#pay no mind to the fact that its SO beyond self indulgent i just gave the reader my entire personality lmao

[vampiricgf]

Leon fic Leon fic 🙏🏽

🔥

yes!! :3

[the-gay-prometheus]

Frankenstein AU Segment - “Home Again”

Ok fun fact: I’ve been working on a segment for about two weeks now.

Second fun fact: This is not that segment, but instead something I wrote entirely spur of the moment in the timespan of about 1 hour total.

It’s extremely self indulgent, I’ll be honest. From writing an entire big useless paragraph of Henry horseback riding because I’ve been missing horseback riding and horse related things all day, to the entire actual context of this segment being... well... being what I wish I could have through my transition. If anybody wants to be my Henry and support me unconditionally as I go through my own transition that would be greatly appreciated jhebdjdfhbvjhdvbfv /hj

Anyways- So! This is something totally different than all of the other ones I’ve written so far, because it takes place quite a bit before Victor even goes to Ingolstadt - in fact, it takes place before he even chooses the name Victor! That means you’ll see a character named “Em” (who Henry recognizes as “Emily” at first) - and that character is young Victor!

TW: Mention of blood - absolutely harmless in context, but it is mentioned so it’s worth a tw. Otherwise this is a very generally wholesome segment (other than a small argument between Henry and his dad).

As always, likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are greatly appreciated!

“Henry! It’s nearly time for supper!”

“I’ll be right in, father!” From a leisurely walk through the green pastures of his home, Henry urged his red roan mare into one final canter across the field. In the golden light of the slowly setting sun, her mane, tail, and the feathering of her hooves flashed like threads of shimmering copper as Henry’s own vibrant auburn hair flew behind him whipping like fire in the breeze.  His hazel eyes set their sights on the stables beyond, and he tapped his heels once more against the mare’s sides, pushing her into a swift gallop. Enthralled by the rush of the wind against his freckled skin, Henry let go of the reins and extended his arms outward. He felt the air pass through his fingers and he imagined instead that they were the feathers of great wings catching the current and soaring through the sky. Though it lasted only a moment, his heart pounded with joy within his chest, still so full of adrenaline even as they approached the gate that led out from the pasture and to the stable. He dropped his hands back to the reins, pulling back gently until his mount slowed her pace back to a walk. Both human and horse panted, the mare chewing idly on her bit as Henry hopped out of the saddle and pulled the reins over her head. He led her into the stable, humming a happy tune to himself with a skip in his step. Grabbing her halter from its hook, he took her into her stall, unbuckling and removing her bridle before replacing it with the halter and tying her to the rope that hung from the wall inside. She stood quietly, each breath sending up gentle plumes of dust that glittered in the light which filtered through the stall window. 

After removing her saddle, he began brushing her patchy roaned coat. Ordinarily she was a steady, quiet mare, but Henry noticed that she kept twisting her ears toward the stall which was used for hay storage. Every now and then she would lift her head and flare her nostrils, turning toward the direction her ears were trained upon. “Do you hear something over there, girl?” Henry asked softly, watching her inquisitively. Nearly as soon as he said it, there was a soft thud from that same location, which caused him to jump and the mare to utter a low nicker. Henry pat her neck gently and cautiously stepped out of the stall, staring down the hall toward the source of the sound. “Hello?” There was a rustle within the hay, then another soft thud - followed by a quiet voice that Henry couldn’t make out what it was saying. Instinctively he grabbed a pitchfork that leaned up against the wall, pointing it toward the stall defensively. “Who’s there?” Then came a cough, more rustling of hay, and then - a small, thin figure with short, messy hair stumbled out into the hallway, promptly tripping over their own feet and falling to the ground. Henry gave the person an odd look and turned the pitchfork upright, resting on it like a walking stick. “Can I… help you?” he asked curiously, confused as to why some stranger was hiding in the hay. The stranger struggled to push themself up, and in the dim light Henry’s eyes widened as he beheld the stranger was covered in dirt and… blood? As they lifted their face, Henry suddenly dropped the pitchfork to the ground in shock. “Emily?! Is that- is it really you?” he breathed, rushing to the figure and kneeling down. Surely enough, the stranger smiled up at him with kind brown eyes.

“Oh hi, Henry,” they managed to croak - before promptly collapsing unconscious.

When Em’s eyes fluttered back open, the first thing he saw was Henry standing over him, a look of worry on his face as he gently rubbed at his dirty skin with a damp towel. He gave the ginger haired boy an odd look. “Uh… Henry?” 

“Good lord thank goodness you’re awake!” Henry exclaimed. Em blinked at him.

“What… what are you doing?”

“Hold still - I’m trying to figure out where all this blood came from!” Em couldn’t help but snort with laughter.

“Henry. Henry-” He reached out and gently grabbed his arm. “It’s not my blood.” Henry stared, then gave him a curious look, and slowly set the cloth down.

“Oh thank goodness,” he breathed with relief. There was a pause, then his curious expression returned to one of concern. “Whose blood is it?”

“Cadaver,” Em replied simply, turning away and coughing into his shoulder. “It’s a long story.” Henry stared a moment longer, then smiled.

“Well I can’t wait to hear it.” Em smiled in return, but his smile quickly faded when a muffled voice called from somewhere outside. Henry glanced up. “I’ll- I’ll be right back. Father wants me in for supper.” Em nodded. “Don’t go anywhere!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Clerval.” 

Henry sat anxiously at the table, fidgeting with the silverware and wishing he could be back in the stable with Emily. Secretly stuffed into his pocket were a few pieces of bread he intended to smuggle to his dear friend, while the food on his own plate went relatively untouched. His father sat at the head of the table, his mother directly across from him, and as usual there was awkward silence between them. “So. Henry,” his father began, breaking the silence. Henry sank in his chair, wishing he wasn’t being spoken to at the moment. “Have you decided?” Henry glanced up to him.

“Decided? Decided on what?”

“Is that not what you were doing out there? You said that you would be able to think of which trade you want to pursue better while on horseback.” Henry sheepishly looked away.

“Oh. Right. I… yes. I was thinking about it,” he answered at a length. “Definitely was thinking about that.”

“And?” He could feel his father’s gaze on him, and he shrunk down further in his chair.

“And… I still haven’t figured it out yet?” His father sighed heavily, his fork clattering onto his plate as he pressed his head into his palms.

“Henry, you’re a young man now. You need to start taking your future seriously!” he exclaimed, exasperated.

“I’ve got time! Besides, I have an idea of what I want to do but-”

“Please don’t say ‘travel the world and write stories,’” His father cut him off, mentioning his goals mockingly. Henry frowned.

“That is exactly what I want to do. Yes.”

“Traveling and story writing don’t pay, Henry!”

“Yes they do!”

“Not enough they don’t! We have talked about this before Henry - either you take up the family business or you take up a different trade. There is no other option!”

“I have plenty of options! Just let me go to university!”

“Absolutely not, Henry.” Henry groaned, putting his forehead on the table.

“Why can’t you just let me do what I know I’m meant to do?” he grumbled.

“Because this family has a reputation to keep, and you are the only one to keep it!” his father exclaimed. Henry glanced up at his mother, but she simply stayed silent. He groaned louder and looked back at his father.

“Permission to be excused?” he muttered.

“Yes but-”

“Perfect. Thank you. I’ll be back later.” With that, Henry stood and hurried out of the dining room, leaving his father to shout something after him - though his mind was too preoccupied to hear what it was he said.

“Emily?” Henry called out in a quiet whisper as he reentered the stable, lit lamp in hand. He glanced around, waiting for a response, then called out again. “Emily?!” When no response came, he ran to the hay stall to find his friend still lying on the hay, still as stone with his eyes closed. Henry stared at him a moment longer. “...Emily?” Still no response. In the dark, he couldn’t see the rise and fall of his chest, and he grew frightened. He reached out, grabbing his arm and shaking it. “Emily!”

“Good god Clerval!” Em suddenly exclaimed with a gasp, jumping awake. Henry let out a sigh of relief as he nearly fell back.

“Oh thank goodness you’re ok.”

“Of course I’m ok, Henry! I just spent months walking here from Paris on foot, I’m exhausted,” Em explained. Henry’s eyes widened.

“You got all the way to Paris?” Em thought for a moment, then smiled.

“I did.”

“What was it like?!” Henry exclaimed, his expression brightening. For a moment, Em was lost for words. He had forgotten how much he missed Henry, how much he missed the way his hazel eyes would light up and sparkle at the mention of anything that peaked his interest, how strands of his ginger hair would fall in wavy tangles over his freckled cheeks… he blinked the thoughts away, then grinned.

“It was horrible, disgusting, and absolutely wonderful. I hated it and loved it all at the same time.” Henry chuckled.

“Sounds like Paris to me.” He slowly sat down, turning and resting his back against the hay bales Em lay upon. “So what brought you back? Did things… not work out there?” Em shrugged.

“Things were ok for the most part. It was a rough life, but it was a lot of fun. I made friends, learned a lot about… well about a lot of things, I suppose. Never had a true home, but I felt home enough out there on the streets with the friends I had.” Henry felt a sudden pain in his chest at the sound of that, and he glanced down at the floor. “We got into some trouble though. ...More like I got into some trouble and unfortunately somebody else got partially blamed for it. And then, I guess, I realized I needed to come home.” He looked down at Henry. “Or at least to as much as a home as I’ve got.” Henry turned his gaze up to him and smiled slightly.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here safe now.” Em nodded.

“Me too.” There was silence between them, Em tapping his fingers idly on the hay beneath him as he thought about his next words carefully. “But that’s… not the only reason I came back.” Henry turned his eyes back ahead.

“Oh?”

“Yes. See- there’s something I discovered-”

“Some scientific marvel?” Henry teased, grinning. Em smirked.

“Well yes, but no.” He hesitated, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s… I’m… I discovered something about myself.” More silence. “Henry I- … Henry I’m actually…” Em sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled harshly. “I discovered that I’m… a man.” Henry blinked, then looked up at him.

“Is that it?” Em shot his gaze down to him.

“What do you mean ‘is that it?’” Henry shrugged. “You’re not… you’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset?”

“...I don’t know, most people seem to think it’s crazy- or weird or- unnatural- but it’s not! It’s-”

“Emily. You don’t need to justify yourself to me.” Em froze, staring down at him as he gazed back with a smile. “If you say that’s who you are, then it is who you are. Who am I to say otherwise? Who is anyone to say otherwise? You know yourself better than anyone else.” Henry’s smile suddenly faded as he realized there were tears dripping from Em’s eyes. “I- Was I supposed to be upset?” Em sniffled and let out an awkward laugh.

“No- no I’m just-” He paused, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I don’t know what I was expecting but… I guess I just wasn’t expecting you to be just so accepting.” Henry looked up at him with a sympathetic gaze.

“I’ll try not to be too offended by that,” he mused sarcastically. Em giggled and waved his hand dismissively.

“You know what I meant.” Henry nodded. “My point is… thank you. I couldn’t possibly ask for a better friend than you, Henry.”

“I do have one question, though.”

“Hm?” Em looked down at him, suddenly feeling himself fill with anxiety.

“What does this change? I mean… is there anything that’s different about you now?” Em breathed a sigh of relief.

“Well… for one thing, I’ve been going by just Em for a few years now.” Henry nodded, taking a mental note of that. “But I’m still trying to think of a better name for myself. Maybe… you could help me with that at some point?” Henry grinned.

“I’d be honored!”

“Excellent.” With great effort, Em started to sit upright, struggling to put his weight on his shaking arms. “There is… something else, though. Another reason why I came here.”

“Go on,” Henry encouraged, standing and hopping up onto the hay bale to give Em some support to sit upright. Em took a deep breath.

“This is going to sound crazy,” he began. “I need to… perform surgery.” He paused, and turned to look at Henry, who was staring at him blankly. “On myself.”

“Okay! When do we-” Henry began, until what Em had just said fully registered in his brain. “Wait, what?” Em grinned sheepishly.

“I need to perform surgery on myself,” he repeated, more confidently this time. Henry blinked.

“...That sounds incredibly dangerous. Is there something wrong with you? Why can’t you, I don’t know, get a real doctor to help you?” Em frowned.

“Well it’s nothing that’s wrong with me- it’s just…” He sighed. “I’m… I’ve grown up, I guess. And even though I never really felt weird in my body before, things started changing and suddenly it just… didn’t quite feel right anymore, if that makes any sense. Apparently it’s a common symptom of being… well… whatever I am. See- I had this friend, his name was René and he was… you know, the same as me. He used to tell me all the time how he wished there was a way to just get rid of the parts of himself that didn’t feel right, and- well you know me, Henry, when somebody says they wish something was possible, I have to find a way to make it possible.” Henry listened carefully, and nodded with a grin.

“That’s for sure.”

“Well… that’s when I decided I would try to figure it out - that way I could make it happen for him, and maybe even train him so he could do the same for me! Henry, we could’ve changed the world for countless others like us!” Henry blinked.

“...So why didn’t you?” Em suddenly went quiet, then exhaled softly.

“I knew it would take an awful lot of practice, and no doctor would ever reasonably let me apprentice under them for such an undertaking so… I may or may not have taken matters into my own hands.” Henry stared blankly. “Hence… cadavers. René helped me steal the tools I needed and aided me with breaking into the morgue every night so I could practice. All was going well, but it turns out people don’t seem to be overly keen on evidence being tampered with or bodies being ‘desecrated.’ So one night just as I finally got every part of my methods down correctly, we got caught. We both ran, but we had to split up and… I know René slipped but… I was too busy with my own pursuers to turn back for him.” He stared off into the distance, a suddenly sorrowful expression in his eyes. “I hope he’s ok… but it was then that I realized it would be unsafe for me to stay, and the only other person I could think of who could help me with such an undertaking as this… was you.” Henry’s eyes widened.

“Em I hardly think I’m qualified-”

“You don’t have to be! I can teach you. I’ll do most of the work, and you just have to do what I tell you, and everything should work out just fine.” Henry crossed his arms with a sigh. He thought it through, and although he wanted so badly to say no, the look of determination on Em’s face convinced him well enough that this was something his dear friend so desperately needed. 

“As long as you think we can pull it off, you know I’ll always be here to help,” he reassured him with a smile. Em grinned, suddenly lurching forward and embracing him in as tight a hug as he could muster. Henry sat stunned, his cheeks suddenly burning as he felt himself blush, but he nervously chuckled and wrapped his arms around Em in return, not realizing that Em’s own pale cheeks were turning bright pink, until both of them awkwardly released each other and sat there turned away from one another. “Well… I suppose I should be off to bed,” Henry muttered, still with a sheepish smile on his face. Em flopped back down onto the hay, resting his hands behind his head. “We can talk more in the morning and- oh!” Henry pulled out the bread he had smuggled from his pockets, and held it out to Em, who gladly snatched it and immediately began shoving it unceremoniously into his mouth. “Figured you were hungry so… heh. Anyways… I’ll see about bringing you breakfast tomorrow too, just like old times.” Em grinned up at him.

“Jus’ ‘ike o’ ‘imes,” he answered, mouth still full with bread. Henry hopped down from the hay bales, taking his lantern once again.

“I’m glad you came back, Em,” he mentioned, standing just outside the stall door. Em turned and glanced back at him, smiling brightly.

“I’m glad to be back. I missed you, Henry. Nothing is ever the same without you, you know.”

“Same to you, Em.” With that, Henry strode out and quietly closed the door behind him. As he started back toward the house, he paused, turning back toward the stable with a bittersweet gaze and a flutter in his chest. You have no idea just how much I missed you, he thought. But you’re here now, and that’s- that’s good enough for me. Filled with a sudden surge of energy, he jumped into the air with an exclamation of joy and ran back to the house, twirling and prancing as he ran until he was dizzy from the thrill. He paused at the door, panting, looking back toward the stable with a massive grin and a glimmer in his eyes. “Oh Em,” he breathed out loud, chest heaving as he caught his breath, “I can’t wait to see the person you become.”

[little-chattes]

Ok so I’ve done a complete re-read through and one thing that kept nagging at me was how little Gideon and Harrow’s relationship makes sense given its quite frankly abusive origins. Harrow spends her whole life making Gideon’s a living hell and Gideon just… forgives her. Total and complete forgiveness for an irredeemable girl.

At first I took the sudden shift in their relationship as lazy writing to rush along the end of the story, but that didn't make any sense either. Muir strikes me as an intensely purposeful writer. Then I remembered that Muir is also an intensely Catholic writer and it hit me. Muir isn’t writing a story about a healthy human relationship, oh no, she’s writing a story about Christ’s relationship with The Church… if Christ was a sword toting butch lesbian and The Church was a sardonic bone witch. Call it tender blasphemy. 

Now Gideon’s role as a Christ figure is fairly easy to parse out given that her dad is… God. But for the sake of self indulgence (I have to put my 15 year long flirtation with Christianity to use somehow) I’m going to go through all the parallels anyway. There are a LOT of them.

Let’s start at the very beginning (a very good place to start).

Miraculous Conception

Luke 1:34-38

34 But Mary said to the angel, “How will this be, since I [e]am a virgin?” 35 The angel answered and said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; for that reason also the [f]holy Child will be called the Son of God. 

Gideon is conceived by artificial means when one of God’s own servants (Mercy) delivers a sample of John’s genetic material to Wake, a ‘normal’ human woman who chooses to carry Gideon in her womb. Notably, the sample lives far beyond its point of expected viability, thus making the conception somewhat miraculous (“Only the sample was still active, no idea how considering it was twelve weeks after the fact” HTN 441). 

The Cuckold

Matthew 1:18-25

18 Now the birth of Jesus the [a]Messiah was as follows: when His mother Mary had been [b]betrothed to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be pregnant by the Holy Spirit. 19 And her husband Joseph, since he was a righteous man and did not want to disgrace her, planned to [c]send her away secretly. 

Gideon the First decides not to kill his lover, Wake, and releases her out the airlock (AND HE TOOK PITY ON ME! HE TOOK PITY ON ME! HE SAW ME AND HE TOOK PITY ON ME” from Harrow’s vision of Wake’s note, HTN 124) just as Joseph took pity on Mary, his betrothed, by deciding to divorce her quietly instead of making her infidelity public which would condemn her to death by public stoning (Deuteronomy 22:21). Gideon the First knew that Wake was pregnant and didn’t tell John because he thought the baby was his. Similarly, Joseph goes on to raise Jesus as his own son.

The Birth

Luke 2:7

And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a [f]manger, because there was no [g]room for them in the inn.

 Neither baby Jesus nor baby Gideon were given a proper cradle, one being laid to rest in a manger where the animals ate and the other stuffed in a transplant bio-container (GTN 23). 

The Dead Children

16 When Herod realized that he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious, and he gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi.

King Herod intends to kill the prophesied King of the Jews and instead of finding the specific baby, he just has a bunch of them slaughtered. However, Jesus escapes the slaughter of the innocents by Herod when his parents secret him away to Egypt.

 When the great aunts gas the nursery and kill the 200, Gideon is meant to die along with them but escapes her fate.

Now this event has a completely different biblical connotation for Harrow. 

Firstly, the murder of the 200 children represents Original Sin. In the bible, Adam and Eve disobeyed God in the Garden of Eden, and as their descendants, all of humankind is doomed to also bear the weight of that sin from the moment we are born until the day we die. This is a fact that is drilled into Christians as soon as we’re able to understand it, we are born wretched and unworthy sinners, and there’s nothing we can do ourselves to fix that. 

“I have tried to dismantle you, Gideon Nav! The Ninth House poisoned you, we trod you underfoot—I took you to this killing field as my slave—you refuse to die, and you pity me! Strike me down. You’ve won. I’ve lived my whole wretched life at your mercy, yours alone, and God knows I deserve to die at your hand. You are my only friend. I am undone without you.”

Harrow is a multitude, she is 200 children, the entire future of her house. Shes not just one human being,, she’s the whole damn church.

Naz/Nav

he went and lived in a town called Nazareth. So was fulfilled what was said through the prophets, that he would be called a Nazarene.

Although Gideon is not from the Ninth, she is given the Ninth name Nav when she arrives as a baby. Similarly, Jesus is known as Jesus of Nazareth, though that is not where he was born.

The Poor Bondservant

Jesus' role as a servant is emphasized many times in the bible. He was a carpenter's son born in a stable 

Philippians 2:5-8

Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus, who, being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant, and coming in the likeness of men. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to the point of death, even the death of the cross.

 Gideon is described as being made “a very small bondswoman” (GTN 24)

The Sword

Matthew 10:34

Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.

The Wretched Sinner

Harrow is wretched, self loathing, and cruel. 

She is in thrall of the enemy of god, a figure who was once gods most favoured warrior, cast into hell.

She is like the depiction of the sinner who loves the devil

It's important to note that Harrow isn’t a single person, she is a multitude, the entire future of her people condensed into one body. 

The Enemy of God

20 Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven, nholding in his hand the key to othe bottomless pit1 and a great chain. 2 And he seized pthe dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil and Satan, and qbound him for a thousand years, 3 and threw him into othe pit, and shut it and rsealed it over him, so that she might not deceive the nations any longer, until the thousand years were ended. After that he must be released for a little while.

Before the fall, Satan was described as a “guardian cherub” who resided in the garden with God (Ezekiel 28:14) 

(a funny aside, in the bible the devil is known as the great deceiver but in HTN Muir specifies that Alecto is incapable of lying)

A Life of Abuse 

Isaiah 53:3

"He was despised and rejected by mankind,

    a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.

Like one from whom people hide their faces

    he was despised, and we held him in low esteem”

They got up, drove him out of the town, and took him to the brow of the hill on which the town was built, in order to throw him off the cliff" (Luke 4:28–29).

Gideon lives a life of mockery and is abused by Harrow.

An Unlikely Savior

Despite the fact that Gideon does not fit the expected image of a Cavalier, Harrow chooses Gideon to be her sword and protector.

Despite the many openings Gideon has to make Harrow pay for the pain she caused her, she remains loyal to her

Trust

Harrow realizes that she cannot face the lyctor trials without Gideon, and places her trust in her

Christians are told they must place their trust in jesus in order to reach salvation

Purifying Water

Acts 2:38

Peter replied, "Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins, and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.

Harrow confesses her sins to Gideon and puts herself at her mercy

Gideon forgives Harrow totally and completely, she baptises her

One Flesh

Mark 10:8

and the two shall become one flesh; so they are no longer two, but one flesh.

“The imagery and symbolism of marriage is applied to Christ and the body of believers known as the church. The church is comprised of those who have trusted in Jesus Christ as their personal Savior and have received eternal life. Christ, the Bridegroom, has sacrificially and lovingly chosen the church to be His bride” (x)

Ephesians 5:25-26

25 gHusbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and hgave himself up for her, 26 that he might sanctify her, having cleansed her by ithe washing of water jwith the word,

They take the vow of necro and cav, one flesh one end

Gideon’s forgiveness of Harrow is reaffirmed

Harrow risks her life to stay and fight with Gideon, even if it means her death and thus the destruction of her death. Her love for Gideon is now greater than her love for the Body.

The Sacrifice

John 19:34

Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water.

They will look on the one they have pierced'" (John 19:36–37).

