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malcolm-reeds-pineapple · 2 months

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@frostysfrenzy made the audience inside my head very happy by tagging me in this anyway picture me like this for the duration of this post (I am miss piggy)

Writer interview ✨💖

About me

When did you start writing?

I was was 10 and a deranged little girl so my best friend and I cowrote what I considered to be the most ambitious crossover of all time: a Star Wars/The Beatles/Bleach/Monk/WKRP/The Partridge Family/Corner Gas fanfiction trilogy. It was utterly bananas and at the time of writing we considered it to be our magnum opus. It wasn’t and I believe we destroyed all but one of the “books” when we were about 12 when she visited. I know that one still exists cuz I have it and my brother and I read it when we need a laugh.

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

I almost exclusively read nonfiction. I’d love to do that, but I don’t have the attention span. That being said, I am working on a collection of memoirs from my particularly wild youth.

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

I try to be my own person, but my dad tells me my voice is similar to Hunter S Thompson at times in my personal pieces. I can see it.

can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

Currently it’s my bed and my phone/laptop, but I prefer sitting at a desk with a notebook nearby for quick notes. I’ve tried to digitize the secondary note paper, but I’m so boomer pilled apparently that I want to have the physical paper beside me just because I like the flexibility of being able to sketch out mind maps and timelines for lore.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Watch a show and pick a guy to obsess over for til college

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Yeah absolutely! I’ve lived in a lot of places and been in a lot of circumstances, so that definitely bleeds into my work. I tend to write what I know, so it’s not uncommon for me to base characters, scenes or scenarios on real people, places and scenarios I’ve encountered.

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

Yes and yes lmao my recurring themes I find are found family, loneliness, and the moral grey areas in crime and punishment. When I first noticed these recurring themes, I was definitely surprised, but in a way, noticing these themes has really made me learn a lot about myself and how much of my past truly looms over me. Then again, now that I’ve recognised this about myself, I find that I’m able to process everything better.

Characters

would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

His name is Nathan, he is a sad, scrungly wet cat of a man found behind a dumpster that has been surviving off of scraps and spite for many years. He’s unlikeable, constantly feeling sorry for himself, peaked in high school and has very few redeeming qualities. My favourite thing to do with him is put him in mental agony, physical peril and moral conundrums. He’s a cop who, through his own foolishness, hates his life and self destructs. He is constantly taking his problems out on his coworkers because he has no real friends and has cut most of his contact with his family. However, he goes through a lot of character development where his morals are being constantly called into question and he discovers the power of friendship and not being unbelievably fucking unpleasant. I hate him so so much that I love writing him.

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

Definitely Scout and Dan considering I based them entirely on myself and my brother. I literally wrote them in so my brother would listen to me talk about my writing and he won’t do that unless he’s in it. Their full names are Scout Trouble MacKenzie and Atticus Danger MacKenzie and they’re fully aware of how bizarre those names are. Dan goes by Dan because he likes watching the light fade from people’s eyes when he says Dan isn’t short for Daniel and is in fact short for Danger. They’re chaotic gremlins who are considered to be not well socialized and developmentally arrested at 16. Both of them are noted by other characters to be staggeringly bizarre and incomprehensible as they communicate entirely with inside jokes and meme references. They bicker like small children, especially when the topic of their old GameCube is brought up as the ownership of Monkey Ball is still a point of contention as one of them received it for Christmas in 2004, but they can’t remember which one was the actual recipient.

which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

Josh, easily. My man is unemployed, stinky, and refuses to mature beyond an edgy teen. He doesn’t even do his own laundry. His vibes are so pungent that he makes my crops wither and causes the foxes to eat my chickens. I hate him. He really is the Josh of all time. Close second would be Kaylee but that’s just because she would stress me out too much.

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

It depends on the day. Most of the time it’s utility driven, so as an example, for one of my WIPs I needed a librarian character, so, as I often do for background characters, I kind of just thought of the librarians I’ve known all my life, culminated them into one character and called it a day. Then, phase two was me ending up really liking the character and developing her more as I wrote her. Eventually it got to a point where I gave her a husband and a son and she’s now a recurring character. Effectively I am both the DM and the Party and every time I make up a detail about a background character, I end up really liking them and it snowballs. I have, on a few occasions, sat down with the express intention of making a character, and sometimes it works, but if you ask me details about both Theodore (carefully crafted over a few days) and Freddie The Information Guy (Background character I developed by accident), I’d be able to tell you a lot more about Freddie.

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

Again, going back to writing what I know, I always end up writing AFAB characters as being extremely tight with their dad’s. I don’t know, man, aside from that, the poor fuckers all just get a delightful little spoonful of my personal trauma as a treat.

How do you picture your characters?

As little dolls that I pick up and play with. They are my littlest pet shops and I am a 7 year old girl who wants to watch the world burn.

My writing:

what’s your reason for writing?

I have to write otherwise the characters just spin around my head like that fish in the funky town (low quality) video. I need to get them out of their enclosure and onto the page so I can know peace. On a more serious note, I write a lot as a way to process my thoughts. I’m a journal girly which I started doing when I was in the throes of alcoholism with undiagnosed BPD and ADHD. Whenever something bad happened, my gut reaction was to buy a bottle of bourbon and drink it like it was a race. Once I started journaling, I was able to replace that instinct of needing to drink with needing to write. Nowadays, I’m on occasional drinker and constant writer which I’m very proud of.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

Any and all for the most part. I’m always a fan of people liking The Characters and telling me that, but I acknowledge that no one cares as much about your OCs as you do, so I’m content with it being an uncommon but very welcome compliment.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Isolated and weird, the type to fly a kite in the middle of the night, too bizarre to be welcome in polite society so I live in a farmhouse of the edge of nowhere and Exist. Hopefully they think of me as the personification of those unhinged author’s notes in fics.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Probably dialogue? I dunno, it’s definitely not the plot, because my characters are all just on side quests, if there’s a unifying plot than it’s accidental.

What have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

Character development/creation and dialogue.

How do you feel about your own writing?

Illegible garbâge that is so self-indulgent and convoluted that it should not be perceived by anyone but me. However, that does not stop me from burdening my friends and readers with it. Their enjoyment of my writing is collateral damage of my creativity.

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

Yes, I’d be even more nuts if I didn’t write. Besides, I really am my own target demographic, so hell yeah.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

I write for myself so hardcore that I’m surprised when other people like any part of it. As previously mentioned, if other people like what I write, that is incidental and not part of my grander mission of making things that make me happy. That being said, I do consider one opinion sometimes when I write, and that is the opinion of my brother and what will make him laugh.

Anyway, I’m gonna tag @swaggysagiewagie @sarcasticsciencefictionwriter @prismatica-the-strange and anyone who wants to do it hehehe also no pressure to do it

Blank version can be found at the bottom of the linked post :)

#captain’s log #writing tag #tag games #I’m catching up on all my mentions atm so there might be an influx here 😅#my ocs

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magic-can · 1 year

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Hi I’m Julia (she/her, 22 years old) and I’m like if tbh (the autism creature) was a girl

Neurodivergent. I am autistic and have ADHD. I also have OCD and every time someone makes a joke about being a little OCD or about the intrusive thoughts winning they owe me 5 bucks.

I like video games a lot and want to make some of my own one day. Also I may post a drawing once every 500 years.

My favorite bands are Twenty One Pilots and My Chemical Romance but I promise I’m normal

I think Sonic is really neat he is like a son to me and also I will defend the storybook games until I die

Leon Kennedy from Resident Evil is my special little fictional sad wet cat of a man

I’m mspec but I prefer just being called queer atm. Don’t call me bi or pan or omni. Nothing wrong with any of those of course it’s just a case of personal preference.

I am a queer Christian. If you don’t like that instead of giving me shit about it just block me.

My blog is PG-13 but I’d prefer if people below 16 don’t follow me. Also my DMs are open to everyone but only so that people can send me mutual aid posts and stuff. I’ll likely only respond to mutuals. Minors especially don’t try to DM me I am NOT comfortable with it.

Transphobes exclusionists antisemites and MAPS crawl into a hole and rot away forever okay

No DNI other than that bc the block button is my beautiful girlfriend and I kiss her oh so sweetly

Also I have a Mercari

https://www.mercari.com/u/577101833?sv=0

Feel free to send me asks if you have any questions about my silly little blog. My answers to asks are under the tag #magiccan answers

Site with verified GoFundMes for Palestinians in need: https://gazafunds.com/

Daily click for Palestine: https://arab.org/click-to-help/palestine/

#about magiccan #pinned post

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feralnumberfive · 4 years

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I expect no one to read this at all. It’s more of a way to get some feelings off of my chest. This is a look into my personal life and what I went through in 2020. I cried quite a bit while writing this, haha.

My farewell letter to 2020:

To you 2020, the year that shook the world. You’re certainly one to go down in the record books. You changed my life as you did to everyone. To you, the month of March. I had hit the lowest part in my life since the shock of my parent's divorce 11 years ago. My beloved cat had died in October of 2019, a few days short of our one year anniversary of fostering him, which soon turned into us adopting him. It was sudden and unexpected. I still can remember clear as day that horrid call I got from my sister from the vet. “Hey, we need you to come up here. It’s kidney failure.” As she spoke through her tears, I instantly began to cry. I had felt sad for months after that.

In December of 2019, the adoptive dad of one of my closest friends committed suicide. She was torn apart, having had three people she knew died earlier that year. I stood by her side and watched her cry. We colored together in the counseling room, making small talk and doing anything I could to comfort her.

From late February into March, another one of my closest friends revealed to me a traumatic experience she went through. She had been raped by a classmate of mine, one who I considered to be good acquaintances. She was a grade younger than me, and was practically completely dependent on me and my friend, as she was too scared to tell her parents. She eventually completely relied on my friend as I became shoved out of the problem. Her story and the amount of support required from her, which she never gave back to me throughout our friendship, made me realize at that moment I had hit rock bottom. I was tired and so sick of it all. This sentence that I'm about to say is one I've never admitted to anyone: I didn't want to be around anymore, or at least alive. I needed somewhere to escape. I didn't want to commit suicide due to expectations I held upon myself. I was also too scared to commit suicide.

I finally admitted I needed help, which was scary for me to do. In March of you, 2020, I was diagnosed with situational depression. I was soon put on an anti-depressant. It felt good to put a name on it, but little did I know I would pay the price for my relief. Preparing to go off to college, I needed to get a First Class Medical Certificate in order to apply to the flight program at the colloege I wanted to go to. I went and got my FAA Medical Certificate done, ticking off the boxes on my journey to fulfill my life long dream of becoming a pilot.

Spring Break came and after watching schools around me close, it was announced that we wouldn't be returning until mid April, and then the end of April, then until May. I quickly realized it wasn't possible to return and that unbeknownst to me I had already spent the last days of my Senior year at school in March. A frantic question was suddenly formed amongst my classmates and soon the world: Will the class of 2020 graduate? I, being burnt out, didn't care what would happen to me or my class. We soon became a laughing stock and a sight to pity around the world. Class of 2020, Corona Class, The Class that would be telling this story to their kids. It didn't matter to me. As I held up the “Class of 2020″ shirt my uncle got me with the zeros as tp rolls, I sighed. I just wanted to graduate without getting laughed at. Spoiler Alert: That didn't happen.

Around this time I ended my friendship with the girl who I cherished but didn't cherish me back. I still to this day can’t exactly understand why I did that. I blocked her and left without saying goodbye. That wasn’t the right thing to do at all. She had been raped and needed support, but here I was leaving her. She always needed and wanted my support but never gave it back. It was always “Aw you have a problem? Here, let’s try this minimal effort plan to help you. That didn’t work? Oh well, let’s get back to me.” This is no excuse at all for my actions of cutting her off. I really still don’t know why I did this. I had hung out with her everyday in the summer of 2019. Here I was, easily letting her go. Jackie, I’m so sorry. I hope you are doing well and get into ISU to follow your dreams of being an engineer.

In May I received news that still hurts and effects me to this day. I had been denied my Medical Certificate. It wasn't due to me being on an antidepressant, is was due to the fact that I was depressed. This was soul crushing news, but there was still a chance I could reapply for the Medical Certificate if I jumped through multiple hoops. May also provided the announcement that my safe haven in Oshkosh, Wisconsin wouldn't be happening this year. It was definitely understandable due to the virus, but still very saddening to me. It’s really the only thing I look forward to each year, but I understood and agreed on why it was canceled for 2020.

In June I got the news that a beloved teacher of my family and I passed away due to a heart attack and complications of Addison’s Disease. She was the best math teacher I had ever had, and the best in my High School. Math is my worst subject, but she never made me feel stupid like the other math teachers. She always made sure I understood what I was doing. Sometimes when she didn’t feel like having class she would have a free day. She would gossip with my classmates and tell us stories of her youth. Sometimes though she would give us free days due to having intense migraines that sometimes hospitalized her due to her disease. It wasn’t fun to see her like that.

In June she was hospitalized where even her husband and two kids weren’t allowed in to see her. The only person allowed into her before she died was her twin brother. The family decided to have a public funeral, with tons of people in the community and school district socially distancing and wearing masks to pay their respect. I began to cry as I listened to her husband tell everyone that he wasn't ready and was so scared to be a single parent. Their children were both under ten, and were now motherless. Mrs. Johnson it was so hard saying goodbye to you. I loved you so much, and I still do. You gave my friend who had lost her dad food and comfort. You did so much not only for my family and I, but for everyone in the community and school district. I miss you so much.

Hot days came with hazy skies. Everyday I checked the wildfire smoke map as I watched the sun turn bright pink as the sun became a blazing red when the sun went down. For weeks our sky looked hazy. Some days looked cloudy, but it was actually smoke. As someone who lives the Midwest, this was quite surprising.

In August I experienced something that will forever be remembered by me and everyone who lives in my state. A Derecho tore through and ravaged my hometown and the state that I dearly love. We watched through the window as trees snapped in half and branches and leaves whirled around everywhere. We watched through the window as water roared down the road, appearing as if a stream had started right next to us. We watched in fear as shingles were torn off and large items were blown through our yard. As the electricity flickered out, we wondered if we would be crushed by either tree that were on two sides of our house. Wet leaves were torn apart and slammed into our window, where they stayed there for a month afterwards. They looked like confetti, torn into thousands of tiny pieces.

