#(instead of getting lost in the ether of production hell)

[mattnben-bennmatt]

Matt Damon & Ben Affleck To Star In Crime Thriller ‘RIP’ From Artists Equity And Joe Carnahan: Hot Package

By Justin Kroll for Deadline (18 June 2024)

Deadline is hearing that Matt Damon and Ben Affleck are attached to star in the thriller RIP, with Joe Carnahan writing and directing. Affleck and Damon’s company Artists Equity is producing with a plan to shoot this fall. [...] As for RIP, the package came together pretty quickly in recent weeks. Affleck and Damon were looking for a new project under the company banner as Affleck was finishing up production on his sequel to The Accountant. The two tried to do another crime thriller, Animals, at the top of the year, but scheduling with The Accountant 2 couldn’t be worked out and that was put on pause.

[torturedtypewritersdept]

blue eyes + bruises - part three

✯ pairing:

doctor!rafe cameron x fem!reader

✯ summary:

a tragic car accident looks like it'll be the end for you, but dr. cameron is here to make sure that doesn't happen.

✯ warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, and fear, car accident, death of a spouse (not rafe or y/n), major surgery, injuries, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was origianlly posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity back in 2021/2022 and i have rewritten + reshared it here :)

m.list

Rafe sat next to your bedside, he’s always wondered why so many patients' families had complained about the green plastic chairs he had again found himself in. He never understood their issue with a piece of furniture until he was in this moment with his Molly. He could feel its rigidity against his back as he sat watching the ventilator you were connected to send swooshes of air into your lungs. It was single handedly keeping you alive. The moment that you were in right now, with no one but a doctor you barely knew at your bedside. The hiss and tick of the machine had become background noise as he sat next to you, no longer covered by scrubs, but instead, jeans, a t-shirt, and leather jacket covered his body as he watched you live a moment that he already had. He could close his eyes and still remember it, still remember her like it was yesterday.. He wondered how he had found himself in this moment again. How he had managed to feel every ounce of emotion he had pushed down over the last two years in one measly twenty-four hour period. It wasn’t that he saw her in you, no it was different; your beauty so ethereal and unlike this world – maybe it was a twist of fate that your injuries were identical or that you had her eyes. Whatever the case, he was simply captivated by your beauty, your essence, your aura, there was something within you that he just couldn’t put his finger on. 

He had finished charting hours ago and instead of going home to be alone amongst the coolness of the sheets and the photos of her that still littered his walls, he stayed beside you, holding your hand – just in case. Jenni’s words still bounced around in his exhausted brain and he knew once he sat next to you for the first time – hell – he knew the first time he looked in your eyes that he couldn’t let you be alone, that he couldn’t leave you alone. If you were going to die, he’d hold your hand and brush the hair away from your face, he’d caress your cheek and tell you how loved he knew you were, whether anyone had bothered to show up for you or not. It’s what you deserved, it’s what she deserved. The anxiety and the freshness of his gaping chest wound was ever present, but he couldn’t leave you to cross into the next life without so much as someone to wrap their hand in yours – it’s just not the kind of guy he was. 

He still held out hope that you’d make it, that you’d be okay, that he could potentially get to know you or atleast the you that you would be after surviving such a traumatic event. He knew first hand that there was an afterglow when you got to the other side of something like that and he hoped he could bask in yours. He looked down at your hand – the one his was wrapped up in – as he tried to get away from the thoughts, as he tried to get away from Molly and the idea of you winding up just like she did. He noticed your nail polish, yellow with a black smiley face on the middle finger of each hand, similar to that of the Walmart mascot in the 90s. He giggled at that. Though he didn’t know much about you he knew you were bright – like sunshine to gravitate toward the color yellow and he knew you liked vintage things by the detail of your nail. He marveled at the fact that to have been involved in a crash so violent, your manicure was intact. He wondered how the universe was the product of things like that. Lost in thought again, Rafe brought your hand up to his lips, only grazing them over your cut up skin and he felt something, a twitch. Jumping backwards, he blinked violently a few times, unsure if he was imagining things. He was tired after all, the sunkenness of his eyes Sarah had mentioned still everpresent. He let go of your hand briefly, lifting his body from the green plastic in an effort to trudge to the on-call room and finally sleep. At least he’d be here if you needed him. As he rose, he felt it again – the twitch – and before another thought could cross through his tired brain, he noticed your eyes fly open and you start to fight against the ventilator, gasping for the air that was being pumped into you, your gag reflex pleading for control against the foreign object in your throat. His hands flew to your shoulder and your hair, rubbing soothing circles as he brushed your hair away from your face. You looked at him with fear in your eyes and his senses took over. 

“Hey, sweet girl. I know you’re scared, but I need you to relax so I can take it out, okay? Blink once for yes and twice for no for me, okay?” 

One blink. That was all he needed and suddenly all the emotions he was harboring didn’t matter, all he cared about was making sure you were safe and that you knew he would take care of you. The muscles in his chest squeezed against the walls of his heart as he watched tears fall out of the corners of your eyes.

“Okay, pretty girl. I’m gonna take the tube out. When I give you the go ahead, I’m gonna need you to give me the biggest cough you can and then I'll pull the tube right out, okay?” 

He explained the process of the procedure to you at your level with kindness and care and you appreciated that, even in a state of being halfway sedated. He stood there, suctioning out as much as he could of any remaining flem and secretions that remained in your throat. His voice soothed you in a sort of deja vu kind of way and you couldn't put your finger on why this stranger gave you so much peace, so much comfort – like just being in his presence was enough to make every bad thing in your world okay again.

“Okay, sweetheart. Go ahead and give me a big cough.” 

At his words, you sucked in a big breath and used all your lung power to drive a dry cough out of your throat. Simultaneously, Rafe pulled the tube from your airway, laying it on top of the napkin like material he had draped over your chest. Your first breath felt violent, it grips on to your throat like sandpaper against wood. It was uncomfortable to say the least but you were thankful to breathe on your own volition again. 

“Ow”

You croaked out, letting a wince dance across your features. 

“Can you tell me what hurts?” 

He questioned sweetly, hands still rubbing soothing circles into your hair. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. 

“Everything.” 

You mumbled. 

“I know, it’s gonna be that way for a while. Can you tell me what hurts the most?

You nodded – or attempted to, feeling plastic underneath your chin, alerting you that you were hurt, sparking a fear in you that you had never felt before. 

“W-what’s wrong with me?” 

You asked, reaching for the sweaty brace that your neck was encased by in an attempt to aid the burn of your throat. It felt like with every breath you took fire was coming from the depths of your belly. Rafe grabs your hands, ripping them away from the brace that encased your neck. 

“Easy, sweetheart. I need you to focus, okay? You’re really hurt and your neck needs to be still right now. I’ll explain everything but I need you to calm down, okay? Can you do that for me?” 

You looked up at him, pleading for answers, but understanding that he was there to help as his pools of blue looked back at you in soft reassurance. 

“Let’s get you some medicine and we’ll chat about everything, okay? My name is Rafe.” 

Rafe – Rafe as in Rafe Cameron? You wondered. Suddenly it all made sense, the dreamy doctor that you thought you imagined stood in front of you, with a kind disposition and sweet words and a beautiful chiseled jaw. If you were a praying woman, you’d say you were in heaven. But, it was in fact quite the opposite as you continued to feel the pain course through your body with every miniscule movement. 

“O-okay.” 

Rafe gave you a soft smile and brought the walkie up to his mouth, speaking into it. 

“Jenni, I need morphine, zofran, fluids, and lorazepam in 293.” 

His voice was soothing, even as he spoke medical words that were nonsensical to laymen's ears. 

“You got it boss, on my way.” 

The woman’s voice spoke back. She sounded sweet in the same way that Rafe did in the emergency room and it gave you hope that she was as kind as he was. 

“How are you feeling, sweet girl?” 

You attempted to turn your head in the direction of her voice, but were met by Rafe’s strong hands pushing your shoulders back against the pillows. 

“Try not to move until I give you this medicine, sweetheart.” 

He spoke reassuringly, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. 

“O-okay. I’m okay.” 

You whispered out and gave her a small smile. 

“There she is, a pretty smile on a pretty girl.” 

He spoke and moved forward, watching as Jenni came into your peripheral vision. Rafe took your hand in his again and rubbed soothing circles into it while Jenni inserted the medicine into your IV. You grimaced at the burning feeling of the medicine as it entered your veins. 

“Now, let’s get you feeling better, yeah?” 

He spoke kindly and blush rose to your cheeks. 

taglist:

as always, if you'd like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please shoot me an ask or comment on this post so i can keep track <3

@maybankslover @inthelibrarybtw @luvrcndy @silkylovey @yagirlwrites @obxbabygirl @rafeecameronsbitch @klutzy-kay24 @roseczbalt @akobx @allsmilesreally7 @wtfdudesblog

[andersonsgf]

hello sorry if this is long and no worries if you’re not interested in doing it hopefully you can write it though but i’d like to request a natasha x reader or wanda x reader whoever you prefer where they’re dating and hanging out in the compound and one of the avengers makes a comment towards reader in a joking way and everyone laughs including nat/wanda and reader gets all sad and insecure over it and then later on in the day reader is in their room crying and thinking negative thoughts over the comment and nat/wanda whoever you choose hears her crying and like if it’s wanda hears her thoughts cause they’re so loud or if it’s nat catches her in front of the mirror or something and they fix it and apologize and reassure reader sad angst that ends in soft fluff this is my mood right now and would love to read this

Making Up | Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Masterlist | N.R Masterlist

Words: 1.7k

Thank you for the request! I'm sorry it took so long but here it is :D I hope I've been able to fulfil what you wanted <3

✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

For most of your life, you had found yourself hiding behind a mask. Not one made of rubber or plastic, not even a mental one, but one made of various beauty products that lined the shelves of pharmacies and cosmetic shops. Having been a rather insecure person from a young age, you had gone with what most other kids your age had picked up: testing out make-up for fun and becoming an ‘adult’. Whatever the hell that meant.

It wasn’t even something that you were really into as a passion like some of your friends were, who when you had sleepovers with would always want to practice doing cool designs, or making themselves look like characters, sometimes even special effects make-up. But you just weren’t into it as a way of entertainment or a silly thing to do when bored.

After a while for you it became survival. With how people in the media were being presented, giving many young girls a false sense of reality and plummeting self-esteem, you found that plastering on that extra layer of your face became a need, not just a want.

The looks that you gave yourself never went overboard, it all looked rather natural, to the point where some people couldn’t even tell that you wore it. That was mission achieved in your books. The worst part of the day was when you had to take it off, which you never did in front of anyone else, not trusting them to make comments on what you really looked like, which in actual fact wasn’t far off from how you presented yourself. It was just an unfortunate fact that your view of yourself was skewed thanks to beauty standards, something that you were not alone in, a whole generation of young people were being fed lies on the daily.

Every time you removed the layer of paint that acted as your shield against the world, you were reminded that your pores were too big, your acne too noticeable, the dark circles of your under-eye far too dark, and the natural blemishes of your face too red.

For many years you carried on like this, taking the extra time every morning to do the same routine over and over again, not having anyone in your life to ease your worries and remind you just how beautiful you really are. Until you met Natasha.

Natasha…the woman who had become your rock in life. Vividly, you remember her concern when you had become anxious when sleeping in the same room for the first time together. She invited you to take your makeup off with her in her small ensuite, thinking that the situation would be cute and rather romantic.

Instead, it had caused you to feel like the air around you suddenly had no oxygen, her concerned gaze settling on you only worsening the fact.

You felt small and weak, Natasha was ethereal. She was a goddess, and you were… well you were you, and you felt as though you couldn’t compare. Getting lost in your own head you hadn’t even noticed the way she had gotten so suddenly close to you and how her hand reached out to gently brush your arm. What should have been a gesture that calmed you once again seemed to push you over the edge, not that it was Natasha’s fault. When the brain has entered a fight or flight survival mode any little thing can set it off, which is why it’s so scary.

As tears began to brim your waterline, Natasha’s concerned gaze only intensified, making you feel like you were shrinking. Feeling embarrassed, you tore your eyes away from the only ones that could usually make you feel safe. Tearing your eyes away from her broke you in more ways than you could imagine, making your bottom lib wobble ever so slightly.

You didn’t understand why you couldn’t just look at her.

Nat’s heart followed suit with yours as she guided you to sit on the closed toilet seat. You were always so happy and bubbly, you were her bright light, a beacon that guided her back home - guided her back to you. But at that moment you were dimming.

“My love”, Nat spoke softly, failing to gain your attention as she crouched down next to you, instead gently pressing the pads of her fingers underneath your chin to tilt your gaze back to her.

When your gazes met again you could see her eyes shining brightly, a smile on her face at being able to see you again, “Hi”. You tried your best to conjure up a small smile in return, God knows she deserved one for how patient and gentle she was being with you, even though she didn’t know the reason for your breakdown.

She didn’t need to know though, she would be there with you for whatever you needed, even if she didn’t know what you needed quite yet.

That night was spent with her comforting you and making you feel the best you had felt in a long time. Your confidence was still nowhere near high enough to be able to conquer going out with a bare face, but with Natasha staring at you with eyes full of pure love, you were able to remove the mask.

Now you knew that there was no need to be afraid of being you in front of Natasha.

Ever.

She peppered your face with kisses after she had seen the true you for the first time, telling you how beautiful you were. How lucky she was to have you.

For the first time, you allowed yourself to believe her as you wrapped your arms around her waist, muttering a string of thank yous.

---

Months went on and the confidence you had around Natasha only continued to ascend, along with how comfortable she made you. So much so that one day after waking up in her arms again, you followed her to the kitchen of the compound to get breakfast without even thinking about putting on a layer of makeup first.

It hadn’t even been noticed until you neared the kitchen and heard the many voices from your teammates and family. Though this morning, you couldn’t find it in you to care. How could you when you were walking hand in hand with your anchor?

You walked into the kitchen with Natasha with your head held high and a bright smile on your face as you greeted everyone. That smile soon got wiped off of your face.

“Woah Y/n, you look exhausted today, did Nat really wear you out that much last night?”, Tony joked with a smirk. Of course, it was Tony.

The skin of your face turned beet red as you felt embarrassment flood through you, first and foremost from the comment about you, but secondly from the innuendo. Your heart plummeted to the depths of the deepest ocean when everyone in the kitchen laughed heartily at the joke, not realising the impact it had on you. But what really hit the nail on the head was when you heard the familiar laugh of your girlfriend coming from next to you.

That one stung.

Swallowing dryly, your lips twitched upwards slightly, trying to join in on the joke, but your heart refused to let you. The laughter caused by your family trying to embarrass both you and Natasha soon died down, and Nat let go of you to head over to the coffee pot, promptly pulling two mugs out of the cupboard to have your morning coffees.

But when Natasha turned to ask you which flavour of syrup you wanted in your drink that morning, she was met facing an empty space where you had been standing. “Where’d Y/n go?”, she turned to face the people at the table who shrugged, you had slipped out of the room expertly.

Worry spread through Nat, it was very out of character for you to make an exit without making it known to her, especially in the mornings. Before breakfast, you were incredibly clingy, which she absolutely adored.

Without thinking, she sped towards your shared room and hastily opened the door, sighing with relief when she saw that you were in there. She tried not to jump to conclusions, but when it came to your safety she always did without fail.

The sigh of relief soon turned to her breath hitching in her throat when she properly took notice of your demeanour. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a floor-length mirror, hugging your body tightly as you stared at the mirror, the corners of your lips tugged down - a similarity that you shared with her sister whenever you were upset.

“Sweetheart?”, she approached and reached a hand out to touch your shoulder, but stopped abruptly when you flinched slightly. For the first time ever, she really didn’t know what to do. You had never flinched away from her before. But in the time that she was trying to figure it out, you found the courage to talk.

“You laughed”, she heard you say with no emotion in your voice, not matching your solemn expression at all.

“What?”.

Sighing you tilted your chin up to meet her eyes that were boring into you in the mirror, her face looking slightly pale as her own anxiety increased. “Tony said that I look exhausted, and you laughed”. Her face dropped at your again emotionless explanation, and she hurriedly bent down to be level with you as it all clicked in her head.

“Hey, hey, look at me please”, she pleaded gently, and when you complied she cupped your cheeks with her hands, seeing the pained expression in your eyes that you were failing to hide made her curse herself. “I promise I wasn’t laughing at you, none of us were”, she wanted you to believe her because it was true, but you seemed to want to interrupt in defiance. “No, I promise, we were just laughing at the joke, I was just laughing at the joke”, she interrupted before you could.

You wanted so hard to believe her, you really did, but it was the one time you had gone out bare-faced, it couldn’t have been a coincidence. “You’re so beautiful, I promise you, you really are. I’m so sorry for making you feel otherwise”, she whispered with cracks in her voice and sat down properly before tugging you onto her lap and giving you a tight hug that deprived you of oxygen.

You hugged back just as tight. 

✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Comment if you want to be added to the taglist <3

Taglist:@fxckmiup

Natasha Romanoff Taglist:@diaryoflife@unlady-like-12-25-36

[novelconcepts]

omg can you do a print of damie in canon just interacting with flora bc i would love that

She’s lost Flora. 

There is, Dani thinks with the forced calm of one already beginning to spiral, little cause to panic. The house is big, but it’s not that big--and Flora is a good kid. She’s not exactly prone to just wandering off. She certainly wouldn’t, say, vanish from sight and reappear somewhere unexpected, suddenly acting like she didn’t entirely remember the time in between.

That doesn’t sound like Flora at all.

She isn’t running, per se, from room to room. Running would suggest there is a problem to be handled, and if she starts thinking along those lines--if she starts obsessing about Flora’s distinctly off-putting way of gazing over her shoulder, of saying things just a little too odd to be hand-waved away, of looking at Dani as though she can see straight through her to the unease thrumming under the surface--well. That way lies nothing useful. Nothing at all.

“Have you seen Flora?” The kitchen had seemed a good bet. Here, after all, is Owen, puttering away over the ingredients for the evening’s meal, his mood somber as he uses the manor to avoid reflecting on his mother’s upcoming funeral. Here is Hannah, dutifully rearranging the china, pretending not to steal glances at Owen’s lanky frame every few seconds. That spot at the table is made for Flora, little legs hanging off the chair, brimming with questions--

But Flora isn’t there, and Owen is shaking his head. 

“Not since lunch. Lost her, have you?”

No, she almost snaps. A count of three, a long-held breath; she smiles tightly, reminding herself that this is not Owen’s fault, nor Owen’s job. The children will be your responsibility alone, after all. 

“She’s quick,” she says instead. Hannah purses her lips.

“Perhaps upstairs with Miles?”

She isn’t. Miles, bent over a book with a solemn expression, blinks up at her as though she’s dragged him by the shirt collar out of the actual wardrobe to Narnia. 

“She asked me to color--what time is it?”

“Two,” Dani says, sparing the briefest glance for her watch. He shrugs. 

“An hour ago, I think? I told her to ask Hannah.” A flash of concern crosses his face, a too-adult creasing of brow. “Was that wrong? I just wanted to finish my book--”

“It’s fine,” Dani assures him, ruffling his hair. Too-adult, his expression may be, but this is the most kid she’s seen Miles in days. The last thing she wants is to dissuade him from reading, or from the loose sprawl of his posture. 

An hour, though. In the days since coming to Bly, Dani can’t remember twenty minutes passing without Flora turning up underfoot. 

Outside, she thinks with another swell of barely-restrained panic. She’s outside. By the lake, probably, where Flora can so often be found keeping company with dolls and talismans and snatches of ethereal song. 

It isn’t exactly a reassuring thought, particularly with summer rain sluicing down the windows, scattering over the roof like pellets. A storm, it isn’t, but an eight-year-old girl has no business wandering in weather like this. 

You'd have loved it, at her age, Dani reminds herself. There’s nothing at all wrong with a little girl puddle-jumping for the sheer joy of it. Flora probably got bored, cooped up with a bunch of busy adults and her brother uninterested in playing games. She’s fine. She’s almost certainly fine.

An umbrella is waiting beside the door, still damp from Owen’s trip in before breakfast. Dani takes a breath, pops it open, steels herself for the brisk wind. 

The grounds are gray, the puddles turning the grass to a squelchy mess beneath her shoes. She keeps her head up, her eyes carefully turned away from the puddles which sit like recklessly-dropped mirrors at every turn; if she so much as glances down and spots a flash of glasses, she’s not sure she’ll be able to keep her composure. 

Flora is not by the lake, as it turns out. Nor the statue gardens. Nor the rose bushes. Flora is nowhere, she’s starting to think, and her mind is finally turning toward the worst--toward the depth of that lake, how easily a small girl might slip off the embankment and tumble headlong into its hungry waves without notice--when she remembers the greenhouse.

Jamie will help. The thought rises without warning, a solid patch of sunlight at the center of the storm. Jamie will help--because Jamie knows every corner of these grounds as well as her own hands. Jamie, who maybe doesn’t know Dani all that well, but didn’t seem to mind offering gentle reassurance, exchanging unexpectedly deep conversation on the couch...or Dani taking her hand in the dark. Jamie, who had said, Who the hell knew? Jamie, who had worn an expression a little like awe.

They haven’t had time to talk about it since, but even so. Even so, for Flora, Jamie is sure to--

She hesitates at the door, fist raised to knock. It feels foolish, rapping on the entry to a greenhouse like it’s Jamie’s own bedroom--but this is, she reasons, as close to Jamie’s home as she’s ever likely to get. 

“Jamie, are you...”

“Here,” her voice comes from somewhere just out of sight. Dani takes a cautious step in out of the rain, jostling the umbrella and pulling it hastily shut. Best not to invite bad luck--she’s certainly already had her share. 

“I’m looking for Flora,” she calls, feeling a bit silly. There’s so much going on in this room--plants and tables, pots and a variety of outdoor furniture draped with old blankets. Normally, Jamie is easy to spot amid the riot of greens and pinks, her hands busy coaxing seedlings to life. Today, Dani feels as though she’s tripped and fallen into a game of hide and seek. 

“Don’t have to look far,” Jamie’s voice comes again--from behind the sofa, Dani thinks. “C’mere.”

“Miss Clayton!” Flora pipes up, and Dani feels the tension leave her body in a violent rush. Her hand grips the nearest table for support, her eyes closing in relief. “Come color with us”

“Come--sorry?” She can’t have heard right. Jamie? Jamie the gardener, putting aside work and temper to waste an afternoon on crayons?

Yes--yes, that appears to be exactly what Jamie is doing. Sprawled on her stomach, still dressed in her coveralls, she’s got a blue crayon in hand and a green one tucked behind her ear. She glances up as Dani steps nearer, a smile lighting her face. 

“Kid came stumbling in out of the rain an hour ago. Expect she didn’t think to warn you in advance?”

“Sorry.” Flora offers a sheepish smile, sitting up quickly. “Are you very cross?”

“No, of course not.” Just going to need a minute to purge the image of finding you facedown in the goddamned lake, is all. “Next time, though, you’ll have to tell me you’re leaving the house alone. I need to know where you are at all times, Flora.”

She expects Jamie to scoff at this--to say, Ah, she was with me, she’s fine. Instead, Jamie stretches over to land a sharp flick on Flora’s upper arm. 

