#it's complicated. he truly genuinely from the bottom of his heart loves art. but he doesn't necessarily like the stealing aspect

[dnangelic]

what is the truth. schrodinger's normal abnormal boy

[bergmanns]

meet ezra  

( tw: suicide, depression, anxiety, bullying )

BASICS

Name: Ezra James Bergmann

Age: 18

Grade: Senior

House: Melleray

Cabin Room: Cabin 1, Room 2

How long have they been at Broadripple: Four Years

Where are they from originally: Stonnington, ME

Extra curricular: Jazz Band (bass), Broadripple Unsolved

TRAITS

Positive Personality Traits: Artistic, Inquisitive, Loyal

Neutral Personality Traits: Pensive, Wry, Sensitive, Observant, Speculative

Negative Personality Traits: Defensive, Spineless, Socially-Awkward, Loner, Envious

FACTS

The Bergmann family has always been odd, and Ezra is no exception. His family name had a reputation at Broadripple before he ever wandered its halls, well known for their staunch devotion to religion, fondness for quiet introspection, and dedication to the arts. This, however, was overshadowed by the suicide of Ezra’s older brother Emmanuel. 

Two years Ezra’s senior, Emmanuel was a dedicated member of the Sacristan Club and the unofficial Chastity club, but he had few close friends. In spite of this, his suicide during the summer before Ezra’s freshman year, and the rumors circulating the event (particularly, that Ezra was the one to discover his body) only adapted once school began.

Ezra has always had a complicated relationship with his parents. Their dogmatic approach to religion began to wear down on him as he grew older, beginning to challenge the beliefs he once held. The rift between them has widened since the death of his brother, but it’s more of a phantom void than a sharpened one. The family struggles to maintain closeness, but genuine connections are hard to reach. in spite of their differences, the family has a lot of love for each other, although they could most definitely benefit from family counseling ( before and after the loss of Emmanuel ).

Ezra always felt second best to Emmanuel in the eyes of his parents. he didn’t fall into religion with ease. he asked questions that came across as challenges, he bemoaned going to church and begrudgingly said grace before every meal. his perception of religion darkened as his brother became more volatile about the subject, causing several arguments between the two.

 Ezra was just as strange as the Bergmann’s of the past – moody, awkward, antisocial, and harboring a disconcerting interest in true crime and the occult. A frequent victim of bullying and foul rumors surrounding his ‘involvement’ in his brother’s suicide, Ezra learned the best way to survive Broadripple was to keep his head down, his headphones on, and bury his focus in creative pursuits, such as photography, art, music and his participation in the unofficial Broadripple Unsolved club. 

Other than this, he doesn’t have much direction for his future despite being a senior, and although he knows he should worry, he can’t manage to scrounge up the energy. In spite of his self-imposed isolation and wariness of others, Ezra covets companionship and belonging but is doubtful he will ever truly find it.

As a student, Ezra can find success with relative ease. He has a natural inclination towards the arts, but has been assigned to aid students in other areas of study in the past ( although in all honesty, he isn’t the best teacher )

A heavily active member of BAU, Ezra lives and breathes for the club, sometimes even becoming annoyed when he feels others aren’t taking their research and ‘responsibilities’ seriously. He’s been teasingly accused of being ‘obsessed’ with the case of Edith Lynch in the past, his drive to solve the case intensifying with the mounting abnormalities occurring at the Academy. Although he’d never say it out loud or acknowledge it to himself, Ezra has attached the Edith Lynch case to the suicide of his brother. Whether he knows it or not, his deep-set desire to solve the mystery arises from an unaddressed need for closure and healing within himself

HEADCANONS

he has a smoking habit that he picked up when he turned sixteen.

he seems perpetually incapable of wearing his uniform properly. His button up shirts are often wrinkled, his ties are crooked or improperly fastened, and he has a tendency to keep the top few buttons of his shirt undone ( as long as he can get away with it ). This is never intentional. Ezra has a bad habit staying up into the early hours of the morning, making him difficult to rise (and therefore perpetually late in the mornings)

due to his abysmal sleeping schedule, ezra often has dark circles under his eyes

his fingers are almost always stained by ink, paint, charcoal or oil pastels

it’s rare to see him without his headphones on

he painted the bottom of his skateboard himself. The design is faded and scuffed from wear and improper varnishing. what once was a skeleton with a blue, exposed, anatomical heart on a black background is mostly a scratched, splotched mess of color with a slightly more defined line work on the blue heart.

his hair is longer, typically messy and often hangs in his eyes

out of his uniform, Ezra usually dresses in the grunge style with layered t-shirts, black skinny jeans with tears, oversized tops etc. He also wears short sleeved button ups with t-shirts underneath.

Ezra enjoys photography. his work is typically in black and white and he uses a Canon camera that he received as a Christmas gift

social media handle: berg.mann

QUESTIONS ABOUT THE RETREAT

What do they think about The Retreat?

Ezra doesn’t like it and suspects there’s something else going on ( of course ). he has so many questions: why just the two dorm buildings? why cabins in the middle of a remote forest? why locusts of all things? without access to the internet, Ezra spends a lot of late nights staring into the darkness trying to puzzle it all out, fervently scrolling through bookmarked webpages the moment he has access to the internet. Ezra isn’t squeamish about bugs or nature. As an artist he’s enjoyed the change of scenery, however the inability to binge watch netflix and have immediate access to the resources of the World Wide Web have agitated him. Not to mention having several students to a room also has him on edge.

Do they have any previous experience with camping or other outdoors?

Ezra has experience with ‘glamping,’ or, spending a few weeks at his parent’s fancy cabin in the mountains with access to running water, air conditioning, cable tv and internet during the summers. The experience at hand is entirely new to him.

What does their cabin bunk look like? How will they decorate their space?l

The first thing ezra did when he got to his bunk was fasten a sheet that could be pinned up or down so as to conceal the inside of his bunk. Ever an introvert, Ezra needs time to feel completely isolated and alone, which despite being in the middle of the woods, seems much harder to come by now than ever. Ezra is a cluttered person, but not necessarily messy. The wall beside his bunk ( which he also has ‘secured’ with a movable sheet in order to keep his investigations as private as possible ) is littered with news articles, photographs, webpages etc. complete with different colored threads connecting different pieces of evidence. During the move, ezra was forced to organize some of his other cases in three plastic accordion file folders, which he keeps hidden under his bunk ( yes three ).