Gideon chooses to die for Harrow, death by piercing

and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

In order to complete the lyctor process, Harrow both physically and spiritually consumes Gideon

Because of Gideon’s sacrifice, Harrow attains eternal life at the right hand of god

The Tomb

The Resurrection

1On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women came to the tomb, bringing the spices they had prepared. 2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus

Harrow turns her body into a tomb for Gideon, a tomb fashioned after that on the Ninth

Resurrection on the Third Day

Thus it is written, and thus it was necessary for the Christ to suffer and to rise from the dead the third day, and that repentance and remission of sins should be preached in His name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. Luke 24:46-47 

“So many months had passed: and yet, at the same time, she had only lost Gideon Nav three days ago. It was the morning of the third day in a universe without her cavalier: it was the morning of the third day—and all the back of her brain could say, in exquisite agonies of amazement, was: She is dead. I will never see her again.” (HTN 374)

Just in case you missed this important piece of information, Muir repeats it three times.

Go, and tell them, then, that he that was dead is alive, and lives for evermore, and has the keys of death and the grave,"

[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Five

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Still haven’t settled on a more fitting title than ‘Mark Needs A Hug’ (though my brain keeps coming up with The Shining/Hotel California references) but he does get several of those in this chapter if that helps? 😉 Part Six should be up soon as well! 🥰 

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

**********************************

Mark wakes to find his face half-smushed against his pillow, limbs heavy and sluggish from sleep as his mind clings to the last remnants of a pleasant dream.

An aura of peace lingers like a warm flame as he recalls the circumstances of his fantasy. He’d been sitting on the floor of a modest living room, clad in pyjamas that were too small for his rapidly growing limbs; too entranced by the shiny electric guitar in his hands to make note of his surroundings. It was the exact model he’d been begging for on a daily basis since spotting it in the window of a music store, and had no doubt been living in his parents’ closet for months as they coyly teased him in the run-up to Christmas. Music was playing from a battered old CD player residing on a stacked bookshelf, and he strummed along despite not having the faintest clue how to play a single chord.  

His lack of experience couldn’t have mattered less. Nothing could have broken his contentment in that moment. Not even his mum asking him to “turn the music down, love” so he could pay heed to his other presents had disturbed him from his trance, and Mark had awoken with a pervading sense of peace as the unmistakable melody of The Strokes’ ‘Last Nite’ wormed its way into his brain.

It was one of those dreams that feels more like a long-lost memory than a fiction. One of those subconscious reminders of a simpler past that manages to elicit a smile even when the world at large is falling to pieces. Mark knows this cannot be the case here. He has too many memories of partying his way through the seventies to reconcile those experiences with the notion of being a teenager at the height of The Strokes’ popularity. And yet, the sweet taste of childhood nostalgia is one he appreciates all the same, enough that the thought of waking sends a sharp ache through his heart.

Seeing no obvious reason as to why he shouldn’t slip back into restful slumber, he lets his eyes flutter shut and sighs as he feels his limbs go pliant once more. He can almost taste the sweet embrace of sleep, only for it to be yanked from him once again with a brutal shove. A low whine escapes his throat as a persistent intruder nudges his shoulder, and he swipes a vicious arm in their direction in a wordless protest. His efforts are ultimately feeble, not to mention futile. The nudging continues, now accompanied by the constant repetition of his name, and when his tormenter gives no indication of surrender, Mark is forced to abandon his state of bliss and re-enter the realm of the living.  

He squints, bleary-eyed, at the formless blob hovering over him as he lifts his head from the pillow, flattened hair clinging to one cheek as his brain swims in the wake of his rude awakening. It occurs to him that doesn’t remember how he got here. Judging by his position he must have collapsed face-first at some point in the night - still fully-clothed if the wrinkled cotton of his shirt is any indication - but all memories leading up to that point are absent. He only vaguely recalls receiving a call from Murphy in the evening and senses that it must have dragged on far longer than usual, but he would not be able to describe how the call ended even with a gun to his head. Not that it particularly matters. He’s only grateful for the fact that Murphy must have taken pity on him at some point and let him surrender to his all-consuming weariness.

His vision finally clears following several exaggerated blinks, rendering him somewhat relieved when the humanoid blob morphs into the fretful form of Nick. The man is dressed remarkably casually for someone who likes performing in three-piece suits, and his shoulder-length hair hangs lazily around his face. It takes Mark far too long to realise that Nick’s informal apparel is no doubt related to the fact that he has inadvertently given him several days off from his day-job.

“Hey,” Mark croaks, cringing at how utterly wrecked he sounds as he settles his aching back against the wooden headboard.

“Hey yourself,” Nick replies with a breathy chuckle which does little to mask the concern etched on his face. His outstretched hand is still resting on Mark’s shoulder, as though he suspects he’ll drift off into the abyss again if he dares let go. “I were startin’ to think you were out for the count.”

Mark frowns at that, casting his eye to the bedside table in an instinctive search for his phone, only to find that it isn’t there. He spots it lying neglected on the desk by his computer, too far away to bother checking the time. The room is illuminated by a soft yellow glow as the hanging lights do their best impression of the afternoon sun, and beyond the circular window he can see that the spotlights have bathed the hotel in blinding gold.  

“How long’ve I been asleep?” he asks, rubbing the lingering exhaustion from his eyes and groaning as every movement sends a dull ache shooting through his muscles. No doubt the question will be impossible to answer, given that even he doesn’t know when he slipped into unconsciousness, but Nick may be able to give an indication of how badly he’s overslept at least.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Nick admits with a shrug, before lifting himself from his crouched position and coming to rest on the edge of the bed, his hand finally leaving Mark’s shoulder. “Jamie came by to check on you about eight hours ago, then Matt popped round at lunch. Doesn’t look like you’ve moved much in the meantime.”

Mark frowns. It isn’t like him to sleep so heavily. Usually a single nudge is enough to have him wide awake and alert. He shivers as he envisions two of his best friends waltzing into his suite without him having any recollection of their presence or even of his sleep being disturbed. He trusts Jamie and Matt implicitly of course, but the notion that he has been so dead to the world makes him feel too vulnerable for comfort. Anyone could have swanned in, and by the sounds of it he wouldn’t have so much as shifted in his sleep.

“How’d you get in?” he asks, trying not to sound suspicious and doing a terrible job of it. He tears his eyes away from Nick’s face in shame and decides that tugging on the duvet will be a better use of his time. The fact that he’d awoken with it wrapped snugly around him strikes him as odd. He doubts he’d had the mental faculties to pull it around himself last night. A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he pictures Jamie giving up on his efforts to wake him and proceeding to tuck him in instead; the mental image filling him with a strange sense of longing.

When he braves a glance at Nick’s face, he feels fierce heat return to his cheeks as he takes in the man’s confused - almost hurt – frown, and he inwardly scolds himself for planting that expression there.

“You gave us all keys on our first day, remember?” Nick reminds him, extending a hand into the pocket of his jeans and revealing the offending object, complete with shiny silver keyring in the shape of a bass guitar.

“Oh, right,” Mark says lamely, eyes glued to the set of keys as though seeing them for the first time.  

Of course he remembers giving the lads keys to his room. He has copies of all of theirs too, set aside for emergencies. He remembers the painstaking effort it had taken to pick out individualised keyrings, and the delight that lit up his friends’ faces when they received them all those years ago. It just strikes him as odd that the keys have barely seen any use in all that time. They don’t tend to hang out in each other’s suites anymore now that the lads have families of their own, and barring one miserable fortnight where Mark had been holed up with the flu, he’s rarely been in such a state that he’s needed someone to keep a constant vigil over him. If his friends have been driven to this level of fretting, he must truly look horrendous.

When Mark doesn’t say anything else, Nick shoves the set of keys back in his pocket before lifting himself to his feet. Anxiety tugs at Mark’s heart as he half-expects his friend to leave him alone, but it quickly turns to relief when Nick makes his way over to the coffee-machine instead. Good coffee seems like an excellent idea given that for all the sleep he’s had, he still feels utterly bone-weary. At a guess he must have been out for upwards of sixteen hours, yet every muscle fibre in his body is telling him that he won’t be fully sated until he’s been comatose for a week. At least.  

He groans as he sits up straighter, shoving the duvet away from him in the process, and he’s forced to bring a hand to his forehead as a persistent throb settles behind his eyes.  

“Bad hangover?” Nick asks from his perch by the kitchen counter, the coffee-machine giving off a low rumble as it brings the water to boil. Mark can’t help but laugh at the assumption; it’s certainly a fair guess.

“Surprisingly no,” he admits, lowering his hand and pointedly ignoring the way one of Nick’s eyebrows quirks upwards in subtle disbelief. “Haven’t had a drink in four days, believe it or not.”

“Coulda fooled me!” Nick scoffs, and despite the lightness in his tone, Mark can’t help but flinch. His discomfort must not be very subtle, for Nick’s smile drops instantly and he directs his gaze to the floor as though silently ashamed. “Sorry. It’s just... We’ve been worried about you. Me and the lads. It’s not like you to cancel shows without running it by us first, and whenever one of us tries to check if you’re okay, there’s no answer.”

Nick’s tone isn’t accusatory in the slightest, but Mark still wonders if the guilt unleashed by his words will swallow him whole. It’s true. He hasn’t said a word to his friends since he abandoned them after their last show, and even before that he’d been aloof and stuck inside his own head. He’d cancelled all of their upcoming performances without even notifying his bandmates first; no doubt they’d turned up to rehearsals only to be chased away in bewildered confusion by the orchestra’s conductor. And while Mark has barely checked his phone over the past few days, he has noticed several missed calls and unread texts which hadn’t struck him as particularly urgent at the time.  

The others have no idea what’s got him so wound up. They don’t know about Matthew, or the armed guards who came after him, or the cupboard with the flashing red lights in the impossible corridor. For all his thoughts of calling Jamie in the hope that he’ll somehow rationalise those events with logical ease, Mark has neglected that opportunity at every turn.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, unable to bring his gaze to meet Nick’s for fear the shame will kill him. His voice sounds impossibly small and he feels completely unsure of himself in a way that he never has before. Even the self-consciousness that characterised his youth cannot compete with the crushing uncertainty which consumes him now. “Truth be told, I haven’t really been feeling like meself these past few days. Probably needed some sleep if I’m being honest.”

“Well, you certainly got some of that,” Nick jokes with a fond smile, and a surprised laugh breaks free from Mark’s chest as he shrugs in wordless agreement.  

The coffee-machine finally halts its racket and Nick sets about preparing them both a simple Americano, having correctly assessed that anything more complicated would likely not be tolerated in Mark’s current state. Mark swings his legs over the side of the bed and briefly closes his eyes as a new wave of pain racks his skull, but he greets Nick with a smile when he settles beside him, gratefully accepting the proffered steaming mug in both hands.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, cradling their mugs and blowing off steam before taking careful sips. Mark’s eyes close in satisfaction at the first taste of coffee – prepared just the way he likes it – and while he doubts it’ll achieve the impossible task of revitalising him, he feels a little more human with every sip.

When his mug is half-empty, Nick takes it upon himself to break the silence with a gentle, “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Mark admits with a sigh, unable to tell whether he’s being entirely truthful. Telling the whole story is out of the question. He has little desire to leave Nick questioning his sanity, and he doubts he’d be able to explain everything that happened that night in sufficient detail even if he prepared a script beforehand.  

Nick isn’t going to let him get away with saying nothing though, judging by the bemused expression on his face.  

“Fine. I met someone the other night and he just... freaked me out a little,” Mark attempts eventually. That part is true at the very least. “Haven’t been able to get him out of me head since.”

It’s a lame explanation and he knows it. Even if that wasn’t already obvious, the way Nick’s brow furrows in confusion hammers the point home with all the subtlety of a brick smashing through a car windscreen.

“Did you and he...” Nick starts, before thinking better of it as his face becomes alight with flame.

“What?” Mark asks, only for the insinuation to become clear as day with the spreading blush across Nick’s cheeks. “Oh no, definitely not. It weren’t like that.”

No doubt his current state of mind would be less confusing if he and Matthew had simply stumbled into a drunken mistake, but the man’s looming influence isn’t driven by any romantic inclinations. It strikes Mark as odd how easily Nick had accepted the possibility, though he can’t say he minds. He’d almost prefer the prospect of his aloofness being driven entirely by shallow ‘guy problems’. At least there are plenty of words in the English language to describe dilemmas of the heart. In contrast, the explanation “A stranger presented a rather compelling argument for our existence being nothing more than an elaborate, pointless lie before disappearing into a cupboard which no longer exists” is a little less run-of-the-mill, and that’s before you throw in the notion of a boss who may or may not be the mastermind behind the whole sorry affair.  

Huh. Somehow in the midst of his exhaustion, he’d forgotten about Murphy and the smug satisfaction plastered all over his face towards the end of their call.

“Well, whatever happened, he’s clearly left you in a bit of a state,” Nick remarks, oblivious to the turmoil raging within Mark’s head. His voice cuts through the noise and serves as an anchor, returning him to the present, and he can’t quite hide his relief as his mind quietens. “Do you want one of us to have a word with him? Give him a warning shot, perhaps? Matt’s taken up boxing, I’m sure he’d be all for it.”

“Absolutely not!” Mark retorts with a burst of shocked laughter, before descending into a fit of hysterical giggles as Nick indulges in a victorious grin. It doesn’t take long for Nick’s laughter to accompany his own. The prospect of his bandmates collectively ganging up on an unsuspecting Matthew is so ridiculous that the absurdity of it lightens his heart. Though he’s not sure how to explain that if they’re going to beat anyone up, he’d much rather they go after Murphy instead.

“You wouldn’t get the chance anyway. He’s already gone,” Mark clarifies once their laughter has settled. He neglects to mention the unusual circumstances surrounding Matt’s disappearance, settling instead for polishing off his cooling mug of coffee. “And honestly, it weren’t like that. He was a nice guy, all things considered. Just a bit strange. He had a way of getting inside your head and I don’t think he realised he was doing it. Besides, all of this is my fault. I shouldn’t ‘ave let him get to me like that.”

“Right,” Nick says sceptically, no doubt still hoping for something or someone to blame for Mark’s recent state. Mark can sympathise. He imagines he too would be frustrated if he were forced to bear witness to one of his bandmate’s private struggles only to be offered no obvious means of fixing the problem.  

“Seriously Nick, I’m okay,” he insists, turning his body to face his friend head-on and suddenly feeling more sober than he has in days. “Or I will be soon enough. I just... I needed some space. Have done for a long time if I’m being honest. I reckon the other night were just the breaking point.”

He aims for flippancy, but watching Nick’s face fall is enough to inform him that he’s missed the target by a country mile. Concern darkens his friend’s kind eyes and sends guilt coiling in the pit of Mark’s stomach. He’d give everything to wash away Nicks worry; to convince him that he isn’t worth the anxiety his friends are wasting on him. He feels responsible enough for dragging them to this blasted rock in the first place, away from their homes and families and ambitions. Lumping further pain upon their shoulders is simply unforgivable.

“You could have just told us that, you know,” Nick says after a while, not unkindly, and Mark feels his heart ache. He does know. No doubt all three of his bandmates would have leapt at the chance to hijack Murphy on the phone and bully him into offering Mark some time off, but he’d never wanted it to come to that. The running of the hotel and the responsibilities associated with it are his to bear alone. The band is a separate entity entirely - something pure and liberating amongst the daily deluge – and dragging his friends into his messes has never been his intention. Not that his efforts have come to much in the end.  

“I’d miss a million shows if it meant you were okay,” Nick adds when Mark doesn’t say anything, twisting the knife deeper without intending to. “I’m pretty sure the others would do the same.”

Moisture gathers at the corner of Mark’s eyes but he furiously blinks it away. His face is sticky enough with dried tear-tracks, though he can’t remember where they came from for the life of him. Heaving a sigh, he tears his gaze from Nick’s face and rests his head on the man’s shoulder, closing his eyes in quiet contentment. Nick’s frame stiffens for only a moment, before he wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze.  

This is okay, Mark thinks to himself. Despite the madness of the week, it finally feels as though the lost, fragmented pieces of his identity are coalescing into a coherent whole once again.

“I love you all,” he says without a hint of reservation. “You do know that, right?”

“I dunno,” Nick retorts with a gentle shrug, careful not to shift Mark’s head from its perch. Mark doesn’t need to look at him to sense the gentle, teasing smile on his friend’s face. “You’re usually shitfaced when you say it so I’ve always been doubtful.”

Nick gets a light punch to the side as punishment for his jest, and he laughs before pressing a soft kiss to Mark’s temple.

“We love you too, you daft pillock,” he says, sincerity dripping from his tone like syrup. He hugs Mark closer as though frightened that he’ll slip away if he loosens his hold, and the hand perched on his shoulder starts tracing a path down to his elbow before creeping back up. The action is so soothing that the effects of the coffee instantly vanish, and Mark thinks he could easily drift off again. He wonders if doing so will take him back to that peaceful dream, with the guitar in his hands and a loving family within reach.

They stay like that for a little while; Mark on the cusp of a peaceful doze and Nick doing very little to dissuade him from slipping away. There’s still an unmistakable sense of unease clogging the air – a sense of foreboding that has burrowed its way into every corner of the hotel since Matthew’s disappearance - but Nick’s presence keeps it at bay like a shield warding off demons. No doubt that protection will vanish in the same instant Nick elects to leave, and Mark will be left to fend for himself against unseen monsters lurking in the dark, but for now he can’t remember the last time he was so content.  

He almost finds himself lost in the dream again – can feel the sensation of rough guitar strings dancing beneath his fingertips – but he’s pulled away at the last second by the buzzing of a phone. It isn’t his, though even if it was he wouldn’t be inclined to check it. Nick pulls his own device from his pocket and replies to the message as subtly as he can, but the damage has already been done. Mark opens his eyes and makes note of the softer light outside as the spotlights dim to a soft orange glow in an attempt to simulate an evening sunset. Deciding that he’s wasted enough of the day as it is, he finally lifts his head and stretches his weary limbs with a groan.

“You know what you should do?” Nick says, pocketing his phone and taking advantage of his newfound freedom to rise to his feet, giving the impression of towering over Mark even more so than usual.  

When Mark’s only response is a half-hearted shrug, he goes on: “You should get yourself out of those clothes and go hop in the shower while I make you a very late breakfast. No, I don’t want to hear any complaints, Turner; you reek and something tells me you haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, so I’m not giving you a choice. You’re going to eat what I make you, then you’re going to get dressed up nice, and then we’re gonna meet the lads at the bar so we can all get properly wankered. Sound like a plan?”

Well, that solves the mystery of the buzzing phone. No doubt one of the others has noticed Nick’s extended absence and is attempting to rescue him, all while trying to put a stop to Mark’s reclusive act in the process. It’s ingenious really, and he can’t fault their line of thinking. Part of him can’t help but be wary of returning to the bar given his last visit is what reduced his mind to a frazzled mess in the first place, but knowing the others will be with him lifts his trepidation somewhat. And now that he dwells on it, Nick’s other suggestions don’t sound half bad either. He can’t remember the last time he ate, and a low growl emanating from his stomach implies that his body isn’t best pleased about his neglectfulness. He can’t even recall when he last changed his clothes with any certainty, let alone took a shower. Perhaps some food and a wash will make him feel alive again, or at the very least make a start to the process of resurrecting him from his zombified state.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a genius?” Mark asks, grinning without restraint as Nick releases a bashful laugh topped off with a modest shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s a burden I must bear,” he concedes, his expression settling into one of fondness before his parental instincts take over. “Seriously though. Shower. Now. The more time you waste, the less time we have to get shitfaced.”

Mark doesn’t need to be told twice.  

************************************

The calm before the colossal, world-ending storm lasts all of two hours. Two hours in which Mark manages to wash the sweat and tears from his face under a piping hot shower, before adorning the most casual t-shirt and jeans combo he can find at the bottom of his drawers. Two hours in which Nick thrusts a hastily prepared cheese and ham sarnie into his hands – mocked up from what little food he has in the fridge – and insists that he eats every bite with crossed arms and lips pressed into a stern line. Two hours in which they eventually make their way to the ballroom to meet Jamie and Matt at the bar, where Mark is greeted with a crushing hug from Jamie and an enthusiastic “Welcome back to the land of the living!” from Matt. The latter tops off his greeting with a firm embrace of his own, before ordering the first round of beers with renewed vigour.  

For those blissful two hours, Mark feels as though life is finally returning to normal. The burden of responsibility is temporarily lifted from his shoulders, and he lets himself laugh at his friends’ lame jokes as he downs the first pint and swiftly follows it with another. They must resemble a bunch of teenage holidaymakers who have accidentally stumbled into a high-end establishment – their casual attire clashing with the sharp suits and stylish frocks of the waltzing guests – but Mark couldn’t care less.  

At one point Jamie turns to him with an unvoiced question resting in gentle blue eyes. Palpable concern radiates from him like heat and for a moment the scrutiny is unbearable, but when Mark responds with a genuine smile, Jamie’s worry melts away in a heartbeat as he follows it up with one of his own. A light buzz takes hold after the third pint and Mark’s aware that he’s done little more than smile like a fool all evening, but he cannot bring himself to care. Those two hours are the happiest he can remember experiencing in a long time. A tiny microcosm of perfection that he wishes he could live within forever.

And then the world shudders.

It begins subtly enough. Little more than a low rumble permeating through the air, barely resonating over Nick and Jamie’s spat as they intensely debate over which of them looks better with long hair. Mark is the only one who takes notice as the rumbling begins to rise in volume; brows furrowing as narrowed eyes scan the ballroom in search of the culprit. Nobody else appears to be alarmed. The guests are mostly in the process of getting royally drunk over a dinner of roast beef or venison, and the waiters continue about their business without a trace of panic.  

Only, the sound doesn’t abate with time. With great effort, Mark tries to drown out the surrounding ruckus and closes his eyes to focus solely on the new disturbance. The groan sounds like it’s coming from far away – like a distant car-crash or fireworks display – but the harder he listens, the more it feels like the rumble is creeping towards him from beneath the earth.

“Can you hear that?” he says to no-one in particular, having to raise his voice to be heard over the cacophony of violins and chatter and clinking glasses. Three pairs of eyes turn in his direction – the petty argument momentarily forgotten – but as they listen intently, Mark sees only a growing sense of cluelessness clouding over their features.

“Hear what?” Jamie asks eventually, which strikes Mark as odd, for that persistent groaning has now become so loud that he can practically feel it hammering against his skull.

He draws his gaze to the half-empty pint resting on a coaster before him and watches with detached curiosity as ripples spread across its golden surface. It isn’t just his glass either; the same effect is visible across the entire countertop. It’s little surprise when the faint clattering of glasses joins the growing commotion. Mark looks up towards the bar and sees unopened bottles trembling against each other on the shelves, vibrating in time with the ground which has started to shift uncontrollably. A bottle of scotch topples to the floor with a mighty crash but no-one pays it any heed, and it is soon followed by several priceless bottles of champagne, drenching the floor with booze and fragmented glass.

The low rumble graduates to a deafening roar as the room begins to shudder relentlessly, and Mark lets out a sharp cry before shielding his ears and pulling his head towards his chest. Logic screams at him to get out - to take his friends and run to safety - but whether by fear or something deeper than that, he finds himself immobilised on his chair. It strikes him as odd that nobody else appears to be panicking. The air is alive with the clatter of shattering glass, the rattle of the looming chandelier, the roar of the moon’s underbelly as she protests against those who have desecrated her surface... but not a single scream. No frantic activity or barked orders from level-headed security guards. Not even the chatter which overwhelmed the hall only moments before remains. The room is filled with hundreds of people and yet, as the world trembles around them, they are all as silent as the grave.

