#the inherent intimacy of using my name….i am known…..:)

[devilofthepit]

nyx screamo era!!!?!? what bands👀

OMGGG thank u for asking hehehe <333 it started bc @destroyingangela and i wanna play music together and he sent me songs he plays on bass so i could learn them on guitar and there was a bunch of selfish machines era pierce the veil which got me back into them and other stuff i listened to in my emo phase like fall out boy lol BUT then i started listening to stuff from that era that i wasn’t that into during my emo phase like the used, thursday, hawthorne heights, circa survive, saosin, and chiodos :3 idk if any of that counts as screamo or if it’s more post hardcore but i looooove it!! if u have any more recs send them my way <333 music just doesn’t sound this way anymore….

most of it was stolen from this playlist by an insta mutual:

[mononijikayu]

devil by the window ― ryomen sukuna.

Leaning forward, Sukuna inhales the pungent scent of nicotine, his movements purposeful as he presses his lips fervently against my neck. The convergence of sensations, the heady rush of adrenaline, and the intimacy of our connection weave a tapestry of emotions that transcends the ordinary. In his embrace, I find myself caught in the nexus of exhilaration and danger, an exploration of desires that redefine the boundaries of the known.

Genre: Serial Killer AU, No Curse AU;

Warning/s: Depiction of Death, Depiction of Crime, Sadist Behaviour, Mentions of Graphic Violence, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Alcohol, Sex and Drugs, Depiction of Smoking, Explicit Depiction of Harm, Toxic Relationship, Forceful Touch, Use of Pet Names;

masterlist

listen: devil by the window by txt

IT'S INTERESTING HOW LIFE IS A PUZZLE TO ME. Navigating life without curiosity is a challenge. But like all challenges, it can go in its highs and lows and it can lead me intrigued and it can leave me bored. In this small town, its often a wonder, how long I would last without the excitement of digging through mystery itself.

It's an inherent trait in human nature to explore the mysterious, to grapple with the vastness that life presents, often laying before us enigmatic puzzles that defy simple understanding. My mother observed that my inclination towards the peculiar mirrored that of my father, a man who found solace in the allure of unconventional discoveries.

He, like a nomad of intrigue, perpetually sought out the mysteries that captivated him more than the comforts of family, unraveling the secrets hidden beneath foreign grounds. My mother's words, though not intended as a slight, carried a stark truth – I am undeniably my father's child, a descendent of a wanderer who pursued the unknown.

In essence, I am akin to my father's devil's spawn, a title that, surprisingly, never bore the weight of condemnation. Instead, it acknowledged the relentless curiosity that fueled our existence. This inclination to question, to explore, is, after all, an integral part of the human experience.

My affinity for deciphering the intricacies of those around me often led to accusations of rudeness. People, uncomfortable with the depths I probed, felt exploited. Yet, what if life's truths aren't laid out for everyone to see? What if our existence requires a discerning eye to uncover the subtle nuances that elude the ordinary observer?

During childhood, I found adults to be intriguing subjects for my curiosity. However, as the years advanced, their lives often seemed to follow predictable patterns, culminating in the pursuit of common desires – money, fame, and success. The initial spark of curiosity waned as conversations veered toward the mundane.

Yearning for more profound engagements, I sought discussions layered with challenge and mystery. I craved the stimulation of the unknown, a desire to crack the intricate codes that define the human experience. Life, to me, held the promise of better conversations, a tapestry of intrigue waiting to be woven with the threads of challenge and mystery.

I wanted to be stimulated.

To feel alive.

Soon enough, I gave up trying to find that.

I felt like the tie had come to accept my boring fate.

Until Ryomen Sukuna came along.

He had been new in town, and had just arrived a month or two ago. 

He stood there in the window from my view.

He had a demon's shadow, from where I stood.

He was a devil by the window.

I first met him in that class, we were both in the same track for college and so met often in classes. But we never interacted. He was fairly quiet, never talking unless he had been spoken to. He often comes to the professors to insist on working alone on projects which require partners. I don’t think I’ve even seen him in the get-togethers that are spread around the campus map. 

No one knows who he was, where he came from — what he liked and did not like. What he does in his spare time, how he lives. He doesn’t even talk about his family. He didn’t seem to like interacting with any one either. The small town did not pique his interest, and the life within it either. He mostly kept to himself.

He immediately piqued my interest.

I liked what he looked like —  not that I really had a type. But I concluded that he was rather pretty. From the way his hands moved against the push of gravity, to the way his lips quivered into small grins as he found things intriguing him from afar. The color of light pink shrouded his head, it almost reminded me of light pink sunsets.  His eyes were pale red as though burning hot flames in the morning glow. 

His features were untouchable, almost like those ancient marble statues - perfect in their wonder. Everything about him seems fit to worship. It was as though he was their most favorite creation, shrouded by such precious anointment from the powerful above. The beauty of all life was etched into him the moment he was born. Yet somehow, he could not care anymore about such a thing. He did not seem to care for the gods, nor for their gifts. 

He would rather not be glorious or live valiantly.

He would rather be the echoes of flames and chaos.

Ryomen Sukuna was not built for that sort of life.

Looking at it now, I was the only one who saw it first hand.

Because I was just like him.

I can never take being bored.

I finally interacted with him months later — at some fraternity party that I didn’t bother remembering about until it was too late. 

I wondered if it was worth it to even leave.

I yawned, rolling my eyes as I stood up.

I decided to go, last minute.

All I remember was seeing him standing there at the large mahogany doors, eyes like hawks awaiting its prey. Arms crossed, his fists pressed tightly against the hard leather of his jacket. I couldn’t stop staring at him at that boring gathering. When I arrived, I didn’t even want to be here. But he’s here.

That was all I needed to fill through this uneventful night.

The music roared through the speakers. The music wasn't all that good, not even if people tried to excite themselves into it along with the alcohol.  But everyone danced like it was their last, oddly moving through the beat without an inch of propriety. They were beasts, but they were innocent ones through mindlessness. Lights soon went through different shades of moving spotlights, like a circus plowing through with an illusion - hiding the nakedness of this farce.

I lost sight of him that moment. 

So I went to look.

I walked through the crowd of drunken bodies, reeking of disgusting alcohol and sweat. The loud screaming of some piercing my ears, loud enough that perhaps my own ears could possibly bleed. I looked left and right, and upwards to the steps of spiral stairs and towards the opened doors of people walking and passing. 

In the end I could not find him. 

And soon enough, I wished to go home.

I pushed myself through with all of my beings, raging against bodies that were coupled together in embraces. In mindless and sporadic movements that one could not even consider dance. Through the smell of alcohol, sex, and even drugs. 

But by chance, my curiosity to find the way out had led me to him.

The room, once a canvas of ordinary existence, had transformed into a theater of macabre artistry. The oppressive metallic scent of blood mingled with the dampness of the cold air, assaulting my senses as I stepped into the scene. The thumps, once rhythmic in their brutality, now echoed as haunting whispers against the walls, a testament to the violence that had unfolded.

His figure, bathed in the dim light that filtered through the blinds, stood as a chilling silhouette against the canvas of crimson. The air itself seemed to recoil from the horror that clung to every corner, every crevice. I approached cautiously, my steps muffled by the gravity of the moment.

His hands, stained with the visceral truth of the act, cradled the remnants of a life extinguished. He stood above his victim, as though a beast that had devoured its prey. That  person no longer breathed, that was much too obvious. Instead, they lay there in a sea of scarlet pooling from the broken dam of flesh and bone. The bright scarlet dripped through his fingers like a morose symphony, each drop a note in the tragic ballad of the departed. The macabre beauty of the scene held me captive, a voyeur to the secrets unveiled in this clandestine theater. 

The weight of the unspoken truth hung in the air, the room itself a witness to the transgression that had occurred within its confines. As my eyes traced the contours of the tableau, I couldn't help but feel an electric pulse in the stillness, a palpable connection to the enigma that stood before me.

In that moment, curiosity eclipsed fear, and an unspoken understanding passed between us—the observer and the architect of this grim masterpiece. The boundaries of the known had been shattered, and I found myself standing on the precipice of a journey into the shadows, guided by the hands that bore the honesty of the crime.

Then there was silence.

I wasn’t afraid of what I should see.

He stood there, smacking the blood away.

As though what he had done did not matter.

Sukuna's cold demeanor remained unchanged, his eyes locking onto mine as I reveled in the macabre scene before us. The rhythmic pulsating of music and distant screams provided an eerie backdrop to our twisted encounter.

"You saw," he repeated, the weight of his admission hanging in the air.

"What?" I replied, the sounds of chaos outside still piercing through me, rendering me frozen.

"I killed him," he declared plainly.

"I can see that," I finally blinked, snapping back to reality, and took a step closer to him. Without hesitation, I closed the door behind me, shutting out the muffled sounds of the party.

“Who are you?”

I told him my name, I furrowed my brows. “Why do you need to know my name?”

“I’ve seen you around town, but I have never met you.”

“That’s to be expected when you don’t talk to anyone.”

His eyes furrowed at my lack of fear. "You don't seem scared."

A rumble of laughter escaped my chest. "No, no—not at all."

"Most people become scared when they see things like these," he remarked, gesturing to the gruesome scene.

"So?" I shrugged nonchalantly.

"You were frozen for a bit."

"Because I've never seen this before," I smirked, regaining my composure. "And it's a wonderful surprise!"

Sukuna raised a brow at my unconventional reaction. "A wonderful surprise?"

"You finally gave me something interesting," I declared, walking over to him. I paid no mind to the blood staining the floor or the potential mess it was making of my clothes. I let my lips linger near his ear, whispering, "I like that."

His gaze remained intense, but a subtle change in his expression hinted at a fraction of intrigue. We stood together in the aftermath of his gruesome creation, surrounded by the echoes of distant revelry.

"What are you?" I asked, genuinely curious, my eyes locked onto his.

He remained silent for a moment before responding, "A curse."

The revelation sent a shiver down my spine, but instead of fear, I found a strange fascination. "A curse, huh?" I mused, stepping back to survey the carnage. "Well, I've always been drawn to the mysterious and cursed. Beyond that meets the eye in being cursed, after all."

Sukuna's gaze followed me, his stoic exterior beginning to crack under the weight of my unorthodox reactions. The air between us thickened with an unspoken understanding.

"Let's clean up," he suggested, a hint of resignation in his voice.

I nodded, unfazed by the prospect of disposing of the gruesome evidence. As we worked together to erase the traces of his dark artistry, a peculiar camaraderie blossomed—a connection forged in blood, both literal and metaphorical.

Little did I know that my encounter with Ryomen Sukuna would unravel mysteries far beyond the confines of that room, setting the stage for a relationship defined by curiosity, darkness, and the allure of the unknown.

As we meticulously cleaned the room, the atmosphere shifted between us. The silence was broken by the occasional clinks of cleaning supplies and the distant muffled echoes of the ongoing party. The allure of the unknown bound us together, forging an unspoken connection that went beyond the gruesome tableau we were erasing.

Finally breaking the silence, Sukuna spoke, his voice low and measured. "Why are you not afraid of me?  Of what I did?"

I looked up from wiping the blood-stained floor, meeting his intense gaze. "Fear is a natural response, but it's not the only one. Sometimes, fascination outweighs fear."

He seemed to ponder my words, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not like most people."

"Is that a problem?" I retorted, a playful smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

He didn't respond immediately, focusing on his task. The rhythmic swaying of the mop seemed almost meditative, a stark contrast to the chaos we had witnessed.

Eventually, he spoke again. "People usually fear curses. They avoid them."

"I've always found that the things people avoid are often the most intriguing," I replied, tossing a blood-soaked cloth into a trash bag.

He glanced at me, an unreadable expression in his eyes. "You're drawn to darkness."

"Maybe I am," I admitted, not flinching from his piercing gaze. "But darkness doesn't have to be feared. It can just be intriguing, don’t you think?”

A rare hint of a smile ghosted across Sukuna's face, a subtle acknowledgment of our shared perspective on the unconventional. The dichotomy of our personalities—his stoic nature and my unyielding curiosity—created an unexpected harmony in that dimly lit room.

As we continued our cleanup, an unspoken agreement settled between us. The mysteries that unfolded that night became the foundation for a unique connection, a bond woven from the threads of the unknown.

Hours later, the room bore no trace of the grim tableau that had unfolded within its walls. We stood side by side, surveying the transformed space. The air felt charged with an energy that surpassed mere curiosity; it hinted at the unexplored depths of our entwined destinies.

Sukuna broke the silence, his voice carrying a rare warmth. "You're different."

"And you're not?" I countered, a playful glint in my eyes.

He snickers back at me. "Perhaps."

The party outside continued its raucous celebration, but in that moment, a quieter understanding passed between us. These people are unaware what just happened, how much of that scarlet red faded and thinned against the water that flowed down the drain, carrying away the remnants of the gruesome tableau we had encountered. The distant music from the party seeped through the walls, a stark contrast to the solemnity that lingered in the air. 

“Do you do this often?” I asked him, leaning against one of the walls. 

He raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

“What we just did.” 

"Perhaps," Sukuna repeated, his gaze distant as if contemplating the intricacies of his own existence.

The darkness outside the room felt like a tangible presence, a silent witness to the enigmatic connection that had taken root between us. I couldn't help but wonder how our lives had become entangled in a web of mysteries, a dance between curiosity and the unseen forces that lurked in the shadows.

As we stepped out into the corridor, the echoes of the party became more pronounced. The laughter and music, now accompanied by the rhythmic footsteps of carefree dancers, seemed worlds apart from the reality we had just left behind.

Sukuna led the way through the maze of dimly lit hallways, each step echoing with the weight of our shared secrets. The air felt charged, not just with the residue of the past, but with an anticipation of the unknown that awaited us.

We emerged into the chaotic sea of the party, where vibrant lights and pulsating music masked the underlying currents of darkness. The revelers, lost in their own world of celebration, were oblivious to the transformative journey Sukuna and I had undergone.

Our eyes met, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. The unspoken understanding lingered, transcending the noise and fervor of the party. As if guided by an unseen force, we moved through the crowd, navigating the maze of bodies with a shared purpose.

Outside, beneath the open sky, a quiet courtyard beckoned. The cool night air offered a respite from the suffocating atmosphere within. We found an isolated bench, away from the prying eyes and the ceaseless revelry.

The night had become a tapestry woven with threads of darkness and curiosity. Sukuna and I, two individuals drawn together by the inexplicable, sat in that secluded corner—our destinies entwined, our fates sealed by the mysteries that lingered in the spaces between us.

Sukuna's gaze held a silent intensity as he finally broke the silence. "There's more to this world than meets the eye. What you've witnessed is just the surface."

A shiver ran down my spine, a mixture of excitement and trepidation. "I want to know more."

He nodded, a tacit agreement passing between us. "Then prepare yourself. The path you've chosen is not for the faint of heart."

“You say that as though I haven’t known that before.” I said to him, grinning at him as I took out a pack of cigarettes from my pockets and put one against my lips. 

“You’re mad.”

A huff of smoke releases from my lips. “Just like you?”

He laughs. “Almost, little pet.”

I raised my brow, intrigued. “Coming up with nicknames for me now, are you?”

I feel the intensity of Sukuna's gaze, a potent mixture of desire and dominance. The air thickens with a primal energy, and my heart quickens its pace as his hands assert their control. The harshness of his touch is electrifying, a paradox of both brutality and a strange tenderness.

He leans in, his breath mingling with mine, and the scent of danger envelops us. The dim moonlight accentuates the predatory gleam in his eyes, mirroring my own defiance. A silent understanding passes between us—a dance between two individuals drawn to the forbidden.

"You're not like the others," he murmurs, his voice a low, guttural growl that resonates through the night.

I meet his gaze unflinchingly, the echo of laughter from the distant party forming a dissonant backdrop to our clandestine encounter. "Why would I want to be?"

Sukuna's lips curl into a predatory smile, and the air crackles with a tension that defies conventional boundaries. He tilts my head back with a force that simultaneously demands submission and challenges my resilience. It's a paradoxical dance of power, a tug-of-war between the allure of surrender and the thrill of resistance.

"You court danger," he observes, his thumb brushing against my jawline.

"Maybe danger courts me," I respond, my voice laced with a provocative edge.

He chuckles, the sound a dark symphony that resonates with the undercurrents of the supernatural. Sukuna's grip tightens, a silent promise that he is both the predator and the prey in this mysterious exchange.

As the night unfolds around us, shadows flicker across Sukuna's face, revealing glimpses of the enigmatic figure that exists beyond the boundaries of the known. The moonlight casts an ethereal glow on his features, heightening the surreal atmosphere of our clandestine meeting.

"What are you seeking?" Sukuna questions, his gaze probing the depths of my soul.

"I seek the unknown, mysteries that defy explanation," I reply, a defiant spark in my eyes. “I do not want to be bored.”

As Sukuna's lips hover dangerously close to mine, a surge of exhilaration courses through my veins, electrifying every nerve in my body. The air crackles with anticipation, and I find myself standing at the precipice of an unknown abyss. The thrill is not just a fleeting emotion; it's a visceral acknowledgment, a recognition of the uncharted path that lies ahead.

In the dimly lit courtyard, shadows dance around us, reflecting the enigmatic dance unfolding between two individuals drawn together by a magnetic force that defies rational explanation. Sukuna's predatory gaze, intensified by the moonlight, holds a promise of both danger and an unspoken connection—an invitation to venture into realms untouched by the ordinary.

My response is not born out of recklessness but stems from a deep-seated desire to explore the mysteries that lie beyond the boundaries of the mundane. The challenge Sukuna presents is met with unwavering determination, a resolve to confront the unknown with open eyes and a fearless heart.

In that charged moment, the unspoken agreement between us solidifies. It's a pact forged in the crucible of darkness and desire, where the line between fear and fascination blurs. The mysteries that beckon us are not merely external; they echo within the recesses of our souls, intertwining destinies in a tapestry woven from threads of uncertainty.

As Sukuna's thumb continued to brush against my jawline, I couldn’t help but release a moan as the smoke poured out like toxic air. His touch is both commanding and intimate, almost sensual, almost a manifestation of wonder.

It's a tactile manifestation of the uncharted terrain we are about to explore together—a journey into the depths of the supernatural where danger and allure coalesce. Finally, the beast in front of me had found someone to play with.

"The unknown can be treacherous terrain. Are you prepared to navigate its thorns, little pet?"

An electrifying thrill surges through my veins, a visceral recognition of the unexplored journey awaiting us. Sukuna's challenge is met with resolute determination on my part, a commitment to venture into realms unknown.

In this moment, I experience a vitality I've never felt before, a vivid aliveness ignited by his touch and the revelations of this night. It's as if we both share a fervor for existence, a mutual excitement for the unpredictable.

Leaning forward, Sukuna inhales the pungent scent of nicotine, his movements purposeful as he presses his lips fervently against my neck. The convergence of sensations, the heady rush of adrenaline, and the intimacy of our connection weave a tapestry of emotions that transcends the ordinary.

In his embrace, I find myself caught in the nexus of exhilaration and danger, an exploration of desires that redefine the boundaries of the known.

"I'm ready for whatever comes my way," I declare, sealing our unspoken pact beneath the watchful eyes of the moonlit night. I leap on my tip toes, near his ear and whispered. “Let me thread the excitement with you, master.”

Sukuna's dark eyes bore into mine, an inscrutable intensity that sent shivers down my spine. In the dim glow of the moon, a wicked smile curved his lips, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between us. The night held a promise of unknown pleasures, and I had willingly stepped into its embrace. His fingers traced a delicate line along my jaw, a gesture that felt both possessive and seductive.

"You're playing with fire," he murmured, his voice a low growl that reverberated through the quiet courtyard.

A mischievous grin played on my lips as I met his gaze head-on. "Fire is just another form of excitement, isn't it?"

Sukuna's laughter rumbled, a deep and resonant sound that seemed to echo the secrets of the night. "You're more intriguing than I anticipated."

The wide expanse of the secluded area seemed to transform under the gentle glow of the moon, casting an ethereal aura upon the space between them. Shadows danced and intertwined, weaving a tapestry of mystery and desire. In this clandestine playground, Sukuna's touch became a force of both command and electricity, igniting dormant desires that had lingered in the recesses of my curiosity.

As we delved deeper into the unknown, the night revealed its hidden secrets with a conspiratorial whisper. I willingly surrendered to the intoxicating dance with darkness, embracing the enigma that was Sukuna. The moon, a silent witness, bathed us in its luminescence, casting a celestial glow upon the connection forged in the crucible of curiosity and the allure of the uncharted.

The odyssey of what we could do together had only just commenced, and in that moment, beneath the celestial canopy, I found myself enthralled by the devil's seductive caress.

It was a descent into uncharted realms, orchestrated by the enigmatic presence of Sukuna. Standing on the precipice, I eagerly embraced a thrilling odyssey that vowed to reshape the boundaries between the familiar and the unexplored, lured by the temptations of the diabolical. 

I once saw the devil by the window.

And here I was, taking his hand in my own.

I smiled, the bright red of devil’s eyes glistening.

Ryomen Sukuna returned it, almost monstrously.

There was no going back when the devil has touched.

[theserpentsadvocate]

On Names

So I try to post (work of some kind) on my days off + stats, and it's BC Day, but I didn't quite manage to crank out a chapter of Satisfaction in time (I did write 5K today, though - I cannot wait until I can quit my second job and write fanfic on the weekend), so here is a rant/meta I did about my pet peeves on names in fic, and how this applies to Veronica Mars specifically. (I started with a wide net, but the main focus ended up there because of course it did.)

Fanfiction peeve of the day –

Please, I am begging you, pay attention to names in canon! It’s so glaring when people get it wrong, but it’s so common and I don’t understand!

If two characters have any kind of important relationship in canon and we see them interact more than once or twice, we know what they call each other. Do not deviate from that to be cute, or to emphasize a character’s accent. (Cordelia’s nickname is Cordy. Doyle calls her Cordy. He also calls her Cordelia. He should not be calling her ‘Delia’ just because he’s Irish.) Do not randomly switch a character’s nickname to a different nickname for no reason, or so that their love interest is calling them something special! (Shortened nicknames are not a thing in Middle-earth unless you are a hobbit. Unless you feel qualified enough with Sindarin (usually) name construction to have someone give their friend or spouse an epessë like ‘Tinúviel���, that person should be using their full name. Yes, even if it’s three syllables. Spare me from this ‘Fara’ nonsense – Eowyn would call him ‘Faramir’. Yes, always.) Do not assign a character who doesn’t use nicknames a nickname they never use in canon just because you can’t imagine intimacy coexisting with a long name, or a standard one! (Hermione goes by Hermione. She takes pains to get Viktor Krum to say her full name, even if she tolerates a bit of mispronunciation. She is not ever called Mione.) If someone threw out a one-off joke nickname for someone, for the love of Dante, do not start using it as a regular form of address!

And for the love of god, pay attention to the context in which people use nicknames! I am running across this willy-nilly in the Veronica Mars fandom right now, so, for my sanity:

Veronica:

I am reading an otherwise mostly-good fanfic right now where Logan keeps calling Veronica ‘Ronica’ and it’s driving me up the wall. No one has ever called her ‘Ronica’ in the history of ever, and it’s not even a standard nickname for Veronica, so it’s even worse. (This is extra annoying to me because I happen to think ‘Ronica’ is an exceptionally stupid nickname (although it would actually be fine as a name in its own right), but YMMV.)

Veronica typically doesn’t use nicknames, she doesn’t introduce herself with nicknames, she’s comfortable with her full name. Her dad (nor her mom for that matter) never calls her anything but ‘Veronica’ (or ‘honey’). Her two long-term boyfriends only ever call her Veronica (with one exception that I will Get Into below). Cliff, Wallace, and especially Weevil have been known to call her ‘V’* on occasion, which is a sign that they have relatively close relationships to her that also have a strong element of casualness or flippancy (notably, during Season Four, when they are not close, Weevil only ever calls her ‘Veronica’). Lilly, who was exceptionally close to her, lengthens her name as a nickname/form of endearment, calling her ‘Veronica Mars’ pretty often.

