#this is so good that i said 'this is how you become plural' like halfway through | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

august-unhinged · 4 years ago

Text

Routine

Setting: modern day, unspecified Alpine university town Genre & tone: some kind of evil unhealthy romance-porn. Tone is light with dark undertones, and ditches the light halfway in. Themes: desperate approval-seeking, power imbalance, student/professor, established relationship Content: transmasc main character, m/m Kinks: servitude, rope bondage, forced orgasms, noncon, forced anal sex, praise and degradation, sadism/emotional sadism, masochism/emotional masochism, forced cheating Content warnings: Noncon. Painful sex. Unsafe kink practices. Power imbalance. Manipulative/abusive relationship. Trans person as the victim, cis men as the enactors of violence.

Word count is ~10k, there’s 3k words of setup. If you want to skip straight to the porn, scroll until you see the paragraph starting in bold.

Killian’s alarm rings every morning at seven. It rings, and he hates it with every fibre of his being for a moment before he comes to and realises where he is. It really is a blessing, he reminds himself every morning. Killian wakes up on a cramped campbed that ruins his posture, simultaneously cold and sweaty on the mornings when the mountain chill threatens at the window panes, and feels nothing but gratitude for his surroundings. The pale beauty of the alpine city sprawling below them is breathtaking, but it’s the house he’s in that really gives him pause. Because he wakes in Felix’s office. On a roll-out mattress behind the Professor’s desk. At the feet of his master, even unconscious.

He has this thought process in the time it takes for him to reach over and turn off his alarm. It used to take him ten minutes to snap out of the daze - but he quickly learned that Felix doesn’t tolerate daydreaming. Killian mutters the Lord’s Prayer as he pulls on his slippers; he’s grateful for rising another morning and for where he’s risen. He pads softly into the kitchen, floorboards becoming tile under his feet as he steps into the day’s routine.

Today is slightly different, though. Killian’s heart’s trilling in his chest, resistant to his efforts to not get his hopes up again. The past couple of months had been a litany of scattered anniversaries. There was the first time Killian had been to one of Felix’s parties, the first time Felix had read one of Killian’s papers (and said it was ‘fine’!), the first time they sat and smoked and got unreasonably high until dawn broke the clouds while Killian listened adoringly to Felix’s every word. None of these were tangible, though - hardly an accepted marker of the progression of a relationship, either. But a year ago today was when Felix casually handed Killian a key to his apartment alongside a vague explanation that it would just be easier for Killian to be able to come and go as he pleased, rather than having to interrupt Felix’s day whenever he needed something. It was an offhanded exchange that still made Killian’s heart flutter for weeks after. He is hyper-aware of the gift in his possession at all times. No matter where he keeps the key it seems to burn through layers of fabric, the cool metal branding his skin in a hopeless reminder that Killian belongs.

He sets the water to boil and sits at the counter to go through Felix’s diary. Chapter review at 11 - a pushback of a pushback, but Killian is still bracing himself for an early morning announcement that Felix has something far more important to do. Donors’ lunch at 1pm, where Killian will be ever-presently taking notes. And lectures in the afternoon. Killian always memorises Felix’s diary a week in advance but looking at it with the kettle quietly rumbling in the background always frames his day with a sense of purpose. He pencils in some notes under the donor’s lunch - names and how to remember them, jokes not to make so they’ll still give us lots of money - Felix can’t possibly be expected to remember it all. Killian puts the diary on the left of the breakfast tray so Felix can read it while he eats, fills a glass with orange juice so it won’t be too cold to drink by the time he brings it through. The kettle’s finished boiling and he fills the cafetière - a spoonful and a half of the good stuff, which sits on the shelf in front of Killian’s instant. He drops two slices of granary in the toaster and hunts for a knife.

Routine.

He thrives on it.

That being said, he’s changing it up a little today - as the coffee steeps, he steams the milk in an attempt to recreate something he saw in one of the local coffee shops Felix hates but Killian secretly enjoys. He’s in his own head, dancing to an imperceptible tune, trying to figure out how to pour it right to get the shape on top of the coffee-

And the toast pops up. Killian jumps, spilling the milk on the counter, the floor, and himself. ‘Fuck.’ The cup now contains nondescript beige liquid and a smattering of foam - it’s hopeless to begin to contemplate starting another, because Killian always times breakfast perfectly to-

Felix’s alarm starts ringing insistently, and with a heavy sigh Killian marmalades the toast, piles everything onto the tray slightly more haphazardly than usual, and brings it to Felix.

Killian misses when he could watch Felix at peace. By the time Felix is awake and Killian comes to greet him, the Professor’s face has already settled into the practiced disdain that morning brings him. ‘Morning,’ Killian calls as he opens the door with his elbow, doing his quick inhale-and-hold-it in case there’s a pretty twink in Felix’s bed.

There’s not. And breathe.

Killian sets the tray down on the bedside table and stays silent, waiting. Felix appraises the tray with a cool gaze.

‘Killian,’ he says, with enough leeway in his tone for Killian’s heart to begin pounding. ‘You know I take my first coffee of the morning black.’ He’s reproachful, less sympathetic and more pitying.

‘Quite right, Professor,’ come the automatic words as Killian picks up the cup and returns to the kitchen to start the whole tedious process again. Even tediousness has a special significance here, though. Everything Killian does, he does it for Felix.

Killian has felt even more in a daze than usual today. By the time he gets back to Felix’s place, he’s frustrated with himself. He made a fool out of himself in the chapter review, nodding along but not really listening, which became apparent after one particularly unforgiving stretch of silence where Killian was supposed to be talking. ‘We may as well leave it there, then,’ Felix had said, his tone final. They broke half an hour early.

Killian doesn’t want to go home. The simplicity of the phrase is enough to make him stop in his tracks halfway up the cobbled hill to the apartment. When did it become ‘home’? It technically isn’t - Killian still pays rent to a student-sized cardboard box twenty minutes from campus, where he returns in shifts to wash his clothes and pick up mail. But he hasn’t spent a night there since Felix gave him the key a year ago. It feels alien to sleep alone in his flat, surrounded neither by the familiar leather-and-papers scent of Felix’s office, nor the comforting knowledge that Professor is breathing quietly in the next room. The idea that he’s still sleeping in the old flat and that this was all a terrible fever dream wakes Killian up at least once a week. Killian shakes his head fiercely, as though to shake all unwanted thoughts out of his brain. He’s being ungrateful. If he’s reluctant to go to Felix’s because he’s made a tit of himself, well… he shouldn’t have made a tit of himself. He shrugs. Simple enough. Killian continues up the hill and ignores the part inside him that implores him to turn away.

It’s dark by the time Killian unlocks the door - on his walk there the streetlamps were just beginning to flicker on, breaking the dusky early-evening monotone. To his surprise, when he gets there, lights are on in the apartment. He had been expecting to be alone this evening. It’s useless to try and quash the hope that Felix has remembered, that he’s planned something, so Killian reluctantly allows himself to foster the damaging expectation that Felix would ever consider the relationship worth commemorating.

‘Hello?’ Killian calls towards the bedroom light, uncertain. The door opens and Felix steps out. He’s still in the suit he’d been wearing at work but his hair, usually tightly pushed back, is now falling in front of his face and his glasses are tucked into his jacket pocket. With the warm glow of the soft bedroom lighting behind him, filtering through the salt-and-pepper strands around his head and bringing out the warm hazel in his eyes, he looks divinely formed.

‘You’re back earlier than anticipated,’ Felix replies disapprovingly.

‘I could say the same about you,’ Killian says, attempting to be jovial. He drops his satchel by the door and bends to untie his laces.

‘I was hoping you’d spend the evening going over what we discussed earlier today.’ Killian worries at his lip.

‘I did this afternoon, Felix. It just took less time than I expected.’

‘Ah. Possibly because you spent our meeting daydreaming?’

Killian might be a silly romantic, but it gives him butterflies when Felix uses the first person plural when it’s just them in the room. It makes Killian feel like he’s a part of something worthwhile. Something bigger. ‘You’re doing it again.’

‘I’m sorry, Felix,’ Killian sighs. ‘I’m having an off day.’

‘Well, you won’t be able to afford that luxury in the future, Killian. So I suppose it’s best you have your “off days” now.’

This is Felix telling Killian he’s forgiven. He’s crossing to the kitchen now, busying himself with something Killian can’t figure out. There are cupboards that are functionally Killian’s to use, and Felix is inexplicably looking in them. ‘There’s marking on the desk, by the way. I need it before noon tomorrow.’ Killian grimaces internally.

‘Right - do you mind if I start later? I need to eat. Sorry.’ In the bustle of the donor’s lunch and the ever-present need for notetaking, he’d completely forgotten to eat and was now uncomfortably ravenous.

Felix tuts impatiently, as though at a slow child. ‘I’m cooking tonight, Killian. You have thirty-three papers to mark. Off you go.’

‘Oh. Right, okay. Yeah, I’ll just go and… do that.’ Killian hides the surprise in his voice as he answers but allows the confusion to stay on his face. It’s not that Felix can’t cook, it’s just that he has at least two meals out a week anyway, and it’s easier to delegate now Killian lives with him. Killian’s heart is fluttering again. He leaves the office door open a crack and crosses to the record player in the corner before he starts working on the papers. Well-practiced, he squats in front of the vinyl cabinet below the record player and slides out the fifth from the left - a jazz recording, one of Felix’s favourites. Reverently, he lifts the lid on the record player and sets the album A-side up, gently placing the needle onto the record’s outermost rim. The volume is already at the perfect setting for Felix to have it as background music, and Killian holds his breath.

No complaints from the kitchen.

For the first time that day, he allows himself to smile.

Dinner is gnocchi, brown butter, and sage. Killian scarfs it down, utterly and blissfully unaware of himself until the moment he drops his fork onto the plate and Felix clears his throat. For reference, Felix is less than a third of the way through his plate by this point. ‘Keeping your head firmly in the clouds is hungry work, I see,’ Felix gently mocks, and Killian laughs - breathy and embarrassing.

‘Hah, yeah, funny how that is, isn’t it,’ are all the words that tumble from his mouth before he reminds himself how to keep it shut. ‘How was your day?’

‘The lunch was frightfully tedious - it’s a constant source of horror to me that I must attend lunch after lunch to explain why the arts are worth funding ad nauseam. They’re trying to frame knowledge as a business, Killian, through the structures of client and customer and value for money - it’s reprehensible. To be frank, anyone who requires an explanation as to why the pursuit of knowledge is man’s only truly selfless act is not someone with whom I would engage anywhere other than a business lunch. Hopefully they won’t bother us for at least another year.’

Killian has been nodding furiously along the entire time - there’s just something about hearing Felix talk, in memorising every modulation in pitch and tone, that’s more relaxing to Killian than almost anything else in the world. ‘Write that down, by the way.’

‘About the pursuit of knowledge?’

‘That’s the one. Good boy.’ Felix always says these things so casually, like he doesn’t know what it does to Killian - namely, his mouth gets dry, his heart starts pounding, and a powerful ripple of heat shocks through his body. Felix is carrying on like he doesn’t know or care, though. He’s looking across at Killian’s notebook - full to bursting with Felix’s wit and opinions. ‘I am rather astute, aren’t I,’ Felix muses aloud - more to himself than Killian, really.

‘You really are, Professor,’ Killian murmurs, awestruck. He’s noting down what Felix has said in a half-daze.

‘Is that blue ink, Killian?’ Felix asks sharply, and Killian’s face contorts very briefly into a frown.

‘It is. I’m sorry, I can’t find my black pen for the life of me.’

‘Blue ink is for degenerates,’ Felix sighs, fixing Killian with a particularly withering look. But we are degenerates. Killian bites back the reply, hoping Felix can’t make out the defiance in his eyes. ‘You’d best carry on with your marking,’ Felix says pointedly, and Killian understands. He’s been dismissed.

By the time Killian emerges from the office it’s gone ten and his brain is exhausted. He’s done just under half the essays - more thoroughly than he needed to, probably - only relenting when his eyes started losing focus. Killian knows he’s tired when it takes him five minutes to piece together one sentence from the sea of quoted Greek and tiny little numbers, and is grateful that he’s forced himself to stop. As he stands to head through to the kitchen, he’s faintly aware of his head spinning, of every bone in his body grumbling. But beneath that, there’s an uncomfortable tension - a pulling together of muscles, a rush of connection at each synapse. His mind might be tired, but his body is very much awake.

He lets his breath out in an angry little huff and decides to have a bath, hoping to soak out of his skin any intention of not falling straight to sleep. The coldness of the kitchen tile radiates through his socks, grounding him to the present despite the discomfort as he gets ready to soak. Pre-bath rituals complete with some green tea now steeping in his favourite mug, he heads to the bathroom. There’s a window by the bath that overlooks the capital, high up enough that Killian can bathe without accidentally causing indecent exposure. He loves looking down at the city while wrapped in silky bathwater, dreaming about the thousands of lives bustling in the streets below.

Killian’s so wrapped up in himself, taking his time getting the water temperature right before putting the plug in, finding his favourite lavender bubble bath, that he doesn’t notice Felix’s presence until the Professor knocks on the bathroom door. Killian nearly jumps out of his skin, dropping the lavender bottle in the bath in the process. ‘Oh, shit.’ He laments.

‘...Are you quite alright in there?’

‘Yeah,’ Killian responds as he hurries to unlock the door, wiping wet hands on his shirt. He turns away from Felix once the Professor’s been let in, immediately dropping to the floor to mop up the splashed water with the bath mat.‘Yeah, I was just gonna grab a bath, then I dropped the bottle in and the lid’s still on but the water went everywhere, so right now I just need to-‘

‘You’ve been very clumsy today, haven’t you, Killian?’ Felix interrupts. It’s not really a question. Killian’s frantic movements slow, stutter, then halt entirely. He knows the tone and he nods, still kneeling, eyes on the slowly filling bath. ‘First the coffee, now this.’ Killian holds his breath as Felix sits on the edge of the bath and - after a moment that feels eternal - tangles his hand in Killian’s hair. Felix’s hand settles there, fingers pressing comfortingly against Killian’s scalp, and he can’t help but whine and lean into the touch. ‘What are we going to do with you?’ Felix murmurs. Again, not really a question. Felix already knows exactly what he’s going to do. He just knows how to tease Killian, press his buttons, work him up with anticipation. ‘Shower, and then join me in bed.’ Felix decides. Killian can’t help but find the affectionate tone under the imperative (or at least, he believes it’s there, and that makes it true enough for him). ‘I have a surprise for you. Tonight is a special occasion, after all.’ Felix gives Killian’s hair a short, sharp tug - a nonverbal reminder to hurry up - and leaves.

Killian whines helplessly again, all thumbs as he reaches into the bath to drain the water, heart thudding exponentially faster while he contemplates what Felix could possibly have for him. He can’t help but ponder the implication - that Felix has remembered, that he wants to show Killian he cares. His knees weaken under him. Absolutely pathetic, he chastises himself. For the next ten minutes, he concentrates on meticulously cleaning himself. He wants to make himself as perfect as possible, a blank canvas for Felix to ruin as he pleases. An involuntary shiver ripples through his body. He loves knowing that Felix has been planning something. That he’s been sitting contemplating new ways to get inside Killian’s mind, under his skin, and touch the raw nerves that he finds there until Killian is almost driven mad with it. The fact that Killian is important enough for Felix to even spend time considering this… surprise, whatever it is, is perhaps the greatest gift of all.

Killian shuts the water off. The sudden silence makes him hyper-aware of his short, trembling breaths. He reaches towards the bathroom cabinet where he had carefully laid his cross after taking it off, but his hand falters. He’s aware of how ridiculous this sounds - how ridiculous Felix would find it - but he wants whatever’s going to happen to be between Felix and himself only. There’s some things that he’s allowed to keep secret, he thinks.

Wrapping himself in a fluffy towel, Killian steals softly across the kitchen floor to Felix’s bedroom. Light spills under the door, which is open ajar - but Killian still feels the need to knock. The space he and Felix share may well be as much his as Felix’s, but the Professor’s bedroom still feels strangely off-limits. Killian doesn’t go in alone. And even when Felix is in there, permission is required to enter.

‘Come in and close the door behind you,’ Killian hears from beyond the door, and follows suit immediately. It’s only once he’s heard the click of the door closing and they’re fully alone together that he looks over at the bed. Felix sits on top of the covers, reading. He puts the book down, takes his glasses off, and appraises Killian slowly. There are two items to his right; a familiar length of black rope, and an unfamiliar box - also black, understated and nondescript. Killian waits for Felix’s permission to sit, which is granted by a wave of the hand. He sits on the opposite corner of the bed to Felix, legs tucked under himself, determined not to wither under Felix’s gaze. ‘Well?’ Felix prompts. Killian is tongue-tied, and can only look helplessly at his Professor as his face reddens - embarrassed at not figuring out what Felix wanted quickly enough. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Felix asks softly, and the tension in Killian’s chest dissipates into something manageable.

‘Y-yes, of course. Sorry,’ he mumbles, inching closer to what he can now be sure is the surprise. He’s slightly taken aback by the weight of the box as he picks it up, and his breath catches in his throat as he lifts the lid to reveal its cargo.

It’s a wand. The head is soft black silicone, perfectly smooth and about the size of Killian’s fist - the body tapers down into a dial and cordless end. The light below the dial is green; it’s fully charged. Killian tries to swallow but his mouth is suddenly dry. He settles instead for an audibly shaky intake of breath before he looks up at Felix.

The smirk on Felix’s face is maddeningly attractive, the upturn of his lip a promise that he knows exactly what to do with Killian’s new toy. ‘Thank you,’ Killian breathes.

‘You haven’t even begun to thank me,’ Felix responds, quick as ever - Killian wishes he had his notebook, because that one was good. He feels heat melting in his abdomen, a dangerous current pulling down at the simultaneous promise-threat. ‘Tell me, have you ever used one of these before?’ Killian shakes his head silently, still in awe. It’s true that he’s never even touched a wand before, but Killian had seen one used on someone else - the unforgiving hardness pressed against writhing and desperate flesh. A flush delicately creeps his way up his neck and across the tips of his ears. ‘It seems as though you know what to expect, though,’ Felix continues, tone low and dangerous. ‘I was going to allow you to feel it on your hand first, but now I see no reason to delay ourselves any further.’

‘I-I think that’s wise, Professor,’ Killian stammers, so desperate to ingratiate himself to the man who now holds the instrument of Killian’s pleasure-torture.

‘Oh, you think it’s wise, do you?’ There it is - the low growl, almost imperceptible, giving away Felix’s quiet affront. ‘Come here, boy.’

Killian crawls across the bed and, when he’s close enough, resists the urge to fall to his knees at Felix’s feet in supplication. It’s wise to start begging for mercy now, while he still has most of his faculties. Felix cuts his train of thought short as he twists his hand into Killian’s hair, tugging sharply to lift Killian’s head. ‘I don’t need to know what you think, Killian. That’s not what I have you here for.’ The slap round the face Killian gets for his actions is almost gentle - there’s a stolen moment of a caress that Felix gives Killian’s cheek after his hand has made contact with it.

‘Yes, Professor.’ Felix pushes him away and instead reaches for the rope. There’s a moment of untethered panic Killian feels in his chest at the loss of contact which takes most of his energy to quell.

‘Take that towel off,’ Felix orders offhandedly. On shaky legs, Killian stands, and lets the towel fall on the carpet below. Out of the corner of his eye, Felix watches. The soft curve of Killian’s thighs is only magnified by the gentle dusting of hair along the contours of his body. There’s some that gathers on his chest, an expanse of pale skin disrupted by two pink scars. The surrounding skin there is so sensitive - Felix can drive Killian mad by just tracing his fingers up and down the incisions. Felix looks away as Killian moves to get back on the bed. ‘Don’t leave it on the floor,’ he says in a practiced exasperated tone. Killian bends to pick it up and Felix allows himself a rare smile of appreciation. The boy’s skin is still slightly damp from the shower - the way the light catches the beads of water is rather appealing. Felix has finished unraveling the rope by now. Killian sits cross-legged on the bed, awaiting direction. ‘Come here,’ Felix says softly, and Killian crawls towards him, presenting his wrists to be tied. He knows the score and order of things by now; Felix is nothing if not methodical.

But tonight, as Killian should have guessed, is different. Felix frowns. ‘No, turn around. Hands behind your back.’ Killian does so, and feels Felix tug at his hands, pulling his arms into an uncomfortable shape for a moment. He winces just as Felix lets go, and the relief from the discomfort makes the throbbing he feels between his legs whenever Felix touches him all the sweeter. ‘Put them together.’

‘What?’

‘Palms together. Like you’re praying.’

Killian struggles for a moment - Felix’s hands are gripped just above each of his elbows, holding his upper arms firmly in place as the young man flounders in his grip. He can sense the Professor becoming more impatient with each passing second he fails to do what is asked of him, and just as he hears the click of Felix’s tongue preparing to tut, his fingertips press together in a prayer-like pose. His little fingers jut uncomfortably between the base of his shoulder blades, and he gasps out when Felix removes his hands from his upper arms and forces his palms together.

‘There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’

Killian is trying to summon the will to say that it was, actually, and if this is meant to be fun he has several complaints, when he feels the rope around his wrists. Ah, shit. He tries to see the bright side; at least he can relax his muscles a little when Felix is done. Felix is tying him meticulously, spending much longer than usual, and Killian bites his lip whenever he feels the rope tug tightly against his skin. Felix announces that he has finished the tie by pushing Killian face-down onto the bed. It takes Killian aback somewhat, and he is about to move reflexively when he feels Felix’s hand on the small of his back. The discomfort from the rope is still there, but the longer he lies there with his arms aching, the more the pain is accompanied by another sensation under his skin. Deeper, in his belly and between his legs, and warmer, the heat in him building steadily. Felix gives Killian’s arm a tug, and the rope bites deliciously when he does. Killian cries out softly.

‘Oh, bless.’

Felix’s voice is dripping with condescension. Two of his fingers trace up Killian’s thigh and begin to rub his t-dick lazily. Killian whines, pushing his hips back against Felix’s fingers. He can feel himself throbbing and hard under Felix’s touch already. When they’re out together, Felix need only brush his hand against the small of Killian’s back a handful of times before he’s desperate for him; Killian has felt this need since Felix told him to come to bed. He’s just been waiting for Felix’s sign that he ought to express it. So conditioned, like a good pet ought to be. Felix hums in approval when he sees the wetness dripping down towards Killian’s cock, where the Professor’s fingers still circle tightly.

‘This is why I can never get rid of you, darling boy. It would simply be too much effort to train someone else as thoroughly as I’ve trained you.’ Killian moans at that; a deep sound barely muffled by the pillow, and he feels another gush of wetness between his legs as his pussy flutters and tightens. ‘Oh dear. I do underestimate the effect that statements like that have on you, don’t I, dearest?’

Killian writhes, incoherent mumbles dropping from his mouth at the terms of endearment Felix is lavishing on him. The writhing sends pain shooting from his arms, still tightly bound behind him, but Killian relaxes into the discomfort. ‘I think you’re ready now,’ Felix murmurs, and Killian feels something pressing against his dick, soft but unyielding, curved, and his brain is still processing this new information when Felix turns it on.

The wand is soft at first, but the vibrations go deep, shaking Killian’s core as he eagerly pushes back against the instrument, grinding his pussy happily against the wand’s head. He feels the hand Felix had been touching him with on the back of his thigh, wiping it clean before settling it on the small of his back again.

‘Good boy,’ Felix mutters, and Killian tries to turn to look at him but finds the weight of his own shoulder keeping his face in the pillows. He has a sense of something - Felix’s voice, just for a moment, has dropped from the cadence and tone he uses to praise and into something else, something more calculating. But just as Killian begins to consider this train of thought, there is a click - and then two - as Felix turns the wand up and up again, and Killian bites down against the pillow as moans shudder through his body. The best way he can describe the wand’s sensation is insistent - it ripples through him continuously, and though Felix is shifting it around every so often there is not one moment where the feeling is dampened, not one second of respite from the feedback loop being created between Killian’s legs. Killian has stopped grinding against it because he doesn’t need to, but his hips have started stuttering of their own accord, jumping every so often and snapping back down against the toy.

He is dripping, the wetness collecting in a small pool between his knees on the duvet and serving to make the wand glide against him more easily. Felix has stopped moving it and is just holding it there, right underneath the head of his dick, so that with every involuntary movement of Killian’s body he is pressing the most sensitive part of himself against it. This causes him to flinch, which causes his arms to pull away from one another, which causes the ropes to dig harder into his skin, which causes Killian to whimper and his dick to throb, which means for a moment the wand is that much stronger against him.

‘You’re in quite the predicament, aren’t you. I’m amazed you haven’t come yet, dear.’

Twisting his head as far as he can, Killian grits out: ‘you haven’t - given me permission - Professor.’ The thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. He has learned control of his body, an extension of Felix’s command over him, and it comes so naturally to him now it is difficult to even consider breaking out of it.

‘Oh, of course. Such a good little thing, aren’t you? Go on, why don’t you come for me.’ Felix says it so offhandedly as he turns the toy’s intensity up once more, and Killian keens loudly. Just the act of receiving permission changes so much in an instant; he had been fighting, and now he relaxes into the way the vibrations rumble through him. Felix wants this, he thinks to himself. Felix wants me to make a mess of myself like the stupid little toy I am. He moans loudly, and Felix’s hand lifts from Killian’s back and twists into his hair. ‘I’m thinking of doing this to you more often, you know,’ the Professor mutters, and the feeling of his soft breath against Killian’s ear has his hips desperately grinding down against the toy again. ‘You’re so needy, it’d be far easier for me to force an orgasm out of you every so often to keep you at bay. So you can focus on your true purpose.’

Killian feels tears of gratitude gather at the corners of his eyes. The sensation is building in him now - he can feel it deep inside him, the desperate contracting of his pussy as more of his slick floods out of it, the sliding and shifting of his cock against the strong vibrations of the machine pressed unyielding against him. ‘That’s right,’ Felix coos, petting the back of Killian’s hair. ‘Really savour this one, darling. I understand the more of them I force you to have, the more unpleasant it is for you.’

With a surprised, choked gasp, Killian comes, his legs closing around the toy and frantically pushing it up against himself as his dick throbs and pulses. His pussy tightens, desperate for something to fill it as the orgasm rips through him. He is moaning into the pillow, thrusting down until his cock becomes too sensitive to bear it, at which point there is a groan followed by a long silence, and then higher, whimpering cries until Felix shuts the toy off.

He leaves it where it is pressed against Killian’s cock, though. As he slowly returns to Earth, Killian notes the burn in his shoulder muscles, waiting to feel Felix’s cool hands on the knots, to slowly untie him. But in his post-orgasmic state, Killian is completely pliant and does not struggle, let alone immediately process it, when Felix starts to wrap rope around his ankles. After several seconds utterly silent, Killian twists his head and asks, ‘what you doin’?’

Felix slaps the top of his thigh enough to sting. ‘What are you doing, Professor.’

‘S-sorry, Professor… what are you doing, Professor? What’d you mean about, uh… about forcing me to have… to have more…’

‘Well, it is a special occasion.’ Killian’s heart blooms in his chest. ‘I wanted you to have something to occupy you while I’m gone.’

The tie between Killian’s ankles is finished with a sharp tug, and the Professor moves onto something on his thighs. But Killian’s mind is singularly focused now, his heart floundering against his ribs, his face creased in a deep frown as he tries to figure out what the Professor could mean.

‘While… you’re gone, Professor?’

‘It’s my daughter’s birthday.’ Felix replies simply, before gripping Killian’s shoulder to turn him over, one hand holding the unfinished tie in place as he does so. Killian’s eyes blearily focus on Felix, whose attention is solely on the rope. Killian shakes his head.

‘N-no, it would’ve been in your diary… I would’ve seen…’

The Professor looks up at him at that.

‘That diary is for my work engagements, and personal engagements that happen to overlap with my academic ones. I only tell you what I need you to know, Killian, and I’m sure you’ll understand that I don’t need the assistance of a postgraduate barely out of his Master’s to remember my child’s birthday.’ Felix’s gaze is cool as he looks at Killian. Calm. He’s just stating facts, Killian reassures himself. This is what he’s like. Tears, again, at his eyes, but hotter this time. He can feel his face burning. Felix looks back down.

‘Her mother took her to dinner this year, but Yvette’s invited me to join her and her husband for drinks, hence the late hour. I’ve got no morning tutorials tomorrow; I doubt there would be any harm done.’ Killian nods. Felix didn’t have to volunteer that information, and it would have been no right of Killian’s to ask, but he wanted Killian to know. Felix is so thoughtful, even at times like this. But still…

‘Perhaps I could- you might need- in case you say anything noteworthy-’

Felix chuckles to himself. Killian hates when he does that. Like he’s too stupid to even be in on the joke. But there’s a reason, he reminds himself, always a reason.

‘You think my daughter would appreciate my turning up to her birthday celebrations with my pet whore?’

Killian lets out one shameful sob as his hips jump under Felix’s hands. Felix tuts. ‘Be still, boy. You’re meant to enjoy this.’