Mark included.  

It occurs to him that he hasn’t taken a breath since the ground began to shake and his chest burns in protest, but even the simple act of gulping in air feels like a complex task. He clenches his eyes shut as his heart begins to roar in his ears, but doing so offers little relief. If anything, the sudden blackness makes the situation worse. Imagination runs wild; he pictures cracks snaking up the walls and the floor giving way to the rocky depths below. Envisions ivy crawling through those very same cracks and burying the entire building until it resembles an abandoned ruin on Earth. Envisions the curved ceiling giving way and burying him alive beneath several layers of marble and plaster.

He still can’t tell what’s causing the floor to shake with such ferocity. Can the moon experience earthquakes? The thought is so ridiculous that he finds himself giggling hysterically, but what is the alternative? Unless his perception of time has been drastically altered, the quake has gone on far too long to be secondary to an explosion, and the space station is too far away for any launches to be felt as anything more than a minor shudder.

Hours seem to pass. His skull whines in protest as he presses his hands even tighter against his ears, and a single tear spills from the corner of one eye from the effort it takes to keep them clenched shut. His jaw aches as the shudders grind his teeth together and he can feel acid rise in his throat, his gut protesting against a cruel wave of fear. Everyone else remains eerily silent, even his friends who surely wouldn’t have left without him. He knows he could always open his eyes to check on them, but a burst of terror as he comprehends what he’ll find stops him in his tracks. Instead, he simply remains sitting there, curled up like a frightened child, as his surroundings continue to shatter around him.

And then, without warning, the world becomes a brilliant white behind his eyelids and everything stops. The cacophony reaches its abrupt coda as all sound is sucked through a vacuum. Only his shuddering breaths remain, followed by a desperate sob. The whiteness refuses to abate, and for a moment it occurs to him that he may well be dead. That he might be nothing more than a shattered bag of bones, crushed among the ruins of the very hotel he built from scratch. There’d be a certain poetry in that, he thinks, though the persistent cramping of his muscles and the burning in his chest implies that he hasn’t ascended to ghostly status just yet.

It’s impossible to tell if hours or mere seconds pass. The world is so still, so silent, that time loses all meaning and Mark can feel his mind begin to empty, as though the featureless light is consuming him whole. When small details finally do make a reappearance, they do so slowly. He becomes aware of his elbows digging into the hard oak surface of the bar counter. A glass clinks somewhere off in the distance. He becomes painfully aware of the cool sweat on his brow, and his inability to take in a deep breath without his chest hitching with choked hiccoughs.

The silence is finally broken by a single unprovoked chuckle, followed by a muted wave of laughter echoing across the walls. With the flick of an unseen switch, the usual chatter flares up once more and the violins resume their task of reciting an old Tchaikovsky piece, seemingly unaffected by what has just transpired. With a considerable degree of trepidation, Mark tears his hands away from his head and opens his eyes to face a complete wall of booze with no missing bottles in sight. No glass fragments or wet stains litter the floor. No cracks creep up the walls; no ivy sprouts from the ground. The ceiling above remains stubbornly unmarked, and the chandelier glitters as immaculately as it had on the day it was installed. Casting a glance over the assorted faces around him reveals only unaffected smiles, with no trace of fear or even the slightest acknowledgement of the quake that rocked the ballroom only moments before.  

Even drawing his attention to his friends brings little clarity. Rather than looking as shellshocked as Mark himself, Nick and Jamie have settled for resuming their debate – this time arguing over who looks best in a ponytail – while Matt grumbles something about not being able to grow his hair without sprouting an afro.

The world has elected to carry on as normal, and yet Mark can’t shake the feeling that everything has irrevocably changed. That the very foundations of the ground he walks on are set to crumble at any moment, taking him down in the process.

It’s impossible to keep his breathing under control, and a weak sob rips from his throat as air escapes in frantic gasps. The sound draws Jamie’s attention back to him, and his eyes widen with fear as he extends a hand to rest on Mark’s shoulder with a careful, “Hey, what’s going on?”

The contact doesn’t help in the slightest. Mark tries to answer but his throat seals shut, turning his words into a low whine, and he settles for shaking his head instead. He needs to get out of here. There isn’t enough oxygen in the ballroom and he can feel the weight of the gathering crowd suffocating him, and before he can think twice, he stumbles to his feet and pushes away from the bar. 

That turns out to be a terrible decision. The sudden change in posture has his stomach dropping, and his vision narrows to a fine tunnel before blurring altogether. No doubt the only reason he doesn’t collapse to the floor is because of the hands which appear out of nowhere, holding him upright as his ears drown out a puzzled, “Easy!” followed by a shaky, “Let’s sit you back down mate”. His friends may as well be faceless for all the attention his broken mind grants them.  

It feels like his frayed nerves are dangling by a thread; the cool blades of a scissor resting barely a hairs-breadth away, threatening to sever his sanity with an unfeeling snap.

And then the dam breaks.

The buried chest keeping his memories concealed behind a rusted padlock bursts open. Assorted moments in time spill forth from the wreckage, drowning him beneath their weight like the horrors trapped within Pandora’s Box. Only instead of horrors, his mind is suddenly overcome by melancholic nostalgia and untouchable bittersweet memories.

He remembers sitting by the piano as an eight-year-old boy, trying in earnest to play the tunes his dad loved to listen to on his record-player. He remembers sitting in class, drawing his eyes away from the window in silent awe as the profound beauty of John Cooper Clarke’s writing set up camp in his heart. He remembers listening to The Strokes’ debut album with Jamie and Matt before begging his mum for a guitar, followed by the sheer contentment that consumed him as he strummed his new love by the light of a Christmas tree. He remembers countless shows - from shy appearances in small clubs to major headlining slots at massive festivals - and the thrill of terror and excitement that thrummed through his veins before each one. He remembers all of his loves and all of his heartbreak; remembers how the latter had always been overcome by a pervading sense of joy, as he dwelled on how lucky he was to do what he loved with his best friends by his side.

And he remembers the hotel. Remembers excitedly developing the concept and expanding the world and the characters within it. Remembers crafting the model by hand, carving his creation out of cardboard and wiling away the hours as it slowly came together. Remembers the rush of pride when the model was finally complete. Only he had never intended the hotel to be a real place, and he certainly had no inclination to run it.  

Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino was always intended to be the setting of an album and nothing more. The fact that he’s currently confined within its walls is nothing short of impossible.

He doesn’t acknowledge that his vision has faded to black until colour slowly creeps back from the fringes. A persistent burn lingers in his chest and it occurs to him that he should probably breathe, but doing so only encourages another sob as hot tears spill down his cheeks. He lets himself be manhandled onto a chair without protest, his limbs reduced to jelly, and even when his eyes offer a glimpse of his worried friends gathered around him, all he can focus on is a section of wall directly ahead. A voice breaks through the roar of blood pounding in his head – a panicked “C’mon Mark, you’re scaring me now!” - but he cannot identify its owner, nor can he bring himself to look at his friends closely enough to see whose lips are moving.

A further memory spills forth from the unlocked chest, prompted by the frantic hands holding him in place. The setting appears to be Bonfire Night, judging by the ecstatic burst of colours lighting up the darkening sky and the acrid smoke wafting from the fire in the local park. They’re gathered in one of the lad’s gardens with a stolen pack of fireworks; far too young to be playing with them on their own, but too swept up in the rebelliousness of it all to care about the inherent risk. Jamie and Matt are chasing him around the garden with sparklers in their hands, mindful of the unlit fireworks planted on the grassy lawn, but his younger self decides to push his luck and edges just a little too close. He doesn’t realise his mistake until he trips and falls, taking his sparkler down with him and inadvertently lighting a fuse.  

He clearly recalls the rush of panic and the realisation that he is far too close. All he can do is stare in wide-eyed terror as heat dances along the fuse, threatening to release the firework at any moment and send white-hot sparks of flame in his direction. Before he can brace himself for the exquisite pain however, two pairs of hands grasp his arms and yank him roughly to his feet, dragging him as far back as he can possibly go until he slams against a solid wall. Mere milliseconds later, a burst of sparks erupt from the ground and a high whistle shoots into the air, followed by a stunning explosion of scattered reds and golds.  

They remain frozen for what feels like an eternity, until the panicked silence is broken by a high-pitched “Fuck!” on Matt’s part and the release of hysterical laughter on Jamie’s. All he can remember doing himself is staring up at the sky – eyes fixed on the lingering embers of the firework that nearly melted his face off – and noting at the back of his mind that neither Matt nor Jamie have released their crushing hold on him. No doubt they were experiencing the same aftershocks of terror that were gripping his tiny frame.

Eventually Jamie had let go, and he remembers his ten-year-old friend stepping forwards, donned in a navy-blue tracksuit, before turning to the others with a crooked smile and a shaky declaration of, “That were a close one, weren’t it Al?”  

A similar form of fearful desperation clings to Jamie now, as he crouches by his side. There’s no relief in his friend’s features this time, only panic and an unmistakable sense of frustration borne of cluelessness. It occurs to him that his inhalations are still coming thick and fast and his head is swimming as he sways in his chair and yet, paradoxically, his mind feels infinitely clearer than it has in years.

“Mark?” Jamie asks cautiously, bringing a warm hand to his cheek in an attempt to anchor him. “Wanna tell us what’s goin’ on?”

The utterance of that name sends a flinch shooting through his body, and before he can even think, a hand shoots out and grabs Jamie by the wrist. The man stills, blue eyes widening as they draw level with a determined gaze, and though he can sense Matt and Nick edging closer, he doesn’t dare break eye contact as he utters his next words.

“Alex,” he hisses, chest heaving with the effort required to voice that old, familiar name. “My name is Alex.”

[thisentertaining]

As the Blue Spirit Howls - Chapter 2

STORY SUMMARY: 

Zuko was not a good shifter.

Azula could switch between her wolf and human skins between steps. Not Zuko, he needed several minutes before he even started the shift, and that was on a good day. If it had been Azula who Animal Control found in that alley, they would have walked away convinced that their eyes had played a trick on them. There had never been a dog there.

But Zuko's long transformation would have only revealed his kind to the world. Father may think he has no honor, but he wouldn't stoop so low as that. Even if that meant being dumped in animal shelter, trapped as much by the 24/7 security cameras as by the cage bars.

He had the worst luck. -

"Come on guys!" Aang said as he lead his friends through the clamoring barks of the shelter. "I want to show you my favorite dog! He's a sweetheart."

Aang lead the pair to where a monstrous beast of a dog was growling with raspy barks loud enough to drown out the rest of the shelter. His bright white teeth contrasted against golden eyes and a bright red scar that stretched over the side of his face as he lunged against the cage door.

Sokka laughed nervously. "Did the word 'sweetheart' change meaning when I wasn't looking?"

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Read on Ao3

Zuko’s ears (well, his good ear) fell back against his skull and he couldn’t help letting out a little whine. Immediately he told himself to get a hold of himself, and straightened, but the roaring emotions within him sent his ear back again. For several moments, he was deaf to the world around him, as his ear flicked back and forth from upright and proud to cowering back against his head.

This… this wasn’t fair. He’d spent months looking for Avatar, going without sleep or meals, getting into fights with gangsters, running from the police, spending every cent he could earn or steal to pay for bribes or information.

He’d run himself into the ground, relaxed long held morals, given everything he had and it had amounted to nothing. Less than nothing, it had amounted to him being homeless, nearly starved, fresh from a beating, half drunk because the only liquid he could find were some puddles of beer outside a sketchy bar. It had been the lowest point in his life, certainly low enough to realize that his father would never accept him back after he’d fallen so far.

More importantly, he’d been low enough to indulge in the self-pity he tried so hard to deny himself, allowed himself to think the traitorous thought that he had only fallen so far because his father had pushed him off a cliff. With one eye blindfolded. Fathers shouldn’t do that, but his had without hesitation. Then, he’d forced himself to admit even further that in his ‘Zuko Alone’ period, he had started to doubt that he even wanted to go back.

He had been told that Avatar was being paid some rival to FireNation Inc., someone who had gone to the police with convincing lies on their lips that would paint their company as one with their hands firmly entrenched in dozens of criminal pies. He’d been told that the witness would lay false claim to seeing FireNation Inc involved in everything from drug trafficking to weaponizing criminal groups. Zuko’s search had brought him among the worst of mankind, individuals who made him nauseous to speak to and sick to work with.

They had all spoken his father’s name with familiarity.

Zuko never wanted to see them again, wished they were behind bars, and Father worked with them. If he were ever to actually become the owner of the company as he was training to do, he would be expected to work with them as well.

He didn’t want that.

So, on that night in the alley, hitting rock bottom at his lowest point, he’d reasoned that giving up on his quest, giving up on proving himself to his father, couldn’t make him go any lower. So he had.

And now, now here he was, Avatar cross legged in front of him, right there, right after Zuko had given up.

What does that mean? Was the universe rewarding him for forsaking his family? Giving him what he wanted in return for his new mindset? After all, the Avatar before him didn’t match up to Zuko’s constant imaginings. It was hard to picture this child as anyone’s go-to for planting false evidence. Based on what Zuko knew now, it was likely that the boy had truly seen every shred of evidence that Ozai denied.

Or was it saying that he shouldn’t give up? That he had a real chance to go back to his old life and should fight for it? After kicking him down for his entire life, was the universe finally allowing him to catch a break.

Because if Zuko could prove himself to Father, maybe he could make a difference. If he gave Father the Avatar, he would have to realize that Zuko was worthy of the family business. That he wasn’t the screw up that his latest report card claimed. If he had Ozai’s trust, his ear, then he could convince his father that they didn’t need to be doing any of these shady dealings, that FireNation was strong enough to stand on its own, legitimately.

All it would take was betraying the kind of kid who sat next to supposedly abused dogs for hours until they let him touch them.

Zuko whined again, ears laid back. It was much harder to hide his emotions in this form, though he wasn’t necessarily good at it in either. The girl, Aang had called her Katara, gently shushed him and scratched along his back in an attempt to comfort him. The motion cleared his mind a bit.

No, he couldn’t think about that. The important thing was, this was Zuko’s chance to prove himself to his father, to get back to his family and make a difference. He would have to be carful though, not rush things as he had in the past. While he had known nothing of the Avatar’s identity, he had been too sloppy (or too desperate) for the same to be true of him. He knew Fong knew what his human form looked like, and knew that Zuko was seeking them.

He had to think of a way to get Aang into a position that his capture would be assured, but he couldn’t risk getting discovered in the meantime. It was good that he knew Avatar’s identity, but he couldn’t let him slip through his fingers again. He had to be smart about this. He had to-

Suddenly, Aang’s arms were wrapped around his neck. He yelped and snapped at the unexpected contact, but the boy simply continued his… embrace?

His hold.

“Please!” The boy was begging his companions. “Director Kuei said that he would fast track the foster application!”

The girl looked skeptical. “Aang, we just said-“

“But this is different!” The boy interrupted. This would be fostering Blue Spirit, not adopting him.”

“And the difference is…” Sokka asked.

“He’s still up for adoption! We would keep him at our house, but his picture and information would still be on the site! That way the cage is available for new dogs, but we can bring him back to meet anyone who sees his picture and is interested in adopting him!”

Neither of the other children said anything, but they glanced awkwardly at Zuko. The werewolf felt his lips curling up in a snarl. He knew what they were thinking, he’d seen himself in the reflective silver bowls that the shelter used. The horrendous scar that covered half of his face would have been hardship enough for a dog seeking a forever home. It was puckered and ugly red, a blighted spot where no fur would grow. One of his eyes was permanently squinting and one ear was shriveled and clearly useless. It was huge and impossible to ignore.

Beyond that however, the Shift was as magical as it was physical, fueled by concentration, focus, self-actualization and self-worth. The more control on had of themselves and their emotions, the more effective the shift. It was why his sister had been so skilled, and why his had taken longer and longer ever since the disappearance of his mother. Shaving his hair in all but his Phoenix Plume had not merely been a physical change for Zuko, it symbolled his dishonor, his father’s disapproval. It, as much as the scar, marked him as a failure. It had become so tied to his identity that it had transferred to his lupine form, only starting to grow back when he’d given up in the alley a few weeks back and accepted his lot.

Or maybe it was just because he hadn’t been able to shave since he had been placed into the shelter.

Regardless, the fact of the matter was, when he’d entered the shelter his fur had looked like it had been completely shorn other than an obnoxiously fluffy tail, which apparently represented his plume. The bareness revealed and highlighted the smattering of scars that covered his body (accidents, “accidents” courtesy of Azula, beatings from his time on the streets, and prior results of failing his father) in addition to the unseemly skin that covered every canine. Some may prefer hairless breeds, but that was when they were cute lap dogs. In a creature as damaged and intimidating as Zuko’s wolf form…

That website would be waiting a long time before anyone called for him.

“Aang…” The girl began, voice dripping with careful gentleness. The boy hunched, holding his head between his shoulders and Zuko found himself licking the boy’s suddenly closer cheek in an expression of comfort.

What.

He needed to get out of the form. His canine impulse control was becoming crap.

He refused to even think of a single possibility in which that action was caused by anything other than some unfortunate canine instinct.

Aang jerked at the touch, but it had pulled him from his funk and he laughed, scratching at Zuko’s belly. “I know what you’re going to say, Katara, but most of the fur will grow back! The face scar won’t look nearly as bad once the rest of it has grown in. Just think of what a handsome boy he’s gonna be.” Aang cooed the last bit in baby talk.

Zuko wanted to retract his lick.

No, not his lick. The wolf form’s lick. He refused to admit any part to it.

“He just needs a good place to stay for a while for that to happen! And we can train him not to be so growly and loud, and to react better around new people and dogs!”

“If he’s bad with other dogs this isn’t going to work.” Sokka said, back to scratching at the good-ear-spot. “Appa, remember? And those teeth are pretty fierce. I’m pretty sure Momo isn’t going to be anything more than an exotic snack.”

“Well, he hasn’t exactly been bad around other dogs, not yet at least! They sometimes act weird around him, but Appa is really well trained!”

“I don’t know, Aang…” The girl continued to protest. Aang sent the pair wide, pleading eyes.

“Pleassseee? He’s a good dog, he really really is! But the shelter knows that no one is going to adopt him in this state and there aren’t any other fosters who would be able to take him in! All we have to do is take care of him, train him to be better behaved, take photos for the website and bring him to adoption events! If Zuko finds us again and we have to move, we can bring him back here, but at least then he’ll have a better chance.”

Zuko jerked at the mention of his name, hating the way it sprang from Aang’s lips as if he was talking about some kind of boogeyman or monster who would pop up and say ‘boo’. He was the villain in Aang’s story. It was a sobering thought, one he didn’t necessarily like.

But it didn’t matter, he forced himself to remember. Of course Aang thought he was a bad guy, the teen had set himself against Zuko’s father. It didn’t mean anything more than how rival sports teams felt about each other. Yes, the stakes were much higher, but it didn’t mean that Zuko was a bad person for being against Aang.

It didn’t.

Zuko whined again, ears once more flat against his skull and suddenly, it was all too much. The caressing hands suddenly felt like they were everywhere. His skin felt like it was crawling with discomfort, with fear, with guilt that he tried to convince himself wasn’t deserved. He rose to his feet, shaking until all of the hands, with their free comfort and freer trust, finally left. He resumed pacing in the little area that the cage allowed as the three teens looked at him with concern.

Katara frowned. “I think he’s getting antsy.”

Aang perked. “Maybe we can take him for a walk while we talk! I bet you’d like that, huh boy?”

“I guess that’d be okay.” The girl allowed, and the other boy’s face scrunched into thought.

“I mean, that makes sense. If we do foster him, we have to be able to take him for walks and stuff.”

Aang shot that boy a victorious grin, one that meant he knew that he was taking home a foster dog.

Fresh air sounded amazing, so Zuko didn’t so much as twitch as they fitted a collar and leash around his neck, practically pulling a yelping Sokka out of the kennel. He was considered a ‘flight risk’ so they were very careful about who they let walk him. Which was reasonable. He was huge, and every step away from starvation was a step towards renewing his strength. The kennel had security cameras close enough to his cage that he couldn’t simply shift and unlock it, and the exercise yard was constantly monitored while in use and covered in tall fencing that would be hard for even him to jump. The dog walking trails behind the shelter were his best bet at escaping from this place.

Consequently, he hasn’t been walked by anyone other than the blockhead wrestler whose anger-management coach insisted he do community service. Zuko knew the issue intimately, as ‘the Boulder’ was fond of ranting about it during their walks.

While speaking in third person.

And referring to himself only as his stage name.

Needless to say, Zuko was not the hugest fan of walk time.

Director Kuei himself was in the lobby when Aang attempted to walk through, his huge New Foundland Bosco panting lazily at his side as always. He frowned at the young boy. “Aang, what are you doing with Blue Spirit?”

“Well, you said that I was too young to walk him, but Sokka is two years older than me, so I thought he could do it! Look at how good he’s behaving.”

Bosco sniffed a little to closely at Zuko and the werewolf snarled at him, making the other dog whine and back behind his owner’s legs. “Quite… though I’m not sure that’s enough. I spoke with the Boulder the other day, and he said that even he is having a good deal of difficulty keeping Spirit in check.”

“Woah hey!” Sokka yelled. “Don’t underestimate me!” He held up his bicep, which was… decent, for his age but was no where near the size of the Boulder’s. “See that? It’s all muscle?”

The man adjusted his glasses and hummed uncertainly, turning to the general manager for his opinion. Fong made the majority of the decisions at the shelter, financially and staff wise. Kuei was content with owning and bankrolling the shelter and taking care of the animals.

Fong looked down his nose at the group of children, consideringly. “It would not reflect well on the shelter if we were to lose a dog prior to it’s adoption. There are no problems in Ba Sing Se humane society.”

Aang leaned forward. “But you said that you were thinking about letting me foster him so that he wouldn’t… how are we going to foster him if we can’t even walk him?”

Fong looked like he sucked in a sour lemon, but by this point they were starting to garner the attention of the others in the lobby, who were looking at the raggedy-looking dog at the end of the leash and the young adults clearly trying to walk him. Likely to save face more than because he actually agreed, Fong acquiesced. “Use multiple leashes. He shouldn’t be able to pull all of you.”

Aang brightened. “Thanks!”

Additional leashes were clipped to the cheap plastic collar, much to Zuko’s annoyance. They weren’t expecting a dog with human intelligence though. Zuko was pretty certain that he would be able to escape. He should easily be able to get far away from…

…wait.

Why would he escape? This was perfect.

The dog’s tail started slowly waving as they walked out of the shelter doors. If Aang really wanted to adopt him, then it would be perfect. He could stay with the boy, learn his patterns and his ways, earn his trust. He could do this the right way, with forethought and planning rather than desperation and fury. He could actually do it this time, bring Aang to his father and make him proud.

He just had to be patient for a bit, be a dog. His father would be ashamed to see the shift used in this way, but maybe he would overlook it so long as it achieved his goals. Zuko’s restored position would be well worth the humiliation coming his way.

So, now he just had to… be a good dog. How hard could it be?

