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xxgothchatonxx · 3 years ago

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OKAY NEW MID SEASON, LET’S GO!!! (Apologies for absolutely attacking you today. I don’t know what took over me, but I felt safe in your ask box today)

The Great Red Dragon:

* SEXY. CELL. SEXY. CELL. SEXY. CELL! You aren’t Hannibal Lecter!!! You’re just Some Guy. Who has a really cute scar. Never mind. He will be our main baddie. That’s our dragon, babes.

* And he does yoga in his little A-frame. Go off, dancer. Get in position!

* Not gonna lie, if he wasn’t holding his hand on his back, I would be so relaxed in that position. I love me a good stretch.

* I fucking love this score. We have percussion, we have little clicks. We have some fucking nail now? We’re industrial. We have a tattoo. And some teeth. Not as sharp as I would assume.

* Oh, this is some good shit. This is a fucking thespian. We got some method acting bullshit right here.

* I don’t like the score anymore. I got really loud at the end.

* Damn, all of that before we’ve even hit the credits. That’s how you open!

* John Mulaney voice: “I was a French maid for a period of time. I was treated well in my day. I worked for a variety of sirs. (Please tell me you understand that reference!)

* Altar boy needs some Chapstick

* Hannibal got a haircut! Is this after you’ve escaped from your sexy glass cell?

* We have our sexy glass cell, people! This man is so fucking pretentious, I love him.

* Oh that’s right, we have a time jump.

* Everyone’s fav: Bâtard-Montrachet & tartuffi bianchi!!

* AND ALANAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

* Alana Bloom is a wine bitch now. I have WON.

* “Who.”

* I see that Hannibal has entered the maladaptive daydreaming section of neurodivergency (that can’t be how do you spell it. That looks fake. But it’s also almost 2 AM. Sue me.)

* “A baker’s dozen. Lest we forget Mason Verger –– you’re welcome.” Bastard. BASTARD! THANK YOU, ALANA!!!!!

* That has got to be his worst sketch to date. I am so sorry, Alana.

* She’s so hot. Fuck. And then she sits back down and crosses her leg. She wants me dead!

* It’s OK, baby. Take your time. No need for a self infliction, take your time.

* NOPE NOPE NOPE NO YOWLING PLEASE I DO NOT LIKE THAT!!!!!

* Is this another one of Hannibal‘s monsters that he let go? First that boy that became a wolf. And now there’s a dragon man dripping in black goop.

* Just a little bit of a bloody chocolate.

* WITH FREDICK, YEAH! And the bastard is back to grinning.

* I have to agree with Fredick here. “Colons lose their novelty went overused.”

* And I take it we have a new murderer with adoring fans. “The Tooth Fairy.“ Cute. Ego begets Transformation or some such. Hannibal isn’t happy with his spotlight fading.

* The Tooth Fairy: The Everyman’s American Murderer BITCH LET ME WRITE YOUR SNAPPY BOOK TITLES!!!

* Alana has a fun new gig. Good for her.

* And he is still writing! At least it keeps him busy?

* I question whether or not I agree with Fredericks line. “Everything he writes is always about a problem he does not have.” This is always been something very difficult for me too talk about. Which is why I always like to do the old “write what you know,” because it’s simply easier to put something together off of your own experience. Hannibal however, is so knowledgeable on psychiatry and on the local psycho that lives next-door, so it makes sense for him to be able to constantly have pieces flowing for other people to inspect and the door. But! I feel like it is always better to go to the source.

* Do we have hallucinations?

* How cute, they are saving their own little scraps. Each for ego, no doubt. One for inspiration, one for grand transformation.

* And it seems like he is a fan of our man. Isn’t that nice?

* Oh shit. He’s writing the letter. Do not cut to commercial, you bastards! DAMN IT!

* AHHHHH THE DOGGIES!!!! & Mr. Chocolate Lab himself, Will Graham!

* AND JAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK YESSSSSSSS! I know that it’s never good news, but I just love seeing them together!

* We have a treehouse. And a Molly & Walter.

* And Will never really quit his day job at the FBI, it seems.

* Don’t lie to Molly, Lawrence Fishburne. If you fuck Will up again, we will all come for you. Make no mistake about that!

* I got to admit, I do love the little cottage. It’s adorable. Not so little, but very cute.

* Please tell me it’s a letter? YEEEEEEEEESSS LETS GOOOOOOOO (I mainly excited because I know that this will lead to a Bedelia and Will therapy session. But I also Love that Hannibal is still doing this lovely little hand written letter to his ex.)

* “It’s dark on the other side. And madness is waiting.” UGH I LOOOOOOOOVE THAT!!

* Buffalo? How the hell were they able to triangulate that??

* WHO LEAVES A BABYBEL HALF EATEN??

* Yucky bloody bare feet.

* What are those little shards? Those thin straight lines? It’s really from the shots? We’re getting artistic with our deaths the season.

* And I love how this man just absolutely hates being perceived.

* Oh shit, it’s string! I told you it was weird!

* William, do you want to take some deep breath‘s or do you just wanna leave this place forever? Whatever works for you, babe.

* Holy fuck. We are back at the beginning. With my least favorite noise in the world. Or at least, in the show. Damn pendulum.

* Will seems more scared now. I don’t mean to say that like he’s out of practice, because that is partially it, but when you tried for so long and for so hard to stay away from this past. It’s just so sad. What do you do when you are so good at something that you know is destroying you?

* Are the mirrors his tea cup?

* We have wings! We have red, sharp, wings.

* The forensic scientist! He looks more like an English professor now.

* & Freddie Lounds! Now doubt with her shitty blowout. That’s certainly going to be disappointing.

* And this guy is there too! Absolutely terrible that I don’t know their names, they’re funny, I just don’t care about them.

* I do love the forensic science bits. Always fun for everyone involved.

* Will is back with the gang!

* I mean, we all know he steals teeth so then he can’t be found that way. It’s very fun!

* Remind me to turn the volume down whenever the red dragon is on screen so then I don’t get a headache. Hate this score.

* Why does keep looking at me?

