-up line, and starring in a Las Vegas residency. And yet, the dominant critical narrative has still essentially been: Gaga is absent from pop music. (For comparison, Katy Perry has been a judge on American Idol.) Of course, her self-mythologizing is partially to blame for this, but it's unclear what could have possibly satisfied her critics and die-hard fans outside of re-reinventing music à la 2010. So what's her move given the weight of the world's impossible expectations? To make simple, unpretentious pop music on her own terms. In a recent Billboard interview, she laughed while stating, "I would like to put out music that a big chunk of the world will hear, and it will become a part of their daily lives, and make them happy every single day." My first reaction upon reading this was: yes, we should hold Gaga to a higher standard because she's Gaga, but how can we balance that with the potentially damaging effects for her mental health and sanity? So on "Stupid Love" when she sings, "Now it's time to free me from this chain/I gotta find that peace, is it too late?" I like to hope it's meta-commentary on her rediscovering the joy in her music and being, free of expectation. Gaga tracks are often described as "huge" or "epic", but none has ever so perfectly embodied "fun." I'm definitely excited about how this track sounds -- an ebullient return to her earliest disco pop roots, at a time when radio is dominated by trap -- but "Stupid Love" stands out to me because of her embrace of radical self-love. This is the Gaga that I've always loved -- and she's always been enough. [9]

Leah Isobel: The production filters back an entire decade's worth of Stefani's influence into a three-minute Fruit Gusher burst of tang, but the lyrics are decidedly forward-looking, all declarative statements of "now is the time!" bullshit. In the middle of this past/present/future time-play, as the beat drops out beneath her, she asserts the key line: "all I ever wanted was lahv." If it's a disappointingly shallow retcon for an artist whose initial breadth and ambition was the entire point, the promise of it lingers in my brain. After all, it's not too far from a similar pop megalomaniac realizing that she "traded fame for love without a second thought" about 20 years ago. That rich vein of popstar self-examination writ large is so suited to Gaga's talents as an artist -- a provocateur, fake-deep philosopher, musical theatre nerd, and hook-writing master all at once -- that I have listened to this song five times in a row pretty much every single day since it, uh, appeared on the internet. My paws are reluctantly up, Stef. Don't fuck it up. [7]

Jessica Doyle: Fun, and otherwise unremarkable. If you've been a Gaga fan for a while -- if you're invested in the narrative of this hardworking woman, who has been through downs and ups and downs and then ups again -- I imagine the fun is enhanced by a certain comfort and relief in seeing her have fun; in imagining her feeling strong and secure enough to release a fun song that doesn't have to upend anything. But I am a heartless, acontextual consumer, for whom the marginal cost of listening to something else is zero, and I miss "Bad Romance." [5]

Tobi Tella: For an artist who at her peak overstuffed everything with too many ideas, there's really not much happening here. It's loud and upbeat, sure, but the lyrics are barely the thread of a coherent song, and the production reminds everyone who wants "pure" pop to come back to be careful what they wish for. Maybe that A Star is Born "pop music bad guitar music good" cynicism rubbed off too much? [4]

Katherine St Asaph: Just when I thought Gaga was lost to the land of Real Music™, or worse, flailing attempts to be chill by the least chill performer in pop music (yes, including Taylor Swift), she goes and releases this, 50,000 firecrackers on a Eurovision stage. The thicket of hooks is packed, with Black Midi levels of referential density. The whole thing sounds like "Born This Way," which is to say it sounds like "Express Yourself"; there's a juddering sequencer out of "Do What U Want" (reminds me more of "Weekend" by Class Actress, but which is more likely to be the actual inspiration?) and a touch of, of all things, September's "Cry For You." Gaga fills every crevice of the song with singing, throaty and belty and huge: a relief after years of songs filled only with half-assed #vibes. If it feels frivolous against much of Born This Way and The Fame Monster and some of Artpop, and far less ambitious, it at least pulls her out of the "Shallow" piano muck. [7]

Vikram Joseph: Perhaps a stupid song about making stupid choices is the Lady Gaga lead single we both need and deserve in 2020. The battering-ram synths feel like running down a hill into a gale-force wind; the best thing about "Stupid Love" is that Gaga sounds like she's having a lot of fun, and by extension so are we. [7]

Alex Clifton: "Stupid Love," much like "Born This Way" before it, is ready-made for pride parades, grown from the same mystical lab that gave Lady Gaga her incredible melodic sensibilities. Unlike its predecessor, though, it has more euphoria in it, presumably because it's not making a political point. Gaga's more focused on having fun here, and you can tell. The verses aren't my favourite, but the chorus hits as an overwhelming rush of dopamine, and now I can't stop dancing in my computer chair. Between this and Dua Lipa's album, we're in for a hell of a good time for pop music this spring, and I am extremely excited. [7]

Thomas Inskeep: She was doing this better a decade ago. A lot better. [2]

Joshua Lu: The narrative surrounding "Stupid Love" regards it a return to the Pop Gaga that's been mostly absent since 2013: A revival if you're a fan, a regression if you're not. The issue with this narrative is that "Stupid Love" lacks any key similarities to the Gaga of yesteryear; the only real sonic link is how the bassline brings to mind the since-redacted "Do What U Want" beat. Instead we have something that's somehow not a Kygo song, with vocal chirps that got old last year, serviceable but clichéd hooks (the entire pre-chorus has all the charm of a Taio Cruz album track), remarkably basic lyrics filled with platitudes, and a title that has no bearing on anything in the song -- there's nothing lyrically or aurally stupid about anything here, and Gaga has shown a deep capacity to be stupid in her past pop works. In reality, what we have here isn't a return to anything, but rather the continued flagging of Gaga's desire to develop genuinely off-beat or interesting pop music, whether intentional or not. Gaga's talents as a vocalist elevate the song beyond the usual pop pap, but it's not nearly at the level I once hoped she could remain at. [6]

