#I’m just trying to drag up the energy to finish the initial expansion

[youngerfrankenstein]

To people who like Heavensward… why?

[lumosandnoxwriting]

Taking Control - Fred Weasley

Title: Taking Control Paring: Fred x Fem!Reader Warning: NSFW!!! Fem!dom/sub!Fred, teasing, dirty talk, blindfolds, bondage, face riding/female receiving oral, sex toys, unprotected sex, edging orgasm denial. Summary: Fred has been busy with work, and Y/N is determined to make him slow down and relax, even if she has to take matters into her own hands. A/N: for the anon who wanted some fem!dom with lots of teasing!! This really is like 2% plot but what else is new when it comes to my smuts haha. Anyway, feedback is always welcome!!!

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Getting Fred Weasley to slow down is no easy feat. His mind seems to be moving a mile a minute, with his body not that far behind. It’s what makes him the perfect prankster, since he’s always one step ahead of everyone, and it’s what initially attracted Y/N to him back when they were teenagers. Every day with Fred is different and unpredictable and she loves the way he always puts his all his energy and focus into whatever task is at hand. Especially when that task involves giving her attention. But lately Fred’s focus has been elsewhere, and it’s left her starved for his touch and his presence.

The joke shop has been getting busier and busier as time goes on, and Fred has been working overtime with his brother to keep up. They’re on the verge of launching a whole new line of Wonder Witch products and are planning a store expansion on top of their usual workload, meaning Fred has little time for her. And while Y/N can’t blame him, in fact she’s insanely proud of him, she just wishes he would slow down a little. She may be aching to be close with Fred, but every day the bags under his eyes get bigger and Y/N can tell he’s struggling to keep up. She just wishes there was something she could do to get him to relax, and after a few weeks of thinking she comes up with the perfect plan.

“Knock, knock,” Y/N singsongs as she pushes the door to the office open. It’s a Saturday, which means it’s the shop’s busiest day. Normally on Saturday’s Fred would come back upstairs to have lunch with Y/N, but with how crazy things have been he’s been working through his lunches to catch up on paperwork. And Y/N knows that means he doesn’t actually eat much food, so she’s taken it upon herself to deliver him lunch personally today to make sure he does.

“Hey, baby,” Fred greets, putting down his quill. He pushes away from his desk and invites Y/N to come and sit on his lap. As soon as she does he wraps his arms around her waist and presses his face into her neck, taking a deep breath in. “God I miss you,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N’s neck.

Y/N’s hand tangles in the hair on the back of Fred’s head and she slowly starts to scratch at his scalp. He melts at her touch, and Y/N presses a kiss to his temple. “I just saw you this morning,” she teases lightly.

“You know what I mean,” Fred drawls, pulling away so he can look at her. “The only time we get to cuddle like this anymore is when we’re both asleep.” Fred grabs Y/N’s chin and tilts her head down so he can kiss her slowly. “I miss spending time with you.”

“Take tonight off,” Y/N suggests, kissing Fred briefly. “You’ve been working so hard, Freddie. I just want you to relax for a bit.”

Fred raises his eyebrows at the sultry tone Y/N has. She very clearly has plans for him, and Fred can feel himself already getting hard. “Oh? What do you have in mind?”

Y/N bites her lip as she winks at him. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”

-

“Y/N? Where are you? I’m home,” Fred calls out as he shuts the front door. As soon as George closed and locked the door behind the last customer Fred was running up the stairs, and he’s still slightly out of breath as he kicks off his shoes and heads towards their bedroom. He’s let work take over far too much of his life, and he’s excited to see what Y/N has in store for them.

Fred walks right into the bedroom, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion when he finds it empty. “Baby?” Just as he’s about to turn around to leave the door shuts behind him and he feels Y/N press against his back as a piece of cloth covers his eyes.

“Hi Freddie,” Y/N greets quietly. She ties the blindfold tightly around Fred’s head as she starts to press open mouthed kisses to his neck. “You’ve been a naughty boy lately.” She moves around to Fred’s front slowly, letting her hand drag down his back as she goes.

Fred grins as a shiver runs down his spine. “Have I? he asks, his tone playful. Fred can already feel himself getting hard as Y/N pushes his suit jacket off of his shoulders. Not only has it been weeks since they’ve had sex, but Y/N has never taken control quite like this before. Usually Fred is the one in control and he loves being dominant with Y/N, but he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t find her even sexier for taking the lead.

“Mhm,” she hums as her fingers start to work at the knot of his tie. “It’s been far too long since you’ve last touched me, Freddie.” Y/N tosses his tie to the ground and starts to unbutton his shirt. She leans forward and blows a stream of air on Fred’s neck before nipping and biting at the goosebumps that erupt on his skin. “I’ve had no choice but to take care of myself.”

Fred’s cock twitches in his trousers at the thought of Y/N getting herself off in their bed, and he lets out a moan as she starts to suck on the sensitive part of his neck. The fact that he can’t see what Y/N’s doing just adds to the experience, each touch is unexpected, and it intensifies the pleasure he feels. “I’m sorry, baby. Let me touch you now to make up for it.” Fred goes to place his hands on Y/N’s bum, but she steps away before he gets the chance.

“Only good boys get to touch, Freddie. Gonna have to tie you up, aren’t I?” Fred groans at that, and it goes right to Y/N’s core. She steps forward again and finishes taking off Fred’s shirt. Once it lands on the floor with his other clothes, she starts to run her hands up and down his torso, letting her nails lightly scrape at his skin. “Such a dirty boy, wanting to be tied up,” she teases, flicking at one of his nipples.

Fred whines, and he has to clench his fists to keep from touching Y/N. He’s fully hard now, and as Y/N starts to fumble with his belt he can’t help but shove his hips forward. “Please,” he begs, though Fred isn’t entirely sure what he’s asking her for. He gasps when Y/N suddenly brushes the tent in his trousers, his hips lurching forward to try and follow her touch as it goes away. “No teasing,” he pleads. “Need you so bad, Y/N.”

“Such a needy boy, Freddie.” Y/N undoes the button and zipper on Fred’s trousers, and she sinks to her knees as she pulls them down to his ankles. She presses a few kisses to his cock through the material of his boxers, reveling in the noises it pulls from his throat. “But only good boys get what they want. And what have you been, Fred?”

“A naughty boy,” Fred answers. His voice is shaking from the pleasure coursing through his veins and he can feel precum bubbling on the tip of his cock. He gasps Y/N’s name as she suddenly pulls his boxers down, feeling terribly exposed for her.

Y/N bites her lips as Fred’s cock comes out, resisting her urge to lick the precum on the tip. Her core is dripping, but tonight is about Fred finally relaxing. She lets her finger lightly trace the vein on the underside of his cock, practically drooling as it twitches. “That’s right, Fred. You’re a naughty boy. Do you know what naughty boys get?”

“Punished?” Fred asks, swallowing thickly. He hears Y/N chuckle as she stands up, and suddenly her hand is wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling him into a hard kiss. Fred kisses her back eagerly, just barely catching himself before he grabs her hips. Every cell in his body feels like it’s on fire, and even though he knows it’d be easy for him to overpower Y/N, he wants her to keep going.

“That’s right, baby. They get punished.” She grabs Fred hand and slowly guides him over to the bed, helping him to lay down on his back in the middle. Y/N grabs her wand off of the nightstand and gives it a wave, watching in awe as red silk ties wrap around Fred’s wrists and tie them to their headboard. The red fabric contrasts against Fred’s milky white skin perfectly and she can’t resist her urge to reach out and tug on the restraint. Y/N leans down and presses a soft kiss to Fred’s mouth. “You know what word to use if it gets too much, yeah?” Fred nods, and Y/N pinches his nipple hard, watching his mouth drop open to moan. “Use your words, Fred.”

“Yes, yes. I know what to say,” Fred says hastily.

“Good boy,” Y/N praises, stroking his cheek gently. She sets her wand back down and opens the drawer of the nightstand, reaching in to grab the toy she’d purchased in preparation for tonight. She sets it down on the bed before starting to get undressed herself. Y/N gets naked slowly, watching as Fred starts to writhe on the bed. Most of his body is flushed red, and a sheen of sweat has started to appear. His cock is rock hard, and the tip is beat red, and Y/N watches as a bead of precum oozes out and slowly drips onto his stomach.

Once she’s naked Y/N crawls up the end of the bed, settling down in between Fred’s splayed legs. She rubs his thighs slowly, watching his hips raise up in search of friction. Y/N starts to trail kisses up Fred’s thigh towards his crotch, just barely letting her lips brush his cock before kissing back down the other thigh.

