#no but just imagine its the middle of a discussion conference or whatever other reason can be used to get the clan leaders in koi tower and

[bimyself06]

Does anyone have any fic recs with the plot basically giving the vibes of ChengQing(Jiang Cheng x Wen Qing) being in the middle of a very heated and petty divorce during the Yilling arc with Wei Wuxian basically being their child who JC originally had custody of but now he wants to live with mom(WQ) and dad(JC)is very angry and against this. Nothing goes like in canon because JC and WQ are to busy throwing passive aggressive and not so passive aggressive objects at each other and playing tug of war with WWX being in the middle of it all(he is not happy, neither is Lan Wangji when he comes to visit WWX) to fall for other people's schemes.

[moonbeambucky]

Hey Neighbor (Part 1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 1907 Warnings: none

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: What started as an idea back in 2017 is finally here and I’m so excited!! I hope you love it as much as I do! A huge thank you to my wonderful beta Sam @buckyofthemyscira​ and to Allie @all1e23​​ who’s helped me keep my sanity while trying to write. Feedback is always appreciated!

HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

For an August evening it’s surprisingly comfortable, devoid of that awful humidity that leaves you choking on the thickness in the air. Yet it’s still warm enough to quickly melt the ice in your glass; condensation pooling on the outside, leaving a ring of water on the small stack of papers your drink is settled on.

Golden toned clouds cover the sky as the sun begins to fade, each day decreasing its presence by a few minutes before giving way to the darkness that would envelope the evening. It wasn’t a dramatic change, nor was it something most people would pay attention to, though it was something you had been accustomed to taking note of.

You looked forward to seeing the sun, feeling its heat on your skin as you stepped out of the office after a long day of work. As other people on the street rushed towards the subway you stood off to the side, letting your spirit recharge with its warm glow.

These days you seldom had time for yourself, moments when you could enjoy the nothingness, where you could stop and breathe, and take in the world around you. The murmured voices of the passersby, the hissing sound of the bus as it opens its doors, the soft strum of a guitar, the endless car horns and the sound of traffic that keeps this city alive like a beating heart.

The heat of your laptop warmed your thighs as you thumbed through a textbook. You ignored your rumbling stomach that begged you for a real dinner but you were determined to finish up this last part of your paper before you gave in to its whining demands.

You were working towards your Master’s Degree in Social Work but it had taken a lot longer than you expected, and juggling a full time job while taking part time classes made it more difficult but you were determined to achieve your dream.

You thought it would be simple when you first moved to New York; go to college, get your degree and find a job. Well, life has a funny way of doing what it wants despite the plans you imagined. Halfway through getting your undergraduate degree your living arrangements changed. Initially you were sharing an apartment with a few other students but your landlord hadn’t told you he was months into foreclosure and suddenly you found yourself scrambling to find a place to live.

The first instinct you had was to ask your current roommates if you all wanted to find something else together but one of them planned on moving in with a friend temporarily since she was about to graduate and the other wanted to live alone. You scoured the internet for another room rental but nothing looked safe or legitimate, and searching through Facebook groups for student rentals was fruitless. Nothing was available considering it was the middle of the semester, so you quickly began an apartment search.

Your definition of expensive drastically changed since moving to New York. Even simple things like food and coffee had an up charge; a small, no– large price to pay for city living, and rent was no different. You thought what you were paying to live in a small room was a lot, but as you searched for apartments your heart dropped. Even the smallest studio cost thousands a month.

There was one that caught your eye, the price was decent but still more than what you were currently paying. You attempted to work out a plan, thinking you could use some money from what little savings you had to make up the difference for the first month or two and hope your part time job would increase your hours. Things would be tight but there was a chance you could make it happen.

Your hope was crushed the next day when you went to see the apartment, a five story walk up that reeked of musty water. The cracked plaster walls were very off putting as were the suspicious black spots along the baseboards. The bathroom was much smaller than the photos, with hardly any room to even turn around in. Still you debated making this work as long as the suspected mold was taken care of until you opened the kitchen cupboards and screamed. A dark mass of large cockroaches scattered away from the light cementing your decision that you could not live here.

That night you texted your friend from home, Wanda, telling her about the horrible apartment and crying on the phone as she called to comfort you.

Wanda had been your best friend since you met in middle school. You always hoped she would join you in New York but you understood her reasons for wanting to be close to home.

“Wan, I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” you cried.

The clock was ticking and you still hadn’t found a place to live. Every day you searched through all the listings on Zillow, Apartments.com and Craigslist, and every day your anxiety increased. It seemed like there was no way to be a full time student if you wanted to live in New York.

You called your parents to let them know what was going on and asked for advice. Through many tears you had come to a painful decision, you needed to get a full time job. They offered to help with rent while you finished up this semester which you appreciated, knowing they really couldn’t afford the extra expense either. Your idea was to go to school part time, taking whatever courses you could at night or on the weekends. You were still reaching for your goal, you would just be taking a slower path.

A new listing popped up for an apartment in Chelsea that was about three times your current rent. Walking into the building your stomach was bubbling with excitement. Everything was bright and clean and the moment you stepped into the apartment you were overcome with joy; this place felt like home.

A smile spread across your face as you looked around the studio. Walking in there was a small kitchen to the right, with a slim refrigerator, small stove and just enough prep space beside the sink. Checking the cabinets you were relieved to know it was free of any insect roommates.

The bathroom was behind it, looking newly renovated while still emulating a classic vintage style of black and white tiles. The main room felt large with the window on the back wall letting in a good amount of sunlight. The cream colored walls also brightened the space against the longest wall of exposed, worn brick. The floors were a beautiful dark walnut that made everything feel warm.

You always thought love at first sight was a myth but you were proven wrong, you fell in love with this apartment immediately. You signed a lease and gave a deposit and suddenly everything seemed like it would fall into place. There was still the daunting task of finding a full time job but you felt encouraged.

Two weeks later you moved into your new apartment, and while you should have been studying for a test you were more interested in unpacking and decorating, making everything perfect. With a few nails into the drywall you hung a curtain rod above your bed, stringing fairy lights behind delicate sheer drapery that defined a cozy sleep space.

Laying back against your pillow you imagined what your apartment would look like eventually when you had the money to fill it with furniture, but for now it was perfect.

You had been on a few interviews and nearly had a job or two before they realized you wouldn’t be able to start for another six weeks. It was disappointing but you didn’t give up and that’s when you found yourself interviewing for Stark Industries.

A confident smile held strong on your face when you told the interviewer Ms. Parker you would be able to start when your semester was over. This led you both into a discussion about college as she told you about her teenage nephew who was interested in the STEM field and had begun looking into college options. Ms. Parker liked you a lot, and the job was yours as soon as you were ready for it.

You became the administrative assistant to Maria Hill, Director of Research and Development who worked closely with the senior staff. You had seen the infamous Tony Stark only once, popping his head out of the conference room as Ms. Hill and CEO Pepper Potts continued to chat.

From your desk you admired the women you aspired to be as confident as some day. Social work was a tough field, one where you needed to balance composure and empathy with assertiveness.

While working at Stark Industries you managed to take two classes per semester, fitting them in on nights and weekends. You wished you would have been able to do more but even this was burning you out quickly. You had little time to socialize but knew this would be worth it in the end.

A few years passed and had life not derailed your plan you would have had your Master’s by now, instead you had one last class to finish before you needed to complete 1200 hours of an internship. You pushed that off until the end, knowing it would take you some time to find a place that would accept you. Even though you would be working for free most places wanted you there at times that conflicted with your paying job.

As the sun began its slow descent the noise of the city increased and you had to shut your window to block out the sounds. All but one.

The soft guitar had increased in volume playing a familiar tune you heard every night. It wasn’t a song you’d ever heard before but your neighbor had played it often enough it was in your head. Instead of writing about a social worker’s role as an advocate for protecting human rights your mind drifted along with the melody.

It was a nice song but not one you wanted to hear every night and yet, every night your neighbor played like they were performing a concert instead of being considerate to the fact that they have neighbors, some of whom are trying to write a damn paper!

You haven’t seen this neighbor yet but you heard him moving into the apartment about a month ago. The paper thin walls allowed you to hear everything, from the instruments he played to the various women. Oh yes, he played them too, using a different one each night. Unfortunately you were able to tell the difference between each one by the sounds of the shrieks and moans that were burned into your mind until you decided to wear headphones to sleep.

Any attempts to continue your paper are futile and so you pack up your laptop and books and head down to the cafe a few blocks away that stays open late. It’s unfortunate that on top of the expensive rent and the cost of school you had to leave the comfort of your apartment to spend more money while occupying space in the cafe just to do your homework; all because of that selfish “Music Man” that you couldn’t wait to give a piece of your mind to.

PART 2

[atsunflower]

Hospital for souls — Silent rebellion

Rated: SFW

Author notes: Man, this chapter was a pain. There isn't much to say about this one. Thanks for everyone who left a comment in the last chapter, y'all are absolutely endearing.

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety, cursing and very pissed off people.

III — Silent Rebellion

Previous || Next

Screams and pleas filled his sleep. His mind was frantic, but his body felt like it was cemented on the surface he laid.

Memories were vivid in the back of his mind, though he couldn't see anything with closed eyelids.

He remembers the glint of metal and he remembers the metal in the blood stench.

Am I dead? — and his body jolted awake.

The discomfort Sakusa felt wasn't caused by the way he slept in the couch and he wasn't disgusted by the sweat layering his skin.

He felt disgusted by the memory of crimson painting his hands.

Recalling the vivid image, his legs led him to the kitchen in auto pilot mode. Reaching for the sink, hands grabbed the soap, rubbing it as if his life depended on it. His eyes wandered around the place, taking in the cleaniness of it.

She had a good taste, he would give her that.

"Shit, Komori" In long strides he went for the bedroom the Kobun was. Resting his body against the doorframe, he took on the scene before him.

In the bed, the brown-haired male slept in a peaceful state, as if his life wasn't on the line a couple of hours ago.

Through the chapped lips, air exhaled in a steady pace; the sight itself allowing Sakusa to breath properly for the first time within the last hours.

"Sakusa-san?" Your whisper ringed on his ears. You came from your personal bathroom, holding a bunch of clothes and bandages.

Staring at your figure, he saw how tired you looked. He couldn't ignore the bruises and scrapes littering your hands and face either."Komori-san had a tranquil night. But I still think he should go to a hospital, just in case" He noded, stare hardening while you spoke.

"How are you?" The tall male asked in a mere courtesy, you were still unsure wether he cared or not about your well-being.

"Fine" You spat drily before making your way to the sleeping man. "Gotta wake him up to see how the wound is" the whisper left your lips in a rushed manner.

Sakusa observed as you crouched down to the bed's level, setting the materials you brought on the nightstanding. Placing a hand on Komori's right shoulder, you shook him gently, only to startle him awake.

"[Name]?" The man frowned, holding the hand you had on his shoulder on an vice grip. "What the hell? Where the fuck is Kiyoomi?" Hatred dripping out of his grey irises, you shivered under the weight of his stare.

"I'm right here, Komori" Your husband said pulling off of the doorframe. A sigh of relief left the kobun's lips while both males exchanged knowing looks.

You cleared your throat, shaking the wrist Komori was still grasping.

"Can I see your wound so you guys can discuss whatever?" You didn't mean to snap, but hell, were you tired. At least, the brown haired man had the decency to look sheepish at his outburst. "Other than pain, are you feeling anything?"

"It just hurts like hell" Komori replied eyeing you. He took in your appearence, noticing how bruises litered your face, how a greyish tone colored your eyelids and how chapped your lips were. There was a weight in your features that made you look even more tired than you were supposed to be.

"Do you think you can bend the ring and pinky fingers?" He hissed but did as was told. You undid the bandages, seeing the stitches were perfect. You hummed in satisfaction, changing the dressings and readjusting the splint. "You need to see a doctor, I can't say if there is a nervous damages in your arm." He nodded, eyes locking to your handiwork while you checked his vitals.

"What happened to my arm?" His voice was rushed, reacalling the memory of being stabbed.

"[Name] said the knife hit an artery. You didn't want to go to a hospital so she saved your ass." You didn't bother to listen their dialogue, leaving the room as fast as possible.

Coming from them, the word 'save' held no meaning to you.

"We gotta contact Fukuroudani and check if they found something." Sakusa said pinching the bridge of his nose "What the fuck is Johzenji supposed to mean?"

"I don't have idea. Do you think Inarizaki is involved?" Komori asked, doubting the Miya were related to the recent events.

Something about the fight was off and the Itachiyama oyabun couldn't pinpoint what it was.

"I guess they're not. But we can't let our guard down either" The ravenette huffed trying to ignore the weight on his chest.

"Well, guess she has a list of reasons to want us dead. And still, [Name] helped us last night" He shrugged, sitting on the bed. He looked around the place, not reconigzing it. "Where we are?"

He knew you weren't related to the incident, but a part of him refused to trust you.

Inarizaki isn't one to be trusted, after all.

"It's [Name]'s place"

"Suits her" The Kobun hummed "Well, guess we have to make some calls"

"Komori" Sakusa voiced, using a stern tone "We need to talk."

"Not a fucking chance" Was all the brunette said, ignoring his Oyabun as he reached for his phone, dialling Konoha's number.

Your body jolted up when you felt people in your surroundings.

"Oh, [Name]-san. You're awake" You heard Komori saying while you observed they making themselves comfortable in the armchairs of your livingroom. You grimaced at his nice attitude.

"You aren't supposed to be out of the bed." You frowned watching three paper bags seating in you coffee table, the rich scent of cinnamon and coffee filling your nostrils.

"Don't worry. It takes much more to knock me out, I'm fine" The hazel haired man said as he handed you one of the bags with his damaged arm as if to prove his point. He was supposed to be in big pain and yet, his face showed no sign of discomfort.

He should be used to it, you supposed.

You opened the bag, eyeing its contents. You realized it was from the café across the street; the wave of nostalgia hitting you again as you took both paper cup and caramel muffin in your hands.

You took a bite of the baked good, feeling the taste of cake and caramel melting in your tongue. You smiled at it, recalling the rushed mornings when you would go to the eatery, in your way to work.

"Is the muffin that good?" Komori asked as a glint of amusement crossed his eyes.

"I just missed this place really bad." A pleased face took over your features, almost making you forget the current situation you were in.

Again, why you had to go through this?

"[Name]" The ravenette's voice blared in your ears "Hurry. We have important business today" All of sudden, the food tasted stale in your mouth.

Both men were waiting for you on the entrance hall, observing how you quickly you tidied the place.

"Shouldn't we clean before we leave?" Komori asked Sakusa.

You rolled your eyes and stood to grab your belongings. From the kitchen drawers, you took a plastic bag to dispose the thrash.

"The lady upstairs takes care of the place for me" Oh, you heard it. "It's not like anyone is coming back here anytime soon, too." You three took the elevator, going to the sidewalk where the car was parked.

"What's up for today, then?" The Kobun asked as you three entered the vehicle while Sakusa occupied the driver's seat.

"We have a meeting with Fukuroudani and Inarizaki" Your husband said eyeing you through the rearview. You ignored them as they chatted. "Looks like they have info regarding Johzenji"

"Are we going there?"

"No, they're already on Itachiyama, waiting for us" The ravenette answered as he drove smoothly through Tokyo streets.

You were doing your best to forget the memories of the night prior, but you realized you have never experienced such stress. Your lungs gave in a shaky breath as your mind felt like on the verge of breaking down.

"So it's really like they aren't involved... you know" The silence was thick as you recalled their accusations.

A couple of minutes later, you realized the ride didn't last much as you spotted Itachiyama lands, the mansion being seen by distance with the pristine white of its walls. Across the gates, the clean pavement and stunning garden welcomed you while you spotted the expensive cars parked by the house entrance.

"Meeting room, now. You included, [Name]" And here he was, his timbre giving the fact that Itachiyama's Oyabun wasn't someone to be defied.

The air inside the house was crispy cold. Your body hurted everywhere and the unsettling feeling in your stomach wasn't going away anytime soon. You didn't want to have anything to do with this reunion, and you were restless about the idea of facing both Osamu and Atsumu after this whole month.

You despised them for making you go through this.

You were never been into the meeting room before. And the image before your eyes wasn't like anything you have imagined.

It wasn't like the regular conference rooms, with a large table with a good amount of seats and all. No, the place screamed traditional: pristine dark floorboards, paper pannels covering the walls and a large chabudai table on the floor, with ten pillowy seats partially occupied by the guests.

The room smelled like burning incense and sake, the scent making you calm in a weird way.

Sakusa indicated your seat as you three made your way to the table. The five men slighty bowed their heads, greeting you.

Your husband grabbed a jar of sake out of nowhere, serving the porcelain hakushika before you first and the proceeding to fill his, Komori's and the other guests cups after.

"Kanpai" they said before downing the alchool down. You mimicked their actions, feeling the liquid burning your throat. You winced at the sensation as Suna sent you an amused look — it took all of your might to not show him your middle finger.

"Heard y'all had a shitty night, huh" Atsumu said on his provocative manner as Osamu eyed him warily. Your husband sitting by your right seemed unfazed by it while Konoha clicked his tongue.

What a way to make disaffections, you thought.

"If you don't have anything useful to say, Miya, shut it." Komori warned the blond man without traces of simpathy " Shall we start?"

At this, the four other men eyed you with caution. Weren't you supposed to be here?

"[Name] was there and she could reconize the woman. It's her business too, since she was attacked first" Was Sakusa's response to their implied question.

"Were they aiming for her?" The ravenette you never saw before asked.

"I don't think they were necessarily targetting [Name], Akashi." You frowned at Komori's reply. Something didn't click, you thought as you opened your mouth:

"Did they attack Inarizaki?" A proud feeling took over your chest as you realized your voice sounded steady.

Suna frowned and looked at Osamu. The latter nodded at the brunette.

"Not directly. They tried to interfere on some of our business and kinda stalked one of Tsumu's... acquaintances. Yeah, that's all" it was Suna's answered not getting your point.

"How many people know the circumstances of our marriage?" You asked directly at Sakusa, seing him frown.

"Just the involved parts. What are you implying?"

"I... I think they are trying to use me to create a strain between Itachiyama and Inarizaki" Your voice wavered at it. Atsumu obnoxiously laughed at what you said as if it was some kind of joke.

"How cute, [Name]" the blond twin giggled as the atmosphere got heavier and heavier "Tho our relationship 's already strained. Ya ain't that special" He wipped an invisible tear to add to his annoying act.

"Actually..." The man Akaashi butted in, his face contorting in a pensive manner "I think she is right."

"Yeah, it's not like they know how the alliance between your houses was estabelished. Think, they tried to incriminate her and last night she was the first one to be attacked" Konoha added to the discussion. You looked at him with surprise "Don't be so surprised, we should know the reason why you went there last night."

"Okay. So the fact is they're after [Name]-san, trying to destabilize both Itachiyama and Inarizaki. Why?" Akaashi inquired, rolling the white hakushika between his slender fingers. The cup glinted in the dim light, reflecting in the gunmetal gray of his irises.

"Well, lucky us, we went ta Niiyama today." Atsumu chimmed in and you didn't have idea of what he was talking about.

"Nee-san doesn't know very much tho" Osamu added to his twin's speech "Looks like these Johzenji guys are a bloomin' gang"

"If they're a gang, what are they up to, then? It's kind dumb to mess with the families when you're this insignificant" Konoha asked seeming trully dumbfolded.

"They're trying, at least, show some bravery" Suna retorted, fidgeting with his cellphone. Straightening his back, a glint of unnecessary pride crossed his eyes as his lips twisted in a provocative curve "Inarizaki and Itachiyama are the most important households. If Johzenji manage to cause ruckus, it can gain some sense of respect between another gangs"

"Still, it doesn't make much sense" Akaashi said as he fished an manila folder on his suit. Suna shrugged at it, coming back to his usual aloof demeanor. "Well, looks like it's you problem. Fukuroudani will cooperate if needed, but it's not like we can be of much help right now" The male handed the envelope to Komori, before standing on his feet. "This is all the information we gathered from the guy we captured yesterday. It's not much, so we will send him to you by nighttime." He completed his statement with a solemn glare, out of respect.

"We have to go now. Thank you so much for having us here, Sakusa-san" Konoha said as he and Akaashi bowed their heads at Sakusa "Let us know if you need anything" The ash-blond haired man bid his farewells as Komori walked them to the doors. The air got thicker with the five of you stared at each other; Suna mouthed something at you, but you couldn't catch what. Atsumu looked at you two with a mischievous smile but opted to keep quiet instead.

The Itachiyama Kobun returned, sitting back on his previous position.

"You okay, Komori-san?" Osamu asked as a mere courtesy, trying to break the still atmosphere.

"Oh, it's nothing. Just a cut that [Name]-san managed to patch up" The hazel haired Kobun replied in a polite tone while the infamous Inarizaki duo arched their brows to the honorific he used to reffer at you.

"Glad ta know she is not useless ta y'all" Atsumu provoked as he got up from his seat. He held back the urge to strech as his fellow companions did the same "It's time we go, too. Since they afta' Ina too, let us know if they try somethin'." Looked like the blond really meant it.

"We will see you off, then" Sakusa spoke for the first time in a while as you all stood from the low sitting position.

You husband and his Kobun went first, opening the doors and guiding you trought the corridors. Suna walked by your side, when he ruffled your hair for no special reason.

"Make sure to rest, you look like shit" He snickered but you were too tired to argue "I have something for you. Here, take it." the tall male handed you a beige envelope with a cute sticker of a Kitsune sealing it.

You took it with grattitude while he smiled softly at you. You mouthed a quiet 'thank you' at him as the brunette ruffled your hair again.

"Well, thanks I guess" Atsumu bid a half-assed farewell as he got out of the mansion. Suna and the other Miya twin followed him suit, not without bowing their hads at Sakusa showing some courtesy. You swore the gray irises of Osamu lingered a little longer in your figure; you choose to ignore the churning sensation in your stomach as you tried to decipher his intense stare.

"What is it?" Your husband inquired, glaring at the envelope in your hands with suspicion; you opened it and froze when you looked at its contents. With the lack of response he snatched it from you in a rough manner, crumpling the paper.

"Hey, you don't need to be rude!"

"You don't get to tell me what to do" He bluntly said as he inspectioned the envelope "It's not like I have any reason to trust you, Miya runt."

Within you, something snapped. You were sure you'd regret it later, but for now, you would blame the stress you were upon.

"Very much to respect your women" Your voice dripped venom as you recalled what he told you in the first day you met "You know, it's not like I wanted to be here, anyways"

"[Name]" Komori warned but you choose to ignore him.

"I hate this fucking yakuza thing. I despise you as much as I despise the Miya" You told as you looked at him dead in the eyes.

"Oh, fancy words coming from a Miya yourself." The ravenette said, keeping his cool.

"I'm not a fucking Miya!" You sneered, althought you wanted to scream "I'm not at fault that good for nothing of their father got my mother pregnant. Bad news to you: you fucking married a bastard"

"I can tell I did" His brow arched. His silence was unsettling but you didn't want to back out at this point.

"Well, I did too. Tough I regret the day I was forced to get involved with a criminal bastard like you." It was too fast. In a second, his tall frame was towering over yours.

You froze under his hard stare, sure he could end your existence anytime he wanted.

"Get the fuck out of my sight" The deep baritone of his timber killed any courage you garthered.

Yakuza would take away any dignity you had.

❥ taglist is closed: @ukaiwachin @keekee-732 @chiibichann @shinguchi @captain-shittykawa , @fortheloveofbakugo @daisyjaebae @jihoonspout @floodinginstars @fl4mepillar @trash4sportsanime @translucentthoughts @teaanbanter-blog @hqxreader @ly-nia @shadyjinyoung @julimausi1311 @keuromi @onigiriimiya @ayaeushi @wolfiepirate @sekshi-namjas @tomo-uwu @letmegetthisclear @katokanae @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @cherryonigiri @ushijima-meixiu @bimboiiying @crownedcupcake17 @thenerdyrebel @idiot-juice-enthusiast @caprolls @keijination @toaster-stick @ynjimenez @wolfytrixa @wakaitoshi @clowninfortodoroki @shiningotak-ku @kemochie @lilacshouko @imomomi @ohmythatmiya @freewitchjellyfish

I had to remove some names since tumblr wasn't letting me tag them. If by any chance you want me to try and tag you again, leave an ask.

[sserpente]

A/N: Request from anon. I loved the concept… and then I couldn’t stop writing and it went so well with some other ideas I had and it escalated and ahhh, you guys were supposed to get this Imagine three days ago. Anyway… enjoy reading! ♥ Words: 4628 (oops) Warnings: gore/blood, fluff (the combination doesn’t sound right, now does it)

Here’s an extra warning: I got a bit inspired by “Coriolanus” so there will be a very bloody and graphic scene… stuff I usually don’t write myself. As I said though, I really got inspired by the play so I just went along with it, if anything to not repeat myself with this one scene we all hate so much. It thus also might rip open the wounds Infinity War caused. Therefore, the scene will be marked with “*” at the beginning and the end in case you prefer to skip it.

-

“It’s a myth.”

“It’s not a myth. They are omens of death.” Thor argued. Grinning smugly, he leaned back and took a sip of his beer.

Tony buried his face in his hands. “You know I started believing in many things when you fell out of the sky to help us fight aliens but… there’s a line. ‘Black angels’? With shimmering wings? Please, Point Break.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know. They say only those before their imminent death can see their wings.”

“Have you ever seen an angel then?”

“No! I told you, they are omens of death. Volstagg’s father… he saw one. He swore he did. One week after, he perished.”

“Coincidence.”

Loki rolled his eyes. He had known before that mortals were ignorant and refused to face reality, Stark’s stubbornness however surprised even him. Many creatures shared their stories in the Old Norse myths, stories which his mother had told him before bed when he was a child.

Angels… omens of death. Black, shimmering wings… they said whoever saw one before death, their soul would leave their body contently… that they were of such beauty it would not compare to any other being in the nine realms. As a young boy, Loki had told Frigga he wanted to see one for himself—and Frigga chided him for wishing for such an atrocious thing.

-

Shivering, you wrapped your black coat around yourself tighter. You had bought it from a street market for little money which you had stolen from a peasant. High up in the sky, you were never cold. You were free. Those human sensations were downright irksome.

Perhaps it was your own fault you had ended up on Midgard of all places. Stranded and stripped off most of your powers, they had cast you out and forced you to live a mortal life—knowing you would never find friends on a planet inhabited by beings that would not grow half as old as you.

Perhaps you should have joined your people when they swore their allegiance to the purple titan. But you knew you would have made the wrong decision. What Thanos wanted was impossible—and you sincerely hoped he would fail. His lackeys were already spreading dread, fear and death across the planet. You had seen them lurking about, watching his evil plans unfold and wreak havoc when it was fun.

A high-pitched scream ripped you from your thoughts. Turning straight on your heel to see what had caused it, your instincts kicked in. Altruistically saving humans wasn���t high on your priority list, kicking Thanos’ monkeys’ arse, however, was. It felt good to ram your poisoned dagger into their hearts… and it least gave you some satisfaction.

You frowned when you reached the dimly lit alley, scanning the area to analyse the situation. Somebody had beaten you to it. Clenching your fists, you recognised both Tony Stark and Captain America along with a raven-haired man with a sharp jawline and the most stunning blue eyes you had ever seen—Loki, God of Mischief.

Thanos’ lackeys were nowhere in sight. Instead, what part of the Avengers… and Loki put up with was a dirty burglar who seemed to have tried to rob a young woman who was currently shaking on the cold ground like autumn leaves in the wind.

“Are you alright, Miss?” You heard Steve Rogers ask her humbly, all the while the burglar—terrified for his life—scrambled to his feet, abandoning the knife he had held. Loki rolled his eyes. With but one effortless movement, he kicked him in the stomach the moment he attempted to run and proceeded to grab his collar to lift him off the ground.

“Please, please… please don’t kill me!” The burglar whimpered. You suppressed a chuckle.

“Let him go, Reindeer Games.”

“Let him go? What did we intervene for? Mercy? I disagree…”

“Nope. FRIDAY has already saved his fingerprints and appearance. The police will get him soon enough. Now let him go. I think he peed his pants.”

Loki’s face distorted when he spotted the wet spot between the burglar’s legs. Disgusted, he did as he was told and threw him back to the ground. He swallowed thickly before hurrying away clumsily. Then, he looked up—and his blue eyes locked with yours.

Paralysed, he captured you in his both scrutinising and fascinated gaze. Your lips parted when you realised that he could see your wings. Dark, shimmering and as soft as a crow’s feather dress they framed your form—petite compared to his—and complimented both your (Y/H/C) hair and (Y/E/C) eyes. You were beautiful.

Neither of you paid attention to the young woman who had stood again by now, approaching Loki timidly. Her ‘thank you’ went unnoticed even when Steve called his name.

“Who are you?” You blinked, reluctantly tearing your eyes away from Loki’s to face Tony Stark.

“(Y/N)… my name is (Y/N). I am what other beings would refer to as… a black angel.”

Tony snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

-

One heated discussion after your confession led to another and Captain America and Iron Man—for Loki had remained completely silent—decided to take you back to the compound to speak to Thor. You did not take kindly in spilling your secret to strangers. Hundreds of years ago, humans, Asgardians and other species had hunted you down for amusement, using poison to make your wings visible and cutting them off to sell them on the black market—an ironic name, really.

But this… was different. Loki—the Loki, God of Mischief and Lies, Trickster… son of Laufey and Farbauti and Prince of Asgard—he could see your wings. Legends had been told about connections alike. They said that every living black angel in this universe served a purpose, was meant to follow a path and fulfil its destiny—and to be with one person who loved them dearly for the rest of their existence. Only those that fate chose to be a black angel’s partner would be able to see their wings—to see all of them—in their full glory and true beauty. Loki’s blue eyes were practically glued on you; and if you were not mistaken, there was a hint of panic glistening in his irises too.

Did he feel the connection, perhaps? That you seemed to have found the man your heart would likely belong to for the rest of your life? Strangely enough, you felt… oddly exposed. Only other black angels had ever been able to see your gift, unwillingly sharing it with someone you had but heard of and never met made you vulnerable… and it made you self-conscious.

