folklorespring

[doux-amer]

Thinking about it, it's not that I was lonely or anything growing up. I had a lot of friends and people I had fun with and talked to a bunch, but due to the way I was brought up, I wasn't able to really deepen and nurture those friendships. It's something that's impacted me to this day and at one point in my life, I became aware that some friends were not as close as I told myself they were except one particular moment, this wasn't because they did anything shitty (and that shitty thing wasn't done out of malice or intent), but it's that thing when you're young and you call everyone your close friends and you grow up and you realize lol, no they're just friends! And that's okay!).

And then I learned to see relationships I had with people very objectively (for the most part! I'm only human) which helped me be a more balanced adult and why I don't particularly get upset that certain friendships fade. That's just part of life, and when you're an adult, it's even harder to maintain a certain intensity and intimacy in friendships and a certain amount of interaction. I don't know if this is weird to say, but I think that's why I get taken aback and it means a lot to me when I have to recalibrate my perspective on a relationship because a good friend actually values what we have more than I expected.

Obviously, this is uncomfortable and bemusing when you know for a fact that their perspective isn't accurate and they're implying there's an intimacy there that in fact isn't, but when it's someone you care about and they level up the friendship like that...I'm not explaining things right. It hasn't happened much tbh even if I obviously had and have friends who have appreciated and celebrated our friendships and that means a lot too, that you know where you stand and you never have to question it, but there are some friendships where you realize oh...I mean a lot to this person. Oh, this is how much I mean to them or they like me this much?

[yesimwriting]

First Impressions

First ever final girl fic universe seperate fic!! all that means is that even though this is canon in the final girl fic world, it is a separate fic that stands on its own!! you don't need to read any part of final girl first!!

also if you’d like to request a fic that’s set in the final girl world, feel free too, just know that as of now there won’t be anything directly couple-y between Y/n and the boys, just specify in the request!

this is not part 6 of final girl, it's a separate little sort of prequel??

Summary: How Billy and Stu's feelings for Y/n first developed

----

Billy doesn't know when the official switch first flipped. He isn't sure when you went from being a pretty face with a sense of humor that he found a little more objectively funny than most to someone that started taking over his thoughts.

Maybe it did start that first day, when Stu kept making jokes that forced him to keep bringing up the 'hot new girl that Tatum wouldn't shut up about.’ After about the third comment about you, Billy realized that it wasn't really a joke. It was a testing of waters, Stu's not-so-subtle attempt to gauge Billy's opinion of you.

It wasn't like Stu wanted permission to like you, the two of them understood how they felt about others, about girls. But you were different, a thought that made something unfamiliar flare up in them. Feelings too possessive to be categorized as simply want. And too protective to be considered just ownership.

Maybe it did start the day he met you. The first words he ever heard you say didn't quite fit you, but they intrigued him enough to look at you twice.

----

Today is dragging on. It's not even lunch yet and Billy's trying to calculate if he can get away with skipping the rest of his classes. Maybe he'd grab Stu at the start of their shared 5th period and just go. They could get high or drive around for awhile or just cut early to watch a movie. Billy doesn't really know what he wants, he just knows that he doesn't want to be here. Looking through his locker and waiting for Sid.

Being around her is all hot and cold. Some days playing the good boyfriend is barely painful, making it easy to even actually listen to some of her stories. But on days like today, he has to be aware of all of his thoughts and impulses in order to avoid blowing up their plan. The one year mark is coming up soon.

"You know that much planning can make you sound like a psychopath." That's Sid. Billy can't see her yet, but she's still rounding the corner and her voice sounds light. The irony of her saying something like that only steps away from Billy would almost be amusing on a normal day.

"Psychopaths get shit done." A voice that's completely unfamiliar. Normally, he'd brush it off. He doesn't bother keeping up with many people outside of their inner friend group. He could point out a few faces from over the years, but no one else ever really stands out to him.

Just as Sid and the stranger round the corner, the unknown voice speaks again. "Uh--that's not the kind of joke you can make in front of someone you just met. Swear I'm not planning a mass murder, I'm just extra about planning my class schedule."

Billy turns away from his open locker, deciding that since he's this bored and the comment was somewhat amusing before the stranger started backtracking, he's intrigued enough to really look at them. Plus, Sidney seems to like them, so it's probably a thing he should be putting effort into anyways.

You're not what he was expecting. A true new girl. The true new girl. The girl most people glanced at a little too long this morning because when does anyone ever move to Woodsboro? And when does anyone start school here about a month into the school year?

You're holding a stack of heavy textbooks that seem like over kill and blinking up at him with eyes he doesn't think he'll immediately forget about. It's different than noticing someone he finds attractive. This is more intrusive.

Billy doesn't like that he doesn't instinctually dismiss you as high school background static.

His eyes eventually snag on what you're wearing. A sweater that doesn't seem to fit you that he recognizes instantly. He nearly tore it off Stu this morning before school when they both had half a mind to skip.

Billy's jaw clenches and he isn't sure if the sweater has him feeling territorial over Stu or if it has him looking at you a little differently. Maybe the sweater was a little situation Stu created for Billy to notice. A tiny, well orchestrated way to rile Billy up to get back at him for this morning. Or maybe a way to tag you, to tell Billy that he should look at you twice. It doesn't matter, he now knows for a fact that you'll be coming up later, the second Stu and him get a second alone.

"I believe you," Sidney breathes easily, a half laugh in her voice as she breezes past him, likely walking you towards their group's usual lunch spot. He doesn't like that a part of him hopes that his assumption is right.

----

Mr. James has been ranting about who knows what for the last fifteen minutes, and Stu hasn’t heard a word of it. He hasn’t even had a fully clear thought since you stumbled in three minutes late, mumbling an apology as you beelined for the first available seat you could find. It happened to be right next to him. So close Stu can see the doodles in your notebook. They’re cute, scribbled stars and swirls, but disappointingly un-telling. He didn’t expect to see you so soon after Tatum befriended you in the parking lot, and he didn’t think you’d look like this.

“I like your shirt better like this.” You look up at him like a deer caught in front of a moving car. “The neon green brings out your eyes.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Oh, thanks, that was the goal.” You glance down at your shirt, crossing your arms in front of your chest self consciously. “This is a result of my annoying habit of not looking both ways before crossing the hall. Some guy ran into me and spilled his energy drink all over me, and he didn’t even stop to say sorry.”

“Wow,” Stu humors you because there’s just something about the irritated pout of your lips, “Rude.”

“I know!” You whisper-yell before cringing slightly at your volume. 

“Exciting first day so far.”

Shifting in your seat again, you blink once, pen tapping against your notebook. “No kidding.”

“If I give you my sweater, does that count as me bailing you out twice today?” 

Your lips part as you glare at him in a way that’s almost shy. Before you can tell him that pointing out a classroom doesn’t count as bailing you out, the two of you are interrupted. 

“Mr. Macher, since you’re so interested in talking today, why don’t you tell us how many delegates attended the Constitutional Convention in 1787?” 

Stu remains unfazed, turning away from you and towards the teacher. You begin writing something else down, and then, in a move so subtle and quick Stu almost thinks he imagined it, you tap the side of your foot against his. His eyes flit down towards the notebook that you’ve pushed to the edge of your desk.

“55,” Stu says confidently, reading the circled number off of your notebook.

Frowning, Mr. James continues, “That’s correct.” Pacing towards the bored, he asks another question, “And which state wasn’t represented?”

You’re quick to write out the next answer in order for Stu to read it out loud, “Rhode Island.”

Getting frustrated, Mr. James begins to press, “Where did they meet?”

“Philadelphia.”

At that, Mr. James lets out a sigh that’s more frustrated than it should be. Deciding that he can’t push this interrogation any further, Mr. James lets it go and moves on. 

Stu smiles despite himself, finding it a little...cute that you outed yourself as a bit of a nerd. It’s something about who you are that you’ve finally revealed. He glances back at your notebook as you inch it even closer to him. He reads over the last thing you wrote: who’s bailing who out now?

You’re smug about it, too. It’s adorable, like being near a puppy. A puppy that Stu isn’t sure if he’d keep around or accidentally squeeze just a little too hard. He just met you, but something about your demeanor is just so innocent and you seem so soft. It’s distracting and oddly riling and he hasn’t quite made up his mind if he’s going to hold it against you or not. 

God, if Tatum decides to really befriend you, this could be interesting. And if Billy were to meet you? Stu’s convinced that he’ll pick up on the fact that you’re something else just as fast. That realization leads to a train of thought that has him struggling to focus on acting normal. 

----

Stu knows two things. The first is that something is definitely on Billy’s mind, and the second is that Billy can tell that Stu’s focus is elsewhere. Stu also knows that right now is a terrible time to get caught up in some girl just because he can’t stop thinking about your eyes and the cute little turn of your lips that was almost a smile.

And seeing you in his sweater for the rest of the day just did something to him. 

Okay, technically that’s more than two things. 

“You wanna order takeout?” The question comes out perfectly casual in a way that Stu knows Billy will interpret as suspicious. “We can save the movie you rented for when the food gets here.”

Billy nods once, absentmindedly, “Sure.” His fingers press into the cushion of the couch, but that doesn’t do anything to relieve his tension. Billy moves his hand, squeezing the back of his turned over arm and letting his nails dig into the soft skin of his inner wrist. The pinching pain is meant to snap him out of it. “What do you think of the girl Tatum was all over today?”

The question nearly sends Stu spiraling. It’s rare for Stu to be unsure on what kind of reaction someone’s looking for, but he’s out of practice with Billy. He can’t remember the last time he cared about monitoring his reactions in front of Billy. “What about her?”

“Do you think Tatum will keep her around enough for her to be a factor?”

Oh. It’s about the plan. Of course it is. Stu thinks of your face, your eyes, the almost smile. It makes his blood rush in a specific way, and he’s not sure if he’d rather see you tremble out of fear or arousal. Maybe there’d be time for both.

“Don’t know. Tatum thought she was nice, didn’t shut up about her, but she’s a little book-y, y’know?” Stu shifts slightly, just enough to seem like he’s slumping further into the couch. “She’s probably too naive to be a factor either way.”

Billy half shrugs. “Not sure, she’s reading Carrie.” 

Stu almost points out that Billy isn’t usually the type to note details like that about people he doesn’t know or care about. “Think she likes scary movies?”

“There’s an easy way to find out,” Billy mumbles, only somewhat serious. He then drops his gaze towards his lap, nails digging just a little harder into his skin than before. “She doesn’t seem like the victim type. You know what she reminded me of with her too-nice-for-her-own-good, girl next door thing?”

Already piecing together what Billy’s getting at, Stu decides to play along. “What?”

At that, Billy throws him a somewhat scolding look. It’s a gentle chiding for trying to get away with bullshitting him. “A final girl.” With a slight sigh, Billy decides that he’s ready to bring up his real point, “You definitely thought so.”

The nail in the coffin hits Stu harder than he thought it would. Billy’s called him out on a lot over the years, but Stu’s never come this close to feeling embarrassed. He doesn’t get this difference, he doesn’t get why he didn’t just say something at the beginning. The two of them talk about girls they find hot all the time. Why are you the exception that makes him feel kind of awkward?

“What?”

Billy rolls his eyes before pointedly glaring at Stu in a way that can only be described as bitchy. “You think I can’t tell when you like a girl?”

The word like settles uncomfortably in Stu’s chest. “Jealous?” It’s a sad attempt at deflecting. “Like you didn’t think she was cute with the way you jumped in to save her just as I was getting her a little worked up.”

“You were making fun of someone and trying to make her uncomfortable.” 

“Since when does that matter?”

Billy pauses, thinking through his potential responses. “I didn’t give her my sweater.” It’s a flat comment, barely more than an observation. “I wasn’t the one looking at her like I couldn’t decide if I wanted to pin her against the wall or hold her there with a knife.” Stu’s eyes darken slightly as his posture stiffens and Billy struggles to not look smug openly. “Surprised you didn’t come in here trying to get me to jerk you off to the thought of her all bloody and begging you to let her live. I bet you’ve been thinking about that since you saw he in the parking lot this morning.”

Stu finds it in himself to keep it together enough to say, “You’re there too. She’s crying and looks over at you with those wide eyes like she needs you.” 

The comment serves as a ceasefire of sorts. A reminder that neither of them has a true upper hand when it comes to this kind of thing.

----

Maybe the change came the first time Billy was completely alone with you. The hall was empty, school had ended long enough for most club meetings to have started. Most of the people that linger after school have moved to the parking lot or behind the bleachers. 

Billy recognizes the back of your head instantly. You’re starting to become more and more noticeable. It’s a new development, something he still isn’t sure how he feels about. It’s good to be aware, but it’s more than that. A small part of him seems to jump whenever he realizes you’re in the same room. It’s ridiculous. If Stu knew about the pinch of warmth that rises in him whenever he realizes that you’re around, he’d never hear the end of it.

He almost walks away, leaving you there as you groan in frustration at your locker. “You okay?” 

You look up, eyes rounder than usual. You’re always a little fidgety, but today, you’re jumpier than ever. Stu threw his arm around your shoulders during lunch after making a joke that made you both seem like an old, married couple. It’s not rare for Stu to find an excuse to touch you, and you react to it a lot more casually than you used to. But today, you almost flinched. Something’s going on, maybe it has something to do with your mom’s boyfriend. 

You called Sid up the other night late, asking her if you could sleep over because your mom was out and you didn’t want to be alone with him. Maybe your mom isn’t back yet and the thought of going back to that environment has you on edge. Billy gets that feeling. 

“I think this locker has a personal vendetta against me.” 

He nods, trying not to focus on anything particular about you. Still, though, there’s something a little endearing about your dramatics. “A vendetta? Intense.” 

You pull on the lock again, trying to balance a bunch of binders and books in one arm. “Extremely.” 

With the way you’re struggling, it’s only a matter of time before everything collapses. “Here.” Billy pushes the lock in, holding it in position for a second before pulling it down. “It wasn’t still locked, just jammed. The lockers here do that.” 

You let out a relieved sigh. “You’re my hero.” It’s casual praise, a comment you’ll likely never think about again, but it leaves that strange warmth flaring through him. 

“Do you need any help?”

“I’ve got it.” The shake of your head is polite, but the fact that you’re clearly struggling to keep your hold on everything is apparent. You don’t always accept help easily. Suppressing an eye roll, Billy takes the top two books from your stack. You give him a look before admitting defeat. “Thank you.” 

You finish putting away the items in your arms before taking the textbooks back from Billy and making them fit into what’s left of the space. You then move to look through your backpack, taking out different colored sets of sticky notes and highlighters. It’s not really noteworthy until you start taking different sticky notes and highlighters out of your locker and putting them into your backpack. 

“Didn’t you just put those--” 

“Those were the note color combos for history, science, and english. These are the note color combos for my journalism class and math, plus my additional sticky notes for english reading that’s a book and not a textbook. I also like to use different highlighters for different levels of--” Billy’s watching you carefully as you cut yourself off. “I’m way more normal than this makes me look, I swear.” 

It’s that half thought out defense that has Billy practically frozen in place. There’s just something so you about the way you cut yourself off, and Billy’s practically lost in it. You’re an open book when it comes to feelings, but he always finds himself trying to guess what you’re going to say before you actually say it.

Billy fights against a smile. “I don’t believe it.” Your mouth opens in a mock gasp. “Do you have a ride home?”

You zip your backpack shut. “I was gonna walk.” 

He’s yet to see you drive and he’s starting to think you don’t have a car. It’s an unseasonably chilly day and you’re wearing something short with no jacket. Billy also doesn’t love the idea of you walking alone while looking like that. Too pretty, too noticeable, and there are some fucked up people out there.

In an impulsive move, Billy says, “I can take you.” The offer surprises you, you clearly weren’t expecting that from him. Billy can’t blame you for your confusion. It’s not that he’s cold towards you, he just hasn’t let himself get too close to you.

You’re a breath of fresh air to not just him. With the way everyone’s always all over you, Billy has let himself step to the sidelines a little. At least, that’s what he tells himself, but if he’s being completely honest, his thoughts around you are flighty and unsure. Sometimes if he thinks about it too hard it makes him feel like he’s a kid desperate for his mom to beam at him to make everything go away.

It’s twisting and weird and he’s not sure if it makes him want you closer to him or if it makes him want to just give in and force a knife through you just so that voice in the back of his head will stop. You can’t exactly reject him if he buries a knife into you first. But he’s been trying a little more recently. 

It’s only been a short time and you’ve already gotten so comfortable with Stu and his brazenness. It’s starting to make Billy a little more relaxed. Enough to crack a smile every once in awhile and partner with you for a project in English class.

“Oh,” you hum after a second, “Thank you.” You take your time zipping your backpack up to avoid needing to look at him. “But you don’t have to do that. I’d hate to put you out.” 

Billy knows that it’s likely you trying not to be an inconvenience. You never do accept help the first time it’s offered. You don’t know what you need. Despite Billy’s awareness, the slight rejection stings. That warmth you make him feel twists in his stomach in a way that burns. 

“It wouldn’t be putting me out.” He pauses, trying to think through what he can say to get you to agree without making his offer sound too significant. “It’s cold, I can’t let you freeze.” 

You shut your locker, letting yourself consider his offer. It was the right thing to remind you of. Even though it’s not exactly freezing here, it’s hotter in Texas and you’re not used to September feeling all that different than July. “One condition?” 

“I’m doing you a favor.” 

Playfully, you roll your eyes dramatically. Billy smiles at the gesture despite himself. “Don’t go around telling people I’m like some kind of weird sticky note freak?” 

“Weird sticky note freak?” Billy repeats the words like he’s seriously weighing the pros and cons of your request. “Nope. Sorry. Have to tell everyone.” 

The tension of uncertainty behind your stance disappears and the way you’re looking at him changes entirely. His joke surprised you in a good way. It’s a flash of a side of an easier going side of him. “Everyone, huh?” You tilt your head slightly as you consider what to say. “Wish I knew something embarrassing about you to...ensure your silence.” 

He almost laughs. “Ensure my silence? You’d blackmail me?” 

Shrugging comfortably, you reply, “I’d do what needs to be done.”

Billy takes a step forward, angling himself so that there’s a subtle implication that you’re trapped between him and your locker. You seem to pick up on it subconsciously, because the pure humor leaves your eyes. “Didn’t think you could be so mean.” 

You blink, a tiny bit of shyness making itself apparent. Your proximity to each other is just as significant to you as it is to him. Billy can tell by the way you struggle to hold his gaze. The fact that the nerves are mutual makes Billy feel a little easier, a little warm in a good way. 

“I’m multifaceted.” It’s practically a squeak and it sends a thrill straight through Billy.

He’s never been this close to you and yet it still feels so far. The urge to do something with his hands, to touch you just to know what the warmth of your skin would feel like beneath his fingertips, hits him hard and fast. Billy straightens in an attempt to break the spell.

It’s not enough, so he starts walking forward. “Come on before I see you do something really embarrassing like color code tabs in your binder.” 

You turn quickly, trying to match his long, even strides. “That’s actually--” Silencing yourself with a slight huff, you glare at him. “And...that was a joke. You’re making fun of me.” 

Instead of answering the question, Billy decides to push just a little more. “You know this isn’t exactly a sticky note level secret, but sometimes I color coordinate my pens based on each class I’m in. The ink matches my folders.” 

“Haha,” you breathe sarcastically, heat rising to your face. “You have a really underrated sense of humor.”

----

Now that you’re here, so casually taking up space somewhere that’s just his, Billy doesn’t want you to go. Your uncertainty melted away after the first two minutes and you’ve been casually chatting away ever since.

You tried making fun of his music, but ultimately had to admit your disappointment that Billy’s taste isn’t worse. He apologized and promised that next time he drove you somewhere, he’d make sure to have nothing but the cheesiest pop top 20 available, that way you could bully him to your heart’s content. He also made sure to tell you that if you really want to make fun of someone for their choice of music, you should ask Stu to show you his CD collection. 

After saying that, Billy watched your reaction carefully through the rearview mirror. You seemed to like the promise of future car rides.

You’re tapping your fingers against your knee casually, eyes focused on the window. The two of you are getting close to your place now, and something about your energy is beginning to shift downwards. You don’t want to go home.

Screw it, you don’t want to be home and after Stu’s stuffy energy today, Billy realizes that both of you could use a bit of a pick me up. 

"Today’s Thursday, right?” 

Turning your attention back towards him, your hand stills on your lap. “Yeah, why?” 

“I forgot I told Stu I’d be at his place by 3:30 today. We were supposed to go get something to eat.” It’s a partial lie. It was an assumed thing that Billy would make his way over to Stu’s at some point, especially since it’s been a little while since they both had a free day. Between school and their girlfriends, it just hasn’t worked out. But they never indicated a time and Billy isn’t actually late. “We’re about to pass Stu’s house.” 

Billy pauses, pretending that this idea just came to him. “Want to come with us? I can drive you home after and that way Stu won’t get into his whole thing when I’m late.” 

You’re intrigued by the offer, he can tell by the way you’re cautiously studying him from the corner of your vision. “I don’t need to crash your thing.” 

“You’re not crashing.” You don’t look convinced. “You’re our friend.”

At that, your demeanor seems to soften. The word friend leaves you beaming and that feeling flickers in Billy’s chest again. 

“You’re sure Stu won’t mind?” You’re watching him freely now, eyes cautious. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“As long as you don’t bring out the sticky notes and try to color coordinate anything.” 

Fighting down a laugh, you roll your eyes. “Sounds tough, but I think I can manage.” 

----

Stu’s laying against his couch, Texas Chainsaw Massacre playing on the living room television. He’s only half paying attention, strangely apathetic. 

The call had come this morning, right before he left for school. His parents were rescheduling their return, claiming that business was just too good for them to fly home already. Apparently someone offered his dad an in on some deal, and now they’re in negotiations for that. Stu barely believed them, considering that the business trip was in Vegas, and his mom has a pension for shopping in large cities. 

He didn’t call them out for it. He never does. Lie or truth, it doesn’t make a difference why they’re not coming back. The point is they’re just not. 

When Stu was younger, he used to complain a little, but that was quickly nipped in the bud by his father reminding him that he’s a man. He shouldn’t really need anything from his parents except assurance that his needs would be taken care of, and that’s definitely a problem they’ve never had. A large and safe roof over his head and enough pocket money to keep himself fed and entertained. What else could a teenage boy want? 

Stu was half expecting some kind of call. It had been a little over a week with no communication and they always announce their return home a few days in advance. They never tell Stu about their delays until the day before they’re supposed to come back. 

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this or why it’s getting to him a little more today than usual. Maybe it has to do with the fact that his parents are coming close to beating their record for longest time traveling without so much as a weekend pit stop at home to change out their luggage. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s barely gotten any time with Billy this week. It doesn’t matter. The fact that he’s phased at all is stupid.

A knocking at his door snaps him out of his train of thoughts. Weird. A spike of hope strikes him with no warning. It could be Billy, but Billy never knocks. He walks in and doesn’t even bother to greet Stu verbally before sitting down next to him. It could be Tay, but he can’t remember making any plans with her or the last time she spontaneously popped by his place without at least calling first. 

Stu opens the front door casually, because this is Woodsboro, and an unexpected knock is no reason for concern. His eyes immediately land on Billy, who’s standing there like there’s nothing weird about him knocking. 

“You kn--” He cuts himself off after noticing that Billy’s not alone. Excitement pulses through him at the realization that it’s you. Stu has no idea how Billy pulled this off, but it’s a good surprise. A good enough surprise to get him to shake off the weird way he’s feeling. “Look who wandered onto my doorstep.” 

Ignoring the consuming way he’s looking at you, you greet him normally. “Hi to you too.” 

“Picked her up,” Billy jumps in, catching Stu up on his innocent enough lie as casually as possible, “She’s a stray, so she’s coming with us to grab something to eat.” 

