#and it's not conservative in the slightest to say so? it's only a reflection of ideological insecurity to oppose such complexity. because

[eileenleahy]

soo much historical revisionism on the left it's mind-boggling. "the us suffrage movement was super racist bc all its leaders opposed black men's right to vote" i think you dont know anything about the suffrage movement? like i think youve only ever heard of susan b anthony and maybe elizabeth cady stanton

[notyourdaddy]

“Clutch’s hormones and Benjy’s HIV meds on a mirror”

2015, 32”x48”, archival giclee print, edition of 10

A collaborative work with T Fleischmann

An excerpt from T’s brilliant book “Time is the thing a body moves through”

My friend Benjy made the gloaming, all-windows building that is on the cover of a book I wrote and that inspired the architecture of the shack I built and inhabited for a while in Tennessee. The cottage he built shines like someone is arriving in the moonlight, but the window framing on my shack is salvaged gray wood, spongy soft and without a good gleam. Before I move to Chicago I take a bus down to Tennessee to visit him. His house is similar, cedar slats and old barn windows for a greenhouse, row after row of flowers I can’t identify, steps up the hillside so the top opens to a garden like the bottom does. Benjy moved here about a decade ago, after growing up in Oklahoma. When I climb the stairs he’s shirtless like he always is, a big beard and a hairy wide chest, and he has a genuine smile that doesn’t seem to go away. “Sterling’s flowers are doing amazing,” I say. It is the part of summer that dips into fall and he shows me one flower, an iris that blooms yellow. It is still hot enough that every step is a bending of grass, white motes of gnats rising. The crawling flower came from Scotland, where Sterling spent the early nineties in an abbey on an island. Our friend Mathilduh visited the abbey after Sterling died, dug up some of the plant, and secreted it back across the ocean. Now it’s in an elevated flowerbed with a bunch of perennials Sterling planted. Near it, off the porch, is an old air-conditioner top he flipped upside down and made into a hanging planter for some aloe plants. They propagate a bounty of baby aloes all summer long, popping out clones asexually. There are more aloe babies than a person would use so some of them end up unplanted, clumps of green spikey leaves with roots dangling out the bottom, on the sills of the screen windows.

Benjy and I have placed a mirror as wide and tall as my arm span on a card table in the flat bit of his front yard. The mirror shows sky, and beside it we set a ladder and his photography equipment. We dump all our prescription drugs onto the reflective surface, bottle after bottle. The pills are tan, light yellow, two shades of blue, one of red, a pale pink, and a paler pink with a purple hue. When they are all mixed together they look like pills, generically, unlike when they are in the bottles and seem direct references to our survival. The mirror’s reflection of sky is both stark and creamy. If I place my hand upon this sky it does not ripple, but there is a fingerprint.

We are here to shape the pills into letters, which takes time, and so we chat all morning about them. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth of medication, they are the most expensive material we have used to make an image. Another in a long series of changes to Benjy’s HIV treatment plan and insurance access in the deeply conservative state means that most of these are not pills he is taking but rather pills he has taken. They are pills that worked, pills he can’t access anymore, cocktails of pills that might or might not act on the body with greater efficacy to suppress his viral load than the cocktail of pills he took this morning. I contribute only three varieties to the mirror, synthetic estrogen and two kinds of testosterone blockers. These pills, too, have been rendered different with the sudden announcement that there’s a shortage of injectable estrogen in the United States, a combination of FDA policies and disinterested manufacturers conspiring to end the production of the oil. I’ve never gone for a shot, and sometimes I mail people pills, just as sometimes friends sent pills to me when I ran out. On the mirror, smooth like the oil is slick, the pills roll with the slightest wind, or when my hip grazes the table edge. My feet, too hard on the ground, make all the blue and white and yellow and tan quake at once. 2015, the beginning of the estrogen shortage, Benjy and I joke.

I count backward to figure out when I started taking hormones—Seattle, Brooklyn, moving away from the South, Berlin with Simon, falling in love with Otelia . . . I land in some summer, I don’t know when. I distrust linearity, but bodies can seem like one of the only linear things—age, getting bigger and then smaller, death. Another reason to appreciate the transitioning body, which ages backward, every person seeming to become younger, with or without taking hormones. It’s a good reminder that the body was never linear in the first place. And anyway, when wasn’t my desire pubescent? I didn’t know what I wanted until I had it, which was just to feel different. And when I swung a hammer, my inner forearm landing against a new, warm shape, I tired more quickly, and was happier for it.

Benjy and I use maybe one hundred pills. Post-Scarcity, they spell out. The word is multihued and large. I hold the ladder while Benjy positions the camera above, and as the clouds pass in their own game of arrangement, he snaps a picture, waits, snaps a picture. The images show only pills and sky, and it appears as though the word is floating above us. Post-Scarcity, it says, composed of more than one body like all bodies are. I use the crook of my elbow to sweep the pills into a bag and we return to the house, sorting them from one another again, putting them back into bottles. Categorization isn’t how we acknowledge difference, but rather its enforcement, difference leveraged to keep things apart that could well be together.

[titoist]

hmmmm. seems that truss is doing a lot worse a lot sooner than i thought. it's going to get a lot more painful before it gets any better... it's astounding that the past 30~ or so years of conservative dominance in british politics has been carried out with a sort of... profoundly magician-esque flair, most overt in figures like mogg or johnson - winning people over with a swinging pendulum of charming, affably self-aware or eccentric behavior about the very real evil things they do. yes, yes, i'm a cacklingly anachronistic remnant of the 19th century british aristocrat stereotype, now sit here & watch me say things funnily while i go make some crucial decisions on climate change for a second. that's the schtick. what i'm surprised by, though, is that truss seems to really lack this instinct. and not even in the sense that she is not facile - not at all! in fact, it feels more-so that facile is all that she ever manages to be. when she smiles at the camera, one gets the feeling that she is not at all attempting to distract you from her felicity. if anything, when her eyes meet those of the camera & her mouth strains in a shape vaguely resembling that of a grin, it feels like she is putting her own superficiality on full display - sharing the full degree of her own shallowness with you. more tax cuts across the board (aht aht aht, but especially for the rich.) government borrowing in overdrive. inflation spiraling & an economy in total collapse - what one is obviously to do in this situation, of course, nodding my head matter-of-factly, is to deport more asylum-seekers & provide more funding for border police. what else is new. but what's funny to me... is how brazen it's all being done, without a shred or slightest inclination of shame, the full might of the decrepit conservative establishment cashing in on one last bet. you guys should've brought back one-nation when you had the chance. (and what's funny is that, even with all of this in mind, a labour victory still seems uncertain. they all seem to have... what i can only describe as pollster brain. they are simultaneously absolutely fixated on elections - what polls well, what messaging is TOO RADICAL, etc - but simultaneously.. so, so bad at actually winning them. they can't comprehend that voters might care about what politicians actually do, and not just their messaging and image in election years. starmer, of course, being a completely smooth surface, a reflection of the new labour years. money for the sake of money. money powering money.)

[plush-rabbit]

I Want To Hear You Say It

Ch. 8: Did You Find What You Were Looking For?

Word Count: 6.8K

A/N: A fun filler chapter!! (I wanted to split the chapter, but it didn’t feel right so yall get a long one:))

Prev.

-

It’s quiet between the two men. It isn’t out of the ordinary, while they might be close- or as close as two villains can be- their conservations are usually short and limited to only certain subjects, neither of which any of the men want to approach. Shuichi doesn’t know when it started, he just knows that it has. Him and the other members have noticed the sudden change that Shigaraki has taken on lately. The secrecy- more so than usual- along with the sneaking out late at night and sneaking back in just before dawn. No one knows where he’s going and even if one did manage to follow him, they lost him just as easily, almost as if Shigaraki was making it all that much harder to track him and his location.

There’s different bets going around. Twice believes that he’s gone to underground concerts which host both villains and civilians alike- he’s sure Jin had mentioned that he went to a few to acquire some cheap alcohol. Toga believes that he’s gone out to try to find out where Kurogiri exactly is, and as far-fetched as that is, it’s not impossible. Dabi likes to believe that he’s gone to some internet café since the “internet sucks” here at the current base. He isn’t wrong, the little internet that they do get is from a coffee place opposite of where they rest for now. Mr. Compress and Magne don’t really want to get into it, commenting that as long as he isn’t leading anyone back, then it’s all okay. Shuichi on the other hand doesn’t know what to think. There’s something off about Shigaraki now. He isn’t sure what, but there just is. He’s constantly checking his phone, looking at the screen for far too long, and when someone gets close, he shuts his phone off.

Shuichi glances to where Shigaraki leans against the wall, his legs over the edge of the bed, and hands holding onto the controller, pinkies extended outward. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Shuichi states, his hands gripping on the controller, his claw pressing carefully on the joystick. Tomura hums in response, his eyes glued to the screen before him, his character successfully stealing a car. Shuichi nervously clears his throat, a chill running through his body as he follows Shigaraki’s avatar through the city. “You’ve been out a lot these past nights.” In the corner of his eye, he sees the slightest still of him, his thumb hovering over a button before he presses on it. “We’re all-” he struggles to find a proper word for the feelings of unrest that have been growing inside the team- “wondering about where you’ve been.”

“Does it matter?” Tomura replies, his eyes now narrowed and the top of his lip curling upward. Shuichi’s gaze is fixated on him, and Tomura lets out a sigh. “I’ve just been meeting with someone. It’s nothing to worry about.”

It isn’t enough. He’s sure that he can press just a little more. Just enough for him to slip about something other than meeting someone for a meeting. His canine nips at the soft pink flesh inside of his mouth. “You aren’t usually so distant about these types of things,” Shuichi comments, his attention to the game half-hearted.

“What type of things?” There’s an edge to Shigaraki’s words and if Shuichi weren’t so curious, maybe he would have backed off.

“You know-” he shrugs his shoulders and his character moves away from the other’s avatar- “going out and meeting with potential recruits. You’d at least send one of us to do it. Like with Twice. Twice is good with people. He always makes sure he isn't being followed. Shouldn’t it be- I don’t know, Mister, or Dabi-” his avatar rummages through his inventory before pulling out a knife- “even me?”

He can be good for something other than pure missions where it involves needing someone to drive. When he spares a glance at his leader, he sees him deep in thought, his fingers resting over the buttons, and his character still. “It isn’t like that,” Shigaraki states with an unusual distaste in his words. “This is a special case. They’re a special case,” he corrects, “I don’t want them to be freaked out by outsiders.” For a moment, he and Shigaraki lock eyes in the reflection of the television. “They were freaked enough when it was just me.”

“No offense, but you aren’t exactly the most comforting person in the League. That would go to Magne or even Mister.” Shuichi tries to tease, hoping that the lighter mood would offer just another snippet of information.

“It took them a long time to trust me. Or at least to feel safe around me. I’m not risking it by introducing new characters to the mix.” Whatever or whoever it is that Shigaraki is hiding, he does a good job at it.

“Is it even safe?” Shuichi presses, his character just running around a building, not doing anything in particular. He doesn’t know what answer to expect. It must be safe if Shigaraki continues to visit him, but what if it isn’t. What if he’s being led to a false sense of security?

“Is what safe?” Shigaraki asks with an annoyed tone. It’s apparent that he doesn't want to have this talk, but Shuichi does. He needs to know what's going on. He’s here for Stain and as long the League will uphold that bit of ideology, then he’ll stay. It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go.

“Meeting them,” Shuichi says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He’s met with silence. “If you can’t trust them to meet us, then what makes you think they won’t sell you out?” It might be cruel, he isn’t entirely sure, but it’s the truth. If they were scared to meet Shigaraki, it’s only fear that is keeping them compliant and eventually that will run out.

“They won’t,” he responds with a serious tone. “I know them. I know who they are and where they are. They won’t do something like that.” His character stops moving and he can hear the controller creak under the hands of Shigaraki. “You don’t know them. I do. They won’t snitch.

Shuichi turns to him, his controller on his lap as he leans close to Shigaraki. He has to understand where he’s coming from. If the roles were reversed, he’d be acting the same. He’d be just as accusatory, if not more. “But-”

“I have to go.” Shigaraki places the controller down on the bed and moves away, the floorboards quietly creaking under him as he stands. “Log off for me, will ya? I need to go.”

The door closes and once again, Shuichi is left alone. Behind him, the screen shifts in color, and when he turns, Shigaraki’s character has been killed. Carefully, a scaled hand picks up the discarded controller only to place it down gently beside him. The menu pops up and the game is saved, the screen returning to normal after a second, the character now revived, and suddenly standing next to Shuichi’s character.

He isn’t sure what’s going on, but at least he knows that whoever it is that Shigaraki is visiting, is someone that he cares for. The screen goes black and Shuichi is left to stare at his reflection. The room is quiet and only lit by a flickering bulb that remains lit. There’s a knock on his door, and when he turns to face it, there are shadows between the space of the door and the floor. He scratches at his snout, his claws picking at dried skin and ripping it away. “Come in,” he says, leaning against the wall and watching as the remainder of the League walks into his room, letting the door close with a soft click of the lock coming into place.

Magne is the first to speak. “So? Did you find out anything useful? Are we getting a new recruit?”

“Or is he going to some concert?” Twice says, interrupting Magne with a hand on her shoulder. “Who’s right? Who wins the bet?”

With a simple roll of the eyes, Magne continues onwards. “Ignore the bet, what’s he doing?” She runs a hand through his hair and plays with the ends as they all stare at Shuichi with a waiting explanation.

He shrugs. It’s the honest answer that he can give. “I don’t know. I don’t think- Where he’s going to, it isn’t to meet with recruits. He seems almost-” he hesitates to find the correct word- “protective about them.”

“Who’s “them”?” Dabi asks, his gaze focused on the television that still buzzes with electricity.

Once again, he shrugs. “I don’t know. I tried as best as I could, but when I pushed, he shut down. And then he just said he had to go and left.” Shuichi glances at the television, frowning when it still remains just him in the reflection. “All I know is that they’re easily skittish, he doesn’t want us to meet them, and he’s defensive when it comes to him.”

The bed dips as Toga sits on it, her legs crossed and a pillow pulled to her lap. “Well, lucky for us, I managed to actually follow where he’s been going,” she says with a smug attitude, her grin wide and kittenish. All eyes are on her and she sits straight, her hands playing with the edge of the pillow case, wrapping a thread around her finger. “I had to take somebody’s blood but whatever. I doubt he suspected something because I saw him enter some apartment.”

“An apartment?” Mr. Compress asks, his head leaning to a side. “With tenants? Or was it abandoned?”

“Tenants. I saw people go in and out. You know, like civilians. So I guess, whoever he is meeting, it means we all lost the bet.” The attention is still on her, confusion written on everyone’s face and she sighs. “I’m sure of it. The woman I was disguised as was even greeted by someone who lives there.”

“When was this?” Dabi asks, his eyes on Toga. “Time wise,” he clarifies.

“Um, maybe around, two in the morning?” Toga shrugs and moves further onto the bed. “I didn’t check the time, but it was late.” her legs are out straight and Magne sits beside her.

Magne starts talking, her fingers tapping against her knees. “It’s a bit later than when he usually goes out but-”

“And you’re sure it was him?” Mr. Compress asks, taking a step closer to her, his eyes narrowed in confusion as he takes in the new information when Toga nods. “Do you remember where it was?” Once again, Toga nods, pulling out a piece of folded paper and handing it towards the man. The paper crinkles as he opens it and the two standing behind him, inch closer to read what it says. “Huh,” he breathes out. “Should we pay a visit?”

“A visit?” Shuichi hisses. “We don’t even know who they are. All we know is that they live-”

“You said it yourself,” Dabi interjects, his eyes grabbing at the paper and tucking into his pocket. “Whoever it is, is skittish. They’re scared. Which means that if that hand-covered bitch could force them into submission, then we can too.” Shuichi glowers at the man and Dabi sighs. “We aren’t gonna kill them or anything, we just want to see who it is. Aren’t you curious about who it is that lives there?” Shuichi’s silence is enough of an answer. Dabi grins, wide and devious, as if this is all some sort of game to him. “Exactly. We’ll visit when we know that Shigaraki can’t. Maybe an hour or two before his usual time and we’ll just scope out this new person.”

“When are we going? Tonight? Tomorrow?” Twice asks, glancing around as he moves past Mr. Compress to sit on the bed with the other three. “The sooner the better, right?” His shoulders slump and hands clench and he stares at the other slowly. “Or should we plan this to make sure there is no room for mistake,” his voice has shifted to something a bit deeper, a tad more serious than his excitement just moments ago. “If Shigaraki catches us,” his tone returns to a more enthusiastic nature, “he’d definitely be pissed.” There’s a pause and everyone glances at each other, before finally returning to Twice. “That’s totally a yes.”

-

It won't be the first or last time that you complain to yourself on why you chose to have a floor that wasn’t the first. It isn’t a long climb, but it's excruciating when you carry bags of groceries that are digging into the joints of your fingers. You’re stubborn and too tired to make more than one trip, and even if you weren’t, you usually carry tote bags to place the items in, but you must’ve forgotten it in your apartment before you left. All you really want to do is just sit down, but you can’t. At least, not until you’re inside.

You struggle between the bags to reach your keys, the bags knocking against each other as your hands try to inch for your keys that hang around your neck. The key is inserted shakily, twisting the key while your hand also twists farther than usual as you pull the key out. Your brows pinched as you quickly enter your apartment, letting the bags fall onto the floor, as you close the door with your hip.

You let out a heavy sigh, flexing your hands as you try to ease the pain that has gathered. When you kick your shoes off, you kick them to the side, sparing a glance to the couch, as you lower yourself to pick up the bags. As you do so, you hesitate. There’s something wrong. Something feels wrong to you- enough to make you uncomfortable and all too aware of how you can feel someone watching you. It starts off easy enough- how your scalp itches, how the clothes on your body doesn’t feel right and pricks too much against your skin, and the forced silence that is in your apartment. You quickly rise and turn, your hand going to grab at the doorknob, only to have the pointed end of a knife directed towards you.

Yellow eyes stare at you, a thin smile decorating a young girl’s face and all you can do is raise your hands in front of you, your eyes catching against a sea of colors as six people stand in front of your couch. How you missed them, you have no idea, but you’re sure that they only wanted to reveal themselves to you know.

“You should lock the door,” the girl says sweetly, twisting the knife. A gleam catches along the metal and you nod, slowly reaching behind you to put the lock into place, your breath caught in your throat. Your hand is clasped over the doorknob, the tips of your fingers teasing against the lock. The young girl’s eyes flitter to where you tease at the lock, and she shakes her head. “You shouldn’t do that. Come on, come sit.”

Behind her the others watch you, a slight shift in their weight as they analyze what you’re about to do. You wouldn’t be able to run even if you wanted to- you’d have to unlock the door, and turn around, while leaving your back exposed to people who are clearly criminals. You nod slowly, and the girl steps back allowing you to walk further in your apartment, all eyes on you as you sit down on the ouch, your knees pinched together as your legs shake. Your groceries are sitting precariously by the door, and you worry that the milk is going to leave the bag wet and sticking to the jug.

Your face burns, legs shaking and teeth clasped down on the inside of your cheeks as six menacing people stand in front of you. You can’t handle the silence, the stares and the uncertainty of whatever is going to happen. In your back pocket, your phone sticks out, a vibration against your backside the curiosity for that is another fatality for you.

“Why are you here?” Your voice is quiet, your eyes on the tip of black boots that have scuff marks over them and splatter of mud against them.

“Do you mind if we sit?” You look back up, a man in a white mask with organic black lines stares down at you- at least that’s what you assume he’s doing.

The collar of your shirt feels too tight, restricting every breath, every word, every small swallow of saliva in an attempt to do something that isn’t clawing against your forearms. You nod. “Yeah- I uh, yeah,” you stutter. “I don’t mind.”

“Relax, we aren’t here to hurt you.” A heavy hand is held out to you and you stare at it with distrust, the owner of the hand removing their white rimmed, triangular sunglasses. “You can call me Magne.”

“She’s like our sister!” The younger girl says cheerfully, wrapping her arm around Magne’s, leaning her head against the woman’s bicep. Her small falls into something flat, the enthusiasm in her voice gone. “So you shouldn’t disrespect her in any way.”

You nod quickly, leaning over and taking Magne’s hand in yours. “Hi, it’s um, it’s nice to meet you, Magne,” you say quickly, giving her a nervous smile.

“I’m Twice!” A man in a black suit stretches his hand outwards to you, the suit clinging to his skin and showing off his muscles, and you fear that he’s done much worse than a simple break-in like this. You nod slowly, reaching towards the warm hand, your arm given a curt handshake. “That’s Toga-” he points to the young girl who smiles at you, her arms now removed from Magne’s. You’re about to give another greeting when another speaks up. “That’s Mr. Compress-” he points to a man in a yellow coat who nods, and tips his hat towards you. “Spinner-” a green-scaled man narrows his eyes at you and you look away, staring at the last one to be introduced. “And that’s Dabi!” The man in black hair and purple colored scars- or maybe burns- nods at you, his face devoid of emotion.

You smile but when it’s unreturned, you give a weak cough and look away from him and try to find comforting eyes that you can stare at, but none of them are comforting to you. You settle back at Dabi, giving him a small smile. Twice has yet to let go of your hand and you don’t want to risk anything by pulling away too soon. “I’m- my name is-”

“We know what your name is,” Dabi says with an attitude, the first sign of emotion that you’ve gotten from one of the people who have broken into your home. That thought leaves you feeling unsettled. It’s usually Tomura who does that and yet, he is nowhere to be found.

“Okay,” you say with a crack in your voice, nodding and looking back at your hand that is still extended outwards.

“Don’t be mean, Dabi,” Toga says with a pout, smacking the side of his arm as she huffs and crosses her arms. “Now they won’t trust us.”

There’s a tap against the back of your hand when you stare back at Twice, his shoulders are squared. “And you already know our Leader Shigaraki, right?” His voice has changed tone into something more serious and with the accusation, your nervous smile fades away, and when you stare back, his hand is now squeezing down on yours.

The whites of his mask make it difficult to look him in the eye. It makes it difficult to feel safe. Magne had told you that they wouldn’t hurt you but even if she is the resident big sister, it seems as if Twice doesn’t follow her loosely based rule. His hand is squeezing yours, and you wince, and your lungs that were deprived of air are suddenly filled once again when you take in a sharp inhale.

“They won’t talk if you break their hand, twice.” Your head is bent and you are unable to see who it is that is talking to him. The steps are heavy against the floors and you’re trying to pull your hand away, when a rough one covers yours. You look up to meet the eyes of Spinner, yours are filled with tears and his with something that you can’t quite make out. Your hand is let go, and you scramble to sit further against the couch, your legs bent to your chest as they all watch you. Spinner’s attention is redirected at Twice. “I told you the information I had on them, including how weirdly protective Shigaraki is with them.

You cradle your hand and then Dabi speaks. “You mind calling him? We all kind of want to see the look on his face when he comes in and sees that we found out about his little secret.” It’s then that emotion finally spills out, his lips stretching into a smug grin as he slouches over your couch, his leg bent over the other as he stares at you, nodding for you to pull out your phone.

You’re glad that you never installed a password for your phone, you’re sure that with your current anxiety skyrocketing, you’d be unable to put in the correct pin. Dabi steps towards you and watches over your shoulder as you struggle to go to your contact list, and he’s right there at the very top under the “A”. You tap the phone button and place him on speaker, the ringing going off immediately.