“Please,” Fred begs, tugging on his restraints. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his life, and he’s desperate for his release.

“What do you want, Fred? Good boys use their words instead of begging like a desperate slut.”

Fred swallows thickly, trying to decide what to do. What he really wants is for Y/N to stop teasing him and let him fuck her into the mattress, but he has a feeling that asking for that will only further her teasing. “Touch me, please.”

Y/N bites her lips, watching Fred’s chest heave with deep breaths. “Touch you where, Freddie?” She runs her hand along one of his shins. “Here?” Y/N then reaches up to trace his ab muscles. “Or maybe here?” She pinches one of his nipples then and she has to press her thighs together for relief when he lets out a deep moan. “How about there?”

“No, no. Not there,” Fred pants.

“Then where, baby?” Y/N asks, raking her nails down his torso. “Be a good boy and tell me where to touch you.”

“Touch my cock please, Y/N,” Fred begs, licking his lips. “Need to feel your hand on me. Wanna be your good boy.”

Y/N smirks and grabs Fred’s cock with a loose grip. “Such a good boy, Freddie,” she coos, starting to stroke him slowly. “Being such a good boy for me.” Spurred on by Fred’s moans and whines, Y/N reaches for the toy she had set aside earlier and keeps one part of it in her hand while she places the other part down next to her. “Feel good, baby?”

“Oh,” Fred gasps as Y/N’s hand twists the base of his cock. His hips are slowly rocking up to meet her thrusts, and he can already feel his orgasm building in his abdomen. “Feels so good, Y/N. Thank you, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, baby. Being so polite.” Y/N strokes him a few more times, before deciding it’s time to enact the next part of her plan. “You’re being so good, Freddie. Are you ready for more?”

Fred nods wildly. “Yes please. Need more.” He figures Y/N is about to take him into her mouth, and he wishes she’d take the blindfold off so he could watch. Seeing his cock disappear between Y/N’s lips is his favorite sight and with how turned on he is it would probably push him over the edge.

“Okay, baby. Here it comes.” Y/N slowly rolls the silicon ring in her hand down Fred’s cock and as she settles it against the base of his cock she picks up the remote control with her other hand. “Ready?”

“Ready for what? Y/N what is tha- oh holy fuck,” Fred moans, his hips lurching off of the bed. Whatever Y/N has put on his cock is now vibrating at top speed and his whole body feels like it’s thrumming. Just as quickly as it started it, all of the vibration stops, and Fred lets out a long whine. “No, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll be a good boy, please,” Fred babbles, tugging on his restraints.

Y/N chuckles and rubs Fred’s thigh to try and soothe him. “You are being such a good boy for me, baby.” Y/N presses a button the remote and the toy starts to vibrate again, this time at a much lower speed. Fred starts to let out breathy moans and pants, and the sounds go right to Y/N’s core. She can feel her wetness on her thighs, and she decides it’s time for her to get some pleasure as well. “You sound so pretty, baby. But I want you to do something else with that mouth, okay?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll do anything you want, just give me more, please.” The vibrations speed up slightly and Fred lets out a long groan. He can feel his orgasm steadily approaching, and he silently prays that Y/N lets him cum.

“Good boy, Freddie,” Y/N praises as she crawls up the bed, watching his body squirm and writhe from the pleasure. She settles on her knees next to his head and starts to untie his left hand. “Listen to me, Fred.” When Fred only nods Y/N turns the toy off again. “What do good boys do, Fred?”

“They use their words,” he responds. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Wanna be your good boy, I’m listening, I promise.” When the toy starts to vibrate at the same speed again Fred moans loudly. “Thank you,” he gasps.

“You’re welcome, baby. Now I’m going to untie one of your hands, but that doesn’t give you permission to touch okay? I’m going to sit on your face so you can worship my cunt with your tongue, and I want you to be able to tap out if you need to.” Y/N finishes untying Fred’s hand, but keeps it held against the headboard. “You’re going to keep it right here. Understand?”

Fred lets out a low moan. “Yes, I understand.” Y/N releases his hand then, and Fred’s desire to be a good boy must outweigh his desire to touch, because he doesn’t move it at all. Y/N rewards him by pressing another button on the remote, and the toy around him starts to pulsate. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Fred groans, his hips moving faster. “Can I eat your pussy now? Please, Y/N. Want to taste you. Want to show you what a good boy I am.”

Y/N can’t help the noise that comes out of her mouth and she straddles Fred’s face, her core hovering just above his mouth. “So eager to taste me, Freddie. Eat my pussy like a good boy and I’ll let you cum inside me.” Y/N lowers herself down then, and Fred’s tongue is immediately lapping at her wet folds, causing both of them to moan.

Fred starts to eagerly lick Y/N’s core, alternating between slowly fucking her with his tongue and flicking at her clit. Fred groans against her as Y/N starts to move her hips on his face, and she rewards him by increasing the speed of the vibrations. Fred lets his tongue rub and massage the folds of her pussy, collecting all of her juices. He moans at her taste, before starting to eagerly fuck her with his tongue. His hips start to buck wildly as his orgasm approaches, and just as he feels it start the vibrator is suddenly turning off again.

The whine Fred lets out when Y/N turns off the vibrator reverberates through her whole body, and she grinds down against Fred’s face harder. Her legs and arms have started to shake, and she can already feel her orgasm starting to build. “Sorry, baby. Can’t have you coming yet.” Y/N moans as Fred starts to nibble lightly on her clit, and she turns the vibrator on to its lowest setting.  “Fuck baby. Eating my pussy so good. Showing me how much of a good boy you are,” she praises.

Spurred on by Y/N’s praise, Fred starts to fuck her entrance again, wiggling his tongue around to try and bring her as much pleasure as possible. His hips start to move again, and Y/N increases the speed of the vibrator. Fred lets out a long moan as his orgasm starts to build again, but it quickly fades when the vibrator shuts off again.

“Such a good boy, Freddie,” Y/N moans. Her hips have started to work against Fred’s face quicker, and the way his tongue is massaged her walls has her close to orgasming all over Fred’s face. “So close, baby. Make me cum and then it’s your turn.”

Fred sucks Y/N’s clit between his lips, alternating between flicking it with his tongue and lightly nibbling on it with his teeth. He can tell that she’s about to cum from the noises she’s making, and Fred wants her to release into his mouth.

Y/N tosses the vibrator remote aside so she can grip the headboard with two hands, her hips now moving against Fred’s face with reckless abandon. Fred moans against her clit again, pushing Y/N over the edge. “Freddie,” Y/N moans as she comes, her whole body shaking as the pleasure washes over her. Fred’s tongue fucks her slowly as her hips slowly come to a stop, helping her to come down from her orgasm. Once she feels like she can move again, Y/N slowly gets off of Fred’s face and sits down on the bed next to him. His chin and mouth are wet from her juices, and she leans down to kiss Fred messily.

“You were such a good boy, Freddie. Made me cum so hard,” Y/N praises as she ties up the hand she had released before. She straddles Fred’s waist then and leans down to kiss him slowly. “Are you ready for your reward?”

“Yes, please,” Fred begs, bucking his hips up against her. He can hear Y/N chuckle, and suddenly she’s pulling at the blindfold around Fred’s face. When it’s finally off his face Fred squints, blinking a few times to readjust to the light in the room. The light behind Y/N makes her seem like she’s glowing, and Fred tugs on his restraints, desperate to touch her naked body.

“Sorry, Freddie. No touching allowed yet,” Y/N teases, leaning down to kiss him again. She reaches behind her to grasp Fred’s cock, slowly stroking him as she takes the ring off. “You ready for my pussy?” she asks, moving down Fred’s body so her entrance is hovering just above his cock.

“So ready, Y/N. Please fuck me,” he begs. “Need to feel you around me. Need to cum inside you.”

Y/N teases Fred’s tip at her entrance for a moment before slowly sinking down onto his cock. His cock stretches her out in a good way, and they both moan as Fred bottoms out inside of her. “Fuck, Fred,” Y/N whines as she starts to slowly roll her hips. “Such a big cock. Always filling me up so good.”

Fred’s hips twitch under Y/N, and the feeling of her walls fluttering and twitching around him makes his eyes roll into the back of his head. It feels like he’s been on the verge of an orgasm for hours, and his whole body aches with need. Y/N starts to lift herself off of him, and Fred places his feet flat on the bed, fucking up into her as Y/N slams back down.

“Did I say you could do that, Freddie?” Y/N asks around a moan. She works her hips faster against Fred, already able to feel her orgasm building again.

“Sorry, sorry,” Fred pants, stilling his hips. Watching Y/N’s breasts move as she bounces on him has left Fred breathless, and his hands keep clenching and relaxing in his restraints. “Just want to be a good boy and make you cum,” he groans, forcing his hips to stay against the bed.

