#last time i had moment of clarity was semi recently

[solarwonux]

Business Proposal || knj (9/?)

pairing: namjoon x f!reader || ex friends to lovers!au friends to lovers!au

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fwb!au, non idol!au, unrequited love

Warnings: slow burn, angst, fluff, flirting, semi-edited, smut, fingering, eating out, unprotected sex.

Rating: mature, 18+

w.c: 8.0

Synopsis: Namjoon is living on borrowed time, and it’s time to cash in. His father is months from taking his last breathe and his life long dream is to watch his oldest son say “I do.”

A/n: lol, hello, I'm sorry for being so MIA lately. I kinda have had half of this written since November but my mom came to visit me in Korea and I forgot about it haha. If you are still here thank you for sticking around! Enjoy! Let me know your thoughts!

Prev | next

m.list | series m.list | wattpad

10 Years Ago

Things were finally looking up.

“If you just remember everything we have gone over you'll be fine.” He simply says like it's no big deal, waving you off. 

You on the other hand are filled with the gnawing pain of your nerves. As you look down at your notebook filled with an equal mixture of correct and incorrect answers. 

Maybe things weren't really looking up. 

“I think we should do a few more.” You rush out, flipping to a new page. In that exact moment, the buzzer in Namjoon's hand goes off, and he stands up. 

He pushes in his chair and walks to stand beside you, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Over studying is not the answer.” He says gently, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before walking away to pick up your drinks. 

Your protest dying as you burn daggers into his back. You aren't sure if it's a good thing that he has so much faith in you. When you don't have an ounce in yourself. Especially when in two days you'll hopefully end your misery with the dreaded math final. 

It's been two whole months since you've started your weekly tutoring sessions with Namjoon. You aren't completely lost in class anymore. If you are, you just come to the broad man and drown him in all kinds of questions. With this tactic you've even managed to get an eighty-five present in your last math test. 

The only thing left for you to pass is the stupid final.

You have been seeing Namjoon a lot more this week. Scheduling, and practically begging him to squeeze you into his tight schedule since Monday. A request to brush up on equations and gain some clarity on things you might have forgotten. To say the least, your test anxiety has reached a whole new level. You visibly look exhausted, your skin is oilier than usual, sporting a few painful pimples on your chin, and your hair looks so greasy despite just washing it in the morning. You should feel slightly ashamed for even leaving your house looking like a hot mess, but your thoughts are suffocating. Staying in would make the panic in the pit of your stomach worse. 

Especially when you and your tutor have recently discovered your inability to do word problems. The main reason why you keep calling Namjoon at three in the morning. Even though he thinks you're just being paranoid, especially with the silent sigh of defeat you hear through your phone speaker. He tries his best to reassure you that you're going to be fine at the end of the day. 

“There will probably be three, five at most. He had said last night when you called. 

Thankfully he had stayed up revising his final paper, instead of being three dimensions deep in dream land like on Sunday when you called. Still, even though he had muttered out a tiny complaint, he stayed on the line with you. Until you were calm enough to fall asleep again. 

In just three months your acquaintance has blossomed into a full on friendship. Along with your sneaking suspicion that both Taehyung and Jimin like him better. It was obvious last Friday night when Jimin had a small end of the semester get together at his apartment. Namjoon got so drunk he performed the entirety of Grease Lightning on karaoke. Including the dance break with special guest and step brother Jeon Jungkook. 

Later on in the night the older of the four cried about the final scene in the Titanic. It was a rollercoaster of emotions, but heartwarming to be able to see a different side of the Philosophy student. 

“Look who decided to join us.” You jump, placing your pen down in your notebook, closing it to hold your page. You turn around, feeling a wide smile come onto your face when you lock eyes with the other source of your happiness these last few months. 

“Hobi,” you exclaim, holding your arms out to him. He chuckles, and leans down giving you one of those awkward hugs one gives when the other person is sitting down. It only lasts a few seconds and then he is leaning his head back to plant a sloppy kiss on your cheek, making you cringe. 

“Ew,” you pout, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. He chuckles, pecking your lips lightly and then taking the seat next to you. 

“Joon says you need a break from being a math wizard.” He chuckles, dragging your notebook to him. He places his arms over it keeping it hostage.

You whine crossing your arms in front of you, pouting like a child. “But what if I don't pass. I don't want to have to take the class a third time.” 

Namjoon shakes his head, sets your chamomile tea in front of you, and sits down. “I already told you, you won't. I did the math last night. Even if you get a sixty five percent, you'll still be able to pass the class with a B.” He states firmly and takes a sip from his coffee. 

You huff, sinking further into the chair. “I don't want a B, I want an A.” 

Hoseok snakes an arm over your shoulders and brings you close to his side.” “Then you will pass the class with an A honey cakes.” He kisses your temple before resting his cheek on top of your head. You take a deep breath, nodding and snuggling closer to him.

“So are you two dating now?” Namjoon leans back in his seat, crossing his arms in front of him.

Hoseok waves an arm, brushing off the question that has been surrounding the two of you these past three weeks. “You know it's not like that.” He answers before you can. He pulls his arm away and sets them both on top of your notebook. He sends you a knowing wink. 

“Yeah you out of all people should know it's not like that.” You back up Hoseok, sticking your tongue out at the other. “How's Rina by the way?” You challenge making the man next to you burst out in a fit of giggles. 

You see, most of the things Jungkook told you about Namjoon prior to your first meeting have all been lies. Or just not the whole truth.

Namjoon was a broody person. He did put his studies as one of his priorities in life. And he didn't want a relationship. 

Yet in the last few months you have gotten to know the career driven man. You've also managed to peel back some of his layers. 

He did have his moments of indignation, but he could also be very playful and funny. This side mostly comes out when Hoseok is around or when he wants you to get your mind off the things that have been stressing you out. He does have a strong work ethic, but he also knows when to take a break. 

There have even moments in your tutoring slash now study sessions when he forces you to take walks. He says it helps clear your head, but you also know it's his way to get his ideas to flow again whenever he feels stuck. 

During these walks you've managed to find out more things about him. He loves museums because he's shit at art, and knowing that there are people out there who aren't makes him appreciate the art a lot more. At least once every two months he visits the tree he and his father planted his mother’s ashes at to update her on his life. He cares so much for Jungkook and his mother even if he doesn't show it all the time. And despite not wanting a relationship he has been head over heels for the girl he's been casually hooking up with for the last two years. 

Though he won't come out and say it himself. You have witnessed the way his face settles down into something calmer. And his eyes light up whenever his phone rings and her name pops up on the screen.

He once spent thirty minutes talking about a joke she had told him one night. Spoiler alert, it wasn't a good one, but it was adorable watching him try to get it out in-between chuckles. 

You also know he shares the same negative sentiment Jungkook has about your current relationship with his best friend. But just like he claims that his relationship with Rina is complicated. So, is yours with the ray of sunshine you get to now call friend.

“She's fine.” He shrugs, clearing his throat and looking out the window. You share a look with Hoseok before letting out a fit of shared giggles. 

If someone had once told you that your strict math tutor slash friend would turn into a shy mess with just the simple mention of a name. You would've thought they were fucking with you. Even if it still surprises you a little bit. 

“You should just ask her to be your girlfriend.” Hoseok chimes in. 

Namjoon throws his head back groaning. “It wouldn't work out if I do, plus that would require for me to act like a boyfriend and I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.” He speaks with his eyes trained on the high ceiling of the cafe. 

You lean forward placing your elbows on top of the table and wrapping your arms around the hot mug. “You already do Namjoon. A switch of labels is not going to change anything. And don't you think she deserves some kind of confirmation and respect when it comes to your relationship?” You finish tilting your head to the side. 

“I do respect her though, which is why I don't want to ask her, like you just said a label won't change anything.” 

You let out a sigh, “I didn't say that you didn't respect her. I just think that from a girl's perspective she might be feeling a little bit confused with your words and actions. You say the two of you aren't anything serious but then you act like you can't live without her. If I was in her shoes I would feel very frustrated. So, maybe you don't have to make this big grand gesture or ask her to officially be your girlfriend but just clarify things between the two of you. If you aren't serious about her then so be it but if you are then tell her that.” You finish and take your first sip from your tea. 

“I agree with honey cakes, just be a little more straight forward that's all.” Hoseok shrugs before standing up. 

Namjoon rolls his eyes, and looks between the two of you. “And what about you?” He counteracts childishly. You knew it was coming. In his eyes the two of you giving him advice when you're in a similar situation is a bit hypocritical. Plus you and Hoseok are on the same page so it's di–

“That's different.” Hoseok speaks before you. “And this is about your love life not ours.” He states stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

“Whatever.” Namjoon brushes off. You sigh, aware that if you choose to continue the conversation it will end in the three of you having a petty argument. You look at Hoseok as he leans down, placing a delicate kiss on your cheek, making the man witnessing the affectionate gesture scoff in annoyance. 

If he wants to say something he doesn't voice it instead he opens his leather bound notebook to a new page. 

Hoseok ignores him and stands up straight. “Are we still on tonight?” 

You nod. “I can't stay for long though I want to catch up on sleep.” 

“Fine then just one movie it is.” He winks before turning on his heels. Leaving you behind with the grumpy man. He looks up from his journal, opening his mouth, but you raise a hand to stop him. “It's different Namjoon.” 

Namjon clicks his tongue in annoyance and shrugs. “Whatever, let's just do one more world problem before calling it a day.” 

“Fine,” you huff, sliding your notebook in front of you and opening it to a clean page. 

Just one more day and you'll be free from this torture. 

Hoseok's apartment is everything you expect from the maximest man. Just upon walking in you are hit with waves of bright colors. By the doorway there are different KAWS figurines that you can only imagine cost a fortune. Yet they greet you with their x'd out eyes as you remove your shoes. 

Then you have to pass by the Supreme beaded curtain to finally enter the living room. A bright red leather couch is settled in the middle. With wine colored pillows and a black throw blanket that you've adopted since the first night you spent in Hoseok's arms.

Abstract art lines the walls behind the television. There are more figurines lining the shelves in between books, records, and framed pictures of his friends and families. Along with a few miscellaneous items that he's told you he's obtained over the years.

His TV is huge. Takes up almost the whole wall, but your favorite to watch movies since he installed a surround system upon moving in years ago. 

You still remember the first night he invited you over. It was after spending two whole weeks texting non stop. He simply asked if you wanted to watch a movie with him and you thought why not. 

One night led to another and now another. It always starts the same. The two of you spend days teasing one another through text. Lewd texts along with pictures. You come over for a movie and then you end up underneath him. 

When it's over, he lets you use his shower while he orders takeout from the vegan restaurant a block down the road. And the two of you resume watching the movie as if neither of you were panting each other's names in pleasure. 

A simple arrangement with absolutely no strings attached.

It was what you were expecting when you came over tonight. Not that you don't mind the nights in which you do come over and nothing happens other than the deep hearted talks over a slow record playing in the background. But that wasn't happening either, because ever since you arrived at his doorstep, the overzealous man has been quiet. Biting the inside of his cheek and moving around you far enough to raise suspicion. 

It has your mind traveling back to the conversation that occurred in the afternoon. Was Hoseok having second thoughts? Or was there more to his actions than what you were picking up? 

“Hobi,” you whisper the minute he enters his living room with a bowl of popcorn stepping over your legs that were resting on his coffee table. He silently settles down next to you, on the other side of the couch with a gap wide enough to fit a person in between. 

Now you're more than positive that something is wrong. 

You groan, “I think I'll just go home then.” You mumble, pushing the throw blanket of your shoulders. 

This is enough to catch his attention. His eyes are wide behind his dark rimmed glasses and he sits up. “What why?” He tilts his head in confusion. 

A dry chuckle escapes your lips. “You obviously don't want me around, so I'll just go. I need to go to sleep early anyway.” You shrug, slipping your feet in his fuzzy slippers and swiftly start making your way to grab your stuff in his room. 

“No I–wait.” Finally, he speaks up, earning an eye roll from you that he can't see as your back is still turned. 

With haltered steps you spin on your heel to face him again, “What? You've been acting strange since I got here. So, if you don't want me around I will just go home.” 

At lightning speed he sets the bowl of popcorn on his coffee table, and stands up. He makes hasty steps towards you and when he is finally standing in front of you, he sets both of his hands on top of your shoulders. 

“Don't leave…I'm sorry.” Hoseok's eyes cast down past your face. They settle upon the graphic on your old washed out t-shirt. He takes a deep breath and looks up again. His face twists into something you can't decipher. It's a look you've never seen him wear, and it settles hard into your chest. 

He looks troubled, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His eyes dart to five different focal points. You know he's arguing with himself. When he finally looks at you in your eyes again. You can't help but shrink a little bit. 

His features have hardened, and you want to reach out to smooth over the little worry lines in the middle of his forehead. Guilt washes over you. 

For what? 

You don't know but you hope more than anything that you'll soon find out. 

“Can we talk?” He speaks up, letting his arms fall down, his knuckles brushing against your skin. 

For a second you think he's going to pull away. Retrieve into his body, but when he grabs your hands and laces his fingers with yours. The guilt in the pit of your stomach dissipates and you're left with confusion. 

When you don't answer his question, he repeats himself. This time differently, “I just think we need to talk, I've been thinking since this afternoon. I want to check up on you, and I guess us.” He clarifies, and now you're filled with a different kind of emotion. As much as you're relieved that you didn't do anything wrong per se. You are slightly annoyed that he couldn't just tell you that when you first arrived. Instead of ignoring you until you reached your breaking point. 

Frustrated, you say slowly, “Then just say that, instead of ignoring me.” 

Hoseok closes his eyes and sighs, nodding his head before speaking, “you're right I'm sorry. I just have a lot on my mind and I am not sure how to bring any of what I'm thinking about up.” 

“Hobi, just say it. We agreed on clear communication when we realized that this was going to be more than just a one night stand.” You sigh, beginning to walk in the direction of his couch, stringing him along. “Whatever is on your mind, just say it.” You push him onto his couch and take the seat next to him, your body fully facing his, and you fold your legs beneath you. 

He nods, running a hand down his face. “I don't think this is working anymore.” He whispers, eyes trained on his ceiling. 

Okay you were definitely not expecting that, but instead of voicing your surprise, you squeeze his hand. Encouraging him to continue. 

He does, “I think I'm slowly falling for you, well I don't know I'm confused about my feelings.” He whispers the end and falls quiet. 

As much as you want to run away and hide at his confession. He looks troubled and you wouldn't be a good friend if you just left him to wallow in his thoughts. No matter the pressure that has settled in your chest. Or the fact that your heart thinks you're running a marathon, making your ears feel like they're about to fall off too. 

With every passing moment you're finding that it's getting harder to breathe. You aren't dumb, the atmosphere has also changed, but it isn't because of his confession. It's because you are also a bit confused about your feelings.

You clear your throat, “W-What are you confused about?” 

He stops his staring game with the ceiling, shifting his whole body to finally face you. “Do you know why both Kook and Joon are so against us?” 

The question throws you off guard but you suppose it has to do with what he's going through. You do have an idea as to why your friends are raising a brow at your relationship. Jungkook’s warning the first day you met the barista is enough for you to get a rough idea of what they mean. But you want to hear it from him. 

Still you don't know if you can trust your voice so you shake your head. 

He continues, “I've never been in a relationship because I don't trust people to love me the way I know I can love them. So, I just sleep around, and when I get bored I break it off.” 

 “I know. They warned me about you when you immediately showed interest. And trust me I knew what I signed up for when we agreed to keep seeing each other. I don't expect anything more than what we are doing.” You tilt your head to the side.

“I know that's why I'm confused. At first that's all I expected and wanted. But then I don't know I feel so full and empty when I'm with you. I don't want you to leave when the night is over. You're the last thing I think about and the first thing I want to see. I've never felt this sure and comfortable with anyone ever, and I don't know what to do because we both know this isn't forever, your forever is with someone else, and so is mine. But for now I just want to be with you and know what it's like to fall in love and with you.” He takes a deep breath. “Even if it's just for a little bit. You know that next year I'll be leaving for that design school, and I'm sorry but nothing and no one is going to stop me. I've waited too long for this opportunity. I know I'm being selfish to ask you this, but can you please find it in your heart to let me be yours until then?” 

Hoseok finishes. And you're left to your own devices. To deal with your emotions as they spill out of you in hot tears. You've never had someone confess to you so passionately before. Actually nobody has ever bothered. And even though it's semi depressing you can't help but feel on cloud nine with all his words wrapping around you in the warmth that he radiates. 

Without thinking you kneel, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Okay let's do it.” You beam and he matches your smile. He leans in to kiss you but you place your hand over his mouth to stop him. 

Confusion plagues him like a bitter sting. You laugh, “But only if you agree that when everything is over there's no drama between us, and if I ever get married you have to design my wedding dress.” You remove your hand, and cradle his cheek, rub your thumb over his eyebrow. 

He chuckles, rolling his eyes. “You will get married.” 

“Nah, but it's okay. I've accepted my faith.” You shrug, resting your forehead against his. His hands come up your cheek, squishing them slightly.

“You will honey cakes, that's why I'm already planning your dress design in my head.” He wipes your forgotten tears, and tilts your head to the side. 

You feel your breathing get faster, as his heart shaped lips rest centimeters apart. “How are you so sure?” You whisper, swallowing thickly at the end. 

He smirks, with a glint in his eye. Like he knows something you don't, “because I know someone who is also falling for you but they’re to dumb to notice “ 

“Who?” 

“Secret,” he says before finally crashing his lips onto yours.

Hoseok’s room is equally as loud as his living room. It’s a little more diluted with simple decorations and a huge abstract painting on the wall in front of his bed. His bed takes up most of his space, adoring a black duvet with black sheets. He has three pillows and two of those you’ve taken ownership of. His brown dresser holds little trinkets of things he buys or finds in the pockets of his pants. It’s also home to a series of designer colognes. Your favorite one was definitely Terre d'Hermes. Somehow the smell always fills with comfort. 

Your favorite part of his room–other than his bed–was his desk. They say you can tell a lot about a person by just looking at their work space. 

He’s a messy artist. His sketches are always thrown around, or pinned on the corkboard hanging over his desk. He has two bookshelves filled with sketchbooks and magazines. Sometimes if you’re lucky he will leave his sketchbooks open, awarding you with a small glance of his work. He has different notebooks for different magazine cutouts. Each one labeled something like, ‘street’ or ‘formal’ or ‘one-day.’ The latter always peaks your interest but you’ve never thought to ask. He has a thousand different sketching materials, and so many colorful markers. You just know that he was that kid in class with the sixty-four crayola back. 

He's passionate about his craft. A passion that shines through everything that he does. Especially when he’s sharing that passion with you. Now, as he lays you down onto his soft mattress. He kisses his way down your neck, slowly pushing your shirt up to reveal your stomach and the few stretch marks that appeared one day in your early adolescent years. 

For years it was hard to be intimate with someone in fear that they would disgust your partner. But the one thing you learned while growing up was that most men didn’t give a shit unless they were getting it. 

Yet Hoseok, your boyfriend, now. 

He cares. 

In a good way. The first time he saw you naked he almost came in his jeans. Your curves were all in the right places. You have enough skin to grip onto, and he loves all the marks and imperfections your body has. 

He couldn’t understand why you were so beautiful in the soft glow of his bedroom lights? Why he didn’t have the words to describe how his heart was literally beating against his ribcage?  Why for the first time in his casual dating experience he feared he wouldn't be able to give you the pleasure you deserved? 

So, that first night together, he took his time. Trying to get his thoughts under control. He painted your body with featherlight kisses. Determined to leave his trace imprinted in your body for however long you two would engage with each other. 

Everytime you came over. He did just that. He took his time, choreographing a dance with your body. It was a no-brainer that he had fallen for you. Something he knew shouldn’t have happened. He had plans for himself. He had a future mapped out since he was teenage. Though, he had the sneaking suspicion that you wouldn’t stop him from achieving his goals. That you would support him through everything. He should’ve stopped his feelings for you from growing. 

He kept them quiet until his portfolio got accepted. Until he saw the brief glances Namjoon gave you when he thought you weren’t looking. Perhaps it was the jealousy that made him confess. Or that his time with you was now limited. Whatever the reason was that led him to his confession, he only hoped that you felt the same. 

You giggle, the beautiful melodic sound grounds him as he wraps a calloused hand around your right breast, circling his thumb around the pebble. 

You're his girlfriend now. 

He, your boyfriend and he will bring down the moon for you tonight if you asked him too. 

“What’s so funny?” His curious stare meets your amused one. 

You had failed to keep your giggles at bay while he made out with you on his couch. He let a few of his own out when he had had enough of kissing and grinding in his living room, and guided you into his room. 

He loved the sound, and he loved that it was only because after months of dancing this tango you were still shy underneath him. 

“Nothing, it’s just that Mickey is staring at us.” You whisper gasping when he grinds his lower half against yours. Hoseok playfully rolls his eyes, reaching and turning around the newly added picture of his family dog on his bedside table. No more prying dog or human eyes around to interrupt the two of you. 

His attention returns to you. Gaze burning with lust as he leans down, pecking your lips lightly. “Can you stay over?” He says, kneading your breast again. The teasing touches were driving you insane. But this is how you preferred it. Slow and intense, tangling your body with his, until the two of you became one. 

“I’ll make an exception if you promise to drive me to my class tomorrow with a free coffee.” You smile, pushing your chest into his hand. 

He shook his head, reaching down to your lips. “Hustler.” He mumbles, capturing your mouth in a slow sensual kiss. “You got yourself a deal baby girl.” 

Your body shudders at the nickname. He only used it when it was just the two of you. He knew the effect it had on you. “Can I take your shirt off now?” He smirks. 

You let out a pleasurable sigh, nodding your head, before verbalizing a soft, “yes.” 

He pulls away, sitting back on his heels, peeling his shirt off before helping you with yours. He discards the two of them somewhere behind him. He pulls you towards him again, resting his forehead against yours. A bright smile adorning his perfect face. 

It makes your stomach crumble, knowing that from this moment on.

Hoseok would always be the one who got away. 

Your big “what if.” 

Your biggest treasure. Your safe place. Your blueprint for a future with someone else. The love story that was made to end. But one that burned so bright that would have you telling your future daughter to never be afraid of love. 

“Can we go slow today?” You run your hands down his torso, playing with the belt buckle of his expensive belt. 

“I’ll go at whatever pace you want me to go, baby girl.” He reassures,  his fingers play with the bra strap that had fallen down your shoulder. 

You tilt your head, looking at him with soft eyes. And he swears he feels himself melt. 

The next few minutes were a mess of soft kisses and clothes being discarded. Each article of clothing, landing with a soft ‘thud’ against his bedroom floor. You’re on cloud nine, his lips kiss down your neck, your collarbone. His hands part your thighs, baring your cunt to him. He sits back, mouth watering at how wet you are. He couldn’t wait for a taste. 

He could never wait. And he never did. 

He kisses your mound before wrapping his lips around your clit. He savors the sigh that escapes your mouth. He smirks when he immediately feels you grip his hair, pushing him further. Just like he couldn’t resist, you also couldn’t.

He sucked, distracting you from his finger circling around your entrance making you gasp in surprise when you feel him insert one. Slowly thrusting it as he licked you like a man who has been starved for weeks. 

“Hobi,” You sigh, pushing his head further. He fingers you faster until he feels you clench around him, and he stops, making you whine. 

“Please,” you plead. He chuckles against you, inserting another finger. This time he doesn’t give you time to adjust. You feel him thrust into you with no hesitation. His mouth sucking on your clit, swirling his tongue around it playing with the nub. 

You were withering, moaning his name, and anything your mind could conjure up in this moment. 

Overwhelmed with blissful pleasure, you grip his bed sheets, bucking your hips into his face. He groans, knowing you were on edge from how tight your grip on his head was now. And he did the one thing he knew would drive you insane. He slowed down, until he came to a complete stop. 

“Hoseok,” you groan, slamming your hand onto his comforter. He chuckles, lifting his head. Your body was flushed, your lips swollen, your hair splayed out around you. He loves bringing you to this moment. 

“You said you wanted slow.” He grins, taking his fingers out of your pussy. Loving the way it clenched over nothing now. Almost as if it was begging to be played with again. 

You roll your eyes, pouting. “Not this slow. I want to come.” You say, sitting up on your elbows. 

“Oh baby you will.” He winks, licking his fingers clean. He leans over, pecking your lips quickly. “You will come as many times as you want. But I want the first one to be around my cock tonight.” 

You gasp at his words. You knew his mouth was lethal but sometimes it still surprises you. The lust lacing with his soft timbre made you weak in the knees. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. 

The word ‘slow’ is forgotten from either of your vocabularies, while the two of you kiss hungrily. Sucking on tongues, teeth clashing, hands touching and clutching onto anything and everything. 

Hoseok lays you down on your side, climbing in behind you. His teeth nips at your bottom lip and he wrapped your leg around his hips. He kisses down your neck, while you help guide his cock to your entrance. He locks his eyes with yours as he slowly pushes himself in. His arms wrap around your torso, and he pushes you closer to his chest. 

Both of your heartbeats are in sync. Racing against the clock, basking in pleasure that you never want it to end. 

“Move please.” You say, lifting your face to kiss him. 

He begins to move his hips, making you gasp into each other's mouths. It’s a sloppy pace from the start but you don't care. You want more, so you met his thrusts halfway. One of his hands palms at your breast. He alternates between swallowing your moans and leaving his mark on anything he can get his lips on. 

“B-Baby.” He moans, resting his forehead on yours. “I’m close, are you?” He thrusts, letting out a low moan when he feels you clench around him.

He didn’t give you a minute to answer, before he was lifting your leg higher around his waist, allowing himself to reach the deepest part of you. “Touch yourself baby.” 

You moan his name, letting go of his hand, your finger meeting your clit, rubbing it in circles. Trying to keep up with his unrelenting pace. And soon you feel him still behind you, eyes shutting in pleasure as he spills himself inside of you. His orgasm triggers the coil in the pit of your stomach as you feel your release wash over you in a tidal wave, making you push his cock and cum out of you. His fingers frantically come down to meet yours as he helps you ride out your wave. He whispers praises against your skin while you come down.

Hoseok kisses your lips slowly, chuckling before whispering words that you will forever hold near and dear to your heart. 

“I love you.” He pushes your hair away from your face. “I love you so much to know that one day I’ll have to let you go.”

You giggle, turning in his arms, nuzzling your head into his neck. “I love you.” 

You feel him laugh, twinkling his fingers down your spine, “Let’s get matching tattoos.” 

You look up at him, raising a brow before shaking your head. “You just made me squirt, told me you loved me, and now you want to get matching tattoos?” 

“What better way to commemorate the best ego boost.” He shrugs. 

“You’re insane.” You untangle yourself from his embrace. You stand up, putting on his shirt. 

“I didn’t hear a no.” He says smugly, putting his arms underneath his head. 

“Because you’re an insane idiot who makes me agree to things like these.” You smile, before walking out of his room. 

“Great, I’ll make an appointment.” He shouts after you, “I love you.” He adds after a moment. 

You enter his kitchen, and turn on the lights. You can feel your smile take up your entire face. For a moment you realize that for the first time in a long time you felt happy. 

So yeah, maybe, things were finally looking up. 

“You’re late.”

Namjoon says after taking a slow sip from his coffee. He looks at you from over the rim of his glasses. 

You roll your eyes, setting your bag down on the empty chair. “It's raining, and I forgot my umbrella. I had to wait for the rain to stop.”