“Alleyway?” Dabi asks, leaning close to you, and you stiffen, the scent of alcohol and smoke a bit too strong for you. “Who the fuck is- Why is he put under “alleyway”?” There’s a hint of amusement laced into his words, but you aren’t in the right headspace to make any quippy comment.

“It’s um-” you clear your throat and give him a forced smile- “It’s an inside joke.” You sniffle and the tip of your nose with the side of your hand as you hear the call ring. You desperately hope that he’ll pick up. He promised that he would. Or at least, he insinuated that when you needed him, he’ll come for you. Maybe you held too much trust in him. You frown. You held too much trust in a mass murderer. You suck in your bottom lip and press the top of your teeth down against the soft flesh. Surely, there must be something wrong with you for you to even hold any amount of trust in a man like that, but to be fair, he did… do something to the man who assaulted you, and that was sweet of him. Sort of.

You hear the phone click and you look down, the timer starting as his voice is echoed into the room, everyone leaning closer to you to hear what he has to say. “What’s wrong?” A smile slowly curves your lips, and you look away, your hand covering your ever growing smile. He’s worried for you. Granted you don’t call him, so he must be worried or at least surprised by this. “Are you okay?”

You look at Dabi who gives you a curt nod and you take a shaky inhale. “I- So, um, you’re friends are here.” There’s a pause. “At my place,” you add, wanting to clarify.

“You were supposed to tell him to come over,” Twice whines, slumping in his seat with arms crossed. His tone shifts and you hold the phone tight in your hands. “Didn’t Dabi tell you he wanted to see his reaction?”

“I thought the nod was to tell him,” you retort in a high-pitched voice, your face aflame. “I didn’t know I was supposed to just tell him to come over. He would have come over on his own. There wasn’t any reason to call him!” By the end the volume of your voice has risen, your lungs devoid of air as you try to push your statements out.

“They’re there now?” He asks and you let out a sigh, dipping your head forward and nodding, mumbling a soft yes, when you realize that he can’t see you nodding.

“No dipshit, we’re here tomorrow,” Dabi says, humor heavy in his voice as his clasps around your shoulder and his other hand covers yours, bringing your phone close to his lips. “What the fuck do you think?”

“Can we not curse? We’re probably giving Shigaraki’s poor partner a heart attack as we speak,” Mr. Compress comments.

“We just broke into their apartment,” Toga says with a disbelief, and when you look up, he’s rolling her eyes at Mr. Compress’s stare- or at least what you assume, given his mask is still on but pointed in her direction. “I’m pretty sure if that didn’t kill ‘em, then cursing won’t do it either.”

“This was a horrible idea,” Spinner comments, running a clawed hand through his hair.

“I’m going over right now,” Tomura comments. “Just wait for me there, okay? I’ll see you as soon as I can.” Immediately after, he hangs up, and without saying goodbye, your phone blinks the time of the call to you, and you’re left alone in a room full of notorious villains who aren’t fond of you.

It’s silent for a moment, the little debate now put to rest and your phone is still in your hand, Dabi having let go of you after Tomura hanged up. You can still feel the burning sensation that he left, the roughness of his hand that is different compared to Tomura’s. It’s uncomfortable and you’re left shaking your leg, your phone fading to black.

“Hey,” when you look up, Toga is snapping her fingers to get your attention and you nod. “Do you have anything to drink here? I’m kind of thirsty.”

You’re bewildered for a second staring at her with wide eyes as if she hadn’t just had a knife pointed towards you. You nod. “Yeah, I think I have some water and ginger ale. I think I also have lemonade,” you say, pointing to where the kitchen is. “Do you want me to go get it for you?”

“Yes, please,” she chirps, smiling sweetly at you and pulling the sleeves of her sweater further down. “Just bring me whatever, I’m not that picky.”

“Yeah, okay.” You rise to stand and when you take a step towards the kitchen. You point to the empty space between each member, your smile still tense but more polite than before. “Uh, do you guys want anything to drink? I might have some mango and peach drinks too.”

“Oh wait! I change my answer! Can I have a mango drink?” Toga asks, leaning towards you, her smile eager.

“I’ll have a mango too,” Spinner adds, raising his hand and lowering it when you nod.

“Ginger ale for me!” Twice comments.

“A peach for me,” Magne adds.

“I’ll take water,” Dabi says, spreading his arms against the back of the couch.

“I’ll go along with you to help,” Mr. Compress adds, standing up and walking beside you, hooking his arm with yours. “I’ll choose when we get there. Just lead the way, dear.”

You walk before pausing and rushing to the door. “Wait, wait!” You call, grabbing your grocery bags. “Let me go put these away before anything spoils,” you say, dashing to the kitchen with Mr. Compress behind you.

In the kitchen, you begin to assort things where they belong, frowning when some bags are wet and uncomfortable, and you toss them to the sink. The man in the mask has taken it upon himself to aid you in placing things away, organizing your fridge to make sure that it all fits neatly. Once done, Mr. Compress leans down to look through your fridge, his arms reaching inside and pulling out a drink one by one, letting them rest on the floor where you immediately grab them.

“I think I might have a bottle of Qoo somewhere in there. I’m not entirely sure,” you drift, your hands slowly growing cold the longer you hold onto the drinks. “You’re to take it. I think it’s apple flavored.”

He rises with his drink in hand. The Qoo and you nod at his choice. “Has it been in here long?” He asks, spinning the bottle around to check for an expiration date. You shrug in response and he grabs his mask, pulling it away from his face to reveal his face still hidden but now with a balaclava. The white mask flashes and in its place is a small marble that is put inside his pocket. “I suppose it can’t be bad to drink something like this then.” You nod, turning around, before he stops. “Ah, before we go back, is it okay to ask you a question? Once again, you nod, placing the drinks down on the counter. “What is your relationship with Shigaraki?”

Even you still don’t know the answer. You’ve already admitted that it’s easier to be with him than to deny him. It’s safer that way, but you still can’t help but smile when he actively cares for you. “We’re together,” you conclude, knowing that even if it were vague, it still answered his question. “You know, as a couple.”

“Willing?” He adds, twisting the cap off of his drink, bringing it close to his lips. You narrow your eyes at him. “Forgive me, but while Shigaraki isn’t ugly, he’s still a villain. He has his faults as we all do, but as a close comrade, I have to ask, why is it that you chose to date him?” You swallow and turn away from him, your hands chilled and slightly wet as you cross your arms. “This remains between us, but I’m not against the others getting involved. It may not seem like it, but we’ve all stuck together for a reason.”

You let out a humorless chuckle. “Is that a threat?” You stare at him, your stomach twisting into knots.

“It’s just a word of advice,” he replies, the drink in his hand as he slowly clasps it back. The mascot stares at you with a wide grin and you regret allowing him to take the last of your Qoo- even if it was forgotten in the back of your fridge.

“He liked me first.” You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to push yourself to stay focused and not tear up in front of a man you don’t know. “He’s persuasive in all sorts of ways. I just found it easier to be with him rather than be scared of him.” You shrug, gathering the drinks back into your arms. “He’s nice to me. He’s done me a huge favor and even if I don’t agree with his- er- line of work, I’m not going to report him or anything. He hasn’t exactly given me an out with this relationship, but he hasn’t been forceful with me or anything. Maybe a bit scary, but he’s been okay.” With a free hand, you scratch at your neck and tilt your head, frowning. “It’s just a weird mix of easy and difficult with him.”

“So you were forced into the relationship,” he concludes and you shrug.

“I uh- I found him injured one night and I fixed him up the best I could.” You finally choose to look at the man before you, your stomach churning so quickly, you’re afraid that you really are tasting acid on your tongue. “The next night he came back and he was- I guess, for lack of a better word, obsessed with me?” It sounds so conceited, but it’s the truth. You break away from his gaze and take a step back, already wanting to return to the living room, the drinks leaving you freezing. “He was sweet, but you know, forceful with the idea that we were together. I don’t mind it- now at least- I was scared in the beginning, but it’s nice just knowing he will be there for me.”

Mr. Compress nods his head slowly, reaching over to grab a few drinks in his hands. “I suppose that’s a good enough answer.” He walks ahead of you, standing by the door frame when he looks back. “Come on, let’s go back.”

Back in the living room, the drinks are handed to each respective person, your hands cold as you sit above them, cushioned between your thighs and the couch. You keep your gaze on Mr. Compress who smiles gently at you before thanking you for the drink. You turn away when you hear rapid knocking at your door, the handle twisting, trying to break against the lock.

You know that it’s him. It has to be him. And despite any ill feelings that you had towards him before, you want him to be here. You rise up, dashing to the door and unlocking it, greeted by Tomura who looks at you briefly, before staring behind you where his friends sit. He pushes past you, closing the door behind him and removing his hood, his hair ruffles and strands misplaced as he pushes you behind him.

“What the fuck are you all doing here?” Tomura asks, holding your hand in his. You look down, the glove covering his hand and his fingertips seem softer somehow. You look back up, your eyes meeting with Mr. Compress and you look back down, taking a step closer to him, your hand rising to clutch the back of his sweatshirt in your grip.

“We’re drinking, what does it look like?” Dabi resorts, taking a sip of his water as if to prove his point.

Tomura turns to you and you hold his hand in both of yours, looking away from him. “Did they hurt you?” You snort and shake your head. “Don’t lie to me.” His hand pulls away from your grasp, leaving your hands intertwined with each other. He holds your face, lifting it upwards to face him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

A part of you wonders what he’d do if you say no. They didn’t try to hurt you- except for the hand crushing- but you rather not get on any of their bad sides. You smile delicately at him, nodding your head and stepping closer to him, letting your forehead press against his chest, before you pull away to look at him. “Yeah, I’m good. You know me, I get spooked easily.” You pull away from him and grab his hand, pulling him toward the couch. “Come on, let’s sit. Do you want something to drink? I have ginger ale,” you say, with a lilt at the end and he nods. His hand curves against the back of your head and he pulls you close, his head leaning down and you think he’s going to kiss you, but he lets go before he can and walks to the kitchen.

“He took that a lot better than I thought,” Magne comments, holding her drink in her hand. “You think he’s going to explode later?”

“Obviously,” Dabi answers, placing his bottle on the floor. “Yo! Shigaraki! Bring me another water!” Dabi shouts, his hand cupping the side of his mouth.

Your eyes widen and you wave your hands, shushing him. “You have to be quiet!” You whisper yell, as if you all hadn't talked in your regular voices before. “I have neighbors! What if they hear you?”

He gives you a wide grin and shakes his head. “It’s a name. I’m sure there are more people with his last name-” he jerks his head at Tomura who walks back to the living room, tossing the water beside Dabi. “Anyways, just tell them you’re in some play or whatever-” he twists the cap off and before taking a sip, he looks at you with a lazy smile- “people are a lot more willing to believe something like that.”

Tomura sits beside you, his legs spread, his knee knocking against yours, and you lean close to him, frowning at Dabi. “It’s still risky,” you say with a pout, gripping the end of your shirt.

“Hey!” Toga says, standing up, her drink empty as she tosses it at Dabi. She ignores his yelp and pointed glare. “If you’re dating Tomura-” she points her fingers between the two of you- “then that means that we’re friends!” She looks at you with a wide grin and you nod. It would feel rather rude if you denied the poor girl of friendship- villain or not, confrontation and denying is something that is not your strongest trait. “Really? Does that mean I get to use your bath?”

Your eyes widen, in both worry of that being her first request and fear of that being her first request. “Yeah, of course. Do you want me to-”

“No, it’s okay,” she smiles and walks away from the living room. “It’s in an apartment, I think I can find it easily enough. Anyways, I’ll probably snoop around, so see you in a bit!” She says, before moving away to go and open doors.

It’s silent for a beat before Spinner pops up. “Do you have wi-fi?” You nod. “Mind if I have the password?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem.” You grab your phone and scroll through your notes app, finding the name of the router and password, and you pass it to him, watching as he pulls out his phone to copy the numbers. Magne leans beside him, pulling out her phone and connecting to the wi-fi, her finger tapping against the screen to make sure it doesn’t dim.

“I’m going to turn on the television!” Twice comments, standing up to grab the remote. When he sits back down, he moves to sit beside Dabi.

“Don’t put anything dumb,” Dabi comments, making himself comfortabel on the couch, his hands going to grab at a throw pillow and brining it to his lap. “And nothing too loud, I’m starting to get a headache.”

“I have some pain medication.” You turn your attention to Dabi. “Do you want me to go get you some?” He spares you a glance, and when he returns his attention to the television that is flipping from channel to channel, he nods.

“I’ll go get it, dear. Where is it?” Mr. Compress says, standing up from the couch.

“Oh okay,” you chirp, leaning back towards Tomura. “It’s in the kitchen. The first drawer by the fridge.”

You turn to Tomura, grabbing his hand in yours. “I didn’t expect to meet them so soon,” you say in a whisper, turning yourself until you’re facing him. “I have to admit, I was really scared.”

He knocks his head lightly against yours and squeezes your hand. “I wish they hadn’t found out where you live, but I guess that can’t be helped now.” He glances at you and returns his attention to the bottle in hand. “Do you know how they found you?” You shake your head and he sighs. “I’ll be here next time.”

While you hadn’t realized just how alarming it is they found you, you can’t help but latch onto the last statement of his. Your head tilts and you look at him with knitted brows. “Next time?”

“Next time they’re here,” he clarifies. “I’ll make sure I come before them.” You nod slowly and he takes another sip of his drink. With your free hand you grab the drink, your hand curving around his and he watches as you pull the drink toward you, taking a sip from it. The apple in his throat bobs and he stares at the television that plays the news before changing to some sci-fi movie. “Whenever you want us to leave, you just say the word, okay?”

You watch the alien hatch from its egg, the membrane sticking to its skin as it opens its mouth. The whole scenario feels surreal. The group of people who threatened you now sit at your home, drinking your drinks, using your bath, taking your pills, and watching your television. And here you are, holding hands with the ringleader, acting as if you two are in a happy relationship that was mutual and not one that was forced upon you. You turn to him and with worry written over your face, he frowns. “Can we talk about something sometime soon?” Your heart falls when you see his face consumed with fear, his eyes scanning over your face, looking for a hint of what you want to talk about. You smile and pull your hand away from him, letting it rest over his thigh. “It’s nothing bad, I promise. Just a-” you struggle to find the proper words that doesn't make this relationship sound like some bad experiment- “an overlook of the relationship. Nothing bad, I promise.” With a smile at the end of your words, he remains silent, nodding his head and turning to watch the television.

taglist:

@chai-tea-bagels @tirzamisu @ikatella

[celestialnocturnes]

a message to my youth (reply 1988 thought dump)

warning: this isn't meant to be a coherent review or commentary on reply 1988. i literally just finished the kdrama a few moments ago and i want to preserve what i'm feeling through this entry. this is only a cathartic attempt to show how the kdrama had impacted me in so many ways. also, spoilers!

--

to the things that are already gone. to a time that has already passed, i want to say a belated farewell. goodbye, my youth.

watching a kdrama wasn't in my top priorities this year, but things that used to be a part of you would demand to be revisited sometimes. i'm glad that i did, and i'm thankful that it was reply 1988.

taking a nostalgic look at the year 1988, this kdrama tells about the story of five families in a humble block in ssangmun, seoul. for someone born 12 years after the setting, the plot is something strange, a history lesson in the lens of simple households. for someone in the limbo between careless youth and adulting, and someone born in an asian family, this kdrama will feel like home.

culturally speaking, reply 1988 was a beautiful exposition of how asian households run. what got me hooked to continue the drama was the endless saga of giving dishes to neighbors in the first episode. funnily enough, all families ended up having a feast of each house's dinner on their tables.

from a mouthwatering display of korean side dishes, to the trends of 1988 korea (back when jyp himself was a hit lolz jk), to the endless neighborhood gossips, to the flawed and conservative views on politics, and to the tight-knitted family dynamics — one would find this hilarious and relatable, informative even.

reply 1988 was a lot of things, but its casts hold a special place in my heart. the gang had so much love between them and it was so beautiful to see a pure friendship evolve through the years. i wish i could still have loud dinners and drunken nights with my friends when we get into our careers. I would love that.

sung deok sun, the optimistic figure in the group, was a ray of sunshine to me even as a viewer. i love deok sun because her spirits were never faltered by her failures and her status in life. my personality is sooo far from deok sun's, but she was relatable to me when she said she didn't know what to do in her life. she doesn't have a dream, i have a lot of them. even so, the uncertainty is there. i guess we all figure things out in the end. deok sun became a flight crew and was able to earn money for the family. i can't wait to figure out my own path, too.

dong ryong, being deoksun's self-proclaimed soulmate faced the same journey. despite not getting into a prestigious university, it's amazing how he was able to establish his own restaurant and even expand branches! makes you really think that not everything in life can be solved by good grades. honestly, i wish i have his street smarts and wisdom. what a powerful person i would be, then.

jung hwan was the man of few words in the group. he showed his affections not through words, but through his actions (and teases for deok sun). his love language would definitely be acts of service! i love jung hwan. he was a good son, brother, and friend. i aspire to have the kindness that he has. but oh dear heavens i would kill just to see how his love life would unfold had he faced the courage to confess to deok sun. i mean, come on! just be straightforward! they would honestly make a good pair, the ray of sunshine girl and the cold guy.

choi taek, the professional go-gamer, was the baby of the group. like jung hwan, he was a man of few words, except that taek was actually shy. his growth through the series was perhaps the most apparent. his innocent image was eventually changed by the way he picked up curse words from the gang, to his smoking, and to his openness of affection for his family and later on, deok sun. also, his character made me fall in love with park bo gum and his smile!

before i go to the next two characters that i associate myself with, i would also like to comment on the household parents of the block. the fathers here have different personalities, but their identities as providers of the house defined the way they act. they keep a tough act and may be distant to their children, but the love is there even though they don't really know much about the household.

and the mothers, oh dear, the mothers. my mom is not a working entity, but i've seen her struggle through the years. i think her burdens are even heavier than that of my dad's. the way this kdrama portrayed the stories of the mothers touched my heart so much that i couldn't stop my tears. never underestimate a woman's strength, i tell you.

from these figures, i learned so much about adulting and marriage. our parents miss their parents, too. our parents would always worry about us, no matter how old we are. our parents are trying to keep everything together, so they put up a tough front. our parents' wishes are devoted to their children. our parents just want the best life for us. not only us are growing old, but our parents, too. our parents want our attention, too. our parents do not have the perfect marriage, but they would do anything for their children. our parents love us deeply.

okay, here goes my reflection in the kdrama — sun woo and sung bora. initially, i was planning to write an entry only about bora, but i realized that i am in many ways alike to sun woo as well. both characters are the eldest children of the family and they face a lot of pressure in their respective families. both characters sacrificed their dreams because they are limited to what their families can afford. sung bora took math education despite her dreams as a prosecutor. sun woo took medicine because that was what his mom wanted. as for me, i chose a course that would promise a stable salary. i dreamed to work in the field of science or writing, but both paths have unstable pays in this country. i do not come from a well-off family, so i have to set my dreams aside.

bora and i do not share the same personality. hers was aggressive and frank, mine was the opposite. even so, i found a piece of my soul in her character because she was steadfast in her goals and was very understanding of her family's situation. she was the cream of the crop in the siblings, the only one who became a student in the premier university, the talk of the neighborhood. she had strong political stances that made her own parents almost disown her, but she was never sorry for it. when it comes to little things, bora had so much privacy over her things that she would get mad at the slightest unauthorized touch of it. oh dear, if that wasn't me.

sun woo, on the other hand, was nearing my male counterpart. he cares so much about his mom and his sister that he hated the thought of the former working. he was the model student, the one with the straight a's, and the one who acts professionally even with the internal turmoil of emotions. he never opposed his mother's wishes and he loved his sister dearly. he would always hold his feelings in, but gets weak in the arms of a loved one. based on his upbringing and firm values, you would also see how he respects women. i love it.

these two never worked out at first because they prioritized their dreams above romance, but i'm so, so happy that they got together in the end.

reply 1988 was perhaps one of the best slice of life shows that i've ever seen. i wish i had watched this when i was younger, because it would teach you so much about family, love, dreams, friendship, and growing up. the pacing would feel kind of slow because of its movie-length episodes, but i swear it was worth it.

to the youth that i was, thank you for building the youth that i am.

to the youth that i am, enjoy the uncertainty and strive to be a better version of yourself.

to the youth that will be, may you never lose the spark inside your heart no matter how old you are.

i will hear your reply in time.

most ardently,

grace

[marshmallow-phd]

Scarlet Moon

Genre: Scarlet Heart Ryeo!AU, Time Travel!AU, Alternate History, Royalty!AU

Pairing: OC x EXO OT9

Summary:  This isn’t Gwen’s time. She was from the modern era, with technology and electricity. But during a solar eclipse, she’s transported back into a previous life in a time and place she does not know. Now, as the foreign daughter of a merchant living in a prince’s household, she must tread carefully, watch her back, and guard her heart. But with the princes locked in a battle over the throne, the chances of her making it out alive might disappear.

Part: 1 I 2 I 3

                                        ********

The bright sun felt warm against Gwen’s skin. Chae Ryung half-heartedly chastised her about burning her face, but Gwen hardly gave a listen. It felt like it had been years since she’d simply stopped and took in the light. All she ever did was go to work, do her schoolwork, and watch dramas. She never really took much time for simply… being. After a minute or so, Chase Ryung convinced her to keep walking through the courtyard, but she still went slow, taking in everything.  

The other servants would stop in the middle of their work and glance at Gwen in a fashion they might have thought was sneaky, but was, in fact, fairly obvious. Some gave looks of concern, others, it felt like, of awe. Gwen ran her fingers through her hair, the red catching in the sunlight. She stuck out more here than she ever did back home and it made her stomach queasy. 

“So, Chae Ryung,” Gwen finally said, “what is it that I usually do during the day?”

“All day?” she echoed. She pursed her lips side to side as she thought. “Mostly you keep Lady Hae company. She’s a bit lonely as Prince Suho’s wife. You’re the closest to her station here.”

Suho. An interesting name for a prince. I remembered Papa inquiring after the pale but beautiful woman in ornate clothing. “And she’s sick?”

Chae Ryung nodded sorrowfully. After looking over her shoulder, she lowered her voice as she leaned in. “Some are worried that she doesn’t have much longer and the prince still doesn’t have an heir.”

“Is it that bad?” 

Chae Ryung nodded again. Gwen’s heart went out to the beautifully tragic woman. In the single moment she’d met the Lady of the household, Gwen could tell that she had a kind heart. The look of worry and concern was etched in her mind, not a single twitch giving away possible deception. Spending her days with Lady Hae didn’t seem like too terribly a time. Perhaps she could be another person to lean on, to help Gwen when she stumbled. Because she would certainly be stumbling every other step in this place. 

Gwen and Chae Ryung wandered around the grounds for hours, the latter filling Gwen in on what she couldn’t put together for herself. 

Apparently, this Gwen had had a tendency to be a bit rambunctious, taking liking to archery just as much as needlework. Often, she would be caught joining in the servant boys in whatever rough game they were playing that day. Not exactly a good look for the daughter of a wealthy merchant. It had to be a comical sight, the horrified looks this girl must have produced from the other women around the household as a child. But over the last few years, she’d calmed to be a bit more demure. Chae Ryung went into explaining the wide gray area Gwen was given as an outsider. Though this girl knew the rules of society, she was able to bend them ever so slightly. 