Killian cranes his neck up to see what Felix is actually doing. The tie is nearly finished; the toy is now held firmly against Killian’s cock by his own legs, pulled up to sit flush against him by ties that sit above his hips. He is trapped. ‘Felix, what-’

‘I had a look at those papers you marked before I came in to see you. The last handful are sloppy, Killian, and I couldn’t have you trying to mark any more when you’re clearly exhausted and in need of… something.’ Felix’s gaze drops pointedly to the wet spot on the duvet. ‘This will keep you busy, stop you from moping while I’m out and, most importantly, keep you from attempting to finish off the rest of those papers even more pitifully than before. Also,’ and it is at this point that Felix leans over him, and Killian can see how hard he is, his cock straining against his suit trousers, ‘I rather like the idea of you tied up like this, waiting for me to come home.’ He flicks the toy on again, and Killian whimpers.

‘But Felix-’ the older man gives him a sharp look, and Killian corrects himself, ‘Professor, won’t I be… what if it’s too much?’

‘It will run out of battery,’ the Professor responds airily, ‘eventually.’ He pulls at Killian’s shoulder again until the boy is laid on his side, and turns the toy up higher until Killian is gasping for breath, his sensitive cock pulsing already with the onslaught of sensation. Killian feels his muscles throb again as the Professor releases his grip on Killian’s shoulder. ‘Remember to keep wiggling your fingers, dear. I did make that quite tight.’

Killian opens his mouth to thank the Professor for his advice, thank him for going out of his way to do all this to save Killian from himself, to tell him to enjoy his night, but is cut off by the sound of a ringing phone from Felix’s jacket. Felix waves an impatient hand at Killian, having sensed he was going to speak, and picks it up.

‘Hello? Yes, darling, I’m almost there… traffic’s bloody awful, I’m afraid. Taxi driver’s absolutely not helping. He’s not getting a tip.’ He shares a laugh, Killian presumes, with his daughter, and he’d be pleased to see him so happy if it weren’t for the insistent buzzing between his legs, the pressure building before Felix has even left. Felix hangs up. ‘What was it you were going to say?’ Killian swallows.

‘How old is she?’

‘Yvette? She’s twenty-seven today, not that it’s any of your business.’

‘Of course, Professor. I’m sorry.’

Felix sighs.

‘You are pitiful, Killian.’ He turns the wand up one last time and goes to leave. ‘Have fun.’

Killian drops his head to the bed and starts to moan and shudder, relaxing once again into the sensation, trying to ignore the weight in his chest and the anxiety clawing at his stomach and the restless ache in his bound arms. Stopping in the door, Felix takes one look back at him, pale skin turned red and purple between the black ropes, body shifting and rippling under the onslaught, sighs, and turns off the light.

The bedroom door clicks shut, then the front door, the locks fall into place, and Killian is left alone with only the weak light of the toy between his legs to illuminate him.

He sobs his way through his next orgasm, which turns to screams as the toy doesn’t stop, the intensity felt so much more keenly in his tragic and post-orgasmic state. The boy has the decency to bite the pillow under his head as the toy rips them out of him, again and again, and all he can think of is Felix, and what the lesson here may be, and the fact that he’s four years younger than his daughter, that Felix is easily old enough to be his father, but that Felix has never remembered his birthday. When he thinks of this he comes hard and angry, tearing at the pillow with his teeth, and growling and sobbing until - mercifully - the fucking thing dies.

Killian cannot count the orgasms forced from him, but he can feel the number in his pelvic muscles, aching from the shuddering desperate motions he’d been making for hours. His arms and shoulders burn but he has run out of tears, so he sobs dry and resigned into the pillow until he falls into some kind of sleep.

The sleep is not restful; Killian only gets a few minutes at a time, sometimes half an hour, before he shifts unconsciously and sends a pain searing down his spine or his arms. Whenever he wakes, he tries to remember to wiggle his fingers. They’re tingly. He has just dropped off again when he’s woken by keys jingling, and his eyes light up. Felix is home. He hears footsteps crossing the threshold, but they’re heavy, heavier than Felix’s. Christ, he thinks, Felix has brought some musclebound twunk home. Killian lets out a sigh, waiting for the telltale click of Felix’s footsteps. The light clicks on, the front door closes. Still only one set of footsteps in the house, and if he strains his neck, Killian can make out a shadow under the door. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he turns to bite the pillow again to stay as silent as possible. Whimpers of fear are already rising in him, his sleep-deprived mind dragging forward nightmare scenarios to play with the panic.

The footsteps are getting closer. He screws his eyes shut. Tries to will himself out of existence. The door handle turns, and the door swings open. Orange bursts in front of his eyelids as the light switch clicks on, and Killian hears a sharp inhale and a long exhale. Hyperventilating, he scrambles to look; at some point in the night he fell forwards, and he struggles around on the bed to flip over and see this intruder. His thrashing around is useless, and soon he feels broad, warm hands lifting him onto his back. Killian squints up against the bright light, and is shocked to see that he… recognises this man. The man is physically imposing, tall and wide, with the weathered-muscle shoulders of someone past their physical prime but so set in himself that the structures of strength remain, stubborn against the greying stubble on the man’s jaw and the soft curve of his belly. His eyes are dark and glint down at Killian with menace, with glee.

It takes him a second to place, but no, this is-

‘Josef…’ Killian says. The bouncer at the fancy bar downtown where Felix tends to host his… parties. He turns a blind eye to a lot, provided Felix tips him generously at the end of each semester. ‘What are you doing in m- in Felix’s house? Why do you have the keys?’ His mind already begins to run through the infinite horrible possibilities - that the security guard, tired of his job, maybe, had snapped, assaulted Felix and had come here to find what valuables he could before fleeing the country. Maybe he was here to kidnap Killian. Maybe-

‘Felix sends his apologies,’ the man laughs, grinning down at Killian’s bound and aching body. ‘He was just about to head back to you when this kid walked in - exactly his type. Like you, y’know, but… kinda skinnier.’ He tilts his head. ‘Less tired-looking. Had to ID him and all. Anyway, the prof was fretting about you being here, all…’ he gestures to Killian’s predicament. ‘So I told him I’d come back here and take care of you. As a favour. He was very grateful.’ He smiles. Killian feels sick, and tries to concentrate on what Josef said - that Felix was worried about him. It warms his heart a little. But Josef still hasn’t taken his hands off him.

‘I refuse to believe he allowed this,’ Killian stammers, trying indignantly to struggle out of Josef’s grip. ‘He told me he’d be back. He told me he was coming home.’

‘Well, he told me to take his keys and get you out of this. Just in time, too. You’re looking pretty rough back there.’ Now that he mentions it, Killian has to admit that his arms are fucking killing him. Josef reaches into a drawer in the side table, and Killian thinks of protesting before he sees a familiar flash of silver. ‘Right where he said they’d be,’ he says to Killian, holding the safety scissors aloft. ‘Now do you believe me?’ Killian wavers still. ‘Look, you can say no if you want, but Felix looked pretty determined to fuck that guy.’

Killian imagines what this boy looks like. If he knows Felix, Killian doubts he’s over twenty. Probably exactly like him, a fresher wandering about and exploring, waiting for someone to take pity. His lip curls into a small sneer. Not exactly like him, though. Because Felix had said he was indispensable. That he could never get rid of him. He turns to Josef.

‘Then cut me free, please.’

Josef obliges, flipping Killian back over and making short work of the intricate ties binding Killian’s arms together. He hisses in pain as the movement and feeling return to his forearms, his wrists, his fingers, and he allows them to fall uselessly to his sides. Josef then turns his attention to the rope around Killian’s hips and between his legs, and pulls the toy out from between Killian’s thighs. Killian winces when he pulls it away, the head of his cock still so sensitive, the wand making a soft sound as it is pulled from the wetness between Killian’s legs. Last to go are the ties on his ankles. Killian shifts, intending to move, before noticing that Josef is still straddling him at the knees. The man’s body weight shifts up until he is astride Killian’s ass. Had he missed some rope? Killian flexes his arms; no, nothing still wrapped around him, no reason for him to…

He feels a rough hand caress his back. ‘It’s so close to the end of the semester, right… Felix said he thought I should take my own bonus tonight.’ Killian’s blood runs cold.

‘H…’ the sound dies on his tongue, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘He wouldn’t.’

‘But he did, darlin’.’ Killian feels something pressing against the crack of his ass, clad in jeans, rough against his soft skin. ‘Now, listen, I’ve helped you out here. Think I deserve a little something in return.’

Christ, Killian thinks, and his mind jumps to his cross - still where he left it on the bathroom shelf. He is alone in this place. And so he tries, really tries, to fight. But he’s so tired. He’s had less than an hour of sleep, his arms are useless, all pins and needles when he tries to force them to move, and he aches between his legs. He tries to kick Josef, bringing his heels up to catch the man in the back, but the bouncer catches his foot easily and twists it as Killian yelps.

‘Yeah, I thought so… see, I was thinkin’ about not lettin’ you out first first, then I took one look at you and knew, even untied, you’d be too weak to stop it from happening.’

Killian hears the sick metallic crunch of a zipper. Josef moves back between his legs, one strong hand on each of Killian’s thighs. And Killian feels himself leaning into the touch. Felix so rarely touches him like this. His hands always feel so dispassionate, but Josef’s…

No. No, this is wrong; Felix can’t have meant for Josef to do this. They’ve never talked about it. Killian shakes his head. ‘Stop.’ He mumbles.

Josef pushes his legs apart. Killian tenses in fear at the sensation of the fat head of Josef’s cock rubbing against his hole. ‘What’s that?’

‘Stop it.’

‘Ah, you’re all wet still… gotta thank Felix for gettin’ you ready like that. I can just slide right in.’

He does, and Killian lets out a choked cry. ‘Stop it,’ he tries to insist, wriggling pitifully, but the movement just makes Josef groan as he fills Killian’s pussy with his thick cock, forcing the boy’s legs apart farther to gaze down at the way the boy’s hole is swallowing him.

‘You know, fr’a boy who’s tryna tell me you don’t want it, you’re taking my cock awful well,’ he sneers, and Killian winces as the zipper brushes his cock with every thrust the man makes inside of him, but he doesn’t reply.

‘Aw, silent treatment, is it? Tha’s alright. Don’t need you to talk. Just need you to keep your legs open.’ His thrusts are rough and hard, and Killian’s body shifts and rocks with every movement. Killian’s head is turned to one side. He imagines it’s Felix fucking him like this. But Felix’s touches are so different; his hands are cool, smaller than Josef’s, and he rarely holds Killian down like Josef is. He’s usually pinching, scratching, slapping, pulling Killian’s hair; a constant onslaught of attack, physical and often verbal, always designed to make Killian arch his back in a more pleasing way, or take him deeper, or moan differently.

‘Felix…’ Killian whispers, eyes closed, pretending.

‘No,’ says Josef as he rolls his hips hard against the boy beneath him. ‘Don’t do that,’ he says between breaths. ‘Impolite.’ One of his hands moves from its place on Killian’s thigh, round to his front, groping and feeling for his dick. Killian tries to remain impassive, but can’t hide the way he jumps, gripping Josef’s cock tighter as his thumb presses down against the sensitive flesh. ‘You’re here.’ Josef mutters. He starts rubbing Killian’s cock in time with his thrusts. ‘Right here. With me.’ The man’s insistent toying with his cock combined with the rough thrusts into him begins to drag small moans and whimpers out of Killian. He whines helplessly every time Josef bottoms out inside him, a pathetic little mewl that he hates to admit sounds, ever so slightly, like he is enjoying this.

‘Yeah, fuck,’ Josef murmurs, and Killian thinks he’s talking to himself at first. ‘Said you’d be like this. Said it wouldn’t take you- long- to warm up to me.’

‘No he didn’t,’ Killian insists desperately, but Josef’s cock fills him so deeply for a moment that his last word is drawn into a whine. Josef laughs again. His laugh is crackly, a smoker’s chuckle, a laugh that Killian had come to appreciate over time. Not now, though. Not any more.

‘Yeah, he did. Talks to me ‘bout you. Tells me you’re a whore.’ Killian feels Josef’s elbow at the top of his spine as the man puts more of his weight onto him, leaving himself freer to thrust up harder into him. Every inch of the man’s dick ebbs and fuels the ache in Killian’s pussy at once, and his eyes squeeze shut as the man’s nicotine-laced breath tickles his earlobe. ‘Said he’s been thinkin’- ‘bout doing this - fr’a while. Whorin’ you out. Teachin’ you your place.’

Killian’s pussy spasms around Josef’s cock.

‘Like fucking clockwork.’

That’s what makes Killian lose it. How dare he? How dare he have the audacity to say these things, to assume he knows Killian, knows him like Felix does? He twists and wriggles, and the burst of adrenaline combined with the surprise of it allows him to struggle off Josef’s cock and up the bed slightly. There is a silence from behind him, before Josef grabs his hair and pulls his head upwards. Killian yelps in fear. Jesus, did he really think this would be enough?

‘Oh, you stupid bitch.’ Josef throws him back down on the bed, hard enough to make the frame shudder. Breathing heavily, he pushes Killian’s legs further apart.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Killian stammers.

‘Shut it. Need an incentive to keep still? I’ll give you a fucking incentive.’ Josef positions his cock, still dripping with Killian’s wetness, at Killian’s asshole. ‘Whore. Felix said you didn’t have it in you to fight. That you’d agree to it soon as I told you he allowed it. Didn’t say anything about having to teach you a fucking lesson.’

Killian begins to shake his head frantically. It’s rare that Felix fucks his ass, and Killian secretly relishes it because it’s one of the only times Felix really is careful with him. ‘Please don’t. It won’t go in. It won’t, I’m not ready, I don’t know where the lube is.’

‘Keep your fucking mouth shut, boy,’ Josef says, twisting his hand in Killian’s hair tighter as he grunts and pushes the slick head of his cock against Killian’s ass again. He’s pushing and pushing, and Killian is still, breathing fast like a frightened animal. Josef has his elbow screwed against Killian’s spine. There is no escaping it. He just has to wait until Josef realises he can’t fuck him like this. But Josef is still pushing, holding his cock with his free hand, forcing and forcing against the first tight ring of muscle until-

Killian howls in pain. He feels something give, and Josef’s cock, thick enough to have made his pussy feel stretched, sore, bruised, slides into his ass. Josef shoves Killian’s face down into the pillow, forearm on the back of his neck as Killian screams and sobs at the feeling, so alien, tearing through him. His arms are still weak but they are flailing in an attempt to grip onto anything as some kind of tether. He finds the bedpost and grips for dear life. Josef settles himself inside Killian and just as the pain starts to ebb away, Josef begins to move.

It does not feel like Killian remembered it. Josef is so big, and the slow burn of the stretch and endorphins from the pain are morphing into some kind of pleasurable haze, with the punctuation of a loud, low groan from the man on top of him. Josef lets himself fall onto Killian, keeping him still through the weight of muscle and flesh alone, as his cock pumps in and out of him. His stubble scratches Killian’s back. Killian is somewhat aware that he is still crying.

‘Shh, don’t cry,’ Josef mutters, and Killian lets out a moan-whimper at the sensation of Josef’s cock filling and stretching him completely once again. ‘Fuck, so tight. So good. See, you are good, aren’t you. You know how to be good.’

‘Mm-hmm,’ Killian whines.

‘Felix knows what’s best for you, see,’ Josef mutters, and Killian can smell the whiskey on his breath now he’s so close. ‘Wouldn’t’ve sent me here if he din’t know there was somethin’ I could give you.’

His hand slides beneath Killian’s body again, and Killian allows it.

‘Yeah, tha’s it. G’na make you come, baby boy,’ and Killian cringes at the pet name even as his cock twitches under Josef’s fingers. ‘G’na make you come before I fill you up.’

Panic sets in again.

‘Please don’t come in me,’ Killian whispers, ‘please, Felix will be angry.’

‘Shh, shh,’ Josef mutters. He is moving slower than when he was fucking Killian’s pussy, but there’s more weight behind his thrusts, and Killian feels each one ripple through him. There is some deep satisfaction in the way Josef’s cock stretches him open. Killian thinks about how he will look in the morning, hole puffy and abused, dripping with another man’s cum. He hates the sick thrill it gives him to know that Felix will see that. It runs down the back of his neck like a hot knife, and he doesn’t know if the sensation is driven by arousal or fear.

‘I’m gonna come in you, pretty boy.’ His rough fingers rub side-to-side over Killian’s throbbing cock. ‘Gonna fill you up like a whore. Felix must’ve known I’d do that to you. And he knows what you need, don’t he?’

Killian nods. He can’t not.

‘You just lie there n’take it, pretty whore. Take it for Felix.’

Killian allows himself, for a moment, to really think about Felix’s responsibility in all this. He thinks about how, yes, Felix has known Josef for a very long time and, yes, is probably able to make some fairly astute guesses as to what Josef might do to whatever poor thing he was burying himself in. And Felix has decided he needs this.

‘I need this,’ Killian murmurs to himself as Josef thrusts into him. ‘I need this.’ It becomes louder, and Josef nods.

‘Tha’s it. Good boy,’ he mutters approvingly, still stroking Killian’s cock.

‘Need to be good for him,’ says Killian, pressing his hips down into Josef’s hand. The feeling of Josef stretching and fucking his ass open is mixing with the sparks of pleasure Killian feels when Josef’s fingers brush his cock. Mouth open, Killian is panting, arching his back to meet Josef’s thrusts, letting the man rub his cock until he is moaning underneath him.

‘Faster,’ Killian pleads. ‘Harder.’ He’s not even sure what he’s asking for but Josef picks the pace of his thrusts up. Their skin slaps together as Josef grunts in exertion, burying himself in Killian’s ass over and over, forcing the boy’s tight hole open around him. Josef shifts his hand, sliding his fingers into Killian’s wet pussy and pressing the base of his callused palm against Killian’s cock. His movements are imprecise but consistent, his rough hand dragging over Killian’s dick as his thick fingers rub insistently at Killian’s g-spot. Killian can feel himself trapped, Josef’s fingers crowding into his pussy, Josef’s cock pounding into his hole, and all that weight pressed down to force Killian to grind his desperate cock against Josef’s open hand. Killian feels his muscles starting to tense erratically. His pussy clenches around Josef’s fingers.

He needs this.

‘I need you to come in me,’ Killian whimpers.

‘Not till you do first, baby boy.’

Killian thinks of how proud Felix will be of him when he finds out how well he took Josef’s cock, and comes all over Josef’s hand with a shuddering cry. His cock spasms and pulses, he feels his pussy and ass tighten desperately and spasmodically, and he hears Josef groan behind him as that - apparently - is what has pushed him over the edge. Killian feels his ass fill with cum, warm and thick, deep inside him.

Killian muses that he and Felix have never come at the same time as Josef collapses onto him.

He is dimly aware, some time later, of the man pulling out and getting off him, walking away and running the shower in the bathroom. His eyelids are heavy, and he knows sleep is about to take him. Killian smiles softly, thinking about Felix coming home the next morning. Maybe he’ll bring breakfast from the pastry shop they stop at sometimes. He’ll forgive Killian, he’s sure.

‘One minute,’ Felix says to the impressionable young gentleman with whom he’s spent the night and sunrise. ‘I just have to take care of something in the apartment.’ Leaving the boy in the hall, he steps into his home. It reeks of sex. The bedroom door is open, as are some of the kitchen cupboards. Josef had made his way here, he notes with a smile. Peering around the bedroom door, he sees Killian fast asleep, naked, ass in the air, cum dripping down his leg. He frowns. He didn’t recall giving Josef permission to do that. Well, Killian should have known better than to just allow him. They’ll be having words later, Felix imagines. He tears a sheet of notepaper out of one of Killian’s books - there are a few lines of uninspiring poetry tarnishing the page, so he draws a line through them and writes a note below. The black biro block capitals read: ‘Out for breakfast. Lunch seminar as per usual. Do try to turn up somewhat presentably. Professor.’

Replacing the pen in his blazer pocket, Felix grabs his umbrella from the coat rack - the weather is pitiful today - and slips back out of the front door to his young friend. ‘Thank you for waiting, dear boy,’ he murmurs. The boy grins at him. His teeth are crooked. Felix internally sighs.

Killian’s alarm rings at seven. It takes him longer to wake up, as it’s slightly muted through the bedroom wall. But when he does, he wakes aching and alone, eyes blurred and burning with sleep, and cold, so cold, from the mountain air.

#my work #10k #felix and killian

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phantomphangphucker · 5 years ago

Text

Ectober Day 14: Dinner - Hunger Is My Boi

It’s been a bit too long since Danny has had some ectoplasm to eat. And now his folks want him to spend all day in the lab sorting and sampling ectoplasm samples.

Note: I've had an idea for a ghost hunger fic for a while now and this was the perfect excuse to make everyone deal with my bullshit. I also wrote this while getting progressively more wine drunk because that's just what happens every thanksgiving in my house.

Danny erratically untangles himself from his twisted up bed sheets as his mom knocks on the door, Danny shouting, “I’m up! I’m up!”. He nearly trips over a couple of socks on the floor as his mom chuckles, “it’s six am, I wouldn’t expect you to be”, clearing her throat, “but your father and I seemed to have siphoned off far too much ectoplasm, and of different kinds too! To be able to handle it all ourselves”.

Danny stills, shorts only halfway up, grumbling, “oh just great, why couldn’t this have happened tomorrow instead?”. Rubbing at his core as just the mention of ectoplasm makes it vibrate with hunger. Patting at it, “I know, I know. Just gotta wait till tonight”.

Danny yanks his shirt over his head and ruffles his hair before sticking his head out the door, “just how much are we talking here? It’s not, like, that entire trap box worth again, is it?”.

Maddie shakes her head with a smile, “we’ve already handled all the messy bits. Just need help keeping track of all the breakers and take samples”.

“So I don’t need a broom or need to wash my hands for an hour just to get the splatter off?”.

Maddie laughs and shakes her head, “no sweetie. I’ll be in the lab”, before turning heading downstairs.

Danny mutters, “damnit, so that’s a ‘no’ on sneakily cleaning my hands with my tongue”. Danny closes his door and leans against it for a beat before reopening his door and heading down to the lab.

Scratching at his chest, “my core’s just gonna spasm out of my chest if there’s just open beakers everywhere, especially since I could eat, like, a whole ghost horse worth, right about now”. Taking the steps cautiously and groaning as he gets hit with, what is basically a wall of, the acidic lemony scent of ectoplasm. Danny can’t help but twitch his nose, picking up on some of the more unique scents from the different kinds, “lime, grape, chipotle, bitter dark chocolate...jeez just where the hell were they siphoning from?”. Wiping away the slight drooling from his lips, picking up on his cores favourite, “fuck, even cherry cough syrup covered white chocolate and caramel. How dare life tempt me so”. Danny snorts, “well technically it’s death that’s being tempting, but still”.

Hopping down onto the lab floor with fake cheeriness, “what’s cooking? I can practically see the sour green salty aroma in the air”. Danny grumbles to himself as his dad laughs loudly, “still weird all regular humans can smell is sour saltiness”, smirking, “especially when only the lime and sugar scented ones are sour”.

Flopping down on one of the spinning stools, tracing his eyes over at least a hundred different beakers. Whistling, “trad green, bruise green, purple, red, pale blue, and fuchsia? Ya weren’t kidding. The heck was your source?”.

Jack beams, “some island with purple mist coming off it in pillars. There was hundreds of different plants, some even leaked this black ectoplasm!”, Jack animatedly holds up a large beaker of bubbling black ectoplasm, “never even seen this before!”.

Danny scratches his nose to hide his twitching nose, this kind was unfamiliar to him too. Danny mutters into his hand as Jack noisily pushes a bunch of beakers in front of him, “so the Defted lands then? And ripened from the sounds of it”. Which really did explain the strange ectoplasm, no ghosts went the when it was ripened, so there was probably many strange kinds there during the full bloom season.

Danny shifts, core vibrating with longing and curiosity, as he stirs a consistency stick in some red ectoplasm, letting go of the stick to see how long it keeps spinning for. While his dad takes every sample under the sun from the black kind.

Maddie taps his shoulder, looking up at her, “hmmm?”.

She points down at his bare feet, “I know your contamination makes that safe for you, but really? You have fresh socks don’t you?”.

Danny rubs his neck, “I’ve got one clean sock. Don’t know ‘bout socks plural. Besides, like you said, it’s freaking six am”, smirking, “who wears socks at that time”. In truth, Danny had gone with so much skin exposure in the hope of some actually getting spilled on his skin so he could just absorb it or subtly swipe it into his mouth.

Maddie shakes her head before putting down a plate of untoasted bread and a sealed mini-pack of jelly. Danny swirls a beaker lazily, ectoplasm sloshing around, as he spreads the jelly on his bread; genuinely hoping some spills out of the beaker into the jelly. Chuckling, “how did you know I just needed to get hit with some sweet succulent gooey goodness”.

Maddie smirks as she takes a few of the vials Danny’s filled up over to the centrifuge. Danny can’t help frowning slightly, that thing basically made ectoplasm inedible. Well, could still drink it but it’d taste and feel like licking a rusted and corroded spoon. So not exactly pleasant or tasty.

Danny twitches as his dad knocks over one of the beakers, one that Danny had intentionally placed a little too close, onto Danny’s wrist. Splashing purple ectoplasm on his hand, they probably think he’s frowning at the mess but really, he’s frowning because the beaker didn’t break.

Tilting the beaker back upright, “well that didn’t take very long”.

“Here sweetie”.

“Huh?”, Danny looks to the side only for his mom to wipe his hand off. Forcing himself not to sound painfully sarcastic, “that’s just perfect, thanks”. Patting at his hand, “stuff really can look like jello huh? Makes me wonder how many people sneakily eat the jello, when they’re supposed to be ‘working’ during jello wrestling”.

Jack claps him on a back, “thinking of that time you tripped into a blow-up swimming pool we had to inflate to catch all that overflowing ectoplasm, and got a mouth full of the stuff?”. Danny smirks, reminiscing fondly, they had purified the hell out of that stuff. So how could he possibly resist ‘tripping’ to steal a taste.

Maddie shakes her head, “don’t smile! You scared the crap out of us that day!”. Making Danny laugh as he rubs his core some.

The three work well past noon, and Danny’s officially both hungry and hungry. Being perpetually surrounded and bombarded by ectoplasmic aromas was not helping in the slightest. Twirling a few vials around in his fingers and laughing, “imagine if someone just filled one of these with green apple Gatorade and straight-up drank it? That’d be pretty weird, huh?”, as he pushes his wheeled stool over to the microscopes. He could easily see well enough to not need them, but any regular human would need them.

Jack laughs loudly, “that could certainly make for interesting Halloween drinks!”.

Danny smirks, making mental plans before licking his chops as he pulls out little bits of the smaller particles. Core vibrating and making his skin twitch. Sighing as he leans back, glancing at the clock, “the core of me has become the embodiment of hunger”.

Maddie smiles softly, “yes it is about that time isn’t it”, before standing and wiping her hands off on her legs, “any requests?”. Danny’s honestly hoping she forgets to wash her hands/gloves before making dinner. He knows she won’t but a guy can hope can’t he? Grinning goofily, “I have a hankering for green gummy bears and lime Creme pie wouldn’t be too much to ask for would it?”. Earning a chuckle and head shake from Maddie, while she walks up the stairs to make food for everyone.

Jack pushes a few larger beakers in front of Danny, “usually I’m the one harping for food! But you’re a grown man now so it’s expected”.

Danny rubs at his neck as he pours the pale green ectoplasm into smaller vials, intentionally using the vial rack that has cracks and chips in it, in the hopes that it’ll break and spill ectoplasm everywhere. “You better watch out, soon I’ll be taller than you”. Jack just laughs with a wide smile.

Danny’s pressing samples in between microscope slides, little bits squishing over the edges to drip onto his fingers. It looks like it’s glowing brighter than normal but Danny just knows that his core is influencing his brain to be more focused on the ectoplasm; to notice the potential snack easier. Licking off his thumb as Maddie comes down, holding plates of fish and a bottle of vinegar. Maddie kisses Jack, “out of tartar sauce, sorry Jack dear”. Jack waves her off with a laugh and basically dumps vinegar on the fish.

Danny sighs happily as he takes his plate, “perfect because isn’t there like some endless gaping hole that rivers of ectoplasm just flow into? Yeah pretty sure that’s a physical manifestation of my insides right now. Seeing as I’m just positively glowing with hunger right now”.

Jack tilts his head and barks out a laugh, swallowing before speaking, “yes Danny-boy, I'm pretty sure there is!”. While Danny just smiles, knowing full well that the Falls Of Reverlee were very much real. But they were kind of like pitcher plants, tons of ectoplasm but not exactly safe to go inside. Plus there’s was some chemical in it that made the ectoplasm super sticky, which could be kind of funny if you ate the ectoplasm since it would be like getting a mouth full of peanut butter.

The thought just makes his mouth water though, resulting in Danny eyeballing the black ectoplasm as he eats his fish, only lightly soaked in vinegar. Highly tempted to try to dip the fish in ectoplasm as a sauce. The pale green would go wonderfully with just how lemony it was, though the vinegar undertone might be a little overwhelming if mixed with actual vinegar.

Jack notices Danny’s staring and offers him a slide of the back ectoplasm, “you seem curious, why don’t you take a look at it for yourself?”.