Y/N waves her hand and Fred’s restraints fall away, and she collapses against his chest. “Go on then, baby.” Not needing to be told twice, Fred’s hands immediately grip Y/N’s hips tightly and he starts to fuck into her, chasing both of their orgasms. “How does my pussy feel, baby? It’s been so long since you’ve fucked it.”

Fred groans as Y/N clenches around him sporadically. “So tight, Y/N. Feels so fucking good. Missed your pussy so much, missed fucking you. Fuck I’m close.”

The tip of Fred’s cock drags against her g-spot with every thrust, and the movement of their bodies creates just enough friction against her clit to drive her crazy. “’M gonna cum, Freddie. You fuck me so good, baby. Come on. Cum for me. Fill me up Freddie, please.”

Y/N’s words push them both over the edge, and with a moan of each other’s names, Fred’s cock twitches as he releases inside of Y/N, her walls pulsing and fluttering around him as her orgasm shoots through her body. They both lay there together panting as they come down from their highs. Y/N winces as Fred pulls out of her, and he rubs her back slowly, keeping her pressed close to his chest.

“I fucking love you,” Fred chuckles, wiping some of the sweat from his forehead.

Y/N giggles and tilts her head up so Fred can kiss her. “You fucking love me? Or you love fucking me?”

“Can’t it be both? Cause it’s definitely both,” Fred responds with a cheeky grin. “It was really hot, you know. You tying me up and having your way with me. Maybe I need to be a bad boy more often.”

Y/N rolls her eyes and kisses Fred again. “You better watch yourself, Weasley. The ring I bought is supposed to make you cum, and the next ring I buy, will keep you from cumming,” she teases with a laugh.

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

Q&A: Luke Arnold, Author of ‘The Last Smile In Sunder City’

Luke Arnold may be better known to some as a veteran performer on film, TV, as well as theater, but now he’s turned his creative energies towards a new career as a writer. His debut novel, The Last Smile In Sunder City, published on January 28th (Australia) and February 6th (UK) with it to be released February 25th in the US, so we took the opportunity to chat to him about the inspiration for his story, how he manages to balance two careers, and discovering a new love for the fantasy genre.

Thanks for taking the time to talk to us! Firstly, can you tell us a bit about yourself?

For the last decade or so I’ve been lucky enough to work as an actor on a bunch of great projects in Australia (my home) and around the world. Some people might know me as John Silver on a show called Black Sails. One of the quirks of being an actor is that every job ends so you often end up with huge chunks of time while you wait for the next gig. After finishing my work on Black Sails, I used that downtime to write my debut novel The Last Smile in Sunder City.

Has writing always been a passion and how does it fit in with your acting career?

The writing came first. In some ways, the acting was a side-effect of the fact that I was writing things that needed to be performed. My high school principal even warned me that while my writing was impressive, my acting left a lot to be desired. Nevertheless, when I was accepted into university courses for acting, filmmaking and writing, I decided that I’d start with acting and return to writing later. I thought that I’d be a better writer after gaining a little life experience and a career in acting has certainly given me that.

For me, all the creative energy comes from the same place, it’s just expressed in different ways. I’m sit on my own, bashing out a manuscript for a few months, then get called onto set to collaborate with a bunch of other artists for a while. It’s the best of both worlds.

How would you describe your debut novel, The Last Smile in Sunder City, in one sentence?

A hard-boiled detective gets kicked around an dystopian fantasy world hunting real monsters while running from his demons.

The Last Smile in Sunder City features magical beings in a world struggling to deal with the aftermath of magic being lost, which is a very unique concept for a fantasy novel! Do you read much fantasy yourself? If so, was this a deliberate response to common fantasy tropes?

Before writing this book, my knowledge of the fantasy genre was actually pretty abysmal. I cast a wide net with what I read, and I’d had a few early experiences with the genre that kind of turned me off. I’m doing my best to catch up and have quickly realised that I’ve been missing out. It’s an exciting time for fantasy and sci-fi where a lot of writers are breaking the mould of what we thought the genre could be.

This wasn’t a response to existing tropes but I wanted this world to feel as familiar as possible, so that it feels as easy to read as a mystery set in somewhere like Los Angeles. I’m far from the first writer to create a world where the magic is missing, but I hope I’m sitting in the aftermath and examining the idea in a way that feels fresh.

Were there any intentional references to real-life issues in this book? I may be reading too much into it, but I wondered if the issue with magic being lost and its impact on all the species was an analogy for climate change?

It’s hard to avoid the link between the broken world of Sunder City and what’s happening around us, but that wasn’t the initial inspiration. For me, it represents something more internal. As we get older, life can seem less magical than it did when we were kids, even when the world isn’t actually falling to pieces like it is now.

Of course, with things the way they are, I spend a lot of time wondering how to do some good in a breaking world and those thoughts definitely add fuel to Fetch’s journey.

If this book were to be adapted, what format would you prefer it to be, and why?

I think it would really suit a television show. Mystery has always works well on TV but in this golden-era of content, I think we could make something special. Indulge in all the film-noir elements and make something really unique.

The most exciting part would be letting other characters take the story for a bit. These book are all in Fetch’s head but a series would let us wander the streets with other characters and give them time to shine.

The story is told entirely in the first person. How easy was it to get into Fetch’s head and maintain his mindset the whole time? Did you ever have difficulty separating yourself from the darker, at times depressing mood of the book?

While writing the second book, I realised that I needed to shake Fetch out of my system at the end of a writing day. I’m put a lot of my worst tendencies into him, things that I hope I’ve grown past, and spending too much time in his head can drag me backwards. Luckily, Fetch will grow over the course of the books so maybe they won’t always be such dark waters to swim in.

How does your experience with acting and portraying other characters help with creating your own original characters?

It definitely had an effect but it’s hard to pinpoint exactly how. I hope that it had an effect on the secondary characters. As an actor, you become aware of when a character is making choices aren’t organic, but just serve the plot and the needs of the protagonist. Ideally, each character has their own internal world, wants and needs, so that they would be satisfying for an actor to play.

Can you tell us a bit about your writing process? For instance, the world of Sunder City is very detailed, did you figure out the nuts & bolts of its history and workings while you were writing or was there a bible that you created beforehand to refer to?

I started with some of the broad strokes in my head, but I first discovered Sunder City by letting Fetch walk the streets. It began with a short story and I had no outline, no map, no bible. I just set him off on a case and followed him around as he kicked over stones. Of course, there were many rewrites and expansions that took me to the final manuscript, and I now have a huge document with all the species, businesses, streets, histories, technologies, etc, but Fetch came first. I try not to get ahead of him because I want to use the world to best reflect his current state of mind and challenge him in specific ways.

Aside from the sequel, would you write more books in this genre or branch out into others?

I wish I had the time to write everything I want to. I hope to branch out and write something separate the Fetch Phillips archives soon. Not necessarily fantasy, but I do always like a touch of magic realism in what a write. So it will more likely be horror or sci-fi rather than anything too naturalistic but you never know.

And finally, what are you currently reading? Do you have any recommendations?

I’ve just digging into The Bone Ships by R.J. Barker which I am loving. Very on-brand with my pirate past. Rage of Dragons by Evan Winter was brilliant. In some ways, it felt like the exact opposite kind of fantasy to The Last Smile in Sunder City and I love that.

- The Nerd Daily

[bloodybells1]

Leeches, Part 1

“Just the other day, I sat at a bus stop, over on, I don’t know, somewhere in the eighties on the east side. I sat back and the sun shined on my face, and I think I just sat there for going on half an hour. I let about five buses pass me by, I reckon. The drivers kept asking through the doors, but I just shook my head and waved them on.”

Joe laughed at himself, very much the wizened old timer, laughing at his time-honored follies, a cough feigning to latch on to the tail end of one of his chuckles. He sat on a folding chair and never crossed his legs during his speech. He looked back at us once in a while, a wide grin framing the face of a man who’d found God in his dotage.

Behind him stood three sturdy chairs on a low, small landing, the middle one much larger, obviously for a deacon, or some other minister. To his left was a banner affixed to the chapel’s wall, to his right the darkened interior of Rutgers Presbyterian Church’s main hall, only the closest pew mingling with our reflections on the glass, while the rest of the chamber disappeared into the unlit black, pews, apse, arches, all fading away like undulating cephalopods motioning into the bottomless expanse of the deep ocean.

We were thirty men of various ages and, in various angles, situated on recently unfolded chairs, our ears plastered to Joe’s syllables. A semicircle of a row flanked Joe on each side, while rows of five staggered farther away in front of him. We waited for him to finish his speech.