Excellent. 

Coming up on the path was a pond, round and expanding, the edges lined with tall grass and fresh flowers that gave off calming scents. A family of little ducks floated on top of the clear water. Fish in bright colors of oranges and yellows swam freely, their tails creating the slightest ripples on the surface. As they walked around the water, Chae Ryung described a beautiful gazebo that this Gwen apparently loved to hide away in when she wanted to be alone. Disappointingly, though, the gazebo was already occupied by the Prince and Lady Hae. 

Looking like a happy but conservative couple, they drank tea together and spoke softly. Prince Suho smiled at his wife as he brought the teacup to his lips, but as his eyes drifted over to the spot where Gwen stood, the smile changed. 

It deepened, almost. An uncomfortable feeling settled in Gwen’s stomach. She smiled back, though, and waved, to remain polite. She was probably reading into things or misunderstanding them. Prince Suho held back a laugh before turning back to his wife. She still didn’t fully understand the dynamics of this world and could easily misinterpret his actions. And her head still slightly throbbed, so that could be clouding her thoughts as well. 

“It’s inappropriate to stare at a married couple’s private moments,” a high voice snipped. 

Confused, Gwen turned to find an elegantly dressed girl close to her age. Or, rather, this body’s age since this Gwen was a few years younger than the body she’d left behind. 

This new girl’s face was pretty, but it was destroyed by the snobbish and self-satisfied look she wore. Chae Ryung bowed deeply, but Gwen stayed erect. Bowing was not something that came as second nature to her and she didn’t want to do it for just anyone. Not surprisingly, this defiance deepened the annoyance on the girl’s face even more. Sensing danger, Chae Ryung forced Gwen into a bow.

“Greetings, Your Highness,” Chae Ryung said with a shaky voice. She gave Gwen a pointed glance that was ignored. 

“Apparently, not only have you forgotten your memories, but the few manners you ever had as well,” her highness sniffed. “I would be happy to be your teacher. Maybe we can make you a more respectful person this time around.” 

“Perhaps we have two different definitions of respect.”

It was subtle, but the girl’s smile strained, stiffening and tightening in the corners. Gwen knew that irritated look all too well from high school. The girls of the popular crowd would often shift into this body language whenever Gwen ignored their insults or countered them with a response they weren’t expecting. It had made her extremely unpopular, but that was never important to her. All she ever cared about was getting out and graduating. It was sad that mean girls had existed back in this time as well.  

“How dare you speak to me that way,” the girl hissed. “You think because you’re a freak of nature you can do and say as you please?”

“Just because I look different from you doesn’t mean that I’m a freak of nature!” Gwen shouted. Her nails dug into her palms as she tried to reign in the urge to respond physically. That particular subject had always been a sore spot for her. She didn’t think she was ugly, per se, but she wasn’t a beauty. Society’s standards, as ever changing as they were, always felt too far out of her reach. “Pretty” was not something she ever saw in the mirror. And, unfortunately, this body held the same face. 

“What is going on here?”

Gwen stiffened at the Prince’s voice behind her. Slowly, she turned around and bowed deeply. Prince Suho had abandoned his wife at the gazebo to investigate. She hadn’t meant to ruin his date, especially since they probably didn’t get many moments like this. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Your Highness.”

Prince Suho looked past her to the girl and then back at Gwen. “Perhaps, it’s best for you to go back inside, Lady Gwen. I don’t want you to tire yourself out and I fear it might get colder. ”

Nodding, Gwen bowed again and walked away. There was no point in arguing. Besides, she didn’t want to hang around this self-important girl, who she didn’t dare give a passing glance to and give her the satisfaction of besting her. Once out of sight, however, Gwen’s bravado deflated. 

“Who was that girl?” She bit her bottom lip in a very unladylike manner as she slouched against the outer wall of a red-painted building. 

Chae Ryung tutted nervously. “That was Princess Yeon Hwa. You’re lucky that her brother stepped in.”

That girl was Prince Suho’s sister? Gwen shuddered, feeling sorry for Suho since he had to be related to her. “Mom always said I was too spiteful. But I wasn’t being disrespectful by looking for five seconds. They just looked like a scene out of a movie.”

“A movie?”

Oh, crap. There you go again. “A novel. I meant a novel. They looked like a scene from a book.”

“Oh!” Chae Ryung nodded, though she wore an expression of confusion. “Still it would have been better to apologize and walk away.”

Gwen shrugged. “Maybe next time.” 

Looking up at the blue sky, Gwen wanted to pout. It was such a nice day. Even with these layers of clothes, she wasn’t too hot and a nice breeze played with her hair. But Prince Suho had told her to go inside. He must have figured she would cause less trouble there. He also said it might get colder. Gwen hated being cold. 

“When I have to stay inside, where do I like to go?” she asked as she looked ot her friend. 

Chae Ryung grinned from ear to ear. She seemed excited as she took hold of Gwen’s wrist and pulled her along to a building near the middle of the compound. It wasn’t a large building, with spaces barely able to be called rooms. That hardly deterred the excitement bubbling up in Gwen’s chest. 

Inside were wooden shelves, thin and easily seen through. But unlike the thick, hardbound novels Gwen was used to, the books stacked here were thinner, flimsy and held together with twine. Another servant girl shuffled up before they stepped into the room. Chae Ryung was needed elsewhere. She urged Gwen to go on ahead and stay at the library for a few hours. 

Within the shelves, she lost herself. 

Reading was always a comfort to Gwen, but she tended to lean towards adventurous fiction filled with romance and challenge. She doubted she would find such stories in the Prince’s library. If she could even read these manuscripts. 

Gwen blinked, reflecting on her presence here. Somehow, she was able to communicate with the others despite the fact that they weren’t speaking English. The real Gwen’s knowledge - at least, with speaking and reading - somehow had remained behind. As her eyes drifted over the Chinese characters written on the spines, she understood what they said. A small laugh escaped her lips. She’d always wanted to know more than one language. All it took was being transported back in time to a different body. 

From what Gwen could make out of the titles of the volumes, they were mostly science based - medical treatments and catalogs of animals and plants - along with a few recorded histories. There were no fictional stories to be found, so Gwen went for the next best thing and grabbed a book that recounted the story of how King Taejo founded Goryeo. 

The wording was a bit dry and straight forward, the author giving only the occasional flourish here and there. Still, like any written word, it absorbed her attention. To receive a recount of history from a source so close to the time that it happened was not to be taken lightly. Gwen walked through the aisles as she read, unaware that another visitor had arrived. In the middle of a sentence about a deciding battle, her pacing was stopped by a soft wall. She looked up and sucked in her breath. 

Prince Suho.

She bowed, thinking that her back would start aching from all this bending over. “I’m sorry, again, for earlier,” she whispered. It was a sincere apology. Though it wasn’t her fault, she’d egged it on and caused the Prince trouble, which in turn could cause trouble for this Gwen’s father. Both men had been kind to her since she woke up and she didn’t want to repay that kindness by being a burden. 

Instead of acknowledging her apology, Prince Suho asked, “Do you really not remember anything?”

Gwen shook her head, unable to meet his eye. She could feel his gaze seering onto her face, however. Warmth tickled at her cheeks and she hoped that it wasn’t a visible heat. The Prince was handsome, with a strong chin and kind eyes. He spoke softly.

“Do you remember why you were at the bathhouse?”

Gwen snapped her head up, confused. Why would he be asking her about a bathhouse? “The bathhouse?” She knew nothing about a bathhouse or what this Gwen would be doing there. 

He sighed. “Truly?” Did he not believe her? Did he think she was faking it to avoid getting into trouble? 

“I-” she stopped. Would she be punished for something she didn’t even do? She tried to be as sincere and honest as possible. She didn’t know what could be done to her if he didn’t believe her. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Prince Suho didn’t look receptive to her answer, but he backtracked anyway as he looked away. “Perhaps I was merely seeing things,” he murmured to himself. Regaining eye contact, he took a step to shorten the space between them. “When I invited you and your father to stay here, I took it upon myself to look after you, knowing your foreignness would make you a target. I’m afraid I’ve neglected on that duty. It has caused Lady Hae great worry.”

Gwen took a step back, her hands behind her back. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I think I’m causing you more trouble than I’m worth. I promise, I’ll watch my steps from now on. The last thing I want is to be in the way. If you need anything, I’ll do it. I want to be a help, not a burden.” He nodded, the expression on his face softening slightly. Feeling the conversation was over with that last declaration, she bowed and scurried out of the library after replacing the historical text. 

With that haven now compromised, Gwen concluded the best place for her to go was back to her room until dinner. 

                                                    ********

After a few days of managing to stay out of trouble, Gwen ran into Lady Hae on one of her leg-stretching walks. She didn’t seem to be upset about the incident at the gazebo, though she was disappointed that Gwen hadn’t come to see her. Gwen stumbled through an apology, not realizing that she would be so missed. In fact, she thought she was doing everyone a favor by staying out of the way. 

Accepting the apology, Lady Hae asked if Gwen would like to learn how to make lotus lanterns for the upcoming festival. Gwen raised her eyebrows in surprise. Thinking it would be fun and distracting, she agreed and followed Lady Hae to one of the buildings with open walls that allowed a gentle breeze to keep them cool. The temperature hadn’t dropped like Prince Suho had predicted. When Gwen saw who was already at work in the building, she instantly regretted her decision to join. A groan was barely suppressed as she sat down beside Lady Hae.

“Lady Hae, I see you brought a friend,” Yeon Hwa sneered cheerfully. 

It took willpower, but Gwen managed to ignore the princess’s snide remark, instead focusing on Lady Hae’s explanation of how to put the lanterns together. The glue had a potent smell that stung at Gwen’s nose. No wonder they were in a building that allowed the air to drift in and out. It took a few poor looking lanterns for her to get the hang of it, but finally they looked worthy of being hung up for other people to see. Glancing over at Yeon Hwa’s, Gwen huffed internally. Though they were the same design, the princess’ were begrudgingly far superior.

“Lady Gwen,” Yeon Hwa called out. A faux-sweet smile stretched across her lips. “Why don’t you go take the dry lanterns and put them in the Moon building for storage until the festival?” 

Gwen returned a smile just as fake. “Of course.” 

Chae Ryung, who had joined the group soon after Gwen’s arrival, stepped forward. “I can take them, my lady.”

 “Lady Gwen is perfectly capable of carrying them herself,” Yeon Hwa snapped. The evil look gleamed in her eyes, as if she were punishing Gwen with such menial labor. 

Little did she know the request didn’t bother Gwen in the slightest. She was giving the perfect excuse to leave her presence. While making the lanterns, Gwen’s mind had wandered towards the village beyond the walls and - with everyone occupied here – sneaking out on her own should be easy enough. She wanted to see more of this world that she now resided in. 

Filling up her arms with as much as they could carry, Gwen shuffled up the hill, following the directions Chae Ryung had given to the Moon building. 

“Gwen, you’re out of your room.”

Papa walked up, a smile on his face causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. He seemed out of place in the Goryeo fashion he donned, yet comfortable as the shiny fabric swayed around his legs. He wore the hanbok with dignity and ease. Back home, Gwen prefered less complicated clothing and was still adjusting to the multilayered dresses that needed an extra pair of hands to put on.

“Yes,” Gwen said. “I was helping Lady Hae make lanterns for the festival.” She held them up proudly for him to see.

“Those are very beautiful,” he complimented. Gwen’s smile stretched farther across her lips at the praise. “I’m happy to see that you’re getting back to your old self.”

The joy in his eyes was almost too overwhelming. Gwen thought back to her own father, with whom she was close. They seemed so much alike. Tears threatened to brim her eyes. Within the last few days, she’d grown an affection for this man. He was patient with her and caring. And, as an outsider himself, a small connection that she clung to. “I’m happy that you’re happy, Papa.”

“I have some business to oversee at the house. Please, stay out of trouble.” He gave her a kiss on the head and resumed in the direction he was headed before.

Continuing on her own way, Gwen barely reached the steps of the Moon building before a man in brown clothes ran, bowed, and took the lanterns to store them. He must have been a servant in the Prince’s household. She hadn’t seen him before but she gladly handed the lanterns over. Thankful that her task was now over, she waited and watched as the servant hung the lanterns up on a long string inside the open doors. Now it was time to explore. Taking a different path, she headed for the gate.  

This place was certainly different. Monarchies weren't as widespread in her own time, most nations having moved on to people-elected governments instead of blood-appointed kings. Though it was different, Gwen appreciated the underlining respect that drove this culture. The differences in formal and informal speech and the hierarchy of that respect ran deep within the people. The mutual heritage they all shared made her a bit jealous. She was from a place that didn’t have that. 

The sound of drums broke through her thoughts. They were deep, rhythmic, calling out to anyone who wanted to listen. Answering the call, Gwen followed them. 

In a giant dirt courtyard near the palace stood about six figures, some dressed in red, others in black. They were spaced equally apart in a square structure. Gwen hid among the archways, too fascinated to walk away like she should have. The figures danced in unison and with power – except one of the men in red, who was lacking enthusiasm and proper rhythm. The others noticed and stopped their dance, the drums fading out as well. They all stared at the one who had finished incorrectly as he flopped down to the ground. Gwen covered her mouth to soften the giggled. He was throwing a fit. A grown man by the looks of him, he was acting like a spoiled child. Among the figures was Prince Suho, who seemed exasperated at the situation.

So, those must be the other princes. 

This festival must be important, if royalty was performing. Gwen made a mental note to have Chae Ryung explain it in more detail when she went back to the compound.

A few of the princes ganged up on the one on the ground, criticizing him for still getting the moves wrong after such a long practice. Huffing, the one on the ground jumped up. He pointed a long finger and accused another brother of making a mistake as well. Gwen laughed loudly at their altercation, the noise pushing through her fingers. Prince Suho glanced up in her direction. She took off, scared to be caught. 

Once among the common people, Gwen’s mind eased. She wandered around the city, trying to ignore the whispers and stares that followed. The market was abundant with people. Men gossiped with their friends while the women picked over the vegetables and meats, inspecting for any impurities. Children played loudly and ran through the streets, uncaring if their feet were covered in mud. Different stalls caught Gwen’s attention, some selling soaps and bath grains, others selling intricate hairpins that sparkled under the sun. She made a mental note to ask Papa to come with her next time to buy a few wares. Maybe Chae Ryung could teach her how to place the pins in her hair. 

Leaving behind the market, Gwen came to a small bridge over a shallow river. The water flowed steadily, uninterrupted. She stared down at her blurry reflection, wondering how she could still look so much like herself. There was no railing to obstruct the view, so she bent down for a closer look. 

The face looking back was still round and pale, the soft jaw line giving a youthful appeal. Red hair fell natural, gentle waves that never liked to obey. Not even the multiple hairpins keeping it out of her face could tame it completely. Sea green eyes sat in hooded sockets on either side of a thin nose and average lips. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and apples of her large cheeks from years of sun exposure. Forced to come back to a time that wasn’t hers, the least magic could have done was improve her looks. 

The cries of the villagers reached her ears too late. Searching for the source of the hysterics, Gwen stood and turned as the villagers ducked out of sight. A mad man on a black horse galloped through the market. The rider didn’t care about others around him. He didn’t look back behind him or stop to check on those who dived out of his path. A villager with a traveling pack hanging from his shoulders scurried across the bridge to run away from the rider. In his haste, he knocked into Gwen. She lost her balance, flailing her arms worthlessly, and began to fall into the river that had served as my mirror just moments ago. She closed her eyes and braced for impact with the surly cold water. But it didn’t come.

A steadfast grip snatched her by her waist. When she opened her eyes to see who had saved her from the water, she was face to face with the rider.

[cyanidelacedvodka]

You wanna know how insidious EDs and body dysmorphia are?

I'm in full support of the body positivity movement -- every person is deserving of love and respect no matter what they look like; no body is ugly.

Except.

I can't apply it to myself. No matter how hard I try, no matter what helpful tips and strategies I use from pro-recovery blogs and articles and websites, nothing changes the fact that when I look in the mirror, I feel hideous.

I've been trying so hard. Trying for years. There are brief moments I look in the mirror and think "I look okay" when I really try, when I'm buzzed from alcohol, when I get a haircut or dye it. But I don't ever look in the mirror and think "damn, I'm good-looking!" I don't think I look attractive. I don't even think I look average. Every time I stare at that goddamn slab of glass in front of me, I hate the person I see. I feel so detached from them, so tired of their face and body. The slightest exertion makes my face go red and I look like every caricature of that gross, fat, sweaty conservative white man that screams about the liberals destroying our moral foundations or whatever. I look down and all I see is stubby, stretched skin and a gut that hangs out so far that I have to lift it out of the way when I shave around my pubic area. The flaky redness from my eczema that makes me look like I have some dirty disease. The way my hair sticks out when I get too humid; the double chin; the red spots from irritated skin; all the stubble everywhere; every time I look at my reflection all I see is a fat, ugly, disgusting creature.

And it's only me.

I have friends that weigh more than me, and when I say they're hot, I'm not even being a "performative ally supporter" -- they're attractive. I find a lot of bodies of a lot of sizes attractive because they are! Even for the people I don't personally find attractive, I don't look at them and think "they should lose weight"; I don't hold this standard to anyone else. I actively encourage people around me that voice self-consciousness about their bodies to embrace and love their forms.

But I cannot, for the life of me, find myself appealing in the slightest. When people express interest in me I never think it's because of my looks -- it's my personality (the outer, public one anyway). It's my interests. It's how I write or how I talk. It's how I dress. But it's not that my body looks good. When anyone says they think I look physically attractive, I don't believe it. It just sounds like they're giving me pity compliments because they know how appalling I look -- they can literally see it -- and want to boost my self-esteem. It never works. I never believe them. And the moment they begin pointing out what they find attractive, I begin to silently list everything I hate about those areas, how much I hate them, how much I want them to change. It never makes it better; oftentimes, it makes my whole disposition worse. There's no winning.

I would never be so critical of anyone else the way I am with myself. Even if their parts looked identical to mine. On them, it looks good. On me, it looks horrific. I feel permanently disfigured, subhuman rot.

My ED makes this feel less hopeless though. It's proof I can change my body. It's proof I can see in numbers on a scale. It's a goal -- however unrealistic it may be -- that I can strive for, with the promise that once I reach it, I can look in the mirror and finally, finally feel attractive. It's become my maladaptive coping mechanism for the deep-seated self-hatred I feel: I may be grotesque now, but I can change my body -- I can change myself, and finally not despise the person staring back at me. I know when, if, I ever reach that goal, there's a good chance that won't actually change, but the rush of excitement, of pride when I step on the scale and see the number lower than before is addictive. I don't think I've ever felt so positive about myself in years. I can't even recall I time I believed I looked good. Perhaps I never will -- perhaps I'll die never having changed the idea that I'm ugly. But this thing, it's the only thing that's given me hope that maybe I can like myself one day. After all, it makes me proud of myself when seeing the empirical results from it -- if it can make me proud of myself, who's to say it couldn't get me to love myself someday?

And those around me only solidify this belief. The number of compliments I get commenting on how I've lost weight, how I've slimmed down, how I look more masculine with the weight loss. Even my doctors comment in a positive manner about my weight loss. And it may seem that I hold other people's opinions in high regard -- but the truth is, those compliments, those positive comments? They only become believable to me whenever I see that change myself. They only seem genuine when I start to see a difference. It's a confirmation bias.

Even with the progress we've seen in body positivity (something that we should continue to work on improving), my self-view has not changed. In fact, it seems to have gotten worse over time. I don't look at plus-sized models and think "they look like me" -- I see plus-sized models and think "how do they look so good with the same features as me, and yet I look absolutely gross?" At this point, I feel like I could meet someone that looks identical to me, and see them as someone beautiful, someone who should love their body because there's nothing wrong with it -- it's not any specific trait or quality I find ugly. It's just... me. I don't know why, but it's just me.

The way psychological illness impacts the way we view ourselves is... terrifying, because there's no good explanation for why I hate myself so much. I just do. And I don't know if that will ever change.

[tragedy-for-sale]

Goodnight Moon

Codyinobiwan'srobeCodyinobiwan'srobeCodyinobiwan'srobe

↼┈┈┈┈❂┈┈┈┈⇀

The frequent chirp of crickets had been keeping Cody company as he ran his hand through the chilly water of a quiet river. He’d come outside to watch the sunset, that was three hours ago. He didn’t know why no one had come to look for him, and it didn’t entirely bug him, for there was only one person he wanted to find him. But he hadn’t come. So Cody say alone, silently brooding as he picked up the soft sand in his hands and let the water wash it away. The darkness that surrounded him didn’t bother him, he blended in perfectly in the shadows because he was only in his blacks. Looking down to his reflection, he told himself yet again that he needed to go inside, but then he convinced himself that if his men did need him, they’d com him. 

“It’s terribly late, where in the galaxy is Cody?” Obi-wan asked his padawan, who was half asleep. Obi-wan spent so much of him time meditating and conserving his energy, whereas his youthful padawan insisted on acting like a child who just got a candy bar. All the time. It was only in the late hours of the night that Anakin Skywalker was calm, but only because he was half asleep.

“I dunno go find him.” Anakin mumbled, his head had been resting on Obi-wan’s shoulder. Obi-wan glanced over and patted Anakin’s head. 

“Yes, that seems the only option,” Obi-wan stroked his beard before lifting Anakin’s head up, “That is what I’ll be doing, and you, my young padawan, will go get some sleep.” Anakin nodded, not opening his eyes before turning and trudging towards the door. If Anakin’s wasn’t force sensitive, he surely would’ve walked into the wall- “Are you okay?” Obi-wan called as Anakin slammed into the wall. 

Anakin had only let out a grunt before walking out. Obi-wan shook his head as he watched Anakin in amusement. “That poor boy.” He then gave a nod to the deck officer before heading out to find his commander. Cody and a group of troopers had been on recon, but Cody then informed Obi-wan he was going to stay out but sent his crew but. He had trusted Cody to come back as he saw fit, but that was three hours ago. Obi-wan had been kicking himself as he realized he should’ve gone looking sooning. 

Stepping out into the dark, Obi-wan realized he had only the force and the dim light of the moon to guide him to his commander. Using the force to guide him, Obi-Wan inevitably found Cody, at first the Jedi doubted himself but as he drew closer he made put Cody's smaller than usual frame. Cody heard Obi-Wan approach, he didn't know why he didn't look back, as if he subconsciously knew the person approaching him would never harm him. "Cody, it's quite late," Obi-Wan sat beside the man.

Cody nodded, still focused on the water, "It is," he mumbled, eyes lingering closed before turning to look at Obi-Wan, "Why are you still awake?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing,” Obi-wan admitted as he looked down to the running water then up to the sky, the clouds looming overhead weren’t just passing by, “I believe it’s going to rain soon, perhaps we should head inside?” he asked, eyes still watching the clouds. 

Cody nodded slightly, it’s not that he wanted to be sitting here for hours alone in the dark, the only reason he hadn’t gotten up was because he didn’t believe he could, “It’s cold,” Looking at Obi-wan, the Jedi seemed noticeably larger all dressed in his robes. Cody wasn’t in his armor, he was practically bare, and sitting beside Obi-wan, made him feel tiny. “We should go inside.” Cody repeated standing up, eyes still watching the water. 