“Rude to make Poppins worry. Look, she’s gone all pink.” She looks up at Dani, grinning. “Not a bad look, if we’re in the market for honesty.”

Dani suspects pink is the lightest shade she can manage, with Jamie gazing at her that way. It’s too easy, all of a sudden, to remember an unexpectedly soft hand under her own fingers, Jamie turning reflexively at the wrist to hold her back. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Flora says, a phrase Dani is starting to think is more Flora than even perfectly splendid. “Here--I was just about to do one of you!”

Jamie gestures with the blue crayon, a silent suggestion for Dani to sit beside her. “Might as well. Rain doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon.” She lowers her voice, eyes fixed on Flora’s determined rummage through the crayon box. “Sorry about that, Poppins. Know she’s been unpredictable lately, didn’t like the idea of her stumping around in the cold. If I’d known you were worried--”

“It’s all right.” In truth, she’s glad Flora made her way out here. Growing more pleased by the moment with this development, really, as Jamie slides a blank sheet of paper in front of her and presses a purple crayon into her hand. 

“Join us. We’re doing portraiture.”

“I can see that,” Dani laughs. Jamie’s handiwork speaks of a distinct lack of care for detail--each sketch on her page is, at best, a stick figure with a single defining feature. “How does Owen hold up his head, carrying a mustache the size of his torso?”

“With minimal decorum,” Jamie says, grinning. “And she’s right, it’s your turn.”

Dani suspects she’s going less pink, more a volatile shade of maroon, with both parties squinting at her face, their papers, her face again. Flora is doing her very best work, taking several minutes just to select the closest shades of blue, yellow, pink. Jamie makes an enormous production of holding up a crayon, closing one eye, gauging proportions--and then, cheerfully, scrawling a figure identical to the other four already on the page. 

“I’m taller than Hannah?” Dani asks, unable to resist a giggle. Jamie frowns.

“Ah, you’re...standin’ on a crate.” She adds a box beneath Dani’s non-existent feet with a flourish, nodding. “There. It’s symbolic.”

“Of what?”

“I’ve ranked you all on how much I like you. Takin’ into account, of course, certain accusations pointed my way regarding mud and shiny floorboards.” Jamie winks. Dani finds herself gripping her crayon almost hard enough to hurt. 

“You’re not drawing, Miss Clayton!” Flora observes. Dani glances away from Jamie’s smile--a difficult act only a few days ago, nearly impossible now--and clears her throat. 

“Well. Maybe just until the rain stops.”

There are, she thinks as a comfortable quiet settles over the greenhouse, infinitely worse ways to spend her afternoon. 

[groovesnjams]

“Summer Thing” by Tomu DJ & kimdollars1

DV:

One of my favorite ~albums of 2021 was Tomu DJ’s FEMINISTA, the kind of record that’s both fun and laid-back enough to soundtrack most any situation. I think I first found Tomu DJ via a set on the Lot Radio, but now I mainly hear from her whenever she sends out free download codes for her releases to anyone who follows her on Bandcamp. This is a wonderful gesture! And also feels weird coming from someone who sells her work for less than $10 on a semi-indie record site. It’s like she’s modelling behaviors that fucking Ed Sheeran should be doing, but will never even notice. This makes Tomu’s messages feel futile in one sense and utopian in another, a combination I can’t resist. “Summer Thing” is a collaboration with kimdollars1, and it’s just as sweet and just as liminal as those download codes, sent into the ether for anyone who might need them. The beat skitters and stutters but the synths are warm and slow: find which one you want to live in and follow it on a journey, or bounce between the two as your attention meanders along their path. “Summer Thing” sketches a world to get lost in; with Chicago coated in dirty ice and slush, it’s an irresistible one.

MG:

About that dirty ice and slush (and its inherent contrast to a limited, defined concept of summer), it’s almost all gone after trip 40s in mid-January. I don’t have anything even verging on insightful to say about this. I’m sure if you live somewhere that had winter in a visceral, unforgettable way you recognize that the season -- as a pattern of weather phenomena -- is very quickly regressing into nothingness and I’m sure you’re also as disoriented by it as I am. It’s not like there was ever an abundance of “Winter Thing” songs but as Tomu DJ is attempting to connect with as broad an audience as possible (my read on the download codes) un-limiting her focus to what will surely soon be the only season seems like another solid, if slightly impersonal, decision. “Summer Thing” is a vague execution of an already vague concept, though not in the way you might expect. Tomu DJ and kimdollars1 aren’t piling on the summer signifiers (barf yourself back to 2016 if you really miss sequenced steel drums and orange-wash production) and instead rely on the listener to sift through a stack of memories to find the the places where excessive heat and humidity connect with chill, bubbly pleasure. Sure enough, my brain takes me there, to the first sip of a Danny’s (RIP forever, sweet prince) gin & tonic, to cleaning out and closing my locker every first week of June for seven straight years, to disposable cameras and washed-out group shots. But I’ve always lived in the place where you know it’s summer because of the shooting deaths and mostly I remember a lot of sweat.  “Summer Thing,” though it sides with the Goliath season, is subversive in its preservation of those ephemeral top notes. Soon enough the middle of the year will be hell on earth in most places and heavy, rank jasmine everywhere else.

[freyjawriter24]

Advent Omens: Gold & Silver

Yep, it’s March, and I’m still posting stuff I should have had finished in December, but hey, at least I’m being productive! (Seriously, I’ve written so much so far this year, it’s actually impressive for me. This new routine thing seems to be working well.) Anyway, thank you again to the ever-wonderful @drawlight for the prompt list that started this all off. I hope you enjoy this response to Day 10′s prompt.

-----

“Where's yours?”

It was a simple question, but indelicately asked, and Crowley regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. He cringed visibly, but let the question stand. The angel didn’t have to answer if he didn’t want to.

The query wasn’t entirely out of the blue, at least. They were lounging on the sofa in the bookshop together, hiding away from the cold as the grey January morning dawned outside, and Aziraphale had been the one to broach the subject.

“I’ve always liked your tattoo,” he’d said, looking at it with soft eyes, and then dared to reach out and run a finger along it, tracing the curves of the snake’s sinuous body. Crowley had shivered at the contact, a ripple coursing down his spine.

“Mmm?” Crowley had asked, not trusting himself to speak.

“Yes. Well, I suppose my first reaction was ‘oh, that’s neat’ rather than anything particularly admiring – I’d been expecting something rather more like Hastur or Beelzebub’s outward appearance, you see – but even then I thought it rather suited you. Makes you look very dashing.”

Crowley had looked at him, then, and exaggeratedly rolled his uncovered eyes.

“I mean, I do still have the stuff that the others do,” he had said. “You know, these.” He indicated his yellow irises and slash-shaped pupils. “Scales,” he said broadly. “Tendency to get cold.”

Aziraphale had huffed a little and gave him a look, which Crowley had accepted with a raised palm and a nod.

“I’m just saying, I like it. It’s very you, my dear. As are your eyes, and your scales. They’re all...”

“Signifiers of Hell?”

“Crowley! I was going to say... reminders of when we met. Reminders of who we are, what we went through for each other. If...” The angel had paled slightly then. “If that makes sense. If that doesn’t sound too... much.”

“Not at all, angel,” Crowley had breathed, thinking I am the luckiest being in the whole damn world, in the whole of creation. How am I allowed this? How is that possible?

And then he’d set to thinking, and he’d realised something. He didn’t know where Aziraphale’s was.

Not a signifier of Hell or animal aspect or anything, obviously. But the opposite, the thing Crowley himself had lost as he Fell. A marker of Heaven.

And before he could stop himself, he’d asked the question. And now the angel was staring down at his own fingers knotting themselves together, saying nothing, and Crowley was terrified he’d gone too far.

He wanted to reach out, to still the nerves that were twisting those hands, to offer him some kind of physical reassurance, to let him know it was okay. Then he remembered he could do that now, and covered the angel’s anxious fiddling with his own hand.

“Hey,” he said gently. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I asked, I don’t have to know. I was just wondering aloud.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Aziraphale dared a glance up, and there was something hidden in his eyes that made Crowley’s heart clench. “I just... It’s not very angelic.”

Crowley gave a lopsided smile. “Weren’t you just saying that you liked the fact mine weren’t very demonic?”

Aziraphale shook his head automatically, then seemed to pause and consider this. His eyes flicked to Crowley’s again, then away, then back down to their three hands together. Crowley gave the angel’s a squeeze, then loosened his grip and allowed Aziraphale to entwine his fingers with Crowley’s, the angel’s other hand coming to rest on Crowley’s wrist, his thumb moving softly back and forth across the demon’s skin.

“It’s not really... there, most of the time,” Aziraphale began, and Crowley didn’t ask him to explain. He would get there, in his own time. He gave the angel’s hand another encouraging squeeze, and waited.

“It’s like... a fish, I suppose. Or a dolphin. When you’re looking at the sea, and you’re on it, you’re never quite sure if that glimmer is an animal, or just the sun on the waves. That’s what mine’s like. You can’t see it most of the time, and then when you do, you’re often not sure if you were just imagining it.”

After a long moment of silence, the demon dared a question. “What does it look like?” he breathed. The angel smiled softly, sadly.

“Just little flecks of silver,” he said quietly. “Hardly angelic at all, really. Most have gold, and the ones that don’t have a rainbow of colour. Or bronze, that’s quite common. Rose gold. But not many silver.”

Crowley’s own had been gold, back when he’d had a Heavenly marker rather than a Hellish one. It had marked his eyes as well as his skin, and when the Fall had burnt him, his sockets had felt like they were on fire. The shine, the glimmer of them had been burnt away, leaving only the acid-yellow of his serpent eyes, and he’d hated it, was revolted by it, the first time he’d seen his new reflection.

He didn’t volunteer that information.

“Silver is just as beautiful,” the demon said instead, quietly, as if not sure he wanted Aziraphale to hear him. “And it’s stronger. Gold sets itself apart, doesn’t like... bonding with other things. Elements. Silver does.”

The angel’s thumb, brushing up and down against the delicate part of Crowley’s wrist, slowed to a stop. Crowley was worried for a minute that he’d said too much. But then Aziraphale squeezed his hand and looked up at him.

“If you don’t mind me asking, where was yours?”

Crowley swallowed.

“Where it is now, mostly.” He gestured to his eyes. “These... used to shine.”

Aziraphale looked like he was about to start crying. Crowley shook his head, opened his mouth to say no, no angel, don’t cry for me, please, I don’t miss them, I don’t miss what I was, but the ethereal being shushed him and squeezed his hand tighter.

Then the hand at his wrist lifted to instead cup his cheek, fingertips resting against the snake at his temple. “They still do, my dear. They still do.”

Crowley couldn’t reply for a second, something like a sob suddenly blocking his throat. The angel gave him a watery smile, and then reached his hand round further, creeping into Crowley’s hair and then gently, gently pulling his head forwards and down slightly.

The demon closed his eyes and felt the angel’s soft kisses land with wonderful tenderness on each of his eyelids.

Aziraphale rested his forehead against Crowley’s, and whispered to him – words of awe, words of love, words for him and him alone.

“Hey,” Crowley said eventually, after the tears had been wiped away and they’d shared the stillness for a little while longer. “This was meant to be about me comforting you. How’d you turn it back to me?”

“It’s a talent,” Aziraphale said, and there was the soft teasing again, the glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Well, anyway. I want you to know you’re beautiful too, and plenty enough angelic for me. Don’t listen to those wankers Upstairs. You’re perfect.”

Aziraphale’s lower lip wobbled again, and Crowley bit his own.

“What a pair we make,” the angel said, the hint of a smile and the shine of tears mixed together in his expression. “Not really an angel and not really a demon. Gold and silver, and yet not really either at all.”

“Earthly,” Crowley said decisively. “Not held by either Upstairs or Downstairs, just balanced in the middle.”

“Yes. I like that. Not of Heaven or Hell; of Earth.” The angel gave a wry smile. “Almost like it was always meant to be.”

Crowley grimaced. “Not fate, angel. We made our choices.” He paused. “But maybe it was like that just in case. I don’t think either of us could ever understand it, but...” He smirked at himself, at his ridiculousness, and then said it anyway.

“Maybe it’s just ineffable.”

[edenkept]

❛                      NOW    I    KNOW    IT’S    NOT    YOU    ,    but    me    that    i'll    love    a    little    more    .

wish    i    could    use    emojis    to    express    how    i    feel    ,    but    jus    know    that    for    the    entire    day    that    ONE    PART    in    roman    holiday    has    been    playing    in    my    head    on    repeat    &    i    ?    couldn’t    turn    it    off    .    anyway    ,    my    intros    r    usually    super    long    SO    i    tried    to    keep    it    -    how    u    say    -    condensed    this    time    .    but    i’m    so    excited    &    i    am    so    hyped    to    write    w    all    of    u    !  @opalsmedia

LINKS    :    google    doc    /    pinterest     /    spotify    /    tik    tok    compilation

𝑭𝑼𝑵𝑫𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑺

full  name  :  baek  ye  -  seul

nickname(s)  /  alias(es)  :  eden  park  (  english  name  )

age  /  dob  :  twenty  one  /  march  3  ‘99

hometown  :  seoul  ,  south  korea

current  location  :  guildford  ,  england

ethnicity  :  korean

nationality  :  english  -  south  korean

gender  :  cis  female

pronouns  :  she  /  her

orientation  :  pansexual  ,  grayromantic

religion  :  agnostic  ,  raised  catholic

face  claim  :  jung  chaeyeon

language(s)  spoken  :  korean  ,  mandarin  ,  cantonese  ,  english  ,  some  french

speech  :  english  is  her  first  language  -  seven  years  spent  in  london  before  being  whisked  away  to  another  world  ,  she’s  still  got  a  hold  on  a  formal  accent  -  though  ,  doesn’t  sound  completely  english  or  american  ,  some  ambiguous  mixture  of  someone  who’s  practiced  the  language  with  someone  who  isn’t  a  complete  expert  .  all  being  said  ,  she’s  enchanting  enough  to  fool  even  the  wisest  into  listening  -  schemes  flinging  from  parted  lips  that  garner  attention  ,  though  often  what  follows  is  informal  &  laced  with  sour  intentions  .

hair  :  naturally  dark  ,  so  dark  its  comparable  to  a  moonless  sky  ,  though  ,  in  the  summer  &  constant  sunlight  it’s  known  to  lighten  (  just  -  barely  )  .  kept  just  past  her  shoulder  blades  ,  her  hair  is  naturally  straight  (  barely  wavy  )  &  not  often  styled  .  healthy  &  thick  ,  requires  little  uptake  at  current  length  ,  so  it’s  common  to  see  it  all  down  -  at  most  ,  will  be  swept  up  into  a  messy  up  -  do  to  be  kept  out  of  her  face  when  doing  something  important  .  entirely  effortless  ,  her  hair  is  often  the  least  of  her  worries  .

eyes  :  quite  the  defining  feature  ,  her  eyes  are  sharp  &  cat  like  .  the  same  color  of  the  earth  after  an  unforgiving  rain  storm  ,  it’s  easy  to  see  past  a  confident  exo  -  skeleton  to  see  the  unresolved  pain  in  her  eyes  .  holders  of  wisdom  &  excitement  ,  there’s  a  lot  of  sadness  that  reside  in  her  hues  -  a  lone  survivor  in  an  unheard  war  ,  she  doesn’t  let  enough  people  close  enough  to  ever  let  them  see  it  .  instead  ,  it’s  more  often  found  to  catch  her  sending  a  glimpse  from  over  the  edge  of  a  book  -  sly  &  clever  .

height  :  five  feet  ,  five  inches

build  :  athletic  ,  with  toned  limbs  &  a  toned  torso  .

tattoos  :  none  .

piercings  :  only  earlobes  .

scars  :  easily  hidden  ,  a  small  two  centimetre  scar  on  the  inside  of  her  right  wrist  ,  just  below  the  fleshy  part  of  her  palm  .  when  asked  ,  the  consistent  story  is  an  accident  when  moving  in  with  her  adopted  parents  -  a  child  throwing  a  tantrum  &  getting  themselves  hurt  .  nobody  knows  the  real  story  ,  she  doesn’t  seem  keen  on  sharing  .

clothing  style  :  academia  aesthetic  ,  she  surrounds  herself  with  like  minded  women  who’ve  the  same  ideals  &  personalities  .  distinguishable  by  their  clothing  ,  carefully  smoothed  high  waisted  a  -  line  skirts  ,  high  turtlenecks  &  long  coats  over  black  tights  .  looks  sophisticated  enough  to  have  a  butler  (  which  ,  she  does  )  but  intellectual  enough  to  debate  her  professor  (  which  ,  she  often  does  )  .

usual  expression  :  like  she  knows  too  much  ,  as  if  she’s  seen  too  much  &  she’ll  use  it  to  her  advantage  .  with  the  constant  curve  of  her  lips  &  the  glint  that’s  always  present  in  her  eyes  ,  she  always  looks  as  if  she’s  about  to  cause  as  much  trouble  .  devil’s  advocate  ,  it  wouldn’t  be  too  far  off  for  her  to  be  minutes  away  from  stirring  the  pot  .

distinguishing  characteristics  :  her  fleeting  laugh  -  it  catches  your  ear  as  she  passes  you  in  the  corridor  ,  always  red  nails  ;  deep  in  color  ,  it  matches  the  shade  of  blood  ,  a  walk  that  demands  attention  -  it  exudes  an  aura  of  importance  ,  cat  like  eyes  that  always  look  like  they’ve  caught  you  doing  something  you  aren’t  supposed  to  be  doing  .

𝑹𝑼𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺

exterior   :  ethereal  ,  she  holds  herself  to  an  impossibly  high  standard  that  everyone  can  see  .  is  it  intentional  ?  the  looks  sent  over  her  shoulders  ,  how  she  parts  the  halls  to  reach  a  friend  -  no  .  a  normal  girl  from  a  normal  world  ,  she’s  sat  in  the  front  of  the  lecture  hall  making  eye  contact  with  the  instructors  ;  the  kind  of  classmate  who  learns  everyone’s  (  everyone’s  )  name  &  collects  numbers  in  a  well  worn  notebook  to  send  out  guides  &  make  friends  .  even  if  you  don’t  know  eden  ,  you  know  of  eden  -  the  life  of  the  party  who  always  arrives  with  glowing  skin  &  a  passionate  argument  to  have  in  the  kitchen  .  elite  ,  the  rumors  of  a  heaven  fallen  girl  wrap  around  her  with  the  moonlight  (  her  journal  left  in  the  library  ,  she’s  god  chosen  )  -  passionate  ,  with  the  fires  of   both  heaven  &  hell  wrapped  in  her  .  almost  normal  (  not  quite  )  ,  the  kind  of  girl  to  greet  everyone  by  name  while  running  through  almost  empty  corridors  -  she  tugs  a  lifetime  of  sorrow  behind  her  ,  hides  it  behind  ambition  &  blind  loyalty  .

interior   :  war  torn  ,  a  victim  of  poison  dipped  claws  &  a  dip  into  the  river  styx  .  her  mind  doesn’t  match  her  body  ,  stuck  in  between  the  pages  of  a  grand  journey  where  she  views  the  world  as  a  story  .  a  punishment  for  early  childhood  ,  penance  has  been  found  in  intricate  metaphors  that  don’t  match  the  sharp  callousness  that  falls  from  her  lips  .  lost  in  a  universe  where  she’s  half  god  ,  half  devil  &  her  enemies  are  heaven  -  bound  ,  she  pushes  it  all  down  to  pass  as  normal  .  a  normal  girl  ,  with  normal  goals  &  normal  roles  .  poetry  in  her  dreams  ,  written  down  on  hidden  yellow  pages  that  aren’t  meant  to  be  seen  by  the  ordinary  .  found  hidden  away  in  locked  boxes  are  journeys  &  important  figures  that  only  her  mind  understands  ;  a  gaping  scar  in  her  life  that  she’ll  never  rid  herself  of  .

𝑪𝑯𝑹𝑶𝑵𝑰𝑪𝑳𝑬

this  is  NOT  gna  be  pretty  i  spent  too  many  brain  cells  on  my  app  .

TRIGGER  WARNINGS  :  abuse  

there’s  an  email  from  doctor  seong  ;  it  reads  of  baek  ye  seul  &  important  things  to  note  before  a  first  session  with  her  .  irreversibly  traumatized  from  early  childhood  captivity  &  abuse  ,  she’s  learned  to  cope  by  transforming  her  life  into  an  intricately  weaved  story  .  each  significant  figure  in  her  life  has  a  title  ,  an  assigned  metaphor  &  character  -  though  ,  outwardly  ,  she’ll  show  no  signs  of  trauma  .  in  fact  ,  the  opposite  -  she  shows  tremendous  progress  in  her  personal  life  ,  easygoing  with  peers  ,  approachable  &  passionate  -  keep  an  eye  on  her  movements  ,  if  anything  internal  ever  goes  external  ,  it’s  a  dangerous  sign  .

a  file  left  open  on  an  agent  prothero’s  office  -  MI6  stamped  &  redacted  but  he  knows  the  story  by  heart  .  poor  eden  ,  left  in  the  hands  of  a  capable  agent  that  chose  a  target  over  her  own  country  .  the  product  of  a  traitor  &  a  criminal  ,  whereabouts  were  unknown  for  the  first  six  years  of  her  life  ;  but  through  extensive  therapy  &  decoding  childish  messages  ,  he’s  learned  enough  to  swear  to  always  keep  an  eye  on  her  .  held  captive  on  a  london  penthouse  ,  had  her  life  threatened  &  well  being  always  held  just  out  of  reach  while  her  mother  &  father  stayed  hidden  .  not  much  else  is  known  ,  no  specifics  ,  just  one  instance  -  she  drowned  ,  almost  ,  she  says  .  held  under  ,  he  can  still  remember  her  asking  what  the  most  peaceful  way  to  die  is  .  he  sends  her  to  partners  in  south  korea  ,  people  who  want  a  daughter  &  promise  to  raise  her  the  best  they  can  .

pour  over  comments  left  on  old  social  media  pages  ,  she’s  a  hit  in  her  new  life  .  sheds  her  english  name  as  quickly  as  she  received  it  &  thrives  overseas  while  growing  into  a  formidable  woman  .  she’s  intelligent  (  reminds  someone  of  a  mother  who  had  it  all  once  )  ,  sharp  &  witty  .  filled  with  enough  passion  to  light  a  palace  ablaze  ,  she  strives  for  greatness  &  settles  for  absolutely  nothing  .  always  equipped  with  a  plan  &  a  way  ,  she  gets  everything  she  wants  (  &  she  always  earns  it  ,  there  isn’t  a  single  unearned  trophy  on  her  shelf  )  .  either  loved  or  despised  ,  she  shines  as  bright  as  stars  that  are  millions  of  light  years away  from  earth  .

in  her  planner  ,  an  acceptance  letter  carefully  pressed  &  laminated  .  someone  told  her  she’d  never  get  in  ,  but  she  sits  on  campus  &  smiles  -  she’s  capable  of  doing  anything  she  wants  .  next  to  the  letter  is  an  unblemished  business  card  .  agent  prothero  ,  who  found  her  ,  gave  her  the  means  to  burn  everything  down  -  he  hands  her  a  promise  &  information  that  always  swims  around  her  head  .  her  parents  aren’t  dead  ,  kept  hidden  by  everyone  in  her  life  ,  they’re  still  kicking  &  on  the  run  .  a  goal  formulated  as  he  reminds  her  to  finish  her  schooling  -  there’s  the  same  glint  in  his  eye  that  she  often  sees  in  the  mirror  -  a  promise  made  to  finish  &  return  .  some  people  deserve  a  downfall  ,  her  mother’s  will  be  her  .

