#enthralled by the ambiguity of the last one. or like not really the ambiguity it’s both of them.

[liliannadelaphinehartifelt]

Helloo!

Idk if you take requests , but could you maybe write a fic with Human!Alastor and male!reader where reader exaggerates his whole personality to comply with everyone else and is easily exhausted from it and Alastor "relaxses" reader in that way ?

Thank you in advance and have a good day !

Alastor - [ MASQUERADE ]

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A/N: This request really made me brainstorm but I've decided to break it into 2 parts. I hope you'll enjoy it! As always kindly lmk the artist of the fanart so I can tag them and give proper credit! ❤️

WARNINGS: [ SLIGHT NSFW ] + [ MDNI ] + [ SUGGESTIVE THEMES ] + [ MALE READER ] + [ FLUFF…if you squint ]

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“You're on air in ten minutes, Y/n. Pick it up before the host gets restless!”

Your so-called manager barked from the dressing room doorway, giving one last glare your way before strutting off, grumbling a string of curses you'd learned to ignore.

“Asshole…” you scoffed, turning back to the striped mirror of your vanity; the large bulbs that lit it gave enough light in the old stuffy backstage space, illuminating every detail of your appearance.

Not one thing could be out of place.

You wouldn't allow it, committed to your role as a rising preformer in the golden age of the stage, and conditioned to perfectionist standards from years of tribulations

Suffering behind a practiced smile won you your stardom. The ambiguous beauty you possessed helped immensely in your success on the silver screen, but the truest contributor to your fame was appeal.

Humourous, intellectual, but most crucial, sex appeal.

That's what kept your admires enthralled, permanently put you in the limelight from the start, and inevitably earned you considerable amounts of money.

You weren't opposed to being called a child of Dionysus himself, envied by those who wanted you. Still, the burden of putting on a show for everyone every day without giving them a glimpse of your faults was excruciating.

Yet, you chose the burden over sulking in the darkness, remaining among the ordinary when you so clearly had the makings of a star, and your status of high popularity among the masses was proof of it.

So be it if your cheeks ached from smiling at frivolous fans that your laugh sounded less like your own the more you forced it, that flirtations of others felt like empty praises, or that every project you agreed to felt less and less stimulating.

So fucking be it.

Fame is fickle; you knew this all too well, but your existence felt meaningless without it.

Empty.

All the world's riches, the undivided favor you garnered from the public, and the sparkling awards cluttered your penthouse display shelves…

Even with all that at your fingertips, you had yet to feel seen…

Seen and truly adored.

“Two fucking minutes! Get your ass in position. This interview is being broadcast live, remember?” your manager harped at you from the hall, causing you to grunt in frustration before yelling back, “Would you shut your trap?! Fucking hell…I'm coming!”

You set aside the whiskey glass in your left hand, ran your right through your recently styled hair, and checked your reflection one last time.

“It's only a radio show. One little interview and you can go home and get black-out drunk…” the idea of spending some much-deserved time alone after running around doing a press tour brought a sad smile to your face as you stood and exited the dim room.

This would be your last stop, an interview with Louisiana’s prided radio host, and the last person you'd need to put a show on for before returning home.

“Finally…” your manager grumbled as you stepped into the hall, giving you a once over as the two of you strolled down the hall towards the host recording area, “Don't fuck this up. People say this ones a real talker and can make or break ya..” he mumbled begrudgingly.

You paid his incessant pestering no mind, flashing him a suave smile as you both stopped before a heavy door, “Don't tell me you're starting to care about my reputation now? Thought you only saw me as a nice money grab…”

Your smile grew as laughter bubled in your chest, seeing the other slowly become agitated at your backhanded comments.

“Why, you little-”

“Oh, don't be rude, sir. You'll spoil my good mood, and god knows sour spirits bring bad luck,” you smirked, enjoying the scrunch of his nose as his expression reflected his true nature, but before he could snap, you pushed the door open and slipped into the soundproofed station room.

What a fucking pain he is…

You cursed the raging man outside, sighing softly as the sound of jazz lingered through the air and the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with a distinct cologne engulfed you.

The space felt and looked inviting, relaxing even, but what caught your attention was the man who occupied it.

He sat in a desk chair across the small room, facing a table full of controls and a mic to match. His face was lowered from the device, glasses resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose as he stared at what you assumed was a script for your conversation with him, but the simmering amazement overtook your curiosity about the paper he held you felt hearing him hum along to the song he was airing.

You didn't dare move an inch closer, satisfied with watching and listening to him from afar, oddly entrapped by the silent allure he cast.

It was no mystery that people loved the sound of his voice. You'd be fooling yourself if you said you hadn't found his commentary enchanting, but looking at him in the flesh, you were sure he'd flourish on the silver screen like no other.

He could indeed win the eyes of many…

Yours especially, and to some degree, he had already, but you hesitated to admit it even as he turned to face you.

Oh…. he is a beauty, that's for sure…

That was the singular thought in your mind as he smiled, standing from his seat before approaching you with all the confidence you'd merely portrayed.

“Hello there. You must be Y/n L/n. I'm Alastor Hartifelt. It's a pleasure to meet you, my friend!”

His voice was as smooth, melting into the background melodies inexplicably, and your heart lightened immensely as he held out a hand for you to shake.

“The..the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hartifelt..” you inwardly scolded your delayed greeting, losing track of your practiced charm relatively quickly in his grasp. Still, in seconds, you recovered from the blunder while returning his smile.

Alastor took you in with a glance up and down your figure, cataloging every detail of your appearance out of habit, but when his gaze met yours, one thought crossed his perceptive mind.

Longing?

How curious…

You hid the familiar emotion well; seeing past the veil of contentment wasn't tricky, and though he was tempted to bring it forth.

You two shook hands briefly but firmly. Alastor stepped back, gliding his hand out to mention towards the recording station. “Come, have a seat, and please call me Alastor. We will be on air after all; formalities aren't necessary for an engaging broadcast.” His smile grew, emitting an unearthly kindness as you nodded in understanding before sitting in the chair opposite his.

“You make an excellent point, Alastor. I hope we enjoy each other's company.” You chuckle softly, feeling a tad nervous for a reason unknown but genuinely harboring a rise in excitement, hearing him respond promptly.

“I have no doubt we will…” Alastor muses more to himself, a delicate edge to his voice as he trailed behind you, and a certain twinge of intrigue rattled your spine at the implication.

For the first time in a long time, you weren't dreading the inclinations of your fame, gradually succumbing to the sparks of joy Alastor evoked with the most straightforward words and becoming surer of the fact as he took his seat next to you.

“Shall we begin?” he implies cheekily, and you reply in a quick, witty fashion, “We shall.”

————-

“Care for a drink, my friend? I believe we’ve earned ourselves a cold glass of whiskey… that is, If your evening is unreserved.” Alastor made the offer moments after switching your respective microphones off, quickly arranging the recording panel to a specific setting as he listened for your response.

Your mouth moved quicker than your mind; a distinct rush overtook at the thought of spending more time with the charismatic radio host, “I'd be delighted to join you. I must agree that our interview went quite well. It's rare to have an easy conversation with a stranger these days..”

Alastor raised a brow, sparing you a glance as he finished sliding keys and flicking switches into place to keep a calming stream of music lingering in his broadcast, “So, I'm still a stranger to you?… My, and I thought we were getting on so well…“

He spurs you casually, an air of hurt in his expression, and it stuns you, causing a red hue to rise on your cheeks, “Th-that's not at all what I meant, Alastor…” Your lower head twinges of embarrassment staining your consciousness, and for the third time that evening, Alastor had chipped away at your charm.

He enjoyed it….

Seeing you falter and conform to his standards, though you didn't need to, at any time, you could've remained indifferent to him and taken your leave the moment he shut your mic off, but you remained.

Solely because you'd grown attached to him or the defect he had on you.

Humbling, genuine understanding, but above all else, validation.

“My dear, I am only poking fun. I take no offense to your words, and I hope you'll grant me the same courtesy!” Alastor reached for you, thumb and forefinger slipping under your chin to lift it, and you obeyed his gesture with a soft smile. “Oh…I…”

You paused, swallowing thickly as he raised himself from the chair, head lowered toward yours as he stood above you.

Had he always been so tall?

So brooding?

You weren't entirely sure, but your heart raced, every nerve in your body tingled with anticipation as if you were a deer caught in his headlights, but you couldn't retreat or evade him.

“You what?..” Alastor cooed quietly, chocolate eyes on fire with an emotion you'd long forgotten but returned subconsciously.

Control.

You needed to be back in control, or the next breath between you two might lead to something…

Your mind played scenario after scenario, beginning to short circuit as he peered down at you, lips only inches from yours, and his other hand reaching to caress your cheek. His touch is searing, warmer than those you'd felt before, intentional, and your entire being buzzed in his grasp as if in a drunken stupor.

He was dangerous… able to tear through your facade easily, which was terrifying.

Polarizing.

Don't let him get any closer…

Keep him at a distance…

You've only just met him...

Warnings rang in your head, but your eyes lowered to his lips, and your voice remained quiet as you responded to his question.

“I" 'd like to have that drink before the night ends. Wouldn't you?"With a gentle nudge of your head and a soft laugh, you draw away from Alastor's touch. The space between you increases, and the ability to breathe becomes less strenuous as you stand to your feet, collecting your overcoat before slipping it on, "I'm not familiar with the city yet, so I'll leave it to you to show me around." The chipper in your tone amuses Alastor; you'd perfected the art of illusion so well that in the clutches of what some might consider an intimate moment, you balked and reclaimed sensibility like it never occurred, though you wished for it to carry on further.

He'd met and spoken to his fair share of actors, learned their ticks and telling habits, and used it against them when he saw benefit in toying with them.

However, being able to see right through you evoked another motive for the host, and he dared to think it was mutual.

"Well, I'd be honored to show you the ins and outs of this lively town I call home so long as you promise to keep up," Alastor retrieves his coat, a heavy jet black trench withered accents paired with matching hat, stylish in all the right ways -presumably warm to be in. Still, you were sure if he ventured into the night dressed like that, any stranger would fear him.

They had good reason to, but you didn't need to know why.

Not yet…

With a coy smile, you followed Alastor out of the station, matching his strides as he paved the way to a nearby speakeasy, "You'll find it quite entertaining, my friend. Few visit at this hour, but my dear Mimzy puts on a vine show regardless!" Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of Alastor being infatuated with another, for what reason you weren't sure, but your disappointment flashed clear in your eyes that he took it upon himself to clarify his remark.

"She is an old and loyal acquaintance. Nothing more. Nothing less."

You perked up at the explanation, face burning with a blush as you raised both hands to dissuade his interpretation of your expression, "I understand. You needn't explain anything to me-"

Alastor halted in his tracks, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he peered at you curiously, "Hm, so you did assume we were something to begin with?..."

Shit, was I that obvious?...

"Not at all..." you lie, as calm as ever but internally conflicted.

How could he go about messing with you so boldly?..

And why did it excite you?..

"Your eyes say otherwise, my friend..." he counters your nervous reply with a smug smirk, beginning to walk off as if he wasn't toying with your head, "My eyes?..." you whisper in response.

"They are the doorway to the soul...I've learned to walk through said doors, and you, my dear, hide a lot of fears behind them." Alastor chuckles, ears tingling as you reclaim your spot at his upon reaching your destination. Still, you're less concerned with the dark alley lit with a singular neon sign situated above a heavy lead door and more worried about what he is implying regarding your emotions.

Who was he to know anything?

Sure, he was pleasant to be around, an avid intellectual with a knack for continuing conversation with you, and you had no reason to believe he'd been faking his friendliness to you from the start...

That still gave him no right analyzing you, prod at your exterior with more confidence than necessary, and you intended to let him know it.

A glare beset your expression, mouth open to speak, but you weren't allowed to do so as the lead door swung open.

Alastor guided you close to his side as a gaggle of patrons spilled from the doorway, ranting and raving about the time they had inside. Their rowdy behavior irked him, but you did not comment on the matter as he placed a hand on your back to lead you inside after their dysfunctional departure.

“Drunken idiots,” he mumbled begrudgingly, and for the first time you'd seen the radio host truly bothered. He'd been so composed during your interview, inviting and flirtatious on and off the air, so getting a glimpse of his annoyed state felt like a treat.

At least you knew he had flaws, insignificant but telling ones.

“Um. Alastor, you can..” you paused, unsure if you wanted to let him know he was still holding onto your waist as he led you inside the dim speakeasy. Alastor hummed, irritation gone, and his coy smile widening as you shuffled alongside him. “Y-you can let me go now.”

“Oh, nonsense, my dear! I wouldn't want you to run into unsavory characters like the ones that just passed..”

He quickly navigated the lingering crowd, clearly familiar with the club's layout, and you marbled at its unique atmosphere as he led you through it. “I can handle myself, Alastor,” you tried again to reason, but Alastor was quick to give a response as he ushered you to sit at an unoccupied lounge chair complete with a table and lamp.

“I'm sure you can but I'm rather fond of keeping you close.” He sat next to you after setting his coat and hat aside.

What did he mean by that?..

“How selfish of you,” you feigned disappointment as he shifted to face you with a soft chuckle leaving his lips, “Would you be so kind as to forgive my greed for your attention?” Alastor stares you down, noting how you bite your lip, another nervous tick you'd yet to disregard in his presence. “I'll consider it if you buy me a drink or two..”

The suggestion was meant to sound confident, unmothered by the mounting pressure in your chest, but it came out breathless. You were sure that you'd mastered the art of indiffenece, permanently established a mask of charm, but as much as you wished to maintain the certainty…

Alastair disproved it with little more than a gesture or equally compelling word.

It was unsettling, intoxicating too, but undeniably riveting.

“A small price to pay,” he mumbled, eyes lowering to your lips as you laughed softly and leaned back to admire the other patrons roaming or dancing around. “I never said I was cheap..” you taste him, gaze drifting to him as he shifted closer. You wanted to jump out of your skin as his arm came to rest behind you, head lulling to ward your cheek as he breathed into your ear. The resulting warmth made you shiver, quickening your breaths, and your body tingled with intrigue.

“No…” Alastor affirmed your jest, free hand raising your chin, tilting your head to face him as he continued, “…but you are desperate to be loved. One might say that's just as inappropriate, mon Cher..”

His tone dripped with condensation, a sensual purr loud enough to drown out the jazz and chatter surrounding you, and for a moment, he was all you could comprehend.

You should've felt angry, unsettled even, but his words struck a more profound emotion.

Comfort.

You weren't crazy, a constant wonder for the masses to marvel at and never care about.

Alastor could see you.

He wanted to…

“And so what if I am? Why would it concern you?..” there was no harsh undertone to your question, and it earned a sultry hum of amusement from him. “You've interested me, so I must not ignore your charade. I'm partial to the truth of a person, and you, my dear, abandon it in the hopes of success..”

Spot on.

It is shamelessly hurtful but direct nonetheless.

You clicked your tongue dismissively, attempting to turn your head away from his grasp, but Alastor held you tighter.

A glare crossed your face at the brushing grip he established, but a pool of excitement rushed to your crotch as well.

“I'm not one of your scripts to read, Alastor..” you scoff, rolling your eyes to make your point clear, but he isn't affected by the arrogant gesture.

“My apologies if it seems that way, but my intention to know you, inside and out, is purely innocent...”

“I find that hard to believe…” you retort, very aware of the minimal space between you two, and it became harder to focus on anything else but his soft lips that were stretched thin into a smile.

God, I was doomed from the beginning… you think to yourself as you laugh at your shameless line of sight. “Believe what you wish, my friend, but I enjoy being the object of affection..”

“That's inappropriate to suggest,” you mutter, face burning with blush and your hands raising to grip his wrist and collar. Alastor hummed, amused by your denial, “Mm, I suppose it is…would you like another apology?”

You shake your head, tugging him in by the collar of his shirt, eyes lifting to his, full of determination, “A kiss will do just fine…”

He holds your gaze, checking for mockery, but there is none. “That's the first honest thing you've said all night, mon cher,” Alastor points out in a hushed tone, lowering his head to place a slow kiss on your lips as they pull into a satisfied smile.

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I rewatched Heartstopper for this. Was it helpful? Yes. Did it make me cry harder than the first time I watched it? Also, yes. Will I forever love that show?… (yes). Again, this is just part 1! The second half is being drafted. Please look forward to it. I'm not sure it'll include smut…but I'll debate on that later.

[ BONUS CONTENT + ]

He's so cheekyyyy but I love him for it hehe like he’s just the right amount of ‘cocky asshole’ ya know? ❤️ credit to creator!

[pastanest]

if you’re wondering why I’m having to repost this, or why you were perhaps previously following me but no longer are, please refer to this post. I was able to retrieve this thanks to @iamburdened - thanks so much!! ♡

Spencer Reid x British she/her!reader

Nice To Meet Ya

“There’s no racial motive, but the unsub is only targeting males.” JJ begins the discussion, her eyes not leaving the folder in her hands as her words float to the rest of the team onboard the jet.

Derek shrugs. “It’s gotta be a male - he feels threatened by other guys entering his territory.”

Rossi shakes his head. “But his murders arent frenzied, he’s calm, sophisticated; not like a wild animal. There’s some object of infatuation within the area, he attacks before any of these men can get to it.”

Spencer frowns. “He’s under the impression that whatever he’s possessive over is already his, he can protect it from afar and keep it for himself.”

Hotch speaks up. “We need to find out what his infatuation is. JJ and Derek, I’d like you to examine the first crime scene. Rossi, you and Reid are the best of us to investigate the town itself.”

Spencer shuffles awkwardly in his seat. “Why?”

JJ smiles at him. “You’re young enough to not look like an agent, and Rossi’s Italian.”

The team chuckles, before their focus falls back on their folders.

As soon as he sets foot outside of the police station, Spencer notices the words ‘Tourist Tracker’ are plastered on the front page of every local newspaper he sees. They really couldnt come up with a better title for this unsub? He shakes his head and carries on walking. Rossi chuckles as he notices the newspapers. One of the biggest downsides to being invited to a case late: the media gets ahold of it. The town is on full alert. At first, people assumed the stabbings on the edge of town were random altercations, robberies gone wrong; it took far too long for the authorities to consider this the work of a serial offender. Five men had already been stabbed to death. A single, precise stab to the heart.

For Spencer’s first task of investigation, he has been sent to library, much to his own relief. A library was the closest thing to a version of heaven that Spencer had ever experienced: thousands of books and minimal human interaction, it was sheer bliss. He had been sent to investigate significance of a particular book that the unsub had left at a crime scene. After talking with the victim’s family, they knew the book was not something he would have had with him, and it was up to Spencer to deduce what had caused the unsub to leave this particular book beside a dead man.

As he rounds the corner, Spencer notices a woman locking the door to the library building, and he panics. Sprinting over to her, he accidentally startles her, but much to his surprise, she smiles at him.

“Hello! You’re not a familiar face!” Her greeting is warm, her voice and accent delightful the moment it reaches Spencer’s ears. A British girl, lord have mercy.

He takes a moment to respond, shocked at someone seemingly excited to speak to him. “No, Im not. Im-“

She interrupts him. “Wait, dont tell me, student or qualified Doctor?”

Spencer frowns in confusion. “Doctor, how did you know?”

She smiles and nods, eyeing him up and down. “Well, Doctor, you are the only person I have seen nail that fashion outside of tv, so congratulations on that! Is there something you needed?”

He blinks rapidly and awkwardly grabs for the book in his satchel. “Yes, sorry, could you tell me about this book?”

She gasps at the sight of it. “Oh my god! Where did you find it!?!”

Spencer passes it to her. “It’s probably best if you dont know that.”

His ambiguity doesnt bother her as she turns the book over in her hands, completely enthralled by it. “This has always been one of my favourites. It was stolen from the library last week! We have multiple versions, I assumed a kid stole it but couldnt think why. Lord Of The Rings isnt exactly the first book I’d consider steal-worthy.” Her eyes widen and she looks up at Spencer. “Let’s put her back where she belongs!”

With that, she unlocks the library doors and rushes inside. If Spencer wasnt already convinced she was the librarian, the certainty in which she ran to a specific aisle and shelf within the building was a real teller.

“Do you have any security cameras?” Spencer asks as he turns on his heel and admires the floors of books.

“In a library? Nah!” She chuckles, walking back over to him. “So, now Im not touching it, tell me what gruesome hole of goo you found that book in.” She crosses her arms over her chest and Spencer knows it’s useless arguing with her.

“It was found next to one of the murder victims, we have reason to believe the killer placed if by him and we dont know why.” He explains.

She raises her eyebrows. “You’re a Doctor in the FBI?” She facepalms. “Of course you are! Why didnt I get that? Bloody hell. A non-familiar face hasnt been in town since that guy started killing people! Of course you’re with the FBI!”

Spencer shakes his head, stopping her ramble. “What makes you so sure the unsub is a man?”

She shrugs. “Easy, the men dont have anything in common, not a single personality trait that would link them as romantic interests of one person, and women are only driven to kill that many men who have wronged her; and speaking from experience, the main list of men that heterosexual or bisexual women contemplate killing is filled with her ex’s. None of the men were gay either, so it wasnt romantic.”

The agent’s eyes widen, slightly alarmed at her casual suggestion that she’s considered killing one or more of her ex’s, but he hopes she’s joking. “How do you know all of that!?!”

She casually walks past him, heading for the exit, and he stumbles after her. “A girl’s gotta protect herself, so I did my research to see if I needed to take up karate lessons.”

Once they’re back on the street, she locks the library door again, while Spencer recovers from that quick burst of intelligence.

“Anyway, I hope you catch the guy. Let me know if I can do anything to help!” She calls.

Spencer’s head snaps up. “Wait, I didnt ask your-“ but by the time he looks down the street, she’s already disappeared.

He’s still beating himself up about his impoliteness in forgetting to ask her name when he finds himself standing in the local bar. The ticket he had to purchase to enter the scene undetected was in his pocket, and it was identical to the ticket found in the second victim’s hand. No alcohol was found in his system, and bouncers confirmed they’d never seen him. It’s a decently tight-knit community, everyone knows someone who knows someone else and they know everyone. This unsub’s signature is leaving items with his victim’s that do not belong to them, and thus far there has been no connection made between the items.

A particular smile catches the young genius’s eye, and when his gaze returns, he realises it’s her. The spaghetti strap, deep purple glitter number that hugged her body in the best way was enough to send Spencer’s head spinning.

To make matters worse, she‘s laughing, dancing, grinding on her friends, running her hands through her hair. She’s having the time of her life. Spencer realises he’s staring when she glances over in his direction and catches him in the act. He coughs and acts distracted, looking to his wrist at a watch he isnt wearing.

“Hey Doctor! I didnt expect to see you here!” She shouts over the music.

Spencer is stop light red, and for the first time in his life he’s genuinely thankful for strobe lights.

“Still on duty!” He shouts back.

She pouts sadly before she returns to her usual smile. “Guess there’s no point in asking you to dance, I’ll just give you this instead!”

She pulls a pen from her small strap purse and holds her hand out. Spencer takes her hand in a strange sort of handshake, then she abruptly turns his hand, rolls his shirt sleeve up, and writes her phone number on his arm, before rolling his sleeve back down and hiding it. Standing on her tiptoes, she leans close to his ear.

“The girl you were just staring at is called (Y/N), by the way.” She giggles before running back over to her friends.

Spencer truly cant believe his luck. She gave him her number, and was considerate enough to do it in a way that none of the team would see. What a woman.

Spencer happens to see her on both Saturday and Sunday after that. On Saturday, she was browsing flower’s in the florists opposite the trash can that was in a photograph found in the throat of the third victim. On Sunday, she jogged round the corner and directly into him as he followed a set of directions from a specific landmark in the town, found in the trouser pocket of the fourth victim. On Saturday, he was too far away to form a conversation with her, but the two of them shared a smile. On Sunday, they had a conversation that mainly consisted of laughing about how they kept bumping into each other. None of the victims had any connection to (Y/N), so Spencer had ruled out the possibility of her being anything more than an innocent resident of the town.

On Monday, while on his way to the grocery store where the unsub had purchased a bell pepper found in the fifth victim’s vomit, Spencer decides to visit the library and formally apologise to (Y/N) for not already calling her. But, she wasnt there. The member of staff who was at the desk told Spencer it was (Y/N)’s day off, and he left the library feeling scolded by fate. Of course, the two of them could randomly meet every single day for three days, but when he went looking for her she was nowhere to be found. He continues his walk to the grocery store with a strong sense of irritating irony.

As soon as he arrives at the grocery store, though, his anger evaporates into the air, because there she is. Her tongue sticks out of the corner of her mouth slightly as she browsers different vegetables, crouching on the floor to reach the bottom shelf. Fate was on his side after all. The bell rings at the door to announce Spencer’s entrance, and when (Y/N) looks up, she immediately beams in pleasant surprise.

“Hey Doctor! Fancy seeing you here!” They both chuckle at her greeting as she stands up and walks over to him.

“Hey (Y/N)! Im technically still on duty, but I need to apologise for not calling you sooner, I’ve just-“

She places a finger on his lips to shush him. “You’re literally in the FBI, I understand you’re busy.”

They both chuckle again.

“So, what’re you doing here?” Spencer immediately regrets asking a question with such an obvious answer.

“Oh y’know, the most exhillerating task of my Mondays: the weekly shop!” Despite her knowing his question was a little silly to ask, she answers honestly without making a fool of him. Spencer cant express how much he appreciates that.

“And what British delicacy are you planning to cook with all of that?” He gestures to the basket of groceries hanging from her hand.

She smiles. “Vegetable stir-fry! Only the most British dishes in my household!”

Spencer laughs, both of them fully aware that stir-fries are the furthest thing from a British delicacy.

He walks with her as she pays for her groceries, and before he can object, (Y/N) says she has to get home and start cooking right away. It’s 3pm, Spencer knows she’s just being kind and leaving him to do what he was sent to do, he wishes she’d stop doing things to make him fall for her. Spencer asks the man at the cash point to print off a record of every bell pepper purchase in the past 2 weeks, since the bell pepper in the victim’s vomit was fresh with no signs of mould and the man was murdered the previous week. Unfortunately, there had been a problem with the security cameras in the grocery store for months and they didnt have the money to get them fixed, so there would still be no footage of the unsub.

Spencer arrives back at the police station to confront his team with the dooming realisation that he found nothing of note. When he finds his team surrounding a vase of flowers, though, his mood changes.

“They have to be from the unsub.” Derek comments, passing a small note to JJ.

Spencer darts over to JJ. “Can I see that?”

JJ nods, her curiosity over Spencer’s alarm evident on her face as she passes him the note.

She’s mine.

Spencer’s blood runs cold. The flowers in the vase are deep purple daisies, the same shade as her dress on Friday night. The picture of the trash can was opposite the florist these flowers were likely purchased from. The book was one of her favourites, from her library. The directions crossed her jogging path. The bell pepper was purchased from her local grocery shop, by the victim who was killed exactly a week ago, on the day of her weekly shop for groceries. And the purple string that is tying the flowers together in the vase isnt a string at all. It’s one of the spaghetti straps from her dress.

“I know what his infatuation is. We need to go now, I’ll explain on the way!” Spencer’s words were rushed, panicked, and he’s already speeding out of the door, the rest of the team following him.

As quickly as he possibly can, he informs the team of every occasion he had seen/spoken to her. Clearly, someone had been stalking her, and anyone watching her would notice her getting close to a member of the FBI, which would lead to them knowing they’d be identified sooner or later. Spencer had been blinded by his own desire for her to not be in any danger, he had unintentionally been doing exactly what the unsub wanted him to do: take time figuring this out. The unsub had essentially revealed himself in the note and the flowers sent directly to the team, which meant he was entering his endgame, and it‘s impossible to tell what this would mean for the girl Spencer has started to fall for.