Logan does call her ‘Ronnie’ in early Season One. This is extremely obviously him being an asshole; he’s addressing her by a diminutive she doesn’t use to emphasize that they’re no longer friends and because doing so is inherently demeaning (imagine if you have a Michael who goes by Michael (or even Mike) and you suddenly start calling him ‘Mikey’ – it’s rude and dismissive). No one ever calls her that except him and Dick, and once Logan and Veronica are back on good terms, no one calls her that except Dick, who is doing it to be irreverent and disrespectful. It is objectively incorrect for her friends and/or boyfriend to be calling her ‘Ronnie’ and utterly bizarre for the narration to be referring to her that way.

*I feel strongly that it should be ‘V’ and not ‘Vee’ because it’s not short for a name that starts with a ‘vee’ sound (e.g., if her name was Vianne or Vita I might feel differently), it’s the actual letter V that her name starts with, but I acknowledge that that’s subjective.

Also, Felix referred to her as ‘blondie’ one time, dismissively, to Weevil – ‘Blondie’ is not his nickname for her! Wallace, insomuch as he has a nickname for her, calls her ‘V’, although he sticks with ‘Veronica’ most of the time; ‘SupaFly’ was a one-off joke and he should not be calling her that on the regular any more than she should be calling him ‘Sodapop’* just because she made an Outsiders reference in the pilot.

*And on that note, it’s ‘Sodapop’ because that’s the name of a character from The Outsiders, not ‘soda pop’ like the drink.

Logan:

I am begging you, Weevil called Logan ‘Opie’ one time. It was a generic insult, not a nickname. Even in an AU where they’re somehow bros, it is not something he would be calling him on a regular basis! (Conversely, Logan should not be calling him ‘Paco’ for the same reason, and also because it’s racist so that’s even worse!)

Weevil:

Authority figures (Keith, various teachers, Cliff when representing him in court, etc.) typically call Weevil ‘Eli’; his friends, particularly the PCHers, call him ‘Weevil’ pretty much exclusively (except for Veronica), and his family seems to waver between the two with a preference for his actual name – his grandmother calls him both ‘Eli’ and ‘Weevil’ when she’s talking about him, but sadly we don’t get enough scenes with her to know what’s more common (the only time we hear her actually address him she calls him ‘m’ijo’), Chardo usually calls him ‘Weevil’ but switches to ‘Eli’ when he’s making an emotional appeal, Claudia appears to exclusively call him ‘Eli’. (Context makes it pretty clear that Jade calls him ‘Eli’ as well, which is unsurprising.) We never hear Ophelia call him anything, but he refers to himself as ‘Uncle Eli’ when talking to her.

Veronica only ever calls him Weevil when she’s talking to him, notably, although she does use his real name on occasion when she’s talking about him – to her criminology class, when representing herself as his PI in ‘Weevils Wobble But They Don’t Fall Down’, and to Jade (even correcting herself from ‘Weevil’) in Mr. Kiss And Tell. (Interestingly, she’s more likely to use his full name than just his legal first name – she calls him ‘Eli Navarro’ several times, but almost never uses just ‘Eli’. She’s also probably the only person to call him ‘Weevil Navarro’*, presumably because in that instance she’s talking to him.)

*although Cliff does call him ‘Eli ‘Weevil’ Navarro’ on one occasion, complete with audible quotation marks

The point is, Weevil does get called both, and there’s some leeway for things to change a bit as relationships change – it’s not necessarily out of character, for instance, for Veronica to start addressing him as ‘Eli’ if they’ve started dating, or if it’s a fic (particularly an AU) set around the time of the novels – but it shouldn’t come from nowhere, and it shouldn’t be arbitrary. Keith wouldn’t be addressing him as ‘Weevil’, and Felix and Hector wouldn’t be calling him ‘Eli’ (unless maybe he’s secretly dating one of them it’s Felix and they’re in private). [Writing that sentence made me low-key start shipping him with Hector – why do I do this to myself?]

What he should not be getting called is ‘Weevs’, which is right in the midpoint between ‘Ronnie’ and ‘Opie’. Yes, Logan called him that once or twice (keywords once or twice) – in the exact same context that he called Veronica ‘Ronnie’, which is to say, as a mocking diminutive. It should not be serving as a general nickname even when Weevil and Logan are antagonistic, and it should definitely never be something that Hector or Veronica calls him! (And yes, I have seen both.)

And since I’m already aggravated – while I’m on the subject ‘Eli’ is a name unto itself. There’s a subset of fandom that seems strangely convinced it’s short for ‘Elias’ or ‘Elijah’ and… no. It’s not.

[mothmanriley]

so i stop flooding the fucking. backup.

uhHh yea anyways !!!! shit sucks and I can't really talk to my partners about it because they're just sort of. not well-versed in trauma and I'm gonna be real here mine is extensive (I have recently had an increase in a certain amount of intrusive thoughts triggered by a weird line from my belly down, and if it is similar to the ones I've had before, it could be pointing to the source of my hemophobia), I know how I sound so I try not to go too deep into detail when I talk about the Bad Times.

in addition, a lot of moments I associated with supernatural phenomena I've come to realize was just . me, as a kid, having flashbacks. sucks that I've been having them since 4.

you know it's actually weird I distinctly remember coming into consciousness on my fourth birthday. I can't remember the date but I remember waking up in that double bunk bed that only I slept in. my sheets were pink and blue and I was so, so excited because I remember it was the Day I Got To Be Alive! the world was so fucking vivid and bright and it was all hope and childish glee. everything before that is like. gone.

but I was always scared, you know?? I had a few things that terrified me - reflections, small, red lights (which I eventually realized reminded me of a camera. which. uh. rough implications), sleeping alone - I would see shadows twist and hear whispers in the walls.

I never felt safe when I was a kid, not really. there was always that underlying tension, a background radiation that had seeped into the fibres of me; I could ignore it, I could act out, it didn't matter. people noticed, of course - it oozes from me still. part of me wanted (wants - hence why this blog is public) to acknowledge it, but no one ever did, and despite the severity of our current state, it's unlikely our partners will until we are professionally diagnosed (a process i am looking to undergo regardless; however, it will take months of saving up, and I Don't Know If I Can Do Months).

part of me is extremely grateful for the peace the 'weird little sad person' persona has gotten us, despite the reducing our collective anger and grief to 'just kinda sad for no reason'. it just .. makes it hard to talk about the depth of it all.

like. c didn't 'trick' me into thinking I had this. i've always known there were others. my entire life has been shrouded in this haze and I know its fucking name now. I've reached the point where I can't deny its effects on me, its presence. a forbidden truth, locked in some deep fucking part of me - and it's so fucking frustrating because no one in my day-to-day seems to give a fuck even when it's visibly fucking with me.

(there was one time our friend was making magic cards out of everyone in the house. when he showed me mine, it had "if you have lost four or more life this turn, put a counter on Joey. sacrifice 5 counters: transform this creature." the transformed creature was a eldritch energy thing, and it had the same effect in reverse: gain four or more life, etc. it was a silly joke, and maybe a lil insensitive, but the fact that two of my alters were acknowledged in a lighthearted way that wasn't inherently invalidating .. it was really really nice.)

so I just do what I always do - isolate, stay up, spiral, lament and just generally divorce myself from the idea of ever being fully loved (dissociation included); hope that I'm able to scrap together some form of intimacy from people who very clearly do not love me as they love each other (which is fair, and something i thought i would be able to grapple with - and maybe, if I weren't living with them, but as it stands--). which is ungrateful of me, because they've shown me a kindness I didn't know was possible. I just wish like ... I don't fucking know. I'd like for them to stay up with me once. one of them used to, and it made things easier a lot of the time, but our girlfriend didn't like it so much so now he pretty much always goes to bed with her.

it's like ... little things like that? they do things for each other that I crave but I don't think I've ever really had. not long-term.

and im supposed to somehow wake up without any of these things floating through my head and triggering a spiral so I'm not as much as a burden to them.

[proxylynn]

Your Boyfriend: Stalk-home Syndrome (Day 3)

Chapter #3: IT'S JUST ANOTHER MANIC MONDAY

[WARNING: Because the internet needs more romantic visual novels where you try to win the hearts of your senpai, right? WRONG! Your Boyfriend is a visual novel, yes. But this is anything but a love story. Your Boyfriend is a game where you deal with a man's unhealthy desire to have you, no matter who gets hurt. And he's not afraid to leave the body lying around for you to find either. Imagine a cat bringing you dead mice or birds to your doorstep, except he had brought the corpse of the person you talked to the other day. It's a choose your own adventure story, so be careful with how you react to those around you, especially towards him. This game deals with themes that might be disturbing for some audiences, such as murder, gore, drug use, kidnapping, non-consensual intimacy, strong language, and nudity.]

So what better thing to do than write fanfiction about it?! Enjoy my descent into madness. I regret nothing!! Sincerely with crazy sleepless love, your friendly neighborhood author, Lynn~♥

———————————————————————

[Lynsie...What did you do? This isn't how the story goes. Granted it's not done yet, but still! Just...Try not to alter things any more than as is. Cool? Cool.]

There's a soft humming sound drawing me from the deep. It so sounds familiar...Like a primordial lullaby that is inherently known in the soul. The sound is soon joined by a feeling. A gentle touch here and there...My eyes wearily open, vision blurred but the shape I can tell. The dark orange blob in my face is my stuffed tiger, Cuddles. I nuzzle the still soft after so many years fur with a smile and a tiny coo trills out of me.

"Good morning, darling..."

I turn my head to look over at Peter leaning out the open window and smoking a cigarette.

"Did you have sweet dreams?"

I let out a yawn and sit up with a stretch. My neck feels sore. Gonna have to limit moving it for a bit.

"For once...Yeah. Thank you."

"No thanks needed, sun spot. It was my pleasure. And it's not like it was one-sided. I finally had a decent rest thanks to you, darling."

And there he goes saying things that have me becoming a blushing fool.

"I hope the smell didn't wake you."

"No. I thought I heard humming. I guess it was just in my head. Heh...Didn't peg you for a smoker."

He takes a long drag before stubbing the butt out in the window frame and putting it in his pocket.

"It's not a habit I'm proud of. Picked it up in my teens. Does it bother you? I am trying to quit..."

He lifts his shirt and shows his back, a patch sticking to the small spinal dip.

"I'm at the point a pack will last me a month."

I clap.

"Impressive. But to answer you, no. I've been around smokers since childhood. You're fine. But good on you. That's a tough demon to beat. What got you to quit?"

He smiles as he puts his shirt down.

"I found something much more addictive and better for me. I wanna be around as long as I can to enjoy it."

"And what's that?"

"You."

Critical shot landed! My heart...The feels...It's so pure!

"Dawwww...Pete..."

"Peter."

He comes over to me and lightly cups my chin.

"I want you to use my name, darling. You've earned it."

He leans down to kiss my cheek and I snicker.

"Heh...Peter...Let me wake up more before you start spoiling me with sweetness."

"What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't spoil you?"

He kisses me along my jaw.

"Lynsie, I think you're a wonderful person and you deserve the best."

His kisses trail to my ear.

"Which doesn't explain why you're dating me."

I pull back much to his surprise.

"No, bad, Peter. No self-doubt."

I boop his nose.

"You're a great guy. Leave the self-doubt to me. I'm more used to it."

His expression falters.

"Not anymore..."

He shoves me back, getting on top of me in a similar way to what happened when Lucy caught us.

"You don't get to have self-doubt. Not as long as I'm with you."

Maybe it's the fact I just woke up, but the way he said this sounds odd.

"You're doing a good job then, sweetie. Because you seem to just keep making me smile."

"Good..."

He leans down and connects his brow with mine.

"Knowing you're happy makes me happy."

I smile.

"You make me happy."

He smiles back.

*click*

We look over at a deadpanned Lucy. Is this going to be a thing with her?

"Uh...TK's here."

I sigh.

"Give me couple minutes."

She smirks.

"Quick to finish huh?"

We both glare at her.

"You can go now, Lulu."

"Do you need some condoms? I got extra in my nightstand."

"Close the door, Lucy."

"And some lube if she's a little too tight for you~!"

"She said fuck off!"

Peter snarls and she laughs her ass off out of the room, the door still open. Bitch.

"Mind getting that? I need to change for work."

He nods and gets off me to shut the door. I scrounge the floor for cast aside washed clothes and look back at Peter who's face is a whole new shade of red.

"You okay?"

He holds his arm shyly.

"Y-You sure you want to change...*gulp* W-With me in the room?"

He's sweating bullets. Is this really the same guy from last night that went to town on my neck?

"I need to hear more~.”

"Peter, please! Control yourself.”

"Oh, I am. You have no idea how much more I want. It takes everything in me not lose it and fuck you senseless.”

Maybe...Maybe it was just his sleeplessness making him act so bold. Heh, I know I can act like a bitch when tired.

"I mean, if you don't feel comfortable you can wait outside or turn around."

He flinches a little when I reach for my shorts and spins around to face the door. Just in case I keep my eyes on while I change. Every so often I see his hands flex in and out of being fists, keeping himself in control. He is holding back. Smart boy.

"H-Hey, darling..."

"Yes, dear?"

"Who is TK?"

The calm in his voice...

"I dunno…I got this creepy vibe from him and it’s been eating at me ever since.”

"Define creepy?”

"It’s just that…It seemed like he had his eyes glued on us the whole time we were talking. I dunno.”

I should tread lightly.

"They're my coworker friend. They offered me a ride to work and a little light breakfast."

"And you trust them?"

"Hard not to when I've known them for the last three months. Why?"

"N-Nothing. Just wanting to make sure you're in good hands."

Hmmm...

"Looking at it from your angle, yeah, that’s a bit odd and might be hinting at possessiveness. But From his end, you’re a stranger that works with his new girlfriend and he might be insecure about another guy in my life.”

Stop being paranoid. If he was gonna do something, he would've already done it. He had a shot. He didn't abuse it. Relax and give him a chance. Now fully dressed for work, I come up behind Peter and hug his back.

"You have nothing to fear, sweetie. After all..."

I kiss his neck and he tenses up.

"You are my boyfriend."

A shiver racks his core and his hands come up to hold mine over his heart with a contented sigh.

"Do you want to meet them?"

His grip tightens.

"Meet them?"

"If you're going to by my boyfriend, then you'll need to know who's in my life, right?"

His grip loosens.

"You do make a fair point."

He spins around in my hold and cups my face.

"If my darling thinks this person is okay, then I'll trust you and see this coworker friend."

"Who knows? You might end up buddies."

"...Maybe?"

I give him a little nuzzle and break the hold.

"That's the spirit."

He gives a weak cringe smile. I call it a win as he follows me out to the living room. TK waves me hello though their wave dies out seeing Peter at my side.

"Morning, TK."

"H-Hey, Lynn. You ready to...The hell happened to your neck?!"

I just point at Peter who whistles nonchalantly. Now Lucy is even gawking.

"Does it look bad? It doesn't feel bad."

"Girl, you look like you were mauled."

"Is that dried blood?"

I look at Peter, he's all embarrassed yet proud.

"I might have gotten a little too into it. S-Sorry, dearest."

I play punch his shoulder.

"Try hard."

He chuckles as I resume things as normal despite the awkward stares. Yep, I'm going to work like this. Fuck it. It's no one's business about my neck.

"TK, this overzealous dork is my boyfriend, Peter. Peter, this is my buddy and coworker, TK."

They just stare at each other. I can totally see them doing that anime trope of the lightning glare, in which two rivals lock gazes and the intensity of their shared enmity manifests as crackling streamers of lightning arcing back and forth between their eyes as sparks begin to fly. I sigh and grab their hands, making them shake hands as I hold them together in mine.

"Nice to meet you. You too. See? Easy. Now can you both quit being dumb macho men before I bounce without either of you?"

They both stiffen up and change their attitudes fast. Such dorks.

"Sorry, darling."

"Same. It's good to meet you."

"Likewise."

They couldn't be more transparent if they were made of glass. I let them go.

"Yo, Lulu, hold the fort down while I'm gone."

She gives a half-assed salute.

"You got it, commander. Oh, make sure she eats. She's been skipping again."

TK looks at me worried and Peter shares the concern.

"I ate yesterday."

"You ate more after breakfast?"

"Yes. I had soup for lunch."

"And what about dinner?"

I feel the pressure of their stares and shirk a bit, averting eye contact.

"Yeah, didn't think so."

A low irradiated rumble ripples through me, I just head out the door without reply but know damn well there's more than one following me.

"You're doing it again? But I thought you were getting better?"

I don't want to have this conversation this early.

"Lynsie?"

I'm trying to block out TK while speeding down the stairs. A sudden whoosh has me pause. The flash of Peter leaping to the bottom and blocking the way leaves me stunned. I'm about to do something, move or speak I can't recall the impulse, but the look in Peter's eyes has me like a deer in headlights. It's daring me and telling me it's pointless at the same time. A cold chill hits me from those eyes.

"Lynsie?"

TK's voice nearly makes me piss myself after being in such a state.

"Easy. You don't want to fall."

"Then don't spook me."

"I...I wasn't trying to."

Shit, I didn't mean to bark like that. I smack my face with my palm.

"Sorry."

"Come on. Let's get something in your tummy and you'll feel better."

I huff a sigh knowing I'm not going to hear the end of this. TK ushers me and Peter continues to follow us out of the building. Does he think he's coming with? I look back at him as we near TK's car.

"Sweetie, whatcha doing?"

"Huh? Just seeing you off, darling."

"Cute."

TK opens the side door for me and I get in, rolling the window down for Peter.

"You'll be coming by for lunch, right?"

He leans on his arms in the opening.

"You know it. Got a few errands to run in the meantime. Who knows...I might have a surprise for you when I show up."

"Please don't spend anything on me."

"Too late there. All I want to do is spend my time with you."

Too fucking cute!!

*slam*

TK enters the driver's side.

"Hate to kill the mood. But if we're gonna have enough time to eat, we got to go now."

Peter huffs with a bit of a scowl forming. Not liking that, I pull him down for a quick cheek kiss which gets his smile to come back.

"Don't keep me waiting long, sweetie."

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling."

He backs up and waves as TK drives off. I keep my eyes to the side mirror, watching Peter slowly shrink in the distance. His waving stops...His hand looks like it's clenching into a fist?

"So..."

TK breaks my concentration and looking back proves Peter to be gone. Weird.

"Are we gonna talk here or in public?"

I roll my eyes.

"Fine. Let's get this over with."

"Why are you skip eating?"

"It's not like I'm doing it on purpose. I eat when I'm hungry. Not my fault my stupid stomach has no clue when it wants food."

"That's because you messed its timing up."

"You know damn well that wasn't a choice! Do you honestly think I wanted to solely live off a jar of peanut butter and ketchup packets for two months?!"

"I know you didn't choose to. But you're not in that situation anymore yet you're eating as if you were."

I chew my bottom lip and claw at my leg. I'm not in a good place. His hand comes to hold mine, it's all he can do since he has to watch the road.

"Do you have enough at your place?"

"Money's been tight for the last three months."

"Is that when Lucy got you to cover her half?"

"Yeah. All my cash goes to the bills and rent. What change I can keep goes to food. But it isn't much. When you go so long without, family size ends up feeding a single person. The fridge is empty apart from ice trays, a few drinks, week-old leftovers, and condiment/sauce packets. I shared the last of the canned soup with Peter yesterday. Lucy said she ordered pizza last night but I have no clue how much of that remains."

"What about my step-mom?"

"Brenda? She usually shares her leftovers...so long as someone's there to ask. *groan* I'm always working and I have no clue what Lucy does when I'm not around other than pissing off our landlord."

"I take it your boyfriend didn't know about this either."

"No. I don't want to trouble him so early in this relationship."

They sigh and squeezes my hand to stop the clawing.

"Tell you what...Why don't we hang out tonight?"

I eye them funny.

"Aren't we pulling another full day?"

"Alisha and Kit-Cat have the evening shift."

"A half-day? Fuck, I need those tips."

"What you need is to relax and get a decent breakfast. The stress is going to kill you at this rate. And if that doesn't, malnutrition will."

"I get you're being nice and you care, but telling me to relax only adds more stress. Like telling a guy being dragged to death to just hold on."

They pout. Damn those sad puppy dog eyes.

"But...Seeing as the option is available, I'd be a huge bitch to turn down spending time with you."

A pleasant smile comes to them.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Sweet! I've been dying to Smash with you."

My brain goes into the gutter so fast. Yet, I know them better than that.

"My dude, I'm going to own your ass in Smash."

"Not this time. I've gotten really good with the new characters. Oh! I heard they made Sora from Kingdom Hearts the last fighter."

"I mean, that's cool. But what the fuck? Where's Waluigi?!"

We are dorks. This is true friendship. TK pulls into a drive-thru and, with my meager add-in of five bucks, we get a small feast. Ten breakfast burritos, an iced tea for them, and orange juice for me. It's so worth the wait till we reach the diner's parking lot to go full hog. To feel satisfied and full is something I missed. It just sucks that I have to rely on others to do this. I'm a grown adult, got a job, my own place, and yet I can barely feed myself. Damn it...I left home to get away from being in shit like this!

"Well...We better clock in."

"Yeah...Think the crowd is gonna suck like yesterday?"

"On a Monday? Nah."

Oh, how wrong they were.

Sure, Sunday was Hell. But his is that spot just before it, Monday is Purgatory. Karen's and redneck grandpas with something up their asses gotta be all up in my face. No, Karen, I'm not going to sounds delighted to serve you when you scream at me to "fill my god damn cup all the way, you retard". Oh my god, even a neckbeard appeared. This cringe-lord wore a brony sex shirt and fedora in public, even called me "m'lady"...I wanted to dunk my head in the deep-fryer. Oh! And this one audacious fuck-tard refused to pay because their T-bone steak wasn't cooked the way they wanted. Yeah! A mother ducking T-bone steak, for breakfast. Not even a breakfast steak and eggs, either. An actual dinner-type steak, with potatoes and steamed carrots. Jackass made such a scene the manager had to come out. Shit got real. Thankfully, after that display of managerial dominance, things chilled out. Imagine that? Maybe it's okay that this is a half-day. I mean, we open at 7 AM every damn day and close at 10 PM. It used to be midnight but the city came down on it being "wrong" to make workers pull more than 16 hours a day.

It's around noon when I wander into the kitchen. Another two and half hours before I can clock out. Gonna pop some joints and snag a soda.

"Dear lord, what are your bones made of? Bubble-wrap?"

TK comes around with some clean dishes.

"Ha ha. I hope that joke was funny, 'cause you lost out on me asking if you could help me stretch."

They snaps their fingers in defeat which gets me chuckling.

"Eh, it's probably for the best. Don't want to make your boyfriend jealous."

This gets my attention as they motion with an eye roll to the dining area. I look out to see Peter in the same booth from yesterday and zoning out the window. My grin is wide.

"Wanna take a small break?"

"Can I?"

They shrug.

"Things have gotten slow. Sure. But stay here. We only got a little bit left to go."

I give TK a quick hug and take my apron off before skipping over to Peter.

"Hey there, stranger..."

I slide into the booth and upon doing this he rejoins me back in reality, a gleam in his eyes.

"Hope you ain't waiting on someone. 'Cause this seat is taken."

He snickers at my bad attempt to be funny. Bless him for this.

"You're in a good mood, darling. The day treating you well?"

"Better now that you're here."

A blush lights his face.

"Aren't I supposed to be the one with the smooth pickup lines?"