* Holy shit. IS HE MUTE??? He looked over at the dentures and saw them vibrating from whatever. Which would also explain the shushing. I’m going to assume that he has a hearing impediment.

* I like this suspended in space file-of-the-family kind of thing.

* Laurence Fishburne: try your best, buddy. Maybe if you do then you can go back to your simple little life. And leave this one that I have dragged you into. For the third time.

* Holy fuck. We just got a fade to black into a reunion with the ex-boyfriends. There has never been anything more queer-coded than that.

Calling Francis Dolarhyde (I think that name is a spoiler for you... sorry 😂) a "method actor" might be the best thing I have ever heard with regards to this character 😂 (please note for people who are reading this - Nat and I know that Richard Armitage isn't a method actor/wasn't method acting, tis just a joke) But unlike NBC Joker, Francis is an infinitely more sympathetic villain. Still disturbing as hell because, well, it's Hannibal, but you know.

Now we have come to one of my favourite personas of Mads Mikkelsen as Hannibal Lecter - the quantifiably bitchy incarcerated Hannibal the Cannibal. Good god, we get some high quality sass from this lad, I promise you that.

And yes, Alana as a wine-drinking girlboss is everything

From a storytelling standpoint, I love that we've kind of gone back to the start with Jack bringing Will in and fucking up his stability. But what I love about this version of the Red Dragon story (cos this is the third time it's been adapted) is that the show seems to be more blatantly side-eying Jack for doing this to Will. They even call him (and Alana) out on it, which I love.

Also I do love that the show finishes with the Red Dragon story, cos this was the first book Thomas Harris wrote in the Hannibal series... I'm still pissed off it got cancelled after this season but oh well 😂

But yes, MURDER HUSBAND REUNION NEXT!!!

#myst is me #hannibal #Myst and Nat presents Hanni & Friends

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itsclydebitches · 3 years ago

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I got witcher!Ciri too! I kind wonder wha would happen if she died tho, dont wanna put geralt or her through that but I love angst lmfaoo. The game got really confusing at point cause I you have to learn a bunch of politics and how this world works and I didnt pay that much attention so I'm sure I'll get those moments in my second playthrough too I'm playing something in the hearts of stone thnig, it was lower level so I'm assuming you should play that first? a main quest with the asshole ghost in the wedding and wow I fucking hate it, it's so umcomfortable to watch geralt be this gross n weird lol, I'm not too familar when Shani either so watching her get mad when I get geralt to say he wouldnt do what the ghost is doing is so annoying lol, OH AND the ghost is a creepy fuck! shani babe you can do much much better than an asshole who talks about his dick and fucking "maidens" every other sentence!! Geralt really does get thrown into so much shit huh I'm tempted to read the books cause I do rly like the world and most- some characters but yeah reading about yen being yen wold be one of the things to stop me, what are some of the plot points that put you off? if you don't mind sharing And yeah I'd so be up for more content esp with ciri, would be cool to see them work together, even with how combat works in this game with npcs lmao

Woo witcher Ciri ending! :D If you enjoy putting yourself through pain I recommend looking up that other ending on YouTube because there are definitely some nice angst shots in the cut scenes. I watched and then promptly went, “I don’t need to play that for myself” lol. But yeah, hard agree on things getting confusing, especially towards the end. I completely missed stuff like the fact that my actions would actually impact this war, rather than the war simply being backdrop, or that Ciri’s powers were more than just the ability to teleport short distances. So by the time I was getting called on to murder kings and Avallach was taking us to totally different worlds, I had a very John Mulaney approach of, “This might as well happen. Things are already so goddamn weird.” Which, you know, really isn't the game's fault. It's what I get for jumping into the third game first and while I don't regret that at all, the story has absolutely deserved a second playthrough where I actually understand all the basic stuff I should have known going in.

Yeah, Hearts of Stone comes first. You can do any of the side quests you’d like from either DLC, but I’d recommend keeping Blood & Wine’s main storyline for the final push. But yeah, that ghost dude is, uh… something. I quite like the wedding on the whole—I really enjoy Shani, dancing is fun, O’Dimm is being a wonderfully evil dude—but yeah, dead dude is definitely a creep. Which is partly one of the things that turned me off from the books. It has the same ‘Guy trying to write women’ energy of the games but… worse. I’ve read a lot of excerpts over the years and so many of them turn me off. There are a ton of small things, like Triss importantly informing the witchers (who are all like 100+ years old??) about periods and that Ciri can’t train today because of hers (a moment that much of the fandom celebrates as... progressive?), or Triss and Yen getting super catty with one another over Geralt, to much bigger things like Ciri nearly getting raped/being involved in intimate acts with really questionable consent. A lot of the Witcher has a “This didn’t age well” vibe to it which, to be fair, isn’t entirely the fault of the author. The story is the product of 90’s Polish culture and, again, a man trying to write some pretty complex subjects from an arguably ignorant place, which makes much of the work eye-rolling for me at best, outright uncomfortable at worst. (Which I think is why I enjoy the games far more. I have agency in this questionable world, the ability to tailor it somewhat to my own beliefs and desires, which makes moments when that's taken away, like Geralt automatically commenting on how good Yen looks at a funeral, all the more frustrating). I obviously am not a Geralt/Yen fan, which sours a great deal of the plot. From what I got through the pacing felt like a slog and, more importantly, much seems to have been lost in the translation from Polish to English. (I continually hear about how amazing the dialogue is, but sadly that hasn’t come across in translation for me. Much of it is... awkward.) The parts I’ve heard about/read excerpts of that I’m most interested in—Geralt’s hanza—ends tragically and I’m… just not here for that right now. Which isn’t to say it’s badly written or anything, just that it’s not my personal cup of tea, especially nowadays with a pandemic and what all going on lol. I look at what I know of the series as a whole and go, “Do I really want to read five books filled with outdated representation for women, that old-school fantasy violence that turned me off GoT, with a super depressing ending, all wrapped up in an iffy translation and a style I don’t think does well in long-form storytelling? … Not really.”