There will never be a more perfect time for him to call her. Hotch leads the team’s vehicles as they speed down the street, Spencer sits beside him in the passenger seat with his phone pressed to his ear. He’d dialled her number with shaking hands, the sound of a phone ringing had never been more terrifying to him.

By the time they reached her address, very efficiently provided by Penelope, Spencer had called and been sent to voicemail three times. The team didnt need any further reason to hesitate, Derek kicked the door open and Spencer barged into her home.

“FBI!” He calls out, his voice firm, every instinct in his body telling him he’s ready to fight, but he is simultaneously so afraid. Until he hears her voice.

“In here!”

Spencer follows the sound, and the scene he ran into was truly a sight to behold. (Y/N) was leaning against the kitchen doorframe casually, panting with a hand on her hip. A man lay unconscious on her living room floor on his stomach, his head turned to the side, the half the team could see was burnt somehow.

“What happened?” Spencer asks as he steps over the man and reads her face for any sign of trauma, but he can see she’s running on adrenaline.

“Whacked him with my frying pan, didnt I.” Her words are so casual, but everyone on the team is in awe. She fought off a man with a knife, with a frying pan.

JJ looks over the unconscious man. “How many times?”

She smiles. “Once with the side of the pan to knock him out, second time to make sure he was out, but I used the bottom that time because he made me ruin a perfectly good stir-fry.”

The fried vegetables scattered on her kitchen floor solidify her reasoning.

Derek chuckles and shakes his head. “Kid, you’d better not get on the wrong side of her!”

Spencer smiles, feeling relief flood him. “Trust me, I wont.”

(Y/N) starts to laugh, but she immediately cuts herself off by hissing in pain and clutching at her side, which her hand was previously holding. Spencer’s eyes almost fall out of his skull.

“(Y/N), what happened?” He asks again, so much more weight in his question than before.

She smiles guilty. “Well, I had a sneaking suspicion he was after me since everywhere I went, I bumped into you investigating things that all led you to me. When you called, though, I forgot all about that and was just so happy, I turned to pick up my phone and that’s when I saw him in the corner of my eye. Grabbed the pan, but wasnt quite quick enough, he got me first.” She slips a little, progressively becoming too weak to stand, and Spencer is quick to catch her.

“WE NEED A MEDIC!” He shouts, and while JJ shoves the unsub into a police car, Derek and Hotch run out of the house to call the medic in.

Before she knows it, (Y/N) is on a stretcher being wheeled into an ambulance. Medics are already swarming her trying to stop the bleeding and identify how severe the wound is. The sound of the ambulance swarms her ears, until the doors close and it sounds like she’s under water all of a sudden. Then, she sees Spencer. He sits beside her and takes her hand in his, and she smiles at him. A relaxed and tired smile, it contrasts so much to the bright, excited grins he’s used to seeing on her face. He feels his chest tighten.

“If only you’d been calling me to ask me out on a date, instead of warning me of my attempted murder.” She jokes, her voice so much softer than Spencer had ever heard it.

“I’ll make you a deal: you get through this, and I’ll take you on your dream date.” He replies, holding back tears with a gentle smile on his face.

“Deal, just let me have a nap beforehand.” She says, her eyes already closing and that smile still staying on her face.

Once he’s sure she’s passed out from the painkillers, Spencer lifts her hand to his lips and gives her a kiss. He isnt sure whether it’s for good luck, or to seal the deal about the date, or to convey feelings. Maybe it’s all the above. He doesnt have time to conclude a reason, because she squeezes his hand, and although her eyes are still closed, he knows. Whatever the reason was, she understood.

[cew644]

Thoughts about FF16 (Spoilers for everything)

I beat FFXVI last week and have just been thinking, and I need to organize my thoughts. Spoilers for everything: characters, lore, and ending. It's very long and scrambled, so bear with me!

So first things first, I absolutely adored the game. Easily one of the top 5 FF games of all time for me. Maybe even top 3 (my favourites are XIV and IX for context). No game is ever perfect, and I do have some nitpicks.

First, I'll start with the characters.

Clive is just hands down one of the best protagonists in gaming, and it is not even close. He's kind, caring but not a pushover. He wears his heart on his sleeve. Everything he feels, YOU feel. This is in large part due to Ben Starr's absolutely amazing performance. His character works really well for the story they are trying to tell as well. He wants to help people and make the world a better place. Any time deviating from the main quest makes sense for his character and helps really flesh out the world in turn. My one issue with him, and it's by no fault of his own, is that he IS the protagonist. Traditional FF parties do not apply to this game and it does affect all secondary characters.

Jill is amazing. I've seen many people call her boring compared to other heroines in the series, but I have to disagree with that. She's an adult, not a quirky teen or an anime girl with a gimmick to sell figurines. Her arc in Drake's Breath is fantastic, and up until they get to Ash, I don't really have much to say that's negative. But she is, however, the person that suffers most from the shift to a singular protagonist. Because Clive needs to get Shiva's powers, she's written off to the sidelines. Her constant presence and agency are cut out of nowhere in service of Clive, and it sucks. Her absence from the ending is also jarring, but I will discuss that more when I talk about the ending.

Cid is best Cid. He works perfectly to establish the themes and motivations for the cast. The sidequests outside of the main quest are also amazing for fleshing him out and reiterating how important Cid's legacy was to everyone involved. I like that he's basically an anarchist.

Joshua is incredibly charming. I would have liked to see more of him and Jote. He comes in pretty late into the story, but you do get the sense of how sheltered he was in small moments (like with Mid), and it's super cute and goes a long way to show his character. I would have really liked to get a couple more scenes with him. Like a conversation with Clive about Pheonix Gate or why he never reached out to the group. So that leaves things up to speculation. I personally think that he was worried about Clive being possessed or influenced by Ultima. I mostly just would like a bit more closure is all.

Dion is my second favourite Dragoon and character in the game (after Freya and Cid, respectively). In every scene with him, I was enthralled. Every scene with the empire and he was just so well directed. Despite not joining the group until the end of the game, he really feels like one of the most important characters. His resolve to die for his sins pushed me to finish all the side quests I could. Like the hideaway is an airship, and Mid's sidequest was all about making a ship! I really thought we could get a secret ending where we could save him! That being said, he's fantastic. I hesitate to call his death "burying the gays" cause of how ambiguous and open-ended it is (and how everyone could live or die depending on interpretation), and how his sidequest ends, but I digress.

Last is Ultima. Super creepy and inhuman, his demeanour, voice and design all work fantastically to make something so close to humanity but also so far. He is also one of the more Christian-coded Gods we've had in a while. His beef is basically, "I made this garden of Eden and these creatures gained consciousness." It is, in very literal words, the original sin. The way he gains followers is also the self-same "paradise" or heaven that features more heavily in Christian faiths compared to Judaism or Islam. I like the twist that all of it was so that he and his breather (which are a sort of singular mind according to the secret tomes) are just using humanity to get there alone. I DO prefer the earlier high fantasy and political intrigue from earlier in the game, but I think if they were going to do a classic FF god ending, this was a good way to do it.

Just a quick mention for the side characters too. I love them all! They're all fantastically written, and I highly recommend doing all their quests. I also like the "leaders" of the towns. Martha, L'ubor and the Dame are so essential to their communities, and you really feel that. I also liked how L'ubor was very trans-masc coded. It was a cool touch!

Lore-wise, FFXVI is really only close to XIV in terms of world-building. And in some ways is much better. Every part of the game is built around magic and how it functions in this world. It's not just a medieval world with magic added to it. How every nation reacts to, and treats magic is very grounded and unique. The Iron Kingdom was especially interesting cause of how they interpreted the bearers as sins rather than tools. That juxtaposed with the Empire, which reviles Bahamut. And Waloed which elevates the dominants, while treating the bearers the worst out of any of the nations. I'm starting NG+ soon just to read through and get all the lore, cause it's so expansive and well-written.

This all comes with some unfortunate and dark implications. Namely slavery and how it plays into the world. Today, slavery is incredibly tied to race, and it's almost impossible to ignore, but historically race wasn't really a concept. Slavery had more to do with prisoners of war and religion. I'm just saying this to point out that slavery here reminds me much more of Greek or Roman forms and not the horrors of the trans-Atlantic slave trade. This all leads me to Yoshi-P's comments about the lack of diversity in Valesthia. There are PoC in the Republic, which is important to note. But that being said, I don't have faith that CBU3 could have written a story about PoC and slavery without it coming off horribly, and I think the team knew that. Having PoC as bearers would have made it so that Clive was a white saviour. Having PoC as non-bearers would have been even worse as a sort of white person victimization fantasy. Having Valesthia as an isolationist nation works to tell this story without engaging in colonialism but still relating the message of slavery to free will. In short, it's still messy and could have been handled MUCH better, but I think they knew they were not equipped to tell that story and handled their themes in the best way they could. They could have still probably have found a way to have a more diverse cast too.

The environmental messaging was also excellent. I almost wish we got to see it more. I was really second-guessing myself as we went along, and things kept worsening, but I think that was intentional. The whole theme of freedom and change worked really well in a more grounded and relatable way. As in "change is hard, it will hurt people in the short term, but it needs to be done for the betterment of the future." It doesn't chicken out like FF7 does.

Which all brings me to my interpretation of the ending. But first, I need to bring up Jill again. So I think the writers had a very clear idea of how they wanted the game to end. They said their main theme was brotherhood, and that's obvious. But I don't think they could do that with Jill dying in the final boss, so they just dropped her completely. It REALLY bugs me a lot, and I think is the one area where you can argue that Jill's writing is sexist. Cause it is here! Prior to this point, I disagree though. But back to the ending, It's very ambiguous and up for interpretation, which I enjoy a lot. I'm glad they went this route cause if they did go a definitive ending where Joshua dies and Clive lives, I woulda been pissed. It's still a valid interpretation, don't get me wrong, but just hear me out.

The whole time, Jill goes on about Clive saving everyone else except for himself. It's a cool hook, but I never felt it. Clive choosing how he lived, to me anyway, was helping others. He lived to end the bearer system and destroy the crystals that were draining their world, becoming an outlaw to do that. He did that! Which is why I think he chose to die for Joshua to bring him back. An ending where Clive lives while Joshua dies just does not sit right with me. Maybe it's cause I'm an older sibling too, but even though Joshua didn't die, he never really lived either. He's clearly very sheltered, he doesn't have anyone outside the undying, and he was isolated his whole childhood. The whole reason Clive chose to become his shield is to help bear the burden together. Clive dying to "rebirth" the world where his brother and all other bearers can live freely I think is a beautiful way to end his story. Though I can understand why people may disagree.

Another interpretation I also could get behind is that they all live. Clive just loses his arm to the curse. But I think that's a bit cheap.

Anyways sorry for the extremely long review/thought piece. It's by no means perfect, but it's still an easy GotY for me, it's a solid 9/10. I just needed to lay out my thoughts, and I'm happy to discuss with anyone who wants someone to talk to!

ALSO if they do DLC, I would want it to be about Jill, Dion, Joshua, or Leviathan.

[h-worksrambles]

I finished Final Fantasy XIV Heavensward

Earlier today I completed all the story quests of the Heavensward expansion. And I had to write down something because I have so much to say. Full spoilers for Heavensward and its patch quests below.

The jump in writing quality from the base game to this expansion was huge. A Realm Reborn had excellent worldbuilding, but was let down by lacklustre character writing and not really having a very compelling plot until near the end. But Heavensward almost immediately puts a better emphasis on character. Here, the immediate cast is much smaller, so more time is taken to develop everyone. Alphinaud’s faith is shaken by the Ul’Dah betrayal, and he’s forced to re-evaluate his arrogance and belief in his own widsom. He goes on to be a much humbler, more trusting character. and comes across far more likable as a result. Tataru gets much more screentime in this smaller cast and her sweetness and optimism gets to shine as a result. Likewise, the ideological back and forth between Estinien and Ysayle gets plenty of room to breathe. It feels like you have a more conventional JRPG party where everyone gets proper development. And I think many of the new introductions like Count Fortemps are also welcome additions with good moments. 

 The actual plot is also much more compelling. The end of ARR serves as a strong inciting incident to leave the Scions vulnerable and exhausted. They throw themselves into the Dragonsong War because they have nowhere else to go. Speaking of, I adored the Elezen and dragon conflict. What begins as an epic war with dragons that was already cool on a surface level, evolves into a commentary on theocracy, historical revisionism and the cycle of violence, with themes of love, grief and revenge. Ishgard as a setting is just my aesthetic. A huge sprawiling city buried in snow, leading out into mystical floating islands and a lost, derelict city of dragons. It’s such a visually enthralling setting that I was delighted to explore. 

Once you move into the postgame quests, the character writing remains strong. The Scions are gradually reintroduced, and every one of them gets so much more depth right from the off. Minfilia’s ascension to Hydaelyn’s Voice is profound yet tragic, Urianger becomes a wise, morally ambiguous yet well meaning chessmaster. Y’shtola returns from her near death experience within the Lifestream as a more mature, worldly figure with a striking air of regality. Yda gets more backstory and Papalymo’s sacrifice breaks the cheerfully ditzy first impression she made back in ARR. Alisae finally returns to be a minstay of the narrative since Coils and quickly became one of my favourites. She’s no nonsense and tough but underneath is a kind soul who wants to help people and make her grandfather proud.

This much more well defined cast allows the game to go hard on emotional moments. Ysayle’s faith being shaken as she learns the truth of Hraesvelgar and Shiva, before regaining her resolve and sacrificing herself to give the heroes one last chance to end the war. Haurchefant, one of the few friends the Warrior of Light had amidst this strange, unfamillar land, snatched in a way in an unexpected, cruel gut punch. Thancred being forced to say goodbye his sister figure who he swore to protect.  It’s all compelling stuff and by this point I can genuinely say that I care about all these characters and want to see what they go through next.

That’s not to say the story’s perfect and I do have a few qualms. Despite being the inciting incident, the Ul’Dah plotline is kind of tossed in with a hasty resolution that restores the previous status quo by undoing Nanamo’s death. At least the mission to save Raubahn is cool. The pacing drags a little after the emotional tour de force of the Vault, as the jouney to reavh Azys Lla falls prey to the busywork found in ARR’s quests. And finally, the titular Heavensward are not especially interesting villains. They all kind of blur together and Thordan is the stock ‘evil pope’ you’ve seen in countless JRPG’s. Final Fantasy itself did this better with Seymour in X. They have a fantastic boss fight where you effectively fight the Knights of the Round from VII. But squaring off against such one dimensional villains ends 3.0 on a slightly anticlimactic note.

Fortunately the patch quests provide much more compelling villains. Nidhogg serves as a tragic cautionary tale. His rage and hatred against the Ishgardians is completely justified. He is a victim of their atrocities. But his rage and hatred are so all-consumig that everyone knows if he lives, there will never be peace between the two sides, and many more people will die. He is the culmination of the building theme over the patch quests of how hard it is to end centuries of violence, death and destruction and start over without forgetting the past. The Final Steps of Faith concludes this theme in a painfully tragic battle, a fight you never wanted to happen, but is ultimately inevitable. And it’s a challenging spectacle of a fight. The Warriors of Darkness are also great antagonists. A tragic reimagining of a past Final Fantasy archetype, who likewise, you fight with reluctant pity. Even the Ul’Dah plotline gets revisitied right at the end with a confrontation with Ilberd. Not only does this allow Heavensward to start the way it ended but it allows for a very natural lead in to Stormblood as the Ala Mhigo plotline comes up to the surface at last.

I also want to give a shout out to some of the optional content. While I chiefly focused on the MSQ I did do some of the more recommended side quests. The Alexander raids were a short tragic time travel story warning against the perils of tampering with nature, while also having some banger music. The Hildibrand continuation takes our goofy gentleman detective into a surprisingly touching story as he becomes a father figure to Gigi. It’s nice to see a new emotional side to the hapless yet earnest Hildibrand and it doubles a loving tribute to one of my favourite characters from Fnal Fantasy IX. But the highlight was the Dark Knight quest. I knew this quest was what put Natsuko Ishikawa’s writing on the map and it did not disappoint. Having this soul searching examination of the Warrior of Light was a fascinating direction to take. And one that felt especially fitting during Heavensward. They’re an exile, on the run for a crime they didn’t commit. They gave their blood, sweat and tears for the people of Eorzea and are met woth betrayal and mistrust. What better time for a philosophical and ethical study of their fears, their resentments and the anxieties over the burdern of being the Warrior of Light? It’s superbly done, and leads into an additional compelling storyline with Sigurdu and Rielle. I’m delighted I put the time in to level a Dark Knight to experience this, and it’s joined my rotation as one of my main classes.

Heavensward was overall a wonderful experience and I’m glad I was able to cap off the year by finishing it. A Realm Reborn was a welcoming, comfortable gateway to MMOs that didn’t demand much of me intellluctually, or in terms of skill. It was something I could do in bits and pieces as I soaked in the world even if I wasn’t that invested in the story. But Heavensward is where I got well and truly hooked. Characters I felt little towards before now leapt off the screen. The story was hitting higher emotional heights than ever before. All amidst a setting just as lush, detailed and imaginative as the last. I can’t wait to start Stormblood and see what else this game has to offer. I’m now ready for this game to completely ensnare me.

[danses-with-dogmeat]

🏫🍻🔪 For Fawkes? Need me some super mutant lovin' 🥰 (yes i'm kind of ignoring canon on that one, lemme fuck a super mutant bethesda) No pressure if you're uncomfortable w it or anything so no worries!!

Ohhh, I got you, my friend, I got you 😉 This man deserves some lovin' after all those years in isolation.

(and I might be wrong, but I think it's only officially canon that the Mutants in FO4 [the ones made by the Institute] are sans endowment, for the ones in 3 and NV, I think it's a bit more ambiguous 🤔 so there's definitely hope! [just so long as I'm not wrong, lol])

Either way, here it is! NSFW under the cut!

F) Favorite position (this goes without saying):

His size makes him too nervous to be on top of you, no matter what you tell him you can handle, so he often declines positions like missionary or lazy dog, where he's afraid he might end up crushing you. So, he tends to favor positions where he can still be close to you, without having to worry so much. He can hardly last when you ride him, he's so enthralled with the way you look as you grind on top of him, but he finds that he really likes it. It also gives the added benefit of you controlling how much you can handle, and what pace you'd like to go at, so that definitely makes riding a favorite of his. He also appreciates reverse cowgirl, but only temporarily, as he really does enjoy seeing your face. Another option is standing positions, with you draped over a piece of furniture, or held against a wall. Fawkes has got a lot of strength, and though he often holds it at bay to keep from hurting you, that doesn't mean he doesn't like to show off and use it to his advantage every once in awhile.

A) Aftercare (what they're like after sex):

Even when you tell him not to, Fawkes worries about you. And despite the fact that he takes the utmost care when he's with you, after the two of you are finished, he's all over you, asking you to tell him honestly if you're alright, inspecting your skin to make sure you aren't marked too brutally, ensuring the only tears in your eyes are from pleasure, and never from pain he's caused.

When he's finally finished checking on you, he loves pillow talk. After you're all cleaned up, he likes when you lean against his body, his hand in yours as you two chat away until sleep claims the both of you.

W) Wildcard (a random headcannon for the character):

He may be big and imposing, but Fawkes really likes a partner that will take control. When you tell him what to do, or move parts of his body of your own accord and use him to reach your mind-shattering release, he always comes undone at the sight of it.

K) Kink (one or more of their kinks):

Dirty talk, but like, his version of dirty talk, which is mostly flowery and romantic declarations and relentless praise (so praise kink as well, both giving and receiving).

Though he won't like to admit it, he does have a bit of a size kink, loving the way he can pick you up and manhandle you when he does choose to be more dominant.

He's really curious about roleplay, and would love to try out new scenarios with you. He had a lot of time to himself all those years, so he's got plenty of imaginative ideas.

Light bondage (for him). He likes the idea of you having to restrain him because he's so aggressively drawn to you, (even if he really is very aware of his and your limitations), and the way you can be the one to manipulate him when he's at your mercy gets him harder than he thought was possible.

E) Experienced (how experienced are they? Do they know what they're doing?):

Perhaps the old Fawkes, the human man, maybe he was experienced. But Fawkes now? Everything he knows is from what he's read on that terminal of his before the others destroyed it, so he has very good anatomic knowledge, and well-rounded understanding of the meanings and general practices of sex, but no real world experience with a partner. This base proves to be excellent though, just enough to know what he should be doing, with you there to guide him through the rest. And don't worry, Fawkes is a fast learner.

S) Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?):

Ummmm, yeah. His endurance is startling. Fawkes can go just about as many rounds as you want, and though he tends to be a little premature in the first round with you, he recovers in mere minutes. And he really cannot get enough of you. He's been locked up, pent up, for years, and you're everything he's ever wanted, but what he feared he'd never have. So, so long as you aren't in pain, or too tired to continue, Fawkes could quite literally go all night.

[smokeybrandreviews]

Good Love

Last week was a whole ass emotional train wreck for me and i just kind of gave up. Literally slept the last three days. Didn’t go to work yesterday. Barely ate anything. Couldn’t muster not one f*ck. Sh*t was wild. I did, however, watch the new season of Love, Death and Robots because of course i would. I love that series. Overall, i thought it was pretty good. Better than the second season as a whole, even if this is, technically, the second half of last year’s offering, but still not a great as that first run. I had so much fun with these nine shorts and, fingers crossed, look forward to season four. But who knows at this point. Netflix has decided to kill all of their animation houses because they overextended their shareholders during the first part of the pandemic. F*cking idiots.

Three Robots: Exit Strategies

I as a fan of the first short starring these three assholes so it’s no surprise i enjoyed their second outing. The writing is much more polarizing in the one, leaning heavy into the political, but it’s as sharp as ever and i thought it was hilarious. It can be a little macabre at times but, when you’re making light of the slow heat-death choking our planet, of course it can get a little morbid.

Bad Traveling

Bad Traveling is very good. I thought, as a story, as a narrative, it’s easily the strongest This thing is a very straight forward tale of human nature and it’s sobering reality. I liked this one a lot, mostly because i like David Fincher a lot. Dude has been one of my favorite directors since Alien 3 (yes, i actually, unironically, love Alien 3) but i don’t think it’s the best of the lot. Traveling is a strong second or third for me but, as a short, it’s very, very, excellent.

The Very Pulse of the Machine

This one was pretty f*cking cool. I loved the ambiguity of Kivelson’s weird ass, aggressively psychedelic, relatively intimate, with the moon/machine, Io. I’d like to believe that all of this happened but, let’s be honest, ma was just real high on the morphine and experiencing oxygen deprivation to boot. Still, this f*cking thing is all sorts of technicolor brilliant and it really speaks to those big existential questions i love to ponder.

Night of the Mini Dead

I don’t know what the f*ck this was but i loved it. It’s just as absurd as When the Yogurt Took Over. Sh*t comes out of nowhere, does it’s thing, never overstays the welcome, and leaves with a complete and utter “What the f*ck” reaction. Like, i had just finished watching something as enthralling, as contained, as The Very Pulse of the Machine, and then f*cking Micro Machines Day of the Dead comes on. I love it so much!

Kill Team Kill

Kill Team Kill is just abject gore porn. It’s f*cking ridiculous and absolutely over-the-top drivel. It’s what i think Last Action Hero would be if it was Rated R. I thought the animation in this one was exceptional because, and i can’t stressed this enough, I'm a sucker for traditional pencil animation like this. I’m an anime guy so to see proper cartoon work like this getting such loving attention is always going to rank up there for me. As a narrative, its dog sh*t. As a watch, it’s fantastic.

Swarm

I did not like Swarm. It felt like a poorly executed Beyond the Aquila Rift, and that is a particularly egregious to me because Rift is one of my favorites. I love that short so to see it done poorly? Sh*t hurts. That said, Rosario Dawson is in this thing and i generally enjoy Rosario in things so Swarm got that going for it at least.

Mason's Rats

This one is the short that gives Bad Traveling challenge for that second spot. Mason’s Rats is fantastic. It’s gorgeous, hilarious, violent than a motherf*cker, and has a pretty solid ending. The premise, alone, was enough to get me into this world but the plot really delivered something special.

In Vaulted Halls Entombed

I don’t know what the f*ck this was about. It felt really disjointed but, more than that, it felt like a Diablo trailer. I wasn’t mad at this one at all but it’s not anything new. I’ve seen this narrative before and I've seen it done better. Again, Diablo trailers kill this thing easy. Seriously, check out the trailer for Diablo 4. Giant blood demon mommy, Lilith, make the fear boners stronk. Jokes aside, even if this one was a little derivative, it was still a very fun watch.

Jibaro

Jibaro is, hands down, for me, the best of this season. It’s gorgeous and tells a complete narrative with no dialogue. None. This sh*t is pure visual storytelling and those visuals are f*cking breathtaking. The cats who did The Witness from season one, Pinkman.TV, blessed us with this entry and it really shows. They have a distinct style to their art and i seem to be drawn to it like a moth to a f*cking flame. It’s weird that something with no dialogue can tell such a heavy story, rife with some very poignant themes. I was impressed with this entry and would be surprised if this thing didn’t get a few Emmy nods this year.

[lavendermin]

if all stars fell at once (3) | xiao

pairing | xiao/reader

word count | 3.8k

genre | fluff, light angst, developing relationship, overall domestic

warnings | eventual smut, nightmares

Dark and suffocating. Every corner had entities reaching to restrain you. You were panicked, running down unknown streets despite lead-heavy legs— despite not being able to scream. Like a thick syrup, the stress crept into your chest, filling your lungs as your eyes darted back and forth looking for an answer, a way out.

This warped reconstruction of memories and experiences with sinister manifestations was never ending. A second weighed on you like a century; trapped in the box of dreams conjured by your mind.

The Sea of Clouds was nothing more than a desolate wasteland. Buildings you'd known for years looked unsettling with details that were a little off— stairs that led to nowhere, the shadowy forms that lurked in the deepest corners of your peripheral vision… This was the inescapable circumstance of the environment your mind constructed. Like a labyrinth of the mind that left a sense of impending peril. Though there wasn’t a soul that could be found in any of the deepest recesses of the harbor, there was an ever-present feeling of being followed— watched.

Something was after you. Down deserted streets and abandoned alleyways the ambiguous figures followed you. By the ominous presence of a colorless sky above the harbor, you knew anything encountered here would not seek to be well-intentioned. And still knowing this was nothing but a nightmare, there was always something that filled you with paralyzing trepidation at finding out what fate awaited you if the evil entities consumed you.

Fear of the unknown.

It was always like this. Yet you could never stop the suffocating dread that enveloped your form and drove you forward as adrenaline fueled your heavy limbs.

With legs fighting to continue forward, you take a sharp turn to increase the distance between yourself and the malevolent figures inching closer.

‘I’m scared.’ But your thoughts echoed helplessly around you.

The entities dripped with malice, pouring out of cracks in the buildings and trudging through the stone paths. No longer holding a cohesive form, they began to merge and fight to walk over each other to reach the nightmare’s victim.

You tightly squeezed your eyes shut, body seized with recoiling anxiety. But nothing came. Instead, there was a gentle hand that placed itself on your shoulder.

‘I’m here,’ Xiao’s voice reassured. He pulled you towards him, delicately holding you in a protective embrace. There was an immediate shift in the air around you. ‘I won’t allow them to hurt you anymore.’

Behind him, you could begin to see the harbor chip away into ashen particles that glowed wispily. The dark entities seemed to melt away, seeping into the cracks and grooves of the cobblestone like a murky syrup.

Your body became light and airy in his hold, and you wanted nothing more than to stay in his safety for all eternity. Now more at ease, you slowly raised your clouded gaze to meet his golden irises, firm and reassuring.

‘May this nightmare release you from its hold.’

Tenderly, Xiao pressed his lips to your forehead and the crumbling mind-space around you was forgotten. It was as if the nightmare was unraveled and recondensed within the palm of his hand, and left you feeling like a wave of drowsiness settled in to fill it’s absence. Everything went blank, feeling like you succumbed to another slumber within your slumber.