𝑪𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑫

throuple  /  trio    :    hee  hee  ,  as  explained  in  my  app  ,  jus  three  prodigies  who  get  along  so  well  that  they’re  jus  the  best  of  friends  .  kindred  spirits  ,  always  found  together  ,  wearing  complimenting  colors  while  they  try  not  to  laugh  to  hard  in  the  library  over  something  rly  stupid  .  they  hold  hands  while  walking  through  hidden  corridors  &  keep  their  heads  down  to  the  wind  ,  but  it’s  always  the  three  of  them  .

unrequited  rivalry    :   i.e.  an  opal  who  sees  her  as  a  “rival”  (  or  jus  pushes  her  )  &  eden’s  like  haha  peepeepoopoo  in  response  cos  she  doesn’t  think  anyone’s  worthy  enough  to  be  her  rival  .  if  anything  ,  she  thinks  it’s  more  endearing  than  annoying  &  it  gives  her  something  /  someone  to  look  forward  to  when  the  time  comes  down  to  it  .

the  angle  to  her  deivl    :    anyone  who’s  a  lil  kinder  ,  a  lil  softer  &  not  as  annoying  around  the  edges  .  eden  consistently  plays  devil’s  advocate  &  will  stir  the  pot  it  if  brings  drama  &  a  little  bit  of  chaos  into  her  life  ,  this  muse  is  someone  who’s  always  the  ‘  eden  no  ’  to  her  ‘  eden  yes  ’

in  relation  to  her  circlet    :    fully  explained  in  my  app  ,  but  eden  unabashedly  views  her  coven  as  family  -  even  if  she  does  lean  into  the  role  of  annoying  cousin  .  she’s  no  leader  ,  more  of  an  antagonistic  side  kick  who  always  plays  devil’s  advocate  &  causes  trouble  .  that  being  said  ,  when  things  get  dirty  &  things  need  solving  ,  that’s  her  main  job  (  she  ?  thinks  )

in  relation  to  the  opals    :    opals  ,  shmopals  .  a  characteristic  flaw  is  her  disregard  to  authority  figures  (  always  seen  arguing  with  professors  ,  will  fight  the  p*lice  when  called  to  a  party  ,  has  tackled  various  figures  around  campus  )  ,  including  the  opals  .  respect  should  be  earned  &  besides  being  her  seniors  ,  she’s  seen  no  other  reason  to  respect  them  .  so  ,  she’s  outwardly  disrespectful  &  idk  what  to  say  .

[7-wonders]

Lost In the Shadows

Summary: As a naturally curious person, the odd mannerisms of your elusive new boss pique your interest, making you determined to figure out who, or what, he is.

Word Count: 6.5k

A/N: It’s a vampire Michael fic! I really hope you guys enjoy; feedback is always appreciated, and if you loved this I would love if you’d give it a like, comment, and reblog. Enjoy!

There’s something strange about your new boss.

Being one of the longest-tenured employees at Kineros Robotics, having worked in the R & D department for a whopping three months, you were initially relieved when Ms. Venable had told you about the sudden arrival of a new owner. You loved your work, and could think of no better job than getting to conduct experiments on new technologies to help paraplegics and researching artificial neuron studies, but the two men that hired you made it really hard to not think about quitting at least three times a day. Jeff and Mutt, the two coked-out oddballs who somehow managed to co-found a Fortune 500 company, had annoyed or harassed nearly every employee of theirs to the point of quitting within their first three months of work. You’re an anomaly, and if the pay and benefits weren’t so good, as well as the research opportunities, you would have long been out the door with the same people that you were hired with.

The announcement of a new owner was initially a welcome change to the company’s personnel. Maybe this owner would be able to put Jeff and Mutt into their places, and make them realize how to conduct themselves as the founders of such a prestigious company. Hell, maybe the new owner would even allocate some new funds to your R & D department so that you can finally purchase the new, state-of-the art projector that would allow you to create lifesize, 3-D, virtual models of your various research projects that you’ve had your eye on for a month now. Even Ms. Venable, the always stoic secretary whose only emotions seem to be apathy or disdain, manages to crack a small smile when she tells you the news. The long-gossiped about arrival of a new boss seems to be just the thing that will help boost employee morale and allow you to actually get some work done instead of having Jeff and Mutt pester you to see if you can build them a realistic sex robot (a request that you’ve denied multiple times).

Things seem like they’ll be great, and for the most part, they are. Jeff and Mutt hardly cause distractions for you now, and they approve almost any budget request you put on their desks. However, the constant look of fear that caused their eyes to dilate and widen, combined with the welcome lack of cocaine in the building, had you questioning what has gotten into the pair. Employee retention has never been higher, but so many of the newer employees walk around in a dazed stupor, only answering you if you snap your fingers in front of their faces or repeat their names. The common factor in all of this is, of course, your boss; the only question is, who the hell is your boss?

For such a dramatic change in the productivity of Kineros, you’re expecting a much larger authoritative presence than what you’ve seen. Indeed, this new boss is extremely elusive and never in the office. What’s striking to you is that there was never any official memo. No note, no email, not even Ms. Venable was able to gossip about who this boss was, simply for the fact that she couldn’t find out any information. Luckily, you’ve managed to become acquaintances with many of your coworkers, something the purple-clad secretary has never been able to accomplish. The details, while scarce, are enough to form a vague image in your head.

According to the dazed employees whom you now work alongside, the boss is a man called Langdon. No word on whether it’s his first or last name, because apparently he’s so intimidating that any question a person may have flees their mind at the sight of him. In fact, people forget most aspects of their encounters with Langdon, thanks to two possible reasons. The first is, of course, that he’s just so damn frightening that everyone’s brains develop some sort of short-term memory amnesia in an attempt to forget about what they just saw. The second which, from general consensus seems to be the more plausible, is that his beauty is so blinding that it’s impossible to remember what the conversation was about when one is staring at “those cheekbones!” Kineros has always seemed to have shallow assumptions and vapid materialism woven into its very core, so it’s not too surprising to hear that everyone is so dazed because they’ve got the hots for Langdon.

Langdon, it would seem, is the only topic that employees know how to talk about lately. Frankly, you’re sick of it. You don’t really care who the boss is, what he looks like, or where he is that’s so much more important than the business he now runs, so long as the company’s running and your paychecks are being deposited into your bank account on a regular basis. If he really wanted to make sure that Kineros was running smoothly, he would show his face around the office more in order to quell the rumors and prevent you from having to stop disoriented coworkers from applying two sources of the same charge and nearly blowing up the labs for the third time in a week.

It’s late on a Friday, which means that nobody, save the janitor and security guards, is in the building. While everyone else employed here bolted for the doors the second the clock hit five, you were just getting started with your more-important research. You like working when it’s blissfully quiet and you can move around while you think, pacing back and forth as you run over calculations or decide which millimeter difference would help your machine to work more efficiently. Lately, you’ve often found yourself in the labs until the security team has to ask you to leave so that they can finish their rounds. With all of the commotion over Langdon’s appointment, it’s been difficult to get much work done during a traditional work day.

You’re sitting at your desk, random pieces of paper cluttering the workspace around you as you attempt to work out the schematics for a new prosthetic hand you’re designing that would be controlled by a patient’s brain, when the sound of shoes clicking across the shiny floor has your pencil stopping in its tracks. It’s a foreign noise, especially at this time of the evening; both the custodial and security staff wear heavy boots, the footsteps of which you could recognize from a floor away. These are different--lighter, yet confident. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up before the door to the lab opens, and you tense before taking a precautionary sip of tea and slowly turning around.

The tea was a bad decision, causing you to nearly choke as you lock eyes with your unexpected visitor. You’re sure that you’ve never met before; surely you would remember someone as ethereal as this man? His face looks like it was crafted by the most renowned Renaissance sculptors themselves, all sharp angles and delicate features. His blonde hair flows to just past his shoulders, and his cold blue eyes (accented with a dark red eye shadow that’s perfectly applied to the inner corners) watch you with an intensity that makes you shiver. He’s dressed in all black, a stark contrast to the white decor of Kineros. A silk scarf hangs loosely around his neck, ornate rings decorating his slender fingers. Your eyes linger on the metallic talon ring that sits on his index finger, which looks sharp enough to easily slice through anyone or anything.

Although his delicate features give him the look of an angel, there’s something much darker that clouds his face like a summer storm. You’ve never felt as intimidated by someone’s mere presence as you do in front of this man, and you realize that this can only be the mysterious Langdon. He smirks as he watches you scramble out of your chair, amused at your clumsy reaction to his sudden appearance. You feel intensely scrutinized as he looks you up and down, his lip curling as you nervously tap your fingers against your leg.

“It’s--uh, nice to finally meet you, Mr. Langdon,” you stutter, mentally smacking yourself for how unprofessional you look and sound. You weren’t exactly expecting visitors tonight, hence the messy bun you pulled your hair into and your bare feet, heels having been kicked off as soon as your coworkers left.

Langdon takes calculated steps towards you, stalking closer until your heart is thumping wildly at the abrupt proximity. You don’t know it, but the scent of your blood as it rushes just under the surface of your delicate skin has his eyes imperceptibly fluttering in near-ecstasy. He’s been around for a long, long time, and tasted some of the finest blood that the world has had to offer, but it’s extremely rare for someone’s essence to sing its siren song to him in the way that yours does.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N),” he drawls, voice lilting and higher-pitched than you would have expected. It’s tantalizing, sweet, and teasing, everything that you would expect from this man. “A pity I have not been able to visit here sooner, but I have had...other matters to attend to, as of late.”

You find your head bobbing up and down at his excuses, realizing that you would quickly do anything that this man asked of you if it meant you got to hear him say your name again. The sound of your phone chiming, an alarm you had set to remind yourself to get up from your desk and get something to eat if you still hadn’t left the office (at least nobody could ever say that you underperformed at your job), snaps you out of the daze that Langdon’s presence had put you in. You narrow your eyes, refusing to let this man charm you into submission like everybody else at this company.

“What, did you buy another company just so you could arouse some more suspicion as the mysterious, elusive commander-in-chief?” Your breath catches in your throat, the words escaping before you can even think otherwise.

Langdon stares at you for a long moment, and you’re already bracing to pack up your belongings and leave before security has to drag you out of the building. Then, something unexpected happens. A slow smile spreads across his face, one that shows off his (oddly sharp-looking) teeth.

“Witty and a genius, then.”

“Hardly, but thank you, Mr. Langdon.”

“It’s Michael,” he divulges, and you get a warm feeling in your chest that only a select few are privy to this information.

Langdon--no, Michael, you remind yourself--glances over your shoulder at the rough sketches of your next projects that clutter your desk.

“Artificial neural pathways? That sounds like quite the endeavor.”

“It will be, but it’s an endeavor I’m excited to take on. We’ve only used artificial neural pathways in order to enhance computers, but why not use them to help people? They’re made to mimic human functions; if I can figure out a way to target specific areas of the brain and make them small enough for successful implantations, there’s no telling what we could accomplish. Think of all of the traumatic brain injuries that would be healed with these! We could, potentially, eradicate diseases like Alzhiemer’s and dementia.”

Michael, for whom empathy is not an emotion commonly felt, finds himself listening intently as you explain your ideas. Your face lights up as you talk about this passion of yours, making his chest clench almost painfully. He didn’t come here tonight to ‘meet’ some of the people under the Cooperative’s hierarchy, he came here to feed. The entire damn reason for showing up suddenly at Jeff and Mutt’s thirtieth-story office was to collect part of their payment that comes along with selling their souls, like allowing Michael to take over the company, further his plans for the end of days, and have free reign of a hunting ground that was teeming with blood of all different types and tastes.

There’s multiple reasons why Michael doesn’t allow himself to get attached to humans. For starters, their lives are all too short compared to his, and all too irrelevant. How can they expect to make any sort of a meaningful mark on their dull world when they have, at most, a few decades to live? Pathetic creatures, Michael’s always thought whenever he watches them; a predator stalking his prey. They’re so easy to fool, to charm and glamour until they’re basically baring their necks to him, begging him to feed from them. Humans are pliable, minds easily molded by any force stronger than a slight breeze.

You were meant to be nothing more than Michael’s next meal. The beginning of his hunt was so routine, it was almost comical how easy it was to waltz into your lab and work you into a daze. Your damn phone alarm had ruined it all, had snapped the spell that he had put you under and allowed you to face him head-on. As soon as your little backhanded insult reached his ears, he knew that he couldn’t go through with it. His kind is, unfortunately, prone to enhanced feelings. In addition to their physical abilities becoming heightened with the transformation, their emotions are as well. It’s one of their very few weaknesses, and one that may have just saved you from your death.

If it were any other day, any other person, any other occasion, intense rage would course through Michael’s body and the victim would be dead before they could even blink. Today, though, he’s slow to anger. Whether that be because he had just fed three days ago or because he’s actually enjoying this hunt, your remark catches him off guard. You have a fire within you that Michael hasn’t seen for some time. Even if he doesn’t cloud the mind of a human, they’re usually so taken by his beauty that they couldn’t even think to say anything remotely disparaging. He admires it, that fight, and it’s enough of a hesitation for that admiration to make him doubt his choice for today’s meal. After you explain how you plan to develop neurons that would save a person’s brain from the slow decline of disease, Michael knows that he can’t kill you.

Michael could, of course, still feed from you without killing you. Although it looks like the obvious option from an outsider’s perspective, it’s only feasible when the source is a willing party in this dark tango. He’s had a few of those partners in previous decades, but has been without one for the last twenty or so years. When hunting, like Michael is, there are only two options for what to do with one’s prey (after all, consuming a human in their entirety was lethal, the dead blood dragging his kind to their own deaths). Either the victim’s supply is drained for macabre leftovers, or they’re compelled to forget the entire experience.

Small-scale compulsions have no lasting effect on the compulsee, but forcing a person’s mind to forget hours upon hours of prior events leaves them in what’s basically a trance. They become sleep-walkers, only this is a dream they can’t wake up from. With their glazed eyes and one sentence answers to any questions that may be asked of them, they’re temporarily shells of their former selves as their minds try to comprehend and make sense of the sudden gap in memories. Michael can’t do that to you, can’t watch your brilliant mind be muddled just so that he can get a quick meal. Hell, he would just kill you, but something in him balks at the mere idea of such an act.

You stifle a gasp when Michael’s suddenly inches away from you, hand ghosting across your cheek and talon ring dangerously close to nicking your skin. His cyan eyes burn into you, as if he’s sifting through the deepest crevices of your soul. He smiles again, but this time it’s softer, like he knows something that you don’t.

“A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be here this late at night. Go home, (Y/N),” Michael whispers, head tilting while he watches every minor movement that your muscles make. Your brow furrows at his abrupt instructions and you tense, not willing to let this near-stranger tell you what to do.

“But I’m not done yet, and why should I even--”

“(Y/N),” Michael almost coos, eyes searching yours as he gets your attention and pins you to your place. You want to move and escape his grasp before berating him for his actions, but you can’t seem to even blink, much less look away from his gaze. “Go home.”

His words carry a different power this time around, and you start to gather your coat and bags as soon as he lets go of you.

For tonight, Michael will reduce himself to hunting on the streets, finding some vagrant to satiate his needs. He won’t kill you, not until he figures out how you managed to unknowingly find a weakness of his and exploit it to avoid your death. For now, though, Michael releases you from the building and watches you until the door closes behind you, making sure your stubborn mind actually heeds his compulsion. Even when you’re out into the cool night, you can still feel the piercing gaze of Michael’s chilling eyes on your back, closely watching your every move.

There’s definitely something strange about your new boss.

////////////////////////

For the next two weeks, you’re constantly on edge at work as you try to keep an eye out for Michael. You’ve attempted to figure out how he got you to leave so suddenly on that night, tried to find some logical explanation for the strangeness of that evening, but you just can’t. You’re a woman of science, one who finds solace in facts and figures. All of the collected data in the world couldn’t explain the enigma that is Michael Langdon.

The computer has become both your best friend and your worst enemy as of late. You’ve searched almost nonstop for some sort of an explanation, with nothing to show for it except for a few Reddit /nosleep boards with their made-up horror stories. It’s useless, you’re starting to feel, and you’ve spent far too many hours perusing the internet instead of focusing on your work. A direct consequence of this action, you’ve stayed late at work nearly every night that you’ve found your mind wandering. What had originally seemed to be a self-inflicted punishment, however, is starting to feel like a piece of a much larger puzzle.

Michael starts to become a familiar face around Kineros on the evenings that you’re working late. While he may just be an extremely productive night owl, it’s still a little odd that he’s only ever around during the later hours of the night. When you had asked Jeff and Mutt about it after your first encounter with Michael, they had both stuttered aggressively before unconvincingly telling you that “he makes his own hours.” You weren’t buying it at all, and their behavior towards the matter only made you more suspicious. Why did you only ever see this man in the late hours of the night?

The odd work habits were the main red flag, but others just kept popping up as soon as you realized that things were not quite right. You couldn’t help but notice that every person who shared the same dazed demeanor you had seen on countless others since the change in personnel had one other thing in common: they had all come in contact with Michael. You’d be working late, see one of your coworkers in the kitchen while you were both grabbing another cup of coffee, see Michael on your way back to the lab, and the next day that coworker would be walking around like a zombie. You’ve tried to convince yourself that there’s no correlation between the two situations, but the only other option would be some sort of poisoning that happens after-hours. Obviously that’s impossible, considering you haven’t been affected like the other employees have.

It’s childish and fanciful, the theory that’s placed itself in the forefront of your mind. However, what other conclusion could you come to that would explain the strange and unusual things that you’ve seen and experienced lately? Michael, this young, ethereal man who was able to have you completely under his spell with just the utterance of your name, managed to take control of a Fortune 500 company in a day. The odd mannerisms that others around you have displayed only began when Michael showed up here, not to mention the ever-present glass of what looked to be red wine nestled snugly between his fingers. You only ever see him at night, and he appears so suddenly and quietly that it’s as if he’s a ghost. Everything about him seems like a rose dipped in poison: beautiful, but deadly.

You’ve seen Michael helpfully calibrate your neutron spectrometer with simply a glance at the machine and some skilled handiwork. Even a professional repairman, with their specialty tools, would have required at least a week to get it to working condition. He even lifted the 300-pound piece of equipment like it was the weight of a newborn kitten, briefly making you think that it wasn’t nearly as heavy as you thought it was. That was quickly disproven when you tried to lift it after he left and couldn’t even move a corner of it.

You’re not some 15-year-old child anymore, which is what will make this conclusion so humiliating if it actually is wrong. You know what the realm of possibility is, and that even most things that belong outside that realm are still rooted in logic. That you would believe yourself to be the protagonist of some teen supernatural novel is almost ludicrous. You’ve eliminated all other possibilities, but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself once said that “once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” With all that you’ve seen, and all that you know, there can only be possible truth.

Michael Langdon is a vampire.

It’s not a conclusion that you’re proud of, but it’s the one that you’ve got. Nevertheless, the plan that you’ve formulated will either make or break you, and your career. You know that you’re the only Kineros employee in the building tonight, since Jeff’s ‘birthday’ (third one this year) warrants a massive party at his house that all employees are invited to attend. Most of your coworkers won’t turn down the opportunity to indulge in some of the finest drugs that the West Coast has to offer, and you’ve asked around enough to discern that you’ll be the only one here tonight. Since it’s a Thursday, Michael should, if what you believe is correct, be stalking the halls tonight in search of his next meal. Theoretically, predator will become prey.

You’re sitting at your desk, legs propped up on the table while you twirl a scalpel between your fingers. Although you could have already set your plan into motion, you’re hesitant. What if it doesn’t work? What if you just turn out to be some fool with your head in the clouds, making yourself bleed for no reason? Worse, what if it does work and you end up getting yourself killed? It’s now or never, you decide, and with a deep breath you dig the tip of the scalpel into the pad of your finger.

Michael’s head snaps up the moment that he smells the blood being spilled from four floors below. It’s impossible for his head to not be clouded with your scent whenever he’s in this building, the rich aroma so intense that he can practically taste it on his tongue. Now that your skin has been cut, you’re all that he can think about. He’s been desperate to control himself, has sensed your ever growing suspicion since your first encounter two weeks ago. He can’t let himself slip up, not after he’s been so careful for so long. The injury that you’ve sustained, however minor it may be, changes everything.

The door is flung open with such force that it rattles the hinges, your head snapping up at the disturbance. It’s been maybe 30 seconds since blood started beading at the tip of your finger, and it’s such a small amount that you’ve been preparing to injure another part of your body that will produce more blood. Michael stands mere feet away from you, looking positively ravenous. His chest is heaving as he takes deep breaths, and his eyes are locked onto your finger.

“I knew it,” you mutter in disbelief, brandishing the scalpel in front of you as a pathetic weapon. Dark veins have appeared like cracks under Michael’s eyes, which are now a startling shade of red and black. It’s obvious that he can sense your fear, can hear your heart beating wildly in your chest, when he smirks and shows off his pointy fangs.

“It was only a matter of time before you figured it out, hmm?” Michael teases, voice sounding even more exquisite than it normally is. “You’re not like the other employees here, oh no. You’re smart, and self-aware. You’re able to believe in things that seem to be outside of the realm of possibility, no matter how insane it may seem.”

“Stay back,” you warn when Michael starts to take a few steps closer, still staring at the blood that has welled on your finger.

“You think that little knife of yours could stop me?”

A loud gasp is the only noise you can produce when Michael is gripping your wrist in less than the blink of an eye. He forces the scalpel out of your hand, and it falls to the ground with a clatter. You can only watch as his tongue wraps around your injured finger, sucking and licking the blood and prodding the wound to produce more. Your knees grow weak as you watch the shockingly erotic scene play out in front of you, Michael moaning around your finger. He only pulls off when the blood flow stops, your cut clotting quicker than Michael can agitate the wound.

“I taste good to you?” You ask, watching him intensely as you snatch your hand back from him.

Michael licks his bottom lip, where some of your blood has pooled, before smiling ferally and nodding. “Absolutely divine, pet.”

Anger flares at the pet name, but that’s really the least of your concerns right now considering a fucking vampire is ready to devour you.

“You want more?” Michael nods enthusiastically. “Then you’re gonna have to sit down and answer my questions.”

“And what makes you think I won’t just drain you right now?” Michael drawls, quirking an eyebrow at your demands.

“You won’t,” you say confidently. “If you didn’t kill me that first night you showed up in my lab, there’s no way you’ll kill me now.”