“How exactly did you end up here on Earth?” Thor leaned forward, crossing his arms on the vast glass table in the middle of the conference room. Around him, the remaining Avengers which you had not officially met yet, squinted suspiciously in a desperate attempt to spot your wings as well. One of them—you believed he was called Rhodey—had even examined your back but found nothing.

“I was… banished. My own people abandoned me because I refused to join the new force.”

“Does that force answer to the name of Thanos by any chance?” Tony tossed in. You nodded.

“You have heard of him. He means to wipe out half of the universe. We have to stop him whatever it takes.”

You could feel Loki’s presence behind you. He was still silent, pacing up and down the room like a cunning predator waiting to strike.

“How do we know we can trust you?”

“You don’t. I am merely warning you. I don’t have the powers to stop him but you might. And I certainly did not ask to be invited to your humble home.” You snapped. They were hostile towards you, you could tell. Something about you unsettled them. If only you knew what it was.

-

Be that as it may, the Avengers decided to let you stay for a while. They hadn’t locked you in a room but if you were to try and leave without anyone accompanying you… then the Norns beware.

You sighed. You should have never mentioned you were a black angel, pretended to be human instead… pretended that Loki was hallucinating. His eyes had made you forget all reason. The invisible force pulling you to him was destructive. You wanted to be close to him, be with him, be there for him… lay your life, soul and heart in his hands… all the while he seemed to painstakingly ignore you.

You barely knew but you could sense that Loki was everything you could ever wish for. An intelligent, powerful, cunning and charming man, tall, blue-eyed and so outrageously handsome he even outshone his brother Thor. You had never spoken to him personally and yet, you felt like you would die for him. Now what if he never reciprocated those feelings? Tragic stories were told about black angels who found love and yet had to live without it.

At the very least, so you figured, you had access to a fully furnished kitchen tonight. It was your first warm supper in two weeks and bit more nourishing than a mere apple or a handful of nuts. It was almost midnight now and hunger had gotten the better of you… or maybe it was the prosperity of food being available to you at any time without you having to steal hard-earned money for it first.

Passing through the hallway, your tread entirely mute, you stopped dead in your tracks when you heard two familiar voices talking in the living room.

“Big… imposing… no, I did not imagine it, Thor. They were there. A pair of shimmering black wings…” Loki sounded worried, yet you could tell he was trying hard not to let it show. He had already seemed to have panicked a little when he first laid his eyes upon you.

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much time do you have left?”

“I don’t know, Thor.”

“Don’t you… worry, brother… I’m sure everything’s gonna work out fine.”

There was a moment of awfully painful silence. Then, somebody left.

Frowning, you knocked. You were unsure of what they had been talking about. Loki’s expression darkened when he spotted you entering the room shyly, his eyes focused on the wings on your back.

“You… seem to be avoiding me, Loki. Have I… done something?”

Loki smirked—it was bitter. Now that he had told Thor, by tomorrow… they would all know he was going to die soon.

“You have not, dear. It is not something you did. It is your purpose.” Your heart skipped a beat. You had not expected such an honest answer.

“My purpose? I don’t have a purpose here on Midgard.” His eyes were ice cold when he looked up to meet your gaze.

“You are an omen of death.”

Your lips parted. “I am… I am not.”

“No man who sees a black angel’s wings survives. I can see yours.”

“B-but… but that… you’re not going to die.”

His bitter smile returned. “We are facing Thanos. If I was doubtful about my fate before, I am no longer now.”

“Loki, that’s not what it means…” It felt like your heart was shattering, to a million tiny little pieces. He thought you were his death… no wonder he felt uneasy around you. Where had that stupid superstition come from? Why would you be an omen of death?

You longed to tell him what it really meant. Only right now, in this very moment, it did not feel right. Would he even believe you? Probably not.

“Good night, Loki.”

When you returned to your room, you sent your pillow flying through the air all the while suppressing a scream of anger.

-

The following days were equally frustrating. Loki seemed to be avoiding you at all cost and even Thor and the others only spoke to you when it was absolutely necessary. They were scared. All of them. Dreading that at some point, they might see your wings too. You had already given up attempting to explain it to them. There were much more important things to take care of.

Figuring out your own feelings, for example. It was impossible to love someone you had just met, even for black angels… right? The invisible force linking you to Loki’s body and mind was so strong it almost physically ached to not be near him. You were worried. Loki thought he was going to die. It was obvious he had a past with Thanos, one that was about to catch up with him.

You had your dagger—it was the least you could fight with to protect his life. After all, that one superstition was indeed true. Yet when you stood in front of him, the purple titan who had stolen away your people, and the black angels you had thought of as friends and family… you were terrified.

All of them were ready to fight. Man against man, woman against woman and you… somewhere in between. You had never agreed to destroy him, had never promised to help. It was not in your nature to intervene in such things; even though you would not exactly call yourself a pacifist, wars held a bitter connotation. All you cared about was Loki—even if he did not care about you.

Proudly and arrogantly, he lifted his chin in pure defiance. You could feel he was anxious. His heart was beating so fast your own almost stopped. Thanos wanted the Tesseract—and Loki was denying he was in its possession.

The whole Avengers compound had become a bloody battlefield. There was debris, there were screams and the sounds of metal clashing. Clutching your dagger tighter, you watched how Thor was hurled through the air and landed on the hard ground.

“We don’t have the Tesseract! It was destroyed on Asgard!” He growled, spitting a mouthful of blood into the grass before two of Thanos’ lackeys managed to restrain him.

Loki briefly closed his eyes, guiltily. One single moment of negligence—and enough for Thanos to grab his head forcefully and throw him on the ground before Ebony Maw’s feet.

Loki gasped in pain but the ugly sorcerer did not hesitate. He raised his hands, fingers crooked… only to send shockwaves of agony through his blood. As a Frost Giant… the heat pumping through his veins was pure torture.

“The Tesseract…” Thanos remarked, seemingly unimpressed. Your eyes widened. Loki really had it. Of course he had it.

“Please, stop…” You heard yourself whisper, the pain he felt cursing through your own body. Only yours wasn’t physical. “Stop it! The Tesseract is not here. Let him live. Whatever he has done in the past, he did it to survive, wouldn’t you do the same?”

“He disappointed me,” the titan argued. “He failed.”

“We all do. It was not his fault. Look around you. Look at your forces fighting against a bunch of mortals. If they are having difficulties defeating them now, then how would you expect Loki to do it all on his own?”

Loki’s stunning blue eyes widened upon hearing your words. He kept grunting, growling and panting as Maw intensified the spell, making you panic slightly.

“I am not merciful, little one. If I were, I wouldn’t be where I am standing now.”

“You… don’t have to be.” You swallowed. “His life in exchange for mine. I shall serve you if you let him live.”

“Why would I want your allegiance?”

“I am an angel, too.”

Thanos raised his eyebrows.

“You would give your freedom to save him? Him?”

“Yes.” Blinking frantically to scare away the tears in your eyes, you watched the titan nod slowly. With a start, Ebony Maw stopped, earning him another pant from Loki. In his ugly hands… he held the Tesseract.

“You have a good heart, little one. Unfortunately… I don’t like being lied to.”

*It happened fast, almost too fast for you to comprehend. Thanos’ sword slashed through the cold air and Loki’s neck, blood spurting from the freshly cut wound and staining his skin and armour. His blue eyes closed, the downright repulsive sounds of him choking on his own blood filling your ears.

Then, he stopped moving, the red liquid still pouring from his neck.*

You screamed, both in pain and indescribable grief when Loki’s heart stopped beating. He had been right. You had been his very personal omen of death.

-

You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You didn’t speak. Thanos was gone, two Infinity stones along with him. And while the Avengers were busy figuring out a plan to stop him once and for all, you spent your time sulking away in your room, your eyes red and swollen from the many tears you shed for the man you had never had a chance to love.

You had meant to save him. Loki had trusted you to seal his fate and when you had attempted to lay down your own life so he would survive, you had caused the exact opposite. It wasn’t your fault, not really and yet… it felt like it.

It felt like your heart had been ripped in pieces, like Thor had driven his beloved hammer into your chest repeatedly and shattered all of your ribs.

Dead. You had found the one man your poor existence as a god damn black angel had made sense for, the one man who could have made you happy. And now he was dead.

You were ready to do anything to get him back. And so you were plotting.

Whether Thor was grieving, you did not know. But you had heard of Ragnarok, the destruction of his home world, of Asgard, the realm of the gods. Hela had wreaked havoc and claimed the throne. Hela, the goddess of death… Hela, who could resurrect the dead and bring them back to life.

“Tony.” Your voice carried only feinted politeness. You simply did not care how worn out he was, noodling around in his lab. Neither did you care that Thor did not even look up when you entered.

“Can I speak to Thor, please? In private?”

He was his brother. If anyone was going to help you bring Loki back, it was him. Thor had complained about having lost Loki before. That he had thought him dead before. Whether he could not accept he was truly gone this time or had simply moved on, you could not tell. But you sincerely hoped Loki was important enough for him, worthy of saving.

The God of Thunder looked up, his brows raised in surprise. Nodding mutely, he stood and left the room, allowing you to close the door to Tony’s lab behind you.

“There is a way to bring Loki back alive.” You stated straight away, swallowing thickly. Thor crossed his arms before his chest, a defensive posture.

“What do you mean?”

“Loki is not in Valhalla, his soul did not… ascend. He should have been… he would not give Thanos the Tesseract to Thanos, he was enduring torture, he… wanted to save you. All of you, stop the titan himself. That… that means…” Again, you swallowed, forcing back the tears forming in your eyes. “It means he is in Hel. I’ve been there before, black angels… we are immune to… well, it doesn’t matter. But… the goddess of death. Hela, she could…”

“No.”

“What?”

“No.” Thor repeated sternly. “Hela is my sister. She caused the destruction of Asgard, she killed my friends and hundreds of innocent Asgardians.”

“I have heard the stories… but Thor, Loki is your brother.”

“Do you truly think she will resurrect him without asking for something in return? We barely managed to banish her again, I will not risk the subjugation of the nine… the eight realms.”

Angrily, you narrowed your eyes at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“If Thanos gets a hold of the remaining Infinity Stones, say goodbye to the entire universe. He will be ten times worse than Hela. If anyone can help you defeat him, it’s your brother. Your brother, Thor.”

Why did he hesitate? As a black angel, you had never had brothers or sisters but if you did… if you did you would love and cherish them dearly. Did Thor not love Loki? Did he not love him as much as Loki loved Thor? You could see it in his eyes. Loki had a good heart, vulnerable and tainted but good.

“Why would you want to bring him back? You don’t know him. Loki’s been dead before, if it’s true this time… it is what it is.”  Thor mumbled. “Look, (Y/N)… Loki is dead because of you. Your appearance… it was the sign… there is no way around that.”

“That’s bullshit, Thor,” you snapped. All of a sudden, the truth spilled from your lips uncontrollably. “I’m not an omen of death, who came up with this? Loki was the only one who can see my wings because he was meant to be my soul mate. I… I fell in love with him the moment I first looked him in the eye. I was going to sacrifice my life to save him, those were not empty words, you heard them!”

Thor paused. “That’s… impossible. All my life… I grew up believing black angels were deadly.”

“We can be. My blades of my daggers are drowned in poison but we do not promise death to those we show our wings to. It wasn’t my decision, Thor. Please… help me bring your brother back.” This time, you were unable to hold back your tears. Sobbing quietly, they ran over your reddened cheeks.

The God of Thunder took a deep breath.

“I can take you to the portal. The rest is up to you. But if you endanger this realm by setting Hela free, you will live with the consequences because we will kill you. I have to protect these people, (Y/N).”

Determined, you nodded. “I will make this right, Thor. I promise.”

-

The portal was a church. At least, it looked like a church. Home of the angels… you snorted. If only you could live in a richly decorated church. The more you approached, the more of the dead energy did you feel. Helheim was near.

You had a plan, of course. It was risky and bold and perhaps a bit reckless… but at least, it was a plan. Thor had held his promise and he made sure to stay until you returned—with or without Loki.

Then, with one final deep breath—for there was no reason to breathe in Helheim—you stepped over the threshold of Durham Cathedral and disappeared into nowhere, an invisible force sucking you into another realm.

The stench of death filled your nose before you had even opened your eyes again, corpses, skeletons and bloody soil staining the dark landscape. Like you had expected, your presence in the realm of the dead as a living being did not go unnoticed.

“I’ve met black angels before. But they were dead.” Hela’s voice echoed through the minging air, her blue eyes, complimented by dark coal, boring into yours.

“I came to warn you.”

“Warn me? Child… Look around you… this place is dead. What do I have to fear?”

“Thanos. He means to wipe out half of the universe. Killing half of every single living being.”

Hela raised her eyebrows, seemingly unimpressed.

“Where do you think will most of these souls go? Half the universe… crammed in one realm. Your realm.”

“The Gauntlet. He has it then.”

“And he is collecting the stones. There is a force on Midgard… across the universe to stop him. They need all the help they can get.”

It was then the goddess of death began to smile cruelly. “Who is it you want me to resurrect?”

“How familiar are you with the powers of black angels?”

Hela shrugged. “They are meant to find their soul mates, the only beings they unwillingly reveal their true nature to.” As the goddess of death, she knew a lot more than the rest of the Asgardians then.

You nodded. “My powers were taken from me when I was cast out. They will return once I am reunited with mine.” That was a lie. But if Hela was Thor’s sister, you could imagine she did not exactly take a liking into Loki. “I need you to return Loki to the living. We stop Thanos, we stop this realm from destruction. And we both know that even Helheim could not take the masses of murderers and villains once the titan snaps his fingers.”

Snarling, she turned her scrutinising gaze away from you. “Loki?” She snorted. “You know what? Take him. Take that little cockroach and leave. Hel will be better off without his smug remarks.”

You were almost surprised by how calm you managed to speak with her. The prosperity of seeing Loki again filled your broken heart with joy and love, even if the God of Mischief himself, so you imagined, would hardly feel the same.

Hela narrowed her eyes. With but a flick of his wrist, she summoned Loki like a demon. Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted him. He did not look harmed, the atrocious wound on his neck luckily gone completely.

“I was trying to sleep. Forewarn me before you—“ Loki stopped his mocking complaint mid-sentence. His lips parted when he saw you—that’s when you had already thrown yourself into his arms and buried your face in his neck, inhaling his wonderful scent and enjoying the touch of his body, beginning to heal you instantly.

“Husband…” You murmured, knowing that Hela was still watching you intently.

Loki froze. “What?”

“Just play along. Please… I’m gonna get you out of here.” You whispered mutely. Then, you timidly pressed your lips against his, triggering an explosion of chemistry between you. You almost flinched… and apparently, Loki felt the same.

Hela rolled her eyes in a disgusted manner. Clearly, she was convinced. “Leave. Make sure not to return.” She flicked her wrists once more, almost as if taking a spell on Loki—whatever had been necessary to allow him to travel through the portal and back to the living.

Confidently, you reached for his hand, a touched smile spreading on your lips when he accepted it and followed you back to Midgard and into Durham Cathedral.

“Husband?” He repeated, ignoring Thor who received him with his mouth wide open.

“There is a lot of explaining I need to do, I’m afraid.” You began apologetically.

“Indeed.” He was still holding your hand, not pulling away. It filled your chest with a cosy warmth which you had never felt before.

“You… only you can see my wings.”

“I still do.”

“You… you can because… because I am your soul mate. I never was an omen of death, Loki. I.. love you.”

The God of Mischief’s face fell.

“What you said to Thanos… you did attempt to…” You nodded quickly.

“I… I had to try. Contacting Hela, convincing her to resurrect you…”

“Thank you.” He interrupted, looking you deep in the eye. It was surprise which you found sparkling in those blue irises. Surely… never had anyone done this for him. Surely, nobody else would have done this for him. Thor still went ignored.

“I… I can understand if you… if you don’t want me to stay. I can leave. Being my soul mate, it doesn’t… it doesn’t link you to me if you don’t want to.”

Your heart jumped when Loki began to smirk mischievously... but genuinely.

“Oh no, my dear. I think I am going to keep you.”

-

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on KoFi! kofi.com/sserpente

[lia-jones]

Growing Pains - Chapter Twenty Six - The Rube Goldberg Trap

Author’s Note: Writing this first part was probably simultaneously the most scary and delightful I had done in my life. Finishing it was like the end of an era. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing, and if you did, please let me know. Your words and support are my bread and butter, and you have no idea how brighter my day becomes when I hear from you. So, it’s see you later, for now. Second part will be coming out soon! Lots of love!

Since I can remember, I have been fascinated with Rube Goldberg machines, even before I knew what they were called. A Rube Goldberg machine is also known as a chain reaction machine, which is basically a complicated contraption that requires a certain number of actions, one always leading to another, to obtain a single, usually very simple, purpose.  It’s inventor, Rube Goldberg, invented them for comic purposes, but I was fascinated by how it seemed to represent the way fate affects our lives, should such a thing exist.

Because if fate was a real thing, there was a reason why I quit the piano and decided to take Economics instead. And my change of career led to me meeting Daniel, and falling in love with him. Which, of course, led to the abuse, and me coming to Loveland to change my life. Simultaneously, that also led to me taking my doctorate, as well as my internship in LFG, and meeting Victor.

If fate was a real thing, there was a reason why my car broke down in the middle of the main avenue that rainy night, and a reason for Victor to stop and help me instead of moving along. There was a reason for him to startle me in the coffee room and make me spill coffee all over myself, because otherwise he wouldn’t have asked for me to present my own reports, and I wouldn’t have argued with him and wouldn’t have tried to quit the job, and Victor would’ve gone to Creekwood by himself, and we wouldn’t get to know each other, or fall in love.

Of course, believing in fate is always a nice thought. Even if we make mistakes, we can say it was fate. It was meant to be that way, because if we didn’t mess up, this or that wouldn’t have happened. Even the faultiest of actions can be seen as part of the Rube Goldberg machine, and we can cut ourselves some slack. It is faulty when we look at it closely. But if we look at the bigger picture, after the complicated contraption does its job, it fits perfectly. Its purpose is clear.

Unless, of course, the contraption leads to an unwanted result. That is a new kind of scary.

My presence in that fashion show seemed to be the push on the button of another Rube Goldberg machine, leading to a series of events, and I still couldn’t put my finger on all of them. As far as I was concerned, the contraption was still in motion, one event leading to the other. It began at the show, which probably caused a paparazzi to see me, which piqued the interest of that reporter who wrote the article, which lead to… this.

The morning after the article, I spoke with the Dean, reassuring her that the situation would be dealt with. Since Victor Lee was one of the people involved, she was relieved almost immediately, knowing he wouldn’t possibly let anything escape his watchful eye. After my classes and a brief meeting with my research team, I headed to LFG to meet the lawyers, and see what could be done about this whole thing.

I arrived at LFG to find Victor already in the conference room with the lawyers.

“Gentleman, please inform Miss Jones of what you believe we should do.” Victor ordered as I sat down. He was in CEO mode, bossy, poker face in place.

“We believe we may sue them for violation of privacy.” One of them turned to me. “Your abuse is a serious matter, and we can allege that the fact that they interviewed your abuser actually gave him the idea to try to reconnect with you.”

“Oh my God. Please don’t remind me.” I held my head between my hands.

Victor gave me a reassuring look. It made me feel safer, and I relaxed.

“We have to say, however, this may not work.” The other lawyer advised. “But the consequences of a lawsuit, even if the publisher is deemed not guilty of the charges, will be disastrous for them. We are talking about legal expenses, long days in court, not to mention no one will want to have anything to do with the company that crossed LFG’s CEO.”

“They will lose all their investors and go bankrupt.” I concluded. They all nodded, apparently pleased that I understood it. “But is this just a threat, or are we really going to go through with it?”

“Your choice.” Victor offered. “Whatever you decide, it’s final.”

“If we go through with this, if we press charges, my abuse will be discussed to no end, right?”

They all nodded.

“I don’t want that. And I have no intention of sending hundreds of people to unemployment either. I just want this to go away and maybe to send a warning that my personal business is off-limits.”

The lawyers all looked at Victor for approval. He gave them a small nod.

Suddenly, the door to the conference room opened, and an elegant tall man in his 60’s entered, his expression unsmiling and unforgiving. That expression alone would be a dead giveaway to who he was, if I hadn’t seen his picture in Victor’s biography. It was Victor’s father, Gregory Lee. Goldman followed shortly after him, a panicked expression on his face. And everyone in the room, except for me and Victor, were immediately affected by his presence, looking all uncomfortable and suddenly ceremonious.

Mr. Lee senior turned to the lawyers, speaking like he was actually their boss and ran the whole company himself.

“I need a moment alone with my son. Make yourselves busy elsewhere.”

Without another word, they quickly left the room, practically bowing to the man. The more I looked at him, the more I saw the resemblance in Victor. It was like he was a younger version of his father… except maybe for the eyes. The elder man turned to me.

“Did you not hear me? Leave.”

I looked at him, wondering what chip he had on his shoulder to be so rude. Victor intervened.

“Father, this is-“

“I know exactly who she is.” Mr. Lee interrupted, annoyed. “Her face is all over the tabloids.”

“What exactly are you doing here?” Victor asked, showing slight annoyance.

“I came to Loveland on business.” Gregory answered, sitting down. “Imagine my disappointment when one of my assistants brings me a copy of one of those dirty tabloids, featuring my son and… her.”

“I don’t see why is that any of your business.” Victor stated, cool as a cucumber.

“Ungrateful child.” The father spoke, his tone severe. “What do you think you are doing? Is that how you take care of our name, of your reputation? By getting yourself infatuated and letting our name be dragged through the mud? First it was that producer, now this? You’re too much of a fool, always acting on your romantic whims. Look at her. She has no family name, no worth of her own. Are you really considering continuing our bloodline with this girl? With a filthy immigrant?”

“I’m sorry, I won’t let you disrespect me like that!” I stood up.

“Someone should put a muzzle on you.” Victor’s father warned.

“Someone should try.” I retorted, letting him know with my eyes I was not scared of him.

“Enough!” I heard Victor say. “You said your piece. Now leave.” He got up, and walked to the door, opening it.

Gregory Lee walked proudly towards the door. He stopped by Victor, shooting a little more venom.

“I’m glad your mother isn’t here to see this. She would be ashamed of you.” And with that he left.

Victor looked like he took a major blow to the stomach. His eyes were red, his jaw clenching in anger. I had never seen him this vulnerable. He closed the door behind his father, and for a moment I was almost afraid to go to him, fearing he would break under my touch. He looked so fragile. It was evident that Victor’s tender spot was his father… and the mention of his mother.

He leaned against the frosted glass panels of the conference room, taking a deep breath, gathering himself. He was still the same Victor, standing tall and looking dignified, but at the same time, something about him looked frail, unhinged, shaken. I stood before him, massaging his shoulders softly.

He immediately took me in his arms, and held as tight as he could, taking a deep breath. Victor has held me so many times, trying to keep me safe or soothe me, but this was different. This was for his sake. He was the one seeking comfort this time, trying to steady himself. It almost felt like he was recharging.

“I’m sorry for this.” Victor finally spoke, sounding more like his usual self.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I really am sorry. I know he’s your father, but he’s an ass. And he has no right to just waltz in and disrespect you.”

Victor let out another sigh.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.” He said, looking at me, but not letting me go out of his grip. “I told you, we don’t get along well.”

“You are a good man, Victor. You are.” I said, hoping my words would sound as honest as they were. He gave me a soft kiss, his lips lingering on mine.

“Let’s go home. I had enough of this day.” Victor gathered his things to leave.

The problem with contraptions like a Rube Goldberg machine is that, if you don’t see the bigger picture, you won’t know what it will lead to until the very end. You just see the dominoes falling, and the ball rolling, and the hourglass turning, and the hammer hitting it, allowing the sand in it to be slowly poured into a bowl supported by a very fragile string that can break at any moment.

All I knew was that my study was compromised, my career was in jeopardy, my abuse was out for the world to see, and Victor was fighting with his father. All of this was weighing on me like the sand in the bowl, and I was terrified to find out what would happen should the fragile string break.

Victor and I sat on the sofa in his living room, nursing our glasses of whiskey, both lost in thought. The world had decided to throw its entire weight on our shoulders, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel strong enough to bear it. I couldn’t help but think this was all my fault. It was all a curse I seemed to carry, and I couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how hard I tried. Now it was affecting Victor as well. It broke my heart to see him hurt like that… because of me.

Victor seemed to read my mind, as he held my hand and spoke in a more upbeat tone.

“You know what we need?” He said, getting up and pulling me with him. “A distraction. Let me cook you something.”

I gladly took the suggestion. We gathered around his kitchen island, preparing ingredients, and at some point all those problems seemed so far away that it was almost funny that they existed. We were just there, living in the moment, enjoying the banter, having fun. We would get through this. We had each other.

And then the doorbell rang. With a heavy sigh, Victor went to open it.

“Mia?” I heard him say from the hallway. “What are you doing here?”

It was my turn to sigh heavily. What was she doing here?

I didn’t understand her reply, but I noticed the voices were starting to get closer and closer. I prepared my serene smile.

“Wait in the kitchen with Andrea, I’ll check in my office.” I heard Victor say.

And there she was, wearing a blue summer dress, looking chirpy and innocent as always.

“Oh, Souvenir food?” She eyed the counter, and all the ingredients on it, curiously.

“Not sure it can qualify as Souvenir food, since we are both preparing it.” I said, as I put some onions to fry in a skillet.

“I miss my days cooking with Victor in Souvenir.” She reminisced. “But I have to say I learned a lot, at least now I can make edible food for Gavin. I was helpless in the kitchen, back in the day.”

My heart sank at the thought of Victor and Mia together, sharing the same moments I just shared with him.

“You used to cook with Victor for Souvenir?” I asked, trying to look impassive.

“I was there all the time!” She beamed. “I’m sure Victor told you, we know each other from way back! The restaurant was named after a memory we shared as kids! Well, one of the happy ones, the whole kidnapping and being in captivity for years isn’t one we want to keep, right?”

I held tight to the counter, my mind reeling. First, he clearly opened the restaurant in her honor, and that made my heart pang. Second, what did she mean, kidnapping? And captivity? This time, I couldn’t keep a straight face, and Mia grew worried.

“Are you feeling alright? You look pale, all of a sudden.” I didn’t reply, I could feel the ground moving under my feet. I focused on a spot on the counter, trying to steady myself.

“What’s the matter? Andrea?” I heard Victor’s voice as he came closer, his hands resting on my shoulders. I discretely shrugged his touch away. Mia didn’t notice, but Victor clearly did.

“Mia, the files you asked for are in that envelope. You don’t need me to see you out, do you?” I heard Victor say, his voice tense.

“No, it’s fine. Feel better, Andrea, okay?”

I nodded, wanting to make her go away as soon as possible. After a while, I heard the door close. I wondered how long it would take her to leave the building so I could leave as well, unnoticed. I released my grip from the counter and walked to the living room to get my phone. Victor followed me.

“Can you fill me in on what just happened?” Victor asked, simultaneously confused and annoyed.

“Why did you close Souvenir, Victor?” I faced him, giving him an accusatory look. “And don’t tell me it was because of Mr. Mills, because I know it wasn’t. It was because of her, wasn’t it? It didn’t make sense to keep it open, because she married another guy.”

Victor froze, his expression slightly panicked. I continued my tirade.

“What about your kidnapping? And being held captive for years? My trauma was spread all over Loveland, and you can’t bother sharing yours? I have to learn about it through your ex?”

“She is not my ex! We never had anything! I don’t even understand why you are so obsessed with her, she’s married! She’s off-limits!” Victor exploded.

“Oh, I’m painfully aware of that! If she was single you wouldn’t even look at me. She was nothing to you and still you shared all your life with her, opened a restaurant for her! Yet I sleep in your bed, practically share a life with you, and I’m kept in the dark. I’m the lesser evil. Why would you want me to move here in the first place?” My eyes were filled with tears. Victor’s were filled with anger.

“Don’t make this about me, you know this is not about me.” He fought back. “This is about your unwillingness to commit! This is about you not wanting to stand by my side and fight. I may not be verbal about a lot of things, Andrea, but I do notice them. And the moment that I asked you to move in, you’ve been evasive. You’re terrified to do this. I know that things went sour when you and Daniel moved in, but I’m not Daniel! And it disgusts me to be compared to him! I have been nothing but supportive! And I wonder if you truly want my support, because the minute things get hard, you look for reasons to walk away! Things got hard back in Portugal, and you ran to Loveland! You must be mentally packing by now!”

“Don’t act like you understand what I’ve been through! And don’t you dare use my abuse against me!” I almost screamed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so enraged with Victor, and I could see him losing it too. And it was all so unfair! I was risking everything I fought so hard for just to be with him.

Victor paused, noticing he was indeed touching a very sensitive subject. He moved closer, but didn’t touch me, using his pleading eyes to connect with me.

“You’re giving up on us, Andrea. Don’t do this because things are getting harder. We can still solve this together.”

“Things are more than hard, Victor. My career is on the line, my trauma is juicy gossip, you haven’t been honest with me about your past. And some things can’t be solved. Did you tell your father the filthy immigrant can’t actually give him grandchildren? Did you ever consider it yourself? That you may want a child someday and I can’t give it to you? Maybe some things are just meant to crash and burn. Maybe we should cut our losses and call it a day.”

I could see the pain in Victor’s eyes when I spoke those last words. It mirrored the pain I felt when I said them. We had different opinions on that matter. As his history with Mia clearly showed, Victor would go to extreme lengths for something that really mattered to him, and I was one to pick my battles. The approaches were different, but both were right. They just weren’t compatible. Maybe Victor genuinely loved me and would stay strong by my side, but I couldn’t bear to make him go through so much hell.

Victor however, headstrong as he was, only saw his side of the equation, the only right side, in his opinion. And I understand he felt rejected. In retrospect, I also understand why the look in his eyes turned from pain to icy cold rage.

“Fine.” He said, his expression defying me, the wall put in place between us. “If you want to leave, then leave. Maybe your infertility is a silver lining, at least you’ll never leave a child behind when things get rough. Abandoning them like you are doing to me right now.”

I didn’t register the seconds that followed his statement, as I acted out of pure rage and instinct. I could only conclude what I had done when I felt my right hand tingle and saw Victor’s face turned to the side, his eyes closed, my fingers printed on his cheek.