To the branches and trees I still see today in the neighboring towns and cities, broken reminders of the damage done. To you, the metal grain bins that still sit out in the flattened cornfields. Our once tall and proud cornfields that are a proud symbol of my state were now flattened to the ground, completely parallel to the rich farming soil that it stood in. Painting the countryside in flat waves of green with splotches of silver from grain bins and white from barns and houses damaged. Our proud stalks became damaged goods that costed us billions. To the buildings that still show their battle scars from months ago, the houses with the tarps on their roofs and the old wooden barns that couldn't handle the 140 mph. To you, Donald J, Trump, the President of the United States who was supposed to tour Cedar Rapids to exam the damage that still lies there today. You stayed in the airport and immediately left after getting your business done. You didn't care about us, you were there to do business and leave to start your campaigning.

My small town was able to clean up within a month or so, but even still TODAY the bigger cities are littered with damage. There are tree trunks and branches scattered along roads. Thousands of houses still have tarps on their houses and siding missing.

In August my grandma was also diagnosed with Dementia. I've watched her deteriorate over the past few months. Every time we call she forgets that I’m not in school. Sometimes she forgets my name. When we tell her we’re on our way to visit outside her window, she forgets within 10 minutes. Grandma, I hope you never forget that I love you.

In September I finally met with a therapist. I am so thankful to be working with her. After months of my family getting angry and upset at me for being scared to go to the store, my therapist diagnosed me with Social Anxiety. I was so relieved to be diagnosed with it and to be working out the issues I have with my therapist. We work together weekly to help me become a better and more comfortable version of myself.

Over the summer months the health of my already diseased cat took a steep decline. She was my cat, and I felt powerless as I slowly watched her die. She could no longer stay inside due to her having constant accidents. As we made our plan to take her to the vet to give her a peaceful death, I received a heartbreaking call from my mother on a cold September night. My little Jill had passed away in her sleep on our porch. I came over to say goodbye to my baby as I pet her cold fur one last time. I love you my little Jilly Bean and I miss you everyday. I miss and love you so so so much.

September also brought the news that a precious B-25 had a crash landing. It always hurts to hear about a Warbird crashing or getting damaged. I was happy to hear though that they were going to fix it back to airworthiness.

In October I had to make a difficult decision with the FAA. Do I try to visit four different doctors for phycological examinations in order to complete my Medical Certificate or do I wait to get off my medicine and start feeling better on my own? I opted for the second part due to the decline of visiting all of those doctors coming up in November. We had been given that option early in the year, but Covid prevented us from traveling out of state to see those doctors. I sent a letter to the FAA to let them know what I was doing. I received a letter about a month ago that stated that I still needed to visit those doctors or something like that. I honestly didn’t look through it that well because it’s just such a pain in the butt.

Another thing about you 2020 is that you provided me with he opportunity to meet amazing people. I began to watch The Umbrella Academy in September, but I decided to make my account on October 1st. I’ve met tons of funny and talented people on here. The show itself had provided me tons of comfort. It has given me the courage to start writing fanfiction for it along with starting back up on drawing fanart

The end of 2020 has slowed down for me. One of my aviation heroes died this year, Mr. Chuck Yeager. It was heartbreaking for me to hear that. One of the worst days for me was ironically on my birthday in December. I felt really bitter and down and just wanted to sit in my room, but I didn’t. I don’t like celebrating my birthday anymore. As I get older it feels less and less special and in turn I feel sad about it. Another reason why is that I don’t like having a fuss made about it. I don’t like the attention from it haha. It’s okay though because even though this year I felt upset I eventually felt a bit happier as it turned to night.

This year I witnessed history being made. Let me be clear that history is made every year, but this year was very eventful. I witnessed innocent black lives being slaughtered by the very people who are sworn to protect everyone. It’s so disappointing and soul crushing to see all of this. I don’t know if I’ve made it clear on here, but I strongly stand with the BLM movement. I may not understand what they haven been going through for decades, but I stand with them to make things right. Black Lives Matter, not All Lives. All Lives only matter when it’s actually true and Black Lives are included. If you saw a house on fire in an entire block of houses, you wouldn’t say “All Houses Matter!” No they don’t, that house on fire matters. Black Lives Fucking Matter, and All Cops Are Bastards.

To you, the Pledge of Allegiance. Everyday in elementary school I proudly held my right hand over my heart as I stared up at Old Glory and recited you. This year helped me realize that “With liberty and justice for all.” is total bullshit. The only thing I truly appreciate about my country now is the scenery and nature it provides.

To you 2020, as I finish writing this letter on December 31st. You’ve made me cry a lot, including right now. You’ve deeply effected my life and brought me lots of sorrow. Despite all of this, I don't feel upset about you. Yes, you gave me some events that will always haunt me but that’s okay. 2020 even though you’ve hurt me, you’ve also shaped me. Yes, you also made my lose faith in my country and humanity, but I can only hope for the best. You’ve pushed me to become a better version of myself.

So to you 2020, you’ve been a hell of a year. I’ve hated and loved you, but mostly hated you. I went through some shit, but others have gone through worse this year. To those of you who have had a very hard time this year, I love you. I sincerely hope things get better for you. Friend or stranger, you can always rely on me as someone to talk to, to rant or vent to, and to cry to. This year was excruciating, but don’t give up. It has ended and a new year has begun. Sure 2021 may also be bad and we’re all exhausted from 2020, but let’s fight till the end.

#sorry if there are any mistakes in here #I was emotional and listening to music #which always messes up my writing #I love you all #and to myself I hope 2021 will be better #2020 #new year's eve #fuck 2020 #2021 here we come #personal

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readbythestarlight · 6 years

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c2e19 reactions

“Yev”….? I’m crying what’s even in the bag??

Wtf Sam “his lung has collapsed he’s bleeding internally what do we do?!?!?!” stop the ads aren’t supposed to make me laugh

Save Yev 2k18

Goodbye Yev

YEV LIVES

Yev the gift-giving fairy is the best guest star

okay seriously tho Sam plz

It seems pretty likely to me that this whole “Lucien” thing has really shaken Molly, given that he seems more… cautious? Like most of the time he’s very devil-may-care, but he’s really serious about getting out of the city ASAP

one of them is going to end up in the right aren’t they

omg Jester and Beau

LOL Caleb giving Beau a boost??

Jester IMMEDIATELY casting inflict wounds on Beau

I don’t think Jester understands the concept of a brawl

“I’VE GOT FIVE GOLD ON THE HORNY ONE”

“I GOT TEN GOLD ON THE ONE WITH THE BANDAGES”

lol Fjord

YAAAAAS BEAU

lol poor Jester

GIRL HUG

Laura and Marisha are having the BEST time and so am I

Beau trying to clean up Jester that’s so cute

I still don’t trust the Gentleman but I like him

I like that the Gentleman is giving them more than one options for jobs

Nott and Jester like “the OTHER guys were gonna give us…”

I like how they want the darkest table like they’re some kind of shifty bad ass people and not the biggest bunch of nerds to ever exist

Ashley/Yasha is being really quiet tonight. More so than usual.

Hupperdook? xD

“The Branson of Wildemount”

“is he moist” stooooooppp xD

Matt “you have a map for that stop asking me these silly questions” Mercer

“Schrodinger’s Horus?”

Caleb and Beau wanting to look in on Horus is cute

Oh I thought they agreed to do all of them

Caleb and his paper. He’s like me with notebooks.

“This has really WET our appetite”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff”

Nott plz

aw no more Pumat :(((((

that poor ogre has no luck lol

“iamgoingtorunovertopumatstobuysomepaperandink”

Caleb stocking up on the incense in case he has to bring Frumpkin back again

I’m gonna miss Pumat I hope we see him again soon

Caleb is so cute guys

also Caleb and Beau being sort-of friends is the one thing I didn’t see coming and I love it so so much

Yasha and Frumpkin awwwww

They should definitely have grabbed some supplies. Clothes. Food. Stuff like that. They are not prepared for this.

If they dog pile cuddle sleep in the cart tho I will be happy

Beau jumping on the chance to take second watch with Yasha

LOL Beau cockcblocked by Frumpkin. Cat-blocked.

“I like this stuff… grass and things, you know” Yasha please you’re so sweet and cute and pure I love you

Yasha and Beau are just. The best. They’re so cute and sweet and they’re killing me.

“We would share with everyone but yes of course we would eat them” omgggg Not

I want to hug Nott and help her understand that she’s not awful just because she’s a goblin. LET ME HUG HER.

Fjord plz shut up she’s run into kids before and nothing has happened

Give Nott all the bacon 2k18

Pocket bacon??? from how many episodes ago??

SAM YOU TEASE

“It’s not a billowing column…”

“It’s not a BILLOWING COLUMN”

Marisha laughs with her whole fully body and honestly it just brings me such joy?? i don’t even know

Buy some furs from this man please you will need them to be warm

lol Yasha acting like she’s gonna trade Frumpkin but then she’s like “no, no I can’t” and snuggles him

I haaaate when they fail perception rolls and we miss stuff i want to knowwww

SOMEONE PLEASE DRAW ME YASHA SURROUNDED BY FLOWERS

she just collects them in her book and i cry because it’s so cute

WHY IS CALEB ALWAYS GETTING SHOT WITH ARROWS

AND NOW POISONED

here we go fight fight fight!

fights always make me both anxious and excited

Caleb with his spells that are less attack more made to help hamper the enemies and to help his friends. My fave.

CALEB NOOOOO PLZ DONT GO DOWN

Nott is so clever!

LOOK AT MY KIDS “modern literature” IM SO PROUD

lol Jester she’s so sweet trying to save Caleb!

POOR JESTER IS SO UPSET OMG

Jester trying to save Caleb is killing me it’s so funny

I love the new abilities it’s so exciting!

YASHA HAS WINGS??? WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING THIS IS SO COOL!!!

Travis playing charades to get Ashley to rage lol

“you’re alive!! how did—????”

“haha funnyyyyy joke”

DAAAAAMN BOOMING BLADE IS BADASS

God they are all gonna miss Yasha when she’s gona again. Look at my girl being the heavy hitter and messing big ogre people up.

Caleb and his missiles just exploding goblins

“Can you fly?”

“No”

“Have you tried?”

“Yeah”

YOOOO YASHA AND CALEB BOTH KNOW CELESTIAL

“I just pull down my spiritual weapon and start licking it”

Guys have I mentioned that Yasha is my favorite?

Jesse Nott’s levels of self-hatred are hardcore too sad 0/10

Nott yet again making me cry plz stop Sam I can’t handle this emotion

“I wasn’t the torturer, I was the torturer’s assistant”

SAM

PLEASE

OKAY LISTEN WE HAD BETTER MEET NOTT’S FRIEND AGAIN AND HE HAD BETTER BE FINE

AND HE HAD BETTER HAVE LIKED HER JUST AS MUCH

YES PLZ GO WITH HER

EVERYONE GO WITH NOTT AND HELP HER FIND HER FRIEND

THE GROUP BEING SO SUPPORTIVE OF HER AND WANTING TO HELP HER GO HOME TO FIND HER FRIEND

“yeah you’re one of us now” ITS FINE IM CRYING

“If you see goblin you should kill it on sight” Not no!

Alright I also demand we meet other nice goblins.

And LISTEN guys listen with Caleb last week and then Nott this week I’m gonna need like a week or two before we get into any more emotional stuff please and thanks

oh no

oh no it’s raining and thundering

YASHA DONT LEAVE PLEASE DONT GO

No Caleb please don’t say anything to Nott I can’t handle

Oh okay just a very sweet offer okay that’s fine I’m fine it’s fine

SAM I’m both crying and laughing I hate you

I swear I get paranoid when it rains now because I don’t want Ashley/Yasha to leave.

Good episode. Good, good episode. Lots of humor, fun, action, and emotion. My feelings are all over the place and I love it.

#emi watches critical role #critical role spoilers #Critical Role

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awed-frog · 7 years

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Angst and Feels (Why Fanfiction Matters)

I used to be normal. By which I mean: by the time I was in college, I no longer read children’s books, or even YA. I was too busy, for one thing - I’d spend hours in the library, sometimes cursing at the impossibly difficult stuff I’d been asked to do, but mostly relishing all the new, inspiring things I had the privilege to learn. I was reading about witches, about the use of colours on Greek vases. About Virginia Woolf.

My English, though, wasn’t good enough. Having taken Latin in high school, I knew what a hexameter was but I would define it as a ‘six foots meter’. In the end, one of my professors, mildly exasperated by it all, told me I needed to read more; much more. He suggested YA books, and, since I’d read most classic novels as a child (in translation), I bought a battered second-hand copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. It was 2002. The books had been out for five years, but I knew next to nothing about them.

And, well, it wasn’t always easy to keep up with JK Rowling’s funny, inventive prose, but two days later I stepped through the doors of our English bookstore and bought the other three novels. I’ve been addicted ever since.

But the thing is - I didn’t connect with other fans in any way. Back then (in my country), the internet was still an unfocused, unclear thing. If I remember correctly, I didn’t even have an email address until 2003. Not a proper one, I mean. Not something I used to actually communicate. And there was no one I could discuss Harry Potter with. Ah, is that a children’s book? people would say, and that would be the end of it.

I kept reading the series, though, and when the waiting got too difficult, I gave the internet a second chance. I discovered fanfiction, and that was the beginning of the end.

(No more normal for me. Gone. All gone.)

Because, in the end, we are social, creative animals. Shared stories, like shared memories, bond us together more closely and firmly than anything else ever will.

When Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows finally came out, I happened to be back in my small town for the summer, and I went out at midnight to buy it. It was unheard of - a miracle - that our local bookseller had decided to take part in this crazy initiative, and I didn’t expect anyone to actually be there. Instead, well, some people were. Not many, but it didn’t matter. We were a small crowd of mostly adult readers, some trying to pretend they were passing there by chance, others wearing wizard hats or capes. One girl had a homemade piece of jewelry shaped like the Deathly Hallows symbol. It shone on her chest as she waited for the bookstore to open, silent and somewhat fearful.

I knew exactly how she felt. I was terrified. I didn’t want the series to be over. I was afraid I wouldn’t like the end. I was fearing, most of all, that someone would spoil it for me.

(I had been waiting so long.)

In order to prevent that, I had hatched a detailed, careful, crazy plan: I would go into the mountains, alone, walking from hut to hut and stopping in isolated meadows to read the book in complete solitude. I had given myself two days to finish it, and I had no doubt I would. I am a fast reader, and I’d been craving this one story for two years.

My parents told me I was insane, but it didn’t matter. I went ahead - the book was heavy, so I only packed a few other things - a parka, raisins, a water bottle and an extra pair of socks - added a small notebook on top, and the map, and my clunky mobile phone (turned off), and I left.

I have vague memories of those two days. I barely noticed the landscape around me, because, somehow, it filtered into the one from the novel. It slid in and out of focus, unseen, unremembered.

(A place I’d known since childhood, now invisible around me.)