My friend Kenyon, a man given to reflexive smiles, body art and jangling silver jewelry, raised his hand on the tail end of the applause. Kenyon was, like myself but in a completely different way, the aesthetic anomaly in this male lineup of denim, half-zip fleece pullovers, and unbuttoned checks. As for me, I was undergoing an awkward transition from the bespoke slim-fitting hipster fare of my East Village salad days to the generic knits I ended up cottoning to, staid, American gear with a fashion forward edge, the kind of corporate mimicry of downtown New York style evident in late aughts Express storefronts, the cheap grey cardigan with thin, plastic buttons and a gaudy, shiny placket to name one example, the sort of trickled-down haute couture which American Apparel had turned into a belated, and thankfully short-lived, empire of disposable cotton.

Kenyon, on the other hand, was a world onto himself. He was irreducible, and managed to turn all of that corporatizing on its head. Steeped in glam rock, a downtown tradition dating back to Max’s Kansas City, he merged the ripped tank tops and the second skin of leather trousers with punk, post-90s hip hop, and even industrial. By the time Kenyon was done, he was fully dressed, even though he’d barely put anything on: five necklaces formed an extra shirt over that tank top, while seven sterling-coated rings formed makeshift cuffs past the “sleeves” of tattoos on his arms. Sometimes he wore a black grosgrain cap with a chrome plate sewed onto the front that read “BITCH”. No one dressed like Kenyon, and if the reader regards my valuation as improbable, I can but insist that no one pulled off his sartorial derring-do with even half of his aplomb.

In all honesty, I didn’t want to like Kenyon, and I chalk that up to sibling rivalry. Though he did pull it off, his style was nonetheless loud. At the time, I needed quiet. That’s why I was there listening to Joe with my conveyer belt cardigan. Of course I had no idea I was dragging my old style like a cadaver in search of some missing morgue. But I was trying to fit in, trying to make a break with the past. I needed those dudes with their conservative shtick, sitting cross-legged checking blackberries once in a while, probably texting loved ones about soccer practice and babysitter hours. Joe was the granddaddy and these guys were my dads.

Once Joe was done everybody else started chiming in. People talked one at a time, and each person picked the next person to talk. Kenyon’s arm was erect, and he was picked early. Joe was sheepish about feedback, more out of feeling gratified to have shared his story with us than with insecurity about revealing himself, so he darted his eyes from the floor to anyone who wasn’t talking. Kenyon, like all who were picked, was speaking to the room, even though he directly addressed Joe, who indulged the time it took to place a couple bucks into the donation hat making the rounds. Silver tinkled on silver as Kenyon lowered his arm.

He did his best: “Joe, that story about the bus stop, man, wow, that’s amazing. I wish that was me. I’m just not there yet. I’m always busy, running around chasing my fantasies, maybe a woman, projects, getting angry about my job. It’s like I’m addicted and I can’t find peace. So I envy you, and all that serenity you shared with us. Thank you.”

Unlike their hardier, more “masculine” AA counterparts, Al-Anon meetings have no liquidation agenda. They’re not out to eradicate your issue. Nobody will say, as they do in AA, “Hey buddy, you’ve been fucking up, so it’s time to get your ass in gear and do some service for a change”. It’s more like “Sit back and relax, you’ve been working too hard” and “Don’t just do something, sit there.”

AA-ers criticize the warm embrace as too accommodating, but for my money’s worth, I always got more out of the Kumbaya fireside chat in Al-Anon meetings, than the fluorescently-lit, “bad cop” demeanor of your typical AA church basement. Booze was a problem, of course, but only during a relatively short span of debauching as an erstwhile rockstar. It was a symptom of “extreme lifestyling”, so, once I left the music industry and started frequenting libraries instead of dive bars, I had little difficulty moderating my intake. Thankfully, there were no winged bottles of Smirnoff in my dreams, and to this day, I say a prayer of gratitude with every crisp draught of New World red during mealtime.

What I lacked was not self-control, but self-esteem. Al-Anon, with its boundaries, its “healing centers”, its gingerbread cookies, its amateur yogis meditating, palms up, while people like Joe regaled you with yarns about how they lived “one day at a time”, boosted the lagging go-getter within and checked the autocratic superego’s overreach. Unlike our bulldog AA counterparts, choking and chafing on the leash, we were more like tiny, caged Papillons needing assertiveness training. Al-Anon’s ethos of boundary-setting was the gamechanger for the steamrolled contingent.

I needed a jolt in the arm to help me take charge of the new me. Once the keg dried on my club kid/rocker past, so did all of its faulty affirmations – “I’m a killer” – “I’m the man” – “I’m the life of the party”. What had seemed like incontrovertible evidence of greatness and longevity soured into empty pomp and arrogance, showing its age faster than a fine Brie sitting out too long. If you cut the tap, you see things for what they are, hollow, teenage rhetoric, a lacquered gloss of puerile angst disguising the real pain within, the miserable cartography drawn in Crayola. I had a hard time transitioning to “adulting”.

Al-Anon was the perfect solution for a spiritual drifter like myself, someone who’d managed to duck the hypnotic allure of substance, but was tethered to the overhead luggage of an overwrought past, a hypertrophied lore inflated by the helium-empty of media success and unrestrained carousing. The skill of setting boundaries, the primary focus of the work in that fellowship, was my first time making a conscious, adult demarcation of self. It was a kind of handwritten accounting, using a brand-spanking new calligraphy pen when in the past I only had a crayon.

Not only had I been bluffing my way through every opportunity and relationship all my life, but I’d shirked male bonding as well. The old man had left enough scar tissue to lead me to believe, wrongly, that nothing presented a greater threat to my safety than another swinging dick in the room. Al-Anon, being majority female in its constituency, attracted me for this very reason. But this uptown meeting offered me a new twist: the gentle lilt of Al-Anon sloganeering with the familiar heft of masculine energy. When I found that meeting, I discovered the verdant hidden pastures of otherwise craggy masculine caverns, undergoing the Robert Bly encounter with male, yet enlightened, initiation.

“I get so much wisdom from those guys,” I told Kenyon on the downtown 1, our trip back to the Village from the Upper West Side enlivened by the meeting. Post-meeting positive spin comes like hand delivered mail, the delay forgiven and forgotten at the instant the hand touches the parcel, a sudden flash of serum in the bloodstream, a mild chemo.

“They’re like old New York,” Kenyon replied. A silver bracelet ticked on one of his eight rings as he switched arms straphanging. He rearranged his fedora and there was a moment when, with the sterling on his fingers blinking in the light as it contrasted with the soft crushed velvet of the brim, he looked like Jared Leto (Twenty Seconds to Mars Leto, not the actor). Kenyon was impossibly handsome and, after two decades of casual sex in New York, had to have known it. On top of that, his mind was so sharp, dropping an op-ed’s worth of observation in a single response, you always forgot how attractive he was. I didn’t want to like him, for survival reasons, but I couldn’t help myself.

We both got off at Sheridan Square and parted at the newsstand on Christopher and Varick. The hugs were the best part of the night, warm, not bro-y. Cool jocks first clasp hands and keep them in between, the embrace more of a back pat, with the forearms warding off fears of errant torsos touching. Not so with Kenyon. It was a full upper body affair.

He went East and I West, to a dinner date with someone I met at school. But I couldn’t get his wall-to-wall smile out of my head.

All throughout the evening, through the dinner and the subway ride back to my Upper East Side apartment, even as my head hit the pillow and I let the day’s events drift through my head like a shuffling deck, I thought of Joe’s bus stop and wondered if it was one of the ones I used, any of the M79 ones, running from where I lived on East End Avenue to Lexington where the 6 train offers the nearest underground service. That crosstown corridor gives access to one of the most pacific locations in the city. The highlight was coming out of Agata & Valentina, hauling four thick polypropylene shopping bags spilling over with istara cheese, seasonal fruits, swordfish, prime cuts, homemade pasta, and imported Brazilian nuts, and, braving the murder on my delts, walking across the street to the east bound stop on 1st and 79th,hauling two leaden weights like overfull scales pressing down on a balance. Joe probably had his atman moment directly across the street, at the westbound stop, where the sun hits more directly for longer in the day.

As I turned my head on the pillow, I thought of tomorrow, Wednesday, of waking up, walking the dog, hitting the computer to play around with electronic music, and stretching the limbs. At acting school they were really emphasizing the importance of movement (“If I see one more stiff actor in my scene study class, I’m going to be angry” was one teacher’s version).