Do they believe in the supernatural? To what degree

Ezra definitely believes in the supernatural. ghosts, demons poltergeists and possessions etc. are often the primary subjects of his research. he possibly even believes in God and Angels despite having doubts about the bible and the morality associated in them, although they command little of his attention. at most, Ezra’s opinion on religion is, “if God exists he’s a dick.” He doesn’t really take big foot seriously, but he believes in aliens. There isn’t a doubt in Ezra’s mind that something supernatural is going on at Broadripple. Currently, he’s most suspicious of demonic possession ( Edith Lynch case ) and a possible poltergeist ( the cause of the locusts ).

Are they easily spooked?

ezra is more terrified of other people than he is of the possibility of facing down a demon. if he wasn’t so driven to solve the case, he may be more likely to run away from perceived supernatural threats, but at the moment his desire to know the truth tends to supersede self preservation. That being said, Ezra is also very likely to attribute any kind of ‘suspicious’ occurrence to The Supernatural.

AND FINALLY,

A very dumb but (hopefully) fun quiz made by your admins, please share what result you got:

“you’re the real danger.” 👀👀 ooooo vury vury spooopy.

[disasterbiquentin]

For the dialogue prompts list: 'if you love me, you'll get the hell out of my kitchen'

Eliot Waugh did not learn to cook from his parents.  

For one, that would have been considered far too girly in a court of small-town-Indiana public opinion.  The only thing he and his brothers were allowed to do in the kitchen was stack up the dirty dishes, or fix the pantry shelves when they periodically collapsed.  For another, his mother was a good cook, but in an Indiana sort of way; lots of cornbread, big slabs of meat and potatoes. She didn’t know how to rise a soufflé or make delicate shrimp puffs, turn quail eggs into an entree without breaking the shells or pipe tiny, pastel coloured macaroons which would have looked at home in a Parisian window.  That was the sort of cooking Eliot liked to do, and he’d learned it in college, with the help of a lot of internet recipes and trial-and-error dinner parties for his friends from the art department.

It was part and process of what Eliot joked was actually his undergraduate thesis project; turning himself into himself.  Into the sort of person who could host dinner parties that a particularly sexually liberated French dignitary would have felt welcome at, and do it all without spilling a drop of cooking wine on his perfectly folded cravat.  By the time he graduated the arts program and received his interview at Brakebills, he was far enough through this process that he felt comfortable announcing his incredible cooking skills to the whole Physical Cottage once he was assigned there, and swiftly stole the role of overlord of all social activities at said cottage by power of his high tea parties and a rather constant flow of chocolate eclairs.  After a few months, he began mixing more cocktails than cake batters, but that was okay, because by then everyone knew exactly what sort of man he was.  It was all part of the Eliot Waugh package, and that had to be an impressive package, no matter which way you looked at it.

Quentin Coldwater learned to cook from his father, which is to say that he never learned to cook at all.

He tries, though, so very seriously, which is the most endearing thing in the world.  He tries and he genuinely doesn’t understand why his instant noodles mixed with beans doesn’t, like, blow Eliot’s mind.  The first time he tried to cook a romantic dinner for Eliot, it all ended up charred to the bottom of Eliot’s favourite frying pan, and Eliot actually left the house.  “You’re such a bitch,” Q had complained when Eliot came back with arms full of takeout instead, but he was laughing, and Eliot would have stuck to his guns regardless.

And now —

“Q, if you truly love me, you’ll get the hell out of my kitchen.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, immune as ever to Eliot’s complaining, and continues slicing cheese right onto the counter with entirely the wrong sort of knife.

“I’m serious,” Eliot plunges on.  “You even being in here will make things burn.  I still haven’t decided whether I think someone put a particularly inventive curse on you or whether you’re just that tragic, but I will not let you ruin this dinner.”

“I’m just making a grilled cheese, El.  Nothing to do with you.  I’ll be out of your hair in a second and then you can get on with your — is that blood?”

Eliot rolls his eyes. His boy is so charmingly dumb.  “It’s pomegranate juice, darling.  I’m making it into a citrus glaze to go with the — okay, listen, you’re doing that wrong.”

Quentin gives a huffy, furrowed-brow look which, on his face, could indicate either begrudging amusement or extreme irritation; only the fact that he’s turned it on Eliot suggests the former.

“Okay, to repeat myself, it’s grilled cheese, El.  I have made it a thousand times before.  I know I’m not the best chef, but, like, not even you can make grilled cheese too complicated for me.”

After at least four years of knowing each other and possibly fifty-four depending on how you look at things, Eliot thinks Quentin should have more faith in his ability to class up anything he gets his hands on by now.  “I absolutely can.  Call it a vegetarian croque monsieur; sourdough bread, a layer of bechamel sauce with garlic and bay leaves, a hint of nutmeg.  Topped with baked gruyère and a sharp white cheddar.  Fried rather than toasted, of course, just enough to make everything melt but not quite enough to char the bread.”

Quentin grumbles, “I think at that point it’s stopped being a grilled cheese and started being a way for you to jerk off over your own culinary expertise,” but he’s looking a little forlornly down at his pile of unevenly sliced yellow cheese.  

Eliot, because he is hopelessly in love, and because it has only been three months since he got to step into his own body again and make his grand declaration and then mess things up a bit more before slowly finding their way into this, a rhythm of taking-it-slow while also being very aware of just how deeply they love each other and never spending a single night apart, sighs.  He abandons his pomegranate-citrus glaze and the duck it’s going on for later, and steers Q away from the counter with both hands on his shoulders.  Q only protests a little bit as he goes.

“Just let me do it, baby.  I promise I won’t sneak in any ingredients you can’t pronounce, but I’ll at least make the cheese slices even.”

Quentin makes a few half-hearted comments about how he is, actually, a probably 24-year-old man (because with how much time they spend in different worlds, nobody’s really managed to figure out how they should keep track of birthdays anymore) and doesn’t need Eliot to do everything for him, but he takes a seat at the island even as he’s complaining, watching Eliot pick out a sharper knife and finish up what he started.  Eliot doesn’t deign to respond to Quentin’s grumbling, but he doesn’t really need to, because the knowledge hangs perfectly clear between them: Eliot likes taking care of Quentin.