Like Harry, Ron and Hermione, I walked around in the wilderness, oblivious to both its dangers and its beauty. I was tormented by their doubts and fears; I was hounded by Death Eaters; I was hungry and unhappy. I once hurried through the rain, my mind a thousand miles away, and, as soon as it stopped, I spread out my parka on the unfriendly grass (all sharp with rocks and thistles) and I started reading again, my wet hair slowly dripping on the pages.

I remember very well, however, that by the time I arrived to my second (and final) hut, I hadn’t finished. I was planning to read through the night, but I was still wary of spoilers (and I was right to be: I discovered afterwards our local medias had mentioned it all - Harry’s death; Harry’s resurrection - on that very same day), which is why I kept to myself - a practice much frowned upon in such places. I barely nodded at the friendly-looking couple sitting in front of me for dinner, and I ignored the little family chatting behind us. And, at night, I sat up in my bed (it was too cold to stay in the common room downstairs), turned on my flashlight, and started reading again.

Thinking about it now, it was like the end of childhood all over again: this secret, solitary reading, way past my bedtime, in a room I shared with two other people (strangers).

I was wearing every piece of clothing I had, because it was still bloody cold, but it didn’t matter at all.

(So tired, and yet unable to stop reading. The words flickering a bit in the bluish light.)

And then Snape died.

And I started crying.

I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop. He’d been my favourite character, and, having discovered the books as a grown-up, I’d never seen him as the overbearing, nasty teacher; from the start, I’d been drawn in by his lights and shadows; by the damage which had so clearly been inflicted on a clever, unforgiving man (someone who could have been so much more; someone who, in other circumstances, could have been loved, deeply and unreservedly). I’d been hoping against hope he’d turn out to be Good. And here, spelled out by writing, the most magical of all human inventions, here was everything I’d been wishing for - a compelling, heartbreaking backstory; murder; redemption.

I tried to be silent, but you can’t really cry silently, not like this; not with the kind of sorrow which grips you tight inside and shakes you around like a ragdoll until there’s nothing left of you at all.

I finished the book. I slept about two hours. And when I went down for breakfast (thick bread slices with homemade wild blueberries jam and that generic fruit tea, way too sugary, they always offer you up there) I wasn’t looking at anyone, or seeing anything. I was completely empty; lost inside my own head. Happy and sad and terribly lonely, because this story I’d loved so much was now over.

And then the woman in front of me - someone my own age, perhaps a bit older, who was there with her husband - I’d shared the dorm with them the night before - put her hand very near mine on the table (you do not touch strangers here: it is not done).

“Was it good?” she whispered, and I looked up at her. I was so out of it, I didn’t even realize what she was talking about.

“I saw you with the book last night,” she added, and then did this sort of thing which was on my face as well, this half smile, half frown. “I heard you cry.”

I shook my head. I didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t tell me anything. Just - is it good?”

“It’s very good,” I whispered back, my eyes falling down to the table; idly following the knot in the wood which looked a bit like a Cheshire cat.

“Oh God,” she cursed, or prayed, softly, and this time she closed her fingers around my wrist, and I started crying again.

The thing is, I’ve always felt books too deep and too raw. I was that kid who would forget the world around her, wouldn’t hear her mum calling for dinner, wouldn’t go to bed in the evening.

You know the kind. The One more page child. The Let me just finish the chapter child.

What I’d never known, though, was the joy of talking about these stories with someone else.

There was no one else.

Some of my friends read, but not like this; not compulsively. Also, they didn’t care - they wouldn’t cry for a fictional person. They wouldn’t smile all day because someone’s quest had succeeded. They never got upset.

(How?)

And the adults - well, of course they encouraged me; they praised me. But it was still a lonely way to grow up.

(I didn’t mind.)

(I never minded.)

(It’s never just a story, though, is it?)

With Harry Potter, that changed. I’d always written fiction into my own head - I mean: some stories I wrote down (my own), but other stories I just dreamed about (little me, with her courage and fears and that one t-shirt with a horse on it, stepping into all these worlds; making friends with those characters; taking part in their adventures). I never wrote them down, because I could feel they weren’t my stories, not really. They belonged to the real writers; to the people who’d first written them down - Dumas and Ende and Tolkien and Wilde and all those other people. I had no right to -

And then, in my twenties, I discovered that I had the right. Sort of. That other people lay awake at night trying to put it together - why did Snape kill Dumbledore? Is it possible that - or maybe? That it was even allowed, in fact, to discuss these things with each other and be taken seriously. Even more incredibly, it was possible to write stories about it. What would happen to Draco next? What if Hermione got hold of a Time-Turner again? And what about the Marauders and the Seventies - is it possible to change the future by changing the past?

Yes, this is the first reason why I love fanfiction, and why I’m grateful to those invisible writers whose names I never knew - adults and teens and office workers and teachers and stay-at-home mums, all living their (to me) invisible lives, and yet speaking, somehow, directly to my heart and soul. Because they made me feel like it was okay to be like this - to love this so very much.

Something else I’m grateful to fanfiction for, though, is its gentle sneakiness; its joyous underhandedness. It draws you in, doesn’t it, because it seems safe and easy. This is why people sneer at it, after all - because you’re not creating anything. Allegedly. And, well, it is a kind of safety net, isn’t it? I’m just playing with these characters, we used to say; I’m putting them back when I’m done.

(As if we could. As if writing about someone doesn’t make them real to you. As if we didn’t know the truth of it - that you can’t write about people and then put them back, because now you’ve bled all over them, and they are, in a way, yours forever; the good and the bad.)

The reality of it is rather different.

Sure, you do start with a story already written; with fully-fledged characters.

But you don’t know everything, do you? We haven’t seen Dean Winchester’s first day of school. We don’t know what Ron Weasley thought when he walked into a Tesco for the very first time (did he? he must have, at some point). We don’t know if Neal and Peter ever saw each other again. What Mary (Watson) was like as a child.

And yet - yet we are bound by everything else we do know. If we want to write canon fanfiction, which, for many of us, is the goal, we have to be mindful of this.

(We look at how they move - Mary’s secret smile, Dean’s slightly uneven gait. We know what they are like when they’re alone - Neal: dissatisfied, Peter: warily content. We try and mimic the way they do their homework - Ron’s careless spelling; his glib, hasty essays.)

And it is difficult and painful and frustrating, but it is also - I think - the best thing that can happen to you as a writer, because I am starting to realize that a story always has invisible walls (stuff that just can’t happen, no matter how much you wish for it to). It’s these walls, and not the rooms inbetween them, which make a story great. The things you can’t write about. The dialogues that will never happen. The characters who’ll never meet. Your story is right there: in the silences. It stretches into the distance, unseeable, undefined, like that strip of land which is not beach and not sea. A puzzle and a challenge.

(Why is this interesting? Why do we care so much?)

It is not easy to see these walls when you’re writing your own story (not fanfiction, that is: fiction), and it’s very tempting, when you do see them, to just tear them down.

(It's your story, after all.)

Fanfiction teaches you not to.

(Sure, we have the extreme AUs and the There I fixed it things, but, personally, it’s the other things I like. The ones where nobody says anything and yet everybody understands. Cas putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. John looking at Sherlock, then away. The Always. things.)

When you’re writing codas, you can’t ignore what happened in the episode, no matter how painful. When you’re filling a fanfiction gap, you must be mindful of what comes next.

And the walls (these walls you hate and push against until your nails are bloody and your head aches) do make the story more interesting. What Maisie Knew would be a rather dull novel if it were written from the point of view of Maisie’s father. So would To Kill a Mockingbird. And what about Of Mice and Men? A Clockwork Orange? Good novels are built on ordinary stories which are made extraordinary because of the way they are written - just like we are, all of us, living ordinary lives which have been lived a thousand times before, and it is our own hearts and souls and our vision of the world around us which make them extraordinary and new and worth living again. Most novels would simply collapse without this gift writers have - to see the beauty and magic (the heartbreak and the tragedy) in things which are completely, utterly normal.

And writers see other things, as well.

Because, well, I’d thought I wanted a meaningful conversation between Snape and Harry - a lengthy and detailed explanation of everything that had been going on between them. I’d thought I deserved it, after everything. That I had a right to it, even.

What I got were three words (Look...at...me.) - a shared look and a whisper - and God, I’d been so wrong. I’d thought I’d known everything - I knew nothing. Fairness was not the issue - life's not fair - this was sheer poetry, right there. It was, in a remarkably I can’t breathe right now kind of way, everything I’d ever wanted, and more. I hadn’t known I wanted it like that, but JK Rowling had known. She’d known my heart better than I knew it myself, and that is the mark of true writer.

(And there are true writers both in fiction and in fanfiction.)

But, some people may object, what about the porn?

What about it?

Well, it must be said out loud. If normal people (not us; no longer, and not perhaps, ever) have heard of fanfiction at all, they tend to dismiss it as porn, and, indeed, Rule 34 blooms and thrives in our archives as well.

On the other hand, why should this be a bad thing? Who decided (well: we know who; and we also know why) that sex should be shameful? That sexual desire should be secret, and sexual preferences undisclosed and undiscussed? Why is the relationship between a man and a woman, even a relationship which is unloving or abusive or downright unreal, something we’re allowed to have access to, while an MPreg between the Giant Squid and the Archangel Gabriel is not?

(Why is the first one a right of passage and a standard for our real life relationships and something which generates billions of dollars of profit and the second one not normal and never bookmarked and tagged as Seriously, This is Filth, You’ve Been Warned, I Need Jesus?)

Greek mythology is built upon such things, after all, and it blossomed into one of the most astounding periods of human history - fifth-century Athens - a place where, in the space of few short years, Plato and Aristotle and Euripides and Alcibiades worked and lived side by side. A perfect storm of culture and art and beautifully orchestrated politics which still defines most of what we are today.

And yet, look at Theseus’ love life.

(This most great Athenian hero, lord of the sea, destroyer of monsters.)

Theseus/Helen (M/F, Mature, Underage, Non-Con, Kidnapping, Heavy Petting, Fingering, This Is So Sick, I Can’t Believe I’m Writing This); Theseus/Ariadne (M/F, Mature, Dubcon, Kidnapping, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Sort Of); Theseus/Hippolyta (M/F, Explicit, Enemies-to-Lovers, Dom/Sub, Murder, Major Character Death); Theseus/Phaedra, Phaedra/Hippolytus (M/F, Explicit, Slightly Underage, Major Character Death, Non-Con, Dubcon, Incest If You Squint, Murder By Proxy, Suicide, They’re All Kind Of Assholes, And It’s Great, No Happy Ending, Seriously Don’t Read This If You Like Happy Endings).

Look at Achilles’.

(Oh, Achilles. I have loved you so very much, and I do love you still.)

Achilles/Patroclus (M/M, Teen And Up, Angst And Feels, Topping From The Bottom, Established Relationship, SO MUCH PAIN); Achilles/Penthesilea (M/F, Explicit, Major Character Death, Dubcon, First Kiss, Enemies-to-Lovers, Necrophilia, Blood-Soaked Pagan Manpain, Can You Spoil The End Of A Series That’s Been Finished For Two Decades?).

And, of course, we have to mention the gods.

Zeus, for instance.

Zeus/Leda (M/F, Explicit, Zoophilia, Non-Con, I Actually Watched Videos Of Swans Mating For This, Author Is Sleep-Deprived); Zeus/Alcmene (M/F/M, Sort Of, Explicit, Dubcon, Issues Of Consent, Theological Stuff, T Is For Trash, Frustratingly Vague Magical Realism); Zeus/Ganymede (M/M, M/F, Mature, Underage, Dubcon, Zeus Is An Eagle But They Have Sex As Humans, Mentions Of Slavery, Light Dom/Sub Play); Zeus/Semele (M/F, Mature, Canon-Typical Violence, Major Character Death, MPreg, Loads of Angst, Like Wow); Zeus/Other (I’m So Sorry He’s Gonna Fuck Everyone At Some Point).

(Those were actual AO3 tags, by the way, and also perfectly adequate summaries for most of the classical literature we know. I mean, don’t get me started on Apuleius’ Metamorphoses.)

If people want to write PWP because they want to, er, have fun and, er, make other people happy, I say let them. They’re not hurting anyone. They’re also taking back control from more traditional sources of, er, joy.

(Things whose goal is to generate money; things which tend to perpetuate the status quo and enforce it, and which are not, therefore, art. Things we need to take control back from, because we’ll never be rid of them and everybody masturbates and it’s a joyous and relaxing activity and it’s time we talked about it.)

But from what I see in the community - sure, the PWP is appreciated after a long day at the office, and it’s fun (and oh so challenging) to write (those published authors who keep getting Bad Sex awards should have a look at AO3 and see how it’s done), but what keeps people coming back is what will always keep people coming back: everything else.

The painful, heartwrenching, slow-burn stories.

The case stories; the adventure stories.

The what if AUs.

The My life is so unbearable right now, please give me something else to think about stories.

The idea that books can save your life is not new - I loved Arabian Nights, but it was another novel, Fred Uhlman’s Beneath the Lightning and the Moon, which really did it for me - the idea, brought forward by this German Jew writer who’d witnessed three wars, that (when all’s said and done) everything we are is just that - stories. That’s what keeps us from going mad - the stories we tell each other. The stories we tell ourselves.

And this is what will be remembered after we pass away.

We’re all stories, in the end.

(Just make it a good one, eh?)

And the other reason I am grateful to fanfiction and I love fanfiction and I will defend it to the death - well, that’s way more political.

In the years since that day in the mountains, I’ve kept reading and writing and studying. I am now a fanfiction writer myself. I’ve also been strongly encouraged - even ordered, one would say - to keep up with the news obsessively, because of my job (I am an interpreter). Which I do. For the same reason, I listen to a variety of things - political debates, scientific conferences, TED talks, podcasts about anything and everything. And, well, what is happening in the world isn’t - mostly - very encouraging. More people fleeing their homes. More people fighting. More people burning down trees and keeping employees into unhealthy factories and forcing livestock into pitiful conditions so the rest of us can thrive in gilded abundance.

One thing, though, gives me hope; one thing I’m awed by.

Three in four people can now read and write. Two in four are connected to the internet. Two in five speak English (which, I should specify, isn’t per se a sign of advancing civilization, but still means we have an eye-watering widespread lingua franca).

Which means that for the first time in the whole of human history, we can communicate with each other, and we can do it instantly. We can share opinions and photos and feelings. Everywhere, anytime, with anyone.

(Almost.)

And we are (perhaps too slowly; perhaps not enough) taking control of how information is spread. Of which information is spread.

People were wary of online content in the beginning (I remember this well; I was one of them); they (we) feared that anyone could say anything. That it would become more difficult to tell apart fact from fiction.