Michael locks eyes with you for a long moment, a shiver wracking down your spine as you stare into those dark red eyes. You honestly don’t know if he actually would kill you, and you’re praying that you guessed right. Finally he nods, sitting in the seat that you occupied mere minutes ago. You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding, hopping onto the desk to give yourself some illusion of dominance in this situation. He’s annoyed that you’ve flipped the tables on him, but that annoyance turns to rapture when you dig the scalpel into the fleshy part of your palm just enough to bring a drop of blood to the surface.

“Answer my questions, and I’ll cut enough to let you drink. Deal?” You wince at the pain of the blade piercing your skin, but push it to the side as you wait for Michael to make his decision.

“Yes, fine! We have a deal.” You remove the blade from your hand and wipe the blood against a cloth, making Michael groan at the waste.

“Oh hush, you haven’t even answered my questions yet.”

“Just what would you like to know?”

“First: how are you a vampire?” Michael leans forward in his seat, teeth glinting as the light hits them.

“Ah, but I am so much more than just a vampire.”

Michael then proceeds to tell you the Sparknotes version of his story, which spans almost 400 years. How his father, the fucking Devil, created him with the goal of ushering in a new era for Hell to reign on Earth. The idea was that an immortal Michael would be able to live among humans and constantly change and observe, like a chameleon, collecting information and discerning when the right time to end the world as it is known would be. Unfortunately, immortality comes at a price. In order to live forever, with enhanced abilities and as young as he is now, Michael must feed from the blood of humans in order to retain his youth. One life benefiting another, although you don’t really see how senseless killings would benefit anybody but the killer.

“If you can’t survive without the blood of humans, then why are you so obsessed with ending the world?” You ask finally when Michael’s finished telling you his history.

“It’s not so much ‘ending the world’ as it is weeding out those who are not fit for survival. Only the strongest shall survive, and the strongest will be given the honor to serve Satan and his creatures.”

“Cultivating your food source, then?” You snort at the sheer ridiculousness of his plan.

“We won’t have to kill when everyone is willing to offer themselves. Think of it as a blood drive. Only a couple of pints every few weeks, which is what they would sacrifice to remain alive and in good health.”

“Why do you believe you’re so much better than everyone else?”

“Because I am,” Michael says as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “I’m the Antichrist, (Y/N). I possess powers that your mind couldn’t even fathom. I could level an entire city with just the snap of my fingers, could bend you to my will with a simple glance.”

“That’s how you were able to get me to leave the building that first night,” you realize, Michael nodding in agreement.

“Very good, pet. It’s also why so many of your fellow employees look as if they’re sleepwalking,” he mocks, giving you half a mind to dig the scalpel into the side of his neck. “Don’t even try it. That silly little wound would barely harm me, let alone kill me.”

“Great, you can read minds too?”

“Yet another one of my numerous gifts.”

“This is...a lot to take in.”

“Obviously. It’s not every day that you meet a man such as myself.” Michael licks his lips, staring at the beating pulse point on your neck. “Now, I believe you promised me some of your blood after I did what you asked of me?”

“Wait!” What sounds like a growl rumbles from Michael’s chest as he rolls his eyes. “Why didn’t you kill me, that first night I met you? It’s pretty obvious now that I was meant to be your meal then, so why did you decide not to? Aren’t I a liability now?”

“You are,” Michael admits. “You could, theoretically, run to the press and spill my secret. But you won’t. I don’t know you that well, true, but something in me knows that you won’t.”

He’s right, and you hate the fact that he is. Even if you were to tell the media, would they even believe you, or would they just think you’re crazy? Michael hasn’t killed you yet, but it’s entirely likely that he would end your life if you tried to tell anybody. Vampire or not, you’re not a snitch. His secret, unfortunately, is safe with you.

“Alright, fine, I wouldn’t tell anybody. That still doesn’t answer my first question, though. Why didn’t you kill me on the night we met?” Michael hesitates, the first sign of any emotion other than a confident arrogance or intense hunger.

“I--vampires are prone to heightened emotions. What you would feel as a normal emotion, we feel that tenfold. I was so close to completing the hunt and draining you, but your alarm snapped you out of the daze I had you in. When you made fun of me for never being around, it managed to make me laugh. You didn’t know it, but you had bought yourself some time. After you explained to me your plans, and I saw the brilliant mind you possess, there was no way I could kill you. You’re the first human I’ve talked to for almost a decade that’s made enough of an impression on me to avoid becoming prey.”

“I thought you were going to end up firing me after I said that,” you joke, placing the scalpel down now that you know you’ve made it impossible for Michael to kill you. “Well, a deal’s a deal.”

Michael’s eyes widen, and his fangs nearly pierce his bottom lip, even as he’s smiling. “Is it alright if I bite you? It’s been so long since I’ve had someone willingly let me feed from them.”

He closes his eyes and shudders, the mere thought of getting to bite you already exhilarating.

“Um...yeah, I guess?” The speed at which Michael moves is dizzying. One moment you’re staring down at him, and the next he’s got your back pinned against the desk.

“I’ve had to cut back on my hunts here in an attempt to keep you from figuring things out, but now that the secret’s out, that won’t be an issue.” He breathes deeply, nose nuzzling against your neck. You gasp when he lightly nips your pulse point, licking the heated flesh thoroughly.

“I won’t, like, become a vampire or anything, will I?” Michael smirks up at you, red starting to make its way back into those blue eyes.

“There’s a very specific process to become a vampire. You have nothing to worry about, pet.”

“This is so fucking crazy, I can’t believe I’m going to let an actual vampire bite me,” you mutter, nervously laughing as Michael brushes the hair away from your neck.

“I should warn you that many people find immense pleasure from being bitten.”

“Why’s that?”

“When connected to a pulse point, my heartbeat begins to sync with that of whomever I’m biting. This connects us, basically, and is very pleasurable for both parties.”

“Hmm, so exaggeration is also a vampire trait,” you quip, staring up at Michael. “Just get it over with, please.”

You refuse to close your eyes or look away, not wanting to show that you’re actually scared of the situation. Michael leans over you, heavy weight pressing you down against the glass desk. It’s a little shocking when he starts off by gently kissing your neck, nipping and sucking like every person who’s ever given you a hickey before has. When his hair starts to tickle your face, you lean your head further to the side. Michael looks up from his position, and you’re startled to see just how rapidly red floods into his eyes and black veins pop out above his cheekbones. He smirks, shooting you a playful wink before letting his head drop back into the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

You yelp when he first bites you, two pinpricks that feel like a liquid fire easily slicing your skin and allowing Michael to drink from you. His hips keep your lower body from squirming, hand locked in your hair and arm on your shoulder to prevent your thrashing. A question of whether Michael’s fangs act as straws, or if he simply allows the blood to pool into his mouth, enters your head. However, all thoughts are quickly pushed aside when the near-agonizing pain suddenly turns to a blinding pleasure.

Michael moans at the same time as you, but it hardly registers over the sound of your own pumping blood roaring in your ears. You can suddenly feel everything; blood running through your veins and being drained by Michael, how his velvet coat feels against your bare wrists, and even how painfully hard he is against your thigh. If this were any other time, you’d laugh in his face and make fun of him to the point where he would love to kill you. Now, though, you’d be a hypocrite, for your own arousal pools between your legs. You’re extremely grateful that you’re unable to move, or else you’re pretty sure your hips would be bucking up into his.

All of your senses are clouded by Michael. The sight of him, eyes closed and teeth clamped over your neck as he drinks deeply from you. The sounds of him, consuming your blood and loudly moaning at the same time. The feel of him, pressed up against you much in the same way a lover would position themselves. The smell of him, that rich copper that you now associate with blood and something earthy, something you only smell when you’re around a precious antique. Even how you can practically taste what he’s tasting, can see the allure in your own sweet, yet tangy, blood.

All you can think of, all you want, need, is Michael. Michael, Michael, Michael. You chant his name like a prayer, hands itching at the need to wrap around his lithe form and pull him even closer to you. The intense pleasure is all-consuming, and you realize that you would gladly let him drink you to death if it meant your last moments would be spent in ecstasy.

Michael isn’t a new vampire, and knows all of the signs when it’s getting to the point that his victim is going to start losing too much blood. He can sense your heart beating faster, breathing quickening as your legs weakly kick from under him. It’s incredibly difficult, but he manages to pull away. He can’t resist his base urges, leaning in to collect the last few drops of blood from your puncture wounds before sitting up between your legs and licking his lips clean. You scramble up, lightheaded and so aroused that you’re pulsing between your thighs.

“That was--that--wow,” you stutter, clutching a hand to your neck. You cringe slightly at the feeling of your own heart beating beneath your fingers, Michael smirking and delicately cleaning his fangs with his tongue.

“Such pretty noises you make, pet. Not to mention just how delectable you taste. Best that I’ve had this century, surely.”

You silently curse when you feel your cheeks heating up, Michael smiling widely at the blush on your face.

“Are you done now? I’d like to go home now,” you discreetly shift your thighs, trying anything to stop feeling so hot and bothered.

“I get the feeling that you’re just as desperate for more, just as I am.” When he reaches down and palms himself through his slacks, you blanch and jump up.

“Goodnight, Michael.” The man in question stands, gleefully watching as you shakily gather your things.

“Goodnight, (Y/N). Rest assured, this is not the last time we will find ourselves in a situation such as this.” Somehow, you don’t doubt that at all.

///////////////

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[narrators-tales]

Scotch on the Rocks

The Narrator looks at the drink before them “Scotch on the rocks, eh? Burns like hell, and I think I know just the tale for you. You ever heard the story of Valamon’s fall to the hells?”

"Well, a long long time ago, in a far-off sector, there was a god. Her name was Arxeln, protector of the prime material. And as you know, gods can't have direct influence over the prime material, so Arxeln had a champion. We know their name was Valmalon, but most details of their mortal form have been lost, burnt by hellfire." 

"Valmalon was a champion full of light, healing the sick, fighting demons, and protecting those who couldn't protect themselves. But I'm getting ahead of myself." They sip their drink again

"Valmalon was born to loving mortal parents. Their mother was a priest of Arxeln while their father was an advisor for the king. They were trained extensively in both combat and religion, at their mother's insistence. Their father taught them to look out for injustices, and to fix the cause instead of the symptoms. Valmalon took these lessons to heart, joining the king's guard as soon as they were able."

"They joined out of a desire to protect the city and its people, to help where they could. And they did a good job of it too, so good that they were promoted to captain in a mere two months. As most know, however, ignorance is bliss, and a promotion means learning more. Learning about the kingdom outside the city walls, and the troubles that afflict it."

"Valmalon's heart course cracked under the knowledge, but the piece that shattered it was learning of the corruption in their own church. Arxeln's church. Paying for blessings, extortion for healing, you name it. They were more cruel than Old King Cole, but that's a different story, and not my tale to tell."

"Now, they say corruption is in any church so long as you know where to look for it and I absolutely agree, but poor Valmalon was sheltered from all of it. The jury is still out on if their mother wanted to protect them from it or was part of it, but I doubt we'll be getting a verdict anytime soon."

The Narrator sips its drink before it continues the tale

"So, Valmalon's determination turned to anger. And anger, while incredibly productive, turns to hatred when left unattended. Valamon continued their guard duties, silently seething at exactly what they saw wrong with the world- their church. Now made aware of it, they saw corruption everywhere they went."

"Eventually, they couldn't take it. Bitter and disillusioned with what they once revered, they left everything behind. Taking only enough to survive in the wildlands past the city walls, they sought revenge on what they considered their betrayers."

"Now, any time you shittalk a church, a devil is bound to be eavesdropping. But to see Arxeln's own champion, Valamon, protector of the weak seeking to destroy her church? That is something any devil would pay a thousand souls for. And so that's where Ekrah comes into our little story."

"Ekrah is the only name we have for the devil that tempted Valamon. Of course it isn't their true name, names have power and devils don't ever bargain power they can't collect on later. Risking their true name to a storyteller is ill-thought out at best, and disastrous at worst. Regardless, they were crafty, and could twist any mortal's words with laser-like precision."

"And so Ekrah approached their prey. Disguised as an unassuming young man, they got themselves 'trapped' in a thicket of thorns. After their rescue by the brave Valamon, Ekrah begged Valamon to allow them to share a meal. Valamon obliged, of course, and so Ekrah's work truly began."

"Over their meal, they made small talk, discussing where they were from, why they were traveling through the wildlands, and so on. When Valamon let slip about their issues with the church, Ekrah saw their opportunity, and took it. They pushed on why Valamon was in the wildlands instead of taking revenge, they needled on what Valamon was planning against the church, and they lead Valamon to new ideas on how to destroy it."

"Ekrah suggested, as innocently as a devil can do so, that the best way to destroy a church is to destroy its god, to 'pull the weed out by the roots' so to speak. Besides, if Arxeln had really cared, why didn't she step in? Why would she allow her followers to be so cruel as a deity of protection? Eventually, their meal ended and Valamon departed, but the devil's words had already taken hold in their mind. They started to research. Libraries, forgotten studies, the hideouts of long-dead wizards, now mere tombs. There are a few ways to destroy a god that are known to mortals. One of them is to stifle belief, the divine thrives on ambrosia made of worship, and without it they will starve a slow and painful death. A cruel cycle, as weakened gods cannot bless their remaining followers, leaving them unable to cultivate their own 'food'. But that was too slow for Valamon, a mortal who had spent nearly half their life already. So they continued to research, and took more drastic steps. They contacted devils, trying to trade for information, but could never afford the cost. So they experimented. They studied how to pluck at the strings of the arcane curtain that separates the material from the ethereal. They grew in power, but lost much of theirself along the way."

"Gradually Valamon changed. As most are changed by the magic they channel, so were they. Their hatred lead them to levels of power they never could have dreamed, but they were more hatred than person. And so they planned. They plotted at how to best destroy Arxeln, the careless patron of their most-hated church. They ripped through the curtain, and charged for Arxeln's celestial throne, annihilating anything that dared to get in their way. Devas, angels, elementals, none were spared. Until they reached her throne. They raised a hand marred with magic and hatred, and attempted to end the goddess. She blocked the blow, but was pushed back into her own throne. They fought, and divine tears fell as Arxeln defeated what used to be her favorite champion. She had her blade against Valamon's throat, but hesitated just a moment too long. And so Valamon fled. But the prime material would no longer accept them as a mortal, and they knew there was no way to hide among the divine, so they had no other choice but to enter hell and become one of its devils. They learned quickly, and ascended even quicker, eventually taking Ekrah's place as archdevil of the fifth circle. Little is known of their time in the hells, beyond the fact that centuries later they lead an assault that did successfully destroy Arxeln and throw the mortal realm into chaos and destruction."

"It's not a happy tale, with no happy ending to speak of, but it's a fine story that deserves to be told, and I reckon I'm the only storyteller worth their salt left who knows it. Gods know that their world can't tell it anymore. So I do it. Someone has to." They finish off their drink

Scribe’s note: For reference on Old King Cole please check out Once Upon a Time (in Space) by The Mechanisms.

[rosebudryot]

Taakitz Week Day 1: Fashion Disasters

Okay so I finished this in three hours without proofreading At All, so please excuse the mistakes! I’ve also never done something like this and this is pretty much my second ever finished fic so I hope it’s okay! it doesn’t exactly fit the prompt but here’s my submission for @taakitzweek !!! feedback is Always Appreciated!

     Kravitz reached up to smooth down his braids as the rift closed up behind him. He’d just finished up his day in the ethereal plane, and he had previously made plans with Taako to go on a date. They’d gone to the Chug n’ Squeeze before, though he had only recently begun to consider that a first date. He still felt somewhat bad for leaving so suddenly, but Taako had insisted that it was okay, and he believed him.

     Their second date had been at a location of Kravitz’ choice, much to his initial panic. Where did people go on dates, now? He couldn’t exactly replicate their previous date, and it was hard to pick a place that seemed enjoyable to Taako. Dating had still been called courting when Kravitz was still alive, for Queen’s sake, and dates hardly existed at all. You exchanged letters and then you were married, and that was mostly it.

     He approached Taako with his dilemma, and was met with a declaration that “Any place ‘s fine, as long as you show up, homie.” That was nice enough, but it didn’t really help him.

     Eventually, after much, much deliberation, Kravitz decided to bring Taako to see an orchestra. Their first date had been somewhere that revealed a part of Taako’s personality, so it seemed well enough that their second would do the same for Kravitz’.

     They had gone out to a relatively upscale restaurant afterwards, and Taako seemed to be enjoying himself. It was enough for him to agree to a third date, which Kravitz considered a success.

     All of that had led him here, standing in the common room of the reclaimers’ dorm. Most of the lights were shut off, and it seemed to be vacant. He was glad that he hadn’t accidentally transported himself into the same room as Merle or Magnus. Taako hadn’t mentioned anything about telling his coworkers about their relationship, and that was fine by him.

     It was a little worrying, however, that Taako wasn’t anywhere to be found either. He was usually sitting on the couch by now, waiting for Kravitz to arrive. Maybe he was just running a little late getting ready, and was still in his room.

     Another five minutes passed without an appearance, and then another ten. Kravitz quickly checked his pocket watch to confirm that this was indeed the right time and, yes, it seemed to be. Maybe he would just let Taako know that he was here, in case he had lost track of time.

     Taako’s door was shut, but Kravitz could faintly hear noise coming from inside. He knocked softly and waited.

     The door swung open to reveal Taako, looking distinctly not ready.

     “Oh, shit! Sorry, handsome. Forgot we were doing that whole date thing tonight.” His face was covered in some sort of green face mask, and his hair was pulled up in a very messy bun. He was wearing very fuzzy knee-high leopard print socks, and a seemingly just as fuzzy pair of pink shorts. His oversized t-shirt was cut crudely into a crop top and had the words “If you don’t like raw aggression you shouldn’t be working at Fantasy Build-A-Bear” printed in eye-searing pink font. The entire look was disastrous, but it didn’t seem to hinder Taako in the slightest. There was very little he couldn’t pull off, anyway.

     “Oh, um, that’s quite alright. We can reschedule, if you’d like?” Kravitz was admittedly just a tiny bit hurt that Taako had forgotten about their plans, but he knew better than anyone that time was hard to keep track of. It slipped past at alarming speeds when he was working in the astral plane.

     “Nah, don’t even worry about it, dude. You can come hang in here.” He stepped back to let Kravitz in and swept his arm to the side in a showy gesture.

     “That sounds nice. You’re sure that’s okay?” Kravitz hesitated slightly in the doorway before making his way inside.

     “Mi casa, su casa, and all that. I should warn you, though. I got stuck with the baby detective tonight. Dunno if that’s chill with you.”

     “That’s okay,” Kravitz paused for a moment. “Have you told him about us?”

     “What? Aw hells no. Kid’s like, two. He probably doesn’t even know what dating is,” Taako scoffs. “He’ll probably snoop around until he figures it out anyway. It doesn’t matter if I tell him.”

     Someone else spoke before Kravitz could reply. “Sir? Are you talking to someone?” The voice belonged to none other than the world’s greatest detective himself, Angus McDonald.

     Angus was wearing a near-identical face mask, though this one was a deep blue instead of mint green. His typical fancy-boy clothes had been ditched in favor of a much too large t-shirt with “Pan Camp” written across the front. (It was most definitely stolen from Merle.) The green shirt was tied in the front with a purple scrunchie in an effort to keep it from reaching his knees. His long pajama pants were patterned with paw prints. (Taako stole them from Magnus a long time ago, and had cast Reduce on them so they’d fit Angus.)

     Angus noticed Kravitz immediately. “Oh! Hello, sir. I’m Angus McDonald. What’s your name?” He stuck out a small hand for him to shake.

     Kravitz hesitantly shook Angus’s hand. He opened his mouth to introduce himself, but was once again interrupted. This time, by Taako.

     “This is my buddy Krav. He’s gonna come chill with us tonight. You needin’ something, Agnes?”

     Angus remembered his original reason for seeking out Taako quickly enough. “Oh, well, the movie ended, but I realized you had left, so I went to go find you. Then I found you here. I can go put on another movie, if you want me to.”

     “Yeah, go knock yourself out,” Taako waved Angus off, but followed him into the living room anyway. “Just none of that detective shit. We’ve been watching that all night.”

     Angus frowned, but quickly recovered. “What if-”

     “Nope, nuh uh. If you’re gonna start tryna make deals you can go spend the night with Garfield. My room, my rules, boychik.”

     He reluctantly accepted Taako’s terms and turned on a fantasy Disney movie instead.

     “You want a face mask, Ghost Rider? We got a gold one with a bunch of glitter and shit,” Taako turned to rummage through a pile of products on the table. “Whatcha thinking, Django? The gold one?”

     Angus considered it for a moment. “Maybe the blue one? It isn’t as flashy, though the gold would look nice with his skin tone.”

     “Right? That’s what I’ve been sayin’ this whole time!” Taako gave a victorious shout as he finally retrieved a small tube from the clutter. “Here we go!” He turned to Kravitz when something seemed to click in his head.

     “I totally forgot you’re in your fuckin’... three piece get-up. Come on, I’ll find you some clothes. Gettin face goop off of designer shit ain’t fun, lemme tell ya.” Taako set the small tube back down on the table and led the way out of the room.

     His room was less of a mess than Kravitz expected. Granted, it was still littered with various arcane artifacts and strange knick-knacks, but there was obviously a method to his madness. Taako marched up to a dresser shoved in the corner and pulled open one of the drawers.

     After shoving some clothes aside he finally emerged with a large black sweatshirt and long pajama pants. “Here ya go. I don’t really remember where I got these, but they should fit you. Bathroom is down the hall to the left.”

     Kravitz had followed Taako’s instructions and changed his clothes, folding his suit carefully and setting it on the sink countertop. His current outfit was, well, strange. The sweatshirt was comfortable enough, certainly much more so than his previous clothes. It said “I brake for binicorns!” on the front, though that was pretty easy to disregard. The pajama pants were lilac, and felt like fleece.

     He had expected worse, in all honesty. It was more color than he usually wore, but it wasn’t that bad.

     Kravitz exited the bathroom and made his way down the hall. There were hardly any pictures hung up anywhere. Compared to Taako’s bedroom, the rest of his dorm seemed to pale in comparison. The walls were much more plain, here.

     Taako whistled as Kravitz emerged into the living room. “Lookin’ good, Bone Boy! I shoulda got some color on you sooner!”

     Kravitz was grateful in that moment that he would actually need blood for it to be able to rush to his face. He accepted the compliment nevertheless, albeit awkwardly. “Um, thank you. I think.”

     The remainder of the night passed in a blur. Every time a movie would end Taako would put on a new one, trying to get Angus to fall asleep. This was somewhat hindered by the large bowl of chocolate-covered popcorn the little detective kept reaching for. Kravitz could see that Taako worked hard to maintain his offput attitude, even though he genuinely did care for the boy.

     Kravitz decided it was time to make his exit as Taako started to have to fight back his yawns. His ears were drooping slightly, and his words were beginning to slur a little more than usual. He continued to insist he was fine, but his consciousness was clearly fading.

     Kravitz tucked the large blanket shoved in the corner of the couch around Taako and Angus, who had fallen asleep slumped against the elf’s side. With one more fond smile over his shoulder, he manifested his scythe and cut a rift. The quiet hum of the portal filled the room as he stepped through, and he was off.

 Taako woke up several hours later with a cramp in his neck and a smirking boy detective sitting next to him.