I stood for a moment, wondering if it had been just a nightmare. Victor finally opened his eyes and looked at me, and the pain I saw in them was so deep that I couldn’t help but sob in desperation.

I couldn’t believe what had just happened. But it had happened. There was no way we could take it back.

Without a word, I gathered my things, tears streaming down my face, and walked to the door. Victor stood where he was, I didn’t expect him to follow me. Things had gone way too far.

That’s the thing with chain reaction machines, you are so distracted watching the contraption work, that you forget that you can actually stop it. Our relationship had just exploded in the ugliest of ways. The fragile string supporting the bowl had broken, and sand was spilled everywhere.

[arcticdementor]

Yes, we need to talk about climate change again, and it’s probably necessary to start with a point I’ve made on this blog several times already: anthropogenic climate change is real and serious, and it’s being exploited by political and corporate interests to push a dubious agenda on the public. Many people these days don’t seem to be able to keep both these ideas in their heads at the same time. If you find it hard to do that, dear reader, I’m going to encourage you to make the effort, because a great deal of rhetoric is being deployed these days to make you forget that real problems can have fake solutions.

Imagine, to use the inevitable metaphor, that you’re on the proverbial ocean liner, which has just hit the proverbial iceberg. As you stand there on deck, someone grabs a bullhorn and announces that the real problem is that all the money in your pockets is weighing you down. He insists that if you’ll only hand all your money and other valuables to him, and let him row away from the doomed ship in one of the lifeboats, the people left on board just have to flap their arms vigorously and they’ll be able to fly away to safety in Newfoundland.

The problem you face is unquestionably real; go belowdecks and you can see the water rising. Does that mean that the solution being offered by the fellow with the bullhorn is the best option you have, or indeed that it will work at all?  Of course not. The fellow with the bullhorn is betting that you’ll be sufficiently panicked at the thought of imminent drowning that you’ll accept a claim that, under other circumstances, you’d recognize as utter nonsense. It’s a common theme of history that people can be convinced to accept claims almost as silly as the one in my metaphor if they’ve been whipped up into a sufficient state of panic. Yes, I’m suggesting that that’s one of the things shaping the contemporary debate on climate change.

…

So the problem is real; the people who are worried about anthropogenic climate change have that much right. It’s the next steps that get complex. Those steps involve what’s coming, and what can and should be done about it—and in both these cases, we very quickly get into territory that’s rather reminiscent of the fellow with the bullhorn in my metaphor.

Listen to climate change activists talk about what will happen if something isn’t done right away and you’ll get to hear apocalyptic claims that rival anything Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins put into their schlocky Left Behind series—if you’re not familiar with this, it’s more or less the Fifty Shades of Grey of Protestant apocalypse porn. Mark Lynas’ lavishly marketed 2008 climate-change opus Six Degrees, though a bit dated at this point, is typical of the genre in its gaudy portrayal of a world tucked under the broiler, as well as its proselytizing tone—again, the parallels with Left Behind are hard to miss. There’s plenty more of this sort of thing being splashed around by the corporate mass media these days.

…

The difficulty, here as so often, lies in the complex relationship between scientific knowledge and the collective discourse of our time. In those disciplines that haven’t been wholly corrupted by money and fame, scientists tend to be highly cautious when talking to other scientists; they hedge every statement with caveats, because they know perfectly well that the people who are reading those statements have the necessary background to pick them apart, find the flaws, and send a letter to this or that scientific journal exposing your mistakes for all your colleagues to see. That’s a key part of the scientific method, and when it stops happening—when criticism within a discipline is no longer permitted and a rigidly defined consensus governs what you can and cannot disagree with—you know the discipline has sold out.

On the other hand, if you approach a discussion outside of the scientific community with all those caveats, and the subject is anything even remotely controversial, you can expect to have the caveats shoved down your throat by your opponents, who are used to a different mode of discourse. Scientists who find their feet in the public sphere thus quickly stop offering the caveats, and start using the same rhetorical tricks as their opponents. Unfortunately one of the most common of those tricks involves taking your argument further than the evidence will go, and making whatever claims you think you can get away with.

The late Carl Sagan was a notable example of this latter habit. Those of my readers who recall his career will remember that he coauthored the paper that introduced the concept of “nuclear winter” to public discussion. (For those who don’t recall this, it’s the theory that nuclear war would cause sudden global cooling along the same lines, and for the same reasons, as the Tambora eruption in 1816.)  That original paper—the TTAPS paper, as it was called after the initials of its authors—was a solid scientific study that showed that there was a serious risk of global cooling lasting for many weeks, and gave facts and figures to support that argument.

Sagan wrote two more pieces on nuclear winter, though, which were not intended for his fellow scientists. He contributed to a 1984 volume, The Cold and the Dark, which was aimed at an audience of scientifically literate laypeople. He also wrote a 1983 article for Parade Magazine—a weekly that at the time was inserted into Sunday newspapers around the country—which was thus aimed at the scientifically illiterate public. Compare those with the original study and a curious trend emerges. Where the TTAPS study predicted a period of cooling lasting for weeks, his piece in The Cold and the Dark replaced that with months, and the Parade article stretched it out to years. Sagan was involved in antinuclear activism, and apparently couldn’t resist the temptation to play fast and loose with facts to prop up the case he was trying to make.

…

If you want to see just how far climate scientists have gotten into what we might as well call the Sagan syndrome, by the way, ask them about the global cooling scare of the 1970s. Odds are the immediate response you’ll get is an insistence that it never happened. If you present them with the titles and authors of books written during that period that treated global cooling as a reality—those aren’t hard to find—they’ll typically backpedal and insist that well, maybe so, but scientists didn’t support the global cooling scare. If you demonstrate that respected scientists did in fact do so—and again, this isn’t hard to do—they’ll either get angry and start shouting or insist that, well, maybe so, but it wasn’t the consensus among climate experts.

Don’t tell them about the 1972 climate conference at Brown University here in Rhode Island, which brought together 42 of the world’s top climate scientists, and ended up sending a letter to President Nixon and putting papers in Science and Quaternary Studies warning of imminent global cooling and a possible new ice age. If you do that, I promise that they’ll get angry and start shouting, because you’ve caught them behaving like politicians rather than scientists, and they’ll know it. You can get the same effect by asking dieticians why we should believe what they say about cholesterol now, when we all know perfectly well that in another ten years they’ll have changed their minds again. Laypeople aren’t supposed to question scientists like that—at least that’s what scientists like to tell themselves.

…

So the shrill insistence that we’re facing a climate emergency and we have to take drastic action right now is a political claim, not a scientific one. The drastic action—well, that’s another matter. The open secret of climate change activism is that the solutions being offered by activists have uncomfortable similarities to the claims of the fellow with the bullhorn in my metaphor. Decades of heavily subsidized growth in solar and wind power haven’t dented the steady increase in carbon dioxide emissions, for example—not least because solar and wind power technologies depend on vast fossil fuel inputs for their manufacture, installation, maintenance, and disposal—so it’s disingenuous to claim that putting even more money into solar and wind power will do the job. As for vegan diets, bans on plastic straws, and the like, those are virtue signaling covering up an unwillingness to accept meaningful change.

For two decades now, in fact, the people who are loudest in their insistence that something has to be done about climate change have been the same people whose lifestyles disproportionately cause climate change. If you commute all alone in an SUV, fly to Mazatlan or Spain every year for a vacation, and keep up the other habits of absurd extravagance that go with an upper middle class lifestyle in the industrial world these days, even if you eat a vegan diet and never touch a plastic straw, your carbon footprint exceeds that of ten deplorables in West Virginia or a hundred ordinary people in Indonesia or Uruguay. If you’re one of the rich and famous at the forefront of climate change activism, your carbon footprint exceeds that of a Third World town.

…

Au contraire, the behavior of climate change activists, and of the corporate media and multinational business interests that fund and promote them so lavishly, makes sense only if you assume that they want everyone else to stop using fossil fuels so that they don’t have to. The shrill claims of impending doom, the insistence that we’re in a climate emergency and everyone has to accept drastic restrictions that climate change activists show no trace of willingness to embrace in their own lives, make perfect sense if the game plan is to buffalo most of the people in the world’s industrial countries into accepting a sharply lower standard of living “for the planet,” so that the upper twenty per cent or so can maintain their current lifestyles unchanged.

If that’s what’s going on, though, it’s a losing game. The project of splitting industrial societies into an affluent minority and an impoverished majority by offshoring jobs and flooding the labor market with immigrants has already generated a furious populist backlash so forceful that in the US and Great Britain alike, globalist parties are desperately scrambling to avoid giving voters the chance to choose between their policies and those of the populist insurgency. From science through politics to the corporate media, the spokescritters of the status quo have been caught shoveling smoke so often that the prestige they once had is a thing of the past—and no, it won’t work to do as some privileged pundits are doing these days and insist, plaintively or angrily as the case may be, that the rabble ought to stop asking unwelcome questions and believe blindly in whatever their supposed betters tell them. Those days are over.

…

I’m thinking here among many other things about a recent discovery at an Australian university. Did you know that cows like to eat seaweed?  Ranchers who raise cows near the sea routinely find their herds on the beach or even belly deep in the surf, munching seaweed. It so happens that one variety of seaweed has the effect of nearly eliminating the production of methane in cows’ digestive tracts. Methane is a far more powerful greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide, and has been coming out of the bellies of ruminants in vast quantities since long before humans arrived—think of the herds of buffalo that used to roam the North American plains, or the herds of aurochs (the wild ancestors of cattle) that once thronged the steppes of western Eurasia.

Could we fine-tune emissions by giving cows seaweed to eat, so that excess carbon dioxide (which benefits plant growth, by the way) is balanced out by decreased methane? It’s worth trying—and the Australian scientists are working on methods to raise the seaweed in question so it can become a common additive to cattle feed. That would have to be phased in gradually so the results didn’t swing the climate the other way, but that could easily be managed, given a less hysterical approach to climate change than the one being pushed by activists these days.

That’s only one example of the kind of appropriate technology that we could use to cushion our species’ impact on the biosphere. Replacing wood with hemp as a feedstock for paper and other uses could be another—the faster a plant grows, the more carbon dioxide it sucks out of the air, and hemp grows much faster than commercial softwoods. For that matter, large-scale tree planting is a viable strategy, deliberately copying the events that led to the Little Ice Age to cool things off a bit, especially if the trees are left to mature rather than being cut down early in their life cycle—again, we’ve got hemp as a replacement. Combine these and other bits of appropriate tech with the phasing out of a few absurd extravagances like private jets, and we can bring climate change to a halt, or at least slow it down to a pace that we and other species can handle.

[loljulie]

flicker; {004} a reservoir in your eyes

(yay part 4! thank you to the couple of people who helped figure out some stuff about this fic last night! it really helped me decide on how to write some things for this! as always, thank you to anybody who reads, likes, replies, or reblogs any of my writing - i legit teared up last night because of some of the nice things people have to say about it. it truly means a lot to me to hear/read your comments/messages. enjoy this part loves~)

genre: detroit: become human

deviant!connor x reader

word count: 3398 (yikes!)

▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓　 d̯̱̝̠̘̙͙e̼̯̣̗͈͇̳v̥̗̭̹̫ia̘̝͔͙͙̜ͅn͈t͇͓̦̻s̙̗͉̜͕  　▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓

@dragonempress123​​​

@itstrashleydude​​​

@chisooyaaa​​​

@help-i-need-a-social-life​​​

@shadows-echoes​

@sygin

“That’s all I have prepared,” Connor ended his conjecture and sat down at the glossy, dark oak table. You, him, and Hank had been sitting in a conference room at the police station, trying to figure out how to move forth with the investigation.

It had been two days since Eden Club, during which you and Connor had exchanged awkward stares and polite conversation as you tried to work together. After an extensive review of the crime scenes you had missed, Hank called all three of you into the room to discuss leads or ideas. Connor had just gone, stressing the importance of rA9. After he was seated, a moment of contemplative silence passed, before Hank nodded at you.

You stood up, mentally running through what you wanted to discuss. Truth be told, you had really not come up with much. The crime scenes had been different in their own ways, but ultimately the story was always the same.

“If I’m being honest,” you started out, resting your palms against the cold table. “All things considered… I think we’re shit out of luck.”

Hank arched an eyebrow at you, as if proud of your blunt comment. Connor watched you intently.

“I’ve reviewed the evidence, and what it tells me is the same thing: deviancy can’t be predicted or prevented,” you opened up a file on your tablet and clicked the account you were looking for. “‘All androids from Eden Club have their memories wiped every 2 hours, in the interest of privacy for our customers.’ Every. Two. Hours. And yet, those two Traci models… they loved each other. Something inside them kept them coming back to each other, and it wasn’t their memories. It was stronger than that.”

“Even if we wipe memories of androids who have deviant tendencies, it’s still clearly possible for them to break free.” you paused, placed your tablet down, and let out a breath of air. “It… it might even be inevitable.”

You noticed Hank’s expression first, a pensive look in his eyes as he reflected on your statements. Connor, you noticed, wasn’t watching you anymore. His gaze was turned downward, at his hands in his lap.

“That’s… that’s all I have.” You sat down at the table, letting what you had just said settle in the room for a moment. When you turned to look expectantly at Hank, he met your stare and stood up. You straightened a bit, ready to hear what he had to say.

“I’m starving. Lunch?” He asked casually. It took you a moment to reply, as you were expecting him to talk about the investigation a bit more. Noticing your hesitance, he continued. “There’s nothing I can say that you two already haven’t.”

Finding that to be a decent answer, you and Connor stood up and followed Hank as he exited the conference room. As the three of you made your way through the station, a voice called out your name.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” You turned to see Gavin approaching you. Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw Connor stiffen. “How’s about that lunch we talked about?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you apologized with a friendly smile before nodding to Hank and Connor. “I’m going with them.”

Gavin eyed your partners, his demeanor suddenly turning less friendly than it had been when he approached you. “Right…” he started, his stare resting on Connor’s face in a borderline threatening way. “You’re working on the deviancy cases with them.”

“Yes... so maybe next time?” You offered. At the sound of your voice, Gavin focused back on you, his features softening.

“Alright, then. I’ll be waiting,” Gavin added. He gave Connor another look before he left.

“I never liked that guy,” Hank commented as you continued your walk out of the police station. You shrugged.

“He’s not that bad,” you imparted, earning a scoff from Hank.

“Maybe not to the pretty ones.”

-

Glass shattering caused you to shoot up in your bed. You stayed still for a moment, your ears listening for any sounds of movement. Every part of you wished that you had been mistaken in what you heard.

When you heard footsteps walk around the living room, your blood ran cold. Someone was in your apartment, and they must’ve broken in through the window near the fire escape. You quietly got out of bed, trying not to alert the intruder. The first thing you had to do was arm yourself, just in case whoever was out there had a weapon as well.

As you tried to cross your room to the closet, the floorboards creaked beneath you. Your face grimaced as you halted in your tracks, hoping the sound would go unnoticed. Your hopes were futile.

“I-I know you’re in there,” a female voice called out. Shit. “Come out right now. I-I have a knife.”

You closed your eyes and stopped your breathing, hoping that maybe you could convince the intruder that the noise was imagined.

“I-I mean it. I’ll go in there and get you myself,” it demanded after a moment.

“Okay, okay,” you announced, walking slowly to the door. “I’m going to open the door. I’m unarmed, okay?”

Without hearing a response, you turned your bedroom door knob and pulled your door open. To your surprise, it was an android wielding a knife at you. Her LED was bright red, a stark contrast to the blue blood leaking from her shoulder. You kept your hands raised to show you were unarmed and slowly walked out of the bedroom.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do, I promise,” you tried to reason. You had gone through enough hostage training scenarios at the academy to know how best to respond. Based on the nervous nature of the android in front of you, it was easy to realize she was a deviant and would hopefully want to make an escape without anymore blood on her hands.

She watched you intently, her knife still in front of her. The tip of it was drenched in red blood, further affirming what you already guessed. Her hair, which must’ve usually been kept in a bun, was messy and out of place.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, watching each other for any movement. Suddenly, your phone’s loud ringtone ruptured the silence, causing the deviant to jump.

“It’s just my phone,” you explained, remembering its place on your nightstand. “I should answer it.”

“No, no. You’ll pull some trick.” Her erratic voice matched her visible nervousness.

“It’ll be worse if I don’t,” you tried to reason. “They might send someone to check on me.”

The deviant seemed to consider it for a moment. Your heart was pounding, knowing that this could be the difference between life and death. Finally, the deviant nodded.

“Okay, fine, but I’m going to watch you the whole time.”

You nodded and turned your back, a move that filled you with dread, on the deviant. You walked into your room, keenly aware of the footsteps behind you. When you grabbed the phone and swiped to accept the call, a small wave of relief crashed into you.

“(Y/N), we just got a call. Dead body near your apartment complex, and blue blood around the scene.” Hank’s gruff voice was music to your ears at that moment.

“No, I’m sorry Hank. I can’t take you tomorrow because my car is in the shop.” You tried to keep your voice as level as possible, as the deviant had her eyes trained on you.

Over the phone, you heard the sound of tires screeching. Hank had insisted the two of you come up with a code phrase for situations like this, and it finally had been put to use.

“Got it. Be there soon. Stay on the line if you can. Connor, record this now.”

You breathed deeply. “Okay, goodnight.” Instead of pressing the end call button, you placed the phone on your bed with the screen facing down and the microphone pointed to the living room.

“Back into the living room,” the deviant ordered. You nodded and walked to the middle of the room, your heart skipping as you passed the deviant and her weapon. She kept you standing a comfortable distance away from her.

“What’s your name?” You asked, hoping to get any identifying information from her. Getting personal could make her less likely to kill you.

The deviant’s LED flickered before she answered. “Nicole.”

“Okay, Nicole. I’m (Y/N),” you revealed. Your eyes landed on the wound in her shoulder. “You’re hurt. Did… did someone do that to you?”

“Yes,” her voice was thick with emotion. “I-I was just trying to get back home. He had me run some errands and - and this woman came up to me.”

You could tell the story was hard for her to recount. She seemed to be loosening her grip on her weapon, which was a good sign.

“She started harassing me. Telling me I was the reason she was laid off. I tried to keep walking but she- she pushed me against the wall,” she struggled to speak as tears began to stream down her face. “She kept calling me all these terrible things. When she pulled out a knife, I knew she was going to kill me. I-I didn’t want to die. She stabbed me a-and something snapped in me.”

“It’s-it’s not fair. I just wanted to go home. I-I don’t deserve to die for existing.”

Her story hit something within you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have guessed that the person you were speaking to were just any human. It would’ve made you feel bad for the deviant, if there wasn’t a knife wielded at you.  

“Wh-when I realized what I was doing, it was too late. Someone on the street screamed, I-I don’t know who. I just ran, tried to get to the roof, but… the sirens were-were just down the street. I panicked, I had to get out of sight.”

“I understand, Nicole,” you kept your voice calm and reassuring. “You can leave right now if you wanted to.”

She shook her head. “The police are at the crime scene. They-they’ll be looking for me.”

The metal clanging of footsteps climbing the fire escape caused Nicole to be momentarily distracted. You took your chance to run at her and attempted to kick the knife from her hand. However, her reaction time was faster than yours and her grip was stronger than the force from your kick.

Instead of taking the chance to slash at you, she pulled you against her chest and kept the knife trained at your throat just in time for Connor to appear in the shattered window.

When he saw you trapped against the knife, he raised his hands for the deviant to see that he was unarmed.

“Okay, okay,” he spoke cautiously, his eyes glancing from yours, to the knife at your throat, to the deviant. “We don’t want anything bad to happen here.”

Nicole was silent, her grip around your shoulders iron tight. Feeling the cold, sticky surface of the knife caused your heart to beat even faster than before.

“If you kill her, it’ll be even worse for you,” Connor claimed. He slowly stepped into the room, his hands still raised. Nicole allowed this but stepped farther from him and pulled you with her. “If you let her go now, you can still escape.”

“You’ll arrest me somehow,” Nicole’s statement seemed more like it was an inquisition. Connor shook his head.

“They don’t know where you are. I’m the only one. I just want her safe.” He nodded to you, and that statement seemed to make Nicole loosen her grip on you slightly.

“There’s a back exit,” you spoke up, your voice uneven and weak. You hated how wobbly your knees felt. “If you leave the front door and go left, you’ll find it. You’ll be on the opposite street from the police.”

Nicole seemed to contemplate this, and for a few dreadful moments, you waited in silence to hear her next move. “You,” she finally spoke, her eyes locked on Connor’s. “Unlock this door and open it for me. And don’t try anything.”

You flinched slightly at the warning, knowing exactly what threat hid behind her words. Connor accepted the order, walking past you and Nicole to get to the front door. You and the deviant watched intently as Connor unlocked door and opened it widely.

“Now stand back over there,” Nicole demanded. When he was at a safe distance again, she slowly backed up into the doorframe, looked to the left, and spotted the exit you had mentioned.

The next moment, you were released from her grip and pushed toward Connor, who caught you before you collided with the floor. You felt hot tears of relief escape your eyes as he gripped onto you tightly, as if afraid to let you go. You buried your head in his chest, finding the low hum of his mechanical heart comforting, and cried out your tension.

Fast footsteps down the hallway caused you both to pull apart out of fear. When the source turned out to be Hank, you embraced him as well. He wrapped his arms around you, letting out a sigh of relief.

“You had me worried there, kid,” he remarked, squeezing you tightly before letting go. He looked at your tear-streaked face, his own eyes starting to water. “I can’t lose you.”

You brought your arm to your face and wiped the tears away, completely soaking your forearm. When you had calmed down a little bit more, you glanced between the both of them.

“Are we going to check the crime scene?” You asked. Hank raised an eyebrow at you.

“If you think I’m letting you work after that, you’re some kind of stupid,” he answered, clasping a hand on your shoulder. His expression was softer than usual as he noticed your puffy, red eyes. “We got a lot from the conversation you had with the deviant. Connor and I can go to the scene and see what else is there, but you’ve helped us figure out what happened already.”

“Actually, Lieutenant,” Connor interjected, “I think it may be best for me to stay here. With (Y/N).”

You and Hank simultaneously stared at Connor. He shifted on his feet before explaining further.

“It’s just that, we don’t know if the deviant will return, and I can stay up all night guarding if I need to. And, as you said, we already know what happened at the crime scene.” He reasoned, then hastily added, “It’s the safest option.”

You looked back at Hank, who was watching you intently. Something flashed in his eyes that you couldn’t describe, but it caused him to sigh. “We shouldn’t take any chances,” he decided. He nodded to Connor. “If anything happens, call me right away.”

“I’ll fill the report out for this one, (Y/N). Just rest up.”

And with that, Hank gave you one final hug before disappearing through your door frame. You closed the door behind him, and double checked to be sure you locked it.

You leaned your back against the door and tried to focus on your breathing. You closed your eyes and forced yourself to take deep breath after breath as your mind calmed down what you just experienced.

“Would you like to get some sleep?” Connor’s question caused you to open your eyes. You shook your head and pushed yourself off the door.

“I don’t think I’d even be able to,” you answered as your footsteps took you to your couch. The soft cushions were a relief to sit down on. You didn’t realize how badly your hands were shaking until they were idle in your lap.

Connor joined you not too long after. His rested his hands atop of yours, and the comfort of his touch stopped their shaking. He was watching you intently, though your gaze was empty and your mind was elsewhere.

The deviant was right, and you couldn’t stop replaying her words over and over again in your head. I don’t deserve to die for existing. It sent shivers down your spine as you realized how human she sounded, and how terrified she was.

Without you realizing it, your hands had gripped onto Connor’s as if they were craving his touch. When Connor spoke, rousing you from your thoughts, you noticed the way your hands melted together and your cheeks felt warm.

“Lieutenant (Y/L/N),” his voice was soft, as if to match the stillness of the room. “I… I wanted to apologize.”

You arched an eyebrow at his statement. “For what?”

“For causing you emotional distress,” he answered, and for some reason it seemed like what he was saying was hard for him. “I didn’t mean to… and, I don’t like there being discomfort between us.”

Your mind reflected on the last time you had talked like this with Connor at the Eden Club. You remembered how he looked, drenched with rainwater, as you explained why you were so upset. The look on his face now was almost akin to that night.

“There’s… something else that I’m having trouble with, too,” he went on. You nodded for him to keep going. “There have been moments where I… I do things, or react to things, in a way that I shouldn’t.”

You waited patiently for him to explain, though your heart began to race in your chest.

“That first night I came here, when I put your hand back on my cheek… I couldn’t explain why I did that. Everything that happened afterwards I couldn’t understand either. I tried to convince myself that it was a programmed reaction, but I knew that it wasn’t. I did those things because I wanted to, and I couldn’t face that.”

All the work you had done to steady your breathing earlier was thrown out the window as you listened to Connor speak.

“I self-diagnosis myself constantly, and I… I see things that aren’t right. These experiences, especially with you involved… they’re doing something to my software. Even… even just seeing Gavin talk to you or look at you… I’m not programmed to want to punch him for it, but I have to stop myself from going through with it.”

“Connor… I…” you were at a loss for words. What could you even say to all of that?

“And I don’t know why all I want to do, right now and every time I’m near you, is… kiss you.”

Your emotions spurred your haste, breathy answer. “Then do it.”

In a matter of seconds, Connor’s hands left yours and cupped your face as he closed the distance between your lips. Your hands gripped the collar of his jacket, pulling him as close to you as you could. The first kiss you shared with Connor had been slow, and searching. This one, by contrast, was desperate and urgent.

You slowly leaned back until your head rested on the couch armrest, Connor hovering over you while his hands traveled steadily from your face to your hips. You broke away from the kiss, only to leave a trail of them on his neck. Connor rested his face against the side of your cheek, one hand trailing over the waistband of your pajama shorts while he propped himself up with the other.

“(Y/N)...” his voice moaned out, stirring warmth inside of you at how attractive he sounded calling your name. “Can we take this… further?”

You pulled away from his neck as he lifted his head to look into your eyes. His LED, which was a yellow color, was the only source of light between you two. There was something in his eyes that you hadn’t seen from him before… a mixture of lust and hopefulness that made your breathing hitch. The implication in his words weren’t lost on you by any means. A logical part of you was worried about what it would mean to Connor, but ultimately your emotions and desire won over.

The same conflict had occurred in the android above you, but was resolved when you nodded your consent. Something inside of him, that definitely could not be explained by his programming, took over as the two of you reconnected and became entangled in each other.

[katsitting]

Hiii, what about 70 and 86 for tomarry? If you’re in the mood for that haha

“Locked in a Room +  I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On

I see what you’re trying to do here. I hope you enjoy what I cooked up randomly. It’s just haphazard stuff, as usual. Enjoy yourself this AU.

Warning: Sexual content between two men.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit–” Harry ducked through the first door he saw, dreading another interaction with the newest addition to the business.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Tom. The man was nice and quiet. He was polite, and for the past few months, he’d done his best to acquaint himself with everyone in the sales department. He was likable, the perfect subordinate.

But at the same time, there was just something about him that made Harry’s brain itch. He didn’t know if it was Tom’s perfectly combed hair or the way he dressed to work: crisp button-down shirt, black slacks, and shiny dress shoes all firmly pressed without a single smear along the crease of his collar. It made Harry self-conscious, the way he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes away from Tom no matter what he did. 

Being in the same room as him, interacting with him for more than fifteen minutes about things that had nothing to do with work, was painful. He couldn’t keep his attention firmly on the subject, his mind always straying to the light flush on the man’s pale cheeks or the way Tom’s hands splayed over Harry’s mahogany desk in his office.

It set Harry on edge in more ways than he wished to admit.

Tom was too perfect. His laughter was warm and inviting when it shouldn’t be. His eyes were deep and engaging, stretching on and on. An abyss that, Harry dreaded, would one day consume him.

If it hasn’t done so already, a traitorous thought whispered in the back of his head. A shudder rippled through him, his hand clenching into tight fists to stop himself from storming out of the small closet. 

Fuck.

Harry couldn’t help the way his thoughts inevitably turned to Tom. Tom was just so damn pretty, and the way his eyelashes just–

His inappropriate trail of thought was blessedly cut off by the sound of footsteps passing the door. Relief curled over him, soothing the anxiousness thrumming through his veins.

The company had a strict policy against dating one’s subordinates. He couldn’t entertain that thought. It was wrong–Harry had heard enough horror stories of bosses taking advantage of their female and male employees to even contemplate a fling with Tom.

Harry wouldn’t do that, couldn’t abuse his power in that way. But still. This attraction, this hyperawareness of Tom needed to stop. 

And if that meant avoiding the man like he were a walking infestation, then so be it. Until he managed to reign these strange emotions, he wouldn’t trust himself to be alone with Tom, or place himself in a room with the man, until that was taken care of.

Harry heaved a relieved sigh when no other sound emanated from beyond the door. He waited a few more minutes, making certain that no one was anywhere near the vicinity before opening the door and sticking his head out.

The hall was empty. 

With that, Harry stepped out of the tiny broom, feeling as though he’d just run a marathon. The rush of adrenaline had come and gone, and all that remained now was pure exhaustion.

“Harry!” 

Harry felt all the color drain from his face. He knew that voice. No one at the office called him that. People in the sales department called him Potter, a request he had made immediately after his promotion in the company to maintain some semblance of professionalism. It was what was expected–an aspect he didn’t necessarily like but had to adopt now that he was under the persnickety eye of other supervisors. The fact that Tom continued to ignore his requests, calling him Harry after he’d made this point clear, another reason he avoided the man. His name sounded too good coming from Tom’s lips. It was a fucking crime.

Harry plastered a fake smile and turned in the direction Tom’s voice had come from.

Just my bloody luck. Please let this be quick.

Tom was at the far end of the hall, adjacent to a wall of glass that separated the conference room from the main hallway. It wasn’t too far from where all of the offices for the sales department was. They were just around the corner, really.

The fact that Harry’s office was the exception didn’t change much, but still. After his promotion just last year–he was on the opposite end of the hall where the marketing team typically dwelled in the building. It had been a pain in the arse at first, but he had quickly come to appreciate it. 

It was a nice lull in the anxiety-inducing work felt collectively by the sales department. Especially when this separation gave him a much-needed reprieve from the inappropriate thoughts he had of his subordinate. 

After months of uncomfortable wet dreams and vivid scenarios where Harry wasn’t just a name said from across the hallway, but said elsewhere–at a private and secluded elsewhere–Harry was grateful for the space.