(We scoffed at the idea of an open source, user-generated encyclopedia; and look at us now.)

And, yes, it’s not perfect. There are quack bloggers and fake things all over the internet; propaganda and paranoia and scams. Then again, it was never perfect. Humans are peculiar creatures. We feed on wishful thinking and lies. This will never, I think, change. The internet has little to do with it.

But, on the other hand, the internet is also exposing lies. It’s making it more difficult for governments to hide things, and for a handful of media (of rich people) to control what we know about an event - because there’s always someone else there. There will always be at least one other person there - on the site of an explosion, in the middle of a political rally, in a city under siege - someone who will tweet or facebook share what is actually going on. What blew me away, for instance, is what happened recently at the COP21 in Paris: there was one very important meeting the press hadn’t been given permission to attend, and two random students from New Zealand - who were there as representatives of some youth movement - live-blogged the entire thing, including personal comments, memes and reactions gifs, through a Google document.

Hashtag Imagine Yalta, one could say.

And, well, I think fanfiction plays a role in all this.

Now, I’m not a fanfiction expert of any description, and I’m not a researcher - I’ve only seen this happening because I got obsessed with Supernatural and I started poking here and there on the internet - I write stories about the show, and the occasional meta, but I also love to read other people’s analyses, which means I lurk around on tumblr - and I have the feeling something special is unfolding. We are slowly learning to reject a system based on privilege and competition and I paid for my knowledge, go get your own to embrace a more egalitarian, inspiring model; a Here is what I know, because this my area of expertise, please enjoy and leave a comment and tell me something I don’t know in exchange. I read metas about the use of colours and props and lighting. I read an AU Destiel story where they are both actors which had footnotes - footnotes - explaining how the job works. I learned about botany and the American school system and classical music. I stumbled upon a blog for writers where you could just ask, One of my characters is an African-American girl who grew up in Detroit in the 1990s. Anyone here knows what that was like? - and someone would answer, share tiny details of their own life so someone else’s words would ring more true.

What’s happening is, we’re taking back our content. We’re saying, creating stories isn’t the prerogative of big corporations. It’s about people sitting in a circle and weaving magic for each other. For free. Because it gives us joy and sorrow, and we need them both (so much).

And, perhaps even more importantly, by analysing books and movies and shows and animes and mangas so very carefully, by writing (and reading) stories about them, I feel we are learning to think more clearly. We are seeing what works and what doesn’t in a story. We are training each other to read and understand subtext. Those of us who were lucky enough to have great teachers - people who taught us how to see the box, and how to think outside it - are encouraging others to go beyond the standard I liked it, I hate it, I meh. To ask why. And - even - to ask cui bono.

Because this is, the way I see it, the beating heart of everything. Our societies are built and maintained by stories. The best storytellers control it all. It’s that simple.

Money is, perhaps, the most successful of those stories - the idea that paper money, or even coins, are worth anything at all, is the pinnacle of human storytelling. A miracle of fiction.

And also politics, of course. Now, there are other factors which come into play here - most notably, this indefinable like/dislike thing we have around people, that feeling we all have instinctively (which has to do, perhaps, with smell or symmetry or some hormonal madness); this thing perhaps best expressed by the Would you buy a used car from this man? phenomenon. It’s messy and complicated and very often a gut feeling we should or shouldn’t trust.

I’m not saying that words are everything.

On the other hand, there is more to words than we know. Recent research has shown, for instance, a clear link between hexameters and an area of the brain which usually lights up around addictive foods and drugs. As far as I understand it, what they did was read epic poetry to people - the language didn’t even matter - they read Homer, in Greek, to people who’d never heard the language before - and this thing, the simple alternation between long and short syllable in a precise, well-structured way - our brains react to that. Our brains say, Like. Our brains say, More.

Good writers, and good politicians, never needed the study to be carried out. They knew about it already. If you analyse advertisements and novels and political propaganda and speeches, you’ll find plenty of hexameters.

But the idea that not only they sound nice, but that they actually prey on your brain - they touch you in a way you are not aware of being touched - that’s powerful stuff.

Language is powerful stuff.

(It runs the world.)

And, in my opinion, reading and writing is the best way to make it ours; to understand it better, so it cannot be used against us.

This is why places like AO3 are not only entertaining - they are revolutionary. They represent a community of tens of thousands of people coming together and changing the world in the only way we truly can change the world: by changing ourselves first. By making ourselves better, smarter, more aware.

So hold your heads up. Keep caring about stories, keep writing and reading them all (even the coffeeshop AUs; even the tentacle porn). Be bold. Be joyous. Be free.

And thank you, for everything.

[If you’re curious about my fics, here is my AO3 page. Hi!]

#fanfiction #spn fanfiction #hp #hp fanfiction #fanfic #international fanworks day #fiction matters #long post #if you like this post #please reblog it :)

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darkdevasofdestruction · 7 years

Text

Malik AlSayf-Bittersweet Tragedy

The tragedy has left deep scars on more than one person, not only physically, but emotionally as well.

Malik Al-Sayf has lost it all. His brother. His left arm. His strength. His assassin skills. His confidence.

And all of these, because of the patronising arrogance of a certain ‘Master Assassin’. He was the one to save the mission, with the help of his brother and lover, but the trio had a lot to suffer. Crippled. His brother was killed. His lover’s sight and back were partially crippled. He himself was crippled, having lost an arm, due to a grave injury. And now he was stuck aiding the assassins from behind a desk, at the Jerusalem Bureau, feeling irked to no end. He received no compensation or apology, absolutely nothing to sooth his destroyed soul, whilst the man who jeopardized the mission was walking freely down the streets of Masyaf, licking the boots of his Master and still performing important assassinations.

He was alone. He sat there, mindlessly drawing a map, dipping the white feather in black ink, but he couldn’t focus. His mind wandered to the depths of despair. He was so deep in his mind,he messed up the papyrus scroll,being by then completely buried in his dark thoughts.

'It should have been me’ 'Kadar was too young to die’ 'He had all life ahead of him’ 'Three people had to sacrifice themselves, for one to leave unharmed and get all the glory’ 'I am a useless cripple now’ 'My love may lose her sight’ 'She may remain paralyzed’ 'I am not going to be a whole man for her anymore’ 'I lost all chances’ 'I am alone’

He slumped down the wall and rested his lone hand on his forehead, letting the sorrowful tears stream down his face. Being alone, he allowed himself to show weakness, at least to himself.

Nobody to judge him. Nobody to comfort him. Nobody to care about him.

He sobbed silently, trying to release all tension and emotions, for the first time after so many years of stoic façades.

He was back to being Malik. Just Malik. But an incomplete Malik. He was alone. Or so he thought. That is, because unbeknownst to him, the recovering girl had awoken and saw the whole heartbreaking crumbling of her beloved with her unbandaged, undamaged emerald eye and gripping the wooden door tightly, she kept peeking through the gap, silently letting her own tears wet her pale cheeks, not being able to react in any other way.

That was all in the morning, at the earliest hours and the tides have calmed after a long while. The girl, despite her injuries, dressed in a casual outfit worn by women in that city, covering her head, protecting herself from the scorching sun and hiding the ugly scar across her right side of her face, to get the groceries. She walked calmly, enjoying the Spring heat kissing her skin, after such a long time and sighed, lost in thought. What could she do to help her paramour? He was in a dark place and she tried to help. But…how?

Strolling slowly through the city of Jerusalem, she heard a faint angelic sound.

'Meow’

Huh? What was that?

'Meoooow’

The faint sound trailed longer and repeated again and again, making the red head snap her head towards the small animal.

A cute white kitten started prowling around the girl, rubbing itself around her ankles and purring graciously.

With a soft smile, (y/n) picked up the kitten and raised it to her eye level, only to notice an important fact.

The kitten was missing his left paw.

With a soft giggle, the girl rubbed noses with the kitten and he stuck out his tongue slightly, bleping and closing his eyes. Hoisting the groceries bag better on her arm, she put the kitten inside her blouse, hiding it with her thin green shawl and went back to the Bureau.

(y/n):Come on, sweetheart, you’re coming home with me. I’ll have to introduce you to someone. He will adore you!

There, she saw her beloved scribbling frantically, not noticing her presence. She smiled sweetly at him, then meowed slowly making her way towards his desk.

Malik: Ah, (y/n), I see you’ve returned. (y/n): I have.

‘Meow’

Malik: *raises an eyebrow* What was that? (y/n): I have a gift for you~. Malik: Huh? A what?

The girl turned around, took off the shawl from her head and carefully took the feline from her blouse, cradling him in her arms lovingly, then turned to Malik.

Malik: A cat? (y/n): Isn’t he so adorable, Malik~? Malik: He is…But why did you bring him here? This place is hardly a proper place to raise a pet. (y/n): I think we can afford a little arrogance, after all we’ve done for the Brotherhood, correct? Besides, it’s just a small ball of fur, nothing inconvenient! Malik: Are you really going to take care of him? Cats can be quite…Stubborn, to say the least. (y/n): Oh, come on, he’s very affectionate! And…Well... Malik: He’s…He’s missing a paw… (y/n): He is. He is one sweet, strong kitten, despite his incapacity…And I think he likes you a lot. I mean...I guess you’re both incredibly brave and and amazing kittens!

The girl set the cat on the table, where he looked up curiously at the man in front of him, then started rubbing his head on Malik’s hand, rolling on the table, seeking attention from the man in cause. Malik was still in slight shock at the cat’s behaviour and being in general, while the girl was watching in glee. Those two really clicked off well.

Malik: What should we name him? (y/n): I had something in mind but…Only if you-… Malik: Kadar? (y/n): Kadar.

The man sighed, seeing her sweet, sad smile as she spoke his younger brother’s name, making him hang his head down, slightly going back to his sorrowful state, but the kitten was faster and he raised his sole paw up, trying to touch Malik’s face, as if he was worried about the man’s emotional state. With a tender smile, the girl cupped her lover’s face and kissed his forehead, hugging him tightly.

(y/n): Go rest, my love. You’ve been working so hard for the past days, it’s high time you get some time off. And don’t bother trying to argue with me, just take little Kadar with you too...You both need company. Malik: *sighs* You never know when to stop. Very well then.

He clumsily picked the cat up, going to his room and staid there until late at night. The girl yawned, slightly tired and bored from the lack of activity from the day, so she decided to call it quits and went to her room, changing in one of Malik’s large shirts that she stole a while ago, trying to catch some sleep. But she couldn’t. Her mind kept flying towards her paramour, left alone with his parasitic thoughts in another room, so she sighed, got up and knocked on the door, entering slowly, trying not to disturb him.

But he wasn’t asleep. Multiple candles were still alit, as he lay there, topless, reading a book, little Kadar curled up, nuzzling his neck.

(y/n): Are you okay,Malik? You kind of…Got me worried… Malik: Exceptionally ordinary. (y/n): Don’t try to fool me, Malik. We both know that’s far from true. Malik: Did you truly expect me to admit how bad I feel? (y/n): N-No…But… Malik: I’m not fine, but it matters little now. Injustice will always win, so forget it. (y/n): Look…I-I know…I couldn’t possibly bring your brother...Or your arm back...Nor turn back time and fix everything up…But…Okay, maybe I’m really useless…But I can’t stand seeing you like this. It hurts so much... Malik: You’re already half blind, just close your eye and you’re done. (y/n): Well, you don’t really handle this situation properly! But I want to help, Malik. I’m here for you. I’ve always been…So please...Please don’t shut me away.

He put his book on the table and got in front of the small girl, looking down at her, exhaustion and depression lurking obviously on his face. Being closer also meant that the outline of each wound was times more obvious on his sun-kissed chest, making her bite her lip. Malik: Isn’t that my shirt? (y/n): Might be. Malik: Your ex-thief career is showing again. (y/n): It was a while ago…

He turned his back to the fox like girl and put his hand on his face, slightly annoyed, trying to hide any emotion that might surface.

Malik: Just go to your room, (y/n). There’s nothing to see here but depression. (y/n): If I weren’t ready to stand by your side through every danger, I wouldn’t have come here. We’ve been together for so long and braved so many problems together... Malik: You are doing a grave mistake. (y/n): I prefer to make my own mistakes. But darling, staying my your side will never be a mistake.

The girl unbuttoned her shirt and hugged his wounded back tightly, resting her forehead on his shoulder. She could feel him tense up. He was stunned. Rooted to the spot. Unaware of his next move.

What was going on? What should he do? Those questions became even more conflicting as she started slowly kissing his scars, then nuzzled her face on the crook of his neck, no doubt standing on her tippy toes, as she wasn’t tall enough otherwise. He could feel the breathe hitch in his throat as his heart started aching more and more.

Malik: (Y/N)…Why…? (y/n): I don’t need a reason to comfort my lover, do I? Or is it a crime? Malik: No, but… (y/n): But what, Malik? Have I not been what you expected? I know I am a terrible lover and all that but…I apologize if I disappointed you…I just wanted to see you happy…Smile…Especially during these times of darkness…I know I’m no good...But I’m...I’m trying, I promise... Malik: No, don’t misunderstand, please. I only wish I could properly embrace you, but now, I am unable to comfort you…It s driving me crazy...I’m not worthy of you and your love anymore. You have been everything I could wish for and more than I ever deserved from this life. I just don’t understand why would you stand by me, even now. I’m a cripple. I’m broken, (Y/N), what is there left of me that you still cling to? (y/n): Obviously, your body may be broken, but I am hardly a model anymore, love. Nevertheless, as long as you can feel my warmth and feelings, then I’m happy. I love you, Malik, with or without your arm. It’s still you, just as I’ve always told you. I’m lucky to have met you and to have your feelings. And little Kadar thinks so too. So please, for us, make an effort and reach out to these feelings. Please...Let us save each other. Malik: I don’t deserve you...You are an angel... (y/n): I’m a fox, dearest, hardly a pure deity, so I guess you’re alright.

He turned towards her and caressed her face tenderly, having her own hand over his, then he untied her eye bandage, letting it fall on the ground, as she bit her lip and casted her gaze to the ground, trying to hide the wound.

(y/n): Quite ungraceful, if you ask me. Gory as hell. Nothing pretty to see here. Malik: It’s only fair to stay this way, when we’re alone in our intimacy, don’t you think? (y/n): Since when do we play fair, Malik? Malik: We never do.

He pushed the fire-kissed strand of hair covering her damaged eye behind her ear then leaned down, kissing her gently. Parting, he traces down to her neck, then slowly removes her shirt, revealing her bare shoulders and cleavage, both beautiful, yet both covered in merciless scars and fresh wounds that have yet to properly heal.