Alfred Soto: Kudos to Jamieson Cox for catching an obvious forebear: the rattling sequencer recalls 2013's forgotten "Do What U Want," which was all set to do some business until radio programmers remembered R. Kelly had been a menace for years. Amiably confusing lack of affect with simplicity, "Stupid Love" flexes its pop strength with the expectation that fans will admire it. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: The synths pack a punch but they never quite get me to where I should be. I wanna feel desperation, exasperation -- that love is worth looking stupid for. All I get is a familiar, quasi-stoic performance that sounds like Gaga's doing some excellent karaoke. [4]

Kayla Beardslee: Sure, it's competent, but Gaga is capable of so much more. Many other blurbs will discuss the song's aggressive datedness and bland lyrics, but what really bothers me is that the two halves of "Stupid Love" -- the dramatic vocals and the unrelenting gallop of the synths -- don't fit together. Gaga is giving her all with those signature "laahv"s, but there's just not enough empty space left for her in the production. Her performance ends up laying flat on top of the track, adding nothing except a sense of laziness from her producers and engineers. [5]

Pedro João Santos: Serviceable Max Martin bopathon scams its way into my brain again -- no matter how direly in need of an incubator this whole structure is. Gaga's weakest lead single feeds you Kygo, threatens to ascend during "All I ever wanted was love", and still can't fight the aura of afterthought. [6]

Jibril Yassin: "Stupid Love" is a giddy rush of EDM-pop fun, but it's the first time experiencing a major Gaga single entirely devoid of surprises. Bracing yourself for a twist that never arrives or a strange turn of vocals rearing its head from nowhere, "Stupid Love" makes up for its unremarkableness with a masterclass in songwriting. What Lady Gaga hasn't forgotten how to do is translate the feeling of having your initial gut feelings completely validated. "Stupid Love" makes its magic in casting the act of love as necessary and dare I say it -- radical. [7]

Jackie Powell: On "Stupid Love" Lady Gaga achieved a corollary. By trying to put her healing process into simple poetry, she also created an accompanying sound that's comparable to an analgesic. The function of the track is to heal and liberate. (Truth be told, Little Monster or not, the song has helped me get out of bed in the morning.) Gaga's latest cut is packaged into a familiar formula, and that's part of the reason why this track serves as a formidable lead single and symbol for the upcoming Chromatica. The equation is one that mirrors the "best of" Stefani Germanotta. What's brilliant about "Stupid Love" is that its visual and lyrical messaging and surrounding sonic arrangement and melody bring what Little Monsters and casual music fans with a Gaga fascination expect. And that's okay. She has told Oprah that her goal now isn't just to shock people but rather to exude authenticity. She stirs elements from all of her pop eras into the most hearty and flavourful version of Gaga soup (and that does include Joanne contrary to popular belief.) Each ingredient works and is soluble. She tossed in the elements of the The Fame that made fans want to Just Dance and sprinkled some catchy Swedish-sounding pop melodies (Max Martin, hello!) and sung onomatopoeia from The Fame Monster, à la the "hey-ah, hey-ahs." A suspenseful build, uniquely potent and soaring vocals are ounces of Born This Way. Don't worry, ARTPOP is doused on this track not only in color, but in sound. There's a reason why that sped up "Do What U Want"-esque bassline works. There's a contrast between her bright vocal performance and the electronic bass' darkness. Joanne comes across in the allegorical concept which once again can be interpreted to reflect the current American experience. Music video director Daniel Askill confirmed that Gaga wanted to portray the "warring tribes as a metaphor for the state of the world today." So, Mother Monster is on a mission to introduce the world to her new brainchild, ever-developing ideologies and honest ways to examine life. "Stupid Love" isn't the end-all but merely the beginning. Paws up and welcome to Chromatica bitches. [8]

Nortey Dowuona: NOPE! WAIT. wait. This is actually a welcome back for... the bass, who is joined by his drumming sister, his synth bros and Lady Gaga, who has come here from the Make A Wish Foundation to take him around New York. They have a wonderful day together, with the synth bros getting their percussive background vocal girlfriend an NYPD hoodie, and the experience convinces Lady Gaga to make bright, happy pop music again! (The bass, in the midst of a happy dance, got hit by her limo and had to go back to the hospital.) [8]

Scott Mildenhall: Between its hyperventilating over-excitement and ever-exciting hyper-sincerity, Gaga seems to have finally created a pop emergency. The false alarm of "Applause" was overstuffed and underpowered, but "Stupid Love" redresses that balance by going harder and clearer, like a newly thawed cut from a cryogenically frozen, course-correcting Artpop Monster edition. Time might seem to have turned in on itself, but no: the greater lyrical directness arrives in a way that feels culminatory. The plainspokenness of that indelible "all I ever wanted was love" makes it almost an epitaph, grounding it in a present in which all experience has been lived, and all realisations are realised. Undeniably, Lady Gaga is not dead, but this is what she knows. [8]

Will Adams: I defended "The Cure" and lamented the immense pressure on Gaga to make every release the Next Big Thing, however even that soured when it turned out to be part of A Star Is Born's ~superficial pop~ world. So where to next, when she's caught between turgid rock balladry and ill-fitting trop-pop? On "Stupid Love," we get the best possible outcome: whizzing past Joanne, making a brief stop at Artpop but ultimately landing on the dazzling excess of Born This Way. Like any good synthpop number, the synths display a wide range of textures: they tunnel, they drill, they poof, they gleam. Gaga is more than willing to match their energy. Noteworthy, though, is that she takes a brief pause only on the pre-chorus's "all I ever wanted was love"; even the way the title scans it almost sounds like she could be singing "I want just to be loved." This is the essence of pop: amidst the big dumb fireworks display, a human message at the core. [7]

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume Five, Number 10

The Hammered Hulls

Time again for a load of short, mostly positive reviews of records that caught our attention at least for a little while. This edition is typically wide ranging with free jazz, teen garage pop, piano experiments, acoustic guitar picking and goth-y post punk all jockeying for your ear. It’s not just obscurities this time around either, as Ian Mathers looks for the solid core of the National’s over-long latest, while Jen Kelly makes peace with the Futureheads. Participants besides these two include Bill Meyer, Andrew Forell, Nate Knaebel and Justin Cober-Lake.