Euphoric and warm. Finally, peace found you for a restful sleep.

—

Distant hums of mourning doves and the tranquil drips of raindrops playing melodies on puddle surfaces greeted Qingce Village as morning settled in. The sky was grey yet maintained bright as the sun still managed to break through much of the condensed clouds. The sluggish morning greeted you with a breath of ease.

With a stretch and a yawn, you peered one eye open. Across the room, you spotted Xiao seated against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as his head slowly nodded off to the side. He was dozing off, if not already asleep. Had he stayed the whole night? You clutched the warm blankets a little tighter around your cozied-up form, eyes fluttering shut to try and recall your dream.

...Nothing.

No matter how much you tried to recall anything, even the vague feeling of the dream, ultimately you were left empty-handed. Though it wouldn’t be the first time that you woke up being unable to recall a dream, this time felt deliberate. There was a distinct feeling lingering in the back of your mind you couldn’t quite describe. You could only imagine that it meant the nightmare was eaten as Xiao mentioned.

You glanced back over at the dozed off yaksha, his face peaceful and loose stands endearingly strewn about his face. When he had first mentioned dream eating a few nights ago, you got the feeling he was a little reluctant to do so. Despite his usual calm, aloof demeanor, there was some body language you learned to pick up on. Xiao is never one to lie to you, as he is curt and blunt in his own polite way, so you could only hope he wasn’t putting himself in danger with this.

You force the spiral of thoughts away before it festers any longer. No use getting in your head about it. It would only worry you sick if you kept deliberating. And much like Xiao is straightforward, perhaps you, too, should just ask him about it. You’d think about it.

With quiet movements so as to not disturb the sleeping adeptus, you waddled over draped in warm covers to put around him.

‘He looks really tuckered out,’ you noted, brows furrowing ever so slightly with momentary worry.

The moment you crouched down to brush a strand of hair out of his face, his hand quickly shot out to grab your wrist. His golden eyes opened frantically, narrowing momentarily at the sudden disturbance only to be met with your startled whimper and remorseful expression.

“I–I’m sorry to scare you awake!” you apologized hurriedly. Upon seeing it was only you and not an enemy, his expression returned to a more neutral state as he released his deafening grip on your wrist. “I thought you might be cold sitting on the floor so… I…”

Xiao wordlessly eyed the large blanket that practically swallowed your entire form and trailed behind you. It made you look so tiny in comparison.

He eyed the way your fingers absentmindedly massaged where he gripped with a little too much force. Concern settled in, and his gloved fingers gently reached out to check the tender flesh.

“Your wrist— did I injure you?” His eyes searched your face intently for any hint of pain or discomfort.

It only tingled, the prior pressure lingering and slowly subsiding. You shook your head, gingerly draping half of the blanket over him and huddling up next to him. He didn’t protest the gesture, the gentleness of your actions becoming something Xiao’s grown fond of.

You offered him a reassuring smile. “No, I’m okay. I startled you pretty badly… Were you having a bad dream?”

He hummed, pensive as he leaned his head back to thump softly against the wall. “Adepti don’t dream. When a mortal dream is consumed, it lingers in fragments that soon disappear not long after. I can only briefly be part of that dream as a means to get rid of it, so it’s as close to dreaming as I can experience.”

Perhaps dreams were akin to adeptal realms, and he left such inferences at that. His only goal was to rid you of the nightmares that resurfaced as of late.

“I see...” You contemplated, both perplexed and enthralled by this ability Xiao had proven to possess. And though you didn’t actually witness it, the inability to remember last night’s dream was proof enough that it worked. “So, does that mean you got rid of one of my nightmares?”

“Yes. It’s fragments are mostly gone.”

With a looming sense of guilt, you asked, “Are they scary? The nightmares, I mean.”

“No,” he responded without second thought. Considering his past— the likes of which you were still vastly unfamiliar with— any nightmares he had consumed were few and far in between. “Nightmares are conjured by the mortal mind as visual human fears. Often adepti will not be able to experience this except for myself through dreams I consume, but I’m not afraid of what I encounter. No matter what I see, I know it’s only an illusion. The feeling of the dream only lingers similar to the taste of food.”

You felt like a curious child; asking too many questions about something that piqued your interest. Still, Xiao entertained you all the same, answering your questions about dream eating with all the patience in the world. It made for a nice morning chat on such a drowsy day made to be spent huddled under warm covers.

The sparkling glint your eyes held as you hung on every word, or the way your soft, pink lips parted slightly with a silent gasp as he elaborated— it never tired him. It made his chest ache sweetly with that recurring feeling. Perhaps if his range of emotions were similar to yours, he would be smiling like he biggest love-struck fool right now.

“So, think about it, okay?” You finished with a beaming grin.

Oh. You had been talking. How long had he been distracted? He can’t even remember the last thing you said, too busy sorting out his mind. The adeptus could only blink confusedly at you as you stood up, hands on your hips lacking admonishment with the amused smile that quirked the edges of your lips up.

Rare was the moment you would catch the highly-attentive Conqueror of Demons off guard. Though his face remained neutral, you didn’t miss the momentary bewilderment in his eyes when he wasn’t sure how to respond. You took that as cue that his mind had momentarily drifted elsewhere.

“I said I wanted to repay you for helping me with the nightmare issue, but you seemed distracted. Did you fall asleep with your eyes open?” you jokingly teased as you waved your hand in front of his face.

Xiao averted his gaze, lightly scoffing, “Don’t be absurd. Adepti have no need for sleep. And payment isn’t necessary— I did this because I wanted to.”

There are many things you know about Xiao, and perhaps twice as many more things you had yet to learn about him. Your knowledge was already far surpassing what most mortals knew of him, but your advantage lay within the boundaries of a more personal relationship with an adeptus— a true rarity indeed. However, the subtle shade of scarlet twinging his ears as he hid his composed facade behind dark teal hair… there was no doubting it, much to his unvoiced chagrin.

Ah, you noted, so he’s embarrassed.

A relationship, unclearly defined by little gestures and subtlety in words that were mere whispers of deeper pining. There were complex feelings at hand, but the universe would show kindness and move for you both at the pace needed to meet each other halfway. Not rushed, but never stagnant. It was achingly slow and sweet to share moments of vulnerability among each other, here within walls that weren’t privy to prying eyes. And it was moments like this that fell into a rhythm— a wavelength— that seemed to pull an invisible string connecting you both together.

You didn’t tease him for the embarrassed pinks on his cheek, and for that he was grateful.

“Still, I want to do something for you.” You stopped him before he could protest, turning at the door frame of your washroom. “I’m doing this because I want to. It can be anything you want, as long as it makes you happy.”

With that, the door clicked shut and he was left with his lips parted in quiet bewilderment. Distant sounds of running water filled the deafening silence as he sat back with a deep sigh. Adepti are the ones relied on for favors and wishes. How strange— to have a mortal so readily offer to fulfil an adeptus’s curiosities with your limited capabilities. To bring him happiness… Something he didn’t see any benefit in, nor did he think he was capable of feeling happiness.

Xiao thought deeper into it, analyzing what exactly it was that filled him with a strange unease. Something that made him happy…

Happiness. He scoffed at himself at the mere thought. He was made to kill, to defend the land by any means necessary. His happiness… It was never a factor in his contract. It played no greater role in how swiftly he cut down blighted monsters. Happiness was not the weapon he relied on in the face of evil he vanquished. So, why was he giving himself a headache trying to figure out what made him feel happiness? An emotion he wasn’t very familiar with to begin with.

Here you were, showing— what? Mortal arrogance? No. His perceptiveness as an adepti was far too knowing, and perhaps the truth was what puzzled him more. What you showed him was genuine kindness, and perhaps a shred of naivete you clung onto.

He found himself warm with amusement when he thought about it— about how you treated him like you would any human. Where most would tremble at the sight of him or treat him with the reverent idolization that mortals do, you were instead treating him like one would a close friend. And maybe, if it were anyone else, he would see it as blatant disrespect. But if it’s you— since it’s you, he oddly sees no reason to raise a fuss about it despite himself.

It was a nice change of pace to feel at ease around you. A lighthearted reverie of mundane human life, and a moment of freedom from the heartache that burdened him as an adeptus.

Languidly, he scanned the room with unfocused amber eyes, your distant hums echoing in a muffled melody from beyond the other room. The glaze lilies from the other night had been moved to the desk by a window, the closed buds subtly glowing as they picked up on muffled hums of wordless songs and opened up shyly to your song.

Much like it’s difficult to find the right harmony favored by the delicate flower, Xiao wondered what made you bloom… and decided he would find happiness in figuring out your melody.

——

You blinked, mouth wordlessly opening and closing just the same. The words even made you fumble with your needle as you were stitching some intricate embroidery.

Finally gaining some composure, you cleared your throat but still ended up stuttering out, “W–Wait, I– Um– Could you…run that by me again?”

He had returned later that same day, when the moon was high in the sky and fireflies illuminated the still fields of Qingce with their soft glow. Seated patiently across from you, Xiao held your gaze firmly with arms folded across his chest.

“I’d like for you to enlighten me more about mortal emotions. If I want to get to know you better, I can’t avoid being a bit more knowledgeable about them.”

The way he held your gaze firmly and with undeniable resolve meant he truly deliberated this for a while, though you hadn’t expected him to actually come forward so quickly. Truth be told, you expected him to take on an adeptus stance and simply pay you no mind.

With a softer voice, he added, “Consider it the one thing you can do for me. I want to… understand you. Fully.”

“A–Ah, I see. Okay, so I did hear you right the first time.” You were already starting to put away your materials. Better to avoid any mistakes while your mind was taking a second to refocus. “Well, it’s… it’s a bit of a broad topic, and I’m no Sumeru professor. But, I’ll still give it my best.”

Dealing with a battle-hardened warrior in an area they were unsure of was a little intimidating. But, you’ve seen moments where Xiao has shown you a gentler side, one more tender and soft. It gave you hope that things would come naturally to him over time. More than anything, your heart was taking the heat of the nerves. There was just… so much and yet so little to emotions— taken for granted when they were embedded into you without much second thought. It was a little dizzying to figure out how to best help him comprehend things he hasn’t experienced much.

You shook your spiraling thoughts away before they over-complicated themselves and made you short-circuit. “So, uhm, are there any specific emotions you don’t fully comprehend?”

Xiao hummed, eyes closed and brows slightly scrunched as he racked his brain. In the end he came up empty. “I’m not sure. I’ll leave it up to you.”

With a slow nod, you pieced together possible ways to go about this. For the span of time you knew him, Xiao always expressed his puzzlement with how humans worked— not out of disdain, but rather voicing his disconnect with them. To hear him want to finally break the surface rather than choose his usual path of avoidance, was surprising to you in every way.

Still, humans are social creatures by nature and such interactions are what sparks the reactive emotions as a result. You were positive his curiosity didn’t warrant the desire to be put head first in a sea of emotional enigmas. He wasn’t a ‘people person’— something you knew all too well. This desire to learn was something Xiao allowed himself to entrust you with. You and you only.

“I have no desire to figure out how every mortal works,” he explained, hoping it would help narrow down your jumbled thoughts. His voice lowered just a fraction— volume just above a whisper meant for you alone to hear. “Understanding you alone is enough for me to work with. Don’t overthink it.”

There was an undeniable heat that twinged your cheeks. Xiao was looking to unravel your feelings for him without even knowing it. But there was a slight excitement you felt at the idea of the dense yaksha in front of you figuring out what the ties that wound you both together meant. There was plenty to explore.

“Alright, well,” you started, “What I think you need is just… experience. On a human level. Maybe then some things will click easier.”

He felt the warmth of your hand as you sidled over next to him, hand reassuringly placed over his gloved one. Xiao nodded slowly, a little apprehensive at the prospect of needing to adjust his perspective.

You cleared your throat, anxious to be prying more into his personal being. “So, what makes you happy, Xiao?”

There was a brief pause, the gears visibly turning in his head as his brows knit together. He was left staring blankly at you. “Could you… explain?”

“Oh, right… Sorry,” you apologized. “It’s whatever makes you feel… uhm, pleasant. Like a warm, sunny feeling in your entire being. Sometimes it makes you smile or laugh, but in the end always leaves you feeling satisfied for a fleeting moment and then everything doesn’t seem so bad— no matter how much you’ve endured. It makes things worth the effort.”

“I see,” he nodded slowly. “What makes you happy?”

Avoiding the question— though it’s not like you expected him to answer easily. Some examples would probably help him understand best and you reasoned this would be a very hands-on learning experience for him in the end, anyway.

“Me? Hm…” You pondered it a moment, absentmindedly fiddling with the adepti amulet he gifted you. “Sitting under the stars. It’s one of my favorite moments of peace under the calm of the dark sky… The world around us shifts every moment that passes, but it’s a comfort that the stars remain a constant when I look up for hope to get me through another day.”

There was a distant look in your eyes that didn’t go unnoticed by Xiao. However, something about the delicacy of the moment told him now wasn’t the moment to prod into the heaviness that weighed on your heart. There was a reason you were still here, much like him— your will to go on became your greatest strength. You visibly snapped out of your musings, a rosy hue high on your cheekbones.

“Sorry for… that— Where was I? Oh, right. It’s not too hard to find something that makes you happy if it’s something you like doing. Reading books, the people I love and care about, the colors of the sky as the sun sets— all of these make me happy, too.”

The subtle embarrassment that tensed your shoulders at first was subsiding, settling into comfortable conversation. Maybe it’s the attentive way Xiao sat with his face propped on his fist, expression relaxed as he took in every little detail you gave— it was hard to feel flustered for long.

He leaned back against the wall, his arms folding over his chest as he exhaled from the effort it took to think long and hard about what sparked some form of happiness in him.

“And if I were to say that what brings me happiness is you,” Xiao starts, his amber eyes glowing subtly as they focused on you, “what would be your response?”

There would be many ways you could respond, but the instant the words registered in your head you were suddenly at a loss for words.

���T–That would depend… on what you consider me,” you stuttered out, voice slowly growing meeker under his burning gaze. The moment of silence as he hummed in thought felt like it lasted an eternity, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“I consider you my person.”

Your plush lips were left parted in quiet awe, eyes glittering like the sky you so dearly loved as they visibly widened. Any words you were going to stumble over were cut off when soft lips pressed at your cheek. The tender revelation didn’t need words, as Xiao was a man of communicating best through actions. Both mortal and immortal sat in the stillness of the room with matching rosy cheeks adorning their features.

“You…” The heat in your face seemed to match the intensity of the ache in your chest. “Kissing me so freely… You want my heart to stop, don’t you.” But you were smiling as you buried your face into his shoulder to hide the increasing redness on your cheeks.

Xiao shrugged, “You do it all the time.”

...Screw it.

Any other lighthearted remark he was about to say was cut off by your lips silencing him in a rushed kiss. It was hasty and sweet, your eyes tightly shut as you chose to respond in actions like he did. Golden irises widened briefly before fluttering shut, letting the feeling lead.

It was warm— the feeling in his chest, the shy innocence reddening his face, the gloved hand that settled on top of yours as it tenderly cupped one of his cheeks. Here before him you bloomed so beautifully that it made his heart ache and his mind go blank momentarily. Yes, he was positively sure of it now.

You made him happy.

[stopeatingwhales]

playing cards x damon albarn

THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE OMG OK. hope you guys enjoy it!!!! I love arrogant damon sorry not sorry <3

Pairing: 1995 damon albarn x reader

Warnings: alcohol use

Word count: 2.339

@damonfuckingalbarn this is 4 u!!!! <3

༉‧₊˚✧

“Have this, you’ll like it far much more than what you’re drinking.”

Diverting my gaze from the beverage encapsulated in my palm, I met my view with the mysterious voice that had beckoned in my direction. “Excuse me?” I said, first landing my glare on his ethereal orbs, spheres that were so magnificent that I had to attempt a double-take; the idiosyncratic shades, merged together to create a masterpiece of different blues, as if they were small fragments of the water from most pure oceans, exemplifying the ideation of eyes that engulf you in at the instant - simply gazing into his orbs was the token I had needed to be entirely enthralled by his presence. Perhaps his gaze was too intense, too enticing, leading me on to trail my stare to admire the more gorgeous head of hair, which looked as if it hadn’t been brushed, though that portrayed its attractiveness. His face was beaming toward my direction, taking me aback slightly as I quickly ditched the sight of his face, drifting my sight to gawk at the two drinks clasped by his hands. “That looks like shit.”

A small scoff escaped his throat, evident that he was not expecting the abrupt attitude that had beckoned upon my lips. Slightly embarrassed at my dramatic remark, I adjusted my posture, accentuating such confidence that I had seemingly demonstrated so diligently with my demeanour. “Just try it.” he replied, placing one of the glasses on the dark wood counter, pushing it towards my direction lightly to prevent it from slipping off the glossy counter. Leaning my torso closer to the counter, I spent a couple seconds examining the contents of the unknown drink, it being something that I had never set my eyes upon.

Placing my original drink on the countertop, I nervously grasped the ambiguous drink that he had offered me, glancing back at him with an unsure expression illustrated on my features. In a way to reassure or encourage me, he nodded his head, resulting in me then taking a small sip to ease myself into the new flavour. Before the liquid had merely touched the back of my throat, I spat the contents back out into the glass. “That’s minging!” I choked, my face scrunching up in disgust. Focused on each move I was making, I felt his eyes continue to gawk at me as I attempted to rid the awful taste that lingered on my tongue by taking a lengthy sip of my pint, swallowing down the contents gleefully. Connecting my stare with his, I once again analysed his features, almost like my mind trying to discover what had been the true ideal that his beauty had enthralled me so rapidly just gaping at him. Perhaps I had over-emphasised his gorgeousness too much, though my doubts were denied as soon as my view had set upon his face once again. He had a smirk carefully illustrated at the side of his lip, curving the top of his cheek slightly, his face sculpted so delicately it urged the want to caress your finger against his skin, it conveying the impression that it was so soft, accentuating the prettiness of his facial features. Something inside me was itching towards the fact that he was somebody I knew, or at least somebody that I had seen somewhere, until it had clocked that he was from television, more specifically Top Of the Pops, last night. "You're that singer from that art school band, aren't you?" I questioned, my vision squinted together as I challenged my active recall abilities. “Damon isn’t it?”

"Wow, you know your music!" he laughed, edging his arm to rest on the counter. The stare orchestrated between us remained, as I left my mind to ponder over the common-knowledge of how men were like in bands. Aware of what he was going to solicit, and knowing that he would think it was going to be extremely easy, I had to prepare myself not to fall for it, no matter how good-looking or tempting the concept engulfed in my brain made it out to be. "Want to go out for dinner tomorrow?"

“No, sorry.” I bluntly replied, breaking the poignant eye contact to down the rest of my drink, slightly forcing the glass containing the beverage he had offered me, back to him. If I had my eyes lingering on his for any longer, I’d end up doing something I’d highly regret the next morning.

“Why not?” he quizzed, bewildered by my sudden response. Clearly he had never had a woman decline his offer before, or was definitely not expecting it after he had gone head to head and won against the second biggest band in the country the night previous. So arrogant.

“Because I don’t want to?” I replied, slightly amused by how perplexed he had gotten. Darting my eyes around the dimly-lit room, my gaze fixated on a booth consisting of boys that, from my vague memory, believed were his band members. Knowing that he was still looking at me, I allowed a smirk to fall on my lips as I thought of what to say next. “I've actually got my eye on that guy over there," I mumbled, pointing towards the familiar booth of boys, my index finger lingering on the tall, lanky boy, whose hair looked as soft as the petals of a newly-bloomed rose. Granting my finger to saunter for a while, it directed enough time for Damon to swivel his head around to see whomever I was speaking about. "Alex, isn't it?"

Switching my focus back to look at him, I noticed his jaw clench at my remark, his orbs dawdling over the three boys who had been engrossed in conversation. Feeling the smirk on my face widen, I relished in the sensation of battering his ego - even if it was just slightly. A small laugh escaped his throat as he locked his gaze with mine, clicking his tongue as he sneered, understanding what I was trying to do to him. It was a forced chuckle, most likely portrayed out of annoyance,  “Look, I just think you’re really pretty, alright?”

Chewing on my bottom lip, I felt my stomach ignite at his frustration towards my obnoxiousness. Butterflies were blooming in my stomach as a certain heat flushed over my cheeks, my body mindful that I couldn’t keep up with such a persona for a much longer time. As well as this, it would potentially drive him away, which at this rate I didn’t want him to do, so I thought of the best possible solution to bring his hopes up, reaching to the ground underneath the barstool to grasp my bag, taking out a deck of cards. “Let’s play snap.” I exclaimed, beginning to shuffle the card deck.

“And you just carry those around do you?”

“It’s fun to play.” I replied, splitting the deck and then sliding him his share.

“Can I just get you a drink?” He groaned, though a small smile had perched on his lips at the irregularity of the situation. A girl is asking him to play cards after she simply rejected him, at a bar.

“You already did, Damon, and it was shit.” I spat back, fixing my eyes on his once again. He looked slightly offended at the insolence I demonstrated towards his efforts, which, for some reason, sank my heart a little. “If you win this game, I'll give you a second chance.”

“Deal,” He beamed, the signature devilish grin of his painted on his lips once again. “Might as well get you that drink now.” he added, his arrogance seeping through his teeth.

As we began placing our cards in the middle of the table, one after another, the environment was tense as to when two cards of the same origin would land upon each other. It was funny, I had gone out tonight to blow off steam from the stresses that work had offered me the past week, and somehow I had landed myself playing a game of cards with undoubtedly the most famous musician in Britain at the moment. “I’m not falling for it, you know.” I said, avoiding his gaze.

"Then why are you doing playing cards with me, love?" he interrogated, the sneer on his lips evident by his lustrous tone. He was right; his obvious pretentiousness, and egocentrism only edged me towards loving his company just that much more, which had disgracefully increased my attraction to him, but of course I wasn’t going to admit that, hell, I was adamant that I wasn’t going to fall for it, even though that was exactly what I had been doing this entire time - sinking down a hole of allurement from his persona that panned something inside of me that I wasn’t able to pinpoint on. Pop star effect, I suppose.

Completely silenced by his comment, I felt a certain radiance tease it’s way to my cheeks once again, edging me into humiliation even more to the fact that he could tell the effect his words were having on me - the sly grin on his features was felt in the tension shared between us. In an endeavour to shy away my embarrassment, I dragged out my packet of Marlboro cigarettes, snatching one from its packaging and lighting it before placing another card down on the deck that had been piling up since we had started. Inhaling sharply, I allowed the cancerous smoke to escape my lungs, my body adorning the relaxed feeling that seeped through after. “Can I have one?”

“No.”

“Why not? Your pack’s full!”

Pausing my movements before taking another hit from the roll of tobacco, a smirk lingered on my lips as I let my head rest on my palm, keeping my body upright. "Why? Those songs of yours not selling much?" I mocked, blowing another whiff of smoke into his face, the stunned expression held on his face only exhilarating me more in what felt like... control, though from the way he had been acting, I knew that such power was not going to last for a long while. "Put a card down, for goodness sake."

Scoffing, he followed my demand, though the card he placed down was the exact same as the one I placed down before, ensuing his hand slamming suddenly on top of the card deck, my mouth agape as I realised that he had won. “Look who won!”

A beam covered my face as I shook my head, watching him grab the attention of the bartender, asking for another drink that once again, I hadn’t heard of before. Once the bartender was done preparing the beverage, Damon passed it over to me, another grin captured on his expression. Sighing, I discarded the remains of my cigarette before taking a sip of another, unknown drink, the feeling of déjà vu hitting me as I had enraptured myself in the same situation when we had first spoken. "For fucks sake Damon, this tastes worse than the last one."

"More for me then, isn't it?" he grinned, my mind now aware that he had simply ordered such an appalling drink to agitate me. Be that as it may, he was aggravating, and took delight into making one’s time horribly spent, there was something about him that kept me latched onto him. Perhaps it was his glowing features, which were so enticing that it blinded me into thinking that he was the only other person in the room, and the only other person that I could set any fragment of attention towards.

"Stop pissing me off, you twat." I mumbled, looking at my bag as I placed the card deck back inside, it not proving much use to the situation anymore.

"You could quite easily just walk away, if I’m pissing you off this much.” he said, his head tilted to the side as his eyes lingered on me, practically forcing me to connect our gazes once again. “Doors just there, love." he uttered, beckoning his hand towards the timber door that divided us between the streets.

"Why would I leave when I'm getting free drinks?" I asked, trying to maintain whatever control I had over the situation, which had been deemed to have slipped out of my grasp at this given moment. The tension between us had been alleviating faster than it had been before, as we began reaching the climax of the encounter.

"You're not liking them though, are you?" he replied, face beginning to draw dangerously close to mine, his eyes flicking from my eyes to my lips every couple of seconds, contemplating how to end the situation. It was fully in control with him now; I was merely wrapped around his measly little finger, and he knew it. Our noses grazed ever-so-slightly on one another's as I felt his breath fan onto my cheeks - all I had craved for at this point was to attach my lips onto his, my breathing quickening as the realisation of just how close our bodies were to one another. "Just admit it, you're loving this." he mumbled.

"Am not." I whispered, my eyes staring at his lips as shuffled closer and closer to mine. We were both aware that what I had said was a lie, but my stubbornness wasn't ready to let that slide yet. Just as I thought we were going to connect lips, he darted his head away rapidly, the movement so swift I hadn't come to realize until a couple seconds afterwards, my cheeks now reddened to the point that I was almost convinced I had a fever.

"You fell for it, lovely." he grinned, placing a white slip on my lap, decorated with numbers to which I assumed were in relation to his telephone number. "Let me know when you're free!" he exclaimed, before waltzing off to the booth where his friends had, leaving me completely stunned, and exactly where I knew would be - absolutely encapsulated by the man known as Damon Albarn.

[zotlel]

The Exhibition (M)

pairing: jaebeom x you (ft. jinyoung)

genre: photographer!au, smut, romance, one-shot

synopsis: You are starved for inspiration as a photography student. When visiting the anonymous photographer “Defsoul’s” exhibit you meet a like-minded boy who gives you that spark. Only you didn’t expect the night to pan out exactly as it did.

word count: 7.8k

The wide city sidewalk was packed full of people anxious to get home and start their weekends. Their hurried steps accompanied by the warm street lights were quite a sight, you thought. With a quick flash of your camera, you are able to capture the scene as is, but you were already running late. You weave in and out through the bodies because unlike them you were not going home.

This was the third year of your photography program at the city’s most prestigious university. Despite how much you loved photography, you had been stuck in a creative rut recently that you just couldn’t seem to break free from. Therefore it had become a tradition of yours starting this new school year to attend some sort of photography exhibition on Friday nights. The size of the city that you were currently studying in allowed this to be a possibility due to the ever-growing art community it had.

Your steps continue at a quick pace, but you couldn’t help your eye from wandering at the scenes around you. So hungry for any sort of inspiration, from the streets dampened with a former rainstorm to the businessman making quick work to undo his burgundy tie that had been constricting his neck. Anything. You wished for just anything to strike you with a spark.

You had finally reached your destination where the new exhibition was being held. Alone. That was the title of the photographer’s first show. The photographer in question? Unknown. The photographer was going under the alias as “Defsoul.” It was quite a trendy thing these days to have no idea whose art you were looking at. You really could not wrap your head around as to why you would not want to put your name amongst the work you are proud of. Which was also a perfect example of why you probably struggled so much creatively.

