#he calls Mari 'Sol' because she's his sun and he loves her

[shougancid]

Mari's dad is 6'5'', looks a bit intimidating but is actually the sweetest person is existence, he's a chef with his own restaurant but when the kids were younger he was the stay at home dad because working hard to provide for the family is his wife's love language. He went to every recital, performance and match every one of his children had and always brought delicious snacks/cheered for people whose parents were too busy to come. He went for a double-barrelled name when he married his wife Ayame because he thought her name was super pretty and he's just generally a man with a lot of love to give. Toxic masculinity is dead and Juan Carlos Rodriguez-Hagihara slaughtered it tbh.

He and Mari watch trashy telenovelas every week and spend most of their time shouting at the screen.

[mccoyquialisms]

my fantasy high red-string-conspiracy-theory-board-of-the-main-mystery lore tracker (a long ass post) (because I love both mysteries AND organization of inconsequential information):

rough chronology of events:

In ages past there is a wedding attended in the Chaos Mountains by Sol and Galicaea of their sister the Witch Goddess to an unnamed giantkin god. This god is a summer god, sibling of the giant winter goddess Ruvina

Over centuries, the unnamed god's domain changes from the sun and summer to fire

This unnamed god is killed and their name was wiped from history. The other gods remember who this being is, but due to obliviati mori, cannot reference them directly to mortals. Red shatter stars appear around this time

850 years before present day, the Witch Goddess's name is erased by her followers (encouraged by followers of Galicaea) and she is transformed into the Nightmare King. Before she does she performs the 4 trans-substantiations to resist being "unmade". Her familiar Kalina becomes a plague and begins to spread through the mortal populace. These events likely happen after the death of her spouse, as there is no reference to a spouse when the Witch Goddess was previously mentioned

Roughly 4-6 years before modern day, the pit fiend Bakur attempts to resurrect his god, whose name was lost "so they could not be worshiped." The return of this god is felt to be a significant threat to the world. Lydia Barkrock and her adventuring party stop him by sealing Bakur in a red gem in Lydia's chest, where she keeps him imprisoned with her rage

The Ratgrinders, then called the High 5 Heroes, meet in freshman year and consist of Kipperlilly, Oisin, Mary Anne, Ruben, Ivy and Lucy.

They xp level up by killing rats, twig gremlins and other small magical creatures in the woods behind Aguefort

The events of freshman year happen and Kalvaxus is released. During prom, Ragh spots Jace Stardiamond talking to Arianwen. He is later "barbarian healed" by Porter and after this can see Kalina. Kalina finds Ragh later and threatens Lydia if he talks about what he's seen

Sophomore year spring break happens and the Nightmare King is transformed into the goddess now named Cassandra

At some point Lucy began to return to the woods after party sessions to revive the rats they killed. She did this long enough and with enough regularity that the rats remember her name/face well and think of her fondly

Paperwork is submitted for Lucy to change her god from Ruvina to a god whose name cannot be read, just before her disappearance. A few days later a second request is submitted to withdraw this change. Neither form was ever seen by Lucy's teacher Yolanda Badgood

Lucy was killed near Lake Shimmerstone by multiple assailants with both weapon and magical damage towards the end of sophomore year, in the period of weeks after grades were complete, but before summer break. The area has multiple uprooted trees, some of which were used to hide her body. Unholy rites were performed over her body to force her soul to the beyond, so she cannot be revived.

Lucy is reported as dead but her body was never found. She was described as "not alive in this material plane" via divination

Because of the timing of her death, her party was not moved to pass/fail as all grades for that year had already been submitted

Night Yorb and the long dark summer happens

Buddy Dawn, a cleric of Sol, is specifically requested by the Ratgrinders to be their new cleric for junior year

Also over the long dark summer, the Loam farmers are accused of embezzlement and the Frostyfair festival is moved from there to the Thistlesprings tree at the recommendation of Lola Embers. Sklonda Gukgak is assigned as the Loam couple's public defender

Kipperlilly finds or is found by the rogue teacher and has passed the whole of junior year

Junior year begins. On her first day, Kipperlilly questions Jawbone on where YES! was created

Kipperlily announces she is running for student body president and her primary platform is for uniform equity under the rules without "favoritism"

In the mall of the Synod, the event that kicks off the battle is Cassandra becomes angry hearing Kristen isn't coming to help find followers. She says "This isn't fair!" as a razor-sharp flickering star of red light emerges from her chest. 24-point, red shatter stars infect nearby wizards and turns them into rage-filled, violent, giant versions of themselves. The people taken over by the shatter stars are instructed by an unknown voice to attack Cassandra

Cassandra is able to be calmed by a high persuasion and when she does, she expels multiple shatter stars. She seems to recognize them and says "I thought you were dead.”

Before Kalina is taken over by the shatter stars, she looks to Riz and says "Ragh Barkrock". She then slits Cassandra's throat, triggering a new round of rage in Cassandra

Cassandra suffers multiple attacks and begins to transform into a giant, red raging version of herself and attempts to kill the party. Before she's successful, the gang are swept away in a time loop back to Spyre. The Bad Kids see the Synod is destroyed, and Kristen finds she has shards of Cassandra in her pocket

Kristen attempts to commune with Cassandra and hears a voice say "She is at my side once more." The voice then mocks Kristen with YES!'s body and then tells Kristen it is coming for her, and it will break her irrevocably.

Ivy sees Fig disguised as Lucy at the party at Seacastor Manor, and has an inscrutable reaction to it, but did not seem surprised

The cloud rider engine in Fabian's basement is broken and a piece is found missing

Kipperlily does the food truck event with the subliminal OK messaging on the packaging

Ruben Hopclap performs at FrostFaire when he is attacked by Principal Grix. Grix is eventually killed by Fabian. The Bad Kids determine Ruben was doing some kind of ritual with a song about anger above an arcano-tech array in a 24 point star pattern, successfully releasing a large amount of some type of magical energy.

Simultaneously, Yolanda Badgood is killed at Lake Shimmerstone by immense concussive force damage, and afterwards her body is expertly hidden. She is subjected to the same unholy last rites that Lucy was.

The Bad Kids find Lucy and Yolanda's bodies, and Kristen releases their souls, who travel to the beyond on a "trail of moonlight"

Sklonda's clients are found murdered

Mazey reveals that the Vice Principal (i.e. Jace) does not become the Principal, and it would be the student body president who becomes the new principal of Aguefort

additional info we can reasonably infer or that don't fit neatly in the timeline:

Buddy's grandparents, and likely Buddy himself, have a vested interest in his grandfather becoming the cleric teacher. He went to Aguefort and is familiar with the school. Presumably he wants this to be able to preach about Sol and spread his influence

At some point before her death, Yolanda told Jace about her concerns regarding Lucy's deity-transfer paperwork

Cassandra is not dead, but is "beyond reach"

Lucy and Yolanda were noted to be in "realms beyond", which Brennan specifically noted they were taken from and "whatever was happening there"

The Ratgrinders are gunning for the bad kids and seem to be orchestrating situations to try to get them to take drugs

Porter's philosophical discussion with Fig regarding the concept of protection and how that is often inextricably tied with rage, that one can act as a fuel for the other

Porter is a paladin of the ancestors, and at some point was mentioned to be a goliath, though this seems to be debated in canon. If true, it's possible he's a descendant of giants

Kristen bring's up Sol's wrath and Buddy does not refute this, agreeing Sol's wrath is a well known aspect of him and he has been quite angry because of the dark summer/night yorb situation

As above so below. What the gods do affect their mortal followers, but conversely, what the mortals who follow them do also affect the gods

A god can only come back from death in a place a god had been born or created, meaning Bakur's decision to try to revive his fallen god in the Red Waste was what doomed it to failure

Bakur's documents are written in the language of giants, and his deity is said to be from the same region as Ruvina. Combining this with Adaine’s research, and the “mitochondrial magic print”, Bakur’s god is Cassandra’s former spouse

The cloud rider piece was likely stolen by the Ratgrinders as Kipperlily asked Aelwyn to research schematics of the device

Kipperlily seems to be keeping information from some of the other Ratgrinders, telling Aelwyn she needs to "protect Oisin" from their shady deals

Kipperlily's mother works for the city treasury and her father is in real estate. Neither are super wealthy, but Kipperlilly has been paying Aelwyn large amounts of money to obtain arcane components. Given the timing of this with the disappearance of a large sum of money from the Frostyfair accounts, the timing of the murder of the people who were blamed for it, and that the new chosen location happens to be the home of one of the Ratgrinders rivals, the Ratgrinders involvement is thought to be likely

Cassandra's whispered clue of "spies, tongue, curse"

Places outside Spyre, like the Synod, are easier for dead gods to reach

For whatever the Ratgrinders have planned, a student being the principal of Aguefort is essential for it. A lot of people have had to be conveniently absent or dead for this circumstance to occur.

This is all not even touching Aguefort's whole journey through time and possible time quangle issue and whatever the fuck Fig's Bad Luck Thing is. I'm not convinced that these are related to the god stuff and are likely their own separate issues. also, I am tired lmao. If you want to hear my rambling theories, I'll be making a separate post.

[unavoidedbyme]

OMORI casts giving you nicknames and reverse

featuring: SUNNY, BASIL, HERO, AUBREY, KEL, MARI, CAPTAIN SPACEBOY, SWEETHEART

tw: if you count fluff as a tw then yes, fluff warning

SUNNY

man. This boy has a lot of cute nicknames for you but he’s very shy to use it

so most of the time he’ll just call you by your name instead

it honestly makes you sad

and he notices it

so he starts to use more cute nicknames!

you ALWAYS call him with nicknames

there isn’t a day pass without you calling him with nicknames

and he’s very flustered about it

he’s very cute 10/10 boyfriend material

protect him at all cost

a plus point if you use the right ones when you’re comforting him!

nicknames he gave you:

sweetheart

love

blossom

light

lovely

or just your name

the nicknames you gave him:

sunshine

sun

sweet

my future husband

mi sol (my sun)

lovely

darling (this makes him very flustered btw)

sunset

he really likes ‘sunshine’ and ‘darling’

he always get flustered when you use ‘my future husband’

he’s really shy if you call him that on public though

he sometimes might get uncomfortable by some of the nicknames…(he’s not used with affection after 4 years shutting himself)

that’s why you should ask him, but as a sweetheart he is he often doesn’t tell you because he felt really bad

my baby is so soft for you❤️

im begging you please reassure him that its fine

BASIL

he’s not too sure on nicknames

but if it makes you happy he will gladly do it!

he loves you very much

like SUNNY, he will get flustered if you call him with nicknames

like he was just watering his plants one moment

and you called him “love”

his face instantly turned into a tomato

this boy would pass out anytime soon

please don’t be too harsh on him…

nicknames he gave you:

flower

love

sweet

bub

my love

nicknames you gave him:

my flower boy

sugar

honeycomb

mi corazón

plant…💀

i can imagine when you too were cuddling and then he suddenly wakes up from his spot

you scream asked him where is he going

“plant!! where are you going?!”

he’s just there, dumbfounded by the sudden burst of nickname

“w-what..?”

HERO

omg he’s low key the definition of gentleman

like this mans showers you with all that cheesy stuff…

he loves pda so be prepared

really loves giving you cheesy nicknames

it flutters you so much and he doesn’t even know it

like he’s doing it not on purpose

he’s calling you all that genuinely

nicknames he gave you:

princess/prince/royalty

love bug

my dear

my other half

babe

honey

dove

nicknames you gave him:

handsome

good looking

husband material

darls (a short for darling)

dearie

he adores you alright?

so when he calls you ‘honey’ he cant help but to look at you lovingly

and it made you even more flustered

you thought that he was doing it on purpose

but nooo, he actually does mean it

keep him save please

marry him if can

AUBREY

she hates nicknames when you two are on public

but when you two are alone

please always use them

she really needs reassurance and just by calling her sweet things?

she’s already melting in your arms

there are some tolarable nicknames though

but i would not recommend it

just use it in a private area like her room or when you two are alone

nicknames she gave you:

heartbeat

sweet

babe

nicknames you gave her:

casanova

cherrybomb

lovely

dear

ma chérie

angel face(very flustered on this one lmao)

auby

please always use nicknames when you two are alone

she’s begging you

it reassures her that you’ll never leave her

the tolerable ones are ‘cherrybomb’

and the others are used in private

KEL

uh😨

okay so first

he gives you very weird nicknames that honestly kind of endearing…

he loves you vv much

he COULD give you some normal nicknames…

but it would be very rare

he just calls you anything tbh

like one moment he accidentally calls you ‘my basketball’

?????

basketball??????😭..

nicknames he gave you:

my love

basketball…

orange joe

sweet cheeks

cute face

my bike

nicknames you gave him:

crazy orange joe fan

orange

my love

dearest

star

kelsey

he got completely off guard when you called him his real name

but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t like it

he really loves it!

he wants you to call him that everyday

but when you does that his mind goes completely out

just.. 😭

he’s precious so its okay

MARI

god saves you from her teasing nicknames🙏

istg you’ll die from embarrassment

this girl has no break from her teases

one moment you were glad that its finally over

and then boom, she’s already teasing you again

you’ll need SUNNY’s help to get you out of there…

but she really means it!!

every little things she does

she loves you and if you do get uncomfortable

just tell her and she’ll stop

she will buy you anything you want or just cuddles you as an apology

nicknames she gave you:

babe

hot stuff

my queen/king/royalty

my dream girl/boy/person

dolly

wifey/hubby/spousey

pookie bear

nicknames you gave her:

marchioness

loves

honeybunch

sweetheart

my light

she really loves being called marchioness by you

she’ll fall heed over heals for you if you call her that

you could even say that as a revenge for teasing you

she’ll be embarrassed

trust me

CAPTAIN SPACEBOY

AWWW ITS THE SWEET BBY

he’s really REALLY soft with you..

so you’ll be receiving cute and soft nicknames from him!

he loves you dearly

so please tresure him :(

he already got his heart broken two times

and its with the same girl..

so protect him with all costs alright?

nicknames he gave you:

sunshine

beautiful

my lovely

dear

corazón

nicknames you gave him:

captain of my heart (usually to tease him)

lover boy

dear

rey

bubs

star

i repeat, protect him at all cost.

please he’s literally so tired of people using him

treat him right and the crew might approve you

oh right i forgot to tell you that his crew does not like any of their boss’ partner

so if you got their approval then you’re lucky

SWEETHEART

tease her

but not too much

she might kick you out of her castle☠️

she’s kind of a tsundere???

but she also kind of likes it when you tease her

it made her heart goes fuzzy wuzzy inside

when the first time that happened, she thought she was sick

so she goes to a doctor (that doctor is a sprout mole)

and the doctor said she’s dying..

she panics and starts crying on your arms

you asked her why she’s crying, and is completely dumbfounded when she told you the whole deal

nicknames she gave you:

cake

sunstar

my muse

my brain (because yk, she’s the ‘heart’ you get what i mean)

love

or your name

nicknames you gave her:

sweetface

darling

love

queen bee

babe

beloved

like what i’ve said

she sometimes felt her heart beating so fast when you use nicknames

and she got ‘diagnosed’ by a sprout mole that she’ll die

which got you kicking out the sprout mole who dare to call your beloved like that

the other sprout moles has been quiet after that

a/n: this was honestly really fun, i’ll try to make more of these.

[winterpinetrees]

Exactly two people asked, but two people did ask! So here are my Villain Coded Kids.

These six characters are a small fraction of the marvel fan fiction that I dreamed up when I was 12 years old. I daydreamed about them constantly, and they carved a little hole into my brain so I could never stop thinking about them. It’s been over five years. These guys are often stereotypical, several names come from fantasynamegenerator.com, and they were invented alongside a self-insert mary sue who I cannot leave behind. That being said, I love them dearly. Who wants to meet them? If you don’t want to, simply do not read this post. This is entirely voluntary.

THE VILLAIN CODED KIDS!

In the Marvel Cinematic Universe, there is a shield base in the middle of Manhattan. It’s where Captain America wakes up from his 70 years in the ice. But I don’t think it’s ever seen again. In my mind, it holds offices and training rooms, but in 2018, it is also home to six villain coded teenagers.

You are going to meet these kids as they were on some afternoon in the fall of 2018. They’ve been a team for about a month. It has been six months since Iron Man and Black Widow died in the events of Avengers Endgame. Six months since half of the population was killed and then revived, six months that the other half of the population has spent slowly forgetting five years of memories from the lost time known in canon as The Blip. The Sokovia Accords are exactly as unmerciful as they are in canon. Any unauthorized superpowered activity can be punished by arrest without trial or parole, and the only difference between a friendly neighbor hero and a prisoner is whether or not the local police like them. The police did not like these six kids!

……………

Imagine a common room like what you’d find in any college dorm. There’s a couch, some chairs, and a television. Six kids are gathered doing whatever. The oldest are 16 and in 11th grade and the youngest is 13 and in 8th grade.

The too tall boy drawing Voltron fanart on his IPad is Zachary Jesper. He is a vessel for the reality stone, which grants him near infinite power at the cost of chronic pain. He also shares a body with the villain from Thor 2. The stone (also called the aether) is eating him alive. He has a little sister that he hadn’t seen since May, and religious trauma that he hasn’t unpacked. He’s been doing pretty well in class lately, but is working on a YouTube video at the moment. Zach has long dark hair and sickly pale skin, which makes him look a bit like Loki, the supervillain that he has a crush on.

And the blond girl reading Lord of the Flies for homework? Her name is Cyrene, although that’s not the first name she’s tried out since running away from her transphobic home two years ago. She has two powers. Telepathy, and the ability to summon blades and whips of cyan energy. Back during the blip, she ran a criminal syndicate and hunted any billionaire or politician who dared to exploit others. For the record, she did quite a bit of bad stuff herself. Cyrene has also read Lord of the Flies before. It’s not a particularly accurate depiction of how people behave (it was written as satire!). She remembers the blip well enough to know that.

The oldest person in the room is Sarah “Sol” Torres, but she won’t turn 17 for another few weeks. She’s afro-latina with loose curly hair and eyes that look more golden in the sun. That happens a lot, because her ability is to summon and control sunlight. Sol is used to being the responsible oldest sibling. She’s fed up that her only two options are heroic perfection, or rotting in jail. Why can’t she just be a teenager? Who is she supposed to avenge?

The US government in this world has a lot of crazy tech. There’s an east asian boy tinkering with some of it while sitting on the couch. His name is Daniel Asato, and you’ll never see him without a pair of gloves. It’s convenient that he likes engineering, because his power is the ability to manipulate metal. He’s mostly used it for crime though. He’s wearing gloves and long sleeves because they cover long, jagged scars on his limbs. They also let him avoid physical touch. Six years ago, when he was just shy of 8 years old, Daniel was trapped under a collapsed building during the Battle of New York. His parents died instantly, but his brother bled out in his arms. Daniel hasn’t wanted to hold anyone else since.

Given any group of teens, someone is always taking a nap. That person is probably Noah Griffin, an african-american girl with powers too strong and uncontrollable to really be used in combat. She can control the weather, specifically wind and cold. Noah is a tomboy at this point, with a short, masculine hairstyle. She’s also hoping to be a woman in STEM and does environmental work when she can. Noah has a bit of survivors guilt because she knows how difficult it must have been for Hawkeye to convince the shady government organizations to set her free. She’s worried about the upcoming winter. What if she freezes New York City?