That paired with the subtle look Billy sends him is enough for Stu to piece together enough of the story to go along with it. “You’re late, but since you brought me a gift, I’ll let it go.” 

You practically laugh at that. “Dramatic.” 

Stu turns towards you, grinning at the excuse to grab you. He tugs on your arm, ignoring your protests as he pushes you against the doorframe. The sudden shift in mood isn’t something you’re expecting, but Stu can’t help it. Especially when he knows that he has your full attention. He can take seeming pushy if it means he’s the only thing you’re focusing on. 

“Stu.” It’s too surprised and amused to be scolding.

His smile widens at the way you’re looking at him. “Take it back.” 

You bite back a grin, watching him carefully. There’s an edge to his usual brand of chaos, but it’s not unnerving. If anything, a part of you feels the need to prove him wrong. “No.” 

It’s not so much the blatant defiance as it is that smug look behind your eyes that sets Stu off. His hold on you tightens, and the way he tilts his head leaves a feeling you don’t understand pulsing through you. It leaves your face warm. 

“No?” You blink at the question, chin sticking out just slightly in an attempt to hold your ground. “Brat.” 

Still not giving him the satisfaction of your panic, you keep your voice steady as you react, “Dra-ma-tic.” 

Billy straightens, watching the exchange cautiously. He understands that look behind Stu’s eyes better than Stu does. You’re teetering on the edge of either Stu forgetting that this is a delicate situation and crossing a line or something even more dangerous. But this is the most like himself Stu’s been all day and you’re smiling. It’s a moment that’s so domestic Billy’s not sure how he hadn’t managed to get you here sooner. 

Releasing one of your arms, Stu places a hand on your side. Billy studies the contact carefully before Stu starts to move. His fingers move quickly, up and down your side as you laugh and squirm. It’s cute and easy going, but considering Stu’s mood today, Billy isn’t sure how long it’ll stay that way. 

“What were you saying?” 

“That--” You cut yourself off with a loud laugh that’s almost a gasp as Stu’s hand brushes against your side. “That you’re the--the most even temper-tempered, understa--understated person I’ve ever met.”

Stu pauses, hands squeezing your hips once before releasing you, but he makes no move to put any distance between you. “I’d love to believe you, babe, but you don’t really seem sorry.” 

That does frazzle you enough to get your eyes to widen. You laugh or maybe even yelp as Stu’s hands move to grab you again. You turn quickly, nearly stumbling as you try to dodge him. 

Stu could probably grab you and force you back into place easily, but he lets you have your small victory. It’s more fun with a little bit of a chase, anyways.

Billy places a hand on your shoulder, keeping you steady as you fight against a nervous giggle. “Help.” 

He’s never had such a good excuse to pull you towards him. Maybe Billy should have been the voice of reason. After all, this is your first time all doing something after school and scaring you off really is a possibility. But he can’t help himself. In one smooth movement, Billy turns you and presses your back into his chest. “You know in the movies nothing gets you killed faster than begging for help.”

You’re barely given a second to register his words because Stu’s on you in a second, tickling you before you can read too much into the lowness of Billy’s voice. He rests his chin against your back, briefly hiding his face into your neck as you squirm.

Billy looks up, meeting Stu’s gaze as you fondly tell them that they’re, “Literally the worst,” in a voice that’s so sweet they’re surprised they hold it together.

It’s in that moment, that silent exchange, that they both come to a mutual decision. You’re theirs now, and even though you don’t know it yet, nothing’s going to change that. 

[thevirgodoll]

okay, hear me out: I am not exaggerating here, right? a person invites you in advance to do something with them; when said date and time comes, minutes before they tell you a random dinner (for which they weren't invited in advance) came up and they might be late, but they spend most of the time you were supposed to spend together at said dinner . you get mad (obviously) and cancel plans with them, since they aren't able to respect the time you found in your schedule to be with them. I am NOT exaggerating here, right?

I don't think you're exaggerating, at all. It's your feelings, so I wouldn't categorize them as an exaggeration even if I thought you were. It's valid you are upset... anyone would be.

I'm in the middle on this. These topics are always very difficult to navigate with our culture today in a pandemic. It's as if people do not know how to have face to face relationships anymore. There's a trend of just being a flake for mental health's sake.

Objectively, it depends on the context of that dinner, your personal dynamic with them, and their willingness to reschedule.

For example, I have a certain friend where things came up last minute and it wasn't personal. Whether it was mental health, last minute events, unpredictability at work, etc. Some friends are low maintenance in my life... I don't see them all of the time, but once we do it's like we hung out the other day. That is only for a specific kind of dynamic, though. I can't speak to yours, of course.

I'm not sure how things are with this person, but you are still allowed to be upset. Here are my questions:

Have you talked to them about this before? Do they know what your expectations are? Did they listen to your feelings?

Were they willing to reschedule?

Do you always make plans with them, or is it both of you?

Is this a frequent occurrence? Do they always flake?

Do you feel like they make an effort with you? Or do they prioritize everyone over you?

Even if you're done with them, I'd still ask yourself these questions so you can move forward and evaluate what you need from other people. Perhaps you two are not as close as you thought if they prioritize someone else over you.

[heyovivi]

Gwyn and Azriel and Prejudice

Hello, back again with some possible theories and this time it's about one of my favorite Valkyries, Miss Gwyneth Berdara and some more controversial subjects such as the prejudice that surrounds her and other characters.

Now I'm sorry I haven't been posting a lot--though I'm sure not people even notice seeing how we have a large community of readers who also come up with some amazing theories! But I needed to slow down on posting my wild theories and imaginations because I felt that some of my readers who read my fan fiction were starting to catch onto the plot of "A Court of Shadows and Scars"--but I've been waiting to post about this one because I think it's important and because I've already addressed it in my story.

Moving on.

Gwyneth Berdara.

Although she was very much a newly-introduced secondary character to Nesta's story she is oh-so important and beloved by our reading community. Gwyn has stolen the hearts of many with her wit, charm, and inquisitive personality--and not just readers but her fellow characters as well.

All except a very few including Merrill and the main antagonist of ACOSF, Queen Briallyn--though there are many others I could mention, such as the Illyrians, but my main focus will revolve around Merrill and Briallyn and their prejudices against Gwyn along with other characters with their own prejudices such as Beron and even our own brooding shadowsinger, Azriel.

Yes, Azriel.

Now we know the story of Gwyn and we also a know a bit of her past as well.

Gwyn's grandmother was once a river nymph who seduced a High Fae male hailing from the Autumn Court and fell pregnant with Gwyn's mother who was sent to be raised at the temple of Sangravah because she couldn't dwell in the rivers of Spring Court and was too wild to be confined in the Forest House of Autumn Court.

"My mother was unwanted by either of their (Gwyn's grandmother and grandfather) people. She could not dwell in the rivers of the Spring Court, but was too untamed to endure the confinement of the forest house of Autumn. So she was give in her childhood to the temple at Sangravah, where she was raised..." (Gwyn Berdara, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 316)

Now what we know about nymphs is extremely limited in the ACOTAR world. But in Greek mythology--from which they hail from--nymphs were idolized as guardians of nature. They were revered as the spirits of specific natural features and were often identified with parts of nature such as the Oreads (mountain nymphs) and the Hamadryads (tree nymphs).

The name "nymph" comes from the Greek word that means "young woman", and so naturally these beings were considered to be female. Indeed, they were represented as young, beautiful, musical, amorous, and gentle youthful creatures. And while there is some question about whether they were immortal or not - Hamadryads in particular were linked with the lives of their chosen trees - it is believed that they were extremely long lived.

A beautiful, ever-young creature that inhabits the lovliest of all wilderness places including clear lakes, streams, and crystalline caverns. They do not like any form of intrusion but there is a 100% that a nymph will be friendly if approached by another good creature. Nymphs are exceptionally intelligent and are very rarely found.

Gwyn's lineage of nymph, according to Greek mythology, would be categorized as a Naiad, the nymphs of streams, rivers, and lakes. The Naiads, or water nymphs, dwelt beside running water. Like their cousins, the Nereids and Oceanids of the oceans, the Oreads of the hills and the Dryads of the forests and trees, they were usually sweet, benign spirits. Naiads, especially, were helpful and healing, nurturing fruits, flowers and mortals. Yet the youth Hylas who went to draw water from a pool was lured by the nymphs into the water and was never seen again--meaning that despite being creatures of nature they also possessed darker roles in certain legends.

I interpret this as Nymphs being hostile around creatures who were unwelcome in their lands for being ill-intentioned.

Many times in Greek mythology, nymphs were often seen as the symbolism of beauty and love; such as Aphrodite--and because they were always describe to be beautiful and graceful women with soft, sweet appearances they often drew the attention of the Gods creating legends of romantic affairs and infidelity.

Their very beauty caused the Gods to lust after them to a ravenous extent, making the Nymphs sometimes turn to the Goddesses for help. However, not all Goddesses were kind towards the nymphs--such as Aphrodite or Hera who grew jealous of their beauty when their very beauty and natural loveliness challenged the fidelity of their lovers.

In this case, let's assume that role of Gods, of higher beings, were the High Fae in the ACOTAR realm.

In the ACOTAR realm, it's easy to assume the nymphs are somewhat--if not--wholly the same as they are described in classic literature. When Gwyn tells the story of her grandmother she states that her grandmother seduced a High Fae, resulting in the birth of her mother. If this is the case then I think I can understand why characters such as Merrill and Briallyn look down on her lineage so much because again, Nymphs, in the eyes of major Goddesses such as Aphrodite and Hera, were essentially home wreckers (even though many confrontations with Gods and Nymphs were not always consensual).

With the reputation of being male-thirsty seductresses, nymphs are looked down upon as lower-beings, that and their lack of immortality (more often then not Nymphs linked their lifelines to an object in nature: a tree nymphs links their life to a tree, water nymph links their life to a stream (but I suppose that makes them immortal?)).

With this devious reputation placed on her lineage, Gwyn is often the butt of insults with being call half-breed and all by the likes of Briallyn and Merrill.

"But you made it easy for me: you went right to her house in Windhaven. Spared me the trouble of luring you. I let those witless Illyrians take her and the half-breed as an amusing bonus." (Queen Briallyn, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 721)

"I am descended from Rabath, Lord of the Western Wind...Unlike Gwyneth Berdara, I am not lackey to be dismissed." (Merrill, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 315)

Merrill glanced between her and Gwyn before saying, "get back to your work, nymph." (Merrill, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 315)

Okay--so Merrill doesn't specifically call her a half-breed, but dismissing her as a lower race and simply calling her "nymph" is basically comparable to an insult.

Now, that we've got Gwyn out of the way, let's move onto Autumn Court, more specifically Beron.

Beron is an ass--plain and simple. He is the personification of a conservative abuser and is honestly one of the most disgusting characters I have ever had the displeasure of reading. However--I suppose the problems he brings do push certain character formulas forward such as Eris and Lucien. Such as executing Jesminda for simply being involved with Lucien and for being anything but High Fae.

"Lucien fell in love with a faerie whom his father considers to be grossly inappropriate for someone of his bloodline. Lucien said he didn't care that wasn't one of the High Fae, that he was certain the mating bond would snap into place soon and that he was going to marry her and leave his father's court to his scheming brothers...His father had her put down. Executed, in front of Lucien, as his two eldest brothers held him and made him watch." (Tamlin, A Court of Thorns and Roses, pg. 160)

I don't think I need to go ahead and explain Beron and his prejudices against those who are not High Fae--his actions speak enough as is. But what I do want to do is go back to the specific wording Gwyn uses when explaining how her mother ended up in Sangravah, she says: "She could not dwell in the rivers of the Spring Court, but was too untamed to endure the confinement of the forest house of Autumn."

Confinement.

Not dwell. Not live. Not prosper. Confinement.

Now, we haven't navigated Autumn for all it's beauty and culture. We've only seen the Autumn Court through the eyes of Feyre when she is traversing through the courts in ACOWAR.

But I wonder how he approached with dealing with those who are not High Fae? What if the Autumn Court is much like the Summer Court where the court works around a system of class where High Fae are put at the top and anything but is put at the bottom? Therefore assuming that the treatment of such beings is cruel and unjust, creating a defining line between the races in which they can never reach equilibrium.

If that is so that brings me to the idea that many courts outside the jurisdiction of Night Court have assumed systems such as this, making there a limited amount of options for people like Gwyn's mother to prosper peacefully. Because we already know that the main reason why the first war with Hybern happened was because Hybern demanded to keep human and low fae as slaves, placing High Fae at the top. Spring sided with Hybern, because remember Amarantha and the former High Lord of Spring were close friends, Summer Court most likely fought to keep slaves as they still continuously oppress lesser fae, so I imagine it was worse for humans. And let's be honest, Autumn remained "indifferent" but one look at their current High Lord tells me that they weren't that indifferent--not unless Beron wasn't the ruling High Lord at the time.

So with that in mind, Gwyn and her family couldn't flee to Summer, nor Spring or Autumn. Night was probably never an option--as their reputation of being dark and gloomy more than likely frightened the idea away. Winter Court was obvious seeing how it's a winter wonderland of frozen lakes, streams, and rivers. Then there is Day Court which based on their current High Lord and aesthetic, is a desert land of sand and heat--with little to no water supply for any Nymph.

However there is one court that still remains. Dawn Court. From what we know they are a more than neutral court among the courts of Prythian and mostly value innovation. Geographically, Dawn is a lush, eternal countryside rich with the weight of summer upon it. The towns were red-roofed villages with sparkling rivers--a perfect destination for any relocating half-nymph- half-High Fae born child. However we also have to take into account the time period of when Gwyn's mother was born. Remember, prior to ACOTAR, Prythian was under the rule of Amarantha for fifty years--and even if that wasn't the case Summer was under the rule of a High Lord who didn't harbor the same compassion to change the unequal class system like Tarquin did when he assumed his place on the throne. Autumn was being ruled by Beron by that time already who'd probably have her confined. And Spring was under the traditional rule of Tamlin--and despite that Gwyn's mother would've still be considered as unwelcomed by the other nymphs.

If you take the time and current dilemma of Prythian--then there was really no where to go but Sangravah--putting into question the prejudices certain courts have against beings that are of the Low Fae variety.

I predict that despite being beautiful, charming, and compassionate, Gwyn still faces so much prejudice for simply being 1/4th nymph--which to the High Fae is a stain in her lineage to be a descendant from such a deviant being.

Now, let's move onto Azriel.

Azriel, as we all know, has his own conflicts with the Illyrians. Of course, that is to be expected, especially after learning of his backstory with being abused by his family and then later forced into training with the Illyrian army. The only comfort he had ever received was from the likes of his chosen family and so I believe he is projecting his own, personal experience of being an Illyrian into his hatred of Illyria--seeing the Illyrians as no more than a means to end due to their constant reluctance to move on with the times.

Don't get me wrong, I love Azriel. But I think a big part of his character is accepting who he is. He is an Illyrian--and I believe that with the combine power of him, Cassian, and Rhys they can bring the kind of change that Cassian had only ever dreamed of to Illyria. Yet, his own prejudices against his people hold him back and that's probably because he hasn't fully faced his trauma and instead skitters back at the mention or thought of it. I think if Az was healed he wouldn't be so reluctant to visit Illyria or wish for it's demise.

"A rare visit from the shadowsinger. Both myth and terror. Az looked just as displeased to be here, but he'd come when I asked...It was healthy, perhaps. For Az to sometimes remember where he'd come from. He still wore the Illyrian leathers. Had not tried to get the tattoos removed. Some part of him was Illyrian still. Always would be. Even if he wished to forget." (Rhysand, A Court of Frost and Starlight, pg. 222)

"Cassian rolled his eyes. But they both knew Azriel would sooner disband and destroy Illyria than help it. Convincing their brother than the Illyrians were a people worth saving was still a battle amongst the three of them." (Cassian, A Court of Silver Flames, pg. 42)

Now, moving onto the conclusion, finally. If Gwynriel's story was to happen, I think there is a sufficient amount of evidence to claim that Azriel's plot would revolve around the Illyrian conflict.

I'm just going to drop down this link: https://yazthebookish.tumblr.com/post/648449405425516544/the-illyrian-conflict-being-set-up-in-acosf-along

@yazthebookish highlights textual evidence that hints at a possible story arc for an Illyrian plot line because yes, there is still so much to uncover in Illyria and although I believe a large part of that was suppose to be Cassian and Nesta's story I also understand why it could go to Azriel.

Azriel needs to learn to accept his race, and the Illyrians need to learn how to accept change. I think they can learn something from one another and I believe Gwyn will play a role in Azriel's adventure. Do I think she's going to be the face some enlightenment in Azriel's journey--no. That's stupid. And if you twist my words, read it again. I believe because of Gwyn's past with prejudice against her and what she is, she can level with Az and understand him in a way that can potentially help him develop better as a character. Yes, she might be there for guidance or to give Azriel counsel, but in the end I think it's Az's job to tackle down the Illyrian conflict while Gwyn, with the help of Azriel, tackles down her own, whether that be discovering her lineage or where she came from or even healing from her trauma as a SA victim.

Please be respectful and leave your thoughts in the comments.

[qqueenofhades]

... Remember the Russian Revolution au? Which ended with Fedyor's sister very sick and Fedyor searching for Ivan in hopes of getting help for her from him? Fedyor finding Ivan and offering to do "anything" in exchange for his sister's medical treatment? Ivan secretly wanting Fedyor, but refusing to take what he wants like that? Soooo... I would also like the big the big 3 of your coming projects to happen, but... y'know... just.... wanted to bring this au up again... ;)

Behold, the oft-requested follow-up to the first two Russian Revolution au ficlets. Ahem.

Fedyor does not sleep that night. He does not even think about sleeping. He only leaves the army headquarters long enough to think hard about what he is proposing to do, wonder if it is worth it, and decide that it is. Katya needs the medicine, he has no other recourse, and he is categorically unwilling to return home to his family as a failure, when they have placed all their trust and hope in him. Ivan has hinted that he might be able to obtain it, and so that, no matter what it takes, is what Fedyor will have to get him to do. And for that���

He knows that he is not unattractive. He has dark eyes, dark hair, a dimpled smile, a personable and friendly manner that, in happier times, attracted the attention of many an eligible young lady who wished to ice skate or promenade around the park or take a carriage ride, as courting Russian couples are wont to do. However, while Fedyor was perfectly happy to chat with ladies, or escort them to a ball, or fulfill his essential chivalric duty, he was not otherwise interested in wooing them. It was partly for that reason that he signed up to the military, where an enterprising young man can have other opportunities in the darkness of the barracks. So long as his family was kept conveniently unaware.

For all that the Bolsheviks have overthrown the government without a clear plan as to what to do next, and accordingly plunged them all into this miserable civil war, Fedyor does secretly sympathize with certain of their beliefs on the remaking of family life. They say that marriage is outdated and bourgeoisie, that monogamy is unnatural, that women should not be subject to patriarchal systems, and that homosexuality is an equally valid state of nature. Such a possibility of sexual classification and divergence is much discussed in Europe these days, and there is even a small but growing scholarly literature, written by eminent scientists. Sexual Inversion by Havelock Ellis, published in 1896, argues that the man-loving man is indeed even a possibly improved form of human, associated with superior intellectual and artistic achievement, and that nothing about his attachment is wrong or abnormal. Two years before that, Edward Carpenter wrote Homogenic Love, and in 1900, the German Elisar von Kupffer published an anthology of homosexual poetry, Lieblingminne und Freundesliebe in der Weltliteratur. Such texts are relatively easy for an educated, French- and English- speaking young Russian intellectual, such as Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, to lay his hands on. He is not sure what can come of it, but at least he knows that he is not alone.

The question remains as to Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov’s proclivities. Unless Fedyor is very much mistaken, Ivan was at least considering the possibility of accepting his offer, and turned it down for honorable, moral reasons, feeling it unjust to sexually extort a young gentleman in exchange for his sister’s care, rather than physical horror at the idea of such a coupling. If he’s a Bolshevik, he’s probably acceptably tolerant of their philosophy on an abstract level, but it’s less clear as to whether that extends to its personal practice. If Fedyor turns up in his bunkhouse – which, come to think of it, is probably shared, curse these Bolsheviks and their dratted communality, highly inconvenient for a midnight seduction attempt – scantily clad and willing, will Ivan’s objections hold out then? Or… or what?

Fedyor doesn’t know, but the uncertainty adds to the frisson of shameful excitement, rather than detracting from it. He searches through the streets of Chelyabinsk for some bread (it does not seem in much greater supply than in Nizhny Novgorod) and waits for the sun to go down. In March, the days, though getting steadily longer, are still short and chilly, and it’s bitingly cold when it gets dark. Then he pulls up his muffler, tells himself not to be unduly precious about it, and heads for the makeshift army quarters on Kirovka Street.

The buildings in downtown are beautiful, built in the Russian Revival style of neo-Byzantinian splendor, though the onion-domed Orthodox churches have all been converted into stables and armories, and anything that whiffs of an ideology contrary to the Red one has been economically discarded. Fedyor reaches the door, knocks, and when a disgruntled sergeant comes to answer it, expecting him to be a soldier out too late and in line for a ticking-off, Fedyor raises his hands apologetically. “I’ve come to join up,” he says. “The great socialist cause of the world’s workers is the only true one for a patriotic Russian man, and I vow it my full allegiance, if you will have me. I was speaking to my friend earlier, Ivan Ivanovich, and he suggested it. Is he still here?”

The sergeant eyes him squiggle-eyed, but they cannot afford to look gift horses too closely in the mouth, or turn aside willing recruits. It takes a while, but he shouts for someone who shouts for someone else, and this finally produces the startled personage of Ivan Sakharov, who clearly thought it was for the last time when they parted several hours ago. Upon sight of Fedyor, he stops short, looking alarmed, angry, and wary all at once. “What are you – ?”

“Can we talk?” Fedyor is resolved to do this, he truly is, but he feels it best to get it over with before that wavers in any degree. Whether he wants it too little does not seem like the problem; on the contrary, he fears that he wants it too much, and if he stops to reflect on it or delude himself with any nonsensical notions of it being more than once, that can only hurt the cause. “Somewhere… private?”

Ivan hesitates, as if asking to commune out of sight of the others is tantamount to heresy (though it’s not as if these damn hypocrites didn’t plot in secret, away from their own countrymen, for months and months, Fedyor thinks angrily). Then he jerks his head. “Fine. Five minutes. This way.”

He leads Fedyor up a few narrow, creaking staircases, past closed doors that echo with snorting and snoring and coughing, the cacophony of his comrades, none of whom seem to be enjoying their glorious victory quite as much as they thought. Ivan, however, appears to be sufficiently high-ranking in the Red Guards that the room they finally arrive at, though not much larger than a closet, is at least private. It reminds Fedyor forcibly of Ivan’s room back in St. Petersburg, the one they slept in together, that first night after the Winter Palace. It sounds more intimate in his recollections than it actually was. Nothing happened, of course. But Ivan was kind to offer it, kind when he did not need to be, when a young tsarist soldier alone in the ferment of riot and revolution, such as Fedyor was, would not be likely to see the new red dawn. It is that which Fedyor keeps in mind as he shuts the door with assumed casualness, then turns around, meets Ivan’s eye in a significant fashion, and shrugs off his coat, cap, and muffler. Then, unmistakably, starts to unbutton his shirt.

He has almost gotten to the bottom by the time Ivan, who is staring at him as if he’s lost his marbles (it is unclear if this is an encouraging fashion or not) finally recovers his sense. He strides forward and covers Fedyor’s hands with his own large, callused rifleman’s fingers, sending a shock of attraction burning through Fedyor from head to toe, along with the death of any more illusion that he could continue to be casual about this. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Fedyor’s throat is as dry as a bone, but he forces himself to speak. “I said that I would do anything for my sister’s care, if you would help.”