Danny has to force his hand to not just snatch the slide and forces down the response of ‘fuck yes, gimme gimme’, and instead says, “sure, it’s strange”.

Jack chuckles and nods, while Danny wheels over to the microscope, doing his damnedest to get some ectoplasm off the slide subtly. Jack speaking while Danny stares down into the microscope, “we’re pretty sure this kind is made by these strange flowers. The stuff was just inside of these sacs hanging off the flowers! If you poke them they just explode!”.

Danny points at his dad, “so like fruit gushers?”, before blinking and lifting up his head, “did you bring back any of the sacs?”.

Jack nods excitedly and pulls out a container shaped like a tomato, opening it to show six ‘sacs’. Danny blinks, knowing in his gut these were actually seeds. Defted seeds. If cared for properly you could literally make a mini garden of Defted blossoms. Which yes, Zone yes. Ancients he was a blessed man. Danny will, without a doubt, absolutely be stealing one. He’s got no clue how his folks found these, Defted seeds were insanely rare and very very few ever so much as saw one. Mouthing ‘wow’ at his dad before actually speaking, while his core vibrates with aggressive happiness at the prospect of growing and having Defted blossoms nearby, “very strange. Any clues what, exactly, they are?”.

Jack shakes his head almost aggressively as he closes the container, “not a one. Which is why we’re being extra careful with them. Hopefully we only have to damage one to get some kind of idea”. Danny jerks and his core spasms slightly over his folks damaging Defted seeds, but there's nothing he can really do about it.

Danny nods, “hopefully”, before turning back to his microscope, officially even more curious to have even a little of this black ectoplasm. It smelled like a rich thick smoothie and chances are, it’s packed with nutrients.

Danny hands the slide back a bit stiffly, hunger gnawing at his chest and making the ectoplasm in his system jab at his veins and muscles. It was annoying pushing off feeding for this long but his life wasn’t exactly calm or routine. Plus, there was ectoplasm samples around if he really needed to nab some on the fly. Problem now was, he wasn’t alone down here. But he also slightly didn’t care, his folks knew he was goddamn weird and accepted it. They just didn’t know exactly how weird.

Danny manages to knock off one of the black ectoplasm vials, right over the edge of the table. Nabbing it out of the air and swapping it with an empty vial, holding the empty vial out to his dad, “slippery stuff eh?”. Making Jack chuckle as he takes the vial, none the wiser.

While Maddie shakes her head, pipetting up some purple ectoplasm. Danny leans over her and smirks, vial in his back pocket, “would be a lot faster with straws”.

Maddie shakes her head with a smile, “if that was safe and wouldn’t contaminate the samples we just might try something like that”. Making Danny seriously wish saliva, especially his ectocontaminated saliva, didn’t count as contamination.

Clapping her on the shoulder, “well Imma be right back”, before heading upstairs to the bathroom. Slipping out the vial and spinning it around as soon as he locks the door. Sure, it’s a small amount of ectoplasm but this is more about satisfying curiosity than need.

Swirling it around and sniffing at the milkshake scent again before downing it, tasting strongly of whip cream covered strawberries. Looking in the mirror Danny can see his eyes dilating dramatically and speaking as he just goes to lay on the floor, “oh shit”. Colours pulsating and able to smell the scents of the other ectoplasm samples through the floor. Snorting at the ceiling as he moves his fingers over the tiles, which feel much more defined, “it’s like one of those flavoured liquors but drugged”. His skin felt like someone was pushing really fluffy cotton up against all of it, making him feel comfy and numbed.

Flipping to stand back up and smirking at his reflection, little lines of black in his blue irises. It’s not like they’ll actually notice, so he slides out of the bathroom with a slight bounce in his step. Feeling light and kind of like dancing, with an undercurrent of hunger.

Danny hops down the final step and glides to sit back in his chair, spinning around some before moving to separate samples again.

Jack hands Danny a fist-sized jar of fuchsia ectoplasm, Danny raises an eyebrow at it before unscrewing the lid, “what? Ran out of regular sample cases so you decided to can it? Now it’s more like jam than jello”, tapping his chin, “honestly, could probably actually can ectoplasm”.

Maddie turns to him and eyeballs the jar, “that would certainly be something to try sweetie, but what would be the point?”.

Danny shrugs as he pours some into a Petri dish to poke at and mix in chemicals, “the idea of ‘just because you can doesn’t mean you should’ is bullshit”.

All three turn to look at the portal, which is firmly a ‘probably shouldn’t have done that’, arguably in a very different way for Danny than his folks.

Stirring around the fuchsia ectoplasm in the petri dish with a metal ectoproof stick, having half the mind to just start stirring it with his fingers instead. Core thrumming and pulsing over the scent of its, of Danny’s, favourite of flavours. While Jack is rolling a little ball of the black kind, testing to see how well it stays together and how bouncy it could be. Hint, very bouncy apparently. Seeing as Danny can’t help but laughing as Jack bounces it off the table only for it bounce into the ceiling and back down somewhat violently, splattering all over the table.

Danny bends over in a show of laughing even harder, but he’s really just hiding his face slightly so he can lick his cheeks off.

While Jack mutters, “woah”, Maddie copying him seconds later. Danny sees why as he lifts his head. Some of the black ectoplasm had landed in a small cup of purple ectoplasm and appeared to be devouring it, making the cup's contents slosh somewhat erratically.

Danny laughs again, “it’s cannibalising itself! Ectoplasm eating ectoplasm! Guess black buddy wanted some dinner too!”, his parents join him in laughing as Danny snorts and laughs into his hand, “maybe it’s saying I need to take a hint and start straight-up cannibalising things myself! And maybe cannibalise a little something else too!”.

Jack shakes his head with a heartily laugh, “that one doesn’t even make sense! But! It works ‘cause ectoplasm eating itself doesn’t make sense either!”.

Danny pats Jack’s arm, “thank you for coming to my voretastic TED talk”. While Maddie begins cleaning up the mess, shaking her head with a smile over Danny’s antics.

Danny turns back to his samples and beaker, core vibrating with hunger and making his skin twitch. Putting the Petri dish to the side and starting on pipetting out ectoplasm to fill tiny vials. Watching the liquid slowly fill up each one with a watering mouth.

Cleaning off the pipet and snapping the lids on the vials closed. Clearing his throat and swallowing thickly, “what else you want with the fuchsia?”.

Jack scratches his chin, shrugging, “nothing specific, so do what you fancy Danny-boy”.

What Danny fancies is straight-up eating the whole damn beaker and stealing all the other samples. That mental image making him chuckle slightly, lips feeling kind of puffy and numb all the while. Poking at the beaker with a slight smirk, honestly it’s not like they actually needed any of these samples; except maybe the black one since that was an unknown and unique.

Glancing at the clock, it was going to be a while before it could be considered night. Before his folks would be finished up and he could just dilly-dally off.

Turning his head back to the beaker and rubbing at his core. Which hums with temptation, the vibrations making him twitch more. Rubbing a hand over his slightly numb cheeks and lips, apparently whatever high that black kind have lasted a while even with such a small amount. Looking back to the clock, “fuck tonight”, before staring down at the beaker, speaking thick with humour, “you know it’s very much happy hour, so it would be pretty on point for someone to start chanting ‘shots shots shots’ right about now”.

Both of them send him confused looks but Jack shrugs, “you’re not wrong. But we are certainly not doing that”.

Danny chuckles as he pokes at the beaker again, “if we got Jell-O shots or some of that colourful liquor, we could even accidentally mix things up”.

Jack blinks and laughs, “that would be worse than mayonnaise in pudding cups!”.

Danny points at him with mock aggression, “hey! Mayonnaise is delicious”, smirking as he twitches almost violently, “and just for that...”.

Danny trails off as he grabs the beaker, mentally says ‘fuck it’, and straight up sloshes back the entire thing. Chugging it almost aggressively before slamming the glass down on the floor, like a mug of beer, while his parents gape at him for drinking that. Danny dramatically shouts, “Opa!”, just as the beaker shatters apart.

Jack pitches sideways, wheezing with laughter. While Maddie blinks at him, looks to the floor and broken glass, looks back up to him, “sweetie, it’s not often I feel the need to say this and know that I mean this with no small amount of love and acceptance, but...what, the, absolute, fuck”.

Danny just grumbles, “you’re supposed to say Mazal tov!”, while his core hums happily and he savours the cherry cough syrup covered white chocolate with a hint of caramel on his tongue.

End.

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dxxtruction · 5 years ago

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eps2.2_init1.asec

Mr.Robot: Season 2 Episode 4

break-down / character analysis / head canons

(Spoilers obviously, but contains stuff up through end of season 4)

A: first scene

I love this scene a lot so I wrote a lot.

(The Memorial Day situation)

Elliot had been pen-testing, doing white-hat hacking for some wall-street gig. (Timeline= ?-May 2014)

He was on some type of project where he needed to hack until it was un-hackable. (Seemed dedicated to his job there)

Elliot is court ordered into anger management with a shrink (Krista) after being fired for destroying the servers. Hs he claims he was locked in there and fell asleep then woke up in a destroyed room. (I still suspect this retelling to be halfway unreliable even though it’s how it’s told at least twice in the show.)

This happened Memorial Day weekend. - night or around 5pm presumably - people wanted to go clubbing etc. and Elliot did not. They couldn’t leave because Elliot was working. (He didn’t care about them enough to let them go, or was just dedicated to his job you choose.)

2. (Job offering)

Elliot is offered to work at all-safe by Angela around this time (Halloween 2014) but it’s been months since he had been working so what was he doing?

A bunch of Grey-hat hacks to get shady people arrested? Seems he may have just finished one when Darlene arrived.

He sees some potential in accepting, because it a Trojan horse (both what you think it is and slang for a backdoor into a server network).

He’s been thinking about it, though we don’t know how long he’s been sitting on this offer. “the right access the right malware.” His plan is to take down Evil Corp (It’s the first time he’s voiced this, and Darlene doesn’t take him entirely serious at first.)

3. (Darlene and Elliot)

Darlene comes on halloween, she seems bothered by something that may have happened that night (if my timeline is right it could be she had a fight with Cisco because they should’ve still been together then) whatever it is Darlene feels she needs Elliots company that night.

This is the first mention of init-1 the code between her and Elliot. He tries to excuse himself when Darlene first answers, with an excuse he’s going out. Darlene picks up that this is half-assed, showing us that despite her being gone she knows her brother well. (It’s little things like these that give hints as to the hosts habits and how much they overlap with MM’s)

“Great Darlene, haven’t seen you in a long time either. I’d love to hang out.” Judging by the fact Elliot is just now telling Darlene he’s been fired we can assume the extent of there communication is pretty much zilch. Darlene has been away from the city for some time, but I’m not sure its ever mentioned how long.

Per tradition, they’re smoking weed while watching the careful massacre of the bourgeoise (1984). (Darlene is a talkative/hungry type of high and Elliot just chills... and maybe has deep philosophical conversations) This movie carries a lot of importance because it becomes symbolic of F-Society. It starts out with the masked man killing the bourgeoisie kids at a new years eve party, but I do wonder if thats the entire plot or not.

Darlene says several things about it:

(A) The movie was made to disprove meritocracy. (showing the separation of class through the absurd ways in which the characters act.)

(B) it was the source of their psychological dysfunction. (Probably because it’s x-rated, I think this line should only be taken as a joke)

In the dream sequence later in the episode Tyrell and Joanna are wearing similar outfits to the brother and sister in the movie (hinting how Elliot probably sees them)

We get clarification on Darlene having Panic attacks, this is something that has come up before. Elliot shows genuine concern for her mental well-being.

“Since when did pretending everything is okay become the all mighty norm?” *proceeds to act like that at the beginning of season 2*

Unlike Elliot, Darlene has a digital social life. Has instagram, and orders off postmates probably lives a normal life of a 23 year old who happens to be really smart and good at stuff. I definitely think all that go thrown in the trash the second f-society became more than just a what-if. By the beginning of season 1 she’s just as off the grid as Elliot is. (But like I just wanna see Darlene live her life again dammit.)

Sidenote: I wonder who this one is. Part of me wants to say this is Elliot the host, but I have my suspicions MM took over after Memorial Day, (or at the least started to front more often…). Though it does leave me asking why there are sudden amnesia barriers in the time leading up to 5/9. Fragment Krista says MM found it important to start messing with Elliots memories and his past and inadvertently this meant forgetting his sister? Was it a subconscious choice? I can’t confirm, but I still do wonder how much of Elliot we really see in flashbacks and how much of it is MM.

4. (“Do you talk to mom?”)

Dialogue: “No. You?” (“Fuck no, she still shits on dad every time I talk to her… I wish I remembered him better.”)

I don’t have a note really, but this moment is fairly awkward given what we know about Ed—d. Not sure how I read Elliot’s face here, but I think he’s probably on the same page as her because-

Elliot has kept the Mr.Robot jacket.

I believe this indicates the host and MM I think are (were) both protected from knowing about what their father did otherwise that shit would be trash. I wonder Does host Elliot also have the view of his father as his only friend? Anyway I definitely see this as a trigger for Robot, like, thats his clothes for one and ed—d is sort of the trauma he holds.

A switch definitely occurs once the mask is on. There’s an awkwardness where Darlene loses her laughter: does she know exactly what his disorder is? I think at the very least she suspects and picks up on these things. She knows that Elliot is forgetful and experiences moments of derealization because she’s dealt with those moments with him. They are siblings after all, and I think this scene is pretty much in here to hone that in.

Mr.Robot starts a whole speech about a plan to take down E-Corp. Elliot (in reference to everyone because I think this is a shared understanding) knows the hard part of this hack will be he fallout (“that’s the key, the follow through.”)

More indicators he’s been really thinking about this for a while (At the very least since Memorial Day so 6 months; at most since his dad got leukemia). He (Mr.Robot) works out that E-corp will try to come back from the hack and there needs to be a way to stop the from happening.

Destroy public confidence = destroy E-Corp (And this is what Darlene’s been shown doing this season so far)

He then takes off the mask and he’s gone quiet (dissociated?) Probably a switch back. (He looks at it in a way that makes me feel like he doesn’t remember putting it on.)

End scene.

B: Darlene’s visit

“The only way to patch a vulnerability is by exposing it first. The flip side is exposing the vulnerability leaves you open for an exploit.” (I believe this line tells us this episodes logic)

(Plan discussion.)

The plan involves losing confidence in e-corp and Elliot has lost confidence in the plan. (though we are aware phase 2 isn’t necessarily just about losing public confidence, Elliot is later shown to not want this either). He sees it as too dangerous to continue on with, and he feels guilty about it given how Gideon was killed, he doesn’t want more people to die.

However, I feel as if he probably already saw into all the vulnerabilities (because he’s like that). Already figuring they could be exposed (hence danger). He sees the best option would be to quit while they can, but Darlene is refusing.

“What did you guys think was going to happen exactly?” - Darlene referring to Elliot as plural. (We love to see it)

Elliot says it wasn’t him who said everything. (Clarification that a switch did happen in scene 1.)

2. (“This is what she does”)

What does darlene do?

Likely: When she wants something but doesn’t give full honesty about it and doesn’t tell Elliot everything. In other words Darlene keeps secrets, and hides the important bothersome details. She sort of beats around the bush. (She does something like this in scene 1 she needs Elliots company but won’t talk about or say why then avoids confrontation of her mental health)

She’s doing it here not so much for her own comfort but the safety of her brother, because she knows he has vulnerabilities, and can be triggered and emotionally unstable. She doesn’t want to upset him because she needs him to help her and he can’t do that in an unstable state.

C: Chess

1. (Meeting with Ray to play chess)

Chess isn’t really the focus here; Ray picks up on a lot of conflict happening internally, and as an exploit to get Elliot to trust him gives the chess board over.

We see how guilt is burdening Elliot, and he is considering owning up to everything he did. Even mentions how it could stop Darlene from doing “crazy shit”. He doesn’t want to lose her either; or lose any more people for that matter. Losing people was not a part of saving the world he signed up for. There’s also guilt in general because of 5/9 because things are turning out bad.

I’m fairly convinced Mr.Robot is incapable of feeling guilt, or is just hiding it behind the 10 layers of clothes. (Though I guess he’s never met Gideon so why should he care?). Anyway he is consistently focused on seeing everything through no matter the costs.

I just find Mr.Robot coming in and saying he’d swan dive off a building for saying anything pretty funny (don’t ask)

He exaggerates a lot of the time but honestly sometimes he is dead serious about putting the body in pain or in life and death scenarios and so he can be fairly destructive so it’s hard to tell if he is joking, but hey MM (and to my hc host) does hard drugs, so...

2. (A game to end all games between us)

“Winner takes all.” (“Of what?”) “Us.”

(Mr.Robot really do be like “I’mma kill you or myself” Bitch I do not think..)

Robot says Elliot “will be absent from knowing. Losing time forever. A deep black void.” Basically he’s gonna throw him in a pit. And honestly it sounds confident, like he probably feels he can take full control since he’s been around the longest along with the core. (But we know he wouldn’t do it even if he could, the guy has a soft spot. Anyway this is like the IDK what number of times Robot be doing a loop around to get a point across to Elliot. He do be playing the long game and I think secretly he loves a good scheme.) (This is what Mr.Robot does.)

Elliot gets visited by Krista in prison and has told her about the game. (Judging by the fact they meet in her ‘office’ and not in the “Kitchen table” setting we can assume they’re allowed to meet in a private location.) (Edit: disregard this bit I forgot about the reveal that he’d just imagining it on like two separate layers to feel safe enough to speak)

“Krista’s wrong annihilation is always the answer” (He’s just as bad honestly, Krista teach this boy constructive ways). He sees annihilation as self improvement, getting rid of parts of yourself that are ugly or unwanted. We create our identity around desire, and that means destroying parts that are undesirable so all thats left is practically a mask of who we are. (I think the tie into Whiterose through this spill about annihilation is a bit cheap but like I understand the choice) Anyhow Elliot’s pretty much agreeing to a western showdown and has no idea it’s all a rouse so Robot can have his point.

4. The chess match

Ed—d apparently taught Elliot his first ways to code through teaching him computer chess. He talks like he really understands all the logic of chess which makes me think he was letting Ray win before.

Mr.Robot definitely feels a bit uncomfortable with being associated with him just a hint in his voice.

Ultimately they find out neither of them can either win or lose but Mr.Robot knew all along that would happen.

“Fighting for the future we want, it isn’t about playing chess is about what we do out there with them.” (peaking out of his ten layers to show he cares about the outside world, while also expressing how they need to get out of prison.)

“I want to be here Elliot, with you.” (God my heart.)

D: Darlene and Cisco’s hook up

Darlene is very paranoid while walking around, she isn’t sure if F-society really are being offed. However in front of F-society she tries to comfort their suspicions.

Cisco comes to Darlene to warn her about getting killed by DA… but he’s the one who ultimately gets offed. (Poetic cinema)

We learn Darlene’s the type to get upset and defiantly end up having sex in the bathroom of a shady dive bar with her on and off again boyfriend (also Cisco why didn’t you pull out before talking about Dark Army again, like dude lol.)

This is definitely the point they start getting back together.

There a message in gold written on the wall that reads “There's an unequal amount of good and bad in most things. The trick is to figure out the ratio and act accordingly. Stay frosty all. Peace.” - its from this tweet: x

Operation Berenstain is first mentioned. I’m in agreement the name references the popular conspiracy about alternate timelines.

E: Leon lays it down

Leon asks Elliot if he wants to even be here, tells him he “has to dream in order to find out the future he’s fighting for.” (My initial though is I’m not sure if this means here as in prison or here as in alive, sorta feels like the latter)

“If you like it” (The future you envision) “then it’s beautiful, if it’s not then you might as well fade the fuck out right now.” (Hard) (definitely means the latter)

I appreciate Leon so much. “Existence could be beautiful or it could be ugly. But thats on you.” He’s really good for Elliot, really no bs, no loop arounds, he just tells it straight. And you know what? He listens to him because he actually goes to bed dreaming about it.

“What is the future? Leon says one needs to understand that before they’re ready to fight for their existence.”

This dream sequence is so impactful, Leon’s influence. I’m not gonna go in on the shots, however we do get to see a really honest view on how Elliot truly sees the people that have been a part of his life in a variety of subtle ways. We see a lot of what he desires or seeks is happiness for everyone around him.

“Will I reconnect for those I care for. Will I reunite with old friends long gone. See the ones I love find true happiness. Maybe this future includes people I never dreamed of getting close to. Even make amends with those I have unfairly wronged. A future that’s not so lonely. A future filled with friends and family. The world I’ve always wanted. And I’d like very much to fight for it.”

I bold texted that last bit because it really hits, and I think its what becomes the foundations for what Elliot ends up saying to Whiterose at the end. Not to pull a Darlene but this show is clearly trying to say how hard it is to find connection in a world of capitalist alienation.

When Leon sort of digs into Elliot and asks if he really does want to die. Elliot’s dream confirms, no, we find out Elliot actually wants to live in order to improve the future, and he wants connections to be there. It’s what he’s always wanted. (Yet he still does the end all match right after this sequence because he’s convinced he’ll win and get that future on his own. Both these boys are very stubborn.)

F: Do you remember the first command you ever taught me?

Init 1.

What Elliot taught Darlene when her computer kept crashing. She says this in scene one, and its what makes Elliot stop making excuses. The same thing happens here, Elliot has no choice but to help. Thats what the code between them means: Drop everything and help me.

What is it? Init 1 is a run level in linux which indicates a single-user/emergency mode. Streamlining the route to only the root, while disconnecting from the network or multitasker. Used for administrative tasks.

Elliot has to stop the FBI from owning f-society and the only way to do that is by using Ray’s computer. (fuck Ray btw). Just to make sure, he asks Darlene is he is really needed by her or if she wants Robot. I think he needed the reassurance that Darlene still cares (and of course she does).

The second part of the title is .Asec - android files preventing corruption from other programs. So the whole title translates to roughly; Help prevent corruption. And a nod to the way of doing it through hacking into the FBI android phone network. (These titles are genius and have so many layers)

G. Side stuff

1. The FBI have found Fun Society LLC through Dom. I love Dom but idk how I feel about her in these early episodes. She is a fairly good detective though. I think Romero’s character being linked to stealing power from the grid is a nod to the novel Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. Ellison touches on social and intellectual issues faced by the African Americans in the early twentieth century. Also I noticed Dom’s supervisor is there and he’s already seen trying to sway the direction away from uncovering he truth.

2. On that note so is Angela. I think we’re intentionally supposed to be annoyed with her because she’s staying at E-Corp even though she knows she’s being manipulated.

“All of my dreams are coming true right now.” - as the bastard guys are being arrested. Not to say this slapped but it did.

We find out Whiterose and Price are in bed together on this thing and this has something to do with Angela and the plant negotiations in the lawsuit. On the phone Whiterose is fussy about moving her operation to the Congo quickly. (lets not try to reason how this plan of hers all works or what the hell it even is). Things are awkward knowing that Price is Angela’s dad, I can’t tell if he’s actually getting close because he wants to know his daughter or if its purely out of getting her around he and Whiterose’s fingers. (both? both.)

In any case I think Esmail sets up the Angela as a counter vulnerability within the main plot, as she’s being open to exploitation by remaining at E-Corp. (refer to the logic set-up)

3. I don’t care for Joanna’s appearance in this episode but she’s running out of money to pay of this guy who has information that could frame Tyrell for murder and is still seeing this guy she definitely hates or likes him but doesn’t love him. Complicated. She needs the severance package to pay this guy off. Tyrell is another vulnerability but he’s undercover.

H. Head canons I thought of while watching

If Elliot hadn’t opened the door when he did Darlene would’ve picked the locks.

Darlene’s go to is always some type of asian food.

The weed is Elliots but the Bowl is Darlenes.

We see coats on the wall hooks in Elliots room, but I think the likes the cold because its grounding so he usually leaves without one on.

When Robot is high (on weed) he just talks like nonstop.

Not a head canon really but I notice Elliot never uses the backrests in chairs. However Robot becomes the chair he is the chair.

Darlene stopped going to dance classes after the hack, I think Angela has also stopped going.

Leons favorite subjects are philosophy and history

#mr robot #eps2.2_init1.asec #as promised I made it look nice to post #I also added a bunch of stuff because I felt like it #This is not comprehensive by any means lol #if this doesn't appear in the tags ...

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restlessmuseum · 6 years ago

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nomen amen (or “paraphernalia”: back by popular demand)

(where books compete for space with pottery)

We were already halfway through interminability. Away all redundancy of deficiency from the page, the tear from the past to mend us about to rampage. This far we had not said anything good but perfection required, in tone and content, inexplicable. (1) I found the crux in the posture to device, like an impostor happens in his tender, (2) a damage done like the wrapping paper of a ducked present. (3) Under the stance of unison, the shallower I read between the lines the further I'm improved from the time of my oversight, (4) the unison becomes the sound she phews down to my very being, like but the rest I forgot about... Sorry, got it wrong. Actually, I wanted to continue this something started spreads ago, but the prose screeches and cackles around its ineliminable inexactitude. I really don't feel like resuming anymore, or should I say, I'm done boggedly running after the end of my premises. Yes something happened, something to investigate in a whole other direction. So, gonna take all, this will be the first part. I wish I could express revolutionary philosophisms, I thought I could be a poet because I'm unable to be an essayist and a novelist. I'm not good at public speaking. I entered Tumblr to be found by publishers and make money: I had a system of truths and truly nothing else to say. Besides, what did this idea of klein Lebensdarbietung mean? Is the text doing its characters or are these ones setting out their own words? Text's abolition of today, which is nothing but "the sentences already written, the sentences that people say, the sentences yet to write; verses, words, spacings, texts' dissemination, whatever you want, about the purely sign-linguistic-textual" (cit.) verbatim et literatim, and here is another example of my strugglings to go on properly. In any event it is clear that we are moved when required, except the exempts. (5) It is always the most unexpected time to undergo the aha entanglement. In constant foresight I guiltily prepare to hindsee the neglect and with confambulatory prowess I succumb to the development in this underpass of construes. How much do we match with our sounds? — asking myself. In this respect I'm afraid to surprise me onstage like the surrenedered one (and here onpage, ah foolishness, as playwright). But if I leaf compulsively through hundreds of pages, that's to find my words not belonging to me, and the others to fight (me) with. As I am nearing the open conversation, I make up my mind never to read me. Tons of notes, reproaches and scratchpads. Tons of work to do. And I have to get rid of the old adjustments once and for all. (6) Electra the yet-signed. You like the simple words, the ones you recognize already written, the crystalline syllabification that enoculates the wholeness of an order babbling sibyllinity downstream. You carry on with the work of literature: how the body absconds at the risk of space and time with them. Imperfect doubling, mirror images, and repetition in her practice. Topical scratches. Interceptors sought in everyday life — like unspeakables — that she then distorts to create the straight path in reverse. Poetry will not touch her, because poetry is just the unwritten complexity going wrong side along the process of self-becoming, a recent installation, midway between marble and corporal desires in an ascending scale of hardness. (7) Listening to the closest friends, the process of self-becoming could only linger primarily in the sight of aesthetic, then morality, then religious status quo. But friends come always as a closer, blind alley, at the end of tears: a misunderstanding at first, then never read enough. (8) It is often the case that the practice of consensually agreeing to one's own mental performance and self-image by means of meddled languages and lineages may become a genuine bondage of freedom. The restrained partner can derive any drift in the set of possibilities so that we use to say the doing is more important than the outcome. (9) The doing is in uncomfortable or painful positions, for example as a punishment: then, easily it tends to be forgotten, because unforgivable. That's why the effect is the same as a verbal collage, but 1) rips are often behind schedule or on borrowed time, "out of sync with the fade" (cit.) hearth of what seems to be the Pentecostal tongues of fire; and 2) metaphors like "the rope of telephone charades" or "the coils of something wound in the form of a revolution to come is the licking of sugar injury, met since the starting point" are not allowed. "Real me is way more concerned with" (cit.) the Transcaspian line that follows the pattern of a crosswording of the desert. (10) Rather than holding on to me tight I choose to distance myself from what I'm being forced to watch daily. Dies irae dies illa desirable. Without prejudice to this last inescapable point, the first issue represents the Derridean crux of the matter, about which I will be saying something bad in the wrongest moments, since my voice is as effective as my unsuccessful rewrites. I just want, by using the instruction books, the border of this drama, accelerated and hence trespassed in time into ridiculousness, to be experienced as the comedy it is. There is a hour of the wolf and there is a hour the wolf is afraid of. When the time is right I'd like you all to be safe to be spared in my turn from this construction beyond good and better. (11) Here you shine white with noise. "Sonorous cobweb" (cit.) made of only one thread, the unbent line of homeostasis at long last kept in crisis. (12) This narration should have had a different common thread. "And yet", imprint, "it moves" (cit.) as sensible prose. Prose of proses. The dispelled thing, spilled on Tumblr, disseminated. The seedbed: descendants, everspring off, family. The planting postdisposed. All going as planned. (13) When I know that I don't know where to start a carving, I start a list of synonyms or unyoke a fable from a series of rereadings. What excommunication if you can't subvert the strainer? (14) Once upon a time Electra, beloved only sign of her father, has a brother. Agamemnon possesses the actuality and practicality of the dead: he wants to see water circulate water in laminar rheumatology and freshness sculptures out of tempered air. [director's note: the Argolis' scene isn't even entitled to melt!]. She eats anise candies and unwarmed foods without a problem. She is so lovely when she urinates first thing in the morning, holding the head in her hands, graeaean ownership. Yes, I'm worthy of attending to the offertory on the altar of love. So many congratulations against my behalf that the opposite seems true. (15) "A woman with long hair is not a simple point of view" (cit.). She's got a prompt night's sleep and reasonable. We cling to angelic accidents. We are clung to our soundtrack. (16) Indeed love is not "the panic subsidence onto the body" (cit.) [director's note: can we let the body become finally soaked in real pornography and never mind, here?] but sheer faith for a symbolic subject who's shattered fully loyal. Intermediate sprint of a life midpoint crossroads that lead at the same destination to flee from. (17) Because, as it goes, her staple is such a volitive confidence meaning to me the wait of the powers that created us, the coincidence of both of us makes our skewness on my side of the derangement. Averted word, when addressed. I am a bad Greek at the time of Christianity and a bad Christian on such dysfunctional divertissements. Who knows how ethically important it is today? I retain it, ending up forgetting everything else, and am lookin' very bad. (18) Of course the movement is diminished in certain directions; the style more flattened upon my chosen sickness that we now have no use for, after the setting of the starting stances; I suffer from more severe erections. An acquired kurtosis distributes my monodimensional remarks as the fourth cumulants in order of precedence. Still a lot of exercise to get. Busy like the evermentioned forgettables I'm at that stage where it's difficult for me to even do difficult things. Wrongstaged, I can't compete. I only challenge. (19) Therefore coincident like the two norths of which one is sinking liminal in the perfectly unsaid of your perfect cues. In one fell swoop you pone the part and mastery. And in the next. And the apnea for the answer back. Teeth gouged by the opposite of words in formation for a smile. The winky face par excellence. Here's the real spectator of my vocalized character. I wedge the self with a puny malapropistic idioticon to spread now that I'm a simplex person. As long as I continue to improve in (furtive, it has to be) apprenticeship I'm losing abilities. Old mistakes reappear, no inspiration from mumpsimuses. (20) Where adults flutter, she, disemvowelled and free from frills, spoken by the plural to be inscribed in the Sophoclean, in the Euripidean, in the Hofmannsthalean, in the Yourcenarian script, lost in tv shows and blatant phone calls, is, for me, abused of notations but who am I to denounce such an effusive happiness? There's nothing she can't Netflix. (21) No banana peel on the slope of her singularity — reversible up to a point, interchangeable up to a point, genderbending up to a point from the same side of view. Slotting minims in the same tone as the main characters. That the same out-of-turness is imbricated. (22)