   Angus was practically grinning now, and there was a mischievous glint in his eye. “I really liked your boyfriend, sir!”

“Oh, damn it, kid!”

[serensama]

To Mourn #2

Here is Zenny’s!  I’m sorry, I know I promised Yoosung smut- but due to the current events in my life I can’t write smut. It would be the most awkward smut imaginable and I can't have that. So- here is Zen, hurting, a lot.  This will include:  1) Some profanity 2) Angst, tragedy, character death 3) Mentions of mental illness/delusions 

Hush-a-bye, dear Eponine  You won’t feel any pain-  A little fall of rain can hardly hurt you now I’m here… I will stay with you Till you are sleeping  And rain- Will make the flowers- .... grow 

“A little fall of rain”- Marius, Les Miserables.

  He had her pressed against the dresser, the bottles of makeup falling and rolling off the table as he pushed her further along the surface. His hands marked at the mirror and flinched away reflexively as his fingers found one of the hot lightbulbs that framed it. MC laughed between his kisses as she took his hand and kissed and sucked at his sore fingers, making him chuckle as he nipped at her neck. Zen pulled back to look down at her, pushing her hair out of her face to see more of her beautiful face. She was radiant. The glow of the lights behind her giving her an almost ethereal halo around her hair, her cheeks flushed from their kisses and her smile as bright as any spotlight.

Zen bit down on his bottom lip, he wanted nothing more than to continue this little interlude of theirs but they had somewhere to be and they were already running late as it was. They had stayed back as all the other actors and crew filtered off to the club where their after party was being held but he and MC walked the stage, hand in hand. He let his hand trail over the set and props, sometimes picking one up and regaling her with a funny story behind it from one of their rehearsals. MC squeezed at his bicep when he took a particularly long look at the chairs and table he had sung his exceptionally heart wrenching solo upon.

This would be his final production, for a little while anyways, the couple agreeing that his career was stable enough for him to take a year long break from acting. That it would be a year for him and her. The year that they would finally make honest people out of each other and tie the knot; they were tired of waiting for his god forsaken family’s approval and… Zen really wanted to be husband… and a father. It crept up on him out of nowhere, seeing MC interact with the actors who played Gavroche, Cosette and Eponine whenever she visited him in between rehearsals- how they would run to her and jump up and down all excited as she would always have some sweet treat for them tucked away in her purse. He would love seeing them act out their scenes just for her and her expressions as she watched them- like an adoring mother watching her children play. It made his stomach flip and his heart race. He was ready. He, well they, had focused so much on his career… it was time for them to focus on them and their future. He wanted this.

Still they took their time to let him say farewells to the stage he had so happily acted upon for almost a year, the audience calling for encore after encore, his performance so well received he would get standing ovations upon his curtain call. He wasn’t going to lie and say he wasn’t going to miss it; but to say he wasn’t excited to spend an entire year with his, well, soon to be wife- that would be the lie. The idea of spending days in bed with her, able to take all the time he wanted with her, his fingers tracing over her body with his lips following suit; just to be able to worship her as she deserved… heaven. No more strict schedules or disciplined diets or workouts- just him and MC with all the time in the world. He had never looked forward to being an unemployed actor more in his entire career.

Taking a deep breath as he faced the empty chairs in the theatre, Zen grinned. Actually… he wasn’t going to miss it at all. “Come on Jagi, let’s get to that party.”

  A loud crash of thunder boomed as they moved their way through the backstage hallways, the walls vibrating from the sheer strength of the sound. MC cursed her luck as she left her umbrella at home in her rush to get to the theatre to see Zen’s final show; she was grateful for the fact that the club would be dark and no one would be looking at her with Zen beside her. That boy looked amazing even coming in from a torrential downpour where should would look like a drowned rat with some seriously smeared eyeliner. Ah well.

Looking down at her, Zen laughed as he opened his trademark white coat and stretched it out and over the both of them as a makeshift cover as he nodded towards the door, silently asking MC to open for him. The moment she did, a roar louder than the thunder erupted- dozens upon dozens of Zen’s fans had waited for him in the cold and rain just to get a glimpse of the actor. MC looked up at Zen and gave him an impish smile and shrugged weakly, what could they do? They were his public. The ones who made all of this possible, he had to attend to them.

The actor watched as MC stepped dutifully to the side after giving the fans a quick wave, ready to let him do what he normally did; but he didn’t want to. Not today. This was the start of it being just him and MC and whilst he felt nothing but gratitude to those fans, he was tired of seeing the woman he loved always step aside as if something were more important than her. No more. Not this time. Zen stood forward slightly and raised his arm up in the air to wave and silence the crowd of screeching fans, the noisy din quieting down in a matter of seconds the moment they realized their idol wanted to address them. Collecting his thoughts so he didn’t sound like a blabbering mess, he clapped his hands together and began to speak from the heart.

“My dearest fans! Thank you for coming to watch my final performance and for braving such terrible weather to see me. You will never know what this means to me,” he said as his crimson eyes scanned the crowds in an attempt to look at them all in eyes. “I want to thank each and every one of you personally but as it is, we’re already really late for something and we need to go. I… I feel terrible that you were all here for so long only to leave you so soon- if I had known, I would have been out earlier.”   The crowd deflated and sounds of disappointment and annoyance hissed through them, but still they understood that he was a busy man and it was a gamble to wait for him at all. “I’m so sorry guys- truly. I’ll find a way to make it all up to you, but we have to go and you guys need to get out of the rain and dry off! I can’t have my best fans sick! I’d feel absolutely horrible!” he said, flashing his most dazzling smile and cheesy thumbs up which had almost everyone eating from the palm of his hand. “Thank you every one! I love you all and I will see you all soon!”

The crowd cheered and offered their support to their favourite actor as the couple descended the stairs, Zen taking the jacket and covering them both again in an action which had almost all of his fans swooning at how chivalrous and romantic he was, a chorus of well wishes and goodbyes following them as they passed them on the way to their car. They were ten steps away from it when Zen felt a tug of his arm and a heard a high yelp of surprise. He spun around to see a woman pull MC back, her hands clamped tightly around her forearm as she screeched incoherently into her ear, MC wincing back with discomfort. Zen could feel his blood boil, no one touched MC like that, not a man, not a woman. No one hurt his girl.

“Hey!” he barked, loud enough for his voice to carry throughout the parking lot, silencing the cheering fans and startling the angry woman enough to turn towards him. “Let her go! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded as he gestured towards MC, his hand out ready to hold hers. The agitated fan turned back to MC, her eyes squinting until they were barely slits on her face, her mouth twisted into a hideous sneer as she pulled the woman down and back so she lost her footing on the slippery surface and fell hard on her coccyx.  Zen was at her side so fast he almost lost his balance trying to get there, his hands patting at her body softly all the while asking if she was hurt, if she was okay. Which was apparently the wrong thing to do. “This woman! Zen! This woman is what is wrong in this picture!” she yelled, pointing at her with a shaking finger, her eyes burning with such ire that MC flinched into Zen’s protective grasp. Shaking his head as he helped her up, covering her head with his jacket, he simply chose to ignore the crazy woman and just continue on their journey. “She is holding you back Zen! If it wasn’t for her you wouldn’t be taking this year long hiatus! If it wasn’t for her you’d have been out here earlier! You’d be here with us instead of taking care of such a pathetic girl who isn’t even worthy of you! She’s disgusting! She’s ruining your life!”

He couldn’t let that pass. He was many things but he was never a liar.  He would not let those fallacies remain unchecked.

Zen tightened his grip around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her covered head, a silent plea for her not to listen to the mindless drivel this woman was spouting. Lies. Misconceptions. Delusions.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” he began quietly, his hand running up at down MC’s arm to help warm her up in the pouring rain, the cold droplets barely registering in his periphery, his body so fired up with rage it felt almost nice against his skin. “But you need to step away and leave. You know nothing. You talk about things you don’t have a damn clue about, mixing your own screwed up feelings into your own version of truth- you’re blind. You can’t see how much I love her and how much she has done for me. If you can’t see that- you are no true fan of mine.”

Zen placed another kiss on top of his lover’s head as he guided her back to the car, their footsteps slow and cautious. The actor could hear the hushed whispers of the other fans- and the ragged breathing and whimpering of the woman he had reprimanded, whether they agreed with the woman or with him he didn’t know- didn’t care. None of this matters, if MC stays in this weather for any longer she’s going to get sick, I can’t be the reason my girl suffers. “You… you don’t know who I am? I helped make you! I was there from the start! From your first play to this one- I was there in the front row twenty-two times!” she cried, pulling at her hair like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. That throughout his career not once had he noticed her, understood what she had done for him. The money she had sacrificed to see his shows, the relationships that ended because the men couldn’t understand that he came first for her- he always came first and he… he didn’t even know she existed. “I am your only true fan!” she wailed as her fingers clutched at her chest, her nails leaving angry red scratches at the skin of her décolletage.  

Zen stopped and ground his teeth together, his quick temper getting the better of him. Turning around and tucking MC behind him, the loud chattering of her teeth a timer to remind him to keep it quick, to defuse the situation and get her warmed up. Fuck the party. They were going to go home where he could run her a hot bath and sit in the tub with her, pull small body against his, long limbs wrapped around her to keep her warm and safe. The candles he’d light beforehand dwindling down as they stayed in water just enjoying their time together. There would be a thousand parties in the future, why would missing one matter?

“T-True fan? True fan?!” he scoffed as he pushed his hair out of his face, the long strands sticking to his wet skin. “You are bat-shit crazy lady. I don’t know you. You didn’t do shit for me- but you are making me angry. You hurt my fiancé, you say horrible things to her- if you were a true fan you would know what she’s done to help my career. To help me. If you’re a true fan- I don’t want any part of it.”

The woman screamed as her whole world was torn to shreds by the man at the very centre of it. How could he say such things? How could turn his back on everything they had been through together?  He had sung for her, looked at her all those times when he said those lines- he would say different names each time but she knew he was talking to her. What they meant to each other, it wasn’t all in her head, it wasn’t! He was so loyal to her all those years- more than five years he stayed alone to prove his devotion to her and to his career. Then overnight it seemed to change… why… why did it… Casting her gaze on the woman behind him, suddenly everything made sense. It was her. It was her fault. She did this- she tainted Zen, her Zen, shaped him into something she wanted and made sure that he only focused on her. Selfish. The bitch was selfish. Zen was hers. Zen was theirs. And she was trying to steal him from them. No, never! Zen was hers. Zen was hers.

  Screams.

That was the first thing he recognized. So many screams. Was he… was he backstage? Was the crowd still begging for another song?... wait… no… no they’re not screaming for him… they were scared… Why?

-Why was he on the ground?

Zen looked up and there was MC, standing in front of him, shaking in the rain, his soaked through jacket askew, dangling off of one shoulder. Silly girl. She was going to get sick and she was a terror whenever she was ill. She would mope and beg for attention and love and… wait… perhaps a little sniffle wouldn’t be terrible. He could play knight in shining armor for her.

“Are… are you okay?” she asked him, not looking back, her eyes focused on what he remembered must have been the deranged fan. He nodded and made a noise of agreeance in the back of his throat as he clambered up to check if he was hurt anywhere. He wasn’t. “I’m fine, Jagi,” he added as he threw his arm over her shoulders again, not expecting the violent wince and cry of pain that came for her. Alarmed by her severely shaking frame, Zen finally looked further than her face and down her torso- her lovely white dress (“I wore it to match you tonight, Zenny!”) stained by a flourish of dark red against her middle. A mark that grew more vivid as she grew paler. Stealing a look at the woman before them… sure enough… there she stood, frozen, with a smoking gun in her hand. Shrieks could be heard as the mob of Zen’s fans rushed her, pinning her down and kicking away the weapon- not that he cared. Not when all he could truly focus on were the soft breaths that fell from her lips. “So… you’re not hurt?” she repeated as a weak smile formed across her face, her fingers finding the hem of his shirt and curling around the fabric. Zen shook his head, his throat constricting so tightly he couldn’t find his voice. “Oh… that’s good then.”

MC fell harshly to her knees and was almost about to fall forward onto her face before long, strong arms wrapped around her. Zen sat upon the ground with his fiancé shaking in his arms, her makeup falling in dark rivulets down her face, her tears camouflaged by the rain. He heard someone yelling for them to call an ambulance. To get help.

He didn’t recognize his own voice.

All he saw was his future smiling up at him, her lips moving, she was saying something but what? What? Zen focus! “… We’re going to be so damn late...” she laughed before grimacing a hiss of pain escaping between the gaps in her teeth. Zen looked back down to her stomach, with each word she said or with each laugh, more blood seemed to pour out of her. Ignoring the cry of anguish she made when he placed his hand to her wound, he pressed down firmly, desperate to keep every last drop he could inside of her where it belonged. “It’s okay, Zen-” she tried to say only to stop midsentence at the furious look he gave her. “It is not okay, MC!” he growled, there she was bleeding out and she was trying to comfort him. Nothing about their situation was right. They were supposed to be surrounded by their friends laughing the night away, getting drunk and having celebratory sex the moment they stepped back into their apartment. She was meant to be happy and healthy, not dying in a dark, cold parking lot surrounded by strangers. “But it will be. It will be. Someone’s getting help, so just, just stay with me okay? You listen to me and stay just a little bit longer. You’re going to fine baby.”

Her smile grew wider. Tinted with blood. It was still the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

“Screw this, I’m getting you to the hospital- just hold on Jagi,” he spoke more to himself than to her, lifting her up as gingerly as he could. MC screamed, her cries gurgling in her throat wet with her own blood, small trails bubbling out of the sides of her mouth. Zen cursed under his breath as he resumed their previous position, wiping away the red, smearing the colour against her skin. Even in the rain, it wasn’t coming off. He tried to calm himself even as his heart banged away in his chest and his eyes stung, his lungs closing up as he choked on his own staggered breaths. Just a little longer, he would hear those sirens and the flashing lights of their saviours and everything would be just fine. He would sing to her in the hospital bed as she recovered and get yelled at by her for hovering like a worried mother. He just knew it. She was going to show off the scars from her wounds in no time at all. His Jagi was the strongest woman he had ever met. This was just a scratch. A scratch. She was even laughing through her tears. No one was stronger than her.

“Why are you laughing MC?” he asked a wry smile on his face, belying the way his heart clenched at the hollow sound of her once joyous laughter. A heavy and haunting sound that Zen knew would fill his nightmares for the rest of his life. MC looked up at him as she laid her hand on top of his, their interlaced fingers painted with her blood. “It’s… it’s almost funny, don’t you think? This is life imitating art…just like the scene in your… in your p-play… where Eponine and… and Mari-” “Don’t.” “Don’t you fret… Monsieur-” “Stop it!” he snapped, his hand putting more pressure on her wound than normal causing the woman to gasp, remorse flooding his system instantly. “I’m sorry! God- I’m so sorry! I just… please don’t…” he begged as he hung his head so their foreheads could touch. She was so cold. “I’m sorry,” she replied, her hand finding the back of his head, her fingers clumsily patting away at his ivory strands. “It’s not funny,” he wept, the dam finally breaking, his voice cracking as he held on to her; wishing against all hope his warmth would pass to her. To keep her with him that little bit longer. He could almost hear the sirens. “This isn’t funny MC! How can you be laughing at something like this?”

MC’s hand slid down to caress the side of his cheek, pushing him away slightly so she could peer into those crimson depths- eyes she had so completely fallen in love with. She wanted to see them, to be the last thing she saw before she left that life, she didn’t want to see them filled with tears… but to be crinkled in a smile. One last smile for her. “I’m sorry-” “Please stop apologizing-” “I’m… I just…” she trailed off as her particularly hard shake raked through her body, her eyes squeezed shut as she bit down on her lip to stop the coughs trying to burst from her chest. Zen looked down at where their hands were still linked, the blood was mixed with a dark green… that… that couldn’t have been good. “I… I don’t want to die crying Zen,” she said simply, a sad smile on her lips. She didn’t want to die crying… he didn’t want her to die. She wasn’t going to! This was a scratch! A fucking wound he would kiss away… she couldn’t die. She couldn’t leave him. Not now. They were so close. They were going to get married next month- everyone was invited. An elaborate extravaganza where the entire cast of the play were going to perform at the wedding ceremony and she would come down the aisle and-…. Just…

Zen snapped himself out of his heartbroken reverie and looked back down at MC, her eyes closed and her lips sweetly upturned, her chest still and her shivering completely stopped-

He shook her. Hard.

“A-ah!” she rattled through her startled breaths, her eyes wide and searching his face. It took a moment before her expression softened, her hand trying its best to reach his face once more. Zen took it within his and kissed her blood-soaked palm, the taste of it on his lips almost as bitter as the bile that lodged itself at the back of his throat. Her eyes could barely focus and her breathing so slow he was tempted to press his lips against hers to breathe for her. He would have. He wanted to. Anything, he wanted to do anything he could to keep her there with him… even for a minute longer. The sirens- he could hear them now. MC gave another smile as she willed her lips to form words, even as she barely clung to consciousness.

“A-are you… are you my angel?” she asked, her voice small and hoarse and perfect, her eyes watering as she took in the sight of him. He kissed her palm over and over again, her cheeks, her lips, her eyelids- soft and quick presses of his mouth against her which made her sigh happily. Zen smoothed away the hair from her face, his touch like fire against her skin, like sitting by the fireplace on a winter’s night huddled together, like home. Zen steadied himself, a smile, she said she wanted to smile. “No Jagi, I’m no angel,” he grinned, biting his tongue to stop from breaking down and sobbing like his heart dictated. A look of confusion brushed upon her features as his fingers soothed them away gently, fingertips longingly dragging across the surface of her face to memorise every dip and curve. “But you, oh Jagiya… you are my angel.”

The smile she offered him in response could have lit up the entire sky. “…I am?” she asked, the tears in her eyes welling up and falling, cleaning the blood away from her face that the rain had failed to. He nodded and smiled, his cheeks burning. “Then I’ll have to… to keep watch over you…” “Mhmm. For as long as you can so… so stay and watch and…”

Her hand slipped from his grasp. Her eyes staring up at him, filled with tears. His face frozen into the smile he held for her.

“… MC?”

He shook her. Again. Harder. He pressed her wound. Harder. Please. Please.

He couldn’t move. Not one single muscle. Her body so heavy in his arms and yet he refused to release her. This was his fault. If he had only kept his mouth shut, didn’t taunt that woman- MC would have been alive. If he didn’t insist on staying back to revel in his glory they would have all left together with everyone else and she would have been alive. If he had realized what the woman was planning and MC didn’t push him out of the way to save him… she would have been alive. If he could have traded places with her, taken that bullet, taken that pain she endured- he would have in a second. It was meant for him. She was aiming for him. It should have been him, MC’s death was on him. She was dead… and he was the reason she died. Zen could hear the cries of the people around him. The screams of the bitch who stole her from him. The rain as it pounded against the ground.

This is not okay. This is not okay. This is not okay.

He couldn’t hear the sirens anymore.

Not when the paramedics looked him over, not when they tried to explain what was happening, not when they asked to take MC away from him. Nothing. Everything was static and muffled and not quite real. Until they managed to pry her away from his arms.

He heard the crack of the bones in his hand as it connected with the jaw of the paramedic. He heard the scream of the fans as the man was easily toppled by one hit. He heard the groans of pain the poor man made as he rolled around clutching his face. He heard the cry of his heart.

And then- silence.

  The RFA were at the hospital minutes after he had arrived; Jaehee saying something about his fans going crazy on his website. Jumin had wandered off to deal with the press that were starting to circle the building hoping to get a photo of the grief-stricken star, ordering his security detail to push the vultures back and insure safe passage for them all when they were ready to depart. Jaehee sat quietly and held his hand, patting the top of it like one would do to an elderly person to placate them. Yoosung had tried to be strong, he knew that, but he couldn’t keep up the act for very long- bursting out crying when V said he would take care of all the arrangements for MC. Saeyoung had merely placed a hand over his shoulder in a show of silent solidarity. He was grateful for their presence, he was. They helped fill the quiet in his head, the one voice in there reminding him repeatedly that this was it, he was all alone again. That he would return home and there wouldn’t be MC to remind him to eat more than a bottle (or two!) of beer and wouldn’t scream when he chased after her when he was all sweaty from a workout, begging for a hug. He couldn’t go back there, not yet.

“Is there… would anyone mind if I stayed… just for a few days-” “You can stay with me. For as long as you want.” Zen looked up at V, his dark glasses unable the hide the streaks of tears that fell from his eyes. “Thank you.”

  Her funeral was a star-studded affair, all of the friends she had made along the way from being his manager- all offering their condolences and final respects. The cast of the play, tearfully singing the song they had planned to sing to her under very different circumstances, bringing Zen to tears, bent over upon himself in the pews. He could feel V and Yoosung’s hands on his back and shoulders offering support as his cries echoed around the church.

Zen had tried his best to get up, to say the words he had tearfully written and rewritten over the last week, but he found neither his legs or heart were strong enough. Jumin took pity on him and accepted the crumpled piece of paper from his hand and with a small nod, stood in his place to say the words he wanted to say to his beloved MC.

I’m so sorry my love. I can’t say goodbye to you, not then, not now… probably not ever. His words didn’t sound right coming from Jumin’s low baritone but it would have to do; his own voice never wanted to be found if it couldn’t be used to talk to her, to murmur sweet nothings in her ear, to sing to her whenever she woke up late at night until she fell back to sleep. He never wanted to speak again.

  He didn’t even need to give his account, didn’t need to say a thing, with so many witnesses and some even recording the incident, there was too much evidence stacked up against the woman- he didn’t even want to know the name of the demon who stole MC away from him, wasn’t worth it- she was convicted and charged and he didn’t need to think about her ever again. He disregarded the way she called out to him, that she was glad that he was alive and now that MC was out of the way- she would continue writing to him. She couldn’t wait to hear back from him… like all the other times he had replied to her.

Zen wandered back to V’s house, dry eyed and disenchanted.

“Is it… is it all done then?” his old friend asked as he wiped his hands on the dish towel as Zen rummaged through the fridge. Finding the six pack he put there hidden behind packets of salad and some suspect looking takeout, Zen skulled one beer down and opened another, taking one long swig before turning to his friend and nodding once. Reaching back down, he picked up the pack of alcohol and made his way to the guest room he had stayed in since the night he lost her. It was larger than the bedroom they shared, both agreeing to stay in the same place and to save their money so they could afford to build the house of their dreams. They had it all planned out. A five-bedroom house next to a park so he could chase after their kids and the dogs (“Cats? Our children will only want dogs MC.”) … put some money aside for their education…some money for a great honeymoon… for their wedding … for the year they were going to spend not working and stay in each other’s arms… for the ring that he now wore around his neck -

He drank. He hated the room he stayed in. He hated everything. 

He found the box of fan letters he had taken with him help boost his spirits and looked at them with nothing but disgust. One of them… so many of them… could have been from that monster- and he wrote back. Hundreds upon hundreds of letters. The words he wasted on that bitch. He wanted to be sick. He threw them all into the metal bin out of the balcony and threw in a lit match, the paper slowly catching fire- spreading from one letter to the next.

He drank again.