Last, youngest, but certainly not least is Vicky Khol (whether that’s short for Victor or Victoria depends on the day, she’s gender-fluid in the same way as Alex Fierro in Magnus Chase. Blame my 12 year old self). She’s a suntanned country kid with dirty blond hair dyed red at the tips. Her ability is mind control and illusions, but they don’t work through cameras. She’s not even in high school yet, and SO EXCITED to be a famous hero. She’s a mischievous theater kid with a traumatic backstory that she tries not to mention.

By all rights, these six kids should be dead by now. Instead, they got a second chance and are making the most of it. They are under unbelievable pressure from outside and inside forces. The worst of it is from a second team of teenagers, who are hero coded and were never in any danger to begin with. They fight frequently. It’s a game to the heroes, but the villains are fighting for their lives. It all turns out okay though.

…………

If you actually read that, I am in your debt forever. Literally. I will grant you any reasonable favor. Please reach out so I can know who I should thank! This is a small fraction of the lore. I also have two other completely separate stories. My brain would drive Cyrene mad.

[peantbutter-honeycombs]

The Hollowing Series: Part II

Title: The Boy and His Companion

Word count: 3,339

Characters: The 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, ocs

Warnings: Platonic fic not romantic.

Notes: Originally the story was going to be completely told from the point of Sophia but after a few drafts I decided it should follow Oliver. My college friend who sometimes beta reads my work used to hate the boy but now she likes him. He used to be mean and dismissive toward Sophia but clearly I changed things. Even I quite like his character now.

Speacial Thanks to @underskaro for beta reading this chapter. I know your busy and this really meant a lot to me. So thank so much.

Figured I tag @mirkwoodshewolf because they kindly edited the first chapter and I want them to know I finally got around to the second.

———

The rain had ceased, leaving a heavy blanket of grey white on the hills. It hugged the rain-soaked ground, dancing around each of the kid’s heels. The late day fog controlled the landscape, making it blur in the same way as the opening credits of Mary Poppins.

The entire walk home, the two walked in silence. Oliver, in one hand, held the middle bar of the bright green trike. The metal was ice in his palm. He gripped the bar so tight his knuckles were turning a ghostly shade of white. He held Sophia’s hand in the other, though not nearly as tight. However, still tight enough to make the little girl uneasy.

Sophia would have “said” something if it wasn’t so woefully clear Oliver was cross. His soulful hickory eyes were hard as stone. Instead of their usual boyish spark, there lingered a disdainful flicker. She could swear he was muttering something bitter. Now and then she’d fear a foul word, he’d probably later scold himself for saying.

Whoooooooooo.

He stopped, eyes narrowing. He took a deep, rather stiff breath and sharply exhaled through his nostrils. Adrenaline surged through his system so fast he felt it burn a path through his veins. He spun around, pulling Sophia behind him. Oliver had a glacially callous glare on his face, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The wind tore at the collar of his slicker, and his damp mess of blonde curls. Their surroundings were clouded, hidden, shrouded by the thick veil of fog. Oliver stood silently, the only sound coming from the ferocious flapping of his jacket. He scanned the stretch with the careful eye of a concerned mother.

The fog is not the mist. The fog is not the mist.

The second they arrived home, Oliver condemned Sophia to the time-out chair. She quietly settled in on the stool, positioned in the far corner of the dead end down stairs corridor, without protest. It was an older item. The hand carved mahogany always felt stiff on her bum. But she thought it better not to whine.

Oliver, he sat alone in the living room. A damp, worn out mess of a human being. He tiredly sunk into the couch. He ignored the clammy feeling of his rain-soaked clothes. He completely collapsed across the cushions. Every muscle in his body just surrendered to gravity. He could feel the tiredness pressing on his chest, weighing him down, draining his energy, exhausting his patience.

Why would she think?… Especially now. He rolled off his side onto his back and focused his eyes on the ceiling. She can’t just… Ugh!

He brought a pillow to his face and screamed.

The seconds ticked away into minutes; in the isolation of the sitting room, Oliver let the world around him fade into silence. The minutes ticked into half an hour; Sophia absentmindedly twiddled her thumbs, humming a familiar song in the back of her head; Oliver had been awake for sixteen hours. His consciousness was grasping at straws.

One sniff and Oliver’s eyes are open. He rolled on to his side. Immediately his face fell into irritation. Oliver locked eyes with a familiar pair mere inches from his face.

“I’m not done with timeout. Go back.”

Sophia blinked, processing the instructions she’d just been given. Her eyes darted around, searching his face for any traces of sarcasm or falsehood. Nothing.

Sophia lightly pecks his cheek in the sloppy little kid way. It left a little wet mark, one he’d wipe away once she’d left the room. Oliver chuckles softly, carefully bumping his forehead against Sophia’s. The little ginge giggled, stumbling back, whilst raising a palm to where her temple had been nudged.

“Ten minutes?”

Sophia nods and politely shuffles off.

The landscape blurred, clouded, the fog lingered hovering above the cool streams and the crowned hills. The brilliant greens and vibrant patches of rich wildflower were poking through the fleeting fog. Soon the sun would begin its descent. Lowering, lowering until it was nothing more than a single sliver of gold vanishing on the horizon.

Eyes closed, arms folded over his chest, which rhythmically rose and fell with each dozy intake of breath, Oliver laid quietly on the couch. The father clock at the top of the stairs ticked, the pendulum swung from side to side. Quarter till four, it read.

Sophia sat in her timeout chair, continuing to hum her melodic tune. In these moments of boredom with no toys to play, no stuffy to “talk” to and no Ollie to cling to, all Sophia could do was wait. She sighed, blowing up a long strand of hair that kept dipping, falling between her eyes.

Oliver stuck his head through the white Tudor arch way that separated the sitting room and entryway corridor. Sophia, having somehow positioned herself upside down on the small stool, gave the boy a dopey smile.

Oliver rolled his eyes, pulling at the fabric of his shirt.

“Hey Soph a loaf,” Oliver softly sing-songed, sitting against the wall directly beside the timeout spot. Being upside down, her auburn hair fell in waves suspended centimetres above the rough and stained planks. She was holding her shirt down, preventing it from exposing her stomach.

“You… Wanna make a pillow fort?”

The quiet of the house is shattered by Sophia, letting out a blaring squeal. In moments she somersaults off the bench, landing clumsily on the floor. She’s up on her feet in a heartbeat, bouncing, squealing, stomping.

Oliver chuckles lightly. “Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.”

Sophia poked her head through the arch at the call of her name.

Sophia whined, tilting her head as if to ask ‘what?’

“Nothing. Just… love you Soph a loaf. Lots and lots.”

The pillow fort took longer than expected, given that they both took the construction of fort building oh so seriously. They rushed through putting on their pjs, then moved on to making dinner. No one could tell them not to eat under the bedclothes.

“You can’t put peanut butter on grilled cheese!”

Just as it did every day, the sun set. The shadows of the trees and the aging building stretched up the hills, as the golden ball of orangish yellow began its descent.

Beneath navy blue blankets, patterned with rocket ships and sea creature stickers, sat the two children. Oliver had built much of the fort; Borrowing cushions, towels and blankets from around the house. While Sophia had eagerly decorated their cloth kingdom; twinkle lights, stickers, and scribbled drawings decorated the walls and ceilings.

“So her dad was killed-- Ow. By the same agent trying to recruit her?"

Cuddled firmly against his side was Sophia, her body glued against his similar to Double Pops. Every time she moved, her knees or feet would buck, nailing Oliver in the ribs or hip. He had an arm wrapped around her neck, functioning as both a pillow for her head, and one support for the tablet he was holding.

“That’s quite coinc-- Ow! Sophia!”

Sophia bit the edge of her lip, trying to contain her giggles. Her giggle was a violin playing the open string G (Sol), alluring and dulcet. Considering she burst into a mini giggle fit with each jab, Oliver’s face crumpled like a discarded wad of paper.

He could feel Sophia wiggling against him. Her legs squirmed in a boyishly wild fashion. Her knees curved, beating him in the ribs.

“Ow!" Oliver sat up.

“Okay.” He inhaled sharply. His body was stiff from high levels of irritation. Sophia calmed herself, gently curling her toes. Her brown eyes followed Oliver’s movements, becoming larger, curious.

“Sophia, do you have to use the toilet?”

Sophia drew in her lip. She bent her knees, so she grabbed her toes. She stared, thinking hard. He watched as her face became still, eyes blinking frenziedly. Within fifteen seconds, she nodded.

“Let’s go then.” He stood, helping Sophia up.

He crawled out of the fort’s entry tunnel, it was barely big enough for him to squeeze through. They’d run low on pillows, while building some part of the structure had to be sacrificed.

He heard the soft scuffling of sock padded feet against the old wooden floor. “Sophia?” He looked back over his shoulder, realising Sophia was making more noise than necessary.

“No! Soph, you’re not bringing a blanket to the loo.”

“We lay my love and I…” Oliver sang.

Oliver sat on the third step of the stairs. Beating his hands against his thighs. He was a child. His rigid posture had been replaced by a chill slouch. Sophia had taken her time correcting the blanket as she shifted. She was just now clambering out of the blanket fort.

“Beneath the weeping willow…”

Sophia shuffled past him into the next room, across the corridor from the sitting room. As she passed, Oliver gently took hold of the back of her shirt. Sophia backtracked, then turned on her heels to face him. Oliver had a focused look, his eyes fixated on the ginger like a surgeon during brain surgery.

“Sophia. Where are you going?” He asked.

Sophia wrinkled her nose, pointing in every direction. Oliver simply rolled his eyes.

“Then go find your sweater.” He instructed. Sophia points to the room she was headed toward. “No. It’s not in the drawing room. You left it in my room. Upstairs.”

Sophia let out a pout huff, making Oliver chuckle. She looked past him at the stairs, eyes narrowing to a thin line. Nonetheless, she began her slow ascent upwards. A downside of wooden stairs. If you’re not wearing shoes, instead socks, it's easy to slip. Her sock covered feet slipped and slid, making her ascent up the stairs look clumsy.

“One foot in front of the other.” Oliver teased. Sophia, her face only inches from his ear, blew a spitty raspberry. With the satisfying feeling of retaliation, Sophia pressed on.

“Remember to use the toilet.” Oliver reminded, wiping the flecks of spit from the side of his face.

Oliver patted his thighs and then stood. Standing rather motionless, in his sharp black and orange KTM Factory pyjamas, he distinguished himself amongst the rustic clutter of the foyer. After a moment of stillness, he leapt from the third step, landing on the floor with a hard thud. He resets himself, brushing a hand through his mop top of dirty honey blonde hair.

He wanders around the corridor, gently running his fingers across the wall, over the knickknacks and along the edges of the chair rail.

"But now alone I lie..." he quietly sang, “...And weep beside the tree...”

The house was old. Ancient. It looked like it had been plucked from an autumn-aphile's Pinterest board. Time had been kind to the country home. While the creepers crept along the worn grey cobbles, the inside was a monument to times long gone by.

Thump, thump, thump.

Sophia. She was moving around upstairs.

His mother was a collector. Her husband called her a hoarder. She called herself a dreamer. She was a traveller. When she had been young, before the children, she'd seen the world collecting baubles and knickknacks that now cluttered the home.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

"Your feet aren't drums!"

A single overhanging lamp dimly illuminated the foyer, mirroring the glow of candle light. Their neighbour had once asked why they didn’t store all their tchotchkes away in the shed. Stacks of completed books left careless about rough wood carvings from around, antique finds nestled beneath blankets of dust, dried flowers, and colourful drawings from Oliver’s younger days.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

The house, so full of things. Some would shudder at the chaos of it all, others would be queasy because of claustrophobia, and rest would be quietly fascinated.

Oliver stood himself in front of Credenza, pushed up against the left wall. He eyed the reflection staring at him through the distressed mirror mounted about mahogany sideboard.

He’d forgotten a lot rather recently. Thirteen. He’s thirteen. His eyes are a weak shade of brown, not like Sophia’s, the colour of almond coffee. His dirty blonde hair softly curled and tucked, just barely overhanging his sunken eyes.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

“Singing ‘Oh willow waly’…” he sang, “… by the tree that weeps with me.”

Oliver retreated, leaning against the sloping stair posts. He checked the clock hanging above the front door. Four minutes had passed since Sophia had gone upstairs. Standing there with nothing to do but listen to the creaky footsteps from above.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

“Singing—”

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

His nerves abandon him quickly. His breathing becomes shallow and erratic. He couldn’t hear his rapid breathing, the chaotic beat of his heart dominated. His fingers curl into a fist, nails piercing the tender skin of his palm.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

His eyes dart to the clock. 6:11.

It’s as if his hidden sixth or seventh sense activates. Every tick of the clock is a threat, every creak of a floorboard is a risk. His fingers twitched as he defensively moved toward the door. His body stiffens, trying to shut him down before he can reach the front door. He keeps moving.

His hands tremble and his skin becomes rough with goosebumps as he reaches towards the door handle grip.

No one knocks. No one could would.

He grips the handle tightly thumb pressed on the thumb-place, the metal would surely leave a mark on his palm. He finds it hard to swallow, lungs betraying him. Slowly he presses down on the thumb-place, pulling on the handle.

“Hello!”

Oliver’s blood ran cold. He tightened his jaw.

“You followed us?” Oliver murmured. His grip on the door handle tightened, to where he could feel the cool metal dig into his palm. Standing square, shoulders defensively strained back, he felt a knot forming in the back of his throat. Fear sat quietly, waiting like a vulture, ready to claim him.

“You followed us home?” His eyes darted to the Moors, where a small cloud of mist was slowly forming. He wasn’t quite scared. His eyes showed more of a wary concern. After all, he was all that stood between two mysterious strangers and his world.

“Yes. We did.” As he spoke, Oliver observed the Doctor with slight aversion. When he spoke, he’d move his hands about. A little unnerving. Still Oliver held his ground, preventing the Doctor, still a stranger, from entering his home. “We have some questions…”

“Questions?”

Thump, thump, thump.

That’s when Oliver jumps. A pump of adrenaline surged through his system almost triggering his flight or fight instinct. Without his support “system”, it would have been flight. Oliver shook his head, pushing down his panic.

Thump, thump, thump.

He was the barrier between his world and trespassers. A wave of boldness washed through him, demanding he be bold and shielding. However, a light gust of embarrassment from his jump made his cheeks glow.

“You-- you have questions?” he stammered.

The Doctor seemed to take this as an invitation. He moved to enter the cobblestone house. Oliver slammed a hand across to the other side of the door frame, so he couldn’t enter.

The Doctor’s brows pressed together, his shoulders slumped, and his mouth hung slightly open and loose. His expression gave way to his confusion. A hard stone glare carved into Oliver’s tired eyes. A warning. The doctor took heed and took a careful step back.

His lighthearted manner returned within seconds.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m the Doctor, this is my friend Amy. What’s your name?” He asked as he extended a hand out for Oliver.

Oliver shook his head, smiling a little, as he gently pushed the Doctor’s hand down and said.

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

Just because someone introduces themselves, they aren’t any less of a stranger. Though most of what he observed of the Doctor seemed safe, suspicion and caution still governed his mind. He’d be more trusting in different circumstances. But there weren’t many people worth trusting, at least not anymore.

“You’re still a stranger.”

The Doctor nods, scratching at his chin. “Fair enough.” Something about the grown man’s cluelessness. The right corner of Oliver’s lip twitched, threatening to curve upward. He started gesticulating again, moving his hands about as he spoke. “Answer me this then where is everyone else?”

His brain stuttered for a moment, his face fell, and the blood drained from his face, leaving him as pale as a sheet. He recomposed himself, adopting a more stoic expression.

“Home,” his tone was cold, cold as ice.

“Home?”

The Doctor observes Oliver’s shift in manner with calculative eyes. He leans back, arching a brow. Oliver only nods in response. However, he could see it. The Doctor could see it, the fear trying to hide in the corners of the blonde child’s eyes.

He’d figure that out later, for now…

“Tell me, why should we be wary of the mist?”

Oliver scratched the back of his head. His eyes struggled to focus on one point. Again, they settled on the Moors. His stomach twisted and sunk with his nerves, as he gripped the fabric of his shirt tightly, wrapping it around his hand.

“Hard to see, you could get lost.”

The Doctor squatted, so that his eyes were level with Oliver’s. He carefully studied Oliver’s face as he lowered his mouth. He went to speak, but Amy, she spoke first.

“Have people gotten lost?”

Thud.

This time his muscles become tense. “I-- I better get inside,” he stammered, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. His unsettled eyes shift down to the ground, avoiding the watchful looks of the Doctor and his companion. Oliver cleared his throat and then croaked out.

“You should get back home, before it’s too late.”

Without another word, he shut the door, leaving the Doctor and Amy in the chill of dusk.

Oliver was silent as he fell back against the front door. The tick of the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs felt louder than before. As the full realisation of his conversation sank in, he ran his hands down his face. A loud groan of frustration flowed past his lips.

It’s foolish to trust, he reminded himself, for no one knows what the mist does hide.

A small whine snapped him out of his stupor. He immediately stood. Sophia stood one step from the top of the stairs. She wore a puzzled expression. Oliver rolled his eyes, his brows creased, and he put on a fake smile.

“It was no one,” he lied, dismissively waving a hand in the air. Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “It was no one Sophia, leave it alone.” He insisted, trying to laugh the matter off.

“Now, I have some work to finish.” He said as he moved toward the drawing room. As far as he was concerned, the matter of who was at the door was finished. His mouth twitched into a genuine smile, and his tone softened. “If you’d like, you can color at the desk while I work.”

Sophia shook her head, gesturing with an arm toward the entire upstairs. “No? Just going to play in the upstairs?” He asked. She nodded, making her ginger tresses bounce. “By yourself? Are you sure?” The way her one dimple crinkled, the shifting of her freckles, gave him his answer.

“Fine, have fun, bed in an hour.” Oliver brushed his fingers through his hair, strolling into the drawing room.

Sophia brought a hand to her mouth, then blew him a sloppy kiss. Hearing the noise of the peck from the other side of the archway, Oliver bent an arm back through the doorway to catch it. He cast his head back through the opening, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“Love you too Soph a loaf. Lots and lots.” he gently laughed. “You be good,” he reminded moving into the drawing room.

“And Sophia,” His tone became serious, and resigned. “Let's stay out of the master room.”

[hazelenergy]

What happened that final night.

One year ago today was my last Elysium in Atlanta. And in a mere 48 hours, I will have betrayed and killed my adoptive sire, blood bonded myself to the wild sister of two famous Malkavians, and lost two people I loved. 

A few days prior to this night was the beginning of the end. A bloodhunt was called in Atlanta. Not for me. Not for the other thinbloods. A salubri had entered the city. Our adoptive sire, Mary Andrews and primogen of the Tremere (and the only Tremere in the city..I dont know actually why she was alone but I have theories) ordered her children, myself and my two shovelheaded broodmates to bring this man to her alive. We complied. At first. 

Solomon had been working closely with Reverend Clancy, the primogen of Clan Brujah. We never knew Solomon’s bloodline, but he vibed with the righteous and nonviolent nature of Clancy’s leadership. Clancy told us the other half of the history of clan Tremere and the Salubri. We were devastated. And now our adoptive sire wanted this man and would probably experiment on him like she did to us. And it would be worse. He can heal. He’d be able to endure what she did to us. So Clancy asked us, two lowly thinbloods, to help him and his clan free this man and get him out of the city. We said yes without questioning the consequences. 