The space the photographer chose had a rather grunge vibe, photographs were arranged on the tattered brick walls and all throughout the room. The air was thick around you as soft R&B beats flowed throughout the space. Stepping into the studio, you notice that you are one of the first patrons to arrive at the exhibition. While most guests came in pairs or groups you stood small in the expansive space in solitary, you preferred it that way. Small gatherings of people were scattered throughout the different rooms, all ranging from different ages, sexes, and ethnicities. You silently complemented the ambiguous photography for having the ability to reach so many demographics. The more you walked about the studio space, the more you understood everyone’s attraction to the enthralling photos.

Each photo was supposed to emit a different sentiment, or so that is what you have learned from your classes. The photos themselves vary from different subjects, older couples holding each other close, some were expansive European landscapes, and then also the occasional stray cat stretching in the afternoon sun. You tried your hardest to interpret the photos in your own words, trying to find the connection. Alone. That was the exhibition name. So why didn’t you feel that when walking amongst the various scenes?

To you, the different film that was taken emulated a mass collection of photos taken from someone’s personal collection. There was a sense of solace in each photo that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It felt as if you were with the photographer in every photo, imagining the way they shot each scene. You had been walking around rather aimlessly through the gallery until you stopped upon one image in particular. 

The photograph was no more expressive than any other photo in the gallery, but you couldn’t help stopping and staring. The scene was the back of a man, his hair slightly long and disheveled, he looks out into an extensive lake surrounded by forestry, the light of a late midday sun which illuminated the photograph.  You cannot help your logical analysis of the image, and you find no flaws. The common idea surrounding photography is that it is a completely creative and artistic practice, while this isn’t false, it just so happened to also require certain formulas as well. It requires an eye for direction, proportions, and balance. This photo that fascinated you in the gallery had all of those elements.

The sound from the other patrons fades around you as you become enraptured in the photograph. It was only the scent of pure pine and spice that had you reeling back to the current moment. To the right side of you, a man stood, he wasn’t looking at you but instead he was, just as you were, staring into the alluring photo. You studied the man, he seemed to be around your age, taller than you, with dark hair that matched his sultry eyes. You admired the man’s bone structure, tall nose and cheekbones, he really was quite attractive. 

The way your gaze lingered on his face must have given him a sense of being watched. Because before you could hide your stare the handsome man was shifting his face towards you, looking straight into your eyes, a devilish smirk dances on his features. Heat rises to the apples of your cheeks as you turn to look at the picture again, pretending like you weren’t just caught checking him out.

“What do you think?”

You turn to face him, “Excuse me?”

“About the photo,” he smiles back at you. You cough slightly trying to hide your embarrassment. 

“Oh, um-” you start carefully, “it is actually my favorite one in this exhibit I think.” 

His face softens at your answer as he nods, looking back to the photo before he begins to speak again, “What’s so great about it?” 

You look at the photo one more time, really analyzing it.

“I’m not sure exactly,” you say honestly. “It was the only photo that really caught my eye. Don’t get me wrong I thought all these photos were great, but this one helped me visualize what the photographer must have been witness to through his photos.”

He looks back at you with a surprised expression. 

“That’s a really interesting take on the photo, I thought you just thought the man in it was attractive.”

You laugh slightly, “You can’t see much of looks from a person’s back.”

This has the man doubling over in laughter, much to your surprise. You look around the room to see if any of the other patrons are staring at the man, you couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed at the attention. Then you looked back at the man and his blinding smile and you cannot help but return the same emotion. And for the first time, in a long time, you began to feel captivated with this man.

His laughter seizes yet his smile remains as he turns his body to face you, “I am Jaebeom by the way.” 

He says while extending his hand out to you. You are now able to see his entire face as you grip his hand in a greeting. To your surprise, he had a silver nose ring on his right side, along with multiple piercings all up and down his ears. It was your first time feeling such an attraction to a man’s jewelry. You blink rapidly realizing you had just been grasping his hand in silence for some time, but he didn’t seem to mind. You tell him your name before dropping your connected hands, he repeats it softly as if he was saying it for only him to hear.

“Did you come by yourself tonight?” He asks.

“Is that some form of a pick-up line?” You reply back snarkily which has the man chuckling at your playful banter.

“It’s only a pickup line if it works,” he states causing your head to nod in agreement.

“Well then yes, I am alone if you must know.”

“Fascinating. I would have definitely assumed you to just be here on a date, not actually here for the art,” he says.

You scoff, “How pretentious of you to assume such a thing,” you say. 

“I’m a photography student if you couldn’t guess, so I am most definitely here for the art.”

“I meant no offense,” he holds his ringer clad hands up in a form of surrender. “It was just a simple observation due to the other people here tonight.”

He wasn’t wrong about that, you thought. The gallery was littered with different couples strolling throughout the space. Love could easily be seen in the air the minute you walked in. Not that you minded, of course. If you had allowed yourself to date you would also think to come to an art gallery like this, spending time with someone you were attracted to amongst gorgeous imagery, it was quite romantic. 

“This does seem to be a hot-spot for couples tonight,” you note back to him.

“So, what would you say if I asked you to come out for a drink with me tonight instead of staying here?” He asks you.

“What, are the lovebirds kind of cramping your style?” You laugh back at his sudden suggestion.

He laughs at this before continuing, “Not necessarily. I’m just interested in you, I thought maybe a good way of getting to know more about the beautiful girl from the gallery would be over a couple of drinks.”

You smile shyly looking away from him, “I don’t know, I was kind of curious to see if this secret photographer would show themselves by the end of the night.”

“Trust me, he’s not one for introductions.”

He? You thought to yourself, how could Jaebeom know the gender of the photographer? Perhaps he had been coming to Defsoul’s exhibitions enough to have eventually met the elusive photographer. 

Perhaps you should take Jaebeom up on his offer. Hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time you had been out for a drink. Especially with a man as good-looking as Jaebeom. Maybe you could finally allow yourself to let loose, just this once.

“Well, in that case, you lead the way,” he smiles at your response. Jaebeom raises his hand inviting you to take hold. You do so while smiling, excited for what the night shall bring.

Jaebeom grips your hand tightly as you two make your way throughout the lamp-lit city streets. Your heart is beating wildly every time he would look back to check if you were still there, grinning when he is met with your presence. The two of you walk hand-in-hand as he tells you he is taking you to one of his favorite lounges in the city, you can’t help your excitement.

You two finally arrive at the bar, the exterior of the building is ornate in nature with vintage signage and lights decorating the brick walls. Jaebeom drops his grasp on your hand to open the large wooden door allowing you to step inside first, what a gentleman you thought. Inside the lounge the cigar smoke twisted in an elegant way, forming curls in the dim light. The room was illuminated solely by the age-speckled bar lights. Jaebeom finds an empty booth towards the back for you two to sit. A smartly dressed waiter comes around to grab drink orders and skirts away hurriedly after. You sit back a bit in your seat trying to calm your nerves by looking around the room. 

You wouldn’t exactly describe yourself as an introverted person, but this definitely was a new experience for you. Coming out with a man you barely knew, to a part of town you were unfamiliar with, just for drinks. It was all so different for you, but there was something about Jaebeom that made you feel a certain sense of security. It was usually pretty easy for you to tell when a guy was a complete sleaze-bag and Jaebeom definitely did not give off that impression. Still, you couldn’t help but feel slightly shy to be with such a handsome man.

“I’m so curious to hear what you are thinking,” Jaebeom speaks up from the other end of the table. 

You turn to look at him and notice his chin perched on his hand as he stares dreamily at you with his deep-set eyes. You go red as you realize he must have been studying you this entire time.

“I was just thinking about how all of this is a very new experience for me,” you respond back.

“What exactly?”

“Just this,” you emphasize your words by swinging your finger in the space between the two of you. 

“I’ve never said yes to drinks with a man I had met less than an hour before.”

“You don’t say,” he chuckles. “I would imagine a girl as beautiful as you would have plenty of suitors waiting to take you out for a simple cocktail.”

You laugh at this. It’s not that men have not tried taking you out in the past, they most certainly did. You were just in a place with your life that didn’t allow you the capacity for any man. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded, really. You knew that at this point in your life the things that were the most important to you were school and finding your place in the competitive field of photography. No man could ever distract you from this dream of yours.

“Even so,” you begin. “I don’t really have the time for any sort of man in my life right now.”

“So then why did you agree to come out with me?” Jaebeom asks you.

That was a good question, why did you say yes? Despite the fact that Jaebeom had been one of the most attractive men to ever approach you, you wondered what it was about him that pulled your attention so strongly.

“I’m not sure why exactly it’s kind of hard to explain,” you say. “I just feel comfortable in your presence.”

This was something new to hear for Jaebeom. Mysterious, chic, sexy. These were all things Jaebeom was used to hearing from women, but “comfortable” was new. Little did you know, you were also a new experience entirely for him. The other women Jaebeom had encountered in his life felt like nothing more than a shallow quest for lust or domination with him. But you, he wanted to know so much more about the girl sitting across from him. Your dreams, inhibitions, fears. He could listen to you ramble on all night.

“I feel the same way,” he replies back coolly, to which you beam back a tender smile.

The rest of the night with Jaebeom is filled with giddy conversation between the two of you, both anxious to learn more about the other. You share with him things that some of your closest friends did not even know about you, but that was the power he held. He somehow was able to fluster you like a shy schoolgirl and yet hold your hand so sincerely that it felt as if you had known him for years. Drinks and conversation flowed throughout the few hours you spent with him at the lounge, effectively easing all your anxiety.

Once the two of you got onto the topic of photography there was no stopping the excitement. You could see in his eyes he loved it just as much as you, but ultimately he feared he was not good enough to be professional. You related closely to this worry, also sharing the hardships you faced with the creative aspect of it all. The way Jaebeom was able to relate so deeply to you on this issue made him all the more attractive to you, but that could also be the drinks talking.

“Of course you also make music,” you laugh at the man across from you at his recent confession.

“What is that supposed to mean?” He gawks back at you.

“Nothing offensive really,” you begin. 

“It just fits your whole image you know. The gorgeous man I met at the exhibit is also incredibly deep and creative,” you joke with him.

He smiles and nods his head understanding that to most people he appears that way. Not that he minded, of course, he just wished sometimes he wasn’t so easy to read. 

“Gorgeous, huh?”

He completely ignores your other statements to instead put you on the spot, but to his surprise, you don’t seem the least bit bashful. Instead, you take a long sip from your drink before setting it down with a soft thud. Looking him in the eye as if to say, “Did I stutter?” Jaebeom smirks and breaks his eye contact, absentmindedly twirling the small cocktail straw in his almost empty glass. 

“I want to hear your music,” you say breaking him from his trance. 

He looks up to see you leaning in on the table excitedly, a small flame of mischief burning behind your eyes. 

He leans in towards you, “Really?” 

You nod.

“Well then, let’s get out of here.”

You knew just as well as anyone what it meant to go back to his place and listen to his music, but that was exactly what you wanted. Jaebeom hails over the waiter closing up your tab before you both exit the bar to the crisp Autumn night air. As if on cue, a taxi pulls in front of where the two of you stood, allowing a handsome young couple to exit its backseat. Jaebeom takes the opportunity, seizing the door open for you to step into the now emptied seats of the taxi. He joins in after you quickly telling the older man who was driving the taxi his address.

The ride began innocently enough. Silent, as you two sat next to one another, too nervous to make eye contact. Because you knew as soon as you looked, things would take a drastic turn, but you were always too curious for your own good. You turn your head slightly to catch Jaebeom looking at you, not in your eyes, but everywhere else. From the way that your legs were crossed to your innocently folded hands in your lap, the curves of your body, the long expanse of your neck, until finally, into your lust-filled eyes. That was all it took.

Jaebeom was the first to snap, instantly latching his hand onto the back of your neck in order to bring your lips onto his. You more than happily obliged bringing your own hands to rest on his taut shoulders, molding your lips unto his. The connection was everything you imagined. Hot, rushed, and oh so gratifying. You could taste the deep bitters of his drink as his tongue danced across your lip, your own tongue eager to meet his. He groaned into your mouth once he felt the connection which in turn had you draping a leg across his lap attempting for your bodies to be closer. You felt somewhat sorry for the cab driver, but you mostly didn’t care.

Jaebeom grips your leg that is draped over him feeling the soft flesh beneath your tight jeans. God, he only imagined what you looked like completely exposed to him. The thought had to wait as the two of you could feel the car come to an abrupt stop, followed by an awkward cough from the front seat. You both break free and stare into each other’s dark gazes, unable to shake the overwhelming amount of lust. It took a second clearing of the cab driver’s throat to snap the trance and leave his car. Jaebeom handed the man the cab fare, being sure to tip him generously, before exiting the car and extending a hand out to you. You take it graciously after saying a quick “thank you” to the driver. 

Once outside the cab, the pace of the evening leveled out. Jaebeom, now calm and collected, takes your hand in his, smiling at you briefly before guiding you to a rather expensive-looking building. It was late at night when you two arrived, yet upon entering the bright lobby you notice a rather well-dressed attendant sitting modestly behind a large desk. She looks up from her desk to see who had entered. Upon gazing at Jaebeom she stands and bows her head silently in a form of saying “Welcome.” Jaebeom smiles politely at her while still having you in tow towards the titanium elevator doors. They open upon his touch of the button allowing you both to step inside.

The feeling of being next to Jaebeom in the elevator versus the taxi was entirely different. While the backseat of the taxi was filled with nothing but lust for one another, the elevator was quiet. Utter silence from you both as you anxiously spare looks to one another. Whenever one of you caught the other’s eye it would be hard to hide your bashful smiles. Your stomach was doing flips in expectancy of what was to come. The doors part, you had arrived. 

Jaebeom enters his apartment with relative ease, despite his nerves making it difficult to punch in his door code. Once the two of you were inside is when he finally began to speak, “Can I offer you anything to drink? Wine? Water?”

“Wine sounds lovely, thank you,” you respond back. 

He smiles, “Wine it is. Please make yourself at home while I go get us some glasses.”

Then he is off, leaving you to wander about his apartment curiously. It was relatively a clean place, or rather there just wasn’t much furniture in general. Simplistic and chic. You couldn’t think of a more fitting apartment for Jaebeom. You walk about the space coming unto what seemed to be a living room with a single black leather loveseat and a computer desk against the opposite wall. You make your way over to the couch sitting down gently. 

Not long after, Jaebeom appears from the doorway holding two glasses of a deep red wine. He chuckles nervously extending one glass to you. Jesus, he was so endearing. You take the glass with a small smile and thank him, bringing the bitter liquid to your lips. 

“Did you still want me to play you some of my work?” Jaebeom asks nervously, still standing above you. 

You had almost completely forgotten that was the whole reason you wanted to come. You were too enraptured by the beautiful man’s aura. 

“Yes please, play me something,” you say excitedly. 

He takes a sip of his wine and smiles before turning his back and walking towards the computer. He types away for about a minute before a soft melody can be heard throughout the room. You look to see speakers installed all around your head creating a hypnotic atmosphere. You close your eyes and sway, finding yourself getting lost in the beats and pretty vocals of his song. It isn’t until you feel a dip in the seat next to you that you open your eyes to see the expectant face of Jaebeom at your side.

“You really made this?”

“Yeah, that’s my voice if you can’t tell,” he replies nervously bringing a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“I don’t know as much about music as I do photography, but this is really good,” you say to him which has him chuckling and shaking his head. “No, really I mean it.”

He looks up at you to see that you were in fact being genuine. He felt more proud then than at any other moment he could remember. Jaebeom sets his wine glass down on the coffee table next to yours before turning his full attention towards you, tucking a soft hair behind one of your ears. 

“You’re really something, did you know that?” He asks you, with a voice just barely above a whisper.

Your heart pounded loudly in your chest at the sudden close proximity, but God did you love this man’s presence. You leaned slightly into his hand that was still hovering near the side of your face, allowing him to cup your cheek affectionately. 

“That’s funny,” you say. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

He’s smiling at you now, staring deeply into your shining eyes. The self-control he had completely left him at that point. He leans into you slowly, allowing you time to register what was about to happen. You close the gap, kissing him softly. He sighs into the kiss, languidly moving his lips against yours while at the same time grabbing your hips to move your body closer. You reciprocate and bring it a step further, throwing one leg over his lap to straddle his thighs, never once breaking apart your lips.

He takes a shaky breath the minute your body softly grinds onto his. God, he was intoxicating. You were so eager to elicit more responses from him, to watch him come undone, so you snake your hands into his long hair, earning an appreciative moan. You can’t help but whine at the sound, wanting nothing more than to feel his body pressed against yours. 

Jaebeom seems to know your thoughts exactly because in one moment he is sweeping you up off of the couch, legs still fastened tightly around him, making his way towards what you can only assume to be his bedroom. He would stop occasionally to press you against a nearby wall, breaking from your lips he would decorate your neck in soft kisses. The scent of his musky cologne exhilarating your thoughts. Finally, he reaches his bedroom, dropping you down to your feet softly with a thud. 

“I want you,” he breaths out onto your abused lips.

“Then you can have me,” you whisper. “All of me.”

He groans at your response as it seems they were the exact words he wished to hear. Swiftly Jaebeom grabs at your top peeling it off over your head leaving you clad in a simple black bra. If you had known you would be seen naked tonight you would have opted for something a little sexier, but Jaebeom doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, his head instantly drops to your cleavage, pushing your breasts eagerly up into his face as he begins to kiss and suck at your skin surely leaving marks for you to remember him by. You breathe out at the sensual feeling, greedy to feel his skin against your own.

You reach below him to tug at his black t-shirt hinting at how much you wanted it off of his body. He understands, breaking away from your chest to pull his shirt over his head. His chest is broad and milky, illuminated from the streetlights outside his bedroom window. You can’t help yourself, bringing a hand to rest against the middle of his chest. You felt him, all of him. The warmth, the sweat, the anticipation, all of it rested just below your fingertips. Slowly you drag your hand lower, noting the shiver that ran through Jaebeom’s body at your soft caresses. You reach his belt, playing with it you look up at him through your lashes, batting them innocently.

“Fuck-” he says. “If you keep looking at me that way, I don’t think I can control myself.”

“Perfect,” you say, pulling him closer by his belt loop. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You have no idea where this sense of confidence has come from. Normally during sex, you tend not to be much of a talker, letting the man do as he pleases. Tonight felt different from all those nights before. Jaebeom made you a different person, someone who felt bold enough to take control. You liked this person he created, and he seemed to be just as pleased.

He smirks at you, enjoying your teasing nature, he pulls you flush against his skin. He holds your eye contact for a moment before firmly turning your body so that your back meets his chest. You gasp as you feel him move your hair to the side, decorating lustful kisses along your shoulder and neck. His hands find purchase on your hips, greedily massaging them while also forcing your ass to grind onto his already stiff cock straining against his jeans. You moan at the feeling, taking pride in the effect you had on him.

“Do you like that, baby?” He asks you. “The feeling of my hard cock against you?”

The man could talk dirty, you thought, could he be any more attractive?

You don’t reply with words. Instead, you grind your backside harder against him, causing a hiss to fall from his lips. You lull your head back dreamily, getting lost in the feeling of your bodies moving together, both of you ravenous for any sort of friction. While his hands stayed firmly on your hips you took this opportunity to grab at one of his hands, bringing it upward to your chest, encouraging Jaebeom to massage your breasts. He happily obliges, feeling up your warm body with his rough hands, your scent invigorating his mind.

“I want you to strip for me, then go lay on the bed,” Jaebeom softly commands in your ear, effectively snapping you out of your daze.

There was something about his assertive tone that sent heat straight to your core, you were so eager to feel him there. He takes a step away from your body allowing you space to remove your clothes, and you do so. You look over your shoulder at him to see his bottom lip caught between his teeth, anticipating your show. You reach down for the button of your jeans undoing it in a slow and sultry way until you are able to strip the fabric down your legs. 

Jaebeom intently watches your scantily clad figure which in turn gave you the confidence to continue. You put on a bit of a show with your movements, matching your swaying hips to his music that could still be heard inside the bedroom. Once you step your feet out of your jeans you turn your body so it is facing his. There is still a bit of space between your bodies, but the tension is extreme. You reach behind your back to unclasp your bra, taking one strap between your fingers as you allow the bra to drop. 

Upon seeing your bare chest a fire ignites behind Jaebeom’s eyes. You smirk, with still swaying hips, you hook two fingers into your panties. Turning once more to give him a view of your backside, you dance your way out of the soft material, letting it gather around your feet. Finally, now completely bare, you make your way to his large king bed adorned with fresh white sheets. Crawling on all fours up the bed, making sure to arch your back for the best view, you flip your body onto the bed awaiting his arrival.

Jaebeom drinks this all in. The music, fragrances, lights, visuals, and the ambiance of seeing your bare body lay upon his white sheets, decorated purely by the moonlight. Without waiting for a second longer he rids himself of the last of his clothing, pushing his jeans and boxers down with haste. He walks to the foot of the bed, softly caressing your calves as he climbs up the expanse of your body. Your eyes meet his hazily, running your gentle hands along his forearms until his forehead is resting softly against yours.

“Can I taste you?”

Your mind is in a haze at his request, but who were you to say no?

Your head nods at his request and he smiles. Kissing your lips passionately before dragging them lower and lower down your body. Occasionally Jaebeom would nip and suck on parts of your skin, causing your body to tremor. Until finally you began to feel his heated breaths over your core. You gripped the sheets expectantly, unconsciously tensing your body in anticipation. He gives each of your thighs one last kiss before licking a strong tongue through your core.

You moan instantly, surprised by how sensitive you were from just one touch. Jaebeom doesn’t stop, he grabs hold of your thighs effectively throwing them over his broad shoulders. At first, his licks are long and languid, causing your hips to fall in motion with his tongue. Once he begins to feel your thighs tense at the sensations he picks up his pace, switching from licking up your core to occasionally wrapping his lips around your clit. 

You feel electric waves throughout your body at his movements. At one particular suck, you moan out into the night, threading a hand through Jaebeom’s hair, which in turn has him groaning into you. He too was lost in the pleasure he was giving you. From your scent to your heavenly moans he couldn’t stop himself from grinding down against his mattress eager for some relief on his achingly hard cock.

“Jaebeom please, I need to feel you inside of me, please,” you manage to moan out wanting nothing more than for your bodies to become one.

Although Jaebeom wanted so badly to see your body come undone from his tongue alone, he too was starting to get impatient. One last suck to your clit before he is climbing back up your body, greedily you reach for him and connect your lips. He moans at your soft sucks against his tongue, desperate for you to taste your own arousal. 

Shockingly, you are able to flip your bodies over allowing you to climb on top of Jaebeom’s beautiful body. You break away from the kiss to sit up and see him. There he was in all his glory. The stoic man from the gallery naked and heaving beneath you, so eager to be inside of you. You smile sweetly at him and he groans, taking his painfully hard cock into your hand you stroke him tenderly, to which he throws his head back in excitement. Without waiting a second longer you align him with your dripping core, slowing sinking him deep inside of you.

You release an intense sigh that you didn’t know you were holding. Jaebeom moans at the warm feeling of your pussy wrapped tightly around him, he then looks to see where your bodies meet. As if on cue you begin to sway your hips back in forth, still in rhythm with the music coming from the living room. The pace is slow and sensual, just as you like. 

Jaebeom felt as if he could feel every little movement. From the way your beautiful hips swayed to your hands pressed firmly on his chest, he savored every second. His hands come to rest against your hips once again, encouraging your movements. Moans spill from your mouth as you get lost in the feeling of him buried so deep inside of you.

“Oh god,” you cry out.

Jaebeom is blissed out in the feeling, allowing you full control; he loses himself in the moment, suddenly becoming acutely aware of the song. You too let your body take over and allow your mind to float above the two of you making love. You can hear the melody too.

난 네게 눈이 멀었고

(I became blinded by you)

넌 내게 눈이 멀었겄지

(You probably became blinded by me)

우리 서로만을 보았고

(We only saw each other)

이 세상에 둘만 있었겠지

(We probably were the only ones in the world)

Jaebeom begins to lose his patience as he can feel his end nearing. You yelp with surprise as his strong arms wrap against your frame, flipping you onto your back. You squeeze around him from his dominant change in nature, he groans at the feeling.

“I want to feel you come all around me, baby,” he tells you. 

You nod back ready for him to ravish your body. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder giving him the best angle for you both. The pace from before is completely different. While you took your time with Jaebeom while you rode him, when he was on top he fucked you, hard.

Sheathing himself back inside of you so hard and fast you both scream out in pleasure. He wastes no time fucking you raw, trying to chase the high you both so desperately longed for. His movements are fast yet calculated, effectively hitting your sweet spot every time he entered you. You were desperate to hold on to reality gripping the sheets above your head as you moaned loudly. Jaebeom saw this action and instead moved your hands to his hair.

“I want you to show me how good I’m making you feel,” he says to you in his gruff voice.

You understand his wish, grabbing his hair just as tightly as he fucked you, earning an appreciative groan from him spurring on his movements further. 

You felt your end coming. It was like a small fire that suddenly began to blister in the pit of your stomach. Your chest heaved for air as you gripped his hair even tighter, warning him. He understood.

“Come on, baby, I need to feel you come, please,” his words did just the trick.

The fire turned into an explosion as the white-hot orgasm swept through your body. You trembled in his hold as he thoroughly fucked you through your high. Once you came down you noticed his brows furrowed and his movements began to waver. You released his hair to hold him close to your body, encouraging him to let go.

He eventually reaches his own high as he drops his head to your shoulder, you hold him close as he moans out deliciously into your ear. His movements stutter as he tiredly milks his orgasm to completion. He slumps his body against yours, slick with sweat the two of you stay connected for some time attempting to calm your breaths. 

Tiredly you stroke your hand softly up and down his back lullingly. You begin to feel the effect of all the alcohol in your system as you fought to keep your eyes open. Too at peace with where you were, you allowed yourself to become a victim of slumber while caressing Jaebeom’s naked frame. 

When morning broke, you expected to be woken by the bright sunshine pouring into his room. Instead, the thing that woke you from your slumber was the distinct click of what you only know to be the sound of a film camera. Still naked in his sheets you turn your body over to see an equally naked Jaebeom perched at the foot of the bed with a small camera plastered to his face. The morning sun decorated his frame in the most beautiful way, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

He lowers the camera slowly from his face, gauging your reaction, “Sorry I just thought you looked so perfect lying there. Does it bother you?”

You shake your head no. He smiles and climbs up his bed to be with you again in the early morning light. He lays at your side and you turn your full body to him, he tucks a stray hair behind your ear. You both stay there for what felt like an eternity. Mindlessly you both would let your fingers dance along the other’s naked form, basking in the soft flesh below. The silence was infectious, filling your soul with content. You never wanted this feeling to end.

──

“Can I just say what an honor it is to be accompanying you on this gorgeous Friday night,” Jinyoung smiles at you. “The forsaken Friday nights that you would normally spend in solitude, per your own request, but I am the first one to break that tradition. Really it is a privilege.”

You laugh at Jinyoung’s over-the-top monologue. Jinyoung wasn’t wrong, he was the first person you had ever asked to accompany you on this Friday night. Your friends all knew the deal, Friday nights were for your alone time, for your creativity to rekindle. 

“You are just too handsome to say no to,” you reply back sweetly, reaching up to Jinyoung planting a swift kiss on his cheek. His eyes crinkle in the most adorable fashion. 

As much as you had grown and changed in the past couple of months, Jinyoung was always a constant in your life. Before you used to be so caught up in your art and finding inspiration that you never gave the cute boy from your English class the time of day. Often times Jinyoung would ask you out for the occasional coffee or study date to which you would always find an excuse not to go. It surprised you that even after all his failed attempts he even still wanted to take you out, so ultimately you agreed. You could say that perhaps you had a change of heart. Something eventually opened your eyes to his affection for you.

After walking some time the two of you finally make it to the exhibit. The words “Awake.” displayed in white neon outside the entrance. Looking to Jinyoung and smiling you both make your way through the large entryway. Subtly you feel him slide his fingers through your own, and your body heats at the affection. 