I was reminded how, in my early twenties, I was terrified of anyone looking at my body. I didn’t know anything about anatomy, but I could feel how broad and lanky were my shoulders. I was like a wide clothes hanger. Playing the bass guitar, though I hadn’t gone out of my way to pick it up, made perfect sense, the heaviest rock instrument to offer ballast against flaying limbs. Night after night the strap creased my left shoulder, pulling me closer to the floor, the weight pressing my boots on the ground, plantar ligaments stretching out the arches. Once it was removed, I was like a hot air balloon.

So was my acting, hence the need for movement exercises, which made interesting cases concerning anatomy. At Stella Adler, I had the good fortune of having Joanne Edelmann, an experienced dancer from the Alvin Ailey school, impress upon me the importance of the pelvis. Everything was about the pelvis, acting, moving, blocking, memorizing lines, it all had to come from the pelvis, apparently. We’d lay down supine, after one of us had swiffed the last class’s sweat, grime and dead skin cells off the creaky, wooden floor, and start gyrating our pelvises, all twenty-five of us. Having suspended my pause at the bursar’s office (at some point the acting conservatory, like therapy and Al-Anon, acquired healing potential in my mind), I jumped into all this with gusto. These movement exercises, so I thought, were my ticket to getting my feet on the ground, literally. So I worked them every day for an hour.

It was early spring in 2009 and I’d been living in the Upper East Side for close to a year, moving here to escape the East Village’s countercultural orthodoxy.

The East Village is great when you’re an upstart, when your friend owns a vintage boutique and sitting there for hours talking about nothing could feel like a quiet revolution. There was something conspiratorial about scrounging for change, wearing the same pair of trousers, and bumping into the same vagrant hipsters every night. Bar hopping became a kind of Where’s Waldo stretched over the span of a week, like each party was a pop-up shop taking over that bar or club. It would have been unthinkable to go on another night, after the pop-up shop had moved. Each one of us could feel like an unshowered Che looking at Fidel clipping a Cohiba across the fold-out table, an overhanging burning bulb backlighting the floating dust and cumulus clouds of tobacco smoke.

But by this time, I’d already “made it”. My cover was blown. Interpol’s success had fattened my wallet even as it’d thwarted my agitprop designs. Trips to the grocer could involve catcalls and held stares. Benjamin’s wisdom seemed apt: “Behind every fascist regime, lies a failed revolution”. In my case, the project of seeing how far flipping the bird could get me (very far, apparently) had yielded such pithy spiritual results it was time to call it a day and find a place to do my laundry where I wouldn’t have to sign autographs.

Growing up in Queens, I had no idea what the hell was the East Village. But I knew the Upper East Side, mostly through The Jeffersons (my mother did have a wealthy friend and, once, while we visited when I was eleven, I feigned adult sass by declaiming “This place is rich!” during the elevator trip up the Central Park adjoining high rise). The sight of rows of stacked iron-grated balconies on grey-brick facades, all set to each other like a long ship container yard disappearing into the horizon of 2nd Avenue, where every taxi cab, street light and butcher shop becomes a tiny dot twenty blocks north of 79th Street, was always set to a soulful “We finally have a piece of the pie”.

Later, after initiation with the caramelized crust of 80s pop-culture, the Upper East Side came to mean Woody Allen and Andy Warhol. The high rises, in my estimation, offered sanctuary to the city’s cultural superintendents, a haven in which to pen or paint their New York City-centric odes in peace and quiet. I thought of Leonard Bernstein laboring over scores, the doorman interrupting with a call about a dry cleaning delivery.

Here, as well, were stock brokers, attorneys, traders, and other sundry bourgeois interests, the better to authenticate the wealthy artist’s pains with commerce’s badge of (dis)honor. (“There. You are one of us. Now, to quote a 90s prophet, entertain us.”) Eyes Wide Shut, with its luxury apartments and endless chambers, its New York Jewish-y professional class embodied in Sydney Pollack’s Rolex, its de riguer charcoal Brooks Brothers three quarter overcoat worn by Tom Cruise in almost every frame, laid out the terms of this fantasy of old school New York wealth for me, if also tickling my artistry with a Kafka-esque slant. Perhaps, I could revivify the failed revolution, I thought, not against the fascist regime, but from within.

It was a straight shot up 1st Avenue from Houston Street to 79th and on a random late morning Tuesday you could drive through light after light in less than fifteen minutes. I’d always hated the West Village’s European style of urban planning, the streets and lanes that curve and follow every slope of the ground, (pre-Google Maps, this meant that sometimes you ended up, Blair Witch Project-style, back to where you started). I loved the East Village’s Soviet, numerical grid, so artificial you could easily imagine the planners taking their time to map everything out. What this did was help me focus on the shops, ateliers, and salons within the fifteen block radius, without the distraction of curves and cobblestone. And the Upper East Side, at least from an urban planning perspective, was the East Village without the personality, simply adding a z axis of verticality to the latter’s x and y. With three dimensions now at my disposal, I felt I could take my Bernstein myth into Olympus itself, away from the caustic rabble of DIY punk down below.

I made enough money to afford a $4000 rent in what is called a “splinter building”; apparently only three in the city exist, a building slim enough it can only have two apartments per floor, but giving each one a three sided-view of all Manhattan, in my case, from the 23rd floor. When I first walked into it the sun was setting, casting an amber glow onto the East River. Wall to wall windows proffered a vision of Manhattan only the wealthy know – “This is Your City” (daily exposure did end up diminishing the returns of the view).

For some reason, taxis were out of the question (never mind I was splurging on rent, dinners, tuition, and music equipment expenses). After five dizzy years of flights and car services, I was only too happy to take to the MTA, the buses still lacquered in the future-glossy palette of navy and white, which I recognized from my morning commutes to St. Francis Prep High in Floral Park from my Elmhurst home. Getting on the M79 right by the river, I basically had the bus to myself, my own crosstown Lear jet, a meager, yet delightful, taste of the jet-setting I’d left behind.

[brookeap3]

Office Memos (Getting Caught)

A/N: Prompt #76 "We have to be quick” for @oqpromptparty. I really love how this turned out and I hope you all find it just as amusing. Set in the Post-its and Paperclips verse.

{ ffn } { ao3 }

“Good afternoon, lovely,” Robin chimes from the doorway, leaning against the jamb with his signature smirk adorning his face.

Glancing up from where she’s scribbling notes, sketching out and brainstorming ideas for a print ad campaign she’s working on, Regina smiles, pleased. But then, seeing Robin usually has that effect on her, and he’s always a welcome distraction late in the day when energy is waning.

“Hello,” she greets. “How can I help you today, Mr. Locksley?” Her tone is all flirtatious sass, egged on when Robin groans quietly and slips inside, discreetly shutting the door behind him. She knows what it does to him when she calls him that, particularly here, in the office. Gets them both all hot and bothered, and she shouldn’t tease him so, except, well, she needs some form of entertainment to power through the next hour and it’s so much fun to torment him.

Robin crosses the length of her office in a few long strides, coming to stand on the opposite side of her desk, leaning both palms on the wooden surface and ducking his head down so he’s hovering closer to her, breath ghosting across her lips, that pine scent drifting her way as he says, “As a matter of fact, I was hoping you could help with a consultation on something. Check your email, beautiful.”

Shifting her focus away from the stray thought that his stubble has grown out a bit more this week, making him look even sexier, she asks, “Is this for the Belfrey account?” They’ve been working together on that one for a month now, Gold no longer pitting them against each other when they work so much better with one another. Regina’s eyes flicker up to Robin’s clear blue ones, amusement twinkling in them as she chuckles and turns to her computer, clicking a few buttons to bring up her email.

Sure enough, there’s one from Robin. Sent ten minutes ago. A calendar request with nothing but a string of dots in the subject line followed by a few question marks. Side-eyeing him curiously, noting the mischievous grin as he watches her, Regina shakes her head and double clicks to open it. As she reads the body of the message, her initial reaction is pure and utter mirth, laughter bubbling out of her throat as she scans over the words again.

Fuck your fiancé

He’s scheduled them a quickie during working hours, set for precisely four o’clock. A quick glance down to the corner of her screen shows 4:03 on the clock, and she bites her lower lip and looks back to Robin.

Lifting one brow, Regina looks up at him with simultaneous interest and bemusement. “Really? Here? Now? Robin, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“So?” he counters, grinning widely and wickedly as he rounds the desk and reaches out a hand to pull Regina to her feet, until her body is flush against his. One hand lifts to run his fingers through her hair while the other traces patterns at the small of her back.

It’s not as if they’ve never taken a bit of personal time during the work day before, memories of several delicious soirées in the supply closet coming to mind. And he wants her, has been wound up all day thinking about her in this outfit. She knows what those tight pencil skirts and plunging necklines do to him. Watching her dress this morning, and just the glimpse he’d caught of her in the kitchen on his way into a meeting earlier, hadn’t been enough, and he’s been chained to his desk since.  