Still loved most of the short stories and I’ve heard that many people liked the audio book versions when they couldn't get into the text, so I might give that a go someday. I’d prefer to actually have read all the source material for a fandom I’m spending so much time in, but I sadly just haven't had the urge yet. If you do read them, anon, you’ll have to tell me what you think. It’s becoming quite the divisive topic, especially as Netflix fans turn to the books, and—putting aside that everyone’s tastes will always differ—it’s interesting to hear not just whether someone had fallen in love with the books or not, but if they haven’t what about them prevented that. It's very much a case of one person's "That was awful" being another's "Are you kidding me? That's the best part!"

#witcher #mymetas

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poppy5991 · 1 year ago

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Endeavor: You can tell me about your time with the commission, Hawks. I promise I won’t be shocked.

Hawks: Ok, well. As you process and digest how obnoxious, wasteful, and unlikable this story is just remember…

Hawks: …this is the one I was willing to tell you.

#todays source: John mulaney #mha memes #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha incorrect quotes #mha #endhawks #hawks #endeavor #endeavor x hawks

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emjee · 4 years ago

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The Glorious Queer Potential of Viola and Orsino in Twelfth Night

for Shakespeare Appreciation Week - Day Three - Lovers Day

This is a long-promised essay/ramble and I’m chucking it under Lover’s Day because it mostly concerns Viola and Orsino. I suppose an alternate title for it could be Orsino: He’s as Queer as the Rest of Them.

Before we begin, brief caveat: queerness exists in many forms and means many things to many people. This is my reading as one (1) singular queer person. Also, as you will have noticed if you read this far, I’m using the word queer. Not only is it an academically accepted term and one of my personal identifiers, it is in many cases the best descriptor for people and relationships in a play written in a time where gender and sexuality were constructed differently than they are today. Am I going to use the word “bisexual” when I talk about Orsino? Probably. But overall, the play’s just queer, in terms of gender, sexual attraction, and social relationships.

Let’s start with Viola (another heads up, I’m going to refer to her mostly as Viola because that’s how she seems to think about herself, and I’m going to use she/her pronouns). I believe @shredsandpatches recently made an argument that Viola can be read as a trans woman, which is an argument I love—she’s clearly uncomfortable with her masculine disguise (“Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, / Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. / How easy is it for the proper-false / In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!”) but she also passes as a man marvelously well. Like, people make a few comments about her higher voice, but nobody actually seems to suspect that she’s a woman until she’s finally in the same place as Sebastian and everyone goes “twins?!” Viola being a trans woman would also make the whole “she and Sebastian are literally identical” thing much more plausible, although one should never let “biological technicalities” get in the way of a good twin plot. I think there are also arguments to be made for playing Viola as a gender nonconforming cis woman who thinks, “It’ll be safer if I just pass as a man”, or with some other relationship to genderqueerness. (And by the way, when I say “arguments to be made”, sometimes that can mean the argument is “I, a queer person, feel like playing Viola this way.” Sometimes you just gotta do it for the queer joy, you know?)

So, Orsino. The two most memorable Orsinos I’ve seen have been Nicholas Bishop in the 2017 RSC production and Oliver Chris in the 2017 National Theatre production (truly we were blessed with Twelfth Nights in 2017). The RSC production chose to look at Orsino and immediately go, “This is not a Straight Man” which was valid of them—from the get-go, you understand why Orsino might go for a person who’s got some excellent gender-fuckery going on. In the NT production, Orsino is much more of a jock and, to my interpretation, definitely Thinks He’s Straight, which is fun because you get to see his heterosexuality crumble before his very eyes. (The moment where Viola reveals herself as a woman and Orsino lets out a long “oh thank God” breath can read a little too close to “no homo” for my liking, but Oliver Chris is good at making even asshole characters weirdly endearing, so I will let it pass.)

With both of these productions, you also have to consider the era they’re set in: the RSC is in the Victorian era, the NT in the 1970s (I think. I’m pretty sure it’s the 70s. Could be the 60s?) In the RSC, one could infer that Orsino’s commitment to getting Olivia to love him stems from the homophobia of the society he’s living in. Would he love to be able to just get with men? Sure. But the odds of him getting away with that for his entire life are low. The show’s design really makes this production Shakespeare-by-way-of-Wilde: the sets, the costumes (especially Antonio, who’s literally wearing a green carnation in his lapel). By evoking Wilde and his persecution, the production reminds the viewer that plenty of the people in this play—Antonio, Olivia, Viola, Orsino—can’t show the outside world their true queer selves, however much they might want to be.

Now, the NT production’s version of Orsino reads to me very much like someone going through a bisexual awakening. Source: I have undergone a bisexual awakening and I took one look at Orsino in this production and went *John Mulaney voice* “Oh, okay.” To me, Oliver Chris’s Orsino is going through the motions of compulsive heterosexuality. By all accounts, he should be in love with Olivia. It makes sense to him. He knows all the motions to go through. He’s talked himself into loving her because that’s what you do when you feel you need to be visibly in love with a woman and she’s the most suitable person around.

But once Orsino meets Viola, he seems to immediately adore her, in his own bro way, for herself. This isn’t what he’s used to attraction being like, he doesn’t immediately recognize it because Cesario is a guy, sometimes guys are just friends with other guys and do a lot of homoerotic boxing practice (still not over it) and it’s just dudes being bros and chilling on a table at your fortieth birthday part five feet apart because you’re not gay (spoiler: you’re actually really gay, and by gay I mean pick your favorite flavor of polysexual queerness).

Orsino continues to refer to Viola as Cesario up until the end of the play, mostly because Viola is still wearing men’s clothes. In early modern England, clothes were a huge part of gender expression. Cross-dressing was against the law (I’m 99% sure, someone please correct me on this if I’m wrong; it’s been several years since I discussed queer early modern stuff in a formal setting). Orsino referring to Viola as Cesario even when he knows she’s a woman is one of those things that has a reasonable historic explanation, but can also be read nowadays as: he likes it. Orsino’s into genderqueerness, and good on him. Genderqueerness is attractive as hell.