Virtuosity was painlessly flaying the secret from the kids. This is tragedy. We all know what everyone should have said, sorrows come only after. We see each other for sure and too well. Find your trace in the deep of your prompter's heart. Dimmable glow of ancient times. Under guillotine percentages, under curtain at half-mast, under the veils in the dance of the seven veils. What am I trying to say? (23)

In the floodlights' gloom, without changing the rules of the game, exit khorós. With whom would you listen to you speaking? (24) Woods of brightness wherever, it makes me want to expect your coming deaf-handed right therever, the braindomed untrodden order of phrases where roommouths around it are opening. (25) A substratum, but rather as two shadows they finally vest themselves without amendment, and just drag on this semi-detached ward where it just doesn't feel like our theater anymore. So that there may well be the laetum and lethean occurrence of a new polarization. (26) It is no coincidence that here you're always cold and pale. What a cutie! (27) But maybe that's just too much information. Now would be the time to shut up even more. Already being in the manner for that: being at one with the template versus falling back into the patient subjectivity to agency, to make war and to make love with the weapons of the unconditional surrender. The book is that inferring the timbre of each Klagesprache. (28) Like the current situation could return to equilibrium because of an indefinite vocabulary which is still fighting us pressurers. We come across the unilaterality of it every day. Its constitution. (29) But infinity alive doesn't exist. We can approximate it in the endless rummaging and musing. (30) Approximation is worth nothing. We get sick for the words that once beguiled us. The limits of infancy don't set. And now I just -ess the world in voluntary silence nonexperienced. (31) With plex I brux my certainty and centuries. Party time abounds. (32) Clause: applause. (33)

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arabellaflynn · 6 years ago

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One of the more amusing family stories I sometimes tell is about a relative of mine, a few generations back, who moved in with another man after his wife died. Ooh, everybody goes. Salacious family gossip! Except the little town they moved to was actually Lily Dale Assembly, in upstate New York, which so far as I know is still one of the oldest continually running Spiritualist communes in the United States. Harry and Edward moved up there so that Edward, ex-model and former elder in the Presbyterian church, could start on what I think was his third career as a spirit medium. He channeled the spirit of an Edwardian actress named Lillie Langtry, also known as "the Jersey Rose". At this point, the whole 'shacked up with his boyfriend' thing has become the least interesting part of the story, and people begin to look at me funny. My parents fucked things up in many respects, several of them so egregious that I haven't spoken to them in years, but I want to give credit where credit is due. They never sat us down to have a talk about how some boys like boys and some girls like girls, and they were all people just like anyone else. It was stupidly obvious. My mother talked about "Harry and Edward" in the same tone she used for "Aunt Helen and Uncle Bob". Except friendlier, as Uncle Bob was known to be a lecher who eyeballed the teenage cousins, and we mysteriously saw a lot less of him after I was about twelve. I was probably in college -- so, old enough for my own friends to start coming out -- before I thought about it long enough to realize how unusual this was. There are a lot of families where I never would have heard about Harry, because they would have disavowed any knowledge of his existence as soon as they found out about his "friend". Tracing LGBT+ relatives can be tricky. They tend to lack a lot of paperwork that straight couples would have. Not just legit marriage certificates -- which don't always exist -- but a lot of other records that are predicated on the assumption that there is a marriage certificate, somewhere. Fifty years ago, John Doe and Roberta Roe could move halfway across the country together and apply for an apartment as "Mr. and Mrs. John Doe", and nobody would ever check. The only way to get that information, pre-internet, was to find out where the marriage would have been officiated, write to the appropriate county clerk (with a processing fee enclosed), and wait 4-6 weeks to see if you got an illegible photocopy or a 'no such file exists' form letter back. No landlord was going to do that. They'd look at you, make a snap judgement on whether you were likely to grow forty tons of weed in their rental property, and ask if you had first, last, and deposit. After you have a lease as "John and Roberta Doe", you can start getting utility bills, phone lines, library cards, checking accounts, even state IDs, depending on where (and when) you were. My own parents are a good example of how this works. My mother used her maiden name right up until she was lying in a hospital bed with a newborn (me), and the nuns filing the paperwork were confused by the concept of putting a different surname down for mother and child. My mother, who was understandably short on patience, finally relented and told them to use Dad's name for everybody. (In her words, "I was afraid they were gonna lose you.") They weren't legally married until I was three, and they only did it because we had moved from Little Canada to a state that even today spits in the face of social progress, and Dad's new health insurance wouldn't otherwise have covered anybody else. Mind you, my college FAFSA papers said they'd been filing taxes as married since 1978. My mother was never one to let a little thing like federal tax law prevent her from doing as she damn well pleased. In Harry and Edward's case, we do have some documentation: Harry wrote memoirs. My mother had a copy, and I've read it. They're mostly about the spirit medium stuff, but there's a fair bit about life as well, and they were hilariously domestic. You would have to engage in mental gymnastics of a phenomenal order to read the two of them as anything but a couple. I seem to recall Harry's daughter either writing to or visiting them in Lily Dale; according to the family, she was mainly just happy her father had settled down with someone who could cook, so he'd stop living on scrambled eggs and spaghetti. I've had no luck so far finding a copy of my own. Partly because it was privately published by someone who evidently went out of business 30+ years ago, but mostly because I didn't have any full names for anybody. The family has only ever referred to Harry as "Uncle Doc Harry". He wasn't a doctor of anything, but he did have an MSW, and for that time and that branch of the family, that was a pretty high-falutin' education. I'm still not sure if he was my great-uncle or my great-great-uncle. My grandfather was from a gigantic Irish Catholic farm family, where there were so many kids with such a range of ages that the eldest grandkids used to babysit their youngest aunts and uncles. It was without a great deal of hope that I prodded the Lily Dale Assembly at about 2 am one night, via their Facebook page. Yes, they have a Facebook page. Of course they have a Facebook page. Another thing you have to consider when nosing around after your queer kin is how to frame it. Somewhere conservative, I probably would have inquired after Harry, mentioning at some point that he used to share a house with someone named Edward. The Assembly, though? The Spiritualists are justifiably proud of their history of being early adopters of things like women's suffrage, feminism, and universal civil rights. They attract a lot of weirdos because they treat the weirdos like valid human beings. I was asking after people who would still be in the living memory of older residents, and a town like Lily Dale would have remembered them as the boring middle-aged married couple. So I just asked about my relatives, plural, Harry and Edward, and mentioned the ghost actress, figuring it would have been pretty unique even for a place like that. I expected to get a teenage intern, who had no idea what I was talking about, but could at least give me some way to get in contact with the town registrar or whatever a Spiritualist commune has. No. Oh, no. Whoever was answering their messages knew exactly who I was talking about, because they used to live across the street. Not only told me where the two of them went, but described the house they bought when they moved out of town in the early '90s. What the actual fuck. Thus armed with useful things like surnames, I went off to Google some more. I still haven't had any luck finding the book; when I first read it, online shopping was already a thing, and I found it eerie as hell to be physically holding a book that had no listing on Amazon. It has an AISN now, as someone evidently sold a signed copy on Amazon once, but no ISBN, and therefore no WorldCat entry. If it exists in any library I can get to, I'm not sure I have any way to ask for it. I can't find their obituaries, either -- my guess is they ran in the newspaper of the small town they lived in after Lily Dale, but the online archives have a big gap between 1989, when their microfiche scans end, and the 2000s, when someone bothered building them a website. If they have headstones, nobody's taken pictures of them for FindAGrave.com. I threw their names at Spokeo and WhitePages and the like, to see if whoever survived longest had moved elsewhere to be with other family, and made an interesting discovery. Directories like that scrape data from other places. Mailing lists, public records, that sort of thing. Most people have at least one "AKA" listing, where they did or didn't use their middle initial for something, or went by Kathy instead of Katherine. Harry seems to have really been Harry, never Harold, which fits with the family naming habits. I did dig up a middle name, and it does tally with the one on the picture of the book cover on Amazon out-of-stock listing, so at least I know I'm tracking the right guy. So far as I can tell from his AKAs, Edward never went by Ed or Eddie -- but he did, at some point in his life, go by Harry's surname. It's exactly the sort of middle finger to convention I would expect from any relative of mine, really. Fuck you, mainstream society, we're married. One of the places it's noted is on a profile for one of the ancestry services that says it was created and maintained by his brother, so at least some of his family seems to have treated them the same way Harry's did. It actually makes me wonder if they had some sort of commitment ceremony at some point. (Beyond signing a joint mortgage on at least one house, I mean. Those are way harder to get out of than a marriage.) There wouldn't be any records filed with the State of New York -- although there's always the chance they were smart enough to file legal papers giving power of attorney and leaving their estate to the other one -- but if it happened in Lily Dale, the Assembly might have noted it. from Blogger https://ift.tt/2zVc9Bw via IFTTT -------------------- Enjoy my writing? Consider becoming a Patron, subscribing via Kindle, or just toss a little something in my tip jar. Thanks!

#IFTTT #Blogger #Unsolicited Advice

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fallout4holmes · 7 years ago

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Journal 23

The trip home seemed interminable. I was champing at the bit when Valentine suggested we take shelter for the night in an abandoned barn that was mostly intact. He ignored my protest that we could just keep going til nightfall, and when I threatened to go on without him, he said, “I'm game if you want to keep moving. Course, I'm not the one that benefits from a good night's rest.”

“You are not ‘game,’” I accused. “You are not remotely - damn it, Valentine at least have your gun drawn before opening that barn...”

He smiled. “Got you over here in a hurry, didn’t it?”

I huffed, “And you complain about me giving you hypothetical heart attacks.”

“Not my fault you seem to forget I’m made of metal.”

“You feel pain, and I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if you were ever damaged beyond repair,” I said, and carefully opened the door.

For once, fortune smiled on us. After ensuring the barn wasn’t housing any ferals or mole rats, we built a small fire and watched the sun set through the open door. I’d conceded to his desire to stop, but I was still restless.

“You alright?” he asked.

“I don't know. I'm strangely anxious. I don't want to stop for the night.”

He smiled a little, knowingly. “Been a long time since you were homesick, huh?”

I was surprised it hadn’t occurred to me. “I suppose. Everything that has happened likely makes this far more intense than it would have been two hundred years ago.”

“Probably.” He held my hand in reassurance, “We'll get there soon, and you won't want to be exhausted when Shaun sees you.”

“Ha, as if I would let any amount of physical fatigue stop me.”

“Yeah, I know,” he drawled with a grin. “That's why we stopped for the night.”

I sighed, “I'm falling out of practice running myself ragged, and it's your fault.”

“Good,” he said with a satisfied nod. After a moment, he looked at me, amused. “What?”

I realized I’d been staring, “Apologies, I was fascinated with the firelight reflecting on the exposed circuitry in your throat.”

He lit a cigarette with a skeptical smile, “Never thought I'd say this, but I can't tell if you're making an observation, or flirting.”

I laughed a little and lit my own, “To be honest, Valentine, I'm not sure myself.”

He put an arm around me as I leaned against him. “Doesn't matter,” he said, “I'm happy to hear it, either way.”

We had barely made it down the steps into Diamond City when Dogmeat hearladed our arrival. The dog’s barks echoed across town, followed by a young boy’s ecstatic, “They’re home!” There was no point in decorum. Shaun leaped into my arms, and I was only too happy to hold tight.

“I missed you!” he said.

“I missed you, too.”

“Nick!” Shaun held his arms wide, and Valentine obliged with a smile.

Dogmeat circled our awkward three-person hug panting, tail wagging, and eventually even put a paw out.

Valentine laughed, “Don’t worry, pal, we didn’t forget you.” He knelt down and gave the canine a scratch behind the ears. “I see you did a fine job looking after Shaun.”

Dogmeat huffed as if offended by the mere suggestion he might not, and wagged his tail.

“Dad, why do you smell weird?”

“Weird?”

“I don’t know what it is, just… wet?”

“Ocean. I smell like the ocean, even after walking all the way from the northern coast. Wonderful.”

We started walking toward home, and were met halfway by Codsworth, a bag of groceries in hand. “Welcome home, sirs! Master Shaun and I were just deciding on supper.”

“He said I have to eat the vegetables, but if I do I can have a snack cake,” Shaun said.

“Did he?” I asked, amused.

“Ahem, well. I didn’t see any harm, sir.”

“I have no objection. However, I am concerned that you actually want to consume two-hundred plus year old packaged pastry, son.”

“They’re yummy!” he protested.

“I’ll take your word for it. Head inside with Codsworth, Valentine and I are going to check in with Ellie at the Agency and we’ll be right back.”

Ellie was both glad and relieved to see us. “How'd everything go with the Nakano case?”

“How do you think it went?” I asked. I was in a curious mood after seeing Shaun, I hadn’t meant the question seriously, but she answered as if I had.

“Well, you were away for a long time, and don't take this the wrong way, but you smell like the ocean.”

I smiled, “So I’ve been informed.”

She smiled a little, then continued, “So I'm guessing you had to track someone down a long distance. By boat maybe? Guess I was right about the missing person angle. And… that's all I can tell. Come on, I'm not psychic. Give me the details.”

I was pleasantly surprised. “Miss Perkins, have you considered being more than just a secretary?”

Valentine chuckled as Ellie protested, “Oh no. You two can have all the danger you like, I’m perfectly comfortable behind a desk. Now come on, Holmes, what happened?”

“We tracked Kenji’s daughter to a synth refuge up north near a small port called Far Harbor. She’s back home, safe and sound.”

“That's great! We don't often get to bring people good news. It's a nice change of pace. I knew something good was happening when you and Nick started working together.”

“If I didn't know better, I'd say you're giving our friend here all the credit…” Valentine grinned.

“Just keeping you on your toes, Nick,” Ellie smiled. “Speaking of which, Shaun had a surprising bit of news when I checked in on him one day. I felt like an idiot for missing this bit of gossip.”

I was puzzled, “Oh?”

“Yeah, he said something about missing his dads, plural?”

“... ah.”

Valentine spoke, “You see, Shaun decided I’m… part of the family, sort of announced it out of the blue before we left town.”

Ellie looked back and forth between us. “But he’s not wrong.”

I looked at Valentine. He glanced at me, then at Ellie. “Well. No. In fact, I, uh. Holmes and I decided to give this whole partner thing an honest try and -”

He was cut off by Ellie’s enthusiastic hug, “Oh, Nick! That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you, you deserve this.”

Valentine was taken aback, but touched. “Thanks, Ellie.”

I was not remotely prepared for her arms around me, which was a terrible lack of foresight on my part. “… Thank you, Ellie. Now, fill us in on everything we missed while we were away.”

She laughed, and turned to the files.

There wasn’t much to tell. More pressing was word of growing super mutant activity around some settlements. I’ll become the General again tomorrow, but tonight I’m with my family. Valentine is telling Shaun a story before bed, per Shaun’s request. After supper, Shaun had asked, “Are you staying with us from now on, Nick?”

“I’d like to,” Valentine said. “What do you think of that?”

Shaun‘s face lit up, “That'd be great!”

“Good,” I smiled. “Then he's going to be staying for a long time.”

I never imagined that, here, in this world, I would create a home. I never thought I’d find friends. I certainly never imagined I’d find someone I felt so close to, someone to whom I could trust my soul. It is a delight to hear Shaun ask questions as Valentine tells his story, the blend of a child’s wonder and innocence mixed with a shockingly observant intelligence I like to think is hereditary and not the result of his origin. Perhaps in a way it’s both.

Valentine has just explained the concept of “suspension of disbelief” to a ten year old. Shaun is skeptical, but willing to save his questions for the end.

It is good to be home.

#fallout 4 #sherlock holmes #crossover #fan fiction #nick valentine #shaun #codsworth

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aros001 · 3 years ago

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Read through light novel vol. 13. Random thoughts.

There's a fun meme I've seen every now and then where the Harry Potter books are renamed. I'm tempted to do something like that for the Rising of the Shield Hero novels.

I hereby dub volume 13: Naofumi Iwatani and I just wanted a goddamn boat.

Maybe I'm just not paying enough attention but I feel like the Bow, Sword, and Spear have a lot less unique abilities compared to all the other Holy and Vassal weapons we've seen so far in the story. I mean, that could be deliberate, as the other three heroes didn't bother finding out a lot of what their weapons could do because they thought they knew everything already. But sometimes it feels like their weapons are just straightforward attacks, with the more unique abilities coming from their respective Curse Series. Naofumi's shield has many abilities relating to medicine, crafting, and maturation of slaves and monsters. Kizuna's hunting tool has trapping and attraction abilities, as well as unique monster-only effects. Ethnobalt's boat allows for near unparalleled travel. Syne's sowing kit allows her to teleport between the the pins she drops and create spider-web traps with negation abilities. With Motoyasu, Ren, and Itsuki, it feel like all their abilities are just attacks and bigger attacks. I suppose the same maybe could be said of Raphtalia's katana, but she also hasn't had it for very long. Maybe I'm looking into things too much. After all, I can't remember offhand what abilities Glass's fans or L'Arc's scythe had beyond attacks too.

Melty blushed. I’d only stated the facts. I guess she might not have been used to being complimented. Her mom was the queen, after all. She’d probably received a really strict upbringing too, since her sister had turned out so rotten.

I can kind of see that actually. One of the epilogues was from Melty's POV and it was clear that the king was the one spoiling Malty. The Queen, being the true power on the throne, was probably often busy with running her nation and doing matters of diplomacy, so the responsibility of raising her daughter fell mainly on her husband. Because of his own issues after the loss of his old family, Trash was too lenient and Bitch ended up spoiled rotten. Realizing how shit her oldest daughter had become, the Queen took a more active hand in raising her second daughter, thus why Melty is more often along with her on ventures outside of Melromarc.

I forgot to bring this up with the last couple of books but it is interesting how Naofumi apparently sees himself. He doesn't really believe he's a good person. Despite having understandable reasons behind buying slaves and putting slave crests on people, he still sees himself as a slave owner, which to him is a bad thing. He was surprised that he never unlocked a curse series related to greed, since he sees himself as greedy and a bit of a money-grubber. He makes a comment that he "knows he acts like a dictator" (but at least he wasn't a tyrant...yet, and then later on calls himself a tyrant). And here he thinks that a slave who cooked for him is always glaring at him when he cooks because she hates him for being so critical of what she made, while Raphtalia repeatedly tries to assure him that the girl actually really respects him and is just watching how he cooks so she'll know how to improve, and Naofumi still doesn't really buy it. It's just funny how fans have pointed out that Naofumi isn't always the most reliable narrator and how that applies even to himself. He thinks he's a bad person, thus why he doesn't feel it's a big deal when he's going to do something bad, while Raphtalia does see him as a good person and often is the one trying to keep him from doing bad things that'll hurt his reputation and image.

The very first thing I imagined happening when Naofumi entered the bath and saw the harem was that he'd cast Shield Prison around himself and roll backwards out the door without a word. Still, I like the line after he used Shooting Star Shield, that the old weapon shop guy had saved him once again. Also good credit to Sadeena, that even with all the sexual harassment she always left him with the option to say no. Here, it was just scary, and I don't think you'd even have to have suffered through a betrayal like Naofumi did to be really uncomfortable in that situation. Surrounded by seemingly endless very aggressive women you don't know, some of whom are literal children (in that they look like Melty to Naofumi), all of whom want to have your baby for political and religious reasons that stem not from who you are but what you are (the Shield Hero). If Naofumi had been summoned to Siltvelt he'd be a dried up husk by now. Switch the genders and it's a lot harder to deny how horrifying the situation is.

So Kyo is the equivalent of Bitch, Trash #2 is the equivalent of, well, Trash #1, and now we have Jaralis as the equivalent of Armor (are we ever going to see Itsuki's old party again?). Motoyasu #2 (old guy's master) is a bit of a stretch, since even Motoyasu #1 wasn't that pushy when trying to hit on a girl (though admittedly he was going to keep Filo and keep her from transforming back into her real form after he "saved" her from Naofumi's brainwashing).

Also, gotta love Jaralis' drug high from his super steroid, calling himself a god in a world that has Fitoria and the freaking Spirit Tortoise. Yes, random doping, cannibal lion. I'm most certain you are the god of this world. Way more so than the mountain-sized monster that shoots lightning from its mouth and re-grew its own head.

Looking forward to finding out more about Raphtalia's family, including the Heavenly Emperor. I assume he has some kind of ties to the monsters he doesn't want killed.

I keep bringing up Overlord since it was my gateway into Isekai anime and light novels, but reading Naofumi's experience in Siltvelt made me really appreciate how lucky Ainz is with the servants he has. His minions always genuinely listen to him, the problem is just that they don't always understand what he really wants. They do genuinely respect Ainz as their ruler and want his happiness. Here? They're purposely trying to avoid Naofumi being allowed to say what he wants. What he wants doesn't matter unless it goes along with what they want. The Shield Hero is basically their tool to gain more power. He'd be just slightly above a figurehead since Naofumi does have actual power that could protect Siltvelt but in the end he'd basically just be getting used nonstop until he has nothing more he can give. Now I'm just wondering if the Shield Hero who died in Siltvelt a month into his time was murdered or if he overindulged himself with the harem and bit off more than he could chew? Because according to these people the previous Shield Heroes (plural) were all about that harem. In a way, I kind of like that history. It shows that the Shield Hero isn't that unique or special among the four heroes. The Shield Hero is just as susceptible to being a good-for-nothing egotist and that it's Naofumi himself and his experiences that make the difference.

“Ugh . . . I feel . . . so weak,” he said.

He moaned and did everything he could to try to stand up. I was feeling pretty beat too.

“Allow me,” Atla said.

She jumped up onto Fohl’s collapsed body and held her arms up in the air victoriously. Umm, why did she feel the need to stand on her brother’s body again?

“This is your reward, Brother. You actually managed to follow through,” she said.

“Atla! S-stop that!” Fohl cried out.

Why the hell did he seem to be halfway smiling?!

“What are you doing?!” Raphtalia snapped.

“Oh my . . .” Sadeena giggled.

“Rafuuu?”

“Hm?”

And so our duel in Siltvelt came to an end.

...What was she doing?! I feel like I'm missing something funny and inappropriate!

Original Reddit post: https://www.reddit.com/r/shieldbro/comments/fkqpw7/read_through_light_novel_vol_13_random_thoughts/

#rising of the shield hero #random thoughts #reddit repost

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clarste · 7 years ago

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I am now the proud owner of three copies of this book. Maybe I should reevaluate my priorities in life. I’ll probably get the digital version for future volumes though.

Anyway, as promised I plan to do some side-by-side translation comparisons, along with some general commentary on the series. I’ll do this chapter-by-chapter, so for now we’re just doing chapter 1. Please excuse the fact that I’m taking pictures of the book with my phone.

First of all just a general impression of the book itself: both English and Japanese books are about the same in terms of paper quality and whatnot. The main difference is that the Japanese book has a book jacket surrounding a classier/blander actual cover:

I��m mostly fine with that, but the English book is missing the brief self-introductions by the authors, including Harukawa’s habit of using photos of her cats as her portrait.

Another thing to keep in mind is that the translation is credited to ZephyrRZ, but according to his/her own twitter, s/he was not the translator and Yen Press made some kind of mistake that will be corrected for future printings. So the translator for Yen Press is currently unknown. Moving on:

It should be pretty obvious, but the the browner/yellower image is the Yen Press translation, while the cleaner BW is my own. Blame the lighting at my house. Anyway, remember how I said a little while ago that kanji (Chinese characters) have unlimited possible pronunciations? Well, on this page there was a cute trick used: Marisa says Akyu/Akyuu’s name in kanji, but the furigana next to it say it’s meant to be pronounced ‘anta’, a rather informal way of saying ‘you’. So she means Akyu, but is only saying ‘you’ out loud. These days I’d probably go with exactly what Yen Press did, but back then I just removed all reference to her name. In context, Akyu gets kind of annoyed that everyone’s calling her ‘you’ all the time instead of using her name; this is somewhat rude in Japanese. Incidentally, almost everyone in Touhou is rude.

Okay, several things are going on here. First, I don’t know why I deleted the fancy divider line in Kosusu’s title card: those are in every title card in the series, and I kept most of them. But not here. Weird. Second, I used ‘just’ Akyuu because I was trying to convey a dismissive attitude that Akyuu would be offended by. It’s a subtle difference, but writing is hard. Not sure which is better; maybe Akyuu’s offense stands on its own?

Third, Akyu versus Akyuu. It’s technically more correct to leave in the long vowel sound, since the short Akyu would actually be pronounced differently in Japanese, but strictly speaking it should be Akyū anyway. The double ‘u’ is a weird artifact of fan translations based on a more literal reading of Japanese alphabet. Anyway, I have no problem with Akyu because I personally switched to Akyu halfway through the series and no one even noticed. If anything, I think the double ‘u’ sounds are just confusing to English readers, and so are macrons. For example, anyone who’s pronounced Touhou as Toohoo. Akyu is the easiest to understand and close enough to correct, for an English speaker. That said, some other names would be much harder to change without upsetting people. Look forward to meeting Yomu and Moko (they're never named in FS, iirc).

Fourth, Kosuzu’s actual title. Honestly I’m surprised that they’re so similar. The only difference is singular versus plural, which I don’t think is all that important. For the record, Japanese doesn’t use plurals unless it’s being particularly emphasized, you can just kinda tell by context. I mean, obviously she has two eyes so I thought it should be plural, but the concept is abstract enough that I think singular is fine too. “You have a good eye” etc. Incidentally, in Japanese she was described as a ‘Bibliophilia’, but that didn’t make much sense so both translators corrected it.

No, I’m not going to talk about Hiedano. Well, I’ll say that they probably should have included a translation note, at least.

Once again, we have a pluralization issue with the books. I kind of figured from the picture that Akyu was returning multiple books at once, but I suppose maybe those were already on the table? Sometimes you just have to go with your gut. Translation is ultimately all about being bold, and affirming that your interpretation is the correct one.

The main thing that stand out to me here is Kosuzu saying “Thank you, friend.” Which seems really really weird to me. Do people say that? Maybe I just don’t speak teenage girl though.

“Utterly Normal Magician.” Eh, close enough. It means the same thing. One thing to note though is that ZUN is using English words in every single FS character title. We’ve already seen Bibliophilia/Bibliophile and Savant, so now we have Magician. Every day of my life I am absolutely flabbergasted that ZUN happened to choose the same English word that the fandom already used to describe Marisa. Instead of like Mage or Witch or Magus Night. This is the true miracle.