It’s a busy time for them both, working on major accounts, taking on new ones and they’ve done nothing more than collapse in the evenings after checking off the basics of dinner and bath time and reading until Roland conks out for the better part of a week now.

There’s been no time for just the two of them. He misses her. Being with her, and Robin doesn’t see why they shouldn’t indulge themselves a bit.

And he’s free now (for today at least), has just submitted the final draft of a campaign to Gold and is ready to celebrate in the best way he can think of. Plus, thanks to Ashley, he knows Regina’s nothing left on her calendar for the day, no meetings or appointments scheduled. There’s a bit of a thrill to the idea as well, taking her here, in her office, on her desk. Robin’s hand drops to skim along her hip now, thumb stroking as the other inches downward toward her ass, cupping it in his palm with a knowing little wiggle of his brows.

They shouldn’t. It’s entirely unprofessional. And she needs to get these sketches finished.

But, god, she wants him. Misses him just as much as he’s missed her. It’s been over a week since the last time they’ve had sex and while reasonably she knows that’s not all that long, it does nothing to dissipate the dull throbbing between her thighs at the mere idea.

“I want to take you on this desk, finger you until you’re wet and just on the edge and then make you cry out while you come around my cock,” he continues, licking his bottom lip distractingly. “What do you say, milady?” Robin questions, “You up for it?” giving her ass cheek a squeeze for good measure.

She hesitates another few seconds, considering. But, well, who can resist an offer like that?

Fuck. Why the hell not?

“Fine, but we have to be quick,” Regina orders, voice already breathless with anticipation and desire as she presses herself closer to him, tugging him backward by the tie around his neck as she sits down on the edge of her desk.

Robin doesn’t need to be told twice. He dives in for a frantic kiss, teeth dragging along her bottom lip as he groans against her mouth. Something he’s waited all day to be able to indulge in. His fingers make quick work of the top three buttons of her blouse while Regina deepens the kiss. Her nails scratch bluntly at the base of his neck, gripping onto the short hair there.

Then Robin pulls away, moving to suck hot, open-mouthed kisses to the underside of her ear, along her jawline and down to her neck where Regina’s pulse thuds beneath his lips. His tongue does a lovely swirl against her skin, in the hollow of her throat, and she can’t stop the low moan that escapes as she lets her head fall back in delight. “Mmmm, yes. Feels so good, babe.”

Thoroughly focused on his task, Robin smiles, stubble tickling her skin as the corners of his mouth tip up and he repeats the action one more time before he’s moving lower, licking over the swells of her breasts. She’s wearing a lacey bright red bra and the hint of it beneath her navy blouse is a tantalizing sight.

Her hands are busy as well, roaming the expanse of Robin’s back and shoulders, down along his biceps and up to his head to hold him in place. Her legs wrap around his waist, and the hard press of his erection to her center when she tightens them around him even more, one heel slipping off her foot to fall with a thunk to the floor, has that well of need demanding more. Greedy for every sensation he’s capable of creating inside her.

Regina’s fingers fumble for the buckle of Robin’s belt as he leans her further back on her desk, crushing papers and sending her pen rolling across the surface to slip over the edge. His mouth covers hers again, and Regina sweeps her tongue into his mouth, moaning softly as the taste of him fills her, one of his hands cupping her breast while the other edges the hem of her skirt a little higher.

One of his hands slips between her thighs, inching upward and upward toward where she’s already wet for him, where she needs his touch the most. Regina’s just managed to slide the zipper of his slacks down, knuckles brushing over the hard bulge of his cock through his boxer briefs when the distinctive click of her doorknob sounds.

“Hey, sister, what the hell is—” Leroy’s voice echoes through the room, coming to an abrupt halt when he catches sight of them laid out on her desk in such a compromising position.

Shit. They’d forgotten to lock the door.

“Jesus! My eyes!” he exclaims with a grunt, quickly covering them as a scowl covers his face and the two of them frantically try to right themselves, pulling zippers and shirts closed as Robin’s hand retreats from beneath her skirt. “Don’t you two have any damn dignity? How the fuck am I supposed to unsee that? Keep it in your pants till working hours are over for Christ sake.”

He slams her office door with a bang, muttering something about indecency under his breath, and Regina squeezes her eyes shut in mortification. “I’m never going to be able to look him in the eye ever again.” Robin merely chuckles, shoulders shaking as he tucks his face into her neck. “It’s not funny, Robin!” she scolds, smacking him on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, lifting his head to meet her eyes, though he doesn’t look apologetic in the least, “but it’s a little funny.” Robin steps between her legs again, cupping her cheek in his palm and adding, “At least it wasn’t Gold. Or Mary.”

Oh god. Okay, alright, that would have been even more embarrassing, so, yes, it could have been worse, she supposes. She’ll take Leroy catching them over either of those options. “I guess you’re right,” Regina concedes, lifting a single brow when Robin’s hands begin to caress along her side again, over her thighs. “What are you doing?”

Robin’s thumb circles her hip bone, dipping his index finger between the band of her skirt and her blouse. It takes a minute before he answers, hands brushing lightly over her and stirring her senses up again, “I don’t believe we were finished, love.”

Regina’s jaw slackens as she stares at that damn adorable smirk on Robin’s face. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am quite serious,” Robin counters, dipping his mouth to kiss along her jaw up to her ear where he swirls his tongue over her lobe, sucking on it gently and making her shiver. “Despite the… interruption, I still want you. Just like this.” He draws back then, looking down at her and the adorable flush to her skin, the way her shirt gaps open still to reveal teasing glimpses of her lingerie.

Need tightens sharply in his belly.

She’s the picture of temptation. Seductive and desirable without even trying, and Robin finds her damn near irresistible, location and circumstances be damned. “You’re gorgeous,” he tells her reverently, adoringly, “And I love you,” as he moves in for a kiss to sway her.

How is it that this man can distract her so easily?

Regina hums into it, palm grasping at his cheek while heat slowly spreads through her limbs, heating her blood with renewed vigor. Clearly, she’s lost her mind because she’s actually considering it. Or maybe she’s just so needy, has missed feeling him like this so much she doesn’t care.

Her resolve wavers. Damn him. She’s still wet, still wants to feel him inside her, to be taken the way he’d promised her. When Robin nips at her collarbone in that way that she loves, Regina gasps and relents.

“Go lock the damn door this time.”

[ghostmartyr]

SnK 96 Thoughts

The good news is, we’re not in Marley anymore.

That’s it.

Boy do I wish we were in Marley.

That’s maybe an unfair thing to say, because if we were still on Marley, I would probably spend the next five to ten paragraphs complaining about why we shouldn’t be on Marley, but my initial response to this chapter is to ask what is volume 24 ending with that is so important we have to drag out the story like this?

That is definitely an unfair thing to say, but I feel it.

As a piece of the story, I’m mostly okay with this existing. One of the nice things about Isayama not following standard pacing techniques is that unnecessary expansions can contain some nice character moments. His characters are great, so that works out.

In the distant future, where we didn’t wait a month to see Wall Maria falling one more time.

(If the person who suggested that we’ll get back to the Paradis crew once Reiner has finished flashbacking his perspective of the entire manga turns out to be right, I... I don’t even know. No.)

As someone who’s not particularly attached to RAB... uh.

I like how they were always terrible at coming up with plans together (”we were going to do this stretch with two people, but now that we don’t have two people, we’re going to do the exact same plan, only it will nearly kill you before anything is accomplished. aaaand break!”)

I like the page of Bertolt staring up at the wall.

I like Dina walking past Bertolt (she made a promise to the man she loves, after all).

I like every moment Annie is not in a crystal.

But this is so dull, considering where we currently are in the story. We’ve just been introduced to all the horror that is Marely, we’ve seen none of the Paradis cast for four years, in-universe, and instead of doing anything with that, now we’re back to material that the very first chapter covered.

It’s like reading the instruction manual for the desk that you just watched someone put together.

Were previously unknown details established? Yes.

Was there any reason to bother? Depends on how much value you place on the reading of instruction manuals for its own sake.

There are plenty of moments I will be happy that we have now, but mostly I’m staring sideways at my screen and wondering if anyone would notice if I just didn���t bother writing a chapter post this month.

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah; blah blah blah blah blah blah blah--blah blah. Blah. Blah blah blah. Blah blah blah blah blah.

Blah blah blah blah.

Blah.

One of the interesting tidbits we did get this month was the origin of the story Bertolt tells Eren and Armin.