[lostinfic]

Self Indulgent prompts, huh? I love anything with artist Rose so something with that theme. I'm not picky about the Doctor- like my current obsession is Eight/Rose, but I'm perpetually in love with Nine/Rose and Ten/Rose too so whichever Doctor you're most comfortable with.

The Museum of Serendipity

Doctor x Rose, Wilf, male OC (Original Cat)

Rated E  | 2300 words

Sorry this took longer than anticipated, I got sidetracked by research and 8th Doctor audio adventures ;)

I’m fulfilling your self-indulgent prompts

Of all the wonderful, celebrated museums in London, Rose’s favourite was an anarchic collection housed in a crooked Georgian house in Marylebone. 

From ground floor to attic, over four storeys, shelves and frames lined the walls of every room, following a seemingly incoherent design. Part cabinet of curiosity and part celebration of beauty in all its forms, the collection was curated by an anonymous— and eccentric, Rose liked to imagine— philanthropist.

Its name, the Museum of Serendipity, summed up how the collection was put together. Or perhaps it indicated how this museum could be found: by sheer good luck, as it was not advertised anywhere. Rose herself had stumbled upon it by accident last September, when looking for a shelter from the rain. Quite a happy accident, since her art teacher had asked them to visit a gallery for their first assignment of the semester (she’d earned extra points for originality).

Despite few visitors, it remained open from morning to evening. More often than not, the elderly greeter slept in his rocking chair by the door, leaving Basil the cat in charge.

Its location near Regent’s Park, made it a perfect destination for a drawing session. On a beautiful spring day like today, Rose would walk along the paths of the park and draw the flora and fauna in her sketchbook. Then make her way towards the museum. Other days, after a long time indoors, she would enjoy the park’s fresh air and time to reflect on the latest collection piece she’d discovered.

Since her childhood, art had been a way for Rose to travel, around the globe and across time, a way to see the world through other people’s eyes and to share her own vision. A way to exist beyond the Powell Estate. The Museum of Serendipity transported her like nothing else.

Although she enjoyed the morning sun, she didn’t linger in Regent’s Park, too eager to get there. 

The elderly greeter was listening to the radio in his small front office. 

“Hello, Wilf!”

He jumped to his feet with an energy that belied his years.

“Ah, Rose, luv. Alright? How’s school?”

“Got another assignment to complete for art history class. By the way, mid-term break is coming up, if you fancy a holiday, I could cover your shifts here for a few days.”

He would be doing her a favour more than the other way around.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “We got a new piece came in.”

New pieces were simply added to the exhibition wherever a space was available. As they walked to the drawing room, Rose tried to know more about the museum.

“Who brought this new piece?”

“John did, just this morning.”

“John?”

“Yeah, John McConnell , the mailman,” Wilf said. “Here it is.”

On the mantel lay an artifact shaped like a metal glove without fingertips. Or a pan flute.

“Looks like something from the future,” she joked.

“Modern art, then,” Wilf said. 

He left her to look at it a while longer. The pattern that covered it, both engraved and raised all at once, looked like scales. Rose pulled her sketchbook out of her messenger bag and drew it. Texture study. 

Basil, the museum’s Abyssinian cat, greeted her, rubbing himself against her legs. She petted his long ears and ruddy coat. She followed Basil out of the room, and wandered the now familiar corridors and staircases. Her hand trailed along the faded floral wallpaper and oak paneling. The smell of candle wax and pine wood polish always hung in the air.

There was one painting in particular Rose always came back to, in the third floor library, just above a loveseat that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. Ahead of her, Basil jumped on the loveseat and looked at her expectantly.   

Rose pulled up a chair to sit down, the museum was almost a second home now, she had no qualms moving furniture around.

With a dreamy sigh, she let her eyes roam the large canvas. It depicted a dozen people in elegant Edwardian clothing, visiting an art exhibition. She was transported back in times, it seemed. Back to la Belle Époque. Late 19th- early 20th century, in France. Among women in high-necked waist shirts, carrying white lace parasols and men wearing mustaches and straw boating hats. The era of Moulin Rouge and absinthe, of the first movie, of bicycles and Marie Curie, just to name a few.  The era of Gustav Klimt, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and Renoir, the artists whose work Rose had first fallen in love with. The painting itself blended elements of Art Nouveau and Impressionism (as she’d described in her second assignment).  

But there was one character in particular that commanded her attention again and again. There, in the upper left corner. The painter had done this trick which makes it look like the subject’s eyes are on you wherever you stand in the room. Though unnerved at first, Rose now tried to master this technique. Countless time she’d drawn his thick, curly brown hair, the soft contours of his jaw, his blue eyes, the creases that bracketed his mouth. And that smile, a Mona Lisa smile, the hardest trait to capture. 

His clothes also offered many details to work on: the sheen of his satin cravat, the velvet of his jacket, the pattern of his waistcoat. 

At first, she only tried to capture his likeness in various mediums, but over time she tried to sketch his profile, his back. She depicted that gentleman in various poses and actions. He had taken a life of his own. What was he doing there that day? What was his relationship with the painter? Why was he looking at her like that?

Basil meowed. 

“Alright, don’t be jealous. I’ll draw you first, you beautiful boy.”

“Thanks, it’s a new jumper. Do you like the colour?” said a man with a northern accent.

Rose started. He was leaning against the door, looking at her, with the smallest hint of a smile. 

He picked up Basil and sat down on the loveseat, laying the cat on his legs crossed at the knees. Rose held back a quip about the similar size of their ears.

“Well, go on, then,” he said, indicating her sketchbook with his chin.  

“Hold on, are you the director of the museum? Or the curator?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

At a loss for a reply, Rose simply got to work. 

If Basil wasn’t running away, then surely this man posed no threat. Just a lost, slightly odd item, like everything else in the Museum of Serendipity. Including herself.

His face offered such striking features to draw, that bold nose, those sharp cheekbones. The cropped hair revealed the shape of his skull and the collar of his sweater, a beautiful neck. A face for charcoal, she thought, to capture the lights and darks of him, in loose, almost intangible strokes. Charcoal and dry pastels, she amended, she had to recreate the infinite blue of his eyes.

They chatted about everything big and small: cats, galaxies, her doubts about art school and his hopes for the future of humanity.

Time flowed differently when she was creating. In that moment more than ever. A sort of appeasing, melodic hum filled her mind, and everything, but her subject, faded away.

When she traced his eyes, she was surprised to find in them a spark, as if he knew her. 

She looked up at him, and he smiled. “Hello,” he said.

Before she could think of a good way to phrase her question, he stood up and looked at the sketch over her shoulder. He gave an appreciative nod.

“We need someone to do a painting of the museum,” he announced. “Are you free to do it?”

“A painting? Are you taking the piss?”

“I’m serious. Great big canvas. Like this one.” He pointed to her favourite painting of la Belle Époque.

“I’ll need money to buy supplies,” she said, to test his good faith.

“Of course.”

He grabbed a tin box in a nearby bookcase; it was full of cash. He handed her the stack of pound notes without counting. Almost as if he was ignorant of their value. “Will this do?”

Rose nodded dumbly. She resolved right away to only spend a reasonable sum. 

“I’ll come by next Wednesday afternoon,” she said.

“Perfect. See you, then, Rose Tyler.”

She spent the next few days in a state of disbelief. Her mind constantly replayed her encounter with the blue-eyed man. Several times, she opened her sketchbook to look at his portrait. The fondness it aroused in her took her breath away. She found herself doodling both him and the gentleman in the painting, over and over.

She bought a load of art supplies, but kept the receipt in a secure place in case she needed a refund.

On Wednesday, she arrived at the museum with a knot in her stomach. Wilf greeted her, as usual, but he was wearing a smart new uniform.

A moment later, the blue-eyed man skipped down the stairs, two at a time, and welcomed her with a bright smile. He introduced himself as the Doctor, just the Doctor, and Rose went along with it— after all, it wasn’t the weirdest thing about him.

He’d set up an easel and a canvas in the third floor library. She barely paid attention to his directives, she was distracted by the number of visitors in the museum, more than she had ever seen.

“Is this a prank show thing or what?” she asked.

“Why would it be a prank show?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you said it. Why a prank show?” he repeated.

“‘Cause to get that many actors and props, it’s got to be on telly.”

“That makes sense. Well done.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s not a tv show,” he said. 

“But— why?”

“It’s the museum’s anniversary. We are interested in collecting unique pieces, and what’s more unique than Rose Tyler’s first commissioned artwork?” 

“Maybe the last,” she mumbled.

“It won’t be,” he said, stating a fact rather than paying a compliment. “Coffee?”

The Doctor knew something she didn’t, and as irritating as it was, it incited her to stay and fulfill his request.

She laid a tarp on the floor below the easel, spread out her brushes and palette knives, picked the colours. 

Basil, of course, wanted to be part of the painting. He lay down in the sunniest spot, on the window sill, looking ever so regal.

As she prepped the canvas, her brain ran ahead of her with ideas to best infuse her art with feelings this room evoked. Warm earth tones, old leather bound books, a thick Persian rug, but also glass cases to keep people away, artworks by undisclosed artists, mysteries all around. Inviting and distant all at once. Much like the Doctor.

She scanned the room for him. He stood in a corner of the library, surveying. As she traced his silhouette, she noticed the similarity, in his posture and smile, with the fascinating gentleman in the Belle Époque painting. She made a mental note to ask about that too.

Hours passed by, Wilf kept her comfortable with cups of tea, snacks, a stool, opening the window, closing the window.

Everyone had left. The sun had set. Only the Doctor and Basil remained in the room with her. 

The artwork wasn’t finished, but it had everything she needed to continue another day. Yet, she didn’t leave. She didn’t want to. She stood there, wringing her paint-splattered hands waiting for something, anything, from the Doctor. 

“I want to show you something,” he said. He took her hand and they both stood up on Marie Antoinette’s loveseat. “Look closely.”

Now inches from the Belle Époque painting, she saw it like she never had before. It shimmered and shifted. Like those 3D images you have to cross your eyes to see. She blinked. Looked closer. And drifted through the canvas.

Rose gripped the Doctor’s hand tighter. Behind them, there was no library, only a blue door. And in front of her, the painting had come to life. No— they weren’t in the painting, they were in Paris of the 1900s. Around her, people chatted in French, cigar smoke wafted to her nose, and through a window that wasn’t on the painting, she could see the brand new Eiffel tower.

The gentleman that had so fascinated her was there too. Thick hair, bright smile.

“Rose, we meet at last,” he said.

His voice sounded exactly like she’d imagined. She didn’t know until now that she’d imagined his voice.

“She’s all yours,” the Doctor said.

Rose didn’t let go of his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here to bring you back to your own timeline.”

He disappeared through the blue door.

The other man linked their arms together. A feeling of safety washed over her. He was a stranger and yet not at all. As if to reassure her further, an Abyssinian cat sauntered by.

“Is that Basil?” Rose asked.

“In a fashion. Cats have nine lives, as you know.”

“And you, Doctor, how many have you got?”

The Doctor smiled. “Ah, you figured it out, clever girl.”

That didn’t mean she didn’t have a ton of questions, but for now, she only wanted to soak up the magic of it all. 

The Doctor showed her around the room. They mingled with the other visitors, admiring the artwork on the walls. Rose couldn’t stop grinning.

They stopped in front of a painting depicting another gallery, in another museum, in another era.

“Can we go through there too?” Rose ventured.

“Yes, but wouldn’t you like to see Paris first?”

“We can go out?”

“Of course. You know, my friend Claude has been pestering me about visiting his garden. Nice fellow, this Claude. Mind you, he’s a tad obsessed with water lilies.”

[desiree-harding-fic]

Burnout & Brochures

I didn’t edit it because it’s late but here’s a Lucretia oneshot. Just pre-IPRE. I love my girl.

 Lucretia is, in a word, miserable.

She shouldn’t be, really. The suns are shining, the day is warm. The University’s quads are filled with students lounging on the grass: reading, talking, playing music. Someone’s even brought a dog, and is tossing a stick for it to chase with glee.

And it’s days like this Lucretia wishes she wasn’t even at the University at all, which is ridiculous. How many people would kill to have her spot here? How many applications were rejected in favor of hers? The planet’s best Liberal Arts University doesn’t just take anyone. They don’t give just anyone free room and board. They don’t always take eighteen year-olds even. There are people all around the world who would give anything to be where Lucretia is right now.

As if that matters.

As if they would have any idea what they were getting into. Lucretia certainly didn’t. The University was a shining beacon, worlds away and so close, a place where she could put her talents to use. A place to learn. A place where people would perceive her talent, where she could make something of herself. Everyone had believed it. The University advertised that way. Knowledge, the pinnacle of all things, unattainable and mysterious but attainable here. A place where minds like hers would find kindred spirits and be respected.

And Lucretia, so stupidly, had believed it.

Stupid, she chastises herself, storming through a green, not paying any mind to the picnic blankets she steps on. But that’s just the issue isn’t it. She’s not stupid.

She’s entirely too fucking smart, and that’s just the problem, isn’t it?

It sticks in her head as she storms through the door to her dormitory, as she climbs the stairs to her fourth-floor room, her little room, as she jams the key in the lock and slumps against the door, falling back into it and making it shut with a thud that sounds just enough like a slam to alleviate 3% of her tension.

It’s not enough.

She runs her hands through her hair, grips it at the roots and pulls, furrowing her brow and closing her eyes and trying to take deep breaths.

It’s just that she could scream.

Four days. Four straight days of classes that have left her ready to explode. Four straight days of lectures, and seminars that she takes notes for with both hands, the right notebook filled with content, the left a detailed analysis of every shift of energy in the room, every time the stupid fucking professor interrupts one of her classmates and Lucretia sees her shrink back in her chair, every time her comments, her thoughts get attributed to a boy with fake glasses and oily hair. Four straight days of everything she’s said being said again, in slightly different words. Four straight days of hearing “what Lucretia was trying to say…” soft, condescending tones and having to hold back a scream as visceral and powerful as the bang at the start of the universe.

She untangles her hands from her hair. Opens her eyes. Takes off her glasses. She can’t handle having to see right now. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It occurs to her that she’s thirsty.

The problem with it all, she thinks, as she pours a glass of water, starts the kettle for tea, is that she’s too smart. She can’t help but see it when it happens, the little things, none of them egregious enough to be fought over, but the combination of them laying on her like a weight, every day, every hour, pressing her and crushing her to death.

She wonders, momentarily, if she’ll ever get out of this place.

Don’t be ridiculous, she chastises herself, sipping her water, her eyes far away. It’s only one more year. She can make it.

But she’s been here for three weeks and she feels like she’s going to snap at any moment, feels tense like a tightly coiled spring, can feel the energy bubbling under the surface, nowhere to go, nowhere to go, bubbling and bubbling until it bubbles right up into her lungs and throat and chokes her out.

That’s almost good, actually. She should write that down.

She should’ve known, she thinks, as she inscribes the words to paper. She should’ve known that a simple institution wouldn’t change what she’s always known.  She should’ve known that the world doesn’t simply change because you’re inside a more expensive set of walls, because people are almost required to think for fourteen hours a week. She should have known as soon as she started ghost writing at age thirteen, not because she wanted to, but because she couldn’t get published, couldn’t sell under her own name.

Three of the top ten best-selling biographies of the last five years are hers. And she has to repeat everything three times in her Tuesday seminar, because it’s the only way to get herself heard.

The kettle is whistling. Lucretia removes it from the heat.

There’s almost a damage that comes with it. She’s so tired. So terribly, terribly bone-tired, and not because she doesn’t sleep. Not because she stays up late into the night, transcribing facts from the lives of the “great men” of the modern day. No, it’s the pent-up energy that sticks with her day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute, the continuous frustration, the inability to escape it. The way she always thinks that maybe, just maybe, if she continues on the path she’s on now, if she picks and chooses right, it won’t ever happen again.

And then the fact that it always does.

The fact that she has to refer to it as it in her head, that even the word is so dirty to her, opens so many doors that she’s afraid of opening, that she can’t even acknowledge it for what it is.

The utter hopelessness of it all is what gets to her. The fact that there’s nowhere to turn. That she’s not even sure if she should be upset about it, that she feels crazy, that she’s tying herself up in knots over what might be a human behavior, and what if it’s not… what if it’s nothing, and it’s all in her head. What if the way her professors act is indiscriminate, and Lucretia only notices a difference because she’s fabricating it for the sake of making herself feel special.

The tea water isn’t hot anymore, so distracted she’s been. Lucretia sighs and sets the kettle back down. She flops onto her bed, buries her face in the pillows. Resists, again, the urge to scream, because she hates the way her throat feels when she’s done.

She wishes, deeply, fervently, that she really was stupid. Or naïve. Or just ignorant, even being ignorant, though not perfect, might do. Or more ignorant than she is now.

That last thought sparks a tiny little rage in her. That she can’t even manage true arrogance, so beaten down is she by this fucking… this way people treat her. That even on her own, unobserved, she feels the need to temper her knowledge of herself with humility. That she can’t even indulge in a little vindictive self-importance. That she has to make excuses, has to cover her ass, even here, in her own head, where there’s no one to tell her she’s wrong.

She feels her throat tighten up and gods how she wants to cry. How long has it been since she did? She can’t remember. She feels vaguely, that she’s been on the verge of it for days, weeks, months, years.

Hundreds of people would give an arm and a leg to be where she is now.

And she’s miserable.

She turns over on her bed, lets the sunlight gently diffused in her window pane and some concentrated deep breathing lull her into something almost resembling relaxation. She closes her eyes and doesn’t sleep. She tries to meditate, like she learned two years ago in that one seminar about stress relief, but she doesn’t remember how. She’d been so tired on the day that the moment she closed her eyes she fell asleep, dead to the instructor’s guidance.

A sigh pushes its way out of her lungs, and she blinks away the tears pricking at the back of her eyes.

She turns her head.

A flash of red in her periphery catches her attention.

Her brain works sluggishly after episodes like these (if it can ever be said that Lucretia’s brain is sluggish in any capacity) but still, it only takes her a few seconds to identify the flyer from the IPRE.

She doesn’t want to get out of bed. Her bag is close. She hangs off the side like an oozing slime, and her fingertips can just pluck the flyer from the bag.

(She almost falls out of bed trying to pull herself back up).

But the IPRE is planning an Exploration mission. She remembers her department head mentioning it in the hall, remembers the look he gave her when she snagged the flyer. It’s not like there’s anything about it up Lucretia’s alley, but she’s a curious woman. Some light reading to take her mind off things might be good.

The plans for the ship are ambitious. Lucretia didn’t know that the capability to hop to other planes even existed. There’s not much of that at the University; there’s a reason why the IPRE is its own Institution. But still. It’s interesting. The flyer looks to be a recruitment notice, which half seems strange to her, because she would think that the Institute would pull from its own ranks, but she skims the positions anyway. Arcanists, mostly, which feels typical. Something about a cleric, an interesting choice, a bodyguard, a chronicler, a –

A chronicler.

Lucretia sits up in bed, ram-rod straight, as her eyes flick over the entry for a chronicler again, and a third time, and a fourth –

The flyer ends up crushed in her hand.

A chronicler. The IPRE needs a chronicler. For a mission to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, and then beyond that. To the far reaches of the planar system.

A chronicler. The only one on the ship. One position offered. On a groundbreaking mission. One chronicler out of a crew of planar scientists, spacy types (literally) who might know the ins and outs of the fabric of the universe, but who probably know fuck-all about chronicling.

And Lucretia’s too smart for her own good, and ambidextrous, and three of the top ten best-selling biographies of the last five years are hers.

Briefly, one little corner of her brain wonders what the girl who sits across from her in her Tuesday seminar is going to do when Lucretia’s gone, and she has no one to level her exasperated looks at the professor explains what she was “trying to say,” and gets it wrong.

The rest of her brain is already drafting her application essay.

[theangrypokemaniac]

I'll state from the beginning that the images below display the sort of sweet synchronicity to which only love can give life:

MaAndPaShipping is the best ship, and here are five reasons why:

1. It Made James

Like the boy do yer? Ever felt the slightest tingle of warmth at the mention of his name?

Well get down on yer knees and give thanks to his mother and father for gifting him to the world!

Where would we be without their remarkable commitment? Could James have grown into the dandified dream boat of your desires if deprived of the safety provided by his parents?

Had they not brought him up, he'd be dead, The Dog of Flanders fantasy made reality. If miraculously he survived, foraging in the wild is not conducive to a foppish personality.

Is that to yer fancy? No? Then let's have a little respect. The luxury Ma and Pa gave enabled his macaroni tendencies to reach such heights.

Their love created him! How can it not be celebrated?

You lot would ship Jessie's parents but you can't, because she has no dad, and I don't suppose you'll ever assent to his obvious identity of Windy Miller, although 'Jessie Miller' has a wonderful ring to it, so what can be done?

Should a Pa Jess be conjured for the purpose, he still buggered off, didn't he? Where's the allure in a faithless git?

I can't comprehend the obsession with Ma Jess. As soon as here she's stiff, and what is there to remember but coercing her daughter into eating snow?

Hey, I named her. What more do you want from me?

I'd rather have the living, visible ancestors, if you don't mind.

Yeah, says the history fanatic.

Why not make the most of the chances offered, and follow a devoted couple whose love made a difference to your existence?

2. Canon!

There are many ships which I find repulsive for involving depravity, or absurd as the subjects haven't met, or don't inhabit the same fictional universe.

Video et taceo: I see and I say nothing.

Neither does anyone. Forcing decent folk in to incest, bestiality etc. is quite alright.

Perverted ideas are left alone, but woe betide a Rocketshipper, because that's offensive.

It may be the only original ship left standing, with proper evidence and sanctioned by Nintendo, but no, it's fair game for undermining. People pick at your arguments, quibble constantly and NEED to register their objections NOW. You MUST be made aware of opposition. You're not to be permitted your views the way those with twisted tastes are indulged.

Why, out of tens of thousands of combinations, does making Jessie and James an item provoke hostility?

The strength of negativity actually serves as validation, for why be so concerned if it's an impossible relationship?

However sick they are, I'm not anti any ship. I can't muster sufficient interest to do it, and if I scroll on, I forget. I certainly don't attack those responsible.

Anti-Shipping is inherently nihilistic for promoting loneliness. They aren't against Rocketshipping through wanting Jessie and James to be with someone else, as an alternative is not readily available, so the outcome of it is neither finding a companion.

MaAndPaShipping attracts no sourpuss silliness, for 'tis canon beyond question. There's nothing about being 'just friends' when married with a son.

How's the state of your O.T.P.? Not looking too clever I expect, and what's your contribution: wishing, and hoping, and thinking, and praying?

Cast it off! None of that longing is necessary in these quarters, as MaAndPaShipping is a fait accompli.

Hallelujah! Wallow in that Love!

Don't you yearn for at least one ship that all of us accept by default, to the extent these aristocrats are spoken of as a single unit?

Across the internet, Ma and Pa are bracketed as 'James's parents', never 'he' and 'she', always 'they', barely counting as distinct characters. That's how undeniable the love is between them. Sheer indifference has awarded it a blessing from everyone.

MWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!

Of course, now I've drawn attention to it the moaning will start, but we all know a spoilsport when we see one.

If they had any legitimate complaints they ought to have mentioned 'em before this piece highlighted the marriage!