CP Unit—Riding Photon Time (Eleatic Records)

Riding Photon Time by CP Unit

CP Unit, an evolving ensemble formed around saxophonist Chris Pitsiokis, exhilarates live, the sound anchored by antic, twitching, faster-than-advisable-but-nailed-anyway bass, complicated patterns of percussion and abstract slashes of guitar. Live, the music is colored rather than dominated, by the urgent, chaotic energy of the proprietor on horn. A late summer set at the Root Cellar in Greenfield, MA left me gasping. Riding Photon Time captures the same band I saw—Pitsiokis, Sam Lisabeth on guitar, Henry Fraser on bass and Jason Nazary on drums (which is different from the line-up Derek Taylor reviewed here )— in two fiery 2018 live settings. The first half of the disc was recorded at the Moers Festival in Germany in May, the second at the Unlimited Music Festival in November. “Once Upon a Time Called Now,” from the earlier set, captures the spare, rippling tension between Pitsiokis’ free-ranging inquiries and Nazary’s intricate but grounded rhythms; they duel for a couple of minutes before the rest of the band enters. The cut also foregrounds Fraser’s restless, rampaging bass work, carving a headlong through line in the squall and storm. “Seasick,” from the November show, gives space to Lisabeth’s guitar, lyrical in a tilted, offkilter way, the tones bouncing off Pitsiokis’ sax melody in loose conjunction and counterpoint. My only complaint is that the mix favors melody, zooming in on the sax and obscuring, somewhat, the fascinating interplay between drum and bass. In most bands, that’d be fine, but in this case, the rhythm is just too good to hide. 

Jennifer Kelly

 Eluvium — Pianoworks (Temporary Residence Ltd)

Matthew Cooper has done enough things under his Eluvium moniker that even those only mildly acquainted with his work might not be surprised that he’s put out an album of solo piano compositions; they might, however, be surprised to find out that Pianoworks is the second such Eluvium album, after 2004’s An Accidental Memory in Case of Death. That record, coming after the striking (and often noisy) debut effort Lambent Material served to establish that Cooper wasn’t going to be restrained by genre, form or instrument. Here, having accomplished an awful lot over the past 15+ years it’s fitting that Cooper appears to be in a more contemplative, even melancholy mood. Whether it’s the gently rippling “Underwater Dream” or the brightly rounded runs of “Carrier 32”, Pianoworks serves as a reminder that Cooper can stop you in your tracks with the simplest of setups, if he chooses. (And for those really a fan of his piano work, the deluxe version features an extra disc of new versions of practically all the previous Eluvium piano pieces as well.)  

Ian Mathers  

 Frieda’s Roses — Jessica Triangle (Mika)

The three women of Frieda’s Roses—that’s Greta Fannin, Ava Miller and Poppy Lang—aren’t even in high school yet; their ages range from 13 to 15. And yet, this debut album, Jessica Triangle, is a marvel of minor key garage pop, raucous and wistful at the same time. Its bristly onslaught of guitars guards a tender center. You also realize, about halfway through the album, that teen girl pop has changed since the last time you looked, and the subject matter here is rather empowered. In a very strong middle section, “Isadora Giving” chides a girl for being too accommodative (“She’s kind in the way of giving things away”), while the stand-out “Lucy Poe” celebrates the complexity and intelligence of a young woman (“She’s happy and not/at the same time.”) “Forever Defend Her Story” recounts the ordinariness of sexual assault and the way women are blamed for it. The songs are bright and dark simultaneously laying in the pretty vocals of, say, Grass Widow, atop a raucous, acerbic foundation. There’s no way you’d know, without reading the coverage, how young this band is. They sound like they’ve been doing it forever.

Jennifer Kelly

 The Futureheads — Powers (Nul)

Back at the old Dusted, I wrote perhaps my most vicious review ever about the Futureheads’ second album, News and Tributes. It was disappointment speaking — I’d genuinely liked their taut, fizzy debut — when I said, “Now, with News and Tributes, the sad truth emerges. The Futureheads were lean from hunger, not discipline. With opportunity, they tend toward the flabbiest sort of excess.” Well, 13 years have passed, and I no longer expect anything from the Futureheads. I’d forgotten they existed, to be honest, but their latest album, Powers, is kind of fun. Much of what made the debut such a pleasure—the tightly wound guitars, the unexpectedly complicated vocal counterparts, the exuberant avowal of depressing ideas—is here, too. “Electric Shock” trips all the wires (ahem) by itself, with its zingy guitar and drum cadence, its densely harmonized vocals and its celebration of an extreme form of mental health therapy (“When I got my electric shock/it knocked me off my feet”). “Jekyll” punches, stings and tantalizes, its hoarse, wracked northern lead pillowed by giddy oohs and ohs. “Can you control your transformations?” asks the singer Barry Hyde, and then the song itself transforms itself, turning into a popcorning cacophony of closely aligned vocals. Even the willfully positive, good time anthem, “Good Night Out” ripples with existential angst; it’s only a feel good song if you don’t listen too closely. And yet, there’s a great deal of joy in these tight, complicated songs. They burst into flames as you listen, leaving spots in your eyes from the brightness and the bitter taste of ash.