It had been quite some time since Defsoul had held any sort of photography exhibition. In fact, the last one being just over six months ago. Although the photographer was still active through social media you were surprised as to why it had taken them so long to put on another show. You remembered just how much you fell in love with their work last time that you were eager to see what else they had in store.

As the two of you walk hand-in-hand throughout the gallery you instantly notice the ambiance of this show to be vastly different from the one you had attended months before. The air was lighter, the photographs themselves felt brighter than before, and even the conversations between the patrons were airier. Jinyoung would occasionally point to certain photos attempting his best at discussing the art of photography in order to impress you. You would smile at his attempts, bringing his body closer to yours the more you strolled throughout the space.

Your mind couldn’t help but wander to the night you shared with Jaebeom just months before where you met him at one of these exhibits. It had been so long since you had even thought of him or his name that you had almost forgotten. Though the feelings you felt never disappeared. 

You catch yourself smiling at the memory before looking up at one of the larger displays in the studio. You stopped dead in your tracks upon looking, your breath caught in your throat as you just stared. It was you, not your face, your naked backside peeking perfectly out of his crisp white sheets, the morning sun playing through your soft hair beautifully. There you were on full display for the whole world to see. 

The world around you faded as you sat and stared, Jinyoung taking notice finally to what you had been looking at, “That is gorgeous, I think this might be my favorite one so far.”

You can’t hear him as your mind was reeling a mile a minute. It was then in that moment you came to realize everything. His sheets, his bed, his room, his photograph. This was his show, Jaebeom was Defsoul. How could you have not seen it before?

You looked about the room frantically, fear striking you as you noticed the other patron’s eyes glued to the huge mural of you, Jinyoung too being entranced with the photo. Anxiety bubbled over into your stomach. That was until you saw it, the title: Muse.

You didn’t know why exactly upon reading the simple word that tears began to pool in your eyes. Again you looked around the room. You needed to see him, to confirm your thoughts. You needed to know who Jaebeom really was. Then suddenly there he stood, perfect as ever.

Jaebeom stood meters away from you and Jinyoung, the bodies of the other patrons crossed your paths as the two of you just stared at each other. He looked just as stunning as that night, that one fateful night. His gaze is soft on yours as if to ask if you were okay. You cannot answer him, still in too much shock. 

Until Jaebeom looks to Jinyoung, your connected hands, and then finally you, he smiles warmly. Little did you know that this is exactly what Jaebeom wanted to see for you. Your happiness above all else. To others, what the two of you shared could easily be written off as just some other one night stand, but he knew it was so much more. He cared for you in ways he never thought he would be able to feel for another person. And so he was happy, if he couldn’t be the one holding your hand in this gallery, he was glad you had someone to take his place. You deserved as much.

A tear finally escapes your eye as you continue to gaze at Jaebeom’s sincere expression, laughing slightly you brush the tear away. You felt no anger, no embarrassment. Because what Jaebeom said was right, for that night you spent together, he too was your own muse. The spark you needed at that moment. You needed him then just as much as he did. 

Without leaving his eyes, you bow your head slightly, doing something you realized you never did that night. You thanked him. He raised a wine glass in recognition. Then he was gone, swallowed into the sea of people who would never know his true identity. 

“I didn’t know photography moved you that much,” Jinyoung says to you while wiping your tears away, a look of concern etched into his features.

You laugh, dropping your head bashfully before raising your eyes again to look at Jinyoung. You were so content with the way you began to live your life since meeting Jaebeom. For so long you had deprived yourself of the one thing that should have mattered the most, your happiness.

It was fate for you and Jaebeom to meet each other that night, but you knew it was only meant for that one night. Jaebeom was the trigger for you to stop living inside the constrictive box you created for yourself. You felt inspiration more than ever through your art, which in turn greatly improved your abilities. You also finally allowed yourself love, and to share that love with someone who genuinely wanted you. 

Now with Jinyoung, you had never felt more at peace in not only yourself but your life. Rising to his height you capture Jinyoung’s lips with yours. He smiles against you and reciprocates your affection. This is who you were meant to be with tonight, and for every night thereafter.

[msookyspooky]

PART TWO LETS GO !!! Okay these are in the list (technically) So I know what you did last summer was pretty cliche and too famous in pop culture so I already knew some of the deaths ;-; BUT I didn’t find the cast as annoying as I expected to (except for barry, he sucked even before the murder stress) enjoyed it but wouldn’t rewatch a lot or watch the sequel immediately after it, i also suuuper curious you know

NOW omfg Nightmare on Elm Street HOLY FUCK what a franchise, the ending of the first one was so like unexpected and vague i HAD to watch the sequels immediately (rip to the ppl who had to wait like a whole year to know what happened, sucks to suck)

Jokes on me Freddy’s revenge had nOTHING TO DO WITH THE MAIN PLOT (and i had to go to bed by the time it was over) but it was still really good tho !! Like the idea of F possessing someone irl ???? Brilliant !! THE ALIEN/BIRTH/EXPLOSION THING ???? WHAT ?! I also liked it carried on the universe’s story without explaining the ending of the first one (idk if it was on purpose or they didn’t know what to do with Nancy yet so they stalled but i liked it !!)

And then it was three, holy fucking shit holy fuck Dream Warriors the one of the best movies I’ve ever seen in my life (a proper rival to Scream ngl) AAAAHHH I could write a 12 page essay about this movie, the cAST ???? Angels! The dream powers ??? AMAZING! The dude psychiatrist actually listening and trusting Nancy instead of acting like shes crazy ??? PERFECTION !!!! also the fucking dream warriors song holy fuck what a banger, I’ve been listening to it non stop

ALSO (major spoilers ig sorry sksksks) WTF THEY CANT JUST KILL OFF THE FINAL GIRL ???? THATS SO RUDE WHAT THE HECK ?!?!?! I really liked her ;-; she was a really good final girl, like smart and resilient and a fucking Survivor you know (feeling absolutely gutted)

OMG YOU WATCHED THEM!!!!!

It's been a hot minute but I remember the SHOCK of 3. Why do yall think Stu and Billy and Randy keep mentioning in a trilogy anything goes and YN could be a Nancy? (Lowkey wish I would have left it ambiguous that I was writing for 4 and 5 to up the anti here) Like how many franchises kill the final girl and keep going???? In a good way bc yeah I was super upset Nancy died but also it made it more interesting bc if SHE can die; anyone can. (And I think Wes intended 3 to be the last so damn what a power move on his part) Can you imagine if Sidney died in Scream 3??? I feel like I'd never watch it again but also if it was done very well and the new final girl was good (Or we follow Gale trying to figure out who killed Sidney like they never caught Roman OR how Jill was supposed to kill Sid and be the new final girl until someone found out her dirty secret) I would still watch it and be on edge bc the only thing I feel 5 REALLY had going for it was killing off a main character that hasn't happened since Scream 2 and we were livid and shocked and enthralled...But we still couldn't stop watching! Bc who else?!?!

I'm so glad you liked the series I may not write for it but it is a great slasher series

[cherrynojutsu]

Title: Like Silver

Summary: A companion series for Like Gold.

Sakura misses him so much. She misses the faint smell of woodsmoke and sage, and mismatched eyes captivating in their intensity and unfathomable depths. The Rinnegan is beautiful, soft lavender ringed by hypnotizing layers of circle and tomoe, but flecks of silver dance in his right, tiny asterisms bewitching in nature, if one gets close enough; she’d first noticed it when they were children at the Academy. She knows they're Itachi's now, a slightly different scattering of luminaries aglow in the deep pitch of obsidian, but they're still as enthralling to her as they had been back then. She dreams of that silver sometimes, recalls it any time she sees something similar in color or reflet.

Blank period, canon-compliant, Sakura-centric, some expanded plot points from Like Gold, fluff and pining, eventually becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 1/?: An Introduction to Electrocardiography

Sakura gazes out the window of her office, a pile of paperwork set aside for a poetic sort of procrastination, trying to indulge for once in a Konoha spring, though she's finding it arduous.

As pretty as it is this time of year, all she can manage to feel is wistful.

Hanami has come and gone already for the most part, though there are a few stubborn cherry blossom trees lingering at the tail end of their blooming. She can see one here from her window, up on the hillside that slopes towards Hokage Rock, clinging to the uneven land. She’s sure its roots have to be all twisted, a labyrinth of gnarled wood clinging to any scrap of land it can wind itself around as its branches and petals try against all odds to reach upwards into the open sky that she can’t take her eyes off of.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but it’s one she doesn’t care to unpack.

This year was her twentieth viewing of her namesake, though Sakura obviously doesn't remember the first few. Her parents take great pride in the retelling of tales from those first few years of her life, the ones she was too little to remember. The highlights come up annually on her birthday without fail, how she grasped at the petals like they were something precious, clutched in her sticky little hands the entire day.

A framed photograph is perched on one of the built-in shelves of her parents' living room, of her and her father on her first birthday. He was holding her up on unsteady legs, ridiculously proud and pointing towards the camera where her mother had been trying to get her to look. Her short pink hair was flying absolutely everywhere, matching the fluttering petals and in-bloom cherry blossom tree in the background, chubby hands grasping upwards. Strawberry cake and frosting were smeared all over her cheeks. They’d had a picnic for her, at the park nearest to their house.

“We came home and cleaned you up, and then your father helped you water your tree for the first time, in the little pink watering pail you unwrapped earlier. You were so cute.” That’s what her mom says every year. Sakura has the sentence memorized at this point, could recite it on cue, if she needed to.

Her parents had planted a cherry blossom sapling in their backyard a few days after they brought her home from the hospital as a newborn, so the tree is around the same age she is. She used to spend time under it often, as a kid, and some of her earliest memories involve sprawling beneath it to study the heavens while her mother gardened. She would also sneak berries from the patch when her back was turned. Sometimes her dad would join in her pilferage, and they would sit beneath the tree like a couple of bandits with stained lips, though those first few years she can remember he barely fit underneath it, as tall as he is. Many a tickle fight had been had, shaded by those branches. She would read books there on nice afternoons, when she was a little older.

The tree is fully grown now, also on the final cusp of its blooming for the year, floriferous wood expanded outwards to drape her childhood stomping grounds in a sea of soft pink. They have a picnic under it every year, in her family’s backyard, when they celebrate her birthday together. Her actual birthday has come and gone, but her birthday dinner is two days from now. Her parents swung by her apartment on Sunday afternoon for a bit with outlandishly large cupcakes, but her mom had mentioned they’d do dinner and a gift on their usual night, Thursday, since it works so well with their schedules every other week.

“We have to have your picnic, under your tree, like always. It’s a tradition! My beautiful girl. I can’t believe you’re twenty. It seems like just yesterday you were only yay high,” her dad had told her, gesturing below his knees before hugging her too tightly, ruffling the hair she'd inherited from him before they left. The cupcakes were strawberry with cream cheese frosting, one of her favorite treats. They’d left her with four extra to enjoy between then and Thursday, one for each day if she wanted it, turning her birthday into more of a week-long affair than a one-day celebration.

She and Ino had demolished two of them while watching some of the terrible movies they love to hate together, later that evening. It had been a smorgasbord of strawberries, really, because they'd washed them down with strawberry daiquiris, sugary sweetness topped with ridiculous amounts of whipped cream. They'd sat on her balcony, after, sipping a little tipsily and just looking.

"You should try to enjoy your namesake more this year, Forehead. You're so busy that I'm not sure you've realized, but you've really grown into it," Ino had said, beckoning vaguely towards a Konoha beginning to bloom, renewed with a warm breeze, spring ushered in by a fluttering of pink petals. Ino likes to give compliments in roundabout ways, she’s learned over the course of their friendship; crass as the blonde can be, she does have her moments. Her words meant a lot to Sakura, so she’s trying to take them to heart, to stop and smell the cherry blossoms, so to speak. It won’t be long before Konoha crescendos into the sweltering heat of the summer.

She loves her parents and her friends. She really does.

But birthdays are weird, Sakura thinks.

Last year, Sasuke had sent her a letter on her birthday. She’s reread it so many times that she has it more than memorized; it’s stitched into the muscle tissue of her heart at this point, or maybe scarred into the lining of her aortic valve, sempiternal markings adorning the tunnels that sustain her, causing her breath to catch every time.

Sakura,

Hanami has come to the wilderness in the Land of Honey. Bees are awakening and foraging for the first pollen of the season, with which to begin again. Cherry blossom petals are everywhere, lining the pathways and floating on the water.

Happy birthday.

-Sasuke

It had been short, simple, and even a little poetic; she had cherished it, as she does all of his other letters. She’d cherished the pressed flower with it just as much; a cherry blossom, neatly flattened with a precision that screamed Sasuke, near exactly the same shade of pink as her hair.

Sakura had started crying when she unfolded the paper to reveal it sitting atop his words. His hawk had waited patiently at her office window for a response to be written and tied to its leg, perched atop the windowsill and watching the goings-on of the village below, absolutely no concept in its predator brain of how much she delights in seeing it fly, a graceful tether to the boy - now man - she has been in love with for ages.

Cherry blossom petals are everywhere. Is there a hidden meaning there, or is she making a mountain out of a molehill?

She’s tried not to read too much into the letters. She's not sure if he sends any to Naruto or not; she's too afraid to ask, because she'll either get a heart-pounding hope if he doesn't get them, or a soul-crushing disappointment if he does. She can't imagine him sending a yellow flower to Naruto, but he may very well have sent him a different gift for his birthday.

Maybe he just thought she would like a flower, which she did - it’s pressed for safekeeping, along with all of his other correspondence to her, sporadically and chronologically throughout a book she keeps on her nightstand, An Introduction to Electrocardiography. It is her take on an album of small things she holds close to her own heart, things she wishes she could read in his. Sakura didn’t want to buy an actual album for such a thing; that felt too formal, for something as ambiguous as her ties to Sasuke, overflowing on her end as they may be. So she’d settled on a book about deciphering the heart’s tells based on science only, electrical impulses and repolarization, the sizes and positions of the chambers, how to diagnose conditions utilizing one’s findings. It’s one she doesn’t need access to anymore, extremely familiar with EKGs after years of study. She’d wanted it to be something no-nonsense, all hard facts and data on how to read activity plotted over time.

Evidence-based. Are letters evidence, though? She’s not sure that would hold up as empirical proof in any of the scholarly journals she’s studied or submitted work to since beginning her research. She thinks wryly, though, based on what she has witnessed get published, that scientific verification doesn’t always matter if you know the right people.

She’s thought many times sifting through it that perhaps it is too optimistic, too hopeful of a book subject for such a thing. Sakura has agonized over it, frankly, wondering whether it was an inappropriate choice.

...But now that they’re in there, it might ache worse to move them somewhere else.

It’s the last day of March now, and she didn’t get a letter this month, which is unusual, because she’s gotten one near each month in the time that he’s been away. She’s paged through the book a few times over the past several days, rereading and admiring the preserved sakura blossom, frozen in suspended animation indefinitely on a page about precordial leads.

Sakura hadn’t really expected anything from him for her birthday, other than a monthly letter like he usually sends... but this year she didn’t even get that. She’s trying really hard to not be disappointed. She has so much to be thankful for, in the grand scheme of things...

...But the petals of the cherry blossom from last year have faded over time, she’d evaluated yesterday, sitting in her bedroom. It might be like her, always pressed in a book, fading whilst stuck indefinitely between the boundless teeth of academia. There is always more data to record, more evidence, with which one can prove or disprove their findings.

No letter this month, though. Nothing to record, no new evidence.

It might be time to move the letters somewhere else, she thinks pensively. Maybe a place where she’s not tempted to look at them all the time; their placement in the book, small scraps of paper that stick out in only a couple of places, makes it easy to go back and reread them. She’s pretty sure she has an empty shoebox in her closet that she could move them to, in a pile rather than catalogued between pages rife with information and a fragile sort of hope. Maybe she’ll do it tonight, put it up in the far right corner of the upper shelf, shoved towards the back so she can’t reach it without the stool, so she’s not tempted whenever the next bout of heartsickness slams into her like one of Tsunade-shishou’s fists used to. She needs to go by the library after work first, to return some things, but maybe when she gets home, she’ll do it. She could eat a cupcake, too; that might make it a little easier.

Sakura misses him so much. She misses the faint smell of woodsmoke and sage, and mismatched eyes captivating in their intensity and unfathomable depths. The Rinnegan is beautiful, soft lavender ringed by hypnotizing layers of circle and tomoe, but flecks of silver dance in his right, tiny asterisms bewitching in nature, if one gets close enough; she’d first noticed it when they were children at the Academy. She knows they're Itachi's now, a slightly different scattering of luminaries aglow in the deep pitch of obsidian, but they're still as enthralling to her as they had been back then.

She dreams of that silver sometimes, recalls it any time she sees something similar in color or reflet. There’s an extremely unique necklace in an antique shop she visits with Ino and Sai from time to time, and occasionally on her own, over on the northeast side of town. It’s a salt-and-pepper diamond, dark grey with inclusions, dainty and set in what must be a hand-fabricated setting. It hangs from a silver chain, towards the back of a display case filled with other vintage and distinctive pieces, but it’s the only one she ever finds herself drawn to. It is so similar to his right eye, dark smoke near black, speckled with beguiling silver startling in its clarity. The bevel cut reveals new flecks dependent on the angle at which you view it.

Sakura studies it closely on each visit, because it is so hauntingly breathtaking and it reminds her of him.

Ino has said it’s not her color, and that she should stick to warm tones and gold, for which she is better suited; Sakura has not confessed to her why it catches her eye so much. Sai has agreed with his girlfriend on the coloring note, sensitive as he is to such things, but the way he studies her every time she tears herself away from it makes her suspect he knows exactly why it captivates her so. It’s been sitting there for years at this point; she has to mentally talk herself out of buying it on each visit. It’s beautiful, but she would spend far too much time gawking at it, and it might hurt more with extended study than the gentle tugging at her heart she experiences when she’s in that old building throughout tiny fragments of lackadaisical afternoons.

Sasuke has been gone for a long time. She hopes he's finding the peace he's been seeking, that he's seeing the world with new eyes just as he'd imagined. She thinks of him every day, sends out little orisons like petals in the breeze in the hopes that they’ll find him, wherever he is.

I wonder where he is now.

Try as she does to enjoy the breath of spring Konoha is right now, and her namesake as Ino said, all she can seem to do is shift her vision to the sky, hoping against hope for a glimpse of a familiar bird-of-prey that will stay an ample amount of time for her to craft a response, before it abvolates away for another month.

Sakura smiles, then, close to laughing at the absurdity of it all, because she is so predictable. She loves this village despite its many flaws and challenges, despite the things about it she and Naruto and Kakashi-sensei and Ino and even Tsunade-shishou, off in the Land of Wind, are trying to change, but even after so many years, she’s still pining for something beyond it, something in the wilds of the sky just beyond her reach.

There’s always next year, she supposes, pupils drawn again towards the outstretched branches of the cherry blossom tree on the hill, before trailing her eyes along further. She can grow a little more to try to reach him. When she was little, she had wanted to grow tall so she could try to touch a star, like the branches of the tree in her backyard did when she and her father laid beneath them on balmy summer nights. He would tell her ridiculous stories about all of the constellations, things she knew had to be untrue, even at the ripe age of five. Precocious, he’d always called her, but in the loving, joking manner he had.

Her gaze follows the horizon, leisurely taking in the rest of her home. It really is a lovely day, despite her yearning. Spring is here again, and today's is a gentle sunset, one last little bit of sunlight with which to conclude March. The temperature is already spiking, unusually warm for early spring, but summers in the Land of Fire are always hot. She really should finish her paperwork, but it’s hard to find the motivation just yet.

Something possesses her, then, to turn her neck more, take in more of the skyline's continuation. She wants to see all of it.

And then Sakura’s eyes fall on an achingly familiar figure cloaked all in black, perched only a roof away and observing her, and she thinks she must have nodded off, because she has to be dreaming.

She subtly pinches herself in the millisecond of time that follows, but she is very much awake.

The words are blooming out of her throat before she can even process what’s happening, exultation sinking into her every vein. “Sasuke-kun!” She moves to crank her window open the rest of the way, and he hops from the neighboring roof down into her office, all nimble legerity that she still thinks has to be a mere mirage conjured from her memories. When he straightens to his full height, she muses that he has to have grown taller. The mere sound of his footsteps on the tile flooring, as familiar a refrain to her as if he’d just walked out of the village yesterday, are a treasure beyond price.

“Sakura.” His voice is a rich timbre that she has desperately felt the absence of; hearing him say her name almost makes her want to cry. She smiles wider instead, to the extent that it almost hurts, and her gaze latches hungrily onto the very eye she was just daydreaming about. A storm of soot and silver, beveled into countless fragments like some kind of dark, rustic diamond, and so staggeringly beautiful that she’s pretty sure she’s blushing just from beholding it. Gods, it's not fair for someone to be so handsome.

“When did you get back?” She asks, utterly overcome with joy. This is better than a letter or any birthday gift she could have received, brighter than any star she’s beheld.

“Just now.” He’s smiling, a small and subtle upturn of lips that is so characteristic of him. Then his words hit her, and her face must be getting redder.

Just now? As in…

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he adds before she can simmer on that for too long, and she has to blink in bewilderment, because that is the absolute last thing she expected him to say. Sakura wonders how much heat can creep into one’s face before they spontaneously combust.

Then she realizes she should probably respond, as humans tend to do in conversations. “Oh! Um… it’s okay.” She folds her hands in front of her shyly, grinning like an idiot. “Thank you for remembering.”

There is a lengthy moment in which she just soaks him in, hoping he can read in her eyes how much she’s missed him. He is still so beautiful, prized eyes and aristocratic angles that have solidified a bit more into the face of a man in the time that’s passed. His hair is different now, covering his Rinnegan eye. His cloak is a little more threadbare, too. He’s tall.

His expression, normally unreadable, is calm. Content, even.

There’s a question nagging at her that she knows she needs to ask. She tries not to bite her lip as she asks it, braces herself for the possibility of not liking the answer.

“Are you… just back for a little while?”

Did you find what you were searching for?

He gazes at her for so long that she thinks he may be glimpsing her soul, peeking into her ventricles to see his own words immortalized there, seared into her core to be felt each time her blood pumps.

“...For more than a while.” And she smiles the biggest she ever has. Oh, this is so much better than a letter or a gift.

“Well, welcome back, Sasuke-kun. It’s… very good to see you again.” It feels as if a piece of her heart has been returned to her, something of the divine stitched back into her chest and full to bursting in omneity.

There is a pause, and then he’s reaching his hand out towards hers, initiating physical contact with a touch that is feather light, so gentle she thinks she is going to start sobbing.

She can’t help it; she pulls him into a hug, tinged with elation. She hopes he doesn’t mind too much; he stiffens for a brief moment, but then settles, wrapping his arm around her and settling his head atop of hers, and she could die happy right there, embracing him with feelings momentarily set free from where they’ve been whelved into her chest.

He smells faintly like sage and smoked cedar, just as she remembered. She can hear his heart thumping, a strong cadence, and it grounds her. Oh, she’s missed him.

“...I’m home, Sakura.” Soft words float above her head, and she can feel the vibration of them through his chest, right by her ear.

Oh, she’s crying.

Sasuke lets her embrace him for a long time, for which she is so grateful. She knows he’s not one for physical contact; it’s a privilege to be allowed into his space even for a single second, let alone for an extended period.

She draws back eventually, glancing up at him again through the tears still collecting in her eyes. Her face blazes when he reaches to wipe them away tenderly with a calloused hand, careful and with a lenity that she’s always known was there, hidden under the surface.

She could just stare at him for hours, she thinks as he lowers his hand. He’s still looking down at her with one of the softest expressions she has ever seen him wear. She really hopes she’s not dreaming.

It’s tremendously hard to get it together, but she tries, because she doesn’t want to spend the entire time crying, not when he's finally back. There are so many questions she’d like to ask him that she’s finding it a challenge to pick one with which to lead.

He surprises her by speaking first, quietly. “I… had something made for you.”

It takes a moment for the words to compute.

Made for me?

Her processing speed must be exceptionally slow, stuck in the utter mush her insides have become, because he adds, “...For your birthday.”

Sakura blinks, and furrows her brows in confusion. “Made… for me?”

He nods. “...I’m sorry it’s late.” The way he speaks it is cryptic, like the apology weighs more than one needed for a tardy gift. Doesn’t he know she doesn’t care? He could have showed up in July with something for her, and it still would have made her knees weak and her heart thump furiously in her chest.

Made for me? She’s still stuck on that sentiment as he breaks eye contact and turns to rummage through his satchel, beneath his cloak.

Sasuke pulls out a medium-sized flat box, a simple white, and she doesn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t that. Something that comes in a box is a lot more formal than a pressed cherry blossom, something more… permanent.

She reaches out to take it on autopilot, and is stupidly distracted by the way his hand brushes against hers, a small spark that makes something in her quake. She wonders if he felt it, too.

Sakura clutches the box with both hands like her life depends on it, murmuring softly, “Thank you, Sasuke-kun.” She’ll wait until later to open it, after he’s left; whatever it is, she doesn’t want to embarrass him, and she also isn’t sure she can tear her eyes away from him just yet, anyways.

Is it just the lighting in her office, or are his ears a little flushed? She didn’t notice that before; maybe he’s had a drawn-out journey back. She wonders how much ground he covered today, if he’s still winded. He might need to rest.

But then he mumbles, voice husky with what she assumes is disuse, “...You should open it.”

His words echo in her head again. I… had something made for you.

“Okay,” she answers in a hushed voice, so she doesn’t scare him away, shifting slightly to set the box on her desk carefully. Suddenly she is very nervous, anticipation settling into her gut.

When she lifts the lid, she swears her heart ceases beating.

The most exquisitely intricate uchiwa fan she has ever laid eyes upon is placed in the box before her.

It’s carved into a likeness of a cherry blossom tree, branches twisting lissomely into bamboo framework, impossibly fine. A different set of words is reverberating in her head now.

You should try to enjoy your namesake more this year, Forehead. You're so busy that I'm not sure you've realized, but you've really grown into it.

Made for me?

“O-oh.” Sakura is not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t this. She fights back the tears, biting her lip and wide eyes soaking it all in, enjoying her namesake in a way that is entirely unprecedented in its sheer severity. The amount of time it would have taken for someone to sculpt and bind and sew is unimaginable; every detail is finely wrought, flawless down to the silk and stitching, lacquered and carved pale wood shifting effortlessly into eighty slivers of bamboo, intricately webbing silk together with the lithe grace of gossamer. It’s a cherry blossom tree, petals and all, pearlescent thread shifting slightly, gorgeously in the light, unimaginable detail. She has stitched people back together countless times over the course of years, but even her expert dexterity would look like a child’s first embroidery stitching in comparison. The stamen within the petals are nearly more detailed and finely milled than an actual, real life cherry blossom, plexure sutured in a fashion so baronial that it’s impossible to believe human hands were even responsible for it.

The silk. Oh, the silk. The color shift bears a striking resemblance to the Uchiha insignia. This is not a gift one gives to a teammate.

Oh, she's crying.

This has to be a dream, some kind of paracosm her heart thought up to give her brain the high of a lifetime. Hope burgeons and unfolds in her chest cavity, bleeding into her extremities like the pale pink shifting into red before her eyes. She’s never, ever going to forget this, not even if she lives to be one hundred years old.

Made for me?

She picks it up with disbelieving hands, grasping it more carefully than she’s ever held anything in her entire life, as if she’s going to wake up at any moment and it will dissolve into synapse, lost in the hazy juncture of morning the way one tends to lose awareness of the contents of a dream upon coming to lucidity. To her absolute bewilderment, it stays solid in her hands, a finery made even more unbelievable by touch. The grooves of the carving are as gentle as his hand had been on hers earlier. She thinks it would have had to be commissioned at least a few months in advance, outlandishly expensive. She’s never seen silk like this. She doesn't know; she's smart, but she's no artisan. Maybe she should ask Sai. She's crying.