  V watched him as he downed yet another can of beer, uncaring what it tasted like so long as it got the job done. It took more and more cans each time, but he was on a mission to get himself so blindly drunk that he didn’t have to feel anymore. It was his daily routine. Wake up have a shower, grab a beer and sit on the couch, just drinking the day away. That was it. Six months passed and all he did was drink. V had to fight with him, almost coming to blows a week after MC had passed, to get him to eat solid food. Although that was still rare and far between. He still hadn’t spoken.

There were times V was sure he wanted to, his jaw would clench or his mouth would open in such a way he could almost hear the words on his tongue- but then he would just shove a bottle or a can between his lips and drink himself into an oblivious stupor. It hurt him to see Zen this way, the once proud man now with long, scruffy hair and sallow skin and dark circles beneath his eyes that would easily pass for Halloween makeup. He stayed in pajamas or his sweat pants all day and rarely went out, the only reason he did was to get more alcohol. There was only so much that V could stand. It was like looking into a living mirror- but he would save Zen, even if he couldn’t save himself.

V sat down beside him, a glass of wine in one hand the bottle in the other, slouched and tired. Zen raised his beer in a half assed salutation and took a long swig of it, not even a third of his way through his drinking marathon. V figured it was okay if he didn’t talk, it would make it easier for him to say what he had to say uninterrupted. And he knew Zen was listening, he was always listening.

“I still miss her you know, Rika that is,” he began not missing the way Zen’s body had stiffened beside his. “I know that she hurt me, that she hurt… so many people. But I still miss who she was. Who we were at the start. Who I was at the start,” he filtered off as he took a sip of his wine, the tart flavours dancing across his palate. “I never dreamed that I would get over her. That one day I would be able to get up and not have a gaping hole inside my chest that I wanted to swallow me up, to get lost in that void and just… not be. Not feel. Not think. Just- quiet. But that quiet- it’s maddening Zen. I almost lost myself to it and when I see you- you’re so lost, you’re almost too far gone. Perhaps that’s my fault. Letting you do as you wanted and not reaching out sooner- but not anymore. I’m not letting you go any further. I’m not letting you stay in your silent torment anymore. Talk to me. Scream at me. Anything. Say something. Please.”

Another sip. Another swig. More silence. V closed his eyes as his fingers wound around the stem of the fine glass, just short of snapping it. “It was you. You, Yoosung, Jumin, Saeyoung and Jaehee… all of you… and yes, MC too… You all brought me back from the brink. It was probably MC who helped to wake me up and realise that I couldn’t just wallow anymore, that there were people who loved me, needed me- I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. So, for MC, for you, I am going to help you. I’m not going to give up, just like she didn’t- she ran to you and stayed with you until you were better. She’s not here now, but I am. For her, I will do the same. For her… please try.”

Another sip. Another swig. A sigh.

Long and heavy and condensed with such pain- such a familiar sound, a familiar feeling.

The beer fell from Zen’s shaking hands as he covered his face with his palms, his breathing slowly transforming into shuddering gasps until finally a wail of sorrow tore from his lungs, his body shaking from the force of his cries. V placed his wine down carefully beside the sofa and pulled at him, letting him lean against him for support; to know that he wasn’t alone in his agony, that he didn’t have to hide his pain from them- from himself.

The sound of his grief deafening.

He didn’t have to say a word, V understood everything he had to say. It was a start.

  He… he was not the same Zen. He never could be again. Each time he tried to look over a script or watch a movie- all he could think of was MC. What she would think of each production and if she would approve of him being in it and how each set would feel wrong without her there hanging around the sidelines just out of reach. How every break without her bounding over to him to give him a kiss would be torture. That each time he returned to his trailer or dressing room she wouldn’t have a seat beside his, that he would never get to revel in their after-show shenanigans… she wouldn’t be there to run lines with him… to take photos of him on opening night… to give him flowers.

It was all too much.

So, the choice was easy, practically already made for him. He would never act again.

The outcry from his fans was unbelievable. They wrote and posted their pleas online- that they didn’t want him to leave and missed him and still supported him, but he had made his choice. His following soon dwindled, not that he minded, it was easier to have a nice quiet life without a hoard of fans watching every step he took. They were too busy ignoring all the pictures he put up of MC and him or of just his lost love on his social media accounts, no one noticed when he packed up his apartment and moved out, no one cared. It was… good.

He was surprised when he showed up to town a he’d randomly chosen to start over in and no one recognized him, or if they did, they kept their mouths shut. Perfect.

He still lived in pain, the ache in his chest never really leaving him or healing over as it should have- but- perhaps in time, perhaps. Zen picked up his tools and set down his dreams, he would try to find peace. Working with hands made sense to him, something that was tangible and real, putting things back together to see them work- it was cathartic. Maybe one day he could pull himself apart and fix himself… until then… he had engines to fix. It would have to do- to be enough.

  Sitting alone on his simple couch in his humble apartment, Zen was relaxing after a long day at work. A beer in hand and the TV on, he sat and mindlessly flicked through the channels as he hummed and hawed over whether he should go to bed or not. A familiar chord played through his TV’s speakers and he paused instinctively to listen. No. God, please, no. Why.

“Do you hear the people sing… singing the songs of angry men…”

The emotions he had so carefully sorted through, tread through with bated breath and tipped toes, all exploded. Fell down from their spots off the shelves he had put them away on and just burst. Zen threw his beer, the glass smashing and the golden liquid running down his cream walls. He threw the remote control, smashing the screen of his TV, the cracks bleeding through. He was not okay. It was not enough. When would the pain stop? Did he want it to stop?          

Zen sat amongst the wreckage of his upturned lounge and sighed, wiping away at tears he didn’t realise he was crying. No. He guessed he didn’t want it to end- because no more pain meant no more MC in his life. He still wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

  It was a tap on the shoulder that unraveled him. Zen turned around from the bike he was fixing, squinting up to focus on the man before him, his face hard to see against the light of the mechanic shop. Zen wiped his hand and shook the hand he was offered not quite understanding why the man was there when his car seemed perfectly fine. “…I’m a big fan. I loved you in Les Mis… so strong… so vulnerable…” Ah. A fan. It had been years, it was alright, it hurt less, he could be gallant. “Uh thank you, that’s very kind- but you see I’m pretty busy right now-” “That’s fine Zen- I just wanted to be the first to tell you that I can’t wait to start work.”

He stopped in his tracks- what work? Was he working at the shop with him? The owner hadn’t mentioned hiring anyone new and the weaselly man in front of him looked like he barely knew how to drive let alone fix a car. “On the movie… your movie?”

His movie? He hadn’t accepted any scripts from his old agent. He didn’t even give his new number to anyone outside of the RFA- who was this guy again?

“My what?” he asked, turning back around hoping to clarify whatever misunderstanding they may have had. The man smiled again and handed him a thick script, Zen staring down at the title incredulously. Zen: The true story of how Romeo lost his Juliet.

He swallowed the bile that tried its best to climb up his throat and forced himself to open the pages, near the end, and prayed- he was never one to be religious but there he was praying- that he wouldn’t see what he feared he would.

Alas, he did.

“… I don’t want to die crying, Zenny.”

“… so, stay… stay a little bit longer...”

His fists were pummeling into the man’s face before he knew what he was doing. It felt good to hit him. It felt good to hurt him. He didn’t want to stop. How dare he? How dare they? Make a mockery of his life and her death- it was unforgivable. Who thought this was a good idea? What cruel, heartless bastard wanted to tell his story about losing the only thing that truly mattered in his life? He’d kill them. He’d make them all pay and-

His boss pulled him off the man before he managed to do anymore damage, the director laying on the ground bruised and battered and bloodied almost beyond recognition.

“I think… I think you best call a lawyer son, this won’t end pretty for you.”

Zen huffed as he wiped away the errant spatters of blood on his face with the back of his hand, his sweat smearing the red over his skin like war paint. “It never does Old Man, not for me.”

  He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he was desperate, he didn’t have enough money to stop it and he needed help. As much as this killed him to do it, he had to. The door swung open and there was a face he hadn’t thought of or seen for three years.

“Jumin, I need your help.”

The C&R director’s steel eyes widened at the open appeal; the lack of hostility and desperation the actor once exuded in his presence surprising him. Stepping aside, he let Zen inside his penthouse and asked him to start from the beginning. There was were no need for pleasantries or idle chit chat over how their lives had been- they were friends, no matter what they said, and they were there when the other needed them. “They have to be stopped. I don’t care how. They can’t be allowed to make a movie about her, not about that. Not how she died… not how I lost her. I won’t survive that Jumin. I can survive prison, I can stay there for the rest of my life- I don’t care what happens to me- but please help me stop them from making this film. From making any films, ever, about her.”

Jumin observed the man as he clenched the cup of tea in between his trembling hands, the liquid rippling inside the small cup. Sighing resolutely, Jumin leant forward and took the cup from Zen’s fingers and set it on the coffee table before sitting back in his chair and tenting his fingers. It was an easy choice, there wasn’t need to think about it. MC was his friend too. “Of course Zen. Of course I will help.”

Zen wasn’t ashamed to cry, even in front of Jumin. He had failed her before, but not this time. He could almost feel her smiling.

  Zen finally understood why people were so in awe of Jumin Han. In less than a week he had managed to block all creative rights to create the movie, protect Zen and MC so nothing could be made about them or based loosely around them ever again and have the charges of assault dismissed- and he did this all without breaking a sweat or missing a day of work. He hated to admit it but he was impressive… and he was kind. He would have to make it up to him somehow, he didn’t know how but he had to make it even between them.

“Thank you Jumin, she’d be… she’d be so happy.” “I know. But that wasn’t why I did it-” “Then why-” “Because you deserve to be happy too.” “I… thank you.”

For the first time in years, he didn’t have a drink, and when he fell asleep that night- he could see her smiling back at him, not a tear in sight.

  Zen rode further out, the small town quiet and asleep, his motorcycle and the hush of the night wind that caressed his skin the only noises that could be heard. He had taken to doing this, as regularly as he could and each time was special. He slowed down as he approached the field of stargazer lilies, a treasured find, they were her favourite flowers. Zen turned off the engine and kicked the stand up so he could simply sit there and breathe in their sweet scent, so similar to that of her skin, and looked up. The night sky was particularly beautiful there, the stars much brighter and more vivid than anywhere else in the city. It was worth taking the half hour trip to be there, it almost felt like she was there with him. She would have loved it there. It could have been the place they would have built their house, had their children and made a life together. In another time, another place, perhaps they could still.

Zen chuckled at his optimism, relieved that thoughts of possibility were finally running through his veins again (as crazy and implausible as they may have been). He would never be the same, that much he knew for certain, but he knew that he didn’t have to be in order to keep her within his heart. That she wouldn’t begrudge him the need to heal, the need to feel something other than pain. She would encourage it, just as she always encouraged him. He could feel the corners of his mouth twitch at the thought, she was just… the best. In life and after death. The best.

“Hey MC… sorry it’s been so long since I came down. The Old Man at the shop’s been sick so I’ve taken over for him… but you knew that, huh? You’re still up there looking out for me, right?” he smiled as a small tear rolled down the side of his eye. “It’s been forever without you, each day passing like the last… the pain- it’s still there. You not being here, it’ll always hurt. I accept that. But I can live with it, make it my own. Carry you with me and be okay- I can. I see that now… I just miss you so much-”

Don’t cry. Smile. It’s what she wanted.

“One day baby, we’ll be those stars up there, together, so just wait a little longer okay? Wait for me Jagi.”  

[100-becs]

A Suffocated Soul

TW//Transphobia, homophobic and transphobic slurs, mentions of gore, and mentions of sxxcxde

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Who am I?

I’m an 18 year old disgrace to my family who sees her bearded face as an ailment, who's deep voice, a bass, makes me wish words would fail me, a spiraling mess who's fake masculinity trails me. A girl with a liar's face. A girl who's failing. But still I tire, inside me’s a fire with dwindling kindling, running down to the wire. A soul suffocated and strangled whose saving face is a shell of former self, self hatred shooting through her, forever forced to fester in her failings, sequestered into an inescapable quagmire.

And I said nothing when you told me that my body is not my choice

When I’ve found a way, my voice, my song, it brings me euphoria until you come along, lecturing me that how I'm living is wrong, and how being myself would make me not belong. Relentless ridicule of how my hair is too long, that there’s no going back if I alter my bod. That I can’t be a girl, I watch football all day long. It takes me everything not to pack up and say “so long”. Saying it’ll be my fault if someone kills me, it kills me. Of living, I’m not worthy, as I’m too far along a man to be girly. Oh, gosh, I’m getting wordy. I didn’t realize myself early. The downward spiral into nothingness around me is swirling, as I try to clean up my mess you made for me. Can’t you see I’m distressed? I’m worth less than worthless. Holy fuck, give me a rest. If a rest is too much leniency, go ahead and arrest me. It's torture to continue when my own mother detests me

I said nothing when you went on your tirades against who I am

I’m a girl who can’t cry, though I’m red in the eye. Knuckles bloodied with mirror shards surrounding her. In each is a reflection of a monster. A man who did others wrong and strung people along for his own amusement. Seeping out my hand is where everything I had to prove went. I need to vent. I’m fucking spent. I broke when others bent. Off the ledge, my sanity was sent, the life I’ve dreamt was met with dissent, but though inside, 100 times i’ve wept, I still can’t cry. And despite my eyes and thighs being red with this dye, I lie and say i’m fine. You tell me I'm wired, but my wires are fried and my identity you’ve vilified, and deep inside, I want to die. There's not a day that goes by where I dont think "maybe if I just try, I can act like everything's okay as a guy and i wont have to live with being the type of person you told me you loved but really you're ashamed of."

I said nothing when you told me I’m a man

I’m the antithesis of normality. Fuck the formalities. Send me to my grave at the edge of reality, for the way I exist, you tell me it’s confounding. You feed me to wolves who are hungry and growling. I raise my bloodied fists to fight back, but they all overpower me. The turmoil I face is what has the wolves howling. A little girl whose cries will never come out of me. A little girl named Jocelyn. The name that should never be uttered around you. What you call a trend is why my head's always pounding. The struggle I face every day is astounding. And it stacks up and stacks up and it all amounts to me running numbers through my head, 41 percent. I dont care what you meant because it's the message you sent that I am not welcome in this world being who I am, lest I be happy in my body that others may dissent, and that if my vessel meets an untimely end, the fault is on me, not how wrong society went

I said nothing when you told me it would be on me if someone kills me for wearing a dress

"It's just a trend. I thought I was a lesbian when i was a teenager" is the mantra you constantly use to defend your position. The trans people you mention, you say just want attention, and list ways they're not menschen, in hopes that I stop pretending. I'm not pretending! Apprehending my emotions flowing like the tides of the ocean makes me feel atrocious. The pain that shoots through my skin, skin that imprisons my livelihood within, within my self is a soul begging to be let out, out of my mouth shoots "Why can't I just be fucking normal?!" with my deep voice killing me, "methinks the trxnny doth protest too much" is the response I receive, leaves who I am to die in the darkness, darkness forever blotting out the sun. I'm not your son! I'd gladly run from this thing that I was, reach for my heart instead of a gun that threatens to send this whole operation asunder, and become a being worthy of love and of wonder, not for fun or because I've grown dumber, but because I would never willingly take the brunt of the hell that I live through daily to taste the unimportant heaven of a shred of attention. 

I said nothing when you told me I was following trends

You paint me as a terrible liar, but I was able to convince you that I was a man. I played along with my assigned gender roles when you watched over me, clueless of 10 year old me's crying sleepless nights, or 13 year old me's internal fights, how everything was eating away at me like termites. I know my rights and your words aren't right. I constantly escape to digital landscapes because however it infuriates me wont be a scrape against who I am, and will not cripple my mental state. 

I said nothing when you told me to change my preferred name everywhere.

The 19 years i've spent on this earth, what were they worth? From my birth to the present day, I've pissed my entire life away because I allowed my mother to convince me that she knows more about me than I do about me. That there was no overcoming my greatest obstacle because she birthed me. You've stripped my individuality away from me as if I had just given it away to you. You fed me ideas that I thought nothing of because I focused too hard on the fact that the figure that's supposed to be a universal security blanket won't accept me. And those ideas you spoon-fed to me was the waste of self-doubt I couldn't flush out. My bloody knuckles and shattered mirrors are products of your rhetoric. And as I ball my fist up one last time, bawling my eyes out on the inside, ready to smash the final pane, just end the pain as I go insane…

Why cant I do it?…

My reflection smiles back and shows affection. A disheveled, bloody, broken complexion, but oddly beautiful, a captivating introspection. Completely removed from your hateful gobbledygook, I rub my eyes to take a second look. She's smiling, like she can read me like a book. My ethereal self is happy, while I'm sitting here, still shook. A queer, trans, lesbian mess, but purely my mess. none caused by outside distress, a girl who is always her best and strives for nothing less, Jocelyn. October 9th, 2018 was the first time I saw this wonder, and she helped me see the meaning in my night-long internal plights, my shattered psyche from fights, blights I've brought on my body that brought me ungodly dysphoria and triggered upon me out of body memories because the last body I would possibly want for me is that of a man. She makes me look back on my past and revere it. Im smiling ear to ear because I know although I may fear and people may leer, as long as I'm here, I know I'm queer, I'm here, I'm queer, I'm here, I'm her.

I said nothing when you threatened to send me to a psych ward.

Coming to terms with toxicity can be a tumultuous task that tries to turn you against those you think you love. But that isnt the case here. I know you hate me, but love the boy you think I am. And any attempt I make to let Jocelyn make my life any amount more manageable is met with fury, the situation gets blurry, I constantly worry, like im being buried alive. I strive to be able to survive and thrive because you taught me that I shouldn't let anyone get in the way of me living my life. Please take this knife away from my sight as I contemplate this strife. My existence does not make things worsen, I am my own person!

I said nothing when you lied to me about your care for the LGBTQ+ community

The toxicity of your words only runs skin deep. But this toxic testosterone that courses through my every capillary and produced by my bones makes me scream bloody mary. My hearing is plagued with "fxggot", "trxp", and "trxnny", and if I outwardly say "Hi, I'm transgender", the further attacks on me would be many. But their blaring cacophony is nothing comparing to my body changing to be something that pains me. Waking up to being physically male is just a constant reminder of someone I'm not, an unsettling notification of times best forgot, and of a person who's better off being left to rot. I've screamed, I've shouted, I've sulked, and I've fought. Every day in this body is another day lost, never to be found until I end up deceased on the ground, iced over with the frost, or until this testosterone is replaced with estrogen. Estrogen, the chemical that will make me detest my body much less, make me my best self, but without it i don't know how long until im laid to rest.

Beneath me are the eggshells I've broken because you told me to walk on them. You signed and sealed my name in blood as the son you always loved. I am no husband, brother, father, son. I sold my individuality for safety untold, but as i grew older, the world around me grew colder, the pain inside I couldn't shoulder. My response was to be bolder, but at some point I just rolled over wishing everything would be over because the people i expected to fight alongside me shoved a dagger in my back because I dared to be too authentic to conform to who you thought I was, leaving me to die on the battlefield against my own dysphoria, signing and sealing my deadname in blood, Josh. But as my body grows cold as the blood will roll down my gouged armes from the broken mirrors and the dagger you shoved in my back as a hold. I take hold of the dagger and rip it out of my spine, I won't go down this time. Though it wont all be fine I will continue my climb. I'll push on through the muck and the grime. I'll rise to the top to give my eyes a sight to behold. You say I've lost my mind, I've just gained control. No, today will not be the day that I fold, I'll make sure my story will not go untold, I refuse to be melted and put into a mold, and I can do it all if I could just be bold!

I wont stay silent anymore.

Who am I?

I'm Jocelyn

Perfectly imperfect

[dontcallmecarrie]

Fic Idea: WtNV/Twilight crossover

Wherein Bella hails not from Phoenix, Arizona, but from a friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead on a regular basis.

 And dogs are not allowed in the Dog Park.

Fandoms: Twilight (books, probably movies too? Haven’t seen them), Welcome to Night Vale (podcast)

Warnings: everything Welcome to Night Vale-related. [So, cosmic horror, Librarian-caliber violence and gore, etc.] On the other hand, at least there’s semi-healthy relationships, here? Semi-unreliable narrator, because growing up in Night Vale makes for a skewed reference frame re: what is and is not sane and/or impossible.

Under the cut because of reasons. [You know why.]

 Bella's mother and stepfather were a bit whimsical about where they'd end up living, and chose the classic 'throw a dart on a map'.

In one life, the dart might've landed near Phoenix, and the rest would have been history.

In this one, however…Renee's (I think that's what her name is, it's been years since I last touched the books) aim was slightly off when she threw the dart.

Bella still visits her father regularly, of course.

 So she knows some things are slightly off, but thinks it’s Forks that’s pretty weird. She only visits for a few months out of every year, though, so she shrugs it off.

 The older she gets, the more she realizes some things are lost in translation; it's her father that recommends she join the Girl Scouts, but seems to think she's joking when she talks about earning her Controlling Plants with Minds patch., and by the time she's gotten her Radiation Immunity patch she's given up telling him just what her troop gets up to.  

The camping trips, where she befriends Jacob Black and shows off her Surviving in Nature badge skills, merely net her some weird glances, but…eh. Could be worse, though explaining just where she'd gotten her machete from had left everyone involved with more questions than answers.

 Not to mention the Summer Reading Program—the first time Bella survived it, she'd left for Forks not a week later. Charlie had congratulated her for her reading chart, and left it at that.

So she doesn’t really talk about it. Or her Unmodified Sumerian classes, or the bloodstone circles, or…

  Time goes on, and Bella's visiting for less and less time, because the older she gets the more things pile up, and by the time she's reached high school her internship at the radio station means she's busier than ever, running errands for Station Management and Cecil, and simply surviving.

 It's not until StrexCorp shows up, however, that Bella deems it a good idea to visit Charlie again.

Well…it's less her idea, and more 'StrexCorp bought their neighborhood and is working on shutting down Night Vale High and instating their own charter schools in time for her class to graduate and fuck that noise'.

Plus, it's not like she had much cause to stick around, not when Phil and Renee had been planning on doing something for his job prospects [which, incidentally enough, had been something StrexCorp could slightly respect. Go figure].

So, really, between the choice of attending a Desert Bluff school [ugh], or Forks High, it was really a no-brainer for Bella.

 Even if Forks was a kind of weird place.

 …it's been a while, actually.

Turns out, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it just makes things less weirder. 

[Seriously, just how did younger her not notice some things?]

It's been years, but Bella's still vaguely terrified by how green everything is. The Whispering Forest was five minutes from her house, after all. She wholeheartedly approves of the rain and the various clouds [even if none of them glow here. Weird].

Fork's high school isn't that bad, but Bella sorely misses her Unmodified Sumerian credits.

And she's vaguely confused by everyone's complaining about PE. [It had some very good real-world applications, what was the big deal? Dodging fireballs invoked by black magic was easy, compared to Chad Steinbeck's throwing arm.]

Kinda weird how nonchalant everyone was about their librarians, though by now she's almost used to how everyone laughs whenever she talked about the killer Summer Reading Program. [Younger her had merited a few curious glances when she'd clung to her backpack, as if carrying duct tape and several days' worth of food and water wasn't a perfectly rational thing to have in a library. Weird.]

