#this isn’t very well written and is basically just written up notes from the margins of my copy of the theses but the points are important

[autokratorissa]

At a time in which Russia is once again embroiled in an imperialist war and world imperialism is escalating towards catastrophe, I wanted to give a critical precis of Lenin’s so-called April Theses, “The Tasks of the Proletariat in the Present Revolution”. Given the current dearth of socialist internationalism and the continued escalation of imperialist war and competition, it’s useful to look back at moments when our movement was strongest and most mature and how it addressed the same problems with that strength and maturity. So I’m going to summarise his points thesis by thesis, and briefly explain their relevance, as I see them, for us now.

Lenin remains an invaluable source for the modern communist movement, and his most important, pivotal interventions—such as this one—are worth studying, because, for the most part, they show the impetus and demands placed upon a revolutionary movement in extreme clarity, as mediated through an intelligent and dedicated leader. In the April Theses, delivered in the days following Lenin’s return to Petrograd, he advocated for a decisive break with the bourgeois revolution and for the Party to commit itself solely and totally to the working class and its state organs: the soviets.

Introduction: in his preamble, Lenin takes pains to make clear that he welcomes and has actively facilitated genuine, meaningful criticism, even and especially from ‘honest opponents’, including socialist members of the Provisional Government (!). The relevance today: wherever social criticism and political demands are parochial, sect-like, or allergic to the light of day, we must treat them with contempt. Any genuinely socialist, revolutionary message must be public and subject to the broadest scrutiny and readership possible within the limits of the progressive movement; appeal to reactionary criticism is malicious and acts to stifle any forward momentum.

First thesis: there can be no revolutionary war for bourgeois power, only for workers’ power. After the February Revolution, the mainstream socialist leadership supported a policy of “revolutionary defencism”, i.e. of Russia’s continued participation in the First World War, supposedly because of the need to defend the gains of the Revolution. So what makes a revolutionary war? For a war to be worth fighting for the proletariat, i.e. for it to count as a revolutionary war, Lenin proposed three criteria: there must be (a) workers’ state power, that is, it must be a war being fought by the workers all the way up, not just in the human materiel of the army, a war fought for workers’ power by workers’ power; (b) internationalism, that is, there must be a renunciation of any demands for the peace that goes against the international proletariat’s interests, such as annexations or crippling indemnities; (c) ‘a complete break with all capitalist interests’, such as the designs of imperialist alliances. Russia under the Provisional Government failed on all three counts. In the face of a bourgeois war—as Lenin knew Russia’s war to be—the workers’ must pursue, he argued, a policy of internationalism: of the sabotage of the war effort, of propagandising against the war, of the fraternisation of warring armies, not continued fighting. But the masses wanted to defend the Revolution, which was promising them so much after centuries of tsarism, and so even as they desperately wanted peace they listened to the Government when it told them to keep fighting. Lenin, as was so typical of him, emphasised the ‘broad sections of the mass believers’ in false policies; socialists must always be overwhelmingly concerned with the masses. In the grand scheme of things it does not matter what a minority thinks, what minor little strata think: the Party must go to the masses, show them the deception being pulled by the Government, and rally them around their true hope, around their soviets.

The relevance today: to claim that the Ukrainian workers must “defend”—with their lives and livelihoods—the bourgeois regime in Kyiv, or the international proletariat facilitate “their own” imperialist governments’ war drive in Ukraine, or the strategy of tension and genocidal repression in occupied Palestine, or any of the other flash-points of the world, is to exist at a level of social-chauvinism that would put all the apologists of bourgeois power in 1917 Russia to shame, for at least they had the excuse that history was young and moving, that the bourgeois government really was freer than any other country on earth, and that the nascent bourgeois state really was revolutionary, even if it was revolutionary for a hostile class that had become reactionary on the world stage. To “progressively” support the policy of Biden, Zelenskyy, or Putin is, in the historical sense, to make a “progressive” supporter of Lvov or Kerensky blush. It is a mark of just how degenerated the workers’ movement is that such views are fairly easy to find today amongst those who purport socialist politics. And so it is even more important that communists go to masses and propagandise against the bourgeoisie’s wars, against its rule, and support, as the classic formulation goes, every struggle against the present state of things.

Second thesis: Lenin analyses Russia as passing through the epoch of bourgeois rule; the only reason the workers didn’t take power in February, he says, was because of a lack of class consciousness and organisation, i.e., for political reasons rather than economic ones to do with the supposedly immature conditions of Russia for socialism, reasons that, in April, were declining and moving towards a moment of collision. This is one of Lenin’s central insistences throughout his revolutionary life, one of the things that best marks out Leninism as a distinct revolutionary tradition: the insistence on the primacy of politics, on what Mao called the need to put politics in command. The proletariat cannot merely limp behind trends in production and ape out a revolutionary (“revolutionary”) programme on the presumption that socialism is just around the corner, and we need only wait for a X millions more in GDP, for a few more innovations in automation, for a few higher percentage points of inflation. History won't happen without a push. Lenin here stresses the need for the Party to work on this basis, of working in the context of a mass of workers and poor peasants ‘who have just awakened to political life’ and started to recognise the impending need for a new regime but who lack the organisation to fight and to see through the lies of the bourgeois regime.

The relevance for today: we must be aware of the line of historical movement, of the phases through which the world is passing. Imperialism is in crisis conditions and is fighting to get out of it by intensifying the crisis to trigger a resolution through force, i.e. through war. The nature of such a historical movement will politicise broad masses of people who were previously politically inert, and thereby introduce one of Lenin’s conditions for a revolutionary crisis. Communists must be working to bring these newly politicised people onto the workers’ side instead of being won over by the bourgeoisie to support their wars. To make a revolutionary situation a revolutionary crisis, i.e. to turn an objective instability in the regime into a subjective dislocation of its power, requires the energising, propagandising, and leading of the masses brought into politics by the crisis.

Third thesis: very simple, categorical: there can be no “critical support” for imperialism. Workers must be shown the true nature of the bourgeois state and of imperialism, and thereby shown that the regime is incapable of meeting their demands and serving their best interests. There must be an emphasis on the structure of society, on the determinate relationship between forces, and a dismissal of the best-laid plans and pretty words that bourgeois leaders offer us: whether they are genuine in their intent or not doesn’t matter, because they are structurally incapable of anything other than imperialism. This thesis doesn’t need any “modernising” to be relevant to today; simply replace ‘Provisional Government’ with the name of your own government. This is itself a demonstration of the structural character of history that Lenin is pointing out: despite all the promises and efforts of their well-meaning progressive strata, the bourgeoisie has not changed the basic nature of the world since 1917: it is imperialist, and they are its masters, masters of a regime spiralling into oblivion— this time not just under the looming threat of thousands of kilometres of sprawling trenches, of green countryside turned to the black-brown mud of no man’s land by artillery, nor even of whole cities swallowed by fire bombs and starved by continental blockades, but under the apotheosis of the mushroom cloud and the shadow of nuclear winter.

Fourth through eighth theses: Lenin calls upon the Bolsheviks to recognise that they are small minority in the soviets, and that most of the masses follow the leadership of those factions of the workers’ movement that in practice support the bourgeoisie. The role of the Party is therefore to expose and criticise the counterrevolution in order to show the masses the falsity of their leaders. The Bolsheviks must work to show the workers that they must take power themselves, as a mass, and that they must learn through experience, through doing, not through mere instruction by the Party, which cannot forcefully lead them to take power if they do not have this experience (the error of commandism). One of the things the Bolsheviks must show the workers, he argues, is that their councils—the soviets—are the only possible mechanism of their rule, i.e., that parliamentarianism and democracy are counterrevolutionary and to be opposed, that such things are a ‘retrograde step’ in comparison with the councils. What the workers need, and what they have already begun to build, is a commune-state, i.e. a republic of workers’ and poor peasants’ councils, i.e. a dictatorship of the proletariat and its allied social forces. The workers need a semi-state, a state which is decaying, a state in which state functions cease to be performed by distinct apparatus and become the common tasks of the masses themselves (Lenin names the abolition of the police, the army, and the bureaucracy as immediate demands in this respect). As the central task of the coming revolution was ‘transferring the entire state power to the Soviets of Workers’ Deputies, so that the people may overcome their mistakes by experience’, and as Lenin stressed the primacy of politics, he called for the Bolsheviks to shift the discussion of land redistribution and control of the banks from one of a demand for land or money per se to one of a demand for political power over them, i.e. for their direct administration by the councils. ‘It is not our immediate task to “introduce” socialism, but only to bring social production and the distribution of products at once under the control of the Soviets of Workers’ Deputies’ (8th thesis).

The relevance to today: the bourgeois state must be opposed as such, i.e. as a bourgeois state, and not merely in terms of being governed by a particular government which is enacting particular policies. Those currents that promise socialism and meaningful change through the bourgeois state are dead-ends, they are actively anti-worker in deeds if not in words or intentions (not to dismiss the importance of reforms as reforms, as non-revolutionary demands). Likewise, in a different way, those who promise a break with the bourgeois state but who can only envisage the proletarian dictatorship as an affirmation of the state, as a retrenching and reaffirmation of state power, only this time “in the service of the workers”. Such degenerations have been forced on the revolutionary movement many times before due to impossible conditions: they do not represent the real (Lenin: only possible) basis for workers’ state power as a class, as a deliberate ruler of society. Again, the primacy of politics: all that matters, ultimately, is power. ‘“I grant you everything except power,” tsarism declares. “Everything is illusory except power,” the revolutionary people reply’ (Lenin, “The Denouement is At Hand”, 1905).

Ninth and tenth theses: here Lenin calls for changes to the Party programme, to its name, and for the convocation of a new International to replace the counterrevolutionary Second International. His overriding concern is that the Party must reflect the masses and their conditions. He therefore stresses, first, internationalism, that the Party must commit to workers everywhere, independent of nationality; second, the commune-state, that the Party must demonstrate the need of the workers to reject bourgeois democracy and refuse any state apparatus which is not their own; and third, that the Party must distinguish itself from false leaders, by making an obvious and explicit distinction between themselves and those elements of the workers’ movement that had more or less turned over to the side of the bourgeoisie over the course of the War. Apart from the commune-state, which history had not yet showed to be the proletarian state form, these are things Marx and Engels identified as defining communists as a distinct social force in the Manifesto of the Communist Party.

The relevance for today: any communist party must adhere to these three points: it must unite workers everywhere and not fall into nationalism, social-chauvinism, campism, etc.; it must demand a complete break with the bourgeois state, a dictatorship of the proletariat and nothing short of that; and it must show the masses the falsity of their would-be leaders, those who deny the above two points and who generally serve the capitalist class whether they know it or not.

Lenin’s April Theses are, like so many short, programmatic communist texts, both a historical and a contemporary-political document. Historical because it is obviously something written for a specific moment in time which has long since gone; contemporary because, precisely for its programmaticism (which is what makes it historical, i.e. makes it belong to specific conditions and not others), it shows what is important to the proletariat as a class, what is relevant across historical moments— what is retained in its maximal programme across time: unity internationally, our own state, and the self-conscious distinction of the revolutionary movement and its leadership from the reformist, opportunist, bourgeois elements that perpetually infect and typically dominate the working class.

In a period in which imperialism is pushing the world further towards a third, and most likely final, world war, and capitalism lingers in crisis conditions and, in the core countries, economic stagnation and political impotence, Lenin’s simple, essential recommendations to his party over a hundred years ago are worth considering and internalising. Though we are not in a revolutionary crisis today, nowhere near it, the conditions are brewing for the debilitation of the bourgeoisie internationally and especially at its weakest points. Of chief importance for us today, from Lenin, is his internationalism, the thing which characterised his politics more than anything else, the thing which made him break from the mainstream and lead the workers in Russia and the world towards a new direction and a new programme; without internationalism, communism is nothing.

[boxdstars]

The Tally

In which Sebastian isn’t subtle

Word count: 1.1k

Sebastian Sallow x Gn!MC

Ft. OC content (not romantic)

MC is chilling in the background, good for them

A/N: fuck it Mara content. Basically, I want more Sebastian & oc antics, but without any romantic strings attached. Also i'm rusty with fanfic, please forgive me LOL

Sebastian wasn’t paying attention. He’s trying to, he really is. But his mind drifts back to… them. And well, how could it not? He fondly recalled their recent trip to the Forbidden Forest before a familiar voice brought him back to reality.

“Eleven..” Mara marks down with a flick of her quill then resumes back to her potions assignment. 

Sebastian frowns. For the past week, his friend has been making a tally. It’s been absolutely unbearable. One moment they’ll be in the midst of a lesson and the next moment she’s muttering a ‘thirteen’ or ‘twenty-seven’ under her breath before jotting it down in the margins of her schoolwork.

It’s insufferable.

And what’s worse - she won’t tell him what she’s counting.

He attempted to look, but Professor Sharp came to their side of the room, so Sebastian returned to his own (notably sparse) notes. It was difficult to pay attention when he was so insatiably curious. The rest of the class was a blur.

It kept on happening. In Herbology, in Defense against the Dark arts, in Charms, even History of Magic. She’d be half awake, face almost plummeting into the desk, and yet Mara would still have the audacity to add to her ever-growing list. 

Fine, whatever. She was jotting down numbers in class. Why did he care? Sure, it was incredibly annoying, and sure, nothing irked him more than her hiding it from him, but still. It’s not as if he was entitled to know.

But then that infernal list came out during dinner. He couldn’t take it anymore.

Mara elbowed Imelda and whispered, “I think it’s at 64 today alone.” To which the other girl snorted, cupping her mouth behind her hands.

He kicks Mara underneath the table, and she nearly skyrockets out of her seat. “So you told Reyes and not me?”

“What are you talking about?” 

His eyes narrow. “You know.”

“Do I?”

“Let me see it.”

She leans back, as if contemplating if she should or not. Eventually Mara relents and pulls out the tiny piece of parchment she’d been furiously scribbling in. She slid it over to him in one fluid motion.

Desperately, he snatched it from her, his brows still furrowed. But she’d given it to him at the very least, which had to count for something.

He opens it up and the short slab of paper unfurls into a long, grandiose scroll that rolls right into his lap. As expected, there’s a lot of numbers written down the middle, but to his horror, right there at the top in bold fancy lettering, read the following:

'How Many Times Sebastian has talked about (and/or looked at)…'

And there it was, their name. In equally fancy lettering: the former new fifth year, current Hero of Hogwarts. The list was long, half as long as it was comprehensive. No, it wasn’t just a string of tally marks, each was grouped into a specific class, on a specific date. With each being totaled at the end of the day. She had put more effort into this than her schoolwork, which was a minor consolation, all things considered.

“It started as a joke, but we just kept going.”

“We?!”

Then he saw, below the title, began the tally. Mara’s chicken-scratch handwriting was prominent, but to his chagrin he noticed several other familiar letterings. Notably, Ominis’ skilled hand had jotted down additional notes in the far left margin. 

“I told you, you have a problem.” She shrugs, and Sebastian has to bite his tongue to argue that this is far more of a problem than his infatuation could ever be.

But then, Sebastian’s eyes skim the very bottom and there it is. It’s a small animated, yet crude drawing of him. The drawing of miniature Sebastian had comically oversized hearts instead of eyes. 

He gapes, “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

“I admit, she has far too much time on her hands.” Ominis quips from his side, but Sebastian doesn’t need to look at his friend to hear the smirk in his voice.

“Don’t start.” He frowns. “You’ve been in on this too!”

“You’re not particularly subtle, Sebastian.” The boy reminds him.

“The list can’t be this long.” He pushes the parchment away and points a finger accusingly at the girls seated across from him. “You snuck some in here, I know it.” 

Imelda and Mara both give him an incredulous look, as if wrackspurts were growing out of his ears. Had he been that obvious? Clearly.

“I don’t fancy them.” Is all he can sputter out.

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll have no qualms about them going on a date with Andrew Larson tomorrow.” She grins deviously.

She couldn’t be serious. This was all just another ploy. Mara got a kick out of his suffering. It was the quirk of their friendship. There’s no way someone like them would go out with Andrew Larson. Right? But now he couldn’t be sure.

He craned his neck over to look at them, ignoring how that only meant Mara would add her another tally to the list.. and there they were. They wore a bright smile as they combed stray hairs out of their face, laughing alongside the rest of their housemates. Thankfully, no sign of Andrew Larson. 

Still… no - he had to make sure. Surely he could find an excuse to steal them away for an afternoon. Perhaps some sparring practice in the Undercroft, or another hairbrained scheme to sneak into the restricted section. 

But just as Sebastian is ruminating over what exactly he plans on saying, their eyes meet his. Warm and inviting with cheeks slightly flushed from the prolonged eye contact, it takes everything in him not to run over there immediately. Out from under the table, he feels someone kick him. Half expecting it to be Mara, he’s quick to retort but looks over to see it’s Imelda instead.

“Go on, Sallow, make my day.” Her voice couldn’t be more sarcastic even if she tried.

He grumbled but stood up. He had to. What if that infernal list made its way to them, of all people? Not that his three friends would be so malicious as to do that - but the castle walls themselves are ripe with gossip. No, he’ll tell them right now if he has to. If Sebastian played his cards right, this would all be but a distant memory.

It’s only when he’s out of earshot that the three Slytherins fall into their usual gossip, the list of tally marks soon to be foregone entirely. 

[firespirited]

Vagueing here but the notes of the harry potter posts are using the same weird arguments for say, not giving up the n-word because it doesn’t affect structural change. Well you’re right: not saying any of the n-words* (even the academic ones I now censor because I was asked to) doesn’t change a thing to society.

The concept of the n-word exists from the moment someone calls about a black man minding his own business to the police grabbing him off the street for doing normal people stuff while black, to the courts who are stacked to view the black man as less important to his family and community, as less civilized and more disposable and with law written and unchanged since black people were considered property, to his time in jail forced into slavery to get basic necessities where the concept of the n-word is fully enacted on him again.

And yet, every time you mute yourself from singing the n-word and cut people out of your life for using it: you’re having to think. Maybe you don’t think about black people’s feelings at first because you just don’t want to lose non-black friends who do care, but the thought-seed is planted that maybe this actually hurts somebody... real friends wouldn’t drop you if it wasn’t serious right? And bit by bit, this tiny moment of mental “stop and think” translates to understanding that words carry history and ongoing suffering. You grapple with a non-black friend who believes free speech entitles him to use the words and realize you care quite a bit. You start noticing dog whistles and stereotypes: it’s not the n-word but it might as well be and isn’t that shifty and cruel?

So no it won’t change the world to not buy any more JKRowling related anything but it will slowly change you and your friends every time you stop and think about using a potter metaphor and switch to something else. Maybe you’ll start to question the groomer rhetoric and the tasteless predator jokes, the idea of gender performance and “failing” at gender, maybe you’ll even take the time to examine how you perform and enforce your gender in ways that might hurt you or your friends.

These ‘insignificant’ details matter because when we break thought patterns and bad habits we have to question and examine them. Most people don’t just stop smoking: it’s figuring out why you smoke, why you don’t want to smoke any more, how to replace it with something equally rewarding but healthy, slipping and learning from that. You take a small detail that’s been in our cultural background so long we use it as shorthand for personality types and villains... Well to remove the habit will require thinking about the habit and maybe instead of just worrying about losing “politically correct” friends, you’ll start to wonder why it’s serious enough to lose people’s respect and you’ll start thinking about trans people as people who deserve better than to be treated as monsters for existing.

So ok let’s say virtue signalling is a thing, I guess it’s signalling to your friends that you won’t drop them if they come out or date someone marginalized - It’s signalling that this particular discrimination isn’t ok so maybe people might think twice before talking about other bigotries, it’s signalling that you’re more likely to vote for candidates who are trawling trends and polls about issues people care about and that moves the needle a bit. Maybe the real virtue signalling is when you think it’s beneath you to make a tiny gesture of good will, when you say nothing because people will call you a spoil sport.

On the other hand, I am going to use cripple/crip for myself because it jolts people back into seeing the world as it treats me and not the magical happy post disability rights world people seem to think we live in. It’s a tiny act of rebellion and unity with others and it’s only very few words compared to the very many that we’re not reclaiming. You probably have your own slurs used against you and complex feelings about them: it’s how you know stuff is not your words to decide on: the people hurt by them get to choose what is and isn’t off limits or what they choose to reclaim.

*I’m using the most cross-culturally relevant example here, my unlearning journey has been hardest with concepts that would provoke serious wankery if this post ever escaped containment.

[yoichichi]

HQ boys with a sick s/o HC

warning(s): none :)

a/n: my poor ❣️ anon is sick and these were inspired by our last convo, I hope you’re feeling better Angel 😭 please enjoy some hq dummies and how theyd treat a sick s/o :) <3

characters: Tsukishima, Hinata, Sugawara, Daichi, Noya, Aran, Kita, Bokuto, Kenma, Ushijima, & Aone

Tsukishima

He would act bothered at the fact you’re sick, cause of course you’re gonna ask your boyfriend for things - like any notes you might’ve missed that day. But judging how he just does your homework for you you’re pretty sure he’s not actually mad.

He’d also be bugging you about taking your medicine cause he needs you to get better fast so he isn’t “stuck bullying only Hinata”, he misses picking on you too and he says it’s funner in person

He’s kind of worried about getting sick himself so he wouldn’t see you in person much but you definitely notice how frequent he’s starting to call you, he even FaceTimed you while he was at the grocery store cause you weren’t there with him to pick out your snacks. (He knows your favs at this point, he just missed your company)

The moment you’re better and he has a chance to see you he’s a bit more physically affectionate than normal - not that either of you are complaining - he missed you very much :(

Daichi

His hearts in the right place - like he’s brought some cough drops and water and such and has this whole plan for you to get better but the moment you sneeze a little too hard he’s so :((((( and just wants to hold you and coddle you.

So he does exactly that.

It can be a bit overbearing at first cause he’s VERY adamant on you not doing thing, like he’s debating on whether or not you should even be allowed to walk to the bathroom and if he should be carrying you there instead.

Rather than catch you up on anything you missed (he’ll bother suga about it later) he’d prefers snuggling in and napping the day away with you and just hopes you’ll magically get better.

Hinata

The overly worried type who’s also somehow simultaneously oblivious.

He’s CONSTANTLY checking in like are you better yet? Can you stand? Have you been throwing up all day? Is your temp still too high?? Please call me if you need anything :((((

But then he comes over with his volleyball and is all raring to go on some walk with you cause he found this awesome little trail that has some cute clearing he thinks you’d love but he seems to have forgotten you’re kind of currently bedridden.

You tell him and almost feel bad cause you can see the disappointment on his face and the way his body kind of deflates, but then all of a sudden he’s cheering back up cause he realizes that means he gets to lay with you basically all day and love up on you (regardless of your protests telling him he’d get sick too - which he definitely does)

Sugawara

I hope you wanted some tough love :(

Don’t get me wrong, he’s all about taking care of his baby but don’t think you’re gonna be milking any extra pity out of him 😭

He’s bringing you all the right medicine and extra love and any snacks you need, but he’s also bringing any schoolwork you might be missing and he’s reminding you of those deadlines.

He makes up for it with the extra study guides he made you so you can understand the material easier, and the cute little drawings he puts in the margins to better explain the material

He feels awful for his sick baby but isn’t gonna let you fall behind <3

Noya

Really believes in the whole laughter is the best medicine type shit. He’d also be looking up all different kinds of ways to make you better if he felt like you weren’t having a speedy recovery AHSJSJAJS

“I don’t know babe I’m jus sayin, this here says that if you drink raw egg whites and vinegar it’s a good immune system boost and will cure your flu in, like, 15 minutes. It might be worth a shot!”

Baby boy just misses going on dates with you 😭

Also tends to go overboard sometimes with the movies - last time you were sick he brought a whole cardboard box full of random dvds he had lying around as well as a couple of home videos of him as a child ‘cause:

“I’m hilarious babe look at these!”

Aran

Literally one of the best boyfriends you could ask for in this situation are you joking? He never hovers too much but is always just a phone call away if you need some help or are just feeling too lonely :( KING of making soups are you joking (firm believer that warm foods are the best thing when you’re ill) he definitely texts you random things throughout the day like

“how’s my baby doing?”

Or

“u feeling ok enough for me to stop by later ?❤️”

Expect LOTS of forehead kisses too

Also tends to hold the back of his hands to your face a lot so he can check your temp throughout the day, a true caregiver :,(

Kita

Ok him and Aran are tied cause this man 😪

The moment he finds out you’re sick he’s gotta know what kind of bug you caught cause he will be bringing you medicine the moment he can and he needs to be sure he’s getting the right kind. Also the type to buy you some silly little card that his grandmother INSISTED on signing (she’s very worried about you) and who is he to say no to that.

He also would hate to admit this to you but he thinks you’re so cute when you’re sick 😭 it doesn’t matter if you’re hacking up yesterday’s lunch he’s like 🥺🤲🏼 my poor little baby

He also just really likes taking care of you, definitely fits into his love language and it just feels very domestic for him to be by your side and aiding you in any way you can, and this mf is the biggest fan of the domestic things in your relationship <3

Bokuto

Honestly a little excited cause he gets to spend some uninterrupted alone time with you

Like don’t get me wrong he’s sad your sick but he can’t help but think to himself omg I get to spend the whole day with my baby! Just me and them!

Really helpful though, like you almost forget you’re sick. He’s making you food if you can’t do it yourself and he’s making sure you’re taking your medicine at the right times all while just chilling and talking with you in between! You guys watch some awful movies and laugh at them and it almost feels like a good ol date night in with your boyfriend if your body wasn’t so fatigued and sore from being sick. But don’t worry, cause Bokuto is there and ready to rub those sore muscles at any given moment.

Kenma

He just kind of shows up? Unannounced?

He has a weeks worth of stuff packed as well as a game console and a sack full of games LMAO and he just sets them down and gives you a kiss on the forehead and just ,, starts,, unpacking. You have to ask him what he’s doing cause he’s just not saying anything.