I know we sometimes lament the end of Twelfth Night along the lines of “But Will! Tell us what the original super-gay ending was!!” I totally understand why people want to see Olivia and Viola wind up together (Olivia—another raging queer who I didn’t even get to in this ramble—does seem to be truly in love with Viola and it’s hard to leave her disappointed at the end of the play), and I think we’re all heartbroken for Antonio (he just loves Sebastian so MUCH). However, I want to point out that men and women can still have queer romantic relationships with each other. A love story between Viola as a straight trans woman and Orsino as a bisexual cis man is still a queer love story.

Happy Lovers Day, my loves! Have a fabulously queer day.

#theplaysthething2020 #twelfth night #shakespeare #viola x orsino #harry-leroy #mg says stuff #queer ramblings

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the-unwrittenwriter · 4 years ago

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Hello!! How about 85 and 92 for the OC asks for any character? Hope you’re well :)

Thanks a bunch for asking! School's been a bit of a chore, but I'm doing alright-- hope you've been doing well too!!

Imma answer these ones for Cayden, cuz I've got character development on the brain and that might just be today's source of procrastination.

85. Do they believe in ghosts?

I think Cayden definitely grew up with ghost stories; he definitely believed in them a lot more as a kid than he does now though. He's definitely the sort to say he doesn't believe in ghosts but jump at the slightest sound.

92. Describe them as a John Mulaney gif

I’ve been waiting for an excuse to do this!! Cayden, in a nutshell:

(I spent more time looking for a gif than I’d like to admit but shhhhh)

Send me some OC asks!

#the accidental sidekick #ch: cayden tarrayo #oc asks

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dashielldeveron · 4 years ago

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Viper VIII: Inter Vivos

*author slaps bumper sticker across ass that reads I BREAK FOR QUARANTINE*

Summary: You have a thought that only Steve Urkel and black-out drunks can have: did I do that?

Warnings: swears, the law. Murder/death. Stupid internet comments.

Show (3719) Comments on “There is Nothing New Under the Sun, But You Are New in Your Conglomeration.”

skellingtonbabey: thanks for putting all of the *gestures vaguely* into historical context. no one’s ever bothered to explain this shit to me, especially in such simple and thorough language. it’s like every other resource i try to learn from is stylistically designed to make me more confused.

readyplayer69: Just because it’s from the 60s and is racist doesn’t mean that it doesn’t have intrinsic value based on the goal towards which it was working. You’re a fucking lunatic. I have a degree in political science, so I know what the fuck I’m about. Though some of the protests may have excluded the minorities you’re talking about, it doesn’t mean that they weren’t ultimately working towards good fucking policies for everyone involved. It’s not like they were doing anything important then anyway; white people had to be the mouthpiece for…Read More

volcanolesbian: bro have u seen the incels freaking out over this???? it got linked in their cursed forum and they SO BADLY wanted u 2 hate women now. like you can regress from being a feminist once you’ve woken up. they’re giving u shit bc you called out the racist terrorists who were active in their community lmao. i can post screenshots if u want. But bruv it’s like they haven’t read anything you’ve written before lol

mozARTsexandviolins: I get when you say that ingenuity spawns ideals for the greater good, but don’t you think tradition has its place? How do we know if the new can spawn the greater good? How do we judge ourselves? Who watches the watchers?

simpleplan2eatthedirt: cool cool nice nice. protesting is awesome, but be sure to get out there to fucking VOTE, people!!! Here’s a link to register to vote.

EaterJohn: Hello. It is nice to hear from you again, Epiales. Always a treat. Very insightful commentary on modern and past protests. I didn’t know about all of the revolutions in Europe 1848. I’ve send this to my co, and it’s already sparked a good conversation about who we are as a protesting people as we stand in history. Again, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering when the next article in your “Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times” series was going to be released? It’s my…Read More

horneyvulcanbasterd: @mozARTsexandviolins Is that a Star Trek reference? Bc if so the answer’s Starfleet Command lol

MrsKatsukiBakagou: epiales. you have watered my crops and harvested my fields. thank you for the food.

mightiestavengereatmyass: eat shit and die, commie scum. your just a hired propagandaist for the fucking alt-left, aren’t you? You have no right to be running your collum in a real newspaper or on this fucking website. sending u anthrax in the mail would be too cool a death for you. I hope your so-called terrorist groupsfind out where you live and fucking murder you in the middle of the night. fukcs like you are the reason the country is going to shit the police have a total constitutional right int aht jurisdiction to enter. They had a no knock…Read More

fuckyouit’sjanuary: @readyplayer69 [image attached] [image description: blonde woman with caption reading, “I can tolerate racism, but I draw the line at looting the local target]

saltnpepa!!diner707: Hi. I’m trying to cite this piece in an essay, but your publisher isn’t listed on your website. Would you suggest using the NYT as the source in my bib? If it helps, this is due new week; idk if this will run in the NYT by then. Thanks

“I’m sending someone on a grocery run this morning,” said Tom, thumbs tapping away on his phone, “Do you need anything? Want anything?”

You glanced up from your laptop, closing it as much as you could without the light dimming. “I think I’m good, unless you used the last of the shredded cheese at some point.”

“Shredded…cheese,” he said under his breath, typing, “You mentioned capri-suns the other day.”

“Yeah, but I can tolerate the nasty, new flavour. No rush. Here’s a wild idea,” you said, and you waited until he looked up from his phone, a couple of ungelled curls falling over his forehead. “What if—now, don’t dismiss me as crazy; hear me out—what if we went to the store ourselves?”

“Again, no.” Tom grasping his coffee by the round of the mug, despite there being a perfectly functional handle. “Stop pressing me for it.”

“I’m not asking to go to a damn Broadway play. I’m asking to go to the closest 7-11,” you said, jiggling your leg and then making a conscious decision to stop fidgeting, instead scooting your chair closer under the table so that the arms slid underneath.

Tom hummed, his eyes not leaving his phone screen, but when you didn’t continue, he raised an eyebrow as he scowled at you. “Broadway is shut down because of the bomb threat.”

“Fuck off; you know what I meant.”

“Viper,” said Tom, and he locked his phone to set it on his napkin. “Do you want to get assassinated?”