I look at him funny.

"What pickup line?"

He eyes me before relaxing into a smirk.

"God, your innocence is adorable."

He reaches over for my hands and I go with it, letting him lace his fingers with mine.

"I love how your hands fit mine."

I look off bashfully.

"And how cute you get when flustered."

"Peter, please..."

He pulls my hands up to his mouth, giving each soft kisses.

"I was thinking we could see a movie tonight. There's a screening for an upcoming film and it's open to the first sixty that show up. What do you think?"

"Hmmm...You and me, sitting alone in the dark, getting lost in whatever fantasy that may or may not suck which we can mock afterward? A tempting offer, not gonna lie."

"So...?"

I look slightly towards the kitchen.

"I kind of made plans to hang out with TK after work."

His hold on my hands strengthens a bit.

"Oh."

"Sorry. It just happened during the ride this morning."

"No...No need to be sorry. T-Things happen."

He tells me this is okay. But I can see that's far from how he feels. Aside from his hand holding grip, his eyes darken in disappointment and the higher happy pitch to his voice dulls close to monotone levels. I pout feeling bad now.

"Please don't be upset."

He flinches.

"W-Wha? I'm not upset."

"I know you want to spend time with me. I want that too."

"Darling, it's okay. I understand."

Then why do you sound like your forcing yourself to say that?

"...What if you joined us?"

His eyes widen in surprise.

"I have to ask them, but it shouldn't be an issue. We were just gonna veg out and play video games."

There's that smile. The one that melts my heart.

"You really don't have to do that."

"But I want to. Both of you want my attention and I don't want to say no to either of you. So...Compromise? We hang out together, the three of us. And maybe if you're lucky, conversion will spin into embarrassing stories and other things."

A playful glint comes to his eyes.

"Oh? And what kind of other things are you hinting at?"

I shrug.

"What kind of things do you want to happen?"

His stare gains some intensity for a moment before his face reddens and he lets my hands go to bashfully rub the back of his head.

"Heh...Not sure you want me to say such things in public, darling."

I look out of the booth at our nearly empty diner before looking at him again.

"You can whisper to me if you want. I mean, it can't be any crazier than what you said last night."

He eyes me funny.

"What did I say that was crazy?"

Is he for real? Does he not remember?

"Really? Drawing a blank?"

He shrugs. I sigh and lean over the table, motioning him to do the same. He does so I whisper in his ear.

"You have no idea how much more I want. It takes everything in me not lose it and fuck you senseless."

The shudder that leaves him was something unexpected. As are the goo-goo baby I love you eyes.

"Fuck, darling...You are a great listener. Getting me all bothered with my own words."

I smirk.

"So you do remember? Naughty boy."

"Not as naughty as I could be~."

Something about that gets to me...sounds like a challenge.

"Well then, naughty boy, what say we play a little game?"

His brow cocks.

"I'm listening."

"The game is 'would you kindly'. The rules are simple..."

I lean back in my seat.

"We do whatever the other asks as long as it starts with 'would you kindly'. Nothing sexual. But that's the game."

He mulls this over while leaning back.

"What does the winner get? It's not a game unless there's an incentive to try."

"Hmmm...I suppose the classic winner gets the loser to do something works. Unless you have something better...in...mind?"

The look he has is like he's about to explode, hands gripping the table harshly and gnawing on his bottom lip enough to draw blood. This might have been a grave mistake.

"Peter?"

"*grunt* You really make it hard to hold back sometimes..."

I shrink in my seat a little. He seems to pick this up as he takes a long deep breath, licks the blood off his face, and returns to a more neutral disposition.

"Sorry about that, darling."

"You okay?"

"Perfectly fine. Just got a little excited is all."

"If that was you excited then I'm not sure about playing this game anymore."

"No no! I can handle it."

"...You sure?"

"I promise. Cross my heart..."

He makes the motion.

"And hope to die."

I shake my head.

"You're such a dork. But a lovable dork."

I check the neon clock above the kitchen window for the time. My break is close to ending.

"Don't tell me our time is up?"

"Not yet. Got about ten minutes left."

"Then...Shall we play? I do love games."

I roll my neck side to side, letting it pop a little.

"Who's first?"

He gestures to me and I sigh.

"Very well...Peter, would you kindly smile for me?"

It takes him a second to do so with a chuckle.

"Heh...Gonna go easy on me huh?"

"Maybe. Maybe it's 'cause I like you so much."

He's humbled.

"Awww...Darling, I'm touched."

But that doesn't last long.

"Would you kindly dance for me?"

I stiffen.

"Beg your pardon?"

He gestures to the old jukebox in the back with a sly smile. That thing hasn't seen action in months.

"Pick a song and do a little dance. A simple request."

I'm gonna be blunt...

"I don't dance."

An inquisitive shift has him.

"Are you refusing? Because by the rules, that would mean you lose...on your first turn."

I'm not one to refuse. But I have limits. I know when not to do something.

"Fine. I lose. Whatever."

He frowns.

"Now that's no fun."

I fold my arms.

"Sometimes life isn't fun."

Now he's full-on pouting.

"What if I danced with you?"

"I don't dance. Never had. Never learned."

"So you wouldn't dance at our wedding?"

There's that feeling of being smacked again. I'm stunned looking into his eyes.

"O-Our wedding?"

He nods. My heart is sent into rapid pounding. He...He sees himself marrying me? Why? I'm far from wife material. How could I be good for him when I can't take care of myself? How can he think I'm...

"Darling..."

I must've zoned out in thought because he's now standing beside me and offering me his hand.

"Let's not end the game so soon."

"But..."

A finger to my lips shuts me up and he takes my hand, pulling me out of the booth then over to the dusty machine. He really can't be doing this...can he? Sure, there are like four people in here, but still, we not dancing in public...right?

*clunk*

My entire body freezes in paralysis as I hear the selected record get set up.

"Relax. Think of it like you're back at prom."

"I never had a prom or any school dances."

His eyes widen.

"This is your first dance?"

Multiple levels of humiliation begin to increase, I start to tremble and my eyes water. I want to go home, crawl into bed, and never see the light of day or dark of night again. I'm snapped out of this by him putting one of my hands on his shoulders and his hold my waist as the music slowly whines to life.

"Keep close and follow my steps."

His voice is so soft. I rest my head on his chest in an attempt to avoid all sight. I'm so uncomfortable. I look at the ground and keep track of his feet. Slowly he takes a step and I mimic it. Step, repeat, step, repeat, step, and repeat. I don't recognize the song yet it sounds vaguely familiar. It has no words, only music, purely instrumental. Almost sounds like "Oh, My Love, My Darling" mixed with "Earth Angel". Feels 50s era what with the use of saxophone. A nice slow beat that calls for the listener to sway in its spell. I don't know when I shut my eyes or even the reason, but despite the queasiness in my guts, I give in to this moment and take him in. The beat of his heart in my ear, the sound of every breath he takes, the warmth of his body, and the scent...A strange alluring mix of generic soap, cologne of some kind, and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. Don't know why but it's making my head feel fuzzy.

"You're doing so well, darling."

I look up at him in a haze. Was he always so cute? And his eyes...So dreamy.

*cluck*

Oh...Guess the song ended.

"So...How was your first dance?"

I suddenly feel so timid.

"I guess it wasn't so bad."

The smile he gives me is charming. Yet...something feels off. My head is so foggy.

"Lynsie..."

TK's voice pierces the fog and gains my attention.

"Five-minute heads up."

I nod.

"Okay...Be there in a bit."

The haze is slow in leaving me. I gotta get my brain going again.

"You can't go just yet..."

Peter's voice sounds a tad frantic.

"I-It's your turn after all."

My what...? Oh right! The game.

"Yeah...my turn..."

I shake my head loose from the remaining haze but still left feeling so dull.

"Ugh...my head..."

"You alright?"

"Not sure. Might need a soda or something."

His hands come up to feel my forehead and throat.

"Hmmm...You don't feel feverish. Though your pulse is a little slow."

"That's normal. Plus you're very comfortable to be around."

His face holds a softness to it that is so adorable.

"I know it's your turn, but may I ask to have one more dance before we part?"

I can only imagine the dumb grin I give him.

"I'd like that."

He reaches over and types in the record number.

*clunk*

The tune has an easier time to start up as Peter resumes holding my waist. This song...This one I know. I don't know all the words, but I know it. I love you baby by Frank Sinatra. Rest in Peace old blue eyes.

"♪You're just too good to be true. I can't take my eyes off of you. You'd be like heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much. At long last love has arrived. And I thank God I'm alive. You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you...♫"

I can hear humming. And from the feel of it, it's coming from Peter. Does he know it? Can he sing it? Can I get him to sing it? I start humming along with him but loud enough to get his attention.

"♪Pardon the way that I stare. There's nothing else to compare. The sight of you leaves me weak. There are no words left to speak. But if you feel like I feel. Please let me know that it's real. You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you...♫"

He's been eyeing me and I can't help blushing. The chorus part is next and I at least know that bit. If I do it...maybe he will too. Here goes nothing.

"♪I love you baby, and if it's quite all right. I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night. I love you, baby. Trust in me when I say: Oh pretty baby, don't bring me down I pray. Oh pretty baby, now that I found you, stay. And let me love you, baby, let me love you...♫"

His blush is intense but the grin beats out any bashfulness. He picks up right at the break like a pro.

"♪You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you. You'd be like heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much. At long last love has arrived. And I thank God I'm alive. You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you...♫"

His movement is getting a bit faster. More expressive. I have to hold on around his neck just to keep from losing balance. This has the effect of making him really getting into it.

"♪I love you baby, and if it's quite all right. I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night. I love you, baby. Trust in me when I say: Oh, pretty baby, don't bring me down, I pray. Oh pretty baby, now that I found you, stay. Oh, pretty baby, trust in me when I say: I need you, baby, when will you come my way? Oh pretty baby, now that I found you, stay. And let me love you, baby, let me love you...!♫"

*cluck*

He ends what was a simple sway dance with a twirl and dip that fries my mind due to the intimate position. However, his eyes aren't on me. I look to follow his gaze when everything goes blank. Peter pulls me up and into a kiss...like a real kiss, mouth on mouth. The part of me that wants this to stop is deafened by the internal screaming of what feminine side of me that has yearned for such a moment. The second I give any indication that I'm okay with this, his grip becomes iron tight and likely will bruise. The kiss breaks at my slight wincing. Those eyes...So intense...These are the eyes of wild Peter.

"Ahem..."

TK looks as though he's gonna vomit.

"B-Break time is over."

I nod, giving Peter a small cheek kiss before having to use my turn to get him to let go. I head into the kitchen and once more put on the apron I so loath.

"Well...um..."

Poor TK. No doubt they saw that whole scene and are shocked.

"That was unexpected."

"For you and me both. I'm sorry about that. This has been a very awkward interaction."

"Yeah...Between the neck thing and this...heh...Your boyfriend is a real piece of work."

I rub my arm sheepishly and they get nervous.

"What? What is it? What did he do? Do you need me to do something?"

The lump in my throat is very hard to swallow.

"C-Can...Can Peter tag along with us?"

They look as though I've sucker-punched them.

"You want him to come hang out with us?"

I can feel my nerves going off in alarm.

"I know it's the biggest dick move to pull considering our history and I feel like a massive bastard for asking. But I can't deny either of you my time. I miss being with you and he is my boyfriend. For better or worse, this means I'm the factor that connects us all. So please..."

I drop to my knees.

"Put the feelings aside for one night. Please...TK..."

The sound of my nails clawing on the tile makes them kneel and hold my hands still.

"Calm down. It's going to be okay. Don't lose control...I'll do it...He can come. Just look at me. Look at me, Lynsie."

It's a lot harder to do when my insides are fighting themselves, my body wants to ignore orders and the brain stresses trying to get it in line. But I do as they want.

"I don't want you to feel bad about anything. We're best friends. I should be able to look past my wants and be able to help you. That's the least I can do."

They let my hands go to wipe my eyes. I couldn't hold the tears in this time.

"I can't stand seeing you cry."

"S-Sorry..."

"Why are you sorry? My dumb ass is the one that made you upset."

"But I'm the one that's putting you in an uncomfortable position."

They sigh.

"Let's just forget it. We still have a little bit left to go. Afterward, we can chill and goof around like we used to."

"*sniffle* Okay."

After a little hug to get out of this funk, we continue our shifts for the remainder we had left. Peter stayed at his booth and was surprised when I told him he was given the okay to join us. It was almost like he was expecting me to give him bad news. I couldn't dwell on it long. Just as our time to leave drew near the crowd began to come back in force. Nothing like hungry students looking at you with disgust thinking they'll never have to do shit like this to really brighten a day or make you want to strangle teenagers. Thank god I wasn't like that at their age. By the time Alisha and Kit-Cat clock in I am so very tempted to run by each asshole with my middle fingers held strongly in their faces. But crazy impulses like that are better left to the imagination...I still need this damn job.

"All set?"

"Yep."

"Thank god. Wait...What's tomorrow like? Half or full-day?"

"Full day."

"I hate that I'm both okay and not okay with that."

We walk out and Peter is as ready as a puppy that knows what "walkies" means. He follows us out to the lot and I help move the seat forward so I can get in the back, no point in making his tall butt compress into such a small space. It's just what happens when your friend has a two-door mini cooper, sometimes it's fine and other times you have to be double-jointed to sit comfortably. The ride is smooth. No bumps jamming my foot up my ass or awkward chit-chat. It's actually a very quiet ride. I would've asked for the radio but I didn't want to break the silence. Arriving at our destination, I'm reminded of how shitty these complexes look on the outside, the insides most times aren't so bad, but the outside is garbage.

"This is where you live?"

Peter thinks aloud and TK calls them out.

"My guy, I'm gender-fluid, a person of color, and I work at a greasy spoon diner. Does it sound like I can afford a fancy apartment building?"

"...Shutting up now."

"Smart move, sweetie."

We go up the outer stairs to the door at the end of the path, there are only two doors, and head inside. It's like nothing has changed since I last was here, hell, I bet the TV remote has stayed in that spot on the coffee table the entire time. But that's how cramped studio apartments be sometimes.

"Home, sweet home. Well, I know it's not much but...It's not much."

I give him a thumbs up.

"It's plenty, my dude."

"Cool. Set up the system while I pop some unhealthy crap in the oven because it tastes amazing."

The dude speaks my lingo.

"Can do."

TK goes to the kitchen area and I crouch around the TV looking for plugs. Looks like someone got Mario Kart 8 Deluxe since the last time I was here. Gonna get noise complaints for all the wrong reasons 'cause of that game. Ah, here's the damn thing. Now to change out the DVD player and...Done. I stand back up and nearly tumble into the TV because I bump into something, luckily I'm able to grab the side cabinets for support. Looking behind me, what I "bumped" into turns out to be Peter who is just standing behind me though his arms are out like he was going to attempt to grab me in my fumble.

"Careful, darling. You don't want to hurt yourself."

I wave off the weirdness.

"My bad. I didn't know you were behind me."

"No, it's my bad. I shouldn't have been so close without you knowing. You just looked so cute, I wanted to hug you."

I swear...This dork...I give him the hug he sought and his returning embrace is much softer than the last time his hands were on me.

"So..."

TK hops over and onto the couch.

"You guys good with pizza?"

"Fuck yeah!"

I part from Peter to take a seat next to TK. Peter joins us, having me scoot over so he sits in the middle.

"Sounds fine to me."

I snicker at this. Clearly, there's a power play being made with Peter asserting himself like this. Honestly, it's kinda nice knowing he's doing it for me. I'm not used to this kind of thing so it's very flattering. TK, bless their heart, does their best to ignore this.

"You guys ready to Smash?"

Peter's eyes widen as I just grin.

"Dude, you are just begging for a pounding."

Peter flinches and TK gets the controllers, this has him letting out a sigh of relief. Wow, the silly boy has his head in the gutter.

"Remind me when twenty minutes pass."

"I'll set an alarm."

I fiddle with my phone as TK gets the game going. For the most part, the game is insanity. Peter spends much of the matches beating on TK and then handing me the win. A long talk had to be given just to ensure matches will be playable. But once that's taken care of things are way more entertaining.

*beep-beep-beep-beep*

My phone goes off and turning it off costs me a life to Peter's Final Smash as TK's slow to pause the game trying to get out of the way. TK gets up to deal with the food. I do a little stretch to feel good.

"You do that a lot."

I look at Peter.

"The stretching, I mean."

"Sorry. Is it bugging you?"

"N-No no. I understand it's like a stress release. I'm just concerned that you do it so often."

I pout and look to the floor. He goes into "shit, I fucked up" mode and tries to fix this.

"I can help! I-If that's okay with you?"

"...How?"

He rubs the back of his head.

"Well...I could give you back rub."

Hmmm...I suppose that would be good. Hopefully, he can work some knots out. I shift around, turning my back to him and moving my hair out of the way.

"If you think you can help, by all means...Would you kindly?"

The feel of his warm hands resting on my lower back is pleasant. One moves up, gently pushing me down to lay over myself and the armrest.

"Let me know if I use too much force. Okay?"

I nod and he lifts my shirt a little, stopping at where my bra is. His hands return to my lower back, sandwiching my spine between them. Slowly he presses upward firmly with his entire hand toward the middle back, then lifts his hands and does it again. It's almost like his rolling me like dough. A smile curls my lips and slight purrs leave me.

"Alright you two, break it up..."

TK comes around with two pepperoni, mushroom, and onion pizzas. A dull amused smirk on them.

"If anyone is getting action on my couch, it should at least be me."

Peter blushes a bit but looks annoyed. I sit back up and pull my shirt back down.

"A back rub counts as scoring now?"

He shrugs.

"Eh, might as well. This is the most ass that's been on it in ages."

I snicker as he puts it down and we grab slices. Oh my god, being able to eat so much in a day is such a good feeling. I can't keep this up. I need to talk with Lucy. She needs to pitch in more or...Or I'll call in the big dog to have her kicked. But I can't afford that place on my own. That's what's killing me now. Argh! Why does everything have to be so complicated?!

"Darling..."

I jump being brought out of thought.

"Heh...Zoned out?"

I weakly smile.

"Sorry."

Peter taps his crust to my nose with a playful smirk. I surprise both chuckleheads when I snap the crust in my mouth.

"*muffled* Mine now."

I just get flustered looks as I eat.

"Yeah...She does that. Did it to me once. I offered her a french fry and instead of grabbing it, she just leaned over and took it in her mouth."

"You don't say..."

I gulp the crust down and ignore what I just did.

"So, gentlemen, we gaming or what?"

Things get back on track slowly. Eating pizza and playing games. Mindless repetition and the occasional injection of feel goodness for winning all while being around great dudes. The perfect distraction from my dumpster fire of a life.

"Oh! I almost forgot..."

TK blurts out.

"Mom wanted to know if you'll be here when they show up this month."

"Bio-mom or step?"

"Bio-mom."

"I mean, I can try. It depends on the work schedule. Why?"

"She said something about 'measuring'? I think she might be dress shopping again."

I groan.

"Not another one. I feel bad enough that I don't wear the one she got me last time."

Peter becomes intrigued.

"You have a dress?"

"TK's mom got me one once. They were having a family gathering and I was TK's plus one."

"Mom wanted us gussied up because we were going to some fancy eatery. But our girl here isn't big on wearing girly stuff. So...She got her a dress and, no lie, it was like looking at a completely different person."

TK pauses the game and pulls their phone out, scrolling through till they find photos which they then share. In the photo are many people, but the main focus is me in a simple grey pencil dress and my hair is down...but still in sneakers. Peter's eyes lock on that image as if burning it to his memory before looking at me.

"And you still have that?"

"Yeah. But it's not like I have a reason to wear it."

"Would you wear it for me?"

I shrug.

"I dunno. Maybe."

The sheer excitement on his face, if it could be harnessed like energy, it would be enough to launch a rocket to the moon. I decide to change the conversation before he gets too crazy.

"How is the fam doing, TK?"

"You know...Big family doing all sorts of stuff. Adopted parents doing good. Biological parents doing good. And I haven't heard anything bad from my four siblings so that's good. Have you heard anything on your end?"

I shake my head.

"If they've been trying, I don't know about it. Not that I want to anyway."

"Even your dad and bro? I thought they were cool?"

"They have their own things to deal with. I'm not about to bug them."

Peter hands TK back their phone.

"I didn't know you had siblings."

I nod.

"I'm a middle child. I have an older brother and a younger half-sister. My parents got divorced when I was eight. What about you, sweetie? What's your family situation?"

Peter looks away at the floor.

"Do you want me to be honest?"

"I'd prefer it, yeah. Unless it makes you uncomfortable. Then you don't have to say anything."

He puts his hands on his knees.

"I don't have the best relationship with my family. I don't know my dad. My mom is a real piece of work that I wish was dead. A sick demented woman who enjoys toying with others' lives. And my younger sister...I hate her."

There's real venom as he spits those words out. His hands grip his knees hard, knuckles whitening and finger digging type hard. I put my arm around his shoulders and he flinches.

"Looks like me and you are in the same messed-up boat."

He looks at me funny.

"I doubt you're family is as messed up as mine."

I shoot TK a look.

"My dude, better bust out the caffeine. I'm about to possibly trigger myself here."

TK nods and heads for the fridge. I lean on Peter.

"I'm not from this area. I moved here about four months ago after finishing college. I had to get away from my family before the bad thoughts pulled me back to a place where few ever return from."

Peter's face grows in curious concern as TK comes to me with soda.

"Thanks."

"Take your time, girl. There's no rushing on telling this story."

TK knows my history. They know how fucked up this gets.

"How to start...*sigh* I'm the product of my parents thinking a second kid would save a failing marriage. My father was drunk before the divorce, he's gotten much better and is thus cool. But mom was doing and dealing pot, then having an affair with my future half-sister's sperm donor. They split up, and baby daddy dickhead gets mom hooked on crack. We lost everything. Had to move in with my grandparents, that's eight people in a two-bedroom single-wide trailer. Their drug habit kept up, money was tight, they stole from even us kids. My bro finally flew the coop when they sold his car. I didn't have a way out so, heh, my ass got stuck in that shit."

I take a couple of deep gulps of the drink.

"Mom finally ditched that turd when she discovered he was cheating on her after her sixteenth felony arrest. In all of that time, I saw family die, multiple arrests, people change, and was emotionally drained to where I attempted suicide maybe five or six times."

Another few chugs of soda go down.

"I finally snapped when my 'always got her way' sister began bitching how she was owed because she never got anything and began to emotionally blackmail my mom. Bitch! You always had a birthday! They stopped celebrating mine at age thirteen, like why bother? Don't spout such crap like you weren't a spoiled brat! This bitch was so petty she took the family photo albums and left them at a friend's house who then burned them. All those memories, things I don't recall like my grandparents' faces or moments of actual joy caught on film...Gone."

A really hard swig of cola later.

"*sigh* I rounded up every dollar I had or could find and left. I had managed to have decent enough grades to get into college under a scholarship. Got a degree in literature with a major in Greek Mythology, so that helps in writing and random trivia, but not much else. Why else do you think I work as a waitress?"

I finish the can, crush it, and let it drop to the floor.

"So to make a long rant short, my family is shit and I'm a mess. I don't blame you if you decide that's too much baggage to deal with and want out. There are far less broken people out there that would make for better partners than me. I just hope we can still be friends."

Peter doesn't say a word. His unblinking stare is unsettling. I said too much. My first real boyfriend and I fucked it up by spouting out all that. Damn it...I can't do anything right. I'm about to apologize when he stands up and takes me by the wrist, pulling me towards the bathroom...the only room with a door. TK stands up in worry but I mouth back "I'll be fine" to keep them from following, though I'm willing to bet they'll hover at the door. Once in the bathroom, Peter pins me against the door and I look in his eyes...his watering eyes...Oh shit.