Standing up, Obi-wan nodded, watching Cody stare off. It was a chilly night, but the Jedi was dressed to stay warm, Cody however. “Here, so you won’t get cold.” Obi-wan offered, taking off his robe and placing it around his commander. Cody didn’t have time to react before the robe was placed around him. He had been cold to the touch, but when Obi-wan gave him his robe, not only his body warmed up, but his heart did too.

“Thank you,” Holding it closed, he looked up to Obi-wan who gave him a small smile and the two started walking back to the ship. Cody must’ve wandered far, for he couldn’t even see the ship’s shadow, in fact, he couldn’t see anything, fog had settled around them. Next thing Cody knew, he’d grabbed Obi-wan arm, the fog was getting thicker with every passing second. They were essentially blind, but Obi-wan had the force, Cody had nothing. So he held onto the jedi so he wouldn’t lose him in the grey haze. 

It hadn’t bugged Obi-wan in the slightest, even though he would obviously sense if his commander had fallen behind. The two didn’t speak as they walked, something about the environment sent them into silence. Inevitably, Cody’s head had fallen on Obi-wan’s shoulder, this walk was tiring, and the commander had already been exhausted. Eventually, he even closed his eyes, trusting Obi-wan completely. 

Sensing Cody falling deeper into a slumber, he came to the conclusion that carrying his commander would be ideal or he’d walk into something as Anakin had. So he picked up his commander and once Cody was secure in his arms, his head fell upon Obi-wan chest and he was asleep. Obi-wan smiled, making out Cody’s features through the darkness. He pulled the hood of the robe over to keep his commander as warm as possible during their journey back. 

Obi-wan had finally reached the ship and stepped into the blinding white light, Cody still in his arms. As he walked, he maintained that same silence, heading straight to the barracks and then to his quarters. Once Obi-wan had reached his quarters, he placed Cody down on the bed, pulling the blanket over him. For a moment, Obi-wan gazed happily upon Cody’s sleeping face, caressing his cheek gently so he was not to wake him. Lastly, Obi-wan placed a kiss upon Cody’s forehead before standing up and whispering, 

“Goodnight Cody,” 

↼┈┈┈┈❂┈┈┈┈⇀

@ct7567329 @a-lil-perspective @mageofcole @advcntura @crying-at-ikea @stuckyjacos @crahsystor @satan-incarnate-666 @passionofthesith @mackstrut @jonathananubian @kamino-mermaid @hotnthorny @jyvorakal @xdangerouslysoftx @big1ron @blue-haired-grace @rangerslayer-97 @alienoresimagines @iironapple @revan-posting

[boughtwithaprice]

I Kissed His Books Goodbye

Kae Salonzo Perez- Dilla

April 30, 2021

It was in 2019 when one of my favorite Christian authors shocked the Christian world by announcing his separation from his wife. It was Joshua Harris, the famous author and pastor who wrote, "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" and "Boy Meets Girl" which sold millions of copies since their publication in the 90s and made him like a Christian celebrity. I was totally heartbroken when this news popped on my IG feed. A year before this devastating news, I came across Joshua Harris on Facebook and YouTube where I learned about his recent project at that time which is also the reasn why he resurfaced. He was on some documentary film of some sort where he reevaluated his very own books mentioned earlier. I have also watched his TED Ed segment where he apologized for the lives destroyed by his book. He said that he was too young when he wrote his famous books. I was puzzled at that time which led me to do more research a.k.a stalking. I am a good stalker, you know. Kidding aside! So, from there, I started stalking the Harris couple on their social media accounts. I will not forget feeling that something was already off from their relationship since they are both absent from each other's daily activities. I do not know if that is just normal with other people but to me, it isn’t. Also, it struck me that Shannon and the Harris daughters "appear" to be highly modern and very much "in the trend" kind of way when it comes to their clothes, music, and social media posts. Given that they are in the limelight of conservative believers, this is a diversion. I was not a diehard fan of Joshua Harris and so I do not really know what happened to him after writing his books, after getting married to the girl of his prayers, and after pastoring a mega church for 17 years. However, I suddenly recalled an information he disclosed in one of his books. It was about Shannon whose inches close to starting her music career but then converted to her newfound faith and so this dream career of hers was aborted. This, I strongly recalled when I found lots of her IG post informing the world that she is about to release her music albums -which her songs don’t have the slightest expression of her love for God. For a preacher’s wife, for a Christian woman, so to speak, her recent project gave me another major what-in-the-world-is-happening moment. These findings surprised me! That's why I'm not really taken aback when Joshua Harris announced that he and his wife, Shannon, are eventually divorcing. Perhaps something bigger is afoot since then.

 I know I am very late to make a fuss about Joshua Harris and his chosen path today, but I just want to express my thoughts since I kept seeing him lately. I was instantly reminded that I followed him on IG! And now I think about unfollowing him so I would be free from another stress. So, following his separation from his wife in 2019, more of his announcements on the social media just got more terrible as time pass by. He then denounced his Christian faith and joined an LGBTQ parade publicly. What worst could happen now? He has been posting his personal criticism on “Christianity" and against people "in the faith" with the notion of man's freedom being suppressed by God's will.  He makes obedience to God appear so vexing and that it’s the very thing that stifle man from enjoying earthly pleasures. He just twisted the truth about ‘love the sinner but hate the sin’. God is angry at the wicked every day and so we were all once hated by God until he shows us His grace (Psalms 7: 11). But tolerating a sinner could never equate to any form of love. Unless man sees himself as a sinner, he will never repent and seek God. Harris has numerous posts about this particular topic! As I see it, one could assume that it is his way of answering back to the spiteful comments he keeps on receiving from the Christian group. He’s making the believers look like a group of unbelievable people for hurting him with God’s truths. The truth will surely hurt him.

 There is no denying of the fact that Joshua Harris is still a hot issue among Christians today.  Every time Christians talk about relationships, Joshua and his books are brought into place. Before the declaration of his newfound path away from Christ, his books were said to be the "Bible" of Christian romance. Decades ago, Joshua and his books were often referred to when Christians tend to look for godly relationships to pattern theirs. I personally and seriously took note of the contents of his books since I was in a relationship when I read them back then. Just like the other Harris loyalists, I would always mention his name and the things I have learned from his books when giving advice to my friends both in and out of the church during girl talks. It's such a shame that I have to evaluate my old self and admit that I have passed onto others the words of Harris more than God's.  This, I humbly ask forgiveness from the Lord. And so, fast forward to the present time, look at how events have turned now. No one knows what really happened between Joshua and Shannon, but I'm pretty sure that whatever hit their relationship is a reflection of their individual relationship with God which have finally come in fruition in time. The book of Jeremiah says in chapter 7 verse 24, But they hearkened not, nor inclined their ear, but walked in the counsels and in the imagination of their evil heart, and went backward, and not forward. Whilst spending years and years of their life in the ministry, I could not help but wonder, was God really there "in" them? Frankly, although no man is in the position, it’s hard not to question their salvation thinking about what happened to them.

 Joshua Harris have said in an interview that he excommunicated himself from his church because he failed to follow the standards required by the scriptures. In his words, he sounded like he was the victim more than the traitor. To add, one of his videos on YouTube showed live reactions from the offended readers of his books. I personally think that was a clear picture answering the question of why he ended up retracting his beliefs in public. He responded to those people in oppose to what Christians should be doing when being persecuted. He wanted to please them so bad to the point where he just decided to abandon his post, leave his God or god and follow them as if that was the best decision to reach out to them. His mindset is just so disappointing. At some point, did he blame God for earning his haters? Is that why he went after people he doesn’t personally know and has no relationship with God? Was he supposed to reevaluate through the Bible or through people’s lenses? How many were Christians in that pool of readers? It was just necessary to apologize for the wrong points that resulted to misguided readers, but why leave the faith? It’s true that it takes lots of courage to face the music but I don’t see the part where leaving your faith is a new definition of bravery.

 When a Christian is found to be challenged, he ought to thrive. What happened to standing fast in the faith written in 1 Corinthians 16:13? But instead, Joshua Harris allowed the enemy to overpower him. He heard the wrong side. Well, to start with, he's probably not a genuine Christian. We don't want to judge him but again, we have been warned in Ephesians 4:14 That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive;  A Youtuber also commented that a Christian should never find his life in the Lord burdensome. Sadly, Harris has put down his cross, got tired and stopped following the Savior. A believer's walk with Christ was never promised to go through an easy road but we will always find ourselves consistently rejoicing in His grace despite the way.  Otherwise, those who are just pretending to understand the gospel will soon be revealed and will simply walk away because they were not meant to be in the fold of Christ in the first place.

 Just recently, not only Harris have denounced his faith in Christ. There were others. Although this is not new anymore because there were others even before Harris’s time, but in this age of social media, issues like this have great impact in the Christian society perceived in various wavelength. And this case has left Christiandom a question-- what do we do with the learnings gained from such persons? It is fitting to know where the line should be drawn when reading Christian books. The Lord has commanded us to daily seek Him in prayer and in the scriptures. Even the prophets enquired and searched diligently (1 Peter 1: 10). Hence, to check if the materials we read carry God’s truth in them, they must be aligned to what the Bible says. God’s words should affirm the ideas being offered to us by other books whether they appear new or not. I believe that the things I learned from Joshua’s books really helped me assess my former relationship and double check if it indeed glorifies the Lord. But I do not give credit to the author because most of the concepts of the godly dating he presented were extracted from the Bible and were inspired by the people around him that were ‘in Christ’, and Lord willing, still walking with Him until now. Joshua Harris have miserably left his once professed faith and no wonder when ‘his followers’ do the same too. The Lord only revealed the impending danger of following leaders and prominent individuals with such devotion that should only belong to God. We should be vigilant and be fully aware of where and with whom do we pour our faith into. 2 Peter 3:17, KJV: "Ye therefore, beloved, seeing ye know these things before, beware lest ye also, being led away with the error of the wicked, fall from your own steadfastness."

 The books written by Joshua Harris have heavily influenced his Christian readers. However, more than those pages that illuminated his beliefs before, what would really speak for himself is the life he chose to live today. I have kissed dating goodbye long time ago, not because of his books, but because God has been gracious to me and provided me a godly man to marry. I won’t recommend Joshua’s books but I will be keeping them. If people see them on my shelf one day, I know significant lessons could be drawn from them --more than courtship and dating, but particularly about a Christian’s walk with Christ.  

  We are in the end times and we are witnessing the falling away of man as said in 2 Thessalonians 2:3. But by God’s grace, His true children will persevere until His glorious return. The sad story of Joshua Harris just proved that our God is a perfect God who is solely worthy of receiving man’s adoration and trust. Not that He needs any of it, but it’s just crystal clear that no one else does. And that no earthly relationship should we model ours after except that of Christ and His love for the church which we could learn nowhere else but from the scriptures.

 Isaiah 40:25-31 

To whom then will ye liken me, or shall I be equal? saith the Holy One. 

Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these things, that bringeth out their host by number: he calleth them all by names by the greatness of his might, for that he is strong in power; not one faileth. 

Why sayest thou, O Jacob, and speakest, O Israel, My way is hid from the LORD, and my judgment is passed over from my God? 

Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the LORD, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding. 

He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. 

Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: 

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. 

[asgardianthot]

Hunting Season (sambucky) – Part 2

Series Masterlist

Summary: The Barnes family is your average rich people circus. With Bucky’s post-breakup financial depression, and a literal treasure hunt at stake, his best friend Sam finds himself in a mad situation in order to help him. They sure can pretend to be together, but that’s just the easy part.

Words: 3810

"So how do we do this?" Sam asked.

He was brushing his teeth with the door open so he could glance at Bucky, who sat on the edge of Sam's bed. He was going to give his friend the bed back once they fully decided to go to sleep and Bucky took the couch, again, but for now, he was enjoying the comfort of a bedroom. He always did find comfort in Sam and his hospitality, after all. He remembered that one Christmas the Barnes spent in the French Alps, the one Bucky avoided because he had just broken up with Rumlow for the first time; Sam was kind enough to invite him to the Wilsons for the holidays, and that was when Bucky realized where his friend got his charm and kindness. Sam's entire family were the most welcoming people Bucky had ever encountered, which made him wish he had been born into a home like that.

As Sam spit the toothpaste and rinsed his mouth, Bucky thought of the specificities of their plan. At the realization that, if his parents had sat through several different relationships with the same Brock Rumlow, they probably wouldn't blink at the sight of a new man, he felt that the plan wouldn't be too complicated after all.

"I don't know." He shrugged, "Can you pretend to be gay?"

While Bucky's question was asked nonchalantly, Sam received it like a suckerpunch. It was supposed to be an easy answer, however the topic was a delicate one for Sam. Not that Bucky knew anything about it, but Sam kept a few secrets to himself. And since his friend had only ever seen him dating girls...

"Easy peasy." Sam faked a smile before cleaning his chin with a clean towel, "It's pretending I like you that's gonna be tough." He joked.

"Funny." Bucky said without a hint of amusement.

Eventually, Sam returned to his original concerns. The stakes weren't too high for him, but if Bucky got caught with this, he would never hear the end of it. Who knew what his parents would put him through, and Bucky had already mentioned something about being banned from the annual hunt for life, losing all hopes of ever getting the slightest fraction of Nana's money. Those two million dollars could mean everything to Bucky, so they really had to put on a show.

He walked back to his room and gestured his guest to give him some room, next to him. Bucky granted him the space, and they both sat in their own seriousness.

"No, but seriously, do we have to kiss and stuff?" Sam asked.

Bucky reflected on it.

"Maybe. I mean, we gotta make it believable."

The other man nodded, taking in the idea of kissing Bucky, even if just for an act, until Bucky's words caught him by surprise.

"Wanna practice?"

Sam raised his eyebrows, and cleared his throat with nervousness, "Uh, sure."

Nevertheless, he was met by a very amused Bucky, who happened to have been holding in his laughter. When he cracked up, falling back on the bed with pride on his own joke, Sam de-tensed.

"I'm kidding, dude." He threw a light punch to Sam's back, "We pro'ly won't even kiss through the entire week. Family's real uptight when they wanna be."

Sam let out a breath only he could hear, hopefully, and pretended to be comfortable with the entire situation.

"Okay, but if we do have to kiss, it better look real."

-

Day 1.

The time had come, and spirits weren't great. Sam had his shit together, luckily, but Bucky wasn't as confident. In the ride from the station to the lake house, they both sat at the back of the taxi, trying to prepare for the upcoming week. Eight full days of acting couldn't be too easy, but Sam was calm.

James looked the polar opposite, as he tried to keep his cool, mumbling to himself.

"Deep breaths." He told Sam like he was doing the calming for both of them, and it brought a small smirk to Sam's lips.

He watched his friend breathe in and out with his eyes closed, and he feared he might have a mental breakdown before they even got the chance to reach the house.

"Hey, I got this." He reminded Bucky, in attempts to ease his worries.

"God, I really hope you do."

Suddenly, the panoramic of the gigantic residence came to their field of vision. The two-story house had direct access to the lake, along with stored kayaks and sailing equipment. There was a -- floating there, unused, marking the family's possessions, and facing the big garden that separated the house from the water.

As soon as the vehicle stopped in the entrance, an employee came out to take care of their bags. Sam gave Bucky an odd look, himself not being used to maids and being served like that, to which Bucky only pressed his lips together. That's the Barnes way.

"Oh, come inside!" Bucky's mother welcomed them, ushering them inside.

They both obeyed and walked up the three steps to the door, finally entering the house. Before either of them got the chance to speak, though, Winnifred began theatricalizing.

"You poor things, it's so hot outside!" she lamented while pressing a hand to her chest.

Bucky tried, and failed, to reject her drama, "It's not that-"

"You must be Samuel." She ignored her son, and continued to ramble over Sam's attempts to at least say hello, "You want a drink? It's too hot."

The guest eyed Bucky, who was just staring into nothingness. If his eyes could speak, they would have been saying 'yep, sounds about right.'

"Uh, sure." Sam accepted, "Thank you, ma'am. I'm so glad-"

"There he is!" he was cut off by Bucky's father, who walked into the welcoming hall with his arms extended, "The man of the hour."

The two men shook hands.

"Sir." Sam nodded.

"Oh, please, it's George."

Sam opened his mouth to say something polite, when the woman interrupted him once more.

"And Winnifred." She added.

This time, Sam waited for a gap in the conversation. He hadn't been able to lay out a single sentence to the married couple, so he awkwardly waited for them to interrupt him, but when the silence extended for too long, he smiled, nervously.

"George and Winnifred, then." He agreed, nodding, "It's nice to meet you."

"James tells me you teach." Winnifred jumped right into the discussion.

"I do." Sam smiled, "History."

"Which school?"

"Mom, don't be a snob." Bucky warned her.

"I'm just asking him a question." She pledged innocence, as usual.

As much as the question of academic elitism bothered Sam, he had to remain polite. He hated gratifying rich people like that by disclosing the snob university where he worked. Sometimes he wanted to quit and go back to where he started, small high schools, poorly funded programs... for now, though, he had unpaid student debt and a two million dollar hunt to win.

"It's alright." He bit back his pride and dismissed it, "I'm teaching at Princeton right now."

Winnifred raised her eyebrows with one half excitement and one half surprise.

"That's a fine school." She showed how impressed she was.

The woman probably thought Bucky couldn't do better than the family friend business trash. She probably figured her son was too stupid for a Princeton professor, much less to settle down with one. It didn't add to the bad image Sam already had of her.

"I have some contacts in Harvard, could get you a spot." George butt in.

"Dad."

"Thank you, sir, that's not necessary." Sam rejected very gracefully, "I love my job and I certainly can't leave my students."

George gave him a respectful nod, while Winnifred gave his son a look, one that yelled well done. The interaction had gone better than any of them had expected, making Bucky forget every concern he had before. When they moved to the living room, which was right next door, the fake couple exchanged some victorious glances. Feeling much more confident now, Bucky pointed to the old lady sitting at the end of the room.

"Sam, I'm honored to introduce you to Nana Barnes." He dramatized in order to annoy the woman.

She looked like the kind of grandmother who had strong opinions on people and therefore, favorites, and Bucky sure acted like the favorite, teasing her with the confidence that she wouldn't mind. Nana didn't bother standing up. She was wearing a conservative black dress, reading glasses and she held a glass of Champaign on her hand. The matriarch look suited her wonderfully.

"I've heard many good things." Sam approached her, extending his hand.

While shaking the young man's hand, Nana eyed him up and down.

"You're handsome." She said in a powerful tone, "Much better looking than the last one."

Nervously, Sam fixed his tie and cleared his throat.

"Thank you." He frowned amusingly, not sure if he was meant to take the compliment or not.

"Are you an idiot like him?"

Sam tilted his head, "Excuse me?"

"That Rumlow boy, he was an ass. Couldn't tell his south from his north. Now, are you a smart man?"

Sam looked back at Bucky, who merely gave him a thumbs up as he backed away and left the two alone. It was only then that Sam noticed Bucky's parents had abandoned him as well. He accepted his situation, and sat down on the chair next to her.

"I... like to think so." He smiled, "I sure hope so, or else I'm teaching the next generation to be just as dumb."

"Ah, so I've heard." She spoke like it was the first thing she fully approved of, "It's a nice break from all the dull business men in our family. Is Jamie planning to live off your Princeton check?"

This time, the harsh question caught him less off-guard, "No, ma'am, I'm just helping him get back on his feet."

The lady narrowed her eyes like she was quizzing the new boyfriend.

"How long have you known my grandson?"

The fake couple had prepared a whole concocted tale, but right there, in front of the matriarch who worshipped the truth, he figured telling her the real story wouldn't hurt.

"I don't even know. Probably... six years?" the realness behind his words made Nana seem interested, "We met through other people, next thing I know we're best friends for good. Couldn't shake him off my back."

The woman laughed, "He can't help it, the Barnes have bloodsucker in their DNA."

Bucky had mentioned at some point, how the woman referred to the Barnes as simply the family she had married into when it came to pointing out their flaws, yet called herself a Barnes when it suited her. Sam, however, held in any type of snarky comment or laughter, and made an effort to remain excessively polite. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the façade for long, or at least not for the entire week, so he made sure to make the best first impression possible.

"No, Bucky's not like that.” He defended the man, although he immediately decided against contradicting the matriarch; he raised one hand in retreat, “I mean, you've known him all his life, so what do I know? But, uh… he's not that kind of friend."

The last word brought a smear of annoyance to the woman’s features, considering Sam had used it twice already.

"You can say boyfriend, Samuel, I'm not a prude." She protested.

Suddenly, Sam realized he was being too genuine. The way he spoke about Bucky was so truthful, he forgot for a second that he was meant to pretend to be his loving partner.

"Yes, boyfriend. Sorry."

In the welcoming hall, Bucky was thanking the service for getting his bags upstairs. He noticed a taxi parked outside, and he figured his cousin or one of his uncles had arrived, but as he wiped sweat from his forehead, the door opened, and his sister Rebecca walked in. As to be expected, she was dressed to impress in a light blue skirt and a sunny hat, wearing the additional drops of sweat that fell down her neck like an accessory.

"What are you doing here?” Bucky ambushed her, not too happy to see her, “You said you wouldn't make it."

The young woman didn’t seem offended by her welcoming, for she knew she was about to lie.

"I decided to spend some time with my family." She smiled brightly, reaching to hug her brother.

"Bull.” He stopped her. “What happened?"

Rebecca sighed, "Why do you always assume something's happened?"

"Because I'm the one picking up your slacks and shoving it under the rug." Bucky spat, looking around to check that nobody was listening.

"My hero." She rolled her eyes.

"Someone has to keep making you look perfect."

The words hit her, but she didn’t wince. Her face fell minimally, which was her own way of accepting it. Bucky was right, after all, because for years he had helped her out in every singl one of her fuck-ups, never asking for anything back, which resulted in their parents beliving their little girl to be a practical angel, while James remained the family screw up. The thing was, both siblings were emotional trainwrecks, but Bucky was the only one who got any backlash for it.

"So what was it?” he asked again, this time much more relaxed, “Boyfriend? Boyfriend's wife?"

"Actually...” Rebecca lowered her voice, “It's money. I need to win the hunt this year."

Bucky couldn’t believe his ears. Rebecca had only joined the family vacations to ruin his plans.

"I need to win the hunt this year." He was quick to shake his head.

"You don't understand, I owe a shit ton or money, James.” Unfortunately, his sister was just as enthusiastic about her own issues, “It's bad."

"Then get a loan from dad." He proposed in a very order-like tone, for he knew their father would give Rebecca money, while never offering Bucky a penny.

"He can't know I'm in debt!" she whisper-shouted.

Bucky took a deep breath and massaged his temples, still in disbelief that they were in this situation to begin with. He had brought his best friend into this, for all sakes. He couldn’t lose the money to his little sister. He wanted to explain to her how he was penny-less and had been enduring their parent’s hellfire for weeks, but Rebecca already knew that, and if that alone didn’t bring out her empathy, no amount of persuasion would. He wanted to tell her exactly what kind of treatment he had received in their parent’s house, but of course, Rebecca must have already guessed.

As much as he wanted to keep fighting, Sam joined them, and the two siblings were distracted from the argument.