“You’re sick, so I’m staying over to take care of you until you feel better, duh. Now which side of the bed do you prefer?”

This man is casually waiting on your every need like your thirsty? Lay tf down he’s getting it for you. Hungry? Funny, he already ordered in. You’re his mf princess and you’re sick so you will not be moving a muscle.

Ushijima

MASSAGES. Massages. And cuddles :(((

Big man Ushi comes over when he has the chance with some painkillers and his big warm arms. Most of the time he’s over you guys are just napping cause he wants to hold you! Cause you look so helpless and sick and of course you guys are laying down so you guys just kind of pass out.

Also a big check in texter to see if you’re feeling up for him to be over later that day.

If you are too worried about getting him sick he’ll stay home but he’ll be kind of grumpy about it. You’d get a random FaceTime from him just for him to move his phone away from his body enough to emphasize how empty his bed is 🙄

You cave and let him come over, and when he does he just huffs and crawls into bed with you like ☹️ c’mere

Aone

Omg the biggest worrier of all of them :((((

The one most likely to say he’s sick too so he can free any responsibilities of the day just so he can come take care of you in person. Something about the idea of you being home alone and sick with no one there to make sure you’re ok hurts his heart so bad.

He also would forget to let you know he’s coming over though, so when he comes into your apartment with his copy of the key and finds you under a heap of covers with a tissue box on your nightstand he’s quickly getting under the covers with you and pulling you into his chest.

You wake up an hour or two later to feel big warm arms embracing you and you know your sweet boyfriend came over just to check on you. And judging by his heavy breaths signaling he was asleep you knew he had to have been here for a while <3

———————

ugh it’s been too long since I’ve written for hq! I hope you guys enjoyed and I always love to hear your thoughts :) <3

requests are open

-🐇out

taglist: @plutowrites @sweet-darling91 (if you’d like to be added to hq, aot, mha, or a combination of those lemme know!)

[five-rivers]

Danger First

Chapter 3

@pocketramblr (also please let me know if you would like me to stop tagging you on these, I don't want to be annoying. :))

"WAIT!" shouted Nana abruptly, as Izuku was talking to his (weirdo) teacher. "I know who that is! Quick, get ready to turn everything off!"

"Turn what off?" asked En. "We live in a formless mental void. We don't even have electricity."

"The quirk! That's Eraserhead!"

"Oh, yeah," said Yoichi, while everyone else (sans Second and Third) scrambled to grab onto the quirk. "I remember Eight meeting him, now! So, he's a teacher, huh?"

"How do all of you forget the one person who might be capable of one-shotting All for One?" demanded Nana.

"Doesn't his quirk not work on mutations?"

"Stop daydreaming and get over here, Yoichi!"

The quirkspace began to glow faintly, ominously red, and the ghosts pulled hard on the quirk, holding it temporarily out of Izuku's reach.

Then, the red glow abated and they dropped it back into place.

"Well, that was exhausting," said Banjo. "So, we'll have to be constantly ready for that, huh?"

"As long as he's around, yeah," said Nana.

"Why did we just do that, anyway?" asked En.

"So we can continue to masquerade as a normal, non-haunted quirk?"

"We could have just let him think he didn't have a quirk, or that the anxiety-"

"Super anxiety."

"-isn't part of it."

Yoichi gasped, as if scandalized. "You'd want us to lie to Izuku?"

"Okay, seriously, what is up with you and Nine?" asked En.

Despite not having a body, Yoichi began to visibly sweat. "Nothing, nothing at all. I just... think he's neat?"

"If you're going to lie to us, can you not do it with archaeomemes?" asked Nana.

"No, no, actually, I can get behind this," said En. "Would you say Izuku has... vibes?"

Yoichi nodded solemnly.

.

"Young Midoriya!"

Izuku shrieked and jumped back from the sudden sound as All Might suddenly emerged from an otherwise innocuous bush.

Both of them froze, staring at each other.

"Are you..." said All Might, hesitantly, sounding much more like he did in his small form than usual, "alright?"

"I... think so?"

"That's good, then." All Might coughed slightly into his fist. "I was wondering if you had a few minutes."

"Of- of course!" said Izuku, immediately.

"Then allow me to lead the way!"

All Might led him through a door labeled 'staff only' and immediately deflated. "All the staff know about my condition," explained Mr. Yagi.

Izuku nodded. Then a thought occurred to him. "Mr. Yagi?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"Why, um, why don't you teach, um, as Mr. Yagi? Instead of as All Might? Wouldn't it save your time?"

Mr. Yagi stopped and scratched his head. "I hadn't really thought about it before," he admitted. "But part of the reason I took this job, other than wanting to help train the next generation of heroes, of course, is that I want to get people used to the idea that I am going to retire." He tugged on one of his bangs. "Also, ah, I'm not sure if my qualifications to teach are quite up to par without my reputation."

"I'm sure it would be fine! You're the best, after all!"

Mr. Yagi chuckled. "I'm glad you think so," he said. Then he reached behind him and opened a door. "In any case: my office."

"Wow," said Izuku, quietly, stepping in. "All Might's office..." Who knew when he'd get another opportunity like this again? He kept his eyes wide to drink in the details.

The rather sparse details. The office was rather bare. Which made sense, seeing as All Might was a brand-new teacher. It was sort of... disappointing, as thrilling as it was.

Mr. Yagi sat down behind the desk and gestured for Izuku to take one of the other chairs. It had a lot of cushioning. A lot a lot. Izuku sank down into the fluff as Mr. Yagi fiddled with a drawer on his desk. He got the drawer open, and pulled out a notebook. A notebook of the same brand Izuku liked to use, actually.

"Since your experiences with One for All are so different from mine, I thought it might be a good idea to do some research into past holders and take a leaf out of your notebook, as it were." He passed the notebook over to Izuku, who took it with shaking hands and a slightly open mouth.

"I'll treasure it," he declared, voice wobbling.

"Not so much that you don't use it, I hope," said Mr. Yagi. "As it is, it's only an overview. The earlier holders, especially, don't have many records associated with them. Consider it a starting point. I haven't had much time to work on it."

"I can't believe you found the time to write this at all," said Izuku, flipping through the pages. The information was sparse, but each holder had a basic profile, all the way back to the fourth. "I mean, between being a hero, training me, and preparing to be a teacher, I'm stunned nothing fell by the wayside!"

Mr. Yagi proceeded to turn a very interesting color.

"Uh, nothing fell by the wayside, right?"

"Why don't you take a few minutes to skim through. If anything jumps out at you right away, we can talk about it. And then I'll let you go get changed and go home, and we can discuss more later, after you've had more time with it."

"Okay!" said Izuku. He'd start with just the basic profiles. Name, date of birth, date of death, quirk... wait, those ages... "They all died young," he said, softly.

"Hero work is dangerous," said Mr. Yagi, hand going to his side.

"There's something else, isn't there?"

"Not something you need to worry about. I took care of it, years ago." The hand holding his side spasmed slightly.

"... Six years ago?" asked Izuku, aware he was pushing his luck. But this sounded both important and relevant.

There was a long pause. "Yes," said All Might, finally. "A villain with a longevity quirk. He... had a history with the first user."

Izuku got the feeling that was an understatement. It also seemed unlikely that the only application of the villain's quirk was longevity, given what he'd done to All Might. But the subject was clearly making All Might uncomfortable, so he dropped it in favor of burying his nose in the notebook again.

(Social fumbles aside, this was the most secure Izuku had felt for... a while.)

"The sixth user had a smoke quirk?"

"Yes, it seems so. Although it doesn't seem to have been actual smoke, but a biological compound."

"I wonder if that has anything to do with all the steam you release when you deflate. Actually..." he flipped back through the quirk. "I wonder if you're using Float, too, subconsciously, when you jump."

"What?"

"I- I mean," said Izuku, "I noticed, when, um, when I grabbed your ankle and also in videos of you- Your hang time is kind of messed up? You're in the air for longer than you should be, but it isn't, like, consistent? Plus, you can change direction mid-air, which I thought was because you were shooting out blasts of air pressure with your quirk, but with me on your ankle, you definitely didn't do that. There was- there was a forum I was on where some people thought your quirk tapped into magnetic fields, somehow, but that doesn't make any sense, because you'd expect a lot more electronic interference and that similar locations would produce similar results, given the Earth's magnetic field, but they don't. But subconscious, low-level use of a telekinesis-based flying quirk would explain everything. If we take into account what you said about my anxiety after the entrance exam, then that's minor expressions of three out of four of the quirks listed here, not counting the base stockpile and enhancement quirk. Do you think the unknown quirks of the second and third users might have partially manifested for you as well? Have you experienced anything else that's atypical for a strength enhancement quirk?"

Mr. Yagi stared at Izuku.

Oh, no, he'd gone too far.

"Nothing immediately comes to mind, my boy," he said, faintly. "But... magnets? Really?"

"I told you it didn't make any sense."

Mr. Yagi rubbed his chin. "There might be something, but... it's too unclear to say either way. I'll keep an eye out. It's just... a lot to take in. I thought One for All was done surprising me."

"When has it surprised you before?"

"Oh, under the influence of certain mental quirks, you can wind up hallucinating the previous users."

"Hallucinating?"

"Yes. But being under the influence of a mental quirk is always the larger issue, so..."

"Mr. Yagi," said Izuku. "That's really the kind of thing you should let people know about up front."

"I- is it?"

.

The ghosts all stared at Nana.

"Hey, don't blame this on me! None of us explained that kind of stuff before passing One for All on."

"In our defense," said En, half raising a hand, "we were usually dying when we passed it on."

"More importantly," said Hikage, "do you think Ninth is right about the quirks?"

"It would make sense," mused Yoichi. "Although then we'd have to wonder why Blackwhip didn't manifest similarly."

"Is it too much for me to get someone to use my quirk? My extremely awesome quirk, that has no downsides?"

"It is powered almost exclusively by rage."

"No downsides."

"You-"

"No. Downsides."

.

Aizawa passed him an envelope labeled 'quirk counseling' along with the standard schedule and orientation packet he was handing to everyone else. It didn't look like any of his class mates had noticed, though, for which Izuku was grateful. He didn't want to be known as a weirdo who didn't know what his own quirk was.

He heavily suspected he was tapping into Danger Sense, somehow, but he didn't know how, and the fourth user of One for All had lived so long ago there weren't any records of him. Not easily and publicly available. Everything Mr. Yagi had written in his notebook (that Izuku had probably stayed up way too late reading... and texting Mr. Yagi about it... and comparing it to his notes... and texting Mr. Yagi about that... and reviewing old All Might compilations and theory threads... and having Mr. Yagi threaten to call his mom if he didn't go to sleep...) about the fourth user had been retrieved from the journals Mr. Yagi's mentor had passed down, according to one of the source notes in the margin.

(Mr. Yagi had really neat, small handwriting, which Izuku wouldn't have ever expected from his large, dramatic signatures as All Might, and his notes were meticulous and carefully cited. If Izuku didn't know better, he would have thought it belonged to a secretary.)

But despite Izuku's suspicions, he didn't actually know. He didn't know it's range, what it defined as danger, whether or not it 'ranked' dangers, how to distinguish it from normal anxiety, or- Well. Anything, really. And he would really like to.

He opened the envelope quietly. Inside was a handwritten note instructing him to pick one of three schedules for quirk counseling and return it to Aizawa by the end of the day. The other pages were printed, with times and possible locations. Options for both before and after the school day.

Izuku felt his eyes tearing up. This was easily the nicest thing a teacher had ever done for him... Although he was nervous about being alone with Aizawa. Some of his other teachers, when they asked him to stay after class it was... not good.

Nothing bad happened, not like in movies or TV shows or the awareness videos the school had shown sometimes. The teachers didn't hurt him, really, didn't do anything to him, other than talk or yell, mostly, but it still wasn't good.

Maybe he could ask Mr. Yagi or Recovery Girl to sit in... But he already felt bad, taking up so much of their time.

He picked one of the after school schedules. He was already staying late on the other days to work with Mr. Yagi, and if something did go wrong, he wanted to have the night to recover before he had to face Aizawa again in class.

He put it to the side, so he'd remember to give it to Aizawa before he left, then looked over the class schedule. Homeroom, Math, Hero Art History, History, and English in the morning. At least this morning. The history classes alternated with something called Heroics-Applied Science and Hero Law and Ethics. Afternoons, meanwhile, were entirely occupied by Hero Basic Training.

And every class would be taught by a pro hero. He wondered if it would be rude to ask for their autographs...

.

Shouta grunted as Hizashi flopped down onto the couch next to him on the couch in the staff breakroom. "What a morning! I just love seeing all those bright little faces at the beginning of the year. Anyone have a favorite first year yet?"

Shouta kicked Hizashi through his sleeping bag. Sadly, this had no effect on the man.

"I think mine might be the little green guy. He's the only one who was actually paying attention, and you know how rare that is, when everyone is anticipating their first heroics lesson. The rest of us just pale in comparison."

Shouta attempted to kick Hizashi again, this time for an entirely different reason. Midoriya was already All Might's favorite (probably)- he did not need more pull with the staff.

"I know who my least favorite is," said Kan. "Kid's certainly dedicated and competitive, but I wouldn't be surprised if he threatened his middle school teachers into giving him those glowing reviews. His personality needs a lot of work. How did you get Nezu to saddle me with Bakugo, anyway, Eraser?"

"I had nothing to do with it."

"Don't give me that, I was going to have Monoma. At least he's a team player."

"You're being illogical," said Shouta, zipping his sleeping bag closed over his face.

"How about you, Nemuri?" asked Hizashi, cutting off Vlad King vs Eraserhead round five hundred.

"It's hard to choose! They're all so cute and eager! Full of the passion of youth! I think they're all my favorite."

"You always say that..."

The door opened and closed.

"All Might! What about you? Any favorites yet?"

Yagi coughed. "I've only had the one class of third years so far. Don't you think that's rather... premature?"

What an incredible nonanswer.

"How did that first class of yours go, anyway? They didn't sour you to the whole idea of teaching, did they?"

"Not at all! The students were wonderful. The third years are very advanced, aren't they? For some of them, I wouldn't be shocked to see that skill level on an active sidekick."

"What can I say? We start them off right," crowed Hizashi.

"They did seem a little surprised by the scenario, however."

"So was I, t'be honest," said Snipe, who was in charge of the third years.

"Ah, was it no good...?"

"It was fine. Lesson plan was a bit rough around the edges, but you and Nezu'll be goin' over that later. But... quirk traffickin' doesn't quite seem like your thing."

"Ah, well, set-pieces," he said, using the slightly derisive underground slang for large-scale spotlight hero battles, "may be what I'm known for, but before my injury, the majority of my battles and investigations weren't publicized."

"Shield laws?" asked Nemuri.

"Generally, yes, but some of the investigations were tied to others, so we were using the organized crime secrecy laws to keep those under wraps. Simply put, my popularity isn't the only reason I keep the number one spot despite Endeavor having more completed cases than me on paper."

Shouta had known there was more to All Might than 'punchy, over-the-top, eyestrain-causing, bombastic muscle guy,' but part of his stupid, illogical brain was annoyed at Yagi for pummeling that image into imaginary dust, anyway. It seemed like the man's only two flaws were horrible interpersonal skills when not using his public persona, and his vast suite of health issues, the latter of which all heroes who operated long enough picked up.

Oh, and a possible inclination towards bribery.

Made it hard to dislike him, which Shouta wanted to do, because he was loud, flashy, and gave him headaches, literal and metaphorical. He ignored the fact that Hizashi was the same way, and had forcibly become Shouta's best friend. Clearly, there was no connection here.

"By the way, why is young Aizawa completely zipped in like that?"

"Nap time," said Hizashi, solemnly.

.

"Sir?" said Iida, raising his hand.

"Yes, young man?" boomed All Might.

"There are nineteen of us. How are we handling the odd person out?"

"Excellent question! In other exercises, we may handle it differently, but for today, one of you will be working alone! Occasionally, a hero may find themselves isolated when they originally expected help. However, for better balance, I have also arranged it so the odd hero out will be taking part in the last battle, so you'll have more time to strategize!"

But the other team would also have more time to strategize, Izuku noted. He really hoped it wouldn't be him... not that he wanted to force it on any if his classmates! He just didn't want yet another handicap on the first day of training.

All Might walked around with the box of ballots, pausing for each student to take one. He reached Izuku and held the box out to him with a wink. Izuku smiled back, reached in, and grabbed one.

A chill ran up his back and he froze, fingers wrapped tightly around the little ball. Something told him this was definitely the cursed, single-person ballot. Could he let it go? Would it be considered cheating if he picked a new one?

But All Might was already walking away. Every part of his body tense, Izuku turned his hand over and forced his fingers apart.

J.

The tenth character of the Latin alphabet. For the tenth, last, team.

He watched as everyone else started to pair up, and All Might looked at him apologetically.

Izuku approximated a smile. Plus ultra, right?

[itonje]

people of color in arthurian legend masterpost

hi! some people said it would be cool if i did this, and this is something i find interesting so. yeah! are you interested in king arthur and the knights of the round table? do you like to read about characters of color, especially in older lit? well, i hope this can be a good resource for people to get into stuff like that, especially poc/ethnic minorities who might feel uncomfortable or lonely getting into older media like arthuriana. this post is friendly to both those who prefer medieval lit and those who prefer modern stuff!

disclaimers: i am not a medievalist nor a race theorist! very much not so. i am just a 17 year old asian creature on the internet who wants to have an easy-to-reference post, if i’m not comprehensive enough please inform me. i’m going to stay closely to the matter of britain, as well, not all medieval european literature as a. this is what i’m more familiar with and b. there’s so much content and information and context to go along with it that it would really be impossible to put it all into one tumblr post. (however there’s always going to be overlap!) also, please do not treat me or any other person of color/ethnic minority as a singular all-knowing authority on anything! we’re all trying to have fun here and being made into an information machine on things, especially what is and isn’t offensive isn’t fun. with that out of the way, let’s get into it! (under cut for length!) 

part i: some historical context (tw for racism and antisemitism discussion)

fair warning, i’m going to start off with some discussions of more heavier history before we talk about more fun stuff. while pre colonial racism was far more different than how it is today, there still...was racism. and it’s important to understand the social mien around nonwhite people in europe at the time these works were written. 

to understand how marginalized ethnicities were written in medieval european literature, you have to understand the fact that religion, specifically catholicism, was a very important part of medieval european life. already, catholicism has violent tenets (ie, conversion as an inherent part of the church, as well as many antisemitic theologies and beliefs), but this violence worsened when an event known as the crusades happened.

the crusades were a series of religious wars started by the catholic church to ‘reclaim’ the holy land from islamic rule and to aid the byzantine empire. while i won’t go into the full history of the crusades, (some basic info here and here and here) its important to understand that they had strengthened the european view of the ’pagan’ (ie: not european christian) world as an ‘other’, a threat to christiandom that needed to be conquered and converted, for the spiritual benefit of both the convertee and the converter. these ideas of ethnoreligious superiority and conversion would permeate into the literature of the time written by european christians. 

even today, the crusades are very much associated with white supremacy and modern islamophobic sentiment, with words such as ‘deus vult’ as a dogwhistle, and worship of and willingness to emulate the violence the crusaders used against the inhabitants of the holy land in tradcath spaces, so this isn’t stuff that’s all dead and in the past. crusader propaganda and the ignorance on the violence of the catholic church and the crusaders on muslim and jewish populations (as well as nonwhite christians ofc) is very harmful. arthuriana itself has a lot of links to white supremacy too-thanks to @/to-many-towered-camelot for this informative post. none of this stuff exists in a bubble. 

here’s a book on catholic antisemitism, here’s a book on orientalism, here’s a book about racism in history that touches on the crusades. (to any catholic, i highly reccommend you read the first.)

with that out of the way, we can talk about the various not european groups that typically show up in arthurian literature and some historical background irt to that. the terms ‘moor’ and ‘saracen’ will typically pop up. both terms are exonyms and are very, very broad, eventually used as both a general term for muslims and as a general term for african and (western + central) asian people. they’re very vague, but when you encounter them the typical understanding you’re supposed to take away is ‘(western asian/african) foreigner’ and typically muslim/not christian as well. t

generally, african and asian lands will typically be referred to as pagan or ‘eastern/foreign’ lands, with little regard for understanding the actual religions of that area. they will also typically refer to saracens as pagans although islam is not a pagan religion. this is just a bit of a disclaimer. the term saracen itself is considered to be rather offensive-thank you to @/lesbianlanval for sending me a paper on this subject. 

while i typically refer to the content on this post as having to pertain to african and asian people (ie, not european) european jewish arthurian traditions are included on this post too. but, i know more about poc and they’ll feature more prominently in this post because of that, lol. 

part ii: so, are there any medieval texts involving characters of color?

i’m glad you asked! of course there are! to be clear, european medieval authors were very much aware that people of color and african + asian nations existed, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. even the vita merlini mentions sri lanka and a set of islands that might (?) be the philippines!! for the sake of brevity though, on this list i’m not going to list every single one of these small and frequent references, so i’m just going to focus on texts that primarily (or notably) feature characters of color. 

first of all, it’s important to know was the influence of cultures of color and marginalized ethnicities that helped shape arthurian legend. the cultural exchange between europe and the islamic world during the crusades, as well as the long history of arab presence in southern europe, led to the influence of arabic love poetry and concepts of love on european literature, helping to form what we consider the archetypal romance. there are also arthurian traditions in hebrew, and yiddish too, adding new cultural ideas and introducing new story elements to their literature-all of these are just as crucial to the matter of britain as any other traditions!

when it comes to nonwhite presence in the works themselves, many knights of color in arthurian legend tend to be characters that, after defeated by a knight of arthur’s court join the court themselves. though some are side characters, there are others with their own romances and stories devoted to them! many of them are portrayed as capable + good as, if not better than their counterparts. (this, however, usually only comes through conversion to christianity if the knight is not christian...yeah.) though groups of color as a general monolith created by european christians tended to be orientalized in literature (see: mystical and strange ~eastern~ lands), many individual knights were written to be seen by their medieval audience as positive heroes. i’m going to try to stick to mostly individual character portrayals such as these. 

with that all said though, these characters can still be taken as offensive (i would consider most to be) in their writing, so take everything with a grain of salt here. i will also include links to as many english translations of texts as i can, as well as note which ones i think are beginner friendly to those on the fence about medieval literature!

he shows up in too many texts so let’s make this into two bullet notes and start with one of, if not the most ubiquitous knight of color of the round table (at least in medieval lit),-palamedes! palamedes/palomides is a ‘’saracen knight’’ who (typically) hails from babylon or palestine and shows up in a good amount of texts. his first appearance is in the prose tristan, and he plays a major role there as a knight who fights with tristan for the hand of iseult-while he uh. loses, him and tristan later become companions + friends with a rivalry, and palamedes later goes off to hunt the questing beast, a re-occurring trend in his story. 

palamedes even got his own romance named after him (which was very popular!) and details the adventures of the fathers of the knights of the round table, pre arthur, as well as later parts of the story detailing the adventures of their sons. it was included in rustichello da pisa’s compilation of arthurian romances, which i unfortunately have not seen floating around online (or...anywhere), so i can’t attest to the quality of it or anything. he appears in le morte darthur as well, slaying the questing beast but only after his conversion to christianity (...yeah.) in the texts in which he appears, palamedes is considered to be one of the top knights of the round table, alongside tristan and lancelot, fully living up to chivalric and courtly ideals and then some. i love him dearly and i’ve read the prose tristan five times just for him. (also the prose tristan in general is good, please give it a try, especially if you’re a romance fan.)

speaking of le morte d’arthur, an egyptian knight named priamus shows up in the lucius v arthur episode on lucius’ side first, later joining arthur’s after some interactions with gawaine. palamedes has brothers here as well-safir and segwarides. safir was relatively popular, and shows up in many medieval texts, mostly alongside his older brother. i wouldn’t recommend reading le morte of all things for the characters of color though-if you really want to see what it’s all about, just skip to the parts they’re mentioned with ctrl + f, haha. 

the romance of moriaen is a 12th century dutch romance from the lancelot compilation, named for its main character morien. morien, who is a black moor, is the son of sir aglovale, the brother of perceval. whilst gawaine and lancelot are searching for said perceval, they encounter morien, who is in turn searching for aglovale as he had abandoned morien’s mother way back when. i wholeheartedly recommend this text for people who might feel uncomfy with medieval lit. though the translation i’ve linked can be a bit tricky, the story is short, sweet, and easy to follow, and morien and his relationships (esp with gariet, gawaine’s brother) are all wonderful. 

king artus (original hebrew text here) is a northern italian jewish arthurian text written in hebrew- it retells a bit of the typical conception of arthur story, as well as some parts from the death of arthur as well. i really can’t recommend this text enough-it’s quite short, with an easy-to-read english translation, going over episodes that are pretty familiar to any average reader while adding a lot of fun details and it’s VERY interesting to me from a cultural standpoint. i find the way how they adapt the holy grail (one of the most archetypal christian motifs ever) in particular pretty amazing. this is also a very beginner friendly text! 

wolfram von eschenbach’s parzival (link to volume 1 and volume 2-this translation rhymes!) is a medieval high german romance from the early 13th century, based off de troyes’ le conte du graal while greatly expanding on the original story. it concerns parzival and his quest for the grail (with a rather unique take on it-he fails at first!), and also takes like one million detours to talk about gawaine as all arthurian lit does. the prominent character of color here is a noble mixed race knight called feirefiz, parzival’s half brother by his father, who after dueling with parzival, and figures out their familial connection, joins him on his grail quest. he eventually converts to christianity (..yeah.) to see the grail and all ends happily for him. however, this text is notable to me as it contains two named women of color-belacane, feirefiz’s black african mother, and secundilla, feirefiz’s indian wife. though unfortunately, both are pretty screwed over by the text and their respective husbands. though parzival is maybe my favorite medieval text i’ve read so far i don’t necessarily know if i’d recommend this one, because it is long, and can be confusing at times. however, i do think that when it comes to the portrayal of people of color, while quite poor by today’s standards, von eschenbach was trying his best?-of course, in reason for. a 13th century medival german christian but he treats them with respect and all these characters are actually characters. if you’re really interested in grail stories (and are aware of the more uncomfortably christian aspects of the grail story), and you like gawaine and perceval, i’d say go for it. 

in the turk and sir gawain, an english poem from the early 16th century, gawaine and the titular turkish man play a game of tennis ball. i’m shitting you not. this text is pretty short, funnily absurd, and with most of the hallmarks of a typical quest (various challenges culminating in some castle being freed), so it’s an easier read. it’s unclear to me, but at the end of the story the turkish man turns into sir gromer, a noble knight, who may or may not be white which uh. consider my ‘....yeah’ typical at this point, but i don’t personally read it that way for my own sanity. also he throws the sultan (??) of the isle of man (????) into a cauldron for not being a christian so when it comes to respectful representation of poc this one doesn’t make it, but it does make this list. 

the revenge of ragisel, or at least the version i’ve read (the eng translation of the dutch version from the lancelot compilation), die wrake van ragisel, starts off being about the mysterious murder of a knight, but eventually, as most stories do, becomes a varying series of adventures about gawaine and co. one of gawaine’s friends (see: a knight who he combated with for a hot sec and then became friends and allies with, as you do) is a black knight named maurus! he’s not really an mc, but he features prominently and he’s pretty entertaining, as all the characters in this are. i also recommend this highly, i was laughing the whole time reading it! it’s not too long and pretty wild, you’ll have a good romp. this is a good starter text for anyone in general!

i’ve not read the roman van walewein, which, as it says on the tin, is a 12th century dutch romance concerning some deeds of gawaine (if only gawaine was a canon poc, i wouldn’t need to make this list because he’s so popular...). i’m putting it on the list for in this, gawaine goes to the far eastern land of endi (india) and romances a princess named ysabele. i can’t speak to ysabele’s character or the respectfulness of her kingdom or representation, but i know she’s a major character and her story ends pretty well, so that’s encouraging. women of color, especially fleshed out woc, are pretty rare in arthurian lit. i’ve also heard the story itself is pretty wild, and includes a fox, which sounds pretty exciting to me!

now the next two things i’m going to mention aren’t really? texts that feature characters of color or jewish characters, but are rather more notable for being translations of existing texts into certain languages. wigalois is a german 13th century romances featuring the titular character (the son of, you guessed it, gawaine!) and his deeds. the second, jaufre, is the only arthurian romance written in occitan, and is a quite long work about the adventures of the knight jaufre, based on the knight griflet. what’s notable about these two works is that wigalois has a yiddish translation, and jaufre has a tagalog translation. wigalois’ yiddish translation in particular changed the original german text into something more fitting of the arthurian romance format as well as adding elements to make it more appealing for a jewish audience. the tagalog translation of jaufre on the other hand was not medieval, only coming about in 1900, but the philippines has had a long history of romantic tradition and verse writing, so i’m curious to see if it too adds or changes elements when it comes to the arthurian story, but i can’t find a lot on the tagalog version of jaufre unfortunately-i hope i can eventually!

this list of texts is also non-exhaustive! i’m just listing a couple of notoriety, and some to start with. 

part iii: papers and academic analysis

so here’s just a dump of various papers i’ve read and collected on topics such as these-this is an inexhaustive and non-comprehensive list! if you have any papers you think are good and would like to be added here, shoot me an ask. i’ll try to include a link when i can, but if it’s unavailable to you just message me. * starred are the ones i really think people, especially white people, should at least try to read. 