"Peter?"

"Did all of that really happen to you?"

My throat is tightening in fear...Fear that I've upset him. I nod.

"And yet after all that...You're still so very..."

His arms wrap around me and he presses himself as close as he can for this hold.

"I am so sorry...Never again. Never again will you have to go through such hell. I promise."

Then does that mean...I didn't scare him away?

"*meek* You still want to be with me?"

He presses his brow to mine so we lock watery gazes with one another.

"The undeserving would leave after hearing all that. But you are my love, my other half, my one and only. I will never leave you. Before I met you, I...I remember feeling empty. Nothingness. Blank. Like every second I lived I was in a waiting room just passing time till death. I saw happy couples and wished I could feel what they did. That they didn't know how good they have it. I just felt I guess okay with being alone forever. Not happy about it but...accepting of it. That it was just how it was and the way it would always be...but then I met you. I'm happier to be alive now, darling. And I have you to thank for that. So...I will always be at your side to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness, in health, to love and to cherish for as long as we both shall live."

Did he just use wedding vows? I don't know what to say about that. His devotion and genuine care are so foreign to me yet I want nothing more. I know that emptiness. That sting of seeing others' happiness and wondering why I couldn’t know that feeling. The pain of giving up on knowing what it means to be loved. I move my arms as much as I can in his embrace to return the hold, gripping him tight.

"*weak* Peter..."

"Yes, Lyns-...?!"

I cut him off with something expected...a kiss. I had to do this with my eyes shut to keep from becoming overwhelmingly bashful, but from the feel of it, he is just as surprised I did it as much as I am. My eyes open as I break the kiss and his partly lidded hazy eyes provoke a shudder from me. He grins.

"Darling...That was rather bold of you."

I blush at his deepening tone.

"Y-You did it first. Remember?"

"Oh, how could I ever forget~?"

He licks his teeth hungrily.

"I'll admit...I gave in to impulse when that happened. The moment was perfect and I just had to know that feeling. That deliciously sweet feeling of your lips on mine..."

A long heated exhale hits my face.

"I was going to wait till we were back to your place to ask for a kiss. I wasn't sure how my spur-of-the-moment one made you feel. But now...Heheheh...Now I know that you're not just understanding, but you feel the same way about me as I do you."

His holds shifts, hands dropping down to hold my ass and lifting my paralyzed form up to be more level with him between my trembling legs.

"Oh, darling, there's no need to be nervous. I only want to make you feel good."

He leans into my neck, his long tongue traces the curve of my neck in one slow and lingering lick.

"Tell me...Was I your first kiss?"

I shiver.

"K-Kind of, I guess? I...I kissed a boy when I was small. B-But it was a stupid kid kiss! It meant nothing. I felt nothing, I swear."

He rumbles deep for a moment.

"I understand, sun spot. We do silly things as kids without thinking. It's fine."

"R-Really?"

He kisses my cheek.

"Of course. This means I AM your first true kiss. Though now I'm curious..."

He nips at my ear.

"Just how many firsts am I going to be for you~?"

A strange shiver racks my spine.

"Wrap your legs around me, darling."

I shake my head.

"Darling...Would you kindly do as I say?"

That's right...The game...We never finished. But still...

"We agreed we wouldn't do sexual things in the game."

"And we won't. I swear. You know I won't force you."

I adjust to this new position he's got me in, wrapping my arms around his neck and hooking my legs around his waist as asked. A contented grin on his lips.

"Your turn, dear."

I don't like how things are going. He's being honest and holding off from doing worse requests, but still, I don't want to know how creative he can get.

"Would you kindly...allow the game to end?"

A slightly perturbed look comes to him.

"Is that what you really want?"

I nod and he sighs.

"Very well...If that's my darling wants...?"

I nod again.

"The game can end...If...We can kiss one more time."

"...And that's all?"

He nods.

"...Okay."

I mean, it's not like anything super nutty can happen from a kiss. Or so I think. His lips claim mine in heated tenderness and I'm pressed harder into the door. It's soft at first and then picks up with a swift intensity that makes me cling to him as the only solid thing as a mind-melting wave washes over me. His insistent mouth nips at my lips, making them part for continued ease and having me all a quiver. It's so conflicting to my brain how this is working on me. The slightest movement of his lips or the squeeze to my rear and thighs sends wild tremors along my nerves. Evoking sensations I had never known or were capable of feeling. Yet before I even knew why he was giving off faint moans, I am caressing the back of his head and returning the kiss with my own wanting whimpers.

"*lusty* God, I love you...Everything about you makes me want to do the most horrible things to your body~."

The shudder he causes me to have rocked my body in his very pleased hold, I stop the kiss so that I can calm my erratic heart by resting in the base of his neck.

"Mmmmmm...Do you feel it, Lynsie? That pang? Like a knife plunged into your heart and twisting? So painful and yet so delightful. That's how you make me feel."

I nuzzle and lightly kiss his neck, the soft feathery sweetness almost has him buckling to his knees.

"*shudder* D-Darling, careful...I don't want to drop you."

"*breathy* Peter..."

He flinches.

"Y-Yes?"

"Will we be cuddle buddies tonight?"

His grip on me gives out and I drop, my legs land at an angle and my face slides down his waist till my nose flicks off his pants to snap my head back into the door, ending with what looks like me about to give an awkward blowjob. The sight has him panic with the reddest of faces.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I just...Are you okay? You're not hurt are you?"

I rub my sore nose.

"I'm fine. I've had worst happen. I once took a metal baseball bat in full force swing to the forehead and still didn't go to the doctor."

"...What?"

"If you look real close, you can see the scar right in the center."

He leans down and squints for a moment before his eyes widen.

"Darling, I love you, but you are starting to worry me."

I just smile.

*knock-knock-knock-knock*

"You guys okay? I heard something hit the door."

Oh right, we're in TK's bathroom. Mega awkward.

"All's fine, TK. Just banged my head is all. Mind helping me up, sweetie? Kinda in a weird spot like this."

"Right! Sorry."

He pulls my dumb butt off the floor.

"Thank you, dear."

I kiss his cheek and he gives a goofy smile. Funny how this is the same man who a moment ago was this dominating wild force and the next became a defective weeble wobble that fell down. We exit the bathroom to the relief of a flustered TK. I don't know what they heard, but the dude definitely heard something and is avoiding eye contact because of it. I do my best not to be stupid and make things any more awkward while here, which is for another couple of hours.

With pizza long since eaten, games played to the point of rage quitting due to bullshit, and the time getting late, the idea is tossed out that going home is probably a good thing. So we pile into the car and head off to my place. A lot has happened today. A lot of stuff is on my mind. A lot of stuff to process. By the time we get there my head is spinning.

"You alright? You look paler than usual."

"Yeah. Just...stuff on my mind."

Peter helps me out of the car and I'm a little confused when he doesn't go back in.

"Don't want a lift?"

TK asks.

"I can walk. Besides, a real man walks his darling to the door."

I snicker at his flirtatiousness and wave off TK.

"See you tomorrow, buddy."

"Later, girl."

They drive off as Peter escorts me up to my apparent, his arm slipping around my back and tucking his hand in my back pocket.

"Having fun back there?"

"I don't hear you telling me to stop."

We exchange side-glances while climbing the stairs.

"You know...We never said who won the game."

"In a way, it was kind of a tie. But...If we count my forfeit at the start, despite you ignoring it, then you win."

We come to a stop at my door and his hand leaves me.

"I win, huh? And what was that prize again?"

I smirk.

"You know what it was, naughty boy. So don't play coy and tell me...What is it that you want me to do for you?"

He ponders for a moment before smirking.

"Okay, I know what I want."

"And that is?"

"Find that dress of yours. You'll be needing it."

Okay, I'm curious.

"Needing it for what?"

He pokes my nose.

"That's a surprise."

I giggle and hold my hands shyly

"So...um...Do you want to come inside? We could cuddle and stuff."

He bites his lip and holds his arm.

"I want to...Lord, I want to...But...I can't."

I pout a little. But I understand. He's got his own life.

"O-Okay. Maybe next time."

"Y-Yeah. Most definitely next time."

He coos as he brings a hand to my cheek.

"Would my darling kindly grant me a kiss goodnight?"

His thumb rubs small circles that get me to nuzzle into his touch.

"Hmmm...Calculating today's EXP...You've unlocked quite a few perks in level two. This being one of them."

He leans down as I close my eyes and get weak in the knees at his lips on mine. How? How did he do this to me? How did he make it so that I feel this way? That I want him to stay. Like I need him to. Is this just how it is to be with someone? To feel pulled to them and wanting nothing more than to get closer? How? How did he do this? What spell was used? Peter...Tell me...How did you make me burn for you?

He pulls ever so slowly away, making the feeling linger and I fight not to follow it for more. Though his hand on my cheek doesn't help with my feelings. His thumb comes down to trace my lips and my eyes flutter to his delight.

"You make it so hard sometimes, darling...So very hard..."

"Sorry."

He parts from me, he doesn't want to and it shows. I don't say anything.

"Don't be. You're worth it. I'll show you all of my gratitude soon."

He turns on his heel and walks away, giving a small wave back.

"See you later, darling."

"Till we meet again, sweetie."

I wait till he's gone before going inside. My heart is wanting to explode and my mind won't let me think of anything else but him...I feel truly happy.

"Hey, Hun..."

All of that ends at the sound of Lucy's voice.

"You look like you had a good day."

I see she's got her bong out and just openly using it as if she wants us to lose our home. No...Don't let her get to you. You had an amazing time. Focus on that.

"Work was the same bull. But I hung out with TK and Peter so, yeah, I'm feeling great."

She smiles.

"That's good. Those boys do you wonders."

"It's hard to find good people like them. I feel lucky."

"And me?"

Maybe she's high and feeling sensitive? I don't know.

"...You have some good qualities."

She claps with joy. I roll my eyes. I'll deal with her when she's back from being a child.

"Do we still have that pizza you got yesterday?"

I head for the kitchen to check.

"Oooh...um...I sorta finished off a box."

I pause.

"Was there only one?"

"No. There were two boxes."

"Then where's the second box?"

"I bumped into...ah, what's the landlord's name...Don! Yeah! I bumped into Don! He was all up my ass so I offered him the food to get him off my back."

I look back at her feeling new and renewed levels of pissed.

"What? You've seen him. He looked like he needed it."

I...I can't be mad at that.

"*sigh* Okay. Don't stay up too late or set the place on fire."

"Yes, mom!"

I head for my room, might as well use what's left of my free time for myself before bed. The cool evening breeze from the window is nice. I begin to tidy up. No point in letting this mess get worse. Peter probably gave me a pass the other night because it was the first visit. No way I can get away with a mess like this twice. I separate things by use, every day use goes to the dresser and things for the closet. This was a good idea. I discovered that dress tucked in a box on the little shelf in the closet. But...I also take notice of some oddities. Strange scuff marks on the inside of the closet and a weird smell, along with stains that I can not begin to guess what they are. A new cleaning chore has been added to my night.

{Several Hours Later}

It's nearly midnight and I am finally relaxing after finishing my self-given chores. I cleaned my entire room in a rare OCD impulse. Found more oddness that I've taken care of. The roses now have a real vase to sit in and the ribbon once more tied around them, I didn't want to ruin it. I use the box to hold my drawing things that otherwise would be scattered. The napkin crane Peter made me I found in my side table drawer and I have no memory of ever seeing it out of the diner, it now sits with the roses. My collection of manga and miscellaneous books are neatly ordered, manage by date of purchase of the first issue while the others by subject. My GameDaddy is set up to charge as it updates, damn the WiFi signal sucks so it might take a longer time than expected. The digital wall-mounted clock I got from my dad is set for 6 AM and the batteries are new. Heh...He gave it to me as a farewell gift, said he didn't need it since he was gonna count every second till he was able to see me again...I need to give him a call.

"*yawn*"

Guess the sleeping pills are finally kicking in. That shower must've helped too cause I'm all sorts of relaxed. I set my laptop aside and put it away, sent some messages to the family I don't think are douchebags before mindlessly zoning out on R/ videos. I shut the window, lock it, and close the curtains. A nice little stretch and joint popping to turn my body to mush before turning off the light then settling down. If I pass out now I can have at least eight or seven hours of sleep. Just enough to be healthy.

*creak-creak*

The ceiling is making sounds? Huh...Probably just the building showing its age. Or that other thing. What was it again? Oh! The upper floor is unfinished. Yeah. I remember workmen doing stuff up there. If it's not locked up then maybe there are rats, squirrels, or raccoons running around. I'll let the Landlord know about it before I go to work.

I shut my eyes and let my mind wander...Peter...I smile.

…

(an ominous shadow slowly appears in the window)

(the shadow has something in its hands and the window lightly jostles)

(a soft click sounds and the shadow opens the window)

(the ominous shadowy figure enters the bedroom)

[hiswordsarekisses]

Best thing I read all day

🙌🏻

Sometimes in our afflictions we may feel lost, confused, and uncertain of ourselves. We dare not doubt God's love for us, though we may wonder how He might use such affliction to mend our hearts...

As C.S. Lewis once said, “We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be” (Letters of C.S. Lewis, 1964).

There is a trust issue in suffering, and an intimacy that is gained through its fires. As Kierkegaard reminds us, “It is one thing to conquer in the hardship, to overcome the hardship as one overcomes an enemy, while continuing in the idea that the hardship is one's enemy; but it is more than conquering to believe that the hardship is one's friend, that it is not the opposition but the road, is not what obstructs but what develops, is not what disheartens but ennobles" (Four Upbuilding Discourses, 1844).

Amen. If you can't detect God's hand in your circumstances, then trust His heart... The heart of faith affirms: gam zu l'tovah (גַּם זוּ לְטוֹבָה): “this too is for good,” particularly when the present hour may be shrouded in darkness... Whenever I am confused about life (which is often enough), I try to remember what God said to Moses after the tragic sin of the Golden Calf: "I will make all my goodness pass before you and will proclaim before you my Name, 'The LORD' (יהוה). And I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy" (Exod. 33:19). God’s character does not change: the LORD is the same “yesterday, today, and forever.” The meaning of the Name, however, cannot be known apart from understanding the need of the heart (Exod. 34:6).

Recall that at the time of the awesome encounter at the “burning bush” (הסנה הבוער) God had revealed to Moses that the Name YHVH (יהוה) means: "He is Present" (i.e., the name is a play on the Hebrew verb hayah [הָיָה], "to be"), and therefore signifies that God is “always there” (see Exod. 3:14). The great I AM (אֶהְיֶה) means God stands outside of the constraints of time, “one day is as a thousand years” and “a thousand years as one day” before Him (2 Pet. 3:8). Just as a thousand years is but “a watch in the night” (Psalm 90:4), so one day is as a thousand years. God’s Spirit broods over all things and sustains the entire universe. God is “necessary being,” the Source of Life, and foundation for any other mode of existence. God’s creative love and power sustain all things in creation...

Now while the idea that God is the Source of all life in the universe is surely important, it is not entirely comforting, especially in light of man’s guilt and anxiety over death. After all, we do not stand before the “god of the philosophers,” but rather the personal God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Therefore the meaning (or definition) of the Name YHVH - that He is merciful, gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and truth, and so on - presents additional revelation in light of man’s inherent brokenness and spiritual need. Some things in life are only known in the passion of faith... things like love, beauty, honor, and so on. The Name of the LORD as the Compassionate One is only known in humility, when all human pretense is stripped away and the inner life is laid bare in its desperate need. The Name YHVH is God’s response to the heart’s cry for deliverance, for compassion, for mercy....

What is God like - what is His heart - is the first question, and how we answer that will determine how we deal with all the other questions that come up in theology... What do you feel inside when you stare up at the ceiling before you go to bed? In light of the ambiguity and heartaches of life we might wonder if God is there for us. Does God care? Is He angry at me? Does He really love me? This is the raw place of faith, where we live in the midst of our questions. The Name YHVH means “He is present,” even when we are unconscious of His Presence in the hour of our greatest need. [Hebrew for Christians]

[screaming-introvertedly]

my heart told me to need you, so I do

Rusty Quill Gaming, Zolf/Oscar, G, 18-month time gap, fluff and angst, the inherent intimacy of having someone's fingers in your hair

Also on ao3!

“Wilde? Thought you could use a break. Brought you some tea.” Zolf came into the small room of the inn Wilde had claimed as an office, brandishing a clay teapot with a towel wrapped around its handle and two small teacups.

“What, nothing stronger?” Wilde asked, glancing only briefly up from his papers.

Zolf snorted. “Wouldn’ta thought you’d be the sort to get drunk before noon. ’specially not with all the—” he gestured at the piles of work in front of Wilde, setting the cups down on the one clear corner of the desk.

“Mm, you should’ve known me in my university days. Tea sounds lovely, though, thank you, Mr. Smith.”

As he’d gotten more and more into his work that morning, Wilde had propped his head on his right hand, absentmindedly tucking his fingers up into his hair. Now, as he set down his quill and went to sit up, he found his fingers caught in the countless tangles and snarls there, and he hissed a soft curse as the movement tugged on his oversensitive scalp.

Zolf, pouring tea, looked abruptly up at Wilde’s pained noise.

Wilde carefully extracted his hand from his hair, untangling a ring that’d gotten snagged, waving Zolf off with his left.

Zolf’s eyebrows crept further and further up his forehead. “You alright there, Wilde?” he asked, with a smirk in his voice even if it wasn’t quite on his face.

“Fine, fine,” Wilde breezed, shifting in his chair and reaching for a teacup.

Zolf’s gaze steadily worked its way over his head and face, taking in his appearance—no doubt he had some hideous dark smudges beneath his eyes—and the wrinkles on Zolf’s brow deepened. Wilde blew over the top of the teacup, disturbing a curl of steam, and took a delicate sip, preparing his rote response: Don’t worry about it, Zolf, I’m fine, stop asking.

“Wilde…. when was the last time you brushed your hair?”

The question caught Wilde off guard. How long had it been? He’d gotten rather used to his hair being short, but it’d grown back considerably since… since Damascus. Since—mentally, Wilde gritted his teeth—since Grizzop had chopped it all off.

All these months later, and you’re still barely able to think their names. He berated himself every time. You lost them. They’re gone and it’s your fault, and you can’t even think their names?

“Does it matter?” he said out loud, realizing how long a pause there’d been. He took another sip of his tea. Academically, he knew it was jasmine, probably perfect, prepared just the way he liked it, but he couldn’t taste it at all.

“Does it… well, no, I guess not really.” Zolf crossed his arms, voice deliberately even. “I was just wonderin’ why your hair looks like there might be a rat or two livin’ in it.”

“Flatterer.”

“I’m serious, Wilde. You always seemed to—I dunno, take pride in your appearance before. You were meticulous. Fussy, really. So what happened?”

Wilde raised an eyebrow and tugged up one leg of his hakama, revealing the anti-magic cuff around his ankle.

“Oh, for the love of—do you not know how to take care of yourself without magic?”

Wilde only shrugged, not meeting Zolf’s eye. “It was easier back then, Zolf. I’ve been… busy, you know how it’s been.”

“It’s brushing your hair, Wilde, it’s not like you’re taking… I dunno, three-hour long bubble baths or something.”

Ooh, what I wouldn’t give for the chance…. Wilde gave an affected sigh and turned back to his paperwork, setting the empty teacup aside and picking up his quill. “Would that I had the time, Mr. Smith.”

Zolf stood in front of the desk in silence, arms crossed, while Wilde stared with unfocused eyes at the stacks of reports and made idle, useless marks with the quill, purposefully ignoring him.

After half a minute of increasingly belligerent silence, Wilde looked up at the stony-faced dwarf as if he’d just noticed him, and asked, as lightly and casually as he could, “Was there something else?”

Zolf’s nostrils flared. His mouth pursed. For all that he liked to play the stoic, he was actually rather easy to read. That, or Wilde had grown familiar enough with Zolf that he could sense tiny changes in his moods, a thought that both gave Wilde pause and made something warm and comfortable curl up, pleased, in the middle of his chest.

Zolf was still just looking at him. Wilde raised his eyebrows. “Zolf?”

“You need to take a bloody break, alright?”

“I am fine—”

“And,” Zolf continued, trampling all over the end of Wilde’s sentence. “I know how to do hair, so let me.”

Wilde’s mouth went inexplicably dry. He had to swallow twice before he felt like he could speak with anything approaching normalcy. “…What?”

Zolf’s nostrils flared again. Wilde would have smirked if he hadn’t been busy panicking.

“I said…” Zolf began, speaking slowly and clearly, “I’m actually pretty good at doin’ hair. My mum and dad, they—I’ve—well, I’ve had a lot of practice, right? It’s a—dwarves and braids, it’s a whole—” He blushed angrily, even though Wilde hadn’t said anything, and gestured to his own beard. “So… just, let me.”

By the time Wilde had gathered his wits enough to nod, a little dazed, Zolf had already left the room.

Wilde remained sat at the desk, hands pressed flat to its wooden surface to keep them from trembling. He was about to have Zolf’s fingers in his hair. Zolf, who’d been a constant, solid, steady presence in his life for these past few months, obstinate and compassionate and deep-down good and whose wellbeing Wilde was rapidly coming to realise may be crucial to his own, who’d seen Wilde at his lowest and stayed with him anyway, had found Wilde the same week he’d finally accepted his team wasn’t coming back from Rome, and had cradled his broken pieces in his hands and forced him to hope… his head was getting away from him.

Point was, Zolf was about to be touching him. Quite a lot.

…how was he supposed to stand it?

Zolf’s heavy footfalls sounded in the hall, leaving Wilde with very little time to collect himself. Zolf returned to the room, holding a soft-bristled brush, a comb, and—gods—a bottle of his own hair oil. He stood behind a long, low couch, the place where Wilde slept when he couldn’t quite drag himself all the way down the hall to his bed, looking expectantly at Wilde.

Wilde tried to disguise his deep, steadying breath as a sigh of resignation. Despite his best efforts, it still hissed too quickly through his nose. He rose from his chair, spine popping and settling back into place after so many hours of hunching over his work, and he walked to the couch, perching in the middle, right at the edge of the cushion, hands folded neatly in his lap.

From this angle, Wilde was fairly confident Zolf couldn’t see his face. He allowed himself one moment to let his mouth fall open, one unsteady inhale as his fingers spasmed in his lap.

There was a frustrated grunt behind him. “Scooch back a bit, leggy git, can’t reach you from ’ere.”

Wilde swallowed. Settled further into the couch, stretching his long legs out. Rested his neck on the edge and let his head fall back.

And then Zolf’s fingers were there, brushing against the back of Wilde’s neck, and Wilde’s mouth went dry. Thick and gentle, calluses a little rough against Wilde’s skin, he started slowly at first. Took small lengths of Wilde’s hair, separating and lifting them away from his head, holding each lock firmly at the base so the comb didn’t pull as he softly teased out the tangles from the ends.

As he worked, he hummed thoughtfully, sometimes clicking his tongue and making little disapproving noises at the state of Wilde’s hair, sometimes muttering under his breath in concentration, little strings of “now how in the bloody hell did—” and “oh, for the love of—”

Wilde was grateful for Zolf’s noises, because there was a better chance they covered up his own. He had his teeth clamped down so hard on his tongue he tasted blood, trying to stifle the little gasps and back-of-the-throat sounds he refused to call moans, even in his own head. This was utterly ridiculous. Just because it’d been absolute ages since anyone touched him with any sort of kindness—and the person who currently had his fingers buried in Wilde’s hair just so happened to be the same person Wilde had been silently pining after for several painful months—didn’t mean he could completely lose his head.

Zolf worked his way from the ends up to the roots, from the left side of Wilde’s head around the back and to the right. Wilde let his eyes slide half-shut, wanting to luxuriate in the sensation but too on edge to let himself fully relax, sure he would do something truly embarrassing if he didn’t keep a tight rein on himself.