"Samuel Wilson, why on earth are you in this shithole?"

Sam was baffled, as they hadn’t even spent half an hour there, and things were already not going according to plan. Bucky had sworn Rebecca wouldn’t be there, which was good, because Rebecca knew Sam and she knew that their relationship was not at all romantic.

"Good to see you too." He said, trying his best to ignore her obvious confusion and walking closer to Bucky, "Uh, your folks-"

"Sweetheart, you made it!" Winnifred’s exclamation echoed across the room.

"Of course, mama." Rebecca faked enthusiasm as she opened her arms.

"I see you've met Jamie's boyfriend." The siblings’ mother remarked as she gave Rebecca a quick hug.

Even before the contact was over, Rebecca was frowning.

"Boyfriend?"

Think, quickly.

"Yes, boyfriend. “ Bucky said loudly; perhaps too loudly to be believable, “We didn't wanna say. Thanks for ruining the newsbreak, mom." He faked discourage.

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest, "No, you're not."

Desperate to play it out, Sam pressed a hand to the low of Bucky’s back, in an attempt to show affection and commodity with one another. Bucky, however, froze a little, because it was the first time Sam had done something like that and it felt more than just odd.

"We sure are." Sam grinned.

"Yeah, it just..." Bucky failed to imitate his fake boyfriend’s confidence as he scratched his brow and struggled with words, "Just sort of happened. We were going to tell you."

The room went silent, and Rebecca definitely wasn’t convinced. In fact, she saw straight through both of them and deciphered the truth behind the masquerade in a matter of seconds, which didn’t amuse her at all. They were going to take her prize away.

"Bucky's cheating." She said.

"Excuse me?” Winnifred opened her eyes wide, offended at what the accusation implied.

"At the hunt.” The young woman continued, earning a pleading look from her brother, who begged her not to out his lies; thankfully, she proceeded with a mocking tone, “He knows Nana's biased for couples, so he dragged his boyfriend to this freakshow."

Both Sam and Bucky felt like they had been given a second life, and they quickly laughed it off to dissimulate. Winnifred made a comment about her daughter’s choice of words while they all moved back to the living room, and although what had just happened was a sign that Rebecca wouldn’t out them, all three involved never got their eyes off each other.

-

Dinnertime was an event for the whole family. Others had arrived with their own luggage, setting three different generations in one table. Sam could only feel how strongly out of place he was, among the fancy drinks and conversations about business and family companies. He was learning a hell of a lot about Bucky’s family, though. The fortune was earned by the parents of the deceased grandfather, and he had been the one to ‘make them all rich assholes’, according to Bucky’s words.

"Aside from us and Becca, everyone here just wants to win the hunt for their ego.” He explained in whispers, leaning closer to Sam to not be overheard by the rest of the family, “It's just a fun tradition to them."

"I bet it's fun, getting four millions a year." Sam snorted quietly.

It made Bucky laugh, which got the attention of his aunt. She eyed the couple like they were just so cute together, and it only then occurred to Bucky that maybe they did.

"Oh, I forgot about Uncle Milo.” He gestured to an old and nice-looking man at the other end of the table. “Grandpa Theodore's brother, he's after the fortune."

Sam didn’t believe his friend, for it sounded like cliché rich family drama, something out of a soap opera. However, the young Barnes explained that the cliché was real, and that Uncle Milo had gambled his share of the fortune away, so he maintained his proximity to Nana in a desperate attempt to get it all back, the money, the house, everything. He soon continued explaining the rest of the less relevant characters: George's brother Teddy and his wife Andrea, who had a son about their age; cousin Colin. He was a dull creature and he looked like he'd come out of a Lacoste magazine, both him and his Ivy-league-college-sweetheart fiancée did. The third Barnes sibling was Aunt Ida, who had no children but was happily divorced.

“Are we all done with desert?” Nana stood up from her chair.

Cousin Colin raised his fork to speak and say that he hadn’t, but Nana didn’t seem to care.

“Wonderful. Alright, let’s get this over with.”

“No speech, Nana?” Bucky teased her.

“No, you’re all well aware. Except for Samuel, but he’s a smart man, he’ll catch up.” She winked at him.

That was apparently a good sign. She liked Sam.

“The first clue is very easy: just the meaning behind it all.” The woman chuckled at the end of her sentence, earning a few confused looks, “I didn’t hide it very well. You’ll find it if you search for it.”

Every guest remained seated. Knowing the woman, she wasn’t kidding, and this was just a riddle they were supposed to decipher, but they never failed to give her the benefit of the doubt that perhaps, just maybe one time, she would give them a real clue instead of messing with them as much as she could. Nana raised her glass of Champaign as a toast.

“Happy Hunting.” She smirked to the glass before chugging it down.

-

They seemed to be walking around aimlessly, just as the rest of the participants. This sounded like more of a mental riddle to fix by themselves, instead of an actual clue that was hidden somewhere. Bucky had the idea to look around grandpa Theodore’s old room in search for something emotional, although that didn’t sound like Nana, but she had told them to look for the meaning behind it all- she could have meant the meaning of the hunt. When Sam’s brain clicked, he grabbed Bucky’s arm to stop him.

"I got an idea." He announced.

Bucky glanced down at his arm, which was still being held by Sam.

"What're you thinking?" he raised an eyebrow.

"I'm guessing you guys have a library?"

Bucky nodded, "Smart."

Once they found the library, they were submerged in stillness. They shut the door so they wouldn’t give anyone else the same idea, and turned on the lights; the room was probably the calmest one in the entire house. There were high shelves with old books, two dusty reading chairs and a coffee table. Sam figured he wouldn’t mind spending some time there.

"What are we looking for?" James asked in a low voice.

Sam ran his fingers through the shelves for a few seconds, lurking for that one specific piece of literature he had in mind.

“Viktor Frankl.” Sam mumbled, concentrated on his task.

When he found the title, he pulled the book out and offered it to Bucky. Man’s search for meaning, 1946. It was too classical for fancy college men not to have heard of it, but the riddle was a tad too complicated for them. It was as if Nana had expected Sam to guess it first. Bucky caressed the cover, taking in the title and internally understanding the joke. The meaning behind it all. You’ll find it if you search for it.

He let a soft chuckle escape his lips as he opened the book and searched through the pages. Sam leaned in too close, over his shoulder, and Bucky couldn’t help but feel weird at the sensation of Sam’s breath hitting the back of his neck. He didn’t believe it was okay to even notice that sort of thing.

Suddenly, an envelope fell from the book, and Bucky looked back at Sam with amusement.

“That tricky old hag.” He laughed.

-

A/N: I know this wasn’t too exciting lol but it was more of an introduction chapter:/ next part will have your much needed fluff and intensity! Thank you so much for reading xx

[createdbyinvisibles]

A summer delicacy

  If you were to ask someone the exact objective of Team Taka, you would get a surprising variety of answers. This cause to the effect so to speak was because Team Taka, like any team, was a reflection of its leader, a leader who was absolutely belligerent. So it was indeed a surprise when even with all of this in mind, Suigetsu, the mischievous water gremlin he was, somehow convinced Sasuke to buy him jelly. The rare and expensive Hakuto jelly to be correct.  

  ""Simple peaches," home of the famous Hakuto jelly", not in a million years, would I have thought I'd be able to come here." Suigetsu stated in quiet awe of the shop that stood before him, Sasuke, in turn, rolled his eyes.

   "And you're certain that Itachi would come to a place like this?" Sasuke grumbled, his eyes scrutinizing the tiny shack that was this fabled establishment Suigetsu was so worked up about.

  "Well, didn't you say to yourself that Itachi had a bit of a sweet tooth?" Suigetsu asked, to which Sasuke nodded.

  "Well if Itachi had any basic sense of taste, then there is no doubt in my mind that he'd want to come to the shop, with some of the best fruit jellies ever made. It's practically a right of passage into heaven, not that I'd actually make it into heaven, but might as well try it before I get kicked down into Hell am I right?" Suigetsu teased only to have Sasuke walk ahead of him into the shop grimly.

   "We're here to collect information, I would hate to see you get sidetracked," Sasuke commanded, annoyed, as usual. Suigetsu giving a scoff followed Sasuke into the shop trying his best to keep upbeat, for he'd instead have hell freeze over then let Sasuke ruin this day. It was a hard task though, for no matter how many days he spent with this team, he never failed to hate Sasuke's pushy orders from the first time he met the duck butt.

                                                           ❤

   The shop was cramped, and in the unbearable summer heat, this day brought, it was nothing short of torture for Sasuke, glaring at the sun he sat on the pathetic hunk of splintered wood this establishment called a bench. Suigetsu however, didn't mind for he was simply enraptured by four peachy orange domes jiggling in happy harmony on his plate. "Suigetsu, remember our objective is to scout for Itachi," Sasuke remarked impatiently, he, believe it or not, was actually trying very hard not to lose it. But as the beating sun soaked into his dino head, he might well have been using chakra to keep himself in the emotionally vacant state he was in now. 

   "Yeah, yeah whatever," Suigetsu muttered, his full attention onto the jellies themselves and with wide eyes and a slight tremor from his hand he took a bite of the jelly he had long craved. With the plop of Suigetsu's spoon falling to the bench, Suigetsu was frozen in what could be described as the best he had ever felt in years. His racing with thoughts also felt as blank as ever, nothing mattered, and somehow everything did. And as the refreshing jelly dissolved on his tongue, he could feel streams of water fall from his eyes.

    "Suigetsu, don't tell me you're actually crying over some jelly," Sasuke scoffed but when he heard nothing, not even the slightest sneer from Suigetsu. He darted his blank jet coloured eyes over to find Suigetsu with his face on eye level with the jellies, his tongue scraping one of the jelly domes in some desperate way to conserve his sacred dessert. In response to this, Sasuke felt nothing but pure disgust for his teammate and with urgency stood up. "I'm going to look for information, I'll be back later," Suigetsu didn't listen, didn't care.

                                                         ❤

   "I'm very sorry sir, but the last four we had on stock were just bought," A service lady informed Itachi, his blank stoic face hiding his personal disappointment and frustration. It hadn't been an easy feat to reach this place, his heavy black cloak doing him no favours against the beating summer sun. And now it seemed he would have to turn back, again, it was like clockwork how this shop always seemed to be out of stock every time Itachi so much as thought, about stopping by to try this rare delicacy. Was it karma, perhaps? A possible grudge? No, that couldn't be possible, no one really knew of the Akatsuki, and he doubted a small-time shack would not only know his identity but harbour a grudge on him. No, he was simply unlucky, and with a shrug, he walked out to find on a shabby chipped wooden bench, two out of the four jellies he had sought after. 

   Suigetsu finishing his second jelly dome was about to move on to a third but stopped, he felt like he was being watched. Mimicking a stretch, Suigetsu turned his head slightly to find a tall cloaked blank-eyed man staring at him intently as if it was his plan to be noticed all along. "Hakuto jelly can be found in a variety of places, but what makes this place special is it's the use of fresh mountain mineral water and homegrown peaches, peaches that on their own are worth its weight in gold." Itachi clinically stated as he took a seat on the bench next to Suigetsu, his eyes fixed onto the two untouched domes that seemed to be worth its weight in platinum. 

   "Oh, thanks for the fact I guess," Suigetsu rolled his eyes, he didn't like being stared at, much less while he was eating. 

   "Is that by any chance a spoon," Itachi asked. It was a wonder to Suigetsu on how he noticed the spoon in the first place, since Itachi's eyes never seemed to have left him.

    "Yeah, it came with my meal, but it felt foolish to risk the jelly falling onto the floor. So I decided by eating it directly I could minimize the amount of food I spilt." Suigetsu explained, the blank-eyed man nodded quietly in response, and before Suigetsu could ask who he was, he was suddenly snapped back into reality. It was then that Suigetsu realized he was under a genjutsu and a powerful one at that. As Suigetsu went to resume eating his jelly, he saw a spoon resting intrusively in the place that belonged to his sacred dessert. "It seems your hunch was wrong, Itachi was nowhere to be seen," Sasuke grumbled, promptly bringing Suigetsu out of his train of thought. 

   "It's gone," Suigetsu muttered aloud to himself.

   "What's gone?" Sasuke inquired irritated.

   "My jelly…" Suigetsu trailed off. "My jelly!!!!" Suigetsu exclaimed  angrily.

  "You mean the jelly on your cheek?" Sasuke responded cooly, utterly    unimpressed with Suigetsu's little outburst.

  "That wasn't me," Suigetsu exclaimed subconsciously, licking the remaining jelly on his cheek, the sweet flavour calming him down.

  "It wasn't you? Okay then… If it wasn't you, then who was it?" Sasuke humoured slightly with a glare.

  "...The cloak man!" Suigetsu exclaimed in angry realization. 

  "The cloak man?" Sasuke asked skeptically.

  "He must have knocked me out, to eat the jelly... But when?! He was making eye contact with me the whole time…" Suigetsu trailed off in deep thought to the grumbles of Sasuke.

  "So let me get this straight, you think that a cloaked man knocked you out and ate the rest of your jelly. Despite the fact, you never saw him do anything and left just when I saw you with the jelly all over your face?" Sasuke asked in irritation.

  "Yes," Suigetsu answered in such seriousness it caused Sasuke to close his eyes in utter exasperation. 

  Letting out a deep sigh, Sasuke then turned his back to face Suigetsu's confused figure. "Suigetsu?" Sasuke called out coldly.

  "Yeah?" Suigetsu answered.

   "We're leaving to meet the others now, you have one minute to follow me. Don't waste my time." Sasuke demanded, spitting his words out like pure venom before he stomped off. 

   As Suigetsu watched Sasuke stomp off, it was then he realized it was probably not the best idea to ask him to buy more of the jelly he was cheated out of by that mysteriously cloaked blank-eyed man.

[simsofsanmyshunoandmore]

Alastair Abrams was the adopted son of the famous pioneers of LGBT awareness in SimWorld. A writer-activist like one of his dads, Alastair aims to continue the legacy his fathers left him to preserve. He works with a non-profit organization that funds free psychological services of troubled LGBT youths and legal representations for extreme cases. His contribution is to write research and feature articles that highlight the struggles of the LGBT community in the society to further the cause through information and education of the public through real and authentic cases.

When Alastair was adopted by his gay dads, he was around five years of age. People say that his gay dads turned him gay when they adopted him and that was an immoral influence over an innocent child. From this point forward, the Abrams household have been a controversial family in the conservative town of Newcrest. His fathers did not tolerate this discrimination and spearheaded one of the first notable celebrations of Pride. Both of his parents urged and proposed an ordinance to prohibit discrimination against LGBT individuals. The arguments were long and exhaustive against a mostly conservative line of councilpersons. Alastair was awakened to a pressing and objectifying social issue at a very young age. He saw the fight his fathers had trudged through just to protect them and give them an opportunity to have a safe and legally secure lives. Newcrest was the first town in SimCity to make discrimination against the LGBT community a crime. To this, Alastair sought to it to make it his responsibility to enforce this law and be vigilant against hate crimes. Despite being only a high school student at that time, Alastair has inherited the passion and grit his parents had shown him as he grew up. He embraced his identity as the son of the only gay couple in Newcrest and he wanted to establish that image further to be an icon himself of Pride and the LGBT community.

Despite rumors and backlash against his fathers’ influence that made him gay, Alastair realized his sexuality differently from this narrative. Alastair never had crushes in elementary. He had a few friends, but no one knew who he fancied in class. Alastair also did not take this aspect of development seriously. He focused on his artistic passion and his aspiration to become a writer in the future. He was a serious, steadfast and a no-nonsense kind of boy who performed well in his academic endeavors. His classmates did not pay him much attention as his reputation had sent several students to detention and sanctions for laying him a finger or verbally assaulting him at the slightest. Alastair used justice to protect him and in that alone he laid his faith. Perhaps it was the unsafe environment that kept Alastair out of normal and ideal development because he was vigilant towards the injustices he saw from his fathers’ battle against a massive social issue. He and his fathers were focused on keeping them safe from hate crimes and those who opposed their liberated mindset in the town. It pressured him to look inwards and make his life more visible but at the same time, safe and sound.

At the start of his high school journey, Alastair was terrified to the new set of classmates he would meet. He was afraid to be the only different kid in the entire batch, but at the same time, he felt it was a chance to be a pioneer on his own right. He feigned bravery the first day and entered the classroom with his head held high. No one paid him any attention and he just felt lost in a rowdy crowd of adolescents like him. However at the farthest corner of the classroom where it was seemingly quiet, there was a boy who caught his attention. He was sitting alone, reading his book. It was the first time his heart beat differently out of a newfound fascination over someone. This boy was rather plain and could easily be lost in a group of people but that in itself made him distinguishable in a room filled with extraverted teenagers.

Alastair introduced himself to Jacob and sat beside him to enjoy the backseats where the noise from the front row popular kids cannot reach them. Alastair felt giddy to be seated beside Jacob that day and for the rest of the days to come through the year. Their interactions were all profoundly interesting. They shared the same likes and dislikes and Jacob was even more fun to be with when he would talk about fashion and couture. Alastair found to enjoy a novel nature of happiness when he was with Jacob. He’d be staring at him as Jacob would talk and share his day as if Alastair could completely immerse himself in the space he shared with Jacob in the farthest row. It took him a year to conclude his feelings for him and his sexuality as well. Even though he knew he was gay, and that he had deep romantic feelings for Jacob, Alastair never said a word to his dear friend. It broke his heart when Lance, one of the devious high school bullies, came out to the entire batch and declared Jacob to be his prom date. Alastair’s fears to be rejected by the first person that mattered to him dearly in that way deprived him of the possibility Lance was courageous enough to grab.

High school ended with Jacob still being a dear friend, and Alastair being the steadfast and serious student he always were. Nothing changed and that was the opposite of what his fathers’ endeavors were for. People should be free and have the courage to love who they want to love, but Alastair failed to proliferate that for his own life. He kept quiet and let the fear devour his hopes to pursue the first attraction he ever had for someone else. Alastair tried to move on during college by distancing himself from Jacob through the years. It did work well for him as he was able to graduate college with the highest honors. However when he received invitations for Jacob and Lance’s wedding, his wounds reopened under the thick scars that hid his pain.

With nothing else to distract him from the events, Alastair decided to immerse himself in volunteering activities and his stride to achieve equality with the LGBT community. He focused on his advocacy and launched his own projects to help the organization he worked for. The reverence and recognitions rekindled the fire he witnessed his two gay dads had before. At that time, his fathers motivation was rooted to their love for their adopted son; to be protected and respected by the society as who he is. Alastair’s footsteps came from a different origin. He figured that maybe if he just wasn’t scared at all before, that he also took time to understand what really being gay meant for himself, than just reading about it and watching LGBT issues from the media, then maybe he could have had a fruitful relationship with the first guy he ever liked. He was lost in his own advocacy that the small things got lost in the narrative. His dads knew what they were doing and where their tree grew tall and towering. At the height of that tree, Alastair witnessed the bigger picture and the expanse of the community that needed their own representations. He forgot his own to go own and plant his inspiration for himself when he first realized his sexuality. Alastair may have started late in that acceptance and acknowledgement, but he believed that it was still an effort worth making.

Alastair’s parents died when he was in college so he inherited their house back in Newcrest. It was relatively big and had to have an enormous amount of money to be renovated to his style. It was a good thing that his dads left him a good sum to start his own life fresh and new. After the renovations, Alastair remodeled the house and invited his best friend Miko to move in with him. For the next few years, he continued his efforts to educate people of the LGBT culture and teach empathy and acceptance to parents who need guidance for their children who come out as an LGBT person. Alastair wanted to start fresh like his fathers envisioned him to, and while he wanted to actualize it for himself, seeing Jacob occasionally become a haunting tragedy of a what-if that started in high school. He ponders to confess, but it just bred another kind of fear he thought he had relieved himself from.

               He tried dating other guys, but his attempts always left him alone and wanting more of that intimate connection. Years had passed by and people he knew in high school have started their own families in good marriages. Alastair lost the race to secure a deep-seated relationship with a significant other. He went back to online dating and not so long after browsing other users, a spectacled Glimmerbrook resident caught his eye. Despite feeling hopeful about his first date, Alastair saw Thomax Boykin as somehow quieter and more reserved than he wanted his guys. Thomax was shy and tremendously less flamboyant than the men Alastair had gone out with. Nonetheless, there was someone between them that established their boundaries, but at the same time connected their stories together. Dating Thomax was rather slow, but steady. Alastair was scared that all these times would be for naught in the end, but he couldn’t give up for the progress he had had. After some reflection and tons of rumination with his best friend Miko, Alastair placed all his bets on making the most of the present with Thomax and displace that hopefulness he had for Jacob to someone who was actually available for him. If there was one thing that his dads always personified in his life, it was hope for a better future, and if his dads could spend the majority of their lives securing that future for the son they loved the most, then he could have the same love for himself and the same hope for the future his dads have fought for.

[xlady-saya]

I want this touch to be familiar [Ch. 3]

Relationships: andrew/neil, side aaron/katelyn

Summary: Deep down, Andrew knew he would always reach this crossroads, a time where the thought became too strong to ignore.

Going all the way with Neil. It’s not something he can continue to avoid thinking about. When Andrew looks back to the days where he held Neil’s hands down, when he never got off with him in the same room, he’s forced to acknowledge how much he’s allowed.

Not allowed. Welcomed. Wanted.

But that’s not all there is to it, and the desire to make a decision finally makes itself known.

Tags: first time fic, p*rn with feelings, relationship study, fluff and communication, multichapter

Read on ao3!

They do in fact, kick Kevin out.

To say it's extremely satisfying is an understatement, and Andrew doesn't try to deny himself the feeling. In this case, it's deserved, and a long time coming.

Kevin's not happy about it, especially since they offer him no further explanation. They've never asked for privacy so explicitly; Andrew never realized it before, how they’re used to accommodating everyone else, used to waiting until Kevin and the Foxes aren’t around to have their time to themselves.

Rushed, heated, timed.

This had been different. This time Andrew let himself be greedy. Nicky at least reads the mood well enough to make himself scarce. Andrew doesn’t care about the teasing; he’s adamant about his reasons, the need to carve out time to navigate this new experience. Not only that...but something possessive and antsy fuels him in the moment. This is just for him and Neil.

He won't risk a walk in and a hasty cover up.

All Andrew has to do is drop Thea's name and threaten to do Neil in the locker room for Kevin to finally get the damn hint and fuck off.

Dealing with Kevin is familiar territory, even post their deal. It's nicer, letting him fend for himself while not cutting the relationship loose entirely, but Andrew's concept of friendship is one he's still exploring and definitely not something he needs to think about right now.

Right now...right now is not familiar territory.

He walks back to the bedroom as Kevin mutters about having to leave, out of Andrew's mind before he's even out of sight.

He's distracted, so focused, lost.

There are glimpses of the familiarity he craves though, remembered through his own fingertips and his memory. The promise of soft lips and scars that follow the curve of a runner's body, hips pressed down and warmth. Neil.

Neil, who is ready and fresh from an extra long shower.

As soon as he crosses into the bedroom, the presence is electric, Andrew almost thinks the static will shoot from his fingertips. He doesn't know how Neil ever survived on the run, how he ever blended in. His everything is loud. Before the slam of the front door even echoes through the dorm room, Andrew's eyes are on him. It would almost be amusing, seeing the little jump of Neil's shoulders at the intensity, if he wasn't so taken by the mere sight of him.