Other Touhou works also have themed character titles. For example, in WaHH each character title contains a four character idiom, which I’ve found basically impossible to translate and rarely bother.

As I mentioned just now, all the titles here were originally partly in English. So ‘shaman’ isn’t Yen Press’s translation of shrine maiden, it’s ZUN’s translation of shrine maiden. For what it’s worth, that seems fairly common? For example, Fire Emblem uses it for certain light-element mages like Micaiah in Radiant Dawn. Her final class in Japanese is written as 巫女 (shrine maiden) but pronounced as Shaman. This is the same class as Julia and Deirdre from Genealogy of the Holy Way. Anyway, I’ve seen it in other fantasy works too, after I started noticing it. Maybe it’s the first translation listed in some popular J-E dictionary? For what it’s worth, shrine maiden do in fact meet the anthropological definition of shamanism, so it’s not incorrect to call her a shaman. It just sounds a bit weird to us.

I have a much bigger problem with the use of the word ‘beautiful’ in her title. The Japanese word used there is 素敵 (suteki) which has meanings like “wow, amazing, cool, wonderful.” You can use suteki to compliment someone’s looks, but in my opinion that’s mostly in the same sense you can say someone “looks amazing” in English. And in the context of Touhou, I simply can’t imagine ZUN choosing to describe Reimu as beautiful. That’s just not a part of her character, nor is it something ZUN seems like he’d particularly care about.

Ah yes, the infamous footnote. For the record, the footnote was there in Japanese too, i just deleted it because it seemed pointless, at least in English. In Japanese she uses the word 稀覯本 (kikounbon) which I can only assume is relatively technical and obscure. Sadly I’m not well-versed enough in Japanese to tell the difference between an obscure word and one I just happen to not know, but there seem to be plenty of other shorter words for rare books, so I’d imagine this is meant to show off Marisa’s collector mania. But... there’s no good way to put that into English so the footnote becomes redundant. I now fully expect someone to come forward with some obscure word for rare books that I don’t know in English either.

For the record, I also like how they put Reimu’s dialog here better than how I did it.

Oh. My. God. Honorifics! Our oldest of friends, and greatest of enemies. Honestly, -san is so ubiquitous and generic that you can ignore it 90% of the time, but in Touhou it’s different. In Touhou, everyone is a rude bastard who rarely even uses someone else’s name, so Kosuzu using -san with these two shows that she treats them with a basic level of respect that’s somewhat unusual for this series. I chose to go with Miss because it kinda makes sense to me that you’d call someone slightly older than you Miss with their first name, but I can also totally understand the feelings of the translator who just throws their hands up in the air and says “C’mon, our target audience already understands this stuff, so do we really need to bother?!”

Thank the gods that we’re not dealing with -sama.

The term tsukumo-book (tsukumobon) does in fact show up exactly this once.

Also, I think Yen Press did a better job with the rest of the line. I know I was going back and forth on “phenomena” but ultimately decided to go for vague.

Yen Press definitely had a better voice for the book. I respect that. But mostly I just thought it was funny how they used Blood Needlegrass when I used Bloodneedle Grass. I’ll give the point to Yen Press on this one because needlegrass is a real thing.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Great minds think alike. And/or we both love our cliches a bit too much.

On another note, I haven’t mentioned this until now, but they’ve been “translating” all these sound effects while leaving the Japanese ones in place. All I have to say about that is that I would totally do that too (more often anyway) except for the fact that this one person once praised me for replacing all the sound effects and I feel like I’d disappoint that person. I hate sound effects though. Especially non-sounds like “carefree”. What’s the sound of someone being carefree in English? Seriously, I need to know.

And... that’s that for chapter 1. Sorry if anyone wanted me to go over every single line, but I tried to stick to the ones that I found most interesting. If any of you have any particular line you’d like to ask about, feel free. You can expect chapter 2 sometime before the next volume comes out, but no guarantees.

#touhou #touhou suzunaan #forbidden scrollery

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faithfulnews · 5 years ago

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Pascal & the Magisterium

By Paul J. Griffiths

May 4, 2020

“Magisterium” is a Latin word that designates, for Catholics, the church’s teaching authority, vested principally in its bishops. Grammatically, the word is a noun in the genitive plural and means, literally, “what belongs to teachers”—teacherly things, that is. In theological usage, the teacherly thing indicated most directly by “magisterium” is authority. Jesus had this, Scripture tells us: it was strikingly and surprisingly evident in his teaching, and he is referred to as “teacher” (magister) in Latin versions of Scripture. The church’s bishops, as Jesus’ inheritors in this respect, have it too.

Authority asks for submission, and when it’s recognized, submission ordinarily follows. When the state trooper’s blue lights flash in my rearview mirror, I pull over. That’s because she has authority and I recognize it. If I didn’t, I might ignore the flashing lights. That she does in fact have authority explains why, if I ignore those lights, things won’t go well for me in the short-term future. Authority is real: it belongs to those who have it whether it’s acknowledged or not. But for it to become active, it must be acknowledged, whether willingly (I pull over) or not (I’m forced off the road).

It’s a commonplace that teachers have authority. If you want to learn something from someone and you don’t recognize their authority to teach it to you, you won’t be able to learn it from them. This is most obvious when what you want to learn is technique: ordinarily, the teacher demonstrates the technique (the fingering that makes it possible to play the Goldberg Variations, or the best way to make a villanelle), and then you try it for yourself. If you don’t recognize the teacher’s authority by observing and imitating her demonstration of whatever it is you’re trying to learn, then she won’t be able to teach you. The authority of a teacher is ordinarily limited to its proper sphere. It’s not reasonable to expect your piano teacher to also instruct you in the proper use of a chainsaw, in rather the same way that it’s not reasonable to take the state trooper’s authority to extend to the establishment of foreign policy.

All this applies to the magisterium. It has its proper sphere, which is, roughly speaking, what belongs to Catholic faith and morals, with extensions into the governance of Catholic life by law. Its authority does not extend to instruction in the arts, or to empirically observable fact, or to mathematical truths. Generally, it also does not extend to questions of historical fact, or to politics, or to literature. If it does have anything to say about such questions, it’s because answers to them are understood to have an effect upon Catholic faith and morals. And mostly they don’t.

As with other kinds of authority, magisterial authority is effective only when it’s freely recognized, or when teachers can force recognition on those who’d rather not give it. Since most non-Catholics don’t recognize magisterial authority at all, and since the church’s teachers, unlike state troopers, have few means at their disposal to make them do so, magisterial authority is, by and large, effective only for Catholics. And it’s not always effective even for them, because sometimes they refuse to recognize it, and the bishops either can’t or don’t do what would be necessary to make them.

So here’s the picture, drastically simplified but accurate as far as it goes: the church’s bishops have authority to teach Catholics about what we Catholics should believe and how we should act. And that authority binds: we are to assent to, and act upon, these teachings. Because of the magisterium we can say, as the centurion said to Jesus, that we know what authority is and that we live our lives responsively to it. That is good knowledge to have, for all human life is lived, more or less, under authority, and it’s among the privileges of Catholic life for that condition to be explicit and theorized.

Pascal considered himself a faithful Catholic, and this was central to his self-conception.

But living a life under authority in this way comes with interesting difficulties, and with the help of Blaise Pascal (1623–1662), a peculiarly sharp thinker on this as on most other topics, I want to consider one of them. Suppose you’re a Catholic and that you take yourself to be bound by magisterial teaching: you’re aware of it and you take it seriously; you don’t shrug off difficulties in this sphere by replacing what the bishops teach with what seems good to you. Suppose, next, that a magisterial teaching is promulgated on a sharply delineated topic about which you take yourself to know a good deal. Suppose, further, that what the magisterium has to say about this topic is, so far as you can see, simply wrong. And suppose, lastly, that the situation of the church in your time and place makes silence on the matter seem to you either imprudent or improper. What do you do? Pascal was faced with just such a situation.

Today Pascal is mostly known for the Pensées, the title given in 1670 to the first publication of a collection of literary fragments left in disarray at his early death. These contain the outlines of an apologetic in favor of Catholic Christianity, a subtle and interesting understanding of the human condition with observations on death, boredom, amusement, the meaning of social and political life, and much more. The Pensées were widely read in the seventeenth century, as they have been ever since. Pascal also wrote a considerable quantity of polemical theology, mostly against the Jesuits, some of it published under a pseudonym during his lifetime. But during his life he was mostly known as a mathematician and scientist. He made contributions to the development of calculus, designed and built the first working calculating machine, planned the first mass-transit system in Paris, performed experiments that showed the possibility that a vacuum can exist—and much more. And since he died at thirty-nine, he managed to fit all this into a short career.

Pascal lived at perhaps the last moment in European history when it was halfway reasonable to think yourself capable of having significant expertise in every department of human knowledge. He doesn’t rival his younger contemporary Leibniz (1646–1716) in the range of his knowledge—who could?—but he makes Descartes (1596–1650), whom he met, and Spinoza (1632–1677) look positively provincial in their interests. But many people have great intellectual capacities. That alone wouldn’t make him memorable. Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet (1627–1704) was more of a polymath than Pascal, and vastly more learned. But Pascal could write with lucidity and force, and Bossuet, like most intellectuals, could not. Pascal, therefore, was read much more widely during his life, and has been ever since. The ability to write well, with lucidity, concision, wit, and force, is at least as important in intellectual life as the capacity to think, and since there is no profundity of thought that requires obscurity in writing, it’s surprising how many thinkers with important things to say haven’t been able to find clear language with which to say them. Pascal isn’t among them: his writings were and still are a stimulating pleasure to read.

Pascal considered himself a faithful Catholic, and this was central to his self-conception. Were he to have lost or abandoned his faith, he would have lost something as close to himself as his ability to write French or think mathematically. And so, when he found himself at odds with the magisterium, he took it seriously; and because he was the kind of man who wrote about whatever he took to be important, he wrote about this situation. In fact, he wrote a lot about it, over a period of more than ten years, which means that we have a good deal of material from his hand on which to draw.

Those who thought that the results of Pascal’s experiments must be wrong because of what the Aristotelian tradition said were ridiculous fools, and Pascal did not hesitate to ridicule them.

Pascal’s understanding of theological topics such as God, grace, church, and the nature of the Christian life were deeply influenced by the published work of Cornelius Jansen (1585–1638), a Dutch theologian and bishop. Jansenism, named for Jansen, was a Catholic reform movement of Augustinian inspiration. It was eventually judged heretical in significant part, and it disturbed French Catholicism, and eventually European Catholicism, for a century and a half after Jansen’s death. During Pascal’s life, the movement was institutionally centered on the convents of Port-Royal in Paris, and Pascal was among its principal apologists. Jansenism survives now largely as a label for a set of heresies about grace and predestination, and for a harshly rigorist understanding of the disciplines of the Christian life. That is regrettable, for some of the most knowledgeable and skilled theologians of the seventeenth century were, or later came to be called, Jansenists, and there’s more to be said in favor of their work, and of the tendency within Christianity that it represents, than such a dismissive summary permits.

Augustinus (1640), Jansen’s principal work, is a large study of Augustine, with a particular focus on Augustine’s understanding of grace as set out in his late anti-Pelagian works. The Augustinus was a foundational text for Pascal and the Port-Royalists. They took Jansen’s work to be correct as a reading of Augustine, and orthodox with respect to the doctrines of grace and human agency. They also took it to be an essential corrective to other, largely Jesuit tendencies within Catholicism that, as they believed, over-accommodated Christianity to the pagan mores of seventeenth-century France, and gave too much independence to human agency. In May 1653, Pope Innocent X issued a bull condemning five propositions on grace and attributing them to Jansen’s Augustinus. Innocent described these propositions as rash, false, impious, blasphemous, scandalous, and concluded that they were, collectively, heretical. The Port-Royalists, including Pascal, responded with a flood of polemical writing.

Innocent’s bull, Cum occasione, makes two claims. First, that a certain understanding of the workings of grace is heretical; and second, that precisely such an understanding is endorsed by a particular book—namely, the Augustinus. Pascal acknowledged at once the right of the magisterium to rule on questions about grace, and accepted that the five condemned propositions do enshrine an unorthodox and unacceptable understanding of grace. But he also insisted he had never held such an understanding of grace, and neither, so far as he could tell, had any of the so-called Jansenists, particularly not Cornelius Jansen, whether in the Augustinus or anywhere else.

Pascal’s response calls into question the right—and perhaps also the capacity—of the bishops to rule on matters of fact that can be settled by ordinary empirical investigation. Matters of that sort, Pascal argued, should be investigated by those best equipped to do so, and with the methods best adapted to the task. And the question of whether the Augustinus really did endorse, defend, or explicitly mention any or all of the condemned propositions is exactly a matter of that sort. It’s a question of fact. If you want to know what’s in the Augustinus, there’s just one appropriate method: it’s to study the book. If it includes the five propositions in question, then the references can be given, the quotations supplied, and anyone who wishes can confirm for themselves the facts of the matter. Pascal notes that no one—not Innocent, not the consultors in Rome who advised him, not those among the French theologians and bishops who had it in for Pascal and his friends—had been able to show where the condemned propositions are to be found in the Augustinus. And that, Pascal writes, is because they aren’t there. No matter what Cum occasione says, the Augustinus does not endorse or even contain any of the condemned propositions, much less all of them.

And Pascal tightened the screw. Matters of fact such as the one at issue don’t and can’t require the assent of faith. He writes, in the Provincial Letters, that “when the church condemns texts, she supposes them to contain an error that she condemns; and then it’s a matter of faith that the error has been condemned; but it isn’t a matter of faith that the texts in fact contain the error that the church supposes to be there.” In other words, whatever the pope or the bishops might say about matters of fact, positions on such matters cannot require the assent of faith. They’re simply not that kind of thing. No one’s orthodoxy or salvation depends on whether so-and-so wrote such-and-such in a particular book. People can disagree about what Jansen wrote, or about the best way to interpret it; but the magisterium has no special expertise in such matters.

In pursuing this argument, Pascal applied tools he’d developed in earlier controversies. (He was, from beginning to end, a controversialist: a man for whom the intellectual life was essentially an agonistic matter.) One such controversy had been about whether nature abhors a vacuum. Most of Pascal’s contemporaries thought that it did, and that therefore a vacuum could never be established or observed. Pascal devised experiments that showed, decisively, that a vacuum can indeed be established and observed; and he was scathing about those (again, mostly Jesuits) who thought the question about vacuums could be resolved by appealing to what Aristotle and his interpreters had written. Pascal considered that method inappropriate to the question, which was one of physics, not Aristotelian exegesis. Those who thought that the results of Pascal’s experiments must be wrong because of what the Aristotelian tradition said were ridiculous fools, and Pascal did not hesitate to ridicule them. So also here: the question about what’s in the Augustinus is one that can be investigated by ordinary means (read the book, provide the references), and those who think it can be answered by appeal to what the bishops say misunderstand both the nature of the question and the scope of magisterial authority.

Pascal continued to deny that particular matters of fact can be resolved by magisterial authority.

In 1656, after complicated backroom maneuverings in France and at Rome, Alexander VII promulgated the bull Ad sanctam, which responded directly to Pascal’s argument. Pope Alexander wrote that the five propositions of Cum occasione were drawn from the Augustinus, and are condemned “in sensu ab eodem Cornelio Iansenio intento”: in just the same sense as that intended by Jansen. This raised the temperature. Alexander didn’t back off from what Innocent had written, but rather intensified it in two ways. Now the five propositions were not merely said to have been taught or endorsed by Jansen in the Augustinus, but to have been excerpted from that book; and the sense in which they were condemned was said to be exactly the sense intended by Jansen. That second claim introduced a new problem: it was no longer just a question of what was written in the book, which is a matter of public record, but also of what the person who wrote it meant by it, which isn’t.

Pascal did not retreat. In 1657, partly in response to Ad sanctam, he restated a clear distinction between two ways of coming to assent to some claim. One is by reason, which means deploying for oneself whatever means of investigation are best suited to the claim in question. The other is by relying on authority, which means faith or trust in those best equipped to rule on the topic. Pascal subdivided this second way, faith, into two kinds. First, there’s divine faith, which means faith in what God has entrusted to the church, available to Catholics in Scripture and tradition. Here tradition means “what’s proposed to us by the church, with the assistance of the Spirit.” The church, Pascal writes, is infallible on those matters. And then there’s human faith, which means faith in authoritative people, those best equipped to teach us truths about particular matters (historical, empirical, and so on). And then Pascal writes this:

Everything that has to do with a particular point of fact can only be assented to by human faith. That’s because it’s quite clear that such matters can’t be founded upon Scripture or tradition, which are the two channels through which God’s revelation, on which divine faith is founded, comes to us. And that’s why the church can be in error on questions of fact, as all Catholics recognize.

And this:

To command those who are entirely persuaded of the truth of some point of fact to change their opinion in deference to papal authority would be to require that they abuse their reason against the order of God himself, who has given us reason to discriminate true from false so that we can prefer what we take to be true to what we take to be false.

This makes the tension very clear. In spite of what Alexander’s bull says, Pascal continued to deny that particular matters of fact can be resolved by magisterial authority, and he did that because of an epistemology—an understanding of what knowledge is and how it’s arrived at—that places conclusions about such matters beyond the scope of magisterial teaching. So if you should find yourself in the position, as Pascal did, of having what you take to be clear, even decisive evidence in favor of some conclusion about a question of fact, you shouldn’t abandon that conclusion because a pope or some bishops say the opposite.

It’s worth pausing here to note that Pascal is correct about the question of fact at issue. None of the five propositions condemned by Innocent and Alexander is to be found verbatim in the Augustinus, and if Alexander said otherwise, then he was wrong. Thanks to Google Books, you can test this at home. The 1640 Louvain edition of the Augustinus—1,463 pages of turgidly serious Latin on double-columned badly-photographed pages—can be downloaded gratis. You can read it all with the text of the condemned propositions at hand, and if you do, you’ll find that none of them has been excerpted from the book—not, at least, if “excerpted” means “taken verbatim.” And if you consult the latest edition of Denzinger’s Compendium (2012), you’ll find that its notes to the relevant sections of Innocent’s Cum occasione claim that the first of the condemned propositions is found “literally” in the Augustinus, at 3.III.13. But it isn’t—or not if “literally” means “verbatim.”

Of course, to say that the condemned propositions aren’t found verbatim in the Augustinus is perfectly compatible with saying that the condemned propositions are an adequate summary of the positions defended in that text. I’ll make no claim about that one way or the other. Here I focus on the matter only to provide a clear instance of Pascal’s strong claim, quoted above: that it’s possible for the magisterium to err on matters of fact, and that if we think we have decisive evidence that this has happened, we’d be abusing our faculties—and, I’d add, our consciences—were we to pretend otherwise.

But that isn’t the end of the story. Following Alexander’s bull—and after much back-and-forth among the French bishops, the Roman consultors, and various political factions, to which Pascal contributed with the vigor you might expect—the French vicars general demanded that priests, religious, and teachers of theology sign a formulary of submission to the bulls of 1653 and 1656, in wording designed to make it impossible to maintain a distinction between the condemned propositions and Jansen’s teaching of them. This was in October 1661, just nine months before Pascal’s death. Pascal’s last surviving written contribution to the debate, composed during the last months of 1661, speaks to a situation in which, as he sees it, the Port-Royalists have only three choices: sign the formulary without reservation, which would mean agreeing that the propositions are heretical and that Jansen taught them; refuse to sign; or sign with the reservation that the signature has to do only with matters that concern the faith—i.e., not with the question of what Jansen did or didn’t write or intend or teach, but only with questions of substance about the workings of grace.

Pascal explicitly rejects the third option. By now, he writes, “it’s a point of doctrine and of faith to say that the five propositions are heretical in the sense given them by Jansen.” To sign the formulary, then, is to submit to the denial of the-five-propositions-in-the-sense-given-them-by-Jansen. That complex object can no longer be disaggregated into its components (the five propositions on the one hand; Jansen’s teaching on the other). Attempts to do so have been ruled out by Ad sanctam and the formulary. If one signed the formulary, one’s signature meant submission to all of it; anything else would be bad faith. It would be “abominable before God and despicable before men.” But it’s not clear from this last surviving writing on the matter which of the other two possibilities—signing without reservation or not signing—Pascal endorsed. He died the following August.

At first blush it might seem clear which option Pascal must have favored. If, as he’d been consistent in arguing for the preceding six years, the magisterium’s authority doesn’t extend to matters of fact, and yet explicit submission to a teaching on just such a matter was now being required of French Catholics, shouldn’t he have refused to sign? Wouldn’t signing have been acknowledgement of a kind of authority the bishops don’t in fact have? Perhaps. But it seems to me that there’s something else Pascal might have done—and some evidence to suggest that it’s what he did.

The evidence: First, it’s clear that by late 1661 Pascal was at odds with other Port-Royalists on the question of the signature. The disagreements circled around whether the fact/doctrine distinction could be maintained, whether it was proper to sign with reservations, and whether it was proper to sign at all. That there were such disagreements shows at least that Pascal’s final position wasn’t identical with any of those held by other prominent Jansenists in 1661 and 1662, and since those positions were, essentially, sign with reservation or don’t sign, it’s at least possible that Pascal advocated signing without reservation. Second, there’s some (disputed) evidence in support of the view that Pascal died in full communion with the church, having confessed, received the last rites, and, during the last few days of his life, fully acknowledged to his confessor the right of the church to require his assent to the claims of the formulary. That’s the sworn testimony given after Pascal’s death by the priest who attended him in his last days. This testimony was accepted by the bishop of Paris, who’d commissioned an investigation into Pascal’s death in response to a request that his remains be disinterred from their burial place because he was a heretic who’d died separated from the Church. And third, there’s evidence (again, not probative) that close to the time of his death Pascal asked Jean Domat, to whom his papers were consigned, to destroy his writings on the signature if the religious of Port-Royal found themselves under persecution, but to preserve and publish them if they’d submitted. That report makes more sense if Pascal finally advocated signing without reservation.

Your task as a Catholic thinker is always to do the best you can at what you’re thinking about.

Pascal’s case shows with unusual clarity what it is to hold together two judgments that might at first seem incompatible, and what it’s like to act consistently with such a balancing act. The first judgment is: I’m convinced that p is the case. The second is: I see that the magisterium teaches not-p, and I acknowledge its authority to do so. Acknowledging that an authority teaches not-p doesn’t require you to abandon your assent to p (Pascal never abandons his view that none of the five propositions is found in the Augustinus). What it does require is submission (the signature) to the authority of the teacher who teaches not-p. Not to acknowledge that authority would be, in the Catholic case, to separate yourself from the form of life in part constituted by such an acknowledgment; it would be to look the state trooper in the eye as she asks you to roll down your window and say, “I don’t recognize your authority to direct my action; I’ve nothing to say to you.” You may do that. But doing it comes with a price: it’s the price of removing yourself from the form of life in which state troopers have authority to enforce local laws. That, mutatis mutandis, wasn’t a price Pascal was prepared to pay in the Jansen case, and I’m with him on that. Within the Catholic form of life, the magisterium does in fact have authority to do what it did in that case.

But acknowledgment and submission don’t require pretense. If it seems to you that such-and-such is the case (that the five propositions aren’t in the Augustinus), then clarity of thought and strength of conscience not only don’t require you to pretend otherwise, but require the opposite: when occasion demands, you must say that what seems to you to be the case does in fact so seem, and when relevant you must give your reasons for this judgment. Theologians call this expressing a doubt: I see that the magisterium teaches p, but, so far as I can tell, not-p is the case, and here’s why. We’ve seen Pascal doing this, con brio. The modifier “so far as I can tell” is important. You might be wrong (that’s always true), and seeing that the magisterium seems to be teaching that you are should place your sense of your own rightness under pressure. Pressure of that kind is usually a good thing for the intellectual life: it clarifies conviction by accentuating difference.

The pressure of authority had at least one very clear effect on Pascal’s thought: it led him to suggest that when the magisterium says that so-and-so’s teaching of such-and-such is heretical, the right response is not to try to disaggregate the teaching (separating the so-and-so from the such-and-such), but rather to treat it as a complex whole. That’s what Pascal did in his last surviving letter about the formulary. The nature of that complex whole then requires further clarification. Maybe the best way to describe it is heresies-about-grace-insofar-as-they-are-endorsed-by-Jansen; or maybe it’s whatever-Jansen-wrote-that-supports-this-heresy, or grace-heresies-best-labeled-“Jansen’s”—and there are more possibilities. Once disaggregation is rejected new possibilities for thought open up, both for the speculative theologian (Pascal) and for the teaching church. One such new possibility appeared, as we’ve seen, in Alexander’s Ad sanctam: he develops what Innocent had written in Cum occasione by mentioning the sense in which Jansen intended the five propositions. This, as I’ve noted, postulates an extra-textual something, and moves everyone’s thought away from the textual particulars of the Augustinus and toward something else—a trajectory of thought, an implied grammar, or some such. This magisterial move wouldn’t have occurred without Pascal’s polemics; and those, in turn, wouldn’t have occurred without magisterial pressure. The benefit is mutual, and is the result of the magisterium doing what it should and of a theologian doing what he should.

The other question that Pascal’s case raises and illuminates for us is about the place matters of fact have in magisterial teaching. Suppose we understand a matter of fact to be one capable, in principle, of exhaustive investigation by observation. One example: the presence of a sequence of words in a particular book—affirmed, as we’ve seen, variously, by Innocent X and Alexander VII in the case of Jansen’s Augustinus. Another example: the involvement of a Roman official named Pontius Pilate in the trial, condemnation, and execution of Jesus of Nazareth—affirmed scripturally and credally (“suffered under Pontius Pilate”).

Pascal came to see that his attempt to maintain an impermeable distinction between matters of this sort and matters of faith and morals couldn’t be sustained. But the attempt is helpful to us in two ways. First, it shows that when the magisterium instructs about matters of fact, as it often does, it doesn’t do so with any concern for those matters considered in themselves. Pontius Pilate is interesting to the church only because he was involved with Jesus; had he not been, the church would have had nothing to say about him. It follows from this that it’s a misconstrual of the church’s teaching about Pilate to treat it like an encyclopedia entry, from which data about Pilate can be extracted and considered independently from the story about Jesus. This is compatible with the thought that some things said about Pilate are incompatible with the church’s teaching. That would be true, for example, of the statement “Pontius Pilate was actually in Rome when Jesus was tried.” If you’re a faithful Catholic and you find yourself believing that statement (perhaps you’re a historian and you’ve come to think that this is what the evidence shows), then you’ll find yourself in a position similar to the one just discussed: believing something incompatible with what the church teaches, while also affirming the church’s authority to teach what it teaches.

But there is an interesting, if subtle, difference. Pascal’s insistence on an impermeable distinction between matters of fact and matters of doctrine, and what I take to be his later abandonment of that hard distinction, shows that the tension between the church’s teaching about Pilate and the historian’s findings isn’t best understood as a direct contradiction. It’s not as it would be if you find the church teaching it’s not possible for women to be ordained to the priesthood while you find yourself believing that it is possible. That’s a direct contradiction. But in the Pilate case, the church teaches about Pilate only in his relation to the figure of Jesus: Pilate has no significance for the church outside that relation. His name serves as synecdoche for something like “empire-as-related-to-Jesus.” The point of the church’s teaching about him isn’t to make an entry into a chronicle of events, but to locate Jesus in time and place, and to show something about the significance of his trial and death. Those purposes can be served in other ways, and, so far as I can see, nothing much hinges upon whether the name of the Roman official who condemned Jesus was Pontius Pilate. That much remains of Pascal’s insistence that no one’s salvation rests upon a matter of fact.

And that is the final gift that the Pascal case gives. It provides Catholics who want to think about matters of fact spoken to in one way or another by the magisterium with a fundamental guiding question: What is the significance for the life of the church of the magisterium’s teaching about this matter of fact? There will always be some such significance if, as I’ve suggested, the church never teaches about matters of fact simply as such. Whenever we find ourselves in disagreement with the magisterium about a matter of fact, we should begin by trying to understand what that significance is.

If you want to think as a Catholic about the Lord God, about the human person, or about the good society, you’ll find the magisterium there as a companion and a blessing, albeit one that sometimes comes with painful difficulties. Pascal’s case, on my reading of it, shows how that blessing may be welcomed and the difficulties embraced, to the benefit of all concerned. If you never find yourself in a situation like that of Pascal—seeing that the magisterium teaches one thing while, as far as you can tell, the opposite is true—that is likely an indication that you’re not thinking hard enough, and therefore not doing the job the church needs you to do as a thinker. If, when you do find yourself in Pascal’s situation, you pretend to yourself and the world that you don’t take to be true what you do take to be true, you’re also failing, this time by treating the magisterium as if it were Big Brother and concealing the truth out of fear. Your task as a Catholic thinker is always to do the best you can at what you’re thinking about; to be as clear as you can about the conclusions to which your thinking leads you; to delineate, as clearly as possible, what differences you have with the magisterium’s teaching; and, at the same time, to acknowledge the magisterium’s authority, recognizing that you are more likely to be wrong than the church is. All that together makes a delightfully difficult task. Neither the delight nor the difficulty should be forgotten or covered over. Together, they’re the Catholic thing.