Long story short we put our ability to blend with humans to the test at Airport security. We managed to slide through the TSA check with ease- without tipping off the inquisition either. Solomon and I had intercepted the international flight by getting the plane to dock in the incorrect port, allowing the Salubri to slip past the sheriff and his hired guards. Things didn’t go as well as we hoped- as the Sheriff caught on to someone was messing with the radio tower and hopped over to where we were hiding. We had already called the brujah boys to the airfield to intercede the sheriff’s men. A huge fire fight broke out. The brujah were losing so Solomon and I made a rash decision. We used far reach together and launched a fuel tank at the gun fight- fire engulfed the scene. Solomon and I fled into the night- starving, but unscathed. Cue camarilla media blackout and clean up. 

The next night we were ordered to return to the chantry. We refused and gave pitiful excuses saying things like keeping face by going to a night job or Solomon had a legit excuse of needing to write his Yom Kippur service. Instead we tracked down Clancy and the brujah and high tailed the Salubri out of Atlanta. Clancy handled the money for the dark flight and I wore less clothing to convince the guy to bypass security. Our Salubri was in the air and out of Atlanta. But the sheriff was on our trail. Someone had to take the blame. Clancy knew how hard we had worked. He was the only kindred who knew about the safehouse project. He took the fall for freeing the Salubri and let himself be staked by the sheriff as we fled unseen into the night. 

The following night, we did go to Mary’s Haven. She immediately shoveled us into the car and took us to Elysium. She knew we had something to do with this. Or just wanted to see us squirm. Regardless. Clancy had been placed on trial for his crimes against the Prince and the brujah were ready to Throw. Down. The air was tense and violent choleric resonances dominated the room. There is one brujah in particular, Jamal. He was basically an anarch. The only reason he wasn’t a Baron and fighting the Prince was because of his faith and trust in Clancy. He was nearly going to free Clancy then and there- if it wasn’t for Solomon. Sol begged him to let him play the political game first. Solomon  offered himself to the prince as the duskborn primogen. He advised the prince that Clancy’s life was the spindly thread that kept the brujah from rioting. Solomon ruled that Clancy should be exiled but allowed to live. The Prince agreed. The brujah and Jamal backed down- begrudgingly. Clancy was still staked and was to be driven out of the city once Solomon achieved a few goals as his new primogen. Mary was furious. Was it because her ex had arrived in the city and had gotten close to her other child? Oh that was a part of it- for sure. Somehow this night really did not go according to plan and the car ride home was AWKWARD. 

That night Mary tried to get me to drink from her again- which uhhh no. Idk what you all know about Tremere who follow Carna- but they can still blood bond. And that made her even angrier. She was willing to try anything to get either myself or Solomon to comply. We resisted. That’s when I figured out Mary had slipped on some control over us and wanted to reclaim it. So, I left the haven that night and went to get some sweet distractions at Atlanta’s Asylum chain. That’s when I decided to stop being careful and took that final drink- as a huge fuck you to Mary and to give myself the edge I wanted. I’d have the swirling madness and premonitions in my system for a while and could be thinking ahead of her. I didn’t realize how loopy I’d get. I felt higher than ever before and couldn’t keep my thoughts from spilling out of my mouth.  I stumbled back into the chantry and told my adoptive sire this:

“I reject your blood.”

and

“Any kindred that bothers with me is up to something. You. You chose me. YOURE Up to Something And I wont let it happen.”

She looked me in the eye and said, "tell the truth."

I babbled about everything. The page from the book of Nod and how I copied it. The alchemy I kept from her. The thaumaturgy I tried and made a mess. How she blood bonded Tommy. Letting the Salubri go. How I knew about her plan to usurp the Prince- the madness told me what she’d do. We argued until the sun came up. I went to bed, thinking that I’d have to continue the talk in the evening. I didn’t expect to find myself warded into my own room, windows loaded with explosives, security cameras installed, and my girlfriend Lisa trapped with me. Mary had called an emergency Elysium- excluding Solomon. They were planning our executions. I made it out, barely. Mary’s ghoul and Lisa were killed when one of the explosives went off. There was nothing left but her necklace. In a fit of grief, rage, sorrow I don’t know what emotions I was feeling but it was a lot of them. I obliterated the wards around Mary’s private lab and took whatever I could carry. 

We drove off, thinking we’d lay low for a few hours before Mary could use trail of prey on me. We could beg borrow and steal to get our things and get out. I had just parked the car when I vomited the first time. My blood began bubbling and boiling and oozing out of every open surface it could. I had three bullet holes in my stomach- the bullets were pushed out as my blood gushed. I spent the next fifteen minutes in agonizing pain as Mary called my phone. She heard every gag and wretch- and laughed. The ultimatum was to bring me before the Prince to be put out of my misery, and return what I stole. I told her to go fuck herself. Within seconds, my blood was boiling again and I was a mess on the sidewalk. 

The next few hours were agony waiting. I didn’t know if she’d do it again. But the clock was ticking. The Prince had ordered a hunt for us. And Mary’s ritual to dominate the Prince and the entire court was already ignited. We could have just fled right then. Fuck the Camarilla of Atlanta. Fuck everything about this place. Lets leave and never look back.... But Solomon still had too much to lose in Atlanta- and was willing to fight for it. And Cass had old wounds from Mary (they were an item at one point omg). And I wanted to go so badly- but what I wanted more was to see her vitae spilling out onto the floor as I drove my knife through her. So after cleaning myself from the third wave of dagons call and alleycat hunting for the first time- we took what little time we had left in the city to put an end to this. 

We used the first hour before sunset to gear up. I immediately drove out to the few spots to where thinbloods were hiding and told them to RUN. Find a new city or something- just get out. A few times they looked at me with power hungry eyes. It was a perfect opportunity to take a wanted kindred to the Prince and move up the ranks. I reminded them that they are not known by the prince. And to take me in was to also announce themselves- amidst a time when they are using thinbloods as scapegoats for anything gone wrong. And BOY. Is it going wrong. The last stop I made was to my alchemical dealer. I drained my bank account and bought some of the most powerful brews I’ve ever drank. As a parting gift, or grift if you ask me, he let me have his best brew: Potence.

Solomon went to free Clancy with a group of the brujah boys. A minor fire fight broke out. Solomon was a bit roughed up- both physically and spiritually. I think he had broken one of his own oaths and it was weighing heavily on him. 

When we met up at the edges of Mary’s Haven- we didn’t realize how quickly she had redone the wards. As one of the Brujah boys drove up the path it kept twisting and winding to steer us back to the front gate. Eventually I crawled into the drivers seat. Even though I wasn’t welcome anymore- I was the last one to drive this path and now armed with malkavian whispers. It wasn’t my best driving. Certainly creative. But I got us to the bottom of the hill and we could see the lights to the haven. Mary had laid tons of traps as we made our crawl up to the porch. Landmines specifically. Seriously, where the fuck did she get these? Were they always here? 

When we made it to the porch, the sheriff sat illuminated by the single flickering light. That certainly explains why it was so easy to bust Clancy out. Solomon took the diplomatic approach and tried to reason with the sheriff. I knew it wasn’t going to work and hovered one of the explosives over him. If anything happened to Solomon I’d-- two gunshots. Solomon clutched his chest and fell to the ground. There goes the second person I believed was actually good in this world. Thats when fresh vitae rained from above. Yeah, this is where I get frenzy bombs. The brujah boys immediately attack each other. Clancy and I keep our cool. 

I dropped the explosive and the sheriff flies back into the haven. I go to enter the door, and am met with Mary’s hell cat. Far reached the cat aside. I didn’t care. Nothing was going to stand between me and ending this. The sheriff, his skin singed and peeling, turned to me with frenzied eyes. Far reach again. He’ll never lay a hand on me again. I held him still as Cass drove the stake through his chest. We tossed him aside. 

Thats when we realized the basement was warded. It sent Cass flying back everytime she got close. Even Clancy couldn’t get closer than five feet to the doorway. So I pulled out that potence brew and drank it. I slammed my fist into the mahogany floorboards and crashed through two levels of the haven. I fell to my knees surrounded by rubble and looked up to see my adoptive sire performing her ritual- the circle nearly illuminated. “Mom, I’m home.”

When it came down to it, my hand shook and I couldn’t pull the trigger. At first I tried to far reach her out of her circle, but my hunger had gotten the best of me. So instead, Cass took my hand. She fired at my adoptive sire. The Tremere collapsed and fell to ash. I hadn’t seen someone suffer final death before. I stared at the wispy grey ashes fluttering around the room. Suddenly, the house began to crack and crumble. Clancy grabbed both me and Cass and leaped out of the rubble. When we got back to the ground level- the sheriff was gone. Jamal had taken all of him-the last drop. He told Clancy that Atlanta won’t be the same without him- but its going to change in a way he didn’t like. Clancy looked so disappointed. Without a word, He turned and picked up Solomon’s corpse. Sol was now warm. He was dying. He breathed his last breath in Clancy’s arms. The old brujah carried him to his family that night and they got to give him the proper funeral for his faith.

I told Jamal my dark secret and it’s why I couldn’t stay in Atlanta. He told me to get moving and come back when I’m zeroed. “I need a chameleon that can put on charm and take a punch like you.” I was still chased out of Atlanta by a few kindred who wanted that sweet sweet blood hunt boon- but Jamal used it to his advantage. He took them out as I sped away with Cass to Miami. I don’t know what the affairs of Atlanta are like- a mere year later. I know Jamal was going for the Prince since was now without a sheriff missing his two heavy hitting primogen. But regardless of who is in charge- the duskborn trio perished in that haven that night. And we keep it that way.

~HB

_____

Here Jackie, this is the sob story. @ventrue-in-control​

[prince--kiriona]

What position does Phoenix sleep in?

ok, i’m just gonna do the whole thing, because i want to yell about phoenix and how much i love them:

send me a character and i’ll tell you

what they smell like:

Cologne, smoke, and paraffin oil - an arsonist, but one who knows how to mask that fact with a veneer of normalcy. (~scientific~ analysis performed by Marie, for absolutely no reason why are you asking everything’s fine-)

what their favorite smells in the world are:

Ozone, old stone, and lilac flowers - the smell of his city, he claims, and definitely not because that’s exactly the smell Marie carries with her wherever she goes. (btw, for those who don’t know, phoenix goes by all pronouns - they’re genderfluid, and switch between them on a regular basis)

what pajamas they wear/what they wear to sleep in:

For the most part, oversize shirts she’s stolen from other people (specifically Marie, who’s wardrobe has been depleted a truly staggering amount since she started allowing Phoenix into her house), plus whatever old leggings/jogging bottoms they have on hand. 

my favourite ship and a cute hc:

Marie and Phoenix are just,,,, SO cute together and oh boy i cannot wait to get to their subplot in the books. 

As for cute hc - Phoenix calls Marie by pet names all the time (honey, darling, dear, sweetheart), and Marie wanted to reciprocate, but didn’t want to do so openly because uh oh Repression. So, instead, Marie just calls him all kinda of adorable nicknames... in portuguese. Phoenix understands portuguese just fine, since they grew up in portugal, but no one around them does, so Marie can stay Stealth and not let on that she has feelings.

as examples - querida (eng: dear), minha luz/meu sol (end: my light/my sun), meu amor/minha amada (eng: my love/my lover)

my favourite friendship and a cute hc:

Phoenix and Serpens have a WILD friendship, because they’re the least moral members of the gang and so are both enablers of each other’s feral behavior.

cute hc - Serpens really didn’t trust Phoenix at first, but one day, when Byron and Marie were being particularly bitchy about strategy, they decided to sneak out and go for drinks together. They came back two days later, drunk as hell, wanted for seven murders and three counts of arson, and carrying as much stolen gold as they could fit in the back of their stolen car. Neither of them will talk about what happened because they don't remember, but they’ve been ride-or-die best friends ever since.

a song that reminds me of them:

i have a whole playlist, but the most accurate one is probably Tongues and Teeth - the Crane Wives

their animal:

....it’s literally in their name. a phoenix. if it had to be non-mythical, probably an osprey.

what position they sleep in:

alone, curled up into a ball to maximise heat (they grew up in portugal, Pandemonium is closer to scotland in temperature - she’s cold All The Time). with a partner (read: Marie), draped over them like a blanket to absorb as much heat as possible.

favourite drink:

red wine - it reminds them of celebrating magusto with their family back home (look, if i can’t have portuguese characters in pop culture then i will create them)

a gift i would give them:

.....this is hard to answer without explaining their entire character arc, but non-spoiler answer: probably a way home for them and anyone else they want to bring, so they can live out a happy, guilt-free life in the normal world

send me a character and i’ll answer some Soft Questions

[shougancid-archive]

bnha verse stuff under the cut because my favourite thing to do here is add verses apparently

Name: Marisol Rodriguez-Hagihara

Aliases: Mariko Hagihara, Taiyo, Girasol, ‘Sol’s Sidekick’. 

Occupation: Vigilante | Dance Teacher

Quirk: Solar Barriers

A mix of her mother’s quirk and her father’s, Mari can create barriers as long as she has access to solar energy, the sunnier it is, the stronger her barriers. As the moon shines with reflected light from the sun, she’s capable of creating these barriers at night but they’re...weak. However, creating too many exhausts her, she can only create barriers five metres in length and she’s mostly useless at night. The most common form of these barriers is of a flower, hence the codenames Girasol (which she used as a Sidekick) and Taiyo (which she currently uses and happens to be a type of sunflower).

In her younger years, she was notorious for only being able to use her quirk on sunny days and was unable to control the density of her barriers. While she now has much more control, the barriers tire her out and begin to lose density after three minutes. 

Background: 

A vigilante, a villain, call her what you want but she’s certainly not a hero. The daughter of famed Cuban-American hero Sol and his wife, a somewhat regular Japanese businesswoman, Mari was born in Miami, the second-eldest of four. A bit of a prodigy in the use of her barriers, she became her father’s sidekick at an early age, perhaps younger than she should have and understood the pressures of being a pro hero before she understood the joys. 

But on one mission, she learned relief, her father was incapacitated and injured to such an extent that he could no longer properly use his Quirk and Mari found herself both horrified and...relieved. The world of heroes was wrong. So, so wrong--and why didn’t people see that? Realizing her father suffered to make others happy, Mari decided that she’d ‘save’ others from this fate and take the institution of heroism down.

She made the move to Japan when her father decided he wanted to retire there with his family, acting as the supportive daughter working to help support the family by day and acting to dismantle the very institution her father loved by night under the alias Taiyo. 

Alas, it’s hard work and she’s only one woman with an interesting quirk and few resources, so associating herself with certain more...villainous people appears to be the only way she can fulfil her goal. 

[hlupdate]

A hand­shake can quell polit­i­cal unrest and sti­fle impend­ing war. It can, with a bit of spit, val­i­date a gentleman’s agree­ment, end a years-long roman­tic rela­tion­ship or send a young heart rac­ing. But it all depends on the two par­ties involved.

Daisy, 21, felt a seis­mic jolt when Har­ry Styles, 25, wear­ing a striped jumper and rings on three of his five fin­gers, clutched her hand two days after this year’s Met Gala in New York, when she served him gela­to at the shop where she worked.

“He decid­ed on a small mint choco­late gela­to and I made his and the one for his friend and I said, ​‘Can I just say I absolute­ly loved your Met Gala look’ and he said ​‘Thank you very much! What’s your name?’ And I said, ​‘Daisy’ AND HE FUCK­ING EXTEND­ED HISHAND AND REACHED TO SHAKE MY HAND AND I ACTU­AL­LY FUCK­INGSHOOK HIS HAND WHAT THE FUCK,” she wrote on Insta­gram after The Shak­en­ing. ​“Like I didn’t even say any­thing to gas him up besides ​‘I loved your met gala look’ and his fine ass went and shook my hand! WHAT A BEAU­TI­FUL FUCK­ING HUMAN BEINGTHAT HE IS GOD BLESS HIM AND I HOPE HW [sic] LIVES FOREVER.”

For Har­ry Styles, a hand­shake can be a roman­tic ges­ture, con­jur­ing a potent rev­er­ence in its recip­i­ent, like the time he met Gucci’s cre­ative direc­tor Alessan­dro Michele. ​“He was as attrac­tive as James Dean and as per­sua­sive as Gre­ta Gar­bo. He was like a Luchi­no Vis­con­ti char­ac­ter, like an Apol­lo: at the same time sexy as a woman, as a kid, as a man,” Michele told me, has­ten­ing to add: ​“Of course, Har­ry is not aware of this.”

No, Styles has no idea the pow­er he wields. In per­son, he’s tow­er­ing, like some­one who is not that much taller but whose rep­u­ta­tion adds four inch­es. Styles has a seda­tive bari­tone, spo­ken in a rum­my north­ern Eng­lish accent, that tum­bles out so slow­ly you for­get the name of your first born, a swag­ger that has been nursed and per­fect­ed in myth­i­cal places with names like Pais­ley Park, or Abbey Road, or Grace­land. Makes com­plete sense that he would be up for the role of Elvis Pres­ley in Baz Luhrmann’s upcom­ing biopic. He was primed, nay, born to shake his hips, all but one but­ton on his shirt cling­ing for dear life around his tor­so. Then the part was award­ed to anoth­er actor, Austin Butler.

“[Elvis] was such an icon for me grow­ing up,” Styles tells me. ​“There was some­thing almost sacred about him, almost like I didn’t want to touch him. Then I end­ed up get­ting into [his life] a bit and I wasn’t dis­ap­point­ed,” he adds of his ini­tial research and prepa­ra­tions to play The King. He seems relaxed about los­ing the part to But­ler. ​“I feel like if I’m not the right per­son for the thing, then it’s best for both of us that I don’t do it, you know?”

Styles released his self-titled debut solo album in May 2017. The boy­band grad was clear­ly unin­ter­est­ed in hol­low­ing out the charts with more for­mu­la­ic meme pop. Instead, to the sur­prise of many, he dug his heels into retro-fetishist West Coast ​’70s rock. Some of the One Direc­tion fan-hordes might have been con­fused, but no mat­ter: Har­ry Styles sold one mil­lion copies.

Despite its com­mer­cial and crit­i­cal suc­cess, he didn’t tour the album right away. He want­ed to act in the Christo­pher Nolan film Dunkirk. To his cred­it, his por­tray­al of a British sol­dier cow­er­ing in a moored boat on the French beach­es as the Nazis advanced wasn’t skew­ered in the press like the movie debuts of, say, Madon­na or Justin Tim­ber­lake. Per­haps he was fol­low­ing advice giv­en by Elton John, who had urged him to diver­si­fy. ​“He was bril­liant in Dunkirk, which took a lot of peo­ple by sur­prise,” John writes in an email. ​“I love how he takes chances and risks.” Act­ing, unlike music, is a release for Styles; it’s the one time he can be not himself.

“Why do I want to act? It’s so dif­fer­ent to music for me,” he says, sud­den­ly ani­mat­ed. ​“They’re almost oppo­site for me. Music, you try and put so much of your­self into it; act­ing, you’re try­ing to total­ly dis­ap­pear in who­ev­er you’re being.”