Swank, Kris. ‘Black in Camelot: Race and Ethnicity in Arthurian Legend’ *

Harrill, Claire. ‘Saracens and racial Otherness in Middle English * Romance’

Keita, Maghan. ‘Saracens and Black Knights’ 

Hoffman, Donald L. ‘Assimilating Saracens: The Aliens in Malory's ‘Morte Darthur’

Goodrich, Peter H. ‘Saracens and Islamic Alterity in Malory's ‘Le Morte Darthur’

Schultz, Annie. ‘Forbidden Love: The Arabic Influence on the Courtly Love Poetry of Medieval Europe’ *

Hardman, Philipa. ‘Dear Enemies: the Motif of the Converted Saracen and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’

Knowles, Annie. ‘Encounters of the Arabian Kind: Cultural Exchange and Identity the Tristans of Medieval France, England, and Spain’ *

Hermes, Nizar F. ‘King Arthur in the Lands of the Saracens’ *

Ayed, Wajih. ‘Somatic Figurations of the Saracen in Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte Darthur’

Herde, Christopher M. ‘A new fantasy of crusade: Sarras in the vulgate cycle.’ *

Rovang, Paul R. ‘Hebraizing Arthurian Romance: The Originality of ‘Melech Artus.’’

Rajabzdeh, Shokoofeh. ‘The Depoliticized Saracen and Muslim erasure’ *

Holbrook, Sue Ellen. ‘To the Well: Malory's Sir Palomides on Ideals of Chivalric Reputation, Male Friendship, Romantic Love, Religious Conversion—and Loyalty.’ *

Lumbley, Coral. ‘Geoffrey of Monmouth and Race’ *

Oehme, Annegret. ‘Adapting Arthur. The Transformations and Adaptations of Wirnt von Grafenberg’s Wigalois’ *

Hendrix, Erik. ‘An Unlikely Hero: The Romance of Moriaen and Racial Discursivity in the Middle Ages’ *

Darrup, Cathy C. ‘Gender, Skin Color, and the Power of Place in the Medieval Dutch Romance of Moriaen’ *

Armstrong, Dorsey. ‘Postcolonial Palomides: Malory's Saracen Knight and the Unmaking of Arthurian Community’ (note this is the only one i can’t access in its entirety)

part iv: supplemental material

here’s some other stuff i find useful to getting to know knights of color in arthurian legend, especially if papers/academic stuff/medieval literature is daunting! i’d really recommend you go through all of these if you can’t go through anything else-most are quick reads. 

a magazine article on knights of color here, and this article about the yiddish translation of wigalois. 

this video about characters of color in arthurian legend!

the performance of the translation of arabic in Libro del Caballero Zifar, and how it pertains to the matter of britain 

a post by yours truly about women of color in parzival

this info sheet about palamedes, and this info sheet about ysabele-thanks to @/pendraegon and @/reynier for letting me use these!

this page on palamedes as well

this post with various resources on race and ethnicity in arthuriana-another thank you to @/reynier! 

part v: how about modern day stories and adaptations?

there’s a lot of em out there! i’m not as familiar with modern stuff, but i will try to recommend medias i know where characters of color (including racebends!) are prominent. since i haven’t read/watched all (or truly most) of these, i can’t really speak on the quality of the representation though, so that’s your warning. 

first of all, when it comes to the victorian arthurian revival, i know that william morris really liked palamedes! (don’t we all.) he features frequently in morris’ arthurian poetry, (in this beautiful book, he primarily features in ‘sir galahad, a christmas mystery’ and ‘king arthur’s tomb’. he has his own poem by morris here.)

and some other poems about palamedes, which i’d all recommend. 

for movies, i know a knight in camelot (1998) stars whoopi goldberg as an original character, the green knight (2021) will star dev patel as gawaine. 

some shows include camelot high, bbc merlin, disney’s once upon a time, and netflix’s cursed, all featuring both original characters of color and people of color cast as known arthurian figures. 

for any music people, in ‘high noon over camelot’, an album by the mechanisms, mordred is played by ashes o’reilley, who in turn is performed by frank voss, and arthur is played by marius von raum who is perfomed by kofi young. 

i’ve also heard the pendragon and the squire’s tales have palamedes as a relevant character if you’re looking for novels, as well as legendborn and the forgotten knight: a chinese warrior in king arthur’s court starring original protagonists of color! 

part vi: going on from here

so, you’ve read some medieval lit, read some papers, watched some shows, and done all that. what now? well, there’s still so much out there! 

if you have fanfiction, analysis, metaposts, fun content etc etc about arthurian poc, feel free to plug your content on this post! i’d be happy to boost it. 

in general, if you’re a person of color or a jewish person and you’re into arthurian legend, feel free to promote your blog on this post as well! i would love to know more people active on arthurian tumblr who are nonwhite. 

this is really just me asking for extra content, especially content made by poc, but that’s okay! arthurian legend is a living, breathing set of canons and i would love love love to see more fresh diversity within them right alongside the older stuff. 

a very gracious thank you to the tumblr users whom i linked posts to on here, and thanks to y’all for saying you want to see this! i hope this post helped people learn some new things! 

[teashoptiramisu]

Todosibs (and other BNHA) rec list

I started another BNHA fic reclist and it got long so I'm putting it here as I tend to.... on my ATLA sideblog. Don't worry about the logic of this too much, haha. Anyways, a lot of these are pretty well known, but maybe some are new to you! I'm also giving pitches for why I like them geared towards specific requests, and I'll list the original request at the bottom of the post so if you guys have further recs that meet these requirements let me know!

Not all who wander are lost -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/17950646 -- 27k words, complete -- Has probably been rec’d here before, and I was re-reading it today as a treat, I still love it a lot! All four Todoroki siblings run away together after Rei burns Shouto. I love the characterization, and how the author draws on their own experience as a foreigner working in Japan, and how they did their research on missing child cases and child homelessness in Japan (it doesn't go hugely in depth but I appreciate the authors' notes discussing this, even if it's, well, incredibly tragic. There’s more light hearted cultural notes as well!)

make this feel like home -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852745 -- 27k words, complete -- we already rec'd this to you but adding it here for completion. A character-focused Todosibs fic with EXCELLENT portrayal of sibling relationships. I re-read this one A LOT.

Dragon Head, Snake Tail -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/17195510 -- 61k words, incomplete -- Another Todosib favorite that deals with canon and also an AU in which Rei got a divorce and everyone mostly grew up away from Endeavor. I love how the sibling relationships are depicted, but I also love how the author is a huge kanji nerd who fully lean's into Horikoshi's love for punny names and the long authors notes explaining how they came up with every new name in the fic. It's occasionally bittersweet but mostly a fun & humorous fic.

Twin Swap -- https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867879 -- 55k words, on hiatus with 2 complete arcs -- do you want Todosibs AND great villain characterization? (well mostly Fuyumi & Touya, but Natsuo is there for a bit too). Anyways the fic is mostly pretty lighthearted in tone, but it's also not afraid to hit hard in the characterization department, and I really love how this author wrote all of the League members. I re-read this one a lot.

No Such Thing As a Hopeless Case -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/16806328 -- 14k words, hiatus (and right on a cliffhanger too!) -- All Might accidentally kinda adopts the league of villains? Again, great LOV characterization, and I think you'll like how it explores the societal factors and personal tragedies that lead them to and keep them at the margins of society. also, some really terrible puns, which are my favorite thing

could i but teach the hundreth part -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/12558048 -- 5k words, complete -- a post-canon outsider-POV fic of Class 1-A visiting and taking care of a retried All Might. It’s just short and sweet.

Missing Everything -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/30128547 -- 52k words, in progress -- AU where Izuku doesn't learn of All Might's secret during the slime attack, but manages to befriend him through his civilian identity. Recommending this for the really interesting (to me at least) characterization of All Might and examination of his flaws and the toll of his career, and recently it's gotten into some interesting exploration of the details of the Hero System with the beach clean up.

Q.A.B. -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665101 -- 18k words, complete (w/ a sequel just starting out!) -- a really excellent social media fic in which Izuku stays quirkless and doesn't go to UA but does gain a following online for his quirk analysis and hero blogging. Also features great characterization of Todoroki, Kaminari, and some of the Vigilantes crew.

Yesterday Upon the Stair -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337607 -- 460k words, complete. You're probably aware of this fic since it's the highest hit count in the fandom, but I really think it fits your requirement and writing and character work! I know some other people who think the writing and character work are mediocre though, which I'm baffled by... but YMMV? The beginning is weaker and my absolute FAVORITE part is the Nighteye arc, which is the last 20% of the fic, but I would say it really starts to hit its stride by chapter 9~10? If you aren't enjoying it by then it's probably fair to expect it won't catch your interest later.

I can't believe no one has written any "self insert as Bakugo" fanfics... - https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662220 -- 70k words, infrequent updates -- I like this one for taking a weird as hell premise and REALLY rolling with it. It's somehow pretty similar to a lot of more positive takes on Bakugo's relationship with the Midoriyas while also being very much it's own thing. The author is NOT "far out of high school" though -- it's hilariously clear from the SI's reactions to certain quirks that the writer started this while taking lower division universtiy physics (and personally I love that). Also appreciate SI!Bakugo's war with Nedzu to get proper counseling and mental health support for class 1-a after all the shit they've been through.

It's Over, Isn't It (it's only yet begun) -- https://archiveofourown.org/series/1269638 -- 66k words, abandoned series with several complete stories -- AU where All Might dies rescuing Tenko from AfO but other than that it's a heartwarming fix-it! Same author as YUTS, very positive portrayal of Nighteye, excellent character writing for many other characters.

Subject: A Comprehensive Report -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/16037609 -- 83k words, infrequent updates -- another very popular fandom staple, but hey it's really good! A social media fic with quirkless Izuku interning with Nighteye as an analyst. Has some very interesting exploration of the legalities of Hero Society and how the status quo developed.

For Fools and Utopias -- https://archiveofourown.org/works/22547254 -- 89k words, updates regularly -- okay grace is the one who rec’d this fic to ME but to anyone stumbling across this reclist on tumblr, THIS FIC IS A MUST READ. Absolutely the BEST, more thought out and gutting portrayal of the flaws of the hero system, and how the different characters struggle with it. This fic GOT to me, hard, I’m still thinking about it a lot. Takes place roughly a decade post-canon, in an AU where Izuku never met All Might or went to UA, and nothing got fixed (yet! they’re trying!!). Features absoulely STELLAR characterization of Midoriya, Shinsou, Todoroki, his sibblings, Ragdoll, and more!!

Here’s the original request:

any of the following in any combination: - really good writing - sophisticated character work - engagements with the ethics of the hero system - some kind of actually nuanced take on the Todoroki family - anything obviously written by people who are long out of high school (sorry for being old) - adults todobaku - good looks at the villains because guess what I continue to be weak for villain stories - basically anything that's Really Good - I like grey areas 

(to clarify, I, teashoptiramisu, am not the originator of this request but I’m also interesting in reading more fic exploring these ideas, so if you have any more fic that you think meet it feel free to drop the link(s) in a reblog or send me an ask!)

[otonymous]

Kissed By The Baddest CEO (MLQC Victor x KBTBB - NSFW)

Description: Old flames and prospective lovers threaten to derail your budding romance with Victor before it even begins.  How will you extricate yourselves from a web of misunderstandings?

Warnings:

NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Potential Trigger Warnings: profanity, jealousy, angst, exes, mentions of alcohol, bone fetishes, rough sex, 69 sex position (oral sex), mirror sex, vaginal intercourse, swallowing, size kink

Mild spoilers for Victor’s family history (MLQC); slight bending of MLQC & KBTBB canon universes via creation of original side character

Word Count: ~10K words (please set aside a good chunk of time for some fluff, angst and smut 🤣)

Author’s Notes:

First of all, a GIANT thank you to the super gracious @lin-ful​ for commissioning this Victor piece from me.  You are an absolute joy to work with and I really appreciate the fact that you gave me carte blanche to basically do whatever I wanted 🤣  I really hope you enjoy the read!  (P.S. I would never be so sadistic as to ever make you choose between Victor and Eisuke, so please rest easy 😆)

This story is especially significant to me as a writer because it represents the culmination of a number of milestones: the first time I’ve created an original character, my first attempt at writing a crossover story, the first time I’ve written in both first- and second-person perspectives.  It is also the longest single piece I’ve ever written.  That being said, please note the warnings listed above and happy reading! 😊

Nb. This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: Hello Diana

“Really Vic, I thought you were beyond name calling by now.”  

Her voice is sultry and low, smooth in your ears like the whiskey in her tumbler.  Completely at ease in a couture Givenchy pantsuit that likely cost more than one of your production budgets, she sat with her legs elegantly crossed in a leather armchair, tipping her glass to vermillion lips.  And as the flames danced in the imposing marble fireplace of one of Shanghai’s oldest and most exclusive supper clubs, they reflected off an enormous ruby ring gracing her middle finger.

Victor scoffs, taking a sip of his own whisky and glancing at you as you follow suit with the virgin cocktail he ordered on your behalf while you were in the restroom.

He was so infuriating at times, but at least it wasn’t warmed milk.

“First of all, you weren’t meant to hear that.  Secondly, I hardly consider ‘dummy’ name calling.  Far worse exists when it comes to options, as I'm sure you can attest to, Diana. You’ve used quite a few in your day.”

Amusement spreads across her fine features as she throws her head back in laughter, the sound enticing even as it disrupts the low chatter in the room.  However, none of the men looking her way seemed to mind.  She was brimming with so much joie de vivre that even you weren’t immune to her charms, smiling despite the anxiety that sat heavy in your chest from the very moment Victor introduced you to Diana Shum that evening.

You didn’t quite know why you felt ill at ease, especially towards someone who was doing you a favour by brokering a major deal on behalf of your company.  Well, more like doing Victor a favour, since he was the one who made the request.  Perhaps this was how all men felt in the presence of such a woman: elegantly confident and unapologetically vivacious, drawing attention everywhere she went.

“Are you still dredging up stories from our Oxford days, Victor?  Not very gentlemanly of you.  How do you put up with him?”  Diana turns to wink at you and the spotlight of her attention makes you feel like the only other person in the room.  “Let me assure you those boys deserved every insult in the book; one-track minds and transparent to boot.  They should consider themselves lucky I even acknowledged their sad existence.”  

“Di, you made the Prime Minister’s son cry.  You should’ve seen those puffy eyes the next morning at the swim meet against Cambridge."  

Victor raises his brows, subtle amusement colouring his expression.  And simple though it was, the sight of his handsome face so transformed by the faint smile on his lips made your heart race.  

No, there’s no way.  It’s probably just the fatigue catching up to you.  The flight to Shanghai from Loveland City must’ve been more taxing than you initially thought, even though Victor had graciously offered to let you hitch a ride on his private jet.  You place a hand on your chest, trying to calm the frenzied rhythm of your heart.  The gesture goes unnoticed by Diana but Victor throws a worried glance in your direction.  You smile to ease his concerns.  He furrows his brows.

“Oh please, I should’ve ripped him a new one with the way he tried to get frisky on our date.  He’s lucky I didn’t call Soryu to deal with him and his wandering hands.”

A sudden change seeps into Victor’s eyes, dark irises softening as if focused on something miles away.  “Soryu.  How is your cousin doing, by the way?”

Diana leans back, taking another sip of her drink.  “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.  I take it you are accompanying this lovely producer to Tokyo to meet with Eisuke and wherever the Ichinomiya heir is, Soryu isn’t far behind.  In all honesty though, Vic, surely you would know better than I.  Weren’t the three of you thick as thieves during prep school?”

You perk up at the topic of Victor’s childhood.  It was a rare chance to learn about the formative years of this stone-faced man before he became the slave driver of Loveland Financial Group.  

“I was only there for a year and a half with Soryu and Eisuke before…before my mother passed.  My father sent for me shortly afterwards.  I haven't seen them since.”

Deep voice trailing off, Victor’s gaze shifts to the fireplace where it remains, as if hypnotized by the flicker of orange flames.  And as the silence stretches on, you become disconcerted to see him so uncharacteristically lost in his thoughts.  You reach out to touch him but Diana beats you to it, laying a delicate hand on top of his much larger one as it rests on the leather armrest.

The gesture is ridiculously small for how much it blindsides you — the sight of her hand on Victor’s dazzling like the light reflecting off her ruby ring.

He blinks at the touch, long lashes fluttering in the split-second it takes for him to compose himself and suddenly, the unflappable CEO is back again.  

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long day and we should probably call it a night.  But you have my thanks, Diana, for setting up this meeting with the Ichinomiya Group.”

It was Diana’s turn to scoff.  “Can we please dispense with the formalities, Victor?  Soryu mentioned Eisuke was having difficulty finding the right people to make this documentary on the anniversary of his Tres Spades Tokyo hotel, so it was serendipity that we bumped into each while on business in London.  It’s a win-win situation.  Meant to be.”

Meant to be.

There is a spark of something in Diana’s eyes when she makes that last statement.  It stays with you long after you part ways with Victor for the night, lying awake in your hotel room as you wondered whether the LFG CEO was already asleep in his.

Chapter 2: SOS

“You’re awfully quiet.  Should I take this to mean that you already know everything about Eisuke Ichinomiya and his chain of luxury hotels?"

Victor speaks without raising his head, leafing through the documents on his lap and stopping periodically to leave his signature with the same gold pen that marked up your reports. Its barrel glowed warm, reflecting the soft lights of the cabin of his private jet, en route to Tokyo from Shanghai.

Letting out a shaky breath, you try to steel yourself despite the rising heat in your cheeks.  Because after a night spent tossing and turning in your hotel room, you arrived at a conclusion so absurd it could only be true:  

You were in love with Victor Li.

Against all odds, the bane of your life had become your biggest ally and mentor.  All the pieces of the square puzzle that was the LFG CEO had fallen into place to form one coherent and beautiful picture:

His exacting demands transformed into standards of excellence, his workaholism a paragon of commitment and dedication.

And though you were loathe to admit it, each soft utterance of “dummy” leaving his lips made the corners of yours turn up in the goofiest of grins.

Oh god, how did it ever come to this?!  Where and when along the rocky path of your working relationship with the slave driver did you fall in love with him?  But that wasn’t even the worst of it.  If your intuition about the previous night’s events served you well, the beautiful Diana Shum was also enamoured of him.

You turn to Victor, meaning to inform him with utmost confidence that you had already conducted extensive research on the Ichinomiya Group’s charismatic CEO and his chain of casino hotels.  You even thought to throw in a snarky reminder that he himself had been marginally impressed with the presentation you gave on the topic back in Loveland City.

“Are you close to Diana Shum?”

Was NOT what had you meant to ask.  Especially in a voice that cracked like a 12 year old pubescent boy’s.  And if there was a way by which you could’ve drowned in a bottle of water, you would’ve gladly done so.  Instead, you settle for gulping it down, trying to keep your stupid mouth from spewing more nonsense in front of the man who was your de facto boss.

“Ahem.”  Victor clears his throat, long legs uncrossing as he shifts in his seat.  Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the muscles of that chiseled jaw settling firm.

“I-I’m so sorry.  It’s none of my business.  You don’t have to answer-"

“I’ve known her for a while, if that’s what you’re asking.  She’s a classmate from university and also a cousin of a friend of mine from prep school, as you’ve probably gathered from yesterday’s conversation.  Since graduation, she’s taken over her father’s role as CEO of Shum Property Developments and we’ve partnered periodically on various business ventures…”

He continues and you nod at the appropriate times, half listening as a million thoughts filtered through your head: your surprise at how unusually verbose Victor was being, the relief you felt to see that he was as determined to avoid your gaze as you were his.  Because the truth was that the longer he went on about Diana — so beautiful, polished and charming that you couldn’t find it in yourself to hate her even if you tried — the harder it was to keep the clouds from darkening your face.  And when Victor says,

“Not like it has any bearing on anything now, but we also dated for a short period of time…”

…It hurts to breathe.

Finally turning in your direction, Victor fixes you with a scrutinizing gaze.  “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, um, I just…wanted to know a bit more about the person who helped me and my company.  So I can better thank her later.”

You speak without meeting his eyes, hoping to placate him with a quick smile as you pretend to rummage through your purse.  Thankfully, he drops the topic, returning to his documents.  And though the rest of the plane ride is spent in near silence, the thoughts in your head have never been so loud.

Chapter 3: Sexy Bones [Victor]

She wore that dress today.  The same one she had on when she impudently stormed my office to insist that I give her company a final chance before pulling funding:

Fitted to conform to every curve, yet formal enough to be professional.  Beautifully sensual in her usual understated way.  My favourite shade of red.

“It’s my go-to outfit when I need a confidence boost,” she told me once in between bites of pudding at Souvenir.  “It makes me feel like a queen, like I can do no wrong.  Perfect for business meetings I just have to nail, you know?”

“Dummy,” I had said then, feigning dismissiveness so she wouldn’t pick up on the way my eyes kept drifting towards her lips, so soft and plush I couldn’t help but wonder if her kisses would carry a hint of caramel sweetness.

It was true that the girl could be incredibly dense at times, playing at being queen when she already ruled my heart.  Or how oblivious she was to the fact that the British doctor was completely smitten with her during today’s meeting at the Tres Spades Tokyo hotel.

Dr. Luke Foster.

Completely absorbed in reading through what looked to be like a stack of medical journals, Dr. Foster had largely ignored us while Eisuke and Soryu made quick work of introducing the eclectic mix of other associates in the room:

Ota Kisaki, the so-called “Angelic Artist” whose work I was well-acquainted with, having previously spent a small fortune on his painting, Koro of My Kokoro.

Baba Mitsunari, a charming man whose handsome features were made all the more striking by the black fedora and red suit he wore.  The girl pointed out that he bore an uncanny resemblance to the cashier we saw at a convenience store earlier that day and I had to agree.

They glossed over a man named Mamoru Kishi, apparently sound asleep in one corner of the room with his face covered by a newspaper and a full ashtray by his side.

Finally, they came to Luke Foster, a blond-haired man with the air of an English gentleman.  Eisuke explained that Dr. Foster was the hotel’s on-site physician as well as a fellow alumnus of our prep school, apparently having left for reasons no one wanted to articulate the year before I transferred in.

And when the doctor finally looked up at us from his readings, his eyes took on an almost maniacal quality to see the girl standing by my side.