“You could’ve texted to let me know.” He shrugs, setting his cup down on the coaster and flipping the page of his book. 

You sigh, before (gently) throwing your phone onto the table. “It’s dead. And before you ask, no I didn’t bring a charger. No, Jungkook wasn’t in class today so he couldn’t give me a charger, an umbrella, or a ride. Jimin is sick. And Taehyung doesn’t even go to our school. He's probably getting high with his new fling, so I wouldn’t have been able to ask him either.” You say, listing all the solutions he would’ve thought about in seconds. 

“Mhm,” he nods, closing his book. “And your boyfriend?”

Annoyed, you let out a whine, crossing your arms in front of you. “I don’t know, let me go downstairs and ask him. I’m sure he can stop managing a business to give me an umbrella.” 

Namjoon leans his elbows against the table. “Trouble in paradise?” He tilts his head, clasping his hands on top of his book. 

You shake your head, pulling out your chair and slumping down in it. “Hobi and I are fine. It’s not like he’s leaving in two months or anything.” You throw your hands up in exasperation. 

It’s month seven into your shining relationship with Hoseok, and you should’ve known that things would start to hit the fan sooner rather than Later. Your boyfriend was in the middle of the most tumultuous change of his life. Things were moving quickly and his time dedicated to you was bumped down his monstrous daily to-do list. 

Yet you couldn’t do or say anything because isn’t this what you signed up for? 

“Ah, so there is trouble.” Namjoon chuckles before opening his book again, setting his fancy leather bookmark aside. “This is exactly why I don’t do relationships, they just attract problems.” He adds, giving you a pointed look. 

You roll your eyes, “Shut up asshole, not all of us can be like you and Rina.” 

“Sure you can, it's simple just don't attach any strings to it.” He shrugs, underlining a sentence in his book. 

“Two people who have been only exclusively seeing each other for years literally the definition of strings attached. You can keep denying it all you want but she’s your girlfriend. You guys do all the couple-y stuff.” You grumble, leaning back in your chair, looking out of the window. The gloomy weather adds to your shitty mood. 

“She’s not, we are not dating, and I don’t need to talk about this with you again. Rina and I are on the same page.” He finishes, taking a long sip from his coffee.

“Well, how would you feel if Rina was spending time with another guy, completely ignoring your presence when you walk into her coffee shop all wet and angry because your professor basically told you your topic for your essay was shit.”

Namjoon smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like you’re jealous of Yuri.” 

“So what if I am?” You bite, “I understand that he’s training her to take over his position, but all he talks about is her and what he needs to teach her when we’re together. And whenever I come in they’re always laughing at something behind the coffee machine. And I know she’s nice and all but I would like his attention too.” You scoff. 

Namjoon hums, tapping his index finger against the table. “Do you trust him?” 

The question doesn’t catch you off guard, the obvious answer is on the tip of your tongue. But with how things have been going lately. You can’t help but hesitate. 

“I don’t know anymore.” You whisper looking down at your hands, turning the ring on your middle finger. “I know I should, and I do…I think I do. It’s just things have been so shit lately and I feel like a burden to him because of everything he has to do.” 

Namjoon lightly kicks your foot under the table, making you raise your head to meet his gaze. “I don’t know if I am being of much help, but he loves you. I know that whatever is happening he’s not doing it intentionally. Just talk to him about it.” 

If only it were that easy. 

“I’d love to but he never has time.” 

“Why not talk to him now then.” He says reaching into his bag to take out his cigarettes and lighter. 

“He’s busy downstairs with Yu–” 

“No, I’m not busy now.” 

You jump at the sound of your boyfriend's voice. You turn your head to look at him. A small tray with a mug of probably chamomile tea on top of it. His hair is shorter than the last time you saw him two days ago. He got a haircut and didn’t even tell you about it. That’s how low you have made it on his list. He can’t even send you a stupid picture of his new haircut. He can’t even send you a ‘goodmorning’ or ‘goodnight’ text. He also probably forgot that you were nervous for the meeting with your professor about your essay topic.

All these realizations make you want to roll into a ball and cry. You knew your time with Hoseok was limited. You just didn’t expect for the end to be so torturous. 

“That’s what I told her.” Namjoon speaks, narrowing his eyes at you for a second before turning his attention to his best friend. “She’s jealous of Yuri, because you’ve been spending too much time with her.” He shrugs, walking quickly to the stairs before you can bury him ten feet underground. 

You hear Hoseok let out a heavy sigh, and take the seat next to you. “Honeycakes,” he starts.

“Nice haircut.” You interrupt, slumping into your chair more. It earns another heavy sigh from the man sitting next to you. 

“Is Yuri the reason why you’ve been so upset lately?” He says placing a hand on top of your knee underneath the table. 

You let out a dry laugh before shaking your head. “No, it’s not her. It’s how you’ve been acting lately, it’s the time you’ve been spending with her. It's never having time for me anymore. It’s forgetting our date last week. It’s not even telling me that you got a haircut.” You finish, closing your fists to keep yourself from crying. 

Hoseok gives your thigh a squeeze before leaning back in his chair. “You know how things have been lately. I’m trying so hard to do everything I need to do. I don’t mean to be so dismissive but I can’t juggle everything at the same time.” 

You flick off a piece of lint from your jeans. “It’s nice to know that I’m just something you juggle around.” 

“That’s not what I meant. You knew what would happen when I started my application process. You said you understood.” 

“I did, or I thought I did Hoseok. I didn’t think I would become so secondary to you.” You sniffle. “I love that you’re chasing your dreams, but this is me trying to support you. I’m trying to understand how you’re feeling. But you stop me. You have shut me out and now I’m just something you remember sometimes.” You close your eyes, feeling the tears fall down your cheeks. 

The last thing you wanted was to be crying like this in public. 

“I-I want you to tell me when you’re having a hard time like you used to. I want you to feel like you can relax around me when we’re together. But every time we are together, we either argue, you don’t talk, or you talk about work, deadlines, or how you can’t wait to move. How do you think that makes me feel Hoseok?” 

Hoseok sighs, and wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry.” He kisses your temple. “I wish you would’ve told me earlier before it got to this point.” He whispers, rubbing your back, while you lean your head onto his shoulder. 

“But Hobi like you said, this is what I signed up for. This is what I agreed to.”  You add bitterly. 

“Yes Honeycakes, but you’re still my girlfriend. And I know that I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately, but I do care about you and I do love you.” He lifts your head from his shoulder. He gently grabs hold of your face, making you look at him. “Just like how you want me to talk to you when something is bothering me, I also want you to talk to me.” 

You close your head sighing, “You’re right, I’m sorry that I keep making things difficult.” 

He shakes his head. “You don’t. I’m the one that can’t seem to keep my girlfriend from doubting me. I’m the one who hasn’t told her how much I yearn to be in her presence at every waking moment.” He says, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “I love you, and I think that’s why I’ve been so avoidant lately. I know that our days are numbered and I would rather ignore the fact that I’m moving away soon than cherish the moments I get to spend with my family, my friends and you.” 

You nod, holding out your pinky out to him. “I promise to keep trying my best.” 

He hooks his pinky with yours bringing your laced fingers up to his lips. “I promise to keep trying my best too.” 

“I love you,” You whisper, letting go of his finger and wrapping your arms around his waist. 

His low laugh makes his chest vibrate against your head, “I love you.” He adds, rubbing soothing circles over your back. “Now, can you please drink your tea before you get a cold. I texted you earlier asking if you needed an umbrella but you didn’t answer. And now look at you coming in here all pouty and wet.”  

You raise your head to look at him, opening your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the forgotten voice of your friend. “Her phone’s dead.” Namjoon throws his lighter onto the wooden table. 

Hoseok tsks shaking his head, reaching over to push the tray of your lukewarm tea closer to you. “I should’ve known. I knew you didn’t charge it last night, just like I knew that you left your umbrella at my place.” He pinches your cheek. “How did your meeting go?” 

“He basically said that I need to restart my essay topic over again.”

Hoseok laughs, bopping your nose with his own. “Well did he say those exact words?” 

“No but it was basically implied.”  You emphasize. 

“Fine, I’ll talk to your study partner if my baby isn’t being told that she’s a genius all the time, then what am I paying him for.” He jokes, which earns a glare from said study partner. 

“You’re not paying me, idiot.” Namjoon rolls his eyes, grabbing his brown leather messenger back and stuffing his cigarettes into the front pocket. 

He’s grateful that he came back to smiles and not tears. The stoicness of his actions makes the two of you laugh hard. Your laugh resonates longer in his mind. It always does. No matter how much he tries to deny it. You always resonate longer in his mind. But he pushes that fleeting thought aside. 

Namjoon is happy. 

His friends are happy. 

Things in his life were finally looking up. 

“I have to go, but don’t be late next time and charge your phone.” He says hoisting his bag onto his shoulders. 

You nod, saluting in his direction, before bursting out into a fit of giggles as Hoseok tickles your side. 

Namjoon doesn’t stay for longer than he needs to. He’s already running late to meet Rina, but he can’t hide the smile taking up his space.

He can’t help but feel proud that things were finally looking up for you too. 

a/n: I hope you have enjoyed it. I will try not to be so MIA and upload a little more frequently rather than every 6 months haha. But my life has been pretty busy lately. In the past few months. I have moved to a different part of Seoul and I got a new job. I basically just hang out with my friends when I have free time haha. I also do dance class 3 times a week, and I started personal training last week. But I will try to manage my time better because I do miss writing and this story!

[fighting-these-demons]

The Sparring Scene on day 1 in New York :

Seeing Chibodee is like a breathe of fresh air that Domon didn't know he needed. Life has been so needlessly complicated lately but after Chibodee releases him from the bear hug given in greeting and throws an arm over Domon's shoulders they fall into step as if they'd never been apart.

Keeping in touch wasn't exactly easy. Domon doesn't respond quite as often as Chibodee would like, but every message Chibodee left was listened to and saved.

Ever since they got wind of this mission it's all either of them has had on their minds for days.

I need some help here with feelings and dialogue and inner thoughts but Basically

They both independently realize with clarity over the days leading up and the time in New York how much they've missed each other and how easy and comfortable it all is - being teamed up again. Being together in New York again.

Domon's semi-recent revelations and feelings fresh on his mind. Chibodee's crush ever looming.

Hearts racing. Feeling lighter than they have in God Knows How Long. Chibodee smiling so much his face cramps. Domon feeling so comfortable and nearly zen he loses his permanent frown from constantly thinking and just vibes. Smiling occasionally even!

Chibodee proposes they spar real quick before dinner "To work up an appetite! And C'mon! I wanna see what I'm up against in the upcoming Gundam Fight!" With a grin slamming his left fist into his open right hand. (He's left handed right? Or was that someone else?)

When they spar it's completely different than last time. There's an indescribable electricity to it. Normally it's a flurry of kicks and punches from both directions, but this time Domon's pulling out a bunch of grabs and redirection. 

There's a lot more contact than usual. 

At some point Domon picks him up and throws him! That's different. After he recovers and gets a few more punches in, Domon is back in his space and flips him to the mat before grappling him. 

Chibodee isn't about to lose so easily, and after he manages to break from it, he catches Domon in a grapple of his own.

It seems a bit odd though. Like there's less fight in these moments than usual. As if Domon has paused to think... which isn't like him in combat.

He thinks he feels Domon shake for a moment and wonders what's going on before Domon breaks his hold and jumps back poised for their usual fare of kicks and punches.

Fine by him. He'll wipe the floor with Domon and show him where his training has gotten him in the past year!

Of course Domon has been training as well and a bit more intensely and their status quo is met once again after a particularly brutal right hook to the head sends Chibodee staggering back and falling.

He's seeing stars and the room is spinning as he falls back against the post behind him supporting himself with the ropes on either side. He feels Domon walk up and after a few moments a stool slides behind him. 

He laughs and takes a seat thanking Domon and congratulating him on the win. Chibodee starts to lean forward pushing bits of hair back out of his face when he feels Domon move closer and lean over him. He pauses, head swimming, to try and look up at Domon who catches his jaw in his hand and turns his head to the right.

It's all happened so quickly that Chibodee barely has time to flinch in surprise.

He realizes that Domon is likely getting a look at the left side of his head. This is definitely a first. Domon has never checked his injuries quite like this after a fight. 

He feels his heart leap into his throat and thanks his lucky stars that he's already red in the face from the fight. A blush won't be noticeable in this state.

Domon hums in thought before turning Chibodee's face forward again. Suddenly Domon's eyes are the only thing Chibodee can focus on.

Royal Flush Haunted Honk - The Updated Bones!

Hello Internet Stranger looking up G Gundam on Tumblr dot com!

This is an idea for a Horror Alternate Universe involving Queer Non-Canon Relationships between the characters of the series.

It is based on the idea in the post that is linked above.

If you are not looking for this content please scroll on.

If you ARE looking for this content - and you're ok with reading my and other's Headcanons for this Alternate Universe I've haphazardly spun up -

Then go ahead and feel free to:

Check The Tags Of This Post For The Pairings

and click the Read More below!

Also the majority of the brainstorming is happening in the replies if you're so inclined.

--------------------------------

Behold! The Update! It's the bare bones intro and the outline! It's 2.5K! Whoops! 😅

Some of this is just straight copy and pasted from the notes and other bits have been lightly reworded or built upon to connect to other bits.

I've gotten some scenes sent to me by @thedragonchilde that I loved and I think will fit in well with what we've got so far for the fic.

If you'd like to link or reblog them please do!

@amplexadversary feel free to message me or reblog with scenes you've thought up or written up! I can't wait to read them!

I think we've set the stage pretty well to start brainstorming the horror and whump! 😃

I'll see y'all in the replies for ideas on new plot points! 🪦💥🌩

-----------------------------

This is backstory and general outline only.

It is barely edited. Typos abound.

The dialogue is extremely minimal and it is a framework upon which to build the fic. 💖

I am giving this explanation for the benefit of internet strangers as all parties working on this fic are already familiar.

Hello Internet strangers! 👋

--------------------------------

Wherever the tendrils of the Devil Gundam hovered over the earth, and subsequently were destroyed, are places that may have had DG cells distributed through the atmosphere.

Atmospheric DG plumes have lead to DG infection in those areas. There's also likely tendril debris.

Neo-Japan, since the Devil Gundam's destruction,  has been working with Neo and world governments on a cure for DG infection.

At the moment the current treatment involves Kyoji or Schwarz controlling the DG cells of the individual and shutting them down; however, they are making breakthroughs with advancements on a nanocite injection that they're synthesizing with an executable program that shuts the DG cells down.

The biological compatibilities are the hurdle at the moment as evidenced in animal testing.

Kyoji and Domon are traveling to some sites in the USA that were affected by tendrils. Domon is there as a body guard since Schwarz is handling infection cases elsewhere (unspecified).

Chibodee is their escort. America is a Different Beast to Japan even in the future. So they'll need an escort to get through the militant landscape and across the sheer distance of it all.

Rain wanted to come with them, but with the volatility of the current landscape of the US - Especially where they're going - Kyoji didn't want to needlessly risk her safety.

He's assured her that Domon, Chibodee, and Chibodee's team will be watching his back.

Dr. Kasshu will be with them for the first days in New York to help with setup of the mobile lab before heading back to Neo Japan to continue working alongside Rain.

Once they've rested and are ready to head out, Domon, Chibodee, Kyoji, and The Gals will take Neo America's Core Lander and a mobile lab to the TD Site and it should be a fairly straight forward affair since they've gotten permission from the national and state governments, as well as permission from Gunsinto to be in the area.

They shouldn't be more than a few days travel to get there and retrieve samples and data and get back. He should be gone a week at the absolute most.

Kyoji gives rain the contact info to their hotel in New York as well as their sponsored Gunsinto accommodations in the Midwest and lets her know that he'll call once they've arrived palnetside.

He makes good on that promise the next day, letting Rain know that their shuttle landed, Chibodee and the girls picked them up without hassle, and lets them know that they're set to have a great dinner at a favorite restaurant of Chibodee's that evening.

Seeing Chibodee is like a breathe of fresh air that Domon didn't know he needed. Life has been so needlessly complicated lately but after Chibodee releases him from the bear hug given in greeting and throws an arm over Domon's shoulders they fall into step as if they'd never been apart.

Keeping in touch wasn't exactly easy. Domon doesn't respond quite as often as Chibidee would like, but every message Chibodee left was listened to and saved.

Ever since they got wind of this mission it's all either of them has had on their minds for days.

I need some help here with feelings and dialogue and inner thoughts but Basically

They both independently realize with clarity over the days leading up and the time in New York how much they've missed each other and how easy and comfortable it all is - being teamed up again.

Domons semi-recent revelations and feelings fresh on his mind. Chibodees crush ever looming.

Hearts racing. Feeling lighter than they have in God Knows How Long. Chibodee smiling so much his face cramps. Domon feeling so comfortable and nearly zen he loses his permanent frown from constantly thinking and just vibes. Smiling occasionally even!

Chibodee proposes they spar real quick before dinner "To work up an appetite! And C'mon! I wanna see what I'm up against in the upcoming Gundam Fight!" With a grin slamming his left fist into his open right hand. (He's left handed right? Or was that someone else?)

They Spar and there's Feelings

(I have a small scene outline put together for the spar for your consideration. @thedragonchilde has submit 2 scenes that would be great for just after the spar and are an awesome read! I'll include my outline for the spar scene in a reblog)

Then they have dinner together and later part to settle in their hotel rooms for the evening. 

The next day they focus on briefing the expedition and setting up the Mobile Lab that The Gals will be in charge of transporting. 

Once the lab is set up, they see Dr. Kasshu off on his shuttle back to Neo Japan that has been on standby since they arrived.

Kyoji volunteers to ride with The Gals under the excuse of getting a head start on some data processing - to give Domon and Chibodee some time alone together. 

Chibodee is not about to let himself be alone in a Core Lander with Domon for HOURS. He may blurt out something he regrets. He insists that Kyoji ride with them and leave the Gals to themselves.

As they make their way out west, Chibodee starts explaining why they'll want to keep their guard up. 

There's been a lot of unrest recently and especially the last 10 years since Gunsinto bought out the last of their land and displaced so many communities. 

Domon asks occasional questions but Kyoji isn't saying much of anything at all. Opting to rest most of the journey. Domon seems tense, which is understandable considering the events before they left New York. 

Suddenly they hear gunfire and what might be a canon of some kind. 

They expected resistance outside of Gunsinto territory but they didn't expect it after they crossed the border!

Aren't the Greenlords supposed to be patrolling the area???

So they're on the run from a group that blames Domon and Kyoji for all the bullshit post DG Incident. The group is made up of various parties working together to hold Neo Japan responsible for their crimes against humanity since nothing held up in court and Neo Japan is currently in control. Plus near endless bitterness at America's loss of Super Power status for decades and the effect that that has had on their economy and natural resources put under stress from these Big Space Battles. 

Chibodee and The Gals are aware of THIS group of violent individuals… but they're not aware of the OTHER group of violent individuals. (The Clown gangs are kept under wraps by the Greenlords - Gunsinto's private militia similar to to the Pinkertons as going public would be an embarrassment and an open invitation to more trespassers.)

They have a good idea of what weapons they have at their disposal and what their general tactics are. 

They decide to split up and have The Gals create a distraction to lure the majority of the aggressors off before rendezvousing close to the TD Site in this region.

After they split, the core lander has some issues and breaks down in the middle of nowhere. As they break down Kyoji has an awful headache. There's a terrible signal he can feel and he knows it affected the core lander's processors but he's not sure what it is. 

(It's a device that broadcasts a malicious signal that infects the processing units of hovering vehicles - was gonna be an emp but realized that would mess up their gps. It has only a very mild effect on DG cells it seems. Their GPS was made by the Kasshus with DG tech so it's unaffected. - Their communicator was issued by Gunsinto and was not so lucky - it's dead.)

Luckily for them their map data integrated into their GPS shows there should be a former town nearby.

The nearest town is seemingly abandoned. There's simply not enough water here according to Chibodee. 

The only building not completely crumbled is a lone Motel. Chibodee curses his Rotten Fucking Luck. (Clown Music!)

They're exhausted from carrying their emergency supplies through the heat of the day. They're not going any further. This will have to be it. Domon is clearly tense and Chibidee seems about to jump out of his skin but Kyoji doesn't really know why. He could be over sensitive after sitting with their tension in the core lander and then walking with them through the heat. 

Chibodee considers attempting to convince them to camp outside but with the wind picking up as bad as it is, he has no leg to stand on. They'll be sleeping inside. 

Strange though. There's a light on. That's odd.

----------------------

Meanwhile The Gals have incapacitated the pursuers after radioing in help from the Greenlords who are cooperating on this mission. 

They're of course like “Whaaaaaat? That's Crazyyyyyyyyy.” And don't breathe a word of the Other Issue inside The Fields. Instead electing to simply refuel the mobile lab and send some extra men with The Gals as escort.

The girls start back on their journey to Rendevous with the guys. 

The arrive at the TD Site with no sign of the guys. After waiting 2 hours they decide to try and ping their location. 

There's no result. What they assumed was poor signal is worrying them now.

As they double back in the direction the guys should have been coming from they discover the crashed Core Lander and some prints headed South West.

They check their maps of the area which indicate a former town a few miles south west. They hop in their mobile lab and head that way. 

When they make it to the town, the only standing structure is a Clown Themed Motel that looks like it was pulled straight out of a historical classic horror film. 

They share a look. There's no way Chibodee would be here. They decide to check for other towns and head further south.  Eventually as it starts to get dark the escort advises that they head to the designated accommodations for the evening and the Greenlords will start a search.

Kyoji kept his word to Rain that he and his father would check in when they arrived in New York. When the second day stretches on with no word Rain starts to worry.

Her father has made it home, but she's still heard no word from Kyoji.

On Rain's 5th call in as many hours -at about 2:00 AM- The Gals answer.... it's Bad News.

They've been separated by a roaming militia group hellbent on serving American Justice to these Neo Japan Planet Destroyers. The Gals were supposed to Rendevous with Chibodee and the guys at the TD site but they never showed and they didn't find them on their way to the Gunsinto Accomodations either.

The Gals reassure her that the Greenlords and Gunsinto are starting a search and they should have word soon.

Dread starts to settle in the pit of Rain's stomach.

------------

Meanwhile The Guys walk into the Hotel expecting it to be abandoned. It certainly looks that way from the outside. 

As they walk in though, they meet a rather average looking man smoking a cigar and watching some movies on a TV in the corner of the dark Lobby. 

He looks surprised (he isnt) and quickly stubs out his cigar in the ash tray nearby before walking into the only light in the lobby by the front desk.

He welcomes them with a smile and asks how many guests. Letting them know that unfortunately he's only got one room available and There's Only the One Bed. He asks if that's alright.

Chibodee sputters. Shocked that there's someone here at all. He asks as much and the man says that the Hotel is a side business of the Greenlords’ for “Employee Services” if you catch his drift.

Average guy asks after them as he's never seen them before. Kyoji has a bad feeling and smooths things over by advising that they're there as horticultural graduate students studying genetic modification with their Professor and a few other students. Kyoji tells a tale of how they got separated in the fields and this was the closest area with shelter according to their map data.

The Average guy is surprised to hear that they have a functioning GPS and says that this area has bad signal. It's a blessing they can find their way.

He directs them to their room and leaves back toward the lobby.

Kyoji has a bad feeling. He can sense a ton of corrupted DG cells nearby. Somewhere underground, but isn't sure why or what it means. 

He also keeps getting flashes of screaming men and women in clown costumes….

He relays as much to Domon privately as Chibodee is clearly already on edge and doesn't need any more stress. 

Kyoji asks Domon if Chibodee is alright. Domon informs him that clowns and clown imagery is a problem but there's really nothing they can do about it in this situation. His fists are clenched. Domon i's pissed they have to stay here.

Kyoji takes a moment to let Domon know he'll take the floor and for Chibodee and Domon to take the bed. This throws Domon for a loop, but before he can argue Kyoji insists that out of the 3 of them he can probably take the most stress and that Chibodee looks like he needs someone to sleep next to. 

Kyoji also mentions that he'll be blocking his hearing on a nano level to give them privacy in case they need to talk. Domon is a bit flustered by this but decides to take it in stride and go to Chibodee who is pacing and silently melting down. He looks like he's about to both through the window and back into the fields. 

Domon puts a hand on Chibodee’s shoulder and suggests they go ahead and bunk down for the night. 

He and Domon each take a seat on the end of the bed while Kyoji remains standing and they discuss Watch Rotation.

It'll probably be better to have 2 people awake and 1 person resting at any given time.

None of them trust this guy at the front desk. Especially not Kyoji.

-------------------------

Not sure how to segue from bunking down to the horror bit below gracefully; but I know we need to.

I feel like it's the perfect time for Domon and Chibodee to take Kyoji up on his offer of audible privacy to have a quick heart to heart..... before it's unfortunately and terrifyingly interrupted. 😨

Mostly because I'm mean. 😂

-----------------------

My first thought for 4 is that it probably looks like a normal-ass bed but in the middle of the night when both the guys are like half asleep, a clown hand bursts up from the center of the mattress in a classic zombie style Then an improbable amount slowly crawl out of that same hole as Chibodee drags Domon to the door (Domon for his credit is ready to beat a clown with another clown)

Since the FC does have the lightest touch of Newtype bullshit (mostly seen in the Schwarz/Rain chase scene where Schwarz gets the newtype flash), I'm interested in it being ghosts because the NT thing sometimes goes that way.

Ghosts usually have some kind of backstory as to why they're around, and I think it fits the setting to have a sort of clown culture war going on

so you have gangs like the one that killed Chibodee's mom, and then you get ordinary clowns going vigilante to hunt the ones that do that down for flagrant violation of the clown code

But the problem with vigilantism is you sometimes get the wrong guy, so that eventually happens and another group of clowns goes vigilante to go after the first group because they've gone bad (doesn't matter whether or not this is true for our purposes). And then you get more guys like the original circus terrorists playing themselves off as vigilantes as an excuse to kill people.

So now you have a clown gang war and more clown terrorists than you started with. And with the other problems Earth and the Colonies have it isn't *really* a big enough deal for anyone outside of the business to really care, so you get a sort of uneasy status quo with occasional bursts of clown violence.

The motel in question has a ghost problem because it's a former base of operations of a clown gang, where they would frequently dispose of their clown victims.

Chibodee is not at all aware of this. Or else he never would have agreed to this. He would have had some sort if Military backup. Gunsinto and The Greenlords have kept this under wraps to avoid broadcasting their farm territory as terrorist territory.

The clowns were affected by DG cells pre-murder and with Kyoji nearby they seem to be activating.

Yikes.

Kyoji can affect DG cells in a lof of situations... but can he affect them to his advantage here???

-----------------------

Stay Tuned to Find Out!

[lintskukka]

the saga continues cause i press post too often as if im texting to myself and not word vomiting on my public blog

[echoequinox]

I finally finished Gideon the Ninth! And boy fucking howdy was that book a slog to get through lmfao, it’s not my favorite book, but it did make me excited for Harrow the Ninth, and I’ll explain that and also why I Didn’t Like It under a read more because lots of spoilers if you haven’t read it

There are five key parts to any given book. Narrative voice, plot, setting, character dynamics, and of course, characters. If you have even four of these INCREDIBLY solid, while one suffers, the book is hard to read.

Case and point: Gideon the Ninth.