“Do you have a moment? There is something I would like to discuss.”

Harry couldn’t begin to guess what Tom wanted, but whatever it was, guessing by the sheepish look on Tom’s face, it had to be serious.

Swallowing his nerves, Harry gestured to Tom with his head before saying “Of course. Let’s talk in my office.”

Tom smiled at him, his eyes sparkling with something Harry couldn’t describe, before breaking into a short jog. Tom eclipsed the short distance between them in moments, and Harry both mourned and delighted in the lost space. 

“Thank you, Harry. I’m glad you’re willing to meet with me beyond your standard working hours.”

Keep it together, Harry. You’re just going to talk business and then you can ask him to get out of your office.

“I am grateful for your time.” 

Harry started to move before Tom finished speaking, his feet shuffling along the carpet with barely repressed anxiousness. 

“Yeah, it’s no trouble. Just make it quick since it’s unfortunately still the middle of the week.”

Harry could feel Tom’s eyes boring into the back of his head, the weight of them enough to crush his bones. He didn’t know how something as innocuous as a stare could do that–how a man–Harry barely knew could make his stomach flip and twist like it was speeding through an empty street.

It was insane.

Harry ignored these strange emotions, passing through various closed doors until he finally reached his locked door at the furthest end of the hall. Ignoring the silence that had settled around them and the way his insides were screaming at him, Harry grasped the handle and stuffed his fingers into his pocket to fish for his office key. 

He had been at a long and unnecessary conference earlier, and there had simply been no telling how long he would be in there. It had been scheduled for four in the fucking afternoon, and so, he’d locked his door, anticipating that he might leave straight from the meeting to his apartment rather than back to his office.

The fact he was back at his office past six in the afternoon with Tom, who had stayed beyond his usual to speak to him. Harry had all the reason to be nervous.  

God, if only I’d have stayed in the supply closet for fifteen more minutes.

“Alright, just take a seat and we can–”

Everything happened too quickly.

One moment, his key was stuffed into the lock, his wrist twisting the handle, and then the next, he was being shoved into his office, the door slamming shut behind him.

“What the fuck–” Harry started, arms flailing out to prevent himself from smashing headfirst into his desk. A photo frame he had placed at the corner toppled to the ground when his arm knocked into it, his computer vibrating and the supply cup beside it falling over, spilling his pens and pencils all over its surface.

“What the hell, Tom?” Harry demanded, pushing himself back up to turn and level the arsehole with the most scathing look he could muster.

The sight that met him, however, was not what he’d expected. His glare faltered, a shudder crawling up his spine when Tom stood in front of the door, the key to Harry’s office dangling between his fingers. 

Tom’s smile was gone.

Harry swallowed, fingers gripping onto the wood because in the short time Tom had been there, the man had never stopped smiling. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Tom said, matter-of-fact. There was no inflection, no question. It was a mere statement and it made the memory of all the reasons why he was avoiding Tom push against his skull. 

Thoughts that Harry tried, in vain, to curb with a hand wrapped around his cock, his thumb curling over the head his cock to tease the underside just the way he liked. Imagining, despite his better conscience, that it wasn’t his hand, but Tom’s tongue, slithering over his head, tasting his essence–

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heat pooled low in his stomach, his breath catching when Tom cocked his head to one side, a gesture Harry had only ever seen in predatorial creatures. Shifting his weight, Harry tried to keep his hardening cock from view, knowing that his slacks would do nothing to mask it should it go at full mast. “I’ve been preoccupied. You know, working.”

Tom raised a brow, unconvinced. Harry tried not to groan aloud, irked that he had to deal with this shite. 

Harry, for all his attraction, did not owe Tom anything. He was the boss, and what he did was none of Tom’s bloody business. If he wanted to come to work wearing a bloody tutu, then he would. Tom had no reason, no basis, to demand answers to questions Harry refused to answer.

“If we’re going to work together, I think it would be in the company’s best interest that we be honest with one another. You’ve been behaving oddly for some time now, and I’d like to know what it is that I have done wrong–”

“You haven’t done anything, Tom.” Harry interrupted, straightening up now that the excitement from earlier had dissipated, careful to keep his legs positioned in a way that did not reveal the true…direction of his thoughts. He’d die of mortification if this got out. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You have the best sales of the company.”

“Then what is it?” Tom pushed away from the door, and it took everything in Harry to not press himself against the desk, a bead of sweat gathering at the nape of his neck and sliding along his spine. A look of concern was etched on the man’s face, his brows furrowed in such concentration that Harry wondered if Tom’s brows scrunched in that same manner when–

Stop it, Harry.

“Harry, I know that I haven’t been here for long, but you can talk to me. I promise that whatever is said here shall remain private.” Tom’s voice had gone low, almost a whisper. It made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end and his stomach jolt in a way that was entirely inappropriate.

Harry clenched his fingers into fists, a swell of desire pulsing in time with the rapid beating of his heart. Tom was driving him mad, over the fucking edge. 

Harry was hot and sticky all over, sweating profusely at the way Tom looked at him. It was as if he was the only person in the room--and though this was true--that point did nothing to curb his less than pure thoughts. His self-control was being chipped away, bit by bit 

And it made him want to laugh, to weep, because Tom had no bloody idea what he was doing to him. How someone so observant, a man that was capable of charm buyers into buying their shite products, was miraculous. Harry was seconds from snapping and Tom--god, Tom--was none the wiser.

“Harry? Are you okay? You’re looking a bit flushed.” 

Tom’s hand smoothed over Harry’s shoulder, unexpected. A gasp tore from his lips, the shock of electricity shooting up his spine at such an innocuous gesture flinging him past the point of no return.

Fuck it.

Harry’s hand shot and grabbed Tom by the shoulder, the other curling around his waist, a gratified moan rumbling down his chest at finally touching, experiencing the warmth of that body after so many nights of imagining.

Then his mouth was on Tom’s, pushing himself to the tips of his toes to close the distance their height difference created.

Harry moaned into the kiss, thrilled by the taste in his mouth, by the gasp of shock that fled Tom’s mouth when his teeth caught Tom’s bottom lip and nipped it. It tasted like coffee and mint, a predictable taste that an office man, of course, would have.

It didn’t matter that in another life, this combination would taste awful. None of that did. At that moment, this was singlehandedly the best thing he had ever experienced–better than the fantasies he’d had of Tom’s mouth against his, of imagining his tongue curled against his, teeth catching on his skin and biting him raw.

 Even if Tom had yet to respond, with the exception of his surprised gasp when Harry had practically mauled the man, his cock was rock hard in his slacks.

Harry pulled him closer, and that seemed to spark Tom into action. The once one-sided kiss quickly became mutual, Tom’s lips brushing against his, coaxing his mouth open with his tongue. Harry allowed it, mouth parting to taste more of Tom’s mouth.

Tom’s tongue pressed against his tongue, curled over the gums of his mouth. There was a hint of teeth along his bottom lip, the threat of them biting him enough to make his back arch, to yank Tom closer and into the heat pulsing between his thighs.

A groan from Tom’s mouth coaxed him into opening his eyes, desperate to see Tom undone--to burn into his mind the image until it was all he could fantasize of.

Harry’s eyes fluttered open, unsure of when he’d closed them in the first place, and gasped, pulling away when he caught Tom watching him, his dark eyes stripping him bare and missing nothing. It was like a shock of ice water.

Harry’s mouth hung open, unable to close. It stung from where Tom’s mouth had sucked his, but still, he didn’t move. Didn’t think. His trousers were uncomfortably tight, his cock straining against the material. 

Oh god, oh god–

There was no telling just how long they remained looking at one another. 

Tom’s eyes were taking him in as if he was seeing Harry for the first time and Harry…well, Harry didn’t know what else to do, what to think. 

He couldn’t look away from this, couldn’t curb the hot wave of desire and shame that rocked through him, when Tom’s eyes flickered away from his face for the first time since Tom had locked them in his office to eye the tent between his legs.

When Tom finally rippled his gaze away to look at him with a raised brow, a devious glint within his gaze, Harry couldn’t prevent the blush creeping over his cheeks down to his neck.

“Well, that was unexpected.”

This wasn’t happening, Harry thought, mouth still tingling from the kiss he’d just shared with Tom Riddle, his bloody subordinate. The same man that he had kissed with wild abandon, and the same man that had, to Harry’s shock, returned Harry’s kiss with just as much gusto.

Fuck, fuck, fuck–

“You should have mentioned this earlier.” 

Tom was smiling, a delighted grin that made Harry both ill and excited. 

“There was no need to hide your attraction. I assure you that the feeling is entirely mutual.”

[spamzineglasgow]

(HOT TAKE) Notes on a Conditional Form by The 1975, part 1

In the first instalment of a two part dialogic HOT TAKE of The 1975′s latest album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit, 2020), Maria Sledmere writes to musician and critic Scott Morrison with meditations on the controversial motormouth and prince of sincerity that is Matty Healy, the poetics of wrongness, millennial digression and what it means to play and compose from the middle.

Dear Scott,

> So we have agreed to write something on The 1975’s fourth studio album, Notes on a Conditional Form (Dirty Hit/Polydor). I have been traipsing around the various necropoli of Glasgow on my state-sanctioned walks this week, listening to the long meandering 80-minute world of it, disentangling my headphones from the overgrown ferns, caught between the living and dead. Can you have a long world, a sprawling fantasia, when ‘the world’ feels increasingly shortened, small, boiled down to its ‘essentials’? Let’s go around the world in 80 minutes, the band seem to say, take this short-circuit to the infinite with me. I like that; I don’t even need a boat, just a half-arsed WiFi connection and a will to download. I’m really excited to be talking with you, writing you both about this; it’s an honour to connect our thoughts. I want writing right now to feel a bit like listening, so I write this listening. When my friend Katy slid into my DMs on a Monday morning with ‘omg the 1975 album starts with greta?????????’ and then ‘what on earth is the genre of this album ?!’ I just knew it had to happen, this writing-listening, because I was equally alarmed and charmed by the cognitive dissonance of that fall from Greta’s soft, yet urgent call to rebel (‘The 1975’), into ‘People’ with its parodic refrain of post-punk hedonism that would eat Fat White Family on a Dadaesque meal-deal platter ‘WELL, GIRLS, FOOD, GEAR [...] Yeah, woo, yeah, that’s right’. Scott, you and I went to see The 1975 play at the Hydro on the 1st of March, my last gig before lockdown. I’d been up all night drinking straight gin and doing cartwheels and crying on my friend’s carpet, and the sleeplessness made everything all the more lush and intense. Those slogans, the theatrical backdrops, the dancers, the lights, the travellator! Everything so EXTRA, what a JOURNEY. And well, it would be rude of me not to invite you to contribute to this conversation, as a thank you for the ticket but also because of your fortunate (and probably unusual) positioning as both a classically trained musician (with a fine-tuned listening ear) and fervent fan of the band (readers, Scott messaged me with pictures of pre-ordered vinyl to prove it).

> It seems impossible to begin this dialogue without first addressing the FRAUGHT and oft~problematic question of Matty Healy, the band’s frontman, variously described as ‘the enfant terrible of pop-rock’ and ‘outspoken avatar’ (Sam Sodomsky, Pitchfork), ‘enigmatic deity’ (Douglas Greenwood for i-D), ‘a charismatic thirty-one-year-old’ and ‘scrawny’, rock star ‘archetype’, not to mention ‘avatar of modern authenticity, wit, and flamboyance’ (Carrie Battan, The New Yorker). ‘Divisive motormouth or voice of a generation?’ asks Dorian Lynskey with (fair enough) somewhat tired provocation in The Guardian, as if you could have one without the other, these days. ‘There are’, writes Dan Stubbs for The NME, ‘as many Matty Healys here as there are musical styles’. So far, so postmodern, so elliptical, so everything/yeah/woo/whatever/that’s right. Come to think of it, it makes sense for The 1975 to draft in Greta Thunberg to read her climate speech over the opening eponymous track. Both Matty and Greta, for divergent yet somehow intersecting reasons, suffer the troublesome, universalising label of voice of a generation. Why not join forces to exploit this label, to put out a message? I’ve always thought of pop music as a kind of potential broadcast, a hypnotic, smooth space for desire’s traversal and recalibration. More on that later, maybe. What do you think?

> You can imagine Matty leaping out of a cryptic, post-internet Cocteau novelette (if not then straight onto James Cordon’s studio desk), emoji streaming from his fingertips like the lightning that Justine wields in Lars von Trier’s film Melancholia (2011); but the terrifying candour of the enfant terrible is also his propensity to wax lyrical on another (bear with my clickhole) YouTube interview about his thoughts on Situationism and the Snapchat generation. It feels relevant to mention cinema right now, if only in passing, because this album is full of cinematic moments: strings and swells worthy of Weyes Blood’s latest paean to the movies, but also a Disneyfication of sentiment clotted and packed between house tracks, ballads and rarefied indie hits. Nobody does the interlude quite like The 1975. Maybe more on that later, also.

> Where do I start though, how to really write about this, how to attain something like necessary distance in the space of a writing-listening? Matty Healy, I suppose, like SPAM’s celebrated authorial mascot, Tom McCarthy, poses the same problem of response: how to write about an artist whose own critical commentary is like an eloquent, overzealous and self-devouring, carnivorous vine of opinion?  

> Now, let’s not turn this into a discussion about who wears pinstripes better (we can leave that to readers - these are total Notes from the Watercooler levels of quiche). There seems to be this obsession with pinning (excuse the pun) Matty down to a flat surface of multiples: a moodboard, avatar, placeholder for automatic cancellation. He’s the soft cork you wanna prod your anxieties through and call it identity, you wanna provoke into saying something bizarrely, painfully true about life ‘as it is now’. Healy himself quips self-referentially, ‘a millennial that babyboomers like’. I don’t really know where to start really, not even on Matty; my brain is all over the place and I can’t find a critical place to settle. I’m lost in the fog and the stripes, some stars also; I haven’t even washed my hair for a week. Funnily enough, in 2018 for SPAM’s #7 Prom Date issue I wrote a poem called ‘Just Messing Around’ where the speaker mentions ‘pinning my eye to the right side / of matt healy’s hair all shaved / & serene’ and you don’t really know if it’s the eye that’s shaved or the hair, but both I guess offer different kinds of vision. Every time I google the man, IRL Matty I mean, I am offered a candied proliferation of alluring headlines: ‘The 1975’s Matty Healy opens up on his beef with Imagine Dragons’, ‘The 1975’s Matty Healy savagely destroys Maroon 5 over plagiarism claims’. Perhaps the whole point is to define (or slay?) by negation. Hey, I’ll write another poem. The opening sentence comes from Matty’s recent Guardian interview.

Superstar

I’m not an avocado, not everyone thinks I’m amazing. That’s why they call me the avocado, baby was a song released by Los Campesinos! in 2013, same year as the 1975’s debut. In the am I have been wanting to listen and Andy puts up a meme like ‘The 1975 names their albums stuff like “A Treatise on Epistemological Suffering” and then spends 2 hours singing about how hard it is to be 26’ and I reply being 26 IS epistemological suffering (isn’t that the affirmative dismissal contained in the title, ‘Yeah I Know’) I mean only yesterday I had to ask myself if it’s true you can wish on 11:11 or take zinc to improve your immune system or use an expired provisional license to buy alcohol like why are they even still asking I thought indie had died after that excruciating Hadouken! song called ‘Superstar’ which was all like You don’t like my scene / You don’t like my song / Well, if you Somewhere I’ve done something wrong it seems a delirious, 3-minute scold of the retro infinitude of scarf-wearing cunts with haircuts, and yeah sure kids dressed as emos rapping to rave is not the end of the world, per se, similarly I had to ask myself is there a life in academia is there a wage here or there, like the Talking Heads song And you may ask yourself, well How did I get here? Good thing I turn 27 next month Timothy Morton often uses the refrain, this is not my beautiful house this is not my beautiful wife to refer to those moments you find yourself caught in the irony loop and that’s dark ecology the closer you are the stranger it feels like slice me in half I’ll fall out with more questions you can plant in the soil like a stone or stoner, just one more drag of does it offend you, yeah? will I live and die in a band Matty sings the sweet green meat of my much-too-old -and-such-youthful experience of adding healthy fat to conference dialogue, like ‘Avocado, Baby’ was released on a record called No Blues I believe a large automobile is hurtling towards me now in negative space and the driver is crooning Elvis and reciting my funding conditions and everything feels like there aren’t not still people who believe the new culture of content is a space ‘over there’ and you can still have earnest power ballads about love if you want them =/ to cancel (too many tabs don’t make a tableau but in the future facebook has a paywall) and fame is a drag the pressure we put on the atmosphere, like somewhere you’re alive and still amazing asking wtf I’m reading this novel by Roberto Bolaño set partly in 1975 before we had internet it seems poets got laid a lot that year in Mexico City before I was born to pick up video calls with a spliff in one hand in the splendid, essential heat like a difficult knife in my side you can put me on toast, grind the pepper over me gently and say fucking hell this has taken forever.

> I guess I want or wanted to begin with this question of difficulty that rises when responding to Notes on a Conditional Form. How do you approach an album whose delayed release places it in a position of considerable hype, an album whose world tour and promotion is again delayed by global pandemic, an album shrouded in the ever-shifting controversy of Matty’s persona, an album whose length and sonic variety risks collapse into litanies of zany superlative and necrophilic attempts to revive musical category as vaguely relevant here? As beautiful as it is to catalogue the offbeat Pinegrove vibes of ‘Roadkill’, the shoegaze croons of ‘Then Because She Goes’ and the pop-punk, chord-bright euphoria of ‘Me & You Together Song’, I could keep going and going with this. I could just list and just list this. The album is a generous offering: a tribute to the album as form in an age where attention tapers away on high-streaming playlists set to conditioned, circadian moods curated by the likes of Spotify or Apple Music. The album is a Borgesian plenitude of multiple pathways, multiple timelines, infinite feed, choose your own adventure; a hypertext of cultural reference almost worthy of Manic Street Preachers at their Richey Edwards era of paranoid, intellectual peak; a metamodernist feat of oscillation between irony and sincerity, an extended tract, a drunk millennial ramble, a journey that loops from house party to club basement to the streams of sexuality repressed and expressed encounter...and yet. It is both more and less than these things. In trying to capture Notes on a Conditional Form with some pithy, journalist’s statement, I’m doing it all wrong.

> Sidenote: I recently listened to Rachel Zucker give a 2016 lecture on ‘The Poetics of Wrongness’ as part of the Bagley Wright Lecture Series. She makes a case for wrongness in poetry and critique, rejects the poem of pithy essence, the short, pretty and to the point lyric whose meaning is easily digested in a greetings card, or A Level exam paper, say. ‘Instead of the Fabergé egg of the short lyric, I prefer the aesthetics of intractability and exhausted exhaustedness’, the mistakes, lags or aporia made along the way in one of these long and winding poems. Notes on a Conditional Form is full of what some might deem mistakes, digression, exhaustion; but it is also peppered with the gloss of almost perfect pop ‘hits’ such as ‘Me & You Together Song’ and ‘If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know)’. A wrong poem should be, ‘ashamed and irreverent’, which feels like a decent description of The 1975’s general orientation towards artistic conception. There is cringe and incongruity, there is by all intents and purposes ‘too much of it’, whatever we mean by ‘it’. And yet, that is its beautiful poetics of wrongness, the sound of wrongness, which ‘prefers the stairs’ to the easy elevator pitch (as Zucker puts it), that ‘prefers a half-finishing crumbling stairwell to nowhere’. I like to think about this 1975 album as a kind of exhausting Escherian scene of shifting, crumbling stairwells, shuffling and reassembling against the glistering backdrop of the internet’s inverse void, where everything, literally everything is translated to a starry excess of 1s and 0s, our collective binary data, the white hot, unreadable howl of our noise. What do you think Scott, would Matty find this image agreeable? Does that matter?

> Pushing dear Matty aside, say what you like, let’s start (again) with the title: Notes on a Conditional Form. Following 2018’s A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships, it’s fair to position these records as gestures towards philosophical statements ‘of the times’. Important to recognise the resistance to total or dominating knowledge built into the titles: these are not complete tracts or theses, but rather ‘a brief inquiry’ and ‘notes’. It’s obviously the ancient yet *hip* thing to do in capital-P Philosophy, to put out your statement on aesthetics and ethics, and I think The 1975 are playing with that tradition and its failure. You can imagine if his attention span were different, Matty Healy would’ve already written a PhD thesis on this stuff and published it as drunken bulletins on LiveJournal in 2007. As it stands, we have the smorgasbord sprawl of this eclectic record to get through in this cursèd year of 2020 — it’s not like we have much of anything better to do right now, when everything feels so futile, beyond reason and even the greatest human endeavour. Haha, woo, Yeah :’(((.

> Let’s stay in that conditional space between crying and laughter. Conditional form is interesting as a term, often used in grammar to refer to the ‘unreal past’ because it uses a past tense but does not actually refer to something that literally happened in the past: If I had texted him back, we would probably have gone to the gig that night. There’s something about the conditional as the ur-condition of the internet, the proliferating possibilities it offers and the hauntological strains of what could have been had we chosen x option over y, z, a, b, c, infinity...As millennials, we often make decisions by hedging, always caught in the conditional state of what it is to be. Hovering in the emotional shortcuts provided by dumb yellow icons, the poetics of abstraction. A verb form’s dalliance with uncertain reverb; and so we live our conditional lives.

> To push this further, we can say the internet is, as ever, Matty Healy’s natural habitat. In a recent podcast interview with Conor Oberst for The Face, Healy tells his favourite emo-country hero that ‘my natural environment by the time I started The 1975 was the fucking internet’. So how does that ecosystem play into the music? In a damning review for The Line of Best Fit, Claire Biddles concludes:

The 1975’s first three albums are ideal and distinct worlds to inhabit, each individually cohesive but situated in specific contexts — the anticipation of the small town, profundity in the face of vacuous fame, and the horror and isolation of late capitalism. Perhaps because of its broken genesis, Notes has no such common context, and ends up feeling flat, directionless and inessential, where its forebears felt vital, worthy of devoting a life to. For a band with proven dexterity in deftly capturing the nuances and quick changes of contemporary conversation, it is disheartening to witness them with nearly nothing of note to say.

That description — ‘flat, directionless and inessential’ — is kind of how I experience the internet right now, in the paradox of Web 2.0 becoming utterly essential, somehow, to how I live my life, how I love, how I am with friends. The internet as my ecosystem, my utility, my complete environment, my Imaginary — beyond the mere utility of a WiFi connection. Broken genesis might well describe the childhoods of those of us who grew up online, whose platforms collapsed around them, whose adolescent data was lost in the great ~accidental annihilation of the MySpace servers, whose identities were always already fractured, performed, anonymised or exquisitely personalised, deferred into only the (im)possible keystroke of utterance and trace, the fort-da play of MSN sign-ins. ‘My life is defined by a desire to be outward followed by a fear of being seen’, Matty says in a new short film for Apple Music, released in tandem with the album. The internet requires this chiaroscuro destiny: not to burn always with Baudelaire’s hard and gem-like flame (O to be an IRL flaneur beyond times of lockdown) but to endlessly flicker between the bright green light of presence and the shade of what once was called afk, away from keyboard. To live and burn in the gap between extroversion and introversion, to live in this conditional state of tendency. To express with emoji, send pics, is to both reveal and withhold something else, essential.

> I like albums to feel like worlds; I appreciate Biddles’ evocation of the cohesion experienced in the first three 1975 records. But perhaps it is a kind of violence to assume a world must have cohesion to exist. What is even meant by ‘common context’? What pressure are we putting on a singer, a band, a cultural moment to produce something familiar and harmonious, and to whom, at what scale? What does it mean to be the biggest band in the world...for a bit? How does that work when everything is dissonance, transience, noise, interference; both this and not-this; when life itself is lived as the flat traversal of a millioning existential terrains that seem to collapse into this nowness in which I feel myself sliding forever? Can anyone weigh-in on what it means to make music, art or writing that’s ‘worthy of devoting a life to’, because the gravity and force of that condition for good art, good pop, seduces me so.

> Maybe the point is to always be in the middle, to never quite start to write about The 1975, to find yourself always already writing about this album because this album was always already writing about your life. I have said nobody does the interlude quite like The 1975, but I was being coy, because the hottest twentieth-century philosophical double act, Deleuze and Guattari (haters gonna hate), do the interlude rather nicely. The point of a rhizome being ‘no beginning or end [...] always in the middle, between things, interbeing, intermezzo’ as they write in A Thousand Plateaus (1980). I see the musical interlude of a pop record, the instrumental moment without lyric, as a kind of middling gesture that places the listener in that conditional state of presence and absence, a hinge between songs, times and narrative moments. Maybe my favourite moment in A Thousand Plateaus is the statement: ‘RHIZOMATICS = POP ANALYSIS, even if the people have other things to do besides read it, even if the blocks of academic culture or pseudoscien-tificity in it are still too painful or ponderous’. Painful or ponderous might be a fair critique levelled at the enfant terrible vibes of Matty’s lyrics and generic pick’n’mix, but isn’t this tactic a kind of swerving punch at the categorical violence that keeps people out of academia, that keeps academic discourse so often stale in the first place? Unlike most journal articles, let’s face it, pop reaches ‘“the people”’. Perhaps Notes on a Conditional Form is the rhizomatic sprawl of the myriad we need as an alternative to institutional hierarchy, ring-fencing and the language games of academia. Surely the title is a reference to the very ‘pseudoscient-tificity’ D&G mention? I’m gonna quote Richard Scott’s blurb to Colin Herd’s 2019 poetry collection, You Name It here (not least because the indie publishers, Dostoyevsky Wannabe, come straight out of Manchester, home to The 1975, and because Herd’s poetic spirit is pure pop generosity with a platter of theory on the side), because I want to say similar things of this album: ‘Colin Herd’s poems are masterpieces of variousness. They are talismans against Macho demons. They are snatches of theory operating under lavish spills of language’. The good thing about Herd’s poetry and Matty Healy’s lyrics is that the impulse towards romantic or florid expression is always tapered by an interest in the mundane and everyday. Healy is always singing about pissing or buying clothes online or, as on ‘The Birthday Party’, singing about ‘a place I’ve been going’ that seems to consist of the lonely, infinite regress of conversations about seeing friends and watching someone drink kombucha while buying, in the convenient life of rhyme, Ed Ruscha prints.

Ed Ruscher, Cold Beer, Beautiful Girls (2009)

> So what kind of listening does this rhizomatic sprawl demand — does it expand beyond the banal or find a holding space there, a heaven of affect chilled to late-modernity’s crisp perfection? ‘The End (Music For Cars)’ is a luxurious, Hollywood ‘soaring’ moment, all strings and swells, fucking woodwind, and comes as the third track on the album, where normally you’d place it as some kind of penultimate climax, the album’s landscape pan-out or big swelling screen kiss in three-dimensional rotation. The band’s ‘Music For Cars’ era comprises their two most recent records, and you have to take it as a nod to Brian Eno’s 1978 ambient classic Ambient 1: Music for Airports (Matty recently interviewed Eno again for The Face, cool). The thing about cars is you drive around in them, you follow rules but also whims and desires, convictions; you choose to join others or you pursue the selfish acceleration (‘People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles’ goes the laconic teenage refrain in Bret Easton Ellis’ 1985 debut novel Less Than Zero). You only listen to music half-attentively; you don’t listen close enough to trade in souls. Are we being invited to experience this album as an ambient disruption of figure and ground, presence and absence, here and there, space and place, intimacy and despondency? Driving feels increasingly ‘directionless and inessential’ when the scale effects and obscenities of the anthropocene, of covid and other late-capitalist crises loom in our vision, when the sign systems we used to navigate our lives by seem to shimmer out of focus, or pixelate and deteriorate through endless memetic replication... You can’t help feel like Biddles review kind of misses the point.

Sylvano Bussoti, Five Pieces for Piano for David Tudor (1959)

> What point would that be though, in a world of rhizomatic overlap and intersecting, middling lines, a direction without seeming end? I love the approximation at work when Biddles writes, ‘with nearly nothing of note to say’, because that seems to be a possibility condition for writing in the age of the internet. To write in a way that is almost less than zero and loop back upon some kind of infinity, yet keep it in 2-step. I think back to Rachel Zucker’s image of the half-finished crumbling stairwell, and feel an amiable sense of approval towards this band who always work between the registers of diary, confession, advertising, provocative sloganeering and faux-didactics, never quite settling in to specifically tell you this particular story. It’s all mess, and it’s awful and delicious, I’m sorry. ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’ is the title of track 13 on the album: that movement between nothing and everything feels like the absolutist, absurdist conditions of ‘truth’ possibility in the Trumpocene/age of so-called ‘post-truth’. ‘Life feels like a lie, I need something to be true’, Healy sings with strained conviction in the song’s opening. But what is at stake in this truth? ‘I never fucked in a car, I was lying’, goes the line, referring back to the dramatic in medias res opening to ‘Love It If We Made It’, notable banger from A Brief Inquiry…: ‘We’re fucking in a car, shooting heroin / Saying controversial things just for the hell of it’. If lying is a pun on telling a mistruth or laying back, practically sexless in a passive state, there’s a deliberate play on apathy, agency and distortion here. It’s something Matty seems snagged on. On ‘I Like America & America Likes Me’ he collapses aesthetic superficiality, capital’s lyric abstraction (‘Oh, what’s a fiver?’) and generalised crisis into this (un)conscious desire for shutdown, expressed in fragmentary bullets of needing-to-know-and-not-know: ‘Is that designer? Is that on fire? Am I a liar? Oh, will this help me lay down?’ And then that impassioned refrain, processed through vocal distortion as if to enact the difficulty in clarity as overcome somehow by the sheer making of noise: ‘Belief and saying something / And saying something / And saying something’. It’s the endless, driving recursion of our lives online, online.