(y/n): Why do you still hold such a depressed look, my love? I know I’m hardly at my highest glory on the beauty-department, but- Malik: No, (Y/N), you will always be perfect, no matter what you think may look like flaws...And yet, these are all my fault. Each one depicts the time I was not there on time to aid you...Save you, just like I promised I would, the day I asked you to marry me. (y/n): Seeing that you have the same problem, I suppose we’re both terrible bad at out jobs as protectors, dear husband. After all, I said a vow as well, did I not~? Malik: Will you ever have it in your heart to forgive me? (y/n): What is there to forgive, if you’ve done nothing wrong? Stop overreacting, I am not the one suffering here. You are. Malik: But I- (y/n): I love you, Malik. And so did Kadar. What happened could have been avoided, but it was not your fault and we both know it. There is no use lingering on the past, when the present is right here, in front of you, telling you to wake up to your senses. Malik: *sighs* I know you are right, but I cannot just forget what happened. Not when it was just a few days ago... (y/n): You don’t have to forget, my love. Just don’t forget that the past is over. The present is all that we have. Malik: Then, may I enjoy this present for an eternity, with you by my side? (y/n): I will always be here for you, Malik. Always and forever. Malik: Always and forever.

They sealed the promise with a solemn kiss, the same way they did when they said their vows to each other on that faithful night, only the two of them, then went back to his bed, cuddling, with little Kadar just between them, all of them enjoying the happy memories and warmth, for as long as they lasted. Dark times may come, but they will always pass, sooner or later and that is something that Malik is never going to forget any time soon.

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swan-archive · 8 years

Text

@runawayforthesummer, @selkieliza anon: here’s. this

“It seems a little—I don’t know. Sacrilegious. Maybe that’s not the right word. Does it apply to you? I’m sorry, I suppose it’s not my place to speculate on the state of your immortal soul, I don’t know how it works for—your folk—”

“I try to do good, just like anyone else. Try to be better than I am. I like to think that puts me on an equal footing with any of your folk.” Eliza raises her eyebrows teasingly at that epithet.

“—And it’s not that I’m saying you’re in the wrong either, please don’t think that, I’m not calling you a heathen creature,” Alexander continues in a nervous babble. He fiddles with the cuffs of the shirt he’d thrown on when he left the bed. “It’s my problem, I know it is. It’s just. I feel like I oughtn’t to, well. Touch. Is that a silly thing to say?”

“Well, not to be mean, but—”

“But it is silly.”

“Think about it. Is it sacrilegious for you to touch my hand, or my hair, or my face, when we’re in bed together? This is just another part of me, when you get down to it. I keep it outside of myself, that’s all.” Alexander makes an odd strangled sound at that, and Eliza blushes. She draws her sealskin around herself, covering her nakedness, and feels suddenly very embarrassed, like a girl half her age caught in a lie as she boasts to her friends. “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to—see all of me. Love all of me.”

“You know that I do,” says Alexander. There’s a note of reverence in his voice.

“You—you do. That’s good. Um. Oh, dear.” Eliza pulls a fold of the skin down over her face. “I mean, I love you too, this was stupid. I shouldn’t have surprised you like this, shouldn’t have made it into this big thing—oh.”

Alexander has reached out and brushed his knuckles very, very gently against the silver fur. Eliza trembles at the touch, muted through the skin and distant, ghostly—somewhere else. She bites down on the impulse to startle away like a frightened animal. It’s just Alexander, she reminds herself. He loves her. He won’t take her pelt. He wouldn’t. She’s safe.

“Betsey?” Eliza realizes she’s squeezed her eyes closed. She opens them. Alexander is watching her warily. His hand is hovering a few scant inches away from the pelt. “Was that all right?”

Eliza nods.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. I know.” Eliza takes his hand in hers and, very deliberately, lays it on the fur where he’d touched before. They breathe out together.

“It’s beautiful,” Alexander says. Strokes up against the grain of the fur, and Eliza feels goosebumps prickle on her back. “Like something out of a faery story. Maman used to tell us of swan princesses and elf-wives and things like that, when we were little.” He smiles to himself, wonder and a little bit of sadness in his eyes. “Wouldn’t she be surprised to hear that I caught myself one, and that she’s just like the tales always said.”

“Go on with you.”

“It’s true. All wrapped up in sea-foam and moonlight, fair as the day is long and twice as kind. Alexander and the Seal-Bride. Makes a nice title for a story, doesn’t it?”

Eliza rolls her eyes, but can’t help but blush as Alexander takes her hand and kisses it, courtly as a prince, adjusts the pelt on her shoulders like it’s made of samite. “It’s funny,” he says. “Yours doesn’t look like the sealskins I’ve seen. It seems like the ones I knew were always kind of—shaggier. Brownish.”

“Those are from fur seals, dear, they’re different,” Eliza says patiently. Alex winces.

“Ooh. Sorry. That was offensive, right?”

“Not at all. They’re fine folk, I’ve nothing against them. They’re a bit uncouth, maybe. A little rowdy. But they’re family all the same.”

“Family. Right.” Alexander laughs a little dizzily. “You’ll have to make me an introduction. We can go down to the harbor and meet them when we retake New York. Hi, Uncle Robert, Aunt Martha, this is my husband, Alexander. He doesn’t swim so well, but don’t hold it against him, he’s got a good heart.”

“Well, they don’t live around here, Alexander, don’t be ridiculous. They’re from—oh, miles and miles and miles away, far to the south. I only ever met one, and that was when I was practically a baby still, back when, back before…” Eliza trails off.

“Before you came to be here,” Alexander says softly. Eliza nods mutely. It’s hard, it always is, to think about before, about the family she lost in the storm. But Alexander has storms in his past, too. He understands, bless him. And they’ve found each other, somehow, and Eliza loves him so much she could drown in it.

Alexander has gone back to his contemplation of the pelt. He spreads his hand over it, taps his fingertips against the cloudy pattern of spots. “Constellations,” he murmurs, tracing a zig-zagging line. “I don’t know that I ever heard of a seal constellation. It seems like there ought to be one.” Eliza tries and fails to conceal a self-satisfied little smile at that.

“When we were younger, Angelica went and tried to map out the constellations on my pelt with quill and ink. I had more spots then—pup spots, you know—so it was more of an undertaking.”

“And? What did she find?”

“Mostly that seal fur repels ink dreadfully—we ruined the carpet, Mamma was furious. And we also found that I was very, very ticklish.”

“Ticklish? So, you can actually—feel in it, then.”

“Yes, of course, didn’t I say it was a part of me?”

“What is it like?” asks Alexander, with a searching expression on his face. Eliza doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to the feeling of his regard turned in her direction. That piercing focus, all for her. “Can you, I don’t know, feel how it’s folded, or if you threw it over a chair—” Eliza claps her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggle. Alexander looks a little put out. “Well, then, what is it like?”

“It’s like, it’s—hmm.” Eliza frowns, thinking. “It’s—I don’t feel in the skin, exactly. But I don’t feel it quite in this body, either. It’s somewhere—else. Somewhere, wherever my other body goes when I’m not…” She trails off with a rueful grin. “I’m doing a terrible job of explaining this, I’m sorry. I wish I had your gift with words.”

“No, please. I’m sure you don’t have much call to tell people about this. I should have thought before I asked.” Alexander falls silent. Rubs the edge of the pelt between thumb and forefinger, gently as if it were made of spider's silk. Considers.

“What, what is it?”

“Nothing, just—hmm. You can’t explain it, you say.” The corner of his mouth turns up impishly. “I’ve a scientifically-minded friend. He would tell us, how else are we meant to learn anything new but by experimentation? So.”

“So?”

“So we’d better do a little bit of experimenting, I think.” His hand stills on the pelt, and he raises his eyebrows at Eliza. “May I?”

Eliza nods, and it’s with a delicious, terrifying thrill that she allows him to unwrap the skin from around her and spread it on the bed between them. He pushes his hands through the fur, slow, deliberate—ghost-touch of Alexander against her back, down over her sides and to her hips, sketching little patterns between the spots.

She lets out a soft breath—not soft enough, Alex looks up at her with heat in his eyes, with mischief. He smiles up at her, all sly and hungry, and before Eliza can say a thing, he pushes himself down against the pelt, rubs his cheek against the place where her neck would fall if she were in her other shape. Eliza’s hand flutters up to the join of her neck and shoulder, and her head tips back, her mouth open to catch a kiss she’s forgotten for the moment isn’t there waiting for her.

Alexander chuckles into the fur, low and warm and filthy. “My goodness, Mrs. Hamilton. Aren’t you a sight.”

“Alexander!” Eliza gasps, half-laughing with startled delight, and can’t seem to find any other words.

He lays himself down fully on the pelt, and the breath goes out of Eliza in a long sigh. No real pressure from his weight on her, but the suggestion of it, the heat, and the look he’s giving her through his long, dark lashes do the trick just as handily. He turns toward her. His hand strays down along his own chest, over his hip. Up under the hem of his shirt, where it’s tented a little.

“Oh,” says Eliza. Alexander stops. A hint of self-consciousness there on his face.

“Is it too—? I can stop, if, if—”

“No.” Her face burning, as it does when the wine goes to her head. “Please. Show me.”

“Betsey,” Alexander says, like a prayer, and wraps those clever fingers of his around his cock. “My Betsey. My charmer.” He starts to stroke himself, slow, steady, and he curls the other hand into Eliza’s fur, hard enough to press through into something almost a real touch on her waist. She arches into it, for all the good it does her, and Alexander drinks her in. A spot of wetness at the head of his cock, and he palms it, slicks himself. His breath coming in quiet puffs. He never takes his eyes off Eliza.

Eliza lets her own hand drop down between her legs, and is rewarded with the sound of Alexander’s breathing going a bit ragged. It’s not the same when she touches herself as when Alexander does it; Alexander teases and draws her up bit by bit by bit until all she can do is twist her fingers in his hair and say please, please, although to his credit he never makes her wait long after he’s brought her to that point.

Eliza, on the other hand, brings herself to her undoing quickly, has always been able to. Unseemly, maybe, for a young lady, but Alexander hasn’t seemed bothered by it thus far. If anything, he’d looked quite delighted when he found out, and always smiles his smile of a cat lapping cream to see her at it. Wouldn’t Tilghman be shocked by his Little Priest now, he jokes, good thing I’ve got you and not him, isn’t it? Come on then, darling, let me see you…

She dips a finger inside; wet already, with Alexander on her skin, Alexander touching himself for her. Pushes in. Curls her finger, gentle, then harder. Barely a stretch at all, a sweet echo of how it had been with Alexander, earlier in the night. They’d tumbled onto the bed together, tearing at each others’ clothes, heedless of the guests still downstairs and the wedding party raging on, and almost before they’d known what was happening he was on top and her skirt was riding up and she’d pulled him inside. A little too eager, a little too quick, and she’d gasped and jumped like he’d burned her and Alexander had drawn back but she’d put her leg up and dug her heel still in its shoe into the small of his back and said no, stay.

He’d stayed. He’d held her so tight and driven into her and cried out with her, so loud she’d think everyone could hear them downstairs, but she hadn’t cared a bit. Who would, with Alexander’s arms around them, Alexander kissing them slow and deep and wet, Alexander coming with a muffled shout, his face buried in their hair?

She tenses just to think of it, grinds the heel of her hand down against herself at that spot that makes her shiver and groan. Quick little jerks of her wrist, and perhaps she should put on more of a show for Alexander, but his hair is so dark against the silver pelt and he bites his lip just as he does when he’s wrapped up in his writing and he rolls onto his back so he can plant a foot on the bed. Eliza’s breath already coming fast, high in her chest.

Eliza draws out just enough to slip another finger in next to the first, crooks them, come on then darling let me see you. A flush is rising on Alexander’s neck and shoulders. His eyes are so round, and the rhythm of his stroking stutters out of step with Eliza’s. He tosses his head to the side, and Eliza could almost laugh at what a little show-off he is, but he sighs and his lips shape her name Eliza Eliza and his breath in her ear, his lips on her neck, her skin, her fur—

She clenches around her own fingers, says, “Ah—!” high and sharp, and then she tips over the edge, the waves spinning her away. She lets them take her. She drifts. Perhaps she says Alexander’s name in her throes. She doesn’t know.

Eliza's heart leaps, trips in her breast, settles. She breathes slow, and the world comes back into focus. Her knees a little weak. A delicious slackness in every limb.

Alexander makes a throaty, needy sound, and Eliza blinks, regards him where he lies, the dark hair starting to stick to his forehead, his mouth fallen open. His presence still at her back, but less insistent than it had been when he’d first pressed himself there. She can enjoy it, sit there and draw her hand out over her thigh (the air cool on her skin from her own wetness) and lean into his not-touch and watch him. He’s given up on his theatricality, and she likes that even more, likes to see him messy and panting and touching himself to his own frantic, single-minded rhythm. His shirt rides up a little over his belly.

Suddenly it seems terribly unfair that Eliza is stripped down to the skin, naked as a wild thing, while he still has his shirt to cover himself. She wants to see him, needs to see him, so she pushes the shirt up over his chest and he stops stroking himself just long enough to tear it off and throw it to the floor.

Why am I not handsome, he complains to her in his letters. Eliza has never understood that particular stripe of his self-deprecation, but just now it seems particularly irrational. Perhaps he’s not as broad-shouldered as some of his fellow soldiers, not as tall, but his skin is beautifully golden-toned even this deep in the winter and his arms are wiry and strong and his flaws, his little softnesses and scars and blemishes, only draw her in more. For a moment she’s shocked at the force of her own want, and then she leans in and kisses a pale scar on his belly. Salt on his skin. Close enough to sea-salt as makes no difference.

Alexander reaches out silently and pulls Eliza on top of him, lets her straddle his hips. He’s very hard, and as she watches he draws his thumbnail down the underside of his cock and it twitches. “Betsey? Please…” he says, and oh, this is a bit new, but his eyes are so dark and he’s looking at her.

Yes, Eliza thinks, and “Yes,” she says, at the beseeching look on his face.

“Tell me, tell me if you don’t like it, I won’t, I would never want to—”

Eliza sits up a little on her knees. Must be something Alexander can read in her eyes, because his mouth snaps shut. He puts one hand on her hip, angles his upturned cock with the other hand, and guides her down, slow, slow. He slides into her with a shaking breath, his grip suddenly tight enough to bruise, and the world swings wildly around Eliza. Alexander panting beneath her. Alexander warm behind her. Alexander moving in her.

“God, Betsey, you…” he gasps, all those wonderful words of his washed away for the moment. He pushes at her hip, gentle, and Eliza comes back into her own head enough to notice the rhythm of it. She matches that rhythm, grinds down with it. The breath catches in Alexander’s throat.