A man sees a monster and runs for his life, considering nothing else. He leaves his children to die, and survives to kill himself.

Reiner, Annie, and Bertolt don’t have children, but they do leave their friend behind, as well as Jaws. Then they spend the next five years letting their consciences and circumstances tighten the nooses around their necks.

So far, Bertolt’s the only dead one.

I like that he’s the one who the story sticks with. The day it happens is a nightmare for all involved except Ymir, but Reiner and Annie are the ones shouting at each other over it. They don’t need someone else to give their experiences a voice.

Bertolt, who has always believed that he has no will of his own, borrows the dead man’s voice for a little while. He remembers what it’s like to run blindly from death, only for more death to be waiting when he stops.

In other Bertolt news, hey, it took fifty chapters, but I finally believe that Bertolt has a crush on Annie!

I have no feelings about that, but four for you, manga! You go!

Also, despite being the only one to ever suggest that Eren needs help learning how to talk to girls, add Annie to the list of characters who completely misses the obvious in terms of romance.

Dude, if someone strongly objects to you saying you don’t have seductive charms, that might be a slight indication of them considering you attractive. Just saying.

...I think Annie probably has no feelings on Bertolt having a crush on her, either. Tough break, kid. I mean, we already know that you die without telling her, but maybe this makes it easier to be at peace with that.

Speaking of Annie, I forgot how much I appreciate her perspective: “This all sucks, everyone sucks, I am an everyone.”

Going back to the tried and true word producer of comparing Marley kids to Paradis kids, when Historia goes on her rant about how the titans should just go ahead and eat everyone, she’s saving her new friend’s life.

When Annie expresses a similar sentiment, she’s kicking the life out of Reiner.

That about sums up the general psychological health of Marley Eldians versus Paradis Eldians: Appalling, but one side has the option of undergoing treatment.

If you really want to have fun with it, or are just really, really bored and trying to come up with something less boring to say, this chapter is titled, “The Door of Hope.” Taking that literally, RAB knock down that door, opening the rest of the world to hope. That thing Paradis still has, and can fight for under its own name.

The hope Marleyan Eldians have feeds a negative loop that furthers the suffering of their people despite their best efforts. Paradis, as it stands, has grown people who have started taking steps outside their harmful cycles, bringing about positive change to themselves, and possibly the world.

...Taking this another flight down the touchy-feely route, Marley, and the First King, are of the opinion that Spiral energy is going to doom the world, and needs to be contained or destroyed.

The Survey Corps is Team Dai-Gurren.

Anti-Spiral: You continue to struggle, even knowing what you know? Simon: Of course we do! The tomorrow that we're trying to grab for ourselves... is not the tomorrow that you've set out for us! It's the tomorrow that we choose for ourselves: a tomorrow that we choose out of all the infinite universes. We'll fight our way through. We'll keep fighting and protect the universe! We'll stop the Spiral Nemesis too! Anti-Spiral: You can't possibly accomplish all that! Simon: Just watch us!!

Jury’s still out on whether they’re actually Team Dai-Gurren, or some of those no-name Spiral Warrior schmucks that leave a graveyard behind, but the underlying principle that’s shielded the people we know on Paradis is that if there’s a wrong, it should be fought, and it can be fixed, even if they don’t know how yet.

Marleyan Eldians aren’t protected by that belief, so we get Annie repeatedly kicking Reiner in the face in lieu of accomplishing anything helpful.

That sounds about right.

I’ve avoided talking about Reiner this chapter, because I’ve done a lot of complaining already, and I don’t want my dislike of the guy to make this a totally unfun read.

The scene where he brings Annie and Bertolt over to his way of thinking is the latest example of why Reiner’s status as an interesting character doesn’t endear him to me.

Reiner’s tied up in a million different knots before he ever steps foot on Paradis. His mother plants a purpose in his heart that turns to desperate, slavish devotion, that makes him break instead of bend. His father destroys the dream that inspires it all. Once he does reach Paradis, Marcel completely shatters his confidence and self-worth.

All that’s left is his mother.

All that’s left is the mission.

Reiner commits himself beyond sense. He doesn’t simply decide on a course of action; he has to perform. This has to work. He covers up his fragility with twisted cords of steel that refuse to give an inch.

This is how he survives, and he won’t let Bertolt and Annie talk themselves out of it. They’re doing this. If they don’t want to, he’ll make them want to.

“So in other words, you’re going to threaten us to protect yourself?”

Reiner says he doesn’t know, but that’s what he does. The boy who turns into a man who will consistently throw himself in the way of physical harm to protect his comrades will throw them under the bus to help them all out of the street. Physical safety isn’t one of his top priorities outside of this incident, but emotional safety repeatedly sees him lashing out.

He terrorizes Falco because he’s poking holes in a system that Reiner can’t turn his back on.

He screams Marley fanaticism at Galliard for calling him the least likely to be chosen as a Warrior.

He threatens Annie into helping him kill Marco so that Bertolt doesn’t have to.

He makes similar arguments to get them back on track for breaking down the wall, because this can’t end without success.

Reiner’s suffered unspeakably, but he has a nasty tendency to wield that trauma as a weapon against people who are getting in the way of the goals that trauma gave birth to in the first place. He does not bend. He breaks, and reforges, and will break other people to make it to the finish line.

He’s the one who binds himself, Annie, and Bertolt together. He creates the rallying cry of going home. He gives them the fuel to move forward.

Because he needs this to work.

The older he gets, the more he models himself after Marcel and the more he becomes a sturdy soldier, the more he finds his true cause. He finds stability. He can act on belief, not desperation. As he tells Shadis on the final page, he’s here to save humanity, and he means it.

But under the surface is this complete mess that got him to that conclusion, and it still has its grip on him. He doesn’t know what’s right or wrong, but he does know that he’s going to see his duty through until the end. That’s what he has left to work with.

He still needs his mission to go right. It’s quieter now that he has more skill and experience, but deep down he’s just as emotionally fragile as he's always been, and the paths that drives him down at breakneck speed haven’t changed all that much.

Reiner’s a character who just... bothers me, because the emotional destruction he causes people doesn’t seem to register as long as the end is okay.

Not that the end has ever really been okay.

It’s obviously a way more extreme problem as a child (Reiner strangling Annie while he says they’ll all go home together is possibly more disturbing than Eren murdering people at a younger age), but his problem resolution skills could still use a remedial course or five.

Anyway, yeah.

This has been... a post.

To wrap it all up, let me just say that Annie is the best, and despite the whining, seeing the disastrously unchill murder children trying to make things work is always a trip.

...Is that what we find out at the end of 24?

She’s coming out of the crystal?

The 98 hype is real.

[quartings-main-blog]