The comb snagged and pulled one particularly tender spot right at the nape of Wilde’s neck, yanking his head backwards. He gasped aloud, hands fluttering reflexively to his throat, knees jerking up below his chin. Zolf’s touch immediately gentled and he hissed through his teeth, muttering, “Sorry, sorry,” as he extracted the comb. Wilde fought to steady his breathing, clenching his fists at his sides.

“It’s fine,” he gasped, aware of how breathless he sounded and unable to do a thing about it.

Really, he was grateful for the pain. It provided a distraction from the truly lovely sensation of fingers in his hair, jolted him back into his body from where he’d been floating, a little untethered. He had to remain focused. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip out.

Soon, his hair felt smooth and lighter-weight than it had in some time, easing a headache he didn’t even know he had until it wasn’t there anymore. Zolf neatly parted it, switching to the soft-bristled brush and running it through each side. The hair curled in warm, gentle waves around Wilde’s face. He let his head tip forward, his breaths evening out as the brush stroked from roots to ends over and over, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Enjoy it now, because this cannot be allowed to happen again. You cannot allow yourself to fall in l—to care too deeply about him or else you are lost, you are compromised, and if you lose him, you will never be able to put yourself back together again—

The hairbrush paused. Wilde surfaced, realising belatedly that Zolf had been speaking to him, and was now waiting for a response.

He managed a questioning “hmm,” aiming for casual and missing by a mile. But anything other than a hum would’ve given away the crack in his voice. He tilted his head back. Zolf’s hands cupped his skull, gently supporting him.

Zolf snorted. Upside-down, Wilde had a great view of his wonderfully-expressive nostril flare. “I said, I’d like to use some hair oil on you. Jus’ didn’t want you startled.”

Wilde hummed an acknowledgement, letting his eyes drift shut again.

The pop of a cork, a quiet glugging, and the room filled with the smell of ginger and orange. Wilde swallowed reflexively. It was the same smell that followed Zolf around, the same oil that the dwarf used in his own hair before he’d cut it short, and still used in his beard.

So now Wilde was going to go around smelling of Zolf whenever he turned his own head. It would drive him utterly to distraction. And Zolf expected him just to be able to handle it?

Sure, it wasn’t as though he’d never entertained the idea of swiping one of the little bottles, sprinkling a drop or two on his wrists or his lapel—or his pillow—and returning it before it was missed. Especially when Zolf had been away on a mission for longer than expected, or, even worse, stuck in the anti-magic cell, and every day of the quarantine Wilde grew more paranoid, more certain that today’s check would be the time he found blue veins in Zolf’s skin, that this would be the day that proved his compan—his partn—his Zolf was gone.

But he’d never actually done it. He wasn’t quite that pathetic, thank you. Not yet. (And if Zolf truly had been turned, and Wilde had killed him, returning to a bed that smelled of him would’ve been… unimaginable.)

When those strong, blunt fingers stroked across the top of Wilde’s head, he did his best not to flinch. Zolf had obviously warmed the oil in his palms, and he smoothed it into Wilde’s hair, fingertips pressing down, digging in, massaging deeply into Wilde’s scalp. The ginger sent tingling warmth through his entire skull and answering shivers down the back of his neck.

Wilde released a held breath, letting his head fall back into the support of Zolf’s hands. He seemed to really be taking his time, giving Wilde one of the best scalp massages he’d ever had. Short nails scratched very gently at Wilde’s temples. Gooseflesh prickled down his arms. The smell of the oil saturated his senses. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open; they kept sliding shut completely without his input, narrowing all of his concentration down to Zolf’s fingers on his skin, Zolf’s smell in his head, Zolf’s care and attention enveloping him. Wilde started tensing and relaxing his thighs, clenching his fingers in the silky material of his trousers just to give himself something else to focus on.

It could have been anywhere from fifteen minutes to twelve days later when Zolf cleared his throat, a little awkwardly, and Wilde forced his eyes open. He felt… good. Almost as though he’d managed to doze off for a bit. His entire body was loose and relaxed, tingling warmth and lassitude in all his muscles. He lifted a hand languidly to his hair, which was smooth and soft, bound up in a loose, messy bun with a strip of cloth.

“Huh… no braid, Mr. Smith? I’m a bit surprised, I must say,” Wilde chuckled, syllables a little slack and rounded at the edges.

Zolf cleared his throat again. “Gotta let it sit first.” His voice was rough.

Wilde flopped his head to look in Zolf’s direction—it was extraordinary, it was like he had no motor control whatsoever. Zolf wasn’t looking at him, apparently totally focused on wiping the oil off his hands with a rag.

“I’ll just… go and get the innkeeper to draw you a bath. You’ll wanna wash your hair after it’s had some time to sit. Then I’ll… yeah. I’ll braid it.”

And Zolf left the room.

Wilde tilted his head back up, looking at the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. He was more relaxed, more at peace than he’d been in… years. Luxuriating in the unfamiliar feeling of being well taken care of, of being given the chance to rest. It wasn’t that any of the problems Wilde needed to fix had gone away, they just… didn’t matter for the moment.

For the moment, he just sat in the middle of a cloud of ginger and orange, and breathed.

[imaginariumpod]

Bright Star : The visualisation of tenderness

This movie is one that I constantly revisit, the beauty and softness of it is something I want to carry with me. The soft colors, the delicateness of the moments that we see, and yet a story that moves hearts. This is the sort of stories I want to be able to tell and this is why I really wanted to write about this film.

I am just going to preface this article by saying that BRIGHT STAR (2009) directed by Jane Campion is one of my all time favorite movies and that I am going to be extremely biased in this article. Now, that this is out of the way, let’s move on to the article. Bright Star is a movie about the love story between John Keats and Fanny Brawne. But ultimately, it is a story about yearning, poetry and loss, at its core, it’s a story about love. Every shot of this movie encapsulates the tenderness and kindness which drives the story and Jane Campion’s directing. This movie is a highly romanticized version of John Keats’ life that centers Fanny and John’s romantic relationship and not necessarily on Keats’ career as a future legendary poet. The angle she chose to tell this story is a very soft and kind one, that is very empathetic toward both its main characters.

I’m going to start by placing the movie in its cultural context as well as in the cinematic industry that was prevailing in 2009 and still is today. Jane Campion is one of my favorite female directors and one I would qualify as an Auteur. Unfortunately, the cinema industry being as it is, I feel like so few women have the standing in the industry as artists that a lot of men have. Not to turn this into an interlude on the inherent inequality of the cinema world at large, but it’s easy to think of male directors that have a certain aesthetic and a recognizable way of making their movies. I’m thinking of Wes Anderson, Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, Guillermo Del Toro etc etc. For better or for worse, those cineasts are known for a certain style of works that is attributed to them . Female cineasts who get to be artists for more mainstream are very few in between, Jane Campion is one of them, but I could also name Anna Biller, Agnès Varda and Greta Gerwig. Women work at all scales of the industry and yet it feels their work is not valued enough for varied reasons. The industry doesn’t want to take A Risk (™) on a  female cineast the way they do with male movie makers. The industry still has so much progress to do when it comes to centering stories made by people that aren’t straight cis white men, the films being produced for a mainstream audience are still majorly directed, produced and written by white men. You only have to see the recent award shows where the best directors nominees were all white men, despite women and people of color  presenting amazing work constantly. Representation is important in what you see in the movies, non-white actors and stories featuring marginalized people, but what is also truly important as well, and I feel isn’t talked as much in the broader discourse about this subject, is how it’s important to have diversity behind the camera as well, whether it’s the director, writer, producer, crew, etc. I think we can safely say that progress was indeed made since 2009, but a female filmmaker being celebrated is still so rare to this day that i feel it’s important to remark on.

Jane Campion was still a celebrated filmmaker, despite having taken a hiatus from the film industry, and Bright Star (2009) did very well. The movie received many awards and nominations in such prestigious institutions such as Cannes or the British Independant Film Awards. Campion describes the film as more intimate than the previous ones she had made  and in this regard, she is right. The way the film is shot and directed brings you closer to the characters and the story. The intimacy and the tenderness is almost overwhelming at times, she uses shots that are both very close and very near to give you a close sense of nearness and intimacy and to convey the emotions the characters are feeling, but also Campion uses a lot of very ethereal and shot. Hands brushing, butterflies flying around while one is lying on the grass,  make  this movie a literal visualization of soft romantic yearning.  

One of the most important things to me in this movie,  is how kind the narrative is toward Fanny Brawne. History hasn’t been kind to her, especially when we know that historians in general (ad im talking precisely white male cis straight historians who have been the ones to mainly write our History) have created the narrative that she was a despicable person, that she was a frivolous woman who didn't deserve to be in the vicinity of their favorite poet, simply on account of her being a woman who was more interested in clothes than rhymes and verses. and maybe she was, but on all accounts, John Keats was terribly in love with her, and she was equally in love with him. I  just want to preface this by saying I would die for keats, I adoooore his poems and his writing and I have his complete works on my bedside table at this very moment.. I feel like its a very special kind of misogyny (or a very mundane one, now that I think about it) where the simple feminine presence of Fanny brawne near John Keats somehow tarnished him. The fact that she loved feminine things was a flaw that she needed to overcome for most male historians, they thought her futile and shallow, simply for the fact that she was a woman who was interested in clothes and delicate pretty things.

But more than that, she was also a skilled seamstress, she made her own clothing and was delightfully creative and hardworking, and the way Campion frames the craft of Fanny in the movie shows how valuable she thinks this skill is. Garment making is a really complex craft that requires skill and time and hardwork and to this day still isn’t valued the way it should be. So it should be no surprise that history, mostly written by male white cis historians, remembers Fanny Brawne as a vapid shallow woman who only cares about clothes. We can see that the character of Charles Brown, who will later be introduced as one close friend of Keats, is a bit of a placeholder for this sort of perspective. He constantly tries to thwart Keats and Brawne’s budding romantic relationship because he doesn’t think Keats should bother with such frivolous affairs. The movie is incredibly kind and tender in the way it showcases how craft, any craft, whether it be sewing or writing poetry, is work and a labour of love, and does not diminish the value of either to the advantage of the other.

John Keats is ofc a central part of this story. Ben Whishaw succeeds perfectly in bringing the tragic poet to life. Whishaw is perfect to play a poet who is about to die of consumption, he’s just very tragic that way. His delivery is perfect and he is the perfect casting for John Keats. (If you have the time, this reading of La belle dame sans mercI by Ben Whishaw is so delicate, beautiful and legit brings tears to my eyes )  I’m sure most of you know the story of Keats, but it’s still very tragic to think about : a  poor and unsuccessful poet who died incredibly young and who never got to truly see how impactful his art would be in the future.  Keats is still remembered today, but he never got the chance to enjoy the success his poetry had, years after his death. He never got to marry the woman he wanted to marry because he didn’t have the means to do it. He created beauty from his words and then died alone in Italy at just 25 years old. It never truly hit me before this year, when I did my annual rewatch of the movie, how young Keats truly was, being now 24 years old at the time of writing this article, it truly was a life that has been cut too short.

The directing of Jane Campion is very deliberate, and i think there’s a vision to this movie that is incredibly powerful and obvious. The movie’s pace is very slow, but I think sometimes we need media that just takes the time to slow down and to just enjoy the scene enfolding in front of us. I’m thinking about some scenes where you can only see Keats sitting on a chair outside. He is writing. The wind is moving through the leaves, the birds are singing in the distance, and Keats is writing. A lot of people would say that the scene is useless when it comes to moving the plot forward, and I guess i would agree, strictly speaking, that it doesn’t do much in terms of moving the plot forward, but it does set the atmosphere wonderfully. You can feel the calmness and the ethereal feeling of Keats’ poetry. Campion scatters moments like these throughout the movie, where she takes the time to slow down and get lost in the moment. It’s something that i particularly adore in media, as life constantly feels like it’s getting away from me, it reminds me to slow down and take the time to breathe.

The delicate colors of the cinematography are another aspect that I think really brings such a soft and tender dimension to the movie. The director of photography for this specific movie is Greig Fraser who also did the cinematography for such movies as Rogue One, Vice, as well Batman film starring Robert Pattinson but we aren’t talking about that atm. The colors that have been used throughout the film are very soft and soothing. Soft pinks and soft greens, as well as deep rich hues of blues and browns. There’s a haziness to this movie that very much feels like being thrown into a poem.

This wouldn't be an article written by me if there wasn't any mention of the costume design. The costume design in this movie is being taken care of by Janet Patterson, who had worked previously on other Campion’s movies (Portrait of a Lady, The Piano). The work she does here is marvelous. She manages to create such a beautiful wardrobe for each of the characters. From the colorful dresses of Fanny Brawne to the outfits of the last extra, everything is carefully thought of, and the attention to detail really stands out when you look at the clothing, from the historical research to how well the costumes fit within the realm of the BRIGHT STAR cinematic universe. John Keats’ outfits, in particular, were particularly delightful, he,s always clad in deep blues and clothes that seem worn and comfortable. Something about these darker blues just seem so melancholic compared to the rest of the costumes, especially in contrast with Fanny Brawne’s brighter dresses.

The last thing I will touch upon is the tenderness of the story in itself, despite how sadly it ends. The love story between John Keats and Fanny Brawne unfolds slowly, and then all at once. Despite all of what they go through, the love and the care they give each other is tremendous. And the times they have to be apart, you feel the yearning and longing for the other as if enveloping the scene. Having to wait for another letter, having to acknowledge that they can’t be together is heartbreaking, especially as Keats is desperately trying to do right by Fanny. They want to get married, but Keats is an unsuccessful poet who is in debt, and Fanny is from an upper middle class family and won’t be allowed to marry beneath her rank. I feel like it’s such a mundane story and yet, it feels world shattering to them, especially the last moments they share when Keats becomes ill and he has to leave for Italy to rest and try to get better, but they both know that it’s probably the last time they’ll see each other breaks me. The tenderness in each movement and each conversation they had was tinged by the heavy weight of saying goodbye one last time.

And then. The letter arrives. With the news of Keats’ death. And his fiancée cuts her hair, dons a black dress. And mourns him.

[gigi-sinclair]

Sins Not Tragedies (rated G, implied Jopson/Little, future Hartnell/Irving)

AKA “Haven’t you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?”

For @theterrorbingo square “there’s nothing to be afraid of.” And it was supposed to also be for @zaphodbeeblebro, but it kind of got away from your prompt, so I’ll do another one for you later!

CW for period-typical attitudes. Title, naturally, from Panic! At the Disco

John Irving is not a fool.

He is no innocent, either, although he knows many people think it of him. He is familiar with the weaknesses of men. He even has sympathy for them. That is, after all, why he sought to rehabilitate Mr. Hickey and Mr. Gibson himself, rather than turn the matter over to the captain, as protocol demanded. His mercy was justified, it seems. Mr. Gibson has not complained of any further assaults, and it does not appear Hickey has turned his deviant attention elsewhere. Perhaps the flogging, unpleasant as it was, proved just the lesson he needed.

This, however, is something else. Rather, it is the same thing, but John cannot possibly react to it in the same way.

Hickey and Gibson are men of the lower ranks, of the lower classes. As is Jopson, for all his extreme familiarity with the captain. In everything, they require a guiding hand, a patient teacher. They cannot be expected to have the capacity to withstand temptation—and John can acknowledge its lure is all the stronger after so long here in the ice—without the help of their moral superiors.  

Lieutenant Little should require no such assistance. The man is a first lieutenant. Soon to be a commander, if the Admiralty hasn't already decreed it. There is no excuse for what John glimpses as he passes the storeroom late one night.

The ship is all but abandoned now. For some reason, all three lieutenants—Little, Hodgson, and John himself—remain on Terror, even though only Lieutenant Le Vesconte and Captain Fitzjames are left on Erebus, but the crew is scant. They have suspended the formal system of watches. Still, the creature is out there, and they must remain on their guard. John comes down from the deck after spending long hours of staring at the ice, alert for the creature from Hell. He should go directly to bed, but he needs a cup of tea to warm him up. He heads for the galley, passing on his way the captain's pantry.

This little room, Mr. Jopson's territory, is usually sealed off from everybody else. Today, the door is ajar. Curious, John approaches, with a mind to shut it if there is nobody within. Instead, he sees what he immediately wishes he had not.

The room is dimly lit by a single candle. It is enough for John to make out the figures of Jopson and Little standing face-to-face, much more closely together than even the small pantry necessitates. Edward's arms are around Jopson's waist, while Jopson's hands rest on Edward's shoulders.

There is nothing inherently scandalous about their placement but, again, John is not a fool. Edward's position is not to prevent Jopson from slipping down the perpetually slanted floor. Jopson, while an attentive steward, is not brushing lint from the lieutenant's lapels. This position speaks loudly and clearly of illicit intimacy, and John at once feels unwell.

Abandoning the idea of tea, John retreats to his bunk.

He has to inform the captain, but, at the moment, Edward himself is captain, and, until now, doing a fine job of it. In all the years they've known each other, Edward has never struck John as weak, or as at all lacking in character or morals. If anything, he is one of the most upstanding officers John has ever met. He is the last person John would have expected to fall prey to such deviant desires. If someone like Edward can fall, John thinks, twisting his hands anxiously, then what hope does anyone else have of resisting?

John sleeps very poorly. In the morning, while he is hungry, he cannot bring himself to go to the wardroom for breakfast. He does not know how he is meant to face Edward or Jopson, how he is meant to make polite conversation with them knowing what he knows. Instead, he buries himself in that which he has always found most comforting: his Bible. It helps little. His mind, quite unbidden, keeps returning to what he saw, and, more salacious yet, that which he did not see, but which was implied.

When a knock comes on the door, John starts. Of course, it is only Gibson, here to help him dress for the day.

“Mr. Gibson,” John begins, as Gibson fastens his stock about his neck.

“Yes, sir?” Gibson looks at him with his wide, pale eyes, and John realizes he does not know what he wishes to say.

He lands on, “Thank you.” It sounds awkward. The way John feels.

“Of course, sir.” Gibson nods and excuses himself, leaving John once again alone with his ceaseless thoughts.

But not for long. Scarcely minutes after Gibson's departure, there is another knock on the door. Mr. Hartnell looks in, the sight of him reminding John, for the first time, that they are meant to meet today.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hartnell,” John says. “I had quite forgotten our appointment.”

“No trouble, sir.” Hartnell looks poised to leave. John can't blame him.

The idea of John helping Hartnell come to terms with the loss of his brother through Bible readings would have been a good one, if Hartnell himself seemed at all inclined to want it. He never has. He comes to John's cabin diligently three times a week, sits and listens to John expound upon the Biblical themes of love and forgiveness, but the fidgeting and the chewing of his thumbnails indicate quite clearly that he longs to be doing something else, probably far away from John. John, unsure how to react to this, has bullied on, convinced he is doing the right thing by offering a subordinate the natural, God-given wisdom of a man of a much higher social position and rank. In the cold light of all he knows now, John has to wonder if he was ever right to interfere at all.

“We ought to stop this,” John says, his heart as heavy as his sigh.

“For today?”

“For good. I am no physician, Mr. Hartnell, nor am I a Biblical scholar. I have offered you all I can. It is time for you to seek solace elsewhere.” Harsh perhaps, but true, for Hartnell's own sake if nothing else. Hartnell's face falls. He is a very handsome man, John notes, not for the first time, and therein lies the true crux of this matter.

John always thought he was immune to Thomas Hartnell's charms, as copious as they are, because of who John is. His faith, his background, his rank, all are sturdy armour against sin. But Edward, while not as overtly religious, is just as Christian, and even more highly placed than John. He, quite obviously, has succumbed the lure of a much lower-ranking man.

Rather than flee as he should, Hartnell steps inside, and casts his gaze across John's walls. “If you don't mind me saying, sir, I've always liked these paintings of yours. That cat's the spitting image of my sister's moggy.” Hartnell nods at one of the paintings. A black and grey cat, it was an experiment in monochrome painting, and not one of John's great successes. “Old Tom, we call him.  It's quite a thing, to have to share one's name with the cat. I suppose I already share it with half the men I meet. The occasional animal oughtn't make much difference.”

John blinks. “In Australia, we had a bull called Red John.” A huge, ornery beast. John hasn't thought of it in years. It was an ill-tempered old thing that fathered more calves than any other in the area. An irony which, at the moment, does not escape this John.

“Well, now, sir. That is a namesake to aspire to.”

Despite himself, John laughs. It makes Hartnell smile in turn, which sends something soaring in John's breast. “You have helped me, lieutenant,” Hartnell goes on. “Even if it doesn't seem like it. I ain't...I'm not half as addled as I was before I started seeing you.”

“That is kind of you to say.”

“It's the truth.” He bites his lip. John immediately looks away. “You are a good man, sir. One of the best.”

John cannot be silent. “You say that because you do not know me.” Does not know the dreams he has been keeping at bay by clinging to his rank, his position. Has not seen the lake of depravity into which John knew—absolutely knew—he would never dip a toe, until he found Edward Little, of all people, splashing about right in the middle of it.

“I think I do.” Hartnell's expression is so earnest, John wonders, for a moment, if he really does see right through him, and, more amazing still, is not utterly disgusted. “I can come back this evening, if you're too busy now. I would very much hate to miss our discussion.”

“Yes,” John hears himself saying. “This evening.” Perhaps everything will be as it was by then. Perhaps the genie will be back in its bottle, and all will be forgotten. Strangely, that thought doesn't make John as happy as he would have expected it to.

Hartnell's smile grows brighter, making him radiant even in the weak Arctic light. “Until tonight, then, sir.” He turns to go.

“Take the painting,” John blurts out. Hartnell stops. His cheeks burning, John takes the monochromatic cat from the wall. “If you like it, that is. Could be something to remind you of home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hartnell gazes at painting as if John has presented him with an artistic masterpiece. It's prideful, but John's heart swells to see it. “For everything.”

When he's gone, John brings out his watercolours. He's not sure what he is going to paint, but despite it all, he has an urge to make something joyful. Perhaps, John thinks, Edward is not an infallible paragon of virtue. Perhaps none of us are. And perhaps, he adds, even though thinking it may well be Arctic madness or the beginnings of scurvy or brain fever or some other deadly malady, it is possible to live on regardless.

[lioninsunheart]

Tuesday Op-Ed---Good Morning/Afternoon Tumblrs!

Ok ... I am sharing what my Friend Dena Lynn wrote about this , more than the article itself!

“” This article was sent to me by a friend, saying that this author reminds him of me.

Initially, I was flattered to be thought of as a strong woman. But then, as I read what this author had to say, I had some strong and immediate objections

Sure, she makes many excellent points. Co-dependence is a lousy and unhealthy way of relating, once we're out of early childhood. We all need to grow up into maturity in order to have healthy relationships as adults.

In many ways, yes, I am a strong woman, and I know myself well, and I know what I want, what I need, and what works for me. I do relish egalitarianism in a relationship, even as I recognize that masculine and feminine traits, in both men and women, are unique. Equal, yet different.

That said, I do take some issue with what's described here. The woman who's being described in this article is a mythological character.

No human being, no matter how much soul work they've done, has all of their shit together. We were all wounded in childhood, to varying degrees. No one escapes childhood unscathed. And we all carry various forms and degrees of unresolved early childhood trauma.

The major difference is in how well we are repressing that, versus how well we are owning and expressing that.

There are layers under layers of ever-deepening levels of unresolved trauma within us. We have basements, and sub-basements, and some of us even have dungeons. It takes an intimate relationship in order to trigger the hell out of each other. Figuratively and literally.

We are wounded in relationship. And we are healed in relationship.

I'm also not a feminist. Any more than I would expect any man to be a masculinist. I'm a humanist. I love being a woman, and I love the differences between men and women. Vive la difference.