Fol­low­ing the news that he missed out on Pres­ley, his name was float­ed for the role of Prince Eric in Disney’s live-action remake of The Lit­tle Mer­maid. How­ev­er, fans will have to wait a bit longer to see Styles on the big screen as that idea, too, has sunk. He won’t be The King or the Prince. ​“It was dis­cussed,” he acknow­ledges before swift­ly chang­ing the sub­ject. ​“I want to put music out and focus on that for a while. But every­one involved in it was amaz­ing, so I think it’s going to be great. I’ll enjoy watch­ing it, I’m sure.”

The new album is wrapped and the sin­gle is decid­ed upon. ​“It’s not like his last album,” his friend, rock ​‘n’ roll leg­end Ste­vie Nicks, told me recent­ly over the phone. ​“It’s not like any­thing One Direc­tion ever did. It’s pure Har­ry, as Har­ry would say. He’s made a very dif­fer­ent record and it’s spectacular.”

Beyond that, Styles is keep­ing his cards close to his chest as to his next musi­cal move. How­ev­er, the air is thick with rumours that his main wing­man for HS2 is Kid Har­poon, aka Tom Hull, who co-wrote debut album track Sweet Crea­ture. No less an author­i­ty than Liam Gal­lagher told us that both big band escapees were in the same stu­dio – RAK in north-west Lon­don – at the same time mak­ing their sec­ond solo albums. Styles played him a cou­ple of tracks, ​“and I tell you what, they’re good,” Gal­lagher enthused. ​“A bit like that Bon Iver. Is that his name?”

Har­ry Styles met Nicks at a Fleet­wood Mac con­cert in Los Ange­les in April 2015. Some­thing about him felt authen­tic to the leg­endary front­woman: ground­ed, like she’d known him for­ev­er, blessed with a win­ning moon­shot grin. A month lat­er, they met back­stage at anoth­er Mac gig, this time at the O2 in Lon­don. Styles brought a car­rot cake for Nicks’ birth­day, her name piped in icing on top. By her own admis­sion, Nicks doesn’t even cel­e­brate birth­days, so this was a sur­prise. ​“He was per­son­al­ly respon­si­ble for me actu­al­ly hav­ing to cel­e­brate my birth­day, which was very sweet,” she says.

Styles’ rela­tion­ship with Nicks is hard to define. Induct­ing her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in New York as a solo artist ear­li­er this year, his speech hymned her as a ​“mag­i­cal gyp­sy god­moth­er who occu­pies the in-between”. She’s called him her ​“lovechild” with Mick Fleet­wood and the ​“son I nev­er had”. Both have moved past the pre­lim­i­nary chat acknowl­edg­ing each other’s unquan­tifi­able tal­ents and smooth­ly accel­er­at­ed towards play­ful cut-and-thrust ban­ter of a witch mom and her naughty child.

They per­form togeth­er – he sings The Chainand Stop Drag­gin’ My Heart Around; she sings the one alleged­ly writ­ten about Tay­lor Swift, Two Ghosts. One of those per­for­mances was at the Guc­ci Cruise after­par­ty in Rome in May, for ​“a lot of mon­ey”, Nicks tells me, in a ​“big kind of cas­tle place”. She has become his de fac­to men­tor – one phone call is all it takes to reach the Queen of Rock’n’Roll for advice on sequenc­ing (“She is real­ly good at track list­ing,” Styles admits) or just to hear each other’s voic­es… because, well, wouldn’t you?

Fol­low­ing anoth­er Fleet­wood Mac con­cert, at London’s Wem­b­ley Sta­di­um, in June, Nicks met Styles for a late (Indi­an) din­ner. He then invit­ed her back to his semi-detached Geor­gian man­sion in north Lon­don for a lis­ten­ing par­ty at mid­night. The album – HS2or what­ev­er it’ll be called – was fin­ished. Nicks, her assis­tant Karen, her make-up artist and her friends Jess and Mary crammed onto Styles’ liv­ing-room couch. They lis­tened to it once through in silence like a ​“bunch of edu­cat­ed monks or some­thing in this dark room”. Then once again, 15 or 16 tracks, this time each of his guests offer­ing live feed­back. It wrapped at 5am, just as the sun was bleed­ing through the curtains.

Even for a pop star of Styles’ stature, press­ing ​“play” on a deeply per­son­al work for your hero to digest, watch­ing her face react in real time to your new music, must be… what?

“It’s a dou­ble-edged thing,” he replies. ​“You’re always ner­vous when you are play­ing peo­ple music for the first time. You’ve heard it so much by this point, you for­get that peo­ple haven’t heard it before. It’s hard to not feel like you’ve done what you’ve set out to do. You are hap­py with some­thing and then some­one who you respect so much and look up to is, like: ​‘I real­ly like this.’ It feels like a large stamp [of approval]. It’s a big step towards feel­ing very com­fort­able with what­ev­er else hap­pens to it.”

Wad­ing through Styles’ back­ground info is exhaust­ing, since he was spanked by fame in the social media era where every god­dam blink of a kohl-rimmed eye has been doc­u­ment­ed from six angles. (And yes, he does some­times wear guyliner.)

Deep breath: born in Red­ditch, Worces­ter­shire, to par­ents Des and Anne, who divorced when he was sev­en. Grew up in Holmes Chapel in Cheshire with his sis­ter Gem­ma, mum and step­dad Robin Twist. Rode hors­es at a near­by sta­ble for free (“I was a bad rid­er, but I was a rid­er”). Stopped rid­ing, ​“got into dif­fer­ent stuff”. Formed a band, White Eski­mo, with school­mates. Aged 16, tried out for the 2010 run of The X Fac­torwith a stir­ring but aver­age ren­di­tion of Ste­vie Wonder’s Isn’t She Love­ly. Cut from the show and put into a boy band with four oth­ers, Louis Tom­lin­son, Liam Payne, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik, and called One Direc­tion. Became inter­na­tion­al­ly famous, toured the globe. Zayn quit to go solo. Toured some more. Dat­ed but maybe didn’t date Car­o­line Flack, Rita Ora and Tay­lor Swift – whom he report­ed­ly dumped in the British Vir­gin Islands. (This rela­tion­ship, if noth­ing else, yield­ed an icon­ic, can­did shot of Swift look­ing deject­ed, being motored back to shore on the back of a boat called the Fly­ing Ray.) One Direc­tion dis­cussed dis­band­ing in 2014, actu­al­ly dis­solved in 2015. They remain friend­ly, and Styles offi­cial­ly went solo in 2016.

It’s been two years since his epony­mous debut and lead sin­gle, Sign of the Times, shocked the world and Elton John with its swag­ger­ing, soft rock sound. ​“It came out of left field and I loved it,” John says.

After 89 are­na-packed shows across five con­ti­nents grossed him, the label, whomev­er, over $61 mil­lion, Styles had all but dis­ap­peared. He has emerged only inter­mit­tent­ly for pub­lic-fac­ing events – a Guc­ci after­par­ty per­for­mance here, a Met Gala co-chair­ing there. He relo­cat­ed from Los Ange­les back to Lon­don, sell­ing his Hol­ly­wood Hills house for $6mil­lion and ship­ping his Jaguar E-type across the Atlantic so he could take joyrides on the M25.

“I’m not over LA,” he insists when I ask about the move. ​“My rela­tion­ship with LAchanged a lot. What I want­ed from LA changed.”

A great escape, he would agree, is some­times nec­es­sary. He was in Tokyo for most of Jan­u­ary, hav­ing near­ly fin­ished his album. ​“I need­ed time to get out of that album frame-of-mind of: ​‘Is it fin­ished? Where am I at? What’s hap­pen­ing?’ I real­ly need­ed that time away from every­one. I was kind of just in Tokyo by myself.” His sab­bat­i­cal most­ly involved read­ing Haru­ki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chron­i­cle, singing Nir­vana at karaoke, writ­ing alone in his hotel room, lis­ten­ing to music and eaves­drop­ping on strangers in alien con­ver­sa­tion. ​“It was just a pos­i­tive time for my head and I think that impact­ed the album in a big way.”

Dur­ing this break he watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Some­times he texts these rec­om­men­da­tions to his pal Michele at Guc­ci. He told Michele to watch the Ali Mac­graw film, Love Sto­ry. ​“We text what friends text about. He is the same [as me] in terms of he lives in his own world and he does his own thing. I love dress­ing up and he loves dress­ing up.”

Because he loves dress­ing up, Michele chose Styles to be the face of three Guc­ci Tai­lor­ing cam­paigns and of its new gen­der­less fra­grance, Mémoire d’une Odeur.

“The moment I met him, I imme­di­ate­ly under­stood there was some­thing strong around him,” Michele tells me. ​“I realised he was much more than a young singer. He was a young man, dressed in a thought­ful way, with uncombed hair and a beau­ti­ful voice. I thought he gath­ered with­in him­self the fem­i­nine and the masculine.”

Fash­ion, for Styles, is a play­ground. Some­thing he doesn’t take too seri­ous­ly. A cou­ple of years ago Har­ry Lam­bert, his styl­ist since 2015, acquired for him a pair of pink metal­lic Saint Lau­rent boots that he has nev­er been pho­tographed wear­ing. They are exceed­ing­ly rare – few pairs exist. Styles wears them ​“to get milk”. They are, in his words, ​“super-fun”. He’s not sure, but he has, ball­park, 50 pairs of shoes, as well as full clos­ets in at least three post­codes. He set­tles on an out­fit fair­ly quick­ly, maybe changes his T-shirt once before head­ing out, but most­ly knows what he likes.

What he may not ful­ly com­pre­hend is that sim­ply by being pho­tographed in a gar­ment he can spur the career of a design­er, as he has with Har­ris Reed, Palo­mo Spain, Charles Jef­frey, Alled-Martínez and a new favourite, Bode. Styles wore a SS16 Guc­ci flo­ral suit to the 2015 Amer­i­can Music Awards. When he was asked who made his suit on the red car­pet, Guc­ci began trend­ing world­wide on Twitter.

“It was one of the first times a male wore Alessandro’s run­way designs and, at the time, men were not tak­ing too many red car­pet risks,” says Lam­bert. ​“Who knows if it influ­enced oth­ers, but it was a spe­cial moment. Plus, it was fun see­ing the fans dress up in suits to come see Harry’s shows.”

Yet tra­di­tion­al gen­der codes of dress still have the minds of mid­dle Amer­i­ca in a choke­hold. Men can’t wear women’s clothes, say the online whingers, who have labelled him ​“trag­ic”, ​“a clown” and a Bowie wannabe. Styles doesn’t care. ​“What’s fem­i­nine and what’s mas­cu­line, what men are wear­ing and what women are wear­ing – it’s like there are no lines any more.”

Elton John agrees: ​“It worked for Marc Bolan, Bowie and Mick. Har­ry has the same qualities.”

Then there is the ques­tion of Styles’ sex­u­al­i­ty, some­thing he has admit­ted­ly ​“nev­er real­ly start­ed to label”, which will plague him until he does. Per­haps it’s part of his allure. He’s bran­dished a pride flag that read ​“Make Amer­i­ca Gay Again” on stage, and plant­ed a stake some­where left of cen­tre on sexuality’s rain­bow spectrum.

“In the posi­tion that he’s in, he can’t real­ly say a lot, but he chose a queer girl band to open for him and I think that speaks vol­umes,” Josette Maskin of the queer band MUNA told The Face ear­li­er this year.

“I get a lot of…” Styles trails off, wheels turn­ing on how he can dis­cuss sex­u­al­i­ty with­out real­ly answer­ing. ​“I’m not always super-out­spo­ken. But I think it’s very clear from choic­es that I make that I feel a cer­tain way about lots of things. I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I’m not…” He paus­es again, piv­ots. ​“I want every­one to feel wel­come at shows and online. They want to be loved and equal, you know? I’m nev­er unsup­port­ed, so it feels weird for me to over­think it for some­one else.”

Sex­u­al­i­ty aside, he must acknowl­edge that he has sex appeal. ​“The word ​‘sexy’ sounds so strange com­ing out of my mouth. So I would say that that’s prob­a­bly why I would not con­sid­er myself sexy.”

Har­ry Styles has emerged ful­ly-formed, an anachro­nis­tic rock star, vague in sen­si­bil­i­ty but des­tined to impress with a dis­arm­ing smile and a warm but firm handshake.

I recite to him a quote from Chrissie Hyn­de of The Pre­tenders about her time atop rock’s throne: ​“I nev­er got into this for the mon­ey or because I want­ed to join in the super­star sex around the swim­ming pools. I did it because the offer of a record con­tract came along and it seemed like it might be more fun than being a wait­ress. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Styles – who worked in a bak­ery in a small north­ern town some time before play­ing to 40,000 scream­ing fans in South Amer­i­can are­nas – must have wit­nessed some shit, been invit­ed to a few pool­side sex par­ties, in his time.

“I’ve seen a cou­ple of things,” he nods in agree­ment. ​“But I’m still young. I feel like there’s still stuff to see.”

[expressandadmirable]

Will I Find My Home? (Sol, Elerian, the Family Lux)

I. 

“I’m off,” Halei announced, slinging her pack over her shoulder as she stepped into the sitting room. “I’ll be in Norrikdown for a few days, then heading south on foot to some of the villages. I’ll circle back around and portal home when I’m done.”

Aviva hummed an acknowledgement from the sofa, palming the strings of her mandolin and looking over her shoulder at the Drow. “Did they request you in the villages, too?”

“Mmm,” Halei nodded. “Big property dispute in Fairdale and a murder case in Lionshead. Off to dispense some swift justice.” 

“Hopefully there won’t be any tragically uninformed bandits this time.”

Halei chuckled, squeezing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger in exasperated amusement. “What was that, a year ago now? Gods.”

“Thereabouts.” Aviva shook her head in a shade of disbelief that bordered on admiration. “I can’t believe we actually got to say ‘Do you know who I am?’”

“They certainly learned right bloody quick.”

Aviva huffed a wry laugh. “I almost felt bad for them. Of all the people you could attempt to rob on a rural roadside, we were… probably a poor choice.”

“We delivered them to the constable, alive and conscious. Justice was served.” Leaning over the back of the sofa, Halei slid her arms around the Tiefling’s neck and gave her a squeeze. “Be good.”

“Never.” Aviva tilted her head enough to kiss Halei’s cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” Releasing her wife, Halei made her way toward the door separating their quarters from the rest of the royal manor.

“Byyyyye!” Aviva sang. “Make Tyr proud!”

“That’s blasphemyyyyy!” Halei replied in similar sing-song as she disappeared into the hall, closing the door behind her.

“Is it blasphemy if we created the Gods?” Aviva wondered aloud, mostly to herself, though the cat at her side responded with a disinterested yawn.

The comment was flip, but once again it got her thinking. There were parts about her place in the grand design of the universe that she knew her mortal mind would never comprehend. She had met Bahamut, the great God of the Dragonborn, and at that meeting he had helped reveal the Heroes of Light’s true origins. She was Flame, the very concept personified, ancient and eternal. They had made and remade existence itself. She was the Mother of the World. Yet Halei still called upon Tyr for strength in battle, and Aviva said nightly prayers to Selen just as she had as a child. It was a discrepancy she could never parse.

With a great sigh, Aviva set her mandolin aside and stroked the soft fur behind Demon’s shoulder blades. “I tried to philosophise before lunch again. I told you to stop me next time I did that. Halei’s not even been gone five minutes.”

Demon of the Abyssal Reach purred.

II.

The roses needed trimming, as did the taller topiaries to the west of the manor. They had needed tending for days, but Elerian insisted on doing the work himself, and so they waited. Celestine had long since given up trying to hire gardeners for the detail work; instead, groundskeepers merely did the daily weeding and watering, allowing the Seer to execute his vision for the rest of the gardens. For this understanding, he was eternally grateful.

Elerian inhaled deeply, the scent of the roses filling the garden around him. It felt like weeks since he had last been able to walk the grounds -- in fact, given his endless list of official tasks, it may very well have been. Slipping the clippers from his belt, he considered the overgrown bush.

As if on cue, the gentle tones of a violin floated toward him from somewhere above the manor. It had taken a few months of residency, but Aviva had discovered several ways to access the roof, and as always, it had become her preferred place to take time for herself. She had eventually requested a trellis be installed outside the windows of their quarters, for well-decorated ease of access. It was then, he had noticed, that she seemed truly and completely at home.

She was working on a new piece, or so it sounded. The music paused every so often, picking up a few bars earlier and continuing until another pause. It matched the mood of the wind, of the warm, white clouds obscuring the sun but never threatening rain. It was the melodic embodiment of a peaceful afternoon, the perfect accompaniment to his task.

Music was Aviva’s true language, the lens through which she interpreted and understood the world. It was one of many things he admired about her.

Elerian smiled. He needed to levitate to reach the tops of the topiaries; when the shaping was done, perhaps he would visit her in her rooftop sanctuary. For the moment, he was content to listen.

III.

“Oh no!” came the wail from the sofa.

Halei stopped cold, the knife she had been using to cut the vegetables for dinner hanging in midair. “What?!”

“I’m too pregnant to play the lute!”

“...What?”

Incredulously, Halei approached. Aviva looked up at her in comical despair, trying in vain to press the rounded body of the lute against her equally round belly. “There’s just too much baby!!”

Suppressing a laugh, Halei ruffled the Tiefling’s hair. “I’ll go get your guitar.”

Aviva smiled. While her misery was (somewhat) feigned, her adoration was not. “You are a goddess.”

“I know.”

IV.

“Headed to bed early; exhausted. Pregnancy still sucks. She kicked today, though. Morgan says hi, hopes to see you. Miss you terribly. Love you endlessly.”

Halei smiled. “Miss you too,” she murmured, the magic of the Sending spell transporting her words all the way back to Aelfheim. “Nearly finished here. Verdict, then home. Tell Morgan I’ll bring pastries. Keep the hearth going and the bed warm. I love you.”

V.

“Nope, sorry darlings.” Mae shook her head as she stood in the doorway to the bedroom, blocking the Elves’ entry with folded arms. From behind her, a string of curses in a variety of languages landed in the sitting room like arrows embedding into a target. “You are not playing this round. Not you--” she pointed to Halei, “and definitely not you.” Her gaze shifted to Elerian.

Startled, the two Elves began to protest, but Mae held up a tattooed palm. “The kid said no, so the answer is no. You can stay out here and if she changes her mind, I’ll have Su come get ya.”

The Elves admitted their defeat with a grumble. They would respect Aviva’s wishes, as much as it unsettled them to do so. “If I may enquire, why ‘definitely not me’?” Elerian ventured, eyebrows raised in stark confusion.

Mae raised a brow in return, her illustrated tail swishing lazily as she leaned against the doorframe. “Because, your royal highness, the situation in there is pretty definitively your fault, and the kid is about to say some things that under normal circumstances would get her done for treason. Best not to put yourself in the line of fire unless she asks.”

“...Fair enough.”

An agonised scream ripped through the sitting room. Halei tensed, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “Brings back bad memories,” she muttered.

For the first time since she’d arrived, Mae softened, messy bun of greying dark hair bobbing as she nodded. “I know. You’ve been through a lot with her. But she’s strong, and once this is over, there’ll be a brand new generation of Lux for you to meet.” She smiled. “She’ll be okay. Trust me.”

“Mari?” came Esperance’s voice from somewhere within the bedroom. “Mari??”

“That’s my cue.” Mae pushed off from the doorframe and straightened. “Fortify, you two. You’re not the ones pushing out a baby!” With that, she turned on her heel and closed the bedroom door.