Jennifer Kelly

 Hammered Hulls — S/T (Dischord)

S/T by Hammered Hulls

Perhaps it's a bit lazy to toss out the old "super group" appellation; but, come on, if you're even a moderate follower of that thing we call indie rock, you have to recognize the extraordinary line-up of Hammered Hulls for what it is. With DC hardcore royalty Alec MacKaye on vocals, newly minted arena rocker Mary Timony on bass, Chris Wilson of Ted Leo and the Pharmacists fame (among other outfits) on drums, and Des Demona/Pink Monkey Bird Chris Cisneros on guitar, Hammered Hulls represents an undeniably impressive assemblage of rockers. If any individual band member's musical history comes to the fore here, though, it's probably MacKaye's, as the band trades in a brawny yet cunningly complex punk that recalls the musical revelations delivered by Dischord's first blasts of post-hardcore creativity. And while this is clearly a team effort, each sonic component is worthy of the listeners attention as much as the superlative whole. Though two of the three tracks clock in at just over a minute, indicating that at least in spirit the band isn't denying its past, the practically byzantine by comparison (coming in at almost four minutes) "Written Words" hints at the potential Hammered Hulls has to be more than just a spirited one-off by some friends with impressive resumes. This single should leave everyone desperate for more.  

Nate Knaebel  

 HTRK — Venus In Leo (Ghostly International)

Australian duo HTRK’s latest Venus In Leo is a collection of electro-acoustic minimalism characterized by a woozy shimmer reminiscent of Mark Nelson’s work as Pan American. Jonnine Standish and Nigel Yang have stripped their music to the bare bones. A heartbeat throb, sparse percussion, occasional washes of synth and Yang’s simple guitar strums underpin Standish’s voice mixed to the fore on nine songs redolent with damaged longing. There is a rawness of emotion and acute observation of small domestic moments recorded with an intimacy that draws the listener close. Influenced by dub’s use of space, echo and silence Yang and Standish achieve a feeling of momentum to evoke quiet turmoil. Their miniaturization of Missy Elliott’s “Hit ‘Em Wit Da Hee” takes repeated lyrical snippets from the original and turns the song into a ghostly waltz. “What's up star? /We know who you are/Shit, no shit I thought you hadn't noticed.” Venus In Leo’s unadorned modesty is at times devastating.

Andrew Forell

  Justin Peter Kinkel-Schuster — Take Heart, Take Care (Big Legal Mess)

Songwriter Justin Peter Kinkel-Schuster frames his new album Take Heart, Take Care as the result of an artistic problem. He'd become used to writing dark songs, until he found he was content and had mostly good things to say. It's a false dilemma, of course. Any number of artists have built not only albums but careers on encouragement (see the War and Treaty as an example of a current act doing it really, really well). The real trap for Kinkel-Schuster was to avoid get treacly in his new mood, and he successfully avoids that snare.

His performances rely on his patience — he's content, remember, but not exuberant. He builds his songs comfortably within his context, but he doesn't jump on them. When he sings, “There's plenty of wonder in this world still to be found,” on the opener, his ease prevents it from sounding like a naïve epiphany. Kinkel-Schuster's Americana-influenced indie-rock comes carefully constructed, but only to make space for that heart to come through. It's a songwriter's record, easy melodies supported by well-balanced guitars. It's the singer not the guitars who have done their processing. The record and its bright sound create a warm space and sit down in it. Kinkel-Schuster may have found his ease, but his desire to share it quickly becomes apparent.

Justin Cober-Lake

 Longriver—Of Seasons (Hullaballou)

Of Seasons by Longriver

David Longoria of Longriver picks nimbly at his guitar, plucking out porch blues-y tunes that are steeped in tradition but freshly imagined. Not quite spare, his tunes are abetted by a crew of Texas regulars, songwriters Sarah LaPuerta of Strange Paradise and Lindsey Verrill of Little Mazarn, Evan Joyce and Colin Gilmore, as well as composer/percussionist Thor Harris. Though mostly acoustic guitar and voice, his sound is filled out with harmonica, soft percussion and twining communal harmonies. His songs run at a mid-temperature folky pace, so soft spoken and unassuming enough to elide one into the other, and honestly, don’t quite catch fire until late in the album when ghostly, lovely “Texas Doesn’t Care” comes along. This one uses all the tools, an aching pedal steel guitar, some silvery electric keyboards, punchy drums and fiddle. It also contains the prettiest melody of the disc, fluttered out in a high, not quite falsetto quaver. A few more like this and Texas might sit up and take notice.

Jennifer Kelly

 Lunaires — If All the Ice Melted (Shades of Sound/Wave Records)

IF ALL THE ICE MELTED by Lunaires

If All the Ice Melted is a highly polished blend of cold wave, goth and stadium synthpop. This first outing from Milan post-punk Jeunesse d’Ivoire veterans Patrizia Tranchina (vocals) and Danilo Carnevale (guitars, programming, synths) evokes the heyday of 4AD bands such as The Cocteau Twins, Xmal Deutschland and Dead Can Dance. Here, Tranchina ruminates on loss, mortality and nature’s power as Carnevale constructs dreamy electronic soundscapes with sparklingly clean guitar lines twinkling above. The results are lovely but polite. The edges have been sandpapered to nothing and the dust swept away. “Mirror Trancefix” stands out precisely because it has that grit — the drum programming a little ragged, the bass dirty, the guitars cutting. Otherwise the gloss creates an emotional distance, which may be the point but discourages complete engagement with Tranchina’s often affecting vocals. If All the Ice Melts sounds good, and if it never quite breaks out there’s enough here to enjoy and look forward to what Lunaires could do with a little less restraint.

Andrew Forell

  Bill Nace & Chik White—Eel (all parts) / Wild Wire (Open Mouth)

The news that Bill Nace (Body / Head, Vampire Belt) has picked up an acoustic guitar and sat down to jam with a jaw harpist might give some cause for pause. Is he going American Primitive, or maybe going skiffle? Spoiler alert — the ghosts of John Fahey and Lonnie Donegan will not hear their names called when you play this record. But play it you will, and for only the best of reasons. First of all, it’s a seven-inch, black vinyl single, and no one buys such things anymore unless they really, really love them. But this one does more to earn your affection than merely exist. On the a-side, White’s orally organized vibrations and Nace’s persistent smacks on prepared strings stir up a constellation of buzzing sounds that’ll reliably destabilize your equilibrium without getting you fired when the Feds drop by to drop everyone on the work floor. The flip combines broad feedback ribbons with intermittent glottal eruptions to create a sonic sweat lodge experience so deep that you’ll be unloading all your Scientology machines on e-bay, all issues resolved.