Quentin doesn’t need it.  His skills in the kitchen are tragic, but he wouldn’t straight up starve without Eliot there or anything.  It’s just that.  Well.  That.  Eliot just likes taking care of him.  And it’s been a long, long time since he got to do that, so he’s making up for it now.  He doesn’t like how Quentin noticeably lost weight while the monster had Eliot, how when Eliot came back one of the first things he noticed was that Quentin was now smoking more than he ate, more of an Eliot coping mechanism than a Quentin one.  He doesn’t like how everything else about Quentin seems just a little bit damaged since El’s been back too; how he never seems to sleep more than a few hours at a time anymore, how he’s a little quieter, how it’s clearly been a long time since he had a real conversation with any of his friends.  Now that Eliot’s back and everything’s growing towards being some semblance of calm again, Q is gradually doing better, but Eliot wants to help speed that process along in any way he can.  So.  He traps Quentin in bed with his own limbs to make him sleep, and invites all their friends to hang out whenever possible, and feeds him.  A lot.  Even if all Quentin wants to eat are things so simple that Eliot’s offended by having to make them.

So.  He cuts neat slices of cheese, and makes sure the sandwich is toasted evenly in a dash of herbs, and cuts it into neat little triangles with a flourish.  He hopes Quentin hears the I love you in every action, because it’s there, it’s all Eliot’s thinking.

“Et voila,” Eliot says when he’s done, trying to cover up the fondness in his voice, and clatters the plate down in front of Quentin.  Quentin looks tired, sat at the island with his head propped up in his hands, shorter strands of hair flopping in front of his eyes, but not as tired as he did a week ago, and certainly not the week before that.  Eliot’s heart goes warm.  “One grilled cheese for your unrefined palate.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he leans across the island and angles his chin upwards anyway, halfway between offering and demanding a kiss.  Eliot obliges.

He lets himself sink into the kiss for just a moment.  Chaste, close-mouthed, but so sickeningly domestic that it’s almost more thrilling than the filthy kisses they shared in the darkness the night before.  Eliot’s had a lot of passion in his life before, still does, but rarely has he ever had this.  Someone to kiss over a sandwich, just for a moment.  Someone so special that you’re just glad they’re there, even if they’re serving no great purpose.  It’s warm and comforting and so, so small, but Eliot can feel the fracture lines in his weathered heart healing every time Quentin sighs a little breath onto his mouth.

He lets himself enjoy it for a couple more seconds, and then pulls away.  Picks up his pomegranate again, and then raises a pointed eyebrow when Quentin sets about to eat his sandwich right there.  

“Hi, Q?  This is nice and all, but I wasn’t joking before.  Get the hell out of my kitchen.”

[whoopsblackdress-blog]

Wedding Dance 3

Read previous parts here.  

I raise my eyebrows. She’s being quite forward, and I wonder if she’s had too much wine. But then I remember that her last glass of wine ended up soaking into the tablecloth and my trousers. With held breath, I wait to see what she will do next. When she tentatively brushes her lips over mine, I hold very, very still. When she repeats the gesture, I breathe out, and then I feel her tongue trace my lips. My eyes, which have drifted closed, open to her eyes searching my own, seeking an answer to her question. But I don’t know the question. Or the answer. All I want is to taste her.

When she once more cautiously grazes her lips over mine for a third time, I give in, capturing her bottom lip between my teeth, worrying it a bit before I soothe it. And when she introduces her tongue into my mouth, I have had enough. With fierce energy, I meld our mouths together, thrusting into her mouth relentlessly, my left hand wrapped around the back of her head while my right hand reaches for her breast. Fuck. She is not what I was expecting to find at this wedding, and I’m at a loss of what to do now.

I have to leave in the morning. There is no question here. Tomorrow afternoon I have to be on the last flight out to Los Angeles from Heathrow. It’s a given. There are too many things in play, and I was lucky to get time off to come to Allen’s wedding. But staying longer just isn’t an option.

So now I don’t know what to do. My head is racing. I want her. So fucking bad, and it seems she is willing. And yet I know that she’s not the one-night-stand kind of gal. The kissing, though. Fuck me. The kissing is everything I ever imagined it should be. Our lips are melded together, our tongues fused in a dance as old as time. My hand on her breast caresses her until I feel her nipple bead up, and it’s all I can do to not reach around and unhook her bra. I want to feel her cool skin against my lips. I want to know that she’s mine. Completely.

But we’ve just met. We don’t really know anything about each other, despite my earlier pronouncement and joke. But oh! How I want to know her on a deeper level. To be able to hold her close night after night, feeling her pliant skin against mine on a regular basis. Why does real life have to get in the way of love? Whoa. Love? Who mentioned love? Casually, I bring our kiss to a close, as I smooth her top over her bra once more, wondering who I’ve become in the last several hours.

God! His lips on mine! I never had such a kiss in my whole life! No man could kiss me like that, and I remember what I said once to my old friend as we were sitting in my flat in the kitchen drinking wine. “Everything stands and falls with the first kiss.” I raised my glass of wine, and we laughed. But yes, this was a perfect kiss on a perfect night. Suddenly I have the lyrics of “Strangers in the Night” by Frank Sinatra in my head. Yes, we’re strangers and we met here. Two lost souls longing for someone. Someone who understands the other, someone who can fill the emptiness. The void. My eyes fly open, and I see that his eyes are closed, his lips still on mine. His hand strokes tenderly over my breasts, and I want to give in for one night. But what if I fall in love with him? Oh god. What if I’m already in love with him? Panic rises in me, and I detach my lips from his. His eyes open immediately, and I have to swallow. I don’t like playing games. I know I will lose miserably….

My flat palm rests on his chest as I look in his green eyes, which look at me with such an intense glance that I want to cry. I want to curl up and pull my duvet over my head. Why am I so complicated ? Why can’t I relish this night?