Except it won't have occurred to 'em previously, proving the eternal, indissoluble quality of MaAndPaShipping.

You get good value with this one.

Find a post referring to Ma and Pa as individuals and I'll have written it, for that's what you call ironic.

3. It's a Fine Rocketshipping Proxy

I was at primary school when Pokémon hit the West like the bright, bearded meteor it is, atomizing all competition for a child's attention.

I have shipped Jessie and James before I knew anyone else did it, unaware shipping was even a thing.

There are other pairs where I think: 'That seems to fit', but it's incomparable to what I feel for them.

It is part of me. I bleed it.

I have shipped it longer than most Tumblerries have dwelt upon the earth.

I used to believe, what with the hints and manga finale, that this resolution was  inevitable, and all I had to do was wait.

Well I've been patient for two decades now, thus when I look at the modern incarnation, and realise it's no nearer to that goal, and instead is further away, waiting starts to wear a bit thin.

I resent the lack of appreciation shown to the fans by the cretins in charge, how any meagre shippy inclusion is done not with an interest in deepening bonds, but with the blatant cynicism of moulding us into performing monkeys dancing to their manipulative tune.

I dislike being treated like a sea lion, expected to clap me flippers at the wave of a fish, or as a panting dog begging at top table, where, because they're desperate to maintain the status quo, every scrap flung down from above now comes with an Anti-Ship kick in the teeth, just to be sure nothing progresses. Not whilst the franchise can still be milked for all it's worth.

I have lost faith Rocketshipping will happen. What passes for Pokémon today carries not the remotest indication of any intention on the so-called writers' part to finish it that way.

Even if it did, it's not my Team Rocket, it's those skeletal, gargoyle bastardisations. My Jessie and James never got the reward they deserved.

I'm somewhat in the market for a replacement. Beneath this loathsome carapace of acid and ice beats the tender heart of a true romantic, and it must have an outlet!

Shipping Ma and Pa provides a certain spurious relief, because it's as close as you can get to Jessie and James without it being them, both biologically as his parents, but they're so similar to the duo it counts as proof in itself.

Holy Matrimony! is prime Rocketshipping territory, not merely the balloon lift, but many slight additions are as important, like the haircuts matching.

Ma and Pa are therefore Jessie and James in the past, present and future:

The past for representing Jess 'n' Jamie gone Victorian, and we've all wondered how that'd turn out.

The present as it's there right now, absent of suffering the shameless whims of morons to get what you want. 'Tis yours to savour.

The future as a glimpse of Jessie and James once married with children, and they agree:

That's how they play it given the opportunity!

What, James in blue, for his and Pa's hair, and Jessie wearing purple, like Ma's, with a red shawl for her own, and Ma Jess's orange earrings to copy the beads?

• Money!

• Bun!

• 'Tache!

• Classy pad!

• Fancy gear!

• Pampered pet!

• Identical cups of Earl Grey!

4. Original Blend

Ma and Pa have only got two fans! We care more than the entire fandom has in twenty years!

Rocketshipping art is ten a penny, so why not display a pioneering spirit, sharpen up those pencils and be inspired?

Let your mind expand and marvel at the possibilities of these unchartered territories, and I'll reblog it if it's nice.

Pay attention to the condition of it being nice. I'm not putting up with any old toss.

Real Ma and Pa is what I want too, not those Sinnoh coffin-dodgers.

It's never been done! Every drawing breaks new ground!

I don't like fan fiction, but I wouldn't say 'no' to that either. Recall the 'nice' stipulation again.

Come on, be the first amongst your friends and get ship shape!

5. It Gives Us All Hope

Suppose your favourite amour one day became canon: you imagine that's the end of the matter?

Well it ain't.

Between Ash, Misty, Brock, Jessie, James, Gary and Tracey, there are three-and-a-half out of fourteen parents (Flint doesn't count as a complete man) and one out of twenty-eight grandparents, and that's not enough!

If the series drew to a close with your beloved couple apparently walking into the happily-ever-after, there's no guarantee it'll endure. In fact, the odds are they'll split up within a few years and leave another generation to fend for themselves or starve.

That's right, so don't presume the final episode is all you need to worry about. Can you rest easy knowing it'll go pear-shaped once the camera stops rolling?

It's futile soothing one's worries with:

Oh, but they know what it's like to be alone. They'd never inflict such stress on their children.

Oh really?

Look at that poor showing of grandparents. Either Pokémon has a system reminiscent of the sci-fi film Logan's Run, where everyone over thirty is vapourized, or these disappearing maters and paters were themselves victims of abandonment.

I bet when they settled down, they thought it'd be different for their kids, they'd make sure of it, but no, off they went down that same route of feckless self-indulgence, and that's being kind assuming they intended not to repeat history.

Depressing eh? What's the good in any of us surrendering to romance, real or otherwise, if love is but a mayfly of emotion, and all dreams are doomed to die?

Then Ma and Pa arrive, and suddenly the storm clouds part for a ray of heavenly light.

It's not only that they made the effort in what was probably an arranged marriage and have stayed together from youth, it's that they've stayed together when no one else has, which augments its value.

When separation is commonplace, sticking it out becomes rarer and rarer as any belief in the sanctity of wedlock erodes with every failure.

If they didn't bother, why should I? What's the use when it won't work?

Once that idea enters your head, it's over, and your gloom-laden attitude fulfils itself.

Society is collapsing about Ma and Pa's ears, but they persevere nevertheless, refusing to buckle under the turgid malaise engulfing the arrogant and weak.

It's bloody beautiful, man!

You may suggest an environment of supreme wealth erases normality, and to their class and time period divorce is still taboo, so they don't really have much of choice but to remain wedded.

Ah, but it's not as if they simply tolerate one another for appearances, or carried on for the sake of their son (which is more than anyone else did besides), not when he walked out on them.

They've been married longer than James has lived, so at least eighteen years (don't all squeal at once), and they're still blissfully contented!

They hold hands!

They use terms of endearment like 'dear' and 'my precious'!

They were made for one another!

They work as a team!

They want the same thing for James!

It could bring a stone angel to tears it's so beautiful!

See what success can be achieved when you try? When you endeavour to love the one you're with and make yourself worth loving in return?

Better that than chucking 'em at the first sign of trouble.

Ma and Pa is such an irrevocable union even the despair of losing their only child failed to tear 'em asunder, and that'd defeat many, but not this husband and wife.

Be grateful, for it means all is not in vain.

It doesn't have to be misery and pain: love can last despite the pressure of a wretched, hollow culture bent on self-destruction. Your ship might just succeed too.

God bless 'em for keeping the magic alive!

...

Why do I have the presentiment that I'm going to regret encouraging support?

[aleapoffaithfiction]

XI.

"I know you think I'm crazy. Maybe that's because I am. About life, about this moment, about you." ― Crystal Woods

“Fine as hell. She fine as hell. Hungry as hell, but fine as hell nonetheless.” I nearly choked as I dropped the po’ boy back onto the plate in front of me and stuck up my finger for both Odell and his iPhone camera to see. The crispy shrimp were flavored and fried to perfection, and Chef Pierre certainly didn’t hold back from piling them into the buttered toasted French roll. With the shrimp is shredded and lightly cooked crunchy cabbage, sliced tomatoes, and a drizzled remoulade sauce that nearly made me melt onto the floor.

It’s not even noon yet and I’m already eating a heavy ass lunch. Actually, I’ve been overindulging ever since we arrived here last night and have no intention on stopping until we’re back in the northeast. My stomach has morphed into a bottomless pit that is willing and ready to withhold any dish offered and the man who brought me here seems to want to do nothing more than leave me with a swiftly gained ten pounds lingering around my waistline and thighs.

“Now if I go home looking pregnant, don’t try to deny me because I’m absolutely going to blame it on you.” For breakfast, we indulged on freshly made beignets drenched in powdered sugar. While I had coffee, he settled for hot chocolate and we sat outdoors in the midst of the cool Baton Rouge air on a plush deep beige sectional on the back patio of the four-bedroom, six-bathroom contemporary highland home we’re residing in for the next two days.

With only our teeth brushed, we lazy lounged around in our nightclothes with nothing on our feet. Rather than the television being on, we used one another as sources of information and I was able to understand why Baton Rouge and New Orleans made and raised him. Though he spent some time living in both Georgia and Texas, Louisiana is home. He’s a 504 boy to the core.

“How they say that shit? Something about cushion for the pushing.” The silly little smirk dancing along his flawless lips was enough to make me launch my plastic fork in his direction. His mouth knows no boundaries sometimes.

“More cushion for the pushing? That?”

“Yeah, that baby. No complaints over here. I told you that you have to get the complete NOLA experience and food is a major part of that. I know you’ve been down here once before, but I know you ain’t eat like this.” I didn’t. Celeste’s selective eating limited everyone’s opportunity to explore the different spices and textures of New Orleans’ famous dishes and I mentally complained about it the entire time. The morning I wandered off to find coffee and breakfast while in the midst of a brutal hangover was the first and only time that I was able to have a dish that I felt was worth the trip and the irony in that is, it’s the same morning that I saw him.

“You’re still recording? I look crazy when I eat. Turn it off.” Like the professional athlete that he is, he was able to dodge my attempt to grab his phone out of his hands and he jogged to the opposite side of the cool grey marbled kitchen island. Its width kept him out of my reach.

“You fine though.”

“Turn it off.”

“Tell me I’m your favorite person ever first.”

“Get out of here.” I don’t have on make-up; not even a smidge of concealer. I know my eyes look like they’re shot to hell. I’m absolutely going to pay him back for this.

“Say it.”

“You’re my favorite person ever.”

“And that I’m the best boyfriend ever.” Boyfriend?

“Beckham.”

“Say it.”

“You’re my boyfriend?”

“I’d like to think so, but you tell me. Am I your boyfriend?”

Suddenly the delectable sandwich in front of me no longer mattered and neither did the fact that his camera was still creating a memory of my every reaction and response to his words.

I’ve been single for four years. Two years ago, I found myself in a silent embarrassment over the reality of it. I’m certainly within the years of my life where I’m supposed to be actively either anticipating or seeking out some sort of companionship and yet, I found a comfort zone in keeping that particular slate as clean as possible. Sure, my lower region suffered in a cry for pleasure that went beyond anything that I could do on my own, but there was a peace of mind that I clung to and could no longer sacrifice after Shamel begrudgingly sucked the life out of me.

I needed a decent amount of time to evaluate the failures of and within that relationship and to mentally regroup. The emotional turmoil took me to a dark place and men were not something I viewed in a positive light, so how could I ever accept one into my life? If anything, any man interested would have become a passionate punching bag; paying for the mistakes of the man prior to him.

Some months back, I don’t want to say that I gave up hope because I wasn’t hoping for anything in particular, but everything about being with someone felt completely irrelevant to the place that I’m at in my life. I closed the gap that I once had to nurture that particular type of connection while being in the midst of the height of my professional career. Despite the pressure from family, the distasteful questions about a husband and children I get when interviewed by other media outlets, and the ignorant talk about my fertility clock ticking away along with my childbearing years, none of it seemed to matter.

I found solace in the comfort of my home and couldn’t bear the thought of anything or anyone coming in to deliberately invade that space with their own desires, requirements, and opinions that I need to appease all for the sake of having them. I built a bubble around myself for self-preservation outside of my Edgewater personal space and like a vicious tornado, a Louisiana bred freak of nature athlete came blitzing into my life and overran every bubble, wall, and defense mechanism I spent a ridiculous amount of time perfectly creating. Like Ernes Kanter, I became a defensive liability to my damn self and I haven’t been able to block anything he’s ardently done or sent my way.

If anything, I’ve clung to every rush of excitement and the moments filled with wonder about just how much he’d impress me next. I’ve cherished feeling like a young school girl in Brooklyn blushing from across the room at the most mindless act my crush would do all for the sake of garnering the attention of others. I’ve found myself enthralled in a new world that interestingly intertwines with mine in a numinous beauty that I’ve never experienced before. It’s the first time I’ve ever undeniably wanted someone; flaws and all.

The unknown will always be fearsome but nothing amazing ever comes without either believing in what could possibly be a major failure or taking a risk that you’ve never taken before.

“I’d like to think so.” His naturally arched eyebrows arose in an elated surprise at the response he’d been given and he leaned his upper frame over the counter in a draw to be closer to me.

“So, say it.”

“You’re the best boyfriend ever.”

Our smirks were in unison as he leaned his torso over the island top in anticipation for me to do the same. He’d finally obliged me and stop recording, but not before getting my response about him being the best ever. Our lips softly met, sealing the deal we’d made in order for me to get what I wanted but most of all, because I’d given him what he wanted twice over. I nearly became unbalanced at the sudden rush of shudders fluttering through my frame in a raging response to him. To kiss him is to be inebriated in a manner that no man-made drug is capable of achieving. It’s a trip that I can’t get enough of and want to be stoned by endlessly.

“Now if Larenz Tate comes and tries to scoop me up, I might have to say things differently.” And with that he sucked his teeth.

“Man, forget you and your shrimpy ass breath.”

“As if your breath doesn’t smell the same way.”

“Come on and finish eating that. We’re going out.”

“In the daylight?” As my backside met the seat once again, both of his adorably almond shaped eyes lowered in confusion at the question. We’ve never gone anywhere in the daylight. Actually, we’ve never been anywhere together in the first place. It’s not realistic. Our nighttime meet ups at either his place or my place already come with risks that neither one of us are ready to explain if we’re caught beyond the few people on his end who do know that we spend time together. It’s not even a we factor; it’s all me. The consequences would be beyond anything he or I could explain.

“You trust me, right?”

“I do trust you.”

“Then you trust that I’ll protect you and that I do have your best interests in my mind and heart. So yeah, we’re going out in the daylight. I got us.”

“O, what are we doing?” It’s a question filled with so many wonders about who we are for one another and where we’re going with all of this. I’m not even ready to comprehend what we’ve done by adding titles into this mix.

“It won’t always be this way baby. Finish up. I’m going to get our jackets and your bag from upstairs.”

When I was left alone, I had one last bite of the sandwich and discarded the rest. If I eat another bite, the top button on my jeans will eventually pop off due to the pressure of my outlandishly full belly. I’m not eating another bite today. Nothing. If do have anything, it’ll be a salad for dinner. Maybe some fruit too, or yogurt. I don’t know. It’ll be something healthy. I’m not about to allow him to walk around flourishing with his washboard abs while I can barely contain a lower belly pudge. I’ve already slacked off with my gym attendance, so I at least need to be disciplined about what I’m putting in my mouth.

“This bag?” The black Alexander Wang bag he held up is one I’ve had for a while and it’s the one I take with me whenever I’m traveling everywhere. It has this versatility to be able to serve as a bag that I can randomly throw everything into and carry with me wherever, but it’s stylish enough to throw on for a nice afternoon outing with friends…or rather my man, this particular time.

“Yes, that one.” Although it’s in the lower seventies and certainly a comfortable enough temperature for me to be able to be outdoors with just this long-sleeved Thrasher shirt, he insisted on me wearing my leather jacket because the temperature’s going to drop at some point this evening. Even if it does, it’ll never feel like the freezing temperatures we deal with up North.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“The French Quarter.”

“Are we seeing someone there?” He’s spoken about more than enough people that he’s either related to or good friends with for there to be a reunion of more than fifty people back at the house if he made a couple of phone calls. Like most people do when they return home, I’m sure he’s going to want to make his rounds to show some love to those that he knows. If not everyone, then his parents and siblings. Maybe they’ll be at the game tonight.

“You’ll see. I think you’re going to like this.”

He offered nothing else as we slid into the backseat of the awaiting vehicle.

Our arrival into the crown jewel of New Orleans didn’t go without the driver taking the scenic route and allowing me to marvel at the sights of the historic neighborhood. There’s something so chic about the vintage and antique restaurants and stores being perfectly blended in with the modernized boutiques. Everything about it is like a timeless portrait that you cannot stop analyzing.

The vibe is so unique and rich with culture. It’s almost unbelievable that people are actually from here. Just from looking around, it feels like a place that you’re only supposed to travel to and unreservedly experience so that you’ll have marvelous stories to go back home and tell your folks. It’s fitting for the handsomeness alongside me to be from here. Its vibrancy is everything that he is.

“What is this place?”

“Preservation Hall. We’re actually about three blocks away from the Mississippi River.” On the outside, the building blends in to the point of nearly being unremarkable. If I were randomly walking along the streets alone, I surely would have bypassed it without a thought or concern.

“Wow. This place is super old-fashioned.” Its interior is tatty and weathered but in a manner that makes it look like something out of a timepiece style of film. I’d say maybe as far back as the late 1700s or maybe the early eighteen. The portraits of musicians donning the walls and the instruments resting alongside the chairs on the opposite of the room is a dead giveaway of this being somewhere performances are put on.

“This place is legendary. It used to be a private residence in 1750 and then it turned into a tavern, an inn, a photography studio, and I think an art gallery as well. The doors were closed for a while after that and they reopened it in 1961 to serve as a sanctuary to preserve New Orleans jazz because the popularity of it pretty much died out when modernized jazz and rock and roll took over. So, this place is a safe haven where musicians and people gather to celebrate and remember the old New Orleans.”

I find it interesting that there’s no bar. I like the idea of people being completely sober while getting lost into the beauty of the music or maybe they all pile in after having gotten drunk elsewhere and spend their time cutting up on the tattered floors. There are only cushions on the floor and benches for people to sit on. I don’t even think there’s a bathroom. This little hole in a wall sanctuary is the embodiment of an intimate setting.

“What time do the doors open? What time does people usually come?”

“No one’s coming. I told you I got us.” He withdrew my jacket from my shoulders as older men began to trickle out of a backroom and make their way to their desire positions before us. “I told you I wanted you to experience the goodness of my home.”

“Odell, thanks for dropping by and bringing your little lady with you.”

“Aye, you know it ain’t nothing Charlie. Thanks for having us.”

“You know I’m Saints pride till the end, but I still root for you because you’re home grown pride. Get back strong, son.” He nodded in respect to the elderly man and saluted him for the post injury encouragement.

“Appreciate it. I’m working on it, sir.”

“Little lady, he told us to give you the soul of the city and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. You just sit back and enjoy. It’d be even nicer if you danced too.”

“I’m excited.” And I am.

The perks of my career have allowed to me walk along backstage areas to take in the intimate moments of some of the world’s most famous musicians and I’ve either stood in their designated V.I.P areas or in the sound booths to take in small or grand scale productions. I’ve witnessed some come ups too. I was in attendance at Drake’s first performance at New York’s famous S.O.B.s as he was buzzing on the heels of his So Far Gone mixtape.

I was there seven years ago to hear J. Cole perform cuts off of The Warm Up for his first ever performance. Friday Night Lights released November of the same year. I’ve seen Hov more times than I can count. The Watch the Throne Tour is still one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Rihanna. Beyoncé. Celine Dion. Mary J. Blige. Outkast. There are too many to name. Last year, I saw and rocked out to the Bad Boy Reunion Tour twice and yet absolutely none of the performances I’ve seen over the years were quite like this.

The raw authenticity of the music filling the space felt like the jazz radiated right out of the depths of their bones as they played it with grit and pride. What started out as the shimmying of my shoulders and my hand slapping into my thigh, turned into me standing up on my heel clad feet and freely dancing around the room with my arms loosely swinging in the air to the medley of the trumpet while my hips grooved with the bass drum. My lover left the current dance crazes outside and instead opted to take ahold of my hips to be just as uninhibited as I felt, as he twirled me around and laughed at the dizziness, we danced ourselves into.

If the hall had been filled with patrons, it wouldn’t have mattered. I could only bask in him and the captivating aura radiating from his striking frame. My own roared in a yearning for him to do things to my body that no other man has ever done before. My inner thighs tingled in a call for his fingers to graze them. My seeping center throbbed in a plea to be filled with the company of him. The electrifying turned sensual jazz told the narrative of my body and I can only hope he’ll analyze and immerse himself inside of my story soon enough.

“After that, you gotta eat some crawfish.”

“If you feed me one more time….” We worked up enough of a sweat to need the air conditioning turned on the coolest setting in the SUV. Though I danced off the breakfast and early lunch we had, I don’t need anything else right now.

“You’re definitely eating some tomorrow. You’re not getting out of that.”

“Those things are ugly.”

“So are shrimp and fish, but you eat it.”

“No, crawfish are uglier.”

“Uglier than shrimp with the heads on them? You lying your ass off. Now those shits are ugly. We’re going to have a boil right outside by the pool tomorrow. It’s already in the works. You gon’ love it, watch.” I readjusted the Off-White cap I randomly picked up from the numerous accessories he had laying on the dresser and rolled my eyes.

“I’ll try one.”

“And then you’ll try another and another and next thing you know, you’ll be sitting right beside me going in. I’m not even worried about it.” And he isn’t. He’s been assured in me loving the renowned NOLA boil since he first spoke about it a while back.

“Is this Newman?”

“Yeah, baby.” I don’t know if it’s just me, but his accent seemed to instantly thicken as soon as we’ve stepped off of the plane and it’s been an oxymoron of pleasuring torture ever since. “Baby” seems to be sticking as my pet name, but it’s the manner in which he says it that melts every part of me.

Once the vehicle came to a halt, we were out within minutes and making our way to the football field that birthed what would be the beginning of his legendary football legacy in Louisiana. In the research I did on him prior to the rant, I learned of just how well he had done for himself here. He was a three-year starter and was awarded the titles of All-District, All-Metro, and All-State twice. In 2010, he was named District Offensive MVP, AA State Offensive MVP, and was both the offensive and team MVP for the Newman football team. He also played in the All-American Bowl in January of the following year at the invitation of the United States Army. His college recruitment had been over a two-year campaign and he had full ride scholarship offers from twenty different colleges. Miami and LSU were his top choices and we’re all well aware of the home pride choice that he made when it was all said and done.

“The alma mater of both you and Eli.”

“Yeah, his brothers too. They all wore the number eighteen. Cooper’s kids are students here now.”

As his eyes panned around the field, I observed him quietly reliving the nostalgia of his time here. The entire coaching staff has raved about him every chance they’ve been given to do so. It’s always a comical time whenever the Giants play the Saints because as much as people want the Saints to take the victory, they’re just as excited and looking forward to seeing him get out there and put on one hell of a performance.

“Nelson Stewart said that you were the most hardworking and explosive player that he’s ever coached. He called you the popular guy because people loved t0 be around you and also said that your energy rubbed off on your teammates.”

“Coach Stewart is one of my favorite people in general. He’s always been a stand-up guy and still looks out for me till this day. He’s sometimes a voice a reason for me whenever I’ve had an off game or a poor judgement call in sideline behavior.”

“It’s one thing that he said that was interesting to me and now that I’ve gotten to know you, I understand it so much more and know it to be true. He said that you don’t like the spotlight.” He doesn’t. All he has is a passion for winning. He’s not the guy that feels like the game winning play needs to run through him. He’s not watching the stats and obsessed with making sure his outshines anyone else in the league.

He’s not the guy who arrogantly talks down on teammates and opponents during press conferences or post-game interviews. He’d rather just win with his team while being allowed to be himself in the midst of it. It’s easier said than done, though. None of that stops him from being viewed as the most polarizing player in the NFL.