Of course he finds his gaze already returned by the striker, all fire and an almost beckoning quality.

Nicky would probably call the look 'fuck me eyes,' and for once Andrew is inclined to agree.

He intends to.

A shiver runs down his spine at the thought; he watches Neil bite his bottom lip, plush beneath his teeth, and Andrew licks his own from the muscle memory. He’s chased after those lips so many times…He wants to bite down, to claim them, as if he has to. Neil only ever looks at him, and the fantasy already begins to cloud Andrew's mind.

He’s it for Neil, Andrew’s brain tells him then, stroking the flame. His first. Andrew pushes that thought away, too optimistic, too ideal, and fiercely territorial. The thought he’ll have Neil forever…it’s too much to bring into the equation.

Especially when Neil won't stop rubbing his fucking thighs together.

The striker squirms in place on the bed, not subtle in the slightest as he checks Andrew out from head to toe. Neil lingers on the line of Andrew’s shoulders, swallowing a second after. Andrew revises; nothing about Neil is subtle these days, so he shouldn’t be this surprised.  That smart, short-tempered mouth and looks which attract the whole crowd at Eden's.

And yet, Neil never gave a damn about anyone else.

Right then, the reminder cracks the walls around him.

Because they both think about this. They both want. Neil doesn't try to hide from him.

Nerves, excitement, and all the things Andrew cannot express are reflected back at him with how Neil leans back without thinking about it, stretching out.

When Andrew huffs the ghost of a laugh, his walls beginning to crumble, Neil's eyes brighten in interest.

This is ridiculous. It's so ridiculous, because Neil should be the farthest thing from sexy right then. He's in his armbands and one of Andrew's old ratty shirts, the one he's told Neil time and time again to throw away but to no avail. The loose threads and dulled color bring Andrew back to a time where Neil only wore old, thrifted clothes. Too big around the shoulders, neckline distorted, but Neil clings to it for comfort, not necessity. Not because he has nothing else or has to conserve his money.

'It's yours,' had been Neil's only explanation.

And can Andrew talk, with the chain around his neck?

Neil's wearing those heinous cargo shorts Matt bought him, with only one sock on his foot. The fool would dress like this everyday, with no sense of matching or cohesiveness, if Andrew didn't pick his damn outfits.

There's nothing like what's in the movies; nice suits, tailored clothes, lingerie...

It's the farthest thing from a fantasy. But this Neil, in all his mundanity, is nothing short of a wet dream to Andrew. The other end of a leash. The striker must notice the change, the darkening of Andrew's eyes, and the small whimper goes straight to Andrew's cock.

Oh yes, the only problem with Neil's clothes is the fact they're still on.

As he slams the door to the bedroom shut, it finally hits Andrew what they're about to try. Of course, they've talked about it, planned it, he's known for days. Regardless, the air around him feels like glass, making it hard to move but easy to break if he tries. This tension...it's terrible and exhilarating all at once.

Neil knows just how to push him to get him moving; he stops squirming long enough to spread his legs, leaving the perfect slot for Andrew to fit, and that's when the glass shatters.

There's a lot in his head as he stalks towards Neil, throwing off his jacket in the process. Roland's advice exchanged over texts, his own research, and countless conversations. And yet above it all is just Neil, Neil, Neil.

Andrew doesn't have time to linger on how he doesn't even hesitate to pull off his shirt, to be so exposed in front of someone without a second thought. His armbands stay; he’s not quite sure he can handle that along with what they’re about to do. Neil's sharp intake of breath at the sight of his abs, his biceps, is enough to override any of that.

Neil surges up to meet him.

Andrew's hands fly to Neil's shoulders as their lips meet, like a punch of desperation. Neil, as always pushes back against Andrew, as if to challenge him. Andrew is almost positive he does it on purpose, just so Andrew will show his strength. He pushes Neil back down onto the bed, and Neil’s excited gasp proves him right. The urge to corral all the limitless energy buzzing beneath Neil's skin is so strong Andrew doesn’t know what to do about it. He wants to expend it all, make Neil boneless and sated.

He growls and nips Neil's bottom lip, boxing him in without pressing down. Where to start? He wants to do it all.

'Don't rush into it,' Roland's voice says, and Andrew fights the urge to kick it to the curb, to force it away with such viciousness it astounds him. He doesn't want to think about anything else, just this, just Neil moaning yes for things Andrew hasn't asked yet. He just wants to have.

Neil's groan is way too filthy for just a kiss and is not helping to make his self-control any easier. Andrew coaxes Neil's tongue out slowly in response, bringing their pace down if only slightly. Slow, patient. He knows the bartender was right, he can't rush this. He needs Neil to be relaxed, feeling good...

Andrew’s brain starts to fill with all the reminders, the advice.

His brain unhelpfully states that he should be feeling that way too, should be turned on, but rigidness begins to creep into his veins anyways. No, no. He can’t fixate on that. He forces it to the back of his mind, but he knows his body language betrays him. He keeps Neil's hands pinned to the mattress with one of his own, unable to handle the touch, and he holds the strikers jaw with the other. He forgot how this feels, the need to keep Neil restrained. It's been so long...

He licks into Neil's mouth to distract him, teasingly, like he's mapping it out. He can't deny it feels so warm, burning, the whine he rips from Neil's throat for his actions. The sloppiest of kisses, just because he can, just because it makes Neil's hips twitch.

Yes, get worked up for me.

This is what needs to happen, but...

Next. Next, next--

The rustle of the condoms he laid out on the bed calls his attention, so does the new bottle next to them. Research...foreplay, slow, steady, now?

He gets lost in the kiss, but his actions lose their sense of purpose. Stalling. He pins Neil's tongue down, tries to draw out those delicious sounds so they drown out his erratic heartbeat, his thoughts.

"Andrew..."

The sound of Neil's voice is muffled, like it's underwater. Oh, this is definitely unfamiliar. Neil’s voice has never failed to be a lighthouse in the stormy bay.

He's not hard, he realizes. Andrew's not hard. Even with Neil nearly rutting against him, taken apart by just a kiss...he's...

The arousal surges only to be snuffed out by his own distraction each time, his own fixation on how he needs this to go down. Minimal damage.

But if it doesn't feel good...

It should, because it's Neil. With Neil, it's never supposed to be about a checklist.

It's just--

Andrew freezes when Neil's hands tremble beneath his, a weak, almost questioning attempt to pull free. He pulls back, staring down at Neil's eyes, already clouded and drowsy with how Andrew makes him feel.

Andrew pauses a moment, considering before he lets Neil free. Neil’s slow about it, sliding his hands out from under Andrew’s, feeling the calloused skin like it’s all he wants. Andrew lets him look his fill. The trust is no longer the issue.

And god, Neil is so damn nosy about everything. In how he tracks Andrew's face, searching again and finding...something. Neil turns his head into his shoulder, suppressing a grin.

Andrew nearly scowls. What are you smiling about?

If he's being honest, trying to get into Neil's head is one of the biggest challenges there is in his life, and it's self-created. He need only ask to receive, but Neil also doesn’t leave him waiting.

Neil's hands move purposefully, where Andrew can see and track them. They still just above Andrew's shoulders, and with a whispered ‘yes’ from Andrew’s lips, they slide down, rubbing tantalizing circles along his muscles.

He jolts from it, and Neil’s smile brightens.

Andrew’s one giant knot of tension; he hadn't even realized it, but then Neil starts undoing the chords. Andrew allows himself a slow exhale, and Neil swipes his tongue over the column of his throat. Andrew's cock twitches in interest for the first time, and Neil’s lips curve against his skin.

Someone with a penchant for starting fights should not have this calming effect.

One of Neil's hands comes to tangle in the silver chain around Andrew's neck, pulling him closer. Tease, a menace even.

Andrew is completely entranced.

Neil nips the underside of his chin before pulling back, not breaking eye contact as he hooks two fingers into his own waistband. Andrew's breathing stops, and Neil strips off his shorts and underwear in one alluring movement. Neil's not a master at seduction, he simply knows what gets under Andrew's skin.

Those damn legs.

“Hm?” Neil hums as his knee lightly brushes against Andrew's groin, pausing to apply pressure, and oh...Neil should not be so good at this.

It leaves Andrew feeling a little conflicted; where did Neil learn this?

Once, while wiping Andrew's cum from the corner of his lips, Neil had simply said 'My mind might not be the fastest learner, but the rest of me is.'

This whole thing applies. If Neil senses Andrew's nerves, he seldom comments on it, but he never hesitates to start trying to help.

'Help' even when it's him being a shit.

"Come here." Neil's words are not a soft encouragement, nor are they a command. It's like it's a fact, a prophecy, like there isn't another direction Andrew can possibly go. Andrew glares at him, thinks about defying him just because, but the rigidness from before is almost gone. There's a tightness in his abdomen, a heat. Arousal, not wariness.

Also, Neil is very naked from the waist down, and very willing.

So Andrew lets himself be led back up, standing at the side of the bed while Neil gets comfortable, situating his face right in front of Andrew's fly. He tries not to let his interest show too much, but he guesses he fails when Neil smirks up at him. With practiced movements, Neil makes sure Andrew gives him a ‘yes’ before hastily undoing his belt and pants, the hunger in his eyes nearly too much. He pulls Andrew's half-hard cock out, shoving his pants down enough to bite at the V of Andrew's hips.

Andrew grunts at the feeling of Neil's breath against him, the striker’s hand wrapping firmly around his cock and spitting on it to slick it up. Andrew's hand finds Neil's hair automatically, like he's used to doing when Neil goes to suck him off. Neil loves the encouragement, writhes from it.

When Neil hands him the bottle of lube, Andrew gets it.

The position, the request...

Andrew yanks at the underside of Neil's knee, spreading his legs and bringing him closer, the perfect angle for--

"Neil," Andrew warns as Neil starts to stroke him slow, paying way too close attention to how his cock begins to swell. Andrew's voice fills with the strain to keep down a groan.

Fast learner. Right.

With a hum, Neil guides Andrew's hand, the one holding the bottle, in between his thighs. The implication is clear, and Neil’s skin is still warm and flushed from when he probably cleaned himself.

Andrew digs his hand into Neil’s hair at the thought.

"We're sharing, remember?" Neil says, almost innocently, like he's not asking Andrew to finger him open for the first time while he drools all over his dick. Andrew won't mistake this for something else, he knows it's nothing short of consideration for him.

Andrew wants to snap that Neil doesn't need to do this, doesn't need to try and distract Andrew from the whirlwind in his head. He doesn't need help, to get him out of his weird fog so he can actually get it up--

Neil swipes his tongue over the head of Andrew's cock and his breathing stutters, cutting off all thought for a blissful second.

"I want to do this how we always do it," Neil says then, eyes dangerous as he watches precum bead on the tip, evidence of Andrew's desire. There’s a seriousness locked underneath his tone. "I want you to feel good."

How we always do it...

He isn’t wrong; there's an edge to Neil's statement, a reinforcement. This is still us. No expectations, no pressure, only...

Andrew sets the bottle down so he can squeeze the flesh of Neil's thigh, soaking in the gasp he gets for it. He tugs Neil's head up to kiss him, deep and promising, before letting him get back to what he's good at. Using his mouth.

Andrew swallows, forcing down the unnecessary noise. He rids himself of the unessentials, the countless hours of research and text conversations with Roland, clinging to what he needs and not what overwhelms. He brings himself back to the basics therapy taught him. Breathing, grounding himself.

That's all he can do. He of all people, should've known there's no exact formula for this.

It's still us.

Us.

And that...that is one of four truths. Another deep breath, and Andrew embraces their first attempt.

"Tell me if it hurts," Andrew says, demands as he massages Neil's knee, watching his cock leak all over the bed. His hand glides up, grazing Neil's balls and teasing the sensitive skin.

Neil nods, so needy, and flicks his tongue out again over Andrew's shaft. Neil always does this, and it's so annoying because Andrew can't help but be so smug about it. Neil will stroke Andrew's cock leisurely for a few seconds, watching it grow until it's heavy and thick in his hand.

Trembling, Andrew uncaps the bottle and smears some lube on his fingers, letting some drip onto Neil's inner thighs just because. "Junkie."

Neil doesn't apologize for making him wait. "I like watching," he says, almost hazy. "I like knowing I can get you this excited."

Andrew has Neil lift his leg, positioning him so he can rub his fingers over Neil's entrance. There's a moment where Neil tenses from the feeling, but then he's relaxed again, focused on Andrew.

He never stopped to think Neil attending to Andrew's needs would also help to relax him.

"I hate you," Andrew says, so resigned, and Neil's smile is smug as can be.

He gives a squeeze to the base of Andrew's cock, pressing the head to his cheek. "I think this means you like me."

Andrew burns the image into his head.

"There are better uses for your mouth," Andrew snaps, but Neil is already swallowing him whole, hollowing out his cheeks so his cock can sit heavy and warm in his mouth. Neil's eyes flutter shut, freezing in place for an agonizing second, and Andrew guesses he's not the only one who savors these things. He feels Neil swallow around him, and petulantly holds in his moan. Neil’s eyes flutter open to glare playfully before he’s moving, steady and easy, in retaliation. The feeling is enough to pull grunts out of Andrew, and he feels his stomach jump from the slide of Neil’s mouth, but not enough to make him come too fast.

Neil's hand rests against Andrew's stomach, feeling every twitch.

Andrew tugs Neil's shirt up as far as he can, the scars grounding him. He needs something else to focus on, not to get out of his own head this time, but just to stop himself from thrusting into Neil's mouth.

The idiot is already prone to making himself choke from his own enthusiasm, he doesn't need Andrew helping.

With that in mind, Andrew digs deep for the gentlest touch he can manage, and presses his finger into Neil. It's not something he's ever been good at, softness; he's a rock. Firm, rough, but something to keep Neil safe. His hands are deadly and harsh, but for this...

He tries.

His finger pushes inside slowly, thumb pressed against the underside of Neil's balls to give him some relief. He feels Neil jolt from the foreignness, but he doesn't push away. No grimace, no fear. Andrew wonders what it feels like...

A dark part of him whispers that he should know, but rationale sets in. No, he wouldn't. Not this, not something wanted and craved. Neil gasps with Andrew's cock still in his mouth, hand shaky where he strokes what his mouth can't reach. And Andrew...Andrew didn't think about this part.

Andrew isn't prepared, could've never been prepared for how warm Neil is. He sighs as he pushes in and out slowly, the slick sounds barely audible over the sounds from Neil's throat. Neil's messy when it comes to these things, and his fist is wet where it pumps Andrew. That, together with the loud swallows, is deafening.

And of course, Neil is so impatient. Andrew takes his sweet time for them both, since at this point he has to squeeze the base of his cock to keep from getting too close to the edge. The thought of his cock replacing his finger, squeezed so tight...

Neil's hips start to roll back, not familiar or sure of the touch, but more comfortable with it. And hellbent on provoking Andrew further, even if involuntarily.

He pushes Neil's damp bangs away from his hair, a silent warning to slow it down, and thankfully the striker does. He takes his mouth away, but keeps his hand stroking agonizingly slow. Andrew tears his gaze away from the line of spit connected to Neil’s mouth.

Can’t lose focus, but Neil’s always made that hard.

Andrew takes another deep breath before he pushes in another finger, and the pattern repeats. He waits for Neil's hips to start chasing the sensation, and then he stretches him, letting him feel the ghost of the real thing. He watches Neil's brow furrow, little whimpers starting to leave his mouth, unsure. They increase in volume as his hips thrust back a little more eagerly, legs trembling, choked gasps a little too close to Andrew’s name. The confusion in his eyes blends so brilliantly with the arousal.

For a moment, Andrew wonders if Neil is uncomfortable, but then the puzzle pieces line up. It doesn't take Andrew long to realize what it is. Neil feels good, likes this, and that it hasn't quite sunk in for him that he does.

Oh Neil, a fast learner huh?

Something primal stirs in Andrew's chest at knowing Neil loves being fingered open, legs spread and thighs sticky. This just means Andrew can take him apart this way now, can learn how to do it best so Neil’s eyes roll back. They won't always need to go all the way, he can do this simply because Neil will come completely undone from it. Fingering Neil against a wall, stretching him until he comes...

He maybe jumps ahead too fast. Andrew adds another digit quickly, roughly, and Neil yelps. The sound quickly dissolves into a whine and a shiver, and Andrew freezes.

As if he can't believe the feeling, Neil presses his hand against his own abdomen, feeling it jump.

"O-Oh," Neil hiccups, and Andrew refuses to move. He hates it, but despite his consideration for Neil, his mind is fogged because...

Shit, Neil feels so tight.

"Okay?" Andrew asks, and when did his voice get so low? It's throaty, drenched in barely held restraint, and Neil shivers from it.

"Y-yeah," Neil says with a nod and a ghost of a laugh. Stupid, so stupid-- "It's different but..."

Neil blinks, lost, staring at some faraway place Andrew can't reach.

Neil cannot leave him hanging like this right now. Not when Andrew is two seconds away from putting an end to it.

"Neil."

The harshness makes the striker groan, hiding his face in a rare show of embarrassment. "I'm okay. Just...your fingers...fuck Andrew, you're going to be inside me."

Andrew leans down and kisses him hard; he just needs it, needs to communicate some of the tumultuousness going on inside of him. It never gets easier, having his feelings mirrored so easily. How the hell does Neil know how he feels without realizing?

His fantasies, his desires…

Shared.

Neil, never knowing when he shut up, whispers into the kiss. "It feels so good..."

The excitement shows; Neil's legs try to lift where Andrew is keeping them apart. Briefly, he imagines smearing his come over Neil's thighs, since the striker tends to rub them together when he's excited, like he's trying to do now.

Andrew gives Neil something then, his noises, the groans he normally keeps back, if only to make Neil keen. He always did like making Andrew lose control.

"Feel good?" Andrew says, almost mocking, and decides to finally pull something else from the necessary information he kept at the front of his mind.

He hooks his fingers inside Neil, searching for the angle until--

"Holy fuck," Neil yells, with no regard for anyone who might be through the walls. That's alright; the mouthiness was never a turn off. Neil gives a full body spasm, shock and disbelief at war on his face. His jaw hangs open, and Neil brings his hand up to press the back of it to his mouth.

So reactive.

Andrew nearly smirks as he leans in; well, that wasn't so hard to find.

"Feel that?" He asks, watching Neil fist the sheets with his other hand.

The striker swallows, panting hard. "W-what--"

"Now, now," Andrew sighs, not covering up his amusement very well. "Pay attention this time."

He presses his fingers into the spot again, and Neil's back arches beautifully. Runners...Andrew guesses they're not so bad.

"Fuck--fuck yes," Neil cries out, chest heaving. It almost compels him to do it again, but with Neil so on edge, this will end before they can even try to go further. The desperation in Neil's eyes, the satisfaction, is enough to soothe some of the anxiety in the pit of Andrew's stomach.

"Do it again," Neil demands, nearly pleads, trying to roll his hips to do it himself.

It takes all of Andrew’s self-control to not obey, which is terrifying. No one tells Andrew what to do, he hates to give in, but with Neil like this it's like a siren song.

Yet, he manages. "No."

He squeezes the base of his cock again, still leaking from Neil's earlier attention.

If I watch you react like that I'll come.

As if realizing the same thing, Neil petulantly leans forward to tongue at Andrew's cock, and Andrew pulls him back by the hair.

Neil, the idiot, pushes against the hold teasingly, riling them both up.

“Antsy,” Andrew scoffs, as if part of him doesn’t burn because of it.

Andrew uses the distraction to scissor his fingers one last time inside Neil, careful to avoid his prostate. Neil winces at the stretch and Andrew waits, lets Neil adjust, and between the sounds of their heaving breaths he allows himself to give some more.

"So warm," he sighs, actually sighs, and Neil’s answering groan is too debauched, his cock twitching from the praise. Andrew files that away for later.

He’s been filing a lot of things away for later, good things.

"Yeah?" Neil challenges, because it's what he does. "Then c'mon."

And right now...a 'no' would be a lie. Andrew pulls his fingers out, and joins Neil on the bed with shaky limbs, grabbing Neil's hips to turn him over so his ass is in the air.

It's the first time Neil resists him. The striker fights the manhandling, keeping his eyes on Andrew's face. "Andrew, I want--"

"Neil--"

"But--"

"It'll hurt less this way," Andrew says, with hardly any room for argument. It would make it easier, that's what Roland said, and Andrew made sure not to lose that in the minefield of information he took in. "It'll be more comfortable for you."

Neil stares at him for a good long minute, as if that'll do anything. He's familiar enough with Andrew's tones to know there's not really room for argument here. Andrew's about to say they don't have to if Neil doesn't want to, but then Neil sighs.

"Okay," he says, nodding. "I want to see your face next time though."

The promise of next time is too much to think about right then, made worse by Neil's next request. "Kiss me?"

Like of all things, that's too much to ask. Like Andrew doesn't seal everything between them with a kiss and a firm touch. Andrew leans forward, surprisingly slow, and catches Neil's lips softly. Steadying, deep, while he grabs a handful of Neil’s ass.

Neil shivers when he pulls away, turning around and pressing his head into the mattress. He's a sight, one Andrew will never let anyone else see. Before he was comfortable enough to be this open with Neil, Andrew would never let himself admire, labeling the urge as a waste of time. Now, Andrew runs his hand over the slope of Neil's ass, thumbing the ghosts of scars and faded burns. All he sees is strong legs, and Neil's leaking cock hanging between them.

All for Andrew, only for Andrew.

With shaking fingertips Andrew coats himself in a little too much lube before lining himself up, pressing his forehead against Neil's spine.

This is it, now, next, this moment--

The dark cloud, the one which sits in the back of his head, kept mostly at bay this whole time, creeps forward...

Andrew doesn't sense it, can't think. His mind is a vault locked beneath an ocean, and he never knows how far the tide will come up to trap him further.

"I'm going to push in," he breathes into Neil's skin, as if Neil can't feel the head of his cock rubbing against his entrance, promising. Then, in a moment of remarkable rawness, Andrew doesn’t hold back what he’s thinking. "I'm going to feel all of you."

It should feel like a release, cathartic. Andrew should’ve known to pause right then, because it doesn’t. It sounds an awful lot like he's trying to convince one of them. Neil moans, doesn’t sense it, and spreads his legs further.

Andrew can't see his face but--

His vision sways, and he realizes he didn't get a verbal yes, nevermind that he doesn't always need them anymore.

He leans back, he can see the body in front of him, the headboard. He pushes the tip of his cock inside, and the heat is overwhelming, squeezing him so hard he winces.

So tight, it can't possibly feel good for Neil, it's like he's forcing his way inside and--

He sees hands fly up to scrape at the headboard, and imagines they're held there, unable to move, unable to break away, to get free.

He can't hear Neil's voice, can't see his face, can't tell.

Andrew's entire body goes rigid, and the choked noise which escapes him disgusts him beyond all belief. He moves away like he's been struck, violent and cornered on the other side of the bed.

No. No, no, no.

Neil moves into action surprisingly fast, but doesn't try to follow Andrew. He knows better. As soon as Andrew sees the ring of blue, he feels slightly better, but still far too exposed. Neil yanks the nearest blanket over Andrew, covering him before pulling down his shirt and wrapping the sheet around his waist.