“Listen, Harry,” I start, fixing his eyes with mine. I can feel his warm skin through the shirt under my palm. The tingling in my stomach is still present. His strong hands slide down my silhouette. Biting my lip I look down. Opening my eyes shyly, I look up.

“It’s late, and I guess I… I... I have a double room.” The words are out of my mouth faster than I can think. What did I say? Oh my god. I invited him into my bed. What if he says no? Maybe I’m not attractive enough, maybe I’m too forceful. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want to look at him. I can’t look at him. I start to move. I want to leave. His hands hold me and I have to look at him. His eyes sparkle, and I maybe see a glimpse of joy. Pressing a kiss on his lips, I feel his breath in my face. It’s like a warm summer breeze which tickles tenderly at my soul. I’m lost. Yes, he has me. He has everything.

“I’ll come with you on one condition,” he whispers in my ear, and I get goosebumps. Shit.

I capture her gaze with my own just as she’s preparing to disappear from my life forever. It’s clear that she’s embarrassed at her forward manner, and I want to cradle her and whisper that everything will be alright. Fuck me. I had just been thinking earlier that I would give everything to dip my candle into her, fuck her until the sun came up. But now…..Now I know that there can be no one-night stand for us. If we sleep together, it will be multiple nights, and I don’t have that kind of time to invest right now.

But damn. I really like her. Worse. I want her.

So when she looks up at me questioningly after I tell her that I have a condition, I freeze, unsure what my condition is. Mostly I said it to keep her at my side because it was clear she was getting ready to fade into the background so that I never see her again.

“I suppose you are going to tell me that the condition is that I sign something that says I won’t tell anyone,” she blurts out, then covers her mouth, clearly stunned at her own cynicism.

Taken aback, I shake my head no. The rumors have always been around that I make women sign Non-Disclosure Agreements, but that’s never been the case. Most of the women I spend the night with know how their worlds would crumple if they shared anything about our experience. Not because of me, but because of my fans.

“Simple,” I respond to her accusation, as there is no other word to describe how she’s thinking about me. “You help me find my room so I can grab my things, and I’ll spend the night in your room. Until the sun rises,” I stipulate, “because I have to leave early tomorrow.”

She agrees without blinking, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Everything she has said so far has indicated that she’s genuine and not trying to take advantage. Her quick consent furrows my brow, as I try to work out her contradictions in my brain.

Touching her finger to her lips, she asks, “When you went up the stairs, did you go left or right?”

But I honestly can’t remember, so she takes my hand, leading me. I stoop to pick up her shoes as we pass them, carrying them with the strap looped around one finger, my boots tucked under my arm. Once we enter the house and wander up the stairs, my hand tightens on hers, as I truly can’t remember which way to turn for my room. We try the left side, and she asks for my key. I have to juggle the shoes and release her hand as I dig in my pocket for the room key. The key itself has only one indicator on it: a letter G. She shakes her head, as her key has numbers on it, so we’re not sure which way to go. There aren’t any rooms with letters on the door. Not on this floor. Or this part of the floor anyway, so she leads me up one more floor, and we both are stunned at the decor on this floor.

There’s an art gallery at the top of the stairs, and this looks somewhat familiar, so I smile as we turn to the right and wander down the hall, gazing at the amazing paintings on the walls. Most are abstract watercolors, although a few appear to be impressionistic. When we reach the one that reminds me of Monet, I know we are on the right track, and as the doors start displaying letters, my heart beats faster. What will happen when we reach my room? She had invited me to HER room, but maybe it’s best if we spend the evening in my room.

Triumphantly, I hold up the key as we reach the door labeled “G”. Inserting the key into the lock, I smile at her, and she looks away, shy once more after her bold request earlier. Trying to be sympathetic, I smile at her, “You can wait here if you want. I’ll just grab my stuff.”

But she pushes the door open behind me, following me into the room.

I stumble into the darkness of his room. As soon as I had seen the G on his key, I knew that he had a suite. Of course. I roll my eyes because of my stupid thoughts. Why should he stay in a little room like mine? Yes, my room is small but comfortable. I can see how huge his room is even if it’s dark. His broad outline rushes to the bed. Nervously I play with my hair, tucking it behind my ear as he turns on the light in the bathroom. The beam of light immerses the room in twilight, allowing me to see more details of his room. There is a big TV on an adorned dresser; the remote lies in front of the TV. A big bag stands on a chair in the corner of the room. I see that a shirt hangs out, untidily. I have to smile a little bit.

His jacket lies on the bed. Biting my lower lip, my fingers run over the fabric. He appears in the door frame, and I jerk like I’m doing something illegal. He smiles at me dreamily. I’m so nervous; the last time I did this was years ago, like in another century. I pull my hand back immediately, still looking into his eyes. There is a tension I don’t understand….. And suddenly his toilet bag falls on the ground and his hands are on my body. His tongue slides between my lips, and I open my mouth eagerly. There’s a tingle in my stomach and between my legs. I want him; I want to touch every centimeter of his skin. Kiss his lips until they are sore. Feel his breath on my skin. His lips on my neck. My hands are buried in his hair. His hands stroke tenderly over my neck and shoulders until they rest on my hips. Pulling at his shirt, so that it hangs disheveled on his body. With shaking hands I try to open the buttons, my hands followed by his eyes. Our breaths are heavy, and his eyes are full of desire. My lips are open a little bit, as his shirt is half open. Suddenly his hands grab mine and hold them tight in his. I swallow hard.

“Don’t,” he whispers. My heart bursts in a thousand pieces. It’s only a single word, but the disappointment hits me hard. What did I do wrong? I try to remove my hands from his, but he tightens his grip. I feel the tears welling up, and then the first tear rolls down. I failed. Yes, but what did I think? Did I really believe he would share a bed with me? I slowly shake my head, closing my eyes. The pain makes my whole body numb and I want to disappear. I wish I had never said yes to this stupid invitation, or I had brought a friend with me. I feel so stupid. Standing here in my dress which cost too much, my shoes on his floor. Why did I give him my smile? Why did I give him a dance? Why did I give him, a stranger, a part of my heart?

I feel his hands on my face.

“Look at me.” he whispers. I tilt my head up, but I look through him instead of at him.