I fucking hate Gideon Nav. I fucking hate Gideon Nav, I understand that Tamsyn was writing Dave Strider as an even more annoying lesbian, but all of the nuance and good characterization that Huss gave Dave was completely lost when turned into a late-teens/early-20-year-old lesbian who had just recently graduated David Karp’s Ermagerd Academy for Heckin Puppers.

The way she talks is insufferable. The way she THINKS is insufferable. At any given moment, I agreed with her own self loathing that Harrow should have killed her when she had the multitudes of chances, or that she should’ve died from the nerve gas that killed the rest of the Ninth. I. Hate. Gideon. Nav. 

But that’s the thing! That’s the Narrative Voice, our Unreliably Shitty Narrator. That’s one of the parts of this book that suffered, while the rest kind of excelled. The setting is interesting, the plot was compelling after I slogged past the front half of a book so exposition heavy that I felt like I, too, was a Ninth nun, and these boring, boring pages were Drearburgh itself. The dynamic between Gideon and Harrow - again, paced so terribly, only in the last like... tenth of the book do we get any resolution - was GOOD, and their mutual misplaced guilt felt nice.

The characters? Hoo boy the characters. If you took Gideon Fucking Nav out of this book, it would be easily one of my top three books of all time. Palamedes was a delight, Camilla was fun, Dulcinea?? Dulcinea?? Teacher’s revelation was neat, Magnus and Abigail were fun before 💀

But even then, I have to complain, because of the way Tamsyn writes - and writes Gideon specifically - if she had made a fucking Danganronpa “A Body Was Discovered!” joke at Magnus and Abigail, it wouldn’t have felt out of place. That’s bad!!!!! That’s a BAD thing.

I don’t think books should be stuffy. I think books should be accessible in a way that a lot aren’t, using language that’s hard for readers to connect with, unbelievable narrative voices, blah blah blah, but there’s a line somewhere, where it becomes... maybe not too accessible? But like... I guess going from Inaccessible to Ridiculous.

I asked if the books got better and someone was like “No, and later on they make a none pizza with left beef joke, lol!!” like that was a GOOD thing, like in the year of our lord two thousand and twenty two, having a semi-serious science fantasy book making a none pizza with left beef joke (a post which, for clarity, turned TEN YEARS OLD THIS YEAR) was a point of pride? This sucks! This SUCKS.

I am only looking forward to Harrow the Ninth because finally, god finally, I got the resolution I was looking for in the last 20 pages when Gideon did the one heroic thing she could’ve done and thrown herself onto spikes, killing herself instantly, and saving us from the HORRIFYING possibility of further books being written like they were churned out in 2010 by a 18 year old instead of 2022 by a 37 year old.

Please, Emperor Undying, please let Harrow be more sufferable than Gideon was. Please.

Please.

[taexual]

SEVENTEEN (Vocal Unit) / They realize they are in love with you

WARNING: the softest fluff (also, these are long)

JEONGHAN

Jeonghan thought his flu had gotten so bad, he’d imagined the sound of the doorbell.

He’d just texted you – half an hour ago – telling you not to come over, no matter how sick he was, because it was pouring rain outside and he didn’t want you to get sick, too. And then he fell asleep, so now he wasn’t sure which sounds were real and which were—

There it was again. Someone was absolutely ringing the doorbell.

“Joshua!” he tried, bursting into a coughing fit as soon as the word left his lips. “Ah, crap—”

Sneezing immediately after he finished couhing, Jeonghan thought he could distinctly recall ordering the boys in the rooms nearby to evacuate as soon as he got a sore throat, afraid of infecting them, so that meant he was going to have to find a way to get to the door himself.

Halfway out of the door, sniffling and sturggling to properly open his eyes, Jeonghan heard a very familiar gasp. Blinking, he lifted his face to meet your surprised gaze.

“Why are you out of bed?” you demanded.

Too taken aback by your presence – perhaps he’d dreamed telling you not to come? – he stuttered, “the doorbell—”

“Seungcheol opened the door,” you explained, taking him by the arm and guiding him back to his room. “You’re not supposed to be walking.”

“Y-you’re not supposed to be here,” he retorted, shivering as soon as he felt your cold hand on his forehead when you checked for fever. You pulled your hand away after realizing that you were wet from the rain.

“You’re sick,” you countered as you helped him climb back into bed and passed him a tissue as soon as he sneezed again. “And Seungcheol told me you tried to kick everyone out of the house.”

“I just told them t-to—” he sneezed again, “to stay away from my room. I don’t want them to get sick. I don’t want you to get sick, either.”

“Well, I don’t want you to be alone when you’re not feeling well,” you replied, taking your coat and backpack off before sitting down on the edge of his bed and unpacking the provisions you’d brought. “I didn’t know how to make the kind of soup that you like but I hope that—”

“Thank you,” Jeonghan said. He watched the medicine, the themometers, the containers of food, and the nasal sprays that you’d brought, and felt something squeeze his chest – it wasn’t the flu. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, now lie down and—” you replied automatically and then froze, realizing that you’d never actually heard him say that to you before.

Somewhat bewildered, you turned to look at him but Jeonghan – still hovering between dream and reality and, therefore, not sure if he’d just confessed his love to you or if he just thought of doing it – was already lying in his pile of blankets and pillows, his eyes closed and lips parted, seemingly drifting off to sleep.

JOSHUA

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Joshua asked you as he tried to finish reading the last chapter of the book. The feeling of your warm gaze on him distracted him, and was more than enough to decorate his cheeks with the softest shade of pink.

Realizing that he’d caught you staring – but it wasn’t like you were trying very hard to be subtle – you chuckled and looked away. “Like what?”

“Like—I don’t know,” he laughed nervously, not quite sure why his heart had started to beat so quickly. “Like you’d never seen me before.”

You carried on what you were doing and looked back to your phone, explaining in a tone so simple, it seemed like your answer was obvious and it was ridiculous that he didn’t figure that out himself.

“Sometimes it feels like I haven’t,” you explained, “you looked so lost in the book, it felt like I was getting a glimpse into your mind by watching you read,” you paused to give him a look filled with sincerity, “sorry if that was—”

“No, um…” he stopped you, closing his book shut. He had exactly zero chances of getting back into the final chapter and actually understanding how the story resolved. “That’s okay. You just surprised me, I guess.”

“Why?” you asked, a hint of teasing in your voice now. “You’re nice to look at.”

Joshua felt himself inhale with a shudder so intense, he was worried you’d see him shaking from across the room. But, not meaning to make him even more uncomfortable, you’d looked away after you finished speaking, so he had nothing to be nervous about.

Except for the fact that he thought you were nice to look at, too. And the fact that he’d thought so for ages now, but you were friends and he wasn’t supposed to think that about a friend.

“Hey, um,” he started to say before he was aware of opening his mouth, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you replied, too far from him to notice the wild terror in his eyes after he realized there was no going back from this.

“What—uh, h-how do you feel about going out to get food tonight?” he asked, caressing the spine of the book he was still holding in order to get some more courage to clarify the true purpose of his question.

“Okay, that sounds good,” you nodded. “Maybe we can try that all-you-can eat place that just opened a few blocks away?”

That wasn’t exactly the sort of candle-lit dinner he’d imagined, but, swallowing with great difficulty, Joshua nodded, “yeah. Okay. Anything you want.”

Baby steps, he decided. He’d have to figure out a way to make it clear that this was a date once you were already on it.

WOOZI

You had been too busy – too stressed – to see him – really, properly see him – for nearly a month now. All of your meetings consisted of a few minutes, meant to say hello and catch up, and then you were back to taking care of your own personal errands.

Before long, seeing you for two minutes a day didn’t seem enough for Jihoon anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you exhaled heavily, the fifth apology leaving your lips even though you and Jihoon had only been on the phone for about half a minute. “I should be done with this project in a few more weeks tops, and then this will all be over. Really, I am so—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Jihoon asked, feeling bad to be putting extra pressure on you with his insistent phone call. “I understand. I just… I don’t know, I haven’t seen you in so long.”

He wanted to say he missed you. He was going to say he missed you. But he stayed quiet, leaving the words hanging in the air awkwarly.

You bit your lip, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that you’d been hoping to relieve the frustration that’s been brought on by your heavy workload by doing something special for him. Something that he’d clearly not noticed.

“Have you, uh,” you started, having no other choice but to come clean, “checked your mailbox recently?”

“My inbox?” he repeated as his confused eyes darted to his computer where he’d always kept his email open.

“No, your mailbox,” you clarified and then explained, “your physical mailbox at your house.”

Jihoon looked almost alarmed. “No. I don’t think anyone checks that thing, we get our bills online and don’t care much for ads. S-should I, er—should I have checked it?”

“Yeah,” you said, nervous now. “Call me back after you do.”

He promised he would and leaped off his office chair. Nearly slipping on the wooden floors as he bolted through the door of his room and into the hallway outside of the apartment, Jihoon realized he’d left the key of the mailbox back inside.

Honestly, at that point, he was curious enough to physically pry the mailbox open but, groaning and huffing with irritation, he settled for the conventional way and returned inside to grab the key.

What he saw inside of the mailbox almost made him sit right down on the floor.

You’d mailed him a letter. Every single day. Actually, you didn’t mail it – the envelopes had no stamps on – you must have delivered the letters yourself, early in the morning before you had to go to work.

Jihoon wondered why you didn’t call him instead, but the answer was obvious: you knew how late he went to sleep the night before and you didn’t want to wake him.

Still not having caught his breath, Jihoon collected the envelopes and jogged back inside. He was going to call you first, then read them all; he wanted to do both at the same time but some things were more important than the others.

And the most important thing right now was him telling you how much he loved you.

DK

Seokmin didn’t really understand what was happening at first. One moment, he was sleeping – snoring peacefully and possibly even smiling in the dream – and then the next, he was suddenly awake and semi-aware of his surroundings, even if his eyes still felt too heavy to open.

“Hmmm,” mumbling in disorientation, he tried to turn to his side but felt something change in the atmosphere as soon as he did.

The room went quiet.

And, finally, Seokmin realized what’s happened: he’d been sleeping next to you – almost on top of you, at this point – and you’d been humming. Actually humming a quiet cheerful tune under your breath and, despite the comfort it brought his tired mind, he’d never heard you humming before. And that’s why he woke up.

“Sorry,” you whispered, putting down the book that you’d been reading while he slept. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, please,” he spoke, his voice groggy and laced with sleep. Throwing his arm around your waist as he absentmindedly nuzzled his face into your neck, he asked, “sing for me.”

You would have laughed if you didn’t feel so overwhelmed with his body warmth. “You’re asking me to sing for you?”

“Yes,” he said and sighed in content when one of your hands dropped above his head, your nervous fingertips gently touching his hair.

Seokmin had never felt so safe – so at home – before and he realized with frightening clarity that he never wanted to leave. So, tightening his grip around you, he settled firmly on one thing and one thing only: he was going to stay here forever.

“Sing me to sleep,” he asked again, bringing a smile to your lips with his ambiguous request, “but let me stay awake so I can listen.”

SEUNGKWAN

More than half of the time that Seungkwan spent with you, he was laughing. It was either at the jokes that you’d made, or at your shared ability to abandon all sensibility and behave like reckless idiots just for the fun of it. If someone had seen the two of you then, they would have probably thought you were both high on every drug imaginable.

And Seungkwan cherished moments like that – he cherished the pain in his cheeks, the hollowness of his lungs when he thought he’s suffocate from laughing so much, and the bruises on his thighs from clapping against them so hard each time you said something funny.

“God, I’m really going to die like this,” he said to you one time, wiping a tear from his eye.

Seungkwan almost started to laugh again as soon as he saw that you’d transcended the laughter state and were now in the “silent tremors” state where your body was shaking from how funny this was, but you were physically incapable of producing any sort of sound anymore.

“Stop!” he demanded, bringing his hand over your knee because you were too far for him to touch in a more forceful way. “I can’t breathe anymore!”

But you didn’t stop – you couldn’t – and soon enough, you were both almost literally on the floor, still laughing, even though neither of you could remember what was it that started this anymore. You’d slow down every now and then, the laughter dissipating, but then a memory – or the sight of each other’s faces, still framed in joy – would start it all up again.

“I c-can’t feel my stomach,” you spoke as you leaned against the wall, trying to get yourself together, but still giggling uncontrollably. “This is like exercise.”

Seungkwan had almost stopped but now he was laughing again – and, naturally, you were, too – and he had to cover his face with his hands because, dear God, this was never going to end!

“Exercise,” he said in-between fits of laughter, “is nowhere near as fun as this. Ah, I’m not sure I can stand up.”

Still laughing weakly, you managed to get back on your feet and extended a hand for him. “I blame you, by the way. You started it.”

“Did I?” he wasn’t sure.

“Of course! You always make me laugh.”

“You always make me laugh!” he countered as if this was a very serious accusation and, within a moment, you were both giggling again. “God, my face hurts so much. I love it. I love you.”

Even though he was still laughing as he said it – and you were, too – you couldn’t miss the sincerity in his voice and the emotion behind his words because, jokes and laughter aside, it matched the emotions inside of your own chest.

So, you laughed harder – forcing him to push your hand away because now he was laughing, too – because this was your way of telling him that you loved him, too.

[shinsousbedroom]

Plus Ultra! Go Beyond the Screen!

celebrity AU drabble series, 3K~, quirkless actor Midoriya Izuku gets interviewed

[Read on AO3.]

GO BEYOND!

A conversation with Japan’s rising star Midoriya Izuku on standing up on set and off as the next symbol for peace. A GQ Japan exclusive.

By Taneo Tokuda | Correspondent

[Image of Midoriya Izuku, leaning next to a window, his body arched off the wall. His head is tilted up and over towards the camera, the left side of his body illuminated from the light coming in, the right side fading into the shadows. He’s wearing a sheepish grin, tugging at the tie around his neck with a single hooked finger, jacket sliding off his shoulders. He’s wearing Best Jeanist’s exclusive non-denim line, and the monocolor layering of velvets in the lighting make his green hair, red shoes, and tie pop in rich color even more.]

I’d been warned that Midoriya Izuku has no regard for outdated formality. He’s far from callous or jaded — sweet and optimistic are two words often used to describe him — but propriety is something he has never been concerned with.

I’d been warned, but I didn’t understand.

Any journalist who’s worked the entertainment beat for a while knows there’s a cadence every interview follows. The details may change, but there are conventional practices that help an interview go smoothly for both the interviewer and subject, to make the most of a complicated relationship between celebrities and the media.

This interview starts behind the scenes, as most do, with the e-mail I send out to Midoriya’s manager, laying out a request to speak with his charge. The enthusiastic response comes just an hour later and references details from a number of stories I’d written across the entire span of my career.

It isn’t his manager’s response. It’s Midoriya’s.

That was my second warning to assume nothing, but I still stumble into Midoriya’s apartment expecting a clean, contemporary, moderately-sized apartment. It’s rare to host interviews in celebrity homes, and when it happens, it’s meant to be a statement — power, wealth, pride, affected sincerity.

Instead, Midoriya opens the door halfway and apologizes because he moved in recently and there’s still a stack of boxes blocking him from opening it any further. The door handle nearly catches between the buttons of my shirt as I squeeze through the crack. Once inside, I trip over his trademark red shoes and nearly take him down in the process.

He catches me in his arms and says with a wry grin, “Don’t worry, I am here!”

That, of course, is a classic reference to his latest role: All Might. All for One will be a Netflix reboot of the old '80s superhero film franchise that turned Toshinori Yagi into a household name. In a casting coup that stunned fans and industry insiders alike, Midoriya fell into the role shortly after making headlines for saving a life during a villain attack on the set of long-running soap opera The Quirked and the Quirkless. The villain had been looking for Toshinori, and in his absence, grabbed a crewmember hostage. Midoriya attacked the villain despite having no quirk.

Soon after, Toshinori reversed his longstanding refusal to produce an All Might reboot and gave the studio a green light — with a stipulation. Just as the franchise had brought him up from obscurity, so must the franchise fill its ranks with youths aiming to catch their big breaks. Enter: Midoriya Izuku.

Midoriya sets me back down gently — yes, he picked me up when I fell, even though I’m a full half meter taller than him — and I’m more inclined to see his suitability as Toshinori’s successor.

Physically, he still looks nothing like his mentor. Where Toshinori is buff, Midoriya is lean, tall to his short, loud to his soft. Toshinori held his strength in the brash, nigh-cocky attitude that got him into as much trouble as himself as it did in the show as All Might. Midoriya carries strength like woven spider silk; it’s graceful and dangerous, but all too easy to overlook for those unused to subtlety. But he carries the same bright aura of unwavering love and determination.

More to the point, I also felt his arms and abs in the fall, and he may not look like he has the muscles of All Might, but they are definitely there.

“You can take a seat anywhere in the living room if you’d like,” Midoriya says, ushering me down the hall with a light hand on my back. “Breakfast will be ready in just a few minutes, but I haven’t put together the kitchen table yet, so living room it is.”

“Breakfast? Did we decide on a working breakfast?” I replied.

“I couldn’t invite a guest into my home without offering snacks! Since this interview coincides with breakfast, I made breakfast.” He pushes me towards the sofa and wags a finger at me when I try to follow him to the kitchen anyway. “No guests allowed to hover or help in the kitchen. It’s too small!”

The rest of the apartment is half unpacked, and haphazardly at that. Boxes are open, dumped out into piles on the floor where they will likely be permanently placed. I perch on the arm of a ratty sofa by the only portion of the room that’s been set up. It’s a veritable shrine to pro heros, fictional and real alike. Two of the five shelves are devoted solely to All Might merchandise.

Midoriya appears behind me, as if by quirk. “Ah, do you collect hero memorabilia? I’ve been a big fan of All Might since I was little, and then I started following hero society in general when I got into middle school, so I’ve built up a lot over the years especially rare items like if you look at the back corner there’s a particularly cool figure of All Might from the emerald era which if you remember was received so poorly that most of the merch was shelved in one location and subsequently destroyed during a villain attack…” He goes on without end or pause, taking me through the history of each item on the third shelf. At minute six, he abruptly tenses mid-sentence. I can almost feel the heat from his red face as he starts stammering apologies for wasting my time and gingerly puts his collection away again.

“You've got a lot of stuff I haven’t seen. It’s interesting.” It makes me uncomfortable how much he clearly doesn’t believe me. “It’ll be good content, that you have such a long history being an All Might fan.” He shrugs my words aside, and gestures behind me to a giant spread he’d laid out on the coffee table before seeing my interest in his collection.

We sit. For a moment, the only sound in the apartment is the clatter of silverware, the muffled bustle of Tokyo’s streets at midmorning a soothing counterpoint. I’m considering how to break the lingering tension I caused. But then —

“I’m a quirkless soap opera actor who seemingly got the biggest role of the decade for doing something completely unrelated to acting. I’m optimistic, not an idiot.” There’s a taut line to his shoulders again, at odds with the quiet, delicate way he drinks his miso soup.

His eyes trail back to the curio shelf of hero merchandise. A heaviness builds between us in the seconds it takes him to think. “I grew up in a neighborhood hostile to me and my mother. I mumble my thoughts out loud and have an obsession for heroes that edges past societally acceptable as an adult. I have no quirk, she had no husband, we had no money. Any insult you could say about us, I’ve heard it.”

He looks me dead in the eyes and leans forward. I can’t help but mirror him. “It would be disrespectful to everyone who supported me to get here if I let the back talk get to me. I worked hard for this role, and I earn it with every new day of effort I put into it. All Might is the symbol for peace, and I intend to embody that legacy. No one will be able to doubt me when I’m done.”

Anyone who’s familiar with Midoriya’s reputation knows not to be surprised by his humility, but it’s a revelation to see this drive, his earnest focus pinning down my full attention. The last bit of the puzzle that was his casting choice is answered in one overwhelming look. If All for One does it right, his magnetism is going to Detroit Smash every heart in Japan.

“The waffles!” He springs up and mutters his way back to the kitchen, cutting past the moment. “I forgot the waffles, Kirishima gave me a waffle maker the shape of All Might’s crest as a housewarming gift, they’re so cute and surprisingly detailed…” In just a few seconds he plops the plate down amid the overfull table and settles back into his seat with a smile. “So? Should we get started?”

Interview has been edited for length and clarity. For the full article, visit us online. Catch the first season of All for One on Netflix, streaming xx xxx.

[Image of Midoriya Izuku sitting outdoors on some sidewalk steps in workout gear, leaning back on one arm, the other hand raised to cover his face from the sun. He’s wearing bright green short shorts and a very loose tank top, the arm holes cut out so deep that the angle lets the photographer capture the sheen of oil and sweat across his ribs and back as light filters through the shirt. One sock is pulled up taut, the other scrunched down, same classic red shoes still on his feet. His legs and arms and hands are haphazardly wrapped in carefully grimed bandages, as is his makeup, smudges of dirt across his cheeks along with make up to bruise his lips a deep, pouty red. Boxing gloves hang over his shoulders, and a bandana mimicking the famed mouth guard from All Might’s most iconic outfit hangs around his neck.]

TT: Congratulations on your first starring role! How does the move from semi-recurring character to protagonist feel?

MI: It’s a huge challenge, one I’m incredibly excited for! My character in Quirkless wasn’t supposed to be mine. I’d already been involved with the show as a quirkless consultant but one day on set, they’d had a huge scheduling conflict, and Director Ryuko remembered I’d originally auditioned for the show for a character that was ultimately cut. She brought me in as a literal last minute replacement, and soon enough a three-episode run expanded into a semi-regular spot next season. At least with All for One I’ve had tons of time to prepare.

TT: Take us through what it was like getting the role of All Might.

MI: I think the media explained the villain attack that brought me to the studio’s attention plenty. What's more important is when after I recovered, Toshinori-san contacted me and connected me to his talent agency, and my new manager was the one that successfully nabbed me an audition for the new show. They had us go through a few standard readings and chemistry checks, and then I got the part.

TT: You auditioned?

MI: I did! That’s what makes the rumors of favoritism even more frustrating. I promise I didn’t get the role because I stopped a villain attack on set! Well, I hope I didn’t.

[File photograph of Toshinori Yagi and Midoriya Izuku post-hostage situation. The stage is in disarray, black goop covering the furniture and floor of a fake hospital waiting room in a thick layer of sticky slime. They stand off-center in the foreground, Midoriya rubbing a fist over his eye, exhausted, possibly crying, as Toshinori pulls him into his side for a hug. Both have shock blankets draped across their shoulders. Emergency respondents case and clean the scene in the background.]

TT: How does it feel to take up the mantle of one of the most iconic comic book characters of all time?

MI: I’d be lying if I didn’t say nerve-wracking, but I’m more excited than anything. I’ve dreamed about this since I was 5, when the doctors first told me I’d never have a quirk and never be a licensed hero. All that love was redirected toward All Might. Some people might say being too big a fanboy will make playing him hard, but I’ve been preparing for this my entire life, and that’s what I’m trying to hold on to instead of anxiety. Toshinori-san has also been a spectacular mentor to me through this whole process.

TT: It's been said that Toshinori-san implemented a rigorous vetting process to work in any position on the crew. Recommendations, mentorship networks — because everyone is new to film.

MI: That’s only true to a certain extent. I wouldn’t say most of us are complete newcomers; we’ve all been around the industry for a fair number of years making our careers off it one way or another. We definitely wouldn’t have gotten hired to such prominent roles without Toshinori’s interference, yes. Because of his stipulation, the studio wanted to minimize as much of the havoc inexperience might cause such a beloved, big budget reboot by offering us close, mandatory support networks featuring industry professionals who’ve been working in their field for decades.

So far, the idea has really worked out well. We get to implement fun new ideas we don’t realize are impossible yet, and the mentors temper our more […] impractical ideas with logic and experience. The cast also has gotten a lot of support from the old cast of the '80s run!

TT: You’re known for being an advocate for quirkless rights in the entertainment industry. Has that impacted the way you approach your career and what opportunities you take?

MI: It isn’t just the entertainment industry I’m interested in for my advocacy work. Society’s rabid obsession with quirks is a problem across all of Japan, for both the quirkless and those with quirks. But as an actor, I happen to have personal insight with the roadblocks that prevent quirkless individuals from succeeding in film. We make up a fourth of the Japanese population, but less than 1% of the Japanese Film Union, in the mere century from when quirks first showed up across the globe. There’s no other explanation for such a miserly diversity rate than discrimination.

Studios have gotten so used to using quirks to sift through application stacks, looking for who can offer the most with just a quirk name and description. Toshinori-san has easily admitted that the electricity he emits when engaging his strength quirk was one of the reasons he won the role of All Might over better known actor Todoroki Enji. It was one less special effect the studio would have to spend money and time on. Viewing accommodation as a costly complication is historically dangerous to all types of minorities across the globe. How am I supposed to compete when people think I can’t offer anything unique compared to the host of wild quirks out there?

TT: Wow, that’s quite the speech.

MI: I’ve practiced a few times.

TT: Really?

MI: Quirk discrimination was my thesis topic at UA.

TT: You went to UA? That didn't show up in my research.

MI: Oh, I […] was in their support program for a while.

TT: Why did you decide to pursue acting instead? They don’t have a fine arts program, do they?

MI: As much as I love support work, it’s a stressful field. [Laughs] I started looking for an outlet that had nothing to do with hero work when an old friend dragged me onto a set. I’d completely forgotten how much I loved acting, and it wasn’t long before I decided to pursue that over support work, for however long it would have me.

TT: Would you ever consider returning to support work?

MI: Yes, but it gets harder the longer you’ve been away. I still keep up my qualifications, and keep up with my old classmates. Some consulting here and there. But for now, I’m happy using my background to help me act a better All Might.

[Photograph of Midoriya Izuku sitting in an office chair, facing three-quarters towards the camera even as he lays half across a desk. The decor is rich: old, dark wooden furniture, ornate work across the frame of the chair and desk, half-filled bookshelves in the background. His cheek rests against his arm stretched along the edge of the deck; one leg is tucked under the seat and the other is extended out. His outfit is artfully ripped name brand jeans and a tight shirt, color blocked in All Might’s classic red, white, and blue. Tiny figurines of All Might in his various costumes across all his comic book and screen appearances dot across his body as if they’ve climbed across his body, and Midoriya is an Atlas holding the weight of these ideals across his shoulders and arms and legs, a Gulliver tied down and overwhelmed. But his expression is vibrant, determined. Not quite a smile, but nowhere near defeated.]

TT: Does it bother you, having your quirklessness constantly be the focus of your career and identity?

MI: Of course! I’m a lot more than the superpower I don’t have. I’m a pretty private person, but I want to do great things. I want to inspire people, to make everyone feel safe and like they belong. If that means I have to feel some discomfort, it’s more than worth it. I’m a big kid with a therapist, so I’m prepared to balance my needs with those of my career.

TT: I’m not helping, am I?

MI: Like I said, I’ve deliberately opened myself up to that focus when I’ve put myself out there as someone willing to talk about these important issues publicly. You’re not asking anything I wouldn’t expect of any good interviewer.

TT: Speaking of privacy, your co-worker Todoroki Shouto is infamous for his taciturn personality and complete seclusion from the public eye, even during personal interviews. What is it like working with him on set?