Andrew wonders if that's a good thing for his mind right then. He needs to see. He searches Neil for injuries, bores his gaze into him until he finds evidence of pain or distrust. He needs to look closer, to make sure, but if he touches Neil he'll make it worse.

He’ll make all this worse.

Yet, there’s nothing on Neil but the marks of the past, not all of them bad. Andrew eyes where the faded hickies meet crisscrossing scars. He keeps staring, navigating from afar, and finds nothing of what he's expecting. There's only concern in Neil's gaze, and an adamance which keeps Andrew focused on the present.

Neil’s feet dig into the bed, keeping himself in check even though Andrew knows he’d rather be looking Andrew over too.

"Andrew," Neil says, a little loud, because he knows if Andrew is somewhere other than the present he often needs to be jolted back to reality. "Andrew it's me."

But well, Neil would be wrong.

That's the problem. It's you.

It was Neil, underneath him, it was Neil who filled the role of someone so vulnerable.

Andrew takes a slow gulp of air, and he doesn't try to soften his words. There's no way to, right then.

"I know," Andrew says, unbelievably loud in the space. Cold. And oh, he does not like this at all. The slow realization, the understanding of what happened.

Neil's chest is still heaving, and Andrew's mind begins to clear. Neil looks the farthest from scared, he was feeling good, the haze in his eyes very much there. Craving, waiting for Andrew to give him something he ultimately could not.

And isn't that rich?

Andrew, despite knowing there would most likely be setbacks, who should've seen this coming, doesn't know what to do with this. Disappointment is an old emotion he has not felt in so long, ugly and worse than any good or anxious feeling he's begun to experience more.

It's full body, and makes him want to rip his hair out. They’d been so close.

He's aware he has nothing to feel guilty for, or upset by. Calling this a mess-up is not accurate, and it would be idiotic to do so. And yet, he...

Neil’s breathing stutters when Andrew looks away from him, like he misses it already.

Andrew does too, and he’s got no fight in him left to pick that apart. He just gives in and slides his gaze back to his boyfriend, the word coming easy to him for once.

Neil opens his mouth then closes it, thinking better of it. The coldness in Andrew's eyes is directed inward, wholly at himself. But Neil sees it all, the anger and frustration, and knows it's not time for this discussion. Even when it's clear he's in the dark, doesn't know what caused it, can't get past the wall blocking Andrew's mind, he knows when a boundary needs to be enforced.

They'll talk, soon, but Andrew can't now.

He hates that he can't, that's it's not his fault he can't.

Robbed of control, always.

He fists his hands in the blankets, stretching the fabric, as if he can mimic the feeling anyways. Neil's back hits the headboard softly, letting the quiet settle between them and makes no move to break it. Those bright blue eyes drift between Andrew and the bathroom door, as if debating on leaving, giving Andrew space. There’s not an ounce of disappointment on Neil’s face.

And shit, the itch to leave is rampant. He knows Neil wouldn't mind, but Andrew does. He doesn't want to leave Neil like this, not after something so intense for them both, so new, but he needs to be alone in his own head. That's out of his control too.

But some things have changed, some things he still has the strength to challenge.

He turns towards the wall, where he can focus on the cracks and faded wallpaper instead of Neil's warm body and concern, and lies down rigidly. This isn't tension Neil will be able to rid him of, but it's okay. Andrew doesn't expect him to.

Instead, he puts his back to Neil, a small acquiescence, a show of trust. Andrew never sleeps with his face to the wall.

Andrew hopes Neil takes the gesture as 'stay, be here.'

Andrew will only be able to do this if Neil brackets him off, closed to the world.

There's a long pause of debate while Neil tenses, and Andrew closes his eyes. He’s exhausted suddenly. He wouldn't be offended if Neil left, he tells himself, but his pulse spikes in relief when he feels the mattress shift with Neil's weight as he lies down, leaving space between them.

Traitorous heart.

And through all the slog in his head, Andrew can't help but think the gaze on the back of his neck is the closest thing to comfort.

--

Later that night, Andrew breathes in smoke on the rooftop. He comes here more for tradition now than anything; the fear of falling is still there, but he doesn't need it to jumpstart his emotions like he used to.

There are easier ways to do it now, and he hears a foolproof method open the door behind him. Andrew doesn't flinch when Neil walks up, his head mostly cleared of its earlier fog, leaving behind annoyance and frustration.

He didn't give permission for those to remain either, but here they are. He knows it's mostly resolved, if he can call it that, because the sight of Neil makes his chest feel warm instead of worried.

It’s also unsettling, but not something he's actively trying to be rid of. Warmth, comfort. He’s too tired to lash out. Andrew quirks a brow as Neil stands there, messing with the edge of his sleeves.

Andrew's jacket.

It's then Andrew realizes the one he's wearing must be Neil's, grabbed without a second thought after it was his turn to shower. Routine; Andrew can’t remember the last time he wore his own jacket, except for when Neil asked him to.

So it would smell like him again.

With a sigh, Andrew flicks his cigarette off the side of the building, not watching it fall to its demise. Neil is much more interesting.

The striker takes a hesitant step forward, a silent question, and Andrew can’t stand him.

"Come here," Andrew mimics, a callback to earlier, and the relief on Neil's face is almost annoying. The grin which breaks out on his face is a wave, threatening to drown Andrew as Neil plops down at his side. He leaves a bit of distance, just in case, but Andrew closes it until Neil is flush against him.

It has an instantaneous result; the rest of the tension in both their bodies floods out, and Andrew thinks with some bemusement if Neil were a cat, he'd be purring.

This is familiar, but Andrew has no place for regret in regards to the new things that happened earlier. He thinks it through slowly again, for the tenth time that day, carving around the ugliness. He'd felt good, before it happened. Exhilarating, on fire. Neil, coming apart beneath him. Those are not things he'd ever take back. Neil bites his lip, and Andrew really wishes he'd stop, since it's starting to trigger a Pavlovian response. "We...don't have to talk about it," Neil says, unsure of himself.

Again, he's mistaken.

"Yes we do," Andrew mutters, because it's not what he'd like to do per say, but...

They're sharing, he figures this is kind of part of it. Talking about these things is a little easier, if not akin to pulling teeth. It was like that before too...but now, it's like he's finally being allowed anesthesia.

Neil sighs, like he knew it all along, and nods with a sheepish smile. He keeps shifting too much, torn between wanting to soak up all of Andrew's warmth and see his face at the same time.

"What happened?" Neil asks, never one to beat around the bush once the direction is clear.

Andrew's finger drums on his knee, wishing he hadn't thrown out his cigarette. How to say it...he doesn't have the patience or care to tailor it. "Seeing you like that, for a moment I thought I was hurting you."

That's the basics of it, he thinks. The memories had blurred together, conjuring up the past instead of forcing Andrew back into it. Neil in his place, hands on a headboard, trying to get away...

Neil hums beside him, considering it. Andrew notes how he doesn't refute the reason, doesn't try to remind Andrew that he specifically told the blond to not worry about hurting him. Things are seldom so simple, and the war torn canvas of Andrew's mind can't always be wiped clean with a single statement.

"Because of the position?" Neil asks a beat later, tilting his head, and Andrew suppresses his anger. So much for that position being best, of course it would come back to bite him.

"I couldn't see your face, couldn't tell," Andrew agrees without actually doing so. "I just saw your hands scrape the bed frame."

It had been enough. Nothing more to it.

Neil nods, breathing deep. Like he’s soaking up Andrew’s presence. Once, Andrew snapped at him to stop, like if he did it too much Andrew would wither into nothing. Now, it just offers infuriating stability.

"I would've told you as soon as something was off," Neil states, and it's reassurance, not exasperation or something condescending. In fact, Neil almost looks guilty. "I should've kn--"

Andrew's head whips to face him, tone harsh, so Neil doesn't finish the thought. "No, you couldn't have known. I didn't even know. Stop it."

It's not your fault.

Trial and error, they know the position doesn't work now, at least not at the moment. That's all there is to it, no point in lingering.

Andrew feels it so strongly it threatens to break him in two. If Neil doesn't get that idea out of his head, Andrew might just kill him for real.

Neil's protests die, which is a feat only Andrew has mastered. Making Neil shut up is not straightforward. The striker kicks his legs out in front of him, tapping the edges of his shoes together.

It's not cute.

"Mm," Neil hums, nodding. "We'll just have to try again then, if you want to..."

The smile fades for a moment, and Neil's shoulders tense, fearing he's jumped the gun too soon. Neil has such an idiotic way of putting things, blunt and now without the lies, it makes relief battle with frustration inside Andrew. Of course Neil would worry about this, that Andrew wouldn't want him.

After all that, as if it's even possible for Andrew to not want Neil.

"Don't ask stupid questions," he grits out predictably, overcome with the gravity of this, of how talking to Neil can feel like a warm mug of hot chocolate on a bad night.

Neil's smirk is small, not as powerful as usual, but still there enough to set Andrew on edge. "You want me then?"

Andrew can't do this. If he had the energy to roll his eyes, he would.

He leans back, staring up at the starless sky, a black void. He imagines the lights of Eden's flashing while the heavy bass bounces off the walls. "Every inch of you."

In a random act of therapy application, he brings the past up on purpose, if only to see the way Neil's eyes widen.

There, maybe that'll shut you up.

It's wishful thinking.

"Andrew..." Neil whispers, following him to the dusty floor. Neil's eyes are brighter in the dark, Andrew thinks; it's like they glow.

It pulls the last of his thoughts out of him.

"I don't know how many times I'll get it wrong," Andrew says, surprising even himself. Already, the words feel like vomit, leaving a bad aftertaste. It was a bad way to phrase it, even he knows, but he has to make Neil aware.

This could happen again.

He remembers Neil's excitement, the yearning, the abrupt cutoff of all of it.

Neil is entirely unfazed by the gloom, swatting away the veil over Andrew's mind.

Literally. Neil brings his hand up in front of Andrew’s face, waving.

Andrew really can’t do this.

"And?" Neil asks, blinking stupidly. He looks almost...amused. "Andrew there's no three strikes policy, we can try as many times as we need to."

Do not use sports references when it comes to our sex life.

Andrew shoves him, and the tightness in his chest fades away with the normalcy of it all. Neil doesn't mind, doesn't care. Andrew should've seen that coming too. "Was that a vague baseball reference? From you?"

Neil grimaces, offended. The scars under his eyes scrunch up, and Andrew digs his thumb into one.

"Shut up," Neil grumbles, burying his forehead in Andrew's shoulder.

"I'll tell Kevin you betrayed him."

Neil snorts. "I don't think he'll appreciate the context."

No, he most certainly would not. Like Andrew cares.

He scoffs, but soaks in the feeling of their usual banter, of the weight of the day bleeding out from them both.

And then Neil, in all his devastation, has to hit Andrew one more time.

"There's no getting it wrong," the striker says a moment later, head popping back up so his chin is resting on Andrew. His hair is a goddamn mess. "It always feels good, when we lose control."

Andrew doesn't refute the always for that statement.

His breathing catches, his fingers tangling in the mess of Neil's hair, and kisses him.

He lets his mind flood with the better images, of fingering Neil open, Neil's mouth on him, the moans, the touch...

"Next time," he breathes against Neil's cheek, letting his lips feel the roughness of his scars.

Neil nods, chasing Andrew's lips like he's insatiable. He is. Andrew slows him with a hand to the chest, licking into Neil's mouth teasingly. "Did it feel good?"

He wants to hear it again, he needs to know, to reinforce it.

Neil laughs into the kiss. "It felt incredible, fuck...your hands Andrew," he breathes, letting his own be guided up to Andrew's hair. With the permission clear, he tugs on the loose hairs of Andrew's nape, massaging.

And there's no rush in this, they won't be taking it any further, but they don't need to.

Yes, yes, it all must be one big dream, this life he lives with Neil. But instead of pushing it away before it can end, Andrew has decided to indulge as long as he can.

"Tell me," he says into the skin of Neil's neck, doing what he didn't have the time to before. Marking, savoring.

Neil laughs breathily, and has the audacity to point at the next spot on his neck, tapping it in a silent request for Andrew to plant one on him.

Fine then.

"It's like you're so confident," Neil rambles, unashamed as always. Andrew rolls them over so he's on top of Neil, not for the security, but just because he knows Neil likes to feel cocooned, safe. He gets to work on the spot, swirling his tongue against it. "Like taking me apart is your only goal. I was thinking if that felt so good...how would your cock feel--"

Andrew bites down hard, and Neil yelps.

Well, someone walking by definitely heard that.

Neil is right though; it is Andrew's only goal, ripping sounds out of Neil's throat and bringing him to his knees. He likes when Neil thrashes, wants more, pleads without words.

"I'd slide right in," Andrew states, like one of his facts, a promise. It makes his own head spin. He knows he would, when he can, it'll be..."When I do fuck you, I'm going to make sure it's all you can think about."

That way, they'll be in the same boat.

The smile Neil gives him is mischievous and way too proud. "Already there," he gloats, rubbing at the sore spot on his neck. He looks far too pleased about the growing bruise. "What about you?"

Andrew's about to go for the other side of Neil's neck when the question halts him. He lifts his head back up, gaze questioning.

Neil's eyes get impossibly brighter. "What felt good Andrew?"

And in an instant, Andrew understands. Neil's eyes are lidded, staring up at him expectantly. There can be no dwelling on what went wrong, only what went right.

Neil invites him to write over the past.

Andrew leans down, closes his eyes, and his forehead meets Neil's. He hopes no one ever sees them like this, it's all Andrew's, all of it.

"You took me so easy," Andrew says, and Neil tenses on instinct, as if remembering it too. Oh yes, Andrew intends to explore that, thoroughly. "You were so damn loud."

Neil doesn't point out how he's usually loud, and therefore Andrew is confessing to having a thing for his voice. They can both infer enough to see through it.

So instead, Neil leans up to slot their lips together firmly, the promise of 'next time' searing the deal into place. "Bet you I can be louder."

And Neil, with all his infuriating seduction, is a challenge Andrew can never back down from.

[ckret2]

“You’re so vain” “Give em hell kid” And “I hope you die” I’d love to hear those explanations

Righto! Okay so recap for the people who might have missed it, this is about the radiosnake playlist I mentioned/linked a bit over a week ago, Serpentine & Demonswing. When I posted it I also added an “and if you wanna know why any songs are on the playlist you’re free to ask.” The playlist is a work in progress so some of my answers are gonna be “so here’s the explanation for why it was included but tbh I’m not 100% on keeping it.”

Important things to mention before getting into it: the playlist is build specifically off my headcanons from “Cold Day In Hell,” and so all of the songs act on the assumption that CDIH is “canon.” (tl;dr: they’re exes, because Alastor got scared of emotional intimacy, told Sir Pent he never actually liked him, and ran off after blowing up all his airships.) The first chunk of songs is from Sir Pent’s perspective, the second chunk is from Alastor’s, the third is from them both or about them both, and the last few songs are “I like the vibe but honestly am not sure this fits the playlist.”

Also, y’all are welcome to keep asking me about songs, because this is a lot of fun.

I’m absolutely sure that tumblr is going to delete this read more out of the post but I’m going to put one anyway, maybe it’ll let this one work just to be contrary. If it doesn’t, I apologize for the dash stretcher, that’s just how tumblr do.

So! Explanations:

You’re So Vain (Lyrics)

This one is on the Sir Pentious side, so, although it’s not directly/accurately about Alastor, it is about how Sir Pent sees him in light of their catastrophic breakup.

Verse 1 is less on the nose in its description of Alastor, but you get the impression of someone who is obsessed with how he comes across to other people, and who is far more interested in himself and the image he’s giving off than he is in any of the people he’s trying to impress. A great deal of Alastor’s personality is—or at the very least, comes off as—completely performative. As though to this day he’s still nothing but a radio host performing for a listening audience, even when he’s only talking to one person. The fact that he’s always wearing a fake smile and pointedly providing his own sound effects adds to that impression of a performer who never breaks character.

And the fact that the character in the song is still wholly self-absorbed even when he’s dancing with a partner gives a nice little glimpse into how Sir Pent’s retroactively reinterpreted his last evening with Alastor.

Verse 2 is the stanza that comes closest to completely accurately reflecting what went down between them. First, the alliance between them, the implicit promises that they the were going to conquer Hell and then Heaven as partners in crime—“Well, you said that we made such a pretty pair / And that you would never leave”—and then, the breakup—“But you gave away the things you loved / And one of them was me.” It’s the one line that acknowledges that the character in the song did, indeed, actually love the singer, and wasn’t just performing a role/playing at being in love.

It’s also a line that would ring false to Sir Pentious, because in the aftermath of CDIH, he genuinely doesn’t believe that Alastor ever loved him. He completely buys Alastor’s claim that he was just screwing around with Sir Pent’s emotions for his own entertainment. Words to the effect of “one of [the things you loved] was me” would never come out of Sir Pent’s mouth.

However. Of all the lines in all of the songs in Sir Pent’s portion of the playlist, that one line is the most accurate thing that could be said about Alastor, the blade that would stab into the core of who he is and the role that he played in this story. Because of his vanity—his selfishness, his pride, his obsession with his own independence, his fear of love, his fear of vulnerability, his fear of sharing his life with someone else, etc.—he didn’t just lose what he loved, he did very deliberately and intentionally give it away.

(I’ve always found that line to be the most interesting in the song, for the hint that this vain person did indeed truly feel for someone else, so I’m glad that line fits so well here.)

Verse 3 is just more “what Alastor is like as observed by Sir Pent,” except even more accurately than the first stanza. Constantly running around, constantly moving on from one brief source of entertainment to another (just stuff “threw his support behind the Happy Hotel” somewhere between “gambled on a horse race” and “watched an eclipse”), constantly socializing with dangerous people and people whom he’s going to hurt without caring in the slightest.

Okay so that’s the lyrics.

Making sure the aesthetics/styles/genres of the songs match the character they’re for is one of my high priorities on this fanmix—not to the extent that having the wrong style is an instant dealbreaker, but I’m going to be hesitant to include a song that doesn’t at all match the sound I’m going for. For Sir Pentious, I’m kind of running with two styles.

The first style is “sounds Victorian-ish enough to get a shrug and a nod from anybody who doesn’t actually know/care about Victorian-era music,” so that’s gonna be just about anything orchestral/symphonic that doesn’t clearly fall into a different genre, symphonic metal that sounds symphonic enough to satisfy me, instrumental covers of other songs (string quartets, piano, full orchestra...), things with harpsichords (LISTEN i know that harpsichords are more baroque but they’ve got the right Vibe, you know, they’ve got the Feeling), and things with organ—but like, it’s gotta sound like pipe organ (pipe organ—sounds like a church) and not like Hammond organ (Hammond organ—sounds like a baseball game). Also steampunk, except a lot of “steampunk” genre music sounds swingy/jazzy, so those songs get ruled out because that’s Alastor’s aesthetic. And also, like, actual classical music, but I’m not into a lot of actual classical music, so I don’t think any’s actually made it in yet, lmao.

The second style is based on what the creator herself said about Sir Pent’s music preferences: “Sir Pentious would listen to Blink-182. Pentious would literally listen to stuff like Linkin Park, Green Day, the emo stuff.” So I took "the emo stuff” as “oh okay cool so the stuff I listened to at 15 got it” and ran wild with that. I’ve been most heavily drawing from My Chemical Romance, Panic! At The Disco, and Mindless Self Indulgence to represent that half of Sir Pent’s preferences. (MSI because I feel like that fits an in-your-face and morally jaded villain, P!ATD because their newer stuff fits his flamboyance and exuberance and egotism, and MCR because... because I know them best.) I haven’t yet made much time to carefully comb the discographies of the other bands listed or look into other more traditional emo-associated acts.

Carly Simon’s original “You’re So Vain” matches neither of these styles.

I combed through about 60 different versions of “You’re So Vain” on Spotify looking for ones that meet one of these aesthetics. Like 90% of them were, I’m pretty sure, just various singers adding their vocals directly over a karaoke version of Carly Simon’s original.

In the end, the only one that came close was Marilyn Manson’s cover. He’s a bit outside of the bounds I try to stick in for Sir Pent, but like, okay, he’s industrial metal, but in a particularly goth way, that’s close enough to emo. To my mind, “Sir Pent listens to emo” is like... Sir Pentious’s musical preferences are going to be, 1) counterculture, the kind of stuff that causes conservative Christian moms to go into moral panics, but also 2) mainstream counterculture, the kind of bands that produce huge hits & get featured in major blockbuster movies, but also also 3) slightly dated mainstream counterculture, i.e., at the end of the 2010s he’s listening to the bands that may still be popular but that peaked in the mid 2000s, in keeping with the way he’s trying to keep hip and modern but always seems a little bit behind.

So, in the 2010s, he’s listening to 2000s emo acts. In the 2000s, he was listening to the 1990s’ biggest metal acts (like Marilyn Manson) and possibly grunge acts (things like Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins). In the 1990s, he was listening to the 1980s’ biggest post-punk and new wave acts (like The Cure, Joy Division/New Order, Depeche Mode). Always evolving his stylistic preferences, always trying to keep up, but always a little behind. So that’s how I justify putting Marilyn Manson in lmao.

Although that was the only version of “You’re So Vain” I thought fit well enough, I also found a version by Trash Pour 4, a version by Les Reed Orchestra, and a version by Giant Sand that were all very good. Trash Pour 4 is driving me crazy because I can’t quite figure out what genre they are, I just can’t place them—but they’ve got several other good covers that I’d like to take advantage of at some point.

I also found a song called “You’re So Vain (Christian Dior)” by The Energy Commission that’s not a cover of Carly Simon’s song, just a new song with the same name. I’m lowkey considering including on Alastor’s side of the playlist. It’d serve as a very sharp critique of how image obsessed Sir Pent is, there’s some snappy turns of phrase that seem like they’d appeal to Alastor’s sense of humor (my two favorites are “He went off the deep end ‘cause he’s so shallow” and “He’s got a timepiece on his wrist and it says ‘watch me’”), the fact that it’s a critique specifically of high class materialism fits with the fact that I headcanon Sir Pent as coming from British nobility while Alastor’s ancestry is both racially and socially mixed (including at least one close relative who was a slave, I’m thinking a grandparent but haven’t settled on my headcanons yet), and I love when there are parallels like that in playlists about the relationship between lovers/partners/rivals/siblings/any-combo-of-two-people.

The reason I haven’t added it yet is because, by the end of the song, it’s not just a critique of being a rich shallow image-obsessed douche, but specifically of how that culture ties in to exploitative capitalism that’s wrecking human lives and the world—which, in the context of the characters we’re talking about here, would translate into a criticism of Sir Pentious’s very-imperialist-sounding take-over-the-world villain ambitions. Which isn’t something I think Alastor cares about. He probably should, but like, he just doesn’t. He’s a villain himself. I’m sure he’s got his own morals and standards and hard limits but “take over the world” isn’t on his list of dealbreakers. What’s taking over the world include? Mass murder and subjugation? Yeah, he’s cool with that. So that’s why I’m still on the fence about adding it.

Give ‘Em Hell, Kid (Lyrics)

So remember how I said that My Chemical Romance is one of the bands I’ve drawn from most heavily so far in looking for emo Sir Pent songs? Yeah for about a day there were six different MCR songs sitting in Serpentine & Demonswing as I slowly whittled them down to the ones that I thought fit best. “Give ‘Em Hell, Kid” is one of the last three, and actually one that I’m constantly on the verge of cutting.