Halei glanced at Elerian. “I still can’t get over the fact that V’s tattooist is also a midwife.”

“The two are not so dissimilar,” Elerian answered. “There are many many ways to guide someone through pain.”

After a moment of contemplation, Halei shrugged. “Spiritual people are weird.”

With a snort of laughter, Elerian shook his head at the Drow. “You are a terrible paladin.”

VI.

Exhausted beyond words, Aviva held the warm little bundle to her chest, smiling sleepily as Halei and Elerian gathered around her.

“Ada, Nana,” she addressed them in murmured Elvish, “this is Zahira.”

VII.

Celestine glanced at the ornate Gnomish clock on the wall of her office. She had woken at Elerian’s side, had seen him at breakfast, had reminded him of the items on the day’s docket. He had attended the morning’s meeting and completed the first half of the to-do list, then sequestered himself to rewrite a speech and promised to join her again at half past three. As the hands of the clock neared four, Celestine stood. Elerian the Seer was not one to miss an appointment.

Making her way through the busy kitchen and up the manor’s back stairs to the domestic floors, Celestine checked Elerian’s bedchamber, then the study. The speech sat mostly revised on his desk, which was a relief, but its writer was still nowhere to be found. She stepped back into the hall, looking this way and that, her hands on her hips and a confused frown on her face. The manor was large, but it was not that large.

“Celes?”

Rounding a corner, Astos canted his head, dark hair freeing itself from behind one long ear. “You look as if you’ve lost something,” he noted as he approached.

“Our husband,” she responded with a sigh. “We have to finish the plans for next week’s reception and he was supposed to meet me half an hour ago. Have you seen him?”

Astos shook his head. “I’ve not. But if I had to wager, he’s probably with the girls.”

“I don’t believe I’ll take that wager.” Celestine’s smile began wryly, but quickly softened. “I’ll check their quarters. We’re lucky the baby can’t get that far yet, or I’d never find him again.” With a wave, she left Astos to chuckle to himself as she turned down the next hallway.

Reaching Aviva and Haluei’en’s door, she knocked politely. They had given her free reign to enter unannounced long ago, but she preferred an invitation when possible. “Aviva?” No answer. “It’s Celestine. Is Elerian with you?” Silence. “Aviva? Haluei’en?” After one final pause, Celestine pushed open the door and poked her head inside.

Haluei’en sat slouched on the sofa, her head tipped back against the pillows. Aviva lay on her belly with her head in the Drow’s lap, stretched longways across the seat cushions, one arm dangling over the side and brushing the floor. Elerian rested on the floor with his back against the sofa, nearly mirroring Haluei’en but for using Aviva’s hip as a pillow; cradled in his lap lay baby Zahira. All four of them, Celestine realised, were sound asleep.

From atop one of the back pillows, Demon opened her amber eyes and blinked. Celestine nodded at her. “You’re right,” she whispered. “It can wait. I’ll come back later.”

Demon closed her eyes.

VIII.

Blinking away the fog of sleep that momentarily washed over her, Aviva stifled a yawn. Well aware of their vital importance, she could not help but find Elvish ambassadorial meetings to be monstrously tedious and often irritating affairs. Despite Elerian’s marriage to the leader of the Wood Elves and his close working relationship with the new Archmagistrix of the Drow, there was always some petty squabble or long-held grudge from the lower ranks delaying and complicating negotiations. Even Halei’s presence as a neutral Arbiter could do little to keep the table of testy Elves on track. For her part, Aviva represented the Tieflings and other marginalised communities within each of the Elven nations, interjecting on their behalf when necessary and advocating for them to receive the help they needed. Of course, given the pace of the talks, she suspected she would not need to speak up until next week at the earliest.

Zahira stirred in her arms. Tiny golden eyes blinked up at her, framed by an expression of mild confusion that never failed to make her smile. “Hi baby,” she whispered, gently running her fingers across her daughter’s cheek and through her white-blonde hair. Zahira fussed in response, freeing a hand from her blanket and grabbing at the low neckline of Aviva’s tunic. “Hungry again? Okay, okay, hold on.” As a Wood Elven administrator droned on from across the table, Aviva loosened the ties of her tunic, unwrapping one side and shifting the girl into position.

“Excuse me!” barked a voice, cutting off the Wood Elf mid-stream. Looking up to see what had caused such an outburst, Aviva realised the voice belonged to Elerian’s most obstinately old-fashioned advisor, and that he was looking at her as if he had just stepped in something unsavoury. “That is most indecent!” he continued in Elvish. “Revealing, flaunting herself in the middle of an official conference! It’s not proper!” He shifted in his chair to address Elerian. “My Prince, I request she be removed at once.”

Before Elerian could respond, Aviva cocked her head. “I am feeding my child, my lord,” she explained in measured, fluent Elvish. “It is both natural and a necessity, so if there is a law against it, I pray you show it to me. Or perhaps you are cranky because you are hungry too?” She gestured to her chest. “I do have another breast if you need a snack to quell your tantrum.”

A ripple of laughter spread across the table, punctuated by Halei’s sharp snort. Elerian tried valiantly to keep his expression neutral, but the pride in his eyes betrayed him. The advisor’s face reddened and he spluttered a few times before sinking back into his chair, duly cowed.

Elerian spread his hands. “My apologies for the interruption. Please continue, Ambassador.”

From the far end of the table, Halei caught Aviva’s eye, a psychic ‘I love you’ passing through the Tiefling’s head. She gave Halei a wink.

IX.

“Tea?”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

Esperance smiled at her daughter, sitting at the kitchen table as if she’d never left, then at her granddaughter, amusing herself with wooden blocks at Aviva’s feet. “Warm milk for the baby?”

“Nah, she’ll have her lunch in a bit. I grabbed some jars of food before we left.” Aviva patted the pack occupying the chair next to her. “I almost miss when I was the only source of food. Much easier to carry.”

“But soon you’ll be able to start cooking with her.” Esperance set two mugs of tea on the table before easing into the closest chair. “And start baking.”

Aviva grinned. “Few more years before we get to that. Things take for-fucking-ever for Half-Elves.” Raising a defiant eyebrow at Esperance’s reproachful look, she sipped her tea. “Did you finally get Pippa to start baking?”

“Nearly,” Esperance answered with a smile that took years from her face. “She managed not to burn the house down. We’re working on it.”

“I’m glad you two got together.” Aviva leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table. “You deserve to be happy.”

Esperance flushed girlishly, gold eyes fixed on the steaming swirls of her tea. “She’s a good woman. I thought it would be strange, such an old friend of your father’s… But it helps that she knew him. That she still misses him sometimes too.” She met Aviva’s gaze. “He would be so, so proud of you. Your music, your family, your friends, your work. The world we know is because of you. Because of your capacity to love and believe, despite everything. He would be… at least half as proud as me.”

It was Aviva’s turn to flush. She looked at her daughter, who bore her father’s name, then at her mother. “I wouldn’t be me without you, Mama.” She reached a hand across the table, finding Esperance’s fingers and lacing them tightly with hers. “Thank you.”

X.

“Mama? Nana?”

Aviva rolled toward Zahira’s voice, bleary-eyed. “What is it, baby?”

“I had a bad dream.” The girl’s voice was muffled behind the plush dragon she held tightly to her chest. “Can I come sleep with you?”

“Of course, my love.”

“And Maergrahn III?”

“Always.”

Before Aviva could shift her weight, Halei had already risen, stepping around the edge of the bed and and scooping Zahira into her arms. Planting a kiss on her cheek, the Drow set her daughter beside her wife and crawled back under the covers. “There we go, love. Have a lie down and your mama and I will make it go away.”

With a small nod, Zahira shimmied beneath the blanket until she could rest her head on the pillows. Propping herself up on one elbow, Aviva kissed the girl, then the stuffed dragon, then kissed the fingers of her other hand and tapped them to Halei’s shoulder. Settling back down, each mother wrapped an arm around Zahira and closed her eyes.

XI.

“Good,” Aviva nodded. “Very good. How did that feel?”

Lowering his bow, Ofer kept his back straight, violin tucked against his chin as he went over the piece in his head. “I’m still having trouble with the third movement.”

“You are, but it was the best you’ve done so far. Remember to hold on to that when you start to get frustrated. Your head knows how to play it. Your hands just need a little more time to get there.”

“Yes, Lady V,” the young Tiefling recited. Aviva could not help but smile. ‘Lady V’ was the compromise she and the boy had come to, delicately balancing his wide-eyed deference to the Hero of Light and Prince’s paramour with her personal discomfort at having so many damned titles. It did occasionally cross her mind that ‘Lady Lux’ would have had more of a ring to it, but what had once been armour had long ago returned to its rightful place as a family surname. ‘Lady Aviva’ was her name at formal ceremonies and on official papers, so ‘Lady V’ was the best she could get from Ofer.

“Do you want to run through it again, or work on your other piece?” Aviva waited; when the boy did not respond, she cocked her head. “Ofer?”

Ofer blinked. “Yeah. Sorry, Lady V. I was…” He shrugged. “I dunno.”

Aviva settled into one of the plush high-backed chairs dotting the manor’s drawing room, watching Ofer’s face. “What’s up, sweet pea? Something’s been on your mind all day, I can tell.” Ofer nodded sheepishly, his shoulders slumping. Aviva smiled. “Then let’s rest for a minute and you can tell me about it.”

“Okay.” With a sigh, Ofer set his violin and bow in the open case at his feet. “My parents… Ever since I got my own room, they make me sleep with the door open. So they can check on me during the night. And last night, I woke up, and I saw my mum at the door, and… I dunno, I just got mad. I got out of bed and I told her to go away and I slammed the door.” He looked at Aviva helplessly. “She didn’t say anything this morning, but I could tell she was sad. I don’t even know why I got mad. She's just so nervous all the time. If I'm not where she expects me to be, she panics, and then dad gets mad, and I just… I don't understand.”

Aviva listened, and when the boy had finished, she nodded. “That's a lot. It's okay to be frustrated.” Ofer started. “It is. My mother used to be like that when I was little, and it was hard. I can get like that sometimes too, and it's hard on Zahira.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “How much have your parents told you about the Calling?” Even after all these years, the word still sent a chill down her spine.

"Not a lot.” Ofer gave a small shrug. “It was scary, and it's why they have scars and why dad has a glass eye. And that you saved them.”

“Not just me. They were strong. They let me help them.” Aviva took a deep breath. “The Calling is a wound, a trauma our people are still recovering from. For many of us, it was the worst in a long line of bad things. There was a time when we thought there wouldn't be any of us left.” A sad smile flitted across her face. “I still get nightmares about it sometimes.”

“You do??” Ofer stared at her, his eyes as large as saucers.

Aviva chuckled softly. “Is it so hard to believe? I get scared too. And when I wake up, it can take some time to reassure myself the nightmare wasn't real. I can talk to my wife or to the Prince, but sometimes I go to Zahira's room and look in on her. Make sure she's still there.” She took one of Ofer's hands in her own. “Our people have lost a lot. Things are better now, but it's hard not to worry about the people and things we love. We want to keep them safe, and sometimes we show that in confusing or unhelpful ways. Your parents mean well; their hearts are in the right place.”

“So what do I do?”

“Talk to them. Explain how they're making you feel. They may mean well, but your feelings are valid, too. Talk to them about what they went through, how it’s still affecting them, and how that’s affecting you. They may not be ready to talk about everything just yet, but you can start the conversation and go from there.” She squeezed the boy’s hand. “What’s most important is that they love you. So, so much.” Tilting her head, she smiled. “Okay?”

Ofer nodded, and smiled in return. “Okay.”

“Okay. Want to take another crack at the third movement?”

“Okay!”

XII.

Aviva loved the light in Elerian’s bedchamber. The delicate curtains drawn across the windows and pinned over the skylights diffused the afternoon sun, scattering and softening the rays into a meditative glow. By contrast, the rich damask canopy of the four-poster bed kept sleepers in the embrace of darkness even at midday. It was a humble place, at least relative to his station; while the public spaces in the manor were for show, the bedchamber was for him alone.

“Reminiscing?”

From her position against the doorframe, Aviva looked over her shoulder, smiling as Elerian approached. “El’an,” she greeted him. “I suppose I was. The first time I saw you, you were asleep in that bed.” She smirked. “A pale little thing, you were. Caused us all quite a bit of stress.”

Elerian laughed lightly, resting a hand on the Tiefling’s hip. “A most wretched sight, to be certain. I imagine I was the very picture of Elven frailty, was I not?”

With a grin, Aviva looped her arms around his neck. “Luckily for us, you’re sturdier than you look.”

“Waiting for you and your Heroic kin gave me the strength to carry on,” Elerian responded with utter sincerity, then broke into a chuckle at Aviva’s raised eyebrow. “I knew you would come. I had seen it many times before. The only information I lacked was who you would be when you arrived.”

“Do you miss it? Being able to See?”

Elerian considered that for a moment. “There are times that throw into sharp relief just how much I relied upon it. When the chapters of one’s life have been laid out for them from their first breath, stepping onto the unknown page is daunting, to say the least.” He slid both hands around her waist, drawing her close, and she lowered her forehead to rest against his. “Which is why I shall forever thank my good fortune that you are one of the writers of these pages.”

After all these years, he could still make her blush. “Gi melin, elrandir.” I love you, star-wanderer.

“Gi melin, feanare.” Spirit of Flame.

XIII.

“There’s my wife!”

Setting her pack down by the door, Halei stepped into Aviva’s waiting arms, burying her face in the Tiefling’s neck. “Hello you.”

“Hi sunshine. Welcome back.” Aviva rested her cheek against Halei’s head. “You hungry?”

“Starving.” Lifting her head, Halei nodded over Aviva’s shoulder to the large basket sitting on the dining table. “Is that what that’s for?”

“It most certainly is.” Aviva released the Drow, who knelt to greet Ladybug of the Line of Demon as she trotted in from the kitchen. “I was away, then you were away; it feels like we haven’t eaten together in ages. El’an has the baby tonight, so I thought we might have a walk in the garden. What do you think?”

Halei smiled. “Nothing would please me more. Let me get my armour off and we can go.”

“Sure. I’ll finish packing.” Aviva paused, then smiled, remembering the first time they had taken a dinner basket into the manor garden. “Wear something soft.”

On her way to the armoury closet, Halei stopped, looking back at Aviva with a knowing smile. “It’s a date.”

XIV.

“Still with me, kid?”

Aviva let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a purr. Mae laughed. “Good. Almost done. Time to come back to reality.”

“I’m here.” Aviva was no stranger to trancing out during tattoo sessions, breathing deeply and evenly as her mind wandered far from where she sat, topless and backwards on a chair in Mae’s tent in Corneria City. “Perfect timing, I was just thinking I needed to pee.”

Mae snorted and good-naturedly muttered for her client to shut up. A few minutes later, she lowered her needles. “There. You want to see it, or do you want to pee first?”

Aviva tried to shoot a withering look over her shoulder, but it quickly melted into a smile. “Let’s see it.”

With a nod, Mae slid a large mirror from beneath the low table at her side and held it in front of her. After cracking her neck and gingerly rolling her shoulders, Aviva peeked at the image freshly decorating her back. A sun, a moon and a star danced across her shoulder blades, connected by subtle, flowing lines that called to mind the night sky, or streaks of flame. She exhaled slowly. “It’s perfect.”

“Of course it is,” Mae scoffed, but her grin was genuine. “Now let’s get you wrapped and get you home.” As she stood to move the mirror and retrieve the oils and bandages, she leaned down to kiss one of Aviva’s horns. “Happy birthday, kid.”

XV.

For all the thrilling adventures she had experienced in her life, there was nothing quite like an audience’s applause. And oh, did they love the Hearthmother.

Aviva grinned, radiant, and dipped into a sweeping bow, the teal-emerald-indigo fabric of her gown shimmering like sunlit ocean water as she moved. She gestured to her side, introducing her friend and collaborator Rhos Liadon to the approving roar of the crowd. Caught somewhere between terror and elation at the sheer size of the Aelfheim concert hall, the Half-Orc sketched a somewhat less fluid bow, then wrapped Aviva in a crushing hug and planted a kiss on her cheek. Stepping back, they selected their preferred instruments from the collection behind them -- they planned to play a great variety of music tonight -- and with a shared wink, they began.

A reel. A waltz. A ballad. A Cornerian folk song, sung in round. A duet of piano and cello. Solo violin. A raga. A chiftitelli. A chaconne. An Elvish sonatina. Lute and illusory drums. Mandolin. Paired voices, a symphony of two. The bards had travelled across the world and back, and they brought all their knowledge and experience to bear in pursuit of musical perfection. They had planned a concert unlike any other, and they would not disappoint.

Finally, Rhos slung a banjo about his shoulders while Aviva tuned her guitar. He told the sea of excited faces that they had written a song together, and asked with a cheeky smirk if they would like to hear it. The response was deafening. Once the cheers had faded, Aviva conjured a set of keys before them, coaxing a gentle melody from the air. Their voices started softly, as did their strings, gradually building until suddenly they burst into an exuberant chorus. The lyrics wondered if they would find their home, even as the notes told them of course they would. A question answered with perfect surety. They knew where home was.

Even through the brightness of the lights, Aviva could see the little boxes built into the sides of the concert hall. Less ostentatious, comparatively, than other theatrical architecture, they sat nearly flush with the wall, providing a clear view of the stage without obstructing other patrons. Ensconced in the furthest box, she might not have seen the occupants at all, had she not known precisely where to look.

Elerian’s head was nodding in time with the music; Haluei’en was bouncing Zahira on her knee. In the box below them, Morgan chatted animatedly with Esperance, tapping her fingers on the ornate wooden railing. Maergrahn danced nimbly about behind them, perfectly content to filter the music into his own little world. Wilhelm, in a rare appearance outside his tower, sat rapt, as if trying to take in every detail of the performance. Zahira noticed her mama glancing in their direction and waved her hands, turning to say something to Halei before resuming her wave. As the song ended, Aviva blew the girl a kiss.

Rhos took her hand and gave her a spin. They laughed, and bowed. Her heart soared.

My home in you.

(Art by @sbeep​, @aguydrawsgames​ and @kimbles​)

Endless gratitude and love to SB for playing Sol and for telling this beautiful story with me (and for trusting me to go nuts with the epilogue, and for the exquisite art). Even more gratitude and love to @stonegolem​ for creating this wonderful story and expansive world for us all to muck about in, as well as playing Elerian and rolling with my schmaltzy story ideas. I’m gonna miss telling this story, but I’m so, so glad it’s been told.

[stylesnews]

The Face - Volume 4 . Issue 1

A hand­shake can quell polit­i­cal unrest and sti­fle impend­ing war. It can, with a bit of spit, val­i­date a gentleman’s agree­ment, end a years-long roman­tic rela­tion­ship or send a young heart rac­ing. But it all depends on the two par­ties involved.

Daisy, 21, felt a seis­mic jolt when Har­ry Styles, 25, wear­ing a striped jumper and rings on three of his five fin­gers, clutched her hand two days after this year’s Met Gala in New York, when she served him gela­to at the shop where she worked.