MI: I have a bone to pick with you journalists about that! Remember what I was saying about how quirk reputations hurt those with strong quirks as much as those without? Todoroki Shouto is a wonderful person, and I’m so glad we get to work together. But boy, that reputation of his does him a disservice. He’s more than just Endeavor’s son and a powerful quirk. […] He’s his own man with a lot to say — it’s just no one’s asked him the right questions, yet. Once you do, you’ll find he shines brighter than any of the characters he’s played. It’s frustrating to see a good man overlooked again and again in favor of easier topics like a flashy quirk and flashy father.

TT: One last question. Isn’t it a hassle to squeeze past those boxes each day to use the front door?

MI: I don’t use the front door.

TT: Then…?

MI: Wouldn’t you like to know? ■

[kaiekasunwhisper]

The Ebon Hold

((Co-written with @thefugitivemango / @avehi-the-adamant​ ))

~*~*~

Here she was again; Avehi felt like she spent too much time here. And at the same time, never enough. Acherus was such a fluid constant in her unlife, from the very beginning of it. She was raised in these halls. Conditioned to obey the Lich King’s call here. Then fought that very conditioning. All right here. She hated it, and loved it all at once. 

Memories weren’t the only thing the floating necropolis brought. The Ebon Blade was working tirelessly to uncover the mysteries surrounding the Shadowlands, and the inequality that plagued the scales of the afterlife. The latest on that front; The Lich King himself had become involved. Avehi didn’t know Bolvar Fordragon well; which was to say she’d never met him. But every Knight knew who he was, and what he had become. A sacrifice so great, and a burden so damning. She had reverence for the human. Reverence and caution. 

The Helm of Dominion on his head gave him the potential of becoming an enemy of life itself. So far, he’d shown great restraint. But nothing lasts forever. She was wary of him, to say the least. So upon hearing the Ebon Blade had begun working with him in recent days, pledging Knights to serve him once more… Avehi grew increasingly uncomfortable.

She crossed her arms, examining the training yard on the upper level. Her brow raised, tail flickering as she beheld one of her recent converts - Kai’eka Sunwhisper, a cultist warrior she’d met, killed, and risen. The woman was truly terrifying in that training ring! Other Knights cheered as she bested contenders one by one with her twin blades. The Draenei smiled, as she observed; Kai’eka was a good choice for this. Perhaps her best choice, so far. She turned to come around and down the steps, to speak with the warrior as her final fight came to its predictable conclusion.

Kai’eka beamed. She offered a hand to help the human up, her thanks for a fight well fought, before harnessing her weapons to leave the ring for the next pair of fighters. Being among the Ebon Blade felt good. Sparring against them was much more fun than the living. They held more strength, stamina, and one didn’t have to hold back to avoid a ‘killing blow’. While she still hadn’t grasped exactly how hemomancy worked yet, it didn’t matter as she usually came out of the ring victorious. 

She smiled at Avehi. An actual, genuine smile.

“Avehi,” she greeted her friend, “Was wondering when you’d show up again. Need to figure out how to fix my link with these swords.”

“I can show you. We use runes, not unlike the ones with which you’re familiar.” the Draenei replied, smiling in return. “Come, I’ll take you to the Runeforge.”

She led Kai’eka up from the fighting pit to an ominous, towering forge. The power it emanated thrummed as they drew near, the lich fire flames within crackling strong and bright. As far as skills developed postmortem, runeforging was something Avehi excelled at. She already served the Ebon Blade as a weapon smith early on, and picked up the undeath-unique skill from a fellow Acherian artisan. Now, she was regarded as a seasoned runemaster in her own right.

“You’re fitting in well here, it seems.” she commented to Kai’eka, smiling back to her. “How are you feeling about all this?”

“Never better, actually,” the Ren’dorei replied, “I don’t need to eat, sleep or drink. I don’t sweat, I don’t get tired… Honestly, I haven’t found a down side to this death thing yet.”

She eyed the runeforge as they approached, ears perking up in curiosity. She’s heard of them before, but never seen one up close. She eyed her blades, the cultist powered runes having faded since N’Zoth’s defeat… something she was still trying to wrap her head around. Before now, the Old Gods were all she knew… her ultimate truth. Now that she’d seen for herself the lie she grew up believing, it was time to re-evaluate where she stood and what to fight for. A confusing and frightening concept at first, but after a few days and nights of contemplation, she was excited for her new start to ‘life’ in undeath. 

“So how do these things work? Is it the same runes from a different power source, or different runes altogether?”

“I expect they’ll be quite different than the runes you’re used to.” Avehi nodded once.

She tried to keep neutral on Kai’eka’s cultist past. True, that’s what led to their conflict, and ultimately the ren’dorei’s death, but Avehi wasn’t one to fault anyone for coming to terms with the fact that their beliefs were all wrong. She could relate, after all. Kai’eka seemed genuine in her desire to move past all that, anyway. And Avehi wasn’t about to hold her back.

“They’ll function similarly, but how they bind to us and how they’re etched and forged is a very unique process. Nothing the Living can emulate… and survive.”

She opened the forge’s 'jaws', revealing a small platform. A stand, to hold and imbue the Death Knight’s weapon. Then, the Draenei stepped aside, and motioned for Kai’eka to place one of her weapons inside.

“We’ll start with a simple one, to draw upon runic power. Think of it as a reserve of necrotic energies you can call upon when needed.” she explained. “The rune you draw for it is simple; but by the nature of these runes, it’ll bind the weapon solely to you. No one but you will be able to call upon its power.”

She nodded once to the elf.

“Come, I’ll show you.”

Kai’eka nodded at the explanation, observing the blue flames spouting from the forge in the same cold blue color her eyes now matched. She drew one of her hooked blades as she stepped forward, but hesitated for a moment.

Her eyes left the forge momentarily to the now faded runes on her blades, the last symbol of her dedication to the Ancient Ones. Something about that notion tugged at her unbeating heart. Doubt clouded her mind, as over six hundred years of formation nagged at her mind. What if this was all a test? The final trial before being allowed into her promised afterlife? Eyes closed as she mulled it over… thinking of everything she’d sacrificed in life, all in their name. Her sole dedication, the blood she spilled, risking her life time and time again to obtain artifacts of power in offerings, shortening her own lifespan in ritual to give a more worthy servant longevity, her body as she gave herself in to the Void, Alteris… her own life.

No. If all of that hadn’t been enough, then she was done. Even if what she’d been led to believe was true, the Old Ones  were now powerless after N’Zoth’s fall. Had Alteris still been alive, he’d no doubt be boasting to her about it now.

“I killed my brother,” she said, opening her eyes and starting at her distorted reflection in the blade, “That’s how he died. He… interfered with the cult so…”

She shook her head, sighing. Her earlier good mood having dissipated completely in her contemplation. She wasn’t certain why she was telling this to Avehi now… perhaps because of the Draenei’s faith in her being able to change... 

“He meant the world to me. But that’s how much I fucking believed in the cause…”

Outstretching her arms, she placed the sword onto the platform, her cold gaze never leaving it.

“Never again.”

Avehi knew well when to keep quiet. Kai’eka’s moment of realization was surely one such moment. She watched the elf silently, observing her expression and demeanor change through pensive staring at her blade. The revelation was unexpected, certainly. But clearly it needed to be said. She remembered Kai’eka sharing word of her brother’s death upon their first meeting. Now, with more details given to her, it began to paint a picture of her life, and where her priorities had been. Skewed by a higher power. Muddied by faith. The Draenei’s tail flickered, before she took her place beside Kai’eka. No hand on her shoulder, no comforting embrace. Only acknowledgement of what the elf told her. Acknowledgement, and understanding.

“The Light inspires similar devotion.” she commented, as she drew her hammer from her back. “We’ve done terrible things in its name. We’ve turned our backs on our own people, even after one of the darkest chapters in our history. All because they, too, ‘interfered’ with the harmony the Light instilled within us.”

Avehi shook her head. She recalled such days. Such was her own thought process back then, amidst the fanfare and accolades of serving as a Vindicator. The Light’s chosen warriors, empowered to protect her people. She pondered herself; if she, too, had a meddlesome brother interfering with the Light’s designs, would she silence him as Kai’eka had? Her brow furrowed in disgust with herself, when the answer 'no' failed to clearly and definitively ring out in her mind.

“It’s a harsh lesson on blind devotion. One I had to learn as well.” she nodded. “But now that you’ve learned personally… it’s a mistake you’ll never fall prey to again.”

She lowered her voice, and glanced around.

“Serve no one so steadfastly that you fail to question their intentions. Not even the Ebon Blade.”

Avehi’s words were appreciated, yet surprising to hear. As much as Kai’eka had always despised the Light, it was rare to hear someone describe that side of it. Even more so to hear it from a Draenei. She listened intently, taking in Avehi’s words of wisdom.

A nod of understanding, before she turned her attention back to the task at hand. Avehi set her crystalline hammer into a stand beside the runeforge, head upright. It glowed in proximity to the forge, the same blue flames flickering within the shimmering prismatic weapon. One rune in particular began to glow at Avehi’s command; a simple enough pattern of a semi-circle beneath an acute angle opened left, with a solitary dot nestled in the arc’s cradle. The rune projected from the weapon, enlarging for clarity’s sake before the elf.

“This is the Rune of Reserve.” she explained. “When you are prepared.”

Kai’eka’s ears perked up a bit as she studied the rune. As dark as the subject of her brother was, there wasn’t much that could take away the excitement of rune inscription. Even through a different process than the Coterie, she enjoyed learning about them and what they did. And she looked forward to feeling connected to her blades once more.

“I’m ready,” she informed, “What do I need to do?”

"Draw it."

The instructions were simple enough; Avehi extended her hand, two fingers pointed out as they traced along the rune suspended before them. The rune itself flickered, glowing brighter at the Death Knight's touch. Her hammer, too, exhaled a notable wave of power as the rune was redrawn. She turned her eyes to Kai'eka once again, and nodded.

"Focus your mind on your weapon. You're well familiar with it, yes?" she asked, though already knew it was so. "Focus intently on it. Feel its smooth, cold surface in your thoughts, and trace the rune out before you. You'll feel it as it's etched, both into your weapon… and into you."

The Draenei loosened her gauntlet, before tugging it off and setting it aside. She upturned her hand, revealing the same rune aglow on her forearm. It was identical in every way to the rune etched into the weapon, glowing from beneath Avehi's skin. As the rune on the hammer's glow dissipated, so too did the glow on the rune in her skin - both fading out until they had seemingly vanished entirely.

"This power is a curse on it's own. Unbridled and untempered, it turns lesser Knights to madness. Static, it would burn our souls to dust, from within." she cautioned. "The runes focus the power coursing through us, applying it to greater uses than simply reanimating our corpses. Runeforging transmutes this danger into an asset. This pain into our drive. This curse… into a gift."

Avehi nodded, smirking slightly. She remembered hearing those words for the first time, when she learned runeforging for herself. They resonated deeply with her, then; a lost soul, hoping desperately she could pivot her dark fate into some semblance of salvation. They resonated with her still, but now for a different reason.

"Draw it," she repeated, as she tugged her gauntlet back over her hand. "and embrace this gift. Your power."

Kai’eka’s ears flicked as Avehi explained. It was a rather long winded answer for a simple question. She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes and making a snarky comment about it. With Avehi being her only contact in undeath so far, she attempted to keep her more abrasive side in check until they knew each other a little better. 

“Got it. Simple enough.”

She removed her gauntlet as Avehi had, and went to work at tracing the tune in the air in front of her. She felt the inscription almost immediately as it became engraved into her arm and blade; quite a different feeling from ritual tattoos. It burned, but with cold instead of heat. Her lips parted at the new sensation, a grin forming as she felt the bond with her blade renewed, like meeting an old friend after some time apart.

Once the runeforging was complete, she looked down to her arm to admire the new marking.

“You keep saying ‘curse’. What do you mean by that? I haven’t seen or heard a downside to any of this at all.”

“And I truly hope there never is one, for you.” Avehi nodded, replacing her gauntlet - flexing her fingers to situate it properly. “Back in the days of the Lich King, soldiers and warriors were raised without much discerning. People from all backgrounds, brought back from death against their wills. With no consideration for what it might do to them, mentally.”

She shook her head, recalling how horrible that time all seemed back then. Compared to now… it was abhorrent. The entire reason she was so against raising the dead in the first place came from that terrible feeling she got anytime she thought of the early days. Before the Ebon Blade. Before the Lich King fell. But things were different, now. And if she didn’t learn to adapt, and keep her morality flexible, how was she any different than zealots like Argonas? She grunted resolutely, as she looked to Kai’eka once more.

“It’s different, now. I picked you because I thought you’d handle it well. Better than anyone else.” she told the elf. “You don’t need to be empathetic. But at least be cognizant that it’s nowhere near this easy for other Knights. Especially those of us from the Scourge days, who suffer from the Hunger.”

Kai’eka raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more on the subject. She’d heard about the Hunger, but didn’t know exactly what that was about. According to Avehi, it wasn’t something the ex-cultist has to worry about, so she didn’t really care. She assumed it was something unpleasant, nonetheless. And it was true, she’d seen some Ebon Knights walking around that looked half decomposed. She supposed she was lucky to have been brought back right away.

She turned her attention back to her blade, removing it from the platform to admire the freshly inscribed rune a moment, before setting it aside and placing her other weapon in.

“Does the same rune go on each blade? What’s the limit on how many you can have?” She asked, returning to the subject at hand.

“For this rune, they’ll be separate inscriptions so you can draw on one, the other, or both.” Avehi answered, as the impromptu ‘lesson’ resumed. “The limit comes with a balancing. Our power is limitless, like a river. But too many branches in its path will cripple how well it flows, yes? You’ll have to be mindful. Try three or four for now - these two each counting separately - and see how that feels. We can add or remove runes as you please.”

She raised her hand to the hammer, causing the rune they’d drawn before to glow and expand - reference once more for Kai’eka to imbue upon her second blade.

“Fair enough,” she nodded before going back to concentrating on the rune ahead of her. 

Having already gone through the process once, the task was already familiar, though that didn’t mean Kai’eka took it less seriously. Her connection to her blades was important to her, and she kept her concentration on that as her fingers traced the rune once more, ears flickering as she felt the inscription etched into her arm. It felt good, being able to do the runeforging herself as opposed to having to depend on a Speaker to inscribe her tattoos. It was empowering. She felt more in control of herself than she ever had before.

The process complete, she took hold of the blade, and then the other, holding both in each hand as she stepped back from the forge. She smiled, satisfied with her work. Two runes would do for now.

“Gonna have to test these in the ring soon.”

Avehi couldn’t help but chuckle lightly at that. For all she was, Kai’eka was at least predictable. She nodded approvingly as she took Rokaa up from the stand and sheathed it to her back.

“You’re welcome to now, if you wish.” she offered. “I’ve a few more errands around Acherus. Others to check on. Perhaps once I’m done, I’ll even join you.”

She chuckled again lightly, before dipping her head to Kai’eka. Despite their rocky past, Avehi felt good about this one. Emboldened and encouraged to carve her own destiny after having lived a lie, Kai’eka’s afterlife would be much better than Avehi’s ever was. And in the end, that had always been the Draenei’s intent for those she raised. It felt good to see the beginnings of that trend.

[sethrine-writes]

A Mystery of Human/Demonic Nature

Pairing: V x Reader (gender neutral)

Words:  1966

Warning:  Tension, minor poisoning (nothing serious)

Summary:  You have information about certain matters that you’re sure V will be quite interested in. Even so, there are certain precautions that must be taken.

A/N: This is something that I’ve had in my head for months and was finally, finally able to get it written out. Originally, I intended to write this with Vergil in mind, but V decided he was a better fit, lolz! I hope you enjoy, all the same!

------

Normally, you preferred your meetings in very open, public places filled with boisterous, unsuspecting individuals - witnesses, more like. Clients could be so unreliable, and trusting them to keep collected in a more secluded setting had never played out as nicely as promised.

Two prior mistakes had taught you that.

The people you dealt with didn't much care for "loose ends," as they called it, and you proved to be one who held far too valuable information that could end up in the hands of very seedy individuals, should they bother to track you down. What information they wanted, you could provide, but many believed your life was a necessary sacrifice to cut all ties that would trace back to that moment you gave them the necessary tidbits they needed.

Time and time again, however, you proved to be quite the resilient little cockroach, one that planted seeds of information into the hands of individuals who were able to seek you out, or, more often, those you found had a similar moral outlook as yourself.

Those individuals, you sought out, yourself.

It happened to be one of those times, and yet you found yourself alone on the secluded balcony of a 24-hour café, overlooking the quiet, sleeping city of Redgrave as you awaited your confidante to arrive.

You had met there, before, during a beautiful sunny day several weeks previous. In fact, many meetings with other clients had happened in that very cafe, in broad daylight as the city bustled and customers chatted and laughed amongst themselves freely, unaware of the extremely secret, highly dangerous information being shared within quiet words and semi-coded documents.

Logically, there was no difference as to how you were approaching the situation at that moment, save for your want for seclusion. Realistically, you knew what you were doing was special treatment, and your safety was compromised because of it.

He was different.

The thought alone was frightening.

You heaved a sigh, closing your eyes momentarily to ease the chaos that was your mind.. There was time to worry about such trivial things later. You were strictly there for business.

"A Wallflower on a balcony, basking in the moon's light? A change of pace I didn't see coming."

You gasped lightly and turned almost too quickly, feeling your heart flutter at finally seeing him there before you.

V, the mysterious one, perhaps even more mysterious than what others believed you to be.

They didn't know what you knew.

"And yet, a fitting setting. Little Wallflower, you do surprise me."

"You came," you murmured, watching as his plush lips turned upward at your surprise.

"You called," he said simply, cane tapping lightly against polished wood as he approached your table.

"Yes, well, after last week-" you paused as he sat on the opposite side of you, a moment of clarity, "-perhaps that's best left for another time."

V hummed at your dismissal, saying nothing more on the matter but knowing all the same what you had recalled. The silence that followed was broken only when a waiter appeared with a tea set, the steam from the spout of the decorated teapot swirling into the cool night air.

You thanked the waiter, watching as he retreated back into the café. With a small sigh, you reached into the pocket of your coat, pulling out a tiny tin and opening it up to retrieve what looked like an equally as tiny white pill.

As you popped the little pod into your mouth, your eyes caught V's gaze, a single dark brow raised in question.

"Don't worry, it's a mint," you clarified with a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Would you like one?"

"I'll pass," he answered smoothly, and you were quick to shut the tin and replace it within your coat pocket.

"My grandpa used to sneak me one before tea time, back when I despised the bitter flavors some of the older generation seemed to enjoy," you explained. "Even with milk and sugar, I hated the tea, but grandpa's peppermints always made it taste better."

"How very nostalgic of you," V spoke, his stare vibrant and curious, "do you share such information often with, ah...those you seek out?"

"Clients," you supplied while reaching for the teapot, "and only when it's necessary."

"An honor, then," he surmised, watching as you poured the tea into both provided teacups.

V reached for the cup you offered him and brought it to his lips, blowing at the steam a moment before having a taste of the amber liquid within. A grimace lit his features, and you couldn't help but chuckle lightly.

"I do recommend just a touch of sugar, for this blend," you said, showing V the small dash you were adding to your own. "Takes away the bitter just fine."

"Even without the mint?"

You smiled and reached over to add the same dash of sugar into V's cup, watching as he stirred the hot tea and once again brought it to his lips. He looked down into the cup with a hint of amused surprise, going in for another sip as you did the same.

The next couple of minutes were comprised of baseless chatter, something to fill the quiet as you both sipped at your cups and enjoyed the relative peace of the night. It was in those moments that you almost wished for what life could have offered you, should have offered you.

You wondered if he felt the same.

You pondered if he was as understanding as you hoped.

"I take it you didn't call me at such an hour simply for small chat and tea," V finally spoke after a long drag of silence. You shifted in your chair, placing your teacup on the table.

"I've recently come into some information I believe will be beneficial to your recent matters," you began.

"And what matters do you refer to?"

"The recent disappearance of witchcraft users you've been following."

At your words, V gave pause, the slightest hitch in his movements as he lowered his teacup the only indicator that he was affected at all. He played it off rather well, but you weren't one to miss the small details.

"You're very good with your research, it seems," he mused, but you could practically feel how cautious he was suddenly playing.

"I always am," you countered quietly, catching his gaze and holding it for a long moment.

"You've already figured out the who, the where, and part of the why, but there's still something missing, isn't there?"

"It was a small cult built on the obsession of more power and the need to obtain it via sacrifice and ritual, using those deemed as witches as the conduits between the mortal plane and that of the demon world," V recounted.

"But they couldn't do it, could they?"

"Their rituals were off, so it seemed," V admitted, eyes closing as if in thought. "No summoning of demons or opening of portals, just the slaughter of innocent lives, as is common for such damnable recreations."

"Didn't that strike you as odd?"

V's eyes narrowed a fraction, curious and cautious, and rightfully so.

"Questions upon questions, and yet, Little Wallflower, you claim to have nothing but answers and information."

"Perhaps I'm just trying to get you to think more critically on what it was you missed."

You watched as V blinked once, twice, a slightly confused expression gracing his lovely features. The large expanse of his hands flattened out against the glass tabletop, on either side of his half-empty teacup.

"I'm not sure I understand."

With slow deliberation, you reached once more into your coat pocket on the opposite side, retrieving a neatly folded piece of paper. You unfurled the crisp printer stationary, exposing the copy of older text and imagery you'd printed upon it several hours ago, and placed it upon the table, sliding it over to V.

"I believe this is what they're after."

V's expression changed almost immediately as his eyes roved over the paper, no doubt focused on the black and white image shown.

An amulet, and its twin.

"That's...not possible," he muttered, his voice taking on a hint of disbelief, and hint of a slur. "They were destroyed many years ago-"

"And yet, this cult seems very adamant that they can find these amulets," you murmured, "which means there's something they know that we don't."

You reached for the paper just as V made to do the same, though his movement was sluggish, and it seemed as if his hand was suddenly three times it's normal weight, with how he allowed it to slump back against the table.

He looked to you as you stared at him, his gaze that of betrayal.

You, at least, had the decency to feel somewhat ashamed.

"What...what did you…?"

"You should have taken the mint," you explained gently, following his gaze back down to his cup.

"It's a special blend," you explained as you stood, moving to stand next to V's incapacitated form, "one I had to do careful research to create. I promise it won't last long, and there's no adverse side-effects that follow. Please, understand that I needed to take special precautions."

You reached out and pressed your palm against his cool, pale cheek, leading his heated glare to meet your sympathetic gaze.

"I know who and what you are," you whispered, not accusing, simply stating. V only blinked slowly, perhaps unable to show his surprise behind his sudden contempt; perhaps not wanting to give you the satisfaction of catching him off-guard.

"And I'm afraid I'm not the wallflower you think of me. Others would liken me to a fly on the wall, a nosey little nuisance, always there, always watching, listening. There one minute, gone the next, no one the wiser except for the few who know where to look."

You lean in, expression grave and imploring.

"Stop looking for me, V. There's nothing but danger in my shadows, and the more you linger, the bigger the target on your own back becomes."

Slowly, you pulled away, allowing V's head to tilt back into a neutral position. He would be fine after a few minutes, just long enough for you to make your quiet escape, back amongst the unknown.

It was hard to leave him behind.

"I'll find you when I have more information," you assured as you began walking away, pausing at the entranceway leading back into the cozy little café you often visited.

Business, as usual, even under special circumstances.

"Be careful, out there," you called out sincerely. "There are far more dangerous monsters than just demons. Who know? You may have met one, already."

---

The quiet settled in around V as he coasted on the lethargy of his poisoning. True to your word, the effects lasted no more than a few extra minutes, the sluggish feeling all but dissipating as the seconds ticked by.

Griffon appeared against his shoulder as he stood, feathers ruffling as the demonic bird gave an indignant squawk.

"You should have let me stick around for that shitshow! The nerve of that human, geez!"

V ignored his ruffled familiar's outburst, focusing instead on the piece of paper you had left behind amongst the tea set, the only true sign that the encounter with you had ever happened.

V mused to himself as he picked up the paper, refolding and pocketing the tidbit of information for later. He followed your initial path back into the café, thanking the clerk there for a pleasant evening before strolling out into the night.

It seemed as if he had some research of his own to do, and not just of the amulets you had given him information on.

'Oh, Little Wallflower, what secrets are you hiding?'

[hillbillyhippiemusicreview]

Post #63, MarDe Brooks--Running Out of Time

Reviewed by Lyssa Culbertson

“Way back on the radio dial The fire got lit inside a bright-eyed child Every note just wrapped around his soul From steel guitars, to Memphis, all the way to rock and roll” -Eli Young Band

Every time I hear “Even If It Breaks Your Heart” by the Eli Young Band pass through my playlist, my mind cannot help but wander to the trajectory HHMR alum MarDe Brooks has had over the past couple of years. It is impressive what an ample amount of hard work, determination, faith, and if we are honest, an iota of craziness will manifest when it comes to chasing dreams. If you are unfamiliar with MarDe’s story, let me fill you in:

The Alabama born and bred singer-songwriter recently released his debut album, Running Out of Time, after a lifetime of desire to share his musical gifts with the world. Perhaps the album title is a nod to the notion of growing older and time slipping away, leaving you with no choice but to shelve your dreams or take a chance and live them with all you’ve got—but MarDe need not worry. With the impeccable artistry he possesses and a knack for heartfelt, honest songwriting, we’ll be hearing more out of him for years to come. With an practically permanent smile as wide as the Rio Grande and an electric energy radiating from him every time he steps on stage, he possesses an often unmatched zeal for his work that will surely keep him on everyone’s radar. His sound is as eclectic as he is, and that is the utmost compliment in my book. As I said in the review of his first single, “Memories,” MarDe cannot be caged by a genre, for this powerhouse of a songbird sings to the tune of whatever is in his heart—whether that’s a slow sentimental ballad about life on the road, or a rockin’ up-tempo song about love gone wrong. Running Out of Time has something to love for everyone, but odds are you’ll love it from the beginning of the “Memories” you’ll make whilst listening, to the last “Curtain Call.” Answering the desires of his soul to create his own original music, the collection of ten songs were written and composed in just under a year, and within the next year the record was recorded and MarDe hit the highway sharing his stories with anyone who would listen. On September 11, 2020, he added fuel to the fire that got lit inside the bright-eyed child of his youth when he debuted his first album to the world.

When listening to this record both as a whole and dissecting each individual song, it’s quite easy to hear the various musical influences that have helped shape MarDe into the artist he is. However, he infuses those notes of blues, old time rock-and-roll, country, southern rock, folk, and more into sound all his own. The first track on the record, “Memories,” incorporates all of these styles in a up-beat tune set against a bit of a dark subject matter. A failed relationship takes its toll and leads to self-destruction, but if you only listen to the melody, you wouldn’t have a clue. I love how MarDe plays a lyrical and musical trick on the listener’s ear on this one, and it was a solid first choice for a single release, as it showcases both his songwriting ability and musicality. Heading to the opposite end of the romantic spectrum, the next track, “Slow Time,” is a beautiful ballad that will transport you back to a time to when life ran at a slower pace, perhaps on the riverbank next to a loved one watching the summer clouds roll in, where nothing but the love you were in mattered. Speaking of rolling in, “I’ve Got Memphis” is one of the standouts on the record, as it details the feelings of a traveling musician counting the miles wearing on both the road and his soul. As a music lover with a heavy dose of Gypsy in my soul, when MarDe sings “Oklahoma calls out to me, and I miss that Kentucky high, I’d love to stay in Alabama, but I’ve got Memphis tomorrow night,” it resonates with me on a spiritual level. I love the sound of four wheels spinning down an open highway, but occasionally every mile marker makes me weary and I just want to be home, though there’s always another show down the road and work to be done. It’s a sentimental tune about the highs and lows of this life and is just so powerful. Track number four, “Down the Road,” happens to be one of my favorites off the record—it’s a total jam with an infectious groove that just won’t let go, much like how he bemuses the difficulty of letting go of his beloved and moving on in the tune. The way he once again juxtaposes an upbeat melody with a somewhat somber subject matter intrigued me from the first verse of the song, and I was hooked. We’ve all been there—in love with someone that it kills us to let go of, though we know we’re better off leaving them in our rearview. I admire how MarDe can write about real life situations with such clarity and cleverness.