He lingers suggestively on the word anything, just as he did before, in case there was any doubt (as if the undressing wasn’t enough) what he means here. Ivan looks like a cornered bear, but as his eyes catch Fedyor’s and flick across the lean, muscled torso thus revealed beneath the shirt, he swallows hard and has to glance away. The attraction trembles silently in the air between them, tense as a piano string, tuned to snapping. In the old days, that is, when people played pianos, and did not burn them for firewood, as Fedyor’s parents were preparing to do with theirs when he left home. It chokes raw and painful in his throat. He is attracted to Ivan – desperately attracted, in fact – and yet he still hates what the Bolsheviks have done, even if the Romanovs and the Provisional Government were no better. The deposed Tsar Nicholas II is under house arrest with his wife and five children, the four tsarevnas and the tsarevich, in Yekaterinburg. Little sick Alexei Romanov, whose hemophilia opened the door for Grigori Rasputin to control the queen, the royal household, the government of Russia, and so bring about the end of their house. He was like something from a fairytale monster, that Grisha. The rumors of his death, not quite two years ago in December 1916, is that it almost did not happen, he was so hard to kill. A demon. A beast.

“You cannot do this,” Ivan says, his voice too rough, his eyes still struggling to remain decorously averted. “It is not – it is not right.”

“Not right?” Fedyor flares. “So a little spot of armed treason and overthrowing the man who, however deficient he might be, was the heir of one of the oldest and greatest empires in the world? That part was entirely aboveboard, but this, when you want this – don’t lie to me, I’m well aware you do – to help my sister? That would be a sin?!”

Ivan backs up a step, glancing around shiftily. These walls are thin, and he clearly does not want his beloved brothers-in-arms to hear this. “Fedyor Mikhailovich – ”

“Have me.” Fedyor is done playing games. “I’m here, I’m yours for the taking. You can do whatever you want to me, as long as you give me the medicine at the end.”

For a long, spellbound moment, he thinks Ivan is on the brink of agreeing. Then once again, he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I could not in good conscience consent to this. But I will fetch you the medicine. You do not have to give me anything in return.”

Fedyor gawks at him, shocked – and, it must be confessed, more than a little disappointed. “I thought it was fair trade,” he says. “Tit for tat.”

“It is…” Ivan shakes his head, eyes once more straying to Fedyor’s bare chest. “Button your shirt up,” he says, half-laughing, not angry, breathless and soft. “It is very distracting.”

“Good.” Fedyor takes another step. “I think you deserve it, you obnoxious bastard.”

“Be that as it may.” At least Ivan has the good sense not to dispute it. “I cannot do this,” he repeats, more gently. “You are a fine young man, Fedyor Mikhailovich. Perhaps in another life… but it would not be honorable to trade your virtue for this.”

“My virtue?” Fedyor has to laugh. “What makes you think I have that?”

Once again, Ivan wavers. But to give him (loathing) credit, he will not be swayed. “Button it,” he repeats. “I will arrange to have the money and medicine sent by your lodging by tomorrow, if you give me an address in the city.”

“I don’t have one.” Fedyor folds his arms. “Only here.”

Ivan looks even more startled. His lips part, he takes a step forward, and for a brief, wild, exquisite yearning of an instant, Fedyor thinks he is actually going to kiss him. They’re almost close enough – not quite, but almost – for it to happen. Then Ivan says, “Your family must be very proud of you.”

“I…” It catches in his throat. “I don’t know. I hope.”

“I would,” Ivan says. “I would be.”

And that, somehow, is all that seems to matter. Even as Fedyor spends a night in Ivan’s narrow camp cot of a bed, Ivan insisting on taking the hard floor out of an excess of gallantry, an echo of their first night in St. Petersburg. Ivan does as ordered, gives Fedyor some rubles and some medicine and a train ticket back home to Nizhny Novgorod. He personally escorts Fedyor to the train station to make sure he does not come to grief, then stands on the platform, staring after him like Vronsky watching Anna leave one more time. The train begins to huff and puff, spitting soot and embers, and Fedyor keeps his nose pressed to the glass, leaving a smudge, until long after, as it seems he is never destined to do anything but, Ivan Ivanovich Sakharov has vanished into the mist.

[itsclydebitches]

Some of my friends in the RWBY FNDM actually said people don’t forgive their friends for betraying them (Jaune killing Penny) but will forgive strangers betraying them (Em killing Penny). Uh…NO. Being close and attached to someone leads to bias. People are more willing to see someone they don’t know as evil for hurting them BECAUSE THEY DON’T KNOW THAT PERSON. They said this as an excuse to why RWBY will be pissed at Jaune. NOPE! (1/2)

I think it can go either way depending on the person, or in this case the character. People aren't so uniform that they'll have a single, predictable response to someone's actions depending on whether they're in the "friend" or "stranger" category, to say nothing of the complexities of figuring out when one moves from one category to the other. (Is Ozpin the beloved and respected headmaster they look up to, or a virtual stranger whose age and power makes him someone the group never would have seriously connected with? The fandom is divided.) But that connection (or lack thereof) can go in either direction. It might make it easier to forgive them, or it might make it seemingly impossible. I've been replaying Witcher's Blood & Wine where Anna Henrietta is so relieved to have her sister back that she's blind to the horrors she's committed - love make forgiveness an inevitability. I'm also rewatching Criminal Minds where Reid is furious with JJ for keeping Prentiss' secret from him, specifically because they're so close and JJ was the one to comfort him over Prentiss' "death" - love makes forgiveness that much harder. And it's the same with strangers. If someone you're less close to commits a horrible act, you might respond with pure disgust because who are they to you? Nobody. They're defined only by that one action. Or, their distance might make it easier to forgive them once you have gotten to know them a bit, simply because the action didn't, at the time, feel personal. You know the version of them now, the one that "counts," the one you're emotionally attached to. I don't think it's an either/or situation here, where there's a correct answer of "Yes characters will get angry if they're close to the person in question" or "No characters will be less angry if they're close to them." It depends on the individual, the action, the circumstances, the state of mind of the person trying to grant forgiveness, and a hundred other, smaller factors. If Yang did something horrible, would Blake be less willing to forgive her because they're so close, or more willing because they are? That depends on a whole range of things from "What exactly did Yang do?" to "Has Blake eaten and slept and generally not been stressed out of her mind lately, making her less likely to lash out?" It, to be blunt, comes down to good, nuanced writing.

Which is why the Jaune situation is... complicated. And sadly, RWBY doesn't do well with complicated. Free of the rest of Volume 8, my mind says the group has to be mad. How can they not? Even if Jaune had a 100% solid reason for killing Penny with no possible way to blame him - which, let's be frank, he doesn't. The guy has a healing semblance and just took her word that it was useless - it's not in our nature to approach a tragedy with that level of logical maturity (especially not after the crazy level of trauma that's been going on: Salem, battles, falling to their "deaths."). You don't have a friend admit they killed another friend and immediately go, "Oh yeah. Makes sense. Had to be done. No worries!" and move on with your life. You at least start with some anger, whether it's rational or not, deserved or not. People harbor anger over deaths that we know, realistically, are not the fault of another person involved, we resent people who survived over others even though we know they had no control over it, and we even hate ourselves for hating that person, because we know it's not fair and we're feeling it anyway. If we have all that complexity tied up in deaths that are unambiguously not the fault of the person in question... what do you do with the guy who straight up agreed to an assisted suicide? Gave up on healing or retreat? Was the one to drag his sword across Penny's throat? The fandom recognized that scene as something intensely complicated, made worse by ineffectual writing. We knew, the second it had finished, that Jaune was not an easily categorized innocent here who should be treated solely as a victim of horrible circumstances. There's a very good reason why the fandom went, "What the fuck, Jaune" because this entire situation is so. messed. up. I'm not saying all this to paint Jaune as some irredeemable monster or anything, but rather to highlight that there should be a huge range of emotions coming off of this action. Whether we the audience or the characters decide what he did was the right thing or not, Jaune's actions are still objectively horrifying. He killed Penny. Was it necessary? Given RWBY's shoddy writing, idk, but that's not the point for an initial reaction. The point is, "How would you respond if you found out Friend A helped Friend B commit suicide, right after you'd worked so hard to keep Friend B alive, after she'd already come back from the dead?" The answer should be, "Uh, not well. Not well at all."

But this is RWBY. There should have been a range of emotions to Jinn's vision in Volume 6, but there wasn't. There should have been a range of emotions to Penny's resurrection, but there wasn't. There should have been a more persuasive reason for Jaune to kill Penny, a better job of stripping away other options, but there wasn't. Arguably, Penny shouldn't have died at all, not after being brought back, getting the Maiden powers, being made human... but she was. This situation is already a mess but then, as you say, anon, we have Emerald on top of it all. I mentioned above that it's "Free of the rest of Volume 8" that the group should be mad at Jaune, but obviously that's not how the story goes. I can't separate Emerald from the rest of this and yeah, it looks ridiculous for the group to have a long arc of hating Jaune after they forgave Emerald in, what? An hour? We can talk about that context all we want, but at the end of the day, Emerald's actions were too horrific to shrug off as they were and Jaune's action is also too horrific to shrug off. RWBY has, once again, backed itself into a corner. What the story actually needed was for Emerald to get a full redemption arc, allowing the group to process, grapple with, and learn to forgive her past actions through apologies and new actions to demonstrate growth, so that they could then later do a modified version of that with Jaune, one tailored to his character, their characters, and this new situation. The story needs the group to be mad at both of them because both did things that would generate different types of anger. But because Emerald was granted laughter almost immediately upon arriving at the mansion, yeah, it would read as absurd for the group to go through a whole arc of learning how to forgive Jaune... even though Jaune's actions arguably do need some kind of forgiveness arc. The situation is screwed either way. If the group forgives him quickly it's, "Really? He killed Penny and that's it? No one is going to struggle with that? That's absurd!" and if the group doesn't quickly forgive him it's, "Really? You'll insta-forgive the woman who has been trying to kill you for years, but won't grant the same thing to your friend who only took that action with good intentions? That's absurd!" And if the focus is on Jaune being mad at himself, we're right back to where we were in Volume 4: Jaune mourning a redhead in his life and getting too much focus. I really don't think there's a good solution here, which (as my more recent posts speak to), we're seeing more and more as the series goes on. The more material we get and the more shoddily that material is written, the more we're going to see future situations where we go, "I don't like any of the writing options here, because of something that happened in a previous volume." RWBY has created a situation where the group very much deserves to be angry - or at the very least conflicted - over Jaune's actions, but because it's following on the heels of Hazel, Emerald, and their own horrific choices across Volume 7 and 8, any anger will feel hollow, hypocritical. But isn't that what we're left with? We've been here since the beginning of Volume 7 when Ruby repeated Ozpin's secrets and the story never acknowledged that either she's as bad as he is, or he's not as bad as they believed. We've been watching a show built on that hollow hypocrisy for at least two years (longer, really) and it's just getting worse the more the story introduces sensitive material and then doesn't appropriately follow up on it.

[astrologista]

Gavin Bros. Analysis

here be spoilers for apollo justice (aa4)

There are already a bunch of posts all about AA:AJ and just what the heck was behind Kristoph Gavin’s Psychelocks. What were his motivations? Why did he do what he did? As fragmented as the story is surrounding the Gavin brothers, and as much as I wish the source material had rounded out their characters a little more, I believe the game actually tells you pretty much everything there is to know about this case rather succinctly. Don’t worry as I will use evidence to back up my claims...

It is notably interesting that Kristoph’s Psychelocks only come up when Phoenix asks him point blank why he killed Zak Gramarye. This is the one question that Kristoph consistently refuses to answer directly, both in Solitary Cell 13 and in his testimony at his trial. Coincidentally, this is also the main question that he ever gets asked that speaks to his emotions or state of mind. Kristoph has a really good logical answer for basically all of the evidence-based questions. But, it’s also not a coincidence that Apollo has the presence of mind to note - “why not bring up the motive from the start? unless it was a battle he thought he might lose...”

This establishes pretty clearly that Kristoph is going to have a vested interest in keeping all questioning solidly focused on the material evidence at hand such as the postage stamp, the nail polish, and reasons why he cannot be directly connected to those objects. The law provides plenty of escape hatches and loopholes for Kristoph to exploit, which he does, providing him with the legal basis to be able to escape punishment due to the inability for anyone to prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. This is not surprising as being a very successful defense attorney is literally his job and he happens to be extremely competent at it.

This kind of person is scary if you meet them in real life because they can always seem to wriggle out of anything you try to pin on them. Kristoph is a grand master at doing this, quite possibly as good as they come in the AA universe.

Here’s the rub. Apollo brings up that Kristoph wants to avoid bringing the conversation into motives and state of mind questions, why? Because “it’s a battle he thinks he might lose”. Every single time this topic comes up, Kristoph deflects the question. This also is indicated by the five black Psychelocks that come up when Phoenix asks him point blank why he killed Zak. So from this we can gather that the game is drilling it in pretty well that Kristoph’s motivations are a sore spot for him and possibly the one chink in his armor.

Because the material evidence cannot prove anything for or against Kristoph’s guilt, in a typical case like this the police would hope for the holy grail - a full confession and admission of guilt. Kristoph is much too cool of a customer to fall into any traps, no doubt he was questioned very rigorously after being arrested, but all he even had to do was invoke his right to remain silent regarding his motives or simply claim that he killed Zak just ‘cause y’know, being evil is fun. Once he confessed to killing Zak, though, the police probably didn’t care all that much to probe into his thoughts and motivations really, if he did it, he did it and he’s going to spend a stint in jail either way.

Phoenix sees through this, however. In Solitary Cell 13 he does NOT allow Kristoph to drop or evade the question. That is why we get as far as even seeing the black Psychelocks at all. If we can’t know the motive, why bother to have this scene in the game?

Quite simply we can now understand that Kristoph’s motive for killing is something emotional. It is not something that he’s going to divulge casually, but it is also probably something that he is worried about divulging UNCONSCIOUSLY which is why he constantly tries to steer conversations away from it, instead deflecting to discuss the evidence or the emotional state of other people in the room. Consider that Kristoph’s reputation is PREDICATED on him being “the Coolest Defense in the West”. His identity is based on his successful suppression of emotions in court. This is not to say he shows no emotion or is some kind of monotone emotionless husk. He has a rather dry sense of humor. He banters with Apollo. He banters with Phoenix. He isn’t as uptight as some portrayals would have you believe (”life is to be taken easy”). When it comes to surface topics, Kristoph is an open book. He’s not as terse as you would believe, but rather kind of poetic and loquacious and conversational (to his downfall in 4-1). You get the feeling that he would be a very good conversationalist. But only for surface topics. Try to dig a little deeper and he will very neatly deflect your efforts. 

How can we hope to understand a character who by definition does not have any interest in talking about his innermost neuroses? The reason why people still discuss the Gavin brothers and Turnabout Succession so much is that, while a very satisfying and intense case, it is unlike a lot of other AA cases in that you come away from it with a LOT of open ended questions. You don’t feel the same feeling of closure as you would get from the DL-6 case, where it feels like you finally understand all the facts of the case and all of the character motivations come to light making you go “oh! THAT MAKES SENSE!” you understand why von karma killed gregory, and everything comes together nicely in the end. Turnabout Succession is kind of a rarity in that it does not do that. By the end, you feel like you clearly understand the case, but you do not have a crystal clear view of the root cause of the motivations behind it.

In Kristoph’s final testimony he does shed a little bit of light on his motivations for his crimes. The issue that he has is mainly centered around his dismissal by Zak Gramarye as his representation. And, his subsequent replacement with Phoenix Wright, an attorney he perceives to be low-class and sub-par. Kristoph then states “these men shamed me, and I could not forgive that.” This is as close to an answer as to why he went to such lengths to get Phoenix disbarred as we are likely to get. Disproportionate retribution is the name of the game. It seems as if, if there’s one thing Kristoph cannot tolerate, it’s being looked down upon by someone that he perceives as inferior to him. Kristoph has extremely polarized notions of who should get to practice law, who is acceptable and who is categorized under “ignorant swine soiling the courts”. He makes very, very clear that he has nothing but disdain for common people, common wisdom, and any use of emotion or feelings in deciding verdicts.

So the particular manner in which Phoenix sought to bring him down with the jury system was a very deliberate masterstroke to Kristoph’s pride. That much we can establish. But again, motive. The game goes out of its way to tell you that whomever defended Zak would be “famous beyond belief” and, presumably also, rich. They would get a lot of very high-profile clients and cases sent their way after successfully defending the uber-famous magician Zak Gramarye. 

Taking all of this into account, right. Is it possible that everything Kristoph did has its roots in one very simple source, the root of all evil?

Money.

Taking a step back for a moment, consider Klavier. Why does Klavier perform in a rock band? “Because I want Frauleins to look at me when I walk down the street.” I feel like people really want to believe that both Kristoph and Klavier are super deep characters and have all this deep lore and hidden backstory. Maybe they do. Most AA characters do. But consider this. What if they’re both so deep, they’re actually just shallow? Yes, that shallow?

Given how much AA:AJ focuses on the Gavins, which is really not that much, this concept seems difficult to swallow. Is there really more to the story based on what the game gives us? If there is, how would we piece it together?

One major hint the game gives you about Kristoph (and, if this is insignificant, then you have to really wonder why they bother to bring it up at all) takes place directly after seeing Kristoph’s black Psychelocks in Solitary Cell 13. He starts doing his nails. Phoenix says “I know appearances are a big thing with you”. Kristoph says “You know what I say? One cannot live a beautiful life without beautiful nails.”

I feel that this statement is important because it is probably about as deep of a look as we are ever going to get at how shallow Kristoph Gavin really is. He hopes you will believe that he’s playing 12-dimensional chess with some kind of fucked up backstory and motive going, but the truth is, he’s no chessmaster. Based on what the game gives you, there’s really only one motivation for everything that makes sense.

Kristoph killed Zak, Drew and attempted to kill Vera to cover his tracks. He had to do everything he could to make sure no one talked about the forgery. He had to stalk people like Spark and keep Phoenix very close (the epitome of keep your friends close keep your enemies closer). There’s nothing really debatable about those facts because they are all discussed in the game.

What about the root cause? Revenge, of course, for Phoenix stealing away the chance for Kristoph to defend Zak.

Why was defending Zak so important to Kristoph? To become rich and famous.

So wait. Why does Kristoph need to be rich and famous?

As it is, Kristoph appears to be very affluent and well off. There is no real reason directly given in the game as to why he would need such prestige and fame other than that it feeds his massive ego and superiority complex. So that’s a big part of it, no debate there.

But why would the excessive monetary gains that would be secured off of the Gramarye case be so appealing to Kristoph? We’ll re-examine this in a little bit.

In Daryan Crescend’s case, Phoenix tells Apollo “every man has an igniter. find his and set it off”. 

What is Kristoph’s igniter?

I mean some people would say Phoenix Wright is Kristoph’s igniter based on his breakdown. But, I think more of that trial was contrived by Phoenix than we tend to notice.

I think Klavier is Kristoph’s igniter.

The final trial in Turnabout Succession would not have been able to succeed without Lamiroir, without the jury system, without Phoenix pulling the strings, without Trucy, without Apollo, and most especially without Klavier. Removing any of these elements from the scenario would immediately give Kristoph a massive advantage in allowing him to manipulate the courtroom. Can you imagine Payne trying to prosecute Kristoph?

No. Klavier was the only one who could confront Kristoph successfully.

The final trial had to be contrived in such a way as to put maximal pressure on Kristoph to increase the chances that he would slip up or, more likely, that an element of randomness and/or emotion would become introduced. Phoenix sets up Klavier as the prosecutor for this trial for a good reason - remember, Phoenix tells Apollo point blank that he (Phoenix) is pulling all of the strings for the Misham trial, so whatever happens is entirely his responsibility.

It must have been difficult for Phoenix to entrust Klavier, the person who sealed his fate, with such an important task. But realistically, he didn’t really have a choice. Klavier’s disclosure of Kristoph’s visit to the prosecutor’s office is the glue that holds together the entire case against Kristoph Gavin. Notice that Kristoph never really does anything to keep Klavier out of the public eye or otherwise silence him (up until the very end at least). If I knew there was someone walking around giving press interviews and practicing as a prosecutor who knew something really incriminating about me, I would want them swept away or snuffed out asap - I mean, Kristoph has already poisoned Drew and Vera who were unlikely to tattle on him at best; Drew couldn’t even identify him! What Klavier has on him is much, much more damning dirt. Either Kristoph really loves and trusts his brother or is convinced that he can control Klavier to the point where Klavier would never dare tell anyone about that visit or wouldn’t want to. Probably both are true.

The interesting thing about this dynamic is that this is really the only time where we see both Gavin brothers together in one room, as well. Something about being in proximity changes both of their behaviors. Klavier becomes hyper-alert and nervous in Kristoph’s presence, a marked change from his usually easy demeanor. Klavier’s presence causes Kristoph to make several mistakes, which end up costing him the case.

So all of these things needed to happen, and they needed to happen simultaneously for Phoenix to succeed. Getting back to my theory on Kristoph, we can see from what’s said in the game a few things - he really, REALLY wanted to be the one to benefit from defending Zak Gramarye (a trial he knew he would win against his brother using forged evidence), the presence of Klavier is his undoing in court, and his appearances are very, very important to him. 

I honestly think the real reason Kristoph was so salty about losing out on the Gramarye trial fame and money is that he didn’t just want to be affluent or well-to-do. He wanted to be excessively, filthy rich.

If you look at Solitary Cell 13 you will see that Kristoph likes very much to surround himself with many nice things. He likes tasteful decorations and furniture. He enjoys literature, music, art, that weird rose he keeps in a vase, and he has a dog named Vongole. “First rate in all things, accept nothing less.”

To have such top of the line items, Kristoph must not only be rich, he must be like top 1% rich. He has to have the absolute best of everything. This is why he needs money. Without these things, what separates him from the ignorant swine he so despises? This is why Kristoph needed money.

Nowhere is this highlighted more than with the Ariadoney nail polish. I think it’s mentioned a couple of times that the Ariadoney is absolutely the best possible nail polish that you can buy. It’s very, very expensive and is manufactured in extremely limited quantities (this is discussed during Kristoph’s testimony). If Kristoph is this fixated on something as simple as a bottle of nail polish, you can almost imagine the absolutely ludicrous costs of every other item that he uses or owns, not limited to his home, his car, fine foods and wine, his expensive hobbies, possibly traveling etc etc etc etc. I just know this fool shops at Whole Foods, because I can’t see him buying groceries at the Costco. It makes a lot of sense as to why he is single as well. Kristoph Gavin would end up being an expensive habit to any partner who would have him - I wouldn’t want to share a bank account or credit line with him. He needs Gucci to keep him happy. No bootlegs here.

Point is, Kristoph Gavin has an addiction to the finer things in life and he will NOT settle for second rate products. He will have what he wants and he will do basically anything to maintain his lifestyle at its current elite level at the expense of his own morality and soul. Sadly enough I feel like that might be as deep as it gets with him. That’s a really pathetic motive to have and makes me hate him a lot more, but it’s so fucked up I can’t look away.

Consider also the most important thing to Kristoph of all - his appearance. It costs money to keep yourself up and this seems to be the one area that Kristoph might end up pouring the most money into. The top of the line suit, the white shoes, the perfect tan, the platinum blonde hair so immaculately coiffed, the fact that his skin is virtually perfect and the fact that his face is near-identical to Klavier’s despite being some 8 or 9 years older. Most normal people would have some kind of facial imperfection pop up at some point, a wrinkle, a pock mark, something. And that’s when you realize... that Kristoph Gavin has most likely had work done. Like, on his face to make it stay youthful. He’s just that vain and probably also despises watching Klavier stay young and pretty while he’s just aging. Fillers? Botox? Collagen treaments? Something more invasive? No one knows, but all I’m saying is that Klavier’s character description goes out of its way to describe Klavier as “the spitting image of Kristoph Gavin”. Vera notices the extreme resemblance right away. There can certainly be genetic basis for two brothers looking alike, but compare that to how Mia and Maya look “alike”, or Lana and Ema, both of whom have a similar age gap to Kristoph and Klavier. You would realize that Kristoph and Klavier seem to have somewhat of a more obvious resemblance despite the age difference. So this isn’t just possible anymore, this is actually likely. I don’t think the game implies that Kristoph has undergone plastic surgery or anything, so I’m keeping this in the realms of headcanon for now. But it would make perfect sense as yet another reason as to why Kristoph Gavin needs cold cash. He needs to look flawless and he needs access to the absolutely most top of the line treatments and practitioners, continually. And as he continues to age, he needs to get more and more aggressive, more and more products, more and more retouching with those age reversal creams and foundations and stabilizers. That adds up, cost-wise, very very fast, especially if you want top of the line EVERYTHING, and Kristoph does indeed. It is very clear that settling for any less would be completely unacceptable to him.