“I don’t. I just want to win. That’s why I play. I play for the love of it and to win championships. The additional accolades are cool, but I’m not really chasing any of that. I don’t need a bunch of ESPYs or MVP awards. If they think I deserve them then that’s fine, but I’m focused on nothing more than earning those Vince Lombardi trophies.”

“Can I ask you something? I don’t want you to think I’m turning on my journalist cap or anything like that, though.” He lightly snickered and used his large palm to grip my thigh in encouragement to proceed. As we sat in the bleachers, a custodian walked along the field tending to the grass. His age was a clear sign that he didn’t care too much about who either of us are or what we’re doing here.

“You can ask me anything.”

“Is that something you miss about your days here? The lack of a spotlight?”

“For sure. When you’re entering the draft, there this surreal excitement about the possibility to go pro. You don’t think about or care about everything that it entails before you get there. The goal is just to get there. Now that I’m there, I know now more than ever how much of a business it is. Sometimes it feels like it’s more about the business side of things than the sport itself. That can be frustrating. Then there’s the media and you know that I don’t have the best relationship with that side, no matter how much I try to keep my composure when I’m asked antagonizing questions or having the past thrown in my face even if the moment doesn’t call for it. It’s why I view you and a few others as a breath of fresh air. You don’t do that.”

“Journalism and the media itself have shifted due to the internet. Clickbait now holds a major importance in the way that the information gets out there. I hate it, believe me. Going viral is a thing now. The internet rehashes shit, daily. Social media journalism is the worst of the worst because nine times out of ten, it’s bullshit and it circulates faster than the truth does. I just try to put myself into the shoes of others and I know that I wouldn’t want to be misunderstood or deliberately have my genuine emotions ignored all for the sake of entertaining others. Regardless of the perks and millions that comes with being a professional athlete; you all are human beings. I think a lot of people look at the luxuries of your lives and have this unfair viewpoint that you don’t deserved to be humanized.”

“I think so too. It’s super crazy to hear people say things like I’m entitled or how they have the right to rip me to shreds because they’re season ticket holders or some shit. I don’t want to sound ungrateful because I’m not. My family is well taken care of because of the fans. I get to utilize what I was born to do because of them. I have to give them some credit for you coming into my life as well. So, I’m grateful, thankful, humbled. All of that. I just want to feel a bit more carefree again.”

“I get it. That’s fair and deserved.”

“You always get it. That’s why everyone in the sports world loves you. They gon’ have to fall back though.” His facial expression is what sparked my laughter. It was quite playful but his tone was not. Though it flatters me that I’m beloved amongst those that I report on day after day, I don’t take anything beyond professional talk seriously. The flirting doesn’t mean much of anything to me because men will be men. Luckily, nothing has been said or done that falls along the lines of sexual harassment. God willing, it’ll remain that way.

“Let me ask you this though. Did you start running through girls here or at LSU?” It was his turn to laugh and he did so with the typical male reaction when they’re getting ready to lie or downplay their behavior; with widen eyes and his head jerked back.

“Running through girls? I never ran through girls.”

“My mental lie detector test is going nuts right now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really didn’t run through girls like you think I did.”

“Pretty boy athlete? Yeah fucking right.”

“Pretty boy? Oh, so you think I’m cute?” The silly little smirk on his gorgeous face prompted me to roll my eyes.

“Don’t switch the subject.”

“I really wasn’t bad as you think I was. I had fun but it wasn’t that much fun. I didn’t want too much of that distracting me from my long-term goals.”

“Oh, so you waited until you were in the NFL to do it?”

“What? No.” Why do people laugh when they lie? At this point, I can’t even refrain some laughing.

“Yeah, okay. I will say, you do stay pretty lowkey with your shit. You’re not as caught out there like a lot of the other ones.”

“I’m not that bad. I promise I’m not. I guess I can see why it would seem like I am, but I wouldn’t really say that I’ve been out here tossing myself around heavily. I haven’t committed myself to anyone in quite some time though, so that’s left the window open for flings and some meaningless sex from time to time, but there is no crazy number for me to tell or brag about.”

“What if I want to know the number?”

“I’d tell you. You want to know?” Yet again, his hand squeezed my thigh and he followed with a caress to soothe what didn’t cause me any discomfort in the first place.

“No.” His past is his past. What is knowing that number supposed to do for me at this point? What is it supposed to mean?

“It’s been a minute for me in that particular area, though. I’m talking about maybe since late spring.” Late spring? Okay, I definitely wasn’t expecting to hear that.  

“It’s been a minute for me too.”

“How long of a minute if you don’t mind me asking?” And this is where the embarrassment comes in. I usually do my best to avoid admitting this because it turns an unnecessarily amount of attention on me and then comes the snide and sometimes condescending pity that I don’t need.

“It’s been four years since I’ve been with a man in any type of way; romantically and sexually.” Silence took over. When his eyes washed over me, there was no pity within them but rather an innocent curiosity. He wasn’t sure if he should proceed or not.

“Did he hurt you badly?”

“I don’t really look at it as hurt. I didn’t love him enough for that. I wanted to though and I tried to. More than anything, he tried to break me down from the inside out and there were parts of me that fed into it. Then there was the resistant side of me that fought back and it turned the time that I was with him into pure exhaustion mentally and even physically. He was draining.” If anything, I’ve gotten spoiled with how normal things have been within my home. I regretted when I allowed him to move in with me just two days later and that feeling never left. My posh little apartment turned into my personal hell. I dreaded being and sleeping there.

“When did you decide to leave?”

“All of our fights were verbal, but they were vicious. I knew at some point they were going to become physical and that I needed to get out there. He never really had a possessive and obsessive state of mind for the most part. We broke up to make up plenty of times. There just came a point when I was like fuck this, I’m over this shit and I’m never looking back. I know this is going to sound so doormat like, but I hoped that he was cheating on me. I had my suspicions that he was anyway but I never really went seeking. I wanted him to have fallen for someone else, so he wouldn’t give a shit about me telling him it’s over and putting his ass out of my apartment. He didn’t leave without a fight but he left. There were those few calls for forgiveness but he eventually stopped.” And I changed the locks, so that he couldn’t pop up on me since I never asked for my keys back.

“How did you two meet?”

“Through Celeste. I needed a new physical trainer and she raved about him. She had been working out at the gym he owns for quite some time and she swore up and down he was the perfect guy for me. To appease her, I didn’t resist her matchmaking bullshit.” And I should have because every guy she tries to send my way usually has something about him that doesn’t mesh well with my personality. Her desperation to be able to take the credit for having found my life partner is so damn maddening.

“So, did you make the choice not to date or no one caught your interest?”

“A bit of both. Initially, I need a break from it. After that break, it was a whatever type of thing. As you said, no one drew my interest. So, it just became me and Bob.”

“Who is Bob?” His frown of confusion caused me to raw in laughter. “You don’t have any pets.”

I do have pets. Eris and Mowgli are my babies. He just doesn’t know it yet.

“Bob is in my nightstand draw. It’s all black and has five different vibrating settings on it.”

That’s something that I only share when I’ve had a few drinks in me and my initiate life is in the middle of the floor for discussion. I don’t know where I found the comfort to blurt that out to him so comfortably but now that I have, not only is it hilarious but it’s nice to know how comfortable I’ve become with him. In the midst of what we’re building together despite any hesitance I’ve had, he’s genuinely my homie just as much.

“That’s interesting.” His eyes were still widened and his mouth was still slightly agape at the revelation. I know married women who still partake in self pleasure, so he’s not even about to burst my bubble over me making sure I’m handling the urges I do have.

“Uhm.” With another squeeze of my thigh, he normalized his face and stood to his feet. As his hand met the back of his neck, our eyes met and we instantly laughed at the flustered facial expression he wore. I didn’t intend to evoke that out of him, but it’s hilarious to see it.

“We have to get back to change for the game.”

“Change? What’s wrong with what I have on?”

“You’re not decked out in LSU colors, that’s what’s wrong.”

“Oh gosh. I am an NYU Violet. No Tigers gear for me.”

“An NYU what? NYU isn’t known for shit other than academics.”

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know that our fencing team is division one and has won thirty national championships.”

That may have been the funniest statement I’ve ever said to him. He laughed the entire walk back to the car and just about halfway back to the house. He even took it upon himself to make matters worse by Googling my alma mater’s sports history and rubbing in my face just how terrible all but the men’s cross country and women’s golf team is. Both our women’s and men’s fencing teams haven’t won titles since the seventies. What was I thinking bringing that up?

Because his laughter is so loveable, I even embarrassingly mentioned how I once considered joining the fencing team even though I didn’t have a lick of experience. That revelation was what brought the tears to his eyes. I’m pretty damn athletic. Well, I used to be. I would have picked up the basics quite easily. Mastered it? Now, I don’t know about that.

There was no way I’d be able to be along the sidelines with him nor would I be able to discreetly sit among the thousands of spectators celebrating their state team, so he set it up for me to enjoy the game in a Tiger Den Suite. I mentally prepared myself to be alone in here, but that wasn’t the case when I stepped inside. Instead, I was left to enjoy the company of mother and his three siblings.

The same Air Force 1 collaboration he gifted to the entire team, were donning all of our feet and his as well; well one of them. In the pictures that we took before he left out to go and stir up the crowd with his presence, we looked like a corny high school couple who deliberately matched our attire so that people would know we were together. While the photos will be nothing we can ever share, they’ll serve as nice keepsakes to be able to look back on at some point down the line.

In being here with his family, it’s a small reminder of the things that I’ve missed from my own. The manner in which Heather supports her children’s every endeavor is commendable. He no longer plays for this team and yet she’s still here dressed in their colors with his name running across the top of her back in pride for the legacy her oldest child left out there on the team’s home field. I’m willing to bet no matter what profession he chose for his life; she’d be just as prideful about it.

I’m not sure what my mother wants from me. I can’t even begin to pinpoint what I can do to make her proud and I’ve grown tired of trying to figure out what it could be beyond allowing her to control my decisions. She’s expressed that I should already know that she’s proud and if she weren’t, I’d surely hear it about it. I’d like her actions to match that. Whether she’s interested in what I like or not, it’s about the sacrifice for the sake of showing your children that they’re supported. If I’m blessed with kids, I intend to do that to the fullest extent.

“You and my brother are cute.”

“Huh?” I nearly choked on the half and half iced tea and lemonade I’ve been drinking. My eyes shifted over in Jasmyne’s direction. Though Sonny isn’t biologically her brother, it doesn’t stop her from treating him as if he is. He’s been on her lap the entire time we’ve been here.

“You two are cute.”

“Are we?” I asked such a dumbass question because I truly don’t know what to say. Do I confirm it? Do I deny him and downplay it all? How can I?

“Yeah. I can’t believe you like him. You’re so cool and my brother is not. Mom and I still don’t know how he pulled it off.” Our giggles were low and yet infectious. Her words were spoken like a true younger sibling. Both she and Kordell have no issue with teasing him and purposefully ganging up on him together. At some point, they’re going to teach Sonny, who views O as the best thing since sliced bread, to do the same thing.

“You two are hilarious.”

“If only I can tell my friends that he’s taken. I’d love to see the disappointment on their faces but most of all, it’ll make them stop talking about him. It’s so annoying.”

“Jazzy, you can’t…”

“I know, I know.” She cut me off. “I wouldn’t do that. He already spoke to me about it. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I don’t tell his business.” And here he and I are, putting people into positions to keep the secrecy of our connection secure. They’ll have to watch what they do and say in front of others for the sake of protecting something that they’re not technically apart of. It’s not fair when you really take a step back and think about it.

“He spoke to you?”

“Yeah, to all of us. He just said that you guys want to be private.” He made it sound so simple.

“But you know that you can reach out to me at any time for anything, right?”

“I can?” In an instant, her eyes lit up.

“Of course. Call or text me whenever.”

“Will do.”

Though I wasn’t alongside him, I could see and even feel the joy radiating from Beckham’s body as he engaged the crowd from the sidelines of the field. He hails Death Valley as the greatest place he’s ever played the game of football in and it shows tonight. Even with the medical boot on his foot, he’s been in and out of the crowd, dancing along to the sound of the band and taking selfies in different sections filled with students. He’d even gotten the band to perform a song and chant that’s been banned from all collegiate sporting events as his mother explained it. I’m sure whatever disciplinary actions or fine that are to follow due to his request will be properly paid for. It’s the least he can do. 

“So, what did you think?”

The city became ours. Inside of a blacked-out BMW with a playlist filled with songs R&B songs that were birthed in the nineties, we cruised the streets of the now simmered down city after a victorious win in Tiger Stadium.

“I see what you mean when you mention the energy being unmatched. There’s something different about it. I’m not sure what it is, but I get it.”

“I feel like the energy in Death Valley still surpasses any Saints game at the Superdome.”

“You’re biased.”

“So, what.”

“I’m not knocking it country boy. You can be biased.”

“Country boy? Oh, you got jokes Brooklyn girl? Or should I call you B? Son?”

“I love your accent though, it’s super cute.” He sucked his teeth at my teasing.

“You sounding super tough like Remy Ma is cute too.”

“First of all, Remy’s from Castle Hill. That’s in the Bronx. I’m from Brooklyn. Get that shit right, don’t be disrespectful.”

“See? Aggressive.”

“Shut up!” We both were amused. I don’t know why people think New Yorkers sound aggressive. It’s not even that. We don’t have time for the bullshit and our tones will let you know. That’s all.

“What’s this, your get laid playlist?” Ginuwine’s “Stingy” had been playing for a little under a minute and I’ve been fighting all of my urges to sing along to it. If I were in my car, I would have been having my own karaoke session going on.

“Nah. I usually have on trap music to get me amped up before the games but after them, I’ll throw on things that are more mellow. So, this is my chilling out playlist. Why? You don’t like it?”

“I love it.”

As soon as he brought the car to a full stop at a red light, he removed his seatbelt and leaned over to intertwine our lips. His addicting taste ignited the rage of fluttering that awakens within my core any time a part of him touches me. The grip his hand held on my inner thigh only further pre-worsened whatever salacious dream that I am sure to have when I close my eyes tonight or rather, this morning.

“Don’t start nothing you can’t finish.” My warning sounded foolish. If anything, I should be telling myself that.

“I’ll make you throw that Bob shit out. Try me.” His minty breath slithered up my nose as his lips wrapped around my bottom one. The seat of my panties dampened in an instant.

Shit.

[demytasse]

[Shizaya] Firsts and Seconds

Super belated, but anon, it’s finally your lucky day! But wait! It’s double belated because it’s ALSO a Christmas fic. ( ´ヮ`);;

———

   It was was one of those days where the wind nipped colder than the atmosphere — lips bluer than depression, fingers red just as the prior autumn pantone. Where huffed breath upon frozen fingers made one a tempered dragon, the heat sufficient enough to ease the nipped pain, but hardly enough to actually matter. And the lowered sun lifted a blanket of fog from the rooftop to continue what poured from a set of asynchronous lungs; a duo of students just shy of center stage. The scene perfect for a captivated audience.

All to which was a was shame, that one teen’s emotions would be given in vain while performed above his slumbering peer.

   “Obnoxious fool…” Izaya jabbed the other’s down-turned nose which scrunched the same agitation as his own.

Collected, a comedic parody of his normal cacophony, Shizuo looked a victim of poisoned murder. The chainlink bowed at his curved spine, his body slumped into its clothing, while his features rested as if it were their final. Though the only thing dead was his cigarette burned up to his knuckles, as well as his conversation with Izaya that was killed before its arrival.

   “Was the nicotine really worth the vulnerability?”

As for Izaya, he crouched adjacent the scene of the crime like it’d be accurate to frame him. Disgust etched his face in response to his follow of an easy rise and fall of Shizuo’s chest. Mildly annoyed, he tried his own breath against the dry air to which he blamed his chapped throat on the beast before him. The very same whose temperature he checked the with the back of his hand behind an overhang of blond, as if that was the intent to touch him.

   “At least that hot-head is good for something.”

The strands fell out of their lay, overgrown yet not long enough to comply with any style Izaya tried to correct. It was curious to see the catastrophic mess up close unlike what he couldn’t from afar, which he combed the dirty colours together to examine the way it shined under new light. Izaya’s trial of intimacy turned into a pattern of habit. Easy, the way he worked natural oils into the ratty mop, and wove locks into silk at the will of his nimble fingers, while his admittance twisted around neurons and continued the process until it prickled awkward.

What a relief that the root of his feelings remained a conundrum to ponder over, rather than certainty that bode trouble.

Though the answer seemed similar to the bangs that finally accepted his coercion: unobstructed; and his conscience became well aware as warmth nestled into his palm.

Izaya was struck. He worried over that drop of sick in his stomach which tied up loose ends into a knot of an accursed notion.

It wasn’t love. At least he was wise enough to discern budding feelings from developed; but it certainly was a troubling mind contagion, a flirtatious dip into a ponderous subject he wasn’t privy. His knees shook, balance wobbled, his coherency wavered.

His coat of confidence billowed with the icy breeze while he enviously wished for the clear mind that Shizuo slept with — unaware, without a care, completely ignorant of Izaya’s transfixion. It was desire that he fed with a curious cup of Shizuo’s winterized cheeks and it fluttered his insecurity as he drew closer to count uneven breaths that quickened; may it be his own reverberated pulse or a combination of their two, he was roused the same. Izaya wished to be suffocated by his rival’s wafted heat; he pressed onward to share his own dwindled temperature with parted lips that unknowingly offered themselves. The feeling rode a wave sent down his spine while his rampant heart spread stifled oxygen through his veins and it overruled his mind. Innocent emotion or not, in that moment it matured. Technically Shizuo was coerced into a kiss, but for something initiated without consent it came easy. Stationary lips participated too well for them to be considered a puppet — it was odd, but hardly off-putting. It was audacious for a comatose participant.

Perhaps what Izaya played with was a doppelgänger: a Shizuo that mirrored the version that bumbled around his dream world and moved just like him with rough motion. His unplanned tactic of bruising emotion hurt Izaya’s chance of escaping, as if he’d want to, but it was ever more impossible as arms draped across his back and locked him in place. That musk piqued his senses in between held breath, only so much as an occasional taste, that’s when he rose his count of shallow intakes to make it a constant indulgence.

Devious hands weaseled around the tail of Izaya’s knitted scarf, once a taut obstruction around his neck now cast aside to expose the crook of his neck. His hair bristled as a clumsy massage worked at deep tissue; it was enough pleasure at mere touch, but the dig at sensitive muscle gave him to Shizuo’s lap in a tangle of his own legs.

He twisted into a straddle while avoiding their disconnect; situated his posture to grind into the other, well braced by the thighs that’d slid up to support his back.

The pace was set too inexperienced to be beautiful; it was raw teenage hormones that created tipsy sensations of a lightweight drunk. Still the honesty was persuaded out of them by the trick of blackout inhibitions. Izaya dug into Shizuo’s scalp, raked and knotted the unruly hair.

Shizuo trekked the path of Izaya's arched spine to the edge of his jacket and beyond to yank his shirt. Exposed to the elements he shivered — gasped as warmth quickly replaced cold, gurgled when hands travel beyond his waistband; a murmured giggle responded to the caress of his soft skin.  

But it was an alarm, that ring of delight. It flashed Shizuo aware and disturbed their ecstacy.

With shocked momentum, Izaya was thrown onto his back, his skull struct the ground upon accident. Instantly on guard, he shook; he didn’t want to pay for his actions, but Shizuo was often a harbinger of repercussion. The chill of concrete matched what dead eyes shimmered with sleep — what uncertain scowl left no room for a yawn.

   “What the hell, Izaya?” his voice quivered.

   “I could say the same to you, minus my name,” Izaya squinted to shade his widened pupils from the blinding sun, “but goodmorning all the same.”

   Shizuo yanked him forward by the scruff of his shirt, “don’t steal from me while I sleep, you scumbag.”

They were inches from where they once conjoined — the quick switch of blood flow harshed Shizuo’s cheeks, his features pinched from the ache at his head. Izaya welcomed his refocus with a wry smile.

   “Oh? Was that your first kiss?”

   Intuitively Shizuo slicked his lips, “yeah...” a curse hid just under his breath.

   “Not shocking.”

Though he was shocked that no immediate retaliation was cast. Izaya watched the other puzzle out his thoughts; he remained neutral in expression while he tallied the remaining leaves on distanced trees. To read Shizuo’s mind required a tilt of his perspective; from a different angle he was still unreadable, and it increased his worried with the past time.

   “...'s alright,” he struggled with his voice.

   “Is it?”

Shizuo nodded, far-off and dejected — perhaps in denial.

   “Is it?” Izaya stressed.

   “Maybe.”    “...maybe isn’t definitive, Shizu-chan. Try again.” Izaya hid behind his glib. Without an ounce of his usually abundant emotion Shizuo shrugged, his lost eyes realigned with a peculiar design.

Self-pity filled Izaya’s veins and within an instant he thrust that weakness against the brute’s chest.    “Get off me.”

Though it was hard to convince himself that it was what he wanted; it was increasingly difficult to counter his pin to the ground, what was an immovable force that imprinted the texture of tile onto his skin.

   “Can we just,” Shizuo pressed, “...talk?”

   “Funny, this is coming from the one who can barely form a thought. I don’t know why you’re asking me, of all people.”

   “...right.” Shizuo seemed shocked by the reminder of his own confusion, the concept lost on his absent mind. Likewise, Izaya was baffled by his rival’s even keel.

   “Are you going to answer me then?”

   “Answer what?”    Izaya sighed, “If you’re alright.”

   “With what?”

   “Is this Twenty Questions? If you want to be a detective so bad, consider this practice and figure it out for yourself, Akechi-san!”    His eyes widened, “I didn’t tell you tha—”    “Never mind.” Izaya curled his fingers tight around Shizuo’s forearm, his stare was stone. “Are you alright with this?” he punctuated each word as if extra time allowed him to determine what ‘this’ meant to him.

   “...not sure.”

   “Just answer me.”

   “STOP FORCING ME, ALREADY!”    “Then let me reiterate: get off.” The terse sentiment made Shizuo comply and let Izaya throw him off to the side.

Adept in his ability to flee, he hopped into a dash on the balls of his feet, sliced through the air with his loosely bladed hands; he staggered when blood refilled his calves and it threw his scarf off behind him to pile on the ground.

Izaya was aware of his cowardice, but he only cared enough to tsk himself as he reached the rooftop door. His knuckles bruised as he missed the handle, but hastily found it in a blind panic.

In between an annoyed screech of hinges and what would become a heavy clap of metal, a rasp addressed his wake — just as his feet hit the decline of stairs. The words were jumbled when he first received them, but after he reworked the order they formed a message that made sense.

       “Merry Christmas Eve, Izaya.”

Unpredictably the words caused Izaya to hate himself; he was a master of hidden language rendered useless. With his mind lost, most certainly for the rest of the day, he exited the school grounds early and allowed himself the holiday.

He sighed defeated and embarrassed.

   “Merry Christmas Eve, Shizu-chan.”

At least he’d finally deciphered his own word.

———

    Perhaps it was a little late for Shizuo's response; it had been delayed far beyond a fair expiry, in fact. A year overdue without a fee, but an unconscious nag that reminded him of what he hadn't. Or maybe it was the tension that built between him and Izaya that counted as his just reward of negligence.