 And her dad's Police Department must be having severe budget cuts, if his patrol car can't fly and he doesn't even have a balaclava. [So, very, weird.]

She's still fascinated by the Cullens, of course. That's a fundamental constant.

 Except here, Bella's not infatuated, or obsessed-- or, at least, not in a "love at first sight" sort of way.

No, here, Bella still sees the predatory gleam in the Cullen's eyes, and their ethereal beauty. But instead of growing warily curious, she instead feels a pang of homesickness, and resolves to befriend them. [That blonde in particular really reminds her of Jessica Simmons in fifth grade, back before she forgot to check her harness when their Girl Scout troop was earning their Paragliding and Divebombing patches.]

 That Edward guy was more of an afterthought than anything else, actually. Though it was also a new record, too: not even five minutes and he hated her guts, when her personal best was four hours and thirty-seven minutes for a budding blood feud.

 The Cullens, meanwhile, don't know what to think of this new arrival.

 Bella Swan had, in the span of five school days, gone from "flavor of the week" to "what the fuck is she on, or is she just trolling?" with alarming speed.

 Her father had made it well known she had an eccentric sense of humor, but that still didn't quite prepare everyone for her incredible deadpan, or her reactions to the most random things. [Like her incredulity about wheat-based products: what kind of weird diet was she on?]

They’re seeing this eccentric newcomer who smells of sand and mesquite and desert wind [though Edward doesn't know why it's so enticing to him], and are even more confused. Because of their enhanced senses, they can tell Bella's confusion is genuine, and why was she so terrified when Valentine's Day was brought up?

Alice's the one that puts them on alert: trying to see Bella's future gives her a migraine, and flashes of something great and terrible that she can't quantify, a black abyss and yet not and what was she?!

 So, of course, Jasper's equally alarmed, because for something to unnerve his was-committed-to-an-asylum-as-a-human girlfriend…plus her emotions when someone talked about Homecoming should not have been that extreme... 

Edward's fascinated, but also questions his self-control as time passes and Bella's slowly smelling less and less like her former hometown, and more and more appealing to him. On the plus side, at least she's not…overly interested in him? She doesn't smell like it, at least. Huh. [That he can't read her mind is but secondary, at this point.]

Rosalind is so, very befuddled with Bella's fearlessness: she's tried to scare her away, but each time she tries, Bella just springs up and mentions something about scouts and patches and what the hell?!

Emmett's the one in the parking lot, when the accident nearly happens. He's very amused by it all, and has a running bet as to why this new chick's gravitating towards them so much, when he sees Edward gear up to save— holy shit did the new girl just backflip away from the SUV? She did. And talked about summer reading programs being good practice. [What even.]

 Carlisle's also highly interested in the mystery that is Bella Swan. Even ignoring what his family's been saying, he took her vitals after the almost-accident, and the machine broke. Or, at least, that's the only logical explanation as to why the readouts say her blood's irradiated AND poisonous, and carrying trace elements of...something he'd never seen before. [Bella, meanwhile, thinks the orange juice just doesn't taste the same. What was this sugary swill? Orange juice was supposed to be imaginary, with an acrid tang and a sharp aftertaste. Forks was so weird.]

 The Port Angeles thing had Edward very confused, because the would-be rapists' thoughts went from 'easy target' to 'WHERE THE HELL DID SHE GET THAT MACHETE FROM?!' and 'am I seeing things, or is she really throwing textbooks with a slingshot?!' with almost-alarming speed.

And when he pulled up, he couldn’t see it, nor where she could even make that fit.

Huh.

 Bella and the Cullens become friends, and when the vampire thing comes up, she doesn't so much as bat an eye.

 "Hey, Old Woman Josie's got a houseful of Angels. Even if the hierarchy's classified by the City Council. Not to mention Hiram McDaniels, he's literally a five-headed dragon. At least you're not from Desert Bluffs, right?"

 …that's a new one.

Bella's more than happy to answer their questions, too, and that's how the Cullens learn that somehow her cooking was bad enough to get her banned from Desert Bluffs [though why that last one was said with a distinct note of pride, they still didn't quite get].

Her questions, in turn, aren't quite like the ones they'd answered in the past. Carlisle doesn't want to know where Bella got the term Lizard Kings from, or why she thinks he knows where Franchia is [which…what?], or…the list goes on.

Overall, Bella's slightly strange, but perfectly friendly.

[Alice has yet to decide what she makes of Bella's talks about the Monolith, though.]

Edward is actually getting slightly interested in her, but Bella doesn’t exactly have romance at the forefront; she's more than happy to talk about her efforts in helping Night Vale's local Children's Militia[?! Wow was the town creative with names], though, and the first time she touched an oven in their household was  also the last. [How the hell she'd managed to recreate Greek fire was something to ask at a later date.]

 Plus, her strange smell wasn't the least of it, not after what Carlisle had ascertained. Bella's apparent confusion about regrowing appendages aside, turns out her inoculations included stuff for 'Blood-Space War botulism' and 'Librarian-based diphtheria' as well as the usual chicken pox and tetanus.

  Time passes, and things are going well.

 Sure, she smells slightly weird as time goes by, but that's probably because of her unique upbringing, plus it's a gradual thing so the Cullens get used to it fairly easily. Even if the scent of something scorching was slightly off-putting, but then, there was a reason nobody let Bella cook.

Bella's pretty weird, but she's also pretty cool, so it balances out in the end.

Some things just get lost in translation, though. Even now.

The baseball game was…interesting.

Bella's comments about Night Vale's annual Sheriff's Secret Police vs. Firefighters game left everyone looking at her in horror, but it was the nonchalance with which she caught the 120 miles-per-hour baseball that let her into the game.

When the new vampires rock up…hmm. I can't decide.

 Option A: 

Bella smelled not only of mesquite and desert wind, but also an underlying tang of something Other, something not of this world. She was the only one alive to have earned the Blood-Space War patch in her troop, and when they tried to attack she smiled and let the tang of dark magic sear the air warningly.

Option B:

Bella smelled of something Other, and since these newcomers hadn't been there when her smell had gradually changed, the Cullens are wondering why they're freaking out. 

“She smells of monster!"

"What the hell are you talking about?”

Option C:  

She smells more like a local than not; a year out of Night Vale, in a rainy place, meant its distinct aroma had gradually faded. They try to attack, and Bella's ready to go to bat, but no dice.

“I could've taken them!" She mutters petulantly. Bah. Overprotective vampires. Just when she'd been having fun, too.

They're insistent that she flee. Eh, it's been a while, might as well check up on how Renee’s been doing, or if they managed to evict StrexCorp. It's adorable how Edward's so concerned for her health, but really.   

 Their first hint Something's Up is when she pulls out the bloodstone circles.

Specifically, "What the hell are bloodstone circles."

Bella returns to her hometown, at the Cullen's insistence, she might add. It's been a while, and… oh, shit.

"What's the big deal about—mmph!" Edward manages before Bella claps a hand over his mouth.

“Watch your words, it's Street Cleaning Day tomorrow! C'mon, I think I remember a bunker we can hide out in."

"What."

They glimpse the vampires trying to get to them, but then…

"Fuck it, time for the big guns. Let's go the library."

"What."

"Bring a machete, orange juice, and I hope you remember at least some Jane Austen, it might very well save our lives Mr. I Lived A Hundred Years." 

 "What?!" 

 "We have no time, just run!"

Hiding out by the Dog Park is also an acceptable one; the scent means the poor fools try to take on the Hooded Figures, which yeah.

After a crash course as to everything Night Vale, Bella's slightly reluctant to go back to Forks, meanwhile Edward's more than a little freaked out, while the rest of the Cullens are in no better shape. The trip back is in almost complete silence. Bella's asleep, because the library always required a lot of energy, meanwhile the rest of the car's eying her a lot more warily than a few days ago.

She's nursing a sprained wrist from staving off a Librarian, a broken leg from landing the wrong way after sticking an illegal pen on one vampire and a loaf of bread on the other [and thus siccing the Sheriff's Secret Police on both], and a concussion on top of that. Still intimidating anyway; just where had that assault rifle even come from?!

Ah, the joys of having earned her Concealed Weaponry patch during seventh grade…

And that's the end of the events of Twilight.

During New Moon, Bella's not desperately seeking death once the Cullens go MIA.

Either she goes 'welp, getting kind of bored here, oh hey, Jacob! Want to cliff dive?...okay this is actually kind of tame, but at least I'm not as homesick now, thanks!'

Or, she'd go 'my only friends are gone, StrexCorp fucked off from Night Vale, screw it I'm coming home'.

If she were to meet the Volturi, she'd immediately light up and go 'oh hey do you have any relation to the Large Brotherhood of the Small Chamber? Or Night Vale's City Council?' which, in turn, would cause some…interesting reactions. [A facepalm here, a 'oh god I thought we were done with you guys' groan from there, etc. The Cullens are both curious but also don't want to know.]

At some point, an ancient vampire shows up, and Bella’s practicing her Unmodified Sumerian and ignoring everyone’s stares when they realize it’s the human who’s just blasé and talking to this guy in his mother tongue. She’s not fluent, but it’s enough. 

 Where did this idea even come from? Who knows? [Dammit brain]

[nothingneverforever]

The Good Place (2016)

I chose to start watching this only because I was at a very low point in my life in terms of facing a dearth of TV-derived entertainment, having just finished Virgin River (2019) and Sweet Magnolias (2020). Both Virgin and Sweet are not what you'd call .. uh... productions of any real calibre or value or perhaps worth at all, like you can be certain that no niches were filled when they were realsed into the Netflix ether... But they also happen to be epic masterpieces by sheer fact of how banal and predictable and PG and saccharine and inconsequential they are, the best of the suburban vanilla Hallmark Movie genre, and basically they rock af ok?? and so when I finished both first seasons of the two series I was left empty and thirsty. And it was in this lostness that I turned to The Good Place, thinking it would be as enriching in it's simplicity, as palatable in it's shallow distraction, qualities I generally look for in the fodder to keep my eyes engaged on something that isn't the clock when I do my daily evening indoor cardio.

So maybe I should first set the stage by establishing that I simply fucking hated this series lol. I couldn't get past episode 12 (I know, this makes it sound like i already gave it way more time than it deserved, which is the truth) of the first season, because once I decided I'd had enough, it was really fucking enough and I couldn't give it one more second.

As always, here's my shoddily written premise of the series; I don't want to put much effort into capturing it's essence well because idgaf about this dumb show seriously fucking hate it lol but anyway: Eleanor (Kristen Bell) dies on earth, and goes to 'The Good Place', where all souls who were much more good than bad while living on earth go to upon their death, as opposed to The Bad Place, where the bad people go. There’s some mathematical calculation for this heaven and hell allocation basically. So the good place (i can't be bothered to capitalize it every time i type it anymore lol sorry), is run by a head architect who has designed and is in charge of the neighbourhood our characters live in, and he has a female robot assistant, Janet, who is the omnipotent, omnipresent and omniscient right-hand lady who can also be called up by any good place resident who has any question for her, anytime. Anyway Eleanor, after dying on earth, was actually sent to the good place by accident, because she was actually a completely irredeemable asshole but due to some dumb boring never-happened-before error, she was sent to the good place instead of the bad place where she actually was meant to end up. Here she makes a small group of friends, some to whom she is eventually honest about the fact that she does not actually belong in the good place, and it is because of this incorrect placement that the good place is crumbling and its inner workings are going haywire etc and everyone suffers from the consequences. So blah blah blah soon we find out that it is not just her, but also some other guy who is here by mistake, and so blah blah blah etc yupp

So here are the things that suck about this show:

So there’s this other guy who also doesn't belong in the good place and who was also sent there by accident, his name is Jason okay but umm it's complicated because the person he was mistaken as (and the actual 'good person' who was intended to be sent to the good place while Jason was meant to be directed to the bad place) is named Jian Yu, a Taiwanese monk. Jason however is a Filipino-American from Florida and I guess his character is meant to be a stereotypical 'White trash' character, but it's meant to be funny or some shit so we aren't meant to be deeply affected by fact that his life was fucking sad, like how his small-town dreams were meant to be comedic relief for us to laugh at how pathetic he is when ... i dunno, I feel very uncomfortable making a joke out of real-life situations that umm aren't funny at all idk whatever... Oh also the weird (dumb/shitty/lame/thoughtless) thing about the show is how even once it is revealed that Jason is in fact his Jason-y, oblivious, infantile, one-dimensionally-tropey self, the characters who know the truth still continue to call him Jianyu throughout...? But like.... he's not Jianyu lol?

So anyway, Jason is characterised quite disturbingly to be honest as an extremely immature dudebro, to the extent that one could call him child-like. In his unhappiness at being stuck in this weird world where he can't be himself and has to pretend to be Jianyu most of the time (which involves being a complete ascetic as well as silent because the real Jianyu had apparently taken a lifelong oath of silence), Jason latches on to Janet the robot assistant. He says she is the only one who has been kind to him, etc etc etc, and begins ummmm, falling in love with her. But because he's painted as a literal baby with absolutely no rational or critical thinking skills, him falling in love with her is meant to be uhh earnest and sweet or at the very least inconsequential and jokey I guess? But like... this isn't funny...? Not when sex robots are a real thing and will probably lead to the abuse, violation, murder of millions of women in time to come because men will be so used to putting their penises into awfully, scarily 'life-like' dolls whose limbs have been programmed to move and who can even utter words of affirmation to their degenerate users that actual human females will no doubt bear the brunt of being expected to perform in life and in bed similarly to our robotic counterparts...? Yea so the good place disturbingly first makes us almost forced to feel some endearment toward Jason for finding a kindred "soul" in robot Janet, glad that he finally has "someone" to "talk to" (quotation marks cos once again she's a fucking robot), and it's all very "pure" and "wholesome" at first because again, he's portrayed as a fucking kid (one piece I read describes the character as "a sweet ding-dong human"). And then suddenly, about one or two episodes after they fall in love or whatever, Jason says:

You guys have fun. This is me and Janet's honeymoon, so we're gonna go try and figure out how to have sex.

Yeah umm so once again, in case any of you forgot, Janet's a fucking robot. If I use a scale of human consciousness out of 100 where a regular human's sense of self and awareness and independent thinking and authonomy and whatever else makes us human is at 100, Janet is probably at .... 10? at most? So yea.... i guess rape jokes are okay these days? I dunno? Literally how the fuck were there 3 entire seasons of this dumb show after this

Anyway when I attempted to put in *some* effort before I gave up, realising this show wasn't worth my precious weekend downtime, I googled Jason and Janet's relationship to see if there were any other similar voices of dissent but umm apparently, according to the headlines of articles, this is instead public opinion:

The Unlikely Romance of The Good Place’s Janet and Jason

Why Janet And Jason Are The Good Place's Ultimate Love Story, According To The Actors

How Janet and Jason broke the infinite love mold on The Good Place

From these disgusting articles, here are some choice quotes by the actors and crew involved themselves:

And the fact that this should not happen but it does makes it very special. We think that their relationship is really sweet. There's something very innocent and real about their love even though that is insane

Yeah, I always talk about this whenever I get the question, “How does Janet and Jason work?” And my response is always — and I’ve thought about this a lot — Jason is slowly becoming a little bit more aware and intelligent. He’s evolving a little bit, and through Jason, Janet is able to become more emotionally intelligent. She’s feeling these things, whether it be good or bad, through Jason because that’s what Jason is. He’s all these different emotions that he can’t tame, and Janet’s learning that. They’re kind of evolving.

Okay so perhaps I should clarify that Janet the robot goes through a couple of 'deaths' in which she comes back as a rebooted version, and supposedly more 'human' each time. So yeah I guess it's okay to have sex with robots if they actually become 0.0000001% more human-like each time they come back to life though!!!!! Sorry for overreacting guys!!!!!

Seriously though how the fuck are they even using the word 'romance' in good conscience to describe the 'relationship'

Actually as I'm writing this I'm reminded of this video by Pop Culture Detective on youtube, titled "Abduction as Romance". Jonathan the host/video creator goes through various movies through history and from contemporary cinema of this unbelievably damaging and disturbing trope, where women are shown to eventually fall in love with men who have essentially, in some way or another, abducted them, annyway here it is if anyone's interested 

I’m calling up this video because in the shows used as examples in Jonathan’s thesis, the female characters fall in love with the men just because the men happen to be the only choice they have. Okay I actually only managed to get through a quarter of the video because it was too disturbing and too awful to think about how frequently such plot points are used till today and how so much of the shitty love we see on screen is completely abusive in nature (he’s also made another video called Stalking for Love which I’m sure is as eye-opening, i haven’t watched it cos i don’t need to lol, i’m already woke thanks), but anyway the bit that I did manage to watch does remind me of this stupid love story from The Good Place that we’re supposed to be moved by. We’re seriously supposed to believe that Janet, through her reboots and whatever awakenings of consciousness she supposedly has, also has feelings for Jason just because he’s the only pathetic dumbass immature enough to think that he has feelings for her because she’s the only person who’s willing to listen and talk to him properly? When ummmm she’s only listening to you because she’s programmed to...?

Honestly I can't be bothered to talk about freaking Janet and Jason anymore

There are other things that suck about this dumb show

I don't know what kind of character development Eleanor (protagonist) goes through in the seasons that succeed that I shall never be audience to, but she remains unlikable in almost every way in season 1. This is even though the entire premise of the plot is that she learns to become a better person with each day, struggling to distance herself from her past (on earth) where she was every caricature of a selfish, cruel, demeaning, unlikable person ever. The few and short flashbacks we get to her earthly past are so annoyingly annoying that it made it almost impossible for me to continue to care for this charatcer her in her afterlife. I know, being in the profession that i am, i should have a great deal more empathy for her and where she's coming from (and i would if the show was not so fucking shitty), so i'm not hating on the fact that she was such a bad person, more so that the creators of the show did little to give us anything real to hold on to at all. Between boringly unreal dialogue, stilted acting typical of American sitcoms, overly defined character traits again typical of dated, unchallenging and unsophisticated American sitcoms, I honestly can't understand how on earth this is rated 97% on rotten tomatoes... I mean I guess if I actually read the reviews I'd understand but hehe I'm not about that open-minded, balanced POV narrative okie? :)

----------

Updates: Haha so ummm eventually I was too bored / curious so I decided to give this show like it’s fourth chance or something and eventually I ended up finishing the entire series and yes I cried as fuck and yes this series made me feel many feels and no I shall neither take back anything of what I said above nor clarify how or what made me change my opinion on it nor elaborate on why I ended up rather enjoying it :-) bye bye

[le-souriant]

2010s: A Decade in Music

When does the decade begin and end?

I'm a firm believer that the end of this decade is December 31, 2020, instead of December 31, 2019, at least musically. The reason is simple: most of the songs released in the early part of 2020 will be recordings from 2019 or earlier. In other words, these songs will still sound like the 2010s.

However, looking back is always fun, so I thought it would be interesting to check my last.fm listening report and review the results (full data here). This isn't a Best Of list, but a simple sample of my most listened tracks.

Let's begin...

Top listened track of the decade (overall)

Mike Shiver & Aruna - Everywhere You Are (Duderstadt Vocal Mix)

Trance was everywhere in the 2000s, but really faded in this decade with the emergence of Big Room (what happened to that genre anyway?). Still, in 2010, this vocal trance track was on repeat thanks to its ethereal sounds and lyrics:

Life never shined so bright Never seemed so endless Never felt so light

I’m safe, it’s a brand new day In the arms of angels I’m never far away, away

Here, on the other side I can feel you breathing I can read your mind So smile, it’ll be all right I’ll be watching over you Keeping you alive inside

This result didn't surprised me, since it really is an amazing track, which I could listen on repeat still to this day.

Top Rock act of the decade

Three Days Grace

Life Starts Now, an album recorded in 2009, took off all through 2010, which proves the point I mentioned previously. With tracks like Lost In You and World So Cold, this album still sounds great today:

I always knew That you'd come back to get me And you always knew That it wouldn't be easy To go back to the start To see where it all began Or end up at the bottom To watch how it all ends

You tried to lie and say I was everything I remember when I said I'm nothing without you I'm nothing without you

Too bad the band couldn't keep up after the departure of their lead singer.

(True) Top Rock act of the decade

Volbeat

At the beginning of the decade, streaming wasn't common yet, which meant you couldn't carry much music with you to listen. Back in those days, tracks (and albums) were listened more repeatedly, as you carefully decided which tracks to bring with you.

Volbeat was present all through the decade with their albums Beyond Hell / Above Heaven (2010), Outlaw Gentlemen and Shady Ladies (2013), Seal the Deal and Let's Boogie (2016). These albums stand out for their straight rock attitude with impeccable production:

Counting all the **** in the room Well I'm definitely not alone, well I'm not alone You're a liar, you're a cheater, you're a fool Well that's just like me yoohoo and I know you too Mr. Perfect don't exist my little friend And I tell you it all again, and I do it again Counting all the **** in the room, well I'm Definitely not alone, well I'm not alone

Look deep into yourself before you blame all others For betrayal, now for betrayal I promise, so easy to say, and easy you failed And you do it again

Top Pop act of the decade

Rihanna

Just when all the relevant pop artists of the 2000s started to fade (Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Beyonce), Rihanna continued into this decade with a series of charting albums, singles, and collaborations.

Top Hip-Hop act of the decade

Nicki Minaj

Pink Friday was a huge album for her, but what really made her stood up all this time was her collaborations. Here's some of the artists who asked her to appear in their records:

Drake

Kanye West

Trey Songz

will.i.am

David Guetta

Madonna

DJ Khaled

2 Chainz

Justin Bieber

Ariana Grande

Migos

An impressive list nonetheless.

Top Country act of the decade

Lady Antebellum

I was expecting to see Need You Now as the top country track, since it was everywhere at the beginning of the decade, but instead it was Just a Kiss, a great song about taking things slow.

Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight Just a touch of the fire burning so bright No, I don't wanna mess this thing up No, I don't wanna push too far Just a shot in the dark that you just might Be the one I've been waiting for my whole life So baby I'm alright, with just a kiss goodnight

Their influence in Country music cannot be understated. Without them, acts like The Band Perry, Sugarland, Gloriana, and Little Big Town wouldn't be what the are today.

Guilty pleasure of the decade

Paramore

Ever since their debut in the mid 2000s, known for the nickname Fall Out Girl, Paramore have been present, surviving member departures and changing musical styles and influences. That's the reason I'm no longer calling them guilty pleasures: they are great.

You're not the big fish in the pond no more You are what they're feeding on

So what are you gonna do when the world don't orbit around you? So what are you gonna do when the world don't orbit around you?

Ain't it fun living in the real world Ain't it good being all alone

(True) Guilty pleasure of the decade

Paty Cantú

Catchy pop songs: check, heartbroken love ballads: check, high profile collaborations: check. She has done it all, and yet, she doesn't get the recognition she deserves. Let's hope this changes this new decade.