As evidenced by the previous tracks mentioned, MarDe has such a versatile voice where one moment he can have you high on life singing along and the next morose and feeling every bit of heartache his vocals are seeped with on a song like “Home,” one of the most compelling works on the album. The imagery is quite vivid, as you can easily picture the man in the song with his “hands on the sink, face down to the floor” ruminating over his life. As I’ve listened to this song, it dawned on me that the character in the song was not simply speaking to a lost lover, but to the man in the mirror as well, because all too often we can break our own hearts by our choices with the aid of the demons we face. For many, alcohol can be one of those demons; however, as shown by MarDe’s joyful vibes in “Fifth by Noon,” sometimes it can be just the cure a man needs to patch up a broken heart. This tune is my favorite to see performed live because of the energy MarDe harnesses as he brings the song to life. A little ditty about the healing powers found in a fifth of your favorite whisky and good friends, the line “everything will be alright if I down a fifth by noon” has the possibility to become an adage for centuries to come. Likely not the wisest piece of advice, but one most can certainly empathize with if we’re honest. When he sings “I used to lay you down like Conway at night, but now you’re out there girl and you’re making different music tonight, so here’s an idea, why don’t you stay, yeah that’s where you made you made your bed and that’s where you can lay” it’s loud and clear how he feels about the woman in question—and I’m absolutely here for it. Such a killer, feisty verse that makes me cackle as I belt it out every time! The guitar solo prefacing the semi-acapella portion of the song backed by a chorus of voices and a drumline are my favorite parts of the song because it drives the point home and is so fun to jam out to.

Reflecting back on the record to this point, it’s easy to see the thematic presence of sorrow woven throughout the lyrics. Despite the best efforts we tend to put into anything in life, what we deserve is not always what the universe sends our way. Track number seven, “Earned,” is a prime lyrical example of that fact, especially in relation to futile relationships we may feel that we got the short end of the stick in, so to speak, because “even if you do things the right way, you don’t always get what is earned.” A heart is a fragile thing, and love is even more delicate, as heard in “On My Way.” MarDe croons “rules are made to be broken, but hearts aren’t the same, so many words left unspoken, could have silenced the pain” to a lover he’s leaving behind—and that is such a poignant line about the importance of communication. Quite frequently, it’s the words we do not say that could salvage important connections or bring closure to difficult goodbyes. His voice is soft and melodic on this tune, highlighting every bit of emotion involved, notably when he sings in the bridge “I couldn’t see through the flames when I promised my life, but all that smoke cleared just in time.” Every time I hear that particular lyric a single tear escapes my eye because I’ve lived that line and the emotions connected are just so painful—It hurts so good.

Although words sometimes possess the power to save relationships, they also have the power to destroy them. In the case of “Liar,” MarDe appears to be addressing a friend or mentor, rather than a past lover. “Your lies won’t let you tell the truth, you looked down on me, I looked up to you, you dig your hole try to pull me in the ground, you had your chance but it’s all over now”—WOW. In spite of the rather calm melody, the anger and disappointment boils over in every verse of this good riddance themed song, as he’s “on [his] way to the top now, and you can’t slow [him] down.” I often lightheartedly—but seriously—joke that people should not do wrong by a songwriter, because a song will inevitably be written about the offense, and “Liar” is a prime example of that, tying into the seemingly autobiographical journey MarDe details in the final song on the record, aptly titled “Curtain Call.” It’s a beautiful summation of his ride from the aforementioned bright-eyed dreamer of his youth to the man he is now, steadily achieving lifelong goals—while the highs and lows ebbed and flowed and it wasn’t always easy, the journey was without a doubt worth it, as evidenced by the quality and ultimate success of his first release.

MarDe either wrote or co-wrote every song on Running Out of Time and rounded up a group of gifted musicians to record the album at Rose City Recording in Charleston, WV with producer Greg McGowan. With a heavy dose of the keys, the lead/rhythm guitar, mandolin, violin, bass, drums, and pedal steel played by (in no particular order) musicians Jerimiah Hatfield, Joey Lafferty, Mark Cline Bates, Jeremy “Wood” Roberts, Eric Robbins, David McGuire, Molly Lynn Page, Travis Egnor, and MarDe himself, this record is a unique work of art, reflective of the array of musical styles that encompass the artist MarDe Brooks is. The support from background vocalists Ritch Henderson, Eric Robbins, Jerimiah Hatfield, and Mark Cline Bates adds a spark to each track they are featured on. My only critique of the record is that you cannot truly hear the extent of the passion and range MarDe possesses behind his vocals, as that essence can only be captured live—which is why you must catch him a live show, soon! You can find tour dates, merch, and other important info at www.mardebrooks.com, or you can follow him on Facebook at MarDe Brooks and on Instagram at @mardebrooksmusic.

Peace, love, & music,

Lyssa

————————

*This is an independent review. The Hillbilly Hippie Music Review was not compensated for this review.

*The opinions expressed are solely that of the author(s).

*These images are not ours, nor do we claim them in any way. They are copyrighted by MarDe Brooks & Jimbo Valentine of Amalgam United.

[notalittlebutalottie]

hellooo. So glad you are doing drabbles. Could you do something where Klaus and Caroline momentarily die. And while they are dead they meet Caroline parents and Bill forbes is so pissed and all like 'seriously caroline?Klaus freaking Mikaelson?' and Liz did not see that coming.

First of all, thank you for sending the request! This is my first of three drabble requests to be made so far so I will be getting through them in this coming week! I loved writing this so I hope you enjoy it!

♥♥♥ KLAROLINE DRABBLE REQUEST #1: A Trip to the Afterlife ♥♥♥

Caroline shot up, gasping for air and for clarity as she found herself lying on the floor of her bedroom. She scrambled to her feet, feeling a slight wobble, but she was quickly intercepted by the warm arms of her mission partner.

“It’s okay, love. I’ve got you,” Klaus murmured into her ear before slowly turning her around to face him. “I’m glad you could join me in the afterlife. I was beginning to worry.”

She felt like her brain was lagging as it took a moment to respond, a quiet laugh escaping her lips.

“What do you mean? It’s every girl’s dream to die beside her boyfriend during a Wiccan ritual! How could I ever reconsider?” she rolled her eyes, her voice light as she pushed gently against his chest.

He bared his teeth in a grin, “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

Her view was a little hazy, and it took a moment gather her bearings and the situation at hand. Klaus’ appearance was rather unsettling as it felt like she was staring at two overlaying and slightly out of sync copies of him. Being dead (well, semi-dead) was just as Bonnie said it would be: dream-like.

“Drink this,” Bonnie ordered, handing the pair two vials of blue liquid. “It’ll keep you from fully crossing over and should give you enough time to get the answers.”

Caroline and Klaus shared an uneasy glance but clinked their respective vials before downing them. It was absolutely disgusting. They both instinctively shuddered as the liquid hit their taste-buds.

“Could you not have flavoured them with your witch capabilities?” Klaus asked flatly. “You can send us into the afterlife but you’re unable to add some strawberry flavouring?”

“Not exactly on the top of my list of priorities,” Bonnie answered sourly before holding a serious expression. “It’ll take effect in a few minutes. Have you guys ever experienced a false awakening? It’s like that.”

Caroline quirked an eyebrow, “Like...when you dream about waking up?”

Bonnie nodded and continued, “You won’t be fully dead so...it’s gonna seem a little weird until you adjust.”

“How weird?”

“At worst, it’ll feel like you’re on acid, but it should subside quickly.”

“Remind me why we’re sending Blondie and her My Little Hybrid for this? We can’t exactly afford to lose both of them if this goes wrong,” Damon interjected, leaning against Caroline’s wardrobe.

Caroline held a snicker, watching Klaus grumble at the comment.

“Watch it, mate. I just might have to--”

Abruptly, his upper half crashed into the previously prepared pillows around them.

“One down,” Damon smirked.

“Don’t you have anywhere better to be?” Caroline folded her arms, looking like a child as she sat with her legs crossed.

“Don’t you? Shouldn’t you be following his dying act?”

Her eyes widened and she looked at Bonnie for guidance, but she shrugged. You couldn’t begin to decipher the way some spells and potions worked as each person reacted differently.

Caroline sighed, taking the opportunity to manoeuvre Klaus into a more comfortable position.  It was only then that she felt her own body taking over to bring her into afterlife.

“How sweet,” Damon commented as he admired the couple’s intertwined position.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Klaus asked, concern dripping from his voice as he cupped her cheeks.

“Yeah,” she said with a shallow breath, “I feel like my body is still adjusting, but we need to make a move.”

He nodded, kissing her gently on the forehead and feathering kisses along her cheek. She couldn’t help but giggle and push him back, yet still clinging on to his shirt.

“Maybe ghost sex will help the adjustment?” he suggested, his tone both laced with humour and truth.

“No!” she squeaked but placed her lips on his gently, welcoming his tongue to wet her lips, but soon enough they were ripped apart as the bedroom door swung open to reveal the person she was wildly unprepared to see.

“Mom!” she exclaimed, hand still gripped on the fabric covering Klaus’ stomach. It was like she was a teenager again and being caught with a boy by her sheriff mother was her biggest worry.

Liz Forbes was stood in the doorway, jaw dropped and a bat hanging from her hand.

“Caroline...” she could barely make out the words, unable to comprehend no matter how much she looked at her daughter. “What...”

As it sank in, Caroline finally absorbed the realisation that she was seeing her mother for the first time in years since she had passed away. The memories of her funeral and Caroline’s subsequent choice to turn off her humanity flooded in through her eyes.

“Mom,” she sighed out shakily, rushing forward to hug her mother who reciprocated happily albeit still processing the moment, “I-I-I have so much I need to tell you about-- to ask you-- oh god-- the letter-- I--”

Klaus was soon placing a hand on the small of Caroline’s back.

“Love,” he began with a warm, yet firm, tone, “We need to focus on the task.”

The blonde nodded fervently, attempting to shake any distracting thoughts away. She backed away from her mother, who she couldn’t help but note as looking radiant regardless of the setting. Klaus immediately intertwined his fingers with her and squeezed her hand in a bid to calm her.

“What are you doing here?” Liz finally spoke with more assurance but wavered as she saw their hands linked and recalled the position she had found them in, “The both of you-- and you were just-- Caroline?”

“Cavorting--”

Klaus was halted with a smack to the chest.

“Mom,” she interrupted cautiously, “Klaus is my...boyfriend.”

She glanced at him, frowning at the smirk on his face.

"Well, I mean...” Liz pursed her lips, “Considering he’s tried to kill you and your friends a million times, I’m a little surprised, but I’m more concerned with why you’re here.”

“Oh, it was barely a thousand,” he muttered but retreated as he received a glare from both of the Forbes women.

“That doesn’t matter,” Caroline began, ignoring her mother’s amused eyebrow raise, “Do you know where dad is?”

“Your father?”

“He has some information that we need about an amulet. We need your help to find him.”

Liz had missed her daughter’s puppy-like eyes whenever she needed something from her. It had felt like an eternity since she had seen her daughter but she looked exactly the same despite the clearly updated wardrobe.

With a sigh, Liz nodded in understanding, “I can take you to him.”

                                                       ▬

Caroline’s mother had taken them to her father’s cabin, explaining that he rarely left unless absolutely necessary. It seemed that death wasn’t enough to breathe some life into Bill Forbes’ serious persona. On the way, Liz pressed further about the details of Caroline and Klaus’ relationship and when shut down, insisted she had a right to know and a need for some entertainment in her afterlife. Klaus was more than happy to take the reins in explaining their most recent history.

“Okay, this is it,” Liz slowed the car as they met the meticulously well-groomed cabin before them, allowing them to get out. “Caroline, please don’t get your hopes up. He’s been a bit testy even with my death.”

Her daughter nodded resolutely, “Got it. Wait here.”

Klaus began to step forward but she held a palm to his chest.

“You too.”

“Caroline,” he said concernedly, tilting his head.

“I need to do this alone. Besides, you and Mom can do some bonding,” she joked and shared a laugh with her mother who stood behind them.

He nodded, pressing his lips together in defeat.

Caroline took no time knocking and simply jimmied the door open, wandering in with a focus on finding her father. The front room looked just as it had the last time she was in the cabin and it had been a long time. It had been even longer since she’d seen Bill Forbes, and their last interactions weren’t particularly happy memories for her.

“Care Bear.”

She gasped quietly, finding him sat on the couch nearest to the fireplace.

“Dad.”

“I’m assuming this is a short visit. Unless--”

She shook her head and he rose from his seat, coming to meet her near the entrance. It was no surprise his voice perked up in the thought of her demise; he would rather her dead than a vampire.

“We’re only here for a short visit. You have information we need.”

“We? You’re not alone.”

She swallowed nervously, trying to keep on topic, “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“Well, who is it?” he smiled, rushing to the driveway, “Bonnie? Elena?”

He cleared his throat as he found his answer, Caroline biting her lip as her gaze connected with Klaus’.

“Liz,” he greeted with indignation.

“Bill,” she responded with much the same feeling.

Klaus went to hold a hand out, signature dimpled smile on display, “Klaus.”

He soon turned his attention to the unforgettable face of the hybrid, body tensing into a defensive stance.

“I know who you are. You don’t forget the man who ruined the lives of countless people including mine and my daughter’s boyfriend,” he spat, recalling his attempt to help Tyler break the sire bond, an act that indirectly led to his demise.

“Hardly a loss considering,” Klaus argued back, but bit his tongue immediately as he saw Caroline’s unimpressed reaction.

Bill seemed to accept that as a challenge, puffing his chest out as he moved closer.

Caroline quickly moved to stand in front of Klaus, her hand naturally taking its place around his wrist.

“What is he doing here with you, Caroline?”

He was less intimidating after all her years as a vampire, but she still felt the assertive tone in her father’s voice.

“We need your help. We need to know where the Amulet of Tamar is. We know the Council had it.”

“Which still begs the question ‘why is he here?’.”

“I, um,” she searched for the reason but it had been so long since she’d had to make excuses for his presence around her.

“It’s okay, love,” Klaus whispered into her ear. She inwardly groaned; his smooth voice was not something she needed at this moment.

She glanced at her mother, who, too, gave encouragement in the form of a smile.

“We’re...”

Bill squinted brutally at the hybrid.

“We’re dating, okay!”

“Ouch. I would have said we were a little further along than that, love,” Klaus chimed in but he immediately ducked his head guiltily.

“What?!” Bill practically exploded.

“Bill,” said Liz, “she’s happy.”

“My daughter is not dating that monster!”

He flailed his arms about and began pointing at the couple, which only made Klaus pull Caroline closer into him.

“For Christ’s sake, Bill, you’re dead,” Liz quickly pointed out, coming in between them.

“But him?!”

“I’ll admit I was a little surprised...but I’m sure Caroline made these...choices in sound mind! We don’t really get a say in the matter as ghosts.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Klaus took charge, stepping up to meet Bill, “Tell us where the amulet is.”

Despite the clear imbalance of power, Bill scoffed and held his hands to his hips.

“I’d rather die again before I help you.”

“I’m sure we can arrange that.”

“Daddy,” spoke Caroline, finally unleashing a demanding voice before softening as he focused on her, “Please.”

Bill Forbes tapped his foot stubbornly but faltered under his daughter’s gaze.

“Okay. It’s...” he began but cut himself off.

Caroline became annoyed at her father’s games, but quickly realised Klaus had vanished.

The potions had worn off and Caroline was next.

“Tell me now.”

Bill stammered suddenly, a change from his previous stubborn antics, “It’s behind the painting of the First Council in the basement of the Council Building.”

“Thank you,” Caroline sighed out. She took one long look at her parents, hoping to capture her last moments with them even if they were under dire circumstances.

Liz immediately took her daughter into a hug, struggling to pull herself back. Caroline shivered mildly as her mother cupped her cheeks, smiling sadly. She felt her body trying to pull her back into the real world but she held on as much as she could.

“It’s unfortunate that I...we,” she glanced at Bill, “had to miss so much.”

Caroline sniffled as she endured her watery eyes, hoping not to let them spill over.

“I love you.”

“I love--” Liz began to speak but in a flash, Caroline, too, was gone.

Liz took a couple steps back, holding back the tears that threatened her eyes.

“I should have staked him. Could have kept him here longer,” Bill muttered.

“Shut up, Bill.”

[citizenaycock]

Persona (1966) | Directed and Written by Ingmar Bergman

(preferable trailer over original from Austin Film Society)

Film Intro and Purpose for Page

Heady Times = Heady Films!...and we’re all wearing masks right now, literal and metaphorical. To start off my new page I’m going to begin at the tippy top with Ingmar Bergman’s Persona, the “Mount Everest of Film Analysis”, which has been described as creating even more contradictions when trying to analyze it.    It was made in 1965 in Sweden and is commonly in conversation as one of the greatest films of all time.  Bergman died at his home where he filmed Persona on July 30, 2007. This was also my first day ever to visit Los Angeles, right before moving here the following month. I remember seeing it on the LA local news while staying at a beach hotel with my Mom.  I don’t know how I remember it so clearly but I can see that room now, in my head, and the news anchor looking into the camera.  It’s also worth mentioning that Michelangelo Antonioni, the Italian filmmaker, died on the same day.  Two giants of cinema.   I rewatched Persona late last night and took a copious amount of notes. I first saw this film 7 or 8 years ago and then twice recently. This entry will be more lengthy than future ones because I naturally felt the need to be more specific with this particular film...I wanted to have a fighting chance at semi-understanding it.  I will only look something up if absolutely necessary for factual purposes. Although (full disclosure) the “Mount Everest of Film Analysis” title was taken from the first paragraph on the film’s Wikipedia. This was before I decided exhaustive searches about film historians’ perspectives would just be too much for these posts.  Instead, I will focus on my unique thoughts and perspective about the film and what I feel is valid.     

After filling my head with Persona I went to bed. I then dreamt that I was in a writers’ room with filmmaker Paul Thomas Anderson (who is one of my favorite filmmakers and will turn up on this page soon).  We began talking about his film The Master. I remember feeling frustrated in the dream that I couldn’t think of anything clever to say about it in front of him. He told me that films sometimes just fold in together in unexpected ways, almost by luck.  This prompted me to finish his sentence by saying that films sometimes generate these unplanned illuminating interpretations that are endless. He agreed with me, which felt good, even though in reality I was speaking for Paul because he was just a character in my dream...or possibly something outside the grasp of my conscious mind spoke for him/me.

So why start with Persona? Why start this page?? Because I am fascinated by the mystery of great films and believe there is transformation and understanding when one attempts to decipher "works of art” like this.  Plus, it’s fun for me and a rewarding challenge to complete. Mulholland Drive was my big bang moment (influenced by Persona) and I have been hooked on digging into these type of films ever since.  I’m also a filmmaker that has been working on a Short for the past year (which has been grueling) and feel I can improve my own filmmaking abilities by  breaking down these masterpieces in my own words. My goal is to attempt not to stray too far from what is objectively being shown while also using my own knowledge of what I think the filmmakers are trying to say...or, even better, DIDN’T know they were trying to say.  And I’m sure writing about the metacognitive nature of this particular film will reveal a lot about myself, which is what great cinema inspires.   

Enigmatic Opening

The film fades in and we are inside a film projector. Images begin to flash quickly and chaotically.  I will mention some below:   -A penis.  -An animated female character upside down that eventually holds her breasts.  -A silent era movie chase scene of a skeleton coming out of a chest, and then dracula chasing a man in his pajamas.  He fearfully jumps in bed and throws the covers over himself.  Is it just a dream?   -A closeup of a sheep being slaughtered, bleeding out. -Screen flashes white to a shot of Jesus’ hand being nailed to the cross, which to me resembles the tarantula that flashed earlier.   -Cuts to a quiet forrest, then sharp tops of a metal fence and next a dirty snowpile in front of a building... Why are we being shown this? I believe this opening operates like a dream.  Are these images preparing our unconscious for what we see later? It’s impossible to know exactly unless some detailed external commentary is given.  I remember reading Roger Ebert saying the sequence was Bergman stating he is creating a new type of cinema, expressing this by starting in the projector and ending in the projector.  This never crossed my mind while watching.

-An old woman dead on a table possibly in a morgue, then a man. -A phone rings.  The dead women suddenly opens her eyes. -A boy opens his eyes, waking up.  He puts on his glasses as the phone continues to ring and opens a book and begins reading.  He then looks into the camera at us (a motif for certain moments in the film, especially for Elisabet).  -Next, a reverse shot which reveals he is looking at a screen that covers the wall.  It’s a striking image as the music crescendoes.  The screen reveals what looks to be an unrecognizable woman that keeps blurring and morphing.  The boy touches the screen in a way that I interpret as yearning. Then it becomes clear the women’s faces on the screen are the main characters that we will soon meet and spend the film with, Alma and Elisabet. Their faces are blending into one another, but it is still not extremely clear.  I had to go back and rewatch this part to verify if it was actually them. “Not extremely clear” is a theme throughout the film.  Who is who? What is a dream and what is not? This motif of faces and masks.  Insecurities about what to show and what to hide, which I think was my main, simplified takeaway from the movie after the first watch.   Predeterminism is also something that keeps popping in my head after watching.  Alma cannot hide from Elisabet.  Elisabet always seems to know at key moments. The Conscious cannot hide from the Unconscious.  The Swiss psychologist Carl Jung was a large inspiration for this film and the term persona is his term in the context aligning with the film.

Then the title page quickly flashes, along with the boy in glasses again, then the two main female characters, all in individual closeups.   This film is shot in 4:3 aspect ratio, which is conducive to faces and the two female characters have amazing faces with the help of the naturalistic cinematography of Sven Nykvist. Below is a couple of quotes I found beautiful by Bergman regarding the human face:

The music is amazing here too at the opening...percussion and xylophone with chaotic crescendos, which seem way ahead of its time.  

And is this boy shown, Bergman himself?...putting on his glasses, with childlike curiosity, yearning, awakening to this experience of making this novel film and what it will tell him? 

Alma and Elisabet Meet

We are at a hospital.  The Doctor informs the Nurse, Alma, that the patient, Elisabet, has stopped speaking.  She is an actress that became mute in the middle of a performance on stage playing Electra and has continued not speaking for 3 months.  (”Electra Complex” is a Jungian term that is the female version of the Oedipal Complex.) Alma anxiously enters Elisabet’s room and introduces herself saying she’s 25 years old and grew up on a farm in the country.  Elisabet looks away.   Alma later tells the doctor in the hallway that she can not help her and “may not be up to the task mentally”.  In my opinion, Alma’s insecurity with her mental faculties is a huge part of the film, possibly because she’s unaware and/or unwilling to see her full Self.    Alma goes back in the room and blurts out that she doesn’t understand films and theatre but has great admiration for artists and is impressed by Elisabet, who then embraces her.  Elisabet possibly needed this validation. Alma soon leaves the room after turning on the radio with symphony music. A closeup of Elisabet reveals how deeply she feels this music. Liv Ullmann (actress playing Elisabet) has such deep eyes that are able to convey so much as tears subtly well up. She eventually exhales and turns away from the camera and radio.  These moments occur with Elisabet throughout the film where she shows this sensitivity and understanding of something outside of the sphere of what is going on between Alma and herself.  For example, soon we see her in the bare hospital room (beautifully and minimally lit) reacting to news coverage of the Vietnam War.  The TV shows a monk that has set himself on fire in protest.  This backs Elisabet all the way up into the corner of the room, gasping with her hand over her mouth and in closeup it’s evident she feels so much of what’s she’s watching...and I felt it deeply too.  

In the scene prior, Alma is shown sitting on her bed in her nightgown (possibly talking to the camera first, then herself) about how she will get married, raise her kids and how everything is “decided” for her, predetermined. Several phrases that she uses during this self-assuring scene: “It is inside of me”, “Already written”, “I don’t even have to think about it.”   Which to me, is a stark contrast to who Elisabet is...a mother who has left her family, who does not accept her reality and who wants more. Yet, Alma now is sleepless also, sorting this out aloud, as if coming back into herself because Elisabet has perplexed and disrupted her.  Elisabet fascinates her. She admires Elisabet. Elisabet has introduced this mystery into Alma’s life now and is living in her thoughts.

The Doctor Speaks to Elisabet

I’m not sure what others have said about this scene, but in the moment while watching, I found it to be the most revealing, door-opening of the film.  I think it is because the Doctor speaks with such clarity and assurance. It is a more literal explanation of what is happening with Elisabet and a lot of the other scenes do not reveal themselves so easily.  You have to chew on them a bit.   The Doctor is older, integrated, in contrast to the two younger fragmented leads. The Doctor recommends Elisabet and Alma move in to her summer home next to the sea instead of staying at the hospital. She says it will be better for Elisabet there.  She then says she understands the chasm inside of Elisabet and also the deep chasm between Elisabet and others.  The Doctor continues by saying that this feeling of falseness and lies and the constant hunger to be “unmasked” is causing this paralysis of speech.  Elisabet is still, carefully listening. Apparently the Doctor is onto something. The close-up two shot during this scene is also a motif that recurs throughout the film. Sometimes the two shots are not exactly like this but very similar. The Doctor is fully lit.  Elisabet is half-lit, in shadow on the side closest to the camera.   I wonder if this half-shadow lighting is connected to Jung’s term, shadow. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a literal, overt expression in the cinematography.  The shadow is defined as an unconscious aspect of the personality which the conscious ego does not identify in itself. Jung goes on to say that the shadow is often negative, because it is the least desirable aspects within oneself that has been conveniently ignored or rejected...because it’s uncomfortable to face (no pun intended). This is an accurate description regarding the characters. Alma also displays this rejection of the shadow multiple times that I will point out later. The Doctor then mentions Elisabet should play out this scenario until it is no longer interesting and then she can drop it, like a role.  Perhaps the Doctor says this to use a vernacular Elisabet will understand, but also connecting her condition to the mute persona Elisabet has now acquired.

The Summer House

It's amazing how much Bergman packs in to the first 22 minutes!

Alma and Elisabet are now at the summer house alone together, enjoying themselves in this isolated spot near the sea.  Alma grew up a farm girl, so is accustomed to this “rural seclusion”.  Elisabet’s coldness and indifference has seemed to disappear, moving out of the sterile hospital room to this new setting. The two sit together outside and go through mushrooms they’ve picked, both with similar style hats (light and dark) as they subtly hum a tune in unison.  Elisabet then compares her palms with Alma’s.  Alma grins and says it’s bad luck to compare hands.   The two are now on the rocky beach in their swimsuits. The beach is quite bleak, looks uncomfortable to lounge on and a bit other-worldly.  Alma reads a passage aloud from a book she’s reading, meditating on the “anxiety of the earthly condition”, perhaps something she thinks Elisabet will find profound. Elisabet takes this in, is moved and agrees with the existential description.  Alma however doesn’t agree, nor seems to fully comprehend what she’s read.   In the house now.  Alma has several moments where she begins to open up to Elisabet but then second-guesses herself, self-conscious of what the mute “artist” might think. And Elisabet IS hard to read.  She seems to me bored and distant at times, then lovingly engaged and listening.  Alma now smokes because Elisabet does and both dress similarly in black.