“You’re not that kind of woman. I know it sounds odd. But I don’t want to pick this flower,” his eyes meet mine and I swallow hard. I try to walk to the door, but he holds my wrist.

“Please,” his thumb strokes over my hand, ”please stay with me.”

Her skin is so soft under my touch, and I hope I’m not going to regret saying no to this lovely, special woman. My cock is so hard it’s leaking, and she willingly offered herself to me, and I told her no? What the fuck is wrong with me? But then I remember my thoughts as I saw her across the dance floor. This is a forever kind of woman. Not a one-night stand.

Pulling her into my arms gently, I whisper, “Dance with me.”

Looking around, her eyes no longer full of tears, though I can see the tracks on her cheeks where they fell a few moments earlier. “There’s no music,” she is bewildered.

“Childhood living is easy to do,” I begin singing softly, “The things you wanted I bought them for you.” She giggles at first, but then rests her head against my chest as I continue, “Graceless lady, you know who I am. You know I can’t let you slide through my hands.” We’re swaying back and forth, and my hand is pressed against the small of her back. I’m sure she can feel my cock pressing against her, which is what I want. She needs to know I desire her.

“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” I whisper-sing, “Wild, wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” And even though I stop singing at this point as I can’t remember the next verse, she continues to sway with me as I hum my way through until I reach the chorus again at which point she sings along with me. Her voice is soft, tentative, and husky. She lifts her head from my shoulder, looking into my eyes.

When her eyes flick to my lips, I close the distance between us and taste her just lightly. She’s still as sweet as earlier, and I’m glad I didn’t have wedding cake to spoil the flavor of her. As we end the kiss, she yawns, covering her mouth daintily with her hand. “Do you want to lie down for a bit?” I ask, leading her to the bed. I climb on the duvet first, pulling her with me. She lies down, and I wrap my arm around her. Burrowing in, she sighs the sweetest sound.

We stay in this mode for minutes, hours, and eternity and yet not nearly long enough.  

“I wish we could stay in this bubble forever,” she remarks.

“Mhm,” I respond, my thumb drawing lazy circles on her shoulder, “If I didn’t have to leave for the States in the morning, we would.”

“Harry?” she asks softly.

“Mhm?”

“It is morning.”

The words come heavily out of my mouth. I turn to look at him. He presses his lips tightly together because he knows that our time is over. The hourglass has emptied. I hear the last grain of sand fall down with a heavy sound. My dress is completely crumpled, but I don’t care. Every single fold will remind me of this night and of him. A sad smile appears on his lips as he strokes over my cheek with his thumb. I close my eyes and turn my head in his direction, with a similar sad smile on my lips. I don’t want to look at the alarm clock, which is standing behind me on the nightstand, reminding me with each tick that the hours are running faster than normal. My heart is heavy as I open my tired eyes. His face... I close my eyes again, still seeing his chiseled jaw, his adorable dimple, and slight stubble. As I open my eyes again, this time his green eyes are closed, and I play with the thought of leaving secretly, silently. Opening his eyes, he observes me.

“Don’t go,” he bites his lower lip, as though he has said something forbidden.

“You will be the one who leaves me,” I whisper, as the first beams of the sun creep in the room. I love mornings, the fresh air of a new day, the light winning against the darkness. But this time, it feels like I will die, burnt in the sunlight. He breathes sarcastically.

“I don’t make the rules,” I add with a sad smile. “Let me have a shower.” He opens his mouth, pointing at his bathroom. Knowingly, I shake my head.

“I have to pack my bags.”

“A few more minutes, please,” he begs. I wish I could give him my whole lifetime, but I know it would be worse if I give in now. I sit up, rustling the bed sheets. For a moment I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling his hand on my back. Biting my lower lip as I watch outside the window. I can see the weeping willow in the early morning light. The branches in the night looked beautiful and mysterious. And now, in the morning, they look sad and empty. I stand up, looking at him. I stumble to my shoes, picking them up, holding them by the heels. He is lying on the bed, supporting his head with his right arm, looking at me. For the few seconds I stand there, our eyes meet and my whole body feels heavy. I walk towards the bed, kneeling with one knee. I kiss my forefinger and press it to his soft pink lips. He doesn’t try to hold me; he knows that I will go no matter what he says, so he is quiet. But his eyes are telling me so much. It takes all my strength not to look back at him as I sneak out of the room, still observed by him.

I recognize that I have held my breath, and with a loud noise I exhale, closing the door with a soft click, but there is no liberating feeling. The carpet feels too soft under my feet as I find my way to my small room. My room is full of light, and I can see the dust, dancing in the sun. It could be beautiful. Yes, it could. Carelessly I throw my shoes on the ground, next to my bag. I open the zipper, peel out of the dress, and walk into the bathroom. The cold tiles on my feet bring me back to reality. Undressing, I climb in the shower. The first drops fall on me, and I close my eyes. I feel the water, running down my body, washing away his smell, his touches. Stroking over my wet hair I open my eyes and see the steam on the glass wall of the shower. Hot and steady the water spatters on my skin. Sinking against the tiles, I recall our first kiss, touching my lips, as thick drops run down my lower lip and find their way over my fingers.

Wrapped in the white towel, I pack my bag. Neatly I store my things away. Hearing a knock at my door, I squeeze myself in my jeans.

=======================

Why am I nervous? She can’t possibly have packed and left the hotel already, especially since she said she was going to take a shower. When the door swings open, she’s got a white towel wrapped around her chest, and she’s buttoning her jeans. Her eyes are puffy, and my mum raised a smart lad, so I know she’s been crying. Turning swiftly from me, she grabs a shirt from her bag, heading for the bathroom to put it on. But the shirt drops, and as she bends to pick it up, the towel comes loose and falls off.

Stunned, she grabs at the towel and the shirt, and I still manage to glimpse a moment where her breasts are on display for me. They are a beautiful sight: round and perfect with the most pert nips ever. My mouth waters because I want to taste them, suckle them, lick them all over, pulling those nips in between my teeth, swirling my tongue all around.

But we’re not in a relationship, and there’s no time to develop one. Plus now our perfect night has become a frenzied, depressed morning. Despite the realities of dawn, I still want to cuddle her. To dance with her. To spend an eternity getting to know her, and for the first time in a long time I curse my chosen career and its restrictions.