She adores it.

Tears won’t stop welling in her eyes; she thinks they may be escaping from a tender spot inside her chest that’s been reserved for him since she was a child, a leak in a metaphorical dam. She takes a steadying breath, blinks, almost has them conquered. Get a grip, Sakura.

Then Sasuke’s hand is on hers, gently turning the handle over.

Her name is carved into the pale wood, on the back in formal calligraphy, Sakura daintier and more perfect than she could ever write it, as if it had just been uncovered in one of the inner layers rather than whittled there manually. Sasuke presses her fingers to it before loosening his grip, and in that second it feels as though his lost hand is in the wood, caressing her from split atoms in the grooves from the other side.

The tears spill over her cheeks - she admits defeat - intricacy of the entire thing blurring out of focus but still somehow burned into her retinas for all eternity.

Made for me, made for me, made for me-

Her voice finds her after a few more tears fall. “It’s beautiful.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, overwhelmed with complete and utter awe, trying desperately to choke down a sob. “Thank you, Sasuke-kun. I… I’ll treasure it. Always.” She cradles the fan closer to her chest, her heart - maybe An Introduction to Electrocardiography wasn’t a poorly-chosen book, after all; there is much to be read from something this precious - and regards him with watery eyes. She wishes she wasn’t crying; the distortion of the tears is making it hard to see the silver she’s loved and missed so much.

His hand lifts to her face after a moment, and to her surprise, he wipes away her tears again. She barely catches the something-more in his eyes, then, through the waterworks, precious metal flashing and pouring into the words scarred into her ventricles to live there forever, fortified in silver, but he is looking at her so -

“...Always,” he agrees, voice a little breathless, sparking scintilla near hypnotizing her in their luster, and he seems so happy -

Then he leans down to press his lips gently to hers, and this is better than her heart stopping, like when she opened the box. This time, her heart soars, and she touches a star she’s been dreaming of for eons.

[acquariusgb]

The Clinton Tapes extracts of Bill as a father

Since tomorrow is Father’s Day in the US, here are some cute extracts from the book the Clinton Tapes by Taylor Branch about Bill being a wonderful father to Chelsea.  

-  Chelsea stopped by, neat as a pin, talking about an exam on Spanish verbs. She said good night and a preliminary goodbye for his long trip. When she was gone, Clinton said former president Bush had been encouraging him to spend more time at Camp David. Bush was hearing of low morale in its vast, attentive support staff, which remained isolated and idle because the Clintons almost never visited. The president said that while he appreciated such concerns, he saw few opportunities to change soon. Chelsea was fourteen years old. The last thing she wished for was a weekend at Camp David, which to her was the middle of nowhere. She stayed home, and her parents wanted to be apart from her as little as possible. So Camp David must wait. May 1994

- When Chelsea stopped by, the president tried to set a time to play cards, or just to talk. He said he had not seen her for a while, but she excused herself to get up early. Clinton looked a bit forlorn, telling me she had a summer job at the National Institutes of Health. July 1994

- Chelsea came in fretting about homework. In an exercise to hone succinct composition, she was writing an essay of no more than one page on the best and worst qualities in the legendary character Dr. Frankenstein, with illustrative passages from the Mary Shelley novel. Chelsea said her draft spilled stubbornly onto a second page, which was unacceptable, and she expressed doubt about her choice of quotations. The president paused to give counsel, and I left the recorders on as he read most of her essay out loud. He liked its cited images of Frankenstein’s passion for learning, enthralled in his lab, cheeks sallow with intense discovery, but he thought Chelsea was slightly ambiguous about whether his best quality was curiosity or ambition. On the negative side, where she wisely pinpointed an overbearing pride as the chief fault, he said she might find shorter, more precise quotes. We both complimented her language about the progressive blindness of Frankenstein’s zeal. Instead of creating life, Chelsea concluded, the mad doctor faced a “monster who had become his bane.” She went off to make revisions, and Clinton promised to consult her again before saying good night. May 1995

-   A festering wound could damage sensitive U.S.-Japanese relations for years, Gore warned. Clinton must visit Japan quickly to make amends. Just today, the president told me, he and Gore had tramped back and forth over a crowded calendar. December was out because of nightly Christmas parties, and so on, until Clinton circled dates next April. Horrified, Gore said that would be months too late, especially since the White House was announcing a peace trip to Europe for next week. Why not substitute Japan for Northern Ireland? Alternatively, Gore zeroed in on three lightly committed January days, but the president pronounced them vital to Chelsea’s schoolwork. Gore blinked. So what? He stared through Clinton’s halting explanation why this would be a bad time—because Hillary must join him in Japan, and junior-year midterms are the most pressure-packed events in all of high school. Mutual exasperation spiked. “Al,” Clinton told him, “I am not going to Japan and leave Chelsea by herself to take these exams.” Gore erupted. He thought Clinton had lost his bearings. They had a big fight, said the president, and were still wrangling about dates for Japan. November 1995

- During this preview of the campaign, Chelsea popped in the doorway to say she was sorry she may have disturbed us. She had been singing to herself in the hall, and did not realize we were here. Before he could reply, she vanished, and while I was rewinding the tapes shortly afterward, the president rummaged around the big Ulysses Grant desk. A decade ago, when she was about six, he said Chelsea had skipped into a ceremony at the governor’s office with a briefcase, which he was obliged to open in front of everyone. He showed me a photograph of little Chelsea doubled over in laughter as Clinton squeamishly displayed a boa constrictor inside. His daughter was cheerful and courteous, he said, but she was mischievous, too. May 1996

-  His voice surprised me again on Sunday, July 7. He had just finished testifying by videotape for one of the Whitewater criminal trials, in which Ken Starr’s deputy prosecutors were trying to tar him with far-fetched charges against Arkansas bankers. The president was tired, and really needed to spend time with Chelsea. So we must cancel our session tonight. He vowed to catch up soon. Of course, I replied. His staff always handled such logistics, but for some reason he delivered this notice himself. July 1996

-   Clinton told stories about Chelsea on our way down the hall. He and Hillary had just returned from her ballet recital. “She’s not an ideal body for a ballerina,” he reflected. “Far from it.” Chelsea was bigger than most of the other girls, who were flat-chested and tiny. She had big bones. Her feet had bled after practice ever since she was a little girl. Nevertheless, she pursued ballet above other arts or sports for which she was more naturally suited. “I’ve always admired that,” he said. “I’ve wondered whether I could ever stick with something for its own sake.” He was inclined to obsess about competitive standing and talent, he said, whereas Chelsea, though smartly aware of her limits, loved everything about ballet including the hard work. August 1996

-  Then he lingered on Chelsea’s seventeenth birthday. Because Hillary had been late to dinner at Washington’s Bombay Club, Clinton found himself the delighted sole host to a dozen high school girls in raucous discussions of love and the world. [...] The president glided into stories wholly off my list. Chelsea’s Sidwell Friends School had welcomed seniors to make two-minute spontaneous remarks at a gathering of fathers. On a theme of candid revelation, one girl told the assembly why she and her dad communicated by letter in the same house. Chelsea almost knocked Clinton over, he said, with raw eloquence cutting through the inhibitions of youth and the public eye. She confessed setting her heart all year on tryouts for a part in The Nutcracker, which she did not get. Life’s first major disappointment, as she called it, left her depressed and sleepless, consumed by failure. She could think of nothing but wasted sacrifice. Both parents talked with her late many nights, but she was inconsolable until she woke up fitfully to a letter only an hour old, headed “3am” on her father’s White House stationery. It said he could not sleep, either, being upset because she was upset. He loved her, was proud of her, and believed one day she would find new value in her years of ballet. Somehow these words dispelled a cloud of absorption, she told Sidwell. She still read the note every day. As for his work, she admired what he did in the face of so much invective, but it had not always been so. In preschool, she had cringed as the other children stood proudly to declare their parents’ jobs—doctor, fireman, teacher. Not even she had a clue about governor, and so Chelsea in turn said her mom was a lawyer and her dad cooked the French fries at McDonald’s. She became an instant hit, with by far the coolest dad, but of course the grownups made her promise not to tell lies. Apologizing later to the class, she thought her father just talked on the phone and made speeches, which got the kids briefly excited again because they thought she said he made peaches. February 1997

[sunfoxfic]

OK, back from "Letters to be Burnt". It's such a great concept for a series/work and you write it so beautifully! Chloé is a character who def should get a redemption arc and you write it—and her—so well! I also love how you covered the Miracle Queen aftermath; the way it played out in canon confuses me—does Chloé know all? HM? Mayura? Chat? Random citizens?—but you handled it clearly & logically. And there's nothing to not love about therapy! Can't wait for more chapters! No pressure tho! ♡

I am absolutely enthralled with what the aftermath of akumatization feels like. I've written about it in a few different ways -- here is another fic about Chloe reacting to her akumatization (this one with an accidental gay allegory), and this fic deals with it a little bit in perspective of Nino and Alya and how they felt about their akumatizations.

It's just.... The Butterfly to me is one of the most interesting Miraculous, because I do see it as having a serious potential to do good, to help people in genuine need of it. But used as it currently is, it's such a forceful way to take autonomy. And I think characters are going to frame that in different ways -- blaming themselves, directing that anger at Hawk Moth, claiming that they wanted to be akumatized and therefore no autonomy was taken, etc. Really, I think everyone is going to have a mix of all that. And the exploration of how different characters deal with it is just absolutely fascinating to me, and not something that ML seems it's going to be exploring anytime soon.

So this is Chloe, pre-redemption but on her path since she's gotten a therapist who has helped her quite a bit already, and she's stubbornly refusing to admit her own culpability, but she also knows on some level that she is at fault. In this, she's falling back on old habits the way people who are healing are unfortunately prone to do.

I am still holding out for a canon Chloe redemption, I think the only things we've seen that indicate it won't happen come from known troll Thomas Astruc, and most of them are phrased ambiguously enough that even if you take them at face value, they aren't necessarily incompatible with her redemption.

I don't think this will be a super long fic. I have a few more letters I want to hit -- I'm not decided on who the next one will be -- but I know who the last few letters will be addressed to, and knowing the ending is what keeps me on track. But thank you, lovely anon!! Your kind words mean so much to me.

[socketz]

All is Pain in Poetry, But, Oh, The Play Goes On; Chapter One.

A Dead Poets Society Fanfiction story!

Charlie Dalton x Female!OC

Warnings : Mentions of Abuse, slight *slight* signs of it, mentions of bullying, name-calling I suppose, profanity, smoking, just some people bein’ mean :/

Word Count : like 11k (I’m pretty sure)

Summary : It’s the introductory day, unpleasant to speak the least, and Jane rejoins a few familiar faces.

Authors Note : There is like barely any Charlie content in this chapter (forgive me, pls) simply because it is the first, and I have so many plans for this being a sloooow burner. Anyways, I love Nuwanda, Meeksy, Pittsie, Neil, Todd, and Knox. Cameron can die. I also just realised that there’s no Pittsie in this chapter :// it’s okay though, our long boy will be there in the second, I promise.

Chapter One, The Summer Was No Better, But Hell-ton’s Surely Death.

“Come, now, Jane.” Father called, his suit elated to a perfect crisp. His face contorted with that of a ghostly scowl, drawn down and impossible to relieve. Father was not an impressionable person, though most certainly easy to disappoint. 

I made my way, wordlessly, to fall beside him, and found my complexion flushed with something of a gentle scarlet hue, nerves to embrace oneself in a mantra of lightly peppered sweat. My uniform - a dreadful thing, really - had been fitted during the summer; ‘You are but a young Lady, now, Jane,’ Father had insisted, ‘It is only right to find your clothing of a perfect fit.’ Though it had hardly mattered the years before, smothered within the lies my Father somehow wriggled us out of, and I could bitterly recall that it mattered not then, either. 

I felt ridiculous, swaddled in the warmth of a blazer, littered with perfectly aligned badges - meaningless copper circles, infused with the reminder of every stupid achievement I had picked up throughout my years - and long, iron-pressed, grey trousers - enclosed with a tight-fitting belt, for the weight I had seemed to loose beneath the summer heat had made an alarming appearance, and it seemed all too improper to alter them a mere seventy-two hours before the introductory day. The shirt - blouse, as I had never before become accustomed to occupying - was of a snug fit, particularly comfortable upon my partially flat breast, the tie hardly a bump higher than the other boys’. 

My shoes, shining with a fresh layer of polish, squeaked upon the echoing floor of the filling hall, and I found a breath slipping from my clenched jaw. It would merely be the same routine as every year had solemnly been. And, - I had no doubt about this, you understand - I knew I would grow to loathe it all the same. 

“Chin up, Jane.” Father scolded, a sharp pinch to the back of my arm. I hardly reacted, ripping myself away from such a close proximity, and fixed my expression with something blank, jaw set and teeth grinding. The walls, the candles - the scentless gloom that filled the air - reminded me of nothing other than Death. Than everything morose and unethical. 

The bench was cold, lifeless, and I found a sour taste to elope my grimace, subliminally displeased to be trapped within the grounds of Hell-ton for another draining, horrible, year. A low level of murmurs ran along the sea of suited heads, and I nearly - almost, though not quite - found an ache of sympathy for the innocent youths, trembling nervously, within the front row. Such excitement, I sighed, such naivety. They shall be ruined, it seemed clear, by the haunting excrement Hell-ton deemed ‘successful methoding.’ 

There was a poke to my side, the ratty whisper of an antagonizing tone. “Feels good to be home, huh?” Peter taunted, undoubtedly pleased to rid of myself for the better side of ten months. 

My silence remained, an ache to the clench in my jaw, and I simply hoped that his teasing would soon dissolve upon quiet nothingness. Though, as he prodded my side - supposedly the older twin, mind you - and he mumbled crude names within my ear, I found it reasonable that a lack of response would do little to deter his act of childishness. 

“Rat.” He whispered, prodding my side once again - a jab sure to leave an inklet of a mark. “God, I can’t wait to get rid of you. Two months by your side is enough to push me over the edge. I’d surely contemplated killing myself-” 

“Oh, why don’t you, then?” I snapped, a glare surely cut to burn. Of course, I didn’t mean it, though I found myself unwilling to project any kind of apology. He hardly deserved it, and I - as well as him, it seemed - had had just about enough of his relentless bullying. “Leave me alone, Peter.” I said. 

He scoffed something bitter, “At least I’d be missed, Snot-face.” He bit. 

I doubted it was much of a lie, and settled for a roll of the eyes. “Fuck off, Mutt.” 

“Billy-no-mates.” He hissed. 

“Worthless narcissist.” I sneered. 

“Virgin.” 

“Self aggrandising cunt.”

“Moron.”

“Boring, talentless, vegetable-” “Stop it!” Father snapped, another hushed whisper to intervene that of our own. I had hardly realised our spluttered, mumbled, argument, and the way in which it seemed to progress, “Both of you.” Father muttered, quiet and surely furious.  And yet, although it seemed it was not I whom began the fight, at all, my hair was ragged by Father's rough grip, and I were forced to attain a regularly seated position. I hissed upon the contact, a scowl to thunder my expression. “You will not embarrass me again, Jane.” He sneered. 

My silence loomed once more, and his grip released roughly, a violent jerk to my neck as he did so. Jane, I thought, an internally suppressed scoff, It’s always Jane’s fault. 

The blare of a riveting shrill erupted from the southern doors, clunking open in their heavy weight, and the bagpipes - those terrible things, awful, truly - began their entrance. A sigh slipped the breach of my lips, for I knew this mantra, and I knew it well. In a kind of solemnly delightful way, I suppose I was enthralled to enjoy my final experience of such liberal torture - it was my last year, after all. 

A pair of first-years trailed to the front of the line, followed by a blonde boy - of whom’s name I had forgotten, though he wore glasses, and was rather small - from my own year. The dreadful musician was to follow, and I decided to pay him no mind - perhaps ignorantly so - as the banners began to flutter forth. 

Tradition - upheld by none other than the snobby, pristine and particularly ginger Mr Cameron, a boy of whom mine own experiences seemed rather potently bad. 

Discipline - a familiar, soft, face. An expression of boredom, nonetheless, though I found a certain fondness about Knox, and thus my gaze seemed to brighten. He was a gentle boy, kind, sensitive.  

Honour - I hardly recognized him, though his… his similarity - a striking thing, one must admit - to Peter’s level in intelligence seemed all too familiar, through the grave number of classes we had shared across the years. 

Excellence - Neil Perry, a boy in which I knew little of, yet heard so much about. The sweetest of souls, the saddest of smiles - trapped, was Perry, in a loop his parents laid down. Perhaps I found a little of myself engulfed within his big brown eyes, upon the rare occurrence we happened to share a glance - always a grin, always a wave. Polite, the boy was, and nothing but the fact. For my life was nothing but the script in which I had been given, raised upon lies and bred to know no freedom, and he was much the same. 

There was a curt breath of silence, and the boys shuffled into line. It seemed the song had finished - a heavenly notion - and the perplexing weight of Mr Nolan’s tone - a sound no better than that of nails to a chalkboard - fell upon the seated audience. “Ladies, and Gentlemen.” He said. Oh, how I hated his voice. “Boys.” The summer had been long, tedious, and I liked it no more than I could have, and yet still - still, despite the liberal torture, and the inevitable bullying of mine own blood - it were of a better nature than this. 

This, of course, that was Mr Nolan, and his lengthy speeches, drawled upon every sentiment with a mean glare, or a calculating stare. 

“The light of knowledge.” He declared, tone blank, devastatingly boring. For although I could not shed a glance to the nervous boys, perched stoically, within the front row, and their expression remained ambiguous, I knew the routine all too well. There was a loud rip of applause, and I knew - within a moment's notice, as Father glared pointedly for my compliance - that the first candle had been lit. 

The boys, aligned to the front, circled to their seats, maneuvering among my peripheral vision. The ruckus had died down, and I slumped - only slightly, as to deter from a kind of beating - unto myself, lightly distracted by my heavy-lidded eyes. Oh, I scolded, how stupid I had been, to lie awake all night reading. 

Nolan began his speech, undoubtedly much the same as it always seemed to be, and I took a deliberately long moment to gaze upon the great array of teachers. It would seem, I noticed, with a harshly contained grin, that they were all particularly deathly looking. Perhaps, over the course of the summer, they had been returned to their graves, where their corpses lay to rest for the period of time - only to be dug up again as the school year returned. They seemed so withered, so pale - lifeless. Though I supposed it was particularly fitting, really; deathly teachers for a murderous school. 

“Gentlemen,” Nolan bellowed, “What are the four pillars?” 

Another sigh, I breathed, standing among the sonorous chorus of muffled shuffling. “Tradition, Honor, Discipline, Excellence.” We sang, a recital of the faculty’s pounding, and took our seats once more. 

His rambling continued, and I found myself physically incapable of paying it any mind - one would simply drift into a noticeable dream of slumber - as I drank in the sullen scowls of the boys reluctantly returning. I, myself, reciprocated a glance of hidden blue, and I knew that they simply loathed the man - Nolan - much the same as I. 

It was rather strange, really - the way in which my attendance to Hell-ton came about. For I was eleven: much the same nervous, wilted, and shelled child as the boys of the front row, and my application was riddled with lies. 

Name : Peter Joseph Darling, the first line read. Only, as I had continually pestered my Father upon, my name was Jane Elizabeth Darling, and my twin brother - Peter, you understand - should have been clothed within the uniform, instead. ‘He hasn’t the mind of you, Jane.’ Father had scoffed, mocking, as though I should have known better. Though I still didn’t understand. ‘Welton is an excellent opportunity, and they have accepted you, through the name of your brother.’ My misunderstanding, as I came to dislodge many a month later, were perfectly reasonable. Why was I, a girl, to attend an all boys boarding school, with the faux persona of my twin brother? It seemed strange, though - in my foolish naivety that youth would always bring - I found no reason to protest upon my Father’s wishes, and complied nonetheless. 

I was a late bloomer - much as my Mother had been, as old relatives would jest - and thus my identity was easily concealed - hair to be cut, in a similar style to the other little boys, and my figure hidden by the tatter of oversized suits. 

I became - rather unfortunately, on mine own behalf - one of the best students ever to attend Hell-ton. ‘Top grades,’ Father would boast - as though he had ever congratulated me, before - ‘our Jane is something truly spectacular. The top of every class, and a routine winner in almost every sporting category.’ Though what he said was true, it made it no less frustrating and mortifying, as he would babble on about my achievements, and leave no room for a word in edgeways. It seemed the only time he could bother to call, were if my report card had yet to arrive, or there was something - unexplained, you understand - for myself to receive the blame. 

‘Jane.’ He would bellow, tone furious over the line, ‘Your report card.’ He would then say, as though it were I who sent them off. ‘Where is it? It had better be here tomorrow, young Lady.’ 

Sometimes, I hated my Father, too. He made it frustratingly difficult not to - though, admittedly, I tried little to stop my fury. 

It seemed, however, that his plan were not entirely fool-proof. For when I did begin to develop breasts - as flat as they may be -, with little curves, and a more womanly figure, it was surely something noticeable. And my hair had grown out, over the months of neglect, and I allowed the soft blonde curls to have their way - and, suddenly, I looked far more a girl than ever before. 

My face, although chiselled by my petite weight, grew more round, less sharp - feminine. The rise of my cheekbones increased, and my eyelashes found a natural curve. Perhaps I could have considered myself pretty, if it weren’t for the insistent teasing Peter had enforced upon me. Thus, instead, I depicted myself ordinary, and decided to move on. 

Nolan, upon discovering my true identity - though how such a thing had gone unnoticed, before, I had no idea - riddled himself sick with rage. His expulsion threat was vengeful, and he loathed my Father’s guts. Such conflict had only truly occurred eighteen or so months before, and thus the tension seemed inevitably thick, whenever I found myself surrounded by the ever-depressing company of Nolan. I discovered a true beating upon Father’s account, for poorly concealing his awfully supported lies - ‘You cannot even pretend - not for a godforsaken moment - to be a boy,’ he had yelled, as I spat my blood upon the floor, ‘You shall learn to listen to me, Jane.’ And teach me to listen, he surely had. 

Fortunately, though I hardly see such as fortunate, at all, Nolan had - somewhat reluctantly, somewhat pretentiously - decided that my education be isolated, and my attendance a nuisance. My grades - my high, substantial, grades - seemed enough to access his persuasion; my lack of discussion and silent account another contributing factor; my sporting ability and lack of complaint a cherry on top for it all, as it should so seem. He found himself obliging to my continuation at Hell-ton, and I - perhaps expectedly - were undoubtedly disappointed. To leave such hellish faculty would be something joyous - greatly anticipated. Alas, there I was, sat - again - among the rows of morose expressions and pressuring parents. 

My dormitory, that year, was to be separated. Not a roommate, neither a shared bathroom - utter isolation. I minded not for the quiet, nor the lack of company, though it should seem the segregated seating within lesson perched a little too far, for my liking. It was rather ridiculous, I should have thought, that male brains were incapable of focusing upon the task at hand with a female sat to their left. Pathetic! Utterly, truly, pathetic. 

I had been branded a number of grilling rules - mandatory to abide by, you understand.

1. No perfume. 

2. Hair is to be kept up, tied tightly, and not disruptive. 

My hair, you see, was not a particularly easy tamer. Rampant blonde curlage, spilling from every direction. I could hardly control it on the better days, never mind every day. 

3. Skirts, or dresses, to be worn below the knee (if at all) and shoulders should remain contained at all times. 

4. No make up.

5. No fraternizing with other students. 

6. Meals are to be eaten alone, or not at all. 

7. Curfew is at 8:30PM. 

8. Toiletry business should be contained to a seperate bathroom, use the locker room provided - NOT the male students’. 

The list truly seemed to go on, and on, and it surely rambled for far too long - I had merely shared a glance with such paper, and thrown it to my bag in retaliation. Meals to be eaten alone? I had hardly the chance to converse between lessons - never mind during - and no longer could I discuss, nor listen in upon, with others among meals? It was true bullshit, for I knew such were never applied to me before - before they discovered my true identity. And the curfew - eight-thirty p.m - was utterly ridiculous. What was I to do for thirty minutes more, idle within my room, with not but a roommate to keep me company? The boys’ curfew was hardly nine p.m, anyhow - they were always allowed an extra number of minutes or so, and I knew - I hated it, but I knew - that I would have not but a choice to comply. 

To enjoy my stay, - at Hell-ton, you understand - seemed merely impossible - as a woman. Or, rather, to be known as a woman. For although its endeavours were painfully unbearable for the boys, it was all so much worse for I. The rules and regulations simply doubled in their length, and the eyes of concentration, inflicted by those of great authority, I found only to increase. Depressingly so. 

Oh, how I hated it all. 

“Jane,” Father hissed; a sharp jab to my side, and a smirking Peter. “Pay attention, would you?” He whispered, a furious glint to his icy blue glare. The roar of applause began to die down, and I found myself gathering my hands at the final few claps, settling within the silence once more. 

Nolan spoke again, his tone ever-droned, ever-dull. “As you know,” he said, chin tilted with a fauxly embodied confidence I hardly understood his deserving of, “our beloved Mr. Portius - of the English department - retired last term.” Mr Portius were nothing more than a rotting corpse with the political beliefs of all things dreadful. An awful man, truly. “You will have the opportunity later to meet his replacement,” He said, turning something gradual - no doubt riddled with arthritis, and with marrowing bones - to meet the seat of the said replacement. “Mr. John Keating.” 

Keating  stood, and his stature was comfortably acceptable. He were of something small - noticeably shorter than the other corpses - and his expression dripped in kindness. His thin lips played a soft smile, and his eyes gazed tenderly - calculating, but gentle, nonetheless - upon the great array of prying students. 

“Himself an honours graduate of this school,” Nolan droned on. “And who, for the past several years, has been teaching at the highly regarded Chester School, in London.”

He was good, then, it seemed. The low rumble of shuffling rang among the hall, as students and parents, alike, maneuvered their gaze to fumble upon his position of casual confidence. Another, small, round of applause was to follow, and I - for perhaps the first time - voluntarily joined in. 

Keating took his seat, and the clapping drew to a close. 

“As I’m sure you are aware,” Nolan continued, addressing the audience with that monotonous death. “This year may seem a little different.” His gaze wandered, scrutinizing - harrowing - and settled upon I - upon Father, Peter, and I. I held his glare, cold and stubborn, for I would never have allowed myself to succumb to the fright in which he inflicted upon others. “This year, there is to be a girl in attendance.” 

A low hum of mumbles rang out, and the subtle gasps of distraught Mothers were something pathetically blatant. I found myself deeply suppressing the urge to scoff; I were a girl before, in the years of my previous attendance, thus what did it matter, now? 

“Miss Darling,” He bellowed, tone fit to carry among the greatest disturbance. A moment of nothingness graced the hall, as the murmurs of concerned Mothers, and outraged Fathers, simply rose in their volume. “Miss Darling.” Nolan echoed, his tone of something hauntingly venomous. A sigh slipped from upon my lips, and I rose to my feet with a glance of perfect nonchalance. 

Silence. 

The corner of my mouth found a quiver, for - Oh - were they all so frightened of me that they should hardly breathe?  The smirk was riddled with amusement, bloomed from the very  depth of my stomach, for their quiet hatred, and their burning silence, were all so wonderfully foolish. 

Nolan sneered, gaze writhing with gauging disgust - sewn by the tattle of hierarchy, and of misogyny. “Miss Darling is to accommodate her own - separate - housing,” he began, dislodging his stare and addressing his crowd. “There will be no contact between herself, and the boys. You needn’t worry for their concentration, Ladies and Gentlemen.” His wry smile was something sickening, as it danced upon his wrinkled lips. 

Die, I thought, die with your pathetic beliefs, and die a horrible death. 