“The term assassination implies I’m getting murdered for political reasons instead of the copious other crimes you’ve had me commit. So, I invite it.” Put your hands on the table where he can see them; it makes you seem more trustworthy. “Does 7-11 have an open carry policy?”

“If it’s any consolation, the renovated office should be waiting for you when you return.”

“It’s not.” You lifted your mug to your lips. “Working from here only makes me feel like a damn bureaucrat. Like I have no stake in the matter. I don’t want to become detached from everything; I might make a callous decision and send people where they can’t come back.”

“Keep watching yourself. If you stay on guard,” said Tom, running his middle finger around the rim of his mug, “then you won’t stray from me.”

“I’m useless here.”

“Then maybe you should become accustomed to the idea of being useless.”

Swallowing, you stared down into your tea. “There’s only so much I can get done through answering emails. Not to mention I hate answering emails. That’s how you get more emails.”

“Harrison has been telling me that your schematics have been more thorough since you’ve been holed up in here.” Tom tipped his mug all the way back to get the last of his coffee. “You’re still being just as productive, if not more methodical.”

“Did you mean obsessive? I have—I’ve had too much time to think. I’d rather not be alone with my thoughts, if I can help it.”

***

You could only read so much before losing your mind. You could only deal with so many of the same exact problems over and over again for lower level soldiers. You could only chart so many stars. You could only read so much fanfiction (if your identity thief were tracking your phone, he’d probably be baffled as to why you kept reading fic for fandoms you weren’t even a part of due to the desire for new ideas).

You could only give Glory Pham so many excuses as to why you’re not with her in person at the Museum of Natural History.

Sucking in through your teeth, you hovered your fingers above the keyboard.

Dear Ms. Pham,

Glad to hear John Mulaney’s signed on. Next step would be to ensure de Blasio doesn’t directly interact with him, given their history. Perhaps I should proof his set beforehand?

Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that I cannot attend the briefing in person yet again. I am currently indisposed, seeing as I am currently in hiding at my hot boss’s house, due to how dead I might be should I leave it (thus the basis of its appeal). Not to mention that if you criticise my blazer choices again, I shall peel the skin off your perfectly made-up face. Get fucked; getting your eyeliner tattooed on was a hell of a decision.

You shook your head, backspaced the last few lines, and stretched towards the wicker end table to grab your glass of pink lemonade, and you stole a glance at Tom’s work as you did so. A couple of files spread across his white wicker lounger (two blue files [socials of the family], two green [recent bids], a yellow [Manhattan locations], and a brown [requests from politicians, upper East side]). The pink sticky-notes had your and his written exchanges and edits on certain papers, and his laptop was open, the screen dimmed, while he copied something into a notebook with his cell phone held between his shoulder and his ear, just listening to the computerised voice.

He had joined you on the back porch to work remotely, claiming he couldn’t go into the city today due to the absence of news on Zendaya—if any information arose, he’d said he wanted your diagnosis immediately.

You wiped your forehead with your sleeve as a sweat drop slinked behind Tom’s ear. Even Tessa wouldn’t run in the heat; she’d curled up by the porch railing, her tail slapping against her water bowl. In an experiment to see if she wanted to spend some time outside, you’d slid the glass door open for Trout, to which she turned around to retreat to the bedroom.

Not all of the clothes you’d ordered had arrived yet, so you were stuck wearing autumnal clothes with long sleeves. To exacerbate matters, you were constantly moving—jiggling your leg, tapping your fingers—you couldn’t sit still for very long anymore; you had taken to pacing the porch when you couldn’t concentrate on the stars.

(Once, Tom had come out at night to check on you, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and sitting in silence with you. He’d made you go to bed after a while, claiming you’d run yourself into the ground if you kept this restlessness up.)

When your phone beeped, the both of you jolted at the sound. Tom hung up on the robotic voice as you scrambled to your phone, and he bent your way. “Is it Zendaya?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shook your head. “No. Looks like it’s a jailbreak.”

Tom sighed, his shoulders heaving as he eased back in his seat. “Where from?”

“I don’t even care,” you said, letting your phone fall to your lap. You slumped back in your chair, shielding your eyes from the sun with your arm. But you straightened yourself again and checked. “From Central. They don’t even know who’s all escaped yet.”

“It’d be too much of a gift if New York City would fucking relax for five minutes.”

“It seems like it’s in more uproar than usual lately,” you said, sipping through the reusable straw of your pink lemonade. “Do you suppose it’s our fault?”

Tom took a moment to pluck his damp t-shirt away from his chest. “I don’t think we’re instigating. If anything, we’re simply reacting to chaos.” He stood up and stretched, raising his arms above his head—his biceps strained at the sleeves, and the hem rose above his v-lines. “Unless you’re doing something I don’t know about.”

Ah, casual suspicion. “You’ve caught me,” you said as he approached Tessa and crouched next to her, “I’ve been running a koi smuggling gig on the side.”

“Why koi?” He held out his hand for Tessa to sniff, and she readily accepted his hand for pats. “Are they hard to get?”

“I don’t know,” you said, shrugging, “but I’ve been wondering if they’d be able to survive in your grist mill pond. You look through that water straight to the bottom, nothing living in your way. Just rocks and old equipment.”

Tom sat against the porch railing with a jittery Tessa partially in his lap. ��Should we get some?”

“Oh, fuck off, Tom,” you said, grinning, a sweat drop falling onto your mousepad as you shook your head, “You can’t entertain every little pipedream I have.”

“Watch me. What do you want for Christmas?”

You ducked your head, biting your lip. “Promise me something.”

“Provided it’s not my head on a stake, I will,” he said, scratching Tessa behind her ears and cringing a bit when she stretched to lick his face.

“Then we’re going in person to the pre-opening fundraising gala for the Gawain Diamond.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Viper.”

“Bitch, I got John Mulaney to sign on to do the opening monologue, and he’s probably gonna roast de Blasio again. I’m not missing that.”

Your phone blared an alert again, and both of you held your breath as you unlocked it.