> Back to ‘The End (Music for Cars)’ which really is the middle of the beginning. It’s weird to listen to songs about driving and lying down in the middle of lockdown, drowning in the bloat of social media, on top of our ongoing climate emergency (yeah, remember that, it’s still happening), where high-carbon travel feels like an exhausted, almost impossible concept. A musician complaining about travelling is an age-old subject for a song, but this feels just as much about living in the in-between times of the internet (remember the sweet naivety of the information superhighway) as much as the great Road, for which Kerouac longed as much as Springsteen, Dylan, or Lana Del Rey. Is Matty Healy homesick though? ‘Get somewhere, change my mind, eh / Get somewhere but don’t find it / I don’t find what I’m looking for’. It’s all ‘(out there)’ as the parenthetical refrain goes, but maybe ‘out there’, outside, is the maddening supplement, as Derrida would say, to our lives online, thus revealing their mutual, entwined dependency. Imagine the M6 but tangled up crazily, zanily, like one of those Sylvano Bussoti scores. It’s not like you’re trying to get home, get back, exactly. It’s not like you can just click back on your browser and erase that trace of the touch that enacts it. That’s the weird-ass sensation of being an ecological being: ‘Wherever you go, there you are’, writes Tim Morton in Being Ecological (2018). We’re all pretty alien, even to ourselves.

> If life feels like a lie, as Matty sings, does it matter anymore whether it is or not? Or, to pose the question differently, how do we feel into, attune to something like ‘truth’, a shared reality or feeling? ‘Out there’ is only a state of ellipsis [...] a vine extended, something for the listener, user, consumer and/or human to cling to — or be strangled by. In the aforementioned Apple Music video, Matty takes away the canvas and presents the frame beneath, in a gesture that is comically overwrought with Duchampian pretention around the state and context of the artwork itself. ‘Sometimes I think what is the point of...it’s not my atheism coming out, it’s just my being human coming out’, he muses. The phrase ‘coming out’, with its connotations of closeting, shame and cocoon-like emergence is intriguing here. In a dehumanising, post-internet world of neoliberalism and its attendant microfascisms, its commodification of all kinds of art, its easythink translation of poetry-to-advertising, what would it mean to come out as human after, or better still, in the middle of all this? It’s significant that he trails off after ‘the point of…’, for surely the point itself (of the art?) would be to find yourself here, there, right in the middle of it all. And then in ‘Nothing Revealed / Everything Denied’, it’s like Matty is calling us back from that epistemological and ontological boiling point of knowing and being, like in singing we could go along, we could feel present and ‘true’ again, even with friction and difference. We gotta take hold, cool ourselves down from the rhetoric and into warm emotion, the smell of paint, erotic vibration of bass, in a manner of speaking.

> What if the mode of inquiry were not to investigate but rather to follow the lines of flight, to riff on this world where narrative arcs and chains are replaced by the multiple possibilities of hallucinatory experience, what Deleuze and Guattari call ‘a continuous, self-vibrating region of intensities whose development avoids any orientation toward a culmination point or external end’? To just desire and trace it. This, Scott, is where you come in (and I finally shut up to listen). There is so much more to write about this album, echo for echo, and I feel like I’ve only begun the tracing which was already beginning: I want to know your thoughts on The 1975 and America, on gender and genre, on bodies and football and friendship, on political engagement, those house beats, on the beautiful, sultry appearance of Phoebe (fucking) Bridgers, on sincerity, on the question of ‘What Should I Say’...It’s been playing on my mind that I will never say what I want to, or should, or would say of this album, but this perhaps is what I would otherwise have said. I give you my notes in conditional form.

Read part 2 of our review in Scott Morrison’s response here.

Notes on a Conditional Form is out now and available to order. 

~

Text: Maria Sledmere

Published: 23/6/20

[chuckadams]

The Fierce and Beautiful World: A Requiem for a Year

And now let us gather round the hearth—or whatever it is we consider a hearth in this day and age, be it a wood-stove (you lucky bums) or the soft glow of a smartphone screen—let us gather and dive into yet another of my long-winded rants and raves about the past year. For it has been a doozy. Is that the right word? Can a doozy capture both the highest of highs, as well as the lowest of lows? Is there a better word? I have already googled “best word to describe a year of ups and downs” and google cannot adequately give answers.

Because there are no answers.

Last year I wrote that there are only “arcs and circuits and feedback loops, and they are always bending and flowing. Gaining and losing. Seeking a balance, that will never be perfect or purely balanced.” 2019 was the year that proved it.

SRI LANKA NEW YEAR

On the first day of 2019 I woke up in Bucharest after a long sleep, interrupted briefly by midnight fireworks in the piazza down the street. I had just returned from a two-week trip to Sri Lanka, which, if nothing else, allowed me time to reflect and consider where I was going. I had just begun dating Ani, an Armenian-born Russian citizen, earlier that fall, and she was back home in Russia for the holidays. 

One year later, I will read this, from a book gifted to me by my brother: “I will find my way into new country that beckons me to take unexpected risks, which turn out not to be risks at all, but the next step.” And I realize this was what 2019, and pretty much all of the past decade, has been about. Unexpected risks turning into next steps.

In Sri Lanka, I sat on a beach and watched a daughter excitedly frolic in the waves with her dad, and I thought, Wouldn’t that be nice, too? I took surf lessons (“I need to impress my surfing girlfriend,” I told my instructor). I sat on a flat wooden raft and was pushed across a lake by a silent boatman, while I spied elephants on the far shore with my binoculars, tuning in to the steady splashes of water against the hull. I leaned out from the open door on a jungle train as it chugged through tea fields in the highlands from Ella to Kandy to Colombo, listening to a soundtrack of indie rock music on my mp3 player. 

I read, months later, about the terrorist attacks in Colombo and thought about the wonderful people I had met who would likely suffer from less income this year.

THE TROUBLE WITH ONLINE DATING

“Everything, even the weather, becomes a communication, or even a critical comment, on one’s relationship with things, phenomena, persons, etc.” I wrote that last year. It seems sad to admit, but the biggest comment about my newfound relationship with Ani came when I deleted all of my dating apps on my phone. Not days after I met her, nor even weeks. It took months. Months of internal conflict that culminated in what, for me, was a small victory for the soul.

Online dating apps have been both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, they have allowed an introvert like me to actually have a dating life. I recall, back in 2007, when I was suddenly single after a long relationship, how difficult it was to date. I didn’t even have the Internet at my house in Eugene, Oregon; no Wi-Fi, and definitely no smartphone; I got 8 hours of screen-time per day at my job, and that was plenty for me, thank you. Dating in 2007 was like the Stone Ages compared to today, where you had to physically go out and “bump” into strangers, or just wait until strangers fell into your orbit.

I’m not really the kind of person who talks to strangers at bars (at least not in bars in my home country), so I let people drift into and out of my life like those deer who show up in your front yard, eating your clover, and then move on down the street. I was that kind of deer, too. A feral browser, moving to and fro, with no rhyme or reason.

And then, around mid-2016, voila! an endless scroll of possibilities with dating apps, whilst living in ever larger cities of Portland, and then Bucharest. But I noticed something: the “endless possibilities” became, for me, antithetical to actual committed relationships. I remember going on a few dates with women, who were, on balance, worth spending my time and energy with, but that energy was instead spent scrolling through the endless possibilities still out there. It was like I was living through some bizarro world version of my college art film, “Hunting Love.” I had become a hunter-gatherer, and yet I wanted to be a farmer. These apps had turned me into a hypocritical monster. With so much wild game at my fingertips, there really was no rational reason to switch to cultivating a sustainable life with another person. I had resigned myself to eternal bachelorhood, and I was becoming more and more okay with this.

Then I met Ani.  

And isn’t this how it typically happens? Someone defies all of your expectations, catching you unaware?

With Ani, our courtship (and yes, I insist on using that old-fashioned term) developed over the course of months, not days. It was like a tree that needed to grow a few rings of thickness before it knew it was something of substance. In the past, I would have looked at the seed, imagining I saw a tree, prematurely. Often I would have planted anew before even giving it a chance to grow.

For me, the seed became a tree when we both took a weekend trip to the Black Sea coast in late January 2019, a full 2.5 months after we met. We got a deal on a room at one of the few seaside resorts still open in the dead of winter, one that had an indoor pool and a sauna. That evening, before dinner, we took a stroll along a desolate stretch of beach. It was dusky, cold, and a light rain fell, coating us in those fine white dots of spray. I remember thinking, “There are only so many people on this Earth who would actually enjoy what we are doing right now. I mean, it stinks like dying fish on this beach, and it’s bloody cold, and there is nobody else around here except us.” But we got closer, for warmth, and it was obvious I was not asking too much of her to be here with me.

Later, in the spring, we took a weekend road trip to the far western part of Romania to scout a location for a school trip. Then, for a week we road-tripped through Bulgaria, with the highlight being some wild camping on a beach near the border with Turkey. Again, I came back from these trips pinching myself.

ADDRESSING THE ISSUE OF CHILDREN IN WAR ZONES

In the midst of all this, I continued to teach at the American International School of Bucharest, surrounded by intrepid and exasperating students, as well as adventurous colleagues.

For example, there was that wonderful week in February spent in Sweden with colleagues. We walked around Stockholm, then spent a solid few days cross-country skiing and soaking in hot tubs in Funasdalen, in the central-west mountains near the border with Norway. Mmmhmmmm, just what was needed in the middle of winter. 

I also took on a new challenge this year, namely that I coached the middle school’s Model United Nations (MUN) for the winter season. We had a group of 8 students, all quirky in their own ways, who got practice in debating, resolution writing, and the fine art of lobbying. I’ll admit that I probably would not have been interested in MUN when I was a middle schooler, nor as a high schooler. It does seem to favor those who like to hear themselves talk, though it certainly attracts those with a desperate need for social skills practice. However, I liked that this was a group that actually enjoyed discussing worldly topics, like the role of NGOs in developing countries, or the role that religion plays in national politics. I was most comfortable when I could just assume the Humanities teacher role and guide students to a well-written and researched resolution addressing the issue of children living in war zones. We had a local, on-campus MUN conference in March, and then traveled to a MUN conference in Budapest, Hungary. The big news I wish to share is that, for the first time in my life, I bought a suit. Apparently MUN participants must dress the part, and their coaches must follow suit, literally. So there’s that. A small but significant change. Ka-ching.

THE POETRY OF BONFIRES

After MUN season wrapped up in early April, I got ready to lead a group of 7th and 8th graders on a trip to Port Cetate, in the far southwestern part of Romania, for a week-long creative writing and photography retreat. At my school, the 7th through 10th graders go on week-long trip in mid-May tailored to their interests. The trips ran the gamut from creative pursuits (like writing and photography), to outdoor pursuits (like rock-climbing, mountain biking, or scuba diving), to service-learning pursuits. On the trip I led, I got to teach kids about writing short, descriptive vignettes, as well as how to take photos manually using a DSL film camera (using my old Canon AE-1). It blew their minds that they would have to wait 2-4 weeks to see the fruits of their photography, most of which turned out slightly out of focus. Above all, I won’t forget the last day we had with the students, when we had a bonfire on the banks of the Danube River, looking across to Bulgaria. We had an impromptu dance party, which is probably the most memorable poetry these kids will remember a few years from now.

When we returned from this trip, I headed straight to the airport, to fly to Portugal to meet Ani in Sagres, where we spent two days surfing, eating amazing meals, swinging in hammocks, and hanging with her surf camp friends. We spent one sunset overlooking what can only be described as “the end of the world.” And others describe it this way, too. Sagres is the extreme southwestern point of the European continent. (It is at this spot that we hope to perform a small but special ceremony in June 2020.) Later, we drove north to spend a day in Lisbon, a wonderful city well worth the time and energy spent exploring its nooks and crannies.

SUMMER OF HANG TIME

After that, time moved swiftly. The school year ended, and my summer break began. This summer I would not be charting something so adventurous as the previous summer’s month-long bike tour of the Balkans. No, this summer the theme was Hang Out with Friends and Family, and Renew Relationships. I think this summer epitomized what I wrote last year about optima:

“Optima means there is no single variable which should be maximized over any other single variable: period. This is the practice of stability, of optimization; an oscillation of gain and loss; the practice of diversity; the spirit of community.”

What this meant, in practical terms, is that my legs and lungs probably got less exercise this summer, but I was exercising something else, perhaps less physical, but no less important.

I spent quality time with friends and former professors in Laramie, Wyoming; a week with my brother Jonah and family in Colorado; a road trip across Hwy 50, the “loneliest road,” from Utah to Oregon, with my brother Phil; a family reunion in Astoria with my niece, Skye, and her fiancé, driving in from San Diego, as well as my sister, Elisha, and her boyfriend, Joe, flying in from Chicago, essentially to celebrate my return from abroad, as well as my niece’s recent engagement.

At first I anticipated this reunion with trepidation, as Elisha has a knack for returning to Astoria with hurricane force winds, knocking down everyone in her path of verbal volleys, usually snarky but occasionally biting. That being said, I hadn’t seen her in over a decade, for a variety of reasons, and I realized, after she arrived, in full hurricane mode, and saw her interactions with everyone, that I missed her. Her boyfriend, Joe, was sporting a mohawk and pounding down the local craft beers I was offering. Uh-oh, I thought. Maybe I should have mentioned these were 6% ABU? Somehow we all made it up to the Astoria Column for the sunset.

I remember waking up the next morning and seeing that nobody was taking action to make anything special for breakfast. Such lazy bums, I thought. Then I remembered that I was an adult now...it only took me 36 years to figure that out...and that if I wanted pancakes for breakfast, I had to make them myself. So I got out all the ingredients and I started churning out what we call “big pancakes” in my house, and which are called Swedish pancakes, or French crepes, elsewhere. Sure, there were arguments about whether my dad’s cherry jam would or would not cause food poisoning...arguments over the absurdity of my brother running out and buying three large jars of high fructose corn syrup jelly…but those arguments came from the parents. I remember that Elisha and Joe were grateful for my sweat over the stovetop.

This, I choose to remember.

RECONNECTIONS

Later, once my extended family came and went, I focused on hanging with my parents, and spending time with friends in Astoria and Portland. On this trip alone, I met at least nine brand new humans under the age of two, such is the state of mid-30s life. At some point, I remember briefly thinking, “I miss the freedom of my bike tour of the previous summer, where every day I packed up my panniers and cast off on another journey to another new town.” Then I remember thinking, “Well, but this is nice. To reconnect and restore relationships...moreover, to have the blessing of time off in the summer months to do such a thing, is priceless. There will always be time for adventures; there is not always time to just hang out, however brief, and catch up on life.”

Indeed, I even got to spend a few hours with Ngaoi, a friend I met back when I was volunteering on a farm in New Zealand in 2010. She was the best friend of our hosts, and would come over often to hang out and help us in the hydroponic lettuce greenhouses. My ex-girlfriend, Rachel, and I secretly wanted to adopt her as our daughter (we were in our late 20s; she was in her late teens). Zoom ahead a decade, and she was visiting her current boyfriend, an American she met in New Zealand, but who happened to live in Beaverton, Oregon. They both made a weekend trip to Astoria, and I introduced them to the Blue Scorcher’s coffee and we browsed a “flea market” at a local church.

The sun races around the galaxy; the Earth sprints to keep up with it in gravitational orbits; and we always make our returns back to our origins to begin again.

THE ORIGIN OF LOVE

When I flew back to Romania, Ani had moved into my apartment in downtown Bucharest. We had planned on it before I left, but still it was a bit of a shock to see all her belongings in place, the decor slightly personalized to her likings. I didn’t mind it at all. Moreover, it was an important milestone, a difference that made a difference.

When you are 22, you have your whole life ahead of you, and, even if you’re certain about a thing, can take your time to get around to ascertaining it. Well, when you’re 36, and you are certain about a thing, there is no practical use in waiting to ascertaining it. You take hold of it and don’t let it go.

Thus, by mid-October, while we Ani and I were on vacation in Greece, on the island of Crete, on a stretch of beach we had all to ourselves, as the sun hung low on the horizon, I proposed.  

The engagement ring has the words “origo amare” engraved on the inside of the band, an allusion to our first meeting at a coffee shop named Origo. The Latin phrase means, “The origin of love.” It seems ironic, I know, that the origin of love could be instigated by a few messages sent back and forth on Internations, a social media site for expatriates, followed by a meeting for coffee. There was no love at first sight. In fact, it took a month before we exchanged our first kiss. But every slow burn needs its spark.

Our spark came when I asked if Ani would show me how to use her longboard, which she had in the trunk of her car parked a block away. As we walked to the concrete slab, she pushed me from behind to see which foot was more dominant. It was just a test, but later, she told me, “You felt so warm.” Perhaps the body knows things before the brain does. Life is a mystery, and I want to hold onto that mystery, because there is no reason we should have met each other, growing up on opposite sides of the world, to meet under such particular circumstances. That spark led to another meeting, and then another... 

So it goes.

One year later we were engaged. Unlike most other times in my life, there is no inner conflict, no hesitation. Sure, there are “What if…?” lines of inquiry, as per usual. But the one line of inquiry that sets me straight is the one that goes, “What if I had never met Ani?” It sets me straight because I know the answer to that one: I would be writing this end-of-year review as per usual, likely on a tropical beach somewhere, likely alone, and happy enough, because I am perfectly fine enjoying my own company (and the company of books), and I would be describing some incredible moments from the past year.

But I would not be describing what I suppose I’m describing now: a change in trajectory, a revolution of priorities. Without Ani I would have been happy; with Ani I know I will be happier.

OF LOGISTICS AND A DOG BITE

So the year beat on. In November, I brought my cross country team to the championships in Kiev, Ukraine, and got bit by an unclaimed dog in the middle of the coaches race. Spent my November getting injections of rabies vaccine by a no-nonsense nurse at the Anti-Rabic Clinic here in the city.

We enjoyed a three-day weekend at the end of November in Milan, Italy, visiting with an old friend and taking engagement photos with an iPhone X. I celebrated my 37th birthday on a rare sunny day in Milan, eating turkey at a belated Thanksgiving Day feast. 

Throughout the fall, Ani and I spent many an evening planning the logistics of when and where we would get married in Romania (in front of the legal authorities) and in Sagres, Portugal (in front of family), as well as the insane amount of bureaucratic paperwork needed to fulfill the requirements here in Romania.

Ani and I have no plans to return to the United States to “settle down.” We met as global citizens of the world, and we intend to stay that way, at least for the time being. As of today, I have spent a little over 5 years of my adult life living abroad, in places all over the world. I feel at home in the world now, and building a cross-cultural, multi-lingual family seems to be my ultimate fate, happily.

THE REBALANCING OF HIGH & LOW

Well, so much for the highs. Sometime in September, I thought, “I’ve been lucky so far, because I have only lost my grandparents, and that was long ago. But...it’s only a matter of time.” And that time came in early October, with the passing of my Uncle Remi. He was 76 years old. My parents flew to Chicago to attend his funeral, as well as take care of his final arrangements. He was living in his family home at the time, and now that house, which had been in my family’s possession for over 70 years, will be up for sale.

Then, on the evening of December 7th, I got a call from my brother. I was in the middle of my school’s holiday party, at the Marriott Hotel, when he told me our sister had passed away. She was 47 years old. At one point, he mentioned that we knew this moment would come eventually, and I knew what he meant. In 2011 she had nearly died as a result of a critical MRSA infection. At that time I was in a far remote corner of Ethiopia, and the power and Internet was cut. My family was rushing to the hospital in Chicago, and I was rushing to catch a bus to somewhere with a phone signal. She miraculously recovered from that scary episode, and so I like to think that she was blessed with eight more years of life. Eight more years to make memories with her daughter, and to see her daughter get married on a beach in Hawaii this past October, so happy and joyful.

After the news, I sucked it in as best as I could and went to work for three more days. Some colleagues wondered why I was at work. Where else would I be, I thought, on the couch moping? No, it was better to see the faces of my students, to let them know what happened, so they saw me as a frail human. And they were so kind about it. About seven students from my 6th grade English class even surprised me with kind notes attached to my door, reminding me of the spirit of giving and generosity in our darkest month of December.

I flew to Chicago on a Thursday, arriving late, hosted by my cousin Jeremy. Despite the circumstances, it was satisfying to catch up with some of my family still living in Chicago, such as my cousins Jeremy, Harmony, Mike, and uncles Steve, Ben, and John, and aunts Linda, Pam, and Kathy. As well, meeting my cousins’ tiny children for the first time was a diamond in the rough.

The night before the funeral, my brother Jonah, his wife LuAnne, and my brother Phil, all of whom just arrived by air, picked me up from my cousin’s house. We congregated at the Hampton Inn, in Lisle, Illinois, where several folks were staying for the weekend, to put together three large photo-collages that would be displayed at the funeral. Elisha’s step-sister, Melissa, had collected arts and crafts supplies from the daycare she runs, and we all got to work, including my niece Skye and her husband, David. Together, we all did our best to piece together Elisha’s life from images collected from several sources across the ages. It was hard not to dwell too long on this treasure trove of images, some of which we had never seen until now, and before too long it was nearly midnight.

What is there to say about funerals? Are they really for the deceased? Or are they for the living?

As family and friends came together at the funeral home for a two-hour moment in time, we paid our respects to Elisha, and we paid our respects to each other. I met people for the first time, and I reunited with people I had only met once, long ago. The photo-collages were beautiful, but it was the photo album that my Uncle Steve brought—ones that held Elisha’s baby photos, when she ran and frolicked on the farms and coastal beaches of Oregon—that choked me up the most.

Every time I got near my sister’s urn I choked back tears. Stupid as it sounds, because I didn’t have any tissue on hand, I stifled the tears. But when the funeral parlor director came out to ask everyone to take a seat, or take a knee, while he said a prayer, I found some tissues, and the tears burst forth.

Then he asked everyone except the immediate family to walk past the urn and pay their final respects. I did not, could not, look up. More tears.

Then he asked the immediate family to come forward. We made a half-circle in front of the urn, in all its rainbow-hued splendor, reflecting my sister’s colorful character, sitting there amidst the expensive floral arrangement paid for by my Uncle Steve (“For these types of things you call the professionals”). More tears from me—and the funeral director told what amounted to an anecdote about his own mother’s passing as a way to lighten the mood. Later, Jonah would ask, “You think he tells the same story at every funeral?”

He probably does tell the same story. Because it’s always the same story. Loss is loss. Grief is grief. He can tell us all about how it will only be “a little while—hopefully not too soon! (haha)” before we see our loved one again in the metaphysical afterlife, but, believers or non-believers, it does not take away the pain of the present moment.

Even so, the funeral was over, and it was time to pack up the cars full of flowers and photo albums and an urn, and head over to Q’s for the reception, where the menu was Italian-American to the max, including what my vegetarian brother described, accurately, as a “meat salad.”

The remainder of the days in Chicago were for hanging out. Being together. One-by-one, people flew home, and I stayed until Tuesday so that this “hanging out” would not be rushed. My cousin Jeremy took Friday and Monday off work, as far as I could tell, just to hang out with me. In many ways, this trip was an extension of my summer trip back to the U.S. No matter how far I fling myself out in the world, the Great Magnet always reels me in, back to Chicago, back to Oregon, back to the Rocky Mountain West, back to the Pacific Ocean, back to Doug fir trees, sand dunes, and the coastal river valleys, where campfire smoke always drifts downwind, and where an ageless youth laughs out loud, in a cackle, at the glee and sheer terror of catching a crawdad.

CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

The final half of December I spent with Ani as we celebrated the Christmas spirit at three locations throughout Transylvania, in Romania, each place unique. The first place, Sinaia, is known for its mountain peaks on all sides. We intended to go skiing, but the snow report stunk, so we went hiking instead. Then we moved on to Cund, a small, quiet village in what is known as the Saxon part of Romania, a place with a strong German heritage, and fortified churches. We sat by a roasting wood-stove, watched movies, and went on a meandering ridge-line hike in the mist. Finally we moved on to Sibiu, a small city that resembles a storybook German village than anything you typically find in Romania. They have one of the largest Christmas Markets in Eastern Europe, and it is exquisitely framed by a picture-postcard square, with buildings that have droopy eyelid windows in the roof, so it looks like you are being watched.

And, who knows, maybe we are being watched over.

There is much to be thankful for in the year 2019. For me, a solid job I am passionate about, a fiancée who sticks by my side through thick and thin, and the good health to still run my legs through the forest at a fast speed, rabid dogs notwithstanding.

There is so much to look forward to in 2020, up to and including:

In February, travel to Ethiopia, with a group of five other colleagues

In March, Ani’s cousin’s wedding, in Togliatti, Russia

In April, travel to Armenia, to visit my newly adopted motherland

In June, our family wedding in Sagres, Portugal

In July, a possible bike tour :))

I welcome this new decade, like a new chapter, with open arms.

[moonbelt]

»the infinite possibility of us

↳   somewhat soulmate au | college au | lowkey lost-friends to lovers au

pairing » kim taehyung | reader

genre » soft angst + fluff + sexual themes + warlock!taehyung

word count » 14.787

author’s note » this was born out of a need to read something magical bc i am positively obssesed with soulmate aus

Let's get the first misconception out of the way: you are not a witch. Or at least you're not the most conventional one or one with any type of materializing and brewing powers and the whatnot. You do have some magical prowess, that cannot be disputed, but you cannot, in fact, fly on brooms, make actual use of frogs' feet or use a cauldron to prepare anything but regular plain store-bought soup. You can, however, see true love —soulmates if you will.

One touch with any body and you can envision can see decades down the line, maybe not even that far ahead, to when they'll meet The One they are destined for. The person that the stars and the universe have decided to attach to them for all eternity. It's a funny thing, love is. It's not supposed to be tangible. It is meant to be felt, breathed in, experienced and lived in, but you wouldn't really know that considering your ill-fated fate of having never fallen in love. Or rather your inability to.

It's like your organ is defective. You have the ability to see true love, the greatest of magic this world has to offer (at least this is what you tell yourself) and yet you can never seem to see any love like that for yourself. And sure, you believe that love comes in different forms. You love your family dog, Dex, you love your sisters, you love (the term is loose here) the supernatural. You love trees and the smell of rain. But the kind of love that cannonades through your entire body? Nah. You've seen it when you touch people and perceive the one they're going to be with. You understand it in their eyes and in their smiles in the few whatever seconds you get in the vision. But personally, you can't really explain it without cliché descriptions.

And look, you're not complaining. It's ah-mazing watching the people you match end up together and ride into the sunset, guaranteed to a lifetime of happiness and forever and lazy mornings together. It would be infamously weird, not to even mention horrendous, if a self-proclaimed love doctor doesn't believe in love at all. Truly, your heart infinitely swells just at the memory. And you love what you do. You see it as an obligation to use your gifted talent to help others even though there's no physical way you can help yourself.

It's a side effect of being able to see soulmates, you've since discovered. No matter how hard you run your palms across your arms, you see nothing. Blank space, endless oblivion, no love in sight. More often times than not, it leaves you in a bout of loneliness and the ever-present feeling that you'd end up alone. Imagine that. A matchmaker alone living with twenty-four dogs. Not that there's anything wrong with dogs but. . . It's the principle of the situation.

Think about the good things! You force yourself to remember your well-thought mantra instead of falling deep into the pit of never-ending why's. Once you fall into it, it takes a strong level of self-awareness to bring you back out.

Anyways, you're not a witch. No matter how long you hang around the Witchcraft practicing folk, you're always reminded about your shorthanded-ness. Your sister, Ionia, takes the head of the circle during this coven meeting (as she does in every gathering, she isthe leader so it's only natural.) Your family's coven (sans you) is made up of thirteen Wiccans, all who sit in the circle in the middle of the renovated "conference" room.

Really, it's just the living room with all the sofas pushed out to the edges, far enough not to disrupt any witchy stuff happening in the center but close enough that you and your other sister, Sara, can push them back into place once the meeting is over.

Today the topic is on determining if it is necessary, in the words of coven member Park Jimin, for magical folk to keep living under the radar of other species. Other species meaning regular non-magical humans. It's the most debated subject you've heard to date. Why must witches and other mystic beings hide from mere humans? The word mere used with insurmountable contempt and disdain.

You already know the answer Ionia is going to give in return. In fact, you could write a whole book on Ionia's stance on the matter. Although not all supernatural creatures are as righteous as your sister, Ionia truly has her moral compass hanging on her version of the good spectrum. And just like every other night, you are not allowed to partake in the discussion happening in place. You have a lot you want to say but alas, you cannot speak out of turn. That would be un-magical of you. If anyone gets that drift.

Being a seer of love gives you no brownie points in your family's line of outrageously strong witches. As it so happens, the witchy bloodline skipped you. It's taken years for you to come to with the fact that your parents weren't exactly expecting someone so... powerless. Their own kid no less. Just to be clear, there's absolutely nothing wrong with you predicting (with a hundred percent accuracy of course) another person's love. It isa good type of magic. Maybe not the kind of magic written in the grimoires and spell books littering your house, but it was a great magic nonetheless. You swear on it.

It doesn't matter what anyone says, you know your magic is enough. However, it is not enough to land you a say in Beyond Dark coven's politics. In fact, you're not even among the coven. You're more of an honorary member. Like you've made emphasis on before: you're not a witch, warlock, whatever. You're not it. You simply get a pass at being here since it's held in your living room and has been led by your family for centuries. And your sisters can't exactly kick you out once a week, you'll riot.

Another win for genetics! But you guess it could be worse. Imagine not being born with a speck of spectacular at all. Oh, the horror. You are glad the witches and warlocks in Beyond Dark don't go around wearing that absurd black pointed hat that a few other Wiccan folk have yet to dissolve from their attires. It makes it way easier to blend in. You're also happy that the meetings are held at your house. It gives you a good reason to be more than necessarily invested in witchy affairs.

"For the last time, Jimin," Ionia sighs out. It gets tiring, repeating the same explanation ever so often. "Our abilities are like every other thing; money, lust, power. They can be abused if used in the wrong situations and besides, we're not supposed to go around rubbing in our talents in humans faces. However great they may have been, look at what happened to our ancestors."

Ooh, she's pulling out the witch trial card. Ionia only ever does that when she's frustrated. Most times she likes to pretend that most of the founding witches and warlocks weren't murdered by conniving humans. It's like she's playing a game of erase-the-memory with herself because everyone else remembers it. The laws of witchcraft would never let anyone try to forget it. But Ionia does her damn best and you'll admit, she's pretty good at it too.

Jimin huffs back into the floor, his butt sinking deeper into the cushion pillow. He shouldn't feel too bad. Being a new member of the coven, he has no idea how things work. He'll come to learn that Beyond Dark, although unconventional in its ways, has certain traditions that have never been breached. Like the fact that the head of the coven has always hailed from your family —hence Ionia's leadership. And most times, what she says goes.