“Like that,” she prompts him, trying for teasing, but she can’t keep the hunger out of her own voice.

“Like that yes yes, oh my God, Betsey.” His hips buck under her, and she sinks down onto him, and oh, the sweet stretch, the feeling of fullness. Alexander makes a sound that’s almost a sob. Thrusts into her, up to the hilt, again, again, again. His skin on hers wherever she reaches out to touch, and the flood of sensation is almost enough to drive her out of her own head.

Eliza drags her fingers over her sex, chasing that second release, and Alexander notices, puts his own hand up and follows the path she’s traced, little circles, figure-eights. Sloppy, he’s shaking, and the nails of his other hand are digging into her thigh. He rises up and Eliza bows down to meet him and catches his lip between her teeth, a silver fish. Snatch him from the water and feel him squirm. His hand still between them and she bears down on it, bears down on him.

She fists her hands in her own fur and it burns, under and over and out of line with Alexander’s nails raking down her shoulders. Fire behind her eyes. Waves rising up around her again, and Alexander feels it, and Alexander lets them take him too.

“Eliza,” he cries, and crushes her against him, so close they could be one creature in the same skin, and comes, shuddering and arching off the bed. She holds him through it, wraps him up and chants his words back at him, come on darling let me see you, yes yes yes, like that, oh, oh, until at last he goes slack in her arms and falls back, black hair and tawny skin on silver fur.

She tumbles off him. He lies there panting, eyes shut tight. Strokes himself once, twice, before shivering away from his own touch. His leg twitches slightly. Eliza dares to brush her thumb over his lip. He kisses the pad of it, lets his head loll to the side, blinks his eyes open and stares at her like a man witnessing a miracle.

“You,” Alexander breathes, “you—temptress, seductress, little sorceress—”

“I’m no sorceress,” Eliza says, even though she knows that isn’t what he means. She affects a pout, mock-thoughtful. “A sorceress could, I don’t know, drive you mad with desire. Could steal your life and your breath away with just one kiss. I can sing down a rainstorm or a gale, and I can call up luck and drive it away, but that’s all.”

“That’s all.” Alex scoffs, but there’s no sting to it. He thumps his head against the mattress, as if to clear the haze there. Lets his breath out in a long whoosh, and when he looks back at her his eyes are something approaching clear again. “That’s all. Well, thank goodness, then. I’ll keep my wits and my life and my breath intact, and when the war’s over and I’ve retired to the country to—to plant turnips, or something, you’ll be there, and you’ll bring me rain and good luck and see to it that we have the prettiest turnip farm in all New York state…”

“Oh, you’re just rambling now, stop that.” Eliza goes to muss his hair, ends up moving a lock behind his ear with loving care. “As if you’d be happy being a farmer.”

“I’d be happy digging ditches, if you were there beside me,” says Alexander. It’s so overblown that Eliza ought to laugh in his face, but his eyes are wide and sincere and he pulls her closer on top of the seal-pelt and kisses her so soft, almost shy. Eliza floats in the fuzzy glow. She can hardly distinguish the warmth of Alexander's arms from the warmth of his skin on her pelt.

Alexander hums, moony-eyed and sweat-slicked and sated. One hand resting on the dip of Eliza’s waist. A smile spreads across his face.

Eliza cocks her head. “What’s that face for?”

Could ask it all joking, but it would spoil the moment. She doesn’t want that. It comes out serious instead. What are you smiling about? Tell me. I want to know. I want to know what makes you happy. I want to know you. I want—

“You,” he sighs, running his hand over the curve of her hip, and Eliza’s heart could outshine stars. He leans in for a kiss, whispers against her skin. “You, you, you…”

#swan talks #hamilton for ts #selkieliza #sex cw #yeah uh. they have an sex #someday i'll go back to making posts people actually asked for. just imagine. what a day that'll be.

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webrokethemoon · 8 years

Note

ALL OF THEM O_o for the jjba ask thingy (jkjk you don't have to do all or them or any of them if you don't want to^^)

Doll, you know ily, and I am hella bored, but why?

Star Platinum – Your thoughts on the stars?I freaking love the stars

Magician’s Red – Do you know any magic tricks?Does doing witchcraft count?

Hermit Purple – Show a photo of yourself!No

Hierophant Green – What’s your favourite shade of green?Emerald, forest, or sea foam green

Silver Chariot (Requiem) – How much sleep do you need on average?It varies…a lot. But maybe like 6 hours at the most

The Fool – Tell us a joke!Why did Adele cross the road?To say hello from the other side! *ba dum ching*

The World - A place you want to visit?Africa, all of it.

Crazy Diamond – What do you treasure the most?My friends and my grandfathers pocket watch

The Hand – Do you like your hands?Only when I have long nails

Echoes – Your favourite sound?The sound of a thunderstorm

Heaven’s Door – Share a secret!I ate a cockroach as a little kid

Killer Queen – How would you like to die?I want to be one of those stories parents tell their kids at night. I want to walk into a forest one day and never come out. People will say that I’ve become one with the forest and my ghost resides there helping people who have lost their way or that I’m out caring for the creatures, so basically a guardian of the forest.

Bad Company – What kind of character trades do you dislike?I think meant to say traits and I don’t like when the character that is weak and acknowledges it, but does nothing to change that.

Red Hot Chili Pepper – Can you handle spicy food?Hell yeah I can

The Lock – Anything you feel guilty about right now?Not atm, but pretty soon I probably will

Love Deluxe – Are you secretly in love with someone right now?Yes, myself

Pearl Jam – Your signature dish?I love all food

Achtung Baby – Do you want kids?Do animals count? I’d probably adopt, but other than that not really.

Harvest – Do you pick up coins in from the street?Depends

Cinderella – Which part of your body do you like the most?…

Atom Heart Father – How is your relationship with your father?It’s okay. We don’t talk much, he’s not around a lot, but whatever

Enigma – What is puzzling you currently?How people can manage to prove that they truly are idiots and have the worst and most unqualified person going into a major power. (If you don’t like what I have to say about him, unfollow me rn.)

Earth Wind and Fire – What’s the best classical element?Water

Stray Cat – Cats or dogs?Both

Gold Experience – A precious experience you have not shared with your followers?I took care of a baby bird one time. He was adorable, and I’m glad I could help him.

Sticky Fingers – Zippers or buttons?Buttons

Moody Blues – A song that makes you sad?Battle cry by sia ft. Angel haze

Sex Pistols – Have you ever shot a gun or riffle?Nope, but I’d like to learn how just in case

Aerosmith – Are you afraid of flights?Nope

Purple Haze – What makes you really anrgy?When people fuck with the ones I care about or when they act like they’re superior than others

Spice Girl – Your favourite spice?Cayenne for daaayyysss

King Crimson – Is it possible to predict the future?Maybe, but I believe it can be altered

Black Sabbath – How easily do you trust people?Too easily, it’s bad

Man in the Mirror – Do you like looking into the mirror?Fuck no

Beach Boy – Have you ever been fishing?Defiantly not

The Grateful Dead – What do you want to be remembered for?Being there to support and help people when they need it

White Album – Your favourite CD?Too many

Talking Head – Are you a good liar?I’m okay

Baby Face – Your thought on babies?Wouldn’t want one of my own, but they’re okay

Metallica – Do you like listening to metal?No, not really

Green Day – Ideal way to spend a day off?Being a burrito in my bed watching a good anime

Oasis – Best place for a holiday?Home

Stone Free – Are you a indoor or outdoor person?Outdoor to an extent

Kiss – Who would you like to kiss or get a kiss from?This list is too damn long and half them aren’t even real

Burning Down the House – Ever destroyed something and then regretted it?My life

Foo Fighters – Your favourite drink?Mellow yellow

Diverdown – Your thoughts on diving?Never done it, but I would love to one day

C-Moon – What would you do for your friend’s sake?Anything

MadeinHeaven – What do you believe happens after you died?I’m not really sure. I think everyone has a choice of how they want it, so you get a choice to be reincarnated, sent to heaven or hell, wander the earth as a ghost, etc. it depends on what you believe.

Weather Report – Your favourite weather?Thunderstorms and fog

Whitesnake – Your thoughts on snakes/reptiles?If you know Dr. Montgomery Montgomery from Series of Unfortunate Events, basically him

Tusk – Tea or coffee?Both

Ball Breaker – Your favourite ball game?Water polo or volleyball

Oh! Lonesome Me – Do you feel lonely right now?Yes

Scary Monsters – Your favourite dinosaur?Brachiosaurus

Cream Starter – Do you usually wear make up?Sometimes, but not often

Catch the Rainbow – Your favourite colour in the rainbow?Blue

Ticket to Ride – What was the last ticket you bought for?Green Day at Wrigley field ayyeeee

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap – Do you believe in the multiverse? Yes

In a Silent Way – Do you enjoy complete silence?It’s nice sometimes

Soft & Wet – Shower or bath?Both

Paisley Park – How good are you with reading maps/directions?You do NOT want me telling you directions ask @yourvegetasmellsbad

Nut King Call – How good are you at assembling/constructing things like Ikea furniture?Okay, but not the best

Paper Moon King – Can you do any origami?Hell no

King Nothing – Your favourite smell?Lavender or the smell of earth just after it rains

BornThisWay – A strange habit you have?My pillows have to be puffy and the tag on the blanket must be at the end near my feet

Les Feulies – Your favourite plant?Lavender

Fun Fun Fun – Something you really enjoy doing?Being outside

California King Bed – What size is your bed?Queen

#asks #mo talks #jjba

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glittership · 7 years

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Episode #43 — "In Search of Stars" by Matthew Bright

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Episode 43 is A GLITTERSHIP ORIGINAL and part of the Summer 2017 issue!

Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

In Search of Stars

by Matthew Bright

It starts with a secret place, as many stories do.

On the outside, it is a laundrette. The printed letters on the plate glass are peeling, but still legible: Whites. Below it, a list of numbers is scraped away, leaving the cost of a wash a mystery. Occasionally, I pass it in daylight. During the day, the door is propped open by a rickety stool, and I peer inside. It is filled by graying women with rumpled, dishcloth skin who talk quietly amongst themselves about their children and their husbands.

Once, I dare to take my clothes there to wash. An innocent errand, I reason; no shadow of suspicion could fall on a man simply doing his laundry. This does not prevent the women from eyeing me as if the mere presence of a man amongst them is suspect. To compound this, I am unprepared, and am forced to swap a nickel for a palmful of powder, a foolish error met with sad tuts.

As I empty the powder into the drum, I study the door in the corner.

[Full transcript after the cut.]

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 43 for August 20, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you.

It’s a little bit late (oops!) but we finally have the Summer 2017 issue of GlitterShip available for you to read and enjoy! As before, all of the stories will be podcast and posted on the website over the next couple of months. However, if you’d like to get a head start reading the stories and support GlitterShip, you can purchase copies of the Summer 2017 issue on Amazon, Nook, or right here at GlitterShip.com.

Looking forward, the GlitterShip Year One anthology is now available via Amazon, and Barnes & Noble in both print and electronic editions, as well as for direct purchase CreateSpace(print) and GlitterShip.com/buy (electronic)—which also means that copies will FINALLY go out to the people who so generously supported the GlitterShip Kickstarter way back in 2015.

Today, we have a GlitterShip original short story by Matthew Bright, as well as a poem by Charles Payseur.

Content warning for “In Search of Stars” – some sex and mild domestic violence.

Charles Payseur is an avid reader, writer, and reviewer of all things speculative. His fiction and poetry have appeared at Strange Horizons, Lightspeed Magazine, The Book Smugglers, and many more. He runs Quick Sip Reviews, contributes as short fiction specialist at Nerds of a Feather, Flock Together and can be found drunkenly reviewing Goosebumps on his Patreon. You can find him gushing about short fiction (and occasionally his cats) on Twitter as @ClowderofTwo.

becoming, c.a. 2000

by Charles Payseur

he gives himself to the internet a piece at a time, in chatrooms and message boards and fandom pages, like burning prayers for the next life. he finds himself there as cronus must have found his children, a terrifying future fully formed and armored that he is desperate to consume.

every day he leans into his screen, close enough to brush his lips against the humming glass, feels the snap of static on skin, and pulls away diminished, the sum of his parts no longer quite equaling the whole. he asks friends what they think but all of them are online now, scattered like ghosts, a great ocean of scared boys in nice houses and with each question, each reassurance, each word of a language they build to map their desires, they all find themselves that much more gone.

he is barely a whisper when he puts the last piece of himself into a comment on a garak/bashir slashfic

more plz

Matthew Bright is a writer, editor and designer who constantly debates which order those should come. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Tor.com, Nightmare Magazine, Harlot, Steampunk Universe amongst others, and he is the editor of anthologies including Clockwork Cairo: Steampunk Tales of Egypt, Myriad Carnival: Queer and Weird Tales from Under the Big Top and the upcoming A Scandal in Gomorrah: Queering Sherlock Holmes. He pays the bills as a book cover designer in Manchester, England, and you can find him on twitter @mbrightwriter or online at matthew-bright.com.

In Search of Stars

by Matthew Bright

It starts with a secret place, as many stories do.

As I empty the powder into the drum, I study the door in the corner.

It takes me several weeks to get the courage to return at night. The front door is no longer propped open advertising itself, but it hangs ajar, distinctly not closed. Inside it is dark, and quiet—none of the machines are awake. But men pass in and out of the doorway with regularity, briefly spilling light from the door in the back across the machines; they are not carrying clothes.

I do not know whatever password it is that would grant me access, and neither do I have the will to ask. Perhaps were I to be bold—simply walk up to the door in the back of the laundrette and go in—I might be able to talk my way upstairs. But when my foot breaks the curb to cross the street, my stomach churns, noxious with fear, and I step back.

Tonight, it is cold, and so I cross the alley to the diner. The waitress there—a pretty girl, like the small-town ones from back home—knows me by name now. “Usual, Albert?” she says, and I enjoy being someone who has a “usual.” I imagine that perhaps she does too—this is not the sort of diner with regulars. I sit in a booth by the window and drink coffee, covertly watch the laundrette, and the men that come and go. I don’t know what I imagine is on the other side of the door, but I know I want to find out. Perhaps the waitress knows—it seems unlikely that she works here night after night and doesn’t have some idea what is going on opposite. The thought makes me uncomfortable, but I remind myself there is nothing wrong with a man drinking coffee—or a man washing his clothes.