“Got a list of prisoners who escaped. Small group. Delores, Larson, Duncan, Mays, Selvin,” you said, “There’s more, but I don’t know them. Tell us something important, by God. Anyway, we’re going. I didn’t say I was going alone, did I? You’ll be there. I’ll be safe, and you’ll be safe.”

His jaw shifting to the side, Tom stilled his hand on Tessa’s back, and then he lifted it to flick sweat off his neck. “How many of us maximum can you get in?”

“It’s a fundraiser for idiotic rich people; if there are too many people without a name, they’ll be noticed.”

“It can’t be just us.”

“Why? Afraid you can’t protect me on your own?”

“Now, don’t start that.” Tom herded Tessa off his lap and onto her outside bed. “I’m not falling for it.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fully aware you’re capable of ripping me in half,” you said, draining your pink lemonade, the airy suction coming through your straw (almost loud enough that you couldn’t hear Tom’s sputtering over it—almost—and his phone beeping). “Want me to get that?”

“Bring it here,” he said, and you snatched it while he sat on the railing, dangling his legs off the side.

“It’s,” you said, eyebrows shooting to your hairline as you read the little notification, “It’s a tweet from Zendaya.” You tossed it to him to unlock and leant on the railing next to him, arm grazing his thigh with a heightened awareness of how close you were to his sweaty, sweaty abdomen. No! No time to thirst. Friend time.

Tom unlocked his phone and held it at your eye level, turning it horizontally as he pulled up the tweet.

ZENDAYA (@ZendayaMedias): Felt cute. Might delete later.

[video]

Tom pulled up the clip, waiting for it to load. “Why didn’t she post it to instagram, then?”

“The finer details of social media are an enigma. Do I look like I know,” you said, and his thumb hovered over the play button.

He cranked the volume up before pressing play, having to try twice due to how slippery his fingers were. “I wonder if Haz has seen this yet.”

A vertical shot of a murky, grey sky from the bow of a boat and dark ocean as far as the camera can see. It pans across the starboard side, and this boat is the only one in sight.

Only the sound of waves striking the boat.

The camera tilts down. Zendaya’s writhing on the deck, furiously straining against rope bonds that line up the entirety of her arms and up her calves; she’s yelling furiously at the person behind the camera through duct tape.

Scuffed, black boots roll Z to the starboard gunwale. She’s still fighting, still shouting.

The camera trucks to the right; before, the pair of cinderblocks attached to her feet were concealed. It returns to her face. A glove grabs part of her hair to show the weights tied into it. She bucks up to headbutt the camera; he avoids it.

Tom clenched his free hand on his thigh. “We’re running another scan for that black-stubble bell jackass from her instagram; did we have any fucking leads at all? What’s his fucking motivation? So he slept with her, allegedly; did she say no to a second time? Doesn’t fucking merit—”

The boot kicks the cinderblocks off the boat, and the camera tilts down to follow the trail of bubbles.

It’s quiet.

But then the camera pans to portside, where the guy in the picture with Zendaya is similarly tied up, but he’s openly weeping and shaking his head. He’s got something drawn on his forehead in black marker. The cameraman steps closer to focus on it: it’s a circle with an upward curve resting on top of it.

He’s still wearing the bell necklace.

Then the cameraman backs away and raises a gloved hand, in which a gun is aimed at the other’s forehead.

The bullet goes through the circle, and the bell rattles as he’s kicked off. Fewer bubbles.

Then the camera tilts up to show off the boat’s surroundings: a black and barren ocean, as far as the eye can see.

When the video started to loop, Tom switched his screen off, his phone hanging loosely in his grip. You released of his thigh once you noticed you’d grabbed onto him, and the evidence of your touch faded as the fabric relaxed.

His eyes glossed over at the blank screen, and his mouth opened before closing again, running his tongue over his lower lip. Tom brought a fist to his mouth and furrowed his brow, his hand hardly concealing the growing tremble of his jaw.

You took a step away from him, rubbing your arms as you ducked your head. “I’m going back inside,” you said, hoping Trout felt like being clutched to your chest, “I’m cold.”

***

The next morning, your mouth felt heavy and dry. You sneaked out as the sun was rising to go hide in the woods surrounding Tom’s house, but you talked yourself out of it. He would make too much of a fuss if he couldn’t find you—but you could delay the inevitable conversation even further. Both of you had separated and kept to yourselves the rest of the evening. Kept quiet.

So you rounded the outside of the house. You’re not camping out in a fucking copse. When you reached the pond, you scanned it for a dry place to hide, but nothing really held any appeal, save for the rounded platform where the mill wheel used to spin, its spoke notches overflowing with moss. You managed to get to it after scrambling alongside the stones for a few minutes, and though it didn’t look like you could get down the same way, you settled against the wall, scraping some moss out of the notches so that your feet could rest more comfortably in them.

(Dr. Prine called ten minutes after you sent her the email. “Did you send me the correct article?”

“Yeah,” you said, rubbing your face wash onto your cheeks, “Considering it’s the only one I have ready, and I can’t bring myself to write anything. I tried. I just fucking can’t.”

“I don’t think you want this published at this point in your life.”

“I don’t fucking care. Whoever’s using my pen name probably knows who the fuck I am in general. Just publish it.”

“Honey,” said Dr. Prine, her voice softening (and fumbling, like she was holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder), “You should probably rethink this. It’s going to connect Epiales you back to Viper you. Get some sleep; eat breakfast. Call me back then.”

“It’s an appropriate article for the political climate.”

“Not for your personal life.”

“I don’t fucking care,” you said between splashing water on your face, “I don’t. It’s a good fucking article, and hopefully, it can affect people for the upcoming election. Fuck self-preservation. Send it to the Times already.”

“Did I dial the wrong number?”

“Hilarious, Dr. Prine. I know it’s not the smartest thing for me to do, but I can’t—absolutely can’t—write anything. I don’t know for how long, but for now, at least.” You blotted your face dry. “I’ve got to meet standard deadlines if I’m keeping my column. It’s really only dangerous if Tom reads it and makes the connection, and his brain is offline right now.”