The meeting ends soon after that, Ionia promising to hold the next one the same time next week Thursday as usual. You're too busy silently pushing the couches back into place, listening in on the stray ending conversations of other people when there's a knock on the front door. Sara looks up at you as she drops a wooden table back into position near the TV. "You expecting anybody?"

Shaking your head, you release your grip from the back of a brown sofa. "No. You?"

"Nope." Sara turns to Ionia who's deep in a gesticulation match with warlock Namjoon, the somewhat vice leader of Beyond Dark. "Hello? Miss Leader?"

Sara gets a special kick out of annoying your eldest sister but you can't say it's not funny. Sara and Ionia are amazing witches and even amazingly more older sisters. There had been a time when you'd hoped your magic would grow exponentially enough so that you could be on the same league as them but, that never worked out. You would never be able to win in a physical fight with Ionia, so you stick to petty things like getting on each other's nerves.

Ionia rolls her eyes. Being the first born, she likes to have this air of nonchalance and reduce most fights to child play. Which it is. It's just fun child play and sometimes you wish Ionia would be able to see that. But all the magic in the world can't remove the stick up her ass, so there's that.

You go back to arranging the living room with Sara. The person at the door is obviously not for you. You're not allowed to have anyone over on Thursday nights. Coven meetings are serious business, even if half the time all they do is talk about failed experimentations with frog's skin or plain supernatural gossip.

You avoid coming in contact with anyone as you put back grimoires into shelves unless it's absolutely necessary. No reason to go on a trip of finding out their soulmate unless they explicitly ask you to. Especially when they're already dating someone. Fuck, that's the worst. They get positively angry when you tell them that what you see in your vision isn't the one they are currently with. You can handle being called a lot of words but a fraud isn't one of them. If there's anything in your life you can bank on, it's your abilities and right now your inner gut senses are going haywire telling you to raise your head up from the uninteresting journal entry about the dangers of Horned Wasps on a full moon.

Although your power isn't the greatest, other things considered, you don't go around hiding it. Any supernatural can take one look at you and know you have magic abilities just not enough. Word has gotten around the rumor mill that you are a "teller of love," their words not yours.

On a good day, you could get twelve requests to reaffirm someone's fears of never being alone. On a bad day, ten of those people leave you with more insults about you being more of a stupid whack than a love teller. Understandably so, you didjust tell them that their current partner was a no-go. Is there ever going to be a way to let down people easy? If there is, you don't know it.

It's when you place back the leather-bound book and scan around the room for anything amiss that you see him. Your eyes almost slide past him but, you stutter and then freeze in holy-hot-guy headlights. The second your eyes connect, hot stinging sensations zip line through your body, making your breath catch in your throat. The experience is so unnerving and not to mention unexpected, that all you can seem to do is only stand there, staring at him with your hand unsteadily raising to your chest where your heart is struggling to break free.

A current crackles between the two of you, effectively raising the hairs along your spine to prickly attention. Strangely, the guy has his mouth agape, staring back at you, as if he too feels this bizarre kick. Which must be inherently wrong; no one, regardless of gender, has ever gaped at you. And you've never felt this concrete emotion in your chest before with anyone. So yeah, maybe it's just that you happen to be staring at him and he just also happens to be staring at you too. The only problem is, he isn't turning away.

Even more, stranger is it feels as if you've known him for years. Which is ridiculous considering you can swear you'd remember if you'd met him before. Even though he does look vaguely familiar. A guy this beautiful can't be easily forgotten. And guys this gorgeous can't be easily hallucinated either.

You don't know why you feel this pull, but you don't like it. Nor do you like the way something inside you gives a little —almost illogical —delighted squeal, as if you've been mentally scanning for men and have just found the perfect one. Which again is ridiculous because it doesn't matter who it is. If you have to touch your crush and find out that they have someone at the end of the line that's not you, well let's just say, that's the ultimate buzzkill.

Moreover, he's not the type that you usually used to date. Not that you really have a type. You dated safe guys, guys who you knew weren't really invested in you. Which was fine. You weren't inherently devoted to them either.

But this particular guy might not be your normal type, but his eyes are so magnificently captivating that it makes you stall for a moment too long. You have no idea what color they are, you can't see from this far back, but they are a commanding pair beneath arched, dark brows. And even from your position, his long lashes are visible. Fates, those eyes are picturesque. And formidably daunting. You feel his stare slither through your body like a slow, hot stroke. And shit, he's staring at you like he knows you and like you should know him too. And now you're wondering why you're having a hard time deciphering how.

He's talking with Ionia and Namjoon and you know, you can feel it somewhere in your bones, that he is a warlock. A powerful one at that. The aura bathing around him is far from little and it is far from unused. For some reason, he missed this meeting and if the sly-apologetic smile gracing his face is anything to go by, he wants forgiveness.

You scoff, Ionia has a wand-shaped button wedged up her ass. There's no way she'll let him off the hook. Even if Namjoon persuades her too. That's just the way your sister is. So, imagine your shock when you see her smile back at him, give him a pat on the back, and then turn to the rest of the dwindled congregation and say:

"Everyone, this is our new coven member; Kim Taehyung."

From somewhere in your receded memory, you remember that Beyond Dark had been looking for a new witch to replace Ms. Orland who passed away a few weeks ago. Odd numbers are widely recognized as bad omen within the witchy community. Thirteen wiccans just isn't how the coven rolls. And here is the new materialized fourteenth member.

You'd been expecting an oldie to replace Ms. Orland. What's the saying? Old for old? What you hadn't been expecting is this. He's tall – not ridiculously so but you can tell that he has some giant blood mixing in his bloodstream. He has to at least be six foot four or more. He looks comfortably at ease with his skin and massive, broad shoulders yet perfectly proportioned muscles. And by Fate, he is gorgeous. Glinting brown eyes, chiseled features, sun-kissed skin. A dark green, backward baseball cap covers most of his light brown hair. It's on the longer side, you notice, with ends sticking out the back and tickling his collar.

As if he feels the strong emotion rising between the two of you, his cheek twitches. He takes one step forward into the center of the living room and flashes everyone in attendance a half-lopsided grin that can rival any type of paralyzing spell. And even though he's looking at everyone else, the goosebumps on your arms can't seem to calm the heck down.

"Hi," he says and you swear three witches die at his voice.

By Gods, his voice is a smooth luscious rumble that sends hot shivers zapping through you. You shoot your gaze downwards and stare at your converses as if they are the most interesting thing in the world. It doesn't matter how you feel. Whatever this thing is, is something concocted by your mind to play tricks on you. You've long since come to terms with the fact that having a relationship is out the cards. Oh, but did you try though. You'd tried the serial dating thing but it was kinda hard to kiss someone when the only thoughts swirling in your head were those of someone else. Ugh, someone drag you away from this pit before you get buried.

Like magnets, the few witches around gravitate towards him. Sara nudges your shoulder to get back to work and you grumble all the way as you do it. But even then, you can't shake the uncanny feeling in your chest that you've seen him before. Possibly a face in the crowd that you don't remember? No, worse. What if you've seen his face among the countless people you've come in contact with in your visions? A horrible impression sinks into your chest.

Not that its much effort, but you do your best to not cross eyes with him again. None of that jittery, knees buckling nonsense. You know better than to get invested. In fact, you should already be prepared to live life with your twenty-four dogs in solitude. You can hear his voice though, the charming timbre vibrating throughout the room. And you can't really focus on anything else.

"Do you remember him?" Sara breaks you out of your self-induced trance.

"Huh?"

She uses a thumb to point at Taehyung's general direction. "Him."

You shake your head and squint your eyes, confused. "Am I supposed to?"

"He can't be that forgettable." Sara runs her words in circles. "Doesn't his name ring any bells?"

"Ter, spit it out already."

Holding out her arms in surrender, your sister flops down on the soft cushion of the sofa. A deliriously mischievous smile lighting her lips. "He was our neighbor like ages ago. You know back when we lived in Mom & Dad's house? Tae and his older brother lived next to us. Oh, shit, you really don't remember? You had the biggest crush on him when you were, like, ten."

That's not possible. That's not absolutely fucking possible. You have stellar memory. While some people can forget what they had for breakfast a few hours ago, you could remember things in clear perfection. Well, not much of faces because you've seen far too many in one lifetime, but everything else? Heck yeah. You could remember the shape of the pizza you had on your eleventh birthday. A rectangular one. See? Flawless memory.

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You were ten. I was seventeen. I'm sure I have better recall of that, hmm?"

You roll your eyes. Sara is most definitely pulling your legs. There's no way you would have forgotten this crushof yours. And you use the term crush loosely. "Delusional much?"

She shrugs, black hair cascading down her shoulders at the action. "Anyways, Namjoon is Taehyung's brother's friend. Taehyung needs a new coven considering his last one got disbanded by internal disputes and well, voilà."

Here you are indeed. Your lips twist up into something snarky. "So, what? You want me to run to him and rekindle whatever misplaced crush I had?"

"Misplaced?"

"Obviously. I'm not destined to be with someone. He is. Whatever crush," you crook your pointer and middle fingers to emphasize on the word. "I had was stupid. It's not possible and I'm not playing a losing game."

Sara cocks her head to the side. "You still believe that?"

It's not like you have a choice. You refuse to give your heart to someone and then have it handed back to you bruised, battered and crushed. You believe in love, clearly. However, you don't believe in pushing fate. And if your fate is a life without the romantic type of love then... it sucks. But, you will learn to adapt. You have to learn to. Jealousy is an ugly thing and you don't want it feeding into your blood. Now if only your heart could get the memo a little quicker.

Searching for any kind of way to get out of this conversation where all your limits are being tested, you pull at the braided blue bracelet on your wrist. "You're in charge of dinner today. Are we having anything good?"

"Shit," Sara sits up straighter, and you know she completely forgot that today was her day to feed your meager trio of a family.

"Yeah, shit."

"I could order pizza?"

"Like what we had yesterday? And the day before that?" You tap your lower lip for emphasis and dramatics. "Oh! And the one prior to that too."

She reaches up and smacks your shoulder a little bit too hard and you wince but don't allow the smile slip off your face. "Shut up. Do you have something better in mind?"

For a bunch of spectacular witches, your sisters are hopelessly lost in the arts of cooking. You guess years of brewing potions could do that to you. Even with their age, burned toast is the best they can do. But you weren't exactly affluent in the cooking side of things either so you can't judge. Correction: you can't judge a lot.

"Yup," you grab your phone from your back pocket and check the time. Eight fifty-four. Nice. "Vee's is still open."

Sara's eyes start to mist with tears. "I could cry."

Honestly, you see where she's coming from. Food at Vee's could make anyone weepy by sheer amazedness alone. Vee's is a local restaurant that has a beautiful cuisine to match its equally unique name, but the main keeper though? It's open bright and early until sometime around one a.m., which is a blessing. Gods know how long these coven meetings run along for. You're not surprised with the amount of gossip they could talk about but you're so glad it's over earlier than usual.

"I'll get us take out." You offer solely based on the fact that you don't want to be in the same vicinity as the new warlock that's making his rounds talking to people. With this new information reeling in your brain, you don't want to be around him anymore. You're on a mission to deny, deny, and deny this connection to the grave.

"I love you," your sister says as she places an arm on your shoulder. "You're my favorite."

You laugh at that, checking your pockets for your wallet. "I'm always your favorite."

"As long as you don't tell Ionia."

"Don't tell me what?"

Sara makes a choking sound in the back of her throat that sends you into another fit of laughter. Ionia has materialized right behind her, arms across her chest and her face tilted to the side like she knows something the two of you don't. You do a mock salute to the two of them, excusing yourself from the sibling rivalry that's about to happen. "Bye!"

None of them stop you as Sara flies deep into trying to explain to your eldest sister that she meant absolutely nothingwrong with her statement. Ionia won't buy it, but whatever. You feel a pair of eyes digging deep into the side of your head but you will yourself to not look up and instead, sneak out from the front door. Well, not really sneak as much as you slink around bodies unnoticed except by this one person.

The night air is cool against your arms and you're thankful that it's almost winter. There's only so much humidity you can take. You nibble on your bottom lip as you begin the way to Vees.

Taehyung. Taehyung. Taehyung. Why on earth can't you remember him? Yeah, okay let's assume you believe your sister's revelation. You should be able to remember things that happened when you were ten. Heck, you recall a whole lot of things that happened when you were eleven. Your parents had fought in The Great Wiccan War and had sacrificed their lives, along with thousands of others, for the safety of the witches and warlocks at home. They fought against the hatred of other supernatural beings paired with influential humans that wanted the same magic, the same power. They wanted everything without actually being of witchcraft practicing folk. Ironic and disgusting at the same time.

You may not be a witch but the memory stings just as much. But now that you try to dig deeper into your valve of memories, nothing else pops up. Nada. Zilch. Empty. And the more you try, the more you start to feel a headache popping up. In fact, now that you're actually indulging, you realize that all your memories from then are fuzzy. The only reason you know your parents fought in the war is because your sisters told you... Now that you try to evoke a picture of your parents from memory, you find out that you can't. And the admission leaves you more disturbed than before.

The lights of Vee's bring you out of your reverie and you sigh in relief. Vee's has an old retro feeling that sinks into your bones and makes you love it the more you stand in it. And oh gods, the food. Good food to put you out of your sour mood and also, you hope, help you stop thinking about Kim Taehyung for more than godly normal. You take your usual place in a pale blue booth situated near the window and wait for someone to come over.

The place isn't fully packed but it isn't exactly empty either. People in their lonesome inhabiting too-big booths just like yourself. Ah, you wish Sara had come along with you, but then she'd talk your ears off... but then again that seems a lot better than being left alone in your thoughts. Your thoughts aren't being amicable tonight.

A girl with a high ponytail asks you if you want anything and after explaining to her with utmost care the way you take your coffee, she zips away with your order. You use the heels of your palms to rub your eyes. You are so not going to bed tonight. Your sisters can wait a few hours before dinner. If they get really hungry, they can order pizza. A win-win for everyone.

It's as you wait for your cup of caffeine that you hear the little ding of the door sound and against every feeling in the pit of your stomach, you look up.

Ah, the Fates are most certainly after you tonight.

You're not a firm believer in coincidences, but this has to be somewhat by chance because, in the past years, you've never come across him in this diner before. In fact, you've come across him twice today more than you've ever encountered him in ten years. His eyes scan the diner and light when he sees the person working behind the counter.

"Jungkook!" the grin on his face is wide.

Jungkook, you guess, looks up from his notepad and shoots him an equally wide smile. Gods, so much smiling is going around you feel your cheeks burning from the impacts already. "I thought you couldn't make it tonight?"

"Was in the area and thought I'll bless you with my beautiful face."

"Oh, that'sthe reason. Guess the triple-decker pancakes aren't a viable option?"

Taehyung barks out a laugh before responding with something witty yet apologetic at the same time. While you take a closer look at Jungkook and see it. The difference in magical abilities. He definitely isn't a warlock or anything of that caliber, but he looks about thisclose to being on the elf spectrum. Elves aren't tiny, you know this, and he undoubtedly isn't smallish-ly built. But the pointiness of his ears gives it away.

Like an intervention, your coffee finally makes an appearance. You thank the girl and manage to pull a smile as you take it. One sip. That's all you need to get through this bizarre night. You sink deeper into the booth's seat, willing yourself to banish with the air. Alas, that doesn't happen. Alas, Taehyung eyes meet yours in a colossal of moments.

You don't know why but you decide to glare, arching one brow in the same way Ionia does when she's peeved with something you've done. Having been on the receiving end of this look, you know firsthand about its effectiveness... On most people. This guy though? The barely veiled amusement in his eyes expands instead of contracting. In retaliation, he raises one of his own eyebrows. Taunting you.

This time he whispers something to Jungkook before making his way to you. You curl your fingers into a fist in a dire attempt to stop your body from squirming. You're not fazed by him. Not at all. Nope –

"__." His voice is low and steady and oh' how it blitzes your eardrums.

And then through the murkiness of your memories, it hits you square in the chest: this inaudibly amused, slightly introspective look, you've seen it before. In fact, you've seen it countless times. In your dreams maybe but in real life too. It's like watching a movie replay in your mind. Days spent behind a house in the backyard. Bandanas tied around your foreheads. Fuck, you've seen him before. Regardless of what Sara said, you believe her prior. You doknow him. Not in the same way though. The guy playing in the film in your mind is too young, too skinny, too short, too familiar. The guy in front of you now is a hundred ways different.

The glare slips off your face. Replaced by something indescribable because you're not sure what it even is. Luckily, he speaks again.

"Is this seat taken?"

Even if it was, you think you would have a hard time telling him no. You nod your head, not trusting your voice just yet. Smiling, he takes the seat opposite you, his frame eating up space. You pluck a menu from the side of the table and pretend to mull over your order. You know the whole menu like the palm of your hand, but that does nothing to deter you from staring at anything but his face.

Without looking up, you take a hasty sip of your coffee. "So, Taehyung," you air his name out for the first time. "It's been a while."

When he doesn't answer immediately, you pull your gaze up. His expression is guarded and you have the sudden urge to dive under the table and never be seen again. So much for trying to come off as cool, calm and collected. The three C's which you are not.

He blinks, dragging his focus from your lips to your eyes. "Tae."

"What?"

"My name," he clarifies. "I go by Tae."

"Ah," you fiddle with the corner of a laminated menu. "So, I'm not allowed to call you Taehyung? Is that only for friends or something?" It's a joke but you're not positive your delivery is executed properly.

He shakes his head but doesn't jest or twitch, just keeps his attention steady on your face. "Didn't mean it that way. If you want to call me Taehyung, then go for it." Before you can ask him why he had insisted on Tae in the first place, he cocks his head to the side and continues on. "I was under the impression that you'd forgotten me."

Holy-crapping-shit. "And what made you think that?"

"Sara."

"Bitch," you mutter on your breath. Of course, Sara would be the one to cast your dirty laundry out to dry. She probably told him all smug-like too. Ugh, you want to drink a sleepiness potion right about now. Just pass out for the rest of the day. But potions like that are ridiculously expensive... demand and supply and all that.

Taehyung laughs now. "Lovely vocabulary."

You shrug, for some reason feeling easier in your skin than before. "I take full credit."

"As you should. It's a hard thing having siblings."

Finally, an ally. "Tell me about it. If I had more powers, I'll challenge them to a duel or something."

At your statement, he furrows his eyebrows. "You're not a witch?"

"You can't tell? You can't see the insurmountable difference between your level and mine?" You don't intend to come off as insulted as you do, but this topic gets you on edge faster than any other.

Taehyung shakes his head, not sure how to approach this. "I mean I know you have magic but I didn't go around weighting it against anything.

Oh, how you wish the rest of the supernatural community were as open as him. You deny the butterflies cocooning to life inside your belly. You rake your teeth across your bottom lip, contemplating if you should just tell him. Then your ears burn as you realize you just brought his undivided attention to your mouth. Like some goddess of sexuality has possessed your body, your tongue snakes out and wets your lips. His gaze snaps to your mouth, and his eyes narrow.

Damn, you feel it again. That measured, heated sizzle fighting to burst out from your lungs. It's like the air around the two of you is charged. So impossibly electrocuted. This guy makes you wet with just one look and it's ridiculously unbecoming of you but you don't know to fight the feeling. Or rather, you're not sure you want to.

You flatten your hands against the table and force your body to cool. Is it just you, or is he a little bit closer? Close enough that you can see his eyes are a sharp shade of brown, lighter around his cornea before expanding out with a starburst pattern.

"I'm a matchmaker."

"A match... maker?"

"No, no. Matchmaker. Together. You've never heard of a matchmaker before?"

Tae leans back into the cushioning of the booth, his tongue poking the side of his cheek for a moment. "The type that can see true love?"

Pride blossoms in your chest and spreads to your cheeks. That's the only conceivable reason as to why you're now grinning like an idiot. "The one and only."

"Ooh," he says in admiration, clapping his hands together. "That's amazing."

"I aim to please." Crossing one leg over the other, you take a mock bow. You're enjoying yourself, which is a shock because you never thought you'd be this comfortable with someone other than family. You don't want to get ahead of yourself but a tingly buzz lights across your skin and your brain short-circuits before it can get the message.

"How does it work though? Can you look into someone's eyes and just tell?" Taehyung runs his fingertips across his jaw as he nods his head. "Like in That's So Raven except what you see is visualizations of their future lover?"

For a second you get caught up in the movement, in the strong line of his jaw and his long, nimble fingers. You can't remember ever thinking about guys' fingers in terms of sexiness before, but Taehyung —Tae — definitely has sexy fingers.

You shake your head, fighting the heat creeping up your body. In your life, you've never met someone that actually wants to know about what you can do. It's always been a that's-a-cool-story-but-not-really reaction. This is highly unexpected and you can't believe how easily drawn you are to this guy. He's virtually a stranger.

"That'd be cool. One touch," your fingers that are splayed on the tabletop are dangerously close to his that are interlocked together. If you shift just a breath away... "And I'll know."

Shit. You really don't know what the hell you're doing. Because it sounds a great deal like flirting to you. Instinct tells you that flirting with Kim Taehyung isn't something to do flippantly. And there's the fact that you know he's not the one for you. You know this, you know this, so why is your chest suddenly pounding a smidgen too loud?

You can tell that he wants you to find out about his soulmate but you don't want to. If you do then this, whatever this is, won't happen anymore. You'd be forced to crawl back into your shell and hope for something else – someone else. Somewhere deep in your bones, you know this feeling isn't going to come back. You didn't feel like this with any of the boys you dated in high school. You didn't feel it with Yoongi, your previous boyfriend that you parted with because you found his soulmate in the flesh. Nothing good is going to come out of testing the fire that is Kim Taehyung and yet, you can't stop yourself from diving in deeper.

"Anywhere?" He inquires, his voice as whispery as yours.

"Anywhere what?"

He licks his lips, leaning forward on the table with his elbow. "Do you have to touch a specific part of the body?"

You blink continuously. Is he... still flirting? You can't tell anymore. "I don't know. I haven't tried before. Usually, it's the arms."

His lips quirk up. "You should find out just how extensive your abilities are."

"Is this some spazzy way to get me to touch you?"

A hint of a dare flashes in his eyes. "There are a few other people in here. You could go ask them. But I figure since we know each other..."

"Barely."

"You'd rather ask a stranger?"

"You're assuming I really care that much." He's also assuming that he isn't as much as a stranger as everyone else in this diner.

His grin is blindingly white. "I know you're curious." His gaze flickers to your hands. "You're fiddling them with the want to know. You used to do that a lot when we were younger."

Huh, you didn't remember that. You honestly thought it was a habit you acquired sometime in high school. You smooth your fingers to prove a point and exhale roughly. He's watching you. Patient. Calculating. Tempting.

Your fingers clasp around your coffee mug and you down it all in one go. Fuck, where's the waitress? You haven't ordered anything substantial and you have a feeling in your gut that any moment from now it's going to growl loudly. Instead, you growl at him. You swear something else is possessing your body this night. You're never like...this. You are a sophisticated guru of love. That's what you are. So why, oh why, are you staring at him like you'd actually go through with what he's planning?

Your gaze flicks down from his eyes to his lips. His perfectly carved lips. You definitely want to know the feeling of his lips on yours. Wild and impossibly stupid. Taehyung must notice your diverted attention but instead of calling you out, he simply arcs an eyebrow at you. "C'mon then."

By Fates, Gods and every godlike being in the universe, this cheeky bastard is totally playing you. And here you are tumbling deep into his trap. Because you cannot look away from his face now. More specifically his lips, which are parted marginally. An innocent incitement? No. It's dare. A fucking dare.

Shit. You've never been exceptionally good at ignoring dares. No matter how shorthanded you are. You just keep pushing and pushing. A fatal flaw, you realize now.

Perhaps there truly is something unthinkably wrong with you because you slide out of your side of the booth and move over to his side before you can change your mind. Suddenly, your nose is inflamed with the scent of pinewood and mint and something else you can't pinpoint. You decide to claim that distinct smell as Tae.

One of his forearms is still placed on the silver table and your eyes lock on it. You hate that your hand trembles as you skim your fingers along his sinewy muscles. And you hate even more how loud your heart is beating. So loud that you can't even hear yourself breathe. Are you even breathing?

You're expecting to feel the burst of light that transports you into a vision but all you see is spazzing static. Like it's struggling to come to fruition. This... this isn't right. You should be able to see a thousand flashing pictures of him and his future beloved. How come all you're getting is unclear feedback? You almost draw back from shock. It's not possible that you can't see the end of his line, is it? What would that even mean? That he doesn't make it to the point where he meets his soulmate? Is his soulmate even alive? Your mind is racing for something to justify why everything looks so bleak behind your eyelids. But Taehyung remains perfectly still, his other arm nonchalantly draped on the edge of the booth behind you, his body turned toward yours. However, you don't miss the way his breathing shudders faintly.

Somewhere deep inside of you, you're desperate to show yourself that this thing between the two of you isn't possible. You need to see his soulmate. You need to be reminded that no matter what, he and you aren't on the same wavelength. Can never be on the same wavelength. Your hands rise from his skin and you hesitate, shy almost by what you want to do. Shit on ice. All you're going to do is touch a bit of his face. Why does it feel like you're about to rip a part of your soul and hand it to him in his palm like it's a corded silver platter?

Annoyed with yourself, you close the distance between your bodies.

You glance up at him and search through his eyes. He gives you nothing back. So, you rage on. Running your fingers up his jaw, across his cheek. Little fireflies spark at your touch, sending prickles of awareness over your skin, up your clothed thighs. You swallow hard and press your legs together. Can he tell? You're too apprehensive to check his eyes so, you keep your focus on his face.

This is a mistake. The air between the two of you is changing now, shifting to something tighter, closing in on your airways. A buzz hums through your bones, and his expression draws into something intense, his focus never waivers from yours. In this instant, you know him. You know him. All of him. You feel like you've known him your whole life like you've been anticipating for him to come back from wherever he has been.

Suddenly sensitive, your own lips part slightly. Somehow, your body has moved closer. You can't help yourself, dammit. You trace the bottom crook of his bottom lip with your forefinger.

Thunder of the Wicked Witch of the West, this is a grave mistake. Not only has your mind melted into a puddle of nothingness. You're getting an influx of information transmuting straight to your head. Befuddled memories suddenly coming out of years induced haze. You see Taehyung and you see someone else. You see them holding each other's arms, you see the look of pure adoration in his eyes. Fuck show me their face! But instead the fog clears, and you come back to the present.

In a daze, you feather your fingers across his lips again. The contrast between his soft yet firm mouth sends a bolt of pure, shocking want straight to your heart. You want to be that person in the vision. You've never felt this type of attachment with any of your previous requests. You've never felt the upending strings in your chest come undone. You've heard of intense connections, but you've never experienced one before... until now. There's no other word for what is happening in this moment. No other way to rationalize your actions. You follow the upper curve, and holy shit, you can't stop imagining his mouth moving over your skin.

You should stop. You are a pro-freaking-fessional. You should absolutely demonstrate some self-restraint. You tell yourself this even as you keep at tracing his mouth, the corners of it, his chin. Tae breathes lightly through his parted lips, and each exhale sends a little gust of soft heat over you.

You want him to push just a little bit closer and close the distance completely. But he won't. Not when his slim, slender hand has fallen to your hip, branding you, his fingers clasping in such a way that's a little possessive as it is protective.

Colorful city lights strobe in from the big paneled window, lighting Taehyung's face in a way that makes it turn to liquid gold. What the fuck am I doing here? Like some masochist, killing yourself slowly. You shouldn't be here, stealing the spotlight of someone else. But the idea of leaving is as dreadful as asking you to cast a reducio spell. Not happening.

You want to — no, you need — to feel more. And that need takes a mind of its own. Your whole body vibrates with a please, please, please as you feel his sharp intake of breath a nanosecond before your lips slowly graze his. Gods. Good gods, that's good. Actually no, the word to be used is phenomenal. His lips are silky-firm, lusciously smooth. You do it again, this time touching the corner of his mouth.

You press into his mouth, greedy, needy. You've never acted like this before. It's like some succubus of lust has taken control of your body and you can't do anything about it. Your thumbs bracket the corners of his face as you taste him. A small whimper sounds between the two of you. You don't know if you let it out or he did. There's no way it's you. You've never whimpered in your life. But then you make another one and fuck, it doesn't matter. You've become positively obsessed with his mouth, taking kiss after kiss.

His tongue dips inside and you swear you see stars dance and spark behind your eyelids. He groans as he uses a hand to tilt your head and deepen the kiss. His hand on your waist is like liquidized fire, searing your skin. Gods, this is bad. This is really bad. Kisses aren't supposed to be like this. You've done it countless times with countless people, but it has never affected you like this. The vibrations of his deep, low, almost feral moan send a throb through your body. Suddenly you want to knock the baseball cap off his head and run your hands through his hair. But before you can do so, you break apart for air.

And it's now, with the cool air-conditioned breeze of Vee's blowing over your glowing face that you realize where exactly you are. You all but jump ten feet in the air to get away from him. Taehyung isn't a warlock. NOPE. He has to be something else. Maybe an incubus? You're inhumanly mortified over the way you downright jumped Tae.

Another wave of embarrassment floods through you when you realize the stares of the other patrons inhabiting the diner.

Shit. It isn't never been your style to do public showings.

Slowly, oh' so slowly because the embarrassment™ is too much, you look up to catch his gaze. Unexpectedly though, his expression isn't smug. It's more thoughtful and a bit gentle. "So, what did you see?"

You're not sure you can remember. You're not sure you want to be honest and tell him you don't know. "Be honest, did you do all this simply for me to kiss you?"

"No." He refutes your question, but his focus drops to your throbbing lips. "Truthfully, I just wanted you to touch me."

His words leave you more breathless than the kiss and it takes you a long moment to get your brain up and running. You have no idea what to do with yourself. And now let's get another misconception out of the way: you love physical attraction (not that you have that much experience.) But you don't do this. You don't make out with guys who aren't at all your type. You don't kiss almost-perfect strangers. And you absolutely do not hit on a person that asks you to find their soulmate. That's just asking for tons and tons of awkwardness.