There is someone waiting outside the laundrette. He leans against the window-frame, making insolent eye-contact with any man who enters. His boldness—starkly opposite to my own reticence—tugs at me; I dowse the feeling with coffee and look at the chipped table-top. The jukebox is playing music—rock and roll, tinny and weak. It clanks and whirs when the records are changed.

After a while, I can feel—in that skin-pricking way that comes from a sense other than sight or hearing—that the man is looking at me. I chance a look, and meet his eyes.

The waitress is serving an old man in the corner, her back turned. I gather my coat, and step out into the cold. At the end of the road the city exhales a blare of cars, distant music, police whistles, but its cacophony falters at the corner. Our street is still like midwinter, and the man waits for me in the middle.

We exchange words. It doesn’t matter what they are. Suffice it to say, I have spoken similar words before; I am a man who knows their real meanings, just as he.

The walk is a few wet streets away. He talks, and I interject enough answers into the conversation to keep it from stagnating. I keep a proprietary distance from him, glance nervously at the darkened windows around us, any one of which might contain a watcher who knows my face—I saw that scientist from round the corner, they might say, and you’ll never guess what? He tells me he is a musician—saxophone, because all the other boys in this city are playing guitar, he says. I picture the pads of his fingers stroking the keys, and the cold reed leeching the moisture from his bottom lip.

I ask him if he’s ever played inside, meaning the secret place above the laundrette, hoping he’ll say yes so he can describe it to me. He shakes his head. “I’ve never been in,” he says. We are at the foot of my building, and I fumble in my pocket for keys. He leans in close to me. “Have you?”

“I don’t know the password.”

A second, then he laughs. “Password? You don’t need a password.” He looks me up and down. He is mentally reconfiguring me from a man of experience to a naïf who imagines cloak-and-dagger, film-noir secrecy. He hesitates.

“Come in,” I say.

I let him climb the stairs first. With the door closed, my stomach spins in anticipation, as if permission is granted by the cloak of privacy—nobody to see us now, not even if I were to pull his clothes off right here on the stairs. But I don’t—I jam my hands in my pockets and follow his shadow upwards.

At the top, he looks around the detritus of my apartment, and asks me what I do. “I’m an artist,” I say, which is not exactly a lie. He looks for a light-switch, but I point him through the door to the bedroom. I pull dustclothes over my work, then follow him. He is already naked on the bed, his clothes a gray pool by the nightstand.

He tastes of something I can’t describe.

Afterwards he rolls to the cold side of the bed, pulling the damp sheets with him. He looks appraisingly at me, and he is re-evaluating me all over again—perhaps tallying up the number of men that added up to the expertise I had displayed. He looks at me for some time. An endless parade, he must conclude—all those other men.

My chest congeals into a thick, black, furtive shame, soul-deep.

I offer him a cigarette, but he refuses, rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. At first the lids are tense, like a child pretending to be asleep after curfew, and then they relax. He breathes slowly.

I place the cigarette between my lips, but leave it unlit. Tentative dawn is creeping over the horizon, silvering the rooftops. I left the curtains undrawn when I left earlier, the window fully open—not a conscious choice, but it’s fortuitous: the window grates on opening, loud enough to wake someone sleeping.

I arise quietly, pad into the other room, and pull aside the dustclothes. The paint is where I left it, viscous and silver in its vat. Its clean, sterile smell stings my eyes. I open a drawer, select the right brush—hog bristle, which is soft and delicate, and will not wake him.

On the bed, I kneel, apply the paint gently. I cover him in reverse order of the skin touched by my tongue and fingers, turning it warm pink to cold blue. By the time I have covered his chest and thighs, he is lighter, rising up from the bed. When I cover his arms, they rise above him, as if he is reaching for an embrace. I run the brush to his feet.

When I am finished, he floats a foot above the bed, rising. When I lay my hand on his belly, he is light as a feather, and my touch guides him across the room as if he were a leaf on a still pond. He passes below the lintel soundlessly, not waking even when his steady ascendance nudges his shoulder against the frame.

My hands on his cheeks anchor him, like a child clutching a balloon that tugs against its string. His feet lift, inverting him. His eyes open when I kiss him gently on the lips. He smiles, and I release him.

He turns as he floats up, alternating blue then pink in the watery dawn, and then is higher than I can see any longer, beyond my sight with all the others.

I lie down on the bed, pull the still-warm bedsheets around me, and light my cigarette. The smoke rises in clouds, and vanishes as if it was never there.

The story continues with the morning after, as many stories do.

Firm block capitals in my diary prevent from lying abed long into the afternoon: I have an appointment to make. I meet Eugene in the foyer of the Mayfair. I wonder exactly how much Eugene has been told about my present circumstances, and whether his choice of venue is a deliberate statement of his success. It would be just like Eugene, though it would be intended without malice.

He presses whiskey into my hand, and greets me as if we have never been apart. “Such a surprise when old Selwyn told me you were in LA!” he says. He ushers me to an armchair, and gestures for the discretely hovering waiter to refill our glasses. Eugene has aged well—with a thin, fashionable moustache that I am pained to admit suits him well. I briefly wonder if our mutual acquaintance—Selwyn Cavor, the starchily British professor who pushed us through five years of boarding school—is pushing for something other than the reunion of old school friends; it is he, after all, who told me about the laundrette.

But then Eugene tells me about his wife—an ice-queen blonde, so he says, by the name of Marilyn, though aren’t all the blondes called Marilyn these days? Perhaps Selwyn is not as calculated as I imagine.

“So, how are you ticking, Mister C?” he asks—habitually, for this was how Eugene had opened nearly every conversation between us since we were both eleven and meeting for the first time in a draughty dormitory. “Finally cracked and come out chasing stars in the city of angels, have we?”

I try to smile warmly, and shake my head. “Not exactly,” I say, and try to explain something about my work. I tell him about the two publications that took my reports. I fail to mention that my laboratory consists of a worktop hauled from a garbage tip, and basins purloined from the ruins of a barbers that had burnt down. Those particular details do not jibe well with the foyer of the Mayfair, or the two-hundred-dollar whiskey.

“And what is it you’re trying to build?” he asks, though his attention is on the whiskey bottle as he tops it up.

“Space travel,” I say, though this hardly covers it.

“Smart boy!” Eugene says. “Space—they’re all at it. Give it ten years, and we’ll get there ourselves. But I tell you what though—Hollywood is damn well going to get there first.”

I think of my saxophonist, turning lazily on the edge of the atmosphere. Out loud, I point out that Hollywood has been going to space for some time. I remind him of the Saturday afternoons we would sneak from school to the nearest town, and the showing in particular of Woman in the Moon, sucking down ice cream floats and salted caramels.

He waves it away. “Oh, Hollywood has moved on since then. Special effects!” He is practically shouting, and heads are turning. I shrink in my seat. “That’s what the studios are excited about. And they want everything to be two hundred per cent accurate at all times. Suspension of disbelief, and all that. That’s why they hired me—an ‘expert consultant,’ that’s me.”

He leans forward. I realize he is already a little drunk.

“Do you know what one of the directors asked me—he asks, ‘What does space smell like?’”

“Goodness,” I say. “Why would they need to know that? It’s only film.”

“Some new technology they’re working on—a full experience, you know? Squirt the audience with water, shake the seats, all that lot. And they want to use scent. It’s what we’ve all been waiting for—not only can you watch cinema, you’ll be able to smell it.”

He looks pleased with himself. The ice clinks in his glass as he waves it.

“What does space smell like?” I ask.

He considers. “Gunpowder,” he says. “By all accounts.”

Later, I go to the laundrette. The gray women look at me once when I enter, then disregard me. I am an insignificant little man encroaching on their world, and not worth the energy of observation when there are hampers of clothes to be washed. I run a finger along the grimy edge of a washer, and my fingertip comes away blackened. It satisfies me; in a perverse way, the laundrette, with its washed-out women and secret doorways, makes me feel scrubbed clean of all the gilt decadence Eugene has subjected me to that day.

I do not look at the door in the back, although I itch to go through it.

This visit is an inoculation: a brief sojourn in the laundrette during the day and then I will not be tempted to return after dark. I will remain in my apartment for the night hours; a small amount of exposure that defends against a greater illness.

I empty the bag of clothing into the drum. At the bottom are the saxophonist’s discarded clothes. Turning away so as to go unobserved by the women, I press his undergarments to my face and inhale. I half expect the smell of gunpowder but of course that is absurd—his clothes remained with me. I smell only cotton, soap, and the faint linger of sweat.

I drop them in the drum, and pay my cents. The machine starts up, spiralling our clothes together in a wet rush.

In the Lucky Seven diner, I order coffee. By the time it has arrived, I know the inoculation is not enough; I will be returning tonight.

The waitress squeezes into the booth opposite me. “I have a half-hour break,” she says.

“Right,” I say, not quite sure why she’s telling me this.

She bites her lip; I recognize this from movies, the coquettish seduction. Only hers is awkward, as if she isn’t used to being this forward. Perhaps she isn’t: she works amongst bottom-squeezes and drawled darlin’s all day; I doubt she ever has to ask. “I have half an hour,” she says. “I was thinking you could take me home and fuck me.”

I notice a grease-spot on her lapel, just a few inches above her bare breast. It is just to the left of the name-tag: ‘Marilyn’ in uncertain capitals. It makes me think of Eugene’s ice-blonde wife, and his big job up amongst the stars. Eugene would say yes without hesitation.

I could just say no, I tell myself, and then, inoculation.

Afterwards, she looks around the detritus of my room and asks what I do. “I’m an engineer,” I tell her, which is not exactly a lie, and go to wash myself in the dirty sink. She remains on the bed, smoking the cigarette I offer her. Naked, I had been able to feel a week of diner grease on her skin. She tasted of the bitter coffee at the bottom of a pot, and my usual expertise had deserted me.

I wonder if she washes her clothes at the laundrette. I feel the usual nausea arising, though it is a different kind; this is a physical nausea in the pit of my stomach, as if I have swallowed something rotten.

“Good old American filth,” Eugene said to me earlier, as we were leaving the Mayfair, him paused on the curb to hail a cab, me turning my coat collar up for the long walk home. “I’m tired of all the glamour. You know—mansions, cars and movie stars. The whole city’s coming down with a case of shallow—even my Marilyn’s picking it up; won’t fuck without doing her makeup first.”

He wanted me to take him out in my parts of the city, with all the implications of what my part of the city entailed. “Well—you’re here amongst it all, aren’t you? Think it’s about time you and I went out on the town. I want some squalor, you know what I’m saying?”

I imagine he’d be pleased with me right now.

I walk her back to the laundrette with five minutes of her break to spare. On the way, she tells me that she picked me because I didn’t ask. All day long, men suggest things, demand things of her. But I never did, and she liked that. I ignore the bitter irony. We part in the middle of the street, her kissing me quickly on the cheek.

In the washing machine drum, I find my white clothes stained blue. I hold up a once-pale vest and wring pastel water from it. One of the gray women looks at me and shakes her head. I bundle my clothing back into my knapsack, and leave the saxophone player’s articles—dark blue shirt, pants, underwear—in a sopping pool at the bottom of the lost and found basket.

Two weeks until the itch to visit the laundrette again outweighs awkwardly encountering Marilyn in the Lucky Seven.. Sitting at my work-bench, listlessly tracing paint along a series of pencils so that they float and turn in the air, I reason with myself. If I am to risk facing the woman with whom I have had less than satisfactory relations with—and not seen since—then it must be for a greater gain than watching from afar.

The queasy light of the diner is an oasis that beckons—but tonight I ignore it, although I look long enough to realize that Marilyn is not to be seen. It does nothing to calm me; my hair, still damp from the cold shower I took before leaving, hangs in clammy lumps against my forehead. I feel unwashed—wrapped up tight against the night, I am immediately overheated, sweat springing up in the folds of my body. I cannot imagine anyone wanting to touch me.

“There is no password,” the saxophonist told me. No secret or phrase: just the confidence to walk through the door.

I end up in the diner, breathing heavily to calm my pulse. There is a stinging pain in the palms of my hands that spreads up my arms and worms its way into my ribcage. The laundrette stares balefully at me across the street.

An older waitress materializes beside me. She is dumpy and string-haired. Her name-tag says Marilyn. Eugene was right—every woman in Los Angeles…

She fills my cup and putters on to the next booth to serve a hulk of a man who I think I faintly recognize. He is looking down at a newspaper spread on the table, his face lost in a tangle of beard, but when Marilyn the Second departs, he looks up at me. He is round faced, and despite the beard, oddly boyish. “Not brave enough, huh?” he says to me.

“Excuse me?”

He nods over at Whites. “You go in, you come out,” he says. “Been there, done that.”

The itch in my palm redoubles. “Have you?”

He is more discreet than the saxophonist; he maintains a respectful distance from me as we pass through the streets, hangs back as I open the door, and remains three steps behind me as I climb the stairs. As soon as we cross the threshold, the gentleman vanishes—his hands are on me, yanking away my coat and scrabbling at the clothes beneath. With my shirt tangled over my head he is already moving to touch my body before I am free; his fingertips are rough on my skin, and as his mouth skates down my body, his beard scratches like the wire wool I use to scrub away paint. His teeth nip at my belly.

I back away, lead him to the bedroom. He disrobes as he follows, revealing a heavy-set body swathed in hair, and a stubby penis peeking from the shadow cast by his bulk. The pale light from the window sweeps around the heavy sphere of his stomach, and I am struck by an absurd image of a fast-motion film of light’s passage around the moon that I dimly remembered from a visit to the planetarium with Selwyn.

He pushes me onto the bed and straddles me. He is commanding, guiding my hands where he wants them, tangling my fingers in the hair on his chest and thighs, and then as he pins my shoulders with his knees, thrusts my hand behind him where my fingers slide, sweat-slicked, into him. I open my mouth to receive him and for a second I picture myself outside my own body looking down on us—the same position as the watchers I imagine at my windows. The image is clear: this beast of a man, crouched ursine on his haunches over me, my head and shoulders lost in the dark shadow between his legs.

Afterwards, he kisses me.

He does not go as easily as the saxophonist. Firstly, he awakens. None of the others have ever done this. His legs are already several inches off the bed, the room suffused with the anodyne hospital smell of the paint. My mistake is in selecting my brush; still sore and tender, I find poetic justice in selecting the largest, roughest of them.

Secondly, he struggles. I doubt he comprehends what I am doing to him, but he has awoken in a panic to sensations he doesn’t understand, and so he lashes out like the animal I pictured. He strikes a blow across my face, and I fall to the floor, tasting blood in my mouth. The time for gentle artistry is past: I upend the tub. It coats his chest, tiny bubbles bursting amongst the strands of my hirsute canvas. There is blind panic in his eyes as he rises, spittle at the corner of his mouth turning blue where it mixes with the paint. He flails, claws at my sheets, but they can’t prevent his ascent and simply rise with him, a useless tether.