This author is doing what so many feminist authors are doing of late, in elevating women, while denigrating men. News-flash: women are not inherently superior and virtuous, any more than men are inherently inferior and villainous.

Perhaps we do indeed attract that which most reflects us, or perhaps I'm simply oddly fortunate, in that I am surrounded by men of a stellar caliber. Men who take their own work seriously, men who own their shit and take responsibility for their own lives.

Men who don't deserve to be spoken to as if they are unruly adolescents in need of a stern lecture.

Thus, I am a humanist, not a feminist. I value each person for who they are, even while I desire to reflect the best of each person back to themselves.

I want people to be exactly who they came to be, and one of my life missions is to inspire everyone I encounter it to see and be who they truly are. And that's a lifelong journey. There's no destination, no arrival point, no expiration date on that journey.

Contrary to the spiritual-bypassing of the "Cult of Positivity's" creed, Independence is not the penultimate human goal. Interdependence is a more noble, more mature, more developed, albeit far more difficult, way of relating to other humans.

Particularly with the intimate relationship, such as is being described here.

Of *course* we need each other. If we didn't, we would each be the solitary inhabitant of our own planet. We need each other in ways we don't dare admit, because that's raw vulnerability, and vulnerability is risky. And this article is all about feigning invulnerability, detachment, and solo Independence. In the name of self-protection. In the name of bypassing the deepest of work.

The crucial distinction is in *how* we need others. I'm not talking about a co-dependent, valid yet juvenile stage of development here, in which we need another for survival.

I'm talking about the grown-ass realization that follows the next stage of development, known as Independence, in which we discover our wholeness, only to then discover that we, as a whole individual, desire, and yes, *need,* the interaction and intimacy with another whole human being, in which to plunge the depths and soar the heights of interpersonal and intimate relating, in ways in which we could not see (due to our dedication to our shadows and blind spots), much less manage, on our own:. Interdependency.

Because we are masters of repressing our unresolved shit during the stage of Independence. It's oh-so-easy to be that solitary guru on the hill, triggered by no one, smug in our self-realizations, untested by the intricacies of intimacy, wherein we hand the beloved a knife, and ask them to perform soul-surgery, sans anesthesia, while simultaneously trusting them to not dissect us alive with that same knife.

Intimate interdependence is not for the faint, nor feint, of heart.

Most won't go there.

So, instead, we laud and applaud the mythology of the independent woman, the independent man, who need no one, who risk nothing, except the ultimate risk of dying with their unresolved trama still safely and subconsciously tucked away in their psychic sub-basement, imagining that their resolute self-protection is a treasured and precious part of their personality.

"Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate." ~ Carl G. Jung

So please don't call me a strong, independent woman.

I am a courageous, tenacious, unapologetically integral, interdependent woman.

Your mileage may vary.

~ Dena Lynn

Victim Focus

https://victimfocus.wordpress.com/2020/01/04/dear-men-so-you-think-you-want-a-strong-independent-woman/?fbclid=IwAR3ZFHuCElka81HPXo7fBqAEEJXsZVSQ3hNZu8gMGS9rEzaTkT7rejeM7JE

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Running Home | 02: The Road

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Smut (eventually), Friends to Lovers

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bangchan x Reader

Warnings: No warnings apply

Summary: A journey consists of three essential parts, even the one proposed by an estranged childhood suddenly showing up at the door after years of absence. Although, perhaps begging to embark on an adventure is better befitting of the situation.

After all, the two travellers might find the destination they could not find themselves at the end of the road, inherently constantly running in circles.

Not anymore.

It is time to go home.

The Setting Off / The Road / The Destination

Masterlist

Proposals are a type of commandment left up to an individual’s own volition to agree to or decline, though circumstances or the person uttering the potential decision can influence judgement regardless. However, it also depends on the relationship at the time and that in and of itself.

 Time.

 ‘Run away with me.’ Platinum locks are pushed back by a haphazard palm that afterwards grabs onto the doorway just above where a startled head is resting to stay grounded, mind going insane due to the lack of logic in the demandingly spoken request. The long oversized sleeve rolls back to reveal a stunning grey and black-toned tattoo of a snarling wolf that covers the biggest part of the left forearm, an animal that is nothing like the docile personality of the kangaroo that was first associated with the childhood friend. 

 Then again, everything has changed.

 We do not know each other.

 Not anymore. 

 The familiar scent of mint mixed with a fresh cologne fills every sense when the long lost friend leans in, faces a few centimetres apart in the tiny space of which the air gradually becomes tense, heart oddly beating in a blind panic thanks to Chan’s begging whispering nearness. ‘Let’s do it. We’ve always wanted to. Now’s the time.’

 ‘It isn’t.’ A step backwards breaks the intimate spell, reason breaking through the mirage of wonderful words reminiscent of the rebellious teenage dreams longing to be wildly liberated and build an empire of ink somewhere in the world. It is a harsh truth, but those goals cannot be pursued anymore as the process of growing up has taught an ignorant girl the ways of reality which have led her to become a freelance editor with financial stability after a good while of struggling. The current point is a good place, certain of professional possibilities on the path taken after completing the bachelor in Creative Writing. Why leave behind such an incredible future after working so hard to achieve it?

 ‘Wha- What do you mean it isn’t? Y/N, while we were apart I did my best to actually create what we thought of together, working shift after shift at crappy jobs to save up for the tattoo studio we would open one day. I finally got the money and found a location, but all that is missing is you. Don’t say you forgot what you promised me, that you don’t remember promising to be my business partner.’

 ‘The old me promised that, Chan. I also worked hard to get where I am now, went through stress and money-related hardships to live here and have a steady career. Congratulations on making it. I’m genuinely happy for you, but I left our dream behind when I realized it wouldn’t work, at least not for me. I’ve grown up, moved on.’ A shivering sigh worsens the increase of homesickness because everything within has become aware there is no way to cure the mental distress. 

 College has cost too much in terms of funds and all-nighters to accomplish assignments or study for tests. The multitude of inherently futile interviews had led to too grand an amalgamation of barely manageable stress that could only have been diminished a tad when starting as a freelancer, fortunately landing on the music company’s project after collaborating on a few smaller yet successful projects. The collection of mangas and books on the shelves of a professional are a proud display of the achieved novel ambition to make people read more. Henceforth, there are factors that make giving up the current life impossible despite the craved reunion with Chris. 

 The offer has to be turned down.

 He has to go.

 ‘You’re lying.’

 ‘I’m not, Chan. Really, I’m happy. I get to do things I hadn’t thought possible, work on projects for big companies. See those bookshelves over there? Those are the titles I worked on.’ A convinced digit points at the shelves spread throughout the apartment which support a variety of volumes resulting from all the paid assignments that have carved the road leading here.

 Successful and free of former worries about even making it this far. 

 Only to end up merely as a name in the credits list.

 To be skipped.

 Like the rest.

 A faceless ghost with a name.

 ‘Y/N,’ the gentle softness in speech tells there is no way to deny the presented lie for the inked wolf sees what lies beneath, as he has always done by reading the mind even when it is not wanted, ‘drop the act and be honest because this pains me to see. You aren’t happy, at all.’

 The unconvincing gesture towards the paperbacks falls away, arms stretching forward in longing for a hug from the regained childhood friend and happily wrapping around the waist when a nod gives consent. The heaviness of existence falls away in the warm comforting fabric of the oversized sweater smelling of minty cologne, lashes fluttering shut when the embrace is lovingly answered by a big palm holding the head against the chest. ‘I’m not, haven’t since you were gone.’ 

 A moment of comfortable silence passes before the hush is broken by a confession that has been known all along, confirmed to be so once more as plush lips place a kindhearted kiss on locks that have missed the contact. ‘I feel safe with you.’

 ‘I’m not letting you go again. I promised to protect you and I will. I’m not gonna leave you behind, never again.’ The shivering suppressed sobs are rubbed away by small digits holding on tighter to dusky clothing, a deep sigh slightly calming a frantic heart. ‘Never again.’

 ‘Shh, it’s alright.’ Nothing more can be said without breaking out into tears as well, simply hiding away into wordlessness to let the simple phrase speak for itself. 

 ‘Please, Y/N. Please, run away with me. Let’s just grab the bare necessities and vanish, start anew. We can get food and additional supplies along the way. Even if you decide to turn back eventually, at least come with me today. Let’s just go.’

 ‘I’m not going to turn back.’ The motion of a thumb wiping the tears from pale cheeks is leaned into, molten chocolate irises twinkling in soothed delight before Chris mirrors the gesture on a dry face not yet broken. However, there is something needful in the manner in which the distance is tried to be breached, distinct from how it used to be done in older days in the increased want for intimacy that was formerly solely joked about, only applicable to the situation whereby the friendship would have been of a deeper meaning.

 Something that has never been.

 ‘You promise?’ A suggestive nod almost results in a brush of lips, but shamefully ends in pulling away and ending the closeness that was willingly given into with retracting fingers leaving behind a strangely disconcerting coldness on the skin. ‘Go... Go get your stuff. Or would you- do you want me to... help?’

 ‘Yeah...’ Although likely not needed, it is a comforting thought, a desire that desperately wants to be fulfilled, to have the platinum-haired boy with the wolf tattoo help with packing what little is needed and already present in this empty home. Henceforth, awkwardly avoiding any type of physical contact in the fairly spacious apartment that stills feels too small to move freely in, a small backpack containing what would be enough for an overnight stay at a friend’s is gathered.

 Withal, there is no way to avoid touching at the surprising sight of the sleek motorcycle which will blend seamlessly into the scenery at nightfall parked on the driveway of the apartment complex. Brows furrow as the knot of digits untangles in favour of inspecting the vehicle up close. ‘You have a motorcycle?’

 ‘Uh, yeah, I do.’ A hand timidly rubs the back of the neck, uncomfortable at yet another paradoxically uncharacteristic element of the returned comrade is brought to the surface touched by Time.

 ‘Well, I trust you’ll get us where we end up needed safely or I’ll come back to haunt your ghost.’ A smirk successfully undoes the fit of strangeness, bringing back the once familiar affection free of the judgment from outside, the prejudices deeming us a couple. 

 A concept that seems oddly pleasant as the joking manner is joined when a helmet is handed over. Well, so it seems to be but just as the object is within reach, it is quickly snatched away to be placed on the head with a loving devilish gaze. Knuckles reach up, which results in the annoyingly impactful patting on the top of the thing to ensure it is securely put in place. ‘Or the other way around.’

 Annoyed, the knuckles are stilled. ‘Stop that! By the way, you’re the driver. Besides, I refuse to let you haunt me.’ 

 Confidence fades away into worry at the registration of there being solely one helmet, gazing questioning at the apparent motor mouse with an underlying fear for his safety. ‘Shouldn’t you wear it?’

 The important inquiry is brushed off with a tender smile on the full lips of slightly tilted platinum locks. ‘Ah, don’t worry. I’ll be careful so you won’t actually get to chance to stalk me forever in ghost form.’

 ‘Chan...’ Fingers rapidly grip the edge of the oversized sweater already getting on the vehicle, holding the fabric up enough to see the top part of a melting Victorian style pocket watch outlined engraved into pale skin.

 Time slipping away.

 As it had from us. 

 ‘You’re still as stubborn as ever. It’s fine, Y/N. Come on, get on and we’ll get going.’ The hold on the clothing is made undone by the wearer gently tugging it out of its current grasp, but it is replaced by a new one in the form of once more entangled fingers when the big calloused palm reaching out is taken after patting on the backseat.

 Soothingly protective, the thumb rubs over the back of the smallest hand as deep brown irises sparkle with the true intention to protect like before had always been the case. We have had always had each other’s backs. ‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’

 But knowing this had never stirred up the same storm as it does now, the stomach tying into an odd expectant knot while cheeks fortunately hidden by the head protection warm up. Regardless of the curious sensations, arms wrap hesitantly around the waist after clumsily sitting down on the passenger seat, clinging like a koala to Chris’s sturdy buff body. 

 Sensing the discomfort, the guarding driver checks at every turn to what extent the distress has grown and occasionally slowing down when noticing the enhanced grip on the middle going paired with an anxious whimper. Thus, the road of flashing streets and open highways leading to an unknown destination is embarked upon.

 Though there is rapidly a stop on it already that makes all the continuous wishes for a car, a probably whole lot safer option, come to a halt at a grand supermarket in the nearest town. Howbeit relieved at being liberated from the insane traffic, it was honestly expected to be travelling at least until twilight colours the sky in a tropical gradient of mango yellow and papaya orange. Even food shopping can be done later since the cold luxurious apartment was not left without taking a few snacks and bottles of water for along the way. ‘What are we doing here?’

 ‘You might have everything you need, but I kinda... went to you unprepared.’ The key turns in the engine, the loud noise of the motor quickly tuning out to vanish completely in the ruckus of chatter against a background of moving wheels.  

 ‘You did what?’ Like a gentleman, Chan extends a supporting hand to take while dismounting the vehicle, monitoring every movement to prevent any accidents. 

 It does not go a smoothly as planned, losing balance regardless of the support point but fortunately getting caught by surprised strong arms. ‘You okay?’ At seeing nothing is the matter after a thorough inspection, tensed shoulders sigh in relief as they relax. ‘I went to you with only a change of clothes, that’s all there is in this big backpack. Moreover, it’s better to do groceries now so we can make some good miles uninterrupted. Who knows where we’ll end up tonight? Wherever it might be, I’d rather have a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush in the least.’ 

 As done many times in the past, strands are fondly ruffled, a cute suppressed giggle betraying the obvious enjoyment of the effect of the irritation the gesture is known to cause. Notwithstanding, as always and strangely more so than before, it is tolerated. Even delighted in, though a blatant display of the whirlwind inside is out of the picture for it best remains hidden among all the other odd sentiments that have come to stir a girl missing her best friend. ‘C’mon, I know you secretly like it when I do this.’

 A roll of the eyes denotes the statement, nullifying the teasing confidence in the transformed yet familiar voice of the young tattoo artist. ‘Keep on dreaming, Chris Bang.’

 ‘You totally like it,’ comes the musing response to the futile verbal counterattack, dark Timberlands easily catching up to the sneakers already on their way to the supermarket. 

 ‘No, I don’t.’ A huff comes from pouted lips, only leading to bubbly laughter from the side that makes the heart melt as it never has before. 

 ‘Yes, you do~’ One hand tucked into the pocket of twilight-shaded ripped jeans, the other comes to rest on the right shoulder and pulls a fellow runaway sturdily against the side. 

 The gesture is answered by an arm snaking around Chan’s waist, holding on tightly out of the irrational fear of any type of separation occurring that will increase the homesickness again. However, the prominent sarcasm in voice hides the anxious thoughts about a premature end of the reunion. ‘Are you really gonna argue like this? How old are you again?’

 ‘The same age as you, although you sound awfully like a grandmother.’

 ‘Oh, grow up.’

 ‘I have.’ And something indescribable in the glimmer of irises signifies the time for joking is over, the sideways contact breaking off to entwine fingers after speaking in a sombre tone with a downcast gaze. ‘Though at times I wish I hadn’t.’

 ‘Why?’

 ‘Because it complicates things, too. Especially how- no, never mind. It’s not important.’ A solemn shake of platinum locks finishes the complete attempt at elaborating on the broken-off sentence, speech lowering to hopelessness as it repeats the heart-wrenching statement. ‘It’s not important.’

 ‘You know you can tell me everything, right? What’s up?’ Whatever is deemed superfluous, it does matter to the one who had to let the problems of the past years unconsciously slide. Finally, there is a chance to find a solution again so each issue can be met head-on either together or solely with a little bit of help.

 Which is denied by a final close to the subject and a squeeze below. ‘Let’s just get what we need and go, Y/N.’

 Not speaking further of the strange behaviour, the pathways lined with food on both sides are navigated while unconsciously switching trolley duty and searching each other when one of the two has wandered to a different section to retrieve supplies for the journey ahead. Of course, as tends to be the natural reaction towards pairs doing their groceries, people throw an inconspicuous glance in our direction while we simply go about while chatting as if there has never been a goodbye. Withal, an uncharacteristic darkness glosses over molten chocolate during the moments a guy without an apparent partner looks in our direction, Chan becoming very touchy by holding hands for no reason, throwing an arm around the shoulders to enhance the intimacy or leaning in as close as possible. 

 The latter happens again when standing in front of the razor section in the drugstore part of the mega shop and a sudden wonder strikes concerning what brand the tattoo artist uses nowadays. 

 The looming presence able to provide a question rising behind the back sends shivers down the spine, though it is not an unpleasant sensation and fuels the want to lean against the buff companion, especially at the sound of an amused hum. ‘Gillette.’

 ‘Huh, what?’

 ‘Gillette is the brand I use. In fact,’ a bright orange packet reading “Gillette Fusion” is taken from the rack and placed in a small palm, ‘this is the one, in particular, I tend to reach to.’

 ‘Good to know for when I have to do groceries for us in the future. For us as friends, naturally.’ The last part is hastily added to not cause any confusion about the status of the current renewed relationship, words coming out in a rapid unbroken stream.

 A seemingly disagreeing muttering responds to the fast additional comment, thoughts gaining a voice howbeit in an incoherent fashion. All that can be gathered from it in terms of intelligibility is the wistful ‘don’t want to’ in the middle of a sentence. Nonetheless, when seeing the curiously raised eyebrow, the former friendly yet oddly protective composure is regained, nodding in a direction away from the current section of the supermarket at the appearance of a possible rival. ‘I think we have everything. Let’s pay and go.’

 ‘Chan, you’re acting weird.’ Reluctantly, broad shoulders are followed as they walk away in the direction of the checkout counter with attention turned unwaveringly towards a point somewhere in the distance. 

 Attention shifts when looking sideways at a tug on the oversized sweater scented with minty cologne which is grabbed in an effort to both halt hasty dark Timberlands and not lose him. 

 Not again. 

 Obviously irritated, a response is nothing short of growled, the fierceness of which instills a paralyzing fear into libs growing suddenly stiff. ‘No, I’m not. What are you on about?’

 ‘Yes, you are. You’re being more affectionate than you’ve ever been, but also more defensive.’ The ice is endeavoured to be knocked off from bones entirely to not lose a sliver of convincing power in the argument about the weird behaviour. In the past contact merely remained at a multitude of hugs and the occasional pat on the head, digits sometimes ruffling hair good-naturedly while proudly grinning.  

 ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not acting anything different from normal.’ Yet the suppressed snarl malforming plush lips tells a different story, revealing the truth underneath the concealing futile lie of normalcy. 

 ‘Then why are we walking away just as another guy passes, eh?’ The last remnant of the abyss between us is breached without letting go of the piece of clothing, the tattooed wolf not tugging it out of the grasp as before, but carefully watching every movement with intent.

 A hand comes to rest on the hip, compellingly guiding the way to the exit, sight ever onwards. ‘He’s got bad intentions.’

 ‘The chap over at the bakery, too?’

 ‘Yes.’

 ‘And in the fruits aisle?’

 ‘They were looking at you weirdly. I didn’t like it.’

 ‘Then what about the dude in the health aisle? Was he a suspicious character as well?’

 ‘He eyed you a bit too much.’

 ‘Chan, for God’s sake, I’m a grown-up woman. I can take care of myself.’ Although not a lie, what has really been done is taking care of myself just enough to keep the homesickness at bay, just enough to actually believe to be able to function as a proper independent adult. The blatant truth is that while the surface has been well-tended to, the foundation has been crumbling since the farewell without any hope of being restored as long as there was a distance filled with questions ripping it apart. 

 ‘We’re on this journey together. You and I form a team, a “we”. There’s no “we” with any of those other men, they’re just individuals who can’t be there nor ever will be there for you as I am!’ The strange outburst at a stop in the open passage to the cash registers resembles the experience of a lonesome soul comically ensuring they are fine while being all but that yet never voicing this. Nevertheless, surely there had been someone for him to fill up the gap created by the tear, a beautiful girlfriend to come home to.

 Notwithstanding, if that had been the case, then why is there a sense of prolonged yearning in the raging? All there is, after all, is friendship, which is made questionable by the passage of time. 

 Unoccupied digits place themselves over the heart in a heavily rising and falling chest, the vibrations of an unintended pleased hum reverberating through them. Curious how such a simple form of contact can calm a scarlet frenzy. ‘Tone down. What are you saying? Don’t tell me you’re actually jealous because that’s delusional.’

 ‘Just forget it.’ Passively aggressively, one hand lets go of the waist to envelop the appeasing digits that are left no choice, holding on to them for the silent remainder of the shopping break as the other pushes the trolley.

 Only upon paying and dividing the additional stock of supplies among us does the touch unravel temporarily and once more when the helmet is securely put into place again.

 And though hating the ridiculous rigidity that has surfaced out of the blue, automatically Chris’s waist is firmly held onto when the motor is mounted to continue the journey. However, muscles tangibly relax as the key turns in the engine, kind genuinely apologetic eyes glancing over a broad shoulder to meet a gaze traced with annoyance at the scene-making earlier though that fades away into forgiving softness at hearing the vocal crack which is tried to be dismissed casually. ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved. It’s just- we’re finally- I mean, it’s us together on this road and I want to see it through. I want for us to be at the end like how we started it, with the both of us by each other’s side.’

 ‘You could’ve made that clear another way, you know?’

 ‘Yeah... Yeah, I know.’ Uncertainty undeniably comes through in the manner in which the handles are rubbed as sight is turned towards the horizon again. ‘I should’ve thought before acting, acted differently. I’m sorry.’

 ‘It’s alright.’ Cheek pressed to the large dark backpack of the driver filled with provisions, the embrace is tightened. Speech lightens as the burden of failure to please, the fear of having messed up thanks to triggering so strong a reaction in a recently reunited with soul, is lifted and thus makes room for pure joyous contentment. ‘I’m here, still your travel buddy.’

 ‘You still like me?’

 ‘I do, Chan. I do still like you.’

 ‘Glad to hear that.’ Regardless of not looking back, the smile undoubtedly beginning to form on plush lips can nevertheless be envisioned. A calloused palm affectionately brushes over the digits firmly forming a knot below as the strange restraining undertone curiously returns. ‘I’m really happy to hear you say that.’

 A chance to respond is nullified by the engine roaring to life, reawakening the instinct to do whatever it takes to survive a new encounter with rampant traffic racing at high speed. Yet, the knowledge of who the guide is and the faith put in him fuels the determination to see it through until the destination is reached.

 Until we are like we were before.

 Somewhere side by side. 

 Not footsteps to be washed away by the waves.

 But those continuing to walk together.

 Never alone.

 Never again.

[theculturedmarxist]

THE popular notion about marriage and love is that they are synonymous, that they spring from the same motives, and cover the same human needs. Like most popular notions this also rests not on actual facts, but on superstition.

Marriage and love have nothing in common; they are as far apart as the poles; are, in fact, antagonistic to each other. No doubt some marriages have been the result of love. Not, however, because love could assert itself only in marriage; much rather is it because few people can completely outgrow a convention. There are to-day large numbers of men and women to whom marriage is naught but a farce, but who submit to it for the sake of public opinion. At any rate, while it is true that some marriages are based on love, and while it is equally true that in some cases love continues in married life, I maintain that it does so regardless of marriage, and not because of it.

On the other hand, it is utterly false that love results from marriage. On rare occasions one does hear of a miraculous case of a married couple falling in love after marriage, but on close examination it will be found that it is a mere adjustment to the inevitable. Certainly the growing-used to each other is far away from the spontaneity, the intensity, and beauty of love, without which the intimacy of marriage must prove degrading to both the woman and the man.