In a show of gentlemanly manners, I cover my eyes, but only after I’ve gotten to look as much as I’ve wanted to. It’s the polite thing to do. Glancing back at me as her face turns bright red, she snatches the towel and the shirt to her chest, slamming the bathroom door once she’s inside.

When she finally emerges from the bathroom, the shirt is firmly in place, and I can barely see the outline of her boobs through the material. Still, she won’t make eye contact with me, so I approach her from behind as she brushes her hair. Neither of us has spoken since I entered the room, and the silence isn’t exactly comfortable. It’s charged with emotion. Lots of different emotions: anger, fear, desire, happiness.

She watches me warily in the mirror as I approach her, and her eyes start to fill with tears again. Out of the dress she’d worn to the wedding, she doesn’t look like herself. She looks like a normal girl I might meet on the street: one with a round ass and fairly generous boobs. But otherwise pretty normal. Then I look at her face again, and I am gasping once more for air. Placing my hands gently on her hips in those jeans, I lean my head on her shoulder as she applies her makeup. Capturing her eyes in the mirror, I put all of my feelings into my facial expression.

She understands. She knows. We both know. The timing. The location. Everything about this situation screams that it’s not the right place or time. Or maybe we just aren’t the right people.

“I missed you,” I whisper into her hair, as I tilt my head and kiss her exposed neck. The shiver that runs through her body is infectious, and I feel my own skin tingling uncontrollably.

Her body had been taut, but at my words, she relaxes backwards into me. I take her weight on me, and I realize that I would gladly offer myself to be her backrest forever. Reaching around her waist, I wrap her in a hug, careful not to make the movement sexual because that’s not what the moment calls for, even though I’ve been hard for the last few hours.

“Come home with me,” she breathes.

==========================

I don’t know why I said this. He closes his eyes slowly, shifting a little bit away from me. I can see what my question does to him: the fight within himself. He sighs heavily.

“I wish I could…” he opens his eyes, and his green pupils look in the mirror, meeting my eyes. Swallowing I wring a smile from my lips.

“I need to finish packing,.” I say dryly, pressing my lips together. It’s one thing to know that he cannot give up his life to spend more time with me; it’s something else entirely to have his priorities confirmed.

“Do you want a coffee or tea before you leave?” he asks me. His eyes are full of hope that I will join him. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s 6 a.m.

“Coffee would be great.”

“Waiting outside.” he says, kissing my neck, and leaves me alone in the bathroom. Supporting myself with my hands on the sink I look in the mirror. My eyes are tired; my hair is wet. I can hear his voice in my head. Would it be like that? Sharing a hotel room, Harry waiting for me, after we made love in the white rustling sheets. Angrily, I shake my head, as if I can shake the thoughts off. One coffee and then I have to go, reminding myself of the paperwork which is waiting for me at home. As always I will escape in my job, protecting myself with its requirements.

I square my shoulders, walking outside. Giving him a smile.

“I’m ready.”

He stretches out his hand, and I don’t hesitate to take it. Tenderly he runs his thumb over the back of my hand, as we walk down the corridor to the dining room. It’s nearly empty with only two guests there. We walk to a table which stands in a niche. I slide on the corner bench; he grabs the back rest of the chair, supporting himself, as he looks at me raising one eyebrow.

“What do you want?”

“Coffee.” He nods and walks towards the buffet.

==============

Coffee might be the perfect drink most days. Today I need it, having had no sleep during the night. Later, I might regret staying awake with her all night, but I doubt it. I don’t think I will ever regret this time we’ve spent together. Besides, I can sleep on the plane. It’s a long flight, and there’s little to do on planes anyway.

Sometimes I write in my journal on long flights, and I already have a number of phrases in mind to describe this woman: floating across the grass, dancing in bare feet, a forever woman. She is ethereal, and it’s been a long time since I’ve connected with someone like this. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever connected with someone like this.

Perhaps I should have left her alone. She seems so sad now, and I want to cheer her up, but I know that my jokes won’t have the right effect on her. I don’t want to see her saddened like this. While it’s hard that we’ve just met and can’t get to know each other better right now, she is acting as though we will never see each other again -- as though this is the only opportunity we will ever have to connect.

With that thought, I carry the two cups back to our table, setting her coffee in front of her, and taking out my phone. As she sips her black coffee, I pass my unlocked phone to her. “Put your number in, love,” I command.

Startled, she takes the phone from me, and a ghost of a genuine smile crosses her lips. Scooting onto the bench next to her, I force her to slide over. Our thighs touch from hip to knee, and I can smell the soap she used in her shower. Her hair smells like lilacs, and I sniff deeply. Handing my phone back to me, she looks at me oddly.

Taking the phone, I do something I have rarely done: I prepare to take a selfie. She puts her hand on mine as the phone frames us, shaking her head. Because I’m looking at the phone, I see the motion in the screen. “Smile, princess,” I whisper because I’m taking this damn picture no matter what. I need to connect the picture to her contact information so I can text her frequently.

I lean over and plant a kiss on her cheek at the same time I press the button to take the photo. The soft “click” tells me I’ve stored her image digitally, and I feel my whole being relax. We chat some more, and then I look at the time on my phone.

“Time to go,” she says, that defeated tone back in her voice.

Standing, I offer her my hand, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

I lean against my old VW, arms crossed, holding myself as I observe how he carries my bag to the little car boot. The sunlight plays with the different warm tints of his brown hair, and I wish I could bury my fingers in the soft curls. He stretches out his left arm, and I can see his inked skin. I turn my head to the left, not looking at him anymore. It hurts too much, only to look back a few seconds later. Maybe I will forget a detail of him, maybe the way his curls fall in his face, maybe the way he runs his hand through his hair, maybe his rings on his fingers, or how his green eyes search mine?

How could I ever forget him? How? His arm is still on the boot lid, as he looks at me with the same knowing glance. We both know it’s over now. It was a night which we had; only a few hours which felt like second and like a lifetime too.

Curving my lips in a little smile as he slams the lid down; with a loud noise the lock snaps in. This is it: the moment to bid him farewell. I bite my lower lip as he walks towards me.