I jostle him out of the window, which stands open as always. He clings to my bed-sheet and we reach an impasse—him upside down, fist wrapped tight around the cotton and me at the other end, pulling back with all my strength. For a minute, we remain connected.

Then his fingers open, and he soars up, up to where the air smells of gunpowder.

“Pineapple!” says Eugene. “Goddamn pineapple. Can you believe it?”

Six weeks pass—six weeks in which my frantic scuffle squashes the itch to visit the laundrette, though the image of a door opening to a crowd of men waiting for me slowly recurs nightly in my dreams. Six weeks in which I bury myself in work, in which I dodge the landlord knocking for rent, and in which I write three-quarters of a paper on the gravity-negating properties of an as-yet-unnamed viscous solution of my own devising. Six weeks, and then Eugene.

“Gunpowder is too hard to synthesize, apparently, and anyway—it’s not like anyone’s going to know. So according to the head honchos of Paramount Pictures, space will smell of pineapple.” Eugene is on his third Singapore Sling, and already blurring into intoxication. He speaks at great length about his Hollywood consultation business. He tells me I should come advise on engineering, build robots for the flicks. He doesn’t understand why I’m mouldering away in a poxy flat in the cheap end of town. I try to explain what I’m working on—tell him about my three-quarters-written paper—but he doesn’t listen. He starts talking about space flight again.

In each bar we go to a pattern repeats: the girls flock at first to his expensive suit, gold watch and big tips, and then, when his generosity has dried up and he has done little beyond leerily grope a behind or two, they ghost away to search for more forthcoming targets. And at each bar, he complains that the place is ‘too swanky’ or ‘too bogus’ and demands I take him somewhere real.

Deep in a whiskey glass in a honky-tonk bar that still carried more than a whiff of speakeasy about it, I watch Eugene flirt with a sour-faced woman leaning against the bar. She is lit by neon, and has a look similar to his: rich, but slumming it for the night. He won’t pick her, I know, but flirtation is a habit of his. Even in a single-sex boarding school, he had never had much trouble finding women where he needed them—a couple of the maids, girls from the town. Sneaking back into the dormitory at night, he would describe his latest sexual exploit to me in a low whisper, and I would stiffen under the covers.

One night he claimed to have conquered one of the schoolmistresses—new to the school, and on temporary assignment. One of those long evenings in his study I relayed Eugene’s story to Selwyn who laughed quietly, and said, “I don’t doubt. Frightful, really—students and teachers.” We laughed together, conspiratorial.

Not for the first time, I wonder why Selwyn has thrust Eugene and I back into each other’s lives.

If I focus, I begin to wonder if Eugene’s heart is really in it tonight. He’s effusive with everyone we meet, expounding upon his personal theories of life, love and pleasure, and the opportunity to sneak off and spend himself in a furtive tumble has presented itself on multiple occasions. And yet he seems to be dodging every offer, returning to me with freshly charged glasses. As we descend into that strata of intoxication in which profundity insists itself in half-complete sentences, I wonder if perhaps Eugene fears the same as I: that in the post-orgasmic chill the squalor of a back-alley screw loses its grimy glamour and becomes something furtive and shameful instead. And so he postpones it as long as possible—perhaps indefinitely.

Eventually, there are no more bars to go to—or none that will allow two such stumbling fools entry. Early dawn is pricking the horizon, and, like a magnet, I draw us to the Lucky Seven. My waitress is there—Marilyn the First—glimpsed through the kitchen hatch but I am too drunk to care. Besides—it has been two months.

We collapse into a booth. Eugene rests his head on the table. I lean against the glass; it is cool and soothing. Across the road, I cannot tell if the laundrette is open or closed—I am too unfocused to make out if the door stands open or not. I suppose even such a place as Whites closes.

“Usual?” I squint up at her. She doesn’t sound upset. This is good.

Eugene, hearing a female voice, rears up. He strikes what I imagine he believes is a charming smile. “Darla!” he says. “How pleas—pleas—pleasant to meet you.”

I blink. “Darla?”

She taps her name-badge.

“I thought your name was Marilyn?”

She leans in close, ruffles my hair, matronly. “No, darling. I forgot my badge, had to borrow one. But at least you remembered my name—I’m flattered.”

Darla. Somehow the name changes her. Marilyn is a girl daintily upset when a man does not call her the morning after. Darla takes a man home to screw because she wants to.

She leaves to serve the only other customer in the diner, down the opposite end of the window. I lean into Eugene, and tell him—in a whisper that is almost certainly not really a whisper at all—about what Darla and I did in my bed. I don’t know why I did it: I have never been one to brag, but recasting our limp splutter of an encounter as erotic exploit gives me a fraternal thrill I have rarely felt.

Eugene grips my wrists and shakes them victoriously. “Albert, my man,” he says. “I knew you had it in you.”

For a second I see me as he does now: earthy man of the people, slipping it to waitresses on a nightly basis. And then the image bursts like over-inflated bubble-gum as I look past Darla. She is bending over, pouring coffee, and behind her is a noticeboard. Protest march, singing lessons, artist seeking model, poetry reading and MISSING. Below it a photo of a hulking man, round-faced and boyish despite the beard.

Darla sways past us again. “You boys had a good night, then?”

Eugene reaches out a hand to her, pulls her back to sit on his knee. His fingers snag on her sash. “Darlin’, not nearly good enough. Not yet…”

For the poster to be here in the Lucky Seven, he must be a regular. We’ve all been there, he said, as if he too had sat for long hours in this diner, getting up the nerve to cross the road. And then there is Marilyn and Darla, who see every man and every face.

Darla looks at me. It isn’t a look asking for help, to rescue her from my lairy friend, just a calmly assessing look. Eugene’s fingers make it clear what he wants.

I do not ask. I know what she likes.

“I get off in half an hour,” she says.

The story ends with a decision, as many do.

Darla leaves, and I return to the bed as if she is still there, a cold ghost between Eugene and I. Her female presence granted permission: for our naked bodies to share the same space, for my fingers to touch him, provided mine were not the only ones.

I wonder if this is where he wanted the night to go: his life, so drearily decadent, that the only thing to jolt him out of his drudgery is the taboo touch of a man. Perhaps he had marked me out as an easy target—the sexless boy from school, the one who spent a bit too much time with Professor Cavor.

I realize the room is silent. His snoring has stopped. When I look at him, his eyes are open.

Afterwards, I anchor us both to the bed with the sheets, wrapped around our wrists and fixed loosely to the bedpost. I paint him first, until he has risen, tipped on his side, free of gravity but strung by one rebellious limb to the ground. The alcohol in his veins that deadens him to the feeling of my awkward brush-strokes. He hovers above me, eyes closed, like a statue.

Then, disjointed with my off-hand, I coat myself. I float to meet him, the front of our bodies pressed together, lips close enough to kiss.

I wrestle the knot loose, and we are released. I wrap my arms around him, and press my face into his chest. It is difficult to guide him across the room to the window—I have to kick off against the walls and the ceiling, as one does in deep water.

My feet alight on the windowsill. I push away.

Light breaks across the city. If my phantom watchers in the windows opposite are looking, they will see us as we rise into the sky, one man clinging tight to another as they ascend like balloons that have slipped from your grasp, until the atmosphere becomes rarefied and thin, and breath freezes before our faces. I catch a glimpse of the sun rising over the edge of the world before I close my eyes and rise up, to where the air smells of gunpowder, and men are waiting for me.

END

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Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of “The Need for Overwhelming Sensation” by Bogi Takács.

Episode #43 — “In Search of Stars” by Matthew Bright was originally published on GlitterShip

#GlitterShip #lgbtq fiction #queer fiction #short stories #science fiction and fantasy #podcast

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geochic03 · 8 years

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FFXV Second Play Through Part 2 (Chapters 8 to 10)

So one, my last post got over 100 notes and that has never happened to me before so thank you people of Tumblr, I enjoy knowing there are so many of you who think like me haha.

Two, I had to write a whole post with my thoughts and feelings on Chapters 8 to 10…I just had too many feels to wait.

- Are Loqi and Caliglio still alive because I really want to punch Loqi in the face. Like he literally looks like the stereo typical asshole from every 80s teen movie. - I think I might like Talcott’s enthusiasm for Cactaurs more than Promptos love of Chocobos. - Of course Monica would have a thing for cats…just like any ninja warrior princess would. - Are we sure Dustin and Ignis aren’t related? - Cor I don’t understand why you’re so butt hurt about not being there for the king when clearly he put u on duty out of the city so u would live on and guide his son…build a bridge and get over it buddy. Think about more concerning things like, making sure that house in Cape Caem has a working generator for the coming darkness or, finding that mother fucker Loqi and punching that asshole in the face. - Iris is just the best. Seeing her and Talcott in Lestallum listening to Luna’s address about the Leviathan was so cute. She’s all looking out for him and shit. Like god damn it Square why did u not include her more! - So Weskham is the Ignis of Regis’s boy band? At least that’s how it seems in this game and Kingstale. I feel like Weskham is Ignis, Clarus is obviously Gladio and Cid was the Prompto. And Cor was just Cor….maybe the Iris of the group since he was so young? - Also Kingstale is excellent and you all should play it.

- I REALLY need to know what the fallout was that King Regis and Cid had all those years ago…and what made them make up.

- I am surprised Gladio did not throw Prompto over board into the sea when he started whining if they were there yet. I am even more surprised Cid didn’t take ‘a sudden turn’ and fling him off as a lesson.

- Was I the only one who heard the collective sigh among the group as Cid went on with his stories while navigating them to Altissia?

- I am pretty sure all of the budget for this game went to rendering the perfect cup noodle’s replica and into developing Altissia.

- Also Cid really is too old for this shit.

- The second time around I had Ignis figure out a reason for our visit to Altissia and it did not disappoint. I mean that guard was so into his story he even forgot how shady it was that a speed boat from Lucis with a 30 year old entry permit was trying to gain entry into their country. Like that is a huge security risk in the real world. I feel like Ignis should have privately pulled the Secretary aside and express his concerns about the shitty security.

- Also, Ignis reason for visiting Altissia is probably the real reason he was even ok with going on this trip in the first place.

- I would have liked more Ravus and Noctis interaction in this game…wasted opportunity Square.

- What did Noctis write on his wishing bird thing? A new car? That Ignis and Gladio stop giving him shit? That the gods grace him with a hot and wet Prompto just out of the shower? I need to know!

- Ugh when they were looking at the dress it was so sad because clearly Noct wanted to marry Luna. Why couldn’t Square give me those emotions in the beginning of the game. I might have been more invested in this ship and bought the love story they were ‘trying’ to sell. - When they were fighting the haunted picture I LOL’ed at Ignis yelling at Prompto to take the picture. Like I’m fairly sure he wasn’t fighting just peeing himself from shock. - How many times did Prompto probably wet himself on this journey? I need numbers internet.

- Camellia reminds me of Madeline Albright for some reason. She’s got that Iron Lady vibe about her. A woman who takes no shits but seemingly has a soft spot for Noctis? Maybe she had a thing for King Regis in her day?

- Also Noctis was so sexy negotiating terms with the Secretary. Like I was waiting for him to wink at her with flirty intentions.

- Weskham and the Secretary are 100% banging and you can not convince me otherwise.

- Also, was Accordo playing both sides of the coin? Were they in an alliance with both Lucis and Niffelheim with the awaking of the Leviathan? I feel like the way Camellia was talking to Weskham after her meeting with Noctis implied that. She is a hard to read woman.

- During the Leviathan battle shouldn’t the government have bared people from being near the alter for safety reasons? Wasn’t that what the Secretary was going on and on about with the group?

- Prompto commandeering the Magitek air-bike thing made him go from a whiny bitch to top gun in 30 secs.

- The whole not finding Luna body thing….made me think she is still alive….like actually makes me think the ending really is the gods sparing them. Or those bodies in the thrown room were real bodies and not conjured images…like if they are real, I might hate Ardyn more than I thought I did.

- I still cried like a bitch when they showed Ignis got blinded in the battle. But I have to say, his scar makes him even more sexy. Also the fuck Ignis…you went blind and shove it off as nothing more than a flesh wound? Dude you went blind!

- How did they get from Altissia to Cartanica? I mean I know by train but where are they in relation to each other? They show the cut scene from several weeks later and show them near the docks where the speed boat was and then they are on the train? I need to see a full Eos map. As a Geography major I need to know my spacial surroundings in the game.

- Gladio is still a dick for yelling Noctis on the train…clearly Noctis cared about what happened to Ignis but hasn’t he been around Noct long enough to know how he deals with shit? He retreats into his shell.

- Also I love how caring Prompto is for Ignis after the Leviathan incident.

- When they were waiting in Cartanica to go down to the mine and find the last tomb I had to yell at Prompto “When the fuck did you become a gourmet about food…oh wait…” when I realized Ignis had been cooking for them this whole time so of course he would think the food at the train station was shit.

- I still couldn’t leave Ignis behind…blind or not he is still my home boy.

- The second saddest scene in this game is the cut scene when you camp at the haven near the tomb and they show Prompto leading the blind Ignis to sit down…and then Gladio sits down and looks at Noctis gets pissed and gets up and sits on the cooler by the camp stove and they all look around like “so what now…oh yeah food…oh yeah Ignis can’t cook…” They all look so sad and lost and it destroys me but also makes me want to punch Gladio in the face.

- Also at the camp in Cartanica I made them eat canned meat because I was so angry at Gladio being such a bitch that I denied him his one pleasure in life. No Cup Noodles for you till you and Noct make up!

- And seriously what did Gladio expect Noct to be? He is fucking 20 and forced into this situation of being King. No one at 20 us ready to be the King of a whole nation. You are barely grown…shit in most cases you are still a kid. He’s doing the best he can for someone who has a hard time dealing with shit and rightfully so. The world is going to shit around him.

- And I still cheered for Ignis when he stood up for himself and put Gladio in his rightful place. Ignis is the most reasonable one of the group.

- Anyone else getting the vibe that the group has been tracked this whole time because of Prompto’s tattoo? Is that a confirmed thing in this game?

So I will be posting a part 3…I just got so overwhelmed with replaying Chapters 8 to 10 that I needed them to have their separate posts lol.

#ffxv #ffxv spoilers #final fantasy xv #final fantasy 15 #chocobros #noctis lucis caelum #ignis scientia #prompto argentum #gladiolus amicitia #iris amicitia #cor the immortal #cid #cid sophiar #lunafreya nox fleuret #blind ignis #the fuck gladio #cor needs a hug #ff15

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