~*~

The breeze of the fresh air seemed so close, so delicious, as we approached the ever-slow line, all smiles and polite passing greetings, yet so unfortunately far. I trailed after Father, step slow and gradual, certain his discussion would be tense, and it would be awful. “Mr. Nolan,” Father greeted, somewhat sheepishly, somewhat humorously. The old gargoyle glanced - unappreciative - to his nervously outstretched hand, shaking it with something of a pointedly stern glare. 

“Frank.” He nodded, tight-lipped and utterly infuriating. For although I held no sympathy for my Father, nor for the manner in which Nolan depicted respectable as he addressed him, the mere sight of his wrinkled person found my scowl something deep, something noticeable. 

“Wonderful ceremony, as always.” Father smiled. “And I must thank you for allowing my Jane into your school.” He said, as though it were not I who attended the years before.

“Yes, yes,” Nolan smiled, a ghostly thing, with a hollow foreground. “Well, I’m sure she is aware of the expectations, yes?” His stare fell upon myself, as I nodded silently, unable to erase the distaste within my gaze. “I will warn you, Miss Darling,” He continued, features to crease with that of an aggravated scowl. “Not to cross me. One wrong move,” He threatened, a wonky kind of finger held before me, “and you’re out.” 

One morning, I thought; one morning, you shall never wake up - and, oh, that morning will be such a blissful morning. 

Biting my tongue, I spoke with a faux sentiment, cheery toned and smiling kindly. “Of course, Sir.” I said. “I won’t let you down.” Fuck you, I wished to spit, though I simply turned upon my heel, and I stumbled away from his cautiously prying eyes, gripped by the harsh digits of Father’s stern hold.  

“You’ll see yourself to your room, I suspect.” Father said, tone withdrawn and utterly blank. Cold - Father, he was a cold man. My silence remained, though I nodded responsively, and allowed a solemn breath to slip the breach of my lips. The days, such melancholic tales, of summer - they were bad. They were awful - but at least they were not quite as lonely. A gentle sting graced the back of my eyes, and my jaw set achingly; an overwhelming urge to dispel my bitten tears a wave of unwanted suddenness. Wretched. For I did not want to be alone, I did not wish to be consumed by the ever-growing loneliness that life enforced upon me - I wished to be happy, free. Myself. 

Not Peter, not Miss Darling - Jane. Just Jane. 

I bit back the tears - I swallowed them whole, and I winced as they clawed upon my throat, cautious as to speak, for their wounds may crack in my tone, and damage my composure. But my smile, it was forced, and my eyes, they were glossy. “Do not disappoint me, Jane.” Father said. “I expect nothing but the best.” And with that, he was gone. 

Not but a mutter of goodbye; not but a touch of parental affection - nothing. The glaze upon my expression dropped slightly, a drooped frown to occupy my solemn features, and the smirk Peter threw over his shoulder -  barreled beside my Father, with his strides large, confident - merely seemed to ache the clench of my throat.

 God, my conscience spat, don’t be pathetic. 

And so, I balled my hands into fists, and I shoved them into my pockets; watched my Father leave, and I attempted to scrape together every time he told me he loved me. I came up with nothing - not but an utter of affection - and I remained true to my scowl, caught among the breeze, and the bustle of crying children, and loving parents. Perhaps I could have been jealous, as I glanced to the first years, embraced by the doting adoration of their guardians - though how could I force myself to envy a thing I had never known? 

The answer? I couldn’t. And so, I didn’t. 

I allowed my shoulders to sink, and I returned my gaze to the retreating vehicle - the vehicle that ached a certain - particularly ignored - part of myself. I wondered of Mother - a brief moment, though striking, nonetheless - and I pondered what she would be like. For - yes, - she was gone, and to think of such was simply barbaric, but a girl could dream. A girl could dream that she were loved, and that all of which could have been, would be so wonderful. Maybe if Mother were here, I thought, I wouldn’t feel so lonely. 

And, perhaps wishful thinking were foolish, and a dream unworthy of time - but it helped. It dulled the ache, though maybe only that little bit, and that were enough for me. 

The car was gone, lost among the mass of chaotic departure, and I found myself staring absently upon the horizon. How beautiful the sky did seem, I thought, and how well it masked destruction. 

My luggage had been dropped - previously - within my room, by Peter’s graceful volunteer. And, albeit reasonably, I were slightly fearful for the mess I would grow to discover, as I entered the living quarters - for I knew, and I knew it well, that Peter loathed me greatly, and he would do anything to tip me off. Perhaps that would be enough, I smiled, sadly, and to myself, to trigger the release of all things morose and bitterly withheld. 

Nevertheless, I found myself glumly retreating, making my way - pushed, knocked, and shoved, by bags, by luggage, and apologetic elbows - through the courtyard, and through the entrance of the school. My silence was something looming - it hung above my head, I could feel it - and it only seemed to darken with the realisation that this was reality, and that my stay would surely get no better. 

Oh, how I ached for something good - something nice, to carry me through my days. 

“Jane?” A familiar tone called, though I daren’t glance around for it’s owner. Silence. Silence. Silence - ‘tis your only company, I thought, know no better, feel no different. “Jane!” They called once more - Knox. I found myself sighing, for I knew I could not evade his greeting forever, and he was much too polite, much too kind, to simply ignore. “Hey,” He smiled, gentle and friendly. 

The scowl crumbled from my features, and I plastered on a joyous smile - teeth bared and glistening; believable. “Knox!” I chirped, allowing my expression to elope with a sense of delight. Our paths had crossed a number of times upon the past years, and thus a kind of acquaintance was to be formed. Nothing special, nothing particularly close, but he was a nice boy - a delightful chat. “How’s your summer?” I asked. 

“Great.” He sighed, grin riddled with a dream. “Busy,” he added, “but great.” 

My smile softened, “Oh, yeah?” I said, and he nodded subtly, smirk uneven and boyish - always boyish. 

“Yeah.” He sighed, again, before drawing his eyebrows to a loose pinch, “What about you, Darl’?” He asked, “Nobody heard from you all summer. Where’d you go for two months?” I shrugged something light - nowhere, I thought to admit, though what fell from my tongue was nothing but another lie. 

“I went home.” I said, “Back to England.” ‘Twas nothing of a home - not for me. 

I was beaten by my Father, and I was bullied by my brother - I was bed bound with the illness of my own crepent mind, and I found myself unable to answer the ringing phone, though I am awfully sorry for your inconvenience, Mr Overstreet - I shall be sure to spit my blood before I say ‘Hello’, yes? 

Of course, my thoughts remained thoughts, and my expression a blank nothingness behind my smile, behind my eyes. “That sounds wonderful.” He said, those dough brown orbs shining with a kind of genuineness - so honest, so true, I almost felt bad. “I bet it was nice, there, was it? Such beautiful scenery, and I bet the tea was good.” His smile was infectious, and I breathed a supple laugh. 

“The tea was perfect,” I said, “though the scenery - if we’re discussing the same London, here - was filled with nothing but Homelessness, and pollution.” 

“Oh,” He frowned, “that’s too bad.” 

Too bad? I thought; Too bad? Knoxie, my summer was horrifying. 

I shrugged gently, “It’s alright.” I said, “I’m used to it.” Though to which context I had attempted to console, I held little knowledge of. 

He smiled once more, “I’d only expect you to be.” He said, beginning to wander away; one step, two steps, three steps, four. His gaze fixed upon myself, he smiled - his eyes, they smiled - and he said:  “You comin’?” With a nod of nonchalant amusement. 

I raised an eyebrow, “Where to, Overstreet?” 

“Why, to the guys, of course.” He grinned. 

And by guys, I, fortunately, knew that he meant his friends: Neil Perry (the kind boy, of whom I shared a likeliness for terrible Fathers and passion for things they did not approve); Gerard Pitts (Pittsie, of whom was simply too tall for his own good - terrible at sport, though he surely tried his best); Richard Cameron (the ginger one, with a permanent foot rammed so far up his ass, it shall simply never be recovered); Steven Meeks (a blonde - with a tinge of red, as he had argued against last year - headed boy, riddled with curls - as was I - and the brains of something magnificent), and Charles Dalton (a typically chaotic and utterly unpredictable mess, with substantial grades, and a great yearn for women - not their love, you understand, but merely their attention - and a fascinating dedication to the saxophone). 

I had come to know them all - at a distance, though some a little more than others, as was Knox, and was Meeks - and thus found myself trailing comfortably behind the tall boy, his jacket swaying among the ruffle of his movement. 

The stairwell was something utterly cramped - a nauseating kind of warmth emitted from such, and I scowled bitterly through my ascent - our footsteps drowned among the chaos of rambling conversations, clatters of luggage - curses; groans; yells; cheers; animosity. Ah, the fresh stench of testosterone, and cologne. Expensive cologne - always expensive, always lathered. 

The crowd seemed mostly polite, peering me no mind and abiding about their business as though they held not a care in the world for the female presence - for such, I was grateful. I were far too exhausted to handle gawking boys - by the hundreds, mind you - with any ounce of grace. 

Knox held a relaxed pace, he leaned into it, as though persistently O.K, and unbothered by the great deal of shit in the word. I almost envied his carelessness, though found myself unable to ponder my digression any which further, for he paused, and then he bounded through the familiarity of the open doorway. A rush of excitement eloped within him, it seemed, as he threw himself to tackle - rather boyishly, rather fondly - a stumbling Charlie Dalton. 

The pair fell to the ground, a great thud among the ruckus, and erupted with a childish kind of laughter. I brushed my shoulder upon the doorframe, watching the scene unfold, as they lay - a little breathless, with their laughs drawn to silent breathing - and they smiled toothy, giddy, smiles. A sort of grin embraced my expression, and the moment played on. 

“Jesus, Knoxious.” Charlie breathed, the subtlety of a laugh to follow, “I’ve not seen you move like that since-” He paused, another laugh ripping from his throat, “Shit, not since little Ginny tried it with you, back in eighth grade!”

Knox let out a little snicker, “Don’t remind me.” He said, spoken with a slight shudder. The tickle of a laugh slipped from my lips, and the fluttered noise seemed to catch the attention of the red-faced boys. “Oh, yeah,” Knox mumbled, scrambling to his feet. Or, rather, attempting to - as the brunette beside him tugged to the collar of his coat, dragging him back to the ground with a great huff, and a startled yelp. 

Charlie stood, instead, and he smirked that classic Dalton smirk. One corner of his mouth found a higher rest that the other, perched comfortably with a flirted sense of amusement. “Miss Darling.” He said, and he offered a hand, “Welcome back.” I took his hand, a roll of my eyes, and shook it thoroughly. 

“Yeah, yeah, Dalton.” I scoffed, an eyebrow raised. “Quit the formalities, okay?” His smile feathered futherly full, genuine, and it seemed that the idea of loneliness grew that little bit more unbearable. For the guys - all of them, perhaps even the red-headed bastard - they could be such graciously wonderful company. And although I knew it were dangerous, and that I simply should not have wished it; I found myself often dreaming of a life - a different one, somewhere else, where things had changed, yet certain company was much the same - in which I had befriended them all - and, oh, how colourful life did seem! 

I longed, regularly, for their friendship - for the absence of my loneliness. But, as it should portray, life had other plans, and I had not but an ounce of energy to revoke against it. 

The warmth of Charlie’s palm, curled around my own, in a growing spirit of lightly peppered sweat and heated touch, found me retracting my grip, and glancing, wordlessly, to the boy upon the floor. He was sat up, no longer reclined, with his knees bent, and his arms to drape upon them. He smiled, and I reciprocated the gesture softly - softly, for it were all I could manage to plaster aloft my expression. 

“Hey, Charlie, I brought you some-” Meeks. I grinned, something wide, something wonderful, and I spun upon my heel. His eyes, they were bright, fixed largely behind the glint of his round glasses, a smile to his lips, and his hair was wild - curly as I, and graciously familiar. “Jane?” He said, a certain fondness about his tone. “When’d you get here?” He ushered, drawing me in for a tight, warming, embrace. Perhaps, throughout the list of their group, I found myself closest to Meeks. For he was witty, he was intelligent, and more of a brotherly figure than any twin I had ever known. I obliged comfortably, curled within his arms, as he withdrew, and he rested his grip upon the hunch of my shoulders. He smiled, “How was your summer?” And I simply knew for which I would have to lie - again. 

“It was fine.” I smiled. Accompanied with many-a-blue-day, and many nights of darkening contemplation. Riddled by the tangle of silence, with nothingness; raised voices, and bruising discipline. I had done nothing wrong. I had done nothing wrong. “It was great.” I said. 

He smiled kindly, that reassuring sense of Meeks I had needed during the bitter hue of summer’s company. “Good.” He said, releasing myself gently, and outstretching his grip. He turned to face Charlie, gentle in his smile, and spoke again: “I got you some more smokes, Dalton.” He grinned, “So you’ll stop moaning that we’re bummin’ ‘em.” 

The boy in question scoffed, “You do.” He said, a smirk nonetheless, as he shovelled the packet into his inner-blazer pocket. “I’d say you owe me a couple more, Meeksy.” 

“Take what you’re given.” He smirked, “Or you’ll get nothin’ at all.” 

He merely smiled, an eyebrow raised, and he spoke lightly, a bounce to his words. “You have a good vacation, Stevo?” He said, “You’re pale as ever.” 

“Always the joker.” Meeks offered, a mere mutter beneath his breath, “My summer was standard.” He shrugged lightly, “Studying, mostly. A little extra-reading, I suppose.” 

“Riveting.” Knox scoffed, a dizzy arrival to his feet. 

Charlie smirked, and he shook his head - wobbling slightly upon the draped arm of Knox’s weight. “So you’ll be smarter than last year?” He said, teasingly in his ways. Meeks’ response came witty, and it came fondly, though I paid it little mind, obtaining a subtle moment to study the features of the entangled pair before me. 

Knox was far taller than Charlie, it should seem, with his arm slung around the brunette’s shoulders, and his features somewhat softer. His eyes, though similarly brown and kind, were lighter - a brightened tinge, infused with sensitivity. Charlie held mischief, and he held youth, among the deep swirl of his stare; his smirk was crude and it were sharp, uneven, and unfortunately attractive. Charlie was unfortunately attractive. 

And, as I had hardly dared to notice, his smirk fluttered a widened stance, gaze shifting to meet that of mine own curious observation. An eyebrow raised, and he shot a wink to my stoic self - classically flirty, and ever the romantic - before grinning toothily, and rejoining the loose conversion between the other two boys. 

“The other three here, yet?” Charlie asked, nodding serupticially to the open wind of the door. 

Meeks shrugged something light, beginning to make his way - a saunter in his stride - to the opposing doorway, positioned directly before Dalton’s own. Charlie trailed suit, and I found myself obliging to the gentle push of Knox’s tender touch, as he guided my shoulders to cross the hallway, and he brushed his palms along the doorframe, gating us all in with a kind of casual amusement. I were pressed - rather tightly, mind you - between the heat of Charlie’s back, as he leaned upon the wooden frame, and Knox’s arm, held just above my head, as we peered on through. 

“Rumour has it,” Charlie grinned, pointing with mock accusement, to Neil - his sharp features conveyed by a gentle, tender smile. “You did summer school.” The boy glanced up, straightening his position. 

“Yep.” He breathed, “Chemistry.” And I felt undoubtedly sorry for him. “My Father thought I should get ahead.” There were a certain glaze - one I happened to notice, though not entirely potent - upon the mention of his Father, and I found mine own stare reciprocating a mixture of something kind, and something understanding. It should seem we had plenty in common - between our parents, and our inability to stand up against their trying discipline. Though perhaps Neil were not… Perhaps he were not physically harmed, as were I, it would do damage just the same. 

His smile was toothy, brotherly, as he approached. He shook the outstretched hand of Dalton’s own, and said: “How was your summer, Slick?” With a mischievous kind of glint.

“Keen.” Came the reply, drowned in all things sinfully scandalous and unspoken. 

The breath of a laugh slipped from Neil’s lips, a gentle shake of the head, and he retreated to his luggage, tossed carelessly upon his bed. Charlie followed, and I found myself trailing - helplessly - along. 

“Meeks,” Charlie called, over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, and a diligent grin, pointing to the boy with spoken commandment, “Door. Closed.” I smiled - beside myself, and frustratingly so - and Meeks spoke his reply. 

“Yes, Sir.” He said, and the dark oak swung to a tight close. 

Dalton took his seat upon the unmade, bare, mattress that was Neil’s single accommodation; Knox to rest backwards within the spare desk chair, withdrawn slightly from the weak table, and to the other side of the room, and Meeks assumed his position within the seat opposite Knox, facing outwardly at Neil’s desk. I stood, quietly, and I watched the room for the moment that passed, as everyone took their place. 

The back of someone unfamiliar greeted me, his hair a dirty blonde. He hunched over his luggage, fiddling with this, and with that, and remained submerged within his own silence, undisturbed - or so it seemed - by the rather rowdy crowd of newcomers. 

“Gentlemen,” Neil mocked, leaning gradually upon the dark radiator. “What are the four pillars?” 

“Travesty. Horror. Decadence. Excrement.”  They sang, a whispered quire of mocking upon the monstrosity Hell-ton dared to deem success. I grinned, despite myself, and took a seat upon the edge of the bed, slightly pushing the sharp edge of the leather-bound case. 

Charlie spoke, a cigarette hung from between his lips, “‘kay,” He muttered, withdrawing the stick from between his muffled speech, and producing a lighter, “Study group.” He said. “Meeks aced Latin,” No surprise there, I thought, “Jane’s just… Jane.” He grinned, to which I rolled my eyes. “She’ll have aced everything.” He swung his legs to rest upon my lap, unreasonably comfortable, and he lay - utterly sprawled out - upon the bed. His touch was warm, it was cozy, and thus I did not protest. “I didn’t quite flunk English,” He continued, “So, if you want, we got our study group.” 

He lit the cigarette, as a hum of agreement rang through the room. I remained true to my silence, for I knew I would simply not be allowed within such close proximity - neither to study, nor merely to talk. Pathetic, my conscience reminded, the misogyny were fucking pathetic. 

“Alright,” Neil shrugged, “You comin’, Jane?” He asked. I glanced up, and upon meeting such a gentle expression, I smiled. 

I spoke softly - I hated the way it sounded, but I said it nonetheless. “I can’t.” I sighed. “I got new rules, now, boys.” 

Charlie scoffed, and Neil’s gaze seemed to soften - sympathetic, understanding. “Forget the rules.” Charlie said, handing his cigarette to myself, as I took it between my middle and first. “You’re coming.” 

Through a breath of smoke, I scoffed, and I said: “I’ll be kicked out, Dalton.” 

He smirked that uneven smirk, with a shrug to accompany, “For studying? C’mon, Darl’.” He challenged, “That’s a lame excuse.” 

“I can’t.” I sighed, inhaling another deep breath of such chemical smoke, holding it within the depth of my throat - as the Dalton boy had taught me, back in eighth grade - and I exhaled tiresomely. I truly wished it could be simpler. I handed back the cigarette, and I focused myself upon Perry, as he smiled - something reassuring, and gentle.

“Well, Cameron asked, too.” Neil said, and a chorus of mumbled protests rang out - I found myself groaning something light, for the red-headed bastard were nothing but a stuck up prissy, and I liked nothing about him. “Anyone mind including him?” 

I could practically hear the silent ‘Yes’ of the boys’ disagreement, as they sighed once more, and they remained true to the quiet. “What’s his specialty, bootlicking?” Charlie scoffed, lighting his cigarette once more. 

“C’mon,” Neil tried. Always the kinder soul. “He’s your roommate.” 

Charlie let out a breathy laugh, “That’s not my fault.” he said. And I did feel a little sorry for him, at times, for - indeed - Richard Cameron was his roommate, and the pair got on like butter in a sock. 

In other words; they didn’t. 

I grinned, riddled with slight amusement, for I knew Charlie held a special kind of talent for pissing Cameron off. He - regularly, you understand - played his saxophone, at all hours of the night. Only loud enough to disturb Richard, of course, but it was persistently frustrating for the ginger lad, nonetheless. Charlie would often steal his clothing, amidst his showers, and force the poor boy to return to his room in nothing but a towel - all kinds of impractical things, that I, for one, found utterly hilarious, and the school board did not agree with. 

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Meeks spoke, “My name is Steven Meeks.” 

Glancing toward the newcomer, I smiled warmly, for he looked to be riddled with nerves, and shaken with anxiety. So fragile, did he seem. 

“Oh, this is Todd Anderson.” Neil introduced, spinning him around with a soft touch. He turned to face Meeks, a light blush dusting his cheeks, and he reached out - as though nervous, I had noticed - to shake his hand. 

Meeks shook it something small, “Nice to meet you.” He smiled, and let go of their grip.

“Nice to meet you.” Todd whispered, a tone so quiet, I almost missed it. He seemed polite, kind, and softly spoken. His lips quivered with an affable smile, docile and modest, and he shared a curt glance with I, a nervous nod to be sent. 

I spoke quietly, though not quite as quiet as he, and I smiled, “I’m Jane.” I said, “Jane Darling.” 

“Hello.” He mumbled, that faint dust of pinkish hue to elope his complexion once more. 

“Charlie Dalton.” Charlie said, far louder than perhaps necessary (though I supposed it were just him, and that was that) with an azure of confidence radiating between his smirk. The boy, - Todd - he glanced with a curtly reigned frown, turning away with not but a word. The breath of a laugh slipped from my lips - for Charlie, his chaotic, messy, self, could seem so intimidating, so utterly confident, upon first glance - and I smiled with great amusement. His foot nudged my stomach lightly, and, upon glancing to his expression, I noticed a mockery of annoyance, ruined by his grin. 

Another amused giggle fell from me, and I rolled my eyes - a natural reaction, you see - as I turned to meet the introduction of Knox. He leaned up, an awkward kind of crouch, over the back of the wooden chair, and shook Todd’s hand. “I’m Knox Overstreet.” He smiled, with a subtle nod to follow. 

Overstreet fell back to rest within his chair, and Neil spoke with earnestness, although lightly uninterested upon the topic. “Todd’s brother was Jeffery Anderson.” He said, taking ahold of the cigarette Charlie had offered. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Charlie said, as though the name dared to ring a bell. I knew not for this Jeffery, nor his brother, as he stood before us, scoping his luggage once again. “Valedictorian.” Charlie continued. “National merit scholar.” Oh, I thought, oh, it was that Anderson. 

Todd seemed to freeze slightly, his jaw drawn to a momentary clench, and I understood that such recognition were not of something unfamiliar to him. Meeks, his eyebrows raised, spoke with light teasing, “Ooh. Well,” he said, “Welcome to Hell-ton.” 

A silent, shy, laugh reciprocated the boy’s reply, as Charlie - once more - made the pass of another loud statement. “It’s every bit as tough as they say,” he said, a tone of nonchalance to occupy. “Unless you’re Jane. She’s…” He trailed, a ribbing grin, “Well, like I said; she’s just Jane. A genius, like Meeks.” 

I scoffed, swatting the boney shin of his leg, as he smirked something proud, and shot me a wink. “He excels in flattery, Todd,” I said, “Don’t mind him.” 

Meeks snickered, “Yeah,” he agreed, “That’s why I help him with Latin.” 

“And English,” I added, a mere mutter beneath my breath. 

“And Trig,” Charlie coughed, another light kick to my stomach, with that same teasing glint to those deep, chocolate, eyes. He had taken back the cigarette, inhaling a rather deep toke upon the stick, before offering it to myself. I took it, gulping in the toxins with a sense of normality, as I leaned myself back upon the edge of the luggage. 

A subtly sounded knock erupted from the opposing side of the wooden door, and I - reasonably so - found myself lightly panicking for the stick of illegal measures, wrapped within my fingers. I glanced to Charlie, a furrow upon my brows, and he took hold of the cigarette, maneuvering himself to extinguish the final few tokes of the lit thing. Neil, Charlie, and I, made an attempt to waft the smoke away; our hands batting the air somewhat foolishly. It would still smell, I thought, but I waved my hands anyway. 

“It’s open,” Neil called, as Charlie rose to his feet, the corpse of the hidden cigarette perched beneath his shiny shoe. 

The door opened, and an older man strode - masked by a great sense of authority - within the complex. “Father,” Neil all but spluttered, risen to a wobbly stand, “I thought you’d gone.” His gaze, it faltered, and a shine of something fearful riddled among his widened eyes. Mr Perry seemed stern, the kind of man whom found small talk to be his only communication, unless condescending, or belittling, and I didn’t quite like that. 

“Mr Perry - Sir.” the boys each greeted, rising to a respectful stand, among the thickening tension within the air. I remained perched upon the bed, merely smiling something small. 

The man nodded politely, tight lipped, with a grin of something powerful, and I found myself disliking the blankness behind his gaze, behind his eyes. “Keep your seats, fella’s,” He said, “keep your seats.” And so they did - Meeks, Knox, and Charlie, returning to their assigned seats, each somewhat displeased by the presence of the elder man. He glanced to myself, smile tightening distastefully, as mine only seemed to brighten - often, I enjoyed the act of making men squirm. “Miss Darling,” He said, a light bite to his tone, “I hope you are well.” 

“Very well, thank you, Mr Perry.” I replied, somewhat nonchalantly, somewhat bemusedly. 

“Good.” He said, gaze to flutter upon my frame - scrutinizing, with a sense of uncomfortability. My smile, it fell to a smirk, for I found great fondness among his displeasure. “Neil,” He continued, attention returning once more to his son, of whom stood, nervously, with a furrow in his brows. “I’ve just spoken to Mr Nolan.” He said, “I think that you’re taking too many extracurricular activities this semester, and I’ve decided that you should drop the school annual.” 

I shifted my gaze, prominent with a frown, to meet the angered stare of Charlie, who merely sighed, a shake to his head. ‘Is he serious?’ I mouthed, somewhat silent among my breathing. The boy shrugged, nodding slightly in response. Unfortunately, his glare seemed to utter, and I found my scowl deepening. “But I’m the assistant editor, this year.” Neil attempted to reason, a glaze of solemn hurt, so potent, upon his features. 

Mr Perry, a glance of perfect nonchalance, said: “Well, I’m sorry, Neil.” With not but a flicker of apathy. No, I thought, you’re not. 

Neil tried again, “But - Father - I can’t! It wouldn’t be fair-” 

“Fella’s,” Mr Perry interjected, a great wash of impatience to succumb to his expression, “Would you excuse us for a moment?” 

There were a sudden gloom that hung about the air, thicker than the smoke that fell from our throats, as we smoked our cigarettes, and basked in the little freedom we could. Neil glanced, a sheepish kind of look, from his left, to his right - to nothing in particular, I could only assume - and the gentle thud of his Father’s footsteps were to be the only disrupance. I dared to spare another sharp exchange with Charlie, his jaw set, teeth clenched. He watched, deep orbs conflicted with a burning - obvious - distaste, as Mr Perry paused at the doorway, and Neil stuttered in his walk. 

The boy left, and the smile his Father gave - perhaps something of reassurance, though I paid it no mind - were of nothing partially kind; tight, and thin-lipped. Charlie did not smile back, he glared, though something slightly softer, and awaited the retreat of Mr Perry’s moving figure. 

A breath of silence dared to pass, and I wondered - perhaps selfishly, perhaps ignorantly - if this were how it felt to be a witness, and not a receiver. For I had never known the way it felt, to listen in upon hushed whispers of angered disputes, and the stumbled reply of someone ferociously terrified. It were usually I, whom stuttered my response, and cried silent tears, as the strike of powerful palms caressed the worn complexion of my cheek. Often, it stung. Though each time, less than the rest. 

I found myself tracing the flush of my cheek - absentmindedly, you understand - with a gaze fallen to the floor. For although I were certainly glad that the bruises had healed, and the scabs didn’t leave scars, my conscience often recalled such moments, of inner battles, and of physical aches, upon the most wretched of times. 