Dejaste de quererme Deje de enamorarte Queriendo ser fuerte Deje de buscarte Y fuimos cobardes Tontos los dos Se desintegra el amor

One hit wonder of the decade

Gotye - Somebody That I Used to Know (Feat. Kimbra)

Taking about past relationships took Gotye to the top of the charts, and then he simply disappeared, which makes the classic definition of a one hit wonder. It was not surprising, after listening how different it was from his other songs.

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness Like resignation to the end, always the end So when we found that we could not make sense Well you said that we would still be friends But I'll admit that I was glad that it was over

The 2010s were marked by the rise of streaming, and the (almost) infinite availability of music. In my case, it was marked a decrease in number of song repeats, and an increase of artists listened.

In the end, I've got 175 530 songs listened from 35 257 different artists.

A very good decade indeed.

[its-just-like-the-movies]

Personal Ballot for 2017: Score, Costume Design, Production Design, Visual Effects, and Makeup

Hi all! I’ve begun the slow but steady process of writing out paragraph-long entires for my favorites of 2017 in 20 categories. I pray it’ll all be up by this time in April, if not before then, and the long list without write-ups is definitely susceptible to changes (for instance, Get Out is very likely to take the slot in Score that I’ve given to writing about Dawson City: Frozen Time), but there’s no time like the present to write about last year’s movies. So, without further ado, here are my five nominees (plus a few runners-up) in these five categories.

Best Original Score

Dawson City: Frozen Time, Alex Somers - It’d be hard, if not unbearable, for any kind of film to evoke a sense of awe in the miracle of its own existence. Imagine most films trying to do this for their entire hour and forty minute run time and not trying to bash your head in. But Dawson City: Frozen time pulls it off gloriously, partially because the film builds such a convincing case that the survival of its subject - hundreds of rolls of silent film footage previously thought lost recovered in 1978 - is a genuinely impressive achievement borne mostly from dumb luck, but also because it does a great job flexing its central themes and melodies to suit the tone of its current scene. The score isn’t derived from period tunes, instead taking on ethereal and atmospheric qualities that never tilts into opera, guiding us through complex histories in Dawson City. Yes, there’s a lot of awe, but also panic and terror and discovery, keying in to the developments of the town through its relationship to cinema, helping us grasp the idea that immortality and survival itself is so precarious under circumstances like these. In large part, the work here reminded me of what Angelo Badalamenti’s score accomplished for Twin Peaks - using emotional and mood-appropriate chords to guide us through heady, unusual material

Dunkirk, Hans Zimmer - More wall-to-wall scoring, though almost the inverse goal of what Dawson City: Frozen Time is attempting to do. Here the primary objective is delineating between all manner of suspense and fear as Dunkirk’s characters try to survive amidst their own inhospitable conditions. And since those characters are so intentionally blank, his score basically acts like a piece of opera music, a series movements charting the story more than an accompaniment or accent on the film’s scenes. Hope is strung out as chances for escape seem more and more dire, but the score lets the men’s belief that they will be rescued hit as passionately as their fears that whatever latest hell has sprung out of the sky will surely kill them this time. It also has the sense to submerge itself, adding quieter tensions to downbeats as the characters wait for danger to return and search for means to avoid it. Zimmer runs a decathlon based in exhaustion and the very real possibility that these men will die without growing stale or overbearing, keeping the terror lodged in our guts like a bullet.

Good Time, Oneohtrix Point Never - So accomplished in its sonic textures and moods that calling it exhilarating feels like I’m just scratching the surface. With its reprisals of 80’s synth and electronica, Oneohtrix Point Never’s score maintains all kinds of tensions as the film’s narrative barrels forward. From the opening heist that’s doomed to go wrong (and does, spectacularly so) to scenes of the people orbiting Connie getting trampled as collateral damage, the score finds ways to maintain tension in downbeats while ratcheting it up when necessary, flexing and stretching its motifs to flesh out the psychology of the film’s characters. Buries itself deeply under the audience’s skin without falling prey to any of the pitfalls its musical style entails, and manages to be completely enthralling while fitting perfectly into Good Time’s grotty aesthetic.

The Lost City of Z, Christopher Spelman - Admittedly, I’m unfamiliar enough with the pieces Christopher Spelman cribbed from for his score here to have known off the bat that some of his operatic flourishes were actually operas. So, maybe not 100% original. But! It’s still pretty original, and smartly incorporates works from other composers that fully contribute to the already-operatic nature of his score for Z. Throughout, Spelman avoids accenting obvious rises or falls in the narrative in favor of applying a continuous sense of motion, suggesting simultaneous beginnings and endings without pointing where it could all be going. This simultaneity also allows for the score to play to multiple moods and ideas at once, like the melancholy inside a joyous reunion between husband and wife, or finding a great discovery pointing towards an unknown civilization you have no tools to investigate. Just as Percy’s relationship to the jungles, to glory, and to enlightenment all change in themselves and become more enmeshed in each other, Spelman’s score helps us track these shifting mental and emotional pathways in him and his companions.

Wonderstruck, Carter Burwell - Like everyone in Wonderstruck, Burwell has to communicate between two time periods using totally disparate musical eras while including melodies and tunes that can work for both protagonists. He also has the additional challenge of scoring Rose’s scenes like a silent film, complimenting Millicent Simmonds’s performance without overshadowing her own subtle work. And, without succumbing to period clichés or overplaying the “wonder” in Wonderstruck, Burrell delightfully meets the challenges of the film on both sides. He gives both the 20’s silent pastiche and 70’s funk modern accents, keeping in tune with what’s dangerous about this adventure as much as what’s exciting and exhilarating about it. Wonderstruck indeed.

Best Costume Design

I, Tonya, Jennifer Johnson - Who’s to say about degree of difficulty when having such publicly available/iconic outfits as reference for its real person lead character to wear, but that doesn’t mean Jennifer Johnson’s recreations of Tonya’s outfits are completely dazzling to look at. She’s completely in key with the gaudy charm behind Tonya’s costumes, making them convincingly homemade and lower-class rather than using nicer fabric to beef up their dazzle. That energy is given to the background skaters, though when Tonya starts getting “nicer” outfits she still lets the costume retain their unsightly flair. Supporting characters are dressed in broad, colorful strokes that invoke character details without tilting into caricature. Julianne Nicholson’s coach get lots of soft floral prints, while LaVona always seems to have different versions of the same fur-trimmed coat, blossoming into the pelt she’s wearing in her interview scenes. Tailored to accentuate Janney’s imposing height, their length and flatness makes her look even more physically imposing than she already is. The sweaters Jeff wears are more form fitting than the ones Shawn does, but they’re both cozy-looking and character appropriate. A color ensemble of looks that fits the colorful ensemble of characters.

The Lost City of Z, Sonia Grande - Can we just take a second and appreciate how gorgeously dressed Sienna Miller is at all times in this movie? Decked in full-body dresses, gloves, and glorious hats, her looks are eye-catching and elegant without calling attention to themselves or immobilizing her. All the outfits of the explorers look suitable to their environment and grow convincingly tattered as their expedition continues, and Grande  avoids exoticizing the Indian tribes while keeping them specific. More than that, the line about Percy only seeing the lack of medals on his uniform at the opening ball helps clue us in to how the film will insert character details through the baubles they’re wearing, such as the medals decked on the men’s breasts and the jungle-themes ascots Percy begins wearing after coming home from his second trip. Unshowy, unfussy period costuming that’s executed to a tee. Bonus points for the soldier’s uniforms, the fortune teller, and all the suits of the menfolk.

Personal Shopper, Jurgen Doerig - Gives Phantom Thread a real run for its money as the 2017 feature whose central character’s life revolves most around their film’s outfits. Maureen’s near-invisible boss sure is fashionable, with a taste for chic (sorry Reynolds) and, to put it lightly, suggestive outfits. We certainly get some idea of what Kyra is like through the dresses and accessories Maureen picks for her, and it’s almost a plot point that this woman is so unconcerned with her employees that she’d hire a personal shopper that’s also her size. But damn does Stewart wear those outfits well, using them to bolster Maureen’s self confidence as she enjoys the high of those incredible dresses, doing a better job expressing character via fashion show than Jackie. Just as amazing is the character’s own outfits, layers of sweaters and t-shirts underneath the same leather jacket, somehow a coherent look despite clearly being thrown on at the last minute, or at least chosen for function and comfort when sleeping in them over appearance. A sturdy collection of outfits that all reveal something different about the woman wearing them.

Phantom Thread, Mark Bridges - Look, all I’m saying is that I was a woman of means in 50’s London, I’d hire Reynolds Woodcock to make as much of my wardrobe as possible. Every outfit he designs for his clients is completely ravishing, but also somewhat regal and ornate, giving the House of Woodcock a rigid style that’s so far away from chic it’s understandably becoming outdated. It’s a portfolio anyone would be proud to hang their hat on, and Mark Bridges gives equal attention to what the three main players in this game are wearing. Cyril’s black-on-black-on-black looks are too modern in their elegant simplicity to have been made by her brother. He also makes repeat looks count for a lot, as when Alma goes to the New Year’s party - whose other attendees have their own, distinctive style - wearing that green and yellow dress Reynolds made so early in their amorphous relationship. The film simply wouldn’t work if Bridges wasn’t at the top of his game, and he hits a bullseye with every look.

Roman J. Israel, Esq., Francine Jamison-Tanchuck - From the start, Roman’s outfits are noticeably out of place next to the other lawyers we see, not just because the fabric is considerably cheaper but because they don’t seem quite tailored to his size. But they also seem pretty comfortable, and pieces like his magenta suit help him stand out next to the other members of the law firm he’s reluctantly sucked into. After acquiring a good bit of money through illicit means, his new and expensive outfits lose some of that individuality as he gets more in line with a cynical version of the law firm even as it changes itself to meet Roman’s idealism. As the head of that law firm Colin Farrell’s suits are tailored as fine as he is, even accentuating his fineness, while he and his associates go through the exercise of sporting “personalized” ties. The outfits of Carmen Ejogo’s activist leader are believably thrift store but as casually elegant and quietly worn as she is, and it’s exciting to examine the array of protesters meeting with her to see who’s wearing the same kinds of clothing or the imitative, expensive versions of it. Every costume pulls double duty, importing narrative significance and unexpected fashionability to story that didn’t seem to invite it on its face.

Best Production Design

Blade Runner 2049, Dennis Gasner - How can one call something unshowy even if so much of the film seems devoted to showing of its technical elements? My biggest complaint with Blade Runner 2049 is how so many scenes start at the earliest possible moment only to end as late as possible. In moments like K walking past those broken statues of giant, nude women, it seems as though the scenes have no point except to gawk at the physical environments and design elements that Dennis Gassner created. But damn if the sets aren’t something to marvel at. Not only that, but the flat, gray, angular style of these buildings and drawers and junk-sorting tables look as though they were designed with only function and space-saving in mind. Yes, the casino an important character has been hiding out at for decades is very much old and abandoned in the middle of nowhere, but it has round(!) tables, and the remains of some kind of charisma that would’ve made customers spark to the place if it was an active business. The roundness of there and Dr. Stelline’s lab stands out in contrast to practical flatness of everywhere else the film has taken us. Gassner finds a way to make 2049’s sets absolutely stunning, utterly serving the film’s story and the characters inhabiting those spaces without courting tropes of outright dystopia or any obvious visual charisma to make them easy eye-candy.

It, Claude Paré - Repeat watches of It have keyed me in to the criticism that the film suffers a real trade-off between scene-by-scene conceits being fully realized while larger ideas about growing up and more aggressive King themes aren’t so much left for the audience to fill in as much as avoided or vaguely implied. But even as the film petters out, the production design remains indelible and attentive in every scene. The kids’ rooms are  individualized with clutter and personal objects - love the circus wallpaper in Georgie’s room - and Pennywise’s lair feels like its own, unique haunted house, even into the sewers. Derry itself is believably 80’s, grounding the town and playing to its normalcy rather than a rotting host for an unspeakable evil it’s turning a blind eye too. But the real achievement here are the film’s props, from the MISSING CHILD posters piled on top of each other to the history book Ben reads at the library about the Easter tragedy, evoking a bloody and haunted history even as the town continues to ignore it, brutally emblematized in the endless tower of mementos in the sewer. Bonus points for the army of clown dolls and the dummy in the coffin Richie encounters.

mother!, Philip Messina - Right off the bat mother! wins points for creating a house that’s convincingly rustic while also balancing ornate flourishes. It’s big but internally coherent, and has a creepy basement without being a creepy house, though it certainly suits the spooky atmosphere and unraveling narrative Aronofsky is going for. But the real kicker comes in the second act, as the house grows and devolves into a place of worship and war in honor of Him and his poetry. The transformation of so many rooms into war zones and actual altars is utterly remarkable and unfussily done despite the immense work it must have taken. It even looks as well-made as it should given the short, dream logic time frame that all of this is occuring in within the film, as though a stage crew is swapping out sets with every new scene of a play, wrecking this carefully built world in only a matter of minutes. Perhaps the least showy and most immaculately constructed part of an aggressively combative film.

The Lost City of Z, Jean-Vincent Puzos - Yes, a lot of the action takes place in the lush jungles of the Amazonia. But those jungles are believably rendered at every step of the way, teeming with life without falling into exoticism. And the manufactured majesty of the “natural” doesn’t diminish the quality of the homes and communities we get to see. It’s fascinating to see the homes of the colonizers living in those jungles, sturdily made outposts with surreal flourishes and decadent wealth pouring from its most scourigible parts. There’s also the communities built by the Indians that Percy encounters, each clearly their own tribe, as well as the attention paid to wartime trenches and the grand mansions and meeting places of the Explorer’s Guild. The homes he returns to after every journey help illustrate his growing obsession with Zed and his shifting place in English society, going from an upscale house with vine-covered exteriors and leaf-print wallpaper in the bedroom to a cottage practically drowning in the trees surrounding it.

Wonderstruck, Mark Friedberg - Between his miraculous outings with Todd Haynes on Far From Heaven, Mildred Pierce, and now with Wonderstruck, plus his gargantuan work on Synecdoche, New York, can someone please get Mark Friedberg a Wikipedia page? Hell, his work on Wonderstruck alone should’ve qualified him for that, let alone any awards recognition at all. There’s more applause here for deeply specific bedrooms and homes, but there’s even greater praise for the attention he gives to shops and museum dioramas and the way he, along with every other technician, juggles making aesthetics 50 years apart internally cohesive while finding avenues for both timelines to speak to each other, even outside of shared locations. Friedberg may even have a greater challenge in including objects older than both time periods, like the book advertising the Cabinet of Wonders or the impersonal but captivating dioramas and galleries inside the museum of natural history. But damn does he pull it all off, ending the film with its richest achievement in the deeply personal map that this mysterious father of Ben’s created, a diorama that’s as much a diary, and a story told with non-diegetic sets.

Best Visual Effects

Blade Runner 2049, John Nelson and Co. - Easily the film that has been in every incarnation of this category since I first saw it, and the one I’ve had the hardest time starting a write-up about beyond asking “How did they do it?!?!?!”. But reader, I have to ask. The blending of CGI landscapes with the film’s already-impressive production design is smooth and unobtrusive. Joi, in all her incarnations, is a pretty incredible achievement. Fluctuating in transparency and functionality, moving in and out of spaces and characters, in skyscraper and human-sized incarnations, the character is fascinating to watch, the constant reminder that she’s an object making Ana de Armas’s warm, emotionally rich and humanizing performance all the more interesting. Dr. Ana’s Stelline’s manufactured memories coming together is practically a short film onto itself, and the ghostly singing holograms are as affecting as the decrepit casino Deckard himself haunts. Consistently breathtaking work that keeps finding new ways to surprise you.

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Christopher Townsend and Co. - I’m still amazed by how fully I’ve come around to Marvel’s side after their 2017 output, but without a doubt I’m still most impressed by the visual style and deliciously saturated color palette that Guardians so perfectly manages. Without ever tipping over into Wonderland garishness, the film indulges in practically every color imaginable in creating its sets and environments and weapons. The hot, neon pink of Yondu’s whistling spear-thing is easily my favorite, as is the blueness of the sky and orangeness of the ground as Gamora sits outside after fighting with Peter, completely unaware of Nebula soaring behind her. Meanwhile, the creation of Ego’s planet and his palace is a truly massive achievement, as are the dioramas detailing his long, hilariously sexy travails across the universe. And they find a way to make Kurt Russell young again without creeping into the uncanny valley. Yes, there’s that one effect in the big climactic fight that weirdly makes it look like Ego and Peter are apparating at each other like in the Harry Potter films, but it’s only a slight bump in a film that’s otherwise full of visual wit and bursting to the brim with as much color as possible, practically daring you to look at it and not enjoy yourself.

It, Nicholas Brooks and Co. - It’s absolutely ridiculous that the campaign team for Warner Bros. couldn’t even muscle It into the VFX shortlist. If repeat watches have cooled me on Bill Skarsgård’s performance, the graphic impact of Pennywise still hits as hard as that first showing in a packed theater. The many ways that Pennywise contorts his limbs, changes size, takes on new and equally terrifying forms, are as terrifying to me as they are to the kids. Seeing him unwind from that fridge to scare Eddie is still one of the most indelible sights of the year, as is his Meshes of the Afternoon arm reaching out for Georgie. Bonus points for the detail given to the dead kids, particularly the headless Easter Egg casualty and Betty Ripsom.

mother!, Tamriko Bardadze and Co. - Compared to the scale some of these other teams are operating on, I keep thinking of mother!’s achievements as being somehow smaller. Effects like the burning wound on the floor where a man is killed, the blood from the dying man himself, the beating heart of the house, that pulsing, spindly Thing hiding in a toilet, all are brief but completely impactful. But then I think back to larger spectacles like the house beginning to rot when Lawrence’s character is at her most distressed, the occasionally barren and occasionally lush Outside we get only glimpses of. Then, even bigger spectacles, like every single way that her house is blown apart, and the charred but living and talking body of a character who has instigated its greatest destruction, and I have a hard time calling its achievements small in any way. Supporting, maybe, but as fully realized as it needs to be, and as mad as everything else that mother! is doing.

War for the Planet of the Apes, Joe Letteri and Co. - I’ll admit upfront there’s a ceiling to how much I can be in awe of a third incarnation of digitally remastered apes, the look of each film improving with technological advances even if I don’t see anything as inherently “new” here as some of my other nominees. But even with that caveat in place, there’s no question that the apes have never looked better. Compare the trailer for Rise in 2011 to what we get in War, and it’s even more obvious how much effort the VFX team has put into making Caesar and his tribe look as realistic as possible. Their faces have never been so expressive; their fur looks so real you could practically touch it, or at least imagine how it feels and smells as they hop between increasingly inhospitable ecosystems, caked in snow and mud and dirt and blood. Even if I’m not as wild about the series as its most ardent fans, their adoration is completely earned with the knowledge that this trilogy has gone out with its most auspicious technological achievement to date.

Best Makeup

Atomic Blonde, Paul Pattinson - A shout out first to the wonderful styling of the minor characters, from the punk hackers working under Bill Skarsgård (and Skarsgård himself) to the functional Russian antagonists, individualizing members on both sides where it counts while knowing who to keep relatively anonymous, even after repeat viewings. John Goodman and Eddie Marsan stand out among the suits dealing with this case, though all the mysterious officials wandering around the story are fantastically groomed. James McAvoy seems to have lost all morality along with his hair, legible as either “disastrous” or still pretty foxy, depending on who’s asking. Still what most interests me are the wigs that Charlize Theron and Sofia Boutella’s characters wear throughout the film, wigs that are undeniably wigs to the audience that are treated like actual haircuts in the film. Both of them, Charlize especially, wear the kind of wigs that spies would usually wear to disguise themselves as other people, something only highlighted in how the actual wigs Lorraine wears seem more plausible as real haircuts than her typical bleach-blonde cut. It’s the first real sign that everyone in Atomic Blonde is playing more roles than they let on, and that the film is willing to be far more ambitious than you’d expect from the setup.

The Death of Louis XIV, Antoine Mancini and Lluís Soriano - There are wigs, and then there’s the magnificence resting on Louis XIV’s head, some kind of lion’s mane passing for a cloud that, like the king, is ready to float off to the beyond at any moment. The gradation of his physical health is the spectacle the whole film is premised upon, and it wouldn’t work if the makeup team wasn’t doing their job so marvelously, oscillating between wilting wigs, full white wigs, or unbelievable and youthful brown wigs. His physical decline is more subtly rendered than my comments on his hairdo let on, and the gangrenous splotch on his leg is appropriate unsettling. Equal attention is given not just to Louis but also to his aides, consorts, and doctors, delineating who is and isn’t bothering to maintain appearances while tending to their king. The Sun God is disintegrating before their eyes, everyone doing their damndest to keep him alive, and still some people have the time to put on makeup and maintain their wigs? Every look is utterly in tune with Serra’s unusual tone and wildly ambitious aesthetic, across a whole host of characters.

The Lost City of Z, Juanita Santamaria - Boy are Charlie Hunnam and Sienna Miller put together with period appropriate glamour that could easily pass for movie-star shine. Robert Pattinson’s facial hair is wildly unkempt but still well-trimmed and completely convincing, far more than whatever died on Channing Tatum and Mark Ruffalo’s faces in Foxcatcher. Even better is watching the wear and tear of the jungle taking hold of these men’s bodies, smearing them with dirt and sweat, as well as the infections ravaging their bodies, appropriately painful-looking and and revolting without overdoing it The various menfolk of the Adventurers guild are properly groomed and shaved, and the multiple native tribes are given individualizing looks that avoid broad caricature or blurring them all into one large, amorphous tribe. And all of them are gracefully aged as the film progresses, which is frankly as tough an object to find in most movies as a lost civilization.

Phantom Thread, No Credited Head - There’s been a lot of well-earned praise about how gorgeous Phantom Thread is, from its costumes to its cinematography to that ornate, endless house. But how about a round of applause for how stunning those actors look? Daniel Day-Lewis and Lesley Manville are immaculately assembled, from their hair (his naturally graying, hers a wonderfully dyed dark brown) to his eyebrows to her lipstick, all without covering up the age and weariness on their faces. Both look a little gaunt around the edges. Vicky Krieps gets that no-makeup makeup look too, with no attempts to make her look more conventionally or exotically pretty, keeping her gorgeous and comparatively plain next to the other models and muses of Reynolds’s that we see. The background players are given their fair share of attention too, but there’s no denying the main attractions here.

Wonder, Arjen Tutien - Much in the same way that Wonder is a tougher film than I expected but still a remarkably sweet one, I admire the way that the rendering of Tremblay’s disfigurement neither overdoes the surgical scars and deformities nor softens them to the point of being “cute” or “cool”. There’s plenty of room for Tremblay to give a performance underneath all that makeup without simultaneously flaunting the fact that Tremblay is acting under all that makeup the way Darkest Hour so frequently does. The makeup team also does right by the rest of the cast, especially in giving Julia Roberts and Owen Wilson careworn, normal-parent looks better than most films with superstars in those roles manage to pull off. It neither condescends to the normalcy of the characters nor sneaking in ways to remind us that hey, isn’t Julia Roberts friggin’ beautiful. Maybe not as ambitious as Darkest Hour or It, but it’s more consistent across a host of characters while perfectly managing a tricky central character than both films are without showing off or dropping the ball, nailing its assigned tasks to a perfect tee.