When you don't say anything in return, Taehyung sighs dejectedly. Like you just rejected him or something. But you're having a tough time coming to terms with everything. Taehyung's soulmate isn't you. At least, you're eighty-eight-point eighty-eight percent sure. You didn't get a clear view of the face, but it can't be you. You won't entertain the thought only to have it pulled under your feet later. But then, why the fuck is your heart beating so deafeningly loud that all these arguments swirling in your head no longer make any sense?

"I'll walk you home," Tae says quietly. Your face snaps to his, and he recoils. "And no, your sisters didn't ask me to do that." He glances at the window for a second. "This is all me."

"Okay."

Home sounds like a way better plan. The only problem is that you want to go alone and not have to face Tae any more than you already have. Sultriest kiss of your life or no, this is something you cannot do again. Kim Taehyung is dangerous to your convictions in many ways. And you know, you just know, that come what may, he can become an addiction if you take another taste of him. And we all know that's not something you genuinely want.

The local university prides itself on having extremely hard, very-possible to bring you to tears Math classes. So, it was staple reasoning that everyone came to class to pick out the best seats. Today, however, Ionia had needed you to drop some packaged stardust (store-bought glitter actually because stardust does not exist! No one has flown to the stars and survived long enough to crush one) to a delivery drop-off.

Your sisters' magical shop is the only thing connecting them to the human world and although more than everything they sell is authentic, sometimes clients just want the most inane things. Like who thinks stardust would actually give them supernatural tendencies? The supernaturals themselves don't even believe in stardust. Hard to believe in something that hasn't been proven or fact-checked.

You take a seat near the back of the class and pull out your notebook, pencils, and a calculator. You might hate math with every atom of your being, but you'll hate failing this class even more. The professor is running later than usual, and seats are filling up faster and faster. You begin twiddling with the edge of a ruled paper to pass the time.

"__?"

Jerking up your head so fast that dark spots dance in your vision for a hot second, you wonder if you heard wrong. Thinking it was the professor, you're ready to answer when you realize the voice that spoke was deeper, laced in an intrinsic feel of confidence and molten-syllables. The voice takes ahold of your spine, making it prickly straight and goose-bump museum-worthy. Surely the voice you'd heard couldn't possibly be the one it really was. No, Gods no, not him. He cannot be in this class. He wasn't here last week, but you also hadn't paid attention last week... or the week before that. Shit.

And even as these thoughts run wild in your brain, your traitorous body waves a yellow happy flag in the command center.

Preparing yourself, you turn and come face to face with your weekend tormentor, the best kisser of your life, your ex-childhood friend. Kim Taehyung. Of all the universities loitered around the city, of all the courses, of all the seats... this time there's no cap on his head, a black beanie takes that spot, but his wide brown eyes twinkle. There's a knowing humor in his gaze that it tugs a smile from the tips of your lips.

And you shouldn't be smiling. The last time you'd been in the same vicinity as him, you had practically mauled his lips with yours. Holy fuck. This is embarrassing as hell. You bite your tongue and will yourself to push all thoughts of kissing far, far away from your mind. You already spent all weekend trying to justify your actions to no avail. You can't spend the next fifty minutes doing the same thing.

"What are you doing here?" You ask, dropping the pencil from your grip.

"I'm in this class. Have been all semester. What are you doing here?"

Instead of replying to him verbally, you raise your Mathematics textbook up from the desk and show him. It's weird that you hadn't noticed him before. He stands out... in more ways than one. Everyone seems to gravitate towards him as if he's the center, even though the desk you're currently at is at the way back. Weird but not Tae doesn't seem to mind it. He flops into the free seat next to you and begins to slowly pull out his belongings.

This is the point you should apologize. You know this and yet you can't fight the words out. Like something is holding your vocal box tight and wouldn't let go. You clear your throat. You have to apologize and let him know that his soulmate is out there and there's a high chance it is not you. So, whatever this is needs to stop. It needs to stop before you embarrass yourself further.

"So, I was thinking," Tae is the first to break the silence. "How accurate are your visions?" When he sees the offended look on your face that's bound to be there because how dare he question your talents? He adds quickly. "Not that I won't believe whatever you say. I'm a mere warlock, after all, you're the real magic maker."

Not really but flattery gets him somewhere. You shrug your shoulders, attempting to calm the nervous feeling budding up your lungs. Your visions are more than accurate... when you actually get to see them. Taehyung is a whole new variety that you haven't seen before. And you've seen too many supernatural things for this to be such an issue. But here you are.

"Usually I'm a hundred percent sure, but with you, I'd say eighty something."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Eighty? Does that make me special?"

"A little. I think I need more time to... touch you."

Oh no that came out so wrong and your eyes widen when the full implications of your words register in your head. Did you just pose an innuendo to this guy? Holy shit, Sara was right when she told you last night that you were fucked. Clearly, you can't trust your lips to say anything meaningful if this is the kind of bullshit it spits out when it's in control.

You fumble to take your words back to whence they came. "I don't mean it like that. I mean, I do need to touch you, just not like that."

"Like what?" Tae asks, genuinely confused.

Take your vocal chords out and incinerate it. "Nothing."

He laughs, and it only reminds you that he has an amatory laugh. All at once, you want to go back to that night in the diner and stay in there for a while. You desperately want to go back to the time when you hadn't peered into his foreseeable future.

You wish you hadn't seen him paired up with someone else because you want this. You've never felt this before. Is this what you preach to the masses that come to your door? This overwhelming feeling that's threatening to tear through the butterflies beating in your chest? Maybe. You wouldn't know. But damn have you missed out.

"So, you didn't see anything? Not even a hand?" The laughter is still bubbling through his voice as he makes his inquiry.

"All I can say is that you have a soulmate. Somewhere out there, there's someone made just for you."

Taehyung nods his head, turning your statement over in his head. "Neat." He taps his neatly-cut fingers on the polished desk, creating a light rap sound. "What happens if this person isn't someone I want?"

Unintentionally, a scoff leaves your lips and you barely manage to not roll your eyes. "That's not going to happen."

"Okay. But if."

"If and only if, then I guess you get to do whatever you want. Fall in love with whoever, but they might not fall in love with you back."

"Isn't love supposed to be greater than that?"

Maybe. Possibly. Yes. But there's a system to this thing. The universe and the Fates decide who you end up with, although they couldn't be worried about the semantics of things. Of course, they've paired almost everyone up with someone else. They haven't paired you... yet. But as you've said: it's all semantics.

With a bustle of heavy panting and almost splayed papers, the professor finally makes an appearance in the classroom, walking in a straight bee-line to the front. "Sorry, sorry. Parking." He says as an excuse and a reprieve because every car-driving being on campus knows how hellish it is to find parking space at these hours and honestly, in general.

At the end of the time bracket, you take extra time with packing up, detergents have nothing on you with the way you clean off shaved rubber from your desk. A stupid giddiness flitters through you when you realize that Tae is waiting for you instead of charging out of the classroom.

So, what if the talk about the possibilities of love put you through a hard loop? You've heard of people rejecting their soulmate, but it doesn't add up. Why would someone do something fatal like that? For who? Who would ever be worth the risk?

It's when you're rising from your chair, one hand firmly placed on the desk that your fingers accidentally slide and brush against Tae's. The heat of his fingertips sends tiny fractures of awareness over your resolve. Maybe you don't know that much about love as you think you do.

You won't – can't– pretend there isn't attraction skittering between the two of you. And even though every bone in your body is telling you to let it go, you know your body and mind are not on the same page. Never have and probably never will.

"Are you busy after this?"

"Um," you wrack your head for anything you have yet to do but come up with nothing. "Not really. Why?"

You shouldn't be looking at his lips. Heck, maybe you shouldn't even trust yourself with just talking with him. Gods know how forgone you already are.

"There's a gig I'm playing in a few hours and..." You've never seen Tae get flustered before but holy the reddening of his cheeks is too cute too ignore. "If you're free then, I was wondering if you'd come?"

"You're in a band? That's illegal, you can't be both a warlock and a musician. It's unfair to humans."

Speaking of things, you shouldn't do, flirting with him is definitely Type A on the list. And another thing, Taehyung shouldn't be both cute and sexy, it's unfair on the bits of your soul that are being affected right now.

When he doesn't answer your pseudo-question, you grin. "Are you blushing, Tae?" You reach out and poke his cheek, all while he stretches out and catches your wrist safely between his fingers. The action is so fast that for a moment you forget to exhale.

Mathematically, you know time cannot freeze. Magically, you know Tae wouldn't have had the time to cast a time-stopping spell without you noticing. But forever it is worth, time completely stops. His liquid gold eyes scan your face before everything blurs out of focus.

In this foresight, you see Taehyung on a small stage, you have no prior knowledge of musical instruments, but you know that it's a bass guitar resting across his frame. And you see his smile, it's brightening by the second and it blitzes straight through your chest because he's aiming it at you. Or no, you don't know, he could be directing it at his soulmate somewhere in the crowd. But in this moment, it's you.

Hope sparks in your veins, something you hadn't given yourself the opportunity to believe in. And beneath your haze, you know he feels it too. You can see it in his lightning eyes and the swift beating of his heart against his chest. This is why you shouldn't touch, much less have kissed, Tae. Because now you can't stop rerunning it in your head. You know what he tastes like now. And what he tastes like is sweet, sweet addiction.

"So, what about it?" Taehyung asks in a low, vibrating voice. And he must sense your palpable confusion because he adds. "My band's performance. Will you be there?"

"Time and place. I'll be there." What's the harm in that? It's not like you're going to fall head over heels for him. You have more sense than that. You are a guru of love. You know everything, you tell yourself. And what this is, is deep infatuation and you can definitely chase the zings away with cold, cold, cold water.

Famous last words, right?

It feels like the grand inspection as your sisters and stable coven member, Hoseok, scrutinize your attire in the middle of the living room. Suddenly, you feel highly inadequate in your ripped black jeans, turtleneck sweater, and coat. You think you look good, but the looks of horror on Ionia and Sara's face beg to differ.

"You can't possibly want to go meet the love of your life in this," Sara's voice borders on disappointment and disgust.

"I mean, the jacket is kinda cute." Hoseok raises a flag in your defense.

Ionia spurts out a laugh at that remark, effectively tearing the flag to pieces. "I could lend you my halter top? You know the gold one?"

You love your family and your friend, you truly do. You'd take on a winged fire dragon for them. But you can't believe you set yourself up for this interrogation. Asking them to help you get ready for this non-date, was a disaster ready to happen. And there's no one to blame but you for wanting extra validation.

Biting your tongue to prevent a snarky statement that'll only cause this conversation to drag out longer, you calm yourself by exhaling a deep breath. "It's winter, dearest sister. Unless you want me back in a body bag, let me wear this jacket in peace," then you swivel your attention to the other hawk in the room. "And Sara, please for the love of everything, Tae isn't the love of—"

Ionia cuts through your monologue. "It's September!" Just as Sara wiggles her eyebrows goofily. "Tae, huh. Guess you guys are closer than I thought."

Instead of deigning either comment with a response, you turn around and grab your phone and keys from the sofa, safely tucking them in the back pocket of your jeans before glancing back at the trio. You pity for Hoseok who got dragged into staying with them as they practice new incognito spells.

"Have fun babysitting them, Hobi," you call out, raising a fisted palm to your chest in salute. "I pray for your safety."

Hoseok chuckles even as he uses a hand to reciprocate your salute. "I can handle it."

You make it a pointed effort to not say your goodbyes to your sisters before running out of the house. It's a fifteen-minute walk to the bar that Taehyung's band is playing at and you want to be there deathly on time. Not because you want to see his face again so quickly, of course not, but rather because this is what good friends do. Or at least what they should.

You are going to go there and be the most supportive person in the crowd. You vow on it. You'll be good. You wouldn't dare to wish for things you can't attain again. You'll allow the fates to work their magic on whoever that's meant for Tae. If it happens to not be you, then...

"Oh, fuck it." You say aloud, dunking your cold fingers in the pockets of your navy-blue coat.

Continuing the route to the bar in the silence of your mind, you realize that your brain actually does know how to shut up, just when it's on its own terms. And you guess, neither your head nor your heart wants to think about the possibility of you and Tae getting together. Sadly, because the probability is so low that it feels like your wishing on a goddamn star for a miracle.

You reach there faster than you anticipate with ample time before Taehyung's group is scheduled to go on stage and now you wonder if it's okay for you to just walk in? Well, of course, it should be. But what if he's busy entertaining his fans? You find it hard to picture him without any. With his killer smile and rumbling voice, it would be hard not to fall. You rub your palms together in a bid to warm them up faster but also to stall the inevitable meeting. You pace outside the bar, wondering if it's possible to cancel now.

Something bumps into your shoulder and you almost topple over from the impact but fortunately, someone catches you by your forearms, keeping you upright and saving your face from an impromptu make out with the cemented floor. It's a brief moment but you're thankful for wearing a coat today. Nothing worse than having a moment of seeing their love life in the middle of the pathway.

The first thing you notice about the person that caught you is the impish point of his ears and then the floppy coffee-colored hair on his forehead. You're in the process of thanking him and apologizing for putting him in this situation when he lets out a loud surprised sound from deep in his throat. You swear it sounds like a squeal.

"You're that lady from the diner!" He sounds excited for some reason, so you look up from your boot-clad feet and focus on his face.

"What?"

"Vee's," he says. "I work there. And your friend, well I guess our friend, Taehyung was with you the other day... Unless I have the wrong person. Then, I am so sorry for this inconvenience." He looks completely mortified at the possibility of this happening.

The corner of your lip lifts up as your mind remembers him. "Yeah, I guess that's me. My name's __. by the way. You're Jungkook, right?"

He nods as his face brightens up like he was a switch that can be so easily accessed. His smile puts you at ease though, at least you know someone in what seems to be a mass of people if your peeking through the glass door is anything to swear by.

"Oh, you haven't seen Taehyung tonight, have you?" Jungkook asks as he pulls the bar door open and lets the smell of alcohol, perfume, and other unidentified scents weave their way to where you stand.

Shaking your head, you drag your palms against the rough pattern of your jeans before you walk into the loud bar. People are everywhere and its impossibly hard to find any free space. You're about this close to breaking away and walking back home but then you remember that Jungkook is right behind you and he'll most likely snitch you out to Taehyung when he gets the chance.

You sigh out as Jungkook takes a step beside you. You scan his outfit and notice the black muscle tank top that he has on and then you notice the glittery glint of three silver earrings dropping from his left ear.

Before you can scan any lower, he bends his head a little. "We go on in about ten minutes." He chortles out above a whisper but a decibel lower than the chatter around the two of you.

"We?" Your eyebrows dance across your forehead.

"Of course." He shoots you a grin that is supposed to be heart-melting, and it is. Just not in the same way Taehyung's affect you. Now you wonder if this is how it's going to be; you consistently comparing everyone else to Taehyung. "I'm the drummer after all."

"That's so cool."

"I know," Jungkook mock bows at your compliment. "Anyways, I have to get backstage or else I owe the rest of the band lunch for a month." He gags at the prospect before he's waving at you and weaving his way through the horde of people. People stop and stare as he jogs past, they move away and create a river just for him to pass by and then they regroup into clusters and squeal and gossip about him.

It's an odd thing to notice but he doesn't look the least affected by it. But now you feel like the only sober person in this bar. You bite your lip as you keep your head down and scramble for a good position to see the stage.

There's a real problem though. The place is packed so full that you have to stand at the back just to be able to breathe. But there's so much anticipation swelling in your veins at just the thought of getting to hear him perform. You fold your arms across your chest, waiting for anything to happen. And its when you're not paying acute attention, fiddling with apps on your phone, that the screams of other people jolt you into the present.

The chants are loud and deafening and overpower the anxious feeling in your chest. And then as your eyes are filtering across the stage, they connect with his. It should be impossible for him to be able to see you all the way from where he stands in the center. It should be impossible for him to even know where you are in this colossal of bodies. But his gaze is unwavering and the knowing smirk gracing his face is anything short of accidental.

You check around your surroundings for anyone that he could be looking at but there's no one that looks anything other than a fan or a casual drinker. You peer up at him, this time holding his gaze with your own and his smile breaks forth. It lights a galaxy inside you.

"Hello everybody, I hope everyone has been having a good night so far," he starts. He looks across the crowd in front of him as they scream for him before he checks back on you. "We've been working on a few songs since the last time you saw us and quite honestly I'm a little bit nervous to perform it in front of you guys tonight."

One of his bandmates, a fair-headed lanky boy rolls his eyes at his statement and like telepathy, Taehyung laughs into the mic. "Lemme guess, Yoongi just rolled his eyes right now." Yoongi rolls his eyes again but smiles as he turns around to tune his guitar.

You're blown away by the level of comradery they have. All four of them. Jungkook is behind the drum set, blowing kisses to the girls up front and distracting them from Tae's speech. The one behind the keyboard looks mightily model-like in nature. With a piercing gaze and soft breached smile, he looks into the crowd with a relaxed ambiance.

"As usual we have JK on the drums, Jin on keyboard," Jin bows and waves and you put a palm to your chest to prevent its palpitations. He's ridiculously pretty. "Yoongi doing whatever the hell he does with that guitar." His statement earns a laugh from everyone listening, including you. Yoongi himself doesn't find it as hilarious though, he scrunches his nose and shakes his head. "I'm Taehyung and thank you for coming out to listen to Indie Magic Tendencies."

He throws one last toothy smile into the audience, rubbing his palms together before then grabbing the mic with two hands. "Before I forget, today's performance is dedicated to a special friend of mine in the crowd right now."

An electric wire grapples around your chest, forcing you to stand up straight and cease breathing as he continues, this time with his focus on you. It's like he's calling you out. "I'm not trying to bend your beliefs or go against what you think the world wants. But sometimes two people have to really, really, want each other to be for the universe to listen."

You're not present as Jungkook reaches up and grabs his mic to say, "and here's our song: let me." You're not present as the slow and even smoother voice of Taehyung and Jin slithers into the ears of the patrons in the bar. You don't even notice as the loud cheers of the fans decrease into a low mumble as if they too are holding their breath. You can't make sense of anything going on around you in this moment because of the insanely loud thump of your heart as it struggles to beat in your chest.

You'd become dismissive of the idea of love in relations to you. It's awfully hilarious that you are realizing this now, with the one person you would love to spend forever with in front of you. You've hidden behind this notion that the Fates decide everything. And although the Fates, in all their gloriousness, mean no harm. Why does it have to be you? You've seen countless people that did not stick to your assigned pairings that go on to have rewarding lives with each other. Even though you are right, you are also wrong?

Why do you have so much love to give but nothing to receive? Why do you have to be the only abiding by rules that no one else sees? Why do you have to be graceful and accept this stalemate that has been placed upon you?

Everyone — witches and warlords, elves and faeries, vampires, and lycanthropes – they all believe in this innate magic. Magic that sprouts from the trees like water before spraying into the air. Magic that swims far deep within you and drowns out everything. You've been taught to only reach for things that are given to you. Never step outside your jurisdiction. You are not a witch. You don't have a mass of reserved magic. What you have is fleeting. One touch one memory. It's not fixed. You shouldn't wish for more. Shouldn't long for it either.

And for a while, you've been completely fine with it. It's not like someone had shot through your axis and shaken your atmosphere before. Taehyung's arrival has shown you the other side that you haven't been attuned to. This unreasonable want for something — someone. And the unbearable need to attain.

You bite your lip and slink deeper into the shadows, hoping that for whatever its worth, Taehyung doesn't have excellent eyesight because you're this sure that your myriad of conflicting emotions is highlighted in bold across your face.

Pulling out your phone from your coat pocket, you open the messages app and do what any other sane person would do in this situation. You text Sara.

Can I ask you something?

Her reply is almost instantaneous. Shoot.

What's your take on the whole Taehyung situation?

Lmao. You hear her laughter ringing in your ears. What situation? According to you, there's nothing there. Remember? All that "I'm destined to never find love" bs you were talking about?

You want to burn. Actually, no. You want to hide. Forget about that. This is serious, okay! I really like him. It's weird and I've never felt this way about anything, absolutely nothing. And I know he likes me too, it's just... ugh.

Sara: Okay relax. First of all, liking him is good. Him liking you back is a bonus, be happy!

Typing a fast response, you prod the inside of your cheek with your tongue. You're not helping at all.

Sara: Hahaha, well you haven't told me what to exactly help with so....

It's obvious. He has a soulmate out there and I don't. What about ten years down the line and he finds them and suddenly I'm like a discarded chew toy. I don't want that.

Sara: fuck that noise. Soulmates are just people, __. You think you just find someone and immediately want to be with them because some god told you so? Heck, no. you like Taehyung, right? You just have to figure out how much you like him. And I'm not saying your abilities are whack or wrong, but sometimes you just know, you know. You know who you wanna to be with and who knows? Maybe the fates will listen. Idk

You try not to laugh at the irony of her and Taehyung saying essentially the same thing. This is a serious conversation and you shouldn't be laughing but the irony isn't lost on you. You turn off your phone before dunking it back into your pocket. Sara's right; fuck that noise. You're gonna do it. You're going to walk up to him once he finishes sweating up that stage with his sexy as sin voice and mad good guitar skills and tell him –

There's a loud ping! as your phone chimes with a new message. Reaching into your pocket, you see the new text Sara has sent you.

There are a gazillion people in the universe. You've met a thousand and then some extra since the day you were born. But there's only one person that you can connect with on a deep, natural level... there's only one Kim Taehyung. And if it's him? Why do you have to settle for someone else?

It's almost fitting that as you see the shining behind the puzzle maze, the crowd cheers in a deep mix of squeals and cries as Indie Magical Tendencies wrap up their set for the night. Jungkook has taken Taehyung's previous position and is thanking the crowd for coming out. Grinning wide and eyes shining brighter. And then you're frantically searching the stage for Taehyung but he's not there anymore.

Your confidence is waning. This is a bad idea. Your testing fate. It's never gonna work out anyway. You're going to be disappointed in a few months when everything turns lackluster and boring and you'd wish you had listened to your head instead of your heart.

Then suddenly, he's in front of you, as if you conjured him up from thin air. You know that's not the case but it's nice to believe. He opens his mouth to say something you'll never know because you beat him to it faster.

"I need to talk to you." The too-full establishment makes it hard to hear yourself so you add, a little bit louder this time. "Let's go outside."

He hears you and soon his long fingers are searing into your skin as they wrap around your wrist and lead you out the back door. You don't pay attention to the looks, or the sighs, or the gasps. You're focusing your energy on trying to see his soulmate and still, you see nothing but static. It doesn't matter anyway, you realize, you're about the most selfish person on the planet. Or at least that what you think.

Outside is colder as the night has finally settled but it doesn't feel as bad with him next to you. The back of the bar is a dumpster heaven but at least its quiet and you can hear the loud badump! of Tae's heart, it's rivaling yours. You lean against the brick of the building, needing the extra support.

You start. "I-I intended to listen to your voice tonight, but it really was nothing but an intention because I couldn't listen."

His fingers release your arm as he raises them to his chest in faux hurt. "Yikes, my voice isn't that bad –"

"Your voice is amazing!" You are quick to say. "It's because of what you said earlier. This — everything, is new to me. I've never felt like this for anyone."

"Neither have I."

"But you're you," incredulity laces your tone. "There's no way you haven't. You're cool and calm and a wizard that knows how to play the fucking guitar and sing and you're beautiful. Like insanely. You could projectile vomit on someone and they'll thank you."

He laughs at your wordy compliment. "Sure, it's possible that other people have felt that way about me. But I can't remember ever falling so hard for someone else before."

"What about soulmates and the future and..." your voice is weak, your resolve weaker and he capitalizes on that.

"When you touch me you don't see anything, do you?"

Your breath stutters in your throat and you choke on it which pushes you into a coughing fit. Ah shit, this is embarrassing as hell. Taehyung is kind of laughing at you, kind of looking concerned for your wellbeing until the last of the cough wheezes past your lips. You curl your fingers at your side as you look up at him. You take nervously calming breathes to gain your voice back.

"I don't. I see you laughing, and I see that you're happy, but I don't see th—"

"Exactly! To say or even think that one can or should wait for their entire existence for this soulmate to come around is an oxymoron, an impossibility. People eventually always get sick of waiting. I'll probably get sick of waiting. No one waits forever for someone they don't even know."

"But—" Your admonishment is shallow on your lips.

"I choose you."

He says the words with such confidence that it leaves you flustered, and with your brain desperately searching for something to say. But all that leaves you with is your mouth opening and closing before remaining agape. Your body is heating up, you don't know to calm down. You don't want to.

"What if you had a soulmate?" You are fighting the expansion of your cheeks because he's looking at you like this whole situation is funny and maybe it is. You're fishing for comments and he accepts the bait.

"I don't care," Tae says. "I would have found you again. I would have done something. I don't know, conjured up some daemon from the netherworld and sold my soul." He has a way with words, even the most terrifying thing doesn't sound so bad when it leaves his lips.

You think this to be the end of his spiel, but Tae doesn't stop there. It's as if he's trying to convince you with every bone in his body that there is magic between the two of you and he doesn't want to stand around doing nothing when he can so clearly feel it.

"And what about soulmates? What do you think my chances are of finding a shared soul in this hell of a universe? What if I've already met them but didn't do anything about it because I was banking on a particular trigger I don't feel? I'll be fortunate if I can find just one person who'll be able to put up with me for the rest of eternity.

"Only twice in my life have I ever felt this inexplicable, nearly transcendental pull to a person. But it wasn't two, it was only one. It's only been you. I don't know what's happened to make your memories of our childhood befuddled, but that doesn't even matter. In the end, I want to make it work with you. I want to take you out on dates, I want to learn what makes you laugh the hardest, I want to be with you, __. But if you truly do not feel the same as me, I'll go. I'll find that soulmate, that's not supposed to be you, and hope, whatever happens, happens for the best."

His face is deathly close to yours, breath fanning against your heating cheeks. His words have the ability to break you undone but put you back together again and again. You should be selfish. Here he is in front of you, pouring his beliefs and soul and you should too. You don't have to hide behind barricades you placed for yourself. You want him. You want to experience this. You—

"Okay."

"Okay?" His eyebrows crunch, a lithe smile appears.

You nod your head vigorously. "Okay! Let's do it. Fuck the fates. I want you too. And you'll be sorely mistaken if you think, or if they think, I'll stand here and aide you in leaving me. I can't explain it either, but I feel it. It's not something I can express."

"It's not something you have to express. You either know or you don't."

"You're right." You agree. "I also know that now that we've cleared all that up, I'm a hundred percent down with making out with you right now. Just putting that out there. You know, if you were, uh, wondering."    

"Really?" Taehyung asks, moving closer to you till you're backed up hard against the wall. "You want to kiss me in the back of semi-smelly pub?"

You shrug your shoulders as Taehyung reaches up with his fingers and caresses your cheek. He has really sexy fingers you notice for the millionth time. "Can't you do some hocus pocus spell and do some invisibility cloak or something? I mean, you're a warlock."

"Hm, I could do all of that. But that's going to take like, what, three minutes? I could just take up your offer and," he bends his head low and places feathers with his lips all across your jawline. Little fledglings of heat spark up from his touch. But then the tips of his sweaty hair tickle your cheek and you pull back in laughter.

"You know what?" He has his arms wrapped around your waist and a confused pout on his lips. "We should restart." Taehyung nods his head agreeing. "Yeah, I should probably take you out on a proper date before I get handsy."

"We literally kissed the first day we met each other."

"But that was for an experiment. A hot one. But an experiment no less. That doesn't count as our first kiss."

You laugh as the two of you break apart and you stare up at him as you try to regain your breath. He looks ethereal and you wonder how you look in his eyes. You reach up with your fingers and push his hair back so that it doesn't tickle your face again and then you push up and place your lips firmly against his.

There's no all-consuming fire that melts your bones in one sweep. Instead, there are high definition images screening through your mind showcasing the two of you. Together. You see yourself and you see him and you see bits of your life in between. And you look happy. You look deliriously so. Taehyung maneuvers your body closer and you get lost in him. Your thoughts scatter and you forget your own name but the feel of Taehyung's concrete chest against your own, with his own heart beating out of sync places a smile on your face.

Breaking apart from him is a challenge that you don't want to complete if not for the nagging in your lungs for air. Your mind is frazzled, your face heated and your chest full.

"I saw your soulmate."

"Yeah?" He whispers out. "I already know who it is."

You giggle. "You do?"

"Of course. I can see it on your face," he pauses then nods his head once. "It's you."

a/n » this was long and im very thankful to everyone who reads this and i hope you really enjoyed it bc i had so much fun writing it! :) thank you so so much for reading >.<

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©️ 2018 kai, moonbelt [aka high-on-food]

[unityrental]

How Modern Training Rooms Can Bring Our Creativity and Collaboration Among Members

Meetings and trainings have always been around since the dawn of business corporations. Or it may even go beyond it as it may not have necessarily been termed as meetings yet. All that people know is that there is an avenue in which people get together to talk about a certain issue. It doesn't even have to be strictly for work purposes. It can be as simple as a group of friends discussing a pressing issue.

Along with the onset and rise of technology, times have indeed changed. This includes the way people do meetings. Today, meetings, may it be for business purposes or for personal uses, can be done over the Internet. It removes the human-to-human interaction between all the parties involved. However, communication is still present, and this makes the meeting still a successful one.

The problem with purely online meetings is that it removes the power of human touch and presence. On the other hand, with the strong influence of globalization, it cannot be denied that remote meetings or telephone conferences should also be accommodated. It is because of this that smart conferences were established. These are the kind of meetings which are still handled in a physical meeting room, although this time, it's backed up by technology. With that, here are some of the ways how smart meetings revolutionized the way people meet.

Not everyone has to be in the same room

Smart trainings have, indeed, revolutionized the game of how people meet. The great thing about it is that not everyone who's supposed to attend the meeting is physically in the meeting room. They can be somewhere else like another state or country, but still, be involved. According to a report by Gallup, almost 43% of the employees in the United States have managed to at least work from home every now and then. What was once seen as a form of luxury when it comes to the workplace can not be seen as a standard for some offices.

With smart meetings, you can't expect a meeting to be canceled or moved to a later date just because a team member is somewhere else. Worse comes to worst, other employees who weren't able to make it in time can call in just so they can catch the whole agenda to be discussed in the meeting. With just these attendance and punctuality issues alone, there will be no more reason for someone not to be able to make it to the meeting.