Marriage is primarily an economic arrangement, an insurance pact. It differs from the ordinary life insurance agreement only in that it is more binding, more exacting. Its returns are insignificantly small compared with the investments. In taking out an insurance policy one pays for it in dollars and cents, always at liberty to discontinue payments. If, how ever, woman’s premium is a husband, she pays for it with her name, her privacy, her self-respect, her very life, “until death doth part.” Moreover, the marriage insurance condemns her to life-long dependency, to parasitism, to complete uselessness, individual as well as social. Man, too, pays his toll, but as his sphere is wider, marriage does not limit him as much as woman. He feels his chains more in an economic sense.

Thus Dante’s motto over Inferno applies with equal force to marriage: “Ye who enter here leave all hope behind.”

That marriage is a failure none but the very stupid will deny. One has but to glance over the statistics of divorce to realize how bitter a failure marriage really is. Nor will the stereotyped Philistine argument that the laxity of divorce laws and the growing looseness of woman account for the fact that: first, every twelfth marriage ends in divorce; second, that since 1870 divorces have increased from 28 to 73 for every hundred thousand population; third, that adultery, since 1867, as ground for divorce, has increased 270.8 per cent.; fourth, that desertion increased 369.8 per cent.

Added to these startling figures is a vast amount of material, dramatic and literary, further elucidating this subject. Robert Herrick, in Together; Pinero, in Mid-Channel; Eugene Walter, in Paid in Full, and scores of other writers are discussing the barrenness, the monotony, the sordidness, the inadequacy of marriage as a factor for harmony and understanding.

The thoughtful social student will not content himself with the popular superficial excuse for this phenomenon. He will have to dig down deeper into the very life of the sexes to know why marriage proves so disastrous.

Edward Carpenter says that behind every marriage stands the life-long environment of the two sexes; an environment so different from each other that man and woman must remain strangers. Separated by an insurmountable wall of superstition, custom, and habit, marriage has not the potentiality of developing knowledge of, and respect for, each other, without which every union is doomed to failure.

Henrik Ibsen, the hater of all social shams, was probably the first to realize this great truth. Nora leaves her husband, not---as the stupid critic would have it---because she is tired of her responsibilities or feels the need of woman’s rights, but because she has come to know that for eight years she had lived with a stranger and borne him children. Can there be any thing more humiliating, more degrading than a life long proximity between two strangers? No need for the woman to know anything of the man, save his income. As to the knowledge of the woman---what is there to know except that she has a pleasing appearance? We have not yet outgrown the theologic myth that woman has no soul, that she is a mere appendix to man, made out of his rib just for the convenience of the gentleman who was so strong that he was afraid of his own shadow.

Perchance the poor quality of the material whence woman comes is responsible for her inferiority. At any rate, woman has no soul---what is there to know about her? Besides, the less soul a woman has the greater her asset as a wife, the more readily will she absorb herself in her husband. It is this slavish acquiescence to man’s superiority that has kept the marriage institution seemingly intact for so long a period. Now that woman is coming into her own, now that she is actually growing aware of herself as a being outside of the master’s grace, the sacred institution of marriage is gradually being undermined, and no amount of sentimental lamentation can stay it.

From infancy, almost, the average girl is told that marriage is her ultimate goal; therefore her training and education must be directed towards that end. Like the mute beast fattened for slaughter, she is prepared for that. Yet, strange to say, she is allowed to know much less about her function as wife and mother than the ordinary artisan of his trade. It is indecent and filthy for a respectable girl to know anything of the marital relation. Oh, for the inconsistency of respectability, that needs the marriage vow to turn something which is filthy into the purest and most sacred arrangement that none dare question or criticize. Yet that is exactly the attitude of the average upholder of marriage. The prospective wife and mother is kept in complete ignorance of her only asset in the competitive field---sex. Thus she enters into life-long relations with a man only to find herself shocked, repelled, outraged beyond measure by the most natural and healthy instinct, sex. It is safe to say that a large percentage of the unhappiness, misery, distress, and physical suffering of matrimony is due to the criminal ignorance in sex matters that is being extolled as a great virtue. Nor is it at all an exaggeration when I say that more than one home has been broken up because of this deplorable fact.

If, however, woman is free and big enough to learn the mystery of sex without the sanction of State or Church, she will stand condemned as utterly unfit to become the wife of a “good” man, his goodness consisting of an empty head and plenty of money. Can there be anything more outrageous than the idea that a healthy, grown woman, full of life and passion, must deny nature’s demand, must subdue her most intense craving, undermine her health and break her spirit, must stunt her vision, abstain from the depth and glory of sex experience until a “good” man comes along to take her unto himself as a wife? That is precisely what marriage means. How can such an arrangement end except in failure? This is one, though not the least important, factor of marriage, which differentiates it from love.

Ours is a practical age. The time when Romeo and Juliet risked the wrath of their fathers for love when Gretchen exposed herself to the gossip of her neighbors for love, is no more. If, on rare occasions young people allow themselves the luxury of romance they are taken in care by the elders, drilled and pounded until they become “sensible.”

The moral lesson instilled in the girl is not whether the man has aroused her love, but rather is it, “How much?” The important and only God of practical American life: Can the man make a living? Can he support a wife? That is the only thing that justifies marriage. Gradually this saturates every thought of the girl; her dreams are not of moonlight and kisses, of laughter and tears; she dreams of shopping tours and bargain counters. This soul-poverty and sordidness are the elements inherent in the marriage institution. The State and the Church approve of no other ideal, simply because it is the one that necessitates the State and Church control of men and women.

Doubtless there are people who continue to consider love above dollars and cents. Particularly is this true of that class whom economic necessity has forced to become self-supporting. The tremendous change in woman’s position, wrought by that mighty factor, is indeed phenomenal when we reflect that it is but a short time since she has entered the industrial arena. Six million women wage-earners; six million women, who have the equal right with men to be exploited, to be robbed, to go on strike; aye, to starve even. Anything more, my lord? Yes, six million age-workers in every walk of life, from the highest brain work to the most difficult menial labor in the mines and on the railroad tracks; yes, even detectives and policemen. Surely the emancipation is complete.

Yet with all that, but a very small number of the vast army of women wage-workers look upon work as a permanent issue, in the same light as does man. No matter how decrepit the latter, he has been taught to be independent, self-supporting. Oh, I know that no one is really independent in our economic tread mill; still, the poorest specimen of a man hates to be a parasite; to be known as such, at any rate.

The woman considers her position as worker transitory, to be thrown aside for the first bidder. That is why it is infinitely harder to organize women than men. “Why should I join a union? I am going to get married, to have a home.” Has she not been taught from infancy to look upon that as her ultimate calling? She learns soon enough that the home, though not so large a prison as the factory, has more solid doors and bars. It has a keeper so faithful that naught can escape him. The most tragic part, however, is that the home no longer frees her from wage slavery; it only increases her task.

According to the latest statistics submitted before a Committee “on labor and wages, and congestion of Population,” ten per cent. of the wage workers in New York City alone are married, yet they must continue to work at the most poorly paid labor in the world. Add to this horrible aspect the drudgery of house work, and what remains of the protection and glory of the home? As a matter of fact, even the middle class girl in marriage can not speak of her home, since it is the man who creates her sphere. It is not important whether the husband is a brute or a darling. What I wish to prove is that marriage guarantees woman a home only by the grace of her husband. There she moves about in his home, year after year until her aspect of life and human affairs becomes as flat, narrow, and drab as her surroundings. Small wonder if she becomes a nag, petty, quarrelsome, gossipy, unbearable, thus driving the man from the house. She could not go, if she wanted to; there is no place to go. Besides, a short period of married life, of complete surrender of all faculties, absolutely incapacitates the average woman for the outside world. She becomes reckless in appearance, clumsy in her movements, dependent in her decisions, cowardly in her judgment, a weight and a bore, which most men grow to hate and despise. Wonderfully inspiring atmosphere for the bearing of life, is it not?

But the child, how is it to be protected, if not for marriage? After all, is not that the most important consideration? The sham, the hypocrisy of it! Marriage protecting the child, yet thousands of children destitute and homeless. Marriage protecting the child, yet orphan asylums and reformatories over crowded, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children keeping busy in rescuing the little victims from “loving” parents, to place them under more loving care, the Gerry Society. Oh, the mockery of it!

Marriage may have the power to “bring the horse to water,” but has it ever made him drink? The law will place the father under arrest, and put him in convict’s clothes; but has that ever stilled the hunger of the child? If the parent has no work, or if he hides his identity, what does marriage do then? It invokes the law to bring the man to “justice,” to put him safely behind closed doors; his labor, however, goes not to the child, but to the State. The child receives but a blighted memory of its father’s stripes.

As to the protection of the woman,---therein lies the curse of marriage. Not that it really protects her, but the very idea is so revolting, such an outrage and insult on life, so degrading to human dignity, as to forever condemn this parasitic institution.

It is like that other paternal arrangement ---capitalism. It robs man of his birthright, stunts his growth, poisons his body, keeps him in ignorance, in poverty and dependence, and then institutes charities that thrive on the last vestige of man’s self-respect.

The institution of marriage makes a parasite of woman, an absolute dependent. It incapacitates her for life’s struggle, annihilates her social consciousness, paralyzes her imagination, and then imposes its gracious protection, which is in reality a snare, a travesty on human character.

If motherhood is the highest fulfillment of woman’s nature, what other protection does it need save love and freedom? Marriage but defiles, outrages, and corrupts her fulfillment. Does it not say to woman, Only when you follow me shall you bring forth life? Does it not condemn her to the block, does it not degrade and shame her if she refuses to buy her right to motherhood by selling herself? Does not marriage only sanction motherhood, even though conceived in hatred, in compulsion? Yet, if motherhood be of free choice, of love, of ecstasy, of defiant passion, does it not place a crown of thorns upon an innocent head and carve in letters of blood the hideous epithet, Bastard? Were marriage to contain all the virtues claimed for it, its crimes against motherhood would exclude it forever from the realm of love.

Love, the strongest and deepest element in all life, the harbinger of hope, of joy, of ecstasy; love, the defier of all laws, of all conventions; love, the freest, the most powerful moulder of human destiny; how can such an all-compelling force be synonymous with that poor little State and Church-begotten weed, marriage?

Free love? As if love is anything but free! Man has bought brains, but all the millions in the world have failed to buy love. Man has subdued bodies, but all the power on earth has been unable to subdue love. Man has conquered whole nations, but all his armies could not conquer love. Man has chained and fettered the spirit, but he has been utterly helpless before love. High on a throne, with all the splendor and pomp his gold can command, man is yet poor and desolate, if love passes him by. And if it stays, the poorest hovel is radiant with warmth, with life and color. Thus love has the magic power to make of a beggar a king. Yes, love is free; it can dwell in no other atmosphere. In freedom it gives itself unreservedly, abundantly, completely. All the laws on the statutes, all the courts in the universe, cannot tear it from the soil, once love has taken root. If, however, the soil is sterile, how can marriage make it bear fruit? It is like the last desperate struggle of fleeting life against death.

Love needs no protection; it is its own protection. So long as love begets life no child is deserted, or hungry, or famished for the want of affection. I know this to be true. I know women who became mothers in freedom by the men they loved. Few children in wedlock enjoy the care, the protection, the devotion free motherhood is capable of bestowing.

The defenders of authority dread the advent of a free motherhood, lest it will rob them of their prey. Who would fight wars? Who would create wealth? Who would make the policeman, the jailer, if woman were to refuse the indiscriminate breeding of children? The race, the race! shouts the king, the president, the capitalist, the priest. The race must be preserved, though woman be degraded to a mere machine, --- and the marriage institution is our only safety valve against the pernicious sex-awakening of woman. But in vain these frantic efforts to maintain a state of bondage. In vain, too, the edicts of the Church, the mad attacks of rulers, in vain even the arm of the law. Woman no longer wants to be a party to the production of a race of sickly, feeble, decrepit, wretched human beings, who have neither the strength nor moral courage to throw off the yoke of poverty and slavery. Instead she desires fewer and better children, begotten and reared in love and through free choice; not by compulsion, as marriage imposes. Our pseudo-moralists have yet to learn the deep sense of responsibility toward the child, that love in freedom has awakened in the breast of woman. Rather would she forego forever the glory of motherhood than bring forth life in an atmosphere that breathes only destruction and death. And if she does become a mother, it is to give to the child the deepest and best her being can yield. To grow with the child is her motto; she knows that in that manner alone call she help build true manhood and womanhood.

Ibsen must have had a vision of a free mother, when, with a master stroke, he portrayed Mrs. Alving. She was the ideal mother because she had outgrown marriage and all its horrors, because she had broken her chains, and set her spirit free to soar until it returned a personality, regenerated and strong. Alas, it was too late to rescue her life’s joy, her Oswald; but not too late to realize that love in freedom is the only condition of a beautiful life. Those who, like Mrs. Alving, have paid with blood and tears for their spiritual awakening, repudiate marriage as an imposition, a shallow, empty mockery. They know, whether love last but one brief span of time or for eternity, it is the only creative, inspiring, elevating basis for a new race, a new world.

In our present pygmy state love is indeed a stranger to most people. Misunderstood and shunned, it rarely takes root; or if it does, it soon withers and dies. Its delicate fiber can not endure the stress and strain of the daily grind. Its soul is too complex to adjust itself to the slimy woof of our social fabric. It weeps and moans and suffers with those who have need of it, yet lack the capacity to rise to love’s summit.

Some day, some day men and women will rise, they will reach the mountain peak, they will meet big and strong and free, ready to receive, to partake, and to bask in the golden rays of love. What fancy, what imagination, what poetic genius can foresee even approximately the potentialities of such a force in the life of men and women. If the world is ever to give birth to true companionship and oneness, not marriage, but love will be the parent.

[katiewattsart]

WEIRD&WONDERFUL INTRODUCTION

03/10/19

PHOT201

WEIRD & WONDERFUL

-       40 credits

-       Broad – can take anywhere

-       Develop a sense of narrative – embedded  

-       Advance technical skills

-       Self-reflective regarding my practice

-       Ideas – why?

-       Think of outcome

-       Think about timing

Tableaux & Staged narrative

Jean- Baptiste Greuze, The Village Bride, 1761 

Tableau is used to describe a painting or photograph in which characters are arranged for picturesque or dramatic effect and appear absorbed and completely unaware of the existence of the viewer. The term was first used in the eighteenth century by French philosopher Denis Diderot to describe paintings with this type of composition. Tableau paintings were true to life, and had the effect of, transfixing the viewer like never before. In the 1970s, a group of ambitious young artists like Jeff Wall and Andreas Gursky began to make large format photographs that, like paintings, were designed to hang on a wall. As a result, these photographers were compelled to engage with the very same issues revealing the continued relevance of the tableau in contemporary art.

French – living picture

They are stationary and silent, usually in costume, carefully posed, with props and/or scenery, and may be theatrically lit.

Photographic tableaux viands, became inspired by the popular Victorian parlour game in which costumed participants posed to resemble famous works of art or literary scenes.

The genre paintings of 17th- century Dutch masters Johannes Vermeer and Pieter de Hooch fascinated Guido Rey. He carefully studied the paintings and then arranged similar tableaux for his camera. His photographs captured equally serene domestic scenes and mimicked the minute architectural details of 17th- century interiors, such as the leaded-glass windowpanes and the checkerboard floor.

Johannes Vermeer The Glass of Wine 1658–1660 

Guido Rey 1910 platinum print 

Tom Hunter, The Glass of Wine, 1997

Oscar Gustave Rejlander was specialised in the tableau vivant, photographs based on carefully staged, costumed and posed scenes to convey a specific message. His most famous piece Two Ways of Life from 1857 is an allegory depicting youth torn between the staid rewards of the virtuous life and more obvious temptations of sensual abandon.

Two Ways of Life,1857, printed 1920s, Oscar Gustav Rejlander 

The Two Ways of Life was one of the most ambitious and controversial photographs of the nineteenth century. The picture is an elaborate allegory of the choice between vice and virtue, represented by a bearded sage leading two young men from the countryside onto the stage of life. The rebellious youth at left rushes eagerly toward the dissolute pleasures of lust, gambling, and idleness; his wiser counterpart chooses the righteous path of religion, marriage, and good works. Because it would have been impossible to capture a scene of such extravagant complexity in a single exposure, Rejlander photographed each model and background section separately, yielding more than thirty negatives, which he meticulously combined into a single large print.

Perfecting the idea of combination printing, Henry Peach Robinson combined several negatives to construct the desired image. His most famous photograph is Fading Away from 1858 where he combined five separate negatives to produce the intimate narrative of a dying girl surrounded by her family. Photographic historians often dismissed the theatrically arranged salon and tableau photography of the 1850s as a misguided use of an inherently realistic medium.

Henry Peach Robinson – Fading Away, 1858

The 1970s ushered in a period of conceptual photography that played with process. The emphasis on arranging and constructing an image set the stage for a resurgence in staged photography. Terms such as “narrative,” “storytelling,” and “story creation” were once again part of the medium’s vernacular. Work became more theatrical as photographers exposed the artifice of making a picture. By the 1980s, the arranged, constructed, and staged photograph was once again popular. Like the Victorians and Pictorialists before them, photographers approached their work like a film director, moving from a developed idea or “script,” then constructing set and assembling costumes, props, makeup, and performers to create fictional events from history, legend, mythology, and daily life. Somerville, 2017

The Destroyed Room, 1978. Jeff Wall. 

A pioneer of the genre, Jeff Wall makes large-scale colour images that seem to capture people engaged in everyday life, but are in fact largely staged. He describes his work as cinematography, boiling it down to preparation, doing things in advance before taking the picture, and collaboration, having contact with people being photographed.

A Sudden Gust of Wind (after Hokusai), 1993 

Jeff Wall, Pair of interiors, 2018 

Much of 20th century, photography was about catching the decisive moment. Yet, this “decisive moment” can also be created by artificially constructing scenes for the purpose of photography only. Rather than capturing the moment, artists make specific choices when staging their images. By consciously placing elements and arranging compositions, they create the events, environments or emotions. The artist, in addition to their role as a photographer, also becomes a director, stage and costume designer, make-up artist and possibly performer as well.

Jeff Wall , After "Invisible Man" by Ralph Ellison, the Prologue 2000. 

Duane Michaels, another of the pioneers of staged photography, is famous for creating narratives within a series, blending an image with text in a format similar to cinematic sequences. Additionally, he often worked in his studio with staged models. He believes that what he cannot see is infinitely more important than what he can see. He said he did not have to walk around looking for something to take a picture of since it was already in his head.

Things Are Queer, 1973 

Paradise Regained, 1968 

The staged scenes of Cindy Sherman were something of an innovation. Emerging just before the term “staged photography” was coined in the 1980s, she posed herself as a variety of characters to comment on the female roles defined by society and reveal gender as an unstable and constructed position.

“I think of myself as an artist, not a real photographer. In a way I am a performance artist. I was influenced more by performance art than photography or painting. The image is my own performance, and I am documenting myself”.

Sherman.

Sherman is famous for her use of make-up, costumes, props and prosthetics to create complex and ambiguous photographic images. She invents fictitious characters, photographing herself in imaginary situations, inhabiting a world of pure appearance.

“Her imagery is based on film, fashion, and other popular culture forms, and her characters have ranged from realistic to seemingly familiar to absurd – while each being fictitious.”-

Rochelle Steiner. Chief Curator & Director of Curatorial Affairs and Programs, Palm Springs Art Museum

Philip-Lorca diCorcia, Hollywood series (also known as The Hustlers) in an area of Santa Monica Boulevard, Hollywood, frequented by male prostitutes and drug addicts. The photographs are a unique mix of documentary and fantasy. Having set up the scene for each picture, diCorcia would find a man on the street and offer to pay him to appear in the photograph. The sitter's name, place of birth and the amount paid form each title. The careful staging of light is central to diCorcia's aesthetic. For the Hollywood series, he put his camera on a tripod and used artificial and flash lighting to supplement the Los Angeles evening skies. This creates a twilight effect, with rich details and heightened colour, which bathes the sitters with a kind of exotic allure.

Gerald Hughes (a.k.a. Savage Fantasy); about 27 years old; Southern California

'It might be said that twilight is a muddled form of clarity. The warm glow that suffuses the ' golden hour' in Los Angeles acts to filter the grim realities, the outright lies, the self- deceptions, which allow Hollywood, and by extension, America to flourish. 'Twilight' provides the rose-coloured glasses that make it possible to see out but not see in.’

Philip-Lorca diCorcia

Ike Cole; 38 Years Old; Los Angeles, California; $25, 1990-92 

Nighthawks, 1942 by Edward Hopper 

Philip-Lorca diCorcia, W, March 2000, #12 (from Cuba Libre), 2000 

Hannah Starkey

Using actors within carefully considered settings, Hannah Starkey’s photographs reconstruct scenes from everyday life with the concentrated stylisation of film. Starkey’s images picture women engaged in regular routines such as loitering in the street, sitting in cafes, or passively shopping. Starkey captures these generic ‘in between’ moments of daily life with a sense of relational detachment.

Her still images operate as discomforting ‘pauses’; where the banality of existence is freeze-framed in crisis point, creating reflective instances of inner contemplation, isolation, and conflicting emotion. Through the staging of her scenes, Starkey’s images evoke suggestive narratives through their appropriation of cultural templates: issues of class, race, gender, and identity are implied through the physical appearance of her models or places. Adopting the devices of filmography, Starkey’s images are intensified with a pervasive voyeuristic intrusion, framing moments of intimacy for unapologetic consumption.

Hannah Starkey, Untitled - October 1998 

Hannah Starkey, Untitled - May 1997 

‘Untitled’, May 1997 

Christian Tagliavini

Tagliavini takes inspiration from three of Verne’s most popular works: Journey to the Center of the Earth, From the Earth to the Moon, and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Tagliavini’s photographs invoke, rather than directly recreate, the novels, translating the atmosphere of Verne’s words into moody sets where people pose severely and mysteriously.

Sharbendu De Imagined Homeland

Rejecting colonial documentary methods, this photographer tells the story of Arunachal Pradesh’s Lisu people by harnessing mythological symbolism in his cinematic stills.

Marilyn Mugot – Night Project 

“As a huge fan of science fiction cinema from the 90s, I wanted to apply this aesthetic to Chinese landscapes,” says Mugot, of her latest series, Night Project. Referencing the post-apocalyptic worlds found in Hollywood blockbusters such as Blade Runner and Total Recall, she explains that the neon signs lining the streets of Chinese cities, which “are practically no longer made in the West”, lent themselves to her recreation of these dystopian futures: “China inspired me because it is a country in full mutation on all levels – architecturally, economically and culturally."

Gregory Crewdson – Twilight 

'I have always been fascinated by the poetic condition of twilight. By its transformative quality. Its power of turning the ordinary into something magical and otherworldly. My wish is for the narrative in the pictures to work within that circumstance. It is that sense of in-between-ness that interests me.’

Gregory Crewdson

Miles Aldridge

Works like an auteur filmmaker. His many influences include film directors such as David Lynch and Federico Fellini: photographer Richard Avedon and the psychedelic illustrations of his father, Alan Aldridge. Each image is immaculately crafted, often starting with story-board drawings so that the final image lies somewhere between cinema and photography.

Home Works #7, 2008 

Chromo Thriller #2, 2012 

Gary Salter

Exploring the human condition through glimpses of what most would consider mundane, and finding instead characters that are fundamentally relatable, revealing the remarkable in the unremarkable. He enjoys travelling and documenting situations and everyday people, finding inspiration and a story in the unobserved.

Julia Fullerton-Batten Old Father Thames

As a teenager I moved from Germany to live in Oxford on the banks of the River Thames, though the stretch of the river there is called Isis. The Thames has been a fascination for me ever since. I now live in West London but am still just a short walk from the river. Its constantly changing face with the tide and the seasons, the activities on and around the river are for me compulsive viewing and inspiration. But above all there is the history of the Thames along its entire length with an infinite variety of stories that encompass birth, baptism, death, flooding, sun-bathing on the shore, the stories of the ‘Ladies Bridge’, messages in a bottle, riverside scavenging youngsters, prostitution, damaged masterpieces, and countless other whimsical, idiosyncratic and tragic happenings.