All of this money, it has to come from somewhere. Being a posh defense lawyer will bring in some money, sure, but nothing near what Kristoph is going to need to live his beautiful life. Winning the Gramarye trial would have probably bought him enough prestige, clients and monetary gains to support himself off of law for the rest of his life. It does make a lot of sense that he would be incensed after losing that chance.

There is one more unexplored possibility as to why Kristoph had to be the one to win the Gramarye trial, though, and it ties into the money issue as well. This was supposed to be a fair match, after all, brother to brother. Klavier’s first case, in fact. It was supposed to be Kristoph vs. Klavier, and Kristoph wanted to make sure that he would be the one to win. Only Zak and Phoenix ruined that chance - a once in a lifetime chance, actually, for Kristoph to go up against his brother on Klavier’s very first day.

Klavier was the prosecutor of the Gramarye trial. It was his very first case. What could Kristoph have to gain by being the one to trounce 17-year-old Klavier in court on his first day on the job?

Well, not much, other than it would have been a huge crushing blow to Klavier psychologically.

There’s a comic floating around by someone, I think zarla-s, where Kristoph wins the Gramarye trial and is discussing his win with Klavier afterwards. Kristoph is smug and hopes Klavier will be humbled by his impressive win, but Klavier is unperturbed by his loss, happy for his brother and insists he’ll win next time.

As cute as this is, somehow I don’t think that’s exactly how it would go down.

Klavier has actively shown how nervous / anxious / upset Kristoph’s mere presence makes him in a courtroom setting. Based on this, it’s not unfair to say that losing to Kristoph IN PARTICULAR on Klavier’s very first case would have been a devastating psychological blow that could technically end Klavier’s prosecutor career before it even began. There is a lot on the line with the Gramarye trial, don’t forget the praise and adulation that Klavier gained by winning it. So other than all of the fame, adulation, money and pride Kristoph would have gained by rigging and winning the Gramarye trial, there is another dimension that he was also robbed of - the ability to ruin his brother’s law career. Losing to another attorney like Phoenix or anyone else would not be enough to do the job. It would have to and could only be Kristoph’s doing.

What reason could Kristoph have for wanting Klavier’s law career to come to an end?

Well, Klavier does have another job. As a rock star.

Wildly popular rock stars make a lot of money, many many many times more than even a celebrity defense attorney could dream to make.

The Gavinners had multiple albums go platinum. They sold out shows all over the country, I believe, possibly all over the world. They are a brand. They are profitable. Klavier is profitable.

With how much Kristoph depends on and uses Klavier, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that Kristoph gets to take a big cut of Klavier’s earnings from his music career. For all we know, Kristoph could have been responsible for assembling and filing many of the Gavinners’ early contracts and legal paperwork. The rights to songs, record deals, merchandising - this is a lot of stuff. I’d say it’d be pretty hard to believe that Kristoph did not have his hooks into the Gavinners from day one. If he handled contracts, he could have written in loopholes that would give him a huge cut of any earnings resulting from Klavier’s band, the Gavinners.

Now I know what you’re thinking, Klavier himself is a legal prodigy. He could have easily read through anything Kristoph prepared and refused to sign on the dotted line if he found anything amiss or hidden in the fine print. What if Kristoph’s legal control of Klavier started much earlier than that? Depending on when Klavier started in the entertainment business, which could have been a very early age, Kristoph could have had plenty of time and opportunity to secure access to any of Klavier’s future earnings, especially if their parents were out of the picture.

 If you think Kristoph has nothing to do with the Gavinners, think about it. One of their songs is literally called “Atroquinine, My Love”. They are a brand. They are marketed specifically to teeny boppers. They’re not squeaky clean mainstream pop like the Jonas Brothers or anything, but they are marketable. The advertising, the way they dress, the way Klavier says he’s tired of the youthful angst scene, the fact that Klavier only gives Apollo and Trucy a 20% discount on concert tickets. I’m just saying a lot of it could end up being contrived, perhaps by a certain someone with an ulterior motive. It seems really, really weird and coincidental that the band broke up right after AA4 too. Klavier seems like he’s really dedicated to his art, and to music. This much is clear in the way he reverently talks about Lamiroir, how he teared up at her song, even the Guitars’ Serenade seems like a very different song than what the Gavinners would typically do, and it only debuts after Kristoph is already in jail.

It makes you wonder if there might be a little something more going on here. If Kristoph had it set up to where he could get access to Klavier’s assets, which almost certainly dwarf his own by several times, then he had every reason to want to crush Klavier in court. He had to be the one to face Klavier in the Gramarye trial and win, causing Klavier to end his prosecutor dreams - and do what?

Go back on the road, put everything into his music career and become a workhorse for Kristoph’s ambitions.

Putting Klavier full time on the Gavinners would have solved all of Kristoph’s monetary worries for good. He could skim everything off the top and finally live the beautiful life of his dreams, the life he needed to have and couldn’t do without. Most importantly, he could keep up appearances and always look continually young and attractive.

Until we learn otherwise, I think that that is really all that was behind Kristoph’s black Psychelocks. Just a narcissistic, vain, preening loser masquerading as some mastermind villain when, in the end, that’s not really what he cared about being. He cared about painting his nails in a luxurious mansion surrounded by piles of money in a big Scrooge McDuck money vault, and laughing maniacally at anyone who ever thought that there was anything more to it.

[kookiepredictions]

Jungkook’s Real Personality: Prediction

The main thing to remember about Jungkook’s personality is the word Balance. This means 2 things: 1, he has a very complex mix of many different types of personality traits so it is difficult to categorize him as one fixed personality type because he switches and changes a lot according to the situation he is in. 2nd, he needs to constantly work on maintaining balance between all these different traits, many of which are contradictory in nature. Think of him as a juggler juggling many different objects. It means he is capable of juggling so many things at once but it also means that he has to be always careful to keep them balanced otherwise he will face problems.

How is he different from his on screen persona? 1st, he is a lot more mature and intelligent than he is shown. Remember he has a Virgo sun which naturally makes him very calm and responsible, even without trying. He is a very responsible person. If he’s given a task, he will see to its completion to the point that if he can’t do it for some reason, he will think he is useless. It’s very important for him to feel useful, especially for those who he cares about. Also his Leo moon gives him a protective nature which doubles his desire of being there for his loved ones. He is the type of friend, partner, family who will never leave you alone in trouble, he will always be there for you, even if sometimes he doesn’t need to. But there is 1 condition here. He does not like to be manipulated. He hates manipulative behaviour and this grows bigger as he grows older. Jungkook usually is the type of person who speaks less and speaks last. He will always listen more. He will observe more. If you try to manipulate him, he won’t speak out immediately. He will silently watch you first, be completely sure that you are manipulating him without any instigation on his part, and are showing no signs of changing, then he will walk away from you without even looking back, even if you are so much as dying. In fact he can take this anger so far that he would wish for your harm and be happy at your misery. However, he will never actually do anything to harm anyone, even those who hurt him. His anger comes from a place where he deeply feels it is wrong to break someone’s trust so he would wish for your harm so that you can learn your lesson and never break someone’s trust again. I also feel this part of his personality is changing as he matures. In the near future, he will become more vocal right from the start as soon as he sees someone treating him wrong, and quickly decide to break ties instead of staying silent and seething inside. Once he parts ways, he will also let it go quickly and forgive the person, wish them good luck and move on with his life.

This brings me to the point that he has a short temper. It’s not so much that he is quick to anger, it’s more like he tends to hold grudges for a long time. Most of the time, his anger doesn’t even play out as loud outbursts. He is more likely to express his anger by completely shutting you out. He would refuse to even tell you why he is angry but also want you to coax him repeatedly to share his thoughts. Sometimes he could break this pattern and immediately express his anger even at an inappropriate time, but this happens less frequently. The reason of his anger stems from his perfectionism. We all know Jungkook is a perfectionist. And he expects the same level of perfectionism and dedication from everyone around him. His anger is more of an impatience. I won’t be surprised if he mentally says things like, Why are people so slow and clumsy? Why can’t people see the obvious? Why are people so stupid? Like 100 times a day lol typical Virgo male. So Jungkook really mostly gets angry out of impatience. He is a very sincere and dedicated person and gives his 200% in everything so when someone can’t keep up with him, he gets very impatient. 

There is also another thing about his anger. Very rarely will he get angry at your first mistake. For example, if you meet him for the first time and say spill a drink on his shirt, he might get a tad annoyed but he will smile let it go. He will even forgive your 2nd, 3rd, 4th mistakes. The point where he gets angry is the point where you have made several mistakes. So when he gets angry you will tend to feel he gets angry too easily but actually he ignored your mistakes for quite a few times before but you didn’t notice nor did you change your behavior. Jungkook tends to observe people for a while and then classify them into categories. His attitude towards you will depend on how he has categorized you, not on your first mistake. So if he has classified someone as a trouble maker, he will easily snap at them, and if he has classified someone as a good person, he will be more patient with them. This classification is not permanent of course and changes with time as per as your behavior. So if Jeon Jungkook treats you badly, be sure that he had given you plenty of chances to redeem yourself and he probably also has the receipts to prove it lol. This classifying system extends to everyone, whether you are a close friend or a stranger. So a waiter spilling drinks on him will be the same as a close friend spilling drinks on him. In fact, the waiter has more chances of being forgiven because it was a genuine first mistake, but a close friend could get yelled at if they repeatedly did this.

Jungkook tends to have very high expectations from those he cares about. But not in a superficial way. It is actually a love language for him. He puts a lot of importance on self development, which he himself follows. So he believes anyone who wants to do well in life should do this and that’s the advice he gives everyone. Remember when he told us to practice because there’s nothing that gets worse with practice? This is a very strong belief in him. But those around him can feel burnt out by his high expectations because not everyone thinks like him right? Especially not all the time. But he often fails to understand this and gets upset because he thinks they are self sabotaging by not focusing on their self improvement. However, this is another thing I see changing in him. He will gradually learn to be more understanding of differences in nature and opinions of people and learn to guide them without overstepping boundaries.

On the other hand, Jungkook knows and respects boundaries. He does not give unsolicited advice. But with him it’s like, he has to be specifically told what the boundaries are. If you are vague, for example, if you go to him asking for advice, he will take it upon himself to fully transform you and will hover over you, almost forcing you to do things his way. His reasoning would be that it was you who came to him for help and this is exactly the help you need. So you have to always show him clear boundaries. But once they have been set, he will always respect it because he is quite independent himself and respects personal space.

Jungkook has a pretty high IQ and he has a really high EQ. He could even be as book smart as Namjoon but it is something he almost chooses not to do. You will notice that he is really good at memorising English lines, he hardly forgets what he memorises. That’s book smart for you. But it’s almost as if he detests being so. He chooses to be street smart instead. His outfits are a reflection of this. It’s a subtle subconscious act of rebellion against system and authority, which he has always sort of felt oppressed by, since he is a K Pop idol. And since he can’t really quit, he takes every small opportunity to establish his individual choice, whether knowingly or unknowingly. Book smart or street smart, Jungkook is someone very thirsty for knowledge. He does actually read more than we know, but he mostly chooses to get his knowledge through more dynamic methods, one of which is by observing other people.

This brings me to the next point. Jungkook is extremely interested in people. He learns a lot, like new concepts, what is right or wrong, new ideas, etc. by observing people, not just in terms of work, but also personality wise. This is why he is so good at imitating people, which makes me think he could also become an actor someday and be successful at it. His high EQ also makes him understand people more than we know.

Although mature, Jungkook is also very childlike in a lot of ways. Especially when he thinks and acts from his heart. He genuinely loves people even before fully knowing them. He simply loves them because loving people is a good thing to do. His love also comes from gratitude. Which is why his love for Armys is so genuine. He does not fake it because he does not need to fake loving or being grateful. It is only when someone gives him a solid reason to be angry or sad with, that he changes his attitude towards them. Jungkook is someone who you can easily walk up to and he will be very polite and nice to you. However, he is not the type to make immediate close friends because he is very reserved and he will carefully screen everyone before allowing them into his private circle. But he is also the type to always smile at his acquaintances and people he regularly sees even if they are not close friends. He won’t ignore anyone just because he doesn’t know them or because they are beneath his level. In this sense Jungkook is very down to earth. He is also quite righteous. He deeply believes that it is wrong to misbehave with people due to their positions in society. I feel like he might have been mistreated when he was not successful (I mean we all know all of BTS was so it’s very likely) which is why he makes sure he doesn’t do that now that he is successful.

Having said that though, Jungkook is not extremely approachable. There is a certain air of unattainabilty that he deliberately keeps around himself. For example, if you met him at a private party or something instead of a televised BTS event, you will clearly know that he is a big celebrity. He doesn’t misbehave with anyone, he is actually quite polite, but people just feel that star aura. It’s almost like a protective shield for him. You couldn’t approach him unless he clears that air and makes himself approachable. Otherwise you will just look at him from far away, admire him (or hate him) and go away. This is not something he does to belittle others, this is a defence mechanism against those that try to get close to him to get some benefit off of him or manipulate him, which he is actually quite aware of.

Jungkook is not easily manipulated as I discussed earlier. But he always puts up a front as if he is extremely vulnerable and gullible so that people underestimate him and show their true colors quickly. Meanwhile he observes, classifies, and moves on before you could even tell what happened there.

When I say Balance is a big challenge for him it’s because he has many different personality traits that directly contradict each other. For example, he’s a careful planner but he also gets bored of routine very quickly. He takes each decision very slowly but sometimes he will be shockingly spontaneous. He is independent but he is also clingy. All of these are parts of him but it’s almost as if he struggles to keep up with them because he doesn’t know which one will come out when. Achieving balance and control over all of his different qualities will make him a truly unique and unstoppable person.

Besides balance, the biggest challenge Jungkook has is his rigidity of beliefs. He has very good intentions, good energy and drive, but he has to learn to be more flexible and adaptive, both when dealing with his work and people. He also tends to have a scarcity mentality which often manifests his worst fears into reality. The more he wants to avoid certain things, the more they come up in his life, simply because he is constantly living in fear.

Jungkook has a very strong heart chakra. He is literally love personified. He loves love. He loves to see it and he loves to experience it. It’s an adventure he yearns for. But his fear always takes him away from it. Either in terms of problems in his relationships or breakups or interferences and scandals. In spite of that, he always bounces back and his heart chakra heals pretty quickly. Not in a promiscuous way where he is serial dating. This is more like his heart is always a place for true love, it does not store any negative energy for too long. This is why Jungkook’s biggest successes will result from decisions he takes based on his deep feelings. This is also because he has a habit of overthinking so feelings can solve this problem. For example, if he has to take a big work decision, he tends to overthink it from all directions and get confused because every option seems right. But if he listens to his feelings about it, he will find the right answer. Operating from his heart chakra will also make him centered and grounded to achieve that required balance between his many personality traits.

Another big tool at Jungkook’s disposal is his throat chakra. Jungkook is very communicative. He believes that the foundation of all good relationships, the solution to all problems is communication. However, he struggles with timing and empathy quite often. He sometimes says the right things at the wrong time creating misunderstandings that he did not intend. Or stays silent that allows people to paint a wrong picture of him. He also sometimes fails to see things from others’ points of view and tends to see his thoughts and beliefs as the be all and end all.

His biggest tools also have the biggest blocks. It’s like his heart chakra is this huge power generator inside him but it’s blocked because he keeps it shut or underutilized and lets his brain do all the work, which is only half his power and potential. And his throat chakra is blocked because he is too worried about other people’s judgement of him which blocks his flow of communication.

However, the biggest strength of Jungkook and my favorite thing about him is that he is very open minded and willing to learn. He is rigid with his thoughts only when he truly believes he is in the right. If you can logically and respectfully show him where he is wrong, he will immediately proceed to change his ways. He is a true lifelong learner and this is what will ultimately lead him to massive success. He is proud only with things that he believes to be right, as he has a very strong set of values. But he doesn’t let pride get in the way of self development, in fact he is always on the lookout for opportunities that will improve him in some way or the other.

[baddyzarc]

7/7 Ruins: World of Chaos

1 2 3 4a 4b 5 6 x  

end

Let’s start with a simple question? What is “Chaos”?

From the show, Don Thousand says that it is disorder and the source of life, Ena says it’s the power to protect others and ones desires created by oneself, Black Mist says it contributes to hatred and malice, Eliphas says it's poison, and Shark says this:

So Trash aliens.

However, this poses a problem.

Chaos is highly prominent to the story of Zexal, but it is difficult to define. The first signs of Chaos (excluding Haruto using it to toss trash in Episode 13) was when Astral’s airship unlocked “Chaos Number 39: King of Wishes, Hope Ray” as early as Episode 18. It constantly shows up with multiple definitions with some describing it as evil while others describing it as good. Both the protagonists and antagonists utilize it, and the meaning gets scrambled as the show progresses. So is this red, gooey stuff evil or good? 

In my opinion, Chaos is a nuanced type of “disorder”. With the word “disorder”, it isn’t clear what the show means by this since disorder (entropy?) is a super broad definition. Comparing it to the Astral’s “order” or Cosmos makes it slightly easier to grasp, but as a set definition that covers everything, I don’t have a good answer. The most accurate is Ena’s definition, where she says Chaos represents the desires set up by oneself. My problem with this is that all characters in this show have desires. Even Eliphas, who desires for Astral World to Rank-Up by ridding itself of Chaos. It’s a good definition and fits into the themes of Chaos, but there’s those glaring issues. However, I’m not here to define Chaos. Think of it as trying to define “species” or a word where a set definition isn’t concrete, but we sorta know what it looks like. With Chaos, I’m not going to be defining it as much as I am categorizing the types of Chaos in the Zexal. 

Going back to this list of Chaos characters. 

It is incredibly tough to define them on the basis of a single type of Chaos other than maybe “disorderly creatures” or people with desires.

But if you look at it as a spectrum that a character can shift back and forth along, then it starts to make sense. The characters in the show actually point that there are different forms of Chaos, with the clearest distinction being Nasch’s unique Chaos and Ena implying that Chaos has other, important forms.

Since Chaos manifests in different ways, it’s likely that all of the definitions stated above are correct. They get very close to stating what these different forms are, however, but it’s not explicit like “there is good Chaos and bad Chaos in the universe”. 

My proposal is that there are two definable categories of Chaos within the show: “Destructive Chaos” and “Constructive Chaos”. I think if you see it like this, it’s easier to see where Zexal was going with this concept. 

Okay, so what does this mean?

To begin, destructive Chaos can be described most simply as cannibalistic. It devours other Chaos creatures with the sole purpose of bettering its users. It is malice, hatred, selfishness, basically the qualities of the “bad Chaos” that the show speaks of. This could be seen in Vector and Don Thousand, who were literally eating other Barians to make themselves stronger. 

By nature, destructive Chaos benefits one person. It has to destroy everything else. With Vector, Number 96, and Don Thousand specifically, if they’re malicious plans succeeded, all three worlds would’ve been destroyed and they themselves would be standing alone as powerful gods. 

All the Emperors and any persons who inherited Don Thousand’s destructive Chaos were devoured in the end (this also ties in with how Nasch’s unique Chaos resulted in his survival). Also Mr. Heartland burned to death. Destructive Chaos destroys for the benefit of few. 

On the other hand, constructive Chaos can be described as altruistic. Unlike destructive Chaos, which draws its powers by consuming those around it, constructive Chaos gains its powers through combining their strengths. 

It is the power that allows you to protect your friends, or “strength in numbers”. This is the Chaos that Yuma and Nasch heavily relies on. By its nature, constructive Chaos shares for the benefit of many.

Something belongs in the middle too: maybe common Barians or some of the Emperors perhaps? Altruistic but also a little selfish? Giving to some but not to others. The ends could be on the more extreme sides that few probably get to.

As a general example, let’s look at Tron, a character who gravitates along the spectrum. There’s a clear distinction in the transformation of Tron and the Arclights from destructive Chaos to a more constructive Chaos. Not gonna get into it that deeply, but the first half of Zexal, Tron quite literally uses and destroys his sons to progress his own motivations. In the second half of Zexal, Tron shares his crest with his sons via the bracelets, and through this, they are able to create “Rank-Up Magic: Argent Chaos Force”, the symbol used to represent the bonds of humanity and a powerful one at that. 

Another really clear example is the Vector vs. Durbe/Merag. Merag, Durbe, and Vector uses Nasch’s strength throughout this battle. With Durbe and Merag, they send out their strongest monster using Nasch’s “Rank-Up Magic - The Seventh One”, something he shared with them in the prior episode. Vector, on the other hand, uses Nasch as a blood-bag; he sucks the life out of him to increase his own. Lending versus draining. Constructive versus destructive.

These two descriptions pose some interesting relationships. There are probably more than this but i’ll focus on a few.

First is Number 96 and Yuma, and how they relate to Astral.

Yuma and Number 96 are fragments of Don Thousand’s original self, who is a composite of all forms of Chaos. Although, the final Don Thousand clearly utilizes destructive Chaos. When Astral shattered him, I believe that his general from of Chaos split into Yuma, someone who uses constructive Chaos, and into Number 96, someone who uses destructive Chaos. Each individual views their Chaos appropriately. 

Number 96 has a very bleak view of Chaos, often describing it as something born from resentment, hatred, and the such. He also does not believe in the power of bonds, declaring it something used by weaklings. 

Aside from that, Number 96 has a god-complex, something he shares with the likes of Vector and Don Thousand, and is a person who is willing to destroy all of the worlds in order to create his own, ideal world. 

On the other hand, Yuma is the exact opposite. He sees Chaos as a force of goodness that allows different people to come together.

These two characters are supposed to be opposites of each other in regards to Chaos, and this is clearly shown in their relationship with Astral.

Back to Vector’s Royal Palace, this duel states a problem with the theory that there is only single type of Chaos. Number 96 said that Astral must use Chaos if he wanted to gather all the Numbers. 

The major issue with this is that Number 96 utilizes destructive Chaos. If Astral were to rely on his powers, it will destroy Astral in the process. And this occurs. When Number 96 enters Astral, the incompatibility and destructive nature of his Chaos causes both of them to explode. This is likely to be the Chaos that Eliphas fears would destroy Astral and Astral World.

And even Number 96 isn’t immune to this destructive power. When he accepted Vector/Don Thousand’s Chaos into his own, it nearly destroyed him. This just shows how deadly this type of Chaos is to others.

But if Astral has to use Chaos, he will likely rely on the constructive Chaos that derives from Yuma. And I think you guys know where this is going,

It’s those Zexal Morphs. 

The Zexal Morphs are the show’s flagship of “ultimate bonds”. Although probably unintentional, Astral does end up heavily relying on multiple forms of Chaos— the Chaos Hopes and Yuma specifically—which allows him to fulfill his mission (but doing so altered his objective). By using constructive Chaos, they were able to become stronger than they were as individuals.

However, there is one Zexal Morph that needs to be addressed.