“He decid­ed on a small mint choco­late gela­to and I made his and the one for his friend and I said, ​‘Can I just say I absolute­ly loved your Met Gala look’ and he said ​‘Thank you very much! What’s your name?’ And I said, ​‘Daisy’ AND HE FUCK­ING EXTEND­ED HIS HAND AND REACHEDTO SHAKE MY HAND AND I ACTU­AL­LY FUCK­ING SHOOK HIS HAND WHAT THEFUCK,” she wrote on Insta­gram after The Shak­en­ing. ​“Like I didn’t even say any­thing to gas him up besides ​‘I loved your met gala look’ and his fine ass went and shook my hand! WHATA BEAU­TI­FUL FUCK­ING HUMAN BEING THAT HE IS GOD BLESS HIM AND I HOPE HW[sic] LIVES FOREVER.”

For Har­ry Styles, a hand­shake can be a roman­tic ges­ture, con­jur­ing a potent rev­er­ence in its recip­i­ent, like the time he met Gucci’s cre­ative direc­tor Alessan­dro Michele. ​“He was as attrac­tive as James Dean and as per­sua­sive as Gre­ta Gar­bo. He was like a Luchi­no Vis­con­ti char­ac­ter, like an Apol­lo: at the same time sexy as a woman, as a kid, as a man,” Michele told me, has­ten­ing to add: ​“Of course, Har­ry is not aware of this.”

No, Styles has no idea the pow­er he wields. In per­son, he’s tow­er­ing, like some­one who is not that much taller but whose rep­u­ta­tion adds four inch­es. Styles has a seda­tive bari­tone, spo­ken in a rum­my north­ern Eng­lish accent, that tum­bles out so slow­ly you for­get the name of your first born, a swag­ger that has been nursed and per­fect­ed in myth­i­cal places with names like Pais­ley Park, or Abbey Road, or Grace­land. Makes com­plete sense that he would be up for the role of Elvis Pres­ley in Baz Luhrmann’s upcom­ing biopic. He was primed, nay, born to shake his hips, all but one but­ton on his shirt cling­ing for dear life around his tor­so. Then the part was award­ed to anoth­er actor, Austin Butler.

“[Elvis] was such an icon for me grow­ing up,” Styles tells me. ​“There was some­thing almost sacred about him, almost like I didn’t want to touch him. Then I end­ed up get­ting into [his life] a bit and I wasn’t dis­ap­point­ed,” he adds of his ini­tial research and prepa­ra­tions to play The King. He seems relaxed about los­ing the part to But­ler. ​“I feel like if I’m not the right per­son for the thing, then it’s best for both of us that I don’t do it, you know?”

Styles released his self-titled debut solo album in May 2017. The boy­band grad was clear­ly unin­ter­est­ed in hol­low­ing out the charts with more for­mu­la­ic meme pop. Instead, to the sur­prise of many, he dug his heels into retro-fetishist West Coast ​’70s rock. Some of the One Direc­tion fan-hordes might have been con­fused, but no mat­ter: Har­ry Styles sold one mil­lion copies.

Despite its com­mer­cial and crit­i­cal suc­cess, he didn’t tour the album right away. He want­ed to act in the Christo­pher Nolan film Dunkirk. To his cred­it, his por­tray­al of a British sol­dier cow­er­ing in a moored boat on the French beach­es as the Nazis advanced wasn’t skew­ered in the press like the movie debuts of, say, Madon­na or Justin Tim­ber­lake. Per­haps he was fol­low­ing advice giv­en by Elton John, who had urged him to diver­si­fy. ​“He was bril­liant in Dunkirk, which took a lot of peo­ple by sur­prise,” John writes in an email. ​“I love how he takes chances and risks.” Act­ing, unlike music, is a release for Styles; it’s the one time he can be not himself.

“Why do I want to act? It’s so dif­fer­ent to music for me,” he says, sud­den­ly ani­mat­ed. ​“They’re almost oppo­site for me. Music, you try and put so much of your­self into it; act­ing, you’re try­ing to total­ly dis­ap­pear in who­ev­er you’re being.”

Fol­low­ing the news that he missed out on Pres­ley, his name was float­ed for the role of Prince Eric in Disney’s live-action remake of The Lit­tle Mer­maid. How­ev­er, fans will have to wait a bit longer to see Styles on the big screen as that idea, too, has sunk. He won’t be The King or the Prince. ​“It was dis­cussed,” he acknow­ledges before swift­ly chang­ing the sub­ject. ​“I want to put music out and focus on that for a while. But every­one involved in it was amaz­ing, so I think it’s going to be great. I’ll enjoy watch­ing it, I’m sure.”

The new album is wrapped and the sin­gle is decid­ed upon. ​“It’s not like his last album,” his friend, rock ​‘n’ roll leg­end Ste­vie Nicks, told me recent­ly over the phone. ​“It’s not like any­thing One Direc­tion ever did. It’s pure Har­ry, as Har­ry would say. He’s made a very dif­fer­ent record and it’s spectacular.”

Beyond that, Styles is keep­ing his cards close to his chest as to his next musi­cal move. How­ev­er, the air is thick with rumours that his main wing­man for HS2 is Kid Har­poon, aka Tom Hull, who co-wrote debut album track Sweet Crea­ture. No less an author­i­ty than Liam Gal­lagher told us that both big band escapees were in the same stu­dio – RAK in north-west Lon­don – at the same time mak­ing their sec­ond solo albums. Styles played him a cou­ple of tracks, ​“and I tell you what, they’re good,” Gal­lagher enthused. ​“A bit like that Bon Iver. Is that his name?”

Har­ry Styles met Nicks at a Fleet­wood Mac con­cert in Los Ange­les in April 2015. Some­thing about him felt authen­tic to the leg­endary front­woman: ground­ed, like she’d known him for­ev­er, blessed with a win­ning moon­shot grin. A month lat­er, they met back­stage at anoth­er Mac gig, this time at the O2 in Lon­don. Styles brought a car­rot cake for Nicks’ birth­day, her name piped in icing on top. By her own admis­sion, Nicks doesn’t even cel­e­brate birth­days, so this was a sur­prise. ​“He was per­son­al­ly respon­si­ble for me actu­al­ly hav­ing to cel­e­brate my birth­day, which was very sweet,” she says.

Styles’ rela­tion­ship with Nicks is hard to define. Induct­ing her into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in New York as a solo artist ear­li­er this year, his speech hymned her as a ​“mag­i­cal gyp­sy god­moth­er who occu­pies the in-between”. She’s called him her ​“lovechild” with Mick Fleet­wood and the ​“son I nev­er had”. Both have moved past the pre­lim­i­nary chat acknowl­edg­ing each other’s unquan­tifi­able tal­ents and smooth­ly accel­er­at­ed towards play­ful cut-and-thrust ban­ter of a witch mom and her naughty child.

They per­form togeth­er – he sings The Chain and Stop Drag­gin’ My Heart Around; she sings the one alleged­ly writ­ten about Tay­lor Swift, Two Ghosts. One of those per­for­mances was at the Guc­ci Cruise after­par­ty in Rome in May, for ​“a lot of mon­ey”, Nicks tells me, in a ​“big kind of cas­tle place”. She has become his de fac­to men­tor – one phone call is all it takes to reach the Queen of Rock’n’Roll for advice on sequenc­ing (“She is real­ly good at track list­ing,” Styles admits) or just to hear each other’s voic­es… because, well, wouldn’t you?

Fol­low­ing anoth­er Fleet­wood Mac con­cert, at London’s Wem­b­ley Sta­di­um, in June, Nicks met Styles for a late (Indi­an) din­ner. He then invit­ed her back to his semi-detached Geor­gian man­sion in north Lon­don for a lis­ten­ing par­ty at mid­night. The album – HS2or what­ev­er it’ll be called – was fin­ished. Nicks, her assis­tant Karen, her make-up artist and her friends Jess and Mary crammed onto Styles’ liv­ing-room couch. They lis­tened to it once through in silence like a ​“bunch of edu­cat­ed monks or some­thing in this dark room”. Then once again, 15 or 16 tracks, this time each of his guests offer­ing live feed­back. It wrapped at 5am, just as the sun was bleed­ing through the curtains.

Even for a pop star of Styles’ stature, press­ing ​“play” on a deeply per­son­al work for your hero to digest, watch­ing her face react in real time to your new music, must be… what?

“It’s a dou­ble-edged thing,” he replies. ​“You’re always ner­vous when you are play­ing peo­ple music for the first time. You’ve heard it so much by this point, you for­get that peo­ple haven’t heard it before. It’s hard to not feel like you’ve done what you’ve set out to do. You are hap­py with some­thing and then some­one who you respect so much and look up to is, like: ​‘I real­ly like this.’ It feels like a large stamp [of approval]. It’s a big step towards feel­ing very com­fort­able with what­ev­er else hap­pens to it.”

Wad­ing through Styles’ back­ground info is exhaust­ing, since he was spanked by fame in the social media era where every god­dam blink of a kohl-rimmed eye has been doc­u­ment­ed from six angles. (And yes, he does some­times wear guyliner.)

Deep breath: born in Red­ditch, Worces­ter­shire, to par­ents Des and Anne, who divorced when he was sev­en. Grew up in Holmes Chapel in Cheshire with his sis­ter Gem­ma, mum and step­dad Robin Twist. Rode hors­es at a near­by sta­ble for free (“I was a bad rid­er, but I was a rid­er”). Stopped rid­ing, ​“got into dif­fer­ent stuff”. Formed a band, White Eski­mo, with school­mates. Aged 16, tried out for the 2010 run of The X Fac­torwith a stir­ring but aver­age ren­di­tion of Ste­vie Wonder’s Isn’t She Love­ly. Cut from the show and put into a boy band with four oth­ers, Louis Tom­lin­son, Liam Payne, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik, and called One Direc­tion. Became inter­na­tion­al­ly famous, toured the globe. Zayn quit to go solo. Toured some more. Dat­ed but maybe didn’t date Car­o­line Flack, Rita Ora and Tay­lor Swift – whom he report­ed­ly dumped in the British Vir­gin Islands. (This rela­tion­ship, if noth­ing else, yield­ed an icon­ic, can­did shot of Swift look­ing deject­ed, being motored back to shore on the back of a boat called the Fly­ing Ray.) One Direc­tion dis­cussed dis­band­ing in 2014, actu­al­ly dis­solved in 2015. They remain friend­ly, and Styles offi­cial­ly went solo in 2016.

It’s been two years since his epony­mous debut and lead sin­gle, Sign of the Times, shocked the world and Elton John with its swag­ger­ing, soft rock sound. ​“It came out of left field and I loved it,” John says.

After 89 are­na-packed shows across five con­ti­nents grossed him, the label, whomev­er, over $61mil­lion, Styles had all but dis­ap­peared. He has emerged only inter­mit­tent­ly for pub­lic-fac­ing events – a Guc­ci after­par­ty per­for­mance here, a Met Gala co-chair­ing there. He relo­cat­ed from Los Ange­les back to Lon­don, sell­ing his Hol­ly­wood Hills house for $6 mil­lion and ship­ping his Jaguar E-type across the Atlantic so he could take joyrides on the M25.

“I’m not over LA,” he insists when I ask about the move. ​“My rela­tion­ship with LA changed a lot. What I want­ed from LA changed.”

A great escape, he would agree, is some­times nec­es­sary. He was in Tokyo for most of Jan­u­ary, hav­ing near­ly fin­ished his album. ​“I need­ed time to get out of that album frame-of-mind of: ​‘Is it fin­ished? Where am I at? What’s hap­pen­ing?’ I real­ly need­ed that time away from every­one. I was kind of just in Tokyo by myself.” His sab­bat­i­cal most­ly involved read­ing Haru­ki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chron­i­cle, singing Nir­vana at karaoke, writ­ing alone in his hotel room, lis­ten­ing to music and eaves­drop­ping on strangers in alien con­ver­sa­tion. ​“It was just a pos­i­tive time for my head and I think that impact­ed the album in a big way.”

Dur­ing this break he watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Some­times he texts these rec­om­men­da­tions to his pal Michele at Guc­ci. He told Michele to watch the Ali Mac­graw film, Love Sto­ry. ​“We text what friends text about. He is the same [as me] in terms of he lives in his own world and he does his own thing. I love dress­ing up and he loves dress­ing up.”

Because he loves dress­ing up, Michele chose Styles to be the face of three Guc­ci Tai­lor­ing cam­paigns and of its new gen­der­less fra­grance, Mémoire d’une Odeur.

“The moment I met him, I imme­di­ate­ly under­stood there was some­thing strong around him,” Michele tells me. ​“I realised he was much more than a young singer. He was a young man, dressed in a thought­ful way, with uncombed hair and a beau­ti­ful voice. I thought he gath­ered with­in him­self the fem­i­nine and the masculine.”

Fash­ion, for Styles, is a play­ground. Some­thing he doesn’t take too seri­ous­ly. A cou­ple of years ago Har­ry Lam­bert, his styl­ist since 2015, acquired for him a pair of pink metal­lic Saint Lau­rent boots that he has nev­er been pho­tographed wear­ing. They are exceed­ing­ly rare – few pairs exist. Styles wears them ​“to get milk”. They are, in his words, ​“super-fun”. He’s not sure, but he has, ball­park, 50 pairs of shoes, as well as full clos­ets in at least three post­codes. He set­tles on an out­fit fair­ly quick­ly, maybe changes his T-shirt once before head­ing out, but most­ly knows what he likes.

What he may not ful­ly com­pre­hend is that sim­ply by being pho­tographed in a gar­ment he can spur the career of a design­er, as he has with Har­ris Reed, Palo­mo Spain, Charles Jef­frey, Alled-Martínez and a new favourite, Bode. Styles wore a SS16 Guc­ci flo­ral suit to the 2015 Amer­i­can Music Awards. When he was asked who made his suit on the red car­pet, Guc­ci began trend­ing world­wide on Twitter.

“It was one of the first times a male wore Alessandro’s run­way designs and, at the time, men were not tak­ing too many red car­pet risks,” says Lam­bert. ​“Who knows if it influ­enced oth­ers, but it was a spe­cial moment. Plus, it was fun see­ing the fans dress up in suits to come see Harry’s shows.”

Yet tra­di­tion­al gen­der codes of dress still have the minds of mid­dle Amer­i­ca in a choke­hold. Men can’t wear women’s clothes, say the online whingers, who have labelled him ​“trag­ic”, ​“a clown” and a Bowie wannabe. Styles doesn’t care. ​“What’s fem­i­nine and what’s mas­cu­line, what men are wear­ing and what women are wear­ing – it’s like there are no lines any more.”

Elton John agrees: ​“It worked for Marc Bolan, Bowie and Mick. Har­ry has the same qualities.”

Then there is the ques­tion of Styles’ sex­u­al­i­ty, some­thing he has admit­ted­ly ​“nev­er real­ly start­ed to label”, which will plague him until he does. Per­haps it’s part of his allure. He’s bran­dished a pride flag that read ​“Make Amer­i­ca Gay Again” on stage, and plant­ed a stake some­where left of cen­tre on sexuality’s rain­bow spectrum.

“In the posi­tion that he’s in, he can’t real­ly say a lot, but he chose a queer girl band to open for him and I think that speaks vol­umes,” Josette Maskin of the queer band MUNA told The Face ear­li­er this year.

“I get a lot of…” Styles trails off, wheels turn­ing on how he can dis­cuss sex­u­al­i­ty with­out real­ly answer­ing. ​“I’m not always super-out­spo­ken. But I think it’s very clear from choic­es that I make that I feel a cer­tain way about lots of things. I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I’m not…” He paus­es again, piv­ots. ​“I want every­one to feel wel­come at shows and online. They want to be loved and equal, you know? I’m nev­er unsup­port­ed, so it feels weird for me to over­think it for some­one else.”

Sex­u­al­i­ty aside, he must acknowl­edge that he has sex appeal. ​“The word ​‘sexy’ sounds so strange com­ing out of my mouth. So I would say that that’s prob­a­bly why I would not con­sid­er myself sexy.”

Har­ry Styles has emerged ful­ly-formed, an anachro­nis­tic rock star, vague in sen­si­bil­i­ty but des­tined to impress with a dis­arm­ing smile and a warm but firm handshake.

I recite to him a quote from Chrissie Hyn­de of The Pre­tenders about her time atop rock’s throne: ​“I nev­er got into this for the mon­ey or because I want­ed to join in the super­star sex around the swim­ming pools. I did it because the offer of a record con­tract came along and it seemed like it might be more fun than being a wait­ress. Now, I’m not so sure.”

Styles – who worked in a bak­ery in a small north­ern town some time before play­ing to 40,000scream­ing fans in South Amer­i­can are­nas – must have wit­nessed some shit, been invit­ed to a few pool­side sex par­ties, in his time.

“I’ve seen a cou­ple of things,” he nods in agree­ment. ​“But I’m still young. I feel like there’s still stuff to see.”

[hjertetssunnegalskap1]

3. Sources of Inspiration - Neil Gaiman’s Masterclass (The Art of Storytelling)

“Remember that your influences are all sorts of things. And some of them are going to take you by surprise. But the most important thing that you can do is open yourself to everything.”

Here are some more of my personal notes to The Art of Storytelling. Neil Gaiman uses a lot of allusions (references to other stories) in his stories, and they are just as wide-ranging as his storytelling interests (oh yes, one of the things I LOVE with his writing).

Neil mentions his admiration for the following authors, and sometimes alludes to them in his own work: 

James Branch Cabell: American author who wrote fantasy and comedy in the 1920s and '30s. 

Edward Plunkett, Lord Dunsany: A prolific AngloIrish fantasy author. His novel, The King of Elfland’s Daughter (1924), established some of the most central themes of fantasy writing in the twentieth century

Ursula K. Le Guin: American author who wrote the Earthsea Cycle (1968-2001), which is comprised of six books and numerous short stories, and which tells tales of the fictional fantasy world of Earthsea

P. L. Travers: British author who wrote Mary Poppins (1934) and a whole series of books inspired by it

Btw I love that he mentions how he was inspired by Lou Reed. And how his wife, Amanda Palmer, was inspired by Judy Blume. Inspiration can come from many places, and not just from the ones we think of as our writing heroes. That makes me think of all the music I have listened too, and how I’m influenced by that. Oh well. 

Old stories can be approached from new angles. Create a compost heap of inspiration and how to draw from your experiences to make a story uniquely your own.

All writers have a mental compost heap. We create our compost heap from everything you see and the people you encounter.

Don’t tell people how they should feel. Tell them what happened and let them feel. 

Tell stories about the people around you. Real people are more interesting than anything you could make up.

For story ideas, you can take fairy tales but flip the perspective: eg, from her Stepmother’s perspective, Snow White could be a villain, a vampire princess, with a necrophiliac prince, and the stepmother is a HEROINE for trying to save the world (I remember I read a flipped Cinderella horror comic once when I was a kid, and I still remember it… so.. he has a point, this is effective). 

Neil suggests many tools for approaching an old story from a new angle. 

Change point of view.

Modernize themes

Switch a story element (new location or new type of story)

Make it yours

‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ is a real question. Authors are scared of  answering because they often don’t know the answer themselves.

Ideas come from daydreaming. “The only difference between writers and other people,” says Gaiman, “is that we notice when we’re doing it.”

Ideas come from asking yourself simple questions, like “What if…?” (“you woke up with wings?... your sister turned into a mouse?....), “If only…” (“a ghost would do my homework”) and “I wonder….” (“what she does when she’s alone”), etc…. These questions, in turn, generate other questions.

Ideas are only starting points. You don’t have to figure out the plot. Plots “generate themselves” from “whatever the starting point is.”