Issue:

May 2020

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furederiko · 7 years ago

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It took three episodes to build up my interest, and another three to tear it down apart... *sigh*

As usual, my internet has been acting up all day. To the point that I've already postponed this to go up tomorrow (October 21st). But since the internet gets better, and the post is pretty much done, I've decided to just publish it today despite being a few hours late. Just in case my internet goes bad again during the weekend. Here goes...

05 - "My Secret Identity"

- Remember how the preview in episode 4 teased that Souichi could be working for Faust, and became its traitor? Well... that was undoubtedly misleading. - This episode confirmed that Souichi was the astronaut who discovered Pandora's Box, and indeed triggered the Skywall Disaster (but not on his free will? Hmmm) to steal two of its panels. But he wasn't working for Faust! He delivered one of the panel in exchange for Misora, who was held captive. It explained why and how Misora was able to 'purify' the Smash Essence, because she was part of Faust's experiment. Unfortunately, this also blatantly pointed out the writing's flaw. If being a shut-in was because Misora is still being hunted by Faust, then wouldn't apearing as net idol to search for underground information... recklessly gave herself away? I mean, it's not like she's wearing a mask or significant costume that would disguised her in any way. - At the same time, plot-driver Sawa also had an important discovery. Sentou's past! Ooookay, turns out it was NOT that important. Sentou Kiryuu's real name was Tarou Satou, and he was an eccentric band member alongside his equally goofy and sloppy schoolmate Tatsuya Kishida (played by Tarou Pinboke). Their band was called "Lynks", a name as plain as his real one. I know, right? What an underwhelming reveal. Perhaps the show attempted this reveal to be a comedy, but as I've repeatedly said, humour is definitely its weakest link. Meh... - The more important bit of information was the day he disappeared: September 5th. 'Tarou' was going to test out for a new drug, or something, which might explained how he got abducted by Faust. But of course, before Tatsuya was able to tell more, our baddie Blood Stalk (yes, it's 'Stalk' and not 'Stark') showed up and... ended up snatching him away. Looks like Tatsuya's annoyingly bad dental arrangement was a sign of doom all along. Naturally, he ended up as the episode's MotW/Smash. Predictable much? - Oh well, at least the fight between Build and Stalk was neat. Stalk blocked the former's "VORTEX FINISH" (yes, 'Vortex' and not 'Voltech') very easily, and expressed his desire to see Build... grow stronger. Wait, what? I wonder what truly is Faust's goal here? Hmmm. By the way, Gentoku and Utsumi were at it again. Since Stalk was in the same scene, obviously neither of them was its true identity. There's that. - New Full Bottle debuted. Comic Full Bottle? For a supposed science-based Rider, this show really goes beyond science. Comic didn't fit the biological/tech angle, unless... that's never the case from the start? Could it be, it's our fault for expecting or assuming too much too soon? - Once again, Ryuuga (who indeed is sleeping on the SAME bed. Does the show have so little of a budget, it can't afford separate rooms?) pulled off Comic's Best Match... with Ninja. HUH? "Naruto"-inspired? Thankfully, NinninComic form was impressive both in design and action. I loved the color scheme, and the 'Ninjitsu'-style attacks (like duplication and some others) were cool. This is definitely the most useful form so far. The show was about to end in a good note, until... - Sentou was carelessly caught off guard by Ryuuga once again (no kidding! TWICE already), who knocked him down and turned Tatsuya back into a Smash. Yep, I didn't know that's actually possible. Misora was to be blamed, as she's the one who planted this wrong idea to Ryuuga's simpleton's head. Would Sentou react in a hostile way because of this? The answer is in the next episode...

Overall: This was an underwhelming episode. I was kind of hoping for a powerful reveal about Sentou's past, but it wasn't even that important. Instead, the good part came for Souichi and Misora, who unfortunately were brushed off fairly quickly to pave way for Tatsuya's arrival. The butt-head argument between Tatsuya and Ryuuga was nice and all, as they seemed to by vying for Sentou's attention. But overall, this episode wasn't as strong as the previous three that have managed to grab my attention. So to be honest... I'm disappointed.

06 - "In the Belly of the Beast!"

- Let's continue. Unnecessary long 'previous episode' review aside, how would you expect Sentou to react for Ryuuga's action? Well... not as 'fun' nor 'tense' as I had imagined. Perhaps because Sentou had less memory with Tatsuya, and had spent more time with Ryuuga instead? Hmmm. - Ryuuga's plan actually worked. Re-Smash-ed Tatsuya wandered back to Faust secret base! But sadly Build had to come and save his ass again, which led to their bickering scene (with a touch of fist-fight). This was however, an important scene. We got to see that the Build Driver somehow only worked with Sentou, as Ryuuga got electrocuted when he tried to use it. It led Sentou to tinker a sentient gadget called Cross-Z Dragon for Ryuuga, so he could utilize the power of his Dragon Full Bottle. Yep, it's definitely the second step for him to become Kamen Rider Cross-Z (that's the official romanization). For now however, it worked as some sort of pet/babysitter... that has the ability to suck poison from Ryuuga's body. CONVENIENT! - Hazard Level? Night Rogue felt Blood Stalk has been trying to raise Build's level, and didn't seem pleased about it. These Faust duo are definitely toying with Build... and also Ryuuga (Stalk openly used plural for Build) in their own way. But what for? I still couldn't get it. - Hey, Sentou's working at the Institute! Now that's a rare sight. LOL. Seeing his employee hard at work, Gentoku openly shared more information about Takumi Katsuragi, and about the gas emitting from Sky Wall that they branded as Nebula Gas. Utsumi seemed unsure to hand out Katsuragi's research to Sentou, but Gentoku didn't mind. And responded with a... suspicious smile? He's totally up for something here. Could he be secretly leading Sentou to pinpoint the... Faust Lab? That seemed to be the case. Cunning Gentoku totally knew more than he should've. Was he in cahoots with Stalk? - Sentou and Ryuuga discovered the base. It's the lab where they were experimented on! Home sweet home, huh? It's interesting that only halfway through episode 6, and we've already in the enemy's headquarters. This was FAST, so Sentou's identity arc might be wrapped pretty soon. But this show have got to be kidding me! The lab was on the verge of exploding (following Build's berserk against Stalk), and the Faust soldiers were trying to transport the other victims of human experiment... yet Sentou and Ryuuga went into a long emotional private talk instead? YIKES. This show tends to choose bad timing for this kind of scene, and this might be the most ridiculous example. It's like audience was expected to assume that time froze or something like that, until they've done their heart to heart talk... *sigh*. - The episode ended in a more baffling manner. After being rescued, Tatsuya opened up that Sentou could have been the real culprit in Katsuragi's supposed-murder. How so? Because Tatsuya dropped him off at Katsuragi's apartment, precisely an hour before Ryuuga arrived there. It could be an attempt for a cliffhanger, but it felt forced instead. And it got more irritating, as Blood Stalk walked into a brand new Faust lab facility while talking in the phone with... *drumrolls* Gentoku. Nope, that's not where it annoyed me. It's what was shown afterwards in the preview! Because... wait for it, following a commerical break that somehow included the Faust "Trans-Steam Gun" and "Steam Blade" in it (Over-Time's fansub didn't include this, but it was in broadcast), we got to see Gentoku using a Full Bottle, revealing that he is... *sigh*

Overall: Way to go, TOEI! You always ruin the fun of discovery by showing too much on the next episode's preview, and you've done it again with this one. To put it worse, the startlingly problematic second half was just part of other major issues I had with this episode. It felt messy and well, missed out plenty of potentials to actually surprise audience in a positive way. That exaggerated chit-chat scene between Sawa and Misora about boyfriends, extras (those other victims) who ridiculously acted very poorly, and Sentou's supposed emotional explosion that never felt believable? And then that spoilerish preview? What a bummer... *sigh*.

07 - "The True Face of Night Rogue"

- Let's address the biggest, gigantic elephant in the room right away. Gentoku Himuro. The charming Gentoku who sleazily tried to harrass Sawa while spreading suspicious smirks and grunts every now and then, is indeed, totally, undeniably Night Rogue. So basically, this series does the complete obvious, by rehashing the exact same trope of last year (remember Kamen Rider Genm?). This is well... such a let-down, because I admittedly expected it to be different, if not better. Unlike Build's brother show Kyuranger that continues to prove its forte of being enjoyable and unexpectedly surprising over and over again, Build is sequing through the predictable path instead. - Not sure how I feel about it, but this reveal officially made Gentoku's entire movements more and more confusing to follow. Is Night Rogue really the leader of Faust? Then why would he follow Stalk's every order, as if he's the second in command? Before this, we saw him being fascinated with Stalk's action, and then in this episode, they butted heads and got into a disagreement. He claimed to Sentou that he fired Katsuragi for doing illegal human experiments, but he obviously has been doing it himself. What's that about? Does he have dual personality? - I understood that he's aiming to build Kamen Rider for military purposes. But if he has known Sentou is Build from the beginning, why have he and Utsumi been pretending in the Institute that they didn't have a clue? Spilling out details one after another, leaking information to the 'enemy', while in various occasions looked so desperate to capture them (Gentoku's weird reaction in episode 5 in particular, just felt all wrong). Inconsistent much? Hmmm... could he be intentionally toying with Build? Didn't seem so, and that's... pointless anyway. Not to mention, WHY OH WHY? Build kept using new Full Bottles (doesn't take a genius to figure out that he has Misora who can purify them, as well as the Pandora's Panel that Faust is looking for), then why didn't Gentoku just follow him to Cafe Nascita, and scored multiple jackpots? He DID easily follow Sentou and Ryuuga to stop them from going to the dry-soiled Hokuto region, right? Confusing! *sigh* - I guess Gentoku's first transformation sequence and the "MIST MATCH" tagline was meant to look cool, but it sure didn't feel that way and came off as unnecessarily flashy. Interestingly, he outpaced Ryuuga to become the official 2nd rider of the show. A fact that made me speechless. - Also, I'm calling it now. Blood Stalk is none other than Katsuragi. Who else, right? Why on Earth would his actor be promoted into a recurring cast recently. It signaled that he's way more important than just mere cameo (remember Kamen Rider Para-DX?). The way Stalk boldly proclaimed Takumi to be the founder of Faust, was way too suspicious anyway. Just like Gaim and Ex-Aid, looks like everyone who's not comic reliefs might end up becoming a Rider. - Thankfully, Takumi's mother Kyoka Katsuragi (played by Komura Hiro) became a highlight to this episode. Ignoring the odd facts that led Sentou to Hokuto (how would Takumi even bothered to give out obvious hints via his logs, one that would shockingly be deduced as anagram? How is that even scientific? Also, another cosplay joke for Ryuuga... *sigh*), the drama bit between the middle-aged local teacher and Ryuuga was moving. This was the woman who thought of Ryuuga as her son's killer, but had to swallow the bitter pill when she learned who was truly the evil one. - There were other good points. Cross-Z Dragon was the episode's MVP, by aiding in the battle against that child-based Smash. I also digged the fact that the Rocket Full Bottle actually belonged to Stalk, and was not Sentou's to begin with. The switched ownership was neat, and shook things up a little. Ryuuga and his knack for Best Matches was another delight to see. - RocketPanda form however? Not a good looking form that resembled "Kamen Rider Fourze" too much, but in an ugly way. And the show once again broke its own rule, this time through the reversed naming order. Another inconsistency?

Overall: On one hand, the show 'succeeded' in trying to make audience continue guessing whether Gentoku is Rogue or not. On the other hand, the road towards that was shaky, flawed, and the outcome was merely another underwhelming 'Meh' at best. It didn't feel like a surprising twist, simply because the show didn't even try to smartfully plotted it as one. Heck, it was already openly revealed on the preview *sigh*. I developed good faith after seeing how the show evolved from episode 2 to 4, yet it took episode 5 to 7 to burn them all down and left me bitter in disappointment. With poorly handled characters, shift of tones that doesn't flow well, and writings that feel surprisingly sloppy, this show just does not feel enjoyable and promising to me anymore. Many have pointed out that it might be too early to drop a Tokusatsu show around this number of episodes, because things usually gets better and only truly shapes up in the second arc. But I'm not sure I have the patience to go much farther... *sigh. For now, I'll stick around for just another 2 episodes. If my interest isn't picking up by then, I'm definitely shelving this series for good. That's not a threat, by the way. Just an acknowledgement that this show is just... NOT my BEST MATCH. Next Episode: That hedgehog is on FIREEEEE... PS: Eiji & Ankh! Dark-haired Takeru!! Human-Kouta!!! And Gentarou!!!! At least that "Kamen Rider Heisei Generations FINAL" movie looks like an interesting mash-ups...

Episode 05 Score: 7,3 out of 10 Episode 06 Score: 7,1 out of 10 Episode 07 Score: 6,9 out of 10

All images are screencaptured from the series, provided by the FanSubber Over-Time. "Kamen Rider Build" is produced by TOEI, and airs every Sunday on TV-Asahi. Credits and copyrights belong to their respective owners.

#tokusatsu #kamen rider #kamen rider build #review

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anotheruserwithnoname · 8 years ago

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A few thoughts about Thin Ice

(Spoilers naturally)

I wasn’t blown away by “Thin Ice”, but I thought it was a good episode even if this was the second week in a row that the basic concept of “The Beast Below” was revisited.

Putting a break here. Plus I’m getting wordy again. This is why I don’t use Twitter.

I’ll get two negatives out of the way - one actually related to some reaction I’ve been seeing to what was otherwise a very good scene.

I have to admit I am a little concerned at people on Tumblr notes and elsewhere saying they stopped watching Doctor during Capaldi’s first series but now like him simply because he punched Sutcliffe out. It was good moment, don’t get me wrong, and the character had it coming, but, seriously - a single act of violence (regardless how justified) is what brought some people back into the fold?

I could have done without the vulgarity in the scene with the dung. The bit where Bill says “No shit” but gets cut off belonged more in an episode of Two and a Half Men than in Doctor Who. I would have cut that myself. I expect more from this show. A bit of a stumble; I’d like to think it was an ad-lib that they decided to keep in for the lulz rather than something that was scripted. Oh well.

The negatives over with, were some very good moments that stood out. The subplot with Twelve wanting to learn cons was well-handled and his scenes with the kids were great, for example.

Bill was less annoying in her questioning than she was last episode, and the questions she asked were more relevant than they were last week. In my review of Smile I said that at the halfway point of that episode, Bill started acting like a companion rather than just a question-asker. She reached that point a lot earlier in this episode. This is a very good thing. And it bodes well for Knock Knock.

And then there are the moments - plural - that invoked Clara. One was the Doctor offering Bill the same choice he offered Clara in Kill the Moon, which Bill clearly takes to better than Clara did, possibly because they’d already just had their argument about morality, which itself also invoked Clara and others with the “how many people have died for you” question that Twelve refuses to answer properly. In the choosing scene we also get Twelve revisiting other concepts from Kill the Moon and In the Forest of the Night, including him outright saying that he serves the human race. Maybe if he’d put it that way to Clara she wouldn’t have snapped at him after.

There was also the “I don’t approve of tattoos” line which, written by the same person who wrote Face the Raven, wasn’t simply there in order to make Capaldi say “tattoo” again (I don’t care what Sarah Dollard said on Twitter). His last experience with a tattoo did not go well.

But here’s the biggest reference to Clara yet, and it totally cements the tone of the Bill-Twelve relationship, probably forever. During Series 9 there was a bit of a subplot in which Clara complains to Twelve that he never tells her the rules. Ripples and tidal waves, etc. Now, we have a moment in which the Twelfth Doctor explicitly says that he is Bill’s teacher (itself significant - he called himself her tutor earlier, yes, but that was in school - now we know he is continuing this with her as his companion; shades of Seven and Ace). And then he begins to give her the type of instruction that Clara was asking for in Series 9. It could be argued that had Twelve told Clara more of the rules instead of being infatuated with her and obsessing over her safety (Whouffaldi was real, but no one ever said it was completely healthy - the Doctor in love is dangerous), Clara might not have made that fatal mistake involving the Quantum Shade. Unconsciously or not, Twelve is clearly trying to rectify that mistake. In some respects this, even more so than a memory of Clara sparking just in time to stop him from mindwiping Bill in the first episode, is the most striking invocation of Clara’s ongoing influence yet. I’d love to see come Episode 12 that the fact Twelve is teaching her allows Bill to become the first ongoing Moffat-era companion to actually survive their time with the Doctor.

As for what’s in the vault ... it’s clearly not River so she can be discounted - Nardole wouldn’t be talking to her like that (unless Moffat forgot what he wrote in Doctor Mysterio). And it sounds too sinister to be another Doctor. Right now my money is on The Master. But we shall see.

Three episodes in and I have to confess I am not getting the same thrills I got during Series 9. I’m basically feeling the same way I felt during Series 3. Which is not a bad thing as I enjoyed Series 3 and it gave us Blink and the Human Nature two-parter, both of which still rank among the best episodes in the show’s history. I’m still waiting for Series 10 to deliver one of these. But it’s showing promise. Roll on Knock Knock.

#thin ice (doctor who)#twelfth doctor #bill potts #clara oswald #doctor who commentary #DWS10SPOILERS

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howtohero · 8 years ago

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#008 Nemesis

If you’re going to go out and be a superhero you’re definitely going to make some enemies. People absolutely hate it when you stop them from committing crimes. It’s like they think they have a right to rob banks or set mind-controlled landsharks loose on an unsuspecting public who thought it was safe to go back into the land-streets. Like when you prevent them from doing these things you’re the bad guy. Bad guys are so simultaneously self-centered and self-unaware (unself-aware?) it’s ridiculous. So you’ll make some enemies. But among those enemies one in particular will inevitably stand out. They’ll challenge you in new ways. They’ll constantly outsmart and evade you. They’ll make your life a living hell. They’ll figure out the best ways to just piss you off in the pettiest ways. That enemy will be your nemesis and when you find your nemesis, that’s when you’ll know you’ve made it as a superhero.

It won’t happen right away. You’ll start small stopping low-profile crimes like pick-pocketing and voting fraud. Eventually you’ll make your way up to fighting higher-profile criminals but they’ll still be of the standard, run of the mill, non-costume-wearing, non-maniacal-laughing (read: boring) variety. Then you’ll break into the supervillain fighting game. You’ll fight around a bit, beat up a few chumps who want to take over the world and who, for whatever reason, think the best way to go about doing that is to freeze half the city or free all the zoo animals or steal the empire state building.

After a while you’ll start to question yourself. Why are you even fighting crime? Why are you doing it wearing a costume? Why are you doing it wearing that costume? It’s such an ugly yellow color! Look I know your name is Yellowjacket but that doesn’t mean you need to literally wear a yellow jacket. Also why does it say “Ima Bee” on the back of the jacket. Bees are not yellow jackets. That is not a good pun! Maybe you should quit this gig and go to dental school like your mom wanted. Maybe you should join the family plumbing business like your father wanted. You’ve got superpowers! That’s gotta make fixing toilets easier. Then, just when you feel ready to hang up your balaclava and sensible boots, it’ll happen. You’ll meet your nemesis.

But how do you know when you’ve finally met your nemesis? How do you know they’re really the one? Well, sometimes it’s hard to tell, and you can’t really know until you’ve fought them a few times but here are a few good ways to tell early on. Sometimes your nemesis will have some sort of prior connection to you. Maybe they’ll be a childhood bully, someone who used to push you around and steal your lunch money and who has now returned to push you around and steal your city. Or maybe they’re a childhood friend, that’d be crazy dramatic! Imagine ripping off the mask of the person who’s been terrorizing you and the people you love only to discover that it’s your best friend Billy, from elementary school! Only now he’s Evil Billy, and he’s holding an elementary school hostage. That’s some soap opera jazz right there!

Another common point of connection between a hero and their nemesis is the origin story. If there was someone else nearby when you were accidentally (or purposely!) being doused in radioactive waste and maybe they were negatively affected by said radioactive waste, like their shoes were slightly melted or it made them lose all their hair, that person might very well go on to become your nemesis. It doesn’t even have to be your origin story, if during the course of any of your superheroic adventures someone is inadvertently mildly to severely inconvenienced, that person may grow to resent you and then, one day, become consumed with righteous fury against you and start committing crimes in costume. As one normally does when they’ve been mildly to severely inconvenienced.

Once you’ve found yourself a nemesis it becomes even more important to maintain a secret identity. Oftentimes your nemesis will be so consumed with his desire to make your life miserable that they’ll make it their top priority. They’ll see you as the main obstacle in their quest for world domination that they’ll let their other criminal activities fall to the wayside. They’ll even give up on their hobbies. No more stamp-collecting or bird-watching for them. Only vengeance. So, in order to keep your loved ones safe, you have to make sure your secret identity is ironclad. Maybe even set up a second decoy secret identity for your nemesis to discover to throw him off the trail of your real one. It’s almost like a game of capture the flag. Except the flag is everyone you’ve ever cared about and capture really probably just means murder. Nemeses can be jerks like that. Also “nemeses” is the proper plural form of “nemesis” it’s not like “nemesises” or “nemesi” or “nemepeople” or something like that, I felt like that was an important fact that bore mentioning somewhere (however the official real-world term for a group of nemeses is in fact nemesquad.)

Having a nemesis makes you a known entity in the superhero world. It gets you mad street cred (that’s credit for my abbreviation acolytes.) It also means that anytime your nemesis does anything anywhere anytime it’s your job to take care of it. Dude could jaywalk halfway across the world and people are gonna be expecting you to bring him to justice for it. Then, you’ll probably be invited onto talk shows to stress the utmost importance of crossing the street only when you have the light. You need to know where your nemesis is at all times. The only time you get to go on vacation is when your nemesis goes on vacation and you have to follow him. That means you need to find out which travel agency your nemesis uses and then you’re going to need to either bribe someone there or appeal to their sense of justice to get them to tell you where they plan on going and when so you can plan and pack appropriate clothing and footwear. Honestly, it’s all such a hassle you’re better off just defeating the guy or gal and throwing them in prison as soon as superhumanly possible.

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ifuckinglovestvincent · 8 years ago

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VULTURE: Annie Clark, a.k.a. St. Vincent, on Making Her Directorial Debut in the All-Female Horror Anthology XX

February 15, 2017 9:00 a.m. By Emily Yoshida The anthology format is increasingly becoming a staple of horror, and with good reason: It’s a way to spotlight the wealth of up-and-coming directors working in a genre that’s currently at a high point of innovation. But few people could have predicted that Annie Clark, better known as rock experimentalist St. Vincent, would be among those up-and-coming directors. She’s making her directorial debut in XX, an all-female horror anthology that premiered at the Sundance Film Festival and arrives in theaters and VOD Friday. Clark’s short, “The Birthday Party”, which follows a particularly desperate housewife played by Melanie Lynskey, stands out tonally and stylistically from her fellow filmmakers: Its colors are oppressively cheery, and its design informs its story in a way that feels of a piece with how Clark has built a visual language around each successive St. Vincent album. Clark also composed her own score, lending a heavy guitar line that undercuts the antiseptic Stepford Wives visuals. What “The Birthday Party” lacks in conventional horror — Clark says she’s too scared to watch most horror films, but cites Michael Haneke as a reference — it makes up for with its dark humor and assured sense of style. It goes out with a triumphant musical sequence that makes one curious about what the newly minted director may try her hand at next. We spoke to Clark over the phone about the horror of everyday interaction, and how she curates the look and feel of a project. How did you get involved in XX? I got a call in late 2015 from [producer] Todd Brown, asking if I wanted to be involved, and direct a short. And I just said yes — I mean, I can’t imagine … it doesn’t often happen in the music industry, where someone says, “Here’s a bunch of money, just make something.” You and [V/H/S and fellow XX director] Roxanne Benjamin worked closely together on The Birthday Party. How did you get connected, and how did your creative sensibilities mesh? Todd thought she would be a good producer, so brought her on to produce my short, and then we ended up co-writing a script together. And she’s just the best collaborator anyone could be. She really helped, and held my hand through a lot of things. I had a squillion questions and she helped me through all of it. Where did the original concept come from? The story was based on one a friend of mine told me, just this woman waking up in a house with a dead body, and having to make very split-second decisions to protect the innocence of children. And that was very compelling to me. And also, I was looking at this magazine Toiletpaper, and there was this immaculate shot of a living room, with beautiful Memphis-style Italian furniture and a rug, and there were two feet sticking out from under the rug. And that sort of encapsulates my worldview in a quick picture. We started out writing it, and initially it was kind of a very heavy, wooden mahogany dark-wood opera piece, and then we got halfway through with it and we realized we had written a comedy. And so we kind of changed, and shifted focus. The visual aesthetic of the full piece helps really frame the absurdity, and allows you to feel empathetic and also laugh at this Weekend at Bernie’s meets Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? story. Yeah, I was going to say — the horror element is one thing, but it seems like you certainly have a natural eye and ear for dark comedy — especially in ways Melanie Lynskey’s character interacts with the other female characters. Yeah, I think there’s true horror in the way women get trained to be misogynistic. That is an overarching theme of the piece, for sure. Do you see that theme interpreted anywhere else in XX? Do you think there are any ideas the film as a whole speaks to particularly well? I wouldn’t want to suggest that the work of five different filmmakers represents all women. I think the point is that there’s a plurality of voices and no voice is marginalized because of gender. The film’s final sequence is the most affecting, and utilizes music that you composed for the film. Did your experience with your own music videos help inform the way you married the score with the story? Well, when you’re working on this stuff, you compile a visual and visual narrative bible and then try to make sure every decision you make is instinctively tying back to the DNA of the piece. So one of the references early on was “Black Hole Sun” by Soundgarden. That video really stuck with me, but also, I put it in as temp music at the end of the film, for the ending sequence. And it accidentally worked perfectly, and so I was trying to get a hold of Chris Cornell to see if I could license the song for the film, but I didn’t have any luck. So I basically paid homage to “Black Hole Sun” at the end. And it just makes me laugh. The darkest parts of the movie, to me, are the funniest. Did you have any specific horror directors or films that you were inspired by? Well, I don’t know the horror genre that well because I’m too scared to watch it. But I think of people like Michael Haneke, or Claire Denis. Or even, like, Happiness by Todd Solondz is a horror film to me. This sounds like it was an enjoyable left turn for you, but is directing something you’d ever try again? I’d love to do it again. I love the collaboration, I love the adrenaline, I love working with the actors. I love watching stuff come together. I definitely want to direct more — write and direct more, and even be in front of the camera. I don’t know, it’s all very exciting to me. [ source ]

#st vincent #annie clark #xx anthology #interviews

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lindseyluvsdrag · 8 years ago

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Letters From My Glass Jar Ch. 10

Warning: Writing is not fundamental. Ignore the typos.

Raven tore into the wrapping paper that the small box was confined to. “This better be something worth my time and the risk of paper cuts, asshole,” she told her newest lover.

“Oh, I think it is,” Kurtis said smugly as he propped his feet on the girl's coffee table.

“Get your fucking feet off of my Christopher Guy! That shit is expensive.”

The boy scoffed. “It’s just a table.”

“And this is just a fist! Do it again and I'll show you what I can do with this.”

“Shove it up your ass,” he retorted.

“Probably,” the girl admitted as she finally made it to the box. Raven lifted the lid and found the chain link diamond bracelet. “Is this a joke?”

Kurtis sat up. “What? No, of course not.”

“Thank God I didn't let you fuck me before I opened this bullshit! This looks like something you'd buy on prison commissary! Ugh!” she groaned as she tossed the bracelet across the room.

“Are you kidding me?! That cost me five hundred dollars!”

“I’d wipe my ass with five hundred dollars! That ain't shit!” the dark haired girl fumed as a knocked sounded at the door. “Now, who the fuck is this?” she grumbled as she checked the peephole and saw nothing but crunchy purple hair. Raven rolled her eyes and assured that her gun was tucked into her garter belt underneath her robe prior to opening the door.

Sobbing, Alley threw her arms around the girl's neck the second she opened the door and Raven defensively shoved her back onto the porch.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Raven, I'm so sorry. So, so, so, so sorry!” she wailed.

“As you should be. My face will take a minute to heal.”

“Not only that, the baby. I destroyed it!”

Slight confused, the girl just went along with it. “I'm guessing Jake called you?”

“He did,” she sniffled.

“What's going on?” Kurtis asked.

“Kurtis get the fuck out of my house and take that shitty attempt at a gift with you.”

“You're such a bitch,” the boy hissed as he retrieved the bracelet and stormed out of the place.

Alley sank to her knees on the frosty cement porch. “Jake told me that you weren't pregnant anymore. Please. I'll do anything for your forgiveness.”

Raven thought about extorting from the girl, but quickly remembered that she didn't have anything so she settled on demolishing any amount of dignity she had left. “I'll never forgive you, you goddamn meth head. I lost my baby because of you! You're disgusting. You seriously make me want to vomit at the sight of pus infested face. You're revolting, bitch. Just stay away from me!”

“No, please-” Alley got out before the door was slammed in her face.

Raven groaned. “All of my fuck buddies are either pissed or with their spouses. I fucking hate Christmas,” she sighed prior to grabbing her favorite dildo and residing to her bedroom for the rest of the night.