Lyrically, it’s an Alastor song. There’s mentions of the singer having come from New Orleans (listen... i am a sucker for songs that mention New Orleans, it automatically earns five points on the imaginary “is this an Alastor song?” rubric in my head). The singer is singing about a love interest who’s gone, and he’s making no moves to pursue/reclaim the love interest, wishing them well (“So go on, live your life”), but he’s a wreck and a lesser person without them (“If you were here, I'd never have a fear,” “Well I'm a total wreck and almost every day”), and it’s just getting worse with time, not better (“But I miss you more than I did yesterday”).

The line “Some might say we are made from the sharpest things you say” although directed toward “you,” i.e. the love interest, i.e. Sir Pentious, in my head actually reflects more on the things Alastor said to Sir Pentious: the cruel things he said to Pent—that he’s weak, ineffective, behind the times, a has-been, never going to conquer hell—ended up a self-fulfilling prophecy, because that’s exactly what Alastor’s rampage made happen. Today, as he is now, Sir Pentious is made from the sharpest things Alastor said.

“Your dreams and your hopeless hair” makes me think of Sir Pent’s wild efforts to conquer hell (and, of course, his ridiculous cobra hood), and “We never wanted it to be this way for all our lives” is a perfect expression of Alastor’s regrets/remorse over what his actions have done to both of their lives, but especially to Sir Pent’s life.

And all the references to violence—murder scenes, firing squads, sharpest things—fit with the fact that both of them chose to live lives soaked in blood.

So it’s a perfect Alastor song. The only problem is, it’s an MCR song, which is sooo far outside of my acceptable genres for him. (I’m not gonna get into Alastor’s genres now bc there are better songs to do that on, just know emo ain’t it.) And not only is it outside of his acceptable genres, it’s in the OTHER character’s acceptable genres, which is very messy. I can vibe with “lovers’ songs borrowing from each other’s aesthetic” a LITTLE bit when it’s used to represent, like, emotional synchronicity or the like (ex: both “Roustabout” and Vernian Process’s “Maple Leaf Rag” are on my “Alastor+Sir Pent style fusion songs” list). But MCR is a big departure from Alastor’s acceptable styles.

Plus, the playlist already has two MCR songs, and do I really need three songs from the same band? Unless there’s a really good reason, I try to avoid having repeats from the same band on one playlist—I feel like a good well-rounded fanmix oughta have a diversity of sources. (With “a really good reason” being something like “I’ve got the playlist divided into five sections detailing five phases of the character’s life and each section is introduced with a different track from the same band” or “I’ve got an instrumental version of the song to kick off the playlist to serve as ‘foreshadowing’ for when the version with lyrics shows up at the most dramatic moment” or something like that.)

If I was going to, like, make it a thing, I could. Justify it like “there’s one MCR song that represents them when they’re together, one MCR song from Sir Pent’s perspective, and one MCR song from Alastor’s perspective, like a little triangle,” but like... if I was going to do that I feel like I’d want to do it with a style that’s either representative of both of them or else independent of both of them, and MCR is so heavily a Sir Pent sound. Basically, having three songs from one band would be okay if it was a band that vibes with the overall tone I’m shooting for in the playlist—but it’s not. So I’m very torn on “Give ‘Em Hell, Kid.”

“El Tango De Roxanne” + “Overture” + “I Hope You Die”

Okay before I can talk about “I Hope You Die” by itself, I kind of have to explain its exact position in the playlist and its relationship with the other two songs I just listed.

While MOST of the playlist is chunked up into the four sections I mentioned earlier (Sir Pent, Alastor, both, undecided), within those sections the songs aren’t really in any particular order. The one exception is the very first three songs on the playlist/the very first three songs in Sir Pent’s section.

These three songs, presented in that order, all as Sir Pent songs, serve as Sir “in war, the side remembered is the side with the most style” Pentious the Super Villain making his big entrance like:

“El Tango De Roxanne” starts slow/quiet, and then (with a couple of brief dips) it gradually builds in volume and pain and intensity, getting faster and more emphatic, switching from mournful longing to nearly-angry anguish, until it ends with a pained scream, steampunkish percussion, howling background singers, and a wailing violin.

And then it pauses, for just a moment.

And then “Overture” hammers you with the most dramatic opening chord you will ever hear on an organ in your life, perfectly matching the energy at the end of “El Tango De Roxanne” and maintaining that level of energy throughout the song.

And then it stops so quickly it’s like someone gasped, holding its breath for a split second—and then some dude yells “You must die! I alone am best!” and the guitars kick in for “I Hope You Die,” leading into a depiction of the most intense, vitriolic, disgusting sort of loathing imaginable.

The build-up from “El Tango De Roxanne” and “Overture” really revs up “I Hope You Die,” the intensity of the organ in “Overture” highlights the intensity of the guitar in “I Hope You Die,” and all together it hypes up what could have been just a dark humor song about hating someone into something that sounds like a very genuine demonstration of hatred.

And taken all together, it makes for a fantastic intro for Sir Pent.

It also serves as a perfect intro to the current state of affairs between him and Alastor—sort of expressing his personal emotional journey on the morning Alastor betrayed him, as his reaction transforms over the course of three songs from grief/despair to fathomless fury.

There’s more I could say individually about “El Tango De Roxanne” and “Overture,” but I won’t, because it’s “I Hope You Die” time.

“I Hope You Die” (Lyrics - warning for a whole stanza dedicated to hoping someone gets raped in prison)

A small handful of the songs in my Hazbin playlists were discovered in and added from existing Hazbin character playlists I found on Spotify before I started making my own. “I Hope You Die” was one of them, found here. Which is why it was added even though it doesn’t fit my strict genre standards, it won me over before I narrowed down the styles I’m working with lmao.

(I feel like “El Tango De Roxanne” was one of those too, but I can’t now find a Spotify playlist containing it that added it before I did. Where did I grab it from? It’s not something I would’ve looked up on my own, something must have inspired me. IDK what though. None of the other songs mentioned in this post were found on other playlists.)

So this song is, obviously, just about how much some dude hates somebody else and wants extremely horrible things to happen to them. It’s sorta... *eyes lyrics uneasily* ... sorta tasteless; but, tasteless in a way that I feel like reflects back on the character singing the song. The feeling I come away from after finishing the song isn’t “the band wants you to think the person they’re singing about deserves this to happen to them,” because it doesn’t even give a reason why the singer hopes this person suffers; but rather, “the band wants you to think that this is the kind of hatred that the character/persona the singer is portraying is capable of, this is the kind of vile stuff that character wants to see done to their enemies, this is representative of the depths of that character’s rage.” Which is why I’m like “yeah... okay, sure, that fits” even though I’m real iffy about the last couple stanzas.

Because for a character who’s in Hell surrounded by people who have stomped on the last dredges of their civility and decency, and a character who’s patterned after a super villain (and, because the series creator dropped the idea that there are heroes/villains in the living world, the only super villain in this setting), and a character who gleefully boasts about being evil, and a character who we know demonstrates very rapid/extreme emotions and expressions of hate/outrage... Yes, I can absolutely see this song as the exact sort of hatred Sir Pentious would level at somebody who’s slighted him. And Alastor blew way the hell past “slighting” him. Alastor, without exaggeration, has ruined his life (afterlife?) and over fifty years later Sir Pent is still unsuccessfully struggling to get back up to the level he was at before he even met Alastor. Right now, Sir Pentious really and truly and deeply despises Alastor.

A song like this—sheer, frothing, unrestrained, vengeful contempt—tells you a whole lot about what kind of emotions Sir Pentious is capable; and it tells you a whole lot about the kind of effect Alastor’s actions have had on him, to inspire this level of reaction from someone who was very close to him for fifteen years and increasingly in love with him for probably a good amount of that time.

Plus, the “You must die! I alone am best!” is such a very, very Sir Pentious sentiment.

So that’s those songs! Again, y’all are free to ask me for my thoughts on more. Yes, most of them will probably be like this, lol.

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/23/2019: FEMALE PRISONER SCORPION - BEAST STABLE

I’m not sure that I made the right choice by including this film in my blogtober program. A fugitive thriller with women’s prison and yakuza elements, BEAST STABLE doesn’t seem very horrific on its face. However, this third installation in the Female Prisoner Scorpion series (and the last by visionary director Shunya Ito) is also the most visceral and intimate. Its relative lack of action movie bravado shifts the focus from matters of the spirit to those of the body, the appalling details of which made me ask myself whether I didn’t consider this a horror movie after all. My conclusions are not very firm, but the debate is worth having.

During notorious convict Sasori (”Scorpion”)/Nami Matsushida’s latest escape, she runs afoul of the relentless Detective Kondo (Mikio Narita) on the subway, who no sooner cuffs her than loses his arm to her blade. This produces some of my favorite images from the whole hallucinatory series, with Matsu racing through the streets with the severed limb flailing behind her to the unforgettable sounds of star Meiko Kaji’s theme song “Urami Bushi”. In her flight to a shanty town on the outskirts of the city, she meets a young prostitute named Yuki (Yayoi Watanabe) in a most outrageous fashion. Yuki lies on her back in a cemetery, clutching bills from the john who left her there, and gazing vacantly at the stars. When a strange sound draws her attention, she finds herself locking eyes with the feral Matsu, who crouches behind a tombstone with the severed arm in her mouth, scraping away at the handcuff chain. The strange gothic horror of this scene only scratches the surface of how weird BEAST STABLE will become.

Yuki is an especially desperate character whose pitiful lot justifies the trouble that she makes for Matsu. A poor prostitute who is virtually enslaved to her brain damaged brother, she must keep his base instincts in check only by submitting to his every sexual whim. When Yuki chases after Matsu, begging to be freed from this nightmare, she unwittingly attracts the attention of the local mob, including a female pimp with a penchant for back alley abortions. The crow-obsessed crook Katsu, who might as well be a Batman villain (played by Reisen Ri, who has powerful Karen Black vibes) hatches a plot to take out Matsu, but this falls apart when Matsu starts slashing her way through the gang’s ranks. Rather than confront her, Katsu foolishly opts for the safety of prison--Matsu’s home turf, where she is able to exact a diabolical revenge that belongs more in a giallo than a standard issue women’s prison movie. 

BEAST STABLE is often as beautiful as either of its two predecessors, which are generally considered to be superior; the dreamy rain of fire produced when Yuki searches for Matsu by dropping matches into the sewer is not to be missed. Admittedly the other films have a more ethereal, allegorical quality, but BEAST STABLE holds its own in terms of being potently disturbing. Where we previously found female criminality presented in a sort of heroic light, aimed at the dissolution of the corrupt prison system and the punishment of hypocrites, here women are metaphorically imprisoned in maddeningly hopeless situations. Yuki is unable to emotionally separate herself from her rapist brother, as she is carrying his baby to term--even after being raped with a golf club by Katsu for intruding on the pimp’s territory. When one of Katsu’s colleagues sets his sights on Matsu, the thug’s distraught girlfriend kills him by virtually boiling him alive. Trapped in Katsu’s bird cage, Matsu escapes by retrieving a scalpel from the cold grip of a prostitute who died as a result of a horrifying abortion. Nowhere are the courageous, castrating antiheroes of FEMALE PRISONER 701: SCORPION or JAILHOUSE 4. In BEAST STABLE, we have only Matsu grimly following a trail of victims to the film’s hard won conclusion.

I am left trying to figure out if I can create a reasonable distinction between horror and pure exploitation, at least in this case. My first clue lies in the film’s profound sadness, which first appears in the image of the recently befouled Yuki, lying fully clothed in a cemetery like a discarded corpse. Apparently, I think that despair is an important element in horror. It would be pretty difficult for anyone other than the most serious degenerates to get it up for this movie, with its relentless agonies and heavy focus on abortion. There is no token lesbianism or nude calisthenics to brighten the mood now and again, and at that, the violence is rarely political. In the former films, Matsu and her defacto acolytes rage against authorities who would break their spirits, but in BEAST STABLE the violence is personal and intimate rather than institutional, and few characters are afforded a majestic martyrdom as a way out. SCORPION and JAILHOUSE 41 pit the anonymizing degradation of jail against the glories of anarchy and vengeance, but BEAST STABLE reaffirms that not much good awaits women beyond prison bars.

This line of thinking leads me to indulge in a personal note. I was introduced to this series while still in college, by a person who I would later categorize as a total abuser. Though he was highly intelligent and charismatic in an offbeat way, he dated exclusively much younger women--a sure sign of someone avoiding the sound judgment of his peers--and there was some evidence of his having that iffy white guy preference for asian girls. He lured in women who were too young or inexperienced to know better by flaunting his inner sensitivity and trauma, and then once he had someone (or more than one person) on the hook, he rewarded her by being relentlessly dishonest and unfaithful, as if to teach her a lesson for sympathizing with him. To my knowledge, he had not been a women’s studies major in his school days, but he might as well have been, as most of his film discussion came through a feminist filter. He analyzed sleazy genre fare to within an inch of its life, and seemed to delight in making remarks like that the infamous borderline pornographic slasher movie THE TOOLBOX MURDERS “is dangerous and should not be seen.” This all might sound like the typical calculation of a basic predator, but having been his unfortunate friend for several years, I truly believe that he believed his own bullshit. His manic depressive behavior belied little self-reflection, and he would sometimes make tearful statements that bordered on magical thinking, about how “something” unnameable about him drove women insane. He seemed genuinely affronted by his long suffering girlfriend’s suggestion that he might be a misogynist, even though he admitted to hitting her during at least one argument. (A fact that he naturally presented as something that should make me feel sorry for him, in his epic turmoil) He showed no awareness of how suspicious it might be to some people, that he voraciously took in any movie starring teenage girls or childlike women; even though I held his opinion in the highest regard for years, I had to learn to start ignoring him when he recommended these movies, because whether he was right about their actual quality was a complete crap shoot. 

The point that I’m coming to is that he was absolutely obsessed with the character of Sasori. He believed that the JAILHOUSE 41 was one of, if not The greatest movie of all time, and both his email address and user image related to her. The FEMALE PRISONER SCORPION series represented the pinnacle of his absolute favorite thing, which was raped virgins returning for revenge. Back when I knew him, I took this to be plain old good taste; today, I associate it obliquely with an attitude I sense a lot on the political right. Without giving this remotely the space that it would take more me to fully prove my point, I’ll just say that part of what motivates conservatives and bigots is the profound, primal, unconscious fear that those they have repressed will come back to avenge themselves. There’s a subaural signal in right wing rhetoric that I always hear beyond their empty circuitous logic, that simply says “We’ve done a lot of bad things to you, and by virtue of that, now we have reason to fear that you will do those same things to us, given the slightest chance.” Since that time, I have become acquainted with more men like this than I would have preferred to. Not the scheming women’s studies serial rapists, but  the sulking intellectuals whose unshakable belief in their own nobility--their certainty that they are too smart to be bigots--prevents them from fully acknowledging their abusive, misogynist, and frankly sometimes pedophilic attitudes toward women. These guys vocally obsess over the likes of Lydia Lunch and Kim Gordon and Sasha Grey and Asia Argento et al, and boast about their literacy in matters of gender and sexuality, only to routinely accumulate the most submissive and virginal partners they can find, and blame these girls for all of their personal problems for as long as they stick around. The FEMALE CONVICT SCORPION movies are great, both in terms of formal artistry and metaphor for the female experience. I would love to believe in the specialness of men who relate so openly to characters like Matsu, but because of my majority experience, I’m afraid I tend to find them all guilty until proven innocent.

[womenandfilm5]

The Virgin Suicides (1999) is Sophia Coppola’s adaptation of the novel by Jeffery Eugenides, also being her first feature film. The inspiration for the film came from her discovery of the novel in her mid-20’s. Despite being told from a male perspective, the story still seems to be an extremely feminine yet morbid coming of age tale. Coppola never imagined becoming a filmmaker, with a focus upon fashion in her late teens into her 20’s. In an interview, she says how she wanted to make a teenage film unlike the others. “There aren’t alot of quality art films made for teenagers,” she said, which she effortlessly did, portraying themes of teen angst, sex, boys, a desire to break away from societal norms, and family. The film also was low budget, as the budget dissolved a week before filming. Coppola gives credit to the novel for inspiring her film career. Her herself was in her early 20’s, which is a period of time in which you are still trying to figure yourself out as you do in your teenage years. Reflecting upon the film 20 years later, she had came to the realization that despite the male focus upon the Lisbon girls, the film felt so personal and feminine as a reflection of her life growing up. She was always surrounded by men with all brothers and all male cousins, so she found solace in grasping to femininity. This being said, it reflects the personal touch the film has, almost bringing the viewer back to reminisce in their own days of teenage angst.  .

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The film encompassed everything a teenage girl experiences, but brings a situation that isn’t exemplified in the typical coming of age film. The Lisbon girls, 13 year old Cecilia, 14 year old Lux, 15 year old Bonnie, 16 year old Mary, and 17 year old Therese, lived in a home of a scholar father, and a mother who was the obvious source of dominance and constriction in the house. The girls lived an extremely strict lifestyle, never being able to have interactions outside of their home and school life, never to dress in any manner that wasn’t conservative, and especially no romantic relations. The setting of 1970’s Michigan in an extremely tight knit neighborhood made their situation stand out from the other children in the neighborhood. Everyone knew one another, even if they had never interacted; and everyone knew the mysterious Lisbon girls. The film also visits religion quite frequently. The mother, Mrs. Lisbon, is a very high strung catholic. In many scenes, starting from the very beginning there is imagery of the Virgin Mary and sigils placed seemingly everywhere. A notable symbolic image is a card of the Virgin Mary, which we see in the opening scenes as Cecelia lays unconscious in the bathtub after her first suicide attempt. The card lies on the floor, splattered in blood. The themes associated with religion seem to be displeasure and breaking away. The theme of femininity also ties into the religious aspects. Despite the girl’s disapproval yet lack of voice upon their mother’s strictness and beliefs, every religious image is very feminized. Every time we see a rosary, or crosses, they are always surrounded by jewelry, flowers, perfume, intricate glass wear, makeup or small trinkets. The ratio to these objects is usually many feminine items with just one or two religious symbols, which displays an overpowerment that they could never express themselves. There is a profound sense of freedom the girls display, yet having no freedom at all. They are restricted by the boundaries of the religious values their mother follows, yet still embrace their girlhood and find ways to enjoy their femininity despite this. 

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. The most profound technique I found in the film was the use of the soundtrack in accordance to each scene. For example, in this particular scene, the girls had begun to communicate with the boys through morse code; due to Lux not coming home on the night of prom, the girls were under house arrest. Lux was forced to burn all of her records, so the boys spend hours upon hours playing music through the phone for the girls. In this scene which shows a progression of the boys projecting the music overtime, and the girls listening, the song “Alone Again Naturally,” by Gilbert O’ Sullivan. Although the boys never personally knew the Lisbon girls, and had had only one interaction with them at most, there was a sense of loneliness coming from the boys as they dedicated so much time to please the girls. The girls had been granted the slightest amount of freedom to attend the dance, and because of Lux never returning home that night, they had once again returned to seclusion, but even stronger than before. In another scene, during Cecilia’s party, as she excuses herself, the song “The Air that I Breathe,” by the Hollies plays. In some sense, it acts as very ironic foreshadowing. For the entire duration of her party, Cecilia sat alone in the corner, while all of the other boys socialized with the older girls. Joe, the boy with special needs, was the only one kind enough to say hello to Cecilia and give her attention. The music abruptly stops when a sound is heard, and the father is found standing outside with Cecilia’s lifeless body impaled through a spoke in the fence.  .

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This scene in particular occurs directly after Trip leaves the Lisbon household after spending time with Lux as the mother sat in between them. Trip goes to his car, flustered and sits back in the seat with his head back and eyes closed, visibly flustered. From his body language, you can assume that this response was due to the lust from Lux’s embraced sexuality that she displayed very quietly so no one would catch on besides Trip. Through his car window we see the upstairs middle light turn on, which we can assume to be the parent’s bedroom. The car door opens, and Lux jumps in and immediately begins to make out with Trip. At the same time, the song “Crazy on You,” by Heart plays. The dynamic in this scene has clear sexual tension, and also highlights the theme of disobedience and teenage angst. Trip knew what he was getting himself into by trying for a girl in such a reserved family, but also with the knowledge that Lux had a personality unlike her sisters. In the reading “Pleasure in Looking/ Fascination with the Human Form,” the term scopophilia is brought up, which is the pleasure of looking. In Freudian theory, humans enjoy viewing things that bring them pleasure, and the idea of voyueristic viewing enhances this pleasure further. Cinema essentially fulfills every aspect of scopophilia; we as the viewers are watching Lux and Trip has this passionate moment, and as a viewer of two subjects within a scene, there is no possible way for them to have any knowledge of this. Having insight into an intimate moment reflects upon the viewer, and you can almost relate the the sexual tension from a personal reflection of your own experiences, and from your own teenage years.

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The film definitely acts as the most absurd coming of age movie you can get. In comparison to a film such as say, Sixteen Candles, there is no existential crisis that is met with a resolution that acts a life lesson. The boys are under the impression they will final have the moment they craved since the beginning of the film; to take the girls and run off and have what they imagined to be the time of their life. Instead, the girls had other plans the entire time. As the boys wait, each girl meets her demise. Bonnie was hanging, Therese overdoses on pills, and Lux is found with her fingers still clutching a cigarette, dead in the garage from carbon monoxide poisoning. If anything, the film is an anti coming of age film, yet the strong vibes of femininity and softness make the viewer feel as if it’s the complete opposite. Surely families exist as the Lisbon’s, yet the strong theme of escapism through death is hard to tell as the movie progresses. 

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The tile of the film itself relates back to the major theme of religion. This theme doesn’t feel so prevalent aside from the imagery, but breaking it down becomes more understandable. In Catholocism, a virgin is a figure of purity, free of sin. The Virgin Mary was a saint because she was so pure, and conceived a child while never having sex, upholding her virginity. Despite Lux losing her virginity to Trip, the girls were viewed by everyone around them as completely pure girls who were perfect from their blonde hair down to their mysterious nature. All of the sisters met their demise through suicide, Cecilia being the first and the rest through a suicide pact. The title has two contradicting topics in nature; virginity and suicide. Maybe this acts as a not so gentle reminder that absolute purity does not always equate to perfection, as the matriarch mother believed. In fact, she believed that she raised her children perfectly and never did anything wrong. The film makes you question where true happiness actually comes from. In the mind of the family, upholding perfect standards of purity and Catholic values, and sheltering the girls from anything that could harm them, was the best way. The girls always wanted freedom, even if Lux was the forefront of breaking away from her family’s expectations. In the end, there is no perfect definition of what true happiness is. Everyone will always want what they truly desire, not what others confine them to. – JA

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https://theplaylist.net/sofia-coppola-criterion-virgin-suicides-20180502/2/

. Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” [1975]. Feminist Film Theory: A Reader. Ed. Sue Thornham. New York: New York University Press, 1999. 58-69.

. https://www.theguardian.com/film/2018/jan/25/sofia-coppola-on-the-virgin-suicides-director-debut

. https://thedissolve.com/features/movie-of-the-week/1076-the-virgin-suicides-is-a-window-into-sofia-coppola/