Bill Meyer

  The National — I Am Easy to Find (4AD)

The National have been getting expansive recently (with the instrumentation and their runtimes, among other things), and who can blame them? Having attained the kind of big-venue prominence that means either you start lapsing into the version of yourself the hecklers always claimed you were (an especially slippery potential slope for a band like this one, so precisely emotionally calibrated and so close to being the bad kind of dad rock) or you start just going for it. The latter approach served them mostly well on Sleep Well Beast a few years ago, but this time finally feels like the kind of record that the National needed to make for their own progress more than one that’s necessarily fully successful. One absolutely successful move is the series of accompanying singers (“backing” seems almost disrespectful for what Gail Ann Dorsey and Lisa Hannigan, among others, bring to these songs), and the expanded studio palette first highlighted on Beast is still mostly working for them. There’s even a quick comparison in the form of old fan favorite “Rylan,” which still sounds great here. Ultimately what doesn’t quite settle right is just the sheer length, bulk, and discursiveness of the album, complete with accompanying film, brief interludes by the Brooklyn Youth Chorus, interpolating a Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 song into a track that was already too long and feeling that somewhere within these 63 minutes is a really killer 40 minute or so album just waiting to be carved out. Eight albums in, things could be a lot worse.  

Ian Mathers  

 Reduction Plan — (Ae)Maeth (Redscroll Records / Dune Altar)

(Ae) Maeth by Reduction Plan

Reduction Plan swells to epic size in this sixth full-length, turning the darkwave, synth-heavy aesthetic laid out in the five previous albums into an enveloping, shimmering, near-post-metal overload. Daniel Manning, the band’s single member, worked with Swans/Walkman producer Kevin McMahon this time, a move which transformed his Cure-circa-Disintegration gloom into a weighted, gleaming edifice. “An Act of Self Immolation” sets the tone with giant masses of guitar sound that tower and lumber. Unencumbered by vocals, it’s more like Pelican than gothy-post-punk. “The River” hews closer to new wave, with its clean, chiming synth tones, gate-reverbed drums and echoey vocals — there’s a nice smouldery sax solo in this one, too — but still looms and glowers with a palpable heaviness. “Ae Maeth,” at the end, brings on Jae Matthews from Boy Harsher for added vocals, a kindred spirit in reviving music at the intersection of dance, goth and industrial; the album’s longest cut slows the thump of dance floor into a desolate cadence that can’t and won’t stave off destruction.

Jennifer Kelly

 Rosenau & Sanborn — Bluebird (Psychic Hotline)

Bluebird by Rosenau & Sanborn

The house on the cover of this LP is surrounded by fallen leaves. But even though it depicts the location of this recording, and that recording took place in October, and they recorded with the windows open, the sounds inside are not particularly autumnal. Chris Rosenau’s (Collections of Colonies of Bees, Volcano Choir) is too quick and eager, Nick Sanborn’s (Sylvan Esso, Megafaun) electronics too effervescent. This music feels like the sun hitting your brow, refracted by heavy air. It feels like the first awareness of escape when you turn off the work phone and start a vacation. Or maybe it just feels like Indian summer. Put it on, put the speakers out the window, and go kick some leaves.

Bill Meyer  

 We Melt Chocolate — We Melt Chocolate (Annibale Records)

we melt chocolate by we melt chocolate

The reanimation of shoegaze pioneers My Bloody Valentine, Slowdive and Ride has brought renewed attention to the genre’s flourishing across Europe, the US, and Japan during their absence. Italian band We Melt Chocolate — that’s Vanessa Billi (voice and synth), Lorenzo Sbisa (guitar), Enrico Baroncelli (guitar), Marco Crowley Corvitto (bass) and Francesco Lopes (drums) — hit all the classic marks on their latest, excellently produced self-titled album. Ethereal vocals, banks of effects laden neo-psychedelic guitar, washes of synth, and a thick bottom end are all present and correct. Taking Loveless as their template, We Melt Chocolate strive for the epic and on tracks like “wishful” and “orange sky” reach it with elegance rather than sheer volume, although turning it up never hurts. We Melt Chocolate probably won’t convert non-believers, but fans of shoegaze and dream pop will find a lot to like here.

Andrew Forell

[ardania22]

I feel like we take Marvel for granted.

I know that seems like a really weird statement; this is the single most popular franchise on the planet, beloved by countless people across the globe, the nexus of the entire postmodern globalization entertainment apparatus. Everyone loves Marvel movies, everyone goes to see Marvel movies... yet I also feel like we don’t always appreciate what they’ve been able to accomplish. It’s easy to look at the whole thing and say, “yep, bunch of decent to excellent movies,” and think that’s all there is to it, or say that there’s some tired “formula” that makes them lazy copy-pastes of each other (don’t get me started on that little train of thought). Marvel is ubiquitous, and that ubiquity makes it easy to underestimate. We all know it’s going to keep making billions of dollars, and there are plenty of smaller projects and movies that deserve attention as well, so why bother going out of your way to feed the Disney machine free advertising? Why care that much about Marvel?

Because it really is that damn good.

Really think about it. This franchise has been running for over a decade straight now, with 22 movies that have pretty much all been massive hits, and not one of them has been an outright failure, commercially or artistically. Only a select few of them could even be considered mediocre. These movies have been giving us fantastic time after fantastic time, and a good number of them haven’t just been great, they’ve been outright masterpieces. How often is it that the most commercially-driven, mass appeal franchise imaginable is also able to be this consistently excellent? Where you can put out instant classics like The Avengers, Iron Man 3, Winter Soldier, Guardians of the Galaxy, Civil War, Guardians 2, Thor Ragnorak, Black Panther, and Infinity War almost freaking back to back, while still finding time for the overall still very good Age of Ultron, Ant Man, Doctor Strange, Spider-Man Homecoming, Ant Man 2, and Captain Marvel in between? (And Thor the Dark World, but, well, the less said about that particular “gem” the better) It should be illegal for any movie series, least of all one with this many moving parts and this complex an internal mechanism, to go on this long with this consistent a batting average. It should have fallen apart a million different times by now.