---

“Oh my God!” Jason shouted at the top of his lungs as he sprinted down the Bellagio’s marble corridor. “Oh my God! Oh my Godddd!”

The boy rushed to the elevator and slammed the button. After a few seconds, he became impatient and quickly sprinted towards the stairs; taking the flight two steps at a time. He made it to the third level and dashed down the hall to his room, quickly unlocking the door and flinging it open to find the room empty.

“Matt?” he panted as he walked towards the bathroom. There was no response and when he open the door, there was no Matt.

---

“Fuck that,” Matt groaned two minutes after Jason, exited the room. He quickly got dressed and did the same. “I'm knocking on every fucking door in this place until I find her.” The boy stormed into the elevator and decided to start from the top, so he pressed the number fifteen and waited as the lift took him to the fifteenth floor. Once the steel doors slid open, he was immediately greeted by a hefty security guard.

“This is a private level,” the man growled.

“Okay, fine. But have you seen a blonde…” he grew quiet when he heard the faint yet familiar sobbing. Matt poked his head out of the elevator door and saw Lisa sprawled out on the cold marble tiles of the hallway, bawling. “What the fuck,” he said, fearing the worst. The boy instantly attempted to get to her side but was stopped by a stiff arm to the shoulder. “Get the fuck out of my way!” he snarled, shoving the man back. “That's my Mom!”

The guard relaxed his clenched jaw and allowed Matt to pass. The boy nearly rolled his ankle as he sprinted towards his mother. Once he reached her, he sank to his knees and cautiously lifted the weeping woman from her position. As he did, the strong scent of Bourbon hit his nose. “Mom, are you okay?” he frantically asked.

“Noooo,” she sobbed.

“Did..did that guy hurt you? Force himself on you or something?”

“No, nooo,” she sniffled as she sat up on her own. “Before we could even do anything, I asked for more liquor..and more liquor and more and more and more and more and I..couldn’t..stop...talking...about...David,” she said, bursting into fresh tears.

Matt pulled the woman close and cradled her against his chest. “But how did you end up on the floor?”

“I decided to left... I mean leave. He offered to walk me to my room but I was so embarrassedddd so I declined. I made it halfway down the hall, tripped and just stayed there.”

The boy shot the security guard a scowl over his shoulder. “And you just left her here?” he hissed.

“Hey, I tried to help but she told me to just leave her there to die. Periodically I'd ask 'yo, lady, you still alive?’ and she'd just cried louder as confirmation...or disappointment that she was still alive,” the man pondered.

“The second one,” Lisa sobbed.

“Mom, stop talking like that. Your happiness shouldn't be contingent on some stupid man, I mean, you still have me and Josh. And Lace and the baby.”

“I do, don't I?” she sniffled as she attempted to compose herself.

“Of course, Mom. Just imagine if they have a daughter. I know you've always wanted a little girl in your life, now you'll get to put her hair in pigtails and dress her in cute little outfits.”

“I could, couldn’t I?”

“You know the only dress Lace has worn in her life was her wedding dress so that baby will depend on you to teach her some femininity, so yes. Absofuckinglutely.”

“Matty, don't say absofuckinglutely.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“It's okay, sweetheart,” Lisa groaned as her son helped her to her feet. “Ugh, I'm so dizzyyy.”

“Are you stable enough to make it to your room?”

“Ye-Yeah- no...yes. I think so.”

“Okay, well if you feel faint, just hold onto me.”

The woman obliged, firmly gripping her son's shoulder as he led her to the elevator.

The security guard pressed the down button for them. “Take care of yourself,” he said to Lisa.

“Thank you, Gustavo.”

The man rolled his eyes. “For the third time, that isn't my name.”

Matt gave his shoulder a grateful pat before easing his mother into the lift. The steel doors closed and the downward pull of the elevator made Lisa nauseous. Once the doors slid open, Matt helped the woman out and down the hallway to her room’s door, cringing when he had to rummage through tampons, condoms and birth control as he searched for the keys. When he found them, the boy opened the door. He managed to get his mother to the bed before the woman vomited all over the sheets and herself.

“Fuck my life,” Matt groaned.

---

When Jason realized that his boyfriend wasn't there to hear his good news, he quickly called the second person in his contact list.

“Hey, J,” Mr. Dardo answered.

“Hey, Dad! How's it going? How's Atlanta been?”

“Wow, you're chirpy today. Atlanta is good. I've been finding myself, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. Daddd.”

The man chuckled. “What's up, buddy?”

“I've been nominated for Grammys! Plural! I'm not sure how many or which categories but Oh my God, it doesn't even matter! Grammys, Dad! The fucking Grammys!”

“Oh my God. That's amazingggg!”

The boy frowned. “You already knew didn't you?”

“I did. I'm sorry, J. Lucian found out before it was officially released and said that Lady desperately wanted to tell you. You know I can't say no to that woman.”

“Well that makes sense...as long as you're proud of me,” he exhaled.

“Jason, of course I'm proud of you! I've been proud since the day you were born and I became even prouder when you had to man up and hold down the house while I was sick, and because of that, man to man, I have the utmost respect for you. I'm so fucking proud, like I have to contain myself and not brag to the world that you're my son because lesser parents would feel ashamed that their kids don't compare.”

Jason chuckled.

“Soooo fucking proud. And your mother would've been too.”

“Thanks, Dad,” the boy sniffled. “That means everything to me.”

“You’re welcome, buddy. So how does Matt feel about being your date to the Grammys?”

“Oh my God, he doesn't even know yet! I went to tell him but he was gone. You're the first person I told.”

“Oh wow. I'm shocked that you didn't at least call Ronis at first.”

“Ronis! Gotta go, Dad! Love you!” he rushed before hanging up the phone. The boy quickly FaceTimed the girl.

By the look on her face, he could tell that the girl was already bursting at the seams with excitement. “Jason...oh...my...Godddd!”

“Currently freaking the fuck outttt!”

“And reasonably sooooo! Ahhhhh!”

“Ahhhhhhh!”

The friends squealed at the top of their lungs as they bounced around their rooms.

“Tell him I said congratulations,” Oliver said from across the room.

“Oli, get your ass over here and scream with ussss!” Ronis demanded.

“I don't scream.”

The girl tackled her boyfriend and began to attack him with love bites.

“Oh my God, stopppp!”

“See, you do scream!”

“Congratulations, Jason! We know you'll win, wooo!” Oliver shouted.

“Not even,” Jason chuckled. “Unless I'm nominated for most likely to become irrelevant in the next five years.”

“Oh, shut up!” Ronis groaned. “With these nominations, you'll become more famous than ever!”

“Probably won't have time for us anymore,” Oliver mumbled.

“Whoa, what?” Jason asked. “Why do you think that? You guys are my friends, I'll always have time for you.”

“Yeah, he's the one who's nominated but he called me. I thought he'd be busy so I just waited but he's the one who called, so what's your problem, Oliver?”

“I don't know,” he said with a shrug.

“Are you scared of losing Jason?”

“Pfft, it's not even-”

“Aww, Mr. Macho Man doesn't wanna talk about his feelingssss. He thinks his best buddy will get all famous and forget about himmm,” the girl teased as she tickled her boyfriend's neck.

“You're so mad,” Oliver got out between strained giggles.

“It's okay to admit you're scaredddd.”

“Fine,” the boy sighed. “I'm super happy for you Jason, but sometimes it feels like we have to schedule appointments just to call you. And now it's gonna be studio this and interview that, which is awesome. You really worked hard to earn that but...you were the first person I really opened up to and I don't wanna lose my friend.”

Ronis pouted. “Awww.”

“Dude, you're not losing me. You guys are my best friends, when I win, we all win. I couldn't imagine going to the Grammys without you.”

Ronis shrieked in excitement. “No fucking way!”

“Yes way!”

“Oh my Goddd. What are you gonna wear? What should I wear?! Do you think you'll make best dressed list? Do you think Aretha Franklin will be there?! Oh my God, I hope she is! I'd dieeee.”

Jason laughed. “Well if she is, don't embarrass yourself by snorting.”

“I do not-”

“Babe,” Oliver interjected before the girl could lie.

“Ugh, I can't help itttt. Let's just hope that she isn't really funny.”

“And no loosening your belt to eat more,” Jason slyly added just as someone knocked on the door. He wasn't sure if Matt had the second key to the room, so he became hopeful that his boyfriend had returned. “Hold on, guys.” Jason left his phone on the bed while he made his way to the door. He opened it and was greeted by his smiling manager. The brunette was actually excited to see the man so he threw his arms around him.

“Oh, wow. I haven't had one of those in a long time,” Lucian laughed.

“Grammys, Lucian!”

“I knowww. This is my second time being nominated.”

Jason broke the embrace. “You’re nominated too?”

“Yeah. 'Producer of the Year' for Letters From My Glass Jar’.”

“Oh my Godddd,” the boy squealed. “Okay, okay, um, what am I nominated for?” he asked nervously.

“I’ll let Lady tell you since that fucking pig of a receptionist ruined the first part of the surprise.” The man quickly pulled out his phone and FaceTimed the woman.

“Oh, wait, Ronis and Oliver are still on the line.” Jason rushed and grabbed his phone. "Guys, listen to this.”

“Hi, my love!” Lady chirped. “Although I didn't get to surprise you with the news, I wish you the best of luck and I know you'll win every single category.”

“Can you tell me what I'm nominated for?”

“Oh, of course. There are six and-”

“Shut the fuck up,” the boy let out before composing himself. “I'm so sorry for my language, Lady.”

“In this situation, 'Fuck’, is more than okay. I said way more when I found out I was nominated for Best Jazz Vocal Album and Best Instrumental Composition.”

“Yes! Do you think we could sit next to each other?”

She giggled. “I tell you you're nominated for six Grammys and you're worried about a seating chart?”

Jason blushed. “It's importantttt. I've sorta kinda always dreamed about this.”

“Who doesn't, honey?! Everyone wants to be you right now.”

The boy's ears began to burn. “Nahhh.”

“What are the categories he's been nominated for?” Ronis asked impatiently.

“Best Music Video, Best Pop Vocal Album, Best Pop Solo Performance, Record of the Year, Album of the Year and Best New Artist.”

“They're all important, but if you win any of the last three she mentioned, your net worth will triple,” Lucian said as his pupils practically turned into dollar signs.

“Fuckkk, move over Mariah,” Ronis giggled.

“Jason?” Lady asked.

“Hmm?”

“You okay? You look a little vacant.”

“Yeah, I'm just taking it all in...this is unreal. And Matt's not even here to enjoy this moment with me,” he sniffled.

“Aww, I'm sorry sweetheart. Where is he?” the woman asked, still trying to burn her mind of the earlier incident.

“I don't know.”

---

When there was a knock on Lisa's hotel room door, her son rushed to open it.

“Oh, thank God you're here,” Matt told the housekeeper.

“Yes. You said you had a spill?”

“Um, yeah,” he stammered. “That way.”

The woman followed the direction he'd indicated, instantly jumping and instinctively covering her nose to fend off the offensive odor when she saw Lisa. “What the fuck! That's not a spill!”

“I knowww but if I would've told you that my mom has been projectile vomiting everywhere, you never would've come!”

“Of course not! She looks like the girl from the fucking Exorcist!”

“Oh, come on, it's not that bad. Besides, this is your job!”

“Not anymore! I quit!” the woman shouted before dashing out of the room.

“Ughhhh, this is not happeningggg! Why me?” he sighed.

“I'm sorry, Matty,” Lisa groaned.

“It’s okay, I'll call someone else. No worriesss. Hakuna Matata,” the boy said, trying to remain calm as he placed the room’s phone to his ear.

“Sorry that I wasn't a good enough mother to you,” she got out through broken sobs.

“What?”

“It took me so long to come around to seeing you for you a-a-and then I went and got engaged against your wishesss. I'm such a terrible mother,” the woman wept before she began to gag again.

Matt frowned, took a deep breath and hung up the phone. “Mom, you're not terrible. I think I've been the terrible one.” The boy made his way to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He adjusted the temperature before returning to his mother's side. “Are you able to stand?”

The woman nodded, pushed herself off of the bed and fell right to the floor. “Ow.”

The boy rolled up his sleeves and helped the woman to her feet before guiding her to the bathroom. “Um..are you able to...undress yourself?”

“Mhm.”

Unconvinced, the boy groaned as he said a silent prayer and eased the woman onto the toilet. “Mom, lift up your arms.” The woman obliged, allowing her son to remove her soiled shirt which only spread more vomit to her face and hair. “Ugh,” he groaned.

“I'm colddd,” the woman shivered in her puke soaked bra.

“Sorry. You'll be in the warm shower in a sec. Um, unbutton your pants.”

“I can'tttt.”

“Mom, please try. I'm trying to make this as least traumatic as possible.”

The woman sniffled as she stretched her arms behind her back to undo her bra.

“No, Mom, no!”

“Whaatttt?”

“Your pants.”

“But Matty, I'm so tireddd.”

The boy groaned in frustration before he took a deep breath and undid the button on his mother's jeans. He cringed as he pulled at the hem of the denim and quickly grabbed her waist at the top of her underwear to prevent them from coming off with her pants. When the left side became snagged on the panties, Lisa's hip skin was exposed and the boy nearly fainted when he saw the small skull and crossbones tattoo for the first time.

“What the fuck,” he whimpered. “When did you get a tattoo?”

“Before you were bornnn. It was actually the catalyst for you getting conceiveddd.”

“Mom! Just ugh! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Fuck my lifeeee! Fuck this. I'm calling Josh. He's your first born, you belonged to him first, this is his responsibility!” The boy selected his brother's contact and placed the phone to his ear.

“I told you stop letting me win!” Lace screeched in the background.

“I'm not! Hel-Hello?” the man said into the receiver as he dodged the pillow that was lobbed at his head by his wife.

“Josh,” Matt snapped in aggravation.

“Yes you are!” the pink haired girl sobbed. “And now you're on the phone!”

“It's Matt. What's up, bro? Please make it quick.”

“Mom's drunk, she threw up all over the place, she's saying nasty shit and you need to come give her a shower!”

“Joshua Edmond Lent! You're ignoring meeeee! How about I just move back to London?! You probably wouldn't even miss me,” Lace cried hysterically. “The baby and I will join a convent and- ughhh! You just frustrate me so much!”

“Holy shit,” Matt sighed, almost sympathetic.

“Of course, I'd miss you and the baby if you went to London and joined a convent. Um, you're just a teeny bit hormonal-”

“I'm not hormonal!” she exploded before bursting into new tears and rushing into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

“Damn it. The last time she did this I spent an hour baiting her out with chocolate cake. She had to negotiate extra frosting and ‘special’ sprinkles that I had to go to three different stores to get because hardly anyone sells that shit in America.”

“That's fucked up. I almost feel bad for you. Ughhh, I guess I'll deal with Mom, but if she says anything else about my conception, I'm dragging her to your room.”

He laughed. “Fine.”

“Are you laughing at me?!” Lace bawled as she opened the bathroom door and began to tossing the complimentary shampoos and conditioners at him.

Josh dived behind the couch. “No, sweetheart! Gotta go, bro,” he panted.

“You gonna be okay?”

"Yeah, I swear this is becoming foreplay for her.”

Matt cringed before hanging up.

“You know, when I put on theseee extra pounds, I actually thought I was pregnant. Even though I use protection, I feel like David is very, very potent. And the way he-”

“Ma, Stop! If David cared about you, you wouldn't be covered in puke right now!”

The woman's bottom lip began to quiver.

Matt sighed. “Mom, I'm sorry. Please don't cry.”

“You're right,” she sobbed.

“No, I'm not right. I'm a jerk but when know this about me so don't let anything I say hurt your feelings.” As she continued to bawl, the boy simply took a deep breath. “Come on, let's just get you in the shower.”

“But don't I need to take these offfff?” Lisa asked as she pointed between her bra and panties.

“No! Ugh, I mean. No. I'm sure the water will pass right through that..frilly stuff.”

“It's lace,” she said as she wiped her eyes.

“Good to know,” he grumbled. It's just like a swimsuit, it's just like a swimsuit, the boy repeated in his mind so that his lunch would stay down. “Give me your hands.”

Lisa extended her arms towards her son. He grabbed them and used them as leverage to guide her onto the floor of the shower after the woman nearly fell again when she tried to stand on her own.

“Matty, it's coldddd.”

The boy gave the temperature a slight adjustment.

“Still coldddd.”

Matt scoffed and turned the knob further.

“H-H-Hot!”

“Oh my God,” you're impossible,” the boy said as he scaled back.

“That's so perfecttttt, sweetheart, thank youuuu. Can I have some shampoo or something?”

Matt grabbed the small bottle of shampoo from the sink. He went to hand it to her before hesitating. “If I give this to you, you promise not to get it in your eyes?”

“Nope,” Lisa chirped. “Huh? I mean, yes.”

The boy gave her a look.

“Will you rephrase the questionnnn? I don't wanna plead the fifth.”

“My God, I miss getting that fucked up,” he sighed before retrieving the other small bottles of conditioner and body wash. Matt gave his mother the soap and a wash cloth. “Knock yourself out.”

“Under the seaaa, under the seaaa,” Lisa sang under the cascade of water as she dumped the contents of the body wash into her hands before slathering it on her arms, legs and torso while her son cautiously added the shampoo to her damp hair.

He worked up a lather from her roots to the tips with his fingers and found the act to be oddly calming. “Mom, turn around and tilt your head back so I can rinse this out.”

The woman obliged with a sloppy turn that she complained had given her a wedgie but Matt ignored the woman as he careful expelled the soap from her hair, making sure to eliminate every sud prior to adding the conditioner which he let stay in her tresses two minutes before it was rinsed out.

“Body all cleaned?”

“Yepppp.”

Matt turned off the water then handed the woman three towels and her robe.

“Mom, did you bring any hair care products?”

“Look in my suitcaseeee.”

The boy skipped out of the bathroom and dove into his mother's luggage where he found a treasure trove creams, lotions and potions for the hair. But he couldn't stop himself from unzipping her makeup bag and being disappointed that there was only mascara, tinted moisturizer and one shade of lipstick. The boy popped the lid off of the lipstick and swiped it onto his wrist like the girls at Sephora did when they wanted to test out a color. He loved the contrast of the bright red tint against his pale skin and tried to imagine what it'd look like on his lips.

“Mattyyy?”

The boy jumped when his mother called him. He quickly put the lipstick in its original spot and grabbed the hair products before returning to the bathroom.

“I took off my unmentionables while you weren't lookinggg,” Lisa giggled as she attempted to twirl in her robe but tripped. Matt caught her by the wrists and steadied her.

“Mom, sit down I wanna do your hair.”

“You do hairrr?”

“No, but I wanna try.”

“Okay,” she chirped as she returned to the toilet .

Matt removed the towel that held his mother's damp blonde waves in place, grabbed a comb and a bottle whose label promised healthy body and shine from her bag. He smoothed globs of the lemongrass scented cream into his mother's hair as he combed and blow dried it. After a few minutes, the woman's full luminous hair bounced around as she shook her head. “Very Farrah Fawcett,” he chuckled, pretty proud of his handy work.

“Awww, I love herrrr.”

“Can I flat iron your hair now?”

“But, but I like Farrahhh.”

“Same, but now I wanna go for Britney.”

“You are not shaving my head, Matthew!”

The boy cackled. “I want to see what it'd look like bone straight. You never wear it that way.”

Lisa exhaled loudly. “Fine.”

Matt grinned as he retrieved the flat iron from her bag and plugged it in. As soon as the tool was hot enough, he took it to his mother's hair, slowing feeding each piece through the hot ceramic plates. The end result was silky smooth, golden tresses that flowed pass the woman's shoulders in a way comparable to even the most famous shampoo ads. “Don't move,” the boy ordered as he rushed to his mother's suitcase, grabbed the mascara and lipstick before returning to his human canvas.

“Be still,” Matt said quietly as he carefully applied the mascara to his mother's already long lashes. “Have you ever thought about wearing false lashes?”

“Mhmm. I tried once and glued my eye shutttt.”

He cackled. “How about trying more than one shade of lipstick?”

“I was just a chapstick girl before the divorce and I found that red is so...spicy. Makes me look daringggg.”

“I like red on you.”

Lisa snorted. “Since when? Just a few weeks ago you didn't even want me wearing it.”

“I changed my mind. I'd like to see some nudes and pinks on you...you should buy them.”

“You think?”

“Yes. I'm sure peach tones would do wonders as well.”

“How do you knowww? Because of your artsy stuff?”

“I suppose so. Poke your lips out,” he advised. The woman obliged, allowing Matt to apply the lipstick with ease. “Gorgeousss,” the boy groaned in satisfaction over his masterpiece.

“Thank you, sweetheartttt.”

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you think of drag?”

“Like cigarettes?”

“No...um, like boys dressed as girls.”

“Ohhh, like that RuPaul?”

“Yes! Doesn't he look beautiful in drag?”

“Sure. I mean it's interesting from a distanceeee but I wouldn't know how to handle my boys becoming girlsss.”

“Oh...good to know.”

“It’s just like boys who live their life as girls but can't commit to going through with the surgeryyyy. Which is so confusing to meee. Like you were born the way you were for a reasonnn, so why change? It's like body shaming or somethingg. But if they choose to do it, hey more power to them. Like that little Oliver is so handsome, you'd never know but I just couldn't imagine calling you Mattina or Madeline or Maddie.”

“Mom, you're totally mixing drag and so much other stuff. But what about Oliver?”

“Oliver was born a little girllll but now he's a boyyyy.”

Matt squished his mother's cheeks between his hands. “Are you telling me that Oliver is transgender?” he asked intently.

“Yes,” she managed to get out.

The boy released her. “Oh my Goddddd,” Matt said, slightly amused. “Jason did all that sneaky shit for someone who can't even give him the special sauce.” He scoffed. “But I wonder if he knows that. Ugh, I wouldn't put anything past that kid.” The more he thought about it, the more annoyed he became with the boy.

“Matty, I'm tiredddd.”

“Alright, well... I have to clean the bed first. Hold on.” Matt grabbed the two shower caps on the counter, placed them over his hands as faux gloves and proceeded to strip the mattress of its sheets. After calling housekeeping to request new blankets, the boy flipped the mattress. “Sorry, Bellagio,” he sighed. When the housekeeper arrived, he was grateful that the woman barely spoke a word of English as he swapped the vomit sheets for the clean ones. The boy then made the bed and returned to his mother. “What are you laughing at?”

“What kind of medicine did the bed take?”

“Um, I don't know.”

“Pill-O’s,” Lisa cackled.

Matt let out a light laugh as he shook his head. “Your Pill-O's are ready.”

The woman gripped onto the counter and then the wall as she made her way out of the bathroom.

“You got it?”

“Mmm hmmmm. I'm Britney, bitch.”

Matt suppressed his laughter as he made sure that the woman made it into bed without injury. He tucked her in. “Do you need anything else?”

“Nopeeeee. I just wanna sleeppp like Rapunzel.”

“Um, okay.”

“If I get hungry, I'll call you or the room people.”

“Okay. Love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Matty Patty.”

“You owe me.”

“I dooo. Even though I tore an inch giving birth to you, I still owe you and I'm willing to give you everything I cannn.”

The boy cringed. “Nevermind. Goodnight, Ma.”

“Goodnight, big head,” she cackled.

The boy exhaled in relief that he'd survive the ordeal but not before he made several mental notes to get fucked up himself so that he could suppress what had just happened. He then headed down the hallway to his room. Once he opened the door, the boy saw Jason who'd clearly been crying on the couch but he scowled when he saw Lucian sitting next to him.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“Matt, you have no right to come in here cursing at me,” Jason sniffled.

“And this motherfucker had no right to see my dick, but he did and yet you still let him in here!”

“I paid for this room, I can have whoever I want in here! Unlike you, Lucian was actually there for me during one of the most important moments of my life!”

Instead of responding with words, Matt channeled his anger into swinging at the first thing he saw, the crystal glass vase that had failed to help him earlier. It hit the ground and shattered into multiple pieces.

“Hm, it's not dick proof or anger proof,” Lucian commented.

“What the fuck, Matt!” Jason shouted but the boy turned and stormed out of the room.

“Jesus, what a tool,” Lucian said in disbelief.

“Shut up,” Jason groaned as he pushed himself off of the couch and followed his boyfriend out of the door. “Matt!”

“Jason, I really don't think you need to be around me right now!” the boy shouted but the brunette continued to chase close behind as Matt swung open the door to the stairway and entered.

Jason sprinted and managed to cut the boy off. But when he tried to turn around to escape, the brunette grabbed his arm to stop him but Matt snatched away.

“Don't touch me,” he hissed through a clenched jaw. “Jason, I really feel the need to hit something right now and I don't want it to be you.”

The brunette took a step back. “Wow,” he exhaled. “Thanks for the warning. I'll keep makeup handy in case I bruise.”

Matt took a few deep breaths. “I'm sorry.”

“What's up with you?”

“I just have a lot on my mind.”

Jason sat on the third step of the staircase and patted the spot next to him.

“You're not even wearing shoes,” Matt said as he took a seat.

“You didn't give me time to grab any! We were in the middle of fight and you got that look in your eyes before breaking that ugly vase that was probably a thousand bucks before storming out.”

“What look in my eyes?”

“When you're super mad, you get this blank stare and it's like you're not you. It scares me.”

“I don't mean to...like, even with my meds, in some situations I just have to step away from or it'll get ugly.”

“But we argue a lot. What made you so upset this time?”

“When you said that Lucian was there for you when I wasn't. It was really like a punch in the dick after all we've been through with him.”

“Babe, I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean that.”

Matt sighed. “It's just been a long day and I'm on edge. I found my mom on the floor of some random hallway, completely wasted. I got her to her room and she puked all over the place so I had to give her a shower and shit.”

“Oh God, why didn't you call me? You know my dad used to be the poster child for drunk parents.”

“Well, she's my mom so it was traumatic but I love her so I'll live... I hope.”

“I mean as long as you didn't see your birth entrance, you should be fine.”

Matt cringed. “Please don't even give me that visual. And of course I didn't see anything, I made her keep her bra and panties on.”

Jason laughed. “Of course you did. Poor Lisa.”

“Speaking of my mom, you won't believe what she told me about your little friend, Oliver.”

The boy frowned. “What'd she tell you?”

“He's transgender.”

“Oh...well, yeah.”

“Oh, so you did know?”

“Of course, he's one of my best friends.”

“Yeah, now.”

“Matt, I-”

“Did you know he was trans when you tried to hit on him?”

“No,” Jason said quietly.

“And you stopped your attempts before or after finding out?”

“Before. I was just craving a little attention, but when you came to visit me in London for the first time, you made love to me so good that I nearly forgot my own name, let alone Oliver's. And you remember I'd left my charger in the dorm, I went to get it and that's when he told me.”

The boy took a deep, slightly aggravated breath.

“Matt, why the hell does this bother you so much?”

“I feel stupid for worrying about Oliver and giving him such a hard time just because you suffered a moment of weakness. Like, I don't know,” he groaned.

“Clearly,” Jason mumbled.

“Pfft.”

The brunette playfully nudged the other boy in the side.

“Cut it out, I don't want to like you right now.”

He pouted. “Even if I'm nominated for six Grammys?”

The boy's eyes grew wide. “No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way! Google it.”

Matt threw his arms around Jason. “Congratulations, babe! You deserve it so much!”

“Thanks,” he said bashfully. “And that's the reason why Lucian was in my room, we were discussing how to handle the press after this...but mostly I just cried about you not being there to celebrate with me in that moment.”

“Aww, I'm sorry, baby. We can celebrate tonighttttt.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely. And if you spot me for that thousand dollar vase now, I promise to pay you back thirty bucks a month until it's paid off.”

Jason rolled his eyes and kissed the boy before his alarm went off. “Time to get ready for the meet and greet,” he sighed.

“Can I go?”

“Sure, but you better behave yourself.”

Matt pushed himself off the step. “Don't I always?”

Jason scoffed.

“Will you do me a favor first.”

“What?”

“Let me see the bottom of your feet,” he chuckled.

Jason grabbed his ankle and lifted his right leg to get a glance at the bottom of his foot. Both he and Matt were surprised to see that it was dirt free.

“Wow, the Bellagio must have great housekeeping.”

“Oh my God, don't even get me started on the housekeeping,” he said as he extended his hand to help the brunette up.

Jason accepted the act of chivalry prior to noticing the bright red mark Matt's wrist. “What's this?”

“Um, just a lipstick swatch,” he said nervously as he pulled his arm away.

“Why do you have a lipstick swatch?”

“Because.. I thought it looked...pretty.”

“Are you still dreaming about that drag shit?”

“No,” he quietly lied. “Well, maybe.”

“Babe, that's so weird. I never knew you were so into crossdressing.”

“I’m not. Well, I don't know, it just seems really cool to me. The transformation process is like art.”

“I guess. Should I buy you heels and panty hose for your birthday?” he teased. Matt's face lit up causing Jason to giggle.

“Don't laughhh. If I found heels in my size I'd definitely test them out.”

“You're so weirddd. But I love you anyway,” he said before stealing a kiss and leading the boy out of the stairway.

---

“Oh my Godddd,” Ronis squealed from her bed as she spoke to the boy who was still in the bathroom. “Can you believe it? The Grammys. I always knew I'd go one day, but so soon...incredible.”