Their remainder days of school ran them through a myriad of stilted interactions that set a tough row of hurdles to constantly jump in early adulthood. Hardly avoidant of the other, they forgot to tiptoe around the other’s triggers, rather intentionally set them off for a taste of that passion they once grasped. That, in concept, wasn’t any different from what it’d ever been, their exchange on the rooftop only an agitator for their stir-crazy emotions. Outside the bounds of concept — in the torn up glory of flesh and blood — their interactions differed from questionable friends and spoke of a long term relationship that neither were part of, just yet.   

And they were at the butt of Shinra’s tease, relentless as he was a sap; his casual prod and hinted wisdom would eventually lead to Izaya’s watchful eye upon him as well, the asshole duo both in pressure of Shizuo and he didn’t feel he earned it. That annoyance could’ve brought the end of his ridiculous avoidance, yet he continued to grimace through lies. If he did spill the beans, he wouldn’t by any means connect it to those bastards’ badgering.

Truth, however, was usually found at the tip of Shizuo's tongue just behind raucous curse words that he served Izaya in plenty, all the while honesty slipped further in the queue behind each mention of pests and scum; drowned in the dregs of his trashed compliments and recycled hate from when it actually meant something.

Which brought him to the present day dilemma, filled with nervous excitement. Twas the city’s hyped day of romance, one familiar to his history with Izaya, and what Shizuo marked as the deadline to make a move that he should've in Christmas past. It was a confrontation that he’d strategically planned for hours equal to the count of days he’d pussyfooted.

Yet further he waited out the day — just as twilight fell into the brink of night, right when the young informant left his final meeting. Obviously tuckered out, Shizuo noticed how Izaya still held a perk stature; in stride to an unknown destination, he casually perused the congregation of couples for interest whilst Shizuo did his best to remain incognito.  

Opportunities to approach his target at the perfect moment passed him by coincidence. One body-check of a slunk punk interrupted his poke of Izaya's open shoulder, which naturally wound up unfortunate for the careless prick. He was knocked from concentration for two blocks, as a duo of rugrats darted through and around his legs with literal bells on, to which his warning growl shot them off to their mom who scooted them to safety. Over the course of three more streets his racing heart dissuaded him while the two separately plunged deeper into the city.

Finally able to move forward, he efforted breath of fresh confidence to godspeed his heel which aligned his final step with Izaya’s halt. He gathered his surroundings in mirror of the other. Priorly blind, he was unknowingly lead to a festive plaza dimly lit by a twinkling spectrum of colour and full of romantic opportunity — Shizuo thanked karma with a smile just as bright as the strung LEDs. How advantageous it was, that impromptu Christmas Eve date that Izaya decided to take himself on.

He cleared his throat, but the conversation starter failed to stand out above the hushed city roar and random phrases snipped of their context. He rubbed nervous energy from his neck to try again, but choked on his greeting when he looked back up.

Nonchalantly posed at the base of the tree, Izaya was bathed in the spirit of Christmas, completely mystified by the beauty, but unaware of his own glitter. The joyful atmosphere seemed to reverberate within the young adult, which edged him closer to the seasonal smell of dying pine; his aura beamed in fashion of his natural charm, perhaps a hair more childish with his peppy hum in perfect tune of yuletide carols.

Unabashedly Izaya was a halved couple, but really he was a far-cry from lonely, especially as his performance garnered at least Shizuo’s undivided attention.

The scene was the season’s loving showal of support — it should have made his gift giving easier, but as he was cemented in stance, he could only lean forward on a hinge. His arm mid-reach and vocal chords prepared, he was beaten to the punch.

   “Were you seriously waiting for this exact day?”

Shizuo’s fingers twitched in the open air, his mouth agape even more than before — he shrunk embarrassed behind his scarf.    “If you were hoping for Christmas luck to bring us a prosperous relationship, Shizuo…” Izaya turned only the fraction needed to connect his gaze, “you could have spared the wait and answered when I asked you so generously.” Poised and delicate, his ring-adorned finger pulled the bulk of his own scarf to chin level, his lilted smile followed the curve of the fabric. At the height of his cheeks, a tease crinkled his eyes with some form of relief, the release of held breath that left behind a cloud. It was stunning the way that light payed Izaya such favour, it set him a glow yet cast shadows that melded with his dark locks and clothing. He was the true highlight of the night, what everyone and no one should have been observing.

   He gasped, “...wow…”

Shizuo couldn’t fathom what phenomenal deed he’d done to gain so much of a blessing from the universe. Suddenly he felt that the pricey gift loose in his fingertips was wrapped up in worthlessness.

   A sprinkle of snowflakes shook from Izaya’s hair while he chuckled, “that’s your answer?”

   “Yeah…” he was still caught in the awe, “I mean no,” he juggled the small box around his fingers until he noticed that his nervous tick caught Izaya’s wide-eyed attention — hooked on a panic.    “A-ah! It’s not what you think! It’s somethin’ dumb not anything like...that.”

   “I was going to say...it’s certainly not the confession I would’ve expected. In fact that would be a question, wouldn't it?” He swallowed nerves, “though you are unpredictable.”

Shizuo’s fluster befell him, his inspiration collapsed with the lid of his giftbox that was too weak for his grip. He felt the question of Izaya’s stare upon him as he shuffled from one uncomfortable pose to another. It was stupid, really, he’d experienced two years worth of work stress while only half a year out of highschool — he felt inexplicably older than he should, yet it contradicted how his current mentality felt stuck in the halls of Raijin.

Mutually known feelings didn’t matter much if his act didn’t pop into gear and the more Izaya’s humour began to bubble in his features, the more his body shook from a held back laugh, the angrier Shizuo’s temperament grew.

   “Will you stop it, Izaya!” his spat aligned with Izaya’s explosion of laughter; he followed with a scoff. “It’s not fuckin’ funny!”

The pest gathered a small audience until they got used to the scene and moved along just as Izaya died down.

   “Do you need me to do the honours, Shizu-chan?”

The remainder of Izaya’s chuckles hiccuped his shoulders while he took the few steps forward to cut further chase. They were close, but their distance didn’t close the air off from wrapping their bodies. Eager proposal splayed across Izaya's features as he rocked upward a few inches onto his toes like their height difference deemed it necessary. Shizuo read the setup clearly.

   “...’s alright…” blood rushed to his cheeks.

   Izaya hummed, “Is it?”

Nodding, he slid fingertips along the brunet’s presented jawline, trepidatious, but lacked the fear he once had when Izaya softened under the delicate motion. Like a tug of an invisible string that connected them, they were simultaneously pulled together. Chaste, but enough, the kiss mostly sealed some unspoken deal they’d written with fate. Honest to the duo, they were satisfied to just share the moment that dazzled with the holiday magic. Kinetically, they fulfilled their bond, breathed in the resurgence of their past; rested from their marathon of stubborn feelings. Not until Izaya tapped Shizuo out of his trance did they part — with a whole-hearted smile he delivered a sentiment he’d long reserved to be intimate.

    “Merry Christmas Eve, Shizuo.”

———

AN: My dweeby ass took the opportunity to mention Shizuo’s dream of wanting to be a detective; also...replaced my initial ‘Sherlock’ with ‘Akechi’ to honour Edogawa Ranpo. =w=;;;

[the-seventh-charioteer-blog]

I’ve recently learned that it is way more interesting to read tarot for others. You are not so intensely invested, your mental processes are not so clouded by the wants of the ego, that you can see clearer images and feel with the heart. 

This reading was done mid-December for a dear friend with whom I’ve maintained a close relationship for almost 20 years despite having lived on a different continent for the past 10.

My friend is recovering from a painful, unexpected breakup, and is having trouble opening up to the future. I chose to read a spread used for those who are stuck, and could use a colorful advice.

Current state: Seven of Cups, Debauch

You feel deceived, cheated on, or mislead because you gave yourself too easy. Your temporary success  success was a mere delusion. In fact, you deluded yourself, and counted on promises which were not kept.

Let’s take a look at different aspects of your situation.

Family, roots, bloodline: Princess of Cups (reversed)

You feel fragile and vulnerable; possibly not getting the support you need from your family, which increases your tendencies to internalize - escape into yourself and let your imagination without control.

Family suggestion: Six of Swords

Clear your mind, add a bit of a scientific approach (analytical thinking helps navigate the emotions of the cups) and use that imagination to look at the big picture. See the unity/union of people who may not be related to you through blood, but people to whom you can relate. Also, make contact with your idea of "god" or higher power.

Relationships, social connections: Eight of Cups, Indolence

The Debauch of the 7 of cups has reached a tangible disappointment right here, in your relationship realm. You see through the delusion and now you're numb, and stuck. You have trouble finding logic and structure (let alone meaning) in this situation. It is time to abandon the past and even elevate yourself above the stagnating present; open your mind and your eyes to upcoming changes. Stop indulging yourself in self-victimization, but also be careful not to judge yourself (your situation is way too sensitive. DON'T JUDGE! Respect yourself enough to walk away from relationships that no longer serves you, grows you, makes you happy (including your mental/emotional patterns). Pay attention to what you need - you deserve  to receive from others exactly what you are prepared to give to yourself.

Relationship suggestion: Princess of Swords

She is immensely curious, always searching for knowledge and quick understanding. You deserve answers. So make sure you ask questions. Ask the right questions in a kind, loving manner. But be prepared for hard, maybe even unfair answers. I don't mean that's what you will get. Just be prepared.

Love: Art/Temperance (reversed)

A complex object of love has been shattered. Things are falling apart for you; your ability to feel any kind of love is severely damaged, and you’re in  disharmony. However, there is potential for a positive outcome through temperance and discipline. Art is numbered 14, which will be an important connection to the following card.

 Love suggestion:  Death (13) - so, obviously, it would be good to take a step back. Death is the card of rebirth (and of scorpio, who remembers forever and doesn't like to forgive). But you have to forgive, and start over. Try writing about two or three times your life changed so dramatically that it made you become someone else. Remind yourself of that. And burn bridges. Bury all old, and make space for something new. It doesn't have to be love in term of romance, but it's always about your ability to feel it. Death has a direct connection with the Seven cups (your general situation card) through Scorpio, advising you to heal/improve your situation through sobriety and clear mind (with the help of previously mentioned Princess of Cups) - so just take it easy, do a detox (physical, mental...). Death is also related to the Root chakra, namely to its purging function (defecation, detoxication). You have to push it out of your system, even if that means a mechanical purge, in order to start over

Finances and material resources: Nine of disks, Gain

You have the ability to bring luxury and wealth into your world, so be grateful for it. This is the card of material completion and deserved material happiness. It gives you a chance to give back to life, so you can keep the flow coming back in

Financial advice: Ace of Cups

Invest into something new that fills you with love, brings you happiness, and fulfills your emotional needs. Something that clears the waters of the mud (look at the card - there is mud all around the cup). It might be an impulse, or it might be something you've been thinking about, but now is presenting with a new, stronger force. So go for it, unconditionally.

Work, creative drive: Knight of Wands (reversed)

I see limitations to your power. Your leadership (in terms of getting things done) is held back. Maybe its your tendencies to be overtly considerate, or maybe it’s someone else’s despotism or intolerance. Or maybe you're not picking up the clues that are coming from random sources. They may feel too weird to you to take seriously.

Work suggestion: The Sun

This is a beautiful card thet works beautifully with the tied up Knight.

This is your Solar Plexus chakra, your will, your self, your power, your self-esteem. Your Golden Ticket. Put your worries aside, and forget about the limitations. Remember that you are alive! Fuck your failures! Step outside of them. Focus on finding new viewpoints, new solutions, new actions. Be proud of yourself, but don’t forget to honestly praise others. You are alive! So put that to work. Your work, your creativity is now the core of your life. Wear or carry citrine crystals. Do breath exercises for your Solar Plexus chakra. Try to get as much daylight outside as possible. Be an alpha female. Say no to things you don't want, and don't explain yourself. Live your life.

Location, place of main activity: Fortune

You were lucky to find a new place to live. It also might be a place where something fortunate might come to be. You took a risk and it paid off (this might also work in future tense). And since the Wheel of Fortune has a numerological connection to the Sun, it think it might be the place where you can do all those things I said above. Maybe the important work should be done/executed there (work from home, or find some other ways to be productive and creative with the place.) This is a place of fateful nature.

Location suggestion: Aeon/Judgement This card comes right after The Sun. Aeon is the revelation of destiny, so I think it comes together nicely with the Wheel of Fortune, which is also quite the card of destiny. Trust yourself in this moment. Consider the construct of time - liberate yourself from time and exist in each given moment (this is hard and has been turned into a cliche, but be above it). It's important that you free yourself from linearity and chronology. Things happen when the moment asks for it. Go beyond the man-made pattern of thinking, and just rely upon your own experience. 

So to give these abstract words some structure: Meditate. Meditate a lot. Meditate more that you'd like. Smoke some good quality pot, and spend the weekend at home just thinking about abstract ideas, about what time means to you. Write about where your soul was before you were born. Stuff like that. Get philosophical. Get crazy at the Dusek show.

Final Outcome: Five of Disks - Worries

Well, I did what I could so far, but you're not easy. You are afraid.

You need to come to terms with asking for help. Let someone help you

You anxiety, your problem with swallowing food and water, your fear of failure, and of disappointment or loss... Right now you are trapped in a circle of worry, which, nevertheless, you have the power to break. You are powerful through your solid material resources, your creative drive, and the spiritual potential that you've been suppressing for so long. All this reading is directing you toward stepping out of being only a frightened shadow and realizing there is nothing to fear. And it's ok if you want to begin with where your strengths are - home, work, money. You can deal with you life.

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, JEN!

You have been accepted for the role of VASILY BARANOV. Admin Rosey: Jen, you have no idea how completely over the moon I am about this application. You captured him in a single sentence, "He is a man who is so much more than what people perceive of him." You captured that perfectly, from the future plots, to the para sample that utterly broke my heart, to the headcanons. He's a man of many talents and intricacies - and you condensed all of that in this single application. When I read your application you brought him to life with his voice, his interactions, and just about everything else. I can't wait to watch him unfold! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Jen

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 18

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: UTC+2 | I finish my finals this thursday and then I will start my summer holiday so my activity level will be pretty high. I’d say 8/10.

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: @lyradyson

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Vasily Baranov

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

I didn’t really expect to connect with Vasily upon first glance at his bio, to be honest, but once I actually read it and got to look at the snippet of his soul which was exposed in his bio, I immediately felt like I understood him. He is a man who is so much more than what people perceive of him. Outwardly, he would seem like someone who was born for nobility; the way he speaks, the way he holds himself. He would seem like someone who knows who they are and carries it proudly but if one were to pay more attention, they might notice the slightly stiff cadence of his voice; how he strings his words together as elegantly as one would pair up musical notes but somehow, there is always a flat undertone to them. You would never catch his voice rising in pitch as he spoke of something he was enthusiastic about, you would never catch him stammering with tearful eyes and a sorrowful expression, either. He rarely smiles genuinely; whenever he does smile, it’s more out of instinctual politeness or a required reaction than anything else. He doesn’t express emotion because he felt it so intensely while growing up that it got drained out of him

I feel like, as a child and afterwards as a teenager, living around nothing but his father’s toxic presence and the ghost of his mother that constantly haunted them, he must have carried immense guilt. The mentions of his mother which used to be a constant in his life, along with his father’s self-destruction as living proof of the tragedy his birth had brought onto them, it all contributed to his belief that his existence brought nothing but destruction. And of course he had no chance to expel that guilt and all the sadness he faced whenever he was around his father–and even when he wasn’t around him–and so he ended up teaching himself to compartmentalize. He bottled it all in to keep from tilting beneath the weight of his guilt and all the other emotions he had to experience everyday throughout his life with his father. The weight which had just kept getting heavier and heavier. He taught himself not only that but practically everything; he brought himself up because nothing was going to do it for him; not the love of his dead mother, and not the envy of his barely-living father. He’s independent and self-reliant but those two qualities definitely came at a heavy cost. From how much he had kept his emotions in and how much he had learned to school and anchor himself, he ended up locking his emotions and losing the key.

And yet, despite all that, he walks among people gracefully, not once displaying the torment he had endured and does endure occasionally nowadays. Life as a trader; a life which depends on charisma and wit had taught him to feign; to pretend; something which must have been unfamiliar to him because he could never really pretend around his father; the living testament to his destructive existence. But when he was finally free of that, he adapted to the new environments he was constantly finding himself in which made him qualified for eventually joining the Ravkan court. The fact that he’s not emotionally expressive doesn’t mean he’s emotionless, however. Vasily feels. And he feels intensely. Which is part of the reason why he keeps it all in.

He’s just so burdened that it makes me feel genuinely sorry for him. Burdened when he doesn’t have to be. When he allows himself to think about it, he blames himself for his mother’s death, for the way his father’s life had deteriorated even if the man always claimed that he wished he’d married someone else and denied the fact that he was grieving. He blames himself for accepting the way his father had cast him aside and how he pretty much abandoned the man because he feels partly responsible for him; he feels as if it had been up to him to help the man heal somehow, as if it was his responsibility simply for being his son. He grew up to become a bright man; the only hope left for the Baranov name–and yet, he finds nothing prideful in that; doesn’t really see it as an accomplishment. I find him to be quite the pessimist but it’s justified that he turned out this way considering how every time he dared to have hope, fate always snatched it from his grasp somehow.

There’s just so much of him to explore. The emptiness that constantly envelopes his soul has made him lose sight of who he is. He has many personas; the gentleman, the noble, the strategist, the supporter. He is whatever the situation requires him to be; that’s how adaptable he is. But in the midst of his adaptation and the layers he continues to surround himself with, he lost the essence of who he is. I want him to discover it again. I want him to want to discover it again, to finally find the motivation to conquer the void he feels within him. I want to put him in situations which will test his morals, his values, his flaws, his qualities. Those are all things I can’t really see clearly right now from how much his emptiness is overshadowing it all but I want to see it. I want to know how he truly is and I want him to know it as well. In a situation of crisis, would his primary concern be rescuing himself or would he consider other people first and rush to help as much as he can? If he had a chance to, would he cheat to win the game or would he feel like he is above cheating? Who was he, who is he, who is he going to become?

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

( players of the same game ): Rhea has got plans for Vasily and although it’s a plot that mostly depends on what I could potentially plan with Rhea’s player, I feel like it would have a big impact on Vasily. He has been playing the game fairly so far; I don’t think he’s been involved in any shady business in the court; after all, he’s still establishing his position as a Duke and you could say he’s being too careful and he might agree with you but Vasily is nothing if not calculated. He’s not impulsive. And that’s why he never responded to Rhea’s offers. But he does consider them whenever he thinks about it. So, it would be interesting to see what he would get involved in with the woman and whether he would allow her to manipulate him like she wants to. If he would be willing to risk falling into something beyond his control just for the sake of the thrill he might find in the potential danger of whatever the woman has got in mind.

( pills and potions ): Vasily hates the sense of losing control of himself and the circumstances he’s in. He’s a control freak, you could say. It’s why he never drinks too much and never indulges into the blessing of obliviousness. The drug Druvik gave him represents that blessing and Vasily would be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to use it. Vasily is always stumbling in the darkness of doubt; constantly doubting his values, constantly doubting himself. He is a man who values self-control and yet, there is no bigger temptation he faces than the small, inconspicuous bag he has in his drawer and the potential it holds. It could take away the suffocating silence which only accentuates how loud his thoughts could get. It could take away the emptiness he finds every way he turns to in his miserable life. It could, it could, it could. He knows it’s dangerous; he inherently knows Druvik wasn’t really doing him a favor when he slipped that bag into his hand…or was he? To be honest, I want to push Vasily to the point where he would either allow his emotions to overflow for once or he would succumb to the temptation the drug represents. It would be so interesting to see just what it would take to get him to that decisive point; the point of deliberately giving away control. He doesn’t know what the drug is made of, what its effects are, if it’s addictive or not; it’s not something he can pre-empt which is what is so intimidating about it to him but it’s a constant temptation if only for its constant presence and promise.

( confidant ): Aside from emptiness, there is another demon that Vasily is constantly tackling; loneliness. He’s not incapable of putting trust in others, it’s simply that he never allows anyone to get too close. One reason is because he breaks everything he touches; he fears that his presence becoming constant in someone else’s life would only bring tragedy but another reason is because he never knew what it was like to trust someone or to love someone and vice versa. He’d been put at fault for simply existing from the minute he was born and that was all he had known while in the presence of his father. All the connections he’s ever formed in his life were business connections or simple acquaintance; nothing more and nothing less. I want him to find someone he can trust, someone who sees him for who he is, someone who will acknowledge Vasily’s emotional boundaries and limitations and deliberately slip past them. I want him to explore what a connection with another person would feel like; a notion that is so alien to him. I want to explore if it would have positive or negative effects on him; if it would prompt a reaction from him where he embraces it or if it would make him push it away and dismiss it; if it would change him in the long run and help him to be more genuine or if it would only make him close himself off the rest of the world even more.

( chess board ): I don’t believe being a member of the Ravkan court is easy; it’s a chess game. And Vasily is only one of many pieces. I refuse to believe that there aren’t things brewing in the background of the court and that things are a lot more multi-facted than they seem especially with the wars that are currently brewing. I want Vasily to get waist-deep in it all. He’s been playing it safe since arriving at Ravka but I want him to drift away from that, even if he will without realizing it. I want him to get knotted in the politics and tactics of it all and to see how it would influence him and his already weak grasp on his own values and morals. What connections will he form and what would their nature be? Will he gain enemies or allies or both? Will it make him more shrewd and jaded or will it make him hold on to whatever integrity he might possess? Will he get lost in it all and let himself get corrupted or will he somehow maintain his frail grip on who he is?

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: It depends on whether I end up losing muse for him and if it would further the plot, honestly.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

“You’re leaving.”

Vasily glanced up from his plate of burned potatoes and vegetables; eyes falling on the glass his father was twirling lazily in his hand, the liquor within it swishing and making soft sounds as it clashed against the sides of the glass; it was the only audible sound aside from their breathing. His father was clearly addressing him but was it a serious statement Vasily ought to consider a legitimate response to or was it the usual vague sentence he always used as a prequel to whatever drunken story he was about to tell? The young boy chose to stay quiet, his gaze falling back to his food. He’d been cooking meals for them both for as long as he could remember and yet, he always managed to burn the potatoes for some reason even though every time, he followed the instructions carefully from the cook book. He frowned softly as he fiddled with the darkened edges of the potatoes; wondering what he had done wrong. He was always wondering what he had done wrong.

“Boy.” His father called, his guttural voice hoarse as it scraped its way through his vocal chords. Vasily was nineteen now; he was a man and yet, that was not something his father was concerned with; he was only concerned with not speaking his son’s name and as bitter as it used to make Vasily, he was more than used to it by now. He was used to it all. This current situation with his father, it had been a constantly repeated pattern through the years with only minimal changes here and there. He knew how this was going to go and yet he wanted nothing but to walk away and lock himself up in his room.

“Yes, Father?” Vasily replied, a tone of caution seeping into his voice. He refused to look up from his plate.

“You’re leaving.” He repeated, still with the same lazy tone, in his same exact position, still twirling the glass of liquid poison he sought so desperately.

Vasily frowned, not knowing how to respond without any elaboration. His father seemed serious and oddly sober, though. His stomach churned.

“How…am I leaving, exactly?” He made sure his tone remained calm but his sense of dread only rose with each second that passed while he waited for his father’s elaboration. This wasn’t the way their conversations usually went.