But it didn’t. Because somehow, some way, the people in charge new exactly what they were doing. Through some sheer miracle, the forces of the profit motive and creative process didn’t just work together once, they worked together for 11 years without any serious breakdowns along the way. That’s how fucking blessed we are with these movies. Sure, there are things you could criticize along the way, in individual movies and the experiment at large. But if this is to be our modern collective consciousness, then I can only be thankful at how wonderful it turned out.

Anyway, I just got back from watching Endgame. There’s a lot I could say about it, all of which would fall short, none of which would do justice to it. So instead, I will say this: once again, Marvel has proven why it’s dominated the popular landscape for so long. It’s not the best of their movies, and I’m not even sure it’s better than Infinity War, but it’s about as perfect a close to this chapter in cinema history as you could ask for. I’ve never been more in love with these movies, and I’ve never been more excited to see where this new era will take us.

[sluttyopinions]

Difficulty in Dark Souls and Why We Can’t Live Without It

April 6, 2019

Written by Samantha, Slutty Opinions

The debate on the role of difficulty in video games seems to, never actually end. It feels like something people talk about literally every year, and for some reason, Dark Souls (and the many games that have followed in its influence) is always the target. It feels like something that doesn’t need much debating in my opinion, but it gets brought up often regardless. For some reason, this topic gets me really riled up and I have a lot of strong opinions on it. It feels like I’m ready to go into a tirade any  time I see it, and lately, I’ve been seeing it way too much. This article is kind of my own way of venting, as well as collecting all the arguments I’ve found in favor of how necessary challenge is, primarily in the new generation of From Soft and Hidetaka Miyazaki games. I think it’s important to address why this issue is truly a non-issue, why it came to be an issue in the first place, and why I even care. For the purposes of this article and keeping it simple, I’ll mostly be referring to one of my favorite games,

Dark Souls isn’t about being really hard

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to Dark Souls being, pretty damn hard. It’s well above average in the department of making me constantly die and wince and feel tense. It’s not the type of game you can just pick up on a whim and breeze through, yet some people clearly want that experience from it or else I wouldn’t be writing this. For some ungodly reason, Dark Souls, or at least most of Miyazaki’s action games since Demon’s Souls is ALWAYS at the center of these discussions. Dark Souls has been the go to analogy for “hard game” for most gaming writers and journalists for YEARS now to much criticism and booing all around.

It’s hard to blame people who haven’t been exposed to the actual games for having this thought process. When Demon’s Souls first came out, it was a breath of fresh air for many in a time when games were getting more and more “dumbed down” across the board. Bandai Namco, the publisher for Dark Souls, decided to use this reputation to its advantage in advertising, calling the definitive edition of Dark Souls the “Prepare to Die Edition”. Streamers caught onto the game quickly as a very easy way to get views because seeing people die and struggle can be, well, fun!

Despite all this, that’s not even close to all there is to Dark Souls. The reputation can be a bit misleading, and it feels like a lot of the easy mode begging crowd knows not much else other than this reputation when it comes to the game. Probably the absolute best aspect of the way Dark Souls was made was its world. The map design is impeccable, it’s very very difficult to find a map more lovingly designed than Dark Souls 1’s. It has so many interesting rewarding shortcuts, feels completely logical and real in the way it was designed despite being in a fantasy world, feels extremely fluid, and is loaded with detail and character. If I were to recommend Dark Souls to someone, I would start with how much I love the world itself in all its aspects. The narrative, the characters, the detail, the risk and reward. I would never even think of telling somebody “It’s really hard and makes you feel cool at the end” (even if there is truth to that statement).

Nonetheless, Dark Souls wouldn’t be worth playing without challenge

I may have said that Dark Souls cannot be reduced to simply “hard game”, but, without being hard, it wouldn’t be a game I would recommend to anyone. All the goodness and enjoyment you can find in the depths of the game is built around the base of it being not an easy time. As I hinted at in the last section, the world design is very risk-reward in nature.

You often encounter forks in your path where you must decide which path is closest to the next checkpoint, or if you want to risk your current experience for more experience and treasure on the more dangerous route. Finding your way around this fluid map wouldn’t feel like much anything without the risk involved. The reward is only rewarding because you banked your skills on that risk. On an easy mode, any path you take would feel the same. Sequence breaking into a much higher level area would not have the punishment it contains to make the rewards worth it if you could waltz into those higher level areas.

The bosses are designed around persistence and patience. The reason the bosses are interesting is because they are something you learn. Many action games are built around reflex as well as training but Dark Souls’ philosophy of design is around dying as a teacher. Not only the bosses, but you advance slowly but surely through levels each time you come back. You win some, you lose some. Enemy placement is designed in a way so that each time you memorize them more, and in a sense, the game then becomes easy. That is the end goal of your adventure, at least, mechanically speaking. Easiness would strip that functional identity from it.

An easy mode would strip Dark Souls of its narrative identity as well

The idea of people asking for an easy mode so they can see the world and story without having  to put in the time shows me that those asking don’t really know a lot about Dark Souls to begin with. As I already said, mechanically, the world would become uninteresting without the risk and reward. The writing of the game also revolves around this risk and the concept of persistence I described earlier. All you’d be doing on an easy romp is looking at a lot of brown stuff and reading cryptic item descriptions. I can’t comprehend wanting to pay for an experience like that and not just watching videos about it all that you can do for free. VaatiVidya has some great ones seriously, you don’t even have to have played the games to enjoy the videos. But, it would certainly help a lot.