“Don’t do this,” he says, as his thumb strokes tenderly over my lips. I look down at my worn out Converses, which touch his black YSL boots.

“C’me here.” he whispers, stretching out his arms. I loosen my arms, holding the ends of my red pullover in my hands. He pulls me into a hug. At first my arms rest lightly on his back, I bury my head in the crook of his neck, smelling him one last time, as I conceive that this is the final chance to touch him. My hands press against his back, like they would leave an imprint on it, and his grip tightens. Closing my eyes, I say to myself that I will never forget this moment. That I will never forget his smell, his touch. Slowly I descend back on my heels. I guess my heart was never so heavy as in this moment. I’m brave, yes. I can bear it. My fists rest on his shoulders, his hands still on my waist as we look at each other. Nobody says anything; it’s all been said. His lips touch my forehead, and I close my eyes, sinking against his soft lips. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to climb in my car, I don’t want to go home, to my empty flat, where nobody is waiting for me. I never felt so lonely and lost before. It takes several seconds for me to move. His body is pressed against mine, as I feel the car door at my back. He strokes some hair behind my ear, smiling at me, but the smile doesn’t reach his sad eyes. Taking my heart I turn around to open the door. Slowly I slide onto the driver’s seat. His right hand rests on the roof of my car, the other on the edge of the car door.

“Take care, love.” These words are not more than a breath as he slams the door, knocking with the flat palm on the roof of my car. Immediately, I start my old beetle, driving down the gravel path, looking in the rearview mirror. He’s standing there, his hands in the pockets of his black jeans, looking after me in the early August morning. It feels so wrong to leave him, seeing him standing there. But I’m too realistic, each of us have to go back to our life. But it will never be the same after this night. He touched my soul; he held my heart in his bare hands; and the tears start to run down my cheeks. I pass the wrought iron gate, looking again in the rearview mirror, but I can’t see him anymore through the dust. He is gone, as fast as he appeared.

[alexsfictionaddiction]

Review: Wintersong by S. Jae-Jones

When I heard about the premise of this debut YA fantasy, I knew it would be something I wanted to pick up. I haven’t read a book featuring goblins since Harry Potter and I know very little about them. It takes inspiration from works of Pre-Raphaelite poet Christina Rossetti and classic stories of the Underground but the synopsis resembles the plot of the 1986 Jim Henson film Labyrinth. Although I am familiar with Rossetti’s Goblin Market, I haven’t seen Labyrinth and it was nice to not have that comparison, as it meant I could go in with no expectations.

In 18th century Bavaria, Liesl’s sister Kathe is taken by the goblins and it’s Liesl’s mission to rescue her. The girls have grown up surrounded by stories of the goblins and as a child, Liesl was enamoured with the Goblin King, Lord of Mischief and Ruler Underground. In accordance with the old laws, The King (or Der Erlkonig) must take maidens from the world above as his wives in order to prevent an eternal winter. The King agrees to let Kathe go if Liesl takes her place as his wife in the world underground.

‘Looking at Kathe, it was difficult to forget just how sinful our bodies were, just how prone we were to wickedness.’

Liesl lives with her father, a former professional violinist with a drinking problem, her long-suffering mother, eccentric grandmother Constanze, beautiful flirty Kathe and her talented younger brother Josef who is set to follow up their father’s musical success. However, Liesl is the gifted composer behind Josef’s music. Due to the patriarchal society they live in, women are expected to live chastely and are discouraged from artistic pursuits so she allows her brother to shine. The Goblin King recognises her talent and it is because of her music, her soul, that he is drawn to her and she, in turn, is drawn to him. 

‘”You, my dear,” the Goblin King said, “you are more than enough.”’

Some readers will find their romance problematic due to the fact that Der Erlkonig seems to seduce Liesl when her self-esteem is rock bottom. However, I never found him predatory or threatening despite the fact he is Lord of Mischief, Ruler Underground. He genuinely loves Liesl for her innate uniqueness and that in itself is enough for my romantic heart to go out to him. Yes, Liesl is in a bad place when she marries him but she has been her entire life. Her siblings are considered to be blessed with beauty and talent and she feels plain and worthless. However, it’s merely a point of comparison to how Der Erlkonig makes her feel -beautiful, special and wanted.

‘Papa said real composers worked within the strictures set upon them, but I wanted to be free. I would shape the world to fit the music in my soul.’ 

For anyone who has ever felt underappreciated, Liesl is very easy to relate to. She has a passion that bursts forth in moments of high emotion, which is when she tirelessly works at her piano writing music. The ferocity and wildness of her music (and soul) is a stark contrast to the restricted oppressed life that her family and society have forced her to lead. Der Erlkonig embodies freedom (despite her technical imprisonment) and it’s very easy to see how she falls in love with him. 

Wintersong is a dark, complex, romantic fantasy but it’s also a philosophical fable about family love and self-love. It’s about learning to distinguish between pretty lies and the ugly truth and choosing the right path. There is an emphasis on taking hold of what you love and immortalising it -and yourself- in art. A lesson that your art and creative projects will outlive you and therefore so will your soul.

‘”As long as the world above remembers you, as long as you have a reason to love, your taste and touch and smell and sight and sound shall remain to you”’

The beautiful lyrical writing style that Jae-Jones employs in Wintersong gives the book a magical, twinkling air that really suits it. Even the darker, suspense-filled scenes are told in swirling metaphors that seem to pick the reader up, whirl them around and set back down on a bed of whimsy. The deep-seated important lessons at the heart of the book are lessons that many other YA books teach us but Wintersong tells them in a unique fashion that is truly captivating.

I’d recommend Wintersong to anyone who loves fantasies that deal with very real complicated issues. Despite its poetic prose, it has pitch-black undertones and there are certainly some dangerous adult themes at play -sex, female oppression and potential corruption. Addictive, sexy and bewitching, Wintersong is a book that reels in your inner unshakeable curiosity and refuses to let go.

‘To love is to be selfless.’

[jillmckenzie1]

The Doughnut Hole

Making a movie is hard. Making a good movie? That’s really hard. Making a good mystery? These days that appears to be damn near impossible, given the relative scarcity of mysteries. Horror movies, superhero flicks, action, and dramas are all doing well in theaters and multiplexes. A good old whodunit? They’re a rare breed.