The Dark Zexal Morph is a product of a “Vector-influenced” Yuma and a broken-hearted Astral. It’s difficult to say if Yuma is using destructive Chaos here, but due to Vector shenanigans, this Zexal Morph is an embodiment of Astral possibly mixing himself with destructive Chaos. Although it is incredibly powerful, Dark Zexal self-cannibalizes itself.

And then there’s Nasch and Vector. Not really the duel between them, but their entire characters reflect the two Chaos.

These two are on the opposite ends of the spectrum. When Vector said they are incompatible, it means that Nasch uses constructive Chaos while Vector uses destructive Chaos. One will tend to give and the other will always take. They are quite the antithesis of each other. 

Because of this, they simply cannot mix. In this system, Vector will take and Nasch will give (assuming he is unaware the entire time; he trusts Vector for thousands of years and after his return, which,,,,). One will die in this system, and it’s likely to be Nasch because altruism tends to lose to selfishness. This isn’t how Nasch died though; Vector kinda pushed him off a cliff, but it does explain why the two cannot get along. 

But there are a lot of examples in how these characters contrast each other. Their past lives, for example, were prominent in how Vector was willing to slaughter his own men to defeat Nasch, while Nasch eventually tried to keep his army out of his and Vector’s fight in the Labyrinth. 

Their Mythyrian Numbers also showcase Vector’s tendency to ignore bonds while Nasch’s tendency to build bonds. Vector doesn’t even touch the base-form to access his Chaos Number while Nasch summons the base-form first and heavily utilize it. 

Their signature Rank-Up cards too. 

Nasch represents the power of shared Chaos. One of his first moves after becoming an Emperor is giving the power of “Rank-Up Magic - The Seventh One” to the rest of the Emperors. This Rank-Up Magic allows the Emperors to defeat their human opponents during the Barian Onslaught Arc, who they were struggling to beat before Nasch granted it to them. But Vector, after destroying Don Thousand, uses the card “Rank-Up-Magic - Admire Death Thousand” and he is the only person who has access to this card.

Another really good example is how they represent the combined powers of the Emperors.

Starting with Vector, it’s safe to say that he does not cherish the bonds between them at all. He is vicious even to his own team, going as far as to mortally wound two of them for the fun of it, insults them on a regular basis, and then absorbs them to make himself stronger. 

After absorbing four of the six Emperors, Vector uses their powers to make himself god-like. He alters his entire figure and uses this strength to “kill” Don Thousand, absorbing his strength as well. 

Furthermore and like Nasch, Vector uses a monster that represents the combined strength of the Emperors he gathered thus far. “Chaos Number 5: Perishing-Gloom Dragon - Chaos Chimera Dragon” represents this, but it is almost, say, tragic in how this monster represents those bonds? Aside from Vector summoning it before telling Nasch that, “Yeah, i took your dumbass buddies’ powers and made this sick bad boy out of it. Eat my shit”

Now, this monster is different from Nasch’s monster but it shares one similar effect, which is “This card's ATK becomes equal to the number of Xyz Materials attached to it x 1000.” This monster derives its powers from its overlay units (or from the other Emperors, if you look at the subtext) but a key difference from Nasch’s monster is that this monster has a special condition regarding its overlay units. For “Chimera Dragon” to attack, it must detach an overlay unit. This means it must always use and discard the strength of its “allies” in order to fight. Following this, “Chimera Dragon” can reattach its overlay units at the beginning of your opponent's turn, allowing it to use and discard its overlay units forever (provided the user can pay the lifepoint cost). Vector detaches all of the overlay units, essentially ditching the cards that represent his allies in order to use the power of his dragon.

But, for Nasch, oh boy, his duel kinda spells it out in big flashing letters. His moves in this duel is the embodiment of constructive Chaos. 

Before we get to the main monster, the Chaos cards used by Nasch follow a heavy theme of the Barian’s bonds, and Nasch makes several references to his dead friends during this duel.

I mean, just look at them. He’s obsessed.

The main attraction is Nasch’s ace monster, “Chaos Xyz: King of Hope - Barian”, a monster summoned by using each of the Emperor’s Over-Hundred Numbers, giving it seven overlay units that represent each Emperor. This monster is the complete opposite of “Chimera Dragon”. Everything about it represents the ideals of constructive Chaos.

Let’s start with the design. Now I’m a little skeptical on some of these, but according to some, “Barian King” has parts that derive from the other Chaos Over-Hundreds. 

The spear it uses comes from Dark Knight and Noble Daemon (and I’d argue that the shield comes from Noble Daemon too, since Durbe is said to the Barian’s shield), the crest on its head comes from Ragna Infinity, the armored knuckles come from Caestus the Comet, the style of its hair/tail things resembles the neck of Tachyon Dragon, and the color palette comes from Umbral and Giant Red Hand. 

Some of these are easy to see, while some are obscure-ish (not too sure about the color things since red is a general Barian thing), but it’s highly likely that the artists who designed “Barian King” considered the other Over-Hundreds when designing this monster, especially when you consider what happens in this duel. 

Moving to the effects, this monster also derives its ATK-points from its overlay units too, gaining 1000 points for each material attached. The difference between “Barian King” and “Chimera Dragon”, whereas its effects are unrelated to the monsters attached to it, is that “Barian King” effects are the effects of its overlay units. Since its overlay units are the seven Over-Hundred Numbers, “Barian King” has the unique powers of each Barian Emperor.

Stated in the show, Nasch is fighting alongside the other Emperors (or Yuma is facing all seven Emperors as a single entity).

Not only that, but the Emperors’ spirits are depicted with their duel disks, so they are not simply bystanders in the duel, but active participants in the fight. They are just as involved in this battle as much as Nasch is.

The cherry on top is an additional effect. The user can “detach an overlay unit to use one of the Over-Hundred effects” or the user can “pay 400 lifepoints to use the effect without detaching a material”. This is the major difference from Vector’s monster. Aside from having its effects be directly influenced from its overlay units, this monster gives the user an option of keeping its overlay units (or keeping the other Emperors by Nasch’s side) in exchange for Nasch’s lifepoints. 

And Nasch always pays the lifepoints. Over the course of the duel, in addition to paying lifepoints to SUMMON “Barian King”, he consistently pays lifepoints to prevent the overlay units from being detached, to keep “Barian King” alive, and to stop its overlay units from being destroyed. (I think he paid up to 8600 lifepoints total, so thats yikes)

Unlike Vector, who sees the other Emperors as tools to use and discard, Nasch sees them as invaluable allies who should stand by his side. 

Yuma even points out that Nasch is paying a lot of lifepoints to keep his monster safe. And then he destroys “Barian King” because fuck it. Nasch’s reaction when “Barian King” explodes, however, isn’t seen as an attack on himself but on his companions and their dreams. Like, that’s the face of hurt right there.

Look at his face. He’s so upset :( aw

It’s clear that Nasch derives his power and passion from the other Emperors; without them, he breaks apart.  

(it’s also worth noting that when he loses “Barian King”, or his bonds with the Barian Emperors, he immediately sends out several monsters that are deeply connected to Ryouga (Big Jaws, Aeroshark, Black Ray Lancer…). I don’t know what to make of this. It may be that Nasch is so driven by bonds that once “the Seven Emperors” are defeated, he turns to the bonds he built with Yuma. Or maybe it's just a nostalgic homage before the final battle concludes.)

Before he lost, Nasch’s final moves were to resummon “Barian King” and reattach each of Over-Hundreds on his monster. This final move may have been what killed him (due to some Double Up Chance shenanigans) but Nasch was set on letting all Seven Emperors win as one, or fall as one. 

That brings us to the final discussion of Yuma and Nasch. These characters have resonated with each other since the start of the show. I honestly believe this is due to their similar Chaos, which is why Yuma is able to always worm himself into Ryouga’s heart on multiple occasions, and vice-versa. The most interesting bit of information I found was this scene. 

Nasch understands Yuma because they both utilize the Chaos of bonds. Yuma heavily relies on his friends as much as Nasch does; it’s in their nature, so of course they understand each other.  

Furthermore, these characters seem to be able to fight most effectively in the presence of friends. For Yuma, he usually has Astral, Kotori, or the Numbers Club by his side, and during his duel with Michael, where he loses his father’s Kattobingu spirit and his friends, Yuma is unable to fight against his opponent. Yuma relies on constant support. Heck, his strongest form uses the bonds of Zexal Morph, and during the ceremonial duel, or the duel he fights without Astral or Zexal Morph, all of his (living) friends are there to support him. 

Nasch does this too. Like, a lot, to name a few:

And during his duel with Vector, where Nasch basically lost or assumes he lost all of his friends, he looks to be very distressed when he realizes he’s all alone.

And appropriately enough, when Yuma pops in at this exact moment, Nasch looks slightly less distressed? 

I don’t know what expression mr. no-mouth is doing here but he doesn’t look upset to see Yuma and Astral. He snaps out of his “loneliness” state when Yuma arrives for sure. By looks of it, Nasch fights better when he has certain people by his side, whether it be the soul of Barians or a familiar face. 

It’s this reasoning that both are strong constructive Chaos users, but they see it in slightly different ways. They both believe in strength in numbers, altruism, and friendship, but Nasch is limited to the in-group of his fellow Barians. He wants to protect them above everything else, and since the Astrals want to destroy them, Nasch reacts accordingly. On the other side, Yuma probably doesn’t have any in-groups (like maybe Don Thousand). He wants to protect the Barians, the Astrals, and the humans. 

And if you consider that Yuma is a fragment of Don Thousand’s original Chaos, someone who represents the strongest of all Chaos, it sorta makes sense that Yuma is potentially the strongest user of constructive Chaos (any by logic, Number 96 should be the strongest user of destructive Chaos, but he uh, he exploded.), making him stronger than Nasch despite their similar ideals. It’s this bond, I believe, is why Yuma persisted in the final battle and not Nasch. 

I don’t know how to end this really. There’s still a lot more I want to talk about that i couldn't fit in this entire series, but final thoughts is that barians, uh they’re friend-shaped 

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Decryption Error: “The Long Weekend, Part I”

Summary: Elliot and Y/N’s friendship continues to deepen as they spend time together. Even though the aftermath of what happened in the server room isn’t something either of them can forget as Tuesday morning draws closer, Y/N can’t help but wonder if being in a relationship with Elliot is what she really wants.

Summary/Mood Board,  “The Server Room, Part I”,  “The Server Room, Part II”

Word Count: 7700

Tags: @sherlollydramoine @rami-malek-trash @teamwolf2411 @limabein  @lovie-rami @txmel @hopplessdreamer @ouatlovr  @backoftheroomandnotbelonging  @alottanothing  @moon-stars-soul  

If you want added, just let me know.

Warnings: Marijuana use, slight sexual references

Why am I in the guest room?

Oh.

That’s why.

My thoughts were only muddled for a moment until I glanced down and was greeted by a pile of messy black hair and the faint smell of cigarettes that clung to a well-loved hoodie.  

I turned my eyes toward the nightstand as I reached for my phone to read the time.

9: 21 am.

I needed to call Franco if I wanted to have a chance of replacing the ruined servers before Tuesday. As I attempted to slide out from under Elliot, his arm tightened around me and his breath hitched before he sighed, still fast asleep. It looked like I was going to have to wake him up to make my escape.

“Elliot,” I whispered.

“Elliot,” I said again, this time in a clear voice.

Nothing.

I sighed and reached up to wipe the sleep away from the corners of my eyes, hoping my movements would wake him.

I looked down again and was struck with a profound sadness.

Elliot was clinging to me like I was the last thing tethering him to reality. His head was snuggled into the middle of my chest, his face planted between my breasts. His arm was slung across my lower ribs and his leg was hooked over mine. He also had my other arm trapped between our bodies which meant that my hand was—oh.

Yup.

That’s some morning wood.  

I didn’t want to embarrass Elliot, but I desperately needed to call Franco. I thought I could just hook my leg over the edge of the bed and pull myself out, like one of those tricks where the magician pulls the tablecloth out from under a perfectly set table.

I moved my leg to the edge of the mattress and also used my free arm to do just what I had imagined.

It worked.

However, it also resulted in Elliot’s head thunking onto the mattress and startling him awake.

He sat up quickly, his head whipping back and forth to take in his surroundings before he fixed his eyes on me as I clung to the bed, half in and half out.

“You’re a heavy sleeper,” I said as I stood up and watched Elliot clutch at the blanket, his brows furrowing as his eyes searched my face.

“Do you know where you are?” I asked when Elliot failed to say anything.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He cleared his throat but only a whisper was all he could manage. For the second time that morning, I felt a deep sadness. 

He wrecked his voice yelling for someone to let him out of the server room.

“Your place,” he croaked as he reached up to tentatively touch his head, wincing when he made contact with the bandaged wound.

I nodded as I stood by the bed.

“I need to call my friend Franco to see if he can get me some servers to replace the damaged ones. If he can get them to the office, you and I can install them, route them back into the network, and things can function as normal on Tuesday.”

Elliot nodded and croaked again, scowling over his inability to speak.

“Hey—it’s not like you use that voice that much anyway,” I said, pulling a frustrated smile from him.

“Have a lie-in while I make some tea and figure out our next move,” I said as I dialed Franco’s number and left Elliot alone in the guest room.

As it turned out, Franco could get the servers, but he couldn’t get them until Monday.

“Are you sure, Franc—no one in the city can do it any earlier? Money is no object,” I added, a clench of disgust shooting through me as I said it.

“Yes—I know you know, but I had to say it. It’s been that rough of a night,” I stated as I moved the whistling kettle off the burner.

“Monday it is then—I don’t care how early in the morning.”

“Stop thinking you still owe me something—this should make us pretty fucking even,” I quietly laughed, rolling my eyes and pulling teacups from the cupboard.

“Uh-huh. So noble of me to offer up Dad’s money.”

“Yes, the tea’s on.”

“Shut up. Call me if anything changes—bye.”

And before Franco could hang up, I spit out, “I’ll owe you!”

Franco Rivera attended Columbia on a scholarship. He used to be a skinny little Puerto Rican kid who literally fought his way through middle school and his freshman year of high school. Fate intervened when Franco saw something on TV talking about our increasing dependence on technology; paired with watching the rich kids at school get their Xboxes and iPods, Franco decided to learn everything he could about computers. When he got to Columbia, he already had a fully formed business plan for a company that would sell and repair computer equipment—eventually, he broke into the distribution of serves by capitalizing on the trend of companies moving toward software-defined data centers that relied on open-source standards. Franco had earned his big break by being smart and identifying a trend; however, he got the startup money for his company because I was his first investor.

I loved being able to support my friends—wealth wasn’t something to be hoarded; it was something to be used to give back to your community. My father had instilled that value in each of his children, and Franco’s company had been my first real investment.

Now, Franco had a company that employed over 45 people, and it was still growing.

I wasn’t naïve, though. I read. I researched. I paid attention. Working in the Financial District opened my eyes to the rampant greed that allowed people to damn near get away with murder if it meant making a profit. I liked to believe I was working for a good company—a company my father, who I knew was a good man, painstakingly chose to invest in.

But there was always a part of my mind that wasn’t so sure if any corporation could be categorized as “good.”

Maybe I really was naïve.

Elliot appeared in the kitchen and drew me from my thoughts. He was still tucked into his hoodie and he reached down to hitch up the oversized sweats once he stopped walking.

“I’m sorry I’m not a coffee drinker,” I said as I got up to pour Elliot some tea.

Elliot shrugged his shoulders and watched as I prepared the tea, eyeing the serving tray everything was set out on. I was copious with the honey and then squeezed in a good bit of lemon, too.

“Our nanny was English,” I explained as Elliot eyed my set-up. “Presentation always matters when it comes to tea.”

I smiled as I offered Elliot the steaming cup.

“Drink it all—the honey and lemon will help with your throat.”

Elliot took a long drink, using both of his injured hands to hold the cup steady.

“How much of my conversation did you catch?”

The tea helped give Elliot a bit of his voice back and he rasped, “Monday. No servers until Monday.”

“I don’t suppose you know anyone who could do better?”

Elliot shook his head no before adding, “Impressed you got them so fast.”

“Franco’s an impressive guy—he never met a “no” he couldn’t turn into a “yes.”

Elliot settled on to the same kitchen chair as he sat in last night, and we sipped tea in silence until I decided to talk aloud about what I had been planning.

“I was thinking we could swing by your place, get whatever you need for the weekend—don’t even open your mouth. First of all, you’re injured. Second of all, it’s a holiday and I don’t want to spend it alone. Third of all, Christ only knows how long it is going to take to do all of this, and if something goes wrong, I need you.”

Elliot never took his eyes off my face and I almost laughed as I saw the fight just drain out of them. Like Franco, I could also turn a “no” into a “yes.”

Elliot swung off the chair and walked over to his backpack; he pulled out his cellphone and his cigarettes. He held the pack up to silently ask permission.

“No, you can’t smoke in here, but I take it as a compliment I stress you out so much you need a cigarette,” I teased.

“Go out on the balcony. There’s an ash tray because some of my other friends are savages, too.”

Elliot rolled his eyes, and when I made a noise of offense, he turned and shot me a grin, an actual full-blown Elliot Alderson grin.

“Be still my heart,” I said, teasing him even more and drawing out a silent laugh as he opened and closed the balcony door.

* * * * *

Elliot was quiet during the drive to his place. I listened as the navigator gave me directions after he had plugged his address into my GPS.

When we arrived, I cut the engine and said, “I can wait, or I can come up, but I’ll confess I’m afraid you won’t come back if I just let you go alone.”

In his raspy voice, Elliot replied, “You can come up.”

I followed Elliot into his building and up the stairs to his apartment; he didn’t live in the greatest neighborhood, but I put the shabby interior—peeling paint, noises from other people in the building, the single, easy lock on the door—out of my mind and acknowledged my own bias.

Everything Elliot had, he earned on his own and I admired that.

While the interior of Elliot’s apartment was in better condition than the exterior, my eyes immediately went to the mattress on the floor in the bedroom. I wanted nothing more than to pull up my Amazon account and order him a bedframe—just a simple platform bed, nothing fancy.

“Sorry—don’t really have people over,” Elliot whispered, his voice cracking a little as he rubbed at the back of his head before realizing his hands still hurt too much for that.

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders, “I think it’s cozy.”

Elliot gave me a half-smile as he looked desperate to shove his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“Do you mind if I take a shower and change?” Elliot asked in his broken voice, hitching up the sweats once again.

“Of course not. You’re not my prisoner . . . unless you want to be?” I said darkly as I quirked my brow, pulling another lopsided smile from him.

“I am, though—at least until. . .” Elliot trailed off, his eyes leaving mine and fixing on the laptop that was sitting on the tiny table in front of the couch.

“Shower,” I said, taking a seat on the couch and pulling out my phone to prove I could occupy myself.

As soon as Elliot disappeared into the bathroom and turned the water on, I put my phone away and started tidying up. I gathered up the pizza boxes on top of the microwave and the take-out containers beside the sink. I pulled out the full trash bag and replaced it with a new one that I dug out from the nearly empty cupboard under the sink. I sat the garbage bag by the door so we could toss it on the way out.

Next, I went in to make the bed, and while the smell of stale cigarettes and—yeah, definitely weed, lingered, the sheets smelled a lot like Elliot. When I caught the scent of him, I found myself inadvertently smiling, which scared the shit out of me.  

I shook it off and reminded myself I was Elliot’s boss and that I was also in his apartment on a Saturday because he destroyed four servers and didn’t remember doing it.

Without being too invasive, I looked around for the things that made the place “Elliot.” His reading selections were interesting: high-brow literature mixed in with metafiction, computer books that were probably from college, but as I looked closer, I saw that many of them were really old, ancient, in fact. I wondered if they had sentimental value.

He also had some psychology books and some philosophy books, including one that looked interesting called, Digital Disconnect. It was sitting on the shelf nearest to his computer, so my eyes continued their trajectory by scanning over the elaborateness of his computer desk; it was the only thing that seemed to scream “Elliot Alderson” in the entire place.

Something was niggling in the back of my mind—being here, looking over Elliot’s apartment made me realize something . . . was just off. He was so neat and particular at work about his desk and his workspace. I wondered why his apartment didn’t reflect that same precision. I thought through the possibilities and wondered if Elliot was depressed. I knew about his anxiety and his inclination to avoid touch, but his apartment told a deeper story.

Yet, another part of me thought about the fact that we are all multiple people, changing our masks from one situation to the next. How we are at home is not how we are in public; how we are with close friends is not how we are with strangers or new acquaintances.

The only way to find out which theory was correct was to get to know Elliot better.

When I heard the shower click off, I quickly made my way back to the couch. As I tucked my legs under me, my eyes landed on a little box on the end table. Curious, I opened the lid to take a peek and discovered it was his weed box. I jumped back when the bathroom door opened, surely looking guilty as sin, but I was equally sure that look was slapped off my face by another when Elliot came padding out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a too small towel that he clutched at his hip.

I am certain my mouth dropped open at his near nakedness because he squeaked out an apology before walking quickly to his dresser. I had not noticed the delightful trail of dark hair that ran down his stomach and disappeared beneath his towel last night, which I silently applauded myself for.

But right now, Elliot was not in immediate distress, so I found I myself watching the muscles in his back move as he dug around for clean clothes, wondering just how much that little towel would let me see. After another second, I mentally slapped myself and forced my mind to start functioning with some sense of propriety. I shifted my position on the couch, sitting so my back was against the armrest and I was facing the kitchen.

“Did you make my bed?” Elliot’s voice cracked with the question.

“I have an illness. I’m so sorry,” I said in a voice that was too loud for my naked employee’s tiny apartment.

I could hear Elliot shuffle into his clothes, his muffled curses audible as he had to use his hands to dress.

“Do you need help?” I asked, hoping to any god it didn’t sound slutty when I said it.

“Nah. I’m good. Hands are just stiff,” Elliot said, his voice a little clearer as he walked out from the bedroom.

“Kitchen, too?”

I looked over at him and while shrugging said, “I told you I have an illness.”

Elliot shook his head as if I were some sort of mystery he wasn’t ready to figure out.

“Do you have a first-aid kit here or anything? I can rebandage your hands, or at least your head.”

Elliot walked back into the bathroom and came out with a little basket that held some butterfly bandages, Neosporin, gauze, medical tape, and a few other first-aid things.

“Impressive,” I said digging around once he handed me the basket.

Elliot took a seat, flexing his hands and looking them over as I adjusted my position to scoot closer to him. The gash looked much better already, but there was definitely bruising around the wound. I swiped at some of the wetness along Elliot’s hairline before gently applying the butterfly bandage.

“Did I hurt you?” I asked, my eyes searching his face for any sign of pain.

“Didn’t feel a thing,” Elliot said with a quick flick of a smile, his voice still a whisper.

I held his gaze for way too long, lost in the depths of his grey, well, maybe a little more blue in this light, eyes.

“Let’s see those hands,” I said, blinking and finally looking away, wondering if there was blush coloring my cheeks because it sure felt like it.

He spread them out, flat on his thighs and his fingers trembled as he tried to stretch them. His knuckles still looked awful, torn and scraped, and the bruises had deepened into a darker red.

I dug around in the first aid basket again to pull out the bandages, medical tape, and the Neosporin. I applied the Neosporin to the worst looking of the cuts on his pinky, ring, and middle finger of his right hand, wrapping band aids around each of those second knuckles. On his left, he had deep gashes on the knuckles of his first and middle fingers so I had to apply Neosporin and use the gauze to cover that area. I tried to apply the medical tape so it wouldn’t be a nuisance, but it was such an awkward place to bandage.

“Sorry,” I said as I smoothed the tape.

“It’s fine,” Elliot rasped.

I put the medical supplies back in the basket and handed it to Elliot who returned it to the bathroom.

Because I could think of no other way to ask, I pointed to his weed box and blurted out, “Can we take that with us?” in my same too-loud-for-this-apartment voice.

Elliot laughed, his shoulders shaking and his teeth flashing, except that with his hoarse voice there was very little noise that emitted from his throat.