1814 Frost Fair, Contortionist 

My own fascination with the Thames has now taken a more concrete form. I have made it into a project and am in the process of choosing, researching and photographing a selection of cultural and historical narratives from along its banks. The result to-date is my still unfinished work – Old Father Thames.

ANNETTE KELLERMAN, 2018

SWEET MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE, 2018

Married and father of a baby daughter, Private Thomas Hughes had boarded a troopship in September 1914 to go to fight with the Third Army Corp Expeditionary Force against the Germans . An extravagant whim encouraged him to write a message to his young wife and place it in a green ginger beer bottle with a screw-on rubber stopper bottle and throw it into the sea.

The message said: “Dear Wife, I am writing this note on this boat and dropping it into the sea just to see if it will reach you. . . . . Ta ta sweet, for the present. Your Hubby.”

He also wrote a covering letter: “Sir or madam, youth or maid, would you kindly forward the enclosed letter and earn the blessing of a poor British soldier on his way to the front this ninth day of September,1914. Signed Private T. Hughes, Second Durham Light Infantry.”

Thomas died in battle two days later, aged 26. His final words written 85 years previous remained unread until in 1999 when fisherman Steve Gowan scooped the bottle up in his net as he fished for cod in the Thames Estuary off the Essex coast. The note was still dry and intact.

Private Hughes’s wife, Elizabeth, had died in 1979, 20 years before the bottle was found. Their now 86-year-old daughter, Emily, pleaded with Mr. Gowan to return the letter to her. She was only two years old when she last saw her father as he headed off to battle. Her reasoning was: “It is too late for the letter to be opened by the person it was intended for, but the next best thing is for it to be handed to his daughter. It’s incredible that something lying on the seabed for almost a century has survived intact for so long”.

MUDLARKERS, 2018

In Victorian times, when it was low tide on the River Thames in London, it was a common sight to see groups of dirty, ill-clad, barefoot young boys and the occasional girl foraging on the muddy, slippery foreshore of the river. Moving on calloused feet they scavenged for anything brought up on the river that they could sell. They were aptly named Mudlarkers. Their booty might be merely wood, coal, rope or bones, truly rubbish, but if they were lucky, they could find something of higher value, perhaps buttons, coins, objects of historical value, and very occasionally, precious metal items.

Mudlarkers belonged to the poorest among society, maybe homeless orphans or children of large, destitute families. Sometimes they were joined by the elderly, also penniless, who hoped to find enough to pay for a small meal or for alcohol. Mudlarker kids were still active on the Thames until early in the 20th century. Modern day Mudlarkers go mudlarking as a hobby.

They explore the muddy, shoe-sucking shores of the Thames better clothed, well shod and use metal-detecting and other sophisticated equipment to help them make their finds.

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[other-animals]

2018-06-23

Scientific name: Elephas maximus indicus Common name: Indian Elephant

I arrive at the “Elephant Community Center” just in time to see several of its residents get fed. Three of the National Zoo’s six elephants are here, one in one corner and two in the other, all presumably seeking shade from what is shaping up to be a stickier-than-average day for early June.

The Elephant Community Center has a similar sort of institutional feel to its human equivalent, the kind of place that has vomit-colored linoleum floors and bulletin boards lined along their edges with crinkly store-bought trim and peppered with ads for pet sitters and piano lessons. The elephant incarnation of this is not unlike a warehouse, with hydraulically operated sliding doors that lead to the outdoor enclosures and a long dirt ramp separating the occupants from their audience. The zookeepers use this ramp as a proscenium of sorts, jogging back and forth in khaki shorts and polos lugging enormous tubs of fruits and forage, fielding questions from errant toddlers along the way. On the far wall someone has smeared some mud into the shape of a heart, an unintended nod, it seems, to the notion of an elephant bulletin board.

The elephants are looming behind a hefty cable fence, looking vaguely in this context like boxers against the ropes. Their heads, approximately the size of small weather balloons, are crowned by two symmetrical lumps at the fore of the skull, a formation that suggests cartoonishly bulging brains. Their trunks, projecting downwards with a limpness that belies their muscularity, are of a length calibrated to drag gently along the ground when at rest—though they are almost never at rest and instead are usually waving through the air, tentacle-like, touching this here and that there with all the whimsy of a toddler in a gift shop. Their state of near-hairlessness, which would, I’m sure, be horrifying if it occurred in paler tones, is somehow made innocuous by their uniform grayness, which lends them both a solemnity and a geological semblance, as though they were rudely carved from river rock. According to one keeper, all the elephants here are female, a designation that can be discerned by counting the number of protuberances on the tip of the trunk. Of the two directly in front of me, the one on the left is significantly larger than the one on the right, who is apparently nearly seventy years old and came to America in the 1960s as a gift from—the keeper tells us—“the children of India.” (How or why this child-initiated feat of international diplomacy was accomplished is not, to my mind, satisfactorily explained, though the same factoid is repeated on multiple plaques and infographics around the zoo.)

Children—I am contemplating, as kids of multiple shapes and sizes press around me, gurgling and screaming and waving their arms—are supposed to like animals; such a liking is encouraged and even enforced. As a child, one’s clothing is adorned with animals; the characters in the books one reads are animals; the stuffed toys one sleeps with at night are animals. The zoo is above all a place for children, a fact that is becoming all the more clear to me as a single woman in her late twenties surrounded, at this moment, by a burgeoning crowd of families, not merely nuclear but emphatically extended: grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, cousins and stepparents, teenagers and infants, all taking cell phone photos of themselves and each other, all bickering and wiping noses and having variations on a conversation like this:

Parent: “See the elephant? Wow! See the elephant?” Child: “It’s so big!”

One girl, witnessing an elephant moving a clod of dirt with its trunk, yells out with more excitement than disgust, “He’s eating poop!” while her father, sensing a teachable moment, rejoins, “We don’t eat poop, do we?”

Adults, after all, are not supposed to like animals, at least not in the way that children like animals—not wholeheartedly, not obsessively, not in a tumultuous, proto-romantic way. Adults should like animals civilly and calmly, with detachment and humor, with an understanding that the line between “us” and “them” is firm. Those with the audacity to breach this boundary must be censured, with women of course bearing the brunt of our consternation—witness the scorn heaped on “cat ladies” and “horse girls,” while men and their dogs are exalted, even admired, their proud, manly relationship anthologized in countless books and films. It is, at least in part, the sexlessness of children that absolves them from the stigma of loving animals too much, and one wonders—at least I have, in certain moments—whether men experience the female love of animals as a tacit threat of sorts, requiring immediate mockery and shame lest women should flee into the arms of, oh I don’t know, an elephant.

There is, I’ll admit, a seeming gentleness there, and certainly nothing more alien than you can find in the eyes of a man who has stopped loving you. The keepers—there are three, one per elephant—have begun their feeding ritual, which is fascinating in its intricacy and tailored, apparently, to each individual elephant’s needs. They begin by emptying a dry quart or so of what look like pink lozenges into a bucket, which they administer to the elephants in two different ways. The younger elephant on the left has them placed into her trunk, which she then delicately lifts and inserts into her mouth; the older elephant has them placed directly into her mouth by the keeper, who takes a handful of lozenges and reaches her arm up to the elbow into her charge’s waiting maw, holding it there dutifully until its contents have been accepted and swallowed down into the gray depths below. From my vantage—I am only twenty feet or so away—I can see an almost unsettling amount of detail: the way the elephants’ mouths are almost puppet-like in nature, with the pinkness of their tongues seemingly attached on all sides, more of a smooth muscle lining than an organ per se. The lower lip, rather than “closing” the mouth, dangles down in a long, fleshy taper—suspended, perhaps, in prehistoric time, decorated at its nadir with a wiry tuft of hair. Such a mouth is inherently, inchoately clumsy, with a comedic tendency to spontaneously release its contents; this is an animal that eats inexactly, abundantly, with anatomically enforced abandon.

The lozenges—which I later learn are called “leaf eater biscuits,” high fiber protein bars formulated for zoo animals whose first few ingredients are soybean meal, corn gluten meal, soybean hulls, and sugar beet pulp (which explains the weird pink color)—are followed by a series of fruits and vegetables that can’t possibly resemble the elephants’ native diet and seem instead to be whatever was on sale in the produce section at Costco: an entire green pear, a stem of broccoli, half an extra-large carrot, a whole raw sweet potato, two red delicious apples, one granny smith apple. These are followed by a measured amount of “Triple Crown Grass Forage”—I read the name off the bag as it’s emptied into a bucket—which, for the younger elephant, is eaten straight, and for the older elephant, is mixed with water and administered as a kind of grassy porridge, delivered handful by handful as one would feed a baby, a human handful resembling (to an elephant) a spoonful.

I feel mesmerized by this process and its methodical, almost clinical intimacy, the keeper on the right reaching over and over into the vulvar folds of the older elephant’s mouth, speaking quietly and conversationally as she does so—not baby talk, just regular talk, although I can’t make out the words. I am thinking about the extreme and shocking violence of captivity, trying to square it in my head with the necessity of caretaking, the way that you have to treat something nicely if you never intend to set it free. I have slept with men who treated me exactly in this way, their artful violence obscured by calm rituals of caretaking: the drinks that were paid for, the hands that were held, the doors that were opened, the stories that were listened to, and me all the while rattling around the cage of their good intentions.

I am over-identifying with the elephants, maybe; I am finding them too relatable. Their immense and impossible wildness is getting lost in my comparisons. They have walked through the world’s last remaining rainforests; they have known danger and suffering I will never understand. But wasn’t it Thoreau that said “It is vain to dream of a wildness distant from ourselves. there is none such.” The wildness in me greets the wildness in you. If I could I’d set you free.

[faithisaverb]

Why aren’t there modern-day prophets? [40 Days of Questions, Q19]

Q19:  Why aren’t there any modern-day prophets? (or are there?)

This is a great question, and there’s a little bit of nuance to it.  The simple answer is Yes, there certainly are modern day prophets.  The real question is where they are, and who actually recognizes them as prophets.

To really approach this, we have to first note two things about Biblical prophets: 1. Nobody liked them.  They were offensive, intentionally so, and had a message that challenged the established culture and those in power, so it was easier for people to dismiss them as crazy than to heed their prophecies. 2. Prophets weren’t around all the time.  Even in the Old Testament time of the prophets, there are large gaps where there are no known prophets listed.  The gap between Elisha and Jonah (the next chronological prophet) is well over 70 years.  The time between Zechariah and Malachi (the last two prophets named in the Old Testament is nearly 100 years.  Then there are no prophets (or anything) following Malachai until John the Baptist, which is 425 years later.  To put that into perspective, the time between the end of the Old Testament (with Malachi the prophet) to the beginning of the New Testament (with John the Baptist serving the role of prophet) is a greater span of time than the time between today and when the pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock.

So prophets, even in the bible were not a commonplace occurrence, and even when they were around, they were actively ignored or dismissed because of their offensive messaging.

But God is still speaking. And remembering that the prophets almost without exception were voices that spoke out against the cultures of affluence and systems of inequality in their contexts, I’d say that the prophetic voices today that are speaking truth to power are ones that are equally derided and dismissed, just as Biblical prophets were.

In our modern context, one of the places where these prophetic sounding voices are most prominent are in hip-hop and rap culture.  Artists like Chance the Rapper, Kendrick Lamar, and J Cole (and many others) often deal explicitly with Christian themes and struggles, even naming them as such.  The deal with themes struggles with how to be a Christian in the context of their everyday life.  How can my belief change my actions?  This is the struggle of all Christians.  It is relatively easy to believe in Christ.  It is hard to live a life that demonstrates that belief. The problem for many though is that they do this in an inherently explicit way, with language that reflects a truth of the pain and the struggles that one encounters in the midst of these challenges of faith.  

So, in the church, we do not want to hear these songs – at least not with this language. Many of these songs are blatantly about God, faith, and life, but it is not be endorsed by most Christians because the artists so freely employ profanity in their expressions of faith.

The problem with this type of dismissal of explicit themes and language is that the bible is full of explicit themes and language, yet we often read from translations that sanitize this language, and muting the emphasis of what the scripture is trying to say.  The prophets are offensive on purpose.

Paul literally says “sh*t” in Philippians 3. “If anyone else has reason to put their confidence in physical advantages, I have even more: I was circumcised on the eighth day.  I am from the people of Israel and the tribe of Benjamin.  I am a Hebrew of the Hebrews.  With respect to observing the Law, I’m a Pharisee.  With respect to devotion to the faith, I harassed the church. With respect to righteousness under the Law, I’m blameless.  But even beyond that, I consider everything a loss in comparison with the superior value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. I have lost everything for him, but what I lost I think of as [sh*t], so that I might gain Christ.” The Greek word he used (the New Testament was originally written in Greek) was “Skubalon” which is a word referring to human excrement, but in used in a shocking way to describe something that is not only worthless, but revolting.

So, sh*t.

Paul is trying to tell us how great he was, how much he had to be proud in himself, to brag about what he had accomplished.  But now, he sees that all of that was sh*t – not just “worthless” or “rubbish” or whatever innocuous word we usually translate it as, but “sh*t.” Paul wants us to be offended. Paul wants us to be shocked.  The list he gave is a list that anyone would be proud of, but Paul wants us to know how little all of that matters, that nothing we do is worthy of striving for if it is not of Christ.  Only Christ can save us – all else is, as Paul would say it, “sh*t.”

By the way, I do realize the irony of posting about how sensitive that we are to profanity in the church, while not actually posting the full swear words myself.  Alas.

Ezekiel and Song of Solomon are books that in their original Hebrew form were so sexually explicit that in Hebrew tradition, men were not able to read these books until they turned 30 (and women were never allowed to read them).  Ezekiel uses harsh language to tell a harsh message – to make a point about how big of a deal this is.  Song of Solomon uses explicit language to communicate a deep intimacy that only is shared between two lovers.  This is meant to be shocking and startling. We have lost the sense that the Bible is allowed to create a tension or make us uncomfortable with how frank it is.  We have softened the language enough that it is no longer something that is abrasive. The problem in the church is that we have not only done this with the language of the bible, but also with the challenge of Christ. We have allowed the Gospel to be something that has been shaped and manicured into fitting nicely into out American culture of success.  It has allowed us to read passages about caring for the poor, welcoming the stranger, and freeing the oppressed, and not see any conflict with our culture of affluence, security, and self-preservation. The Gospel should be offensive to our lifestyle. We should not leave church thinking “I knew it! We are the ones who have figured it out!  Thank goodness we are not like them!”

Church should challenge us.  As Paul says, the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but the power of God to those who are being saved. If you are living a life that is focused on building yourself and your family up as much as possible, about earning enough to have a comfortable life, to live without struggling, then Jesus call that you would “sell all that you have and give it to the poor” is not only foolish, it is offensive. So we have twisted the Gospel into something that is not challenging, not offensive. We have made it so our wealth is not something God has entrusted us with that we could bless others with, but a sign of God’s love for us that God wants us to keep for ourselves and enjoy.  This is called the “Prosperity Gospel.”  This is the gospel of American culture, that God loves you so much that he wants you to have private planes and mansions and a fleet of cars.  This is not the Gospel of Christ.

The Gospel of Christ is a challenge to that.  This is not to say that you cannot be wealthy or have comforts and follow Christ, but it is saying that the more that you have the more difficult it can be.  The more money we have, the more we can think that we deserve it, and the more we feel like we need to protect it. We then often use that money to protect ourselves rather than to use it to bless others. The offensive part of the prophets who are speaking through hip-hop is not the language. The offensive part is that we can hear this message of a true struggle to live a life of faith in an environment of sin, songs of lament for a world in which young men are killed because our world is broken – and all we take away is that the song says the “F-word.” We need to hear the voice of the prophets in scripture, even though those voices are more often convicting us than commending us.  We need to hear the voice of the prophets of today, standing outside our doors asking for help as we are bolting the locks for fear that this stranger would attack us or steal our fortune.

God is calling us to care about one another. God is calling us to take part in the change that God is bringing into this world.  We need to know that this change is as much about change our own hearts and minds as it is about changing the systems of oppression that we have created. The Gospel is not something that can be overlaid across our way of life.  It is something that will dismantle our paradigm.  It will ruin our plans and destroy our sense of value and control. It will show us that everything we have been building ad hoarding and saving up is garbage.

But what the Gospel offers in return is better than anything we have. It is life.  It is hope.  It is forgiveness.  It is relationship and reconciliation. And after all, as Paul reminds us, to gain Christ is worth losing all of that other bullsh*t.

[sparkpulse-blog]

Let’s Talk Headcanons: Sparkmates and Spark-binding

So lately I’ve been getting the urge to ramble about headcanons again, and there’s one I want to do, but to get to it I need to talk about this one, first. And “this one” happens to have to do with one of my favorite Transformers topics; unsurprisingly, it’s the spark. I find the idea of the Cybertronian spark to be utterly amazing and beautiful; ever since Beast Wars, a Transformer’s soul has been a tangible part of their body, synonymous with their heart, real and physical and able to be seen and touched. To me, that has endless potential... especially since that same continuity first coined the term “sparkmate” in Airazor’s bio, and confirmed in-series with Tigatron’s dialogue that showing another Cybertronian your spark was an act of intimacy. The romantic potential of the soul being physical has had me swooning for years now, so let’s share some of those thoughts!

.... but first, I’ll give any of you who are looking at my username and raising an eyebrow a moment to finish. Oh, yeah. I’m that dork.

So! The concept of a ‘sparkmate’ was first played upon in Beast Wars, where the whole spark mythos began. Before that, in G1, there were certain allusions to certain pairings, but nothing was overly-concrete and the pairings were seldom, often never, visited again. Which is a shame, because I loved Ironhide and Chromia in G1, but I digress. Later uses of the term were scarce to the point of being virtually non-existant, although Brainstorm apparently dropped the word in MTMTE issue 38 (thank you, TF Wiki!) so, while the term is obscure, it does still get some credit even today. And I, being me, like to ponder on it from time to time.

I’ve read many pieces of fan fiction in which a set of Transformers can “bind” their sparks together to become sparkmates, I am in love with this idea. The spark is not exactly a durable thing, Beast Wars makes this clear... they can be easily damaged, even collapsed, if not properly protected inside a body. Transformers: Animated lends strength to this idea with the fact that even with a new, completely undamaged, factory-fresh body, Yoketron’s spark was already too far gone for Prowl to save him. Canon fact. The spark can be very fragile.

So to show someone your spark, you have to be able to trust them. To let someone handle your spark... that trust has to be absolute. It’s a beautiful gesture; you’re showing someone the concentrated force of your entire existence, and trusting them not to harm it. And then, taking it a step further with the more fan-based concept of spark-binding, you’re holding that pinpoint of existence so close to their own that for a brief time they merge into each other, and from there a bond is formed that crosses space even when partners are separated, that allows them to give their love and support directly to their partner without a word, through pure feeling...

Hold on. I need a moment here. The implications are just too beautiful...

Which, of course, means in my head that they probably aren’t without their caveats. I honestly think there must be some danger in spark-binding, a thought that I’m fairly sure I’m not alone in; namely that the bond between sparks is so intimate, and so powerful, that the death of one partner may well mean the death of the other. This is where I come into the idea, a bit more my own, that most, if not all, sparkmates are Conjunx Endurae... but being Conjunx Endurae does not make you sparkmates. Essentially, in my world of headcanon, becoming Conjunx was the poor mech’s sparkbind.

Oh yeah, I’m going class-ist with this.

Now, I’m going to talk about two major continuities here, IDW and Aligned. IDW will be first, because it is the briefest... Conjunx Endurae are pretty rare, and from what I’ve seen, I believe a lot of this stems back to the Functionist era. Love doesn’t have a function that these people can categorize, and the Functionist council was known for being utilitarian to the extreme, so... well... you get a few lines of dialogue that make it sound like such things were frowned upon, at least on Cybertron, itself. And when they weren’t frowned upon, they were strictly regulated... Swerve makes mention of the fact that Amica Endurae, on Cybertron, are Conjunx Endurae that didn’t work out. As in, a pair could only become Amica if they tried to be Conjunx first. Bittersweet, indeed...

Honestly, if just getting married is that difficult in IDW, I can only imagine that sparkmates are very few and far between. It’s something that is kept quiet, hushed voices beyond locked doors. Sparkmates keep it secret, keep it to themselves. It isn’t always even out of necessity anymore, the habit just won’t die. It makes me a little sad...

Aligned, of course, is another kettle of fish entirely.

It is my firm belief that when you look at the pre-war power structure of Aligned, true love was treated as a luxury of the rich. The lower classes would have been discouraged from forming bonds, largely because of the inherent danger of losing two workers if one is killed in an accident. Sure, you can just replace them, but training newbies takes time and enough of them get crushed by mining cave-ins or fall off of towers under construction anyway... it’s just too inconvenient to let them bind. So you either make it sound like some terrifying thing, or you just don’t tell them it’s possible at all. Many of the slave castes went their whole lives without knowing or understanding that the ability to never feel alone existed at all. The highest castes, however, the elites of the elite, could love and bind as they chose... not that the decision was ever made lightly, but still, they could make it freely. Sparkbinding was a luxury, a risk that only those who lived the most ‘safely’ could afford to take. At least, until the war broke out... at which point just about everyone was thinking that a bound spark might be a little bit dangerous right now. This did lead, however, to many couples pledging to bond with each other once the war was over. A beautiful dream, indeed.

So that’s a bit about the views on sparkbinding, as I imagine it, in two major continuities. Now for some of the generic headcanons I entertain about sparkbinding...

Sparkbinding is not limited to couples. Trines can become sparkmates just as easily, and groups of four or more are possible, although I can’t imagine who would do that, myself. But if a combiner team or some such wanted to, hey, a combiner team or some such could.

Some things are harder for a sparkbound set to share than others... and some things are harder to hide. For example... and this is a fun one... it’s virtually impossible to cheat when you’re sparkbound because your partner or partners will feel you interfacing with someone else. Some trine sets, however, use this to their advantage... if one partner tries to stay at work too late or hit the bar too long on the way home, the other two can... encourage them, so to speak... to come back home more quickly. And some sparkbound pairs like to partner-swap or send one member out to find a bit of fun because... well, because some people are just into that. Consider it long-distance foreplay. Hey, I’m not going to judge!

Not everyone can sparkbind, but this is usually the result of deliberate medical procedure, not any sort of defect a Cybertronian would be naturally born with. Crediting @chief-justice-tyrese with this one, but very often the inability to bond is part of the punishment an Empurata victim endures... it further separates them from the rest of society by preventing them from ever truly sharing themselves with another. Because you know, I needed yet another reason to feel horrible for Whirl and want to give him all the cuddles. Yep. I didn’t need my spark today, either.

High-ranking political figureheads were often discouraged from sparkbinding because of the risk of someone trying to assassinate them by killing the bondmate. Primes were never expected to bind. Many council members kept secret spouses, though, because who was allowed to tell them no?

Bonding does not give a pair any sort of advanced telepathy or anything, but many who have been bound for a long time find that they don’t need it anyway... they learn to read their partners perfectly well through the flux of emotions fed through the spark link, without ever a word passed. This can easily lead outsiders to assume that they do have some sort of telepathy going on...

And, finally, the reason I needed to do this before writing about a different headcanon entirely...

Sparkbinding is the only way to get sparklings. Which is why they’re called sparklings in the first place. That’s right, folks! Tune in next time for Sparkpulse rambling about where she thinks babies come from!

Goodnight, everybody!