The summer was dreadful - as it had always seemed to be - and I held no doubt that the next break - Winter, I supposed - would be much the same. I dreaded it all, just as well. For who was I to defy the mighty hand of a man who’d taught me nothing but pain? I knew not how to love, but to hate - Oh, I could hate with great excellence. 

“That guy’s a real jerk-off.” Charlie sighed, a mumble beneath his breath. 

I smiled something small, saddened, “Yeah,” I said, “I wouldn’t invite him to tea, that’s for sure.” 

He snorted, a toothy grin to follow, “Give it to him cold.” he suggested, leaning back among the pillows once more, his legs dangling - an awkward angle, surely - up off the side of the mattress. “Or leave some mushed up cookies at the bottom.” He had a nice smile, I cared to notice; bright, straight, teeth, with a perfectly even set - he looked, silly as it may seem, rather pretty, when he smiled. A true smile, however, not a smirk. His smirk were mischievous - older - and his smile withheld the youth he often projected. 

“Too hot, maybe - burn his tongue.” I shrugged. “Though I’m doubtful he’d ever return my invite.” 

“No,” Charlie sighed, “No, he wouldn’t.” 

“It’s a shame, really,” I said, turning back to gaze upon the floor, a breath of faux despair dissolving upon my tongue, and I smiled. “I make a wonderful tea.” 

“More of a liquor kinda guy, really.” He muttered, a shrug of faint amusement. “Or a Hot Chocolate.” He added, a moment of nothingness to follow, “Wouldn’t be Christmas without one, y’know?” 

My grin merely heightened, for I knew the feeling all too well, and I nodded. “Of course.” I said, returning my gaze to lock with his bemused glint. “As long as you don’t make them with milk.” 

He frowned, scoffed, and spoke with a tone of great offence. “How else am I supposed to make it?” 

“With water!” I scoffed. Buffoon, I thought, and a disgusting one at that. To make his hot chocolate with milk - the audacity of the boy. “Hot water.” I then said, glancing to his scrunched expression - assuming that I, myself, withheld disgust much the same. “How’d you even heat up the milk?” I asked, another scrunch of distaste to follow. 

“Jesus fuck,” He breathed, “The same way you heat up water?” He said, an incredulous kind of tone to pepper his words. His eyes widened, a placid glaze of disbelief to flutter his features, and I merely shook my head. Oh, he seemed so pretty - and, now, all was ruined. 

“Disgraceful.” I muttered. 

“Me?” He mocked, “You’re the weirdo that likes hot-water-chocolate!” 

“You make it sound like a bad thing!” I defended. 

“It is a bad thing! A damn shame, too.” He scoffed, a roll of his eyes, “I was just beginning to like you.” His smirk came sly and it came teasing, and I found myself unable to withhold my own, the slip of a gentle giggle to fall along with it. 

“Only just?” I jeered, a fond kind of smile, “Well, shit, I better step up my game.” 

Charlie shot me a wink - again - and swung to his feet, standing with a sudden wobble, as he said: “I’d say the same for myself, but my game is simply…” He paused, he grinned, “Perfect.” He said. I scoffed, rolling my eyes; for yes, he was a flirt  - potentially the biggest flirt I had ever come to know, at that - but there was nothing perfect about him. Well, nothing but that smile, of course. 

“Yeah, alright, Dalton.” I said, the ascent to my feet something clumsy - as always, it should so seem - and I stumbled a few steps, bashing my shoulder upon the chest of the boy, himself. He let out a breathy grunt, clasping me - far gentler than I supposed I had expected - at my elbow, for I jerked myself away, and I found my footing solely. A natural reaction, I thought to reason, and I pretended not to notice the brief flash of concern, as it washed across his face. “We should check on Neil.” I mumbled, tone far quieter than I should have liked - addressing the silence of the other three boys. 

Todd glanced, - nervously, I noticed - with a quick kind of look, though returned to his luggage - a bag with nothing left to unpack - as though he were too busy to follow. Meeks merely nodded, Knox rising quietly from his position, and we wandered through the open doorway. 

Charlie, the first to step out, leaned upon the cream wall, smug with his uneven, classic, smirk. I found myself positioned ever-slightly behind him, shoulder rested against the back of his arm, and Knox stood, hands in his pockets, to the right of I. Neil stared forward, jaw set, though soft - as he always seemed to be - and he dropped back against the wall, his head bouncing lightly upon such contact. 

I frowned, silent within my thoughts, for although I wished to speak upon my concerns, I knew such would simply do nothing to help. “Why doesn’t he let you do what you want?” Charlie asked, brazen as ever. 

Helpful, Dalton, I scoffed, internally, real helpful. 

Neil turned to face us, an eyebrow raised, and his silence surely telling. “Yeah, Neil,” Knox added, a light tone of confidence to ooze between his words, “tell him off.” 

My eyes rolled gravely, the comment slipping from upon my tongue before I caught the chance to reel it in. “God,” I sighed, “That’s a terrible idea.” I muttered, a shake to my head, “Don’t listen to them, Neil.” 

Knox frowned, a glance of conflict to contort his handsome features, and he said: “Why? It couldn’t get any worse.” Oh, you fool, I thought - it could get so much worse. Of course it could. 

“You don’t know that.” I said, a little too sharp for my liking. I softened my tone, “It’s best to just take it - take it ‘til you’re free.” I glanced once to Neil, his eyes fluttered shut, and I added - quietly, with a gentle stare. “Not long, now.” 

There were a great beat of silence, a shake to his head, and the brunette returned his attention to the cream paint of the opposing wall, tone tender, tired. “Ten years is a lifetime.” He all but whispered, the slip of a crack to differentiate his tone. Something within my chest ached - a gentle squeeze, and my expression fell to a sympathetic furrow. 

“No, Neil,” I said, a smile of something reassuring flashed his way, “you’ve the rest of your life to enjoy, to feel free. Ten years? Ten years is nothing.” 

“It’s forever.” He mumbled, “I’ll be trapped forever.” 

Knox shrugged smally, “It’s your life, Neil. Your future. You do with it what you want, that’s the way it goes.”

A mocking, bitterly tasted, laugh fell from the boy’s tongue, his eyebrows raised; fixture of disbelief. “Oh, that’s rich!” He scoffed, and my chest ached once more, throbbing slightly, for the weight of things all too familiar. I had witnessed this scene many-a-time before - only I were Neil, and Neil were I. “Like you guy’s defy your parents?” He continued, a hint of frustration to lick upon his tone, “Mr Future Lawyer, and Mr Future Banker.” 

Charlie, another smug smirk slapped across his expression, said, with the breath of a laugh; “Okay, so I don’t like it any more than you do.” 

Neil sighed, falling back to rest his head against the wall. “Well- Just don’t tell me how to talk to my Father.” He said, a trailed gaze to meet us all, “You guys are the same way.” And surely right he was. To defy was - to put it rather dramatically, though not entirely impossible - to die. 

Knox let out a breathy, “Alright, alright, Jesus.” and Neil retracted his gaze, a glum grin to be shot my way. “So what are you gonna do, then?” He muttered, soft eyes laced with a thinly dispersed concern. 

He fluttered his eyes shut, once more, and sighed. “What I have to do,” he mumbled, “Drop the annual.” I frowned a little, unable to miss the thick layer of sadness, as it wove between his features. 

“Well,” Charlie began, “I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it.” 

I let out a breath, “Yeah,” I said, “It’s just a bunch of jerks trying to impress Nolan.” 

His laugh rang fake, and it fell from his lips with great force - I practically winced. “I don’t care.” He lied. “I don’t give a damn about any of it.” But oh, of all the blindest men - anyone could read his mistruth. 

There was a beat of silence, and I found myself reaching out, and placing a softly positioned hand upon the sleeve of his blazer, a curt squeeze of support - of companionship. “Well, uh,” Meeks stuttered, his breath a little warm upon the back of my neck. I flinched, be it only slight, from the sudden sensation, and bumped - once more, curse my soul - unto the frame of the Dalton boy himself. He merely raised an eyebrow, hand instinctively brushing upon my upper back, a stroke of miraculous comfort. I smiled, sheepishly, might I admit, and attempted to ignore the circular trail of his fingers upon the blazer, warped between my shoulder blades. “Latin?” Meeks offered, “Eight o’clock, tomorrow?” 

A round of agreement followed around - Neil expressing the loudest, as he passed between Knox and I, and made his way through the doorway of his room. 

“Todd,” The boy glanced up, fiddling with a small clock, and Meeks smiled, “You’re welcome to join us.” He offered, as Knox chimed in. 

“Yeah,” He said, “Come along, Pal.” 

Todd nodded, another shy movement, and he muttered a quiet: “Thanks.” And nothing more.

A breath left my lips, as the four remaining students - Meeks, Knox, Charlie, and I - turned away from the slowly closing door. I sighed, for I dreaded the condition to which Peter had left behind, upon his trail of Knightly destruction, and I wondered just what he had ruined, in the longer-than-necessary time he took, upon delivering mine own luggage to my dorm. “I’m gonna head back to my room.” I muttered, “Unpack, and all that.” 

I dared to notice the hand, rested - still - between my shoulder blades, as Charlie spoke, softer than he had all day. “Sure.” He mumbled, “Know how to get there from here?” I merely nodded, for I did; it were up the stairs, the first right upon landing, and five doors to the left. 

“See you in class, Jane,” Meeks smiled, a small wave to follow. I reciprocated, breathed a laugh. 

“Yeah, and don’t forget - you’re coming to that study group.” Charlie grinned, a subtle wink, as he patted my back - thrice, upon counting - and I began to wander the trek within the distilled hallway. Their echoing footsteps, retreating to their own rooms, I could merely assume, drowned to something of a silent aubade, as I ascended the stairs, my shoes tapping gently upon the polished wood. 

Perhaps, I thought, as I entered my hallway, and I strode to the oak of my door, this year could be better. Maybe it would be good, and not just fine. Shrug-worthy, would be a legible descriptive of past years - nothing but bland yearning, a great longing for freedom. Something tingled, deep within my bones, and I wondered if perhaps this year - maybe, just maybe - I would find it. The freedom, that is. 

It sounded so wonderful, looked so serene. I discovered myself longing for it, all over again. And, as I swung open the wooden panel, a large kind of smirk tattled upon my teeth, I decided that I would do everything I could to achieve it. I swerved, among the piles of strewn clothing, of broken picture frames, and of smashed bottles - of perfume, might I add, despite their forbiddency - and I sat upon the naked, unmade bed, smiling. I cared not for the mess, the disgusting and blatant, disrespect, in which my brother had inflicted upon the scene - for I, Jane Elizabeth Darling, grew warm; warm with a sense of fulfilling passion. 

This year would be different, I thought to myself; this year would be free. No longer was I Miss Darling, nor Peter - with a more feminine touch - Neither a future trophy wife, or a distraction amongst men - No. No, that year - beginning then, for if not then, when? - I was Jane. A bright, witty, independent, girl, with not but a man to influence her, and rag her around. 

“I am Jane.” I said, and I liked the way it tasted. 

[michaelfoote2000]

David Lynch & Surrealism: When the Non-Traditional Becomes Traditional

Often described as “one of the most unique visionaries working in cinema today,” it is not hard to see why director David Lynch and his unusual catalogue of work have garnered a lot of attention since the 80s (ScreenRant). Looking at his career holistically, it is evident how little his style has actually changed. Meanwhile, public perception of him and his productions has fluctuated quite a bit from decade to decade. After a somewhat uncertain start in the 1970s, he eventually rose to become arguably one of the most popular directors in the 21st century, which brought about strong implications for the world of independent cinema. The rise in popularity of David Lynch’s small but strong category of films brought about a wider acceptance of surrealist storytelling, as more audiences embraced the non-traditional storytelling so often associated with independent projects, further blurring the lines between industries and individuals.

David Lynch’s directorial debut, Eraserhead, actually serves as a perfect microcosm of his cinematic style and approach. First and foremost, it is utterly and proudly surreal. The entire film takes place in an ambiguous and unsettling interpretation of America – as many of his projects do – operating within a world that manages to both feel very familiar and very foreign at the same time. The film’s plot, focusing on a man and his grotesque, barely human child, is incredibly vague; Lynch keeps the purpose of the story open to interpretation, simply leaving the viewer with the shock and confusion at what they just watched. Eraserhead does not hold back: like many of Lynch’s films that follow it, it is gruesome, graphic, and sexual (ScreenRant). In other words, it had many of the characteristics that defined a number of flicks as independent cinema. Taking the risk of making such an off-putting movie did not come without its consequences, though.

Released to limited audiences in 1977, the film initially received a good amount of backlash. Variety denounced it as “unwatchable” due to the vagueness and brutality of its content, and since Lynch is notorious for refusing to give any clarification on most of his projects, interviewing him about the project provided no satisfying answers (Variety). It has since become something of a cult classic, embraced by fans of such dramatic and stupefying cinema (Chion 3). But it is easy to see why Lynch did not fit in with mainstream cinema at first. He made it clear that the kind of work he wanted to make did not have accessibility or comfort in mind. If Lynch wanted to be a surrealist director, it seemed he would have to accept that he would inevitably fail to capture the hearts of the average American viewers.

And yet, despite such a baffling first project, Lynch managed to break into Hollywood rather quickly. He found himself directing an adaptation of the science fiction novel Dune only seven years later in the mid-1980s. Much unlike his first work, Dune turned out to be very slow and boring. Its story is far more concrete, given it is drawing from a popular source text in a genre proven to have reliable appeal. The appeal did not transfer over, though; Dune was a commercial and critical flop (Hollywood Reporter). Lynch was not happy with it either; famously, there were a multitude of clashes and complications with the studio that led to the final release of the film differing greatly from his original four-hour vision. The disconnect is not only felt by Lynch, as Dune does stand out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of his filmography. It is considerably less obtuse and unusual than everything that came before and after, and yet still audiences refused to embrace it. The mainstream had rejected Lynch once again, who refused to be deterred.

Lynch stuck with his comfort zone and returned to writing and directing projects that outright ignored the mold in favor of the atypical (as independent filmmakers are known to do) (Nochimson 11). For instance, Blue Velvet was another clear example of Lynch’s untethered approach to storytelling, a late-80s suburban tale that was much more in line with his personal stylings than that of the mainstream movie circuit (Nerdist). Blue Velvet was a success, much more so than Dune or Eraserhead, but still did not become a Hollywood-level hit (Far Out Magazine). At this time, independent cinema had not quite reached the heights of popularity that it would soar to by the turn of the century. Audiences were not used to his level of surrealism…that is, until the arrival of a certain TV phenomenon. David Lynch’s first major foray into television was the mystery series Twin Peaks, premiering in 1990 on the ABC network. The opening episode was actually shot as a movie in case the show did not get picked up – and was even released as one outside of America with a more ‘concrete’ ending (well, concrete by Lynch’s standards). This premiere is arguably the most important work of David Lynch’s entire career, as it kickstarted what was his first project to really achieve true mainstream success. Its original run only lasted two years before a swift cancellation, but it made a huge impression on the audiences it did reach, especially after it took a hard turn into supernatural elements and had a massively ambiguous ending. Audiences were enthralled and intrigued after being hooked with the more mainstream premise of a teenage girl’s murder; Lynch had finally found a way to hook more viewers on to one of his non-standard projects (Nerdist). Thus, the attention achieved from the original finale of Twin Peaks (the only episodes he directed outside of the opening few of the first season) naturally had a very tangible impact on Lynch’s career.

After writing and directing another mind-bending independent film that came in the form of 1997’s Lost Highway, David Lynch signed on to direct the G-rated Disney romp The Straight Story (Filmmaker Magazine). This 1999 film is easily David Lynch’s most mainstream work. However, miniscule touches of his style are still prominent throughout the film. While it is the kind of saccharine story one would expect from Disney, it has a colorful cast of side characters (reminiscent of the residents of Twin Peaks) and its camerawork shares some broad similarities with Blue Velvet (Variety). All of this makes sense, given that The Straight Story was the first feature film that David Lynch directed while having no hand in the writing. Still, Lynch’s involvement in the project proved that Hollywood was finally recognizing his talents and seeking his unique style.

Ever since then, David Lynch has remained in the peripheral vision of mainstream audiences. While not quite a household name, his works have propelled him to being one of the more well-known American directors of the past half century or so. People retroactively began to look back on his older works and find renewed interest, turning Eraserhead and Blue Velvet into strong cult classics among film nerds alongside Twin Peaks. Concurrently, Lynch worked on a number of short films and shows across the 2000s, 2010s, and even into the 2020s. One of his most intriguing and baffling productions was a short, 60-second commercial he made for a Sony video game console, dubbed simply PlayStation 2: The Third Place. It is no more nonsensical than the rest of Lynch’s work, but it stands out because of its role as a promo for what would go on to be one of the best-selling video game consoles of all time. Even though it would be misguided to credit that all to Lynch’s advertisement, it nevertheless left a sizeable impact on a widespread audience, remaining in the memories of gaming communities for decades to come. In part thanks to the opportunity to reach wider audiences due to advancements made in the internet age, surrealist art was touching more people than ever and finding new audiences. Along with the rising popularity of independent film around the turn of the century, where non-traditional storytelling almost became its own miniature fad in Hollywood, David Lynch’s style was on its way to becoming mainstream.

What really cemented David Lynch in the hearts of cinephiles was his 2001 film Mulholland Drive. It felt like a perfect companion piece or spiritual successor to Twin Peaks with its interweaving plotlines, otherworldly side characters, and unclear lines of reality. The ending of Mulholland Drive is perhaps one of the most debated story moments of Lynch’s career because of just how surreal and non-linear it was. The film was quickly labeled one of the best films of the decade and has remained on many such lists in the following two decades (Nerdist). Since its release, Lynch has shifted his attention to television and other short-form content. He has continued to make surrealist short films like What Would Jack Do? that ended up on Netflix among other originals that became some of the most popular mainstream media of the decade. Meanwhile, he has used his YouTube channel to produce loads of short videos colored with his signature oddities, which consistently draw in thousands of viewers (Far Out Magazine). But the ultimate evidence of cultural power that Lynch managed to achieve – despite his rejection of mainstream filmic practices – was the story behind the Twin Peaks revival season that aired in 2017, known simply as The Return. A season that almost did not happen when executive and budget limitations stopped him from making the project, Showtime gave David Lynch completely free reign to make the 18-episode story he desired. It was slow, raw, abstract, uncomfortable – everything his works have come to be known for (Nerdist). And it was a massive success. Fans tuned in every week for to watch some of the most bizarre, dream-like television ever produced, proving that Showtime’s permission of creative liberties paid off.

Although Lynch may permanently shift mediums going forward, his surrealist style of storytelling will likely never dissipate. Not only is it essential to building the character of his works, it has become widely embraced across the nation as the appeal of his films (Creed 2). Lynchian surrealism brought him from the world of independent cinema to mainstream eyes, demonstrating how non-traditional storytelling has found popularity and widespread success with film audiences in recent years.

Want to learn more? My sources:

David Lynch by Michel Chion

The Passion of David Lynch: Wild at Heart in Hollywood by Martha P. Nochimson

The Untamed Eye and the Dark Side of Surrealism: Hitchcock, Lynch and Cronenberg by Barbara Creed

ScreenRant: https://screenrant.com/david-lynch-eraserhead-established-director-style/

Nerdist: https://nerdist.com/article/david-lynch-filmography-streaming/

Far Out Magazine: https://faroutmagazine.co.uk/david-lynch-career-eccentric-master-cinematic-surrealism/

Hollywood Reporter: https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/general-news/dune-review-1984-movie-953878/

Variety (1): https://variety.com/1999/film/reviews/the-straight-story-1117499811/

Variety (2): https://variety.com/1976/film/reviews/eraserhead-1200424018/

Filmmaker Magazine: https://filmmakermagazine.com/110889-theres-so-much-darkness-so-much-room-to-dream-david-lynch-on-lost-highway/#.YJK4JrVKiM9

[solacefruit]

hello! something i really enjoy about your stories is how naturally you blend worldbuilding and stories within the actual story itself - do you have any advice on how to do that effectively? i always worry i'm going to too far into "just listing off facts about the world" in the middle of a story if i try and include TOO much worldbuilding, but i'm a big lover of worldbuilding and have a hard time not planning out every detail

Hello there! Thank you so much. Stories within stories (fun fact: this technique is called mise en abîme or mise en abyme) is something that I’m really enthralled by and that I’ve worked hard to try to get the hang of in my own work, so it’s wonderful to know it’s something you enjoy about my writing! That feels very good to hear. 

As far as advice goes, I can offer the following thoughts:

Whatever amount of world-building you think is enough, go slightly under it. What I mean by this is that very often less is more when it comes to building a world (see my notes on Pullman’s Northern Lights here). By using a bit of restraint and cutting things down just a touch on your final edit, you can help yourself resist the thrall of the too much gene that many writers experience when talking about their world-building. Ask yourself “does this need to be here, or am I just excited to share it?” 

Unfortunately, if it’s just the latter, it’s probably a good idea to trim it: lean storytelling keeps readers hungry, and hungry readers usually ask for more. Trouble is, as a writer, you’ve got to be the one to remember that it’s always better to leave while a crowd is wanting more than stay until the crowd is begging you to stop. (cough several media series we could mention cough)

An example of this would be in a world where there are ten gods. In your first chapter, you don’t need to list all the gods. You can maybe mention one or two, and perhaps imply there’s more. Immediately, that creates mystery and a sense of a larger world; a reader gets to wonder, who are these other gods...

You mentioned you’re a planner, so I want to reassure you: keeping the story trim doesn’t mean all your planning is wasted! If you, the writer, knows the details of your world, it will come through in everything you write. The fact you know all the answers means you have a lot of control over what you want to reveal, when, where, and how. Which leads me to:

When possible, world-build obliquely. What I mean by this is that a lot of world-building can be done in subtle ways, that leave impressions of the world without having to be told directly by a character. You also can stretch out details, sprinkling them only here and there, meaning that it takes multiple chapters to piece together concepts or institutions or other world-building elements. 

Doing this can help make it never feel like an exposition dump or listing off facts, because you’re putting only tasty little morsels in (sometimes hidden) for readers to find or look back on later. The reason for it is the same as why keepers will scatter-feed animals in enclosures: enrichment. If you dump it all in one place, the animal will eat, get full and/or bored, and won’t feel good. But if you make it into a puzzle to solve, the emotional reward of finding and figuring things out for yourself is so much nicer than whatever you’re finding, usually. (Sorry to keep using animal metaphors for readers, but like... it works).

An example of this would be something like:

Anwar turned the corner onto the opulent mosaic path of the shrine district and continued towards the temple of Kenuf, furthest from the city centre. On either side, acolytes of all kinds were leaving offerings--jars of salt for Meshut, baskets of yellow lilies for Pesht--and the air was thick with the smell of incense, making his eyes water slightly. He walked as quickly as he could past the grinning crocodile faces carved on the outer wall of the second last temple, before greeting the black-robed bell-keeper outside of Kenuf’s shrine.  

I’ve made this up off the cuff so none of it “means” anything, but if we look at what’s here, we learn the following:

there’s at least four gods, possibly more

Pesht’s devotees leave yellow lilies, but we don’t know what Pesht is god of yet

Meshut’s devotees leave jars of salt, but ditto above

Kenuf’s shrine is furthest from the city (does this imply it is least favoured? or maybe least used?)

all gods seem to be named in consonant-e pattern (pe-, me-, ke-), but we don’t know yet if this is meaningful or coincidental (but if you wanted it to be, make all gods and maybe royals have this same pattern and just... leave it. let your reader infer from the text that the pattern signifies divinity)

the unnamed god is represented by crocodile iconography

the bell-keeper of Kenuf wears black robes (is this a uniform, or just a fashion choice?)

Anwar does not feel comfortable with the unnamed god in this passage (scared? disdainful? a mystery...)

A “too much” passage would offer lengthy descriptions of every shrine, listing what the offerings were and what the acolytes and other staff wore and Anwar’s thoughts about how he felt about each of the ten gods. It’s not impossible to write something like that that’s good, I do want to point out! But if you’re looking to slim things down, less is more, space out details over multiple chapters. 

Write for your ideal reader, who is clever and attentive. Some writers fall into the habit of over-explaining their world (resulting in info-dumping) because they don’t trust their readers to get the “right” vision of their world, or because they’re worried readers will overlook all the cool stuff they’ve put in. I can recommend not doing this and part of getting to that point is imagine you’re writing for the perfect reader of your story, who does get it and will look for all the cool clever tricky things you sneakily put in. Will every reader be that person? Definitely not! But if you write for that reader, you will elevate your work, rather than dumb it down and make it heavy with unneeded hand-holding. 

This kind of overlaps with the above in the sense that it boils down to “you’re allowed to leave things out, let readers make the intellectual leaps based on the pieces you give them” but it’s also saying that you’re allowed to let things rest. Put in subtle symbolism and never draw attention to it. 

Additionally, as the creator, you know all the information about the world, which is a huge power and means you can choose the exact right moments to reveal meaningful, revelatory details. For example, somewhere around chapter three or four: 

Anwar closed the door of his room, walked to the wall shrine, and fell to his knees, pulling the curtain aside. 

“Ye’emer, it is done,” he said, looking at the floor. “It is finally done.”

In the distance, the bells of the temple of Kenuf began to ring: a strident sound, sharp and mournful. The dawn acolytes must have found the body already. 

He reached forward, carefully placing the offering on the black silk of the tiny altar. The chips of animal bone looked like stars at night, bright white in the dark. 

“I don’t know why you chose me,” said Anwar, forcing himself to look up. 

The burning eyes of the crocodile statue stared back. 

And now you get to go ohhhh. You know the name of the god now, you know the offering, you know (or at least can speculate better at) why Anwar felt so uncomfortable near the temple. If you time when you reveal world-building details, you can make them do so much work for you in telling your story. 

Make up lies about your world--or at least, untruths. This maybe sounds counter-intuitive, but there is a logic in it. Most of us are not experts on our world, and your characters should be the same. They should be biased in their perspective, or limited by what they know, or perhaps even inclined to embellish details. If two characters talk about the same event, make them have personal feelings about it! Unless your character is a historian, their account of a historical event probably isn’t going to be totally correct or certain about all the details, and that’s not a bad thing. You can use that to weave in ambiguity or intrigue, or leave out important facts that will become relevant later, or contradict it later with a different telling and make the protagonist have to question who to trust or what’s the truth. 

As a species, everything we do is stories. The concept of a nation is a story we tell ourselves about what it is to be “us.” Who we each are is a story we are always telling to ourselves: I am me because I do x, I am me because I don’t do y. Often, these things aren’t The Truth so much as they are A Truth, so when it comes to writing stories into your stories, don’t forget to think about the stories characters are telling themselves about who they are. And remember that all characters are unreliable narrators, because they’re people and they’re filtering the world through their perspective. You can do so much with that. 

Use stories to create meaningful parallels for the larger narrative. If you’re featuring a story (which I’ll call tale from here, to cut down on confusion) within your story, it needs to be doing something more than just telling the reader facts about the world or passing the time. One way to make sure you’re doing that is thinking about parallels, which is to say, think of how the tale can impact the “real world” of your story. This might be the protagonist having a realisation or plot breakthrough, or later deciphering out important information or applying ideas from the story to a problem they encounter. 

You also can (and often should) create tonal and emotional parallels within the tale as well and/or use tales as a form of foreshadowing. For a very basic example, in a story that involves a protagonist who gets trapped in a big horrible maze later in the book might feature a version of Minotaur in the Labyrinth as foreshadowing, and the character might have a fleeting thought about it that later will resurface with new significance. 

I hope some of this is helpful to you! Good luck with you writing, and please write in again if there’s anything I can help with. 

tl;dr: my tips are:

do a little less and space out what you tell your reader

don’t say directly what you can imply or gesture vaguely at

write cleverly and time your moments

make use of ambiguity

make the story impact the real world