“Thank you for laughing, or in your case, shaking, at my awkwardness,” I said narrowing my eyes and frowning.

Elliot composed himself quickly, clearly worried he had actually offended me.

“You seem way too straight to smoke. You made me smoke a legal cigarette on the balcony,” he explained, still grinning, his voice rasping and graduating to an occasional squeak.  

“Marijuana does not have the same Surgeon General’s warning as cigarettes,” I retorted. “Just forget I asked.”

Elliot shook his head and picked up his box, walking over to where he sat his backpack down and placed it inside.

He shot me a smartass glance before he took his backpack into the bedroom and packed up some more of his things.

“What else did you go through?” Elliot asked as he shouldered his bag, his eyes glancing toward his computer desk.

“I would never violate your privacy,” I said, a little offended that he seemed to think looking in a box on an end table that smelled like weed was akin to going through someone’s computer.

“Besides, I’m just way too straight to do such a thing,” I said, mocking him from earlier.

Elliot smirked and watched me with those big eyes again as he moved to stand in front of me, so close that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.

“Remind me to tell Pandora not to invite you over to her place,” he deadpanned.

“Smartass,” I said as a grin overtook my lips.  

* * * * *

Before I put my car in gear, I did a quick google and loaded up the directions to a nearby grocery store. As soon as the navigator announced our destination, Elliot whipped his head in my direction.

I smiled and said nothing as I followed the navigation.

My car seemed to fill with Elliot’s unease and I had about all I could take of his shuffling in the seat next to me before he finally asked why we were going to the market.

“Well, since I was denied my long weekend, I figured we could have our own version of a picnic today. Do you ever eat anything other than takeout?”

Elliot took a while to answer the question, probably warring with just how much he wanted to tell me.

“Not lately,” Elliot finally decided.

After another long pause, Elliot rasped, “I don’t really know what people eat at a picnic—hamburgers, hotdogs, that sort of thing, but isn’t it different for every family?”

“Alright, I see your point. Well, what did your family do?”

“I don’t remember,” came Elliot’s very quick, very quiet reply. It was such an unnerving response that it made me feel anxious. I felt bad for prying, and even though it was an innocent question, the more I got to know him, the further away I felt from understanding him.

I compensated by talking in a rush about my family traditions.

“My family is pretty traditional. My dad grew up on a farm and so did my mom, although her family only raised horses. They both know how to cook good, old-fashioned dishes and picnic food for us was always, like you said, hamburgers and hot dogs, macaroni or potato salad, pasta salad, bean salad, cole slaw, fruit trays, veggie trays. Stuff like that. Mmm—and chocolate cake or brownies or s’mores for dessert. My mom makes a killer chocolate cake.”

“You’re going to make all of that?”

“Why? Does it all sound good? Not gonna lie—I’d love to fatten you up a little,” I said glancing over at Elliot as I turned down the street next to the store to look for parking.

Elliot didn’t say anything, so I let the question hang awkwardly in the air.

Grocery shopping with Elliot Alderson was no different than shopping with a morose teenager, except he was a little more interested in what was going in the cart instead of playing on his phone. He kept his hood up and his eyes darted around everywhere, like something was going to jump off the shelf and attack him.

As I was mulling over whether to get the tri-color noodles for the pasta salad or to stick with the plain, it occurred to me I was totally alone. I threw the tri-color noodles in the cart and glanced around, wondering where he went. As I made my way to look at the produce, I got a little worried it was too much for him and he bailed. I had just pulled my phone out of my bag to text him when he reappeared.

I laughed when I saw what he was carrying—s’more supplies.

“Dessert?” he questioned and I nodded yes.

“Good decision,” I praised.

Elliot offered to help me pay for the groceries, but I told him he could pay his way by helping me cook. He acquiesced, but insisted on carrying everything, loading up his arms with my grocery totes while I scolded him about his hands.

Once we got back to my place and deposited all of our bags on my kitchen island, I got to work on organizing my food prep under Elliot’s watchful glances. He eventually removed his hood and started to relax. I glanced back at him as I set two pots of water to boil on the stove.

“Your hair’s kinda curly when it isn’t styled,” I noted.

Elliot frowned and ran his hands through it.

“I like it,” I said as I walked over to where he was sitting on the kitchen stool. 

“Can I?” I asked, my hand poised near his hair.

He nodded, and I ran my fingers over his scalp, fixing some of the stray pieces.

“There. Very nice—like a dark Ryan Phillippe circa late 90s.”

Elliot quirked a brow, probably unsure whether it was a compliment.

“Who is that?”

“You’ve never seen Cruel Intentions?”

Elliot shook his head no.

“Well—let me tell you, you’ve missed out. This was the movie that fostered the great love saga between Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon.”

I walked over to the TV and turned it on, flipping through my subscription services until I found the movie. I turned it on, and returned to my boiling pots, pouring noodles into one and dumping the potatoes into the other.

We cooked, chopping, slicing, and mixing, while we watched Cruel Intentions. Elliot was pretty enraptured by the actions of the characters, growing frustrated every time one of them did something terrible.

“You get really into movies,” I commented as I put the mayo back in the fridge and returned to stirring my potato salad.

“I like to think about what the characters should do and compare it with what they actually do,” Elliot said without moving his eyes from the screen, his voice stronger.

“Why?”

“I like to think about why people behave the way they do. Most of the time, I just don’t understand it . . . them. I don’t understand them.”

“Join the club,” I said.

Elliot turned away from the screen and looked at me.

“That’s not true—you know how to talk to people, how to manage them and their behaviors. Everyone at work respects you. Even likes you.”

“I’ve worked hard to earn a good reputation, but come on, El. I know what a lot of them say about me. It’s no secret my dad’s face is hanging behind the front desk downstairs.”

Elliot turned his attention back to the TV.

“You don’t act like them,” he said pointing to Kathryn and Sebastian.

I laughed and said, “I sure hope most people don’t!”

“I mean you don’t act rich.”

“My parents would kick my ass if I did. Not everyone on Wall Street is evil.”

After a long silence, I asked, “So, which character do you find the most interesting to watch?”

“Annette,” he replied almost immediately.

“Really? Not Sebastian?”

“Nah. You can tell he’s just another trope—a Byronic hero who will probably die as soon as he achieves self-actualization.”

“So, why’s Annette more interesting?” I said, avoiding confirming Elliot’s theory.

“She’s unafraid to follow her beliefs even though they go against societal norms, well the norms of her peer group at least.”

“Sex is hard to resist,” I said.

“Especially at that age,” Elliot added.

“Do you speak from experience?”

Elliot’s head snapped in my direction, his widened eyes moving over my face as he decided, presumably, whether or not to answer me.

“I guess so,” he finally decided.

I smiled and stated, “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. Ever. I’m getting used to you just ignoring me when you don’t want to say anything.”

“I don’t mean to,” Elliot said, and when I looked at him for clarification, he elaborated.

“I don’t mean to ignore you or anyone really. It’s just sometimes better that I don’t say what’s in my head out loud.”

“Does that get tiring? Having to always filter yourself?”

“Yeah. It does. But it’s better than being called a freak.”

“Have you been called that?”

Elliot looked back to the TV, and softly replied, “Yeah.”

I walked over to him and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. Elliot closed his eyes and sighed.

“You can’t make up for every shitty thing that’s ever been said or done to me.”

“What if I want to try? What if I want to erase all that bad and create good to go in its place?”

“It’s impossible, Y/N. People are naturally inclined to hurt other people. Or at the very least, disappoint them.”

I frowned, wanting to tell Elliot he was wrong, but was he? Look at what just happened to him. It was clear this wasn’t the first time in his life something this shitty was done to him. I had no room to stand on a soapbox and tell him everything would be okay.

It was never okay for people like him.

I sighed, and I moved back to the other side of the kitchen island to start searching for my grill pan.

Elliot got up and paused the movie, heading out on the balcony to smoke.

After I prepped the pan and laid out the hamburgers and hot dogs, I joined Elliot on the balcony. He was almost done with his cigarette, but a pretty long ash had grown at the end as he was staring at his phone.

“What’s up?”

Elliot didn’t move or say anything for a minute, so I reached out to pull his cigarette away and stub it out in the ashtray. That movement caused his eyes to flicker up before he tossed his phone down on the little table.

He ran his hand through his hair and his leg began to bounce up and down.

I pushed.

“What happened?”

“Everyone knows,” Elliot muttered.

“Knows what?”

Elliot looked at me like I was an idiot, but I couldn’t read his damn mind.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about and stop looking at me like I’m an idiot because I can’t read your mind.”

“Everyone knows what the fuck happened in the server room!” Elliot yelled, standing up and kicking at the chair he was sitting in, sending it crashing into the side of my apartment. He was pacing, both hands in his hair, his eyes unable to focus on anything for more than a millisecond.

While it was unnerving to see this side of Elliot, I tried my best to tamp down my own frustration. I kept my voice even and calm when I asked Elliot about the message he received.

“Who texted or emailed you?”

“Sarah texted me.”

“What did she say?”

Elliot stopped pacing and picked up his phone, quickly entering his passcode and then thrusting the phone out to me.  

Are you okay???

Answer me Elliot!!!

Aaron told me what Ali Maurice and Corey did—Aaron feels horrible. So does Julia.

Please answer me because if you don’t I’m calling Colin.

“Elliot. Answer her. I do not want Colin involved in this.”

“I don’t know what the fuck to say,” Elliot said as he snatched his phone back. “Hey, I’m fine. I’m stuck at our boss’s house because I went fucking batshit. See ya at work. Smiley face.”

I frowned and walked over to fix the chair Elliot had kicked and I heard the click of his lighter as I thought about what to tell Sarah.

“I want their weekend ruined,” I said, and Elliot’s eyes flicked to my face, clearly surprised. “And it’s always best to tell as much of the truth as you can—an elaborate lie only makes you look bad and for the fifteenth time, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

I walked over to the balcony where Elliot was leaning, his cigarette forgotten as he listened.

“Tell Sarah that in order to get out, you had to pull the power cables on a few of the servers. You knew when they went down and didn’t come back on, Miles would call me in. Everyone knows Miles calls me for everything so that won’t be a surprise to her. It also won’t be a surprise you figured out how to get out without a phone because everyone knows you’re ridiculously smart.”

Elliot just stared at me.

“Text her!”

Elliot’s thumbs moved over the keys, and we both waited for her reply. I moved closer to Elliot so I could see his phone. He took another drag on his cigarette as Sarah’s reply popped up.

THANK GOD YOU ARE OKAY!!! THOSE FUCKING ASSHOLES!! They deserve to be FIRED and if Y/N knows what happened I bet they will be!!

“Alright,” I said. “She’s testing you—she’s digging around to see if you’ve told me what happened. Little snake—I thought liked her.”

“How do you know that’s what she’s doing?” Elliot said as he exhaled more smoke, his voice starting to croak again.

“Stop smoking—you’re ruining your voice! Anyway, she said, ‘if Y/N knows what happened.’ That means she is fishing to see if you told me everything, probably because it’s pretty damn obvious I’m one of about five people you talk to at work. You need to tell her you don’t know what I know because you left after I let you out. Tell her I was pissed and the last thing you heard was something about checking the sign out sheet to find out who didn’t sweep the office and set the alarm.”

Elliot followed my instructions, including the one about stubbing out his cigarette. Sarah responded, once again, almost immediately.

I’m glad you’re okay and I still think they all acted like fucking assholes, but I know Aaron and Julia are sorry they didn’t stop it or come back to let you out. Actually if you didn’t answer me, they were gonna get Colin and go in to let you out.

“Yup—she just confirmed that she’s fishing for Aaron and Julia.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She’s friends with them—at least, I know they hang out. They’ve come to happy hour together before and I’m pretty sure Sarah eats lunch with that whole group. Sarah must’ve texted at their request because she’s one of those handful of people you talk to.”

Elliot shrugged his shoulders and said, “I thought she was nice.”

“People are fucking complicated,” I said, pushing off from the railing.

“What do I say next?”

“What would you normally say?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s your answer. Come on—I’m starving and I’m going to pull my gender card and make you grill up the meat because you’re the boy. Can you handle that?”

Elliot nodded.

“Hey,” I said, turning around so fast Elliot almost ran into me.

I put my hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

“They’ve taken up enough space in your mind. Do not give them any more today.”

Elliot nodded and licked his lips, his eyes growing a little watery as I looked into them.

As it turned out, Elliot was capable of cooking. The burgers and hotdogs turned out great, and as he manned the grill pan, I spread out the food we had been prepping all day. It was entirely too much, ridiculously indulgent, but I didn’t care. I was stressed—stressed about last night, stressed about Elliot being stressed, and stressed about having to deal with all of this absolute bullshit come Tuesday morning.

“Come on—let’s take our plates on the balcony,” I said, leading Elliot out the sliding glass door.

It was hot out, but not quite as muggy as it was on Friday night. It really did make for the perfect picnic weather, and even though I was listening to the cacophony of the city streets instead of the lapping of water at my parents’ house, I was determined to be happy.

I was determined to at least pull Elliot out of his anxious thoughts. I wasn’t so bold as to assume I could make him happy, but if I could distract him, that would be good enough.

I walked over to the little wrought iron table that sat in the corner of the balcony and pulled it away from the wall to make room for both of us to sit. Elliot sat across from me and looked completely dejected.

“Don’t let them ruin anymore of your weekend, El,” I repeated. “We slaved over this all day—let’s enjoy each other’s company and enjoy all this damn food we made. We can pretend this is it—this is our last night of existence. Nothing comes after this so there’s nothing to stress about.”

“Isn’t that a little morbid?” Elliot asked, a smile playing with his lips.

“All the best people in history have always been a little morbid, don’t you think?”

Elliot shrugged, but I kept the conversation flowing. Soon, the memory of Sarah’s texts began to fade from my mind, and I hoped they faded from Elliot’s, too.

After we both returned to the kitchen and piled our plates full again, Elliot laughed as I almost tripped and dumped everything on the floor. His reflexes were quick, reaching out to grab the arm that held my plate, but as I thanked him and moved toward the door again, Elliot didn’t let me go.

I looked at him and he said in a heartbreakingly soft voice, “Thank you.”

“This is what friends do,” I said, looking at him and smiling. “Not all people suck.”

“You don’t suck,” he said.

“Mmm—careful. That could be an insult if we were in a more . . . compromising position,” I said, winking at him and heading out to the table.  

“You don’t take compliments very well,” Elliot noted as he sat down across from me again.

“Well, look at you being all observant. But you’re right. I don’t. I’m sure it’s some deeply rooted, psychological bullshit,” I said as I bit into my hotdog.

“No. You’re just a good person. Humble. Even though you don’t have to be.”

“Is that how you see me, here in my luxury apartment that my daddy mostly pays for?”

“Don’t do that—don’t deflect,” Elliot said, his fork poised above his potato salad. “You always try to negate a compliment by using humor or by bringing up the one thing you can’t change—the one thing that isn’t your fault.”

I was silent, shocked by Elliot’s observation. Every time I thought he was distracted or uninterested, he was listening. And he clearly spent time thinking—about me.

“Use your words, Y/N,” Elliot said, a little grin playing with his lips so I could see he was being a smartass by parroting what I had told him.

“You’re a real shit, Elliot Alderson. Do you know that?”

He shrugged and took a big bite of potato salad.

* * * * *

After we finished dinner and put everything away, I walked over to Elliot’s backpack, picked it up, and brought it over to him.

“I say we smoke and finish the movie because I’m too stuffed to eat a s’more.”

Elliot nodded, opened his backpack, and pulled his box out while I went to the cupboard to grab a tray we could use since my coffee table was made of wood.

I watched as he neatly set everything out on the tray and broke the weed up. I watched his fingers pack the bowl, and when he was finished, he offered to let me hit it first, but I declined.

I watched Elliot take a hit, my eyes drinking in the way his fingers moved and the way his lips closed over the pipe, watching as he pulled the smoke into his lungs to hold it. He waited before exhaling slowly, and then he passed the bowl and lighter to me.

I copied his movements and also took a nice hit—deep enough and long enough to cause Elliot to raise his eyebrows.

I shrugged and handed the bowl back to Elliot as I enjoyed the head rush from my first hit in a long time.

It was good weed, and I sat back and let it take ahold of me, feeling really relaxed for the first time in longer than I’d like to admit.

We slowly smoked the bowl and once it was ready to ash, he turned it over, checked the holes and repacked.

We smoked again, and I felt ridiculously good, ridiculously content. Mostly, I wanted to stare at Elliot because my inhibitions were currently dwelling in a land of incoherence.

I sat facing him while he laid his head back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. I just couldn’t comprehend how fucking pretty he was. He had taken his hoodie off because it was too warm outside, so he was wearing a black t-shirt. Elliot had pulled on a pair of dark jeans, too, when we were at his apartment. His arms were relaxed at his sides and the bandaged hand closest to me was resting on the couch. For once, Elliot’s body was almost perfectly still.  

I was a calm person from day to day, but when I got high, I was pretty much a caricature of a pothead. I loved everyone and saw nothing but the beauty around me through the most sensuous haze. I wanted to giggle and talk about the cosmos, but things felt different with Elliot.

It took me a long time to piece together what I wanted to say to him.

I scooted closer to Elliot, squinting at him.

“Do you ever wish you could just reach out and stop time. Just like, grab the second hand and make it stop ticking?”

“Is that what you want, Y/N? To stop time right now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Elliot’s eyes were closed as his head rested on the back of the couch, but when I failed to answer him, he opened his eyes to seek mine out. I hadn’t stopped staring at his face, so his eyes met mine almost immediately.

“Because I really like you,” I breathed. “And if time keeps ticking, those feelings are going to make everything so complicated. I don’t think they’re going to go away and I’m afraid they’re not going to away but I’m also afraid they are going to go away and then I’d hate that and you’ve just got me all fucked up.”

“I really like you, too,” Elliot said, a little giggle bubbling out of his throat as his fingers twitched toward mine. “I think I feel the same fucked up way as you if I correctly followed what you said.”

I watched the movement of his fingers as they crept closer to mine. Our hands were barely a whisper apart, and it felt like there was poetry in that—we were so close, yet still so far.

But I was just too damn high to puzzle out that meaning.

I bypassed touching Elliot’s hand and moved into his lap. He lifted his head off the back of the couch to watch me. I perched closer to his knees, avoiding turning what I wanted to do into something overtly sexual.

I plucked Elliot’s hand off the couch and peeled away the bandages. I lifted his hand to my lips and began kissing his wounds, featherlight, noiseless kisses across each scrape, cut, and bruise. I repeated my kisses on his other hand, all while under Elliot’s watchful, half-lidded gaze. His lips were parted and he occasionally flicked his tongue out to wet them, but he never took his eyes off of me.

I placed a gentle kiss to the palm of each of his hands, enjoying the soft skin before I placed one of Elliot’s hands on my heart and the other on the side of my face. His fingers jumped a little, but I closed my eyes as I pressed my hands into his, his palm flattening out against my chest and my cheek.

“El,” I breathed, lost in the sensation of him, the weed making everything seem so far away yet so close that it was squeezing me from the inside out.

“I like it when you call me that,” Elliot whispered.

I smiled before releasing his hands and leaning forward to wrap my arms around him in a hug.

I felt his hands run across my back and snake underneath my shirt, softly caressing my lower back. I sunk into his ministrations as I clung to his neck and breathed in that citrus scent again.

I pulled back and smiled at him, his face so pretty in the haze of my high, his eyes smaller than usual, but still bigger than anyone else’s I’d ever met.

“Are we friends yet?” I asked.

Elliot seemed to genuinely consider the question before replying, “Yes.”

“Friends,” I said, feeling like I was tasting the word for the first time in my mouth.

Elliot smiled, clearly amused.

“Let’s finish the movie, friend,” he said, still smiling.

“Only if you’ll cuddle with me,” I said, wiggling off of Elliot’s legs.

He huffed, a tiny little laugh as he shrugged his shoulders.

He shifted his position to lay down on the couch, tucking himself into the cushions to make room for me on the outside. His head was propped up on a pillow and he was just slightly angled more on his back than on his side; in other words, he provided the perfect place for me to snuggle in.

I stretched out next him and damn near purred at the feeling of his body against mine. I wiggled back, trying to get as close to him as possible, and I giggled at the absurdity of cuddling on my sofa with Elliot fucking Alderson.

“You’ve gotta stop wiggling,” Elliot mumbled as he breathed in the scent of my hair. “Unless you wanna be more than friends.”

I wiggled into him again before giggling and promising to stop.

“Not yet,” I whispered.

We turned our attention to the movie and eventually dozed off. When I woke up, something way too bright was playing on the TV. I squinted my eyes and sat up, causing Elliot’s eyes to blink open.

I shut the TV off and pulled him off the couch, stopping to grab waters from the fridge before leading him to my bedroom. I shucked off my pants and squirmed out of my bra. Elliot pulled his jeans off and after a moment’s hesitation, his shirt, too.

“I want to snuggle you now,” I said, as I crawled into bed, my words thick with sleep.

Elliot got into bed and faced away from me. I aligned my body with his, and I wrapped my arm around his waist. His wounded hands were healing, their hurt practically forgotten as he pulled my hand tight to his body and secured himself in my grasp.

[feelingfredly]

The Fox Guards the Wolf

Chapter 20--Killing Two Birds with One Stone

Ichigo had been slogging away all afternoon.  His eyes burned and his fingers were considering committing mutiny, but he had to get to the end of this scene.  Coming back deal with a dead body was a bitch after you’d gotten past the high of killing them off.  Or at least it was when you were writing it.  He’d have to ask Kisuke if he wanted first-hand information.

He tried to imagine the look on the blond’s face as he answered. Would this be one of the answer-without-even-slowing-down questions, or one of the-just-how-much-can-I-actually-explain-without-making-this-weird questions? How long would they need to have been dating for him to start that conversation?  Three months?  Would they even get to three months?

Ichigo shook his head and forced away that train of thought.  One day at a time, Kurosaki, he told himself. You have to survive this mess with Okura before you start freaking out over relationship stuff.

Plus, he needed to focus on the very real need of getting his manuscript finished.  He’d had very little time to work on it lately, but the radio silence with Kisuke was driving him crazy and work was clearly his best escape, otherwise he’d just end up pacing the apartment trying to convince himself that waiting wasn’t a waste of time.

Kisuke was trained to deal with situations like this, or at least with people like Okura, and Ichigo knew his experiences dealing with low-level thugs didn’t qualify him for anything more than an occasional street fight; he’d long pushed past his skill parameters.

He kept telling Ichigo to wait, to stay safe, that he'd let him know when it was time to make the next move.  Maybe Ichigo had gotten to be too much of a handicap.   His position at the Onmi had never been anything but a joke to Kisuke, and now that they knew that the Director’s plan was to take the blond out of the equation one way or another, saddling him with a civilian ‘bodyguard’ was clearly meant to hobble him. Ichigo was supposed to be a distraction at best, and cannon fodder at worst. Kawasaki probably thought Kisuke’s bizarre knight-in-shining-bucket-hat routine would make him more vulnerable if he had to divide his attention between taking on Okura and protecting Ichigo. The fucker didn’t know what he’d done, though, because protecting the people he cared about was what Ichigo did. The fact that the Director didn’t mean for it to be real meant exactly nothing. Ichigo was going to protect Kisuke, damn it. Nothing was going to hurt him or anyone else as long as he was in the picture.

He was going to… knock, knock, knock. A quietly insistent rapping at the door broke into his mental diatribe.

He was going to answer the door, apparently.

His new apartment was technically in the same complex as the one he’d had with Renji, but it was an older building on the other side of the development, and they hadn’t gotten around to putting in much security. Kisuke had made up for that which was good because with his family still out of town there was no one who should be visiting him.  Ichigo reached up and pressed the tiny receiver button hidden in the shaggy edges of his hair.

One set of life signs in the hallway.   Female. Does not match any friends or family on file.  Running facial recognition subroutine.