The entire theme of Dark Souls is, patience and persistence. In the world your adventure is set in, humans are cursed to be undead and revived again and again. Miyazaki loves making gameplay have as little conflict with the narrative as possible, which is part of what makes his works so unique. This dying and reviving you do in game is what most people in the world around you do. However, most npcs have, limited purpose. Being a shopkeeper, being a warrior, a scholar, maybe even a cynic. Once their “purpose” they have sought out to find has expired, or they have lost confidence in it, they lose their very minds.

Your duty as the player character is to find the First Flame. Not important what that means for the sake of this article, just, your goal. The goal of many others in this world who are just like you. Because the player character is an extension of yourself, your will to find the ending, to find the flame, is imposed upon your avatar. You deciding to get up and give it another go at your true goal is like your character giving life another shot. Even in a cold, nihilistic world like that of Dark Souls, humans can find purpose and determination. Hope and patience are virtues in human beings, and they can allow us to surmount anything. That determination can even surpass the might of the gods themselves. The will to get up after being knocked down a ridiculous amount of times is what makes humans good and what makes life worth it. If you could run to the ending in 5 hours, you would not have gotten anything out of the writing in the game. All the character arcs, the crushing despair around you, the theme itself, gone. Someone could explain it to you as I am now, but that simply isn’t the same.

As I said earlier, a Dark Souls without challenge is a game I would simply never want to play. Miyazaki didn’t choose to make his games hard so tryhards and elitists could masturbate over their digital accomplishments. He makes them hard because that’s the way he feels he could make his art mean something. The way he could use the medium and the art form to the full advantage of his work in every dimension. It’s insulting to imply nothing would change with an easy mode added. I wouldn’t trust anyone who played the game on a setting like that to be able to give the game a proper analysis or review, especially not a journalist who is supposed to convey the core experience to an audience who doesn’t know what it is yet.

Dark Souls difficulty is overblown and overhyped

The reputation preceding Dark Souls is somewhat a false one. As I had previously said, saying it’s an easy or even moderate experience would be a lie. Dark Souls is definitely a hard experience, and one that serves it well as a piece of art. However, it being the “only hard game ever” as it seems to be conveyed in pop culture is a little ridiculous.

There are, a ridiculous amount of difficult games out there in the market. Many of which are much more difficult than Dark Souls and its sequels and much less forgiving. Many of which also do not have easier modes. Dark Souls gets an irregular amount of attention in the public eye and especially to lazy journalists for not much reason.

The game design in Dark Souls is built off pure willpower and the willingness to retry, not often reflexes and exact timing. It is designed in a way so that every death contributes to your end goal. Maybe on one run you opened a shortcut that makes your route easier, maybe you cleared out a miniboss that won’t respawn. Or you mastered your way around a specific enemy. There is no “game over state” in Dark Souls, and what you lose can easily be won back. The game design is punishing, but it gives you the resources to make sure you’re not losing progress or just going insane in general.

Let the artist decide their own art: Not all media has to be for everyone

In the end, an artist has the right to decide how they create, and what they create. As consumers, we reserve the right to get or not get a piece of work as well. If we feel something just isn’t good, or it isn’t accessible to us, or even just not our style, we don’t have to get it or consume it. Of course, this doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to complain about something. I complain about entertainment all the time and always make sure my thoughts on something are fully voiced even if my wishes are unrealistic.

Sometimes though, a piece of entertainment can, thoroughly not be your thing. That doesn’t necessarily mean it was poorly made, at times far from it. A personal example would be I did not like Zelda: Breath of the Wild as much as most. It was enjoyable, but more on an “average” level of enjoyable for me and I left frustrated not wanting to pick it back up, and just missing the older Zelda formula. While I do have specific critiques of the game and things it could have improved, I don’t think it’s a “bad game”. It’s amazingly made and there was a lot of love behind it. It’s just the exact adventure it was going for was not the adventure I was looking for, and that disconnect pushed me away from it.

I’ve seen people on the other side claim the statement of “not all entertainment is for you” is on its own elitist and gatekeepy but, it’s only an undeniable truth about the world. This statement doesn’t even have anything to do with the difficulty. If you REALLY REALLY didn’t enjoy Dark Souls no matter how many times you tried, making it easier wouldn’t change that. Maybe you disliked the tone, the aesthetic, the characters, the feel of the combat. All of that is valid because not everyone has to like everything. Changing some stats like health pools or damage won’t change the game design (The funny story is, I really didn’t like Dark Souls when I first tried it. I tried it maybe 10 times before it clicked, and now it’s my 2nd favorite video game franchise of all time.)

Comparing Dark Souls to other video games is quite honestly, a dishonest debate tactic. Trying to claim that “X hard game has an easy mode so, so should Dark Souls” is not very fair to it as a piece of art. Art is not homogenous or standardized, it’s art. As I explained very thoroughly before, I feel Dark Souls would be butchered had it had its challenge removed, even optionally. Some games even if designed with being very hard as its normal, can get away with easy settings for a variety of reasons. The story can be viewed through interesting dialogue and cutscenes that someone with less patience and time would want to see, it can offer a fun exploration of the mechanics in a way that makes you feel like you’re on a power trip versus on an uphill battle, etc. That choice is up to the individual game and the creator. It is clear Miyazaki and team have no interest in changing their art for the masses, and I can easily see why.

The claim against easy modes is not inherently elitist

People who stand up for my argument or parts of my argument are often targeted for being elitist gatekeepers trying to keep their precious game away from the masses. Making it easier would allow others to play it without struggling the same as the veterans, which would make the veterans insecure enough to fight against it. They earned their pointless digital trophy already and they want to keep it, all to themselves. Or at least, that’s what the people saying this stuff would have you believe.

“If the easy mode is optional, how does that bother you? You already finished the game, and now more people can play it! It’s a win-win. I can’t imagine a reason for fighting that concept other than to maintain your secret club and the status of it.” The truth is, Dark Souls fans (For the most part at least. I won’t deny elitists exist) desire more people to play their game with them, and will help anyone who seeks it. We just don’t want people playing a bastardized version of the game which as I explained, I wouldn’t recommend to basically anyone. It would be like discussing an entirely different game with people who think there is no difference. It’s not because they’re “weak” or “uncool” for choosing a hypothetical easier setting, it’s because that experience would not carry even near the same identity.