Alma continues to open up even more. A silent companion only leaves room for one talker.  Who is the patient now?  The camera angle features Alma’s speaking face in the foreground blocking Elisabet’s; one head blending together.  It’s as if Alma is discovering things about herself for the first time...about her chosen profession as a nurse and a past relationship.  The conversation moves to the bedroom.  Both are in their night gowns.  Alma tells a long, detailed story about an orgy on a beach involving her friend and two boys that approached them while they sunbathed nude. Elisabet is sitting up in the bed and Alma sits in a chair. Elisabet shows a few signs of pulling away due to Alma’s gregariousness and wears a cool “been there done that” expression, but as the story continues she becomes focused, still, and calculating.  If I had to guess, this sexual experience of Alma’s is the most intense event of her life. She had cheated on the man she is now engaged to and is so vulnerable here in her confession. The acting by Bibi Andersson is superb.  Alma ended up pregnant and had an abortion.  She weeps with guilt.     Is Alma’s mask fully off, revealing too much, bare to the bone?  What does Elisabet really think about all this? Is she “gaining” from this somehow?

They move to the dining table again in the other room. It’s raining outside.  Alma is loose and drunk, in a manner one is after a huge confession.  She again announces her inferiority, saying how boring she must be to Elisabet and what use she could possibly be to her. She also says that she should be more like Elisabet and not talk. Alma then points out how they look alike and she could turn into her if she made the effort. Then she says, “You could turn yourself into me just like that.  Although your soul would be much too big.  It would stick out everywhere!” My favorite lines of the film.  Alma then puts her head down on the table as if to sleep.  Elisabet then speaks for the only time in the film, telling Alma to go to bed before she falls asleep at the table.  Alma looks up blankly, puts her head back down, then pops up again and repeats what Elisabet just said.  Was it just a thought or did Elisabet actually speak?  Does Alma flirt here with Elisabet when saying good night? It looks like it.  

Alma’s Awakening

The bedroom is foggy.  Alma gets a glass of water then lies down in bed. Elisabet walks up the hallway into the bedroom, looking at Alma then into the white room around the corner. She then turns back.  A horn from a boat blows ominously outside in the night sea.  A slight breeze moves a white transparent curtain in the doorway.  Alma raises as if summoned, goes to Elisabet and leans her head on her wearily.  Then the iconic shot of the the two looking into the camera at us.  Elisabet places her hand on Alma’s forehead moves it back over her hair as if this is allowing Alma to “see” now, an awakening...Elisabet being the guide. Is this an opening of the third eye? It may be a stretch, but it crossed my mind.  The two actresses are so beautiful here, softly lit from above, and fold into each other afterwards like an integrated yin and yang as picture fades to black.  The music reminds me of Hitchcock’s and I’m not sure I like it, but the moment is indeed powerful. Did Alma dream this?  Does it matter?

Chaos

Picture fades back in and Elisabet greets us on the rocky beach.  She enters frame from below, taking a picture of us with a stills camera.  Alma is in the distant background next to the shore.  Elisabet walks to her and takes a photo of Alma as she clumsily poses.  Alma coldly asks Elisabet if she was in her room last night.  Elisabet shakes her head no and shows no sign of lying.  

Later in the house, Alma takes the mail to sent be sent off and has to take a drive to do this.  In the car, she opens up Elisabet’s letter to the Doctor in curiosity.  The first part of the letter is complimentary to the living situation and Alma, but then Elisabet writes, “it’s fun studying her (Alma) and how she cries over past sins.”  The letter also mentions Alma’s orgy and the abortion and says how she “complains that her notions of life fail to accord with her actions”.  Alma is stunned and gets out of the car.  She stands stolidly dressed all in black next to a murky pond looking at her reflection in wide shot. 

Alma is back at the house now in a black swimsuit with a grave look on her face.  This expression was nowhere to be found until this point in the film.  Outside she breaks a glass on accident and begins sweeping it up.  She notices she missed a large piece, but leaves it after seeing Elisabet coming outside.  The camera moves from the piece of glass as Elisabet’s bare feet pass by it, then back up to a watchful Alma.  Again, camera fixed on the piece of glass as Elisabet narrowly misses it and tilts back up to a silent Alma. Eventually, Elisabet steps on it, making a painful sound in response.    Alma watches from inside the house with a hard scowl behind a transparent curtain.  Elisabet stares back with a concerned, furrowed brow as if she knows what Alma did. A violent sound effect comes in along with a literal splitting of the picture, a deep transition within the film and the character of Alma.  She has crossed a line.

My first impression of the sound effect is it’s a film spool that is hung up in the machine...like the film has broken (similar to the glass) after Alma committed this act (or non-act).  The shot then literally burns up, starting on Alma’s face to a quiet white screen.  This effect would have seemed cheesy in almost in other film, but I think it works here.  It is simple and clear and connects to the meta, self-reflexive nature of the film.

Everything has changed now. Alma's insecurities have caused her to become darkened.  Her sought-after approval from Elisabet has been betrayed by the letter to the Doctor. She has lost herself and taken on a new protective persona. Or has she found power (even though misdirected) after her awakening? Pain leading to growth in her cycle?   What is for sure now is she is very far from the sweet, unsure nurse we saw at the beginning of the film. 

A voice in reverse is heard now (an effect David Lynch must have gleamed for Twin Peaks). We are again shown images similar to the opening of the film... the vampire, the skeleton, a spike going into Jesus’ hand accompanied by a disturbing scream and an extreme closeup on a shifty eyeball that the camera pushes in on... What do the eyes say and can the camera uncover it? Can we see the soul if the camera looks into the eye close enough? Camera fades in to Elisabet walking around the house, picture blurred and in slow motion, which eventually becomes focused and at normal speed.  She exits the house and goes outside looking for Alma. Eventually she finds her and touches Alma’s cheek with sweet, subtle affection and sits down to read. Alma is dressed in all black with dark black sunglasses. She acts cool and distant and lurks around behind a sitting Elisabet, poking at her with words and becoming visibly more upset and restless by the moment.  She soon loses the facade saying she feels used and discarded (like the Doctor explained Elisabet’s “acting role”). Alma continues saying she has been hurt very badly and laughed at behind her back.  She then confesses she read the letter to the Doctor and accuses Elisabet of getting her to talk and mention things she’s never mentioned to anyone! Alma pleads for Elisabet to speak.  The argument becomes violent.  Elisabet slaps Alma and bloodies her nose.  The two stop.  Elisabet begins to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.  I thought Alma might join in with the laughter here but she does the opposite and runs into the bathroom crying.  She is so sensitive about being laughed at at this point that the internal turmoil just increases. After a while, Alma reenters the room calm and raw. She asks Elisabet if being truly genuine, telling the truth, not evading things, truly being oneself...sloppy and silly...can this be possible?  She says Elisabet might get better if she just allows herself to be what she is.  Elisabet smokes her cigarette, cooly facing the opposite direction and doesn’t react or show much at all.  Alma is unsatisfied with the lack of reciprocity and says angrily she knows how rotten Elisabet really is.  This strikes a nerve with Elisabet and she storms out.  Alma immediately feels regret and asks God what she is doing, then runs after her.

A long, beautiful tracking shot along the rocky beach as Alma chases after Elisabet apologizing profusely.  She says how honored she was for an actress of her caliber to be interested in what she had to say, but then how hurt she felt because she was betrayed in the letter.  Alma “blabbers on”.  Elisabet eventually turns as if she might embrace Alma, but coldly walks away.  To me, it was as if the mask was projecting one thing, creating a pause in Alma, thinking that an embrace might occur, then Elisabet’s action doing another thing, walking away coldly.  An example of the mask not connecting with the action. Alma falls to the rocky beach, distraught.

The next shot, in stark contrast, Alma is sitting serenely near the shore.  Elisabet is in the house, pacing with a cigarette, looking out the window (that reminds me so much of a shot in Woody Allen’s “Interiors”).  There is a deep anticipating heaviness that Bergman is masterfully able to create here with the help of the music.  Elisabet shows more emotion here than usual.  Is it because she is alone and no one is there to observe her? She shows visible sadness again soon after, alone in her bedroom. She then comes across a photo in a book. It is of Jewish children being lined up by the Nazis in World War II. Her sadness becomes deeper and focused, maximized by the horror-enducing music accompanying.  Elisabet’s empathetic contemplation here is similar to when she was at the hospital watching the burning monk in the Vietnam War news footage.   Closeup on the picture, which is of a young boy with his hands up as a gun is pointed at him.  The camera then cuts to various other closeups, bouncing around the photo examining every face...every mask.

What is Bergman trying to tell us here?  This may be a stretch, but my first thoughts were that Bergman is briefly pointing at something universal which includes all human psychological underpinnings.  It is connected to our two protagonists in the film and what 's happening with them psychologically, but for moment looking beyond them, silently illuminating the potential evil (the shadow) within all human beings.  That the fear of truly living without a mask can create such a sickness in man that one is potentially able to create this type of destruction towards others.  That instead of facing oneself honestly, being whatever it is that you are, that a mental illness can form and the persona can fully take over.  That one can become so identified with the persona of being a “Nazi” that they would point a gun at a “Jewish” child.

Again, back to the psychologist Carl Jung who looked to Eastern philosophy often as a reference for his work.  In Eastern philosophy there is a common belief that under the mask is the godhead within each individual.  To repeat from earlier, Jung believed the mask (or persona) was not the true self and could keep us from a much deeper, truer self which included a unified “collective unconscious” that all humans share.  Opposed to a healthy mask essential for social life, if it completely overtakes the godhead (or the true self) chaos ensues within that individual because one is also identifying everyone else solely based on their masks.  Divinity can no longer be seen in ones’ fellow man or woman.  All humanity towards others can potentially be thrown out the window because of this difference in “mask” and atrocities can occur because of the dual nature of this thinking, rather than a unifying recognition of a collective unconscious in the “other”. And if there are enough individuals, disconnected from the godhead/true self,  you get Nazis killing Jews. ALL mask. ALL persona.   And no recognition of the holy selfhood in others, which ultimately stems from fear, blinding the individual... And taking us back to the film of our two fearful protagonists where the persona is being focused upon.   

Does Elisabet understand all of this yet is unable to change herself? Or is her silence a rejection of the mask, a rebellion to conform and/or an attempt to get better? I don’t know.

We cut to Alma now in her bedroom and she is having a bad dream, shaking her head violently side to side.  She wakes up and turns on a portable radio.  Through the static it says “we don’t talk...listen...or understand”, then the voice says something about “Elisabet” and “by what means should...to enable.” Is the radio representative of her conscious mind tuning in to another frequency?  I see no other reason for the radio that randomly appears out of the blue. We then see Alma going into Elisabet’s room, who is asleep.  Alma begins watching her, smelling her, taking her in and even touches her face. She comments aloud how Elisabet’s face is slack and her mouth is swollen and ugly, then points out a wrinkle. She also mentions she can see a scar that Elisabet normally covers with makeup.  Alma seems to relish in the fact she sees her this way, with her guard down and is able to feel superior in this moment.  Alma hears a voice from another room that says “Elisabet” and leaves.  Is it the radio from a few moments before?  Elisabet then opens her eyes and looks into the camera again at us.  She was not asleep. She was acting like she was sleeping.  Even when Alma thought she was superior, Elisabet was still conscious.  Perhaps because the unconscious never sleeps and Elisabet is representative of the unconscious.     

"Elisabet” and Mr. Vogler

This next part becomes the most surreal and hardest to understand in my opinion.  It is dawn now.  Alma walks through the house, then is startled by Mr. Vogler, Elisabet’s husband.  He calls Alma “Elisabet” and begins explaining how this has been hard on their little boy and continues further about their relationship.  Alma once again says she is not his wife, as Elisabet creeps up from behind fixated on Mr. Vogler, lurking behind Alma’s shoulder in a two-shot closeup.  Elisabet then guides Alma’s hand up to caress Mr.Vogler’s face, like Alma is her puppet.  He is a strange, stern looking man with dark sunglasses. Alma now is under the spell that this is her husband, and says she loves him very much. We’re now watching in a reverse shot with Elisabet in the foreground, looking upset, as the other two are professing their love for one another.  Alma moves her gaze to Elisabet in a conniving way and continues with Mr. Vogler in spite of Elisabet and they kiss. This is one of the most puzzling parts of the film to me and I found myself, mentally, wanting to check out.  I had to consciously will myself to pay close attention and try to decode this. I think because it smashed the narrative I currently had going in my head of what I thought the film was.  It’s as if Alma is now a vessel controlled by Elisabet, but why? Alma seems to be unaware of Elisabet, then aware. Is it because Alma, who adores Elisabet, can now see what it's like to be in her shoes?  Is Elisabet upset because Alma is now privy to this? I think there is also a deeper subtext throughout the film where Alma is representative of the “conscious” and Elisabet the “unconscious”, which is running parallel to what is literally being shown, yet sometimes they blend like a dream.  I’ve mentioned this once and is worth mentioning again.   Alma/Elisabet and Mr. Vogler are laying down now and it seems they have just made love.  Alma/Elisabet soon goes from tender to a violent struggle asking to be anesthetized! She cries saying she is cold and rotten and indifferent, “all lies and imitation”.  The camera moves to an extreme closeup on Elisabet and fades to white.   Does Alma clearly see Elisabet now?  Was Alma able to break through Elisabet’s persona and truly feel what it was like for her with her husband and why they are estranged? Or it could very well be Elisabet detaching herself from the past experience and processing it this way as we see things from her point of view.  And rather than Bergman showing a flashback with Elisabet and Mr. Vogler, he presents it this way with Alma standing in? I keep asking these questions because I feel the questions are more important than the answers.  A film that just gives answers is not a film I am interested in seeing.  If answers are the most important thing then one should just read the dictionary and not watch Persona.    

Alma Strengthened?

It is daylight now.  Mr. Vogler is nowhere to be found.  The scene starts as almost a complete nosequitar to what just occured. Alma sees Elisabet hiding something under her hand and makes her show what it is, like a student being disciplined by a teacher.  It is a picture of Elisabet’s child. Alma asks her to talk about it. Elisabet shakes her head no, so Alma speaks for her.   Alma’s attitude is similar to the Doctor’s now and is dressed exactly like Elisabet.  Both have been in black most of the time, but now it is exactly matching, up to the detail of the black headband.    So why is it important they dress in black?  There must a reason, or several. I’ve seen some far out interpretations of what this film is, so I’m going to take a swing regarding a possible reason why this deep black is worn by the characters a majority of the time.    Both are in a state of “dying”.  Not in the physical sense, but psychologically...a chaos, a putrefaction (alchemy term).  It doesn’t necessarily mean something so simple as “black is negative”/“white is positive”, but chaos/putrefaction/psychological death is an essential stage in life as fragmented reality occurs.  It is impossible to stay in the light all the time.  We are human.  We are foulable beings tossed out of the Garden of Eden.  We become confused, tragedy occurs, we become fearful. This is what life is and it’s inevitable.   In this film’s case, unity does not reign but a duality of “Alma” and “Elisabet”, who must pass through this stage in the cycle in order to become unified and “in the light” again (atleast that’s the goal).  The film is at a point in their lives in which chaos reigns, for reasons I’ve previously highlighted regarding the shadow, persona and self.  And Carl Jung was very well-versed in Alchemy and it’s metaphors, as I assume Bergman was as well.  Also, perhaps this connects to the morgue and skeleton during the beginning sequence

This is the most still and confident we have seen Alma in the film. Alma now begins to speak Elisabet’s story to Elisabet. This begins with a comment someone made to Elisabet at a party telling her that she had everything as a woman and an artist but lacked motherliness. Elisabet, in turn, then became pregnant. Elisabet next felt frightened, in over her head regarding all that pregnancy and motherhood required of her, but she “played the role”, put on the persona as a Mother. As Alma speaks, this is the most emotion Elisabet has shown in front of Alma the entire film, looking away, furrowing her brow, half-lit, terrified and found out!  Alma continues, saying Elisabet had wished the baby would’ve been stillborn and a deep shame washes over Elisabet as she ducks her head.  Alma is vicious, continuing on about how much Elisabet despised the baby, how it cried day and night and how she was scared with a bad conscience. The boy eventually went to live with relatives and Elisabet went back to the theatre.  The boy loves his mother greatly, but Elisabet is always cold and indifferent...disgusted by him. The scene then starts over again, but with an over-the-shoulder shot onto Alma this time.  The exact same dialogue is repeated and we have to again hear this painful dressing down of Elisabet and her resentful relationship with her son.    The over-the-shoulder shot turns into two 1-shots, the same as with Elisabet the first time.  Alma is also half-lit and I don’t think she ever blinks (which made me think of Paul Thomas Anderson’s film The Master scene at the table but between two men.)

After Alma finishes (on a straight-ahead closeup) Elisabet’s face begin to take up the darkly lit half of Alma’s and she says, “No! I’m not like you”, “I’m Sister Alma, I’m just here to help you.”   The two faces are now one.  Duality to Unity. Both face-halfs are now in the light.   Elisabet’s half appears and disappears a few times and then appears fully with punctuating music at the end of the scene, freeze-framing before fading to gray.  It is striking how well their faces actually match up.

Obviously I’m going to expand on what I think happened here. Alma has entered Elisabet’s head so deeply, she was able to intuit this dark story about Elisabet and all of the unflattering details.  Alma had to suffer to get to this point in order to enter Elisabet’s mind.  And her entry is so intense she begins to lose herself.  Her self-assuredness then quickly turns back to the vulnerable, scared Alma from before.   Is this for the best Elisabet hears this?  I kept thinking while watching that a regular moviegoer would interpret this as overly harsh by Alma.   But it is also Elisabet becoming fully aware of why she decided to become pregnant in the first place and the subsequent emotional damage caused to her son.  It then covers up to the point where she becomes mute during the Electra play.  Elisabet needed Alma in order to get to this point of realization, as painful as it might’ve been.

A Standoff and Enigmatic Ending

We open on a 1-shot of Elisabet and a quick close-up catching a glimmer of defiance as Alma enters the room with her nurse’s outfit on now. Alma attempts to match her defiance and a stareoff ensues.   Alma says she’s learned quite a bit and physically punches forward directly in front of an unflinching Elisabet.  Alma then leans in and says she will never be like Elisabet (denying the shadow) and says she changes all the time and Elisabet will never get to her. 

Another stareoff. Soon Alma breaks and begins nervously hitting the table.  

I have thought about this scene moreso than any other scene after watching the film.  To me, there is so much to unpack.  Alma is never able to get a leg up on Elisabet for very long.  Again, I think this reinforces the metaphor that the conscious is unable to escape the unconscious. The same as a human being unable to escape the eye of God.  This is why pre-determination was mentioned at the beginning of this post.  If we are following this logic, Alma is predetermined not to gain a mental edge on Elisabet.  She’s not formed to have the depth that someone like Elisabet has, no matter how much she’s “learned” or the mask she has tried to maintain.  Elisabet knows her thoughts and has the mental ability to consume her and Alma knows this and it manifests in this anxious pounding on the table.   Alma somewhat regains composure in her face but her words are gibberish nonsequitars...almost poetic but too garbled.  Elisabet turns around and is in the foreground of a closeup 2-shot and mouths her words as if she is controlling what’s coming out of Alma’s mouth.  Her mouth does not sync with the words but it does convey that Elisabet is in control. Alma continues to struggle, trying with all her might to articulate what she wants to say. But the gibberish continues, as if two minds are battling one another and Elisabet is winning, silent and calm, while Alma strains to squeeze out meaning verbally with little luck. Then, something revealing occurs... Elisabet runs her nails down the inside of Alma’s forearm until drawing blood, then goes down and begins sucking the blood like a vampire.  Eventually Alma fights her off and begins slapping her repeatedly until it cuts to black.  I did accidentally stumble across an article by BFI (British Film Institute) that states Bergman intentionally took Elisabet’s surname (Vogler) from a film called “The Magician” involving a character who was an artist that sapped the energies of others for his artistic gain.  This makes sense because, as mentioned, Elisabet has used her mental energy to consume Alma by essentially playing the role as the mute patient. I don’t think this was an elaborate plan on Elisabet’s part, but kind of fell in her lap and she went with it.    Also, due to the meta-nature of the film (inside the film projector, characters looking into the lens, etc) is Bergman also implicating himself?  This film is very aware of itself and makes this clear several times.  If I had to guess, Bergman is also saying he is not innocent, that he is using these characters/actors to play out his dream in order to gain a better of understanding of his own psyche. Also, are we, the audience, implicated as well?  Elisabet looks at us, takes our picture, is aware of us...aren’t we placing ourselves inside these characters? We see their vulnerabilities, analyze their weaknesses, pass judgement...we use them in order to come to some type of new understanding within ourselves or for our own entertainment.  Is the nature of art itself vampiric?  In a sense, are Elisabet, Bergman, us and all artists vampiric in a way?  Absolutely.  

Then, right when you think you have all it figured out, there is another couple of scenes that make you think otherwise.  You have to take one scene at a time with Persona.  It is less of a narrative and more of a dreamlike poem.  Alma nows enters the hospital room and Elisabet is in bed in a sedated state.  Alma lifts her up slightly and says, “Nothing,  That’s how it should be”, in a comforting manner and then lays Elisabet’s head back down.  It then fades into a repeat of the Alma/Elisabet dream shot of them looking into the camera from earlier in the film, perhaps comforting us the audience, slowly waking us up after this traumatic, confusing ride we’ve been on as the film winds down... telling us it’s nothing, it’s okay, it’s how it should be.   In turn, Alma wakes up in her bedroom in the Summer house. We are not in the hospital anymore.  She peaks out and sees Elisabet packing her suitcase. Alma then begins putting all the summer outdoor chairs inside the house to pack up before she leaves.  We do not see Elisabet again.  What happened to her?  Did she just leave without saying goodbye? Alma looks into the mirror and brushes her hair back as was done in the scene with Elisabet from earlier. A translucent image of Elisabet then appears behind her as seen below.  She then smiles to herself and puts on her hat.

As she exits outside with her suitcase, there is a large concrete sculpture of a face that the camera moves to. It then flashes to a shot of Elisabet on stage as Electra. Alma walks to the bus.  It then cuts to a camera sweeping down from above on a film set to capture Elisabet in frame.  It cuts back to Alma getting on the bus to leave and the camera pans to dark rocks on the side of the road, then fades into the boy in front of the screen from the beginning of the film, reaching out to touch the screen.  The screen includes a blurry image of what looks to be Alma that soon fades completely to white...a screen within a screen.  As we, the viewers, reach out with our minds to comprehend exactly what the ending means, the shirtless boy with the glasses also reaches out to feel an image that disappears.  The film roll runs out (literally on screen), falling off the spool and the projector burns out. The End.

To conclude, I just realized that attempting to analyze this film is almost like chasing a conspiracy theory, looking for connections that may or may not exist.  I know that I missed some things.  I know that I got some things wrong, but the joy of thinking about these films is that's okay. :)

Also, in closing, I wanted to add an image that I had an immediate reaction to while looking for behind-the-scenes photos.  As you can see, it is of Bergman, Liv Ullman and Bibbi Andersson.  And as you know by now, this a very heavy, dark film on identity and internal chaos. But there is such love and sensitivity and thoughtfulness in this photo of three artists in the middle of making something extraordinary and revolutionary in cinema. It brings up some deep emotions in me because this is something I yearn for, almost like the boy touching the screen.  I do truly feel I've had small glimpses of this type of satisfaction while working on my own projects, sparking a recognition, knowing it is rare and beautiful and transcendent, providing more to aspire to.  

[writemarcus]

Black, Queer, and Here

In a post-‘Moonlight’ world, writers like Michael R. Jackson and Jeremy O. Harris are making the case for LGBTQ stories that go beyond the gay white experience.

BY MARCUS SCOTT

Last month, when Michael R. Jackson’s A Strange Loop earned unanimous praise upon opening at Playwrights Horizons, it was a pivotal moment for me as a spectator. As someone who is also a Black, gay, musical theatre writer, I saw myself and my story onstage for the first time. I guffawed, clapped my hands, snapped along, celebrated the pageantry of Black excellence, and even teared up a bit during the play’s climax.

For the first time I didn’t have to undertake the mental gymnastics all marginalized people are basically required to do once they enter the theatre; to empathize with the white, often male protagonist as default. Not to mention, there was additional apprehension. Any time I saw a story centered on LGBTQ characters, I could usually predict what I was getting myself into: either comedic NutraSweet schmaltz with heart, or a maudlin tragedy where happy endings are laughable and everyone dies in the end.

But this was different. Led by a colossal, virtuoso performance from Larry Owens—not to mention anchored by an all-Black, all-queer ensemble of multitalented, triple-threat featured players—A Strange Loop (now extended through July 28) is a singular, seminal Bildungsroman that casts a subversive, critical third eye on both mainstream and nether regions of the Black gay American experience that had not been shown before.

The show follows Usher (Owens), a young, NYU-educated, overweight Black gay man working as an usher at a long-running Broadway musical and struggling to write a musical about a young, NYU-educated, overweight Black gay man working as an usher at a long-running Broadway musical and struggling to write a musical (hence the loop in the title). A Strange Loop is a visceral, soulful, psychosexual panoramic pièce de résistance that may just be the most radical Off-Broadway musical of its kind. Contextualizing everything from #MeToo, Moonlight, Tyler Perry, Stephen Sondheim’s Company, and second wave feminism, Jackson’s show is a potpourri of popular culture, existentialism, and metafiction—a dazzling coming-of-age artistic journey of self-discovery.

My sentiments for the show have been shared. In a post-show talkback on June 19, “Pose” star Billy Porter joined Jackson, choreographer Raja Feather Kelly, and playwright Branden Jacobs-Jenkins onstage to discuss the musical. The event, which was attended by top names in the theatre community (such as Lin-Manuel Miranda), was presented by Ucross, a prestigious residency program in northeast Wyoming. Porter choked back tears as he began the panel: “To sit up there and see my life onstage, when everybody said that my story wasn’t valid—to see that up there, to see it so brave, and to see it so bold. To see it so truthful, so complicated, so honest, and so unapologetic, has been one of the most wonderful nights for me in the theatre.”

Over the course of the 2018-19 season, I saw 100 shows, and few of them affected me like Jackson’s musical. None of those other shows centered on queer bodies of color. In all fairness, it’s not like a lot of theatres are producing plays by or about queer people of color. And when they do, it’s sanitized, ambiguous, and not complex—for example, Celie and Shug’s neutered romance in The Color Purple.

Earlier this year, in a lively panel about the state of the American play (copresented by American Theatre and Signature Theatre), playwright and director Robert O’Hara wryly offered some insight into the queer POC experience in American theatre. Speaking about the 2017-18 season, O’Hara pondered the state of Broadway, which was littered with prestige London transfers or star-driven assembly line revivals of treasured classics. But he also noticed a third trend: “the amount of gay white men we have on Broadway this year.” Naming Angels in America, The Boys in the Band, and Torch Song, all of which were written by white gay men, O’Hara remarked, “There’s too many white gay people, particularly white gay men and their struggle being white and gay and male. Do we really need that many conversations? To some people, that’s diversity. But to me, that’s just more white folks onstage.”  