The stripped-down version of the security AI Kisuke developed couldn’t do nearly as much as the original, but it was better than a peephole or a hackable video doorbell.

Facial recognition hit.  Maki Hideko.

Ichigo wrestled with the name for a moment before placing it as belonging to the woman he’d met at Okura’s office building.  His shitsuji.

“Just a minute!” Ichigo closed down his computer and disconnected it from the wifi.  He wasn’t exactly paranoid, but he didn’t want to run any unnecessary risks.

Once the humming stopped, he stood up from the desk, grimacing as his body groaned and popped in complaint at having been stuck in one position too long.

“If you’re from the NHK, I don’t even have a TV.  And I’m unemployed right now.” He grinned to himself at the absurdity of it, but there was no reason to let the butler know she’d been made, right?  He snagged his button-down from the back of the couch as he passed, slinging it around his shoulders as he opened the door.

“I told you,” he started, sticking with the pretense, and was gratified to see the look of consternation on the woman’s face.  “Oh!” He dropped a careless bow. “My apologies…  ah…   Maki-san…? I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

She was just as beautiful as Ichigo remembered, but something about the way she was dressed implied that this might be a less formal visit than their last had been.

“Please forgive me, Kurosaki-san.” Maki bowed much deeper than Ichigo had. “I hope I am not intruding.  It’s just that…” she turned her head to one side and lowered her lashes in a move that Yuzu had categorized as totally harmless look, number 3, and actually managed to blush. “Well, it’s just that Okura-dono has been worried about how things have been going for you. He was going to send someone over to check on you to make sure that you were settling in okay and that no one at the Onmi was giving you any trouble, so I volunteered.” She gave a little shrug, “You did say you were curious about shitsuji, and I thought I could kill two birds with one stone.”

Ichigo shifted his weight slightly on his feet.  Well, this was unexpected.   On the one hand, dealing with anyone sent by Okura was a gamble, but on the other...

“Oh, that is very kind of you to offer!” He bowed again, this time a little lower and with a smile instead of his typical scowl. “As you can see, I’m fine, and everyone at the Onmi has respected my resignation, so Okura-san needn’t worry. But I really would like to ask you some questions about your training and experiences. Could we go somewhere?  Maybe talk over a cup of coffee?”

Maki gave him a slow smile—ah yes… Gotcha, look number 2.  Thank you, Yuzu!—and said, “Make it tea, and you’ve got a deal.”

Tea it was, then.

***

“Yes, and then Okura-dono tripped over the tray that I left and ended up on the floor.  I was so afraid that he was going to fire me.  I mean, that is exactly what a good shitsuji is supposed to prevent from happening.  You’re supposed to know what your master needs before he knows.  Provide everything before their request can even be formed into words.”

Ichigo laughed at the image of Okura Kagetaka falling ass-over-teakettle but couldn’t help but notice that the stories being spun for him had been carefully crafted to make Okura a sympathetic character. Kisuke might play the buffoon at times, but he would never simply stumble over an inanimate object.  Actually, he’d managed to navigate Ichigo’s bedroom—a room he’d never even seen—backwards, in the dark, and with Ichigo’s mouth all over him without bumping into a single piece of furniture or tripping over the books on the floor or the cords stretched from the wall to the bed where his tech was charging.  It was unlikely that Okura had that much less situational awareness; Kisuke would have taught him better than that.

Good thing no one expected Maki Hideko to be a reliable narrator in this story.

“So, do most people think of you as an assistant? A servant?  A member of the family?  You hear so many conflicting stories, it’s hard to know what’s realistic.”

Maki sipped her tea and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“They are all realistic in their way. You see, there are as many roles for shitsuji as there are masters.  Every employer has a different set of needs and it is the duty of the shitsuji to fill those needs.  I joined my first master when he was very young. He had inherited a fortune and a position within his family’s company but was lacking in the administrative skills necessary to run a household.  For him I was everything from an administrative assistant to a proxy hostess, making sure that gatherings went smoothly, and guests were happy.  I left his employ when he married because his wife had a long-term family retainer who filled that place for her, and she was more comfortable running things without my assistance.”

Ichigo could put two and two together.  The wife hadn’t wanted someone around who would make her look bad in comparison.  It was hard to blame her. Maki Hideko would be hard to compete with.

“Then, I worked as an assistant to the shitsuji of a family whose head was a member of the Diet.  One butler was not nearly enough to fulfill the needs of that family, but when I was offered the opportunity to move on to assist one of his associates, I jumped at the chance to run a household on my own again. That’s how I ended up with Okura-dono.”

So, Okura was an associate to a member of the Diet.  That was a little heavier than Ichigo had expected, but honestly, politicians were politicians no matter how high on the food chain.  Okura had money and leverage, two things that politicians needed more than blood or oxygen.

“The hardest part about switching employers is where you have to completely reprogram your responses to things.  You might have a master who is a stickler about your being silent until you are spoken to.  It isn’t unusual, honestly—there are lots of masters who prefer to think of their shitsuji simply as tools, efficient and always at hand, and they pay well for the privilege—but then your next station could require that you handle correspondence proactively, or handle telephone calls and invitations without running everything past your master first. It can be difficult to change gears like that.”

“I’m assuming that Okura Kagetaka isn’t one of the don’t-speak-until-spoken-to masters?” Ichigo asked.

Maki gripped her teacup tighter, and Ichigo noted that her fingernails were short and well-manicured, probably so they wouldn’t interfere with her work.  Or her fighting.

“No.  Okura-dono isn’t like that.  He is very…  progressive in his expectations. Not many women become shitsuji, and I must admit that a few have very misguided notions of how we are to behave. It has been refreshing to have a master that respects my skills and allows me to take on new responsibilities.”

Ichigo had wondered about the whole female butler thing. The Butler Café fad sweeping through the city had to affect people who wanted to be taken seriously in the role, especially women.

“He seemed like a very talented guy.” Ichigo tried to sound sincere but perplexed. “I still don’t understand why he’s so invested in this whole situation with me and the Onmi, but I’m not going to ignore kindness when I see it.”

Maki sat back in her chair a little and looked at him over her tea.  “A very wise decision, Kurosaki-san.  Kindness is a rarity in this world.”

Ichigo nodded.  “Still it almost always comes at a price.”

They sat like that in silence for a few moments before Maki set her cup on the table and turned her full attention on him.  Her eyes were dark and lovely and if Ichigo hadn’t recently developed a thing for gray eyes they might have made an impact.

“Kurosaki-san,” she said, gingerly stretching her fingers across the table’s surface towards him, never being forward enough to actually touch him, but the suggestion of it was clear.  “I know that Okuro-dono is very powerful and it must feel strange to have earned his consideration, but he wants you to trust him, to rely on him as a mentor, even.  He sees so much potential in you and feels very strongly that it is his responsibility to keep watch over you.  He has known Urahara Kisuke for more than a decade; knows how dangerous he can be.  Believe me, he will do whatever he can to keep you from Urahara’s clutches.”

Clutches?  Ichigo had to smother a laugh and hide his face in his tea.  Hopefully he just looked overwhelmed by the attentions of a pretty girl.

She was really good at this, he admitted.  Nothing she said was untrue; Okura would do whatever he could to keep Ichigo from Kisuke.  It was his motivation that was suspect.

“I don’t know what to say,” he dipped his head a little.  “I started out just trying to help a stranger, and now I’m in the middle of something that I wouldn’t even put in my novel it seems so farfetched.”

Maki shifted and suddenly her chair was a little closer.  “I’ve been wanting to ask—I hope it isn’t too forward of me—but how does someone who selflessly helps a stranger in a coffee shop have the connections that you do to the Yakuza?”

Ichigo thought about how he should explain.

“I don’t, really,” he said, and could see the disbelief settle on her face. “I mean, they’re from the neighborhood, and I’ve known a lot of them since primary school.  The guy with me the other day?  His little brother and I were in the same class.”

“My dad was a cop, so I knew better than to run with them, and my mom…  well, she died because of a turf war when I was a kid.  Total case of wrong place/wrong time plus a healthy dose of it can’t happen to me. But, between those things I ended up being the guy the local gang wanted to recruit but couldn’t.   They tried to beat it out of me a couple of times, but I just learned how to fight back, and after a while…  well, it was almost like I’d earned enough respect that they let me be.”

“But Masuda…” Maki stopped the name short, clearly trying not to call attention to the fact that she knew his name when there was no reason for her to, “the man you were with the other day.  He called you boss.”

Ichigo let her play it off.  “Yeah, Masuda calls everyone boss, except his boss.  He calls Mamushi kumichō-dono.”

That seemed to satisfy her on some level.

“I thought it was strange,” she started, and then started again.   “Okura-dono doesn’t approve of Yakuza, so it seemed a little odd…”

Ichigo smiled. “Why would a nice guy like him help out a bad guy like me?   Yeah…  not with the Yakuza.  I mean, I’ve had more than my fair share of dealings with them—you can’t ignore them—but your boss isn’t sullying his hands by helping me.”

Two pink spots appeared on Maki’s cheeks and Ichigo thought she might actually be embarrassed. “I didn’t mean anything like that, Kurosaki-san.  I apologize most humbly if it came across that way.”

Ichigo nodded. “I understand.  Believe me.  I know what I look like.  You should see how they react to me when I’m working in the wards at the hospital.  *gasp* That’s my doctor?  No!”

He held his hands up to his chest in a dramatic motion of denial, and a tiny smile quirked Maki’s lip.

“Surely not, Kurosaki-san.  I am convinced that you have the patients eating out of your hands.”

Ichigo sipped his tea and gave a mournful look.  “Oh, if only, Maki-san.  It would have made my decision to be a writer instead of a doctor much harder if that had been the case.”

“A writer,” she looked suitably doubtful, like every other person he’d ever told that to, “and how does that work?”

At this point he had no idea why they were still talking, but why not.

“Well, when I was working at the Onmi it was easy.  I basically camped out in the corner of the room and wrote all day while other people did their stuff.  Before that I had to carve out whatever time I could between class and the hospital and family time.  I spent a lot of time in coffee shops, which is what got me into this mess in the first place.”

He thought back to that day and shook his head.  “Feels like forever ago.  Weird that it’s only been what?  A month and a half?”

“Seven weeks.” The words were out of her mouth so quickly she couldn’t stop them.  “Ah, that’s what Okura-dono…” she looked like she was trying not to swallow her tongue.

Ichigo nodded, “Yeah.  That’s about right.  Time flies.”

And if that didn’t make it clear that he’d been on Okura’s radar the whole time, he was a natural brunet.

Maki sat up even straighter and smiled, all seriousness banished and her almost-flirtatious edge back. “Hopefully, because you’re having fun.”

Well, Ichigo thought as he watched her change gears, a little flirtation never hurt anyone, and returned the smile.

“Good company makes everything more fun.”

***

Good company, indeed, Kagetaka thought, as he adjusted the sound on the receiver a little.

He quickly skimmed through the notes he’d taken, pleased with the groundwork Maki’d laid.  He’d told her to take it slow because Kurosaki wasn’t as easily led as his father, but he was clearly not immune to the pretty girl’s charms.  She already had him talking about Kisuke’s work at the Onmi.

“Yeah,” the redhead was talking again, “he was always working on it, and talking to it.  He called it Yoruichi.  I guess he named it after a friend.  Maybe an old partner? I don’t know.”

Maki made a disapproving noise and Kagetaka could just imagine the delicate purse of her lips. “I don’t recognize the name, but it sounds like the program that was that was stolen from Okura-dono. The man has even less honor than I’ve been told.”

Yoruichi. Kagetaka’s lips twisted in a smile. That had to be the activation code that he needed. It was so obvious… he should have guessed. Kisuke had an enormous soft spot for the woman—but now he knew, and it didn’t matter. With the code he’d be able to activate the main routine as soon as he’d pried it out of Kisuke’s servers. Even better, his last message from Kawasaki said that the Shihoin woman’s partner was being set on a path to intercept any trouble with Mamushi.  It was going to be a lovely irony to use her partner against her. He could sow a tale of domestic troubles that would muddy the waters even more when he finally made his move.

The microphone picked up a faint noise, maybe Kurosaki doing something with his cup, and Okura waited until he started talking again.

“This whole situation is so strange.” He sounded almost defeated. Good. “After I met your boss, I went straight to Urahara and asked if what I’d been told was true. I expected denials and explanations, but he didn’t deny it at all.  He admitted straight out that he destroyed a project Okura had been working on.  Said that it was too dangerous for a private business, and that Okura should know better. But if he didn’t destroy it.  If he kept it….”  Kurosaki’s voice drifted away and Kagetaka wished he had more than just audio on the scene.  It would be nice to be able to gauge the redhead’s reactions better.

“Too dangerous?  That’s ridiculous. Okura-dono’s projects are all for the good of the people.  He wants to keep them safe.”  Maki sounded so righteous when she was defending him.  He’d clearly chosen the right person for this job. “The only people who want to stop him are the ones who lurk in the shadows and are afraid of his light. The Yakuza is afraid of him because he will expose their secrets, and Urahara hates him because he couldn’t control him or make him into a carbon-copy killer.  You are lucky to have gotten away when you did, Kurosaki-san.   The man is a menace.”

Kurosaki sighed and shifted noisily again.   “And here I thought I’d gotten better at judging people.  Maybe that’s why I like writing better than reality.  With stories I can just make things work the way I want them to.”

Kagetaka smirked.  He didn’t need to resort to fiction to have things the way he wanted them.  All he needed was time for the plans he’d put in motion would come to fruition, and Urahara Kisuke would be no more.

He picked up the phone.

“Chiaki-san,” he spoke crisply, “let Director Kawasaki know that I’ve gotten the information that he requested.  He can visit me in my office whenever he’s available, the sooner the better.”

He glanced at the clock and texted Maki-san.  Appointment scheduled.  Please adjust the calendar accordingly.

The mic crackled a little and Kagetaka heard the message notification on Maki’s phone ping.

“Oh, Kurosaki-kun,” she said, “this has been most enjoyable, but it seems my free time has come to an end.”

He could hear the shuffling as the two of them rose to their feet.

“No rest for the wicked, hmm?” Kurosaki teased and murmured something to their server.  “Thank you, then, for spending your valuable free time satisfying my curiosity.”

There was a minor scuffle as Kurosaki insisted on paying the bill, but Maki gave in with good grace.

Good girl, he thought.  Keep him on the hook a little longer.  It would be wise to keep tabs on the young man, even if he was just a pawn in the game.

“It was my pleasure, Kurosaki-san,” she said. Her bow was almost silent, only the sound of her hands whispering along the material of her slacks giving it away.  “Perhaps you will be able to use some of the information I provided in your stories.”

That was greeted with a short laugh and Kagetaka could hear the warmth in Kurosaki’s tone as he responded. “If there wasn’t a place for it already, I would make one.   It will be very useful.  Thank you.”

Kagetaka turned off the receiver and nodded. Very useful indeed.

[bewitching-elizabeth-olsen]

Press: Elizabeth Olsen Opens Up for Who What Wear's September Cover

  Gallery Links:

Studio Photoshoots > 2019 > Session 006

Studio Photoshoots > 2019 > Session 006 – Behind the Scenes

  WHAT WHEN WEAR: A loose linen blouse. An untouched plate of madeleines. An empty French bistro in the Valley on a Tuesday at 4 p.m. These are the poised circumstances under which I spend an afternoon attempting to better understand one of Hollywood’s most discreet young celebrities: Elizabeth Olsen.

The 30-year-old actress’s identity doesn’t seem like it would lend itself to much mystery. Since 2014, Olsen has starred as the Scarlet Witch in Marvel’s superhero movie franchise—one of the most-watched film series in entertainment history. (This summer’s Avengers: Endgame quickly became the second-highest-grossing movie of all time.) It’s a role she’ll reprise later with WandaVision, a Disney+ spin-off series about her superhero character coming spring 2021. In the meantime, Olsen executive produces and stars in Sorry for Your Loss, a drama series following Olsen as Leigh, a young widow struggling to deal with the sudden loss of her husband. (The show airs on Facebook Watch, and its second season premieres October 1.) By any objective measure, business is booming for Olsen, the younger sibling of Ashley and Mary-Kate, who long ago reached a level of fame so behemoth they no longer need a last name. The Olsens are as much American royalty as the Kennedys or the Rockefellers. I should know everything about Elizabeth Olsen.

And yet, as soon as she walks through the door of Petit Trois (the setting she chose for our interview) and introduces herself to me, it sinks in how little I do know. “I’m Lizzie,” she says with a jumpy half-hug, half-handshake—though the awkwardness is entirely my fault. I’m caught off guard that the young starlet lives just outside of L.A., around the corner from where she grew up (I would have pegged her for more of a hip Eastside girl), and I never knew she went by the cozy nickname. “Thanks for coming to the Valley,” she says, smiling.

Following behind two heavy-hitting child stars turned esoteric fashion moguls, Olsen, who decided at a young age to pursue a career in acting (and obtained a degree in it from NYU), had prodigious shoes to fill. Her on-screen breakout, a critically lauded lead in the 2011 Sundance hit Martha Marcy May Marlene, suggested that Olsen would be taking a cleverly divergent route from her older sisters—one of a risk-taking indie cinema darling. Some of her filmography still reflects that identity—roles in quirky small-budget dramedies like 2012’s Liberal Arts and 2017’s Ingrid Goes West.

Maybe that’s why, even after all the Marvel movies, which are about as commercial as they come, I still see her in that light. Or maybe it’s Olsen’s enigmatic personal life, almost laissez-faire approach to style (“A combination of suburban mom meets little boy,” is how she describes it), and overall serenity of manner that create the sort of intrigue that independent film girls tend to have.

Her current project, Sorry for Your Loss, certainly has some of that indie energy, simply because Facebook Watch is still a new and unknown content platform. Olsen admits that selling the show to Facebook felt like a scary move in the beginning since most audiences don’t know that watching TV on Facebook is a thing at all. Moving into season two, she’s still figuring out the best way to spread the word to audiences. “There is no precedent, and that can be really challenging,” Olsen emphasizes. Still, there are major pluses to the marriage of television and social media, especially for a show that addresses a topic as personal and underrepresented as grief. “The show living on Facebook has been interesting because of the dialogue people get to have about their own experiences with grief and loss on the platform,” Olsen says.

The actress is looking forward to audiences’ feedback on season two, which finds Leigh “taking big swings, making big mistakes, and trying to figure out the balance.” As Olsen says, “Grief isn’t something that you ever just shut a door on or move forward from. It’s very cyclical.”

Olsen, however, will not be participating in these conversations with fans herself, because—ironically—she’s not on Facebook. She didn’t have a trace of social media presence until 2017. She finally downloaded Instagram shortly after the release of Ingrid Goes West, in which she pulls off playing a very convincing L.A. influencer. In contrast to millennial celebrities who use social media to speak about everything from beauty products to social justice, Olsen doesn’t feel the obligation to be any sort of influencer, politically or otherwise. “If I like blending into a wall, screaming from a stage isn’t something that would help me enjoy my life,” she says. “Sometimes I just don’t want to be part of a conversation because I don’t want anyone looking my way.”

As it turns out, privacy and stability inform everything about Olsen’s life—from how she dresses to the roles she chooses—more than any desire to seem “cool.” She lives in suburbia with her fiancé, musician Robbie Arnett, where she enjoys cooking, eating, and dabbling in interior design. “I love food more than I love anything that has to do with clothes,” she says, starkly contrasting her stylish sisters. (Though the actress is more of a beauty girl—she currently serves as a global ambassador for Bobbi Brown Cosmetics.) Categorizing herself as an “obsessive, detailed perfectionist” beset with a heavy dose of social anxiety, Olsen prefers poring over moldings and wood stains than obsessing over how her body looks in a dress and which angle she should pose in.

Transforming into a character—wearing costumes, acting on camera—puts the performer right at home, but photoshoots and red carpets, which give her no role to disappear into, are a source of great distress. “I don’t like standing out in a crowd,” she tells me just after ordering the dainty plate of madeleines. Our server also named raspberry tarts and pains au chocolat on her list of available pastries, but down to her desserts, off-screen Olsen likes to keep it simple.

“At 30, I feel like I’m finally getting to an age that was meant for my personality,” the actress says with no ounce of irony. “Just domesticated. A homebody.” I introduce her to the term JOMO: the joy of missing out. “Yeah… that,” she confirms. “I never feel bad about not leaving my house.”

Quietude feels inherent to Olsen’s personality, but it’s also something she learned from her family. She tells me her parents have had the same group of 10 friends their whole lives; so have her older sisters. Like other famously private Hollywood families (the Coppolas, the Fondas), the Olsens justifiably keep their circles tiny and exclusive to those with whom they have history—those they can trust. “I don’t have too many friends that I’ve met through work,” Olsen says. “I care about privacy. I don’t have a desire for people to speak about me.” Bottom line: Lizzie Olsen is not particularly interested in fame.

Ultimately, no matter how superhuman she appears on the big screen, Olsen values a fairly normal life: She wants her pastries from Petit Trois, where everybody knows her; she wants her white button-downs and her stable paychecks from Facebook and Marvel (most of which she’s been tucking away in savings to prepare for a family, she says). “Maybe I think about things too rationally, but my career goals are longevity and stamina,” Olsen tells me. “Working steadily, feeling challenged, and just kind of hunkering down for a bit.” One day, that paycheck might come from a less visible job; Olsen says that later in life she’d like to go back to school for a degree in architecture, interior design, or landscaping. “I’m interested in the new science of irrigation and water conservation in California,” she shares. “I could be someone who’s lived multiple lives, multiple careers.”

Before heading out, Olsen packs the six madeleines, which have all gone untouched, in a to-go box for later, when she’s home, to savor in her quiet, happy place. “The next career could be a lot more private,” she says. “Maybe. We shall see.”

Press: Elizabeth Olsen Opens Up for Who What Wear’s September Cover was originally published on Elizabeth Olsen Source • Your source for everything Elizabeth Olsen

[health-store-001]

Do you know dementia?

Some people lose their memory when they become old due to many reasons. Their cognitive functions, thinking, remembering and behavioural abilities are lost. This is a mental disease called dementia. There are many reasons for dementia. The most common reason is Alzheimer’s disease and injuries, some disease conditions also cause. Not only among the elders but also rarely can be seen among the young peoples. Some kind of dementias are reversible and some are not. It differs according to the cause.

Types of Dementia

Alzheimer’s disease; This is the most common type of dementia. About 60 to 80% of dementia is Alzheimer’s dementia. This occurs due to Alzheimer’s disease. This is an irreversible type of dementia. Due to the death of brain cells, destroys memory and thinking skills of the patient and then absent even the ability to carry out the simplest tasks. Symptoms start from short term memory loss and depressed mood.

Vascular dementia; The second most common dementia. Due to the decrease in blood flow to the brain, this occurs. After the atherosclerotic disease or stroke-like vascular problems, this start. In the early stages, confusion and disorientation can be seen. They appear in slowly or suddenly. They can't keep their concentration for a long period.

Dementia with Lewy bodies; Deposits the proteins on the nerve cells. Then pass the messages through the nerve cells are inhibited. It is a cause for memory loss. They experience visual hallucination. They have sleep pattern disturbances, faintness, tremors, inability to work, weakness like symptoms.

Parkinson’s disease; This dementia type starts in the patient with Parkinson’s disease. Problems with reasoning and judgment, hallucinations, understanding problems, memory impairments, difficult to speak are the symptoms in this type of dementia. These patients gots irritable and angry in most times.

Frontotemporal dementia; This is called also Pick’s disease. A type of young-onset dementia. Family history and mutations in certain genes are the main causes. The common symptoms are disinhibited behaviour, compulsive behaviour, speech problems and forgetting. Affect to frontal parts of the brain.

Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease; This is a very rare type. Only 1 in 1 million people are diagnosed with it every year. The symptoms are the same as other types of dementia. This affects and works quickly to the patient and lead to death within a year after diagnose. This affect patient's body also. can be seen twitching and muscle stiffness.

Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome; This occurs due to vitamin B deficiency. There is internal bleeding in lower parts of the brain in this disease. Starts to blurred vision and loss of muscle coordination in In Wernicke’s disease. Then stops the physical symptoms of Wernicke’s disease and Korsakoff syndrome starts to appear. Korsakoff syndrome patients can't process information, learning new skills, remembering things. Both of these diseases are categorized as one disease. This occurs as a result of malnutrition or chronic infections.  The most common cause of this vitamin deficiency is alcoholism. Korsakoff syndrome is a memory disorder caused by advanced Wernicke’s disease.

Mixed dementia; If one person has many causes of dementia called mixed dementia. Most commonly combined together vascular and Alzheimer’s dementia. There are 45% of dementia patients have mixed dementia. Symptoms are the same as other types. Memory loss and disorientation at first and then the inability to speak and walk are the symptoms.

Normal-pressure hydrocephalus (NPH); 5% of dementia patients are this type of dementia patients. The extra fluids in the brain’s ventricles are produced excessively. It causes damage to the brain and occurs dementia. Causes for this type of dementia are, Injury, bleeding, infection, brain tumour, previous brain surgeries and some times cause is not known. Symptoms are a poor balance, forgetfulness, changes in mood, depression, frequent, falls, loss of bowel or bladder control. early detections are helped to prevent further damages of the brain.

Huntington’s disease; This occurs due to genetic factors.  Juvenile and adult-onset are the two types. The juvenile dementia is rarer. The symptoms start in childhood or adolescence. The adult form typically first causes symptoms in a person’s 30s or 40s. Premature breakdown of the brain’s nerve cells is the cause. Inability to walking, swallowing, focusing on a task, control problems, speak and learning new things are the symptoms.

Other causes; Other causes of dementia. diseases like multiple sclerosis, HIV cause dementia.

Signs and Symptoms

The symptoms depend on the cause of mental disease. Symptoms differ according to the patient's personality before he becomes ill. There are three types of symptoms.

Early Stage; These are starting to appear just after the onset of the disease. Examples are forgetfulness, losing track of the time and becoming lost in familiar places. In this stage, symptoms can’t be seen clearly.

Middle stage; Patients starts to problems with others. Symptoms start to appear clearly. Forgetful of recent events and people’s names, difficulty with communication, lost at home, missed personal care and experiencing behaviour changes, including wandering and repeated questioning are the symptoms.

Late-stage; In this stage patient's condition become severe and symptoms are seen sharply. Patient depends on others due to loss of memory. Loss of awareness, difficulty recognizing relatives and friends, depend on others, difficult to physical activities and behaviour changes are the main symptoms.

Risk Factors

Age; Aging is the main risk factor. Though ageing is not the cause of the disease, age people are the most affected group. After the 65years old, generally occur. But young-onset dementia occurs before 65 years.

Family history; People with a family history of dementia are more prone to affect dementia. But this is not the cause of all time. Someone having a family history might not affect the disease always.

Down syndrome; When coming to middle age person suffers from Down syndrome, more prone to onset early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.

Other; Conditions like depression, social isolation, low educational level are additional risk factors for dementia.

Diagnosis of the Dementia

There are several tests do detect dementia. Early detection is important because some types of dementia can be reversible. Basically, a thyroid function test, normal pressure hydrocephalus, or a vitamin deficiency that may relate to cognitive difficulties are doing.

History taking; Patients family history, how to start symptoms, other medical conditions, cognitive and behavioural changes of the patients are assessed. Physical examination; assesses the patient’s physical diseases which may cause to dementia. Neurological test; Assessing balance, sensory response, reflexes, and other cognitive functions.

Treatments of Dementia

Treats according to the cause of the disease. Can treat for the symptoms and causes due to there are no treatments for the disease. By the treatments, can be early detection of the disease, optimize the patient physical health, improve cognition, physical activities, prevent accompanying physical diseases, treating challenging behavioural and psychological symptoms and educate the relations. Treatments are two types as drugs and non-drugs.

Drugs treatments

Cholinesterase inhibitors; improves memory. They improve chemical messengers. Alzheimer’s disease, vascular dementia, Parkinson’s disease dementia and Lewy body dementia. Donepezil, galantamine, rivastigmine like diseases treated by cholinesterase inhibitors.

Memantine; Regulates the glutamate which chemical messenger that involve in brain functions activity. Glutamate is affected by brain functions. It is given as a combined with a cholinesterase inhibitor.

Other medications; some medications used to treat other symptoms, like depression, sleep disturbances, hallucinations, parkinsonism or agitation. Those drugs are changes according to the symptoms.

Non-drugs Treatments

Occupational therapy; the occupational therapies use to teach the patient how to lives in his environment. patients with dementia live at a risk for mental and physical harm. Occupational therapists teach how to make their home safer and how to reduce accidents. They teach coping behaviours.

Environmental changes; This helps the patient to keep his concentration. Reduces the noise and clutter around the patient. Can reduce accidents by keeping the environment without harmful objects. Naming the equipment and directions also a method that uses help them to decrease the injuries.

Dementia is a progressive disease. The severity of dementia is increasing with time. The duration which takes severity differs from each other. The symptoms in a person may disturb to relations and society. Bu patient is not wrong. Dementia patients are actually innocent and helpless. They need your kindful help.

For more information regarding a mental health or other health topics, search helabeauty.info website.

[janeaustentextposts]

What’s your take on Fanny’s relationship with Sir Thomas? TBH one of my favorite father/daughter dynamics in Austen’s novels.

It’s been a good decade since I last visited Mansfield Park in full, so I can’t say I got much of a lingering impression of Sir Thomas’ dynamic with Fanny. I’m going back to read, in particular, how he behaves with regards to Henry Crawford’s proposal. Compared to Mrs. Norris, Sir Thomas is certainly a less insidious figure, but I don’t know if I then can categorize that as…more benevolent, if that makes sense? His relationships with his own children are not what I’d call warm and natural–they seem to fear/revere him as a distant paternal figure, and certainly no one confides in him. Every one of the Bertram children is ultimately a little wayward in their own fashion, and Fanny’s subordinate position in the household perhaps makes their dynamic different, simply because there is less friction. She is very much beholden to his good grace, and she knows it–she has less right than his own children to claim a home and education at Mansfield Park which is far better than what her own parents could have afforded her. She is obliging and supportive to Lady Bertram, and I can certainly see Sir Thomas being fond of the way that Fanny’s innate gratitude, as well as her moral superiority (and lack of being spoiled) compels her to better behaviour than is found in Maria or Julia, especially.

Sir Thomas, whether aware of it or not, comes to rely on this tractability in Fanny, which is evident in his lengthy speech to her of his disappointment and disgust when she refuses Henry Crawford’s proposal. He’s all compliments and concern and affability when Fanny is being a biddable, good sort of girl, but the moment she expresses the slightest resistance, he grows thunderously displeased. He has a sense of noblesse oblige, in the order of his world, and is content to leave the raising of Fanny to Mrs. Norris, rather than overly taxing himself or even his wife to closely follow the girl’s upbringing and care. He seems to momentarily regret this when he sees Fanny has no fire, and realizes, at least, the unnecessary deprivation of material comforts she has suffered…but then he is quick to excuse Mrs. Norris by some vague acknowledgement that she Meant Well and he knows Fanny is too good a person to hold a grudge about it…and Fanny is in no position to disagree with him, there. She views the entire scene with the horror of a schoolgirl being examined in her lessons, rather than as a fond family chat. Only when she is roused by her repulsion at the prospect of marrying Henry Crawford can she summon even the faintest objection, and this mere mistrust and modest uncertainty immediately tips Sir Thomas into a bunch of gaslighting bluster about how she cannot know what is best for herself, or what she even means by her own, few words.

He talks of Maria and Julia’s prospects, and the virtues of Mr. Crawford’s wealth and position, and it’s clear he sees the young ladies of his family, under his care, as being ultimately his which he can dispose of as he sees fit. He cannot understand Fanny’s objections to Crawford, and more than that, he cannot understand that Fanny could have any objections to Crawford, given that he has made his approval clear. He berates her for ingratitude, above all other things, and this cuts Fanny to the quick–all she has done is to exert herself to be worthy of the charity she has been shown by her relations, for the expense Sir Thomas has undertaken in bringing her to Mansfield Park, and now it has all been for nothing, because he thinks the very worst of her for not being guided meekly by his opinions. He relents a little, merely as strategy, thinking that perhaps she could use a little time to get used to the idea, but very nearly insists she go and refuse Mr. Crawford (for a second time, face to face, after she dismissed his initial declaration, and then wrote back to Mary’s sly letter refusing to allow any talk of an engagement,) and he only stops himself because he realizes Fanny looks frightful after having CRIED SO HARD and thinks it might scare Henry off, if he sees her like that.

He then goes down to dismiss Crawford himself, and he plays it like he’s doing Fanny a favour. “Of course he left, of course when he heard how upset you were he withdrew like a gentleman…but of course he wanted five minutes alone with you and of course I promised he could have them so, like, let’s say tomorrow, if you could please calm down before then. And for now, don’t talk to anyone else about this or let on that anything untoward has happened.”

And Fanny is GRATEFUL to him for that. She sees it as a consideration, that she is going to be spared Mrs. Norris’ reproach on the matter. Mrs. Norris is a monster and I won’t pretend otherwise, but it feels very weird to me that Fanny’s metric for kindness is so skewed that repression and an extremely brief reprieve is seen as a favour Sir Thomas is doing her. She’s modest and naive enough that she doesn’t see his motives in buying a little time, either–he wants no one to speak of it so that no rumours of Mr. Crawford’s failure could spread–he wants to let all he has said to marinate in Fanny’s consciousness for a day, and let her have no chance to mull the matter over with input from anybody else: if she escapes being berated by Mrs. Norris, she likewise can’t even talk the matter over with someone potentially more kind and understanding, like Lady Bertram. Sir Thomas even mentions his wife by name, and says HE will not tell her. Again, interestingly, this is couched in language which is conciliatory, as if he’s doing Fanny a great favour by not even talking it over with his own wife…but then the implication is that if he isn’t saying a word to Lady Bertram, Fanny certainly may not. Lady Bertram is not the aunt Fanny fears, and he knows this.

He later gives orders for her to have a fire lit in her sitting-room, every day in the winter, and this further compounds Fanny’s guilt…and I’d be shocked if this wasn’t behind Sir Thomas’ apparent altruism, too. I just don’t see his motives as being too pure, after all that he says to her in the wake of her refusal of Henry. She trusts that Sir Thomas is a good man, and that he will understand her position, in time. And perhaps he could, if Fanny could explain it, and if the time given was the time allowed for Crawford’s true nature to come out, in his behaviour towards Maria. Sir Thomas has not counted on the way that Fanny’s consultation within herself, with her own knowledge of what is right, strengthens her resolve, even in the face of his manipulation of her guilt. His games and bullying do not work on her, in the long run, though in the short term they make her very miserable, indeed. Fanny’s whole point is that her emotional isolation within the Mansfield Park household has made her reliant on her own moral instincts, and this is so inward that nobody but those who know her very well might see it. Sir Thomas simply doesn’t know her well enough to alter his tactics, and his patriarchal position in his own family and patterns of behaviour have, until this point, given him no reason to attempt that change. To his mind, Fanny is the one who must be worked upon and made to take his views as her own.

And then, after he has given every indication that Fanny need not expect to have to face Henry Crawford until the next day, she is suddenly summoned to his study after tea in the evening, which would have been served after dinner, which easily places the event between 7 or 9 o’clock at night–he can’t even let Fanny have the repose of one night to sleep on it, but forces her to face Henry, then. Henry, interestingly, displays a dogged determination which rather reminds me of Mr. Collins’ proposal to Elizabeth Bennet, thinking that her delicacy might prevent her from knowing her own feelings, and thinking that her resistance may be some design (deliberate or unconscious) to heap further fuel upon his thwarted desire. He thinks Fanny merely too modest and young to be anything other than momentarily overwhelmed–and that, once she sees things his way, she will of course accept him. Sir Thomas has evidently said nothing to Crawford to indicate otherwise. (Because of course men listen more readily to other men than to when a woman has clearly and often said No Thanks.) Fanny is still being worked on by her feelings of gratitude, her obligation to Sir Thomas’ expectations as well as Henry’s own involvement in helping secure her dear brother’s promotion in his career. This wasn’t the five minutes Sir Thomas had told Fanny to expect–it takes an HOUR, and Henry is not remotely put off by her rejection. Sir Thomas, too, listens more to Crawford, with more pity for Crawford, than for any consideration of Fanny’s feelings, the following day. They strategize together for Henry’s success.

“Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received      with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.”

I find myself obliged to point out the motherfucking patriarchy at work, here.

Sir Thomas decides to aim for kindness, but resolves to do everything in his power to delicately undermine Fanny’s resistance, to make it clear that everyone in her family wishes her to marry Mr. Crawford. He promises that they’ll all behave as if it never happened, and never mention the matter again, except he kind of has to bring it up again to tell Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris because Henry has zero chill and it’s not like Sir Thomas can tell him to check himself for the sake of Fanny’s comfort. He continues to believe in Mrs. Norris’ good intentions, though there’s a very dry line about her being, in his opinion, almost “one of those well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable things.” Like, he realizes she is CONSTANTLY A THORN IN EVERYBODY’S SIDE but of course it’s easier for him to not deal with it, so he’s just going to insist she’s not REALLY an asshole.

In the days that follow, Sir Thomas does everything in his power to get Fanny to break down her objections to Henry, even going so far as to endorse the scheme of her visit to Portsmouth, thinking the sinking back into comparative poverty will make her see the value of a good income. His stance is clear: “…he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through…” and given that he let Maria marry Mr. Rushworth, it’s clear that he does not value anybody’s feelings more highly than status and wealth, and Crawford’s alleged passion is merely another lever Sir Thomas sees to use to make Fanny settle as he wants her to settle.

Perhaps Sir Thomas is more indulgent to Fanny when she’s a child, and more contrite when Henry’s elopement with Maria has justified Fanny’s suspicion, but on the basis of his treatment of Fanny in the middle of the novel when she is so clearly distressed and determinedly stating her conviction that she and Henry would both be miserable, I’m going to have to disagree with the supposition that theirs is a sweet and healthy parent-figure sort of relationship.

[sparklymango9]

Và khi tro bụi (Đoàn Minh Phượng) - Chapter 01 / English Translation

And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return

Henry Vaughan 1622 - 1695 (The Retreat)

1. After the foggy day

My husband passed away in an accident. His car fell off a mountain pass blanketed in the fog around 5 P.M on a November afternoon. Nobody knows where he was heading to on that day, at that time. He didn't have anything to do or anyone to see in the area that the mountain pass would have led him to. I cannot fully comprehend his death.

I wanted to bring his urn to a hill in Midland, pour his ashes on the grass, then bring the empty urn back and put it beside the window, where I had been standing for seven days straight staring down the street outside my house. But nobody let me do it. His mother arranged a ceremony at Friedsdorf Cementery Chapel. After that, my husband was cremated and the urn containing the ashes was then placed in a building where such urns are stored. Rules do not allow me to take it home. I don't know how long they are going to keep the urns for. Neither do I have any idea of how many years the ashes carrying one's name would need to be kept, so that others can be reminded that this individual was once present on the surface of the Earth, under the sky.

Where I was born, white is the color of death, not black. I thought I had forgotten about it, but I still remembered. And when I remembered, suddenly it turned into an important matter, absolutely important in a life in which nothing matters anymore. At the funeral, I put on a long white dress. As I stepped into the chapel, everyone casted a glance at me then hurriedly looked away, as if trying to subtly avert their eyes from a monstrous mistake. "Don't make me do it differently. I only have this one time in my life to wear a white dress for him", I thought to myself.  

There's a woman in the same block as me whose husband died. She then dropped all curtains down, started living in an unlit house and stopped seeing people. A friend of my husband told me about her and added: "You have to accept that your husband is gone. We all must die. You can cry to your heart's content but then you have to carry on living as a normal person. Don't let his death turn you into a ghost". "Don't worry about me", I answered him, "I won't live in the dark. I will forget him, I promise". Then I tried to forget each and every thing that happened in each and every passing day of that period in my life - starting from the day I met him to the day he died.

I pour all photos of him and photos taken by him on the table. Cities, mountains and forests he passed by; a newly blooming flower in the vase; a half-drunk cup of coffee; a pair of slippers... If I stare at them long enough, the space behind those old photos would take me far away and sink me deeper into all the times that he used to live. I do not want to see the photos to go back to the past. I put them on the table to figure out how to seperate them from my life. I put them in order according to place and time, then put them in different paper bags. I write outside the bags which trip each photo had been taken in and tied them with strings. I don't know what to do with them, but after long nights categorizing the photos, at least I have found an identifiable place for them. Once they have their own place, maybe they would stop haunting me.

I can't light a huge fire and burn everything he left behind. I have to stay awake day and night to gaze at the traces of his past, then put them away, in order to push them all from my life. A book he hasn't finished reading, a bottle of eye drops, a striped towel bought at some shabby flea market in Kenya, a thermos flask with coffee he'd brought along to a long trip. Objects that can't speak but are in no way silent. They breathe quietly during the day, then toss and turn in sleepless nights. I have to take them in my hand, each by each, then look at them until they know that I understand, and only after that do they stop tossing and turning. Then I put them away inside a chest and close the lid.

What do I understand? Death?  

Sometimes I think I don't miss him anymore. But then a strange moment would come rushing back. It's not a full episode, just a short and vivid moment. He would smoke half a cigarette, put it out and shove it into his pocket to save it for later. Then he would completely forget about those half-smoked cigarettes. Back in the day, I used to fish them out from his shirt pockets and throw them away. Many years after he passed, suddenly my hand would touch the cigarettes in the back of my mind. They might even be a bit damp in the end that he once held in his mouth. Feeling of longing is nothing but the return of one fleeting moment. There's no month or year between that moment and the present. It is the present itself.

It took me three months to put all of his belongings into different chests. I sent them to his parent and they kept them in the basement. After a decade someone would wonder why the chests are there and discard them.

After pushing away everything that can remind me of his existence and tenaciously holding on to the promise that I will forget him and the process of forgetting will be completed, it suddenly hit me that I would die after him. If I carry on living with a constant feeling of longing, I'd live like a ghost haunted by grief. But I can't bear to forget anything else in my life. Every time I burnt a memory, my mind drifted above the ground in a sense of loss which cannot be filled by anything. I am left with nothing, my soul is nothing but a pile of ash.

It took me only one day to discard my belongings. I gave away my clothes and books, glassware and kitchen utensils. I entrusted my key to a real estate company and asked them to sell my house along with all furniture inside. Then I set out on a journey to look for death.

I should have died within two weeks after my husband's death. I should have died when I have yet to believe that he was gone, when I have yet to understand that death is real. When I have yet to admit that misfortune has befallen me. I should have died in one of those nights where I didn't feel sad upon waking up because I thought he was still lying next to me. I should have died when I was panicked, when in my daydream I could see his silhouette in every street corner, when I could see the tiny light from his lit cigarette, or the faint smoke that doesn't want to go away. I should have died without knowing that death needs to be understood.

But I didn't die in one of those days. There can be no longer a vague death, a death dyed in a shade of dark purple, being placed right in the center of a tornado of miseries. A chosen death is the only thing left. It needs to be understood, even though the only one who understands it is me.

I leave home. One day I'd die on the road, in an unknown place. In three months I'm going to pick up the pieces of myself. Death is a full stop. Every full stop wants to bear the meaning of the sentence preceding it. I want to know who I am, in order to know who dies on the day I die.

I will live on the train. I will meet many people, but nobody knows who I am. I want them to always remain strangers and no matter to whom I talk to, I'm not going to see them for the second time. If I have a place to live, a bakery where I buy my bread every morning, a street where I'm familiar with each window of every house, I'd end up having acquaintances, memories and somewhere to belong. What is home but a mere repetition. I don't want anything of those. I know it's hard to part with the ground, so I will live on trains. It took me three months to put the blankets my husband draped over himself into a chest. It will also take me three months to gather my things and keep them somewhere. This time I'm not putting them in any chest. Things I posssess is invisible to the eye. I have yet to know where to put them, the way nobody knows where to keep the wind. When I'm done, I will poison myself. I have no acquaintance, nothing left in life to do, nowhere else to go. Three months from now, I will buy my last ticket and my destination wouldn't be any city. It's going to be somewhere else.

I dyed my hair brown, picked white makeup powder and dark-colored lipstick. I bought a suitcase and some luxury handbags, stuff in there new clothing: some pair of pants, blouses, pajamas, soft underwear, expensive soap and makeup products, a comb and a handheld mirror. Extravagant items make up for the inconvenience of living on the train. Extravagant items carry with them fake values, make the customer feel as though they were unreal and distanced from the ordinary world.

When I need to sleep, I pick a sleeper car. When I need a quiet space, I buy first-class ticket. But most of the time, I find for myself a window seat in a second-class car.  

In between the trains, sometimes I get off in unfamilar cities, bring my clothes to a laundromat, have my hair washed in a spa, loiter up and down the street, walk into a cafe, a shoe store or a book shop. When having dinner in town, I order good wine and never finish it. I avoid sleeping in hotels. I avoid sleeping on a comfortable bed on the ground. I always come back to train platforms. Gradually I get used to the rumbling sound of the train in my sleep, the way sailors get accustomed to their ship.  

[soyboyjames]

Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus by Nabeel Qureshi

10 Favorite Lines:

On the rare occasion that someone does invite a Muslim to his or her home, differences in culture and hospitality may make the Muslim feel uncomfortable, and the host must be willing to ask, learn, and adapt to overcome this. …Only the exceptional blend of love, humility, hospitality, and persistence can overcome these barriers, and not enough people make the effort.

Muslim immigrants often associate Western immoralities with Christianity, and correlation becomes causation in the minds of the uncritical… They did not categorize religion with belief but with cultural identity. The tragedy here is that no one has given them a reason to think otherwise. If they were to intimately know even one Christian who lived differently, their misconceptions might be corrected, and they might see Christianity in a virtuous light.

…the gospel requires a radical life change, and not many people are about to listen to strangers telling them to change the way they live… On the other hand, if a true friend shares the exact same message with heartfelt sincerity, speaking to specific circumstances and struggles, then the message is heard loud and clear. Effective evangelism requires relationships. There are very few exceptions.

“If Christianity were true, would you want to know it? …you’d have to admit to yourself that you were wrong all these years, and that’s not easy. It would also mean you’d have to go back through your entire life and sort out everything you ever thought you knew about God and religion. That’s tough, man. I can easily imagine not wanting to do that.”

“…‘I already believe something’ is not a good reason to continue believing it. You need better reasons, ones that are grounded in objective facts.”

Historical method: Criteria and techniques used by historians to systematically investigate the past. …Criterion of multiple attestation: …a recorded event is more likely to be historically accurate if it is recorded in multiple independent sources …Criterion of early testimony: …early accounts of an event are more likely to be accurate than later accounts, all else being equal

“There isn’t really a case for Buddhism. …Christianity is really unique like that. With Christianity, either Jesus died and rose from the grave or he didn’t. That’s something you can build a case for.”

…the value of apologetics… All my life, barriers had been erected that kept me from humbly approaching God and asking Him to reveal Himself to me. The arguments and apologetics tore down those barriers…

What people need before befriending Muslims is not advanced knowledge of Islam but a willingness to discover what is important to their Muslim friends and the desire to invest the time to learn and discuss those matters as the relationship progresses. When it comes to a basic knowledge of Christianity, though, it is important for people to be able to articulately explain what they believe and why.

I thank God that there are those precious (and all too few) Christians who exhibit Jesus’ love and caring in their actions and who thoughtfully proclaim the beauty and truth of the gospel in their words. [— Abdu Murray]