Removes the hassle, everyone stays focused on the task at hand

With the help of easy-to-use technology, meetings are now a lot more bearable to do for its attendees. This is if the training room is equipped with fully functional technologies. While it can be understood that there might be some birthing pains for the process, it will depend on the training room technologies that you're going to use. A famous technology is the Microsoft Surface Hub 25. It addresses the problem of how attendees can focus on what's being taught or discussed to them. This technology enables everyone to wirelessly connect across multiple devices. As a result, attendees will have to be able to understand the system better, and everything they need is right there at their fingertips. Of course, less time spent on such hassle and distraction will turn into more time for creativity and focus.

It keeps everyone up-to-date with the latest trends

The thing about trainings and meetings nowadays is that the people involved in it comes from all sorts of ages. While the majority of the workforce is within the range of middle to old age, newcomers are also becoming a huge part of the workforce. It cannot be denied that technology has been, indeed, a vital role in everyone's lives. While it is most likely that the fresh graduates or mid-twenties to mid-thirties employees are very much familiar with these types of technologies, it's also more likely that the older generations are not. However, this shouldn't completely be the reason why companies should pass on smart methods of trainings and meetings. Whatever the situation is, technology will always be embedded in our lives from this day forwards. There's really no going back. Thus, integrating it with how you conduct your trainings will surely keep everyone in tune.

It introduces everyone to a new environment

Trainings are of an important matter for several companies and institutions. It doesn't matter whether or not these are large companies or small ones. As long as they have employees and team members, these people would need extended and continuing knowledge. Everything learned in the training and seminar, then, can be applied - whether directly or indirectly - to their functions. In this way, the company can benefit from giving knowledge through a series of trainings to its people.

No one wants to be stuck in the same routine over and over again. Even if the employees don't ask it, one of the benefits that they will truly appreciate is added skills that they can have for a lifetime. With smart training sessions, they are not only being exposed to new learnings and skills that they can adapt. They, too, are exposed to the technologies that the company or institution have let them use.

Basically, these people aren't just sitting in front of the computer, meeting the key point objectives, and indices that they have to do for the month. They, too, need supplementary skills that will make them feel more humane and involved in the company, rather than just someone who's stuck at the same task every day for five days a week. In the end, these people will certainly have more knowledge, especially when it comes to the use of different technologies involved in the workplace, and can inspire creativity and collaboration among themselves and within their departments.

These are just some of the ways how modern training and meeting rooms can bring out creativity among the members involved. Indeed, technology can change how people think and react to things. Even more so, they are empowered when they learn something new and this can directly affect your company in ways that you weren’t able to imagine. If you’re looking forward to book a training room that’s well equipped with these technologies, give us a call!

source https://unityrental.sg/how-modern-training-rooms-can-bring-our-creativity-and-collaboration-among-members/

[leviathangourmet]

In The Coddling of the American Mind, Jonathan Haidt and Greg Lukianoff argue that well-intentioned adults are unwittingly harming young people by raising them in ways that implicitly convey three untruths:

The Untruth of Fragility: What doesn’t kill you makes you weaker.

The Untruth of Emotional Reasoning: Always trust your feelings.

The Untruth of Us vs. Them: Life is a battle between good people and evil people.  

In their telling, the spread of these untruths, especially in the middle and upper classes, helps to explain a spike in mental-health problems among young people and recent tumult on the campuses of highly selective colleges. But if parents and educators change course, they argue, they can raise happier, healthier kids who’ll turn into better citizens.

I liked the book, which has its origins in a 2015 cover story in this magazine. The updated thesis, when fleshed out across detailed chapters, struck me as clearly stated, logically argued, and plausibly true—and the proposed remedies struck me as highly unlikely to do harm.

“Whatever your identity, background, or political ideology,” the authors advise young people, “you will be happier, healthier, stronger, and more likely to succeed in pursuing your own goals” if you do three things:

Seek out challenges “rather than eliminating or avoiding everything that ‘feels unsafe.’”

Free yourself from cognitive distortions “rather than always trusting your initial feelings.”

Take a generous view of other people, and look for nuance, “rather than assuming the worst about people within a simplistic us-versus-them morality.”

They even include practical advice for conveying those lessons in child-rearing. How significant are the ills that they identify relative to all the others that confront higher education or young people generally? I don’t know. But their prescriptions seem sensible, low-cost, likely to help some, and unlikely to prevent other reformers from addressing other problems.

Some critics have praised their work. Thomas Chatterton Williams reviewedthe book favorably in The New York Times. Wesleyan University President Michael Roth’s Washington Post review seemed to endorse the book’s advice in its last paragraph.

Lots of folks who responded to the book more critically argued that it gave short shrift to the thing they regarded as the most pressing problem in society or on campus. Few challenged its core arguments, whatever they were worth.

But I wanted to hear from critics of their central thesis. That’s how I found myself reading Moira Weigel’s review in The Guardian, having seen folks on social media flagging it as a devastating takedown. “Moira Weigel eviscerates with ease ‘The Coddling of the American Mind,’” the biologist Stephen Currywrote. The sociologist Kate Cairns asserted that the review “systematically demolishes” the book, while another observer characterized the review as “an excellent shredding.”

Imagine my surprise when even that review contained a passage that appeared to grant the potential value of the advice at the book’s very core. Weigel wrote:

Despite the title, which suggests cultural or civilisational diagnosis, the checklists and worksheets distributed throughout this book make clear that its genre is self-help. The tips it contains may benefit upper middle class parents. They may benefit students from minority or working class backgrounds who arrive on elite campuses to find that, despite good intentions, those campuses have not fully prepared for them.

It’s the sort of passage that would usually appear in a positive review. It is no small thing to identify a problem that harms families from different economic classes and to offer tips that may help folks in each to help themselves.

But as it turns out, that passage is a brief aside, anomalous for its substantive assessment of the book’s thesis. The review’s first paragraph complains that the book doesn’t discuss financial hardship among college students (though the authors trace the mental-health trends that worry them back to high school and to the wealthiest families, not the ones struggling to pay tuition). An entire section complains that the book’s style “wants above all to be reasonable. Lukianoff and Haidt include adverb after adverb to telegraph how well they have thought things through.” Is it bad to want to be reasonable? Have they thought things through? The merits of such substantive questions are rarely Weigel’s focus, though. Many critiques are implied rather than stated, rendering them unfalsifiable.

The balance of the review is scathingly negative not in its arguments—a few pop up along the way, some concerning peripheral matters—but in its ad hominem attacks and other rhetoric disguised as argument as though its mere trappings confer heft. An argument can be strong or weak, civil or ill-mannered, calm or heated, edifying or misleading. Even the most frustrating arguments, though, offer readers more than the tropes pervading this frustrating review, and other journalistic work of the same genre: Let us call them Idioms of Non-Argument.

The Guardian review is a useful illustrative example in part because its entire mode is foreshadowed in the headline that announces the article:

The Coddling of the American Mind review – how elite US liberals have turned rightwards

Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt’s book sets out to rescue students from ‘microaggressions’ and identity politics. But perhaps they merely resist change that might undermine them

That display copy says: Never mind the merits of the book’s thesis—what’s important here, fellow leftists, is where the authors fall on a left-right ideological spectrum and what psychological factors may be motivating them. What’s a truth proposition when there’s an ongoing culture war to fight?

What unfolds over the body of the review isn’t quite a character assassination of the authors so much as a series of premeditated assaults.

The book is utterly in keeping with the longtime professional interests of both authors, and closely tied to Greg Lukianoff’s personal experience using cognitive behavioral therapy to fight serious depression. But Weigel dismissively speculates that they wrote the book “perhaps, because an article that they published in The Atlantic went viral.” Is she implying that the subject doesn’t justify book-length treatment? Some other dig? Is the line merely included to convey contempt?

Both authors have long records of producing work that is intellectually honest; neither happens to be an ideological conservative. Yet over the course of the review, Weigel compares them not only to Allan Bloom, but also to Dinesh D’Souza, and then, using guilt-by-association tactics, to the alt-right:

Hints of elective affinities between elite liberalism and the “alt-right” have been evident for a while now. The famous essay that Allum Bokhari and Milo Yiannopoulos wrote in 2016, “An Establishment Conservative’s Guide to the Alt-Right,” cites Haidt approvingly. At one point Lukianoff and Haidt rehearse a narrative about Herbert Marcuse that has been a staple of white nationalist conspiracy theories about “cultural Marxism” for decades.

Nassim Taleb, whose book Antifragile Haidt and Lukianoff credit with one of their core beliefs and cite repeatedly as inspiration, is a fixture of the far right “manosphere” that gathers on Reddit/pol and returnofkings.com.

The commonality raises questions about the proximity of their enthusiasm for CBT to the vogue for “Stoic” self-help in the Red Pill community, founded on the principle that it is men, rather than women, who are oppressed by society. So, too, does it raise questions about the discipline of psychology – how cognitive and data-driven turns in that field formed Haidt and his colleagues Pinker and Jordan Peterson.

Are Haidt and Lukianoff correct or incorrect about Herbert Marcuse? Is Antifragile a good book? Is cognitive behavioral therapy a worthwhile approach? Is there wisdom to glean from the Stoics or the discipline of psychology? Weigel offers the reader no arguments of substance—just the Idioms of Non-Arguments that all of those things raise questions because ostensibly bad people are tenuously associated with each of them. God help Kevin Bacon if he’s ever the subject of a similarly crafted profile.

The apotheosis of Weigel’s vilification tactics comes a bit later. In the book, the authors recount what they regard as examples of “catastrophizing” on college campuses. But the authors also go out of their way to point out that today’s college students are sometimes behaving totally rationally when they perceive a threat to their physical safety. Among other examples, they flag an apparent rise in hate crimes, a college student’s online threat to “shoot every black person” at the University of Missouri soon after Dylann Storm Roof’s neo-Nazi murder spree, and the murder of Heather Heyer in Charlottesville, Virginia.

They write:

Students of color facing ongoing threats to their safety, and seeing frequent reports of threats elsewhere, are not new phenomena; the history of race in America is a history of discrimination and intimidation, intertwined with a history of progress. And yet, this new wave of racial intimidation may be particularly upsetting because of recent progress … The shock of Trump’s victory must have been particularly disillusioning for many black students and left-leaning women. Between the president’s repeated racial provocations and the increased visibility of neo-Nazis and their ilk, it became much more plausible than it had been in a long time that “white supremacy,” even using a narrow definition, was not just a relic of the distant past.

Judge for yourselves whether passages like that are fairly or unfairly characterized in the part of Weigel’s review where she likens the authors to a character in a recent Hollywood film, who kidnaps black people and steals their bodies:

Like Mark Lilla, Steven Pinker and Francis Fukuyama, who have all condemned identity politics in recent books, [Haidt and Lukianoff] are careful to distinguish themselves from the unwashed masses— those who also hate identity politics and supposedly brought us Donald Trump.

In fact, the data shows that it was precisely the better-off people in poor places, perhaps not so unlike these famous professors in the struggling academy, who elected Trump; but never mind. I believe that these pundits, like the white suburban Dad in the horror film Get Out, would have voted for Barack Obama a third time.

Cheap shots like that serve no purpose other than to prejudice readers, and bear not at all on the quality of the book’s ideas. (And not that it matters, but famous professors in the struggling academy are, contra the inapt analogy to better-off people in poor places, a demographic that surely voted overwhelmingly against Trump.)

Vilification and guilt by association are not the only Idioms of Non-Argument. Misrepresentation is another.

Consider the treatment of intersectionality in the book. The authors sketch the framework as it was articulated by Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw, now the director of the Center on Intersectionality and Social Policy Studies at Columbia University, and they favorably quote an explanatory  passage from Intersectionality by Patricia Hill Collins and Sirma Bilge.

The authors write:

Intersectionality is a theory based on several insights that we believe are valid and useful: power matters, members of groups sometimes act cruelly or unjustly to preserve their power, and people who are members of multiple identity groups can face various forms of disadvantage in ways that are often invisible to others. The point of using the terminology of “intersectionalism,” as Crenshaw said in her 2016 TED Talk, is that “where there’s no name for a problem, you can’t see a problem, and when you can’t see a problem, you pretty much can’t solve it.”

Only then do they add:

Our purpose here is not to critique the theory itself. It is, rather, to explore the effects that certain interpretations of intersectionality may now be having on college campuses. The human mind is prepared for tribalism, and these interpretations of intersectionality have the potential to turn tribalism way up. These interpretations of intersectionality teach people to see bipolar dimensions of privilege and oppression as ubiquitous in social interactions. It’s not just about employment or other opportunities, and it’s not just about race and gender.

Their argument is that while the originators of intersectionality and careful adherents of the theory offer important insights, some less nuanced interpretations are misleading students about reality by training them to see the world “in terms of intersecting bipolar axes where one end of each axis is marked privilege and the other is oppression.”

By way of illustration they cite teaching tools like this one:

They reason:

Since “privilege” is defined as the “power to dominate” and to cause “oppression,” these axes are inherently moral dimensions. The people on top are bad, and the people below the line are good. This sort of teaching seems likely to encode the Untruth of Us Versus Them directly into students’ cognitive schemas: Life is a battle between good people and evil people.

Perhaps their reasoning is flawed or their concerns are not borne out by the facts. But how does Weigel distill that very carefully qualified argument?

For all their self-conscious reasonableness, and their promises that CBT can master negative emotion, Lukianoff and Haidt often seem slightly hurt. They argue that intersectionality theory divides people into good and bad. But the scholars they quote do not use this moral language; those scholars talk about privilege and power. Bad is how these men feel when someone suggests they have had it relatively easy – and that others have had to lose the game that was made for men like them to win.

Once again, there is a truth proposition, like Can CBT help master negative emotion? But rather than use the best available evidence to adjudicate something so plainly relevant to the book, Weigel casts doubt on the proposition in the reader’s mind by claiming that the authors “seem slightly hurt,” citing no particular passage, as if that should bear on our faith in cognitive behavioral therapy.

She then offers a misleading account of their beliefs about intersectionality—they are explicit that neither intersectional theory nor the scholars they quote commit the Us vs. Them fallacy—and concludes by asserting how they feel (which is to say, how her ideology tells her that they must surely feel) in a hypothetical situation that she made up.  

Later, Weigel writes:

Predictably, Lukianoff and Haidt cite Martin Luther King as a spokesperson for “good” identity politics—the kind that focuses on common humanity rather than differences. But there was a reason the speech they quote was called “I Have a Dream” and addressed to people marching for jobs.

Keeping faith with the ideal that all humans are created equal means working to create conditions under which we might, in fact, thrive equally. In the absence of this commitment to making the dream come true, insisting that everyone must act as if we are already in the promised land can feel a lot like trolling.

“Can feel a lot like trolling” is dense with weasel words, but what’s more notable here is the clear implication that Haidt and Lukianoff insist “that everyone must act as if we are already in the promised land.”

Later, Weigel writes, “Enjoying the luxury of living free from discrimination and domination, they therefore insist that the crises moving young people to action are all in their heads.” No, they do not so insist! Lukianoff leads an organization—the Foundation for Individual Rights in Education—that constantly advocates on behalf of students facing unjust discrimination, and battles administrators who violate their civil rights. And their book explicitly states this about social-justice activism:

College students today are living in an extraordinary time, and many have developed an extraordinary passion for social justice. They are identifying and challenging injustices that have been well documented and unsuccessfully addressed for too long. In the 1960s, students fought for many causes that, from the vantage point of today, were clearly noble causes … Students today are fighting for many causes that we believe are noble, too, including ending racial injustices in the legal system and in encounters with the police; providing equal education and other opportunities for everyone, regardless of circumstances at birth; and extinguishing cultural habits that encourage or enable sexual harassment and gender inequalities. On these and many other issues, we think student protesters are on the “right side of history,” and we support their goals.

Despite that passage, Weigel goes on to write, “The authors cite the ‘folk wisdom’ ‘Prepare the child for the road, not the road for the child.’ They call this attitude ‘pragmatic.’ The prospect that a group of children might get together to build a new road themselves is not one they can countenance.”

The authors themselves, though, believe they are offering advice to young people that will make them more likely to succeed in building a new road.

That brings us to yet another Idiom of Non-Argument: reduction to privilege anxiety. Forget about counterarguments that address the merits of a proposition. Simply assert that its advocates fear losing their privileged status, and obviously acted in order to thwart the rise of marginalized people, and you will discredit their project without having to grapple with it at all.

Thus:

… the consensus that has ruled liberal institutions for the past two decades is cracking up. The media has made much of the leftward surge lifting Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. But as this new left-liberalism gains strength, a growing number of white men who hold power in historically liberal institutions seem to be breaking right.

As more and more Americans, especially young Americans, express enthusiasm for democratic socialism, a new right-liberalism answers. Its emerging canon first defined itself in reaction to new social movements highlighting the structural or systemic elements of identity-based oppression. By deriding those movements as “clicktivism” or mere “hashtags,” right-liberal pundits also, implicitly, expressed frustration at how web platforms were breaking up their monopoly on discourse.

One wonders: What makes the book’s thesis right-leaning? How has Haidt or Lukianoff broken rightward? Does democratic socialism bear on their subject matter in any way? If Lukianoff is motivated by frustration at web platforms for breaking up an elite monopoly on discourse, why does the organization he leads fight to expand the ability of leftist college students and faculty members to post their views without punishment on blogs and social media? And what, precisely, is it about their claim that students are prone to catastrophizing that preserves privilege? A review operating in the mode of argument and ideas would grapple with such questions rather than begging or eliding them.

The Idioms of Non-Argument reward those adept at using book reviews as a chance to denigrate ideological adversaries, ascribing to them motives that fit their in-group’s preferred narrative. But they do little for readers.

The Guardian’s review is terribly unfair to The Coddling of the American Mind’s two authors, but that is of comparatively little consequence. If the book’s thesis is correct and its insights are actually adopted, it could help a lot of people; if it is incorrect in a way most people fail to appreciate, it could do harm or impede a search for better solutions. That’s why it would be valuable to have a rigorous critique from a skeptical reader. Put another way, testing the truth of its claims really matters.

But Weigel’s look at the book—perhaps the most prominent skeptical review it received—spent little time arguing about its actual claims. Instead, it focused on the attributes of its authors and how they might be invoked to reify the progressive left’s notions of what ostensibly motivated them to write, or who has the better overarching ideological narrative to advance. This is the problem with the Idioms of Non-Argument. They don’t leave us any closer to understanding.  

[stopkingobama]

The income tax implies that government owns you

Photo: Pixabay (CC0)

The income tax is enshrined into law an idea that stands in total contradiction to the driving force behind the American Revolution and the whole idea of freedom itself. We desperately need a serious national movement to get rid of it – not reform it, not replace it, no flatten it or refocus its sting from this group to that. It just needs to go.

The great essayist Frank Chodorov once described the income tax as the root of all evil. His target was not the tax itself, but the principle behind it. Since its implementation in 1913, he wrote, “The government says to the citizen: ‘Your earnings are not exclusively your own; we have a claim on them, and our claim precedes yours; we will allow you to keep some of it, because we recognize your need, not your right; but whatever we grant you for yourself is for us to decide.”

He really does have a point. That’s evil. When Congress ratified the 16th Amendment on Feb. 3, 1913, there was a sense in which all private income in the U.S. was nationalized. What was not taxed from then on was a favor granted unto us, and continues to be so.

This is implied in the text of the amendment itself: “The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes on incomes, from whatever source derived, without apportionment among the several States, and without regard to any census or enumeration.”

No Limits

Where are the limits? There weren’t any. There was some discussion about putting a limit on the tax, but it seemed unnecessary. Only 1% of the income earners would end up paying about 1% to the government. Everyone else was initially untouched. Who really cares that the rich have to pay a bit more, right? They can afford it.

This perspective totally misunderstand the true nature of government, which always wants more money and more power and will stop at nothing to get both. The 16th Amendment was more than a modern additive to an antique document. It was a new philosophy of the fiscal life of the entire country.

Today, the ruling elite no longer bother with things like amendments. But back in the day, it was different. The amendment was made necessary because of previous court decisions that stated what was once considered a bottom-line presumption of the free society: Government cannot tax personal property. What you make is your own. You get to keep the product of your labors. Government can tax sales, perhaps, or raise money through tariffs on goods coming in and out of the country. But your bank account is off-limits.

The amendment changed that idea. In the beginning, it applied to very few people. This was one reason it passed. It was pitched as a replacement tax, not a new money raiser. After all the havoc caused by the divisive tariffs of the 19th century, this sounded like a great deal to many people, particularly Southerners and Westerners fed up with paying such high prices for manufactured goods while seeing their trading relations with foreign consumers disrupted.

People who supported it – and they were not so much the left but the right-wing populists of the time – imagined that the tax would hit the robber baron class of industrialists in the North. And that it did. Their fortunes began to dwindle, and their confidence in their ability to amass and retain intergenerational fortunes began to wane.

Limit to Accumulation

We all know the stories of how the grandchildren of the Gilded Age tycoons squandered their family heritage in the 1920s and failed to carry on the tradition. Well, it is hardly surprising. The government put a timetable and limit on accumulation. Private families and individuals would no longer be permitted to exist except in subjugation to the taxing state. The kids left their private estates to live in the cities, put off marriage, stopped bothering with all that hearth and home stuff. Time horizons shortened, and the Jazz Age began.

Class warfare was part of the deal from the beginning. The income tax turned the social fabric of the country into a giant lifetime boat, with everyone arguing about who had to be thrown overboard so that others might live.

The demon in the beginning was the rich. That remained true until the 1930s, when FDR changed the deal. Suddenly, the income would be collected, but taxed in a different way. It would be taken from everyone, but a portion would be given back late in life as a permanent income stream. Thus was the payroll tax born. This tax today is far more significant than the income tax.

The class warfare unleashed all those years ago continues today. One side wants to tax the rich. The other side finds it appalling that the percentage of people who pay no income tax has risen from 30% to nearly 50%. Now we see the appalling spectacle of Republicans regarding this as a disgrace that must change. They have joined the political classes that seek advancement by hurting people.

The Payroll Tax

It’s extremely strange that the payroll tax is rarely considered in this debate. The poor, the middle class and the rich are all being hammered by payroll taxes that fund failed programs that provide no security and few benefits at all.

It’s impossible to take seriously the claims that the income tax doesn’t harm wealth creation. When Congress wants to discourage something – smoking, imports, selling stocks or whatever – they know what to do: Tax it. Tax income, and on the margin, you discourage people from earning it.

Tax debates are always about “reform” – which always means a slight shift in who pays what, with an eye to raising ever more money for the government. A far better solution would be to forget the whole thing and return to the original idea of a free society: You get to keep what you earn or inherent. That means nothing short of abolishing the great mistake of 1913.

Forget the flat tax. The only just solution is no tax on incomes ever.

But let’s say that one day we actually become safe from the income tax collectors and something like blessed peace arrives. There is still another problem that emerged in 1913. Congress created the Federal Reserve, which eventually developed the power to create all the money that government would ever need, even without taxing.

For the practical running of the affairs of the state, the Fed is far worse than the income tax. It creates the more-insidious tax because it is so sneaky. In a strange way, it has made all the debates about taxation superfluous. Denying the government revenue does nothing to curb its appetites for our liberties and property. The Fed has managed to make it impossible to starve the beast.

Chodorov was correct about the evil of the income tax. Its passage signaled the beginning of a century of despotism. Our property is no longer safe. Our income is not our own. We are legally obligated to turn over whatever our masters say we owe them. You can fudge this point: None of this is compatible with the old liberal idea of freedom.

You doubt it? Listen to Thomas Jefferson from his inaugural address of 1801. What he said then remains true today:”…what more is necessary to make us a happy and a prosperous people? Still one more thing, fellow citizens a wise and frugal government, which shall restrain men from injuring one another, shall leave them otherwise free to regulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement and shall not take from the mouth of labor the bread it has earned.”

Jeffrey A. Tucker

Jeffrey Tucker is Director of Content for the Foundation for Economic Education. He is also Chief Liberty Officer and founder of Liberty.me, Distinguished Honorary Member of Mises Brazil, research fellow at the Acton Institute, policy adviser of the Heartland Institute, founder of the CryptoCurrency Conference, member of the editorial board of the Molinari Review, an advisor to the blockchain application builder Factom, and author of five books. He has written 150 introductions to books and many thousands of articles appearing in the scholarly and popular press.

This article was originally published on FEE.org. Read the original article.

[americanlibertypac]

The income tax implies that government owns you

Photo: Pixabay (CC0)

The income tax is enshrined into law an idea that stands in total contradiction to the driving force behind the American Revolution and the whole idea of freedom itself. We desperately need a serious national movement to get rid of it – not reform it, not replace it, no flatten it or refocus its sting from this group to that. It just needs to go.

The great essayist Frank Chodorov once described the income tax as the root of all evil. His target was not the tax itself, but the principle behind it. Since its implementation in 1913, he wrote, “The government says to the citizen: ‘Your earnings are not exclusively your own; we have a claim on them, and our claim precedes yours; we will allow you to keep some of it, because we recognize your need, not your right; but whatever we grant you for yourself is for us to decide.”

He really does have a point. That’s evil. When Congress ratified the 16th Amendment on Feb. 3, 1913, there was a sense in which all private income in the U.S. was nationalized. What was not taxed from then on was a favor granted unto us, and continues to be so.

This is implied in the text of the amendment itself: “The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes on incomes, from whatever source derived, without apportionment among the several States, and without regard to any census or enumeration.”

No Limits

Where are the limits? There weren’t any. There was some discussion about putting a limit on the tax, but it seemed unnecessary. Only 1% of the income earners would end up paying about 1% to the government. Everyone else was initially untouched. Who really cares that the rich have to pay a bit more, right? They can afford it.

This perspective totally misunderstand the true nature of government, which always wants more money and more power and will stop at nothing to get both. The 16th Amendment was more than a modern additive to an antique document. It was a new philosophy of the fiscal life of the entire country.

Today, the ruling elite no longer bother with things like amendments. But back in the day, it was different. The amendment was made necessary because of previous court decisions that stated what was once considered a bottom-line presumption of the free society: Government cannot tax personal property. What you make is your own. You get to keep the product of your labors. Government can tax sales, perhaps, or raise money through tariffs on goods coming in and out of the country. But your bank account is off-limits.

The amendment changed that idea. In the beginning, it applied to very few people. This was one reason it passed. It was pitched as a replacement tax, not a new money raiser. After all the havoc caused by the divisive tariffs of the 19th century, this sounded like a great deal to many people, particularly Southerners and Westerners fed up with paying such high prices for manufactured goods while seeing their trading relations with foreign consumers disrupted.

People who supported it – and they were not so much the left but the right-wing populists of the time – imagined that the tax would hit the robber baron class of industrialists in the North. And that it did. Their fortunes began to dwindle, and their confidence in their ability to amass and retain intergenerational fortunes began to wane.

Limit to Accumulation

We all know the stories of how the grandchildren of the Gilded Age tycoons squandered their family heritage in the 1920s and failed to carry on the tradition. Well, it is hardly surprising. The government put a timetable and limit on accumulation. Private families and individuals would no longer be permitted to exist except in subjugation to the taxing state. The kids left their private estates to live in the cities, put off marriage, stopped bothering with all that hearth and home stuff. Time horizons shortened, and the Jazz Age began.

Class warfare was part of the deal from the beginning. The income tax turned the social fabric of the country into a giant lifetime boat, with everyone arguing about who had to be thrown overboard so that others might live.

The demon in the beginning was the rich. That remained true until the 1930s, when FDR changed the deal. Suddenly, the income would be collected, but taxed in a different way. It would be taken from everyone, but a portion would be given back late in life as a permanent income stream. Thus was the payroll tax born. This tax today is far more significant than the income tax.

The class warfare unleashed all those years ago continues today. One side wants to tax the rich. The other side finds it appalling that the percentage of people who pay no income tax has risen from 30% to nearly 50%. Now we see the appalling spectacle of Republicans regarding this as a disgrace that must change. They have joined the political classes that seek advancement by hurting people.

The Payroll Tax

It’s extremely strange that the payroll tax is rarely considered in this debate. The poor, the middle class and the rich are all being hammered by payroll taxes that fund failed programs that provide no security and few benefits at all.

It’s impossible to take seriously the claims that the income tax doesn’t harm wealth creation. When Congress wants to discourage something – smoking, imports, selling stocks or whatever – they know what to do: Tax it. Tax income, and on the margin, you discourage people from earning it.

Tax debates are always about “reform” – which always means a slight shift in who pays what, with an eye to raising ever more money for the government. A far better solution would be to forget the whole thing and return to the original idea of a free society: You get to keep what you earn or inherent. That means nothing short of abolishing the great mistake of 1913.

Forget the flat tax. The only just solution is no tax on incomes ever.

But let’s say that one day we actually become safe from the income tax collectors and something like blessed peace arrives. There is still another problem that emerged in 1913. Congress created the Federal Reserve, which eventually developed the power to create all the money that government would ever need, even without taxing.

For the practical running of the affairs of the state, the Fed is far worse than the income tax. It creates the more-insidious tax because it is so sneaky. In a strange way, it has made all the debates about taxation superfluous. Denying the government revenue does nothing to curb its appetites for our liberties and property. The Fed has managed to make it impossible to starve the beast.

Chodorov was correct about the evil of the income tax. Its passage signaled the beginning of a century of despotism. Our property is no longer safe. Our income is not our own. We are legally obligated to turn over whatever our masters say we owe them. You can fudge this point: None of this is compatible with the old liberal idea of freedom.

You doubt it? Listen to Thomas Jefferson from his inaugural address of 1801. What he said then remains true today:”…what more is necessary to make us a happy and a prosperous people? Still one more thing, fellow citizens a wise and frugal government, which shall restrain men from injuring one another, shall leave them otherwise free to regulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement and shall not take from the mouth of labor the bread it has earned.”

Jeffrey A. Tucker

Jeffrey Tucker is Director of Content for the Foundation for Economic Education. He is also Chief Liberty Officer and founder of Liberty.me, Distinguished Honorary Member of Mises Brazil, research fellow at the Acton Institute, policy adviser of the Heartland Institute, founder of the CryptoCurrency Conference, member of the editorial board of the Molinari Review, an advisor to the blockchain application builder Factom, and author of five books. He has written 150 introductions to books and many thousands of articles appearing in the scholarly and popular press.

This article was originally published on FEE.org. Read the original article.