And so Aeneid Autopsies: Current Crimes Reflected in Ancient Times, chapter twelve, “The Political Tradition as Mob Rule,” would be published on Saturday. It’s a little too in the know about the mafia, but hey, you had written it on a whim a month ago, and you were known for your extensive research, anyway. It most likely shouldn’t be too different from your other exposés, though they weren’t on topics that were deliberately misleading the public by what information was out there.

The more you thought about it, it was almost like you wanted to reveal yourself, wanted to get stabbed while you were sleeping, because there’s an overwhelming question rolling around in your brain like a mis-weighted shooter marble: is this—)

“It’s not your fault.”

With crossed arms, Tom leant against the stone wall, his leg bent back for his bare foot to rest flat against it. He glanced sideways at you, sitting on your mill wheel perch almost halfway across the pond, but closer to the far side than to him.

He’s got major bedhead, his curls just fucking flopping about out of his part, and even from where you are, his face burned red amidst wet tracks trailing down it. Still, thank God for little mercies—his biceps were fucking straining the sleeves of his white t-shirt, and those idiotic, blessed grey sweatpants were low on his hips.

You lifted your head from your knees but still clutched them to your chest. “You’re not going out, then?”

“Of course not,” Tom said, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Can’t be crying during a meeting, yeah?”

“Been boxing?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Not really.”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip and sighed, and then he slid his hands into his pockets, his eyes glossing over while he watched the moss you’d picked off float in the pond.

You’re not going to fucking cry. Tom came out here for a reason. He has a purpose. All you have to do is wait.

Eventually, he said, “You’re avoiding what I said.”

You tilted your head.

“Listen, I know you’re beating yourself up about it. It’s not your fault this happened. None of this is your fault. Hey.” Tom tapped the wall, the travelling reverberations making you look up at him. “Whoever’s doing this is doing it of their own volition and not because of you. You hold no culpability for this.”

“Bruh,” you said, “One of your best friends is dead, and you’re comforting me? I thought I was the masochist.”

Tom scowled, his brow furrowing. “Viper—”

“I can’t interact with someone without putting them in danger, at a disturbingly high rate. You want me to enumerate where I’ve stuck my nose in not my business and people have gotten killed? Senator Hernandez, Isadora,” you began, holding up two fingers, “The nine men guarding Isadora, Maccabruno, Polson—”

“Don’t you dare do that to yourself.” Tom took a step forward, his foot almost curving into the pond. “You didn’t use the knife. You didn’t pull any triggers.”

“Yeah, but I sent them there. And a good many of them went because it was their job.” You sneered and propped your chin on your knees again.

“And it’s part of your job—”

“Yeah, whatever. Your friend is dead, and I have no home. I’ve stopped contacting the few people in my circle on the chance that they get dragged into this—Grace, Adrien—he’s the lights specialist guy, in case you don’t remember—I’ve got to email Glory, but that can’t be helped. And Dr. Prine only—fuck,” you said, dragging your hands down your face. “I don’t want anything to fucking happen to Dr. Prine. Or your family, for that matter.”

“Everyone not involved in the business is currently in hiding upstate,” said Tom, eyes narrowed as he glared at you. “If you like, I can ensure the same—”

“Stop acting so damn calm, Tom.” You let your legs dangle off the platform, hands clenching the edges. “I don’t have any strings left to pull. And fucking hell, I know that it would be extremely and absurdly conceited of me to believe that this series of crimes is aimed specifically at me, because how deluded, how arrogant could I get—but goddammit, this stuff feels a little too personalised. It feels like this person knows me.”

Tom clicked his tongue. “Don’t you think it’s worth something that Glory Pham has been left alone? He knows how to get into Crosscreek, yet Glory hasn’t been touched. Is that not worthwhile?”

Your eyes watered, but you ducked your head so that he couldn’t see—but you released a dry sob (Fuck! Now is not the time for crying! Now is the time for being badass! Frown, or something!).

Tom spoke so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “Do you want to leave?”

God, no. But it would make you feel like less of a burden. “Let me find an apartment first.”

“No, not like that. Hey, V. Look at me,” he said, and he tapped on the wall again.

You wouldn’t. Not like this. Not when your nose was running and when you didn’t have a plan.

“Please look at me, Viper.”

Glowering, you raised your head, lifting your chin higher than normal to seem confident, and oh, God—his eyes were wide and gentle; he’s leaning as far as he can over the pond, still unable to reach you.

“What I meant was if you wanted to leave the mob.”

It rang through your head like a distant cathedral bell, chiming through a deserted town—but then you were farther, out on the mountains, still listening to faint clanging.

“You’d have to kill me,” you said, shaking your head, “Don’t you remember?”

“Fuck,” Tom was saying, sucking in through his teeth, and after glancing at the water, he started jogging around the pond.

“I swore. I bled. And then even after that—then you knighted me.” You inhaled sharply when he reached the stones you’d climbed. “I’ve let you down.”

“Viper, get the fuck down from there and come here,” he said, and he withdrew, winching, when he stepped on a sharp edge.

“We shouldn’t have met,” you said, looking over your shoulder at him, and Tom froze, his hand partially gripping a hole in the stone wall. “I shouldn’t have taken the job. I should have gone to a different city. I should have—”

“Wasted your life away in the shadows? Just shut up and get down here.”

“Ah! The fuck?” You swatted his hand away when it grazed the platform, and when he climbed up another step, you pushed yourself off the platform and into the pond.

The first thing that struck you was how quiet everything was once the bubbles dissipated, and then you noticed how clear the water was, even from within it—glancing down, you could easily see your feet treading water above the broken grist mill wheels that had sunken to the bottom.

Before you could take it in to feel the emptiness in your chest, bubbles filled your vision again—and then his hands were grappling for you, grasping at your clothes, and pulling you towards the surface.

“I wasn’t fucking drowning,” you said, sliding a hand back through your hair, while Tom shook his head to flick off excess water. “I was fine without—”

“I know you weren’t.” Tom gripped your waist tightly enough to be painful, and he slid his other hand up between your shoulder blades. “I know. You wouldn’t die on me, and I’m not letting anyone else lay their hands on you. C’mon, arms around.”