“Those proportions, those angles….perfect…absolutely perfect!”  He exclaimed as if in a daze, standing up suddenly and causing the reading materials to spill from his lap in the process.

He looked completely unhinged, almost like a zombie as he reached out a pale hand towards her collarbones of all places.  I stepped in front of her on reflex, only to have the doctor fix me with a piercing gaze as if he had just become aware of my existence and found it thoroughly offensive.

“Annnnd there he goes again,” Ota’s tone was one of exasperation, but there was no mistaking the amusement in the smirk that spread wide across his face.

“Ooh, Lu’s got a new victim!  Maybe now he can finally stop staring at the Boss’s girl every time she comes in to clean the penthouse!”  Baba chimes in, fingers stroking at his chin as if hatching some mischievous plan.

“Will the lot of ya shaddup!?  I’m tryin’ to sleep over here…zzz…” The man with the papers over his head gave a muffled shout before promptly rolling over onto his side.

Soryu just sighed, running a hand over his face.  And just when I began to worry that the girl was scared out of her wits, having wandered into this strange den of wolves, she surprised me by chuckling under her breath.  

Did the dummy find this funny?

“Tch, ignore them, Victor.  Let’s just get on with the presentation,” Eisuke said as he took his seat at the head of a long table.  The girl straightened up and immediately got to work, transforming into the consummate professional she always was when it came down to business.  I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as I watched her nail her pitch.

Taking a surreptitious glance around at her rapt audience, I stopped at Luke.  The intensity of the doctor's stare made me uneasy, the way those blue-grey eyes hovered above the scooped neckline of her red dress, tracing along her collarbones as if he were caressing them with his gaze alone.  I mentally berated myself for not putting my suit jacket over her shoulders before she got up there.

And though it was spoken under his breath, Dr. Foster’s murmur of “sexy bones” rang loud and clear in my ears.

Chapter 4: In A (Traffic) Jam [Victor]

“Victor, you won’t believe my luck!  Not only did we cinch the Ichinomiya account, I also found the perfect candidate to appear on our Mystery Finder show!”

The girl was practically breathless on the other end of the line, words jumbling together as they came a mile a minute.  And though her enthusiasm is as infectious as it is adorable, I remind myself to play it cool.  “Really.  And who might that be?”

“Dr. Foster!”

HONK!

I swerve back into my lane on reflex, narrowly avoiding an accident as the driver next to me flips me the bird before speeding away.  My heart raced, beating fiercely against the cage of my chest, but it had little to do with my near brush with death.

At this moment, I was more concerned with a man who looked like Death himself.

“Oh my god, Victor, what was that?  Are you okay?”  The concern in her voice is palpable and it makes me think of how kind and tenderhearted she is, of how easily someone could exploit that to their advantage.  “This is a bad time, isn’t it?  I’m so sorry, I’ll call you ba-”

“Don’t worry about it, just some idiot not paying attention on the road.  And what's this about, ahem, Dr. Foster?"  The name itself was unsavoury, sticking in my throat until I spat it out.  I hoped the vitriol escaped her notice.

“Okay Victor, get this: it’s like the man has X-ray vision!”

She whispers for dramatic effect, and my grip tightens on the steering wheel as I picture those slate grey eyes sweeping over the curves of her body, a lewd expression falling over the doctor’s features.  He was a handsome enough man, that much was true; intelligent and a first-rate surgeon according to Eisuke and Soryu.  Goldman confirmed as much when I had him dig up all available information on Luke Foster.  On that basis alone, many women would find him to be an extremely attractive suitor and ludicrous though it is, I can’t help but think the worst.  Luke had been quite open in his admiration of her, especially her collarbones.  What if she returned the sentiment?

In retrospect, it was a horrible idea to leave her to her work (and that wolf) in Tokyo while I returned to mine in Loveland City.  While she had the company of her coworkers, clearly none of them sensed the danger in Luke Foster that I did.  I no longer had the right to call her a dummy when I was obviously the idiot here.

“I’m telling you Victor, he can just look at somebody and tell you everything about their bone structure.  It’s too accurate to just be guesswork!  Apparently, he can remember anyone he's ever laid eyes on based on their bones.  It’s incredible.  I’d love for Professor Lucien to meet him.  If only he had the time to fly out to Tokyo…”

The girl continues and I catch sight of my furrowed brows in the rear-view mirror, deepening the longer she goes on and on about men who weren’t me.

“…He’s already agreed to be a guest on the show!  But…he did make a rather strange request."

For a moment, I can barely breathe.  The skin over my knuckles blanches as it stretches tight, my grip on the wheel growing harder as I brace for unwelcome news.  God knows what she would’ve agreed to in my absence.  Filled with a sense of dread, I had to know all the same.  “Which was?…”

She pauses, the hitch in her breath subtle but speaking volumes nonetheless.

“Just say it, dummy.”  I soften my tone in encouragement though my mind was already racing, thinking of all the ways my legal team could dissolve a contract should the girl have already signed papers.

“Well, he…he asked if he could examine my body in lieu of payment for appearing on the show.  You should’ve seen him!  He was so desperate he was practically begging and I…I just couldn't say no."  

MOTHERFUCK!

Chapter 5: Role Model

“STUPID VICTOR LI!”

You had meant to throw the rolled-up magazine in dramatic rock star fashion, sending it flying across your suite at the Tres Spades Tokyo hotel to give at least a resounding smack as it hits the wall.  Instead, it flutters to the carpeted floor, barely a few feet from where you lay sprawled out on a bed much too large for a single person.

And from the surface of that glossy cover, Victor’s handsome face — all sharp eyes and chiseled jaw - staring up at you from beneath a headline that read: "Man On Top: How Victor Li Conquered The Business World.”

Man on top.  What a tease if there ever was one — especially since you’ve developed the recent habit of falling asleep to the fantasy of having the broad expanse of Victor’s muscular chest hovering over you.

“The only thing he should be on top of is ME!”

Your voice echoes in the room, empty save for you.  Even still, your cheeks burned from embarrassment over the absurdity of your current situation.  Victor Li didn’t belong to you.  Not when he had someone like Diana in his life.

Victor and Diana.  Diana and Victor.  A perfect match regardless of how the pieces fit.  And for an instant, your anger flares to remember the nonchalance in Victor’s voice when he told you that their past history as lovers had no bearing on the present, as if they didn’t look like they belonged together when you saw them just now in the lobby of the hotel, moments after you purchased the magazine with Victor’s face gracing the cover from one of the shops.

Practically ecstatic in your surprise to see him there at the Tres Spades, you were just about to call out to him when his name died in your throat, choked by the sight of the woman at his side.  Victor was escorting Diana to a limo waiting just beyond the revolving doors.  And the last thing you saw before the chauffeur pulled away was the two of them slipping into the vehicle together.

He hadn’t even told you he was coming to Tokyo.

It was only after you became aware of the fact that you were blocking the entrance to the shop that you recovered from the shock, murmuring apologies as you pulled yourself together just enough to make your way back to the safety of your hotel room.

Rising up off the bed, your feet sink into the lush carpeting as you pad over to where the magazine lay.  You pick it up and smooth out the crinkles, fingers tracing the outline of Victor’s profile as you do — gentle, as if you were touching the man himself.  And when your nose begins to tingle, you know it won’t be long before you feel the familiar sting of tears behind your eyes.

“Think you could stop being so nice to me, Victor?  You’ll give a girl the wrong impression.”  

Heaving a sigh, you slip the magazine beneath a pillow on the bed.  A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told you it was almost time for your dinner date with Dr. Foster.  Sitting around moping wasn’t an option, at least not tonight.  Lightly slapping your cheeks, you push the image of Victor and Diana out of your head and get ready to step into the shower.

Chapter 6: Hard To Swallow [Victor]

“I’m glad you remembered that you owe me a dinner, Victor Li.  And though I practically had to drag you to this restaurant, I guess the means don’t really matter if the end result is the same.  But still, what a lucky coincidence that we bumped into each other again at the Tres Spades of all places.  Now that’s something to drink to.”

Diana holds up her glass, Cabernet Sauvignon swirling as it meets mine with a delicate clink.  Under the table, the tip of her stiletto pushes against my oxfords before sliding past my ankle, inching its way up my leg.  I pull away, watching those red lips spread into a smile as I do.

“You might be the first man who’s ever been able to resist me.  Has anyone ever told you you’re one stubborn asshole?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She laughs at that, taking another sip of her wine before setting it down.  “So, tell me about her.”

“Her?”  I focus on cutting into my Kobe beef, already aware that Diana will see through my bluff.  She always did.

“Surely there must be another woman if you keep turning me down over and over again, Victor.  A girl has her pride too, you know.”

“We are not getting back together, Diana.”

“Tsk, you’re no fun, Vic.  All work and no play, all the time.  I’ll have to remind myself of that the next time I start entertaining thoughts of calling you up again.”

She pouts, but it isn’t long before her eyes take on that familiar spark of mischief as she continues.  

“But seriously, tell me about your cute little producer.  That is the girl you keep rejecting me for, I presume.  I need to know about the woman who’s finally managed to infiltrate the entirety of Victor Li’s notoriously impenetrable heart.  She must be quite the lover if she’s got you wrapped around her little finger like that, pulling strings with all your friends left, right and centre.”

It annoys me to no end that the mere mention of the girl is enough to reduce me to a swooning idiot.  I fight to keep the smile off my face.

“You’ve got the wrong idea.  She’s not my lover.”  

Diana begins to protest, but her words are lost on me because I’ve stopped listening.  In fact, the only thing I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears, propelled by the adrenaline racing through my veins to see him enter the restaurant.

Dr. Luke Foster.  

WITH MY DUMMY, NO LESS.

And my dummy looks…absolutely gorgeous.  Her hair is done up, leaving her graceful neck and collarbones exposed in a little black dress I’ve never seen her wear before, I realize with not an insignificant amount of jealousy.

But wait…collarbones?!

Sure enough, that surgeon is staring at her clavicle like some kind of pervert.  The sight alone incites the beginnings of a dull throbbing in my temples, no doubt exacerbated by the vice-like clench of my jaws.

I follow them with my gaze as they are led to a table for two; fixate on Luke’s face even as the sommelier arrives to make his recommendations to the pair.  The doctor stares at my girl like he couldn’t care less about the meal, as if the only thing he hungered for was precisely what I myself had desired for so long: the woman.  And she—

Just looked my way.

Surprise etches itself onto her beautiful features — the brows I had dreamt of one day lightly running a fingertip over while she sleeps lifting into a delicate arch.  And why shouldn’t she be surprised?  I had given her no indication that I had rushed over to Tokyo from Loveland City as soon as I heard what Luke had requested of her.  

But there is no nod of acknowledgement, no smile in greeting.  Just her, looking away as if she hadn’t seen me at all, her smile apologetic when she retrains her attention on the doctor.  And while it was only for a fraction of a second, I could have sworn her eyes carried a hint of sorrow.

Or perhaps I’m projecting.

Because her obvious avoidance feels like a rebuff, a sucker punch to the gut.  She’s never blatantly ignored me like that, no matter how wound up she was even during those times when I verbally tore her sub-par proposals to shreds.  The feeling of rejection sits heavy on my chest, the tie around my neck much too tight.

“Victor, are you all right?”

Diana’s voice cuts through my thoughts.  She is looking at me curiously.  I reach for my glass of wine, suddenly feeling like I was on the verge of choking.  “Of course, what could possibly be wrong?”

“ ‘What’s wrong’ is the fact that you haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said for the past ten minutes.  Even if there’s no chance we’ll ever get back together again as you so adamantly insist, the least you could do is pay attention to the person you’re sharing a meal with.”

I take a deep breath, more than a little disconcerted by the girl’s ability to affect me.  “Of course.  My apologies, you’re absolutely right.  Please, continue.”

Across the candlelit table, I look Diana in the eye, resolved to keep up at least the pretence of being interested in what she had to say when all I wanted to do was storm the table where Luke sat with my girl.  With each sideways glance in their direction, my grip tightened on my utensils to see them chatting, seemingly engrossed in the world’s most interesting conversation.

And when she hands over a manila envelope to the doctor, my heart skips a beat.

Could it be…marriage documents?!

One tiny corner of my brain berates me for how ridiculous I am being but when it comes to her, I simply can’t help it, and the fantasy in which I casually stroll over, flip the table onto Luke Foster and steal my girl away in a bridal carry becomes so vivid in my mind’s eye, it almost seems like a good idea.

Diana excuses herself to use the restroom and I pounce on the opportunity to send the dummy a text:

“MEET ME AT THE BAR IN THE TRES SPADES HOTEL IN AN HOUR.  DON’T BE LATE.”

Chapter 7: Choked Up

“Is there something wrong, Dr. Foster?  You haven’t touched your meal.”

You do your best to school your expression into one of polite neutrality as you take in the strange sight of the pale, blond-haired man shaking out an alarming number of pills onto the palm of his hand, tapping loudly on a bottle seemingly produced out of nowhere.  He pops them all into his mouth at once and you pray you won’t have to perform the Heimlich maneuver as he chases them down with a few gulps of water.

A smile spreads across the doctor’s lips as his eyes fall upon your collarbones once more.  You were used to feeling like a third wheel by now, even when alone with Luke Foster, given his penchant for carrying on conversations while staring intently at your bones.  But you took no offence at his behaviour, especially after Baba’s attempts to give you insight into Luke’s peculiar mannerisms:

“Try not to take it personal, Miss.  Lu will look at anyone who’s got beautiful collarbones.  It’s a well-known fact that he’s obsessed with the boss’s - he's even framed the X-ray films of Eisuke’s bones.  He likely just wants yours to add to his collection.”

Strange though it was, the request that Luke be allowed to have X-rays films of your collarbones in exchange for appearing on Miracle Finder was innocent enough.  Certainly nothing that warranted the stony silence you received on the other end of the line when you called Victor the other day to tell him that Dr. Foster wanted to examine you.  After a brusque “I have to go,” he had hung up.  No goodbyes, not even a mutter of “dummy.”  

But Luke Foster had been nothing short of a perfect gentleman, never once laying a hand on you.  Moreover, he even insisted on paying for tonight’s meal despite the fact that you had invited him as thanks for appearing on the show.  

“Please, just call me Luke.  Vitamins and water are all I need to survive.  I only ordered because Eisuke said it might be awkward if you seemed to be the only one dining.”

“I-I see.”  You smile, taking another bite of wagyu.  And for a moment, you are too wrapped up in the blissful way it seemed to melt on your tongue to be disconcerted by the strange events of the evening.

You weren’t, however, too distracted to continue throwing surreptitious glances in Victor’s direction, fighting to keep composed each time Diana’s laughter carried over to your table.  What were the chances that you’d find yourselves at the same restaurant in all of Tokyo?  You know that he knows you are here; even Chik couldn’t put on a performance convincing enough for the LFG CEO to believe for a second that you didn’t see him.

With your dismal acting skills, you definitely didn’t stand a chance.

“You’re in love with him.”

COUGH, COUGH!

You clear the steak lodged in the back of your throat with a few hacking coughs, half of your face hidden behind your napkin as you tried to be as discreet as possible, the words “Death by Wagyu” flashing through your mind.  After soothing your throat with a sip of wine, you ask:

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re in love with that man sitting just over there with the woman dressed in red.  That Victor fellow who accompanied you to that first meeting with Eisuke.”

For someone who seemed to pay very little attention to matters that didn’t concern bones, Luke Foster was surprisingly perceptive.  Or maybe you weren’t as discrete as you thought you were and it was obvious to all but yourself that you were staring at the golden couple.

“I…how did you...what makes you—”

“Please pass this message on to him for me.  If he doesn’t treat your collarbones with the respect they deserve, he can’t blame me for swooping in to take his place.”

Then, for the very first time that night, Luke Foster looks you in the eye, the intensity in blue-grey irises making your breath hitch when he says: “Until then, I hope you find happiness with him, Sexy Bones — especially since he also seems to be exceedingly fond of you.  Quite the annoyance, really.”

And for the very first time that night, you smile freely, naturally, at Luke, blushing hard as you contemplate his words.  Suddenly bashful, you drop your gaze only to catch sight of the manila envelope you brought with you.  You pass it across the table to him.

“Here.  Your payment for agreeing to appear on Miracle Finder.”

The expression on Luke’s face can best be described as euphoric when he takes the films from you, momentarily excusing himself from the table as he murmurs something about requiring brighter lighting to examine them.

That is when you hear the buzz of your phone from inside your purse.  And when you finally fish it out, you see a single text from Victor, commanding as always:

“MEET ME AT THE BAR IN THE TRES SPADES HOTEL IN AN HOUR.  DON’T BE LATE.”

Chapter 8: Green-Eyed Monsters [Victor]

“Another whiskey on the rocks for you, Sir?”

I nod to the bartender, watching as he chips away at a block of ice to produce a perfect crystalline sphere — still spinning in the glass when he pours the amber spirit over it like a libation.  It almost takes my mind off the fact that the girl is late.  By exactly ten minutes, according to my watch.  And for a moment, I’m gripped by a sense of panic when I consider the possibility that she might not come.

She never did answer my text though I knew she saw it — having witnessed her reaching into her purse to pull out her phone seconds after I sent the message.  And while the logical part of my brain is telling me I’m being an absolute idiot, worst-case scenarios are already running through my head: the girl is side-swiped by a car while crossing the street, or somehow managed to fall into an open manhole and is currently standing knee-deep in sewage.

Or maybe she is pinned to the wall in a dark corner somewhere, hemmed in on either side by the gifted hands of a world-class surgeon by the name of Luke Foster.

I lift the glass to my lips, too impatient to even savour the smooth burn of the drink as I reach for my phone to send her another text.  That is when I see her:

Cheeks flushed and chest gently heaving as if she had rushed to get here.  An errant lock of hair falling from her up-do, framing that beautiful face like I had dreamt so many times of doing with the palm of my hand.

She makes her way towards me in that dimly lit bar, and though I’m aware of the faint ticking of the second hand of my watch, time may as well have stood still.  Because I could have lived in that moment forever, gazing upon the light in her eyes as if they held every last star in the sky, as if those heavenly bodies had fallen just for her in precisely the same way I had: deeply, irrevocably.

And I know there is no turning back.

“Victor, sorry I’m late!  What are you doing here in Tok—”  

“Why did you ignore me?”  My voice comes out stern, even to my ears, and I curse myself for losing my cool around her yet again.  The girl furrows her brows, eyes dropping from my face to the half-empty glass of whiskey sitting on the counter.  And when she looks up again, something in her countenance has changed — soft surprise giving way to a hardened expression.

“If it’s the text you’re referring to, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

She looks away, refusing to meet my gaze as she perches on the stool beside me.  “Surely you wouldn’t have wanted me to interrupt your dinner date, especially when you and Ms. Shum seemed so intimate.”

Intimate?

The bartender approaches, interrupting our conversation before I get the chance to formulate a reply.  “What can I get for you, Miss?”

“She’ll have a glass of warmed milk—”

“Whiskey.  On the rocks, please.”

She speaks over me, turning slightly in my direction as she does.  I ignore the murmur of “Ladies’ choice” from the bartender as well as the smirk on his face as he begins preparing her drink.  The thinly veiled challenge in the girl’s expression — elbow propped up on the counter with her chin resting atop a loose fist — only serves to highlight how incredibly alluring it is when she pushes back.

“Hmm.  Bold.  Since when did you start drinking whiskey?  I don’t think you need me to remind you of your non-existent alcohol tolerance.  Besides, didn’t you already have enough to drink at dinner?”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Victor Li,” she says, reaching for the glass the bartender sets down before her.  She takes a moment, staring at the rich, golden hues before finally taking a sip.  I fight to keep the smile off my face when hers pulls into a grimace from the sting of the alcohol she clearly wasn’t familiar with.  Dummy.

“I’m surprised you even noticed me at all, not with the lovely Diana there.  But I guess old wounds really do have difficulty closing, no matter how much we say they’ve healed.”

“You’d have to ask for the expert opinion of your overly friendly doctor about that.”

“Excuse me?”  She sets her drink down a bit harder than likely intended, sending the liquid sloshing about the glass to kiss the pink of her lipstick imprinted on its edge.  

I don’t like where this conversation is going, the ill-disguised barbs only serving to increase the tension between us.  It was foolish to have what should’ve been a very private discussion in a public space but, as always, the thought of her and Luke together is enough to make me forget my place and position, throwing caution to the wind and behaving with reckless abandon.

And still, the heat beneath my collar goads me on.

“Luke Foster.  The one you’re so enthralled with that your manners seem to have been completely swept from memory.  I presume that’s the reason why you didn’t acknowledge my existence when you saw me in the restaurant.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she leans in close, voice dripping with sarcasm: “Just like how you didn’t remember to tell me you were coming to Tokyo?  Or maybe you weren’t planning on telling me at all, since it clearly looked like you weren’t here on business.  But then again, I guess your business is none of mine.”

I don’t know whether I want to push back or kiss her senseless.

Instead, I settle for a deep breath, trying to keep my frustration in check.  Having a heated argument with her was not how I had intended my evening to go.  In fact, my entire day had not proceeded as planned, and if I hadn’t been accosted by Diana as soon as I stepped foot in the Tres Spades hotel, I would have been having dinner with the woman who occupied all my thoughts, all the time.  At the very least, I could’ve saved her from the clutches of a pervert doctor.

I glance in her direction, study the beautiful melancholy of her silent profile as she watches the ball of ice slowly melt into her drink.  Then I take another sip of mine, steeling myself for reparations I desperately needed to make.

“I am only going to say this once, so listen closely.  Diana Shum and I dated shortly after graduation for all of two months before we decided to part ways on amicable terms.  We make for much better business partners than we ever did romantically, and while she has expressed occasional interest in rekindling our relationship, I have never been of the same mind.  I can assure you this will never change.

“The reason I came to Tokyo is not because of her — professional or otherwise — but because I was in a rush to prevent a certain dummy from doing anything she’d regret later on.  But…”

I knock back the rest of my whiskey, emptying the glass.

“…I’m afraid I’m too late.”

She looks at me now, eyes wide as if she were still processing the words.  Her next question comes on a whisper: “Why would you be too late?”

And it is my turn to look away.  

“Well, you seemed to be pretty intimate yourself with Dr. Foster during your dinner date.  I can only presume that…”

The girl moves closer and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn to her mouth — the tremble of her lower lip, full and pink and lush.  Without thought, I allow my gaze to trace along the graceful column of her neck, settling at the delicate notch between her collarbones and in that instant, I come to a visceral understanding of the extent of Luke Foster’s obsession, for mine was magnified a million times over:

I yearned for the entirety of this woman before me — needed her for myself, now and forever.

“Presume what?”  Her voice is low, shaking.

“I can only presume that you’ve already allowed him to…examine your body.”

There is a moment of silence — each torturous second seeming to stretch into eternity to smother the last embers of hope.

“I have…”

Oh god.

“…given him X-ray films of my collarbones as he requested.  That is all.  He’s never touched me, not even once.  I took him out to dinner tonight so I could give them to him as thanks for appearing on the show.”

Petty.  Sheepish.  I felt all these things, but none so powerful as the staggering sense of relief that washes over me to hear her say these words.  Closing my eyes, I let the revelation sink in, finally feeling like I can breathe for the very first time that night.

Chapter 9: The Big Bang

You don’t quite know what made you do it.  

The ambience of the bar, perhaps: sultry jazz and flickering candles purposefully placed to create just enough shadows for a veil of privacy.

Or maybe it was the crestfallen uncertainty that painted the handsome features of Victor Li’s face, his sudden display of vulnerability both novel and endearing.

Most likely however, it was the way in which his downcast expression morphed into one of ecstatic relief when you told him that Luke Foster had not laid a single finger on you.

Because when Victor tilts his head back, eyes closed and sighing deeply as if some unfathomable burden had been lifted, you cannot help but bring your lips to the Adam’s apple bobbing along the length of that strong, thick neck.

Cedar wood and pine.  

The notes of his cologne are so familiar you didn’t realize how much you missed his scent until you literally came face to face with it.  Victor is warm, so very warm beneath the skin of your lips.  And under your touch, you become vaguely aware of the fact that the rise and fall of his chest has stilled.

At any other time, you would’ve questioned your sanity for how boldly you were behaving, especially towards someone who was your boss.  You had never been one to put yourself out there when it came to matters of the heart.  Something about the moment however, about Victor, made you feel like the one thing you could not do was let this chance pass you by.

So when you hear that shuddering breath, feel the faint scratch of his five o’clock shadow when he nuzzles against you in return, you know you’ve made the right gamble.  Being with Victor Li feels right.  And the surreal sense of belonging you find within the embrace of his muscular arms gives you the courage to say, “You must really believe I’m a dummy if you think I’d let any man other than you touch me.”

He slides a finger beneath your chin, gently lifting until all you can see are those jet black eyes, swimming with heat and emotion.  The sudden silence of your surroundings sinks in: no more music, no idle chatter.  Not even the rustle of limbs moving about in the dimly lit bar.  And there, in the strange privacy of suspended time…

...Victor kisses you.

                        *                                     *                                      *

“Are you sure…this is…what you want?”

The deep timbre of Victor’s voice sends a thrill vibrating along the surface of your skin as he questions you between kisses — laid on your mouth, the line of your jaw, the pulse of your neck.  His firm body presses you into a corner of the elevator, empty save for the two of you writhing in unison against a mirrored wall.

Each movement of his soft lips against yours is purposeful, imbued with meaning: longing in the gentle teeth that nibbled on your lower lip before drawing it into his mouth, in the sensual slide of the tongue that sought yours.  Affection obvious in the hands that rose to cup your face, thumbs tracing circles on the apples of reddened cheeks to tell you in no uncertain terms that Victor Li belonged to you as much as you yearned to belong to him.

So you had no qualms about answering in the affirmative, nodding your head because the press of Victor’s muscular thigh between your legs already left you breathless and wondering whether he could feel your wet heat seeping through your panties.