“Doesn’t matter how,” He slurred. “You just are. Because I want you to.”

Vasily finally looked up from his food and was surprised that the man was actually making direct eye contact with him. The grim sight of his red-rimmed eyes was unpleasant but it was nothing compared to the cruel determination within those eyes. Vasily blinked then swallowed nervously, barely holding back a flinch against the strange lucidity that suddenly encompassed his father. He was aware of every single word he was saying and he wanted Vasily to know that.

“A ship is sailing with goods at dawn. You’re boarding it. You’re leaving and you’re not coming back.”

For a moment, Vasily had no idea how to react. Part of him was enraged at the way his father was addressing him as some sort of item that he had no use for anymore. Another part was cowering before the calculated cruelty he saw through those eyes that were so similar to his and yet so different. The dominant part of him, however, was already thinking ahead; his father was nothing if not stubborn and he seemed adamant that Vasily was leaving so where would he go? And how would he get there?

Why?

A few stagnant minutes passed where all his father did was glare at him and all Vasily did was clench his fists beneath the table as his gaze fell back on his food. This was unprecedented but the cause was becoming more apparent to him; his father had been more and more aloof and short-tempered around him since news had reached him that Vasily had been incredibly successful on the few trading trips he’d gone on recently. A man had come to visit his father a few days ago but Vasily had only heard snippets of their conversation; your boy is bright. He ought to raise the Baranov name from the dead!

The only reason he had gone on those trips–the only reason why he’d been going on them for years–was to get money for his education. His father wasn’t paying anything so Vasily was earning his own money and had been for years. But it wasn’t out of selfish intent; he enrolled himself into a schooling home because he’d thought his father would appreciate his self-reliance. He’d hoped it would make him less of a burden to the older man. He was wrong in that hope, apparently.

Was his father really banishing him for something that Vasily had done solely to make him proud?

“Do you hear me?”

Vasily looked up and met the man’s gaze once more, sorrow shining through his gentle eyes momentarily before they grew cold with a blink. He gave a stiff nod then slowly pushed himself up from his chair and walked out of the room.

—

Tendrils of wind slashed against his face as he stood aboard the ship that resembled his escape. It was banishment, there was no denying that. But he would call it an escape. He watched the port as it grew more and more distant; no one was standing on it. His father had accompanied him only to make sure that he would actually board the ship and the second that Vasily had stepped foot onto the vessel, his father had left. What had dread sinking into the pit of his stomach was how steady his steps were; you wouldn’t expect his legs to be aware of what a straight line even was from how much liquor he consumed on a daily basis but he hadn’t been stumbling as he walked away. His steps were steady and sure. As if he had made a decision he knew he wouldn’t regret. Casting away his own son.

Vasily shut his eyes as a particularly cruel slash of wind assaulted his face all of a sudden; although he was shutting his eyes due to what he was feeling on the inside rather than the outside. Was that pain? Why was he feeling it now of all times? He had been enduring his father’s rejection–his father’s hatred–of him since birth and it never impacted him to this degree; to a point where he felt genuine pain. There it was; an aching, pounding echo in the hollow of his chest. He had no idea what to do with this ache; how to utilize it. He had no idea what he was going to do from now on.

He took a moment to look behind him at the crew; strangers that he was apparently going to live with from now on. Each one of them was going about their business; although that hadn’t been the case when he had first boarded, when they were exchanging whispers and eyeing him strangely as him and his father parted ways. How do they think of him now, he wondered? A noble who finally gave himself a chance to go down a commoner’s winding path? A man who simply grew bored of the finite land and sought the endless stretches of sea? Or did they seem him for what he was; an abandoned son? Or did they have no idea why he was even here?

So many questions and no answers. That had been his life for as long as he could remember. He had been seeking a change. He had been working towards it. He had had hope. But he was never meant to have anything good; he only had himself and the void he constantly carried with him.

He wondered if it would ever be enough.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS

- He loves writing. It’s the only outlet he’s ever had for his thoughts and it’s among the few things that help him to center himself at times when the silence gets just a little bit too loud. Losing himself in the words he lay out on blank papers was the only time where he felt pleasantly isolated, from his thoughts and from his surroundings. His writings are very private to him, however, and he’s always keeping them hidden in fear of someone stumbling upon them somehow. He carries a small journal around with him wherever he goes.

- He’s bisexual. The only reason he discovered that was during a period of time where he’d picked up sleeping around with strangers as the new outlet for his emotions. It had worked for a while but Vasily didn’t like the instability of it and the situation with Rhea is just one out of many examples that show his sexual encounters don’t really end well, most of the time. He was always in it for the physicality and aftermath of it; for the way his mind would go pleasantly blank after a decent climax and nothing more. And while some people were on the same page with him in that aspect, others weren’t and it led to complications. Complications and the personal discovery of his sexual orientation had been the only things he had ever gained out of that time period in his life.

- He always wished to have a sibling. Whether out of a sincere desire for companionship during the lonely, lonely time of his upbringing or out of a childish wish that there had been someone else to receive the blame for their mother’s death and endure the hatred of their father, he didn’t know. But he always liked the sense of union that he felt whenever he thought of the notion of brotherhood. The solidarity of having someone who would always be there for you, if only for nothing except the fact that blood could never be water. Blood is water to Vasily, however, but he likes to think, whenever he bothered to think about it, that he might have ended up with a different perspective if he had had a brother or a sister to stand beside him.

- He considers himself more socially inexperienced than introverted. Vasily can be quite the charmer when he played the part and social gatherings where he had to fall under the guise of politeness and professionalism were the easiest thing in the world for him. However, interactions where he had to be Vasily; where he ought to express himself instead of speaking of politics and the workings of the court; those were the tricky interactions. He’d never had what people would call ‘friends’ and never experienced a situation where he could be himself or express his thoughts openly and without restrictions. He is someone who plans his every word, who embraces the politeness and manners he has taught himself over the years, who calculates every action before he makes it. It’s not in his nature to be sporadic, spontaneous and true to himself; his upbringing never allowed him to be that person.

- He is quite the tactician; it shows in his naturally calculative nature. This trait of his dominates most things he does. As a child, upon waking up, he would stare at the ceiling and list in his mind all the things he was going to do after leaving the bed and what he was going to do throughout the day until the moment he ought to return back to bed. He still keeps this habit to this day. And that trait of his is the reason why he’s not someone who appreciates an abrupt change; doesn’t like it when something happens that disturbs a pattern he had set. It’s also why he’s someone who enjoys routine. He enjoys the stability and predictability of it. He is very adaptable so if he knew that circumstances were going to change, he behaved accordingly but when a change happens sporadically and unexpectedly, it usually makes him flounder a little bit before he is able to formulate a plan to get back on track. He always got back on track. He wonders if a time would come when he wouldn’t be able to.

- He occasionally sends letters to his father to which he never receives a response. He does it more out of a sense of obligation towards the old man rather than a genuine concern for him. Being away from his father has cleared Vasily’s vision somewhat; it transformed a portion of his guilt into resentment towards his father. The man Vasily always tried to please but only ended up receiving nothing from in return. And yet he still sends the letters and actually means some of the things he writes in them. However, they have been getting shorter and shorter and becoming less and less frequent recently.

- He speaks many languages and is educated on several cultures from how much he had traveled prior to landing in Ravka. It has its advantages when he’s representing the Ravkan court in front of a foreigner; his familiarity with several cultures makes him likable to most people he meets in business or social interactions and it makes him come off as a noble, trust-worthy man which is always a perk.

EXTRAS: None because I’m uninspired as shit.

ANYTHING ELSE? Once a nerd, always a nerd; my favorite book is Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

[how2to18]

THE SLIPPERY NATURE of Araminta Hall’s American debut, Our Kind of Cruelty, is established from the very first page with an epigraph chipped from Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea: “One can be too ingenious in trying to search out the truth. Sometimes one must simply respect its veiled face. Of course this is a love story.”

The implication that what follows will also be a love story is both true and misleading, which sets the novel’s tone and identifies its central paradox: “[H]ow do you show someone that what they believe to be true is really not the truth?” This is, essentially, a love story; a story about love. It’s no starry-eyed romance, but a love story in the tradition of Wuthering Heights or Caroline Kepnes’s You, in which love manifests as darker, more obsessive, with lovers prepared to burn down the world that would keep them apart, even if they self-destruct in the process. Or, as the narrator of this book declares: “[S]ometimes two people need each other so much it is worth sacrificing others to make sure they end up together.”

These two people are Mike and V(erity), a young West London couple who spent eight years in a psychologically complex, all-consuming relationship before Mike’s work took him abroad to New York, where the strain of distance and one drunken mistake caused V to end their relationship, soon afterward becoming engaged to another man. This decisively removes any chance Mike has of winning her back. Or does it?

This is dark and thought-provoking psychological suspense, eschewing the typical “he said, she said” structure to instead present an intense single-perspective dive deep into the core of a relationship whose truths have always been veiled. Here, there is only the “he said”: the book opens with Mike sitting in prison after he’s killed a man, reluctantly writing a detailed history of his relationship with V at the request of his barrister. What emerges from this account is a portrait of a relationship with an intricate power dynamic characterized by role playing, sexual exhibitionism, and a deeply rooted choreography of cues, codes, and signals developed between two lovers for communicating undetected by outsiders.

These signals were carefully orchestrated behavioral props for use in the Crave — a bit of performance engineered by V as a lark, mingling danger and violence in a sexually charged ritual in which the couple frequently indulged over the course of their relationship. The Crave always took place in a crowded public space, a nightclub or bar where V would allow a man to buy her a drink and encouraged flirtation while Mike watched from a distance, waiting for V’s signal. As soon as she tugged her silver eagle necklace, he would push through the crowd and angrily confront the man hitting on her, using his extraordinarily muscular body to threaten him until he left, emasculated, and Mike and V would celebrate their triumphant rush by having sex in the nightclub bathroom, V turned on by Mike’s violent potential: “I love seeing how scared they are of you.”

These are the moving parts of their relationship; V setting the stage, calling the shots, Mike watching intently, waiting for his cue to act, intimacy triggered by theatrical heroism and the threat of violence. And as for the men from whom Mike had to “rescue” V, well, both love and war have their share of collateral damage. “We had played enough times to know that the end moments often seem cruel; that for us to get what we want others have to get hurt. If we could have done it another way then no doubt we would have, but there was no other way; cruelty was a necessary part of our game.”

Four months after their split, during which time V rebuffed all of Mike’s attempts to communicate, he emails to tell her he is moving back to London, and she responds warmly, apologizing for her behavior during their breakup, hoping they can renew their friendship when he comes home, and telling him of her engagement to a man called Angus. Although initially stunned, Mike quickly understands that her blithe announcement is both a punishment and a challenge — an opportunity for him to make amends:

Her breezy tone was so far removed from the V whom I knew, that I wondered for a moment if she had been kidnapped and someone else was writing her e-mails, although the much more plausible explanations were that V was not herself, or that she was using her tone to send me a covert message. There were two options at play: Either she had lost her mind with the distress I had caused her at Christmas and jumped into the arms of the nearest fool, or she needed me to pay for what I’d done. This seemed by far the most likely; this was V after all and she would need me to witness my own remorse. It was as if the lines of her e-mail dissolved and behind them were her true words. This was a game, our favorite game. It was obvious that we were beginning a new, more intricate Crave.

V broke up with Mike in response to “the American incident,” an offense Mike committed while overseas, and as he parses out the subtext of what would appear to others to be a casual email, he sees she is offering him reconciliation. Only he knows her well enough to see the coded offer she is making — the chance to redeem himself in their most elaborate Crave yet; an apology in the form of a grand romantic gesture, to rescue V from Angus — just another unworthy man, the latest dupe in a series of dupes.

Is this too difficult a request to make of Mike, a man she has cold-shouldered for months after breaking his heart? (“‘If it’s easy it’s probably not worth having,’ V said to me once, and that made me smile.”) And is she, in fact, asking, or is Mike just seeing what he wants to see, believing that this whole separation has been a test of his resolve, that “V and I were never meant to be apart.” Is he responding to the rules of a game V’s stopped playing? (“‘Everything is a game,’ V used to tell me; ‘only stupid people forget that.’”)

The ambiguity is thick. On the one hand, this is a couple with a long history of using mind games as foreplay. On the other hand, the reader is limited to Mike’s point of view, which is demonstrably unreliable, through his own admissions. But just because we don’t see the messages he sees in V’s words and behaviors doesn’t mean they aren’t there, not in a couple as opaque to outsiders as they were, and as comfortable with manipulation. Hall bats the question back and forth in front of the reader the whole way through: Do we have one unreliable narrator or two? Is this the work of two sociopaths in love or the misinterpretations of one delusional man? Is this Crave or Cray?

Mike is certain of his truth: “I knew what she was doing, it was all fine.”

It’s an intensifying thriller, building momentum as it progresses, bringing Mike’s narrative closer to his crime, keeping the reader guessing as to V’s intentions and the level of her culpability. She may not have a direct voice here, but her power over Mike is clear in his account of their romantic history and his devotion to her, even now.

V is a woman with the kind of entitled confidence found in the young and beautiful who are well aware of their beauty and the power it grants, accustomed to having people bend to their whims. In her personal life, she is impulsive, sexually adventurous, and fond of provocation, using Mike to shock her conservative parents. Professionally, she’s a successful and well-respected figure in the field of artificial intelligence, conditioning machines to be more human, and the persuasive influence she wields at work bleeds into her her relationship with Mike. “It is true to say that the Crave always belonged to V,” and in fact, she controlled every aspect of their relationship. Their compatibility wasn’t a case of two people perfectly matched; it was the result of V shaping Mike into what she desired at the time, even referring to him as “Frankenstein’s monster.” And Mike, who grew up in a foster family after his alcoholic mother was deemed unfit, basked in her attention and gladly adapted to please her (“I like the sense of dedication that has gone into creating me”). Grateful to V for everything, he changed his routines (“V likes me to lift weights and start all my days with a run”), his body (“V sculpted me into what she jokingly called the perfect man and she wasn’t happy until every part of me was as defined as a road map”), as well as his habits, tastes, and manners. One could construct quite a profligate drinking game from the number of times the phrase “V taught me how to…” appears.

For his part, Mike is unusually malleable, a care home kid with anger issues and a history of poor impulse control and acting out in rage, whose own written account exposes periods of blackouts, struggles with social cues and interactions, and disproportionately aggressive responses to small frustrations. V choosing to love him was an unexpected honor; she gave him purpose, a home, and a sense of belonging he’d never had before. He stresses frequently that he and V stand apart from the rabble: “V and I are not like others.” Their love elevates them beyond ordinary expectations, and Mike relishes his role as V’s protector; the “them-against-us” aspect to their games. “‘We make a funny pair,’ she said to me once, ‘you with no parents, me with no siblings. There’s so little of us to go around. We have to keep a tight hold of each other to stop the other from floating away.’” And Mike is determined to hold on tight.

Even after their split, he remains in her thrall. Like a dog trained to fight, he responds to one master and he’s in the ring for her whether she’s still commanding him or not. Conditioned by the Crave to observe her down to her most unconscious gestures, even the phrasings he uses are suggestive of a canine presence: “I would wait, my eyes never leaving her, my body ready to pounce at all times.” He’s eager to please, dead loyal, and trained to obey V’s subtext and cues even when they don’t line up with the facade she’s presenting to the rest of the world, which sustains the uncertainty throughout, Mike “knowing” what V would want, even when he suspects she may have gotten lost in her own game.

Getting Gillian Flynn to blurb this is a perfect choice. In many ways, Hall’s is a similar take on Gone Girl’s toxic relationship theme; a lack of honest communication and an uneven power dynamic are contributing factors to the relationship’s struggles, with a special emphasis upon a man’s frustration with the inscrutability of a woman. There’s even a deliberate echo to Gone Girl in a scene where Mike reveals he loves to watch V sleep and fantasizes about uncoiling her brain, both to understand her and to direct her thoughts toward him. The attractive vulnerability of a sleeping woman, the impulse toward violence as a tool for understanding; it’s the refuge of an emasculated man in thrall to a woman who outmatches him.

Despite the nod, this is no Gone Girl rip-off, and it actually becomes a thoughtful response to Gone Girl and all of the subsequent authors of psychological suspense homesteading on Gillian Flynn’s land. There has been a glut of post-G.G. novels in which manipulative women mastermind intricate webs of deception, so much so that it has almost become a cliché of the genre. Hall upends the reader’s expectations by removing direct access to the female character, and whenever V appears to be innocent, doubt is automatically triggered in the reader by these ingrained genre presumptions about gender and power.

This all gets thrown for a loop in the third-act courtroom scene, where Gone Girl gives way to a modern-day The Scarlet Letter, and the truth, previously twisted through Mike’s flawed perspective, is now professionally twisted through a legal wringer and the scope of the story becomes larger than a domestic dispute, much more insidious and timely.

Of course this is a love story, but it is a love story built upon emotional extremes:

They say that hate is the closest emotion to love. And passion certainly exists in two forms. The passion of sex and the passion of arguments. For V and I one would merge into the other all the time. One second shouting, the next fucking. We needed each other in a way that sometimes made me feel like it wouldn’t be enough until we’d consumed each other. I read a story once about a Russian man who ate his lovers and I sort of understand why he did it. Imagine your lover actually traveling through your blood, feeding your muscles, informing your brain. Some would see that as the basest level of cruelty, others as an act of love. Ultimately, that is what it means to Crave.

Love, cruelty, passion, and lies, manipulated to serve the theatrics of court and Crave alike, where the truth looks different depending on what you have to protect, what you have to lose, and whether you’re getting paid. To reenlist Murdoch’s epigraph, “Sometimes one must simply respect its veiled face.”

¤

Karen Brissette is a voracious reader and the most popular reviewer on Goodreads.

The post Love, Cruelty, Passion, and Lies appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[recentanimenews]

Within the Land of Dreams: Exploring the Fascinating Worlds of 18if

Just what is 18if? Riding high off the success of Akiba’s Trip, Gonzo has returned this season with yet another video game adaptation. Based on the mobile puzzle game 18: Kimi to Tsunagaru Puzzle, 18if follows its mysterious protagonist Haruto Tsukishiro as he navigates the dreams of troubled teenage girls under the direction of the equally mysterious Lily and the counsel of professor Katsumi Kanzaki. What might have otherwise been a straight parody like their previous title has been transformed by its unique production into an arthouse series hearkening back to Gonzo’s oddball origins.

The main attraction of 18if is undoubtedly its structure. Fans of the unique production of Space Dandy may find a new favorite with 18if. Each episode treats us to a vignette featuring the mental landscape of a different teenage girl afflicted with sleeping beauty syndrome, a mysterious ailment that renders them comatose and trapped in a world of their own dreams. Haruto must navigate these environments to resolve their inner conflicts and break the spell preventing them from waking. This is where the hook comes in. What better way to portray so many deeply personal worlds built from individual imagination than by providing each dreamer with their own director? The individual approach of different creators ensures each episode provides a distinct visual and thematic style to the minds that Haruto explores.

Where Flip Flappers created distinct worlds every episode and Space Dandy gave different directors free reign, 18if indulges its audience with both. Not only has each episode taken place in vastly different spaces but the pacing and visuals have been immensely unique.

The Witch of Thunder, directed by Satoshi Toba (Ergo Proxy, Turn A Gundam) introduces us to the concept of dreamworlds by providing by far the most abstract environment, taking place in an Alice in Wonderland world with cartoonish creatures and unreal scene transitions, important details were brought into focus with an almost manga panel-like picture-in-picture. Yuko’s flight from the painful circumstances in the real world are highlighted by the distortion in the world of dreams and her retreat from rationality into a nonsense world driven by fulfilling simplistic urges.

Time Stopped at Age 12, directed by Kyosuke Suzuki (D.Gray-Man Hallow) revolves around a single room frozen in the traumatic moment that its resident has been unable to move beyond. The eerie atmosphere was set with a number of dutch angles while the red lighting and supernatural of its resident witch Mana established the burning edge of her hatred, with her victims taking on pathetic, disgusting forms like insects she summarily crushed. This episode spent a great deal of time on the characters eyes, with Haruto's take on an appearance similar to Mana's as he eventually concludes her actions are just.

The Witch of First Love, directed by Toshiro Fuji (Naruto Shippuden, Psycho-Pass 2) is my personal favorite despite occurring in a world almost indistinguishable from an ordinary Japanese suburb save for its complete absence of people. Where the characters interactions are entirely ordinary, our own perceptions as the audience are distorted, transitioning between the vibrant colors of Kayo’s memories to the lifeless palette of her twilight hours. We’re shown the same interactions from both characters perspectives to display the distance between the Haruto and Kayo, which she is desperately attempting to close. The scenes are brilliantly staged to show how different the same atmosphere can appear at different moments, together and alone.

While each episode leans heavily into its self-contained narrative, the overarching narrative is tantalizing on its own, revolving around the bizarre sleeping beauty affliction. Each victim has, in some way, rejected the reality of their waking life before falling into a stupor. Within their dreams these girls become witches, twisted versions of themselves who possess supernatural powers. There is undoubtedly some supernatural quality to the condition since the witches can not only exercise their powers within a Jungian shared dream space but even exert their influence over the real world, with one carrying a Freddy Krueger-like killing spree in which her sleeping victims die in the real world. Katsumi’s own daughter suffers from sleeping beauty syndrome and he believes Haruto possesses a unique power for being able to navigate the collective unconscious without the aid of his equipment.

Most fascinating, Haruto’s persona adapts to fulfill a needed role within the witches worlds. Whether by empathetic instinct or in response to the conceptual pull of his environments, Haruto has shown different faces to each witch, becoming the hero they need to rescue them from their strife. To Yuko he becomes the supportive friend she needed to weather the antagonism of bullies. To Kayo he became the romantic partner she desired to experience the love her fatal illness would deny her and the survivor to grieve after her passing. For Mana, Haruto even became a murderer, relishing the opportunity to share in the experience of making her victims suffer for ruining her life.

Haruto’s mercurial personality raises questions about his true nature. He appears, confused, in each domain before falling seamlessly into its narrative. His uncertainty if he is dreaming or awake, along with his failure to appear in the waking world begs the question if he is also trapped with the realm of dreams or, perhaps, is a dream himself. Katsumi describes a being of Lily’s description as an avatar of the dreamworld yet she refers to Haruto as “brother” and only he is capable of seeing her. Rather than take action, Lily directs Haruto to act on her behalf. They obviously share some sort of special connection which might imply that he is some sort of avatar given her nature as an anima of the dream world or, perhaps, they are one and the same.

Where many video game adaptations follow wrote storylines, it's immensely satisfying seeing Gonzo find such a unique way to portray its source material. Letting creators run wild may not always pay off financially but have resulted in some of the most fascinating anime ever produced. The fact that Gonzo could look to an adaptation to fit in such a perfect opportunity to create a playground for an arthouse project is such impressive and, after witnessing their celebration of fandom in Akiba’s Trip, makes me enthusiastic for what other ideas they may have for the future. In the meantime, I look forward to what new surprises each episode of 18if will have to offer.

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Peter Fobian is an Associate Features Editor for Crunchyroll and author of Monthly Mangaka Spotlight. You can follow him on Twitter @PeterFobian.

By: news+feed@crunchyroll.com