I cannot overstress the fact that Souls fans absolutely love to help. It is possibly one of the most guided games ever made. Video guides, written guides, guides of all types for all different people. The fandom is one of the surprisingly nicest, funniest groups I have known which is surprising due to how toxic the nature of fandoms tend to be, and how dark and lonely the concept of Dark Souls is. I guess this loneliness inspires people to band together in the real world, and try to make things light to contrast the nihilism often found in the world of the game? Just me throwing out crazy theories a little.

I would personally love to help anyone who wanted to try the game, the way it was designed to be played that is. I would sit beside any friend who wanted to get into it and help them until it clicks, if it ever does. The experience requires a lot of dedication and patience, so I would help teach that to others. Honestly, if it weren’t for friendly people in the community and the wonderfully put together internet guides, I never would have gotten into this series. The truth is, Dark Souls doesn’t have a magical barrier keeping gamers from playing it. The barrier is your own determination. Everyone is encouraged to try, and every single one of us as human beings have the potential to overcome it and learn it. It’s not that some people “can or can’t” play Dark Souls. It’s that some will, and some won’t. And any won’t can become a will. It’s an equal opportunity beatdown.

This argument is not actually about accessibility

Strange I had to wait until the end to get to this, since this is what the argument seems to revolve around the most. Is keeping Dark Souls as purely a difficult experience physically preventing disabled gamers from playing it? The journalists and pundits who advocate for the easy mode would like all of us to believe that. Kind of funny how little if any of those advocates are disabled or understand what disability means.

Accessibility is how, well, accessible, something is. It’s a really stupid statement but I can’t think of a better way to word it. Access is if a person can get their hands on something and experience it to the end like the rest of their peers. Is being simply, not easy, an accessibility issue? In my opinion, no, not at all. Accessibility issues include things such as good controllers, customizable visuals and user interface, customizable button mapping, fair game design, etc. None of these categories has anything to do with difficulty. Implying disabled gamers can only play point and click games is kind of insulting in my personal opinion, not that I am disabled myself so forgive any assumptions I may make.

The truth is, disabled gamers CAN play Dark Souls and similar games. As I have basically beaten to death already, the core game design of Dark Souls is patience, and determination. It’s about basic learning and trying, a very human instinct that all of us have and can use or weaponize. The gameplay is fair, and somewhat slow, and more punishes you for not being prepared or for lapses in judgement than simply not being able to press the buttons fast enough. If a gamer has the tools needed to physically play the game in as comfortable a way they can, how hard the game is shouldn’t change their access.

Difficulty, at least in a fair game, is only a test of how many times you are willing to get up and face adversity, a lesson Dark Souls tries to impart in its own story. If anything, disabled people all over the world know this lesson by heart already. It doesn’t matter how unfair the cards you were dealt are, or how oppressive your surroundings are. If you want to keep moving, and if you have reasons to keep moving, you can find, purpose. Regardless of how you were born or what life has done to you if you continue to get up you can essentially win. Dark Souls is easier than life in that way since it does have a definitive “end state” to it. An end that is accessible to anyone of any standing given the patience and drive, and resources to experience the world.

This whole debate is manufactured to an extent

The reason this debate even arose again to begin with, and why it keeps showing up over and over again is you guessed it, games journalists. Even though by writing this I’d consider myself a journalist as well, I don’t hold much high regard for the field as a whole which is not a very unpopular opinion and hasn’t been for quite a few years. The easiest way to get clicks on anything, video game news or news news, is to get people angry at what you’re writing. Hate clicks generate easy revenue. If someone sees something they agree with while scrolling, they may nod and keep going. But if they see something that makes  their blood boil, they’ll screenshot it and read it to make sick burns against it and show the mess to their followers.

Of course then that starts a cycle of people pulling said article up over and over and it generating an internet hate storm with people now defending the original point. This whole mess was the internet falling hook line and sinker for some poorly paid overstressed sap’s click scam. Probably multiple scams coalescing into one bigger mess. I admit I in writing and publishing this have fallen for it, but hey, I enjoy doing what I do, and I feel it’s worth sharing my side.

Another possible motivation for manufacturing petty crises from a journalist’s point of view as I’ve seen many point out is the simple fact that journalists face deadlines. It is a very and I mean very stressful part of their careers, and for game journalists, their deadlines are based on when they can finish a game. It’s why a lot of lengthy rpgs don’t get treated very fairly or have entire sections excluded from review, and why now these same people are begging for notoriously difficult games to be easier. The sooner they can finish it, the sooner the stress is gone and the sooner they can be paid. Having the responsibility of your paycheck based on your patience when you don’t have much time for patience can cause some to snap and write what they wrote. In the end though, I just pray I never have to read reviews of journalists reviewing a From Soft game on easy mode, because that wouldn’t be much of a review at all.

Why I even care

For those of you still reading, thank you, so much. From the bottom of my heart. It may have become clear in reading why I put so much time into this, or why I get so angry every time I see this argument come up, but it may not be. I’d like to make it very clear why. This game series is very close to my heart, and seeing people act all-knowing about it when it’s clear they haven’t touched it at all or for at most 5 minutes makes my blood boil.

On top of pretending to know game design on a game they know nothing about, they resort to cheap tactics such as guilt tripping and shaming. The whole “elitist” route trying to make the opponents seem like pretentious asses is not very mature for starters, and trying to shift the fact that they lack patience or simply don’t like a game onto being about the rights of the disabled makes me angrier than anything. I have seen many many disabled gamers become furious at these people and for good reason. I have been furious about this for a very long time now, and I hope putting my thoughts to paper will calm me, even if only for a little while.

I sincerely hope my thoughts gave you a new outlook on something or other. That is the most I could ask for as a writer. If not, and you still read this far, I hope I made your day brighter.