Though theatre prides itself on being a space for outcasts, and most of its preeminent artists are gay men, their visibility often comes at the expense of other members of the LGBTQ community. In the theatre, LGBTQ plays have often centered solely on the experience of gay white cis-men and (only recently) cis-women, while people of color war in the margins for mainstream acclaim.

Whether it’s about the gay civil rights movement (Mart Crowley’s seminal The Boys In The Band, Dustin Lance Black’s 8), the HIV/AIDS epidemic (Larry Kramer’s definitive The Normal Heart, Tony Kushner’s iconic Angels in America, William Finn’s neurotic Falsettos) or communal inherited trauma (Moisés Kaufman’s triumphant docudrama The Laramie Project, Matthew Lopez’s Broadway-bound The Inheritance), gay white men have dominated queer stories, creating nuanced characters and becoming the epicenter of the narratives of LGBTQ culture.

Openly gay Black artists like O’Hara and George C. Wolfe have created work about Black queer life over three decades, but their numbers were fewer and far between. The difference now is the sheer volume of diverse queer voices. Some are even calling it a renaissance.

I trace it to the film Moonlight. Released in 2016 to universal acclaim under the helm of director Barry Jenkins, and based on Tarell Alvin McCraney’s unpublished semi-autobiographical play In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue, Moonlight became the first film with an all-Black cast and the first LGBTQ film to win the Academy Award for Best Picture. The victory was a watershed moment in popular culture, sparking public interest in Black art and queer stories.

Ever since, queer Black theatre artists have begun to storm the proverbial tower in droves: McCraney recently returned to Steppenwolf in Chicago with Ms. Blakk For President, and his Choir Boy had an acclaimed run on Broadway after making the rounds of the nation’s regional theatres. Donja R. Love, an HIV-positive gay Black playwright, saw the world premieres of his queer period dramas Sugar in Our Wounds and Fireflies. Jordan Cooper’s Ain’t No Mo earned an extended and lauded run Off-Broadway at the Public Theater. Hailed as “The Queer Black Savior the Theater World Needs” by Out magazine, Jeremy O. Harris became a literary sensation and enfant terrible of the theatre world after Slave Play and Daddy had their world premieres this past season (Slave Play will transfer to Broadway in September).

What makes these plays radical is their candor, addressing the audience with frank depictions of queer Black life. Most importantly, these are plays that are creating discourse on what artist Lora Mathis calls radical softness, or “the idea that unapologetically sharing your emotions is a political move and a way to combat the societal idea that feelings are a sign of weakness.” In one of the most pivotal scenes in Choir Boy, one of the boys chooses an a cappella rendition of “Love Ballad” (originally by Jeffrey Osborne of L.T.D.) to express his love for another boy, but imagination ends up being the closest he’ll ever get to confessing his feelings. In Sugar in Our Wounds, an enslaved man offers another reading lessons, but the subtext is that of romantic yearning. In Slave Play, an interracial gay couple undergo therapy, in an effort to reconnect. These writers subvert and comment on the oppressive systems that affect disenfranchised and marginalized people without attacking or distancing mainstream audiences.

Not to mention the playwrights who identify as queer but whose plays aren’t chiefly about LGBTQ life: Colman Domingo (Dot), Marcus Gardley (The House That Will Not Stand), Jonathan Norton (My Tidy List of Terrors), Timothy DuWhite (Neptune), Keelay Gipson (#NewSlaves), Korde Arrington Tuttle (clarity), Jirèh Breon Holder (Too Heavy for Your Pocket) and Derek Lee McPhatter (Bring the Beat Back). Chief among these is Branden Jacobs-Jenkins, who was listed among the Top 20 Most-Produced Playwrights of 2018-2019 and has been honored as a two-time finalist for the 2016 and 2018 Pulitzer Prize for Drama, respectively.

As writer-activist Darnell L. Moore noted on Twitter: “In the past few months, I’ve witnessed displays of brilliance—Black queer men who have created theatrical works that dig into the complex interior lives of Black characters. Their works disrupt & reimagine all we believe to be true about the limits of Blackness, of gender. They poke at the grounds of Black radical politics by illuminating how the freedom dreams conjured by some of the Blacks often function as nightmares for some others—trans folk, queers, drag queens, the not-respectable. They remind us about the futility of white liberalism. They refuse the white gaze.” He characterized these plays as “Black folks-loving art works” which “preach and sing and lament and celebrate and bear witness and take up arms and push and pull us.”

At the same time, Moore does wonder “how these works might be received if the creators and/or main actors weren’t Black gay men.” He has a point: Queer women, trans, or gender non-binary writers still struggle to be seen, with only a few receiving recognition such as Aziza Barnes (BLKS), Tanya Barfield (Bright Half Life), Tracey Scott Wilson (Buzzer), Nissy Aya (righteous kill, a requiem), and Ianne Fields Stewart (A Complicated Woman).

While many Black artists are generating work that are nuanced and empowering, and even dissecting of the white gaze, there are still just as many works that default towards “enterpainment.” Coined by playwright Aurin Squire in his play Zoohouse, “enterpainment” is a trope that calls for historically oppressed people to be forced into situations where they must put their suffering and victimhood on display for the education and edification of the masses. This exercise in emotional masochism has been at the forefront of many Black plays, with this trope being weaponized and commodified. Many Black characters in general are defined by their pain, and in plays that center on LGBTQ people of color, too often that pain is doubled because of their race and sexual orientation.

The “bury your gays” stereotype is still very much the norm for these plays, including some of the ones mentioned above. For example, in Donja R. Love’s Fireflies, the protagonist is a woman who clings to the memory of the woman she loved who was horribly murdered in the streets. The main character in Chisa Hutchinson’s She Like Girls is a 16-year-old lesbian who is shot and killed at the climax of the play.

Most stories featuring queer characters of color forefront the atrocities that inherently arise from the stigmatization of one’s sexual agency and one’s race. Rather than showcasing the beauty within the full expression of queerness—such as falling in love or (in A Strange Loop) standing up to your parents—too often writers are defaulting to trauma.

But this is part of a larger issue: that of Black artists working within a primarily white system who feel they must commodify their pain for white consumption. And of white producers not feeling like they’re able to challenge artists of color to look deeper, of them thinking of these artists as a single diversity slot or purveyor of issue plays, instead of artists whose careers and ideas need to be invested in. At the live event, Robert O’Hara had some advice for white producers: “You have to be able to live inside the power and the privilege that you have, and also continue to demand the rigor, intellect, and dexterity that the work requires so that it does not just become a play but a [major stepping stone for a] career.”

Recently I ran into Jackson at Musical Theatre Factory’s High Five, a gala hosted at Town Stages; he was being honored that night. Before I could congratulate him, he kindly rebuffed. “There’s still work to be done,” he said as he was greeted by eager patrons and admirers. He’s not wrong. In 2017, Pew found that younger, non-white, and low-income people (lower middle-class people of color) were more likely to self-identify as LGBTQ than whites, debunking the myth that Blacks and Latinos are overwhelmingly homophobic.

Reality is more complex than we give it credit for. And considering that Broadway is in need of new musicals in it’s 2019-20 season, there really is nothing more topical than, to quote A Strange Loop, a “big, Black, and queer-ass Broadway show.”

Marcus Scott is a New York-based playwright, musical writer and journalist. He’s written for Elle, Essence, Out and Playbill, among other publications.

[spacecaced]

10 pls

prompt:#10 “You’re wrong and I’ll prove it.”

I’ve let this ask sit for a while and I’m so sorry, but Iwas semi-saving it for when I could at least write something out that wasn’tcomplete rushed trash. this is still a bit rushed though, written during ashort break between classes and chugging my third cup of horrible campuscoffee. I finally sat down and edited it a bit. hope it’s, ya know, notterrible!

and if anyone has any prompts, numbered or otherwise, feelfree to send them to my ask, it’s always appreciated.

The thing about Steve is, he’s kind of incredibly oblivious. 

But there are worse things. He could be just a walking moron,but in Robin’s professional opinion (as a terrible best friend) he’s, at thevery most, a semi-functional space case.

The point is, Steve’s so Steve that hemight as well be blind to anything that isn’t explicitly spelled out to hisface. He jumps to conclusions sometimes, which are almost always wrong, and forthe most part he’s just content to ignore the nagging feeling in the back ofhis mind telling him he’s missed something.  

Maybe he’s just a sucker, but honestly there’s nothing wrong withbeing blissfully ignorant.

At least that’s what he’d been telling himself until Robin hadto go and wreck his delicate ecosystem of a very good thing going with Billy Hargrove.

It’s mid-summer break and Steve’s got his back pressed againstRobin’s in the middle of a park that isn’t really a park but a work inprogress. It’s close enough to the mall that they can bring their lunch outhere and enjoy the sound of trickling water from the decent looking fountaincenterpiece, while also getting some fresh air and exercise to sort of make upfor the greasy fries and takeout food they’ve got split between them.

“So,” Robin, and Steve knew by the tone of her voice nothinggood could follow, “how’re things with you and bright eyes?”

“He really hates it when you call him that,” Steve reminded,slurping noisily on a strawberry milkshake, pointedly ignoring theimplication. 

Steve remembers the first time Robin had met him, she’d squintedup at Billy, holding a hand up to shield some of the sun, and chirped out thatnickname like second nature. Billy had frozen in place, stunned, and forseveral moments there was silence, before Steve promptly laughed himself into afit because my god Billy looked like he was torn between mumbling out anawkward ‘thanks’ or biting out a defensive remark.

“He’s got these insanely bright eyes, what else am I supposed tocall him.”

Steve couldn’t really argue with that, Billy’s eyes being thekind of gorgeous a person could get lost in.

“You know there’s this funny thing called a name?”

“Nah, he’s bright eyes.” Robin says more decidedly.

“I think you just like pissing him off.”

“It’s true,” Robin agrees, with a shrug, “but how’re things withyou guys anyways, still in the honeymoon phase?”

Looking back, it would have been easier if he had the experienceand knowledge to just shrug and say something like ‘yeah sure’ but no, he hadto open his mouth and insert his foot right in.

“Honeymoon phase? That’s shit for like, people inrelationships,” Steve had tried fruitlessly to explain, steady as ever, poppingthe lid on his milkshake so he could dip his fries in, “Billy and I are justfucking around, you know that.”

“Come on, Stevie.” Robin had turned around, jostling Steve inthe process, fully facing him and pilfering from his fries, “you guys go ondates and shit like that – ” 

“We go to see movies – ”

“ – yeah and then you go to eat after, he always picks you upand takes you home right? He even stays over when your parents are out, don’tthink I didn’t notice you ditched me last weekend to ‘stay home’ you hate staying in that house allby yourself dude, I know you.”

“That’s – but – it’s not like that.” Steve finished weakly,absolutely floundering.

The thing is, Steve doesn’t do relationships.

Ever since Nancy, he doesn’t trust them, and he doesn’t likeputting his heart out there.

So, when Billy came along, with his seductive smile and lowvoice, with his easy eyes and that car – which okay, isn’t the best place tofuck in but is roomy enough for Steve to get his mouth on Billy and Billy’s handson him –Steve had jumped at the opportunity for something easy and fun. 

He’s a breath of fresh air that Steve has grown sort ofdependent on in the last eight months, when everything started and hasn’t shownany signs of slowing down.

“See, space case Stevie strikes again,” Robin adds pointedly,with a jab to his chest, food all but forgotten now, “bright eyes is so fuckinggone for you dude. He’s got heart eyes and everything.”

“You’re wrong.” Steve says, the wordsbursting like he’s trying to prove it to himself too, “you’re wrong and I’llprove it.”

Robin sits back, suddenly interested, “Oh yeah? How exactly areyou going to do that?”

That, in hindsight, was a good question.

It’s been four days and Steve still doesn’t have a damn clue howto bring that subject up himself.

He might as well have dug himself a hole and leaped into itvoluntarily, but it’s not his fault that Robin’s words are lodged in his brainlike a cancer.

He’s waiting outside the Starcourt Mall – thankfully this is oneof the days where he and Robin have opposite shifts so Steve doesn’t have todeal with her interrogations – and focuses all his willpower on gathering upwhatever courage is rattling around in him, untouched, to ask the kind ofquestion that will most surely ruin the one good thing he’s got going with Billy.

His phone chimes and he digs it out of his jacket pocket – gladhe had time to change out of his uniform because the last time Billy had pickedhim up while he was wearing that ridiculous getup, they’d learned first handthat fucking in the Camaro was a no-go and Steve’s uniform didn’t wash out easy– there’s about four notifications from Robin, slacking off on the job likeshe’s good at, and two messages from Billy that wreck Steve.

— hope you’re wearing those jeans I like

— be there soon baby

The comment about his jeans makes him laugh, because he iswearing the pair Billy likes to see him in, but the affectionate nicknametacked on at the end of the last message gives him pause.

Billy’s a fan of nicknames, he always has been.

But those nicknames: princess, pretty boy, pouty lips, sweetcheeks etc. They never mean anything; the only real purpose is to tease him.

Baby is a whole other story.

Baby is what you call someone you’re dating, someone you care about,and Steve can almost perfectly hear the way Billy’s voice would sound too. Thesmooth brush of the word against his lips as it rolls off Billy’s tongue soeasy. He can imagine it with perfect clarity because, he realizes with an awfulsinking feeling, he wants it.

He doesn’t just want to settle for imaging it. He wants the realthing.

Again, he blames Robin for making him think of feelings and thepossibility that Billy might be just as invested as Steve has unwittingly orsubconsciously let himself become.

He isn’t even sure if Billy is aware of even typing that, butwhen the familiar hum of the Camaro registers Steve finds himself sliding intothe passenger seat like second nature.

Billy’s eyes are on him, they always are, with one hand on thewheel and his sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. There’s thateasy grin on his face, not quite a smile but one of content. Billy always getsthat look on his face whenever Steve’s around, but it’s the first time he’sreally bothering to wonder why.

“How long have you got the house to yourself this time?” Billyasks, focusing back on the road while Steve lets his gaze linger.  

It’s hard now to ignore everything, bathed in sunlight with thefaint smell of Billy’s cologne and body wash. The sun cutting through thecrystal-clear windshield, fresh from a wash no doubt, since Billy takes care ofthe car better than himself, and shining in the soft waves of Billy’s hair,recently cut short – Steve kind of misses the length from before. He missesthe reaction he could gain from planting himself in Billy’s lap, tangling hisfingers in the long strands, and tugginguntil Billy’s making these beautiful pleading sounds, completely at Steve’smercy – but still no less attractive.

His thoughts are getting dangerous, so he shifts in his seat, “Probablythe whole weekend, maybe longer.”

They’re in Hawaii again, some long training seminar that his dadsigned up for, it used to bother him sometimes how they’d just up and leavehim. After the thrill of throwing parties without the fear of getting caughtwore off, it just left an empty feeling.

But then along came Billy, who takes up so much space all on hisown with loud noises and energy that sizzles. Steve thrives on it because he’drather drown in warmth, in someone, than in the stiff loneliness of an emptyhome too big for one person.

Billy fills up all the empty spaces in his life and Steve wasdoing fine just enjoying it, notasking questions or wondering where all of this was going. Because it’s easierto just go along with a good thing than to question it and have it blow up inhis face.

It’s the reason he can’t shake Robin’s words, because he’sscared. He’s scared that maybe he hasn’t been imagining those lingering glancesand the attention to detail Billy always shows him and he knows that as much ashe likes to tell himself it’s just messing around, it’s anything but.

“Steve?”

Billy’s voice, almost blending with the hum of the radio, bringshim back from drifting too far in his thoughts.

“You’re getting all spacey on me, pretty boy,” Billy says andSteve rolls his eyes while fighting a blush.

“Sorry, got a lot on my mind.” thanks to Robin.

Billy goes quiet for a bit, turning onto the street where Stevelives, “Anything I can help with?”

He’s usually a lot more talkative on these drives of theirs, butSteve’s been overanalyzing everything for the past twenty minutes instead. It’seasy to relax around Billy, to let all the tension of a day at work just meltaway, but Steve’s all wound up today and he’s sure that Billy can see it.

It’s no use even trying to lie, “Just – it’s stupid – just Robinbeing,” he gestures.

“Robin?” Billy finishes for him, a smile tugging at the cornerof his lips.

Steve hates how good that look on him is, “Exactly.”

By the time the Camaro is parked, settled on the driveway of theHarrington’s place like it belongs there, it’s not hard to see that no matterhow much he wants to make up excuses or deny what’s happening; Billy has becomesome fixed point in Steve’s life, silently and steadily without much commotionat all.

It’s a bit alarming.

“Hey, I gotta deliver that part to Benny –” Billy was sayingonce they were inside, tossing his keys onto the little table by the front doorand hanging his jacket in the hall closet where it belonged, Steve was slowerto follow.

Before, they’d hardly make it in the door before Billy wassucking at his neck or pushing his shirt up and over his head. They would havebeen leaving a trail of clothes all the way up to Steve’s room. Hell, sometimesthey wouldn’t even make it to a room – Steve blames Billy for being so goddamninsatiable and making him just as starved in return – but now they’re makingsmall talk and Billy’s only touched his ass once on the way into the kitchen.

But even that was intimate, as far as ass grabbing goes, andSteve can’t piece himself together enough to not make an idiot of himself.

“What are we doing?” He asks, he can’t even help himself really,he has to know, leaned up against the counter.

Billy looks at him like he’s grown another head, water bottle inhand as the fridge shuts behind him, “That’s what I was just asking you. Like Isaid, Benny needs that part and I figure if we’re already going to be overthere we could just grab something to eat at the diner.”

“Not, not that I mean –” so much for letting it happennaturally, “I mean us, Billy.”

“Us?”

“Yeah, like…” Steve gripped at the countertop behind him, “whenwe started this we agreed it’d be casual, like no string attached, but – but itjust doesn’t feel like that anymore, it feels like it’s so much more than justthat and I –”

“You want to stop…”

Steve’s ridiculous rambling is cut off straight away and heglances over at Billy this time, in time to see the way he retreats intohimself a bit, the stiffness in his stance and alright maybe he shouldn’t havestarted the conversation like this, but goddamn was he fumbling.

“No, no, no. I don’twant to stop.” he rushes, closing the space between them till he can smellBilly’s fancy cologne and nearly hear his heart beating out of his chest, voicegrowing smaller as Billy’s hands find their way to his waist on instinct justas Steve loops his arms around Billy’s neck and it’s moments like these hereally misses Billy’s longer hair, “That’s kind of the point, I don’t ever wantto stop being with you.”

Billy’s eyes kind of sparkle, that fire back in them like Steveis familiar with, a playfulness in his tone, “You askin’ me to go steady with you, Harrington?”

And Steve pinches the back of his neck, just enough, “You’re areal smartass you know, ruining my romantic speech and all that.”

“Romantic? Doubtful, I’ve been putting in the real work here,you think it’s easy trying to win you over, lemme tell you babe you’re toughwork.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, kind of oblivious too, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Once or twice.”

“You’re lucky I’m crazy about you.” Billy tells him, and allSteve can do is grin before tugging Billy down so they’re kissing in the middleof the kitchen. A place he’d never really set foot in much before but now he’scome to have memories in every part of the house.

Making breakfast – burningbreakfast – with Billy in the mornings. Showering while Billy brushes his teethand does all his tedious grooming. Billy falling asleep with his head pillowedin Steve’s lap, watching reruns of some sitcom. Going for a Sunday swim in the pooland feeling more alive than ever. Mostly, just waking up to Billy with his armstight around Steve and his annoyingly loud snoring and knowing that this waswhat it felt like to be loved.

“You’re mine now, no take backs.” Steve adds, but somehow he’s sure that won’t be a problem.

(Of course, the next day at work, Steve was barely in the doorbefore Robin was shooting him an all-too knowing look. Steve doesn’t evenbother with words, just flips her off on his way out to the counter and triesto ignore the shriek of I knew it!Because honestly, for once he’s glad she was right.)

[firelxdykatara]

This is dedicated to @itspileofgoodthings - it’s an expansion on an idea I had that I wrote a bit of immediately after the season 6 finale, and while I lost the original post completely in the nuke (thanks tumblr) this has been kicking around my head recently, largely thanks to all Maria’s awesome meta. Also consider this an internet hug cause I know you’ve been having a rough time of it lately. <333

Anyway, this is basically how I envisioned Elena waking up from the coma, all those years ago when I was still angry and raw over tvd’s treatment of my girl but just wanted her to be happy in any way I could manage it.

This isn’t edited or anything so just. Bear that in mind. It’s four am so the quality probably suffered greatly as a result. >.> Anyway, enjoy.

---

It could have been minutes, or years—time had very little meaning, in this place. She supposed, on some level—and when she could suppose things at all—it made sense. A magical coma didn’t have a whole lot of precedent to follow, but when one was cursed to sleep for what could easily be decades, the ability to mark the passage of time was kind of immaterial.

Actually, it would probably have served as an even more brutal form of torture. Elena wondered why Kai hadn’t thought of that.

Then again, she’d never really had a whole lot of experience with the business end of magic. That had always been Bonnie’s department, and now, thanks to Kai, she would never be able to see her best friend alive again. The moments of clarity were thrown into sharper relief against the backdrop of the formless cloud of an existence she drifted through, her body and mind perfectly preserved by the curse—kept in a limbo of semi-reality. Perhaps that was the point, if anything Kai did ever really had one. (He was a psychopath with no real plan except power and how to gain more of it. It wasn’t all that surprising, in hindsight.)

Those moments when things did solidify, Elena never could quite tell what caused them. Sometimes, she almost thought she could hear Damon’s voice, whispering her name—a prayer, almost, or an oath. A promise. There was a giggle she thought could be Caroline, or her brother’s crooked smile, flashing like lightning across her mind’s eye.

Sometimes she saw Aunt Jenna, and her parents.

“It’s not time yet, sweetheart,” Miranda Gilbert said once, smiling sadly from the other end of Wickery Bridge, the petals of calla lilies cascading around her like rain.

Elena wanted to protest. To run across the bridge and hug her mother—but she stood rooted to the spot, and the scene shifted and vanished, and she was alone again.

When the loneliness became too much, the realization that she was completely alone in this place that tasted bitter on her tongue and cut like a knife, sometimes a memory would surface. Her first date with Matt, long before her parents died and Elena began her journey that started with the gloomy graveyard girl and ended in a coffin for who knew how long—and, really, how was that for irony?—or the first night she stayed up with Damon, curled up together and just… talking until the sun came up and Elena had the first real taste of forever.

A stray thought might make her wonder if she was reliving firsts because she was worried about all the lasts she was missing. But she tried not to think about that, and it was easy—thoughts ran like water, and slipped through her fingers just as quickly.

So, she had no idea how much time had passed, when something happened that hadn’t since right after she’d gone to sleep.

Someone else was here with her.

Her surroundings took form—familiar, achingly beautiful in its simplicity, and far more real than anything her own mind had been able to conjure up. And when she saw her visitor, she knew just what it meant.

“Oh, Bonnie. No.”

Tears welled up, part sadness, part sharp relief at suddenly being, part agony over that relief—because it could only mean one thing.

Bonnie Bennet looked as if she hadn’t aged a day, but when she was spoke it was with the voice of age and wisdom. “Elena.” It almost sounded as if she could hardly believe it, herself. “I’ve missed you.”

The tears fell as Elena ran forward, enveloping her friend in a hug. “Please tell me this isn’t happening,” she whispered, her voice thick as she pushed it out past the lump in her throat. “You found some other way. Right?”

Bonnie pulled back, saying nothing, but tracing Elena’s face with her eyes. She reached out with one hand, brushing the tears from her friend’s cheeks, shaking her head slowly. “It’s my time, Elena. It was going to happen some day—you know that. I just wanted to see you one last time before I died.”

“But you’re not… I mean, you’re still so-”

“Young?” Bonnie interrupted with a laugh. “This is a dream, Elena. I can look however I want.” Slowly, though, her appearance changed—wrinkles appeared, laugh lines and crow’s feet and hair shot through with grey and white. “Though I do look damn good for a hundred and twenty,” she added, and the look on her face was so unmistakably Bonnie that Elena couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

“You’re ok with this?” Elena asked, her eyes earnestly searching Bonnie’s face. “Was your life everything you wanted?”

A smile spread across Bonnie’s wizened face, and the years melted away again. “You look out for my grandkids, and they can tell you all about my life.”

“Grandkids?!”

Bonnie’s eyes sparkled when she laughed. “I fell in love. I lived my life, and raised a family, and got to see the world. I was happy. I promise,” she added, pulling Elena back into a hug.

It felt more like a goodbye.

“Now it’s your turn, Elena Gilbert,” she whispered, and then everything went dark.

  For the first time in a century, Elena’s eyes opened.

She gasped at the sudden onslaught of sensation—there was sunlight streaming between the blinds, and everything felt fresh.

There had been a certain stale stillness to everything in the dream world after a while, but this, she knew with sudden and painful clarity, was real.

And the pain was because she hadn’t moved in a hundred years.

It felt as if a million hot little knives were poking at her feet and her hands and sending fire through her veins as every major muscle group screamed in protest. One hand was gripped in Bonnie’s—it was then Elena noticed her friend’s body, the aged version she’d seen briefly in her dream, lying next to her on the bed. She could so easily have been sleeping, and tears stung at the corners of Elena’s eyes. She pressed a gentle kiss to her friend’s cooling cheek, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

She only stumbled a step, a pained whimper escaping from her throat, before the door to the room burst open and in a rush of displaced air, he was at her side, catching her before she fell.

Damon. Damon Salvatore. And the sun seemed that much brighter.

“Damon?” she whispered, voice rough with disuse, as she looked up into his eyes—those startlingly green eyes that made her toes curl.

“You’re awake,” was all he said, sounding for all the world like a drowning man who’d finally remembered how to breathe.

Or, perhaps, remembered why he wanted to.

It all fell into place, after that. Stefan and Caroline were in the living room waiting, and one of Bonnie’s granddaughters, all of whom filled her in on the passage of time, everything that had happened while she was asleep.

The first thing she did was visit the family plot. “I’m sorry, Jer,” she whispered, kneeling in the grass in front of his tombstone. “I missed everything, didn’t I? My niece’s grandson is older than me!” She laughed, while tears rolled down her cheeks. “But you missed some things too.” She brushed the tears from her face. “Damon’s human, now. He took the cure from me after I woke up. I guess he spent the past century making sure the whole world thought the cure was destroyed—last thing we need are vampires coming around when we can’t defend ourselves, right? And Bonnie’s gone, but I hope you guys have plenty of company on the other side, now. Or whatever it is that happens after we die. It’s kind of nice not to know, actually. Feels weird, not having some immortal out for my blood anymore, knock on wood. But I wish I could’ve gotten to see you grow up. Better be saving a spot at the table for me, you hear?” She shook her head, running her fingers across the etchings in the stone that marked her brother’s name. “Wish you were still here, Jer. But I’ll be ok. I promise.”

  Later, Caroline was only too happy to help Elena settle into a new identity and get her back into medical school. This time, she managed to actually attend most of her classes. Damon had that bar he’d gotten for himself while still a vampire, and, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think Damon is actually happy as a human,” Caroline said, months later.

Elena gasped in mock outrage, and her friend raised her hands placatingly. “I’m not saying it’s a surprise he’s happy with you—just, I always thought he’d feel some… regret, for giving it all up.”