And all he really did was kiss you.

Ding.

The elevator stops at your floor and even before the doors slide open, Victor has hoisted you up, wrapping your legs tightly about his tapered waist and whispering into your ear, “Which room?”

You knew Victor was fit, had seen him move fast and effortlessly through the waters of his Olympic-sized swimming pool that one time he had you deliver a report to his mansion on a Sunday.  And yet, you could not help but admire the sheer perfection of his physique — the bulk of his biceps, flexed beneath strained layers of clothing; the ease with which he carries you all the way to your suite.

And when he sits you down upon the king-sized bed, you wonder if it is, in fact, too small for all the things you cared to do with him.

The LFG CEO shrugs off his suit jacket, loosening his tie just enough to pull it over his head before dropping to kneel at your feet.  You watch him reach for you, shiver when he caresses the sensitive skin behind your knee with a light graze of gentle fingertips.  Large hands trail down your calf — touch barely there and teasing — until his palm finally cups the heel of your stiletto to slide it off your foot.

He looks up at you then, the intensity in ebony irises rendering you still and mute as you patiently await his next move despite the frenzied pounding in your chest.  There is a stroke of something almost feral in the dark depths of the gaze that falls heavy upon you — searching your eyes, lingering on your lips…tracing the neckline of your dress.

“I’ve never seen you wear this dress before.”  Victor says, taking the same amount of care to remove the shoe from your other foot.

And if you were able to think straight under the influence of his touch — the hands that pushed back the hem of your dress as they roamed higher and higher up your thighs towards your heat — you might have found it strange that Victor was choosing now, of all times, to comment on your wardrobe choices.  As it was, you answered without second thought: “It’s new.  I bought it especially for tonight’s dinner.”

Victor stills and when he speaks again, there is a faint tremble in that voice, as if fighting to contain some unfathomable emotion.  

“The doctor couldn’t stop staring at you.  I know because I was the same way.  I couldn’t look away from the moment you stepped foot in that restaurant.”

The revelation leaves you silent, waiting with bated breath for Victor to continue.

“Forgive me…”

Fingers entwine with fabric, gripping tight.

“…but I can’t stand the thought of you looking so beautiful for anyone else.”

RRRIIIIPPPP!

You fall back, wincing at the sound even as you feel your body respond to the sudden shock of having your dress torn right down the middle.  Victor’s display of brute strength was so at odds with the façade of composure he was synonymous with and yet, there was no denying that you were incredibly aroused by this show of power — by the fact that he was now straddling you on all fours like some wild beast, tearing away the rest of your undergarments to leave you completely bare.

You’ve never been so desperate to feel him inside you, deep and rough and untamed.  The thought throws you into a frenzy of lust.

Digging your fingers into the front of his dress shirt, you yank it open to send buttons flying in haphazard directions, but the only thing that concerned you was the sight of that broad chest and muscular torso, so impressive it actually elicits a moan from your lips and a smile from his in return.

Propping yourself up onto your knees, you press against him, flesh to flesh — one hand running over the burning surface of his skin even as the other tugs at the buckle of his leather belt, impatiently moving to palm him when his dress pants fall and gasping to finally see and feel the full extent of the LFG CEO:

Victor Li is rock hard and intimidatingly large.

And the sight makes your mouth water.

Sinking onto your heels, you trail your lips along Victor’s chiseled body, tongue teasing at his nipples as you do and relishing the catch of his breath in his throat.

But just as you begin to lay kisses along the deep V of his abdomen with the intent of tracing lower and lower, Victor stops you, puling you up for a kiss before laying back on the bed and positioning you above him…

…with his face between your legs.

“This way,” he says, voice muffled, and you might have commented on his inability to relinquish control even in the bedroom were it not for the sensation of his flattened tongue sweeping hot and wet along the seam of your already dripping pussy, teasing from end to end.

The sensation is so intense it’s almost unbearable.  You throw your head back, mouth dropping in a silent scream as you sink onto Victor’s face, fighting the instinct to grinder lower onto that talented tongue despite the encouraging grip of Victor’s hands, strong on your hips and thighs.

“I’ve wanted to taste you…for so long,” he murmurs, sucking the swell of your clit into his mouth and humming in approval against moist flesh to hear you moan above him.  “Your flavour is absolutely exquisite.”

Gathering your wits, you fold forward — intent on giving just as much pleasure as you were receiving.  Victor twitches once within your grip, not quite contained by the circumference of your palm and fingers, running up and down the sizeable length of his cock, hot in your hand like his breath on your slit.  And after placing a few wet kisses on the smooth, hard head, you open your mouth to taste him.

The tepid salt of his arousal.  The groans originating from deep within Victor’s chest each time your lip brushed past the tender underside of his cock.  The subtle rhythm of his pelvis, lifting in time to your mouth swallowing more of that solid shaft, quickly becoming slick with your saliva.

And then you catch sight of your reflection in the mirrored closet.  See the bulge of Victor’s bicep as he grips your hip, the flex in the muscles of his neck when he lifts to bury his face deeper into your folds.  See yourself: hair disheveled and eyes half-lidded, drunk on sex.  Observe the messy smear of your lipstick as your mouth stretches to accommodate more and more of your boss’s cock.  And when the tip of Victor’s tongue begins its relentless tease of your clit, you watch as a most debauched expression falls over your features, the tension in your body breaking as you find release on his lips.

You are still shaking when he enters you, sensitized by an orgasm that left tiny sparks of electricity running along every nerve, priming you for second helpings.  A true paragon of patience, Victor Li takes his time, deliberately slow as he pushes — savouring the sensation of drenched, swollen flesh parting just for him.

It was almost unfathomable that you could experience such extreme pleasure, each powerful swing of Victor’s hips driving him deeper into your body — hitting just the right angles until your very senses were extracted along with your second release of the night, running slick between your legs to ease the slippery slide of your bodies.

It draws out Victor’s own, your lover moving to pull out moments before you surprise him by taking him once more into your mouth — gaze locked onto those dark eyes from below as you taste him on your tongue, euphoric to see him bite his lips when your lick yours to swallow every last drop.

Chapter 10: Pillow Talk

Beep Beep Beep Beep.

You roll over, eyes still closed as you reach out to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock.

Except your palm comes down on warm flesh with a resounding smack, echoing throughout your hotel room and accompanied by a deep voice that says, “Are you finally awake, Dummy?”

Your eyes shoot open to see Victor lying naked in bed next to you, a splotch of red blooming on his chest where he had been attacked.  He sets his phone down to hand you a glass of water from the bedside table, and even though memories of the previous night come rushing back to burn your cheeks, you cannot help but notice how glorious he looks bathed in morning light.  You hope he doesn’t see the way your hand shakes when you accept the glass from him with a meek “Thanks.”

Victor clears his throat, waiting for you to finish drinking before he says, “That was the fourth time you slept through the alarm.  I’ve already informed your colleagues you’ll be taking the day off.  We didn’t get much sleep last night and I think you’ll need some time to…recover.”

You bite your lip, turning sideways to feign a sudden interest in the curtains so he wouldn’t see the giant smile spreading onto your face.  It was almost surreal that Victor Li was your lover, and if it weren’t for the exquisite soreness you felt between your legs, you would’ve been hard pressed to believe it for yourself.

The sheets rustle and before you know it, Victor has his chest pressed up against your bare back, laying a soft kiss on your shoulder before he rests his chin on it.

“How are you feeling?”  He asks.

“Okay.  Pretty good, actually.”  It was too early in the game to tell him you were already doing cartwheels in your mind.

“Good.  I’m glad to hear that because I found this under your pillow…”

He places something in your hands.  Your eyes widen when you recognize the magazine with his face on the cover.

“…And this ‘man on top’ wants to know what it feels like to have this woman on top of him for the rest of the day.”

You’ve made it to the end! 🤩 Thank you so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚 

[oscopelabs]

Christopher Nolan: The Man Who Wasn’t There by Daniel Carlson

1.

So, we’ll start with the fact that all movies are make-believe. It’s a bunch of actors on a set, wearing costumes and standing with props picked out by hordes of people you’ll never see, under the guidance of a director, saying things that have been written down for them while doing their best to say these things so that it sounds like they’re just now thinking of them. We all know this—saying it feels incredibly stupid, like pointing out that water is wet—but it’s still worth noting. There is, for example, no such person as Luke Skywalker. Never has been, never will be. He was invented by a baby boomer from Modesto. He is not real.

And we know this, and that’s part of the fun. We know that Luke Skywalker isn’t real but is being portrayed by an actor (another boomer from the Bay Area, come to think of it), and that none of the things we’re seeing are real. But we give ourselves over to the collective fiction for the greater experience of becoming involved in a story. This is one of the most amazing things that we do as humans. We know—deep down, in our bones, without-a-doubt know—that the thing we’re watching is fiction, but we enter a state of suspended reality where we imagine the story to be real, and we allow ourselves to be moved by it. We’ve been doing this since we developed language. The people telling these stories know this and bring the same level of commitment and imagination and assurance that we do as viewers, too. The storyteller knows that the story isn’t real, but for lack of a better way to get a handle on it, it feels real. So, to continue with the example, we’re excited when Luke Skywalker blows up the Death Star because he helped the good guys win. For us viewers, in this state of mutually reinforced agreement, that “happened.” It’s not real, but it’s “real”—that is, it’s real within the established boundaries of the invented world that we’ve all agreed to sit and look at for a couple of hours. Every viewer knows this, and every filmmaker acts on it, too. Except:

Christopher Nolan does not do this.

2.

There’s no one single owner or maker of any movie, and anyone who tells you different has their hand in your pocket. But there’s an argument to be made that when somebody both writes and directs the movie, it’s a bit easier to locate a sense of personhood in the final product. (This is all really rough math, too, and should not be used in court.) Christopher Nolan has directed 11 films to date, and while his style can be found in all of them, his self is more present in the ones where he had a hand in the shaping of the story—and crucially, not just that, but in the construction of the fictional world. Take away the superhero trilogy, the remake of a Norwegian thriller, the adaptation of a novel, and the historical drama, and Nolan’s directed five films that can reasonably be attributed to his own creative universe: Following (1998), Memento (2000), Inception (2010), Interstellar (2014), and Tenet (2020). These movies all involve themes that Nolan seems to enjoy working with no matter the source material, including identity, memory, and how easily reality can be called into question when two people refuse to concede that they had very different experiences of the same event. Basically, he makes movies about how perception shapes existence. How he does this, though, is unlike pretty much everybody else.

Take Inception. After a decade spent going from hotshot new talent to household name (thanks to directing the two highest-grossing Batman movies ever made, as well as the first superhero movie to earn an Oscar for acting), he had the credit line to make something big and flashy that was also weird and personal. So we got an action movie that, when first announced in the Hollywood trades, was described as being set within “the architecture of the mind.” Although this at first seemed to be a phrase that only a publicist could love, it turned out to be the best way to describe the film. This is a film, after all, about a group of elite agents who use special technology to enter someone’s subconscious dream-state and then manipulate that person’s memories and emotions. The second half of the film sees team leader Dom Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) and the rest of the squad actually descend through multiple nested subconsciouses to achieve their goal, even as they’re chased every step of the way by representations of Mal (Marion Cotillard), Dom’s late wife, who committed suicide after spending too much time in another’s subconscious and lost the ability to discern whether she was really alive or still in the dream-world.

I say “representations” because that’s what they are: Mal is long dead, but Dom still feels enormous guilt over his complicity in her actions, and that guilt shows up looking like Mal, whose villainous actions (the representation’s actions, that is) are just more signs of Dom not being able to come to grips with his own past. It’s his own brain making these things up and attacking itself, and it chases his entire crew down three successive layers of dream worlds. You get caught up in the movie’s world as a viewer, and you go along because Nolan is pretty good at making exciting movies that feel like theme-park rides. You accept that Dom and everybody else refer to Mal as Mal and not, say, Dom. Dom even addresses her (“her”) when her projection shows up, speaking to her as if she’s a separate being with her own will and desires and not a puppet that he’s pretending not to know he’s controlling. It’s only later that you realize that the movie is in some ways just a big-budget rendition of what it would look like to really, really want to avoid therapy.

Which is what makes Nolan different from other filmmakers:

None of this is actually happening.

Again, yes, it’s happening in the sense that we see things on screen—explosions, chases, a fight scene in a rotating hallway that’s still some of the best practical-effects work in modern action movies—but within the universe of the film, none of what’s going on is taking place in the real world. It’s all unfolding in the subconsciouses of Dom’s teammates. In the movie’s real world, they’re all asleep on a luxury jet. They’re “doing” things that have an outcome on the plot, but Nolan sets more than half the movie inside dreams. It’s a movie about reality where we spend less time in reality than in fantasy. Half the movie is pretend.

For Nolan, filmmaking is about using a dazzling array of techniques to create a visual spectacle that distracts the viewer from the fact that the real and true story is happening somewhere else: in the fringes we can’t quite see, in the things we forget to remember, or even in the realm of pure speculation.

3.

Memento arrived like (and with) a gunshot. It seemed to come out of nowhere and leave people struggling to describe it, and they usually wound up saying something like “it goes backward, but also forward at the same time, except some parts are actually really backward, like in reverse, so it’s maybe a circle?” Written by Christopher Nolan from an idea originally shared with him by his brother, Jonathan (who eventually turned it into a very different short story titled “Memento Mori”), the film follows a man named Leonard (Guy Pearce) who has anterograde amnesia and can’t form new memories, so every few minutes he sort of just resets and has to figure out where he is, what he’s doing there, and so on. He’s on the hunt for the man who attacked him and his wife, leaving his wife dead and Leonard in his present condition, which you can imagine does not make the gathering and synthesis of clues easy.

What’s more, Nolan puts the viewer in Leonard’s shoes by breaking the film’s linear timeline into two halves—call them A and B—and then alternating between them, with the added disorientation coming from the fact that one of those timeline halves plays out backward, with each successive scene showing what happened before the one you previously saw. So, if you numbered all the scenes in each timeline in chronological order, they’d look something like this when arranged in the final film: Scene A1, Scene B22, Scene A2, Scene B21, Scene A3, Scene B20, etc. You get why it messed with people’s heads.

As a result, we spend most of the movie pretty confused, just like Leonard, whose suppositions about what might or might not take place next begin to substitute for our own understanding of the film. It’s not until the end that we find out the shoe already dropped, and that Leonard killed the original attacker some time ago and has since been led on a series of goose chases by his cop friend, Teddy (Joe Pantoliano), who’s planting fake clues to get Leonard to take out other criminals. In other words, we realize that the story we thought was happening was pretend, and the real story was happening all around us, in the margins, memories, and imaginations of the characters. The most honest moment in the movie is the scene where Leonard hires a sex worker to wait several minutes in the bathroom while he gets in bed, then make a noise with the door to wake him, at which point his amnesia has kicked in again and he briefly thinks that the noise is being made by his wife. He’s wrong, of course, but this is the only time in the movie that we actually know he’s wrong. It’s the only time we truly know what’s real and what isn’t.

Yet you can’t talk about Memento without talking about Following, Nolan’s first feature. Although the film’s production was so extremely low-budget you’d think they were lying—the cast and crew all had day jobs and could only film on the weekends, so the thing took a year to make—Nolan’s willingness to dwell completely in a make-believe world that the viewer never knows about is already evident. It’s about a bored young writer who starts following strangers through the city for kicks, only for one of those strangers to catch him in the act and confront him. The stranger introduces himself as Cobb—I kindly submit here that it is not a coincidence that this is also Leonardo DiCaprio’s character’s name in Inception, but you already knew that—and reveals himself to be a burglar, spooked by the tail but willing to take on an apprentice. Cobb trains the writer to be a burglar, only for the situation to ultimately wind up implicating the writer himself in a complex blackmail plot. You see, the writer didn’t latch onto Cobb in a crowd; Cobb lured him in. The whole movie has been Cobb’s story all along, with the writer as a patsy who doesn’t understand the truth until the final frame. None of what we saw mattered, and everything that actually happened happened off-screen just before or just after we came in on a given scene. It’s like realizing the movie you’re watching turned out to be just deleted scenes from something else. You can’t say Nolan didn’t show his hand from the start.

4.

That same general concept—that the movie we’re watching is actually the knock-on effect of a movie we’ll only glimpse, or maybe never even see—underpins Nolan’s latest movies, Interstellar and Tenet, too. Interstellar has some concepts that are iffy even for Nolan (it makes total sense for someone to do something for another out of love, but somewhat less sense that that love somehow reshapes the physical universe), but it’s still a big, bold approach to exploring how time and perception shape our actions. As the film follows its core group of astronauts while they search for potentially habitable new worlds, they encounter strange visions and experiences that turn out to be their handiwork from the future reflected back at them. Sure, it raises the paradoxical question of whether they had a first mission before this that failed, so now their future selves are intervening to make the second one (which feels like the first one to the astronauts the whole time) successful, and all sorts of other stuff that your sophomore-year roommate would like to talk with you about in great detail. But so much of what we see isn’t the stuff that happens, or that winds up being important. There’s the great scene where the astronauts land on a planet near a black hole, which is wreaking havoc on how time passes on the planet. A minor disaster delays their departure for the main ship still in orbit, but when the landing team returns, they find that more than 20 years have “passed” since they left, with the one remaining team member on the ship having spent more than two decades waiting for them to return. It’s a moment of genuine horror, and it underscores the fact that what we thought was the one true reality was just the perspective of a handful of characters we happened to follow for a few minutes. There were whole things happening that changed the plot and story and direction of everything that would follow, and we never saw them; we didn’t even know we’d missed them.

Tenet is, of course, the latest and most recursive exploration yet of Nolan’s obsession with showing us a story that turns out to be mostly fake. It is almost perversely hard to even begin to explain the film (Google “Tenet timeline infographic” and have fun). One way to think about it is to imagine if the two timeline halves from Memento somehow existed at the same time, with people moving both forward and backward through time while inhabiting the same location. Basically, some scientists figured out how to “invert” the basic entropy of objects, so that they exist backward: you hold out your hand and the ball on the ground leaps up into it, because you’ve dropped it in the future, so now you can pick it up, etc. … Look, it doesn’t get easier to understand.

The upshot is, though, that we spend the film following the Protagonist (that’s his name), a CIA agent played by John David Washington, as he’s tasked with tracking down the source of the inverted stuff to figure out what’s unfolding in the future and why it’s suddenly started to make itself known in the present. He gets marginally closer to understanding the truth by the end of the film, but because this is a Nolan film that is maybe more expressly about the nature of reality than anything he’s ever done, his journey doesn’t so much take him forward as it does in a large circle. Because, and stop me if you’ve heard this, the true story of Tenet is taking place outside the Protagonist’s actions and knowledge, alongside him but invisible, often steered by people who themselves are moving “backward” through time and thus have already met the Protagonist in the future and are old friends with him by the time he meets them in his youth. Even more brain-liquefying, some of these people have been working under the orders of the Protagonist himself—the future version, that is—because his past self has already achieved the victories that allowed him to send the future people backward through time to meet his younger self so they’d achieve the victories that allow him to etc., etc., etc.

With Tenet, Nolan didn’t just make a movie that challenged perception, like Memento, or that dwelt in fiction, like Inception. He made a movie that can only be understood (to whatever degree true understanding is possible) by rewatching the movie itself, over and over, as the multiple timelines and harrowingly complex bits of cause and effect come into some kind of focus. The whole movie itself isn’t happening, in a sense, but is just the ramifications of something else, the echoes of a shout whose origin we’re straining to pinpoint. It both is and isn’t.

5.

Christopher Nolan is a talented director of action-driven suspense thrillers. He’s canny at controlling the audience’s emotions, and he knows how to put on a dazzling show. Plus he’s fantastic at picking when to deploy non-computer-generated effects for maximum impact. But you could say that about a lot of other directors, too. What sets Nolan apart from the rest, and what makes him a director to keep watching and returning to, is the teasing way his movies wind up being just deceptive enough to fool you into thinking that you know what’s going on, then just harsh enough to disabuse you of that notion. Looking at what seems to drive him, I don’t think Tenet is his best movie-movie, but it’s his most-Nolan movie. It’s almost a culmination of his continuing efforts to tell stories where what you see and what actually happens are two different things. It’s not that he makes puzzles to solve. There is no solving these movies. Rather, it’s that he sculpts these delicate artifacts that only let you see two dimensions at a time, never all three, no matter how you twist your head. Craning back and forth, you can almost see the whole thing, but not quite. Some part of it will always have to exist in your memory. And that’s where Christopher Nolan likes to be.

[cadence-talle]

Lavender-Inked Silence

Pairing: Fitz Vacker/Keefe Sencen

Wordcount: 1,883

Summary: Peer grading isn’t fun by any measure, but they can trust each other not to judge. And it’s nice, having a little note to look at before he goes home and has to explain to his father why he only got a 95 on the science test. 

(Keefe keeps all these notes in a box under his bed, ripping them out of tests and rereading them when he can’t sleep. He’s not quite sure why, but they help.)

(There are quite a lot of notes, over the years.)

Notes: Thanks to @loverofallthingssmart for the prompt and @vibing-in-the-void for betaing! (Also for coming up with the title “a for effort, g for gay”, which is the best thing i’ve ever heard. 

Taglist: @everyonehasthoughts, @clearlykeefitz, @loverofallthingssmart, @a-lonely-tatertot, @enbies-and-felonies, @molly-sencen, @lemontarto, @appalyneinstitute1, @ruewen-and-rising, @silver-snow, @linhamon-roll, @hyperlollypop, @never-ever-too-many-fandoms, @keeper-of-the-lost-queers, @impostertamsong, @vibing-in-the-void, @yeetersofthelostcities, @mistythegirlfluxmess, @diamond-dreamerr, @we-have-no-bananas-today, @an-absolute-travesty

(Sometimes, there are words that can’t be understood.)

Spelling tests are, in Keefe’s opinion, the worst thing in the world. 

Some words are easy; “fan”, for example, or “kitten”. They’re written exactly how they sound, so Keefe has no problem with them. It’s only with others that he gets tripped up, the extra vowels and unnecessary consonants, combined with Keefe’s terrible spelling, twisting words into unrecognizable shapes. 

The worst part is, he knows most of these words- he’s seen them in books his father has made him read. He can see the letters in his mind, can see the definition of the word. When he tries to write them down, though, it turns into something completely different. 

“Neither,” the teacher says, walking slowly around the room. “Neither. ‘Not the one nor the other of two people or things; not either’. Neither.”

Niether, Keefe writes, then scribbles it out and changes it to netheir. That doesn’t look right either, but the teacher has already moved on. 

“All right, last one,” she calls as Keefe adds a bill and tiny feet to the duck he’s doodled earlier. “Beer. ‘An alcoholic drink made from yeast-fermented malt flavored with hops.’ Beer.”

To be quite honest, Keefe is pretty sure he knows how to spell beer. Although, with everything he’s learned about spelling, it’s very possible there’s another vowel in there somewhere. Maybe an a? 

But that would be bear, and time’s running out. 

Baer, he scribbles down just as the teacher comes to collect his paper. She gives it a cursory glance, raising an eyebrow in an expression that reminds Keefe of his father. “We’ll be partner-grading these,” she says cooly. “So when you get someone else’s test, I’ll put the answers on the board and you can mark which ones are wrong.”

Keefe sighs a little, tapping the edge of his desk with his pencil. He’s positive he got almost everything wrong, and now one of his classmates will know too. 

Figures. 

He corrects the (few) errors on the test he’s given angrily, not even glancing at the name on the top until he’s done. When he does, his stomach drops a little. 

Fitzroy A. Vacker, the signature at the top reads. Fitz; one of the best students in their class, so well known he can’t walk down the hall without being high-fived. And if Keefe has his test, that means-

“Here you go.” Keefe’s test drops back onto his desk, the other boy appearing next to him. Wordlessly, Keefe hands him his test. Fitz nods and walks back to his seat, and Keefe picks up the paper. 

It’s not as bad as he was expecting. He made a lot of mistakes, true- apparently beer is not, in fact, spelled with an a- but there are no rude comments. Just corrections made in light purple pen. 

And in the corner, next to Keefe’s halfhearted doodle of a duck, is a little note. 

I like your drawing, it says, and then, you’re a really good artist. 

You’re a really good artist. 

No one’s ever said that to Keefe. Art isn’t a thing he’s good at, because it’s not a thing he does for fun- it’s not a thing he’s allowed to do for fun. 

But here, out of the blue, this compliment from someone he barely knows because he drew a stupid duck.

Keefe stares at the paper and smiles. 

(He doesn’t know, not yet. But this, in the form of a lavender-inked note on a spelling test, is the start of something amazing.)

-/-

He doesn’t talk to Fitz, of course. That would be stupid. They’re not friends, so no matter how much he’d like to thank the other boy, he doesn’t. He stays silent, keeps to himself, doesn’t ask his father to arrange a playdate. (Father would be overjoyed if he asked. That’s probably why Keefe doesn't.)  

No, he doesn’t do anything until they have a math quiz.

Keefe is actually pretty good at math. Addition and subtraction have always come easy to him, so he breezes through the questions and is done with time to spare. When Fitz’s quiz lands on his desk again, he’s barely even surprised; they’ll probably just be partnered up for the rest of the year. 

He is surprised, though, when the grade comes out to an 85/100. Not bad, but not good either; certainly not what Keefe would have expected for everyone’s favorite Golden Boy.

But then he remembers the way his father had sneered when he’d come home with his spelling test. The hours he’d had to study on a subject he didn’t understand, words swimming in front of his eyes.

Everyone’s bound to have one bad subject. Maybe this is Fitz’s. 

So Keefe puts a little :) next to the grade, writing great job! before standing up and handing it off to Fitz. The other boy looks at the paper, his face scrunching up as he reads the grade then melting into surprise when he sees the note. 

“Thanks,” he says, looking up at Keefe. “You too.”

(Sometimes, there are words that can’t be understood. Things that can’t be said out loud for fear of breaking them.) 