Ideas can be people (“There’s a boy who wants to know about magic”); places (“There’s a castle at the end of time, which is the only place there is”); images (“A woman, sifting in a dark room filled with empty faces.”)

We get ideas from confluence — two things “that haven’t come together before”, coming together (“What would happen if a chair was bitten by a werewolf?).

“You get ideas from two things coming together. You get ideas from things that you have seen and thought and known about and then something else that you’ve seen and thought and known about, and the realization that you can just collide those things.”

For a re-envisioning of popular fairy tales, check out some of the following titles (damn I need to get some reading done):

Red as Blood (1983) by Tanith Lee 

Tales of Wonder (1987) by Jane Yolen 

Snow White, Blood Red (1993) by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (ed.)* 

Kissing the Witch: Old Tales in New Skins (1999) by Emma Donoghue 

The Wilful Eye (2011) edited by Nan McNab (ed.) 

Happily Ever After (2011) by John Klima (ed.)* 

Clockwork Fairy Tales: A Collection of Steampunk Fables (2013) by Stephen L. Antczak (ed.) 

Unnatural Creatures (2013) by Neil Gaiman (ed.)* 

Beyond the Woods (2016) by Paula Guran (ed.)* 

The Starlit Wood (2016) by Dominik Parisien and Navah Wolfe (ed.) 

The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories (2017) by Mahvesh Murad and Jared Shurin (ed.)

WRITING EXERCISE: Choose a folk tale or fairy tale that you know well. Select one of the characters from the story for the following exercise and write a few pages about them, using one of the following prompts: 

Pretend you’re a therapist treating the character. Write a scene in which you discuss the character’s life and problems, then arrive at a diagnosis. 

Write a newspaper article describing the events of the story. For example, Snow White—Woman Hiding in Woods for Ten Years Found by Wealthy Hiker. Then write a story for that headline using journalistic objectivity. 

Have your character explain their actions to a jury 

WRITING EXERCISE In your journal, begin creating a compost heap. Title a page “Compost Heap” and write down the things that have captured your attention in the past week or month. These may become the source motivators of your writing, maybe of your career. Any writing project is an undertaking, and novels in particular, because they take so long to write, will require a sustained interest, so be sure to fill this page with your truth: What interests you? This can be anything: a word, a movie, a person, an event, so long as it inspired you. It can be subjects (cactus species, muscle cars, a voyage to Mars) or people/types of people (therapists, spies, your Aunt Germaine). Try to include things from other arts—for example, foods, music, or movies. In the beginning, make a practice of sitting down at least once a day to note things that interest you.

FOR YOUR NOVEL Create a specialized subset of your compost heap, which is a lexicon devoted exclusively to your novel. For example, if you’re writing about Greenland, gather all the words you can about snow, ice, flora and fauna, geologic formations, or weather occurrences. Research history and arts and science. Write down all of the words you love and that you think could go into your novel

Lesson comment:

Another really inspiring class. I have listened to this one several times already, and I seem to get new associations every time. Also, this is not the first time I have heard about the trick of twisting ideas around, and still... it’s a good thing to be reminded of. 

Wow, I somehow missed the exercises in this class (I’ll blame my undiagnosed ADHD). I’ll definitely look at those exercises. 

I also have this fairytale/ folktale idea in my “compost heap.” Actually, I have two ideas, but the newest one is a spin on two Norwegian folktales called “Kvitebjørn kong Valemon” (White bear King Valemon) and “Østenfor sol og vestenfor måne” (East of Sun and West of Moon). These tales are related to the myth of Eros and Psyche, and also to the story of Beauty and the Beast. I thought it could be interesting from the point of view of the so-called jealous third part of the story. Maybe. I might also try to twist a simpler folktale first, maybe one with the Ashlad (Norwegian folktale hero), from the princess’ point of view. I think it could be fun to play with those ideas + read some of the suggested literature. 

[whateverjeanne]

OK.

Performance Studies. This whole thing is called, "a personal prehistory of pre-performance studies." Performance Studies. What's amazing is not its appearance but what took it so long to appear, given "all the world's a stage," the "theatrum mundi," and the maya-lila concept. This is not an occasion for a disquisition or even a modestly scholarly lecture about performance studies. Tonight, for me especially, is personal. And from that perspective, I want to ask, and partly answer, the question: How did performance studies start, not institutionally, but in me from way back? Not exactly my childhood, though that would be relevant, stories for another occasion, but from my undergraduate years at Cornell, 1952 to ’56, through to my time in Provincetown, Massachusetts, my two years in the army, my time in New Orleans from 1958 [should be 1960] to ’67, my first years at NYU, 1967 to ’70. And then my journey, my first journey outside of the Euro-American sphere, to India and many other places in Asia, but India especially.

In New Delhi, shortly after arriving, this is in October 1971—my first steps outside the Euro-American ken, Ramdev, a waiter in the Ashoka hotel, told me, quote: "One is born just to die—so one should not think of danger" unquote. "One is born just to die—so one should not think of danger." This is not just physical danger, this is spiritual danger, emotional danger, intellectual danger. Danger is all around us—and it can be very productive. [laughter and affirmations]

What was "performance" to me before PS had its name?

In 1953, while working on the Cornell Daily Sun, I decided to write several in-depth articles on the Brown v. Board of Education case before the Supreme Court challenging the segregation doctrine of "separate but equal." To understand the case, I wrote to the lead lawyer for the NAACP, Thurgood Marshall. He responded that if I wanted to learn about it, I should visit him in his Harlem law office. Which I did. Marshall, a big man, easy in his mind and body, threw his legs up on the desk, the pullout shelf of his desk, and explained the Brown case to me. A drama, a performance before the Court, something theatrical that would change American history—and my life.

Flash forward three years later to September 1957. I was on my way to Little Rock Arkansas bearing a letter from Thurgood Marshall to Daisy May Bates, head of the local NAACP chapter. Thanks to that letter, I was the only white in the basement across the street from Central High School. I watched as the Little Rock Nine, protected by troops of the 101st Airborne Division, crossed that street, mounted the stairs, and entered high school. I knew— even if I couldn't articulate—that something momentous and theatrical was happening. I knew that the word "demonstration," which we called these things, meant to show something. I didn't, I hadn't read Brecht, but there was street theatre, there was all of that presenting itself to me.

I was accepted then into Paul Engle's Iowa Writers Workshop and there I wrote a play for my master’s degree. I was also part of the regular English Department too, and I taught freshmen, quote, "communication skills." [laughter] Mutual bullshitting. [louder laughter]

There was plenty of experimental theatre too. During the summer of 1958 and again 1960 [should be 1961] (before and after the army which I will talk about in a bit) I created and led the East End Players of Provincetown. There I experimented with what would become environmental theatre. I did Sophocles's “Philoctetes” on the North Truro beach with Odysseus and Neoptolemus arriving by boat as Philoctetes, his wounded leg wrapped in fish blood soaked rags, fought off fierce flies. I did Ibsen's “Master Builder” in the Provincetown Town Hall with Solness's crowning structure rising to the beams of the Hall's steeple. I also experienced Provincetown as a place performing itself in one way in the summer, another in the winter. In 1958, I stayed till November, then joined the army. I lived on Commercial Street in a room rented to me by Mary Heaton Vorse, on whose wharf the first Provincetown Players presented their productions. She knew them all; she was a member of them. I savored Mary's clam chowder as I soaked up her tales of the Players and Provincetown.

Then, I did something surprising, I volunteered for the draft in 1958. Volunteering for the draft is a little different than being drafted. What happens, if you are drafted, your number comes up and you're drafted. Volunteering—the draft boards had to deliver a certain number of recruits—you go to your draft board and say, "Make me number 1." Which means they've satisfied some of their requirement. In exchange for that, you got a few privileges of, you know, maybe what you would like to specialize in. Of course it was lies. [laughter] But I volunteered for the draft and that day that I volunteered, I left. I served until August 1960.

Why sign up though? I turned down an offer of an officer's commission in order to be with people as unlike me as I could possibly imagine. People not of my class, background, race, religion, or education. I really wanted to experience the world as I could not experience it voluntarily—except by volunteering for the draft. I said I wouldn't be an officer. Because if I had just went on with my life, I would hang out, you know, mainly with people like you, and, uh, which is fine [laughter], you're my milieu, but there's a lot out there that's not my milieu and how could I learn about that first hand? Forced to, as it were. So, uh. At first, I was assigned to Fort Polk in Leesville, Louisiana. Don't go there. [laughter] And then Fort Hood, Texas. Probably don't go there either. [laughter] From Fort Polk, I made my first trip to New Orleans -- more on the Crescent City later. But it was through the army that I went to New Orleans and immediately fell in love with it—because there's nothing as different from an army barracks, than, you know, the French Quarter.

The army was uniforms, drills, inspections, and full-scale war games. And my ploys to subvert and avoid these. Performative dodges for sure, though I didn't have that word— "performative"—yet. My main job in the army was to write the weekly lessons on world events that later would be taught to all the troops stationed in the continental United States. I had to follow the army's guidelines. Given this, once in a lecture to the instructors I was instructing, I had a large map projected showing Western Europe ending at the Iron Curtain, and then a vast white space, and then the island of Taiwan. [laughter] "Gentlemen, gentlemen"—because they were all men—"Gentlemen," I said, pointing to the map, "We all know that China is a small island lying directly off the coast of...West Germany." [laughter] Only a few of them laughed. [laughter] Most took that message forward. [laughter] That was one of the reasons why later on I was investigated by the army. Because each week I inserted something a little bit subversive but within the boundaries of what they were asking for.

During the quote "Big Thrust" quote war game whose newspaper I was editing, “The Big Thrust Bugle,” [laughter]. It wasn't phallic, I don't know what's the interest in that. I went to Austin for two days, reporting in this newspaper—and Carol can attest to this, she's seen the newspaper itself, it's in my files at Princeton—quote "Big Thrust Bugle Editor Vanishes" unquote. [laughter] In other words, like many before me, I saw the military not only as something grim and death-dealing, but as absurd. Another performative.

In the army, I also had plenty of time to read. I read the whole Greek tragic canon (in the Grene and Lattimore edition) and fell in love with Euripides's “The Bacchae.” While in the army, I wrote my first published scholarly essay—about “The Bacchae”—published in the Tulane Drama Review. [laughter] Ten years later, with The Performance Group, I devised Dionysus in 69. [applause] Bill Finley also thanks you. Bill Finley was often Dionysus.

I don't remember precisely when I read Erving Goffman's “The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life”—while in the army or shortly thereafter. Goffman's ideas perfectly fit the crazy onstage/ offstage life of the army. His theory also helped explain my experience in Little Rock. But he did not elaborate his theory to include popular entertainments, play, games, and ceremonial ritual, of the large scale—because he was dealing with everyday life.

My army stationing in Louisiana brought me to New Orleans, which I immediately loved for its variegated people, street life, music, and food. So after discharge, I decided to get my PhD at Tulane, and I did it rather rapidly, less than two years, from entry to having a degree. I wasn't interested in remaining a student for long and I recommend that you tell your students the quicker that they finish the happier they will be. [laughter and scattered applause] Tulane hired me to replace Robert W. Corrigan, as you heard, TDR's founding editor, and Corrigan went to Carnegie Mellon and then on to NYU. And shortly thereafter, Corrigan became the first Dean of the Arts of what is now our school, the Tisch School, and he brought me to NYU.

He also brought Monroe Lippman, who was the chair of the department at Tulane, to chair—because Corrigan asked me to be chair, which I wouldn't. And shortly thereafter, Brooks McNamara, who was one of my first students. When I was a young PhD, he and I were about the same age, but I had the degree and he didn't yet. And Brook's specialty, as some of you know, is popular entertainments, the Shubert Archives, a whole vast range of performance stuff prior to performance studies that was performance studies.

Also while at Tulane, I was one of three producing directors of The Free Southern Theater, founded at Tougaloo College in Mississippi, in 1963. The other producing directors were John O’Neal and Gilbert Moses. In 1964, Freedom Summer, as it was called, we toured with—and get this repertory—Martin Duberman's “In White America,” Samuel Beckett's “Waiting for Godot,” and Ossie Davis's “Purlie Victorious.” Now which one of those did I direct? [silence] Give it a chance, which one? [various responses, not clear, then someone shouts Godot] I directed “Purlie Victorious”—the only black play [in the FST repertory that summer]—authored by Ossie Davis, an African American.

The FST was a completely different kind of theatre, for me and for many people. We performed more often in churches and farmyards than in regular theatres. In fact, I don't remember every performing in a regular theatre. The spectators often interacted with us, with the performers, as they would in church—they would shout back, they would ask questions. And yet, they really got it, they got the idea of waiting, they got the parody of course of “Purlie Victorious,” and “In White America” is a documentary about, basically, black experience in white

America. The FST's model, motto, was quote "a theatre for those who have no theatre." But they had a theatre, I realized, permeating rural Mississippi and Louisiana; it was a particular theatre rooted in black culture, vibrantly participatory, performative. And I began to sense this. Now remember this is the pre-history, so I didn't have full theory for it. But I knew that something was going on beyond what was on the stage, etc.

Also, while in New Orleans, I participated in both the civil rights movement and the anti- Vietnam War movement. I was one of the first two whites arrested for sitting in at the Maison Blanche department store soda fountain. What a name, "Maison Blanche," and again it was a time when we really—it was a demonstration—we were not there to get, you know, a black-and-white soda which is what we were ordering, of course. But we were there because they would either serve us, and would make the point of integrating it, or arrest us. I do remember a little anecdote. On the way, the other person, the other white person, was Cynthia Adams, the wife of a painter, Franklin Adams. On the way, we're in the paddy wagon, she leans over to me, she was true-and-true from New Orleans, [in New Orleans accent] "Richid, I'm sorry but, and I just remembered, in my purse I have a tiny little bit of weed." [laughter] I said, "Cynthia, if they find that on you, you're up to Angola [Louisiana maximum security penitentiary], and me too, for a long time. How can you do that?" "I jist forgot. What should I do?" I said, "Well you're a good Southern white girl, play it to the hilt. Say that you didn't know what you were getting into. That you didn't want to have anything to do with these radicals, these commies, ah, you know, these N people -- just play it to the hilt so that they would accept you as one of them and just let you go. Without ever searching you." Which she did. So that was very lucky. [laughter] But it was also a performance, you see. First, her demonstration and then of course her performing what she appeared to be, but which she was not.

[At Tulane] I was also part of the first teach-in against the Vietnam War ever taught in the south. Also I found real use for my Army training because I would go to the ROTC training ground and when their instructors would say, "To the left, harch!!" I would say even louder, "To the right, harch!!!" [laughter and applause] and I would totally disrupt the ROTC. For this, the campus police guy, Colonel Scruton, [loud laughter] and you can imagine what we could do with that, came to tell me, "Why were you, you're a professor, what're you doin'?" I'd say, "Well Colonel Scrutum, Scrotum, I mean ..." etc. and so forth. All these experiences... "To the right, harch" was an early form of guerilla theatre, of course.

All these experiences—I could elaborate on them greatly—demonstrated how orthodox "theatre" was very limited in relation to the much broader category of "performance." I also saw how human performances were of a piece with animal performances; that ritual and play were the opposite sides of the same coin. I theorized this synthesis—which I later dubbed the "broad spectrum approach"—in two essays, "Approaches to Theory/Criticism," which was in TDR in 1966 and "Actuals," which was published in a festschrift to Francis Fergusson in 1970.

Ok.

And then came India. In October 1971. India deeply put me to the test, even as I was introduced to the broadest possible range of performances, from the streets of Calcutta to Ramlila. My first days in India were not pleasant, they were transformative. Take this excerpt from my notebook 42 [really notebook 41]. I have been keeping notebooks since the mid-1950s so by 1972 [actually 1971] I had 42 [should be 41] 500-page notebooks filled. Sooner or later those notebooks will go to my archive at Princeton—they're interesting reading, some of it, and there's a lot of it. So here's from notebook, October 1971, quote:

“In the streets every kind of living and dying is going on. There are the beggars. But more pathetic by far are those who sleep in a daze, barely living, wrapped in heat, rags, hunger, and disease. One Indian hostess confessed that it does not take long to shut these people out. [...] Thus one goes down the street not seeing—stepping over the dying in fact as one does in consciousness: assigning these people to empty spaces where they perish in the void. If there is a solution to this problem—and Imust use "if"—then it is in total revolution. And whether it is possible to support such a revolution and also satisfy basic human needs for expression, I do not know.”

Unquote. I need to stop here. I still believe in total revolution, even as I fear it. Thank you. [applause and cheers]

-Richard Schechner

[mamie-johnson-blog]

What is your character’s name? Does the character have a nickname? Mary Evelynn Sheehan “Mamie”

What is your character’s hair color? Eye color? Blue eyes, red hair. 

What kind of distinguishing facial features does your character have? Some freckles, pale skin, big eyes 

Does your character have a birthmark? Where is it? What about scars? How did he get them? Scars on her knees from falling out of trees as a kid, Strawberry shaped birthmark next to her belly button. 

Who are your character’s friends and family? Who does she surround herself with? Who are the people your character is closest to? Who does he wish he were closest to? Family- Rev. Robert Sheehan, Jenny Sheehan, brothers Pete and Nate Sheehan, Alby O’Roiden  Friends- Keely, Dorothy, Alex, Darius.   Mamie is and always has been very close with her family. She is closer to them than her friends, especially her two older brothers. She would like to be closer with her friends but her anxiety and shyness makes it hard for her to open up. However she is getting closer with Keely. 

Where was your character born? Where has she lived since then? Where does she call home? Born in Winder, Georgia, Mamie lived there all of her life until deciding to move to New York. Home will always be Georgia, but Manhattan is growing on her 

Where does your character go when he’s angry? When she’s upset, Mary either goes to the back office of the bookstore, or her bedroom. She finds comfort in her bed more than anywhere else. 

What is her biggest fear? Who has she told this to? Who would she never tell this to? Why? Mamie is terrified of losing the ones she loves. Having lost her sister and brother to the virus, she can’t handle the thought of losing anyone else she cares about. She doesn’t discuss this because in general she doesn’t discuss her lost siblings, but it’s not a deep dark secret. She’d likely never admit this to her brothers, who both think she is a bit over sensitive. 

Does she have a secret? Only her anxiety. 

What makes your character laugh out loud? A really good pun! 

When has your character been in love? Had a broken heart? Nope, never dated, never kissed, never been in love. 

What is in your character’s refrigerator right now? On her bedroom floor? On her nightstand? In her garbage can? Fridge- Apples, Milk, leftovers, water.  Bedroom floor- just a rug.  Nightstand- Whatever book she is reading, her bible, a glass of water.  Garbage can- mostly kleenex and food wrappers. Maybe some dead flowers. 

Look at your character’s feet. Describe what you see there. Does he wear dress shoes, gym shoes, or none at all? Is he in socks that are ratty and full of holes? Or is he wearing a pair of blue and gold slippers knitted by his grandmother? If she’s at home she’s wearing slippers. The kind that look like ballet slippers but are silky and usually worn by older ladies. If her feet are bare she has trimmed toenails either polished clear or a light pink. She’s been known to wear either cowboy boots or Keds. 

When your character thinks of her childhood kitchen, what smell does she associate with it? Sauerkraut? Oatmeal cookies? Paint? Why is that smell so resonant for her? a mixture of Pine-Sol and bread. Her mother always has a clean house and fresh bread on the counter. 