“Damon’s forever was always Elena,” Stefan spoke up as he entered the kitchen.

“You know, it’s super not fair that you both still have superhuman eaves-dropping skills,” Elena remarked, then laughed, throwing a few more things into the chilli. “But… you’re not wrong. I was surprised, too. But I’m glad he is. I never wanted him to have to sit by and watch me wither away.”

“Now you can wither together,” Stefan quipped. Elena threw a celery stalk at him.

It was… perfect. An almost idyllic life. Of course, there were issues. There always would be—that was life, and perfect as it may have seemed, it was still real. But Elena and Damon had always been that. Real. Messy and imperfect, and they had their arguments, but somehow, a normal human life was so much more survivable without immortals trying to kill them.

Really, it wasn’t the end of their story—just the beginning. The beginning of another story, too, as Elena discovered not long after.

“What is it, baby?” Damon asked, in that way of his, the slight hitch in his voice when he thought Elena was in trouble or hurt and needed to be able to fix it. The way his eyes focused on hers, as compelling as ever, even human as he was. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing. Oh, god, for once, nothing at all, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. Tears were filling her eyes, but they weren’t from sadness, nor anger. And, finally, she found her voice.

“I’m pregnant.” And the only word for the light in her eyes was joy.

[jennycalendar]

imperfections (58/?)

read it on ao3!

warning for very brief violence in this chapter.

For a brief, petulant moment, Jenny had opened the door and contemplated dramatically storming outside. But it was close enough to sunset to give her pause, and as angry as she was, she still had enough presence of mind not to go out without any weapons when it was getting dark out. Clenching her fists, she hurried upstairs instead, striding down the hallway and entering the master bedroom before shutting the door tightly behind her.

In their old house, the bedroom had originally been just Jenny’s, and squeezing Rupert in had been a little difficult. In comparison, this bedroom was huge, with enough room for Jenny’s desktop computer as well as a bookshelf for Rupert. Light from the setting sun was streaming in through the sheer curtains, giving the room a calming, cozy glow.

Jenny swallowed, scrubbing at her face. Distance was giving her clarity, enough for her to realize that she’d been very unfair to Rupert. She didn’t ever like it when he tried to keep things from her for her protection—it reminded too much of his leaving her that summer—but there was a difference between him withholding information and him saving it for when she was a little more ready to hear it. She’d have to tell him that.

That, she thought, smiling wryly, and that he’s a saint for putting up with me.

She knew she hadn’t been wrong about Travers, though. Rupert would have been less evasive had she been genuinely off base. In a weird way, that comforted her; at least she’d been right about something during their argument. She did agree that any further conversations about the Council really would have to wait until she was a little less of a mess, though, and she should probably tell him that he’d been right about that.

Jenny turned to open the door, but it was yanked open before she could turn the doorknob. Without preamble, Willow said, a note of badly restrained panic in her voice, “Ms. Calendar, the door’s open downstairs and Giles’s glasses are lying on a street corner—”

And for the first time since Rupert’s official return to Sunnydale, Jenny found her sense of safety completely shattered.

Buffy had already had kind of a terrible day, what with Creepy Travers talking about Giles like he was some kind of a total failure and leaving her Slayer-senses tingling when he headed out. Coming home to find out that her dad wouldn’t be making their annual Ice Capades trip—for her eighteenth birthday, no less—took the cake, but she took some comfort in getting out a tub of ice cream, watching old movies with her mom, and telling herself that at least the day was over.

And then there was a knock on the door.

“Ugh,” said Buffy, pausing the movie. “Mom?”

“On it,” said her mom, leaning to press a kiss against Buffy’s temple. “You just focus in on that ice cream.”

“I love you,” said Buffy, giving her a small, tired smile and watching as her mom left the room.

She heard the sound of her mom opening the door, and then her mom said, “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Mrs. Summers?” said Travers. “I need to speak to your daughter. It’s a matter of—”

That was it. “I AM OFF THE CLOCK, I AM WATCHING OLD MOVIES WITH MY MOM, AND IF YOU DON’T GO AWAY I WILL THROW YOU THROUGH A WALL,” Buffy shouted at the top of her lungs.

To her dismay, Travers didn’t take this threat as seriously as he should have. Squeezing past her mom, he stepped into the doorway, observing Buffy and her flamingo-print pajamas with disapproval. “Miss Summers, your Watcher is in danger,” he said without preamble.

It took Buffy a moment to realize what he meant. “Giles?” she said stupidly. “But Giles quit—”

“Mr. Giles has been taken by a master vampire by the name of Kralik,” said Travers, “one residing in the old boardinghouse on Prescott Lane. Kralik was initially intended to take part in the Cruciamentum, but…” He trailed off, looking remorseful. “It appears we have lost control of him.”

Buffy had to resist the very strong urge to punch Travers in the face with all her Slayer strength. “So you’re telling me,” she said through gritted teeth, “that you shipped a master vamp over to Sunnydale and didn’t think anything would go wrong?”

“Kralik has participated in Cruciamentums before—”

“Oh, and is that supposed to make me feel better?” Buffy snapped. “That he’s killed other girls you drugged and tossed in for him to snack on?” Stepping into her bunny slippers, she shoved past Travers, knocking him sideways onto the couch. “Mom,” she said, turning to face her mom, “stay here. I need to go get Giles.”

“Absolutely not,” said her mom.

Buffy stared. “Mom?” she said, infuriated. “Did you not hear the part where Creepy Travers said Giles is in danger?”

“And I completely agree that you need to go after him,” said her mom firmly, “and that time is of the essence. But I won’t have you running in after a, a master vampire all on your own. I’m calling Ms. Calendar.”

Buffy thought of the pale, wordlessly terrified look on Ms. Calendar’s face upon seeing Angelus. “No,” she said. “No, Mom—Ms. Calendar would completely lose it if she knew Giles was in danger. Call Faith and tell her to meet me at the boardinghouse, but don’t tell Ms. Calendar.”

Her mom pressed her lips together in a thin line, but nodded.

For some reason, Travers looked incredibly bothered. “Time, Miss Summers, is of the essence,” he said shortly. “You can hardly waste it calling Miss Lehane, now, can you?”

“Exactly,” said Buffy. “That’s why my mom’s doing it for me.” Without waiting for an answer from Travers, she grabbed her bag of weapons from its place by the door, hurrying out of the house and trying to ignore the squeak-squeak of her bunny slippers against the gravel. There was no time for an outfit change, not when Giles was in danger.

As Joyce turned to make the phone call, Travers coughed. “Pardon, Mrs. Summers,” he said, “but is the front door still open?”

Glaring at him, Joyce put the phone down, crossing the room to shut the door. Quietly, Travers took a pocketknife and cut the phone line.

“This isn’t good,” said Willow for the seventeenth time. “This isn’t good.”

Faith was extremely inclined to agree. It would have been one thing if it had been dark out when Giles had gone missing, but it was only a minute after sunset that Willow had found his glasses. Whatever had snatched Giles hadn’t been a vampire, and adding that to the fact that it had happened on the day the Watchers’ Council was in town equaled an extremely angry Jen. One who was currently turning the house upside down looking for pretty much every weapon available.

So, yeah. Not good.

“Where the FUCK is the MOTHERFUCKING BROADSWORD,” shouted Jen from the kitchen, in a tone of voice that made Faith’s stomach flip over. She’d seen Jen frightened, upset, sad, but she had never seen Jen angry in this way before, and it was bringing back memories of…other people from long ago, ones who had been kind one minute and angry the next.

Jen isn’t like that, said a small, firm voice, one that Faith had only recently learned to trust. Carefully, she got up, heading into the kitchen to check in on Jen. “Hi,” she said uncertainly. “You need help demolishing the house, or—”

Jen turned. Her eyes were still flashing with rage, but she seemed to be trying to keep it under wraps for Faith’s sake, which was somehow more comforting than Jen immediately calming down upon seeing her. “You keep weapons in your room, right?” she said. “Can you bring a few down for me? I wanna test the weight.”

“Look, whatever took Giles probably isn’t something you can kill—” began Faith.

“Yes,” said Jen flatly. “It absolutely is.”

Okay. So much for comfort. “So you’re not going after Giles?” said Faith tentatively.

Jen laughed, a short, semi-hysterical sound that didn’t sound like Jen at all. “Of course I’m going after Giles!” she said. “I’m just going to kill Quentin Travers first, and��personally, right after I find out where that bastard took my boyfriend! I think that sounds like a damn good plan—”

“Jen,” said Faith, and to her horror, she couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice. “You’re scaring me.”

Apparently, those were the magic words. The scorching fury in Jen’s expression dissipated, and she drew in a soft, sharp breath. “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I—”

Faith wanted to say something comforting, but all of a sudden she just felt scared, and really, really sad. “Giles is gonna be okay, right?” she said, hating the fact that she was suddenly so near tears. “He’s always okay, right? We just have to find out where he is and it’ll all—” She wiped roughly at her face. “It’ll all be okay, right, Jen?”

Jen made a strangled noise that sounded like she was trying not to cry too, which pretty much answered Faith’s question. Crossing the kitchen, Jen pulled her into a tight hug.

“We gotta find—” Faith sniffled. “We need to find where he is.”

“Yeah,” Jen whispered.

“We’re gonna go find him now, right?”

“You and me,” Jen agreed.

“And us.”

Jen turned, and Faith looked up: Willow and Xander were standing in the kitchen doorway, weapons in hand. “No,” said Jen. “You two can’t—”

“Oh, so you guys are allowed to go charging in after Giles but we have to stay at home and watch cartoons?” Willow objected. “What happened to involving us in things like these? Wasn’t that what we were trying to do last summer?”

“Ms. Calendar,” said Xander, “if Giles is dead, you’re gonna have to—”

“Don’t fucking say that!” Faith shouted at Xander, and she might have punched him in the teeth if she wasn’t so afraid of letting go of Jen.

Jen stared at the kids, glassy-eyed. Unsteadily, she said, “Faith is a Vampire Slayer who does this kind of thing every night. She can come with me because I know she will be safe, because she is able to take care of herself in these situations, because she’s been gifted with powers that allow her to keep herself safe and, yes, outrun a threat if need be. I am an adult, and I am old enough to make these decisions for myself.”

“We’re close enough to adults to—” Willow began, outraged.

“If Rupert is dead,” said Jen, and stopped. She swallowed, then tried again. “If Rupert is dead,” she said. “There is no way I can survive losing one of you.” And her arms tightened around Faith in a way that made it clear that Faith was very much included in that statement.

Faith knew even before looking at Xander and Willow that Jen had won the argument. She knew what it was like to have shitty parents, and she knew how it felt to have Jen look at you like you were someone worth protecting.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” said Willow, near tears, and handed over the broadsword.

Jen and Faith headed to Buffy’s house in Giles’s car, Jen flooring the gas in a way that probably would have gotten her like ninety-seven speeding tickets in a normal town. No smart cops were ever out at night, though—hell, no one was ever out at night—and so they didn’t get into any auto accidents en route to Buffy, though Jen did very narrowly miss hitting a tree.

Halfway to Buffy’s, Faith noticed something odd: another car, driving similarly recklessly, with a familiar driver at the wheel. “Wait, Jen, stop,” she said.

As soon as she saw the driver, Jen obliged, the screech of the brakes causing the other car to stop as well. Jumping out of the car with Jen at her heels, Faith sprinted across the street to yank the car door open. “Mrs. Summers?” she said. “What the hell are you doing out at night?”

“My phone line was cut by the Watchers’ Council,” said Mrs. Summers, her voice shaking. “Buffy’s gone to the boardinghouse on Prescott Lane. Mr. Travers said Rupert’s been taken by a master vampire—”

“That FUCKING BASTARD,” shrieked Jen, and made a mad dash for Giles’s car.

Giles, unfortunately, had been conscious for absolutely all of the proceedings. The lower-tier Council members had tied him up, placed him in a room, and left. They had used magic to undo Kralik’s straitjacket and create the protective wards that would ensure no one outside the house could be hurt.

And now Giles was tied to a chair, facing a master vampire. Alone, with Jenny and the children well unaware of his predicament. Not only that, but the institution to which he had pledged decades of loyalty and trust had decided to use him as a chess piece in a battle they weren’t even fighting themselves. The hypocrisy and lies that had led him here made him feel sick to his stomach, even without the horrible fear.

He was going to die, here. He knew that. Kralik was looking at him with a calculating interest, stepping forward with a broad silver knife, and all Giles was thinking was—of the dishes he hadn’t done, the paperwork he wouldn’t file, the woman he loved, the children he had wanted to see grow up.

I lived well this last year, at least, he thought, and as Kralik’s knife dug into his throat, he closed his eyes tightly shut.

[prolapsarian]

Conversation with David Panos about The Searchers

The Searchers by David Panos is at Hollybush Gardens, 1-2 Warner Yard London EC1R 5EY, 12 January – 9 February 2019

There is something chattering. Alongside a triptych a small screen displays the rhythmic loop of hands typing, contorting, touching, holding. A movement in which the artifice strains between shuddering and juddering. Machinic GIFs seem to frame an event which may or may not have taken place. Their motions appear to combine an endless neurotic repetition and a totally adrenal pumped and pumping tension, anticipating confrontation. 

JBR: How do the heavily stylised triptych of screens in ‘The Searchers’ relate to the GIF-like loops created out of conventionally-shot street footage? DP: I think of the three screens as something like the ‘unconscious’ of these nervous gestures. I’m interested in how video compositing can conjure up impossible or interior spaces, perhaps in a way similar to painting. Perhaps these semi-abstract images can somehow evoke how bodies are shot through with subterranean currents—the strange world of exchange and desire that lies under the surface of reality or physical experience. Of course abstractions don't really ‘inhabit’ bodies and you can’t depict metaphysics, but Paul Klee had this idea about an aesthetic ‘interworld’, that painting could somehow reveal invisible aspects of reality through poetic distortion. Digital video and especially 3D graphics tend to be the opposite of painting—highly regimented and sat within a very preset Euclidean space. I guess I’ve been trying to wrestle with how these programs can be misused to produce interesting images—how images of figures can be abstracted by them but retain some of their twitchy aliveness. JBR: This raises a question about the difference between the control of your media and the situation of total control in contemporary cinematic image making. DP: Under the new regimes of video making, the software often feels like it controls you. Early analogue video art was a sensuous space of flows and currents, and artists like the Vasulkas were able to build their own video cameras and mixers to allow them to create whole new images—in effect new ways of seeing. Today that kind of utopian or avant-garde idea that video can make surprising new orders of images is dead—it’s almost impossible for artists to open up a complex program like Cinema 4D and make it do something else. Those softwares were produced through huge capital investment funding hundreds of developers. But I’m still interested in engaging with digital and 3D video, trying to wrestle with it to try and get it to do something interesting—I guess because the way that it pictures the world says something about the world at the moment—and somehow it feels that one needs to work in relation to the heightened state of commodification and abstraction these programs represent. So I try and misuse the software or do things by hand as much as possible, and rather than programming and rendering I manipulate things in real time. JBR: So in some way the collective and divided labour that goes into producing the latest cinematic commodities also has a doubled effect: firstly technique is revealed as the opposite of some kind of freedom, and at the same time this has an effect both on how the cinematic object is treated and how it appears. To be represented objects have to be surrounded by the new 3D capture technology, and at the same time it laminates the images in a reflected glossiness that bespeaks both the technology and the disappearance of the labour that has gone into creating it. DP: I’m definitely interested in the images produced by the newest image technologies—especially as they go beyond lens-based capture. One of the screens in the triptych uses volumetric capturing— basically 3D scanning for moving image. The ‘camera’ perspective we experience as the viewer is non-existent, and as we travel into these virtual, impossible perspectives it creates the effect of these hollowed out, corroded bodies. This connects to a recurring motif of ‘hollowing out’ that appears in the video and sculpture I’ve been making recently. And I have a recurring obsession with the hollowing out of reality caused by the new regime of commodities whose production has become cut to the bone, so emptied of their material integrity that they’re almost just symbols of themselves. So in my show ‘The Dark Pool’ (Hollybush Gardens, 2014) I made sculptural assemblages with Ikea tables and shelves, which when you cut them open are hollow and papery. Or in ‘Time Crystals’ (Pumphouse Gallery, 2017) I worked with clothes made in the image of the past from Primark and H&M that are so low-grade that they can barely stand washing. We are increasingly surrounded by objects, all of which have—through contemporary processes of hyper-rationalisation and production—been slowly emptied of material quality. Yet they have the resemblance of luxury or historical goods. This is a real kind of spectral reality we inhabit.  I wonder to myself about how the unconscious might haunt us in these days when commodities have become hollow. Might it be like Benjamin’s notion of the optical unconscious, in which through the photographic still the everyday is brought into a new focus, not in order to see what is behind the veil of semblance, but to see—and reclaim for art—the veiling in a newly-won clarity. DP: Yes, I see these new technologies as similar, but am interested in how they don't just change impact perception but also movement. The veiled moving figures in ‘The Searchers' are a strange byproduct of digital video compositing. I was looking to produce highly abstract linear depictions of bodies reduced to fleshy lines, similar to those in the show and I discovered that the best way to create these abstract images was to cover the face and hands of performers when you film them to hide the obvious silhouettes of hands and faces. But asking performers to do this inadvertently produced a very peculiar movement—the strange veiled choreography that you see in the show. I found this footage of the covered performers (which was supposed to be a stepping stone to a more digitally mediated image, and never actually seen) really suggestive— the dancers seem to be seeking out different temporary forms and they have a curious classical or religious quality or sometimes evoke a contemporary state of emergency. Or they just look like absurd ghosts. JBR: In the last hundred years, when people have talked about ghosts the one thing they don’t want to think about is how children consider ghosts, as figures covered in a white sheet, in a stupid tangible way. Ghosts—as traumatic memories—have become more serious and less playful. Ghosts mean dwelling on the unfinished business of the past, or apprehending some shard of history left unredeemed that now revisits us. Not only has no one been allowed to be a child with regard to ghosts, but also ghosts are not for materialists either. All the white sheets are banished. One of the things about Marx when he talks about phantoms—or at least phantasmagorias—is much closer to thinking about, well, pieces of linen and how you clothe someone, and what happens with a coat worked up out of once living, now dead labour that seems more animate than the human who wears it.  DP: Yes, I’ve been very interested in Marx’s phantasmagorias. I reprinted Keston Sutherland’s brilliant essay on how Marx uses the term ‘Gallerte’ or ‘gelatine’ to describe abstract labour for a recent show. Sutherland highlights a vitalism in Marx’s metaphysics that I’m very drawn to. For the last few years I’ve been working primarily with dancers and physical performers and trying to somehow make work about the weird fleshy world of objects and how they’re shot through with frozen labour. I love how he describes the ‘wooden brain’ of the table as commodity and how he describes it ‘dancing’—I always wanted to make an animatronic dancing table.  JBR: There is also a sort of joyfulness about that. The phantasmagoria isn’t just scary but childish. Of course you are haunted by commodities, of course they are terrifying, of course they are worked up out of the suffering and collective labour of a billion bodies working both in concert and yet alienated from each other. People’s worked up death is made into value, and they all have unfinished business. But commodities are also funny and they bumble around; you find them in your house and play with them.  DP: Well my last body of work was all about dancing and how fashion commodities are bound up with joy and memory, but this show has come out much bleaker. It’s about how bodies are searching out something else in a time of crisis. It’s ended up reflecting a sense of lack and longing and general feeling of anxiety in the air. That said I am always drawn to images that are quite bright, colourful and ‘pop’ and maybe a bit banal—everyday moments of dead time and secret gestures.  JBR: Yes, but they are not so banal. In dealing with tangible everyday things we are close to time and motion studies, but not just in terms of the stupid questions they ask of how people work efficiently. Rather this raises questions of what sort of material should be used so that something slips or doesn’t slip—or how things move with each other or against each other—what we end up doing with our bodies or what we end up putting on our bodies. Your view into this is very sympathetic: much art dealing in cut-up bodies appears more violent, whereas the ruins of your abstractions in the stylised triptych seem almost caring.  DP: Well I’m glad you say that. Although this show is quite dark I also have a bit of a problem with a strain of nihilist melancholy that pervades a lot of art at the moment. It gives off a sense of being subsumed by capitalism and modern technology and seeing no way out. I hope my work always has a certain tension or energy that points to another possible world. But I’m not interested in making academic statements with the work about theory or politics. I want it to gesture in a much more intuitive, rhythmic, formal way like music. I had always made music and a few years back started to realise that I needed to make video with the same sense of formal freedom. The big change in my practice was to move from making images using cinematic language to working with simultaneous registers of images on multiple screens that produce rhythmic or affective structures and can propose without text or language.  JBR: The presentation of these works relies on an intervention into the time of the video. If there is a haunting here its power appears in the doubled domain of repetition, which points both backwards towards a past that must be compulsively revisited, and forwards in convulsive anticipatory energy. The presentation of the show troubles cinematic time, in which not only is linear time replaced by cycles, but also new types of simultaneity within the cinematic reality can be established between loops of different velocities.  DP: Film theorists talk about the way ‘post-cinematic’ contemporary blockbusters are made from images knitted together out of a mixture of live action, green-screen work, and 3D animation. I’ve been thinking how my recent work tries to explode that—keep each element separate but simultaneous. So I use ‘live’ images, green-screened compositing and CGI across a show but never brought together into a naturalised image—sort of like a Brechtian approach to post-cinema. The show is somehow an exploded frame of a contemporary film with each layer somehow indicating different levels of lived abstractions, each abstraction peeling back the surface further.  JBR: This raises crucial questions of order, and the notion that abstraction is something that ‘comes after’ reality, or is applied to reality, rather than being primary to its production.  DP: Yes good point. I think that’s why I’m interested in multiple screens visible simultaneously. The linear time of conventional editing is always about unveiling whereas in the show everything is available at the same time on the same level to some extent. This kind of multi-screen, multi-layered approach to me is an attempt at contemporary ‘realism’ in our times of high abstraction. That said it’s strange to me that so many artworks and games using CGI these days end up echoing a kind of ‘naturalist’ realist pictorialism from the early 19th Century—because that’s what is given in the software engines and in the gaming-post-cinema complex they’re trying to reference. Everything is perfectly in perspective and figures and landscapes are designed to be at least pseudo ‘realistic’. I guess that’s why you hear people talking about the digital sublime or see art that explores the Romanticism of these ‘gaming’ images.  JBR: But the effort to make a naturalistic picture is—as it was in the 19th century—already not the same as realism. Realism should never just mean realistic representation, but instead the incursion of reality into the work. For the realists of the mid-19th century that meant a preoccupation with motivations and material forces. But today it is even more clear that any type of naturalism in the work can only serve to mask similar preoccupations, allowing work to screen itself off from reality.  DP: In terms of an anti-naturalism I’m also interested in the pictorial space of medieval painting that breaks the laws of perspective or post-war painting that hovered between figuration and abstraction. I recently returned to Francis Bacon who I was the first artist I was into when I was a teenage goth and who I’d written off as an adolescent obsession. But revisiting Bacon I realised that my work is highly influenced by him, and reflects the same desire to capture human energy in a concentrated, abstracted way. I want to use ‘cold’ digital abstraction to create a heightened sense of the physical but not in the same way as motion capture which always seems to smooth off and denature movement. So the graph-like image in the centre of the triptych (Les Fantômes) in this show twitches with the physicality of a human body in a very subtle but palpable way. It looks like CGI but isn’t and has this concentrated human life force rippling through it. 

If in this space and time of loops of the exploded unstill still, we find ourselves again stuck in this shuddering and juddering, I can’t help but ask what its gesture really is. How does the past it holds gesture towards the future? And what does this mean for our reality and interventions into it. JBR: The green-screen video is very cold. The ruined 3D version is very tender. DP: That's funny you say that. People always associate ‘dirty’ or ‘poor’ images with warmth and find my green-screen images very cold. But in the green-screened video these bodies are performing a very tender dance—searching out each other, trying to connect, but also trying to become objects, or having to constantly reconfigure themselves and never settling. JBR: And yet with this you have a certain conceit built into the drapes you use: one that is in a totally reflective drape, and one in a drape that is slightly too close to the colour of the greenscreen background. Even within these thin props there seems to be something like a psychological description or diagnosis. And as much as there is an attempt to conjoin two bodies in a mutual darkness, each seems thrown back by its own especially modern stigma. The two figures seem to portray the incompatibility of the two poles established by veiled forms of the world of commodities: one is hidden by a veil that only reflects back to the viewer, disappearing behind what can only be the viewer’s own narcissism and their gratification in themselves, which they have mistaken for interest in an object or a person, while the other clumsily shows itself at the very moment that it might want to seem camouflaged against a background that is already designed to disappear. It forces you to recognise the object or person that seems to want to become inconspicuous. And stashed in that incompatibility of how we find ourselves cloaked or clothed is a certain unhappiness. This is not a happy show. Or at least it is a gesturally unsettled and unsettling one. DP: I was consciously thinking of the theories of gesture that emerged during the crisis years of the early 20th century. The impact of the economic and political on bodies. And I wanted the work to reflect this sense of crisis. But a lot of the melancholy in the show is personal. It's been a hard year. But to be honest I’m not that aligned to those who feel that the current moment is the worst of all possible times. There’s a left/liberal hysteria about the current moment (perhaps the same hysteria that is fuelling the rise of right-wing populist ideas) that somehow nothing could be worse than now, that everything is simply terrible. But I feel that this moment is a moment of contestation, which is tough but at least means having arguments about the way the world should be, which seems better than the strange technocratic slumber of the past 25 years. Austerity has been horrifying and I realise that I’ve been relatively shielded from its effects, but the sight of the post-political elites being ejected from the stage of history is hopeful to me, and people seem to forget that the feeling of the rise of the right has been also met with a much broader audience for the left or more left-wing ideas than have been previously allowed to impact public discussion. That said, I do think we’re experiencing the dog-end of a long-term economic decline and this sense of emptying out is producing phantasms and horrors and creating a sense of palpable dread. I started to feel that the images I was making for ‘The Searchers’ engaged with this. David Panos (b. 1971 in Athens, Greece) lives and works in London, UK. A selection of solo and group exhibitions include Pumphouse Gallery, Wandsworth, London, 2017 (solo); Sculpture on Screen. The Very Impress of the Object, Gulbenkian Museum, Lisbon, Portugal [Kirschner & Panos], 2017; Nemocentric, Charim Galerie, Vienna, 2016; Atlas [De Las Ruinas] De Europa, Centro Centro, Madrid, 2016; The Dark Pool, Albert Baronian, Brussels, (solo), 2015; The Dark Pool, Galeria Marta Cervera, Madrid, 2015; Whose Subject Am I?, Kunstverein Fur Die Rheinlande Und Westfalen, Düsseldorf, 2015; The Dark Pool, Hollybush Gardens, London, (solo), 2014; A Machine Needs Instructions as a Garden Needs Discipline, MARCO Vigo, 2014; Ultimate Substance, B3 Biennale des bewegten Blides, Nassauischer Kunstverein, Wiesbaden, (Kirschner & Panos solo), 2013; Ultimate Substance, CentrePasquArt, Biel, (Kirschner & Panos solo), 2013; Ultimate Substance, Extra City, Antwerp, (Kirschner & Panos solo), 2013; The Magic of the State, Lisson Gallery, London, 2013; HELL AS, Palais de Tokyo, Paris, 2013.