But why? Is it because, as a society, we’re dumber? I imagine that some people of a certain age would sneeringly point to Millennials and the rise of social media and claim their attention spans have been irrevocably damaged.* Yet the average American reads somewhere in the neighborhood of a dozen books per year, and I would imagine that a good chunk of those are mystery novels.

I don’t think it’s that we’ve gotten less intelligent. Instead, it’s due to the rise of the four-quadrant film and a greater focus upon international audiences. Four-quadrant films are designed to attract the interest of people under 25, people over 25, women, and men. To do that, they feature plots that can cross cultural barriers with ease.** Studios also believe that complicated plots are a turn-off to international audiences. Is that racist? Yeah, probably.

Once in a while, a good mystery isn’t released so much as it escapes. When that happens, my heart leaps. I thoroughly enjoy a cast of entertaining scumbags, a needlessly complex homicide, and a sleuth that delights in making everyone else feel inadequate. Rian Johnson followed up the very good Star Wars: The Last Jedi with something even better, the snide whodunit Knives Out, and we are all the better for it.

Why would someone commit murder? The extravagantly named crime novelist Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer) made a career out of that question. He’s a best-selling mystery novelist, and his success has earned him a $60 million fortune and a sprawling mansion. You’d think that he’s living on easy street, spending his days with a loving family, right?

Not so much! In point of fact, his immediate family is…not awesome. They are:

  Linda (Jamie Lee Curtis) is Harlan’s oldest daughter, the head of a successful real estate company.

Richard (Don Johnson) is Linda’s husband, and he’s quite sloppily having an affair.

Joni (Toni Collette) is the wife of Harlan’s deceased middle son, and she heads up an extremely crunchy lifestyle brand.

Walt (Michael Shannon) is Harlan’s youngest son, and he’s ostensibly in charge of publishing Harlan’s novels.

Meg (Katherine Langford) is Harlan’s granddaughter, and she attends a prestigious liberal-arts college.

Ransom (Chris Evans) is Harlan’s grandson, and he excels at spending money and pissing off the rest of the family.

  To one degree or another, all of these people are leeching off of Harlan. With a family like that, you can see why he needs a friend, and her name is Marta (Ana de Armas). Originally hired to be Harlan’s nurse, the two of them formed a deep friendship. Despite not knowing if she’s from Cuba, Ecuador, Paraguay, Uruguay, Brazil, or somewhere else south of the border, the Thrombeys tell Marta she’s part of the family.

Things get complicated when Harlan turns up dead. He may have killed himself, but questions remain. The good news is that Detective-Lieutenant Elliott is on the case, and he’s brought help. Consulting detective Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) has been hired to assess the situation and determine if foul play was involved. Did Harlan commit suicide or was he slain? If he was killed, who stood to gain the most?

Many people first became aware of Rian Johnson upon the release of the wildly controversial The Last Jedi. That’s a shame, because, at his core, Johnson isn’t a Star Wars guy. He’s a crime/mystery guy, and a filmography consisting of Brick, Looper, The Brothers Bloom, and three outstanding episodes of Breaking Bad bears that out. That’s where his heart is, and that’s where he soars as a director.

While Knives Out might not be the best movie of the year, it’s absolutely the best edited and perhaps the best directed. The film drips with ingenuity, and you can feel Johnson’s passion for the mystery genre. The majority of the film takes place in a big old house that could be in the same neighborhood as the mansion from Clue. Without telegraphing it, Johnson gives us a tour of the place so we’re comfortable with the geography and know who is where on the night in question. His pacing is gleeful, and considering he’s working in a genre that depends on massive exposition dumps, it never feels like the film slams on the brakes to explain things. Plus, it has one hell of a final shot.

Johnson’s screenplay is clever—perhaps a little too clever. He’s primarily concerned with entertaining us, and he’s made a crowd-pleaser from top to bottom. The script crackles with one-liners, and he does a nice job of sketching the characters and showing us how they relate to each other. He also plays exceptionally fair in terms of laying out the clues ahead of time, so that when the mystery is revealed, all the pieces lock into place tightly. It’s been said that all art is political, and that’s especially true here. Johnson takes shots at goofy proto-hippies, the alt-right, and a certain orange-hued chief executive. He’s making valid points about how the politics of the 2016 election have seeped into our daily lives, and how the real problem isn’t right versus left, but actually rich versus poor.

The ensemble is ridiculously entertaining, and while some members of the cast have more time onscreen than others, everyone gets a moment to shine. After several years playing Captain America, you can feel Chris Evans’ enthusiasm toward playing the loutish Ransom. Similarly, Toni Collette is having an absolute blast as self-help guru Joni, and Jamie Lee Curtis positively oozes privilege as elder daughter Linda.

However, there are two performances that slightly stand out from the rest. On the flamboyant side of things is Daniel Craig as Benoit Blanc. His Southern accent is referred to as “CSI-KFC,” but Craig is really playing an American version of Hercule Poirot. He condescendingly sifts through the clues and triumphantly exposes the truth, and you can hear the enthusiasm in his voice as he puts the pieces together. Leaning more naturalistic is Ana de Armas as Marta. She’s playing a comparative rarity in this genre; a genuinely good person. If character is entirely based upon the choices made, then de Armas excels at showing us who Marta truly is. She’s a woman determined to do the right thing, even though her decisions might land her in deep trouble. Her performance is also highly amusing in that, if Marta attempts to lie, she’ll vomit explosively.

A quality film doesn’t have to be a downer. I absolutely adored The Irishman, but I can’t imagine giving it a watch to cheer myself up. Knives Out, on the other hand, is a sure-fire depression killer. It remains to be seen if it revitalizes the mystery genre. While I’d like more whodunits, I’m grateful we have a film made with such skill and intelligence that’s also an awesome time at the movies.

  *While there might be something to this, keep in mind that the Boomers made Mr. Ed, a sitcom about a talking horse, a gigantic hit.

**Those cultural barriers are a big reason why major studios make far fewer comedies than they used to. The American sense of humor is very different from the Cambodian sense of humor, which is very different from the Brazilian sense of humor, and so on.

from Blog https://ondenver.com/the-doughnut-hole/