SP Part 5

CIELA: There she is! Ciela and Ventor begin running over to where Pyoma is. Underwater, the bandits release their explosives which float upwards while the bandits dive down even further underwater to avoid the blast. As Ciela and Ventor are about to catch up with Pyoma, the explosives released by the bandits detonate, causing a massive underwater explosion that destroys several walkways, platforms and vehicles, violently shaking up the rest of the platforms. This has the added effect of violently stirring up the waters in the area, scaring the large aquatic animals there and sending them into a frenzied panic. 42. Amongst the chaos, the bandits burst from the water, and begin plowing through the crowds in an attempt to get to Ciela and we see that their handheld propellers can launch their ends forward like harpoons, as the bandits use them to attack! Many people are sent flying into the churning lake, including Ciela, who is unable to swim, and panicked struggles in the water, trying to stay afloat. VENTOR: Whoa! Ventor hears a commotion behind him, and turns around to notice that the bandits are heading in Pyoma's direction. VENTOR: C'mon! We need to- CIELA: Ventor! Ventor I can't- (gurgles) Just then, the tail of a large aquatic animal slams into the back of Ciela's head, and she passes out, sinking underwater. VENTOR: Ciela! Ventor jumps into the water in pursuit of Ciela Amidst the chaos underwater and with great difficulty. Ventor grabs Ciela and pulls her back up to the surface. Coughing and sputtering, Ventor drags Ciela and himself onto a large floating piece of walkway. Ventor gets up on his knees and grabs Ciela, trying to rouse her from unconsciousness. VENTOR: Ciela? Ciela! C'mon, wake up! Several bandits notice Ciela and Ventor on the floating piece of walkway, and head towards them to attack. Ventor's shaking wakes Ciela up, and she coughs out water as she groggily sits up. CIELA: Uggh...Water sucks. Ciela looks around and spots the bandits headed towards Ventor and herself. 43. Drawing her gun from its holster, Ciela points it at one of the oncoming bandits in the water, as she unsteadily tries to get up, despite being noticeably weakened. Just as the bandits are almost upon Ciela and Ventor, a hail of bullets rains down upon the bandits, wounding some and scaring off others. Ciela and Ventor look up to see Spanner flying a repaired Skylark complete with new front-mounted guns that Spanner just used to fire at the bandits. SPANNER: Need a lift? CIELA: Who said you could fly my ship!? VENTOR: That's her way of saying thanks! Spanner flies the Sklylark down to Ciela and Ventor, and lets them get aboard the airship. EXT. BOAT STATION-DAY Pyoma runs for her life from the bandits, who chase her down through the streets and fire their harpoons at her. Eventually, Pyoma finds herself cornered with nowhere to run to, and begins to panic. EXT. KESTER'S AIRSHIP High above Dockville, Mona, Symos and Kester are scanning the area beneath them in search of Pyoma. Mona spots Pyoma being chased down by the bandits, and points in that direction to alert the others MONA: I see her! Miss Pyoma is over there! KESTER Good work. Listen up, soldiers! It's time to move out! Kester brings his airship down so that his troops can prepare to disembark. 44. EXT. BOAT STATION-DAY As Kester and his soldiers exit the ship, they immediately begin culling the large amount of bandits causing havoc in the town. The bandits have grabbed Pyoma, and are beginning to drag her away. PYOMA: Ugh, let me go! Get off of me- As Pyoma struggles to escape, the tattoos on her back begins to glow a bright green colour. Suddenly, bursts of bright green energy spring from Pyoma's back in the form of wings, singeing and startling the bandits, causing them to loosen their grip on Pyoma. As Pyoma hovers majestically in the air with her luminescent wings, the bright light she emits fills the entire area, causing everyone there to shield their eyes, as dozens of people look upon this ethereal sight with wonder and fear. This includes the bandits, Ciela, Ventor, Spanner, as well as Kester and his soldiers who are approaching the area. Kester looks at Pyoma with shock and fear for a split second before a look of grim determination washes over his face. KESTER The subject has been primed prematurely in view of civilian witnesses! Soldiers! Take aim and prepare to neutralize! Kester and his soldiers take aim at Pyoma with their rifles. However,  Mona and Symos are noticeably frightened by this development. Pyoma turns around to see the Arbei battalion taking aim at her and fear and the pain of betrayal appears on her face. PYOMA What are you doing? What's happening? Excuse me? KESTER Fire! MONA: No! 45. As Kester is about to fire, Mona tackles him, knocking him to the ground. Despite this, the rest of Kester's soldiers fire at Pyoma. Before the bullets hit, Pyoma's "wings" glow much brighter, and absorb the Epheme bullets fired at her. This causes the soldiers to stop firing. KESTER (Grunts) Get off of me! MONA: Not if you're trying to shoot Miss Pyoma! SYMOS: This goes against everything about our duty to protect her! KESTER You're not a part of our division. Your authority ends here! Kester hurls Mona off of him and rushes at Pyoma. Pyoma attempts to use her wings to fly away, but due to inexperience, she unsteadily rises slowly instead of flying away. PYOMA: Please, don't hurt me! I'll go back! I never meant to leave, I promise! Kester takes aim at Pyoma regardless of this. Just before he can attack again, the Skylark flies down towards them, which distracts Kester and allows Ciela to lean out the side door of the ship and grab Pyoma, as they fly off. CIELA: Thought you could get away from us, eh? PYOMA: (Flustered) I don't know if I should thank you or scream in terror at the sight of you. 46. CIELA: Welcome to the outside world, girlie! After recovering from his initial shock, Kester regains his composure and points to the Skylark. KESTER Don't let them get away! Fire!! INT. SKYLARK-DAY Back in the pilot's seat of the Skylark, Ciela, with Ventor, Pyoma and Spanner nearby. Spanner has just finished explaining the Skylark's new functions to Ciela. CIELA: (To Spanner) This lever, right? Spanner nods his head in agreement. CIELA: Okay, then! Ciela cranks the lever on the Skylark's new dashboard. EXT. SKYLARK-DAY This causes the new gun turrets mounted on the Skylark to turn around to aim at Kester and his crew. EXT. BOAT STATION-DAY KESTER Duck and cover!! Kester and his soldiers dive out of the way to take cover, as the gun turrets on the Skylark fire at them. The Skylark then flies high up into the clouds to escape. INT. SKYLARK-DAY CIELA: Whoo! Man, why didn't we have those installed sooner? (Laughs) So Spanner, looks like ya crudhole town's wrecked now. Wanna tag along with us for the next few days? 47. SPANNER: Are you joking? Do you know how many customers I'm gonna have now that everyone's boats are blown up? CIELA: Yeesh, and I thought I loved cash. (Laughs) SPANNER: Say-would you mind dropping me off back at  my place? CIELA: Alright then, Spanner. In case ya didn't notice, there are a lot of people in town who just tried to kill us, so, you okay if we drop you off just outside o' town if you wanna walk back from there? SPANNER: Okay! EXT. DOCKVILLE OUTSKIRTS-DAY Just outside of Dockville, is an expanse of barren desert. Out of the blue, Spanner falls from the sky onto the sands. The Skylark can be seen flying off into the distance soon afterwards. SPANNER: -Ow! (To Ciela ) I thought you weren't being literal! INT. SKYLARK-DAY Back in the pilot's seat of the Skylark, Ciela activates its autopilot function by cranking a lever on its dashboard. CIELA: (Sighs) Welp. Now that all that's done with... 48. Ciela steps out of the Skylark's pilot seat and walks over to Pyoma, who is huddled up in a corner of the ship crying. CIELA: -You! Little Missy! You wanna tell us what the absolute fricken hell was up with that little light show you put up back there!? PYOMA: I-I-I... (Continues sobbing) CIELA: And don't you try ta' tell me you're some sorta wizard or fairy or some other kind of magical enchanted hoohaa, okay?! Vents and I? We may not have ever gone to any kind o' fancy school or whatever, but we're still people of science! Right, Vents? VENTOR: Um, as...extremely confused as I am after everything that happened just now, I still think there's a logical explanation for everything that happened. CIELA: There better be! The laws of physics are the only ones I hadn't broken yet!  So! You gonna explain things to us or are ya just gonna sit there and be a useless sack of- VENTOR: -Ciela, I don't think she's in the mood for talking right now- PYOMA: (Sniffling) No, no, it's okay. I don't have any idea what's wrong with me either. I want answers to all of this just as much as you do. VENTOR: Okay then, thanks for your cooperation. Now would you mind if I took a look at those weird tattoos of those on your back? 49. PYOMA: Go ahead. Mona and Symos-I mean-my guards always used to look at them to try and find out what they did exactly. I guess we know now. CIELA: Alright, now we're gettin' somewhere. 'Kay. Did any o' your guards ever find anything out about that? PYOMA: Whatever it was that they learned, they never told me. They only taught me history, politics and etiquette in my daily classes. CIELA: (Sarcastic) Wow, fancy. I bet they also fed ya real food everyday too. PYOMA: Um, well-ow! We see that Ventor has used some sort of tool to extract something from her back. VENTOR: Sorry about that. Just wanted to get a sample of your tattoos to analyse. PYOMA: Ugh, well, I suppose you could try analyzing it, but without any of the Arbei Kingdom's state-of-the-art technology, I doubt you'd be able to find anything of value VENTOR: Eh, I might as well take a crack at it. Ventor exits the room to examine the sample. After he does, Pyoma huddles back up in the corner of the room she was in earlier. Taking notice of this, Ciela walks over to Pyoma and crouches down next to her. 50. CIELA: So...you think those wings of yours can help ya fly or somethin'? And here I thought ya couldn't be any more privileged. It'd be so freakin' irritating if Vents and I had to spend years building our ship to fly and you learn how to do it in one afternoon. PYOMA: Oh-well I'm sorry. I-um, I'm not sure if I'm able to. I suppose they might be able to. CIELA: Heh. Well, if ya ever wanna learn a thing or two about flying, you can just ask the expert right here. PYOMA: I'm not sure the science directly translates over when it comes to that. CIELA: Are ya kiddin' me?! Don't you know anythin' 'bout aerodynamics n' such? And I thought they actually taught ya useful stuff back in that fortress. Everything I learned about flyin' I learned from my ma. Your mom ever teach you anythin'? PYOMA: I...don't have a mother, or father. CIELA: That's weird. Everyone's got a mom n' dad, no matter how crappy. PYOMA: Well I've never ever heard anything from my parents. I've only ever had my guards to take care of me, and from the looks of things, they want me dead now. CIELA: Eh, everyone wants everyone dead out here. That's why it's important to keep the folks you can trust close to you. 51.