(But Fitz’s smile, right then, speaks volumes.)

-/-

By third grade, Fitz has switched to using a sky blue pen, and by fifth, he’s writing with green. One thing never changes, though- he and Keefe are always in the same class, and they always grade each other’s work. 

It’s more a decision than a teacher-mandated thing. Peer grading isn’t fun by any measure, but they can trust each other not to judge. And it’s nice, having a little note to look at before he goes home and has to explain to his father why he only got a 95 on the science test. 

(Keefe keeps all these notes in a box under his bed, ripping them out of tests and rereading them when he can’t sleep. He’s not quite sure why, but they help.)

(There are quite a lot of notes, over the years.)

CHEMICAL CHANGES QUIZ: Fitzroy A. Vacker, Class 302

98/100. Pretty sure a flame test isn’t setting something on fire, but good job anyway! I drew you a flower in compinsashun so you would feel better. -Keefe

Basic Fractions Worksheet: Keefe S, Class 401 

100/100! You’re so good at math. -Fitz

Exports & Taxation in the American Revolution: Fitz Vacker, Class 503

100/100. This was really good! I couldn’t stop laughing at the sentence “the colonists rebelled by throwing tea in the ocean”, though. -Keefe

(And there are others, too, not written on schoolwork; tiny messages scrawled in the margin of a sheet of paper and folded into a tight square.)

(Blue ones.)

I passed the principal on my way to class. She’s… not happy. Did you really cover her office in paint? -F

They have no proof. -K

(Green ones.)

Hey, can you come over this afternoon? -K

Yeah, sure. What’s up? -F

I just… I don't want to be alone with my parents. They’re always… nicer. When you’re around. -K

Ok. -F

(And in eighth grade, when Fitz has run out of different colors of pens and is back to purple, there are purple ones.)

Are you going to Stina’s party next weekend? -F

I might. If you’re there. -K

(Sometimes, there are words that can’t be understood. Things that can’t be said out loud for fear of breaking them. Of breaking yourself.) 

(There are a lot of messages. None of them mean much.)

(Keefe keeps them anyway.)

-/-

The house is packed, people laughing and whooping over the loud music. The lights are flashing, there’s something suspiciously bitter in the punch, and almost everyone here is a stranger. 

Keefe’s been at this party for five minutes. He already regrets coming. 

In the crowd, someone lets out a high shout. Fitz flinches slightly at Keefe’s side, taking a step closer to the other boy. 

“You want to get out of here?” Keefe murmurs in his ear. Fitz nods and they turn towards the door. 

The diner they stop at on the way home is bright, but the lights are constant and the slowly rotating cheesecake in the display case is as familiar as it is inedible. Keefe breathes a sigh of relief. “That was terrible,” he says, taking a seat at the counter. Fitz laughs. 

“It really was, wasn’t it? I think most of the people there were highschoolers.”

Keefe nods, thanking the man behind the bar who’s handed him a burger. Fitz is drinking a strawberry milkshake.

“Honestly, I don’t want to go to high school if that’s what people are like.”

Fitz raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you have much of a choice there, unfortunately.”

“Eh, I don’t know.” Keefe takes a bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully. “I could always just get held back a year. Wouldn’t be too hard, with my track record.”

Fitz laughs again, bright and happy under the fluorescent lights. Keefe watches him, watches the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his nose scrunches up. He’s beautiful. 

Beautiful. Where did that come from? 

(Sometimes, there are words that can’t be understood. Things that can’t be said out loud for fear of breaking them. Of breaking yourself. Sometimes there are realizations under bright-bright lights that you can never say.)

Beautiful.

Hmm. 

Shit. 

-/-

As it turns out, being in love with your best friend isn’t as hard as it sounds. 

Keefe hasn’t managed to get rid of his feelings, by tenth grade, but he’s managed to ignore them. Ignore the way his gut clenches whenever Fitz grins at him, ignore the flush that appears on his cheeks whenever their hands brush. Ignore, ignore, and hope Fitz ignores too. 

There’s less peer-grading in high school. Tests and projects are more important now, so the teachers grade them in most of his classes. 

Except in Spanish, because apparently the teacher just doesn’t care.

Keefe marks the last incorrect verb conjugation on Fitz’s test, doodling a tiny heart in the paper’s margin and handing the paper to the boy sitting across the aisle from him. Fitz glances at it, eyes narrowing slightly. Keefe knows that look- that’s his determined look. 

He’s not quite sure why Fitz would have something to prove right now, though. He scored a solid 97. Unless-

Shaking his head, Keefe forcefully directs that train of thought.

It comes crashing back in just a second, though, when Fitz hands him his graded test. 

100! It says at the top in purple pen. Do you want to get dinner with me? 

Keefe glances up and towards the other boy, who’s staring at the board as if it contains the secrets of the universe instead of the quiz answers. With shaking fingers, he writes a single word and passes the paper back. 

(Sometimes, there are words that can’t be understood. Things that can’t be said out loud for fear of breaking them. Of breaking yourself. Sometimes there are realizations under bright-bright lights that you can never say.)

(And sometimes, there are notes written in multicolored pens, years and years of silent conversations. A message on top of a Spanish quiz that promises something amazing. Sometimes, there is a word, unspoken but still heard.)

Yes. 

(Sometimes, a lavender-inked note is all you need.)

[lowkeyorloki]

quick and random q for no reason at all other than my own interest :) what's your opinion on 'separating the art from the artist'? (like should they be separated in your opinion)

Hi anon! Thanks for the ask, I love discussion and discourse. You’re welcome to approach me for my opinion on anything - the only reason I’d refrain from answering would be if I felt like I didn’t have enough information on the subject to give an appropriate response. I’m a HUGE proponent of differing opinions and conversation. 

Also, just because we delve into morals a bit here, I’m an Ethics minor. It feels relevant to say that.

Ultimately, I think it depends on what the art (or media) is. I used to see this as a very black and white issue, but as I’ve gotten older and become a little less extreme in all my beliefs, I’ve realized this is something that resides in the gray area (like most issues). 

Basically, if there’s a way to consume the media in an educational way, I think that’s worth pursuing. For example, I HATE the book 1984 by George Orwell. I think the writing style is tedious, I think Orwell had a superiority complex, and I think the portrayal of Winston’s treatment of women is absolutely abhorrent (mostly because Winston is supposed to be the good guy, and his views towards women is never said to be a bad thing). I used to think because of that last reason, the book shouldn’t be taught in schools. 

Now, I would absolutely support swapping the book out for a novel written by a woman or POC, but that’s not what this conversation is about. When I really started to analyze the text, I realized that going over Winston’s behavior with a class and explaining why what he did/thought was wrong would be hugely beneficial. It would teach young boys not to internalize sexism like Winston does, and it would lay the foundation for them to see, recognize, and address shitty behavior. Furthermore, then the lesson of censorship of 1984, which is a super important one, isn’t completely wiped away and rendered useless. In my mind, there’s two lessons being taught this way. 

It gets a bit different when 1) we aren’t taught about the media, ie, the audience is given no guidance, and 2) the creator of said media isn’t dead. A lot of times, for me personally, the deciding factor of whether I’m going to keep consuming something comes down to if the creator/art is problematic or morally corrupt. Because morality is subjective, it’s hard for me to defend that point. What you find problematic I might find to be an actual bad thing, and vice versa.

But let’s talk about things within the context of the Loki fandom, because this is a Loki blog. It’s no secret that as a general statement, reader insert fics are written for a very specific audience, and more often than not, authors end up alienating POC readers for adding descriptions of y/n’s “pale skin” or “blushing cheeks” etc. etc.

There have been a lot of Loki authors who have had readers kindly approach them saying, “Hey, this detail makes it really hard for me to see myself in the fic. Would you mind taking it out?” And so far, I have only seen authors react defensively. They’ll launch into a speech about how what they create is free, how they ask for feedback that’s constructive, and overall create a victim mentality. Now, those points are valid, but only if you’re getting HATE. Hate and genuine feedback are very different things, and I’ve never seen any author get hate in this situation that we’re currently talking about. 

In cases like this, I unfollow these authors and I never like or reblog their fics again. I could absolutely continue to consume their writing: it’s not like those descriptions are going to appear in every single fic they ever write, and I’m also not directly impacted by this issue (I just have. You know. Empathy). However, I will not support someone in any capacity when I observe them belittling and hurting other people for going to them with valid and kindly presented feedback (ESPECIALLY if the group giving constructive feedback is marginalized). If I were to consume those author’s works, if I were to boost their note count in any way, I am telling them the following:

Your behavior is okay. 

And I don’t think it is. When I observe people hurting others and refusing to correct their behavior, I’m not going to give them that implicit reassurance that they didn’t do anything wrong. 

The crux of the “should we separate the art from the artist” argument for me is that we usually (usually) should NOT separate the two because in some way, the artist benefits from your consumption. And if what they have done is genuinely harming people, they have to be held accountable. More often than not, the only way to do that is limit your consumption so there is an impact on their (job, hobby, morals, mindset, etc. etc.).

Of course, I always support and encourage talking to the artist first in some way. It’s when they reject help and education I think it’s time to stop supporting them.

Let me know what you think of my answer, and anyone else is free to weigh in as well :)

[iamtwilighttrash]

My Breaking Dawn

My Breaking Dawn

BACKGROUND: I am rewriting Breaking Dawn the way I think it should have been written. To preface, please note that in my Twilight universe: 

1) Jacob and Bella were never anything more than friends. In New Moon, they were nothing more than brother/sister-ish friends. In Eclipse, Jake and Edward actually became good friends, and he was ecstatic to hear about the wedding. (NO KISS EVER OCCURRED) 

2) Angela is more present in Bella’s life. This is very important to me. 

3) Edward and Bella have basically the same relationship: he still left her in New Moon, they’re still the classic/mushy/everlasting romance type, etc. BUT they also are young, they have more fun with one another, and Bella knows how to hold her own a little bit. 

4) Bella is much more integrated into Cullen life/family. She, Jasper, and Emmett are closer, and there is no tension between her and Rosalie after Eclipse. 

5) Edward does not buy Bella a new car. I like her truck, and so does she, and Jacob and Rosalie are around to fix it up. 

6) Please assume that Charlie found out about the engagement in the same way as in the original. I don’t feel like rewriting that, and I thought that it fit the narrative well. 

7) Jacob has long hair. This might seem insignificant, but it isn’t, and it means something to me. 

Anyway, I’m going to jump right in! I hope you enjoy my Breaking Dawn. 

(Stephenie Meyer OBVIOUSLY owns these characters and the saga. I’m just adding my creative aesthetic spin to it. Some elements will be incredibly similar in wording to the original, but for the most part I am entirely rewriting it) 

CHAPTER ONE

     I was getting married. I was getting married. I was getting married. Tomorrow. So soon, my head spun. 

     I paced around Alice’s bedroom, the sound of my socked feet just whispers to my own ears; to my vampire family, I probably sounded like an entire marching band. Alice was perched on the edge of her bed, Rosalie beside her, both of them bemused and statue-still. Esme flitted anxiously by my side. Her soft, sincere face broke my firm resolve to bolt from the door. 

     “Bella, honey, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” she murmured gently, slender fingers framing my face to stop me. I met her gaze, certain I appeared frantic. 

     I’m getting married! This was the final fitting. I would have to look at myself in the mirror, in the elegant gown of eggshell white, and see a stranger looking back. “Esme, what if its all...wrong?” Before Esme could answer, Alice surged to her feet and gripped my hands. Her touch was stone-cold, hard, but gentle. It soothed me marginally. 

     “It will be fine Bella, go to your happy place.” Rosalie sashayed to the corner, a vision of grace, to grab the satin dress. The color complimented her skin and hair beautifully. She would make a stunning bride. But what of me, silly, insignificant, young, human girl? Would the fabric turn my skin translucent; would the guests be able to see right through me? 

     I closed my eyes, trying to listen to Alice. If I couldn’t shut off the ramblings of my mind, perhaps I could redirect my thought. My happy place. The nerve-wracking wedding done and behind me. I had married Edward, fulfilled my end of our life-altering bargain. It would be his turn. Our final adventure together with me as a human. So soon, I would become just like him. The eternity that I had long-hoped for would begin. But, before that, there was just one more thing...

     Our honeymoon.

     Sex was not so scary to think about in the grand scheme of things, even if I would be having it with a vampire. I trusted Edward entirely. In fact, my only worries stemmed from insecurity. How would either of us know what...to do? Edward had his brothers around to help him. I supposed that I could ask Alice or Rosalie, but then...but then what if Edward heard them think about what I asked? The thought was so mortifying that, in the moment, I blushed. 

     Okay, so maybe I couldn’t go to my happy place with company in the room. Even barring my embarrassment at having him know I asked his sisters how to have sex, there was still the inevitability of my heart racing at the thought of being with him in that way. If Esme could hear the evidence of how much I enjoyed my happy place...

     So, instead, I focused the slip and glide of the satin gown over my skin and the cool brushes of Esme and Rosalie’s hands as they held the garment in place for Alice’s minor sewing adjustments. My weight hadn’t fluctuated much, so there was little that needed to be altered from the last fitting. Just a little bit taken in in the back, I thought, judging by the pinch of the fabric. Esme hummed while Alice worked, and the melody worked to soothe the nerves that threatened to fray. 

     “Oh, Bella...” It was Rosalie speaking. I opened my eyes to look at her, concerned by the tone. 

     “What? Is something wrong?” She was looking at me, at the dress, at me in the dress. Oh, god, I’m hideous! I’m too human. Esme had stepped back to join Rosalie, and she daintily covered her mouth with her hands. The only person seemingly unaffected was Alice, who had seen me in the dress many times. 

     “No, Bella, you’re...” 

     All wrong? 

     “Stunning.” The word shocked me. Stunning? Me? Coming from Rosalie’s mouth, Rosalie the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on, that word was like an expletive. I shuddered beneath the weight of her praise. 

     “You...you think so?” I had yet to turn around and look at myself in the mirror. I was frightened. Would I be able to recognize myself, Bella the bride? 

     “Oh, sweetie, you look beautiful!” Esme reached out and hugged me; she smelled like lavender, and orange blossom, and breakfast tea. Her body was like ice and yet, as she gave me a little squeeze, my whole body felt like it had been basking beneath the Arizona sun. I hugged her back automatically. In her, I had found a mother in the areas that my own was lacking. Unwanted tears sprung along my lower lash line. On a day such as this, my mom should have been there. I was reminded once again that my choice— becoming a vampire— would effect more than one aspect of my life. 

     Esme pulled back and wiped away the moisture with steady hands. Alice, sensing my unraveling, was quick to change the subject. 

     “Alright, Bella. Go ahead, look at yourself.” Simple enough task, but my feet felt like they were buried in cement. Look at myself? How? With an uneven breath, I forced myself to turn and face the long mirror on the wall. 

     The dress was so...Edward. Even on my body, I could tell it was designed for him. I panicked, trying to see myself in the timeless shape, the Calla Lily folds; even the lace of the sleeves mocked me. I was far too plain, too ordinary. Was I all wrong for him? They had spoken of how beautiful I was, but where? I noticed the splotches on my cheeks from crying, the puffiness under my tired eyes, the unevenness of my body’s proportions: human. Mortal. Meant to end.

     “Well?” beamed Alice. I turned back, and three pairs of golden honey eyes appraised me warily, waiting for my response. 

     “I love it,” I choked out. Esme’s smile vanished. Alice and Rosalie pursed their lips. I could not fool them. I was an awful liar. 

     “What’s wrong?” The dam broke; I came, at last, undone. Esme was quick to usher me towards Alice’s bed, folding me into a marble embrace. I was glad Edward wasn’t home; the sound of my distress would have roused him to check on me, regardless of Alice’s stern warning to mind his business and stay out of her room. 

     “I’m not,” a hiccup broke the sentence, “good enough for him. I’m all wrong.” Rosalie— I knew it was Rosalie from her feather soft touch— rubbed my back while Alice touched my hair. 

     “Isabella Swan,” it was her stern voice that jolted me. I sniffled, conscious of the fact that I was staining Esme’s lilac blouse with my tears, and pulled back to meet her gaze. One strand of spiky black hair had escaped its polished, messy spikes and was drooping over her left eye. She brushed it back, so quickly that my eyes barely registered the gesture. “Edward loves you, you silly girl. He wouldn’t go through all this trouble for just anybody.” It was teasing, but truthful. 

     “Okay.” Yes, she was right. He loved me. I loved him. It would be okay. I took a deep breath, mortified that I had started sobbing. “Sorry, sorry.” The knee-jerk reaction made me sniffle. Had Jacob been there, he would’ve made me laugh, told me to get over myself— maybe I should call him. As if on cue, my phone buzzed on Alice’s antique vanity, the sound like a beehive. Sometimes, I swore, Jacob could sense my sadness from miles away.

     Esme released me so I could answer my best friend. His voice, husky and warm, assaulted my ears before I could say a single syllable.

     “Bells, you better not be crying you idiot. I can hear you from outside. I’m here to spring you.” I rushed to the window to pull back the sheer curtains, and indeed he was there, leaning against his bike with my spare helmet tucked under his arm. He waved.

     “I have to get out of my dress you jerk. I’ll be down in a sec.” As I spoke, Alice started undoing the pearl buttons on my back.

     “Cool. I’m letting myself in and grabbing a snack.” Esme heard that and her soft, soothing laugh began when I snapped the phone shut.

     “I’ll go down and keep him company. I’ve been meaning to ask him about the progress on his new car. Oh, and Bella dear,” she said, reaching out to cup my cheek. I gave her my full attention. “Edward might not be biologically mine, but he’s still my son. I know how much he loves you. He smiles so much more now, and I can tell his happiness is due to you. You are so incredibly right for him, Bella. And I—” there was a little catch in the back of her throat, “I’m so happy you’re joining our family.” With that, she kissed my cheek and all but danced from the room.

     I couldn’t help but smile. I told myself to relax— all that mattered was that I loved Edward, and he loved me back. The rest— the dress, the wedding, the guests, the honeymoon— was unimportant. I stepped out of the gown, and Rosalie gave me a firm look.

     “Bella, this is your wedding. I thought the dress was lovely on you, but if you’d rather wear something else, the choice is yours.”

     “Of course, Bella,” said Alice, though her brows furrowed slightly. Visions of me prancing down the aisle in my sweatpants likely plagued her thoughts. “We can come up with something, anything you want, in time for tomorrow. I’ll hand sew a dress myself if I have to.” I looked at them, my sisters, and felt so loved I choked. Forgetting my partial nudity, I wrapped both of my arms around them in a tight hug.

     “I love you guys.” They both laughed. “Tomorrow is going to perfect. I’m just nervous.”

     “Well of course you are,” Rosalie chuckled. I pulled back to dress myself in my jeans and one of Edward’s hoodies. It smelled like him— I inhaled deeply. “It is your wedding day, after all. I’ve been married so many times and I still get butterflies.” I was so excited to get to attend one of Emmett and Rosalie’s weddings in the future; Emmett promised me that their next one would be ridiculously themed, as it was his turn to decide.

     “Okay. I’m going to go spend time with the Best Man before Edward steals him for the Bachelor Party.” That thought put a little knot in my stomach, though Jasper had promised me he would keep it under control. It would just be Edward, his brothers, Jacob, and Seth. 3 vampires and 2 werewolves walk into a strip club sounded like the start to a bad joke, and two of them were underage anyway.

     “Don’t forget, your Bachelorette starts at 8:00.” Alice’s tone was stern, but she was smiling.

     “Yes ma’am,” I joked, saluting playfully as a ducked through the door. On the way down, I could hear Jacob and Esme talking. After the battle that had rid us of Victoria, Jacob had spent a great deal of time recuperating at the Cullens. He and Esme bonded; I knew he saw some of his own mother in her features, and that warmed my heart. 

     “Hey Bells!” cheered Jacob. He draped one bulky arm over my shoulder as he finished up his conversation with my almost mother-in-law. In his opposite hand, he held a soda. Esme had started stocking food and drink for the wolves, and for my human father, the latter of the two having only ever braved the threshold once since finding out about my engagement. 

     “You two should get out of here before Edward shows up and ruins the tradition. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” Esme kissed both of my cheeks, and then stood on her tiptoes to do the same to Jacob, before shooing us from the kitchen. 

     “You wanna ride on my bike, pretty girl?” asked Jacob, wagging his brows at me while he offered me the helmet. I snorted and shoved him a little. 

     “My mom always told me to say no to creeps.” But I took the helmet, securing the thick strap beneath my chin. “Why aren’t we running?” Riding on Jacob in his wolf form took days of practice, but I had finally gotten the hang of it. Emmett had even taken his fair share of turns, much to everyone’s amusement at the time. Jacob revved the bike. 

     “I figured we better do something just a little dangerous. It’s your last night as a free woman, Bells. And its the last time I’ll get to spend a full day with human- you.” I swallowed hard at the reminder. I had no regrets, of course, about the impending wedding or my decision to join Edward’s family permanently. Even setting the Volturi aside, I knew I was meant for vampire life. I could feel it in my bones, in my heart— an eternity with Edward was what I wanted. I was almost there. 

     Jacob started to drive; the bike didn’t go very fast, but it felt like we were flying. I clung to him, watching the forest blur, as the wind whipped my skin. There wasn’t much room for conversation, so my mind— predictably— wandered. I thought of the passed summer, my last human summer, which was coming to its glorious end. I thought of staying out late to build card empires with Jasper and Alice, infuriating chess games, and movie nights with Emmett. I pictured Edward sprawled out in the sun, body engulfed in a see of purple wildflowers, as his diamond skin refracted endless light; they swore that my memories would fade, but I swore that nothing in the whole world could make me forget that. Even then, in the present, I could feel the hard planes of his cool chest as we swam in the hidden lake he’d taken me too in July, could see the way those amber eyes glittered in the moonlight streaming through his open bedroom windows on late June nights. 

     I would remember more of my last mortal summer than just the Cullens, of course, as I knew they would be mine forever. Going fishing with Charlie— who had begged me to go just one time with him— and hearing the way his surprised laughter echoed in the cab of his cruiser as I told a joke about fish (Why did the trout leave the cult? They were too sacrifishal). Roasting marshmallows with Jacob and the rest of his pack while Billy and Sam raced around the yard; of course, Billy had won. Buying books with Angela. Walking the beach with Jacob. Spending one last weekend in Florida with Renee, painting our nails and listening to rock. 

     But my human life was soon to be over. I had said goodbye to the possibility of having any more memories like that, as being a bloodthirsty newborn would ensure that I was too dangerous to have those moments again. 

     Just as thoughts began to somber, Jacob cut the engine. I realized I had closed my eyes— when I opened them, we were on the beach. We both dismounted and stretched, me removing the stuffy helmet so I could gulp in salty air and him tidying up his windblown locks. We headed down to the shoreline in silence. The quiet was comfortable; in it, I could hear the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs and the rhythm of our feet on the damp earth. It was an overcast day, but the sun promised to poke through the cloud cover at any moment. 

     “I’m going to miss this,” I said after a few minutes of us slipping off our shoes and wiggling our toes in the sand. Jacob nodded. His eyes were on the waves. 

     “Me too, Bells. It’s gonna be weird, after you...well, when I see you next.” 

     “I won’t be able to show my face in public for a long time. I’m gonna be a walking freak show.” 

     “Oh, yeah,” he said, teasing. “You’ll be a real circus act.” He took my hand as we continued to walk. With Jacob, there was nothing romantic about the action; he had always just been my sunshine, my best friend. I hadn’t realized until then just how much our friendship would be effected. No more beach trips, or dinner with Angela in Forks, or watching TV on his couch during lazy Saturday mornings. I would be a vampire. Though the pack and the Cullens were on good terms, there would be something in our biology pushing us apart. I was going to be, genetically, his enemy. 

     “Will you still be my friend, Jake, after all this is over?” There was a lump in my throat. It wasn’t time to say goodbye yet, but it would be the last time I would get to see him alone. He pulled us to a stop and studied my face.

     “Bella, how many times have I told you? What you are doesn’t matter to me. You’ll still be Bells. Just a little more creeptastic.” The fake word made me giggle despite the fact that tears threatened to surface. He gave me a goofy smile— when he hugged me, though, I could tell that he held on just a little bit tighter than he would have had this been any other day.

[lifeonashelf]

COLDPLAY

Let’s get this straight right off the bat: Coldplay is fucking terrible.

We all know this. Designating Coldplay as terrible isn’t a statement of personal opinion, it is an easily demonstrable fact. Just listen to them; Coldplay’s music proves the existence of Coldplay’s terribleness the same way that breathing proves the existence of oxygen. Surely, even the band’s staunchest supporters understand that their songs are pretentious, monotonous, and unimaginative—they’d kind of have to; I assume these people have listened to Coldplay, too. If you like music as superfluous as Coldplay’s, that’s totally fine. I’m not here to tell you that you shouldn’t, nor to convince you to stop listening to Coldplay (you can’t stop listening to them, anyway; no matter how hard you try to escape, wherever you go, Coldplay will find you). But they are unequivocally fucking awful, and I need to make that clear before we continue in case I end up saying anything courteous about them later. And, who knows? I may indeed find something positive to say about Coldplay—I mean, nothing comes to mind right now, but it’s going to take me a few hours to write this piece so it’s possible something will at some point.  

Okay, so we’re all clear on Coldplay being fucking terrible, right? Great. But that isn’t the main reason I hate them. I appreciate plenty of terrible bands just as I appreciate plenty of terrible movies. Listening to a really shitty group is sort of like watching a cast of really shitty actors—though they clearly suck at what they do, there’s something oddly appealing about the charming naiveté they demonstrate by giving it the best go they can anyway.