He guided your arms around his waist, and once you had a good grip (hands sliding up his back), he kicked off to swim to the stone wall, backing you into it. Your toes skimmed the bottom of the pond, but Tom kept your head above the water, his thumbs circling your hipbones through your wet clothes.

Tom closed his eyes, his eyelashes heavy with water droplets. “There’s no solution to this where you die, got it?”

“Shucks.”

“I mean it. Talk to me. Tell me what you can.” Tom let out a breath slowly, and he bent to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “Please,” he said once you tensed up, his breath hot through your wet shirt, “Won’t you let me in?”

(Fuck fuck fuck fuck his chest is flush against yours; he’s so warm, so damn warm all over, and the water’s chill only makes you want to cling to him more, fuck.)

“You won’t like me,” you said, tentatively lifting a hand to curl your fingers into his hair, pulling slightly, “I’m not whom I’ve presented to you. I don’t have it under control.”

“I don’t expect you to.” Tom turned his head towards you; his lips almost grazed your neck (you relish their warmth anyway). “You wouldn’t be human, otherwise.”

“I don’t know an awful lot. Some days it seems like all I do is guesswork.” You grimaced but kept the slim distance from Tom’s mouth. If he wanted to, he would. “I’m lost completely on whoever the fake Epiales is. I keep looking for a pattern in everything, even—even so far back as to—”

You stuttered. Tom had pressed his lips to the base of your neck.

“There’s no consistency,” he said, nuzzling his nose against the spot where your neck met shoulder, “but there’s got to be a larger plan. I get it. The whole case is like a hydra, and we’re chopping blindly at the heads.”

(Oh, my God, he kissed you? He kiss the neck? He?)

“Oh! I forgot to tell you.” Tom pulled away to look you in the eye, and your mouth hung open of its own accord—come back! “I made myself watch the video again.” His jaw shifted. “To see if I missed anything, and I did. This time, I recognised the symbol on the guy’s forehead.” Tom lightly traced it onto your forehead with his middle finger. “It’s a zodiac symbol. It’s the one for Taurus.”

You nodded, still not really thinking at full capacity. “Great. Another piece of evidence that I won’t be able to make fucking sense of. Goddammit. I’m so useless. Goddammit,” you said, dropping your hand from his hair into the water with a splash. “Tom, I don’t talk to my mother much anymore. She doesn’t know where or who I am, and to be honest, I don’t know who I am, either. I don’t know where the truth is.”

You nearly slapped him when you cupped his cheek, like you were desperate, like you had to be touching him, skin on skin, that instant. It’d be nice if he would close his eyes and lean into your touch, maybe kiss your palm, but Tom simply stared at you in shock, eyes wide, brows raised, mouth pinched.

Don’t tell him, you whore. You built this fucking kingdom with its walls and bastions so that you would be safe when the outer defences crumbled. You’ve set aside parts of yourself into neat little boxes so that you can throw any of them away at any time and escaped unscathed. Don’t you fucking dare screw that up. Tom doesn’t know about Epiales so that you can expose and destroy him if you’re on his chopping block; it’s insurance for when everything falls.

Bitch, since when do you want to be honest and raw and vulnerable around anyone?

You can’t let him in.

“You’re still a woman of honour,” Tom said, and—oh, God, oh, fuck—he’s easing his hands down your body, his chest pressed against yours again, and he’s sliding them down your thighs to hook underneath your knees, and he’s hitched you up against the wall, the definition of his muscles real and palpable through the wet clothes, warm, warm, warm—

“I should apologise,” you said, turning your head to the side while he steered your legs around his waist, “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“You can’t?” Tom shifted you upwards, and that’s it; your heat is directly against him; you can feel every pull and tensing of his tendons, and if he keeps moving the way he is, then you’ll—

“I’m so sorry for making this about me when Z was closer to you. We shouldn’t waste time on me; we need to be searching, arranging a funeral if we can’t find anything.” You scrunched your eyes shut.

“You’re deflecting.” Tom let out a shuddery sigh. “I’ve lost too many people. Don’t make me lose you when you’re right in front of me,” he said, and he pressed his lips right below your ear.

You flinched away on impulse but tried to relax into him, blinking profusely.

Tom pushed against you (not localised enough to qualify as a thrust), and he cleared his throat before pulling away from your neck. “Listen, please. Please.” He shifted your weight to one hand and gripped your chin with his freed one. His eyes flickered to your mouth before he moved to rest his hand on your cheek. “You’re invaluable. Irreplaceable. You are no burden and are not at fault.” He clenched his jaw. “But I know you’re keeping something from me, and I will make the answer fall from your lips soon.”

Your own chin was shaking, and he was too close. If you put aside separate-self-as-insurance for a moment, let’s consider Tom did find out about Epiales. Would he control you through it? Would he use you to influence those he couldn’t reach? Would he grab hold of Dr. Prine? He might squeeze your life and time through his fist, and your freedom would be gone. Epiales was your freedom, your space to create and connect.

He was too close.

“You’ve got to promise not to hate me,” you said, and when he raised an eyebrow, you made your decision to lean in.

“No,” he said, and—and your lips met his cheek.

He’d turned his head.

After all that, he’s going to turn his head?

“No,” he said again, taking your chin again and leading you away, back to leaning against the stone wall, “I don’t want our first kiss connected to the memory of mourning. I can wait a bit longer.”

Tom released your legs, letting them sink. “You once told me that if you let yourself be vulnerable, you didn’t want an audience. I think,” he said, frowning, “I think you still see me as an outsider. As a member of that audience. And again, you said that you didn’t want it if it weren’t real.” He stepped away from you entirely, and he started wading towards the edge of the pond. “I’m going to hold you to the same standard. I’ll wait until you’re ready to be real with me.”

Tom slinked out of the pond, flicking away what excess water he could, and he squinted into the sun on the horizon. He shook his head, water flying, and he glanced back at you and scoffed. “Easy, sweetheart. No need to wear your heart on your sleeve now.”

His voice trailed off as he rounded the corner towards the door.

The sun is rising, and you feel rather cold.

***

inter vivos: between the living

***

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