Oliver emerged from the bathroom and Ronis raised an eyebrow at his appearance. The brown trousers, freshly shaved face and smoothed comb over hairstyle made the boy look more like a middle aged creep who drove around in a minivan, offering rides to college girls in the middle of the night as they left parties rather than his usual look that the girl had fallen in love with.

“Babe…what are you wearing?”

“Clothes,” he said sarcastically.

“Okay, but where do you plan on wearing these clothes? A comic con panel?”

Oliver sighed. “Is it really that bad?”

“I'm sure people will instantly accuse you of using your sweets to lure children to their deaths,” she chuckled. “Where are you going?”

“To my Mum's house,” he whispered so quietly that Ronis barely heard him. But to make sure she hadn't misunderstood what he'd said, she asked again. “My Mum,” he repeated. “I'm going to meet her.”

Ronis quickly pushed herself off of the bed and over to the boy. “Whoa, what? When did this come about? Why didn't you tell me?”

“When we were at my house the other day, while you and the kids were hiding in that round of hide and seek, I asked Jackie to speak to her. Ronis, I really want to meet her.”

“Are you sure, baby? That's a monumental step. I mean, what if she disappoints you or says something to hurt you? Then I'd have to hide out in the shrubs and attack her for upsetting you.”

Oliver laughed. “I don't know if I'm ready, but after what my Dad told me, I honestly think this is long overdue.”

Ronis sighed. “Jackie spoke to her?”

“Yes.”

“And she agreed?”

“Yes.”

“And you're trying to impress her with this look?”

The boy turned crimson. “Maybe.”

“Babe, you look like a serial killer. You don't have to change yourself to impress her,” Ronis said as she rustled the boy's hair, effectively ruining his perfectly sculpted dome.

“Hey! It took me ten minutes to do my hair!”

“Well it was a waste of time. You need to do your usual style and go as yourself.”

“And if I don't?” he challenged.

“Your Mum may mistake you for Jake the Ripper and run away!”

Oliver cackled. “Fine.”

“Wear your favorite hoodie and those dark stone washed jeans that I love. They make your ass look amazinggggg.”

“Should that be a priority when meeting your mother?”

“No, but it's a priority when I have to watch you leave,” she said before kissing himself.

After changing clothes and doing his hair in his in the usual tousled way, the boy exited his dorm and caught a cab to his sister's house. They then traveled to the outskirts of the city, pulling up to a quaint home surrounded by nothing but trees and a riverside bank.

“This is incredible,” Oliver exhaled.

“Yeah,” Jackie said as she climbed out out the car and waited for her brother to do the same. When he didn't, she opened his door for him. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” the boy replied nonchalantly but he still didn't move. There was a long pause before he looked up at her. “Oh! This is her house?”

“No, it's Buckingham palace,” Jackie said sarcastically. “Of course it's her house!”

Oliver quickly undid his seatbelt and jumped out of the car. He then followed his sister down the cobblestone path that lead to the porch before abruptly stopping and turning around. “I can't, I can't,” he muttered prior to stopping and turning to face the house again. “Ugh, just do it. Get this over with.”

As he talked to himself, his sister watched sympathetically. “Are you sure you want to do this today?”

Oliver hesitated but then nodded as he removed his inhaler from his pocket. He took two deep puffs and sighed. “I'm ready.” The boy took a few steps then groaned. “Fuck, do you think I should've gotten her flowers or something? Ugh, I'm so stupid.”

“Nooo, she doesn't need anymore flowers. Come on. You'll be fine and if you feel uncomfortable at any point we can leave.”

“Okay,” he exhaled before finally making his way to the porch. Jackie rang the doorbell and within seconds, a tall blonde man answered. Oliver recognized him as his mother's husband.

“Hey!” the man greeted.

“Hey, Gabe,” Jackie said as she hugged him. “This is my brother, Oliver.”

The blue eyed man stared intently at the boy, making him gulp. Gabe extended his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Oliver.”

“F-Finally?” the boy asked as he returned the gesture.

Gabe gave his hand a firm shake. “Yeah, I've heard a lot about you.”

“Oh..”

“Come on in,” the man offered.

The two of them entered the warm abode and the smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies made Oliver sick to his stomach. They weren't intended for him and neither were the novels, spots saved with colorful bookmarks or each toy thrown about until it could be returned to it's proper place or any other artifact that made this house into a home. Although he'd grown up with all of these items and everything that his father could afford to give him, it all just seemed so much more better knowing that a mother's love had been put into it. And none of it had been for him.

“We were just getting ready for lunch.”

“Yeah?” Jackie asked. “Where are the kids?”

“Upstairs. And Jen's out back.”

“Even in this weather?”

“Yeah, she's been waiting for you guys. And gardening helps her nerves.”

Oliver's stomach lurched. “She’s nervous?”

“Oh, like a hooker in church.”

“Hm.”

“Let's go,” Jackie told her brother.

The boy took a deep breath and followed his sister through the kitchen, then dining room before exiting out of the French doors that led to the backyard.

“Jackie, I feel like I'm having a fucking heart attack,” Oliver whispered as he began to drag his feet in the snow.

“You'll be fineeee,” she assured. “Mum's right over here.”

“I'm not calling her that.”

“Nobody expects you to,” Jackie sighed as they approached the small garden and the woman tending to it. “Hey, Mum.”

The dark haired woman stood and turned around. A weathered straw hat covered her shoulder length bob and her large brown eyes seemed to carry the wisdom of the world in them. And when she smiled, Oliver was immediately thrown into an internal battle. The years of the woman being solely known as the 'bitch who abandoned him’ conflicted with the instantaneous connection he felt with her.

“Hey, Jackie.”

Her musical voice triggered vague childhood memories that made a lump swell in the Oliver's throat. He contemplated running but the moment that he'd waited his entire life for wasn't over yet, she'd either call him by the proper name or demand to never see him again. He was prepared for either.

“Hello, Oliver,” the woman got out through a broken voice.

“H-H-Hi...Mu-Je…”

“Jennifer or Jen is more than okay.”

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Jen.”

There was heartache behind her smile. “How are you?”

“I'm...I don't know. I guess I'm okay. You?”

“I’m not sure either. But I'm happy to see you.”

Butterflies filled the boy's stomach. “Y-You are?”

“Yes. Why don't we go inside? It's freezing out here.” They nodded and returned inside to the dining room. “I try to keep the vegetables alive even in the winter.”

“Because blankets keep them warm,” Jackie teasingly mocked.

“They do!” the woman assured as she removed her hat and hung it on the door on the hook next to the door. “Have a seat, have a seat.”

“I want to go say hi to the kids if that's okay,” Jackie said as an excuse.

Oliver shot her a look.

“Um, yeah, of course that's fine. They are your siblings after all.” The woman regretted the statement the moment the words left her lips. “Oliver I-”

“It's okay.”

“There's just so much I want to say to you and I don't ever know where to start.”

“The beginning is usually a good place to start.”

Jennifer nodded before sitting down and invited the boy to do the same as Jackie eased out of the room unnoticed.

“I'm sure the beginning of every side of this story starts the same. We were a young, happy, perfect family but then things changed. When you turned four years old, you began to show interest in stuff like superheros, bugs and other gross things that little boys generally like. I thought it was a phase but after a while you just kept going. I got tired of it and wanted my little princess back but your father,” she practically growled. “Your father just came up to me one day and said that you were transgender. I had no clue what that meant, but he told me that you were now a boy and that I had no choice but to accept it. I was shocked and utterly confused. David had always wanted a son and after a string of miscarriages, he wasn't disappointed that you were a girl, but the hope of having a son still stirred in the back of his mind. So when this phase of yours came about, I was convinced that he was using the power of persuasion to influence your decisions and as I mother, there's nothing more I want for my children than to be free thinkers and their own person which might sound like bullshit to you but it's true,” Jen sniffled as she did her best to suppress her tears. “I felt like David was being creepy and manipulative and he had me so stressed to a point where I hated him. I wanted to hurt him the way I felt that he was hurting me but I did the worst thing a mother could do. I used you to get to him. Calling you things like 'it’ or refusing to acknowledge the trans thing; you were just a casualty in the war and it makes me sick to my stomach. I never should’ve behaved that way and it hurts like hell that I can't take it back. But I tried, ohhh how I tried.”

“Dad told me about the court stuff,” Oliver said quietly.

Jennifer clenched her jaw in anger. “I'll be right back,” she said as she pushed herself away from the table, quickly returning with a large box. “In a fit of blind rage, I signed over my parental rights but I regretted that shit the very next day. I did everything I could to contact David but was completely ignored, so I did this.” She dumped the contents of the box onto the table.

“What's all this?” the boy asked.

“Every single document and record of every attempt I made to get back into your life.”

Oliver picked up one of the thick packets. It was a summon from the court, ordering David to appear so that the ‘pending case against him could be resolved’.

“Years of phone records, letters, court dates and even information from private investigators.”

The boy raised an eyebrow. “Private investigators?”

“Yes! That man was able to avoid me like he was a fugitive and I was a bounty hunter. At one point, I thought he'd changed his identity, but nope, he was just willing to do any and everything to keep you hidden and it honestly made me believe my theory of him preying on you even more. I called the police multiple times but since I'd signed over my rights, there was nothing I could do.”

Oliver remained silent as he took in all of the information. “But...why did you stop? Even if you didn't think he'd relent, wouldn't it be the motherly thing to keep trying?”

“I did this for years...until I got sick.”

“Sick of trying?”

“Sick with breast cancer,” she said quietly.

Oliver's heart and stomach dropped. “Jackie never said anything about breast cancer..”

“She doesn't know,” Jennifer whispered. The look on the boy's face must've shown extreme confusion so the woman quickly explained as quietly as she could while still being clear. “She had just started her career, Jaz was just a baby and Jackie was so stressed that I didn't want to add to it by telling her unless I knew I was going to die. But I had hope in myself, I'm a fighter,” she said with a smile. “Years of chemo, a shaved head and wigs to convince everyone that everything was okay took a toll on me and I didn't have the strength to go to court every week in hopes that David would show.”

“Jen... I don't know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything, Oliver. Just know that I've always loved you and I've always wanted to be in your life.” Jennifer quickly dug through the mound of papers and found what she was looking for. She handed it to the boy. “A copy of a letter that I wrote your father.”

Oliver quickly read the note.

David,

It's been two long years that I've been without my baby and there hasn't been a day that I haven't attempted to contact you. I'm so sorry for everything I did, but I just need my child in my life like I need air to breathe. Boy, girl, or anything in between, I don't care. I just want my precious little angel back…

“And here's evidence that he threw that very letter away,” Jennifer said as handed the boy a series of pictures that depicted of his father, twelve years earlier, collecting the mail, riffling through it and immediately tossing the bright pink envelope into the trash. “I always made sure to choose unique or distinct envelopes so that the private investigator would know what to look for.”

“That's brilliant,” Oliver admitted.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “But if only he'd read them.”

The pain that was evident in her voice made the boy want to cry, but he'd refused to give the stranger the satisfaction of that just yet.

“He never even gave me a second chance. Over the years, he and his entire family put me through hell, I at least deserve a second chance.”

“Well, you don't have to worry about him giving you a second chance. He's not your kid,” Oliver said sternly as he folded his arms.

“That's true. And I can't do much now but ask for your forgiveness.”

The boy pursed his lips and the woman burst into tears. “I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “People can accuse me of being a bitch or deadbeat but they can't say that I never tried. I've always kept an eye on your social media, I thought thirteen was a little young for things but I was grateful for the opportunity to get to know things about you. You're doing so well, your music is amazing and Ronis is so stunning.”

Oliver was completely taken aback. “You follow me on social media?”

“Well, not officially... I didn't want you to realize that I was looking at your stuff. I was terrified that you'd make it private or block me.”

“I thought the exact...same...thing, as I stalked you,” the boy exhaled.

Jennifer wiped her eyes. “I’m glad I wasn't the only one.”

“No...so, you know about Ronis?”

“Yes! Oh my God, sorry for being creepy, but her tweets are so funny.”

“Yeah, she's incredible.”

“I was actually expecting you to bring her.”

“Nah, I was trying to be a big boy today,” he said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to offend you.”

The boy took a deep breath. “No, I'm just being difficult.”

“You have that right.”

He nodded. “Besides, between Ronis and I, I'm the nice one. She probably wouldn't have been impressed by anything you had to say.”

Jennifer smiled. “That's good. You need a tough girl in your life.”

“Yeah, may as well have one supportive woman in my life.”

The woman cleared her throat at the dig before reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a Cadbury chocolate bar and Oliver's mouth immediately began to water.

“Y-You like ch-chocolate?” he stammered.

“Are you kidding me? I think I was Willy Wonka in a past life. Why? Do you?”

“I do,” he said, trying to keep cool. Somewhat embarrassed about his one true weakness, he never posted about candy so there was no way that the woman could've known.

“I also love gummies, sour stuff and absolutely anything with caramel. I'm damn near fifty years old and haven't grown out of stiff arming children in the sweets shop to get in line first,” she chuckled.

Oliver cackled. “That's amazing.”

Jennifer smiled and as she dug into her pocket again, her husband caught her. “Hey, no chocolate before you have your lunch.”

“Pfft, what are you the sweets police?”

“Yes. But I guess I'll let you off with a warning because it's a special occasion.”

“Thank you, honey,” Jennifer said, blowing him a kiss as he exited the room. “Fuck outta here with that nonsense,” she mumbled.

Oliver cackled.

Gabe turned on his heel. “What was that?”

“I love you so muchhhh,” the woman added with a smile.

“Mhmm,” the man hummed before returning to the kitchen.

“He's a chef so he thinks he can bust my ass over what I eat.”

“Oh, well that makes sense.”

“I suppose,” Jennifer sighed. “He means well but I've always been difficult. It's hard to love a woman who can't fully love herself...when she's trying to get her baby back. I turned him down constantly but once I got sick, he was still there and I was okay, I definitely have to give this guy a chance. When I shaved my head, he bought me a wig named the 'Tracy’ and it was a bob. I loved it so much that when my hair finally grew back, I began to wear it like this,” she chuckled. “Ta-Da.”

Oliver's laugh was light but then he went solemn. “And then you had two more children and lived happily ever after.”

Jennifer's face fell. “Anything you want, it's yours. I have to make things up to you and I don't know where to start. Just tell me what you want from me and I'll do it. Anything.”

The first thing that crossed Oliver's mind was to demand that she sign over the rights of her two children, but the boy quickly suppressed the evil thoughts and gave into his current burning desire. “I want the chocolate.”

“Th..This chocolate?” she asked to stall time, contemplating a run for it.

“Yes.”

The woman clenched her jaw. “I did say anything, didn't I?”

“You did indeed.” By the way she gripped the wrapper, Oliver was starting to think that she would've rathered given up the kids but before he knew it, the woman slid the chocolate bar across the table to him.

She then removed the contents of her pockets and began to hand him, various types of candy. “Anything. I have a small trunk of the stuff hidden in my closet,” she whispered. “You want that too?”

“No, this should be enough to last the rest of the day.”

Jennifer smiled in relief. “That was my stash for the next hour.”

The two of them shared a laugh just as Gabe returned to the room with a platter of turkey pita pockets served with a side of fresh green grapes. “And if you're good, you can have a cookie or two afterwards,” Gabe jokingly told his wife.

“You're so ridiculous,” she sighed.

“I love you too. Oliver, can I get you anything or do you like turkey pitas?”

“I've never had a turkey pita, but I guess it doesn't hurt to try new things.”

The man smiled. “It doesn't. Kids, lunchtime!”

The boy's heart skipped a beat. “Um, I-I-I don't know if they...should I go?”

“Of course not,” Jennifer assured as her face fell. “Unless, you want to.”

“I'm not sure..um, do they know about me?” he whispered.

The woman nodded. “They've always known about you. I never denied that they had two older siblings.”

Before the boy could respond, two blonde children rushed into the dining room.

“You're here, you're finally here!” The girl squealed.

“Hi,” Oliver said quietly. “Nice to meet you, Julie.” He turned to the boy. “Peter.”

Their small eyes grew wide. “You do know our names! Mum said you might not know about us but we know about youuu.”

“Nah, I did my fair share of stalking you guys.”

“He just wasn't able to see us because remember that he and Jackie have a different father, my first husband. Oliver has lived with him for all these years.”

“Well just because you live with someone else, doesn't mean you can't visit another house,” the small boy commented.

“Peter, it was more complicated than that. The important thing is that Oliver has joined us now and I hope that he's happy because I'm never letting him out of my sight again.”

“So are you a real boy?” the girl asked.

“Julie, go to your room!” Jennifer exploded.

“Whyyyyy?”

“Now!”

Oliver turned bright red; more embarrassed that the girl had gotten in trouble than the question itself.

“Peter, step out of the room, please,” the woman sighed as she fought back her tears. The boy obliged without protest. “Oh my God,” she whimpered as she wiped her eyes.

“Jen, calm down,” Gabe pleaded.

“No! I did not raise them that way! I taught them to respect everyone no matter what gender, race or color. She knows better than to ask questions like that. It's so inappropriate and now I'm-” she took a deep breath before turning to Oliver. “Please don't be offended or leave and not want to come over anymore,” Jennifer sniffled. “Please. I don't think I could take losing you twice.”

“Mum, I-”

The woman burst into tears.

Panicking, Oliver glanced up at Gabe who was already rushing to the his wife's side. “Sweetheart, it'll be okay. Julie didn't mean it. She's only nine and-”

“You called me 'Mum’,” Jennifer sobbed. “I haven't heard you say that since you were four years old.”

Unsure how he felt about the woman's happy tears, he clenched his jaw. “Well, it was a mistake.”

“I don't care. I'll cherish it forever.”

Oliver pushed himself away from the table before storming out of the room with Jennifer following quickly behind him.

“Oliver, please don't go,” she begged. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Yes! No- I don't know! I don't know what I expected out of this meeting, but you don't get to be happy!”

“I can't help that Oliver,” she sniffled. “Did you want me to call you by your birth name, tell you to fuck off and slam the door in your face?”

“That probably would've been easier to handle than this!” the boy shouted before storming out of the house, unintentionally slamming the door behind him.

The clash made Jennifer jump as fresh tears streamed down her face and before she ran up the stairs. Gabe groaned before following her, passing Jackie on his way up as she descended the steps.

“What happened?” she asked.

“It didn't go so well,” he sighed. “I'll see you later.”

Jackie collected her things and rushed out to her car where Oliver had barricaded himself. She climbed into the driver's seat. “What happened?”

The boy didn't respond as he stared out the window at the snow that had begun to fall.

“Great,” she sighed as she cranked the car, turned the heat to full blast and pulled out of the driveway.

---

“Since my right hand is busted and I can't sign autographs, how about I take pictures with everyone?” Jason asked his manager as they entered the venue.

“If they take pictures then they'll want hugs, and that'll take fucking forever,” Lucian groaned.

“So? It's the least I can do.”

“Fine,” the man sighed.

“I'm not sure if I'm okay with the hugging thing,” Matt objected.

“Babe,” the brunette said, tone reprimanding.

“No, it's not even a jealousy thing. What if they try to hurt you like that crazy 'Matt’? I mean, look at what happened to Christina Grimmie, oh God.”

“There's metal detectors at every entrance and security has tripled since the last incidence,” Bill assured.

“Good,” Matt replied as he tightened his grip on Jason's hand.

“I just wanna get in and get out. Since you're now a Grammy nominated artist, we have bigger fish to fry. This promo tour is really a waste of time, your album will be flying off the shelves on their own.”

Jason rolled his eyes and once the MC introduced him, he made his way to his table set up and waved at the legions of fans that'd showed up.

“Can I just stand next to Bill in case something happens?” Matt asked.

“No, “ Lucian replied.

Matt snarled but quickly composed himself just as a man tapped Lucian on the shoulder.

“What?”

“There's a girl at the door and she's saying that Jason himself told her to ask for you and that she'd get in for free.”

Lucian scoffed. “Tell that bitch to fuck off.”

The man nodded and turned on his heel.

“Was she really supposed to get in for free?” Matt asked.

“Jason wanted her to. But that's not how business works. He'll learn the harsh side of this industry soon enough. Besides, that bitch ruined his surprise.”

“You're a fucking shitty manager,” the boy hissed before boldly taking the stage and standing next to Bill.

“You shouldn't be up here,” the security guard told him.

“If you'd do your job properly, I wouldn't have to be,” he retorted as he watched his boyfriend hug the next fans, a hot guy and his sister.

“How are you guys?” Jason asked.

“Good,” the girl replied. “I just had to bring my brother here. He loves you.”

The boy nervously rubbed his arm as he spoke. “Thanks to your music, I-I-I was able to come out to my parents.”

Without another word, Jason hugged the boy again.

Matt was fine with the gesture until he noticed the boy sniff the brunette's hair. “That’s enough,” he hissed.

Jason glanced over his shoulder and wasn't surprised to see the boy. He simply shook his head. “That's literally amazing and it makes me happy that you were able to do that,” he told his fan before they posed for the picture.

Matt impatiently pursed his lips when the boy slung his arm low around Jason's waist. After the picture taken they had to pass Bill and Matt to exit the stage.

“Oh my God, he smells so good,” the boy squealed to his sister.

“Hey,” Matt whispered. “That was real fucking creepy. And I'd advise you not to sniff my man again.”

The startled boy simply nodded and rushed off of the stage leaving Matt to flash an innocent grin when his boyfriend approached him.

“What are you doing up here?” he demanded.

“I'm on protection duty.”

“No, you're on jerk duty.”

“I'm not a jerk, he was sniffing you and shit!”

“Sssh! Matt, just go back down there.”

“Do you really think it's a good idea for me to be around Lucian?”

The boy blew out a stiff column of air. “Fine. Just behave yourself,” he said before returning to his spot to greet the next fans, two curvy girls whose nude bodysuits seemingly left nothing to the imagination. With their full lips coated in matte lipstick, perfectly sculpted eyebrows and cheeks slathered which so much shimmery highlighter that that'd probably glow in the dark, the duo was stylish and beautiful.

Matt did a double take. “Hotlanta,” he exhaled.

“Hi, ladies,” Jason greeted. “Oh my God, you guys are stunning!”

“Aww, thank youuu,” they said in unison. “We're Instagram models slash makeup artists,” one of them added.

“Who isn't these days?” Bill scoffed under his breath. “Take all that gunk off their face and they won't look a damn thing like that. It's like false advertising.”

“Do I smell a case of sour grapes?” Matt teased.

“It's a national epidemic. I took a hot girl home one night and woke up the morning next to Gollum.”

“Hey, that's not fair. Makeup is a way to express your artistic side and you should appreciate that in itself instead of bringing home a girl you probably had no intentions with past breakfast anyways.”

“I'm not ready to settle down.”

“Then you have no right to judge what they chose to put on their faces.”

“Oh damn, I guess I have no right to carry around baby wipes either?”

Matt rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the girls. “This really is the city of sin.”

Bill shot him a look. “Should Jason be worried?”

“Jason knows that I'm very fond of the opposite sex.”

The man chuckled. “Seriously?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know, it's just interesting. I suppose.”

“Whatever,” he said as he turned his attention back to the girls who were already making their way towards the edge of the stage. The boy quickly smoothed his hair. “Those steps are pretty steep. Let me help you down.” Matt offered his hand.

The first girl accepted. “Aww, thank you,” she said as he guided her down the steps, then her friend.

“No problem. Chivalry is not dead and beautiful women should be catered to.”

They giggled.

“Have a good night ladies. Get home safely.”

“We will. Thank youuu. Goodnight.”

Matt winked and watched them walk away prior to smugly returning to Bill's side. “I still got it.”

“Pfft, yeah because 'those steps are pretty steep’ is such a good pick up line,” Bill sarcastically replied.

“Hey, it worked didn't it? I could've gotten the digits if I wanted but that'd be disrespectful to my man,” he said as he glanced over at Jason who shot him a scowl that let him know that he was in trouble. Matt gulped.

“I hope the frosting faces were worth it,” Bill laughed.

“I didn't do anything wrong. I'm just being nice to Jason's fans.”

“Good luck with that story,” he said as the next fan, a cute preppy girl approached.

“Oh my God,” she squealed when she saw Matt. “Can I have a picture with you?!”

“M-Me? Why would you want a picture with me?”

“You're so Tumblr famous! Jason fans love youuu. I mean, the ones who don't think you're...crazy. Most of us find it pretty sexy.”

“Um, thanks?”

“So can I get a picture?”

“Sure.”

The girl pulled out her phone and a few selfies were taken. “Thank you so muchhhh. The fandom will be so jealous.”

“Fandom?”

“Oh yeah, there's tons of pictures and fanfiction. Just search the hashtag: hotboyfriendmatt on tumblr!” she said, throwing her arms around him in an unsanctioned hug before skittering away.

“See it's wackos like that who we need to look out for,” Bill groaned.

Matt shrugged. “I don't know, Bill. I think she was the sweetest one yet.”

Bill rolled his eyes.

The rest of the meet and greet progressed with Matt and Jason shooting each other looks of either lust or another glare on the 'you're so in trouble after this’ scale.

The moment that they made it back to their hotel, Jason slammed his boyfriend against the wall. “You think flirting with my fans is cool?”

“I wasn't flirting, I was just being nice.”

“Yeah, being nice by staring at every girl's ass!” he snarled as he shoved the boy onto the bed. Jason slid out of his slacks and boxers prior to doing a little dance. “None of them have an ass like this now do they?”

Matt bit his bottom lip as he stared at the boy's perfect cheeks. “No,” he exhaled.

“But since you want to stare at those fake bitches with their botox and silicone booty shots, do you think you deserve my ass?” Jason asked as he straddled the couch across from the boy.

“I do because you're perfect and they don't compare.”

The brunette slowly removed his shirt. “What was it you told that blonde in the blue dress? 'If you were a casino, I'd hit your jackpot’?”

“Well yeah... I mean, I just got bored just standing there next to Bill so I thought it'd be funny to try out Vegas themed pickup lines. Babe, it wasn't a big deal, I didn’t even speak to most of them.”

“But you still stared.”

“Girls are pretty! Looking at them is harmless.”

“Then I guess...looking at me...will be harmless too,” Jason said seductively as he spread his legs and made himself comfortable on the couch. He wrapped his hand around his shaft and began to stroke himself. “Fuck,” the brunette moaned, looking back at the boy who stared at him through lust filled eyes.

“Damn, baby,” Matt exhaled.

Jason threw his head back in exaggerated pleasure because he knew it’d drive the other boy crazy. “Oh my God.”

Matt pushed himself off of the bed and reached for the brunette but he scowled. “Sit your ass down.” He quickly obeyed the order but the way that Jason moaned and curled his toes was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen in his life.

“Babe, you're killing me.”

“So why don't you go look for a girl to stare at?”

“Fuck girls,” Matt groaned as he rushed over and sank to his knees. He slapped Jason's hand away and took the boy's entire cock into his mouth.

“Shittt.”

He expertly worked his tongue up and down the brunette's shaft prior to taking the tip past the threshold of his throat.

“Matt, I'm gonna come,” Jason whimpered as he tangled his tingling fingers into the boy's already messy hair.

Matt hummed around his boyfriend's dick, effectively sending the boy over the edge. Jason shot his load of cum directly down the boy's throat who sucked up every drop before pulling away.

“You taste like watermelon,” he chuckled as he wiped his mouth.

Jason placed his lips against the other boy's and swirled his tongue around Matt's. “You're right,” he giggled.

“You're so perfect.”

“Get on the bed so I can take care of you.”

“Nah, I'm pretty tired. Let's snuggle.” Matt grabbed the boy's wrist and pulled him onto the bed where they cuddled until falling asleep. Early the next morning, Jason awoke to a flurry of texts from his manager breaking down his itinerary. He'd be flying to Phoenix while Matt and his family would return to New York, but when the brunette bitched and moaned to his manager about his boyfriend being on the tour until he had to go back to school, he was forced to temporarily hire Matt as his assistant.

“You just love torturing me, don't you?” Lucian groaned as he boarded the bus and saw the boy who'd essentially became his nemesis.

“Lucian, you really need a boyfriend to occupy your goddamn time,” Jason replied. “You're like the Grinch.”

“Oh, so that was the Grinch's problem?” Matt laughed.

“He definitely just needed to be fucked.”

“You're both little turds,” the man sighed.

“You're a pathetic-” Matt got out before catching himself. “You're not worth it.”

“But that dick is.”

The brunette quickly pushed himself out of the chair and rushed towards the back of the bus. “Oh my God, Oh my God,” he panted breathlessly.

“I swear to God,” Matt snarled at Lucian. “If you mention my dick again, I will kill you. If you've upset him in any way, shape or form, I will literally smother you in your sleep. Do you understand?”

“Bill, are you hearing this?!”

“I’m off the clock,” the man said as he stifled a yawn. “I didn't hear anything.”

“Oh my God,” Jason sobbed as he sank to the floor at the back of the bus.

Matt shot Lucian a glare that made the man jump before rushing to Jason's side. “Babe, what’s wrong? If Lucian's commen-”

“Alley's dead.”

#letters fic #pearlet fanfiction

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