For instance, since I was still filing most of my Warped Tour emo discs in my punk section when I began this venture, I never got around to writing about a band called Adair. If you’re not familiar with them, don’t worry about it; they only existed for a few years in the mid-aughts and their diminutive discography merely consists of a self-released EP and one full-length album, The Destruction Of Everything Is The Beginning Of Something New. Sonically, Adair were so amusingly prototypical of every baby t-shirt screamo band that was thriving at the time, they essentially sounded like they were parodying the style of music they played (although, to be fair, a lot of those squads did). But, Adair were absolutely serious, regardless of what stridently nasal heights the vocals reached, regardless of how faithfully their compositions adhered to their genre’s textbook page by page, and regardless of the sublimely ridiculous realms some of their allegorical angst lamentations ventured into (the line “lock me up in Guantanamo Bay and throw away the key” from the song “I Buried My Heart In Cosmo Park” may very well be the lyrical apex of their entire genus).

Adair’s music is so inane that it makes me laugh out loud when I sing along to it—but here’s the thing: I do sing along to it. I have probably played The Destruction Of Everything Is The Beginning Of Something New a hundred times from start to finish since my copy was sent to me to review for some website back in 2006, and I have cued up individual high(low?)points like “The Diamond Ring” and “Folding and Unfolding” even more times than that. As silly as they sound—and trust me, they sound very fucking silly—I still sincerely enjoy their tunes and have spent enough hours listening to TDOEITBOSN for it to possibly qualify as one of my favorite records ever. Shit, even writing about it right now makes me feel like hearing the disc, so I’ll probably end up blasting it in my truck tomorrow (ed. note: I actually did). If they ever decided to do a reunion tour, I would absolutely go see them, and if vocalist Rob Tweedie did that whole “hold the microphone out toward the crowd so they can finish the lyric” thing which every frontman in every band that sounds like Adair does at least a dozen times per show, I would totally be able to fill in each of those blanks and enthusiastically do so.

Sorry, we were talking about Coldplay. To recap, they’re fucking terrible.

Unlike a frivolous whimper-core ensemble like Adair, the most off-putting thing about Coldplay isn’t their music. They’ve actually managed to excrete a few tracks that I grudgingly enjoy over the years. However, sporadically releasing songs which don’t sound like they were specifically written for Gap commercials actually works against Coldplay in this instance. Sure, most of their output is noxious twaddle, but since they occasionally come across as a marginally decent band, their work isn’t awful enough to at least ironically appreciate it for being awful.

In fact, there’s absolutely nothing ironic about Coldplay—other than U2 and Radiohead (more on them in a minute), I can’t think of another band that seems to take itself as dreadfully seriously as Coldplay does. There isn’t a single lighthearted number in their entire catalog, and the demeanor of their music is so staid and cheerless that it’s hard to imagine the dudes ever cracking a smile while they’re making it. Their approach to songwriting is rigidly Pavlovian—when the music gets louder, ring ring ring, that signals the listener the *really* poignant part of the tune has arrived and cues them to emotionally salivate in kind—yet despite their calculated use of sonic dynamics to manufacture sentiment, the vapid and unspontaneous nature of the delivery saps their tunes of anything resembling genuine soul or passion. Even when thrusting through the more energetic tracks in their litany, the musicians in Coldplay always sound like they’re actively striving to not play their instruments too hard. The result is that they consistently deliver some of the safest and least edgy rock ever created, shaping their ethos around a formula so willfully tepid and cuddly that they barely qualify as a rock band at all. Coldplay aren’t quite the musical equivalent of plain yogurt (that would be Jack Johnson, an artist so comprehensively flavorless that even his name is fucking boring) but the granola in their mixture is always judiciously distributed so as not to agitate anyone’s tastebuds.

And at the center of this slow-motion kaleidoscope, you have Chris fucking Martin (I find it difficult to cite his name without including the “fucking” in there; he’s just one of those guys—like Jason fucking Mraz, Blake fucking Shelton, or fucking Bono). Coldplay’s music may be stagnant, but you’d never know it from beholding the practiced arsenal of slinky paroxysms their vocalist bursts into while that music is playing. In performance and in their videos, Martin’s appendages are incessantly in motion, his hands ever-swaying gently through the air like he’s waving a pair of invisible cigarette lighters or finger painting on the goddamn sky, ostensibly so deeply lost in his band’s reverie of sound that he simply can’t help himself from moving his body in a cadenced pantomime of the way their music is meant to superficially move your spirit.

For the three non-ballads the group has written in their career, Chris usually switches things up by crouching in an incongruous bobbing panther-stance like a battle rapper delivering a diss track about fucking his opponent’s mama in the mouth, until it’s time to freeze in the tried and true messiah-statue pose as the number’s final notes chime into the ether. But it is in the quiet moments when Martin truly shines—which makes perfect sense given that he’s the leader of a group so systematically anodyne they probably should have actually named themselves Quiet Moments. These are the obligatory interims where the frontman takes the stage on his own to sit down at the piano, resplendent in the spotlight, and perform an intimate solo rendition of one of his most tender hits to show everyone in the audience that Chris fucking Martin is a bonafide fucking musician who, if he really felt like it, could totally do the whole Coldplay thing without the other three dudes whose names no one knows. His soaring falsetto croon is custom-feigned for the arenas the band was destined to coldplay from the moment they dropped their breakthrough single “Yellow” and caused a nation of book-sensitive sociology majors eagerly anticipating the arrival of their generation’s U2 to cream their Dockers in unison. When Martin opens his pipes to summon those indelibly contrived choruses about birds and stars and other monosyllabic nouns, it hardly even matters what words he’s singing—the leitmotifs in most of the tunes are basically interchangeable anyway. What matters is that Chris sounds like he really, really, really means it when he says he will try to fix you.

That analysis probably makes it seem like I hate Chris fucking Martin as much as I hate his band. I actually don’t��he’s too benign a character to elicit such a fervid response; hating Chris Martin is like hating turtleneck sweaters, or actual turtles. In fact, I suspect he’s probably a really nice dude.  At least, I’ve never heard any creepy stories about him showing his penis to under-aged fans on Skype or anything like that.

Regardless, while I don’t specifically despise either Martin, Dude Who Plays Guitar, or the other two anonymous members of Coldplay, I do gauge their collective as the fourth or fifth worst band of all time. And the reason I loathe them more than any of their neighbors on that list is because they aren’t the kind of prodigiously abysmal group you can just ignore until their moment in the spotlight inevitably passes—which is how I dealt with Five For Fighting from September 2001 through February 2002 and how I’ve been dealing with Twenty-One Pilots for the last four years (seriously, are you fuckers done yet?). Coldplay is a far cagier nuisance because they are massively popular and have been for a ludicrously long time. I’ve been patiently waiting for them to go away for two decades now, yet they continue to pop up every third summer or so to drop a new album and remind us that, yes, they’re still here assiduously mining the middle of the road for new ways to write more tunes about clouds being pretty.

Even worse, I can’t disregard their music because it’s everywhere. I hear “The Scientist” while I’m shopping for cereal at the grocery store, I hear “Talk” when I sit down to eat at any chain restaurant, and I imagine I’ll be viewing that idiotic video for “Adventure of a Lifetime” with the posse of animated dancing monkeys on an infinite Clockwork-Orange-eyes-gaping loop for the rest of eternity when my mortal essence exits this world and I am cast into the fiery pits of Hell. I can’t even watch football without encountering Coldplay, as I discovered with horror in 2016 when they took part in the most fatuous jumbled fucking mess of a Super Bowl halftime show the NFL had ever presented (a zenith of suckery which seemed impossible to eclipse until this past February, when Adam Levine showed up covered with prison tattoos and said, “hold my beer”).

The pervasive level of esteem Coldplay has reached dumbfounds me. This is a group that has sold millions and millions of albums worldwide, even though I have never once heard a single person utter the phrase, “man, that new Coldplay song kicks ass.” I’m sure their most dedicated fans have favorite hits, tracks that are significant to them in some way, etc. But their remarkable success is patently disproportionate to how patently unremarkable the work which garnered that success really is. Nobody ever describes the band’s music as “awesome”, just as nobody ever describes a glass of pinot gris as awesome—the term simply does not apply to their province; actually, in this case, describing the mouthfeel of Coldplay tunes and recommending cheeses they best pair with is probably more relevant than discussing how they sound. Coldplay is as universally popular as they are precisely because they aren’t awesome. They’re not beloved because they’re extraordinary; most people love them because they’re innocuous, functional, and suitable for almost any occasion—Coldplay is akin to a pair of cargo shorts, and no one thinks cargo shorts kick ass. Coldplay isn’t an alternative band (on the contrary, almost every good band is an alternative to Coldplay); they are a lowest common denominator band, undemanding and ubiquitous and safe to like because everyone else likes them. Their work is specifically geared toward people who think appreciating music demonstrates sophistication, but don’t ultimately give enough of a shit about the artform to put any effort into finding music that is actually sophisticated or appreciable. You may assume Coldplay is erudite because they’re British and they cite books you’ve never read when discussing the lyrical themes in their work, but they’re merely recycling the same emotional territory as every other pop act that writes tunes about finding love, losing love, missing love, and the 18th Century French peasantry.

The best thing about being a Coldplay fan is that it’s easy. You don’t have to buy their records, go see them live, or make any concerted effort at all to receive their music. If you listen to the radio for any extended period of time (or eat at an Applebee’s), you will eventually hear one of their songs; all you have to do is not hate it and, voila, you’re officially a Coldplay fan. There, don’t you just love the security of venerating a critically and commercially acclaimed band that will never challenge you or be unpopular?

Okay, I do strive to be fair—even in this arena where I can say whatever I want and no one can argue with me. I gave this a lot of thought, so here are four things about Coldplay that are not terrible:

 1)      “Clocks”: I resisted it for many years, but I finally had to concede that it’s kind of a pretty song. Notes of red currant and blackberries, and it goes superbly with a nice aged brie.

2)      “God Put A Smile On Your Face”: It doesn’t put a smile on mine, but that’s why I enjoy it. Most Coldplay songs sound like they’re aiming to evoke what being hugged by a koala bear feels like, so I appreciate Chris fucking Martin delivering a darker number that seems intent on making me feel depressed instead. Well played, sir.

3)      Viva La Vida, Or Death And All His Friends: I sincerely respect their effort to broaden their palate a bit by working with Brian Eno and making Dude Who Plays Guitar buy a distortion pedal to use on one song. This is still an archetypal shitty Coldplay record, but at least it sounds a little different than all of the other archetypal shitty Coldplay records.

4)      Nah. They’re still fucking terrible; they were lucky to get three things.

 There is one additional facet of the group’s career which has fascinated me over these past several years, even though it relates more to bands that are not Coldplay rather than the band that is Coldplay. Earlier I dubbed them the U2 of their generation, and recent events in particular have coalesced to underscore that comparison. See, when Coldplay came out, the tributes to their Irish brethren in choreographed affectation were far from subtle. Chris fucking Martin’s warbling was plainly modeled after fucking Bono’s, Dude Who Plays Guitar served up an endless cycle of repetitive but hooky high-register licks that were striking similar to the distinctive methodology of The Edge, and both bands’ workmanlike rhythm sections held things down with competent yet discreet backing tracks which militantly fulfilled each song’s basic requirements rather than showcasing the musicians’ dexterity. I don’t think anyone ever disputed the collective homage in Coldplay’s dogma, and no one was terribly bothered by it either; at the time there were a lot of people craving a band that sounded just like U2, because U2 didn’t sound like U2 anymore.

When Coldplay’s debut album Parachutes was released in July 2000, fucking Bono and company’s career was on a downward arc after they largely vacated their signature approach to instead craft a couple poorly-received discs dominated by insipid rave-lite tunes that not even the members of U2 listen to anymore. Though they would temporarily rebound later that year with “Beautiful Day”, the last honestly excellent song they would ever record, U2 had left a gap that needed filling. And the most obvious inheritors of their kingdom, Radiohead, had grown tired of anthemic guitar rock; they were hunkered down creating their demanding but exceptional opus Kid A, which sounded nothing like U2, nothing like Radiohead, and indeed nothing like any other music being made on planet Earth. Kid A still had some anthems, still had some guitar, and still had a little rock, but its oblique delivery clearly demonstrated that Radiohead was chasing a far different muse and had little interest in claiming the crown (of course, this would be abundantly clarified in hindsight when they subsequently slid further down their rabbit-hole, gradually abandoning the anthems and guitars and rock altogether, until finally settling upon their current songwriting formula, which seems to mostly involve Thom Yorke masturbating on his laptop, naming ten of his climaxes, and calling it an album).

So while U2 were busy trying to figure out why they weren’t relevant anymore and Radiohead were busy doing whatever the fuck they were doing, the lads in Coldplay stepped up and said, hey, why not us? They seized the ersatz-earnest arena rock mantle with A Rush Of Blood To The Head and never looked back. Now, 17 years and seven multi-platinum albums later, they can ruin the Super Bowl, collaborate with the Chainsmokers, and even make the same kind of lameass dance music that essentially buried U2’s career with impunity. Even more significant, they have come full circle. A group that started out playing second-rate U2 facsimiles under the moniker Pectoralz (this is absolutely true, by the way) is now one of the hugest pop institutions in the universe, beloved by millions of music and wine connoisseurs across the globe. And the student has eclipsed the teacher; U2’s desperate efforts to play catchup have made their modern work sound unmistakably like second-rate Coldplay facsimiles. Chris fucking Martin and those other three guys are no longer pretenders to the throne—they are Coldplay, and this is their empire now, bitches.

These days, U2 has to reprise their old records in their entirety on nostalgia tours to get anyone to come to their concerts, and Radiohead continues to release unlistenable albums which their fans claim to love while sheepishly casting them aside to listen to OK Computer for the thousandth time instead. But Coldplay has strategically situated themselves for an eternity as the undisputed emperors of rock mediocrity. I think they’ve got another two decades in them, too; I have no doubt that long after Twenty-One Pilots is (finally) relegated to the county fair circuit where they belong, Chris fucking Martin will still be promising sold-out crowds that lights will lead them home and having a series of polite, gently-articulated seizures while he sings “Speed Of Sound”.

It seems I respect Coldplay a little more than I suspected. You know what? I’m going to amend my original valuation right here and now. As of this moment, I am formally designating Coldplay the sixth worst band of all time.

Your move, Godsmack.

 May 15, 2019

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

WIP Wednesday, kind of!

for @grandthorkiday this year, I really wanted to finally finish the fic I started for it last year, but that didn’t happen because literally everything is happening at the same time this October and also it’s hard to focus on writing in general right now. but then I thought of this older Sakaar fic that has been vaguely on my “I’m almost positive this is practically done if I would just put some time and effort into finishing it (but it’s also totally possible it’s nowhere near as close to being done as I think it is)” list for ages, and I realized it totally fit the definition for Grandthorki, and I thought maybe I could finish that real quick instead!

...I couldn’t. there’s a lot more to this one that needs to be written than I kind of thought, in part because it’s so old I wrote it before Ragnarok ever came out, so it was based purely on the trailer (and then inspired by some speculation by @theotherodinson, I think), and to finish this fic I would first have to decide if it would be more straightforward to just keep going with my pre-Ragnarok speculation or change the setup a bit to fit the film. also I would have to turn a bunch of bullet points into an actual conversation that would have to...make sense? and, like, establish things? and that’s hard even when my brain isn’t busy constantly screaming.

but! I can post most of what I already wrote, just for fun and because at least this is something Grandthorki-related that I haven’t already posted elsewhere! knowing me this could backfire because then I won’t have as much motivation to try to finish it but on the other hand it’s been sitting at this exact level of unfinishedness for like three years so it’s probably not going to hurt.

warnings: I kind of don’t know what to say here because nothing actually happens but there’s a lot of discussion of rape and graphic violence, so...warnings for that!

[the basic premise/assumption here was that Thor ended up on Sakaar at some point in his search for the Infinity Stones, was forced into the Contest, and gradually gained more of the Grandmaster’s favor and attention because he’s Thor and he’s great at fighting. it’s probably been months at this point, he’s one of the Grandmaster’s champions, and that earns him a reward that he extremely does not want: a few hours with a sex slave, basically.]

The Grandmaster calls them his pets, sentient beings he keeps because they are pretty rather than for their fighting prowess, but the term seems only partially accurate given that it implies both ownership and some level of exclusivity. The latter, at least, seems to apply on a purely arbitrary basis according to the Grandmaster’s whims. There are other appropriate terms, certainly, and Thor has heard plenty from the guards and his fellow warriors. “Pleasure slave” seems to be the most accurate while still remaining within the bounds of marginal politeness.

“Grandmaster must like you special,” the guard says in a confiding tone as they walk. “This one used to be one of his favorite pets, all personal like—didn’t share him much, real picky about what anybody could do with him. Guess the mouthiness lost its shine. Oh yeah, that reminds me—” He digs into his bag and emerges with a handful of metal. “Boy’s really got a mouth on him, so use this when you get tired of it. Or if you wanna make sure he won’t bite; he still hasn’t learned his lesson on that either. Up to you though; walls are soundproof, so whatever you get up to won’t bother nobody else.”

It’s a gag, Thor realizes, reminded with a jolt of the muzzle he fastened on Loki before bringing him back to Asgard, and he cannot afford to think about Loki now. “Thank you,” he says as politely as he can, “but I have no need of…that.”

“You do, trust me,” the guard says. “Only way the boys have found to shut him up and stop him biting. Never met somebody who runs his mouth like that. Dunno why the Grandmaster liked him so long. Oh, and it opens, see—” He twists something at the side of the gag and part of the mouthpiece folds inward. Another twist and the opening widens, and it takes very little creativity to imagine how the mechanism would force the wearer’s jaw wide. “Careful with that, by the way,” the guard adds. “Two turns gets him open, three or four is good, keep going and you can dislocate his jaw—which is fine, fixed that before, it’s just the kind of thing you probably want to know you’re doing, right?”

Thor’s stomach turns over. When he is free of this place, he will come back to help the other slaves. He forces a smile. “I assure you, I do not need such an instrument.”

“You’ll thank me when you change your mind later,” the guard says, shoving the gag into Thor’s hand. Thor gives up and takes it, because if he has learned nothing else in the last few years he has at least learned the importance of picking his battles. “He hasn’t been fed today, either, so no worries he’ll puke on you. Might get him to cooperate if you promise him food after, but that never really works with this one, so, probably a waste of time. All up to you though. Anyway—” He puts a hand over the locking panel and the room’s outer door slides open. “I’ll lock you in, come get you in a few hours. Comms are open in case you need something. And ‘cause we get bored.”

“And if I prefer not to have an audience,” Thor says.

The guard snorts. “You been here this long and you don’t get how things work? In you go.”

Thor sighs and does as he’s bid. The outer door hisses shut behind him and the inner door slides open, revealing a modestly appointed bedchamber. The bed is the largest thing in it, a sturdy-looking wooden construction with prominent bedposts, but Thor’s attention is drawn immediately to the figure kneeling on the floor. He is facing away, though not by choice; his wrists are shackled behind his back and bound to a metal loop in the floor with a short length of chain. Thor has no doubt the positioning is deliberate, just another way of reminding the slave of his powerlessness. His shoulders are rigid, his fingers curled into fists—blue fingers, Thor notes, with black nails, and blue skin at the back of his neck under black hair. Probably Kree, then, which makes it a little odd that he is not being used in the arena, instead of…this.

Thor grimaces and moves to put himself in the slave’s line of sight.

[aaaaand naturally the slave is Loki, miraculously alive after dying in Thor’s arms on Svartalfheim! also he doesn’t recognize Thor at all and in fact remembers nothing prior to waking up half-dead on Svartalfheim and being scooped up by the Grandmaster somehow! this is all very upsetting for Thor! it gets more upsetting when, in the conversation I haven’t written, Loki starts working really hard to goad Thor into a temper and Thor realizes what he’s trying to do!]

“You want the gag,” Thor says finally.

Loki jerks back, his mouth snapping shut. He recovers quickly, his eyes crackling with anger, but he’s not quite fast enough to keep Thor from glimpsing a flash of fear underneath. “What I want is irrelevant. This is about what you want, that is the entire point, and I know your type, dozens of times over. You’re a warrior. You want to win. You want to hear me beg you to stop, to show mercy you delight in withholding. And I am telling you now, you can do anything you like but you will not hear me beg, not for anything. So use the damn gag.”

And with a flash of nauseating clarity Thor gets it, why Loki’s working so hard to goad others into forcibly shutting him up, because it’s the one tiny piece of control he has left. Unbidden, the image forces itself into his mind: Loki, eyes squeezed shut in pain, screaming into the gag and clinging to the very last scraps of his pride with the knowledge that if he breaks and begs for it to stop, no one will know—clinging to those scraps even though his defiance hurts him, because he has been left with nothing else that is still his.

[Thor gets real upset! upset enough to unlock his lightning powers without access to Mjolnir? yep!]

Loki’s red eyes widen, his bravado visibly wavering, and his voice shakes just a little as he says, “Well done, that’s actually a new one.”

“I’m sorry,” Thor says, “this will hurt, but I will be quick,” and he reaches out one crackling hand for the collar.

[Loki’s eyes widen etc. here instead probably] and he cringes away, raw panic breaking through his bravado, but if the guards are not already on their way they will be soon, and there is no time to spend on reassurances Loki will have no reason to believe anyway. Thor steels himself and lunges, seizing the chain at Loki’s wrists with one hand and his collar with the other, and Loki’s body snaps taut as lightning floods into him.

Once, over a century ago, a journey with Sif and the Warriors Three went disastrously wrong, resulting in Thor and Loki stranded alone on Muspelheim, relentlessly pursued by a dozen Fire Giants and unable to get far enough away to safely call on Heimdall. By the time the giants truly cornered them, they’d been running for three days straight without water or sleep, Loki’s magic was nearly depleted from several aborted attempts to hide them and open a pathway between realms, and Thor couldn’t draw down a storm from the painfully dry desert air. With no options remaining to them, Loki convinced Thor to channel the last dregs of Mjolnir’s lightning through Loki himself, in the theory that doing so might amplify what little remained of Loki’s magic and grant him the power needed to escape. It was a mad, desperate gamble that could have easily killed him and nearly did, but it worked, leaving Thor with—among other things—an unsettlingly precise knowledge of how much lightning Loki’s body could take without dying.

He has not thought of that incident in years, but he is glad of it now, especially without Mjolnir to help him control his power.

 When everything clears, Loki is sprawled on his back, staring up at Thor and breathing hard, freed of all his bonds. His expression shifts through pain and fear and shock into confusion and then, finally, a faint glimmer of recognition, and he says hoarsely, “…Thor?”

Thor exhales, relief and battle-lust tangling inside him, and holds out his hand to help Loki up. “Come, brother. It’s time to get out of this place.”

Loki stares at him for a moment longer, his throat working, and then he reaches back and takes Thor’s hand.

[presumenothing]

wherefore // 几生轮回

unfinished nirvana in fire fic for @goodintentionswipfest​

(aka the kimi no na wa au that i posted the first part of in 2018 before being once again reminded that i am physically incapable of plot. sections i-iii are complete, rough outline follows afterwards)

i.

When Jingyan wakes up in another body, his first reaction is to be altogether grateful that he’s spent much more time at the borders and generally out of the capital than your average nobility. The slightest breath of unusually chilly morning air is enough to confirm that this is all the way to the border – of Liang and Da Yu, Jingyan suspects, much further north than even he’s ever gone.

(…well actually his first reaction is a flat startled “what”, right before he’d pinched himself to check if he’s still dreaming, but Jingyan figures anyone would’ve done the same anyway.)

The first bell of morning rings outside, and out of long habit Jingyan swings his feet off the bed and makes to rise before he can entirely realise what a terribly bad idea that is.

At least he manages to catch himself with a hasty hand on the bedframe. He’s even less coordinated than he was right after his growth spurt, when Jingyu-gege had kept a very straight face and not laughed at him at all.

That’s when Jingyan sees it: the ring of a silver bracelet around his ar– well, not his arm, but currently-his arm. Whatever.

He runs a light finger over the cool metal surface, over the deep grooves of an emblem that curls like flames and the shallower etch of a name. Lin Shu, it says.

Jingyan stands, properly this time, and goes to peer out the window, wondering if this Lin Shu can afford to take a day off. Whoever he is.

.

As it turns out, the answer to that is a resounding no, because Lin-Shu-whoever-he-is turns out to be the young marshal of this border army, as Jingyan swiftly finds out as he makes his way to morning drills.

Something he probably should’ve noticed right off, really, given the room he’d woken up in. Not large, certainly not by Jinling’s standards, but the noticeable lack of sharing made it a rare luxury in the barracks.

By the time he arrives at the training grounds, navigating purely on long-honed familiarity with army facilities, Jingyan’s already learnt to answer almost automatically to the many cheerful hails of “Young Marshal!” coming from the general outflow of people from the mess hall – many many more people than he’d been expecting, to be honest.

He doesn’t remember the actual numbers like Prince Qi probably does, but from personal experience Jingyan does know Da Liang’s border armies to be fairly impressive on the whole. Yet he’s never even heard of one this large, save perhaps Duke Mu’s army to the south.

It’s unmistakeably Liang’s colours they’re flying, though, alongside the same fiery emblem engraved on his bracelet, so Jingyan decides not to worry about it too much.

Either way it puts paid to his vague ideas of begging illness and staying firmly on the sidelines, though Jingyan finds to his pleasant surprise that this young marshal has trained some fairly competent lieutenants clearly capable of running the drills themselves.

It’s almost reminiscent of mornings in Jing Manor, honestly.

(And it could be worse, Jingyan thinks. “Young Marshal” is just a title, like “Your Highness” is, and after a whole life of answering to one it’s hardly a suffering to be addressed by the other – almost freeing, actually, even if he has to err on the side of caution by being much more taciturn than usual and hoping that the edge of exhaustion from sheer shock shows just enough to excuse him for it.

All said and done, though, Jingyan rather believes he’s done quite the good job of things.

Certainly better than whoever’s now in Jinling has probably managed, but as long as he hasn’t accidentally offended the Emperor or anything.