Your character is doing intense spring cleaning. What is easy for her to throw out? What is difficult for her to part with? Why? Mary doesn’t keep a lot of extra stuff but she would find it impossible to get rid of her books. Any of them. They’re her favourite things. 

It’s Saturday at noon. What is your character doing? Give details. If he’s eating breakfast, what exactly does he eat? If she’s stretching out in her backyard to sun, what kind of blanket or towel does she lie on? Mamie is at work, either stacking new books or helping customers. She’s always happy to have a conversation with one of her regulars or get to know a new customer. Her favourite is the children who come in with their parents, often she’ll be found reading with them so their parents can look around. 

What is one strong memory that has stuck with your character from childhood? Why is it so powerful and lasting? Playing in the church with her siblings on Sunday afternoons. She can still smell the dusty wood and sunshine. This was before the virus and before she lost her brother and sister. It’s one of her happiest memories.  

Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where is she going? What does she wear? Who will she be with? Mary doesn’t go out often. She doesn’t drink or like bars, but if she were going, Keely would probably be dragging her. She’d be in a sundress usually, with her cowboy boots and the cross she wears on her neck. Nothing too fancy, and she’d insist on going to dinner before they went anywhere else. it’s likely she’d be in bed by midnight. 

[padmaaccessorieslimited]

Baby girl found in cardboard box near 15 Freeway in Corona gets ‘proper burial’ – San Bernardino Sun

Clad in a yellow rain jacket, Monica Montejano bent down and kissed the tiny casket draped in colorful flowers at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery.

“I would have held her. I would have loved her,” Montejano said moments later, tearing up after a memorial service for a newborn baby girl who was found dead in summer along a nearby freeway — and whose identity remains a mystery.

Corona resident Lorena Palacios places flowers next to the small casket containing the remains of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Paul Mariscal, of Thomas Miller Mortuary, stands watch over the casket of Baby Jane Doe before her burial Thursday, Dec. 6, at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

The gallery will resume inseconds

Corona resident Monica Montejano says The Lord’s Prayer over the small casket containing the remains of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Corona resident Marilyn Aguillar wipes away tears Thursday, Dec. 6, during the funeral of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery. Husband Benjamin stands next to her. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Robert West supports his daughter Sophia, 2, as she blows a kiss toward the small casket containing the remains of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. West’s infant son is buried only feet away. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Paul Mariscal, of Thomas Miller Mortuary, places flowers atop the casket of Baby Jane Doe before her burial at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Employee Lupe Gaytan places the casket of Baby Jane Doe into her grave at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Corona resident Marilyn Aguillar places flowers atop the grave of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Employees shovel dirt onto the casket of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

The small casket containing Baby Jane Doe sits on the ground before burial at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Flowers sit atop the small casket of Baby Jane Doe prior to her burial at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Corona residents Mary Marquez and Joe Vargas wait for a Thursday, Dec. 6, service to start for Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Mourners gather Thursday, Dec. 6, for the funeral of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery as Corona police chaplain Jon Castillo delivers a eulogy. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Mourners lay flowers next to the casket of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Corona resident Mary Marquez places flowers atop the casket of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Corona residents Mary Marquez and Joe Vargas wait for a Thursday, Dec. 6, service for Baby Jane at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Corona resident Katie Bourgeois places flowers next to the small casket containing the remains of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Mourners gather Thursday, Dec. 6, for the funeral of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Corona resident Monica Montejano kisses the small casket containing the remains of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Paul Mariscal, of Thomas Miller Mortuary, places flowers atop the casket of Baby Jane Doe before her burial at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Employee Lupe Gaytan places the casket of Baby Jane Doe into her final resting place at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Internment employee Lupe Gaytan gets up after placing the casket of Baby Jane Doe into her final resting place at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Flowers sit Thursday, Dec. 6, atop the grave of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery after her burial. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Corona resident Monica Montejano places stuffed animals atop the grave of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6. The newborn was found in a cardboard box near the 15 Freeway in Corona in July. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Flowers sit atop the grave of Baby Jane Doe at Corona Sunnyslope Cemetery on Thursday, Dec. 6, following the burial. (Photo by Will Lester, The Press-Enterprise/SCNG)

Others brought flowers, miniature living Christmas trees and stuffed animals to the Thursday, Dec. 6, funeral and laid them at the casket. Though they did not know the child, many said they felt compelled to come and show respect when they learned of her fate.

Corona police officers and firefighters, with help from the cemetery, Thomas Miller Mortuary and the Flowers del Sol shop in Corona, organized the memorial service and burial for “Baby Jane Doe,” police Detective Jason Waldon said.

In October 2016, Thomas Miller Mortuary hosted a funeral for a 60-year-old homeless woman who was stabbed and beaten to death in Corona.

At Thursday’s graveside service for the infant, about 70 people attended, many holding umbrellas and wearing raincoats as dark clouds threatened rain. The ceremony lasted about 10 minutes.

Jon Castillo, a Corona police chaplain and pastor of First Baptist Church of Corona, said a prayer and spoke briefly.

“You’re not here because Baby Jane had the most beautiful voice because we were never given the opportunity to know what kind of a singing voice she had,” Castillo said. “You’re not here because she was able to write the most beautiful poem because she was never given the opportunity to write that poem.”

But Castillo said the attendees’ presence demonstrated that, however short, the child’s life mattered.

“Every person who walks the planet is born in God’s image, and she had inherent value and worth,” he said.

Shortly thereafter, the casket was buried.

Sgt. Chad Fountain said earlier that the infant was found the afternoon of July 27 in a cardboard box placed near the 15 Freeway and Cajalco Road. She was wrapped in a T-shirt with stripes and a floral pattern.

According to a news release, the Riverside County coroner has been unable to identify potential family members through DNA. But Waldon said his department is still investigating the case and looking for the public’s help.

Anyone with information is urged to contact Detective Mario Hernandez at 951-279-3659 or Mario.Hernandez@coronaca.gov.

Police officers also emphasized that Corona offers several sites, including police stations, fire stations and hospitals, where parents can surrender an infant within 72 hours of birth with no questions asked.

“These type of calls are like the worst officers can go on,” Fountain said. “We just wanted to make sure that the little girl got a proper burial.”

One of those bringing flowers to the burial service was Corona resident Marilyn Aguilar, who came with husband Benjamin. She laid a dozen pink roses and a stuffed pink bunny next to the casket.

“It touches your heart,” Aguilar said. “I just thought that coming out and showing support for this unknown baby was something we had to do.”

Lorena Palacios placed a pair of miniature Christmas trees by the casket. She bought one of them at a grocery store; the other was purchased by a curious Stater Bros. employee who wanted to contribute, too.

Asked why she chose a tree instead of a bouquet, Palacios said, “because it’s December, it’s Christmas. I have three kids. Every kid wants a tree.”

Palacios, who also lives in Corona, said she shared Baby Jane Doe’s story with her children, who are 14, 12 and 9.

“They couldn’t believe it,” she said.

Montejano, the woman who kissed the casket, was both horrified by the tragedy and hopeful because of her faith.

“I am so glad that God is holding her and loving her,” Montejano said. “But she deserved to have her life, too.”

This content was originally published here.

[huffletiika]

Tequila Sunrise (pt.2)

So, this is the second (and last) part of that fic that was supposed to be an One Shot, but ended up being too long. Thanks to Mari @karaa-danverss for giving me this prompt after telling me she wanted to read a drunk Luna, and this time thank’s to Ellie @fangirlelliethings for proof-reading it.

THE FIRST PART IS HERE, and you can read my other fics HERE.

Prompt: Drunk Luna + Lutteo

She rolled on the bed, slowly recovering her consciousness, but feeling it too hard to do it all at once as she is used. Her head was aching, God damn it, she felt as if someone was drilling directly on both of her temporal lobes at the same time. And her whole body felt so heavy, she was sure she wouldn’t be able to move it, unless someone came with a crane to pick her up. She rolled again, with a pitiful grunt, realizing at that moment that if she was in her bed, she would have fallen to the ground already.

What the f-?

She opened her eyes, regretting it immediately, as this made her headache worsen. With a pitiful growl she looked around trying to identify where she was, someone had shut the curtains, so there wasn’t much light inside the room to let her identify its details, but somehow she knew she had been there before.

It was Matteo’s bedroom, the realization came to her suddenly, making her jump and sit still on the bed, looking around in disconcert.

Ok, so she has just woken up on her boyfriend’s bedroom, no big deal. Yeah, she was only wearing what looked like one of his shirt, but it was Matteo she was talking about, and there’s no one in the world she trusted the most. He was too honorable to take advantage of her being drunk. In fact, she would have been more likely to have tried to take advantage of him, than the other way around.

She tried to remember what had happened the night before.

She had this huge discussion with Miss Sharon about her future, because now that everybody was starting to know she was Sol Benson, the true heir of the Benson’s fortune, things had to start changing on her life, according to the woman.

At first, they had decided to keep it secrecy, she didn’t want the Benson’s heritage, she was glad just knowing who she really was, and the fact she had a birth grandfather who really cared about her. But then, somehow, the news started to spread around, and some newspapers started to publish speculations about the heir of the Benson’s family being alive, so immediately the manor received visits from photographers every day, who were trying to find out if the news were true. The horror came when one of her pictures using the necklace with the sun and the moon in a competition came to light. Some expert identified it as the one Sol Benson used to wear, and since then she had become the topic on the news, who were asking around if she was indeed Sol Benson.

Besides her parents, Mrs. Benson and her grandfather, few people knew the whole truth. Ambar knew, of course, and she had been in charge of sharing that information with her two best friends. She had told Simon and Nina everything from the beginning, after all they had helped her to find out the whole truth, and then she told her boyfriend about it, because she didn’t want him to learn about it from anyone else.

The latest to know has been Gastón, as she thought she would never ask her best friend and her boyfriend to keep things from him, when the fourth of them were hanging out together most of the time.

She took a deep breath.

After said discussion she had been really mad, she needed to abandon that place as soon as possible, so she took her phone and called Matteo. Maybe she should have asked him to meet her on the park, but she didn’t, she asked him to meet her in a very well-known bar in Palermo, and then told her parents she would stay at Nina’s place that night. She had lied to her parents, she felt terrible about that, how was she going to see them straight to his eyes since that day without feeling guilty? But, on the other hand, she needed to escape from there, because the things Mrs. Sharon had told her have made her need an escape route, a time to forget everything and clear the mind, and it was too late to skate around town to do that.

She had met with him at the door, then she remember herself asking for a bottle of tequila, and then sneakily drinking shots of it every time her boyfriend wasn’t looking.

The rest was blurry.

There were some images of her dancing, others of him dancing with her, and some of him holding her thigh while lying on that bed. She liked those ones the most. She massaged the bridge of her nose, because trying to remember those things made her headache even worse, and finally gave up to remember, considering that it would be much easier to ask Matteo for the content of her mental gaps, whether or not she had to apologize for trying to take advantage of him or something.

She stepped out the bed, his shirt covered her body only to half of her thighs, so she looked around for her clothes, but they were nowhere to be found. She wrinkled her nose, putting her hands on her hips, and after another scrutiny around the room she decided to go outside and, hopefully, find her boyfriend there alone to ask him about them.

Besides, she needed to drink something urgently, because her throat was burning as hell.

She opened the door, and the smell of something really good that was being cooked on the stove made her realize she was indeed hungry as well.

“Hey, someone’s alive after all.” Her boyfriend’s teasing comment greeted her to the living room, and she glared at him, because his voice was so high it drilled in her head. He noticed it. “Want an advil?” He asked, and she sighed.

“Please.”

She walked to the counter and sit on one of the high chairs, looking at Matteo, who quickly left a glass of water and an Advil in front of her.

She didn’t say another word before putting the Advil on her mouth and drinking the water to swallow it, because she really needed it, her head was killing her like never before, and more now that she was in the living room, since there no curtain was closed, and it seemed that it was around noon because of the amount of light.

“Feeling better?” He asked after a few minutes of silence, with concern, and she nodded.

Sincerely? Not much.

“Thank you, Chico Fresa.” She said, and he smiled lovingly.

“Anytime, Chica Delivery.” He answered, leaving a soft kiss on her cheek, before turning around to continue working in whatever he was cooking. “This is going to be ready soon.” He said, and she inhaled deeply, letting that delicious scent fill her lungs.

“What is that amazing smell, by the way?” She asked, trying to take a peek of the pans in the stove, and he looked at her with a bright smile.

“Just an Italian recipe for hangovers.” He answered, opening the pan. “Spaghetti aglio e olio. It’s very effective, and I thought you would appreciate the fact it has chilli.” Her stomach reacted to the smell, asking her to fill it as soon as possible. “It’s almost ready, I put it to simmer as I didn’t know how long it would take you to wake up, but now that you are here, it won’t take long for me to serve it.” He promised.

She nodded, and for a moment she decided to rest her face on the counter, as it was cold, and that’s exactly what she needed for her stupid headache to calm down.

He grinned.

“Are you sure you are fine?” She heard him say, and answered without raising her head.

“Yeah, just let me know when the food is ready.”

Then they stayed silent, so the only sound she heard for a while was him moving around the kitchen, moving pans and plates, while serving their breakfast, or lunch? What time was it? She raised her head just to see him walking towards her with two plates on her hands.

“What time is it?” She asked, and he looked at his wristwatch.

“It’s almost three p.m., sleepy head.” He answered, and she felt concern filling her whole body.

“My parents! They must be worried, I…” She started to say, she needed to find her phone and call them, maybe they already knew she wasn’t with Nina, and were going crazy without knowing where she was. Oh good lord! They were going to kill her, and then they were going to kill Matteo, and it was going to be all her fault.

He stopped her before she could stand up.

“I called Nina this morning and told her what had happened, she told me she would cover you with your parents if they try to contact her.” He told her. “But I also took the liberty of grabbing your phone and sending a message to your mother. I told her that you and Nina were going to meet me and Gaston for lunch, so you weren’t going to arrive until late, and that would explain me taking you home, as well.”

Luna was impressed.

“That was… that was kind of cunning.” She said, and he laughed.

“Cunning is my second name, Love.” He said, finishing to set everything on the counter.

“And all this time I thought it was el fresa, my life is a lie.” She teased him, and he laughed. “Anyway, how did you do that? I mean, I’m pretty sure my mom would notice if it wasn’t me who wrote the message, she knows me.”

He took her phone from somewhere and put it in front of her.

“Look at it by yourself.” He said, with a cocky smile, before sitting in one of the chairs. She took her phone and opened her messages, scrolling through the conversation with her mother, open-mouthed.

“This was… you really are good at pretending to be me. Oh my god! You even used the emoji I would have used! This is mental.” She said, and the cocky smile of his face became wider.

“I know you very well, Luna.” He said, and she was too impressed to contradict him.

He took a sip of his drink and looked at her with concern, he hadn’t say a word about what happened the night before, she had promised she would tell him what was wrong at the mansion being sober, but he was almost sure she didn’t remember about her promise, and he didn’t want to pressure her in any way.

She left her phone on the counter and started eating. She wasn’t sure if it was because her boyfriend was really good at cooking, or because she was too hungry, but that pasta was the best she had ever tried in her life.

“Oh God, this is so good!” She said, and he looked very paid of himself because of that comment, but didn’t say a word. He was thinking whether or not he should bring the topic of what happened the night before, something that kept his head too busy to think of an ingenious comment in the moment.

She noticed it.

“All good, Matteo?” She asked, with concern.

“Yeah, yeah… everything’s fine. I’m just thinking.” He said, with a soft smile, and she frowned.

“You are mad because of last night, right?” She asked, she didn’t believe him, he wasn’t looking fine. “Look, I know you told me to be careful with the tequila, and I’m really sorry for not listening to you. It was a terrible idea to drink as much as I did, my headache is proof of that, but I wasn’t thinking clear, I just wanted a night to stop concerning about all that’s happening in my life right now.” She added, and he sighed.

“I’m not mad, I’m just concerned.” He said, covering her hand with his own. “I was wondering if it was ok to bring the topic out. I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but at the same time, I want to do something to help you, because it looks like it’s getting really bad for you, and I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on.”

She sighed.

“I promised I would tell you when I was sober, didn’t I?” She said, with a soft voice. Yeah, she remember that part, they were laying in the bed and she was so tired to even talk, so she told him she would talk about it when alcohol didn’t controlled her consciousness. “Well, I’m sober-ish right now, so I can tell you.”

“I thought you didn’t remember.” He said, with sincere surprise on his face.

“Well, there’s much I can’t remember, and I will ask you about that later, but that one thing I remember.” She explained. “Now, do you want me to tell you my drama?” She asked, and he nodded.

“Only if you want to.”

Then she told him everything. He already knew about the Sol Benson thing, but he wasn’t aware about the fact that the news about it were already spreading around, as she had told him they had decided to keep it private. So she told him about how a journalist had approached her outside the manor, trying to make her confess she was the lost heir of the Bensons, about the picture of her in one of the competitions that appeared in the newspapers the morning before, focused on her necklace, saying it was exactly the same as that Sol Benson used to wear. She told him as well about how mad Miss Sharon had become after Rey showed her the picture, and about how she had called her and told her that they had to change everything they had planned.

They had to do an announcement, a big press event to tell an elaborated story about how destiny had bring her back to her home after so many years, without them even knowing. She would have to change a lot of things. First of all, she had to behave like the heir of the Benson’s fortune, she’d have to stop doing many things she loved, like skating on the street, and she would have to become part of the Benson family from now on. She wouldn’t be able to be a Valente anymore, she would have to change her last name, and maybe her name as well, legally her parents would no longer be her parents, and that, that was the one thing that broke her, because Miguel and Monica were her parents, her family, not Miss Sharon.

“Hey, everything’s going to be fine.” He comforted her, squeezing her hand. “There has to be something you can do, I could help you to look around, I know a thing or two about international law because of my parents. But if we don’t find anything, it’s not the end of the world. Your parents will always be your parents, regardless of the last name you carry, and you love your grandfather, right? Well, with the change you would be legally part of his family.”

She sighed.

“Yeah, I guess… you are right.” She answered, with a soft smile.

“I’m always right,Chica Delivery.” He joked, and she couldn’t help laughing. He always knows how to make her feel better. He had the exact words at the right moment to make her smile, no matter how dark the picture was.

“Of course you are, Chico Fresa.” She rolled her eyes, just to tease him a little.

They both continued to eat, chatting from time to time about what had happened the night before, and what she had done in that bar.

“I'll take care of this, you can go take a shower if you want.” He said, picking up the dishes, and leaving a soft kiss on her cheek.

She smiled widely.

“How homely! I’d be in heaven if we ever live together.” She said, as a joke, but being honest that sounded kind of tempting. It would be really nice to wake up together every morning, and to share moments like that every day, but she knew she was still too young for that.

Someday, she thought for herself.

He looked at her with a soft smile, and blinked.

“Of course you would.” He said, and went back to the dishes. “Your clothes are in the dryer, by the way. They smelled too much of alcohol, so I had to wash them, Otherwise your parents would notice it.” He explained and she smiled while walking towards the laundry room.

“This is so domestic that you’re making me wish not leaving your place anymore.” She said, and he put an amused smile on his face.

“Oh, don’t spoil my master plan!” he replied, and she laughed. 

Yeah, her head was still killing her, but somehow he made her feel like everything would be all right, and she wasn’t just talking about her hangover.