…Jingyan can only hope.)

–

ii.

This, as Jingyu-gege often says, is why Jingyan should never, ever jump to conclusions about things.

Admittedly this doesn’t backfire so much as it goes completely off the rails of his expectations, trundling like a particularly enthusiastic horse in the opposite direction.

Nothing terrible awaits when he wakes up back in his room the next morning, and a quick inquiry to Zhanying confirms that he definitely hadn’t entered the palace yesterday.

Jingyan breathes a deep if silent sigh of relief.

(A quick check of the outer walls turns up a scuff mark matching his shoe on the roof, so faint as to suggest that it’d only been left because someone obviously hadn’t entirely adjusted to his new height yet.

Fair enough, Jingyan thinks. He’d have done the same last night if he hadn’t been too tired from the sudden cold to sneak out and explore anywhere.

Maybe next time, he catches himself thinking, and pulls a face, because no, none of that.

That jinxes it right away, of course, as he promptly realises the morning after.

Jingyan stifles a shiver in the wintry sun, even colder now after a day in Jinling’s warmth, and thinks – really, Jingyu-gege would have a field day with this.)

.

Possibly the oddest thing about this, thinks Jingyan on the eighth day he wakes up at the border instead of Jinling, is that neither of them have ever thought to question, even once, whether this is really happening.

Or at least Jingyan hasn’t, and if Lin Shu’s wondered about it he hasn’t mentioned it either, at least not in the increasingly copious notes they’re leaving for each other.

They end up making a routine of things without much discussion about it, even though the setup in each of their rooms almost mirrors the other. Jingyan begins to stock more scrolls of paper and sticks of ink at his desk, keeps their correspondence in a hidden drawer within easy reach of his chair.

But Lin Shu apparently fears the cold as little as his relatively thin wardrobe would suggest, because his stationery inevitably is set up at the low table with only a cushion to sit on – admittedly quite a comfortable one, yes, but still unseasonably chilly for the stone floor.

Either way, what had started out as a simple way to update each other on the day’s events devolves into something else altogether, and Jingyan can even pinpoint the moment it happened: when Lin Shu had added also stop wearing my hair down you’re making me look like an idiot as an afterthought on the third entry, followed by oh and don’t eat hazelnuts squashed into too few inches of space.

Jingyan’s learnt enough of medicine from his mother not to take the second part lightly, but the first almost tempts him into putting a flower in Lin Shu’s hair just because.

But only almost.

Then you stop tying my hair all up like that first, he adds to his next summary, it’s giving me a headache.

The palace would give anyone a headache, he finds written almost musingly in the reply margin.

Jingyan rubs at his temple, and finds that he can’t even argue with that, really. So instead he pulls up a fresh sheet of paper and quickly outlines the basics of court etiquette, because the Emperor’s probably going to end up summoning Jingyan while he literally isn’t himself one of these days, if this is going to continue.

He has a feeling it will.

.

It takes Jingyan a whole month of alternating days to admit, not quite grudgingly, that he is rather impressed by the fact that Lin Shu is already the young marshal of such a large army at this age.

In his defense, he’d rather naturally assumed the worst when he first found out that Lin Shu was the son of the commander himself, but that was before seeing the genuine respect rather than mere tolerance he got from every last man in the army, even those thrice either his or Lin Shu’s age.

(It’s the Chiyan Army, Lin Shu writes back, the very turn of each stroke arrow-sharp with irritation. Chiyan! Army! Will you get it right, it’s not just any army!

And I’m literally a prince, Jingyan snipes back in his most practiced handwriting. Also, if you’re insulting my men…

Hardly. Zhanying deserves a pay raise and a better boss, Lin Shu answers, then adds, pointedly, Your Highness.

Probably just so he could use up the last bit of paper.

Jingyan scowls at that last scrawl before pulling out yet another fresh sheet and dipping his brush in ink.

As if he’s going to let anyone have the last word over him quite so easily.)

–

iii.

“I didn’t know you liked archery, Prince Jing-gege,” says Nihuang one afternoon when they’re resting in his manor’s study after an impressive practice bout. The young duchess Mu had gotten quite formidable enough to attract the rapt attention of the entire training field – or she would have, if Zhanying hadn’t promptly barked at all of them to get back to their drills right then.

(It’d almost tempted Jingyan into asking, really, whether Zhanying had noticed anything different about his fighting style on the days when it’d been Lin Shu instead.

Not that Zhanying necessarily knew anything, per se – but from the subtly helpful way in which his general had volunteered information that Lin Shu’s writings occasionally failed to convey, between the carelessly precise updates and snarky comments in the margins… Jingyan rather thought he did suspect something, at least.

Wei Zheng was the same, up north at the border, which was just as well.

Lin Shu doesn’t know how good he has it, really, that the Jing army has closer to seven hundred men than seventy thousand – all of whom apparently assume that their young marshal will recognise them. Which says something fairly impressive about Lin Shu, of course, but still. How fortunate for him.)

Both their fathers have been closed up in Yangju Hall all day long – all the palace servants had been dismissed, and he’d heard that even Xia Jiang and Xie Yu had been summoned in.

Whatever it is they’re discussing must be important indeed, he knows. It’s hardly unusual, for both the Marquis of Ning and the Xuanjing Bureau’s head officer to meet the Emperor, but Jingyan doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Duke of Yunnan even half as stern as when he’d arrived this time, both his children firmly in tow.

Mu Qing had been unabashedly cheerful as always, and easy enough to handle – Aunt Liyang had been more than happy to help. It wasn’t like two more kids running around the house would trouble her much further, anyway, what with Yan Yujin already practically living there half the time.

But Nihuang had declined her offer politely before asking to see the Jing manor’s grounds, which is how she’d ended up here, hands clasped behind her back as she considers the red bow in pride of place on his weapons rack.

At least the sparring earlier had worn away most of the tension in her features, though Jingyan can still see the trace of it in the graceful stiffness of her posture, and wonders silently if she too feels the same thing he does, the slight wrongness in the air.

He shrugs anyway, trying for relaxed. “I got back into practicing it over the past couple months. It’s quite a bit more enjoyable now that I actually have enough strength to draw the string back fully.”

Which is completely true, even if he’d only had reason to discover it because Lin Shu’s weapon of choice is bow and arrow, as Jingyan had found to his utter surprise.

Nothing like muscle memory when the muscles weren’t even yours to begin with – though he supposes that it’s a fair trade, since Lin Shu’s also had to up his own proficiency with swords and spears to match Jingyan’s.

Neither does he mention that he’d only bought this bow on a whim because it reminded him of the one Lin Shu used. A resemblance that the young marshal had swiftly noticed, from the way he’d filled entire swathes of paper with gleeful gloating, only punctuated by a brief note on how he’d restrung it and adjusted the tension to match.

(Jingyan had kindly reminded Lin Shu about the fact that he’d gone and taken one whole day off to go diving for pearls that time the Jing army had been at Donghai, apparently having completely forgotten that he wouldn’t be able to bring the pearl back with him anyway.

The answering blankness had somehow conveyed a very mulish silence nevertheless.

Jingyan had rolled his eyes before writing if you really want it back I can always ask a courier to bring it over, it’ll just take time to reach the border.

And money, came the reply, or do you think I’ve no idea how much it costs to send something from Jinling? Nah, just keep it and go spend that money on food instead, you’re like a stick.

You’re just jealous because I’m taller, Jingyan does not answer, because he can be the better person here, so instead he writes Tried my mother’s hazelnut pastries yet?)

Nihuang gives him an inscrutably knowing look, even though Jingyan’s plenty sure he hasn’t shown any signs of his thoughts. “Maybe you should teach Qing-er then,” she muses as she comes back down to sit at the table. “The way he’d always playing around, I don’t know if he realised that he’s going to take over Father’s position someda– huh.”

Jingyan glances up from where he’s pouring out another glass of cold water, and finds her attention apparently caught by the documents he’d left out on the desk. “What is it?”

At his nod of permission Nihuang lifts a half-familiar paper from the stack, and there’s a brief moment of alarm when he spots Lin Shu’s handwriting, though it fades when he realises it’s not one of their written conversations.

Luckily Nihuang doesn’t notice either way, too intent on reading. “This naval strategy…” she finally says, “it’s just like the one we received some time ago, when Yunnan was under attack by river.”

Jingyan doesn’t need to feign his surprise. “Really?”

Nihuang nods, smiling faintly. “It saved all of our lives.”

“Oh,” Jingyan answers a little dumbly, his mind spinning. All of this is quite real, obviously, everything has convinced him of that, but for some reason it hadn’t struck him how Lin Shu too existed in this same world as him, more than just another body he sometimes woke up in. Rather slow of him, he thinks wryly, Lin Shu would have a laughing fit if he found out.

The specifics of this paper escape him now – it’d been part of some grand point Lin Shu had been trying to make, he thinks, as if they didn’t both know he was just cribbing the strategy from Nie Duo – but Jingyan doesn’t even need to look at the paper to see that familiar handwriting half his own. “Do you know who sent it?”

Nihuang shakes her head, her expression clouding over. “Father refused to tell me who’d sent it, forbade me from even mentioning it to Qing-er.”

And as if everything’s just been waiting for this last piece to fall into place, Jingyan feels the thing niggling at the edge of his consciousness, just out of realisation.

“Jingyan-gege…” Nihuang says, slow and terribly hesitant, “what do you know about the northern b–”

“Your Highness!” comes Qi Meng’s harried shout from outside, and Jingyan has never been more infuriated with any of his men in his life. “Duke Mu is here, he says the Duchess is to go with him immediately!”

Jingyan looks across the table to find his own frown reflected fiercely back at him.

Nihuang rises, looking suddenly older than she is, and says, quietly, “Be careful, Jingyan-gege. I don’t know what’s going on but I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” Jingyan says honestly, and doesn’t press her for whatever it was she had been about to ask earlier. He stands to see her out. “You be careful, too.”

Nihuang nods firmly, then she turns and is gone.

(Spoke with Nihuang today, Jingyan writes before going to bed that night. I don’t think you’ve met her yet, she’s the daughter of the Duke of Yunnan.

You know, he finds written beneath it the next time he wakes up in his own room, it’s been a whole year and that’s the first I’ve heard you talk about any lady. And don’t say Xia Dong, she’s just terror manifest.

The raised eyebrow is clearly audible, even via text.

Jingyan snorts, grabbing the brush that sits ready and waiting, as always. Nonsense, he starts, then pauses for a moment before adding I think you’d like her.

He’s looking oddly forward to the reply, whatever it is: which one, and don’t say Xia Dong or even well certainly she’ll like me, all the girls do – though the last of that is nonsense, seeing as there aren’t really any more ladies hanging around the border pass than in Jing Manor.

But he never hears from Lin Shu again.)

–

iv.

Jingyan still finds himself in his room when he wakes up the next day.

And the next, and the next after that.

(On the eighteenth morning in a row he remains stubbornly stuck in Jinling’s oppressive warmth Jingyan punches the wall so hard it almost cracks cleanly in half – or maybe that’s just him.

Zhanying hurries up, voice tinged with ill-concealed worry. “Your Highness?” he says tentatively, except the words themselves feel like a shackle now.

Jingyan leans just slightly against the cool smoothness of the wood, and tells himself to breathe.

“Zhanying,” he says, finally, “what do you know about the northern border army?”

It’s the Chiyan Army, not just any old military! echoes Lin Shu’s voice in his head.

“…not much,” hedges Zhanying, and it clearly isn’t a lie but his eyes are also very wide.

The wrongness from before congeals into an ugly mess, settles decidedly in his heart. It’s the only thing he can be sure of not imagining.

Jingyan suddenly feels very tired indeed. “It’s nothing.”)

–

v.

And then he finds out in the worst way possible: far too late, and all at once.

.

.

.

would have been: jingyan finding out the truth about what’s been happening, which is fairly true to kimi no na wa canon except that it’s everything at meiling instead of a meteor extinction event. in jingyan’s present time he finds the lin manor in absolute disrepair, asks questions of his mother that make both of them sad, and eventually forces a bodyswap to save lin shu and the chiyan army by… using the pearl somehow? and how would he stop this single-handedly anyway? never quite managed to figure either part out. though on his side lin xie is shown to also have realised Something was going on with lin shu (like zhanying realised about jingyan) and even if he doesn’t buy the “hey i’m from the future” shtick, he at least would be willing to hear out someone with a good idea of what’s currently happening in the capital, which helps.

anyway there would’ve been one section where we finally get lin shu’s pov which is when he realises what This Bloody Idiot xiao jingyan is trying to do and curses up a blue streak. from there this could’ve had one of two endings:

a HE where jingyan succeeds, lin shu and the chiyan army survives, and they forget but eventually find each other again (after remembering when jingyan sees lin shu doing archery or vice versa).

or a BE where jingyan doesn’t succeed and we end up right back in the canon timeline, dammit guys. optional extra being that changsu remembers for some reason even though jingyan doesn’t… but sometimes, jingyan can’t help thinking that changsu reminds him of someone. a person he’d forgotten? angst ensues. the end.

[killjoy-loveit]

Something You’re Not

A/N: Welcome to Spring Season Stories! This is the 18th of the daily stories in April, so be on the lookout for more! If you’re wondering what the posting schedule is, then search ‘Spring season Stories’ on my blog and the calendar should pop up. I would like to clarify that everything written in this story is complete fiction and isn’t to be taken as a true portrayal of reality. As always, the links for my masterlists will be in the notes, though I have come to find (after months of doing this lmao) that on mobile you have to click my reblog of the post to actually get the links- same applies to desktop. I am just going to add that I am planning on a part 2 of this, just so y’all don’t think I’m 110% out to crush your hearts.

Summary: Not everything is what it seems.

Word Count: 2,832

Genre: Spy AU, Angst, a bit of fluff in the middle

     Light spilled in from the window behind you, easily illuminating the papers sitting out on your desk. Despite being easy to read, you wanted to slam your head against the desk in frustration. How is it okay to send so much paperwork, to analyze and go over, a mere hour from the meeting? Your boss must be out of his mind to think you’d be able to fully comprehend over a hundred pages filled with legal jargon in that short of a time frame. A scream of annoyance built up in your throat as thoughts plagued you to just toss the documents and finally quit. It sucked to be taken advantage of like this, over and over again.

     All because your boss, Mr. Dunne, the eccentric government official he was, knew that you weren’t very good at saying no to more work. This was because you were desperate to prove your value as an employee for your government so that you might be promoted. There was no way in hell you were going to let your political science degree, acquired from one of the most prestigious universities in the nation, go to waste. Putting up with such harsh extremes was your duty as you, unluckily, were hired to assist him with his work, rather than his kinder associate Ms. York. 

     She was the one you were hoping to work for in all honesty. Ms. York was known for her high morals and consideration of the people, not to mention she was one of the youngest government officials in office and a woman at that. There were times you ran into her in the hallways and she always made sure to greet you politely, asking how you were doing, before moving on her way. Everyone spoke highly of her, even the terrible Mr. Dunne, whose approval was difficult to gain. 

     “Enough of dwelling on how Mr. Dunne sucks, these papers aren’t going to analyze themselves,” you muttered quietly.

     Just like that, your mind focused on the task at hand, letting go of the heavy frustration and annoyance weighing on your mind. Words seemed to bleed together as your eyes flew over each page, taking brief seconds to highlight important parts. Little notes were written in the margins if a section didn’t quite make sense, while small stars indicated something that was written well. By the end of the hour, you had managed to go over approximately ninety percent of the papers placed on your desk. Which was an excellent job, if you must say so yourself. 

     At that moment a knock sounded on your office door before opening to reveal Mr. Dunne himself. He stepped in with an air of authority that would make anyone else afraid to question him. His demeanor was always something you had admired, despite his terrible personality, he always carried himself well and demanded respect wherever he went. 

     “Do you have the papers ready?”

     A tight smile graced your lips. “I have almost finished all of them. If I could be admitted into the meeting later I can finish the rest and bring them to you then.”

     “You couldn’t finish such a small task?” His tone dripped with disapproval.

     “Sir, I sincerely apologize. I have only ten more pages left to go over. I can give you what I’ve finished and bring the rest into the meeting later if you allow me to.”

     “Fine. Give me the ones that are finished.”

     The smile you held firmly on your face was starting to feel painful. “Yes sir, of course. Here they are.” You stated politely, lifting the stack of papers and handing them to him.

     Mr. Dunne let out an annoyed huff before turning and excusing himself from your office. Once you were sure he was gone, you dragged your hands down your face in frustration. Letting out a sigh you turned your attention to the remaining ten pages, refocusing in on the work. 

     Each place you went in the store was crowded with those who were doing their grocery shopping after getting off work. Normally you were aware of this rush and you tended to avoid it by shopping early on the weekends, but you hadn’t been able to make it this past weekend. Now you were stuck having to go during the store’s busiest hours, having to squeeze through the throngs of people just to get a few items. There were only a few things left for you to collect before being able to rush home: milk, bread, and cheese. Getting the last two items was no big deal, but as you made your way to the refrigerated section containing milk, it was clear that you might not leave the store with the half-gallon you’d wanted.

     You were about to turn around, giving up on the milk entirely when you saw one left, sitting at the very back of the section. Quickly, you made your way to it, hand outstretched and ready to grasp the handle. But someone beat you to it. With a spin of your heels, you turned to face the person who had taken the half-gallon you were going for. The guy in question seemed to be oblivious that you had even been there, let alone reaching for the same thing as him. A small sound of frustration escaped you at the loss. It appeared you wouldn’t be having coffee this week, not unless you woke up earlier to stop by a cafe on your way to work.

     “Are you okay?” A voice broke through your thoughts of having to endure Mr. Dunne without being properly caffeinated.

     Your eyes locked onto the guy who had just barely managed to swipe the milk from you, all without realizing he’d done so. “Yeah… Yeah, it’s just that was the last of the milk and I need milk for my coffee. I’m now going to have to handle my boss without coffee. Let me just tell you, I have never known someone more frustrating than him!” You complain, hands waving in the air when talking about Mr. Dunne. A second later, after seeing the guy’s bewildered face, embarrassment crept up on you. “Sorry, you probably didn’t need all of that information. Umm, I’ll be on my way now.”

     You had maybe made it a couple of feet before you felt something being placed into your basket. Tilting your head, you spotted the same guy you’d just been conversing with. The milk settled in your basket.

     He gave you a small smile. “I figure you need this more than me, I don’t need it to put up with my boss.”

     “I-Uh… Thank you. No, really, thank you so much!”

     His eyes shone with a gentleness, this paired with the way he nodded at you before turning around had you calling out for him to wait.

     “Yes?”

     “Umm, well… Could I maybe treat you to coffee sometime to thank you?” You asked softly.

     “I’d like that.”

     It wasn’t until a week later that you were both able to meet up for coffee. Chan, you’d learned his name when exchanging contact information, was kept almost as perpetually busy as you were. Everything had started smoothly, a light chatter being upheld as you ordered your drinks and paid. But that chatter has long since faded and you felt awkwardness creeping up on the two of you. You, for one, were staring down at the table, every so often your gaze flickered over to Chan sitting opposite you. Wracking your brain for anything to start up the conversation anew was slightly frustrating. Any way you typically knew how to create a conversation had fled your mind, leaving you alone with frantic thoughts along the lines of ‘how do you converse with someone?’. 

     Finally, the silence was broken by Chan himself. “So, what do you do for work? I remember you mentioning that your boss is pretty difficult.”

     The tension in your body eased off as you were freed from thinking about how to start a conversation. “Yes! He really is hard to put up with. My job is kind of odd, I work for the government but not in one specific area. The man who works over me, my boss, has duties in multiple departments and since I’m his assistant, I also technically work in multiple areas as well.”

     “I’ve never met anyone who works for the government before. What’s it like?” He asks, tilting his head.

     “Well, it’s not easy, that’s for sure. Right now I don’t exactly have high clearance so I deal with all the paperwork and subsequent tasks for my boss. Basically I do the grunt work, make reports and file things to make his job easier.”

     Over the next year, the two of you grow closer. Near constant texting turns into spending practically every spare moment together. You’ve come to find you simply enjoy Chan’s presence, the stress, and tension held in your shoulders because of work lessening when he’s around. It wasn’t uncommon to spy the two of you together at a cafe in the early morning hours, or grabbing takeout before heading to your apartment to watch movies. During this time you learned more about each other than you think you’ve ever learned of someone in only a year.

     If someone asked, you could tell them his favorite elementary school teacher, the way he likes his coffee, his favorite water brand, that he’s a sensitive soul, when he lost his first baby tooth, or how he broke his arm in high school; Not to mention so much more. The same could be said for him, even some of the more embarrassing moments of your life that you had spilled while drunk. Granted you weren’t alone in your ability to embarrass yourself while drunk, you had more than enough ammunition to tease him on the regular. However, you found yourself wishing for more, just a little bit. Your heart swelled at the mere thought of him, and the way your other friends teased you about him always managed to make you blush furiously. 

     It was hard to tell if he felt the same way, even though the few times your other friends had spent with the two of you had convinced them he was most certainly interested in you as well. They managed to hype you up to this point: inviting him over for dinner and telling him how you felt. Just the thought of having to say those words ‘I don’t want to be just friends’, made your heart hammer in your chest. Speaking of, Chan’s due to arrive any time now, meaning it’s time to double-check everything. Chicken bolognese was doled out perfectly on two plates, finished just a few minutes ago, joined by a sweet wine settled in the decanter your sister gifted you over the holidays. 

     Digging your teeth into your lower lip, you wondered if this was too much, or too serious. After all, neither of you had ever had a dinner like this together before. Thankfully a knock at the door put an abrupt dent in your harried mind. 

     “Is this too serious?” You ask after showing him to the small dining area. “It is, how about we just go eat in the living room?”

     Chan laughs quietly. “Whatever would put you at ease.”

     “Living room it is then.”

     Moving the food was no difficult task, and soon enough you were settled on the couch, feet tucked underneath you. With the television on in the background, conversation flowed as per usual. Quick rundowns of your days before moving on to different topics, most of which were based on different articles one of you had read. Just as you finished dinner and were preparing to tell him, you received a text from Mr. Dunne - who was no longer your boss, since you’d gotten promoted a few months prior, but you still worked with him on important proposals - informing you of an emergency related to the new draft you were working on. Apparently an official from the country you were trying to work out an agreement with had sent in new demands.

     After apologizing profusely and being waved off by Chan, who understood the importance of your work, you grabbed your laptop and proceeded to work in the living room. Despite having to work through quite a few new emails relating to the issue, the conversation continued in a relaxed manner. Until all the wine hit your bladder, and you excused yourself to go to the bathroom, setting the laptop on the coffee table and rushing off. You took a bit longer than usual, checking on your appearance, making sure not a hair was out of place. Maybe your cheeks were a tad pink, but it was hard to tell if it was due to the alcohol in your system or if you were preemptively embarrassed.

     Neither option truly mattered it’s not like slightly pink cheeks suddenly made you unattractive. Taking a deep breath, you exited the bathroom, an anxious smile tugging at your lips. Normally Chan could always tell when you were coming back and he would call out to you before you even made it to wherever he was. This time he didn’t. This time, he was leaning forward, eyes glued to the screen of your laptop, fingers tapping away at the keys. A chill went down your spine. What is he doing? Did he need to look something up? Why didn’t he say something if he needed to use your laptop?

     Creeping closer as silently as possible, you peered over his shoulder to see what he was looking at. At that moment you had the urge to throw up. Your stomach gurgled as the food you’d just consumed felt like it was souring in place. Why would he do this? Was he using me this entire time? To get information? How long has he been doing this? Your eyes stung with unshed tears, your lungs felt like they were on fire. You stumbled back, unable to stand behind him any longer, a choked breath alerting him of your presence.

     Chan’s head whipped around, eyes going wide at the sight of you. “I didn’t hear you get back.”

     “What were you doing?” Your voice came out shaky and you could feel your hands trembling at your sides.

     He smiled nervously, his hand going to the back of his neck. “Nothing, I was just looking at the forecast for the week.”

     You head spun. He lied to you. You caught him, he had to know that you saw, and he blatantly lied to you. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me. Why were you looking at my work files? You know those are confidential.”

     He tried to play it off by looking embarrassed by his actions. “I’m sorry, I got curious. You’re always talking about it but you can never get into specifics.”

     “Stop! Stop treating this as if it isn’t a big deal! I invited you over to tell you I’m interested in being more than friends, and you- you… You’re lying to me.” You back away from him, shaking your head, a stray tear sliding down your cheek. 

     “You want to date me?” He asked standing up, lips parted in surprise.

     “Don’t change the topic,” you say harshly. “Tell me what you were doing. Is this the first time you’ve gone onto my laptop and accessed confidential files?”

     It took a minute for him to answer, a minute that felt like an eternity. “It’s not the first time.” Your sob echoed in the room, causing him to move towards you with a distressed look on his face. “Wait, please, you don’t understand —”

     “What is there to understand? You used me! I could get fired because of you!”

     “Please,” Chan begged, stepping forward to grasp your hands in his.

     You ripped your hands from him. “Was anything out of your mouth the truth or was everything a lie? Did you ever consider what would happen to me if it’s discovered I was the one you took information from? You know what, I don’t want your excuses, those are left to real friends. And that’s something you’re not.”

     “Please, just let me explain.” 

     Shaking your head, you point towards the entrance to your apartment. “Get out.”

     “Please,” he breathed, eyes watery as he stared at you. You felt your heart shatter.

     “Leave. Get out. Now.” You set your jaw, looking away from him as more tears slid down your cheeks. “Don’t make me say it again.”

     His footsteps sounded on the wooden floors as he walked away, getting softer with each step he took. Once the sound of the door being opened and shut echoed in the apartment, you felt your legs give out. You didn’t have the strength to get up, remaining on the floor as you felt the world crumble around you. A mess of emotions warred within you: disbelief, rage, betrayal, sadness. What are you meant to do now?